Flash Fiction - Simon, The Runaway
Simon, The Runaway
Nineteen days, seventeen hours, forty-three minutes, and a handful of seconds. That was how long Simon had been stuck in the back of this God's forsaken wagon, stuck between a tower of clinking bottles and bagged hay that stabbed into the back of his neck. But finally —
"Oi," three knocks signaled the stop, "We're here."
—He was finally getting out of this hell. Simon stood and immediately grabbed his rapier, attaching it to his belt. His feet were swift as he walked through the crowded wagon, stealthily making his way around the many bits and bobs that stuck out until, finally, he slid through the back and out into the fresh, open air. Within moments, the wagon was leaving him behind in the alleyway; he took a deep breath, ignoring the stench of rotten wood and trash; it felt good to be alive.
Feet first, Simon moved from the alley into the muted streets of the border town just five miles out; he was almost there, almost free. With his hat pulled down, covering his face, he continued on, wondering if he should grab a drink, "No, better to get out of the country first thing." Faster and faster, his feet moved, not quite running, but still at a brisk pace. Just a little longer, and he'd no longer be under the thumb of a God. No longer would he be forced to fight. No longer.
"Hey, mister!" a child-like voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he slowed to a walk as a boy ran to catch up to him. "Hey, hey, you got any money on you?"
"Money?" Simon grinned down at the child. "Sadly, not much, but here." He pulled a silver from his pocket, one of his last, and flicked it to the boy.
"Thanks, mister! Hey, hey, can you use that sword?" The child ran in front of him.
Simon lied through his teeth with a smile, "No, no, I just use it to scare off the ne'er-do-wells. Scars them off pretty well." He patted the hilt of his rapier and winked at the boy. It wouldn't do well to scare off any of the locals this close to being free.
"It's real pretty." Indeed, the weapon had a golden hilt, with several swirls around its guard. Studded with rubies and sapphires on each half, a last gift from his mother.
"Thanks, but just to let you in on a secret, it's all fake, though it does help pull the ladies."
The kid gave a suspicious look at that answer but eventually shouted, "Thanks for the coin, sir!" and ran off down the street.
With a pause in his step, Simon gave a small grin to himself and once more set off, but this time at a slower pace, happy to take in the sights of the town. He was sure no one was following him. The cadaver he left behind was his exact build, and the burns made sure that no one could identify it. Plus, with the God of the Seas severing his connection with the God of War, he really had no reason to hurry. Life would be well soon.
"Help!" Feet stopping just outside of an alleyway, Simon almost considered continuing on down the street, but his eyes drifted down the dark alley, watching as a group of men stood in front of that kid, holding a knife to his neck.
He moved before he could even process it. "Water's Call." His voice was a whisper as he whipped his hand through the air, collecting the moisture and letting it fall into a long whip around his arm. Simon took a step forward and shot him out, letting the water wrap around the boy's waist and yanking him free from the man's grasp. "Now, now, friends, there's no reason to go harming children, now is there?"
Silence filled the street, then an explosion happened.
"Let the boy go!"
"It's a Witch!"
"Kill him!"
Simon paused as the words washed over him: Why would they be worried about the kid? He frowned and pushed the boy behind him, slowly pulling his rapier from its sheath.
"How about you all back off, and maybe I—" He gasped as a sharp pain cut through his side. "Kid?" His good eye turned to stare at the terrified kid.
"I—" began the boy, letting go of his knife and slowly back before turning and running, disappearing into the night. Simon ripped the small knife from his side and nearly doubled over.
"You're done for now, witch." The bandit sneered at him.
Simon scowled back and flicked his rapier towards the sky, a bead of water forming on the tip; if they wanted a witch, then he'd give them one.
Not even five minutes had passed before Simon crept from the alley, leaving behind his attackers' unconscious forms. He hated fighting other humans; it left a bad taste in his mouth, but he needed to and all that. He grunted and fell against a nearby wall, but soon shouts filled the empty streets, and in the distance, he heard the sound of dozens of feet.
Hand pressed into his wound, Simon stumbled on, wishing for freedom.
He wasn't sure how long he had walked, but as the sun began to shine in his eyes as he continued east, he couldn't be more happy.
Tears fell from his eyes, and he dropped to his knees; he was finally free. Free to live his life. But why was he so cold? Shouldn't the sun be warming him by now?
"Are you okay?" The voice of an Angel washed over him, but he was too tired to answer and fell to slumber.