Frostbite

Micah's heart thundered in his chest, each beat louder than the last in his ears. He was crouched in the dark, pressed against the splintered wood of the closet. His knees were tucked to his chest, his trembling hands clamped over his mouth. He couldn't let a single sound escape—not a sob, not a gasp, not even the shallow wheeze of his breath. 

Father is going to punish him and he doesn't even know what for.

Sometimes it's because Micah failed to complete his chores. Most times, it's because Father's in a bad mood. Micah has learned that the 'bad mood days' are those where the man comes home with a fumewort in his mouth. He's learned to sight the smoke cloud from miles away. 

The creak of the floorboards outside sent a jolt through him and his fingers dug into his skin to stifle a whimper. A shadow passed under the crack of the door, the long figure distorted by the flickering firelight from the hearth. 

The footsteps grew louder. Closer. 

Micah squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body tense as if that alone could make him invisible. He felt the boards beneath him vibrate with the weight of his father's boots. He held his breath. 

The light from the room flooded his vision as the door wrenched open. 

His father stood over him, the closet door creaking on its rusted hinges. A fumewort hung lazily from his lips, the thin wisp of smoke curling into the air between them. His clothes were filthy, caked in mud and soot, and his face was as weathered and indifferent as always. He scratched the back of his neck and exhaled a plume of smoke, looking bored. 

"I don't know why yer cryin', boy. I ain't even done nothin' to ya," the man drawled, his voice low and unbothered. 

Ashur's breath hitched, his voice trembling. "I-I'm sorry, Father." 

Father huffed, shifting the fumewort to the corner of his mouth. "Didn't even come out to greet me after a hard day's work. Disrespecting' me in my own house, are ya?." 

"I'm sorry, Father," Ashur repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"And pickin' the same hidin' spot every time? It's borin', boy. You should do better." 

The words felt like a slap, but Ashur didn't respond. He swallowed hard and mumbled again, "I'm sorry, Father." 

The truth was, there weren't many places to hide in a house as small as theirs. The closet, as cramped and dark as it was, was the only spot that felt like it might protect him. Even if it never did. 

Father stared at him for a moment, then took another drag from his fumewort, the embers glowing dimly in the dark. He exhaled slowly and the smoke curled around his head before dissipating. 

"Come with me, Ashur," he said, his tone deceptively casual. 

Micah froze. 

"Ashur?" he echoed, the name foreign on his lips. 

His father's eyes narrowed, his voice tinged with irritation. "Don't tell me you've forgotten yer own name, boy." 

Ashur shook his head quickly, his hands trembling as he pushed himself to his feet. "No, Father. I haven't forgotten." 

But it wasn't what his father usually called him. Most days, he was just "boy." Hearing his real name felt strange—wrong, even. Like it carried a secret he hadn't yet uncovered. 

Hearing it made him even more afraid. 

He followed his father out of the cottage, his bare feet padding softly on the worn floorboards. As they stepped into the biting cold, Ashur caught a glimpse of his mother through the window. She was staring at them, her face pale and expressionless. 

She wouldn't do anything. She never did. 

The cold wind bit at Ashur's cheeks as his father led him to the stump of a fallen tree in their yard. Snow covered the ground in a blanket of white, Father stopped and placed a thick log of wood on the stump. Then he grabbed the axe leaning against the side of the outhouse and thrust it into Ashur's hands. 

"Wood needs choppin'," he said simply before sinking into the snow, resting his elbows on his knees.

The axe was heavier than Ashur expected. He wrapped both hands around the handle, his fingers trembling from the cold. He was spindly and weak, his body thin and malnourished. He was barely fed. He had to earn his food and he usually didn't. But he didn't dare say no. 

Ashur raised the axe and brought it down on the log. The blade hit the wood with a dull thunk but barely made a dent. He pulled it back and tried again, his arms shaking with the effort. 

"Father," he stammered, looking over his shoulder. "The axe is dull." 

His father didn't even glance at him. He exhaled another puff of smoke and said, "Sounds like yer problem." 

Ashur's stomach twisted, but he nodded and turned back to the stump. He didn't want to find out what would happen if he failed to chop the wood. So he didn't dare stop. 

The blade hit the wood again and again, chipping away at it in small, splintering pieces. Blisters formed on his hands, his arms burned with the effort, and his breath came out in ragged puffs. Still, he kept going. 

The snow started falling again, soft flakes landing on his hair and shoulders. The cold seeped into his bones, but he kept going. Fuelled by a mechanical need to escape a pain worse than the one he was experiencing. Fuelled by the childish desire to make Father proud. 

Father sat in silence, watching. He stood up once the snow started falling, went back into the cottage and returned with a blanket which he pulled around himself. He then lit another fumewort with a match he struck against his boot and continued watching in silence. 

Watching, smoking, wrapped in his warm blanket while Ashur chip, chip, chipped away at the log.

Ashur's vision blurred as he raised the axe one last time. The log finally split in two, and he staggered back, his legs trembling. 

Father nodded toward the pile of logs beside the stump. "Next one." 

Ashur swallowed hard and placed another log on the stump. His fingers felt numb as he gripped the axe again. 

He repeated the process over and over. The pile of wood slowly grew. His breath came out in puffs of cloud in front of him. The snow fell thicker now, covering his hair and shoulders, soaking into his thin shirt. His arms ached, his chest burned, and the blisters on his hands burst, blood smearing the wooden handle of the axe. 

Father watched. Ashur ached. The snow fell and Aeryndale was quiet.

Finally, his body gave out. He raised the axe one last time before collapsing into the snow. 

The world spun around him as he lay there, staring up at the blackened night sky. Snowflakes danced above him, their edges sharp and cold against his skin. He wanted to cry, but he was too cold for tears. 

When will this end? 

As if answering his question, his father's face appeared above him, blocking his view of the sky. 

"You chopped just enough wood to earn yer dinner," he said, his tone as bored as ever. "But ain't no hot bath for you tonight." 

He turned and walked away, his boots crunching in the snow. Ashur listened to the sound until it disappeared behind the shut door of the cottage. 

Then he curled into a ball in the snow, his breath fogging in the frigid air. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.