Of Wolf And Man -Part One
It is late in the day, long beams of light slanting through the trees as I hurry home. Digging in my heels, I pull the heavy cart over the last rise and see the roof of home through the trees. As I approach, a forlorn cry comes from the house–my baby brother Elijah probably complaining that he wanted to be picked up as usual.
Rolling the cart right up to the front door, I grab an armload of flour sacks, calling over my shoulder, "Ma, I'm home! Are Pa and the boys back yet?" I push into the house and set my load down.
No answer from Ma, but perhaps she is out back. A shrill cry sounds from the bedroom, trailing off into a hiccuping sob. I push open the door, and find my brother sitting on the floor, tear-stained face bunched up in preparation for another cry. His brown eyes light up for a moment when he sees me, then the slobbery fist goes back to his eyes and he tilts his head back to let out another howl.
I swoop him up, wondering why he is sitting here by himself like this, he's plainly been crying a while. Upon picking him up I find his nappies a sodden mess. Of course, that would explain the normally cheerful lad's displeasure. It is unlike Ma to let him sit and stew in his own mess, though. "Ma, I have 'Lijah," I call and swiftly strip the toddler of his stinky clothes, wipe his little bum clean and redress him.
Ruffling his blonde hair, I scoop him up. "Let's go see what Ma has cooking for supper." I sniff, realizing I don't smell anything cooking. Normally she has something bubbling away in the pot by now, but I know that life has a way of inserting new tasks and chores into a routine with no concern for how it may disrupt the schedule. She is probably just cleaning out the animal shed and has lost track of time.
Elijah clings to my side, running pudgy, soggy fingers over my cheek, babbling in his soft baby voice while I walk out to the garden. The buzz of insects in the garden greet my ears, flies, bees, eager crickets, chirring loudly. The gate is open, and I can see the goat in there, voraciously stripping vegetation off the berry bushes, while the chickens decimate the peas. Ma is going to have a fit.
Ella the goat sees me and decides to see if I have my usual pail of slops from the kitchen. I glance into the animal shed, but there is no sign of Ma. Maybe she's just having a long sit in the outhouse. I turn to look, but the door is ajar, the privy quite empty.
A sudden buzzing jerks my attention back to the garden. Ella flicks her long ears and marches through the sudden swarm of flies that thicken the air. Something inside of me freezes.
There shouldn't be that many flies. There just shouldn't be. "Ma?"
Ella bumps her nose into my knee, startling me. Suddenly the quiet is unnerving. No, not unnerving—it is terrifying. The flies are already settling back down, the drone of their wings quieting but not dropping away entirely. Now that I can hear the buzz of those flies, it's all I can hear. Not my baby brother burbling around his fist, not the goat bleating her displeasure. Just the flies.
"Ma?" I call out, voice catching in my throat. "Ma, are you in the garden?" Slowly, I edge past the gate, not wanting to look, I have a terrible idea of what I will find. Bracing myself, summoning all my will, I glance down the rows. It is worse than I could ever imagine, and I curl myself protectively around my baby brother, biting back the scream. Much worse, and soon the scream comes and pours out, tearing past my vocal cords to grate at the air. The anguish follows me down to the ground as I black out, swirling 'round, never easing up, tracking me back up into wakefulness as I bolt upright.
The nightmare may have ended, but the guilt would be my constant companion for the rest of my life. I rolled over, tugging the furs higher over my bare shoulder, punched the pillow to fluff it, flipped it to the cool side, and settled in. I tossed, turned, and finally gave up and lit a candle, blinking furiously in the sudden brightness. It didn't matter that I was awake and no longer dreaming; the emotions, the memories lingered so close to the surface of my thoughts that it still felt like it all happened yesterday.
I got up and pace my small room, stepping to the nightstand lave my face with cool water. It didn't help; my blood was too hot. I stared into the cracked mirror, contemplating the man gazing back. "You should have been there," I accused him. It was no good, he fired it right back at me.
You should have been there, Philip. No one but yourself to blame. Maybe if you had come straight back like you said. Maybe if you had hurried a little more. Maybe if you hadn't stopped to refill your water skin. Maybe if you had thought ahead and bought flour earlier in the month. Maybe . . . maybe . . . if . . .
My mind raced in circles. With a soft growl I forced myself to breathe deep. This long since Ma was murdered and I still ended up feeling like a lost child from time to time, especially when the dreams came. I meditated quietly for several hours and felt as rested as I ever could, my thoughts once more calm and focused.
