QUARREL

I travel for miles, seeking a place that feels right. I pass through sunswept forests, canopies soaking up the countenance of the Architect, and toward more arid low shrubland. I can feel the warm wind on my skin, once restrained by the dense cover of trees. I almost feel like I could just sway in the breeze like the golden grass does.

I find a spot, seeking the thready cover of a stripped-bare tree right at the peak of the rolling cliffs, and begin my work. I collect stones and sticks, and piece by piece, assemble the stage for the ritual.

Dusk creeps onward, the sun being swallowed into the treeline behind me and casting long shadows. There, I settle in the shade, chalk at the ready, and begin my work.

Each symbol requests the audience of something. The sun, the moon, the stars; Lady Winter and Lord Summer, and at the top of the circle, facing toward the steadily sprawling dark ahead of me, Visiver’s hoof.

They would each bear witness to our dance, whoever would have me. I don’t know what to expect; the shrubland was bare and quiet in the night, but somehow it feels like I’m where I ought to be. So, resolute and faithful, I plant my feet firm into the still-warm dirt and wait, ritual tool in hand.

I wait... and wait... and then, as Her Grace crests the sky and bathes the plains shimmering moonlight, I watch something emerge from the shrubbery.

A lion.

Everything in me tells me to back away... but something, I’m not sure what, wins out. I stand my ground as the lion slinks near, head low and testing the boundaries of my wide ritual circle. I flip the crude stone dagger in my hand, and draw my foot back into a stiff battle-ready stance...

He throws himself at me! All at once, the two of us are on the ground. The lion shakes against me, clearly starving and desperate. His first motion is a swing of a claw at me, but I am quick enough to lock my arm underneath his leg and hold it at bay just long enough to give myself an opening.

I pull my other arm free, crashing my elbow into his throat and barely keeping his gnashing jaws from my face. There, dagger hooked around his neck upside-down in my fist, I dig it into his neck and twist.

He roars, furious, but quickly begins to falter, tumbling off me. I can’t give him a chance to recover! He’s scrambling away, trying to get a moment, but the way he looks at me... I know he’ll come right back if I don’t put him down for good. I throw myself over him before he can right himself in a moment of, frankly, uncharacteristic bravery, and fling both of my arms up into the air, clutching that dagger desperately.

Two shaking hands drive that dagger true, straight through the lion’s heart. I couldn’t tell you even now where such a thing ought to be, but in that moment it’s like I could feel it beating, and knew just where to strike.

Heaving, painting, I watch the lion snarl and kick underneath me, and I wonder if it all worked...

And the next thing I know, it’s dawn. The plains are still cold with the sting of the night. I drag myself off the ground, and look around blearily, dust matted in my fur. It, honestly, kind of feels like somebody just knocked me out cold. I sigh, and start to stand up, and only then did I notice...

Wait, fur?!

And then, as soon as I notice that, I can feel that creature stirring in my soul. It’s almost warm, like someone tossed a wool blanket over my spirit, and I realize... that’s him!

I struggle, even now, to articulate those feelings. But sometimes I feel that part of me, a proud, powerful creature that gently nudges at my soul, urging me toward bold decisions and bravery. And sometimes I feel him roaring in me, gnashing his teeth, and I clench my jaw and suck in a breath and center myself, like I’m running a gentle hand across his head and flattening down that bristling fur.

I love him, and I know he loves me, too. His name is QUARREL. He seems to like that name; I think it makes him sound dangerous and mean, and he likes that, even if it’s not so true. I have to write his name in all capital letters so that it reads as loud, otherwise he nips my hand from within.

But, yes. I love him. I don’t regret a thing.

Gail, though... he was flabbergasted! If you could see that bug-eyed look on his face when he saw me for the first time, oh my goodness!

“A /lion/?! What?!” is the first thing he says to me. Despite my new look, he knows who I am without question. It’s sweet, really. “Are you nuts?! You fought a lion?!” And of course, I just beam, proud of both my victory and my newly sharp teeth!

It takes him a few days to adjust. I feel almost a little bad; the animal he picked looked all the sillier for the contrast, honestly, but I don’t think it hurts his pride any. After all, he’s smart enough to know that’s not really what all of this is about.

No, he just wants to hear the story over and over again, however little there is... it was over so quickly!

I’m happy to tell him the story again and again. My passenger is a proud sort, and I can feel him nudging me, telling me to soak in that praise. Who am I to deny my new friend?