He would give himself only the minimum amount of time his body would let him get away with, before he struggled after the path his Mistress had taken. He didn’t know how long he had lain there, in the harsh dirt of their fading Empire. Long enough for his body to make the choice of life or death. He had taken sustenance from the bodies around him, those he had slain as they attempted to harm the one he was sworn to protect. He had drunk from their blood, just enough to ensure that he would live.
He must live, he trusted no other to protect her.
Once his body had strength enough to move, he had slunk away to a cave, where he had struggled to find food and water, and give his injuries a chance to heal. His rudimentary healing skills had ensured that the infection he caught ran its course without the loss of a limb, and in time, he felt he could leave the relative safety of his bolt hole.
He had lost more than a season since he had seen her last, and the journey from the Empire was long and tedious, but proved to strengthen muscles that had weakened in his time of healing. Long days and longer nights passed, and in the weeks of his journey he found his strength once more.
He was both surprised, and not, when her eventual, twisting trail, lead him to the borders of a pack that held prominently her scent. He stood there at the border, breathing in the scent of his childhood friend, of the only wolf he had ever loved, before raising his head to the moonlight, and howling to her.
Bloodletter
