The Weight of Wanting

Chapter 9: We've been waiting

The air is cold and crisp as I leave our home.

Like the weather itself is telling me to turn back.

Go inside. Climb into bed. Die safe and warm at the ripe age of twenty-seven.

With no wife.

No children.

That thought catches harder than I expect.

Not the part about being unmarried.

The part about never having a child.

That one stings.

I ignore the cold’s bitter bite and keep walking. I follow the path laid out by my feet.

I may not know where I’m going.

But they do.

I leave the comfort of Bramblehold behind and step onto the road.

I’m wearing my journeyman’s coat—old gray wool, dyed in bark and ash, sleeveless so my arms move freely when casting. It’s patched at the hem and shoulder, but the silverleaf lining still catches the light when the wind shifts just right.

Elira said it helps focus the will.

Maybe it does.

Maybe I just like how it reminds me of her.

Beneath it, a dark tunic—high-collared, tight at the cuffs to keep stray sparks from catching when my focus slips.

Trousers of plain canvas, worn close at the ankles to keep out mud and thorns.

The boots are cracked, softened by years of walking—mine since long before I had any idea where I was going.

Around my waist, a belt of old leather.

Tied with little loops and charms:

A nail.

A mirror shard.

A length of black thread.

A bone needle.

Things others overlook.

Things a hedge mage learns to carry.

There’s no badge to say I’ve trained. No crest. No tower.

Just a carved wooden clasp over my heart, shaped like a seed pod.

A gift from Elira.

“For luck,” she said.

I don’t feel lucky.

But I’m still walking.

I pass other hedge mages along the road, and—true to form—we greet each other in our usual chaotic fashion.

No rules. No consistency.

Just a flicker of eye contact, a nod, or nothing at all. *

Eleven years in this life, and I still haven’t cracked the code.

It has to be mood-based. Or maybe that’s the whole point.

The familiar paths fade behind me.

Ahead, only forest and uncertainty.

And then it hits me.

What if this doesn’t work?

What if there is no cure?

No answer in the woods?

What if I’ve abandoned the only home I’ve ever known…

only to die alone

where even the birds will forget me?

I stop walking.

Just for a moment.

And that single pause feels heavier than any spell I’ve ever cast.

The weakness creeps in—quiet, insistent.

It whispers that I could turn back.

Crawl into bed.

Let Elira find me.

Let it all end with familiar walls and warm tea and the sound of her voice.

But I know the truth.

If I turn back now, I won’t make it.

I will die anyway.

Just slower.

Smaller.

Unseen.

So I breathe.

Square my shoulders.

And walk on.

There is only one path now.

And it’s forward.

I follow it.

It leads me into a deep wood—the kind that doesn’t appear on maps.

The trees shift when I’m not looking.

Branches angle differently. Roots rise and fall like the forest is breathing.

The path twists and turns, more suggestion than trail, but I trust my feet.

They’ve carried me this far.

I walk for what feels like hours.

But the sun never moves.

I don’t grow tired.

I don’t grow hungry.

The air is thick with magic—old magic.

It hums just beneath the skin, like a second pulse.

And then—at last—I find them.

The trees from my dreams.

A familiar cluster in a silent glade.

At the center stands the hawthorn, gnarled like old hands, its leaves silvered in a light that comes from nowhere.

And there it is.

The door.

Not built. Not carved.

Willed.

A threshold grown into the tree, formed by intent more than craftsmanship.

I step forward, heart stuttering, and place my hand on the knot that serves as a handle.

It’s warm beneath my palm.

I pull—gently.

The door opens.

And from within, a chorus rises.

Soft. Layered. Otherworldly.

“We’ve been waiting.”

I step through.

Into the realm that has waited for me.

Into the place where my price—and my answer—await.