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One of the next times he arrived, the martial artist looked pensive.

"Having a good day?" the king asked.

"Actually, yes, I have. May not even need any attention today," he joked.

"Oh well, I guess I'm glad to hear that, even though I'm not glad to hear that," the king laughed weakly. No point in concealing his disappointment, right?

Picking up on that, the cat asked, "You don't want a break, maybe?" he smiled, "I haven't been working you too hard?"

The king drew himself up in mock-affront. "I don't work out furiously just to be put off by kneading the strongest being in the Valley."

Mao laughed. "I mean, you're not kneading any magic. That's where most of my strength comes from. The muscles themselves shouldn't be much trouble." He rubbed his chin speculatively. "Wouldn't it take more doing for you to massage someone more physically imposing like yourself?"

If he was perfectly honest, the king had gotten hand cramps occasionally. The straightforward strength needed to merely lift was entirely different from the little repetitive, constant movements needed to knead. But he wasn't about to tell the cat that. Too much pride.

And he couldn't imagine tackling someone like himself. Maybe he should give Quinton a raise.

"I've noticed a difference in my meditations," the martial artist told him. "It's actually sort of interesting because I wonder if we stopped altogether, would I slide back to where I was before mentally? Or has this given me a permanent boost?"

The king discreetly clenched his teeth. He didn't like where that train of thought was going.

If they had officially been partners, the cat wouldn't have suggested stopping. Right? Or...? Was this part of some Mao clan training goals, or just him poking around his own head just because?

He never much liked the idea of meditation himself. Seemed dreadfully boring. But he wouldn't say that ...

Maybe this was just what he got for being a coward, he thought dejectedly.

Mao stepped forward and put his forehead to the king's. "I do still really like this, though," the cat said softly. "Maybe we could try one without the other, switch off, everything."

Though he knew the cat wasn't intentionally playing with his heart, he still felt like it was being batted around like a cat toy. He enjoyed the head rubbing at least.

"May I . . ." Mao swallowed, and looked up at him, shifting back and forth, suddenly awkward though he had been adjusting to this newly introduced contact well.

"May I purr?"

"Oh deary me, you don't have to ask my permission for that. How_ ever _ did I give you the impression I was that strict?" the king fretted.

"It's only good manners," the cat mumbled. "I thought you'd . . . appreciate that." He sounded disappointed.

"Oh that may be how your family from the East sees things," the king said, "But around here I'm not even positive most cats can consciously suppress it. It's certainly not something they drill into their children, that's for sure."

"Don't insult my family."

The words dropped on him like pounds of lead.

He parted his mouth to protest that's not how he meant it at all, but no sound came out. He was panicking. He had wrecked everything. Mao was incredibly invested in family ties and tradition. All his sensitivity training, and all his meetings with other kingdoms, and yet here he was making such a stupid _blunder of phrasing! To someone so important both to his realm _and personally! _What kind of king was he? _Tears pricked at the back of his eyes. His chest felt like it was refusing air.

Before the lion had time to unfreeze, the cat had used his impossible swiftness to make it right out the door.

---

The king deliberated about what to do. It seemed a bad idea to simply wait for next week, when the cat would feel obligated to return by duty.

At the same time, he doubted having a king show up at his residence would be much less stressful, because people would see and start talking. What was the king doing, milling about the streets? Was there something amiss with their new protector? What was going on with this foreigner clan? Should they worry about it?

He knew who he'd like to ask for advice. Probably the wisest man in the Valley, if he were going to be humble about it. The dog, who dived headfirst into the new science of psychology like a splashing retriever eager to bring back a duck for a good roast, was very close with the king.

His name was Oru, and he mostly had the appearance of a beagle, with a large splotch on his back, and half of the typical face mask over one eye. But, personality wise, he much more took after the side of his family that included the long haired Havanese breed, which were very reserved and kept to themselves, unlike the vast majority of dogs. Standing in the same room with a group, especially of Boxers or real Retrievers or canines of that ilk, he and some of his siblings and other relatives stood out like a sore thumb, with paws at their sides or folded behind them while they spoke, instead of being animated with exaggerated arm gestures and play acting.

