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The sun has long since risen when the man who is the monster slowly begins to stir. Cassandra waits as he twitches, her hands pressed, still and silent, against the mossy ground. A huff of air through his nose here, a curl of his fingers there, and she sees the gleam of his eyes, near-hidden under the curve of the bird’s bony beak, as they open into sleepy slits.
For a moment all is silent. Then, as if yanked by twine, he jerks upright, a refreshed snarl curling from his lips. It’s almost comical in the light of day, how he tenses the moment he catches sight of her—he is no murderer, or at least not one vindictive. She has had plenty of time to study the leavings of bones scattered all around, bright and bleached in the light of the sun, and has discovered them to be mostly too small to be of anything approaching human-sized. There are one or two that she recognizes as human… but judging by the weapons, the spear and knife and axe in the grass, now overgrown with moss and lichens, she knows, whoever they were, they were perhaps not so innocent after all.
The remains tell a story of a boy turned monster turned man, one who has been hunted for a long, long time. Perhaps the very first kill was an accident, but the rest… she cannot fault him for lashing out. The fear and pain of his curse has driven him somewhere close to madness already—there was no other way this story would go.
And so she holds herself still, meeting his eyes, hands low and loose. She makes no more move to touch him, just… waits. And waits. And waits. Until his startle has settled back into something less ready to strike her, his growls lowering until they are barely audible except as a slight hum on the air.
She nods, smiling her softest smile. Then, careful, keeping an eye out for sudden reactions from her monster, she moves out from under the tree and rises to her feet.
Her cloak is dirtied from her night spent in the wilderness, but the damage from the foliage is slight. A tear here or a hole there is all she finds as she examines it, feeling his wary eyes on her the whole time she does. She wishes she could tell him that it will be okay, that he should stay here while she finds them something to fill their bellies so she might focus on a plan, but she can’t. All she can do is crouch to right her lantern, resting it on a spot in the grass that has long since been trampled mostly flat. She points at it, points at herself, points away toward the trees, and then points back at the lantern. I will go and come back for this, she tries to say.
He makes no motion to show that he understood, but she suspects that he won’t go far, anyway. This clearing, these shadows… they are as close to a home as he has, a safe place to protect. There is evidence in the light of day that he has not left to find food in some time. His muscles are thin and wiry under pale skin, the bones scattered around aged and dry. The miasma of his curse has spread into the surrounding woods, making the game here scarce—he is hungry, clear as day.
She points again. At herself, at the forest, at the lantern. Then she turns her back and begins to walk, listening all the while for sounds behind her.
He makes none, even his growl dying into silence as she walks away. She’s not so good at interpreting voices, ones laced with a primal wildness or not, and does not turn around to see his body language, but the fresh quiet makes her feel… lonely.
She pushes this from her mind. She will be back soon enough. Instead, she focuses on listening for the sound of the stream she knows winds its way through this forest.
It takes some time to find it. Then some time again to walk far enough from his haunt that the fish come out of hiding. At the first flit of silver she grins, darting forward to snatch with her hands. It’s quick, but she’s quicker, and the flash of silver is in her grasp in an instant, wriggling and gaping as she holds it aloft.
Making use of the soft, new bark of a baby tree, she quickly fashions a way to hold the fish so it won’t wriggle right back into the water. Then she sets her sights again, waiting for another.
She is knee deep and barefoot in the stream, cloak furled up at her back and with six small fish on her belt all neatly bound together, when suddenly the air splits with a distant but utterly distinct howl. The fish scatter, the few nearby birds take flight, a squirrel chatters in fear and scurries away. She turns her head toward the noise, her heart aching, and decides that should be enough to go by for now. She quickly wades back out of the water and pulls her boots back on, beginning to trek, briskly, back toward the clearing.
He’s upright when she gets there, having climbed up the side of the fallen tree to crouch on top, helmeted head raised toward the sky. Her lantern is exactly where she left it, untouched—she hurries over to it, eyes on her monster as she goes. She points at herself, at the woods, and at the lantern.
He watches her in turn, the howl on his tongue tapering off into something that might be a bark. He’s high enough that he clearly feels no fear from her presence, though he still watches closely as she approaches. As soon as she unties the fish from her belt, he narrows his entire focus to them, snout pointed unerringly toward her hands.
She sets the bundle down, working the knots open to spread the fish out on the grass. Then she begins looking around for kindling for a cooking fire.
She barely sees him move, he’s so fast. She catches it like a lightning flash from the corner of her eye—he jumps from the tree, snatches a fish, and backs into the shadows underneath his little home, already tearing at it with his canine teeth.
It’s a startling sight, but not so startling as it is… humorous. She finds a laugh pressing on her tongue as she watches him chuffing at the pale flesh, near forgetting to breathe as he all but inhales it. While he’s occupied, she gathers the other fish again, holding them close so she can start a fire for an actual meal.
He’s still screaming hunger when he finishes with the raw fish, eyes locked on the bundle hung at her belt. She takes pity as she builds a quick fire, and as soon as the first fish on the little spit is cooled enough, she carefully tosses it over.
