At Night, the Lanterns Cry

By Gustav Jacobsen

As the relentless war draws to a close, Oulyia’s fate hangs in the balance. With one final chance to repel the Covenant and save their land from the invading hordes, Oulyia rallies its last remaining army. But what if they fail? The weight of uncertainty looms heavy as their ultimate destiny teeters on the brink.

Pesan understands the slim odds and the painful reality that he was denied the chance to join the fight, unlike his brother. Yet, regardless of the war’s outcome, he knows he cannot remain with a family that neglects him and life itself. As the war for Oulyia nears its conclusion, Pesan’s own journey is about to unfold, with its own trials and tribulations.

In the gripping narrative of At Night, the Lanterns Cry, the ceaseless escalation of conflict unveils the profound impact of rulers’ pursuits on nations and their people. Allegiances are tested, friendships strained, and ideologies challenged as the characters navigate a world pushed to its limits. Prepare for an enthralling tale where the stakes are high, and the consequences of personal ambitions reverberate through the lives of nations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035818105

Gustav Jacobsen

Born and raised in Denmark, Gustav Jacobsen started writing at an early age, eager to create new worlds wherein stories emerged and characters lived. However, one thing was different, as these vivid worlds were not vivid in the same sense to him. Having aphantasia—the inability to conjure images in your head (referred to as “mind-blindness”)—meant that the words creating imagery for readers was an experience he could not know for himself. This became a source of motivation as the notion that his writing could create imagery and ‘mental movies’ for a reader, which only enticed him further. With this, he endeavoured to create stories that would give the reader as much imagery and world-building.

Book preview

At Night, the Lanterns Cry

Gustav Jacobsen

Austin Macauley Publishers

At Night, the Lanterns Cry

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgement

Part I: Ever On

Chapter 1: Concerns

Chapter 2: Unmade Memory

Chapter 3: A Slaughter of Lambs

Chapter 4: Homebound

Chapter 5: At Night, the Lanterns Cry

Chapter 6: The Increasing Distance

Chapter 7: The Fallen and the Livin’

Chapter 8: Roaring Silence

Chapter 9: Unenlightened Past

Chapter 10: Distant Knowledge

Chapter 11: Conflict Eternal

Chapter 12: Kindred Ground

Chapter 13: The Fox, the Stranger and the Damned

Part II: Darkness Beckons

Chapter 14: Formalities of War

Chapter 15: Shades Unknown

Chapter 16: Acts of Collision

Chapter 17: The Clamour of Rain Creates a Silence

Chapter 18: Ere the End of Reality

Chapter 19: Past the Clouds

Chapter 20: Nepenthe

Chapter 21: Back to It

Chapter 22: Where Ends Meet

Chapter 23: Trials of Man and Kings

Additional Chapter All That Matters

About the Author

Born and raised in Denmark, Gustav Jacobsen started writing at an early age, eager to create new worlds wherein stories emerged and characters lived. However, one thing was different, as these vivid worlds were not vivid in the same sense to him. Having aphantasia—the inability to conjure images in your head (referred to as mind-blindness)—meant that the words creating imagery for readers was an experience he could not know for himself. This became a source of motivation as the notion that his writing could create imagery and ‘mental movies’ for a reader, which only enticed him further. With this, he endeavoured to create stories that would give the reader as much imagery and world-building.

Dedication

To the real Liranoda.

Copyright Information ©

Gustav Jacobsen 2023

The right of Gustav Jacobsen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035818099 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035818105 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Effe, without whom this would not have been a reality, and numerous others. I hope my appreciation is known to you all as is, yet, though I expect you do; read this, and find yourself thanked once more. Thank you!

As well to the team at Austin Macauley Publishers, for their trust and kindness in their assistance.

In a land where everything is horrendous, so is the story in which it’s set.

If this story starts in misery, in misery it ends…

Part I

Ever On

Chapter 1

Concerns

Consarn it!

He kicked the snow off his boot. His aching lungs tried to regain breath. ‘One more week of this and I will kill someone,’ he thought.

He lowered his shoulders, loosened his jaw a little, twitched his feet slightly then readjusted the sack and sighed deep. He shook his head, his endurance almost completely gone. Then he walked in.

The house was enshrouded in a heavy atmosphere of unspoken words; today it felt even tenser.

