Hubris - 50. The Forest at the End of Time Part Two

By the time they finished packing up camp the nervous buzz that had filled Crowe's mind had dissipated. In its place was a familiar kernel of determination hard as stone. Barghast's tale had given him the renewed vigor he needed to continue their journey.

They moved at a stolid place lapsing into a silence that was both tense and familiar. Tense because they were listening for changes in the air…anything that could give them a clue to get out of the woods - if there's a way out, a snide voice taunted Crowe; a voice had to make a repeated effort to push away. Familiar because of the months they had spent together having to communicate with words. A single glance, a single nod, a single smile, or tail wag could hold more meaning than a thousand words. The practitioner smiled at the thought.

After a time Crowe found himself looking up at the trees. He couldn't shake the notion that the trees were different this time, the trunks taller, the branches wider. He heard no birds, not even the buzz of insects. When he gathered the courage to relay this thought to Barghast, the lycan nodded.

“The lighting is different, too.” Barghast pointed at the failing light. “When we left the stream it was the early hours of the morning. My senses tell me night is already on the approach.”

A mile later the first tendrils of mist curled between tree trunks that cracked and bled sap. Barghast snorted, shaking his head with displeasure. His nose twitched. Crowe passed a tattered handkerchief to the lycan from the pack at his back. His robes clung to him, glued in place by sweat. He longed to be back at the stream where the air was cool. He raised the waterskin to his lips and took a sip; he resisted the desperate urge to drain the waterskin of its contents. His eyes remained fixed on the mist advancing towards him, a mist that had thickened into a shroud that blocked out the last of the light.

Besides him Mammoth whickered uneasily, backing away. He nipped nervously at the practitioner's ear, making the sorcerer jump in the alarm. He’d been so focused on the mist that he’d completely forgotten about the horse. Now a shiver of uneasiness passed from the horse into him. It traveled up his arm, down the length of his torso to his balls. They shriveled painfully.

“Barghast,” he heard himself say in a squeaky voice.

The Okanavian said something in response but the words were lost on the practitioner. He squinted, unsure of what he was seeing. Dark shapes flooded around inside the fog, shapes that looked human only to disintegrate and break away like dust blown on the wind. He remembered the last time he'd seen such shapes and it was enough to break him from his paralysis. Seizing Barghast's paw, they turned only to face another wall of fog that had been closing in unbeknownst to them.

They turned this way and that but they were surrounded from all sides. Barghast whined, his hackles rising. He held the gun steadily but Crowe knew the lycan was every bit afraid as he was. Shadows continue to shift within the pale shroud. Voices hissed, the syllables too muddled together to be understood. There's nowhere to run! It's going to swallow us whole.

Terror as mysterious and impenetrable as the fog threatened to rise up inside of Crowe and suffocate him. Gritting his teeth, he willed his hand to slide into his pocket for his rod. The moment he touched the wood, the rooms lit up with white fire. His other hand was engulfed by Barghast's paw.

Something slippery and dark flapped past Barghast. Crowe thought he heard the rustle of wings. Barghast heard it, too. Before the practitioner could warn him not to let go, the Okanavian whirled around with a snarl. The sound was deafening.

Crowe staggered back, his ears ringing. He started at Barghast's back only to watch him be swallowed up by the fog. No, he thought. This isn't right. I don't want to be separated again.

But that was exactly what was happening. He screamed Barghast's name but his own voice sounded muffled even as the terror made his throat vibrate. He called for Mammoth, but the shire horse was gone too.

No. I’m alone again. I can't be alone again.

Again he heard - felt something slip behind him. He whirled around with a yelp, only to face the bleeding trunk of a tree. He slashed the air with his arm, letting out a scream that was equal parts defiance and fear.

A streak of white fire burst from the end of his rod. The tree in front of him exploded. The world shook. Clots of dirt and smoking splinters of tree bark rain down on him from the sky. He whirled about again and let out another burst of fire. Another tree came apart.

He could have burned every tree in the forest. He could have burned through the world if it reunited him with bar gas. The thought of being separated from him once more tore into him like a blade slicing through sinew. Only the thought that burning down the forest would make things worse, not better kept him from giving into the urge. Instead he fled, fled in the direction that he thought would lead him back to the stream where they had camped the previous night.

