The Law for the Wolves

The title is taken directly from Rudyard Kipling, as is the quotation below. I own nothing, except for my imagination. (Lots and lots of thanks again to my beta, Rose)

Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need and ye can;
But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill man. - Rudyard Kipling "The Law for the Wolves"

~~~~

It is dark. The only light is that which reflects off fading pools of stagnant water and the distorted moonlight which gathers in the tangles of your ebony hair.

The street is isolated. The grim darkness blocks off any routes by which you could hope to escape. You sit there, knees hugged up to your grubby chin. Bony fingers curl in desperation around legs, patterned with white trophies from the time on the streets.

A lamp flickers; a sign of hope, or a sign of how things never were. The damp of the cobbled pavement is rising into your bones. Your skin, stretched tight over your unfed body, quivers as the cold envelops you.

The street screams. Its well past midnight and the wind is picking up. It echoes as it buffets around sullen corners, and its icy tendrils filter through your filthy hair. I see your steady expression falter as footsteps explode through the lifeless night.

You push your body into rubbish strewn gutters, body blending perfectly with the grimy stone walls of the buildings which tower over you, emphasising your insignificance in this rotting world.

The buildings along this forgotten street are empty. No black smoke is forced out in stinking clouds because this street is dead.

Those footsteps are getting closer, and your hand reaches out, shuffling through piles of waste until they retrieve an object.

You hold it up to your face, the fading light of the dying lamp gleams against sharp edges, revealing a smashed glass bottle with deathly broken sides.

I watch as your breathing hitches, your heart beats unceasingly. I can smell your fear.

You have every right to be afraid.

Despite weakened bones you push yourself up, holding onto jutting bricks, as a figure becomes visible to you in the swampy gloom.

As you stand, I notice your bare feet and shredded trousers. The earth is destroying you, eating away at your body and your mind.

The creature approaches; two feet, standing straight, but you do not see a man.

You see a hunter.

You leap with force, driving your weapon deep into his flesh, flailing with wasted muscles. But there is nobody.

A phantom and nothing more.

I do like to play with you child. Are you having fun?

This street does not exist, not for anybody but you. As you collapse to the ancient cobbled ridges you place your face in your palms, rocking yourself backwards and forwards...

Backwards

Forwards

Backwards

Forwards

Like some child being sung a lullaby by their loving mother. I see strange droplets dripping through your stained fingers as they entomb your eyes.

I'm surprised you still know how to cry.

Do you remember your name, little child? Or has this street stolen that from you as well?

Watch the way the buildings block the sunlight when it reappears on the horizon, casting shadows onto your shuddering form. There is no light in this street. There is no life in this street.

It is dark.

And now I'm fed up of watching, and I'm taking the game to a whole new level. Raising my head to the sky, I howl and the air around me quivers. I have power, child, whereas you have none.

I pounce. And next time the moon rises, the real pain will begin.

Welcome to the hunt.