Ankyra Sound if home is where the heart is, then we're all just fucked

vague, set soon after this thread

He doesn't remember running.

He knows he must have, though. His aching limbs slow to a stop and he chokes suddenly, tasting blood. It's thick in the air, oozing from him, dripping into the sand below and quickly congealing. A deep shudder wracks his thin frame violently, unrelenting for several moments. His breath is loud, ragged as he inhales long and haltingly and his lungs ache and protest. There is a bone-deep cold creeping over him, slow and deliberate and somehow more panic-inducing than if it were sudden. It feels like losing himself, like slipping away from the world, like the inevitability of death.
His legs move again and he stumbles forward, tripping over his own numb paws and falling forward into frigid saltwater. Immediately it soaks his face and chest and fills his nose and eyes like cold burning acid, icy fire against his wounds. He screams, and the sound is lost in the waves, but he does not move again. He could drown here, he could die here; the thought slips into the ocean with the rest and floats away to somewhere distant, far from the mess of blood and salt and regret at the shore.