The Runner was to deliver the message to his destination no matter what, the besieged city was swiftly approaching the end of its resources, and immediate help was needed. But none of the runners that departed to seek help in the previous month had returned.

It was a grim task, his superior had told him. His adversaries were insidious, cunning and swift. All he was told was that he was the last hope of the city, as none of the horseriders could navigate through the thick forest, and he was the last runner. The only silver lining was that the general had saved his best runner for last. If he couldn’t do it, nobody could.

He was a particularly masterful runner, and a rather experienced one, a silver sash covered his waist to designate his proficiency and rank. His torch blazed along as he made his way deep into the forest. A natural born pathfinder, it was as if his feet found their places in the ground themselves. He escaped the city one night using paths known by few. He was almost inside the forest when his enemies finally detected his presence. He dove into the forest with a blazing speed, and his enemies followed.

He was deft as he was ever before, his steps were exactly where he wanted them to be; he was almost dancing between the trees with impeccable dexterity. He ran, and ran; he was inexhaustible. Or so he thought, he had never traversed the forest in length.

After an indefinite amount of running, the first signs of exhaustion had begun creeping up to him. His step was wobbly, his stride much less rhythmical. He could still faintly hear his pursuers in the distance, though he couldn’t fully sense how far away they were. But they must have been closer than before, he knew. With exhaustion tugging him from behind he had to make a decision; he had to stop and listen, or keep running. Getting rid of his curiousity was much less important than staying alive he thought, knowing where his pursuers were not going to do him much good if he got caught in the end.

He broke into a frenzied gallop, his mind sunk into a lower level of consciousness as his body lost it’s ability to sustain his heightened senses. He could see only what was in front of him, concepts like the chase were unknown at that moment.

A startling sound from behind him pulled him back from his trance. His enemies must have caught up to him, he thought. With that moment’s lapse of concentration, he failed to notice a tree root in front of him. He stumbled forward.

Luckily, falling was second nature to him. He broke into a roll from falling, and unsheathed his dagger in a swift motion while springing back up. He turned to face his adversaries as he stood. Unfortunately for him, that proved rather hard because of a heavy blow to back of his head taking his vision away. The second was to take his consciousness, he wasn’t even there to feel the other thousand.

His existence was severed from his body as his disfigured lifeless body lay inside a pool of his own blood. Soon enough his consciousness was to wake up in a darkness. He took a moment to grieve about his failure to complete his task; he had failed his people, his master, his family.

But he had led a good life! Wasn’t it enough for him to be remembered as a hero? A good soldier who gave his life for his people. He was surely to be remembered as a fallen champion. And if the gods were just, they surely would have recognized that he had tried even though he had failed. Time didn’t exist in the afterlife (which he couldn’t take the time to reflect upon) but it was after some time indeed that he noticed a faint glow in the distance. A distant light slowly filled the darkness inside his consciousness. The runner’s first reaction was to bask in the light as he thought he had finally reached heaven. He would finally re-attain his physical form, but impervious this time, he would celebrate his accomplishments with other fallen warriors! A moment of rejoicing was imminent.

The light slowly approached him, he could see it better now, it had a warm, reddish hue to it. The light got closer and closer. As the light reached his immediate vicinity, he got a glimpse of what was inside it. But it was before he could fully comprehend what he was seeing a blinding flash of light overtook him, when he finally got back to his senses, he couldn’t quite fathom what happened.

The light was, in fact, his torch. He was standing in the middle of the forest once more. What had happened? The gods must have given me a second chance he thought, there was no other explanation. He was to champion for his cause for a second time, and he would succeed.

It took him several moments to readjust to his physical form. But the sound of leaves rustling in the distance cut through his dizziness. If he didn’t want to fail for a second time he had to move immediately. He darted in the opposite direction of the sound, hoping that it was the right one. His body felt familiar, but unlike the last time he was revitalized, full of vigor; except his mind. His mind was cloudy, it was as if a thick layer of smoke coated his memory. His innate abilities were ever present though, in no time he started weaving between the trees like before.

