Daylight. To see another sliver of light through the window was a miracle. It means my prayers were answered.

       Suffused by warmth. Hot, heavy, feverish, pleasant warmth. The feeling of being cradled against something solid and strong and soft. The need to slip back under, to let sleep take him once more. 

     “Twin o’rre,” a familiar voice rumbled in his ear, pulling him back to reality. Amber eyes stared happily into his own, face so close it was all Crowe could see. Thick arms held him like steel bands so that he rested against a chest as solid as the trunk of a tree. Crowe’s rump rested in the cradle of Barghast's lap. At some point in the middle of the night Crowe’s body had transferred from the chair to the lycan's lap.

     “Um,” was all Crowe could think of to say before he extricated himself from Barghast's embrace, his cheek’s aflame. Did I sleep in his lap…the whole night? Why does he look so happy?

      A voice cleared its throat at his back, making the practitioner jump. He turned to face Rake. During the adrenaline rush of the previous night Crowe never got a good look at the man's face. His pinched features and slightly upturned nose gave him the appearance of a rat. Sharp blue eyes bore into the practitioner’s with unrestrained suspicion. He spoke in a voice that was oddly deep and gravely for a man of his stature. “Cenya would like a word with you.”

      The practitioner nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Of course.”

      Rake cocked his head at Barghast. “The beast stays here.”

      Barghast, who had been watching the scene intently, stepped forward until he stood shoulder to shoulder with the practitioner. He glared down at Rake with a growl.

      “I think you’ll find things will go a lot smoother if you let him come with me,” the sorcerer said calmly. “As long as I’m in sight he’ll remain calm.” Inadvertently his mind went to this morning’s first waking moments, curled up in the lap of the Okanavian. What had that all been about? Before he could feel embarrassment’s sting, he pushed the thought away. It would bear thinking about another time.

      “Fine,” Rake grumbled. “But I’m warning you” - he pointed a finger at a doorway - “if you do anything to harm the old lady in there, I won't hesitate to empty this shotgun into your head.”

      Crowe said he understood. He nodded firmly at Barghast, gesturing for the Okanavian to follow him. So far the lycan had been aggressive towards anyone who had tried to approach Crowe. He hoped the Okanavian could contain himself around these strangers. Who knows how long we’ll be here.

       Cenya sat at a wooden desk in a cramped room that served both as an office and storage. 

       With nowhere else to sit Crowe and Barghast had no choice but to stand by the door. Rake gave them another warning look before he left the room.

      “I assume you have a lot of questions,” Cenya said in her crackly voice. “I’m afraid there's not a lot I can tell you. There is much we don't know ourselves.”

        “Tell me what you can.”

        “Those people you heard singing in the dark last night…many of them used to be our people. They’re not anymore.” Cenya’s voice roughened with emotion, the skin at her throat sagging. Crowe wondered just how old she was. How many centuries had she seen? How many wars? “The bear that attacked you never would have pursued you so relentlessly the way it did, but it was under the influence of something else. They all were. We think it has to do with the old temple outside the village.” The old woman winced, running her hands along the stump of her leg.

       “Four weeks ago a surveyor team came to Timberford with an interest in exploring the temple,” she continued. “There were eight of them. Most of them were historians and translators, but the head scientist, Gregor Tannhaus, was an inventor of some renown. I am sure you’ve heard the name. His father's building the railroad tracks. He’s manufactured everything from matches to the telegraph machine.” Cenya shook her head as if trying to contemplate an idea that didn't sit well with her. “He was the ringleader and no matter what I said there was no persuading him to stay away from the temple.”

      “Tell me about the temple.”

      “I don't know much about the temple and there's a reason for that. It's not a good place to go exploring.” Cenya smiled tartly. “It was here when I was born a thousand years ago…during the dawn of the Third Iteration…when the Dominion Highway had yet to be carved out of the dirt. There's no telling how long it’s been here. It could have been around since the First Iteration for all I know. What I do know is something evil has always dwelled in those ruins. Up until now animals have always stayed away from the place. The evil has always remained contained within the temple…the people of Timberford have always been safe as long as we didn't go near it…but then those damned scientists must have gone and done something to aggravate it. You heard them last night, roaming around the tavern, taunting us.”

