Emily (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-09-04 11:21 am
iluvroadrunner6) wrote2006-09-04 11:21 am
At the Mercy of the Wolf
i'm going to do something a little different (that's making me very nervous) while i plan out my next fanfic piece. i'm going to post some original work. *bites nails* so, anything written down here is mine, all mine, and completely from the deep recesses of my brain. i own it. you steal i sue.
i got absolutely no concrit when i sent this in to somewhere, so here i'm hopefully looking for a little more.
Title: At the Mercy of the Wolf
Author: Emily Proulx (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
iluvroadrunner6)
Rating PG-15
Summary: He had once been a good-looking man, of a healthy complexion with a crop of thick dark hair and piercing yet compassionate eyes that drew you in with one glance. He had once been charismatic, once been compelling, once been confident. He had only been in the small English town of a few short weeks, and the mysteries concerning his sudden departure from his former parish, located somewhere near the coast, had yet to be explained.
Father James O’Leary made his way slowly, solemnly, toward the chapel of the monastery. Roughly forty years old, his small head hung slightly as he walked, as if admitting defeat. He had once been a good-looking man, of a healthy complexion with a crop of thick dark hair and piercing yet compassionate eyes that drew you in with one glance. He had once been charismatic, once been compelling, once been confident. He had only been in the small English town of a few short weeks, and the mysteries concerning his sudden departure from his former parish, located somewhere near the coast, had yet to be explained. However, the idea of Catholicism, in these parts anyway, was that they were welcoming. Far from the politics of London and Rome, these small parishes met purely to worship, and all were welcome.
The man of strong stature had since been reduced to this huddled mass of a man that would barely speak a word to anyone passing him. His healthy complexion had faded to a pale, sickly one, his eyes had lost their light and luster, his body shriveled to the shell of his former self, any confidence that that body once possessed was gone. He continued on his path to the chapel, passing on his way the caretaker, coming in from making his nightly rounds.
“You on yer way to the chapel there, Father?” George Hursely replied in his usual gruff voice, “It’s gettin’ late. You know there be spirits here about in these parts.”
“I do believe, Brother George, that spirits are not part of the church doctrine,” Father O’Leary said gently, voice barely higher than a whisper, “I am only going to pray a while, and then I will return to my quarters.”
“I don’t believe ye understand, Father,” Hursely began again, “It be a full moon out there tonight. Werewolves be roaming these parts on a night like tonight.” He watched as the man froze in his tracks, as though the uneducated caretaker had read deep into his soul. Then he regained his composure.
“If there were any werewolves, Brother George,” O’Leary began again, the same soft tones that he had used before, “I trust in the Lord to protect me from them while I pray. You return to your home, get some rest. I will bolt the door behind me when I’m finished.”
He continued to make his way through the hallway to the empty chapel. The room was dark, with the exception of a few candles, lighting the way to altar at the head of the room. The church was nothing magnificent, but it was all these poor people could afford, and it was warm in the winter, cool in the summer. The people felt it was a satisfying place to worship their Lord, so the priests were content as well. Genuflecting deeply as he reached the pew directly in front of the altar, he then proceeded to the small step that led to the most sacred place in the room and knelt slowly on top of it. Softly, slowly, he began to pray:
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” he spoke softly, heard by no one except his God, and the caretaker, staying close to protect the man if the time came, “In green pastures you let me graze; to safe waters you lead me; you restore my strength.”
Suddenly, a cloud slipped past the full, bright harvest moon, sending a stream of light through the sturdy glass window, and trickling down to where the man was kneeling. The man’s eyes widened, a chill sending his spine to stand bolt upright, a look of fear capturing his face. Finish the prayer, James, he commanded himself, Finish the prayer.
“You guide me along the right path for the sake of your name,” he said shakily, feeling fur beginning to explode out of his skin, “Even when I walk through a dark valley, I fear no harm for you are at my side; your rod and your staff give me courage.” Then a scream of pain. His knees had begun to reverse themselves as the tormented being of the wolf began to bubble under his subconscious. The cries of pain begged to be allowed to hunt, to kill, to feed.
It was by no means a painless process being turned into a werewolf. Your spine was stretched, legs lengthened and twisted to fit the wolves body, the structure of your face elongated to fit the shape specified by your demonic possessor. But Father James was determined, compelled, to finish the psalm’s gentle words before his ability to speak was gone, leaving him bound and slaved to the blood starved mind of the wolf.
