He stood over the dying tiger, a massive, striped form struggling for breath. A wave of profound pity washed over him, overriding the primal fear. He recognized the look of fading vitality in the animal's amber eyes. It was a terrible sight, but it was also hauntingly familiar.
This wasn't his first encounter with the majestic predators. His mind flashed back to a critical operation years ago in the dense wilderness of the continental US. A tiger had attacked their unit; a quick, panicked shot from a young soldier had put the animal down, thrashing and near death. Lieutenant Sampson, against all military logic, had argued vehemently that they save it.
"Tigers have emotion just like us, Major," Sampson had insisted, his voice earnest. "They don't forget kindness done to them."
Sampson had scoured the unfamiliar undergrowth, located and gathered ancient, broad herbal leaves, and applied the rough poultice to the beast's bleeding wounds. Minutes later, the tiger woke, gave a low, rumbling acknowledgment, and weakly vanished into the trees. Two days later, during a brutal ambush by a squad of relentless assassins, that very same tiger had returned, bursting from the cover of the forest to fight fiercely on the soldiers' behalf, turning the tide of the battle.
Kealen knew what had to be done. He plunged into the bewildering forest, searching not for an exit, but for a memory—the distinctive leaves Sampson had used. He finally spotted the familiar cluster of foliage, plucked a generous handful, and rushed back. He crushed the leaves and applied the cooling, pungent paste directly to the tiger's deep, venomous-looking wounds, inflicted by the python's bite. He settled near the creature, allowing it to rest.
After securing the tiger, Kealen returned to the python's meat he had secured earlier and devoured it raw, knowing a proper meal was more critical than hygiene in this desolate place. He was well aware that water was also currently impossible to find.
Hours later, Kealen lay back in the usual spot, not sleeping, but maintaining a heightened state of vigilance. Anything could happen at any moment, and he would not allow himself to be blindsided. He was trying to protect the injured animal from further harm, a temporary but necessary mission, until sheer exhaustion finally pulled him into a fitful, shallow sleep.
When Major Kealen woke with the first gray light of dawn, the tiger was gone. He searched the immediate vicinity, finding only faint, dragging paw prints leading into the deep brush.
"A clean escape is the best outcome," he muttered, standing slowly. "That is not my primary concern now."
Survival was. He began to wander, the harsh reality settling over him. Was this truly how he was going to perish in this wasteland? He focused his will and began moving steadily in one direction, hoping either to find a small road or a sign that researchers had passed through. But there was no indication that a human foot had crossed this ground for countless years.
As he walked, his thoughts turned dark, dwelling on the conspirators who had framed him and condemned him and sent hi to excile, which lead to this tragedy in his life. They had taken everything—his career, his freedom, and worst of all, his gentle wife and young son. They would pay for their actions.
At this moment, Major Kealen believed implicitly in his own survival. He no longer doubted that he would live or perish here, just as his family had suffered. He told himself with fierce, cold boldness that he was going to find his way out, even if it took him a hundred years.
"I will live by the wild," he told the empty air, his voice low and fierce. "I will feed on their flesh and drink their blood if I must. I cannot perish in this forest just like that. I must find my way back to the US and avenge my family's death."
He had walked only a short distance, still fueled by this vow, when he saw the same tiger, moving slowly and deliberately along a parallel path. The animal was clearly still weak, favoring its side, a legacy of the bite, but it was moving with purpose.
The tiger paused, turned its massive head, and looked directly back at Kealen. It didn't growl; it simply observed the man who had healed it, then continued walking. It spares me, Kealen realized. If the creature, capable of killing him instantly, could wake up, see him, and decide to spare his life, it would never intentionally fight him.
A powerful, necessary idea took root. "I would make this tiger my best friend in this wilderness," he concluded, rushing forward to follow. "It will be my family, my friend, and my warrior."
He trailed the great cat, adrenaline surging anew. He was so focused on matching the tiger's slow pace that the sudden, rushing sound ahead of them almost startled him. He pushed through a final curtain of vines and stopped, overwhelmed.
Ahead, sparking brilliantly under the dappled sunlight, was a wide, clear river. The sight was a balm to his parched soul. At last, sustenance. He had water, and perhaps, an ally.
The river was a shock of bright, moving life against the dense green. It wasn't just water; it was the world beginning again.
Kealen dropped to the bank, heedless of the thick mud, and plunged his face into the icy, clear current. The agonizing thirst vanished instantly, the cool liquid leaching the fever and grime from his throat. He drank until his stomach ached, then shoved his head under, scrubbing the filth of the past dark days from his skin.
When his head finally broke the surface, the chill air sharp on his wet skin, the tiger was twenty feet upstream, drinking. The massive, striped head dipped low, then rose, amber eyes checking Kealen's position without haste, without alarm.
They were still predator and prey, yet the gap between them felt thin, secured by a strange, quiet peace. Kealen knew he couldn't test the truce. He would not stare, nor would he move closer.
"An understanding, then, old friend," Kealen whispered, and he began to rinse the mud from his shirt. He turned his attention to his own small, aching cuts, allowing the swift current to cleanse the raw wounds on his arms.
The tiger eventually finished drinking and moved stiffly to a nearby patch of sun-warmed stones. It settled down, licking the venom-looking puncture marks on its flank, the movement betraying the tenderness of the injury.
Kealen recognized the animal's pain. He rose slowly, making his movements deliberate, and pulled the remaining crushed healing paste from his pocket—the excess he had collected the night before. He walked upriver just until the distance felt respectful, placed the pungent green paste on a flat river stone, and retreated to the bank.
The tiger remained a striped statue for a long, heavy minute, its eyes fixed on the man. Then, with a low guttural rumble of internal deliberation, it pushed itself up. It padded over to the stone and began licking the paste. Trust was built in quiet shared moments, not words.
Kealen spent the next hour working methodically. The river offered a clear line of sight. He found small stones and flint, coaxing a weak flame from the dry tinder. The small fire, a tiny plume of risky smoke, offered a necessary victory against the wilderness.