1965

Big and yellow and round like the sun, yet so absolutely different at the same time, he belongs to her. She watched him, like a malicious eye in the dark sky, yet he didn't dare to look back up at her. He was scared, he was terrified, yet he refused to show it to anyone. She's the only one who can make him feel such things and he knows that no one can know how much she affects him despite the obvious.

He's a werewolf, she's the moon.

The night was cold, and a chilling breeze brushed the grey hair that covered his animalistic features gently, the same way a loving mother would stroke her son's hair carefully. She was with him and she protected him for she is the mother of all dark creatures and has held him in her arms ever since he was bitten, and he embraced it for only she cares for him and only she still matters in his life. The Moon and the Night are all that have mattered for decades now.

The cottage towards which he was heading was small and cozy for a family of four, two loving parents, two beloved children, a girl and a boy, both too innocent to know what he did yet both too old to understand what he is.

He's the monster whom their parents warn them about in stories.

The darkness licked at his skin as he crawled, as he crawled like a beast through the soft, green grass, feeling its dew against the grey hair in the shape of droplets of cold water, and he let it cool him down before the murderous act he was about to commit. He needed to empathy and he needed no mercy for he adored the moment of pure euphoria that came next, and he knew how people would loathe him for this but he cared not, for it was his mission and his own desire—to destroy lives and make them aware of the horror going on outside their small haven of peace.

The window to the little girl's bedroom was open. He knew about her, he'd done his researches; she was not more than five years of age and was the cutest and brightest little thing their parents had ever seen. Her name was Accalia and she was her parents' pride and joy.

He climbed, silently, and he smelled, he engulfed himself already in the odour of her flesh that smelled of milk and silk, and the taste of her blood was already there even if he hadn't touched her yet, like sweet wine upon which he would feast. He crawled through the window, landed soundlessly in the bedroom, and stood in the tenebrous darkness where he knew she would see nothing more than his eyes of gold.

"Accalia,"he whispered, like he did every time, like he did just two nights ago with little Remus,"Accalia."

Her small, innocent, delicious body stirred in her sleep and slowly, she emerged, glancing around tiredly for the voice, so soft yet so deep that had roused her. She found the golden irises amidst the shadows, and she stared, soundlessly, unmoving and scared for she did not know what they represented.

"Who are you?"she whispered, and her voice was so gentle, he felt he might melt and not resist the envy and delight of the wait.

"I am the night and the moon and the shadows,"he replied, and she sat up in her large blankets, now more attentive,"I am the stars and the melancholy and the tears of twilight."

"Are you a ghost?"she asked quietly, and he chuckled smoothly,"Can you show yourself?"

"If I revealed myself,"he whispered,"you would scream, and wake everyone up."

"Are you a monster?"she inquired, now more curious than ever,"Is that it? A monster? I'm not afraid of you, I won't scream."

"Do you promise?"he asked, and he could almost feel his heart pound in his chest as the overwhelming sense of hunger and thirst overpowered any other emotions, and once she nodded, he stepped out of the shadows and grinned at her, the same way every monsters grin at their victims before to eat them.

She gasped, yet remained silent, and it was only when he pounced that she tried to scream, but it was too late, her throat was ripped out and soon there was nothing more than blood covered sheets and a sanguinolent, broken body in a little girl's bed.

And the parents did not even hear a thing, and only tomorrow would their see the mess, if their son did not already wake up.

Now Lowell was different and older by five years; he already understood most things in life and lived it like most little boys did, outside in the broad daylight with his friends, playing games and discovering what was to be discovered all while keeping a certain innocence so typical to ten year old boys. He had been awoken by his sister's faint cry yet wasn't certain whether he had dreamed it or not, and was therefore weary once the werewolf stepped into the bedroom, resembling a creature right out of the pits of hell, fur matted with dripping blood and teeth bared for the boy to see them glisten in the silver moonlight, while his eyes shone brighter than the sun and his heart drummed louder than the gallops of horses against hard ground.

Lowell turned the light on in what would perhaps be his last act of bravery, and he watched the monster for an instant, betraying no sounds of fear nor pain, simply anger, hatred, almost as if unaware as he was, he still believed himself to be in a dream. And the werewolf laughed and stared, and knew that he could not kill this boy, and he knew he needed to do something so much worse to him.

The chastisement of lycanthropy was by far the greatest and mightiest of all pains, and Greyback simply knew that Lowell did not deserve the sweet relief of death.

And thus he bit him, right at the hip, right where he had bitten little Remus and little Olcan and little Ralph and little Sylvia previously, where the skin was the softest and tastiest and where he knew would be the most painful, and then he ran, for Lowell screamed in agony and the hastened footsteps of his parents echoed across the small cottage.

It was only when he was much further away that he heard the horrified cries of the woman and the broken sobs of the father, as the little boy suffered and begged for a merciless relief that would never come.

(written by kencbi)