Smothering terror struck me mute.

Where have you fled, O spirit of self-assurance; why have you withdrawn your embrace from my soul, and left me in abysmal circumstance, where all hope for the future is expunged? Dust and ash creep in swells of gray all about me; I am blinded by cinders and suffocate upon the burnt, rotting remains that death has scattered and left behind. Something hinders my steps—some horror clasps me near—I am paralyzed, petrified, abandoned by all complacence, stripped of all confidence. Feeling surges through my fingers, as though I had gripped the hilt of my espada for an age too long—it is pain multiplied, it loosens my grasp. My sword clatters to the ground.

I blinked, for introspection had conveyed me some distance, and forced all attention back to my own body, to the world about me. I felt light of head; I burned with the restoration of consciousness to the present. Stooping, I plucked the sword I had dropped upon the rocks. My heart throbbed, snared in my throat; the burning had extended, and prickling sensations stole through my veins. The two figures—they were battling. What had provoked them? Was their combat deliberate, the object of long contemplation, or was it spontaneous, and if so, was I in any chance of being caught up, of being carried upon a tide of arms and forced to raise my sword in defense? I had drawn my sword automatically; I had no wish to employ its fatal edge against anyone. But would I be obliged? All this I considered as I knelt there, peering around my buttress, my stone wall, fingers clinging to my sword, heart pulsing, limbs taut. I waited. Ashen haze obfuscated the combatants; I saw but shadows moving through the brume, heard the noise of their struggle, and cringed.

“Pick up your sword.”

Terror laid its frozen hand upon my spine; I went stiff, and my eyes widened.

“Are you deaf, unwilling, or unable? Come. Pick up your sword.”

The voice was cavernous; it came from behind, rolled through me and vibrated every atom in my frame. I thought immediately of devils. Their likenesses had been drawn into the ivory-white pages of my father’s great psalm book, and now they loomed before me, harsh of countenance and distinct, horrid beyond all comprehension, alive!

Thought had abandoned me. The burning in my joints increased—it filled my limbs, my chest, my head—I stood. I cannot say why I stood, but I did, I stood clutching my sword in obedience to the roll of thunder and its articulations; I stood, and warm air wafted over my shoulder, against my neck.

Jesús, María y Dios…

Something is standing at my shoulder and it’s going to kill me, Jesús, María, Dios ayúdeme, ayúdeme—I’m going to die, oh God help me, help me, please—

My fingers had turned to stone around the hilt, and my body burned—sweat upon my neck. Sweat and breathing—the latter engulfed me. Did time slow, as the earth wheezed its wasted air along my shoulders, as that booming voice grew tangible at my back? The presence was becoming too strong; like an animal, frightened from its immobility, I spun about, half-gasping—now screaming—my blade like lightsome silver among the ashes, catching the pointed muzzle, the sterling fur—a monster loomed behind me, surely, a demon risen from hell! It stood several inches taller than my head, white teeth upon one side exposed in something that was not quite a snarl, something that was too horribly human to misconstrue as bestial. Its amber eyes glittered upon the Cimmerian clouds of ash, the deepening dusk sweeping over the land. I screamed again and went tumbling into the wall, but no time had passed between my turning, my discovery of the behemoth behind me, my staggering, my fall. I had discerned—I had registered—in the blink of an eye. My head connected violently with the stone, and a spark of black threatened my vision.

Reason, surprisingly, had remained.

A wolf stood before me. A mile-high, gargantuan wolf.

My vision passed through some stages: firstly, a tangle of black dots that swelled and became a black lake, fading as they merged and became clarity, emergent upon a sea of haze. The wolf towered above me, its lips still parted, as though it laughed at me, as though it meant to speak. It lifted its head and I staggered to my feet. I had fallen awkwardly, knees bent and heels against the back of my thighs—standing was involuntary, a completion of my trajectory. The stones caught at the back of my shirt and hair, opposing my upward path—they scraped like malicious things, and pulled me backward into that buttress which had once been my haven, and what now hindered my escape. But I was now fully upright, and instinct took control of my legs: I jerked left and fled. I had come to the corner of the wall, and was now around it, my right hand grasping the abrasive stone, chafed as I sprung around it and put the wall between myself and the wolf. But I was slow—ah! so unhappily slow. The wolf had anticipated my movements and came bounding around the opposite side; I turned the corner and came face to face with the amber eyes and the terrible countenance. Perhaps the wolf had done with words (for in my horror, I had convinced myself that this animal could speak, so thoroughly did its expressions lend itself to my impressions) and now only looked to destroying me quickly, efficiently. Its rows of teeth gleamed, snapping inches from my face. But again, instinct had taken charge, and drew me back just as I went sailing forward. This contrast in motion strained my neck, but no groan of pain escaped me—only another scream of horror, a twisting of my body into that backward motion, running.

I ran blindly, as though through a hall of mirrors, for in such a place as that there are mirrors all about—so here there were slabs of broken wall everywhere, and in this manner resembled a mirrored web. I fled toward a column. At my right shoulder, again, there came the hot, damp breath, the twinkle to teeth, the wine of gums—I swerved as the wolf moved effortlessly to cut off my path of escape. It snapped at my head; a heavy paw, beared with claws, raked the air where I had been. I did not congratulate myself on my timely veer, only breathed with relief—but suddenly, that breath was gone, extinguished—this wolf anticipated me as I was unable to anticipate myself, and had come snaking around into my most recent path, wearing still that human look, that pitied my idiocy and my sluggishness and my inability to surprise, my inability to escape. Again I threw myself aside, motivated not only by my terror, but a growing desperation, a presentiment that I was not going to live—a rabid, furious need to live despite this. My wildness was like fire, coursing from my under-consciousness into my limbs and hands. I still held my sword and now used it. I was face to face with the wolf, slipping amid broken flag and rubble. The great, gray body of my antagonist bent sinuously to face me, and the lips curled back in that unsettling grin. My feet braced, my body tensed—my hand grew hard about the hilt…

