such fire was not by water to be drowned
The afternoon was torpid with heat, and everything was unnaturally still in the oppressive humidity. Here in the forest, the quiet was almost eerie-- animals were hiding in caves and boles of trees, seeking shade, and most humans with half a brain had gone swimming or were hiding in the Compound. You could walk for quite a while without seeing another person, hearing another sound besides your own footsteps.
Then the call of a horn rent the air, slicing through the damp to pierce the ear of anyone within half a mile. It sounded again, before the ringing from the first blast had died away, and then a third time.
Sandor, for his part, barely heard it. He barely heard when Cuthbert yelled to him that help should be on the way, and didn't even register when his friend hurtled back toward the fiery hell in the center of what had once been his campsite. He was too busy using his river-sodden cloak to beat at the edge of the fire, too occupied by his heart pounding in his throat, too focused on keeping himself from losing his breakfast to the fear and panic churning in his stomach.
It was the wood chips, he thought dully, a little surprised at the calmness of his mind. They weren't wet enough. Part of him knew it was shock and adrenaline combined to cut him off from the bottomless terror that waited on the other side; that if he stopped moving even for a second, it would overtake him and he would run, just as he had the last time he'd faced down a fire bigger than he was. True, this was not the Blackwater, nor anything like it. But fire was fire to Sandor; if it wasn't contained by a wall of stones or small enough to fit in a stew pot, it was nothing he wanted anything to do with.
And he thought he'd been so careful. It had started in the smoking closet, of course, though he'd been using it for nearly two years-- why now, of all times, would it go awry? The skinny little hut had already been completely destroyed by the flames; walls caved, support posts blackened and ready to fall. And when the first wall had fallen, he could see it so clearly, the sparks had caught onto his bedroll, and from there to the short shelter he'd built for protection against rain. Now it was all blazing, and he could only be thankful (to his ka, he supposed, and wasn't that a laughable notion) he'd built his camp among wide, tall trees, whose leaves stood no chance of reaching the flames. At least if the fire consumed him, he wouldn't be remembered as the man who'd burned down the island.
[please see this post before tagging. thanks!]
Then the call of a horn rent the air, slicing through the damp to pierce the ear of anyone within half a mile. It sounded again, before the ringing from the first blast had died away, and then a third time.
Sandor, for his part, barely heard it. He barely heard when Cuthbert yelled to him that help should be on the way, and didn't even register when his friend hurtled back toward the fiery hell in the center of what had once been his campsite. He was too busy using his river-sodden cloak to beat at the edge of the fire, too occupied by his heart pounding in his throat, too focused on keeping himself from losing his breakfast to the fear and panic churning in his stomach.
It was the wood chips, he thought dully, a little surprised at the calmness of his mind. They weren't wet enough. Part of him knew it was shock and adrenaline combined to cut him off from the bottomless terror that waited on the other side; that if he stopped moving even for a second, it would overtake him and he would run, just as he had the last time he'd faced down a fire bigger than he was. True, this was not the Blackwater, nor anything like it. But fire was fire to Sandor; if it wasn't contained by a wall of stones or small enough to fit in a stew pot, it was nothing he wanted anything to do with.
And he thought he'd been so careful. It had started in the smoking closet, of course, though he'd been using it for nearly two years-- why now, of all times, would it go awry? The skinny little hut had already been completely destroyed by the flames; walls caved, support posts blackened and ready to fall. And when the first wall had fallen, he could see it so clearly, the sparks had caught onto his bedroll, and from there to the short shelter he'd built for protection against rain. Now it was all blazing, and he could only be thankful (to his ka, he supposed, and wasn't that a laughable notion) he'd built his camp among wide, tall trees, whose leaves stood no chance of reaching the flames. At least if the fire consumed him, he wouldn't be remembered as the man who'd burned down the island.
[please see this post before tagging. thanks!]