When it came to the matter of his progeny, Old Parugnax believed in quantity over quality. Only about a third of them survived the Tribe’s rite of passage: being thrown into the Pit and having to get out with their own tender hands. The surviving third had hitherto never achieved mastery in any form, be it martial, philosophical, or spiritual; men only in the eyes of tradition.

Nevertheless, the old man endured the shame and mockery and maintained his dedication to spawning. He knew that the Tribe depended on his blood, they certainly never jested nor jeered when war-time stormed by and the worth of any able-bodied male rose up to the heavens. His brood fought their battles and his brood picked up the pieces after, when the population brushed extinction.

They only hated him for admitting that the many would always reign supreme over the wishes of the individuals.

However, the true hope that welled inside Parugnax and spilled out as tears whenever he saw another healthy babe was that this one would be a hero, an exception so monumental that it would eclipse the parade of failures that had led up to it. Thus, his body and mind were surrendered to the infinite potential of numbers, the ocean of the possibility.

At five years old, his one hundred fifty-third child was close to aging out of the rite, so when the silver moon, the Hunter’s moon, rose Parugnax took him to the maw with particular haste. The road was difficult and long enough without considering his years and the pains of constant procreation.

At the mouth of the Pit the gasping father felt a stab from the inside of his chest. His blood froze, raking his veins and muscles, and his hand let go his son’s. The world burned bright like in the myths as his feet searched for balance, but they only found emptiness.

Parugnax fell.

The plunge was not cushioned by any tiny bones as he expected. Broken over stone, he shouted at his son for help, but gave up after an hour of silence. The darkness was so that he couldn’t tell if his eyes were shut.

The moon lazily came into view above the distant mouth of the Pit, like a giant’s eye whose gaze brightened the craggy room. Sparser than he imagined it to be, the Pit’s bottom devolved into a hive of caves on the walls that led into more nothing.

He felt the movement of shapes coming closer; small, but many. They carried things and tools in their hands and their eyes shone like the stars, just like his’.

He smiled with bloody and missing teeth.

“So, they’ve all been men, then.” he whispered.

Pride coursed through his veins as they killed him.

Photo by Joy Xu: https://www.pexels.com/photo/dark-cave-seen-from-above-13642743/