Decided to do the NaNoWriMo thing this year after seeing some stuff on it. Here's my story.
He woke.
What was waking but life? The rush of senses, the smells the sounds the tastes.
That tyrant that sat in the sky was blinding and he threw an arm over his eyes.
He had arms, he had eyes. That much was clear. But little else besides that…
By degrees, the world came back to him.
Slowly, the man lowered his arm, slowly light filled the world.
He was surrounded by large brown pillars, and atop them, little green things.
Trees, he realised, they were trees.
The man stood. He was a man, yes this was true too…
Many trees were a forest, and the little daggers beneath his feet was a carpet of grass.
He was a man, this was a forest, but what was a carpet?
Slowly the world came back to him. The man looked around himself, looked around the forest.
The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odour of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an spider.
Where was he?
Who was he?
The trees around him were tall, they stood like sentinels, grey-black bark hoary with moss and dew in the sunlight. Around their roots stretched the grass and small plants and upon the leaves crawled little things, things of life and purpose.
But what was his purpose?
It was peaceful, he was untroubled in the nakedness of his mind and body as he stepped, simply existing in the forest.
But it wasn't enough. Hunger grew in him as he wandered, nails brushing through the ferns as he walked among the trees. His limbs were strong, his body well formed. His gait steady with confidence. His feet took him toward the smell of fire and blood.
It was the scent of civilisation and it drew the man onward. The fire-smell grew stronger and the man inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he took it in. It reminded him of something, of struggle and of battle, of burning and killing and death. Mixed with the scent were other smells though, smells of a different sort of struggle, a desperate stench of sweat, a finality and a hunger-suffering.
The man heard muttering. The wolves called and the birds sang, but this was conscious speech.
Strong hands brushed aside the branches that tugged at his skin and he stepped forward, into a clearing.
Here was shelter and food, the man needed these things, he knew.
But there was another in the glade, bent over examining a broken stave, no, a broken bow, for it had the remnants of a leather grip. He was a hunter, his face thin and weary. His eyes sunken and dark, his hair was greasy and unkempt. He had a scraggly beard that covered his chin and neck, but was only dark whisps on his cheeks, and he wore tattered clothes which seemed too big for him, even the patched cloak about his shoulders. He wore no hat or gloves, and his shoes were bark-bound slippers.
There was a misery in those eyes, the stranger knew. A misery of inevitability, of a failed struggle.
The hunter was unaware of him, still examining his bow in hopes of salvaging it. The stranger, for truly he was a stranger to this place, looked at him closely, his steps having brought him within only a few feet of the hunter now without the other perceiving him.
Something must have caught the hunter's eye and he looked up, "Seven hells!" he shouted, voice cracking as he fell back, grasping for a knife at his belt.
The stranger just regarded him as he began to babble. The hunter's words were unintelligible, but it didn't matter anyway.
"Please, I don't have anything!"
The stranger stepped past him to an unmade fire. The wood was too wet, the stranger saw, for even in small nuggets of bark and birch-sap wood, the hunter had not been able to make a fire and draw warmth.
The stranger strode to the firepit, over the frozen ground and reached out.
The wood burst into flame.
His will had called the fire, his command.
And to the stranger, that was the first thing that day that had not seemed strange.
"Old Gods help me." The hunter babbled in fear behind him and the sound of the hunter's knife cut across the glen as the weapon fell uselessly to the ground.
The stranger sat. The fire burned merrily away, as if flint and steel had set it hours ago. The world was strange, this place was strange, but the power that lit the fire? That was not so strange.
The stranger inhaled again. The scent was not of woodsmoke, the fire burned too purely for that, no it was the scent of heat itself almost and a searing clarity. Then the stranger turned toward the hunter's dwelling, scenting the meat drying on a rack.
The temptation was there, to leap up, to devour the meat in that moment, to gorge himself till fresh blood ran down his chin, to sup and bite and rip and gnaw until…
Where had that come from?
The stranger frowned. He looked back to the hunter, then to the meat.
"What'd you want?" the hunter asked quietly, half crouched across the glen. "I told ya, I've nothing, not enough to survive the week with my bow broken… The meat's all I have!"
