At first Charlemagne thought he was imagining the way the hedges seemed to lean in, the way the branches snagged and brushed against his skin, the way the sliver of light before him grew thinner and thinner. The colt was no stranger to panic; he knew how it could alter your perceptions, could make you feel half-mad. But he was not imagining it. It was hard to hear over the sound of his own ragged, gasping breaths, and yet there was the rustling, groaning sound of the hedges reaching for him. They were trying to cut him off. He was no longer galloping; he had been forced to a walk, shoving through with his shoulders, and scratches bloomed there alongside the faint dapples. His hair caught and snagged and tugged. The idea to use his horn came to him just as the wyvern loosed a roar that shook the ground below his feet. For a moment, he thought it was working. With wild scythes of his rapier-like horn, he cut swaths of the maze, and his passage became easier. He no longer felt like he was forcing his way upstream, and then - and then! - there comes a pause in the mad sounds behind him. Something has stopped the wyvern, and Charlemagne wanted to weep with relief. Don’t look back, he thinks, bleeding from a thousand small wounds, and for a few more steps he listens to his own advice. Surely he will soon break into another open hallway, and there will be the Shaman, waiting with a smile and Charlemagne’s name on his lips. But he is just a boy, and his insatiable curiosity makes him foolish, even here — The unicorn looked back, and it was just in time to see the wyvern, made small by distance, open its cavernous mouth. And breathe fire. Charlemagne’s scream is eaten up by the roar of the beast, much as the dry hedge is devoured by the flames. There is no breeze in the maze, but above the shrubs the breeze blows against him, a blessing he’s too distracted to recognize. But that means nothing for the lower flames, the ones that crawl toward him and eat and eat the maze, crackling and rolling with smoke. Through the haze, he can make out the wyvern, advancing again in the now-open corridor. When he turns back to fight his way through the hedge, it is with desperation. All thoughts of adventure have fled, and he only wants to live. He doesn’t realize that he had been right - there is an open corridor ahead of him. The hedge is nearly impenetrable before him, and his eyes burn and run with tears from smoke, but Charlemagne keeps slashing with his horn, and thrusting with his hooves, and he is so very close when the first of the flames catch him. Sparks find his tail, and flames lick his hocks, and each breath seems to burn his very lungs. And then the branches and leaves around him are alight and burning burning burning - they are made weak, made into ashes - he has the strength for one final push - he stumbles to his knees, once more in open air. The breeze feels like a cool hand against his cheek, like he is a feverish child, and where there was a cacophony of sound now there is nothing. The unicorn struggles to his feet and finds the flames have vanished, though his tail is singed and his coat is burned sooty in places. When he turns his head, afraid to look save for over his shoulder, he sees that the maze has once more closed behind him. There is no sign of smoke, none of ash, none of the wyvern. He is alone, and he is alive, and he is about to fall into hysterical laughing and weeping when there comes a sound before him. When he looks up, relief and resignation are warring in his gaze. @Random Events |
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