Short Story: Whip’s Axe

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Whip stepped back and wiped his grimy forehead with the back of his hand. He had been working for nearly an hour and he saw that the sun was beginning to set.
He didn’t feel any pain from his efforts; he wasn’t even tired. He slid his hand down the smooth handle of the axe and felt with his fingers for the tiny bit of polished jasper embedded in the end. His magic combined with the structure of the gem made the tool unnaturally light in his hands and impossibly effective against the firewood.
He shook his head in sad wonder again. A year ago such a use of the magic would have been unthinkable. The magic was for important things, like enchanting swords and strengthening castle walls, not for lightening farm tools and waterproofing boots.
But now, in the aftermath and in the wilderness, survival and comfort were all that he had left. There was no civilization now, and he doubted there ever would be again. Not during his lifetime, anyway.
He shook his head to clear it. No sense chewing over that again.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

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