In the day since returning to the pride Zsaria had found herself confronted with a number of changes that she wasn’t quite prepared to handle. In response, she had spent more time hidden away in her den, chewing mint and regaling Misae with the chronicles of her family and what it had become in her absence. Still, even knowing that they were out there she had trouble convincing herself that she belonged. Bjorn had cubs, she had been told, though she hadn’t had the guts to seek him out. It wasn’t that she was jealous, she would have been remiss in expecting him to place his life on hold for her, but it served to remind her how empty she felt. It was with that spirit in mind that she had fled the dens and the pride center, finding herself instead down at the edge of the sea staring off into the surf. There were mysteries out there that had yet to be uncovered, and with the chill in the air few stepped foot on the sand. It was a good place to be alone with one’s thoughts.
Oddmund was one to be alone, but not as much of a thinker. He wasn’t sure how long this bender had gone on, but he knew that it was daylight now and he’d found a way to crawl out of the hole he passed out in. Unfortunately for the general public, he’d been sharing that hole with his last catch which was now half rotten. Slimy scales clung to his fur and the stench was even too much for him to handle. So, wish as much dedication as he could manage to piece together, he was headed to the surf to bathe. A rare occasion, but not one he was outwardly averse to.
Before he came into view the lioness could smell his approach. It felt familiar, if a bit offensive. “Oddmund,” she called out with a laugh before turning her head toward him, “A sore sight for the eye I’ve got left, certainly.” A joke at her own expense, which stung a little more than she had anticipated. “How have you fared in the absence of those that make you smell better?” she added, pawing her nose for effect.
“Well enough,” he grumbled, “So long as you got something to share with me.” His head pounded and he’d like nothing better than to silence it, but his own stores of mint had run hopelessly dry. “You’re rougher than the last we met,” he told her, looking her up and down.
That was hardly the kind of reunion she had hoped for. “Your comments are noted and not appreciated.” While she and Oddmund came from very different sides of the pride bloodline she still considered them kin in a roundabout way. Her mother had often spoken of how crass the male’s family was, but they had persisted through all of the changes the pride had undergone. It was comforting, in a way, to see what remained the same after all this time. “How did we end up here Oddmund?” she questioned, turning a wry eye toward him.
“Here?” Far too abstract a thought for him to fathom at this point. A little more rested, a little drunker perhaps. “I reckon we sprung out from our mothers’ loins aye? Screamin and carryin on since then.” He laughed, “You’re questionin things that’ll make you crazy Zsarry.”
Zsarry. No one had called her that since she’d been a cub, tumbling in the dirt with her brothers and hearing lecture after lecture from her mother. It stung to hear the name from the mouth of anyone but Bjorn. “You’ve got no place to call me that,” she snapped, a scowl sneaking its away across her face. It wasn’t that she wanted it to stop, she had no personal problem with the lion or his less than honorable ways, but she had no desire to be that familiar with anyone in the moment.
“Ah don’t be daft,” Oddmund said with a sigh as he pushed a paw against her side, “We close as kin, ain’t nothing else between us.” He knew the lioness had had a rough go at life to this point, but that didn’t give her reason to be so distrusting.
He was just trying to be kind, she reminded herself. There was nothing wrong with that, as rare as it seemed to be. In truth no one had ever been directly unkind to her, she had always just placed herself in the wrong situations. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong life. The sun still rose each morning and set each night and she still drew breath. There was little for her to complain about, in truth. There were those that never got to see battle, never got to feel the rush of blood behind their eyes as they chased down their foe. She was lucky, in a sense. In as much as a reaver could expect to be. Beyond that well she wasn’t quite sure what she was. Mother she had been a poor one. Lover, she had been worse. “What do you think I ought to do?” she questioned, pressing her head into her legs, “I don’t know what’s happened, things seem to have gotten away from me.”
Oddmund nodded while she spoke, though his own thoughts had wandered to the warm flesh of the rabbit he hoped to find in his traps when he returned back to his own den site. “Zsarry, stop,” he insisted finally, “Stop. It ain’t doin you any good to whine bout it.”
Zsaria began to open her mouth to retort, but found she couldn’t think of anything useful to add. He was right. He usually was, it was a wonder to her that so many seemed to ignore him. True, he wasn’t the typical sort one would go to for advice, but he was level headed and unaffected by the politics of the pride. “I’ll stop when I make things right.” With that she lifted herself to her feet, stretching out as she pieced a plan together in her mind. “Another time Oddmund, under better circumstances I hope.”
Fair enough, he thought as he watched her take off toward the dens, he hoped the days too would bring better circumstances to his own life. A wife perhaps. He scoffed at the idea. Even those who had been raised alongside him questioned that possibility. He was a perfectly fine match, in his own mind, but few others seemed to agree. Their own loss, he decided, as he rested his head upon his paws and stayed to watch the waves come in.
Word count: 1112
