Truth and Consequence

Truth and consequence, really. That was what led me here. Where is here? On the run, of course, quite literally I admit.1

I can barely see what's passing me as I run, but I see them as I look back. They're right behind me, at every street corner, on every block. The Spanish are sneaky curs, I believe. They've got their men everywhere, searching for supposed heretics such as myself. It's similar to a spiders web, where no matter where you run, the line is slick and they are right behind, hungry for a vengeance they know nothing about. They only know orders.2

What did I do to deserve this, then? Something simple, something every single person in the world does. I insulted someone. Not just any someone, by chance, but a priest. Even as I run, I can nigh remember what I said to the man of God. I do believe I implied that he had homosexual tendencies...3

Whoops.4

Note to self: keep mouth shut good and tight, yes? I've always been a bit of a flymouth, opening it before I consider what I say, and it has finally caught up with me.5

So, now, here I am, a runaway, a fugitive if you will. I can feel the strain in my legs even as I run, and the appendages are a blur as I yank my curious yet fearful and dark eyes from around me to look down at the cobblestone that looks, for once, smooth as silk at the speed I'm running. 6

Segovia seems to be in ruins with every step that people take toward the future, leaving the architecture and the history behind. It seems the future is more inspiring and lends a hand to dereliction. citizens are starry-eyed by the words the Westerners bring. Poison to the ears, me thinks.7

But I have no time to ponder politics as I feel an arrow graze my elbow. I look back with wide eyes. They shot at me! How they got close enough to do that was beyond me, but maybe I should stop focusing on my thoughts and run. It might save my life.8

With a new burst of speed, I dart away from the soldiers and into a dark alley that the men dare not follow me into. They've been told I'm dangerous! Like some common dog who holds above their head something horrible. I have but a roughly-hewn, wood-handled knife tucked into my britches. That is all.9

One soldier seemed to have gained the courage to follow me, because I see a glint of silver in one of the slivers of light that penetrates the alley. I tilt my head a little and withdraw my blade, holding it at ready in front of me. I may not be very good at hand-to-hand combat, but I am not going to be burned at the stake. I have my life!10

I have a wife! The first connection of metal seems to sing as I throw my hand up to protect myself from the incoming swipe. I have children! The second sounds as I can feel the muslces in my body working against the soldier. I have to win this battle of sharp wit in the form of small knives. I notice his blade is larger, quite a bit larger than mine, but no matter. It does nothing to dishearten my spirit as I parry.11

One and two fall into an uncountable mass of sharp rings, clashes of rough metal as I block every incoming swipe the soldier throws at me, moving quickly to avoid the thrusts I cannot block. I thought they were trained for combat and can't win against a common citizen? What has Segovian militia become?12

I find my chance, and bite down on my bottom lip as I slide forward, thrusting my blade into a small area of exposed flesh, listeinng as the soldier lets out a strangled cry of surprise. He looks to me, and whispers between parted lips and pained breath, 'You're quite dead now.'13

He falls from my knife, and I look on with as much surprise as the fallen man had, my jaw agape as I exhale sharply. Now, I suppose, they have a reason to find me and burn me, for more than just being an unfounded heretic. I've signed my death warrant all over again, and with just cause I rationalize. I will maintain that it was self-defense, even as I dart out, on the run once more, though no one follows me this time into the darkness. I think of my family, and wish them the very best, for I feel I will never see them again.