The king, being a lion, was also much more sociable and outgoing than most felines, who had been solitary before sapience. So although each of the men rarely felt like outliers inside their own families, which was nice, they still had to navigate the differences and occasional sneers among other similar breeds and species. It made for interesting discussions between them.

Oru's family's decided upon magic marker was blue, naturally enough. Some of them chose not to turn their coats into the color, corresponding to light and dark hues of their natural ones. Some of them chose to abandon their markings altogether to become 'pure' blue. But he had chosen the middle ground. By the time the rite of passage had arrived, even though he was far away from finishing secondary school, the dog already knew what he wanted to go to university for.

The king decided to summon him. He called for his bird assistant.

When he returned, the lion smiled. The dog could've technically said he was too busy. He had no official obligation to come, unlike the feathered Quinton.

"Hello," the king said brightly. "Good to see you, old friend."

He inclined his head. "Hello, Your Majesty."

"Well I hate to bother you," the gentleman said graciously. He had long since used the first person for the dog. "But I've run into a spot of trouble."

"Not your best work, your Majesty."

"Hm? What do you mean?" The king hadn't told Quinton what the problem was.

"Oh, did you not intend to pun on 'spot'," the dog asked, indicating his own darker navy colored patches.

The king chuckled, "No, no."

Oru shrugged. "All right. What's the issue?"

The lion explained what had happened. The canine couldn't perk his floppy ears, but he was clearly focused nonetheless. The lion felt better just having an ear to listen that was as sensitive and mentally thorough as the degree-holding dog.

When he was done, he added, "Mao has always been . . . a bit bristly in general, really. He's conversational enough, most days, but when anything personally upsetting comes up, he totally withdraws."

The dog nodded. "Believe it or not, he's the same way, even in therapy. I get the feeling that his initial visit was, by circumstances, sort of 'forced' out of him, you know? He says his battle partner pestered him about it a lot. That's never a good foot to get off on. People who have outside factors bringing them to sessions are often more reluctant, because they're embarrassed. I've seen it too, with people whose family talks them into it, and it doesn't feel like one hundred percent their decision. I don't know if it would have been better if he had freely chosen to try it himself, and it doesn't ultimately matter because we can't change the past, but I can't help wondering."

"Well, he is pretty prideful person, too," the lion said. "Which, you know, I'm not trying to insult him that way, either. I know plenty of nobles who are far more on the self-absorbed end than he is! And objectively, they have less to be egoistic about! _Can **_they** slay a dragon without batting an eye?" the lion snickered.

The dog took another minute to think about the king's problem.

"That definitely is odd," he said, "Consciously controlling purring. I've obviously heard of many iterations of people suppressing emotions," the therapist indicated, "but that just seems . . . particularly troubling? Maybe it's not that difficult? I have no idea, since I can't do it."

"Me neither," the lion said.

"Oh really?" Oru blinked. "But you're a cat, too. Can only cats his size do it?"

"The subfamily of big cats like myself, Patherinae, cannot do it. Except for cheetahs. The other two subfamilies and all their genuses can, as far as I know. The anatomy of a cat's mouth can either be dedicated to roaring, or purring. It cannot do both."

"Huh, that's interesting."

The lion honestly would've much preferred purring. It was so cute! The effeminate man liked the idea. He even envied Mao, he reflected. Oru knew this about the king: roaring was an emotionally complicated topic for him.

"We're having another session well before your next meeting. Do you want me to just talk to him about it?"

The noble grimaced. "I'd hate to impose on you that way, my friend."

"It's no trouble," the calm dog said with a smile.

"I especially don't want this to interfere with our trip coming up, where he's been invited to showcase as a dragon gladiator."