Summary: a human man, living alone in the mountains finds a sick werewolf wandering near his house and takes him in.
Andreas stares at the creature laying by the fireplace, his mind focused on it's breathing - a hissing can be heard everytime it inhales - it's alive, at least... But only barely. Thanks to the warmth of the fire, some color seems to have returned to werewolf's cheeks. It looks a slightly more human now, but the finger prints are still deeply blue...
The creature's skin wraps tightly around the bones, very little muscle tissue in between and almost no sign of fat. The check bones and ribs are it's most egregious signs of starvation, while the arms and lower abdomen still retain some defined muscles. The yellowish complexion of the werewolf's skin slowly morphs into a darker one, it's most likely on the darker spectrum, but it's hard to tell right now, specially with the frost bites around it's sunken eyes and thin lips.
Andreas studies it carefully, not believe on his eyes. He has never seen someone in such a miserable state, and now... Now, what?
The man had. Been waiting for the werewolf to come to it's senses for the past hour, yet he has no idea what to do afterwards.
A low groan, barely audible over the fire, signaled the change. The werewolf’s fingers twitched, curling slightly against the fur rug. Then, with an effort that looked excruciating, its eyelids fluttered open.
Andreas tensed, gripping the cup still half-full of broth.
The eyes that stared back at him were vacant. Unfocused. No awareness, no recognition—just a hollow, feverish emptiness. The werewolf’s lips parted, and the muttering resumed.
“…sorry… I tried… I tried… wasn’t my fault… wasn’t—”
Andreas leaned forward. “Hey.”
The muttering didn’t stop.
“…too much, too much, don’t—don’t let it happen again—”
“Hey,” Andreas said again, louder this time. “Look at me.”
The werewolf blinked sluggishly, its pupils blown wide. Its breathing hitched, a sudden shiver rolling through its frail body.
Andreas set the cup aside and shifted onto his knees. “Can you understand me?”
No response. The muttering continued, a mess of fractured sentences and nonsensical apologies.
Andreas scowled. He reached out, gripping the creature’s shoulder firmly—but gently—giving it a slight shake. “Do you even know where you are?”
The werewolf flinched. Its gaze flickered, as if trying to focus, but whatever recognition might have sparked was gone in an instant.
“…too late… too late now…”
Andreas swore under his breath, pushing himself to his feet. His hands clenched at his sides as he turned away from the muttering wreck of a creature.
What the hell am I even doing?
The thing was dying. Starving, fevered, freezing from the inside out. He had done what he could, dragged it out of the snow, warmed it, fed it—barely. But was that enough? Was it even the right thing to do?
Andreas exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tangled hair. A part of him whispered that maybe he should have left it out there, let nature take its course. Maybe whatever had reduced the werewolf to this state was mercy in disguise.
But another part—quieter, but far more stubborn—refused to accept that.
With a deep breath, he stepped toward his bedroom, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots. The space was small, barely more than a bed and a chest for his few belongings. He pulled the chest open and rifled through the clothes—thick wool shirts, an extra coat, some old trousers. Not much, but better than the rags the werewolf had been wearing.
“sorry… I can still—still go on… on... A-and...c-can carry it, I swear…” The words slurred together, barely comprehensible. “Not broken… not yet… yes...yet...still—still move…” it's hissed gasps interrupted some of the words.
Andreas exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. The nonsense just kept spilling out, looping back in on itself, an endless stream of fevered delirium. He didn’t know what the hell this thing had been through, but whatever it was, it had chewed him up and spit him out in pieces.
Carefully, hesitantly, Andreas reached out and took the werewolf’s hand. It was stiff, trembling, fingers curled inward as if they had forgotten how to stretch.
“Hey,” Andreas murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against the ice-cold skin. “?You’re lying by my fire, in my cabin. You’re safe, understand?”
The wolf parted it's lips for a moment, eyes flickering. For only a second it looked like the creature had heard him, but then, just as quickly looped back into the nonsense.
"Useful... Full moon... I do...can...useful...."
Andreas sighed, rubbing his temples. “Can you just—” He stopped, then gritted his teeth. “Can you just shut up for one damned second?”
The werewolf flinched, but the mumbling didn’t stop.
Andreas ran a hand down his face, frustration boiling beneath his ribs. He wasn’t a people person, let alone a psychiatrist , or a doctor!
If it never fully wakes up, what is he going to do with it? He can't keep it! In fact, why keep it? He isn't responsible for it. There is nothing linking the two, he doesn't even know it's name!
