The greyish pre-dawn over an anonymous stretch of dry, barren plain. At
this early hour, little is moving, and the wanderer Serval is no
exception. Especially in the dark, she is difficult to see, curled
tightly around herself in one of the few largish clumps of scratchy
grass-stems. Copper pelt marked with black blotches like pock-marks in
the lank fur. She is hardly in good condition. Limbs stick-thin, tail an
unmoving length, eyes tight-closed as if trying to block out the world.

Or more than merely ignore; in the protective curve of her frame is the
acknowledgement that she has a world to fight against. Emaciated,
abandoned, lone travaller--and pregnant. Hard to say how far along, the
bulge of cubs seeming large compared to the thiness of the rest of the
feline's body. No good news, in whatever case. 

To bear and raise a litter of cubs alone--well, Servals have been doing
that since the kind began, and often managing. But here, in a dust-bowl
that holds little by the way of insect-life, yet alone larger prey...
and now, with the mother not only physically worn but as emotionally
lost as she has ever been... what chance? Hardly high.

It would scarcely thought that any creature would take interest or pity
on this one, unless you count the calculating gaze of the vultures who
will no doubt begin to follow soon enough, sensing despair and fright
and weakness. But then... who can ever understand the ways of spirits?


The air is unmoving, and still somewhat cool, as the east lightens, almost
imperceptibly. As if in answer to the disturbance to the static dark, a
light breeze picks up, circling around the serval cat, raising the dust,
only a little, then blowing it off in front of her.

That seems to be all, at first, nothing quite so unusual about a breeze.
Until it whispers in her ear, a soft, deep voice, so light it would be easy
to mistake for the wind blowing through the grasses... if it wasn't so
clear.

"fevra..."

The gentle breeze continues, seeming focused on this one little area.
Perhaps feeling unheard the first time, the voice comes again.. closer,
clearer, more insistent.

"Fevra..."

Now, apparently satisfied, the breeze picks up, blowing the dust in higher
circles, and becoming somewhat unpleasant, but only for a moment - the tiny
dust storm seems to move off her, stopping a short distance off, but leaving
behind a scent, remarkable only for how out of place it seems.. a somewhat
familiar scent from long ago.

Looking back to the dust storm, it starts to condense itself, forming into
shapes that no self-respecting breeze should form, coming together and,
somehow, beginning to give off a soft light.

As if resigned to it's new form, the dust comes together almost abruptly,
forming into recognizable features; a face, ears, a mane and tail - a lion.
A familiar lion, yet, he's aged since she last saw him, it seems.. his mane
is fuller and his build is more solid. He smiles softly as the last
particles come into place, and rather than loose dust he now appears as a
solid entity, glowing softly. His name comes to her mind - Jumoja - if she
dare believe it.

Jumoja shakes out his mane, and takes a step towards her. His movements seem
to be shifting transistions, soft and unnaturally slow. His voice echoes in
her mind, soft and deep, rumbling softly, though his muzzle doesn't seem to
move.

"Hello, Fevra."



At the spectral greeting, the small cat raises her head, the movement
slow and fairly awkward, as if even this slight motion is an effort. Her
breathing can be heard, drawn-out and shallow, but for the moment is the
only sound from her. Not words. What can this one say, to a ghost?

After all, the Serval has never believed in spirits of any kind, and the
occasional nearby appearance of one or two has done absolutely nothing
to alter that point of view. But, for all that... she is familiar with
the haunting of past connections. However, if she is to dream, one would
hardly consider that it would be of a Lion, even one as close as the
young Jumoja was, kin and friend both. There are far more immediate
memories.

Of her own kind-- the half-grown cubs she left behind; their sire and
his mate, who left the scar on one shoulder which is visible now as the
grasscat's left foreleg stretches foward. The battle-torn male, loved,
who left no scars on flesh but a deep network of wounds on heart and
mind that have never truly healed, only scabbed and been postponed. No
closure.

And then, thoughts of a brother, the most recent contact Fevra has had
with anyone, unless one were to count to linear, unthinking relationship
with prey. Brother. Bomogo. Such a friend, and so deeply cared for. But
he left--or was he chased away? Although the Serval cannot at the moment
remember, the reasons do not matter. He is gone, like all the others.

So many she has none. Loved, defied, cared for, betrayed, abandoned,
lives she touched and that wove into her own. All of them long gone now,
except for the anonymous younglings growing in her womb.