The days were running out. It was the day afore the day.

Long-awaited, ever horrifying.

He walked past the living room—where they all sat, staring at him pass—and moved towards his room. Pulling off his boots, he tried to eavesdrop on the conversation that continued. Only murmuring could be heard.

He slyly withdrew the letter from the sack and placed it on his desk, his eyes so focused on the door he almost topped over an inkwell. The door stayed shut.

He studied the cracked seal, bearing the symbol of Oulyia. He opened it, finding it in a rough condition. Some words were unreadable, but he already knew them by heart. It wasn’t the content of the letter that grieved him, not like it had grieved all other households, even his taking him out of account. Which was exactly the issue, wasn’t it?

He sorrowfully closed the letter as his deep sigh was interrupted by voices in the back garden, located just outside his window. He hid the letter quickly underneath a blank parchment and kicked the sack beneath him towards his bed.

The voices were loud and inconsistent. He’d been worried for a second that they’d notice him in there, but he realised that in his eagerness in keeping the letter safe, he’d not lit any lights, which was quickly darkening even at this hour. He moved towards the window; half buried in snow.

At first, he only made out a few words, still incomprehensible without the context. When he’d snuck close enough, he could finally hear.

It’s what we agreed to!

It wasn’t my idea, the second voice said. He recognised them both.

It wasn’t what any of us wanted, but it is what we chose to do…right?

He was now so close he could feel the cold come through the thin glass.

Right?

Yes…

Good. Let’s go back inside, then. What’s done is done.

He could hear the creaking sound of snow being compressed as the two people walked back indoors, to the rest of the gathered company.

He edged backwards toward the door as if whatever he had overheard was still daunting to him, foreshadowing something to come.

He snapped out of it and sat back with the letter. He held it in his hands and felt the rough surface of the sides worn down already. His glance, however, was at the door. He felt both a fear and yearning chasm within the door frame as if it held both a way in and out of horror. But which side of it was he on?

Then the noises raised from the living room, almost as if of protest, but followed by laughter.

Wasn’t clear to him what happ—

Footsteps. He swung over to the bed and hid the letter beneath the pillow in one motion, and in another, he kicked the sack further away simultaneously—

Then the door opened.

Hey, Pesan, Faugn said coming in.

Hi, Pesan said.

Faugn looked concerned but visibly pushed it aside.

Why are you not coming out? Faugn sat next to him.

Not like they want me to.

Faugn sighed, not out of nuisance, but rather in an acknowledging fashion. You have to come out. Can’t sit here hiding forever, he said so faintly it wasn’t known if he was even paying his own words attention.

I’ll come out, Pesan said, eyeing the sack out of the corner of his eye. Not that they’ve noticed.

Sure, they did, Faugn said.

That’s why they sent you?

Forget it…

He held his head in his hands, breathing in and out heavily.

What’s wrong? Pesan then said.

Nothing. Just trouble.

Is that what you and Heid were talking ’bout?

To this Faugn looked up immediately. You heard?

Only some… Pesan said.

It’s nothing, Faugn said. Just family, you know how it is. Heid’s family is not having it easier than us.

Oh, are we having it hard? Pesan stood up.

Faugn followed, grabbing his arm, What the Hell? Yes, we are having it hard, or will you have it only be me?

No, said Pesan. No, of course not.

Good. Don’t say that stuff. You know how it is.

Pesan nodded, more to calm himself than anything, It’s just suddenly come fast. It’s so soon.

Yes, it is, Faugn let him go. That’s why I need you. I need you to pull it together, I need you to be strong for them—

Why them? Pesan said, reigniting his frustrations. What did they do to earn that?

Fine! Faugn said raising his hands. Then be strong for me. Even if I’m gone, I still got people to take care of. That has to be you. Deena, Farim, and yes, maybe Mum and Dad. Even, he said, stopping Pesan from interrupting. Even if they don’t deserve it, at least show I do. Do it for me.

Is that why Heid is here? Cause he don’t deserve to be sent off either? Pesan said.

Stop it, just today.

Why can’t I go? I’d take either of your places, anything but stay here.

Pesan, Faugn said with such volume they both instinctively looked towards the door.

Nothing.

Give it a rest! Give me two days free of this talk. None of us wishes you to go to fight. None of us wants to—

But I do! Pesan continued. And it’s not like they’d care if I came back alive or not.

