[Going to sleep on a branch and waking on the ground], [Daylight creeps into a cave and the shadows stretch their legs]," says Mirror, "[A Goddess devours she who cannot hunt.]"

Mirror's arms are too buried under the weight of another body to make any gestures either. She closes her eyes instead, and simply breathes. Draw in as she feels Slate's whispers on her neck, draw out when she draws in. She feels the weight of a head rest on the top of her breasts, and breathes into her chest so she can drift away in the sensation of that weight rising and sinking, and the ear pressed close to listen to the beating of her heart.

Slate's fur is different from her own: coarser, stiffer, and shorter than the soft wintery coat it's pressed against. Her fingers stretch across one of Slate's wrists and across her back, just brushing the tips of each strand to delight in the sensation of it pushing back against her. Stimulation. That is the word. She pushes deeper, massaging muscle into bone, and the stiff fur envelopes her hand. It is bliss.

Seconds tick by, until they become minutes. Minutes gather in handfuls and then tens, with no feeling but what their bodies experience against one another, with no sounds but the beating of hearts, whispered little sighs, and a duet of rolling purrs. Slate shifts her weight, and Mirror shifts with her to maintain the position. Legs wrap around legs. Tummies brush against tummies. Tails wriggle free and curl next to one another to form the shape that Terenians claim is a heart. Text form, less than three.

A mystery.

"The mainland is a mystery to me. The so-called High Command moreso. But we lost a war, didn't we? [Sunlight withers grass, prey begins the pilgrimage]. [Fangs in famine bite through stone]. Why? Are you frightened? Do you think that we should quit?"