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It starts with fire.
There's a burning ache that lingers still in his chest, and he swears that in the darkest of nights, the quietest of attempted slumbers, he can still hear the screams. They pleaded, they begged, but it never mattered. He'd never save them, they'd never cease.
On the brightest of nights, however, he's offered a reprieve. For, it's the night he must be in full awareness, on high alert; the night of the Full Moon.
It seems ironic, he sometimes thinks idly, that the one thing that could ultimately destroy him, is the one true thing he still thinks he knows. The very thing that saves him, once every cycle. He must be ready, he must prepare. These are not things to be taken for granted, to be taken lightly.
The fire is his crutch, and he uses it as his anchor; burning with rage, seething with revenge.
It continues with water.
The sudden rushing in, the crushing loss of oxygen to lungs, pulling him under. He thinks he might drown. He's sure not going anywhere, anytime soon.
And, to think, he used to like the feeling of wet cool calming his skin after a Summer's day, paddling even clear out to his Mom as they'd made one of their few daytrips to the beach, years earlier.
But, as the eight feet swallow him into their fold, he's now just fighting to keep afloat it, fighting the natural element that he'd once found fond memories in. Even if they ached and settled deep into his already tired bones.
It seems anti-climatic, almost idyllic, that the very feeling he'd been suppressing for weeks, was now being brought full force back to surface. It was as though to say, 'You're doing it wrong, and as usual, it can be done better.'
The water is his kryptonite, and he stumbles when he finally reaches dry land, unsure of where to go.
It settles into wind.
The chill to the air, is nothing to the loss in his heart, and he's almost sure that he's not hiding it as well as he thinks he is.
The winds of change are almost never kind, but they do come with reason, and they eventually settle into a rhythmic insanity. This is something he'll learn to deal with, even if he lacks understanding, nor cares for it.
It stings his eyes, as his feet carry him the distance he has to go, the need no longer present. It's lost to a gale storm he never saw coming, and it's caught his breath until he chokes, wondering if he's suffering from some delayed asthmatic reaction.
He remembers then; his body is strong now, unwilling to let mere human capabilities cripple it. Even as his faith lacks, and his heart stutters, he will survive through it all.
The wind is his wolfs bane, and he'll always struggle to make peace with it.
It ends with earth.
All elements rising together, to each it's own purpose. And, they've realized at some interval, that one is not strong without the other, that it's either they rise as one, or fall divided, alone.
Fire catches the wind, creates smoke so thick, only blind eyes can see forward. It's better this way. Fear claims the would-be victims, when the flames billow too high, burn too hot.
Water soothes the burns, but still fights cracks under the pressure. It's better this way, to only pull itself under the waves. Bravery is found in keeping those loved, away from the floods.
Wind deems itself a martyr, brandishing a brilliant wall of force, no one literally stands a chance against it. It's better this way. No broken pieces to place back together, if anyone dares get close.
Earth settles the divide, allowing fire to run amok, keeping the wind at it's back; a steady whisper to the calm. And, as both in some days falter, it gently urges water forward, knowing the hope it carries strong, will somehow save them all.