It was not unexpected, but he had hoped it would not happen. Hope, however, was unfortunately unreliable.

Dodge, parry, thrust; the screech of metal against metal rang through the air, deafening and painful and distracting, and it was all Wolf could do just to stay alive. He could not afford to pay too much attention to the archer on the roof, and it was his downfall - all it took was a half second spent too still, and then the cold metal of the arrowhead was plunging through his skull, and all he felt was the smooth shaft of the arrow following through before the world went black.

Blink. Bloodsoaked courtyard. Blink. Darkness. Blink, white flowers turned crimson, blink, void, blink . . .

He knew not how many times the scenery around him had changed, nor how long he lay there watching it flicker, a disorienting blur he could hardly process. Back and forth, and the pain in his head ebbed and flowed with it, an agonizing torment that worsened his confusion. With each reawakening, his body seized, mind scrambling for anything - any context, a purpose, a course of action, before he would sink into the blissful nothingness once more.

How many times had he died? How long had he spent in this miserable limbo? How many innocent people were becoming victims to his suffering as he lay there, indefinitely dying, horrifically immortal?

He didn't know how much time had passed before he gathered the sense to command his body one simple task: move. Seconds spent alive were precious and all but impossible to work through as he fought past the agony and unknown damage to his brain, forcing his fingers to twitch, his arm to slide along the ground, his hands to grasp, and finally, ultimately, his muscles to pull him forward.

How many times would he die just trying to accomplish this much? How far would he get before he perished again?

He had to try. For despite his job to keep his young lord safe from the horrors of the world, despite his purpose to face this fate so his master would not have to, there was only one name on Wolf's mind, only one person he could think to help him.

Kuro.

Emma was coughing.

"Wolf," Kuro whispered, horror seeping into his very bones.

The dragon rot was an unfortunate, inescapable side effect of Wolf's gift, one that the Divine Heir knew well that Wolf avoided evoking at all costs. Kuro was made well aware that his most recent request must have been quite an impossible one, for Emma had quietly informed him in passing that the disease was beginning to crop up once more mere hours before. It was worthy of concern, of course, but Kuro knew a cure had been found, so he did his best not to worry. His Wolf was strong and capable. If nothing else, he would retreat and recuperate to avoid unnecessary casualties.

But then Emma had informed him quite urgently, bursting into the old library with her hair falling from its ornate bow and her chest heaving with struggling breaths, that the dragon rot was spreading impossibly quickly. And then she had begun to cough.

Never had Kuro seen her ill before, and fear's icy tendrils curled in his gut at the implications. Where was his shinobi?

"Emma."

He waited as patiently as he could muster as her coughs subsided. "My lord?"

"Has Wolf returned at all since this morning?"

"There has been no sign of him."

Kuro's breath left him in a sharp exhale. "Would Lord Isshin be willing to send some soldiers out looking for him?"

The pity and hesitance on her face said it all. But she bowed regardless and said, "I will ask."

He thanked her as she left, but in the end, the palace guards were primarily under Genichiro's orders. The most Isshin could offer was his own personal guard keeping an eye out, to which Kuro thanked him through Emma, but he knew the gesture would be fruitless. More hopeful was the hushed promise that a loyal few may be able to keep patrols lenient, but it did little to appease the aching fear in Kuro's heart.

It became impossible to focus on his research.

He reread the same passage of his book over and over as he waited. He watched the sun go down as he waited. He ate a simple meal of rice as he waited. He stared out the windows, eyes peeled, as he waited, waited, waited, until it was too dark to see.

Inevitably, sleep begged him to give in, but still he waited, tossing and turning on the futon, wishing for his Wolf to return soon.

And then there was a thud outside his door.

Kuro shot up from his fitful sleep in an instant, blanket falling into his lap, his heart thundering in his ribcage. How long he had been asleep was a mystery, for it was still dark out and markedly silent, save for the noise that had woken him. He almost thought he could have imagined it, but then there was a scuffling in the hall, and he knew someone was there. He dared not hope it was his shinobi; Wolf always arrived in silence, and this intruder risked waking the entire castle.

