One day, as he waded through a hard storm, he heard the soft chime of a bell.

Any other day, he would've ignored it. But the rain was soaking him through, and he was desperately seeking shelter. Something about the bell sounded familiar, and so he pushed through the onslaught of freezing water, searching for it.

Under an overhang, there was a small recess, not quite enough to be a cave, but enough so that it was dry.

Against the stone wall of the recess, a man that Sif had met before was sitting on the ground. He had his legs stretched out, and looked balefully out at the storm.

This man was the priest who had come to Yda's funeral. His hair was gold, and soaked with rain; his sword rested against the overhang wall, sheathed.

" Oh, it's just you, little cat," he said. " Come here."

He beckoned to Sif.

Sif had a thorough distrust of priests now, but he was cold, and this man had never done any harm to him; he didn't dress as Calsar's people did, either.

He slunk forward, low to the ground, standing in front of him in the hollow.

" Come," the man said again, patting his lap. " I won't hurt you."

Sif glared deeply at him.

But when he thought about it, the man's woolen cloak looked warm, and he would like to dry off; he was soaked and freezing. Since this man knew him, too, and knew he was a spirit who had once possessed a human body, he wouldn't do anything embarrassing by treating him as a normal cat.

He reluctantly went forward, and stepped onto his lap. As soon as he did, he realized that the man's side was soaked with blood; he had been run through with a sword.

" Don't pay any mind to that," he said, noticing Sif's hesitance, and weakly smiled. " We're both in a bad way, it seems."

Sif gave him another look, just to make sure he was fully communicating his distrust and reticence, then curled up on his lap.

He jumped a little, startled, when the man began petting him, humming a little tune errantly. If not for his injury, Sif would've bitten him to make him stop.

But he was injured, and Sif was cold. They sat like that for a while, world silent except for his humming and the rain.

" Virtuous little cat, the world has become so hard on people like us," he said, hands still errantly running over Sif's fur. " I went to visit with an old friend of mine, and he ran me through with a sword..."

He laughed a little, and it trailed off into a groan; his wound had reopened, and fresh blood spilled out.

" And to think I would've killed you if you spoke with Helna's body," he continued, sounding now a little delirious. " I had my hand on the hilt... I've had to kill so many of them, stolen... But you're a good little cat, so next time we meet, I trust you will speak with the tongue of an evil man... Tell me your name, then..."

He fell asleep, his hand stilling on Sif's fur, and Sif drifted off too.

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