She wakes.
Stone and bedrock enfold sore limbs, pain breeding not from use but from the lack of it; she runs slow fingers down her forearms and the swells of her knees. Her pulse beats beneath her fingers, always steady and quiet.
Breath fogs up the world around her, blurring the stone walls of the cave that holds her, moisture clinging to the bits of dust that scatter over the ground. Her breath, too, is slow; she remembers when it was fast, when she could not even find breath. She remembers running, and how the running never seemed to end.
She remembers, but it is like the air around her, dark and foggy and unclear. It has been a while since things were clear. Perhaps that is a consequence of age. Perhaps, though, as she prefers to think, it is a consequence for her. This thought she prefers because it means that she was singled out from among the masses — that there was a plan for her, even simply to condemn her. Condemned by the gods, she once decided, is far better than unseen by them.
Yet it is the latter, and not the former, that cloaks her now.
One of her feet is folded at an odd angle; she tugs it out of the alcove it has pushed into, and brings the boulder-sized knee up to her chest. Curls her hand around the joint. She can recall the others — she remembers how the pupils of their eyes dwindled into slits and dots, and how they would lie, slack-jawed, tongue sometimes swiping around to wet dry teeth. How their bodies seemed to decay, and how they eventually were driven out of the cave.
They did not come back.
She does like to think that they have found somewhere else to be, and yet . . . she knows every cave around within a day’s travel, and all of them have collapsed. All, save for this one — that is why they cannot leave. It is why she has not; she stays here, back against cold stone, legs folded or splayed in front of her. Hands in her lap, twisting around one another.
She has not gone mad yet.
Though there is no mirror, no icy pool of water or piece of shining obsidian, so that she might see her pupils. And there are no people to watch her, and no one to ask. Perhaps while she is sleeping her jaw goes slack; she would not know. Much of her time is spent sleeping.
She eases herself to her hands and knees, and begins crawling down the passage.
What does it mean to be mad, when there are no people around to provide context for insanity? If she is the last one, is that not just the temperament of her people? Does it matter at all what she is feeling if no one is around to judge?
If she is the tree, and she has fallen, who is the sound even for? She will never know what she is; she will never know herself.
The path curves upwards, and then to the right; she follows it. The stone on the path below her scrapes against her knees and palms, and she wishes she could walk — it has been so many years since she stood. There is no room in the cave, and none in the path, and she cannot go outside. Has not gone outside, in any case.
A bat crashes into her shoulder, before flitting off, squeaking; she turns her massive and shining head to glance back at it. It vanishes around the bend. She continues, one spot on her shoulder warmer than the rest, expression sullen and tired.
She remembers the last one. His madness was different than all of the others — louder, and it came in bursts. He was like that. She did not expect him to survive for so long; he did not expect it of her, either. She remembers him saying that she would be the last one, though it was not happiness in his voice when he mumbled it, but pity and pain. She remembers wondering why it was pity. Now, she knows.
The horizon is just visible in the distance; light is picking up around it, a dull orange-red glow to her starved eyes. She eases herself forward, and forward again, brushing shards of rock from her cavernous palms. Sometimes she comes across a long-undisturbed imprint of a knee or a hand just like her own, and stops and stares at it for a while, before sliding her hand into it. She ruins it, every time, for her hands are larger than theirs were. There has been more time. There has been more growth.
Yet why not ruin it? What is the point of preserving it? To inspire fear or awe in whatever comes next? Those are not better than comfort for her tired soul. And what a comfort the imprints are — finally, finally, she is following them.
The pinprick of light grows brighter. She grows closer, and closer, until she reaches the mouth of the cave.
She eases her bulk out, and leans against the side of the mountain.
She cannot see the bodies of the others. She does not look. She only stares at the light.
And she waits.
Stone and bedrock enfold sore limbs, pain breeding not from use but from the lack of it; she runs slow fingers down her forearms and the swells of her knees. Her pulse beats beneath her fingers, always steady and quiet.
Breath fogs up the world around her, blurring the stone walls of the cave that holds her, moisture clinging to the bits of dust that scatter over the ground. Her breath, too, is slow; she remembers when it was fast, when she could not even find breath. She remembers running, and how the running never seemed to end.
She remembers, but it is like the air around her, dark and foggy and unclear. It has been a while since things were clear. Perhaps that is a consequence of age. Perhaps, though, as she prefers to think, it is a consequence for her. This thought she prefers because it means that she was singled out from among the masses — that there was a plan for her, even simply to condemn her. Condemned by the gods, she once decided, is far better than unseen by them.
Yet it is the latter, and not the former, that cloaks her now.
One of her feet is folded at an odd angle; she tugs it out of the alcove it has pushed into, and brings the boulder-sized knee up to her chest. Curls her hand around the joint. She can recall the others — she remembers how the pupils of their eyes dwindled into slits and dots, and how they would lie, slack-jawed, tongue sometimes swiping around to wet dry teeth. How their bodies seemed to decay, and how they eventually were driven out of the cave.
They did not come back.
She does like to think that they have found somewhere else to be, and yet . . . she knows every cave around within a day’s travel, and all of them have collapsed. All, save for this one — that is why they cannot leave. It is why she has not; she stays here, back against cold stone, legs folded or splayed in front of her. Hands in her lap, twisting around one another.
She has not gone mad yet.
Though there is no mirror, no icy pool of water or piece of shining obsidian, so that she might see her pupils. And there are no people to watch her, and no one to ask. Perhaps while she is sleeping her jaw goes slack; she would not know. Much of her time is spent sleeping.
She eases herself to her hands and knees, and begins crawling down the passage.
What does it mean to be mad, when there are no people around to provide context for insanity? If she is the last one, is that not just the temperament of her people? Does it matter at all what she is feeling if no one is around to judge?
If she is the tree, and she has fallen, who is the sound even for? She will never know what she is; she will never know herself.
The path curves upwards, and then to the right; she follows it. The stone on the path below her scrapes against her knees and palms, and she wishes she could walk — it has been so many years since she stood. There is no room in the cave, and none in the path, and she cannot go outside. Has not gone outside, in any case.
A bat crashes into her shoulder, before flitting off, squeaking; she turns her massive and shining head to glance back at it. It vanishes around the bend. She continues, one spot on her shoulder warmer than the rest, expression sullen and tired.
She remembers the last one. His madness was different than all of the others — louder, and it came in bursts. He was like that. She did not expect him to survive for so long; he did not expect it of her, either. She remembers him saying that she would be the last one, though it was not happiness in his voice when he mumbled it, but pity and pain. She remembers wondering why it was pity. Now, she knows.
The horizon is just visible in the distance; light is picking up around it, a dull orange-red glow to her starved eyes. She eases herself forward, and forward again, brushing shards of rock from her cavernous palms. Sometimes she comes across a long-undisturbed imprint of a knee or a hand just like her own, and stops and stares at it for a while, before sliding her hand into it. She ruins it, every time, for her hands are larger than theirs were. There has been more time. There has been more growth.
Yet why not ruin it? What is the point of preserving it? To inspire fear or awe in whatever comes next? Those are not better than comfort for her tired soul. And what a comfort the imprints are — finally, finally, she is following them.
The pinprick of light grows brighter. She grows closer, and closer, until she reaches the mouth of the cave.
She eases her bulk out, and leans against the side of the mountain.
She cannot see the bodies of the others. She does not look. She only stares at the light.
And she waits.