I care, Faugn hissed, containing a verbal push behind it. Pesan stepped backwards. Thank you, little brother. This can be just another shitty day before I leave…

Before Pesan could stop him, apologise, anything, he’d left. He felt defeated, and still, to his dismay, he was relieved that at least he did not have to go to his family just yet.

He sat there for a moment before getting out the letter again. He read it to himself, over and over:

By Royal decree, every household with a man of age or fit to bear arms is to join the Oulyrian defence. Battle is joined on this day, and Oulyia shall prevail.

Pesan looked it over and over, trying to read what it didn’t say. One thought that kept returning to him was, ’How do you win a war that you are not allowed to fight?’

The war for Oulyia was coming to an end.

Chapter 2

Unmade Memory

He tried to tuck the sack in deep under his bed, but it wouldn’t fit. He left it sticking out slightly, thinking no one would come looking for what they didn’t know was there anyway. Now, he wanted to leave. He was still trapped in the house, having to show for the gathering of grieving people, but he had an idea of how he might just successfully leave.

He loosened his shoulders for a moment, trying to remove the straining feeling they’d built up.

Then he finally walked out the door of his bedroom.

Approaching the room, he felt a sickening feeling in his stomach.

‘Back to it,’ he thought. He knew the effect of what he was going to do, for he’d done it before, but not for this purpose. He pushed it aside, forcing himself to focus on what was to come. What he’d planned. What made him determined, beyond anything in the past.

Chickens and hens! Such an abominable action…and Ruphos has gone missing, he heard as he ventured down the hallways from his room. He heard a mumbled answer before they went quiet to the sound of his footsteps.

Pesan, he was welcomed. It was the eldest of the O’Mallon who’d stood in the local store, barely skipping a day, to provide Malbath with long-needed supplies, supplies from the South that no other had connections to. It made them the trade princes of these parts, limited as that may be. But owning the most, however little, always generates influence. Luckily, these people were all gentle souls. Heid too. The youngest of the clan. He, unlike the rest, looked shaky.

Everyone else in the room seemed unaffected.

Apart from the happy old O’Mallon, smiling towards him.

Pesan nodded a hello, turning towards his old craven-looking father, facing the other way in his armchair. The one he barely left all day.

’Cause of his leg and all.

It was as if Garam always knew when his son came to talk to him, for it was always then he seemed least accessible.

Even if Garam wasn’t the most gregarious of people, he didn’t shy away from talking to by—passers on the safety of their veranda, protected by their back-garden fence, but indoors he was a moody man, talking in singular words, like a commander on the battlefield.

Which, of course, he once had been.

‘To his peril, at that, which was ironic how he then brought it into his own home,’ Pesan thought. But it didn’t matter much, the rest of Garam, his father of lingering renown, was an old, war-tainted retiree, living in a cold home, furthest up the mountain, with his most immediate family, all who he seemed to regard less than strangers over fences…

Living off the renown he once had. Living off the influence that the family name brought but no longer was lived up to.

‘A lineage, and that very heritage, still at work,’ Pesan thought, ’and he couldn’t help but smile to himself as he quickly felt an unease about staying in the living room.’ He, therefore, walked to the kitchen.

His mother stood there, plates in hands, looking out the window.

Pesan moved about in the kitchen, not flinching his eyes from his seemingly paralysed mother.

She was rarely in the living room when Garam had guests. And Garam was the only one to have guests at that.

Although it became a more and more infrequent event from how he remembered it from childhood.

(Like so much else.)

A thought he quickly discarded.

Mother? He finally said. She didn’t indicate as much as a notion that she heard him. He looked to see if she was observing anything.

Nothing.

Just the same old barren village of Malbath.

Stupid little frozen Malbath, on the mountain of the same name.

Whoever founded this place had as little imagination as everyone who still hasn’t left it. (Still haven’t—)

And his mother still hadn’t moved an inch. Which also meant—

The door from the kitchen into the garden was unguarded.

Before his father could snort in the manner which could scare geese to take flight, he was out the door, over the fence and back into the urban wonder that was this little settlement.

Urban wonder being profoundly sarcastic.

