Of all the warriors ever born into the Namdhi Tribe, none were as great as Jeonk-Jonk. When he stood unburdened he was as tall as his spear, which he wielded with skill and might unrivaled by any his brethren had seen. He was fast enough that he could chase lions, and strong enough to carry one back over each of his shoulders with comfort. Jeonk-Jonk's hands were as quick as his feet. He could catch mice with them, and did not need his spear to fish. His head was as strong as his body. He was a very clever man, capable of making his own weapons and tools, and he had invented many techniques for making hunting and foraging more efficient. He had also devised and taught many strategies for combat, and had not only survived every battle that the Namdhi had fought in, but had led them to victory every time. Yet, he also showed great respect to the others, and never claimed to be best among them. He was a great warrior and a great man both. That is why the Namdhi wept when Jeonk-Jonk announced that he would champion them on the Day of the Temple’s Calling.
“Who will tell us when the berries are in season?” bemoaned some of them. “Who will defend us if the Lowitti return?” cried others. “Many of the huts still need repair after the storm. Who will fix them?” Jeonk-Jonk batted these claims away. “I will,” he would declare, whenever in earshot. But his tribe would not believe him. They could not. They felt betrayed, that he was being foolish. Many of them offered to stand as champion in his stead, and those who could not make the trek offered their own sons, not that it was needed; their sons would offer themselves to prevent Jeonk-Jonk from going, of such great importance was he to the Namdhi. He would not have it, however, and would raise his spear at any who made such an attempt. “I will represent the Namdhilihai,” he would say, pressing the base of his weapon into the dirt. “And that is final.” Only the elders of the tribe, who had seen many Temple Callings, seemed to accept it. “Jeonk-Jonk is the greatest this tribe has ever seen,” they would say among themselves. “But we have lost others, and continued on.” “We should be thankful that he offers himself,” some of the elders would say, when younger members of the tribe would lament at the decision. “Most years, it is a painful process indeed to find one so brave.” This would attenuate some of them, but not all. Jeonk-Jonk’s wife would not be convinced. “We will never see one another again,” she shouted at him, the night that he announced his intentions. “You will die.” “I will not,” he replied, lovingly. “Rathtash died,” she reminded him, tears in her eyes. “Rathtash was not as strong as me,” he told her. “Panta never returned,” she said. “He did not,” Jeonk-Jonk acknowledged. “But Panta was not a clever man, inwabi his soul. I think I always remember to load my quiver when I hunt, yes?” “Mohando was strong and cunning,” she said later that night, in his arms. “He was,” Jeonk Jonk admitted. “But we never saw him again.” “We did not.” “Then why should I believe you?” she asked. “Why should you return when they did not? “Because they did not have you to come home to,” he told her, and she wept. There was more to it than that, however. Jeonk-Jonk loved his wife very much and knew that he would return to her, but that is not what prepared him. No, it was instead years of study and careful examination that he felt had prepared him to represent the Namdhi in the Temple Calling. The temple that sat at the edge of the mountain was not grand in its appearance, and this made the risk that it posed deceptive in nature. It was cut entirely of stone, and was wider than it was high, extended forward from the tip of the mountain perhaps eight-hundred paces. It was held in place by crudely constructed columns of the same material, which bore no designs of any kind, nor gave any indication of from where the temple had originated. The same was true of the great double doors, marked as such by a singular craggy protrusion, from which they were pulled open. If not for the simple cornice that encircled its crown, it would appear to have been assembled with anatomy in mind only. The top of the temple came together in a smooth, conical arch, the very tip of which which presented the lone sign that the temple had been constructed for some purpose; a glass orb that seemed to channel the light from the sun, producing a beam of light that crawled along a solid stretch of mountainside perpendicular to the temple. That was how the temple called. Every year, at around the same time it seemed, the ray would begin to illuminate that stretch of otherwise perfectly normal wall, and words would begin to form. It was at that time that the Namdhi would need to elect a representative to enter the temple, for not long after, the full message would be revealed, the same as it always was, written in ancient Namdihanna: ‘Offer a champion by nightfall, or the Namdhi shall fall tonight’. For generations, the Namdhi had lived under this decree, and none could remember the last time that one had not, come the day of the inscription’s complete revelation, entered into the temple. The elders claimed that when they had been children, some attempted to inspect the wall when it was blank, perhaps as a means of preventing the words from forming, but it had been to no avail. The temple likewise had been studied, but strangely, only on the day that the temple called could the doors open. These were not