A Story on Stone

The path went up now.

The soft dirt was gone. Now there were rocks. Small rocks that moved under Bob's feet. Big rocks that he had to climb over. His legs were short. It was hard work.

Traveller was always there to offer a steady hand. They climbed higher and higher. The air grew thin and cool. The world below them became a wide, green map.

As they climbed, the sky changed.

The two suns were still bright, but dark clouds gathered around the grey mountain peak. The peak the compass pointed to. The clouds were a strange, deep purple color. They swirled and moved fast.

A low rumble echoed through the mountains. Then, the rain began.

It was not a normal rain. The drops were warm, like bathwater. The wind that came with it did not howl. It whispered. It made a soft, hissing sound as it moved through the rocks, like many quiet voices talking at once.

"We need shelter," Traveller's voice was loud over the whispering wind.

They found it. A dark crack in the side of the mountain, hidden behind a curtain of wet, hanging moss. It was a cave.

Inside, it was dry and quiet. The sound of the whispering wind was muffled. It was dark, but it felt safe.

Traveller made a fire, just like before. The small, crackling flame pushed back the darkness and the cold. The firelight danced on the stone walls around them.

And it showed them they were not alone.

The walls of the cave were covered in paintings.

They were old. The colors were faded. Red, white, and black. They were simple shapes, like a child's drawing. But they told a story.

Bob stood up and walked closer to the wall. He saw pictures of tall people in long robes. Their faces were not drawn, but he knew they looked like Traveller.

He saw pictures of big, shiny birds with wings like glass. The Shardwing Griffin. They were not drawn as monsters. They were drawn next to the robed people, like friends. Like guardians.

Then, Bob saw another figure.

It was drawn in almost every picture. Next to the tall, robed people. It was a small person. Very small. With messy, bright hair, drawn with a white paint that seemed to glow a little in the firelight.

The small person was being led by the robed people. They were walking. Climbing. Always towards a drawing of a single, sharp mountain peak.

The same peak the compass pointed to.

Bob's eyes went wide with recognition. He reached out and touched the wall. His small finger traced the outline of the small, white-haired person.

He turned to Traveller, a big, happy smile on his face. He pointed at the small figure on the wall.

"Bob!" he said, his voice echoing a little in the cave.

Then, he pointed at the tall, robed figure standing next to it.

"You!"

To him, it was simple. It was a picture of them. A fun surprise.

But Traveller did not smile. They were standing very, very still. Their body was a stiff, straight line. They walked to the wall and stared at the paintings, their face hidden deep in the shadow of their hood.

They saw the same thing Bob saw. But they also saw the other paintings. The ones that showed the cycle repeating. Again, and again, and again. A different robed figure each time. But the small, white-haired person was always the same.

This was not a journey. It was a pilgrimage. This was not a chance meeting. It was a pattern. An echo, trapped in a cave.

Traveller slowly reached out and placed their hand on the wall, right next to the drawing of the robed figure. Their hand was trembling.