Blood moon

Chapter 72. I raised ford

The memories were hard to process now that he was trapped in that hiding place, like a rabbit hole, he felt trapped and at the same time he felt at home. Deep in a shadowy pine forest, under the silvery glow of a full moon, a peculiar figure emerged. George Garroway, a small werewolf of about ten years of age, stood out in the gloom with his steel grey fur and piercing green eyes that glowed with a mixture of fear and determination. His youthful body was full of promise and fragility, but he also bore the marks of past battles in the form of scars barely visible on his skin.

Each week, George's cruel fate dragged him into an arena surrounded by shadowy trees. The ominous murmurs of the crowd echoed in the air as they morbidly watched the tragedy about to unfold. The ground beneath their feet was covered in a mixture of dirt and fallen leaves, soaked in the tense anticipation of what was to come.

George now stood in the centre of the makeshift arena, his muscles tense and his claws partially exposed. Torchlights created distorted shadows around him, dancing on the scars that adorned his young skin. His ragged breathing created small white clouds in the cold air as he awaited his opponent's arrival.

The sound of crunching footsteps on the ground alerted George to the presence of his adversary. Another wolf boy, with dark fur and tired eyes, emerged from the darkness. The two young wolves faced each other, their eyes meeting in a moment of silent understanding before the first lunge broke the air. Growls and howls filled the arena as the two fought with a mixture of innate skill and desperation.

Each blow, each bite, carried with it a charge of visceral pain. George felt claws tear at his skin and teeth bit into his flesh, releasing a mixture of agony and adrenaline that flooded his system. His muscles tensed and flexed in response, fighting fatigue and physical trauma. Each time he was knocked to the ground, he struggled to catch his breath as the cold sand clung to his open wounds.

Despite the intensity of combat, George could not stop his mind from wandering back to simpler, happier times in his life. He remembered the warm rays of sunshine caressing his fur as he played in the meadows, the laughter of other wolf children, and the comforting feeling of safety in his home. But those thoughts were fleeting, quickly replaced by the noise and brutality of reality.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the standoff came to an end. George found himself on the ground, breathing heavily, his muscles trembling with the effort. His opponent, equally fatigued and wounded, staggered back. The crowd let out mixed roars of approval and thirst for more blood, but in those moments, George could only concentrate on the agony pulsing through his body.

George Garroway, the little grey-furred, green-eyed werewolf, stood as a tragic symbol of the cruelty and injustice that sometimes pervade the world. Each week, his struggle for survival left a deeper mark on his tormented soul, but also ignited a spark of hope that one day he might find a way to escape this cycle of suffering and reclaim the life that had been taken from him.

As a child, he had gone through horrible things, enough to kill his father. What he had done to him had scarred him forever. Many years ago, on a night of a full moon, the forest was bathed in a silvery, magical light. The young boy, his green eyes full of innocence, returned home after a bitter defeat in the werewolf battles. His father, a man scarred by life and internal scars, was waiting for him at the door, his face hardened by disappointment and anger.

The air was thick with tension as the boy entered the cabin, his heart pounding with anticipation and fear. The father, his gaze full of disapproval, did not need to say a word. The silence was more deafening than any scream. The boy looked down, feeling a lump in his throat as he struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to well up.

The father's words cut through the air like sharp knives.

—How could you let yourself lose? You are a Garroway, a disgrace to our blood! His words were a mixture of contempt and disappointment, like a gale of pain that battered the boy's heart.

The boy bit his lower lip, struggling to find the right words as tears finally began to slide down his cheeks.

—I tried, Dad. I gave everything I had...— His voice trembled, but the father didn't seem willing to listen.

The father's hand came up quickly, like a flash of anger, and the blow rang through the air. The impact sent the boy staggering backwards, his cheek burning with physical and emotional pain. His tears now flowed unrestrained as his gaze met his father's, laced with fear and an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

—You are nothing but a coward— the father snarled, his voice filled with rage.

—If you can't win, then what are you? What have I raised you for?— His cutting words were like daggers, wounding the boy deeply to the core of his being.

That night, the boy curled up in his bed, hugging his knees to his chest as the pain throbbed in every part of his body and soul. The memory of the look in his father's eyes, a mixture of contempt and disgust, would haunt him long after the tears had ceased.

Despite the hurt inflicted and the hurtful words, the boy could not erase the love he had for his father. He knew there were expectations, pressures, but he also knew there were boundaries he could not cross. Despite his father's cruelty that night, the boy could never murder someone to please him. That experience would become a turning point in his life, shaping his determination and resolve to find his own path, one that did not involve the cruelty and violence his father sought to impose on him.

The pain had always accompanied him, now he felt that things were more difficult. His mother had found the corpses of the warriors of his pack, they were hard men, but not for Hunter, those red eyes made everything complicated, but he was not invincible, luckily for everyone, he had studied all the necessary books or stories about werewolves, the red eyes were solved with pain, a deep pain, the pain of losing his mate, that could motivate him to disappear.

George was ready to use anything at his disposal.