It is warm.
The air is thick, damp, and smells of sulfur and minerals. It’s the smell of the earth’s deep, hot breath.
I scramble back, looking up as Threk’s massive, ten-foot form crouches and forces its way through the crack, his shoulders grinding against the stone. He fills the entrance, a monster of shadow.
He grunts, a low, pained sound, and steps past me, into the darkness.
And the cavern opens.
The tiny, black crack is a lie. It is a throat. We have fallen into the belly of the mountain.
It is a huge, wide cavern, its ceiling so high it is lost in shadow. And it is lit. A faint, ethereal, pale-green glow comes from patches of phosphorescent moss clinging to the walls.
In the center of the cavern, a large, deep pool of black water steams, the rising vapor glowing in the pale light.
A hot spring.
It is a perfect, hidden, impossible sanctuary.
The safety is what finally breaks me.
The sudden, shocking release from the terror, from the ice, from the hopelessness... it is too much. My legs give out. I slide down the slick cavern wall, my body huddling into a small, miserable ball.
The tears I have been holding back for days, the fear I refused to show the elves, the guilt that is my only fuel... it breaks.
The silent, shaking tears finally come.
I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"They won't stop, Threk," I whisper, my voice a raw, broken thing, barely audible over the bubble of the spring. "He'll never stop. That look on his face... It's not just you. It's me. We're just... we're just running until he catches us."
I am done. I am tired. I want to die.
I feel him move. A mountain of shadow blots out the faint, green light.
He kneels.
He doesn't just grunt. He kneels before me, his massive form blocking the exit crack, making the cave theirs. Ours.
His movements are pained. He is trembling from effort and blood loss.
He reaches out. His massive, calloused thumb finds my cheek.
He wipes my tears.
I flinch, staring up at him through my wet eyes.
His red eyes are not hazy. They are clear and burning with a fierce, protective anger. An anger for me.
His voice is a low, pained rumble, but the words are clearer than any he has spoken.
"No," he growls. "Elves. No."
He points to himself. To the star-scar on his chest, visible through his torn, bloody furs.
"I. Stop."
It is not a boast. It is a vow.
