From the summit, the path to the peak seemed to be beyond his reach. A torrent of frigid rain gnashed upon his face, and as boulders quaked from the rock face, and plummeted downwards to the summit.

He stood unwavering, starring at his palms, while these colossal behemoths fractured around him. As dirt, sand and splinters of rock rippled across the  skin of his face.

Drenched were his clothes, yet he merely pulled his hood up, and looked back towards the pinnacle.

A crack in the malignant nebulous of sky above him, allowed a sliver of light to caress the peak.

He began the climb.

Each step or foothold was without mercy, anguish or remorse. But with each tear of his clothes, or rend of his skin, he still held close every bit of hope he held.

As the warmth of the sun trickled over his grimy and bloodied fingers, the last pull was herculean.

It was excruciating as the light, and warmth of the sun pelted his entire body. Causing him with plunge to his knees, the slated rock giving no leeway to his battered body.

He sat still, as a serene wind licked at his skin, and withdrew his hood, his hair being combed by the wind. His palms were lined with deep lacerations, he felt the blood seep from his wounds, on to the ground beneath him.

Exhaling calmly, he pointed to his chest, and uttered; “Take it back.”