prompt: wyaddison + angst.
inspired by the song 'in the woods somewhere' by hozier.
Don't go into the valley, they always say. Monsters live down in the valley. And isn't it funny, he thinks as he climbs down between the skeletons of the trees, their leaves all dried and fallen in preparation for winter, that wolves can have monsters just as they are monsters to the humans.
He shouldn't be here, lost in the fog on a full moon's night, walking down and down into the depths of a valley where no wolf goes. Just because the elders are gone, doesn't mean their warnings should be ignored. But he's looking for his sister, and even though she would never come down here, he'd heard a noise and he had to be sure-
He rounds a corner, steps between two trees with trunks thicker than his abdomen, and finds a deer crumpled on the ground in the centre of the valley.
It struggles in the midst of a clearing, its leg broken, its blood pooling a brilliant red in the dirt around it, staining its soft pelt with a sticky mess of mud and leaves. He walks up to it, and wonders how this came to be.
It is a wolf's kill, that much is certain. Claws have ripped at its shoulder, creating deep tears through the muscle and sinew. A rock has been discarded at the edge of the clearing, splattered with blood – the deer's bone, exposed by the rock, is white and clean in comparison, the end of it smashed into a thousand pieces. The thing still struggles blindly, trying to raise itself onto limbs it doesn't have.
If it is a wolf (and it is), it is not a wolf from his pack. They do not kill like this, so slow and savage. Take the life, the elders always say, but take it quickly. There is enough suffering in the world already.
He presses a claw to the vein of its neck, intending to give it the quicker death it deserves, and then pauses, the back of his neck prickling with the sensation that something is watching him.
A shadow falls across him, a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision.
He flinches and falls backwards, scrambling through the leaf litter as the deer kicks its last. The…thing that stands over him is silhouetted by the moon, a dark figure except for a set of flashing teeth and bright yellow eyes. A shiver runs down his spine at the sight of it, at the thought of all the stories of monsters in the valley the elders would tell to them when he was a pup – he wants to get to his feet, to fight or flee, but he is frozen in fear…and then in wonder, as it shifts and circles, and the moon catches on its face instead.
It is not a beast or a ghost or any kind of monster. It is a wolf, a werewolf, just like him; a girl with a head of silver hair, and a face of sunken, sallow lines, all hard edges and twisted muscle, toughened and tempered by the hardships of the valley she haunts. She snarls, claws sharp and teeth bare, and the brightest blue he's ever seen flashes upon the soft skin of her neck.
"Mine," she hisses, stepping softly end over end, so that he has to turn and turn and turn to keep her from getting behind him. Her eyes flicker between him and the deer, the hot blood that grows cold upon the ground.
"Yours!" he yields and half-rises to move further away from it, not intending any harm.
She is quicker than lightning, swift as the current of the river as she pounces on him. They roll through the dirt, her teeth and claws slashing at his skin, his hands shoving uselessly at her, trying to throw her off. When they come to a rest, she has him pinned to the ground, one hand curled around his throat. Blood flows freely from the deep gouges in his arm and shoulder, the wounds where her teeth and claws have ripped at his skin. There is blood in her mouth; she spits it out to one side, and then turns to him with wild, angry eyes.
"What are you doing-" he begins to ask, confused (who is this wolf? Why is she in this valley, alone? Where has she come from?), but she isn't listening. Her grip shifts on his neck, and her palm presses against his moonstone – with a yelp, she pulls back like she's been burnt, cradling her hand and staring at him.
"Wolf?" she whispers, and his own hand comes up to clutch at his moonstone, fearful that she might try to take it.
"Yes," he tells her, his voice low and soothing. She sits back, her weight settling on his stomach, and stares at him like she's never seen anything like him before.
"Your power…" she says, and reaches down to tap his fingers, unable to reach the moonstone itself. "You will die."
He shivers, afraid – not of her, but of the way she whispers the words to him, so sure of herself, reverent like anything she says can be made true. Even the fog is listening, swirling and rising to obscure the moon as she speaks.
"No," he says, as if to correct her, though even he can't bring himself to believe the things he says. "My pack are going to find the moonstone. We're going to live."
"Pack," she spits and laughs, mocking him. She leans down, close enough that he can feel her warm breath on his cheek, her eyes the only thing he can see. "No pack," she whispers in his ear. "Only you."
She kisses him, short and soft and sweeter than he would have imagined she would be. Her lips taste like the forest, like blood and unripened blackberries and the wild mint that grows around the banks of the river, and as they press against his, they tell him a secret no other has ever known.
When she pulls away, smiling down at him with sharp teeth and otherworldly eyes, he blinks up at her and realises he knows where the moonstone is hidden, and how he can get it back.
"Wyatt!" a voice calls from the top of the valley, the place he has come from. The smile disappears from the girl's face and she growls, rolling off him to rise back to her feet, crouched defensively between him and the still form of the deer.
"Wyatt," she says, like she's tasting the name, rolling it around on her tongue to see if she likes it. When she's satisfied, she bares her teeth at him anew and says, "Go."
He does as he's told, scrambling to his feet and bolting through the trees, back the way he came. His heart pounds and his legs ache and as he climbs the hill and leaves the valley, not once does he look behind him to see if she is giving chase.
Back in the forest, in the place where wolves should be, he stops to catch his breath and to turn and look back at the swirling mists, and the downward curve of the damp earth. His sister calls his name again, closer than before, just a few steps through the trees now. He swallows his fear, and his wonder. He goes.
a/n: thankyou for reading! please remember to leave a review, and visit my tumblr at zombiedadjokes for more or to send me a prompt!