wrapped in shrouds of muscles
—
Her companion wasn’t born like she was.
He was a thing of carved wood with bright amber eyes, so lifelike you could count each line of whisker and each rosette on his fur. But magic made him real, turned him to a cub with silver-tipped fur and a purr that soothed Aster to sleep on a hundred long nights. And time turned him to a lean yearling the same way it did her, and oh, they were both such watchful things, quick and hungry.
But only the cheetah ate meat.
Some days - like today - Aster helps him with his hunting. She never feels sorry for it (she never feels regret for anything at all) but there is still something heavy and strange in her heart, in her throat, every time she murmurs soothing nothings to a fawn or scares up a hare, sending it straight into Teak’s waiting jaws. In summer and autumn he often hunted for himself, stalking the unsuspecting deer through the grasses and running them down, a dance that always made Aster thrill to watch.
But in winter his shock of color makes him stand out, and he scowls every time he has to trudge through snow.
He is scowling now, and with his mouth and chest scarlet with blood he looks almost menacing. Aster stands nearby, nibbling at each of her long flight-feathers, her nose wrinkling at the smell of the viscera staining the snow. She hadn’t felt a twinge of guilt, drawing the young mirestag out from the border of the swamp; he was lean with winter, hungry for a fight they way they sometimes were. It wasn’t much of a fight he’d gotten, with only enough time to squeal and buck against the weight of the big cat.
The pegasus had watched with interest, the way she always did; but at the impolite sound of Teak’s eating she turns away.
And tenses.
It is not easy to see across the gentle slope of plain, as the dark gray sky begins to shed fat white flakes, but there is movement at the edge of the wood. At her snort, Teak looks up too, the tip of his tail twitching, and after a moment’s stillness he comes to stand beside her. Together, with matching golden eyes, they watch.
@Maybird
He was a thing of carved wood with bright amber eyes, so lifelike you could count each line of whisker and each rosette on his fur. But magic made him real, turned him to a cub with silver-tipped fur and a purr that soothed Aster to sleep on a hundred long nights. And time turned him to a lean yearling the same way it did her, and oh, they were both such watchful things, quick and hungry.
But only the cheetah ate meat.
Some days - like today - Aster helps him with his hunting. She never feels sorry for it (she never feels regret for anything at all) but there is still something heavy and strange in her heart, in her throat, every time she murmurs soothing nothings to a fawn or scares up a hare, sending it straight into Teak’s waiting jaws. In summer and autumn he often hunted for himself, stalking the unsuspecting deer through the grasses and running them down, a dance that always made Aster thrill to watch.
But in winter his shock of color makes him stand out, and he scowls every time he has to trudge through snow.
He is scowling now, and with his mouth and chest scarlet with blood he looks almost menacing. Aster stands nearby, nibbling at each of her long flight-feathers, her nose wrinkling at the smell of the viscera staining the snow. She hadn’t felt a twinge of guilt, drawing the young mirestag out from the border of the swamp; he was lean with winter, hungry for a fight they way they sometimes were. It wasn’t much of a fight he’d gotten, with only enough time to squeal and buck against the weight of the big cat.
The pegasus had watched with interest, the way she always did; but at the impolite sound of Teak’s eating she turns away.
And tenses.
It is not easy to see across the gentle slope of plain, as the dark gray sky begins to shed fat white flakes, but there is movement at the edge of the wood. At her snort, Teak looks up too, the tip of his tail twitching, and after a moment’s stillness he comes to stand beside her. Together, with matching golden eyes, they watch.
@Maybird
