The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway

Candlelight danced on the walls of Fenris’ room. They had been burning for the entire evening, and now the last of the wicks were fighting to stay lit, casting odd shapes on the walls that played with him as he awoke in a state he so dearly loved. His life, his actions, and even his name were far from him, muddled by the amnesia of the dreamer.

Then the memories would come back again. Sadness, confusion, desperation. Wandering a road with no discernible destination, but worse yet, no purpose.

He’d been dreaming of the elf, the runed sword. But this time, in that last moment before the steel cut deeply, the rest of the dreamscape corroded to darkness; all that remained were the markings burning like stars. The pain flashed again, a line of fire down his face, with the engravings pulsing brighter still, humming, before the dream collapsed to reality.

When he raised a hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, his hands stopped, and the clinking of chains filled the room. He tried to move his legs. They were trapped in place, too. Cold, iron circlets restrained his wrists and ankles, chained to the head and footboards.

Just as he thought about banging his hands angrily at the headboard, just to release frustration, he felt, for the first time, what it was like to recover from shapeshifting.

‘Aching’ did not describe it. As he grunted and panted, he thought to himself that ‘weariness’ did not suit it either.

It was as if someone had scooped out the marrow of his bones, tied his ligaments and muscles in every manner of knots imaginable, tore his spine from his back, put it upside down and hoped it would work the same.

Even his fingers had lost their nimbleness. They trembled as he tried to touch each finger to his thumb.

Shapeshifting is no lesser magick. Its tolls are disastrous.

A curious rhythm drifted into his room, lighthearted and fit for the start of some revelry. Small drums, a lute’s strings, and a flute amongst others he did not know.

It was then that he took a long gaze about the room, felt the softness of the sheets beneath him, the poke of a feather’s end protruding through the fabric of the pillow’s casing. The room was, easily, three of the little cottages of Crowshead combined.

As the music began to lull him him back to sleep, and his eyes fell upon the tray of dishes on the nightstand beside his bed, he concluded that he was dreaming again.

Even in his mind, he was not surprised that he was shackled.

It was Ash who awoke him with a quirky smile beaming through the darkness. “Oh, look who’s awake!” he exclaimed.

“Greetings,” Fenris coughed. He cleared the dust from his voice, tried to sit up, then sighed as the chains forced him to his back again. “So it was true, after all. Someone’s gotten the sense to chain me up.”

“I’m sorry about those,” the Sun-elf said as he pulled a chair up beside the bed.

“Oh …” Fenris thought for a moment, “they won’t hold me, anyways. Don’t you know?”

“That is solid iron, my lad.” He looked a little rosy from drinking, but the seriousness was there, behind his unreasonably broad grin.

Fenris shrugged. “If I shifted here, it would be a small thing to break these.”

“It is pointless, then?”

Fenris nodded, and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear to get it from his eye. He kept his scar covered, however.

Ash produced a key from one of his pockets to unshackle him. One by one, Fenris raised his limbs and did his best to stretch them.

“I don’t mean to put a damper on your already … dampened spirits. But, do you have any idea as to when you’ll turn again?”

As a matter of fact, Fenris had none. Every person he knew had heard one rumor or another about the nature of the Cursed Ones’ shapeshifting. Most accepted the theory of the full moon, based on the particular person’s star sign, while the Red Hand propagated the notion that it was a nearly permanent form, though they didn’t believe it themselves.

It was neither of these, or any of the rumors that held, for that matter.

“Well, I heard tell of something of interest. There was a traveler passing through the inn several nights ago. He was your average looking, wary but friendly, you know how those folks are. He told me that he’d seen one of your kind turn, before.”

Fenris could hear the sounds of his bone snapping, how his muscles tore and ripped that first night. “Unfortunate.”

“No, no, there is more. The man shifted, only, he didn’t kill anyone. No one but himself, anyways. The man shifted in his very own village, and after he saw his daughter, he ran away. Threw himself off the edge of a mountain. I suppose he couldn’t bear to hurt his own daughter. There was something human left in him.”

