Chapter Text
Time passes far quicker than you anticipate. Far quicker than it has any right to anyway. You stand on the precipice: caught between the remaining days of summer and the excitement that is the start of the school year. The summer months are fine but you do so enjoy when the halls fill with students. Gives the school some life. You’ve done this before; rehearsed this dance half a dozen times. Still, you find yourself anxious, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s not unnatural, this thing. This feeling. It leaves you wondering, longing, expecting—but for what? Your lesson planning has long since been finalized, even for that wayward botany class, thanks to Orloff’s help of course. The search for this mysterious animal has, in Dort’s eyes, unfortunately, been unsuccessful. You spend what little free time you find in Isadora’s company, swapping tales over the last twenty-three years. Be it in the music room through song or in the courtyard over coffee, you learn her histories, including a short stint teaching at Julliard.
Yet, there is something amiss.
This feeling. This wrongness.
It pervades the air and permeates your very being. You cannot see it in your mind’s eye but you can very nearly picture it in your peripheral vision. It’s foreboding, this thing, that stands your hair on end. It is blurred, this darkness; it invades your realm of dream and turns it into one of nightmare. More often than not, you wake in a cold sweat, your blood boiling in your veins, your chest heaving.
It sets your heart to an unpredictable rhythm.
But the transformation does not come again.
The moon coaxes the beast only once.
Perhaps that is what you are waiting for: to wolf out unexpectedly in the company of your colleagues. Worse… your students. To make yourself and your fears known. You do indeed stand on the precipice, it seems. What fate awaits you, however, if entirely unknown.
“You look tense.”
The observation is commendable.
You do not need to turn around to know who stands behind you. You do so out of politeness instead; tradition. Orloff watches you without the disdain you see in some of your colleagues. He merely observes—such is the nature of a scientist.
“Is it that obvious?”
“To those of us who know you, I would imagine so.”
There is something unsaid. Something that even this floating head does not broach. Out of respect or fear, you’re not so sure. You turn your attention on the quad set before you. In the coming days it will be full of students. You cannot slip up again. That night when you were along walking home—it cannot happen again.
You will not let it happen again.
The two of you stand in comfortable silence. It is a trait Orloff carries just as well as you. He was a mentor to you once—he still is. You are accustomed to these inner workings. Still, it leaves you wondering:
“Do you ever feel out of your depth?”
You do not meet him when you ask the question into being. You know that if you do he will suspect something—if he doesn’t already. He likely suspects something is off about you. You’re strange, but not like this. Not always.
“What brought this on?”
You’ve written papers with more cadence than this.
You can’t tell him the truth—not yet—but you can tell him the next best thing.
“There are days where I don’t feel I’m cut out for this.”
There are days where it is a wonder you can quell your boiling blood.
Mornings where you wake up in a cold sweat.
Nights where you cannot sleep, for fear that the monster within will breach what little sanctity of mind you still contain.
You sigh.
Orloff regards you in a way he’s never done before. He scrutinizes you—though you’re lost as to whatever for. He seems to find whatever he’s searching for because he returns his attention to the quad. You follow his lead and lean on the stone railing. You forget how nice the peace and quiet is before the students return. For a handful of months there is only silence. “You were one of my brightest students,” he says, though the somberness in his tone is not lost on you. “There were a number of applicants for your current position, but too many lacked depth. The very nature of being a scientist is to be out of your depth.”
You laugh but the action is soundless; humorless.
“You picked me because of my inexperience.”
“I chose you because of your capacity to grow.”
You open your mouth to respond but find yourself unable to find the words. You, instead, shake your head. “You took a gamble.”
“Look where it’s gotten me. You’re head of the science department.”
“Because you turned it down.”
“I’m old.”
“Bullshit.” This time when you laugh, the light reaches your eyes.
“You’ve grown awfully close with Professor Capri.”
Straight out of left field. You gape. Gawk. Whatever the word is, you might as well beg for a merciful death.
“Orloff, I—”
“There’s no need to explain yourself to me. An old man notices these things. I seem to recall that the two of you were lab partners. Must be nice for her to have such a familiar face now that she’s returned.”
You will kill this man yourself.
You won’t, obviously.
But you’ll grab the Greek mythology professor and have him turned to stone if you must.
“I don’t understand why she—that,” you correct yourself, “is of any import.”
The look he gives you next is wholly one of knowing. “Maybe a familiar face will do you well—remind you why you took up teaching in the first place.”
That, you can at least agree with.
He’s not wrong. Ever since Isadora waltzed back into your life, these outbursts have been lessened. You find yourself contending with the beast less so in her presence than ever. It settles oddly in your chest, this feeling. You know what it is, but you’re perfectly content ignoring it too.
You're about to begrudgingly thank him but a new presence in the quad pulls you from the thought. Isadora stands front and center because of course she does. You're not entirely sure what exactly she's doing, but the woman appears deep in thought. Briefly—and rather selfishly—you wonder if she's doing this on purpose.
She's not, you know that.
Still, the irony isn't lost on you.
