Struggles

Death had become a familiar companion, though never a welcome one. The raw terror that had once choked her, leaving her gasping for breath, had dulled into a persistent ache, a cold knot in her stomach. It still lingered, a phantom limb of fear, but something new sparked beneath it now. Something hot. Something stubborn.

Defiance.

Elara lay sprawled on the grass, her lungs burning, air tearing in ragged gasps. The goblin, a grotesque green silhouette against the sun-dappled field, stood over her. The rusty knife gleamed, poised. This time, no scream clawed its way from her throat. Instead, her gaze fixed on the creature. It's beady eyes. The way its spindly arm lifted. The subtle shift in its small, hunched body just before it lunged. A strange, clinical awareness flickered in her mind, a dim light illuminating a dark corner. This was madness. Impossible. Yet, it was her impossible. And she was utterly, profoundly sick of it.

Gasp!

She scrambled to her feet. The goblin moved. But this time, Elara moved a hair faster. Not away. Not blindly fleeing. She tried to trick it. A tiny jerk of her shoulder to the left, a feint. The goblin twitched, its focus momentarily fractured. Then, she lunged right, a desperate burst of speed towards the towering oak.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Could she? Could she actually get past it?

The goblin was still too fast. It cut her off, as always, a blur of green and rust-colored metal. The dagger plunged. Darkness. But a tiny victory, a fragile, triumphant ember, glowed in her mind. She had almost. Almost made it.

Gasp!

Again. She tried another move. Ducked lower. Spun tighter, feeling the air stir with the goblin's rush. A grotesque, ugly dance of death. Each fall, each sickening jolt of pain, brought a tiny piece of the puzzle into place. The goblin wasn't random. It had a rhythm, a pattern to its movements. And Elara, against all logic, was beginning to see it.

It felt like a hundred deaths. A thousand. An eternity measured in repeated agony. Her body screamed constantly, a dull, pervasive throb that never receded. Her throat felt raw, scraped from phantom screams. Yet, the defiance within her grew, a small, stubborn flame against the endless dark.

Finally, a breath. A chance.

She weaved, a sudden, sharp twist that surprised even herself. The goblin, for a split second, was off balance. A tiny, fleeting window. Elara lunged. A desperate, burning sprint towards the huge oak. Her legs screamed in protest, each muscle fiber tearing, but she pushed harder.

The tree. So close she could almost feel the rough bark.

Her fingers outstretched, clawing. They scraped against the rough, old bark. Hope exploded in her chest, bright and hot, a sudden, searing warmth. She pushed, trying to pull herself up. But her body, weakened by endless deaths, by terror, by pure, soul-deep exhaustion, betrayed her. Her arms felt like water. She couldn’t lift herself.

She collapsed at the base of the mighty tree, panting, small, strangled sobs escaping her throat. Despair, cold and heavy, washed over her in a fresh wave. She had been so close. So, so close. And yet, she couldn't make it. The goblin was on her instantly, its blade swift, merciless. Darkness.

Gasp!

Back. Again. Elara ignored the familiar ache, the phantom burn of the blade. Ignored the despair that tried to cling to her like a shroud. This time, a grim determination set her jaw, a hard line against the soft curves of her face. She would climb that tree.

She launched herself forward, already knowing the first few moves to dodge the goblin's lunge, a terrifying choreography learned through countless repetitions. Her hands slammed against the bark, scrambling, clawing, desperate for purchase. She didn't climb like a person anymore. She climbed like a panicked animal, raw instinct driving her, clawing for safety, for life itself.

A low branch. Her fingers, slick with sweat and grime, found a grip. A good grip. With a surge of adrenaline, a raw, primal burst of strength she didn't know she possessed, she hauled herself up. Her muscles burned, protesting with sharp, white-hot jolts of pain. Her breath tore in ragged gasps from her throat. But she was up. She was on the branch. Safe. For now.

From her precarious perch, she looked down. The goblin was pacing below, a restless green shadow, its head tilted, its beady eyes scanning the base of the tree. A low, guttural growl escaped Elara's own lips. It wasn't a growl of anger. It was a growl of disbelief. Of a strange, wild triumph.

"This can't be real," she muttered to herself, the words barely audible, her voice hoarse, scraped raw by fear and exertion. She touched the rough bark, felt the solid, unyielding branch beneath her. It was real. This strange, terrifying, impossible reality.

Then, a sudden, raw shout burst from her. Louder this time. Stronger. It tore through the oppressive silence of the field. "YOU CAN'T KEEP ME HERE!"

