Disclaimer: The original characters Ambrose Maurlias and Kurt, Thelia, and Sabin Duvert are (c) Arania (also known as GaiaOnline's "Sabin Duvert") and arebeing used onlyby permission for a contest. The followingtext (and all subsequent chapters) should be considered fan-fiction and not canon.The scenario and writing are (c) E. A. O'Riordan (GaiaOnline's "Kuronue-chan") and are not to be used in any way without the express permission of the author, with an obvious exception for Sabin. Enjoy the story.

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Chapter 1: Seven

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“Help! Someone, quick, prepare a compress! Louis, Louis, can you hear me? Louis!”

A panicked face swam dizzily into Ambrose’s vision. At first he couldn’t remember what had happened. Then a throbbing pain caused him to look down at his left forearm. Or, rather, where his left forearm should have been. Now there was nothing left but a gory stump in place of an elbow. And everywhere, everywhere, there was blood. Ambrose started to faint again, but he was slapped back into consciousness by the young man standing over him. His apprentice, Emmanuel.

For Ambrose Maurlias was not Ambrose Maurlias here. He was Louis Herriot, horse dealer, age fifty-three, no known relations. He had just purchased a new team of work horses that day. Belgian breed, strong and usually not easily spooked. But there had been a wolf attacking the town’s livestock, and the men were off to shoot it. Some fool, probably young, had fired his rifle near the horse shed, and the yoked team had bolted.

Ambrose had been holding a rope that was attached to the yoke. He had looped it around his arm and braced himself against a support beam for the jolt as the horses struggled to run. He hadn’t counted on the loop tightening so suddenly. There had been a brief moment of incomprehensible pain, and then everything was dark.

He must have been out for at least a quarter hour, by the amount of blood soaking his clothing and the dirt-and-sawdust floor of the stable he was in. Emmanuel was shaking him hard, and another man was quickly knotting a strip of cloth around his bicep, but even as Ambrose noticed this, he felt the grey tinges of death sweeping over him. It was a familiar feeling for Ambrose…after all, this would be his sixth time.

Emmanuel shook the lifeless body of his employer, but to no avail. The old horse-dealer was gone. No family to mourn him, no hometown awaiting the body for burial in its local cemetery. In fact, realized the apprentice, no one could really remember when the loner had first appeared in town. In a few short weeks, no one would really even miss him.

So passed Louis Herriot, seventh incarnation of Ambrose Maurlias.

 

 

Chapter 2: Eight

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The first thing Ambrose knew was the overpowering need to flee. Indeed, as he “awoke,” he found he was already running on four paws as though his life was on the line. As a rifle report echoed behind him and a patch of dirt exploded near his furred shoulder, however, he realized he truly was trying to escape with his life.

In an instant, Ambrose felt sick realization wash over him: the nearest wolf—the wolf that received his spirit after his latest death—had been the one being pursued for destroying livestock. Men from his very own town were firing at him now…men with whom he had shared drinks and tales…men who had called themselves his friends.

These realizations were not kept in mind very long, for the animal instinct to escape was too strong. A stinging pain in his left haunch was testament to one of the men’s accuracy before he had inhabited this body. Half-crazed, Ambrose pushed harder, willing the pain to recede.

He dodged trees and scrub, conscious that the men’s voices behind him were growing more distant. Then shot rattled against a tree trunk and Ambrose leapt to the side. That proved to be a costly mistake. His wide paws slipped on dead leaves and he tumbled down an embankment, landing with a sharp crash. When he tried to rise, he found one of his front feet was sprained. He was unable to put any weight on it.

Although he tried to stop it, a slight whimper escaped him. The voices were getting closer again. Then he heard the sound of running water. Hobbling towards the sound, he found a broad and shallow stream. The wolf in him told him crossing it would throw the pursuers off the scent. Ambrose knew that men didn’t follow scent the way hounds would, but he couldn’t think of a better plan. He limped across the stream twice and collapsed in a thicket.

