Memory of the Mountain

From the east he stands to watch the seas, and on his knees he will weep and pray. Born from flesh of little value, raised to know nothing more than nothing itself, poor of cloth to assume poor of mind and heart…

It is that heart that weeps.

It is that heart that is now lost.

Black were the clouds, making the shore froth with anger and ill intentions. Flotsam and bits of cloth wash upon the sand. His mind knows it, but his heart refuses it. The boats will not be coming back.

Leading men and women to places unknown, a journey that was not to be taken lightly. He sees a few bits of the ruined ships crash against the rocks far off from where he stands, his future and hope no more.

He wishes for nothing more than to have been aboard the ship as it was torn asunder, to have clutched at her one last time… to have held her hand.

They were both supposed to grow to a ripe old age, together. But no more, as he sees the first of the bloated corpses start to wash upon the shore.

He has stood here for weeks, the night never leaving his eyes, as they start to leak fluids that are not tears. His flesh boils as the red trail winds its way towards the sands. The sorrow long shed from the people that stood around him, he stands now against the ebb and flow of the tide, willing himself to silence it.

His hair becomes thick with algae and moss. His eyes now look upon nothing, but instead just fill with the moist salt air. His feet have long since sunk into the sand. His skin cracks like a salt flat, and starts to pale against the burning night.

The summer has passed, and the only thing left of what he’d often do during such a time, is nothing but a memory he can’t even recall now.

He’d stand amongst the fields far into lands he once cherished, and she would be there smiling at him. The storm batters him still, but he remains motionless, not even the wrath of the gods he once praised can sway him. What little is left of his legs starts to call to it substances beyond the shore. The tide retreats from him, inch by inch.

His eyes no longer sit amongst his features, now only pools of water as violent as the storm he battles swirl with hate, sorrow, and guilt, and his hair is now nothing more than patches of green that speckle his now rocky and dirt covered flesh. He swells with fury almost as powerful as the storm, and for a moment, it seems that the tempest he fights seems to understand his fury.

For but one soul, he shall banish the sea.

Inch by inch, the tide flees from his growing form. He cannot remember the summers long past, nor the winters filled with the comforts of looking out at the snow from the confines of his home, safe and warm, and with good company. Those whom he trusted, they have moved to far past places… others have simply grown old, and passed from this place. Only he remains, still intent to destroy the storm.

He cannot remember the spring, and the scent of the flowers, for they pass from his sight so quickly, that the years he has stood here, seem like nothing more than lost moments that he can’t latch on to.

His back is heavy with burden, and he must look away from the skies. As the pain of it falls over him, his raging eyes look down, and from them the water falls back to the earth. Inch by inch, the ocean surrenders to him.

Would it that he could lift his arms to the skies, he would beg to be free from his burden, beg not to suffer this pain, but he has no hands left to lift into the skies.

The storm that once he challenged is now nothing but a memory, and as he tries so hard to lift his head, the only things he can see around him are trees and a few rivers. The sea has left him, and with it, he can no longer see the watery grave from whence he was once obsessed with.

The water still falls from his eyes, because now he can’t even remember her name… can’t remember what her face looked like… can’t remember if she loved him or not.

The storm that once he hated, that once he battled with for so long, he wishes for it to return, to erode him into nothing, to batter at the face of the rock which now is his flesh, to sink him back into that which created him, to have the ocean wash over him… so that he may be nothing but a memory.

He would look now to the sky, to wish that storm would return, but his burden is too much, his strength and will is all but lost to him, he can lift his head no more.

All that remains is for the water to fall from his sight, and for him to curse at that which he can no longer even remember.