Futility of Roses

Fumée

Safe.

He's finally safe. He mutters a quick prayer.

For once, his strained hearing cannot pick up on anything, not a twig snap or a branch rustle. Every other time—every time he blinked for more than a second, every time he took an excessively long breath—it was breathing down his neck. And he can't allow it to find him for the same reason the hare can't be seen by the fox; he knows that more than he knows where he is.

Now—he nearly laughs—now, it seems as though he's lost it, if only for a second.

His knees shake; his calves burn. His cheeks sting from where branches have torn at them; his sleeves bear far worse tears. His heart pounds against his chest, flutters. It's too hot. Entirely too warm. He hasn't done this in years—maybe five—and there's already an ache starting deep within him. Running, it seems, will either give him another day or end it.

The trees sigh suddenly as something disturbs the brush. He struggles another breath, pretends the air doesn't chafe his throat, and runs, a wounded bird battering its wings against the inevitable. He's not going to make it. He knows when he takes the first step that he's too fatigued. It's already too late. He's let it come too close; it's nipping his heels, now.

He trips—a rock, a branch, himself—and looks around, expecting a wolf, a visage, anything. For a moment he thinks he's fooled himself, that the trees have played tricks on him again like he was a child, that he is truly alone and safe, and his heart eases its thunder.

The darkness jolts, then, around him. There's a whisper of air that blows heat against his face-his eyes close tightly-and he swears flames are licking his skin. The heat centers around his shoulder, smoke burns his throat, and the darkness heralds nothing but silence, not even his startled soul makes a sound. The trees must be burning, must be an inferno, and he briefly sees a braid swing over a shoulder—Seren, he recognizes, Seren's there, in the fire-he couldn't save Maura, not for all the prayers or tithings in the world, but Seren—

_________________

A hand jostled him awake. Yes, there was some film of fear over his eyes still, and his hands were clammy, he could still taste the ash in his throat, which felt like it had been set ablaze, but the nightmare was gone.

For a second, he sat there, in the chair, staring at his papers. The letter in front of him swam, the names flew in and out of focus, and his knee ached from where it hit the table. He exhaled with a shiver.

Then, the words became words again, the walls became his chambers again, and the breeze no longer was a flame but an open window. The air was cool, soft; he welcomed it with open arms. His chest heaved with hurried breaths. Dimly, he noticed his glasses in the corner of the table-he'd need those again, if reading was to be pertinent again. When his heart pounded softer, he glanced behind him, where the hand most likely came from. He was met with eyes like the fjords he had come to love.