It had only been a few weeks at the top of the platform at the crown of the Yggdrasil. The enormous, multi-winged blue simorgh-tiger had fallen ill, gone back on Diamox, and then, with talons greater than his own, was unceremoniously plunked at the bottom of the platform, just below the angry “FOR SALE” sign obviously written by HexanChan the squirrel on his burnt-out Yggdrasil home.

The tiger burned with a high fever. His muscles ached, his wings shivered despite their size, and his breathing came slow and heavy. A tiny black cat darted about him, holding a little script in his mouth, worried.

HexanChan had already long left after stating, “I can’t even look at you right now,” as if the burning of the Yggdrasil had anything to do with either of them.

It did not matter. The tiger’s very first Pir was in charge today.

“I wrote a book, ‘How to Never Ever Need Anyone Ever,’ and I want you to read it right now,” said the tiny black cat, placing one paw firmly on the tiger’s nose to test respiration.

“I disagree with the premise, and you are here anyway,” replied the tiger, who happened to be the cat’s very favorite shade of blue.

The little black cat shined a tiny flashlight into both eyes, then into the tiger’s mouth, then carefully felt the swollen lymph nodes beneath his very patient chin.

“Naaaaa, is good book,” said the tiny black cat, adjusting his royal blue stethoscope. “We never ever need people. People are useless. We only need other cats.”

“Well, fine then. I agree with that,” replied the tiger.

“So, are you going to promote my books?” asked the tiny black cat.

In reply, the horrible blue tiger with too many wings and tails gathered the black cat into an awkward, purring embrace. The smaller cat barely even struggled.

“I am sick, not reading anything, and would like you to show yourself as your full size, merci,” said the tiger.

“This is my full size,” replied the black cat.

“Nope. You are just used to hiding too much and playing small.”

“No, being too large is inefficient-“Then, thankfully, the tiger passed out again before he was forced to explain, again, why human universities would hire tiny fluffy black and gray kitty cats that say nothing but the occassional purr over ferocious looking caracals that hiss to show their rare affection.

The tiny black cat sighed and packed up his scripts and stethoscope, then curled up beside him and fell asleep, too. Tigers were not usually such a cozy one-hundred-and-four degrees, and he had already determined it was not too contagious.

Eventually, the Diamox would wear off for both of them.