Celebration 200!

Broken Bells [Werewolf!Kid x Fem!Reader]

Image by flaiil on Deviantart

For LindsayNewgate

Post-Apocalyptic? Fantasy? Werewolf!AU

Prompt: Kid is some sort of werewolf and has imprinted on Reader

I... think I got a bit carried away here, eheh. I couldn't help myself, I got excited since I'd never written anything Werewolf related before :P So this might seem like the beginning of an unfinished idea (which I guess it is). But I hope you like it anyways :3

Enjoy!

It was a small temple, tucked at the far edge of a nowhere town. Whitewashed walls, carved wooden accents, tall gates with arching peaks stretching to the sky, a few shrines scattered around the semi-well-kept yard, and a grey stone bell tower that rose high above all.

You hadn't been sure what kind of gods were worshipped here. (You still weren't). But you'd hoped they were the sort that encouraged their followers to take in the sick and the needy. You'd been both those things.

The priest (or monk, or page, you'd had no idea) had given you such a look of forced pity that you'd almost turned around on the spot. But then he had opened the door fully and beckoned you inside.

"We have need of a bell-ringer," he'd said.

And so you'd found sanctuary.

What followed were a rough few months spent trying to figure out how to get those heavy iron bells to move with your weak and feeble body. But with the stresses of starvation and constant vulnerability off your mind, your strength soon began to return.

The thick ropes that hung from the belfry slowly began to fit into your hands instead of simply chaffing them raw. The muscles in your arms and legs found reason to exist. And as your body returned to health and vigor, so did your mind.

A sense of peace and tranquility lingered over the holy ground. Incense, faint chants, and the flickering light of candles became a constant in your life.

And the bells.

Oh, the bells.

You'd never heard such beautiful sounds. Pure and clear. Some so deep you felt the vibrations in your bones, others so high they faded into nothing before reaching your ears.

But though you had found a place to rest your weary feet, you remained cautious of those who trespassed within the walls of your haven.

You became a ghost in the temple, a shadow that emptied offered plates without being seen, that lurked in the bell tower and only observed, never partook.

The people who made pilgrimage here began to think a spirit rang the bells. They took it as a sign from whichever god they prayed to. A sign that this was a good place.

And so you kept to your bell tower, letting the large domes of metal shelter you within their encircling bows.

You learned how to pull the ropes just right so the sounds tolling from above made tears fall and souls sing. You traced your hands over the iron until you knew every inch of every bell; from the ones small enough to fit in your palm, to the ones that stood taller than you and four times as wide. You polished them until they gleamed in their tower.