How we breathe, How we choke [[Shrol, Day I]]

How we breathe, How we choke [[Shrol, Day I]] Jan 31, 2012 5:40:14 GMT -5

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Post by meg. on Jan 31, 2012 5:40:14 GMT -5

When I'm gone, don't bury me
I will not lie under this town
I will not lie where I can't see

[/color]
Please don't put me underground[/size]

S[/color]hrol Rai[/i][/color]dan[/font][/center]

Was he too young to be tired?

Tired of wanting things that he could not have. Tired of giving things that were not his to give. Tired of such an even rhythm beating in his chest and pumping throughout his body, when he wanted it to jump up and down in all an erratic uneven tempo. Tired of praying, and tired of not praying enough- or perhaps not praying hard enough? Tired of the death of so many others. Tired of living a life that he had not yet lived.

The exhaustion was hitting him like he had not slept in weeks, and the adrenaline was lighting him like a beacon. He struggled against the light heat, smothering him like an uncomfortably warm blanket in the last shreds of a nightmare. If only. If only he could shrug it off, untangle himself, let the cold night air shock him back to his senses. No, this blanket was too tied in knots, he was too deep in the water for that.

The way the sun sat proudly in its zenith told him that there was plenty of time to begin looking through the arena, to find food and water, to find salvation and survival. But hopelessness etched his crumpled body, because every second of life that he could prolong took one off his sister. And he couldn’t decide whether he was brave enough to save her, or brave enough to think of himself.

He lay down on his side and pressed his ear to the shifting crimson that cradled him. After the initial whispering that his body spoke to the grit, there was silence. Nothing. And that was not surprising. After all, that was what he had. Nothing. No decisions, no hope, no bravery, no worth. No salvation in the eyes of his Lord, because, no mater how hard he tried to tell his racing mind to the contrary, he had tried to kill that boy. And although his intention had been to save his sister, that was nothing. He was nothing. Worthless. Worthless Shrol Raidan, who couldn’t save himself, or help any further with saving his sister.

He pressed on. Continued with the basic stock take of survival, because his own impatience meant that he would not lay on this sand and wait for death to come to him. No, if that was his fate, then he would go to death. Perhaps he should just let God decide the path he was to choose, but then again, what if saving his sister was that path? But suppose it wasn’t. His hormonal, emotional mind was disjointed, running on empty, so worried. The slight swelling on his left collarbone seemed to be the only real would that he had so far sustained, not counting the constant irritation of the sand, despite the burning pillage that tore at his mind.

He ignored the bloody hatchet that already held too many memories, and examined the rucksack that he had been fortunate enough to pick up. Although the inside was stark, it was well made and well camouflaged in greys and greens. He unzipped the bag and discovered a tangle of rope and tarp, that perhaps that could transform into some form of shelter. Though the current weather didn’t dictate the need to protect from the elements, perhaps in the future he would need the thing. And it certainly seemed to contain some materials that could come in handy. Ropes, material and pegs, things that a crafty mind could transform into something far more deadly.

That is, if the crafty mind could tear his mind away from thinking of the possible fate of his sister for long enough to think of anything else.

[[Shrol Raidan has left the Shifting Sands with a tent, a hatchet, a backpack and 3.0 damage.]]