The morning arrived. He woke up in the morning air. Smells of pine and palm wavered in the air. He rolled out of the grass and onto the sand. The water rushed past his head. He lay there, against the waves of the lake. He blinked twice, removing the sand that had crusted around his eyes.
He yawned and sat down on the shore.
His eyes dimmed at the sight of the sun. He could see it, with its great flames burning around the sphere. The brain of Protennessen. An amalgamation of fire, forming an outline of orange and red. Made with thousands of clouds and stones, bursting with tendrils of gradient heat. Black, orange, and red leaping onto shards of orange bursting from the sun
All Protennessen. And the rest. The sun had watched. Had all the gods watched? Had the Prophet seen as he fell from the waves and crashed into the lake? Had they watched as his skin peeled and his body crumbled under the pressure of the serpent?
They had watched and saw them. They saw and didn't care. They'd never cared for Darrell and his sadness, nor Bernard, nor Rickman, none of them. He'd prayed for all of them.
He'd prayed for life, not death...
But, he'd prayed to all of them, and they'd never answered. They'd seen them all fall from paramount and into the snake. All watching their boat skim over the waves and fall into the throat of the serpent. They'd done so, sent the serpent outwards. Out from its home and to them. Sending them upon a journey and inflicting upon them the Abyss. The horrible, horrible Abyss. From the fathoms, it was alerted by Alzabron.
Then they came, with teeth and flesh. Hunting them down, forcing the serpent upon them.
He faced the lake.
He could swim back, survive the snake again. Swim for miles and miles until he ran back to his village. But, a useless journey forward and back.
He could swim though, into the ocean, float to shore, pale as a corpse, but still alive. He could live through it and jump into it again. He could. He could! All he... All he needed to do. He couldn't though. He couldn't... none... none at all.... He couldn't swim. He would die in the water if he tried.
Then, he would reach it! Climb it, finish it, get to the top. He would find the Prophet and reach him. No way back, only forward.
His eyes dimmed. The sky grew grey as the clouds eclipsed the sun.
He'd done nothing, nothing he'd known of, nothing he'd thought of. He respected all of Protennessen. He'd upheld the morals of the gods, living with the monks. But, yet, this... The snake, the captain. Sent by the gods themselves.
Horrible, horrible Protennessen. Why Protennessen? Why did he mention, why did he worship, why did he rely on Protennessen? Only the Prophet could fulfill everything. Only the Prophet. Not Laphanists, not Protennessen... But only if he knew... Why?.... Why?.....
A mistake. Maybe, he'd faulted. A mistake. Unknown to him. A mistake that angered the gods, and sent their wrath down upon him. Yes, yes, that was it, a mistake. Only one mistake, gone in the past. What mistake? What had it been?
The others woke and he stood. Hobbling a little. His legs trembled a bit, dipping below as he walked. David trembled, his feet shuffled. But he could stand, crooked and swaying like wheat in the wind.
Bernard stood with two bandages wrapped around each arm. Each one, torn from Rickman's shirt and Osmond's bag.
Rickman rose from the boat, a fragment of his paddle near him. Osmond tumbled from a tall hill into the lake and stood up immediately as water ran up his face.
Soon, they'd all woken. Covered in sheets of sand, dusting their faces with white.
Their bread tasted like grit, mixed in with the sand, and soggy from the water. He ate it, in small pieces, each a quick bite and a quick swallow.
Pnoaphales beckoned him forward. Streams running, twisting, going around the mountain, through the big bluffs, and balancing boulders. All of the mountains sat upon pillars of rectangle rock below. The mountain shone red, deepening into blue as it peaked. At the top, an aura of white glowed, shining rays of light down upon them. Clouds ran past the summit, dispersed by ridges of rock.
Mid-afternoon, with the sun humming, and the wind whistling. They'd packed up their things, readying themselves, preparing themselves for the sights ahead.
As Rickman pushed his boat out onto the shore, Osmond came upon him and they talked. Coppers exchanged hands. Then, they went away and Rickman pulled the ship into the river.
He'd persuaded him, somehow, he'd persuaded Rickman to do the impossible and journey up the mountain. Even when the gods had forbidden them, even when only the Prophet had gone, even when... No way back, to continue, and to continue... But to continue! He would finish, he would continue, he would reach the top! No way back, only forward.
The boat landed in the river, spreading itself onto some cattails. The boat groaned and creaked as each of them stepped in. It tilted forward as Bernard came in last. Then the barbs of each cattail scraped along the wooden hull as they went down. The water rebounded with droplets from the lake. Into the boat, David leaned down, looking down onto the floor of the boat. The water didn't touch him.
Down the paddle went, it pushed forward, in the same direction as the river. The boat rushed into the currents, and Rickman relaxed his grip. With the river, up the boat would go. Past the islands, past the snake, past the lake, past the tributaries. Into the stream, following its meanderings.
They ate lunch on the boat, surrounded by forests, deserts, and taigas. Bread, soggy with water, smelling of beer and barley. Crunchy, gritty, all from the sand. David drank water instead. Water in the oilskin, better than bread.
Their boat sailed to the mountain, the great mountain. The Prophet stood there, on the top. Into Pnoaphales, he would climb and climb until he reached it. The gods couldn't stop him. No, not the gods.
Around them, the weather turned. From cloudy, then rainy. Peaceful rain, as it bounced off the river and ran into their boat. The rain pooled over the valleys and hills. Down it went, forming streams. Down the slopes, carrying silt. It dropped into their boat, spreading mud along its floor.
He thought of the Plague. Sent to the towns and villages after the fire. With unfamiliar sights and unfamiliar smells. People crowding around marketplaces, and then the pile, the pile of bodies. With limbs bent and head limp, pale and covered in buboes. All with the smell of death, spreading through the air, yet nobody noticed. Nobody cared about the victims of the plague.
Once full of life, but now corpses piled up into a perfect cone. And then, at night, they burned it. It lit up the village with red, and the bodies glowed. They glowed as they fell apart, they glowed as they turned into embers and charcoal. Collapsing into smoke and fire.
Why death? Why for all? Angry Protennessen, smiting them all... But what had they done to anger the gods?...
Past a desert now. The river thinned, and Rickman stood up and paddled forward. Sand scraped the wood and leaked into the boat. Winds of sand blew past him and caked his face. He leaned down. David wiped his face and shook his hair. Still raining as they passed the desert. The smell of earth and dust went into his nose. But, mixed with the rain, it smelled of rust and coppers. He ran his finger along the side of the boat, coming up with a finger covered in brown.
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