Stavanger Bay where the emptiness we leave behind on warm air rising

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Szymon watched the den’s activity with great interest, moving forward from his place in the den mouth — old habits die hard, and he was terrified of destroying the wonder that Doe had created — to curve his body around his children. His eyes went first to the sleeping boy — storm-furred son of his rust-and-steel mother — but passed with equal fervor over the squalling warrior who was hell-bent on shouldering her weaker siblings out of the way to feed. “She will be a great warrior,” he remarked, poking some fun at his beloved with a mischievous glint in his golden eyes. “Her hunger alone is a thing to be feared — like her mother’s.” Doe was notoriously possessive over her favorite cache, and Szymon wouldn’t have it any other way. He remembered the first day he’d met her — wet and shaking and dizzy and skinny; “whoa,” she’d said, barely able to figure out her name. The Sea had given her to Szymon, not once but twice. Mine, he thought greedily. Speaking of hunger, “Are you hungry? Do you need anything?” he asked. He reached forth with his nose to prod lightly at the two weaker cubs with the air of a man adjusting the placement of hamburgers on a grill — there may not have been any real reason for his doing so, but it felt good to be doing something to help.

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