“You set a table before me as my enemies watch; you anoint my head with oil, my cup orrggh—arrgh—” The remaining words of the verse were lost as his mouth began to change it’s shape, teeth rearranging, tongue becoming longer, thicker, useless for human speech. The only thing he could do was howl. And howl he did.
At the first helpless chords of the wolf’s song, Hursely came running out of where he was hiding in the seminary. Lantern in one hand and a pail of water in the other, he threw the water first, shouting as he went:
“Out ye foul beast! Out! Out!” The wolf cowered as the water was thrown in his direction, loosing his balance and falling to the floor. The man held the lantern up over his head, casting a light on the cursed man in front of him. The sight in front of him would haunt him for the rest of his days.
It was a tormented shape that was no longer human, yet not wolf either. The wolf’s misshapen legs scratched at the floor, trying to get leverage to get away from his attacker. The torn, practically obliterated priests robes hung around the fur covered body, that had not quite taken on the lean shape of the wolf. His face was a twisted mix of a human and wolf, with the elongated snout and rough teeth, yet the ears and eyes of a man. But that soon disappeared, and suddenly George Hursley was face to face with his worst fear.
Being a superstitious man, Hursley had prepared himself for this day many years ago. A mystic had passed through the village, promoting the only way to kill the wolf: the silver bullet. Hursely was the first in line. However, he was also the poorest in line, and he could only buy one. Which meant he only had one shot.
The wolf knew that the man had water, and he didn’t want to go anywhere near him. He started to run for the door, but Hursely quickly whipped out his gun and fired.
The smoke from the muzzle of the gun hung in the air, and Hursely could feel his hands shaking. He had never fired a gun before in his life, and now that he actually had he felt distant from himself. They say killing tears apart the soul, and for Hursely, that seemed to be the case.
The smoke began to clear a little, and Hursley began to see a little more clearly. The bullet hit square in the chest, piercing the wolf through and sending him collapsing to the ground. When the smoke fully cleared, all that Hursely could see was the bloodied body of the Father O’Leary lying in the aisle of the chapel.
“Oh, God,” he gasped, running forward to the man, “Father—Father I didn’t—I didn’t know—I—I thought he ate ye—”
“It is alright, Brother George,” O’Leary said, his voice strained with the effort, “I understand. I—” A cough exploded from the man’s chest, blood spitting up through his mouth, “—I forgive you, my brother.”
“Forgive me? But Father—”
“You have done me a great service today, Brother George,” O’Leary explained, “Thank—” His voice trailed off, and his body went limp in the caretaker’s arms, finally surrendering to death.
The End
i got absolutely no concrit when i sent this in to somewhere, so here i'm hopefully looking for a little more.
Title: At the Mercy of the Wolf
Author: Emily Proulx (
iluvroadrunner6)Rating PG-15
Summary: He had once been a good-looking man, of a healthy complexion with a crop of thick dark hair and piercing yet compassionate eyes that drew you in with one glance. He had once been charismatic, once been compelling, once been confident. He had only been in the small English town of a few short weeks, and the mysteries concerning his sudden departure from his former parish, located somewhere near the coast, had yet to be explained.
Father James O’Leary made his way slowly, solemnly, toward the chapel of the monastery. Roughly forty years old, his small head hung slightly as he walked, as if admitting defeat. He had once been a good-looking man, of a healthy complexion with a crop of thick dark hair and piercing yet compassionate eyes that drew you in with one glance. He had once been charismatic, once been compelling, once been confident. He had only been in the small English town of a few short weeks, and the mysteries concerning his sudden departure from his former parish, located somewhere near the coast, had yet to be explained. However, the idea of Catholicism, in these parts anyway, was that they were welcoming. Far from the politics of London and Rome, these small parishes met purely to worship, and all were welcome.
The man of strong stature had since been reduced to this huddled mass of a man that would barely speak a word to anyone passing him. His healthy complexion had faded to a pale, sickly one, his eyes had lost their light and luster, his body shriveled to the shell of his former self, any confidence that that body once possessed was gone. He continued on his path to the chapel, passing on his way the caretaker, coming in from making his nightly rounds.
“You on yer way to the chapel there, Father?” George Hursely replied in his usual gruff voice, “It’s gettin’ late. You know there be spirits here about in these parts.”
“I do believe, Brother George, that spirits are not part of the church doctrine,” Father O’Leary said gently, voice barely higher than a whisper, “I am only going to pray a while, and then I will return to my quarters.”
“I don’t believe ye understand, Father,” Hursely began again, “It be a full moon out there tonight. Werewolves be roaming these parts on a night like tonight.” He watched as the man froze in his tracks, as though the uneducated caretaker had read deep into his soul. Then he regained his composure.