Dear God. This won’t work, it can’t work, this wolf is not—

Its amber eyes danced, like scarlet flames, molten rock, embers, alive. I grew numb as I understood—understood not with a conscious thought, but with a flooding of the mind, the body, like rain, like the tide, like water upon a parched throat. This wolf was not a haphazard creature. It did not rise from hell as a phantom, sent by devils to fight me. I had no notion of its origins, but it was beyond all I had ever known, ever encountered. It was clever and it did not move guided by instinct alone. My heart swelled, tears of horror rising in my eyes.

Dear God. This won’t work, it can’t work, it can’t work, it can’t—

“Your fear is like the stench of sulfur,” said the wolf (but was its words within me? My body quaked from the inside out). It loped forward, came at me like a rush of grey water—there was no way I could block that powerful frame…

I slid forward, onto my stomach, and rolled beneath the behemoth.

I do not think I surprised him, but neither did I surprise myself, for having come to some conclusion as to what I fought, my fear had settled so far as to give me access to my own thoughts. I scrambled gracelessly up and lunged, sword poised, seeking some vulnerability, some concrete indication that the wolf I fought was indeed full flesh and blood, but I was again too slow—my head spun, and I saw the wolf’s paw as only a blur, catching my sword as the body turned, ripping the espada from my grasp, flinging the brand, in its way, to the ground. My hand fell to my waist, to my pistol, but something stopped me, an urgent, inward voice. I continued downward, found the ground, grasped a heap of rocks. They spewed from my grip—gravel filled my nails—I rose and cast the shower at the wolf, bringing up another pile, throwing it concurrently with the last. This was hardly affecting, though the wolf paused and raised its stately head above my paltry efforts. I took this as a favourable sign, and continued to throw while retreating; from the tail of my eye, I heard the sound of battle from the other two antagonists, heard the scream of weaponry, of conflict. Did they mark the wolf? I wondered. What would happen if I staggered among them, took shelter in their struggle and so warded off my own opponent? I saw the wolf’s eyes slide in the direction in which I threw my thoughts; seeming to shake off my vague assault, the wolf bounded forward. It leaped, and seemed persuaded to take me, but I leapt forward again, ran for my sword. I heard the crunch of rubble as the wolf landed, the grinding noise of footpaws turning. The crunch grew loud; the wolf was in pursuit. I seized my sword and turned about with a cry, for I could not bear another moment of blindness to the progress of my enemy.

I turned and was caught.

Huge paws brought me low, slammed into my chest and sent me skidding into the dirt and stones. The earth grazed and stung, drove its wreckage into my spine. I screamed, flailed, losing hold of my sword and kicking, began to shriek. I flung up my hands, catching the wolf’s mouth, gripping the muzzle fur, feeling its hard, wet pant against my wrists. The sides of its teeth pressed my palms. They were so long, tepid, slippery—where the teeth shortened, they stabbed my flesh like needles. The monstrous head shook back and forth, and my hands began to alternately lose their hold, slipping into the yawning mouth, against the teeth. I kicked and kicked—there was the wolf’s rib cage; I kicked harder and envisioned in those desperate moments fracturing the bone—one piercing the heart—oh, but unlucky creature that I was! Though I poured my soul into every frantic kick, my attempts were futile. My screams were growing guttural, and soon my throat would be no longer able to sustain them; my heart would tear through my chest at the rate at which it beat and its palpitations filled my ears. My arms shook, my clasp slipped. The wolf’s mouth was inching closer and closer to my face and I felt its heated breath, its flecked saliva—

“NO!”

No, I could not die, I would not die! I had been abandoned by all that was human accepting this violent, wild-eyed desperation, and oh, was I desperate, like a woman scorned and ravaged of all her sentiment, left with nothing, nothing, nothing but something wild and insane! A sudden life flowed through my arms and I bridged the burning fatigue of my muscles; I screamed again and thrashed about. The monstrous paws pinning me down slipped, one from my shoulder. Partial freedom! But then the head lunged down. I came flying up in the same instant, breaking the pressure upon my other shoulder, my hands wound in the jaws and tongue of my adversary. My right shoulder was burning, ragged, crimson suddenly—brilliantly white teeth had torn through it; my hands released their hold. My face was buried against the neck of the wolf, and with a shriek I sank my teeth into the fur and lashed my head about, grabbed with my left hand more fur and pulled and pulled and pulled. The wolf lurched against my shoulder and I grabbed its head in an encircling arm, grabbing and yanking more fur—every finger and tooth was thus employed. The wolf waggled its head savagely, reeled backward and drew me off my feet. I hung there like a marionette, but with a violent shake, the wolf dislodged me. I went crashing to the ground and the wolf leaped. I rolled away, stumbling upright instantaneously, snatched my pistol from my belt and turning, aimed frenziedly and fired.

The shot was a fortunate one, for I was close, and grazed the ear of my antagonist. The wolf flung its head upward momentarily, and I discovered my sword amid the rocks. I lunged and seized it, and then turned and ran. I burst upon the arena in which the two figures fought, stumbled and crashed into one of them in a knot of arms and legs.

Like a doll, like a mess, like a blur of confusion, I fell…


OoC: Being 10:30 at night, I will be obliged to look over this for shameful errors in grammar later. Until then, yay! ^^ Sorry for the wait. And apologies, HH, if I portrayed Kiba wrongly.