| [Dec. 16th, 2009|03:15 am] |
This time, she let him set the pace. Ryouma was grimly, silently grateful. Sure, he had plenty of chakra to waste running, but it still wasn't sure it belonged to him; it still burned through his abused pathways,
and he had too little chakra of his own to assimilate it completely. This was probably the time when he was supposed to sit down and meditate until everything was in proper harmony and his zen was centered or whatever--but with a big flaming beacon lighting up the sky at his back, Ryouma didn't feel much like sitting down.
(Actually, he felt a lot like falling down, but that could wait.)
The shallow gash on his hip oozed sluggishly, stubbornly; the white-edged purple streaks came and went, along with his depth perception. His shoulder never actually stopped hurting, but somewhere around the second mile the painkillers kicked in and forced it back to a dull ache he could almost ignore.
They weren't heading for Lightning Country. Not even the best battle plans survived first contact with the enemy--and Ryouma was perfectly willing to acknowledge his weren't the best. Weakened and wounded as he and Katsuko were, and with the surviving guards left behind to identify them, their best chance lay in running like hell until they reached friendly territory.
Or until he fell over. Whichever. |
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