Anatole did not know what it was to brag; he had been raised alone and had no competition, and thus accounted for his skills only in knowing he had done right. Pride was one thing, but to speak of it was another. Thus he did not consider saving the boy truly heroic, but something done out of instinct and necessity. Far be it for him to abandon a child, let alone one who would likely have seen the foul end of that fight. Cats were savage things, and he did not tempt them as some fools would try.
The throbbing near his eye was not as painful as he thought, but it was yet early for the wound to show its true caliber. A bemused smile crossed his face at the boy’s high-pitched attempt at stoic behavior, finding it at odds the next minute as the story went on. Anatole shifted his weight in the snow and let out a heavy breath, finally feeling his body return to normal.
“Anatole,” he answered, and sat down with a huff. “You shouldn’t pick fights with cats, kid. They eat puppies, you know.” This was the truth as he knew it, though he was certain a good-natured argument over the validity of his claim (and said puppies age) was likely forthcoming.
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