Lying on the cold, damp forest floor, Amukelo's body shook as he let out deep, heavy sobs. The fight was over, but the terror and pain lingered in his chest, weighing him down. Tears streamed down his face, carving trails through the dirt and blood smeared across his cheeks. His fists clenched and unclenched in the wet soil, his frustration spilling out in broken cries.
"Mom…" he choked, his voice trembling. "Mom, I'm so sorry. I'm so weak…"
His words echoed in the quiet forest, the sound of his own voice making his chest tighten even more. "If it wasn't for luck… I wouldn't even be here. I would've failed you already. I almost did."
The words hung in the air. For a moment, he let himself sink into the despair, the shame of his weakness pressing down on him. His breathing came in shaky gasps, and his body felt as broken as his spirit.
But as the quiet settled around him, Amukelo's voice cracked again. This time, it wasn't his mother he called out to.
"God…" he whispered, his voice barely audible at first. "I don't know if You're there. I don't even know if You care…"
His fingers dug into the ground, his knuckles white as he forced himself to keep going. "But if You're real, if You're listening… I need You. I can't do this. I don't have the strength."
The tears kept coming, but his words grew louder, carried by the weight of his desperation. "I'm too weak. I've tried, but it's not enough. I can't do this alone."
His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead against the ground. "Please… if You're there, give me strength. Show me how to keep going. I don't know how…"
For a long moment, there was nothing but silence. The forest was still, the faint rustle of leaves the only sound around him. Amukelo didn't move, his tears slowing as he lay there.
And then, in the stillness, he felt the faintest breeze against his face, cool and steady. It wasn't a voice or a vision, but something in him felt… lighter. The weight didn't disappear, but it eased, just enough for him to breathe a little steadier.
Amukelo sniffled, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His body still hurt, his wounds throbbed, and his spirit felt fragile. But there was something else now—a small flicker of determination, faint but real.
"I don't know if You helped me just now," he muttered, his voice rough. "But I'll try. For her. For me."
With a shaky breath, Amukelo pushed himself to his feet. His body protested every movement with stabs of pain from his numerous cuts and the deep, throbbing ache of his bruised muscles. But his spirit, fueled now by a renewed determination, urged him on. He looked around, his gaze falling on the still forms of the transformed wolves. He approached one, his movements deliberate despite the pain, and with considerable effort, he dragged the hefty body to the nearest cave he could find, a small shelter from the elements and any further threats.
Once inside the cave, Amukelo set about the grim task of survival. Using the knife still stained with the night's violence, he skinned the wolf. The process was laborious and painful, especially with his injured shoulder, but necessary. With the pelt set aside, he gathered dry wood and leaves from inside the cave and started a fire. The flames crackled to life, casting a warm, reassuring light in the dim cave.
With the fire established, he skewered chunks of wolf meat on sharpened sticks and set them over the flames. The scent of cooking meat filled the air, a harsh reminder of the night's savagery yet a vital part of his recovery. As the meat cooked, he turned his attention to his wounds.
The most pressing was the bleeding. Recalling an old trick from Syltar for staunching wounds, Amukelo gathered some coals from the edge of the fire with a flat stone. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the hot coals against the worst of the bleeding on his leg and shoulder. The pain was intense, searing through him like a hot blade, but it was effective. The heat cauterized the wounds, stopping the blood flow. He screamed into the hollow of the cave, the sound echoing back to him, a stark reminder of his solitude.
His back, however, presented a more difficult challenge. Unable to see or effectively reach the wound, he felt a rush of panic at the blood he could feel continuing to seep down his skin. His mind raced for a solution, each idea dismissed as impractical or impossible given his limited mobility and resources.
The only solution that came in Amukelo's mind was cauterizing the wounds on his back, but execution was the difficult part. He moved a big blazing hot rock that was under the fire and he laid on it. As he lay his bare, wounded back against the rock, the pain was immediate and excruciating, consuming him entirely. He bit down hard on his arm to stifle the screams, but the roar of agony escaped his lips, echoing off the cave walls, a stark reminder of his desperate situation. The heat seared his flesh, the burning sensation blending with the sharp stabs from his other injuries, creating a symphony of pain that was almost too much to bear.
After what seemed like an eternity, he forced himself up from the rock, the air cool against his scorched skin, providing a slight relief from the hellish heat. The bleeding had stopped, the wounds cauterized by the heat, but at a cost, he was only beginning to comprehend as the initial shock wore off and reality set in.
Weak and dizzy from pain and blood loss, Amukelo turned to the cooked meat of the wolf. His body was starving for nourishment, and he devoured the meat hastily, barely tasting it as he focused on simply getting it into his stomach. However, the combination of intense pain, exhaustion from the fight, and his subsequent self-administered treatment, overwhelmed him completely. Before he could finish eating, darkness crept into the edges of his vision, and he passed out, slumping beside the fire.
When he next awoke, the cave was shrouded in darkness, the fire reduced to glowing embers. Amukelo's first movement sent waves of pain coursing through his body, a harsh reminder of his injuries. Gritting his teeth, he gathered some herbs he had collected previously, knowing their properties would help heal and soothe the burns and cuts. Mixing them with a little water, he formed a paste, which he gingerly applied to his burned and injured skin. The herbal mixture brought a slight relief, cooling the burns and infusing his wounds with natural healing compounds.
With the immediate medical needs addressed, Amukelo turned his attention to preparing for the longer term. He placed the wolf skin he had skinned earlier close to the fire to dry it out, hoping to fashion it into a makeshift blanket or cloak to keep him warm in the nights to come. Meanwhile, he cooked more of the wolf meat, securing food for the next few days.
Settling in the cave, which had proven safe, Amukelo spent the next few hours tending to the fire and rotating the wolf skin to dry it evenly. The process was slow and required constant attention to prevent it from burning or smoking too much. His body demanded rest, and eventually, he could no longer fight the fatigue. Before turning in for the night, he ensured the fire was well stoked and the skin was positioned to get the most heat without risking damage.
As he lay down to sleep once again, Amukelo felt a mixture of emotions. The physical pain was a relentless companion, but beneath that, there was a growing sense of determination and a grim satisfaction in his ability to endure and adapt.