happy endings are the hardest to fake,

her heaven is only half alive
i fell asleep in his, but he could not breathe in mine

He is her guardian angel; some distant dream sent from the heavens to come and save her—or perhaps he is some cruel play by fate, some twisting grin, some machinating ichor trickled down to taunt her, to give her one last semblance of brief hope before she fell to her demise. She cannot tell if he is real or a ghost, but in her desperation she does not care. Hind paws fight fiercely the sides of the cliff-face, kicking loose rocks that echo hauntingly as they tumble into the endless ether below. The sounds were a terrible tinnitus, a prequel to the fate she would certainly meet if her paws continued to slip. She grasped on desperately, limbs aching underneath the weight of the rest of her body and claws steadily failing to keep the grip. Her pawpads skidded against the harsh and small cliff, and soon, even that would not be strong enough to sustain her weight. It is then when he arrives, in all his glory, and golden eyes stare wildly upwards at him—shrouded in some pale light, worry etched onto his face and so perfectly alive. He reaches down, and Jendayi feels almost the urge to reach her paw forward, to brush it against his muzzle, so that she may know he is real, and he is here to help her (what odd things desperation will drive in you, especially a woman so stoic, so steeled). She opens her mouth to speak, but finds no words capable of this moment.

She reaches forward as he lowers himself, but the strain on her muscles is far too much, and easily begins to falter. The ledge that supports her weight is slowly beginning to falter, and suddenly, there is an ache—a tremble, a snap, and the ledge falls away underneath her. But through the haze of her fear she feels teeth grasp onto flesh, and she does not quite fall. Her paws made contact with the broken wall where the ledge once was, but now, she is within the grasp of the man above her—but even he has his limits. With the support of his own strength and the quick work of claws scaling up the wall as best a frightened wolf could, Jendayi was heaved over the side of the trench and pulled into the safety of the soft snow. She finally begins to breathe—and she almost feels the overwhelming urge to consulve where she stood. She only stopped, perhaps, out of some subconscious consideration of the man beside her, as if she’d need to keep her manners, even after such a close brush with death. “Ah…I…thank you,” she breathed, turning her golden gaze to look upon him.

Her fur is disheveled now, and the flower nestled in her ear long gone crooked and broken in half from its frozen state. She is skinny, and frail—the usual curve of her belly lost to starvation and the luster of her winter coat thinned and cold. She is, in the best manner, unhealthy. But she does not care. She cannot care, for her mind is choked with thoughts of what could have been—and what short a tragic story her life would be. You saved me, she wanted to say, but found the words far too heavy to speak them and feel it would be enough. An aching subconscious began to tear away at the back of her mind, and Jendayi finds her gaze faltering, growing far more blurry…