As soon as Elaine found the party responsible for the outcry, she decided then and there that this was all some horrible nightmare.
The scene reminded her of a clip out of Braveheart, with the blue renegade warrior mowing down the enemy.
A lone figure drove his steed forward like a man possessed. Long whips of brown hair danced around the stranger's head and his skin gleamed blue under the dim rays of the sun. The painted beast beneath its rider flared its nostrils, reared its head, and beat the ground with its hooves.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
As if the last ending whacks of a war drum. A distant thunder that had become a bellowing storm.
And the storm was heading straight for Elaine.
She knew absolutely, in that instant, that she was going to die. Crushed. Trampled. She couldn't even draw in the gasping breath to scream. There was simply no chance. There was nothing to save her, no hope. No rescue. It was over.
All of this flashed through Elaine's mind in the single instant it took her to look over and see the warrior bearing down on her. The warrior's sleek black horse with blue paint was only forty feet away, and it wasn't slowing.
In a spilt second decision, either to run or, perhaps, not meet death head on, Elaine couldn't say, but she turned away. The last thing she would ever see wasn't going to be the sneering face of her killer, but the blue expanse of sky. Blue, blue, blue—
Green.
It all happened at once, filling her vision. One second she was standing there, the next her entire world was green and she was flying towards it. Dank, prickly, and unforgiving green. There was green all around her, a cocoon which enfolded and consumed her.
I'm dead, Elaine thought. This is not what I expected death to feel like.
Below her forehead and under her fingers was the roughness of green grass. Then she realized that not only could she hear a faint stuttered breath, but she could feel it. The realm of remote detachment that she had been plunged into suddenly vanished, and then she felt everything.
She tilted her head back, gasping.
An invisible force squeezed Elaine's chest. All she could do was choke on nothing as she tried, desperately, to breathe. A moment which seemingly dragged on for an eternity.
Sliding her eyelids shut, she sucked in a powerful breath. This one more desperate than before. And then, finally, it filled her lungs, and she expelled it back out in a rush filled with absolute relief.
Once she managed to gulp down a few more mouthfuls of air, she began to register the dull pain radiating from her left shoulder. She licked her lips and turned her head until half of her face was pressed into the grass. The sweat on her brow trickled down her forehead and mingled with the scalding tears spilling over her nose and temple.
People were yelling.
Shrieking and yowling and making all kinds of noise. The distinct sound of clashing metal made Elaine glance up, but she couldn't see anything beyond the tall grass.
She needed to move. Find help.
With clenched teeth, smothering a scream, she tried to pick herself up. Although lightheaded and faint, her body had different plans. She fell backwards. Her entire world exploded into fragmented pieces and came back together to form the most terrible agony imaginable. She couldn't move her left arm. She saw it, it was beside her, but she couldn't move it.
Holy shit…
Elaine dragged in huge breaths, hyperventilating, her whole body shaking in spasms. For a few moments all she could think about was the pain.
And then, very suddenly, everything went still. Realization washed over her. This wasn't a nightmare and she wasn't dead. No, this was far worse. All of this was real.
Holy shit, this is real, Elaine thought.
She pushed herself up in stages until she stood, albeit unsteady. When she looked around, she saw a man. He was standing easily, yanking a dangerous looking axe from a prone blue body on the ground. His face was turned partially away from her.
And he was dressed like somebody at a Renaissance Fair. Elaine had been to one in Pennsylvania four years ago, where everyone wore clothes from the Middle Ages and ate without utensils and battled with fake swords.
Well, this man's axe was by no means fake. Neither was the blood splattered on his face. He was wearing a leather, fur-lined jerkin with strange metal bumps on it, tough leather trousers, and boots. His scarred face turned her way, and she felt the hair at the back of her neck stir.
-0-
Review! The chapters will get longer with feedback;) Thanks, readers!