(--)
There was but a bare moment of bliss where all his agony drained away and he could feel nothing but heaven wrapped around himself. The initially grievous wound on his leg was a feather brushing him, the fire at his shoulder where her teeth were buried was a spider crawling across him, and the milder burning from a dozen smaller cuts and slashes all but went silent. His fury was not absent from his face, but it was tempered, overshadowed by the blessed relief and overwhleming sense of right Guy felt. His right, his. Even his voice had ceased, choked into grunts and half-moans instead of words. Even those were denied him, and now Guy truly knew deafening silence and absence from the world. The rain was beating on his back, staining the dark parts of his fur darker and the tawny parts a pinkish red. It fell streaming down onto the woman and the mud came away from her fur, leaving dirty brown and faint pink streaks behind. There were open red places, too, and the wolf reached out through his anguish and moved to touch her where he'd ripped the fur and skin to expose raw red meat.
His heart seemed to explode, and pain burst through his relieved pleasure. Was he dying, now? Frantically he pumped and twitched in attempt to stay his position, but cried out with a wrenching half-scream as her legs connected squarely with his stomach. He tried to roll, and all the flame in his shoulder and neck came roaring back to him. His scream was of frustration, and Guy arched his back and bucked even as he knew the coldness of their separation. Strangely enough, his chest no longer hurt, not after that initial explosion. If he had looked down, he would have seen the knife, buried hilt-deep in his abdomen, but he attributed it to the strain of knowing a goddess as he had: of course it would almost kill him.
Fully maddened and unaware of his condition, the mud and blood streaked wolf tried to rise, struggling and throwing his body in attempt to stir dying limbs to motion. His manhood remained absurdly stone-hard and absurdly pale pink, sticking up from the grime-streaked fur between his legs. It bounced and cavorted with the motions of his body, meek a struggle as it was, and seemed the most living part of him -- even his eyes, fire-gold and sun-yellow, seemed clouded and dull with death. And still, one hand, the opposite of his broken collarbone, reached up and snatched for her, seeking whatever flesh it might find.
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