damaged goods

Darkness had become his refuge. Staying in the waking world was a struggle; sleep was painless and comforting, wrapping him in its warm, familiar arms and holding him there tightly. He would drift periodically in and out of consciousness, trapped somewhere between the world of dreams and the real world. It was so long before he finally rose again, his eyes seeing the sunlight for the first time in so many weeks. Fatigue was written clearly across his bedraggled features, despite how much he had slept the last fortnight. Limbs were slow to respond as he slid from the den in which he had kept himself, slowly rousing himself from slumber like a bear emerging from its winter hibernation. His appearance was tousled and his frame gaunt from hunger, but he still was impressively large, though his stomach had shrunken considerably and his face was now more thin and pronounced.

He had failed her. He had realized it before it had even happened. He was no leader -- he had always been a follower. Weak, like his mother. An empty shell of a being that had never even existed to begin with. Always he had been tormented with pain and loneliness, a perpetual cycle of emptiness that could be filled by nothing. No love nor companionship could satisfy the void in his chest. But this was the one thing he knew could ground him and keep him steady. Cataleya and their pack. She had always been the true leader -- always would be the true leader -- but he was not far below her.

A snarl left his lips as his fangs suddenly found his own flesh. Pain seared through his limb as sharp incisors tore deep to the bone. His movements had ceased, his body growing still as his jaws wrapped around his forelimb. Basilisk Saxe had always been loyal to his family, and he had extended that privilege to Cataleya. And he had failed her. The snarl that slid from his lips slowly gave way to a growl that bubbled from deep within his chest. He would prove his loyalty and devotion to her, and hope that she would forgive his deviance from their agreement. Never again would he falter or stray from her side. The man knew he had been utterly too passive. There was no time for such things any longer.

Blood began to litter the ground around him as his head pulled upright, nostrils searching for the scent of Cataleya. It was easy to track, though a great distance from where he lay. A trail of blood followed him as he went, his gait uneven as he loped forward. His eyes would immediately find Cataleya, and he would find his way toward her. He was fully prepared for whatever words she might throw at him -- and he was equally as ready for her to strike him out of anger for his absence.

"For my Queen," he told her softly, leaning to drop a piece of flesh he had torn from his own limb before her. Blood stained his teeth and warily he licked his lips clean of the warm substance. A small wound was visible on his left forelimb, just above his paw. An open wound, but a clean one, and he was certain he could keep it clean enough to prevent infection. His voice only quivered ever so slightly. Basilisk bowed his head as he reclined to his hind legs, eyes dropping to the ground. "A symbol of my devotion. Give me another chance, and I swear that I will not fail you." His voice was low, the latter meant only for her and no others that might be lurking nearby. He didn't know what he would do without Cataleya any longer, without this pack -- he had nothing else in the world to fall back on.