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Chapter 29 – Forgiveness

It would have been impossible for us to make it down the cliffs to the forest floor going the route we were by nightfall, even under the best conditions. But as the light began to fade, it soon became evident we wouldn't even come close. By the time the night insects had begun their thrumming song, we were looking for somewhere to bed down. Somewhere against the mountain, somewhere out of sight where we wouldn't be spotted from the air. Even though the drakes rarely if ever flew at night. We'd been hearing them during the whole descent, and even more terrifying, the distant roars of the Dragons, likely calling to one another as they hunted us.

When we found a shallow cave, likely carved out generations ago by the sea or some other force of water, it was quite literally a godsend. Or at least, I thought it was. And I wasn't the only one murmuring prayers of thanks when we at last all slumped inside, exhausted and ragged.

The wolfhound was faring the worst of all of us, but thankfully, he seemed a lot more lucid. Just very tired. He'd lost enough blood that I was concerned, but his vision had begun to even out, or so he claimed, so that meant the head wound probably wasn't critical. Or he was lying to us, in an attempt to put up a strong front.

Ransom would have done that. But this man, I believed. He didn't strike me as the type for false bravado.

“Let me see your arm,” I said, hunkering down beside the tall canine as he stiffly unshouldered his blood-soaked coat. Behind us, Ransom was pulling out some rations and helping himself to his flask, liberally. I made no move to admonish the man, after the day we'd had, he'd earned whatever vices he wanted right now.

“Fair certain now it's. . . just a sprain,” the wolfhound said around a wince, as he eased his arm free of his coat sleeve. He gingerly unbuttoned the cuff of his white cotton shirt, and rolled the fabric up to his elbow. I could tell he was in pain by the way he was hissing between his teeth.

I hesitantly, gently wrapped my paw around his wrist, and moved it upwards, slowly. I wasn't much of a healer, but Puck had taught me long ago the basics of assessing a break. He didn't feel like he had one. So he was likely right. . . just a sprain. All the same, it was his good arm. It would put him out of commission for at least a little while as it healed.

I wanted to keep everyone's spirits up, so I forced a soft smile and dropped to my rear beside the man, letting him ease his arm back against his chest. “Considering the fall you took, that could have been a lot worse,” I said, seeking out the elusive silver lining to this miserable day. The man's eyes were still squeezed shut, though, and I'm not certain he really heard me. I knew from experience that as soon as you stopped moving, your body lost the fervor it had while you were pushing yourself, and the pain from your injuries could come back with a vengeance. He was probably contending with that fact right now.

“Here,” the coyote's voice suddenly cut through the silence, and I heard him padding over to us. He crouched beside the two of us and held out the flask. The wolfhound's eyes opened to slits, but he didn't take it. “It's whiskey,” the coyote said, as though apologizing. “And not even good whiskey, but. . . it'll cure what ails you-”

“I don't drink,” the wolfhound stated, flatly. He winced again, then waved his good hand. “But. . . thank you.”

Ransom honestly just seemed confused by the man's statement, like he'd spoken in another language. At length, he withdrew the flask and took a swig himself, standing. “You a priest, or somethin'?” he asked, sounding more curious than anything else. As if no one else in the world would even consider living sober.

The wolfhound shook his head. “No, I just. . . took some of the same vows.”

“To yer secret society?” the coyote asked, brazenly.

For his part, the wolfhound didn't even seem surprised, let alone concerned. “Yes,” he said, unphased. “To them, and to God. And they are absolute, so. . . it wouldn't do me much good, in any case. I haven't imbibed since I was ten years old. It would only make me sick.” He shifted up against the wall, straightening his back some and eyeing the coyote, with the barest hint of a sardonic smile. “Besides. . . Carvecian whiskey is piss compared to whiskey from the Motherland.”

Ransom laughed at that, and gave a toothy smile. “That so? I oughta' try that sometime, then.” He shook his head and pocketed his flask again, stretching his back as he turned back to eye the cave mouth. “Yer not so bad, y'old codger. Bit of a badass, even. I guess I'd work with y'again, if we get outta this.”

“We will,” I said, certain of it. “We're far enough down the cliffs now that we'll start hitting jungle soon. Once we do, you and I can easily skirt the traps and Wyrms over the small stretch home. We'll be fine.” I looked to Johannes, taking stock of his remaining injuries. “And even if you're out of commission for awhile, sir, we can continue the survey missions in your stead. Maybe Magpie could-”

“But there ain't no call for that any more, is there?” the coyote interrupted me, crossing his arms as he looked down at the two of us. “I mean. . . we're done. We did what we came out here t'do.”

“What?” I blinked, alarmed.

“We found a site they're right fierce t'protect,” the coyote said, pointedly. “We found what we were lookin' for. Now we just gotta get back home and report-”

“Are you serious?” I exclaimed, in a mixture of revulsion and horror. “That wasn't a. . . a holy site, or a temple, or a rock garden, it was. . . a nursery! The nests, the eggs-”

“Yeah, place is a real omelette waitin' t'be fried up,” the coyote snuffed. “And them nests will burn well-”

“Ransom, those aren't bird eggs, o-or snake eggs!” I said, gaping at the canine. “Those are babies! People!”

