© Esme Symes-Smith, 2014
His feet pound the ground to the
beat of his heart as he runs, and runs, and runs;
his breath catching in his throat as terror chokes him. He is driven by fear
and the solitary need to escape. This is the first time in seven years - since
the day his brother first came into the world – that Dakin has been selfish.
But now, at this moment, his brother is safe. Their mother will protect him.
There is no one who can or will do the same for him. He is alone. He must
survive on his own.
As he runs, skirting around corners
and flying down the long, winding corridors of his home, all he can hear is the
blood rushing his ears and the steady thud!
thud! thud! of his father behind him, above him, all around him. Every
footstep is a sharp spur in his side, kicking him on; a constant reminder of
what is at stake should he slow, should he give up, should he be caught.
He mustn’t be caught. Even if he runs to the very edge of the world,
it will never be far enough. He must never stop running.
The carpeted stairs are soft
beneath his bare soles, the marble of the entrance hall cold and slick, making
his ankles ache with every slap of his feet. The great oak door looms up before
him and sends a sharp jolt of hope sparking through him. Freedom. Thirty feet away, and he is already reaching for it. His
fingers – long, gangly, just like the rest of him – strain towards the bronze
knob, stretching, stretching, stretching,
just a little further… Dakin’s eyes burn as sharp desperation washes through
him, making his legs tremble and his arms feel as heavy as lead.
It is all he can manage to close
his fist around the knob. The metal is slick in his clammy palm and refuses to
cooperate – slipping and useless every time he tries, fails, to get a grip.
The footsteps on his tail are growing
louder, closer, more and more threatening. They are almost upon him, it is
almost over.
Dakin sobs as he tugs at the heavy
door, his stomach twisting and knotting and making him want to just curl up and
die.
“Please please please…” The unconscious prayer settles on dry,
trembling lips. Three fingers fly to his breast and tap once, twice. “Greatness luck,” he whispers, pressing
his eyes tight shut. “Greatness luck-”
His heart stops for the shortest of
moments when finally – finally – the
door gives, the handle turns in his palm and the bolt is released. A laugh,
short and surprised, escapes through the tears. With every bit of strength he
possesses, Dakin holds on and throws himself back, gritting his teeth as he
pulls at the heavy door until there is a crack just wide enough for his slim
form to slip through and out and away.
A slim hand slips through first,
then a foot. He can feel the sharp, cool air of the night on his skin. The
stone paving is icy, and stings the sole of his foot. He withdraws it with a
hiss, the coldness shooting up through his bones like a needle. He is wasting
time – he knows that – every second
he is not running is a second closer to being caught.
Dakin puts his foot down again,
steeling himself this time, clenching his teeth and holding himself ridged in
an attempt to not feel the cold. It is futile, and the pain is as acute and
impossible to ignore as it had been before.
He is weak, and that knowledge is
as bitter as the sharp ice of the outside.
The boy reaches out and prays,
briefly, desperately, stealing a precious moment to ask for strength, just as
his mother taught him.
He bites his lip, hard, and tastes
blood.
Greatness luck…
Behind him, there is a roar – a
low, thunderous sound which trembles through the air and deep into his heart. The force of it is enough to give him that one, final push.
Dakin stumbles out into the bright,
chilled night, his thin arms wrapping immediately around his young body. It
does nothing to ward off the cold.
Upon the smooth paving slabs he
stands, shivering and tiny in the *shadow of his home, looking out at the vast,
endless expanse of forest cast out before him, lying beneath the great, white
orb of the Ever-Risen Sun.
It is impossible not to be
overwhelmed.
Dakin’s dark-blue eyes widen; his
mind whirling as he tries desperately to formulate the plan he knows he needs, to
foresee the route that he has to take. He cringes internally at the magnitude
of the journey before him, his breath snagging on a lump his throat, his head
swimming.
It’s too much. He can’t do it. He
wants to turn and go back inside, into the warmth. He will face his punishment
willingly, gratefully, if only it meant feeling warmth on his face again-
Coward coward coward coward.
But there is no choice. Not really.
His feet – numb, throbbing – drag him
onwards; down the hard, stone steps and onto the gravel path, the tiny sharp
tones biting at him as though each one possessed a mouthful of teeth. The sound
of his own teeth chattering together drown out anything and everything else.
He sees a gap in the silver-washed
trees and aims himself towards it. If only he can lose himself, if only he can
get just a little further before he is seen…
Dakin does not hear the sound of
leather upon stone, nor does he feel the hand clamp around the numbed skin of
his forearm. It is only the hot breath burning the nape of his neck, the rush
of air as he is spun sharply around, and the sudden sensation of falling falling as he is struck down - the back
of his father’s hand colliding sharply with his cheek - that Dakin knows it is
over.