The stranger just looked at him. He held the hunter's gaze till the later looked away meekly.
"Alright, just don't, do'n hurt me, please, I do'n have much."
The stranger watched, absorbing the heat of the fire as the hunter prepared the meat. He set it upon spits, he bound it with a thin cord of bark, then set it over a frame of wood above the fire. The fat sizzled at is fell and the meat darkened.
The stranger longer to taste it, but he waited, a man could wait, a beast could not, but he kept his eyes on it as it turned, the rich scent filling his nostrils and his mouth as he tasted the air.
"The name's Torren." the hunter said. "Can you even hear me, wizard? I never thought I'd see the day… Listen, do you want a cloak? I don't have much, just some furs, look, here…"
The stranger looked, and in the hunter's hands were untreated furs. The stranger nodded, clothes, these were familiar too and he draped the fur around shoulders.
"Not even your smallclothes." The hunter murmured. "Where've you come from then, eh?"
The stranger ignored him. If the hunter would babble to himself there was no point trying to listen. What were his words? The stranger didn't know. He remembered speech, he thought, he remembered talking to other people, shouting, calling curses and laughing. When had that been? Not here certainly.
The hunter took the meat off the spit when it was done. He served it up on a rude wooden plate without any accompaniment, only the dripping seared flesh.
It was juicy, tender but slightly burnt in some places which gave it a ashy taste. The taste was of blood, of copper and iron, the texture stringy and tough. No matter. It was good, thought the stranger, and he ate. He ate some more, then looked to the hunter again.
The hunter stared at him unblinking. "By the Gods…" he whispered, but his vision fled the stranger's in terror, looking back down at his own plate.
Under the stranger's gaze, the hunter set more meat above the fire, dripping and sizzling. Next to the fire, the hunter had placed a large rock, where he had laid his bow and a flask of grease. He used a piece of cloth to wipe and oil his bow, making sure it was in good condition for his next hunt, or rather it would have been, save for the fact that it was broken in two.
The stranger looked at him still, not breaking the gaze till the hunter delivered up another platter of meat.
The hunter's hands shook as he took up his cloth again, nervously running the rag over the bow's wood, as if maintaining the tool would somehow maintain his calm.
The rest of the equipment was hardly better. There was but one bow, one axe and one knife. Only a few arrows lay in a cloth quiver hanging from the tree under which the hunter had set his shelter, and that item like all the others was patched and darned till it was more patchwork than the original material, whatever it had been. There was no cheese, no bread, no wine and no more furs or horns. Only a small pile of bones and the fur the stranger now wore were to show the hunter's employment, meek that it was. Nor were there any companions to his existence, no horse or dog. He was alone and poor, living from day to day in the wild.
"Torren." the hunter said, drawing the stranger's attention. He pointed to his chest, enunciating the word, "I'm Torren."
"Torren." the stranger replied. His voice was rough and he coughed, licking his lips.
The hunter grinned for a moment, then hastened to hand over his skin of water.
The mountain stream wet the stranger's lips in a refreshing coolness as he looked again at the hunter.
"Damn those eyes." Torren whispered. Then he seemed to marshal himself. "And who're you?"
The stranger just looked at him. He still didn't understand the words, and the longer he sat here the more he began to remember.
"Longshanks, it'll have to be." Torren murmured. "Alright, Longshanks, we've no meat and I've no bow. I hope you can use that magic of yours to muster up a meal."
The stranger said nothing.
Day turned to night, and Torren pulled his ragged cloak around him and curled up under a cocoon of bark. It would be little respite from the biting cold, but the stranger, no, 'Longshanks', simply commanded the fire to burn anew.
After his command it burned with a blue flame, and Torren shut his eyes tight as he whispered fearfully to himself.
Morning came soon. Longshanks hadn't slept. Or had he? He had a name now, and names had power. He stood, the fur falling from his naked form, stepping out into the forest.