It was more of a sustained ruin, remote cottages and outhouses gave façades to the homes of the cold northern village. A city so remote that news was given here last, long after even the war-torn West, so remote that the reformation of religion still hadn’t reached the ears of the old preachers, and so remote that all the attempts of childhood runaways were an unavoidable, pre-ordained disaster.

But soon was the march.

Soon this village would be on the move.

At this moment, it already felt abandoned. Pesan, alone among the ruins.

The inhabits but phantoms haunt his movements, eyeing his presence but never seeing him. Only watching.

To think his forefathers ruled this as a tribal hold, his forefathers, men of war. Yalte the Young. Lokas the Brute. Not to mention the legends of Hakam. Garam ended that line. After his father gave up their title as chief of Malbath to the current.

So much for a legacy.

But Garam still lingered in that old history. Still lived in what was once the Chief’s Hall. The new chief did not want to live so remotely from the centre, they built him a much greater one. To some, it could even be considered adequate lodging, but for Malbath-born it was a palace, nothing less.

Pesan was not above lingering in memories. Mainly those of his childhood and his younger father. How young Faugn was then. Childish, playful, always a light in his eye, and answers to all the world’s questions. And their father with them. Always.

Until.

Well until he wasn’t.

But that memory in particular. That one that he still dreams about.

The one that made his choice for him long ago.

That memory from that time in the garden. Just him and his father…(Never mind that)

Pesan shook his head. Never mind indeed. He needed shelter from his thoughts.

And he knew just where to go.

It wasn’t the first time Pesan wanted to get lost from his family. Fleeing the village was obviously impossible, he’d be seen as a deserter if he went anywhere but West without a just cause. Fleeing a shithole village and shithole parents were seemingly not that.

He had his shrine.

Maybe that’s a bit glorified—

He had a safe place. An old, abandoned campsite further up the mountain, long ago used for lumberjacks, the first settlers, who had settled further down and had tried to tame the surrounding forest from critters and wild-grown nature. Not too much avail.

The campsite had been a get-together for him, his brother and his father many years ago. Back when—

(Forget it—)

Now, however, it was a hiding place. Two rotten benches, one had given into the cold and snapped, lying now covered in snow, the other half alright. One side of it was safe to sit on at least.

And there, around the long-since smouldered bonfire, lay the figurines.

Figurines carved from wood into shapes. Wolves, horses—of course—niiarns, birds and lastly dragon.

Not dragons. The same dragon. Always. Almost like it was an extension of his imagination. This was the one creature that was his. And the last he carved with his father—

Never mind that.

He unsheathed his knife and picked up a half-finished figurine of what he wasn’t sure. It was just therapeutic to cut into it.

But Pesan couldn’t fight the thoughts. Not entirely. Never had been able fully.

He’d never stop trying though. For there were also the other memories, weren’t there?

Carved wood was now solely associated with the replacement of his father’s right leg. That loud, old, splintery thing.

That stupid incident…

Suddenly that symbolised the danger of leaving home, you’ll share the same fate! he could remember being said. Once he was proud of the reasons he had to leave for.

But not that evening.

Late summer; cold hadn’t taken hold quite as brutally. No snow, he remembered. Him sitting on the grass. His father sitting in a chair watching him.

And the words he spoke…(What of it—)

Ow! He said and stuffed his finger in his mouth.

He looked at the knife he held. It was just a small cut, a little bit of red on the knife’s edge. He instinctively wiped it off in his sleeve—

Oh, he said, realising that didn’t magically make the blood vanish. "Consarn it! He tried to wipe it off in the snow but to no avail. Stupid, stupid…"

Then he heard it.

Something not seen in these parts since his grandparents drove them off generations ago. Smaller than the stories, but undoubtedly that.

A timber wolf.

Chapter 3

A Slaughter of Lambs

The growling, consisting solely of consonants, was only over-shrouded by its lightning-fierce, death-inflicting gaze.

Suddenly he found that the knife in his hand was not just a tool, it was held out in front of him now as a weapon.

But it wasn’t a dangerous knife, it was short; hardly any use apart from wood cutting, and now it was the only thing that’d keep it from advancing on his position if it thought it was a threat to it as well.

He compensated its littleness by waving the knife exaggeratedly around in front of him saying, Off! Away! Maybe that would make it less confident to approach.

It didn’t.

