Seneca, as he often does, rises with the night. Life in the desert requires adaptation, and like many of the Oasis residents, he is most active in the evening, after the sun has vanished and the heat fades from the sand. As is the case with most nights, he heads first for the pride's borders to ensure that they are well-maintained and without any breaches to be cautious of. When no one is watching, Seneca allows himself to move more slowly, and favors his slow-healing leg more heavily. It's the most stubborn of his wounds to recover, and though he'd been promised as much by @Hazel, it's growing increasingly annoying and has rather begun to get under his skin. He is not good at sitting idle and resting, and each weakened step is only a further reminder of the fact that he is not as capable as he would like to defend his pride should they need it. He wears something of an irritable scowl across his features -- faint, but there all the same. His refusal to rest and his impatience to heal mix about as well as oil and water, but he is only too aware that his duties as a king are never done. Even if it is at the detriment of his own health.

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"You need to rest." The words are a whisper, and a far cry from the harsh tone that once always greeted the patchwork king. Hazel arrives with them, lingering a few steps behind @Seneca with her ears folded back and her paws together. Hesitant. Because she is; her work as a healer is never done, but with him it is different now. His wounds are healing well on their own, and her purpose has been met. For all intents and purposes he doesn’t need her hovering like a bad smell still. And yet, she can’t seem to help herself. Once her duties are done, once her garden is tended to, she finds herself more often than not in his presence, if only as a ghost in the background. Worry that is usually reserved for her family - Lexa and her children - gnaws at the inside of her mind. More than likely because when she looks at his wounds, at the scars, she’s reminded that they are there because of her. Her own hide well enough under her shaggy pelt, the ones that had gotten infected and needed cleaning are still fresh and sore, but they are hidden. Safe from prying eyes.

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He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that he is being followed. He finds himself in Hazel's company more often than not now, and it's like the fire has gone out from her. The ghost of her voice meets his ears which flick back instinctively into the thick of his mane; he pauses, drawing in a slow breath before his muzzle pivots around over his shoulder. "Months, right?" he queries with a slight narrowing of his eyes, though he already knows the answer. Months to heal, she'd told him -- months before his leg will even consider fully supporting his weight. "I can't rest for months, Hazel," he informs her somewhat flatly, in his usual matter-of-fact way. Even without a pride to care for, Seneca would be hard-pressed to follow such orders, and they're impractical for a man in his position. Shaking out the thick of his mane, he turns to continue along the trail of Andal's border, fully expecting that she will keep pace with him for a while, if not for the rest of his patrol. He has, evidently, unlocked some great sense of empathy and care in the rugged medic, and he might have found it more amusing if the circumstances were not so grave.

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He never seems surprised to see her nowadays; never really has much of a retort for her, but that’s likely because she’s too tired to keep up her defences. There’s no fight in her now. Lexa, thankfully, is too busy being queen and new mother to see it, when Hazel manages to visit her in Firnen. It’s for the best. Her little sister might come for the king’s head if she felt he’d wounded Hazel in some way. Not that this is Seneca’s fault, but Lexa has always been the sort to jump to conclusions. When Seneca moves, she limps after him. "Months." She replies simply. "Months, if not years because you won’t let your leg heal." He doesn’t hide the pain of it from her. There’s no point. They’re both hiding it from the rest of the pride. Might as well let it show when no one else is around. "I don’t know why you’re not mad at me." Hazel admits after a moment, the thought has weighed on her heavily the last few weeks, but she’s kept it to herself. Seneca had been hurt, recovering. Badgering him with questions wasn’t what she was supposed to do. But he's well enough now, and she's not afraid of the answer. Just confused.

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"What would you have me do, Hazel?" he asks quietly, an ear turned towards her shuffle-stepping beside him. "Leave my home and family under someone else's care?" His tone expresses enough distaste for such an idea; Seneca has no desire to be at the mercy of anyone else, trusted or otherwise. He has earned his position here, and he has no intention of letting his injuries take it away from him. Her next comment, however, has him stopping again; his muzzle swings towards her, meeting her umber gaze with slightly furrowed brows. "Mad?" he parrots lowly, considering the strange outlook with some amount of confusion. There are many things that anger Seneca Miroslav, but defending the lions of Andal Oasis is not one of them. "Why would I be mad?" he presses, trying to understand her line of reasoning in no uncertain terms. Has Hazel really been tiptoeing around him for weeks because she thinks he should be angry?

