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“You can smell it too, can’t you, Kayvan, Baharam?”
The two wolves shuffle closer to him protectively, and Isfan smiles down at them as he pats them on the heads in a soothing manner.
The hint of warm, metallic scent hangs heavy in the air, but there’s a trace of something else laced within the smell of blood, something darker and more sinister, and Isfan’s heart is unsettled by the unfamiliarity of it.
The knight and his two wolves follow the scent until they reach Gieve’s dwelling, which is actually one of the temporary dormitories in the southern part of the palace built for those who are on duty in court. From what Isfan can tell, Gieve doesn’t actually have a place of his own in Ecbatana, which probably suits him well because he rather dislikes remaining in the same city for too long.
Night has fallen into a deep black and the smattering of constellations are bright even with the silver moon waxing towards a full one. There’s a hint of light emitting from under the door, so after Isfan orders Kayvan and Baharam to stay put by the entrance, he knocks on the door twice and allows himself in.
The wandering musician, who’s also been appointed the official court position as an inspector by King Arslan – though he mostly just uses the opportunity to travel and gather information from different countries – has just returned from a two-month long mission in Turk a few hours ago.
After reporting to Arslan, Gieve has retreated back to the dormitory swiftly, his face uncharacteristically pale and clammy. When the Shah inquires after his health, the always chirpy musician merely replies with another one of his signature dazzling grins, reassuring his liege that it’s just a stubborn wound from almost two months ago that refuses to heal properly. Gieve declines politely but with much more persistence than Arslan has expected when he offers to call the court physician to check on him just in case.
“So, I see the severity of your injury has been greatly exaggerated,” Isfan closes the door behind him and makes his way to where his companion is attempting, with very little success, to bandage the aforementioned wound on his left bicep.
“You sound disappointed, Isfan-kyou,” Gieve glances up with with a ghost of a playful smirk before returning to his task, but his fingers, usually so nimble on the fretboard of his oud and so steady nocking an arrow against the bow, are clumsy with the task of wrapping the thin strip of white cloth around his upper arm, where Isfan can spot the origin of the strange metallic scent, made even stronger and more poignant from this proximity.
He has initially thought that the disconcerting scent mixed in with the blood has been unfamiliar, but now that he’s closer to the source, Isfan detects something else – something similar in his own blood, and that of his clan’s.
Animalistic and monstrous.
Sensing Isfan’s sharp, observant gaze, the dark-haired musician turns away slightly to conceal his arm, head downcast and eyes averted as if he’s ashamed, like he’s trying desperately to hide.
“Let me see,” Isfan seizes the other man’s wrist in a tight grasp with such quick reflex that even Gieve cannot evade, and though the last thing he wants is to hurt him, Isfan’s fingers are unrelenting, not allowing him room to escape.
“Isfan-kyou, it’s fine, really. It’s most likely just an infection; you know how we don’t have the best medical resources while we’re on the road,” Gieve uses his lighthearted tone, but the joviality neither touches his eyes nor reaches his lips. His body language screams trepidation and self-preservation, and Isfan is even more certain, after seeing Gieve’s reaction, that this is more than just a mere injury that hasn’t healed properly.
“Gieve,” Isfan punctuated his name with a concerned note, dropping the formal title, and this has gotten the musician’s immediate attention. “Please, let me take a look.”
The petulant pout on Gieve’s lips is impressive as he agrees, albeit a bit begrudgingly, “Fine. But I’m telling you now, it’s probably nothing worth worrying your pretty little head about.”
“It’s always better to be cautious in these circumstances,” Isfan says, and he relaxes his grip on Gieve’s wrist while he carefully positions his own stool until he can examine the injury on the other man’s arm.
The puncture wound looks almost healed, ribbons of caramel-pink flesh puckered into pinpricks of what used to be teeth laceration marks, but on top of the scar that runs horizontal like a thick ring just below his shoulder, there are fresh scratches – red, ragged bloodied lines that are still oozing blood.
“When did you get bitten?” Isfan asks, thin brows dipped in a slight frown. He gently presses on the skin around the wound, but immediately stops when Gieve lets out a pained hiss. The flesh feels much warmer than normal.
