Chapter 21 Threk
THREK
Iam awake.
I do not know when I fell asleep, but I am awake in the warm, dark, steaming cavern. I am lying in the nest of furs, and the fire I built is now a bed of glowing, red embers. The air is still and safe, smelling of sulfur and damp earth and her.
She is a warm, soft weight on my chest, her body fitted to mine, her breathing a slow, even rhythm against my heart. She is mine.
The thought is not a grunt or an instinct anymore. It is a word. It is a truth that settles in my mind, a clear, solid, complete thought. She is mine.
And I love... her.
The word is new. It is huge and strange. It feels heavy in my chest, a good weight, not a bad one. Not the red haze. It is not the suffering from the elves. It is... Betty.
The red haze feels distant, a caged thing in a far corner of my mind. It hates this calm. It hates this new thought. But it is weak. She has made it weak. Her touch, her voice, her body… she has healed me in a way the hot spring cannot.
My mind is… clearer than ever.
I can think. I can remember the Worgs. I remember the elves. I remember the plan I made.
I am not just a beast. I am me.
Betty stirs, her body soft and warm as she wakes. She makes a small sound, a sigh of contentment, before her eyes open. She looks at me, and there is no fear. Her blue eyes are clear and deep in the green light of the cavern.
"Threk," she whispers. Her voice is rough from sleep.
She is sore. I can smell the ache in her, and a new guilt twists in my stomach. I am too big. I hurt her.
But she smiles. A small, slow, true smile. She lifts her hand and touches my face, her fingers tracing the edge of my tusk.
"You're warm," she says. "You're... you. I can... I can see you."
I understand. She sees the red haze has gone.
She sits up, pulling the furs around her naked body. The movement pulls my eyes to her skin, to the pale, soft curve of her shoulder. The need from the water stirs in me, a low, hot ember.
But she is focused. Her face becomes serious. "We are safe here. For now. But we can't... we can't stay. They are still hunting us."
I know.
She crawls to my side, kneeling in the furs. She touches the mangled wound on my thigh. It is clean, but it is raw and red. "We have to keep going, Threk. We have to find a safe space. The Wildspont.”
I growl, a low sound of warning. I really don’t want to leave this den. This den is safe. I do not want to go anymore.
"I know," she says, her voice gentle but firm. "I know you're tired. I know you're hurt. But... it's my wish. You know... I told you about Christmas. It's a time for hope. For wishes."
She looks at me, her blue eyes shining with tears and something fierce.
"This is my Christmas wish, Threk. For you. For you to be... to be healed. To be free of what they did to you. To be... you."
Her words hit me.
Healed.
Magic.
No.
A cold panic seizes me, chasing the warmth away. I push back, away from her touch, my body tensing.
Magic is pain. Magic is agony. Magic is Larda's face, sneering. It is the elven chant that burns like acid in my skull. It is the red haze. It is the cage.
Magic is the monster. Magic is not a cure.
"No," I growl, the word torn from my chest. "No. Magic... hurts."
"No, Threk, not this magic," she pleads, moving after me. "Maeve said it was old magic. Clean magic. Not theirs."
She is wrong. All magic is poison.
And then... I feel it.
The pull.
It is the same pull I felt before, the one that led me here. It is still there. West. Up.
It is different from dark elf magic.
The elven magic is hot and red and screams.
This... is quiet. It is low and warm and deep. It hums under my skin, like the rumble I make in my chest when I hold her. It smells like damp earth and lightning and stone.
It is not poisonous. It feels... clean.
But... healed.
I look at her. She wants me healed. She wants me changed.
A new fear. A cold fear.
She met the monster. She saved the monster. She lay with the monster.
If this magic changes me... if I am not the monster... will she still want me? Will I still be her Threk?
The doubt is an agony worse than the Worg-bite.
I look at her face, so full of hope. For me.
But it does not matter.
It does not matter if I change. It does not matter if I am afraid.
This is her wish. Christmas.
She wants this. And I live for her.
I stop pulling away. I nod. A single, short movement.
For her.
I stand. The searing pain in my leg is a scream. I ignore it.
We dress. We gather our meager things. I eat the last of the dried meat from her pack. It tastes like nothing.
I help her through the crack in the rock.
The cold of the mountain is a slap. The world is too bright, too white.
We move.
She stumbles. The running, the cold, the lack of food... she is weak. So weak. I will hunt for her later but the animals have been scarce. She can’t live on winter fruits and dried meat alone.
I stop. I look at her, shivering and pale, her face tight with resolve.
Fragile.
I grunt. "No."
Before she can ask, I lift her.
She cries out, her arms flailing as I scoop her up. I settle her against my chest, my arm hooked under her legs. She is a leaf. Nothing.
"Threk! Your leg! You can't!" she protests, her hands pushing against my shoulder.
"I can," I growl.
And I walk.
The pain is immediate. It is blinding. Every step sends a spike of agony up my leg, through my hip, into my spine. My wounds burn and ache.
I do not stop.
I follow the pull. West. Up.
My world narrows to two things: the burning fire in my leg, and the warm, light weight of Betty in my arms.
I focus on her. The scent of her hair, clean from the spring. The way her body trusts me, curling into my chest for warmth.
One more step. For Betty.
One more. For mine.
I do not know how long I walk. The sun moves across the sky.
The pull grows stronger.
The humming is not just in my bones anymore. I can hear it in the air. It is a low, deep note, like a giant singing far away.
The air changes. It smells different. Ozone. Damp earth. Power.
We come around a bend of rock.
And we stop.
It is not a cave. It is not a grove.
It is a tear.
In the middle of a ring of ancient, black stones, the air itself is ripped.
It shimmers. It moves. It looks like water, hanging straight up and down. It is a curtain of light, colors I do not know swirling deep inside it.
It hums, a low, powerful note that vibrates in my teeth and makes my bones ache.
The Wildspont.
It is beautiful.
And it is terrifying.
I set Betty down on her feet. She stares at the shimmering light, her mouth open.
"The Wildspont," she gasps. Her wish.
She looks at it with hope.
I look at it with fear. This is magic. Old magic. Strong magic. Magic changes things.
She lets go of my hand and takes a step toward it, her own hand outstretched, reaching for the light.
No.
Panic, cold and sharp overwhelms me.
It will take her. It will change her. It will erase Us.
I grab her. My hand closes around her arm. Hard.
She cries out, startled. "Threk!"
I pull her back against my chest.
"No." I growl, my voice a low, fierce shake.
I stare at the shimmering, humming light. I will not lose her. Not to elves. Not to magic.
I hold her tighter, afraid she will go inside alone.
“We have to enter, Threk,” she whispers, brushing her palm against my face. I lean my head onto her warm palm, savoring her heat and sweetness.
“Threk,” she repeats again as if afraid I won’t hear.
I suck in a deep breath, staring at her face and branding her in my memory. I cannot change her mind. There’s no going back.
"We must go together,” she speaks softly as if begging me.
I nod.
And dragging her with me, I step through the light.