He watched the strange male; he watched him get just close enough to cause a ripple of threat beneath his skin and yet, he watched him settle aside, not close enough to warrant a true threat. Elohim, of course, did not understand such a feeling. Never had he particularly cared for any other. They were all but questions and answers in flesh, warm bodies. Yet, she seemed somehow different. Alive. It made him unsure, weary, perhaps even a little threatened by the very notion of her existence. It did not help that he did not witness the earth crumble beneath her like it had for him. Had she not felt or seen the way the world moved in a new way? Did none of them see it? Perhaps the dusty woman did, a flicker in her eyes a telltale sign that she felt something unusual and yet, even Elohim could taste her dissatisfaction.

For whatever reason, the world kept spinning.

And he merely watched, waited, listened closely as they shared words among themselves. Talks of places to go, to visit, a barely interesting thing that made his ear flicker. Diplomacy. His father liked that kind of talk. Elohim? He did not think so. It bored him. He did not know why they felt they needed to discuss where they ought to go - they ought to go everywhere, anywhere. They ought to follow the woman cloaked in sunshine and white. What interested him more was the momentary gaze of the woman in white. Her eyes felt like a summer sun, his skin hot and uncomfortable beneath a layer of fur. He wanted to shed out of it, to reveal his bones and blood to her. Look at them, he'd say, they were made for you. He wondered if she'd like the curvature of them or the shade he bled.

She wouldn't, he supposed. She spoke of other males. Dates. The word made no sense and yet, he felt it sting the bottoms of his feet like thorns. It made him move forward on long, quiet steps, close to the dusty woman as he took a place among their circle. His eyes had never left her though. For a second, they hesitated to flicker towards the woman he had met at the grotto and yet, they seemed to ache when he dared them to do so. And so, they remained fixated on the way the white of her fur danced in the breeze, mingling with the shades of yellow and green that peppered the grass around them.

"Perhaps the stars are but the eyes of the dead," he finally spoke, a solemn voice among the shrillness of the women's, "and so, they can see your lies. What better place to test your version of the truth?" Finally, his eyes had broken away from hers, scanning the group before they settled back on the woman again. He kept his distance. Yet, the damage had already been done. Her closeness inspired words where his tongue had only tasted silence and flesh.