He rushed through the night, cool air speeding by him as he ran from the blazing light. Behind him, below him, through thicket and bough, he could see the light, crisp and clear, working toward him. A serene village on fire, a heavenly town made into a roasting hell, a light that sucked up all the dark, an inferno that hungered for more. Now the flames worked through the parched mountain forests, taking down pine and hemlock, fir and maple. He stopped, catching his breath, and looked back. He could hear the flames crackling as they devoured the home he knew so well.

Then he ran on, charging up the mountainside, a cool breeze liking the sweat from his face. He sped into the darkness and night, his feet gaining speed with every step. Soon he emerged from the sparse forest and into a clearing. He slowed, catching his breath, conserving his energy. He looked back. He heard only silence, and saw only a flicker of light. He smiled to himself, and then laughed. For now, he had cheated death!

He moved over to a log, flung his pack on the ground, and wrapped his arms around himself. His cloths were tattered and torn, brambles and briers having claimed many a good stitch or scrap of skin. The back of his tunic still puffed smoke, though less than before, and running a soot-caked hand over the back of his neck revealed that it had been more than singed. He winced away from the touch.

He picked up his pack, old and battered with age, and began sorting through it. He hadn’t thought about what he was packing when he first grabbed it, throwing together things that popped into his head for mere seconds before being replaced by something else. Despite his usual rationale, he found little of use, only sentimental objects and fancies of youth.

Tossing the pack aside, he began questioning his decision. After all, he didn’t have to run. He could have stayed, but that would have consequences. He was a scapegoat to them, in that village, the black sheep to whom all could place blame. If the road was uneven, it had something to do with him; if wood was rotting, and the harvest was failing, he was no doubt the reason for it; and if, for some reason, for whatever reason, the sun turned red and the moon never rose again, he would be the root of the problem. That was their thinking, the machinations of their hate for him. He was an outsider, brought in by his father who had died a few years after their migration. They had resented that, and this was their punishment.

Staying had not been an option. They already thought him guilty of other crimes, and one more wouldn’t seem unreasonable. Clenching his fists, he almost let out a scream. The world would have been so much better elsewhere, perhaps, but down below, in that hellish flame, were devils that were getting what they deserved.

He could hear the crackling now; he had wasted far too much time. He took a few deep breaths, trying to sooth his rage before moving on. He ignored his pack, it being reduced to a mere weight. Instead he set himself at an easier pace, angling right as to set a course along the mountains slope, and listened intently to the distant fire. Hopefully, and not without some luck, he would skirt the flames and get off the mountain and across the river before the flames penned him in. Then he would be free, and freedom was all that mattered. Unchained of burden, lacking guilt, he could do anything; he would be lighter than a feather.

He picked up his pace now, the scent of liberty all too enticing. He danced around rocks and skipped over ledges. He moved angelically, waltzing through the starlight, through the dark abyss that surrounded him, through the stygian thoughts that clung to his heel. His concentration slipped, his feet outpacing it. Mentally he was nearing his goal. However, eyes averted, looking ahead, his foot caught on a root, and he stumbled forward. He hit his head, his vision blurred, and he began tumbling down the side of the mountain. Roots rose up to prod him, rocks to scar him, and brush to snag him. He slammed into the trunk of a tree, ribs cracking with a definite sound.

In the haze of the world, it all seemed so quiet, so still, so empty. He sat up, pain throbbing through his body, in every muscle, through every bone. He felt his side, and then his head. Pain radiated from one, blood colored black from the other. He got up slowly, cautiously, his movements ginger and stiff. Smoke swam through the air, carried by the same refreshing night breeze that cooled him once before. He wheezed and coughed and stumbled forward, swatting through it. He could feel the heat from behind him, slowly opening its jaws to consume him.

He tried moving forward, his legs still weak and his head still dizzy. After he was clear of the smoke, he wiped his eyes, removing tear and soot. His sight slowly focused, and he began moving somewhat more agilely than before, though he was still hindered. Every step pained him. Behind him the fire roared. He risked a look, seeing the flames licking the sky, the luminous orange glow painting him and the rest of the forest the colors of fire. Now he knew his life mattered. No more skirting the flames, he had to outrun them.

Pulling from an inner well he burst forward, climbing the slope in a hunched over position, using a hand to keep him steady. He scrambled up ledges, picking trails when he could. Yet the flames seemed to chase him, Hel wanting to take him so badly that she would chase him to no end, even the top of the world. He lurched forward, victim of another root, yet he stopped himself this time, his strength prevailing over some cruel fate. Behind him it seemed as if the flames were caressing the back of his tunic.

