The lone wolf finally collapses besides a recently fallen pine tree. He is exhausted. His breath puffs out at the rhythm of his torturous journey that may end here. He finally closes his eyes a little. He has reached the ridge after the chase in the valley. Clouds have moved in along with him from the valley. His gray fur coat is mostly intact, save a few patches of dirt and blood stains. Once he descends on the other side he knows a river is waiting for him. The water may be freezing cold but it will do.
Smokey breath hides at times his awesome fangs that his lips are too tired to cover. There's blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth, staining his fangs a little yellow. That is not his blood. The footsteps and the screams have disappeared, and he is in the silence of the clouds now.
But not too long ago there were explosive sounds he had only heard in the distance before. There were yelps and howls. That moment, some hour ago, his right hind leg was not bloody like now. His stamina remained strong as he tore through the line of rifles and guard dogs with his two friends. Where are they now? He knows too well. In this dreadful silence the explosions still ring loudly in his tired head, the sting of the guard dogs has left a fresh memory in his head, and the glory of escaping alive? It's as distant to his mind as the taste of goat blood that his starved tongue had missed for two months now. Was it really worth it? He only got a small bite, after all, before the cacophony started, before the yelps and the gunshots and the screams of the humans. The sense of victory seems like a mockery now. He lies lifeless by this fallen tree that is gasping for its last breath. He doesn't know if he will remain there and rot like the tree that is giving him some sense of sheltering. He just knows that the silence outside is at least an improvement compared to the chaos before that still lingers strongly in his head.
He slowly opens his eyes. The clouds have covered the ridge completely. It is new cloud, not the one from the valley, which remains trapped there. This is a mist coming from much higher up. He can't see much even with his extremely perceptive eyes made to spot anything moving in near total darkness. The mist chills his bones as his breath quiets down. The bloodstains on his body have darkened and coagulated, while his teeth now turn back to its original whiteness. The taste of blood, not just of the goat whose throat he ripped out, but also the cheeks of the two dogs he subdued, and of course, the blood of one of his friends, who lay lifeless after a strong thundering sound of the gunshot from the distance. He remembers his friend, whose eyes remained open, whose face froze in agony, and the blood that squirted out from his neck. He could do nothing but the ritual of trying in vain to soothe the pain. Then quickly he had to run, as fast as his three legs could while the third one, ripped by one of the German shepherds, could just linger uselessly. He couldn't run far anymore, but his pursuers for some reason have given up. And into this silence he has come and in this coffin of clouds he has lain. The sun is completely set and twilight itself is swallowed by the chilly night. There are no stars to mourn his losses, no stars he could see to help him get up, to shower him with some encouragement. But the moon must be up by now. He is waiting. Waiting for some sign of life. Maybe even a howl of a comrade or even competitor from the distance. But this has been an unusually cruel start of winter. Snow hasn't started falling yet and food is already scarce. He doesn't understand that the people who had shot his friends for attempting to steal their goats have enlarged their territories, driven out the deer and the rabbits, or at least killed them themselves. He had heard that other wolves have left, but he stuck by. He didn't want to leave. But his pack has been dwindling in number, most perished in starvation or the angry sounds of the gun.
His eyes turned to see two beetles in front of him making their way up a small tree next to him. He has tried eating those, but he just could not bear it, his mouth rejected it. But with only three legs, he can't get far, let alone hunt. If a rare rabbit pops up in front of him he wouldn't be able to catch it, not even after all the rest. He keeps wondering, was it worth it? Knowing the danger, they still made the assault and lost.
The mist is a dancing mass of water droplets. The wind is picking up and the silence is slowly evaporating like the mist into sounds of the night. Birds can be heard from the distance. Well, at least one bird. He props himself up with his front paws, shakes himself of the condensation on his fur, and props his rear half up too. He looks at the fallen pine tree besides him. It still has all the needles on it, the smell of pine is fresh, but the broken point suggests a very violent wind had torn it down. Dragging his feet, making the clearest sound in the forest, he moves down towards the river below. Whatever he will find there, or before, or after, is not up to him, but what is up to him is that he can still walk, dragging a dead part of himself along, but still walking.
