The whole world smelt wrong. The creature that had once been known as born-by-silverlight had not met one of his own kind for many seasons, and did not think he ever would again. He had grown old alone and surrounded by enemies. It had not been a happy life, but he did not want to die.
He had been on the move for more seasons than he could remember, forever moving deeper into the forest. He could never move fast enough to leave the two-legs behind. There were more and more of them each season, spreading like a plague. They had felled trees and fouled streams, killed the prey and burnt the forests.
Eventually he reached the very heart of the dark forest. He relaxed in the dank undergrowth, feeling safe at last. He had neither seen nor smelt the two-legs’ presence. He knew it was only a matter of time before they arrived and ruined what little forest was left, but he was content for the moment. He did not know what he would do without the forest. He did not think of the future.
One night he smelt a familiar scent in the air. He recognised it as one of his people, maybe even one of his tribe. He followed the scent into the wind, tracing it eagerly as it led him deeper into the forest. He ran without caution, without thought or fear or caring. The smell became stronger, and joy rose in his hearts. He burst into a clearing, and the smell was so strong that it seemed to be everywhere.
The corpse of the leader-no-more hung from a tree. His muzzle and claws were covered with the red blood of two-legs, but his limbs hung broken and his torso had been opened to expose his silver muscle. Long strips of his fur had been ripped off, and he hung like dead prey.
Brave-strong-wonder-aged had been strong, even in his old age he had been one of the tribe’s best, but his strength had not been enough. He had been wise, too, wise enough to recognise how dangerous the two-legs were for his people, but his wisdom had meant nothing. If he had been younger he may have led his tribe to a safer place, but he had lost leadership of the tribe, and he had lived the last years of his life as an outcast from his own family. He had died alone, surrounded by enemies, and had been hung from the tree as a warning, or maybe as a trophy.
Born-by-silverlight was startled by his find. He climbed up the tree, sniffing at the corpse and nuzzling at its cold flesh. The body smelt right. It was the last thing that ever would.