When Fenrir Grey awoke, the first thing he was aware of was... nothing. No sights, no sounds, so smells, no... pain?
But why would I be feeling pain? Fenn struggled to gather his scattered thoughts, but failed miserably. Where am I?
Suddenly, though, the memories came flooding back... flashing before his haunted amber eyes like rolls of film before the photographer. It was still all too real to Fenn; the pain, the fear, the cloying odors of blood and of death...
And with the memories came the senses. Fenn’s eyes snapped open at once, and as they did so he was greeted with a bright white light shining down on him, reflected off the sterile walls and ceilings of the room. The small, square chamber was silent save for the monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall; there were no windows or furnishings to speak of, save the metal-framed bed on which Fenn rested.
The sharp, acrid scent of disinfectant strong in his nostrils, Fenn hauled himself upright. He clenched his jaws tightly together as a fresh wave of pain flooded through his body, but the boy ignored it. Still struggling to collect his wit, Fenn examined his hands and arms closely. They had been bandaged tightly and clumsily whilst he was unconscious, and his broken wrist had been mended. However, filled with a morbid desire to see the horrors inflicted upon him, Fenn ripped off the bloodstained white linen and looked down bravely.
Strangely, though, the injuries were not as bad as Fenn had thought. His arms were bruised and scabbed, but they showed no sign of puncture or breakage--no sign that he had been bitten.
Still trying to shake off the surreal haze that had settled down around him, Fenn commenced inspecting every last inch of his body for injuries. His back was sore and aching from his fall, his head was pounding, and his face bore signs of scratches and bruises... but nowhere, nowhere, could Fenn find evidence of a bite.
Just as Fenn had rewrapped his arms and leaned back in his bed, pure, wholesome relief flooding through his aching body, he heard voices as if from afar. They were coming from outside the door--probably coming down an unseen hall toward him--and were growing louder and more heated every second.
With renewed confidence, Fenn rolled off of the bed and limped painfully to the door. His bandaged hand still stiff and sore, Fenn clumsily reached for the doorknob--only to find it locked.
Fenn felt momentary panic as he whirled about, looking for some way to escape. He was locked in a strange, unfamiliar room... presumably a hospital, but what if it wasn’t? He longed to get out, to breathe the fresh air... He wanted food, water, and most of all his parents. Was Michael even alive?
Fenn shook his aching head slightly, trying to stem the flood of thoughts that threatened to drown and smother all reason. He had to think rationally, to calm himself. As he stood there, his heart beating very quickly, the voices outside the door grew more distinct and recognizable.
“Let me in right now!” It was Michael speaking; Fenn felt a rush of relief as he realized that his father must have somehow survived the horrible encounter as well. “It’s been two days, and I don’t care what he might or might not be--he’s my son!”
“Sir, I--” an unfamiliar voice sounded right outside the door, but was shunted quickly aside.
“Alohomora.”
Fenn staggered backwards as the hefty wooden door swung suddenly inward, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Somehow managing to keep upright, Fenn grinned weakly up at his father. “Hey, Dad.”
In the two days since Fenn had last seen his father, Michael had changed. His once-handsome face was lined and haggard, and his hair looked greyer than ever. His unshaven chin was scraggly and oddly slack, but what had changed most was his eyes. They were haunted and grim, and bore such pain that Fenn’s heart ached for him. However, shaking hair bravely out of his eyes, Fenn embraced his father warmly.
“How’ve you been, Dad?”
Michael Grey hugged his son like he would never let go. The heartache was almost unbearable, but the tall man knew that he must be strong--for Fenn’s sake. The boy was heavily bandaged and obviously in pain, but he was being so brave... so brave.
If only I had been brave as well. For what must have been the hundredth time since the terrible event, Michael felt an overwhelming surge of guilt rush through him. It was all his fault. If only I had been there to protect my son.
Suddenly, the emotional reunion was cut short by the sound of an impatiently tapping foot. A short, fat wizard clad in green Healer’s robes was standing in the doorway, a look of anger and distaste written across the hard, cold features of his face. “I see you’re awake, boy,” he said brusquely, his wand aimed at the ground but clenched tightly in a chubby fist. “Sit down.” He pointed abruptly to the bed, beady eyes bright with undisguised disgust and fear.
Breaking away from his father, Fenn moved tentatively toward the bed and took a seat. With revulsion in his eyes, the Healer quickly removed the bandages from around Fenn’s arms and rewrapped fresh ones hastily. The job was clumsily done; Michael stepped forward abruptly, clearly angry, but a soft voice from the doorway stopped him.
“Healer Bramwick?” An aged Healer with dark grey hair and similarly coloured eyes was watching his younger counterpart curiously. “Is there a problem?”
Turning his back on his patient, the hard-faced Bramwick addressed Michael gruffly. “Excuse me,” he said, clearly not meaning it, as he walked to the door. Immediately, he began conversing in hushed tones with the newcomer.
Several moments later, though, Bramwick’s cold voice raised dramatically. “I’m a Healer, not a veterinary!” The short man turned to fix Fenn with a horrible glare as he spoke, giving an affected little shudder as he did so.
The look on Michael’s face was one of pure rage, but Fenn no longer cared. His stomach had clenched horribly at the Healer’s words... not at the harsh, cruel tone of his voice, but at the words themselves. Not a veterinary. That could only mean one thing.
Sinking down onto the bed, Fenn buried his face in his hands. The dread overtaking him was so intense, so overwhelming, that Fenn longed for it to end... for all the pain, all the suffering he had endured to end. He felt the edge of the bed depress as his father sat down, but Fenn did not look up.
Michael laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, heart bursting with sorrow. “Fenn...” he began softly, his eyes filling with tears for the first time.
“I’m a werewolf, aren’t I?” Fenn looked up, his amber eyes hard and blazing. His face had turned very pale, and his hands were shaking slightly, but he seemed to have gained control over himself. “It bit me, didn’t it?”
Michael stared deeply into his son’s tortured eyes, wondering what on earth he could say. Finally, he decided on the truth.
“We don’t know, Fenn. We”well, the Healers--couldn’t find a definite bite... You might or might not be a...” Michael trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. The hope and the doubt shining from his son’s eyes was almost too much to bear.
Suddenly, the tall grey-haired Healer strode into the room and kneeled by Fenn’s feet. Placing a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders, the aging man looked him gravely in the eye with a serious countenance.
“We’ll find out on the next full moon.”