~The village of Mărra, Limbui County, Wallachia~

It was Autumn night when he came in the shape of a wolf. It had been hours since he had left the cave where his clan had settled to explore the northern part of the forest. Eventually, he caught the scent of sheep in the air. Beyond the trees, the strength of scent had grown significantly. With his wolf-skin’s eyes he could see those sleeping shapes all huddled in one spot. After days without food, he leapt at the chance. Perhaps he had been too hasty.

A shrill vibration rang out through the air, like the cutting of wind. Before he even touched the sheep, he was knocked back. The pain in his side didn’t even register; he rushed wildly into the night, too confused and afraid to know where he wanted to go. The vibrations made by sheep and humans eventually receded as he headed over the hills. Lost and delirious from pain and hunger, he came across a place where there were many human-made structures. He chose the closest one - a building whose door had been left partly open. Its scent of burnt tree resin and spice seemed welcoming. 

He stumbled in and took shelter in the rafters. Tearing out of his wolf-skin, he examined his wound. His exoskeleton had cracked somewhat and a sharp rod of iron was lodged in him but not too deeply. He pulled off the rod sharply, hissing in pain. The rod had left fragments when he pulled it off and he was left to remove the shards of metal and wood. Most of it had been removed; just enough so that it could heal on its own. He finally laid down. The smell of burnt tree resin was strongest here, not that he complained; it had soothed him enough to sleep through the pain. The next morning, he was roused from sleep with the pain in his side somewhat subsided but his wound had not fully healed; it couldn’t with how starved he was. Then, as if his silent pleas were heard, he sensed the unmistakable wing-beats of birds. They eased his hunger but the small meal of blood wouldn’t be enough to keep him going for very long. He felt foolish for failing his hunt. His clan had not been strong like the others. They were neither the fastest or the strongest. Instead, they were known for their sweet scents and pleasantries. Despite not being well adapted for survival in the wilds of this planet, somehow they always managed to persevere. He couldn't afford to make another reckless mistake like that again.

His wound was finally closing up thanks to the life saving blood. The exoskeleton around it was soft but that was to be expected. Yet, once again he felt weak from hunger. Since it was morning again and the noise and scent of humans had increased once more, he could only wait in the rafters till nightfall came. Peering down from the rafters he finally took in the interior of the shelter. Many little flames had been lit, illuminating the golden walls. It reminded him of the last nest his clan had lived in before they were driven out - particularly the place where his relatives were buried in resin, but instead of the beloved dead this place was decorated with paintings of humans with bright heads and wings like the very birds he had fed on moments ago. There were seven statues of those same humans and seven rings hanging over the wall on the far end. Those compound eyes of his were in awe of all the yellows, blues and reds. 

Did humans make these?

He had never been inside a human shelter before, and the rare few that did and lived always described them as being as dull as they were on the outside. It was a surprise that this place, a simple thing crudely put together with stone and wood, hid something so beautiful.

Resting, lingering up in the rafters a while longer to wait for more birds and the odd rodent to come his way, he continued to watch from above. There was a human robed in black who came and went about the place. The seven rings that hung from his neck clinked as he went. The watcher from the rafters could pinpoint where the human was from those vibrations alone. After some time had passed, more humans filled the wooden seats to hear the one in black. This was unusual; the watcher and everyone he knew had never seen the humans gather in one place like this. It made him think back of nest gatherings. There was a time when his clan and neighbours would come together regularly to drink and tell stories. A key difference was that this human gathering seemed ritualistic. There was intent behind each action that they took. The vibrations that resounded from their mouths were not the common calls of animals like he had initially thought they were, but language. These were not simple, tool-wielding beasts.

They’re sentient…

The humans held his curiosity in the following weeks that he remained hidden. He slowly recovered his vigour yet even he knew then that feeding on rats and birds alone wouldn’t be enough to carry him home through the cold, empty handed or not. There were enough humans here to sustain him, but how could he bring himself to hunt them down knowing that they could think and feel almost like he could? Even if it meant his undoing, he would not sacrifice the values that his family had upheld for generations. To do so knowingly would make him no better than a vicious beast. 

