Grief was a heavy weight on his shoulders; he couldn’t seem to be free of it, even when faced with the constant, charged blood-prickle that came from being watched, being hunted, constantly needing to run. Exhausted but still unable to forget; it seemed as if the bone deep, unthinking tiredness that had been both a blessing and a curse to him in the pass would not be forthcoming. Michael put his head into his hands.

Sat at the base of a scraggy cliff, the dirty off-white of his once pristine uniform lending him the camouflage that he had prayed for, there was little of him to see, and what could be viewed was a sorry picture. Despite having hair as white as snow, his face showed him to be a young man (though weighed down by an oldster’s grief at the present), and his body was thin, small and lithe; he could have been a dancer, if not for the sheathed scimitar at his side. The age, state and quality of the blade were difficult to determine, given the way that it was hidden under the folds of his coat, but the hilt hinted towards a blade of careful (if a little ornamental) design. There was a possibility that the blade was simply a ceremonial piece, but when viewed alongside the young man’s tatty, bloodstained clothing... There was a buckler also, that looked as though it had seen better days; the lightweight, silvery shield seemed to have had some ornament wrenched from its front, and the top edge was impressively scored and dented; it had seen combat, as had its owner, so in all likelihood the blade was real and designed to draw blood.

Under the long, grubby coat (split at the back with tags at the sides; designed for a rider, rather than one used to traveling on foot), there was a uniform that was clearly military in its cut, though shaped for combat rather than parade. Once white, ice blue and embroidered in sliver (a show of rank, perhaps, though it was possible that even the simplest uniform of his country was ostentatious), dust, blood and long days of traveling had diminished the garments to a faded, grubby parody of their former crisp appearance. However, as protection his clothing still seemed to be perfectly serviceable, if a little unsuited to a man on foot; sturdy boots and reinforced fabric on the outsides of his legs once again hinted towards his being a rider, rather than an infantryman.

With his head in his hands and his helm (a showy thing, tasseled and shaped with snowflake designs) tossed carelessly amongst discarded saddlebags, the lone soldier was a lone, vulnerable island.

Higher up the cliff, hiding behind the rough rocks that littered the cliff side. She had been watching him for a while, keeping her body stiff and getting sore from the lack of movement. She wished she hadn't chosen such a spot to wait, as even though it made a great spot to observe, it worked against her if she were to try and get closer.

The soldier was invading on her land, a land she knew ell but never used for combat. It was the lands that she had played on and explored. Viewing it in a different light now, the of war, it made her feel as though she wasn't home. The girl was small, obviously not built for fighting, but in a surprise attack it didn't matter. They had to pull out all their men to fight the soldiers, as well as the women. She was poorly armored, clad in a basic hide shirt and a chest plate. She was helmentless, her pants the same hide clothe as her shirt, and sturdy boots.

The girl decided she couldn't sit there forever. She sheathed her sword, one built for her father and a little awkward for her to use, and hugged the rock. She almost slid as she inched towards the edge of the rock, examining the cliff side for her next hiding spot. She saw yet another rock a little ways down. It would be smaller compared to her current haven, but it was closer. She took one last glance at the man, and then at her surroundings, and headed for the rock. She went quickly, but not so fast that she had to run. She didn't want her movement to startle him, and would prefer that he didn't even hear it. She stayed as quiet as she could, but she was no ninja.

It had been too many long hours, and he was impossibly tired as a result, but sleep was (as ever it seemed to be of late) elusive. He had no way of keeping time here, as the sun and the stars sat in different places in the heavens, but he knew instinctively that he had slept for only short periods since this travesty had began. The last time he had slept in a comfortable bed...

There was a very interesting rock by his feet, in a precise shade of gray, one that he had never seen before. Flaky, rather than the sharp hardness that he was accustomed too; he let his interest in it fill his mind right to the top, but even his thoughts of rocks couldn’t stop his heart thrashing like a frightened bird in his chest. Birds though... he had found one once, a hunting bird, strayed into the wire... the wire that edged the- it had been afraid. Fear (a fear that he shared, couldn’t be rid of, but when everything else was trying to choke him, fear was not the motivator that it had once been) swelled under his skin, sharpening the feel of rocks under him, the feel of strange air; it was too hot, stifling, and he felt like he might die if he didn’t find fresh air. But there wasn’t any, and beside the strange, liquid ocean, surely there was no fresher air that he could get?

His every nerve felt as if it had been edged in fire (sending a thrill through him; the scent of burning flesh clinging to his nostrils, engrained into his senses, he couldn’t be rid of it!), he was too wound tight to sleep, too afraid of what he might dream of, but so tired... But there were eyes on him. There were always eyes on him, and how was a man supposed to sleep when he was alone, in a strange land, being watched by eyes that had no eyelids? Eyes that didn’t blink at all; there was no break from their constant, condemning scrutiny.

He raised a hand to his throat without thinking of it (he didn’t want to think of it, like so many other things that crept in and out of his chaotic (bleeding!) mind), and his dusty fingers found slippery fabric and a cold, smooth clasp. He shuddered, snatching his hand back as if he had been burned; he felt like he was choking, precious air suddenly in short supply, but there was nothing he could do to remove the restriction. Mental or physical; in his mind, or really put on too tight, the only hope to remove it would be to part company with his head...

A sound! He stiffened, already tense muscles cording as his hair-trigger reflexes reacted to what was probably just a bird. His imagination was running faster than a startled horse (pain!), painting images of archers lurking in the cliffs, soldiers flooding down like a torrent of melting water in an avalanche of sharp fragments and arrows... and slinking white, sure-footed quiet demons; the monsters from his childhood come to decapitate him so quickly that he wouldn’t even realise until he hit the ground.

