Horror Of His Hometown
001. REMUS LUPIN.
Horror Of His Hometown.
SLEEP FLED FROM REMUS LUPIN LIKE PREY, leaving behind only the sick, cold feeling of dread as Remus faced another day haunted by the shadow of the monster within him.
During the days before his monthly transformation, Remus needed to be methodical about his routine. His routine, unrelated to his lycanthropy, was simple. He would awake early, at most, two hours after dawn, to feed his sheep and lead them to the hills where they could graze the pastures for however long they needed. He would return to his home to make himself his morning meal. Sometimes, it changed, there were days when it consisted of berries he had found in one of the gargantuan bushes at the bottom of the cliffside in the east, and on other days the meal of the morning would be a simple bowl of cornmeal mush paired alongside tea. The shepherd enjoyed breakfast thoroughly. It was not a hearty meal, but it was by far the most flavourful.
But presently, Remus did not wish to awake. Immaturely, perhaps, he dug his face into the quilt. He did not want to see the sun as it rose like he always tried to do on normal days. Today, it would be an omen. An omen that conveyed when the sun would dip behind the mountains, when the moon would soon take its place, Remus would transform from man to monster. The sun would mock him if he looked at it while it rose. His hands, which were comprised of less flesh, instead made up of primarily scar tissue, clenched atop his ragged pillow. His eyes drifted to his hands. Would they somehow have more scars when he awoke after the moon's painful glare? How much blood would he have lost by the time he would make it back from the northern forest? It was a day's walk. The amount of bandage and gauze that remained after the last transformation was scarce and nearly depleted. Would he have to walk all the way home, blood seeping through his clothes?
With a shaky breath, Remus swung his legs over the side of the bed, forcing himself to stand atop the sets of many stones that made up his floor. He staggered, cursing to himself as he steadied himself on the edge of his bed. Last month's transformation had crippled him, it seemed. He was unsteady on his feet, pain slicing through his muscles whenever he was to place pressure on his left leg. Remus looked at his unclothed leg. It was scarred, of course; he was all scarred, but he had bandaged the largest wound properly when he had returned to his home. The Wolf had broken its leg. Remus remembered the howling in his period of half-consciousness that would always occur when the Wolf retreated into the enclosure that was Remus' mind. The Wolf must've broken its leg sometime shortly before the transformation back into a mortal, for when Remus awoke, bare and gory, the wound seemed rather fresh. His breath had been trembling as he propped himself up on an old oak, hissing as the harsh bark cut into the several open wounds on his back. He had re-broken his leg with a crack and fumbled around for some sort of crutch, finding it yet still limping and unable to put pressure onto his injured leg all the while. That had been last month. It had healed correctly, hadn't it? Surely, it had to be cured.
The chill of the stones under his bare feet sent a jolt through him as he took a few steps toward the minuscule desk he had built. He had organised it the night prior, he had cautiously taken all that he needed and placed it all on the wooden surface. There it was, alongside his leather bag, prepared to hold all that he needed for his trek to the forest and the aftercare subsequent to his transformation. Once he was finished with the packing, always an easy task, he glanced around his small room, lit only by the now-opened window. The sun had since risen, thank the Spirit, and cast the chamber in light.
The room itself was cluttered with the remnants of his life — nothing interesting, of course, simply old books scattered on the floor alongside a full-length and sadly cracked mirror reflecting his weary face. Remus crinkled his nose at the faint scent of lavender lingering from last night’s unsuccessful attempts at calming his nerves.
Steeling himself, he rose, muscles aching from the weight of his overwhelming unease, and began to dress. Remus was certainly not of any kind of wealth and had taken it upon himself to sew his clothes from the wool of his flock. He wore a simple tunic that was dyed green and brown from the several tumbles from accidents outside. His trousers, of the same material, hung high on his gangly limbs. Despite the fact he thought he had stopped growing, he still seemed to reach ever taller heights. He shifted his feet into the sturdy boots worn from these same treks. It was of the same material that the artisan had built his satchel from, and neither of those accessories had yet to fail him. Remus grabbed his heavy satchel and a few meagre provisions for the long trek ahead, such as a lantern he would use as it was to navigate the paths as it got dark.
