As They Bloom

1 - The Coward

The war rages on; a deafening cacophony.

The cries of the injured and dying are overwhelming, taking root in your chest and sending fearful trembles down your limbs. You've frozen, locked in place against a twisted tree. Ahead of you, they're losing the battle. Behind you is unknowable: more of the same, strange, unwelcoming lands.

You glance behind you tentatively. You could desert them. You're a survivor, you always have been. But still, you cannot deny that something about the forest unnerves you. It's unlike anything you've seen before. It's alive somehow; you can feel its heartbeat against your back, the magic that drips from every leaf, branch and blade of grass.

You clutch your battleaxe to your chest. It's far too heavy and cumbersome for you, but they didn't care to give you a more suitable weapon. You made excuses then, that you were too weak for the weapon they'd assigned you. Convinced yourself you would grow strong in time and become worthy of the heavy blade. That it would soon be as much a part of you as your arm. You'd return home a hero, and finally receive the recognition and adoration you so desperately craved. No more hungering. No more shame. No more fear, nor nightmares.

You'd be strong, at long last. Strength. That's what you yearned for above all. It's the reason you volunteered for this mission.

But you are not strong. Standing with your back against a tree, shrinking away into the embrace of its branches, the realization hits you like a hammer. You're terrified. You're a coward. And you were simply not made for battle.

Their cries. The clash of metal on metal. Guttural screams like dying animals. Your mind seems to leave you, until you're floating above yourself. Until you're not quite sure if what you're seeing before you is even real. There are fewer and fewer of your fellow soldiers left by the minute. The enemy has well and truly won. And soon they will start seeking to find and fell the survivors.

A man, tall and broad and covered in strange, curling black tattoos, rises to his feet after parting a soldier from his life. He shakes the blood off his blade and looks around the battlefield. He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck in a relaxed, unbothered manner, and turns to face the forest.

Your blood runs cold as his eyes lock onto yours.

You run. Your feet beat the soil in a desperate, terrified rhythm. Behind you, you hear the thundering, heavy footfalls of your pursuer. He shouts something after you in a harsh foreign tongue, and second later you feel something whip past you. Half a meter ahead, you spot a throwing knife wedged deep in the bark of a nearby tree. The tree starts to bleed: green and blue sap that shines like a gemstone and stinks of magic.

You don't stop running.

Your mangy, worn boots constantly slip on the slick roots and stones. The forest grows ever denser, until you cannot see the soil beneath the plant-life. The roots so thick they look like a carpet of shimmering snakes. Whoosh, another throwing knife narrowly misses you.

You keep running.

You must keep running.

Cold, primal adrenaline rushes through you as the laboured panting of your pursuer increases in intensity. He's getting closer. It won't be long until he has you in your clutches. You look behind you for a mere moment. He's so close you can see the whites of his eyes above his face covering.

You trip. Your boot snagging on one of the writhing roots.

The world falls away to a blur of pain and confusion. You tumble down, over roots and stones and strange unearthly plants. Down a sharp, steep ledge that seems unending. When you finally come to a stop, you feel as though the very breath has been knocked from your lungs. As though your limbs are nothing more than gelatine.