The Sentinels Flower, gleam and glow

Solenya stares at her handiwork a moment, clearly thinking. Bushtit waits, attention drifting a little, though it snaps back to her as soon as she speaks. He listens, an upper tooth snagging on his lip when she mentions fire. The word stokes a rather vivid memory, his nose full of the most delicious smell in the world as he chases an older she-wolf in heat…

But Solenya is talking about a different—a quite literal—sort of fire. Bushtit catches himself, clears his throat and makes a pointed effort to look around at the feet of the nearby trees. Indeed, they’re all a little darker than usual. As he looks, she speaks again of the persistence of life.

Bushtit wonders if she knows, When did that happen?

A week ago? A month? A year, maybe several? The young man has no idea about these things, though he’s definitely intrigued. And focusing on the subject matter also drives those images—of capturing her and pulling her to himself, her body so warm beneath his—to the edges of his mind, where they drift away like a puff of smoke.