For weeks he'd begged whatever spirits there were that his son be returned to him, safe and unharmed. He promised his life, servitude, whatever tattered pieces of his soul remained. He offered them everything. He went around, alone, his mere mood acting like a bubble that drove everyone away. He was sour and sullen. He muttered to himself incessantly. He knew Chiara believed in the Other Forest, some peaceful place wehre wolves go to run after they die. If such a place existed then they both had friends and family up there. He called out their names, one by one, charging them with the duty of returning his son to him, whatever price he had to pay. But weeks went by and no one came. He knew it was his own fault. He lead such a wicked life he didn't deserve to have his son returned to him. He cursed them all. He titled their names with a string of profanities a mile long and wished they all burn in some unholy place. He hated Tye the most. Tye had lost all of his sons but couldn't even try to help his friend, prevent him from suffering from the same pain. He hated his mother as well, for making him like this, for taking away his puphood and tainting his soul. He hated Steele for being so weak that he lost to Teren and for trying to steal his mate. He hated Teren for putting them through this. But, surprisingly, he didn't hate that Kingslayer, Drogo. The two, once mortal enemies, now had so much more in common. The Kinglsayers awfully irritating demeanour, the calm he had acquired in Helidos, was suddenly missed. He wondered what it had taken for his old enemy to become like that. To go from the perfectly honed warrior he was, the protector of the King, a deadly weapon, and turn into this quiet, reserved creature full of wisdom. He wanted to know how it could be so easy when everything seemed so hopeless.

But now, with months having passed since the sordid event, he had come to the only rational conclusion: Ciro was dead, his body swept away by the waters of the lake. It hurt to think of his son like that, lying broken and mangled on a bank somewhere only the crows could find him. But he reminded himself that was just his sons body, his mind had long ago slipped into the void, joining with the thousands who'd died before him. He would be with his brother and sister, wherever they were, and that was enough for him. To know they were together. Dark moods and dark thoughts were matched by the dark place he found himself in. Deathly Whisper Glade was a place of stone and fog. But in the summer, the fog had burnt off for the most part, showing murky pools at his feet, gaping chasms in other places. If it weren't for Chiara and everything they were working for, could he simply step off the edge and fly away?

The Guardian tramped on, feeling the heat of the day settling in. At least this place is cooler. The little wisps of fog drifted about him as if they too were avoiding him, unsure if he would explode. His temper had shortened to near nothing in the past months. He was easily upset by so very many things and often got the urge to kill something. He squeezed his eyes shut, twisting his head this way and that, relieving the tension from his neck. This stony glade was a dangerous place, every whisper in the wind could send him to madness if he focused too hard on what it said. He heard a young voice amongst those whispers, but he ignored it like all the others. Eyes opening, a figure came bounding through the mist, an apparition he had hoped would never come to him. "My son..." He whispered quietly to himself. "Why are my illusions so cruel as to bring me the image of my son as he should have grown to be?" For it was Ciro his mind presented him, bounding toward him from the misty fog. Born of a childish desire to see his child once more, even after accepting his tragic death.

It was harsh, but it was an opportunity. To this apparition he could say everything he wish he'd said to his son, everything he wanted to say. The apparition of his son acted so realistically, so afraid of his fathers wrath he almost thought him real. Magnus could only look upon the vision with sadness and regret. "Oh my son," he said, "If only you were real, that I might say all I wish I had said. And there was so much I should have said, so much I wish you could be here for." He missed his son immensely. The pain in his chest throbbed, refusing to ebb. "Oh my son, my poor Ciro, if only they hadn't... if they hadn't..." He drew breath and exhaled, unable to say the words aloud. He took a step closer, examining the imagining of his son. "You look just as I imagined you would. Tall, strong, and your voice has matured - I can hear it's authority. But I always saw you standing prouder, I always saw you doing so well, though I never told you so. I should have told you. I should have told you so much, my son. I should have told you every time you did well, every time you made progress. I should have told you it was okay to not want to fight, to not want to kill. I never wanted a puphood like that for you, not like I had. I should have... I should have told you how proud I was of you. How proud I AM of you."