The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 20: In the Grips of Fire

“How did he … ?”

“Why isn’t he wearing any … ?”

“Who, in all the realm, would think to come here, of all places?”

“And is he … ?” Vidarr sniffed the naked, young traveler at their doorstep. “By the Elven gods, he’s cursed! Why isn’t he dead? Is this some sort of test?”

Vidarr stepped out into the full light of dawn, squinting his eyes from the brightness.

Ashara crouched over the body and prodded it. “Unlikely. If anyone else found him first, his neck wouldn’t be here, or at least, it wouldn’t be intact. He’s still alive,” she said, with her ear pressed against his chest.

“The sentries would have shot him the moment he stumbled in. Why didn’t they? Who was on post this morning?” Vidarr peered around the empty courtyard, and found it empty.

“I think Sindri and another one of the neophytes were on watch, and you know how Sin is … the whore. They’re probably fooling around together in the forest.” She rolled her eyes.

Vidarr chuckled. “Suppose it’s my lucky day, then. I was assuming I’d have to run like a demon, or kill them. Admittedly, I thought it’d be both. Oh well. What a fitting way to leave: one man disappears, and another shows up at the doorstep.”

“And with the new distraction, only one of you will have to die—surely this one.” Ashara glanced at the snoring body. She ran her finger over the lengthy scar on his face.

Vidarr was just about ready to start his journey; his feet were one heartbeat from the first step, his pack slung over his shoulder, his cloak freshly brushed, a confident smirk on his face.

Then, he recalled Crowshead, the fiery homes, the missing Cursed One, and the boy they executed who pretended to be him. He looked at the dark rings under the eyes of the unconscious boy, and felt the guilt wash over him with a vengeance. Could he be the one who escaped? But why, to our doorstep, in death’s shadow? What did they call him?

“You know you cannot leave yet, don’t you?” Ashara shot an accusing look at him. “There’s not a village close enough that we can give him to without being gone for more than three hours, in the least. Someone will notice we’ve left. And …” she sniffed him, cringed, “he reeks of death from the transformation; the carrion crows will be done with him by the next hour, if we—”

“I understand. You needn’t say anymore.” He crouched over the boy, all of his fantasies of escaping smoldering in his eyes. His smirk vanished, replaced by a firm line of concentration. “He’s the one who fled from Crowshead. But what would you have me do? Taking him in is like hiding the sick, frail body of a mouse between the paws of a cat … no, a dragon! It’s mad. There will be blood, Ashara, and lots of it. And ours will be amongst it, certainly.”

She smirked. “Says the one who volunteered to be hunted by an fanatical at group of cultists for the rest of his life.”

Vidarr twitched with indecisiveness. Every passing moment made it likely that some sleepless Hand would witness them on the cusp of unspeakable blasphemies. What choice do I have? I probably killed his sister, or brother … father, mother? “Here is not the place to discuss this. Grab his legs, I’ll take his shoulders.”

They stood breathless, breathing as quietly as they could, in a hallway lined with the dorms of sleeping Hands. Both of their palms were wet with nervous sweat, and Fenris still smelled like a pit of rotting flesh. Vidarr started for his door, until Ashara made a hiss to stop him. “That will do no good. They’re keeping their eyes on you. Take him to mine. Quickly,” she added.

Ashara grunted as she repositioned her grip, Vidarr’s hand slipped, and one of Fenris’ limp arms smacked against someone’s door.

Their eyes widened. Hurry! they mouthed in unison. They hauled Fenris into her room, shoved him under the bed, and pulled the covers until they sagged over the empty space between the floorboards and the mattress. He just barely fit.

They both stared at the door. Nobody stirred or appeared to have awoken, but they didn’t sigh.

“His back will be riddled with splinters, with how quickly we pushed him under,” Ashara noted with a frown.

“I think he’ll be grateful for them when he wakes up … alive.” Vidarr sat on a chair by the window and looked out. Her window didn’t face the road like his did; it gave a view of the opposite side of the house: the Duskenwoods, the dark expanse of trees stretching for miles and miles. It gave way, eventually, to wide plains and the frosted basins of snow-tipped mountains. He sighed. We’re going to be hung, he thought as he enjoyed the view.