the details that Jeonk-Jonk concerned himself with, however. Indeed, knowledge of the temple’s history was only important insomuch as it provided him a deeper understanding of the scope with which the Namdhi had already explored potential solutions. In times past, they had attempted to prevent the temple from calling—Jeonk-Jonk would do no such thing. Jeonk-Jonk would defeat the temple. That was where his years of intense study of the temple came into play. Jeonk-Jonk had studied the temple directly from the outside, as well as the surrounding terrain, and catalogued a variety of conceivable dangers within, all of which he was prepared for, and moreover, he felt that he had deduced some elements of the situation that the other villagers were too blinded by fear and intrigue to see for themselves. First, Jeonk-Jonk did not believe that anyone or anything was actively calling tribesmen into the temple. He believed the sunlight-writing mechanism to be an ingenious relic of an ancient tribe of Namdhi, whose writings on the matter had probably been destroyed during the fabled Rinhalah Floods that were also responsible for destroying the totem gardens. The temple had probably originally served the purpose of housing initiation ceremonies for young warrior tribesman. The most likely culprit of the perils that befell the champions who entered it now, Jeonk-Jonk ascertained, was some sort of creature that had made the temple into its lair, and which had no knowledge of when its prey would enter, simply attacking indiscriminately when some offerings became available. This was the most likely explanation, and also the one that concerned him least, for on the day that the doors opened, he would bring his spear with him, and was confident that no such foe could overwhelm him. Of greater concern was the structure of the temple. As none had ever returned to tell of any part of it’s interior, Jeonk-Jonk could not be sure that the real danger of it was not some natural hazard that had caught previous champions unawares. He considered that perhaps the temple may have actually endured a cave in at some point in the past, and that its natural air flow had been disrupted; that others had faced no greater enemy than their own lungs. Jeonk-Jonk would be prepared for this as well. He had climbed the trees nearest the temple and had detected areas where the stone seemed to be brittle in portions of the gable just underneath the orb, evidenced by their slope from which puddles accumulated in times of rain. He would bring his climbing tools, as well as a crude, scaled map of the edifice he had drawn, and if he felt that the air supply was low, would scale the interior and force his way through the stone. He suspected that the temple may be completely dark inside as well, but would also bring smooth rock and tinder from whatever game he’d hunted the previous day. He would not be defeated by darkness or walls. There was but one other consideration about the ways in which the temple may oppose him. Situated at the edge of the mountain, Jeonk-Jonk had long considered that the temple itself benefited heavily from its precarious construction there. While the exterior was capable of scrutiny and measurement, the range of possibilities lurking within included those of a more illusory nature. It was possible, he reasoned, that the base of the temple contained a slant, which, possibly coupled with a smooth material (ancient Namhdi had an affinity for lacquer), created a slide that sent entrants underneath the temple, potentially resulting in their expulsion from a crevice in the lower portion of the mountain. The evidence in favor of this idea was of a conflicting sort, however. Below the mountain lay a river that the Namdhi rarely traveled to, for it was scant of fish, but every now and then, bodies were known to collect at an embouchure near common hunting grounds, too disfigured from their time in the water to be recognized, but unmistakably adult men. They were nearly always assumed to be Lowitti who had been exiled, for the Lowitti were a violent race, but Jeonk-Jonk often wondered if they might have been his brethren instead. He had tried searching the mountain trails for signs of the crevice however, and had found nothing. And yet, he had planned for this possibility all the same. That is why he would bring rope with him, and tie it around his waist as well as the trunk of one of the great trees near the temple. Should he slip upon entering, he would not fall to his death, and have the opportunity to climb and scour the temple’s secrets aloft. Jeonk-Jonk had accounted for everything. The night before he was to enter, however, he found no rest. His wife lay next to him, embroiled in some dream, some sweet fantasy perhaps, where her husband abandoned his foolish endeavor and allowed another member of the tribe to take his place, as so many had offered. He averted his eyes to her, lost in his own wondering. He was not afraid of dying, nor failure. He had prepared his supplies and checked them thoroughly mere hours ago. He was certain that one of his conjectures would be correct, that he would face nothing that he had not faced in his head a thousand times over. But still… “Give me your nahari,” he said to his wife in the morning, as he gathered his equipment. “I don’t understand,” she said, though she removed it from her neck all the same. It glittered green and gold as the fastenings slipped between Jeonk-Jonk’s giant hands. “I