It was strange, how quickly certain things became routine. Like falling asleep with a puppy-sized bear cub snuggled in your arms, or walking down to the cove twice a day so that Elsa-bear (Ursa, Eleanor had begun calling her, though never out loud) could hunt for fishies, or baby-talking your way through honks and growls
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Comments 25
Fishies.
It was a good life, being Princess Ursa of Bearendelle.
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Eleanor scooped up Ursa and nuzzled her, feeling that warm glow of easy affection. It was so hard with people, and so ridiculously simple with anything covered in fuzz.
"Let's play a game," she decided. "You catch fishies and I try to identify them. I could make you a scrapbook, for when you're you again."
That was exactly what Elsa would want: a scrapbook detailing exactly what kinds of fish she'd been chowing down, while ursine.
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Which was why she was nuzzling Eleanor back and making happy bear sounds, paws up on Eleanor's shoulders and nose buried in the crook of her neck. Things were totally welcome to stay this way forever.
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"I miss you," Eleanor said softly. "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I hope you're okay. Promise me that you're okay?"
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