Aknol hereby acknowledges that she has no proprietary interest in the characters owned by Bones. However, Aknol reserves unto herself any and all proprietary rights in the within submitted fiction.

For Angelus. August 1979-May 2006. I have not forgotten.

The wolf and the lamb shall graze alike, and the lion shall eat hay like the ox [but the serpent's food shall be dust]. None shall hurt or destroy on all my holy mountain, says the LORD.

Isaiah 65: 25

Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; The calf and the young lion shall browse together, with a little child to guide them.

Isaiah 11: 6

She found she could monitor the passage of time through sound.

The distant thud of boots hammering a thoughtless yet efficient pattern from somewhere out of her field of vision meant it was morning. Later, it would be swallowed by the shuffling of many others, she could not discern just how many, who in their trodden, worn pace meant feet which scraped against gravel and stone. Sometimes, a haggard voice would force out, rather beautifully, some hymn. The bare slap of a broad hand upon a face would usually be enough to cut its strain.

By what must have been afternoon, the overloud laughter and the empty conversation of the guards, all men, could carry down to her cell. And, like a full circle, when the scraping pushed itself again towards her, she knew it must be evening.

From her calculation of the days, she reasoned how long she had been in the same place. A year, she thought, but she could not be certain. There were times she awoke without any connection to how long she had been away from consciousness. Whether it was mercy from The Lord who simply took her out of a horror, or a simple blackout from a trauma, she did not know.

That day, she thought of her mother. Her face, her hands, swam back into her memory distinctly. She could not do anything about the past.

But at least she could continue talking to her other, more Heavenly, Mother.

With difficulty, she produced saliva from her mouth, and spat upon the dirty floor. She had already rendered crude images of Mary upon the walls of her cell; now, she merely expanding upon the scene she had depicted. The young woman imagined the brilliance of Her Crown, and of many hearts surrounding Her, open and brilliant. Shining like stars. She stood among them. As in a field. Or even like a sea. From where She stood, she directed them all to God.

"This one will never be with the others if this one puts marks on walls," One of the guards had told her. What would have been the point; to live without love, without God? This, she reasoned, is well with my soul.

So she was being asked to wait. But for what? If it was for her martyrdom, she could embrace that. Some sacrifices lived on, she had learned. Yet there had been no attempt by anyone to deprive her of life, at least not so far. Time was another sacrifice, one which could be concretely accounted for in tallies on prison walls.

Her mother here on Earth…the nonsense songs she made up for this one. Her smile. The guards had not been able to beat all of the memories out of her mind. She could even hoarsely sing some of the lines if she had wanted. The tune was perched upon her lips that day, but instead, she pushed forth a small smile. In that instant, her thoughts about that woman drew her closely to the youth, and the woman was aglow like a gas lamp being carried down a corridor.

What games had the guards played upon her? Or were they holding back from doing worse to her?

The sound of the clicking boots was approaching her. At this time of day, it was unexpected. It was just as well to her.

*********************************

When the officer found her, he took the time to observe the specimen through the prison bars. It was noted that she seemed half feral.

Her overgrown and dingy-shaded hair was matted. Through the mess, he could see hazel eyes peering back at him. They were sweet; almost human. Almost. A heat flashed through his body, which he quickly brushed away, laughing interiorly.

There was the smell of overripe flesh. He silently cursed to himself, thinking, Hasn't this one even made an attempt to keep the dirt of her cell off her? He wanted to turn the hose on her, but that was not his purpose for being there. She was hunched over, her knees drawn in. Not quite cowering at him, though she seemed unnatural in that pose.

He fought the urge to yell at her, to take her, to do anything to snap her out of her self-imposed catatonia. Stupid, crazy witch, he thought to himself. Instead, he commanded, "Get up. The one is expected."

**********************************************************************

The officer in the cobalt blue uniform had ordered this one out of her cell. His delicate, youthful face was locked in rigidity. His voice affected dispassion. It was fully incongruous to this one.

