How strange it is to watch him sleep. My father is a large male, a hard, cold lion who takes no more delight in the world than when he is roaming near the camp, our temporary resting spot. And when I see him wander, it is like that of a lost soul, aimlessly moving from place to place. I'm sure no one else ever saw this, all they saw was the crown prince and his fierce aura, not of power like his brother as I've been told, but of a shrewd, calculating nature and cruel determination. I've never seen him without a smirk on his face. Sometimes, sometimes I think I see his eyes soften, just a little bit. When he drew the crystals across my neck, they softened as he said they looked like ice resting on a blanket of snow. Ice and snow, everything is ice and snow to him. He still calls me his snow dove. He misses the mountains, I can tell. He complains so much about the sun, about the heat, and the dry world we live in for now. But there's nothing on the mountains we have passed, little food or shelter. I've never seen it, all my life I've been down here, on the ground, watching him as he would stare up at the icy peaks we would eventually leave behind.
I never knew my mother. Not really. I remember little things, a smell, a whisper I couldn't understand. Sometimes I think I can hear her laughing, sometimes I can almost block out all other sounds and hear both of them laughing. It makes me wonder, was he happy once? He's so cool, so cold and confidant, sometimes so cruel. Had they been happy together, or was it just a marriage of business and the memories I have just figments of a cub's imagination, trying to make sense of a world that didn't? Sometimes I imagine it, what it had been like before she was gone, before my brothers and sister were gone. If they had been happy, did they love one another? Would they cuddle close with the four of us between them?
Father never talks about my mother or siblings. I stopped asking a long time ago. He's never hurt me, never once raised a paw to me though I've seen murder in his eyes before. He growls, takes his anger out on other things. Rocks, trees, food, sometimes others. But never me. I don't even know her name. Father has made it clear that he will never utter it. I wonder if he even remembers it after all this time. Probably, it really isn't fair for me to doubt it. He's an intelligent, clever male, after all, how could he forget her name? I doubt anyone else would have, either. Would my uncle have told me, if he had returned home before we left? I learned that he was older, stronger than my father, he wouldn't have been afraid to tell me. Was it fear that kept them silent, or respect for the young prince who lost everything in one afternoon? His mate, his brother, his birthright. Everything but for a quiet, shy daughter.
Sometimes, I think I see a far-away look in his eyes, a gaze that reaches far beyond my own sight. His eyes soften again when that happens, just his eyes, nothing more. But when they do, I almost think he's remembering something, some special pleasure or a bitter sorrow that I can't begin to comprehend.
He'll catch my glance and blink the look away, turning a subject of conversation onto something, anything to make the moment pass. He likes to pretend he has no feelings, has no heart. But watching him sleep like this... I know he has something. He's so peaceful when he sleeps. His eyes are closed and his face is soft. Sometimes I see his brow furrow and he huffs in his sleep, but when I curl closer and nuzzle his cheek it goes away and my father is at peace once again.
I love seeing him like this. It hurts me, to see him so cold and unfeeling when he's awake, knowing that there is a softer side to him. It's a game he plays, day in and day out, hiding something from the world. When I was younger, he used to hide me from it, too. Sometimes he still does. I think that's one of the reasons I don't talk much. He never liked it when I did, especially when we were around others. It made him happy when I kept quiet, just stood there and looked pretty, young and innocent. Sometimes he would turn attention to me, but he has always been fiercely protective. When things go well, he always gives me a smirk, one with those soft eyes and I know I've made him happy.
I may hate that my father cares little for the suffering of others. Or, at least that he's so wrapped up in his own issues that he ignores everything else...
He doesn't care that he uses, abuses, steals and swindles, as long as we are taken care of. I should be grateful, shouldn't I? He takes care of me, after all. But then, we should be able to take care of ourselves without having to hurt others. He treats me like a fragile flower, or his precious ice, that I will break under the slightest pressure. I am not so weak that I cannot hunt, bring home prey. If only he would give me the chance, I could show him that there is another way for us to live... No, he wouldn't allow it. He has lost too much in his life, I know that he would never allow me to put myself in even the smallest amount of danger.
But in my heart, for all of my buried frustration I still love him. And I know, too, that he loves me with every bit of his being.
(WC: 1,004)
