To Vore Dignity

Hangman

Beetles shuffle through the dead underbrush. Shells matte blue without the shine of the sun, while their spindly legs work them through one flake of snow at a time. Looking up from their point of view everything is lord. Tall, magnificent gods with their smiting hands outstretched.

The sound of clacking armour travels dull and harmonious through the craggy rocks. It scares the beetles; who scurry away to hide themselves.

It's a bowman who climbs the mountainside. His face weighs heavy, with many years stretched upon it. He rolls his shoulders under his pack, adjusts the quiver at his hip. They aren't displaced, but he fixes them anyway.

The incline of the mountain itself rolls around like a horn growing from the furry plains. A twist of sharp jagged rocks jutting into the sky. Snow covered, swathed with grey and clumps of growth. Without wind or birds, it's lonely and silent.

The bowman hums a tune under his breath, to subdue the crawling up his spine. For all the fear he's felt on his travels, the dread drying him up from the inside is unlike anything else. A knowing, like something invisible standing an inch behind him. He can't shake it no matter what bravery he digs up. It's the Hanging Man's Mountain after all.

As he nears the summit he takes out his hunting knife. Short and brittle, its blade glints silver against the snow.

The mountain stretches downwards, infinitely larger than when he looked up from the bottom. The smoke from his abandoned fire swirls thin as a hair into the cavernous sky.

It's much too quiet.

Twenty men and women went up ahead of him not a week ago. The king's most trusted, and most skilled. He's followed their half-snowed-over tracks for a day and a half.

The path winds out of sight ahead of him, coming under the drawl of large dead oaks. Their thick branches dangle to grab at his hair. Some long enough to scratch marks in the ground.

Even if nothing went wrong, and the king's men are at the top, laughing over a pot of questionable stew, what's their reason for taking so long? Retrieving the Prayer shouldn't take a week. Two, three days at most.

There are stories of course. How could there not be? It's not called the Hanging Man's Mountain without reason. The oldest of the old that populate its base will tell you; no matter how empty the mountain feels, or how barren it looks, keep your wits about you. A creature lives up here. A dead king, a demon, a betrayed angel, they all differ. Whatever it is, it'll string you up and hang you from the trees. Leaving you like a wind chime on the porch of a forgotten cottage.

It's nothing to dismiss as fantasy, but not something to make you timid.

But what if? That's the burning question isn't it? The bowman's not a suspicious man. If he ever was, it was a long time ago. Time taught him that when you're looking for trouble, you're more likely to find it. Better to stick to your own path.

The back of his neck tickles. One last outcrop of rock blocks his view of the summit. A small tilt of his head and he could see- he steps around the corner.

Beyond, the path walks the straight and narrow. Shadows flicker on the ground. No blood, scattered weapons, or disturbed snow. He swallows back the foul taste in his mouth.

The trees creak with the weight of the corpses. All the king's men. Their faces bloated, and legs stiff. Black frostbite eating away at their hands.

A raven lands on ones' head, cocking a beaded eye at the bowman.

Their discarded weapons lay in a neat pile at the summit. He can see them from where he stands. Like glittering at the end of a long dark tunnel.

They didn't get the Prayer...obviously. If the king's own men couldn't, what makes him a better choice?

His feet are rooted in place. The dead shake in their trees. Laughing with their drawn mouths and gaping eyes. He shouldn't continue. Let the king think what he wants about what happened here... the bowman should run. Run far and fast until this mountain is nothing but a distant memory blotting out the horizon.

He wishes there was wind.

The raven clucks once, ruffling its long iridescent feathers. Its toes curl around the hair of the dead man it's perched on. Something drips from its wings, captivating...actinic, and blue.

Is it smiling?

The bowman grips his knife, grounding himself with the hard steel against the palm of his hand.

His heart booms in his ears. He whispers to the raven, "Did you do it?" Stupid question, but the way it looks at him... Like it knows. Like it's smug. "Did you kill these people?"

The raven stares. He wants it to speak, to say, Maybe I did. So what if I did? You didn't know them, we both know the king doesn't care. He sent you up here to make himself look good. There's no prayer for you here. Better than hearing voices.

Snow begins to fall.

And if I did, what would you do then? He watches the face of the raven, listens to the thump of his heart. This is my mountain. You are powerless and petty here.

Twigs snap behind him, but he can't move. His muscles are lax, or stiff with terror. Eyes rooted to the bird. Bird, bird, bird.

I've received the Prayer for a thousand years, and I'll receive it for ten-thousand more. I let you take one, not all -greedy people.

Ice cold breath alights on his neck. And he can't turn. He can't TURN. His hand relaxes despite himself, sending his knife into the snow. Large hands wrap around his middle. Still he can't look down. Not even to see his feet at he leaves the ground.

All he can see is the Raven.

Someone's humming in his ear. A song the mothers sing to their children on dark winter nights.

"One for me, two for you, three of lies, and four of truths. Whisper quiet, never turn, count them with me. Four and third."

"Hangman's Mountain," the Raven says, "Take them up where no man should tread. And when the next one comes strolling 'round, beat him into the virgin ground."

But the Raven's not going to beat him. Scratchy rope wraps around his neck. He catches glimpses of the white arm. It's needle like fingers, black nails. The hairs on it wide like white feathers.

Beetles peek out from their nooks and crannies. The God has brought another gift. Someplace warm and safe. A place to eat and be happy.

Just wait until it stops moving.

The Raven spreads its wings and takes to the sky. It couldn't care less about the Creature, or the bowman. It doesn't have the time. The Prayer is what it wants, and someone' run away with it.