Aran shivered, feeling a deep chill in his bones. He adjusted, pulling the blanket higher to his chin, sinking deeply into the comforting warmth. But stubbornly, his mind would not let him fall back into sleep. Something was wrong about this. He tried to fight it, but his conscious mind was shaking off the sleep and memories flashed through his mind - the kennels, Crenshaw, the pain.

His eyes snapped open. Overlapping wood arched overhead, intertwining into a vaulted roof that thin beams of amber light peaked through. He snapped up, mind racing as the blanket fell to his waist. A shiver ran through him once more, and he moved to wrap his arms around his chest. He gasped as his right hand brushed against bone, sending a searing bolt of agony up his left arm. He looked down slowly, as memories and a fresh sense of horror washed through him. Nausea threatened to overwhelm him as he looked down at the grey stump where his forearm should be, sheer cloth pulled taught across the shards of bone. His hand shook as he reached for it, untying the thin strip securing it as the cloth fell to the bed.

Tears formed dark spots on the blanket beneath as he shook, staring at the remains of his arm. A sob escaped his lips as he remembered the pain, the mental agony of the saw grinding through bone. He clutched his arm against him, rocking quietly, ignoring the pain as he squeezed it against him. Thoughts bombarded him as he struggled to cope with his new reality.

His arm was gone.

He let fresh tears flow for a few more minutes as he let the grief and horror wash over him, leaving him feeling wrung out and emotionless. He took a moment to look around his surroundings more, noting the dusty dirt floor, as well as the bed he was currently sitting in, which looked to be made of moss. He quickly put it together, but how had Naya managed to get him out of that hell hole? Just mentioning it in his thoughts was enough to send a flash of fear through his mind, and a darker undercurrent of anger. He had to shake it off, trying to maintain his fragile sense of calm. He swung his legs out from the blanket, noticing the strange white cotton clothes he was wearing. They were stained all down the front, curiously. Putting that aside for now, he stood warily, the low ceiling of branches just inches above his head. The walls were mostly dirt, but roots seemed to flow through the dirt, holding it in place, forming a sort of sphere for the room. The walls ended at two points. One was the trunk of an enormous tree, the roots that formed the rest of the room growing out from it, and the other was a door meticulously assembled from sticks and large flat leaves, on hinges of carved limbs.

A small leather pull tab was woven into the branches, and Aran gave it a tug, opening into a sloped run up to another door, this one nearly perpendicular to the first, seamlessly integrating with the walls of roots to either side. Pushing this one open overhead, he emerged into the fading light of late evening. Shading his eyes against the sudden brightness, he squinted and peered around. Ahead was a small fire, surrounded by polished stones and accompanied by a few overturned logs. Perched on one was the vulpine Naya, staring at him with those wide expressive eyes. He found himself staring at her, silent, before coughing into his one remaining fist, averting his eyes.

“Um. Hey.”

“Hello, Aran,” she said, quietly. “How do you feel?”

He considered the question a moment, still standing at the entrance to the den. “Like a cadaver, like I was tortured. I don't know,” he finally answered, face drawn.

She frowned. “I meant internally. How do you feel? How is your mana flow?”

“Oh, uh, I haven't checked.” He walked over, taking a seat across the fire from her, before closing his eyes, and looking inward. He frowned, suddenly remembering the crystalline mana blocking his own back in the… Aran shivered, refocusing. The other mana was still there, filling his connections, but blocking them. It felt dead, inert. Like it was without purpose other than to just fill his pathways. It surrounded his core, like some latticework dyson sphere, though there were holes in it through which he could feel his own power, though it felt far away, just out of reach. He focused on the holes, finding the one he’d made himself. His mana was pushing against the edges, burning against the foreing intruder, eating away at it ever so slowly. He reached past the hole, trying to pull more through the puncture, but the flow was but a trickly, the difference barely noticeable.

He opened his eyes, brows still drawn together. “There’s something blocking me, like something else’s mana. I’m breaking it down, but it’s slow.”

Naya sighed. “Yes. I examined you as you slept, and came to the same conclusion. It appears to be some pathway blocking agent. When I found you…” she paused. “When I found you, there was a needle connected to you, and some fluid being forced into you. I don’t know what it was, but I think it's safe to say it is the most likely culprit. For now, I think you should focus on unblocking your channels. Your body is trying to heal itself, I can tell that, but it requires your mana. I’ve never seen anything like you... Your body seems to run on mana, and I know you said you don’t need to eat, but…” She paused, seeming to struggle to form the words she sought. She sighed, seeming to give up. “Have you looked at your abdomen?”

The question took Aran aback, and anxiety reared its ugly head once more as he looked down. “No.” He said quietly. “Can you- can you just tell me what’s wrong? I’m not feeling up to seeing any more.”

He saw her shift in his peripheral vision, but kept his gaze down, looking at the expanse of stained cloth covering his stomach. She obliged him, saying “I suppose this is a lot to take in. When I got you back, you had metal binding a long wound in your stomach closed. I removed the metal to properly sew it, and… you no longer have many of your organs.” She paused to let this sink in, as Aran wobbled, feeling a bit faint. “I am no expert on human physiology, but I believe the organs were the ones to process food. They were… removed. I assume by the same one who took your arm.”

Aran sat perfectly still, staring down. He felt violated, in a way he hadn’t thought possible. That sick… person had, had defiled him. He had no words to define it. He leapt to his feet, walking away from the fire quickly. “I need to take a walk.” Naya made no move to stop him, staring after him, concern drawing her lips into a thin line.

He walked quickly into the growing darkness of the trees, long strides quickly taking him into the deepest parts of the wood. His mind was spinning, trying to make sense of this. He felt sick, limbs jittery and cold. His breath came in short gasps, as panic threatened to overtake him completely.

His eyes were unfocused, darting around at every tiny detail, trying to distract him from the ugly truth. The low root took him unaware, and he fell sprawled in the dirt. He choked out a sob, as he kneeled cradling his arm and holding a hand to his stomach. Tears freely flowed, his vision blurry as he cried. This was too much. It was all too much. He reached a shaking hand for the hem of his shirt, lifting it slowly, as if it held a great weight. The long, straight cut was still closed tight, but through his watery eyes it was massive. He threw his head back, letting out a long anguished cry.

He sat there for a few minutes, quietly letting the tears flow. “I’m a monster.” The words hung in the air, charged and heavy. He looked at his arm, brows furrowing as anger tightened around his grief, strangling it. “I’m a crippled monster.” He stared at his arm, thoughts turning in his mind, grinding his sadness to dust under the weight of his fury.

“I AM a monster.” This time, his voice rang with conviction, echoing among the trees. “That fucking Crenshaw, and that whole fucking town are so convinced I’m the bad guy. I’m going to prove them right. Then I’m going to hunt down that fucking elf, and burn that fucker to the ground.”

“Every monster I find from now on, is going to be scared of me.”