14 Croc talks and ponders

The steam chamber beneath the village pulsed with warm breath.

Roots coiled from the ceiling like ancient veins. Water trickled into hot stone basins. The firelight shimmered off the moss-slick walls.

Croc sat alone on the stone dais, shirtless, his bandaged stump resting across his lap, the signs of fresh muscle already crawling down the exposed bone.

Before him stood the elders—Bryska-Tei, Mishi-Tei, and three others who rarely spoke except in council.

They had not raised their voices.

They had not greeted him with ceremony.

Only one question had been asked.

"What are you becoming?"

Croc didn't answer right away.

He looked up at the ceiling, steam curling from the center hearth.

Then he said softly:

"I don't think I'm becoming something new."

He lifted his still-growing arm. The sinew was thicker now—scaled.

"I think I'm becoming what I've always been."

The room went quiet.

Bryska tilted her head. "Explain."

Croc leaned forward, bracing himself with his right hand.

"My skin. My claws. My strength. They weren't chosen by the Hist. They were with me before."

He looked each of them in the eye.

"I was born with a condition. Where I come from. A defect, they called it. My bones grew too fast. My teeth came in jagged. My skin hardened. They called me a monster. A freak. Locked me up."

His voice didn't tremble.

Only hardened.

"They feared what they saw. What I was. And I learned to fear it too."

Mishi-Tei frowned. "But the Hist—"

Croc cut her off with a gentle shake of his head.

"The Hist isn't changing me. It's… aligning me."

He tapped his chest.

"Everything that made me feared—my size, my claws, my regeneration—it's been with me since I was a child."

His eyes darkened.

"I used to wonder if I was even meant to live."

Then his gaze rose.

"But now, I think I understand."

He stood slowly.

Not proud.

Not triumphant.

But sure.

"I was born this way so I could survive this world. This war. This path."

He looked to the roots curling above.

"And the Hist… didn't reject me. It called me."

The room was silent again.

Bryska-Tei finally stepped forward.

She placed a hand gently on his shoulder—then bowed her head.

"Then you are not a mistake."

"No," Croc said softly.

"I am the correction."

Part II: A Quiet Meal

The fire cracked softly, spitting embers into the dusk.

Croc sat cross-legged outside the shed, a slab of roasted marsh-hen balanced on a flat stone beside him. He struggled to skin it cleanly—his right hand gripping the knife, but clumsy without a second hand to hold the meat still.

The stump of his left arm twitched occasionally—slowly regrowing tissue, pink with raw promise.

He let out a low breath, more irritated than pained.

The knife slipped again, slicing too deep.

"Damn it," he muttered.

Then—

A voice behind him.

"You'll mangle that whole bird if you keep sawing at it like that."

He didn't turn.

But he recognized her voice instantly.

"Could use another hand," he grumbled.

She stepped into view, holding a clean cloth.

Then crouched beside him without asking.

In silence, she pressed her palm gently onto the meat, steadying it.

He resumed carving.

With her hand firm and still, his cut was smooth this time. Clean.

He offered her a nod filled with gratitude .

"Thanks."

She said nothing.

Not yet.

The silence stretched as he portioned the rest of the meat.

Then, finally, as the fire dimmed and the sky turned violet, she spoke.

"Do you still see yourself… as a man?"

Croc paused.

Blade hovering.

He didn't answer right away.

His eyes drifted to his stump.

Then to the thick black scales creeping further down his shoulder.

To his reflection in the pot of water beside the fire.

His jaw was longer now.

More pronounced.

His eyes a deeper gold.

More slitted.

More… something else.

"No," he said at last.

Shahvee's fingers tightened slightly on the cloth.

He didn't look at her.

"But not less than one."

He picked up a piece of meat and handed it to her.

"I'm not what I was. Not what others called me. Not what they feared."

She accepted the food, her eyes never leaving his face.

"I don't know what I'm becoming. But I know I'm not ashamed of it anymore."

They ate in silence for a while.

Then she smiled—soft and wide.

"I'm glad," she said. "Because I like what you are."

Where It Still Hurts

The last of the marsh-hen was gone.

The fire had burned low.

Crickets sang from the edge of the reeds, and the water glowed silver beneath the moons.

Croc leaned back on one arm, tail-end missing, breathing slow but steady.

Shahvee sat beside him, knees hugged to her chest, eyes watching the shimmer of torchbugs drift above the pond.

Neither spoke for a long time.

He broke the silence first.

"You ever think about who you were… before Skyrim?"

She smiled faintly. "You mean before mud and suspicion and backbreaking trade work?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

She was quiet again.

Then said, "Sometimes. But not in sadness."

She looked at him.

"There's no place for regret in our kind. The world gives us so little already. You take what's good and you let it grow."

He stared at the fire.

Then nodded once.

Like a slow heartbeat.

Her eyes drifted to his left arm.

To the bandage now resting at his side, the exposed limb underneath pulsing slowly with tissue like freshly budded bark.

A vein throbbed where the elbow had once been.

Sinew spiraled outward like a vine searching for sunlight.

Quietly, she reached toward it.

Paused.

Then gently placed her fingers on the regrowing flesh.

It was warm.

Firm.

Alive.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Croc didn't flinch.

He looked at her hand, her fingers—small, steady, not afraid.

"No," he said softly. "Not the limb."

She looked up at him.

He met her eyes.

"But… it feels like every part of me is being carved again. Not from the outside. From the inside."

Her hand didn't move.

"If you're scared," she said, "it doesn't mean you're less strong."

"I'm not scared."

He glanced at the sky.

"I'm… awake. More than ever. And I don't know what to do with that yet."

Shahvee leaned against him, head resting lightly against his shoulder.

"Then let it grow," she murmured. "Let it be slow. You've got time."

Croc's eyes closed briefly.

He didn't speak.

He didn't move.

He just let himself be still.

For once.

The Dream with Two Shadows

The wind in the dream was warm.

Not Skyrim's biting gales, but soft gusts, carrying the scent of sawdust and sun-heated bark.

Croc stood at the edge of a clearing.

Both arms moved freely.

No pain in his shoulder.

No ache in his spine.

His tail swung lazily behind him, keeping balance as he hoisted a heavy beam into place.

He was building something.

With purpose.

With peace.

Behind him came a laugh.

Light.

Real.

He turned.

Shahvee stood barefoot in the grass, a small pot of crimson dye in one hand, painting careful symbols along the doorframe.

When she looked up at him, there was no worry.

No fear.

Only joy.

"You're crooked," she said, tapping the beam with a paintbrush.

"Level enough," he answered.

"You said that about the roof."

He smirked.

"So did you."

He set the beam down.

Walked over.

His scales weren't dulled or smooth—they were still him. Rough. Black. Armored.

But the dream didn't distort them.

She didn't flinch.

She looked at his claws.

Then took his hand.

Pressed it gently to her cheek.

For the first time in a dream—

Croc didn't fight.

Didn't chase.

Didn't bleed.

He just stood.

Alive.

Awake.

And when he opened his eyes in the real world, lying on the woven mat of his hut—

The stump of his arm still twitched with life.

But the weight of rage?

The sharp edge of loneliness?

Gone.

And in his memory, her voice lingered.

"You're crooked."

And his reply:

"Level enough."