eleven

Days have a way of turning right into weeks and months when you are focused on their rhythm. The Daemon Fyndraxis had fallen into a sort of schedule of work and the days started to slip away from him. A lot of his day was spent twiddling the mental knob of his radio and listening to the results, or lack thereof. He managed to catch a satellite or two every once in a while, but those precious moments were few and far between. He recorded the results and saved them for analysis.
He had some creative time where he would plan light shows, and was able to better his techniques everyday. This all needed to happen in his Sanctum though. Anything that needed any sort of algorithmic coaxing had to happen at his computer. He was reluctant to do this because of the temporal difference between his Sanctum and the outer world. He started to consider the outer worlds temporal ratio to be 1:1, and his Sanctum was cruising along at something like 1,000:1 or 10,000:1, he really had no way to figure that out.
Every second that he spent at his computer was a microsecond in the world beyond. His time in the sword was blazing by, while time outside was at a standstill. It was a bit like having a pause button at his disposal, but faced with an unknown length of time abiding in a forest, who would want to hit the pause button. It seemed paradoxically like a waste of time.
So, the Summer slipped into Autumn as he kept his rhythm of days. All evidence of the boy was secreted into the occult ossuary of the forest, so he had the clearing all to himself. A fairy circle of mushrooms eventually sprouted where his body had laid for a time, no doubt the result of his finding a different job description in the food chain.
His light shows got more and more elaborate as he gained skill in that regard, each elaboration feeling like the key to his rescue. As the sun tracked lower and lower in the sky every day and the green leaves packed it in for the season, time passed at the same steady rate. Fyndraxis felt every second of it. Eventually the snows came and brought a brand of quiet to the forest that Fyndraxis had never known. The utter silence was broken only by the occasional hearty bird or misguided squirrel. For some time he was completely buried in snow and had the distinct displeasure of abiding in a world of pure white directionless light, and at night an all encompassing blackness that knew no bounds.
After what seemed like a thousand years, the winter subsided and life slowly began to return to the forest. Birds began to sing, and the local squirrels were no longer a misguided bunch. Trees began to bud, and eventually unfurl their great photosynthetic canopies. Fyndraxis continued his work, undaunted by the frustrations he faced in his complicated relationship with time.
These works that he was involved in were not in vain. He had indeed called attention to himself. He had ages to plan his next step, and the plan was something devious that he had fallen for thousands of times.