Before long, the group of men reached the water. Two or three stooped to get a drink while a few others investigated the banks, looking for tracks. Ambrose recognized the cobbler and his son, two farmers, the tailor, and the cooper. Also included in the group were a few good-for-nothings that were practically part of the furniture at the local tavern. They had probably joined the chase to have a little fun.

As Ambrose lay panting in the undergrowth, one of these ne’er-do-wells raised his gun and began shooting into the surrounding area. A piece of shot caught the wolf in the side of the neck and scored all down his right side. Before he could stop himself, Ambrose loosed a squealing yelp and sprinted from the brush. The chase was back on.

Ignoring his sprained paw and wounded haunch, he dashed back across the stream and made for the area where the trees were thickest. The joyful shouting of the men was like a cruel perversion of the choir at Mass, where most of them sang every Sabbath. Shot pellets ricocheted off of trunks, sending wooden shrapnel into Ambrose’s eyes and gaping, foaming mouth. He could hear them splashing across the stream, ascending the bank, crashing through the forest. Terror surged through him.

He reached the thick woods, but hardly had he entered it when he burst though into a long, open meadow. Every part of him recoiled at the idea of being out in the open, but he didn’t have the strength or the will to stop or change directions now. His vision was red, his heart fluttering, and his breathing shallow. He bolted across the field, his eyes fixed upon the opposite line of trees. Any second the men would enter the meadow, and he must make it to cover.

Thirty meters…

Twenty meters…

Ten meters…

The sharp report from the rifle was followed an instant later by an explosion behind Ambrose’s ribcage. His flying paws stumbled, and he rolled into the cover of the forest. But it was too late. He could feel his life draining away already. Ambrose struggled to his feet, collapsed, and crawled forward. He couldn’t die, not so soon, not like this. His claws scrabbled against a rotting log and he tried to pull himself over.

That’s how he was when the hunting party found him: half over a fallen tree, wounded in numerous places, eyes rolling, bloody froth all over his head and chest. Barely conscious, Ambrose looked up at the men standing over him, congratulating each other and thumping the last shooter on the back.

One of them, the cooper, spat on the ground. Michel, Ambrose thought in his delirium. Michel, my friend. I carried you home last week when you had too much to drink at Annette’s wedding. Michel, recognize me. He tried to say the name, but it only came out as a rasping howl.

Michel spat again and lifted his gun, bringing the butt down between Ambrose’s ears with a sickening crack.

So passed the thieving wolf, eighth incarnation of Ambrose Maurlias.

Chapter 3: Nine

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The sixteen-year-old boy nudged the door to the cabin open with his foot. His arms were full of firewood, which he deposited in the grate next to the stove. Sniffing curiously, he managed to pluck a bun from the pan his mother was pulling from the fire.

“Sabin!” his mother scolded. “You’ll burn yourself!”

“Let him be, Thelia,” came a croaking voice from the next room. Sabin poked his head into the doorway and saw his father, Kurt Duvert, still in bed with quilts pulled up to his chin. The trapper had caught cold a few days before. His wife had advised bed rest, but he had shunned the idea. Now he had pneumonia, and was confined to the house for several days while Thelia nursed him back to health. “Sabin, come in ‘ere a minute.”

Chewing on his hot bun, Sabin walked over to the bed. Kurt coughed into his fist and wheezed, “I need you to go and check the traps. Just because your mother won’t let me go outside—and I don’t know why, because I’m obviously fine—” Here Kurt had to pause as a coughing fit wracked his body and Sabin rolled his eyes before the man continued, “…just because I’m stuck here doesn’t mean we can leave the traps alone. So be a good lad and check them this morning, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Sabin replied, brushing his unruly brown hair back from his eyes. “Should I start from the east and move westward?”

Kurt nodded. “There’s a smart boy. Better get going before dawn gets on.”

So a few minutes later Sabin was shrugging on a woolen coat and grabbing another bun and the game bag. He trudged off into the pre-sunrise twilight, eager to finish and get out of the chilly fog. Sabin Duvert was an interesting boy. Part dreamer, part scientist, and part mystery-hunter, he was the bane of his mother’s nerves and his father’s idea of normality. Kurt and Thelia could never quite rationalize how they had raised such a son.

