Disclaimer:- And here is part two, which has a bit more back story to it. As always I don't own LXG, Germany, Wagner or anything else used in this chapter. Hope you are all still enjoying this. Enjoy;

Beast and Man

Chapter Two: To Slay a Man

Tom lay on the ground, panting hard, knowing that every second he lay there, more and more of his life was fading away. The pain was still there, in large waves and Tom was oddly grateful for this. As long as it hurt, he knew he was still alive. It was when the pain began to fade that he would start to seriously panic.

A lone bird circled over head and Tom squinted up at it, watching it's graceful flight. It beat its large wings and flew lower and lower, as if it was interested in the plight of the human below it. The bird, Tom wasn't completely sure what it was – being viciously clawed by a Wolf tended to make people forget some things – landed on a branch and looked down at Tom. He stared back up at it, the hawk-like creature peering down, it's beady black eyes fixed on him.

For some reason, remembering what type of bird was perched above him became very important, even more so than trying to move and find help. The triviality of it was absurd, Tom knew that. He also knew that he should be using his fading energy to try and survive. His mind wandered and the pain began to fade.

Was it a falcon? It seemed smaller then falcons he had seen before. It looked oddly familiar to Tom and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen this type of bird before. There was something on the birds head, something dark, but his eyes were fading and it was hard to see anything clearly.

"Cack-cack-cack!" It called, and the noise sounded mocking, to Tom at least. He groaned, the tortuousness sound slipping past his dry lips. It was a falcon, Tom was sure of it... the name hovered annoying just out of his concious reach and he frowned. He could almost feel the answer floating in his mind as he watched the bird call out again. A Peregrine Falcon. That was what it was. A Peregrine falcon.

Tom didn't even realise that the pain had gone.

The young American tried to smile, the edges of his lips just curving up, though it was a struggle. He lacked the energy to do anything else but watch the peregrine as it suddenly took flight, it's powerful wings beating hard. The bird of prey gave one last call before it flew over the tree tops and vanished from Tom Sawyer's line of vision. It was only when it's last call had faded into the distance that Tom suddenly became aware of the lack of pain.

Panic hit him and he desperately tried to move, to roll over, to do something. His limbs remained frozen despite his brain screaming at them to move. With an internal snarl he summoned all of his energy and managed to swing his arm upwards. His strength failed and the arm rested on his chest, his palm on the stab wound.

He couldn't feel his hand on his chest. He couldn't even feel the wetness of the blood that was soaking through his shirt and staining his hand. Everything felt strangely numb, with a sudden coldness being the only thing he could really feel.

Tom didn't want to die like this, alone, on the cold ground of some Germany forest. The famed Black forest. He cursed the day the League had heard about a strange wolf that had suddenly appeared and started killing. The whispers around the local village was that it had something to do with Wagner, a local myth. They blamed the evil Wagner for everything that went wrong in there village. He was supposed to be immortal, a great seducer of women.

He still didn't see what Wagner – a man dead for at least four hundred years – had to do with this wolf. When he had asked the locals that question they had mealy shook their heads and crossed themselves before hurrying away, muttering quietly under their breath. When the League had finally corned one, the peasant had acted as if he didn't understand English – a ridiculous notion, as the same man had spoken in perfect English to them only the day before.

His mind wandered as his body slowly began to shut down, the puddle of blood slowly becoming larger and larger. If this was death it was a little... anticlimactic. Tom's hand slipped down from his chest, the blood stained hand resting against the ground. When he weakly removed his hand a few moments later a blood stained hand print was left.

For some reason this amused Tom. It seemed fitting that if he should die here, he would at the very least, have left a mark on the place – he just didn't realise that the mark would be physical.

A large furry paw came down on Tom's chest, the pad pressing down hard. The sudden weight on Tom's wound made him scream as the pain rushed back to him. He gasped, his head jerking backwards to slam heavily into the ground. Black spots swum in front of him, light and dark dancing between his eyes. He looked up, right into a pair of large yellow eyes. The wolf that he had shot – that he had fired a bullet right into it's chest – was looming over him.

The thing – Tom didn't believe it was a wolf, it couldn't be, no mere wolf could survive the wounds he gave it – gave a chuckle, it's large jaws opening to revel a set of large, white teeth. Cruelly the wolf beast pressed down harder, causing Tom to squirm under him, his head thrown back. It dug a claw into the open wound and Tom screamed again, a raw sound.

The beast gave a throaty laugh.

To Be Continued...

The image was of a hand print on a window. I was inspired by the image though I changed it slightly.