Chapter Text
“Da!” The cry, desperate, rang through the air.
The screams, the blood, and the pain were all he could hear, see, and feel. His children's strangled cries of fear and despair sounded to his ears like a sword through his heart. Blood stained his face, obscuring his sight, wetting his lips and putting the taste of iron on his tongue as he struggled for breath.
The pain caused by the ropes against his skin, burning as they tightened stronger and stronger, keeping him kneeled on the ground, was not the worst; his eye hurt as if a hundred needles were piercing it over and over again, and each blink reminded him of the deep scratch across his face, bleeding as if it would never stop. He could feel the beating of his heart, heavy and panicked against his temple, for he was quickly losing his strength and began to choke; his tired hands were unable to reduce the strain of the rope around his neck.
Black spots appeared in his blurred vision, and just when he thought he was going to die miserably on the ground, right there, right then, under the innocent eyes of his children, a familiar voice rose above all the others.
“Please, stop!” This voice—was it Hilda? Hilda, the good old Hilda, his neighbor?
All the woman received in answer were shouts of protest, and the cries of his children grew more desperate as they witnessed their father struggling to catch bits of air. The woman's voice cut the tense atmosphere once again, more severe and imperious.
“Wait, and listen to me!”
There was a silence, some whispers, and then suddenly his hands found no resistance and oxygen made its way down his throat to his lungs. He coughed, his breathing laborious, but he quickly forgot the pain everywhere in his body when tiny arms hugged him tight before he could fall to the earth. He felt tears against his neck, heard quiet sobs in his ear.
Then a soft fabric cleaned the blood from his right eye away, and his gaze met for a second the terrified face of his youngest daughter, until she buried her head in his shoulder again, hanging onto him like a lifeboat. He softly stroked her hair, wishing he could speak, but his throat burned too much. Behind her, a few feet away, stood Bain and Sigrid, both held back by villagers, preventing them from going to him.
Tilda had probably slipped from their hands, but no one dared get close enough to bring her back.
Most of the village was there, some armed with swords or spikes or forks, all aimed at him. At the end of the ropes were people he had considered good companions. Hilda had her back turned from him, facing the Master, a tall man dressed in expensive clothes of very bad taste, but who somehow managed to look lordy anyway, whose hand was raised, ready to give the order to tighten the ropes again. All of them expressed disgust and fear. On some faces, there was hatred.
“You don't have to kill him!” Hilda said, sounding sure of herself. As she was the only Soothsayer of the village, old and wise, people listened to her, even the Master, for his people trusted her.
But fear of what was different was stronger than any wise advice, for it was a poison, a natural reaction rotting and blinding most human's opinions. "But it's a beast!"; "a monster!"; "it'll bring us bad luck!"; "he's always been a troublemaker!" were some of the words and insults shouted amongst the villagers.
Tilda hugged him tighter, her little body shaking against his chest. Sigrid and Bain were crying, and it broke his heart; they should not witness this. If it had to end like this, they should be taken away. Hilda would take care of them; they were safe, and they would be alright.
It was all that mattered to him. That was, after all, what had brought this situation upon him. He had known all along it would come to this.
But it was worth it, and he would do it all again.
“We owe Bard our lives; he saved us from the dragon years ago!” Reminded of this fact, the crowd went quiet, save for the whispers, the children's crying and his heavy breath. But Hilda wasn't done yet. “Let him live. Our future holds nothing dark related to him—”
Bard saw hope making its way in his children's eyes. He felt it, too. For a moment he naively believed the people he had shared his life with for years would accept him. That they would remember he was no different than he had always been, that this revelation didn't change who he was. Maybe a few of them did. But for most, if Wizards and Healers and Soothsayers were almost a common thing, they were harmless; people like him were not. Too different, too dangerous, too rare. Everything else, all they had shared, didn't matter.
The sad look in the old woman's eyes finished taking all Bard's hope away as she turned to finally face him.
“—if he leaves.”
Sigrid let out a gasp and Bain gripped his sister's arm, staring at his father with horrified eyes. In the crowd there were shouts of agreement: people seemed to like the idea. Bard understood why; they wouldn't have to get their hands dirty, wouldn’t have to look at three orphaned children everyday and remember that they were the cause of their situation. They wouldn't have to kill someone they had once appreciated, even respected. If they could get away with this, send the devil away without spending blood in the process, why not?
All eyes were on the Master. He was a skilled sword fighter, and people respected him, for he managed to keep order like no other. But he was also violent and greedy, flaws that could easily be held against him, should anyone be interested in taking his place.
