09-12-2020, 07:57 PM
There's something alluring about death. Maybe it's the way he can't seem to reach it, that it, like so many other things, will be denied to him, seemingly forever. These are the first thoughts that limp through his stuttering brain when consciousness rears it's bright, haloed head again. Blood stains his pelt but the myriad wounds from crashing into the hard cliff face and breaking to pieces on the rocky beach have already closed and the splintered cannon bone is knitting itself together when he hears the hooves crunching on the gravelly shore, but Wherewolf does not open his eyes to see who it is. He does not care who it is. The feeling of bone healing at this ridiculous rate is like bugs crawling under his skin and the boy grimaces and groans, flexing his thick neck, and then he swallows a whimper because the twisted bones of his wings have not even begun to repair themselves yet.
He feels a muzzle close to his own, feels their breath intermingle in the bitter air, the scent of grass intertwining with the menthol smell of pine and redwood, and the cold smell of ice overlaying it all. Northerner; a thought that does not bring the boy as much comfort as it should. A warm voice tells him to get up and, defiant, Wherewolf's ears twist back. His eyes remain firmly shut.
"Why should I?"
Blind, it is easier to sink back into his usual recalcitrance, it is easier to say no when he cannot see how close those hooves are to his skull - something which, much like when that golden girl-child attacked his wing, might uncover a hidden memory, but he avoids this, too. He bristles under that firm voice, bristles under what he perceives as a command. The muscles of his jaw ripple when he clenches his teeth together, when he resolves to lay on these cold stones forever; until the snow covers him, and until it melts again; until the sea rises and the sun swallows the world.
"Go away."
His shattered leg feels tender but mostly whole.
"I'm dying."
He feels a muzzle close to his own, feels their breath intermingle in the bitter air, the scent of grass intertwining with the menthol smell of pine and redwood, and the cold smell of ice overlaying it all. Northerner; a thought that does not bring the boy as much comfort as it should. A warm voice tells him to get up and, defiant, Wherewolf's ears twist back. His eyes remain firmly shut.
"Why should I?"
Blind, it is easier to sink back into his usual recalcitrance, it is easier to say no when he cannot see how close those hooves are to his skull - something which, much like when that golden girl-child attacked his wing, might uncover a hidden memory, but he avoids this, too. He bristles under that firm voice, bristles under what he perceives as a command. The muscles of his jaw ripple when he clenches his teeth together, when he resolves to lay on these cold stones forever; until the snow covers him, and until it melts again; until the sea rises and the sun swallows the world.
"Go away."
His shattered leg feels tender but mostly whole.
"I'm dying."
@[Nashua]