Brambles and twigs snapped beneath his feet like firecrackers. His breath came out in harsh whistling gasps. As he fled he tried to find the foothold of courage within himself. We always find our way back to each other, he thought. He promised me that whenever we got separated he would find his way back to me. I know he will keep that promise and I, too, will keep that promise. I just have to stay calm. I just have to keep pushing on until I find him.

He wasn't sure how long he ran like this. He stopped occasionally when he thought he heard a voice call his name, or he heard the flutter of leathery wings. When this happened he stopped and froze in place, his eyes wide and staring, searching the gloom. The purgatorial fog had followed him like a creature with the mind of its own and now he was unsure if he was being followed at all.

When such an occasion occurred for the fourth or fifth time - he’d lost count - he stopped in the middle of the clearing. The outline of trees loomed out at him, but he was no longer sure what direction he was running in. He'd been searching for the lycan's tracks, but there were none to be found. Thoughts that threatened to throw him into a fresh panic threatened to seize his mind and thwart him. You are separated again and this time you will never find him. These woods don't want you to find him. It wants you to remain lost. It wants you to give up. It wants you to be afraid. And you're giving it exactly what it wants because you were a coward. You don't have what it takes to do what needs to be done. Petras failed and so will you. You already have. And you'll fail again.

“No, no, no!” he howled. He leaned against a tree, on the verge of collapsing from despair. He pressed his head against the trunk of a tree, pressed it until he felt the bark bite into his flesh hard enough to draw blood. As if turning away from the fog and the forest could make it all go away and bring Barghast back to him.

He slapped himself once hard across the face, the sound deafening in the now silent gloom. He was alone or so it seemed, but he knew better than to take comfort in the illusion.

“I am not alone,” he whispered to himself. He kissed the necklace at his throat. “Monad is with me. Monad has always been with me. Barghast will search for me and he won't stop until he finds me and I won't stop until I find him…We are inextricably bound.”

With these words fluttering on his lips, he shambled forward. The cowl of his robes had fallen. Sweat dropped from his matted hair. His eyes were wide and searching. For now the feeling of being followed abated. Whatever had stalked him before had given up the chase for now. Or maybe it's just playing with me.

Best not to think of such things. Best to keep moving. With his rod in hand, he staggered forward. He could be moving in any direction, maybe even moving further away from Barghast, but he knew - hoped - that whatever direction he kept moving in, the woods would eventually take him back to the stream. There I will wait until he finds me.

He wasn't sure how long he moved in this fashion with the same wide-eyed look on his face before he heard the sound of voices. Voices breaking through the fog. He stopped. He cocked his head, listened.

He could hear them coming closer, but from which direction. These particular woods had a way of being misleading.

Are you really hearing voices or do these woods just want you to think you are hearing voices?

There was only one way to find out. Gathering all his courage, Crowe sucked in a deep breath and inched forward.

                            …

He was gone. Again. Snatched right out of his paws because he had turned his back just for a second. He was right there. I only let him go for a moment.

But the forces that threatened to tear Barghast from his beloved time and time again had anticipated this. A moment was all it had taken - the blink of an eye, the flick of a tail.

“Will you ever learn your lesson, foolish pup?” Rhaderghast’s voice barked, so startlingly close Barghast leapt away, yipping in fear. His rifle fell from his grip. He knelt to pick it up, tearing through wreaths of fog with his claws, Gaia’s name on his lips.

“Gaia, loving mother, guide me through the bone valleys of hungry teeth and pestilence. Bolster me with your primal fury, still me with your maternal love - “

Rhaderghast laughed again. This time the sound was in front of him, close enough the Okanavian felt his breath tickle his face. “Ain't no use in praying, pup. The primal mother cannot hear you - “

Barghast screamed, his terror was so great all else was forgotten - all except the need to get away from his father; away from the world he had left behind. He scrambled backwards, his claws leaving tracks in the dirt. Only once his back was pressed up against a tree did he stop.

The thing that continued to speak in the voice of his father continued to follow him. He couldn't see it, but he could hear it shifting through the fog, a hungry growling thing that wanted to eat him.

I am not the predator, I am the prey, he thought.

“ - how could she when you turned your back on your family, your clan, the den mother who carried you, the den mothers who devoted their lives to you - “

Barghast clapped his paws over his ears, screaming as loudly as his throat would allow, and still Rhaderghast's voice rang in his ears like the dirge of a thousand angry spirits; if shook him to his core.

