A Lion's Heart by Kracken

took his flapping and squawking chickens into an eager Tamarind. Tamarind grabbed hold of the cage, but Shakra dared sharp claws as he refused to let go.
    “No, you are not a savage,” Shakra told him sternly. “You are not going to make my rooms into a butcher shop.” He thought for a moment and then went to the tiled bathroom. He put the chickens on the floor and then turned to Tamarind, who's eyes were glowing eagerly.
    “Hungry,” Tamarind complained.
    “I know,” Shakra replied, “But I expect you to follow rules of behavior. You will eat neatly and clean up the room, and yourself, afterward.”
    Tamarind glared. Shakra glared back.
    “We don't eat inside,” Tamarind grumbled. “That's bad behavior.”
    “Where you're from,” Shakra said. “Not here. I don't expect any blood when you come out of here. There's a container for garbage over there. If you have anything left over from the chickens, put it in there. I'll have a servant take it away.”
    Shakra shut the door on the werelion and his meal. The door opened again almost immediately. The werelion looked anxious and embarrassed. “It's too small... leave the door open.”
    Claustrophobic. Shakra grimaced and nodded. As he turned his back and he began to hear the cries of the chickens, he decided to go out onto the balcony. It was a simple wooden platform overlooking a training area. Shakra didn't usually venture out because he always became the center of attention. A prince's only private moments were in his rooms.
    After a length of time leaning against the wall of the Keep, and trying not to be seen, Shakra decided that the werelion had enough time to finish his meal. He went cautiously back into his rooms and found the werelion sprawled out over cushions on the floor in front of the fire. His entire body was lax, not even an ear twitching as Shakra approached. Tamarind's stomach was round, as if he were pregnant. The mental image made Shakra go hot and he turned to go into the bathroom.
    A werelion could not eat chickens without making some mess. Still, the werelion had tried to be neat. Shakra sighed as he picked up errant feathers and one half gnawed chicken leg and tossed them into the garbage. He took it out of the bathroom and deposited it outside the door of his rooms for the servants to take.
    Shakra couldn't help approaching Tamarind again. The werelion was definitely deeply asleep; complete exhaustion having over taken him at last. Crouching down, Shakra looked the creature over. Soft fur, smooth skin, supple muscles. Tamarind smelled a bit like chickens, but mostly of wild grasses and sunshine. His breath moved in and out of his throat with a very faint rumble, not a catlike purr, but a thrum of contentment that was unconscious.
    Shakra stretched out beside the werelion, weariness taking hold of him too and the warm fire making him drowsy. His pet cats liked to curl up to him for warmth and werewolves liked to sleep in groups, craving the social interaction. If Shakra's family hadn't died, he would now be in a common room and sleeping with them and whatever siblings he might have had. His loneliness had always cut as keenly as any blade. No amount of pillows or warmth could replace the soft fur and pulse beat of companions. Sleeping even this close to someone else, even if Tamarind wasn't from the same species, was giving Shakra an odd feeling. It was easy to pretend that it didn't matter when he hadn't known better. He had kept himself aloof, spurned the company of others, and wrapped himself in Shang's self-contained philosophy to trust no one and nothing but his skill.
    Tamarind let out a delicate burp His ears flicked, soft, tawny ovals sticking out of his short cinnamon mane. Shakra cushioned his head on a pillow and inched as close as he dared. He imagined Tamarind killing chickens, imagined Tamarind running through tall Savannah grass in sunlight, and imagined Tamarind laughing and happy with an entire pride of family. Now Tamarind