CHAPTER 5 — The Weight of Snow(2)
The first thing Rowan felt was cold.
Not the sharp, biting cold of the night before — this one was softer, the kind that lingered in the air after the fire had died. He slowly opened his eyes. A pale beam of sunlight slipped in through the small window, landing across the wooden floor. The fireplace beside him was nothing but a blackened mouth now, thin ribbons of smoke curling up from the last stubborn embers.
He must've fallen asleep sitting against it.
He lifted his head. His neck ached. His eyes stung.
!Tssss ! Tssss!
Something sizzled.
Rowan turned toward the sound.
His mother, Mira, stood by the small stove, her silhouette warm against the morning light. Oil crackled in a pan as she flipped bread over with practiced movements. When she noticed him waking, her stern face softened with relief.
"You're up," she said gently. "Good."
Rowan pushed himself to his feet. "Where's Papa?"
She nodded toward the open door.
Rowan's heartbeat stumbled.
He walked toward the doorway, and the cold outside brushed against his skin. Snow covered everything — thick, heavy piles that reached up the tree trunks. But the storm was gone. The sky was clear, the sun bright enough to make the snow sparkle like crushed glass.
Harold sat on the doorstep, shoulders wrapped in his old wool shawl, a steaming clay cup in his hands. He looked… better. Pale, yes. Weak, yes. But alive. Breathing. Sitting upright.
Rowan exhaled.
Harold didn't turn, but Rowan knew his father had noticed him. The steam from the cup drifted upward, mixing with the cold air.
Rowan sat beside him silently.
For a while, neither spoke. Father and son simply watched the world thaw outside the hut. Rowan's breath fogged in the air. Harold took another sip, the faint clink of clay breaking the quiet.
Finally, Harold extended the cup toward him.
"Want some?"
Rowan shook his head. "No… I'm just glad you're okay."
Harold let out a low, rough chuckle. "Okay? What would happen to me, hm? Your father still has some fight left."
Rowan smiled faintly and turned his eyes back to the snow.
"It's peaceful today," he murmured.
Harold nodded.
"It is."
But his voice carried something under the surface — something Rowan couldn't quite name.
Mira watched them from inside, her hands still busy with cooking, her expression caught somewhere between relief and something more tender. She hid it quickly when Rowan glanced back.
---
Earlier That Morning
Harold remembered waking up with a jolt of panic.
His breath was shallow. His chest burned. And then—
Warm arms around him.
Mira was crying into his shoulder, whispering, "Thank the heavens… thank the heavens…"
Harold blinked, disoriented. The last thing he remembered was collapsing by the door last night. And now—
He turned and saw Rowan.
Sitting against the fireplace, head down, eyes closed, exhaustion pulling him into sleep. Snow still dusted his coat. His boots were wet. And beside him lay the small cloth bag of medicine.
Harold's lips had parted slightly in shock.
"He carried you inside, Harold," Mira whispered. "Then he ran through the storm to get medicine."
Harold stared at his sleeping son for a long, long moment.
There was pride.
There was disbelief.
And beneath it — a quiet ache he didn't want to name.
---
Noon
The sun had climbed high by the time Harold stood in the doorway again. Rowan was outside chopping wood, each strike steady and controlled. Snowflakes shook loose with every swing of the axe.
Harold watched him silently, something tight forming in his chest.
Mira stepped beside him, offering him a glass of water.
"You've been staring for a while," she said softly. "What is it?"
Harold pressed his lips together. He took the water but didn't drink.
"It's good to say things out loud, you know," Mira murmured. "Whatever's eating you."
He said nothing at first.
Then, slowly, he looked at her — then at Rowan.
"Are. You worried about Arden."
Hearing that, Harold looked at his wife with wide eyes, like a thief that has been caught.
"Ahmm..." He cleared his throat as he said.
"Arden choosed what he wanted to become, I don't know what happened there but I hope wherever he is, he is safe."
"Then...?"
"I'm more worried about Rowan then Arden."
Harold's eyes were fixed at Rowan, the boy who was chopping woods right after breakfast.
"My father was a farmer but, I liked wood cutting more than farming, so I choosed to become a lumberjack. He always used to tell me. Son, do what you are interested in, what you truly want and do it with passion. But..."
Harold was silent for a long time before speaking. "Unlike Arden who choosed his path, Rowan is still doing what I taught him."
