Chapter 53: Offering
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Only wind, only snow falling, only blood steaming on white, only breathing of three men and one mountain.
Then grey-haired man made his decision. You could see it in shoulders, how they set, how tired went out and hard came in.
Snow kept falling. Light, steady, indifferent, like it had fallen on this road for hundred years and would fall hundred more after they were bones. It landed on prisoner’s bleeding ankles and did not melt right away, because blood was already cooling, because man was cooling, because life was leaving.
"You wanted the boy to die in your place."
Prisoner shook his head violently, hair stuck to forehead with sweat and snow, eyes darting like fly in jar. He kept glancing at Mirebeast, then back at grey-haired man, then at Danny, like he was trying to find which face would save him, which face was softest, which face had least stone in it.
"Please... please no... no, please, I—"
"You were willing to sacrifice him to save yourself."
"Please! I didn’t mean it! I was scared!" Words came out fast, all together, tumbling over each other, no space to breathe, no space to think. "I was scared, I didn’t think, you have to understand— you have to— I have wife! In low town! I have—"
"So was he."
Grey-haired man’s voice was quiet. Very quiet. Quieter than snow falling.
That made it worse.
Quiet meant he had already thought about it, long before, maybe back at gate when he said some monsters can’t be killed, maybe when he first saw thin man look at boy. Quiet meant there was no heat left to argue with, no anger to beg against. Anger you can beg, you can shout back. Quiet you cannot, quiet is decision already made and dried.
Prisoner began dragging himself backward with hands, nails scraping stone under snow, leaving dark streaks across snow, red turning brown, brown turning black in cold. His heels did not work, feet flopping useless, tendons cut, no strings to pull. Blood made snow soft where he touched it, sinking, melting then refreezing around fingers.
"Don’t do this. Please! We can run! We can find another way! We can go around! Through forest! Through wolves! Anything!"
Grey-haired man watched him drag, did not step forward yet, sword low, watching Mirebeast out of corner of eye, keeping monster in view, keeping distance measured.
"There is no other way. You closed way yourself when you tried to throw him."
Prisoner stared up at him, mouth open, snot and tears freezing, eyes desperate. He looked at Danny again, that old look came back, even now, even bleeding out, even with feet dead, calculating, trading, last market of life.
"Then take the boy! Take him! He’s small! He’s— he’s cursed! You saw! Storm came after him! Wolves came after him! It’s him! It’s always him! Take him!"
Danny’s stomach twisted, hard, like someone punched gut, like old nausea from Ravenfall came back, from watching men beat boy for stealing bread.
Even now.
Even after everything, after trying to throw him, after being cut, after bleeding in snow, after begging.
The bastard was still trying to sell his life. Still trying to make it trade, as if boy weighing less made his life worth less, as if monster cared about weight, as if monster shopped by size.
Grey-haired man’s expression hardened, line between brows deepening, mouth thin.
"No."
It was small word. He did not raise voice. Did not need to. No was mountain.
He seized prisoner by back of clothing, by filthy collar of prisoner garb, by rags that were same as his own rags, and dragged him toward Mirebeast.
Fabric tore little at shoulder but held, stitching stronger than skin. Prisoner was lighter than he looked, skin and bone from mines, from years of carrying rock, no meat left.
Man screamed and clawed at ground, fingers finding snow, then stone, then snow again, nothing to hold, nothing to anchor, nails breaking, blood from hands now joining blood from legs.
"LET ME GO! PLEASE! I’M BEGGING YOU! PLEASE! I DON’T WANT TO DIE! PLEASE! I HAVE DAUGHTER! PLEASE!"
Grey-haired man didn’t stop, didn’t slow, didn’t look at face. Boots left deep prints, dragging trench behind, red trench in white. He kept his body turned so prisoner was always between him and Mirebeast, not shielding himself, keeping offering forward, like presenting, like priest presenting lamb but lamb is man.
Danny stood motionless, feet frozen to ground, not from snow, from something else, from chest.
He wanted to look away. Wanted to close eyes, cover ears, be child again, be boy in forest who didn’t see.
He couldn’t. Eyes stayed open, locked, watching because not watching felt like betraying something, like pretending it wasn’t happening.
Prisoner had tried to kill him more than once. He had blamed him for storm, called him cursed, argued that sacrificing child was only reasonable choice, logical choice, math. He had grabbed his collar to throw him like meat to dog, like extra weight thrown off cart.
Danny should have felt relieved. Should have felt justice, should have felt Tch, finally, karma.
Instead, chest felt strangely tight, like something sitting on it, heavy stone, heavy snow, heavy as Mirebeast’s claw.
Perhaps it was because prisoner was still screaming, not words now, just raw noise that came from throat, from animal place deeper than words, sound men make when they know no one is coming, no patrol, no god, no daughter.
Perhaps it was because grey-haired man, same person who had protected him, who said he would take him to Fort Haven alive, who said if someone has to die it won’t be boy, was now dragging another human toward certain death with same hands that had pulled Danny out of path of claw. Same hands, same calm, same quiet.
Or perhaps Danny simply couldn’t understand how quickly survival could turn someone into monster. How fast line moved. One second you are victim, next you are offering. One second you beg for life, next you trade someone else’s.
Grey-haired man stopped several paces from Mirebeast.
Three paces. That was all that was left between them and those three red eyes, between blood and mouth. Close enough that Danny could feel heat coming off cracks in its chest, despite cold, despite snowstorm, heat like forge, like wound breathing, like swamp in winter that doesn’t freeze.
He released prisoner and stepped back, one step, sword up again, but not at prisoner, at monster, guarding offering as if to make sure monster takes right one.
Thin man lay in snow, trembling so violently that teeth clicked together, clack clack clack, not like Mirebeast, like human trying to be beast. Blood had soaked through trousers to knees, to snow, steaming, then freezing at edges. He tried to curl up, fetal, hands over head, knees to chest though knees didn’t work, like that would help, like snow would cover him and hide.