Pursuit: Chapter 2

Emrys

I ran until my legs burned—then I ran further.
The castle shrank behind me, its towers fading into the night sky. The echo of laughter—the King’s feast—still clung to my ears, but the silence that followed devoured it whole.

Soon the King, His castle, the town, and even the gutter I once called home were gone.

No guards chased me.
No horns sounded.
No alarms rang.

Only silence now.
And somehow, that silence felt worse than an army. It stalked me like a shadow, whispering I was not as free as I thought.

The crown pressed against my chest as I clutched it close. It was heavier than when I first stole it. Each step drove its weight deeper into my arms. Its edges were cold, biting, as if the gold itself wanted nothing to do with me.

The road bent into the wilderness, and the land changed. The moon lit my path, yet the night felt darker than it should have. Shadows stretched too far, clinging to the trees like smoke. A shiver passed through me—not from cold, but from the uneasy sense that the world was watching. Nature itself seemed to know something was wrong.

I shook my head. I’m just being paranoid. I got out quickly, quietly. The King probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone. By daybreak, I’ll be in the clear. Then my life can finally begin.

But even as I thought it, my stomach growled. The sound tore through the stillness like thunder.
No, I told myself. I’ll be fine. As soon as I reach the next town, I’ll sell this crown, have a feast, and forget my hunger.

Another growl, sharper, louder. My throat ached with thirst. Why didn’t I eat when I had the chance? Why didn’t I at least drink?

Then I saw it: water.

I stumbled to a stream and fell to my knees. The water shimmered, clear as glass. I scooped a handful and pressed it to my lips. But the moment it touched my tongue, bitterness filled my mouth. I spat it out, gagging.

What is this? I tried again, desperate. Still bitter. Sweet to the eye, poison to the tongue. As if my very hunger and thirst had soured with the crown in my arms.

I pressed on, though each step felt heavier. My body ached, but no tree offered covering, no grass softened the ground for rest. Even when I collapsed against a trunk, the bark dug into my spine like thorns. Sleep would not come. My thoughts clawed at me: The crown. The King. His eyes… why did He look at me like that?

At last, I drifted into a restless half-sleep. When I woke, he was there.

A man sat across from me at a dying fire, long and thin, like a shadow given flesh. His clothes were patched and worn, his boots caked with miles of mud. His face was long, his eyes drooping with sorrow—or perhaps wisdom—it was hard to tell. He smelled faintly of marsh and smoke. Beside him lay a pointed hat.

Maybe I was still dazed, but the first thought that came to mind was: wizard.

I had heard stories of magicians and wandering wise men when I was a boy. Some called them wizards. Some called them tricksters, preying on the gullible.

I jolted upright, clutching the crown and trying to hide it behind my back. “Who are you?”

The man didn’t look up. He stirred the fire with a crooked stick, sending sparks drifting into the night. His voice was dry as old leather.
“Someone who kens better than to sleep wi’ a stolen crown.”

My mouth went dry. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

His lips twitched into something almost like a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “Aye, ye do. Folk dinnae cradle shadows like they’re treasure. That thing in yer arms—everyone in this realm kens where it belongs. Everyone but you, it seems.”

I shifted uneasily. “I found it. It was just… sitting there.”

He snorted. “Crowns dinnae just sit, lad. They’re nae loaves o’ bread left coolin’ on a sill. That one was forged for one brow only. Yours’ll break long before it fits.”

Anger flared in me, though it rang hollow. “Then why doesn’t He come for it? Why doesn’t He stop me?”

At that, the man finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were heavy, sad, as if they’d seen too much to be surprised anymore.
“Who told ye He hasnae?”

My chest tightened. I looked behind me, half-expecting to see soldiers, or worse—the King Himself. But the road lay empty.

“The King doesnae always come wi’ chains and blades,” the man went on, his voice softer now, almost fatherly. “Sometimes He comes wi’ silence, lettin’ it gnaw at ye till ye’re ready to listen. Sometimes He comes wi’ mercy, chasin’ ye long after ye’ve given Him reason not to. And sometimes He comes wi’ folk like me—strays pulled frae the mud—sent to remind ye what ye’d rather forget.”

I swallowed hard. “You make it sound like I’m already caught.”

He leaned back, letting the firelight flicker across his worn face. “Aye, lad. Ye are. Ye’ve been in His hand since before ye drew breath. All yer runnin’s only made ye tired enough to notice.”

The silence stretched. The fire cracked and hissed. My arms ached from holding the crown. Why is it so heavy? I halfway wanted to throw it into the dark, but I knew that the damage was already done. Besides, it’s my ticket to freedom. I’ll hold on a little while longer.

Finally, I broke the silence. “What’s your name?”

The man poked the fire again, as if considering whether I deserved an answer. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Emrys.”

The name felt strange. Like there was a millennium of stories behind it. “Emrys… this may sound foolish, but… do you believe in wizards?”

For a long time he said nothing, only watched the sparks drift and die. At last he murmured, “I believe in the King.”

My heart raced. “Is… is the King a wizard?”

The words were hardly out of my mouth before everything changed.

Emrys straightened like a man struck. The fire roared up in sudden flame, spilling shadows across the trees. Heat seared my face. The wind whipped through the branches, rattling them like bones. Even the stars seemed to tremble, one or two slipping loose from the heavens.

When he spoke, his voice was not weary or wry, but deep and thundering, as though the earth itself lent him its tongue.
“Ye’d best keep such folly out o’ yer mind and yer mouth, boy. Wizards—those that served Him—are but ants beside the mountain, dust on the wind. Servants, nae more. He…” Emrys’s eyes burned with something I could not name, “…The King is more. Much, much more.”

The fire sank low again, the night slowly returning to itself. But I could not. My whole body trembled.

After some time, Emrys returned to the dying campfire. Once he settled into his seat again, I found the courage to speak.

“Have you come to take me back to Him?” My voice felt so small now, like that of a child scolded for mischief.

“No,” Emrys replied. “That’s nae what ye want, is it?”

“No… I never want to go back there. He’ll kill me if I do.”

“Aye,” he said, poker still in hand, stirring the embers. “It would be a death, sure enough. But nae the final kind ye’re thinkin’ of.” He paused, tilting his head as if listening to something far off, beyond the night. “We’ll go where ye wish to go. Ye’ve taken the crown. Now it’s time to see what ye’ll do with it.”

I stared at him, unsettled. “But why? You’re His servant. A wizard, I assume. You could drag me back to the castle yourself—or strike me down here and return the crown to its rightful place.”

He leaned back, a long yawn escaping as if I had asked a tedious question. His eyes half-closed, voice gravel-thick. “That’s no how He works, lad. You’re right, I could make ye suffer in ways nae mortal’s ever dreamt of. I could bind yer limbs wi’ spells till yer body obeyed my will. I could turn ye into a beast that crawls in the dirt. But if ye return to Him by any way other than yer own, He’ll have both our heads.”

The fire hissed, casting long shadows across his face. His words trailed off into the smoke, drifting into silence.

Weariness overtook me. Against my better judgment, I crept closer to the fire’s warmth. My eyes shut, heavy as stone. And at last, I slept.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.”
Psalm 23:2