Shadewood the sun's blood on my hands [M]

Tar. Every breath was tar. It was thick, every inhale was mismatched, one being dragged out and drawn, the next being short, pained, taunt. He was a sludge, feeling his body was too small for him, his mind too large for the skull that harbored it. He felt as though he was constricted, and only exercising with the Devil made his mind at ease. That being pummeled until he could eventually learn to duck, to dodge, to grapple, hold, lock as he did. The Phantom was growing, his lean and athletic body showing signs of the growth Reiner was forcing him through. 
But was it truly force if he chose to walk into it, to seek it and repeat it?

Cry was trapped within his head too, tonight. However, it was not loneliness that sickened him. It was something much more sinister, significant and awful. 
Inhale-

Exhale.

He was on a path that he was not sure if he wanted to fight it, or indulge a bit. It felt good, no great to be so powerful, to grow in his essence so rigidly. To earn the lessons he needed to protect this pack, and to be strong enough to teach it to his oncoming spawn. His reason paired with the darkness within the void male-
and a poison was brewed and drunken. 

The world spun. It spun, and he could feel the revolutions. Every draped paw forward was a word of sleepy lips of the realm. He could hear the earth as it spilled its secrets in its sleep. Cry felt almost that much closer to the ruin he craved so desperately. He was a frazzled being, but old, polished. 
A beautiful orb of frozen torture.
A dazzling sphere of disaster that had survived so many avalanches. 

A fucking disease.

His salvation stood before him, so prime and pale, a goddess among heathens. But his friend was a heathen. 
He kept his gait slow, a glooming shade of this woodland he had claimed. Of the land he had fought for.
Who would take his pain? His misery? Who would pray away the demon harbored in him?

The Phantom said nothing as he stared upon the rapturimg sight before him.