Silver and Sapphire

It should be noted that this is not part of the novel; it does, however, give you an idea what it's like.

Howls in the night, the low note rising high as the stars, fading into stillness that tingles at the base of the spine.

Part of you remembers. Tailbone tingling without a tail to raise, part of you remembers. We sing, we wolves, our voices in chords that echo for miles. We sing of the hunt begun, the pack that is, that we live, that we are here. We sing because we live, and this is joy.

Once, you knew our voices. Once, you understood our joy, listened with smiles at our songs. You have lost our music as you lost your own, our voices become screeches of terror to you. To me it is joy and sadness; my wolves live and call to me, but my werewolves are gone.

You have never heard the songs of the werewolves, but I remember them. The werewolves were my children, and the mates of my children and my grandchildren, the pack of packs. Wolves sing in single phrases but complex chords. Werewolves sing stories, with as many notes in the chords as there are wolves in the packs.

Time was when I could howl to the night and know what the news was in neighboring forests, the werewolf howl passed from pack to pack, telling me where I needed to be, what I needed to do. Time was when I could raise my voice to the night and my guardians, my pups, my children would call back to me.

They are dead, all dead. The music is purer, simpler...sadder. Wolves have little in the way of memory; they must focus on the now to live to the tomorrow. It is for me to remember for them all, guide them all. That is who I am, that is why I am. That was why we were, we werewolves. We were the memories, and we are forgotten by our children. The ones who remember us are the ones who destroyed us, one by one or pack by pack. I am the last and I am caged as they were caged, collared as they were collared.

I howl alone now, raise my voice to the night with a cry that says I live. I am alone.

The lone wolf. You've made it a romance, and you don't understand. To be a lone wolf is to be between states; it is not meant to be an end in itself. A lone wolf is a youngling who has left his pack to seek a mate, or an ancient wolf who goes to die. We aren't meant to be alone. We don't want to be alone. Kyria knew it - kept me caged, forbade me the howl, knew that in time simple loneliness would drive me to her side. I didn't give her what she wanted - that much control I have. But such a price, so alone so long...and all my children are dead. I may hope some of my descendants live, bred back to the true packs, but my children are all dead. Their voices are not in the howl, and when I cry to the night in this land I hear no answer.

It is loneliness, Elina. I am the last werewolf in the world, and you have killed my children so that there are none to return my calls. It is loneliness that drives me to you, the need of a wolf for a companion to sleep beside, even if that companion doesn't understand. Even if that companion seems to regard me as a cross between a pack animal and a pillow.

My song is over and you seem so relieved. Can't you understand that the night should be filled with music?