Her own feet felt unsteady beneath her. She felt the weight of her body as her legs struggled to push up from the ground with each uncertain step she took. She wanted to press against the wall for support, but she was certain that the kid-not-kid in front of her would knock this one over for making it dirty.

Finally, the concrete passageway revealed a door, which had inscribed the name of the captain on it. The non-adult "escorted" her inside, though it was more like he was pulling her with one calloused hand, while the other one was supporting her from crumpling like a rag doll before his superior. When he had this one in and standing, he stood at attention silently. Absurdist and sick, this on quietly appraised of the whole scene.

The two men chanted something foul about allegiance. Without speaking, this one's mind churned over the words, Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed by Thy Name…

"At ease. Stay with us until we're finished here, Claymont." The youth, presumably Claymont, stood next to the door impassively.

While thumbing through the papers in a file, the captain asked, "Name?"

"This one," the young woman responded.

The captain smirked, "That isn't your real name."

"It was given to this one."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You're going to be transferred. You aren't wanted here anymore." After arriving at a detail on the page in front of him, he raised his eyebrows. "The orders come from the top. Lord Darcia himself. Now, how is it that an ugly skeleton of a nothing creature like this one could be garnering so much attention?"

Silence. Her vacant stare, right back at him. Oh, she reeked, but the captain suppressed his strong distaste for her odor.

"Hm," he smiled, "you are brought before me, and yet you have so little to say? You were a real girl of value to everyone once. You were a prize to the state. You could go back to it, this one. You could go back into the world, and have a real life. Doesn't that sound so much better? Isn't that really what you want?"

This one raised her head slightly.

"Why don't you end this silly game you've been playing with us? Be with us, and live like us, and all of this will be over for you."

"It has been a long time coming," Croaked out this one.

The captain blinked, cleared his throat, and regained his composure. Amazing, He marveled, unsure of her, of himself. After months of struggling with her, I ask this one a question, and now she wants to come back?

He gazed at her paternalistically. "It has been a long time for you, hasn't it?" He nearly held his breath. Then, he quickly reminded himself that she was not worth feeling any amount of suspense.

"It has been a long time coming. And now, He is coming."

The captain shook his head. "He?"

She beamed with a self-possessed triumph. "He is coming. He shares in His Glory with those who would have it. He ignites the hearts of many men. He is coming to judge those who have defiled His Word-"

The captain groaned, overlapping the influx of her drivel. He motioned for Claymont, who appeared by the girl presently.

"You had a chance in this life," Captain leaned across the desk to better survey the living disaster before him. "But it doesn't matter now. You're going to Lord Darcia. You're his problem."

"Your king on high is the Antichrist. Your king is dead. As you now stand here talking, he has just committed suicide. I am not the one being exiled; you are. Nothing will hold your people together anymore."

Captain restrained himself from slapping her. Lord Darcia had specified that she was to arrive physically unbroken. He reminded himself that it was also a stipulation he had wanted from the guards when she first came here. He had thought she would be so much more…appealing to his eyes without broken bones.

He consoled himself instead by cursing. "You're nothing to us, do you understand?" he finally spat at this one. "And your words are garbage."

He nodded to Claymont, and this one was dragged from the room, her ethereal contentment beneath grey and flimsy fabric found a way to burn straight through him. The door slammed. Whiskey. The word seemed like a promise to him suddenly. He needed whiskey.

**************************************************************

After some time had passed, she was sprawled again upon the floor of her cell. She could count Rosary decades with her fingers, and tonight, she wanted something to be done through it. Her mind could not be pacified. She knew that the men who watched her were aware of what she was doing, yet no one made a move to stop this one.

Her head was propped up by her arm; her fingers tingled from having fallen asleep. She switched sides.

She had learned how to wait, so she waited.

*********************************************************

Even after two glasses of whiskey were downed, the captain's animosity remained.

He hated how smug and self-righteous these so-called people were. He should have been able to strip her of her peace of mind long ago. But no, she was placid in her own delusions.