But before he was to go on this tedious journey, he had to tend to his flock.
Remus made an arch with his fingers to shield his eyes from the sun that peaked through the dark clouds. As he continued to look heavenwards, he came to a start as he realised just how dark the clouds truly were. Would there be a storm in the coming days? He prayed to the Spirit that that would not be the case. The sheepfold he had built for his flock was by far not resilient enough to withstand the hazardous winds, the pelting rain, or, most horribly, lightning. During a time such as this, Remus thought, very briefly, of allowing his flock into his small homestead but swiftly reconsidered. His sheep were mischievous little things. They would ransack his home, most definitely. His thin bed would be bitten and chewed, as would the small bedcover he had sewn during his boyhood would surely be ripped to shreds. Without a doubt, he could not let any of his sheep into his home. Perhaps Hope could be allowed, yes, perhaps Hope. She was by far the best-behaved of his sheep.
Last month, in the early weeks, he had gone to a village in the Far East to purchase some leather so that he could craft a bag to hold his items. It was made by the fine, rough hands of an artisan whose name Remus had once hoped yet was unable to remember. It was a sturdy bag, small enough to sling on his shoulder, solid enough so that it would not slip during Remus' hourly walks through the pastures to check on his flock.
He turned eastwards, glancing at the shed he had been building for the last four months, all in vain. Distressingly, Remus had not even been able to work on it in the slightest the previous month, as his transformation had been so early — a mere week in — and so horrible, so agonising, that for the remainder of the month, he could barely force himself to move and do his duties for the flock. The shed was far from done. Most of what would be the structure lay on the grass, planks he had carved, and they beckoned for him softly. He wished he had been able to finish the shed in time for this month's full moon, but alas. When it was to finally be completed, only the Spirit knew how long that would take; the shed's completion would streamline the transformation, and it would be far easier. Never for Remus to have to meticulously pack bandages and herbs to soothe his wounds. Never for Remus to have to trek the dangerous path he had made for himself through the Northern Forest, never for Remus to have to worry about the sheepfold getting destroyed or totalled during the two days in total that the trip to the forest took, while, of course, he did worry, he needn't do so as much. All that would soon be required of Remus during the days of the full moon would be that he would only have to step into his shed, rid himself of his clothing, perhaps leave them outside of the shed, and simply wait for the three days to be over and pray that his building skills were stronger than the beast within.
The familiar sound of soft bleats startled Remus from his thoughts of what was to be, drawing him toward the flock of sheep that grazed contentedly in the meadow. He looked at the cluster of sheep in distant amusement. Irony. How torturously ironic. He, a werewolf, a lycanthrope, taking care of a flock of sheep. How could the Spirit have twisted his life to turn out in a way such as this? As he approached the pen, he was bombarded by the customary feeling of intense guilt as he looked upon the population of white woollen animals; each sheep was a friend, a companion he'd nurtured after he had purchased them from one of the far-away villages, yet, as he was to do would every month, he would soon leave them vulnerable. He would leave them alone. Kneeling by the pen as he watched his flock intermingle with themselves, half of them sleeping and the other half grazing on the yellowed grass that worked as their floor, Remus stepped back and carefully locked the sturdy gate, his hands trembling slightly as he rewarded their obedience, how they had made no attempt to escape the pen, with ample provisions — hay piled high and feed scattered generously across the ground. Remus caught their curious gazes. How innocent they all appeared. An appropriate mask for their inner wicked nature. Despite himself, despite how many times he had done this over and over, he still felt the feeling of tightness, like a ribbon, wrap around his heart. When the sheep were younglings, when Remus had just purchased them, there were only two. A male and a female, young yet awaiting children. Compared to the thirty he had now, the number was small and a bit pathetic. He always made sure, back in those days, to lean towards his three companions and quietly whisper a promise that he would return. They couldn't understand; they would never understand it, yet it brought Remus comfort. Comfort alongside the feeling of distaste towards himself. The only thing his flock would understand was if he was ever to return to them in the form of the beast. He would be their enemy. He would be their predator. And before they could run, before they could think of escaping their enclosure, the Wolf would be feasting on their flesh. Remus shuddered to think about it as he turned north towards the forest where he would soon be transforming. He graced the sheep with a final glance, watching as the sun illuminated their woolly backs, casting soft shadows, and he tried, he tried to take comfort in the way they looked so peaceful, but the view of his only friends refused to chase away the bone-chilling dread that shadowed his every thought. With that one last lingering glance, he turned away.
