The cold, uneven patter of raindrops alighting upon my face released me from the vice of somnolent dreams. My mind was reticent to let go of the Isle's memory, as if the flame and heat consuming the once idyllic land of the Dreaming Children were devouring my mind as well.

Water trickled over my chilled skin, pooling in the curve of my throat and against my side. The muscles of my arms were trembling from the cold when—confused and stiff—I woke enough to view my surroundings.

I was outside. The morning sky was blanketed with its usual thatch of gray clouds, preventing the temperature from dipping into the frozen chill of early winter. That didn't stop the rain from being ice-cold, however, nor did it stop my entire body from jerking violently as steam billowed between my lips.

What in the hell? I thought as I sat up, my head swimming and my muscles weak from shivering. What am I doing out here?

Am I outside the ward? 

Fear was a sudden, painful shock to my bogged system. I threw myself from the heather and spun, wildly searching from any familiar landmarks in a bid to find where the manor was. My legs were numb, my feet bare and stark against the dark, wet mud. I stumbled and caught myself on a tombstone. 

Tombstone. My fingers crawled over the pitted stone arm of a weeping angel perched on top of the grave's marker. It was ancient, its face so weathered all but the vaguest impression of its features was gone. I had been sprawled in the bracken next to it, rolled against the sunken stone of the grave. 

"Not outside the ward," I gasped and relief settled in with an almost physical weight as I sagged against the chiseled angel. Though the cemetery was vast, I knew it all lay within the ward's boundaries. I hadn't crossed outside.

I may have been inside the ward, but I didn't have any clue where I was. The fog was dense and intensified by the moaning October winds, the manor lost somewhere beyond the immutable mist. I could barely see more than a handful of yards in any direction, and the graves beyond my vision were just wispy specters disappearing into the dim.

I sank onto the grave's edge, deciding whoever was buried there was too long dead to care if I sat on his final resting place. My head swam and nausea quaked in my middle, warning of the inevitable onset of mana sickness.

I braced my arms around myself and trembled. If I don't get back to the manor and get warm, mana sickness isn't the only sickness I'm going to have.

The memory replayed in my thoughts in a single explosion of color and sound. The rush of it brought stars to my vision, and I hunched over my knees in a bid to swallow the bile rising into my throat. The violence I'd witnessed swirled at the forefront of my mind and the thunder of voices followed after as if I stood a great distance away from it all.

Don't they understand we're trying to help?!

Pitiful things, to never be whole again.

What have we done?!

What had the Sins done? From what I'd seen, they hadn't done anything aside from attack and kill the creatures responsible for ripping the Isle asunder—and yet the Dreaming scorned them, and the Sins—who were usually the first persons to deny responsibility for their actions and blame their predatory nature—didn't deny they were complicit in the Realm's destruction. Why though? Why accept the burden of an entire world's demise? 

What was I supposed to learn from the memory? That the Sins were capable of guilt? That the elves had died screaming their rage to the blackened, cracked sky—had died with swords in hand and had thrown themselves into the fire to save their realm? 

That the fractus and what remained of Tehgrair, the bit of extra soul inside Peroth, were similar in appearance?

I ground my knuckles into my eyes and groaned. Why isn't the answer ever simple? Why are things never as they appear?

I levered myself upright, willing my legs to hold as I brushed wet strands of hair from my face. I had to get back to the manor. I was too cold, and soon the mana sickness would sink its fangs into me and I'd be stranded, unable to move or think or call for help.

It only took a few steps for my numb feet to stumble and slip on the moss-covered stones. Yelping, I fell into a broken marker and struck the porous stone with my head. My frigid fingers fumbled at my brow as the fresh cut stung and a few drops of blood warmed my skin.

I should've sat down and admitted defeat, but I refused to sulk and whine like an errant child. I forced myself to clamor to the next grave, then the next, mumbling silent apologies under my breath to the people resting in the earth below.

"Where is that worthless Sin when I need him?"