His father was right on top of him now. At any second he would feel his claws bite into his flesh. His father would draw blood yet again as he had been prone to do when in a foul temper. Only his brother had known how to keep his temper at bay. It's why it was always he who should have become pack leader, not I. But because he wasn't as big or strong as I was physically, you passed him over in spite of his superior intellect. The intellect of a true leader much like my twin o’rre.

In other circumstances he might have been able to stand up and say these words to his father. He might have even been able to snarl, to lash out with his claws - certainly if Crowe had been here with him. But Crowe was not here with him therefore he was defenseless. “- instead you chose him over us. Your beloved, pearly twin o’rre. As soon as I’m done teaching you a lesson, pup, I’m going to FIND him and I’m going to FEAST on him, I'm going to FEAST on the flesh you love so much - “

Barghast's eyes shot open at the mention of his twin o'rre. “No, you won't,” he growled. “No one touches him but me. No one gets to taste his flesh but me and I will not eat him. I will only miss him and make him happy…”

With a snarl, he shot to his feet, unfurling his claws. He charged forward, ready to rip apart the thing that had taken on the shape and the voice of Rhaderghast…only to find himself gaping at empty air.

“It is all a distraction,” said another voice in Okanavian.

Barghast whirled around to face the seer.

“That was not truly your father,” the seer pressed on insistently. Her amber eyes shone through the fog like burning coals. “That was an illusion cast by the Architect who has awoken in this land. She who keeps everyone trapped in a prison of her own design. You must find your way back to the stream. There Crowe will find you. Follow me, pup…I will lead you back to him.” She beckoned to him, receding back into the fog.

“Now you show up after all these months?” Barghast snapped. He snatched his rifle off the ground. “Why now?”

Llamia glared back over her shoulder at him. “I know you resent my counsel, so I give it when you need it. I am also not only at your disposal when you need me, though I suppose it is natural for an arrogant pup like you to think otherwise. Many of my children, both those who have chosen to remain in the desert, and those like yourself who have ventured beyond canyons, need my guidance…”

Barghast stooped in a bow. “My apologies, primal mother. Please forgive me for my insolence.”

A loud wickering sound broke through the fog before Mammoth came to a stop beside the lycan.

Llamia wagged her tail with something akin to playfulness. “It seems the horse is just as determined to find your beloved as you are, pup.”

                                                                               …

Crowe inched forward. He hardly dared to breathe. The voices were slowly growing louder. He could smell wood burning. Dread curdled in his belly. Slowly human shapes took form, huddled around another shape.

Crowe stopped. I’ve been here before, I’ve seen this before. These woods are playing tricks on me. They're trying to drive me insane.

Three men standing around a lone figure strapped to a tree. Yes, he had witnessed something like this once not that long ago, but it was not the exact same scene. The first time around it had been Barghast strapped to a tree. This time it was a man. The Lion-Headed Serpent dangling from his neck marked him as one of Monad's children. Vicious patches of black and dark purple bruising marked the flesh that had not been stripped away by a blade; now the man threw his head back, howling in pain as his torturer meticulously peeled off a fresh strip with a heated scalpel and a pair of tweezers.

The two torchcoats who stood off to the side, unaware they were being watched, exchanged pale-faced glances. They were young, clean-shaven. They could have been Crowe's age. When they turned their doubtful gazes back on the scene before them, their focus was not on the captive, but on the winged back of the torturer.

Wings, Crowe thought.

He felt something cold pass through him.

He shuddered.

You were a fool to think he would let you go…that once he had a taste of your blood he wouldn't chase you to the end of the Iteration.

The man bound to the tree sagged forward, his head drooping. His expression was not one of agony, but one of relief; death had set him free from a much worse fate. Yes, Crowe thought. Death really isn't so bad, is it? Not when you consider the alternative. Better to go to sleep and never wake up than to be under the mercy of this creature’s whims. I should know. I’ve been there. I survived, but it's forever left me scarred…

Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice screamed at the practitioner to get moving. Move before the bad man with the wings takes notice of you! You remember all too well what he did to you the last time…

But Crowe couldn't move. He couldn't move because he was trapped in restraints of his own. He was not bound to a tree like the dead man, but to a metal table inside his mind. Though he did not know it, his eyes were fixed on the birdman’s back, his quivering mouth set in a rictus of terror. His hands twitched, particularly the one where two fingers were missing.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there before the man with the silver hair and bird wings turned around and took notice of the practitioner.