       The door opened. Rake ducked into the room long enough to deliver a steaming mug of tea to Cenya before flitting back out. The ancient practitioner blew at the steam with pursed lips. “By the time we noticed something was wrong, it was already too late. We didn’t know it of course. A week passed without word from Tannhaus’ expedition, long enough for us to hope they’d found what they were looking for and moved on. It started benignly enough at first. A few chickens came up missing. We thought nothing of it. The wolves and coyotes get emboldened this time of year as I’m sure you know. But then the pig and cow carcasses started showing up, strung up for us to find as you must have discovered in the woods. That's how we found the trade merchant who comes every month, the bottom half of his body hanging from a tree; we found the top half by the stream.

      “The same night we found the merchant, Tannhaus and his expedition team came down from the temple; that's where they return every night before the sun comes up. They brought the beast with them.” Cenya shuddered, her serene composure slipping for the first time since she’d started speaking. The mocking songs of the voices and the predator who had lurked outside the tavern echoed in Crowe's mind. The crackle of the old practitioner's voice pulled him back into her tale.

      “It was the night Clementine lost John. They dragged him off into the woods…I can still hear him screaming. I don't know what they did to him, but he's one of them now. It was also the night I lost my leg.” Cenya grimaced, shifting in her seat. “I can still feel it kicking even though I know it's long since been shat out by that infernal beast.”

      “Tannhaus and his people…the beast…they never try to break in?” Crowe asked.

       Cenya shook her head grimly. “I have no idea why either. They could subdue us very easily if they wanted to. There used to be a hundred of us. Now there are only thirty. I don't think they have the desire to rush the hunt though, if they desire anything at all. I think their aim is to get into our heads and drive us insane first.”

      “You said this has been going on for weeks. A month. How come you haven't left the town?”

      This earned Crowe a bitter laugh from the old woman. “Where is there to go? The world does not want us. It has done everything it can to enslave us. Eradicate us. What help is there? Do you think we would fare any better on the open road, traveling to Caemyth over a thousand miles away? I see what's been done to your lycan friend there. No, I think we are better off on our own, dealing with our own problems the way we always have.”

       Crowe didn't like this where this conversation was going. But you have to leave this place. Why else would Monad have sent me here? He bit back the protest, opting to remain calm. 

      “But you said I knew I was coming…that you’d been expecting me. How did you know?”

      Cenya looked away, refusing to look the practitioner in the eye. “I saw the Eternal City in the sky the night the bear took my leg. Saw its light in the sky like a beacon of hope as I was being devoured by a beast, my blood leaking out of me, people I have known their entire lives - watching them grow from wee things to adults with wee ones of their own and so forth - and I felt a measure of hope. No one has seen Metropolis since the day Monad fell, cast into the Void to live out his eternal sentence. I saw the city of Metropolis and I know what it means. That Monad will soon awaken from his slumber…and when he does what came before will come again. This nightmare we’ve been condemned to will come to an end and a new world will spring forth in its wake.”

      “Why do I hear doubt in your voice?” the practitioner asked.

“Because it has all happened before!” the old woman shouted and this time her voice trembled with rage. “Already two Iterations have passed. Two worlds’ worth of histories and civilizations, leaving us with nothing but scraps to find, those who have not been hoarded by the Theocracy. Twice before Monad has risen from the Void with the promise to free his people from enslavement while the fires of Inferno engulf the land, while fires rain down from the heavens; until Elysia returns once more to throw Monad into the Endless Pit. Oh yes, this world and its people are doomed but there is always the hope that the next one is better! There is always the hope that Monad will get it right the next time!” Cenya held up a finger before Crowe could speak. “Think about what all this means…the cyclical nature of it. That means you or someone very much like you has sat where you are sitting, spouting promises of hope and renewal. And it means you will fail. You don't even know it yet.”

