Ghelat knew everything about this mountain. Everything about this moment. Ten thousand times, he had seen the same afternoon sun bleed slowly into its resting place on the western horizon. He knew the shape of the cold whisper of wind that flew up through the rigid valley below, the feel of how it whipped and danced softly in celebration of its freedom from the dense foliage beneath it. He recognized each individual among the small, jagged rocks he stood upon. Every one defiantly stabbing at his feet through the soles of his thin leather boots, protesting the oppressive weight of his presence. He knew the pulse of the rushing water behind him, and the trajectory of its fall as it leapt and crashed down and down.

Ghelat knew this mountain like the name his mother gave him. It was more than a memory. More than just a moment. Far behind him and past a long flat overhang, he could hear the distant crash of water falling into a pool he had fallen into but never seen. The mountain was a part of him, defined a part of him even, and yet he had still never really been there. Not yet.

The light breeze, the stillness of the mountain’s crest, it all should have been serene. But Ghelat stood paralyzed, unable to turn or move or speak. There was no peace in this moment. Fear. Anger. Sadness. Those emotions fought for ownership this moment. The whirling intensity of emotions locked him in place, crushing his chest until he could barely even gasp in clutches of quick and shallow breaths. Each inhale was an agonizing pull, drawing him towards what he knew would come next.

This mountain was where he would die.

Time flowed as it does in dreams, lilting between instants and eternities, rolling in place until the beast came. Ghelat could never say how it arrived, exactly, he knew only that the beast had appeared as it always did. Without motion, as though it had always been there, he we would see its face. Hot crimson eyes peered from within deep seatings in a monstrous, coal-black face, balefully meeting and holding Ghelat’s gaze hostage. Those eyes were a beacon of blood and flame and hatred, pure and unwavering. There was so much rage in those terrible eyes that as the beast drew near Ghelat could feel holes burning into his skull.

As the creature reached his person, the great black form gripped his body in its arms with such terrible, icy, strength, that he could taste blood as the last little breath he had left was forced from his chest. The wrathful red eyes did not break with Ghelat’s, but rather grew fixed to them; boring into his thoughts, scouring any sense of freedom. Searing his mind with heat that spread deeper and deeper…

Then with a sudden stillness, the eyes would glimmer. And ever so briefly, a quiet new emotion would emerge atop the dervish of rage, pain and fear that owned this moment. What was this taste that made even the hot iron in Ghelat’s mouth taste bitter?

Was it sadness? Regret?

The grip relaxed, two monstrous hands softening. Almost gentle. Ghelat pulled in one deep breath, and for just a moment he was calm. He could not hear feel the wind, or smell the plants, or hear the crashing water below. The mountain was finally still.

It was always in that stillness that the beast pierced Ghelat’s heart. Darkness would set upon him, until two burning orbs of malice were all that remained in Ghelat’s view. Two red beacons remained as he felt himself thrown from the monster’s clutches over the cliff face, discarded into darkness, only to plunge into the icy depths of the water he knew to be below.