Chapter 5 - The Ruler Stays Weak
1000 Words
Chapter 5 — The First Time He Stood
The morning came warmer than the day before.
Mist still lingered near the hills, but the village had begun to find its rhythm again. Smoke curled steadily from cooking fires. Women pounded rice with firmer strokes. The sound of wooden mortars echoed across the clearing, more confident now. Life moved, though everyone remained aware of the small hut at the edge of the trees.
At the training ground, Bato watched the warriors practice.
They moved in pairs, shields raised, spears thrusting forward in measured rhythm. The ground was damp, footprints overlapping in the mud. Laya fought harder than necessary, his strikes quick and sharp. He pushed his partner back with aggressive steps, forcing him to stumble.
“Again,” Laya said.
The other warrior adjusted his grip, breathing harder. They circled. Laya lunged again, stopping just short of contact.
“Your feet,” Bato called. “Too close.”
Laya reset, annoyance flickering across his face. He corrected his stance but did not slow. Sweat darkened his hair. When the round ended, he immediately reached for another partner.
“He trains like he wants a fight,” one warrior muttered quietly.
Bato heard but did not respond. His gaze shifted briefly toward the forest edge.
A scout approached from the ridge path, dust clinging to his legs. He bowed slightly.
“Smoke near the Lower River,” he said. “Not many. Maybe a hunting party.”
Bato nodded. “They cross?”
“No. Just moving along the far bank.”
“Keep watching.”
The scout left without further words. Bato folded his arms again, expression unchanged. He did not call the warriors together. Instead, he let training continue.
The village did not need more worry.
Inside the healer’s hut, Marang woke to the sound of grinding stone.
Ambo sat near the doorway, crushing dried leaves. Light filtered through the woven wall, falling across his hands. The scent of herbs lingered, familiar now.
Marang shifted carefully. Pain tugged at his side, dull but present. He tested his breathing—steady enough. He watched the healer’s back for a moment, then slowly pushed one hand against the mat.
He moved before thinking too much.
His body protested immediately, but he ignored it. He braced his arm and lifted himself slightly. The motion felt heavy, like pushing against water. His jaw tightened. He paused, then tried again, rising a little higher.
The mat rustled.
Ambo turned quickly. “What are you doing?”
“Sitting,” Marang replied, breath controlled.
“You should not.”
“I am not dying,” Marang muttered.
Ambo set the stone aside and moved closer. “You will reopen it.”
Marang ignored him, shifting his weight again. He managed to sit halfway, shoulders hunched. Pain flared across his side, but he held still until it dulled.
“There,” he said quietly.
Ambo watched him, arms tense at his sides. “That is enough.”
Marang shook his head. “I have lain down too long.”
“It's only been days.”
“It feels like it's been years.”
He placed one foot beneath him, testing the ground. The movement was slow, deliberate. Ambo stepped closer, ready but not touching.
“Do not,” the healer said.
Marang exhaled. “I only want to stand.”
“You are not ready.”
“I decide that.”
Ignoring Ambo, Marang pushed upward.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then his body lifted—unsteady, but upright. His knees locked, and he stood, leaning slightly forward. The hut seemed smaller from this height, the doorway brighter.
He held it for a heartbeat.
Then the pain struck.
His breath caught sharply. The world tilted. His leg faltered.
Ambo moved without hesitation, catching him by the arm and shoulder. The contact was firm, almost rough. Marang’s weight leaned briefly into him before he steadied.
“I said—” Ambo stopped, tightening his grip as Marang swayed.
“I am fine,” Marang muttered, though his voice thinned.
They stayed like that for a moment—close, balanced between standing and falling. Marang’s breath slowed. The pain eased slightly.
“I stood,” he said.
“For a moment.”
Ambo shook his head faintly and guided him carefully back down to the mat. Marang lowered himself with visible effort, jaw tight. When he settled, he leaned back, eyes closing briefly.
Silence filled the hut again.
Ambo checked the bandage, fingers quick and precise. A faint stain had spread beneath the cloth, but not heavily. He adjusted it without comment.
“Where did you go?" Marang said after a moment.
“What?"
“Earlier. You went outside."
"The ginger and lemongrass were all used. I needed to get them for your brew."
"I did not hear you coming back."
“You were busy,” Ambo replied.
Marang opened his eyes, watching him. “What is happening outside?”
Ambo hesitated.
“Training,” he said. “Fishing. The usual.”
Marang studied him. “And?”
“Scouts returned.”
Marang’s expression sharpened slightly. “From where?”
“From the Lower River. I heard they saw smoke but it was nothing close.”
Marang nodded slowly, absorbing it. He looked toward the doorway, where sunlight now filled the opening.
“They're moving,” he murmured.
Ambo did not say anything.
He sat quietly for a while, breathing more evenly. The strain of standing lingered in his shoulders. Ambo returned to grinding herbs, though his movements were slower.
After a moment, Marang spoke again. “Help me sit later.”
Ambo glanced at him. “Okay.”
Marang gave a faint nod.
Outside, the training ground echoed with the dull thud of wooden weapons. The river moved steadily beyond the trees. The tribe continued, careful but alive.
Inside the hut, the datu sat upright for the first time.
And this time, he did not lie down immediately.
- Writer