Mira listen everything patiently before putting her hand on her husband's shoulder, "he is doing this because he likes what you taught him dear."
"No." Harold replied. "He should do what he truly wants. He is come of an age where it's time for him to see the world and I can't keep him binded to me forever."
Harold looked at Mira with eyes which emotions are unknown yet somewhat understandable.
"Dear, you..."
"I…" Harold began, but the words tangled in his throat. He swallowed them down and stepped forward anyway.
"Harold?" Mira whispered.
He didn't stop.
---
Creak!!
The sound of wood cutting echoed across the place as Rowan put another piece of log on top of the tree stump.
Creak!
'Huh... Huh...' Many thoughts were swirling inside his mind.
The memory of his brother's face. The last time when he had saw his brother 5 years ago.
Creak!!
The time they spent eating together as a family.
Creak!
'I want to become a mage.'
Creak!
The time when his brother had finally told about his dream openly. Now all those times only felt like distant memories.
Creak!
But as Rowan kept chopping logs one by one another old memory would surface. The memory when his brother left for the academy. That face full of hope and dreams of a new future.
Creak!
The days where he didn't go to sleep to wait for his brother's letter despite his parents insisting him to sleep.
Creak!
The day he read the first letter.
Creak!
And the day when he read the last one.
Creak!!
Finally – the time when he had saw his brother's face on that newspaper and after that when their family was banished.
Creak!
'Hah... Hah.... Hah....'Rowan was panting but it was more like a exhaustion from memories rather then by labour.
'Bhaiya.' Rowan clenches his teeth still in thoughts of his brother. He put another log on tree stump and was about to chop it... Then suddenly.
"Rowan."
The axe halted mid-swing. Rowan set another log upright and spoke without turning.
"Yes, Father?"
Harold's hands curled into fists at his sides.
"There's something I need to say."
Rowan finally looked at him. "What is it?"
Harold exhaled shakily.
"Son… you should leave this place. Go to the city. Live your life there."
The axe slipped slightly in Rowan's grip.
"…Why?"
"Because you deserve a life that isn't just chopping wood for a sick old man in the forest."
Rowan frowned. "This is my life."
Harold's voice sharpened — not with anger, but with desperation.
"Listen to me seriously for once."
Rowan sighed. "I always listen, Father."
"Then hear this." Harold's voice cracked. "I can't keep you bound to me like this. I can't give you a future. My name… my reputation… it's all ruined. And I don't want you chained to that. Go. Start over somewhere new."
The snowy forest went silent.
Rowan breathed in slowly, then set the axe down. He walked to Harold and stopped only an arm's length away.
"When I was a child," Rowan said quietly, "you sat beside me every night I was sick. You lit the fireplace, rubbed my hands and feet warm, stayed awake even when you were exhausted. You taught me to hold an axe. You taught me to stand. You and Mother fed me, protected me, raised me."
Harold's eyes wavered.
"And now," Rowan continued, voice steady, "when you are in trouble, you want me to leave? To abandon you? Is that the last lesson you want to teach me, Father? That we run from family when things get hard?"
"No. That's not—" Harold's voice broke. He looked away. "I don't… I don't want my ruined name to bury your future, Rowan. I don't want you stuck here with a man the world has forgotten."
Rowan saw the man who once stood tall, now weighed down by regret and unspoken pain.
Then Rowan dropped the axe and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Harold so suddenly the older man froze.
"You've done enough for me," Rowan whispered. "Now let me do something for you. I don't care about reputation. I care about my family. And I promise you — I'll restore your honour. One day we'll walk openly among people again. With our heads high."
Harold's breath hitched. Tears welled up in his eyes — tears Rowan had only seen once before in his entire life.
"I'm… sorry, son," Harold whispered hoarsely. "I'm so sorry."
"Thank you, Father," Rowan murmured. "For raising me."
Mira wrapped her arms around both of them from behind, her warmth closing the circle.
"Enough of this serious talk," she muttered softly. "Come. The food is ready."
And for the first time that day, Harold smiled — small, fragile, but real.
Later That Night
Rowan lay on the ground outside, staring up at the darkening sky. The snow was almost gone now, replaced by thin patches of sparkling frost.
His breath curled into the night.
"I will restore your honour, Father…" he whispered.
Then he frowned.
"…But how?"
The sky didn't answer.
And Rowan lay there, the weight of that question pressing down on him like falling snow.
---
Chapter End.