It was an agony to wait, but he was half-frozen with fear, every instinct at war; stay still, one part of him whispered, as if whatever was watching him wouldn’t see him if he didn’t move. Run! Screamed another, but he was in no position to simply get up and run, the monster up there was faster; he would lose his head before he had got three paces. Fight-fight-fight was the undertone to it all, and he allowed his hand to stray for his sword even as he kept the rest of himself tense and s till, ready to run, ready to fight... ready to die, a traitorous part of him whispered, but far too afraid to stop.

She landed at the smaller rock, pressing herself close and cursing in her head. He had heard her, she knew it from the change in the air. It was suddenly stiff, coarse, making her breath catch in her throat. He was alert, and the slightest noise could make him find her out, if he hadn't already. She let the air leave her lungs, coming in a jagged way as she tried to control it's speed.

She watched him carefully, judging what to do next as he slowly reached for his weapon. It was obvious that a fight would start eventually. What mattered now was who started it. She was sure she could take him, as he looked small for a man and out of his element. It didn't matter to her that she was slightly smaller, and just as out of her element. Her confidence had taken over.

She stood up, keeping her arm with the sword in it close to her body, and inched from behind the rock. She took careful, slow steps towards him, trying her best to stay quiet. If she managed to get close enough to him, she would aim for his spine, if not, she would react as she saw fit.

Alarm surged like fire through his veins; someone was there, moving towards him, and his hand closed tightly around the hilt of his scimitar as a result. He wasn’t thinking, and for a moment he thought of pulling it free, but his instincts were stronger than his fear-born stupidity; he would have no chance of smoothly unsheathing his sword while in the position that he was in. Buckler, his training suggested, flying ahead of his panicking thoughts. Viable, he realised, though using it to block an attack would leave him vulnerable and likely on his knees, still without hope of drawing his blade in time to attack or counter.

Seconds were passing, though his thoughts were near-instant, instinct driven things; he had to make a choice and act before it was too late. Footsteps coming at him from the left, quite but not so quiet that his hair-trigger senses missed them: an attempted sneak-attack. He desperately wanted to look and assess who and what was coming (an attempt to dispel the imagined monsters as much as to give him some form of advantage over the as of yet unknown foe), but his training kept him rigidly in check. He would not look and give himself a away; it was safer to listen and act on what he heard than look and leave himself open for a strike to the face.

The little grey rocks that had stuck in his thoughts earlier were suddenly proving to be invaluable, allowing him to hear her approach with some degree of accuracy. He was practically shaking with the tension of remaining still, trying to seem calm but failing, though she would be unlikely to notice an increase in the distress that had been present in him for days now. He took a short, slow breath in, unable to fill his lungs to capacity under the smothering feelings of anticipation and dread; she was almost upon him.

When she moved to attack, he didn’t think (there wasn’t time to) he simply acted, body launching into a succession of movements without real conscious input. He slung himself forwards into a roll, as she was coming at him from slightly behind on the left, and he was in no position to draw his sword, let alone get it around in time to slash at her. The ground was not what his body was expecting (shingles over snow), but the cuts sustained to his hands and the pain in the top of his head were buried under a wash of adrenaline. Fight of flight; pain was irrelevant at the moment.

The terrain hindered his roll just a little, leading him to come up in a faintly messy stance, but he was moving fast enough to counter the slight stagger without thinking about it. His right hand was already drawing his blade even as he spun to the left, bringing up his left arm to counter the blow with his buckler. Following the momentum of his swing (still not thinking, let alone looking) he brought his right knee up in a sharp, armoured kick at his attacker’s midsection in an attempt to drive them back and away from him.

When standing, it was revealed that he was brushing the top end of average height, so taller than his attacker, and his eyes were a wild, blank blue.

As Rose lunged at him, she got a better look. It the dawned on her that this some one she probably shouldn't have picked a fight with. She grit her teeth as the metal of her sword clanged against the metal of his buckler, sending a strange feeling through her arms. She had little time to react when he then sent an armored knee into her stomach. She grabbed her stomach and backed away from him, giving him a glare; as though it wasn't how he was supposed to act during a fight.

She looked into his wild blue eyes, feeling even more discouraged. 'Shit...' Was all she had time to think before she decided to go at him again. She couldn't give him time to think either. With that thought she lunged at him yet again. She swung her sword over her head, feeling it tip farther down her back from the weight, and then swung it at him, full force. She used both hands to control the sword, swinging at him towards his right side.

There was blood on his hands, little pinpricks of pain singing through his palms and sending his mind into unsavoury directions. He panicked for a moment, images of blood and phantom pain blurring his reality and leaving him with little but instinct and fear. Over-sensitive, the sound of her footsteps was like thunder crashing behind his eyes, every tiny graze a mortal wound.

His left arm was still raised from where he had parried her blow, joints aching from yet another strike but still holding up under the strain (the fight was keeping him going, he was too wired to stop), right foot back, blade arm ready but indecisive. His opponent had fallen back, but she was still close; he brought his shield arm up as he saw her move, turning sharply to avoid the blow that he could see coming.

Both hands; she was putting her full weight into the blow, and although she was lighter and smaller than he was, her blade was heavy and a blow like that to the right side of his head would lay him out. He was tired, he knew that much even when his thoughts were skittering around like so many terrified sheep, and he couldn’t take a hit like that unprotected.

He didn’t get quite far enough away in time, and as a result the tip of her blade thumped heavily against his buckler, scoring a long line from top to bottom on its way down to the ground. His sword arm was still ready when the blow concluded, and he knew that the weight of her blade and the momentum would carry her forwards with her arms extended... Michael didn’t think, lashing out at her right arm in the attempt to incapacitate her even as he ducked back out of the way.