He is not limping. The magic, whatever it was, has healed him completely. He is whole.
My heart is a mess of contradictions. It is aching with a grief so profound I can barely breathe—for the monster I loved, the one who is gone—and at the same time, it is soaring with a new, terrifying joy for the man who has taken his place.
"You are quiet," he says.
His voice. It is the deep, familiar rumble from the hot spring, but now it is clear and sure. It is a beautiful, formal voice, with a slight, almost musical cadence I have never heard.
I look down at our joined hands. "I... I am just... thinking."
"Of him?" he asks, his voice gentle.
My head snaps up. He knows.
"He is not gone, Betty," he says, stopping. He turns to me, his new, hazel eyes soft. He lifts his free hand—his hand—and taps the star-shaped, silvery scar on his chest. "The Urog was the cage. The elven magic. But I was inside. I was the one who heard you.The one who touched you. I am still Threk."
He is. And he is also Namir. He is both.
He smiles, a small, gentle curve of his lips. "And I am... cold. This elf-armor is thin."
A small, wet laugh bubbles out of me. It is the first real laugh I have had in... years. "We're close. I... I see the smoke."
We crest the last hill.
Oakhaven is below us. It is not burned. The raiders' fires had been contained. And the village is… alive.
A meager celebration is underway. It is a cluster of people around the central bonfire, the one they must light for the solstice. For Christmas. I can hear someone—Old Man Hemlock—playing a thin, hopeful tune on his reed flute.
They are trying. They are surviving.
They see us.
The flute stops.
A shout goes up. "It's Betty! She's alive!"
They run toward us. Elder Maeve is in the lead, her face taking on both shock and relief.
And then they stop.
They skid to a halt in the snow, their joy instantly evaporating, replaced by sheer, naked terror.
They are not looking at me. They are staring at the orc beside me.
They do not see Threk, the Urog who saved them.
They see a new monster. A tall, armed, tusked, green-skinned Orc warrior, clad in the armor of their enemies.
The men raise their weapons. Pitchforks. Clubs. A rusty sword.
"Get behind me, Betty!" Joric’s father shouts, his face pale. "It's an Orc!"
"No!" I cry, stepping forward. "No, wait! It's?—"
Threk moves. He steps in front of me, a shield between me and my village. But he does not growl. He does not raise his hands.
He holds his empty palms out to them, a sign of peace.
And he speaks.
