The Moon Path (second draft): An Excerpt.

© 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.