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This is not the first time they’ve had this argument and by now, she knows the lines well. Hazel will insist that Seneca has an heir and a queen - both capable of protecting and running Andal while he recovers. Seneca will say that it is his responsibility, his duty, something something fragile male ego. And as always they will arrive at a stalemate, Hazel excusing herself once his wounds are cleaned and tended to. Hazel is tired of their play. "Do what you want. I’m not your keeper." She shrugs, a shoulder, then winces as pain shoots through her foreleg. The elders of her homeland would have insisted this is punishment for her lofty opinion of herself, for thinking she knows better than the man at her side. Questioning royalty was what got her banished, but it’s not going to stop her now. Why should it? Coral eyes flick away from the king’s piercing gaze. "I’m responsible for you getting hurt, and putting the pride at risk." She explains slowly, surprised still that he doesn’t know why he should be furious - again, she can hear the elders. Can feel the lashes she’d taken for her own youthful stupidity. "I thought you were waiting to recover before punishing me, but you didn’t."

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Guilt -- isn't that what it always circles back to? It shouldn't surprise him that the same motivator for many others is also the same thing that drives Hazel, though it's rarely the first thing that comes to Seneca's mind. Such a conscious was not built into him, which can be both a blessing and a curse. A slight frown purses his lips, and the low huff of a snort follows it. Even after everything they've been through, she still seems to only see him for the bad -- for the cruelty they both know he is capable of. There are many sides to Seneca, and Hazel has seen more of them than most, but she still dismisses the more honest parts of him to create a less appeasing image. "Unless you somehow managed to stage that attack, you're responsible for nothing," he returns evenly, allowing her freedom from the scrutiny of his gaze to continue on his prior path. "Do you really think I would have saved you with intent to punish you later?" Seneca queries, finding himself mildly annoyed by the assumption. He shouldn't care what Hazel thinks of him, but he is growing frustrated by her constant assumptions that he has nothing but nefarious intentions.

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For a long while, Hazel is silent. Explaining herself is not truly in her nature, but not for the first time she can hear the offence in Seneca’s tone - the way he seems almost disappointed in her for the assumption. Unlike every other time, however, it grates against her raw, exposed nerves. She doesn’t like the feeling, especially when it’s caused by him. "Where I come from," Hazel begins slowly, focusing on each of her steps rather than the man beside her. "My stupidity would have been punished. Causing the king injury could have… dire consequences. One lioness was beaten for leaving something - I can’t remember now - out, and a prince tripped on it. He wasn't hurt, but his ego was wounded. So he had her beaten half to death." Being a druid didn’t protect her from the arcane rule of the king, especially when the elders supported him and the laws. Especially when she never learned to keep her mouth shut. "It’s my fault you’re hurt. If you lose your crown, that’s my fault too. My homeland would have me killed for that."

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The ear nearest to @Hazel is swiveled towards her, indicating that he is listening to each word that falls from her lips, spelling a story of cruelty and stupid crimes. Not for the first time, he considers the fact that wherever she came from is very different than where he'd come from; whilst there is a plan, a line of succession, a hope for the future — every Miroslav must earn their place, himself included. It's not a given, and spoiled children only turn the whole place sour. That is not the kind of king Seneca intends to be. "Where you come from sounds entitled," he returns, an idle observation. Pompous, indulging in whatever they like simply because they can; in his experience, such fearmongering rarely has true power to back it. "Hazel, how many times have you heard me use my position as a threat?" he queries with a slight quirk of his brow. If she considers the answer, she will realize that it is never. "I did not get where I am because of my name or heritage. I have always been a warrior first," and a damn good one at that, "and being a king does not change that. Any fight I engage in is my choice; that weight does not rest upon your shoulders." In this moment, he is honest and open, offering Hazel more truths to Seneca than she has ever gleaned before now. "Every soul that resides in Andal is mine to protect. If I were to abuse or kill my members without cause, the Oasis would crumble. Whatever assumptions you've made about me, dispel them now. I am not the tyrant of your past." He swings to a halt again, his chin arching as that heated gaze falls upon the fraught lines of Hazel's face. It's now or never — will she allow herself to be jaded by her assumptions, or will she make an effort to see Seneca for who he truly is?

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There’s no answer for his question because it is entirely rhetorical - but perhaps not in the way Seneca expects. A king doesn’t need to stand and shout of his power, does not need to because it is a given; he is all powerful, and his subjects are his in whatever way he desires. But he goes on to explain his right to rule comes obligations and Hazel listens. She tries to understand. Tries to compare the kings of her homeland to the one before her now, and the similarities are truly there. So are the differences, stark as his pale fur against the swaths of black. (Not for the first time she wonders if Seneca is light stained by darkness, or the other way around. ) Her home was not without war, not without men who sought to overthrow the current ruler. Each time the king won he grew more and more sure of his power, more secure in his reign, more cruel in his ways. But every time a challenger came, Hazel willed the king to win. Because the unknown might be worse than the current tyrant. Might. "I know that you aren’t him." Hazel murmurs, meeting his sharp gaze without flinching. Even expecting to be beaten, she did not wince. She would not cower under the king of her homeland, and she would not now. There’s something almost cheeky in the way she almost smiles, suppressed around the lips but unfortunately clear in sparkle in her eye. "You haven’t proven to me that you’re not a tyrant, though."

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