𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. sam uley

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

A howl echoes through the air.

The wolf stops. It is noon and the wolf is where the sun shines, bright and hot on its black fur as it steps further into the forest. Blood is caked in its muzzle, and it is so tired, but it cannot stop running because shadows dance in its eyes and it fears when they catch up, it will be no more.

The wolf's fur rises on its back, its mouth pulling back as it growls.

Not mine, it snarls. Attack.

And the two wolves meet in the middle, black meeting white and creating a gray swirl.

It attacks White's shoulder, going deep into the cartilage. White cries out and the wolf is as pleased as it is tired. But then White parries and throws Black on its back, knocking the wind from the wolf's lungs. The shadows creep in on it again, and the wolf panics, its movements sluggish and off-kiltered as it rises.

White uses this as an advantage and tackles him back to the ground, swiping at its ribs with sharp claws. It cries, snarls, and then thinks, Don't care. Not here. Gone. Gone.

Don't care.

And he closes his eyes, and his breathing slows, and everything is ash, and it feels like a fire. Like a hug. Warm and comforting.

For a moment, he is Sam Uley, and he thinks of Sage Volturi.

He misses her.