For a single moment, she finds you up on the balcony. You can tell because a smile
“Thank you, Orloff.”
_____
She finds you in your office again. It's becoming commonplace, this thing you two share. Agonizing is perhaps not the best word for what you're doing but it is certainly an apt one. You sit—arguably slouch—forward so that the side of your head rests against the desk, reading the text on your laptop screen. You do not even know what time it is when she finds you, only that the moon is high in the sky.
“At some point, one might think sleep would be a necessity.”
The speed in which you snap upright is downright inhuman. Your heart doesn't race, but the idea of her seeking you out still forces the air from your lungs and any logical response from your mind. You cannot put together a coherent thought, or any that stops you from blurting out a single: “What?”
She looks at you and you her.
You decide you cannot hold her gaze and allow it to return to the laptop screen… to the article detailing curses—You promptly decide she is a much better place to focus your attention, and close your laptop, sighing.
“Sleep,” she speaks the one word with such nonchalance it almost feels fluid. It clarifies everything and nothing.
“Oh,” you say, then quickly realize that oh for an answer will not suffice for this woman. “Yeah,” you add, like it's anything other than digging your own grave.
“Have you?” Her inquiry is not lost on you—neither is the worry that knits her brow together.
“Slept?” you ask but don’t give her the time to respond. “Gods no.”
She speaks your name in a tone that turns your heartbeat thready in your chest as she approaches your desk. You suddenly don’t know what the hell you’re supposed to be doing with your hands and shove them down into your lap. When you look up—and you need to look up to meet her now—the only thing between the two of you is your desk. “You look tired.”
“I am tired,” you agree.
“Why are you here then?”
Why are you here?
Ah, yes.
Research.
“I’m considering introducing a new unit for my second year students.”
It’s a lie.
Albeit, not even a good one.
“What about?”
“The biological effects a curse has on the body.”
She’s silent for a moment, considering.
“That’s… interesting. What’s brought this on?”
It would be a lot easier if you just told her, you think. This whole mess would be easier to navigate if you just had someone to bounce ideas off of—someone who understands it to some degree. You concede. You can’t do that to her. Can’t come to her with your… problems. It would be rude.
“A friend of mine believes they’ve been cursed.”
It’s another lie.
Not quite far from the truth, though.
She raises a brow. You wonder if she’s seen through your lie—she’s always been good at that. “This friend of yours, why do they think they’ve been cursed?”
“They’re experiencing symptoms.”
“Symptoms?” Isadora repeats.
You nod. “Symptoms.”
She must think you’re insane.
You commend the thought.
“What sort of symptoms?”
You no longer commend the thought.
There is no way she’s humoring you.
You, nonetheless, oblige her.
“They’re succumbing to the wolf.”
This is the truth. Probably the only truth you’ve told today.
“Are they here?”
“No,” you answer far too quickly for your own good before sighing. “They’re an old friend from college.”
Another beat of silence falls between the two of you. Isadora’s sole focus is you. Even as you lie to her. Something about it sets your heart ablaze in a way that is most unbecoming. This is a betrayal most foul. Your gaze falls to her hands, where she twists and adjusts her rings, the lot of them. It’s almost impossible not to stare. You could watch her fidget with her rings for an ungodly amount of time, you will admit.
God, you need to go home.
“Can I help you?”
For the second time tonight, you cannot put together a coherent thought. “What?”
“If it’s important to you, I want to help. I don’t know much about curses, but…” she trails off. She doesn’t need to finish the thought. You both know what goes unsaid. Her parentage may not be a curse but it’s sure as hell adjacent. “If you would let me,” she adds.
You’re standing before you can help yourself. It’s second nature, this. It’s always been second nature. Maybe a familiar face will do you well—remind you why you took up teaching in the first place. Of course. “I would.” The words come all too quickly. All too easy. You think the gods pity you because she smiles, just as relieved as you apparently.
“Well then… why don’t you tell me about this friend of yours?”
Part of you doesn’t expect her to humor you.
She must think of you insane.
Except she doesn’t.
You see it in her eyes.
You do.
You tell her about this ‘friend.’ Not in so many details that she may pick them apart and see their source, but you tell her enough. The unexpected transformations. The rage. You tell her you worry for your friend. That you’re not certain they will be able to sustain themselves for much longer. You do not tell her that it's you who worries for you own wellbeing.
“How long has this been happening to them?”
“A few months, they told me. Since summer began, I think.”
It’s not lost on you, this look in her eyes. A subtle scrutiny. You think you could drown in this scrutiny if you allowed yourself. What the fuck is wrong with you? Isadora looks as if she wants to say something. Looks as if she reconsiders it too.
“This friend—are they in pain?”
There is only one logical answer to this question.
There's this sinking feeling in your chest. It comes on sudden. This unruly thing you'd thought you buried, you feel it.
You collapse to your knees, choking.
You cannot breathe.
Something splinters in your chest and you know it to be bone in your heart of hearts.
You can do nothing but watch, helpless, as it devours you.
“They are, yes.”