It was a fragment of something much greater, appearing as the broken-off hand of a statue to human eyes and by all accounts it was a perfectly ordinary object. Ordinary to the point of all but vanishing to most eyes.
And to a scant few, it was a god.
It was a guide, a hand that led them down long dark tunnels and through pitch black lakes that had been stagnant since before the continents split. It needed their legs, their lungs, their blood all bared and spilling over an altar as old as the world itself.
If there were any markings on it, they'd been worn to nothing by the devoted hands of a hundred thousand chosen, all nothing more than bones now. Bones somewhere deeper than bones had any right to be.
Bones that ached to hold the hand once more.
No comments:
Post a Comment