to a stop and fell to his knees by the water’s edge. He splashed his face and then drank, and it helped to clear his head. As the water stilled, he looked down into it and saw his face reflected back at him.
His own eyes stared into his, and he, too, became still, taking in the face that looked up at him.
He looked the same—and yet different. His face was still pale, with black eyes and a black beard, and black curls hanging over his forehead. He looked dirty and his face was gaunt and thin, making it appear even more angular than before.
It was still his face. But there was something wrong with it. Something he couldn’t quite pinpoint that had changed. He did not know what it was, and yet it struck fear into him.
“What’s going on?” he whispered. “What’s happened to me?”
He felt different, too. It wasn’t weakness or sickness or pain, but there was something wrong in his body. He patted himself all over again, searching for some sign of it, and again there was something wrong, but he didn’t know what. Something about the feel of his skin and flesh. It was cold, he realised. Colder than it should have been. Then he touched his throat again, feeling the wounds left by the collar and trying to understand why they didn’t hurt.
They did hurt, he realised suddenly. In fact, all his wounds hurt. But somehow the pain felt faint and unimportant, without the power to distress him.
He dabbed at the blood on his neck, and once again the feeling of wrongness came over him. It was in his neck, that was it. Whatever was wrong with him was centred around it. He rested his hand on it and kept it there, trying to find it. It was something about how his neck felt to the touch. Something missing.
That was when he realised. It came upon him slowly, like an old memory, and his face slackened gently in horror. He moved his hand and pressed it into his neck, feeling desperately for the thing that was missing, but in vain. He tried his chest, and then his wrists. Nothing. Not a sign. It simply wasn’t there any more.
“No,” he moaned. “No! This can’t—this can’t happen!”
He pounded his fists hard against his chest, but nothing happened. He made himself breathe as fast as he could, until his head spun, but still nothing.
Arren began to shake. “No,” he whispered. “No!”
There was a noise behind him. He turned sharply and saw Darkheart standing there, watching him in silence.
He got up and started toward the griffin, limping on his wounded leg. “What have you done to me?” he screamed. “What have you turned me into?”
Darkheart drew back a little, confused. “Arren,” he said. “You live. You live.”
Arren hit him hard in the face. “Give it back!” he yelled. “Change me back!”
Darkheart retreated under his onslaught, hissing. “Arren,” he said. “Arren!”
Arren continued to hit him, feeling not the slightest trace of fear. “This is your fault! You monster!” He lunged forward and grabbed the griffin around the neck, squeezing tight, trying to kill him.
Darkheart kicked him, knocking him off and sending him flying. He landed against the base of a tree but got up almost instantly. “Make it come back!” he shouted, snatching up a stick. “Give it back!”
Darkheart said nothing. He sat on his haunches and watched the human, uncomprehending.
“Give it back!” Arren shouted again. “G—” His voice faltered and he fell to his knees, sobbing brokenly. “Oh gods, oh gods, help me, help me.”
Something touched his head and he looked up. Darkheart was there, crouched in front of him, the wind ruffling his feathers. “Arren,” he said softly.
Arren shoved him. “Go away,” he said. “Leave me alone.”
Darkheart did not move. Arren got up and walked away from him, but he followed, not taking his eyes off him.
Arren snatched up a rock. “Go away!” he screamed, and hurled it. It hit Darkheart on the beak, and he stooped and picked up a handful of others. He pelted the black griffin with them until he backed away, tail lashing. “Get away from me! Go on, go away!”
At last, Darkheart turned and began to walk off.
Arren took a few steps forward and threw rocks and sticks with all his might. “And never come back!” he yelled.
Then the black griffin was gone, and he was alone. He stood still for a few moments, breathing heavily, and then let the rock he held fall