Ashara was too busy looking under the bedsheets, examining Fenris. Still naked and unconscious, his lips were pushed in a pouty shape against his arm. His breaths were shallow. “This isn’t impossible,” she started, as if reading Vidarr’s thoughts. “We’ll keep him here for a few days, feed him, give him a bed to rest on, take turns guarding the door. When he’s got his strength back we’ll send him running and no one will be the wiser. Come to think of it, you may want to consider the benefits of leaving with him. It doesn’t hurt to have a werewolf on your side when our brethren realize you’ve left.”

Vidarr was still staring out the window. He set his satchel with all his possessions down with a thud. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve dreamt of leaving here … and perhaps you are right, but I don’t know if the stars are on our side,” he said

Ashara got up and sat across from Vidarr, to share the view of a morning taking its first breaths. “Haven’t we killed enough innocent people already? I don’t wish to be a conjurer of miracles. I just want to set my scales right with the gods, with myself, even. Isn’t that what they want, even if their morals are misguided?” She nodded towards the wall.

“ ‘Misguided’ may be a light way of—”

“That’s not my point. The Crimson Hand thinks they’re curing Netherway of a curse. They ignore the detail that the Cursed Ones are still people when they’re aren’t shifted … people with more regret and worry than most of us, usually. Perhaps they’re the ones who should be teaching what penance means.”

After some time passed, they barred the door with a chair and dressed Fenris with a spare set of clothes from Ashara’s wardrobe. Vidarr’s clothes were too large; the elf had been training his body since adolescence.

When they were finished, Fenris was stirring, mumbling much more in his sleep. Vidarr was leaning against the window as soon as they were finished. There were visible, cold drops of sweat on his forehead.

“How could you be so fearful after proclaiming yourself to be a deserter?”

“I never called myself anything,” he said simply, shaking his head. “Perhaps it’s because my life is now—partially—in your hands, and his.” He glanced at Fenris. “But if I left this morning, and died, I would be the only one to blame, my life, my death, it would be in my hands, and it would be my own fault if things went awry. That is not so frightening as this.”

Ashara did not want to look up and see his expression, so instead contented herself with looking at Fenris. She had her own guilt to shoulder.

Now that he was fully dressed, she wasn’t so sheepish anymore. She drank in all of his appearance, the unconscious, crease of worry on his expression, the steady, shallow rising and falling of his chest, the soft breaths. He was something she’d been taught to despise and kill, and yet she felt only pity, compassion, a longing to understand.

“I am sorry you feel trapped,” she murmured.

I’m sure the Crowshead villagers felt trapped, too. Trapped under the flames of their own, burning homes, he thought. Then he shook his head, to tell her the apology wasn’t needed, though it was not given to him to begin with, it was directed at the boy on the bed.

“I believe his name is Fenris,” he said. He saw something in her eyes that went beyond a simple duty to protect, and began to feel that he should leave. “If you speak with him, do so in whispers, and make sure he closes his eyes if anyone comes in the room.”

Before Vidarr left, Ashara stopped him, and caught him in a tight embrace. “Thank you for staying,” she said.

Vidarr’s lips broke into a smile. His bruised face looked joyful, for the first time in a long while. “You’re reminding me of Sinara more and more. Just be careful, you’re the only person in this damned village I wouldn’t wish to share her fate.”

He turned, but she put a hand on his arm. “Vidarr.”

“Yes?”

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

That smile vanished. What came afterward was a sad grin beneath reminiscent eyes. “With a love that was, and still is, truly the gods’ greatest blessing, and greatest curse.” He paused, and breathed in as if to say more, then stopped himself. “Sleep well, Ashara. Watch over him. Keep your dagger close, your wits closer.”

When the door shut, she whispered “I will … I will,” and returned to the bed, where Fenris was still sleeping on the mattress, fully clothed, and snoring lightly. With a careful fondness growing in her chest, she hauled him up, tucked him beneath the bed, and said a prayer.

The dawning sun crept up, it woke up the world with silence, it stirred the sleepers with birdsong and the breath of mist and fog. Ashara eyelids fell to exhaustion while she was wrapped in a blanket, watching it in the chair beside the window.

To escape the time they spent dreading being caught, Ashara and Vidarr took to reading often. Luckily, it didn’t seem that any of the assassins had caught a sniff; they did not sense the irony that, in their inability to discover a Cursed One lingering in the Moonlands, there was one asleep in one of their own beds.

There became less chores to do each day, as the High Priest was sending out increasingly large parties to neighboring cities, some under the pretense to retrieve supplies, as was usual, while others left and did not return.

