Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of The Guardians.
The stars have been replaced with rain, yet not even the rain can drown out the sound that is his heart crashing against his ribs. Each beat is a warning that screams at him to run, run, run.
He does. His feet slap a steady melody of desperation into the pavement as his blood hums in his ears. Faster, faster, faster. His legs move against the slowly growing weight that is encompassing them. His lungs are tearing themselves apart in their attempts to keep up. More oxygen, they beg, but he is not so kind. trembling hands reach out to push things (people?) out of his path. His chest heaves, his body shakes, the wind picks up. Run, faster, run, faster, run.
He doesn't notice his surroundings and so he doesn't take into consideration how strange he may look. An image of pale skin stretched dangerously across sharp bones. Concealed only by a worn sweater that is much too big and ripped pants that are much too small. If they were to look closely they'd have noticed the dried blood that mimics glue as it sticks stubbornly to his nails, or the bruises that spill across his neck. If he were to look for even just a moment, he may have noticed those who reached for him with an offer of help forming on their lips.
He can't tell the ground from his feet anymore. They are both cold and wet and the differences between them are hidden in the numbness that has stolen across his shoe-less feet. This doesn't matter though as long as he can keep moving. He is quite sure that he will continue to expand the distance between himself and them until his feet have been ground into bloody strips that dangle uselessly from his ankle. Even then he would drag himself across the ground and allow the skin on his body to be scraped away before he stops. Anything is better. His breath falters, rain assaults his tired body, he stumbles, and he knows he's dead.
This one mistake, he knows, is enough. Enough to give them time to catch up, to find him, to carve a line straight through his chest. He can hear their voices, smooth as velvet, that let words sharper than knives make use of their tongues. They'll tell him that he's been bad, very bad, and doesn't he see that now they don't have a choice? They have to kill him, otherwise the others might try to escape and doesn't he know that this would be very inconvenient? Panic flares soft and steady in his chest. He is worried about what is surely coming but Maybe he thinks, maybe dying won't be so bad. After all they could do worse, couldn't they? He lets this thought carry him to the ground. He tries briefly to get back up again, but his limbs have disconnected from his mind and he cannot feel them let alone move them. His vision somersaults, his head throbs, they could do worse he tells himself, and then his consciousness slips away.
He is not awake and so he doesn't notice the arms that wrap around him shortly after. Doesn't notice how they burn in comparison to his own which have gone blue at his fingertips. He doesn't hear the voice, the one that speaks reassurances in his ear, a welcomed contrast to the hissed threats that usually acquaint them. He doesn't get the chance to realize that this time he is not in danger. He doesn't get the chance to realize that he is safe.
The stars have been replaced with rain ( or maybe it was his tears).
Authors Note:
If I've done something wrong please tell me. The next chapter(s) shouldn't be as short or as confusing.