Run Away
Pip was heavy in his arms and Cecil struggled to adjust his weight as he continued across the moor. He shifted Pip's head, resting it on his chest to minimise the strain on the limp boy's neck. Heaven forbid, he already had enough problems on his plate.
They had left the path long ago, and the sun was setting, giving way to a cold chill that swept across the open landscape. Cecil stopped for a moment and wrapped his coat tightly around Pip's cold frame, careful not to disturb the callous dressing wound tightly around the younger boy's chest. He would have to move quickly: there was barely any light left to see by and Pip wasn't going to survive out on the moor for more than a few hours.
After checking that no one was following them, Cecil carefully picked up Pip and carried on, snapping purple heather with every step. He kept pace with Pip's steady breaths, the only sign that the boy was still alive, that there was still time. It was the only thing he focused on as the heather scratched his bare and bloodied legs, as the wind cut through his tattered clothing and turned his bones to ice. His chattering teeth joined the quiet breaths and the rustle of the heather.
As the sun disappeared, the heather faded from purple to black and Cecil struggled to see more than a metre in front of him. Not even the stars tried to light his way. At some point he tripped over something in the undergrowth and was sent sprawling, Pip's body rolling into the heather. He lay there (he didn't know for how long) his body shaking violently and his knees growing warm and sticky with blood. He sobbed, the day's events crashing over him in a tsunami of fear and misery.
He could no longer see Pip, no longer hear his breathing. Panic replaced fear, and he desperately groped in the dark for his friend. For an eternity he found nothing and his heart beat too quickly in his chest, his stomach rising to his throat. He tried to swallow the lump that had formed there. He failed.
His hand came into contact with a sleeve. His coat. Pip. Sobs gave way to all-out bawling as Cecil cried into the crook of Pip's neck, smoothing the younger boy's blond curls like he did whenever he was upset. He whispered into Pip's ear, told him that everything was going to be okay, that he would reach the meeting point. Cecil didn't know if he could keep his promise. The darkness was an oppressive force, crushing his resolve and blinding him to any sign of rescue. He could have walked straight past the red flag where help waited for them. Maybe he had taken too long, and Flora had gone, leaving them alone on the windy moor.
The thought paralysed `Cecil. He lay on the frozen ground, his arm across Pip's shoulders and stopped working. It was like an error code was flashing in his head; cannot compute that this is the end. He thought about what it had taken to escape onto the moor. So much pain and loss had fed their journey. It was all for nothing. Cecil closed his eyes and pressed his head into Pip's chest. Pip was all he had left. Without Pip, what was the point?
The boy shifted slightly under him, his breath hitching as he moved his head to one side. Sweat was collecting on his forehead, and his lips parted, releasing a small cry of pain. It pierced the sounds of the moor, fighting back against the wind. Pip was fighting back.
Cecil quickly scrambled to his feet, furious at himself for being so selfish. Pip was relying on him. He couldn't give up. He picked the boy up, ignoring how cold he was, how fragile he felt. He searched the distance for the red flag. Nothing. But that didn't mean it wasn't there. Even if it took all night, Cecil was going to find it. He was going to get both of them through this. They had been through too much together to be bested by a cold night on the moor. And so Cecil walked, purposefully conquering the heather underfoot, careful to protect the boy in his arms, heading for the red flag that would save them both.