It was plain to see their encounter with one another at Fort Erikson had scarred them both. Spiderwebs of scarring spread across Inquisitor Charoum’s face. Crowe felt a pulse of triumph through the terror at the sight of the black eyepatch he wore. I did that. He may have taken two of my fingers, but I took one of his eyes and a good deal of his pride.

“Either this is another illusion cast by these bloody woods or an all too fortuitous circumstance has quite literally stumbled into our midst. Is that you, herald of the third Iteration?”

“Unfortunately,” Crowe said in a steady voice that did not reflect the fear quivering through his legs.

The Seraphim grinned slyly at him. “I should have known you would be drawn to the same anomaly I was. You can't help yourself, can you? It is in your nature to travel into the dark places…I suppose no one can blame you. For what are you if not an echo doomed to repeat the same mistakes as your predecessors?”

Crowe did not so much as make an attempt to speak; his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He watched one of the Seraphim's graceful hands slide down to the handle of the saber sheathed at his hips. The two torchcoats raised their rifles, aiming at the practitioner's chest. They flashed timid awaiting looks in the Seraphim's direction, but the Inquisitor was too focused on the herald to pay them attention.

“Alas, I won't let you make those mistakes again. I won't let what happened before happen again. You will pay for the sins you committed in your past lives.” The blade of Charoum’s saber danced mockingly in the gloom as he raised the foot long blade above his head. His wings unfurled.

The angel shouted something but Crowe's heart was beating too loudly in his ears to have heard it. It didn't matter - he didn't need to hear Charoum to know he had just delivered the death order.

Bullets slammed into the wall of mana the practitioner formed around him, the rounds sparking as if they were bouncing off impenetrable steel. Dark clots of soil arched towards the sky. Charoum's wings unfurled, spreading out their full width. A mighty flap of those wings launched him into the air. The torchcoats advanced, reloading their rifles with practiced fingers.

Crowe did the only thing he had the mind enough to do: he fled. A voice in the back of his mind taunted him for being a coward, but his body did not pay heed to it. Even as he fought for his life in the present he was trapped in a body of the past. He feels the noise tightening around his throat; he could feel the bite of the Inquisitor’s blade as it bit into his flesh.

He fled in a blind terror. His breath came out in a mixture of boyish sobs and breathless hitches. He was all too aware of the Inquisitor’s passage on his tail; each flap of his wings bowed the trees this way and that. The Seraphim screamed something at him, but once more the words were lost on him, drowned out by the roar of gunfire. Jagged shards of bark were ripped from the sides of tree trunks. A piece sliced into the flesh of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. The pain was an inconsequential echo of the pain he knew he would endure at the hands of the Inquisitor before death finally took him.

A glance over his shoulder showed the Inquisitor was closing in, a bullet with silver cat eyes, his sword drawn back for the killing blow. He turned back to face the way he was heading just in time to see the ground drop off steeply. Rather than scramble to a stop, Crowe sucked in a big breath - never mind that it felt like he was taking hits to the ribs - and put in a desperate burst of speed. A fall into unknown depths was far more preferable than the death the angel had in store for him.

He jumped just in time to avoid a fatal swipe from the Inquisitor's sword. Then he was plummeting through open air, plummeting through tendrils of white fog. Dark earth and verdant green grass rose up to meet him. Suspecting that landing at this angle would shatter both of his legs, Crowe managed to angle his body before striking the ground.

He didn't just strike the ground, he struck the peak of a steep decline. The force of the impact launched him back up into the air before slamming back down into the ground again. He bounced down the hill; each jolt felt as if it broke something inside him. He landed in a sprawled heap at the bottom of the decline. If he could scream he would have, but he couldn't draw in the breath to do so.

Something dark swooped overhead, blotting out what little source of light filtered through the trees. The backdraft of air that battered him from the side of blackness that threatened to drown him propelled him into a sitting position. Like a wounded animal, the herald crawled, nails scrabbling over dirt and dislodging pebbles. His hair hung in his face. He could hear the shouts of the torchcoats somewhere behind him, but it was impossible to judge the distance.

“Crowe.”

The voice sounded from the mist directly in front of him at almost exactly the same moment the scraped palms of his hands landed on the black tops of a pair of worn leather boots. He looked up.

