Of Wolves and Lions: 19-20

Chapter XIX
When Wolf woke up, Sjora was gone.
For a moment he thought he might have dreamed she had appeared. But the blanket was still on the floor by the wall she had slept at, so she must have gotten up. Or maybe I'm insane, Wolf thought, oddly cheerful. Either way, he was still leaving.
It was odd. He thought he would have been much more angry at Sjora's departure but at this point he didn't care. His cheerful exterior was striving to hide a bitter, depressed core, which had, in a way, turned in on itself. He had tried caring for another person, and that had failed, he reasoned. Now it was time to care only for himself.

19 years later, Wolf pulled out the knife lodged in Sjora's stomach.
Sjora had stopped screaming, and had started breathing heavily as blood trickle from her mouth. The wounds bled no matter what Wolf did, and, gently laying a hand on one of them, he realised it was gushing out, as though something were forcing it out. He was vaguely aware that Dante had hurried over, and was nudging him aside. Through distraught eyes he watched him place a hand gently over one of the wounds, looking unconcerned, as the skin seemed to shimmer, and started slowly knitting itself back together... but suddenly it stopped, and seemed to rip itself open again, widening the cut and evoking a cry of pain from Sjora. Dante scowled under the scarf, as well as Wolf could tell. "Wolf," he said quietly, "she won't let me heal her."
"What?" Wolf said, his voice oddly dull and hoarse.
"Bala is still in there. She's stopping me from healing the wound."
Wolf nodded, and Dante stood up and walked away, leaving the two of them together. If Sjora had not had Wolf's full attention, Wolf would have noticed him pick up his sword from where he had dropped it in the sand.

19 years ago, Wolf was angry.
His horse was gone! Of course it was. If it had been there, life would have been easy and good, and that was simply ridiculous. Fate had apparently decreed that happiness was something that only happened to other people. Sjora must have took it, he thought. Well she might not have, the thought suddenly occurred to him almost defensively, a thief probably took it, or it wandered off. Wolf vaguely realised he was being defensive of someone else when he was thinking to himself. Maybe I am insane, Wolf thought. It would make so much sen-

Chapter XX
The sound of hooves interrupted Wolf's thoughts.
The stable was little more than a small sandstone shed next to the house, and the sound was coming from the doors leading outside. Wolf turned to see Sjora trotting in. Already not in the mood for pleasantries, noticing that his supplies were missing enraged him. "What," he said slowly, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, "do you think you're doing?"
"Saving your life," Sjora said curtly, dismounting. She busied herself picketing the horse while Wolf focused on breathing. It didn't help, so he said, "How exactly?"
"You were being watched." That was enough to partially banish the anger Wolf felt and replace it with wary curiosity, and Sjora continued, "A mutual friend of ours was waiting for you to leave the city. He was going to have you killed." She noted Wolf's blank expression and added, "I mean Byron."
"Hah! You can tell him the desire is reciprocated. And what have you done with my things?"
"I hid them outside the city for when it is safe to leave. He can't watch you forever."
Wolf nodded, and went back inside. He surprised by how little the news seemed to alarm him.

19 years later, Dante walked back to the two, dreading what must be done.
"Wolf," he said quietly, "Move."
Unthinkingly, Wolf obeyed. For a moment he thought Dante had figured out how to heal her, and hope welled up inside him once more... But Dante was simply standing, a pained expression under the scarf. After what seemed like an hour, Dante said, "When Sjora dies, Bala won't. Her soul will persist and reform it's body. I can't let that happen. This sword," he raised it, and Wolf noticed the whitish colour of the metal and the glyphs engraved in the blade, "is a Divine weapon. It kills the soul as well as the body."
Dante stared at him, understanding what Dante intended and fervently wishing he was wrong. Surely he didn't mean t-
Taking Wolf's silence for incomprehension, Dante said, "I have to kill her, Wolf. Sjora's soul will die either way, but this way so will Bala's."
Sjora herself was eerily still, lying in a large pool of blood. She took small, uneven, shallow breaths as Dante stood above her, sword pointed downwards above her throat.
"I'm sor-"
Wolf slammed into Dante, rabid in his desire to protect Sjora. The two sprawled on the ground, and Wolf picked up a rock and slammed it into Dante's jaw. He rushed over to Sjora and held her hand, and she whispered something as the last dregs of her life drained away.
Had Wolf been watching Dante, he would have seen him get up, scarf now askew, snarling and raising his sword, advancing-
And then stop, a look of horror replacing the snarl, and he flung the sword into the oasis's pool.
If Wolf had been watching closely, he would have seen the specks of red that had appeared in Dante's golden eyes fading.