The sun was high in the sky. He had slept long, he released. Night was his ally, but he'd hunted in the day too before. Longshanks followed his nose, followed the scent of blood. Not more than a mile away he knew. Loping through the trees he ran toward it, stomach demanding the rewards of victory. Under the canopy of leaves, over rough roots and the soft damp forest floor. Brothers howled around him, birds took flight as his passing and branches cracked beneath his tread. There was peace in the forest yes, but there was struggle too.
The wolf stood before him, muzzle dripping viscera from the preybeast under it. It stepped over the aurochs, paws on the creature's broad back, growling, teeth bright in the sunlight. It was as tall as a man at the shoulder, a long snout and legs, a lean, gaunt aspect but a terrible sight to find in the forest.
Longshanks held the wolf's gaze. He pierced it's mind. He felt the rush of the chase, felt the broken rib where the aurochs had crashed it's horn into his side. He felt himself, the wolf, felt himself rush and run, felt himself scent the wind.
He saw through the wolf's eyes. He saw colours and blurs that only made sense to its keen senses. He felt his urge to hunt to run to kill. He felt the rush of victory and the certainty of food. He felt desire and wrath. He was the wolf, the aurochs died beneath his bite, struggling as blood flowed into his mouth and the prey's lifeair bubbled out from the wound in spurts and sprays.
He felt himself struggle with the man, felt himself clawing and scratching as invisible blades cut into his own flesh. He felt the wolf die and hear the man roaring as he ripped into his neck.
Longshanks awoke, covered in blood. He was standing in the camp again. The aurochs and the wolf's corpses were floating behind him as he stepped into the clearing, Torren shaking in fear as he sat beneath the everburn flame.
Torren prepared the kills under Longshank's gaze. The man shivered, casting wary glances back toward the man every now and then. He would speak on occasion, to Longshanks and to himself, but Longshanks couldn't understand him anyway.
His beast's hunger sated, Longshanks was content to follow him when he started to break down the camp. They walked, walked a long distance through the forest as Longshanks commanded the dressed carcasses to float behind them. Torren had been moving too slowly, carrying the goods on a sort of sled before Longshanks had put forth his will, but it seemed like the hunter might have preferred that he not interfere, even if it slowed them. Whenever Torren would look back at the proceeds of Longshank's hunt he would quail in fear and swear an oath, finger an amulet of dark wood at his neck and look away.
Muggle.
The word was strange.
Each time he looked at Torren he felt hatred. Hatred of weakness, of ignorance. He felt superiority, but he didn't know what the word meant.
They walked further, joining a packed earth trail where the trees had been cut back to let wagons through. Then the forest opened out completely. Torren bade him frantically to give him back the hunting materials, to curtail his will, which he did. Torren quickly set them back on the sled and took up the rope, dragging the aurochs and wolf together. He didn't get far, he was weak.
But Longshanks was strong. He seized the wolf, setting it over his shoulder, then striding forward across the earth toward the village across frost-rime fields. Torren babbled behind him and he heard the sled grind over the earth.
The villagers came out to meet them. The muggles started talking to each other excitedly, gesticulating toward him. But he just strode forward. He could sense a power there, in the centre of the village a tree with bloody leaves.
He ignored those before him. Any who got in his way saw the fire in his eyes and stepped back swiftly, the children cried out as they saw him and Torren ran behind him calling calming words.
It was older than any tree he'd seen in the forest. Old and furious. Old and broken. Old and forgotten.
Blood ran down the roots and offers were weighing in the branches and around the trunk.
The tree wept. Longshanks saw a face carved into it, his mind flew within and he touched something ancient and terrible. He saw himself, reflected through the crimson sap.
The branches spread over him like a temple, bones and entrails hung from the boughs and Longshanks could smell the stench of death and decay. It was heady. Foul, nauseating. It was maggots and crawling things, suppurating poisons and malignant fungi growing amidst the world's roots. It was the fragility of life and the inevitability of death.
Then Longshanks stepped back, Torren was tugging at his side and before him was an old woman with a painted face, speaking to him in an ancient tongue.
He just looked back at her blankly, for it was no more intelligible to him than had been Torren's speech.
"I told you, I think he's simple." Torren explained to the others, though Longshanks could see that the fear never left his eyes, and he stank of deception.