“How encouraging. If I don’t kill anyone I simply kill myself.” He started laughing, but Ash didn’t particularly enjoy Fenris’ tone.

“Look, I don’t know you very well, and I suppose the circumstances in which we met weren’t exactly ideal.”

“Yes, commonly you shake a stranger’s hand, you don’t stab it.” Ash couldn’t see the playful smirk on his face, but it was alive in his voice. “But, I deserved that.”

“An outburst. I apologize. But, Fenris, what’s more important here is you. You see this curse as, well, a curse. Take a moment, no, take a long time to consider that you can look at it differently. There is no changing that, some time ago, you were afflicted. This is no minor occurrence. This isn’t a season’s failed crops, not a nasty cut or even a death in your family.

“This isn’t a separate part of you, something you can stow away, it is you. But how will you look at it? How, or when, will you make your peace with it?”

He looked back at Ash with eyes that said, “I don’t know.” But certainly, there was something there that told him he didn’t want to let this defeat him, even if he had almost nothing to lose by giving up. In fact, it would have been worlds easier to give himself up to the afterward, to see what was beyond the veil, and to leave behind his fleshy confines.

Especially when those confines are hellbent on devouring the innocent.

Ash put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “You’re strong, you know that?” He stood up and went to the door.

Fenris thanked him quietly, not at all believing it, but he was not all too certain he heard. He just sat there, staring at his hands, the ripples in the sheets, wishing he was not who he was.

Just as he pushed through the door, letting the light from the hallway streak in and burn Fenris’ eyes, Evara’s silhouette strutted down the wooden floorboards with the thud of her boots.

“Can you believe it? He’s awake! The little demon is awake!”

“I heard that.”

“See? He’s even got some humor in him. In any case … is there any cider left downstairs?” The elf was three heads taller than her, but even in the doorway, with a clear view, Fenris could see which one was taller than the other.

“A barrel and a half. Help yourself, it’s going fast.”

And just like that, the elf vanished like a thief, the sound of his shoes clattering down the stairs sounding more like a tumble and a crashing fall than a sprint.

Evara shut the door after he left. The first thing she saw were the unlocked shackles.

Fenris caught her gaze. “There’s no need for them.”

“No need because it is safe?”

“For now. Safe for long? No.”

The innkeeper looked to be on the verge of anger, but when she looked back into Fenris’ eyes, she softened. “And you would tell me. That is, if you felt …”

“Like I was going to undress my skin as if it was merely a cloak? Yes, I would tell you, if I could, that is.”

There was a light drizzle tiptoeing on the glass of the only window in the room. Dusk came with a good many stars, and the quickening moonlight was turning the droplets silver.

“What is your name?” His words were softened by fear, accompanied by the rain, they were no more than a whisper, no louder than an honest stare.

“Evara Auborn. I’ve been tending to you. And this is the Hallowed Harvest, my little inn. Welcome. You are safe here.”

“Safe. That is not a word I would use, not anymore. How long have I been here?”

“Five days this nightfall,” Evara said.

“Where is this place? A heavenly realm, certainly.” He pinched the sheets and pushed the fabric through his fingers.

She laughed, and got closer. “You are too kind. We are half a day’s walk from Gods’ Rest. Just west of here, there’s a path that meets the main road and leads to the city. It’s a guarded road, too.”

Fenris felt guilty. He never had enough coin to pay for one day at an inn, especially not one so luxurious. He supposed Ash was using his wealth, or his favors. “My hand?”

“I am no healer, though I washed it through and through. It has been well, and should not worsen. But, Fenris … do you remember me at all?”

He looked from the window to her, perplexed, surprised to find that her name did not sound so awkward coming from her lips. Surprised to find that he felt comfortable with her at all. “Should I?”

She sat on the side of the bed. Fenris’ fear melted almost immediately to attraction, and his heart began to race. He straightened up, the room growing warmer, his mouth too dry. “I’m Fenris.”

Evara gave a shy smile. “I know.”

“Two strangers deserve a good meeting, no matter how the gods decide they meet.”

“That they do.”

“It is well enough meeting you, Evara.”

“And you, Fenris.”

