Sleepy Fox Hollow maero

The man’s voice did nothing to rouse the dark shape in the underbrush.

The branches of the bush had folded to cradle Crowfeather’s limp frame in their arms. Stones, leaves, sticks, and other debris had caked into his bloodied figure. If he were to be pried from the hands of the bushes, it was not likely that he would come free without taking bits of it with him. Some of the dirt had aided in sealing the wounds. Were it not for the fall from the mountain, he may have bled to death.

Crowfeather was breathing, yes. His breath fell in short gasps, a sound that suggested he was struggling to pass the air through his lungs. Had Nyra’s fangs pierced his throat? It was uncertain. The damage to his body was much too severe to know the extent. The only clear injury that could be seen was the mangled twist of his hind ankle, bent grotesquely away from the natural slope of his limb.

No, no, p- please, the shadow cried out, his eyes remained closed.

Fevered dreams replayed the attack he had suffered. Germanicus was there, but the dark wolf did not know it. The last memory that existed in the boy’s mind was that of a glen filled with sparkling fireflies – orange balls of starlight that had swam around their heads.