Bard turned his gaze away from the Master. He looked at his kids, for he knew whatever the outcome was, he would either never see them again, or not until a long time.
He would die, or he would leave.
In both cases, Bard's world would fall apart. And oh, how the Master would be happy. Finally, he was getting the eternal troublemaker out of his way. By not killing the beast, he would gain even more of people's trust, he would prove how capable of acts of goodwill he was. For people didn't need to see the man they thought they’d known well dead, now that their Soothsayer had reassured them he would cause no harm if he left. They wouldn't appreciate seeing him killed anymore. It was hypocritical, Bard thought, but this was as things had always been.
“Fine.” There was not another word spoken once the Master started talking. He turned to stare with disgust at the kneeling man, who still held his crying little girl close. “Leave, Bard. And do not come back.”
He gestured to his men to cut off the bloodied ropes around Bard's neck, chest and legs, which they did with shaky hands. Bard would never hurt them, though. How could he? They had been friends. They had been laughing together just hours ago.
Hilda muttered, “I'm sorry,” but stood close, as Bard knew she was aware of what she would have to do.
A nod of the Master's head and they tried to get Tilda away from him.
“Please!” Bard let out in a broken, rough voice, gripping his daughter's arm as if letting go now would be enough to kill him. “I beg of you; please. Let me at least say goodbye.”
The begging must have pleased the Master, for he told the men to let go of her, as well as Sigrid and Bain, who ran to him, falling to their knees to hug their father, eyes red from crying. They had not complained to the Master, for they had to know it was this or death, and the latter was not even thinkable for their fragile minds.
“Let us come with you,” Bain cried, and Tilda looked up to nod vigorously. Only Sigrid didn't react, picking hair away from her father's injury, concern painted all over her face.
“No. The road is no place for children, Bain.”
“But—”
“I said no. Rumors will spread and follow me everywhere.” With a shaky hand and thumb, Bard wiped another tear off his son's cheek, and smiled sadly. “You're not safe with me anymore.”
“But you saved us!” Tilda whispered, clinging to his arm.
“This kind of danger is differ—” Bard grunted in pain, abruptly reminded of its presence, as Sigrid had softly touched the surface of the side of his left eye. He had not even noticed her finger getting so close to his sight. She looked horrified, but they hadn't time for this; the Master's patience was not one to play with.
“You must see a Healer, Da.”
As much as it pained him, Bard ignored her words, and kissed Tilda on the forehead. He ran a hand through Bain's hair, then with both of them he held gently the boy's head in place, forcing his son to look at him.
“You take care of your little sister.”
Bain nodded, biting his lip. Then, Bard turned to his eldest, meeting her worried, teary gaze. She looked so much like her mother that it squeezed his heart even tighter.
“Hey—I'll be fine, love. I'll be fine. Just take care of them. Hilda will help you.” She tried to smile, but failed, her expression breaking into a despair he could not bear to see. “I'll come back. I swear. This is not a farewell. Okay?” he said more quietly, to be heard only by his children.
The three of them looked down, not answering. Even Tilda, too young to completely understand, seemed to feel the importance of what was happening.
Bard's voice broke when he next spoke, tears filling his eye. They were his world, and he had promised to never abandon them. Yet here he was, forced to leave them behind for their own safety. “O—Okay?”
Slowly, they nodded. It was all he could get from them.
“I love you, Da!” Tilda cried, throwing her little arms around his neck, staining her clothes with blood. Bard winced, but managed to give a weak, reassuring smile to her siblings as he stroked her back. His gaze fell, for the first time since his children had gotten to him, on the people all around them.
They were growing impatient. They wanted him to leave, now.
“I love you too, darling.” Bard looked at Bain and Sigrid as he said so, aiming his words at them, too.
He put a kiss in Tilda’s hair, before softly pushing her off him. Bard let her put something inside one of his belts' satchels, and then got up slowly, unable to stop himself from groaning in pain; his whole body was aching. There was no doubt he would be covered in bruises. The ropes had burned his skin, stripped it in some places. He was a bloodied mess, and Bard hated that this would be the last sight his children would have of him.
But only for a while. Not forever.
Bard held the Master's gaze, and ignored the looks people gave him. He tried to forget how they were betraying him, after all he had done for them.
He nodded to Hilda, who gathered his children around her. He gave a last smile to Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda.
Bard felt his heart being shattered into a million pieces.
And then, limping, he walked away.