The 121st of Vhalar 651
His knees and palms stung as he hit the ground. There was a bit of numbness at first, but it was soon replaced by a painful burning sensation and the warm trickle of blood. He ignored it subconsciously, way to worked up to notice such details. The boy hadn’t even taken the time to fall properly and fully before he was already scrambling to his feet, using both hands and feet at first, trying to use his upper body to right himself. He could feel his balance still failing him, still tilting him forwards. He felt his face come too close to the ground, he felt the rocks scrape at his knuckles.
Hank roared in the behind him, the sound of a furious animal. Like a bear that’d been stung in the nose by a wasp.
Oberan quickened his pace, instinctively knowing he needed to increase his momentum if he didn’t want to plant his face on the rocks. Faster and faster he went, but his body remained in its state between falling and not falling. There was little he could do except run faster still.
His foot caught on a rock, and his toes cried out in rage. He tumbled, somehow managing to tuck his chin in more because of luck than skill. His limbs flailed around like boneless snakes, slapping onto boulders and the rocky underground, adding bruises and tiny cuts to the assortment of injuries he had already. Pain shot through his body like arcs of lightening with each bone that collided with the rocks, yet he didn’t take the time to care.
He didn’t have that time.
The Mortalborn untangled himself, first getting onto all fours, placing his hands and knees using his proprioception alone. Anotheer roar came, and Oberan began to run again, not looking back at the source of the noise. The was no point in trying. No point in slowing down.
He just had to run, run, run, run—
He didn’t know where he was going. It didn’t matter. Anywhere would do. As long as it was far away from Hank.
Tears were streaming down his face. Wet and hot drops of water tracing lines through the dirt coating his skin.
Why? Why had he done it? Why had he betrayed the troupe? Why did he want to consume Oberan’s essence? Why, Hank, why? This wasn’t like him, not one bit! The Hank, Bran knew was kind and sweet and caring. He enjoyed reading books and got satisfaction out of helping out when he could. He’d transform to let Bran feel his soft fur and pet it and bury his face in it. He’d scoop him up carefully with his big paws and place him on his huge back, and they’d ride through forests to feel the wind rustling their hair—
The twisted face of the man popped unbidden into his mind, the cruel smirk and those hateful eyes.
The memories were already getting tainted. The sweetness of them vanished, leaving only a sour or bitter taste behind.
Molars gnashed as he tried to forcefully push the thoughts away. Banish it from his mind. Bind it in heavy chains and put weighted lead balls on it, then drop that sucker in the depths of the figurative ocean, where it would sink deeper and deeper, falling into the deepest trench that existed there, never to surface again.
Something hit him square in the face, raking his skin with hard and stiff fingers, with sharp protrusions and knots all over it—
Frightened he lashed out, arms flailing, eyes shooting open. He could hear the snapping and the cracking of dead wood, but his eyes saw nothing. Nothing but brightly colored irregular shapes that morphed and transformed and changed hue.
He closed his eyes and didn’t stop.
He didn’t know what that flash was or where it had come from, but he hoped that Hank was just as blind as him now. He hoped that the mage had been too disoriented to give chase right away. That even if he did, he’d panic and forget his magic. That he wouldn’t turn into some beast with supreme hearing and smell.
Oberan was breathing hard. He was tired, and hurt, and his lungs were starved for air. His chest heaved and his throat burned. But he didn’t stop running.
Even when his foot found no ground underneath it, when it was met only with air, and he tilted forwards dangerously, his legs didn’t stop running. When he then stumbled upon finding a slope beneath his feet, he still didn’t stop. He rolled and slid and bounced off the incline, hitting stones and small boulders, disturbing several rocks and causing them to roll along with him.
He only stopped when the slope deposited him in a stream of cold water, smashing his head on a stone. He was dazed, staring up unseeing, welcoming the cold embrace of the stream, wondering where everything had gone wrong. Wondering if he should have done things differently, if that would have fixed things.
Time passed unbeknownst to him. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been laying there when he came to his senses. His vision was blurry, but returning, and he was soaked and cold. The night air chilled him, and panic struck once again. Who knew how close Hank had gotten while he’d been lying around! He sprang to his feet, clutching his head when it felt like it’d been split open like an egg. Taking a step revealed he had a limp now, his right shin feeling on fire. Actually, his whole body hurt, but those two spots were worse than the rest. He got a move on despite it, gritting his teeth and pushing through.
He decided to follow the stream. Camp was that way, he believed, and Divolt and Gabriella should still be there. The noise of the water would cover the sounds he made himself, the boy thought, and it would wash away his scent. If luck was on his side, Hank wouldn’t be able to track him anymore.
Did the man know where he was headed? He hoped not.
