Sinful Behavior
Part 1 / 4

	It was dark, the distant clouds threatening rain that I knew by now would likely never come.  All the rain clouds were trapped on the other side of the mountain range, during the dry season.  A fact which we'd be counting on to enact our plan in a month's time.
	I shook my head, pushing some of the long locks of fur that I'd braided and beaded this morning behind one of my ears.  The last thing I wanted to think about tonight was my scouting work.
	Even though that's precisely what had brought me out here, to a corner of the settlement I hardly knew, to the residence of the man whose command I was serving under to carry out said scouting missions.
	No, I told myself.  I wasn't here for work-related reasons.  I had to keep telling myself that, to calm the shrieking parts of my mind that reminded me every hour on the hour that I may have committed an unspeakable wrong by helping to gather the information I had. . . but I still had time to right it.  Those were dangerous thoughts.
	Dangerous, dangerous thoughts.
	But they were there, in the back of my mind.  They were nipping at the recesses of my thoughts, had been all night, could have in fact been the reason I was here. 
	I'd told myself I was here to check up on the man I'd nearly died beside.  Told myself I was just being a good soldier, a good person, that I was worried for a comrade.  It wasn't as though that was unusual behavior for me.  I worried about my comrades all the time.  I'd helped out many of them when they were injured, been concerned even for men I hardly knew, enough to ask them how they were recovering.  This was no different.
	Except his injuries were minor, and I was very much aware of how well his recovery was going.  I'd specifically spoken to Forrest about it, in fact.  I can't say I'd been feigning concern at the time. . . but. . . no.  Maybe that's exactly what I'd been doing.  
	Because the fact of the matter was, if he'd died, my whole moral dilemma would be solved.  No difficult decisions necessary.  It would be one of those regrettable things that happened in life, but I would secretly give a sigh of relief, because the only other man besides Ransom and I who knew about the nesting grounds would be dead.  And there was no chance his Lord would find out, no chance he would use the information to do what I knew he'd do with it.  
	But Cuthbert's injuries had been minor, and save some rare, unheard-of, wildly out-of-control infection, I'd known there was no chance he'd die from them, or even come close.  No in fact, according to Forrest, he was quite on the mend.  Thanks in large part to my field medicine.
	I didn't regret it.  Not exactly.
	But I had absolutely no reason to be here, standing near the stone steps of the simple, modest residence.  It was like many others in this area of the settlement. . . one story, probably no more than two rooms, more a cottage than anything else, with a very small yard.  I saw a few feathers scattered near the back, suggesting he kept chickens, and there was an herb garden outside the front stoop.  Remarkably quaint, for such a stern, serious man.  He must have come from a family of farmers, or homesteaders.
	My heart hurt.  Was I really here, considering what I was considering?  I couldn't possibly do this, could I?  One life. . . or hundreds of possible lives.  It was such a horrible decision to have left in my hands.  Such a terrible thing to even consider.
	But I really was considering it.  Otherwise, I wouldn't be here.
	I'd had to go out of my way to even find this place.  I'd had to tail him, in fact, which hadn't been easy.  Even when he wasn't on duty, which wasn't often, the canine was sharp and vigilant.  And I wasn't used to cities.  It had taken considerable effort and patience to follow him here.  And I hadn't even considered how I was going to explain to him how I'd found this place.  Maybe tell him I'd spoken to the cattle dog.  He could confirm that was a lie afterward, of course, unless. . . .
	. . . unless he was dead.
	There were those thoughts again.  I swallowed.  This was murder I was considering.  There was no question in my mind about that.  I knew it was wrong.  It would be in cold blood.  No grey areas here.  I'd be taking advantage of an injured man, and his trust in me, to silence him.  Even if it was ultimately for what felt like a good reason-
	I was so caught up in my thoughts, it barely registered when the wooden door a few paces away creaked open.  I only noticed when light bathed down over the doorstep and a black silhouette stepped into view.  And then I was well and truly caught. 
	More than I'd realized.
	“I thought I was being followed,” the tall Otherwolf murmured.  My heart skipped, my feet frozen in place.  But he didn't sound alarmed, or angry.  
