sometimes the past is all we have

{Based on this picture from this post}

You run through the darkness. A sword gleams brightly in the moonlight. Nighttime surrounds you as you flee your attacker. You need safety, sanctuary, holy ground. He cannot hurt you on holy ground.

The air bites at your cheeks as the ground reaches for you. Leaves and dirt crunch loudly beneath you as you sprawl onto the forest floor. The sword abandons your hand and you search for it, your only protection against death.

He's coming. You can hear him breathing in the crisp air. You can hear his footsteps on the leaves. You can feel him crawling up the back of your neck.

You hate this life. You hate being vulnerable. You hate the dance of kill or be killed. You hate this curse that has kept you alive longer than a hundred men put together. But the warrior within you won't let you die.

Your fingers finally find the hilt of the sword, and not a moment too soon. He's right behind you. You swing the weapon wildly, feeling the crunch of bone beneath the metal. He bellows in pain. The sword has nearly cleaved his arm.

You use the distraction to regain your feet and run. A path unravels before you in the dim moonlight. You don't know where it leads, but anywhere is better than here.

Your heart pounds as your feet pelt the earth. The cold burns your lungs as skeletal branches reach for the eclipsed moon. You have only one thing on your mind: sanctuary.

You can hear him behind you, taunting you, running for you. He tells you no woman should have the power you do. That power should only belong to men. They are the only ones who understand how to wield it.

In the distance, an object looms above the trees: a dome, capped by a cross. Tears of relief and fright stream down your cheeks. You're almost there. So close!

A hand reaches out from the darkness, tangling in your cloak. You fling your sword backwards, hoping to fend off the attacker. You feel it slice through flesh, biting against bone. The hand releases you and you stumble forward.

It is a race. The race of your life. The one who can reach the church lives. The one who does not, dies. You are too much a warrior to lose.

An iron gate bars your way, and you scramble over it, the bars clinging to your skirts like beggars after coins. Cloth rips and you are free.

Gravestones gleam in the moonlight. Your fingers clutch your sword in the moonlight. Your heart is pounding in the moonlight.

You gather your strength and stagger up the stone steps to the oaken door of the church.

"Sanctuary!" your breath rasps in your throat as you pound on the wood. "Sanctuary!"

Your vision dims and you collapse against the steps in the moonlight.


Quinnleigh Kincaid
Highlander OC
480 Words