The moon sat high in the sky, its white exterior lit up the dark night with a soft, welcoming glow.
It was a full moon, and many werewolves sat below it around a large campfire. Some were young, some were old, and many were in-between.
Every month, on the night of the full moon, the Feu Pack gathered. It was an important celestial event, one where they not only prayed to the Moon Goddess, but where they listened to the tales of the wolves that lived before them; the stories of those who were young and arrogant, and had gone against the bond of mates, against the gift of their goddess.
The fire danced in its pit, the wind whispering over ever so softly. The heat of the flame transferred to the bodies surrounding it, warming them. Red and orange lights licked the listeners, flickering across their eager faces. Smoke rose high into the air, the crackling of burning logs providing many with the sense of comfort and safety.
This was a safe space. No judgement was ever passed through the stories told by the elders, for this was a lesson that needed to be learnt.
There was, however, one story in particular where one could have judged harshly.
An old man breathed deeply, staring into the flame as he gathered his thoughts. The story to be told was a difficult one, but a lesson to the youth had to be taught; that one’s past does not always decide one’s future. And the story of the youth in his tale was a dark one.
He hoped that wisdom would fall into the ears of those surrounding him, even though this would not be the first time they had heard this story, albeit in bits and pieces. Tonight, they would hear the whole story.
The Alpha of Feu Pack nodded at the elder. It was time.
Silence fell around the campfire as all eyes turned to him. The youth leaned forward, eyes wide.
“There was once a troubled boy, one who had been wronged by his pack.” The elder paused, his voice shaking. It was an ailment that came with his age; he used to be such a strong speaker.
“A troublemaker who had admired his alpha. The boy had disobeyed one order and he was wronged. Wronged for witnessing a horrific event that changed his life when he was as young as eight years old.” He paused again, this time for measure. He studied the faces of those around him. “He was exiled and left for dead. How was a young boy to fend for himself in the wild?
“But he did. The boy survived. Not only did he survive, he grew into a powerful person; one who fought like the rage within him. One whose name brought fear to those around him. As a young teenager, the boy arrogantly challenged the Rogue Leader of North America. He nearly died that day, but the Goddess was good to him. The boy won and became leader of the most vicious group of rogues to exist.
“But he was not satisfied. Blood was what he wanted, and the blood of his enemy was what he thirsted for. People feared him, feared his capabilities. Except one.” The elder smiled. “Only one person did not fear him like the others; perhaps she was naïve, perhaps she was a fool.”
Low chuckles rippled through the listeners.
“She was the loved one. The one others died to protect, the one who would die for those she cared for.” A long pause. He continued somberly, his eyes turning soft. “She was the one the Goddess had given the vicious boy. The one whose laughter invited others to join in. She was the one who he could never take his eyes off of.”
The elder smiled, baring his teeth, pride and a former savageness glinting in his eyes.
“She was the Rogue Leader’s mate.”
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