BEAMS OF SUNLIGHT shone through the cracks between the boards and illuminated the straw-lined cage dimly. Yellow, demonic hate-filled eyes flashed in the light. The young gromek growled and tensed to attack whenever he thought someone might be opening the door. Once the wagon began moving, he realized no one would be coming anytime soon. Spines along his back lowered as he turned his attention to the girl that shared the pen with him.

He inched close enough to poke her unmoving body, jumping back when she flinched and uttered a small, pained whimper. He edged close and looked over her; the way she lay from where she had landed looked uncomfortable. “Soft, pink thing,” he grumbled under his breath in a low but youthful voice. “You cannot feel good laying this way.” Unsure, he rolled her onto her back, awkwardly trying to arrange her limbs into a less painful tangle.

The girl awoke without warning, her green eyes wide. She smacked at his hands in a panic. “I am not trying to hurt you,” he told her in a caustic voice. Without a sound she curled onto her side, holding her head. His defensive anger lifted in concern. “I know nothing about your kind. But I am sure you bleed too much. Bleeding is bad.”

“Don’t care,” she said in a muffled voice after several heartbeats.

“If you bleed too much, you will die,” he pointed out. Keeping to a low crouch, he sidled to the door where a bucket of water sloshed as the wagon swayed. He snatched a piece of tattered cloth from the corner, shaking most of the dirt and straw from it, then returned to the girl’s side with both.

His visage turned even more demonic when he scowled at her slurred voice. “I will die? Good. Better death than cages.”

The young gromek grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her back, leaning so close his breath blew in her face. The spines along his neck and backbone rose, his lower fangs exposed because of his undershot jaw. His snarl bared his vicious teeth. “Not good! You cannot die yet.”

“Why not?” she challenged, undaunted by the ferocity twisting his face.

“Because he lives,” the gromek snarled. “My people say live until you get revenge on your enemy.” He sat back into a squatting position, taking the rag and dipping it into the water, wiping blood away with unsure movements. He spoke with disdain. “Don’t your people take revenge on their enemies?”

She closed her eyes, turning her face away. “I do not know,” she whispered.

“They did not teach you to take revenge on your enemies?” He snorted with contempt. “Mother always said pink skins were soft.”

“It has nothing to do with the color of my skin!” the girl retorted, eyes unfocusing with growing lethargy. “I cannot remember. I have…no memories.” Her voice drifted off as her eyes rolled back. The gromek reached around to turn her head, then pulled his hand back in shock to stare at his palm. It was dark and wet with blood.

“No!” He sat on the floor, pulling her into his lap. Fear replaced anger as he begged, “No, you cannot die. Please.” Not knowing what else to do, he wadded up the cloth and held it to the back of her head. “You cannot die, tiwaz. Not like this. I was supposed to be tiwaz. When he stole my horns, my wings, he shamed me. I am weak. You cannot die because of trying to protect something as worthless as me.”

“Not…weak…” she whispered. “Not…worthless.”

“I am,” he countered. “You, a pink skin, were more tiwaz than me. You fought back even after he hurt you. You kept me alive. I am honor bound to keep you alive so you can finish what I could not even start.” He moved the rag with care, dipped it in the water, and put it back against her head. She hissed in pain, then relaxed. “I will know vengeance on the monster that put us here through you. You have to live.”

The girl was silent for a time. “What is…tiwaz?”

“It is an old word for warrior for gromeks,” he answered. “Not any warrior. Tiwaz is a warrior with great honor. He guards and protects and brings vengeance on his enemies without fear or hesitation. Like you.” He sighed, looking away. “Not me.” He startled when he felt her hand along his jaw, turning his face back towards her. “You do not fear me,” he stated more than asked. “I thought all pink skins were afraid of gromeks.”

“Why fear?” she asked. “You help me. Not hurt like him.” She swallowed, her expression reflecting the pain she suffered and the effort she forced herself to speak. “Tiwaz. Warriors like that…would not protect weak. Not protect worthless.” She managed a weak smile. “If you are not Tiwaz, then you are the doom of your enemy instead.”

He considered, then nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes. Yes! I will be his doom. We will both live to see him dead and know freedom again.” He looked at her. “What is your name, Tiwaz?”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “I have no name. It is gone, like my memories.”

He remained silent for several moments before speaking. “I don’t have a name, either. I will be known as Doom. And you, my friend, are Tiwaz. The warrior.” He shifted, settling her more against himself. “Only when you have found your name, will I have a name. Now rest. Heal. We must endure whatever pain our enemy gives, become stronger until he cannot stand against us.” With a weak smile on her sickly pale features, she closed her eyes.