The coyote shifted on his feet, enough that I knew my words had made him uncomfortable, but he still looked like he was stubbornly keeping to his point. “Shivah. . . these people. . . ain't like us-”

“They're still people!”

“I ain't sure they are! Did you see that damned thing?!” the coyote bit back, his ears flattening. “I've seen Dyre I'd rather break bread with. Be a damned realist, Shivah, it's what yer good at. These things might walk an' talk, but they ain't people like we know 'em! And this is about survival! Our people or theirs!”

“We are not having this conversation,” I said, with venom in my voice. I turned to Johannes for an ally, hoping the older man would see the wisdom in my words, but he was only staring pensively at the cave floor, looking uncertain. Something sunk inside me.

I looked back up at Ransom frantically, digging for something I knew would stick deep in him. He was a moral man at his center, I was convinced. “Ransom,” I said, plaintively, “we can't. . . we can't even be considering this. Don't you see the parallels here? Between us and-”

“Don't bring up the pitbull,” the coyote snapped, “or the vixen, or Rourke. This ain't the same.”

“Isn't it?!” I demanded. “What's more innocent than the unborn? You wouldn't be arguing for this if we were talking about burning down a village full of pregnant mothers! Gods, we're even talking about using fire! Just like Connall, just like the Raiders!”

“These ain't our people, Shivah! We're at war! If we don't beat them here, we die. It's that bloody simple,” the coyote stated, but his voice was weakening some. I could see this bothered him, at least, that the reality of the decision before us had begun to take hold. I knew I could keep working on him. I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to convince him so long as Puck was down in that settlement, though.

I wasn't even certain it was right to convince him. To abandon our best chance?

Everyone in Grayson's fleet could die, if we had to hold off the Cathazra to protect the vessels with the citizens on them. And if we failed, they could go after those vessels as well.

Everyone in Serwich could die, because we had decided that their salvation was too morally wrong to undertake. But. . . .

But there had to be a better way. Connal, Shadow and Rourke had tried to combat the Fever with a terrible solution, and I'm sure some of them felt it had been worth it at the time. We were in a similar position now and we had the chance to find a better way out.

Except this had been the better way out. This had been the plan that was supposed to spare lives. And it would. Except they would only be our people's lives. We'd found another solution, a solution that didn't involve throwing entire crews of men to the monsters at our backs. It should have been an easy choice. Instead, it felt somehow. . . worse. Even more difficult.

The silence that permeated the air after that was thick and heavy. I looked between the two men, waiting for someone to agree with me. Even disagree, put their foot down, something. Anything. The three of us had all seen the nests. And I knew if what we'd found made it back to Serwich. . . made it to the Admiral. . . he would make the most of it. I barely knew the man, but I could tell from the wolfhound's expression that he knew the same. And he knew his friend a lot better than I did.

I couldn't stop either of the two men from going to him, if in the end, that's the path they decided to take. And maybe it was cowardice, but knowing that suddenly made this feel as though it was out of my hands. It didn't mean I felt any better about it, but it solidified for me what my own feelings on the matter were.

“I'm not going to tell anyone about what we found up here,” I said quietly, breaking the silence. Both men slowly looked to me, and I looked back at them. “If either of you two do,” I implored, softly, “please. . . please consider what you're doing. There are still other options. We can find other sites. We haven't exhausted every possibility.”

“In that, you're correct,” the wolfhound stated, although his voice was little more than a rasp, now, his exhaustion evident. He cleared his throat, gaining back just a bit of the strength to his tone. “We'll keep trying. We'll keep looking. There is no reason not to.”

That set me at ease some. The coyote was silent, but that was probably for the best. I didn't want to fight with him anymore tonight, and I doubt he wanted to, either. I turned my attention back to the wolfhound, who was trying to unstrap his blade harness one-handed. I leaned forward on my haunches and reached for the straps, but he stiffened away from me.

For a moment, my ego was bruised, until I realized he wasn't angry at me because of the conversation we'd just had, he was just uncomfortable.

I gave a mildly exasperated sigh, dropping my voice. “Would you rather I have Ransom help you with that?”

The wolfhound seemed to consider that for about three seconds or so, before blowing out a breath. “No, it's. . . it's fine. I need to clean these wounds, or-”

“Infection and insects, I know,” I nodded. I hadn't forgotten about the claw marks. They looked shallow from what little I could see of them. I'd seen one man who'd sliced himself open accidentally on a pungi stick, whose arm had become maggot-infested by the end of one day. The insects around here flocked to wounds and laid their eggs in them. It was vile.

Hopefully we were still high enough up that the insects here wouldn't be too bad. Hopefully. We'd used maggots to treat a wound Ransom had gotten once, but the maggots here weren't. . . the same. They never stopped eating.

The harness was easy enough to unbuckle, and he was mostly able to do the rest, although I helped him get it over his shoulder and bad arm. I looked it over a bit after I'd removed it. It was actually very handy, if one wanted to carry knives without making it obvious. The sheathed blade on the front looked as though it could be removed, sheath and all, which meant he could wear it beneath his coat, and the blades along his back would never be visible. Not essential on a mission like this, but I could imagine uses for that. I made a mental note to ask him about it in the future, and perhaps have one crafted for myself.

