Chapter 17 Threk
THREK
Istare at the empty dirt.
The mark is gone, but it is burned into my mind. I can still see it. A strong line, like a spear. Three forks, like lightning. A circle at the base, like a den.
It is gone. I rubbed it out.
My hand, the one I used to destroy it, is shaking.
Why?
Why did it hurt?
The pain is still there, a sharp ache behind my eyes. It is not the pain from my wounds. It is not the pain from the elves. It is a new pain. A deeper pain. A pain in my mind.
Fire.
The thought slams into me, a blow from a hammer.
Not the good fire in the hearth, the one I made.
A bad fire. A wrong fire. It is everywhere. It burns the sky. It eats the trees.
And a face.
It flashes in my head. Not Betty. Not her pale skin or sky-blue eyes.
This face is green. Like me. It has tusks. Like me. The eyes are wide and black and terrifying.
A scream.
A voice is shouting. It is shouting a name.
The name is not "Threk."
It is a different name. A sound of agony and loss. It is my name.
It is mine.
I cannot catch it. The memory is a fish that slips from my grasp, and I am left with nothing.
Gone.
The red haze boils up from my chest.
It hates this. It hates the memory. The elven magic that made me, that caged me, slams against the inside of my skull.
It screams. NO. FORGET. brEAK. KILL.
The magic wants me stupid. It wants me to be a beast. This memory, this ghost of a man, is a threat.
My hand clenches. My claws dig into my own leg, tearing through the hide.
Pain. Good pain. It focuses.
No. It is bad.
I want to roar. I want to smash the wall of this cabin. I want to destroy the stick that drew the mark. I want to destroy the fire that reminds me.
The red floods my vision. KILL.
"Threk?"
Her voice.
It is a whisper. It is a tiny, small sound in the raging storm in my head.
But it is enough.
It is the cool water. It washes over the boiling red.
It does not kill the rage. But it soothes it. It holds it. It gives me a hand in the dark.
I gasp. My breath shudders out of me, a painful, ragged sound.
I look at her.
She is kneeling just feet away. Her hand is out. Her face is pale.
Her scent... it is spiked with fear. Fear of me.
No.
The thought is painful. I hate this. I hate making her afraid. I hate this monster inside me.
She touches me.
Her small, pale hand. It lands on my arm. The muscle tenses, it wants to smash things.
Her touch is light. It is brave.
She does not run.
The red haze recedes. It slinks back into the shadows of my mind, hissing and hateful.
It is gone.
I am left shaking. I am exhausted. My head pounds.
But... I am clear.
I won.
I look at her hand resting on my arm. I look at her face.
This is real. The fire and the scream... that is a ghost.
She is real.
I need to tell her. I need to show her. I need to hold onto this.
I reach for the stick. My hand is shaking, but it is my hand.
I scratch in the dirt. I will write what she taught me. I remember.
B - E - T - T - Y.
The lines are clumsy, but they are hers.
I point at the scratches. I point at her.
"Betty."
My voice is a croak, a rumble of sound.
Her eyes... they widen. They fill with water. Tears. Sad? No.
"Yes," she whispers. Her voice breaks. "Yes, Threk. That is me."
Good.
I scratch again.
T - H - R - E - K.
The name she gave me. This is me.
I point at the dirt. I point at my chest.
Threk.
She nods, a wet, broken laugh escaping her. "Yes. You are Threk."
She understands.
I need one more.
I need a word for this. For the den. For the fire. For the nest of furs. For her hand on my arm.
I do not have a word.
So I make one.
I draw a circle.
It is simple. It is a wall. It is safe. It is us in the cave. It is us in this den.
I point to her. I point to myself.
I tap the circle.
Us.
She stares at the circle. Her tears fall. They hit the dirt.
She looks at me. Her face is broken and beautiful.
"Us," she whispers. She understands.
She cries, but her scent is not fear. It is not sad. It is... strong. It is bright.
It is happiness.
I made her happy.
I feel... good. My chest is warm. The pain in my head is gone.
I lean forward. I want to... nuzzle her. I want to smell her happiness.
I sniff.
Her scent.
And... wrong.
A new smell.
It is not Worg. It is not a raider.
It is faint. It is cold. It is metal.
They are elves.
My body snaps tight. The warrior wakes up.
No.
The warmth is gone. Ice floods me.
I sniff the air. Deep. Long.
Yes.
They are very, very close.
They found us.
NO!
I roar. A roar of panic.
I look at Betty. Her happy face is gone. She is afraid again.
"Threk? What is it? What's wrong?"
I cannot speak. I cannot explain.
I lunge.
I grab her. Not gentle. Hard.
I shove her. Away from the door. Toward the back wall. The wall that is weak.
Run.
I point. I shove.
Run!