They found the canine in the hollow of a dead tree. All ribs and thorns and wide, wild eyes. Not quite a dog, not quite a wolf, and not quite a thing meant to live long.
It had been hurt - badly. Its side wept blood that smelled like rust and old stars. Its legs dragged, its eyes shone with fever. Still, it growled at the hunter’s torchlight, even as it trembled, even as it bled.
No one could touch it. Not with food. Not with kindness. Not even with pity.
Except at night, when the woods went silver, it crept from the hollow. Shaking. Limping. Eyes turned skyward.
Not like the poets love it. Not like dreamers or lunatics.
It loved the moon the way a broken thing loves the one who never dies. Without hope, and without pause.
Some said the moon had kissed the animal once, long ago. That its fur was silver because of her lips. That its wounds refused to close because it refused to stop loving.
The dog never barked. It howled.
A long, keening song meant only for her.
And sometimes, only sometimes, the moon answered.
But the light would shift. The wind would still. The stars would blink slower.
And the dog, trembling, bleeding, broken - would raise its head, and believe that was enough.
Because to be seen by the moon,
to be known by her light,
was the only thing that made the pain worth bearing.
And every night, no matter how much it hurt, it stood.
Because she was beautiful.
And because she would never die.
