Chapter 39 A Fisher

Another day drags its feet into my life. The cold air cuts at my skin, as if the world itself had decided to take offense at my very existence. The damp smell of fish in my clothes and house clings to the air, and I can't seem to shake it. Maybe I don't want to.

I step out of the small, dark house, the one I've lived in longer than I can remember. The cobblestones beneath my boots are smoother now, paved with the grey mortar they've mixed to make the roads sturdier. Cleaner too, I suppose. The town looks different, at least. Some things have changed since Lord Ieuan came into power. Some of it's better. Some of it's not.

I turn the corner, and there she is—Marged, my neighbor's wife. She's bent over the stone basin, scrubbing clothes like it's the only thing keeping her from flying apart. Her backside sticks out, thick and round in that way women's arses tend to be, and for a moment, I can't help but notice it. The motion of her washing makes it all too easy for the eye to linger. I don't know why I still feel the need to look. It's a damn habit, that's all.

"Morning, Harri," she says, her voice bright, She smiles at me like she's doing me a favor, though I couldn't care less. No need to smile at a man like me.

I grunt, half-acknowledging her, then keep walking, my boots tapping against the road, my mind already back on the lake.

Up ahead, there's that house. Where Oswald used to live. A boy, he was old enough to fight i suppose, dead in a skirmish with men from Corwen. One less young face in this cursed town. And his poor mother…. I heard that Lord Ieuan promised to look after her and her daughter. Good for them, I suppose, but it doesn't do much to bring Oswald back. Nothing will.

I walk through the town, the paved roads smooth beneath my boots. There's a slight hum in the air now. I can hear the workers—the ones who aren't fishing anymore—muttering about the lord's decisions.

Lord Ieuan's grain is a godsend for some. And he keeps his word—more than I ever thought a lord would. I can hear it in the gossip. The wheat's grown faster, they say. In two weeks, it's ready for harvest, horseshit who would believe that... And those strange weapons of his, the ones they call Dragon's Breath... Well, I'm not one for myths, but I've heard enough to believe they're real. As real as anything in this town.

Bala's never been much of anything. A shithole, really. Always under the thumb of men more powerful than us, always forgotten by the ones who could've helped. But since Waladr's death… it's better somehow. Less bitter. Some of the men are still here, and a few new faces have come in, eager for the lord's protection. They do the work—build the walls, buildings and pave the roads. Work for food, I hear them say. What else is there to do?

I trudge through the streets of Bala, my boots thudding heavily against the freshly paved road. The stonework's a far cry from the mud and muck we used to stumble through. I've seen it all, and nothing in this damned town changes. Not really.

I pass by the town square, the heart of the place where Lord Ieuan's latest spectacle is in full swing. The crowd's thick with some kind of reverence. Lord Ieuan, stands on the steps, his blonde hair catching the light like some damned angel, makes my stomach turn. Prettier than some women here, skin pale as snow, and those eyes—eyes that glisten with a fire I can't decide if I envy or despise.

He speaks, voice steady, . His words spill like silk, though they're heavy with pride. Talks about how our men beat those of Lord Cadogan of Corwen. Talks about marching to Corwen next. He makes it sound so grand.

The crowd eats it up, mouths hanging open, eyes wide with adoration. He's their golden savior, their new hope. They listen like fools, nodding along, the man could make a speech about the moon being made of cheese, and they'd cheer.

He finishes his speech and goes through the crowd, handing out coins into the sea of outstretched hands. Small, shiny pieces of silver—enough to fill a belly for a few days. They love it, their hands greedily snatching at the coins like it'll change their world.

I can't help but scoff. It's all a show.

With a final look at the growing crowd, I head off toward the lake, the sound of their cheers fading behind me.

As I reach the lake, I see the others. The fishers, the few of us left. The numbers are thinner these days. We're not all fishers anymore. Most of us are builders now. They trade the rods for bricks, the line for stone. Not for coin, but for the grain the lord offers. He's given us a way to eat, and that's worth something.

I nod at the men. Familiar faces, some of them, but fewer each time. They give me quick glances, too quick to really meet my eyes. I know why. There's something about me. Something in the way I carry myself that makes them uncomfortable. Maybe it's because I've been here longer than they have, or maybe it's because I don't give a damn about them.

I pull out the new rod the lord's men made. They say it's better than the old ones. A wheel to turn and reel it in. Easier to use, Hell, I don't care what it looks like. It's just another tool, I cast the line into the water, the soft plunk of it barely audible against the silence. The waiting feels easier here.

The men are talking among themselves, but I don't hear them. I'm just a fisherman like my father, I've been on the water too long to care much about the world that goes on above it.

The line jerks. A small fish, I pull it in slowly, carefully. It's a small victory, one of the few I get these days. I don't smile, but I feel it. That quiet satisfaction that comes when you've got something, even if it's not much. I don't need much. Just enough to keep going. Enough to keep breathing, to keep fishing, to keep my head low.

It's funny, I think as I watch the ripples spread across the lake, how the world doesn't care what you do. How it keeps on turning no matter how you feel. But maybe that's alright. Maybe, for once, that's enough.