He could not see the future; only listen to the voice of the unformed as it whispered sweet nothings from the can tah around his neck. Sometimes it warned him against danger, other times prompting him to aggression, but he would listen to it without question because it came from his god and his Aunt-Mother. Misery had become a ghost once more, and Larkspur wondered if this was due to his own failure to produce children. These doubts clung to him like a shade, though one might never know with his constant appearance of compliance. As a child, he had learned to hide. He still did so as an adult.
She promised good, and staring at her with impassive eyes, Larkspur read her face. She doubted, and she saw the bad in the coming days, and this fed into Larkspur’s own silent angst. He did not approach her, perhaps out of self-defense. Even if they were not mates, in some way he considered her in debt to him—so smelling those strangers who were less than such on her pelt only served to turn him against her. Yet they had produced strong children, and he would continue to strive to do so.
All that mattered, ultimately, was that the old ways were restored.
“That all?” He asked flatly. An unspoken question remained, though he did not know how best to put it forth. English was his second language, and he was barely fluent in that.
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