Snarls and claws chased after the small boy.
His small legs burned with the effort, putting one foot in front of the other more out of instinct than of conscious thought. He'd long succumbed to the numbness, his throat hoarse and lungs just as spent. Keep running, and keep quiet were the last things she'd told him, so, run he did, far away from the shadows—as far as possible from the monsters. He stumbled on roots and uneven rocks and his knees dashed on dried ground and rough stone. To stop was to die, and he was told to live.
The boy chased after the light, running away from the coming night and clinging to the haven of what he could see. His sleeves caught on exposed branches and lines of pain raked against his skin from thorns and broken ends too small or close to see.
Onwards he went, one leg after the other crunching against dried leaves and padding against the ground. He couldn't breathe in enough air no matter how much he took in, and his pounding heart kept pushing against his ears with each step. Cold winds blew against his face and sweat trailed down his forehead and soaked his back. One foot in front of the next, another foot further from the monsters, another foot closer to escape. He was running, he was getting away. Everything will be fine soon enough.
Then he tripped—and he hung in the air as the dirt from his shoes floated slowly upwards in front of his eyes. His arms and legs flailed without a hold utterly useless in that fleeting moment.
There was burst of pain as he hit the ground and everything went black—but the agony brought him back right after. He nudged himself off his face, a mark of white hot agony screaming against his now pounding head. He tried scrambling for his feet but his legs wouldn't listen, and part of the bone from his left arm had exited his skin. He growled something fierce through clenched teeth, holding fast to his promise to stay quiet.
His chest heaved with never enough air, his heart was now screaming at him. He had to get away, he promised he'd escape, he was a good boy and his mother would get mad at him if he didn't follow what she said. He tried moving again, struggling to move and forcing his limbs and pulling at the exposed bone and he'd nearly shouted in agony.
He stopped his struggling… and a whimper escaped from his lips, the tears catching up from where he'd left them far behind. They burned against his cheeks, and he was clamping his jaws so tight he started tasting blood from his gums. He had to get away, he had to move.
The sun was disappearing behind the trees now, what little light there was leaving their places against his skin—the warmth going with it. His breathing slowed enough for him to draw air, a small puff of mist escaping when he exhaled. His shirt was wet against his skin, blood and sweat mixing with the lingering agony.
The sun seemed brighter with that last moment of day and he closed his eyes. "I don't want to die," he said. Too soft to carry over the howling winds.
"Everything's fine now," someone said.
Jaune opened his eyes and saw the sun standing in front of him.
"Why?" the sun said. "Because I am here."