Changing

Graea woke, eyes slowing blinking open and trying to lift her head to work out where she was. The rocks in her back made her aching body scream out in agony as she shifted slightly. Somewhere nearby the trickle of water told her she was still by the stream. She tried to draw scents in, sniffing at the air, but all she could smell was blood... her own blood. Her nostrils were full of drying blood, her cheek and lips coated with the stuff. Groaning, she closed her eyes and tried to move again. Every muscle burned in protest but she managed to roll to her side as she started coughing. Bile rose quickly from her stomach at the movement and she soon left what little was in her stomach on the rocks.

Wiping her mouth with her hand, she glanced down to see the blood smeared across her fingers and touched at her face again gingerly. Her mind ticked over and over trying to work out what had happened. Her memory only offered her brief still images for reference. Drinking at the stream. The man in the trees watching her. As she tried to shift her leg to steady herself into a sitting position, despite the spinning sensation in her head, a sharp pain ran from her knee to her hip and she cried out. That was when she realised her clothes had been cut from her body and lay strewn on the rocks nearby. Whatever knife had been used had caught her skin and a long cut ran along the outside of her thigh. Trying to sit to examine it, she felt a stabbing agony in her head and her hand flew to her temple to find her hair matted against her skull with blood.

Eventually, still feeling nauseous and dizzy and still unable to quite piece together what had happened, she managed to sit up and examination of her thigh revealed that the knife wound was not the only damage. Blood was smeared between her legs and her inner thighs were covered in bruises, each one the result of strong fingers biting into her skin as she was pulled around. Panic began to well inside her, taking the breath from her lips and leaving her gasping. She began to tremble, memory offering further gruesome snippets of information that had managed to seep through her barely conscious mind. She could almost taste her own fear, see his exultation at this easy conquest. But the worst was his scent... it covered her body, mingling with her own and making her stomach heave again.

Shaking and horrified, she began to try to gather up her belongings, her torn clothes, her bag left where she'd dropped it. She moved closer to the stream and put down her things before plunging her battered body into the freezing water. It took her breath, hitting her chest with a paralysing blow so that she sank into the water. For one brief moment her mind cleared. The swirling of the water above her head closed out everything, the cold numbing her pain away until there was nothing... just her and the water. Then the surface broke to release her and air rushed back in to her lungs and she gave a huge gasp. Righting herself against the rocks on the edge of the water, fingers clinging to them, she lay there and let the water wash away the blood and scents that were such obvious indicators of her ordeal. 

She lay there until she could stand the cold no longer, then began to struggle out, bruised limbs and aching muscles stiff and unco-operative. Crouching beside the water she dried herself off with the torn clothing and pulled fresh from her bag. She dressed quickly and then moved away from the stream, the scene offering up too many visual reminders. Before long she had limped and hobbled her way deeper into the woods where she found a small cave and crawled inside. In the darkness she pulled her knees up against her chest and leaned back against the wall and let her mind run. Strangely, the sobs she expected never came. Perhaps used up over recent months. No. She wasn't going to let this break her. Not this. Not after everything else she'd gone through.

Her mind and body had two paths to choose from. One path saw her cowering in fear and creeping around to try and keep her fragile self safe. The wolf female took one look at that path and snorted. Instead she turned down the path with all the metaphorical thorns and dead trees and eerie fog. Picking up the small blade she kept for skinning meat in one hand and a small rock in the other she began to sharpen the blade in slow, thoughtful strokes. Her father had said that wolves didn't need weapons. But Graea was prepared to make an exception in this case.