Title: Big Bad Wolf
Character(s): Red Riding Hood/Big Bad Wolf
Folklore: German
Rating: G
Summary: The Wolf laments his lost love.



The wolf had followed her all the way home, and was now standing in the yard, staring back at her through the window that she watched him from. He didn't come anywhere nearer to her than the yard; he could smell the wolf's bane, but it's not what kept him away from the house proper. He gave no indication that he was going to leave, having not moved from that spot since he had stopped there, hours earlier ... the same spot where he had stood on those nights for so many months.

He was far larger than any normal wolf, standing upright (coming up over six feet), and having a vaguely human feel to the way that he stood. He had only ever come and stood in her yard on the nights of the full moon, letting her see him as the wolf, making sure that she knew that he was there. She had never feared the human, but he had always known that the idea of the wolf had terrified her, had always known that that was the reason why something had always come up when the full moon was near (where she would have to leave, and stay away for a few days). It didn't seem to matter to her that really, the phases of the moon had absolutely nothing to do with when he changed (since he could change whenever the mood took him), but she seemed to have taken the old folk tales to heart, and believed what they told her (even if the vast majority of it was just superstition, and didn’t effect anything).

So many time he had tried to explain to her how much he loved her, but he could never seem to find the right words, and he was always left with a feeling that she never really understood him ... that she had never really believed him. And no matter how many times she said that she didn't mind his wolfie nature, she always seemed to say it a little too quickly, as though she hadn't really considered it ... as though she hadn't really thought about what it meant. And when she had said that she loved him, he had always had the feeling that she was actually in love with the idea of love (and who those feelings were pointed toward didn't really matter). But he hoped, he wanted her feelings to be real; he was desperate that she should feel the same way about him that he had felt about her. He was desperate to have his feelings truly reciprocated from her, and was willing to ignore everything else ... no matter how many times his mind made sure to warn him that this couldn't end any way but badly.

And then, one day, it happened: she broke his heart. He had finally screwed up his courage to tell her everything about his wolf side (the truth and the lies), and to show her what a wolf really looked like. She looked terrified when he put the idea past her, as though by showing her, he would somehow loose control and harm her in some way. He tried to calm her nerves, talking himself into believing that her reaction meant nothing in the grander scheme of things, that as soon as she saw that there was nothing to fear, everything would be fine.

But that's not how it happened. As soon as he changed, she began to scream bloody murder, trying to get away from him as quickly as possible. He tried to show her that there was nothing wrong, that everything was fine. But the more he tried, the worse it seemed to make the whole situation. The closer he came to her, the harder she tried to get away from him. Then, as soon as she was able, she laid hands on a poker from the fireplace and started to hit him anywhere that she could, as many times as she could. The closer he got, the more frantically she hit at him, bringing howling moans of pain from him.

Finally, he had enough, and he backed away from her. He stood several feet away, staring at her, her eyes wide, and the poker ready for yet another salvo (if he were so unwise as to come near her again). Seeing her like this, he knew that it would always be this way; she would never really accept him; those folk beliefs, no matter how untrue they really were, were to much a part of her.

So, he turned and left her there; left her with that terrified look on her face; left all of the dashed hopes that he had, and the love that could have been. But he came back every full moon, and stood outside her home. He doubted that she really understood the real reason why he did it (that she had crushed him, and wanted her to remember that); she looked too frightened every time that she saw him there to really have comprehended any of it.

Hours later, long after she had fallen asleep in the chair that she had brought next to the window, he left. Going back to where he had placed his clothes, he put them back on, and proceeded to the leave the town completely. He was finished. There was no point in continuing to try to make her understand something that she never would, and to continue to try to force it was only a waste of his life.

He would waste no more.