The world’s turned big on him. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Somewhere, in the time between falling asleep, and waking up, they’ve gone and scaled up the world and left him out of it. Check the tapes, you’ll see. Tents were never supposed to be this big. 

It’s like…it’s like the one time he took a train, and stepped out into a grand station, and while his folks were figuring out where to go next, all he could do was stare up, up, up at the ceiling. All this space? All this space. Enclosed in one giant room. One giant room, that little him was standing in, when space this big was made for, for, how big was an X-wing? Would one of those fit in here?

No spaceships in this tent. Just wolves. Appropriately-sized wolves. Looming over what had been an appropriately-sized deer, and his inappropriately-sized shawl. He fights the urge to tug it closed. Again. Not that it would help. This shawl was cursed, somehow both entirely too big for him and also impossible to close over his chest. Juniper hadn’t covered it, but he was pretty sure that would be a rude thing to do in front of the Khatun. 

(He doesn’t realize the effect. With the shawl tugged in as tightly as he can manage, you can’t see the neckline of the shirt at all. If you forget about the bit around his waist, it looks like he’s not wearing a shirt at all.)

Speaking of things that would be rude to do in front of the Khatun, here is a collection of things he also does not do: Squeak, jump, stare slack-jawed, or make any face that is not perfectly still and polite [i]hold that poker face with your life, Hazel![/i] Speaking of things that Juniper hadn’t covered but he still had a pretty good idea of: [b]Khatun?!?![/b]

That’d mean him

And, her?

Her. [i]Her?[/i] All of, her? That her? 

And him?!

(His [i]place[/i])

That’s! Bold!

Golly, a cup of tea would come in handy right now. Lots of things you can do with a cup of tea. Hold it. Sip it. Look at it. Sip it some more. Good stuff, good stuff. But he doesn’t reach for one, oh no. Not because Juniper told him that the Khatun must take hers first. Well, she did, and he did remember that. Or, rather, he was so ready to not take the tea first that he’s got that game plan, ready to go, as all the fluttering, dizzying heat in his body scampers to a pit in his stomach to hide away. Silent. Shaking. (Still fluttering. Somehow.)

Hazel opens his mouth. Respectfully. 

“I…can’t say for sure that I do, Khatun,” and he got the pronunciation right. He’s practiced. “Which is to say, it is still very early; I don’t know everyone who will be competing yet. I think it wouldn’t be a very good contest if I had already picked out a winner.”

(He knows why he is here.

He knows he will have to tread very, very lightly, Or Else.)