gave this to you that you might have it forever,” he said, holding it delicately, and it was true. The nahari was a sign of their union, the gift that all Namdhi men gave to a woman who would be their wife. “There is no other like it. I made this. I would recognize its color, its touch, anywhere, at any moment.” “As would I,” she told him, her eyes welling with confusion. They then widened in shock as he opened his mouth and dropped the necklace in, swallowing it in a massive gulp. “Why!?” she exclaimed, holding her hand to her chest. “There is a river that flows under the mountain,” Jeonk-Jonk explained. “It has many mouths. One of them sits by hunting grounds often used in the rainy months, where the antwi bloom and creatures sometimes graze. Do you know of it?” His wife nodded, her mouth a sad, twisted shape now, her tears falling freely. “Sometimes,” he continued, “bodies gather in that mouth. They have lost their humanity, and are but misshapen forms of their former selves, but they are real men all the same.” “Why are you telling me this?” his wife bemoaned. “I will return to you,” he told her, “and I will have your nahari with me. If I do not come down the mountain, I will flow through the river.” She screamed and fell to her knees, but he lifted her at once. “We fear the temple because we know not what it does, where our loved ones go,” he shouted over her sobs. “We have learned almost nothing from all we have lost, because we think only of conquering the temple in a single act. I am prepared to face this challenge,” he declared to her, “but should I fail, I would have the tribe know of what happened. Would have you know.' His wife continued to cry, but nodded. “What would you have me do?” Jeonk-Jonk inhaled. “If I do not return tomorrow, then the next morning you must go to the mouth of that river and search for a body. Search for me. It may take time to find me. You must go every morning, without fail, lest the remains be picked by the animals. The bodies may be unrecognizable. Take a knife from the salt table, and cut into the stomach, look for your nahari. If you find it, you will have found me.” At this she sank to her knees, her response nothing resembling speech, though he needed her affirmation. “Tell me,” he said, crouching to her, and he held her face in his hands. “Tell me that you will look for me, everyday.” She said nothing, now appearing faint, the color draining from her cheeks. “I do not say these words lightly,” he crooned, in a voice he would never use outside their home. “I will do everything I can to walk back from that mountain whole and good. But if I do not, the tribe must know how, must learn from me. Our love is only true if it is for the Namdhilihai.” His wife nodded piteously, then buried her head into his shoulder. He kissed it, then rose to his feet, then departed, scooping his supplies from the entrance way wordlessly as he went. He would not look back. The journey was not long. What would take most men two nightfalls Jeonk-Jonk accomplished in just one, the temple entering his view in the glow of the sun’s tender rising. It looked so harmless basked in the morning light, like a child’s toy that had been left out to cook, unremarkable in its design yet impossible to avert one’s eyes of. Jeonk-Jonk gave it only a moment of recognition before launching into his preparatory ritual. He immediately located the tree that he had marked weeks ago as having the strongest roots, and climbed it, rope in hand. At the top, he wove the fabric around its sturdy branches and slid down, tightening the material around the massive trunk and tying it with a knot that only he could tie so expertly. He did the same around his waist, then flung the remaining loops over his shoulder. If his calculations of the temple’s length were accurate, he had allocated enough that he could walk to its farthest corner unrestricted. He removed the map that he had devised and studied it once more, for the thousandth time, perusing its minute contents to determine if there was anything that had not been burned behind his eyes, any consideration he had made in its drawing that he could not substantiate now. There was not. He would never be more ready. With his spear in one hand, his climbing tools strapped to his back, and the rope tied around his waist and tangled about his shoulders, he approached the entrance. The steps leading to the facade were uneven, some slanted and others cut too slim; it was as though the temple was attempting to disrupt his balance, lead him into an unruly pace that would disrupt his poise, open him to mistakes. Jeonk-Jonk kept his gaze affixed to the unassuming front however, suddenly feeling as though the trial had already started. When he reached the stone-cut double doors, he slid a single finger along the rock, tracing nothing in particular, merely attempting to feel his opponent, to understand it. How many lives had been claimed, because his tribesman had thought that the evil lurked within, rather than as a whole? He pulled at the naturally crafted handle, only a slight tug, though the entrance seemed to beckon to him then, the door widening in a manner disproportionate to the strength of his action. Peering inside he saw only black; accordingly, he inched his way forward spear-first, his weapon now his tool as well. He moved only in the direction that his spear went, penetrating the darkness first by blade then by step. The moment the entirety of his body had