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.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every group of teachers needs a refuge from the students. An inviolable sanctum full of tea, slightly uncomfortable chairs, a cinder-choked fireplace, and a slight stale smell of cabbage and chalk dust.

For Galadan, the andain otherwise known as Professor Gideon Wolfe--even this sanctum is not enough.

Some may, in fact, justly name it another avenue of persecution. Fortunately Galadan has learned to cope.

And subtle power plays have always been his forte.

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.

Galadan is at what passes for his desk, scrolling through the dossiers from three different courier services.

Unfamiliar name, unfamiliar name, too well-recognized a name, unfamiliar name--

Ah. There.

People should be so much more careful while choosing vices in which to indulge.

The Wolflord sends a message to an associate of his, an older gentleman who works in shipping.



Then he sends the message, wiping it from memory using a set of commands he's learned from a certain individual at the end of the universe. Who says dead men possess nothing of value?

That accomplished, the Wolflord is free to pursue other matters--not least of which is assessing the security details for Senator Tam's upcoming press conference.

Galadan, it must be said, has a vested interest.

And in a few days, out on Beylix, a simple wooden tile embossed with the letter G will have found its way into the pocket of Gi Saeng.

It will be delivered.

And that, of course, will be when it gets messy.

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.

Tracking a fallen angel across a solar system is far from an easy task, but at last, it seems, Galadan has managed.

Or perhaps it is Raguel that has managed to track the Wolflord.

Some lines are far more difficult to draw than others.

But that is of little moment, now. Some things must be done, some difficulties must be taken care of. Permanently.

This creature, who would have harmed Senator Tam, who works for one with an interest in River--this creature who could, perhaps, do great harm to Galadan himself--

He has to die.

What better place than here, on Whitefall, where nary an eye will blink at such a death?

What better time than now?

Galadan has little love for putting himself in the hands of others. He likes putting the lives of those he has a responsibility toward in those same hands only slightly better.

This, of course, is one reason he is not entirely fond of the security arrangements for the Tams' upcoming charity event. The other reasons--those are more personal, and thus largely irrelevant. Not entirely, though. Never entirely.

But there is no prickle of gooseflesh on his arms, no hairs raised on the back of his neck, no foreboding of doom that sets him to learning as much as he can about those who have been invited to this affair. What guides Galadan here and now is merely pragmatism, long learned and deeply ingrained.

It is that same pragmatism that sends him searching for the government's files on River and Simon Tam.

And that pragmatism, too, results in the slightest curve of his lips upon watching the events on Beaumonde, in a pub called the Maidenhead. This, now--

This is something he can use.

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.

There is a great deal of debriefing to be done, particularly in methods of contact, transport, financial arrangements, and the details of the task at hand.

Galadan pays careful attention to all of this, biding his time.

Confessing one's evil, past or not, often requires delicate handling.

Galadan himself has only done it the once, and circumstances then were far, far different from this.

Given that Mary Lennox is a young girl, perhaps that is not much of a surprise.

After what happened at the Anor--

After the defilement of Lisen's memory--

After exacting payment in flesh and blood--

After speaking to Cernan (father)--

Galadan travels through worlds and time to reach the end of the universe, looking for that awkward-looking not-man who had spoken to the Seer of Brennin about the child of the Warrior.

About Bran.

The Wolflord's long patience is at last rewarded by the sight of coat-tails fluttering in a non-existent breeze as that same man strides quickly through the bar and out the back door.

Galadan, senses alert, the heat of battle-to-be flashing through his veins, stands and follows after.

There.

He can feel the pathways this creature uses, the link between here and elsewhere that thrums through his blood like fire. Galadan follows still, cautious and wary and ready for--

Few, in truth, are ever ready for the space between, or so Raven would tell the Wolflord if such a being were inclined to listen.

Some lessons, however, can only be learned the hard way, paid for in blood and confusion and lost pride.

Galadan, lost in the tumbling chaotic nothingness that Raven travels, has a moment to register a grin on the ragged man's face, sharp and over-bright, before he feels himself gripped by a power he has no name for, and--

Tumbles to the ground in a land fresh and pure and bright as Fionavar in the days when it was new, in the days before--

No.

