The moment they do, the wolves will be after them. Raju doesn't know much about wolves, but he knows predators, knows a chase. He'd be more surprised if it wasn't true, and thinks it dimly, and realises that he doesn't want to run. He realises that he wants to stand and fight, to prove that he's better, to prove that he can. His weight is shifted forward, leaning toward the threat. His expression is hard, frowning, unhappy with Francis' desperate plan.
But there's Francis. Francis' ribs. His pain. No matter how small a target he might be able to make himself, Raju can't be everywhere. And the cabin is close. Maybe they can make it. Either Raju insists on staying here and finds out for certain whether he can survive against these wolves while there's only two, and can't be everywhere at once, can't always be between Francis and those claws and teeth, or he runs, where success means that they both make it. There's a chance they can both make it. A chance is enough to make it matter more than proving anything. His grip goes tight on Francis' shoulder.
"Go," he says and starts as fast as he can at an angle to the cabin, meaning to dart around the first wolf and then turn to make the straight shot to the building, legs pumping, arm tight around Francis' back. If Francis, injured and hurting, can't run as fast as Raju can, if one of them slips or catches one of those deep patches of snow—
He has his knife. He can't turn to use it if he's going to run but his awareness of the weapon where he's holding it out and behind him is as sharp as the knife itself, as his awareness of his legs, his feet, the air burning in his throat and his weight over the snow, the weight of the other man under his arm. He sees a flicker of orange in the corner of his eye and knows the blade has burst into flame and only thinks, good, satisfied, caring only that if he does get a chance to prove himself, that will help him win. He doesn't look back at it to see, only knows, and runs.
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But there's Francis. Francis' ribs. His pain. No matter how small a target he might be able to make himself, Raju can't be everywhere. And the cabin is close. Maybe they can make it. Either Raju insists on staying here and finds out for certain whether he can survive against these wolves while there's only two, and can't be everywhere at once, can't always be between Francis and those claws and teeth, or he runs, where success means that they both make it. There's a chance they can both make it. A chance is enough to make it matter more than proving anything. His grip goes tight on Francis' shoulder.
"Go," he says and starts as fast as he can at an angle to the cabin, meaning to dart around the first wolf and then turn to make the straight shot to the building, legs pumping, arm tight around Francis' back. If Francis, injured and hurting, can't run as fast as Raju can, if one of them slips or catches one of those deep patches of snow—
He has his knife. He can't turn to use it if he's going to run but his awareness of the weapon where he's holding it out and behind him is as sharp as the knife itself, as his awareness of his legs, his feet, the air burning in his throat and his weight over the snow, the weight of the other man under his arm. He sees a flicker of orange in the corner of his eye and knows the blade has burst into flame and only thinks, good, satisfied, caring only that if he does get a chance to prove himself, that will help him win. He doesn't look back at it to see, only knows, and runs.