Stoke the fires

The sound of cracking ice would be considered a cause for alarm. The northern mines was no respite. The man’s days blended together, night and day. He couldn’t sleep at all sometimes, feeling like his body may just fall apart even someone so much as brushed against it. So just outside of the mines he stood on a slab of ice, cracks beginning to move through it but he simply just watched. His paws were firmly planted, he thought. Yet another part of him begged that some sort of fall would kill him. Not that a tiny boulder would do much other than harm the healer. Yet the healer with his skin and bone body, when he genuinely had tried to care for himself. It had just fallen flat.

So when the ice cracked. Fenix slipped down rather gracefully. Sliding onto the softened snow below and laying flat. Stopping short of a tree trunk the wolf sighed and just let his body stay where it was. So what did he do today, mindlessly he’d been tending to his families graves. But now even that task itself felt menial at best. His chin rested in snow, staring up at the bark of the tree. He just let himself breath, in, and out. Felt like that was all he could do.