“Alright,” I said with a sigh, setting it down. “Shirt off. And Ransom, can I have that whiskey again?”

The coyote grunted an assent and tossed it over to me as he made his way back towards the cave mouth, presumably to keep watch. I dug into my pouch for where Puck had packed a few healing essentials. Bandages, and one of his salves for healing wounds faster. I also had a clean rag in there for applying alcohol, which I tugged free and began to dab with the whiskey.

However, when I looked back over to the wolfhound, ready to tend the scrapes, he still hadn't pulled off his torn, bloody shirt. And I knew stubbornnes when I saw it.

“You can't be serious,” I sighed, exasperated.

“Leave me your healing kit, I can tend them myself,” the wolfhound insisted.

“With your off-hand?” I snorted. “And a head-wound, yeah. . . no. Stop being ridiculous.” I got up on my knees and moved towards him. He again shifted somewhat away from me, and I dropped my hands at my sides, the rag clenched in one of my fists.

“Fine, you can. . . get your coyote companion,” the man insisted, and I had to hold back a frustrated laugh, at the way the lanky canine was inching away from me. Like I was on fire, or something.

A better comparison might have been a young boy running away from a girl, because she was a girl, and that fact was somehow infectious.

“Trust me, you don't want Ransom treating your injuries,” I muttered. “He can't even take care of himself. I studied under Puquanah, the healer who worked on your Admiral. I know what I'm doing. Now stop being stubborn and take off your shirt.”

“It isn't appropriate for me to disrobe in front of a woman-”

“Oh my gods, then pretend I'm a man,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Shirt. Now.”

The man was tired, which is perhaps the only reason he eventually relented. It didn't really help ease his dignity crisis any that I had to help him out of that, as well. . . but he'd just have to deal with it. Honestly, I felt just a bit guilty, I wanted to respect the man's culture and his traditions, but I mostly found the whole thing funny. The term 'stuffy' had begun to make more sense to me the more I got to know these people. They were in fact very different from the Otherwolves in Carvecia, just as I'd been told, but in ways I hadn't expected. I'd anticipated arrogant, elitist, dangerous conquerors, and I'm sure to some people, that's exactly what they were. But they were also quirky. Bizarrely polite, even when I was fairly certain they disdained me and everything I was doing here. Decent to their women it seemed, if overbearing. There was a great deal made about protecting their women from the less pleasant things in life, like they were flowers to be tended in a garden, somewhere safe away from the wilderness.

My own people must have seemed brutal and uncivilized in contrast. Even the Carvecians. But I honestly wasn't certain which society would have frustrated me more, had I been born anywhere else.

As I leaned in and began to gently clean the rake marks, and wash the seeped-in blood from the man's fur, I vaguely wondered what the Cathazra society was like. . . if they even had something like that. Surely there were men and women amongst their people, even if we couldn't tell them apart. And I'm certain they had religion, lived in families of some kind, or groups. They couldn't be all vicious and animalistic. Even if they seemed barbaric to me, the fetish totems we'd seen throughout the rainforest were beautiful, crafted by artisans who were capable of intricate carvings, of devoting themselves to their art, and that took passion. That took feelings. It couldn't all be instinct, like they were wild beasts.

These were people, no matter what Ransom said. They just weren't people we could understand.

“Thank you,” the wolfhound's low voice cut through my reverie, and I raised my eyes to his. He still looked to be in pain, but it was easing, some. Perhaps simply from relaxing, finally. I hoped he was able to rest tonight. He'd need it. We all would.

“You're welcome,” I replied simply, with a slight smile. I gently dabbed at one of the longer rake marks, making sure not to swipe with the cloth, but to be as thorough as possible while still cleaning the skin, just as Puck had always shown me.

“Not just for this, for. . . disobeying my orders. Coming to aid me,” the man murmured. “I was truly prepared to die on that cliff. I thought it was my time. A good death.”

I looked up at him at that, my brows coming together. He'd almost sounded relieved when he'd said that.

“But, all the same,” he said with a soft sigh, “when that beast charged me I was. . . I was afraid. I suppose no one is ever really ready for death.”

I looked down slowly, fisting both my hands in the rag where it sat in my lap. “I've seen a lot of people die,” I said quietly. “I don't think I've ever seen a death that was. . . good. I've seen people resigned to it,” I murmured, my thoughts briefly flitting back to Connal's expression, in the final seconds as he'd raised his own gun to his head. I shook my head, closing my eyes. “. . . but I don't think it's ever. . . peaceful. I think everyone is afraid. Because we don't really know. . . .”

“. . . how God will judge us,” the wolfhound murmured, his gaze going distant.

I nodded. Even though my understanding of what lay beyond was probably quite different than his, it was the same fear. What lay beyond. Was I bound for suffering? Would my loved ones be there, if I truly was going to a better place? It was so hard to assess what sort of a person you'd been throughout your life, when the world was this complicated, with so many difficult choices. Had what we'd done today damned me? Would the spirits tear at my soul once I left this world, like vultures at a carcass? Would I become a malicious spirit, like Crow, because of the pact I'd made with him?

Was it even all real?

