He doesn't remember much. Too young to remember some details, others are buried deep, blocked out. Born alongside three siblings, he doesn't remember what he was christened or what his siblings' names were. The Changeling was the smallest, shyest of the pups. The weakest, the strangest.
But it was fine, (just fine) until the litter's eyes changed. Brothers and sisters each had twins of yellow, blue, green, but his were a mismatched green and silver. Odd. Cursed. The colors marked him clear as day as a Changeling.
At the insistence of the pack's leader, determined not to let a cursed faerie wreak havoc in the pack, his mother tore out his green eye and carried him miles into the forest. She felt nothing for what she did to her son-He wasn't hers, he was not of her, he was something mythical and accursed.
She left him there, to die, and as days blend into nights and into days again, alone, lost, he begins to.
Until he wakes up somewhere new, in a ring of moss.