Silver Moraine psalms 107:20

there was nowhere else amadeo could go save for north.
@Anselm was certainly not the lightest of loads to carry, as puny and pathetic as he seemed only hours ago. by the time the valley disappeared behind them, his limbs and back ached with a near constant throb of soreness. but the shallow, faint rattle of the man's breath kept him moving — there was still hope.
@Heda would never forgive him if he let this man die. she may not even forgive him for doing this. a plan was needed — what was he going to tell her? what was he going to tell the children?
what had he done?
when his legs can carry the man no more, he lays him in a bed of gravel, elevating his head with the help of a boulder. the scene must look purposeful, he decides; this was not an abandonment, simply a call for help. and so he smooths down anselm's fur with brushes of his tongue, as if it had been a loving gesture of comfort. near the site, he sprinkles scent markers as if to lead onlookers here, a wide broadcast to anyone in the vicinity. he even takes care to wipe away some of the angry scarlet that seeps into his dove-hued pelt.
once satisfied with his display, he is left with one last thing to do.
he sinks down to his knees in the dirt, touching his good paw to the german's forehead, and prays.
three recounts of Our Father.
two recounts of Hail Mary.
and one Act of Contrition.
dio mi perdoni, his hoarse voice is scarcely above a whisper, his hardened gaze collecting one final look of anselm. for a moment, he allows himself to partake in the pleasure of the view; he had done this, he had reduced anselm to this. and hopefully, he will never see him again.
as the sound of his despondent call fills the air, he disappears into the woodland; determined, now, to return home to his pride.