Willow sprinted as fast as she could, her punctured foot causing her to limp along as she ran. Every so often, she'd twist her back too much and have to slow down. Every time she did, the cold would seep into her skin, into her muscles. It would come down her throat, making it feel like she'd drunken acid. Then she would run again. Despite the pain in her foot. Despite the pain of her back. Despite her aching lungs. Those were all better than the cold.
As she ran, her fire flickered in a long trail, sending plumes of smoke along her path. The grass was too wet to burst into flames as she ran, but the hiss of evaporating water was loud with every step. Finally, she felt the clacking of her shoes against hardened dirt. She skidded to a stop and surveyed her surroundings. Her hot breath plumed in front of her, making it even harder to see. The smell of the icy air, that muted scent, mixed in with the evergreen smell. She could taste the ashen leaves in her mouth with every inhale.
She caught sight of the corpse a few meters away, it's pool of red blood throwing its black body into sharp relief. It was only now, as Willow advanced upon it, that she saw the egg. This huge ostrich egg, blue as ice with white spots covering its surface. It sat in a straw nest, almost hidden behind its now dead mother. Willow stooped down, looking the egg over. She pulled off one of her fire gloves and pressed a hand against the shell.
The egg was still warm. Something inside willow twinged. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps an old memory. Perhaps it was simply hunger. But whatever it was, it was enough for her to pick the egg up and wrap it in her bag. It was huge and took up most of the bag, but if she kept the pickaxe out she was sure it would be fine.
Willow walked over to the rock. The titan of stone, laced in golden strands. She slammed the pick against the rock. Once, twice, three times. The sound of metal clanging on metal rung loud against this silent landscape. Rung loud into the dark, cloudy sky. After ten minutes, when her hands felt that they might burst for the blisters, the boulder came crumbling down. Willow began the task of yanking her gloves back on to get away from the cold again.
She hefted the rubble in her arms and began the trek home. The fire was out now, leaving only the cooling ashes wrapped around her. Her teeth clacked as if she were a machine, and her chest shivered in time. She hobbled as fast she could move to the tree line, but she was so exhausted and it was so cold. Finally, after what felt like an hour, Willow made it to the trees. In fumbling, shaking hands, she grasped her flints.
Clack.
Come on.
Clack.
Come on.
Clack.
Come on!
Clack
Argh!
Clack. Fwoosh.
A single, tiny flame caught against the tree. Willow held her hands around the fire, desperate for its warmth. She watched as it refused to climb up the tree. Only the very tip wanted to ignite, the little fire already blackening the leaves it was living upon. Clack. Willow tried to burn further down the branch. Clack. Willow tried to burn a different branch. Clack. Willow tried to burn a nearby tree.
"Fuck this place," Willow muttered aloud.
She hit the flint pieces together over and over. Clack, clack, clack. Each swing more exaggerated than the last, each one with more swearing than the previous. By the end, Willow was screaming at the tree, screaming at God, screaming at the cold. But no amount of screaming would make this tree ignite. If it could, her language alone would have brought the whole forest to the ground.
The first little fire had dwindled by now, and Willow knew what she had to do. She began to walk.
