The Song Of The Wolf, written by Pien Pouwels.

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© Pien Pouwels

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Thousands of years ago, there lay a land in ancient Greece called Arcadia. During a time that gods stepped down from mount Olympus to indulge in human delights, King Lycaon had his reign.

Lycaon was a man of impeccable intellect who introduced a high level of culture and civilisation to his land. He ordered the erection of temples and forced his beliefs upon the commoners, obliging them to worship Zeus as the supreme deity.

He was a King of greedy essence and knew no limits to his quest for authority; his assertion of dominance. Proof of this were the many women with whom he'd sired twelve sons. The young royals were widely regarded as wicked, and the common folk didn't dare to play ducks and drakes with them. Mortals were easily seduced by the charms of wealth and luxury. Which became apparent among the gods when Lycaon and his sons began to neglect the care of their people.

Zeus himself decided to put Lycaon to the test. Dressed in the rags of a poor peasant, he travelled down from Olympus and knocked on the palace doors, begging for food and shelter. Lycaon figured out his visitor's true identity and welcomed him, accommodating him generously. Blinded by his own arrogance, the King committed a dire crime. In cahoots with his eleven other sons, Lycaon served the youngest of the brood as a roasted dish, to give the god proof of his faith and the sacrifices he was willing to make.

Realising what had been placed on the table, Zeus raged against his host, filled with wrath at the death of an innocent baby. The supreme god was known far and wide as merciless, but never without reason. He cursed King Lycaon and the rest of his sons to take on the forms of giant wolves. He resurrected the youngest son –now as a grown man– and named him the new King of Arcadia.

Not having foreseen the outcome of his actions, the almighty god had made a dreadful mistake. By going against the laws of nature, the youngster's soul had become misformed, more sinister than his predecessor's had ever been. The new King sentenced his father and eleven brothers to death, planning to give them a taste of their own medicine by offering their flesh to the gods. Hell-bent on hunting the wolves down, he sent assassins after them.

The creatures proved too fast, their size and enhanced senses no fair opponent to meek humans. With luck on their side, they escaped Arcadia, each of them fleeing to a distinct part of the world to keep their whereabouts a secret.

Time passed without a sign of the Lycanthropes, as they were now referred to. Due to the lack of sightings, their existence morphed into myths and left whispers on the tongues of many.

In the year 132, a nude, unconscious stranger was found on the island of Hibernia.

The creature appeared human but looked different from the Hibernians, the Celts that had discovered him. The crucial difference being his eyes, which were glowing like brilliant, topaz gemstones even in daylight. His skin was rock hard, making it impervious to sharp objects. He had two, almost fang-like incisors, and seemed deaf to the concept of human language. The only manifestations of communication that escaped his mouth were animalistic growls.

In fear of the man, the Celts took him to their elder; a powerful druid. The druid communicated with him through mind link –an enigma that only few knew how to decrypt.

The man, who went by the name of Maccon, told the druid of his heritage, his relation to Lycaon. As a testament of his regret, Zeus had gifted the Lycanthropes the ability to shift back into their human form.

Unlike the 'monster' that history had labelled them to be, the Celts discovered Maccon to have a good heart. They offered him refuge in exchange for his services. It was an offer he accepted.

Like a regular group of wolves, Lycanthropes lived, slept and hunted in packs. Their predatory behaviour was typical of the common wolf, not beneath the occasional nocturnal raid on local sheep or cattle herds. After changing back into a man, evidence of their lupine adventure would persist. If wounded, the injury would heal over time and following a successful kill, the telltale scarlet of blood would stain their skin.

Of the eleven original Lycanthropes –each with their own pack– only three packs remained, led by direct descendants: Maccon, Orvin and Brun. Alongside them, there were tens upon hundreds of halfbloods, quarterbloods and even relatives with less of the shapeshifting DNA. Though they all had one thing in common: a dominant Lycan-gene that could only be passed on to male offspring.

Maccon was the leader of his pack, a group of a dozen Lycans that had been travelling around ancient Europe in search of a haven, a place where people did not chase them with torches and pitchforks. The tiresome journey had taken them from the mountains of Francia, over the Britannic Ocean, across Britannia and to Hibernia –where they had shifted back to their human forms and collapsed with exhaustion. In their moment of vulnerability, the Celts had found the unconscious Maccon whilst the other Lycans hid from sight.

Once the agreement between Maccon and the Celts reached their ears, the members of Maccon's pack arrived to the village in large numbers. The Celts named them Faoladh, which was later translated in old English as Werewulf.

Word got out of the half man-half wolves living with the Celts. Soon, more Lycanthropes arrived. All having heard of the Utopian island where their congeners were treated like guardian angels. In the light of Maccon having claimed Hibernia as his territory, the new arrivals had two choices: leave and remain in their own pack or stay and join Maccon's. The majority chose the latter, and so the pack grew rapidly.

The collaboration between the Celts and their protectors made them untouchable to those who meant harm. In times of war, the Lycans were recruited by the Hibernian kings.

Despite their never-ending triumph, glory and inexplicable abilities, there was one thing they did not know the true meaning of: the universal language of love.

Only the strongest of women could bear their children. Yet, they could not make them fall in love, for it was against a Lycan's nature to do so. Until the powerful druid presented them with the greatest gift of all; a soulbond.

It was defined as a spiritual marriage of souls. The perfect match of a female human and a Lycanthrope, chosen by fate. To make finding one's soulbond easier, they were attracted to one another by smell and appearance, lured in like a moth to a flame. Once they had found their other half, their heart strings would connect and establish the match.

To complete the bond, the Lycan would have to claim their bond by sinking their wolf's canines into the crease between one's neck and shoulder. The couple would have to finalise their unity in the most intimate of ways. After finishing this stage, they would be able to sense the other's presence and emotions; feel each other's pain and die when the other did. Still, there was no guarantee the human mate would survive giving birth to hybrid children.

By then, Maccon had been crowned the King of Lycanthropes –the rare, obsidian shade of his fur distinguishing him from the rest. Unlike his wolf brothers, he did not care for the concept of love; he cared about his pack and that alone. And so, the druid presented him with a separate gift: a Childbearer.

A human woman selected on the basis of her bodily capacity to carry and bear the strongest of Lycanthrope-infants; to ensure the royal bloodline will never cease to exist. Similar to the soulbond female, the Childbearer –too– would be chosen by fate, and was identifiable by the violet colour of her eyes.

For generations, they lived in harmony alongside the Celts. The soulbond mates, and the Childbearers a grand success. Although Maccon's descendants came to discover the druid had not been completely truthful with their ancestor, for the royal heirs could love; platonic and familial love. Instinctual affection, such as the love of a parent towards offspring and vice versa.

Their lives were peaceful until a terrible war between the Celts of Hibernia and the powerful Roman occupiers of Britannia broke out. The era of torches, pitchforks and misery had returned, and the Lycanthropes were once again forced to flee.

Throughout history, cultures spanning the globe have spun their own folklore about Lycanthropes, tales that blur the line between reality and fantasy. Up to the present day, nobody knows where the truth lies, whether the existence of Lycanthropes is nothing more than a myth; whether they have gone extinct or whether they have managed to blend in with human crowds.