tembovu

Ears twitched at the smoothness of his name on her tongue. The lioness was, as ever, composed and dignified— the same decorum that had garnered (demanded) respect from the testosterone-filled, bull-headed men of the Makutano Council. Long-dead irritation rekindled in his barrel as he had recalled the ease with which newer council members discarded the sharp-intelligence of Tsavo. It was a feat to stand on the Council as a woman. It was even more impressive to represent her old, powerful tribe.

And she had given it up.

Navy eyes, which had been cloudy with memories and attraction, began to sharpen as she answered his questions. He felt the shift in his chest, returning to the careful conversations with layers of meanings that they had traded in Dorobo. Despite there being no need for deception or secrets, old habits die hard.

So, carefully, he watched every part of her face and body. He watched body language, the ripple of skin at her flank that belied the same attraction he felt. The lines at her eyes that told of the tension underneath her sad attempt at humor. Ears perked forward, listening for rise and fall of her words; what syllables were stressed? What nouns or verbs began/ended her sentences?

In short, it was exhausting. And dredged up the hollow-feeling that had plagued him in Dorobo.

“I’m not planning to run away anytime soon.” He resisted the urge to look away at her words as they brought a sudden, piercing wave of guilt crashing through his skull. He had run, leaving them all to fend for themselves. He hadn’t even been sure of his own survival; his just retribution of the Fall had come and his purpose had fled. Without purpose, what was just? And facing the sharpening horns in a ring of council guards amid the destruction had expedited his exit from the Great Plains.

His attention did not shift, even as hers did, to the Mbwene. “Kukutana na dada yangu Mbwene,*” he broke his silent audience with the traditional introduction of their mother tongue— an echo to the days of introductions before their council. The small elephant brightened slightly, shuffling up beside the King with a gentle flap of her ears and slight wave of her trunk in greeting. Bright blue eyes studied the plains-marked mare— she was so similar to her big bonded. And there was something about her that smelled familiar; like home. So the calf inched forward, round eyes curious as her trunk slightly reached out, one ear flush with her head to listen for any rebuke from Tembovu. The multitude of emotions in their bond made her cautious. Still, though, she advanced on Tsavo.

Again, his ears twitched as her voice sounded his name again. He met her bright, burning gaze resolutely, though with each of her words a weight grew heavier in his barrel. It settled like a stone whose top was smooth by time, but whose bottom was still sharp and jagged— just waiting to be overturned.

And Tsavo was turning it over with a vengeance. Her questions were a challenge, and he understood why. His time in Korofi had been brief, but not without ruin. That Tsavo was here, in Helovia, rather than in Korofi with Kunja…

“Then why are you here… and not in Korofi?” his words were low, quiet, but firm. Though he thought he knew the answer to the question. The answers to her burning curiosity would come soon enough.

*Meet my sister Mbwene