Indigo whispers

I do not know why am here. Why have I hiked up this mountain, having dropped everything along the way? Here I am, sitting in a hollow for shelter. This is not the summit, but then again the point was not the summit. What was the point? It is cold. I can hear whispering chatter through the crevice, gossiping. They talk about me, remarking how fragile I seem. How can a lost boy have reached the doorstep of Aeolus? It is the North one that I can hear most clearly tonight.