Such thoughts as that have no place here. None at all.

Shaking his head to clear it from the chaos of the journey, Galadan lifts his head, scenting the wind.

Ah. There.

The harsh, mocking cry of a Raven follows the Wolflord as he sets off across the Summer Country, teeth bright and sharp and ready to tear the Warrior's child apart.

It is a day for such things.

It is the last day Bran will see this side of death.

Galadan will have it no other way.

It comes, the call, when he is engrossed in thoughts of Uathach, the unnatural white urgach lately given command of Maugrim's army, at least the portion at Valgrind Bridge.

The one thing he is not thinking of, here or ever, in truth, are the Paraiko, caged, pinned, and dying by a plan of his own devising. Smoked and starved to their deaths, the Paraiko have been, so that their curse may not fall on any who shed their blood.

Galadan has ever been the cleverest mind in Fionavar, and not all the Paraiko's strange (unsettling) grace could stand against him. Even now the last few are lingering on the threshold of that final descent into the dark.

He had expected that would make him feel satisfied. It does not.

Odd.

The only thing that has ever come close to giving him satisfaction, to granting him peace (aside from that window, outside of which lay his dream made real and almost tangible), had been learning the true fate of Amairgen Whitebranch. Amairgen, the man Lisen, beloved Lisen, had died for. Had spurned Galadan for.

It is that choice of hers that had driven Galadan to his own, so very, very long ago--and he had chosen the Dark, and service to Maugrim in pursuit of his own goal.

Annihilation.

But now there is a stirring in Lisen's Tower, in Pendaran Wood. Someone is there, someone who should not be there. He does not know who, not yet, but--no intrusion is permitted. Not in her place.

He will not allow it. Someone will be made to pay.

And the price will be very dear.

Galadan has his own expectations of what Gabriel will ask of him, and he is far from disappointed at his initial assignment. It does, after all, take advantage of some of the skills he has learned in the long, long centuries since the Bael Rangat.

Namely his ability to blend, to pass under the radar, even as the world changes about him, and changes again.

He starts off slowly, attending social events, looking haughty and aloof, and listening to those who pass by him. He reads when he can, and explores the computer systems when he finds people capable of teaching him. When he begins to anticipate the headlines in the news, sometimes by as much as a week, he begins speaking instead of listening, choosing his targets with care.

Those that are receptive go on one list, those who shun his talk of the IIGA, or who mock it openly, go on another. Carefully, slowly, he works on shifting the opinion of some select people in that second group.

Sometimes it works. He appears to be a disaffected soldier to some, a Core-dweller fallen on hard times to others. He never speaks to the truth of any of the rumors. People are often content with their own interpretations. Galadan knows this very well, and uses it to his advantage. He does, however, refrain from outright lies.

As the weeks pass, his lists broaden into files, and his circles of acquaintance are vast and beginning to overlap.

That is, of course, when he returns to Gabriel Tam's side, waiting for his next set of orders.

Galadan is, though he might often protest it, a creature of the forest, child of the Forest Lord himself. And so it is that when things shift in the Wood, he can feel it--something that is almost intuition, but not quite.

He has such a feeling now, itchy enough in his wolf-shape, but far clearer and stronger when he wears the form of a man.

His first thought, perhaps, is of his father, Cernan. Surely the movement of one of the gods would cause a disturbance, a ripple in the normal workings of the woodland.

And for all that he and his father have not spoken since the Bael Rangat, since Galadan did what he would do and allied himself with Rakoth Maugrim, since he broke with the Light--

This current strangeness is so rich with old shadings of emotion, laden with the feel of memory, that he almost believes, for a fraction of a moment, that--

But no.

It is not Cernan who walks in the wood today.

It is not Cernan that makes Galadan's freeze, expression twisted into something no one living had ever been able to see.

It is Lisen.

Or rather the fact that her room in the Anor, the room she had leapt from to her death, all those long years ago--someone is there.

Now.

A quick gesture over his heart sets him to his wolf shape, and then Galadan is running westward, swift and sleek and (un)sure. This travesty, this intrusion on her memory and his pain, will be ended.

It will.