The Warrior

The moon again.
The full moon.
The full moon at midnight.

A faintly familiar feeling of melancholy surged through him. Why, this has happened before. As he stood outside, under the eerily irradiating moon while the neighbourhood was submissively submerged in Sandman's sleepy spell, images of a distant past blurred his vision.

On nights like these, he was fully conscious of his true identity.

He knew, full well too, that once morning came this knowledge would desert him, leaving him to mingle and move about with the humans- the creatures he lived among but never truly belonged. But right now was the moment of realization. He could see it clearly. There was a time when he was among his true kinsmen, fighting like the fighter he truly was.

A time not of this life.
A time of several lives he had lived before.
Ages, centuries ago.

A time deeply embedded in the murky depths of the past. When in the perpetual war for existence, he was the bravest warrior. The days when his quarry could never, even for a moment, delude himself with the notion of escaping him. The days when adrenaline pumped through him as he knew that his each move decided the survival and sustenance of his clan.
The warrior clan whom he now knew (till morning) he belonged to.
The clan whom Time had tricked into defanging.
And here he was now.

In an overwhelming wolfish agony, he held his muzzle up and howled at the moon. As a neighbour's window swung open and the words, "Shut up, ya damned dog!" sounded across the lawns, poor Spike dolefully entered his kennel to recline.