Witch's Marsh Death doesn't let you say goodbye

She blinked and jerked her head back with a start at the figure before her, and expected him to disappear. But he didn't; he remained, and wore a look of equal shock on his face - and it was then she knew - that he was no apparition - that she knew those eyes, that face, this man, and a deep and agonizing weight sunk through her chest, a heaviness wrought by a confusion of loss, and a desire she didn't know how to place. Something different, something new, Something she'd never felt toward any wolf she'd ever known -

any wolf, except him.

And all at once, her shock crashed her over like the torrent of breaking ice, and the reality of him hit her like a meltwater stream. Somewhere in the mess of understanding, she had begun to slip forward, and his name stuck on her tongue. Siarut. Siarut. "Siarut," her breath whisked out in a whisper. He was here, he was real - but something was wrong. The air around him cracked with tension, and she felt his panic reel off him in waves. His breathing was not right, and she felt her heart match the speed.

She stopped in her advance, though she wished to keep moving; she wished to close their distance, and feel his heat around her, but her gut would not let her. Something was wrong, and a high-pitched whine leaked from her throat, filled with the agony of seeing him like this, and filled with the want to hold him.