Word Count: 1241
The large lion had not moved from his position for days. This was not at all unusual for the beast, who was so often and so frequently accustomed to simply existing. He could spend minutes, days, weeks, months, years in one place and simply let the world do what it wished around him. He was not a lion who was overly fussed, nor did he like to think himself overly concerned about any happenings, mortal or god or otherwise.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
Nemanja'janan may very well have had the world convinced, but it was not true of the lion. It was not true, and he would very well prove that his lack of care was not pure. He was not Apathy, no matter how tight he clung to his domain, no matter how he tried to fool the world, as well as fool himself.
Isanne, on the other hand, wasn't entirely certain of much of anything. The half-groomed lion next to her was . . . .well. . . it didn't matter. She could hardly even recall his name, much less bother to consider his existence. She could feel him against her, could hear his breath, could hear her own, but her blue eyes were dimmed. The passion within had been . . . . snuffed.
A small part of the lioness was screaming to move, to get up, to do something but she was absolutely, positively stifled. There was nothing that she could do to bring her paws beneath her, nothing she could do to convince herself to move. Whatever had happened[/i ]to her, well, honestly, Isanne didn't care. She didn't want to move, didn't want to think, to eat, to hunt, to live. Even resting, collapsed in a heap next to the nameless stranger, felt like she was doing too much.
How long had she been resting there?
Meh. It didn't matter.
Closing her eyes, the lioness said nothing, made no movement, no motion, and seemingly looked like a corpse.
Nemanja'janan, on the other paw, was more aware of the lioness than she appeared to be herself. He was aware because he knew what his life was like, and though he tried not to consider his powers, he also know what they did to mortals. He had been in this situation time and time again, had killed countless simply due to his residual ring of apathy. Unfortunately, Nemanja (deep down) did not like to kill using his powers.
The lioness had done nothing to deserve her fate.
While it had been refreshing to shut her up, he knew that he could not remain with her, or linger much longer in her presence. Very soon she would succumb to the elements, to dehydration. She would die if he did not leave and allow her to recuperate. Why her life mattered enough for him to spare her, well. . . . Nemanja was quite sure that she did not matter. He was not prepared to move for her sake, but his own.
It was time to move elsewhere, simply because he could. (Or so he tried to believe.) Unfortunately for Nemanja, even he did not believe such an argument. Oh, how weak he had grown with age.
Isanne, for her part, was finding herself growing more and more detached. While she recollected where she had been, a small part of her could not understand how she had managed to let go of all her resentments, all her worries, all her fears. It had begun slowly. The longer she chattered and lingered with the god, grooming his wickedly tangled, disgusting, disheveled coat, the less she found she cared. He was a mess, he was dirty, grimy, and in need of a good clean bath but. . . but her work grew slower, and she found herself more and more disinterested in not just his coat, but her own.
For once in her life, she found her concerns over her own beauty, her vanity, her desire to be needed by someone, anyone, slowly disipating. She needed not be the most beautiful, she needed not to command or demand others to admire her, she needed nothing. . . . And for a little while, that had felt so good. She had relaxed, completely and utterly. All of her tangled tensions and knots had come undone, she had been free to not worry about the dust in her coat or the age that she felt in her weary bones.
Isanne had lost her need to impress, had lost her worries and fears about the world, and had, for a brief window, been completely free.
But that didn't last. That joy, that freedom, had been too good to last. Somewhere, even that freedom resulted in being too much care, too much worry. The apathy towards the world and herself and welled up and overflowed, and it took over ever inch of her. Every aspect.
Soon sitting up became too much of a care, breathing itself was . . . why? There was no point. To eat. To die. To live. To breathe. Why? Her name, her colors, her life, her purpose. . . there was no purpose. That was the truth of it. They were nothing but specks in an endless world of specks which was nothing but an endless speck upon a speck. They were raised to believe in themselves, in their power, in their need but it was all a lie. Nothing mattered. To believe otherwise was nothing but an illusion, and Isanne had no use for foolishness.
She had been made aware of the great truth of the god upon which she leaned against.
Nemanja'janan, oblivious of what the female was thinking, was no fool either. Though he often knew of his own truth, knew of his own little care for the world or his life, he could not completely embrace his domain. There was innate responsibility within him, and a need to do more than simply exist. He did not like to consider such things, he frequently did not, but . . . no matter how far he ran, no matter where he placed his paws, he could not escape himself or his existence.
Whoever this pale, blue, black and white lioness was next to him, she did not need to be wrapped up in him. The gentleman his mother had once tried to raise him to be objected -- he owed her a little gratittude, for she had groomed part of him. Now he simply looked only half-way ragged.
Slowly, ever so slowly, painfully slowly, the large lion rolled to his paws. It felt as if he were carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders, and he was certain his bones creaked from the sheer amount of effort. It was time to move. Without looking back upon the white, collapsed female figure, the large god slowly, every slowly, resumed his journey through the mortal realm.
He was not doing this for her. He simply wished to take Veri's snake and find a new place to rest his weary bones. To do nothing more than exist. The grass could once more grow, the lioness would soon shake herself awake from her reverie and begin to remember herself and her place in the world, and life would . . .for each and every one of them. . . for better or for worse. . . would move on.