Shit, Pesan said. He found himself backed into a tree—

Fists…fists, bruises forming on his skin as fast as anything—

Startled—and realising his eyes were no longer on the wolf, his other senses warned him of its attack—he decided to run.

He ran towards the village, as fast as his feet would take him—

He ran towards his room, tears covering his sight—

He dodged a tree, then a low-hanging branch caught his eye—

He winced in pain as a seething burn set in but kept running, just the one eye open—And he could swear that he could hear the wolf just on his heels—

But Garam caught up to him—

Is this what you want, Pesan? Is it?—

He had to look back, to know if it was there, he was too far from the village, and he knew he knew he knew—

He had to fight it off—

This is what you asked for, isn’t it? This is your war!

And he turned to look, his right eye just catching a glimpse of—And his leg caught on to a stone—

And he couldn’t turn around fast enough to see how to stop his fall—So he tumbled—

Far—

Another fist right on his shoulder. DAD! Pesan heard—

His arm got caught in branches and wild-grown plants first, piercing his skin—

Then his head hit the cold ground, uncovered by snow at this steep slope he was falling—

And then his body stopped falling, after he landed hard on his back, in the cold, cold, bitter snow—

Faugn had finally snapped, Stop it, Dad! Leave him alone!

Faugn rushed to him, you didn’t mean it Pesan, tell him.

(I didn’t mean it—)

A gouging feeling, then a raspy gasp for air followed by coughing as he opened his eyes. All air had left him with a punch from the fall.

He surprised himself to find that he knew immediately to arm himself, prepare for the worst—What was following him down the slope—

And he got to his knees—And he saw it coming—

And he heard the sound he last expected—From any animal chasing him down—

I didn’t mean it, Pesan said—(I didn’t mean it—)

Garam left, out of breath—He couldn’t help it—

He cried in his brother’s arms—

He heard it…bark.

He looked at it coming down the slope. Its tail was wagging.

It’s a dog… he said, barely a voice left in him. His lungs were hurting from the effort of breathing.

I can’t beli— he stammered. It’s a dog?

It was. He hadn’t seen it in his fright. It was obvious now, of course, no howling, small for its size…it looked more like a household dog than a wild thing, but it had shocked him half to death, and it was wagging its stupid tail, and it was breathing excitedly, and its stupid eyes looked playful, and it came towards him, and it was a stupid, stupid dog—

SOD OFF! He said. But it just barked at him. He couldn’t move towards it and scare it away, his leg was so bruised, and he had to hold his bleeding arm, and it hurt so bloody much.

Sod off! Stupid damned dog.

He exclaimed in anger as if it’d help his pain, and he did it at the sky. Why? He said low, Why?

He tried to walk, get away from the damned thing.

He limped for as far as he could before having to give in. Just to discover the dog was behind him, barking again.

If you don’t leave, then I swear by the Gods… Another bark.

(Stupid, stupid—)

He picked up a stick, leaning in heavily, trying to not bend all the things that critically didn’t want to bend. He tossed it, saying, Go get it. Off!

It looked at it fly. Then looked at Pesan. Then it bloody well barked again.

Oh, for the love of—

He picked up another stick and exclaimed as he tried to reach for it.

See? He said, waving it in front of the dog. It barely acknowledged it. He stepped forward, waving it closer to its head. "See?" I asked.

It followed it with its eyes now. He took another step—And then it barked, but not playfully at all—

Then it growled as it lunged towards the stick in the fastest sequence of events he’d experienced—

He stepped back in shock, almost falling back over again, catching himself with his arm that was still bleeding. He just got up as the dog growled right in front of him and then it—

It—

It did—

It leapt forward—

But Pesan was faster—

He hit it right across its face with the stick—And it fell over straight away—

He was panting in fright and exhaustion. He didn’t stop staring at it. It had murder in its eyes now and it was trying to get up, and before he even realised it himself—

He hit it again—And then again—

WHY? He yelled to the world. WHY ALWAYS ME?

Then he heard the most terrible crunchy noise followed by a low yelp.

He stopped.

He saw the thing lying there. Not even squeaking anymore. The dog was looking at him.

(So it must still be alive…)

He could see its chest increase in size as it breathed. (So it is alive…)

Then he saw one of its legs turning the wrong way, which wasn’t proving any point, but…(Hell, that looks messed up…)

He limped towards it, whilst expressing the pain in his leg. He stood in front of it. Above it. And the pain spread to his chest. He tried to swallow it away.

