1 Chapter 1: History of Hate

The brief backstory that I'm about to give you is what most of the ignorant humankind rule out as a myth alongside the sorts of 'Little Red riding hood'; the type of story that they tell their kids who believe they've hit their rebellious stage and are curious enough- stupid enough- to want to venture into the woods.

But for us werewolves, this is a legend; one that still haunts and threatens lives- my life specifically:

A long time ago, for reasons as unknown as the baseless feud between 'Capulets and Montagues', there was a war between the most powerful of the werewolf kind, the black-furred wolves (the Nightmares) and the pure white wolves (the arctics).

And even though the war had ended many years ago, the story was singed into ever wolf-cub's memory like a nursery rhyme meant to act as a reminder and to pass on the fuels of hate and hostility to the generations that followed:

'The werewolf war had painted the Unknown World red

Where every werebeast was forced to pick sides or die

Both sides marched towards victory but to death, they were led

But the Moon Goddess said nothing from her place in the sky

This savage war wasn't fought with guns or knives

But every werewolf had killed with every scratch and bite,

Humans caught in the woods became food supply and lost lives

Lurking, waiting, ready to strike, the black wolves' advantage was, blending in the shadows of the night.

With such a disadvantage in the woods, the white wolves decreased in number and size

But when the snow came, the black wolves could no longer hide,

And the white wolves had camouflage as their advantage but instead of revenge, they chose to be wise

So the Arctics struck a treaty with the other side.

Many werewolves had died but mankind faced the greatest casualties

If such a war would repeat itself, it will bring chaos that both worlds will not withstand

So the deal was made to separate them, both Arctic and Nightmare werewolves would mark their territories.

And if any werewolf from the other side was unfortunate enough to be found wandering on the other's land.

Was to be done with as the other pleased

Or instantly killed without hesitation

Hostility seemed to be the only way to peace in the Unknown Nations.'

. . . . . . . . . .

For every human child who asked, 'What was the purpose of this dark imitation of a nursery rhyme?'

The answer their parents give them is usually something along the lines of, "this is the reason why werewolves and the woods should be feared and avoided,"

And although that answer is very true, for me, however, this was the reason why I was stuck with two options for my life:

Either, remain invisible, and take my secret to my grave,

Or, get exposed, and let my secret take me to my grave.

A white wolf, risking the danger of discovery just by being born in black wolf territory.

. . . . . . . . . .

I was an accident.

No, not the type of accident most associate with birth;

In fact one upon a time- Before me- my parents were a happy couple, and even happier at the anticipation of a child. I know this because, even now, left in the untouched corners of my room, sat piles of untouched, long-discarded baby toys and wolf-cub play bits; all promises of a loving childhood for the baby, the wolf-cub, they were expecting. Not for me; I was something far down from what they were expecting.

My parents were both respected Nightmare wolves and even prouder members of the Shadow pack; notoriously one of the largest and most powerful of the werewolf packs, who harbored hatred for arctic wolves, so great, it bordered on obsession.

So you can imagine the gruesome shock my parents received at my birth; something that could only be described as the Moon Goddess sick idea of a joke- at the expense of my life.

I was born in werewolf form, which was unusual enough for black wolves but when my mother first laid eyes on my pure white fur- white, not black- she had to grapple with the sick notion that her child was an Arctic- Not a Nightmare- Not hers- Not possible.

She didn't pick me up. No. she just shook her head in denial; then she screamed; then she fainted.

My father's reaction was worse. He'd come in at the sound of my mother's scream, worried but hopeful.

But when he saw me, saw what I was, something broke in him; something that would never revive itself again.

Instantly a twisted version of his senses kicked in and he roughly grabbed my wolf-cub body. Fisting my fur he dragged me outside and tried everything to change the colour of my fur; drowning me in a bath of black paint, trying to dye my fur, black, then grey, brown, gold, silver, anything, any colour than white.

But to no avail, the white still stayed.

He'd reached a madness that exceeded denial or desperation when he'd picked up a razor. My eyes widened and I heard the buzz of it as he brought it towards me…

Almost unconsciously bones slipped, slid, and reconstructed themselves. And right before his eyes, before he could pry the fur of my skin, the wolf was gone, folded into itself until only a crying, shaking baby was left staring at the razor.

His face contorted from wide-eyed horror to undisguised disgust.