Chapter Text
Wilbur does not get a choice in being where he stands.
This is something he’s unfortunately accepted.
---
There was a decree that was signed, some time ago, by the king who currently sits the throne. It states that all the civilians within his kingdom have a duty to serve, and those that are capable, those that are of age, those that fit the requirements, should put their efforts to good use and carry out a three year service towards the crown. Three years spent as a soldier of the king, not including the training that’s needed. Three years of their life, given as a sign of loyalty.
To refuse or to make an attempt at avoiding this service is punishable by imprisonment. Months spent in a dirty old cell that turns too cold at night and too dry in the day, with meager meals given through the metal bars.
Either way, the outcome is to be forced somewhere away from home. The king’s power pressed down upon your neck.
…Some days, Wilbur wonders if the cell would really be all that bad.
He supposes he just got unlucky, in all the timing. With the decree being made, with him being of age, with him fitting the requirements. He has no other pressing responsibilities, no family to take care of, no land to tend to that would prevent him from joining the king’s army. He’s of sound health, no horrible injuries that’ll hold him back in battle. He’s a civilian of the kingdom, born and raised. He’s by all means, a very valid candidate.
If only for the fact that he does not want to be a soldier.
He is not willing to take on this sort of burden for his kingdom, much less for a man who sits upon a throne hundreds of miles away. Wilbur feels no true loyalty for him, and he has no desire to deliver bloody justice to his enemies. He has no urge to bring down painful punishment, to be the hand behind someone’s suffering, even if they are perhaps a criminal deserving of it.
The idea of turning towards that sort of cruel action, just because of an order made- it makes his stomach turn. It’s no matter if it’s deemed necessary, if it’s for the good of future safety- it still makes his stomach turn.
More than anything, beyond everything, Wilbur hates the mere concept of resorting to such violence. If he could, he’d never pick up a sword.
But it doesn’t really matter. Training camps don’t care very much for a single man’s hesitance. They look upon his face and tell him to get in line all the same, shoving a basic set of armor upon him, forcing a freshly made weapon into his hands.
Wilbur does what he can to avoid ever truly using it. He never likes the weight of it in his hand, the threat of what it can do, if wielded right, so he keeps it sheathed away as often as he can. The most reward he gets for doing that is a miserable string of defeats within sparring matches, with all the other soldiers tossing him into the dirt.
He’s seen as an easy win, for most of the others. A stepping stone of sorts. They all wear disgruntled faces in being brought into the army without a say, but there is still a pride in their expressions at being able to wear the king’s colors and carry themselves with the crown's name upon their back.
There’s a craving for victory in their eyes. A want for something glorious that will be decent justification for being put into this position.
They settle in, after the first few weeks.
Wilbur does not.
They wield their swords with a grinning strength, ready to prove themselves well, eager for the rewards. Wilbur keeps his sword on his hip, staying behind their backs, hoping to be overlooked and forgotten.
If he were to have it his way, he’d be granted a simple sort of assignment. Something with little need for violence, something he could spend his three years upon with only the worst downside being a sense of boredom.
But he’s not very lucky, and he’s not one to be given much favor.
His lack of improvement and lack of honest effort has only made him all the more visible to their superiors. They look upon him with a disappointment and a frustration for the way he won’t progress.
For his hesitance, he’s given an assignment with a handful of other men, a mission to help support their king on the borders of the kingdom, where enemy forces tend to try their approach within the forest trees.
Wilbur knows it’s meant to be a test of sorts. Or really just a neat solution. Something to force him into line, or to be rid of him, when he stays refusing to fight back. He’ll either draw his sword at last, or he’ll die in his fear and hesitance, those are the options given.
He cares for neither of them.
But still, he knows this well. He does not have a choice.
---
Traveling towards the border is a tedious and painful thing.
Wilbur finds himself glad to be rid of the usual routine, though. He sleeps easier in not having to worry about being torn from bed so early in the morning, with shouting commands from their superiors for them to prove their endurance with a long made sprint. There’s no longer any persistent insults made to the way he doesn’t hold a proper strength like the others. No pushing demands when he falters on reaching towards the hilt of his sword. No comments at the cowardly fear in his eyes when thrown into a fight.