entered, he heard a thunderous heave behind him, the grinding of stone on stone, and the door had closed itself. Jeonk-Jonk immediately raised his spear in the air and swung, hoping to make contact with whatever the triggered mechanism had been. There seemed to be nothing there. The door had closed on its own. Now enveloped by the dark and unwilling to progress unaided by sight, he reached into his satchel and made to gather his tinder, but no sooner had his fingers scratched his choice stones did light emerge from above. Jeonk-Jonk took a defensive stance, his body turned and his spear raised at an angle, then watched as the ceiling transformed. Above him flames were being birthed in unison, twisting shapes of red and orange that seemed to descend from the stone, fiery stalactites that shimmered high above, illuminating the area entirely. It was some form of trickery, it had to be. The flames danced so far above him that they far exceeded what he knew from the outside to be the true height of the temple. So high were they that he could only barely discern their site of origin, the ceiling that seemed to be cut, not from crude stone, but from ornate marble, or something similar, the materials spoken of in the ankhali perhaps, long thought to have been mined away for its beauty and malleability both. The passage was wider than possible as well, splendid to gaze upon, the same pale, almost hollow white of the ceiling, and gazing ahead—far ahead, again, farther than he thought possible—he saw yet another pair of doors, akin to their brethren but far more majestic, the purer versions perhaps, the real ones it seemed, of which their shadows had been relegated to the temple’s dilapidated projection. I have been poisoned, Jeonk-Jonk said to himself. He must have triggered a trap unknowingly, one so dastardly and clever that it had not even informed him that it had occurred. His mind—his greatest of all weapons, in truth—had been ensnared by colors and other things not possible. What his senses perceived now were not reflective of what he had known before entering. Whether he had inhaled it or taken it into his skin when touching the door, he did not know, but he now knew himself to be unprepared. He would need to retreat, to come again later, when the substance had worn off, to return with his hands and mouth and nose covered in linen. He turned purposefully, and upon spotting the entrance ran to it—it too had changed though, its construction impossible given what it had been outside, for they were clean and dazzling, could have been a reflection of their counterparts at the end of the hall if not for the fact that his own presence was omitted, but then, he reminded himself that such thinking hardly mattered when bewitched as he was. He ran towards them, the chaklahakaka of his equipment pacing his strides, but he soon realized that his journey was not going to end. No matter how close to the entrance he approached, it grow no closer. Instinctively, he turned back, knowing before seeing it what he would find. The second pair of doors, now but an arm’s length away. Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. He felt able, healthy, his thoughts clear and organized, his instincts sharp. This was not the product of some crude substance, some vile extract from the sac of a red-toothed lizard, or the corrupted dew of a sunskin bush. This place, these lights and these walls, and this door before him, were of something beyond his knowing, something that he had not, perhaps even could not, have prepared for. He would deny it no longer. Exhaling, he pulled at the set of double doors, and these too opened as if hardly touched at all. He passed through them, heard them close behind him, and then absorbed the scene. He was in a rotunda, and it was infinitely more grand than even the aisle that he’d just departed. It was carved of the same ghastly material as well, almost blindingly so, the walls patterned with intricate shapes and swirls that seemed to be moving with a bizarrely frenetic grace, like beads of light trying to hide themselves from sight. The floor below him coruscated wildly, as though his feet harmed it; if he stared long enough, it resembled flowing water, pools of which had formed around his feet. Around him, arranged in a circle, were six wide monoliths extending towards an iridescent ceiling, and Jeonk-Jonk needed to squint from the glare as he tracked their breadth, following the cylinder nearest him slowly with his eyes as it seemed to dance in place, until finally he saw, carved at the top of each, an occupied seat built into each of the columns. He was not alone. They were overwhelmingly human in appearance, varying slightly between them but effectively duplicates of one another, as if one being over many closely linked periods of time. Their skin was beige and they were bald atop their heads, yet their brows may have been black cotton. Remarkably, they were neither overtly male nor female, seeming to possess an assortment of characteristics of both—fleshy, round cheeks and prominent jaws, hooded eyes and angular, beak-like noses. Jeonk-Jonk was certain he could even see the outline of full breasts underneath their snowy garments, paired with broad, narrow shoulders. And though they were seated, he knew that they would be identical in height and width when standing upright. Their most human attribute was not physical, however—it was their arrogance. Without speaking, without even