      An eerie calm descended over Crowe, dousing out the flame of indignance that had arisen in him. He cleared his throat. He clasped his fingers around the Lion-Headed Serpent dangling at his throat, gleaming courage from it. “Maybe you're right. Maybe there is no point and we are all just stuck in a purgatorial loop and our people are meant to suffer the same fate over and over again. Up until a few weeks ago I was just a poor farm boy who had no clue of what I had been chosen to do. I didn't ask for this and I certainly don't want it; I’m merely doing what has to be done.” It was his turn to hold up a hand, to keep the old woman from cutting him off, to keep his own doubts at bay. “I saw Metropolis too. A Seraphim came down from the spires of the city and showed me a vision of what will happen to our people if we do nothing. The cycle will continue if we do nothing. If we do something the cycle of suffering will end.”

      “Only for one to start anew. We’d be condemning a new civilization to suffer our fates. Would it be worth it in the end?” Cenya's voice dropped to a whisper. “Could you live with yourself with even the slimmest of chances that you have recreated what you sought to destroy?”

      In his mind Crowe heard a bell jingle in the dark. He saw Petra's blank uncomprehending gaze. He saw Bennett's snarling face as he strained against the restraints his own father had put around him in a moment of desperation. I made the evil go away when I gave him my blood to drink. He saw Barghast strung to a tree, thrashing against his restraints while men laughed carelessly at his suffering. “Yes,” he heard himself say. “Yes I think I could. I don't care about the start of a new nightmare, I care about the end of this one. None of it will matter if we remain trapped in this village. Have you managed to wound the beast?”

      “We’ve tried everything.” Cenya shrugged. Crowe could feel the passing of years, of centuries spent watching the world while it spun its yarn of misery. “Bullets, fire, mana. It shrugs everything off as if its flesh is made of armor itself.”

      The practitioner shook his head in frustration. “There has to be something we can do…a way to stop it.”

       This earned him another bitter chuckle; gone was the calm voice and the pleasantries. A snow-white eyebrow arched towards the ceiling. “You're the herald of Monad. You tell me…what are we to do?”

      And there it was: the call to step into shoes Crowe had no idea if he could fill. His own encounter with the beast had almost ended with death for he and Barghast. Not even the fall down a fifty foot waterfall had thwarted its pursuit. The first taste of hopelessness touched his tongue, sour like rancid milk. Just as the first rain clouds of doubt opened in his mind, the sound of movement and voices drew Crowe to the only window in the room. Outside he could see Rake standing before a small group of men and women. A few of them carried rifles, but many were armed with crossbows and slingshots. Somewhere outside his field of vision, the practitioner could hear the fall of a hammer against wood. “What are they doing?” he asked without turning to look at Cenya.

      “Doing what they can. Preparing for the inevitable. Rake is putting together a hunting party to comb the woods. Ever since the trouble with the temple started, meat has been harder to find, but we make do.” A hint of pride and admiration crept into Cenya's voice. “Without Rake we wouldn't have made it as long as we have. He treats me as the leader, youth respecting his elders, but really it is he who has carried most of the weight on his shoulders.” She sighed, leaning on her staff as she rose from her chair. She smiled, a vestige of the warmth slipping back into her wrinkled features. “Do not let my words of bitterness sway you from your task, herald of Monad. The light of the Eternal City sent you here for a reason. Mysterious hands are at work. Perhaps I am wrong and something better will grow out of the dust we leave behind. I suppose in a way that is all up to you. As for me, I might live another five hundred years if fate has its way, but these old bones are not what they used to be. I think I might treat myself with a short nap.”

       Without further ado she hobbled out of the room, leaving Crowe with his thoughts. The concept of cycles repeating weighed unpleasantly in his gut. That means you or someone very much like you has sat where you are sitting, spouting promises of hope and renewal…

     And that means they failed, he thought. 

     Ignoring the shiver of dread that raced up his spine, the practitioner turned to face Barghast. He was relieved to be alone with the lycan even if it was just for a moment; the conversation with Cenya had left his skin buzzing unpleasantly. Barghast straightened from his slouched position with a grunt as if to say, It's about time. Are we going?

Rake’s mouth screwed into an unhappy frown when he saw the practitioner and the lycan approach. “What are you two still doing here? I would have thought after everything Cenya told you, you’d both be long gone by now. It's not your fight.”