There are no words at all. No conversation to be had.
The others don’t give him anything other than passing glares of irritation. He’s been reduced into being nothing more than a rock on the side of the road, easily kicked aside.
If he is to have any of his own food rations, he must take it himself. If he is to wake up and stay with the group, he must rush and stay upon their heels.
They won’t help him with anything. They won’t even acknowledge him.
He can see the way they consider him as nothing more than a burden. They speak not a word to him, say nothing to him, preferring to act as if he’s not there at all. As if they’re just waiting and hoping for him to slip off into the wild, be lost in the trees.
Wilbur considers it, on more than one occasion.
What good is staying here, when there is not even a single benefit for his presence within this position? It would not be very hard to run off, to ignore the decree made and live his next three years as he so wishes. But his name would still be marked off as someone who deserted his station, all the same.
A runaway soldier. Can Wilbur rush towards freedom while knowing there is a chance that he is risking his future for it? They’ll imprison him without hesitation if they find out he’s abandoned his duty like that.
Perhaps they’ll never find him, if he stays moving. Perhaps they’ll never truly care, they’ll never come looking, but can he dare to try? Would he want to live like that, always having an anxiety in the back of his throat, wondering if they’ll come to give him his consequence and ruin whatever life he’ll have built in the meantime?
He could run to somewhere outside the kingdom, but there’s danger to be found there, too. He could stay away from the cities, hide within the smaller towns, but could he trust that no one would ever sell him out, recognize his name from a list put out, be tempted by the idea of a reward for turning in a supposed criminal?
He could just stay. Stay and endure it and deal with the rest of the service he’s been assigned to.
It’s only three years, he tells himself. He can manage three lonely years, and then when it's done, he can put it all behind him, and be truly free, knowing he won’t have to return, and knowing that nothing will follow him home.
That’s the best option, he tells himself, as if he’s honestly made an option at all. Like he’s not just going along with the same fate he was pulled into, commanded to follow with a pretty little royal letter given at his doorstep.
He stays trailing along with the group, trying to stubbornly bear it.
It’s all he can do.
They arrive at the border a little over a month after they set out. His group is given little fanfare on their arrival, though Wilbur didn’t particularly expect much to the sight of simple reinforcements.
The soldiers already stationed at this camp look almost amused to see their new faces. Their lips are turned up into a knowing grin, chins raised high in pride, as if they know something they’re not yet willing to give.
They wave their introductions off, tell them where to put their supplies, give the simplest of tours around their territory.
It’s a quick made thing, lazy in the effort, and the higher ranked soldiers accept them into the camp with little much else. Wilbur is hardly given a single nod of greeting in the whole thing. He’s fairly used to the treatment by now, though, so he can’t say he’s all that bothered. If anything, he’s glad to not have been noticed. It’ll make it simpler for him to sneak off from time to time if he so chooses.
The day passes, evening comes, and at dinnertime, with the soldiers gathering around the kitchen tent to eat, they finally share the details of their news with their newcomers.
They tell them that their arrival is practically for nothing. It’s overshadowed easily by the next group to come.
What good is a few extra soldiers, they ask, almost teasing with it-- given right before the king sends his hounds?
Wil blinks in something of slight confusion. He bites quietly down onto the edge of his fork, brows furrowed together, turning around in where he’s sat by the end of the table, ignored easily at the corner.
“His Majesty is sending us some hunting dogs?” One of his group asks, similarly uncertain as to how they should take that sort of information. The king has no lack of resources to give, and any help would be desirable, when so far from the capital, so being sent hounds to assist in keeping guard around the camp wouldn’t be so bad.
One of the other soldiers gave a small snort, scrunching his nose up. “They’re not proper dogs.” He corrects, shaking his head. “It’s the man-beasts. His creatures that go from man to wolf on a whim.”
Oh, Wilbur thinks, realizing it properly. The king’s hounds.
He lowers his fork back to his plate, turning his head away with an understanding. Werewolves.