He began to pick up on the meaning of their vibrations. It was a good distraction from the scarceness of blood and his worries for his clan. The humans called one in black, Părinte. The watcher assumed he was the equivalent of the head of the nest, for he spoke the most and the others gathered mostly to hear him. Once a week they’d gather. On other days, the ornate shelter was mostly empty. It was on one of those quiet nights that he’d grown sick of the taste of rats and birds that he decided to flutter down and drink the chalice of ritual wine. If he was to die of hunger, he would have rather died without the taste of rat in his throat. Suffice to say, he was satisfied, despite the wine being more sour than sweet. 

Before he could drink himself to happiness, he heard a loud commotion from outside. Then there was a clinking approaching. He quickly left the near-empty chalice on the altar and hid in the shadows. The Părinte rushed past and threw open the doors. There were raised human voices that the watcher did not recognise so he went to investigate and peered outside of the doors. 

“Please! Just take the Aspri! It’s all inside the church at the back! Please spare the villagers!”

There were newcomers - humans, but they weren't of this nest for they didn’t come to the gatherings - dressed in battered armour and brandishing their weapons. Seeing them brought back terrible memories that made his insides twist. One of these armoured men held and shook the Părinte. These newcomers had none of the respect that the ritual-goers had for the robed man.  These humans were weak and unarmed, yet the armoured ones harassed them and beat them down. They had knocked the Părinte hard. He had fallen yet he still breathed.

A strange thing happened to the watcher. It hadn’t been the first time he or others of his kind had seen humans kill their own; it was the reason why the watcher’s kind thought that humans were merely savage animals. And yet, with all that he witnessed, he felt compelled to intervene. Call it his clan’s propensity for sympathy - or interloping - he just knew that he couldn’t let the humans he grew to know suffer at the hands of these armoured ones. Weak from hunger, he knew he couldn’t afford to make the same mistake as he did nights ago, so he waited for the humans to make their move. As luck would have it, the armoured men entered the ornate shelter and the watcher followed them from the shadows. The men went into one of the rooms at the back and came out, pulling a huge trunk just beneath one of the winged statues. One kicked at it before finally smashing open the lock with the pommel of his blade. The trunk opened, revealing a large amount of little discs of silver.

The men’s faces all lit up. The watcher had expected them to have been satisfied at the least, but he could make out some of what they were saying. From what he gathered, they planned to kill the villagers and bleed them dry. 

And so, he crept close.

“Crrrick!” went the first one. The others had not noticed he had gone amidst their chatter.

Then the second had disappeared. And then one more. And then another…

There was a strange gust of wind. They noticed the seventh was gone all too late. The little flames of the candles had been extinguished. 

Anxiety flared up in the voices of the men. Weapons unsheathed. Another rush of air cut through the smoke.

When it was time for the remaining ones, there were screams. Shortly after, there was silence.

Not a drop of blood was wasted. 

After some time had passed since the silence fell, the other humans led by the Părinte entered the church. The building was empty. All that was out of place was the trunk of silver pieces before the winged statue. They all fell to their knees, singing their praises and thanks to Christus of the Seven.

Up on the rafters, the bodies of the bandits had been laid in a neat pile. All were saved - it would sustain his clan for weeks and grant them the ability to take on a human form - all except one. The watcher drank, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. The pain of hunger had gone but he felt disgusted at himself.

The next morning, the watcher had finished moulting and emerged as a man. His wings and second pair of arms twitched uncomfortably after having been tightly wrapped inside his human skin. Experimentally, he moved about. There was discomfort but it was expected; he knew that with time he would get used to it. He had done so before in his other forms. 

His attention returned to the pile. Needing to find a way to move the bodies, he came down -  everything he needed was in this human nest. He had seen humans carrying things in carts and sheets for coverings in nests like this before. The weather was cool enough to keep the bodies from rotting. Then there was the matter of keeping warm for the journey. To solve the latter problem, he took the undergarments of his kill, leaving behind the armour and wearing the other ragged clothing in layers until he was relatively warm. He caught a glimpse of himself from the reflection of the silver chalice that had remained ignored since last night. Reflected back was a pale man who was gaunt but deceptively thin.

As he approached the door, he was spotted by the Părinte.

“What brings you here, my son?”

He froze in place, turning to the man in black robes.

“I don't believe I've seen you here before. Where are you from?”

