Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Voices rise into the spring air with glee. Leather shoes tap against the ground in synchronized dance, challenging the laughs that originate from the villagers just paces outside Kurt Byman’s hall.

“Josua is growing up so fast,” comments one woman, affection adorning her speech.

Her husband nods in reserved agreement, and one of the couple’s friends chimes in. “Surely, his father’s proud!”

Today is a designated day of prominence in Gambämark, for it’s the sixteenth birthday of its leader’s son, the precious boy destined to inherit the wooden throne after his father’s reign.

The exchange between the three civilians is merely one of many, with simultaneous conversations taking place over the melody of nearby choreography and ensemble. Of course, attendance is compulsory, but skipping today’s celebration regardless would force one to miss the pleasant sociality of Gambämark that thrives most vividly during events like today’s: joy, song, and laughter, the trademarks of their social conduct.

More recently, the village’s blessed Kurt amended part of the Gålabåokin to mandate group performances at such gatherings. He reasoned the change as an alleged attempt to “raise village spirits,” especially during the more laborious affairs like average talko and the annual berry-picking day… and it’s, also allegedly, hard to find a single townsfolk opposed to the idea of incorporating more music into the typical dynamism of Gambämark.

So, the village’s most honorable ensemble has congregated just outside Kurt’s hall. A designated division of the talents, a sextet of dancers, performs at the front of the rest, while the band behind them plays some folk song cherished by the people of Gambämark. As the song concludes and the dancers bow, the remnant of the gathered population ends their conversations and claps, and the claps morph into a nearly orchestrated ovation as the musical ensemble steps aside to clear the front of the leader’s treasured edifice.

With how the people of Gambämark applaud the arrival of their blessed Kurt, someone from the Outside would think Hollywood’s biggest stars are strutting down Pärtornas Väg. To the people within the walls, though, the leader is their biggest star—and he’s even more worshipped than the figures of Outsider movies, as everyone watches him with revering glances and his chosen band plays a shorter hymn whilst he takes his throne.

Klas and Kenneth stand nearby, handling their rifles with hands turned clammy from prolonged grasping of wooden stocks. They watch the crowd before them with clumsy yet dutiful stares, and then one of the two steps out of place to reenter the leader’s hall.

With the other hunter’s immediate guard, Kurt Byman begins to speak meanwhile. All of Gambämark’s attention is on him, yet his speech never wavers as it booms almost naturally, to the point that even the auditorily impaired can listen to his spoken charisma.

“Good morning,” begins Kurt, “and welcome to the beginning of a very special occasion. Today, we celebrate the sixteenth birthday of someone gifted, someone very dear to me, and someone who I hope is also dear to all of your hearts…”

It’s hard to miss such a declaration, even from inside the wooden palace that’s Kurt’s hall…

But, with a clouded mind, one could fail to catch those emotive words. Josua Byman has grown all too familiar with being in such a state—especially lately, as his father has harshened his parenting to ensure the capabilities of his precious heir.

“C’mon, Josua…”

Klas’s gentle words coax Josua out of the freeze that momentarily stilled him. Yet, the latter’s heart still races.

“What am I supposed to do?” Josua asks, “Everyone is out there, I-I can’t just—”

“Your Papp prepared you for this…” Klas gives Josua a certain look, his eyes visibly softening their hunter’s gaze. “It’s almost time for you to go out there. You’re going to be just fine, pojke, c’mon.”

Josua breathes, shoulders letting slightly. “Okay, okay.”

He voices acceptance, but his being stubbornly insists on tension as he follows Klas out the back exit of Kurt’s hall. Kurt is still speaking, effortlessly wooing his people with beguiling statements, commenting broadly on the productive success of the village before narrowing his focus to whom said accomplishments are dedicated today.

“Without your collective efforts, Gambämark would have collapsed into ruin nearly two decades ago. It’s with the product of years of triumphant talko that I am able to stand here this morning, introducing who will take over this village some distant day.”

