I’d worn the socks so long that my sweat was turning them into shoes. My shoes were a memory clinging to the socks. My feet were a mess of mushy flesh only held together by their adornments and too badly mutilated to feel the pain they should. When I caught glimpses of myself in puddles I saw a corpse too stubborn to admit defeat. Sweat was the glue that held my matted hair to my head. My hands and arms were a diagram of human skeletal structure. My eyes only saw the long straight road ahead, the road I’d been following since birth
That road would take me to the waters of The Fountain of Gods, from which they draw their eternal power. It takes a mortal lifetime to reach the fountain as the story goes, no matter where you start your journey. I have hopped so long that my life would be enough to pay the toll of this road. Now I only want to make it to the end to know that I have not wasted my life. If I died with the fountain in sight it would be enough I think.
The road is a test of endurance, of spirit, of faith. Only one mortal ever reached the fountain. He tells the tale to others and leads them to the road. My parents believed in the promise of the god. Now I wonder sometimes if this path I walk isn’t just a cruel trick to play on mortals, the play things of the gods.