In the past month, anyone sent to Gods’ Rest hadn’t returned. Vidarr pried others for information, but nobody knew for certain. It was something to do with a grudge against the escaped peasant from Crowshead.

So, for sometime, there was a semblance of peace, even with Dalibor, who seemed more or less satisfied with the punishment he dealt Vidarr.

Four days had passed since Fenris’ arrival, but he hadn’t so much as stirred. After shifting, the Cursed fall into a deep sleep—deeper than most will ever know—and not even the loudest nor harshest sensations will wake them. Vidarr was thankful the High Priest had not called on either him or Ashara to be sent away. He had time to concoct a healing brew for Fenris, and show Ashara how to feed it to him, spoonful by spoonful. Not much had changed in his heart; he still thought of leaving everyday, and often he pondered if Ashara would be able to take care of him without his help, despite the guilt he felt.

On the fourth morning, Ashara tried a soup Vidarr had made. It was bitter, hot, and tasted like someone had steamed a whole pot of random herbs gathered from an old mire. She cringed and apologized silently to the sleeping Fenris, though she knew it was one of the ingredients contributing to restoring his life.

She set the bowl down and stared at him.

Looking at the spoon in her hand—the same spoon that dipped through Fenris’ lips—she froze in thought. The room was silent. Dawn was outside. Birds were calling. Her mind went from strange, romantic thoughts to ones of fear and anxiety. He looks to be my age, she thought to herself, not perturbed by the fact that she had thought it already hundred of times.

The first chance they got, they snuck him down into the kitchen and bathed him. Even that, he slept through. They had put lilacs, lavender, and other herbs into the steaming water to scrub away the scent of death that would, sooner or later, arouse suspicion.

She closed her eyes and breathed him in, not quite aware that she was only inches from his neck.

He moved. His eyes were no longer shut; they were clasped tight, and he began to shake beneath the covers. Ashara gasped and drew backwards, the way you might from a rising corpse. When the shaking didn’t stop, he groaned with fearful volume, as if someone was pushing a dagger into him very, very slowly.

Ashara’s heart rose in her throat as he became louder. She clamped a hand over Fenris’ mouth. “Shh … Shh. You’re safe. You’re safe, Fenris,” she whispered into his ear.

At his name, he jolted awake. It was the first pair of eyes that Ashara had seen which weren’t red. She stared in amazement at his bright, green irises that searched hers wildly. They sat stupefied in each other’s gaze, both of them feeling out of place in their reality.

Fenris looked at her as if she was a ghost lingering from his nightmares. Her hair was stark silver, a fitting match for the grey eyes that were clear and sharp like cut gemstones.

Fenris stuttered. She withdrew her hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. I swear, by the gods both high and unknown. Lower your voice, though. I beg you.”

Fenris tried to sit up. But his arms—and everything else—hurt too much. He fell back into the pillow, looking hallow. “Who are you?” What is this place?” Through the window, he could see the vast, Duskenwoods stretching beyond. It gave his heart a start. He’d never ventured far enough from Crowshead to test the edge of that dark forest. Everyone knew they were filled with strange creatures, phantoms, demons, and other unholy things; even thieves and outlaws would not venture through, if they could help it.

“My name is Ashara Scarlet.”

“I’m—”

“Fenris?”

“… yes. How did you know?”

“There’s no need to be afraid,” she said with a small grin.

But he could not share the same lightness. His voice came in a fearful whisper, stark with the realization of someone who sees the details of their death looming. “Your second name is Scarlet?” The pounding in his chest was combatted by the infatuation that was overcoming him as he studied her features; the way her upper lip curved downward to perfectly fit the lower one’s indentation. Her sharp nose. How her eyes pierced through him, made him feel naked and yet safe at the same time.

Ashara nodded, knowing what it implied. She winced as if she’d said something to hurt him.

“Am I wearing this for my hanging?” he examined the fine, black material with dread.

“I told you not to be afraid. You’re in a village of the Crimson Hand. You came here on your own, don’t you remember doing that?”

He shook his head. Black hair fell over his eyes. Ashara tucked a long lock behind his ear, so they could look at each other. “There are a great many things I don’t remember when I shift. So, I suppose the rumors aren’t true?”

“What rumors?”

“That all the Red Hand followers have red eyes.”

“Oh, well … that is not a rumor, it is a fact. Perhaps my mother, whoever she was, ate a lump of silver before giving birth to me.”

