Cragfast

They say the mountain can send you loopy. The air is thinner, the terrain is uncertain. It does something to your head.

The trouble is there is a certainty lurking between rocks and down drops, and it dogs your every step.

That's why Danny is frozen to the spot. He can't go on, and he can't go back. He's overcome with impending doom in all directions. This is the only relative safe spot, so he keeps it, scanning the grey and white vista for signs of help approaching.

Cold seeps through his expensive gear.

When I start to feel warm, that's when I'll know I'm a goner.

He should've been back at a normal altitude long since, but he got separated from the group. Were they still pushing on? Surely they'd noticed his absence. Had they stopped to look for him? Or gone back for help? Maybe they'd abandoned the ascent in the face of the snowstorm.

He hunches over to hold warmth in. Thinks of his cosy bones, deep inside his body. It doesn't stop his teeth chattering.

How long has it been?

He hums a tune, but it sounds funereal so he stops. He beats his arms about his torso, and is overcome with a panic that the movement will set off an avalanche, so he stops that, too.

The sun-glare off the snow hurts his eyes and burns his face.

Sleepy, he removes his coat and lies down on the soft white blanket.

Just for a moment.