Virgil stood before a stack of stones. The top one, at nearly chest height, had a slight incline and was large and flat enough to lie atop the rest. His father’s altar. The boy in his arms had stopped crying—it was impossible for him not to think it was from a sense of reverence. He set the boy atop the stone. It had held heavier sacrifices before, but none so precious. The boy sat cross-legged, in that easy way of toddlers, and wiped the tears on his face with clumsy hands.
“I can’t do this.” The dead clearing swallowed Virgil’s voice. “Not to my own son.”
He reached for the boy—the boy mirrored, reaching for him in return—and the voice said, I thought you loved her.
“I do! I’d give my soul for her.”
Exactly. You’re giving up your soul for her. The child won’t suffer, but will sit at
