Crowe opened his eyes.

     The lycan was still there. There was no evidence to suggest he’d moved from his spot. The lycan rested on his side. Each inhalation filled the cave with a rumbling snore that reminded Crowe of the tales Petras had told him as a child of the monsters who came down from the mountains at night; before the first hours of day the beasts would return from the hunt of human flesh to slumber in underground caves. Not the kind of stories a grown man should be telling a young boy before bed.

      Crowe could not bring himself to move for a long time. Reason told him he should not be weary of the beast. If he wanted to hurt me he could have done so in the night while I slept. He thought of how the Okanavian had knelt before him reverently, kissing and licking his hands. The thought made him shiver. Last night's events still felt surreal in his mind. Already something big was at work and he didn't know if he was ready for it yet. He only had the occasional appearance of Metropolis’ glow to light the way. Eventually curiosity drew him close enough to the Okanavian until he could read the wounds that marked his body like hieroglyphs. 

      A great deal more had been done to him than what had been apparent last night. The scrapes on his back, bone-deep and clotted with dirt and dry blood, made him reel in shock from the brutality of it. How long would the Theocracy scouts have tortured this poor creature before they killed him? Surely death would have been a relief by the time they’d finished with the Okanavian. A closer inspection revealed beads of white pus that rose up from underneath the wound. 

       An anvil of worry dropped inside Crowe. The infection could spread if he didn’t do something about it. He thought of the dead scouts he’d left two miles back only yards away from the main road. What if another patrol decided to camp within the clearing’s vicinity and discovered the massacre? He shoved the thought away, turning to a darker thought. A thought that made the scar on his wrist tingle.

      He thought darkly of Bennett, a thought that always tempted him to the past. No time.

       Reluctantly he drew the dagger. The three inch scar across his wrist caught the light. He winced when the blade bit into his flesh. Shifting closer to the lycan, he gave his shoulder a shake. 

      The lycan's eyes peeled open, shifting from the ceiling to the open wound that bled from Crowe’s wrist. Those amber coins widened in shock. “Twin o’rre!”

       “Drink,” Crowe said. A small voice in the back of the practitioner's mind reminded him that the lycan would not be able to understand him. Me slicing open my wrist like a spout and brandishing it at his face should be clear enough. 

       The Okanavian tilted his head away, pressing his ears flat against his head, but his eyes remained fixed on the seeping wound. 

       “You have to drink. We have to get you on your feet.” Crowe  gestured urgently at the mouth of the cave with his good hand. “Now drink, you must!”

       The lycan’s paws engulfed his forearm. Crowe tried not to think about how easily those calloused paws could tear his arm from its socket. Warm lips puckered around the wound, hot tongue lapping at the slash. The Okanavian drank greedily, eyes sliding back into his head. His tail swayed languidly from side to side. Explosions of rolling thunder filled Crowe's ears. Shadows fell over his eyes. His body grew heavy. Only when the bells in his head were so loud they made the inside of his skull shake did he have the strength to say, “Enough!”

      He crawled back, wanting to put distance between himself and the lycan, his heart hammering against the chamber of his chest. Across from him the Okanavian gasped as if he’d run a great distance. “Don't worry,” Crowe whispered “You’ll be on your feet in no time.”

       When awareness returned to Crowe, he sat up, wincing. Rock was wonderful for back support but did not make for a wonderful bed, he decided. He blinked in an attempt to clear the fogginess from his head. An immense shadow filled the mouth of the cave, blocking out the light of day. That's right, the practitioner reminded himself, he had a companion. Another lost soul traveling on the highway in search of…what? The Okanavian held up his paw,  marveling at it as if he’d never seen it before. Crowe could see that the wounds on his back had healed rapidly,  no longer rimmed with red lines of infection.

