Fuyu was not a pet.

He was a god, of winter and frost and all things cold and deadly. He had ruled the frozen wastes for centuries, his reign absolute. He had been betrayed, succumbed to his brother's flames, and fallen to his death, plummeting from a cliff. From the ashes of his flesh had sprung the creature standing before his mortal now, small, feeble, and incomplete.

His mortal held out a plate with several dead fish, and Fuyu eyed them with interest. They were the best offering his mortal had made so far; he was pleased. This new form needed sustenance if he was to grow and become the glorious, terrible beast he had once been, and though raw flesh and bones were a poor substitute for souls and mana, they would do.

As he ate, his mortal caressed the soft fur of his fox ears, and Fuyu made a small, contented noise. Though he was not a pet, he could admit the petting was nice. It reminded him of his worshipers, and how they had loved to tend to him, and he would allow it. The mortal occasionally called him a "good boy," which was quite demeaning, but he could allow that too.

His mortal had been the one to rescue him from the forest, after all, and had provided him with a home. Perhaps he would keep the mortal—that is, once he was no longer a weak, defenseless kit, and his mortal had grown into a formidable warrior worthy of his protection. Or a spellweaver, perhaps. As it was, they were both too small and inconsequential, and so for the time being, this arrangement would suffice.

At night, Fuyu would ignore the little nest his mortal had prepared for him, and take his rightful place on the bed, curled against his human, his head on the mortal's shoulder and his tail swishing lazily behind him. Yes, he would keep the mortal. His mortal, so small, so defenseless.