She had collapsed even more heavily against the tree when Underidge departed, his words ringing terribly in her ears, each repetition of those words accompanying a throb in her face. Sidriel could feel the blood from her wounds, the thick substance running down her face and congealing in her fur. Her eye she could not see from, although in her traumatized state should could not discern whether it was the blood or the swelling or if he had damaged it beyond repair. In any case, he had made her as ugly on the outside as he had on the inside, he had brought the shadows outwards and they had taken her face away from her. The one thing that was undeniably hers--what she looked like--had been corrupted. The woman felt as though the hope had been removed from her, the light extinguished.

Her only salvation was the quickly thudding pawsteps approaching from deeper inside Taviora, the scent and the emotions that the male brought with him threatened to overwhelm her. Sidriel collected herself, steeling herself against the pain and the terror and the despair. She could not let herself slip into the shadows; she could not let the silver devil win. Her one eye met his, bile rising in her throat--Sidriel knew that he blamed himself. The woman drew in a shaky breath, rising to her unsteady paws and walked with a swaying, almost hypnotic gate to his side. She leaned against him, resting her broad head atop his back, his words reaching her ears and yet she did not hear them. His touch was comforting, and although her blood stained the fur of his back she knew that he would not move.

Sidriel's breath hitched in her throat, her legs beginning to tremble as the adrenaline started to wear off and she felt the full pain of the attack for the first time. "Et erit animam meam." She said in a sort of terrified whisper, as if accepting this as fact and being absolutely horrified with its implications. "Et erit anima mea, et relicto eo ego uri."