The world was weary and windswept.

And white.

But none of that could be seen. Not in this. Not in the absence of all earthly light.

Assumpta padded over ice. Thin, thin ice ... holding her breath at each slight cracking sound. The sky was dark.

Twenty-four hours of dark.

Today was the winter solstice ... here. Here above the Arctic Circle.

Sub-zero (without the wind chill). And her furry, snowy pelt, and her hot predatory blood ... kept her warm. Kept her from freezing.

Oh, she was born in this!

Was born FOR this.

An Arctic fox had stolen her fish ... from her hut.

She was going to get it back.

He'd snuck in while she'd been resting (which she scolded herself for ... why was she resting ... ) ...

Eyes squinting, she could make out the tracks. His tracks. Barely. In the frigid, freezing moonlight, she could make out the tracks. The sun may have taken a six-month hiatus, but ... the moon still showed its face. The moon was subservient enough that it couldn't take vacations. It showed up. Day after day. It knew its duty.

The fox wasn't too far ahead. He wasn't faster than a snow leopard. And, despite any evidence, was not more cunning than one, either.

Oh, she could smell him. He'd crossed the frozen river. He knew he was lighter. Knew she was heavier (and had more muscle) ... figured, being a feline, and ... having a natural disinclination toward water, that ...

... Assumpta would not follow.

Was betting his life on the fact that, oh, she would not follow.

Fool of a fox!

But she would. Oh, she would. And, oh, she was.

Don't think, don't think ... cross. It's not water. It's ice. It's ... whatever. Don't think. Don't look down. Focus, focus, and ...

... tread, tread ...

... creak ... and ...

... stop. Stop. Hold your breath!

Even with her thick winter pelt, a plunge into the ice ... would be certain death.

She would probably be swept away by the underlying current, and wouldn't be able to surface to breathe (due to the ice-sheet being so vast) ... was it worth it? Was she being too harsh? Was she obsessing?

Her fish. Her supper. That's all this was ... that's what she was hunting him for. He was a fellow predator, and ... no, no, no. Wasn't the fish. She had been bested. She had been one-upped. In her own territory. In her home. By a fox. No, this wasn't about fish ... but damn it all, she WOULD get her fish back.

And she scanned the horizon. Hard to do, being that it could barely be seen. But her ice-blue, slitted feline eyes ... they searched. Scanned. Saw.

And ... there.

The shadow of the fox. On the other side.

And she quickened her pace. Going as nimbly as she could. This far out, in this remote region, there were no bridges. No way else to cross. By summer, boat. Canoe. Whatever. By winter, it was ... sled.

She had no sled.

Only her own sturdy foot-paws. And her tail to balance her as she went.

Her ice-blue eyes narrowed, searching ... seeing better in the night than the criminal fox ever could. Seeing him. She now had him in her sights. And he wasn't going to leave them. He was as good as dead.

One sense down ... several to go.

Smell. She could smell him.

Touch ... she could almost touch him ... as she sprung to the solid, compacted snow of the other side. Nearly toppling over, but throwing out her arms and paws and steadying herself, bending her knees, and then ... vaulting back up. Sniffing the frigid, killing air. Which, even being BUILT for this environment ... the air STILL burned her lungs. Still made her want to cough. Still so cold.

But it would take more than cold to stop her. She knew. She vowed.

As she went to a sprint. Her breath leaving vapor trails, vapor clouds, crystalline ... and her foot-paws going crunch-crunch-crunch in the virgin snow ... as she hunted down the hunter.

Predator versus predator ... over fish? Over supper?

So, that's what the world had come to. That's what her young life (at this point) had come to ... and the pangs, the little voice in her head ... telling her to go South. Go South. Where the prey are. You know you're more like them than you care to admit. You know you're squeamish about killing. You know you ... feel things that other predators don't feel.

You know you're different.

You're special, Assumpta ...

She pushed the thoughts aside ... and ... ran, ran, ran ...

You won't be able to kill him, the voice said ... coming back. Not going away. Are you really going to kill the fox when you catch him? Are you really going to BE a predator? Are you really doing to do the right thing (and draw his blood ... staining the snow)? Or are you going to flinch. Flinch, Assumpta ... like prey.

You are prey ...

You've disappointed your family. Your culture. You know they're considering banishing you. It's because you are weak.

Run, run ... bolting, kicking up snow as she went, panting, eyes furious. Shoving the voice out of her head. Shoving her own doubts aside.

This wasn't the place (or time) for them. She had to go on ... on, on, on. Even as all (in every invisible way) was coming untied.

She pursued ...

