His grandfather had always said there were spirits in the fog. In the early mornings on the estate, when the hazy mist hugged the green grass, his grandfather had always shouted to keep Jon from straying too far. He had said, in his own mysterious way, that it was to avoid being stolen by the spirits who wait in the fog. Jon knew now it was merely a story told by a grandfather to avoid having to leave his chair. A way to keep an energetic child in eyesight. It was a story - a lie.
It was an odd memory, Jon thought, and an odd time to have it. He hadn't seen his grandfather in fifteen years. Perhaps it was because, for once, instead of running away from the fog, he was now running full tilt into it.
His breath was thick and lingered long enough to wrap its wisps around his neck like a scarf. He cupped his hands around his mouth to warm them, but also to quiet the noise of his heavy pants. The mossy ground absorbed his footsteps well enough, but every time a branch or a root snapped under his footsteps it was another alarm into the night.
"You have nowhere to go, Jon! Just come back!" a voice called from the other side of the fog. Despite its gruff and aggressive tone, it had an almost sing-song inclination. As if this were a game of hide and seek.
Jon's boot caught on a raised root and he went tumbling face first. It was impossible to run in these woods at night. He couldn't see a damn thing.
He grabbed a twisted trunk and used it as leverage to swing himself around to a crouch. He struggled to catch his breath while listening for any noise. Tense soldiers die. Calm soldiers live. He chanted this silently to himself over and over. Tense soldiers die...
A dim light from a torch swept across the gaps between the trees, diffusing into a scatter through the fog. Thank heavens for that fog, he thought. It's bloody good cover.
"I'll give you what you want!" Jon shouted into the air. The distant footsteps stopped. Jon waited a breath. Waiting for a sign - for anything. "I'll leave. Just leave us alone."
The silence dragged on. The darkness swallowed his sight and the cold froze his nerves. If it weren't for his own breathing, Jon would have wondered if he had lost his hearing as well. A crunch of ground finally broke the silence.
"I'm not that daft, boy." And suddenly - a gunshot. The crack sent birds flying into the air, and then Jon was, too. He ran. He heard the buzzing of Roose's electric powered torch grow louder. Roose was getting closer. Jon stumbled through the darkness, sweeping his arms in front of him. The buzzing only intensified. Roose must be on top of him now. The buzzing was all he could hear.
Suddenly his bare fingers hit stone, not wood. The rough stone was cold and bit at his skin. He brought his other hand up to confirm that, yes, it was stone. Why was there stone in the woods? Remnants of an old house? Could this shield him?
The pain that shot through his entire body stopped all thought. He saw stars and a flash of bright light as the shock radiated from his chest. He didn't care about 'why' anymore. He didn't care if it was shelter. Roose had shot him. He must have. He was going to die.
And the buzzing suddenly stopped.