Death is Salvation.
Hmu Hmo's flesh and bones screamed as they knit themselves back together—a twisted mockery of life. The warmth flooding his thawing veins felt like a betrayal. The cold waited, patient as a predator, until his soles met the ice. Then it bit. Not the sharp sting of winter, but a slow, gnawing rot that crawled up his legs, turning marrow to glass.
The mountains loomed; their peaks jagged like teeth in the grinning horizon. Two steps. His ankles seized, and tendons snapped. Two more. Frost bloomed under his nails, skin splitting like parchment, yet he dragged himself forward—a carcass animated by sheer, cursed will.
Naked and raw, each shudder tore a whimper from his chattering teeth, the frost clinging to his eyelashes like sorrow frozen in time.
At the foot of the slope, his legs shattered. Not collapsed—shattered. His frozen knees exploded under his weight.
He fell, plunging into snow that spared his ribs from shattering yet offering no comfort—only a frigid, lifeless shroud that swallowed him whole.
He clawed, frostbitten fingers scraping against the ice as he willed his lifeless weight forward—up the slope, through the passage, back to the crater where she waited.
"Death is salvation," he whispered through blackened lips. His left-hand stroke forward—Puff.
"Death is salvation." His right stroke forward—Puff.
"Death is salvation—Puff."
"Death is—"
His hand halted mid-reach, fingers curled like talons—a moth trapped between the pages of an unwritten end. His heart faltered, not in surrender but in defiance, a final protest against the creeping frost.
Cold bled into his chest, smothering the last murmurs of life, while his breath unraveled into the sky, carrying the remnants of his prayer. The mountain stood indifferent, unyielding, as his body stiffened into a silent monument of suffering… until, at last, the snow claimed him entirely, erasing his struggle from the eyes of the mountain.
—
Hmu Hmo's eyes snapped open, his breath hitching in his throat. His trembling hands reached for his chest—his heart still thrumming, steady as if newly born. Warmth cradled him, surreal in the depths of winter. The ground beneath him was dry, untouched by frost. He turned, and there it was—a nest pulsing with heat, radiating life into the barren cold.
Five eggs lay nestled in the warmth, each the size of his head, glowing like distant stars. No monster. No threat. Only heat—real, undeniable warmth. His trembling hands pressed against a shell, and for the first time since the mountain had spit him back into the cold, his blood sang.
Dobby would have loved these, he thought, laughter spilling through his tears as he pried two eggs free. Their heat soaked into his chest, melting the memory of the frost that had gripped him until his heart stalled. Was this mercy? A gift from the gods? A sign that he was meant to return—to her?
He didn't care for the gods' intentions. He only ran. Ran before the mother returns.
The eggs pulsed against his ribs, their warmth bleeding into him with every staggering step. When numbness clawed at his legs, he curled around them, and the earth itself seemed to sigh, feeding strength back into his muscles. Blisters split his toes. The cold gnawed, the wind flayed, yet the eggs burned hope into his marrow.
"Just a little further," he pleaded, though he no longer knew if he was begging the mountain, the gods, the eggs, or the part of him that still feared death.
At last, he stumbled to the foot of the slope. The eggs had dimmed, their shells now brittle and pale, their warmth extinguished—spent, sacrificed for his returns.
He had made it. He was alive. But as he stared at the lifeless husks in his arms, there was no triumph. The eggs had given him life, but life—to Hmu Hmo—was no salvation.
—
Men hauled the butchered young monsters to the settlement—twenty carcasses, enough to stave off starvation for a month at most.
The chief's gaze lingered on the woods. "Would you have me sacrifice one of yours next?" Bryn crouched beside him.
"The settlement's survival outweighs all. If burning every man here saves our children, I'll strike the flint myself."
"You're truly his son," Bryn spat.
"Only atop the high seat do you see the full tapestry."
"I'd sooner die fighting alongside my men than watch them fed to monsters."
"This isn't war. We gather, or the settlement perishes. Dead men carry nothing." The chief's eyes locked onto Bryn. "One life for twenty. A fair trade."
CRUNCH!
The chief hefted his axe.
"Show yourself!" Bryn barked.
Hmu Hmo staggered forward, naked save for two eggs clutched to his chest.
"You?!" The chief's axe trembled. "What are you?"
"I saw you got devoured!" Bryn's voice frayed. "Are you a monster or a ghost?"
"Only monsters survive," Hmu Hmo reiterated the chief's own words with a wavering smile.
The chief swung his axe toward the boy, halting before it sliced through.
No reaction from the embedded mana stone fragment. "No magic. Just M'tis filth." He leaned toward the boy. "Speak. How?"
Hmu Hmo met his stare. "The gods spat me back, saying they're not done with us yet."
The chief gripped the boy by the throat, his axe raised. "Enough lies!"
"Hmu Hmo, tell me the truth. Your bones were crushed. Flesh eaten," Bryn begged.
"I… don't know. When I fade, I… return. Every time."
"Every time?" The chief's mouth twitched, and he lowered his axe.
The boy nodded.
The chief released his grip, sheathed his axe, and gently brushed the snow off the boy, smiling like a madman.
"You don't mean to—!" Bryn's protest died as the grin widened with a nod.
"Gather the men!" the chief barked. "We're gathering another twenty. No. Thirty this round. No time to waste."
Krial hauled Hmu Hmo back to the pine covering, where red still painted the permafrost. He slammed the boy's flat against the earth.
THUMP!
THUMP!
No curses, no ceremony. The axe slashed twice, and the boy's legs separated.
Was there a scream when the blade bit, surely, but no one heard it. No one flinched. They only watched with hungry eyes.
—
The monsters arrived as always—foolish, ravenous, lapping at snow soured by their young's entrails. Oblivious or too drunk to scent the trap.
"This grand scheme of yours… What happens when you've stripped him bare?" Bryn hissed.
"He's dangerous, yes. But now? He's just a whelp. We'll bleed him winter after winter," Krial said, eyes on feasting beasts.
"And if he betrays us? He knows the settlement's heart."
"That's your task. Mold him. I'll play the devil—you, play the saint. Use whatever honey or venom works. He clings to Dobby, doesn't he?"
"You want me to leash him with my own child?"
"We are doomed the moment your wife dragged that creature here. How many graves can he dig before the hunters track the stench to our huts? Death fears him. We fear death. So break him. You have the cunning—softness rotting your spine."
—
The monster ripped through Hmu Hmo, peeling flesh from bone like bark from a birch. Blood foamed in his throat. He gurgled—and choked it down.
"For Dobby," he whispered—SNAP!
"For Dobby—SNAP!"
"For Dobby—SNAP!"
"For Dobby—SNAP!"
"For—SNAP!—Nnngh!"
His stomach burst open, intestines spilling out as a monster sucked them in like a long strand of spaghetti.
The monster approached his head. Hmu Hmo met its hollow eyes. No fear. Only fire.
"F…for Dobby," he rasped. "M-my death… is… h-her… CRUNCH!"
The darkness came swiftly. Not cold. Not kind.
But his last thought burned bright: Her salvation.