Disciple of the Willow's

One thousand three hundred and forty-one.

One thousand three hundred and forty-two.

One thousand three hundred and, ah, forty-three.

A wooden staff clacked against stone. The young female owner used it to pull the weight her calves could not. Her heart felt as though it were moments away from exploding, and her panting had long become nothing more than a reminder of the burning in her lungs. Stairs extended before her. Stairs extended behind her. 

The girl twisted on her heel. The long path down the mountain sent her head spinning, but she lacked the strength to steady herself. She dropped to a squat and sprawled out on the stairs. The cloth tied around her bun protected her hair as it nestled in the recess of one of the steps, letting her lie straight. 

The sun brushed the horizon. She felt bitter towards the realization she had been climbing since the sun faced her at the opposite side of the sky. She raised her trembling arms in front of her, placing the bottom of one closed fist against the horizon. She could not see past dense foliage, leaving her to guess. She stacked fist over fist until they met the sun. 

Ten hours left, she thought. Fourteen hours since she had rung the bell at the base of the mountain; fourteen hours since she had signaled her intention to meet with the forgotten man at the top. The time had melted away, yet the repeating scenery made her feel as though she had gotten nowhere. She ran her hands across the steps, relishing the lush feel of the shrubbery, which grew through cracks in the stone developed and worked at since long ago. 

She stared up, eyes glazed over. A canopy of weeping-willow and flowering-plum-tree branches stretched from the trunks growing sideways from the mountainside. It provided a nice shade at the cost of no overhead view. She took no notice. Even if she weren't taking precious time to rest, another dozen hours of watching trees would not save her deteriorating spirit. 

She flipped the front of her poncho over her head, letting the mountain air graze her midriff. It slapped her forehead, slick from her sweating for so many hours. She grimaced, but as long as it was cool, she remained no worse than ambivalent. She arched her back gently and reached between her shoulder blades, tugging a tight knot. Her arms burned as the movement stretched her exhausted muscles. The pressure around her torso eased, and her posture relaxed. Her lungs relished the extra room to expand. She followed it up with the band of her pants, letting the air flow through. The loose fabric fluttered around her legs like a wind sock. The sweat on her thighs chilled, fighting her overheating musculature. 

It was the first time she had stopped to rest. She wished she could keep going, but she had to be honest. She had long come to terms with the fact that it would surely destroy her body. Her heart continued to work. She had to fight to not get up. She forced herself to live breath to breath. She pushed her ultimate goal out of her head, focused on her burning throat, focused on her shaking hands, focused on the lack of vitality in her every muscle. 

Eventually, all at once, exhaustion hit her. 

Five hundred thirty-one.

Five hundred thirty-two.

Five hundred thirty-three. 

A girl stood surrounded on all sides by a picket fence. Between each count, her slender figure moved through movements akin to a dance. In her right hand, she held a long black blade. It moved like an extension of herself. She stopped at key points, counting each pause. Her eyes were shut. She worked agnostic to her distant surroundings. 

"Hey, what are ya countin, miss?" 

The girl stumbled. She shifted her sword aside, allowing a safe recovery. Her action kicked up dust from the barren ground. She glared in the direction of the squeaking interruption. A young, chubby boy flinched as she met his gaze.