What sharp teeth you have!

Trees are flighty things, taken by the breeze, news passing through their leaves and vanishing as the wind fades.

But these are the woods of Pendaran, and these woods --

Oh, but these woods do not forget.

So it is that when Galadan returns to Fionavar after bringing the Tams to Milliways, he arrives to news of his human companions. Three times in as many centuries has he brought humans to the wood. Once may be part of a larger design -- even twice, mayhap.

But thrice is weakness, and the andain are quick to take hold of such a thing.

Of the three that try this time -- Liranan's daughter, and twin sons of Macha (or perhaps it is Nemain) -- only two die quickly. The eldest of the twins serves as a fine example for the rest.

For a time -- the span of a moon, and no more.

And it is after the mercy stroke -- for mercy it is, indeed, as a blind and crippled andain might live a long, long time yet -- that the wood grows silent.

And into the clearing where the dead man and the wolf are painted by moonlight, Cernan comes.

Father.

The wolf flickers from black-furred shadow to man, though he makes no bow to the lord of forests, the lord of beasts.

"Galadan," says Cernan, horned head lowering to take in the scene. "You are, I see, very little changed."

Galadan does not raise his eyebrows, winter-grey eyes clear and cold, and only a faint flash of red to mark what thoughts he might have.

And then, of course, the Wolflord speaks.

"You need trade no truisms with me, Father. We both know what was wrought that day, there at the Bael Andarien, and in the long grey time thereafter. If this was not what you would have had me become, remember well that the choice was never yours."

Here he does smile, the quickest flash of white teeth.

"It has always and ever been mine."

But here and now -- in acknowledgment of what has come before, and of that long, dark time when all things were impossible --

"But I will tell you this, if it bring you any comfort. This once, the trees have the right of it."

And oh, that a son such as this might care, and about such creatures as fleeting as humans, as fleeting as mortals. And even still this son can be so cold, so very vicious and cruel, and to his own people, besides. It is a bolt to strike at a father's heart.

Of course it is, else Galadan should never have said it.

Then the Wolflord is gone, a shadow fading into all the other shadows. His father follows, though their destinations, as ever, are more than merely leagues distant.

But, perhaps, not so distant as Cernan had once thought.

It may one day be enough. There is time.

Waking is more of a difficult prospect than it ought to be, the fact of which Galadan refuses to become resigned.

Though today is a fine day, it seems, to begin consuming food that is slightly more civilized than raw venison (if not quite so civilized as anything deep-fried).

Thus the arrival of a guest finds Galadan cleaning up after the end of his afternoon meal.

It is not often that the Wolflord of the andain chooses to spend his sleeping hours in Milliways, a crossroads between worlds. But occasionally prudence demands it, particularly when several crossings between dimensions have cause to happen in too short a space.

Which is why the fall of night finds him asleep, grey eyes (or are they red?) veiled and unseeing, the paths of dreams spiraling out before him. He is no seer, and no visionary save for the predictions a keen and incisive mind grants him.

Yet this evening, cold and star-spangled, one star is far brighter than the others, flickering and guttering as if it were a light about to go out.

A white owl darts soundless and swift out of the sky. Perhaps that was the source of the flickering, guttering light. Or perhaps it was the fall of a blade, lying blood-speckled on the soft dusting of white snow under Galadan's paws.

Or --

But no, that flickering light is eclipsed and overcome by a far brighter light, and one that Galadan has known before -- too well, and not well enough.

From the water she comes, lake turned to sea, the salt spray rising behind her like a curtain, like a veil.

Like the fall of her hair, sea-damp and salt-crusted, yet even so she shines more brightly than a heaven full of stars. So bright, and he had almost forgotten.

"Wolflord," she says, voice quiet and still as the forest on a winter's night, a depth of silence that masks the stirring of life within.

"Lisen," is Galadan's only reply, his own voice softer and more gentle than any has heard it in years.

In centuries.

She does not smile, this fiercest and most beautiful of all deiena, she who was created to bring the Forest's vengeance on all who trespassed against it, or against the Mother. He does not expect her to. They were alike in that, once, all cold smiles and artifice, pleasantries used as a mask to shield the vicious truth within.

And yet, did he meet her now, and for the first time, with all the history behind them save for their meeting (and, perhaps, their parting) --

What would be similar about them now?

"Does your Amairgen remain lost to you still?"

A caught breath, shock or pain he cannot tell, they have been apart too long for him to say, if he ever could have known.

"Never lost," she says, and there is the smile, small and true and speaking of her heart's secrets as loudly as does the light in her eyes and at her brow. "Save for those moments between my knowing and my choice."

"Always your choice, Lady," the Wolflord replies, inclining his head at long last, one hand held lightly (oh so lightly) over his heart.

"Of course." The water rises around her feet, licking at her ankles, at the toes of his boots. In the distance, breaking the stillness, comes the sound of oars cutting deeply into the water. They are drawing closer. "It would not have been my life, else."

"No," Galadan says, with a faint, fading smile of his own, thumb running across the worn edge of a bracelet, green and grey with palest pink at its heart.

Mistress Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?

"No," he repeats, a little more strongly, and this time the curve of his smile does not fade, affection layered over the last vestiges of old, old pain. "No, indeed, it would not have been."

A faint huff of breath from her, from him -- regardless, the salt-sea air carries it away. Not, perhaps, before he has cause to see her smile brighten, even as she steps backward toward the water.

"This, too, was my choice," Lisen says. "And yours."

Out of the shadows on the water comes a boat, a small craft but finely-made. In the prow, white staff in hand, stands Amairgen Whitebranch, first among men to learn the arts of the skylore. Lisen, wood spirit, Source, and wife, turns to him, smile lit to incandescence, brighter by far than the light bound at her brow.