I missed Darius—not because I was lost or scared or confused. I missed the assurance of his presence, the way his determination inspired my own. I missed the anger his remarks incited—missed the emotion he drew from my jaded little mortal soul.

Numb, confused, exhausted, and wounded, I wished the Sin of Pride was with me so he could tell me what I was supposed to do and how I was supposed to save him from his own foolish decisions.

Darius wasn't here. It was just me. I couldn't allow myself to fall simply because I lacked his support. That wasn't what I wanted, and I imagined Darius's lip would curl with disgust if he could see me stumbling like an inebriated fool in the middle of the graveyard. 

"Stupid house," I muttered as I wiped mud from my cheek. "Stupid, cryptic answers. Stupid demon wasting his time on stupid, worthless imaginary weapons—." 

The baying of a wolf cut across my breathless tirade. I jerked straight and clutched the tomb I leaned upon. The howl was mirrored by another in the other direction. Gritting my teeth, I used what strength I had to change course. The howls followed.

I slipped again, my foot sinking through the rotten log hidden below a hood of evergreen moss. I tried to extract myself, but I only managed to sink deeper and scrape my leg through the fabric of my sodden pant leg.

"You've got to be kidding me," I snarled at the blasted log as I fought the decaying wood and it dug deeper into my skin. The howls drew nearer.

Before me came the sound of heavy footfalls thumping in the mist. They came nearer, moving steadily among the crumbling graves and sucking mires. A shape appeared, its form becoming more defined as it neared, standing shorter than a man but much broader and stockier. Two eyes blazed in the obscurity as the black wolf emerged, then threw back its shaggy head and howled. The sound was torn by the jagged striation of its own white teeth.

I froze and swallowed my trepidation as the hulking creature hopped onto the grave. Its claws scratched the bleached stone.

The wolf lifted itself onto its hind legs as a bear would, the rain dripping from its shaggy coat as its breath rumbled in its spacious chest. Pearlescent smoke cloaked the beast, distorting it, seeming to pour from its furred coat. The creature shrunk until the wolf disappeared into the visage of a familiar, scruffy Scotsman.

"What're ya doing out here, lass?" Gavin asked as he settled into his human skin. His eyes shone with wolfish incandescence for another moment before they, too, resumed human form.

I gawked, and the first inane statement out of my mouth was, "You're wearing clothes!"

He was, indeed, wearing clothes—a brown wool sweater and a pair of well-aged jeans. Gavin eyed me as though I'd lost my mind. Considering I was bare foot in the marsh, soaked to the bone without any idea of how I'd gotten out there, he wasn't far off the mark. "Aye...."

My cheeks flushed as I rushed to continue. "I-I thought werewolves always, ah, lost their clothes when they changed."

Gavin's brow rose as he released a bark of laughter. "That'd be true if I was a were, lass. I'm a barghest. My change is brought about by magic, while my boys' change is physical." His smile waned as he dropped his gaze to my trapped leg. "Now, what ye be doing out here?"

I extended a hand for help—but Gavin didn't take it, waiting for my explanation with a bemused expression.

Grimacing, I asked, "Would you believe me if I said I got lost?"

"No."

"Well, I still got lost," I grumbled, waving my hand with more insistence. "Please, help. My foot sunk into this blasted log. You scared me half to death with that howling, I thought I was going to be eaten or something."

Gavin gave in and grabbed my arm, easily hoisting me from the rotten quagmire I'd become entrenched it. I winced as the wet wood tore my pants, revealing bloody scratches on the pale length of my leg.

"The only wolves out here are my boys," he said as shamrock eyes studied my injuries. "Yer trembling something fierce. Let's get cha inside so I can get back to my patrol."

For his credit, Gavin didn't try to pick me up. I could barely stand on my own and walking was difficult, but he only held onto my arm with his ruddy hand tucked about my elbow. He didn't ask why I was in the marsh again.

"Gavin..." I began as we slowly wended around the rain-slicked graves. "How long have you lived at Crow's End?"

