The wood screamed in comfort and warmth. A necessary, hidden evil. An unspoken right to forsake the gift of creation. Bestowed by hands and minds.
Sparks journey to heavens uncharted as another log lands in hell.
"Blast this damned chill." His voice almost muffled by the forest of his face.
"Throw on another log, lest we freeze to death," pleaded the pile of furs.

Another log.
Another journey.
Another nameless sin.

The brilliant pores of heaven's face twinkle undisturbed. The anxious wind finds its purchase in the branches of horrored yew. The rustling prayer is lost on the soldiers.
Beyond the gale lies the land of man and myth. Born to be loved, protected, sieged, and forgotten. Half burns. Half shivers. Whole is lost.

"Aye... Meerkin. What's on y'mind, son." Breath falls deeply through his thicket.
"A warm cot, a cold rye... and a beautiful woman." The pile shifts and replies.
Like distant thunder, the beard laughs. "Ha! Careful there, son. Read my thoughts once more and I'll take you for a warlock!"
"Hmph. Careful, old man. I hold no empathy for monsters."
The old man's sunken eyes rest upon the creation of hell, though attention rests elsewhere, not here, not present.
"We're all monsters, son." He speaks as if the trees must not ever hear the truth already obvious to them.

Nature abhors a vacuum, so silence takes its place.
Neither banish, nor welcome it. It rests at the fire like everything else. Uninvited, unnoticed, yet despised with no name.

And thus, the silence spoke.

"Do you ever wonder why we're here?" The pile was now a philosopher.
The sunken eyes climb out of hell to rest upon the distant heaven.
"A holy gift, or a bizarre curse? I do not believe the answer is found amongst language, my dear friend."
The pile gave birth to a man, erect in posture, smooth in face, bright in eyes. Claiming the old man's attention.
"No, you codger. Here! Why are we at war?"
The sunken eyes widen in surprise. Such a simple question. Such a simple answer.
"Defending our motherland, or so I'm told." He projected from his thicket.

"Or..." He growled in contemplation. He had found something in the dark.

Warm, cold, and quiet.

"Mayhaps... the kings just needed logs for the fire."

Now whether that's AI or James Joyce' bro brought back to life... that's... some pretty impressive writing on the whole, I'd say.

Nope. Not AI. Just a lunch break hobby.

I'm glad you liked it. Means the world to me.

Very happy to see oroginal work here. Keep writing!