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He's never hated his body more than he did after a fight. These gruesome, bloody underground brawls where he makes money to survive and pays the price of losing with death, resurrections provided by the dungeon fight ring to keep the entertainment coming, were a way to punish the hideous body he was forced to inhabit. This cage that held him back, this feminine face and slim body praised by fellow elves, this once-flawless skin that he only wants to mar further…
No, he never hated himself more than gazing into the cracked mirror after a fight, his own bruised and bloody reflection bare before him. It sickened him. Even through the repeated painful punishment of his own death, the harsh crunch of bone as he murdered an enemy in cold blood, the sharp and splintered feeling of his bones moving back into place and melding together once more, it would not give him what he wanted.
He doesn’t think it ever would.
Womanhood, personhood, humanity… he did not ask for any of it. He did not want any of it. If he could only ascend this form, if he could feel the weight of large fangs in his mouth and the bite of harsh claws to end his bony fingers, maybe it would be fine.
The true, painful honesty of it is that his gender meant nothing as long as he took this form.
He was not meant to be a human.
How could anyone understand?
The last time he saw his mother she called him her ‘babygirl’. The last time he saw his mother, she held him tight to her chest and sobbed. The last time he saw his mother, she blamed him for her own suicidal ideation.
He doesn’t regret it.
She wanted to die because of him. She wanted to die in response to his own death wish. Why did she have to make his self hatred about herself, anyways? The coddled role of a dependent daughter, a role he came to resent more than anything. Every slight grasp for independence was met with attack, every push towards escape cut short by a sharp pull on the rope tied tight around his neck. Every day he was gruesomely reminded he was nothing but a dog, a sweet pet puppy when he behaved and a filthy mutt when he so much as barked.
He didn’t want to bark. He wanted to bite, to bite deep into the flesh of his two-faced owner, then to turn on his own form and bite deep into his own flesh. He wanted to bite everyone who had told him what a pretty woman he was, who praised him as a symbol of elf beauty, who used him for the appearance he hated and kicked him to the curb when he growled in turn.
Bared teeth are so easy to mistake for a smile.
He gave her what she wanted, and that was enough. He would never again escape this. Not that he ever could to begin with. He thinks it was always meant to turn out this way, even to someone who didn’t believe in any sort of fate. Meaning, maybe. But not fate. He would have to forge his own fate.
He spat blood into the sink, and briefly remembered that, oh, he should head to the arena healer. An injured fighter is no good in the ring.
A week later, and he is in the library of the bustling city he’s found himself in. The dungeon nearby ensures the city’s prosperity. This library, funded by the local government, is a safe haven of knowledge. He always enjoyed reading.
He hardly read anymore, hardly left his bed for any reason but to fight. Or eat. Still, he came here on a sudden whim, on the way back to the inn. He won this fight. It did not put him in a good mood, but at least he had more money from the betting pool.
He was painfully aware of the looks he received as he browsed the bookshelves with halfhearted intent. Shirtless, still with lingering traces of his opponents blood. He’d have to go to the bathhouse after this. He didn’t want to. Taking his shirt off was easy, bandages wrapped around his chest offered a twisted sense of protection in their vulnerability. Taking his pants off was more difficult, forced to confront the part of him that haunted him the most.
He ignored the looks the best he could.
He ignored the insecurity, the feeling of disgust and the bile that slowly rose in the back of his throat. It was easy. He was used to it. It would be fine.
Continuous reminders of his existence were somehow cut short. There was something about the book he’d come across, tucked away in a far corner as if in hiding. It called to him in a way he couldn’t explain. For a moment he wondered if it was enchanted, if it would tear him apart piece by piece the moment he touched the old binding.
He plucked the book from its shelf, admired the cover. It was as if cracked and bleeding, with a title so worn it took some time to read.
“Transformation and Amalgamations” .
The title seemed just as strange as the book, and for some strange reason it struck him deep with that familiar pain. His heart shadowed by it, his soul wrenched, his mind in disarray. That inhuman feeling, that deep desire.
As mutts do, he followed his instinct.
The book weighed heavily in his arms as he made the short trek back to the inn. He forewent the bathhouse, too focused on getting home and uncovering the mystery of the oddly entrancing tome. It seemed almost ancient, and yet sturdy in his arms still.
He only briefly wondered if this was a bad idea.
Has he ever had a good idea? Has he ever done anything good, for himself or anyone else? No, of course not. It was impossible for him. He was filthy. He’d never do anything good.
Only he would. For the first time in his ninety-three years alive, he knows he would make a good choice. Not for anyone else, maybe, but definitely for himself.
He was sure of it.
Because there, on the random page he’d opened to in the middle of the book, he found an entry on what would surely be the fix to his misery. ‘Beastkin’ , the entry read. A detailed drawing of what could only be described as an amalgamation of man and wolf stared back at him. And he knew, then, that this was it. His way out. His way to peace. His own meaning in life.
He needed this.