It is complex. A single, strong vertical line. Three jagged forks branching from it, like lightning. A circle at its base.
It is beautiful.
He finishes. He stares at it.
And his entire body changes.
He freezes.
The pleasure is gone. The pride is gone.
He stares at the symbol. His red eyes are wide with a new, agonized confusion. He looks at it as if it is a snake that has bitten him.
A low, pained whine escapes his throat.
His hand clutches his head, his claws digging into his own scalp.
"Threk?" I whisper, my joy turning to ice.
He growls.
It is not a rumble. It is not a warning. It is a guttural sound of agony.
The red haze... it flashes in his eyes. A surge of pained, red light. The elven magic rises, hating this memory, fighting it.
His magic. His past. It is a threat to his cage.
"No," he groans. The word is a shred of sound.
He slams his other hand down on the drawing.
He destroys it.
He rubs it out, his massive hand smearing the symbol into nothing. He scrapes the dirt until the lines are gone, his breath hissing between his tusks.
He is panting, shaking. Not from rage. From fear.
He is afraid of himself.
I am left stunned, my heart aching in my chest. I saw it. For a second. I saw the person inside.
I saw the prisoner.
I reach out, my hand hovering. "Threk?"
My voice is a whisper.
"What... what was that? What did you remember?"
He flinches away from my voice. He won't look at me.
He just stares at the empty, smeared dirt. A prisoner, staring at the wall of his cell.
17
THREK
Istare at the empty dirt.
