They were mad. They were all of them out of their minds. It was an honor that should have been bestowed upon kings and dignitaries, the likes of which he could never hope to be... Yet here he was, chosen. One of the few. Pride surged, a wave in him, but so like a wave it washed in and out, ebbing and flowing with increase, with decrease. Anxiety, his mother had called it. Perfectly normal, all things considered. Except it didn't feel normal. It made his stomach clench, his jaw tense and his eyes sting. What if he messed it all up? What if he ruined it? So many years waiting, and all it took was the wrong word, a bow not quite deep enough, a glance too long or too short...
Footfall nearly silent, he trekked along the forest path. Frost clung to the branches, winter's last caress, beads like jewels which had already begun to melt beneath the warmth of the mid morning sun, stretching incandescent fingertips through a thick canopy overhead. He would have liked company, but the Prophet had dictated, with all authority, that the journey should be made alone. And alone, it seemed, he was indeed, for there was not a single bird song, no whisper of the wind's breath through the frame of branches above. One step at a time, he approached The Peering Point, the tattoo of his heart beating wildly against his chest, pumping loudly in his ears the only sound in the whole world.
One foot, then all at once, he was upon the rock that crested the steep, root-choked hill. A breath, exhaled with force, and he turned his gaze downwards upon the creatures below, for there they were already. Two of them, though more were sure to come... But not many, for there were so few of them left. Humans. That was what they were once called. Fierce, wild hunters, chief among all creatures for so long... now barely clinging to existence.
For a moment no one moved, then all at once, the creatures crouched, took their knees to the earth, and as he had been taught, he followed suit, bending deep, curling forward in a bow so low his antlers touched the stone. When he had straightened, he could see them looking up at him, their eyes glistening in the streams of sunlight, the skin of their cheeks damp. The younger of the two, merely a boy, glanced to the elder beside him, opened his mouth, but the grey-crowned man held a hand up, silenced him.
They knew. They all knew... this was how it had to be.
Reaching behind him, the boy plucked the bow from across his spine, an arrow from the nearly empty quiver. Stringing the shaft, he raised it and dragging his shoulder across his cheek to stem the flood of tears, he notched the arrow tightly, feathers touching the edge of his downturned mouth. His father touched his arm, tipped his elbow up and nodded.
There was no pain. The Prophet said there wouldn't be. The arrow flew with speed and strength, struck true and quick and as he collapsed upon the rock, he felt only a strange, hollow coolness cocooned around him as his breath left in a gasp, a shudder.
Sacrifice. It was their calling. Their purpose. To die so that the others might live. It was the greatest gift they could offer mankind, who, so long ago had done the same for them - protecting the last of their kind, until they could rebuild their race. To sustain a village, to bring sustenance for the year to come... To see to it that new generations were formed, were taught the ways of the ancestors...
Slowly, in spiraling shapes and images, the world blurred out of focus and closing his eyes, he let his head fall against the smooth surface of the stone. He was chosen... and he was honored. These were his final thoughts... and then all was still.