      Crowe squared his shoulders, forcing a determination into his words he didn't feel; he steadied himself against the several pairs of hardened eyes that watched him, measuring him up. Barghast had positioned himself at the sorcerer's shoulder; a silent snarl curled his lip, warning them to stay back. Crowe was more grateful for his presence than ever. Without him I never would have made it here. In the five days since they’d started traveling so much had happened between them; Crowe could not deny a bond had begun to build between them. What the nature of that relationship was had yet to be defined. Perhaps it never would be.

     “I realize it's not our fight, but we're here to help however we can.”

      Rake spat in the dirt. “Really?” he said with mocking wonder. “How is that? You yourself just look like you left Mommy and Daddy’s farm and I doubt your friend can understand a word we’re saying. I have half the mind to put a couple of silver bullets in him just to make myself feel better.”

     The lycan must have heard the threat in the man's voice, for he stepped forward, paws clenched into fists. Two rifles and a knocked arrow greeted him. The end of a practitioner's staff bloomed with fire. Crowe stepped into the path of fire, holding up his hand. “Kill us if you want but then you’d be wasting your only chance at getting out of here.”

      Rake cocked an eyebrow. He did not lower his weapon or motion for anyone else to. “Oh…and why is that?” 

      The edges of an idea took form in Crowe's mind. Thoughts racing, he thought of the bear, of the black mossy substance that had grown along the creature’s back. “Cenya said there is a relation between the temple, the expedition team, your people, and the bear who has been feeding off your livestock? What is it?”

      This was enough to get Rake to pause. He exchanged a questioning look with the practitioner standing to his left. “We don't know,” he replied reluctantly after a moment. “It seems to spread like an infection. At first there were only a few of them but then they started taking our people. We don't know how they do it, whether it's from bodily contact or a type of ritual. We have a theory that whatever the source of the evil is, it comes from the temple.”

      Crowe’s mind seized excitedly on the idea. “Have you investigated the temple to test this theory?”

       Rake laughed bitterly. “Fuck no. You will not find a more superstitious, more useless lot than what remains of the people of Timberford. That temple has been here longer than this village and no one has dared set foot on the grounds of the temple until Tannhaus and his bloody expedition came. I have an idea of what you are about to suggest. While I don't think it's a bad idea - it’s the only one we haven't tried - no one would do it, myself included. We don't have the numbers or the firepower. We have no idea what we would be facing. If this is happening due to an infection then what is the source?”

      “There's another idea you haven't thought of,” the sorcerer suggested. 

       At this Rake lowered his shotgun. He gestured for the others to do the same. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of an invisible burden. “I’m all ears.”

       “What if we caught one of the infected? Trapped them, observed them? Maybe these observations could yield results that would give us a better idea of what we’re dealing with.” With a shiver, Crowe recalled the sound of fingernails scraping against dusty window glass; he thought of the woman Clementine trying to reach her husband who’d taunted her from the other side of the door, his mind under the grip of a far more powerful, malignant force. A force whose motives had yet to be discovered. “They’re able to communicate, are they not? From what I saw last night, it seems they have some form of allegiance with the bear.”

        Rake’s fingers scratched thoughtfully at the stubble around his mouth. “It's not a bad idea. But we’d be slaughtered. As you have seen, that bear is no ordinary bear. Not only is it big and vicious, it’s quick and cunning. It would slice anyone to pieces that dates to step outside the safety of the tavern; it would be a suicide mission.”

      Crowe gritted his teeth. “What if someone were to distract the beast?”

     Rake's lips peeled back in a humorless grin. “Are you volunteering?”

     The practitioner felt the blood drain from his face. “I suppose I am.”

      Concluding their conversation, Rake and his men entered the woods to comb the trees for food before nightfall; it felt good to have distance from Rake's hair trigger temperament. Barghast and Crowe wandered Timberford's only street, a circle with a well in its center from which the villagers drew their water. Men and women worked in tandem with one another, hammers and shovels in hand, digging trenches around the village; even children strong enough to lift a hammer were put to work, reinforcing the windows and doors of their homes by tacking pieces of wood to them. Preparing for battle. Within the hour word of Crowe's plan had spread throughout the village. Did he sense hope if not determination about the villagers?

     “You look a bit lost!” said a powerful voice from the left of the well. 