moving, it radiated from them, partially lurking perhaps in the space between their posture and the sneers curled on their full, dark lips, but primarily it flooded the room, thickening the air and draining it of sound entirely. There were only six present, yet Jeonk-Jonk felt as though he were smothered by them. “Who are you!?” he shouted. “What is this place?” It was the one on his immediate left that answered him. “We are the eternal lords of all things in this life and others,” they said, and Jeonk-Jonk had never heard anything quite like its voice; it was quiet thunder, hot on his ears. The others spoke next in turns, the subtlest of differences in there resonance. “We rule over the Namdhi, the Pashnali, the Diniri-” “-the Rikenaw, the Lowitti, the Nindonakai-” “-and all other creatures that draw breath in this world-” “-as well as those things that do not.” The one directly across from him spoke last. “We were before the beginning, and shall remain after the end. All manner of things exist within out allowance, and thrive only in our grace.” Jeonk-Jonk rotated in place, careful to absorb every word. This could not be. All he had seen, heard, and felt, everything that he’d learned, none of it pointed towards this, not even the texts of the ancient Namdhi, or the stories so often told in his youth. And yet, he believed it, all of it. How could he not? “You have been summoned here,” the one across from him announced, “to serve as oblation for your tribe. Present yourself,” they said, extending a hand outward. He raised his spear instinctively, shuffling his feet into the amdarinai stance, the sort used when surrounded by lions. A pain shot through his arm then, and he dropped his weapon, only to see that his spear was no more; it had been transformed. Coiled at his feet now was a snake of the same color, even to the silver, pointed head. He leapt back, reaching into his satchel to produce a blunt instrument, but it had vanished. He turned wildly to find it, then felt a chill overtake him. When he looked down, he saw that he had become naked. They laughed—all of them. It was an impeccable chorus, a storm of laughs so synchronous that it was impossible to discern which noise came from which mouth. Jeonk-Jonk made to cover his manhood, but his hands had turned white hot; he burned himself and then fell over from the pain. The laughter continued, the snake slithering by, uncaring. The rest of his body now burned as deep as his hands, but it was heat from within, rather than that which seared flesh. His embarrassment was so great that it somehow overpowered his fear and awe both. He could only lay there on the solid, swirling river, curled into himself, defenseless and foolish. Finally, the laughing stopped, all at once, and then he was being addressed again. “As with all others who have entered, we grant you a choice-” “-for we are merciful-” “-fair-” “-and just.” Jeonk-Jonk pulled himself to his feet, though he continued to contort his body, as if to hide, right there in the middle of the chamber. He wondered what his tribe would say if they can see him now, disarmed bare, what his wife would feel. Would they still view him as protector, as a champion? Would they understand the circumstances that he now faced? “We present to you three possibilities,” they said, and again, it was the one across from him who spoke. “First, you may face us in combat--if you can defeat us, you are free to go.” Jeonk-Jonk rubbed at his shoulders. He had no hope of doing that, not after what he had just witnessed. “Second, you may leave,” the composite being said, and Jeonk-Jonk felt his heart flutter, until he heard the rest. “You may return to your people and tell them all that you have seen and heard. And then we will bring them to ruin, erase them from this world entirely.” At this, they all smiled, and Jeonk-Jonk felt a tear roll down his eye. It was the first tear he’d shed since he was a child, he was sure. “And third, you may exit the rear of the mountain, offer yourself to the river, and perish. This will spare your tribe, for a time. Which do you choose?” Jeonk-Jonk looked downward, understanding completely. How foolish he had been, to have doubted the strength and cunning of his fellow Namdhi, when it was their nobility and great courage he should have been considering. Like himself, they had been granted these same options, this charade of three paths that was in truth an ultimatum so cruel and overwhelming that to consider any alternative was preposterous. They too had stood here, in this empyrean auricle nestled in some unassuming slab of rock, and known his shame and futility. It would be an honor to make the same choice that they had, he reasoned. He nodded, and felt six leers upon him, and knew that they understood his decision; had probably known it since before he’d made it. He watched as they all erected themselves from their pillars, then descended down the very air, one step at a time each, again, perfectly in line with one another’s actions, as though all limbs of the same, immaculately coordinated form. They gathered around him then, and up close he thought that their humanity faded slightly; saw that their skin seemed thrown over their bodies, that they did not blink, that their gait was like that of a child learning to walk. They bore their pale eyes into him, seemed to peer through him at one another, and then their waxen lips curled into the most sinister sneer of satisfaction that he had ever