Shadewood death by a thousand cuts

Late evening, 2°C, heavy rain. All welcome.

"Come on Bjarte, you can make it..." 

His voiced echoed through the towering elm trees and sprawling oak branches, as he turned to glance behind him. The old male limped towards him, his body trembling and his hind right leg now dragging visibly through the damp leaflitter as he struggled to keep up.

Ansgar could see that his elderly companion was in pain, but they hadn't got much further to go. They could keep going for a little while longer — until they couldn't. 

The dark elder's paw caught on fallen branch as he tried to step over it, sending him plummeting to the ground with a heavy thud. Ansgar's ears pricked up and his mahogany eyes widened in horror as he turned back to see Bjarte sprawled out uncomfortably on the forest floor. 

In a heartbeat he was by the elder's side, his chest heaving having raced back to aid him. "Let me help you up.." Ansgar breathed as he grasped the old male by his thinning, greying scruff. "No." Bjarte's voice was hoarse and gutteral, as if death had tightened its jaws around his throat. "I refuse to leave you here, come on, get up." He tugged at the old wolf's scruff again, but the elder did not budge, did not even argue. 

Instead he let out a wheezing sigh. One which sent a chill down the young arctic wolf's spine. 

"Don't you give up now, Bjarte—" The alabaster male nuzzled at his companion's face, trying desperately to elicit a response. "Bjarte!" The old male stared back at him, though his dull golden eyes did not blink, and his tired face did not attempt pull that familiar weary smile. The old wolf stank of infection and rot. He was dead. 

Ansgar's nostrilled flared, his hackles lifting upon his back as he was suddenly overcome with emotion. The young male slumped by the elder's side, his pink tongue reaching out to lick tenderly at the old male's rotten, blood-stained leg before he let out a pittiful whimper and buried his face in the dead wolf's dark fur.