I want to ask about the men in red—who they are, why they are so dogged in their pursuit—but, as usual, he doesn’t give me an opportunity.
“No. Of course not.” His jaw tightens. “You, with your useless, bleeding heart. Incapable of contempt. More concerned with crying for your enemy than coming to grips with the harsher realities of your circumstance.”
“It may come as a surprise to an emotionally stunted creature such as yourself to learn that evolved beings are more than capable of holding two contradictory beliefs at once. Myuseless, bleeding heartcan feel both compassion and contempt for those men.” I jerk my chin up, a haughty move. “And, for the record, being raised with tenderness is not a fatal flaw.”
“Just because it hasn’t killed you yet does not mean it won’t in the future.” He sighs and shakes his head, exasperated. “Misplaced empathy will earn you no favors in this world. Any empathy, in fact. You would do well to harden yourself against it.”
“Why? So I can be more like you? No, thank you.” I scrub my tears away with the back of my sleeve. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand why I behave as I do. A man like you cannot feel anything—anything except cold-blooded calculation.”
“Don’t forget annoyance,” he mutters pointedly. “I’ve felt plenty of that these past few days. In fact, one could say I did those soldiers a favor by sending them over that cliff. Now they are forever absolved of the distinct frustration of your company.”
I reel backward. “How can you jest about such things? Have you no conscience at all?”
“You think me some unfeeling villain—that’s fine by me.” He shrugs, wincing when the arrow in his shoulder shifts. “I don’t care much about your opinion. I have one objective: to keep you alive until we reach the other side of these mountains.”
“And when we get there? What then?”
On that front, however, I will get no clarity. He has already turned from me, whistling for his horse. The stallion trots obediently from the shadows, seeming no worse for wear despite our rather dramatic crossing of the bridge.
“Onyx,” Scythe murmurs with surprising softness, stroking his hand along the stallion’s glossy flank. “My steady boy.”
I look away, not wanting to see him act thus. Not wanting to know he is capable of kindness, of connection—even if it is only with his horse. It is far easier to think him a definitive brute, with no nuanced shades of humanity creeping in at the edges.
Scythe removes something from one of the saddlebags, then walks over to a flat-topped boulder. A low groan of pain slips from his mouth as he sits down.
“Come here, girl.”
Unmoving, I cross my arms over my chest. When I fail to comply with his order, he looks up. “Are you deaf now?Come.”
“I am not a hound.”
“Mmm. More like a rabid terrier, with the way you snap back.”
“Do you find insulting someone is your best strategy when preparing to ask for their assistance?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks as he attempts to lock down his temper. “I need…”
I know what he needs, but in this moment, I am petty enough to wait for the words it so chafes him to utter. “Yes?”
“The arrow.” He grimaces. “I can’t ride with it like this.”
“And?”
“I can’t pull it out myself, as you well know.” His expression darkens into a scowl. “I…I need your help.”
From the look on his face, admitting that aloud is more painful for him than the shaft embedded in his shoulder. My lips twist. “Were you not just lecturing me on the perils of empathy for one’s enemy?”
“I am not your enemy.”
I startle, surprised by the quiet conviction in his voice. “Well. What are you, then?”
“Are you going to help me or not?” he asks in lieu of a real answer. In the gathering daylight, his face looks quite drawn; the pain must be significant. I decide not to goad him further. With a resigned sigh, I take a few hesitant steps forward, my socks crunching on the snowy earth.
It’s strange. I called him a monster. I saw him do monstrous things. And yet, as I close the gap between us, I feel no fear that he will harm me. Somewhere along the way, I lost my wariness of him. It’s not trust, exactly—for who could ever trust such a man?—but rather a grudging realization that, for all his questionable methods, for whatever dark end awaits me in the Northlands…he will do whatever it takes to keep me alive. In that, I find a twisted semblance of solace—much like a pig, I suppose, fat and happy in the care of the same farmer who will eventually lead it to the slaughter.
Scythe holds a short dagger, its point lethally sharp, the handle etched with indecipherable glyphs. It glints in the pale dawn light.
“Are you certain it’s wise to arm me?” I ask, holding his stare. “As we have ascertained already, I’m not overly fond of you.”