(This story is probably not suitable for a young audience.)
He had given up struggling. The sackcloth covering his face was damp from his own spit and the air around his head was so warm and thick with his own breath that he could no longer talk without growing dizzy of his own voice.
The hands that held onto him were too numerous to count. They gripped him everywhere–his arms, his legs, his shoulders, at one point his neck, his feet, his hands. Tighter than vices they held onto him, swinging him and dragging him. He had given up struggling.
Cody shuddered when the wind blew a few drops of rain onto the page: They splattered there like little drops of blood, the yellowing paper instantly discolored like Rorschach blots waiting to be analyzed. He wiped the tips of his fingers over the spots, judging their wetness and if they needed any special treatment, and then decided it was safest to close his book: The spots might leave small scars, but nothing else could be done. Sometimes the Wyrd went that way.
Cody stuffed the book into his pocket and stood up. The grey clouds, thick in places but breath-thin in others, tumbled over the skies in every direction he looked. Over the trees and bulging boulders before him he gazed at the dance of dragons in the sky promising winds beat from leathery wings and electric breath that would incinerate all it touched. Cody’s lips curled into a smile.
Through darkness I may wander, may there always be a light
The pain in which I despair, may it always lead me right
Through the sorrow so deep in me, may there always be the fright
The sadness in my soul I keep, may it prove me weaker than my might