Consarn it… he said, scratching his head. You okay? The dog did not answer.

(Duh…)

An extreme sense of pity befell him, and he realised how wrong he’d been, even if it had been instinctive, even if he’d thought it was right. How this action was pushed onto him, out of his control and though he was acting solely on surviving whatever this stupid dog was planning, this was wrong, oh, so wrong, so wrong…

It was just a thing.

A small thing…that didn’t deserve it. He couldn’t help to draw parallels in his head but managed to push them aside.

You’re going to be fine, right? It breathed heavily.

Damn it… He pondered for a moment. Do I… he leaned in to try and see if he could touch it without it—

But it had attacked him.

Hey! He said, following it by another no-good consarn it. I need you to let me help you… Suddenly a wind pushed through the trees with such force he could see it moving towards him, almost making him lose balance when it arrived. In his attempt to stand upright, he re-felt all the pain his body was in, and remembered how he was still bleeding.

You’re not going to make it, are you? He finally said.

He redrew his knife, with his bad arm at that, still trying to let the bleeding one rest. He looked it into its eyes. Its eyes peaking at him.

He raised the no-good knife with his no-good arm looking at the no-good dog. He tried to imagine him plunging it into it, giving it its merciful end.

But…

Merciful for who? And merciful why?

It wouldn’t be in this need if it hadn’t been for him.

"God…DAMN IT! He lowered the knife. Why am I so useless…" What was his choice then, but to do what he decided to do?

He removed his belt from his waist, fast as he could in his maimed state. He reduced its size down to something a little larger than the size of the dog’s head, as he tried to catch it with its jaws closed, closing it as soon as it was around it. He closed it firm, but as he did, he noticed that the sheath for his knife was still on the belt.

He put the knife in his pocket and picked up the dog that howled in pain.

I’ll get you help… He started to go down towards the village as fast as his feet would carry them, I’ll get you help.

It was growling and yelping and fighting and twisting in his arms. But he held tight. He kept having to look it in the eyes and say, I’m sorry, over, and over, as if it’d stop its attempts to get the jaw restraints off and just forgive him.

As that didn’t seem to come to fruition, he gave up and kept his eyes on the path down.

He was getting close enough to see the huts and houses, and he was almost there, he’d almost made it, but—

Suddenly he heard such a bark you wouldn’t believe, like thunder over your head. He quickly turned his head down—

It had gotten loose from its restraints, and it thrust itself for his head, but he leaned back fast enough to avoid it, but in the movement, he dropped it, and he lost balance—

And they tumbled down atop each other down towards the village.

He woke up in a bed.

His head had never felt as groggy. He was in his bed. It was dark outside he could see from the bed; candles were lit around the room.

If it wasn’t for the fact that he woke with pain from all the wounds he’d sustained, he would have thought it’d all been a bad dream.

As soon as he sat up, his head started to question it all. (How did I get here?)

Before he could even recall the fall, the door to his bedroom opened. Faugn emerged, saw Pesan being awake and then closed the door slowly and quietly behind him.

What happened? He asked.

Pesan breathed in heavily and felt the effort in his lungs. He leaned back down. There was a dog, he said.

Yes, Faugn said impatiently. The others are furious.

Pesan tried to gather his thoughts for a moment. Furious? He said. Pesan, what did you do?

I didn’t do anything! Pesan said, already feeling like he was back up fighting the beast again. I just… Pesan really tried to think this one through.

(Go back to it?)

He gave it another moment of thought. He decided to do it, but it hurt, like every other time. It was nothing, he then said, as simply as possible.

Stop that! Just for once, stop it! Faugn said. He didn’t remember him ever sounding so angry, he couldn’t flinch from his gaze. So many emotions in his eyes, that he couldn’t begin to understand them all.

Maybe Faugn did see right through him…(No…no…)

I said, I didn’t do anythin’

Pesan, Faugn said, his voice so low still sharp as a knife as if testing him. He stared at Pesan.

Pesan found himself swallowing and cursed himself for it.

Fine, Faugn finally said, walking over to the foot-end of the bed. He proceeded to open the chest that stood there. But it wasn’t clothes he pulled out.

It was the sack, wasn’t it?

Pesan immediately looked away.