      Crowe wasn't sure how long they remained like this, the practitioner studying the lycan, the lycan studying himself, before the Okanavian turned to face him. His muzzle parted in the Okanavian equivalent of a grin. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth, a string of spit dangling over the floor. He tried to expand his arms in the narrow space, muscles flexing under his thick gray fur in a show of renewal as if to say Look at me. He held up Crowe’s waterskin, giving it a shake. Liquid sloshed around heavily inside. He crossed the cave to the practitioner, moving with a grace that belied his size. Each movement fluid, long limbs stretching with the sinewy confidence of a wolf. He hunkered in front of the practitioner, holding out the waterskin as if to say Will you please take this gift? His joy at being healed was both infectious and a comfort, easing the tension Crowe had felt the previous night. For a moment time seemed to halt, lycan looking down, practitioner looking up. It unfroze when Crowe gained the courage to reach out and take the offered gift. He was extra careful not to touch his claws. The claws alone were bigger than Crowe’s longest finger/

       The practitioner didn't realize how thirsty he was until he raised the waterskin to his lips. At some point while he’d been out, spent from the loss of blood, the Okanavian must have ventured out. Several miles from the cave he would have come across a half-frozen stream. The water was cold enough to make his teeth hurt, but Crowe didn't care. He drank with relish. Only when he lowered the waterskin breathlessly did he notice the Okanavian's intense scrutiny. He felt all the blood rise to his face. Not once had the lycan looked away. Worse yet he had a hopeful, almost expectant look on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkled in excitement. His tail tapped a rhythmic cadence against the cave floor.

 With daylight streaming into the cave Crowe took the opportunity to reassess his new companion. It was hard to say with the fur and the wounds, but the lycan had a youthful appearance…an amiability that suggested he was in the early stage of life same as Crowe. The practitioner noted the leather wristbands the lycan wore. Wristbands wider than both of the sorcerer’s arms put together. A silver buckle marred with dirt and scratched marked the bronze belt buckle that held the gown of his tunic up over his broad hips. The beast carried no weapons with him the sorcerer could see. 

Doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. He has teeth and claws bigger than anything I’ve seen. He doesn’t need a weapon, he is a weapon. I am all alone with this stranger. A stranger who comes from a completely different region of the world. A stranger who speaks a completely different language. And a lycan at that. How am I going to communicate with him? How are we to build trust? He partially understood the Theocracy’s fear of the Okanavi. More and more refugees like this one were traveling from beyond the desert canyons. It was just like the Theocracy to try and conquer what they did not understand. Was the lycan in control of his more predatory instincts? If not, what dangers did he hold for the practitioner?

      The cacophony of Crowe’s thoughts started flutters of anxiety in his stomach. He felt his breath catch in his chest. No, not now. Not another crushing wave of panic. He hadn't had such a fit since the day he found Petras dead-cold in his bed. He turned his attention back to the Okanavian. Soon it would be time to move - he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the woods as he could before nightfall - and there wouldn't be much time to talk. “You look like you’re feeling better,” he croaked.

       The barbarian whimpered, shifting ever closer to the practitioner. If the sorcerer could have backed away he would have done so but there was nowhere else to go. The Okanavian held up a paw to his chest to indicate himself. “Y' much vulgtmnahor hai.”

       To Crowe this could have meant any number of things. He tried to stand. The muscles in his back groaned in complaint. He faltered, about to slip back down to the ground. Before his rump could hit the ground, strong digits closed around his forearm, stopping his descent. The lycan hovered close enough that the practitioner could feel his warmth. His touch ebbed at the chill that had settled into Crowe's flesh, causing a shiver to race up the practitioner's spine. He jerked his arm away. “I’m alright, I’m alright.” He sucked in a breath.

       The Okanavian took a step back but remained close by as if he feared the practitioner would fall again, his head lowered slightly. His tail flicked back and forth anxiously.  Crowe stepped to the side of him, testing his own strength. He felt steady enough. Good. We have to get moving before daylight falls.

       He heaved his bag over his shoulder. “We’re leaving,” he said. 

       Another broad smile. Another flash of white teeth. A nod of confirmation. Before Crowe could protest, the Okanavian took the bag from his shoulder, slinging it over his own.  Crowe hung back, uncertain of how to proceed/ The Okanavian  said something in a short burst of Okanavi. The words sounded sharp to the practitioner's ears, but the question in them was clear. Are you coming?

