Title: Under the Autumn Moon
Prompt: bwfd_ldws - Howl by Florence and the Machine
Warnings: violence, character death
Word count: 498
Summary: It occurred to her as he snarled, looking inhuman, than even a good man who was pure of heart and said his prayers at night could become a beast when the autumn moon was bright.
A/N: Written for Bill/Fleur LDWS. Oddly enough, it didn’t get me kicked out, even if I did do dark things here. I rather enjoyed writing it, though, and I hope you all enjoy it.
The first body appearing after a full moon was barely noticed.
The second was looked at askance, but no one thought much of it.
The third brought out werewolf hunters, certain there was a crazed beast preying upon helpless women.
The fourth confirmed the magi-coroner’s thought that it was a human, not an animal, who was killing pretty blonde witches.
The fifth body had Fleur casting worried glances at the empty side of her marriage bed, illuminated by the moon’s light. Had her looking in the mirror and seeing the dead girl’s face in the reflection.
The sixth month had her gut clenching as she peered out the window of Shell Cottage, had her pretending to be asleep after she saw the dark figure of her husband finally appear at the gate shortly before dawn.
She followed him, that seventh month. Stalked him from the house to a remote village. Watched him go into a pub and drink, then watched more as he followed a barmaid. Fleur’s heart broke and then shattered when instead of being an affair, Bill grabbed the woman’s hair and dragged her through a small gate into a graveyard.
Fitting, she thought faintly, and followed.
She could have continued to hide. But the initial scream lived inside her head.
“Bill,” she whispered, standing between two gravestones. It carried across the hallowed ground, causing his head to whip around and his wild eyes to land on her.
His stare froze her, like prey. As he leapt closer, Fleur couldn’t help but flee. He caught her easily. His fingers gripped her skin, tearing into it as if it were the thin clothe of her wedding dress from years ago. “You followed me,” he growled. “You never should have followed.”
“What are you doing?” Was that her voice, sounding so strangled?
“I do this so I don’t do it to you, and you followed.”
Demented, he was demented. Whatever beast Fenrir had infected him with had obviously taken over in the light of this cursed moon. Where was her good man? The man who doted on her? The man who loved her without question and never raised a hand to her?
“Bill…” His name was a sigh, a whimper, as he dragged her across the graveyard. His feet, she noticed, were bare and bloody, leaving shining footprints on the ground.
He threw her to the ground across a wide gravestone, a make-shift altar to a demon god. It occurred to her as he snarled, looking inhuman, than even a good man who was pure of heart and said his prayers at night could become a beast when the autumn moon was bright.
She murmured a prayer, a plea, something in French. There was no binding this monster again, though, she sensed. One moment of hope sprang up as he knelt next to her, kissed her cheek, jaw, and neck.
Then his teeth sank in.
A howl rose in her ears, and as it died, so did she.