"He may stay." a broad, fat man said, the headman of the village. "I'm satisfied he's no Wildling, no matter how strange he is, and he keeps the Old Gods."
The old woman reached up and fastened an amulet like Torren's around Longshank's neck. He looked down, fascinated by it.
"Come away, Longshanks, let's get you some food." Torren said, gently tugging at his elbow again.
The village became his home in time. Each day he rose, ate and drank, he would go to the stream near the village and command the water to warm to bathe him, though Torren had begged him not to.
He began to learn the language, though when he spoke it was rough and rude. Torren helped, as did the old woman, Valla.
Joram was the headman and when Longshanks had command enough over the community's language he question Longshanks thoroughly. There was little to be said though, for Longshanks remembered little, and Joram released him with a frown.
Longshanks went back to the woodpile. He chopped and chopped each day with an old axe he'd been given and the old charcoal burner living in the village would give him food and lodging. Sometimes he'd go into the woods with his axe. The burner had tried to stop him once, but when he'd returned bloody with a shadowcat's carcass over his shoulder the burner said nothing else.
Many looked to him with fear. They would not meet his eyes. They would avoid the Weirwood at the heart of the village when he was there, and would speak nothing in his presence when they could help it.
Some though were different.
Palla, the laughing one.
"Longshanks!" she cried one day when he asked her where he could find dragons (for they featured importantly in his mind for some reason), "You say the strangest things!"
Palla would twirl her hair between her fingers when she looked at him. She would wear little blue flowers on her head, and her hair was always braided with ribbons when she came to watch him work.
He ignored her at first. That was easy, for she was a silly thing. Just a muggle.
But as the month went on he felt something stir within him. His beast couldn't be sated with the forest's animals anymore. He would look at Palla and see something more in her. He felt a hunger for her, felt that he would like to see her opened, like to feel her insides or see her naked spread out in the moonlight.
The headman must have seen his looks at the girl and he came to chastise him one day. Longshanks just ignored Joram. He enjoyed the woodcutting, it gave him time to think, to organise his thoughts.
Each day he grew in knowledge, but each day he remembered more about himself. He remembered war, or so he'd call it, he remembered screams and battle, remembered great fires and acts of evil. He remembered castles, or so the villagers called Winterfell, the nearest such structure. He remembered the giants of old Valla's stories late at night when he crept into the village hall to listen in. It was strange, strange indeed to know such things, but he would find himself experiencing flashes of emotion or thought when he worked.
One day a bear broke into the village larder and killed a young couple who'd chosen to frolic there. Longshanks hadn't been invited to the funeral, but he knew they'd be ceremonially drained of their blood to feed the Heart tree, and a feast after to celebrate the lives of the dead. He heard the merriment in the village and he hated it. He felt a darkness slip into his soul, a sorrow and a need.
The hunger grew and Longshanks looked up, longing for the moon.
Storm gathered heavy in the sky, the stars turned away, for none could see what Longshanks would do that night.
He stalked the bear to it's den. He hissed and roared as it scored his flesh with it's claws, he drained the creature's life with his teeth and screamed his own victory to the moon. His magic stirred again, and in the morning the villagers stood in wonder around Longshank's hut, starring fearfully at the wound-bearing body of the bear outside.
Joram came, cap in hand and sorrowful to his door the next day. Longshanks heard his apology and his words and said nothing. The headman fled soon after. Palla came next though with a knotted string. Her hands worked over him taking measurements as Valla, her grandmother, tended his wounds. They both marvelled at his strength and fortitude, but it was all Longshanks could do to keep still, for his urges were getting stronger.
He could smell her. Her hair was down for she was unmarried, and it smelt of woodsmoke from tending her fire to mix her grandmother's poultices. Her skin was salty as Longhsanks tasted the air, longed to taste her, longed to step forward and pin her to the wall, to take her in his arms and to rip at her flesh.
Two weeks later the village held a great ceremony. They wassailed the orchards around the settlement, calling for new life and prosperity as summer went on. Longshanks was invited this time, though he said little. He wore a fine new cloak, cut from the hide of the bear he'd slain, it's hood decorated with the teeth and claws of the beast. The villagers look at him with respect and admiration, though their fear had stayed too.