He’s only heard rumors of them, truly. It’s not something most want to speak of, the monsters taken underneath the king’s hand, made to become useful, rather than put to death as many think they should be.
They’re beings of honest magic, if Wilbur remembers right. Half-human, half-wolf, with the full glowing moon as their source of power, their strength. They’re cursed things, doomed to be lost between forms, never quite an animal, never quite a man. The king, in his generosity, saved them from a purposeless fate. Brought them in from the wild and gave them a chance to use their abilities honorably.
Or so they say. That’s what Wilbur’s been told, at least. He’s never asked for more detail. They’re some odd curiosities kept by the crown, so many miles away. Why be concerned with it?
But now they’re being sent here, given the task of securing this camp and getting rid of whatever threats that may linger in the forests. He wishes he asked more when he could, when he was still able to get a reply from others. Trying now won’t get him anything other than a cold look.
He’ll just have to hope it won’t be a horribly eventful thing, with such interesting company being brought in.
“It’ll be an easy few weeks.” The soldiers insist, Wilbur’s eyes stuck upon his half-eaten dinner, his fork poking uselessly through his meat. “We can send the hounds out to clean out the perimeter, keep the area clear, and we’ll be able stay within the camp all the meanwhile.”
“Ah, it’ll be a good break.” One of them nods, looking content to the idea. “The worst can be carried out by their hands, now.”
“You’re lucky to arrive when you did!” Another laughs, almost congratulating with the tone, and the others chuckle along with him, pulling their drinks up, relieved in the fact that they’ll be able to rest for a while rather than be put to do any true work.
Wilbur lifts his own drink to his mouth and takes a short sip.
He supposes it’ll be a very, very quiet few weeks for him. Not the worst thing to happen. In fact, it’s better than the worst.
He’ll endure it all the same.
---
He spends the next few days waiting with all the others.
He finds it easy to avoid most of his routines, ducking out of any sparring matches, keeping away from training, staying out of sight for those who don’t particularly care for him. Everyone’s a bit distracted with other things, with the days leading up to the new arrival, and he’s not the biggest concern to keep. He’s just one man, one easily forgotten face among the many.
The camp is nearly buzzing with anticipation to be given this gift from the king. It’s a nearly festive sort of mood. Wilbur can’t deny that he’s curious too, to see the hounds in person. In all the conversations he overhears, there’s someone itching to tell what they’ve heard, wanting to tell great stories about the abilities they carry, the strength they wield.
They’re far more efficient than any other hunting dogs, they say. Any good hound can be trained to catch and maul their prey on command, but there is an added element to their minds, to their manners of strategy.
A dog on its own cannot know to hide until the time is exactly right. It does not know the best place to sink its teeth down on an enemy when they’re needed alive or they’re sentenced to death. These hounds, they tell, know well how to adapt according to their orders. They know how to incapacitate an enemy, or how to leave them for dead. They know how to make it quick. They know how to make it hurt.
They’ve never failed when sent out on a hunt, the soldiers like to repeat. Not once. They always catch their prey, find their scent, and drag that person unwilling to their fate. Loyal dogs they are, they know of the expectations for them, and they fulfill them with a terrifying sort of effectiveness. They’re the king’s deadly beasts, a death sentence for their enemies in their simple presence.
The fact that they will soon be assigned to this camp means that the mission of securing this part of the border is practically already a success.
It’s a relief, in some sort of way, to know that. To know that there’s a greater force on its way to carry the burden for them. Though so much talk of such capable hunters makes Wilbur expect for their arrival to be a thing of respect and power.
He forgets, in the moment, that they’re considered as just hounds before anything else.
They arrive in a simple cage, when they get to the camp at last.
Everyone crowds around in a need to catch a good look, one ear given to the royal handlers who ride in front, their loud voices announcing their presence. Wilbur stays behind the group and stands on his toes to try and get a good glimpse, seeing only the top of the cage as it's pulled along, a small enclosure made of metal bars. It’s something you would see in transporting animals, Wilbur thinks. But they don’t look like animals.
