Brought to his knees before the kingdom after ten years of hiding, Kyros believed that he would be sentenced to death for the murder of his pack. His sentence would mean the end of it all - his torment, his abuse, his turmoil.
But his destiny change...
The absence of birds was astounding, save for the haunting cry of the lone crow that echoed intermittently through the forest. It seemed to be lost here, like it didn't belong in the land of bones, isolated from others of its kind.
But unlike the birds of the air, Kyros found isolation to be a marvelous thing.
It was where his mind held him captive. It was where his darkest secrets were freed.
It was where his actions against himself, he believed, were the only form of justice given.
Because when nobody was watching, Kyros became a beast. A monster. A being against his own self. Sometimes, he thought about turning himself in.
He was a wanted man.
And he thought of himself as a coward for not being able to. He knew he needed to pay for what he had done. Thousands of people were seeking justice, and thousands of people wanted to avenge those he killed by shedding his blood.
And he knew what they would do to him if he was caught if he turned himself in.
It wasn't pretty.
His back hit the rough tree, and he leaned against it. He needed to get his mind off of such looming, heavy topics and he knew just the way to do it.
"Oblivion awaits you, beast. I wish to extinguish you in the very same way you extinguished my life. My family." He spoke aloud, gritting his teeth in anger. So much anger.
He took a knife out of his pocket. It was such a beautiful weapon, made of pure silver and as reflective as glass. It wasn't by any means a perfect blade, it was twisted, bent, and marred. Marred with dents and shadows which shaded and overlapped the sharpest parts of the knife.
It could speak of tails of survival and stories which told of the darkest struggles of life.
Why did it have to be this way?
The cold, burning touch of the blade met his wrist. The jagged, sharp edge slipped along his epidermis, threatening to puncture. Threatening to sink deep into the flesh and mar his skin.
Threatening to put his wolf in a slumber for eternity.
But that was indeed the purpose of his intentions. The beast inside him was an insidious creature, he believed. An insidious creature that needed to be caged. Destroyed. Executed. Harmed.
His hand shook as he gripped the rough, dirty handle of the knife. Every ounce of what he was screamed at him not to do it. Silver was a deadly thing to his kind.
But it had yet to completely kill the beast within him.
And for a moment, he could hear the agonizing screams of his many victims. He could taste the strong tang of blood on his tongue again. Children's wide eyes terrified and begging for mercy. His friend's faces. His friend's death. His mother's warm embrace came to mind. And what had he done?
He had murdered her. Just like he had done to the rest of his pack. She didn't deserve it. None of them deserved it.
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glowing blade. It stared back at him, distorted and marred, broken and haunting. His black, curly hair fell over his ears and his jawline was peppered in a faint shadow of short, stubby whiskers.
And his eyes.
His eyes, which usually boasted their light green color, had turned to liquid silver. Glowing and glittering brightly like the stars that twinkled in the night sky.
The silver hue told him that his wolf had awakened and was now staring back at him.
"I hate you." He whispered darkly.
His eyes only glowed with more intensity as he raised the blade of the knife and slashed his arm over and over again. Blood oozed from the severed veins, running down the length of his arm before dripping to the ground. It stained the leaves below him as it collided with the earth and created small puddles.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
His blood fell intermittently at first, then more steadily as he deepened his wounds.
"I hate you!" He screamed this time, his pained, rough voice echoing through the forest and the stony mountains. Still, the hot blade cut his flesh. Still, he tore into his arms and marred his delicate skin in an attempt to free the wolf from his existence. In an attempt to free himself.
But it was no use.
His breathing deepened and became labored and loud. The gaping slashes wound their way up his arms and down his wrists before twisting into a jagged, ugly pattern that would scar him for eternity.
With a cry, he slid down the nearby tree and fell to the ground in a bed of dead, dry leaves. He clutched his wrist in his hand and squeezed as he threw his head back against the rough trunk. White clouds fell from his mouth each time he exhaled and his chest moved up and down, matching the rhythm of his heart. His whole body seemed to be quaking.
His blood dripped onto his legs, staining his pants and seeping through the material. It was such a dark, deep color, and the more he squeezed the more he wished the life of the wolf inside of him would bleed out with it.
The more he wished his life would bleed out with it.
The knife which he held in his shaking hand was stained with his blood, and when his reflection stared back at him, solemn and detached, he stilled.
His eyes were no longer aglow with silver.
Only a man, a human, a broken being stared back at him. Emotion raw and naked before his very eyes.
"I hate you."
This time, he was talking to himself.
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