#fearlessly fleeing

Blues Saraceno - Outlaw Justice

Oh lord can you hear me The dogs are getting close Gonna hang me for my trouble Gonna send me on my way They say I doin’ wrong Runnin’ from the law I pray don’t let ‘em catch me 'till I’m gone

Outlaw Justice Trouble’s gonna come Outlaw Justice They got me on the run Catch me if you can

Hey lord can you save me Gonna chase me 'till the end Hunt me like the devil Searching for his own Ain’t gonna be no jury Gonna be no self defense Don’t let 'em get me 'till I’m gone

Eugène Delacroix, The Entry of the Crusaders into Constantinople (1840)

Niketas did not bend to kiss the feet of his savior. He was already on the ground, and too distraught to behave with the dignity his rank required. “O my good lord, thank you for your aid. This means that not all Latins are wild beasts with faces distorted by hatred! Not even the Saracens acted this way when they reconquered Jerusalem, when Saladin was content with a handful of coins to guarantee the safety of the inhabitants. How shameful for all Christendom, brothers against armed brothers, pilgrims who were to recover the Holy Sepulcher but have allowed themselves to be halted by greed and envy, and are destroying the Roman empire! O Constantinople, Constantinople! Mother of churches, princess of religion, guide of perfect opinions, nurse of all learning, now you have drunk from the hand of God the cup of fury, and burned in a fire far greater than that which burned the Pentapolis! What envious and implacable demons have poured down on you the intemperance of their intoxication, what mad and odious Suitors have lighted your nuptial torch? O mother, once clad in gold and imperial purple, now befouled and haggard. And robbed of your children, like birds imprisoned in a cage, we cannot find the way to leave this city that was ours, nor the strength to remain here, but instead, sealed within many errors, we roam like vagrant stars!”

“Master Niketas,” Baudolino said, “I have been told that you Greeks talk too much and about everything, but I didn’t believe it went this far. At the moment, the question is how to move our ass out of here.”

— Umberto Eco, Baudolino (2000)

I was a legionnaire for years, I had no rank, I just had dread of massive Gauls who'd beat us silly. "Join the legions," they had said!

"You'll get a plot of land so fertile, a Gaulish woman oh so fine! You'll get retirement, a pension, and a mess of food for life!"

I wore so much that bloody helmet my poor hair fell. As for the food, better don't ask. O fucking Caesar, if I could get my hands on you.

"We'll get a plot of land so fertile, a Gaulish woman oh so fine! We'll get retirement, a pension, and a mess of food for life!"

I was a legionnaire for years, and then said "fuck it", called it quits. Incense is burning on the tombstones but lads, it doesn't burn for me.

All that talk of Pax Romana, Mare Nostrum, all that crap, I have since then reconsidered: I no longer give a fuck.

So now I roam, always unshaven, kick cans around, sleep under stars. And as for that immortal glory, take it and shove it up your ass.

“But supposing we see more guards? Should we not resist them with every drop of our life’s blood?” said Butterfly.

Rincewind looked blank. “No. Run away.”

“Ah, yes,” said Twoflower. “And live to fight another day. That is an Ankh-Morpork saying.”

Rincewind had always assumed that the purpose of running away was to be able to run away another day.

The Young'uns - The Running Fox

On yonder rocks there lives a fox and one crisp winter's morn He's pricked up his ears 'cos didn't he hear the huntsman blow his horn And far away the hounds did bay but Reynard knew the score Oh he must make good his escape from the jaws of death once more

So away he's bound for safer ground and he's left his den behind Through mire and weed and at great speed so no scent will they find He's made a rush for the bramble bush and he's leapt a dry stone wall And out across to yonder copse where the nettle and the grass grow tall

Oh the hounds! The hounds! The hounds! Why won't they let me be? There's many a beast can roam at will So why, oh why, not me?

It's out of breath he next did rest among the grass and trees He's gazed across the frozen moss his chasers there to see A mile ahead a flash of red — the huntsmen in their coats But the baying hounds his scent have found and dampened Reynard's hopes

Stay clear he will from Freebrough Hill where they brought his brother down That's where they tore him limb from limb and showed his brush around But Reynard's sly and didn't he fly over clarty* moor and bog Where no man nor horse can make a course nor likewise can a dog

So it's through the mire, breathless and tired, he's shaken off the hounds Far far away he can hear them bay but the horn no longer sounds The men in red have gone instead to the Jolly Sailor Inn And Reynard sits licking his lips and lives to fight again.

— Terry Pratchett, Unseen Academicals