His great eyes looked out of the stone of the mountain, and they saw everything. Not just everything that was, but everything that ever had been.
He had seen the world when it was a barren place, a world of twisted rock and foaming seas, where ice clashed with fire, where the elements battled in unending enmity. He had fought, too. His battle scars were plain to see, his craggy face was scarred: ice flows, rain’s lashing, the hot, searing lava rushing across his flesh. But now he was old, and still. His ichor was growing dry, the veins now nothing more than veins of rock. Men came, they chiseled and tunneled, they tore ores from his belly and stole diamonds from his heart. They no longer feared his hails of boulders, no longer ran in terror, afraid that he would unfold his giant limbs and storm across their lands. They did not know that he watched them, that he could feel their hammers within himself.
The great titan looked out upon the world. All his fellows were gone, made one with the world. Still he waited. Still the eagles landed, made nests upon his rocky shoulders. His crown of snow was splendid in the sun, but none knew the majesty of his youth. He was growing into the mountain, growing mortal, soon to be dead and cold as stone. All he could do now was watch the world grow, watch the gods vanish one by one, and wait for the tides to rise, and dash him to pieces. Then he would be a titan no more: just another fallen king.
(Prompts: titan, recollection)