	“I. . . .” I paused.  In my mind, I hadn't gotten to planning out this part.  Now that I was thinking about it, it all seemed so irrational.  I hadn't intended on him realizing I'd tailed him, of course, but even still, what had I planned to say, standing on his doorstep in the middle of the night?
	I was worried about you?
	“I-I was worried. . . about you,” I said, cursing myself inwardly for not being able to come up with anything better.  “About your injuries,” I added, as though it somehow bolstered the lie.  
	The man's expression was maddeningly hard to read, as ever, but after a few moments of silence, he simply stepped back from the doorway and gestured with a hand.  “Come in,” he said, in that quiet, heavily-accented baritone voice I'd found comforting almost since the first time I'd met him.  Something about the way the man spoke just seemed utterly unpretentious, unlike his colleagues.
	I set my jaw and convinced my body to stop quivering as I headed towards the doorway.  My paws itched, like they often did when I was on a hunt, and that mere realization sickened me.
	This was the very same man I'd saved not days earlier.  What had I even been thinking, coming here like this?
	The tall, wiry-furred, grey canine stood in the doorway and waited for me.  He seemed dressed-down, or at least dressed-down by his people's standards.  He was without his coat, his cravat and spats, and even his dark leather vest, but he still wore his ever-present chest harness over a simple white shirt, which meant, I knew, that he was still armed.  No gun, though.  No crossbow. . . no sword.  Just the knives strapped to his back and chest.  I wondered vaguely if he slept in the thing.
	Well, I'd come armed, as well, so I wasn't one to judge.  Not with my bow. . . that would have been too obvious.  But I always had a knife hidden on a strap on my thigh, right above my knee, and another that was far more visible on my belt.  
	Not that any of that mattered, I told myself.  I wouldn't be using either.  Couldn't.  The closer I got to the man's doorstep, the more I was certain of it.
	Hundreds of unborn lives could die, because I couldn't bring myself to kill one man in cold blood.  But I just. . . couldn't.  It didn't matter what was on the line.  This wasn't like Methoa, or Shadow, or even Shadow's men.  This man had literally never done anything to harm me, or anyone I knew.  I couldn't willfully murder an innocent person.  
	It just wasn't in me.
	The man had no way of knowing, of course, that I'd mentally gone through the anguishing contemplation, and then utterly revoked the idea of taking his life, all in the minute or so I'd stood at his doorway.  I was silently grateful for that fact as I stepped into the warmly-lit cabin, and he shut the door behind me. . . 
	. . . and then, in an instant, the reality of how flawed my would-be assassination plans had been to begin with was made abundantly clear to me.
	Strong hands suddenly clamped around my forearm, where I was weakest against the man's superior strength, and he wrenched me. . . not painfully, but firmly, into a lock I knew with one tug I'd never be able to escape.  One of his knees pressed into the back of mine, and he pushed me against the door he'd just shut.  Panic flared through me, as years of torment at the hands of a man returned, and that overwhelming fear of being pinned sent adrenaline coursing through my veins.
	“Calm down,” the man said in a soft tone.  And he released my wrist, and lessened the pressure he had on the back of my leg.  I could feel his presence right behind me, though.  It didn't sound like he'd pulled steel, but it would be hard to tell, with those small knives.  Even if he'd released me, I dared not move.
	“I just had to be sure you wouldn't pull a weapon as soon as you were inside,” he spoke calmly.  “Now. . . kindly put your hands up on the door, and stand still for a moment.  You have my sovereign promise that I won't hurt you, and my most sincere apologies if this makes you uncomfortable.  I will take care not to be inappropriate.”
	And then his hands moved down to my belt, and removed my knife.
	I would have said something, would have fought him. . . except he wasn't wrong to be doing all of this, and I couldn't tell him he was.  I could tell by the fact that the man was only using one arm that his other must still have been splinted.  He was injured, and in fear for his life.  And he had every right to be.
	The care, and the hesitance with which he searched me where I stood, made me bite at my lip until it nearly bled.  But it wasn't indignation causing me to tremble as the man's hands ghosted me, looking for hidden weapons.  It was guilt.
	“. . . my hip. . . .”  I said at length, softly, swallowing the heaviness in my throat.  