seen, the sort impossible for any but those who had complete power over others and reveled in its abuse. Then they started to walk, two rows of three, Jeonk-Jonk in their center. He shuffled his feet along foolishly from within the barrier they formed, and silently they marched, past the high seats, towards the splendid back wall, the swirling lights of which seemed to become more erratic as they neared. Eventually, it glowed with a sweltering light, and dissolved into nothingness, and Jeonk-Jonk knew before even the light had faded that he would soon be behind the temple, in one of the very places that he observed, scaled, and drawn, a place that he’d assured himself he would be prepared for. They were outside, and yet everything looked different. The sky, the rock, the trees—it all seemed so pedestrian, so harmless. Jeonk-Jonk cast a glance over his shoulder and saw, as expected, the back of the temple, which suddenly looked as modest and artless as it had before he’d entered. So jarring was the contrast that he needed to remind himself that he was naked, and was swarmed by divine beings, to know that it hadn’t all been a dream. The snuffing of that brief flicker of hope brought him tremendous grief. There was very little space between the back of the temple and the edge of the mountain. Already, they were only a few steps from tumbling down. He was no longer being escorted, however. His six executioners had stopped, forming a horizontal line behind him. Jeonk-Jonk met their gaze for only a second before shuffling his way towards the rugged brim, and he told himself that the expedience was for his own benefit, to award them no satisfaction, to have some personal triumph over them, but in his heart he knew this was not true. It was fear. Fear and a feeling of immense insignificance, and he wanted it to end. “Stop,” he heard one of them say, and he turned back, just as he had registered the still water below. Jeonk-Jonk looked at them each in turn, afraid to believe that there was mercy to be had, that he had passed some great test, that everything would be okay- Then the one on the far left strode forward, and again Jeonk-Jonk noticed how truly unnerving its motions were. It approached him directly, then pointed at the ground in front of it, its soft lips curling into a menacing, knowing sneer. “I don’t-” Jeonk-Jonk made to say, but then the meaning came to him. He felt tears well in his eyes. “I-” he tried to object, or to lie, he even considered turning and leaping, but no, that would do no good. The realization crashed into him all at once; he felt as though the air had left his body, yet he remained alive. This was not a competition for them. It was not even sport. There was no defeating them, not even in the smallest of battles. He was not their subject—he was their plaything, Slowly, naked and shivering, tears sliding down his once hardened, ferocious face, he got on his hands and knees. He expected them to laugh at his position, that of an animal to be mounted, but they did not; instead there was silence, though not of an anticipatory nature. They were savoring his humiliation. He retched. When nothing happened, he did it again, and then another time, and then finally, he forced his dirty, grubby fingers down his throat. The cold air snapped at his bare body as he violated himself, until finally, after many attempts and a final, almighty heave, he produced a puddle of vomit. In it was the nahari. He looked up, his lips quivering and dripping with bile, his arms shaking and knees in pain from having dug them into the hard ground. The one in front of him was still smiling. Jeonk-Jonk took several breaths and shook his head, before asking a question that he knew would bring him no comfort. “Can I know why?” he asked. They laughed—their loudest yet. Jeonk-Jonk stared at the group of them, unsure if the volume was being amplified by the mountain or if there amusement at his request was truly so great. It did not matter though; all that mattered was the nahari, which sat still in the dirt, covered in the contents of his stomach, never to be found. Then, as quickly as the laughter came, it ended. The one in front of him looked down at him. “No,” it said, and then it pointed towards the river. Jeonk-Jonk hung his head. He continued to stare at the ornament for a few moments, hoping to extract some sliver of comfort from it, but no such feeling came. Then he stood, cradling himself as he did so, and meandered towards the edge of the mountain. He peered below once more, now fully taking in the site of his demise. He had never truly considered the distance before, but now that he was contemplating his descent, the drop seemed larger than it ever had. It was noiseless behind him, though he knew they were still there, knew they were still watching. Knew that they had always been watching—and that they would continue to after he was gone as well. And with that final, mournful thought, Jeonk-Jonk, the greatest of all of the Namdhi, threw himself forward. He saw the sky, and then the water, and then the mountain—and then the sky again, and then the water, and then he felt his body graze something sharp, and his eyes closed, and they did not open.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
About MeVekin87 is the author of the Albus Potter Series, a 7-book continuation of the J.K Rowling's Harry Potter books. The Things I Write While You're Asleep |
Photo used under Creative Commons from verchmarco