Graden began his climb. Up the father-mountain. Up the winter-road.

They were kin, now, he and the mountain, both fierce warriors grown old — once dark-eyed and full of fire, now crowned with snow and whiskered white.

This was his last climb. He felt it in his knees and in the healed fissures of his battle-crushed bones. The pain called his triumphs to memory, but he no longer cared to think of such things.

At the peak, on the mountain’s shoulder, he stared out at the gray sky and vibrant fields below and, stooping, wiped gently the snow from her grave.

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This story is my response Madison Woods’ Friday Fictioneers prompt (the picture, supplied by Doug MacIlroy at ironwoodwind, is the prompt). Check out the other stories (including Madison’s) and submit your own on the story page!

Feedback and other stories welcome below! Please feel free to check out some of my other fiction — I love constructive criticism!