It wasn't just a stroke of bad luck that saw the plague come along soon after the famine began.

As hungry civilians everywhere resorted to the consumption of rotten meats and wild rats to stay alive, disease took hold in the weakened bodies of those who already suffered from a lack of food and nutrition.

All you needed was one hungry person to devour a bad, undercooked bat— I mean rat.

Unlike Cain, who had decided to stay home to protect his farm and wife, most of the villagers of Wilkin continued to frequent the town, hoping to sell their wares for decent silvers with which they could purchase the barest morsels of food. Back and forth they went, bringing a new sickness back to the village.

That day, when the villagers had gathered to conspire against the Uglies, some were already sick. The cobbler had coughed his spittle into the air they shared, and neglected to mention that he had also vomited the evening before.

Then that night, when the angry villagers stormed the farm, several of them had been suffering sweats and fevers, but still they went. It was the spirit of a village community: you stuck together until you didn't.

And when they yelled their rage, they also sputtered droplets of their saliva, to be carried on the wintry night breeze into the systems of the plague's new hosts.

One might think that was how karma worked, that the villagers who burned down someone else's home deserved to fall victim to the plague. The plague, however, was a little less discriminatory than that. It was well on its way to Tom and Adam and Willa and Drea and, of course, the loud-mouthed Penny.

But it also found in Lottie a weakened body from months of malnutrition and there, it took its hold.

Come morning in the little hut, Lottie was sweating, shuddering and muttering nonsense about Daisy the cow and Tulip the chicken.

"Lottie?" Cain shook her gently, then withdrew his hand immediately. She was burning up. "Lottie!" he called again. She did not respond.

In the hours that followed, he brought back a bucket of fresh water from a nearby stream and pressed a damp strip of cloth to her forehead. He wiped away every bit of sweat and soot that had clung to her skin from the fire. Her eyes moved behind her eyelids and her lips quivered as she continued to rattle nonsense, but she did not wake.

He could hide the mare and cart. He could mark an abandoned hut in the woods in case the need ever arose for alternative shelter, as it did now. But he knew nothing about caring for the sick because he'd never been sick himself and he'd never cared for anyone before Lottie.

Helpless, Cain picked up a plank of wood from a corner of the hut and broke it into a smaller chunk over his leg. He had stashed away a pile of wood on his previous visits to this hut for the purposes of building a fire, but he didn't think that Lottie would much enjoy seeing the fire so soon after what happened. Even he...

A threatening growl escaped his throat even though there was no one for him to threaten in the hut. It took immense effort to suppress the urge to sprint back to Wilkin and slaughter every last one of them who had a hand in destroying the only place he'd ever called home. But his gaze flicked back to Lottie.

Perfectly adjusted to the dark, his eyes trailed the sharp points of her chin and shoulders, the delicate bones of her clavicle and the sallowness of her cheeks. After all these months of food rationing, she looked so fragile, as if he might accidentally break her if he wasn't careful.

Her brittle softness pulled him close with an invisible string, until he hovered over her face. Unable to resist, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

No killing. He was here to protect her.

A deep breath later, Cain sank back down to the dusty floor next to the pallet and extended his nails into long, sharp points. Picking up the broken plank, he sank a claw into the wood.

For hours into the night, he carved and chipped away at the wood, slowly and patiently morphing one side of the dull plank into the shape of an animal that reminded him the most of little, gentle Lottie: a rabbit.

The first day he carved her a cow on a whim and she reciprocated his gift with the most radiant smile he'd ever seen was the day this became a new hobby of his. With every gouge and chisel with his sharp claws, he pictured her lifting her face to meet his gaze with eyes that sparkled as brightly as her smile.

Once the rabbit was complete, he paused to admire it for a brief moment before he made the grave, momentous decision to carve her antithesis right next to it: a wolf.

