The Master Said, “See? They Don't Seem To Notice?”

The silence stretched between them until finally she broke it. “Your trip?”

“I don't want to talk,” he said, “about it,” and then did. “They took me to the cold place, the place that smells of death and the end of hope.”

“It is not always bad,” she said, though to him it was faith rather than hope that underscored her words.

She snuggled closer to him, their warmth enfolding; he did not pull away. This time his body was silent for him.

“What have they done to you?” she said, voice steady for the children. For them, she could do anything.

He tried not to think about that. “No more, never, never. That is what they did, what they are,” he said, a howl rising under his voice but he throttled it back. They could take him back. They could do worse things. He knew this in his bones.

“But --,” she said, and nothing else.

“I can still guard,” he said. “I still have my job here.”

“But.”

He could feel her wanting to draw away, but she did not. He wondered who this was for: the masters? the children? him? Herself? “They fed me,” he said. “And I never bit their hand, not once. I was loyal, and brave and true and --.” He stopped, courage failing for a moment.

“They made mockery of our love.”

“I should have been the one to say that.”

She stood, her eyes hard, a growl under her voice. “You did nothing wrong, and they made you not a man.”

“Sit,” he pleaded, but the speaking of truth seemed to have drained the strength from his voice.

“We should hurt them,” she said, and for a moment he saw the wildness he had fallen in love with and wondered if he'd ever see that flash of her again.

“No,” he said. “Our children would be taken to the death place or the river.”

“And you would not fight them,” she said, not making it a question.

“What do I have left to fight for?” he said. “I will not risk our children.”

Her tail thumped the floor feebly, trying to assure him and they curled up together on the mat by the door, trying to keep each other whole.