Gieve looks up sharply, turquoise eyes wary. “I never told you how I got injured.”
“I can see it – the teeth marks, though they’ve mostly faded. It’s strange how quickly such a serious wound has healed…” Isfan ponders, and then his gaze is on the man sitting before him once more. “When did it happen?”
“About a week after I left for Turk,” Gieve starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft and uncertain, “I was travelling through a forest when… when the beast attacked out of nowhere. It took me by surprise, and I thought I’d be able to fight if off on my own, but the way that… that thing moved, it was as if ––”
He licks his lower lip, eyes wandering and unfocused as he relives the memory – the pure fear of the moment when he knew he didn’t stand a chance, the monster’s blood-red eyes staring straight at him as if it knew every secret Gieve had, when his sword and archery were rendered useless and he was left powerless in the depth of the forest, trapped, with nowhere to run and nobody there to help him.
“As if it were one of our kind?” The gold in Isfan eyes turns dark, and Gieve can only nod, his head hung low.
“I keep trying to convince myself that it’s just a particularly clever wolf with excellent survival instincts and superior physique, you know?” Gieve chuckles drily, “Can you imagine? Farangis-dono will never let me forget how I was so easily defeated by a measly animal.”
“I don’t think Farangis-dono would care either way,” Isfan replies in monotone, which makes the wandering musician grin weakly.
“Jealous, are we?” Gieve reaches out with his good arm and lightly caresses the knight’s cheek with his thumb.
“Don’t try to detract me, Gieve,” Isfan closes his eyes despite his seemingly cold words, and he covers Gieve’s smaller hand that’s cradling his jaw in his own, the musician’s fingertips calloused and hot against his skin. “You’ve already went through the metamorphosis, have you not?”
Isfan’s eyes are piercingly bright when he opens them; he knows the answer even as the question leaves his mouth.
“I did.” He pulls his hand back with a bitter smile.
There’s no point trying to hide it, and Gieve has no intention of hiding anything from him, either; he thinks their relationship is beyond that already.
“And?”
Isfan is a full-fledged wolf shapeshifter through his mother’s bloodline, so he’s never had to experience the pain of a made-wolf’s incomplete state in between – a purgatory where one’s body’s transformation straddles the border between man and beast, and their unstable mental state swims between the lucid logic of human and pure instinct of animal. But he’s heard stories and rumors.
Wolf shapeshifter tribes in the north are infamous for attacking lost travelers and careless merchant groups in order to add numbers and increase the power of their army; there has been many instances in history when several shapeshifter clans formed a formidable force strong enough to invade and take down nations.
Made-wolves, also known as werewolves in some countries, are even more powerful physically in their altered form than their wolf shifter brethren, but they have little control over their transformation as they are forced to turn into a man-wolf being on the night of the full moon every month, and in that state, their minds are volatile and highly subject to environmental influences, so it isn’t unusual for them to mindlessly maul and attack wild animals or humans who are unfortunate to have wandered into their paths in order to satisfy the hollow, hungry feeling in their metamorphosed hearts.
When all these thoughts are swirling up a mad storm in Isfan’s mind, he realizes that those same stories must have passed through Gieve’s as well.
“I suppose I must have Ashi to thank, for it was fortunate that I was in a deserted area during my first transformation,” Gieve murmurs, and he turns to stare at the wound, turquoise eyes hardened into chips of ice. “I cannot allow myself to lose control like that again. I need to find a way to cure this – there must be some sort of remedy out there. I ––”
Gieve stops abruptly, eyes widening in realization, breathless and heart thudding erratically against his ribcage as the dreaded thought of having to live with this – this disease, this taint within his body – swallows what little reason and pretense of calm he has. He grasps onto Isfan’s hand between his palms, sea-green irises staring up at him – pleading, praying – and Isfan has never seen him like this, so utterly broken and hopeless, and he wants nothing more than to embrace him in his arms and reassure him, to tell him that everything will be all right.
But he can’t do that. He can’t lie to Gieve like that.