The werewolf’s muttering continued, a soft, incomprehensible stream of words, but something shifted in its movements. Andreas noticed it when the creature’s hand, trembling and stiff, reached out weakly toward his. It wasn’t aggressive; it wasn’t even fully conscious. But there was a desperation in its touch—a pull, a need to make contact.
Andreas hesitated, uncertain, his gaze flicking between the creature’s outstretched hand and its vacant, fevered eyes.
With a quiet exhale, he reached out, letting his fingers brush against the werewolf's cold, fragile skin. The hand that had once seemed so monstrous, so capable of violence, now felt frail and clumsy. It was an odd sensation, the stark contrast between what it was and what it had become.
The werewolf didn’t react immediately, its eyes clouded with confusion as it continued its endless muttering. But then, slowly, its fingers began to trace the braided string bracelet that circled Andreas’ wrist. The werewolf’s movements were sluggish, uncertain, but there was a delicate focus to them, a quiet curiosity. Its fingers ran over the threads, feeling the texture, the knots, the pattern.
For a moment, the muttering slowed, quieted. The creature seemed less frantic, more subdued as it examined the bracelet with a kind of fragile wonder.
Andreas couldn’t help but watch, his brow furrowing. He had no idea why this particular thing—this simple bracelet—seemed to hold the creature’s attention. But for the first time since it had fallen to his doorstep, it seemed… calmer.
With a slight hesitation, Andreas pulled the bracelet off his wrist. He glanced at the werewolf, whose eyes, though still clouded, were following the movement. Gently, he placed the braided string around the creature’s hand, securing it in place. The werewolf’s fingers twitched slightly as the bracelet settled around its wrist, a thin strand of humanity, of connection, amidst the chaos of its condition.
Andreas leaned back, feeling an odd sense of something—something like peace, though it was fleeting. He didn’t know why it had worked, or if it would make any difference at all. But it seemed to quiet the creature for now, and that was something.
He sighed, rubbing his face again. He still had no idea what to do with it. But maybe, just maybe, the bracelet would help in some small way.
Andreas sat there quietly for a moment, watching the werewolf’s shallow breaths and the delicate way its fingers moved around the braided string bracelet. It didn’t make sense, not really—nothing about this situation made sense—but he had to try something.
Taking a deep breath, he spoke, trying to inject some normalcy into the madness.
“My sister made this,” he said, his voice steady, though there was a knot in his chest. “It’s a friendship bracelet. She made one for me, and one for herself. She’s... far away now, but we used to wear them together.”
The werewolf didn’t respond at first. Its glazed eyes flickered, trying to focus on him, but there was something unsettlingly distant in its gaze, as if everything was clouded over. Its breathing was strained, its lips parted as if it wanted to say something, but all it could manage was a weak, hoarse muttering.
“I can… I can still walk…”
The words felt like they were dredged from the depths of confusion, and Andreas’ heart sank. He had hoped for something more—anything that might give him a clue about what was really going on, or at least a glimmer of recognition. But all he got was that one sentence.
He felt disappointment settle over him like a heavy weight, and it tightened his chest. The werewolf’s words were fractured, as if trying to hold onto something, but it was slipping through its fingers.
“It’s okay,” Andreas said quietly, though he wasn’t sure if the creature could even understand. “You don’t need to walk. You’re safe here.”
But the werewolf wasn’t listening. It continued to speak, its voice soft, cracked with exhaustion.
“River…” The word hung in the air for a moment, and then the werewolf’s lips parted again. “p-please... 'msorry...”
Andreas stared at it. Still puzzle, even more frustrated. For a moment it seemed like the wolf would reach some reason, but again, they've sunk back to square one.
The werewolf blinked, and for a second, it seemed like it was trying to gather itself. There was a faint shift in its expression, a subtle attempt to focus. But then it slumped, its gaze drifting again.
“R-river... P-please, sorry... River....”
Andreas let out a breath, frustration building again, but he quickly tamped it down. This wasn’t the creature’s fault. It wasn’t... whatever it used to be.
"Okay..." He exhaled, trying to stay cool, maybe think of something else he could say to help.
The werewolf’s body trembled, and the muttering continued in fragments. It was clear now that it wasn’t responding to his words directly—it was just grasping for something, anything, in the fog of its delirium. But Andreas couldn’t stop the twinge of helplessness creeping up in him.
It was trying, in its own way. But it felt like he was chasing shadows, trying to piece together a puzzle that kept shifting beneath his fingers. At least it wasn't repeating the same words as before.