The anticipation is palpable. With Klas behind him, Josua swallows thickly, listening to his father as the man wraps up:

“And now, I will take my seat again, and I will give the floor to my dearest son. Please welcome the boy of the day, the future leader of the Free, Democratic, Sovereign, Communal Village Republic of Gambämark… Josua Byman.”

And instantly, the impressive applause begins again.

The youngest Byman’s feet appear glued to the ground as Klas lightly pushes him forward. With another inhale, he finally budges, this time shuffling outside the leader’s hall to stand before the village population in a helpless rush.

Music rises again as Gambämark’s best musicians return to performing as one. A strophic tune envelops Josua in bestowed honor, with the singing of strings and the tapping of dances overwhelming the boy just as much as the loud clapping and staring of the herd of townsfolk.

“Ahm…”

Again, Josua tenses. Kurt has taught him how to prepare effective speeches, how to sniff out the ripeness and quantity of the present harvest’s berries… yet, no amount of mannerism drills or writing practices could have prepared the boy for handling a crowd of loyalist villagers.

When the music dies down, the audience’s feedback follows suit. Josua grips his leather hardcover like a lifeline, trembling hands hesitating before pulling the pages open to the latest entry in his prized Dagbåok.

“Ahm, good morning, everyone—”

His words catch in his throat as a few quiet murmurs from the crowd knock him off his shaky pedestal.

Josua gulps once more, for he feels his father’s judgment peering into his back harder than the dozens of eyes gazing at him with adulation. He forces his own glimpse down to the writing in the book, scanning the words previously laid in ink by his favorite feather pen.

In a stark contrast to his father’s presentation, he can’t get past reading aloud a single paragraph without stuttering at even the simplest vocabulary in his speech. His face glistens slightly with sweat, and he almost never looks up to the very townsfolk to whom he’s speaking, his nerves disallowing any sort of confidence to merely pretend to exist.

Regardless, he somehow makes it to the end of this public torture.

“So, thank you to everyone for being here today and supporting my father and me. I’m excited to spend my sixteenth year here in our free Gambämark, a-and I can’t wait… wait to see us continue to thrive this year and beyond.”

A choked giggle leaves Josua as he finally looks up to the congregation of villagers. “Tack!”

The people give another round of applause just before the musical ensemble takes position to begin playing again. The volume and the energy of the festivities are making Josua dizzy, and he focuses on his thudding chest to the point of miscalculating his step whilst moving aside for his father and nearly tumbling—

A discordant note tears through the sounds of village joy.

Loudly, a single fiddle in the band had hummed out of tune, and terribly out of time with the just-starting replay of one of Gambämark’s favorite songs.

And everyone notices as the rest of the band abruptly halts.

Josua lets out a prolonged breath, for his overt stumble was immediately overshadowed by a masterful musician’s rookie mistake. Just as everyone else does, he glances over in the direction of the jarring tone, and his eyes fall on the responsible musician with unexpected ease.

Only one instrumentalist had tensed up, with a face flushing redder than stereotypical Gambämark appearance.

“I embarrassed myself,” the culprit thinks aloud a little too obviously, “I embarrassed myself, didn’t I?”

Eyes roll, and sighs leave the ensemble before they reposition, once again, and pay much closer attention to their silent conductor. On an extra cautious count, the music begins for its final repetition of the morning.

Josua keeps watching the performers, but he neglects admiration of the extensive choreography and of the rest of the band…

For his gaze is matched by the still noticeably blushing fiddler.

Josua’s mouth twitches, and then cracks into a sheepish smile. This, too, is returned. But—

“Josua, what are you doing?”

Kurt’s voice cuts through his son’s moment of hyperfocus.

“Let’s go.”

After a final dipping of his hat toward the villagers, he grabs hold of the younger Byman by the arm, and he pulls Josua away to return to the privacy of his dedicated hall.

Yet, Josua doesn’t fight being practically dragged away. In truth, he’s grateful for the escape from the attention of all of Gambämark—and the beat of relatability experienced toward the poor member of Gambämark’s most talented.

An hour later, it’s time for breakfast. For most of the village, it’s just like any other meal time before the rest of the day’s planned events, but for the Bymans and their closest circle, it’s another addition to the program of Josua Byman’s sixteenth birthday celebration.