	I could feel when his hand settled over where the small knife was, beneath my civilian dress.  He'd have to lift the edge of the garment to remove it.  I braced myself, but at length, he only let out a soft sigh.  I felt him step back from me, without removing the weapon.
	“I'll let you finish disarming yourself,” the man said, when I finally glanced over my shoulder to see why he'd stopped.  He was standing a foot or so away from me now, his eyes averted.  
	I sniffed softly, and reached down beneath the hem of my dress, deftly tugging the small blade free from its sheath and tossing it on the floor.  The man was good enough to keep his head turned the entire while, despite the fact that I could have thrown the blade at any time, and do what I knew he suspected I'd come here to do.
	Well, as I was learning tonight, morality didn't always lead us to make the best decisions.
	“It's fine. . .” I said quietly.  He turned his muzzle back to face me again, grey eyes assessing me.
	“It would have made more sense to kill me in the field,” he said after a few moments of silence passed between us, “when you had me outnumbered and injured.”
	“Ransom probably wouldn't take my side in all of this,” I murmured.  “He'd never turn against me, but I wouldn't have wanted to make him a part. . .” I stammered, “. . . and I never wanted to kill you!” I insisted, folding my arms over my chest, unable to look at the man.  To have even been caught considering what I'd been considering was mortifying.  I felt like a criminal.
	Well, I would have been, had I done it.
	“I don't doubt that, actually,” the man said, taking a step towards me.  I flattened my back to the door, but all he did was reach down and scoop up the two knives I'd abandoned, then walked over to a wooden strongbox he had in the corner of the room, opened it carefully with one hand, and set them inside.  
	And then he shocked me by reaching down to his own chest and undoing the straps for his harness, and disarming himself, as well.  Or at least, attempting to.  I saw him tug at the buckle a few times, managing to loosen it, but his left hand must have been his off-hand, because he was struggling with it.  And his right was definitely still splinted.  I could see the bindings through the thin white cotton of his shirt.
	“I. . . I can help. . .like I did before. . . .” I offered quietly, uselessly.  I knew he'd reject the olive branch, of course.  Allowing me to remove the knives from his back was an invitation for me to use them.
	But again, he shocked me.
	“Yes, fine,” he nodded, turning towards me.  “If you'd be so kind.”
	I hesitated before I made my way towards the man, confused by his trust in me, considering the situation.  But there seemed to be no trick to it at all.  He let me move to within a foot of him, and reach for the buckle.  His eyes stayed on mine the whole while, but he didn't seem particularly rigid, or concerned.
	But then, this was a man who specialized in gathering information, and that probably meant a lot of people-watching and reading.  He'd likely determined by now that any killing intent I'd had was gone.
	To be honest, I'm not certain it was ever there in the first place.
	“I considered it,” I admitted quietly, as I slipped the harness from its loop, and it went slack across his chest, falling open.  He began to shift one shoulder and worked his arm from the loop.  “But, I-I couldn't have,” I said softly.  “I could barely stomach the thought.  It's just, I-I couldn't see any other way. . . .”
	“For what it's worth, I understand your position,” the man murmured.  “But that doesn't mean you weren't contemplating a crime.  I have to take something like that seriously.”
	My ears tipped back.  “I didn't do anything, though.  You can't-”
	“I don't intend to have you arrested,” he said with a slow whuff of breath.  “Although just so you're aware, stalking a Superior Officer is punishable under military law.  So don't make a habit of it, please.”
	He was still struggling with getting the harness off his bad side, a fact which I could tell was frustrating his dignity, so without thinking, I reached up and helped him slide the leather straps over his shoulder.  He did stiffen this time, but it was different than the reaction I'd gotten when he'd pinned me against the door.  That had seemed more like a combat reflex.  This felt more like a. . . shudder.
	But then he was pulling away from me, and setting his own harness down into the depths of the strongbox.  I could see it must have been where he kept most of his weapons, and some other keepsakes, although most of it looked military.  Almost nothing looked like a personal possession of any kind, unless you counted the sword, which did appear unique.  
	“You're lucky you chose to follow me, and not Denholme,” he informed me, curtly.  “He would have run you through.”
