He looked up into the sky, gray satin
prickled with the ice sparkle of countless stars. One moon, small Razil, was a thin fingernail
of silver about the western horizon against the fading translucence of the
setting sun, while bigger Razila followed her consort higher in the sky,
yellower and rounder, womanly next to Razil's boyish slenderness. His eyes still on the heavens, he made a wish
to the Great Spirit, a wish he knew was unwise.
He wished he could seize Zillan as Razila once seized Razil, and merge
their flesh in love and pleasure. But he
knew in his heart that the time was not ready.
Perhaps in a few months, when both moons were full in the eastern sky,
warm and loving, he too would take Zillan in his arms. Angry at his foolish thoughts, he shook his
head and his mouth set in a grim line.
His job was to look after Zillan.
His reward? Perhaps nothing. Who knew what the Weavers had woven into the
Tapestry of Life? Would his black and
silver thread be woven next to Zillan's gold?
He suspected not.
He slept badly that night, dreaming of
immense stone halls, filled with a nameless horror, his own path through the
vast forest of stone columns which supported a distant roof always just ahead
of a pursuit which tramped on his heels.
He woke before dawn, the air cool and renewed, though he was tired and
depressed. He rose abruptly from their
bed of leaves and straw. His lean and
lithe panther form was beautiful, had he but known it. He stretched like a cat, his back arched, his
deadly paws extended, and yawned. For a
moment he looked down at the man who was still sleeping deeply, and the love in
his heart was strong. Such a dangerous
task! And so vital! It might be his last job before the Goddess
took him to her bosom in the Havens, but he would do it to the best of his
ability, and if he found that Zillan loved him in return, he would take joy
from their love while it lasted. If not
– well, loneliness was a familiar companion.
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