The goblin below stopped its frantic pacing. Its head snapped up. Its beady eyes fixed on Elara. It let out a low, chittering sound that seemed to vibrate with malicious amusement. Slowly, deliberately, its spindly arm reached behind its back.

Elara watched, frozen. The goblin pulled something out. Something crudely made, with a taut string and a short stick. A bow. A small, short bow.

Elara’s heart leaped into her throat, a frantic bird beating against her ribs, desperate to escape. Fear, sharp and cold, pierced through her, a new kind of terror. She had found safety in the tree. But a bow…

She flinched, a gut reaction, instinctively recoiling from the sight of the weapon, her muscles coiling. Her foot slipped. Her fingers, slick with sweat, lost their grip.

She plunged downwards.

Falling. Spinning. The world blurred into a chaotic smear of green and brown. She hit the ground with a sickening thud. A gruesome, sharp crack echoed in her ears, then a blinding pain in her neck, a sudden, jarring finality. Darkness.

Gasp!

She was back. Again. Lying on the grass. The sun dappled the field, indifferent. The oak tree loomed, a silent, mocking giant. The goblin, standing there, still leering, but this time, it held the bow.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A grim determination settled over her. Not frantic hope. Not blind terror. Just a cold, hard resolve, a steel rod forming in her spine. The tree was still her only real option for safety, but now it wasn't a simple climb. It was a tactical problem.

She launched herself towards the tree, scrambling upwards with a desperate, practiced efficiency she hadn't known she possessed. Faster this time. Higher. She found a low branch, hauled herself up, muscles screaming, but she ignored them.

Then, a sharp pain blossomed in her back. Not the familiar searing of a dagger wound. A different kind of pain. A burning, stinging sensation that spread like wildfire. She looked down. An arrow. The point stuck through her chest, a morbid trophy. She felt herself weaken, sag, her vision blurring at the edges. She fell from the branch.

Dying once more. A dull thud.

Gasp!

Back. The goblin was using arrows now. This changed everything. Hiding was no longer an option, not entirely. It had to be strategic hiding. She needed to observe. Really observe.

She didn't try to climb immediately. She darted. A low sprint, keeping the large, gnarled trunk of the oak between her and the goblin, a natural shield. She flattened herself against the rough bark, heart pounding. The goblin, surprisingly quick, chased her down, its beady eyes darting, searching. It found her. The rusty dagger, not the bow this time, ended her fleeting life.

Gasp!

A new tactic. On her next attempt, she didn't just climb to the lowest branch. She kept going. Higher. Deeper into the tree's thick, sprawling canopy. She scraped her knees, bruised her elbows, felt the sting of cuts, but she climbed, driven by a new kind of focused energy, a cold, calculating will.

She found a thick cluster of leaves, dense and green, that offered excellent concealment. She pushed herself into it, pressing against the rough branches, hidden from view. From her leafy hideaway, she peered down, silently, watchful.

The goblin was below, pacing back and forth, a frustrated blur of green, its small eyes scanning the branches, searching. It couldn't see her. A tiny flicker of triumph, small but potent, ignited in her chest.

She watched it closely now. Not just its movements, but its tools. On its back, a quiver. A crude leather pouch, and sticking out of it, the feathered ends of arrows. A quiver. With a finite number of arrows.

She counted them, a silent tally. One. Two. Three… Fifteen.

Fifteen arrows. A daring, yet incredibly dangerous, idea formed in her mind, a reckless spark. Did the arrows magically reappear each time she died? Or were they truly spent with each shot? There was only one way to find out.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Elara deliberately shifted. Just a little. Enough to rustle the leaves. Enough to reveal a sliver of her tattered dress.

The goblin's head snapped up, its gaze drawn by the sound. It saw her. A guttural roar burst from its ugly throat, raw and furious. It raised its bow, drew back the string. And fired.

Thwip! The arrow met its mark, a searing jolt. The goblin was a good shot. Not easily tricked.

Darkness.

Gasp!

She was back. And she didn't hesitate. She immediately scrambled up the tree, back into her previous hiding spot. From her leafy curtain, she peered down.

The goblin paced, then looked up at her in her hiding spot, took aim, and fired.

One gone. Two gone. Using the same hiding spot isn't recommended.

When she reappeared, she chose a different, equally dense pocket of leaves, a little further away. She carefully counted the arrows as the goblin paced below, a silent, grim accountant.

Thirteen arrows. It was confirmed. The goblin’s ammunition was finite.

Her reckless idea grew into an exhilarating new sense of agency. She had to push it. Force it to use its arrows.