Sabin had checked the first few traps and was approaching the next one in the set when he heard the sounds of a struggle. That meant an animal had been caught. Sighing, Sabin readied the club he used on such occasions. Kurt had a gun that he utilized in dispatching the often-frantic living game, but he did not allow Sabin to use it. Instead, the teenager had to kill the trapped animals as quickly and painlessly as he could with the club…and to avoid damaging the pelt, if possible.

Upon coming closer to the trap, however, Sabin stopped. Instead of the fox he had been expecting, a huge creature lay foaming and panting in the underbrush, dirt and leaves matting its fur. One of its huge legs was held fast in the iron teeth of the trap, oozing blood all over the appendage and the surrounding ground. The metal peg that held the trap in place had been nearly pulled from the earth, but it seemed that the creature was now exhausted. It was facing away from him, but Sabin could see its back rising and falling in short breaths.

Sabin approached cautiously, but obviously the creature had heard him. It twisted its front half around so that Sabin could see it had the head of a wolf. Its glazed yellow eyes took in Sabin’s surprised face, then swept over the club and game bag. Its lips lifted in a snarl and began to struggle against the trap again, but only half-heartedly. Sabin could see now that the hip of the leg caught in the trap was wrenched into a very unnatural position. It looked dislocated.

As the boy stood contemplating all of this, the wolf-creature gave up its effort to escape and collapsed again. Sabin wondered what to do…Kurt probably would’ve shot first and investigated later, but the creature was so unusual that it made the boy pause.

Suddenly, as if responding to the would-be trapper’s hesitation, a voice muttered, “This has not been my week.”

Alarmed, Sabin looked around. There was no one to be seen in any direction. He glanced back at the beast before him, and saw that it was looking warily at him, the tuft of fur above one of its eyes raised. It was such a human expression that Sabin was taken aback. Feeling a little foolish, he whispered, “You?”

“What about me?” the wolf-creature rejoined, a look of weary amusement crossing its face. “Are you going to stove in my skull or not? I hate indecision.”

Sabin had jumped several feet back when the thing spoke, but now he looked confused. Then he noticed the club he was gripping and understood; he dropped the wood and gingerly walked closer. “No,” he replied firmly, “I’m not going to kill you.”

The creature seemed to think about that for a moment before adding, “I’m sorry to disappoint if you’re planning on making me into an attraction for crowds to gawk at, but I won’t look like this for very long.”

Again the teenager shook his head as he reached towards the trap. “No, I’m going to let you go. But first…what are—er, who are you?”

The wolf-beast averted his eyes for a moment. The name “Ambrose Maurlias” was on the tip of its tongue before it changed its mind. “I’m…I’m Michel. Michel Blanc.”

Sabin had been locating the release mechanism for the trap, and had his fingers on it. Suddenly thinking better of loosing the beast just yet, he demanded, “Do you promise you’re not going to turn around and tear me to shreds if I release you?”

“Of course I promise. I’m not an animal, you know,” the creature snorted disdainfully.

Loosing the trap, Sabin carefully slid the injured foot out of the metal teeth. A sharp yelp alerted him to the fact that he had jarred the dislocated hip. Wincing sympathetically, he scooted forward to get a better look at the injury. All of the twisting and turning “Michel” had been doing must have popped the hip out of its socket. Which would, of course, explain why the wolf had come so close to loosing himself from the trap and been forced to give up at the last.

“There,” the brown-haired teen said, digging up the much-loosened peg with his thin fingers and tossing the whole trap aside.

“Thanks,” Ambrose growled, twitching his paw to see if it was still attached. “But I don’t think I can stand.”

Sabin thought about this. “I could probably pop your hip back in. I did it for my father’s dog once. It’ll hurt, but it should heal afterwards. And I could go and get some herbs from my mother to make a salve for your wound.”

Ambrose hesitated. He knew it would be best to have his hip back in joint, but the inflamed area hurt so badly that he didn’t want it touched. He scrabbled with his good leg and arms until he was turned over on his back. “Um…”

“It would be best,” Sabin said gently. “You can’t move like this.”

