Chapter Text
“Anna!”
Bheem’s head jerked up at Malli’s cry, the soldier he was grappling with suddenly fading into the background as his focus locked in on the little girl who was sprinting toward him. The joy and hope that soared in his chest at the sight died just as quickly as it sprung up when he saw Ram - no, the traitor – stumbling after her. Wait – stumbling? Why was his gait so uneven – no, it did not matter.
He was close behind Malli, and for a second Bheem allowed himself to hope that he was the one who had arranged the razor, had freed Malli, had given them the chance to escape. That hope was gone in an instant as the traitor unholstered his gun, raising to point at the child’s back.
Rage filled Bheem at the sight – Ram had betrayed him, captured him, tortured him. But Malli was just a little girl. How could he? How could this be the same man he had grown to love and cherish more than anyone he had ever met? How could he be so heartlessly cruel, with no regard for the life of even a scared child? How could he put his loyalty to the tyranny of the British Empire, who regarded him as less than human, over the children of his own people?
Bheem pushed aside the litany of questions, the unbearable aching of his heart, all thoughts and feelings except for the rage that burned in him at the sight of the child he had come so far and fought so hard to save being threatened. He shoved the soldier aside and leapt toward Malli, her name on his lips.
The gun in the traitor’s hand went off as Bheem left the ground and Malli dove toward it, the bullet somehow flying between them, leaving both unharmed. He thought he heard a grunt and thud behind him, but paid it little heed. A second later, the branch he had been wielding like a club collided with the side of the traitor’s head, and he was thrown to the side, rolling across the ground before coming to a stop with his face to the sky, bloody quickly covering the side of his face and starting to drip onto the grass below.
Bheem landed with surprising grace several strides away, casting a quick glance back toward Malli. To his surprise, he saw a soldier lying not far behind the man he had been grappling with, blood spreading across his uniform. Had the traitor’s bullet somehow managed to hit one of his allies? Had the soldier been what he had been aiming for? No, impossible. No one could have made such a shot. Bheem turned back to his adversary, his anger still raging, driving all other thought beyond stopping the traitor from causing either of them any more pain from his mind.
Somehow, despite the terrible blow that he had just been dealt, the traitor rose shakily, turning to face Bheem. He took a staggering step forward, hand reaching up and bloody lips parting in an effort to speak. No words had a chance to form before Bheem, blinded by fury, closed the distance between them and swung his make-shift club once again. This time it collided with the traitor’s throat, and his eyes widened as he let out a soundless gasp and fell backward.
This time, he did not rise. Bheem was over him in a heartbeat, his branch raised over the throat of the man he would once have gladly died for. His eyes were still open, wide and darting around as he gasped for air. His breath was rasping and shallow, perhaps from the trauma to his throat, though it seemed to be something more.
His wild eyes finally locked with Bheem's and to his surprise, a tear slipped out of his eye and ran down to join the blood on his temple. Bheem’s own eyes were filled with tears, though he knew not if they were tears of fury, betrayal, loss, or a combination of all three.
A part of him that he refused to acknowledge wept at seeing his anna , his Ram, broken, bleeding, and gasping for breath beneath him. He pushed that weakness away. This was the traitor, the British lapdog who had turned against his own people, who had sacrificed the li ves of a child and a man who would have done anything for him for his own personal gain. A man who, after whipping Bheem nearly to death, after all the betrayal, still kept looking for more ways to destroy him. A man who, after all he had done, had deemed merely killing Bheem insufficiently cruel, who had come up with the unspeakable suggestion to have Malli, an innocent child, watch as he was brutally hung for the crime of trying to rescue her from the cruel hands of the British.
Still, despite everything, despite the pain in his chest that felt like it was ripping him apart, Bheem could not force his arm to fall, to finally end the traitor’s life. Unbidden, memories flashed before his mind’s eye - of Ram’s eyes sparkling as he laughed at Bheem’s misunderstanding of Jenny’s name, of his breathless smile as they danced, of their arms clasped on that fateful day under the bridge, Ram’s joyous laugh as he realized they had succeeded in their insane gambit to save the boy.
His arm was still raised, gripping the branch that could so easily end the life of the man he had once called anna, when the traitor’s eyes fluttered closed and he went limp, his head falling to the side. His breath still rasped painfully in his chest, his face still tense. Bheem’s arm dropped to his side as he took a few steadying breaths. He looked toward Malli, who stood to the side, eyes wide, then back toward the unconscious figure below him.
In that moment he made his decision. He could not kill an unaware man, but he could not leave the relentless soldier behind to hunt them until they were back in British custody or dead. Plus, he reasoned that a British Special Officer would make a good bargaining chip should they be caught. He resolutely ignored the small voice in his head that told him that he might have another, less logical reason that he couldn’t leave Ram – the traitor – behind.
“Malli, come!” he called to the child as he heaved the limp form onto his shoulder, causing fire to erupt on his still raw back. He ignored the agony, forcing himself to his feet and setting off as quickly as they both could go toward the distant woods.
By the time the soldiers had flooded into the clearing, the girl and her protector with his burden had disappeared over the horizon. They had successfully evaded their fate at the hands of the British, yet a child and a wounded man weighed down as he was were unlikely to make it far. For now, though, they would keep moving until they could no longer find the strength to put one foot in front of the other.