Ready to resume my studies, I opened the tome in front of me, reading by the magical light I conjured. Eventually I could no longer ignore the pinched gurgling sounds coming from my belly, and I went upstairs in search of something hot to eat. Stepping into the common room of the Frozen Hearth, I saw that the sun was just peeking over the horizon. By my estimate, I had been up four hours. I took my usual place and ordered breakfast from Haran, thinking about the dig I'd be heading out to later. Maybe the memories wouldn't be able to find me so easily, deep in a Dwemer ruin. I realized I had been staring at the yolks of my eggs for too long. Finding the now cold remains unappetizing, I pushed the plate away and rose.
Dagur and Eirid greeted me, and I nodded politely and headed back to the cellar where I was bunked for the time being. I dressed for my journey and grabbed my satchel and sword. As I stepped out into the frigid air, I forced myself to put aside the past once more. I couldn't afford to be distracted on this mission; others had already been hurt, and I wouldn't let anyone else come to harm on my watch. The others were late making their way across the narrow bridges that linked the College of Winterhold to the mainland. I am normally patient, but this morning I was anxious. While I waited, I adjusted the many buckles and straps of my armor to disguise the restlessness. By the time they finally arrived, holding already sodden hems out of the slush, I was prepared to guard a handful of novice mages on their first foray into a dwarven ruin.
"My name is Philip. The college has asked me to guide you to the dig and to protect you and your findings. I will also be participating in the actual research. It's best you understand I've been trekking the wilds for nearly twenty years now, so while we travel together, you will listen to me and follows my instructions to the letter. If you do, we'll all make it back alive. Questions?"
The Khajiit in the back raised his hand, then spoke out in his soft raspy voice, "J'Zargo is no mewling kitten who needs to be nursed along. J'Zargo is powerful mage. Who does this one think he is to 'guide' and 'protect?' Has the pretty Breton mastered expert level destruction magics yet?"
I disliked being called pretty by anyone, but I bit back the irritation and and as professionally as I could, "Yes, I have. Hopefully a demonstration won't be required on our journey. The Arch-Mage himself interviewed me and deemed me worthy. I trust that will be satisfactory to all of you; now shall we get moving?"
The student mages nodded and mumbled, trudging down the streets after me in a long, strung-out line. This would never do. "Tighten up the line, lads and lasses, and pick up your feet; we don't want to get caught in the pass at dark. Trolls will eat you tender bits right up." As they straggled up to where I waited, I couldn't help but think, this is going to take a while.
Three weeks later I finally found my way back to civilization. Or rather, Winterhold. The desolate little town had little in the way of charm to speak for it, but I liked it. The innkeeper, Haran, let me room in the cellar where I could study quietly and no patrons would complain about me screaming in my sleep. Proximity to the college and the resources there made it an ideal location for me.
When I entered the warm inn, Eirid called out to me, "Philip, you got a letter; it's on your bed. I promise I didn't try to read it this time."
"I'm sure you didn't. Anyone new to play with in town?"
"No, just Assur." Her little face fell into mournful contemplation.
"He still making you be the Elf?" I asked. She came over and gave me a little hug.
"Always. I tried to get him to play another game, but he just won't."
"Perhaps someday he'll surprise you and want to play a different game. Be patient, little one; you're a good friend." I ruffled her hair, and she ducked away laughing. I bought a few bottles of mead and went downstairs. I spotted the letter right away, recognized the handwriting on the front. I dropped the letter on the table and opened a bottle of mead, draining most of it in a few long swallows that left my eyes watering.
I set my bottle near the letter and stripped off my shoulder pauldron and harness, then hung them up. I drained the rest of the first bottle while I washed up and changed into clean clothes. Finally out of reasonable ways to put it off, I picked up the letter from my brother and opened it, sipping the second bottle as I read,
I hope this letter finds you well. Thought you might be interested to know that some friends and I have had contact with the bastards responsible for Mother's death. I intend to hunt down every last one of them if I can. If you want to join me, I am living in Whiterun now; you can find me at the house next to Warmaiden's, right inside the city gate. Hurry, I want to hit them hard and soon.
-Sullevan
P.S. Pa sends his love. You should write him more often.
P.P.S I also just found out I am the Dragonborn. Beat that, big brother!
I read it three times, just to be sure I hadn't missed something-like a punchline. This whole letter felt like a kick to the gut. For years he and I had tried to track down the band responsible for killing Ma and had found nothing. A part of me had resigned myself to not ever resolving the matter, but this . . . this was an unexpected opportunity that I wasn't about to pass up.
