End?
Larkspur was blind. He was blinded by his hatred, by the things that had been poured into his eyes as a child. All of his senses were shutting down, fueled only by four years worth of hatred and the whispering voice which now demanded blood. He had moved, but his body was no longer his own. Vaguely, there was an awareness of something changing in the air. Until his body collided with the man, teeth scraping against thin flesh and bone, he knew nothing. Even as this happened, the thing he had attacked was no longer there.
White paws dug into the earth, and the black wolf lowered his head. This Minos, this wolf, was no longer what he had been. Larkspur understood the magic of their blood, and he understood now that he had missed his chance to destroy that white smudge. Ears pinned, tail brush-bottle, the orange eyed D’Angelo stared at his fellow packmate, his opponent, and was still. Around his neck that voice whispered, and reminded the man of his place in the world. The snarl on his face twisted into a terrible smile, and Larkspur bared his bloody teeth in a grimace. “Because yer life is his,” the black wolf spat, and stalked off. He understood the way of the world.
Larkspur could not claim a life that had been given to another.
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