From: fes9s@faraday.clas.Virginia.EDU (Howard Johnson's Got His Ho-Jo Workin')
Subject: out of the cold...
Organization: University of Virginia
Date: Sun, 24 Jan 1993 07:01:49 GMT

it was too close, much too close.

every time he looked over his shoulder, there was nothing but the
brown, withered stands of trees, silent and icily aloof amid the
hoarfrost, and completely devoid of salvation.  nothing but the
wind that cut through his grey cloak and hood, woolens, and all.

nothing but his footprints in the snow, leaving the damnable trail
that he knew it was following.

and every time he looked over his shoulder, it cost him.  it slowed
him down, caused him to trip over a root, or curse the branches that
whacked him in the face, pulling at him, slowing him down even further.

at least the panic was slowly finding itself numbed, along with
everything else in the cold.  the razor-edge of his racing train
of thought found itself blunted in the face of a crueler blade,
the earliest signs of hypothermia.

'no, not now,' he thought. 'got to keep moving, got to stay warm.
no food, no shelter, no way in hell to ride it out...no time for
wishful thinking...'  resolutely, his boots kept crunching forward,
pushing onwards.

the snap behind the stand of evergreens froze him in place.
could his pursuer possibly be in _front_ of him? Gods, it had
been so predictably behind him before.  Just like the mortal
men whose swords were at the hire of the more powerful mortals
he had crossed.  But this, this enemy, it was capable of much
more...

and the snap had come from the evergreens.

stealthily he crept forward, reaching his hand that was too cold 
to function properly inside his cloak, forcing it to flex on the
sword hilt, slowly, ever so slowly drawing back the branches...

he never saw it.  his mind was blown, overloaded by the primal
fear his enemy exuded, the fear that comes from knowing your
enemy knows and exploits the deepest cracks in your psyche, and
the fear that comes from knowing the futility of running and the
inability to do otherwise...

he fled, running from the evergreens, heedless of the branches
and obstacles in his path, leaping dead treefall, the panic
galvanized once more...

...and broke into the open, wide field, deep with snow.  he stumbled,
not prepared for the depth of the snow, caught himself, blindly
pushing through it...

...and the castle loomed before him, such a grail of hope and
salvation that he nearly broke down and wept, ready to curse his
frantic mind for the fatal trick it was playing upon him.  but
he was unable to blink away the warmth shining from the lit window
in the tower, or the flag flying over the walls...

...it was coming, it was on his heels...

there was one last shot of adrenalin, all that there was left to
burn as he flung himself forward, crashing into the wooden gate door,
hammering at it and the peephole cover...

"Gods, whoever lives in this castle, I beg you, open the damned door
NOWWWWWWWWW...Hurry..."

he never remembered it opening, nor how he crashed to the floor inside,
nor how cold and feverish he was, nor the faces of concern that
peered at him as he sank into oblivion...

(Yah, well, just a bit of stream of consciousness from someone with
a beer in him to get the creativity flowing...hope ya don't mind.
'twas the only castle anywhere around in ARC-land, figured it was
natural beacon...=)

frank, Cheez Wiz, whatever...
--
I was so happy that I didn't have a .sig, and then someone had
to go and teach me how it's done.
"Be sure to leave your underpants with someone you can trust."
     -- Jethro Tull                          "...Bueller?"
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