Deepwood Weald tropicalis

His brow furrowed further, though only his confusion showed on his face. He was not sure what Cen had done to make her sick, and he could scent nothing untoward on her pelt. He could sense no real distress in her. Perhaps he was simply blind to it; that did not mean it did not exist.

"No," he denied, this response immediate. "I do not want you to go. Never."

He wanted to be conclave. He thought he did, anyway; he acknowledged, though, that he did not truly know what this meant.

"I want you to stay here, with me," he told her, watching her face. Was she ill? She hadn't answered. "But I have not done a good job of making you happy. I thought this is why you wanted to go with him. But now I see that I do not know what you want, or what you mean to do. I would like to know, though. I will do my best to support you, whatever you choose."