Longshanks drank from the cups of spiced ale, he ate of the cheeses and fruits in the feast, he even danced nimbly enough with the women of the village, though Palla's ruddy face was never far from his gaze.
Her father was Alyn and the man invited Longshanks to dine with them to discuss matters.
"You must have a better house." Alyn said, "You are a man of worth, and though you've not been with us long, that much is clear. There is a life here for you, Longshanks, should you want it, and none shall turn you away."
Longshanks said little to that. His eyes were dark as he looked over the great fire in the village square.
The moon.
He felt it, prickling on the back of his neck. The clouds parted, and for a moment lunar luminescence bathed the village.
Longshanks clutched at his heart.
It was on fire! It burned!
He cried out, falling back from his bench, knocking over a tankard which sprayed everywhere.
"Longshanks!" Alyn shouted, rushing to his side.
The fire pulsed and Longshanks screamed, he roared. The moon! The moon!
The world went white as he looked up and saw it, blood vessels in his eyes burst and his pupils narrowed as Alyn fell back with an oath, dodging Longshank's flailing limbs.
His heart burned, his heart would explode out of his chest and he ripped at his clothes, tearing them apart with suddenly jagged nails. He could feel his bones breaking and he screamed again, screamed ang screamed and screamed.
He felt energy, he felt aggression, the world became suddenly clear as he ripped his skin away, fur sprouting in its place. His beast urged him to run, to slay, to kill!
He stood, throwing back the men who held him down.
Longshanks smiled. This was familiar, this was good. He had not known who he was, not known whether he was a man or a beast in its shape, but this was who he was!
"Warg! Warg!" screamed the villagers, and they fled his sight. Three men ran forward bearing staves and knives, but Longshanks stepped forward, towering over them as he grew. Seven feet, eight, ten feet tall and his claws sharp.
One strike opened a throat and warm , rich blood spewed forth, coating his dark fur.
Another swipe broke Alyn's back as you leapt over him into a knot of terrified villagers.
The beast set about him with claws and fang, slaying and killing, biting and laughing in his wolfish growl.
A dozen died there among the trestle tables and he fallen foods. Longshanks hunted more through the orchards, ripping into them and scattering limbs as he leapt through the branches.
He remembered this. He remembered more with each life taken, and that drove him on. He broke through the doors of the village hall and killed all within, piling their bodies high, gobbling down the tender flesh of the young with glee.
He remembered the hunt, remembered chasing screaming muggles through the cities and the countryside.
He broke through the doors of the village huts. He killed and killed, he drank of their blood and screams. He knew he shouldn't do this, his memories told him it was wrong, was foolish, but he couldn't stop himself. The beast called him to kill and kill he did.
Night's shroud flew on and Longshanks stalked through the woods now, seeking those who'd fled the village. A trio of archers struck him with deft shafts which sank into his flesh, but his form was stronger than theirs and the regeneration of his blessing just pushed the arrowheads out, even as he snapped the shafts away in anger. Those three he killed slowly, clawing their bellies open and breaking their limbs, then leaving them to die slowly in the woods.
He caught a familiar scent then. Woodsmoke and flowers and terrified sweat.
His Palla had fled to the heart tree and knelt sobbing before it. She shook, her eyes were blind with tears and terror. He heard his approach, heard the claws on his feet tear the earth as he stalked forward.
Her grandmother lay dead beside her, her face claws away and lying as a flap of flesh almost peeled away from the skull. She had crawled, or been carried here, Longshanks knew, and the blood on Palla's clothes told who had borne the old woman there.
Longshanks approached slowly. This was a place of power, a place of magic, a place of rightness. Yes… he remembered this, the feeling of that power and might. The feeling of superiority and glory.
He lay his claws over Palla shoulders, his mouth descended to her throat, his rough tongue darted out to taste her neck as she sobbed.
Longshanks shivered in anticipation, his claws tightened, their sharp points piercing the girl's breasts and shoulders.
He howled and it shook the weirwood's boughs. The fetishes and sacrifices shivered and danced as Longshanks bellowed. He remembered! He remembered who he was!
