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cw blood, minor injuries
it’s all lance’s fault. werewolves are a myth to him - not like the friendly mermaids off the shore and the witches in their stores in the city. nothing he’d ever seen or believed in, and definitely nothing he had ever been afraid of. what was a wolf -
it’s all lance’s fault. werewolves are a myth to him - not like the friendly mermaids off the shore and the witches in their stores in the city. nothing he’d ever seen or believed in, and definitely nothing he had ever been afraid of. what was a wolf -
if not a dog? and what was a dog, if not a puppy?
so he sees nothing wrong with camping in a secluded part of the woods on the full moon. he’s an experienced camper, and there’s nothing there he hadn’t seen yet.
his brain spares him the memory, but
so he sees nothing wrong with camping in a secluded part of the woods on the full moon. he’s an experienced camper, and there’s nothing there he hadn’t seen yet.
his brain spares him the memory, but
the next morning, his tent is in tatters. there’s a bite on his calf and there’s blood, too much blood. so much of it. not just on his leg, but smeared on the leftovers of his pants and his shirt, caked underneath his fingernails, and scratched way too close to his throat.
when he rubs at his chin, dark red chunks of it fall off into his hand, and when he spits to get rid of the tangy, stale taste, his saliva clots pinkish on the grass. afterwards, he tastes meat: fresh meat, raw meat, cooked or boiled.
the taste does not leave.
the taste does not leave.
there’s a strange energetic jitter inside of him that prevents the panic. he washes himself off in a river and finds a change of clothes, trots back to his car and throws the tent away before he goes home. the guy smiling back at him in the side mirror is unassuming and handsome
but the heaviness in his stomach hasn’t gone away.
he knows what this is.
it can’t be anything else.
he doesn’t tell anyone, but it gets worse as the month runs on. once or twice his sisters try to talk to him, but there’s nothing obviously wrong with him. he brushes them off.
he knows what this is.
it can’t be anything else.
he doesn’t tell anyone, but it gets worse as the month runs on. once or twice his sisters try to talk to him, but there’s nothing obviously wrong with him. he brushes them off.
lance curses himself for not trying to find his own place sooner. before, his heart had been heavy at the thought of leaving this house where most of the people he loved gathered.
now, it sinks at the thought of staying here with them through a full moon.
now, it sinks at the thought of staying here with them through a full moon.
he shudders to think what he might do to them, and he doesn’t think the lock on his door would do anything to help. why would a lock stop his claws?
barely more than a week before the next full moon, his smile the only thing still holding him together, lance overhears a woman in
barely more than a week before the next full moon, his smile the only thing still holding him together, lance overhears a woman in
a witch shop talking about the healing forest. lance’s whole life, it has been almost as much of a myth as werewolves: a story that there is a forest anyone that wants to be healed can enter, and they will either emerge free of whatever they came plagued with, or never again.
lance doesn’t even hesitate. he goes home and packs his bags and leaves a vague note. at the worst, in this forest, he’d at least be far from everyone he loves.
the forest seems completely empty. no roads or paths. mostly pine trees, not a lot of animals. and no people.
the forest seems completely empty. no roads or paths. mostly pine trees, not a lot of animals. and no people.
lance walks for days, rations his water and food, sleeps on the floor, becomes more and more desperate. feels less and less like a human being.
he’s only seen a werewolf once and never turned himself, but he can feel it coming: his head hurts and his skin is crawling.
he’s only seen a werewolf once and never turned himself, but he can feel it coming: his head hurts and his skin is crawling.
he can’t sit still. there’s an emotion deep inside him, hunger that can’t be sated, inhuman, and it scares him. he doesn’t know who he is as a wolf. it doesn’t feel like him anymore.
on the fifth day in the forest, the only human thing he is still clinging to are his tears.
on the fifth day in the forest, the only human thing he is still clinging to are his tears.
his food and water are empty. his clothes are dirty, beginning to fall apart. maybe the myth about the forest was really that. a myth.
