This is an experiment (and so pretty pants, I think).  I started with a scene, a man running across a moor, and just wrote without knowing what was going to follow.  Sort of the opposite of the experiment where I knew the last line and worked backwards.  What resulted might make the prologue aof a longer story.  Normally I know pretty much what the story is before I start writing.  Don't know.  Still, I wouldn't want to post just my good stuff.

He half stumbled, half ran across the hill. The great glacier-smoothed shoulder had gently peaked, and now he was making his way down the shallow incline on the other side. Not that this made his progress any easier. The ground was still sodden, even atop the hill. Stagnant pools cloaked themselves in duckweed, looking like a flat area of moss until he stumbled in, feet slipping on the slimy pebbles underneath. Watery mud pits would see him plunging thigh deep, sprawling face first into the soft, suffocating mass, panicking and spluttering to the side. Treacle-thick mud would take him only as far as his ankle, but then refuse to let him go. It was in one of these that he had twisted his right ankle, forcing him into a limping gait. As though he had lost his three-legged-race partner but had not realised it.

The weather fought him as well. Thick, unbroken cloud scudded just out of reach above him. The air was thick with moisture, heavier than mist but not quite drizzle. It had sneaked through his clothes to mingle with the sweat, shuddering him with its cold fingers whenever the terrain forced him to a momentary stop. It made his clothes stick to him, restricting his movements. They weighed twice what they normally would, trying to drag him to a stop.

He was sobbing as he ran, each step coinciding with another breath in, burning his throat, or another low moan out. His hair was plastered down, his face streaked with mud and sweat and tears and the damn drizzle.

He had not imagined that it would be this hard. In his day he could run a mile in six minutes. But that was when he had been training, and eating properly, and on a race track, and without a twisted ankle. How long had it taken him to run over this hill? Too long. Longer than his pursuers, certainly. They would be gaining on him every step.

Panic grabbed at the pit of his stomach and he renewed his efforts. Up ahead, slightly to his right, was a rocky outcrop. The going would be firmer there. He stumbled on, the fear and adrenaline urging more out of his tired legs, dulling the pain in his ankle.

The ground did become firmer nearer the outcrop, and he picked up into a ragged trot as he circled the tor. The valley spread out below him. He couldn’t see a single house. No road, either.

Suddenly he skidded to a halt. The tor marked the edge of a small cliff. He edged forward. A sheer drop of maybe 20 feet tumbled down to a long scar of scree. To his left led a sheep track, a hundred yards to the point that the cliff joined the hillside. If he could make it there, and scramble down to the scree, he would be able to pick up speed. A mile down the valley there was a pine forest. If he could just make it there, he could hide. Lose them. Maybe wait till night.

"There!"

He whirled at the shout. Behind him, over the slow arc of the hill, he could make out a head, bobbing as its owner started to run. He scrambled along the sheep track, mindful of the drop to his right.

"Wait! Stop! We just want to talk."

Ha! Right!

When the cliff had sunk to four feet he jumped, trying to absorb the impact on his good leg, falling backwards. He scrabbled down the slope on his backside, until he reached the gravel and stones that made up the scree.

Onto his feet, then he half jumped, half ran down the scree, moving with the run of small stones downwards. Jump, hop, slide, hop. Trying to favour his good leg. Each time his feet hit the loose ground it moved down the hill with him, till it seemed to him he was merely balancing atop a wave of stones. A lifetime ago he and his friends had done the same thing hiking in the Lake District. Laughing and joking, they had surfed down Helvellyn. That was it. Hill-surfing he and his friends had christened it. Scree-running the old lags had called it.

His left foot slipped sideways. He threw out his right foot to keep upright, but the sprained ankle turned in a flash of white pain, and he tumbled down, turning slowly on his front as he slid over the gravel. His hands, his ribs, his knees and shins, all were in agony. The fall had knocked some of the wind out of him. Up above him he saw four figures, one of them all ready starting on the scree.

He forced himself up, and carried on his reckless descent. But slower now, the pain in his ankle forcing him to virtually hop.

And there was the end of the scree. After the end of the stones there was a dry runoff, continuing the trail past the stand of trees he had seen. The packed earth gleamed wetly, but at least it was firm. He started to run, hopping every other stride, windmilling his arms for balance. He broke off from the track, angling towards the trees. They were still half a mile from him. It was a plantation, the trees planted far apart and in regimented rows. Even if he made it to the trees, there was very little likelihood that he could hide there.

And his ankle betrayed him for a third time. A clump of grass hid a stone bigger than his fist. His right foot turned again, and he fell sobbing to the ground. He could hear the thump of the feet of his pursuers as they closed in on him.

It was over. He couldn’t do it. Not now. Not anymore. He gave up. The fear, the anger, the urgency all left him, and he lay there sobbing with exhaustion and pain and despair. He waited for them to catch him.

The first hardly slowed, swinging a kick into his side that creased him over. All the wind was knocked out of him and he wrapped himself around the pain. He desperately fought for breath, but he couldn’t breathe in. He couldn’t even sob anymore.

Someone shouted, "Simon!" The voice was authoritative, used to command.

Simon aimed another kick , landing on the prone man’s arms as he hugged his abused ribcage. But it didn’t have the inertia of the first.

"Bastard!" spat Simon, panting. "Bloody hours we’ve been chasing you, bastard."

"Simon!" shouted the leader again, as he slowed to a walk. "That’s enough! Do you want to carry him all the way back? Do you? Leave him alone!"

Simon stood over him, fists clenched, anger scrawled across his face, but didn’t offer any more blows.

The leader crouched in front of the still prone fugitive. He was in his late twenties, several years senior to his companions. He was breathing hard. He sat there on his heels, catching his breath.

Finally he nodded to the man on the ground. "Sorry about that, brother. I didn’t want you hurt. Simon is sorry too, aren’t you?"

"Yeah. Sorry" said Simon, but without conviction.

"Simon!" He sounded like a school teacher, warning an errant pupil. But he kept his eyes fixed on his captive. "Is that your soul talking?"

There was a pause, and then Simon replied a little reluctantly, "No. It was my anger speaking. I’m sorry, brother. My sin was anger, and I let it control me. Forgive me."

The man on the ground said nothing. He lay there, eyes closed, panting. They had him. Just let them get it over with. He wasn’t going to play their games.

"You had us going there, brother. Credit it to you. If you hadn’t twisted your ankle, we might not have been able to catch up with you. How are you, by the way? That was a nasty tumble back there. Have you broken anything?"

"Fuck you, Judas!"

"I’m brother John, not Judas. And curse me all you like, I still love you, brother."

He seemed to make a decision. He stood up and spoke to the other three. "Brother Simon, make your way back to the Home, tell the Teacher that we are returning with Brother Martin. And he will need his injuries tending to. And a bath too, I expect.  Go. We’ll follow on behind. You two, we will need to support our brother here, he needs help walking."

"Go away. Please. I just want to go home." He was exhausted, defeated.

As the other two pulled him unresisting to his feet, Brother John replied gently, "But we are taking you home, brother."