Michael stormed through the castle on a mission: to find his mother. To avoid questions that would undoubtedly be asked by anybody he crossed paths with, he held the bird to his left side and used the left side of his open coat to conceal it. He only hoped the tiny creature did not chirp.

It happened to be one of those rare days where he was able to freely roam the castle without being shadowed by Lucas, but that did not mean he was entirely free from other observing eyes.

He may not have known the first thing about mending a broken wing—was not entirely sure his mother knew what to do either—but the moment he decided to save it, she was the only person that came to mind. Besides, the visit would also present an opportunity he had not been able to find since his return from the Woodlands—filling her in with his plans for the fairy, and enlisting her help.

He turned down the dimly lit corridor that led to his mother's chambers and stopped once he reached her door. He knocked twice. From inside, he heard footsteps approaching, and seconds later, the door opened wide. But instead of coming face to face with his mother, he was instead met by his Aunt Emilia.

She smiled when their eyes met, and Michael felt compelled to offer her one in return. It was not that he was unhappy to see her, but the fact that her presence would make it difficult for him to speak openly with his mother.

"Michael, 'tis always a pleasure to see you."

"And you, Aunt Emilia."

He scanned the room behind her, and once he confirmed his mother was absent he settled his gaze back on his aunt. "Has my mother gone somewhere?"

"She stepped out for a moment and should be back shortly. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Before Michael could respond, the bird chirped. Loudly. He looked down, pulled back his coat to reveal it, and had to refrain from smiling because—as crazy as it sounded—he was certain that chirp was a loud and resounding 'no'.

"Oh my, who is this little creature?"

He looked up at his aunt. "I found it outside. I do not suppose you know how to mend a broken wing, do you?"

"I cannot say that I do."

She grabbed Michael's arm and gently pulled him inside the brightly lit room before closing the door behind him. He was ushered over to his mother's bed, where he took a seat at the foot. His aunt then turned and walked over to a wardrobe and returned with a small cloth in hand.

"Perhaps I can fetch someone to take it off your hands." She tried to dab at the bird's wet feathers, but it only pulled away from her. "Or ask around the castle—"

"No," he interjected. "That is quite alright, Aunt Emilia."

If word were to reach his father that he was wasting time nursing a bird back to health instead of focusing on fulfilling his duties, Michael could only imagine the lecture he would receive.

"I will figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

Both Michael and his aunt turned their heads towards the door at the sound of his mother's voice. She was pulling down the hood of her black cloak as she stared back at them.

"Michael found a bird, and the poor thing has a broken wing."

His mother glanced down at the bird still in his hand. "How terrible."

When she looked back up at him, one look was all he had to give for her to know why he had come. Enough for her to not waste any more time and act accordingly.

"Emilia, I shall see you in the morning." She walked further into the room. "Thank you for your help earlier. And I think it goes without saying, but tell no one of the bird. Rest well, sister."

His aunt looked at them both until she got the hint. She said nothing, only smiled before turning and heading for the door.

They both waited for the click of the door once closed, and the sound of her footsteps fading down the corridor before either of them spoke.

"You were never the type to bring helpless creatures home."

Michael looked down at the bird, then placed it on top of the bed next to him. "I could not just let it die."

"No. No, I suppose not. If something can be saved, surely we should save it."

He looked up at his mother. It was obvious she was talking about more than just the bird. "What are you getting at, mother?"

She walked over to her vanity and slid her cloak off her shoulders and onto the back of the chair. "I am sure the bird is not the only reason why you are here." She sat down and began to pull pins out of her tied back hair, causing the blonde strands to fall down in loose waves. "What have you decided to do about the fairy?"

Through the vanity mirror, they met each other's eyes.

"Take responsibility."

"In what way?"

Michael told her about his trip to the Woodlands, and of his plan to get the fairy to the new Fae world. "I figured since you helped them escape, you would know what to do."

"If that is your plan, then 'tis not I you should seek, but the help of the Witches, Michael. The ones we can trust."

Witches? The Witches helped the Fae escape? They were supposed to hate the Fae as much, if not more, than the Wolves. Why would they have helped them?

"There is only so much I can do to help you. You should contact Zanna."

Michael lowered his head, and stared at the bird as it explored the bed but did not stray too far from him.

He had not spoken to Zanna in nearly a year. For weeks after Gabriel's death, she had visited him in secret—despite the divide between her people and his—but he eventually told her to stop. It had become too risky for her to continue to do so, and a part of him had not wanted to see her anymore. She had reminded him of Gabriel, the memories the three of them shared as a result of being raised together, and during those times following his brother's death, all Michael wanted to do was forget.

After all the time that had passed, how could he reach out to her now?

Is there no other way?

It was not like he could just make a personal visit to the covens. If he were to meet with Zanna, it would have to be done in secret. And anything done in the dark had a risk of coming to light. The only way this plan had any chance of being successful was if as few people as possible knew about it.