He ran on, though, pressing on through dreary forest and forlorn fate. He straddled a large bush, nearly slipping on the loose undergrowth. He managed to dig a hand into a tree’s rotting hide and pulled himself up. The air around him grew nippy as he continued on, but he knew that behind him the wildfire was climbing after him, a tsunami of flame hoping to wash him away to the greatest doom. Beneath him, his feet crunched snow, but the fire’s howl drowned all other sounds out. Only when he cleared the forest, climbing snow-covered banks, did the world finally seem to settle.

He collapsed, finally, content that the flames would never reach him. He rolled over in the snow, enjoying the soft crunch beneath his sweating body, savoring the cool feeling it gave him. He propped himself up on an elbow, and looked back down the mountainside. The fire twinkled as a light in the far-of distance. He laughed aloud, his mirth echoing in the stillness. Once more had he cheated death! He lied down, waving his arms like he had when he was a child. An angel, they called it, a snow angel. He smiled at the thought; he must be an angel to survive this.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He felt a little too warm. He took off his tunic, his eyes pausing on the bruises that spotted his body. They didn’t hurt now, though, lost in the sweet sting of the cold. He wrapped his tunic up, and put it under his head. In the morning, when the fire had died, he would leave. He smiled silently to himself, knowing that tomorrow he would be free. Before he drifted off, he could feel a tear roll its way down, stopping, freezing.

Yorick Kirksen, the priest from Helsinge, made his way precariously toward the source of the smoke. He had seen it upon waking, and seeing it near Laya, had rushed as quickly as he could. It would have been dreadful, simply dreadful, if some fire had destroyed such a pleasant village, though it may have been a reflection on his preaching habits if nothing more. No doubt the work of a vengeful god, angry at a lack of worship or respect. However, turning a bend, he was surprised to see the village mostly intact.

A knot of wailing women clung together, but for the most part buildings seemed nearly whole, if not blackened any, and there were no bodies laid out. He passed slowly now, still on his horse. A few eyed him curiously, but he was no stranger. He was a regular here, a priest like many others, traveling from Helsinge to preach the words of their gods. These people, perhaps, were turned away now. Nothing like this strengthened faith.

“Sir Yorick!” Came a man’s cry from somewhere. Yorick turned his horse about, seeking the source. A man emerged from a huddle of men, still dressed in some elaborate skins, perhaps from a festival. “Good to see you well, Yorick!” The man greeted.

“Aye, aye,” Yorick muttered, still looking about. “Olaf, what happened here?”

Olaf gave a sigh, his large and proud face looking suddenly defeated. “A raving lunatic, a criminal, a crook. That is what happened. A coward is what he was, running from his crimes and his guilt.” Olaf shook his head. “Franz the Half-Dane. Remember him, Sir Yorick? He was accused by my sister of committing rape. Apparently he couldn’t take the guilt, and set fire to an elder’s home and ran off. It spread quickly, but it was put out in a few hours and only got two of the homes, singing a few of the others. We were celebrating Yule, so none of us were in our homes. No one was hurt.”

Yorick sighed. “It is a shame to hear. He was the son of the captain from the south, correct? Who took a wife of our people? Bah! Such arrogance. I do hope you caught the scoundrel.”

Olaf smiled at some private thought. “Well, he ran out of here as if Death were chasing him. We decided not to follow his trail until this morning. We found that it weaved all over the placed up there,” He said, pointing up to the mountain that overshadowed Laya. “I was one of the men who went up there. It seemed to angle to the side at one point, and seemed as if he slipped, then climbed back up. We finally found him past the tree line, frozen. He was too heavy to move, and he seemed anchored to the mountain, in any case. Best the mountain claim him anyway. His sins defiled this simple village far too much.”

Yorick looked up at the peak of the great mountain. It had no name to any of the peoples of this region, and those in Helsinge had never offered him one. “Perhaps that is best.” Yorick paused, considering his options. “Well, I will be on my way, I think. I am not needed here, as the only dead is a man no blessing can reach. May he be tried for what he was, in the afterlife. He is suited for Hel, and perhaps she would admit one of his ilk to Eliudnir. But, for now, I shall take my leave. It is good seeing you Olaf, and when I return for Vappa, I hope to come to good news.”

He stretched out a hand, but Olaf declined, showing a bandaged right hand. “It was burned in the fire. I was… trying to stop someone from being hurt. But, I bid you farewell, Sir Yorick. Find peace where you go.”

Yorick Kirksen nodded and smiled. “May you, too, find peace.” And with that, he kicked the flanks of his horse and was off in a gallop.