The not-yet-beast would lift its head, only a fraction of an inch, as the other nuzzled nose to throat. An invitation despite the shaking. It must have been cold, It reasoned with itself. Just a shiver. But instinct was a powerful thing, and adrenaline was setting its limbs alight with the increasing want -- no, need -- to flee.

It would have no such opportunity.

Bacchus' action was no mercy-killing. It was murder. The price of a life was its memory, its weight on one's soul and its impact on every future action that It would take. The price of a life was minuscule if it was for a purpose; if it was for mercy. But the price of Its life? They were right. One for another, an even exchange. Or so it would be, once they met again.

It gurgled and sputtered, new limbs giving way to deposit the bovine upon the cave floor, sprawled out beside the tiny bat corpse that It still had not moved away from. The action it only now was able to face as Its vision went dark, blood of bat and bovine pooling together as one. The lesser would rot to oil in the time that Seraph was asleep, a healing rest in its chrysalis, and It would awake to be alone once more. It would awake to knowing; knowing Bacchus inside and out, knowing the cost of a soured soul, knowing... Purpose.

And so It was consumed by garnet, blood-red stone forming to encase It, to rebirth It, leaving the bat untouched. A sacrificial altar, to Bacchus. An offering to the caves.