The Killing Moon was lost in the dark.

Starving, hungry, dying.

He knew it was a dream. That much seemed obvious but no matter how he repeated that to himself there was no comfort. He was consumed by his loneliness and the endless pit in his belly. A weakness grew from within him, spreading outwards. And he whimpered.

Whimpered?

A part of him balked at such weakness but he was helpless here, so small, so.... he paused to think, to try sort through the haze of fog that exhaustion and starvation had given him. Killing Moon coiled tighter, a soft ball, little paws tucked in, tiny tail curled around trying to provide warmth.

He was just a pup, no mother, no pack, no family.

How strange. He’d always had a family before. A large one, a tribe, supportive and loving. They’d always been there. Until he’d walked away and found something they could not give him.

But that had been in the waking world, a different life.

He whimpered again.

He was a wolf but he was alone.

No fierce predator here.

No pack to protect him.

And so he would die.

That was a certainty.

But even in the starving young the will to live is strong and The Killing Moon uncurled himself, gathered his strength and began to walk. One exhausting step at a time, with nothing to guide him, just hope and his cries ringing out into the void, waiting for an answer...

And when despair seemed certain, with his snout dragging at the ground and his limbs shaking so much they could no longer carry him, there was a reply.

A howl that called out to him with a message of hope.

And then another, and another, and another.

A whole pack.

They were coming.

Family.

He wasn’t alone.

He sunk, finally letting himself rest.

They arrived from the darkness, questing noses and soft huffs, the brush of gentle tongues, sharing scents and loving gestures. They’d found him. Out here in the dark. No longer abandoned, he yipped happily, filled with new life.

Shadows fled as the sun rose and the presence of his family breathed strength into his limbs, their golden eyes watching with pride as he grew, long limbed and strong, muscled with a wide jaw, ears perked and gaze keen.

The Killing Moon was a wolf, the leader of his pack.

Through the long seasons of heat and snow he led them on the hunt, protecting his family with single-minded determination. There were new pups to care for, his own, and he watched them fondly as they stumbled from the den, blue eyes seeing everything for the first time.

They grew and learnt and more came after them, until one day he wasn’t the strongest anymore.

There was grey on his muzzle and an ache in his limbs.

When the pack moved on, he fell behind.

Instead he lay on the ground, the autumn leaves crinkling under his belly, the cold winds of the coming winter ruffling his fur. Darkness arrived, pooled around him, returned to take what it had been denied oh so long ago.

A whole lifetime wasn’t so bad, The Killing Moon thought. He’d done his very best. His pack would live on. He had no regrets.

And with the softest of sighs, his eyes closed and his chest went still.