Young Writers Society

(Something inanimate works for me!)

I opened the door, grateful to be free from the mirrors.

Then I saw what was in front of us.

I turned to return to the hall of mirrors, only for the doorway to do exactly what it had when we stepped through the last one. It shifted. The doorway moved back behind Sorenson. The door slammed shut behind him. To make things worse, the door didn't just lock itself—it completely vanished into the hall.

I looked back at what was in front of us.

We were standing on one end of a giant pit. The only door now was on the other side, right behind a very small platform that Sorenson and I would only just barely be able to fit on.

I groaned.

Sorenson gazed into the yawning pit, eyes wide. His breath had caught in his throat, and almost immediately he started walking toward the edge, tipping his body forward before he even reached it. He had to feel that weightlessness, after so long stuck in here. He needed to fly.

I immediately shot my hand out and grabbed Sorenson by the collar to stop him from going any farther.

"What are you doing?" I hissed. Sorenson had been able to slow our fall earlier and could do a handful of other magical things, but I didn't trust him not to plummet to his death the moment he stepped off of our platform. The temperature dropped as soon as the thought crossed my mind. I couldn't even see the bottom of the chasm in front of us.

Sorenson stirred and looked at him sternly. "I want to go down," he said simply, and tried to walk forward again. "I have to go down."

I stared at him. What was wrong with him? He was acting like he was possessed—and, seeing that I was in my own body right now, I wasn't the one doing the possessing.

"I'm not letting you fall to your death," I said. "It would be boring trying to get out of this place on my own."

"I won't die," Sorenson insisted. "I won't die, I can't. Let me go." He fixed his eyes on Skull then, frowning at him. Couldn't he see the urgency of this, the pull, the need?

I froze.

"...What do you mean you can't die?" I slowly, carefully said. I was starting to realize just how little I knew about Sorenson. Maybe he meant that a fall wouldn't kill him, but all I could think about was him implying that he was somehow immortal.

"Let. Go." The air suddenly grew very heavy, crackling with energy. Sorenson reached up and rested a hand on the one holding his collar. It, too, was warm and humming.

I jerked my hand back.

I didn't want Sorenson to die, but my sense of self-preservation was stronger. The air—and Sorenson—felt different right now.

Sorenson turned immediately and strode to the edge of the pit. He gazed down, down, down into the blackness, wondered what was down there. Wondered if he would ever stop falling, or if it was just bottomless. A bottomless pit was a delightful idea; if only it was as full of possibity as the sky.
He listed to one side, delightful vertigo overtaking him for a moment. Then he turned and looked back at Skull. He grinned boyishly at him, then in one fluid motion let himself tilt from heel to toe over the side and off the ground, twisting until he was falling face-first with his arms open and palms out. Then he was gone.

When Sorenson flipped off the edge, the temperature suddenly went constant. It was icy cold, cold enough that I could see the little breath I let out as I watched him vanish into the pit.

I didn't dare to look down. I frequently joked about gruesome things like death, but I had no interest in seeing what was going to happen next. Instead, I eyed the platform on the other side of the ravine. There had to be some way that I could get across.

...I just had to figure out what that some way was.

Sorenson let himself plummet for a long time. His stomach crashed against his chest and his heart jerked into his throat. He had no weight at all yet was heavy, heavy, heavy as he plunged through the darkness. The light from the top of the pit was fading fast. Sorenson would have whooped if the air wasn't knocked from his lungs by the force of gravity.
After a few seconds of free fall, Sorenson reached out a hand and pressed it to his lips, then to his forehead, and tucked his arms tight in to his chest. He dipped, inches from the bottom of the pit--so there was a bottom! He'd have to tell Skull--then shot straight up in the air, soaring the length of the pit and then the width, then back over the side into the air above. He did give a great whoop then, spreading his arms and flapping childishly as he floated to a spot high in the corner, then crossed his arms and legs and hovered there with a wide grin on his face.
"That's more like it!" he exclaimed.

I blinked.

I stared.

Sorenson, apparently, could fly. He also, apparently, hadn't thought to mention that he could fly. I wanted to be angry that he hadn't said anything besides his vague denial of being able to die, but I found I was frustratingly more relieved than anything else.

"So you can fly," I managed to get out.

"I'm free of limitations," Sorenson said simply, reaching up and poking the ceiling. "Well, most limitations. That's an annoying little problem."