Chapter 15 Threk
THREK
My heart is a wild drum against my ribs, a frantic, heavy thud-thud-thud that I feel in my entire body as I brace myself on my arms. I am a cage of shaking muscle, over her. She is so small beneath me, so warm and fragile.
Her scent is everywhere.
I lower my head, my tusks brushing the soft skin of her shoulder, and I just breathe.
I breathe her in, and her scent is changed.
It is no longer the clean, cold smell of snow and berries I first found.
It is us. It is the salt of her skin, the musk of my skin, and the raw, copper-and-earth scent of our joining. It is the scent of mine.
The thought is not just a command. It is a fact. It is the only truth in my broken mind, a clear, complete loop. She is mine. She is mine. She is mine. The woman who screamed my name.
I wait for the rage to come back, for the screaming, red storm that always follows a fight, that follows any release. I wait for the elven magic to surge and demand I kill or break.
But it is… quiet.
The red haze, that terrible, violent fog that has ruled my mind for as long as I can remember, feels distant. It is a sleeping beast, pushed far, far away by her. By this. Her voice, her scent, her body... she is the silence in my head.
A violent, rattling shiver runs through her small body, and it vibrates through me.
She is cold.
The thought is a blade, sharp and clear. The cabin is a box of ice. I must make her warm.
My body protests as I move. It is an agony. My leg is a bonfire of new pain from the Worg bite. But I move.
I pull myself off her, away from her. The loss of her warmth is a new kind of pain.
She is asleep. She did not wake. She is a small, pale, broken thing, curled on the hard, dirt floor, her body smeared with grime and blood. My blood. The Worgs' blood.
It is wrong. It is wrong on her.
Fire.
The thought is an instinct. I need fire.
My mind is empty. How? I am a beast. I break. I kill. I do not make.
But my hands move.
I do not understand why.
I stumble to the corner of the small den, my leg screaming at the movement. There is a pile of wood. It is dry and good. Beside it, I see two stones. One is a piece of black rock, the other gray.
I have never seen these things.
But my hands know them.
My claws are clumsy, but I turn my hand, my fingers gripping the black rock. My other hand grips the gray. My hands seem to remember something I do not. They know the angle. They know the force.
I strike.
Sparks. A small fire. Not enough.
I strike again. A bright spark catches on the dry moss left in the fire pit.
A flame.
I stare at it. I... made this.
It is not the fire of rage. It is small. It is warmth. It is life.
I feed it, my clumsy hands adding small sticks. The flame grows.
I look at her. She is still asleep. Still cold. Still dirty.
The blood must go.
I find a pot. It is a black, metal thing. I know this thing.
Why?
My mind aches with the questions, with these ghosts of knowing. But my body moves. It knows.
I scoop snow from the drift by the door. I hang the pot over the fire. I watch the snow melt.
Water.
I find a rag. I dip it in the hot water.
I kneel beside her. I am a mountain. She is a leaf.
I am afraid to touch her. Afraid I will break her.
But she is mine. I put the rag on her.
Gently.
I touch the hot rag to her skin. Her shoulder.
She whimpers in her sleep, a small, soft sound, but she leans into the heat.
I wipe the blood from her thigh. The Worg blood. I wipe the grime from her face, from her neck. My claws do not tear. My touch is... careful. I am a monster, but I am her monster.
I clean her. The honor of it... the need to care for her... it is a new feeling. It is deeper than rage. It is stronger than pain. I wipe every part of her body gently until the dirt has disappeared.
I look at myself.
I am covered in filth. Blood. Worg-fur. Dirt.
I... I must be clean.
For her.
I take the rag. I dip it again. I clean my own wounds. I wash the blood from my hands, my chest, my face.
The act is strange. It is new. But it feels... right. I am not just a beast. I am regaining something.
The fire is strong now. The den is warmer.
I look at Betty. She is clean. She is pale. She shivers in her sleep.
The furs.
In the corner. Rotten. Old. They stink of dead animals.
But they are warmth.
I drag them. I make a nest by the fire. I lie down, and the floor is hard. My wounds burn.
She must be warm.
I lift her. It is easy. She is nothing. She is a leaf. I am afraid I will crush her.
I do not lie on her. I do not lie next to her.
I lie on my back, my side against the wall. I pull her onto my chest.
She fits.
Her head tucks under my chin. Her body, so small, covers my heart. Her scent fills me.
A groan of pure... contentment... rumbles in my chest.
I pull the furs over both of us.
A den. A nest.
Protect. Warm. Mine.
I am warm. I am safe. She is warm. She is safe.
I stare into the fire I made.
The elves.
The thought is a blade of ice. They will come. I know it. They want her. They called me a flaw. They want to... to dissect...
A new rage. A cold rage. It is not the red haze. It is not the screaming.
It is mine.
They will not touch her.
I will not let them.
I am not a 'pet'. I am not a 'failure'.
I will not let anything take her.
My body aches. My leg is a dull fire. But my is quiet.
I close my eyes.
I do not drift to sleep with the exhaustion of a beast.
I drift to sleep with the contentment of a warrior guarding his hoard.