"So commander, what do we do now?"

Galen's ears flicked toward his friend, the voice bringing him out of his thoughts. That question caught him off guard. Galen had expected that kind of simple bluntness in an inquiry form Marrin. He was a wolf through and through, honest and direct. No time to mince words. Galen had also fully expected that he would have to answer that question at some point. What he wasn't prepared for, was that he would have no answer when that time came. They couldn't just do nothing. Or perhaps they could, for now. There might be no better options.

His claws gently scraped the table as he leaned on it to address the leaders assembled. A deep breath filled his muzzle as he carefully chose his words.

"The threat that our new foe poses to the town is imminent, but not immediate. Heading out to face them now would be foolish. Not only is fighting in the dark more technically difficult, it's much more unnerving when we face such daunting odds."

A somber mood fell over the table. Galen was momentarily worried that he had been too grave in his pronouncement, but he had never sugar-coated the truth to his men before, and he wasn't about to start now.

"We'll return to our homes and rest. Then form ranks in the square at first light. We will scout and spy, uncover all there is to know about our new adversaries; and, as will undoubtedly be necessary, confront them."

None of them found this to be a terribly easy prospect to sleep on, but they could think of no alternatives. Without a word between them, they rose and left the town hall. The empty silence that remained in their stead reflected the empty silence that crept into their hearts as the grim visage of tomorrow's task loomed over them. Nonetheless, the strain of an exhausting day allowed each to find rest and let go of their cares for the night. Only Galen was left lying awake, staring out his window into the darkness.

He never would've made it back to his home before nightfall, so he imposed upon an old friend. Not much of an imposition really. Dora had never had the heart to get rid her son's old bed. He wasn't coming home, but she still couldn't bring herself to do it.

Galen's thoughts churned as the stars twinkled down at him through the window. So much had happened recently. His mind and body had both been kept quite occupied, the stream of his consciousness had been kept in constant motion, but now there was nothing. Nothing to do, nothing more to think and meditate upon. He was left alone with his apprehension, his worry and doubt, and they did not make good companions.

The angle of the stars outside his window signaled the rise and fall of midnight. Yet Galen was still awake to watch them. Constellations drifted below the horizon as the restless hours passed. He looked down at himself, splayed across the small bed. The moonlight cast his fur in a sharp, shimmering silver relief, shadowing the gaps of old scars and the definition of his overworked muscles. He thought that his coat was looking pretty good considering what he'd been through, but then he realized that the moon had imparted the same silvery sheen to everything in the room.

He heard a rustle outside. He thought that he might just be hearing things, but it came again; a scuffing sound like someone walking in the dirt road outside. From the time that had passed, Galen guessed that it must've been close to morning, but it was still pitch dark out. No one would be up this early unless they were up to something... 

Galen practically leapt out of bed. No need to change, he had slept with most of his gear on. Or at least he had tried to sleep, but that was behind him now. He had found something that needed doing. He was back in action. And as he crept through the house to the door, he had to admit that it felt good. 

He stopped himself at the doorway. His hand jumped to his chest, missing the weight of his baldric. He went back inside and removed his old reliable blade from the table that he had left it on yesterday. It had seemed like such an eternity away, yet the sword remained in the position he had left it. Not the slightest fleck of dust had gathered on it, showing how little time had passed from the perspective of an object. 

The blade hummed gently as he drew it. The collar of the scabbard imparted just a hint of vibration as the blade passed through it. He knew well the song of the sword. The ring that a weapon made when struck spoke volumes of the quality of its make. His sword had never sung so sweetly, testament to the fine hands that wrought it all those years ago. That smith was dead now, as were so many who had heard this sound since it was first played in his blazing forge.

As he placed the empty scabbard back on the table, he thought of how lucky his faithful blade was. It didn't have the constant turmoil that emotions caused. It didn't have loved ones to worry about. It didn't have to fight a battle within itself every time there was a decision to be made. 

He cradled the blade with his opposite hand and gazed into its depths, searching for the answers he so desperately needed. There was no tension, no indecision, no remorse to be found in its sleek surface; only the cold shine of the metal that was wrought to form it. The anticipation of the fight of its life did not make it shudder. Within this weapon, there was only the sense of a brief lull, before the next glorious combat. And when that battle ended, the role of the sword would be over. It could not be used to put out the fires, to rebuild the homes, or to bury the dead. It had no place in dealing with the aftermath. He would have to face that task alone.

A new glimmer appeared on the surface of his blade. A tiny rough circle that bent the moonlight. A tear.

"My battle is never over." Galen whipered.

The fragile drop was cast onto the floor as he turned around, hefted his blade to the ready, and stepped out into the night.