"Oh, a long while," he said, evading the question. "Why?"

"You may think I'm crazy for asking this, but has the manor...ever shown you anything? A vision? Or a memory, perhaps...?"

My voice trailed into the quiet patter of raindrops as Gavin frowned. "No, but it wouldna' be surprising. The manor's a chuck of the Isle bound to a piece of this realm with Sloth's soul acting as the bit o' twine keeping the two together. It'd be like the bloody knife-ears, though, for the stuff created by their Songs to give visions."

"Do you know much about the Dreaming?" I asked, replaying the chaotic nightmare of the memory in my mind again. Bodies moved in the mist surrounding us as shadowy wolves escorted Gavin as I toward the manor. At least I hoped we were heading toward the manor. I still couldn't see it.

Gavin laughed and one of his wolves howled in response. Another yipped as if joining in on the older man's amusement. "Lass, I'm a barghest."

"Yes...?"

"Don't ken much 'bout my kind, do ya?" He scratched his scruffy chin with his free hand. I wondered if he found my ignorance insulting, but the grin on Gavin's face was kind, patient. "We're from the Isle, too. No' my boys. Me. I'm from the Isle. Weres be men, but barghests be wolves."

I gaped and almost took another unfortunate tumble into the muck. "You're—? A wolf? And from the Dreaming Isle? If you're from the Isle, doesn't that mean—?"

"That I'm older than dirt? Aye, lass. Thanks for the reminder."

I bit my tongue. I hadn't thought Gavin was that old. The years usually imparted an ugly varnish in a person's gaze, a depth that was recognizable to a mortal like me, though not totally comprehensible. Gavin had young eyes. Carefree, without the ugliness of a past—as if he'd made peace with his burdens long ago and they no longer held sway over him.

"Did you...did you leave before it fell? Before the Isle collapsed?"

"No. My master and me left 'bout when Ufiil, the capital, caught fire. That was near the end there. Ban's one o' the Stormlians, that'd be the Children who were from the Stormwood. They all went by where they hailed from back then."

I bit the inside of my cheek as I mulled over his words, my thoughts competing with the fog of fatigue. "Where were the...Wildinians from?"

"From the wild lands. The Fire Wilds, that is. Constantly at war, the Stormlians and the Wildinians." Gavin shook his head, the quirks of his hair bouncing as he did so. "Hatred bred deep in them. Even when the Isle fell, they kept on killin' each other out in the other realms."

"But why were they at war?"

Gavin shrugged and adjusted his grip on my arm. He walked easily in his muddy boots—much like a wolf would, picking his way amongst the foliage with efficient, casual grace. "Dunno. Why do the humans war? Because they be different from one another. Religion. Resources. I'm not ken to the reasons."

We paused for a minute so I could catch my breath. The bracing air of the marsh held off the worse of the mana sickness, but it was growing worse as the manor's form loomed larger. "You said something about a master?"

"Aye. My master was Ban. At least, that's how ye'd say his name. It used ta be a rite o' passage for the knife-ears to go out into the forest and find a wolf. They'd Sing the Song o' the Hunted, spinn' a curse to give the wolf elf-flesh. They bound the wolves to themselves. We made for obedient slaves, having the smarts o' a Dreaming Child but the sense o' a wolf. They used us a lot in the war to chase them Wildinians down."

I was caught between horror and infuriation for the wolf. "You were a slave?"

Gavin and I were at the end of the cemetery. The path cleared to the porch and the shut door was to our left, just a foot beyond a dilapidated retaining wall and its rusted gate. One of the wolves had come close enough for the water glistening in his coat to be visible. Unfortunately, he was also close enough for the stench of wet dog to be overpowering.

Sitting on the wall's end were Requiem and his brother, trading a cigarette between each other.

I froze, and so did Gavin. After seeing the two Dreaming Children in the memory, it was strange to see them again in the marsh, like two images snapped millennia apart double-exposed in perfect symmetry. They looked up when the barghest and I approached the gate, both dripping wet but seemingly unperturbed by the weather.