maybe people just came here to die.
he stumbles on without direction. his skin is pulsing and his scalp is itching, his teeth hurt.
maybe people just came here to die.
he stumbles on without direction. his skin is pulsing and his scalp is itching, his teeth hurt.
the full moon can’t be long now. if he dies now, here, at least there won’t be anyone he can hurt.
behind the next tree he heaves himself past, a small clearing awaits. on it: miraculously, unbelievably, a house. maybe it’s more of a hut.
behind the next tree he heaves himself past, a small clearing awaits. on it: miraculously, unbelievably, a house. maybe it’s more of a hut.
it’s not very large, worn by weather and crooked, definitely not made by an architect. but to lance, it could as well be a mansion.
it looks old and abandoned and he doesn’t feel bad dragging himself through the door and collapsing on the floorboards.
it looks old and abandoned and he doesn’t feel bad dragging himself through the door and collapsing on the floorboards.
there’s a comfort in dying alone, but surrounded by something like civilization.
when he wakes up, he’s not dead. he knows this because no dead person would be hurting like this. his bones now ache, from the inside, as if he was growing again, but to twice his height,
when he wakes up, he’s not dead. he knows this because no dead person would be hurting like this. his bones now ache, from the inside, as if he was growing again, but to twice his height,
and everywhere at once. his whole body is an itch he wants to scratch, but he can’t. his hands are bound, shackled, by burning, stinging metal. he wants to scream, but his vocal chords don’t cooperate. the whine that escapes him is more dog than human.
someone scoffs.
someone scoffs.
lance opens his eyes. he’s still in the hut, pretty much where he fell asleep, but now propped up in the corner, the shackles around his hands anchored to something in the floor. in the dim light, there is the silhouette of someone leaning on the wall opposite him.
lance growls. he can’t stop himself - he wants to say something, thank you, or maybe, run - but he cant. the emotions inside of him are barely human anymore, and words have left him.
“if you’d come a few days earlier, we could have done something about that.”
“if you’d come a few days earlier, we could have done something about that.”
the silhouette pushes off the wall and comes slowly closer. lance tries to take in the person, but he has no human senses left. all he registers about them: the smell. the smell of a healthy, meaty human, something tangy and otherworldly underneath, a delicious spice.
he can almost taste it. he growls and saliva splatters on the human’s face, who he now towers over. they don’t flinch. they look him in the eyes and say:
“i’m not afraid of you.”
the world fades to hazy colors.
“i’m not afraid of you.”
the world fades to hazy colors.
lance wakes up again aching all over, but it’s a different ache.
he’s shivering in the morning sun, then a flash of heat comes over him. it’s a hangover, the day after the fever has passed. his head is pounding and he has to squint, but the hunger is all human now.
he’s shivering in the morning sun, then a flash of heat comes over him. it’s a hangover, the day after the fever has passed. his head is pounding and he has to squint, but the hunger is all human now.
he wants coffee, scrambled eggs, a banana, buttery toast, maybe bacon.
(the thought of meat makes his stomach clench, though. it isn’t as appetizing anymore.)
he sits up and rubs his eyes. yawns. through his slitted eyes he sees the crooked, weathered floorboards.
(the thought of meat makes his stomach clench, though. it isn’t as appetizing anymore.)
he sits up and rubs his eyes. yawns. through his slitted eyes he sees the crooked, weathered floorboards.
a bird is chirping its morning song outside. the memory overtakes him with a flash and he scrambles to stand up - but one of his wrists is still bound to the floor.
in the daylight, fully awake, the hut looks very much lived-in. there’s books all over the place, barely any dust,
in the daylight, fully awake, the hut looks very much lived-in. there’s books all over the place, barely any dust,
fresh and dried herbs hung up on the wall. lance’s heart is pounding. did he really come into the house of some poor person - maybe a little old lady, defenseless and scared - and turn there? did he kill someone?
that’s it for today! next part tomorrow! thank you so much for the idea @srxnlk 