      Crowe turned to face a broad-shouldered man with a round belly and the thick sturdy arms of a farmer. He cut off Barghast's growl with a warning look before the farmer could realize he was not welcome. Is he going to do this with everyone we bump into? “Yes,” he stammered, rearranging his features into something he hoped resembled a smile. We need to work on our people skills. “I suppose we're just trying to find where we fit in around here.”

       “You're the newcomer who had the misfortune of stumbling into our plight.” The man’s face broke into a broad grin that was not without sympathy.

       The practitioner frowned. “I didn't see the tavern.”

       A gust of sharp wind blew the mane of the man's white hair around his wide shoulders. “I couldn't bear to leave what’s left of my chickens, pigs, and cows behind. If we are to survive the winter like this, they’ll be what’ll get us through; that and whatever Rake can scrounge together to make things stretch. For this I choose to stay on the farm. That and I’d rather not be crammed in a single building with a bunch of hysterical folks.” The man winked at them as if this was a private joke between friends. “You may not think it to look at me, but this old man knows his way around a rifle. He can take care of himself.” He offered a tobacco-stained hand. “My name is Clias. You boys can help me at my farm.”

      Barghast grumbled something under his breath in Okanavian but followed reluctantly behind with a nod from Crowe.

              Clias led them to the edge of town. The farm was fenced off. Crowe noticed some of the slats of the fence were miscolored from the rest. He could all too easily imagine the bear breaching the fence to get at the livestock inside; he imagined Clias crouched in the stall among the chickens and pigs with only a shotgun to fend himself with. The thought made Crowe shiver.

      For now the livestock could roam the fenced area under the light of day. “It used to be I could let the chickens roam freely,” Clias said conversationally, sliding the gate open. “Used to spoil them rotten, I did. It's why they're so fat. But then I suppose we’ve all had to adjust our way of living.”

       He led them to a mound of wood neatly stacked beneath a tree. Longer pieces had been stacked behind it. “I need as much of this cut down as you can before nightfall. We need all the firewood we can get if we are going to make it through the winter at this point.” He pointed to the blade of an ax buried in the stump of a tree, raising an eyebrow. “It's not the most pleasant work, which is why no one has done it and I'm just too old for it, but you said you wanted to help.”

      Crowe ignored the premature protests of the muscles in his arms and back. He glanced at the lycan standing by the fence; the Okanavian watched the white-haired man distrustfully. “We’ll get it done.”

      The man grinned, beaming. “Monad blessed us when you stumbled upon our town. I can feel it. We’ll get out of this yet. I’ll fry you up a ration of bacon and bring you out some home-brewed ale I've been holding back.”

    Crowe waited until Clias was halfway back towards the farmhouse before turning to face the axe with a frown. I never did like chopping wood, he thought. Before he could take hold of the handle a solid shoulder nudged him to the side. Barghast looked down at him, making a smug, “hurrumph,” sound before taking the axe handle in his mighty paws. With a single pull, the ax came free of the tree stump.

       The practitioner couldn't hide a grin. “You're going to work, are you? You're not just going to stand in the corner and sulk like a little boy?”

       This earned him a wag. Crowe watched the Okanavian lift the ax into the air, powerful muscles flexing beneath his gray fur. Crowe felt a curious but familiar heat rise in his lower body as the blade descended, parting the air and then the wood. For several minutes the lycan worked while the practitioner watched, distracted. You used to watch me do the same thing, remember? Bennett's voice teased. Back when we used to hang around each other every day, breathing in the smell of sweat.

      You mean back before you left me? Crowe asked the voice to which it did not reply. 

       Amber eyes latched onto his with a knowing grin. The Okanavian knew the practitioner was watching him and he liked it. If anything the practitioner's attention seemed to further his motivation to keep working, the ax splitting the wood into neat even pieces. Crowe jerked into motion, remembering that he was supposed to be stacking the wood. He tried to quell the heat in his belly. He stooped to pick up the hunks of wood, his cheeks reddened.

      After a couple of hours of working in efficient silence, Cilas returned, balancing a plate of smoking bacon strips and a large jug of chilled beer. His sky blue eyes danced merrily when he saw the piles of neatly stacked  wood bound with cord. “You boys made short work of that tree.” He waved the statement off as if Barghast was one of them, not an eight foot tall anthropomorphic wolf. The practitioner liked the man more for the effort.