They both laughed, nervously. When the silence settled in they were more uncomfortable than before. Ashara realized she’d never spoken to someone beyond her village before, and felt out of place—even in her own room.

“Why is it I should not be afraid?”

“I suppose someone in the Nether was looking out for you. The sentries that were on watch the morning you arrived, they were not at their posts. And another elf, the only other one here as forgiving as I am, found you at the doorstep. We both found you.”

“In other words, you’re not going to take my head off?”

“As long as you don’t try anything foolish that will endanger my head too, then no. We’ve been healing you.” She motioned toward a bowl of broth with the spoon in her hand.

Images of Evara flashed through his head. A fresh past already set to be aged and forgotten. “Thank you.” His voice came just above a whisper. “But, why are you helping me?”

The door opened. They both gasped and Ashara spun around. It was Vidarr. He raised a finger to his lips and barred the door with a chair.

“This is the other elf I mentioned. He won’t hurt you, either,” Ashara assured.

Fenris looked up at him with untrusting eyes, and suddenly found the strength to sit up, even with heavy questions bearing on his chest.

“I am Vidarr,” he said simply, “you must be Fenris.”

He looked at the dagger strapped to the elf’s waist. It was nearly identical to the one he pried from the Cursed’s back. His heart began to beat faster, and his mind pieced some things together he never thought he’d come to realize, things he, perhaps, never really wanted to know. “Why is it that you both know my name?”

There were no other chairs in the room, so Vidarr folded his arms behind his back and stood there. His breaths were slow with trepidation, as he approached the conversation carefully. “I suppose that is a fair question, isn’t it? There’s a simple, gruesome answer, so we might as well not dance around it. A few weeks ago, several of the Hands here traveled to your village, including our leader, and myself. We were looking for someone afflicted with the Lupine Curse. And I was …” His eyes dropped to the floor. He could not bring himself to keep it in, not for another moment, not to the only person it truly mattered to, the only person who would feel an equal, if not greater, concentration of wretched emotions at the realization.

“I set the village ablaze.”

“Burnt it? You mean you …” Fenris felt his mind go off searching through the conversations beside camp fires, the tales Deidre shared alongside armfuls of rumors, the times they had visited taverns, inns, and shops together and heard this or that. Throughout all those interactions, here and there remained the horrors of the Crimson Hand, the retelling of their massacres, the ‘purification’ processes. Those stories were sometimes more terrifying than recounts of encounters with the Cursed themselves.

Those stories never grip us the way they should, do they? Murderers, practiced mages turned loose with mad power, necromancers and marauders who run through whole villages at a time, raping as they go, stealing possessions, stealing the breath of life. It’s not much more than a story until it’s close enough to us that we share in the nightmare.

It was real enough, then. The truth was in his eyes while his lips forgot how to form the rest of the question, and Vidarr was forced to finish it for him. He’d done enough. The least he could do was help the poor boy speak, to help him come and realize it.

“Killed them.”

Fenris’ body was possessed by an unfamiliar rage, something separate from the blind anger of his curse, something he could wield and control. Weak as he was, he threw off the covers and leapt from the bed. His hands found Vidarr’s neck and gripped hard.

They tumbled to the floor. Vidarr was thrown off by the strength of what he thought to be a malnourished, shattered person.

“Corpse! Red-eyed imp! Do you remember a girl my size? A harelip?” Fenris asked while he tightened his grip.

Vidarr maneuvered under the weight easily and threw Fenris upon his back, pressing his own knee on his chest, a hand instinctively reaching for his dagger. He stopped himself, and breathed cooly with piercing eyes as the boy’s squirms ceased.

When it was clear that the assassin could have him dead, Fenris became motionless, and the Moon-elf cleared his throat. “I cannot express my sorrow, Fenris. The guilt I feel—the grief—it is as if I knew the villagers there. I still think of them, still have nightmares of that morning. Day and night, they haunt me. If I could return to that moment and kill myself instead, I would. Your anger is understandable, but I am truly not the one you wish to kill. Not yet, anyways.”

Fenris rose, sniffling and crumbling, a mixture of grief, despair and rage, surprised his legs could even support it all, shaking like twigs in a storm, as they already were. Somehow, he managed not to make another attempt at hurting Vidarr.

“The girl?”

