II. The Symptoms

October, 2024

✦ .

This chamber smells of rendered tallow, rat shite, and dry blood. 

Darkness, broken only by the red flickers of iron touch, casting long, dancing shadows around the curved corridors. From the low ceiling, water drips steadily upon the dampened cobblestone below. 

The healer shuts the oak door behind him, rusted hinges groaning as he did. He wore a long white coat, almost out of place here. Upon a straw mat, a young villager with scruffy hair awaits his inspection. 

"Begin," the healer says, lowering to a wooden stool. “Lest we squander this meeting. Hast thou noticed changes in habitual appetite?”

“I eat,” the villager answers. “Yet hunger is not as it once was. No longer bread nor broth I crave, but only to howl.”

“Thou hast withered much,” the healer mutters. "Perhaps a demon, or a witch's curse. See to it thou receive proper fill. Dost thou slumber the whole night through?”

“Slumber evades me.”

“No shine of lamplight? Nor the late embrace of a wench or maiden?"

"Nay. Only to dwell on fruitless ideas. Though, Oft of late, I do lose my alertness, only to wake to aching fingers and strange thoughts scrawled upon parchment I do not own nor recall etching. I burn them, yet even that dost not prevent it so." 

"Is it not possibly the sway of drink or herbs?" 

“Nay, I swear it. No wine hath touched my tongue in many moons. For drink doth flush my cheeks and strip me of a face fit to show.”

"Curious. Dost thou seclude himself? Seal thyself inside his own chambers more oft?”

“Perhaps. Though, I feel my heart is more distressed of late. Even in solitude I find no peace there.”

"And tell me this true... hath thou felt observed? Not in the gaze of God, but by eyes unseen?"

"Aye. As if some unseen eye watcheth from the shadows. My thoughts made known to them before I mutter them aloud. Spirits not truly there."

"It evades me," the villager continues. "Only a year's past, I danced in taverns the night through with fair maidens and abundant friends. Now, I seldom leave mine own chambers. Taking up instead to dwell on fantasy." 

“Hm, most curious... ” the healer murmurs, scribbling on his scroll. "By mine assessment, earliest signs of lycanthropy. Perhaps borne of some ancestorial curse passed down through blood."

"Healer, tell me most truthful, how doth one cure himself?" 

"Only time shall tell," the healer says, handing him a flask. "Take one spoonful nightly. Come the full moon, the truth shall reveal itself." 

He stands, rising from his stool.

“I shall depart," the healer adds, patting the villager on the back. "Holdfast, lad. Thou will be alright.”

The heavy oak door closes shut with a thud. 

Outside, the pale waxing moon emerges early in the midnight sky.