      They cut northwest, taking a road that would eventually loop around and cut north again after three days of travel. 

       Every second out in the open, away from the cover of the trees, made the hairs on the back of Crowe's neck stand on end. After what he had seen the Theocracy scouts do to his new Okanavian companion, he didn't want to risk another encounter with them. The Okanavian moved with renewed vigor. The same could not be said for the practitioner. Within a few minutes of their journey he was exhausted and breathless. Giving the lycan his blood had cost him more than he’d anticipated.

       Three hours into nightfall they reached a small wood cabin. The lycan stopped, standing stock still. His fur rose, standing on end. A low growl vibrated from deep within his chest. He watched the darkened windows with the weary intensity of a predator.

       “What is it?” Crowe demanded through chattering teeth. He watched the Okanavian wearily, trying to make sense of his body language.

       The Okanavian muttered something darkly under his breath but did not turn around. His paws remained curled into fists.

       The practitioner allowed his mind to extend beyond the limits of its physical prison. He smelled rain in the whippets of wind that combed his hair, tangled and matted, from his face. Black clouds eclipsed the moon, reminding him of the apocalyptic vortex that had appeared over the house the day Petras died. He sensed no danger about the place, nothing to suggest there was anyone inside. There was a quality to the darkness that spoke of desolation. A simple wood post fence surrounded the property; several posts had been ripped away by a careless wind.

       Crowe had just stepped past the fence when two strong arms seized him around the waist. Before he could protest he was hauled effortlessly into the air. The Okanavian set him down on sodden earth. Immense paws weighed on his shoulder, gentle but indomitable. The lycan’s face hovered so close to his their noses almost touched even as the sky unleashed a torrential downpour of rain. He grunted a word that sounded like, “Nuh,” but clearly meant no. He lifted a paw long enough to press it to his own chest and said, “Y' epbug ph'nglui.” His palm returned to Crowe, this time resting softly against the practitioner’s chest. Even now as the rain crashed down on their shoulders, his skin radiated an inner warmth that stilled the practitioner.  “Ymg' ahna geb, ahagl h''s mgepnnn.”

       The meaning was clear: I’ll go in. You stay here.

       Crowe shook his head, shivering so hard now he felt he’d been seized by a fit like the ones that had plagued Petras in his final days. “I can't,” he managed to stammer out. “If I stay out here in the rain I'll catch my death.”

      The Okanavian stepped back with a shake of his head.

 Crowe ground his teeth together. Who was this barbarian to tell him where he could or could not go? Before he could raise his voice in protest the Okanavian startled him by whirling around with a snarl. Frothing lips peeled back from sharp incisors. The lycan did not lunge towards the practitioner, but rose to his full height, turning slightly to block Crowe from the cabin. His tail pointed straight towards the sky like an arrow. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed in determination, never mind that the beast had showed him his fangs. Staff in hand, he lunged to the side, then sprung forward only to feel the lycan drag him back by the scruff of his robes. He plopped him firmly down on the ground. He held up a single finger, pointing, admonishing him as he would a child.

       Monad, the practitioner thought in resignation, what have you sent me?

      Too exhausted and too cold to offer further opposition, Crowe glared at his newfound companion in resentment. He watched the lycan lope cautiously  towards the cabin. The deep cadence of his voice was loud enough  that Crowe could hear the prayer in it. And the fear.

       The practitioner’s thoughts spun. What did the Okanavian sense that he didn't? Why did he insist on going into the cabin before Crowe? He did the only thing he could think of to do when his nerves were working against him and lit a joint. The simple act of sucking in the smoke and holding it in his mouth was a religious act all its own. Monad put him in your path for a reason or else you never would have found him. All will reveal itself in time. Even now while standing in the middle of the rainstorm in the middle of nowhere, he could feel something invisible and powerful at work, shifting the pieces and putting them in place. 

      He watched the lycan push the door of the cabin open. He peered inside. It was too dark to see his face from this vantage point, but his passage through the night was unmistakable. The Okanavian isn't just a test, he’s an ally, the practitioner reminded himself. You're going to have to learn to trust him at some point…whether you want to or not.