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.

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...

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 travelling 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 travelling 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, tasselled and shaped with snowflake designs) tossed carelessly amongst discarded saddlebags, the lone soldier was a solitary, vulnerable island.

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...

The desert ground cracked and crunched beneath the cloaked figures leather boots, they were worn and a faded black. The red cloak started just above the figures calves that ended around his head in a hood that hid his face. It was noon the sun hung high above in the sky centered casting no shadows on the ground. Air filled with the heat that rose, it smelled a bit like death. The smell came from a battlefield not to far away.

Feeling the pummel of his sword the man scanned the horizon, his eyes keen and sharp looking for any movement. Men could be seen waiting behind him, dressed in te same garb. They too were holding their swords sheathed at their sides. Constantly aleart to their surroundings, no one man looking the same direction. "I've found some tracks" The man who was at the front of the pack said, "Spread out". With that the group dispersed in all directions heading east away from the battle field they had just come from. They were looking for routing forces. It had been an easy battle, this countries defenses were weak against his countries guard. They were torn and disposed of, while the defeated forces fled they were ordered to be hunted down and killed. So as not to give them any future ideas of rebellion. 'We must crush them' is the thought that rang through the mans head.

His lips were chapped and his throat dry. He licked them trying to give them some moisture but it took none. 'Blood' he thought to himself, 'Blood has moisture' you could only drink so much before you got sick but just a little could tie him over. His next victim would quench his thirst. He had been thinking that he was losing his mind. He thirsted for blood for awhile now. There was little or no water available in this harsh enviroment. He had also had a strong drive to survive. Following the tracks it looked as though the man who had made these were lost, scared, and confused. But there was a manner to them that hinted at strength. Just like any animal, humans have insticts, when backed into a corner they can become dangerous. For that very reason he and his men were employed with this mission. To find those scared animals and deal with them. Either to recruit, or to kill. As they neared their target him and three of his men, a small detatchment disappeared around the area. Hidng on cliffsides or in small gulley ways they inched themselves closer to their prey.

Michael found himself drowning somewhere between painfully silent and far too loud, the strange wrongness of the land in which he found himself ringing in his head, setting every frayed nerve on edge. No human (or- no, he could not think of it) voices, but the voice of the land was a cacophony of ragged distraction; the water roared in anger, the wind wailed, grieving, and the sand high above hushed down upon him like the ashes of a blasphemous funeral pyre.

He felt exposed, even tucked against the towering rock wall; to concentrate around the ragged natural symphony he was required to close his eyes, but being unable to see distressed him. He had been followed, he would always be followed now, and to be without his eyes spelled almost certain death, but when his foe was easily rendered invisible by stealth and skill his ears were a vital warning also. Such a predicament was a punishment in itself; he felt as though he were facing a deal with the Devil; what to sacrifice, his ears or his eyes, when the loss of either meant death?

He had been travelling (fleeing) for days, and without any knowledge of the terrain he had clearly strayed into danger, but there was no going back; his pursuers were relentless, and he had no hope of crossing their path and retaining his head. His land was one of ice and snow, where endless sand and sun were little more than a fairytale of far away; he had enjoyed such stories as a child, but now, when his canteen was close to empty and the water before him was as poisoned by salt as it was vast, his childhood fantasies had been proved a nightmare in reality.

At another time he might have been thankful that his path hadn’t lead him to face the desert straight on; he had come from the ice and snow, across treacherous paths, before finding himself amongst trees. The forest had been vast, but not vast enough to escape them, he had lost (everything) his way. He hadn’t spared a thought to fleeing into mountainous territory, so stricken had he been with grief and pain, but now that he found himself caught between a morass of sand and an impassable ocean, with only enemies behind him, he was regretting his choice.

In his desperation he had attempted to find a way across the desert, but blood; the scent of battle and carrion, had sent him fleeing back to the relative safety of his former position. He had not thought of there being other men in the world, but apparently there were wars raging beyond the icy shores of his land. He feared the strangers less than he feared those who chased him, but he was no fool; he was alone, pursued, and straying into another man’s battlefield was a sure invitation to be executed.

A sound! He stiffened, eyes flying open, 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; he had seen the blood, glimpses of battle, 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.

Alarm surged like fire through his veins; someone (more than one?) 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. There were soft footsteps; he could hear them now that his attention was so sharply focussed; 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 away; it was safer to listen and act on what he heard than look and leave himself open for a strike to the face.

He was practically shaking with the tension of remaining still, trying to seem calm but failing, though they 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; they were almost upon him.