There is no before. There is no self. There is only red. Only pain. Only kill.
I am caged. The red haze is the cage. My body is the cage. I roar, a low, broken sound that is half-groan, half-sob. I am nothing but this agony.
Scent.
It cuts through the red loop.
Her.
The door-hole opens. Cold air floods the den. And her.
The female. The small, snow-skin thing.
The red haze hisses. It pulls back, coiling in the corners of my mind. It hates her scent. Her scent is not-red. It is quiet. It is cool.
She is here. She... returns.
I stare. My mind, a broken, churning sea of rage, finds its only piece of solid ground.
Why?
I am pain. I am rage. I am death. I am Urog. I am the thing that makes prey run.
But she comes back.
This is the thought that my mind cannot break. She comes back. She brings the cool water for my wound. She brings the fire. She brings her scent.
She is the only thing that is not pain. The only thing that is not elf. The only thing that helps.
The thought isn’t a word. It is a hook. It sinks into my chest, a deep, pulling need. She is my-safe-thing. My-warmth. My-cool-water.
My... female.
Mine.
She moves. I watch. Every line of her small body is tense.
I smell her. Fear. It is a sharp, thin tang under the berries. It is because of me. But she stays. Her sky-eyes are wide, watching my every move.
She carries a bowl. Steam rises.
Scent. Meat. Herbs. Salt.
Hunger.
It is a new pain. A sharp, hollow agony that joins the burning in my chest. My body needs. My muscles scream for fuel.
She... offers it. To me.
She holds the bowl out, her small hands trembling, but steady.
I lunge.
A growl rips from my throat. Food. Need.
I snatch the bowl. My claws, long and black, wrap around the simple wood. Careful. A strange, new instinct. Do not break the bowl. Do not spill. Do not hurt... her.
I lower my head, my tusks scraping the rim, and eat.