They traded deep breaths and a curious gaze, settling into the moment together. “Why did you decide to look after me?” he finally asked. It was the the question they’d both been dreading;.

The candlelight played on the darkness in their eyes as their expressions hardened. “I could not turn away a stranger in need. It is not my nature.”

It was hard to swallow what she said, only to spit back: “Well, I am in debt to you. But I do not think you should look after me any longer.” He pretended that the rain upon the windowpanes was more interesting than her eyes boring into him, for he knew that was all he should say, though it was far from what he wanted.

Her hand went to his wrist, and he could not turn his gaze away. He made himself meet her eyes, hoping they would not betray his feelings, knowing they would. It was vulnerability. It was begging. He wanted, and needed, to stay. He was dying. And it was certainly in his eyes.

Though he knew it was not right to accept her mercy.

“Why? Why would you waste this?” He could feel her breath as the last of it faded across his cheek. Her fingers were warm, grasping his skin tight.

“You’re mending the wounds of something you don’t entirely understand. Ash is too …” Fenris hoped the words would leak from the candles. Nothing was right in his head. He could feel emotion and reason clashing inside, convoluting what he wanted to say, until all he could do was mumble half-truths and nebulous statements. “Ash didn’t unlock the cuffs because I don’t need them. It’s because they are useless. They would snap like twigs, or bones, if I shifted right here.”

Evara resisted the urge to admit he was right. But she’d been changed. From the nights being alone with him, nursing his body. Five days was not enough for him to be healthy; it wasn’t even enough to satisfy her curiosity. What was the mind behind the body like? “We’re just trying to be good folk, Ash and myself.”

“I know, but the truth is this: Ash should’ve left me to die on that road. I don’t remember much of what happened after he cut me, but I doubt I crawled my way into your arms. I would be a meal for crows by now. Carrion. I should return to the roads.”

“Returning would mean dying. Do you want to die? Just stop … Fenris.”

His eyes narrowed. Never had a stranger spoken so honestly with him before. It sparked a cluster of emotions which throbbed in his chest. Desire, predominantly, ruled him. A foolish, adolescent desire, and he was ashamed of how strong it was. “Stop what?”

“Stop feeling so sorry for yourself. Of all the people in this world, you fell into our arms. I wasn’t so sure about helping Ash lick your wounds when you first arrived, and certainly not after I found out what you are, but I don’t wish to see the Curse devour you. And how can we stop it from hurting others if we don’t help you, first? Ash told me, the night you arrived, that he saw something in your eyes, and felt something different about you. I looked for it, and I saw it, too. A strength and will to find a path to overcome.

“But there’s something else in there, eating at you, feeding off you. More than just the Curse itself. And soon enough … sure enough … if you don’t decide to become stronger than it, that’s all you’ll be. You’ll be eaten, Fenris. Hallow. You will be carrion, even if you’re alive.” Evara was staring directly into his eyes, in a way that only Deidre could do. He felt vulnerable and naked. He wanted her to hold him.

The creature in him was stirring from her words, lurking behind his eyes. “There’s more to you than the darkness. Everyone’s cursed in some way, Fenris. It just so happens yours is less hidden.” Evara uncurled her hand from Fenris’ wrist and hovered over his face, until she was just a breath away from the scar running down his eye. “How badly did that hurt?” she asked.

Her hand traced the indentation of the scar as he took a deep, shuddering breath and said, “Not enough. Now please, go. I’ll stay for now, just leave me to myself. I can’t think. For Siflos’ sake, please. ” The words did not fall hard from him, but they sunk deep into the room all the same. They burned into the wood, filled the silence with smell of their desperation.

With a few more thuds of her boots, she was by the door. “There’s supper downstairs, if you feel like it, and I washed your clothes for you. If you feel guilty for staying in this room, you can make it up by helping me clean the dishes sometime. They pile up.”

Silence came again. After the door shut, he felt soothed, bathing in the candlelight, the silver dripping down the windowpane, the steady downpour upon the roof. He dared to feel hope, because he saw it in her eyes.

He also felt odd. Because he was entirely naked.