Bitterroot Valley I waited for you

There were still many foxes in the valley. Angel didn't mind them there, but when she caught them sneaking from the caches, she took it upon herself to hunt them down. This one had put up a bit of a fight, and her muzzle was scored from its flashing little teeth — but the tiny beast was now dead, and halfway stripped of its skin by Angel's careful teeth.

She did this work in the grasses, underneath the weak winter sun. Blood stained her chest and paws from the messiness of the work, and the pelt was currently redder than it was orange. But it had been a large fox, and she thought it would make a fine pelt when it was done. She worked carefully to keep her cuts clean, even if her own ruddy pelt suffered for it.

She hummed while she worked — as song from her girlhood, back before everything had gone wrong. Those were sacred times to her. Times she'd kept locked up safe in her chest for a long, long time. But she was beginning to feel that she'd gone back there. Back to a place where everything was as it should be.

Still. It was a little lonely here, even though the valley was beginning to bustle. When she was done working, she promised herself, she'd go and find someone to speak with.

sega found her by scent first— fox-blood copper on winter air— then by the quiet hum threading through the grass.

he stepped from the slope above, a fresh badger skin draped over his shoulder, still thick with its own heat. he'd taken it that morning. not yet cured. not yet ready. but worn with the quiet pride of a hunter returning to his people.

angel, he greeted, voice low, warm. his eyes drifted over her work, the neat peel of fox hide at her feet, the small cuts on her muzzle she pretended not to mind. good pelt. you make clean cuts.

he shifted, the badger skin sliding slightly down his flank. he adjusted it with a huff.

i bring this for cure later, he said, nodding to the hide. you… maybe show me better way? a faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. i not so gentle as you.

She was not surprised when he found her, though a quiet thrill rushed through her when he appeared. She admired the cut of him against the skyline, her tail whisking in the dry grasses behind her. The pelt especially made him look wild and strong — and something wild and strong surged in her veins as if in answer.

"Sega," she replied, warmth, or something warmth-adjacent, in her own voice.

She invited him closer, snipping once or twice more at the pelt as he spoke. She paused, though, to study the badger skin, looking for signs it had been harvested incorrectly. It seemed perfectly salvageable to her — and she wondered if he sought her help simply to spend time with her. Perhaps she hoped so.

Still. She did have her methods.

"The best pelts are stripped of all fat and meat, and then bathed in brain tissue," she replied, sitting up and stretching when she felt a crick in her neck and tension between her shoulder blades.

"Let me see it?" she asked, sauntering closer to touch the pelt with her nose, asking permission to take it — and breathing in the scent of blood and Sega, which stirred something in her once more.

he stepped forward without hesitation, lowering his head so the pelt brushed against her muzzle.

here, he murmured, the word soft in his rough-edged common.

up close, her scent tangled with the iron of blood and the musk of the fresh kill. something primal tugged at him, but he kept his posture steady, offering the hide for her inspection.

i take quick, he told her, as though apologizing for its unfinished state. you make better.

she spoke of fat and brains and the old ways of curing, and he listened, eyes warm with quiet pride. she knew these things. she carried them well.

when her nose grazed the hide—and then him—his breath caught, a faint flicker of a smile tugging at his jaw.

angel, he said, her name almost an exhale, you show me. i watch.