	“Execution without a trial seems a bit harsh,” I muttered.
	“He's had eight attempts against his life since he came here,” the canine stated.  “And I three.  He believes it's best not to take chances anymore.  I can't say I blame him.”  He paused, straightening back up and saying thoughtfully, “. . . although I suppose I'm up to four, now.  I'll have to tell him I'm catching up.”
	I rolled my eyes, despite myself.  “Leave it to men to compete over everything,” I said, dryly.  “Are you also keeping track of life-threatening injuries?”
	“No,” the man replied entirely seriously, stepping past me after he closed the chest, and heading towards the corner of the room.  “I am well and truly beaten there, so I haven't bothered keeping count.  Luther really needs to learn how to dodge.”
	I watched him move towards the pot-belly stove at the corner of the sparsely-furnished room.  And saying 'furnished' at all was being generous.  This place barely looked like someone was able to live in it.  There was a table, if you could call it that. . . more an old door held up by a barrel, a chair near it and another in the corner of the room, a small, tarnished oil lamp and some neatly-organized writing supplies near a stack of papers, and something that may have resembled a sleeping area.  It looked more like the bedrolls we used while we traveled, with a worn quilt thrown over it.  And no pillow.
	Wasn't this man the second-most high-ranking officer in this settlement?  Why was he living in such poverty?  Any one of his weapons was probably worth more than all of the other belongings in this room.
	“You call your Admiral by his first name,” I pointed out, deciding to sate one curiosity at a time while the man was allowing me to stay here.  “Have. . . you served under him long?'
	“That boy and I have a history that predates his appointment to his current position,” the tall, older canine said as he knelt down in front of the stove, and began pulling something out with a worn mit.  A small black pot that smelled like chicken.  “Or any position of importance, for that matter,” he grunted, straightening back up and walking the pot over to his 'table', where he set it down.
	He was silent after that for long enough that I knew I'd probably get no more on the Denholme man from him without digging around further.  He pulled the lid off the pot, the contents steaming.  It smelled simple, like chicken broth, but my stomach growled at the aroma.  I'd not eaten yet tonight.
	He glanced over his shoulder at me, then gestured towards the one other door in the room.  “I have a few clean bowls in the wash basin in there, and a spoon or two.  If you'd like to bring them out here, we can eat.”
	The key word there, 'we', rattled around in my brain.  He was going to share his meal with me?  Just like that?  Like we hadn't just been talking about how I'd been planning to kill him?
	All the same, I did as he asked, mutely.  It felt almost worse to reject the baffling kindness.  In the back room, I found more possessions than he had in the main area, but again, nothing that looked particularly valuable.  A bookshelf, with perhaps a dozen books on it, only one of which looked well-bound and potentially expensive.  The symbol on it seemed to be in gold-leaf, at least.  Some sort of cross pattern over a silhouette of several phases of the moon.  A shelf with neatly-folded shirts and britches, and some other articles of clothing.  A bag of feed in the corner that was probably for his chickens, kept inside likely to keep it out of the elements.  There were also a few things that I knew must have been sentimental, due chiefly to both what they were, and how they were arranged.  A cane, which I'd never seen him have a use for, the man wasn't lame.  It also looked old, and far too ornate for the man I knew.  Several dried stems of roses, wrapped in a faded ribbon.  And a small, worn book with frayed edges.  They were arranged on a windowsill, the only window in this room.  
	I didn't need to know this man's faith to recognize a shrine when I saw one.  My own people had similar rituals.  I couldn't know the items' significance, but I recognized the likelihood that. . . this was where he prayed.
	It was also his washroom, or at least, where he kept his wash basin.  He hadn't anything as elaborate as a bathing tub, I could only imagine he used the military barracks for that.  But there was a small table on which the basin sat, with clean, clear water in it, a block of simple soap beside it, and the extent of his cutlery and plates.  He had two of everything.  I suspected the only company he ever had was the Admiral.
	I'm not certain why, but I felt a pang in my chest, staring at the cutlery, of all things.  Everything about this man's life was truly as meticulous and disciplined as he presented himself, but it was also somehow. . . sad.  I could feel a distinct sense of solitude and restrained grief in this place, and I couldn't really say why.  It just felt. . . 