But then his door was being pushed open by a hand remarkably low on its frame.

"W-Wolf?"

On the floor just outside his room lay none other than Kuro's own Shinobi, propped up on one elbow and breathing hard. Kuro could only stare as the man lingered for a moment, unfocused eyes settling on him, before they fluttered closed and Wolf slumped to the floor - and, with bile rising in his throat, Kuro spotted the shaft of an arrow piercing straight through his skull, revealed by Wolf having fallen into a patch of moonlight.

The cause of all of this.

For several long moments, they both remained still, the shock of the sight rendering Kuro immobile. But then Wolf was moving again, twitching, seizing, before he reached out and dragged himself forward on one arm. Kuro could hardly watch, but of course could not manage to look away.

"My Lord," he rasped out, and lifted his head. That golden glow present in the dark was fuzzy, and worse still, Kuro watched the blood trickle slowly down his face, joining the mess that stuck to his skin and matted his hair. "My . . . ."

And then he slumped again, falling still, and a distressed noise between a choke and a gag escaped Kuro's throat. Bile burned in the back of his throat, as thick and putrid as the scent of sakura that bled through the atmosphere. He clamped a hand over his mouth as Wolf, horrifically, began to move again. Slow, so horrendously slow, each movement jerky and unnatural in a way that made Kuro's eyes sting.

Wolf finally reached out with a shaking hand, and without an ounce of hesitation, his master met him in the middle. Wolf's fingers were icy cold in his grasp, his grip weak.

"Master." His voice came out soft, airy. Kuro bit back the urge to scold him for wasting his breath on formalities - but then, even more painfully pitiful, Wolf croaked out, "Please."

Kuro realized, with his heart hammering in his chest, exactly what Wolf was pleading for. He knew what needed to be done, but for another agonizing moment of silence, dragging on idly past as Wolf twitched and went limp once more, he did not know if he could do it. He was only a child.

But he had to.

Wolf had come to his master in a desperate plea for help, the only one on his side. He had dragged himself to Kuro, struggled with each choked breath, forced himself through every painstaking inch towards the only person he knew. The only person he trusted.

He had to.

So, when his shinobi's fingers went limp in his grasp, Kuro reached out with trembling hands and delicately set them on either end of the arrow. He'd never felt so helpless before - he merely sat there, grip delicate, eyes stinging terribly despite how often he blinked back the tears that welled along his waterline.

Which way should he pull it out? Would it cause more damage one way or the other? Should he call for Emma? But no, with just a single glance at Wolf's pathetic, huddled form, Kuro knew he could not put his shinobi through this any longer. So, holding his breath, he snapped off the feathered end and pulled the arrow through the other side.

He flinched when Wolf stirred once more. Stomach churning, Kuro dropped the pieces of arrow and prayed he had not made things worse.

Before his eyes, Wolf's flesh finally smoothed over, and his eyebrows creased as Kuro could only guess how the internal process felt. One of his hands twitched, and then his eyes fluttered open, and, after a long, painstaking moment of what Kuro could only assume was realization, Wolf finally moved. He pulled his limbs in from their sprawl, knelt before Kuro, and pressed his forehead to the bloodied floor in what could only be described as a grovel.

"My Lord," he said softly, and Kuro's heart ached at the guilt seeping through the simple formality. "I apologize. You were never meant - "

"Don't," Kuro interrupted. His words came out choked, strained, but he cared little. "Please . . . please sit up."

After a moment's hesitance, Wolf obeyed, though his head drooped so low Kuro could not see his face. They sat in deafening silence as Kuro struggled to find words, to digest what had happened, to even fully process that Wolf was still before him. Still alive, still matted with blood, still smelling strongly of copper and sakura.

Two small hands reached out, then hesitated just before Wolf's shoulders, and the shinobi's hands tightened on his knees. "Can I . . . " Kuro swallowed as his voice broke. He tried again, small and trembling, "Can I hug you?"

Wolf exhaled slowly, shakily. "As you wish," was what he said, but as Kuro flung himself into his arms and began to weep into his shoulder, the firm way Wolf held his master close told him the embrace was something they both needed.