This man seemed faithful, so he was probably more in fear of punishment from his God than doubting his existence. Although for what, I wasn't certain. I couldn't know what kind of a life he'd lead.

I put the rag aside and dug out the salve, opening the dried leaf package it was wrapped in, and smearing some on my fingers to begin applying it to the wounds. As I leaned in, I let my voice slip low enough to be inaudible to Ransom. He was near the cave mouth in any case, so I doubt he'd hear anything we said, regardless.

“You still have your children back home, don't you?” I asked.

The wolfhound's eyes snapped to mine at that. “Excuse me?” he uttered.

I looked back up at him. “Your children. You said your wife died. . . but. . . you still have children back home, right? Live for them.”

The man went dead silent at that, and a fresh wave of pain washed over his features. I doubted it had to do with his injuries.

“Am I wrong?” I asked, softly. “You said you were ready to die. Were you hoping you would?”

His response was so candid, it shocked me. “Not hoping,” he said, monotonously. “Just. . . resigned that it would. I've been expecting to die since I came here. I'm honestly shocked it's taken this long to come so close.”

“I've been where you are,” I said, lowering my eyes to the man's chest as I continued to apply the salve. “I know how it feels to believe there's nothing left to live for except pursuing some task that will. . . inevitably kill you. But, there's always something-”

“Do you honestly think,” the wolfhound said, “that I would be in this hellish place, if I could be with my family?”

I leaned back at that, blinking and trying to process his statement. If his children were alive, why couldn't he be with them? If my son was alive, I would sure as hell be with him right now. No matter what.

“Is it because of your commitment to. . . that man?” I said, cutting myself off before I could say 'that bastard'.

“No, it has nothing to do with Luther,” the wolfhound muttered, leaning back against the stone and staring off into nothing. “I can't be around them. I'm not fit to live anything but a soldier's life anymore.”

“Why?” I pressed.

“Reasons you couldn't understand,” he replied stoically, and I suppose he expected I would simply accept that. He didn't know me very well.

“Try me,” I stated stubbornly, staring him in the eyes. He looked aside for a few moments, so I pressed. “I know to you I must seem young,” I said, “but in the last two years, I've gone halfway across the world, lost the people I loved, again and again, become a widow by my own hand, and chased a spirit I'm not even certain exists. Whatever haunts you, it won't shock me.”

The man's muzzle had turned towards me mid-way through my speech, and I wasn't sure exactly what had caught his attention, but I had it now. “A 'spirit'?” he echoed.

My eyebrows raised. Of all the things I'd thought the canine might fixate on, that wasn't it. I wasn't even using the Otherwolf word for it, because I wasn't certain what it was. “Yes,” I replied, uncertainly, “do you know the word, or are you asking the meaning?”

“You mean a 'demon',” the man clarified, brows knit.

“Is that the word?” I asked, trying the Otherwolf word out on my tongue. It felt wrong, for some reason. I was certain I'd heard at least Ransom use it before, and it wasn't a pleasant word. But then, Crow wasn't really pleasant, when I came to think about the hateful spirit.

The canine shook his head. “I'm not certain. I only know your peoples' religion in passing. We studied some of your traditions when I was schooled in the Seminary.”

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“It's a malignant, otherworldly presence,” the man said, then, as if remembering my limited vocabulary, attempted to explain further. “An evil creature, from the realm beyond this one. . . or beneath, in the case of demons. . . that haunts or possesses a person's dreams, their waking mind. . . even their body. They can speak directly to you sometimes, but usually they just torment you, lead you astray, bargain with you to commit ill deeds, with the promise of power or gain. If you surrender your soul to them entirely, they can claim it in the next life.”

I stared at him, blank and silent. I was absolutely certain my mouth was hanging open slightly, but I was too shocked to care.

He stared right back at me, knowingly. “Does that sound about right?”

“. . . it's. . . like you've been in my dreams,” I admitted at length, in a haunted tone.

“No,” he said, with a quiet sight, sweeping his eyes to the ground. “I'm just well-acquainted with what it means to battle them.”

“But,” I stammered, “I don't. . . I don't know that Crow is 'evil', exactly. Just very. . . very angry,” I said softly, “and alone. Like I. . . used to be. He came to me when I was at death's door, and promised me life if we could. . . .” my words fell off at that, and I looked aside, somewhat ashamed.

“What?” the man asked quietly.

I sighed. “It's just. . . .” I ran a hand up my arm, nervously. “Every time I've ever talked to someone about this. . . even Puquanah, and he was trained as a shaman. . . they've told me I was mad. Imagining things. I did take a lot of injuries to the head, and that was. . . right before I began seeing Crow. . . .”

“Miss,” the wolfhound said, his tone showing no hint of uncertainty, “I'm a cynical man by nature. I've even begun to question the teachings of my Order, in recent years. But if there is one thing in this world I do believe in, without any doubt, it's the existence of demons.”

