Partir, c’est mourir un peu. (To leave is to die a little.)
~Unknown
Sure enough, the demons’ pursuit picks up a mere week after I leave Resthaven. I was hoping for more time, but of course, since I am Rois Melinor, the gods didn’t see fit to grant it. How typical of my life.
I lose track of the time that passes, moving from city to city, in the vague, desperate hope that the demons will one day give up on me. After all, I’m simply a child, with the freakish ability to change shape. What I was told about power and magic was wrong. They were mistaken. I’m nothing but some odd mutation, cursed with an ability I never asked for. Why do the gods do this to me? Why was I born with this terrible talent? What did I do wrong? I suppose I shall never know.
Life is a nightmare. Dark monstrosities stalk me at night, and terror during the day. No matter where I am, I am not safe. I cannot afford to trust anyone, or to believe in anything. All that exists is fear, pain, and lies. So many lies. I can no longer separate artifice from actuality. What is truth? Don’t ask me. I’ll never know.
Paranoid, am I? Wouldn’t you be, if you were leading the life I am? This never-ending torture? I feel as though I’m trying to find my way through a maze, where the beginning has been walled off, and the way out has been taken away. I keep walking in circles, repeating the same meaningless patterns. Yes, my life is meaningless. All I feel is bitterness, anger, and fear. So much fear. Fear of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. There is not a single moment free of fear.
Why me? It’s the only question that matters anymore. When will this end? That’s another important one. Twelve years old and as I’m paranoid, cynical, and bitter as someone five times my age. Why? is the question I scream out to the cold stars at night, when I am alone on the road, and the demons hunt me. Why? But I receive no answer. What did I do to deserve this? What did I not do to deserve this?
I don’t understand anything anymore. Patterns, meaningless patterns, I walk in circles, day in, day out, weeks, months, years, what matters? Nothing. Nothing at all. I have nothing left to me but my fear. And fear not only keeps me from dying, but from living. This is torture, slow, painful, and exquisitely orchestrated. I have to admit, the gods are very, very good at torment. Am I supposed to repent now? It’s too late. I’ve suffered enough, now show me some mercy.
Mercy. What a ridiculous term. No, meaningless, just like everything else. The world does not believe in mercy. What? I should try to earn it? I should survive without it? What the hell do you think I’m trying to do? Grant me mercy, oh powers that be. Grant me a quick, painless death, and grant it to me now! But, no, even death is denied to me.
I have nothing! No home, no family, no friends, no love, I even doubt if my name is my own! I am alone, forever alone, and nothing will ever change. Patterns. Never-changing, endless, purposeless patterns that control the lives of all of us. I cannot get away from the patterns, ever. I am trapped in the sinking morass of my own mind, and I do not have the strength to struggle free. I am lost...
I am lost.
How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?
~Joseph Conrad
Have you ever heard it? The sound of the wild hunt on your heels, seeking you? Have you felt that terror, that fear that paralyzes you, yet spurs you one? Have you tasted bitter, sour taste of fear in your mouth? Do you understand it at all? Do you know how it feels?
I do.
The wild hunt stalks me almost every night. Imagine it: complete darkness, a dark forest. Your clothes are tattered, you shoes almost worn through, and you haven’t eaten in two days. So hungry. Your stomach knots up with emptiness and fear. It’s dark, so dark you can scarcely see anything. Damn phases of the moon. Behind you. Sounds. Not again. Wild cries, the howls of the demon hounds. The pounding of hooves. Shouts. The brassy cry of a horn.
Your heart starts to pound. Your mouth turns dry with fear, your legs to lead, your brains to dust. You can’t think, can’t move, and pure, primal instinct takes over. RUN! You begin, slowly at first, then faster and faster. You fall, often, new holes being torn in your clothes and your skin. Damn. That one hurt. The ticklish trickle of blood down your hands and arms is nothing, though, next to the fear that sends your heart into your throat. You run and run until you think you can run no more, and then it happens.
The shift. Transformation. Change. Whatever you care to call it, it happens. Exhilaration! Sweet, so sweet! A sudden feeling of power infuses you with fresh strength, and you take off once again; yet, the sounds of the wild hunt remain to haunt you through the long, cold night as you flee. You run, and run, and run, until the light of dawn brings safety at last. Light. Precious light.
We are all running from demons.