Braeburn looked at his hands

(Claws. Paws?)

-and wondered why he couldn't get the blood off his skin

(fur. talons. pads.)

-even after he tore at the dirt and filth at the bottom of his cage.

The sun hurt his eyes. He slept during the day. When the stars came out, he cried. Cried as wolves do, he supposed, with a lamentful whine that made him think of a puppy he found as a wee lad. It'd been trapped under the foundations of his parents home, abandoned and scared, crying piteously for someone, anyone, save it.

That was what he was doing now.

Someone. Anyone. Please save me. Save me from what I've done, what I did. There's blood here, blood on my hands and my soul.

Behind his eyes.

And the pleading. The voices won't go away.

He curled up in the bottom of his cage, still keening, whining.

Now that I am back, I don't want it anymore.

And then:

I'm an animal.

Days passed. They'd long stopped giving him the foul tasting potion that had brought his mind back. Still, he was fleshed in muscle and bone and fur that wasn't his own. He no longer felt his hair on his head

(it was everywhere-)

-as the same hair he'd sported before. His limbs were longer, harder, stronger-

(demonic strength that rends socket from body to screams and laughter-)

-and he was trying, and succeeding, in killing the happy memories over the Before.

Before. Before the ground shook. Before the wolves came in. Before the bite. Before the war. Before the screaming.

His ears caught voices. They flicked, an ability he didn't have Before, and cradled the sounds.

Real sounds. Not the quaking tremors that radiated through his mind.

"This one should be shot," came an arrogant, grating voice. "The serum was meant to revive the humanity within, not reduce him to a sniveling, pathetic pup." There was a disgusted sniff, and a creak of leather and metal.

Oh gods please shoot me-

"No," came a gentler, calmer voice. "He practically seeps of regret. Look at him."

Nopleasedon't-

A rustle of movement and flesh; the voice was closer.

"The beasts without souls do not feel anything but rage and hunger. Look at him. He grieves. He sorrows." Silence, the voice drew back. "He has his mind again, he has found his soul."

The sob he tried to voice came out as a low, keening howl.

"Give him his shield, then," came the snide retort. "Tell him where to find his sword. We have need of anyone that can help us pick up our shattered country. Let him be one more to stem the tide and aid the line."

The next morning, the sky over-cast and the gulls calling, they opened his cage and gave him his shield. They pointed to his sword.

He did nothing. He looked at his hands. They still bore bloodstains.

He looked to his countrymen, most as changed as he, but proud, erect, hopeful.

That was not him. He was not so forgiving of himself.

He dropped his shield.

He ignored his sword.

He tore the clothing from his form and he howled with anguish, pulled at his hair

(fur)

-and bolted to the hills, on all fours, as an animal should.

Because that was all he was now, and all he ever would be.

And animals knew no forgiveness, or memory.

He would sacrifice both.

It was all he deserved, the blood told him as he howled to the skies.

And he believed it.