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The moment his rear hit the floor boards, the growling turned to short, snapping roars coupled with the terrible sound of claws grinding away at the door with the obvious intent to somehow break the barrier.
For a moment Salas could only stare in wide-eyed shock when the first splintering crack snapped the wood, creating a spiderweb fissure over the lower paneling. The first break was all it took for the rest to give, the flimsy material no match for the beast breaking through. A snout appeared from the newly forming hole, as long as a forearm, yet Salas could only focus on the teeth within it, skin pulled back in a snarl.
With a gasp, Salas scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as his broken leg would allow, forgetting the crutch, uncaring of the pain that spiked through him. He half-limped, half-ran towards the washroom, the only place he knew with a safe getaway. Halfway there, though, he couldn’t help but to be distracted by the booming blow as the last of the door caved for the beast behind it, the monster emerging into the room. The light outlined a black shape even larger than a bear.
When it noticed him immediately, Salas knew he didn’t stand a chance if his goal was to outrun it.
With another snarl, all teeth, it lept, coming upon Salas, who slipped once more in his haste to flee. Seeing Salas down, the wolf slowed, yet was no less threatening. It prowled forward, stepping to stand with its legs around Salas’ own, caging him in. Its snarls persisted and Salas came face-to-face with the most grisly creature he had ever come upon.
Too frightened to move, even to defend himself, Salas was shocked into stillness, waiting to see what the wolf would do next. It stared him down in obvious challenge until, finally, it lowered its head. Salas held his breath, watching as those sharp canines neared the unprotected skin of his stomach, then changed direction at the last moment. Teeth hooking around the tie of his skirt-wrap, the wolf began to pull, dragging Salas bodily over the floor.
It hauled him easily, but when the fabric of the tattered garment began to rip down an already-frayed seam, it rumbled loudly in clear frustration. Changing tactics, it began to nudge Salas’ good leg, urging him to his feet.
Salas stood carefully, not wanting to enrage the large animal. The crutch was a forgotten thing halfway across the floor, and he dared not reach for it now. Once fully on his feet, the wolf nipped at his hand, frightening Salas, who immediately drew back.
The wolf growled until, with a deep breath, Salas held out a shaky hand once more, petrified he would lose his digits in the next moment. With his snout, however, the wolf merely urged the hand to grab at its fur, which Salas did.
When the wolf began moving slowly, Salas realized what the wolf wanted:It wants me to use it as a crutch.
In slow, stuttering movements, Salas allowed himself to be guided. The wolf, bearing much of Salas’ weight, led him back to the bed. Once there, its snout dug into Salas’ ass as it nudged him up onto the bed.
Salas yelped in indignation, wanting to push the head away, yet obediently climbed up onto the cozy bed-top. Watching the wolf warily, the four-legged lupine waited for Salas to be seated before leaping up to join him, Salas bouncing when the bed dipped under the weight of the new, heavier occupant.
The odd behavior did not end there. The wolf began looking over Salas, pawing at him until he lay flat. Once positioned, it began smelling him, its nose running down his chest, pausing near his groin and nudging, as though curious. This time Salasdidpush the snout away, flushing, though regretting the action as soon as he did it, fearing the wolf would snap at him. It simply carried on with its primal search until, finally, it reached his broken left leg. The wolf sniffed it carefully, nudging the bandages, as though making sure they were secure, with the occasional lick.
“You’ll make it dirty that way,” Salas muttered, wanting to move his leg away. Miraculously, though, his heart rate had eased from its rapid tempo, his shortened breath following. It was an odd sensation to find himself calming under the teeth of an enormous wolf and in the room of his enemy. Perhaps he had drunk more than he had thought.
Once satisfied with whatever the wolf had concluded about Salas’ wrappings, it curled up beside Salas, resting its heavy head on Salas’ chest with a single paw draping over his torso.
Alarmed by the closeness, Salas began to slowly squirm away, only to be stopped by a low rumble from somewhere within the wolf’s throat. Which meant, of course, that at some point, the beast had stopped growling. With no desire to hear the threatening noise start up again, he stilled his movement and attempted to relax against the great, massive-furred-form.
The wine helped. He might die tomorrow. Tortured. The monstrous wolf beside him might up and rip his head off the moment he dozed. But for now, he chose not to care. Groggily rolling closer to the wolf, he buried his face in the furs, letting the warmth there melt away the last of the tension in his nerves.
He felt a thin wetness as the wolf covered his torso with lazy licks, but he was ignorant to the rest of the world. Cleaning him, licking up the wine.
The last thing of importance he thought to think of was the new, nagging question that nearly brought him to consciousness, yet the warmth and comfort still drew him under.
Still: Whowasthe wolf?
When Salas awoke next, the soothing warmth did not fail to once again surprise him, after learning to expect cold. He still lay across the bed in King Jareth’s chambers. Undisturbed. Alone.
The wolf that had visited him earlier had vanished; a nightly apparition that he wasn’t entirely unsure he did not imagine with too much wine and the delirium of pain. Yet the wine he had spilt on his torso last night had been licked clean by the beast’s tender administrations. The paneling of the great, wooden doors were in ruins, with the shards swept away, while Salas had slept. The fire had been tended to as well, stoked, with the embers kept bright.
He glanced out the window, yet could not dictate the time. It could have been early morning or late afternoon. The sky was painted cloudy and dim.
Salas wondered, increasingly unsettled, what he was doing in the King’s bedroom. The man had made it clear he had no desire to take him to bed. Why had his injury been wrapped, when it had been the King’s own doing? Why was he not back in his cell?
This kingdom lacked sense.
Since falling into the well, a dark numbness had overtaken him and it seemed, despite weak attempts to encourage himself, there was little point to find drive anymore. The cold and the cruelty of Diagor had taken something from him, and whatever it was was something he knew he could not be trusted with to maintain anymore. His attempts to find contentment would just crumble again. It was easier not to care. To sit in stupefied numbness. To slip away.
Knowing that the doors were most likely locked, as he was still a prisoner, he simply sat.
Another plate of food had been brought, yet without wine or the pain-induced-delirium, he was left with only the clarity of his thoughts. And his thoughts left him without an appetite.
The door opened without a knock. It simply moved on its heavy hinges, as though floating away from the threshold. Perhaps moved by a ghost or by magic. The latter proved to be the truest conclusion, as in the next moment, the witch Victoria stepped through the door.
Time seemed to stop, Salas’ empty stomach becoming light as it turned inside of him in fear. He recoiled immediately, squirming over his bad leg, wishing that he could hide under the covers and disappear.
