Page 60 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
The only way this would end without the both of them in hospital was with them jumping the far wall and getting to the village before their attackers did. That was it.
He grabbed Auden’s hand right as Billy fell to his knees with a grunt, right as Phone Stealing Boy and the others swarmed them.
“You pissing bastard,” one of them hissed.
“You’ll pay for that, you fucking knobhead—”
If St. Sebastian had been afraid before, the fear was all over him now. It was in his marrow and swimming in his blood and flooding his brain and squeezing his heart. His lungs felt five sizes too big and his legs felt too long, he was too high off the ground, everything was distorted and wild.
And then all of this in ten terrible seconds:
St. Sebastian yanked Auden backwards just as the first grubby-trainered kick came from nowhere; it caught the side of Auden’s knee and he buckled, but St. Sebastian hauled him up, already running, half-leading, half-dragging until Auden got his feet under him again. They just had to make the wall, they just had to make the road after it—but both seemed so far away as to be in another world, in another life, a life where you didn’t get your own body broken for wanting unsanctioned bodies.
They were just behind them, dogging their steps, clipping their heels with their feet—but St. Sebastian could run fast and Auden could run tall with his long legs—and for a few seconds, there was hope. Not a lot, but enough to fuel him along with the adrenaline, and just beyond the top of the low stone wall that bordered the graveyard was the lift of green and then the reassuring ribbon of road beyond, and St. Sebastian could see it. He could see their way out, he could see their jumping the wall and running for the road, bursting into the sleepy, leafy cloister of Thorncombe, breathless and panicked but unharmed.
And then St. Sebastian would spend the next million hours screaming at Auden for being so pointlessly stupid, so unhelpfully stubborn—
He never got the chance.
They were to the wall and St. Sebastian let go of Auden’s hand so that he could vault over, which he did easily, planting his hands on the top and swinging his legs around. He landed with a soft thud, and starting running again, expecting to hear the answering thud of Auden behind him.
He didn’t.
One long, running step. Maybe Auden landed silently because he’s so graceful.
Another long, running step. Maybe he is having trouble with the wall.
A third step. Maybe he went another way.
St. Sebastian turned, still moving and saw the image that would be etched into the bloody flesh of his heart for the rest of his life: Auden, still in the graveyard, backed against the wall with his fists tucked to his cheeks and his elbows tucked to the side as blows from every side rained down on him.
He hadn’t jumped the wall, and St. Sebastian somehow knew, he knew, that he hadn’t even tried.
“Run,” Auden yelled when he saw St. Sebastian looking at him. “Fucking RUN!”
And then there was no doubt in St. Sebastian’s mind. Auden hadn’t stayed to prove a point—Auden stayed back for him, to protect him. Auden stayed so St. Sebastian could run, he turned to make himself a target so that St. Sebastian would be safe.
It was a martyrdom that a boy named for the saint of martyrs couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t believe, felt unworthy of. It was a sacrifice worth sacrificing back for.
But.
But.
The fear had a mind of its own now, it was chemical, it was animal, it was millions of years of evolution saying flee, run, live, and St. Sebastian’s legs were moving faster than his brain, yes, he was seeing and comprehending all as he kept moving, but even so, even after he really, truly understood what was happening—
He kept running.
Six more steps. Six steps that he’d remember for the rest of his life, his thirty pieces of silver, the price of his soul. He realized Auden had stayed to fight for him, his mind registered it and t
he heavy, global weight of it, and still it took him six steps to stop. Six steps to choose between saving himself and saving someone else.
In the bleak and solitary years to come, St. Sebastian wouldn’t blame himself for the running, nor the fear, nor the urge to survive. He wouldn’t even blame himself for those heart-pounding instants after he jumped the wall and hadn’t realized he was alone, not even for the moments he was looking back and still trying to make sense of what he saw.
But those six steps? When he knew and kept running anyway?
He’d punish himself for those six steps for the rest of his life.
But he didn’t know all that yet. What he did know was that he had to go back and help, even though he’d just get beaten too, and he was angry and resentful and scared as he spun around to dash up to the wall, where Auden was bravely swinging and kicking and then all of a sudden grappling with Phone Boy hard enough that his shirt rode up on his back. St. Sebastian could hear the grunting, the cursing, the rowdy encouragements from the other boys, and then Auden and Phone Boy tripped or stumbled or something, and fell right out of sight.
