gaze, his silver eyes casting a sad shadow that seemed to span the separation between them. And as they stood, the hare's suspicious gaze slowly clouded with a strange and curious awe.
It dropped low, came forward a pace, and raised itself up again, its eyes no longer challenging, but touched with a searching hope. A long time they shared their sorrow, each face reflecting a grievous loss, a solemn pain beyond the expression of words or deeds. And then slowly, carefully, Aramus lowered his head, revealing his respect. The big hare seemed struck by the gesture, and continued to return the gaze a moment more. Then he also bent his head, once, and lowered himself again upon his four paws.
The memory of that shared encounter had been the single, bright place in Aramus's long journey. For he had slept seldom, still disturbe d and restless from his frightful encounter in the Deep Woods, the deadly battle that ended his long night in the storm.
Lost in the memory of that quiet encounter, Aramus raised his head sharply as howls, unmerciful and hungry, were hurled across the moonlit night. Action and thought were one as he poised on the ridge, still and alert, senses reaching out to test the air, the wind. And almost instantly he knew that a chase was moving away from him, lower into the hills. He frowned, listening intently, strangely disturbed.
Not marked by the cold communication of a search, the convening cries suddenly slashed the frosty night with a malignant, merciless lust. Aramus recognized the cries for what they were: the thrilling howls of killers closing upon a kill. And from the manic, gleeful din, he understood that the fiendish pursuit was near its end.
Making no sound, Aramus rose from the rocky ground. The howls were quickly gathering, not so far away. Then a roar shattered the night, not merciless or cruel, hut fearful, enraged. The roar carried above the chaos of the hunt, superior for a moment before it was covered by a descending chorus of demonic cries.
Aramus began to step forward, his spirit reaching out to that tortured soul. But the old fear, that instinctive desire to preserve his own life above all else, immediately stilled his step. Then he remembered a snow-covered glade, and another wounded creature that had freely given far more than he had received, and Aramus smiled; a sad smile, but wise, and content with the knowledge that actions must follow faith, or faith is dead. And he stepped forward.
As a pale shadow Aramus moved quickly down the moonlit ridge and was soon gliding gracefully through the blackened corridors of the forest night, sensing the life of every creature he neared and moving away before it could know his spectral presence. With sure steps and unerring skill Aramus slowly increased his loping gait until he was running silently through the shadowy gloom, crossing the forest floor with supernatural grace, searching out the conflict with the gathering howls. And as he neared the ridge where the battle raged, Aramus instinctively slowed, moving even more carefully, alert to everything at once. Creatures hiding from the raging battle half-raised their heads as he neared, glimpsing the ghost of a wolf that never touched the earth, moving without sound through the forest night, and was gone.
Aramus reached the ridge crest and waited, concealed within the shadows of the treeline. Gazing intensely across the wide, gray granite of the slope, he saw a swarm of dark wolves chasing a wounded bear. The wolves were closing upon the creature with hideous howls, and a quick glance revealed that the bear was near the end of its strength.
Torn by guilt, Aramus knew that he had been the true prey, but his stealth had eluded the pack's hateful search. And now, frustrated by his unending escape, the dark wolves had abandoned their hunt to turn upon any creature that crossed their path. Aramus watched, his brow furrowed with compassion, as the bear staggered up the rock-strewn slope, a brave and
It dropped low, came forward a pace, and raised itself up again, its eyes no longer challenging, but touched with a searching hope. A long time they shared their sorrow, each face reflecting a grievous loss, a solemn pain beyond the expression of words or deeds. And then slowly, carefully, Aramus lowered his head, revealing his respect. The big hare seemed struck by the gesture, and continued to return the gaze a moment more. Then he also bent his head, once, and lowered himself again upon his four paws.
The memory of that shared encounter had been the single, bright place in Aramus's long journey. For he had slept seldom, still disturbe d and restless from his frightful encounter in the Deep Woods, the deadly battle that ended his long night in the storm.
Lost in the memory of that quiet encounter, Aramus raised his head sharply as howls, unmerciful and hungry, were hurled across the moonlit night. Action and thought were one as he poised on the ridge, still and alert, senses reaching out to test the air, the wind. And almost instantly he knew that a chase was moving away from him, lower into the hills. He frowned, listening intently, strangely disturbed.
Not marked by the cold communication of a search, the convening cries suddenly slashed the frosty night with a malignant, merciless lust. Aramus recognized the cries for what they were: the thrilling howls of killers closing upon a kill. And from the manic, gleeful din, he understood that the fiendish pursuit was near its end.
Making no sound, Aramus rose from the rocky ground. The howls were quickly gathering, not so far away. Then a roar shattered the night, not merciless or cruel, hut fearful, enraged. The roar carried above the chaos of the hunt, superior for a moment before it was covered by a descending chorus of demonic cries.
Aramus began to step forward, his spirit reaching out to that tortured soul. But the old fear, that instinctive desire to preserve his own life above all else, immediately stilled his step. Then he remembered a snow-covered glade, and another wounded creature that had freely given far more than he had received, and Aramus smiled; a sad smile, but wise, and content with the knowledge that actions must follow faith, or faith is dead. And he stepped forward.
As a pale shadow Aramus moved quickly down the moonlit ridge and was soon gliding gracefully through the blackened corridors of the forest night, sensing the life of every creature he neared and moving away before it could know his spectral presence. With sure steps and unerring skill Aramus slowly increased his loping gait until he was running silently through the shadowy gloom, crossing the forest floor with supernatural grace, searching out the conflict with the gathering howls. And as he neared the ridge where the battle raged, Aramus instinctively slowed, moving even more carefully, alert to everything at once. Creatures hiding from the raging battle half-raised their heads as he neared, glimpsing the ghost of a wolf that never touched the earth, moving without sound through the forest night, and was gone.
Aramus reached the ridge crest and waited, concealed within the shadows of the treeline. Gazing intensely across the wide, gray granite of the slope, he saw a swarm of dark wolves chasing a wounded bear. The wolves were closing upon the creature with hideous howls, and a quick glance revealed that the bear was near the end of its strength.
Torn by guilt, Aramus knew that he had been the true prey, but his stealth had eluded the pack's hateful search. And now, frustrated by his unending escape, the dark wolves had abandoned their hunt to turn upon any creature that crossed their path. Aramus watched, his brow furrowed with compassion, as the bear staggered up the rock-strewn slope, a brave and
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