The Werewolf [COMPLETE]

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Walking down the paved road, his step was slow and calm. It was the stride of an honest merchant, a moral citizen, a virtuous believer. It was the stride of a man who knew his own importance and his position in the Village. It wasn't the stride of a murderer, it wasn't the face, the body, even the behaviour of a criminal. He knew his gaze appeared straightforward to all, his mouth and the words coming out of it trustworthy, his hands reliable. He seemed to be the perfect gentleman coming back from a walk, a hand negligently in his pocket, whistling a simple and happy tune while his gaze drifted serenely on the buildings around him. It would have been a perfect picture, if only it were drops of wine staining his cotton shirt and not drops of blood. It would have been an even better representation if it were his jacket hanging over his shoulder and not an axe.

The blade of the weapon dripped heavy drops of blood behind him, tracing a long crimson trail from the corpse of the hunted to the body of the hunter. He didn't waste a thought on that matter, he knew that the blood and any possible evidence of the blood on him would be gone in the morning. He was more concerned about her than anything else. He didn't fear for his life, neither the Werewolves nor the Villagers would kill him, he was an asset too valuable for both in the game. He wouldn't kill himself too, he knew he wouldn't betray his identity with a thoughtless comment or a careless action.

But he was worried about her. He saw her, he saw only her. She was always standing in the back, away from every other player. She hadn't searched for a friend, an acquaintance, or even an ally; she couldn't even look at herself. She was taking it, and she was taking it hard. She knew who he was and who he was to her, what he did. She was good, a loving and caring creature, and she was fragile. She couldn't take the guilt, and the fear, and the pain. He wanted to protect her, and he did protect her, but it only worsened her tears and cries. So she stood in the back of the crowd, watching him like everybody else did, but crying unlike everybody else because she knew he was lying, she knew he was killing, and there was nothing she could do against him, for their fates were sealed together. She was going to break and he had to do something to prevent it, to save her life, to save both of their lives.

He had reached his house and his hand was on his door handle when his heart stopped beating. He dragged his eyes around and noticed her, standing a few feet away from him. But it wasn't her deep eyes or her luscious lips that made him lunge forward, but who was behind her, what was behind her.

Roaring like a beast, he charged with the force of a bull on his enemy. His fists beat blow after blow on it, punching a jaw, punching a maw. He swung to his right and to his left, avoiding the attacks, or at least trying to, but he took every blow and he stood up every time, spitting saliva, or a blood, or a tooth, but standing up. He was striking his foe again and again, winning the fight when she cried, when she cried in his back.

He spun around. She gasped but he didn't see her mouth open, nor did he hear her voice. His eyes, and his ears, and his entire body was fixated on his chest, and the hand tearing through his flesh, and fingers grasping his heart.

He collapsed to the ground and she broke down. She screamed, she shouted, she shrieked. She tore her hair out and she ripped her clothes. She bit into her arm to stop crying, to stop feeling. But it didn't stop. She couldn't take the grief. She was crying, crying, crying. Blood flooded her eyes, and she cried tears and tears of blood. She cried until she'd stopped breathing, she cried until she'd stopped living, she cried until she'd stopped feeling.

The White Werewolf had hunted.

A Werewolf was dead. A Villager was dead. The Lovers were dead.