Slowly, he shook his head “My memories are a haze. That girl you described, the harelip, as far as I know she—”

“She ran off somewhere,” Ashara interjected. “Before Vidarr set fire to the homes, she disappeared behind one of them. After the flames, your villagers, they … ” She wished she hadn’t started that sentence. “Most came running from their homes, afire. But I never saw the girl after she ran. Is it possible, Vidarr?”

“With any luck, she might’ve escaped.” He laughed bitterly. “Then she’d be the only one who spat on the High Priest and got away with her life.”

Fenris didn’t appreciate the comment as much as Ashara did, not familiar with the ‘Priest’ character, though he felt a twinge of pride for Deidre. He wasn’t entirely convinced, either, but what hope he felt from their words he clung to. “How many others survived?”

There was a silence that choked the air in the room.

“The others, elf.”

Vidarr’s lips moved, but nothing came out.

Fenris trembled. “Tell me.”

The first time he said it, it was below a whisper. “… Dead.”

Fenris felt his legs buckle. Ashara caught him, helped him to the bed, where he put his head in his hands. It was me, then. I killed them all. “Because of me?” he whispered.

“No. This is not your burden. Our High Priest has lost himself to madness. After a night when a captive escaped—the werewolf that attacked your village—he’s been in a frenzy.

“I don’t expect you to believe me, Fenris. All I can say is that if I had the courage to throw myself into the arms of Death, I would. But I hadn’t. That morning—the morning I destroyed Crowshead—my life was in the hands of the High Priest. I was forced to. But I would be lying if I said I had no choice. The other choice was suicide. I could have picked it, but it would make no difference. Crowshead would still be ashes, and there would still be assassins looking for you, this girl you mentioned. They’d all be dead.”

“You make it sound as if you are the sole reason for its demise, Vidarr,” Ashara jutted in, “and you’re not. You must understand, Fenris, the Crimson Hand is a group of mindless, vicious elves with a bloodlust for your kind. They’ll kill whoever they have to in order to—”

He held up a hand towards Ashara to stop her, and nodded silently. He crawled backwards until his back was to the wall, raised his knees up to his chin, and rested it there. His expression went blank.

“If it’s any condolence, she was quite aggressive with the High Priest. I never saw someone speak to him in such a way. No one’s ever been so brave as to stand up to him the way she did so effortlessly.”

“But Fenris, why is it that you came here of all places?” Vidarr continued.

“I couldn’t … wouldn’t.” He sighed, exasperated. “I have no recollection of how I arrived here. I remember a few things, but that is all.” His eyes looked off into a void. “What happened?”

“You were curled up on the doorstep, naked.” Vidarr admitted.

Fenris stammered. “So you thought it wise to keep me in one of your dorms … to make both of yourselves traitors, and to leave me as fresh meat awaiting an execution? I’ve heard the stories.”

“Believe me when I say it was a difficult decision,” Vidarr said, dismissing his tone.

Ashara’s voice came softer, water over hot iron. “If we had not picked you up, taken you here, the crows would have picked your bones clean, or the sentries would have found you, eventually. You have been asleep four nights, after all. Think of all that can happen in that time.”

There was a pause. Fenris was getting tired, and he was fighting the urge to let himself wink out like the light of a candle. “You eat werewolf flesh here, don’t you? Does that mean, when I’m executed, you’ll eat me?” It seemed he’d been entertaining these thoughts in his head for awhile. It was never far from his mind … to be captured by the Red Hand. Now, it hardly seemed real, as he sat there looking at the two of them.

“You’re not a captive, gods dammit. You’re a fugitive, and we’re the ones hiding you.” Vidarr uncrossed his arms and fiddled with the butt of his dagger. “But yes, we do eat your kind’s flesh. There’s something powerful in shapeshifter’s blood. Perhaps the Crimson Hand is a psychopathic cult with questionable theories and beliefs, but they do have one thing correct: their preference in steak.”

Even Fenris had to chuckle at that.

Vidarr sighed, looked out the window, and saw the sun was getting high. “I best be going to my own dorm to rest awhile. Ashara will keep you company and watch over you.”

“Wait. Your scars and bruises. Where did they come from?”

Vidarr didn’t turn his head from the door, but his chuckle was thick with a smirk. “You’re not the only outcast here.”

The door shut silently, leaving the two were alone again.

A whole book of questions was compiled in their eyes as they looked at each other again, but only silence was breathed into the room.