	. . . familiar.
	I made my way out into the main room, and handed him the bowls and spoons in silence.  He doled out an equal portion of the thin soup for the both of us and handed me the steaming bowl.  I took it gingerly and, for a moment, wasn't really certain what to do.  I was still so confused by the strangely calm and domestic feel this scene had, considering what had led up to it.  
	He tugged one of the two chairs he owned over to the 'table', and gestured for me to have a seat, which I did, almost mechanically.  He sat across the table from me in the other chair, and began to eat his meal in silence.
	I looked down at the soup. . . the peace offering, because that's what it truly was, and felt unworthy.  And it wasn't even as though it was a particularly lavish meal.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  The soup only had bits of meat in it, it was primarily barley, celery and carrots, peasant's fare.  I was hungry enough that it smelled amazing, but the pot had been small, there was barely enough in it for one serving, and he'd split that into two.
	“Why do you live on so little?”  I asked aloud, before I even considered my words.
	The man looked up.  “I'm sorry.  I know. . . it's thin, but. . . the broth is good.  I won't be offended if you don't partake, though.”
	“N-no!”  I said quickly, mortified.  “I didn't mean. . . I didn't intend to say I don't appreciate it.  And it does, i-it smells very good.”
	Just to show him I was being earnest, I dipped my spoon in and took my first taste of the broth.  I know my eyes must have widened, because I saw him give a faint smile at me from across the table.
	“Good, yes?”
	“That's being extremely modest,” I said. 
	“It's all in preparing the stock,” the canine winked at me.  “Family recipe from the old country.  You can have all the meat in a butcher's shop, but if you can't coax out the best flavor, it means little.”
	I nodded.  “Puck taught me a thing or two about stretching broth. . . using the same hare to make soup for days,” I chuckled.  “But ours didn't taste like this.”	
	“I can give you the recipe if you want,” the man offered, leaning back in his chair and wiping his muzzle with a cloth napkin, even though he really didn't need to.  Just more of his meticulous manners.
	I looked down at the soup again, and realized suddenly that my hand was shaking.  I slowly set the spoon down, and bent at the waist, laying my forehead in my palms.
	I heard the man sitting across from me shift.  “Are you alright?”  he asked.
	I shook my head.  “I feel. . . terrible,” I said softly.  “You should be angry at me, not. . . .”
	The canine was silent just long enough that I felt my breath hitch in my throat.  I both wanted and didn't want him to respond to me. . . because I suspected whatever he said, it would be meant to make me feel better.  And that just made me feel worse.
	“. . . nothing came of it, in the end.  So it's fine.” he said at length, and the response was so surprisingly neutral, I opened my eyes and was able to look at him.  
	He seemed calm, with perhaps a hint of melancholy beneath it all, but he was masking it well.  He averted his eyes from mine at that point, something I'd rarely seen him do, so it concerned me.  He turned his whole body to lean sideways against his chair, looking out the window and elevating his bad arm, before running his hand over his wrist, and the splint beneath.  
	“. . . if anything,” he sighed, “I'm just a bit disappointed in my own judgment.  After the incident at the nesting grounds, I took it too much for granted that you were a trusted comrade, when in reality, I've not taken the time to get to know you, yet.  My assumptions were preemptive.”
	“What?”  I asked, confused and somewhat shocked by what he was implying.
	He looked down.  “I never assumed you might take action to prevent the information we gathered from being used.  I knew you were opposed to the thought of using it, but never considered. . . that you might employ any and all means to conceal it.  I let down my guard.”
	“No!”  I said suddenly, horrified.  “N-no. . . I want you to trust me!”
	His grey eyes flicked over to mine, and he gave a wry smile.  “Don't mind my saying so then, miss, but you're off to a rough start.”
	“Please, I know I'm asking the impossible,” I said, softly but with emphasis, “but. . . don't hold the actions I considered against my character.  I didn't act on them-”
	“You did stalk me to my home. . . .”
	My ears flushed.  “I honestly,” now it was my turn to avert my gaze, “I honestly did want to talk to you first, though,” I insisted.  “Plead with you.”
