Ororo woke to a dampness on her cheek, unable to recall exactly when she had drifted off.
She looked up into eyes as blue as sun-softened ice, set in a furry white face almost comical in it's quizzical expression.
"A lion cub?" she said aloud, sitting up slowly.
Scrawny and pathetic, a larger cat, fur a faded tawny, lay nearby, another cub curled between it's paws. As was a large chunk of red meat, well-gnawed and little more than bone remains.
Hunger. Pain. No place. The eddy-swirl of thought came from above her and to the left.
Turning her head, she could just make out Logan's outline, perched high in a huge tree's boughs.
"Logan." she murmered, softly, in greeting, but a low rumble was her only reply.
Feed. Make strong. Grow. was the reply, focused on the rolling, squealing cubs and their mother.
"They are lions, Logan." she tried to communicate her concern. "The villigers fear them."
Pack. No two-leg scent. The communication ended as the feral mutant settled in to feed.
Ororo sighed to herself, but had to admit - the two lion kittens were absolutely adorable.
Logan forced the female to meet his gaze, fangs showing, up in a crouch. When she tried to back away timidly, he patiently grabed one paw and pressed lightly, extending her claws.
She blinked.
He circled again, coming in from the left, pounce-attacking, shoving at her shoulder.
The lioness squeeked in suprise, rolling to the left, dewclaws digging in to hold her place.
Again, circling. Again, a pounce.
The female scrambled out from under the mutant, ears back in confusion.
Logan let her know by scent and movement that she was becoming stronger, that she was worthy of her cubs. He padded back and forth, letting her see his movements, restless and leonine.
Questioningly, the female rubbed against him, not understanding his disquiet.
Hunt. Moon-hunt. Logan forged the connection between their conciousnesses. The female understood, there would be food brought back by her own claws, to the milk-fangs of her cubs.
She communicated her concern of invading pride-territory.
Mine! Logan's hackles rose. Mine. Hunt moon-rising.
And he moved away to flow up into the trees, a facility the female had not quite mastered.
The sun flickered down, and she curled up around her squirming young for a good rest before the hunt began.
Ororo watched Logan silently, seeing the soft moonlight ripple over his skin. He was rousing, stretching with the unabashed sensuality of a great hunting cat.
His yawn revealed his canines, pointed and strong, a part of his arsenal he rarely showed.
The lioness was on her feet, sniffing each of her cubs, licking their coats to comfort them. Her green-gold eyes regarded the human female uncertainly.
Herself, Ororo wondered how Logan had brought the great cat down from the plains. Lions were known to be dangerous, extremely quixotic, and never tamable by her people.
Logan uttered a low growl and the lioness moved to his side, making herself kitten-small.
He ruffled her fur, giving a low rumble, and looked back at Ororo.
Hunt. Den. Safe. Stay. Ripples of thought-image, of the night dangerous. There was a faint flicker of golden in his eyes, as if he struggled a moment with inner disquiet, a hiss of annoyance, then more firmly, Safe. Stay. Den. Soothing darkness, plants, scents of flowers and cool water.
Ororo wasn't exactly sure why, but she was not annoyed by this protectiveness.
On the contrary.
She was touched.
Unfettered by lion-pride-following, Logan and the lioness made their way to the plains with graceful speed. It was, in the mutant's mind, time to teach the female to hunt.
The lead female had not, for whatever reason, so he would.
He popped his claws, lowering himself down in the swaying, high grass, tugging on his companion's ear to bring her to his level.
Stalk. Image-sensation of crouch-moving through the stalks of grass, nose catching scent-of-prey, eyes forward but moving, ears up and hearing sounds of movement, of challenge.
She watched him, hesitant. All her life she had been forced to submit. Now, she was being forced to unlearn those harsh lessons.
Logan crept forward until he saw his target, a long, graceful creature with horns curving upwards.
He pushed the lioness head up until she saw the horns.
Danger. Tear. Letting her sense-see the danger of being torn open by those lowered prongs.
Hunt? The puzzled question was clear now, and Logan beared his teeth in agreement.
Slow. He told her, moving to the left, sniffing the air. Downwind. Good.
Working with excruciating care, the two hunters manuvered until the antelope was between them.
Pounce! commanded Logan, charging from the brush, herding the suddenly-panicked prey toward the waiting lioness, who leapt from her hiding place, claws and fangs connecting with the exposed neck as her companion landed on the struggling equine's back, fangs sinking into flesh while claws flashed.
Logan did not release his grip until the prey stopped it's futile kicking.
The lioness moved off as he cut loose a share, then motioned her over.
He growled permission - there was plenty.
They fed contentedly, as the moon's soft light danced around them.
Ororo was getting worried - very worried. Though her telepathic shields held, she was well-aware of the attempts at contact. The last one had mentioned an attempt to find them, something she was certain she did not want.
When Logan and the lioness returned, they were blood-splattered and dragging the remains of a dead antelope.
Normally, Ororo would have been grief-stricken to see such an animal dead, torn as it was.
Yet now, seeing Logan expertly butchering it, passing a huge chunk to the purring lioness, licking his lips absently of the blood on them, she found it - oddly erotic.
Which almost lead to a panic-attack.
Erotic? Logan was effectively insane, suffering and she...
What?
Ororo watched as he worked, and was startled when he uttered a soothing rumble, a chunk of meat extended toward her, blood dripping onto the damp earth.
"I...Logan...?" she managed, kneeling next to him, in an effort to compose herself.
Food. Eat. came the response, gold-flecked eyes seeming to glow. Sensation of the satisfaction of fangs tearing meat, feeding. Flicks of the charge toward the prey, the feel of it's stuggles, the taste of fresh blood, realness to the food, not processed illusion.
She hesitated. Meat was not something she had enjoyed greatly, though she was not a vegetarian.
It simply was not her food of choice.
Now, in the wilds of Africa, the mutant known as Storm took a small piece and obligingly placed it in her mouth. She had hardened her stomach, fearing that she would be unable to hold it down.
Suprisingly, it wasn't it's taste that affected her.
It was the fact that it was Logan's kill. Dead, yes, but honest in the reason for it. Not killed for pleasure - though the hunt brought pleasure, it was not for pleasure - but for sustenance and growth. Renewal, as the rains were for the earth, as fire was for the field.
She stared at him a moment, then thought wildly, Oh, Logan, what are you doing to me?
The moon, pale no more, rose higher, silent and radiant.