He waited until the sun had settled at its peak – warm, despite the chill of the season, before making his way out to the woodlands again. It had become a habit, a routine, to wander amidst clearings and copses, like an incandescent reminder of things long since passed and gone (why he recalled mist and fog, the roll of the waves hitting against rocky outcrops). Sometimes the shadows treated him like an old friend, and they meandered together, sticking to the dusk and the gloom, the Stygian shrouds welcoming him back into the agonizing threshold. It was an invitation to immorality, and ordinarily he might bask right in the thick of it, be that nefarious, sinister opus again, dragged from perils and given a suitable task. But if he intended to survive throughout the winter, he wouldn’t be able to meander in the throes of darkness and upheaval for long.
He spotted his main mission in one of the sunlit clearings, a fallen oak tree, departed from its roots, blown down and away from a storm. He preferred the sensible hardwood to the softer cedar or pines, they burned better, provided more heat, wove their last breaths in a phoenix flare. The already felled timber also required less work, prospered efficiency rather than returning at later time, when he’d rested and restored his stamina from mauling it from its living precipice. Besides, it would dry out faster, a lot less green than the ones still occupying the wood, still providing vitality.
Deimos placed the sled he’d been dragging nearby, presuming it would be easier to maneuver amongst the snow, sticks, branches, and bramble rather than a wheelbarrow, and picked up the ax resting across it. It was strong, durable, a content buzz of weaponry in his hands, but it wouldn’t be used for an executioner’s swing, barbaric and keen – suited precisely for cutting away at the resting log. He made his way over, disturbing the peace and tranquility as he raised the ax over his head and brought it down in brawny precision, eyeing the measurements with a few glances, moving down the timber and slicing it into neat sections. It was methodical work, brought a refreshing ache and relish to his muscles, and allowed him to simply work without the essence of any other mutinous thoughts.