	His gaze softened somewhat at that.  
	“Just because I contemplated something terrible doesn't mean you can't trust me.  I know that sounds incredibly self-serving, but. . .” I stammered, “. . . everyone considers the complete extent of what they'd do, including the worst possible things, once in awhile.  Especially when it's to ensure something terrible doesn't happen.”
	The man ran his good hand up over the wiry grey fur along his neck, blowing out a soft breath through his nose.  “I understand that more than you realize.”
	“Then please,” I begged, knowing I was sounding like I was begging, and not caring, “if you felt as though you could trust me then, trust me now.”
	“I. . . .”  he paused, then brought his eyes back to mine again.  “I would like to,” he admitted.  “I really would.  There aren't many people left amongst my circle of trust who are both competent and. . . alive.  My line of work is dangerous.  I've lost a lot of friends, and it is hard to replace the voids they've left.”
	“I understand that,” I said softly, echoing his comment from a few moments ago, “more than you realize.”
	The man looked to me, sympathetically.  And it didn't feel patronizing, coming from him.  He didn't, couldn't, know the extent of my personal history, save the broad strokes, but I still somehow felt he empathized.  
	I was beginning to suspect the two of us had a lot in common.  I can't even precisely say why, I too knew very little about the man's personal life, except that he'd had a wife he'd lost, and was keeping it from his best friend in the world.  That in and of itself spoke volumes. . . .
	But it was more than that.  There was something in his eyes I'd seen sometimes in my own reflection.  A quiet, solemn sort of muted pain, like the darkness on the outside edge of a storm.  I'd felt it near his shrine. . . had felt it myself in the most lonely hours of the night, when I remembered what it had once been like to nestle my son to my chest, or be held by Grant.  
	It was the knowledge that the happiest moments in our lives may have passed, but we had to continue on, despite that.  
	Because. . . because. . . .
	Sometimes, I wasn't sure.  Those days were the worst.
	“Please, miss,” the man's voice cut through my dark thoughts, plaintive in its inflection.  I looked up, into concerned eyes.  “Don't look like that,” he pleaded.  “I'm not angry.  We can forget this happened.”
	“No, I. . .” I dragged a breath through my nose, and blinked furiously, realizing he'd been seeing the pain on my face as clear as day.  I wouldn't cry in front of this man, but that might mean beating a hasty retreat, at this rate.  This was looking to be another of those nights.  Too many dark thoughts.  “I was being ridiculous,” I said, swallowing.  “I'm sorry.  Of course you won't trust me, after this.  I-I'm sorry.”
	I stood quickly, the chair squawking on the floor as I pushed it back.  “I shouldn't trouble you any more tonight,” I said.  
	“Miss Shivah. . . .”  the man said, holding up a hand.
	“Please don't call me that!”  I snapped, more than I'd intended to.  I balled my fists at my side, clenching them until my fingers ached.  I couldn't explain to him why, of course.  I couldn't tell him. . . 
	. . . he used to call me that.  
	“No 'miss', either,” I said in a fierce whisper.  “Just Shivah.  Please.”
	I stared intently at the floor for a time, trying to keep myself from trembling.  I was aware, to an extent, how terrible it all must have looked from an outsider's perspective.  This unhinged woman, following him home like an assassin, with about the same intent in mind.  Even if I hadn't, really.  Even if I was too cowardly, or too moral, or whatever had ultimately made me recoil from the notion.
	Gods, I sounded insane even in my own inner thoughts, these days.
	And now I was standing here in his house, rejecting his uniformly good will, using my perceptions of his solitary, sad lifestyle to dredge up my own emotional circus.  Awkward, to say the least.  Embarrassing, even.  
	No, definitely embarrassing.
	I'd expected when I turned to leave, he might have a few parting words for me.  Uncomfortable, but well-wishing, perhaps.  Or just silence.
	What I hadn't expected was that he'd suddenly be standing in front of me, tugging me into his arms.  When had he even gotten up?  Had I been so lost in my thoughts I hadn't even noticed him approaching me?  
	I was so short in comparison to the tall canine, my  head barely came up to his collarbone.  So his arms more wrapped around my shoulders than anything else, and lightly, at that.  Chastely, I realized.  This was like when he'd had me against the door.  He was trying to keep his hands away from my midsection, and my chest.
