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((i was inspired to write something for the beginning of mad king ryan part 1 by run boy run by woodkid so here you go. definitely have a listen to the song too))
Run.
Run and be numb, Michael. Be numb to the sensation of blood pumping desperately in your chest and through your legs, to the twigs of trees that snap beneath your feet and scratch at your face as you bound breathless through the forest. Be numb to the stabbing pains of your lungs struggling to breathe in time with the speed of your stride. Be numb to everything except the weightlessness on your back; your prized diamond sword is absent, replaced instead by the lurking feeling of eyes boring into your spine.
Feel something you have not felt in many years, something that no warrior as great as you--no warrior that has served kings or been a king himself--should ever have constricting your bones and muscles and mind as it does so now.
Feel fear.
Run.
You stumble, and it is not because of the terrain or your own fatigue, but because of something that passes through you, through the surrounding landscape. A wave of pure power surges through the trunks of mighty trees, shakes their leaves like it does your nerves and all you can liken it to is a bow running harsh and terrible across the low notes of a cello. Stumble and know that he is near.
Panic. Climb a tree because you know there's no way you can outrun him if he's this close. Finally become aware of your laboured breathing. You grip the bark of the oak and fight the pain of your beating heart. Calm down. Calm down.
... Silence.
... Did he lose you? Give up?
Something compels you to find out. Heroism, you think. You could not forgive yourself if he had gone after one of your comrades because you ran like a coward. You are not a coward. You are righteous. Caring. A warrior.
So you risk it, Michael. You hold your breath and peak your head over the canopy of leaves, searching high above for any sign of your pursuer.
He appears.
The sight makes your pupils pinpoints and you watch in silent horror as he rises from the forest, levitating, posture and form contorted as the air visibly distorts around him. Sparks of shadow and death resonate even from the great distance between the two of you, black swallowing the whites of the Mad King's pupils. He shouts, grin wicked and malicious, "Where are you, dear Michael?"
You freeze up. Heart stops. Your instinct is to reach for your sword to give you strength but it isn't there. It isn't there as Haywood turns slowly towards you. It isn't there when his all-consuming gaze catches yours. It isn't there when, even though he hasn't moved, you feel his breath on the back of your neck.
"Here."
You can't stop the yelp or the slip of your foot as you flinch from the pure clarity of his voice, low and loud right next to you. Fall. Break branches on the way down. Hit the ground. Become aware of pain flaring terribly in your ankle. Get up anyway.
Run.
Run.
Run and be numb, Michael. Be numb to the sensation of blood pumping desperately in your chest and through your legs, to the twigs of trees that snap beneath your feet and scratch at your face as you bound breathless through the forest. Be numb to the stabbing pains of your lungs struggling to breathe in time with the speed of your stride. Be numb to everything except the weightlessness on your back; your prized diamond sword is absent, replaced instead by the lurking feeling of eyes boring into your spine.
Feel something you have not felt in many years, something that no warrior as great as you--no warrior that has served kings or been a king himself--should ever have constricting your bones and muscles and mind as it does so now.
Feel fear.
Run.
You stumble, and it is not because of the terrain or your own fatigue, but because of something that passes through you, through the surrounding landscape. A wave of pure power surges through the trunks of mighty trees, shakes their leaves like it does your nerves and all you can liken it to is a bow running harsh and terrible across the low notes of a cello. Stumble and know that he is near.
Panic. Climb a tree because you know there's no way you can outrun him if he's this close. Finally become aware of your laboured breathing. You grip the bark of the oak and fight the pain of your beating heart. Calm down. Calm down.
... Silence.
... Did he lose you? Give up?
Something compels you to find out. Heroism, you think. You could not forgive yourself if he had gone after one of your comrades because you ran like a coward. You are not a coward. You are righteous. Caring. A warrior.
So you risk it, Michael. You hold your breath and peak your head over the canopy of leaves, searching high above for any sign of your pursuer.
He appears.
The sight makes your pupils pinpoints and you watch in silent horror as he rises from the forest, levitating, posture and form contorted as the air visibly distorts around him. Sparks of shadow and death resonate even from the great distance between the two of you, black swallowing the whites of the Mad King's pupils. He shouts, grin wicked and malicious, "Where are you, dear Michael?"
You freeze up. Heart stops. Your instinct is to reach for your sword to give you strength but it isn't there. It isn't there as Haywood turns slowly towards you. It isn't there when his all-consuming gaze catches yours. It isn't there when, even though he hasn't moved, you feel his breath on the back of your neck.
"Here."
You can't stop the yelp or the slip of your foot as you flinch from the pure clarity of his voice, low and loud right next to you. Fall. Break branches on the way down. Hit the ground. Become aware of pain flaring terribly in your ankle. Get up anyway.
Run.
