Dawn.

They hunted in packs. As few as three, as many as thirty, they varied depending on the type and number of prey. Only the males hunted, while the females tended to their young and foraged. He kept his distance from all of them just the same; he had seen the viciousness that possessed them all.

His first real encounter with them nearly cost him his life. Returning empty handed from a hunt, he came upon his camp in the aftermath of an attack. A few of the beasts were ransacking the stores of food that his clan had carefully amassed in preparation of the coming winter. Had they seen him, they would have killed them just as they had slaughtered his family and friends. But he hid in the underbrush until the scent of them was far into the distance. Only then did he venture out to assess the remnants of his home.

They sometimes took the women alive, but this time the genocide was complete. Even the children were not spared. He found his partner laying face down, her blood staining the dry earth a harsh crimson. He could do nothing, and his thoughts shifted to his own survival. He could not stay in this place of death; the sickness would soon arrive. He gathered the meager remains of his supplies, and turned to face his fallen clan a final time. It was then that he saw the tiny movement of his partner’s deerskin cloak. Alive? Could she be? He hurried to her side and threw away the cloak. A small face peered up at him with a recognising smile. His daughter! Her mother’s blood covered her, but she was unharmed. Clutching the infant to his chest, he concentrated on his next actions. Finding several hide straps that were used to bind foot coverings, he fashioned a makeshift carrier. He secured his daughter in it and then tethered the entire package across his back. Together, they fled.

Several days past, and his daughter was fading. She constantly mewed the sullen cry of hunger, but without her mother’s milk she would find no reprieve. He offered her berries, but they were spit back up the moment they were swallowed. Perhaps he could find something more suitable, but it was difficult to forage in moonlight. And he dare not move about during day; the hunters stalked their prey when the sun was up.

On the fourth night, he awoke with a start. His daughter lay motionless on his chest and a coldness had set in.

He carried her for all of the next day, and then dug for her a shallow grave in the soft clay by the river. Anguished and weary, he slept at her side.

Both the rising sun and the rustling of leaves dragged him from a restless sleep.

He heard a cry from above and reeled his head to see a single, young beast. With explosive energy he charged after it, easily overtaking the frightened animal.

He tackled it with fury, pinning it to the ground by the throat with one powerful hand. As individuals, they were weak, frail even. How could something so diminutive wreak so much destruction?

He could have squeezed the life out of it in an instant, but something in its eyes gave him pause. There was something all too familiar in its gaze, almost a reflection of himself.

In this moment of hesitation, the youth saw its chance for escape. A well placed knee paralysed its captor with a blinding pain. As it scrambled awayed, it let out a shrill cry, signalling for the others to attack.

He knew his fate was sealed, but this resolve was soon swept away by a berserker's fury. His death would not be unearned. As they closed a circle around him, he lunged at the nearest assailant, crushing its skull with a single strike of his fist. He howled with vengeance, yet the remaining still advanced. He grabbed for another, as their blows began to fall upon him. Overwhelmed by their strength in numbers, he fell to the ground. Somehow, he managed to raise his face to the killers. He was ready.

As the tip of the spear pierced his brave heart, the last Neanderthal died at the hands of man.