Was it always so?

Galadan's heart, he finds, is too full -- of joy, of sorrow, of peace, and the last lingering embers of rage -- for speech, and yet --

"I am sorry." It is sincere and earnestly meant, here and now, followed though it is by self-aware dryness. "Late as I am come to the sentiment."

Lisen laughs, then, and Amairgen, too, even as he helps her into the boat, the last trailing hem of her gown soaked and dripping water, dripping light.

"You'll be sorrier yet before this cast is done." Amairgen, laughter or no, has no pity in him. And why should he?

Lisen, somber now, with her hand resting on her husband's elbow, light as seafoam, adds, "And sorrier still at the end of it. But perhaps you'll take heed of your lessons this time, if no other." And here is her sharpness, that quick viciousness for which the Wood made her. "Weaver at the Loom, but I hope so."

Perhaps she fades, perhaps the mist rises to obscure her face and form at the last, or perhaps all the stars wink out, one by one.

It matters little.

Galadan will never see it.

He is already awake.

The trouble with needing to move quickly in acquiring a comparatively serviceable ship is that prices skyrocket, even without the appearance of desperation.

There are several avenues to address that issue, among them thievery, black market auctions, and leverage.

Galadan, who is greatly fond of expedience at the least desperate of times, opts for leverage. Fortunately he has a sizable network of contacts, some of whom owe him favors. One of these conducts his business on Paquin, a low-level hub for information, spare parts, and items of dubious legality, including weaponry.

"Gideon," his contact says, pulling himself up from behind a desk and setting down a datapad before approaching the Wolflord. "You should've waved to say you were coming. To what do I owe this honor?"

There's sweat on his brow and upper lip, which is odd because the weather is not all that warm for this time of year.

Galadan smiles, flashing sharp white teeth.

"You're going to sell me a ship, Cole."

The man brightens.

"A ship? Of course. I've got a line on a lovely little -- "

Galadan's smile does not waver as he looks at Cole. The man clears his throat but remains silent.

"Something currently in stock, rather. I've some pressing matters to attend to."

Cole swallows. "Pressing matters? I'll need at least a week to -- "

"You have today." Galadan's tone is calm, cool. Friendly, even. In its way. Though the faint line between his eyebrows may be sending a somewhat mixed message.

"Ah." Cole gasps, reaching up with one hand to press at his left temple. "Damn this sunlight. I -- mmph." He winces, keeping his eyes shut for a few long moments, as if that will make it better.

Galadan's expression remains composed. The air grows heavy.

"Unless I'm much mistaken, you've a few refurbished vessels taking up space in several docking facilities. One of them is not a cargo ship."

This time his smile is nothing but predatory.

"Make me a reasonable offer."

Cole is white-faced now. Several blood-vessels have broken in his eyes.

"I - I."

He'll stop protesting eventually. Galadan is good at acting as if he has all the time in the world.

Though later he will find cause to be grateful for the autopilot. It is exceedingly difficult to perform even rudimentary navigation with a splitting headache.

Such are the costs of telepathic contact with one who is eminently unsuited for it.

Galadan has, in the past, done far worse.

There are a great many responsibilities that lie on the shoulders of the Lord of the andain. Among these are overseeing the needs of his people -- when they will admit to needs, which is very rarely indeed -- and dealing with mortals.

But perhaps most vexing of all, of late, is the work that must be done to prepare his father's sister's son for the life that awaits him. To be andain is no easy thing, but there is power in it.

Too much power, some might say.

And to truly be what you are, a man -- or woman, or boy -- must first master that power. And, if one is supremely lucky -- oneself.

"Tell me again, Kevin, why you have yet to master a spell that does not grant you a rack of antlers."

It is going to be a very long road.

Some would say it has been long and long ere the Wolflord of the andain set his foot on Fionavar's soil. Others would say it has not been nearly long enough. The Wolflord himself merely licks a trickle of blood from one corner of his mouth, leaving the mangled body of Nemain's get on the floor of the forest. She'll heal herself, or she'll die. But there will be no usurpers.

Moments later a black-furred wolf lopes easily through the forest, headed toward other business. The andain are not the only creatures he must needs deal with. The mortal world has ever moved quickly, particularly in the wake of tragedy and upheaval.

Galadan has been here before.

Having discovered that several among the current class were still unable to translate relatively simple passages, Galadan has chosen to use today for reviewing declensions of nouns.

He paces in front of the class, careful to keep out any hints of predator, lecturing in a cool even voice. Occasionally he pauses to scribe a series of words on the chalk board, or to ask a quick, sharp question of someone who appears inattentive.

It is a long, grueling class period.

He is slowly growing used to that. His students--

May not be.

Raguel still lives. Galadan knew that before the creature ever sent a message to Senator Tam, before he ever set foot in the Senator’s hospital room. Scent rarely lies, particularly when no one is taking pains to obscure it.

Finding him again has been a long and painstaking process. Fortunately Galadan has ever been skilled in subtlety and misdirection. His human associates are less so.

That is, in fact, rather the point.

And sooner or later Raguel will get the message.

And if any of the Wolflord’s errand-runners wonder why they are instructed to have a wooden tile in their pocket at all times, none of them ever ask. The letter G is not that important in the grand scheme of things, after all.

It has not been a quiet day.

In these times, few of them are.

But it has been a day in which Galadan has found himself yearning for a bit of quiet, a bit of forest, and so it is that he has found himself at Milliways.

The lake is really quite lovely this time of year.

And it looks nothing like the sea.