Wilson laid on the cold, hard ground, breathing deeply. It was almost night, the warmth of the sky draining and being replaced by cold, cold, cold. Wilson wanted to sit by the fire and throw logs onto it, or grass, or anything that could burn and save him from the dark, but he couldn't, because he didn't have any of those things. He'd risked shaving his beard to put into the fire, but it didn't last long, and now he was colder than ever.
He shivered, shaking, and started sobbing. He would die. he'd died again and again, but he would always come back to this hell. He wondered vaguely, what would happen if I stopped playing this game that bound me to life? What if I never make another move, and the rules had to change? Of course, it didn't matter. Nothing changed.
Finally, the warmth was gone. The snow under him felt like fire, cold fire, not the good fire he loved and needed. It was terrible, like being stabbed, over and over again, but in that feeling there was relief. A soft coolness, that made his anxieties go away. He looked at the moon, which was rising. It was dark. He wouldn't make it another night. He sobbed, and let out a single laugh. He'd given up completely. He didn't scrounge around for something to burn this time, and this… It felt a lot better than the dread that fell over him then.
Sniffling, he lowered his head into his arms, and felt a soft feeling in his gut. He'd felt it before, and waited for the pain that would follow, harder than any hunger cramp or hound bite. It would come and then go and then come again, making it seem like, maybe it would stop, or maybe daylight was about to come, but he knew better than that now, and he accepted it. He felt his muscles untense.
He almost screamed at the pain. He squealed, feeling it inside of him, pushing out, out, out, and he saw a tiny movement in the night. His mouth opened and more wisps came out. He didn't scream, but he cried, and he smiled. Another start, he thought, to try again.
He closed his eyes, waiting for pain again. It came, like being hit by a truck, but the truck had knives attached to it, and those knives were flaming hot, but at the same time cold, cold like ice that stabbed at him. But the pain… It was dulled, which had never happened before.
He realized he had stopped crying, but wisps still come from his stomach and back, and the deep exhaustion that came from death was still there, but… He didn't hurt. What had happened? He was dying, he knew that, he fumbled with the idea in his mind, but why didn't it hurt? How many times had he died like this? It always hurt, always, always, always. He didn't wonder about it, and he couldn't, because he was dying. He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, knowing faintly that it would be his last before he was revived again, and let the breath out. All at once, everything stopped, and Wilson couldn't think.