There was a girl, legend told, who lived at the peak of the highest mountain in the country, just outside the village of Katari. Her lair was carved from ice, they said, riddled with caves that held the books of greatest knowledge. Once a year, a small group of men would get it in their heads to climb the mountain and seek the girl's hand. Fording rivers, crossing through the jungle, and then making their way up the craggy slopes, most men perished. Those that were seen ascending into the haze of snow above were never seen returning, and their names are lost to history.
It is a climb I have made, I who am old enough now to tell you this without fear of reprisal. I have seen her. Spoken to her. Touched her hand. She is cursed, but not in the way you or I think of as cursed. She is endlessly intelligent and has no need for her books, yet loves them all. She is flawlessly beautiful, yet does not care to see her reflection in the ice packed on the cliffsides. She cannot exist on the low plains below the mountains. She would turn into something else entirely. And I, merely a man, could not exist beside her, as the air was too rare for me and I could not turn into something that I am not.
I am old now, and I cannot make that climb again. When I die, son, carry me with you up the mountainside. When we die, when our bones are picked clean by the creatures who live in the caves, she will gather them, and we shall know peace.