Last autumn, when our pod headed west to traverse the deep and open waters for larger prey like sharks, we were sure we would be welcomed by a cornucopia to feast on. We found more than we needed, however: we noted that we did not find as much as the year before. Our bellies were too full to give it any more than a passing thought, though. Heavy with nutrition, we casually meandered east towards the Iberian shores. We did not need to see land to know we had made it to the shores; all we needed was to see the pale blue lights dance over our heads as we looked upwards through clear water. The warmth surrounding us buoyed our pod on delicate waves. We always believed we were the masters of the ocean and, save for the currents, functionally controlled everything we saw. Even Cetacean relatives who dwarf us —Finbacks and Blues—understand the order. Should we choose death for them, death it would be. Killing is an ugly art form for us, and we can paint the ocean any shade of red as we see fit. Fortunately for them, though, my pod prides itself on using prudence over our domain, taking only what we need for the present and future. Our neighboring pod to the south, on the other hand, is hedonistic in its pursuit of resources, and it is easy to write off what they do as a simple lack of civility. While we remain calm and orderly in our activities, they relish in the kill and toy with their prey. I doubt they eat more than half of what they kill. But, I believe there is a method to their madness; the rotting carcasses they discard become food for the lesser beings around and beneath us. They, too, need to feed. The crabs near the surface pick apart the freshest and pinkest flesh. As the remains sink, deeper-dwelling citizens consume the grey ooze they discard. Their fondness for bloodsport has indirect impacts that benefit creatures they either rarely think about, or are completely oblivious to thanks to their relative insignificance. We can’t help but be repulsed by the southern pod. Our matriarch is careful with her words when speaking of them, emphasizing our commitment to diplomacy and neutrality; the rest of us, on the other hand, may say what we will about them. She never disagrees, and she never openly agrees, but we all know she shares our sentiments. We are free to speak as freely as we choose; her democratic rule is almost lawless in its tolerance of differences within our small traveling village of the waves. She extends her social philosophy to any other community; her primary rule in regards to any pod is to demonstrate respect—at least when they are within earshot. Her response to any statements, complaints, and judgments we make is to emphasize our need for tolerance. “It is better to have savage friends than civilized enemies,” she says. Throughout the history of her dynasty, this mantra has frustrated us more times than we can count; however, she has never failed to find us food, carry on our traditions, and protect our young. Of all the pods we’ve encountered, our pod has the highest survival rate. For generations, she and her ancestors have carefully nurtured connections with other pods, guaranteeing both peace and blood diversity when we mingle and mate with them. But even so, I can now see we’ve taken her house’s words for granted, like a prayer one memorizes without considering the meaning. Those words carry a heavier meaning now, as if you were hearing them for the first time. As we look at the water around us, its infinite blueness glares back at us. Its emptiness means empty stomachs, which none of us can do without. Our matriarch is right; we need allies. We must take that mantra literally and see it as more than words our calves memorize. With the now-contextualized words swimming in my mind, I was honored to be chosen for an entourage of envoys to seek out our least-favorite pod. As disgusting as they may seem, they are by far the most successful hunters. Their mindless brutishness is something we need, and we hope we can at least trade reproductive members with them, if not make a direct alliance. We believed it might be rumors, but we’ve heard stories of them actively seeking out the vessels upon which the hairless shore-beings congregate to pillage the waters. It’s one thing to tolerate their presence without fear, because we’ve casually encountered them at sea. It’s a step further to engage with them in a friendly manner, as we have from time to time - a number of them are harmless, curious and friendly. However, it is brazen at best to attack them. This type of military engagement is a novelty to us, but it is possible we will be forced to do so. We need guidance on how to guide our aggression for results, and who better to learn from than our “savage friends”? After they agreed to a meeting, we were greeted by their matriarch herself; as we expected, she looked as savage as could be expected. A diverse series of scars were scattered all over her, healed over, and pale white. A crosshatch of them was imprinted on her head, an obvious sign of entanglement with fishing nets. A deep one ran under her pectoral fin and upwards over her dorsal cape, even paler, therefore older. This was a survivor we were encountering, and these were her battle scars from her long and storied lifetime. She was here to teach us rage. Rage is something our pod has always avoided but now, with our hunting grounds emptying themselves day by day, we couldn’t afford to have anything but unbridled aggression. Those little finless beasts— who have neither flippers nor blubber, who can’t survive more than a few minutes without air, and whose skin becomes wrinkled and fragile the longer they remain in water—had somehow become our greatest rivals. Unceremoniously, we proceeded forward towards the yellow sands of the shore. The little beasts on their vessels of wood and metal looked down at us. Their visages were distorted through the water, becoming clearer as we began to breach the surface. As we pushed our heads above the water, their flat faces turned from bright admiration to dark terror as we grasped their hooks and nets in our mouths. They were at our mercy. Without any further warning, the gray-scarred matriarch dove down into the depths. I looked back once more at the finless beasts—eyes now round with desperation—and violently followed suit. Metal and blood were all I left for them as their muffled screams followed us. Their meat was ours again. They would be wise to remember that. For now, we held dominion once again.