Phoenix

Mors climbed the final ascension of the mountain, using all of the energy he had just to put one foot in front of the other and slowly push to gain height. The hike up the mountain had taken two days, with very little sleep, and frequent near death experiences. It wasn't that there were overly many wild animals there that threatened his life, but the path was unmarked, with very loose ground and thin walkways around the steeper, unclimbable bits. It was a constant struggle to find foot and hand holds that would last longer than only a few seconds.

But the peak was becoming visible now, though it was still a long ways off. It was enough motivation to keep Mors walking, despite the pain in his legs and the blisters on his feet. He was traveling lightly, a jug of water on one hip, a pouch of food on the other, and a long wooden rod on his back. The rod he was able to use when crossing large gaps in the path to carry himself from one side to the other. He was a talented acrobat back in his home, though when he had traveled to this land, he had found that had become and entirely different beast.

The air at the top of the mountain was thin, but fresher than anything he had ever experienced before. It was as though he had broken through a barrier as he summited, the fresh new air filling his lungs and invigorating him. It was only a matter of moments after he had come to stand at what could only be described as the top of the world when a burst of flame descended from the sky and landed in front of him.

From the flames came the distinctive shape of a massive bird, orange and red feathers blending into the flames surrounding it, eyes to match. It towered above Mors, looking down at him, no distinct emotion visible in its eyes, a presence about it heavy in the air, as if trying to speak with him. Mors stared back at it, as though he were looking into a void. It was asking something of him, he could tell. But he wasn't sure what it was.

Without a word, Mors reached out to the phoenix, his hand falling gently on the feathered head. And the very moment it did, the bird caught flame once more. An intense, burning inferno of flames, from which Mors could not remove his hand. He could only watch as the flames engulfed his hand, and the bird inside of them turned to ash. As the ashes fell to the ground, the fire was pulled into Mors' hand, like a whirlpool sinking down into him. The heat burned inside him, and he couldn't help but stare down at his hand. It had been engulfed in the flames for a number of minutes, and yet it was unburnt.

And from the ashes emerged a small chick, with red and orange feathers, that looked up at him curiously. He scooped the bird into his hands, placed it gingerly on his shoulder, and without a word or second thought, began his descent back down the mountain. This was the first of many stops along his journey. And he had a feeling that, despite it all, it would be the easiest.