Man does not roar.

Man cries.

The cub does not grow fur. It does not grow teeth to sink into flesh. The cub does not grow claws, fangs and venom. For the most part, it remains static. As the months gradually pass, it barely develops in length or width. Only its eyes seem to change, for one moment they are ablaze with awe, and the next clouded by guilt, and pain, and confusion.

The cub runs with small steps. Any wild beast can capture it without effort, which is only the more frightening. It cries at night. Cries so loud the forest echoes with its agony. It cries so loud, the dark panther is unable to sleep, so terrified a monster might lurk from within the shadows. More to the point, the dark panther can't sleep when his child is in distress.

The cub smiles. Its lips spread over its cheeks, and the dark panther understands this expression as something affectionate. A form of truce. An alliance. This cub seems him as an equal. Someone to respect, to look up to. The cub smiles at its teacher, its guardian, perhaps even its mother, and its smile is always full, always joyous, always for the dark panther.

The cub trusts. Trusts so dearly, the dark panther fears its trust might be the cause of its own fate.

Bagheera becomes a father.

Bagheera becomes a mother.

Bagheera becomes a parent; a soul which loves. Desperately.

The furless cub becomes everything.

Night. Bagheera is listening, watching; observing the pack. They whisper. They preach. They stand together. An army, petrifying and sublime. Bagheera is unmoving while he watches his cub toddle towards the closest thing it has to a mother. The wolf looks down at it, and nuzzles her nose against its hair. It is welcomed, but the cub is not invited to this special meeting. She gently nudges the cub away, to which it obeys.

Bagheera wonders. How small its feet are, how it stands on two legs, upright and beautiful.

'Mowgli.'

The cub looks up. There, Bagheera lies, leg dangling from his branch. The cub named Mowgli grins ear-to-ear.

'Bagheera!'

It never exclaims his name as he were a teacher. As if he were a friend.

The cub announces Bagheera's name as if he were its very reason to live. Its happiness.

Its very survival.

Bagheera stands, jumps down, landing gracefully before the cub. He shall watch over it while it sleeps this evening; as he does every other.

'Where is my Mama?'

Bagheera opens his eyes. Golden orbs beneath the moon. He doesn't react, because he has waited for this question.

It is late. The cub should be asleep. Men require sleep more so than normal. They are exhausted creatures.

Two small, soft hands pull at his fur. Bagheera groans, and turns his head. The cub looks at him, wide eyed, and there is pain. There, in his eyes, is agony. This confusion, this lack of understanding Bagheera has never witnessed before in his life. How absurd, how wonderful, how bizarre it is that man expresses so many feelings.

Bagheera can't handle it. He can't handle the fact his cub is in so much trauma. Because there is not a thing he can do to help; his poor cub is in need of comfort, and not even the wolves can offer it any form of reassurance.

The poor baby.

Bagheera would give his life, just so his cub can understand.

The panther lowers his head.

I found you.

I found you, and I found your father's corpse. I found you when you were a baby, when you barely knew how to speak. I found you the moment you had first faced death.

I found you. I found you.

Mowgli's mother? Bagheera has imagined a woman. A human. He has tried to imagine. He had seen the face of Mowgli's father, but mother? Bagheera has started to consider the possibility Mowgli's mother might not exist.

Dead, before even its cub could recall her sweet face.

'I am afraid I cannot answer,' Bagheera replies.

He watches his cub shrink back, watches its sadness unfold. How it seems to leak water from its eyes. Bagheera stands, and looks down at the cub, as a guardian, as a father.

'I never knew my Mother either.'

As a mother.

Maybe. Maybe that is what Bagheera has become: a parent.

Someone, something, to watch over this frail thing. Watch it grow, speak his language; watch it age and die.

Bagheera pats the cub: nudges his nose against its forehead. The cub blinks, and, this time, its smile is fractured. The joy is absent, and Bagheera wishes, wishes beyond anything, that he could offer the cub's mother to it.

'I am certain, however, that she loves you. And misses you terribly.'

The cub looks down. Looks away. Then, it looks back at Bagheera, outstretches its tiny hands, and its eyes plead for affection, for love, for its parent to comfort it. Comfort it until fatigue takes over. Until the nightmares stop.

Until it is okay to dream.

Bagheera understands. Perhaps instinct, perhaps something he has learnt. He allows the cub to snuggle into his warm fur, to use him as a sort of blanket, to be secure, to be safe, to be protected.

The dark panther kisses its cheek.

He loves his cub, his boy.

His child.