“If there were any werewolves, Brother George,” O’Leary began again, the same soft tones that he had used before, “I trust in the Lord to protect me from them while I pray. You return to your home, get some rest. I will bolt the door behind me when I’m finished.”
He continued to make his way through the hallway to the empty chapel. The room was dark, with the exception of a few candles, lighting the way to altar at the head of the room. The church was nothing magnificent, but it was all these poor people could afford, and it was warm in the winter, cool in the summer. The people felt it was a satisfying place to worship their Lord, so the priests were content as well. Genuflecting deeply as he reached the pew directly in front of the altar, he then proceeded to the small step that led to the most sacred place in the room and knelt slowly on top of it. Softly, slowly, he began to pray:
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” he spoke softly, heard by no one except his God, and the caretaker, staying close to protect the man if the time came, “In green pastures you let me graze; to safe waters you lead me; you restore my strength.”
Suddenly, a cloud slipped past the full, bright harvest moon, sending a stream of light through the sturdy glass window, and trickling down to where the man was kneeling. The man’s eyes widened, a chill sending his spine to stand bolt upright, a look of fear capturing his face. Finish the prayer, James, he commanded himself, Finish the prayer.
“You guide me along the right path for the sake of your name,” he said shakily, feeling fur beginning to explode out of his skin, “Even when I walk through a dark valley, I fear no harm for you are at my side; your rod and your staff give me courage.” Then a scream of pain. His knees had begun to reverse themselves as the tormented being of the wolf began to bubble under his subconscious. The cries of pain begged to be allowed to hunt, to kill, to feed.
It was by no means a painless process being turned into a werewolf. Your spine was stretched, legs lengthened and twisted to fit the wolves body, the structure of your face elongated to fit the shape specified by your demonic possessor. But Father James was determined, compelled, to finish the psalm’s gentle words before his ability to speak was gone, leaving him bound and slaved to the blood starved mind of the wolf.
“You set a table before me as my enemies watch; you anoint my head with oil, my cup orrggh—arrgh—” The remaining words of the verse were lost as his mouth began to change it’s shape, teeth rearranging, tongue becoming longer, thicker, useless for human speech. The only thing he could do was howl. And howl he did.
At the first helpless chords of the wolf’s song, Hursely came running out of where he was hiding in the seminary. Lantern in one hand and a pail of water in the other, he threw the water first, shouting as he went:
“Out ye foul beast! Out! Out!” The wolf cowered as the water was thrown in his direction, loosing his balance and falling to the floor. The man held the lantern up over his head, casting a light on the cursed man in front of him. The sight in front of him would haunt him for the rest of his days.
It was a tormented shape that was no longer human, yet not wolf either. The wolf’s misshapen legs scratched at the floor, trying to get leverage to get away from his attacker. The torn, practically obliterated priests robes hung around the fur covered body, that had not quite taken on the lean shape of the wolf. His face was a twisted mix of a human and wolf, with the elongated snout and rough teeth, yet the ears and eyes of a man. But that soon disappeared, and suddenly George Hursley was face to face with his worst fear.
Being a superstitious man, Hursley had prepared himself for this day many years ago. A mystic had passed through the village, promoting the only way to kill the wolf: the silver bullet. Hursely was the first in line. However, he was also the poorest in line, and he could only buy one. Which meant he only had one shot.
The wolf knew that the man had water, and he didn’t want to go anywhere near him. He started to run for the door, but Hursely quickly whipped out his gun and fired.
The smoke from the muzzle of the gun hung in the air, and Hursely could feel his hands shaking. He had never fired a gun before in his life, and now that he actually had he felt distant from himself. They say killing tears apart the soul, and for Hursely, that seemed to be the case.
The smoke began to clear a little, and Hursley began to see a little more clearly. The bullet hit square in the chest, piercing the wolf through and sending him collapsing to the ground. When the smoke fully cleared, all that Hursely could see was the bloodied body of the Father O’Leary lying in the aisle of the chapel.
“Oh, God,” he gasped, running forward to the man, “Father—Father I didn’t—I didn’t know—I—I thought he ate ye—”
“It is alright, Brother George,” O’Leary said, his voice strained with the effort, “I understand. I—” A cough exploded from the man’s chest, blood spitting up through his mouth, “—I forgive you, my brother.”
“Forgive me? But Father—”
“You have done me a great service today, Brother George,” O’Leary explained, “Thank—” His voice trailed off, and his body went limp in the caretaker’s arms, finally surrendering to death.