She was twelve and her cloak was brown, not red, because who had coin enough for red cloth these days, and who'd waste it on a daughter? But her father and brothers did love her, they'd gone to fight the ogres so as she could sleep safe in her bed and come back victorious and mostly with all the body parts they'd left with. And now they went to hunt the wolf so everyone's sheep would be safe, and also so they could bring her back the pelt to make a better cloak. Gareth said the bugger was so big and she was so little, there'd be enough for a cloak for her and hoods and gloves for all the family as well, for the winter yet to come.

She bit down hard on her knuckles as the beast filled its mouth with Gareth's throat, worried it a little, tore the flesh and bone away from the rest of him. Blood sprayed up and she was sure a few drops splashed her hand and Gareth gurgled as he died, staring up at her and seeing nothing. The monster dropped its mouthful, stepped over the gushing twitching thing that had been her eldest brother but one. Went over to where Pa laid on his side, bleeding out and still cursing in a voice half dead, stared at him for a moment. Bit down, and the cursing stopped.

She bit down as well and more to keep the dark at the corners of her eyes away and the whimpers trapped in her throat, where they belonged. When the night was gone and the monster with it, that was the time to cry. Not now as Gareth stared up with empty eyes and the beast started to pull out Father's insides and tear at them.

(She'll wonder afterwards if it was really an accident, if she simply slipped and fell or if she fainted for a moment or if – she hates to think this, but still - she jumped on purpose. She'd seen her life ripped apart seven times over and the pieces oozing black in the moonlight, her father's guts glistening by the lone torch glow. She could feel Gareth's blood cooling on her hand and smell it too, smell all of it. Perhaps she just couldn't take anymore. She scorns to think it now she's older, she's seen and smelled and done worse, but one moment she was on the roof and the next she was rolling across the bloody snow, and she'll never remember what happened in between.)

All she could think, she remembers, as the monster turned to look at her is What big eyes you have, what big ears, what big teeth. Which was understandable, they were practically nose to nose as she struggled to sit up and the beast bent over her. What big everything, she thought, all the cloaks and mittens we might have had from you. The smell was so much worse down here on the ground, a reek of blood in general and shit coming from Pa and she couldn't help it. She was sick, just a little, and spat it out at the big bugger; absurdly pleased when it drew back, just a little.

But it came forward right away and almost nose to nose again, breath stinking on her face and Pa's blood and bile dripping onto her frock and hands. The drops seemed to sizzle on the backs of them, and her palms burned at she dug them into snow that was still white and a little crisp. What big teeth she thought again, but she was beyond throwing up or pissing herself by now.

I'm going to die too, she realised at last, I'm twelve and no one's going to come outside to save me, and I'm going to die, and was surprised at how unsurprised she was, and surprised too at how warm she felt when heart beats ago she'd been freezing in the coldest night she'd ever known.

"I hope you choke on me," she told it as calm as she could manage, feeling only a little bit foolish. She breathed deep and stared direct into the wolf's eyes at last; just as you were never supposed to do with a dog, unless you were sure it knew who was in charge. She might – no, she was going to die screaming, but she wasn't going to die looking away and pretending it wasn't happening.

Which was why, in what she thought would be her final breath, she noticed that the eyes, the eyes weren't-

It lunged and she did scream, screamed again as she clutched at the tears in her flesh, screaming until it felt like the bastard had ripped her throat open as well as her arm, screaming until she passed out from the sheer pain in a pool of melted snow and her own blood.

She was sixteen and her cloak was white long turned grey with age, not red. Red still brought her out in goose flesh and nausea, though four years had passed since the night had ended. She rarely put it aside even in summer, and wore long sleeves even on the hottest of the dog days.

People learned very early on not to grip her scarred arm.

She slept in the same loft as the girls of a neighbour who'd been kind enough to take her in – though not kind enough, she'd sometimes uncharitably think, to come out and help when they could have (and probably die in vain, she'd always admit) or to let her die in the snow when they should have. But she bore them no ill will and behaved herself perfectly, even curled up with the other girls on winter nights for warmth when it was cold enough. She earned her keep, small as it was, by taking messages to the enclaves of wood cutters up in the mountains, and she'd walked once or twice all the way through the forest to the land on the other side.

