Cleverclaw

He was ugly.

He knew this to be true, like he knew the sun rose in the morning. His pale blue hide might once have been considered attractive, but not now -- not now that it was marred by darkened slashes that tore through the skin and twisted the fur around it so that it grew in odd directions.

They marked his legs and his arms, grisly mementos of battles past. And one, the worst of all, slashed across his face, a constant reminder of the worst day of his life.

The slavering wolf had ripped his mate apart like it was shredding paper; smashed their eggs into mere fragments; feasted on their hatchlings. He hadn't been able to stop it. He hadn't been able to protect them. Since then he had stopped at nothing to train himself into a fierce warrior, vowing that such devastation would never again occur on his watch. But that didn't stop the memories.

He left that clan, where all averted their eyes from him in mute pity -- pity which stabbed into him like a dagger. Here, it was better. Dragons met his eyes. But he was still ugly.

At night, when the night terrors came and he was once again bleeding on the forest floor, unable to do anything but listen to the screams, she was there.

She kissed him and caressed him and soothed him from his nightmares. She ran her nose lovingly over his scars, and preened the feathers he could no longer quite reach for fear of injury. She fought like a demon beside him, and watched his flank.

She loved him.

He knew this to be true, like he knew the sun rose in the morning.

(wildwood owl)