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The boy currently winding through the edges of the redwood forest doesn't look like he should be walking at all. With each stride, one paw jerks off the ground too quickly, as if he's walking on glass. There's a flash of red each time, coloring his features, the pad of his paw, the barely-visible horizon. Everything's red. The cuts on his body, too visible against the silvery fur of a body too small to be carrying them. They're relatively well-cleaned, though far from perfect. No bandages, and he doesn't smell of herbs. Just blood and dirt and sweat. Four months old, too young, too small. Almost anyone would agree that a child shouldn't have to look like the clouded leopard does now, trying to breathe deeply despite the fact that stormy blue eyes are skittering around the world like he expects it to hit back for every step that he takes.
Perseus doesn't know where he is or where the border is (he passed it a few moments ago, too focused on getting away from it to think about it), but there are pawprints on the ground, and looking for signs of recent occupation has become important enough that he stops to check, tail flicking behind him in his anxiety. Despite the fact that running is now instinct, not asking for help, he fights the quickening pace of his breaths and swallows. "Is anyone — is anyone here?" Probably. Maybe. Hopefully not, his brain whispers.
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