He could only understand a bit of what the man had said. Trying his best to vocalise the words, he replied, “Home… Cave…” The words were clumsy. It felt strange to speak with a mouth.

Taking pity on him, the Părinte took his hands.

“Dumnezeule! Your hands are as cold as death!”

Before the pale man could react, the Părinte threw his own fur coat over him, adding to the many layers was already wearing. He now felt comfortably warm. Hastily, he was ushered out of the shelter. This other human held him by his back and shoulder as they walked into the frosty outdoors.

“Let’s get you something warm to eat. I know someone who makes the best Ciorba in Wallachia.”

As he looked around the village he found just what he needed to leave with the bodies. Carts were everywhere. Sheets were hung outside, partially frozen. He heard passing comments from the villagers, recognising but not understanding “subțire” and “palid”. Some even called him “haimana”; he understood that one as “vagabond”. The others looked at him with suspicion but few seemed to regard him warmly just as the Părinte did. The human at the shelter that smelled of cooked meat smiled at him as she sat him down. The Părinte presented her with some pieces of silver and she took it. Then they were presented with bowls filled with meat and vegetables suspended in an orange-red fluid. In his haste, he lifted it up and drank it from the bowl, almost burning his proboscis hidden under his tongue. 

“Take your time,” the Părinte said. 

He waited for the meal to cool. As he did, he noticed that everyone had been eating with an odd tool that was larger and curved inward at its end. A strange custom, he thought, until he realised that humans did not have a proboscis to drink up their meals efficiently. The people around him all exchanged odd looks and said things amongst each other he couldn’t quite make out with this constant buzz of vibrations.

“Don’t mind the stares. They mean no ill-will. It’s just that we don’t get many visitors.”

The pale man cast his thoughts back to the armoured men in the rafters. Again, he felt that gnawing guilt and fear deep in his abdomen. Pushing these thoughts away, he picked up a spoon and imitated the others around him. He knew well that the sight of anything unseemly would scare the others, and it seemed his first attempt at looking human wasn’t doing him any favours. He knew then that he needed to slip out of the village with his hunt that night. This Părinte seemed happy to help him, even without the use of pheromones, so he didn’t want to break this strange trust that they shared.

“What is your name?” the Părinte asked.

The pale man looked at him blankly. By instinct, his wings twitched under his skin. He scrambled around for a name and chose the first word that came to mind.

“Palid.”

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“Palid?” 

The pale man nodded.

Concern and pity crossed the Părinte’s face. The pale man had the impression that it was not the expected answer but he didn’t know what else to say.

“Well, my son, it’s not much, but you’re welcome to sleep in the church. If there’s nowhere else for you to go then know that you have a home here.”

“H… home..?”

It was puzzling to him that a human would be willing to invite a complete stranger to live in their nest. Especially after they had been harassed by strangers just the night before.

“Is it not our duty to break bread with the hungry and shelter the vagabond? When you see the naked, is it not our duty to cover them and not hide from your own flesh?”

The pale man had heard this before from his time in the ornate shelter but it wasn’t until that moment that he understood what it meant. It seemed that his kind and humankind were more alike than he originally thought.

“My forefathers were wanderers once too. It was thanks to the kindness of another that I am alive here today.”

The pale man stared at him in silence. He hadn't realised that his soup had cooled. Thankfully, his new friend had asked for it to be warmed again.

When they were done, he had left the chunks of meat and vegetables in his bowl. The woman who owned this shelter scolded him but the Părinte calmed her by taking those pieces for himself and filling up the bowl with another serving. They left the shelter and came by a man who smelled of urine and ethanol. The Părinte woke him and ushered the man inside the ornate shelter, giving him the bowl.

So this is how they treat their own?

His mind dwelled on it. He had seen a new side to the humans, one that wasn’t so violent. How very much alike they were.

That night, the pale one left, taking one of the carts and carrying the dead away. He would return the cart, he promised to himself. And to make up for taking it without permission, he would return it with the silver pieces that had been left on the bodies. Humans seemed to value such strange things. The following morning, the priest discovered he was gone. In fact, he returned to the cave in the forest and much to the relief and joy of his clan, they feasted on the dead soldiers.

