When John crosses through the shields, it hits him like a physical weight. The broken moon is falling in great shearing crescents, and the light of them— oh, the light is glorious. He forgets the thin human spectrum of vision. He sees as he is meant to see. The world is a dreamlike tangle of real and unreal, seething with energy he can feel in his bones, as though the tatters of his true self curl just beneath the skin—

He realizes he is on his knees. Arthur's knees. His hand and Arthur's hand beneath him, dirt under both their nails. The grass is cold and damp.

"Arthur," he rumbles, voice warped low. "I can feel it, Arthur. The light of this strange moon. It feels like..." He shuts his eyes, but this does nothing to stop the humming, beautiful light. He lifts trembling fingers to his face and finds the cool comfort of the mask. "It feels like looking into a mirror and finally seeing what I am."

He is pinned so tight and small within this mortal flesh. Something in him wants to unfurl, uncoil. But John has lived this before, and he has already learned that it isn't worth the cost. He has already made that mistake.

"Jack ran this way." His voice is distorted, but he can still speak. An amber light is welling in his eyes, but he can still see. For now he is still crouched on Arthur's human hands and Arthur's human knees. He pushes himself-and-Arthur back to their feet, and takes one step forward, then another. "I'm going to find him, Arthur. He— he was kind to me."

When he reaches the wolf, it is crouched over the cooling corpse of the nargacuga. John approaches with no plan and no weapon. All he has is hope.

"Jack?"