He grunts again, a low, impatient sound. It’s not the exact words, but I somehow understand.
A violent, bone-rattling shiver seizes me, stealing my breath. I am so cold. The rock at my back is leaching all the life from me.
And then the wall in front of me moves.
I flinch, a small, choked-off scream in my throat.
Threk shifts. He doesn't turn. He just... leans.
His massive back presses into me.
It’s not a blow. It's not an accident. It is a deliberate, calculated pressure.
My back is suddenly free of the burning-cold rock. I am sandwiched. Trapped. Pressed between the unfeeling stone and a living furnace.
Oh.
Oh, gods.
He is hot. The cold was so absolute I didn't even realize it. His body, even through his thick, leathery hide, is a furnace. He is a tall, tall hearth. The heat soaks into my shoulder, my side, my hip. It’s a shocking, invasive, life-giving warmth.
The shivering doesn't stop, but the pain of it eases.
"You're... you're so warm," I whisper, my voice awed.
He just rumbles, a low, deep, possessive sound. It vibrates straight through my chest, a physical, intimate touch. He's not just blocking the wind. He is sharing his life.
And I am no longer terrified of his size. I am grateful for it.
The terror, the sharp, icy panic, begins to recede. It leaves a strange, aching trust in its wake.
The hours pass. There is no sun, no moon, no way to know. There is only the endless, screaming dark.
And my voice.
"Maeve... she said to find a Wildspont," I ramble, my voice growing hoarse. I talk to keep the madness at bay. I talk because his rumbles are the only answer I have left. "A place of magic. A cure. I don't... I don't even know if it's real. It's probably just a story. A way to get us to leave."
Threk is silent, a wall of heat.
"But we have to try. The elves... they're hunting us both. They want to get you back. They aim to... to dissect you."
A growl ensues from him.
The vibration is different. It's not a soft rumble. It's the avalanche I heard in the hovel. The sound of hate. It's low, and it terrifies me, but it's not at me. It's for me.
"It's all right," I whisper, trying to soothe him, to soothe myself. "They're gone. The storm... the storm hid us. You... you hid us. You were... so fast. And so quiet."
My mittened hand, the one pressed between my body and his, moves. I'm not even thinking. I'm just... touching.
His hide is rough, like a thick, scarred slab of leather. It's not skin. It's armor.
My fingers trace the new wound on his side, a long, deep, puckered gash from the raider's blade. He hisses when I touch it, a sharp inhale of pain.
"I'm sorry," I say, my hand pulling back.
But he leans again. Harder. Pinning my hand against his wound.
A grunt. More.
