FSE

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Outside, the silvery light of late afternoon had darkened to a bruised and deep purple. The lioness watched through half lidded eyes, taking a deep breath that could barely be heard over the unrelenting hiss of falling rain.

The storm had evened out a little bit, she noticed, and though she couldn't tell for sure, she thought that the cloud cover might have thinned just a bit.

They were lying by the fire, the fox and her, on their sides, the fox cuddled up against her, muzzle nestled into the spot between her neck and shoulder. She could feel his breath stirring the fur there, gentle and warm, much like the heat radiating from the glowing bed of coals in front of her.

"What did you want to be when you were a cub?" He asked after a long, quiet moment.

"Hmm?" The lioness asked, stirring slightly, glancing back at the fox.

"I was just thinking," the fox said, "I wanted to make wings and fly when I was little."

The lioness smiled.

"That's cute," she said, "did you ever try?"

"Uh..." The fox shifted against her, slightly embarrassed, "I tried jumping from a tree with a set of wings I made but all I did was fall in a thorn bush."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I was picking slivers out of myself for weeks."

"And the wings?" The lioness asked.

"What about them?"

"What'd you make them out of?"

The fox was quiet for a moment, then cracked a smile.

"I made some frames from willow, because it's light and flexible, then...uh...stole some scrap leather and stitched it so it would lift me up when I flapped my arms. But when I jumped the wings kinda went off to the side and I fell into the bushes. They got broken up pretty badly."

The lioness winced in quiet sympathy.

"At least you didn't break any bones." She said.

"Yeah..." The fox agreed. "What about you?"

"I broke my arm once." The lioness shrugged, shifting her left arm slightly for emphasis.

"No...what'd you want to be when you were little?"

The lioness was silent for a long moment, watching the light from the embers flicker and flare.

"I wanted to be a storyteller," she said at last, shoulders slumping slightly, "but I don't have the brains for it."

"Why not?"

"You have to memorize hundreds and thousands of stories and tales passed down over the generations. I never had the patience. I remember a lot of them, but only the fun ones. Like, half of the stories are records of who conquered who and who ruled which spot when and...ugh." She stuck her tongue out in disgust.

"Don't your people write anything down?" The fox asked curiously.

"Sure," the lioness said, "but all the storytellers still have to memorize everything. Just in case."

"Hmm." The fox nodded to himself, "that's kinda what our priests do. But they still read from the books a lot."

"Do they ever tell stories?" The lioness asked.

"Of course," said the fox, "not too often, but whenever they want to make a point there's always an anecdote or something to be said."

The lioness nodded to herself. Shut her eyes and exhaled, a great sort of fatigue settling over her like a warm blanket.

"What kind of stories do they tell your people?" The fox asked.

"All kinds," the lioness murmured sleepily, "mostly explaining how things came to be. They're really old, from before the ruins and everything."

"Could you tell me one?" The fox asked.

The lioness opened her eyes. Looked out to the dying sunset. Pretty soon the moon would be rising, casting silvery light through the clouds.

"Long ago," she began, "when the world was new, the sun and moon shared the sky for the entirety of the day. They were brother and sister, and very jealous, so they often fought and bickered. One day their fighting grew more serious and they raced around the earth, hissing and spitting, causing great calamity for the people down below. Eventually the fight ended with the moon being knocked down into a pit of silvery ash, which dulled her shine. She got back up, determined to kill her brother for this slight, but was stopped by her mother, the creator, who decided to separate the two entirely. So the sun got the day, which is good for tracking and planting and leisure...and the moon got the night, which is good for resting and sneaking and lovemaking," she winked at the fox as she said that, "and the siblings can only ever see each other at specific times, like eclipses, when they're determined to be on their best behavior."

The lioness finished and looked to the fox for approval. He smiled politely.

"So that's why the sun and moon don't share the sky?" He asked.

"Yeah," the lioness paused for a contemplative moment, "it's also apparently why only males of my species have ruffs around their necks. Because the sun has rays and the moon doesn't. But I'm not sure if I believe that."

The fox nuzzled in closer to the spot between her neck and shoulder and sighed contentedly.

"In our stories the creator mostly kept things the same from the moment of creation."

"Weird." The lioness said, "I guess she has her shit together a lot more in your version of things."

"She?" The fox asked.

The lioness nodded.

"You guys think the creator is a man?" She asked, raising an eyebrow.

The fox nodded as best he could.

"Yeah."

"Figures." The lioness let her eyes slide shut again, relaxing against the fox.

