Procession

lanterns swinging in the dark hills, like a procession of fireflies against the roiling spine of the slumbering countryside. 

laden with packs, and swathed in hooded cloaks.

they ascend, tired and broken towards the summit. 

pilgrims.

what destiny awaits them there, they know not. 

none may know.

they only know that it is their fate, a fate written into the trees and the sky of the land.

each year the same. 

the old and infirm make that harrowing climb from the village at the base of the ridge. 

never to return. 

the only sign of their passing, empty clothing.

fluttering in the breeze.

in a clearing atop the mountain.