He stumbled and swayed, weaving around the snow-covered bushes more by chance than intention. When fate abandoned him, he tripped over anything that caught his aching paws and it was harder and harder to get up with each fall. Something was wrong with the male. If it wasn’t obvious by his lack of balance, the tilt of his head, the fact he was panting in sub-zero temperatures and the oozing raw wound at the base of his tail would have given it away.

It was the infected wound that caused Mortes troubles. Unable to clean it thoroughly, it had begun to ooze things thicker than blood, matting the fur over his rump and lacing his body with a feverish illness. His vision was hazy and he was disorientated but he had managed to focus his addled mind on one thing. Nicola.

He had made it to the Heather Hills now. The journey across the Barrens had been easier than the hell he endured now. With less to trip over, only his shoulders and forelegs ached from the limp he had developed that took most of the movement off his hips. By the time he got to the Heather Hills, he was already delirious and what clear air he could see over the heath seemed to shimmer like it was a blisteringly hot summer’s day. He was convinced now that winter had gone, as his back was burning as if he had been under the sun for hours. Not even the howling wind and the blizzard raging around him managed to convince him otherwise.

He distracted himself by the fragrance of his target. His nose almost inhaled the soil as he followed it between the heather and gorse. It led him a merry trail, and he had to stop many a time to rediscover it amongst the foliage. To his utter dismay, it led him out of the heath lands and into the basin of the White Wolf Mountain. He lost her at the river, but once he had struggled across it, he found her again. The snow was easing off now, but his skin still burned with heat. The dip through the Amoux had helped, and itgave him enough clarity to continue along the trail

It was when he realised he was eager to find her that he knew he was insane. The fever was doing something he didn’t like to his mind, and he had to struggle to muster his hatred of her. She had done this to him, and he was not going to let it kill him before he saw to it that she was just as dead.

Her trail took him into the forest, and he was sure she had done it to spite him. She must know he hated forests. As soon as the canopy gloom enclosed him, the shadows began to dance and weave and he tripped on every root and obstruction. By the time he came across the first stone of the ruins, he was a blink away from unconsciousness. Every step was a chore, and he wasn’t sure how much further he could make it.

The next step was like stepping on air, and he didn’t realise he was falling until he hit the stone two metres below the one he had just stepped from. With not even the energy to do more than groan, he struggled to his feet and tried to regain his balance, not even noticing the pale wraith in the cave in front of him.

He was blind to her until she was beside him. It was as if she appeared out of the shadows of his peripheral vision and he flinched sideways. He snapped at her long tail but his teeth met with a snap nowhere near the feathery limb. She came at him again – to his eyes, as fast as lightening to fell him. Morte did fall, his claws skittering on the rock before his rump slipped out from under him and he landed for the second time on the flat expanse of sculpted rock.

With a gargantuan effort he got to his feet, his legs trembling with the simple effort of standing. Then he gathered the last reserves of his strength and sprang for her. She must not have been expecting a lunge with him in such a state, because he caught her and he even managed a weak hold on her scruff with his chattering teeth. His forelegs tightened around her flanks, and for a moment he held her in a lover’s embrace. Something buried deep reared its ugly head and for a moment, he was tempted. His body began to shake with the effort of simply holding her. But of the morals he had been taught by his father that he had yet to break, this was the only one that still stood. Never out of need and want, only with of love and acceptance. He would never accept this female and would certainly never love her, but need and want were two emotions he could win a battle against in his right mind.

Morte was not in his right mind at all. It was a sickening thing that he even contemplated the idea. And contemplate it he did between screaming voices of revulsion.

He didn’t have to fight the nauseating urge for much longer because his body gave a great shudder as the fever overtook him and he slipped sideways to the ground. He crumpled on the ice-covered rock, and what heat he had left was stolen from his core by the old rock beneath his flank. He tried to summon the energy to stand once more but he could not muster it or the will to do so. So he lay prone and helpless before the pale lavender female, and it was ironic that his only hope of survival was the one that did this to him.

His bloodshot eyes rolled wildly in their sockets, is fury quite apparent, but he couldn't even kick out at her. The fever had sapped all his strength, and it was a wonder he was still conscious. He managed to lift his lip, twitching over his teeth. Almost as if rabid, he frothed at the mouth. He had not come here to be tended to like some kind of invalid. He had wanted to hurt her.

He would have killed her if he had the strength, but her words, muffled to him as if his ears were full of water, enraged him. If his limbs would obey, he would show her just how pathetic he was not. But that was the point, wasn't it? One bite and he'd lost everything. His strength, his durability, his mind. He would die. Nicola would let him. She'd no reason to let him live. She simply did this to mock him, to tease him.

Morte tried to reach her, but his head would not even lift from the ground. His breath was laboured, his heart erratic. His skin was hot to the touch yet he felt cold. He was sure he was soon to be dead, but instead of fear he felt anger. Anger at Nicola, and anger at himself. Why had he ever let his guard down? On the slim chance he would live, he would give her lenience no longer. These games would stop. Nicola was as good as dead, if she was gullible to nurse him back to health.

She was wrong. He would need food. He needed her help. Without her now, he would die. She had cleaned his wounds, but he would be in no state to hunt for himself just yet. That creeping feeling that always accompanied her touched shivered his skin, raising his hair. He snarled at her as she worked, but each breath he took to expel with the sound was less each time.

When she was done and standing over him, his fevered eyes rolled and shut. She had the strength to get him into shelter, and the grimace on his maw was almost a shark-like grin. She thought he would live without her help. She thought she would get away with it this easily. The laugh he gave was barely audible and in retaliation, he passed out. Now she would see. He would take advantage of her now, and she would have to tend to him.