	I gave a huff of a laugh against his shirt, biting my lip to keep from letting any more bubble up.
	“You even hug like a priest,” I said quietly, my voice muffled by his shirt.
	“I'm not,” he reminded me, again.  He'd told me as much in the forest, when I'd asked him about his religious beliefs.  But he wasn't just any worshiper, either.  This man's faith ran deep.  Deep enough that he believed in demons and evil spirits, deep enough that he'd believed my tales of C`row.
	He was the first person who'd ever believed.  
	“I know,” I murmured, pressing my muzzle against his shirt and, for the first time, trying not to over-think the offer of kindness.  He smelled good, like the cedar his house was made from, and the wood stove in the corner of the room.  It had permeated his clothing, and his fur.
	I stood there for some time, and let myself be held.  Like everything else from this man, it didn't feel patronizing.  It just felt like like he genuinely wanted to make me feel better.  A fact which he confirmed a few moments later, when he spoke.
	“I can't promise anything just yet,” he said, “but. . . I think you're a good woman.  I still believe that, and. . . we all have moments where we slip from our path.  Nothing was hurt. . . .”
	I wanted to say 'except your trust in me', but he seemed to anticipate me.
	“I want to continue to work with you,” he said.  “And eventually, I think I'll regain that trust.  Please don't despair.”
	“My allies are also few and far between, these days,” I said softly.  “I'd like to count you amongst them.  I'm-”
	He shook his head, stepping back from me.  “You needn't apologize again.  I think that's been a dozen times since you came here.”  He smiled down at me.  “Do you remember what I told you. . . about forgiveness?”
	How could I have forgotten?  The words had remained affixed to my every waking thought since he'd spoken them.  Perhaps because they were so profound.  Or perhaps because they were so simple.  
	Or maybe it was both.
	“It is our only true escape from evil,” I said softly.  
	The man nodded.  “God,” he paused, “or. . . spirits. . . whatever force beyond this one you choose to believe in. . . gave us the ability to surpass feral instinct.  And that means we are capable of both great evil, and great selflessness.  But it also means that we have the ability to forgive the wrongs done against us.  For the beasts of the world, that's a foreign concept.  Which means they never have that second chance. . . to understand someone.”  He looked down at me, his hands squeezing my shoulders softly.  They had yet to part from me.  “And it also means those people whom we have wronged may give us a second chance.”
	He sighed, softly, although it didn't sound like a sigh of sadness.  “Throughout my life, many people I have wronged have given me a second chance.  In the end, I've come to treasure some of those relationships most of all.  A bond forged in adversity is like armor forged in great heat.  More often than not, it will withstand the test of time far better than those easy relationships you find in happy times.”
	“I find it hard to believe you've wronged as many people as you profess,” I said softly.
	“On the contrary,” the canine stated, “I'm a man of strong convictions.  Those convictions often get in the way of accepting people into my life that. . . I really should.  Prejudices, and ideology I've clung to throughout the years, that. . .” he looked down, shaking his head.  At length, he raised it again, and slipped his hand away from my shoulder.  I found myself missing the warmth.
	He headed back towards the small stove, kneeling down beside it to stoke it.  “It behooves us,” he said, in a voice laced with regret, “not to make moral judgments upon others before we truly know them, just because they don't choose to live their lives the way we believe they should.”
	I crossed my arms over my chest, my brows knitting.  “I don't understand,” I said.  “What people do with their lives?  That covers just about everything.”
	“What I mean, miss,” the man said, leaning back, “is that morality is not as black and white as our teachings and. . . some holy books. . . may have lead us to believe.  What one man deems sinful shouldn't dictate how the world must live.  People are different.”  He looked down into the fire.  “It took me half a lifetime, and having my opinions and beliefs challenged and proven wrong, to accept that.  It was gut-wrenching.  But I'm a better man for it, I hope.”
	“Certain things are absolutes,” I said stubbornly.  “Murder and abuse of the innocent, warmongering, rape. . . .”
	“If you'd gone through with it,” he said, standing slowly and suppressing a pant as he backed away from the fire, “would your intentions for me not have been murder of an innocent?”
