Chased by the wolves, she ran for her life. Rain pouring and washing the tears she had shed, she felt her breath going with every step. In the woods she found no aid. No helping hand or a loving heart. She was alone.
She heard the howls behind her, but had no time to look back. One glance might cost her life. She kept running.
In a hut far in the depth of the forest, a loner writer sits by the window, seeking inspiration and sipping his glass of wine. Searching for words, he finds none. He remembers words of love long forgotten and tries to pour them onto pages of unwritten texts, but all is in vain. Chasing away nightmares haunting his wake, he scribbles lines he does not understand, he tells the story of a maiden who takes his breath, whose beauty he inspires from dim memories from the days of yore.
As she ran, the howls rose. Her only shelter was time. For with dawn came safety and light to guide her weary steps through the darkness surrounding. Her heart beat, the seconds ticked, the moon hid, and blackness remained as the beasts chased her. Death was to be seen.
At times he feels his hand stiffen, unable to go on. His mind finds no expression, no way to pour his thoughts. He delves into his memory, his dreams and life, but finds none to suit what he has scribbled about a woman so beautiful he can no longer describe, for his mind resigns seeking for that glimpse of memory, to protect and cherish. All he knows is that she does not make it, that she is eaten by beasts. A nasty death she suffers. And he is unable to save her. He wants to, but knows that she must die.
Death crept with every sound of raindrop falling. Howls of her agony mingled with howls of the pack chasing her, she refused to give up. Mud, trees, rain, leaves and thorns, all were repeating themselves, nothing more. Until she saw it, laying there in the heart of all darkness, a crack of light where a small hut sat beneath the thunderous storm. Salvation had come, for a stranger sat by the window, a helping hand, and perhaps, a loving heart.
Contemplation and deep thoughts are interrupted by a dark figure that suddenly knocks on his window. Gasps for breath are heard, as the figure moves, darkness is all around, the writer cannot determine the features of the creature outside. Could it be the woman he describes in his lines? The woman who shall suffer the lurid death? “Must be fulfilled”, he whispers to himself. He gets onto his feet.
A stranger’s face held thoughtfulness she was unable to understand, yet his face gave gleam that gave her comfort she found not in the depth of the wilderness. Anywhere was safer than with the wolves, she thought. The stranger embraced her with arms wide open, an act of generosity no human had anymore, he held her pains and soothed them as if they were his own. Yet something was queer about him, he seemed as if always reciting words of a poem he had written, often she heard him whisper words such as “necessary evil” and “must be fulfilled”. He must have been a poet, she thought to herself. Better leave his thoughts undisturbed. He helped her to sleep.
He must go on with his chore. He stands on the threshold, rain still pouring, he drenches himself. He stands for a while, looks back at the place where he has sat to write his story and smiles a dulcet smile. “Must be fulfilled”, he repeats to himself, as he walks on to the wilderness leaving the door to his hut wide open.
She woke up, she was alone. Where was the stranger? Nowhere to be seen, she sat. Not a sound to be heard but that of the streaming of the rain. The door was open, cold wind rushed through it. She got up and went for the door to shut it. And just before she reached the handle, she saw them: three wolves standing, panting, wet and hungry. She was frozen in her place, unable to move. The sound of a thunderous clap was the last thing she heard, and the fangs of the beasts were the last things she saw.