[Rimbaud]

He Who Ran

He had lashed his belongings to his back too tightly, and the cords cut cruelly into him as he ran, stumbling often, across the loose shale ground. The dark and the cold threatened to disorient him, but he was driven by something more powerful than fear, and more palpable than the air on his face. His brain felt compressed, strangulated; his thoughts were not his own. His boots were starting to come apart, the constant slamming into edged rock scoring and now, piercing the thick hide. He held his frantic pace, quickening even, the night rushing by. He fell, several times, his hands bleeding unchecked. The cold of the air felt as though it would freeze his face, he could barely open his mouth to gasp for more air. He ran on, but in his mind there was a howl of horror and despair.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When morning light began to make the journey easier, he felt the iron bands crushing his will loosen, and he sank, gasping, nauseous. On his bloodied knees on the rock, he swayed. His hair was loose and soiled, from the blood and earth on his hands, sweeping the light locks from his face as he had run. Ragged and exhausted he seemed. He toppled and lay still, sleep swallowing him where he lay, exiguous and exsanguinating, transuding profusely as if in a fever-dream. His lips moved as if forming foreign words, and his eyelids shifted and flickered. Against his chest, the stone burnt him with its cold, unyielding harshness. The thing had grown heavier in the last few days, threatening to drag him down to his knees at times. Tears slipped through his clenched eyelids, freezing on his cheeks in the cold, cracking the skin. The visions of the white figure in the black tower remained strongly with him, as they had since they had exited the woods, what felt like a lifetime ago.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He woke, shivering, his chest thumping as his heart struggled. He could not open his eyes, they seemed frozen shut. He could barely draw breath. Even the grip on his mind seemed to be fading into a red-black vista. There was a yawning chasm, warm and inviting, all he had to do was let go…

With a sudden, shocking wrench he was brought back to consciousness, in a flame of pain and horror. He was barely conscious and had no concept of where, what or when he was. His eyes snapped open, tearing the skin around them, the blood stinging his eyes, blinding him as his body pushed itself impossibly from the ground, limbs awkward, stiff and wreathed in agony. Driven by an immalleable will, he staggered unseeing onwards, barely alive, falling, stumbling, lacking the strength or the presence even for despair.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

For a further half-day and full night this continued, the mind dragging the body forwards even as it failed. At some time during the night, the tortured Rohirrim must have come across foes, for battle he saw, and death he dealt, unknowing. He remained trapped in a shrinking corner of his own mind, barely even registering the maelstrom of pain.

By the end of the second night, Guthrin had reached a narrow and hidden pass, winding up seemingly straight into the heart of Methedras. He had never been there before, nor had anyone ever spoken of it in his hearing, yet unerringly he went, rising up and up, on treacherous and hidden ways, until morning came and he was released to a near-death sleep once more.

[ January 25, 2003: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]