Chapter Text
WPOV
Track: Big Bad Wolf, Lilith Max
Normally, I don’t take late night work calls. If I don’t get enough rest overnight, I’m never going to be able to treat patients appropriately the next day.
Normally, I would have responded to the urgent knocking on the door of my cottage with intense annoyance. It is, after all, two in the morning, and I have to open my doors to patients at seven. Whoever is banging on my door is blatantly ignoring the sign I’ve nailed up that reads: DO NOT DISTURB.
Normally, I would have shouted through the door at them that they should leave me alone.
However, on the ides of March on the year of my twentieth birthday, when I peel my eyelids open and glare through the darkness in the general direction of the knocking, something kills my anger. Perhaps it’s the realization that if they’re bothering me this late–ignoring my sign and everything–something must be terribly wrong in the village.
And, perhaps it is the realization that the person yelling at me on the other side of the door is the town’s rival medic, Octavian Augur. (Normally, I’d be working cooperatively with another medic, but Mr. Augur refuses to stray from his exorcisms and prayers as the sole treatments he believes are valid, and I refuse to stray from my more experimental medical strategies. We are inherently incompatible. It doesn’t help that something has always felt off about the man, too.)
Regardless of my dislike for the man, there is something in my gut that sinks at the thought of an injury bad enough that Octavian admits it requires treatment from me rather than him.
And so it is that at approximately two in the morning, I throw myself out of bed and rush to answer the door, heart beating in my throat. A rush of energy overcomes me, and I throw open the door–
Octavian has seen better days. ( Has he?) He’s covered in blood–on his hands, the front of his robes, on his face and in his hair. Some of it is dark and dry, but some of it is still wet. It doesn’t seem to be coming from any wound on him , so I presume I was correct in my theory that there was a patient whose case was too dire for him to ethically claim to be able to handle it.
“Where’s the patient?” I ask immediately.
“The woods,” he says. His voice cracks a bit. “I think–I think I better not go with you. It’s a bit of a… Well, you see, I was called to handle it, but–”
“ Where in the woods?” I ask, irritated by his ramblings. Judging by the amount of blood on him, the patient is fighting for their life right now–I don’t have time for his nervous explanations. I just need to know where I should be running.
“The hut–the abandoned one where–well, the one with…”
…Ah.
I had heard there was an outcast lurking in the woods, occasionally robbing our butcher shop or marketplace of various food items. I hadn’t given much thought, assuming this was just a wandering traveler taking a rest for a few weeks.
I don’t waste time pondering the situation any further once I realize who my patient is. I briefly turn away from Octavian just to rush back inside my house to grab my basket of emergency supplies. I slip my boots on as quickly as possible and grab my red hood from the wall on my way out. Then, I’m back through the front door, passing Octavian who I leave in my garden. He has an odd sort of expression on his face–I don’t have time to try to sort it out.
The village is small, and I am fueled by that late-night rush. I make it past the other cottages on the outskirts in record time, and I stumble through the edge of the woods with intense purpose guiding my footsteps. The hut in question is relatively easy to find, but it’s a half-mile away–long enough for me to feel my skin dampen at the thought of trying to get there in time before the patient bleeds out. I hope Octavian had the good sense to find some way to slow the bleeding, at least.
The woods are dark and difficult to navigate for newcomers, but I know them well–I’ve lived here all my life. I pull my red cloak around my shoulders to try to calm myself as I rush through the path toward the hut. I keep the red cloak over my head to fight off the chill, and I keep a tight grip on my basket of equipment.
And perhaps it is this single-purposed determination which narrows my perspective so much that I can’t quite put my finger on why the woods feel wrong tonight. I’ve walked this path a thousand times ever since I was a child, so why tonight is the hair on my arms standing on end? Why has my blood run cold, why must I fight the urge to check over my shoulder, and why am I so relieved for the glow of the full moon above me?
I make it about a quarter of a mile before I realize the sounds are gone.
No owl hoots. No rustling leaves. No wind. Just my boots slapping against the dirt and the sharp, syncopated thump of my own heartbeat.
