Death: End Part 2

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Shaking out our weapons bag, seeing Swift cringe at the noise, I brush my hands over the pile to spread them out for him.

Knives, lighters, guns, axes, ropes. Anything you really need for suicide.

But I predict what he'll use before he even reaches for it.

Guns annoyed him, hanging was too much effort and he'd always disliked fire.

Back to our default. Knives.

He wraps one hand around his favourite knife, one I'd searched for after I'd heard he'd lost it.

It was special to him because it was all he had from his past life, all he had of his fallen mate.

The blade was silver mixed with a bunch off other things to hurt a werewolf as much as possible. The grip however, is a gold so intricately decorated with wolves and trees it almost seemed real if you looked long enough.

He said it was special to him now because of the length I went to to get it. It seems Anderson really was a dangerous wolf considering the wolves had it locked in a museum in their Villains section. Killed around three large packs that day.

After weighing it in his hands and looking it over a final time he reaches with his free hand to clasp mine.

Dragging me up with him we wander over to the thickest tree in our campsite.

Swift has carved a throne into it. Little etchings of our journey together that he deemed important to him.

He'd also very conveniently made it perfect for me to straddle him while on said throne. Although it wouldn't be cum stains on it this time.

He sits all white haired and mighty while I stand in front, protecting him for the suns glare.

And I just watch until I'm given instruction to do otherwise.

He doesn't want me to have any satisfaction in his death. So I'll allow him to be in complete control.

He takes his shirt off, throwing it to the side, his muscles twitching as he does. Looking down at his own bare chest he takes his blade and places it over his heart.

The thing with werewolves is, it's tough to kill them.

With a normal blade a stab to the heart wouldn't kill them, the heart would heal itself. But with his blade, although it wouldn't kill him instantly, the heart will soon fail when it finds it can't heal itself.

He wanted his death to linger a little longer.

His hands hesitate when the blade presses to him skin, a small rivulet of blood seeping from around the blade.

He gasps in a deep breath.

And pushes hard into him, grunting and growling in pain.

"Uh," his head tilts back back, grunting, heaving in his last breaths.

And then he rips the blade out and positions it at the opposite angle. Blood already pours from his wound making the hilt slippery.

When he pushes the blade in him again his hands slip onto the blade.

With one last bang against the end he drives it in its full way before once and ripping it out of his chest and plunging it into the earth beside him.

His breathing is already laboured, sweat glistening on his forehead and tears shining in his eyes.

He gestures with bloody hands for me to sit on his lap again.

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