He screamed.

He backed away from the ghost. From the illusion that the woods had cast upon him to keep him trapped here.

He’d seen the face everyday, from the moment he was born - this much he was sure. It was the face that belonged to the man who had raised him, mentored him; who had been the closest thing to a father he would ever know. It was the face he saw staring back at him when he looked in a mirror or a reflective surface of water. One day, many many centuries from now, it would be his face. But it also wasn't him. They were merely identical figures carved from the same source of wood.

And still he looked so real. He felt so real.

“No,” Crowe sobbed, shaking his head. “You can’t be here. You’re dead - I buried you.”

Petras smiled at him. It was not just the fact that he was smiling that tugged at Crowe’s heart - the herald could not recall a time when his predecessor had ever smiled at him. His robes were spotted with clots of mud, his boots cracked, his face thin and scraggly with stubble, but there was no cell in Crowe’s body that could deny his former mentor was standing before him.

“We never truly die,” Petras told him with that same sad smile. “Even when we wish we could. Even when we think it’s the best thing. The cycle won’t let us rest until we do what needs to be done.”

“How…how are you here?” Crowe shook his head, denying Petras even as he shrank away from him. Only when his back pressed up against the hard reality of a tree did he stop for at the moment it seemed there was nowhere else to go. No way to escape. In that moment the threat of Charoum had completely left his mind.

“I know this is confusing,” Petras told him, his smile still sad but now urgent. “I know you don’t want me to be here and I know you won’t believe me when I say this…but I am only here to help you. I’m here to take you back to Barghast.”

The herald shook his head. “A trick,” he spat out. “This is a trick. You’re not really here. This is an illusion spun by this place to keep me in place.” He laughed. “And even if you are really here, you’re not Petras. My predecessor would never do anything to help me.”

“I’m here.” Petras rested a hand on Crowe’s flesh, wrapping long icy fingers around his wrist. “I’m here to help you. I know you don’t believe me, I know you’re angry with me, and I know you don’t want me to be here, but right now Barghast is waiting for you back at the stream and the Inquisitor will not stop chasing you until he finds you…so I need you to set your feelings aside for the moment and come with me.”

His fingers tightened around Crowe’s hand. He pulled the stunned practitioner to his feet. He briefly glanced down at the empty space where two of the practitioner’s fingers had once been before turning away with an unhappy frown screwed on his face. Crowe gaped at him. He’s here. He’s really standing here. He’s not an illusion. He’s not a figment of my imagination. He says he’s Petras, but he’s younger than the Petras I knew and he doesn’t act anything like him. Monad, help me understand.

How is this possible? How are you here?

Before he could give voice to the question, shouts and shots rang out behind him. Any questions Crowe had vanished along with Petras, who sprinted off into the fog, waving for the herald to follow behind him. He’s taking me to Barghast, he thought and followed him.

It hurt to run. It hurt to breathe, but Crowe ran after Petras anyway. Shouts and shots continued to sound behind him, smacking into trees, smacking into the ground, their view impeded by the now blessed fog. Just as this place doesn’t want me to succeed, it doesn’t want them to succeed either, he reminded himself.

As if to prove this theory there came a mighty roar as a tidal wave of wind ripped through the trees, whipping through the mists, clearing it away. A backward glance showed that Charoum was still in pursuit, gliding effortlessly through the trees, the torchcoats huffing and puffing several yards behind him. Charoum flapped his wings once more, appearing to be undaunted by the draft. His teeth were bared in a rictus of determination and fury. Petras shouted something but Crowe was too busy running for his life to pay it heed.

Charoum defied the traps of the woods, close enough he could now strike Crowe. He brought the sword back, ready to deal the killing blow. That was until the practitioner saw something dark and thin and quick shoot through the air a split second before it slammed into the Inquisitor. The angel was thrown to the side before slamming hard into the ancient trunk of a tree. A tendril of wood pierced through the Inquisitor’s armor, pinning him to the trunk. Crowe stopped, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing he should keep running, but unable to keep himself from watching.

A hand tugged at his arm.

Petras.

“We have to keep going,” his predecessor huffed. His predecessor who so far had acted nothing like his predecessor.

