Slowly but surely getting to the climax of the whole story - that is, when Popo and Nana finally reach the top of the mountain and defeat the condor! But there'll be more after that with my own twist on things, naturally. Trying to work at building emotions and development up here, too. I really like writing this; it's definitely going to be a story I actually finish with multiple chapters, which'll be a first for anything I've ever posted on here.
Anyway, enough rambling. Enjoy!
"How are you so good at everything you do?" the girl pouts at her companion.
"I'm not, though," he replies, frowning a little. "You make it sound like I'm perfect when I'm not."
She sighs, but smiles back.
"You're perfect enough."
We finally reach the foot of Icicle Mountain after hours of travelling.
The infamous summit isn't within the vicinity of any civilisations or tribes; it resides in the very heart of our vast region, poised triumphantly over our many populations. The surrounding baby peaks are like its minions, guarding its throne, those fangs acting like its very own fortress. But we've managed to plough through the wall of fangs together, and here we are, at the bottom of this notorious peak.
They say many have tried and failed to conquer this mountain. That's what puts off most explorers from approaching it, oddly enough: they're far too attached to the weak thread of life that they've been hung by to risk snapping it. The budding and daring before them who took on the challenge of Icicle Mountain – cliché as it may sound – were never recorded to have returned.
The sun is veiled once again by a flurry of clouds overhead, grey and foreboding as they should be around this dastardly peak. It's about noon, I think, and neither of us knows how long we'll be up this mountain for, how long we'll be trapped within its chilling mist amongst the frostbitten boulders and stones. Imprisoned forever…? Together might be nice, but for them back home – yes, the thought of them back home is the only thing keeping me from running away from it all. I'm here for them, not only for us.
"I have an idea," I blurt out, my intended words of comfort wobbling and shaking. Popo's gaze curiously turns to me. I laugh nervously before I continue.
"This mountain's pretty tough, yeah? We...we might die."
For a moment, his eyes darken as he grunts in affirmation. Not with bitterness or distastefulness, though. With the shivers and quiet of fear.
"What's your idea?" he asks.
I suck in a breath before I answer. This is another step I'm taking to reach the peak of the mountain I'm about to climb.
"Hold my hand when you're scared, and I'll do the same with you. Just to make this a bit better."
Popo blinks, briefly startled by my response and the random idea itself. "But we always hold each other when we're climbing, more or less," he replies.
"Exactly." I smile widely at him, sending out a message of acknowledgement. He doesn't show it, that apprehension, but he can't deceive me, not after all this time. No matter how good he is at lying to everyone else.
He can only blink again, stunned by the words coming out of my mouth, but he nods after a moment, returning my smile and taking my hand into his, our mallets clutched in each of our own other hands. It's enough to warm my cheeks just a little, to keep me warm and cosy enough for the arduous journey ahead of us.
"Ready?"
"As you are."
And so, we set off.
The heights of the mountain are surrounded by the dark blanket of the night shortly after we begin to ascend it; of course, we haven't progressed much upwards, perhaps only a few hundred metres, but it's enough for the first day. The end of our journey is so close, yet so far, and I can only hope that it doesn't descend to meet us earlier.
We only stop when we can find a cavern on one of the layers of the mountain we're on, and after evicting any nearby Topis (politely) within our vicinity, we set ourselves down in the hollow, taking a few breaths.
"We've got a long ways to go," I sigh loudly. "And here I was hoping we could get just about halfway up today."
Just as fatigued as I am, Popo mumbles, "We got here too late for that. We're not even a quarter of the way up."
"Well, we're better off having trekked a bit of it rather than none of it." I weakly grin, trying to keep the lantern alight for us both. Glancing towards the dim light between us both, it's only then I realise I'm still holding on to something. Something quite hard to let go of.
"What is it?" I raise my eyebrows.
No reply. His expression remains hidden within the depths of his thick hood. I squeeze his hand a little, offering my comfort, but his silence compels him, still.
"You're still holding my hand," I say, stating the obvious.
"I know."
