He'd known, really. From the second Thren sat down across the table with that sword strapped to his back, he'd known Po was dead. But it didn't make it any easier when the words finally fell from Thren's lips, heavy and bloated and festering with loss.
The red wisps of his berserker rage solidified into ropes that bound his control tighter than he could break free of, and an anguished howl battered at his teeth, demanding release. He felt himself sliding away, the hole left by Po's passing filling up with a molten anger and he was slipping beneath the surface.
When he came up again, he was standing near the wall, a broken chair arm clutched in one white-knuckled hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to look around, to see what he might have done this time. His heart was in his throat and he shuddered, cold and empty in the absence of the anger that had propped him up. If he had hurt Thren...
Hesitantly he cracked on eye and saw a pile of splintered wood at his feet, the remains of the chair that he had smashed against the wall, leaving deep gouges in the plaster. Bitter gall rose in his throat, and he dropped the arm to clatter atop the other broken pieces.
Maybe he was a mad dog, to be put down.
But Thren's words finally began to trickle into his awareness, and he dropped his face into his hands and ran them through his hair. Thren was right. He was wallowing in self-pity, and Po would have kicked his arse for it.
"Sorry," he mumbled, feeling stupid and deflated. He kept his eyes on the floor, not wanting to look up to see what he was sure would be Thren's mocking stare.