With his remaining strength waning by every breath he took somehow Godric still managed to grab a rock and toss it towards the direction of the retreating animal.
"Come back here and finish me, you coward!" he wheezed, coughing up more blood. "I am Godric Gryffindor. How dare you leave me to die like this?"
The stag stopped to look at Godric, his ears twitching and his black eyes curious and tame now that he had successfully eliminated the threat. The creature would've looked mighty majestic had it not been for his blood-coated antlers that held on to bits of Godric's robes. Godric would've even taken a moment to admire his beauty had the very same creature not just mercilessly gutted him.
"I will not have your pity!" he said, his eyes darting to his sword and wand cast a great distance away from him. How very foolish he had been to abandon them. "I deserve a proper death."
The stag turned his head from the scene and continued his journey into the forest.
Godric lay on his back with a snarl, glaring at the reddening sky above him signaling the approach of dawn. His hand clutched the gaping wound on his stomach in hopes of slowing the bleeding, but the blood continued gushing freely from between his fingers. He attempted summoning his wand but it barely budged from its place on the earth.
He cursed, pounding the earth with his free hand. He couldn't die, not now and especially not like this. He would lose his bet with Salazar. If he dies first doing something stupid and dangerous and unnecessary, as Salazar puts it, Salazar inherits all of Godric's wealth and estates in England. If one of Salazar's basilisks kills him first then Godric gets Slytherin's wealth and estates in Ireland. Helga was understandably very upset with the both of them when she heard. Godric suspects that Rowena's faith lies with Salazar.
He couldn't lose to Slytherin. He had to survive, somehow, and then resume his search of the damned litter for that insufferable woman that got him into this mess. Never mind that he was the one that chose to abandon his sword and wand when he accidentally stumbled upon the grazing stag just to prove to Vulchanova that all the talk she's heard of his strength and courage is legitimate, and that he could take out a fearsome beast with his own bare hands. He realised how truly impulsive and stupid the idea was when the stag's bone-white, sharp antlers pierced him.
Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, it started to rain. Hard.
Bloody Scots and their weather, was the last thought that crossed his mind before darkness swallowed the sight and sounds of the forest around him.
He came to hours later when the sun was shining bright above him. He was greeted with the rather familiar sight of a two-headed black bird stitched on grey. With some difficulty he lifted a hand and traced his bloodied fingers over the sigil. A sharp intake of breath followed by a hard slap to the face brought his remaining senses back to life.
"Really, Godric?!" came Helga's voice, beyond hysteric. "That's all you can think of at a time like this?"
He panicked for a moment, thinking that he had accidentally groped Helga, which would later warrant undeniably painful hexes from Salazar, but then his vision finally cleared to reveal none other than Vulchanova's marble-carved face glaring down at him.
He should've apologized. Normally he would, and he had intended to, but instead he wailed: "How could you strike a dying man?"
Vulchanova responded by slapping him again, nearly rendering him blind with the force.
"What on Earth were you thinking, Godric?" sobbed Helga as she continued grinding several unidentifiable leaves in her stone bowl. "Were you even thinking at all? If we hadn't thought of looking for you–" she choked, unable to continue the sentence. "H-hold him still, Nerida dear, this will sting."
Vulchanova carefully eased his head from her lap so she could hover above him and pin his shoulders to the ground. Godric lifted himself on his elbows before she could fully restrain him. He saw that his robes have been ripped and discarded so that Helga could clean his wounds more easily. Her puffy red eyes and tear-streaked face was a more painful sight than the stag's antlers in his gut.
He was so overcome with shame and grief that he had nearly forgotten about the pain.
"Oh sweet Lady, how can I ever–"
Vulchanova forcefully shoved him back onto the ground before he could finish his monologue. With her knees keeping his shoulders pinned to the ground she used her free hands to lock his wrists above his head, all the while being careful as to not apply any pressure on his chest. He was stunned that someone as thin and frail looking as her was strong enough to overpower a man twice her size using only her strength and weight. That or he had gotten so weak that he'd likely lose to a rabbit, but at the moment he didn't care to throw her off anyway. He was too distracted by the fact that her face was mere inches from his. Never mind that the expression her face held was hate itself, if the circumstances were different and if he had his renowned strength he'd kiss her right then and there.
"Don't move," she warned. He grinned. She narrowed her grey eyes at him.
Helga's concoction worked fast on him. Just as Vulchanova tightened her hold on his wrists he felt a searing hot pain spread from the wound all the way to his fingertips.
"Merlin's cunt!" he cursed, struggling underneath Vulchanova, all inappropriate thoughts of her immediately discarded.
"Language!" Helga scolded.
He could've sworn he saw the corners of Vulchanova's lips twitching ever so slightly. His usually strong and vivid memory offered him nothing else.
A/N: apologies for the short and rather fast-paced chapter. This scene was difficult to write despite it's short length so really I'm just glad I finally got to post it.