He ran, and ran, and ran. He was swift, the flame of gods’ favour burning inside him. But he wasn’t impervious, no. Eventually the ever-continuous running would snuff out his flame. Maybe he had ran longer than the last time, he had stopped thinking about the distance long ago. The familiar feeling of tiredness was slowly infecting him once more, but his senses were still keen enough to hear his pursuers getting closer.

But he didn’t give up, he couldn’t give up; he was resurrected, he couldn’t fail again. The Runner took every last drop of his life to sustain himself, but his pursuers were just faster.

His pursuers got closer and closer. Finally, he felt a step on the ground just behind him. With a last ditch effort, he made a lunge forward, but he had run out of breath. He gasped for a breath of air, but all that came out of his mouth was a faded cry as a spear impaled him from behind. He fell face-first forward, still gasping for air, but the air in his lungs was replaced with cold hard steel. A mouthful of dirt was all he could inhale as his world plunged into darkness once more.

He was devastated. He had wasted the chance gods had given to him. It was even doubtful if gods would let him into heaven now.

That was why he was absolutely dumbfounded when he found himself standing in the middle of the forest once more.

He went through the motions once again, and the one more time, then again. He died, and came back. All that awaited him was a gruesome death at the hand of his enemies in the end. When he was brought back into the forest once again, he just couldn’t move. His body was invigorated, but his psyche was obliterated. He couldn’t understand why even he was resurrected anymore, he had failed each and every time.

He stood and tried to find a catalyst, a source of power, an inspiration to strengthen his resolve, a formula to clear out his mind. He dug deeper, trying to remember his family, his people, the city, people that depended on him. His head was a welter of emotions and ideas. But what came to his mind was something he had totally forgotten.

He remembered himself, slumped against a tree, just like he was now; he was going insane with the weight of thousand lifetimes of running in the forest, with the weight of a thousand deaths on his mind. He was trying to find a way out of this madness, this imprisonment. Then he imagined, he imagined a city, he imagined he had a family, the city had sent him on a mission, he had gods that he believed in. Yes, that was it! Now he had something to run for! He was going to best his enemies and escape the forest!

Apparently his mental shield, this little pocket of imagination he hid himself in, was broken. With this revelation a deluge of a thousand more deaths washed like torrent upon his mind. The Runner recoiled in terror, clutching his head with two hands. All he could remember was running, and dying. He tried to remember other things, reach for a reason, reach for an inception, for a time before he was the Runner, in the depths of his mind. But he couldn’t find anything.

The Forest and the Death was what was real, there had been nothing other than these two until now. Was he doomed to run forever? Die a thousand more times? He had to find a way out of this madness, but how? Death was unrelenting, Forest was silent. How many times had he had this monologue before? Had he tried fighting them? Maybe he could make a bargain, but what could he even offer them? He hastily searched his possessions; his flask (that apparently kept refilling), his garments, his leather boots and his dagger. He didn’t have anything valuable to off-

The dagger caught his eye suddenly.

He had no chance of fighting, no chance of bargaining. The Forest was the court and Death was the law.

He needed to become the law, he needed to become an agent of death himself.

He pulled his knife out of his sash, and held it in a reverse grip. Footsteps echoed in the distance. It didn’t matter though, he was to meet his demise soon enough. He held the dagger above his heart. The throat slit was too hard to pull off alone and any other place wouldn’t have given him enough time before his usual death reclaimed him once more.

Ironically his moment of self-inflicted death was very anti-climactic for him; he had alrady died a couple thousand times already, and it was also a possibility that he had killed himself before. He gripped the dagger with both hands and drove it into his chest. His muscles tensed from the sudden influx of pain. He slowly slumped onto the ground as pulsating waves of blood drenched the autumn leaves on the ground in crimson red paint. The vision of the Forest flickered before his eyes, at that moment even the existence of the Forest felt dubious.

He wished to not come back into this wretched forest again as he plummeted into eternal darkness once more. Rather unfortunately for him, he wasn’t there to experience it when he found solace finally.