I let out a long-held breath, then, as we sat in the quiet darkness of the cave, the coyote keeping vigil near the starry mouth, I began to tell the wolfhound everything. Everything about Crow. The dreams, from the first moment I'd seen him, when I was buried by my husband, to the last vision I'd had of the creature when I'd been suffering from the fever. It occurred to me somewhere through the long conversation that I'd never actually told anyone the whole of what I'd been going through with the strange, dark spirit. I had tried, in the beginning, with Puck. Back when I thought he'd be the one person who might believe me. Before I knew he'd given up his faith. I'd made mentions to Ransom, but mostly, the man looked on me with pity whenever I spoke about the spirit. I wasn't sure how deep his faith ran, but he'd believed, and chased, after a spectral mountain beast. We'd even seen her. So it had always disappointed me that even he didn't really seem to believe me.

And Grant. . . well, I'd told him some of what I was going through with Crow. I don't think he'd known what to make of it all. He'd been endlessly supportive when he was still with me, so I know that he wanted to give me comfort, but I don't think he'd ever known how to approach the subject. And in any case, when Grant had been in my life, Crow had made less and less appearances.

Which really bolstered Puck's case that the spirit was a manifestation of my anger, gone in happier times. Damn, I hated how much sense the fox made, sometimes.

“. . . I don't know what to believe any more,” I said softly, after a few moments of silence had passed between us following the end of my tale. The wolfhound had been quiet the whole while, but he had definitely been listening. Intently, even. He hadn't tried to interject, hadn't looked on me with pity or judgment. . . he'd just. . . listened. I had a lot of people in my life who cared about me these days, but this was the first time I'd really felt someone cared about Crow. The spirit had almost become a private embarassment to me, of late.

I gave a sniff, and covered it up quickly with a huff of breath. “I-I just don't know,” I said, swiping a paw through my mane, “if I'm. . . crazy. If he's real? If. . . if I gave up my soul, or if I can fix things. The last time we spoke, I felt almost like. . . he needed my help. That we could. . . I don't know. Heal together?” I finally looked up to the wolfhound. He seemed to be deep in thought, but his expression was impassive, otherwise. “Am I just. . . mad?” I asked, with a nervous laugh that had no real humor in it.

“I don't think so,” the man finally spoke, shifting so his arm was laying across his lap, on his bundled coat. “Everyone will have their own opinions, of course. But only you know your own mind.”

I sat back, gritting my teeth inside my muzzle. The man couldn't know how terribly dissatisfied that answer had left me. I knew, of course, it was ludicrous to think so, but I'd honestly been hoping to get some kind of answer from him. He seemed to know a lot about this subject.

“I believe you,” the Otherwolf stated, and something inside my chest lifted at the three simple words.

I blinked, realizing that my eyes had begun to burn. “. . . you do?” I asked, suddenly breathless.

The man nodded. “And I do think this creature is a demon. They aren't merely evil creatures. . . they were good beings once, you know. Fallen angels.”

“Angels?” I asked, remembering the word. It snapped into place a few moments later. “Grant told me about 'Angels',” I said suddenly, in realization. “They're like our totem spirits, our protectors. The good ones. The ones that watch over people, and the land.”

He nodded sagely. “Some of them are ascended souls. But they aren't faultless. When an angel falls from grace, they become a demon.”

“Our. . . religions are very different,” I said with a ghost of a smile, “so I don't know if any of this has any bearing on me. But. . . tell me more.”

“Look at it in the same way you would your 'spirits',” the wolfhound explained. “They are creatures just as you and I are. They were created differently, perhaps, but they have their own minds, their own lives, even if they are beyond what we can truly understand. They can sin, they can abuse their power, they can-”

“Feel alone, and abandoned?” I asked.

The wolfhound was silent for just a moment, before nodding, “I'd imagine, yes. There are many tales of angels who grew so saddened or angry by the holy war, that they descended to our world as men, or fell from grace and became demons. And demons want nothing more than to be in this world again. The realm they reside in now is torture. If they cannot escape it. . . they seek to drag mortal souls to their depths, to suffer alongside them in the pit. To burn with them.”

My eyes widened. I could almost hear Crow's voice, in tandem with the wolfhound's.

Burn. . . .

The Otherwolf seemed to sense that my mind was somewhere else, and he leaned in to bridge the gap between us just slightly, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know this must all sound foreign, and preachy to you, miss,” he murmured. I blinked, wanting to shake my head, to tell him that no, this was the first time I'd ever heard anyone else saying the same things I was about the spirit, but I couldn't make my mouth work. “But,” he murmured, “I've found over the years that. . . faith is what we make of it. The specifics of each holy book, of each person's God, or gods, or what we call the 'spirits', or 'demons', or 'angels' in our lives. . . none of it truly matters. What matters is that faith is the one cornerstone that every culture seems to have in common. Not the names, or the stories, perhaps. . . but the faith itself. And I think that's very powerful proof that these forces do exist. We just interpret them very differently.”

He leaned back, the warmth of his paw leaving my shoulder, and I began to digest what he was saying. It made a lot of sense, actually.

“I don't think either the word 'demon' or 'spirit' can accurately describe what you're experiencing,” he murmured, “but I do believe this 'Crow' of yours exists. Because it exists to you. And belief makes it real for you, even if others can't see it. You suffer because of this creature, do you not?”

