Last Light

Daybreak - III

The Priest walked along the narrow hallway. The house was made entirely of wood, sparsely furnished and partly dilapidated; a hole in the ceiling above him allowed an unobstructed view of the floor above. The woman he followed through the house stopped at the door at the end of the corridor. Their eyes briefly met; the woman's face bore the marks of age, hard daily work, and the sorrow and worry she must have been feeling for weeks.

  »Are you sure about this?«, she asked incredulously.

The Priest nodded and extended his open hand to her. She sighed and placed a heavy, iron key into it. The door to the room scraped against the floor as the woman pushed it open. She cast a brief, mournful glance into the adjoining room, then stepped aside and let the Priest pass.

He nodded briefly at her once more before she closed the door behind him. Now he was alone in the small room, alone with him –

The Priest briefly took in his surroundings: Across from him was a simple bed, its sheets dirty. To the left stood a small chest of drawers, on which an oil lamp burned; the only light in the room. The gray curtains in front of the window were drawn shut, the breeze that occasionally entered barely moved the heavy fabric. The smell in the room was intense, a mixture of musty wood, rusty metal, excrement, and wet fur. Even the open window couldn't change that. The temperature in the room was icy, making his breath visible.
A loud, steady breathing filled the silence. The Priest's gaze wandered to the corner of the room where the sound came from, passing bowls of leftover food, bloody bandages, and smeared excrement on the wooden floor, barely covered with a thin layer of straw.

The boy was chained, his family had no other choice. Massive metal rings encircled his wrists; the skin beneath them had been bloody and torn over the past few days. The chains attached to them were just long enough for the boy to scratch himself, but he could hardly move from his place, and they were anchored with a large metal hook in the ground.
The boy was skinny and on the cusp of adolescence; his hair was disheveled, the beginning of a first beard visible, his pants too short for his long legs, barefoot, the shirt torn and brown with dried blood.

  »Your mother told me you're still able to speak«, the Priest asked calmly.

The boy's gaze met his and the Priest was surprised at the humanity still present in it.

A boy; he was just a boy - The Priest took a step towards him, but the boy recoiled, straw rustling beneath him, chains rattling on wood. »Stay away!«, he said hoarsely.

The Priest knelt down and looked him squarely in the eyes. For a few moments, the boy held firm; the Priest could see the animalistic aura in his eyes, the provocation and dominance they exuded. But then it disappeared as suddenly as it had flared up and the boy looked down. »Listen«, the Priest said gently, »what you're going through is terrible -«

  »- What makes you think you know what you're talking about!?«, the boy burst out. There it was again, the dominance, the anger, the unrestrained power of the beast.

The Priest raised his hands: »I know it, just as I know you didn't kill those people on purpose You weren't in control of yourself.«

The boy looked at him, saying nothing. »You're not possessed. You're not cursed. You're suffering from an illness«, the Priest explained. »An illness for which there is a cure.«

  »The villagers doesn't care. They want to see me dead. The verdict has already been pronounced. Tomorrow morning they will come and kill me. They're too afraid of what I might become. Again and again.«

  »I'm not afraid of you«, the Priest replied and meant it. A mocking smile crossed the boy's face.

  »You don't believe me?«, the Priest asked. The boy didn't answer. 

  »Well, what if I take off your chains and we leave?«

The boy looked at him; the incredulity in his eyes spoke volumes: »I'm a monster. I'm not going anywhere. My fate awaits me. I deserve it.«

- I deserve it -

The boy's last words echoed as the dull dripping of water woke the Priest. The rising sun was just crossing the lower edge of the arched window opposite him; warm sunlight touched his cheek. If the monotonous dripping of the water hadn't awakened him, the rising sun surely would have.

The Priest looked beside him. The boy lay a few meters away from him, curled up, his fur gleaming in the rising sunlight. His massive chest rose and fell rhythmically as he slept, the deep, rumbling sound of his breathing was comforting in the almost silent surroundings. One of his paws trembled, his lips twitched and briefly revealed the sight of his gigantic fangs.

Sometimes the  Priest wondered what the boy might be dreaming of. Since the magical connection with the boy, the Priest's dreams had revolved around him, as if his guilty conscience wanted to remind him every possible second that he had broken his promise; that he had failed. The druidic runic magic had slowed the boy's transformation, but it hadn't healed him. And the more the animalistic part of him took over, the harder it became to maintain the connection, to keep control of the spell.

Not a night went by when the priest wasn't afraid, afraid of waking up the next morning and having lost the connection overnight; waking up and facing a wild beast whose only purpose was devastation.
Perhaps this was his just punishment; punishment for promising the boy and his family healing that didn't exist.

Perhaps I deserve it, thought the Priest. And so worries and guilt accompanied him beyond the dream into the day; every possible second, indeed.

Again, the boy twitched. Yes, sometimes the Priest wondered what the boy might be dreaming of, or if he could still dream at all. He wouldn't get an answer, it was too late.
The sun's rays grew stronger and warmer, illuminating larger areas of his fur; the night was over. Daybreak and the Wolf woke up.