The Woodsman

f i n i t e - pt. 03/10

AN

This is a very strange chapter; sorry. ;-;

Song on the side pretty much sums up Wolff.

People whisper about the legend of the Wolf.

It's told in front of the windows of the bakery, when the children are staring wide-eyed at the sweets that can be seen if they stand on the tops of their toes and their parents bat at them that if they eat too much the Wolf will have them for dinner.

It's whispered about in-between the desks of the schoolhouse, when doe-eyes are dilated in fear and their chubby fingers that are just beginning to thin grasp onto their older siblings sleeve as the oldest of them all passes down different versions of the story with the same reoccurring theme.

When the men kiss their wives and wipe the sweat off of their brow with the back of their hand, and the old woman that his wife calls her mother asks him if he's seen the Wolf in the fields.

It's spoke about when the hag that lives on just the edge of the forest trades tales for bread crumbs, tells her fables and myths with wide-eyes and how the Wolf was not a wolf at all.

Some say he comes from wolves, that the Wolf was pushed into it instead of bred.

Others?

They say wolves aren't the ancestors of the Wolf, but the descendants and seeds of the beast.

But Ezra is not interested in fairy-tales - he doesn't need to trade a sliver of bread for a story of the Wolf. He covers his sister's ears when the beast is spoken of- but keeps his own open for listening. The curiosity always got the better of the oldest Cerise, he could never quite stop himself from thinking about the tales of the Wolf- but he was interested in the facts, not the lies that are stirred in with guilty smiles hoping to feed fear to anyone willing to listen.

Because the Wolf- the Wolf is immortal.

Old as time himself, said to be one of the first living things on this planet of dirt and blood.

Timeless, not finite like the rest of them- like the Woodsman.

Like a clock, the Wolf stands for the death and funeral of one villager.

And he was two days early.

When the villagers had heard the warning bells echo across Wye's Valley, Ezra's blood ran cold.

It was white-hot fear that replaced that icy freeze that had kept his limbs stuck in place. Mid-swing with the ax that was once his own extension getting stuck in the tree as he blinked.

They must've made a mistake.

Because the Wolf- the Wolf doesn't make mistakes. He's precise, he doesn't come a day early or a day late, he comes the day of.

"The Wolf." One of the woodsmen whispers, the man is burly six feet of muscle, with his tunic wrung with sweat as he turns to slowly look at the men around him.

Because they are all in shock.

Almost a mile away, the church is tucked in the middle of town.

A mile away. A mile to climb through the dawn that is coming and wrap your hands around your wooden cross pendant while praying to any God out there to keep you out of the Wolf's claws.

"Rosalie." Ezra whispers beneath his breath.

Rosalie. Rosalie. Rosalie.

"Rosalie!" It's like something in his voice caused all of the woodsmen around him to snap out of their paralyzed fear. Because in his tone- it's heartbroken, lost- completely helpless knowing that between the church and him is a mile away. But more importantly- a mile away is a Wolf that's closer to his Rosalie instead of the church.