Something had changed.

T'erin couldn't put his finger on what it was, but it floated there, on the edge of his awareness. He reached for it, grasping, but it slipped numbly through his fingers. What could it be? What was different? He searched within himself, not quite knowing what it was he sought. Slowly, as if emerging from a thick fog, an idea formed. The pain was gone. It seemed so long since the pain had left him. He grimaced internally as the memory of it tickled the edges of his consciousness. It had only come in small waves at first, white hot and terrifying; but lately, it had stayed with him, carressed him, loved him, held him in its iron grip until he thought he might go mad. It had become a part of him -- and now it was no more. Did he miss it? He considered this for a moment. He wasn't sure... Perhaps he had gone mad, after all.

There was a noise nearby, a murmuring, muttering, sound that seemed to rise up from the ether, magnificent and beautiful, and fall back again into its cold, deep embrace. Curious. He had forgotten sound. Had forgotten most sensations, really... Except for the pain of course. He liked this new sensation. It pleased him. It was louder now, faster, almost undulating. It exuded a strength, a sensuous, alluring, sense of purpose that filled him with a thousand other adjectives that did not -- could not -- do it justice. As it continued, the music of it began to change ever so slightly -- a note here, a beat there -- gaining in speed and complexity. The tone took on a darker cast, the cadence more guttural and sharp. He was no longer sure of it. Its beauty had faded and was becoming laced with an ugliness that did not sit well with him. He willed it, with what will was left to him, to stop. He pleaded with it. He railed against the feelings that it set off within him, trying to force it from his being. He struck out against it viciously, violently, and reeled in shock as white hot fire gripped his mind in a terrible embrace, boiling through his body, burning his chest. He thought he could smell his flesh as it burned. He thought he could hear himself screaming, counterpoint to the rise and fall of the chanting that surrounded him.

He waited for the blackness to come, once more.

It did not.

The burning continued, tearing at him, eating away at his awareness. That was it! That was truly what had changed. Aware. He was conscious of his surroundings, and getting more so in spite of what was happening to him. He had remembered something -- something vital. It whispered at him, insistent, clear as crystal in his mind. Three words that fought through the fog, cut through the ululating chant and his own screams. The words were desperate, fierce, and they attacked him at his core. Escape! Fight! Live!!! He reached for them, held them close to him, tried to nurture them in his darkness. They, in turn, dug themselves deeper into him, deeper this time than they had ever before. They took on new life, screaming at him now. He wished that they would help him with the pain -- it was deepening too. It hurt so much! It seemed to visit every corner of his being and take up residence there, squatting within him, thousands upon thousands of dark little creatures with tiny, jagged little knives, sawing away at this latest attempt at defense. He was losing this battle. He was losing the war. It was too much for him. He was too weak.

The words quieted their screams, melding with his own. He knew that he was lost.

This cycle seemed all that he had ever known. It had gone on for too long for him to remember its beginnings. There were times, in his fractured awareness, that he was near-certain that it had always been this way. Nothing had come before, nothing had ever been but what there was now: pure and unfiltered agony. Torture of the kind that there was no return from, the kind that left you broken and lost to yourself -- or left you dead. He knew that this must be wrong, that there had to be something more than this. There had been something beautiful once, he was sure of it -- but he had lost it. Each time it was just a little bit further from his grasp, lost to the fires that swept repeatedly through him.

A face floated before him, diaphanous and blurred in his vision. He did not notice it at first -- but it was insistent. No matter where he looked, the face was there. He knew this face. She had meant something to him once. She had been something to him, and he to her. But what? He struggled against the pain once more, trying to focus. This was the first time he had seen her here, he was certain of that. He knew she was important. He knew -- The face began to fade as the fire burned into him anew, wreaking havoc on his mind and body once more. No! He rallied himself against this fresh assault and threw all that was left of him at the face of the woman before him. She must be seen! She must be known! He knew, somehow, that if he were to give up on this, if he were to fail, that he would be lost forever. Slowly, painfully, he forced the vision to clear, too exhausted by his effort to feel any sense of triumph.

He did know her. He remembered. Everything. It came upon him in a rush, pummeling the air from his body, choking him in the terrible truth of it. He knew what he had done to her. He knew that the very thing that had brought him here, to this place of midnight terrors, was the thing that was responsible for her death. The thing these fools were trying to take from him. To use him for their own means. To cause him to kill, again and again. To destroy. To murder.

Just like he had his mother.

He had not meant it. He was only trying to protect himself, and her, and his father, too. He had seen the fear in her eyes before she had died, though. Not fear for the orcs that had set upon them, the vile beasts that were only steps from cutting them down. Fear of him. There had been recognition there, too, within the fear, driving it. She knew what he was, what he was going to do, and it had frightened her more than any monster or blade. There had been something else, too, something more in her eyes that he had not seen before. It was there still. Pity. She had known. She had known what the world had in store for him, and there had been nothing she could do to spare him that pain. This pain.

He had killed her.

He had burned her to nothing in the fire of his fear, and had destroyed many more, since, in his rage at his own impotence; his inability to control, or even to understand the curse that his life had brought against his family. And now these... fools... these creatures, they held him trapped and wanted to set him upon the world at large, a tool in their game that would see him as destroyer. How many more must look at him as his mother did now? How many more would fall, screaming and writhing as he walked among them? How many? He screamed it within himself. He could not bear the thought of it. He would not allow it to happen! Not one more innocent would die at his hands. Not one!

He focused on the face of his mother, on the look in her eyes. Those who had captured him would not control him. That they would even attempt to use him for such ends caused a new burning within him. Rage. Raw, primal rage at any who would seek to use him or his curse -- his power -- for murder. The rage had a life of its own. It hungered. It began to feed. It started first with his sense of self, with the last bit that remained to him in defense against the onslaught of his captors, against the thing that attempted to hold his power in check. The rage used all that he was to co-opt him to a single purpose: Destroy. Destroy those that held him. Destroy that which bound him. Release the fury of hell and heaven combined upon them all! He did not fight it. He did not care if he were, himself, destroyed. This must be done! It must! His need was all-consuming. He no longer pushed back against the pain that sought to draw him under, instead, he embraced it, used it as it had him, and turned it to his own ends.

As he drew that energy within himself, subverted it, and added it to his own, he felt something snap deep in his core. His power rose to a fever pitch, wild and un-focused... and exploded from him.

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