Secret Love

CHAPTER 1

healer

(hiːləʳ )

countable noun

A healer is a person who heals people. A werewolf who decides to become a healer leaves a small part of his or her wolf behind to fully commit to the moon and her blessings of knowledge. 

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Leslie

My feet sunk away in the cold mud on the ground of the forest. Blood painted the trees and moss. Dead wolves and men scattered throughout the silent field. The only thing I could hear were my hard breaths from all the running. The heavy medicine bag only slowed me down but I still held onto it for dear life. 

Soon after I left the Lycan pack that summer a war between most packs had broken out. My pack was neutral ground, as we produced food and herbs for everyone.We were safe from the terror outside our borders.  

It all started with the murder of the alpha of the Ganon pack, after that all hell broke loose. Packs were being attacked and taken over by bigger packs, to try and become the biggest and mightiest out there. 

As a now fully educated healer, I was sent out into the fields, supposedly safe from harm. We took care of everyone, no matter what pack they came from. But everyone knew younger girls were often taken and raped, murdered or sold off. 

I stopped and looked around me. I tried to use my limited wolf hearing to find someone in peril. My heart was thumping against my chest and my wolf is anywhere but present in my head. I'm on my own, with only raw instinct to find myself through a forest of dead men. 

But then I heard something. 

A whimper. 

He was already too weak to scream in pain, or too scared of being found by the wrong men. 

It came from north, or maybe west?

I started running, stopping a few times to listen. 

The blood covered moss should've given it away, but the smell of rotting flesh hit me first. 

Then I saw him, lying there clutching his left leg, his head thrown back. Naked, but completely covered in dirt. A sight and scent hiding method. 

Clever.

I rushed to his side. Grabbing his leg and examining it. There were three deep gashes, covered with big yellowish pus wounds. He was poisoned. He was lucky if he could still walk if the poison didn't already spread through his body. The bottom of my apron was reddening by the spurting of blood from his wounds.

I tried to stop the bleeding with one hand as the other looked for any kind of strong cloth to tie around his leg. 

His skin was on fire, but he had cold sweat on his forehead. He looked kind of familiar. But all men looked the same to me when they were covered in mud and in pain. 

I tied the cloth around his upper leg, a few inches above his wounds to stop the poison from spreading. The enemy was smart. They probably covered their claws in a mixture of wolfs-bane and mistletoe.