The sky was dark and raining, at least that was how he remembered it. Before now, his cold hand were grabbing at shrubbery and wood as he was running through a forest. He could barely see anything through his cracked glasses. All that illuminated his path was brief flashes of lightning, which only came across to him as presenting him with blurs of silvery light.
He was being chased by those who called him a heretic and believed he aided pagans, which were things he absolutely did and still did not regret.
He may not be able to see it, but he could feel it and hear it. Something deep, wide, and open, an abyss like the mouth of a monster. He kept his eyes closed and used his ears. He could hear the snapping of branches beneath boots, the push and pull of chasing breaths, and the beating of his own heart. He bore neither smile nor frown. His face was plain and stern, his death or capture was more of an inconvenience than it was a terrifying force.
He felt compelled to make a decision. He stepped back, he fell.
He waited for a pitch darkness to become a sense of nothing. Instead, it was like the feeling between when one's eyes open and when they wake up from a nightmare.
His eyes were closed, but he did not need to see it in order notice it. What started as a fall had become a throw. His back was thrown to the wall causing a bang to fill the air, his head tilted back from the impact and his arms were to his sides. Water that had arrived with him had splashed his whole body and darkened the wall behind him with dampness, immediately followed by a polearm landing beside his head blade first, shattering upon impact, his grey eyes could be seen in the reflections between cracks.
When he dropped to the floor, he practically fell into a position with his knees bent and his hands gripping at his rapid pacing heart while trying to catch his breath. What was on the floor was a man in a drenched and grass-stained tunic and braies, shaking as if terror was resonating through him.
He was being chased by those who called him a heretic and believed he aided pagans, which were things he absolutely did and still did not regret.
He may not be able to see it, but he could feel it and hear it. Something deep, wide, and open, an abyss like the mouth of a monster. He kept his eyes closed and used his ears. He could hear the snapping of branches beneath boots, the push and pull of chasing breaths, and the beating of his own heart. He bore neither smile nor frown. His face was plain and stern, his death or capture was more of an inconvenience than it was a terrifying force.
He felt compelled to make a decision. He stepped back, he fell.
He waited for a pitch darkness to become a sense of nothing. Instead, it was like the feeling between when one's eyes open and when they wake up from a nightmare.
His eyes were closed, but he did not need to see it in order notice it. What started as a fall had become a throw. His back was thrown to the wall causing a bang to fill the air, his head tilted back from the impact and his arms were to his sides. Water that had arrived with him had splashed his whole body and darkened the wall behind him with dampness, immediately followed by a polearm landing beside his head blade first, shattering upon impact, his grey eyes could be seen in the reflections between cracks.
When he dropped to the floor, he practically fell into a position with his knees bent and his hands gripping at his rapid pacing heart while trying to catch his breath. What was on the floor was a man in a drenched and grass-stained tunic and braies, shaking as if terror was resonating through him.
