Adrian

From the day I was born I was spoonfed the spiel, destined for greatness, opposites and balance, all that. I didn't care. There were few things I cared about then, the people, my family and Felix. It wasn't until our 8th birthday that he spoke directly to me, before I had simply stood by and watched. He was so full of life, dazzling emerald eyes, olive skin, rosy cheeks always full with a smile, dark curly hair. He was like a bumblebee, buzzing happily as flew from person to person, spreading the honey that was his words. He seemed to talk to everyone but I, sitting next to him, watching him over my book. We trained together, ate together, learned together, lived together basically. I saw him, always, yet he never seemed to see me. I would hate him if I could, but I couldn't, no one could. He was epitome of perfect, a master sword fighter, archer, known best for the artwork of his spear. On top of that he was a violinist and pianist and painter and a million different things. At 5 I watched in awe as his spear tip traced perfect lines in the air, swift feet below him, steady. I watched him dive into the lake after training, hair gleaming gold in the sunshine, he surfaced, shaking the water from his hair. The usually silver water seemed to spin out in droplets of gold around Felix, a laughing boy, oblivious to his beauty. I would fly, wind cooling the blush of my cheeks, as I watched the miracle boy run as a wolf cub below me. This is what it means to live.

Felix

I was always told to be perfect, my father expected no less, sometimes it seemed he expected more. "Control is the ultimate power." He lived life by these words, he wanted me to live by them as well. At five I remember kneeling at the base of his throne, I could barely see the outline of his face in my periphery, even if I could stare straight at him, he was always cast in shadow. I do not recall every having seen his face, only the glint of his green eyes, like mine, I feared, eyes identical to mine. I do not remember his words, other thoughts running through my head as I knelt, though they were surely cold, uncaring. I was informed my training would start that day, my childhood was over. In the eyes of my father I was a machine, ready to be built. A stone was handed to me, smooth, a moonstone. I would have protested, but I knew even then it was futile. At five I was not ready to transform, the earliest twelve, but I was my father's son, his heir, an extension of his honor. I would do what was expected.

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I hold my Mother's hand, she is he opposite of my Father, it was from her I got my black curly hair and olive skin, I wonder if my Father wished I was blonde and fair skinned like him. I look into my Mother's eyes, silver, like the moon. I clutch tighter onto her hand. I stare up at the halfmoon, think about my afternoons here, Silver Lake. The water seems to glow tonight, all the wolves gathered, they are here to watch. My Mother leads me towards the center, towards my Father, the should be meters over my head by now. We have reached the center, around us the wolves spin. Circles represent the eternal cycle of the moon, I look up at the halfmoon. Darkness in my right hand, Light in my left, I twist them together and send a spiral staircase to the gods. Alunadro. He descends slowly, I can see barely anything, just a sharp claw reaching towards me. I brace myself, but it is not enough. The closest I have ever felt to this is burning, even then it hurts more than the flames ever did. Pure power is poured into my veins, they trace gold lines across my shifting palms. The smooth skin blends into fur. I let loose a roar of pain. My Father's hand clench tight around me, holding me up for all to see, a pulse of gold energy is sent throughout and absorbed. The waters are still, wolves gone back to the forests they call home. Carelessly I am handed to my Mother and my Father transforms, emerging from the water as a wolf the size of a horse, then bounding off into the night.