As Remus descended the rolling hills, trying to refrain from sending a final glance to his home, he noted how the earth beneath him shifted from soft grass to the rough, uneven terrain of twisted roots and scattered stones, leading him deeper into the embrace of the ancient forest. The pain in his leg from the morning had dulled to a mere throb every second or third step. During these treks, when he was alone with his thoughts, he always felt absurdly isolated. He was aware that banishment was supposed to leave one feeling isolated, Remus was rarely alone. Yes, he was unable to return to his village of birth, his hometown, but the forest and the cliffside and the hills were far superior to that small devout village in which he had been raised. He never felt lonely with his sheep. But now he was. It felt right in some way he could not describe. It was as though he deserved to feel lonely. It was the point of his banishment; it was why people were to be banished. As punishing someone who had committed a heinous transgression against the house of the Lord. And what was Remus' heinous crime? Living, it seemed. Simply existing was viewed as a threat by The Soulbinders of the Luminous Veil. The Soulbinders detested him, as was proved by several factors.
First, it was the shepherd's father, who had once been working as a low-level priest, more of a common man than anything. After his father had found Remus wounded and bleeding after the attack when he was ten, the man began saying that the Lord was a cursed man. How could a Lord as kind as He do something to his poor boy, his eldest and only boy? Just as the Lord had rid him of his wife, He attempted to rid the father of his beloved son. Shortly after that, Remus' father was sentenced to the rocks, but not after entrusting Remus' at least temporary safety in the hands of a woman by the name of Euphemia Potter.
Euphemia was a kind woman. Remus recalled liking her dearly, just as he had been fond of his son. He did consider the boy a friend, yet could not recall his name, as the son had only been kind to him during his stay of four years before Remus had been eventually found wandering the streets during midday, an activity he had been forbidden from undergoing, as he would be easily recognised as the son of the "anarchist" due to his scars.
It was perhaps a gift sent from above that Remus had been spared execution. In previous cases, they killed werewolves without mercy. But Cardinal Abraxas had been rather kind and had pitied Remus due to his orphanhood and young age. So he was banished instead. While it was not a good outcome by any means, it was far better than death.
As Remus continued to walk through the forest, which seemed to have miraculously appeared around him, as it always did, the growing feeling of solitude clung to him like a second skin. He supposed it was ironic. If one was to be technical, he wasn't alone. He was never alone. The monster was always inside him. His first layer of skin and muscles was of the wolf's property. Or at least that's what he had grown to believe.
The oak trees above stood sentinel, their gnarled branches weaving a ceiling of shadow above. Foolishly, Remus thought he heard something among the creaks and chitters made by the animals and gentle wind. This had happened before, sounds like whispers oftentimes found a way to enter his mind whenever he took this journey. They spoke of one thing only: archaic, if not idiotic, superstitions that echoed in the depths of his mind. With every rustle of leaves and crack of twigs, he could almost hear the hushed voices of villagers warning their children to stay away from the cursed woods where monsters lurked. Unwillingly, Remus felt the sting of their fear, a reflection of the contrasivity that defined his existence — always Remus, caught between two worlds, forever an outcast in the realm of men, haunted not only by his lycanthropy but by the relentless shadows of mortal's whispered judgments that trailed him like a spectre. Even though he had been banished from his old home, their folktales followed him.
Soon, he would reach the heart of the forest. While he had chosen to name it that, he was certain that he had never reached the true middle. From the villages in the east, those he had visited, the inhabitants often spoke of the length of the forest to their north. It stretched on for miles until the end of the mortal plane, some said. Remus took it upon himself to believe them. He chose to believe that the Wolf was not close to humanity when Remus came into the forests and that there was less of a chance that he would harm others. The Wolf was in a forest that ended only with the world. That gave Remus some comfort.
