A/N: Songfic inspired by the song Howl by Florence + The Machine. No copyright infringement meant towards either Florence Welch or Stephenie Meyer.
This was supposed to be a drabble but ended up being a bit longer so it's kind of like a short short story. It could actually be longer but before I commit to that I'll see what people think. This is a total departure for me. No sex, an OC, and a character I've never written about before. Hopefully you'll like it. It is set modern day but in rural Italy.
Special thanks to Aleeab4u for beta'ing this and to latessitrice for helping me with the title.
Thanks for reading. Leave a review? Reviews are love and especially useful right now since the stats here on FFnet aren't working.
If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart
Drag my teeth across your chest to tast your beating heart
Howl
Florence + The Machine
Giovanni Settanni knelt beside his bed, hands clasped together as he said his nightly prayers. He was a man of middle years, neither plain nor handsome. Dark hair framed a face weathered by years of working in the sun, tilling the land, and harvesting the fruit. It was a rugged face but not ugly, and certainly not unkind. He was not weak or frail, but rather strong and sturdy like the cypress trees that dotted the countryside near his home.
He prayed for a good season, one fair and temperate that would bring good crops. He prayed for his 'Nonni' who really wasn't his Nonni at all but rather just an old woman in town that no one else liked. She was cantankerous as the elderly often are though she would smile for him when no one else was looking, a great toothless smile that lit up her face. He had no family to call his own. His family were cursed it seemed, or so the local folk liked to say. Hence, he had never been granted the hand of any girl he'd fancied.
It was a lonely life but he took to it well. He cared for the farm as if it were flesh and blood; shingled the roof himself, sanded and polished the floors, dug the root cellar, and even built a metalsmithing shop on his grounds so that he could make his own tools. He had an old bike he'd ride into town when it was time for church or to visit Nonni, and once in a great while he would stop and take a drink while watching the old men playing Bocce. The metal balls would clang and kick up dust and the men would argue and collect their bets. Later, as the golden sun was setting, he'd ride home to settle in for the evening. He'd sup on crusty bread and meat he'd bought from the salumeria and a glass of table wine to wash it down. Then, after extinguishing the lights and relieving himself one last time before sleep, he'd kneel on the smooth wood floor and say his prayers just as he did this night.
The moon was fat and bright and cast long silver shadows into his room. Outside he could hear the crickets chirping in a loud chorus. Having finished his prayers he rose and pulled back the bed sheets but just as he was about to climb in he heard something, or rather didn't hear something. The chorus of crickets had stopped.
He waited and listened, poised halfway into bed. He was sure they'd start back up again at any moment. They were brainless creatures that were easily startled and had probably been spooked by a porcupine rooting around. He waited a moment more and when he was met with continued silence he became worried that there might be something larger out there; perhaps a fox or even a boar. He had a henhouse and had no desire, nor much in the way of means, to replace them should they perish. So he grabbed his gun and went outside.
Marcus stood still, as only his kind could, and looked down on the house of the last living relative of his beloved, Didyme. In the years since her death he'd taken to watching her kin and keeping track of them. They were all that were left of her. There was no grave to visit, no monument, not even a pile of ashes to keep in an urn so he came here to remember. It was only amongst those who shared her bloodline that he could recall how he'd once felt in her presence, the happiness and love she had so easily exuded. Her family were only a faint echo of that, but an echo was better than the silence he'd endured in her absence.
He saw the lights inside the house go out one by one and knew that soon the man would be uttering his nightly prayers. He'd watched him often enough through the years to learn his habits. He knew that the man was a hard worker, that he'd never married nor sired children, and that he was a man of faith and strong character.
Marcus was about to move closer, he sometimes liked to walk the grounds, but something caught his eye. A shape, large and black, rounded the corner of the house just as the side door opened and Giovanni Settanni stepped outside. Instinctively he knew that the man was about to be attacked and this stirred something within him. This human was the last of Didyme's line and there was a small part of him that felt suddenly protective. He took a step forward…
…and then took a step back.
For he saw what it was that fell upon Giovanni and for the first time in over a thousand years he felt fear. There, not but a mile away from him, was a Child of the Moon. A true werewolf, not one of those dark skinned boys the Cullens had sided with. This was no sheep in wolf's clothing. One bite from this creature and he'd be joining his wife in true death.
It stood tall like a man but was covered in coarse fur. Spittle dripped from its jagged teeth and talons capped the end of each long finger. He stood helpless and watched as it tore the gun from Giovanni's hand before he even had a chance to get a shot off. He watched as it clamped one large paw over his throat and silenced his screams. The beast threw him to the ground but it was not finished. Its claws slashed at the man, tearing through clothes and skin until they exposed the muscle and bone beneath. Just as it broke open the dying man's chest the creature's head reared up. It looked around, scented the air, looked towards Marcus and then took off in the opposite direction with one long and plaintive howl.
Marcus waited until the creature was out of sight and then he waited some more. When he felt sure that it wasn't coming back, he headed down the hillside towards the farmhouse and held his breath against the onslaught of blood and offal he knew would be there. He had to see. He needed to know, to be sure that the man was dead.
Incredibly, miraculously, he wasn't. Marcus could hear a faint heartbeat, no louder than the beating of a moth's wings, and could see the tiny accompanying quiver of muscles and veins in his exposed chest. He was overcome suddenly with the urge to save this man, this last living vestige of his wife, so he bent down and peeled back what was left and exposed the man's heart. He leaned in closer, hesitated for just a moment, and then bit into it.
Between his years spent learning self-control, and the foul taste of dying blood, he was not tempted to suck dry the few remaining drops. Instead he injected as much venom as he could into the dying man and then stood back to watch.
At first nothing happened and Marcus surmised that he had simply been too late. He turned to go but he saw a twitch out of the corner of his eye so he turned and stayed. The man began to convulse. At first it was only a little. Tiny tremors barely visible to the naked eye but then they began to grow in size and frequency until the man was writhing on the ground, strangled sounds coming from his ruined throat. His body shook and his spine arched. Glistening bits of shredded skin and tendons knit themselves together and then fell apart again. His heart did the same. It stopped and started and stopped and started. It was as if his entire body was at war with itself.
In the end death won. The body that had so recently been strong and hale sank down to the earth in a pile of ravaged skin and blood soaked clothes. The wounds had not mended. The venom had not taken. There were no blood tinged eyes. Just a pair of glassy, brown ones that saw nothing.
Forgive me, thought Marcus, though he wasn't sure whose forgiveness he was asking for.
He left the body where it was. He had meddled enough. Let their feeble human minds work it out.
Three days later…
He woke on the forest floor, naked and alone. The smell of pine and soil was strong in his nostrils and they flared at the assault. The night air was cool against his skin. His chest burned with fire. His heart was like ice and it sent ripples of cold flames licking outward through the arteries and veins. He heard the rustling of leaves, a bird shifting in its nest, and the distant cry of a wolf.
He opened his eyes, yellow eyes, and stared at the waning moon above him.
If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallowed ground
Howl
Florence + The Machine