... and she could hear his heart. Hear his panting.

Hear the flagging of his bushy tail behind him.

She could HEAR his fear. A predator feeling fear!

It fueled her forward. He was no longer a predator (in her mind). He was the prey. Oh, he was the prey. Not her. Not her (despite her inclinations). No, no ... I am not prey ...

... he is the prey.

You must kill him.

There is no other way.

She reached, reached, and ...

... pounced!

Tackling the fox to the ground, wrestling, tumbling over and over each other. Until they stopped. With her on top. Pinning him down.

"Mmf!" went the fox, yelping, yipping, and trying to bite her.

But she socked him in the muzzle with a powerful, clawed paw. And pinned both his arms to the snow. To the white (which was reflecting every ounce of that moonlight).

And both furs ... snowy-white. Both of the ice. Both huffing. Both reeeling.

Both unable to run anymore.

"You ... you have," Assumpta panted, "my fish. My supper. Give it," she demanded, "back." She clawed at the pack he wore on his back.

The fox glared at her. "Food is scarce," was his response. "I have to eat." He tried to put on a sympathetic face ...

"Then why not ask ... for food? Why steal?" She ripped the pack off his back, undoing the zipper.

"Because you are a feline. Because you would've said no." Every breath he took ... visible. Every word punctuated by vapor.

A quiet shake of the head. "I would not have."

"A practiced liar, I see," said the fox.

"I do not lie."

"No?"

A huff. "I will not," she assured, "be baited by you ... you stole. You will pay."

"By predatory law, you have to kill me, yeah?" he asked. "I stole from you. You must punish me. So ... are you going to kill me?" he taunted.

A hesitation.

"No matter," the fox continued. "Does not matter what you do to me. I am a fox. I am ... full of guile. I am sly. It is in my nature to ... pull tricks. If I don't steal from a higher predator now and then, how can I expect to stay sharp? To stay nimble?"

"Or, indeed, alive?" was Assumpta's response. Pressing down on him harder.

The fox squirmed, and ... heart beating, and ... hissing, "I regret ... nothing! Do to me what you wish. Ravage me, for all I care ... "

"No ... you would enjoy that," she whispered, "far too much."

A sly grin.

... her eyes locked his.

Gazes.

Frigid ... and fiery. All at once.

And, suddenly, the fox went ... limp. Stopped struggling. As if ... giving silent consent. Letting him know that ... she could have him. That he would take her. That, out here, in the tundra, in the endless night ...

... they could breed. They could ...

" ... do it," the fox whispered. "Come on ... do it," he taunted. "We're both hunters. We both take what we want. We both need it. We both ... want," he whispered, "it."

"All I want," Assumpta said quietly, swallowing, exhaling through the nose (where streams of breathy vapor showed). "All I want ... is my fish. My supper."

"Supper? Why does it have to be fish ... "

A squint. "Why should I trust you? You are a fox ... as you said, you are a practiced trickster."

"Think I'm gonna ... fertilize the flower and ... in the afterglow, break free ... and escape? With your soul's imprint AND your fish?" he said (referring the prey belief that, when two individuals yiffed ... they left an imprint on each other's soul, an intimate, spiritual stamp ... and that ... to imprint, or yiff ... outside a loving, committed mate-ship ... was to invite pain and ... would lead to a dark road ... was to slowly sell your soul away ... ) ...

"I think ... you are not worthy," she huffed, "of this huntress." And she socked him again.

He yelped, and ...

... while dazed, she took his pack (which held her fish). And she stood, panting, growling ... and showing her teeth. "Leave me alone," she demanded of him. "I am sparing your life. In return, you shall leave me alone."

"But you're like a flame, feline ... don't you know that?" he replied. "No one in their right mind ... could stay away from you."

A squint.

"You have a ... pull," he said, "about you."

"You do not KNOW me," she said, and backed away. Padding (at somewhat of a hurry) back to the riverbank.

"There are worse things to lose," the fox said (in an enigmatic, parting way), "than your supper's fish."

The snow leopard didn't know what that meant, exactly, but the words rung in her ears ... as she went away. Back over the frozen river. Back to her hut.
And, upon reaching it, slumping to the floor, sighing. She was losing her predatory edge. She was. She should've killed him. She shouldn't have been stolen from in the FIRST place.

They would kick her out. They would ... place her in exile.

But she wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

No, she would leave first.

She eyed the door.

She would leave first.

She gathered her things ... basic tools of survival. Enough to last her the journey out of this tundra.

Leave first.

She reached the door. Closed her eyes. Said a prayer (something only prey ever did).

Leave.

She left.