Chapter Thirty-Four #2
The axe slips from his hands, embedding itself crookedly in the wood. He’s already moving before it lands, sprinting toward the hut, boots slipping on damp earth.
I follow instinctively.
My eyes adjust slowly.
An old man lies on the floor.
His father.
I know it before I understand how. It’s in the way Deogal moves. He drops to his knees too fast, his hand hovering over the body, suspended there for a second too long as if afraid to break something already broken.
My pulse climbs so fast it makes me lightheaded.
“I’m fine,” the old man snaps before Deogal can say anything, though his voice trembles. “Just—lost my footing.”
The lie sits badly in the air.
He tries to push himself up. His arm gives almost immediately.
Deogal is there before he can fall. He catches him hard, hands gripping, muscles straining as he hauls him upright with more force than care.
He doesn’t let go straight away. His hands stay where they are, holding him in place as his gaze moves over his father’s face.
“You’re not fine,” he says, and it’s quieter now. “You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m fine.” The old man jerks slightly in his grip, irritation flaring to cover the weakness. “Move.”
It’s not the first time. I can feel that much. It’s in the rhythm of it—the way the words fall into place too easily, like they’ve been said before, worn down and reshaped over time. Resistance on one side, worry on the other. Neither of them shifting.
Deogal hesitates just for a second, then he lets go. His hands don’t drop far. They hover there instead, fingers twitching, close enough to catch him again if he so much as sways.
The old man coughs. It drags up from somewhere deep, wet and thick, the sound tearing through the quiet in a way that makes my stomach turn before I can stop it.
Deogal goes still.
“You can’t take the cart to market,” he says tightly. “You’re not well.”
The old man doesn’t answer straight away. He lifts his head slowly instead, eyes finding Deogal’s, sharpening as they settle there. Whatever weakness sat in him a second ago folds in on itself, buried under something harder.
“We need the coin.”
Deogal’s jaw tightens. “I’ll take it.”
The offer comes fast, like he’s been waiting for the opening.
“No.” It’s just as quick.
“Father, it’s too far now,” Deogal pushes forward. His face twists into something unfamiliar. “The market’s moved again. You won’t make the journey.”
His father shoves past him, holding the silence like he never heard him speak. He’s unsteady on his feet, hand brushing the walls for support, but he plays it off smoothly, as though he’s had plenty of practice.
“I’ve made it every year since before you were born.”
Deogal follows him, shoulders rigid, arms out in protest. “Things are different now.”
The words come out tight, strained, like he’s forcing them through something that won’t give.
The old man stops, turns suddenly.
“Stop it, Deogal.” The edge in his voice lands clean. “I won’t let you go. It’s too dangerous.”
Deogal shifts in front of him, blocking the path without touching.
“The market is in Arundel,” he says, slower now, each word placed carefully. “That’s a three-hour walk from here.”
“I’ll take the donkey.” His father protests.
“The donkey’s dead, Father.” Deogal interrupts sharply. “You know this. I told you this morning. And last night, too.”
The old man blinks. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything, but I see it cold and wicked across his face, the confusion. His eyebrows furrow together in a tight knot.
“You’re not well enough to make the journey.” Deogal pushes. “Stay here.”
A silence throbs in the room so thick I feel like I’m going to choke on it. The old man drags in oxygen through a tight hole in his lips before releasing a shaky exhale. His gaze flicks to the thatched door opposite them. “Is she still asleep?”
Deogal’s body language changes, something in him tightens.
I see it in the line of his spine—the way it locks too straight. In his hands, where his fingers curl in on themselves just slightly, like he’s holding something in place that wants to break through. He’s bracing.
“Yes.” It’s only one word, quiet, flat.
“Okay,” the old man finally exhales. “You go. I’ll watch her.”
Relief breaks across Deogal’s face before he can stop it. He turns too quickly, like staying another second would undo it, but the old man’s hand shoots out, catching him before he can go.
His fingers curl around Deogal’s collar. He tugs it upward, careful, precise, covering something at the base of Deogal’s neck.
I lean forward instinctively, desperate to see, but the angle is wrong, and the dream denies me.
“Keep it hidden,” he murmurs, eyes filled with dread. They seem to communicate silently, staring at each other.
Deogal nods once. “I will.”
“Stay safe, my boy,” his voice seems croakier now, older, as if the dream has stuttered forward in time. “Please, stay safe.”
My eyes ache, like they’ve been forced open for too long, a dull burn settling behind them as the weight of it drags at my lids.