He snatches it from the air, the same lightning quick motion as before. He eats, eager and starving, digging clawed fingers into the flesh, scarfing it down through the wolf’s mouth like he hasn’t eaten in years, bones and all. She takes one for herself, and passes over the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, feeding him until he begins to lose the edge to that ache of hunger.
It’s not enough for either of them, but it’ll do, she finds. The next order of business, she thinks, studying him critically as he noses around in the grass where she’d put the fish, needs to be to clean him up a bit. It’s no wonder he’s a fright to the villagers—he’s filthy.
She contemplates a moment. It would be easier to bring a bucket of water to him, she thinks, but she has no bucket to fill. Can she… coax him away to the stream?
She has to try. There’s really nothing else for it. So, raising her hands unthreateningly, she picks up her lantern and begins to step, backwards, in the direction of the stream.
He jerks his head toward her as soon as she does, watching her with glinting eyes. He makes another little barking sound, chuffing through his nose. Then, slowly, probably drawn by the scent of the fish still on her skin, he rises onto his feet and takes a step toward her.
She smiles, humming in encouragement. He’s tall, she finds—taller than her by maybe a head, if he were to stand up fully straight. For every step forward he takes, she takes another one back, leading him carefully away from the hollow under the fallen tree, until they reach the edge of the clearing.
Here he hesitates, growling a little as he eyes the trees. Still, after a moment he follows, stepping onward into the deep shadows.
They reach the stream after several tense minutes of this. She can tell when he hears the water, as he perks up, coming easier. As soon as it’s in sight, he casts a calculating glance in her direction before darting past, diving right in.
He’s soaked in an instant, splashing up water far past the banks. She shields her face, waiting until he settles in and begins to lap thirstily at the water before she takes off her boots and ties up her cloak once more to wade in after him, keeping herself within his sights. She has no cloth nor soap with which to wash, but the water runs clear as the springs at the edge of the village, melted snowfall from the higher lands.
Taking care, she makes a show of scrubbing at her arms and legs and face, dunking her head and shaking water from her short, black hair. When she looks up she finds his eyes locked on her, his lower jaw still submerged as he watches with curiosity.
She points to herself. She points to him. She mimics washing.
He doesn’t understand, she can see no change in his body language. He does, however, allow her to step in close, watching her warily as she cups her hands and scoops up water to run it down his shoulder. She gets to washing him, gently wiping at his bare chest until what must be years of dirt and grime start to come free. She feels the growl in his chest when she strays too close to his throat, sees the tilt of his head and the baring of his teeth—with careful motions, she moves away again, until the growling settles back into silence.
He won’t let her touch his neck, nor his vulnerable underbelly. When she wades around to get to his back, he follows her, eyes locked on her hands. The best she can do is stand at his side and wipe at his shoulders and arms, cleaning his pale skin. She doesn’t dare to try and unknot the tangled, frayed mess of his trousers from around his waist, instead allowing him to crouch in the water until she deems it good enough.
Even limited to the places he’ll allow her to touch, he looks very much better as she coaxes him back out of the stream and onto dry land. She laughs again, out loud this time, when he shakes himself out like a dog.
From there, she must decide where to go. The village she left from yesterday is the closest settlement, but they have no magic users and a deep fear of her monster. The best bet, she thinks, is the city to the South—far off by foot, but if they reach the road that winds through the Southern part of the forest they will have an easy time of it, even if it takes a while. There, they will find magic users—magicians and wizards and, perhaps, a cursebreaker who can break the terrible thing that has gripped her monster tight.
That must be where they go. It only makes sense. And by the time her father realizes she’s not coming back, she will be far, far away, hidden among the crowds of the city, his tool lost to him.
…First, though, she must do something to disguise her monster. Her… companion.
She turns to him, eyeing him carefully. He has no tunic, just the trousers, and barely anything left of them at all. No shoes, no socks, certainly no jewelry with which to barter for clothing… she lets out a sigh. Then, moving slowly so as not to startle him, she begins to draw her own red cloak over her head.
He watches, still wary but now more curious than he is frightened, as she approaches. She gestures from the cloak to him, trying to tell him that she wants to put it on him.
The first time she tries, raising the bulk of it over his head, he skitters back, growling. She croons, soothing, until he’s calmed some, before she tries again. She moves slower this time, coming from the front so he can see her through the hole of the collar, before she slowly lifts it over the helmet. She guides it down, from beak to snout to beak.
He’s tense, his entire body taut, as the fabric settles gently down his back. He sniffs at the collar, sniffs at her raised hand, and… seems to accept it, nipping gently at the fabric folds that rest over his hands.
Satisfied, she picks up her lantern and clips it to her belt. Boots on and her tunic exposed, she points to herself, then to him, and then out away from the village, toward the South and the road that will lead them to the city. She begins to walk, glancing behind her to make sure he’s following.
As long as he follows, she knows she can get them there.