"Lion?" The cat questions at last, a mere whisper of querying sound. Not
a name. Simply... a description. Does that make sense? Not especially.
But then, there is no need for things to be strictly linear. This
encounter is, after all, a dream; isn't it?


The lion stands there, gazing at her with a soft, inviting smile, unmoving
for so long that he couldn't possibly be real - a trick of the light; and
then he moves again.

He steps slowly, the smooth transistions of his legs resembling the shifting
of the sands he appeared from, more than the steps of a cat. Yet, somehow
it still looks smooth and graceful, it looks right.

His movements appear slow and deliberate, and yet he approaches with surprising
speed, and sits down gently near the Serval, lifting a forepaw upward, and
laying it gently on her shoulder. There is a light sensation of contact, and
warmth, but nothing solid or definate. He removes his paw again,
head tilting a little as he regards her. Finally he speaks again, his smile
growing.

"Yes... lion. More lion politics, if you will." He chuckles softly, and
seems to relax a little.

Up close it's easier to make out details. His features are the same as they
were in life, though his dark fur and darker mane now somehow emit that odd
glow. But he's grown, his body adopting the shape and definition of an adult
lion, while his face still holds his youth. His eyes glow, brighter than the
rest of his body, so that they are difficult to look at.

He speaks again, his muzzle still unmoving, the voice only echoing in her
mind. "It's been a long time, Fevra." Then, more seriously, "I felt.. you were
close to giving up. I thought that I would come talk to you."


Close to giving up? Yes, that could be an accurate description of the
small cat's state of mind. Very close indeed. She simply can not see the
point any longer. Not with the bone-deep knowledge of instinct that her
cubs will not live.

She looks nearly starving. Whether she is fed or not, even now, the
process has gone too far; her body will make its own choice. Expediency.
For survival of the mother, in expelling the young she carries, or to
make a last effort for those children, Fevra's own energies absorbed
inward, all her resources turned to the cubs, in the hope that
last-ditch action will let them survive to term.

A choice: a final loss, bloodshed of innocents--or their life at the
possible price of the mother's. A terrible decision, but one which Fevra
will not have to make. It is out of her control. Will of the gods.

Indeed, such thoughts have not formed conciously, articulate. Yet they
are present all the same, and provide the fear which ends in the Serval
lying here, trembling. The half-percieved warmth of a spirit's touch a
slight comfort. Any contact a potential lifeline, in this solitude of
despair.

"Scared..." Only a rasping whisper of a word. Then, no clearer,
"...wanted..." Silence, and the question of it. Wanted certainly, wanted
another's touch, to see her cubs grow strong, to know that she had done
right. 

For it is simple to think she has done wrong, every step of the way.
Choosing a mate without understanding, spending a night without thought.
Never being able to state regret or mourning. Not much caring if she
drove any who thought to help away. Mate, lover, kin, friends. 

And how is this encounter, with a creature from another plane. That at
least, at last, should make some impression! A soul has come down from
the /dead/ for her, doesn't the Serval care? ...can she? Is there any
emotion left her, other than regret and self-pity? Will the Lion
understand?


The lion spirit watches her, softly, taking his time and speaking slowly,
softly, a deep voice echoing in her mind, as if to caress with a sound that
only she can hear.

"Of course you're scared," he says softly, his paw lifting to her shoulder
again, the odd warming sensation returning. "You've not had an easy time."

He pauses now, whether thinking, or observing, he gives no outward
indication. But the paw remains gently on her shoulder - weightless, and yet
it can be felt, as he tries to lend comfort.

"So many concerns..." he continues softly, "so many regrets. You believe you
can not regret, but your soul weighs heavy with them. Dear Fev.. you mustn't
dwell so on the past. You have always done.. what you felt right, have you
not? You can not be expected to know the future."

His paw moves slightly, stroking down her side, pausing at the bulge.

"You worry about your cubs..." It is a statement, not a question, and he
holds a moment before he continues, very softly. He seems almost to sigh,
but perhaps it was a breeze nearby. "The worst thing... for those who
live... is when they can not let go." His expression changes a bit, and he
can be seen to bite his lip, as he often did in life. "I'm sorry." It goes
unsaid, but it's somehow clear - sorry for the serval, and not for her
unborn - they will have their place in his plane.


The Serval remains almost motionless, as if 
afraid that any movement from her would 
disturb this fragile source of comfort, a 
touch only half felt.

