Snow woke up with a startle and immediately tried to escape the hands holding him down. Just a few days ago the mere thought of being successful in such an endeavor was beyond ridiculous. But in past few days his arms and legs had become stronger, and so he managed to escape, rolling to one side, landing heavily on the carpeted floor. Ignoring the pain that echoed in his chest, he scrambled to his feet and dashed to the door. Now running was an entire different matter, and his ankles immediately protested, which he made a point to ignore.

“Grab him!” a familiar voice demanded in a high, panicking voice, and someone pushed him hard from behind, making him crash against the closed door he’d been trying to reach. “Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him!” the voice kept urgently repeating and two sets of hands grabbed him by his arms and pulled him back.

Snow struggled to the best of his abilities, trying to kick the men holding him, a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead, until he saw the man standing to one side, with a terrified expression on his face.

“Please, young Lord. Please calm down,” the man pleaded, nervously squeezing his hands together, and Snow was so taken aback by his presence that, for an instant, he forgot to fight back. The men holding him, however, didn’t waste their opportunity and quickly dragged him to a chair, forcing him to sit down.

“Please be gentle, please be gentle,” the man kept pleading and Snow looked up at him, anger boiling in his pale eyes.

“Please young Lord, please don’t be mad. I didn’t come here to harm you. Haven’t I been good to you all this time? Caring for your wounds and bringing you food and clothes?” the man asked anxiously and Snow averted his gaze, pressing his lips together, doing his best to remain quiet. The monster’s words echoed in his head. He couldn’t lose control. Losing control would mean killing a lot more than just these three.

“I’m not a bad man,” the healer went on, squatting down so he could look him straight in the eye. “I have dedicated my life to helping and healing others. But, even so, there are many things that not even I, with all my knowledge, am able heal. My wife … she is very ill. And I tried, and tried, but nothing seems to work. And then … then I heard that your blood can make miracles. So … won’t you spare me some?”

The mere sound of that word sent cold shivers down his spine and he was immediately trying to get away again, trashing around and kicking the air. The men holding him pressed him down onto the chair and the nice man that had cared for him grabbed his arm with trembling hands, pulling up the sleeve of his tunic all the way to his elbow.

“Please calm down. I promise it won’t hurt. It will be over in a second. Just a bit of blood and my wife will be saved,” he went on, grabbing a sharp blade, and quickly and swiftly cut his harm just above the wrist.

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The pain made him cringe but, even worse than the pain, was the sweet scent of his own blood and the sound of it falling inside the jar the man pressed against his skin. The other two held him more firmly, so he couldn’t move his arm, and Snow averted his gaze, gritting his teeth, eyes filling with tears. Not that the pain was unbearable. He’d been through much worse. But he couldn’t help feeling betrayed, that the man that had cared for him so gently would now do something like this.

“It’s already closing,” one of the other men observed and the healer carefully slid the blade over his cut skin, reopening the wound once more. The sound of the his blood running became stronger again.

“This will save a lot of people, a lot of people,” he kept repeating, filling jar after jar, until Snow started to feel dizzy, his vision filled with small, dark spots. “There, see? All done. Now let me take care of your injury,” he said, in the same tone of voice he’d used every time he’d come to tend to his wounds, and the familiar smell of herbs and disinfectant filled the room.

After cleaning it meticulously, the healer applied clean bandages, careful not to tie them too hard around his arm. Once he was done he tried to offer him some water but Snow refused to open his mouth.

“You need to replenish your fluids.”

“Leave him be! We have to go!” another voice urged but the healer still tried to offer him the glass of water again.

Feeling dizzy and light-headed, Snow turned his head the other way.

With a resigned sigh the man placed the glass on the small table at his side and stood up, carrying his black bag now packed with jars filled with his blood.

“Please forgive me,” he said, bowing at the waste before leaving the room, the other two men peering down the corridor before disappearing into the darkness.

Snow tried to pull his sleeve down but only managed to do so by the third attempt, his shaky hand refusing to obey him. As to be expected, nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. And if he had ever thought that things could ever be different he’d been a complete idiot!

Using the small table for support he forced his shaky legs to bear his weight. The room spun dangerously around him, his sight going dark at the edges. For a moment he thought he was going to fall, probably faint where he stood. But then he recalled himself that he had decided that he’d never be that helpless again. This place, these people, he had to escape them all as soon as possible. The monster’s words echoed in his mind and he pointedly ignored them, focusing his sight, and whatever was left of his strength, on the wavering door he had to reach.

So what if he killed him? If he remained in that place he'd soon be dead anyway. Maybe not right now. Maybe he’d live like this a few more years. But the thought alone was enough to make him prefer to jump out of the window. If he’d rather kill himself than return to being a prisoner, then he may as well risk it all and try to escape. The worst that could happen was he ending up dead anyway, and that was fine by him as well.