Altar of Twilight A shooting star

The dark shape of Crowfeather did not seem to comprehend what had happened. He was shouldered off of the grunting silver shape of the guardian. The boy's hackles were bristled and stood tall. Upon his face was an expression of disbelief, concern, fear. Then the fragrance of blood filled his nose and Crowfeather began to look around his own body for a sign of injury. 

Germanicus' words drew the dark wolf's eye. There was a glistening gouge in the guardian's foreleg. A gasp sounded from the lips of the seer. He stepped forward upon tender paws, tail tucked tightly to his belly. 

You've done a terrible thing, he scorned himself. The burning in his eyes told him that tears would come and there would be no steeling himself against them. Disappoint him again, foolish boy, the voice growled angrily in his skull. Crowfeather reached toward the silver beast with his nose to touch near the flesh of the man's wound. 

Ger- Germanicus, sounded a pathetic pleading whimper. 

You- you- you're injured. I wasn't c- I wasn't careful, the tears tumbled from his eyes. Crowfeather turned sharply to hide them from the older man.