Marcus
Turn the rich into wine as you walk on the mean
The ice was unyeilding. The pickaxe bit into the ice with a dull, stubborn sound that barely echoed. Marcus braced, swung again, and felt the jarring sting travel up through his arms. The path was thick with the ice, the history of nights of endless cold and suffocating dark layering and layering. Each strike broke only fragments loose, and Marcus sighed as he looked to see only what looked like a handful of shattered glass spread over the pathway.
His breath fogged the air, his shoulders burned, and still the ice refused to give. He tried to find rhythm in the work, to tell himself effort was enough, but it was humbling in a quiet, aching way. He, like the ice, did not yield. He willed the excitement he felt about helping to stay in his heart and keep his arms swinging, the Olson grit a platform for him to stand on. Then Deimos lifted his hand, and the air shifted—heat rippling outward, ice hissing as it melted back from his feet. Marcus lowered the pickaxe for a moment, his chest heaving, cerulean eyes wide in quiet gratitude.
Then he swung again, continuing on the work now made easier by Deimos' power.
Marcus keeps at it!
His breath fogged the air, his shoulders burned, and still the ice refused to give. He tried to find rhythm in the work, to tell himself effort was enough, but it was humbling in a quiet, aching way. He, like the ice, did not yield. He willed the excitement he felt about helping to stay in his heart and keep his arms swinging, the Olson grit a platform for him to stand on. Then Deimos lifted his hand, and the air shifted—heat rippling outward, ice hissing as it melted back from his feet. Marcus lowered the pickaxe for a moment, his chest heaving, cerulean eyes wide in quiet gratitude.
Then he swung again, continuing on the work now made easier by Deimos' power.
Marcus keeps at it!
