Hungering Teeth.

XI.

TW: body horror

MAY 15th, 1791

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    The carriage rattled along the well-worn road, the wooden wheels groaning with the strain of each uneven stone beneath them. The evening air, thick with the perfume of ripened fields and fading sunlight, clung to Agnus as he guided the reins with an almost absent touch. His eyes fixed on the horizon, where the town's festival glittered like some far-off dream. The banners, blood-red and gold, danced lazily in the breeze, and the faint strains of music and laughter wove their way through the air, a distant melody promising revelry and temporary joy.

    It shuddered to a stop, its wooden frame creaking in protest, and Agnus sprang down, his boots crunching against the gravel. He tied the reins with a practiced hand, but his mind was far from the present moment, caught on the web of thoughts he could not escape. He turned back to help Mabel, extending his hand toward her frail form with a tenderness that felt almost performative, as though the motions of care were all he had left to offer.

    "Allow me, Grandma," he said softly, lifting her down with the gentleness one reserves for fragile things—things that, if mishandled, might break beneath the weight of time. She smiled at him, a faint curve of the lips that spoke more of resignation than joy.

    Enid was already at the edge of the carriage, her skirts gathered in one hand as she prepared to descend.

    She extended her hand to Agnus with a teasing smile, the same one that had once quickened his heart.

    "Such a gentleman," she quipped lightly as he helped her down.

    He offered her the ghost of a smile in return, though it barely touched his eyes.

    The lilting notes of a fiddle drifted from a nearby stage, where a group of musicians played a lively jig. Laughter rose in waves, punctuated by the cries of the vendors hawking their wares. The constant hum of chatter surrounded them, snippets of conversation blending into a comforting background noise, only broken by the occasional cheer when a child won a game at one of the stalls.

    Agnus walked alongside his grandparents and Enid, his gaze drifting to the modest decorations strung between the tress.

    Children ran about with colorful ribbons trailing behind them. Luther was there too, standing by his father's booth, eyes scanning the crowd. When their eyes met, a tension passed between them— unspoken, but felt.

    Enid clasped Agnus's arm, pulling him towards the row of stalls. "Look at that pie, Agnus, it's bigger than your head!" she chuckled, but Agnus's smile didn't reach his eyes.

    He hadn't been sleeping well, not since Nori crept into his life.

    As the evening deepened, the festival took on a more intimate glow. Lanterns were lit, and the hum of voices grew more subdued as the night settled in. Agnus stood with Enid near a gathering of townsfolk, the hint of cider hung sweetly in the air. Before them was an old wooden table, worn smooth by the years, upon which lay an arrangement of bones— knuckle bones, scattered haphazardly.

    "We're to play kayles tonight," Enid said, her eyes gleaming with the same excitement she had carried all day. Her hands, delicate and quick, hovered over the table as she began to organize the small bones into a neat stack. "You haven't forgotten how, have you, Agnus?"

    Agnus shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was a game of skill, one from their childhood, and the sight of the bones, so carelessly familiar, brought a flicker of warmth to him. Kayles— a game, simple in its rules but demanding in its precision— required each player to toss a stick or ball in an attempt to knock down the bones in a single throw.