...Is she afraid?
Of me?
The red haze... it falters. It freezes. It recedes.
The screaming in my head stops.
There is only the crackle of the fire. The moan of the wind.
And her.
I stand over the leader's body. I am a monster. I am covered in their blood.
I look at my hands. My claws. They are red. So red.
I look at her. And think, does she think she's safe?
8
BETTY
The silence that falls is heavier than the snow.
It is absolute, a thick, suffocating blanket pressed over the village, broken only by the hungry crackle of burning thatch and the low, wet moan of a dying raider.
The air is a nauseating mix of hot copper and bitter smoke.
My ears are still ringing from Threk's roar. I stand in the doorway of my hovel, my limbs shaking, my breath a sharp, painful sting in my chest. The ice of my trauma, the paralysis that froze me, has been shattered by the sheer, brutal violence of his defense.
I am not dead yet. I am still breathing.
My gaze is fixed on him.
He stands in the center of the village, a ten-foot colossus of gray-green muscle, silhouetted against the flames. He is a monster from a dark legend. He is covered in blood. So much blood. It drips in thick, black-red strings from his claws. It is smeared across his tusks.
The bodies of the raiders are... they are not bodies. They are pieces.
One man is torn open, his intestines steaming in the snow. Another is wrapped around the village's central well, his back clearly snapped. The leader is a broken heap by my doorstep.
Threk saved us. He saved me.
He is breathing hard, his massive chest heaving. I can see the new wounds on him, dark gashes on his shoulder and side, welling with his own blackish blood. He turns, his movements stiff with adrenaline and pain.
His red eyes find me.
Across the snow, through the smoke, his gaze locks on mine.
The red haze is still there, a simmering, bloody film over his eyes. But he is not rampaging. He is not killing. He is... waiting.
He takes a half-step toward me, and a low, questioning grunt rumbles in his chest. I don’t understand but I feel.
The single, unasked question hits me harder than an enemy's axe. My throat closes. I can’t speak, I can’t breathe.
He saved me. This creature, this thing I was trying to "atone" for, just saved my life.
"I..." I manage, my voice a dry croak. "I'm safe."
My own voice seems to break a spell.
