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"Think back to right after we were scrounged up and brought here. We couldn’t do anything except kill folks."
The journey to the Phantomhive manor had been a bit of a blur; it could have been hours, days, weeks, and Bard would have been none the wiser. He had spent most of it staring blankly out of the window, shoulders rigid, expression vacant. If Sebastian had spoken to him at all, the mildly injured man hadn’t taken note of his words. They had simply slipped past him as he struggled to tear his thoughts away from the battlefield, away from the agonised screams that echoed in his ears even now. When he stared out of the window, his hollow blue eyes weren’t fixed on the scenery at all, but on the dying faces of his comrades, which seemed as if they would follow him wherever he went. Hell, he could still practically feel his friend’s body cradled in his arms right now, limp like a bloodstained rag-doll. One thing was for sure; Bard was no longer the man he used to be. He was a shadow of his former self, and he wasn’t sure how becoming a servant at some rich brat’s manor was going to help matters. A chef of all things too, when he hadn’t a clue how to cook the kind of refined dishes the Earl would expect from him. He hardly knew how to fry an egg, for God’s sake. However, it was better than the alternative, which was to stay in America and face his guilt head on. At least this way, Bard was as far from the place he had once called home as he could reasonably hope to be, which was really his only option, since there was absolutely no way he could face things. There was no way he could look anybody he knew there in the eye again – not when he was the only one of his team who had made it out alive. Not when he had failed so spectacularly to protect his comrades – no, his friends. What would the folks back home think of him now? A coward? A failure? Both? Because that was certainly how Bard felt. Perhaps agreeing to come to England with Sebastian was just him running from the truth. Spoken like a real coward, Bard thought to himself bitterly.
For some reason or other, though, this mysterious dark clad butler saw potential in him, which was why he was here now, sitting aimlessly on the bed of his new quarters. He didn’t really have many possessions to speak of, so unpacking had been a short process. Sharing a room with another servant didn’t bother Bard, as he had gotten used to sleeping in close proximity of others – though he’d had much less space, and the conditions had been significantly worse. Settling in a much quieter environment like this was going to be a long, tedious process, and Bard couldn’t help but wonder why Sebastian had chosen him of all people. Furthermore, what the hell kind of place needed a so-called chef who was actually only good at killing? This kid must’ve been pretty damn important.
It was only now, for the first time in days, that Bard caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Or someone with his features at least, because in all honestly, he hardly recognised the man staring back at him. His stubble was longer than he usually let it grow, and his dirty blond hair was in dire need of a wash. The bandage around his head was lightly stained, although Bard hardly felt any pain from his wound. His face was uncharacteristically pale and gaunt, his eyes vacant, with unsightly shadows underneath them from a lack of sleep. Come to think of it, when was the last time Bard had actually slept?
“‘scuse me? Mister Bardroy?” His thoughts were cut short by a knock on the door, and a young face with a pair of bright grass green eyes and golden hair peered around it. He was presumably the other servant Bard would be sharing this room with. Jesus, how old was he? Surely this kid couldn’t be a killer like Bard was? If so, how?
“Just call me Bard,” he mumbled, glancing away. Again, he found himself wondering what kind of place this really was; Sebastian had been rather vague in his explanation. Surprisingly, the boy didn’t seem deterred by Bard’s guarded demeanour; instead, he bounded forward with a smile.
“‘kay! My name’s Finny, I’m the gardener. Nice to meet ya, Bard!” Before he even had a chance to speak, Finny had grabbed one of Bard’s hands to shake it, and he was caught off guard by the strength in his grip. How could a kid like him possibly be so strong? Well, that was a question for another time. While he didn’t offer a smile, Bard gingerly returned the handshake, eyeing Finny cautiously.
“Er... yeah. Likewise,” he replied quietly, really not sure what else to say. He was in no mood for any sort of friendly conversation, which was unfortunately something he would have to get accustomed to. Once again, though, Finny was not deterred, a beaming smile still spread across his face.
“Blimey, it’s been a while since I’ve ‘ad a roommate! This is gonna be so much fun,” Finny exclaimed, and Bard had to resist making a grumpy comment. Just because he felt like shit, that didn’t mean he had to crush the boy’s strangely positive attitude, though it would certainly take some getting used to. “Anyway, you gotta come meet the others! Meyrin and Tanaka are waitin’ for you!” If he was being honest, Bard didn’t feel even remotely ready to meet any of the other servants, but as Finny practically dragged him out of the room, it seemed he didn’t have much choice in the matter. As he was tugged away by the unusually strong gardener, Bard caught one last glimpse of himself in the mirror. The ghost of a man looking back at him was still unrecognisable, and likely would be for a while. It seemed he couldn’t outrun his demons so easily. Even so, Bard couldn’t completely push aside the small shred of hope he had that this could be a new start for him, a chance for him to reinvent himself and put his unfortunate set of skills to good use.
Hell, maybe he’d even learn how to fry an egg in the process.