The boy was shoved into the center of the circle, people crowding around to prevent him from trying to escape. Frenzied brown eyes stared out at them as he scrambled to his feet and looked around desperately at the sea of hostile faces. There was no one here who would help him. No one would give shelter to a werewolf.
A stone was thrown by one small boy, who was immediately restrained. This was not the time for such a judgment. The werewolf had been caught; now he would be beaten until he was unable to move and tied to a tree on the outskirts of the village boundaries. In the middle of the forest was a tree that had been traditionally used for such executions for as long as anyone could remember, and this would be the latest in a long history of such.
Nonhumans could not be tolerated in a human society because they would kill any humans they could get their hands on. This wasn't even folklore. It was true that all types of nonhumans hurt people. Werewolves went insane on the night of the full moon and would kill anyone in sight, although they were able to transform at any time other than the nights without a moon. Vampires drank people's blood. And giants, the only type of nonhuman, were savage brutes who regularly attacked and killed people.
The people around began, with a detached, clinical, precision, to administer the wounds that would prevent the werewolf from escaping his fate. It didn't take long. The boy was almost painfully frail after his madness, and without even the strength to transform. Their distasteful task completed, the people carried him off into the forest and tied him to the tree. Either the animals or the weather would do for him, since even if he somehow managed to escape his ropes he wouldn't be going anywhere with both legs and both arms broken. Satisfied with a job well done, the people headed back to their village, content with the knowledge that a threat to them had just been abolished.
Bakura drifted through the forest like a wisp of shadow, never breaking a twig, never stirring the leaves or disturbing the animals into a betraying silence. Birds flew over his head, barely even noticing that he was there as they moved about their daily routine. He was no hunter, but he had learned the skills long ago, as he had learned the art of healing, so that he would be safe.
Long ago his family had warned him that life was not easy for a child on their own, and even less so for one like him. His family were shape-shifters; not one of the more ordinary breeds of immortals, but still in danger if any found them out. So he had learned to be silent, even in his clumsy human body, so that he could reap the benefits of being human, as well as shape-shifter.
His lip curled in disdain as he spotted a trail of crushed bracken, as if it had been trampled by many feet. The damage looked recent; apparently a mob had gone this way lately. That was unfortunate. He tried to stay as far away from other people as he could, especially since his family had been killed, and with them the last of his race had passed away. Now he was unwelcome in both human and nonhuman circles. Not that he'd want to interact with either group. The nonhumans nowadays were of much-diluted blood, and there were few who lived beyond a human's average lifespan let alone surviving for as long as he had.
It was sad in a way. Humans were so hostile towards those that they deemed inhuman, but in reality they were more human than not. Eventually they would die out completely. There were, Bakura knew, only a few others who were truly nonhuman; and even those were the ones who had survived by assimilating themselves into human culture.
A soft sound broke his reverie as he stalked silently up the path that had been created. The trail was old enough that he had assumed anyone who had come this way would have returned. Certainly the footprints on the surface had all been heading the other way. Who could have been left behind?
Bakura quickened his steps as he heard the clumsy crashing steps of a bear. The ones most likely to have stayed behind were children, and he couldn't just stand by and watch someone helpless being destroyed. At least if it had been an adult they would have been armed. A bow and arrows might not be very effective if a bear attacked, but at least they should have been adequate to drive one away if it hadn't been enraged. No one could possibly have been so stupid as to hunt for bears in this season could they?
A few seconds more and Bakura had stepped into a large clearing with a tree in the center of it. The bear was just crashing its way through the outer circle of trees, giving him time to look around quickly for the one who he had heard earlier. The first glance had shown him ropes tied around the tree. Now he maneuvered around, never taking his eyes off the bear, so that he could see what the ropes were holding on. They were rather low to be used for holding supplies.
Coming around to stand between the bear and the tree he glanced back over his shoulder, trying to see what, exactly, he was defending. He could hear the sound his sharp intake of breath made, and winced. His father would have scolded him for making so much noise. The boy tied to the tree trunk, however... Bakura's expression was steely as he slipped his pack off his shoulders and onto the ground, easing it down carefully enough that it didn't make a sound.
Pulling his belt from where it hung about his waist and tossing it on top of his pack, he stood there facing the huge bear in typical forester's garb. His dappled green tunic and loose hose melded into his skin as he began to change. He smirked, feeling his body stretch as his skin became rougher, sprouting a thick furry coat until a great white bear stood where the slim youth had stood. A quick confrontation ensued, until the true bear lumbered off and Bakura returned to his natural form. Once again buckling his belt around his waist Bakura walked over to see the fettered boy.
Ragged white hair stained with blood hung about his face, stirred by the ragged breaths the boy was taking. Dark brown eyes slowly opened as Bakura purposely broke a twig. The head lifted painfully, and Bakura looked into the innocent face, feeling the familiar hatred stir for anyone who could have hurt an innocent.
"Please," The voice was hoarse, as could be expected. "End it."
Bakura stared down at him compassionately. The boy's condition was such that he wouldn't survive no matter what he tried, and apparently the boy knew it. If he did what the boy had asked him to it would be a mercy killing. Slowly he nodded, drawing his knife out of his belt and slashing the ropes that bound him. Gathering the small body in his arms he positioned the knife and thrust it upward into the base of the boy's brain, severing the spinal cord and killing him instantly.
The rest of Bakura's day was spent building a cairn over the boy's corpse at the base of the tree; yet another example of the hatred that had built up between races. Finally the stones had all been piled up on top of the small body, and Bakura left, unable, or unwilling, to spend the night in what had become a graveyard. He slipped away silently, leaving only a pile of stones by the tree to show that he had ever been there. Life went on despite the tragedies in it, and Bakura had sworn that he would remain alive forever to keep his family's blood alive.