He harboured no false illusions about how Lottie felt towards him. It was mere tolerance and nothing more, judging by the way she had flinched away from his touch at their wedding, the way she carefully avoided all contact with him in all the years of their marriage, and the way she stiffened uncomfortably when he held her last night.

How could he expect any more? She was the most beautiful, kindest soul he had ever encountered, and he was... well, a monster. A deep shame arrested him. How dared he tarnish her with a kiss while she was unconscious?

With another scrape of his claw, Cain carved in the last fur on the wolf's coat. Then he gently set the figurine down on the pallet next to Lottie.

As if feeling its presence, Lottie opened her eyes, her languid gaze falling first on him, then the carving. Her tired expression brightened as she lifted a cautious hand towards it.

Relief and happiness washed over him, so overwhelming that he forgot to hide away his claws before he grabbed the carving and pressed it into her palm. Like an overexcited puppy eager to please his owner by fetching a stick they had thrown.

Luckily, Lottie did not notice. She closed her eyes and eagerly explored every detail of the rabbit and wolf with her fingers while his heart hung in the air, uncertain if she would like it.

At last, she murmured, so softly he might have missed it had he not been blessed with heightened hearing, "Thank you, Cain."

Then she smiled. And like every time she smiled, he was transfixed upon that gentle curve of her lips, hoping he could be the one to always make her smile like so.

By the time he recovered himself from the magic she had woven over him, she was deep asleep with the figurine clutched to her chest.

Finally, Cain laid down next to her too.

Like the wolf he carved next to the rabbit, he would stay by her, guard her and protect her for as long as she would have him, but he would do his best to not cross the line again. She deserved so much more than a monster.

☾ ☾ ☾

The next morning, Lottie's condition worsened.

He repeated the process with the damp cloth, but her temperature continued to soar and she spat up every bit of liquid he encouraged her to sip.

Whereas the previous night had ended on a note of relief, he could tell that things were different today.

Today, her nails were darker, her breathing more ragged, and a lump had formed on one side of her neck. By night, she coughed up her first mouthful of blood. He'd lived a life plagued with death and horrors around every corner, but nothing had ever caused more fear than he felt in this very moment.

He could already see it happening: her hair falling in clumps, the rest of her skin and nails turning black, perhaps she would bleed from the eyes and nose and mouth too, the same way his own family and neighbours had perished in Qeyea when he was five and left him as an orphan on the streets.

But he also knew what the healers in any town would do if he was to bring her to them. If they agreed to see to her at all, they would force a nasty concoction down her throat, apply a dozen leeches to her skin, demand fifty gold for the 'expensive' concoction of which four-fifths was probably horse piss, and in a few days, she would still die.

Without a miracle, she was on a one-way trip to hell.

Luckily, he knew where to find the miracle she needed. All it needed was a price he was most unwilling to pay.

Stepping out of the hut, he took a deep breath of the chilled night air, then strode into the woods.

As his measured pace quickened into a run, he tore off his tunic and, in the blink of an eye, transformed into a large wolf, sprinting into the heart of the forest until he came upon a tall rock jutting out of the ground.

Morphing back into the form of a man took greater effort, his bones and muscles pulling and clicking painfully as every part of his body resisted the change. It took a little more effort each time, but he did not regret it. The wolf was faster and Lottie was running out of time.

Finally, his paws stretched back into long fingers, and he plucked a leaf from a tree. Staring down at the leaf, he flipped it back and forth a few times between his fingers. Was he really going to do this?

People who knew him in the past called him ruthless. Heartless. "Don't anger the big, bad wolf," they said. Yet here he was, hardly able to stand the sight of Lottie suffering. If she died...

Fuck it.

With clawed grips and a powerful leap, Cain scaled the twenty-foot rock and perched on its tip. Lifting the leaf to his lips, he trilled a high-pitched staccato that, to the unawares, might pass as the chirp of an insect.

Not two minutes later, the response came in the form of a sharp, angry whistle.

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