Disclaimer: I don't own creative rights to Danny Phantom or its characters. I just came up with the drabble that follows.

Author's Note: Wulf does not speak English. When he and Danny speak mostly or completely in italics, it means they're speaking Esperanto. This drabble is semi-related to my current fanfic, Vlad's Son.

I hope you like it. Nyaa.

=^'.'^=

"Wulf, how come you're a werewolf ghost?"

The questioned specter tilted his head slightly, looking down at the cub steadily. Danny was playing with the badgers that usually followed Wulf around, and didn't seem to be paying much attention to Wulf at all.

"Why do you ask this? You don't even speak Esperanto, silly cub." Wulf mused. Danny gave him a serious look, but his four-year-old expression was far too childishly endearing to ever truly be taken seriously, even by the child's closest friend.

Danny frowned in concentration as he ran his hand over the mother badger's back. Finally, in broken words, he managed to say, "Tell… me… story… of you."

Wulf tilted his head to the other side now, still amused, but now a little surprised. "You're learning Esperanto?"

"Asked Daddy… He teaches me." Danny beamed proudly at being able to speak even small bits of the language, and being able to understand his friend. Plus, it wasn't every day he got to surprise a werewolf! "Please, your… your story… I will try… understand."

At this, the werewolf chuckled, ruffling Danny's white hair. "You do not have to speak Esperanto if you cannot, cub. But, I will tell you how I came to be, if that is your wish."

"Daddy says… it's nicer to speak… the same language." The little halfa got up and sat next to Wulf, smiling up at him. "Your story… speak slowly, please?"

Wulf smiled back, nodding. "This may confuse you, little one, but I am this way because I am… a 'dead idea'."

There was once a time when Wulf was alive, although it was only in the pages of a young man's sketchbooks. He was a creation of Mikelo Zamenhof, and he was made entirely to embody the ability to reach beyond borders, for even though his creator was a young boy of eleven years when he first dreamt up the werewolf, he had an ambitious goal in mind.

Mikelo wanted to make a character that would inspire people not only to get along with one another, but to become in touch with the world around them as well. He lived in a neighborhood that was torn apart by petty gang wars, and overshadowed by heavy air pollution from the nearby industrial district. All the poor boy wanted was for the violence to stop, and to be able to see a little natural beauty in his over-urbanized surroundings.

But he was weak; he had severe asthma, and was rather frail for his age. For years, he lived in fear that the world he had been born into would swallow him whole. Until, that is, he came up with Wulf.

Wulf was everything Mikelo wished that he, himself, could be. Wulf was strong, fast, and healthy. He was in touch with nature to the point of being half-way to an animal. Wulf could tear through the barrier between words, and even spoke Esperanto, a planned language Mikelo had stumbled upon during an assignment for his history class. It was designed to be a language that didn't belong to any race, religion, or political group – it was a language that was meant to unite all peoples.

For years, Mikelo poured creative dedication into his character. Wulf went on adventures, saved made-up forests, inspired background characters to be "everyday heroes" in each story the young man made up. Wulf may have only spoken Esperanto, but such attention was paid to every aspect of his being that even readers didn't need translation to know his intent from one plotline to the next. There was no question about it: He was a noble creature with boundless love, innate wisdom, and instincts that never failed him.

It was the time and effort that Mikelo put into Wulf's character that truly gave the werewolf life.

But, of course, for there to be an afterlife, life must be lost. It was a fire that took both Mikelo and Wulf. The young man, now fourteen years of age, and all of his stories and sketchbooks went up in flames, along with an entire apartment complex; no trace of Wulf was left behind in the ashes, but Mikelo was remembered in the tears of his parents.

"What do you mean… you're a 'dead idea'?" Danny frowned at his friend, confused.

Wulf laughed aloud at this. "I was never alive in the way that you are, little cub. I was made up by a child some years older than you, and when a fire took his home, all traces of me were taken as well. An idea dies when no one remembers it, and there is no proof of it."

The badger mother clucked at Danny, snuggling into his side and momentarily stealing his attention away from Wulf. Looking around at the trees, the little halfa finally said, "I don't get it. I hope I do when I'm older."

"You will, my friend." Wulf looked up at the stars in the sky. "When you grow up, you will."

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I came up with this idea of Wulf's origin while writing chapters 5 and 6 of Vlad's Son. It took awhile to actually nag at me enough for me to write it down. I hope you enjoy it.

Nyaa.