There is no hint of recognition in Oliver's eyes, not so much as a flicker of it in that first moment.
His breaths are ragged, blood pooling from a crooked nose, trickling down toward broken lips. A shining black eye mars the brother's pale features.
Concussed, drugged, maybe a blend of the two.
But as the older man drags his gaze across the clearing, taking in the sight of the small army of men and women that surrounds him, slowly something, maybe memory, maybe instinct, clicks within him.
And by the time Oliver's gaze flickers over Charlie, familiarity charging through him.
Oliver is perfectly sober all at once.
And screaming.
Realisation dawns over the older man's features, panic with it. As clear as how a droplet of ink craws across a white page, until there isn't an inch of white left unmarred by the darkness.
Fear.
Charlie can smell it, and his muscles grow taut at the scent of it.
The urge to hunt bolting through him like a electricity.
his legs are a scramble of movement beneath him, desperately trying to put more space between himself and the beast.
He is quickly yanked to the floor, the length of rope snapped tight and sends him tumbling.
From the floor, Oliver's voice is no less terrified, no less desperate.
"Gods, no." The voice is an echo into the woods, a wretched scream of barely formed words. A mantra, over and over. A desperate plea.
His voice is hoarse from Gods could only know how long of disuse, but the terror is abundant in it, but Charlie recognises his brother's voice as easily as he recognises his own hands.
Of all people, Oliver would know the signs.
How the ring of gold around Charlie's blue eyes would glow darker, edging ever deeper until the colour took over the whole eye.
The sight of something flickering, something fangerous
But even knowing the signs was never definite proof of safety.
That was a lesson they'd learned the hard way, again and again and again.
Oliver's gaze is on the soldiers, "Please," his pleas fall on deaf, or perhaps rather uncaring ears. "Please someone listen to me," he is shouting now.
Kallan only fixes Charlie with that same, feline stare.
Fear marks every syllable.
None of the guard so much as turn their gaze to the screaming young man in their throng. Do not flinch at the sound of his desperate pleas.
All of it had been expected, run of the mill.
Close up, Charlie can see the heavy cuffs circling his brother's wrists and ankles.
Heavy things of iron, where they sit on the flesh has been rubbed raw and bloody, bruised.
Gods could only know how long his brother had been in their clutches, subject to who knows what kind of torment.
The bruises that litter his brother paint a picture of beatings, of forced compliance.
And yet here his brother stood, pleading for their lives.
Quick as a flash Oliver has managed to dislodge the rope from his throat, is ducking beneath the arms of the nearest soldier.
His mad dash could be considered impressive, devouring as much distance as his exhausted body would allow.
YOU ARE READING
Nomad
WerewolfTo his people, he was a threat. To his family, he was a traitor. And to himself, he was a monster. Charlie never had the chance to prove otherwise. ☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦☽✦ For the past decade, Charlie has lived in isolation. A brutal life o...
