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Phil knew he was being hunted.
As he had no fear of becoming anyone's prey, he continued working his way around the stand of broad-leaf ferns he was currently stripping. He kept an ear on the forest, tracking the carnosaur as it moved between the trees. It was stalking up on Phil's right, a young male by its scent. Phil shifted just enough to keep it in sight at his right shoulder. The spikes there, as long as a carnivore's head, would dissuade all but the most desperate hunters.
The carnosaur wasn't intimidated. It tested the air and crept closer to the treeline that marked the edge of the floodplain.
Sensing danger, the tiny insect-eaters that followed Phil, helpfully snapping pests from his hide, chittered and fled into the long grass. He wasn't worried; they would return when it was over.
He nosed deeper into the plant to find the tasty curled shoots.
To his left, barely visible as it crouched in the grass, a feathered theropod waited, silent. Phil knew that despite the distance, it could reach Phil before he had time to fully turn around, much less run.
Its hunting partner was crouched off behind Phil to his right. He couldn't see anything moving in that direction, but he felt eyes on him.
Instinct pricked at him unpleasantly, but he tamped it down, feigning ignorance of the three predators boxing him in. He stripped off another frond and waited.
As Phil was swallowing his mouthful, the carnosaur burst from the trees, powerful legs carrying him faster than Phil could dream of moving with his low, armored body. Confident it had the advantage, it was focused exclusively on Phil as it bore down on him. Its heavy footfalls made the ground beneath Phil shake.
Finally, he allowed himself to give in to instinct. He folded his front legs, lowering his vulnerable underside to the ground, displaying the bone-hard plates all down his back and the riot of spikes protruding from his neck and shoulders. He bellowed, a fear-call meant to alert the herd to flee.
Phil didn't have a herd, but the carnosaur roared, charging before its prey could escape. Phil planted himself as steadily as he could.
The raptor to his left gave an ear-splitting scream as it leaped for them. It landed lightly on Phil's back, deftly avoiding the rows of spikes, and sprung from there onto the carnosaur's head. Immediately, it went for the eyes, blinding its target with two swift strikes of its hind claws.
The roar of pain was impressive. Phil sidled away to avoid getting kicked as the giant stumbled. A vibrantly-colored red blur darted in, slicing at tendons and muscle, avoiding the enormous jaws. The first raptor was clinging to the weaving head, using its tail to keep balanced while its companion brought their prey crashing to the ground.
Once it was at their level, the two went for the kill, tearing open the leathery neck until blood pooled around their feet. One of them began eating the choicest bits of flesh while the other turned toward Phil and trumpeted proudly, chest feathers puffed.
There was a reason Phil didn't fear predation.
Well, two reasons.
*
As the alpha hunter of their little group, Tasha ate first. The distinction was mostly ceremonial, since Phil wanted no part of the bloody wreckage, and if there had been an actual shortage of food, Tasha would have harried Clint into eating first, anyway. As it was, there would be more than enough after she'd had her fill for Clint to make himself sick with overeating.
Until then, Clint fretted over Phil the way he normally did after Phil had served as bait: like an anxious mother with a new clutch. He trilled and barked over imagined new scratches on Phil's flank, shrieking and snarling at nothing whenever he managed to jab himself on one of Phil's spines.
Phil let Clint fuss while he went back to his ferns.
Later that evening, they huddled down in the shelter of a small escarpment, close enough to their kill that they could defend it from scavengers. Phil's little cleaners had returned and were flitting a safe distance around Tasha and Clint, feasting on the flies the gore-painted pair were attracting.
Tasha settled down to rest for the night at Phil's back, while Clint curled up against his front. The arrangement had felt strange at first, sleeping bracketed by his natural predators, waking to toothy snouts or sickle claws pressed up against him. It hadn't taken long to become comforting, though, their presence filling a need for companionship and affection he hadn't recognized. Phil's instincts didn't spur him to form a pack, but he was grateful to be included in theirs, regardless.
Clint whuffed and dug in a little closer, fanned tail draped over Phil's hind leg. Phil looked at Clint, face tucked sleepily against Phil's chest, a multicolored tangle of feathers and claws and drying blood, and thought-- beautiful.
*