My muzzle fell, and I gave a slow nod. There was no other way to look at it, really. Crow may have given me strength in certain moments, but there had been more bad than good. The angry spirit had tormented me when I was at my lowest, had abandoned me a great many times when I felt I needed him. Crow was an affliction, real or imagined.

“Your suffering is real,” the wolfhound said, with a certain tone that had a pang of personal pain beneath it. “Let the Physicians call it 'madness' if they wish to. It doesn't matter what name anyone gives it. I would consider the forces that torment the men with Seer's Fever 'demons', as well. I've seen them drive a man to kill the Admiral he once idolized. That is what a demon does. They seize upon us in our weakest moments,” the man's voice had grown strained, almost a rasp, “strike fear through our hearts, confusion and panic. . . cloud our eyes with visions, memories. . . places we wished never to remember. . . obscure and disrupt the present with vengeful, hateful thoughts from the past. . . .”

I remained silent, his words sinking into my bones. Some part of me knew he wasn't just talking about Crow, any more. But it was terrifying how much of what he had to say resonated with me. At length, he closed his eyes, and seemed to be collecting himself. I seized upon the moment to speak, albeit softly.

“. . . does your demon have a name?” I asked.

He squeezed his eyes closed more firmly for a moment or so, then opened them, slowly. “If it does,” he murmured, “it hasn't told me. My demons don't take forms, they. . . are merely demons of memories. Of places I have been. Battles. Slaughters. Things I have seen. Things no man should have to see.” He cast his eyes aside at that. “Men like my late Lord, and like Luther, can contend with seeing the horrors I have. I'd always thought I was a strong man, as well. I went through extensive training to prepare me for this life. But I suppose no amount of training can change what you are at your core.”

“It's not a matter of strength,” I murmured, “to be affected by seeing horrible things. I have nightmares about some of the things I've seen-”

“But do they haunt your waking world?” the wolfhound replied, evenly. “Do you see them. . . when you're at dinner? In a dark hallway, where the shadows happen to. . . remind you. . . .” He shook his head slowly, and went silent.

I gave him time. I'd seen this before, I realized. Not long ago, even. The 'visions' he was talking about, the sudden bouts of panic. . . Gabriel suffered the same affliction. It's why he'd killed that woman. It's why he'd frozen on the battlefield just today.

And suddenly, it made sense to me why the wolfhound, and not Ransom or I, had known what to say to him, to pull him out of it.

“I've hurt family members,” he admitted. “Not just frightened them, not just metaphorically. Physically hurt them. I nearly broke my little girl's arm. . . I've struck my wife while she slept, because she startled me. . . or for no damned reason at all. Because I thought I'd woken in the jungle.”

I tried not to let the sympathy I felt inside me make it to my eyes, knowing that wasn't what he wanted. It had never been what I wanted. I tried to simply do as he had, for me. Listen.

But a sudden thought sunk its claws into me, and I couldn't let it go.

“Your wife,” I said, my mouth falling slightly open, at the horrifying concept, “did you. . . .”

The way he looked me dead in the eyes, without speaking for several moments made my spine chill like ice. But finally, after a long enough wait that I honestly thought I might bolt, he spoke again, “Kill her?” He sighed. “Yes. But not in the way you're thinking.”

I blinked uncertainly. What did that even mean?

“My wife died in childbirth,” he said, in a well-practiced, forcefully even tone. There was so much strain beneath it though, I would have rather heard the emotion there than heard him forcibly keeping it down. But at least. . . .

“That's hardly your fault,” I urged.

“The Physicians warned her not to have any more children,” the man said, and now I could hear the bitterness, the hurt. He couldn't keep it entirely obscured. “The last had gone so poorly. . . she and my son both nearly died. They told her, told me, that if she became pregnant again, she might not survive carrying the child to term, let alone bringing it into the world. We knew the risks. I knew the risks. It was my responsibility to keep my passions in-check. We thought,” he shook his head at that, “thought. . . we were being safe. But she was late in her thirties, her. . . heats were sporadic. It doesn't matter. The point is, if I had enough bloody restraint. . .” he swept a hand over his mouth, holding it there, and looked anywhere but at me, “. . . she would still be here.”

“You're overcompensating,” I murmured.

The man eyed me at that. “Excuse me?”

“You want someone to blame, for something that happened that was. . . no one's fault,” I said, with a soft sigh. “You're blaming yourself because there's no one else you can take this out on.”

“It was the direct result of my actions-”

“And hers,” I said, defensively. “I'm sorry, but you don't strike me as the type to take a woman against her will.” The way he balked at that seemed to confirm my statement, so I pressed on. “You loved her, right? Your wife?”

The tall canine leaned back just enough that his back hit the stone wall, and looked upwards for a moment, blinking as though some of the dusty air had gotten into his eyes. I let him pretend.

“More than anything,” he finally uttered. “I want. . . to be with her.”

“Don't blame yourself for what happened, then,” I said, quietly. “You're doing a disservice to that love. Death comes for women when they bring life into the world, sometimes. It's a terrible thing, but it not something any of us can help. And there's no shame in loving your wife, and having children with her. I'm sure. . .” my breath hitched, “. . . I'm sure if we could ask her. . . she would have said it was worth it. I know, if I could have given my life for my child. . . I would have.”

