Strings of Fate

Old Habits, Old Stories, Old Memories

...

STRINGS OF FATE

Part VII: Old Habits, Old Stories, Old Memories

...

"Grrrrugh... ha!"

Steven heaved and tossed the large wooden beam into the heap. It fell with a loud "Boomph" as loose dust flew from the impact.

Piles of organized rubble surrounded him. Splintered shards of wood combined into a jagged heap. Still dark and damp from the outside, slabs of plaster still attached to large beams and thin boards. He employed the assistance of curious creepers to explode the remaining useless rubble with a well-timed scare and dodge.

A risky, but highly rewarding method of demolition.

Soot, sulphur, and scorched rubble sat upon the remaining foundation. The carefully cut and polished flooring rotted into warped bonfire fuel. He spent the entire day clearing away the remains of the house until the foundation sat a sad flat shape sticking out from above the long grass that lined the edge of the cobbled concrete.

A dark gray slab of stone, thick holes where logs once stood filled with water and rippled as bugs disturbed the mirrored surface.

Cuttings of new oak and birch saplings dotted around the homestead, closing in on the meadow they had once cleared out. Piles of bone meal packed beneath their budding roots. The garden was up-turned and cleared.

The common plants ground and placed into compost to rejuvenate the tilled soil. The paddock where the horses wandered and grazed pocked with little sprouts of twiggy saplings.

The surrounding forest remained calm, a whooshing of wind through the rustling leaves. Critters skittered through the tall grass as fauna continued their daily lives around this man-made intrusion to their realm.

Mid-day came and afternoon went. Everything was nearly cleared from the shrunken meadow and compressed into the inventory of a single chest. He removed piles of clutter from the grass it trampled upon. Only the cobbled foundation sat peeking a stony gray from the tall spindly grass that waved in the breeze.

Night came, and the miner scampered away to the small shack. Peaceful quiet in the underground bunker. A small hole carved away that held the basics, enough to survive. A crafting table, furnace, bed, and other furnishings. The redstone lamp maintained a steady warm light basking across this small room. A carpet and shelves lined the walls from the furniture they stored away.

It wasn't home; it wasn't welcoming, but it would do. He'd lived through worse. There'd always been worse.

Going about his nightly routine, he shrugged off his gloves and grungy clothes. Wiped down with a rag and a bucket of water. Continued to peek over his shoulder, the looming dark frame. Glossy black and shimmering volcanic purple. A ring voice of power, its presence haunted his mind as its existence sat within his vicinity.

He half considered throwing a ragged fabric over it to obscure it from his view. It almost seemed as fate that his only place of refuge would be beside the entrance to hell. A symbol of a life always on the edge of disaster.

Jabs pulsed in his feet as he winced with every step. It felt like thin knives and needles were stabbing into the bones of his heels, crawling up his spine and coiling around the vertebrae like snakes, jolts of pain as he flexed and moved. Working himself to the point of utter exhaustion. It was the only thing that kept his mind from wandering.

It was the only thing he really knew how to do. Just keep going. Keep working. Keep surviving.

Alex was not here to advise him otherwise.