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Melancholy Mountain
The clean mountain air filled the lungs of a young man high above the scene in the bar. Where. despite his promises. the old man was taking a very long time to tell the demon-thing what he wanted to hear.
That scene had nothing to do with this young man (who was an old boy not too long ago). The man was familiar with the Land’O’North Tavern, having his first drink of spirits there less than a day ago, but he doubted the old bartender would know him if he was to walk in again. His kind passed through this way all the time, as part of the ritual.
His traveling companion was working their way up to his position, sure to be envious of his find. It wasn't often you found an item of this quality and style in such a remote place. After all the hardships of the last year, a final piece of luck was warm and welcoming.
“You’d better not be much higher!” said a voice from below. He didn’t answer, needing a moment alone to gather his thoughts.
He lifted his find into the air, amazed at its lightness and grace. He'd never seen one like this before. The ones he'd see were generally wider, broader, or curved. This one was thin and straight, and so much lighter than one would think just to see it.
“Why are you up here?” he asked himself aloud. “What was my purpose in finding you?”
Naturally, there was no answer to this. Man only finds things by chance. Rare is the item that wants to be found, and this one was no different.
It was lodged in the rock face, clearly buried for some time. Only the base showed any passage of time, and that may have been that way for a good deal longer than it looked like it had.
He placed it on the ground behind him, sure to reveal it to his friend when he wanted to and not before. He saw a tuft of black hair and a tall backpack before he saw the face of his best friend climbing higher to where he sat and waited.
“There you are,” his friend said, gaining good footing and walking toward him. “Just couldn't wait, could you. And what’s with that shit-eating grin?” He was always full of such colorful expressions, which he'd inherited from the grandfather who had raised him. “Don't get me wrong,” he puffed, “I appreciate the fact that you keep both feet on the ground for the sake of your poor, non-gifted friend, but please remember that it's because of your damn gift I have to carry this stupid pack just to make you look normal.”
The sitting man smiled half-heartedly. “I never told you to fill it, did I?”
“Yeah, well you never told me not to either.”
At the time, knowing they had a year of hard footwork ahead of them, it seemed a great idea to take everything they could ever need, and although time had made them stronger and more immune to the weight of the packs, they were no less a burden on a steep climb up a rocky mountain face.
Their packs were now actually quite empty save for a few basic, well-used supplies and some remembrances of the past year. These men were not far from their home, a village to the south of where they were now. They had set out exactly one year ago on their traditional pilgrimage to the depths of these mountains.
They had traveled north from their home, full of ideas and that indubitable youthful sense of adventure only found in a person at a certain age. The age occurred when the desire to see what’s beyond their doorstep outweighed the need to remain inside.
They trekked deep into the mountains, found their manhood in some individual way, and traveled south again. They emerged from the mountains three days prior. Then, as horribly stereotypical as it is (and as awful as it is to say, most stereotypes are little more than glamorized versions of the truth, twisted by those with reasons to create negativity), they found the closest town, dropped their gear at an inn, and went straight to the bar. The same bar that was currently being filled with an informative story between a really big guy and a very old man.
With their fill of drink and success, they received their directions to their home and went on their way.
They traveled to the mountain for one last night of rest and story before they were to head back. A pretty young girl in town had directed them to a good mountain meadow she claimed to know that would provide the perfect, picturesque spot before the nasty slog to their hometown. Men of their kinds types were quite prone to flights of melodrama and were easily swayed by a pretty face.
“We've been going straight up for hours, and I don't think I've even seen a sprout or scrub!”
“Well, how were we supposed to know that there wasn't a good place to eat up here? I thought it was fairly basic logic: mountains equal meadows, right?”
The sitting boy smiled. It made sense to him. “Well, this is as flat a spot as any, so let’s not waste time going any higher.”
His friend sighed in agreement. “Man, isn’t that the way. I hate it when a pretty face lies.” Although clearly dejected, he took a look around. The mountains here came to an abrupt end and became flat land all the way to the sea in the south. Their current location was like standing on a podium addressing the world.
He dropped his pack with an audible grunt and it kicked up the loose dust that surrounded them. They were both young, freshly-minted men, with shades of youth still in their faces. As time had passed and the world had changed,