The elected leader and his son sit in Gambämark’s venue, where a particularly long table is set up for a select list of guests who won’t even visit until dinner. Only two sets of dishes and silverware are dirtied this early, as the two blessed relatives indulge in blueberry pies made the birthday exception from Kurt’s typically strict meal guidelines for Josua.

“How do you like it?” prompts Kurt rather loudly, “I had Berit and the ladies make you your favorite, but not without making me my own…”

Josua chews, but he doesn’t taste. The baked-in blueberries between extra-sweet, doughy crust feel both crunchy and gooey on his tongue, but the receptors of his taste buds are too minimized by the noise from the overactive neurons in his head.

So, he swallows his bite and smiles at his father, though it isn’t exactly genuine amusement of either the food nor the latter’s prideful attempt at humor.

“It’s good… I’ll tell them thanks when they come by.”

Kurt grins back. “Good.”

Then the venue falls quiet, mind the soft tapping of forks against plates.

Josua reaches for his beverage, and his eyes fixate somewhat mindlessly on the glass.

Still, he can’t shake the thought of the embarrassed instrumentalist from just earlier.

Blissfully unaware, Kurt finishes his sweet breakfast first, which he announces by pushing his chair back and breaking the silence that allowed Josua to fall into recollection.

“You finish eating, then find Klas or Kenneth outside.” Kurt grabs his hat from the table and starts for the exit. “We don’t want you wandering off this early into your special day, now do we?”

Josua nods inattentively. As his father leaves, he looks down at his persistently shaky hands.

Who is he?

The grand double doors of the venue squeal as they slam shut, leaving Gambämark’s future chairman alone with the discomfort of his unrelenting curiosity.

Chapter Text

The venue’s doors swing open again. Walking through them this time is Josua, who glimpses around the immediate woodlands in search of the taller men dressed in red fleece and hunter’s caps.

The forest’s birds chirp happily, as does Klas as he patrols the outside of one of Kurt’s prized establishments. Though, he quiets when he sees his boss’s son, and he lowers his rifle once he approaches the boy with a smile that stretches his mustache into a less-threatening shape.

“Josua,” Klas starts, “Kurt—ahm, your Papp wants you to come with us. Do you have everything?”

Josua blinks before turning his head down to give himself a once-over; he has little else than the pinstripe vest on his back and his Dagbåok, and the feather pen tucked in his pocket. “I… think so?”

Klas nods briefly. “Follow me…”

And so, they leave.

Josua keeps a few steps’ distance between himself and one of his father’s favorite hunters, their shoes nevertheless crunching leaves and grasses in relative sync whilst they venture deeper and deeper into Gambämark’s conifers. Josua thinks they’re following the standard path; Klas deviates, taking a turn off it to lead him past the bordering shrubbery.

The younger’s eyes widen slightly, darting all around during their hike. Despite having lived within the walls all his life, he’s admittedly never steered too far beyond the route etched into the ground with tan soils and subsequent shoe prints. His arms clutch his book to his chest, the pages between the shut leather covers remaining still in defiance of the wind that ruffles Josua’s dark curls.

Klas leads the way to somewhere near the hunter’s cabin, yet nowhere near the civilization Josua’s used to beneath his father’s supervision. Sure, Josua’s followed Kurt to check up on the hunters before their departure on duty, but this secluded part of the woods remained foreign to him for all sixteen years of his existence. That is, until…

Josua jumps back.

Klas offers his weapon, lowering the violence made of steel and wood to a comfortable height for grasping.

“Well, here.”

“Huh?” is all Josua can utter, “What are we—”

The swift rustling of nearby disturbance in the trees cuts his words short. Like deer, the two freeze and turn towards the sound; like a moose, a familiar voice emerges.

“Klas?! Oh, nej, don’t give the boy the gun yet!”

It’s Kenneth, who emerges from the sea of greens and browns with narrowed eyes locked and unwavering on Klas.

Klas stutters before Kenneth even finishes scolding him. “I’m sorry, Kurt didn’t tell us how to show Josua how to hunt!”