He had told his family of what he had discovered, though they hardly believed him. Only if the humans would invite their clan to their village themselves would they believe him. Undiscouraged by their skepticism, he returned to the village, looking slightly less thin. When asked where he had gone, he’d tell the Părinte the partial truth, that he had gone to the cave where he had been living. During his stay at the village, he learned more about the customs of the humans and his understanding of their language improved. Under the Părinte’s guidance, he learned to read and write. He became increasingly curious about their ways and how they lived. Much about them was different - as was expected - but there were many things that the humans shared with his people.

Gradually, more and more of the villagers warmed to him. Whether it was out of pity or a liking for the strange vagrant, they gave him a small but precious supply of drink to take to his clan. And yet, despite his efforts to convince his clan to come to the village, they asked him the same thing each time.

Have they seen it yet? Do they know what lay beneath that human skin?

The pale one frowned at that question. He wanted so desperately to show his real self to the Părinte and villagers to answer that question but fear had flashed in his mind. Time and time again, his kind had been driven out and hunted. A terrible thought came to mind.

They accept me as a human but would that trust be undone if they knew my true shape?

So he waited. The pale man continued to visit the humans and there came a point where he was no longer a vagrant but one of their own: the pale man who lived in the church. Although, the villagers did think he was odd. For instance, he would only eat soup and leave behind all of the solids. He was often seen collecting blood from the freshly slaughtered animals too but that was explained away by the butcher who assumed that he was collecting the blood to make sausages. Only the women of the village noticed and gossiped about how they had never seen him cook. Despite this, they were thankful for all of the odd jobs he did for them. Every fortnight, he went away with a supply of drink and blood to bring to his clan. Life was stable but a knot formed in his insides the longer this went on.

One spring day, he promised that he would at least show the very person who welcomed him without question. He deserved to know. That morning, the Părinte had read a passage of humanity’s past. There was a time when the wolf and the lamb grazed together. The pale one wondered if such a thing could exist between his people and the humans. As the thought lingered, the village bell rang.

Everyone had come out, expecting more bandits but this time, it was one of the Boyar’s officials who had come to collect the land rent. He was followed by a retinue of armoured men bearing the symbols of their Boyar and King. He rode his horse in front of the church yard where everyone had gathered. The pale one’s eyes focused and his hidden antennae slightly poked out of his human skin’s hair; he took in every feature of the Official. Before him was a healthy man dressed in fine furs, who smelled heavy of musk and tree resin, but otherwise he had been no different to the villagers. 

“I trust you have the money, Părinte?”

“I do, good sir.”

The Părinte called out to some of the villagers to bring the trunk of silver. The pale man joined them, making the load feel light enough that it seemed unnecessary for four men to carry it together. Just to save face, the other men continued to hold onto the trunk. They presented the Official with their load, opening it. He was satisfied enough so he had it loaded onto the guarded carriage. But he did not leave as he usually did.

“Before I go, I must inform you that there have been more and more strigoi sighted around these parts. Has your village encountered anything strange?”

The Părinte pondered, “Why, there was a strange wolf some months ago, isn't that right Păcuraru?”

The pale man seized up.

The shepherd nodded, “Yes. It was dark but I could see that it had six legs. I shot the creature and it ran off. I never did find the body.”

The villagers began to mutter amongst themselves. Fear once forgotten after the whole incident with the bandits resurfaced. All the while, the pale man wanted to run, but it was as if his legs had turned to sticks.

“There were also those bandits that came by,” said one of the women. Each villager recounted that fateful night. 

“Disappeared in the church, you say?” the Official said with furrowed brow.

“Yes,” the Părinte nodded, “But it was by the Saints’ divine mercy that we were saved.”

His voice was firm; he wanted to dispel the idea that a creature as evil as a strigoi would have been responsible for dispatching those bandits. In a church no less. Wolf aside, there were no definite signs of a strigoi in the village.

“A likely story.”

“By the Saints, I would not lie.”

“Hmm, very well,” the Official didn't sound very convinced, “If you do see anything strange again, pray and inform me when I return for Autumn’s collection.”

He reminded them of the usual procedures for deterring such creatures. To the pale man, they were extremely ineffective if not annoying at worst. Still, it enlightened him to some of the odd choices some humans would make. At least there would be an abundance of garlic to flavour the soups - it would stave off disease for his clan.

