The Moon, She Calls Me Home

He should--he can’t be doing this. He’s a werewolf, he’s dangerous, this is dangerous, for him, for everyone he might encounter. He can’t control himself. But he feels in control. He feels powerful and strong and wild. But not wild in an out of control way, wild in the way wolves are wild. Independent, untamed, confident, even under all his anxiety. He is a wolf, this is his world, this is his grass. This is where he belongs. Not locked up in a basement, not chained and behind bars. Here, out here, in the moonlight, in the night breeze, with the grass under his paws. He takes a step towards the trees. The shadows are beckoning him. Calling him like friends, the leaves rustle, whispering of all the games they could play, how far he could run, how loud he could be without worrying Dream at all. He takes another step. Another. He’s walking, trotting, running. He’s free.