It's better to die (I)

The man let out a loud snort, exhaling as much air as possible from his lips. He did not believe the child would faint so easily and, such an unexpected twist, forced him to change his original plans.

He could not act in this place, too easily accessible and too conspicuous; therefore, to avoid annoyances, he had anticipated the times and, after having loaded him in his arms, had led him to his home.

The effort had been a lot, but it was somehow worth it. The more he watched him - asleep and quiet - the more he repeated to himself that the choice was perfect for him.

He smiled at that thought, starting to fiddle with his belt. Getting around wearing that heavy and bulky cloak was not easy, but it was also the only way to avoid being discovered. Pulling aside a flap of his cloak, he began fiddling with his black leather belt, arguing with the buckle. It was not suitable for that type of building, but man had never found the time and desire to modify it.

He glanced quickly at the boy, relaxing his shoulders to see him still unconscious. If luck had turned his way, as he hoped it would, he would still have at least twenty minutes to prepare everything.

At that thought, a spontaneous smile was born on his lips. He had been struck from the first moment by that child, thinner than the others and with clearly darker hair, albeit always brown; he possessed a curious disposition and his eyes - despite the desolation they were forced to witness every year - still retained that candid innocence that man had long been looking for.

It was just perfect.

Immersed in those thoughts, he did not even realize that he had managed to get rid of the belt and have mechanically leaned it against the back of the chair. He stiffened slightly, pleased with his own skill, and then looked at the dagger. He stood thinking for a few moments, and then unfastened it from his belt and placed it in a drawer, well hidden from prying eyes, underneath a small bookcase.

-At least, I'm sure he won't try to stab me ...- he thought, with a hint of amusement.

"Where I am?"

That voice, thin and confused, startled the man, who remained totally still.

- Apparently asking for the help of luck was too much ... - he thought again, regretting all the time lost between transport and unbuckling his belt. He rolled his eyes, holding back a curse, merely turning coldly to the child.

Ystal was rubbing his temple, sitting in the corner of the floor, looking extremely painful. It was as if someone had hit him with a stone to knock him out. Memories of how it had happened or why, however, were vague and obscured.

Slightly recovered from his suffering, he looked around with confusion and uncertainty, starting to meet - for the third time in a row - the figure of the stranger. This time, his cloak had a dark shade, like oak wood. Suddenly, as if crossed by a discharge, the little boy remembered everything.

He watched the man, noticing the missing dagger and belt, casting a terrified look at his face, hoping to see something other than the smile he had glimpsed before he passed out. Unfortunately, he saw nothing. Only indifference, and a face always and continuously hidden by that damned hood.

Ystal swallowed, trying to regain a minimum of courage, as he had been taught to do by his father. He took a deep breath, suppressing the tears.

"Where am I...?" he asked again, this time with a slight tremor in his voice. The pain in his head was gone, giving way to fear. What would happen to him? He couldn't force him to do heavy work, his body wouldn't hold up for more than two weeks; nor could he do to him what the soldiers did to the girls: after all, he was a boy.

"In my house." the mysterious man simply said, spreading his arms with a theatrical gesture, as if to indicate the surrounding area.