They don’t look like beasts at all, really. Wilbur can barely catch a proper look, but he sees, in passing, the sight of two men sitting still within their crate, heads lowered, eyes out of sight. Their clothes seem worn out. Far too thin for the elements. There’s no shoes on their feet, and there’s dirt on their skin, as well as what looks to be metal collars around their necks, sitting oddly loose, the ring of metal seeming too big.
It’s strange to witness them like that. Wilbur stares like all the others, confused for a moment. They seem more like criminals being carried off to the gallows, rather than valuable, dangerous creatures, loyal to the king’s command.
They just- look like normal men.
The soldiers all gather around the cage as the horses come to a halt, the royal handler looking somewhat annoyed for all their reactions, their wide-eyed fascination. They keep a distance from the bars, at first, wary of the creatures inside. But curiosity wins out eventually. Someone brave reaches a single hand out, fingers raised to touch at the back of one of them.
In an instant, one of them twists its head around and snaps its teeth, baring out canines that poke out a little too much, far too sharp to belong to a true human. It snarls outright, a warning noise that reveals its true nature, Wilbur instinctively rearing back to the rough sound of it.
A burst of shocked shouts ripples through the crowd at the reaction, all the soldiers also backing away in fear, and then after a moment, with the possibility of danger passed, there comes a scattered laughter, others poking fun at how they jumped at the useless threat. The royal handler rolls their eyes. They warn them all to keep their hands away from the bars, lest they want to lose a few fingers, in the same way you’d warn a few visitors getting too close to the pig pen during feeding.
Intrigued conversation floats around as everyone stares a bit more to get the full look on the beasts, and Wilbur is no different from where he stands far behind, eyes squinted to try and see them properly.
Werewolves, Wilbur wonders, seeing a glimpse of those teeth bared out again, bright eyes lifting up, before then settling back down as they ease back into their spot, sitting still. They still seem so human, in his opinion. Even with that display right now, that growling noise made, they look like people. Just people. He steps away, the swarm of soldiers moving too much for him to get any more glimpses. Maybe that’s just how they appear, at first, he tells himself. They look like people, but everyone says they’re only wolves at heart. He’ll see their honest forms soon enough, surely.
He’s right to assume so.
The royal handler only waits until nightfall before deciding on sending them out. For a simple perimeter check, they say, though it’s also maybe for the sake of making a show, with all the other soldiers gathered around again, eager to see the hounds in action.
They open up the cage and order only one of them out, the skinnier one with blond hair hanging down low around its face. This one is faster of the two, the royal handler says. While the second one is better suited for ending their hunts, this one is best at catching the hunted things in the first place. Better at tracking, better at stealth, they explain, and the soldiers all give their reactions of being impressed as the werewolf slowly creeps out from its enclosure, coming down and stepping across the dirt like a wounded man taken out from his cell, almost limping with it. It doesn’t seem injured, though. There’s no obvious wounds to see.
It’s tired, maybe? Wilbur can’t expect there to be good rest found within such a small cage. It has such…poor conditions. Why keep such important animals in such a way?
The werewolf looks to the crowd of people in a slow turn of its head. Even from the back, with his view nearly entirely covered, Wilbur can see how blue those eyes are. They’re practically glowing against the dark of the night, in a way that makes him think of the candle flame within their lanterns around camp. Burning warm in the quiet potential of a roaring fire, if not handled correctly. All it would need is something to catch onto.
The royal handler points a finger out to the trees of the forest around them, commanding for the creature to set out. Wilbur sees those blue eyes turn away, its head lowering down, and everyone’s voices rise up in something of awe and surprise upon seeing the form of a man be swallowed up, melting away, disappearing into a new shape of a rather large wolf, covered in a golden colored fur, the metal collar around its neck now made tight.
…so that is why it hung so loose. So as to fit when it shifted forms. Wilbur supposes that makes sense.
It looks nothing like a normal dog at any first glance. Its claws are too sharp, and it stands too tall. It looks off, in some sort of way, perhaps for the color of its fur. If Wilbur were to see this wolf in the wild, he’d know there’s something different about it. He’s just not too sure what.
