Roland doesn't consider being ignored, and no more does Alain consider ignoring him. There's something deeper than thought that responds instinctively, a bone-deep answer to that command. If he thought his leg could take it, he'd drop at once - uninjured, he could roll on landing and be up again with nothing more than bruises. But his splinted leg won't allow it, and his descent is painfully slow; he shins down to the branch they were settled on before, rescues the rope to make the second descent. Truth be told, he's climbing fast, barely slower than freefall, but it feels hellishly slow. Roland's still alive down there, can still be saved.
He can't. You know he can't. But Alain shoves aside that voice of truth, drops the last couple of feet - agony jars up from his broken leg, and he stumbles and almost falls, can't help crying out - and shambles as fast as that leg allows, held upright only by the creaking wood of his splint, towards Roland and the wolf.
"Knife," he croaks, dropping to one knee beside Roland and fumbling for the weapon. His eyes are on the wolf, watching for the moment that its writhing turns into an escape, that it lunges for him or yelps and flees. Neither can be allowed.
But then the cooking knife is in his hand, and he lunges just as the wolf does, and buries the blade deep in its throat with all his strength. Blood gouts from its neck, hissing and thickening in the flames. Alain grunts with pain and effort, blood spattering his tearstained face as he hauls the knife back out and stabs it again, forcing the blade through thick fur and cartilage to sever the animal's windpipe. It's dying in any case, but its howls as it bleeds and burns may draw more of its kind, and neither he nor Roland can fight another.
Roland. Scrambling back, ignoring the scattered embers that scorch his hands and knees, Alain moves to try and haul his dinh away from the flames, leaving the knife in the wolf's throat.
"It's pinned," he says, his breath raking horribly in his throat, the tears not all from the smoke. "It's pinned, Ro', it's done. It's done." Don't die on me he thinks desperately, knowing it's useless. Don't die on me, Ro', not you too.
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He can't. You know he can't. But Alain shoves aside that voice of truth, drops the last couple of feet - agony jars up from his broken leg, and he stumbles and almost falls, can't help crying out - and shambles as fast as that leg allows, held upright only by the creaking wood of his splint, towards Roland and the wolf.
"Knife," he croaks, dropping to one knee beside Roland and fumbling for the weapon. His eyes are on the wolf, watching for the moment that its writhing turns into an escape, that it lunges for him or yelps and flees. Neither can be allowed.
But then the cooking knife is in his hand, and he lunges just as the wolf does, and buries the blade deep in its throat with all his strength. Blood gouts from its neck, hissing and thickening in the flames. Alain grunts with pain and effort, blood spattering his tearstained face as he hauls the knife back out and stabs it again, forcing the blade through thick fur and cartilage to sever the animal's windpipe. It's dying in any case, but its howls as it bleeds and burns may draw more of its kind, and neither he nor Roland can fight another.
Roland. Scrambling back, ignoring the scattered embers that scorch his hands and knees, Alain moves to try and haul his dinh away from the flames, leaving the knife in the wolf's throat.
"It's pinned," he says, his breath raking horribly in his throat, the tears not all from the smoke. "It's pinned, Ro', it's done. It's done." Don't die on me he thinks desperately, knowing it's useless. Don't die on me, Ro', not you too.