I blink, but it doesn’t help.
The pressure stays, thick and disorienting, like something is shifting just out of reach, waiting for me to catch up to it.
And then the world tilts again.
The hut with the old man suddenly vanishes and chaos erupts.
Noise slams into me the moment the scene shifts—shouting voices bartering for prices, clanging metal, animals bleating loudly. Stalls are packed tight, leaning into one another like conspirators. Banners flap overhead, faded and frayed, with dried ink cracking off letters.
I inhale hard. I really don’t want to, but I breathe like I’ve been told to. The stench of cow manure slams into me like a slap. I choke on the sudden, potent stench that drowns my taste buds. I stagger backwards and before I can get my brain to still, I spot him.
Deogal, behind a cart, goods laid out neatly. Jewellery—bracelets, rings, simple but finely made. His fingers hover over them with a mixture of pride and nerves.
People pass. Some stop. Most don’t.
Time stretches.
He tries to encourage some villagers to make a purchase, but no one listens.
There’s desperation in his voice. He reaches out to one lady with a neatly woven basket in her arm.
Her hair has been pinned back by pegs. She glances at him, then at his cart.
Seeing the silver and sparkles, her face changes to something bitter.
“As if we can afford those right now.” She hisses, face rippling with anger. She juts her chin at him and flees into the crowd quickly.
His shoulders slump, and he falls forward, leaning over his cart. He busies himself with re-organising the jewellery like it will fix anything.
“Still nothing?” A gravely voice asks.
An older man steps out from the stall beside the cart, his thick, wiry beard dusted pale at the edges, as though absorbed months of flour and heat.
His eyes are soft, wide and doe-like in a face worn down by early mornings and hard labour.
A thatched apron hangs from his shoulders, threadbare and torn in places, marked with ghostly white handprints where flour has been wiped away again and again.
He looks at Deogal sadly. “That’s not good.”
Deogal doesn’t reply.
“How’s the old man?” He asks. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”
Deogal exhales sharply, as if the breath has been dragged from him. He keeps his gaze low. “Still sick.”
The baker studies him for a moment, before turning back to his stall. He bends, huffs as the movement takes it out of his old body and reaches into a basket beneath the stall. His fingers disappear among the loaves.
He pulls out two rounds of bread and tosses them without ceremony. Deogal barely catches them in time, fumbling before his hands close around the warmth.
“A little mouldy,” the baker says, voice slow and apologetic. “Pick the black bits out and it’ll see you through a few days.”
Deogal peers up at the man, eyes wide. “I don’t have any coins to give you.”
“Please,” the baker holds his hand high, “It’s okay. Your old man was always good to me.”
His smile reaches his eyes. “He’s a good man. It’s the least I could do.”
Deogal swallows hard. He scans it intently before finally, relief settles. His stomach growls, a low guttural noise that sounds painful.
For a moment, I hardly recognise him. His eyes sparkle with a kind of innocent gratitude that I’ve never seen before. He tucks the bread carefully beneath the cart like it’s fragile, as though it could vanish if he doesn’t watch it closely enough.
The moment is interpreted violently. Boots, heavy thudding, more than one set.
The market tightens and voices dull. Laughter gets cut off, and bartering voices simmer to a hush. Someone nearby pulls their child closer as a stall canvas flaps and snaps in the wind like a warning.
Deogal stills.
His shoulders square instinctively, spine straightening.
I turn.
Two men in iron-trimmed tunics push through the crowd, leather belts heavy with keys and batons. Their presence feels wrong. They’re already looking at him, voices hushed but hurried, talking to one another, plotting, planning.
One of them stops directly in front of Deogal’s cart.
“You there,” he says, eyes flicking over the jewellery with open disdain. “Papers.”
Deogal doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers tighten on the edge of the cart.
He swallows, and then answers slowly. “This is my father’s cart.”
The guard smiles, not kindly.
“I didn’t ask whose cart it was.” He sneers.
“Papers.” The other repeats coldly. He holds out his hand, fingers curling into his palm impatiently. “Where are they?”
“I—,”
“You do have papers, don’t you, Sir?” The first one steps toward him.
“Yes,” Deogal answers quickly. “I do, yes.”
He turns behind him, reaching into his cart. His hands move frantically, searching.
A guard steps toward him. He looks like something cornered, and the stress takes hold of him now. The muscles in his body ripple angrily, fear bleeding through him. He makes a noise. It’s sharp, strangled, far too weak to match the criminal I know.
I hold my breath. I back away.