The defiance in his eyes – the last drop of hope, of a man running out of options – burns as Gieve glares up at him through his fringes. His voice is shaking and low, his fingers digging into Isfan’s flesh hard enough for bruises to bloom, “I’m not like you, Isfan, or your clan’s people. I can –– there’s a part of me that’s still human, I can feel it.”
“Gieve, listen to me,” Isfan is careful when he reaches a hand towards his companion’s face, in the contact is unwelcome, but Gieve remains where he is though his frame is still shivering, and the knight gently traces along the musician’s jawline until Gieve’s breathing returns to a steady pattern and his shaking has calmed into just slight tremors. “There is one way to go about this. It’s not quite a remedy because it will not be able to undo the metamorphosis; it will not help you go back to being a full human.”
Isfan wants him to understand and, as difficult as it’s going to be, accept it. “Nothing can.”
Even as he let the truth trail out of his mouth like melted lead, heavy and tenacious, Isfan feels terrible, like he’s about to be physically ill. He should be the one who stand by Gieve’s side and support him, yet here he is, pulling him further into the deep end, tearing the last shred of hope into pieces. But there’s no other way.
Gieve leans away from his touch.
“What is it?”
Gieve’s reaction is eerily calm, tone strangely flat, though Isfan also takes note of the fact that he hasn’t denied or argued against his resolute statement about the lack of cure.
“If you ingest my blood…” Isfan starts, each syllable simmering hot and bitter on his tongue.
“Are you –– Isfan-kyou, are you proposing to me?”
It’s not unheard of for shifters to suggest such a ritual to a human partner if the shifter were to take them as mate; after all, shifters live much longer than humans do.
However, the grin on Gieve’s lips is twisted with menace.
“This is not the time to be making jokes!” Isfan raises his voice, the scowl along his brows deepens even as he tries to reach out for him once more.
“Then do not toy with me!” Gieve stands up abruptly, knocking the stool over, and he snatches his arm out of Isfan’s grasp. His cheeks are stained blotches of deep red in anger, lips tightening into a firm line – an expression seldom observed on the usually carefree and jaunty-natured man – and he’s blinking back frustrated tears. “Do you realize what you’re asking me to do?”
“This is the only way I know how to help you,” Isfan pulls himself up and takes a step towards the musician. “The longer you stay as a werewolf, the harder it’ll be for you to restrain your instinct; it will take over your mind and become the only voice you’ll be able to hear when you’re in your transformed state. I do not wish for you to regret something you might have done while you’re not in full control of yourself.”
“But you do wish to throw away my chance of returning to being a human,” Gieve’s voice cracks with agony, and he backs away further when Isfan takes a step towards him.
He stops when he notices how obviously upset Gieve is.
“I understand that it’s hard for you to accept this, but there really is no cure to make you human again. If there were, I would not hesitate to help you search for it, but as the situation stands, what will you tell Arslan-heika when he notices your disappearance upon every full moon?”
Gieve’s body stiffens at the mention of the young Parsian king whom he’s sworn to protect.
The golden light in Isfan’s eyes softens.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if you remain a werewolf, you’ll only become a threat to His Majesty’s safety. Is that what you really want?”
“The last thing I want is to cause harm to Arslan-heika,” Gieve sags his back against the wall, eyes fluttering close, too exhausted to fight back.
“If you consume a shapeshifter’s blood, your metamorphosis will be complete. You will not stray in between the states of human and beast, or worry about losing yourself in the process. You’ll become a true shapeshifter.”
A beat of silence, and then two, and Gieve inhales deeply before he opens his eyes. Clarity seems to have returned to him, for his strides are steady and determined as he walks towards the knight until they’re almost touching.
Gieve tilts his head up, their faces a breath away and turquoise irises staring into topaz ones, and he’s not trying to conceal himself or put on a brave disguise anymore.
“There are still a few more days until the full moon,” Gieve tells him, snaking his arm behind Isfan’s neck and pulling him impossibly closer, his lips touching the corner of Isfan’s mouth as he requests in a pleading whisper, “will you let me think it over until then?”
Isfan nods without a word, and they share a kiss – just a light touch that calms them both.
“Let me bandage that for you?” Isfan offers when they part.
“Please,” Gieve smiles at him, warmth returning to his eyes, and he hands over the strips of cloth.