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?"
