The Strength to Carry On
07-01-2013, 11:39 AM
Masqurading as a man with a reason My charade is the Event of the season I hear the voices when I'm dreaming I can hear them say: ~*~ In the depths of the earth, the shattered beast did his healing. Only just the day before he'd managed to scrounge enough strength to drag his massive bulk from the pool of blood he'd made for himself on the battlefield. Most of it was a blur. There wasn't enough blood in his body for him to move and think at the same time. After he went down, he just remembered the challenger's howl, then a long sweep of blackness, and then... Ocena. The thoughts of failure and loss and anger didn't come til hours later - til after he'd manage, step by step, to walk the long, haunting stretches of snow til he found a suitable place to take shelter. Not that he felt the cold or wind or anything anyway. He barely even felt the pain in his wounds - just a vauge sense of warmth that he knew would turn to stabs of agony as hot as hellfire later on. But before that, he'd managed to camp down in the painted caves. Now, though, it was later, and the pain coming from his leg and his shredded neck was intense. Yet the hours ticked by and narry a sound or squeak was heard. The male wolf just sat there, eyes burning into the earthen floor, or shut in labored slumber. And always his muzzle was creased as though clenching his teeth and snarling in his sleep. At the moment, sleep was far better than the waking world. Carry on my Wayward Son There'll be peace when you are done Lay your weary head to rest Don't you Cry No More |
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