Perspective: Freya Van Daalen
Ever since becoming a mother, Freya had always considered herself a responsible person.
Not the kind of responsibility born from obligation, but the kind that comes from the silent fear of seeing her children hurt.
She always kept first aid kits around.
Two at home.
One in the bathroom — close to the children's rooms, in case of a nighttime emergency — and another in the kitchen, near the living room and play area, because that's where most of the chaos usually happened.
Her apartment — which she affectionately described as "the size of the smallest egg ever laid by a chicken" — didn't leave much room for error.
So, of course, her parents and friends called her overprotective.
She disagreed.
Completely.
And if anyone dared to say that out loud, she'd reply with the obvious:
"Better safe than sorry."
So when she bought her first car — more out of necessity than desire — her habit only grew stronger.
That old bucket of bolts she used to take the kids to school got its own third first aid kit.
Small, but complete.
Scissors, bandages, alcohol, gauze, antiseptic ointment —
all of it neatly arranged, as if it were an extension of her maternal instinct.
She had always been proud of that — of her ability to be prepared for everything.
But now, in that cruel, golden savanna, none of it mattered.
For the first time in years, Freya felt completely powerless.
Her kits were in the real world.
And even if, by some miracle, they were here with her… what could she possibly do?
How could she apply a bandage with paws?
How could she clean a wound with claws?
It was simply useless.
All she could do was watch.
Aslan lay under the great tree they had claimed as shelter.
One of the largest in the region — its trunk thick and gnarled, its roots snaking through the cracked earth, its crown dense enough to protect them from the rare rains of that strange land.
There, the air was cooler.
The shadows wrapped around them, and the distant hum of insects filled the silence with a rhythm almost hypnotic.
She watched him quietly.
The great lion licked his wounds slowly — each movement of his muzzle tense, deliberate, painful.
The marks of battle were still visible: deep cuts across his shoulders, scratches on his forelegs, and a long wound along his side that throbbed with each breath.
He did what any animal would — cleaning the blood, removing the dirt, tending to himself by instinct.
And, in a way, simply seeing him move with determination was already a relief.
Even so, Freya's heart ached.
That same maternal instinct — the one that made her pack kits, check medicine labels, and take temperatures in the middle of the night — now roared inside her, demanding to act.
But she couldn't.
The lioness's body was strong, fast, lethal… but useless for care.
The gentle touch, the precision of a bandage, the ability to hold something delicately — all of that had vanished along with her human hands.
She wanted to approach him, to lick his wounds, to help somehow.
But she hesitated.
Aslan's gaze was steady — tired, yet serene.
He seemed to know what he was doing.
So she just lay beside him, watching the sunlight filter through the tall branches.
The golden light reflected off his mane, making it almost translucent — as if the savanna itself recognized him as part of it.
The silence between them was peaceful.
No words were needed.
And as the gentle wind passed through the leaves, Freya realized that maybe that moment — so simple, so quiet — was the most human thing they had experienced since becoming beasts.
Time passed slowly, but Freya's mind, as always, refused to stay still.
Doubt began small — like an itch at the back of her thoughts.
But as the silence stretched, it grew — until it became impossible to ignore.
Freya stayed lying beside Aslan, watching him carefully.
The lion breathed calmly, his amber eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon, while the wind rippled through his golden mane.
She studied him — every movement, every breath.
And finally, the question surfaced.
Why did you take so long to end the fight?
Or at least, that's what she meant to say.
But what came out of her throat wasn't words —
it was a roar.
Deep.
Instinctive.
A sound that vibrated through the air and faded into the distance.
Freya froze, startled.
The human consciousness inside her was still struggling to adapt to this new form of communication.
It wasn't easy — it wasn't natural — to stop thinking like a human and start acting like a beast.
She suffered for it.
But despite her wild body and sharpened instincts, something within her refused to disappear: the human impulse to question.
And that impulse now twisted into irritation.
She couldn't accept it.
She couldn't accept that Aslan — stronger, faster, smarter — had been thrown to the ground so many times.
She couldn't accept that he'd been wounded so badly for no apparent reason.
To her, it still felt like a mistake — a weakness that didn't fit the man (or the lion) she knew.
She roared again — louder this time.
The sound reverberated beneath the canopy, a cry of frustration, a question that, if translated into human words, would have said:
Why?
Aslan turned toward her slowly.
His eyes — those same honey-colored eyes that, even in another body, hadn't changed at all — met hers.
And he roared back.
The sound was short, but full of meaning.
She didn't fully understand it — not yet — but something in his gaze answered for him.
It wasn't words, but it was clear.
He didn't know either.
He too felt that something had changed — that some invisible boundary had been crossed, and even he couldn't explain how or why.
Freya stared at him for a long moment — skeptical, frustrated.
She wanted more answers.
She roared again — another question without translation, driven by curiosity and by something deeper, older, more primal.
His gaze remained fixed, unwavering.
And for a moment, the world seemed to shrink.
The sounds of the savanna — the wind, the insects, the rustle of leaves — all faded away.
There was only them.
The silence grew heavy, almost tangible.
And then, it happened.
Freya noticed something different in his eyes.
Something new.
Something that, for a brief second, confused her mind and made her heart race.
She tried to rationalize it.
Tried to think like a woman, a mother, a teacher — someone used to viewing the world through logical lenses.
Is this… a lion's version of flirting?
The thought struck her like lightning — absurd, almost comical.
But the laughter never came.
Because something inside her broke.
A thin layer — fragile, but until now intact — shattered completely.
The layer that separated thought from instinct, control from impulse, human from beast.
And the moment that barrier fell, instinct took over.
Freya didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't plan.
She simply felt.
And then she moved.
In one swift, precise leap, her body crossed the space between them.
Her paws struck the ground, dust rose, and the sound of impact mingled with the rhythm of her breathing.
She didn't attack him.
Didn't threaten.
She simply threw herself onto him — guided by something deeper than reason, older than language.
A call.
A recognition.
An instinct that had been growing quietly inside her since the first day she'd met him — and that now, finally, was set free.
Freya's human sanity dissolved like sand in the wind.
Judgment, restraint, fear — all vanished.
And for the first time since arriving in that savanna, she stopped resisting.
All that remained was the sound of two breaths intertwined, the heat of the evening sun, and the distant echo of a roar that blended with the rhythm of her own heartbeat.