Suddenly sullen, Ambrose acquiesced. The boy fetched a thick piece of wood and gave it to the wolf-creature to place between his large teeth. Carefully, Sabin found a good grip on the injured leg, avoiding the bloody wound made by the trap. He counted to three, and then quickly shoved the displaced hip back into the socket. It was harder to do that it had been with the dog, but he was able to do it. A sickening crunch had accompanied the move, and at first Sabin was afraid he had broken a bone. Then he noticed that the length of wood he had given “Michel” had been reduced to splinters in the wolf’s mouth.

For a few moments it was silent as Ambrose panted and Sabin waited nervously. Then came a muttered “That hurt. A lot.” Sabin laughed weakly. Ambrose tentatively moved his leg. It was still painful, but comparatively much better.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” Sabin said, picking up his bag and club. “I need to finish checking the traps. Don’t go anywhere.”

Ambrose snorted derisively at this.

The rest of the traps were empty. It was late autumn, too late for summer activity and too early for winter desperation. The only game to be had was a rabbit that had snapped its neck in one of the snares. The entire trek, Sabin couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious creature he had found. Had it not spoken, he would have thought it was merely a deformed wolf. Now he wasn’t so sure. The teenager hurried back to the spot he had left “Michel.”

When he arrived, the beast was nowhere to be seen. A large trail of bare earth, however, led to the base of a thick tree where a large pile of leaves was moving up and down almost imperceptibly. Sabin stooped and brushed aside the top of the pile, only to find yellow eyes glaring at him reproachfully. The boy chuckled as the leaf-pile quivered and the rest of the wolf head emerged. “I was cold,” came the annoyed explanation.

“We’d better go,” Sabin said. “That wound needs treatment or it’ll fester.”

Ambrose blinked. “Go? Go where?”

Sabin gestured to the southwest. “Towards my home. If I’m going to be taking care of you, I need you to be closer. Come on.”

“Who said you’d be taking care of me?” Ambrose asked grouchily, but began getting up anyway.

Sabin barely checked a gasp as the creature rose. He had expected it to travel on all four appendages, but it obviously preferred to be bipedal. Standing, it was nearly seven feet tall and much bulkier than a man. And now that he saw it on its feet, Sabin couldn’t help but think it did resemble a man, in a way. The long yellow hair curling out around its ears that he had taken as a mane of sorts could really be hair like on a human. The long forelegs looked much more like arms and the odd paws like distorted hands once they were off the ground. It had shoulders and a torso not unlike men. Sabin could see that this creature would have been fast and powerful had it not been injured…and potentially much more dangerous than either a wolf or a man.

The teenager did gasp, however, when Ambrose teetered on his injured leg and collapsed onto Sabin’s shoulder. The wolf-beast must’ve been still supporting a good deal of his own weight, though, because the impact didn’t buckle Sabin’s knees and make him fall. Slowly the two moved forward, one hopping stride for Ambrose for every two quick steps by Sabin.

It took the better part of an hour for them to reach a suitable spot: a rotting lean-to that had once stood near a cabin which had burned down two decades before. While the exhausted Ambrose rested, Sabin scooped out the debris that had gathered in the lean-to and scattered a thick layer of dry leaves to serve as bedding. At last he helped Ambrose into the shelter.

“I’ll be back in a little while with the herbs,” the teenager said, arranging the leaves around the creature’s injured leg. “There’s a brook about twenty meters from here if you get really thirsty while I’m gone. Do you need anything else? Are you hungry?”

At this Ambrose let out a barking laugh. “Hungry? You have no idea…”

Sabin reached into the game bag. “I have a rabbit…it’s not properly dressed or anything, but if you don’t mind waiting for me to…um…well, you probably eat your meat raw anyway, don’t you?”

Ambrose nodded and took the rabbit gratefully. Sabin was surprised when he laid it aside, but then realized that the other was probably waiting for him to leave before he made a meal of it. Taking that as his cue, he dusted off his breeches and began to walk towards home.

At the last moment, he spun around. His shoulders ached from being a human crutch, he was going out of his way to get herbs and other supplies, and he had given the only game of the day to this creature, so he thought he had a right to know a bit more information. “What are you?”

