Dómhǫfn

Not everything that arrives is meant to be received.

Týr’s Barge

He left Justice early — before the fog had fully lifted from the water.

The port was old.
Stone cut by hand.
Wood darkened by time.
Ropes coarse, steeped in salt and the memory of palms.

Everything here knew its place.
Here, obligation had a shape.

The barge Dómhǫfn lay even in the water.
The cargo had been accepted, acknowledged, and secured.

That was enough.

“Soon,” Týr said quietly, running his palm along the hull.
“See? It’s already growing lighter. Hold on.”

The cargo did not reply.

But he knew — it heard him.
Cargo always did.
Its weight came not from mass, but from waiting.

Týr walked the length of the barge, checking the fastenings.

When he tightened the final rope, his right hand answered with a dull, dragging pain.
He stopped.
Drew a breath.
Took a strip of cloth from his belt and carefully wrapped his wrist.

Tight.
Familiar.

He had been doing this for a long time.

“Just a little longer,” he said to the cargo.
“The port is close. You’ll make it.”

The river accepted the barge calmly.

He was heading toward where he was expected.

He did not recognise Vengeance at once — not because he had forgotten the way, but because the way no longer existed.

The quays were gone.
Stone had disappeared beneath the roots of trees.
Where people had once come ashore, a forest now stood — dense, old, as if it had always been there.

Too old to be the result of catastrophe.

Týr stepped onto the bank.

He walked slowly, feeling the pain in his hand intensify, as though his body were responding to the absence of an addressee.

He recognised the place.
He had stood here before.

The port was gone.

And there were no traces of its existence.

For a moment, something inside him stopped.

Not his heart — it beat evenly.
Not his breath — it did not falter.

But meaning.

He had come to fulfil an obligation.
But the obligation had nowhere to settle.
There was no one to receive it.

And then he understood:

It was not the port that had vanished.
The need for him had.

He searched for a long time.

Checked the shore.
Went deeper into the forest.
Returned.

Not out of hope — but out of duty.

As long as he searched, the obligation still existed.
To stop would make it clear: everything he carried had been sent into emptiness.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the cargo when he returned to the barge.
“There’s no home. But we’ll find another. You deserve rest.”

The neighbouring port was called Reckoning.

Here, everything was different.

Wood had been replaced by iron.
Stone by brick.
People moved quickly, without sparing a glance.

Here they did not judge.
They calculated.

When he mentioned Vengeance, they did not understand.
The name found no purchase.

Not denial — absence.

“We have cargo,” they told him.
“If you’re heading back.”

“I am,” he said.

Bending toward the hull, he added more quietly:

“Hold on, Dómhǫfn.
We’re not alone.
Just a little longer.”

He agreed.

When the cargo was loaded, the barge settled lower.
Water crept closer to the deck.

His right hand trembled as he pulled the rope.
He took hold with his left.

Wrapped the right again — higher, tighter.
Blood seeped through the cloth.

“You’re carrying them all,” he whispered to the barge.
“And I’m carrying you.

Together, we’ll make it.”

He turned back toward Justice.

He saw the port from afar.

It was still standing — but empty.

The wood had dried and split.
The stone was crumbling.
Metal had dulled, as though years had passed faster than the journey.

No one.

Not destruction — abandonment.

He walked along the quay.
A plank cracked beneath his foot.

The pain in his hand was such that he held it pressed to his side, as though afraid of losing control.

The cargo had been acknowledged.

But there was no one to receive it.

“We’ll try further on,” he said to the cargo.
“It’s not your fault.
This isn’t on you.”

Settlement greeted him with cleanliness.

Smooth surfaces.
New materials.
Documents.
Forms.

Here they did not speak of justice.
Here they spoke of solutions.

“We can take this on,” they said.
“But first, take this further.”

They gave him another load.

The barge sank noticeably.
Water nearly touched the deck.

“You’re brave,” Týr whispered, running his hand along the hull.
“I know it’s hard.

But soon.
I promise.”

He was ageing.

He moved more slowly.
Stopped more often.

Sometimes he stood for a long time, looking at the river before taking a step.

His right hand barely obeyed him now.
More and more, he steered with his left, keeping the right pressed to his body, waiting for the pain to become bearable.

The final port was called Lok.

It was the most modern of all.

Glass.
Light.
Smooth lines.

There was no smell of water here — only order.

Dómhǫfn was received.
All cargo was unloaded.
Everything was recorded.

“You are free now,” they told him.

The barge became light.

Too light.

Týr stood on the quay, watching it.

An empty barge meant the price had vanished.
That obligation could be closed without trace.

He returned to the deck.

“You’ve completed everything,” he said, touching the hull one last time.
“There’s no more road.
No more cargo.

You can rest.”

The rope slipped from his right hand and fell.
He picked it up with his left.

Slowly untied it.
Guided the barge into the channel.

“Sleep,” he whispered.
“You were a home for those no one was waiting for.

Now — it’s your turn.”

He let the water in.

Dómhǫfn went under evenly.
Without resistance.

Týr remained on the shore of Lok.

Ports continued to operate.
Cargo continued to move.
Vessels of this type no longer departed.

He sat for a long time.

Then people stopped noticing him.

Not because they forgot.
But because there was no longer any

Reason.