The droplet now said this:
The more he resisted, the more the mountain held on.
The more he twisted, the deeper it bit.
The sharper the stone became.
The tighter it clung.
He had fought the Albweiss as if the mountain were the enemy.
And that — that was his mistake.
Perhaps that was why he had lost it. The 
— that divine connection to the mountain.
The droplet now said this:
The more he resisted, the more the mountain held on.
The more he twisted, the deeper it bit.
The sharper the stone became.
The tighter it clung.
He had fought the Albweiss as if the mountain were the enemy.
And that — that was his mistake.
Perhaps that was why he had lost it. The
— that divine connection to the mountain.
Or rather, he had walked away from it, fallen from grace, blind in discomfort and disorientation, not recognising the cold as something sacred. Not understanding that this, too, was the will of the Albweiss.
So now, he stopped. Nagrak stopped resisting.
The mountain obviously wanted him to remain.
So he hung around and waited.
The scuttlering silence below waited with him.
Time passed and went slack, uncoiled from any reliable rhythm. It stretched and sagged like the sinews in his injured arm. His legs dangled. His back ached. Blood dried. Frost climbed. Breath came shallow, then deep, then shallow again.
And still, he waited.
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