“I can’t,” Crowe panted. He bent over, placing his hands on his knees. It was the only thing he could do to keep from collapsing. If I fall I won’t be able to get back up. He had enough energy to raise his head and glare at the Inquisitor.

Charoum’s blade sliced through the branch impaling him into the tree only to have two more shoot out of the gloom and stab through his torso. He cursed, a howl of frustration tearing free from his lips.

“I want to watch the woods tear him the fuck apart!” Crowe spat.

“Is it worth it to keep Barghast waiting?” Petras gasped. “Is vengeance worth the risk of defeat, worth the repetition of another Iteration?”

The plea in Petras’ voice tugged at Crowe’s mind. Never before had he heard his mentor sound so desperate. Never before had he heard him beg. “Alright,” he huffed. “Alright.”

He left the Inquisitor and the torchcoats to their demise.

During their journey Crowe did not take his eyes off his predecessor nor did he ask questions. It wasn’t that he didn’t have them. A thousand questions swirled around his mind like black ink, buzzing with anger; he simply didn’t have the energy to ask them. For now it was enough that he was alive; for now it was enough that he had escaped Charoum for the time being; for now it was enough that he would be reunited with Barghast again. For now.

By the time Crowe heard the burble of the creek through the gloom, it seemed that he and Petras had walked many miles over many hours with no change in the light to mark the passage of time; he’d pushed himself to the point he thought he might faint from exhaustion.

“We are here.” Petras turned to him with that same sad grin.

Crowe glared at him. He blinked, fighting back tears of rage and a plethora of other emotions he couldn't give name to. “Don't think this changes anything…just because you helped me once. I want you gone. You died. I buried you. And when I did I’d hoped I’d freed myself of you. But I am not free, am I?”

“I’m afraid not.” Wreaths of mist enfolded Petra's, thickening, devouring him. “It is as Maeve said in Vaylin. The cycle never ends for us. Not until we fix the thing that makes everything go wrong.”

“And what makes everything go wrong?” Crowe could not stop the anger he felt or his voice from rising. His heart beat thickly in his throat, filling it with the taste of blood and acid. “For once tell me something other than riddles.”

The mist was so thick now Petra's was almost completely gone. He was receding further back, the sound of his boots crunching over leaves and brambles growing fainter. Crowe followed, somehow knowing that once his mentor was gone he would never have an opportunity to seek answers from him again.

“I wish I could, but like Maeve I can not let you stray from your path more than you already have…This Iteration is already out of balance. Things are happening sooner than they are meant to…You are the only one who can fix things, Crowe…it has always been you…”

“No, no, no!” Crowe staggered forward, his hands clenched into fists. “That is not good enough…You don't just get to walk away! You don't just get to bow out and not say anything to me, not ever again…”

But Petras was gone. Once more he’d abandoned him. Once more he'd left him with more questions than answers.

“Twin o’rre?”

A familiar deep voice cut through the gloom with a whine.

The tension that had tightened around the practitioner's heart like a clenched fist immediately vanished. “Barghast?” He staggered forward, his eyes wide and hopeful.

He stepped out into clear air…into bright sunlight and the song of birds. And Barghast was walking towards him, his ears pressed flat against his head and his tail twitching nervously.

Crowe let out a sob before bursting into a run. A fraction of a second later, Barghast lifted him in the air and spun him around once before pressing him against his chest and enfolding the practitioner in his arms as if to protect him from the rest of the world. “Twin o’rre!” the Okanavian whined. “I’m so sorry…I never should have let you go, not even for a second! I’m never letting you go, not ever again.”

“Please don't.” Crowe sagged against Barghast, every inch of his body an aching, throbbing protest.

There was a soft whickering sound before he felt a horse muzzle press affectionately against his ear. Barghast let out a growl. “Back off, you stupid horse!” His arms tightened possessively around Crowe. “He's mine.” He stepped back from Crowe, tilting his head to look at him, sniffing him, examining him. “What happened to you? You're covered in bruises! Who hurt you?”

“Charoum,” was all Crowe could say. “He's here. He was right behind me.” He looked over his shoulder, his blood skittering in his veins. He expected to see the purgatorial fog, but it had not returned. It was then that he realized he could hear birds and feel the sun on his face.

Barghast's arms tightened around him. “I am sorry you had to encounter him on your own again, twin o’rre. I am with you now and I will not make the mistake of letting you go or turning my back on you again.”