He bent to kiss at Palla's neck, his claws tightened again in desire and her breath whistled through pierced lungs.
His teeth closed in need. He tasted her flesh, hot and wonderous.
Longshanks woke hours later among the abused corpses. He was naked and bloody. The heart tree watched him, accepting his offering. Ravens laughed in the trees as he walked through the dead village. He went to the well, and this time he called the water forth to bathe him, heating it easily with his magic. He was in bliss, and even wordless and wandless his will was done.
It had been foolish, but what could he have known? Absent his memories he couldn't have predicted what had happened.
The stranger, for he was a stranger again now all those who knew him were dead, walked through the village. From the smith he took a knife and axe, from the headman's house he took silver and jewellery.
He retrieved his bearskin cloak, then, smelling it and taking in the scent of the stitches he retraced his steps, going back toward the heart tree.
He stooped over Palla's corpse, using one jagged nail, now as long again as it should be to cut a lock of the girl's hair. He sat on the roots of the tree, braiding the strands together and tying it around his wrist. Something to remember her by…
There were no horses in the village, none who he'd not already killed or who'd gone mad in the murder of the previous night, so the stranger set out down the trail on foot. Jorum's clothes fit him, or they did after the stranger had used his magic on them.
He knew this feeling wouldn't last. He'd need to feed again, he'd need a lot of things, and soon enough the period of bliss after the full moon would fade.
But he knew who he was now! That was enough. It didn't matter that he had no wand, no way of knowing how he'd come here, he knew who he was, and what he was.
The stranger walked down the trail for three days, passing through two more villages on each night. They'd not heard about the slaughter yet for they welcomed him and his stolen silver. He even spotted a few people he could recognise in the settlements who vouched for him.
The stranger left the villages unmolested. He was going to Winterfell.
One day riders thundered down the road. He had smelt them and their horses for hours before he saw them. He had nothing to fear from muggles though. The power of the transformation was fading, but he knew he'd still be able to call on the beast if he needed it.
"You there! Stand fast!" roared the sergeant, his grey whiskers bobbing and his chest blowing as he panted, calling his horse to stop in front of the stranger.
He stepped down from the stirrup, the grey wolf on his surcoat stained with blood and sweat.
The stranger just regarded him.
"Aye, it's you alright." the sergeant said, "You come from Immerstead don't you? You know what happened there?"
"What happened there?" the stranger replied in mock confusion. "I left days ago."
"By the Gods!" swore the sergeant, "You're a lucky one. I heard how you took a bear and now you escaped that… horror!"
"Horror?" the stranger asked, "I know Jorum was to have a feast, but I was busy hunting." and he laughed genuinely, it wasn't even a lie after all.
The sergeant shook his head, a paleness slipping into his complexion at the memory of the massacre. The stranger quickly averted his eyes as he felt the connection of the Mental Arts slip into place, an unwanted connection, for now.
They explained quickly. Bloody bodies, dead villagers, corpses gnawed and partially eaten, three men tortured to death and cruel fates for the children.
The stranger was horrified, truly, for what man wouldn't be?
"You must come with me, I must report to Lord Stark. You were lucky indeed to escape it, there must be hundreds of wildlings in the Wolfswood, savages, savages the lot of them!"
The other soldiers of the sergeant's band spat and growled their own oaths.
"Lord Stark will see to them." said one, "He'll call the banners!"
"Aye and he'll have words with the Glovers and all!" bit back the sergeant, "Hundreds of them it must have been, Lord Cerwyn is bringing in all the villages to his keep but they must have been lurking there for weeks to have pulled this off." the sergeant quickly mounted his horse, gesturing for the stranger to mount behind one of his subordinates, but the man in question took one look at the stranger's side and dismounted, giving his horse up instead.
"We must be away to Winterfell." the sergeant continued, "What do we call you, I heard tell of you from a few of the villagers between here and Immerstead, they said you couldn't talk? That you didn't remember who you were."
"I have now." the stranger replied, and he knew his eyes made the sergeant uneasy.
"Oh? Then how're you known?"
The stranger smiled. He had wondered that for a month.
"Fenrir Greyback."