“Just let me,” Kenneth says, “I’ll take the lead, just help me find a damn moose to—”

“Wait!”

It’s Josua’s voice that breaks up the back-and-forth that erupted between his father’s honored huntsmen. When the two turn to him, he looks between them speedily, the Dagbåok now waving through the air with the frantic gesturing of his hands.

“Papp didn’t tell you how to show me how to hunt? I’m sorry, we’re going to hunt?”

Klas and Kenneth glance again at one another, before Klas backs up slightly and Kenneth bites back a sigh.

“Josua, you’re sixteen now…” Kenneth speaks slowly as he bends at the knees to better match Josua’s height. “Your father has high expectations for you, which I know you understand. Now that you’re sixteen, you have a lot more responsibilities, one of which is learning how to be a proper man. It’s important that Gambämark’s great leader can serve himself and his village in all scopes.”

Josua is already shaking his head. “Papp didn’t tell me anything about this! I can’t hunt something, no, I can’t kill anything—”

“It’s not that bad,” Klas says, “Afterwards, you can cut up the moose and have a nice lunch! I think it’s best when you slow-roast the meat over a fire. Brings out the flavor more.”

Josua twirls on his heels, hands flying up and grasping at his head as he steps away. Kenneth, meanwhile, finally lets out that groan he so desperately wanted to withhold for the boy’s sake.

“He’s not cutting anything up,” he reassures tightly, glancing at Klas. “We are only going to show you how to stalk and aim at a prey. You won’t have to shoot it—just aim for today.”

Whimpering, Josua gives a small nod. Any words—mutters of reluctance, phrases of acceptance, and the like—die on his tongue, replacing themselves with a familiarly nervous swallow as the bigger men start walking a certain way deeper into the forest’s darkest corner.

Josua’s hands are still shaking as the hunter’s cabin cuts into view. The wooden shed, in all its brown beauty amongst nature’s emeralds and junipers, is a refuge for the boy who refuses to look back at the partial, gralloched husk of a moose.

“Gud, so heavy!” laments Klas between sounds of exertion.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kenneth responds, albeit with much less strain. The two drop the fraction of dead cow to the ground, wiping their hands whilst the thinner one continues to speak. “Kurt will be proud! He’ll be happy to know that the moose population outside Rööladon is picking back up this year—to think Gunilla was once our only cow!”

Josua chokes down the thick bile that burns the back of his throat.

As soon as Kenneth opens the door to the hunter’s cabin, the boy bolts into the safety of the quarters, keeping his back towards the red men and the game whose stench starts to fill the space uncomfortably.

“Oh, Josua,” Klas starts up again, “You did great! You’ll be able to pull the trigger and help us field dress in no ti—”

As quickly as Klas starts to prattle, Kenneth grabs hold of his fellow hunter’s hand, shutting the latter up with impressive speed.

…and then they split, eyes darting all around while one of their throats challenges with its clarity the rustling of the trees outside.

It’s now that Josua whips, speeding past his father’s personal huntsmen and fighting the visual memories of watching the moose drop dead at the firing of Klas’s rifle. He fixates on the overcast sky to avoid looking at the butchered cuts of the deceased cow, which now Klas and Kenneth move to store in the run-down refrigerator inside the cabin for temporary convenience.

Before Josua gets too far, though, Kenneth’s voice reaches out to stop him.

“Wait, Josua! Your book!”

Josua huffs, squeezing his eyes shut and tensing his shoulders before turning around to face the taller man.

Kenneth approaches with long strides, before holding out Josua’s precious Dagbåok. When the leather leaves his hands, he reaches into one of his pockets to grab a treat incredibly familiar to the leader’s shaken heir.

“Grattis på födelsedagen, Josua. I’m proud of you.”

The words barely make it to their recipient as Josua snatches the book and caramel cone, mutters some cheap form of a tack, and scurries for home.

The birds no longer sing. The clouds above have also darkened, and Josua’s sure Gambämark is due for a storm tonight.