Andreas leaned back against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. The silence stretched for a moment, and then, with another exhausted sigh, he spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Just... hang in there. I’ll figure this out.”
The werewolf’s eyes flickered again, but there was no comprehension in them, no recognition. Just the endless, scattered muttering.
The werewolf’s muttering came to an abrupt halt as an erratic coughing fit seized its chest. The sound was harsh, ragged, its breath rattling in the creature’s throat as it tried desperately to clear it, but nothing came out except a dry, painful rasp. Its body trembled with the effort, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over it immediately after, and it collapsed back against the blanket, its mouth half-open as it gasped for air.
Andreas froze, his heart skipping a beat. He could feel his own throat tightening as the creature’s breathing became more erratic, but he couldn’t stop himself from staring. The werewolf’s dry, cracked lips parted, and it attempted to mumble once more, but there was no voice, only a hollow, strained sound that echoed faintly in the air.
The word barely made it past the creature’s lips, but this time, something in it struck Andreas with sudden clarity. River? Could it be... thirst? Was the creature trying to ask for water? Maybe even clinging to some old, instinctual memory of what it needed?
Without another thought, Andreas sprang to his feet, his pulse quickening. There was something he could do. Maybe not much, but something.
He rushed to the kitchen, his boots pounding against the wooden floor as he made his way to the stove. The kettle was still warm from earlier—he’d heated it up for his own tea, but now, it had a more pressing purpose. The steam rising from the water was a welcome sight, and for a moment, he just stood there, the warm vapor filling his lungs.
Grabbing the kettle, Andreas poured the warm water into a mug, the warmth flowing in, heating up his hand a little.
He hurried back to the fireside, the mug in his hand, and knelt beside the werewolf once again. The creature’s eyes flickered, still hazy but focused a little more intently now, its breath more shallow.
“Here… drink,” he whispered. “It’s water. You’re thirsty, right? You need this.”
Andreas took a steady breath and carefully tilted the mug toward the creature, letting the warm liquid flow slowly into its dry mouth.
At first, there was a slight resistance, but as the water passed over the werewolf’s lips, its throat seemed to respond. The coughing stopped for a brief moment, and the creature, still trembling, began to swallow, its throat moving with each fragile gulp.
Andreas’ pulse steadied, his hope igniting just a little. Maybe, just maybe, this was the first step.
When Andreas pulled the mug away, the werewolf let out a soft, almost relieved sigh, its body seeming to relax for the first time in what felt like forever. There was a faint, almost imperceptible smile pulling at the corners of its lips, as if it found some fleeting comfort in the water.
Andreas gently wiped the sides of its mouth, his fingers brushing against its cool, cracked skin. The contrast between the warmth of the water and the cold of the werewolf’s face was striking, and his gaze flicked to the creature’s fingers, still a deep, painful shade of blue from frostbite. The tips of its nose and cheeks were similarly burned by the cold, the frostbite eating into its skin, leaving it raw.
But there was something else. The creature’s complexion had begun to shift, moving from that pale, almost sickly yellowish hue to something more natural, more in line with its true coloring. The deep shades of its skin were finally starting to return as warmth seeped into its body. It was recovering, even if slowly, and it made Andreas feel a strange mix of relief and anxiety.
The man instinctively reached for the creature’s hand, his fingers tracing the thin, trembling digits. He pressed the werewolf’s fingers against the bracelet, the small gesture grounding him. Andreas didn’t pull away. He let the moment linger, uncertain if the werewolf truly understood or if it was just reacting instinctively. Either way, he stayed.
They spent the next hour like this—Andreas speaking softly, repeating simple words, and the werewolf echoing them back in a slow, uncertain voice. It wasn’t much, but it was something. At times, the creature’s eyes would flicker with brief awareness before clouding over again. It was exhausting to watch, but Andreas refused to let frustration take over.
Eventually, the werewolf’s grip on consciousness slipped again. Its breathing slowed, becoming more even, and its muttering faded into quiet, shuddering breaths. Sleep had claimed it at last.
Andreas exhaled, rubbing his face. His body ached, his mind heavy with uncertainty. There was no telling how long this recovery would take—if it was even possible. But the fact that the creature had responded at all, that it had clung to those few words…
Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance to pull it back from whatever abyss it had fallen into.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. How did he even end up in this situation? His life had been simple, isolated—exactly the way he wanted it. But now…
Andreas glanced at the sleeping werewolf.
Looks like he'll have to get used to not being by himself anymore.