It wasn't so special, she said when the other girls dared to ask her, they're no different from us. They're really not that far away. The woods weren't a barrier to another world, they were just a hidey hole to get through as quick as possible

She wasn't wholly without fear; she'd keep well away from the hunters and their slaughtering, although that was more because the smell that clung to them would make her sick almost at once. The only time she'd approach them was when they'd caught a wolf, and even then she'd only watch from a distance. Red, as said, she could not abide. She wouldn't go out during full moons, not for any reason or any fee. On nights when the wolves howled and she was in bed she'd always jerk awake if she was asleep and stiffen if she was awake, and her night would be sleepless and a trial for her bedfellows; if she was on the road at the time, as she sometimes was, she would run for the tree nearest to the path and shin up it and sit shivering until dawn, rubbing her arm.

That was when she was younger. This night when the wolves began their song she just pulled her cloak tighter, ignored the tingle in her arm – it meant nothing, had meant nothing for years - and kept walking. It was high summer, it wouldn't get truly dark until midnight and there'd been plenty for the beasts to eat in the days gone by.

(She should have been afraid as of old, she knows now. She should have shinned up a tree as she used to, dozed in its branches until the sun came back in full, and even then it might not have done her any good. She'd grown complacent and slow in the time she'd been left alone, dangerously complacent and fatally slow. But if she had kept fully alert, if she'd done all that she should…well, there would be no more story.

Maybe.)

She felt the eyes on her just before she saw the one they belonged to, which was fairly impressive, and she slipped a hand into her basket and grabbed the knife as she watched the man shape come closer to her and her skin began to prickle. That it was clearly a man instead of a wolf didn't make it any better. Sometimes it made it worse. She'd seen and heard the trouble the other girls could get themselves into, far more often than people would give her credit for. At least no one within fifty miles expected the same behaviour from her, women and men of all ages alike, or at least all the fairly civilized ones did.

She was at the very edge of the wood cutters' clearing, and the sweat pooling at the base of her back was beginning to cool and she was breathing easier again – and already beginning to dread when she'd have to come back the same way tomorrow – when he stepped out of the shadows, onto the path and blocked her way.

He wasn't naked, he didn't have leaves and twigs in his hair and dark wires all over his body, his ears weren't pointed and his eyebrows didn't meet and she couldn't see how sharp his teeth were. Nor did he look like a woodsman, or a jolly forester all in green or a huntsman. He wasn't young: he looked to be at least twice her age, maybe older. His face was more tanned than any other man she'd seen, there was silver in his beard even if the hair on his head – shoulder length and waving - was still dark. He wore skins, and where he wasn't wearing skins he wore things, things too expensive for anyone from around here to own even in the years since the war, boots that looked to be made of finest leather, a tunic of deep red, red, with shining embroidery, a splendid bow and quiver.

She wondered how she could see all this when the light was not so good. Then she felt the pain in her arm, weach tear throbbing so bad she nearly dropped the blade. She looked direct into his eyes and swore so loud and strong it made him laugh and it hurt her ears to hear it, it hurt her nose to smell his scent, it hurt her eyes to see him smile as he looked at her with those eyes, those eyes.

"Get out of my way," she said as she felt the red and his eyes and his laugh drain her and the black begin to creep in at the corners of her vision. "They're waiting for me. They could probably hear me just now; they're coming to see what's wrong."

He said nothing. He just walked closer, standing so close she could have sunk her knife into his throat or his guts. That's for my poor brothers, she could have said, that's for my Pa! In fact she did press the very point of the blade to his red red chest. One thrust and she might have killed him. Might have.

(Didn't.)

She thought, looking into his eyes, that if she killed him now (if she even could) she'd have to explain to the woodcutters, one of whom she could see even now coming across the clearing towards them, that Oh, I killed him because I'm fairly sure he's also the wolf who killed my family. She lowered the knife and stepped around him - and though her sleeves were as long as ever, she could somehow feel every second of his skin against hers when his fingers brushed her arm.

She thought he might catch and hold her but he did no more, and she ran into the clearing and met the woodcutter, who asked her how the journey was and then, rather puzzled, "Was there anything wrong? When you were paused just on the edge, and swearing. I thought I saw something, but's it's gone now."

"No," she said. "Only me. I barked my shin, but it's fine now." Then at last she was sick.

I worked in a tiny and rather cleaned up reference to the film Dog Soldiers in here. Can you find it?

I imagine the wolf's human form to look like a slightly younger version of Ciarin Hinds in Ivanhoe (1997). Look it up, it's a good tv series.