Beast was barely still a cub--but as skinny, almost skeletal as he was, he still looked like one. His fur was thin, gray-caked white; his spiral moonstone horns shimmered, but were hardly more than stumps even now.

Dig up. Pick. Plant. Grow.

His paws were filthy and brown with dirt; he continually scratched up root plants, or dug small holes in which to place seeds. His face was stained violet with the juice of berries which he picked with his teeth, and which he had to virtually live off of.

Dig up. Pick. Plant. Grow.

Right now he was working on a thick grassy bush that he didn't know the name of. They grew, they made clumped knots that his master liked to eat. Beast would tear them out of the ground, causing them pain, but promising that he'd make it better. He hated to do it; sometimes, he cried for them, wondering if they felt the agony that he did whenever an antler tine lacerated his flanks.

Dig up. Pick. Plant. Grow.

But he always promised them, throughout the process, that he'd make it better. And he tried; he really did. His own starvation had long ago become a background hum, the focus of his work a fatigued and absent blur. His concentration instead went to his magic--all of his concentration--and it certainly took it to call upon the power he had in this physical state of exhaustion.

Dig up. Pick. Plant. Grow.

He gently plucked the seeds from the tufted bit of grass at the top of the torn-up clump, then spat it out, seeds and all, into the last of the holes. White mitt-like paws pulled dirt over the seeds, then settled atop the earth, and the moonstone horns seemed to luminesce with their own light, rather than merely shimmering. The little lion cub squeezed shut his pale eyes, focusing again, feeling the faint joy of his ability to bring life swell, pushing aside his daily pain and fear and stress.

The ground seemed to twitch, after a moment, the fuzzy white paws still, and then a slender green shoot sprouted from the dirt. Pale eyes opened and peered down, and the starving cub seemed to almost smile.

"There you go," he murmured softly, before patting the sprout delicately. Then he looked around, going over everything else he had to do.

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Gently, he lifted the bushes in his teeth; gently, he carried them to the allotted point near Vazi's dark throne. As he set the last down, his pale eyes flicked up to regard the distant tower.

He still felt a cold fear each time he looked upon it.

A monster had come from the dark inside of it, and Beast's master had gone to confront it. A battle had ensued--he remembered seeing a demon rise up in the smoke, eyes glowing like coals, smoldering fur sending off billowing black plumes that choked the air. Vazi had been badly wounded; Beast had fled, cowering in the tower.

He'd been younger, then, though he wasn't quite sure by how much.

The young cub turned, using his paws and occasional nips of his fangs to pull the uprooted bushes into neat rows. Beside them lay a pile of berries heaped high, all perfectly arranged and sorted for Vazi to graze upon at his leisure.

He'd started to realize something, lately--something he couldn't tell the stag.

At first he'd only feared him. He'd been born to the stag's abuse, his cruelty; he'd been terrified. He'd never resented his situation, or hated the stag; far from it.

As Beast--the lion who had never been given a true name--turned and padded back to the berry bushes at the far end of the cave, he reflected that lately he'd noticed something different about Vazi. Not something that had changed in the stag, but something that had always been present. Something he'd never noticed before.

Maybe it was his imagination.

The lion cub sat beside a berry bush, inhaling and preparing himself. He'd already plucked all the berries away; a small amount waited, scattered over the ground nearby. He had to gather himself--his mind, his dwindling strength--and prepare to grow them.

Bones seeming to poke at his skin, as if trying to escape, he sat quiet, eyes closed, and allowed himself to get lost in thought.

Vazi had always seemed cruel. He was mocking, sneering; he was derogatory and dismissive. But sometimes--rarely, and only for an instant--Beast would swear he saw a flash of pain in the stag's pale blue eyes. Sometimes it was when Vazi thought himself to be alone, when he didn't know the cub was sneaking glances at him, keeping an eye on his location. Sometimes, it was at something Beast himself had done.

Perhaps he was simply of an age now to recognize it for what it was. Not mere hatred, but pain. First the stag seemed taken aback, then came the sneering hatred, pushing the pain away--lashing out at the cause. And the cause, most of the time, seemed to be Beast.

He'd leave, if he could. And it wasn't Vazi's violence that kept him here, no; he was sure that he could slip away, find someplace else to live. As a newborn he'd been sure that the stag could find him anywhere, would hunt him down and kill him. Now, he simply didn't want to flee.

The deer wasn't an old tottering harmless angry beast, bitter with age--he was instead in his prime, violent and capable. Yet there was a similar hurt there, a self-enforced solitude despite the others that the stag gathered by his side. A loneliness that very little seemed to be able to breach--or, rather, the stag wouldn't let it be breached, whether he realized it, or no.

Something hurt him, Beast thought. And like it or no, he felt somehow that if he left, Vazi might be hurt worse. Might lash out at others, might harm the rest.

And so--though Vazi might not be old and decrepit--Beast felt a responsibility for him nonetheless. He'd watch him, gathering his food, quiet and gentle; if the stag ever chose to speak to him with something other than abuse, he'd listen. But most of all he'd remain the whipping boy, pitying Vazi for the pain he was in, but ensuring that it wasn't inflicted on some other, younger cub.

I need to get going... in case he comes back.

The Beast quietly tucked his thoughts away and opened his eyes, regarding his task before him.

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