She carefully and sheepishly peered from the new hiding spot, a sliver of her face visible, and shouted at the goblin, a high, taunting voice. "You shoot like a loser!"

In her premature satisfaction, her concentration slipped. She lost her footing and slipped from the tree, grasping wildly at branches on the way down, a desperate, flailing puppet.

A quick, albeit painful, death. The impact shattered her bones, her body hitting the ground with a sickening crunch.

Gasp!

Upon her reappearance, a wave of self-reproach washed over her, hot and stinging. "Stupid, Elara! Absolutely stupid!" It had been a painful, pointless death.

But the plan remained sound. She had to force it to use the arrows. She scrambled up the tree, making sure to stay within the goblin’s range, close enough to be a target. She played a macabre, terrifying game of hide-and-hit. She’d show herself for a second, a flash of movement, then try to duck back. The goblin would snarl, raise its bow, and fire. Another arrow gone each time.

She died repeatedly. Sometimes from a glancing arrow, a dull throb. Sometimes from a direct hit, a sharp, piercing pain. Each time, she observed. Each time, she counted.

Finally, a triumphant grin spread across her dirt-smudged face, stretching her cracked lips. A genuine grin, if a little wild and unhinged. She watched as the last arrow, the fifteenth one, zinged into her stomach, a final, familiar sting.

Gasp!

The goblin stood below. Its quiver was empty. Its bow hung uselessly in its hand, a forgotten toy. It paced frantically, a whirlwind of impotent rage, its mean eyes darting, its ugly face twisted in palpable frustration. It let out a series of frustrated chitters and snarls, hollow sounds against the growing quiet.

Elara, perched comfortably on a thick branch, hidden but watching, laughed. A full, genuine, if slightly unhinged, laugh. It bubbled up from deep within her, a release. She had done it. She had emptied its quiver.

As night fell, the goblin, surprisingly resourceful, fashioned a crude camp directly beneath the tree. It gathered a few dry sticks and started a small, smokeless fire, its glowing eyes fixed on Elara, a relentless, burning stare. It lay down on its bedroll and watched her.

Hours passed. Elara watched it carefully from her hiding spot. Its heavy eyelids began to droop. Its breath slowed into a steady rhythm. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows.

Now was her chance. She made a tentative move to escape, to slide down a far branch and run into the encompassing darkness of the forest. She almost made it. But the goblin was impossibly quick. A swift, silent strike from its rusty dagger. Darkness.

Gasp!

She reappeared. They danced for a bit before she was back in the tree. The faint light from the campfire couldn't reach the higher branches of the tree, making the climb more difficult, each handhold a blind guess.

Realizing the futility of escape while the goblin remained, a constant, watching presence, faking sleep when needed, Elara resigned herself to sleeping in the tree. It was a cold, uncomfortable night. The rough bark dug into her skin, leaving angry red marks, and the chill of the air seeped into her bones, making her shiver uncontrollably. She didn't dare close her eyes completely, her gaze darting, unfocused. Every rustle of leaves, every shifting shadow, made her jump, her heart hammer.

The next morning, the sun rose, painting the field in golden light, a cruel mockery of warmth. And the goblin was still there. Sitting by its small, dead fire, a squat, green sentinel. Watching. Its beady eyes were fixed on her, relentless. Despair, a familiar companion by now, settled over her once more, heavy and suffocating.

Days turned into what felt like an eternity. The sun rose and set, rose and set, each cycle a slow, agonizing turn of the screw. The nights were cold, the air biting. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, a constant, sharp ache that twisted into a painful knot. The burning thirst became unbearable, a dry, scratchy torment in her throat, her lips cracked and bleeding. Her head throbbed, a drumbeat of agony. She felt weaker and weaker with each passing hour, her limbs heavy, her thoughts sluggish.

The goblin, surprisingly, had a large reserve of foodstuffs. But now and again, it scratched in the dirt, a small, foraging gesture, to scrounge edibles, extending its reserves. Bugs, worms, moss, or mushrooms. Elara watched in hungry disgust, her stomach churning, a desperate, primal craving warring with revulsion.

After agonizing days, days that blurred into a single, endless stretch of suffering, Elara finally succumbed. Not to the goblin's blade. To the silent, relentless enemy of dehydration. Darkness took her, slow and creeping, a gentle fade into nothingness.

Gasp!

She reappeared. The same field. The same towering oak tree. And the same ugly, green goblin. It was still there. Still watching.

Without a single word, without a moment's hesitation, Elara climbed back into the tree. The silent vigil resumed. The game continued. And continued.