The Otherwolf gave a long, ragged breath through his nose. “I could. . . have. . . stopped it.”

“What?” I asked, uncertain what he'd meant by that.

“I could have saved her life,” he said quietly.

“There. . . there isn't much you can do in situations like that-” I reasoned.

“Before then. Before it got to that point,” he said.

“I. . .” I stammered, “. . . I don't understand, I'm sorry.”

“I had an herbal mixture,” he said, as though every word were a blade he was forcing past his lips. “I. . . purchased it. . . from the black market in Pendarest, a month or so after I found out she was with child. When I was visiting my Bishop,” he said the last part with a huff, like he found it darkly amusing.

“An herbal mixture?” I repeated, confused.

“If I'd given it to her, she would have miscarried,” he explained quietly. I felt a pang in my chest at the mere concept. He shook his head. “But I couldn't do it. I didn't even care that it was an affront to God. . . that it's one of the most heinous Sins. I would have gone to Hell for her. What stayed me wasn't that. She wouldn't take it willingly, and. . . I couldn't. . . subject her to it, if she wasn't in agreeance. I could have. She'd never have known. ”

“But you didn't,” I said, firmly. “And that was the right choice.”

“If I had, she'd still be alive,” he stressed.

“And she'd never have forgiven you,” I emphasized.

“You can't know that.”

“I wouldn't have,” I stated. He looked briefly over to me when I said it, then sighed. “You can't know what it feels like. . . to have a life growing inside you,” I said. “To carry that. To know you're ultimately their last line of defense. My husband punched me. . . in the stomach once, when I was pregnant.”

His head whipped around at that, and I only nodded at his look of horror. “I remember the fear I felt that day,” I murmured. “Maybe some women could bear it, but. . . if your wife didn't want it, there is nothing you could have done to convince her otherwise. Trust me.”

He didn't respond to that, only looked away, and I had to bring up the obvious parallel, or it was going to sit in the air between us all night.

“The nesting grounds. . . .” I began.

“I know,” he said, his tone dark. “Trust me, I've made the comparison in my mind. A man should never have to make this choice twice in a lifetime. God forgive me. . . .”

I pursed my muzzle for a moment, then dropped my voice. “I don't think either choice is right or wrong, exactly,” I admitted, which seemed to surprise him. “You can't compare the value of lives like that,” I said, “I've seen people who did just that. It was arrogant then. It's arrogant now.”

“Then there is no right choice,” the man insisted. “Either way, we're in the wrong.”

“Life puts us there sometimes,” I said. “When things like this happen to me. . . and they've been happening more and more, over the last few years. . . I take a page from my friend's book,” I gestured with my shoulder, to the coyote standing a ways away at the entrance to the cave mouth, “and go with my gut. I'm guessing that's what you did. . . with your wife.”

“And she died,” he growled, although the anger seemed mostly meant for himself.

“The important part is that you didn't make the choice for her,” I emphasized. “And that's all we can do. Do as well as we can, without forcing what we think is right on others.”

“Someone has to bear the responsibility of this decision,” the wolfhound said, his voice strained. “We had a mission out here. People's lives are depending on it.”

“I've made my decision,” I said. “It's what feels right in my heart. Make a decision you can live with. That's all we can do.”

“I thought I could live with the decision I made then. . . .” he put his good hand to his brow. “Then she died. It all seems so obvious until it goes wrong.”

I remained silent, because I knew there was little I could say to ease that ache, but when his hand dropped away, he only looked like the same tired man he'd been before. There were still no tears.

“She was my anchor,” his voice was a ghost of what I'd heard it to be before, all of that strength gone. “I could. . . live with the demons, when I had her. Once she was gone, I. . . they grew louder. More powerful. Seized upon me so often, I. . . I couldn't even hide it from the young ones, anymore. They were frightened of me.”

My eyes fell to where my raw, battered feet were resting on the dirty, red rock of the cave floor. “They grow stronger. . . when we grow weaker,” I murmured. “Drag you down with them, into the depths of your darkest feelings. Burn you up inside.”

He nodded, one of his draping ears twitching weakly. I leaned forward, wrapping my arms around my knees, and resting my chin on them, sitting in pensive silence for a time.

“You know,” I said, suddenly, “maybe it's both.”

“Hm?” the man queried, not even looking up.

“Puck, and most Physicians, I guess,” I said, “think these creatures. . . like Crow, and your 'demons', are just. . . manifestations of our madness, or whatever it is they claim. Holy men say they're beings that live inside of us, and compell us. But. . . I mean. . . what if it's both?”

“How would it be both?” the wolfhound asked, curiously.

“What if we make our own demons?” I asked, plainly. “Before I was ever hurt, before I ever had reason to have so much anger, Crow was my totem spirit. Not the Crow I came to know, just. . . here,” I swept my fingers through my tangled mane, and showed him the carved turquoise bead, with the black etching of Crow in it. “He was in my life, before he was ever the spirit that began to haunt me. And I've always felt that his pain, that his loneliness, mirrored mine. What if he's my spirit? What if I made him?”

“It's an interesting thought,” the wolfhound said, sounding exhausted. “On a better day, I'd gladly talk philosophy with you. But. . . even if it's true, it doesn't make them any less hellish to contend with.”