     “It wasn't me who did all the hard work.” Crowe grinned at the lycan to show the praise was meant for him. 

.    “Treat yourselves with some grub while I feed the animals.”

     With that the plate was set down on a hand-carved table. The old man left the outsiders to their meal.

     The smell of charred meat drew the practitioner and lycan to the table, where they sat in silence. The Okanavian seized handfuls of bacon, stuffing the greasy meat into his maw. Crowe grabbed what he could, hands darting for the plate when he could, otherwise there would be none for him. The beer was poured into wooden cups. Crowe gulped it down until his eyes watered and his head spun and he had to lean against the table in order to stand.

      By the time the plate had been cleared and their bellies were satisfied as much as they could be, the shadows had begun to lengthen, day falling into night. The calm clatter from the village had turned into a frenzy racket as the villagers hastened to fulfill their work. Crowe felt his own anxiety growing through the fog of warmth which had started out feeling pleasurable but now made him lethargic and panicky. You signed yourself up for a job you're not sure you can handle, didn't you? Petras asked in his mind.

      “Crowe?”

      He hadn't realized he'd stopped, watching the sun sink beneath the horizon's line, until the lycan drew beside him with a whine of concern.

     “You don't know what's about to happen, do you?” 

     The Okanavian cocked his head in question. He turned to the practitioner, muttering frantically under his breath. He circled Crowe, running his digits through his hair, checking him for injury. He lapped at the practitioner’s cheek until his skin gleamed. Crowe laughed in spite of himself. He stopped Barghast by grabbing both his wrists - or trying to. One of his fingers barely encompassed one of Barghast's. “I’m not hurt, I’m not hurt.” He shook his head once, twice, three times. He waved with his hands. He could feel the Okanavian's confusion. Nothing I say is going to make sense to him. What if I’ve made a terrible mistake? 

      “I wish there was some way I could make you understand,” Crowe whispered. The setting sun beat in their face, casting halos of dying light around them. “I know you don't like them but we have to help these people. My people. That's why we came here. When night falls the beast and those people will come. When they do I’m going to go out and buy us time while Rake and the others try to grab one of the infected. It's the only way I can think of to find a solution. The only way I can do this is if I know you're safe and out of the way, so I need you to stay inside the tavern.” I need for one of us to get out of this place alive.

      Can you sense my fear? Can you feel how it settles in my veins like black, rotting ink? 

      Tears stung his eyes. Before he could turn away, before he could hide them, Barghast traced the ridge of the practitioner's cheekbone with the pad of a single digit. Solid arms wrapped around Crowe’s shoulders, pulling him into the Okanavian’s embrace so his cheek rested against a pillow of thick gray fur. The Okanavian’s heartbeat sounded like the pistons of a train. Crowe listened, feeling his own swell with a brew of conflicting emotions: terror at what he would face when night fell, exhaustion, confusion at the powerful alliance growing between him and the lycan, and the comfort of Barghast’s presence. He may not understand my words but he understands when I’m hurting. He can sense it. Perhaps he can smell it on me the way a dog can. He always watches me. He always checks to make sure I’m not hurt…

Barghast’s body vibrated around him, a low hum resounding deep within the well of his chest. Slowly he rocked back and forth as if consoling a child.

     When was the last time someone held you like this? When was the last time someone comforted you? When was the last time someone showed you they cared? Can you even remember?

He looked up into pools of amber. Those pools were wide, comforting, wondrous, and intent all at the same time. “Ymg' ah ya twin orr'e,” Barghast  rumbled. “C' ah mgepah'ehye ehye nafl ahehyee ph' bthnkor mgng ph' orr'e.  Y' ephainafl mgah'ehye nilgh'ri happen l' ymg'.  Y' mgep ephaiah'mglw'nafh. Y' mgah'ehye ngahnah l' nog ymg'.  Ymg' ah ya ya twin orr'e.”

A shiver raced up Crowe’s spine. He bit his lip, warm from the beer, warm from Barghast’s embrace. “That all sounds nice…if I could understand what you’re saying.”

Clias' voice called them over from the fence. Barghast let out a huffing sound; clearly he did not want to let Crowe go. I don’t want to go either but I must. Reluctantly he pulled away from Barghast’s embrace.