The Mourning Mountain

I found myself standing atop the Mourning Mountain one day, so named because it was in mourning. I didn’t quite find my way there, so much as the way found me. I walked along the path, and my sight, my soul, my self, were lost and left behind as I walked on. The path swallowed the sun and the moon, and drank both sound and color dry. The ground drained the life from the plants, and swallowed the saplings and brush that couldn’t stand. As I was drained, I felt a weight upon my chest, upon my mind, upon my heart, which only grew as I went on. It grew and grew as great as a mountain, and soon, I climbed that mountain reached its peak.

Legend had it that this was where the living entered the Empty. It didn’t surprise me in the slightest. I’d felt it coming for quite a while. I’d heard the Serpent whisper in my ears, telling me to stop, to give up, to do nothing. And I listened. I let the Empty enter me, and I let it stalk me, and track me, and swallow me. As I stood at the peak of the Mourning Mountain, I stood in the mouth of the Serpent. I stood in the mouth of the Serpent, which was closing forever. I stood in the shadow of the mouth, where the light no longer reached me. As the Empty consumed me, so did the shadow, and so did the Serpent.

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