Silent paws on padded leaves, the scent of death upon their lips. The wolves are to be my carriers. The ones who will bite me by the neck, tear my limbs in pieces, and drag me into the underworld.

“Brothers, friends,” I plea. Met by silent, dark pearls of their eyes. Their brows quiver, thinking, circling me and the dark trunk of the tree I lie under. I was always told the wolves would appear like sentient creatures, rumored in songs to may even be humans in disguise.

Death is their handler. I hear his whistle.

Cold noses prod my arms, my legs. They lap up the blood of my wounds. A silent communion to their everlasting presence, for I will not be their last meal.

“Will you ever have enough?” I question. Ever my lungs tire. It is not a question in anger, but curiosity, my first and only chance to meet the fated hounds of hell before I die. “Will your bellies ever be sated?”

One, the youngest, the smallest, snaps his jaws, panting and licking his chops with the eagerness of a pup. “You know nothing of true hunger, mortal! Your kind only gluttons and begs! We should have you strung and cooked upon man-fire instead, like you would do to us, given the chance!”

His muscles twitch and tense as he readies to make his deadly final strike to my throat.

The elder nips at his neck, forces him back. Controls his urges, if a demon’s urges can be controlled.

“Patience, brother,” another says, the eldest, the blackest. Resumes control over his pack with a snarl. His canines flash like white knives in the misty morning light.

“Oh, Hera, Hephaestus, Demeter!” I find myself crying out. I squirm and writhe, beg for their graces. I thought, after so long a life, I may meet Hades in quiet honor, but I feel the immensity of my immortal body, dying, and realize the one thing these _beasts_ will never feel.

I am afraid.