Popo resents it, this human weakness he too has been endowed with, as we all naturally are; even he cannot escape the concrete clutch of fear and dread. This natural fear has muted him, its hand clasped over his mouth, so that he may not speak out or protest against it. His attempts are futile, and he doesn't speak.
"It's okay, I'm terrified too. I kind of regret suggesting this," I laugh nervously.
He soundlessly shakes his head. Attempt three hasn't worked. I guess it's time for attempt four: the silent treatment.
The lights aren't out today; the screen of mist and fog is too opaque, combined with the blackness of the night. Today, the aurora lanterns aren't here to dazzle us with their luminous glow. They've left us alone for now.
Yet, the soft gusts of wind juxtapose the ominous thickness of the fog, barely affecting any of our surroundings. The near-silence is bliss, with the pace of each of our faint pulses soothing us with a little regularity and consistency. Like a beat that keeps us climbing on, further and further, endlessly. Eventually, I'll be able to break the ice.
I notice a brief tension tightening around my hand. I try to look at my friend in the eyes again, trying to find the source of his deep blues, but with each glance I make, he darts his gaze away, evading my own prying eyes. Slightly frustrated, I change my soft stare into a stubborn one, obstinate and cold. It's okay, as long as it gets something out of him, even just a single word.
"I'm really scared, Nana."
He finally meets my line of sight.
I smile. "Same here. I-"
"I'm not talking about the mountain," he interrupts somewhat irritably. "even if it is terrifying. It's not that bad." And then he squeezes my hand again. It's basically impossible at this point for me to let go, nor could I possibly find it in me to do so.
I inhale a deep breath, shivering a little from the chilliness around us.
"Then what?"
Popo seems to jolt at the prospect of revealing what troubles him so, almost stunned by my inquiry. He starts, words forming upon his mouth, only for them to dissolve. Lips wobbling, scattered "um"s and "uh"s tumbling out.
"...you..."
The word finally escapes into the wild. My heart sinks. But he doesn't let go, and I'm as lost for words as he is.
I feel like I'm falling into an abyss.
"I...I don't want..."
Please, stop telling me. I don't want to hear it. I don't want the truth. Can't you let me pretend a little bit more?
Those invasive thoughts pierce through my chest, stabbing and thrusting themselves through my weak body. They send waterfalls, rushing out of my eyes. Stop it, silly girl. Stop it, stupid. Idiot. I can't escape, he's still holding on to me, and he won't let go, won't leave it.
"Don't go."
What?
"I can't lose you, I, I can't- I don't-"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I blubber, not even bothering to hide the fact I'm bawling my eyes out.
Hurry up and tell me!
"I'm scared to lose you, or that you'll go, or that you'll let go, or that I'll let go, and I don't mean to, Nana, honestly, please listen, I don't want-"
Without thinking, I do it.
I shut his mouth with my own palm, muffling any further things he has to say. Just for a little while, he keeps blabbering, panicked and hasty, but refrains when he (finally) acknowledges my tears. I can't help but whimper and sniff, despite my futile efforts of resistance. It just doesn't work.
"Slow down." It comes out shaky, but it comes out.
I observe Popo carefully, till I'm sure he won't burst into a fit again, and gently remove my hand from his face. He can only stare back, stupefied, stunned, shocked. But at what?
Then he looks down. "I didn't mean to make you cry. Sorry."
I shake my head. "It's- it's nothing." When he doesn't immediately respond, I add, "Seriously, I'm fine, I'm fine."
For the moment, we're both silent once again, save my occasional sniffles and shudders. The cold seems to rise, clutching to us more tensely. I watch puffs of icy mist leave my lips with every exhale, fluffy, warm mist. I shiver.
"Don't leave me," Popo pleads. "Don't go." His own blue orbs look as if they're about to well up too, teardrops sparkling at the edges of his eyes. But he breathes in deeply, fighting them back, and meets my gaze again.
Where's my smile when I need it? "I...I'm not gonna go anywhere, dummy." I try to choke out a chuckle, only for it to sound more like a dying Nitpicker's cry. "Trust me on that."