So, he wastes no time in finding the path leading back to the main village, his shoes leaving lighter prints in the dirt in their haste. The cone has started to soften in the hand clenched around it, but Josua doesn’t think about the waste of his favorite treat or even the unpleasant sensation starting to coat his hot palm, let alone the Dagbåok between his other arm and flank. Instead, he’s locked onto the route ingrained in his memory, the one he’s followed running home after the rain came too soon or when he found something strictly forbidden in the woods.

Almost mindlessly, he flounces toward the Centralfrysboxen, intending to pass by in order to continue back to Gambämark’s residential sector. His feet press harder into the soil beneath them in a halt, though; something’s caught his attention.

Squirrel? he wonders. The hairs on the back of his neck rise with the detection of movement just beyond the freezer.

“Hallå?”

Stillness, then a stir again. A new voice returns the greeting.

“Hallå...?”

Josua forgets all about home and the worsening wind. “Okay, so you’re not a squirrel. Sorry—!”

“...what?”

A figure emerges from the shelter behind the frigid box of steel. Josua finally puts a face to the speech: a recognizable one, yet one he’s only encountered today.

The fiddler seems just as realizing, yet additionally startled. “Josua—Gud, I am so sorry about earlier—”

“No… no, don’t say sorry.”

Josua’s hand unclenches; the cone melts and further sops the skin with caramel. The village’s darling son softens at the sight of the musician guilty of spoiling his grand birthday ceremony. “I don’t think I’ve met you before today.”

The new boy never steps any closer to blessed Kurt’s heir. His tone shakes, yet he maintains some level of adolescent regard as he speaks.

“I’m… Benjamin, fiddle pla—I-I play the fiddle for Gambämarks Välsignade Ensemble. I just turned old enough to play in it, Kurt Byman was very pleased with my concerts with my old orchestra and he chose me to join and today was my first performance but—”

“I thought it was funny.”

Benjamin’s babbling stops. His entire expression eases when he watches Josua’s own reserve crack.

Josua, on the other hand, can’t resist a little laugh himself. “I don’t like when my Papp makes everything so strict. It’s my birthday… shouldn’t it be fun? You made it a bit funner.”

“Oh…” Benjamin straightens. “Well, I’m honored to have pleased you, Josua! Please forgive me, I’m happy to be fun but please don’t let Kurt think I’m unworthy o-or—”

Josua shortens the distance between himself and the fiddler, the latter flinching in immediate reaction. The leader’s successor jolts right back, before he smiles even wider than he did a beat ago.

“It’s okay,” he says, “Nothing will happen… I’ll make sure of it.”

“Oh, tack!”

Both boys now break into full giggles, glimpsing down at the ground and their repositioning feet before meeting careful glances again.

Then, Josua breaks the wink of silence that falls. “It’s nice to meet you, Benjamin—u-uh, but I have to get going now. Papp wanted me home right away after I went out with some of the hunters.”

His arm squeezes his book more tightly to his side, and his other hand switches the forgotten stick to the now-free one to lift and brush loose curls from his forehead; the active extremity freezes an inch or two away, however, when he notices how its palm glistens slightly with liquid caramel. It’s Josua’s turn to blush, the color darkening his typically pinkish face to a deeper crimson.

“Excuse me…”

He takes a step to continue in the direction of home, but his new acquaintance turns to follow him whilst digging into a pocket.

“Wait, here—!”

Benjamin pulls out a white handkerchief, its frayed embroidery hardly up to Gålabåokin standard. With a fast thrust of his arm, he provides Gambämark’s future leader with something to wipe his hands with, never minding the noticeably subpar state of the cotton offering.

Josua stops in his tracks, looking down at the handkerchief before taking it without further hesitation. Another bout of mutual titters fills the air, with the boy of higher class murmuring a returned tack in between.

“I’ll find a way to give this back to you,” he promises, his scamper already starting again. “Bye, Benjamin!”

“Mm—bye, Josua!”

No words follow as Benjamin goes his own way next; Josua does, too.

Stuffing the fiddler’s worn aid in his pocket, the elected heir picks up his pace when the clouds above start to give wet way.

Strangely, he can’t explain why his cheeks are still burning in spite of the winds cooling his back.