Chapter 13 Threk
THREK
Pain is a white-hot fire, a star of agony that blooms in my thigh from the Worg bite. It is deep. Another, sharp pain burns in my shoulder from the other Worg.
But it is a good pain.
The red haze from the battle sings in my blood. It is not the elven magic, not the screaming, confused rage I usually feel. This was my rage. A clean rage. A hunter’s rage.
The world is red and white and gray. The stench of blood is thick.
I won.
I turn. My leg screams in protest and it buckles.
I stumble. The world tilts, a vortex of white snow and black rock.
No.
I plant my feet. I endure the pain. I look.
Betty.
She is there, by the rockfall. She is safe.
Her pale skin is white as the snow. Her bright blue eyes are wide. Her scent… it is thick with fear, but she is unharmed. She is alive.
That is all. That is everything.
The victory is for her.
The red haze begins to fade. The song in my blood goes quiet.
And the cold returns.
It is a new enemy. It bites at my new, open wounds. It bites at her.
She shivers. Her lips are blue.
Fragile.
We cannot stay here. The smell of blood is a beacon. It will bring more Worgs. Or it will bring the elves.
We must move. We need shelter.
I force my mind to clear. The pain makes it hard.
I breathe. Deep. I push past the stench of death. I search.
Wind. Snow. Pine. Stone. Nothing.
Again. Deeper. My lungs burn from the cold.
There.
It is faint. So faint the wind almost steals it.
The smell of smoke.
Not a fresh, burning fire. Old smoke. Cold smoke. The ghost of a thousand fires.
A man's den.
It is close. That way.
I grunt. I limp to her. She flinches as I get close. I am covered in blood. I smell like death.
I shove her. Gently. My claw nudges her shoulder.
I point with my head. Toward the scent.
"Go."
The word is a stone in my throat. A bark of sound.
She stumbles. She looks at my leg. Her sapphire eyes are wide with worry.
No. Go.
I shove her again. Harder.
She understands.
We move.
It is agony.
Every step is a new fire in my thigh. The Worg's bite... it is deep. My muscles tear with every step.
My blood leaves a dark trail in the white snow.
I do not care.
I follow her. I watch her. Protect. Move. Protect.
The wind is a knife. The cold is a hammer. I push. My vision blurs. The red haze tries to come back, but it is weak. It is just a fog of pain now.
Betty falls. The snow is deep. She is small.
I lift her. My arm wraps around her waist. I pull her up. I put her back on her feet.
Move.
She leans on me. Her small body presses against my side. Her warmth. It is nothing against the cold, but it is everything. It is purpose.
We find it.
A broken thing of wood, half-buried in a drift. A trapper's cabin. Old. Forgotten.
Safe.
The door is gone. A black hole.
I shove her inside. Into the dark. Safe.
She tumbles onto the dirt floor.
She is safe. The wind is gone. The enemy is gone.
The purpose... it leaves.
The strength... it pours out of me. It pours out of the hole in my leg.
The world goes black at the edges.
My leg breaks. It cannot hold me.
I fall.
I crash onto the floor of the den. The impact shakes the small cabin. The pain is a white-hot sun. It explodes behind my eyes.
The red haze is now gone.
I am weak.
A failure. I failed to protect. Now I am broken.
I hear her move. Smell her scent.
She is not weak. She is not afraid.
"Threk. Oh, gods, Threk. Your leg."
Her voice. The cool water. It washes over the pain, but it cannot stop it.
She touches me.
Her hands. On my leg.
I roar. It is a wet, weak sound. I flinch, my muscles tensing to throw her off.
"Shh! I know! I know it hurts!" Her voice is sharp. Strong. "I have to. I have to stop the bleeding. It's... it's too much."
Her touch is different.
It is not the gentle, hesitant touch from the cave.
It is firm. It is purposeful. She is healing me.
She tears cloth. I hear it rip.
She presses down. Hard. On the wound.
AGONY.
I roar again, my body arching off the floor. My claws dig into the dirt.
But I do not move. I do not hit her.
I let her.
She is so close.
Her face is near. Her brown hair, damp with snow, falls and brushes my hide.
Her scent.
It is not just berries and snow.
It is her. The warm, female scent of her skin. The salt of her effort.
It fills my nose. It fills my head. It is overwhelming.
The red haze is gone. But something else is here.
A new fire.
It is low in my body. It is not the elven magic. It is not the rage.
It is hot. It is deep. It pulls.
Need.
Mine.
The word is not protect anymore. It is not safe.
It is MINE.
I need...
My mind is clearer. The fights with the Worgs... it woke me. Her hands on my bleeding leg... they are waking something else.
I am not just beast.
I am not just protector.
She ties the cloth. Tight. The pain is a dull, hot ocean now.
She sits back on her heels. She is panting. Her blue eyes are dark with focus. She saved me. Again.
My hand. It moves.
It is slow. So slow. It shakes. Weakness. Need.
She freezes.
Her body goes still. Her scent... fear. That sharp, high tang.
No. Do not fear.
I do not stop.
I am not reaching for comfort. This is purpose.
My hand. My massive, scarred, bloody hand. I lift it from the dirt.
I touch her.
Not her arm. Not her back.
Her face.
My claws hover, a cage of death around her delicate jaw.
She stops breathing. Her chest freezes.
I cup her jaw.
She is so small. So fragile. Her pale skin is soft under my calloused, bloody palm.
My thumb. I move it. Slowly.
I brush it over her lip. Her bottom lip.
It is soft. It is damp. It trembles.
A shudder runs through me. A need so powerful it steals my breath.
Mine.