It was not a question of if he trusted Zanna or her mother, Moreena. They were family. But a year was a long time for animosity to grow. Would they even trust him?

The bird made its way back to him and tried to climb onto his leg. After a few failed attempts, Michael carefully scooped it up and placed it on his thigh. He gently stroked the top of its head, comforted by seeing it accepting his touch despite rejecting his aunt's.

"You still have your moonstone, right? Contact her. She must miss you as much as you miss her. I am certain she will help."

Michael wished he could be as hopeful as his mother, but he was not. The Wolves and the Witches had stopped communicating with one another for nearly a year, and although they were not officially at odds, there was a clear divide between the two. A divide caused by reasons unbeknownst to him.

But he would try.

All he could do was try.

Bird in hand, Michael stood up and made his way towards the door.

"What is the fairy's name, by the way?"

He stopped just as his hand grabbed the handle. "She would not tell me."

"Well, should that change, I wish to be introduced to her by you some day."

Michael did not respond. He simply turned the handle, opened the door and walked out with only a single thought on his mind: for their paths to never cross.

* * *

When Michael entered his chambers, he had not expected his plan of contacting Zanna would be deterred by getting the bird settled. For the past ten minutes he had walked back and forth, contemplating the best place to set the bird up.

The window sill was his first thought until he wondered if it would be too cold, or if the view of the outside world would make it depressed. He thought about placing it on his bedside table, but wondered if it might get too close to the edge and fall over. And, on top of all that, he had no idea what he was supposed to feed it.

For the time being, he placed it in the center of his bed on top of an old tunic he bunched up around it so that it could not wander off.

Now, he was able to focus on the task at hand.

From his spot on his bed, he turned his head away from the bird to instead stare at the top drawer of his bedside table. After taking a deep breath, he reached out and opened the drawer, revealing the key to his wardrobe and two moonstones: one, a milky white, the other, a small light grey one.

He still had no recollection of how the tiny grey moonstone came into his possession, and had given up trying to figure that out a long time ago. However, the larger white one was gifted to him by Zanna, which made it the only one he could use to contact her.

But would she even want to hear from me? It has been so long.

Those thoughts made Michael pause long enough to take another deep breath to settle his nerves.

He reached into the drawer and picked up the white moonstone, anticipating its ice-cold sting the moment he made contact with it. With his free hand, he closed the drawer before staring down at the moonstone in the palm of his hand.

The memory of the last time he had used it was not a fond one, as it was a moment he was not proud of.

He had held it then just as he was holding it now. Even seated in the exact same spot. The only difference between then and now was the reason behind his desperation to use the moonstone. Then, he had been intent on severing ties with Zanna. Now, he was desperate to mend them. Desperate for his best—only—friend.

After deciding it was now or never, he lifted the moonstone to his mouth. "Zanna...Zanna, it is me. If you are there, if you are listening, please respond."

I need you.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he could not bring himself to say them. Not because he did not want her to hear them, but because he felt he had no right to say them.

So, he did not.

Instead, he sat there and waited. And when seconds turned into minutes, it seemed the silence gave him an answer he hoped not to hear: that he may have needed her, but she did not need him.

He placed the moonstone on top of the table and just stared at it.

If she was intentionally ignoring him, he would not—could not—hold it against her. He had not been the greatest friend to her. Had not reached out, nor checked up on her. Had not given her a reason to care or respond, as it was he who had told her to stop coming to the castle and cut off all communication.

Why would she come just because I called?

Michael looked over at the bird. It was in a continuous cycle of dozing off, then waking up and looking over at him. He wondered if it was to check if he was still there, or because it knew that, despite him saving it, to it, Michael was still a predator and could not be trusted.

Perhaps to Zanna, he could not be trusted.

If that was the case, should he take the silence as a sign to find another way? He had no right to drag Zanna into this mess anyway, but she was one of the few witches he knew and trusted.

But if his mother was right, and the Witches were the only way to see his plan to fruition, then he had to tell Zanna. And if she did respond, if she did come, what if it only resulted in her refusal to help him?

With his mother's life at risk, he could not afford to take no for an answer.

Michael reached over to grab the moonstone, stood up and walked over to his window where he stared out into the snowy night. At the Woodlands.

He knew the fairy was probably fine—she had survived on her own for nearly a year. But for some reason, the sight of the heavy snowfall made him feel unsettled. Restless. Anxious.

He tightened his grip on the moonstone before lifting it to his lips. "I know it has been a while, but I need your help, Zanna. Really, really need your help. I would not ask if it was not important. If I could do it alone, I would. But I cannot. If you can, meet me in the West Wing tomorrow morning. Please, Zanna. Please."

A/N: Do you guys remember Zanna? Do you think she'll come through for Michael?