Life goes on

I woke slowly, reluctant to leave the warmth of the furs, though there was little reason to linger. The cave was quiet, save for the familiar crackling of the dying fire, and for a moment I lay still, staring into the dimness. 

My eyes drifted toward the place where Scar had once slept, and the familiar ache settled into my chest. 

Two mornings now I had awakened without him, and somehow the emptiness seemed greater with each passing day. I rolled onto my back and let out a slow breath, already irritated with myself for thinking of him before my feet had even touched the ground. Damn him. Damn his icy blue-green eyes, his stubborn ways, and whatever possessed him to leave without so much as a proper explanation.

I pushed the furs aside and sat up carefully, feeling the familiar pull of my ribs. They were healing, though they still protested whenever I moved too quickly or twisted my body. The bruising had begun to fade, and most of the wounds from my encounters with the slaver and the other troubles of the forest were closing nicely. The scratches left by the pantheress were another matter. Those remained angry-looking, red along their edges, and tender to the touch. I examined them in the dim light before reaching for the supplies I had gathered for tending my wounds. Cleaning them carefully, I applied what was needed and took my time wrapping the places that required it. I had no intention of allowing a few scratches, a bruised rib, or anything else to keep me from doing what needed doing. I had survived worse, and I would survive this.

Once I was finished, I dressed and stirred the fire back to life, adding a few pieces of wood until the flames caught properly. I checked the meat hanging, making certain the smoke was reaching it as it should. The bosk, sleen, and tarsk meat all needed tending, and I turned and repositioned the pieces where necessary before adding fresh wood to maintain the smoke. There was something satisfying about the work, something uncomplicated. Meat needed smoking. Fire needed feeding. Food needed preparing. None of those things disappeared simply because a man had decided to disappear from my life. 

I found myself scowling at the thought, my hands working a little more forcefully than necessary. I wondered, not for the first time, what in the seven hells had gone through Scar's head. Had he grown tired of me? Had I somehow displeased him? Had he simply decided that whatever we had between us was no longer worth the trouble? I had questions enough to fill the entire forest, yet the one person who might answer them was nowhere to be found.

I returned to the cave and set about preparing a pot of stew, cutting some of the smoked and stored meat and adding what vegetables and roots I had available. The smell soon began to fill the cavern, and I stirred the pot while occasionally adding water and checking the fire beneath it. 

My thoughts continued their unwelcome wandering. I missed him.  I had admitted it to myself, though it did little to improve my mood. I missed the sound of his movements, his scent lingering in the furs, the way he occupied the space around him without needing to say much of anything. I even missed his aggravating habit of making me wonder what he was thinking. But missing him did not mean I understood him, nor did it mean I intended to forgive him for leaving me without an explanation. If I ever laid eyes on that man again, I might very well throttle him before I allowed myself the pleasure of asking where in the seven hells he had gone. The thought brought the faintest, unwilling twitch to the corner of my mouth before my expression settled again. I could miss him and be furious with him at the same time. Apparently, I was quite capable of both.

After checking the stew and making certain it was simmering properly, I gathered the water botas and made my way toward the creek. The water barrel needed filling, and there was no sense putting it off. I moved carefully, mindful of my ribs, and took the familiar path through the greenery. The morning air was cool against my skin, carrying the damp scent of the forest and the soft sounds of birds beginning their day. I reached the water, set the botas down, and crouched to fill them, wincing slightly as my ribs protested the movement. It was then that I heard something.

I paused, my hands still resting against one of the botas. The sound came again, a thin, wavering cry that seemed to drift from somewhere beyond the nearby brush. I straightened slightly, turning my head in the direction of it. I couldn't quite place what I was hearing. It wasn't a bird, nor did it sound like any of the usual creatures I encountered in the forest. I stood listening, waiting for it to come again, and when it did, I found myself frowning. Whatever was making that sound was close enough that I could hear it quite clearly, yet I couldn't imagine what it might be.
Leaving the botas beside the creek, I moved a little closer, carefully picking my way through the brush. The cry came again, followed by a faint rustling somewhere beneath the low-growing greenery. I stopped and peered through the leaves, trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Then I saw movement. A small shape shifted beneath the foliage, and as I stepped closer, I finally caught sight of it. A panther cub. It was small, much smaller than I had expected, and its little body seemed almost lost among the leaves. Its eyes lifted toward me, and another pitiful cry escaped its throat.
I stared at the little creature, momentarily taken aback. I hadn't known it was there. I hadn't even considered that the pantheress might have left a cub behind. My gaze moved over the small animal, and then toward the direction from which I had come, as the realization slowly settled. The pantheress I had killed had been its mother. The little thing had been alone for two and a half days, perhaps longer, without anything to provide it with food or protection. I stood there for a moment, uncertain what to make of it, my thoughts turning over the unexpected discovery. Well, damn. I had enough troubles of my own without finding another one waiting for me in the forest.
I glanced back toward the creek, where my water botas remained, then toward the little cub again. It cried once more, and I let out a quiet breath. I had no idea what I intended to do about a motherless panther cub, but I could hardly pretend I hadn't heard it. With a slow shake of my head, I stepped closer, keeping my movements cautious. Whatever happened next, I suspected my day had just become considerably more complicated.