It hadn't been Wyatt's intention for Max to wake up alone. He hadn't even really intended to seek the voice he'd heard, so soft and subdued beneath the shifting winds. One moment he'd been in their little cave, Max's gentle breath a whisper behind him as he stood in the opening... the next he was out in the sand, head tipped against the grating wind, frowning. Sure he'd heard something. Sure he'd seen something. A dark shape slipping over the dune.

...A moment after that, and his certainty was validated.

It hit him from behind, the weight knocking him off balance, sending them both tumbling. Sand flew, claws and teeth and the silver of Wyatt's knife flashed.

He didn't feel the pain until it was over. Until his heart slowly began to settle, until he could hear the wind again, over the ragged rush of blood in his ears.

Until he could feel the blood running in hot rivers down his back.

Turning from the strange, alien body, he struggled back up the dune, the traitorous sand slowing him down - turning to red beneath him.

He painted the rock wall with it, sliding along the face, needing the support, as he made his way back to the cave. As his vision spun nauseously.

There was a moment, a quiet little voice, that asked him why he was even bothering. That murmured that this might be for the best. Reminding him that there could be only one winner and, at best, he would only be postponing his fate.

Already fighting with his body, the fight with his soul was too much, and he slumped weakly into the sand.