He concealed himself in the twilight, reveling in the breath taking moonlight that sparkled on the snow. The emaciated wolf floated like a specter among the trees, taking care to make no noise and leave no new mark in the snow. He could not bring himself to shatter the quiet, regal beauty of the forest, which for once choked him beyond words. Dressed up like this, in pearl and ermine, the trees looked so quiet and serene, subdued and almost... — he barely dared to let the word slip into his thoughts— heavenly. Staring down at the muddied, copper twigs of his limbs, he felt dirty and unworthy of this singular beauty of the wilderness.

Eventually, he found the words, "I'm sorry, so sorry." But who the apology was spoke to, he couldn't say. There were a great many things he had to be sorry for —for running away, for coming back, for running away again, and for standing here now. For so long, he had tried to deny the forest its intricate beauty, and for that he was sorry, too. Yet, even now, stripped bare, standing apologetic in the snow, he was afraid. The looming trunks and glittering snow were beautiful, yes, but also terrifying, ugly. There was still a war being fought in the depths of his soul. The war made him itch, made him cringe, made him hate. He found that he hated and loved this beauty all at once. Part of him was repulsed, and part of him longed for acceptance. Mostly, though, this war just made him afraid, afraid that the forest and the heathens would chew him up and spit him out before he could figure out what it was that he really wanted.

The brittle innocence of the silence shattered, exploding into diamond splinters. Tranquility, who had always been nervous and fleeting, was startled by the sound. Suddenly, she realized she was not alone, that she was being watched by a horrifyingly gaunt, nauseating monster, and she ran away in terror. Kiche standing in the snow, silent and ashamed. And as Tranquility vanished, the beauty of the moonlit forest began to fade as well. The snow looked less brilliant, and he realized it was pockmarked and dirty. Darkness stole the shimmering jewels out of the snow, and claimed the whole forest in a blanket of obscurity. The world was dark and full of sound, of noise, terrifying noises that Kiche couldn't even begin to name. The twig. Something had made that noise.

A question, a greeting, something unnameable, yet friendly crawled its way up his throat, but could not find its way around the yellowed teeth that barred the way. All that escaped the chiseled rows of rotting fangs was the ominous rumble of a snarl. No longer afraid of trampling the virgin snow, he whirled about with eyes like accusations. "Show yourself."

Nothing could have prepared him for the silver phantom that stepped out of a shadow. He mistook her for some one else, for Jayse, for Aisling, Borlla, and Vlarindara all at once. At first, he couldn't even tell which one of them it might have been, it could have been any of them. The harder he stared, the more muddled the face became, until suddenly it was all the white women he had known, heathen and angel. Kiche didn't know whether to be angry, afraid, or remorseful. What do you say to the love of your life you deserted? What do you say to that awful heathen who almost killed you? What about the one who saved your life? Who are you? Which one are you? Desperate and confused, the godless wolf took a tentative step forward. He had only just decided she was Aisling when suddenly the moon came out from behind the clouds, and drawing the dark curtains back to reveal a complete stranger. Immediately, he jumped backwards as if he had been slapped. He felt stupid and ashamed.

Lost in his own disbelief and embarrassment, he took her question literally. For some reason he assumed that there was more depth to her question, as if she really cared if he was happy. Aisling? he thought again, hopefully, forgetting for a moment it wasn't even her. Does Aisling care if I'm happy? He shrugged the thought aside with a gaunt shoulder-blade. The aggression he had worn like a mighty crown had been discarded in the snow, leaving only a defeated sigh. "Happy? I don't know how long it's been since I've been happy." Still in a bewildered stupor, he ignored his mouth, which ran away with questions he never meant to ask. He was confused enough to actually be conversational. "What about you?"

Was it her ivory fur that soothed him, made him act civilized and rational? He was having trouble discerning what was Jayse, what was Aisling, and what wasn't. In his head, he knew it was wrong to confuse this strange heathen with all the others, but his heart longed for something familiar. And maybe, just maybe, if he pretended that she was Aisling or Jayse... maybe then he could be... happy? He let go of himself, letting his imagination run away with those pale green eyes that... maybe could have been Jayseyek's, if only one of them had been blue. Hunger repainted the stranger as his lover, as his captor, his leader, his savior, his friend. Ignoring the nagging facts that worried at the back of his mind, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the dream. A faint smile colored his lips.

The most singularly understanding thing Kiche had ever done, and maybe would ever do, was nod in accompaniment to her sad statement. What did it feel like to be happy? When he opened his eyes, he forgot what he was looking at. Stranger, Aisling, Stranger, Jayse, Aisling, Stranger.... The face flicked back and forth between the alien and the comforting. It settled on Aisiling for a moment, and he stared at her hungrily. "I know," he was suddenly compelled to take a step forward, even though his rational self screamed that it was wrong, "I'm sorry." If she was Aisling, then he was responsible, wasn't he? "It's been so long," he added vaguely, as if he were talking about the last time he had been happy. But he wasn't. He took another step forward, but could not take any more, his mind rebelled. This wasn't Aisling.

In an attempt to separate this creature from the muddled, multiple identities he had given her, he decided to steer the conversation away from wherever it had been headed. He didn't want to examine his feelings for Aisling now anyway, really.... "Do you want to talk about it?" But why would she want to talk about it with him? He was a stranger too. He didn't deserve her confidence. "I feel like talking about it," he offered shyly, staring at his paws.

Her confusion and hesitance was a knife in his heart. Of course, he told himself, Of course. She doesn't know what you're talking about. She's not Aisling. But he wanted her to be Aisling so bad. Maybe if she just dreamed a little harder, wished a little harder, she could really be Aisling. Maybe he could make her into Aisling. Slowly, his gleaming copper eyes traveled the length of the scar on her slender muzzle and down her spine. She was like a block of white marble, untouched, expectant... Maybe he could carve something out of her, something like Aisling. Delirious, he failed to realize the significance of that scar along her face —a scar that Aisling didn't have. That thread of scar tissue reflected a whole life time of pain and experience. This she-wolf was not a clean slate or a block of uncut marble. But he wished so badly that she was, and so he was able to ignore the scar. When he blinked, he couldn't see it anymore.

"Yeah....Talk about it," he repeated dumbly, gazing back at her. "Sometimes... it helps to talk about it with a stranger. They don't judge you." He hardly knew if he believed what he was saying, but he just let the words flow out of his mouth. Like he had ever really, truly opened up to anyone. Only Aisling. And Jayse, that one time. But everything else had been a huge lie. Even when he had told the truth, he had told it as if it were a lie. He used the truth to manipulate those around him... and here he was doing it again, blissfully unaware of it. But if this girl was like Aisling... then he could tell her the truth, right? "Maybe if you don't want to talk... you can just listen... But I think talking helps."