Tena was becoming rather more of an occurrence than she had been before, but that was fine with him- the little sand cat was quite entertaining, in all honesty, and he found her bravery and her willingness to speak up for her beliefs admirable.

That said, these circumstances didn't bring around a time for him to tell her this. He, too, had heard the scuffle, the yowls of the mountain lion as it was forced to drop its prey and scatter, the wind whipping past his face harshly as Tena forced it back. His own blue eyes remained on the child.

Pictures of a little grey and white child flashed behind his eyes, and he stumbled backwards, his shoulders shaking- this scene was far too familiar for his comfort, and yet he couldn't tear his gaze away from the mourning mother and her child, growing cold, growing stiff.

He said nothing, uttered no apology- based on his own feelings when he thought Wilma had died, she wouldn't want to hear it. Not yet, anyway. That said, the sympathy in his gaze, his flattened ears, his tail tucked between his legs- well, he was sorry, even if he didn't speak it.