The beast takes the arrows and the blades straight into its back and keeps moving. Not running. Not charging. It lowers its massive body on purpose, horns still high, ribs heaving, until it is covering the figure stretched out on the ground. The wounds are not neat. They are clusters of punctures—shafts and steel sunk through hide, through muscle, some probably grating bone. From those holes and from the open mouth, blood comes in long, heavy ropes, straight down, vertical, obscene in their directness. It doesn’t drip like rain. It pours like the animal is emptying itself on purpose, like it has decided the only way to finish is to flood the body beneath it.

That blood hits skin, soaks cloth or flesh or whatever is down there, runs in rivulets along the contours of the prone figure and pools underneath both of them. It is the only real color on the canvas. Everything else is gray—thick, airless, without horizon or tree or sky. The gray is the space where the ordinary rules have already been suspended. This is not a landscape. This is the ground of the ceremony, the inside of the monte or the inside of a prenda, where the dead and the living and the animal spirits are forced to share the same narrow territory.

The beast is dying and it knows it. Bedia refuses to let it look defeated. The posture is not collapse; it is a deliberate mounting, a final act of weight and proximity. The beast is putting its death directly onto the body below—covering it, marking it, feeding it. The streams of blood function like a cord that will not break. What is leaving the animal is not just liquid; it is charge, memory, the accumulated force that lived in its bones and its breath. That force is being pushed, poured, pressed into the figure on the ground. The transmission is physical, messy, irreversible. One body is being drained so another can carry what remains.

At the bottom edge, two tiny hunters are already retreating. Their work is done and they understand, too late, that they never really controlled it. Their arrows started the bleeding, but the real event—the one that matters—belongs to the bull and to whatever is receiving it. The hunters look small because they are small now. The ceremony has moved past human scale and human intention.

Bedia paints the beasts last wish without words. The wish is enacted in posture and in fluid: the deliberate descent, the open mouth, the blood that refuses to fall anywhere except onto the body chosen to receive it. Death here is not an end. It is a transfer of state. The beast does not ask to be spared. It asks—through the only language left to it—to continue inside another form.

Stand in front of the painting at full size and you are not observing a scene. You are standing inside the radius of the act. The blood is still moving. The gray still presses. The small hunters are still running. And the force that the beast refused to let disappear has already passed into the body beneath it, whether that body is ready or not.