“There…” Hannah adjusts the bundle of crocus into a formation she deems good enough, “...now, that’s better, huh?”

The torso-sized boulder replies, as expected, with silence.

“Don't take that tone with me, mister,” Hannah says as if the cold stone is wearing the habitual scowl of the person whose initials are carved into it.

Their Father’s grave is, compared to the more professional-looking sleek square of their Mother’s stone resting next to it, a little shabby. After the dust had settled, Garm had found the best-looking boulder in their garden and they had taken turns using a hammer and chisel to slowly carve out his name, date of birth, death, and a small addition at the bottom. ‘Died protecting his family.’ The capitalized ‘D’ was a little bent, and Garm had said they’d get him a proper one soon, but as the weeks wore on it had grown on them.

“It’s… very much like him, you know? Rough, uneven, and a little ugly… but, hard, sturdy…” Garm had said one morning they’d visited their parent’s graves.

“And loves us with all its heart!” Hannah added with a little smile, “...even if it’s really bad at showing it.”

“...yeah, something like that,” Garm says through a sigh, the metaphor falling flat.

And like that, any idea of swapping it out for another one disappeared from their minds.

Reaching out and adjusting the rabbit’s-foot hanging from their Mother’s stone, Hannah sees the ornament-free surface of the boulder and frowns. “Garm’s promised to get another one, so just be patient, you hear?”

Nodding at the rock’s silent agreement, Hannah gets up from her crouch and picks up the now crocus-free basket where she keeps some of her supplies. “See you tomorrow,” she tells them and begins walking back toward the ashen ruin of the farmhouse.

Spotting a lamb gnawing at a flower-less rose bush, she calls out, “Sven! You missed one!”

The shaggy farm hound comes rushing around the corner and, spotting the runaway, bolts over and yips at it. The lamb, understanding the jig is up, gets a move on, and begins trotting toward the barn where the other sheep greet it.

Hannah opens the barn door, letting the lamb inside and as she hooks the latch, the thunder of gunfire rings out from further up the hill, followed by the plink of metal.

Garm pulls back the bolt handle, releasing the spent casing, and bends to pick it up. Pocketing it, he raises the rifle once more to peer down at the final can of beans, placed the furthest away from him. Breath, heartbeat, boom, pop. The can goes flying into the underbrush and disappears.

“Not bad!” Hannah says encouragingly, giving him a short applause.

Garm nods and smiles as she approaches, “Thanks, but it doesn’t count for much until I can hit a real animal.”

He leans down and greets Sven by ruffling his cheeks.

“Bah, we both know you can do it! Isn’t that right, Sven?” Hannah says and Sven lets out a low woof in seeming agreement.

Well… yeah, you’re right… I can do this!” Garm gives them a crooked smile and begins strolling back towards the road. “Time to get going?” he asks.

“The sheep are fed and housed, all stragglers accounted for!” Hannah nods and gives him a lazy salute.

Garm laughs and begins walking down to the road, “Then we better get going, Grim’s starting to miss you, I’m sure.”

Rapidly reddening, Hannah looks away, “It’s not like that,” she mutters under her breath, “I’m just helping Mrs. Madsen and the baby. You know… chores and the like.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Grinning from ear to ear, Garm says, “Fine, fine, you may keep your secrets…”

"Just washing up. Baking. That sort of chores."

Waiting a long moment for his sister to gather herself Garm adds, “...a darn shame Grim can’t keep them.”

“No, he didn’t!” Hannah immediately returns to a shade of strawberry red, “That big, oafish…”

“He really likes you, you know?” Garm interrupts Hannah’s embarrassed tirade.

Hannah’s covering her face with her hands. Sven looks at her confused and gives her a concerned woof.

“Yeah,” Garm continues in a nonchalant tone, “you should hear him when it’s just me and him. He can’t stop talking about you. Ever.”

Hannah eyes her brother between her fingers, “Ever, huh?”

“Never ever,” Garm nods, “and you won't believe the details he’s sharing. I keep telling him; ‘Grim, that’s my sister you’re talking about!’ but do you think that stops that doofus… Ow, no. Hannah! Stop it!”

Over the next moments, Garm has to duck a series of kicks and flying pebbles, all while cackling maniacally.

“You shut your… He did not say… You big dumb… Asshole!” Hannah rages at him, but there’s a playful undertone in the rant as she realizes Garm’s yanking her chain.

“You’re right! You’re right!” Garm chuckles and dodges a final pebble, “But, he truly does like you, Hannah. That’s no lie.”

Returning to a casual stroll, Hannah mumbles, “Yeah, I know.” Her demeanor slowly shifts into giddy joviality as a blissful smile spreads across her face.

Leaving the conversation there the two walk in silence until they come upon the old mill and the Madsen farm.

Garm waves goodbye to his sister, then to Mrs. Madsen who sits in a chair in the garden, feeding her newborn son. Spotting Grim, hard at work chopping wood by the house, he waves in greeting to him as well, before walking on towards the Grime and the old log bridge. Smiling as he sees the elation on Grim’s face when he spots Hannah coming towards him, he picks up his pace.

This would be his third outing in the Plug since the incident and this time he was determined to bring something back.

Trotting confidently over the old bridge, Garm follows the road until it slims into a forest path taking him deeper and deeper into the Plug. Slowing down once the sun is blocked out by the treetops, he leans down into a crouch. Stepping off the path he starts making his way through the brambles. He silently skirts by bushes and soggy mire, careful where he places his feet to not cause unnecessary noise. Prowling through the familiar terrain, he soon comes upon a yawning in the forest.

Ducking his head as carefully as he can manage, Garm avoids the scanning gazes of a gathering of deer. Two does and one stag. The setup is perfect, he thinks to himself, slowly leaning down on the ground next to a large fallen tree. The uprooted giant forms a perfect cover, as Garm takes the Krag from his back. Chambering a round, the klink of metal on metal is just a little too loud for comfort, making Garm close his eyes in anticipation.

Did he ruin it? He opens his eyes again. The does are walking off, deeper into the forest, their gate slow and casual. The stag remains standing, unbothered. It seems the distance was enough, Garm breathes a sigh of relief.

Taking aim at the stag, Garm focuses on the spot where he knows its heart rests. The vital organ pumping life-giving blood throughout its body is all that stands between Garm and his prize.

Staring at the stag through the sights, Garm focuses on his breathing. At any point now the stag will follow his companions, so better get this done quickly.

Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm takes shape in Garm’s mind.

The stag moves. It’s only a little, but enough to prickle at Garm’s brainstem. It bends down for a bite, making Garm look directly into its face.

The grotesquely shaped deathmask, like a malformed stag skull, stares at him from outside his room’s only window.

Garm’s breathing grows uneven. He grits his teeth and focuses on his heartbeat, aiming back at the stag’s torso.

Birk Madsen lies in his bed, his mutilated corpse splattering every surface in chunks of scarlet.

One. The beat thunders in his core.

“Take your sister and run!” His Father's final words before the tendril burrows down his throat, its barbs tearing through soft flesh.

Two. A nervous jittering goes through the barrel of the rifle.

The mouth of his Father's twisted face spreads into a malicious grin, showing rows and rows of wicked teeth.

Garm throws himself back behind the trunk, leaning hard on its upturned base. Hyperventilating now, he shoves the rifle away to land in a pile of dead leaves. His heart is racing as he listens to the beat of cloves disappearing in the distance, the stag getting spooked by the distant outburst.

Holding his hands up before him, the familiar tremble is unmistakable.