Ceremony

You, there. Pull these thorns from my feet.

What? No. Don't be ridiculous. It's your turn. Quit whining. It's a rite of passage.

Why?

Because you're an idiot.

A dense, adolescent, ignorant little fool.

I've been in this wood a near century now. My bones ache, but at least I know how to treat them.

What? I don't know why you have to go. No, I'm not telling you why I did either. You don't need my bundle of confusion, you've got plenty of your own.

Excuses? You're not confused? HA.

Just wait until you hit your thirteenth year by the twisted river. You'll stare into the bubbling foam until you forget the purpose of your birth. Your own mother's face will melt into the void and you won't know whether to hold onto the image of her weeping or let her tears melt within the rocks.

Cleansers never tell you that part. They know better.

Go on, now. You'll know what you're looking for when you find it.

Hurry. It flashes for a moment only.