Lead

Head tilted back, the neck pain starts to set in. 
He stares up, only seeing the strained calves of his partner. 
The rope is held tight in his right hand, 
the blood forgetting where it was going, 
trapped in fingertips. 
He feels the rope pull slightly, and lets it slide through. 
Blood rushes back like a dam has been lifted. 

Above him the climber gropes for holds. 
His fingertips are on fire, in antithesis of the partner below. 
A crimp juts out of the rock, and he delicately places his fingers over it. 
Pull, test, weight, 
hold, move feet up, breathe. 
These are the things that matter to the climber. 
With a step up his body fights against gravity and his ally is friction. 
Rubber mashes with rock and his toes dig into the rock face. 
He sees a glint of steel ahead. 
"Not too far" he thinks. 
The other hand follows suit and he puzzles over the rock face, 
solving the riddle that is the route as he climbs upward and onward. 

Aluminum meets steel with a satisfying click. 
"CLIPPING!" 
Out pulls the rope with speed and determination, nylon slightly frayed in the hand.
It graces the bosom of the carbineer, clipped and safe. 
Rest, safety, solace 
only to be shattered by the next handhold and foothold as he climbs above. 

Below, his belayer has lost sight of him, but the tug on the rope means he is still there.