Grian lay on his arm as she had done so many times before, resting her head half on his shoulder, half on the pillow beneath her, smiling up at him. He never quite figured out where she had placed the arm beneath her. The other hand was gently stroking his chest, which she had done many times as well.

Her hand was cold to the touch. At first the sensation did not register with him. He smiled his off smile, always a bit boyish around her. She had brought this out in him. Around her he felt endlessly young. With her he still was.

But the dreams faded away so quickly, robbing the touch of her hand of her warmth, stealing her scent from him, only memories touching his skin. Forever faint. Forever ghostly. The cruelest of them kept him dreaming, knowing that they were dreams, slowly turning into nightmares he could never escape. They left him both with her soft smile and cruel ice in her otherwise green eyes when she looked at him, blaming him for their dead son, blaming him for the other children who were likely to follow soon. Possibly even her.

He had left. Sure, he had done so in order to safe them. But said salvation had never actually come. Not that he knew of. By now all of them must be dead and gone, neither of them able to grant him absolution. And this final thought stayed with him, even when he woke up. No God he could pray to would ever grant him that, nor would the ghosts of days long past. The rough exterior barely, if ever, masked his anger, directed chiefly at himself for being a survivor, yet utterly unfit to help those he cared about to go on living.

They had turned him into a wolf. A wolf who would forever yearn to be with his pack. And that pack would remain just out of reach.