Firefly Glen please don't leave me

Taking place directly after this thread.

Everything hurts; cliche to say, but he feels each of his muscles burn, the ache of bone and joints, the trickle of blood as it cascades from cheek and spine. His jaws agape, panting breath, tasting iron with each swallow as he swallows down in intervals.
His stride is uneven, he sways one way and then to the other to correct it—only to overstep with the lean of his bulk. Regardless, he comes to the silver form lain on the ground. Awake, yet his brain flashes visions of a crushed skull and twisted neck.
He reaches him. Pale gold eyes searching silver, he presses his forehead to Ghost’s.

The sounds of fighting and the smell of blood seem far away. He knows they must be close. It'd all happened so fast, surely it's only been a few moments since he fell for the last time. He can still feel the warm trickle of blood from his own wounds, the deep aching itch in his foreleg. He glances down sharply, remembering, and finds a red ruin in place of his limb. It shouldn't look like that, he thinks, feeling all the strange lethargic calm of a dream. Maybe it is a dream. He can see the flesh, all pale pink and deep mottled red, torn and chewed savagely where his assailant had gripped him. It hardly hurts, but it hardly responds to his commands, too. He hadn't been able to get up, he hadn't been able to help —
Firestorm. He remembers his friend only an instant before he notices his approach, gaze lifting. The fighting stopped, he realizes, but he can't recall when. Then Firestorm's forehead is against his, eyes of golden fire looming close. Too close. His own close, and he lets out a breath. He saved me, he's here and he fought for me. But he'd left, too. He'd left in the cruelest way, and when that thought bubbles to the surface past all the rest, he can't seem to stop his next words, though they come out as the faintest whisper. Are you going to leave?

He breathes in blood and dirt; frost and stone. The cold touch leaves Kratos’ head spinning. In the moment, he thought Ghost dead, until his voice and movement had shaken him awake. He took each blow, all to protect what is precious to him—he hadn’t known the depth until he nearly lost it.
Pale gold eyes close.
Heart thumping loud in his ears, he eventually calms his breathing, enough to exhale through his nose and close his jaws. Still, it is heavy and his back trembles with each expansion of his lungs.
“Are you going to leave?”
His eyes open.
‘Do you want me to,’ lingers on the tip of his tongue. In the first place, he hadn’t truly left. It is why he is here. The one who’s back had been turned was Ghost’s.
No, is what he settles on—not unless Ghost sends him on his way with his tail tucked. He brushes his cheek across the silver coywolf’s—the injury stinging, and it leaves a streak of blood.

The response is all he needs for now. He sighs softly, the sound almost lost under Kratos's labored breaths, and savors the touch. Good, He murmurs, wanting to say more but finding himself suddenly unable. The adrenaline of the fight has faded fully as relief settles over him, and blood loss quickly starts to pull him toward unconsciousness. He goes quiet, and the world starts to recede. Later, he won't remember Kratos urging him onto his back, or the trip back to Neverwinter Forest, or anything that follows. All he'll remember is that Kratos is here, and staying.