Her light doze had quickly deepened into a comfortable sleep, taking her far away from the meadow where her body rested. She was oblivious to the real world around her as her dreams swept her back through the years. Though her snowy body remained motionless among the tall grasses of the meadow, in another place she was running, playing coyly with another.

She felt that she knew him, though his features remained obscured by the dream-mist. She felt that she trusted him as the two chased each other roguishly through phantom trees. One moment they were a dozen yards apart, the next running shoulder-to-shoulder. She was laughing aloud with the simple joy of being alive, here with this other whom she felt so close to.

With a flash the scene changed, and she and the he-wolf were alone in a dark, close space. A den. She felt the phantom touch of his nose against hers, the brush of his larger frame along her flank. All was warmth and darkness around her. Warmth, darkness, and him.

Again came a flash, but this time the scene was set within the same shadowy den. A fierce, frigid wind shrieked at the entrance, but within she was warm and dry. And within her, just as she sheltered within her home, sheltered the spark of life. She could feel their tiny movements, attest to their growth day by day. She herself had become part of the great, unstoppable march of life, fulfilling an ancient instinct borne down to her by countless generations past. But just as the wolf in the dream was swelling with life and joy and pride, the wolf in the meadow had begun to whimper, for she alone knew what came next.

There was pain, yes, but it was forgotten the next instant, every trace washed away in a tide of boundless love. Though she could no longer remember their faces, her dreaming heart felt fit to burst with the immensity of her love for them. Instinct answered, duty fulfilled, she could not begin measure the vastness of her joy. But it was joy destined to be short-lived, for even as she looked down upon them in the dream, the air began to shift and change. From the sudden shadows emerged the he-wolf, head held low and slavering, possessed of some unholy desire to destroy what she had created. The same instinct that had guided her through bringing them to light now screamed at her that her pups were in grave danger. Her lover was gone, replaced by a senseless beast with only the desire to rend and consume. She must take her feet and fight, for her life and for theirs. But she could not. Whether slowed by the dream itself or the real weakness following her labors, there was nothing she could do to stop the monstrosity that approached her, wearing her mate’s face for a mask. For what seemed eons she struggled to find her feet while he slunk toward them, but neither ever seemed to make any progress. The nightmare seemed without end, though the ending she knew very well. It was a memory, replaying itself now in some cruel revenge for being buried so deep for so long.

Just as the torture of her dream reached a fever pitch she was certain she could not withstand, she was wrenched suddenly from it and sent rolling over into the grass by a trespassing set of paws. Still gripped by the intensity of the dream, she went with the roll and regained her feet in one fluid motion, every snow-white hair of her coat standing straight up on end. A savage snarl ripped from her throat as she whirled to face her intruder, ears pulled flat against her skull, amber eyes ablaze with fury. The snarl did not die as she looked over the other wolf but renewed itself with every breath that she took. She pressed her lithe body low to the ground and began to circle around him, taking in every aspect and snarling all the while. Her usually relaxed, dainty features were twisted into macabre mask of anger and distrust; the dream was still heavy upon her and she could not, would not relax until she could be sure that this one was not him. Not the monster who had nearly destroyed her so many years ago.

But as the red faded from her vision, it became apparent to her that the youth in front of her was a stranger. His coat was nondescript, but the terrible scarring that crossed his face and the bright green orbs which gazed out at her in uncertainty were marks that she was sure she had never seen before. It was not him, not the beast. Just a careless wanderer.

Finally, she let the snarl fade from her throat and let her features relax, though she remained pressed close to the ground, snowy coat bristling with menace. When at last she spoke, it was a single demand, issued in a hiss that could scarcely be called a whisper.

“Who the hell are you?”

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