This pain. It was undeniably one of the worst things I had felt in my life. Was this why the souls craved a place in my skull instead of the dying host bodies? The way the flesh was rotted, and how it seemed to burn the second the air touched it. It was devastating and I could only find myself begging for that hoarse voice to appear again and take over my limping, stumbling frame as I headed back towards the falls.

I shouldn't have gone looking for the stragglers. No. I shouldn't have let myself walk into the cavern of crystals without inspecting the surroundings first. No. I should have just killed the traitor the second she attacked me. There were so many should haves - but the fact remained that I was walking (or... dragging my body) free, and that the hundin was more than likely in worse shape than I.

Slowly, worlds began to morph. My mind dragging me into a place of open fields and the warm sun with no wind to brush up against my wounds. I wasn't cold in this world, and the idea of not being cold kept my pelt from shivering and sending ripples of pain down my spine. In all honesty - my body was still cold, the wind was still pressing against the open wounds, and I was no doubt asking for an infection at this rate. After all, I'm scraping against branches, getting mud against my pelt as I stagger through the lands just pleading with my muscles to hold out long enough to get me back inside the borders of our home.

It is Innerste who realizes that I am inside the borders, her sweet voice carefully pulling me from my dream world - brought on by the depths of the psychosis I suffered from, the depths which included Innerste's voice in my head (but we will pretend that isn't illogical - to have a figment of my psychosis pull me from a different figment of my own psychosis). My body can't keep moving, though. The pain is excruciating and it is only when I see the slanting rock Midas and I had stood upon at the herd meeting that I allow my limbs to fold and my body to come crashing towards the ground.

My limbs are trembling, german curses are flooding from my lips, and my pelt is shivering - trying to keep the dirt off of it to no avail (after all, I am laying directly in it - I would assume that makes it rather difficult to get rid of). I don't want anyone to see me, but the voices in my head are adamant that I find someone to fix all of these wounds that could easily result in my death should they not be healed immediately. Of course, I can't muster up the strength to speak louder than a whisper, nor the strength to form words that are not curses. Someone will have to find me without my assistance in the matter - I have no choice.

I only know one thing:

If I die - Confutatis has won. And I will not let that happen...

SEELE