I am watching

The hiker is not afraid, but he should be.

It's dangerous to climb the mountain in the best of conditions, but attempting to summit the peak in the growing twilight is a terribly foolish idea. The hiker is not afraid, but he should be; he is not someone to be easily intimidated, but he will be. I've been following him for two hours now, and he hasn't turned around yet. He stopped once, and only once, to take an energy bar out of his backpack. Once he finished, he dropped the wrapper, left it right on the ground, right by the wildflowers.

That moment was what sealed his fate. Before then, I was unsure, uncertain as to whether he really did deserve my prosecution. Before then, he was merely a nuisance, a fool. After then? He was an enemy to the wild.

He passed tree line twenty minutes ago, the summit isn't too far ahead. Of course, he'll be dead before he gets there. He's not afraid, but he should be.

I stalk, I pad, I hunt. If he were to look behind him, he would see a nightmare. If he were to look behind him, he would see a pair of great yellow eyes, fangs like a wolf, claws like a bear, furled wings like an eagle. If he were to look behind him, he would see his death. But he doesn't look behind him, he doesn't pause to take in the twilight tundra.

To reach the summit, he'll need to scramble up a steep field of scree. I'll make my move then, I'll send him tumbling down until he reaches a great cliff at the bottom. I'll watch him die, I'll ensure that he dies.

We're nearly there, and I hear him sigh. He's tired, but he's not afraid. He should be. He starts his journey up the scree, and I let him ascend some, I let him ascend and then I push the rocks out from under his feet. I push him, I destabilize him, and he is falling, and he falls. He falls down the scree, struggling to catch himself and stop his fall, but I am there beside him, and I keep the rocks sliding.

He yells, he shouts, but there's no response, not even an echo—only the pressing silence of the wild. He is alone, he is afraid. He is bleeding now, leaving red on the rocks he falls on, and his body is breaking. His body is breaking and he is afraid, but soon he won't be, he can't be. I am sending him into oblivion.

We reach the bottom of the scree field, and there's a steep cliff, a sharp cliff, two hundred feet of emptiness. Somehow, despite his bleeding and his breaking, he manages to catch himself on a rocky ledge at the very last moment. If he were truly alone, maybe he could pull himself up. If he were truly alone, maybe he could lie there until some emergency response team comes to rescue him, risking their lives for his.

But he is not alone, and he knows it, he sees me. His eyes are full of fear. He is afraid, as he should be. He is afraid, but soon he won't be. He clings onto the ledge. I leap, I push him off the edge, my claws cutting into his chest as he falls, falls, falls. As we near the bottom of the cliff, I let him go, my wings unfurling as I watch him die. He will lay there until he is found, then his death will appear in the human news, a tragedy, and the mountain will gain additional notoriety.

Most people who visit here respect the mountain, most people who visit here respect the wild. And for those who don't, for those who tread with audacity and arrogance, I am here, and I am watching.