There’s a weight to the silence, which objectively is ridiculous. When tonight is over and the morning light saves me from this paranoia, I will staunchly refuse to tell anyone I felt this way about the woods–that I feared so deeply, like a child, of a purely innocent thing.
It feels like something in the trees is watching me. It feels like the entire forest is staring at me in silence.
I slow my pace just slightly, one hand tightening around the handle of my basket while the other instinctively checks that my cloak is still secure over my shoulders. It’s silly—just a piece of cloth–but tonight, it feels like armor. I promise myself I will never answer a late-night call again.
I allow myself to check over my shoulder just once–but I can’t make out very much in the dark, and the feeling in my gut only worsens.
The deeper I go, the more wrong it all feels. Not just the quiet, but the way the shadows seem to lean toward me. I grit my teeth and push forward. There’s a patient at the hut, I remind myself. Dying. I don’t get to be scared. There are more important things to–
A branch cracks.
I whip around, every muscle rigid, my breath catching in my throat. I see nothing. Just trees. Dark. Still.
“...Hello?” I call out. I hate how small my voice sounds in this silence.
No answer.
Another step. Another crack. Closer.
“Who's there?” I shout.
Still nothing.
Until suddenly— it’s on me.
A shape from the darkness—blacker than the night sky, barreling toward me with a sound like a snarl caught between agony and hunger. It hits me hard, knocking the basket from my hand, sending us both tumbling to the forest floor. I’m pinned beneath it—fur, fangs, breath like rot and iron. My mind goes blank except for one screaming realization: wolf .
I thrash. I twist. My basket has spilled, so I use one hand to scramble for something—anything—and find the hilt of my scalpel among the mess. I drive it forward, not even paying attention to where it’s going–
A howl splits the woods like lightning.
It jerks back, wounded. (I realize belatedly that the wolf is covered in blood–it’s probably already dying–maybe that’s why it was desperate enough to attack a human.) I shove it off, scramble to my feet, and run , scooping my basket and whatever happens to remain within on my way.
I don’t stop to look behind me. I don’t care about the equipment I lost from my basket. My lungs burn and my legs ache but I keep sprinting, heart pounding, following the path I know from memory.
I trip once—twice—but I don’t slow down. The image of that wolf, its eyes hungry in a way I’ve never seen in an animal before, etched into my mind and burning like fire.
The hut is just ahead now, a crooked silhouette in the trees. I crash through the door, panting. Octavian had left it open. I stumbled inside and shove it closed behind me, breathing heavily.
“Hello,” I call tiredly as I turn around to face the inside of the hut, “I’m–”
And I freeze.
There’s no patient.
Just blood.
Everywhere.
On the floor. The walls. A smear across the doorframe.
It’s fresh.
“Hello?” I call, though my voice is barely more than a whisper. “Is—anyone here?”
Nothing.
No movement. No moans of pain. Just the awful scent of blood thick in the air and my own pulse roaring in my ears.
And then—
I think of the wolf.
How it was already covered in blood. I mean, did the wolf eat the patient? Immediately, I feel the acidic rush of bile rise in my throat, and I fight not to vomit–a rare sensation for me, as usually I can honestly say I’ve seen much worse than the things that normally make people nauseous.
I think of Octavian’s odd expression as he sent me into the woods.
He knew , I realize. He knew what he was sending me into–maybe he even knew the wolf was still out there, knew the wolf would attack. Did he set me up to get mauled? Or was there really a patient here only a few minutes ago, now completely gone aside from the blood?
I can’t breathe.
And I think of that wolf. I think of how hungry it looked. And why would the wolf be hungry if it had already eaten? It’s a gruesome thought. Maybe there’s a logical answer to that question.
But I can’t think of one.
I need to figure out what’s going on here. My only saving grace is that I’m fairly certain the cause for all the blood is the wolf, who is currently wounded and outside a little less than a quarter mile away. I don’t think it’ll be able to get through the door–it’s just a wolf, after all. That means I’m safe as long as I’m in this hut–which means I can try to look around for clues without getting mauled, most likely.
I allow myself to lean against the door for one moment longer, chest heaving, trying to get air past the iron grip wrapped around my lungs. My fingers are shaking. My whole body is shaking.
