The wolf feels the arrows. It feels the pointed ends sticking into the flesh between her shoulder blades. Damn, how did the hunter find her only soft spot? The tenderest part? The hunter was skilled; the wolf feels the arrowheads stab her sharply with every movement…every lifting of the paw, every crane of the neck. Every movement, a reminder of coming death.
She looks down at the skull in front of her, a face that had once been so soft and loving and now hard and empty, reduced by death to near nothingness. The arrows seem to dig deeper underneath her skin, blood matting fur.
There is only one word for this feeling: hopelessness.
Utter, despairing, pervading hopelessness.
Creds to Amelia for showing me this: