Page 85 of Elas

August nods before momentarily getting distracted by an old cluster of trees he recognizes. “A year after I left, the camp got raided. There weren’t many survivors, and those that lived were taken into custody.”

Unease squirms in my gut as I realize that a few slight changes would’ve altered our entire outcome. If August hadn’t moved before the raid, he would have beencaptured or killed with the rest of them. If I’d been in the platoon sent to take the camp down, I could’ve been the one to restrain him.

We might’ve touched.

Might’ve been marked.

If we had found each other then, it would’ve been in circumstances neither of us could survive.

“Why don’t you hate my kind?” I ask, and August turns his full attention to me. There’s mourning there, no doubt remembering the loss of so many people he considered friends. Sadness that swims in the depths of his eyes, but no blame.

“People do what they think is best with the information they have. Maybe the military saw the camp as a threat, or something happened that neither of us knows about.”

“And what if it was just a power play?” I challenge. “What if they had something we wanted? What if it was nothing more than a sacrifice to remind the humans who holds the upper hand?”

August takes a deep breath and sighs. “Then I hope karma finds those responsible. It doesn’t serve any purpose to focus on the what ifs, Elas. We can’t change the past.”

“But we can try to change the future,” I say quietly, knowing it’s why he always pushes to do the right thing. He nods as he reaches for my hand again. “You’re too good for this world, doc.”

“You’re good too, Elas.”

“I’m good toyou.” I take a deep breath, staring at the infinite road ahead of us. “Make no mistake, August. My past isn’t pretty, and I won’t promise you my future willbe, either. If someone so much as looks at you the wrong way, they’ll regret it. If they touch you…” I trail off, and gods damn him, he’samused.“Let’s just say I wouldn’t even try to control my monster.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not scared of you?”

Memories flash through my mind in a playback of the battles I’ve fought, the lives I’ve claimed, and the endless damage I’ve inflicted. Life has always been precious to me, something I’ve never taken for granted, but when it’s me versus them?

There’s no question.

No choice.

I do what needs to be done. I always have.

It takes from me, though, and my heart and soul are tattered with as many scars as my skin. My lip tenses, the pull of the scar tissue tight against my tusk. Violence wasn’t the life I chose… it’s the one that was forced upon me.

It’s the perfected dance of death that’s engraved into my very bones. A story written into the depths of my soul, whether or not I wanted it.

“You never have to fear me,” I finally say, and August squeezes my hand. “But if the day comes that you meet that part of me… the part that should terrify you… I just hope you still love me on the other side.”

August

Elasisquiet.

He’sneverquiet. If he isn’t chatting and teasing, he hums or mutters to himself. Even if no sound comes from his mouth, he’s tapping his fingers or shifting his feet.

So when all those constant noises disappear, I know he’s gotten stuck in his head. I refuse to let him dwell on a past he has no control over, so I guide the conversation to lighter things.

When I ask about his favorite color, he rolls his eyes, although he grins and starts drumming on the steering wheel again. He prefers orange, like the sunset, where mine has recently become blue.

That earns me another pleased eyeroll.

He tells me stories of the pet he had growing up, an animal called an Arot. It sounds like a mix between a dog and a small bear, a fluffy thing with rounded ears and sharp claws that Elas swears weren’t at all dangerous. They would wrestle in the fields and climb trees togetherat sunset, curled up watching the sky’s blood orange hues fade to a deeper reddish purple.

Stories of his world fascinate me, and he never gets annoyed by my endless questions. He answers them all dutifully, telling me of the small schoolhouse in his village. They were taught basics such as reading and math, but also studied farming and foraging and other necessities of life.

“My favorite days were the ones spent crafting weapons,” he says with a smile.

“Thought you didn’t like violence?” I tease, and he scoffs and swats my leg.

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