The mountain had been home to her for some time; she had made a place there, and yet sleep did not come. Her mind was a hornet's nest kicked awake by one thing or another. Her thoughts wandered to home, which by now was nothing but ash, not even smouldering. The mighty mountain and its blackened hide of forest, reduced to nothing but ruins.
Once, it was considered the highest honor to have a fortress so large—a throne. To be served by the lesser creatures of the lower world. Worshipped by the little hounds. Offered divinity. What mortal would want to fight against such mighty beasts and hope to win? But that had been when her sister lived; when her mother, peace to her soul, had been an ancient and forgotten goddess.
Maharet was a pious creature in her youth. She had waited for her sister every spring, waited for her to emerge upon the slate-colored hillside to meet her. Together they would watch the dawnrise. Their bodies black and long and monolithic, even then; and sometimes, they would see the lowly hounds pacing endlessly in fear of the day.
Even in her dreams, when she dreamed, she saw them there upon the hill. Breathless. Now she would wake in this cavern alone, tasting winter when it should be spring. Feeling snow shift off her shoulders with the slightest movement, as a dragon might around a collection. All she had was the snow leaking in through the roof.
There was no returning to those days.
The tale of Mount Sikaram would die with Maharet.
Once, it was considered the highest honor to have a fortress so large—a throne. To be served by the lesser creatures of the lower world. Worshipped by the little hounds. Offered divinity. What mortal would want to fight against such mighty beasts and hope to win? But that had been when her sister lived; when her mother, peace to her soul, had been an ancient and forgotten goddess.
Maharet was a pious creature in her youth. She had waited for her sister every spring, waited for her to emerge upon the slate-colored hillside to meet her. Together they would watch the dawnrise. Their bodies black and long and monolithic, even then; and sometimes, they would see the lowly hounds pacing endlessly in fear of the day.
Even in her dreams, when she dreamed, she saw them there upon the hill. Breathless. Now she would wake in this cavern alone, tasting winter when it should be spring. Feeling snow shift off her shoulders with the slightest movement, as a dragon might around a collection. All she had was the snow leaking in through the roof.
There was no returning to those days.
The tale of Mount Sikaram would die with Maharet.
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