Then
You can wear my skin as armor
You can eat my flesh and bones
Leave nothing that is needed
All I have is yours.
Hunter- Have a Nice Life
The wolf, in essence, was not a metaphor. People usually thought it was, some sort of fanciful way to escape accountability, but the dull, depressing truth was that the curse warped the brain permanently, reshaping it to host a living parasite. A parasite that, essentially, only broke through when the moon reached its zenith, strong enough to drag the beast from its dormancy.
He could go into detail about the moon and its effect on magic, but what was the point? The ending was the same: from the age of four, a beast had roamed in his hindbrain. As simple as that. As complicated as that.
Though, frankly speaking, if the beast was just a wolf, he could almost live with it. It would be miserable, but fine. The problem, of course, was that it wasn’t just a wolf. It was some twisted sorcerer’s idea of what a wolf should be—artificial hierarchies, dominance, submission. Real wolves fought for leadership occasionally, but it was often just play: parents roughhousing with their babies, packs jostling in mock battles. Benign.
Werewolves, however, didn’t tussle. Given enough of them in one location, they would sort themselves into strict hierarchies. Always. The curse demanded it. The curse enforced it. Strength ruled—by any definition.
It was good for an army to sort itself out like that.
[The history of lycanthropy was suspect (since the ostracization didn’t make for proper record-keeping) but Remus had long had thoughts on this particular aspect. If he survived, he would even consider researching it. Someone had to.]
So Remus, curled up at the outer edges of the pack, stripped bare in every sense, waited. There was no place for him in the rings, no space he dared occupy. He had seen more bare skin that he’d ever wanted to, and there was no room for bodily shame when everyone was silently waiting for their bones to twist up and out.
What fucked him up, he thought bitterly, was that he could be in the middle. He could, in fact, be at Fenrir’s side—though everything in him revolted at the idea. All it would take was letting Fenrir shove his hands into his guts and rearrange him, crime by crime, into the perfect amoral beast. One act of surrender, then another, and another…
Then he would cease to be Remus.
Part of him wondered if that was such a terrible thing. The part that was the beast, of course. The wolf didn’t care about names, identities, or principles. The wolf wanted survival. The wolf would bare its neck. The wolf would bend. And pounce when the time was right.
But Remus? Remus could not bend any more than he could break. If he gave in, he might as well point his wand at his temple and blow his own skull apart. At least he would die as he lived, relatively sane, and still himself.
The moon, he thought darkly, was making him even battier than usual.
And yet, despite the wet dirt beneath him, the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and blood, the air heavy with sweat and grime, part of him saw why this state was venerated, even in its agony. There was comfort in a ritual undergone together. There was comfort in sameness, in community, in shared pain. There was comfort in knowing that every person near you had the same story. The moon came, and I let it take me.
Before the night fell, as the moon began its relentless rise, Remus thought: Don’t make me do anything I don’t want. Please.
The beast’s response didn’t comfort him. Moony did as he pleased, as always.
The first to go was his spine. Always the spine. The sickening crack as it bowed and stretched, vertebrae snapping into alignment that no human body should ever endure. Remus bit down hard on his lip, the sharp copper tang of blood filling his mouth, but it did nothing to dull the agony.
Pain exploded down his back, a fire spreading to his ribs. They twisted and expanded like broken wings, his chest heaving as his lungs tried to catch up. The air felt too sharp.
He clawed the dirt beneath him as his fingers snapped backward, one by one, the skin splitting as heavy paws emerged. The sharp crack of each knuckle sent him sprawling to the ground, howling alongside a dozen others.
Remus’s breath hitched as his skull fractured, the bone folding outward, a lupine mask overtaking the face he’d always known. His eyes sharpened, his vision snapping into painful clarity. His nose stretched, reshaping into a snout that dragged the air around him into hyperfocus—dirt, sweat, blood, everything sharp enough to sting.
The stretch of skin across his shifting muscles burned like fire, the pressure in his jaw building until his teeth began to lengthen. His jaw ached, the bones shifting and locking into place, a weapon capable of tearing through flesh.
And still, the transformation wasn't complete.
The instinct, no matter how many moons had passed, was disgust. Every inch of him rebelled against the change. The sickening sounds of his body breaking and rebuilding were enough to make even the hardiest heart shudder. His muscles tore themselves apart and reknit. His skin quivered as fur sprouted, his human trappings dissolving into something wretched, wild, and monstrous.
This is what I am, he thought as the pain overwhelmed him. This is all I will ever be.
Remus sank into the agony, letting it wash over him like a baptism of fire. He always did. He had to. There was no room for resistance anymore, no sense in trying to fight the inevitable.
Then Moony opened his eyes.
The wolf shook his head as if trying to dislodge the pain, snarling at the remnants of humanity that clung stubbornly to the edges of his mind. Moony was a creature of instincts and sharp hunger, wild in ways that Remus could never allow himself to be.
Remus slipped away, retreating into the back of their mind.
Me and you and you and me, he thought faintly, the words a mantra that soothed nothing. All I have is myself. All I have is the wolf.
The wolf snarled in reply.
All I am is the wolf, wrapped in the trappings of civility.