A Bond of Fate and Blood (BL)

Damien had always been told that when he met his mate for the first time, he would immediately know them as his intended, beyond the shadow of a doubt. For most of his life, he even believed it.

Damien wasn't a hopeless romantic by any means, but he'd always wanted to meet his destined mate. Not because he wanted to fall in love, but because he felt a constant longing in his soul, an emptiness that ached and yearned to be known, to belong, and he knew of no other way to ease that anguish. Normally, a wolf wouldn't feel mate-longing so keenly, not until they had met their fated companion, but Damien's situation wasn't exactly normal. After all, at the tender age of nine years old, every single one of his pack bonds had been severed, and ever since that day, there was a part of him constantly aching to restore that connection.

In most cases, an abandoned pup of that age would have died, or become feral. Damien had been fortunate, though, because he had been discovered only a few days after the incident. He'd been a wreck, wandering lost and aimless, still in shock after witnessing the senseless butchery of his whole family. When he'd been approached by a human, he'd reacted badly, still reeling from the knowledge that he was all alone in the world.

He'd been a wild thing, full of terror and rage. But the kindly witch who found him had paid his viciousness no heed. She had knelt beside him, held out her arms to him, and embraced him, even as he howled and shouted, holding his tiny body until rage-filled snarls turned to pathetic whimpers, and finally, gut-wrenching sobs. From that day forward, the little old woman did her best to raise him and care for him. However, despite all of her knowledge and skills in the arcane arts, there was only so much she could do to protect a growing werewolf from the curse of his heritage. Being human, she had no way to speak to him when the full moon drew his inner monster forth. In a pack, werewolves could work together to control the wildness of their monstrous forms. Under the light of the full moon, they ran and hunted - they even played, sometimes, with the pups who were full of boundless energy.

Damien had none of this, being the last of his pack. Every full moon, Damien suffered greatly without a pack to keep him sane. Worse, he became a danger to his loved ones during that monthly transformation as the curse took hold. And so, year after year, month after month, when the full moon was upon him, Damien found himself locked in a dark, damp cellar, scratching fruitlessly at the walls and snarling through snapping teeth until moonset heralded an end to his torment.

Perhaps it was those lonely nights that made Damien so desperate to find his true mate. He hated to be alone, to suffer in lonely anguish, to know that there was nothing that anyone could do for him. When he'd first come home with the kind old witch, he'd been too young to understand why she would lock him in the cellar every month. He was older now, but even at twenty years of age, it still stung him to be shooed into the dark, cold room. His skin still prickled every time he heard the lock turn, every time a pulse of warding magic made the hair on his arms and neck stand up. He supposed he should be grateful - the witch definitely had enough herbs and poisons at her disposal to put a very permanent end to his moon-curse, but instead of killing him, she had chosen to care for him despite his affliction.

The witch was like that, though. She'd not only taken him in, but also cared for a demon-cursed young woman whom she called 'daughter' with the same fondness that she called Damien 'son'. The three of them lived together in a small cottage that lay deep in the center of a magic wood. There, the witch worked her magic in peaceful harmony with nature, pausing only on the occasion when someone - human or otherwise - came to her for assistance. Be they seeking good or evil, healing or harm, the witch showed no preferential treatment. She worked with equal care and efficiency no matter how wonderful or terrible the request.

Damien had asked her, once, why she chose to offer awful curses and deadly poisons to people who were certain to use them for ill means. She had laughed at the question, and had asked him, "Are you so certain that their intentions will achieve the desired result? A potent poison in the right hands may end the life of an unfair tyrant, and a healing poultice in the wrong hands may return to life that which was never meant to survive."

Damien had frowned at that, not sure he understood. "So… evil people use good things for evil? And good people use evil things for good?" He'd asked.

The little old woman had huffed in amusement, and shook her head. "Not as such," she answered. "It's more simple than that - all magics pluck at the strings of fate, and anyone who dares meddle in the affairs of such a fearsome figure must be prepared for unexpected consequences." She had reached over and ruffled his hair then, asking, "And what of you, little pup? Are you prepared for the consequences of your own fate?"

Damien had considered that question many times over in the years that followed. It was true that without her help, he would have died, either alongside the rest of his pack, or at the hands of hunters who cared naught for a feral wolf-child. Whatever happened from the point she had embraced him and called him 'son' was surely an unlikely twist of fate. He'd always believed that it was a trick of luck that spared him the pain of dying. That the witch coming to him in his time of greatest need had been a boon, a blessing.

Now, though, he thought that perhaps it was not fortune that had led him to the kindly witch, but rather, a terrible curse. It was exactly as she had said. Her presence in his life was a healing poultice lain upon a creature who was never meant to survive.

Damien could feel the blood in his veins turning to ice, he could feel the mocking laughter of fate gazing down on him with every beat of his heart. He'd always been told that when he met his destined mate for the first time, he would know it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Why, then, had he only recognized his mate at the time of their second meeting?

And why, of all the people in the realm, was he the very monster who had slain Damien's pack in cold blood?