The Werewolf and his Friend

Blood, sweat and pain

Zero:
Blood, sweat and pain. That's all this cemetery smelt like with Markus here, like this.

I knew that what I did was cruel and horrible and so like me, but it was hard to watch that beast locked up inside of him, banging and snarling at the bars for so long. 

Through his crimson, bloodshot eyes I could see the creature's misery and hunger being suppressed for many moons.

They say the eyes are a gateway to the soul. That would be true if he had a soul.

Sprawled out, naked in the dust, putting droll everywhere, making the dirt cling together from his blood.

He couldn't keep hiding from it. The stench of wolf was in the air. It was obvious to me when I first walked in on the job, the place reaked of it. It was his territory and he knew it. I'm amazed he managed to keep it inside even for this long.

Even with artifical suppresants, a nature of that kind should have been an impossible task for such a human like him.

He was constantly in the corner of my eye that night. But I was nothing but a stick to him. He wanted meat and flesh, not anything I had to offer. His eyes remind me so much of Markus. Red. Always red. Unnatural colour for a human.

When they came, it was midnight. Team Wilder- minus the heavy weight. Made it so much easier. Two little children taking a night stroll in the forest when they meet a big bad wolf and his pale friend. Friend. Not a term that I have never in all my many years, used once.

I didn't have friends. I didn't need friends. I didn't want friends.

I stood next to his towering muscular body. Never something Markus will ever have as a human. His fur pricked, focused eyes and ears vigilant as it suveyed the landscape.

I could smell them attempting to get past the werewolves' defence system. Foolish amateurs, but they attempted anyway.

If it were me, I would have been a streak of shadow behind him and before he knew it there would be a sword sticking through where there wasn't before.

A stick popped under their feet and his face snapped, eyes narrowed, shoulders hunched, ears pointed, nose in the air. I watched as the small shadows in the darkness stalked us.

That night, blood was shed. I was to guard him no matter what he did. I was his ghost. His shadow. I followed him everywhere. Like the slayers of old before us, his tracks were a chain bound to me, by me.

When the tiger leaped at him I stopped it. When the snake attempted to fang him, I stood in its way.

I don't know whether the attackers recognized me or not, perhaps my speed surpassed even the heightened reflexes of the two animals.
But what they did recognize was a dark band around the top part of the beast's arm. A torc. Something limited only to the small population of slayers and hunters. The moonlight shone on it, it illuminated my face.

When they gave up they had too much blood on their faces for me to not care for. My lungs filled it in. My nostril flared for it. My mouth watered for it.

When Markus turned and ran into the distance again, I had to resist temptation and follow.

This was my doing, it was my task. No distractions.