The expanse of grey slate stretched before him. Bits of dried grass and thorns dotted the landscape. The sun was gone, the landscape lit by the soft, diffuse glow of light crawling through the dense cloud layer which dropped a cool mist on the jagged teeth of the stone below.

Step.

His chest heaved as his breath whistled betwen clenched teeth. His neck and shoulders were iron as he strained forward. Slowly, carefully, he shifted the massive pack on his back. Once, it had been carefully balanced. Now, the straps cruelly ground against his shoulders, his back, his neck. Blisters opened and oozed wherever the leather touched skin.

Step.

Once, he had walked cheerfully with companions. Laughter and smiles had abounded as they walked together through the grassy landscape. Now the bare feet which had enjoyed the soft cool caress of the spring lawns were burning with a thousand tiny cuts inflicted by thestones and thorns. One by one, the smiles had turned brittle and cold, the eyes filled with fear and suspicion - and then the packs that had been distributed amongst the group had landed on his back.

Step.

Some had been placed with care, but not many. Others had been dropped with force into place with a curse and a glare. Still others loaded their packs with stones before hurling them onto his back. Piece by piece, the load that had been intended to be shared among many had landed on him.

Step.

He had already stopped several times to unload the careless and frivolous objects he had placed in his own pack. Then the valuable objects that could be replaced. Then valuable objects that would never be replaced. All he had left in his pack was the absolutley priceless treasures. And not many of them. And the loads which had been entrusted and inflicted upon him, in turns.

Step.

The gravity and the slope of the hill conspired with the awkward burden to pull him down. His back screamed as he bent almost double against the leaden load. The pack seemed to strive against him, pulling him back down the hill to the granite teeth below. Sweat trickles down his brow, stinging his eyes.

Step.

A moment of weakness. A foot slips on the blood-slicked stone, dropping him to one knee. A small stone pierces the flesh of his knee as the weight comes to rest on it. He can feel it grating against bone. He balances carefully, then rests a moment. He could stay here. This is far more restful.

But no.

With superhuman effort, he forces himself back to his feet, straining against the earth itself. He sways as the blood rushes out of his head. He fights off the dizziness, leaning against his load once again.

Step.

Occasionally, he calls out for help. Someone to take part of the load. Someone to walk beside him and laugh with him again. Someone to console him, see the weight he bears. Someone to walk in silence beside him.

Step.

There had been responses. Some came to laugh. Some wept. Others demanded that he carry their packs as well. Some threw rocks at him. Some offered him sips of cool, sweet water. Some walked with him for a bit, lightening the load with laughter and merriment.

Step.

Those responses were few and far between. Sometimes the only response was an echo. The illusion of a call. Sometimes it was merely mocking laughter carried by the cool wind.

Step.

An insect stings the back of his hand. He grimaces in pain. His eyes fill with tears. A single tear traverses the dirt on his cheek, absorbed by his beard.

Step.

A child runs up to him. Stares at him in silence. Their eyes meet. 'Be careful as you fill your pack, little one.' the man wants to say. He cannot, of course. The child would laugh, unconcerned, and throw a stick at him. Rain begins to fall, and the child scampers away to the shelter of a warm house.

Step.

...

Step.

The rain makes the stone slippery. He forces his feet into the roughest patches and cracks, seeking that traction that will keep him upright. The rain has also soaked the packs. The wet leather drinks the rain heartlessly.

Step.

He crests the top of the hill. There is no joy in his heart. No hope. Sure enough, there before him is another hill, another crest, more desolate and threatening than before. Just as there was at the last crest, and the one before that.

Sigh.

Step.

He does not know what waits beyond the crags. He does not know where he walks. All he knows is this - here, he cannot stay. Onward. Somewhere ahead, someone will hear his cries for help. Here... no. Somewhere ahead, he will be invited to set down his load and rest. But not here. He once thought, worried about such things. Dreamt of the golden prizes which awaited him, the dangers of the road ahead. No more.

Step.

Night falls.

Step.

...

...

...

Step.