"I had...hoped..." she whispers, trailing 
into a vague silence before re-starting on 
a differenct tact, "These cubs. I thought I
 could care for them...this time..." Quite 
what she means by that phrase is not 
entirely obvious. That she could look after 
them effectively. That she could love them. 
Either, or both, perhaps.

"I knew," is the continuing. "I thought about 
it, and I did consider, and I decided it was 
right, all the same, even knowing there might 
be cubs. Would probably be, I should say, I 
s'pose." That last sound is swallowed back, 
awkward, as she holds back emotion to try 
and speak the words.

And then an echo of the spirit's earlier 
words. "The future...yes. Never been able 
to see that, of course. Wouldn't have 
believed it if I had. It's all happened 
wrongly, you see, or in the wrong order at
 least." Is that last a laugh? Surely not. 
Yet a kind of dry amusement. Gallows humor.


Jumoja nods, slowly, though whether this is deliberate, or a trick of his
shifting appearance, is difficult to say.

"You will have opportunity for more, Fev. Cubs you can have and love... but
you must be well, first."

The light touch of his paw moves back up towards the serval's shoulder,
then, lightly, brushes over her cheek.

"You've done no wrong," his voice echoes softly. "You mustn't punish
yourself so. All is not yet lost."

He pauses some, looking around a bit. "This is no place for you to be, these
lifeless sands. Fevra.. why don't you return home? The lands are quiet
again, and you may have both peace and food to recover, to become strong
again."


Fevra draws a breath, the light touch seeming to tug at her, so that she
shifts in a half-curved position, nearly on her side, like a child
leaning into the warmth of a parent's comfort and protection. But kindly
though he may be, the spirit lion has no way of protecting her from what
the future holds.

As much as she tries, it is so diffcult to believe she has not done
wrong, somehow, whether knowingly or in innocence. Why else would she be
here, as much a dry husk of her former self as the land is of a fertile
valley. But then, it is few who survive into adulthood and still believe
in the justice of the world.

The world. Familiar surroundings. Home? It's been moons since Fevra
began this wandering, since she left those lands. "I can't go back," is
the simple statement, a voice low and rasped by dust, so that the tone
cannot be easily distinguished. "Not yet. Too soon, too late...Someday,
maybe. Not now."

After that assertation, a considering of Jumoja's earlier comment. Cubs.
"Better if I didn't ever, probably. I've hardly been good with those
I've had." But the question is moot, for the moment. Get through the
next days, the birth of those she carries now... move on. If, by that
time, the Serval can find the strength. If the spirit will be with
her--to pardon the phrase.


Jumoja stays close still, his touch gently stroking the serval's fur. He
chuckles softly.

"Dear Fevra, it is I who am supposed to be speaking in riddles. It would do
you well to return to greener lands, even if you feel you must avoid your
home."

He seems to sense her thoughts, nodding softly. "Only you can make the
decisions that decide your future. As much as I'd like to, I can't tell you
what to do, your choices will affect what may be."

Another pause, artifically drawn out by the odd sensations his being
projects, the strange glow and shifting appearance. "I can only tell you
some of what *is*." And hint at what may be, seems to follow, somehow. "You
need to take some time, Fev, and strengthen yourself, you must never give
up."

His gaze tips upwards a moment, and he seems to sigh. "I can not stay long.
Fev, there are.. rules, I guess you could call them. We're watching you, Fevra, K'aaria
and I both. We want to see you succeed."

His paw withdraws back into the shifting form, beginning to lose it's focus
some.

"There is water to the south, Fev, and shade.. it will soon be very hot. Go
there before the heat, take some time to rest, please."

The sands shift further, beginning to distort his form. "I must go..."


"South..." The sound an echo from the smaller cat. "I'll go there," she
promises. Indeed, even at the words Fevra lurches to her feet, ready to
set off now, across the sands tinged pink by the light of the rising
sun. Tomorrow is here, to put it one way...

Time to move, time to go. The dream is leaving her, or so she percieves
this moment, as the sands swirl in random, fluctuating patterns, the
remaning appearnce of a Lion's form lost in the eddies, and the
brightening light.

What was... a vision of help and comfort, unlooked for but deeply
needed. What is... a Serval setting out once more, this time with a kind
of purpose, a conviction to follow, even be it only a trick of vision
and fatigue-fogged sleeping mind.

What will be... who can say? But life continues. With the assistance, in
some sense, of those who in the past travelled through their own
existance.

===================================================
By Tursi and Fevra
harmlesslion.com - Not for Commercial Use