[Rimbaud]

Some distance away, Guthrin came to his senses. Acrid smoke wafted through the sparse and blackened trees. He could not find any area on his body that did not cause him pain.

Sunlight filtered weakly through scorched and broken branches. The humbled forest smelt of fire and death. He lay on his back, in the center of the clearing. He had no recollection of how long he had been here. His right hand gripped something tightly. Manoeuvering himself up upon his elbows to take stock, he realized the severity of his fatigue. He gasped as he raised his head. Everything began to spin and red pain descended upon him, blurring his vision. He could hear some birds nervously restarting their song but at some distance away. He also heard the slow and muffled cracking of the dying fire, still consuming areas of undergrowth. Several of the proximate trees smouldered and the smell from the damp wood filled the area.

His hair was matted and fell in his eyes as he wrestled himself to a seated position. His right hand was clutching the hilt of his sword, which was black with dried blood and dark roasted soil from the forest floor. His left hand was similarly dirtied but no trace of his long hunting knife could he find. His mail jerkin felt stiff and uncomfortable around his torso. He wiped his left hand on his filthy tunic, protruding from beneath his armoured covering and gingerly prodded and poked at himself. His body was aflame with bruises, yet he discovered no cut. He reached towards his face, noting with distaste the grime upon his fingers. His right arm lay still, the hand remaining upon his blade, forgotten.

His fingers traced his face, finding loose skin, as if he had lost much weight swiftly. He had a three-day growth of beard and he longed for the hot water basins of his father’s house. His face felt burned and sore. He found a wound above his eye. This was his own blood, he ascertained.

Suddenly he realized the exiguous nature of his cover and the need to move overcame the pain within him. He stumbled to his feet and entered the forest, not knowing where he headed. He longed for water and stumbled forwards for what felt like an eternity. His sword trailed uselessly behind him, still held in his fist, point cutting a furrow through the earth behind him.

The morning was still young as he reached the banks of the impuissant waters. At this point, the flow was little more than a trickle. He fell to his knees, hurting himself on a rounded pebble. He winced and gasped. His left hand slowly removed the offending rock and he slipped it into his leather belt-pouch, which had miraculously survived the night. Some memory returned and his left hand found its way to his neck, where he found his charm still hanging, a small white stone, in the rough shape of a five-pointed star.

Finally he looked down at his right side, and his arm hanging there. His eyes widened and his hand, shaking, reluctantly released its grip on the hilt of his sword. The blade slid instantly down the muddy bank and into the brook. He shook his head, not without pain, and reached for the sword – with his left hand, his right appeared locked still in its clenched position. He remembered watching others clean their blades. He had never before had to do such a thing, but he remembered that within his pouch was a rag for the purpose. He set to. Laying the blade down on the ground beside him, he refreshed his face in the water and tended to the cut above his eye. He struggled out of his mail, heedless of danger, and disrobed. He bathed as best he could, gasping as the cold water reached his soft and tender flesh. He had no wrappings or poultices for his bruises and he ached from head to toe.

Whilst washing his tunic, it all came back, an unbidden torrent of memory. The noise and the confusion and the combat…he groaned in memory of the violence. He shuddered for several minutes and then vomited, his bowels empty; dry retching; his body stretched in torment.


When his mind had cleared – to some extent – he again took stock of his surroundings. His eyes had skipped the carnage on his trip to the stream but now they heeded the corpses and the mutilation. His stomach turned again, and he realized what the cooking meat smell must be. His jaw hardened and he dressed himself in his wet tunic and trousers. His boots, well made that they were, appeared yet hardy. He thanked his father’s retainers anew.

He appeared to be very much alone. Neither friend nor foe could he discern in the murky, smoky morning light. He affixed his belt and scabbard around his waist and sheathed his poorly cleaned blade. He tied his armor into such a bundle as he could manage and held it awkwardly under his left arm. His mind fogged by the oppressive nature of his surroundings, he wended his way toward the sunlight, hoping to encounter others of his party.

His memories of the night's work were yet hazy; he felt as though he had been born again, through a red maelstrom of the night.

[ September 04, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]