Lord Darcia finally took to claiming her? Fine. He did not care to know the reasons; after all, was it really his business to know what Nobles did, or why they did anything?

But he could make matters sweeter for himself. He would comply, and not break her body. But he could break her sense of hope, once and for all. He felt more assured of his actions as he began to reason, She deserves that. Her kind are all here for a reason. They brought this upon themselves.

He smiled. He remembered why he enjoyed his position of authority.

************************************************************

At some point, her mind had stopped spinning those thoughts; they did not seem reliable to her. The past and the present; she could bring spread the images of her life before her like a collage. It was confused, the memories all enmeshed. She pushed them forth like a child's sailboat, as if God were waiting on other end of a pond to receive them.

She could not recall falling asleep. Yet eventually, she grew aware that she was involved in a dream.

Colors took on life and texture. The sepia of her wall mural was no more. It was vibrant, it was real. She could walk freely in a place where no malice found her.

Suddenly, she thought, Is this Her Garden? Or am I nearing Paradise itself?

No one answered, but she marveled at the dark green, visible through moonlight. Then, figures flashed before her-animals of some kind. She strained her eyes to see them. From a distance, one of them ascended a cliff. He was a white wolf.

They all were killed years ago, this one remarked. There aren't any wolves left.

Someone had forgotten to tell him that he did not exist, apparently. He seemed so tangible to her, if only she too would climb upon those rocks!

Yes, she smiled. He was a stately figure before her. And she had decided that she loved this eternally-stretching garden. Then, the wolf raised his head to the moon and howled. This one followed his gaze upward. Clouds like liquefied silver began covering the moon. The tremulous formations broke, and it rained upon her. She was unaware of any cold, so she did not mind the sensation of becoming wet.

Growing drenched, she called out, "Lord, why do you show me these things? I will be killed soon. Are you showing me where I am going to be with You? Yet I see Your Goodness, and I will do whatever You ask of me. I adore You."

She dropped to her knees, and her head lowered. As she peered downward, she found the rain carrying the dirt from her skin and garment, the muddy streams flowing away from her.

That was when she heard His Voice. The sound defined melody. Its strain shattered every barrier between them, so that she could know perfect intimacy in His Words.

"My beloved child, you have pleased Me in the sacrifices you were willing to make in your life. And therefore, I am preserving your own life. It is not yet your time to return to your eternal home. Instead, I ask that you watch over My People in a new city which I shall build for My Faithful."

She exhaled quickly, confused. She found every hidden room inside her opening to an influx of immense love, and she was razed. She was struggling, but failing, to understand His Words. For the first time in a long while, she found herself grinning. There was nowhere to run from being consumed entirely by Him in His tenderness for her.

"I will do it, Lord. But what is it that You want me to do?"

The lush garden faded from her sight, retreating like a constellation at daybreak. In its stead, she saw the guards asleep at their posts. She was taken further, past the prison, and came to a wooded area where a tree stump stood.

"Leave here. Speak to no one until you arrive at the place you now see. The wolf will protect you and be your companion as you follow the course to My new city."

She found herself again forming the words, "Yes, Lord." All the while, in her mind, she was chanting, I'm alive, I'm alive. Gratitude was teaching her new tongues. She did not burst from absorbing it all, as she feared she would. Instead, thanksgiving seemed to pour out of her. Something near this one began to stir. It was a tiny whispering sound. She listened.

"Awaken."

Her eyes shot open. She felt the cold ground pressed against her face. Lifting her head, she looked at her environs unsteadily. The cell, she realized. Then, the familiar stench of sanitized death began to waft in to greet her.

Her blood was quick in her veins. It felt like inebriation and reverence coinciding as it pulsed through her. Without any degree of surprise, she noticed that her cell door had been swung wide open.

