They assert that the moon has a perpetual reminder of everything. The consequences are evident in every betrayal, every failure of pledge, and every exile into the frigid, unforgiving night. It saw mine. The experience of that night remains in my mind as the one that warms me up more than any fire, but also feels colder like ice. I wasn't always alone, just a shadowy entity lurking in the forgotten edges of the world. I once had a place in their group, whose name was spoken with fervor that rippled through the old woodland. The blood of my prey had already soaked into my claws, but they now felt empty and lost, a sense of purpose. What was missing? Once a seamless part of the pack's ensemble, my fur felt so alone that even wind couldn't blow away. I was deeply moved by its weight and texture.
I worked harder than any. I was stoic and strong, but my feet knew the difficult paths of our land better than my own name. With an unrelenting yearning to prove my worth, I continued with my training, pushing my body beyond its natural limits. Every time I bled again, it was a reminder of the sacrifice I made to serve my fellow soldiers. I did what they couldn't, they could not.". I was the first to go through the blizzard and find hidden game trails to ensure our survival as winter storms wielded fear of losing those who needed shelter. The hardest hit? When opposing packs infiltrated our boundaries, I stood steadfastly as they attacked us, my growl representing anguish for defiance. When the sky was clear and the stars were bright, I scavenged under a full moon. But when the sun went down, my shadows would stretch into haze and be hungry. My attention was on healing the wounded, licking their sores, my own exhaustion a distant whisper in comparison to their suffering. While others fled, I stood guard as a silent protector of the darkness that was slowly creeping in. Ultimately, nothing mattered.
They didn't see a wolf, but they saw something wrong with me. A threat. Like a broken bone, something to be abandoned.' These whispers began subtly, like a windmill grinding dry leaves, and turned into gale force winds. A silver fleck that ran down my left eye, once a sign of the Moon Mother's approval, turned into ominous signs of my disloyalty, as I was seen with gleaming eyes. The accolade of my strength was replaced by a sense of arrogance. I was forced to live alone as a hunter, and my solitude became an act of rebellion. My elders' suspicions were fueled by their heavy eyes, and they began to look at me with suspicion. Despite their previous innocence and fearful nature, the young ones would now shy away, their innocent eyes reflecting parental terror.
There is a clear memory of that night, the silence and all-consuming cover that enveloped the forest. The trees, typically filled with the sound of crickets and leaf rustling, were not willing to let me fall. Normally the stars, a soothing covering of still-moving lights, flickered in wonder as my eyes closed, their luminosity making jibes with my despair. My inner voice, the one closest to me, was a harsh whisper that used to be about ancient customs and wise counsel. His typically friendly and well-wishful stare, now empty and unoccupied. The others were positioned behind him, creating a blank wall of judgment, none of them in sight. Not even her. Lyra, whose scent had been familiar to me since she was a puppy, and grew in warmth with her laughter, stood among them, her head tilted, but her silence was more painful than any accusation. Unapologetic, yet genuine, her betrayal shook the delicate threads of my being.
"Leave.
Don't return.".
That was all. A lack of a trial, an opportunity to defend myself or provide answers regarding allegations that had been hiding in the shadows. Just banishment. The death sentence encased in a soft, unfeeling atmosphere. My mind was haunted by the elder's command, a melancholy pronouncement of my destiny. That night, I stumbled into the wild with only my clothes tied back to my raw skin, half a name that felt like slap on the wrist, and the unbearable weight of being rejected. A vast expanse of empty wilderness once sheltering me arose. I wept uncontrollably until my throat swelled up, each time a different emotion emerged from the pain in my spirit. As my tears dwindled, I let out an exclamation before the forest calmed down, its old-fashioned sounds ridiculing my agony. My anger towards the pack that had once belonged to me was directed towards their blindness and brutality. Angry: I'd give my life for those who would so easily cast me out.
And then—I survived.
Not just survived. Changed. I was not aided by the wild, but rather carving myself. My past self was shattered by each fateful lesson and almost fatal experience. I was sharpened, my instincts were heightened. This instilled inside me unpackage-worthy truths: that faithfulness was fragile and easily broken; that power lay in numbers, and solitude could be a stronghold—not enslaved, but saved. My ability to hear the wind expanded beyond the aroma of prey to encompass the screams of ancient spirits and the legend carried through the air. The sound of the howling birds became my tool to comprehend the subtle language of nature. The paths that only the desperate or the insane could take me to places where knowledge and survival were elusive, while others found solace in death. The spirits of those who had passed away were still present, and I walked alongside them, learning from their mistakes and triumphs. I slept under my own teeth, the silent attentiveness of unguarded predators, my senses tightened, and my body was poised to respond with any slight movement. Why?
Throughout the process, the moon kept an eye on the situation. It showed me that I was broken, suffocated and furious. I underwent a transformation, losing the skin of the abandoned pup and emerging as something new after experiencing solitude and desperation. It illuminated my path, a quiet companion in my perpetual questing.' A small, almost invisible mark on my wrist began to flicker under the moonlight, a faint glow that was like the heartbeat of the Moon Mother. It was then that I recognized that my exile was not a conclusion, but merely an initial step. A transformation. Wild was more than just a habitat; it was. I was the hardened metal, undergoing purification and transformation into a tougher or more durable substance.'". Instead of being snide or hurtful, the forest whispered its words with encouragement and a sense of hopefulness. My every leaf spit was a secret shared, and my distant howling was like the sound of an uncontrolled spirit that now ran wild in my veins. The craving in my stomach was no longer centered on food, but upon understanding the reason for my banishment. The bitterness in my heart began to curl, gradually becoming a cold, unwavering determination. ". Survival was more important than survival. There will be a time when I return. But not as the shattered, exiled pup; rather as something new, something strong. And then, they would see.