Ambrose, who had been inspecting the rabbit, turned towards him and wrinkled his nose before stating simply, “A werewolf.”

Sabin murmured, “Oh,” and then turned back around and continued on his way.

By the time he returned, there was not a single trace of the rabbit, and the werewolf seemed to be asleep. Putting down the horse blanket he had managed to “borrow,” he unwrapped the various dried and fresh herbs and began to crush them together. Fetching water from the stream, he soon had a paste which he applied liberally to a strip of cloth. If Sabin had learned to hunt, trap, read and write from his father, he had learned how to heal from his mother.

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For the following twelve days, Sabin cared for the werewolf in secret. Fortunately, his parents were used to him wandering in the forest for hours at a time, so he didn’t arouse too much suspicion by spending time out of the house. The wound on Ambrose’s leg healed quickly, but the soreness in his hip took longer to become bearable.

Fortunately, the problem of the werewolf’s voracious need for food was solved on the third day when Sabin found a deer with a broken leg caught in one of the wolf-traps. Supplemented by what goods the boy could sneak away from home, this meat proved to be enough to last Ambrose most of his recuperation time.

Every day Sabin noticed that his charge looked less wolf and more man. Soon he was a bit shorter, a lot slimmer, and much less furry. On the twelfth day, Sabin brought some of his father’s old clothes to the shack, and a young man met him. This man looked to be about twenty-six, with longish blonde hair and blue eyes, which he assured Sabin would be deep yellow within a year. There were a few other hints about his true nature in his form and presence, such as his long nails and teeth and powerful, gliding strides, but only to the keen observer. Even his voice, which might be considered rough by some, was a pale imitation of the deep-throated wolf voice Sabin had come to know.

Ambrose dressed quickly. He was Michel Blanc now, and it was high time for him to make his fortune and settle down to a new life in this guise. He would need to find a new profession. So far he had been a musketeer, a nobleman, a scientist, a hunter, a merchant, and a horse-dealer, besides smaller, pettier jobs along the way. He thought perhaps he might become a doctor: it was evident that medical skills were something he lacked.

It didn’t take long for all traces of the werewolf’s presence to be eradicated; he was generally very tidy anyway. Soon nothing was left but goodbye. Ambrose took the first step, holding out a hand. “Thank you.”

Sabin grinned brightly and replied, “It’s been my pleasure, sir. It’s not every day one gets to care for a real werewolf.”

The other coughed lightly. “Yes…about that…”

The teenager, who had shaken Ambrose’s hand, gripped tighter for a second, his face suddenly very earnest. “I won’t tell anyone. Besides, who’d believe me? Just…please, contact me sometime? Let me know how everything goes. You know, with the getting your place back in the world and everything.”

Ambrose chuckled, “All right. Goodbye, Sabin.” And with that he disappeared into the forest.

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It was 1932, and the rattle of automobiles on the streets below had become a lullaby for the old man. Everything seemed distant these days, as Ambrose waited patiently for death. He would’ve left the city, had he possessed the funds or the strength. As it was, he simply sat in bed in his small apartment, trying to guess how long it would take to die.

A knock on the door roused the old man from his morbid game, and he croaked, “Come in!” It was probably the landlord wanting rent.

To his surprise, the opened door revealed what appeared to be a young man with very white hair. The visitor carried a felt hat and a cane in his hands, and his suit was very clean.

“Sabin!” Ambrose chuckled, a tickling thing that grew into a cough before he could stop it. “You...ahem, excuse me...you look great!”

Sabin walked into the poorly-lit apartment and closed the door behind him. “I wish I could say the same, Michel.”

Ambrose smiled. “I’m not too worried. A few more days and I won’t have to put up with a tired, broken-down body anymore. Well, at least not for another fifty years.”

Taking a seat on the lone chair in the apartment, the white-haired man said, “I read about your work in the medical journals. Very impressive. Tell me, what happened?”