And then I tell myself I need to focus. There’s blood, but there might still be something here. If I let fear freeze me now, I’ll never know. And if that wolf didn’t eat the patient, maybe they’re still alive. Maybe I can still help. That thought steadies me just enough to take my first step forward.
The inside of the hut is…haunting, to say the least. Not in a dramatic, gothic way, but in the painfully human sort of way that comes from tentatively living in a space you’re not quite welcome to inhabit. The floorboards creak and groan under my boots. The fireplace is dark, but there’s a pile of ashen wood in the hearth that tells me it was burning not long ago.
There’s a bed in the corner. Small. Messy. Blankets askew like someone thrashed in them during a nightmare. Or like they left in a hurry.
A table sits near the window, cluttered with crumbs and a chipped cup that still has some kind of tea gone cold. Next to it, tucked under a stack of old blankets, I find a satchel. Inside are a few letters. I don’t want to read someone’s private correspondence, but this doesn’t feel private anymore. It feels like evidence. I reason that if I had gone missing and the only clue was a personal letter, I would want people to read the letter in the hopes of finding me.
The first letter is smudged, but legible.
Nico,
You cannot come home until this is under control. You know what happened last time. You promised us it wouldn’t happen again.
Please. You need to stay away until you’ve found a cure for this affliction. It is too much a danger to us all–and I know you understand that even if you wish it weren’t true.
One day, perhaps you can prove yourself to be cured. Today, however, is not that day. I have informed the guards of the situation, and they will be protecting the village at all costs. I emphasize again that you must leave.
I’m sorry.
H.
I swallow hard. The patient had some sort of contagious illness, then. I wonder if I should have brought my plague mask. It’s a bit much–and scary to children. I don’t like to wear it unless I absolutely must.
There are other letters in the pile, each more desperate than the last. The word “ affliction ” repeats itself like a curse.
So, bizarrely, do the words full moon .
Everything else in the letters is too timidly vague to be helpful to me, and I find that I’m not making any further progress with these. I give up and move on to the far side of the hut. There’s a second table here, smaller, more organized. A small box sits on it. I crack it open, and inside I find things that don’t belong to someone like the boy from the letters. Someone struggling, someone cast out. These things are too fine. Too… Octavian.
A rosary. A few pale green leaves wrapped in linen—mugwort, I think. (I’m not particularly well-versed in his methods, but he does quite like bragging about his mugwart rites.)
And a stack of papers, bound crudely.
The top page reads:
OF MOON-BLOODED MEN: A TREATISE ON PURIFICATION AND THE DAMNED
I stare at the words for a long time. My fingertips go cold. I snap the treatise shut, my hand shaking.
Because the pieces are finally flying together. Octavian knew exactly who this patient was, and he knew what he was sending me after. He must have thought it was a death sentence–would he really try to get me killed like this?
Because the wolf wasn’t some random wild beast.
It was the patient.
And I stabbed him.
Oh God.
There is, of course, a part of me that is terrified to have to face this monumental problem. How does one cure lycanthropy? I’ve only ever heard stories of it–never a real case. I remember, as a child, being taught various ways to kill a werewolf, but never how to heal one. Is it even possible to heal a werewolf? Is this man’s fate doomed to a mess of blood and death? Whatever Octavian’s methods were, they clearly didn’t work–the werewolf still transformed, and judging by all the blood, Octavian only made it out alive because he came prepared to fight.
There is, unsurprisingly to most, a terrified desire in my gut to walk away from this problem. I’m not prepared for this sort of ailment, and my scalpel is the only tool I have to defend myself. There is no world where I can go out on the night of a full moon, face off with a werewolf, and somehow cure it without any idea of how to do it. In every ending to that story, I’d end up dead.
But a larger part of me is thinking of those letters. Of a man lonely and scared and banished from his home. Of a scared night spent under the moon, hungry and confused and lost.
And badly injured.
Call it insanity. Call it bravery. Call it blatant stupidity.
But whatever you call it, I can’t bring myself to leave him to suffer alone. I grab my medical bag, pull my hood over my head again, steal a cut of meat from the stores of food within the hut, and I head back into the woods.