She pulled her knees into her chest, rose unsteadily, and began to walk. The threshold finally felt like a door to somewhere, instead of a gate barring her from whatever was found beyond its reaches. She passed through without difficulty. She continued slowly through the dank and functional corridor. The way was set before her, precisely as she had dreamed it. She held her breath as she encountered guards slumped over, saliva trailing from their mouths onto their faces and chins, and still, as if in a deep sleep. She would have lingered to observe just what had come over them, but her overwhelming drive to leave seemed more important. By the time she had neared the exit, she had witnessed five of them at least, either flopped upon the ground, or seated, head down like dummies which had been arranged haphazardly. She thought she heard heaving breathing, like snoring, from one of them, though she reasoned it did not matter if these were alive or dead. Their judgment was coming.

She left. She left. The sunlight, which she had only had access to from a small window five feet above her before, poured upon her. She flinched at its garishness, its touch. This was hard. She wanted to run, but her legs began to buckle under her. She teetered back to an upright stance, and nearly staggered towards the wooded area. The trees were totally leafless, though she did not feel cold.

Hello, trees, this one thought. She did remember what they were. She looked up as she made her way through the woods. The only one watching over the scene was a crow, who seemed irritated to be there.

Her feet were loudly snapping twigs as she clambered through. She did not care. She had to get to the place shown to her. Finally, the tree covering thinned, and she could detect the clearing.

When she arrived, she pressed her hands against the stump for support before sinking back to sit upon it. She gratefully gulped the air, and at last noticed how different it felt against her throat and how it tasted. Somehow, there was no burning in her trachea anymore. She was weak, but without fear, and the air was making her stronger; she knew it.

She lingered in the stillness. After a point of some twenty minutes, she heard a rustling noise approaching her. She sat up, attentive.

His figure was in shadow, from a distance. But by the time he had reached where this one was, the sun was like a spotlight upon his face. He was a young man clad in casual clothing, she observed. He was just out of his boyhood, perhaps in his early twenties. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a dark pullover jacket. He was staring unusually fixedly upon her, so it was hard for this one to ignore his features. Pale skin with only traces of gold upon it; no sanguine shades to be found upon his cheeks. His thick coal hair fell to all different lengths, as if he had paid a fortune to have a stylist make it appear naturally disheveled. His eyes were blue, like a gas burner turned up too high. Crayola blue.

Mary's blue.

Painfully conscious of the staring, this one jumped (as much as she was capable of jumping) to her feet. Her eyes watered over in her confusion, and her left hand instinctively flew to her mouth. She subconsciously began to gnaw on the cuticle of her thumb.

"It's okay!" The young person exclaimed, seeming to be surprised at her reaction. Collectedly, he raised his own left hand, and turned it so the back of it was visible to her.

There was no mark.

This one felt warm liquid spilling into her mouth. She looked down, and realized that the biting had caused her badly chapped skin to break. She was bleeding.

The boy noticed the thumb, now dripping scarlet (perhaps the moment after she did), with some inkling of compassion. Then, his gaze returned to her face.

This one still did not know whether to run to him or from him. How long has it been since anyone has touched this one with kindness? she wondered. If only he would put his hand on this one's arm, this one's shoulder…

Stop thinking that way! a more rationed part of her ordered.

After that uncomfortable moment of regarding each other had passed, he spoke; "You are waiting for someone."

"This one is waiting for someone, but not for you."

The boy glanced behind him. "We don't have time for this." He gestured for her to come close, seeming agitated. "You don't get it? You're not safe here. Others are coming; I can hear them."

This one took a step backwards, and rested her hand firmly upon the stump. She knew she could counter his arguments. "But"-

She nearly gasped when she looked across the field. The boy was no longer there; he had…faded, somehow. As his frame became increasingly less distinct, a new form emerged, even more prominent than what had been there before. It was clean whiteness, elongating, coming to angular points, triangle ears, a rounded muzzle…

A wolf. The boy was a white wolf.

"Now," he said. His mouth did not move, although she heard words being uttered with perfect clarity. "Will you come?"

She was moving, as quickly as she was able. And she knew she wanted him by her side already.