The frantic banging at his cottage door was enough, finally, to drag him in to wakefulness. The shafts of sunlight that had managed to creep in around the edges of the curtains told him it was much later in the day than he usually slept but regardless he still couldn’t bring himself to regret what had felt like a blissful eternity of fitful dozing, drifting lazily in and out of sleep while the sun outside rose high overhead and the forge in his work shed sat silent and cold. No, all of his regret was reserved exclusively for the awkward, hazy fog of recollections from the night before, slipping its mortifying little tendrils in to probe at the edges of his waking thoughts.
Propelled by sheer blossoming horror he dragged himself to his feet, rising from where he’d passed out for the night in the middle of the living room floor. This in itself wasn’t terribly unusual; the throw rug he kept in front of the hearth was both enormous and luxuriantly plush for exactly this reason. For appearance’s sake he did have a small bed, but he doubted it could even support the weight of his man-shape, to say nothing of his other form.
“Just a minute!” He called as the frantic banging at his door began again. Out of a heady mixture of spite and trepidation he took his time pulling on a pair of dirty trousers, and dispensed with the notion of a shirt altogether. He didn’t have one at hand and in lieu of searching he instead stretched expansively, groaning with something almost like pleasure as the stiffness of the morning started to fade from his aging bones. His reverie was short lived, however, interrupted by a sudden series of needle-sharp pains in his back as the flex and stretch of too much muscle split open the only partially-healed wounds from the night before. He really was getting old. A decade ago these would have been gone by sunrise, nothing to mark their place except the shiny pinkness of fresh new skin.
The discovery of these scratches on his back rattled free a few more memories of the night before, but it wasn’t all bad news. He had remembered screaming, but these little wounds - And he knows instantly what they are, without even bothering to look- are a small measure of comfort. He smiles wryly to himself as the knot of dread in his guts eases, loosened by this little scrap of evidence that his dear little witch had enjoyed their moonlit frolic.
Perhaps enough so that she would be willing to keep his little secret. Perhaps maybe even enough for a repeat performance, if he is very, very lucky.
But first things first, he must deal with his unexpected guest. It would not do to get too ahead of himself.
“Angela! What a surprise!” It was mostly a lie, and an unconvincing one at that, but his shoulders had slumped with relief as soon as he had glimpsed the telltale glow of her cornsilk hair through the crack in the door. He could not help but notice, as he threw the door wide, that she still had a a few scraps of lichen and a single tiny dried oak leaf caught in it.
“I was just about to make something to eat. Would you care to join me..?”
Terror and worry were rattling in her head as she heard the stirring inside of the blacksmith’s home. Reinhardt was unbelievably strong, but they were both inebriated and Angela had no idea how the would have affected him if he ran into anything. Though, as his sleepy, rumbly voice was making her calm, somewhat. More than that, it made her start thinking about that evening. There were so many strange gaps. It seemed like she spent the entire evening with Reinhardt, but she swore there was too much fur, too many teeth, claws....
The door opening pulled Angela from her thoughts. His tone seemed warm and inviting, which put her further at ease as she took several steps forward and pressed her face into his bare chest. The dark and warmth helped her head as she further melted into him. “Breakfast sounds wonderful.” She mumbled against his skin, a soft sigh escaping her. She could worry about the memory gaps later. For now, she wanted breakfast.
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