"But you said you'd fall for me," he argues. "I don't want you to have to make that sacrifice. You shouldn't have to."
I hesitate, unsure if I want to hear what he'll say next when I already know. "I- I know you think that, but...but, you gotta accept in the worst-case scenario, it might be necessary-"
"No!" At that very point, his grasp on my hand is so tense, so desperate and tight – I feel like my bones might crush beneath it. So tightly is he holding onto me, refusing to let go at all.
I can only cry out in distress in response. At this, he still doesn't release my hand but loosens his grip enough for it to stop hurting. I breathe out a relieved sigh, opening my eyes to meet his again. At this point, I can't even tell what he's thinking or feeling; his expression is some twisted combination of sorrow, terror, something else – not many things I can put my finger on. But his reserved placidity has long been shattered.
So I have to put his pieces back together.
He asks me a question.
"What do I do, Nana?"
It's impossible not to flinch at the despair and hopelessness embedded within those five words. Yet, what words am I meant to use to counteract their blues? What good can my rose shades and violet flowers offer in exchange for their sorrow?
I don't know.
"...What do you mean?"
He waits to reply for a moment, sunken in thought. "I've no idea how," he finally says. "How can I become..."
"...good enough?"
The frustration I bade earlier seems to wash over me once again, grabbing me almost as tightly as Popo just did. Then I remember the words he spoke to me once before when I'd fallen into the same pit he now finds himself in. The guilt I felt in belittling and berating him only a while ago atop one of many snow-capped mountains; even now, it sits in the back of my mind, taunting and haunting my memory. I don't know. I don't know if he feels exactly the same way I especially did back then – no, he can't, not really, since we're all different. Our emotions are unique to each and every one of us. That's what I learned from our last conflict, and I'm not going to try and spark another flame again. I can't.
"But, Popo. You already are."
To that, he doesn't reply, aiming his gaze back at the cave floor once again. He looks ashamed.
"You're- you're one of my closest friends, and for good reason, too. You know that, right? We wouldn't be where we are now if you weren't...um, "good enough", as you've phrased it. I don't know what your idea of a "good enough" person is, but for me, it's someone like you." For sure, I add as an afterthought, privately.
Popo scoffs, somewhat bitterly. "Someone who doesn't have the strength to properly protect you? Someone who doesn't have the courage to lead a village?"
"That's not true," I rebut. "Stop lying."
Then he opens his mouth as if to argue back, triggering the dread inside me yet again, but quickly closes it. So he knows too.
"Sorry. We've been over this already."
I grunt in affirmation, unable to hide the spike of annoyance in my voice. It isn't like I'm not already used to Popo's insecurities about himself. But it's hard for me too; almost as if I'm throwing all my love and affection and words at a wall instead of a person. When that happens, it makes me ask the same question he asked me to myself. Yes...that's how I felt those few days ago.
Then he continues. "I appreciate it, though. Really."
"Well, how do you think I feel? I wish I could give you a good answer too." It almost comes off like a snap, but I manage to restrain myself. I really shouldn't be feeling this way, should I?
Popo shakes his head again. "I don't mind if you don't have an answer. If I want one, I'll make it obvious." He pauses. "I...I know I did ask you a question, but, um- well, I suppose it was somewhat rhetorical. I was thinking out loud and I, well. I ended up laying it all off on you. I'm sorry."
Asking a question without expecting an answer? Mysterious as ever, it seems. Even after seven years of our friendship, I still can't get my head around the labyrinth that is the brain of Popo. How he thinks, why he thinks so, how he feels – he's like a book written in an alien language, sometimes. I wish I was fluent. The bare silence between us for the moment doesn't lessen that desire by a bit.
"How can I help you if I don't have the right answer, then? I don't get it. I want to help you and make you feel happy, you know. You're my friend."
The surrounding sound is empty, a cacophony of naked nothingness blaring out even louder. It's deafening. I can't hear. So, tell me once more, Popo.
"You listen. And that's enough."