Wrote a little Wednesday character study last week - canon compliant but Wenclair coded. Her werewolf transformation scene really stuck with me. Mild warning for canon typical violence. Itâs on ao3 as well if you prefer to read it there:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Wednesday doesnât fight it.
When the force of it grips her so tightly that it knocks the breath from her lungs, and her very bones begin to twist, and crack, and contort into elongated limbs at foreign angles right before her eyesâshe doesnât push back.
Enidâs words echo in her mind as a warning, but theyâre too distant to make much difference. They bounce back and forth like theyâre spring-loaded, clashing with the jarring noise that fills her head until it feels like even her skull itself might split in half. You need toâ
Wednesdayâs too far gone. Sheâs already changing.
Thereâs a beast inside this body thatâs clawing its way out, drawing strength from her subconscious and her soul. Her emotions are something wild now, and theyâre itching to latch onto any escape after being repressed for so very long. You need to calm down, or youâreâ
Wednesday doesnât fight it, because she canât.
The storm brewing beneath the surface wonât be tamed, or quelled, and it hurts in the way that flames melt flesh from bone and swallow entire buildings whole. It rips straight through her with an impossible force. Her chest is ablaze, and her throat stings with the threat of a growl that somehow still emerges human.
Wednesday has walked through fire on her own two feet. Sheâs crawled into a pyre, and sheâs let lit kindling scorch its way down to her fingertips until her skin had been satisfyingly singed. That had always been one of her favorite games as a child: rifling through kitchen drawers for spare matchsticks, and then smuggling them outside to strike each one against stone until that first hint of sulfur hit the air. Every time, a magnificent little spark would grow, and dance, and lick its way across the wood.
Wednesday would watch it burn and burn.
How long can you hold it?
But her careful grip is slipping now, and the iron seal sheâs so intentionally placed over everything sheâs vowed to lock away instead of feel is melting beneath the searing heat. Nothing in even her most deranged of past endeavors could have prepared her for the power of this.
Her joints creak. Her cartilage is rearranging.
Enid stares at her, wide-eyed.
Run, Wednesday wants to say, even though she knows the word will never make it past her lips this time.
Everything that follows is mayhem of the highest order.
All of the thoughts in Wednesdayâs mind are replaced by a visceral instinct to protect, and to avenge, and to make Tyler Galpin pay. Itâs been stirred by the gripping anger that had taken over at the sight of him knocking Enid to the groundânot in her own body, of course, but it had still been Enidâ
Those three words have morphed into a primal, intrinsic rage. Thatâs the driving force behind Wednesdayâs fury as she launches herself with all of her newfound might against the door thatâs locked her in. It clatters to the ground with a resounding thud.
Sparks rain down from machinery like a charged battlefield, and a snarl erupts from the depths of her ribcage, coiling all the way up her body and out past a menacing set of canines until she leaps forward, hell-bent on attack. This bloodthirsty impulse to hunt down whatâs threatening Enid and crush him right here, right now, and once and for all, is boiling through her veins with a promise for vengeance.
She has him in her grasp in seconds. He barely even struggles. Oh how simple it would be to snap his feeble little neck.
She wants to make him bleed, gloriously crimson.
She wants to make him suffer.
âWednesday, we have to go. Now!â
Enid is the only one who can break through her merciless fixation. Wednesday turns to her, and in that moment she can hear the surge of her heartbeat. She can sense the urgency in her words, and she knows that the sea of blue she searches for when she needs steadying is still there, just behind the dark, panicked gaze.
She tethers Wednesday to reality. She sees the human beneath every mask and front and facade and shape Wednesday has ever shrouded herself in.
And Wednesday knows only this, entwined so firmly within the walls of her hollowed-out heart that not even two changes of body could separate such a truth from the very essence of her being:
She would follow Enid Sinclair anywhere.
