The Struggle

                “Every night it’s the same... I sleep, I dream, I suffer, I scream. I wake... He’s getting stronger. I feel it every day, like someone holding a pillow against where my mind would have to breathe from. It’s stifling me! The very presence of it... How do you fight something that has access to every single memory you possess?”

Torm listened intently for the answer at the other end of the line, but he knew all he would get was silence. Truth was, he wasn’t actually talking to anyone but for some reason, holding the phone to his ear and speaking made things just a tiny bit better for a while. The illusion of communication was soothing in its own right, true or not. Slowly, he set the phone down and made his way to the bed, the stage from which his tortures always began in earnest. As he removed his clothing, he recalled all the things he’d tried over the years to avoid this part of the night. He had tried imposing insomnia on himself, but it hadn’t worked, and indeed had been terrible. In the end, he had to sleep, and with his weakened body the Mark had hurt him far worse than ever before. He could not be free of it... it was his until the end of his time. Upon his lower back, the Mark still resided. Colored in black, most thought it was just a tasteful tatoo, and indeed the design was archaic and cool, with it's triple crescent moon and central spiral. It was large enough to cover most of his lower backfrom the middle of the spine to a rest just before his tailbone. He sat on the side of the bed, still gazing at the phone. If only there really was someone he could call...But there was no one he could trust to talk to about such things. He laid his body down, pleased at least that the tension he’d been carrying the whole day slowly leaked out of him as his muscles relaxed and loosened up. There was a second of pain at the adjustment, but that gave way to relief and a sigh. Torm always knew that the only way to deal with the big events in life was to take them as naturally as possible and relish in the smaller events that gave good results; like lying down in this bed. Normally he slept alone, though not always. But after he received the mark he could no longer trust himself unconsciously and so was forced to have no bed partner until it was resolved. That was over 50 years ago... The relief he had felt turned momentarily to loneliness as all the years pressed down on him from some darker part of his brain. Yes, these were hard days, but he’d been through worse. He rested his head on the pillow slowly and almost instantly turned to his side to slide his arm under the pillow. For some reason he could never fall asleep alone on his back and felt most comfortable in this way. He used his other arm to pull the thin blanket upon himself and readied for the journey ahead.

It did not take long for him to fall to sleep, but oddly enough the dream did not come immediately. Instead, Torm found himself in a sunlit field of wheat and tall grass, lazing on his back with a wide brimmed hat and a piece of straw in his mouth. He had one leg slung over the other and his arms were behind his head in the ultimate relaxing position as he listened vaguely to a nearby brook running over pebbles and rocks. His hair was longer, falling partially over his eyes while also tied back into a pony tail that hung loose under the hat. It was such a peaceful setting. In his sleep, Torm had small tears rolling down his cheeks. Peace was one of the few things he coveted above all else, and this was peace: peace of self and surroundings. It was like a heaven to him. But then the dream twisted in itself. The sky went black and screams shredded the silence. Not far from the fields, a small village was being attacked! Already, flames were erupting everywhere as villagers lay dead or dying on the ground. Blood was everywhere, and no one was spared. Somehow Torm found himself in the thick of it, right in the center of the town, and yet unable to do anything. He espied the monster responsible once or twice in the shadows of houses or streaking through a window: A colossal shadow creeping about with uncanny grace and skill, killing with unbridled pleasure. He didn’t know how he knew all this, but somehow he could see it all happening, and even see into the monster’s heart. Slowly, the village around him died in a bath of blood and he was all that remained, standing in the middle of the little town face to face with the creature. He knew what to expect and yet at the same time he could not help but gasp and retch. Before him was himself, in Lycan form, with a twisted red smile and blood soaked claws.

Torm tried to get up but made it only to his knees. The strength was gone from his body, and he could do nothing but gaze in what he hoped would seem like defiance at the huge Black lycan striding towards him. In two steps it had smashed aside the ceiling that had been in his way and cross the whole expanse of the small house. Torm did not know if he was about to be kicked through the other side of the wall or simply beaten through the floor but nothing prepared him for the next step. In one moment the Cursed Wolf was standing menacing and tall before him, and in the blink of a bleary eye, there stood a female lycan clothed in browns and greens before him. He could not believe his eyes! Kal’daka… Her paw caressed his cheek softly and wiped away his tears even as more sprang into place. She kneeled beside him and wrapped him in the warmest hug he’d ever experienced. She whispered into his ear.
“I loved you Torm... with all my heart. But when I saw the real you, I began to wonder. And when you left me, I had no choice but to let you go. Now you are alone and I am loved by someone who respects me. What do you have left to live for, oh Wanderer?”

She pulled back and looked into his eyes, greenish gold locked with salty sorrow. He knew she spoke the truth and he never had stopped regretting what a fool he’d been back then. Often, he asked himself what it was he was living for without her and he had never come up with a complete answer. Her hand softly slid to his neck and all at once a huge grasp of steel and pain clamped tight, choking his air off. The Cursed Wolf lifted Torm’s form into the air with one arm, bringing them eye to eye while his hind paws dangled almost three feet in the air.
“You really are pathetic…”

Again the rumbling growl as Torm was thrown back out through the same hole he had entered, hitting the ground hard and rolling to a stop on his side. He heard the great stomping of his aggressor drawing near but something had finally snapped. The villagers’ blood was still caked onto his claws and teeth. He could taste it and it made him sick but it also infuriated him. Showing Kal’daka had been the last straw.  That had been like opening a closed but festering wound. Now Torm’s eyes flashed with the Rage that was inherent in his kin and it filled him with new power. As he heard the Cursed Wolf stop, he leapt up into a crouch with his claws fully extended, quivering with anger and energy. Having not expected this, the black lycan stepped back involuntarily, but not enough. Torm’s first swing created deep gouges across its chest and the next was a powerful downward rake that ripped skin from bone by the ribs. Torm swung with skill and technique, fuelled by rage and sorrow, slashing, stabbing, punching and kicking in a flurry of aggression that soon had the Cursed Wolf backed against another of the houses. Torm slashed across the bridge of its muzzle, reducing both its eyes to red rivers useless for sight. He backed off as much as he dared while the wounds healed quickly to prepare the final blow. Just as the Cursed Wolf’s eyes could see again, Torm leapt as hard as he could and thrust his paw forward with all his strength. It shattered the lycan’s jaw and indented its head into the wooden wall, splintering it. Somehow, the beast managed an improvised smile.

Torm awoke on his feet, sweating, to find his fist embedded in the wall. It hurt a great deal, since he had shattered one of the support beams in his sleep. His anger faded quickly and cold air seeped through the hole, making him shiver. Sluggishly, he removed his hand and flexed it lightly, wincing in pain. It would be healed by morning but it would hurt till then. He was too tired to do anything about the hole, so he decided to fix it tomorrow. He lay back down upon the bed, thinking. It was not the worst dream the Curse Mark had ever tried and yet… this was the first time he’d ever…

Fought back….