The minuscule, frozen field mouse in Theron's pouch did little to staunch the tide of my despair, but the sheer cold was a relentless master, allowing no time for self-pity. The blinding wind had a cutting edge that promised frostbite in minutes, forcing the mind into a tight, immediate focus. We left the riverbank and turned towards the shattered, skeletal treeline on the ridge.
Every step was a negotiation with the snow. Elian's body—my body now—was a liability. The fatigue wasn't just physical; it was a profound, bone-deep lack of energy reserves. I stumbled again, my knee sinking into a drift, and I braced myself for Theron's inevitable grunt of impatience.
Instead, Theron stopped. He didn't look back; he was simply waiting. His silence was colder than the wind.
"I need a moment," I gasped, the air ripping painfully at my throat.
He turned then, his eyes two chips of ice beneath a brow crusted with rime. "A moment is what gets you found frozen stiff," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He didn't offer a hand. He just waited, his survivalist logic overriding whatever small scrap of empathy he might possess.
I pushed myself up, the white-hot shame of my weakness driving me forward. The man in me wanted to lecture him on caloric intake and muscle atrophy; the boy's body simply ached for rest.
When we finally reached the ridge, the wind died down, replaced by a suffocating stillness. The sight of the woods was grim: not a forest, but a graveyard of stripped, ancient pine. Theron moved to a fallen, knotty trunk, the wood so old it was almost petrified.
He pulled a small, wicked-looking hatchet from his belt, handing me the heavy, well-worn axe from the thick hide loop on his back. Its handle was polished smooth by years of labor.
"We take what's dead and dry," Theron commanded. "Two-foot lengths. You saw the fire. We run out tonight, we don't wake up tomorrow."
I gripped the axe. It felt impossibly heavy, a cruel extension of my own starved weight. I aimed for a broken branch, the easiest target. My first swing was a pathetic failure—the head glanced off the wood with a dull thunk, sending a jarring vibration up my arms.
My adult mind knew the physics: center of gravity, leverage, follow-through. Elian's body simply lacked the muscle memory and the raw power to execute the strike.
Frustration flared. I was a grown man, unable to chop a piece of wood. I lifted the axe again, a desperate, clumsy effort, and brought it down harder, this time connecting near the center. It bit shallowly, and I had to yank it free.
Theron, nearby, was working with a terrifying efficiency. He didn't swing; he threw the hatchet, his strikes precise and deep, splitting the dense wood with minimal effort. He paused, watching me struggle.
"The way you move," he said, "You've forgotten how to use your weight."
No, Theron, I thought, a bitter taste in my mouth, I haven't forgotten. I'm operating on five percent battery.
But the terror of the Morbid Winter was a better instructor than any rage. I swallowed my pride, focused on the dull, agonizing burn in my shoulders, and forced my mind to slow down. I remembered the rhythm: lift, breathe, focus the momentum, not the strength.
The next swing was better. The blow landed cleanly. With a final, agonizing effort that made my head swim, I managed to sever the small limb.
I looked at the wood in my hands, then at the vast, deadly landscape. The sun, a cold, indifferent coin, was already beginning its sickening descent. We had a long way to go, and I was holding a single, meager piece of fuel.
"Keep moving," Theron urged, already shouldering a small bundle of split wood. "We won't make it unless you carry at least four of those."
The weight of the wood, combined with the weight of Elian's empty memory and my new, terrifying responsibility, pressed down on me, heavy and relentless. But I swung the axe again, determined not to let this frail shell freeze before I could figure out how to live in it.