The first picture. A beast. It is me. A ten-foot monster of rage and claws.
The second picture. The beast is kneeling. A great, white light is eating it.
The third picture. The light is gone. A new man stands tall. He is... Orc. He is what I was, in the ghost-memories that hurt.
I understand the pictures. Beast... magic... Orc.
A cure.
But I see her.
She is not looking at the Orc. She is staring at the carved words under the pictures. Her face is pale. She is crying, but her smile... it is wrong. It is broken. It is finished.
She is happy to be sad.
I know these words. I know her shapes.
"Life."
"Given."
I know those words. She taught me. Life. To give.
A life given to restore what was lost.
My mind, my new, clear mind, puts the pieces together.
The beast becomes the Orc.
The price... is a life.
And she is standing here, smiling that terrible, final smile.
She wants to trade.
NO.
The word is a silent roar in my skull. It is so loud it shakes me.
This place is not a sanctuary. It is a trap. It is a lie. It wants to eat her.
The red haze surges, the elven magic screaming in terror and rage. Magic is pain! Magic takes!
But my own fear is stronger.
I let go of her. I lunge for the stick lying at the side, unused and touched by magic.
She gasps, startled. "Threk? What?—"
I turn to the dirt floor. I stab the stick into the earth.
I scratch with all my strength. Violently. Tearing the glowing moss.
NO.
I stab the stick in the dirt. It snaps.
Not enough.