And with that, the Official left. The villagers went about their day, gossiping and scaring each other with talk of strigoi. All the while, the pale man spent the rest of the morning hiding in the church. Only the Părinte had noticed and he had looked high and low for him. At last, he went into the church, calling out for the pale man.

“Up here, Părinte.”

The Părinte looked up to find him sitting up on the edge of the rafters.

“What are you doing up there, my son?”

The pale man was quiet, withdrawn. Worry hung on his every limb, constricting him inward.

“You seem disconcerted. Please, come down. Let me lend you my ear.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I may not understand all of my friends, but I’m willing to try.”

After some consideration, the pale man climbed down. He then prostrated himself before the Părinte.

“Părinte, you have been good to me for so long. Which is why I cannot bear to hide this truth any longer.”

The Părinte smiled, crouching over and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“What troubles you, my child?”

“I must confess. I have committed terrible sins against your kind.”

The robed man was taken aback. How could one kill all of those armed soldiers and bandits alone? But the pale one spoke with such conviction and guilt that one could tell he did not speak of this in jest.

“Can I be forgiven as the wolf is forgiven?”

The Părinte finally spoke, “Of course. Anyone can be forgiven. But what do you mean?”

The pale man could hardly look him in the eye.

“I have been dishonest to you and the others,” he paused. “And worst of all, I have committed murder.”

Confusion crossed the human’s face. 

“That night the bandits came. It was I who made them disappear. I killed them. And I fed off of them.”

“My child, you must be confused,” the Părinte chuckled.

The pale one hesitated but then he gripped his shirt, finally meeting the Părinte’s gaze. The robed man had taught him what a kind human face looked like, and he still had that same expression.

“Please, let me show you.”

He undressed himself before the Părinte. His folded arms and twitching wings could be seen from underneath. At once his skin began to tear. Emerging from the back of the pale man was his true self. A great gnat-like thing with sharp jaws. An extra set of arms unfolded and translucent wings like stained glass outstretched. The Părinte trembled at the sight; his reaction made the insect’s heart sink. One word came to the Părinte mind: strigoi. How one alone could take down all of those soldiers made sense now. Only a demon could achieve such a feat. Yet, this being before had been like a saint. Not one villager had been hurt or had gone missing in all his time living amongst them. All he had done was make their problems disappear for a time. The insect had broke from his gaze, stepping backward. He was beginning to think that this was a foolish idea. He would have left then but…

“Wait.”

The insect stopped.

“What are you?” the Părinte asked, doing his best to regain his composure.

The great insect moved to a room - the Părinte’s study. The robed man followed behind. The insect dipped his finger in an inkwell and wrote on the empty pages of the Părinte’s  journal.

“I am a stranger in a strange land, searching for a place to call home.”

It was odd, seeing that this beast could write. Despite what he looked like now, there was no doubt in the priest’s mind that the one before him was the same man he had known these past few months.

The Părinte finally spoke, “Where do you come from?”

The insect pointed to the sky outside the window then wrote, “We lost our home, long ago.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Not one spoken by words.”

His wings fluttered on his back, blowing the incense smoke gently across the room. Delicate and rhythmic was the sound of his name. Its hum, quiet yet loud enough to be felt in one’s heart.

“Have you a father?” the Părinte asked.

The pale man shook his head, “We lost him years ago. We could not preserve his memory in resin. He lies in the Danube with my mother. Only myself, my brothers and sisters and their partners remain.”

“I’m sorry,” the Părinte found himself saying. 

“So that’s why you kept returning to the forest each fortnight? You were bringing drink and blood to your family.”

The insect nodded. 

“My clan will not come to the village like I do. They are afraid. The villagers too. Neither are ready.”

The Părinte placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“It will take time. But I promise you, some day soon we may share this home together in peace. You have shown me that much.”

The insect raised his head.

The Părinte smiled and said, “But first I shall give you a name, one better than ‘palid’. A good man like you deserves a real name. And so too shall I give your remaining family a name when they are ready.”

At that, the insect lit up. His antennae touched the Părinte who embraced him in turn. He never thought he’d ever befriend a human so accepting. Soon after, Părinte led the insect to the altar. A circle of oil was drawn on his forehead.

“From this day on, I name you…”

And finally, water was splashed on his face.

“Pavel Popescu.”