Chapter 4 Threk
THREK
My body is an iron trap. I am weak. The red haze… it is strong. It paces inside me, a caged beast inside an already-caged beast. It wants out.
RAGE. KILL. DESTROY.
I want to smash. Smash these walls. This small, mud-bright den. I want to tear the roof from this cage and howl at the white, biting sky. I want to smash myself until the burning stops.
My claws dig into the furs beneath me. Tear. Rip.
Blade. Fire. Elves.
The memories are not memories. They are shrapnel. Flashes of white-hot steel. Black eyes, cold and sharp. Laughter that sounds like breaking glass. The pain. Always the pain.
And... screams.
So many screams. The wet, gurgling sound of life ending. My hands... my claws... red.
Kill.
The word is a drum inside my skull. It is the only thing I know. It is who I am. A weapon. A tool. A thing shaped for one purpose.
Who... what...
The thought is a broken piece of glass. It has no answer. It cuts.
There is no before. There is no self. There is only red. Only pain. Only kill.
I am caged. The red haze is the cage. My body is the cage. I roar, a low, broken sound that is half-groan, half-sob. I am nothing but this agony.
Scent.
It cuts through the red loop.
Her.
The door-hole opens. Cold air floods the den. And her.
The female. The small, snow-skin thing.
The red haze hisses. It pulls back, coiling in the corners of my mind. It hates her scent. Her scent is not-red. It is quiet. It is cool.
She is here. She... returns.
I stare. My mind, a broken, churning sea of rage, finds its only piece of solid ground.
Why?
I am pain. I am rage. I am death. I am Urog. I am the thing that makes prey run.
But she comes back.
This is the thought that my mind cannot break. She comes back. She brings the cool water for my wound. She brings the fire. She brings her scent.
She is the only thing that is not pain. The only thing that is not elf. The only thing that helps.
The thought isn’t a word. It is a hook. It sinks into my chest, a deep, pulling need. She is my-safe-thing. My-warmth. My-cool-water.
My... female.
Mine.
She moves. I watch. Every line of her small body is tense.
I smell her. Fear. It is a sharp, thin tang under the berries. It is because of me. But she stays. Her sky-eyes are wide, watching my every move.
She carries a bowl. Steam rises.
Scent. Meat. Herbs. Salt.
Hunger.
It is a new pain. A sharp, hollow agony that joins the burning in my chest. My body needs. My muscles scream for fuel.
She... offers it. To me.
She holds the bowl out, her small hands trembling, but steady.
I lunge.
A growl rips from my throat. Food. Need.
I snatch the bowl. My claws, long and black, wrap around the simple wood. Careful. A strange, new instinct. Do not break the bowl. Do not spill. Do not hurt... her.
I lower my head, my tusks scraping the rim, and eat.
Meat. Broth. Warm.
It is life. It is earth. It floods my system, a hot tide that pushes back the cold and the weakness. It is the first good thing I have ever known. I drink it greedily, my throat working, my body shuddering. I lick the bowl clean.
"Easy. Easy. There's more."
Her voice. The cool water.
The burning behind my eyes... it soothes. The red haze is just a pink fog, far away, watching, hating.
She is different.
The elves... their voices were blades. Their voices commanded. Their voices hurt. They burned me.
Her voice... heals. The hunger is a dull ache now, not a scream.
I look at her. She is small. So small. A leaf. I am a mountain. I could crush her without thought.
But she is strong. Her eyes are stubborn. She fed me. She faces me.
A new feeling. Not rage. Not pain. Not hunger.
It is... full. An instinct. An urge. A need to… do something.
I lean forward.
She flinches. A sharp gasp. Her fear-scent spikes, filling the hovel. No. Do not run. Do not fear.
I move slow. So slow it hurts. I am a monster. I know. My face is wrong. My body is wrong. I am death. But... I must.
I nudge my massive, tusked head against her hip. A small push. A light tap. My rough hide scrapes her worn clothes.
Thank you. The thought is clear, even if the sound is just a grunt.
She freezes. Her whole body is stone. I can smell the fear-wall. She is terrified.
But... something else.
Her hand. It rises. It shakes. A small, pale leaf in the air.
It lands on my head. On the thick, matted hair behind my ear.
Touch.
Not pain. Not a blade.
Warmth.
A deep, rumbling purr starts in my chest. It is a sound I have never made. A sound that is not Urog. It vibrates through my bones, through her hand.
The red haze... is gone.
The pain in my chest... is dull.
I am tired. Not weak.
I slide from the furs. The floor is cold, but the fire is near.
I lay my head near her feet.
She is my fire.
She is mine.
I close my eyes. And for the first time, I sleep.