Winding through the thickets and shadows, a path he knew too well, Remus glanced heavenwards to find that the sun was setting. No matter. He was close to the end.
Inevitably, Remus emerged into the clearing, into the heart. Above, the moon loomed large and ominous in the night sky, its pale glow casting a direful light over the landscape, morphing conventional shadows into menacing figures that shook with the wind in the corners of his vision. Instinct stirred deep within his gut, primal and raw. Something beastly, something painfully familiar. The true pain hadn't even begun, and yet Remus was still feeling the phantom pain, the ache in his limbs.
Fear clawed at his chest as if stuck between his ribs. He thought they were breaking as his heart stuttered and lurched within his skin; he felt the pull of the moon beckoning him towards the abyss of metamorphosis. With trembling hands, he shed his clothes, the fabric falling away to reveal vulnerable skin that quickly chilled under the sharp gusts of wind that picked up as though on cue. The wind whipped around him, mocking him in the way the sun had been unable to during the morning. He folded his garments meticulously beside a sturdy oak, glaring at the quaking hand that he used to steady himself. He placed his satchel atop his garb as a final, desperate act of defiance against the chaos to come. Perhaps it was a final cry out to the Spirit or a way to beg, in vain, for mercy. But it was neither. Remus Lupin, ever the systematic man, thought that there might as well be a small bit of order in what was predetermined.
Stepping away, he walked into the centre of the clearing, the cold earth grounding him as he stood silent and still, a solitary figure awaiting the impending doom that tore at his innards. Here was Remus Lupin, forever judged under the watchful gaze of the moon.
And, as always deserved, he felt the beast break into him.
The closest thing to an accurate description of what it felt like to transform was drowning. A mere moment ago, Remus stood, teetering backwards on a cliffside, and then he dropped. The ability to breathe was wrenched from him as he hit the water, it engulfed him, it ate him alive. Blackness swelled and pulsed around him. An abyss. A void. And in that void was agony. It was as though the water was boiling. It tore at his skin, lapped at it with a razor-like tongue. The flesh peeled from his muscles. At least there was some attempt at consistency when it came to the transmutations. There was always the first ripple of pain, immediate, overwhelming. It always tended to juxtapose the drowning yet tied itself within it in some sort of fundamental way. Tonight, the feeling was best described as a violent flame igniting every nerve as his bones began to crack and splinter, reshaping themselves in whatever way the beast saw fit. Flesh tore beneath the strain of expanding muscles, and the sharp edges of his teeth elongated with a sanguinary snap, each modification of his mortal body, twisting it into the beastly form the wolf wished, sent blood spraying in jagged bursts from the wounds that the ordeal caused.
Sounds, horrible sounds of horror mingled with guttural growls as his human form succumbed, skin stretching and contorting, ripping in places as tufts of dark fur erupted like weeds through torn flesh. The air grew thick with the metallic scent of blood, pooling around him like a crimson halo. Limbs pivoted as joints cracked, reshaping into a hunched, monstrous silhouette. Extremities, all far too long and sinewy, exuding pure, unfiltered anguish and the sudden, uncontrollable hunger.
Thus, the Wolf ran deeper into the woods, abandoning whatever morality it had taken when it buried the shepherd.
In three days' time, the shepherd would return to his mortal form. His sanity would come back to him; he would be reduced to but a man, confined by temporary normalcy. He would be alone again. Alone with cuts and wounds lining his flesh, alone with a caged beast inside his mind. Alone with sheep, the sheep he cared for beyond comprehension, that he very well may kill if he was to ever neglect the duties the lycanthropy required he perform.
Yet, on the dawn of the fourth day, after a day of rest and the healing of new wounds, Remus Lupin would find himself a mortal companion. Except, by the looks of him — skin cut and caked in blood, looking as though it were ravaged by claws, a long stretch of burnt flesh that trailed down the top of his head to the bottom of his reddened leg — this companion, the friend Remus had longed for, was not mortal at all.