	“Well I wouldn't-” I stammered, then glared somewhat at the teasing hint I caught in his expression.  He was being cheeky.  “In any case,” I muttered, arching an eyebrow and keeping my arms crossed over my chest, “I'm not even entirely certain you're an 'innocent', given your line of work.”
	The man laughed.  “Touche!  And right you are,” he confirmed.  “My hands are hardly clean.  I've made my necessary repentance to the Lord, but I'm not so arrogant as to assume that is enough.  This life I've chosen will kill me eventually.  And I won't even say it's undeserved, when the time comes.  I'm a soldier.  By career necessity, I've taken more from this world than I've given.  The scales always balance, in the end.”
	My tone softened.  “I didn't mean anything that severe.  I'm sure you've only done what's necessary-”
	“What's necessary and what's right don't always coincide,” the man said meaningfully, looking my way.  “That's the whole reason you're here, isn't it?  Because doing what's necessary for this colony is so hideous to you, you want to put a stop to it?”
	I was silent at that.  And the silence lasted between us for quite some time following, save the soft popping of the fire and the distant trill of night insects.
	“. . . I'm not going to tell him,” the man said at length, quietly.
	My ears shot up, and I looked him in the eyes, uncertain I'd heard what I'd thought I'd heard.
	The man just shook his head, sighing.  “I've been agonizing over it since we found those grounds.  This is a hard decision for me, miss. . . harder than it is for you, no offense meant.  I'm promised to protect the people here.  I have to look into their eyes every day,” he ground his teeth inside his muzzle, hard enough that I heard it, “and know I didn't do everything I could have, to save their lives.”
	“Sometimes the good you intend to do is outweighed by the cost of what you did to accomplish it,” I said, letting enough of my emotion slip into my voice that he'd hear it, but trying not to let my passions overwhelm me.  Some day, perhaps I could tell him why my convictions on this matter were so strong.  Tell him. . . 
	. . . about burnt villages, charred bodies. . . desperate measures taken to prevent the spread of a plague.
	“It's hard to tell that to a mother who's lost her children to the Cathazra raids,” Johannes said, pain evident in his voice.  “To a soldier who is frightened he'll never return to his homeland.”
	“There is always a better way,” I said, stalwart.
	The man gave an odd, small smile at that.  “You sound like a good friend of mine.  But the fact is, there isn't always a better way.  In this case, we'll simply need to take the more difficult route, and hope it works.  The other sites we found were farther, and won't burn as well. . . and likely aren't as valuable to the Cathazra, but. . .”
	“Burning the nesting grounds is wrong,” I said, firmly.  “So wrong.  Even if they're not people as we know them, they are people. . . babies.  Potential young.  They're literally defenseless.”
	The man nodded.  “You're right, of course.  And I couldn't live with myself, knowing that.”
	I narrowed my eyes.  “But your Lord won't care.”
	“He's not as hollow as you seem to think,” the canine said.  “He cares for his family, for his people, and his men.  He would die for any of them.  But he's also a highly logical man, and he'd see this as a chance too risky to take.  He'll do the checks and balances in his head, and his own people's lives will weigh more, in the end.  He's probably even right.  The fact is, we can't really know until the day of the raid how the Cathazra will react to our plan.  It could be that the site we choose won't be important enough to serve as much distraction.  But. . . the nesting grounds are the sure bet.  And that man only bets with his own life.  Not the lives of the people in this colony.”
	“Don't make it sound that way,” I murmured.
	“But that's how it is, unfortunately,” the man sighed.  “We're letting our sympathy for the enemy affect our judgment, and it means the people of this colony could potentially suffer.  No one knows but us.  Which means we are taking their lives in our hands. . . and only our hands. . .  by keeping this between us.”
	I swallowed, but I was firm in this decision, and he looked to be, as well.
	“Right, then,” he said with a curt nod, clearing his throat in a decidedly disquieted manner.  “So long as we're both agreed.”
	“It feels somewhat better not to have to shoulder that burden alone, though,” I offered.
	“Aye,” he agreed, a bit of the tension leaving his shoulders.  “There is that.”