"There is one story I like a lot." He said after a few moments.

"Yeah?" The lioness asked sleepily.

"It's the story of how Raven stole the sun away from the creator."

The lioness smiled faintly.

"Thought you weren't supposed to disobey her."

"Him," the fox gently corrected, "and...well...you'll see. So, when the creator had finished creating everything, the world was left dark and cold. There were people and animals and plants, but they huddled in their villages and knew nothing of the world, for they could not even see each other.

"The only one who was greatly upset by this was Raven, who was created as a trickster. But he could not play his tricks on people if they couldn't see him, so he decided to steal the sun away from the creator's lodge.

"The lodge was locked up and all the windows were barred and covered in furs, but Raven could still see a bright golden light beaming from every crack in the walls, illuminating the creator's lodge like...um...the sun.

"Raven couldn't get in through the door or the windows, so he decided to try going down the chimney, only to find himself suffocated by the smoke and stained by the soot. This displeased Raven enough that he was forced to back away and clean himself off, for in those days Raven's feathers were the purest white and he was very vain.

"Once he cleaned himself off, Raven noticed something curious occurring. The creator's only daughter was being sent out to collect water from a nearby lake. Raven caught only a glimpse of her when she was lit up by the glow coming from the lodge. He could see that she was extraordinarily beautiful and decided to trail her down to the lake, where she began to fill up her clay vessels with water.

"At first Raven wanted to simply ask her to let him in to the lodge, for the good of the people and animals (and himself of course), but knew she would never disobey her father the creator. So instead he put his trickster nature to use and transformed himself into a pine needle, letting himself drift down to the water, where he was collected into one of the clay vessels.

"In that way Raven managed to get in to the creator's lodge. He spent some time sealed up in the clay vessel, but could still see a great golden glow leaking through the seam between the vessel and its lid. He wanted badly to burst out and grab for the sun, but knew all the same that he had to be patient. So he waited.

"After some time the lid was removed and the creator's daughter lifted the vessel to her mouth and took a drink, swallowing Raven, who was still in the shape of a pine needle.

"Raven made do with this new situation and formed himself into an unborn child. Soon the daughter noticed she was pregnant and informed her father, who was delighted to learn he'd soon have a grandchild to dote upon.

"When Raven was born he took the shape of a little cub, with fur just as white as his feathers, and was treated very well by the creator and his daughter, who showered him with love.

"Raven, while he appreciated the attention and treats and toys he was given, kept his mission in mind and explored the creator's lodge, crawling about on all fours and eventually learning to toddle and finally walk. He looked through the furs that the creator and his daughter slept on but found no sign of the sun. He looked into the hearth, where a cheery fire was always burning, but still found no sun. Then his gaze landed on a brightly painted chest in the corner of the lodge, which he made a beeline to.

"The chest, Raven noticed, was leaking golden light from its cracks. And he made it known that he was very curious about what was inside.

"The creator was delighted with Raven's curiosity and opened the chest to reveal a tiny golden ball nestled atop a bed of soft cloth. It radiated a warm, pleasant glow that was hard for Raven to look directly at. The creator told Raven that he could look at the sun but not touch, because it was very dangerous. If it were to get loose, the creator said gravely, then all manner of things, both good and bad, would happen to the outside world.

"Raven didn't listen. Instead he changed shapes into his raven form, snatched up the sun in his beak and shot up the chimney before either the creator or his daughter could stop him. As he went, higher and higher into the sky, spreading light over the world, the heat of the sun burnt his beak black and charred his feathers as well.

"Alarmed, Raven threw the sun as far as he could into the sky, where it stuck in place. Raven dove back down to the lake to cool himself off, but was dismayed to find that his feathers and beak were now permanently a silky black.

"When he looked back up from his reflection in the lake, he found the creator observing him. Raven asked the creator if he was angry but the creator assured him that he wasn't, that he was sure Raven had learned his lesson...and that what's been done cannot be undone.

"And that's how Raven stole the sun."

The lioness smiled faintly.

"So...the creator knew Raven was gonna steal the sun?" She asked, voice foggy with fatigue.

"Yeah," the fox nodded, "see...you can go against the creator if you want, if you really think that what you're doing is right, but he won't protect you from the consequences, whether they're good or bad. Free will basically."

"Okay," the lioness snuggled further against the fox, letting out a sleepy sigh, "...black is a better look for ravens anyway."

The fox smiled.

"Good night." He said quietly.

The lioness mumbled something unintelligible.

Sleep took her.