Song of Sorrow, Extract: VI The Last Eagle

   Creak. Hiss.
    The vicious wind, coldly cutting, soughing through; twisted branches, razored outcrops.
      The man-thing waited, wary.
        No song was sung.
         Stone failed to scour his broken feet. White slashes evidence of his long standing relationship with pain. In his dreams he remembers boots. Tough, leather scented, practical existence. The pinch and rub of breaking them in, once bemoaned. He finds a longing for such pain now, with its promise of protection.

 The man-thing stirred, peering.
   Crept from the dubious shelter of an old landslide. Shards of rock angled together like the primeval arrowheads of some gigantic god. There were no gods. Just…

 The man-thing snarled, twisting.
   Exposing the broken fragments of his teeth;  blackly mouldering. His emaciated grip tightened on his crudely fashioned spear. Twisted wood, a broken sword fastened to its tip. More rust than iron now.  Useless, really. He scrabbled down the steep slope, seeking the dark depths of the wooded crevice below. Within the pines death waited. But he had no choice. He must continue onwards. This route offered a possibility of a pass. Above a purple topped mountain loomed, behind him the sky was violated with a host of thrusting peaks. Now but one remained between him and the north. He didn’t really know if it offered hope. He didn’t really care. He had fixated on it long ago. His thoughts tangled and he stopped thinking. This is best. Keep going. Don’t think. Don’t stop. Don’t look back…

   The slope splintered abruptly. Stunted trees clung to shadowed fissures. His scabbed nose snuffled, the aroma of dead meat caused his hunger to roar! Muscles trembling, his crooked fingers sought handholds…for a moment he hung on the precipice with desperate fervour. Violent mutterings of shock echoed from his hollowed gut, head beating its agony. Mortality weighed heavy on him. It would be so easy to let go. To choose his ending.

   His poor feet scraped against a cruel surface, and he flung himself there, breathless. He pulled himself farther in the weeping walls. Long deteriorated fabric tore, the once shirt fluttered from him, caught fluttering on the wail of the wind.

   The man-thing hungered, famishing.
     The corpse of a rodent, found. Blunt teeth and torn nails ripped apart the aging flesh ferociously. Chewing briefly, gagging the meat and maggots down. Bones gnawed, crunched, sucked clean. The foul remains a bloody smear dripping in his matted beard.

   The man-thing wept, unknowing.
     The whites of his eyes flashing wildly, he eyed the great pines swaying before him. Pale fabric spilled wantonly down a darkling trunk. Terror struck him; no, no! No...just harsh light, slicing through the tapering treetops. His bloody fingers slipped as he heaved himself out, down. Blood bought knowledge finding the slightest handhold. Where no more were offered he dropped.

   The man-thing crouched, fearful.
     Softly, silently on the needled ground. Gaunt form ready to burst into movement, spear poised; still. It snarled and drooled, its eyes seeking, sweeping, surveying the ancient quiet beneath this towering world. Each shadow lay evilly, eyes awaiting his next move. This was her territory. She had taken them, the others, one by one. Inevitable her embrace. He alone remained. Bloated, she hunted him. Slowly. His face spasmed uncontrollably, fingers danced nervously on his spear. Don’t linger, don’t linger, don’t look back…

   Toes digging deep into the mast he ran, a stumbling, limping gait. The valley, such as it was, lay narrow and dark before him. Run, run. Run! Breath came in stabbing gasps. Always he searched ahead. There: white clawed hand gripped rough barked branch. Red sap oozing. No! No...no. A bird cawed its annoyance at his intrusion, small teeth like splinters in its beak.

   Everything was hungry here.
    The wind abated.
      The man-thing bolted, panicking.
        Pushing speed from his abused body. The sound came. The rush of rapids, the awful staccato rumble of rocks falling, the deathly maddened yowl of a mountain cat. Her laughter lapped at his heels. Fear sickened him. His terror escaped him in inhuman noises, his throat constricted, distorting the sounds of his sobbing into madness. He ran, ran. Run! This is no madness! Oh no, if only...only too real, this hunt, this fear, this pursuit. An ending, inevitable, but the horror of such pitiless rending drives him beyond.

   Don’t look back!
    The man-thing screams, defiantly.
      The wind returned. With a roar it beat at his back, assaulting his mind with twisted desires. It sought to harden his manhood with images of her carrion feeding, searing his vision. Far too late. The desiccated, grey member lay shrivelled; his bootlaces tied tight, scarred flesh creeping over them. Agonising, it gave him enough power to remain aloof of her urgings. To keep running. His body, so empty of what makes man, propelled him up the sudden cliff that closed the valley. Lacerated flesh bled listlessly, his manic flight wearying. She called him.

   No!
    The man-thing on all fours, running.
      Fingers breaking grievously on the gravel. Too weary for bi-pedal existence, he regressed. Was lost, broken, prey. His voice ripped from his lungs, body tensely clinging to the final cliff top.

    The man-thing’s mind, breaking.
     Not understanding what he saw. Far, far below waves crashed with mindless abandon against the feet of the mountains. Endless, mist wreathed seas. Sails flashed in the distance, an almost forgotten memory of civilisation glowing white in the sun. Overhead a great eagle soared, dun feathers rippled in the wind. Its mournful screech shattering his last moment.

  Despair won.
   Nowhere to run. Don’t look back…
     The man-thing turning, abstracted and final.
       She stalked. Emerging from the dark and quiet of the primordial woods, her smile fracturing her face.
   She reached for him.