The old man closed his amber eyes. Like so many, Ambrose had been a victim of the stock market crash. Though Americans might be feeling the pangs hardest, the crash had victims worldwide. Of course Ambrose still had money hidden away, but now he was too feeble to retrieve it. It was just as well, though, because he wouldn’t have to deal with transferring his savings to himself when he started his new life.

After Ambrose had finished his tale, Sabin stood. “It is time to go.”

“Go?” Ambrose asked, a feeling of nostalgia creeping over him.

“Yes. Times have changed, Michel, and not for the better for people like you and me. I have been looking for you for several years now. Tell me, Michel, where do you think the nearest wolf is?”

Ambrose felt his thick eyebrows knit. “I...I don’t know.”

Sabin turned cold blue eyes to the window, staring out at the dingy streets beyond the tiny room. “I do. It is at the new zoo. From here, the zoo is even closer than the curiosity fairs that may have wolves. When you die, you will awaken there. What do you suppose they’ll do to a wolf that starts slowly becoming a man? They’ll take it in for research, of course. They might kill you. If they do, you can be sure that the nearest wolf will not be a wild one. It shall be one that they own. I doubt the closest wolf will ever be free of captivity again, and it shall become a vicious cycle. Do not think they will understand that you are human. The public has no use for monsters, no matter their level of humanity,” the white-haired man said bitterly.

Ambrose felt a chill wave wash over him. Why had he not thought of this before? It was hard being old; his mind did not work as it did when he was young. Suddenly he saw that what Sabin said was true. He had a desperate need to get out of the city.

As if reading his thoughts, Sabin shifted his gaze to the werewolf. “That is why I am here. I will take you somewhere safe. Gather up anything that you want to bring with you.”

On the long automobile trip to Sabin’s chosen place, Ambrose contemplated his friend. He had changed so very much from the sixteen-year-old boy who had first helped him. Ambrose had never gotten a full story on what had happened to the boy when he was eighteen, but he knew enough to leave the subject alone. A small part of Ambrose—the wolf part, he thought—was terrified of the changed Sabin: a man who didn’t seem to age, who was occasionally prone to sudden bad tempers, who smelled wrong. But Ambrose trusted him still, and felt pangs of gratitude towards him for his help.

At last, they left the car and walked into a forest, Sabin once again supporting Ambrose. Placing the old man against a tree, Sabin said, “There are wild wolves here. Check in with me as soon as you are able, so I know you are all right.”

Ambrose nodded. He felt that death was very close now. Somehow being back in the woods, in fresh air, had made his old body satisfied and ready to rest. He thanked Sabin as he settled in between the roots of the tree and closed his eyes.

“One more thing, Michel,” came the voice of Sabin, breaking in on Ambrose’s wandering thoughts. “It has been my passion for many years to know as much as possible about monsters, ghouls, and creatures of every kind. Not long after meeting you, I turned my attention to werewolves for a short time. According to my research, there was a certain house, by the surname Maurlias, who had for several generations a man who looked surprisingly similar to you. It was said that he was a werewolf, and perhaps a possessed one at that. For, according to legend, whenever he grew old, he grew young again. Do you know anything of that?”

Ambrose looked up at the man crouching above him. For a moment, he saw the clear, curious grey-blue twinkle that had defined young Sabin’s eyes. He smiled vaguely. “I have had several names, some of them more famous than others. But to you, in this life, I am Michel Blanc. The next time we meet? We shall see. Now go away and let an old man die in peace!”

“You are not so much older than I.”

Ambrose groaned, “I am, I am. I have a good two hundred years on you, if not more. Are you happy now? You’ve made me speak where I’d hoped to remain silent. Give my regards to Samantha, and let me be!”

Sabin smiled, pulled out a small book from inside his coat, and made a few markings in it. Then he bade Ambrose farewell and left, calling back, “I’ll be in London should you need me.”

Ambrose relaxed again. Despite his minor irritation with his friend, he was happy to be back in clean air, surrounded by natural sounds. He felt the numbing coldness claiming his limbs and sighed. Perhaps next time he would be a lawyer.

So passed Michel Blanc, ninth incarnation of Ambrose Maurlias.

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The end. Thanks for reading!