Chapter 56: Choice
After several minutes, snow crunching under boots being only sound, only world, Danny finally spoke. Voice small in open air, almost lost to wind, almost taken before it could be heard.
"Was he going to kill me? Was he really going to throw me?"
Grey-haired man didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Did not say who, did not say which he, did not play dumb, did not soften with maybe.
"Yes."
Word flat, no softening, no maybe, no I think. Just yes. Like saying snow is cold.
"And you knew? Before he grabbed? Before he said let him die?"
"I suspected he would try something." Grey-haired man kept eyes on path, scanning rocks for movement, not looking at boy, looking ahead like good guard should. "Since last night. When he kept talking about lots. About drawing lots. About fair. About one for three. People who talk about fair a lot are about to do something unfair. That’s always."
Danny looked at him, snow stuck to lashes, making eyes wet, making man blur.
"Then why didn’t you stop him earlier? Why wait until he grabbed? Why wait until he was on ground?"
Grey-haired man quiet for moment. Breathed out, breath made cloud that broke apart fast, same as his fire had, same as his Echo.
"Because I thought he might still choose differently."
That surprised Danny. He had expected tactical answer, expected "needed to see his intent" or "needed monster to see blood" or "wanted him closer to beast so drag shorter." Logic answer, old soldier answer. Not this.
"He was scared," grey-haired man went on, voice lower, almost talking to himself as much as boy, like thinking aloud while walking because mountain is place you think aloud. "Scared people say things they don’t mean. Shout things. Think ugly things. I wanted to give him time to be scared and still not do it. To be scared and still be man. I wanted him to be better than fear."
Danny stared at snow beneath feet, each footprint they made filling in slowly behind them, like mountain forgetting them as they walked, which was mercy, which was how mountain keeps sane.
"And when he didn’t? When he chose? When he grabbed?"
Man tightened grip on broken sword, knuckles pale even under blood and dirt, even under old scars.
"I made my choice."
Danny said nothing more at first, kept walking, but words followed him, stuck like snow in boots, stuck like blood under nails. I made my choice. Not I had to. Not There was no other way. Not Mountain demanded. Not It was logic. Just a choice. Owned. Like man owned his sword, owned his fire, owned his kill, owned his prisoner.
Man had protected him when he could have abandoned him. On ridge, before that, when wolves came, when Mirebeast threw him, he had stepped in front without thinking, sword first, body first, no math.
Then he had sacrificed another man when that man tried to sacrifice Danny. Just as quickly. Just as without thinking, or maybe with too much thinking, thinking done long before today, years before, in other wars, on other roads.
Was that justice? Was that law? Empire had laws about this, monks had laws, Ravenfall had no laws except who has knife. Which law did old man use?
Was it revenge for attempted murder Punishment for trying to trade child?
Or was it simply another kind of survival? Kind where you keep one you can live with and leave other, math that thin prisoner had tried to use but reversed, same math but different variable kept.
Danny didn’t have answer. He was too young for that kind of answer, too young but old enough to see question, old enough that forest and Ravenfall and wolves had made him see questions monks never taught. Monks had taught him about good and evil like they were two houses, far apart, good people in one, bad people in other, wall between. Mountain taught that they were two doors in same house, and sometimes you go through both in same day, same hour, same minute, with same hands.
He only knew that world had once again shown him something ugly. It kept doing that, every time he thought he had seen worst of it, every time he thought after wolves there could be nothing worse, it showed him one more thing, one more layer under bark like Mirebeast’s moving worms under black bark, one more thing that moves when you look close.
Sometimes, person who wanted you dead was one who died, fed to thing you couldn’t kill, and that didn’t feel like victory, felt like snow in mouth.
And sometimes, person who saved you was capable of sending someone else to their death without flinching, and looking you in eye after, and calling it choice, and sleeping fine after, and still expecting you to walk beside him to Fort Haven.
Danny glanced at grey-haired man walking beside him, half step behind now, letting boy lead, guarding back. His profile hard against snow light, tired, older than he had looked yesterday, lines deeper, blood drying on face like war paint gone wrong, grey hair white with snow making him look older than mountain.
For first time since they had met, since forest, since wolves, since gate, since man said "he is coming with me alive," he wondered what kind of person man truly was. What he had been before prisoner, before Fort Haven, before grey hair, before bent sword. How many choices like today had he made to get old.
And whether he should be afraid of him. And whether being afraid of him was same as being safe with him. And whether safe was same as good.
Snow kept falling. Path stretched ahead, empty, white, toward arch that was still far, toward empire that was still farther. Two sets of footprints now, not three. Wind covered third set quickly, like it had never been. Like mountain keeps only two.
Danny pulled torn collar up and kept walking, shoulder aching, hands still shaking under arms, but walking, because fort was ahead and because old man behind was choice he had for now.