“No, but. . .” I paused, “. . . doesn't it mean we could. . . heal them? Heal ourselves? If they're a part of us.”

The Otherwolf gave the slightest of smiles.

“What?” I said, tilting my head. “What is it?”

“Nothing, it's just,” he winced a bit as he leaned back again, “you're beginning to sound like my Bishop. He said something similar to me once.”

“What did he say?” I asked, curiously.

“Some Priests believe the only cure for possession is an exorcism. . . or to push the possessed person's body so far towards the brink of death, that the demon abandons them. That is a tradition I. . . I cannot support,” he murmured. “I've seen it fail far too many times. And I've never truly seen what I would consider proof that it works. But I. . . when I was at my worst, I still considered it.”

He looked somewhat startled when he looked into my eyes. Likely because of the obvious venom behind them. “My people have a. . . ritual. . . to cleanse our tribes of sin like that,” I said, icily. “But no one lives through it. Well. . . no one is supposed to live through it.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, seeming to sense my meaning.

“It's fine,” I sighed, pushing the anger away, as I had so many times in the past. “But you clearly didn't go through with it. Or you survived it.”

He shook his head. “My Bishop convinced me out of it. He's a good man. A holy man. But even he doesn't support some of the traditions. If he doesn't believe in this rite, then I am convinced it's a creation of Canid, not God. He suspects it is, as well. But. . .” he looked out the cave mouth, towards where the sky was growing dark beyond, “. . . he told me, there are ways to fight the demons inside you. One true path to salvation, albeit a difficult one.”

My heart lightened a bit at his words, even if I was uncertain whether or not they'd be of any help to me, coming from a holy man across the sea, who didn't even worship the same gods I did. Still, I asked, “How?”

“Forgiveness,” he said, the word sounding as heavy on his tongue as it felt sinking into my mind. I knew his language well enough to know the word, but it wasn't one I used frequently. If ever.

“Some things can't be forgiven. . . .” I said quietly, averting my gaze. “There are evils in this world that. . . have to be rectified. Even if it gives us no pleasure to do it. Someone has to put a stop to it.”

“You cannot put a stop to all the evil in the world,” the Otherwolf said. “You're young, so. . . it's easy to feel as though you can 'fix' it all. You can't. And you can't even the scales by causing more pain. My friend. . .the Admiral. . . once felt the way you did. I told him the same thing, then. Evil is a force that will always exist in the world, it's not a tangible enemy. It cannot be beaten. Anger and revenge are a cycle we fall into, when we're confronted with that reality.”

“That sounds too hopeless,” I muttered. “I don't want to believe that.”

The man shrugged. “History bears me out. And you sound as though you know the truth in my words.”

I sighed. “Crow is like a. . . mirror reflection of how I've felt, in my darkest moments. I've said things. . . similar to what you're saying now. . . to him. It's easier to accept when I'm lecturing someone else.”

The wolfhound smiled. “Isn't that always the way?”

“I'm sorry,” I shook my head, “but there are people in the world. . . even people who've passed, who. . . I can't even imagine how to forgive. And I don't know what good it would do me.”

“Forgiveness is the one true escape from evil,” the wolfhound said, his grey eyes heavy as they settled on mine. I could see the burden of the weight in his words, wearing him down, as though they were as hard for him to say as they were for me to accept. “It is the only escape from evil. It doesn't matter whether or not it's deserved. . . whether or not you feel it's right. So long as we hate, so long as we regret, so long as we cling to our anger over the evils committed against us, against others we love. . . that evil still has a power over us. The wrongs that were done in the past. . . live on, in the present, through us. The only escape from them is to. . . let go. Forgive.”

I looked up at him over the bridge of my knees. It had grown dark in the cave, and we hadn't lit a fire. The wolfhound was barely a silhouette now, and it occurred to me then that, staring at the black shape that was his body, leaning away from the wall now, silhouetted against the deepening blue of the night sky outside- clear for the first time in weeks- that I would probably always remember this second in time. This conversation. I couldn't say why. I just knew I would. The same as I remembered chasing butterflies through the valley, or seeing my son for the first time, or standing with Laesom on the cliff edge, looking over the other side of the world I'd once known.

Or lying with Grant in our small tent, feeling the warmth of his body against me. Smelling the scent of his fur. That same moment in time, so little time later, resting my head against his chest as the warmth seeped from him. As he ceased to be the person I'd known, and became a memory.

For the first time since it had happened, I was able to remember that moment. . . and the pain in my chest just. . . eased. Because I was also remembering everything else, every other moment we'd had, coming upon me in a cascade, like I was still there. And I didn't want to remember the pain anymore. I was so tired of it.

Had it really been this simple all along?

It wasn't about forgiving Methoa, or forgiving Rourke, or Shadow, or the Raiders. The person I'd been angry at, the person for whom I'd really felt all this frustration against, this rage, was. . . .

“Sir,” I said quietly, looking to the wolfhound. His eyes told me he'd reached the same answer I had, a very long time ago. . . and was struggling to accept it. “Who are you trying to forgive?” I asked finally, the words feather soft in the air between us.

The man closed his eyes for just a moment or so before answering.

“Myself.”