"You waited too long," she cannot help but say to herself, sighing and stretching out in what remains of spring's flowers. She didn't mean to find herself south of Spirane, and certainly not so far away from Taviora, but she finds herself there nonetheless. Sila cannot bring herself to look up at the mountain, but instead, she dreams of the forests to the north. She was too slow, though. Well, she hesitated too much. Something in Taviora had changed, and a new wolf had taken up the mantle of queen. Sila is unaware of the details, but how important were the details anyway? What matters, she thinks, is that she is once more on the outside of the pack. If she was less indecesive, she would be a part of the ranks already, and the change would have been natural and easy. Now, she has to muster up the courage again. Again, she sighs, and her head flops down onto her paws in resignation.
There lurks a familiarity in the air, yet she cannot pinpoint just what it is. It is enough, at least, to keep her occupied and distracted from her own thoughts. She lays still, flat against the grass, ears at the ready and legs slowly gathering beneath her. Is it the good kind of familiar or the bad kind, and which would she prefer in any case? With bated breath, she feels her hackles rise, pinpricks of heat on her skin as she slowly begins to rise. When she does draw in a breath, it is slow and full of suspense, her blood running cold. It runs cold because she realizes why it is familiar, and she cannot find it within herself to believe it. Somewhere in the breeze, somehow, her mind has tricked her, she thinks, in order to conjure up the image of Samus. Why, she wonders, and had she perhaps eaten something terrible, something that has made her ill, or perhaps the flowers were toxic, poisoning her slowly? Mother, she thinks as she shakes her head slowly, had mentioned those kinds of plants. One bite, or too much on the skin or in the eyes, and a wolf could hallucinate, grow sick and even die. Why else would she smell Samus, and why else would she imagine the woman's dark form on the horizon, her swaggering stride unmistakable?
So, she rises from the grass and stands still, frozen by contemplation. She does not feel sick, anymore than usual at least, but she finds herself in awe of her hallucination. She feels herself smile, small as it might be, but she smiles nonetheless. It is, after all, a pleasant hallucination. If she is to grow sick, or even die, then let it be alongside the image of Samus with late spring flowers brushing her flanks and a clear sky smiling down on them.