It was also strange that they were sitting in the rain, smoking. They were just an odd pair.

"Requiem, Refrain," Gavin greeted, his tone civil though his voice was noticeably more gravely.

Requiem and his brother—Refrain—sneered, and the latter said a line in a lilting foreign tongue. I hadn't heard either of them speak a word of English before. I had understood them in the memory only because Peroth had understood them. I wondered if they knew anything aside from their native tongue.

The black wolf on the other side of Gavin bore its savage teeth and growled. Gavin only shrugged as Requiem and Refrain continued to speak to one another, the cruel set of their lovely faces becoming harsher and harsher.

"What are they saying?" I asked Gavin as the barghest exhaled through his nose and led me around the two elves.

"They remarked upon the irony of Pride's pet walking Sloth's dog."

I hadn't expected their words to be complimentary so I wasn't surprised, but I still frowned. "They're very rude." Rude, and not as innocent as they liked to paint themselves. The Dreaming had lost their home realm, but it didn't sound as if they'd lived virtuous lives when the Isle had been stable. They'd hunted the Sins—had hunted their own kind, cursing animals, gathering slaves to do their bidding in war. Had Requiem and Refrain owned barghest as slaves?

"Aye."

"How did you come to be tied so closely to Sloth?" I asked as we continued. The gravel path provided even footing so we were able to pick up the pace. 

"Same as how anyone comes ta work with him." We were nearly to the porch, the manor's warm light spilling forth from its many illuminated windows. "I came looking for a way ta be safe from my master, should the wee bastard come sniffing around. He gives me safety, and gives me boys a purpose guarding his lands." 

Gavin assisted me up the porch's steps but didn't climb up himself. I took this to mean the barghest would be staying outside. Shivering, I had a final question for the helpful creature. "Can I ask you one last thing?" 

He nodded as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"Please don't tell Pride or Sloth about this."

His frown intensified, unconvinced. Gavin sucked in a breath to refuse—so I hurried to explain.

"They will only worry needlessly. They cannot waste energy worrying about what I do, not when they've their own troubles to account for. Please, Gavin, don't say a word. I'll tell them in my own time, when I'm ready."

The four-legged wolf snorted at his sire, flicking his tail to indicate that he was taking his leave. Gavin scratched his thin beard and shifted from foot to foot. "Ah, yer putting me in a bind, lass. Fine, I won't tell Sloth, if he dunna ask. If he asks, I won't lie. But...you shouldn't be fighting yer battles alone. I dun know why ye were out here or what mischief the manor's got ya involved in—but find help, lass. Confide in someone."

I nodded, not meeting his gaze. "Thank you for your concern. I will keep it in mind."

"Aye. Get yerself inside. Get warm."

"Thank you again."

The Scotsman disappeared, and the visage of a great wolf returned. I studied the green-eyed creature with a touch of reverence, knowing now that this was his proper form, and that the man was only a curse he assumed for the convenience of others. He was different from Terrestrian wolves. He was much taller, as tall as I was, his coat thicker—his teeth like miniature javelins and his limbs lean with muscles made for running long distances.

Two knotted braids strung with natural stone beads hung beneath his strong jaw, and his perked ears were tufted with white.

Looking at Gavin and thinking of the trouble he must have faced at the hands of his master, I was again reminded of the universe's duality, of its pervasive grey hue obliterating the frankness of evil and good. Good and evil didn't exist. Something terrible had befallen the Dreaming Children, and they had done terrible things. The same could be said of the Sins, and of mankind.

We were all very much alike in our inability to be wholly good or wholly evil. There simply wasn't any such thing.

I was almost too exhausted to stand, but I managed to bow my head to the barghest, my hand clutching the manor's door for balance. Wolves howled in the distance, calling their sire to lands beyond my sight.

Gavin blinked, then wrinkled his snout with amusement, his red tongue flicking between his dangerous jaws. He turned and lopped off into the moors until he swallowed by the waiting mists once more.