“It's not just Charoum.” Crowe pressed his cheek against Barghast's chest and breathed in the strong musky scent of the lycan's fur. He swallowed, choking out the rest of the words. “I saw Petras. He was here. He guided me to you. I don't understand how, but he was here.”

“I believe you,” Barghast rumbled. “I saw things, too.”

“He knew things he couldn't have possibly known. Not unless he was there with us, which he wasn't. He knew about Maeve and Vaylin. He knew exactly how to lead me to the stream as if he’d walked these woods a thousand times…”

“I saw my father. I didn't see him-see him, but I heard him and it looked like the outline of his shape and it was able to mimic the sound of his voice. And it also knew about things it couldn't possibly know. He has never ventured beyond the desert a day in his life. He never will. He wouldn't dare.” Barghast pointed his muzzle at the sky, pride inching into his voice. “He wouldn't dare. For all his arrogance he doesn't have the courage. And yet somehow he knew about you when there is no way he could know about your existence. It sounds like your experience was both similar and different.”

Crowe resisted the urge to pull away. He shook his head, blinking away the threat of tears. “I didn't just see him or talk to him, I touched him - I touched his boots. They were real. And he looked like Petras. Monad help me, I don't know how I know it was Petras, but it was him. He looked younger. Barghast, I feel like I'm losing my mind all over again.”

“You're not, my beloved.” Cupping his face in both paws, the Okanavian tilted his head up and leaned down. He pressed a firm kiss to the practitioner's lips. When he pulled back his eyes had brightened from amber to molten gold, his voice a throaty growl that made shivers race down Crowe's spine. “Your mind is far more wondrous, mysterious, and complex than I could have imagined. But as always there are forces that aspire to breed doubt in our minds; they want to trick us into straying away from the path we know we need to walk on. So don't stray. Don't doubt yourself. Cling to me instead.”

“Okay,” Crowe croaked. He chuckled wetly, wiping tears from his eyes with long, dirt-streaked fingers. “Okay. Monad bless me, what would I do without you? I’d be lost. You are my anchor.”

“My sweet twin o’rre you would not be lost. You are a warrior who is wise and strong beyond your years. Alas, it makes me happy we are together…even in this dark place. Nothing makes me happier to pull you to your feet when you fall. It just means I get to kiss you more.”

“Aye.” It was the closest to accepting their circumstances Crowe could get. While it no longer felt like his lungs were constricting, his body was bruised and ached all over. I’m blessed I didn't break anything on the fall down that hill, he reminded me himself. Things could be worse. Miracles abound. He had to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a bitter chuckle on that last one.

“The woods have changed,” Barghast noted. “We can see daylight and the fog is gone. Do you think this is the doing of the entity that attacked us at Fort Teague?”

Crowe shrugged indifferently. “I’m too tired and I'm in too much pain to hazard a guess. I can tell you this much: I would much rather deal with her than the sadistic angel who took two of my fingers and was going to rape and torture me to death. I’d even rather deal with her than the projection of my former mentor…if that's what he was. I am sure you don't need any reminders of your old life either.”

“I do not,” the barbarian agreed. “I do not like to be reminded of home. The only life I care about is the one I have with you. Let's move while we can. I know you are tired and in pain…”

“I can push through it. I want out of this place every bit as much as you do.” In his mind Crowe saw Charoum being pinned to a tree, sentient branches piercing through his flesh and armor. The comfort in the fact that the torchcoat was no more welcome than they were was meaningless in the face of his terror. How much precious time had Barghast and he wasted in finding comfort. Time we could have been using to find a way out of this accursed place. He pushed the thought away, feeling both guilty and bitter.

But he couldn't deny the truth: I would rather die than be at the mercy of Charoum's whims.

He let Barghast help him up on the saddle. Above him birds of various colors, size, and species flitted between the trees beneath a cloudy denim blue sky. Trees not rotting and bleeding, but healthy verdant trees that perfumed the turgid air with the heady haze of sap and pollen.

A thought occurred to Crowe. The entity that had appeared as Petras had shown him back to Barghast. Just as there are forces that conspire to keep us from achieving our goal, there are also forces that seek to help us. The woods have changed. The fog is gone. There is a way out. We just have to forge ahead and find it. He held onto this thought. He locked it away inside his heart where he could stoke it into a flame. After all he was back with his lycan. Back where he needed to be.