I leaned back and shifted my thoughts to his other news. Dragonborn. How in Oblivion that happened? I decided not to worry about that one too much right now. If he was, there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. All I could do is try to keep an eye on him. After all, he was a grown man now, not the boy I grew up with. I wonder if he's told Pa about that yet? I was sure we'd talk about it when I got to Whiterun.
Tired, I lay down, hoping to escape the nightmares, the restless visions of the hunt. Nineteen years of exhaustion loomed heavy and weighed me down, but true rest still eluded me. Instead, I found myself wading deeper and deeper into memory as the dreams overtook me.
Wet hands and piercing cries rouse me. Elijah is slapping my face with his little palms, struggling in my arms. Confused, I wonder a moment why I'm on the ground outside. Then I hear the flies. Oh gods damn, what am I supposed to do? Pa? Pa, where in Oblivion are you, I need you!
As if sent by the divines in answer, I hear the sound of shouts coming from the road. Shit! I scramble up, still clutching Elijah, and race on wobbly legs around to the front.
"Pa! Grab the boys, grab them! There's been -" Fuck, how do I explain? I don't even know what happened myself. I just can't let the boys find her. They don't ever need to see that.
"Philip, calm yourself. What's wrong? Where is your mother?" He has an iron grip on Relian's shirt, so Lazare will of course stick close, and is holding a scowling Sullevan by the upper arm.
I pass Elijah to Sullevan. "He's hungry. Go feed the boys; there are bread and cheese on the table. I need to talk to Pa."
Sullevan takes the baby but demands, "Who died and put you in charge?"
Pa must have seen something on my face, because he interrupts before I can punch my younger brother. "Do as your told, boy. All of you go inside and wash up." He waited until the twins followed Sullevan inside then spun me about. "Spit it out son."
I feel tears well up, and my chest feels so tight, I can't find the words. Part of me irrationally thinks if I don't speak, it won't be real. "I left; she asked me to go get more flour and supplies. When I got back . . . Pa, she's been murdered. Out in the garden is where I found her. Elijah was in the house."
Pa spins on his heel and races for the garden. I follow slowly, not wanting to see again, but I know my father is going to need me to be strong somehow. His agonized howl echoes around the unnaturally quiet farm. The front door creaks open and Sullevan pokes his head out.
"Stay inside, and for the love of the gods, keeps the twins inside," I tell him. Sullevan, at the age of thirteen, looks as though he might argue, but something must have warned him not to push his luck and he nods. I wipe clammy hands on my pant legs and go to help my pa somehow.
He is sobbing, leaning against the fence, head on his forearms. "Pa, I'll go into town and get the guard so they can start looking for whoever did this."
"No."
"No? What do you mean, no? We need to get the guard here; mother has been murdered!"
"No, we are not. We bury her tonight and leave tomorrow; you boys aren't safe here anymore."
"I don't understand, Pa. Why aren't we bringing someone up to investigate?"
"Your mother didn't have many secrets son, but there was one she hid from all of you, from me at one point. I guess your old enough and you need to know why. She was a werewolf, Philip-"
"How could you say that, she's your wife and now she's dead; how dare you speak ill of her! She is not a man-eating monster-" my emotions let my mouth flap before I can really think about what I say.
His fingers cracked across my cheek, rocking my head to the side. "You're the one who just called her a monster. Now, get yourself together. We bury her and pack up a few things after."
"Why do we have to leave?"
"Because they will probably come back, the Silver Hand. Werewolf hunters."
Dazed, I help my father gather up her remains and wrap them in a sheet hung out to dry earlier. Underneath her favorite apple tree, my father and I laboriously dig a hole. Mechanically I dig, trying to focus my thoughts into making sure it's deep enough. I have to straighten the sides; this is after all where my beautiful Ma will rest. Deeper I dig, continuing when my father takes a moment to rest, scraping the sides. I'm not doing this to bury my mother. No, it's for the grief and the memories of what I saw; can it ever go far enough down? Deeper, down goes my mother's grave. My pa reaches a hand down, blocking out the dim light. Not ever deep enough.
"That's deep enough," he says to me. I stop digging and reach for his hand, but it's too far away, so I shrug and keep digging into the moist black earth. Never deep enough for the shame.
Well, it has been a long time since I've posted anything. This is the first chapter in a story a I wrote for an amazing artist and over all beautiful person. She paints and draws the most mouthwatering men. You should check out her page on DeviantArt- She allowed me take her brain children and write about them, for which I am grateful. Thank you PickleCharming for lending me your babies.
Thank you so much for reading. As always, if you like my works, please leave reviews, favorite or follow! Cheers, ~Pyreiris