What is this? Faugn said, raising the sack high. Pesan couldn’t find words.

Tell me! He said, throwing the sack onto Pesan, who instinctively tried to catch it, but his arm ached so much, that it just landed on his stomach. You were going despite what all of us told you to!

I’m not all of you, Pesan said below his breath.

What? Faugn said, walking back over to his end of the bed. Pesan still didn’t meet his eyes.

You hid it… Pesan then said. Please don’t show Dad.

I hid it, Faugn said. The disgust in his voice broke Pesan’s heart. (Back to it, back to it—)

Pesan closed his eyes and swallowed again. Tried to find the numbness. Continued the mantra in his head. Back to it, back to it…

I hid it so you could explain yourself. Pesan still didn’t answer.

But, Faugn said, reaching for the sack. Pesan immediately grabbed it, and they both struggled for it. But! Faugn said, pulling so hard that Pesan lost his grip. Since you won’t, I’ll tell him.

No, Faugn, Pesan pleaded. Please…please—

Faugn turned around and walked towards the door. First the behaviour, then I hear about the chickens, and now this? He said. He gave Pesan the worst look he’d ever received.

(What chickens?)

Please, Faugn— Pesan said, but Faugn already left the bedroom.

Pesan’s eyes were flooding. He felt the ache from all his bruised limbs go to his stomach, and he couldn’t help but cry. He turned his head into his pillow to try and swallow the sound. But it hurt, it all hurt so much.

He just wanted it to end—

Just end—

And—

(How—)

And that’s when his father walked in.

Just listen to me! Pesan pleaded, trying his best to not sound emotional, but there was no going back to it now.

No, you listen to me. Why do we defend you? He asked, the frown on his brow was as intimidating as an ox on fire. When you keep disgracing our family?

Pesan stopped meeting his eyes. What family? He said below his breath. Garam’s snort was like that of a dragon. Just tell me why you did it.

I didn’t do anything! He yelled back at him.

I pulled the knife from Ruphos! The dog that was with you when they found you! Garam’s voice filled not just this room, but this side of the village. His anger was almost steaming.

Pesan opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. His knife?

(I tried saving it…)

After we said you had nothing to do with those chickens, Garam then said.

What chickens? Pesan said, so tired he didn’t know if he was whispering or yelling.

That’s enough! I’ve had enough of you. Garam walked towards Pesan’s bed. He crawled back, fearing the worst.

What is this? He then said, pulling out his packed bag. Somehow, he’d had it hidden. Sneaking off, are we?

Pesan just stared at the bag.

Faugn told him…

Don’t you see that we’re trying all we can to constantly clear up your mess? Can’t you see how hard you’re making it?

Why don’t you just let me go? Pesan said, his eyes flooding against his will.

Go where? Garam said. Then his eyes turned to the sack. Oh, he said. Oh, that’s rich. You were going to battle?

Just let me, you don’t care if I die anyway, Pesan said, a lump sat in his throat that wouldn’t go down against his best efforts. His chest was refusing it, it was clenched and hurting as if it was clamping inwards.

Garam tossed the sack down the other end of the room. No! He said sterner than anything. His finger raised and pointing straight at him. Never!

Then he just turned to leave.

You will be at dinner to apologise to the O’Mallons. Or you’ll wish for much worse than wars. He left Pesan alone.

I’m sure that’s not what he’s saying, Garam, his mother said, passing on the canister of water.

Pesan had slept through most of the day. His eyes were still heavy, not to mention the soreness that came from his swollen right eyebrow, where the branch had struck him.

He was hardly eating, as it hurt venturing through his system. Here he sat, for he owed the O’Mallons an apology, didn’t he? One promised by his father.

Faugn had left just before dinner. Another frantic talk between him and Heid had made it so, as the unnerving atmosphere had not left as they’d taken their places around the dinner table. The dear oldest O’Mallon just to Pesan’s right, by the end of the table. Facing, of course, Garam on the other end. Humorous, Pesan was not asked to sit near his kin. As was explained, To ensure the whole-heartedness of the apology.

I do mean it, Heid said, his voice was awkward as it had always been. Slightly stuttery, without being a stutter, low but certain, often as if his lungs held less air than the ordinary man’s. And I’m sure Faugn thought the same.

No politics at the table, said Heid’s father, the senior of the family, son