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.

There was much to consider. The wolves by the bay had seemed okay, but he wasn't quite sure if he was ready to put down roots just yet. There were still things in his head that needed to be sorted out--perhaps they never would be. Maybe he was irrevocably fucked up, and so Zamael entered the sound, intending on putting all the options before him and deciding on one--oh dear fucking god.

It must have been the coat color that alerted him to the familiarity of the sodden, still shape by the waves; it was hardly recognizable otherwise. A cry caught in his throat as he surged forward, feeling numb all over. Don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead, he chanted, sobbing for breath as he came to a stop by Alarian. The water rolled 'round his ankles as he bent to nose at the boy's throat, feeling for a pulse.

It was there. Faint, but there. But, god. . .what had been done to him?

He began to gingerly drag Alarian back to drier land, away from the water that threatened to drown him, to pull him away. The smell of blood was heavy in his nostrils; once he'd managed to get his brother somewhere safer, he turned away and vomited, his empty stomach offering nothing but bile. Tears from that, the biting wind, and--god, what the fuck?!--stung the corner of his eyes.

Fuck, fuck, goddamnit! He was already blaming himself with the holler, digging his claws into the sand. He knew he had to find herbs and begin to treat his brother--but he needed a moment to grieve, to curse his ill fortune.

He had not imagined this being their reunion. Not in a million fucking years.

He is conscious, barely, but the sound doesn't reach him in whatever far-away place his mind has retreated to; paradise, maybe. Somewhere warm and safe, sunny and green, somewhere his sister is alive and she smiles and his brother is with him and they talk and laugh — somewhere he can tell his mother he loves her. And maybe he would. Maybe in these moments, hanging between life and death, he could live all of it in an instant — every comfort he's been denied, every small moment of happiness he's missed.
But then there's a touch like fire across his throat and it's gone, and suddenly he's rushing back. A soft, strangled sound tears itself from his throat as he's lifted, lips peeling back as he's dragged even if he feels the water receding from around him. It feels like being skinned, like being dragged over hot coals, like it's killing him — but there's no strength left to fight. He snaps once, weakly, missing his newest tormentor by several inches, and resigns himself with a faint, choking sob to his fate, coughing up water. He goes still after that, breath shallow and ragged with the water still in his lungs. He possesses only the tiniest sliver of consciousness, the barest hint of coherent thought, and distantly, silently, he pleads: make it quick.

Finally, he gained his composure. Somewhat. With one last look at Alarian, he dashed away into the green, looking for herbs. Anything. At this point, he needed a fucking magic elixir that probably only existed on the moon or some shit. After some frantic searching, he clutched a bundle of moss to his chest, along with a bunch of other flowers that Emily's too lazy to look up but they're the flowers that help heal hurty people you dig?

He half-fell to the ground next to his brother, beginning to place moss against the worst of it. It's me, Alarian, I'm here, he said, choked. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here. I'm here. He kept repeating it, hoping against hope that the kid wouldn't lash out at him. But god, he wasn't a kid anymore, was he?

He was a man. A bruised and broken man. And Zamael hadn't been there to see him to grow into himself. He hadn't been there to save him from whatever the fuck did this to him.

Oh, cool. There was the guilt again.

Each passing moment resting on the cold, cold ground saps more and more of his soul, his self. Piece by piece it begins to slip away — each raw spot, each bright red hurt pasted across his soul starting with the very nastiest of the wounds slowly fades to nothing. Not everything — but enough.
The grey wolf's arrival rouses him again, and his eyes flutter open to fix blankly upon the wolf he no longer knows as brother — or at all. He sucks in a ragged breath and launches into another coughing fit, more violent this time. He settles again quickly, but the feeling of moss pressing against his wounds lifts his hackles and tenses every muscle in his body. A low half-growl half-whine forces itself from his throat for several long, aching seconds, the sound itself painful to sustain but out of his control. It ends abruptly, cutting off in a sobbing yelp when the pain becomes too much, and he snaps again. Should his teeth find their mark, the force behind the bite immediately dies with contact, rendering it harmless, and he can only let himself fall against the other wolf.

Teeth came his way, and he braced himself. He deserved it, all of it. And in that moment, he was willing to let Alarian tear him apart, if that would bring his brother some semblance of peace. He closed his eyes tight, waiting for the blinding pain and hot smell of blood.

Instead, he felt a sting and then a dull impact as Alarian collapsed with a thunk against him. He was too weak to even fight, damn it. Zamael began to cry, opening his eyes and letting the tears free. He pushed his nose into his brother's salt-crusted ruff and sobbed, wishing that everything would just be normal.

But it would never be normal for them, would it?

He hardly moves in the wake of his half-hearted attack, dimly aware of sobbing, contact — and while there is no thought left in him, somewhere in the haze his heart aches for the source of the miserable sounding. He presses closer, limbs tightening against the figure as if to embrace him, and goes still. Everything is a blur after that; he doesn't know how long he stays curled against the nameless form, or what happens between that and his next memory —

But quite suddenly, he blinks and he's alone, far from the coast and lost in a choking fog.