Raven's Chateau

Damien was exhausted.

Clutching his hiking cane, he propped himself up against the trunk of a tree and slumped down between its roots, letting out a long sigh. He wasn't fit and he knew that far too well.

The night before, he had got drunk with an old friend; one he hadn't seen in years. Abiding to social customs, Damien felt obligated to make up for lost time, so most of that previous night ended up as a drunken haze of jolly singing and hearty conversation. He didn't even remember his friend's name, let alone why he agreed to climb the accursed mountain.

The trek to the mountain was enough of a challenge for Damien, despite its lack of difficulty. The paths were paved with wooden planks and railings - a safe, soft hike alongside paddy fields - with multiple points of shade to rest and catch one's breath. But upon passing a cairn at the foot of the mountain itself, the supposed favor became a commitment. The route became steep; resting points became more scarce; wooden steps became stone; the railing fell away, leaving the trail exposed to the sheer cliffs which snaked alongside it.

The steps kept rising on and on, so sheer that he had to climb on all fours, soft hands in contact with sharp edges of a stairway to nowhere. They cut into his palms, drawing blood and causing deep gashes, making him wince with each passing incline.

Reaching the end, Damien had lost all of his stamina. He lugged his weight over the last step, collapsing so quickly that he could have fallen off the side in his descent.

Sweating, he unbuttoned his flannel shirt and rolled up the sleeves. He regretted wearing an additional shirt beneath it; despite being late Autumn, it never seemed cold enough for any extra clothing.

He cursed under his breath and propped himself upright with his staff; he wiped perspiration from his brow. Grimacing at sweat entering his wounds, he began to carefully search his backpack for bandages. After dressing and binding his hands, he stood, dusted himself off and looked forward to the path ahead. Throwing on his bag, he trudged on, following the scar of the trail.

The rest of the path at that point was extremely overgrown. The ground was soft with moss and vegetation; hanging branches draped overhead, causing a natural tunnel; light shimmered between leaves, causing hypnotic waves. It was almost alien, and as Damien looked behind him, the setting sun began to dip beneath the horizon, burning the sky in amber streaks.

Pushing aside some greenery, he peered out over the cliff edge. The world below seemed so small; little specks of creatures danced in an almost endless void of greenery.

This must be the final stretch, Damien thought to himself. The pack he carried - which once felt light - now weighed him down, like it was pulling him back down the mountain itself.

Upon reaching the peak, Damien slumped to the ground - breathless - facing upwards towards the orange-coloured sky. Looming over him was a massive willow tree, spindly branches dangling above his face, which gave him a strange sense of nostalgia.

He sat upright. In front of him was a simple log chateau, tucked neatly against the edge of the cliff.

He hobbled over to the walls of oak; the rough textures of bark and inclines of moss, soft to the touch. The comforting smell of evening dew filled his nose. Houses weren't built like this anymore, and he missed that.
The door to the cabin was broken; any glass had been smashed long ago; shards of window panes scattered its interior. Veins of the willow tree drooped over the cabin, swaying in the breeze as Damien draped his fingertips across the wood grain of the walls.

Following the exterior, Damien reached the back of the house, a quaint outdoor lounging area. The roof of the chateau jutted out, creating a canopy of shade, over a lone bench, laying in layers of leaves and lichen.