The Weight of Wanting

Chapter 2 Greathallow

That summer ended too fast.

On the way home, a storm caught us just outside of Greathallow—a sawmill town thick with the scent of wet bark and iron smoke. The roads churned into a mess of mud and flooded ruts. Travel was impossible.

Greathallow wasn’t the kind of place you passed through for comfort. It was rough—axes and amber lanterns, buildings black with tar and slick moss. Everything felt wet. Heavy. Even the light.

But a kind old woman let us stay the night. Her cottage was small, warm, scented with rosemary and pine resin. The hearth snapped with a gentle fire that felt older than the stones around it.

I couldn’t sleep.

Restless, wound too tight from days of travel, I begged my mother to let me go out. Just for a bit. Just to stretch my legs. I was nearly sixteen, after all. And I had silver in my pocket.

I made my way to the tavern.

The barkeep laughed when I asked for cider. Gave me water instead.

I watched the room. Rough men. Strong women. Even the boys looked older than me—hardened by work in the woods, their hands calloused, their voices low and sure.

One of them carried a bundle of wood to the hearth. Quiet. Focused. A scar ran beneath one eye. Someone called him Thom.

A strong name, I thought.

And then my thoughts drifted somewhere darker. Somewhere I knew the gods wouldn’t want them to go.

I looked away. Tried to forget it.

He didn’t look at me. But I couldn’t stop looking at him.

It wasn’t desire. Not quite.

But it felt like standing too close to something I was never meant to want.

The tavern smelled of damp wool and woodsmoke. A dog slept near the fire. I sat in the corner and sipped from a chipped mug, watching the flames lick the stone. My tongue itched to speak the words—but I stayed silent.

I left before the fire could warm me..

—

I wandered the town, not ready to return to the little cottage. It was nice—sure—but for once, I had the chance to be outside my world. A world where everyone knew me, whispered about me, feared me. Here, no one did. Here, I was just a boy with muddy boots and a bit of silver in his pocket.

The rain had mostly let up, so the market stirred back to life. A few brave souls unrolled canvas covers and re-lit lanterns above their stalls. The air smelled of damp herbs, pine sawdust, and thick chimney smoke.

I thought maybe I’d find something for my mother. Nothing big—I didn’t have much—but something small. Something kind.

I passed a mirror seller trying to pitch a polished shard of glass to a woman in a blue shawl. As I walked by, something caught my eye. A flicker in the reflection. A version of myself that looked... different. More slender. Softer in the jaw. My gait seemed unfamiliar—almost delicate.

I stopped. Blinked.

Just my regular reflection stared back. Just the mirror. Just the rain and the light playing tricks.

I shook it off.

The market was winding down. A baker was packing up sweet buns that had gone untouched. A few stalls still lingered—wood carvings, charms strung on twine, bundles of half-wilted rosemary and lavender. I lingered near a stand of wooden animals. A hawk with wings spread caught my attention, carved from dark oak. But the vendor was too busy arguing with a boy over the price of a crooked flute, so I moved on.

I let the streets guide me, boots slipping on patches of moss. Greathallow wasn’t large, but its layout was strange. The roads curled around buildings like vines. Fences leaned too close together. Alleyways twisted toward silence. Some signs were so weathered their letters had peeled away entirely, leaving only ghost names.

That’s when I heard the voice.

Gravel-thick and slow. Like bark wrapping around words. A story already halfway told.

I followed it around a corner and into a covered alcove behind the butcher’s stall. Half a dozen kids and teens sat on crates and broken stools, tucked out of the damp. A fire flickered low in a makeshift pit—just a few bricks and some blackened sticks. And seated on a stool of rough-cut pine was a man who looked like he’d been carved from the very ground.

His name, I’d later learn, was Herrin. He wore boots like old leather and a beard down to his collarbone. A long stick rested across his knees, but he waved it like a scepter.

I stayed at the edge, leaning against a damp beam, half-shadowed.

“See, the fae don’t come out bold and shining,” he said. “That’s a lie the poets tell. They come soft. Subtle. They come when you want something—but you don’t know how to ask for it proper.”

A girl about my age rolled her eyes. “You makin’ this up again, Herrin?”

The old man’s grin was missing more teeth than not. “That’d be safer, wouldn’t it?”

He leaned closer to the fire, his voice dipping low.

“There’s a story older than this town,” he said. “Older than the mill. Maybe even older than the forest itself—though the trees wouldn’t admit it.

“There was a bell once. Hung in a little shrine way up in the cliffs. Not big. Not fancy. But they say if you rang it with a true ache in your heart, the world would answer.”

A few younger kids snorted. Herrin just smiled.

“Most folk rang it asking for coin. Or luck. Or love from someone who’d already given their heart elsewhere. The bell didn’t answer those.”

“But one day, a traveler came. Worn to the bone. Didn’t know what they were anymore. Man, woman, beast, shadow—it didn’t matter. They weren’t looking for riches or power. They just wanted the ache gone. The not-rightness. That feeling like they were always searching for a door that wasn’t there.”

He traced a slow circle in the air.

“So they rang the bell. And it didn’t echo. Didn’t make a sound at all. But when the traveler looked down... they’d left something behind. A little shadow. Curled up on the stones where their feet had been.”

“They walked away after that. Lighter. Different. Folks who saw them said they’d changed, but couldn’t say how. Their face was the same. Their voice was the same. But something in them had settled.”

He tapped his pipe against his boot.

“Some say the bell took the price. Some say the bell was never real. But the old stories say the fae don’t want what you have—they want what you carry. What you cling to. And sometimes, if you’re clever, you can give them something you already meant to let go.”

The story settled in my chest like a warm stone. Strange. Sad. Beautiful.

I wished the priest back home spoke like that. But he never did.

I would’ve stayed longer. Might’ve asked Herrin for more. But the rain started again, and the fire hissed in protest. Herrin clapped his hands and shooed everyone away, promising more tales next week—weather permitting.

That wouldn’t be for me. I’d be gone by then.

I made my way back to the cottage. Helped the old woman serve dinner. Her walls still smelled of rosemary and pine sap. Her soup was thin but warm. We ate. Talked a little. Then slept beneath patched quilts.

That night, like so many before it, I dreamed.

Only one word came: Lirathen.

It stirred something in my chest. Different from the others. Older. More intimate. Less a tool—more a truth.

Half-awake, I whispered it into the quiet.

Nothing happened.

I looked toward the window.

For a heartbeat, I saw myself. Slimmer. Eyes gentler. Hair a little longer. A version I didn’t recognize—but did.

Then it was gone.

Just glass. Just rain on the pane.

I rolled over, heart knocking oddly in my chest.

Maybe I was still dreaming.

I closed my eyes and let the rain lull me back to sleep.