Rise.

Marik padded barefoot into the apartment. It was small, dark with the faded light, and stinking with the scent of Walker, who had no name now in Marik's head other than Attacker of Medin. The air concealed him. He slid the door closed behind him. The sudden ceasing of sound, sudden stilling of air alerted him to Walker's presence in the main room. He knew immediately that he was going to kill him.

His hands were tense, flexing right, then left as he moved - the shadows concealing him at first, then not, then again as Walker began to approach, calling out cautiously and growling upon receiving no reply. Marik could hear the blood rushing, could hear the younger wolfe's pulse pounding, thudding as he considered shifting - no, that took too much energy and would make him tired for the battle that they both knew was coming. Walker was aware now, could sense the change in the air, the pressing-down feeling that something wasn't right. Marik took two more steps.

Walker struck first, a fury of teeth and rage and desire. He lashed out ferociously, not pausing for words or comprehension, just clawing blindly at the source of his established threat. There was blood in the air. Walker was mad with the scent of it.

Walker struck first, but Marik was prepared. He took the initial onslaught, let him fight, let him tire himself, then pulled back, almost a retreat - two steps into the shadow and he charged him, ducking at the last minute to hit a vulnerable spot, exposed by the waist - a sideways slog that Walker felt through to the bone. Marik leapt upon the opportunity, let bone connect directly wih bone, forcing the younger backwards, a retreat into his own home. Walker fought sharp then - with teeth and claw, he dug into Marik, taking pieces from his back and shoulders and the skin between his ribs. He was clear with his intention. There was no going back.

In his eyes, he saw Medin. There was no going back. Walker dodged left, miscalculated the distance, slid backwards towards a low table. Marik leapt over him, landed on the other side, threw it forward to drop Walker at the knees. On top of him, he was merciless. His body, instincts screamed to go for the throat - take the killing bite while the boy was on his back, but he held off. He wanted this to last.

So he went for the belly first. Scratched straight through, rent skin like fabric; shredding crevasses all the way down to hot pink and blue veined flesh; at this, he bit in and deep. Walker howled a repulsive, bloody howl, screaming out at the pain, bay-begging for an ending, for forgiveness, for mercy. Marik had none.

Half-shifted, his claws flexed into Walker's shoulders, feet scratched at his legs. The screams grew louder - abruptly, the sound overwhelmed him and the bile choked him and so he released, and it wasn't long, but it was just long for him to register that the screaming didn't come from Walker alone.

There was someone else in the room. There was someone else here. THen, horribly, violently, like an underground collapse, understanding dawned on him. Walker's badi had come home. And suddenly it didn't make sense; none of it, anywhere, made any damn sense and it was too hot - why was it hot? - and there were too many sounds, too many scents and screams - why screaming? and his mouth burned with the hate of the moment and now he felt lost, confused, turned around and didn't know why he'd come here or what he'd meant and it didn't make sense. He couldn't make it make any damn sense.
What was he doing?

Then there was glass breaking over his head, slipping into his eyes and tumbling over his skin and the screaming had words to it now, but he couldn't make them out. He was on his back. And the last thing he saw - how ridiculous this dream was! How odd for him to dream it was happening - was it happening? - was the shadow in his eyes as Walker's badi cut his throat, then everything faded to grey.
In the darkness, he saw Medin's eyes.


~:~

In the morning, they would say it had all been an accident. A misunderstanding. Walker's badi washed the blood from his hands - his son's blood, his blood, the blood of his leader. He'd had to make a choice, but how awful either answer...he had always been afraid, so afraid that a day - not this day, but a day like it, perhaps - would come. He thought he had warded it off; had kept it from creeping closer when he took his son away. They had told him that running would make no difference. He hadn't believed.

Home. He had to go back home or his son would be killed. Qadar shook with the enormity of this. The cold water sluiced over his hands in rivulets. Behind him, the two wolfes lay on the floor dying.

In the morning, things would be different.

~:~