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Without thinking, Anguirel grabbed hold of Gurthang and in a flurry of fangs and flying hair, snapping teeth and poetic, Shakespearian insults they tumbled downwards together. Miraculously, both survived the fall and lie panting next to each other. Firefoot and Durelin, who had hurried out of the cabin at the noise, stood mortified on the deck, gazing at the wolves and poor Lalaith's severed head.
“Look! A light! Land, to starboard! We are saved!” cried Firefoot suddenly.
Once more, the wolves went at each other. They rolled over the deck, no longer caring about who would live or die, as long as they caused each other the most pain.
As the dust cleared and the scene died out, Firefoot and Durelin approached closer. In a corner of the ship Gurthang lay motionless against the railing. One of his eyes was scratched out and his head lolled to the side in a rather disturbing way. The pale silver wolf who had once been Anguirel was lying crumpled up in the middle of the deck, his eyes raised to the heaven where he imagined his love, Lalaith. His tail was waving slightly back and forth in the wind, as if still dancing to that secret tune which had moved the two unlikely lovers for such a long time. It was all over now. No more stars in their eyes, no more songs in their head.
And it was all right.
“Well,” said Durelin, after both women had sat in silence for a while. “Any chance you know anything about navigation, Footie?”
--The End--
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