It breaks into a run the second it’s settled upon into its paws, almost shaking on the first steps, as if to become used to the new skin. It dashes out into the dark with a quick confidence and focus, all the soldiers shouting out in something of disappointment, a few even looking like they want to give chase. An expectant silence comes soon after, lasting for a short minute before then broken with the overlapping voices of the soldiers again, all of them wanting to see more.
Wilbur ignores the rising conversation made, the royal handler insisting they should only let one out at the time, the soldiers arguing that they should be able to know more about the creatures now under their command. Wil stays staring out towards the dark shadows of the trees, brows furrowing together, gaze drifting out towards the rest of the tents nearby.
If it's doing a perimeter check, then that means it’ll be circling around the entire camp, doesn’t it?
He takes a step back from the crowd and turns to look behind him, towards the other side. The soldiers stay complaining, the royal handler giving some passing explanation of the moon’s position forcing light activity on the hounds’ other form. Wilbur keeps one ear to it, and keeps the other to the rest of the forest. He hears nothing so far, sees nothing in the dark, but he feels as if there’s something to soon approach. After all, if the wolf is circling, then doesn’t that mean it’ll be coming back from-?
Wilbur sees the eyes before he sees it entirely.
A blur of blue staring out from the dark, rushing past the bushes and bramble in its way, jumping out into the open.
He sees it, and it sees him, then it's there, right in front of him before his mind can even think to consider the fast approaching animal as a threat.
He stumbles back and hits the ground as it sprints right past him, weaving through the surprised crowd, making its way back to the royal handler. It pays no mind to the slight chaos it brings in moving so fast through them all, only more preoccupied in returning to its spot, the royal handler giving another shouting command for it to stay.
No one laughs at seeing Wilbur fall, thankfully enough. Though no one goes to help him up, either. Wilbur stands to his feet as he hears another chorus of disappointment rise on up, the royal handler deeming this to be enough for the first night, putting the wolf back into its cage.
It shifts back into its human form as it climbs in, and the other werewolf raises its head, coming close. All the other soldiers are trying to give excuses or pleas or requests, and Wilbur looks past their heads and ignores their voices and looks out to the cage itself, confused for a moment.
He sees how their hands reach to each other, their fingers holding on in a grasping gesture, their lips moving in a quiet whispering exchange. Wilbur seems to be the only one to catch it, to see that moment given.
The second one murmurs low, lip curled down for a second in something like raw concern, its hand letting go so that it can graze past the side of its companion’s arm. Wilbur looks at the gesture, the concern being quickly batted away by the other, as if knowing it's not the right time.
He stays staring, even after the gesture is long passed.
No one’s said anything about them being able to speak. Though they have the vocal chords for it, in having human forms, it's not one of the greater details that often got passed around. It was not deemed important.
Wilbur wonders why it never occurred to him that they would possess the ability to.
The ability to speak, the ability to whisper. To sing, to communicate, to connect. They sit still, eyes lowered again, but they do not go back to looking like unknown creatures, in Wilbur’s view. They now look very familiar, for the fact that Wilbur saw that passing moment before.
There was fear there, as they reunited. A very quiet sort of fear, the sort that one takes on when you have caring emotion kept for another, when you know you can’t be sure you’ll be able to keep them close. It was too human. Too honest.
Wilbur looks upon their collars again, hanging loose around human necks, and he feels a cold stab of dread strike through his chest. These creatures are treated as beasts, and were warned to be hostile things, and were described as nothing more than rather intelligent animals. So Wilbur did not think they'd be anything other than animals, with a odd human form that they could also wear. But it's not...
They're just people.
And suddenly, it's not a gift given, some helpful resource sent over by the king himself. It's something colored in a sick sort of horror, Wilbur feeling as if he's the only soul who's managing to actually see it. Why is everyone else acting as if this is not something to be bothered by? Why take this offer so quickly if it means there's a suffering to be had?
These are people.
Wilbur is sure of it, convinced of it. Even if he's not heard a word from their voice, even if he's seen nothing more than just that little gesture between them both, he knows these creatures can't just be called hounds alone. Even with how the other werewolf lifts his head to the hovering crowd, and bares his teeth again with a warning snarl.
There is a humanity behind the wild threat in his eyes.
He's a person.