Wheeling Gull Isle Oh my friends, my friends forgive me….

It was the look on the man's face that had stopped him first, and concern that made him stay. But then, he smelled the blood, and his gaze fell on the rusted strands of fur peeking out from around John's lowered head. Hidden, as though he did not wish for Everett to see.

Thankfully, he did not need to pry the story from the man. At the admittance of a mistake, Everett sat down and nodded with a quiet assurance that he could speak, and Everett would listen.

But by the end, he wished he hadn't heard it at all.

John revealled his neck and the full extent of the damage the pups had done. Ana? Ava? Both? That much got lost in passing, but regardless -- they had struck, and Everett closed his eyes.

Praying for help.

Picturing the scene.

Oh, give me wisdom.

The children did that? he finally asked, opening silvered eyes to direct a long glance to the blood on his throat. They were hardly three moons. Barely the age to follow on hunts. Still bearing milk teeth. How hard had the girls struck him to draw blood? And how hard had John struck Ana to the ground to decide that?

He shivered -- felt the memory of a strike against his cheek --

Fire and rain.

Warranted.

Fire and rain.

Deserving.

Fire and rain; with raw throat, and song unending.

The sting of a flinging paw.

Mistakes can be mended, he said softly, closed his eyes, squeezed the vision away. And sometimes, they could not. But here, he would hope. Where are they now? and were either of them hurt? He had only known John to be a gentle man -- but that did not change the fact he was still much bigger and stronger than both girls combined.