Chapter Text
Barry’s been on the road for nearly two weeks now. He’s been traveling on foot and avoiding as much human interaction as possible. He risks one night in a tavern. Surely, it’s been long enough. Surely, he’s far enough away. They have to have given up by now. It’d be a waste to keep pursuing him at this point. But there’s a nagging in his chest, tugging at the gaping maw where his heart used to be, and he leaves at first light.
He keeps his eyes trained on the worn dirt road beneath him as he walks. Unpleasant things attempt to permeate his thoughts – visions of dark rooms lit by candles, fire, shouting, voices in his head reminding him that he has nothing left in this world. He grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms, forcing them away. He focuses on his surroundings. The birds in the trees, the orange light of the rising sun, the rustling of the leaves, and the pain that suddenly erupts in his side as an arrow tears through it and lodges in the ground ahead of him. Another one buries itself in his shoulder, and a third somewhere in his back, far too close to his spine for comfort. He starts to run, and an authoritative voice shouts after him.
“Surrender yourself!”
His lungs fill with the memory of smoke. A fourth arrow sails past him, tearing his sleeve and barely nicking his arm. It reminds him to use his brain as the horses rear behind him. He veers off into the trees. The soldiers are still shouting after him, but they’ll have to dismount and follow on foot if they want him. He presses a hand to his side and stumbles in no particular direction, jostling the arrows closer to his vital organs with every step. He hopes he’s not bleeding too much, he’d hate to leave such an easy trail after going through all this trouble to run away.
His head spins, and reality goes kind of gooey. He’s not sure if it’s from the pain or the blood loss or everything else, but it passes, and he trips and falls out of the treeline into a field. He can’t see much with his cheek pressed to the ground. All the colours blend together in his bleary vision, but he can see green, and pink, and yellow. He waits for the soldiers to be on top of him. He wonders if they’ll kill him now, or if they’ll shackle him and drag him back home to the gallows.
But he can’t hear them. Not their shouting, or the pounding of their polished boots through the trees. He couldn’t have been running that fast, could he? Maybe he was. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing. He’s still bleeding and injured, but if he can die on his terms, at least he’ll die somewhere he thinks might be pretty. He can hear running water and birds chirping. He closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, emptying his mind as completely as he can. A gentle breeze blows through, and almost carries away the small gasp above him before he can hear it.
With effort, he opens his eyes, and sees a child of all things. A small girl in a white dress with a handful of colourful flowers stares down at him. When their eyes meet, she turns and runs away. “No,” he grunts, reaching helplessly out, “wait.” His hand flops to the ground, and his breathing is laboured. The acceptance of his death has quickly turned back to resistance, but he has no choice. He's going to die here. He’s going to bleed out and leave this life with nothing to show for it. He closes his eyes again and waits for the darkness behind them to consume him completely. He did this to himself, really, what is he doing fighting it? Maybe he deserves this.
Then there’s hands on him, poking around his wounds. He looks, and there’s a woman kneeling next to him, spitting image of the little girl. Or maybe the little girl is the spitting image of her. That is how genetics work, he supposes. The young resemble the old. People used to tell him he looked like his father. He wouldn’t know. The woman is frowning as she examines him. “Help,” he chokes out, as if that’s not what she’s already doing. Her frown deepens as she looks at him proper. She digs into a bag at her side and extracts a vial with a sparkling black liquid in it. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was the night sky itself.
She uncorks it and leans in close, “count yourself lucky my daughter found you first, or I wouldn’t be doing this.” She tilts his head back and pours the entirety of the vial into his mouth. Immediately, his eyelids start to get heavy, and he can’t seem to speak. Has he been poisoned? Is he succumbing to his injuries? He wants to ask her what he just drank, but the world goes dark before he gets the chance.
He doesn’t dream, which he would be thankful for if he had the faculties left for gratitude. He floats aimlessly in the darkness, feeling and knowing nothing. If this is death, it’s not so bad.
He wakes up in a bed, on his stomach. It’s comfortable. He can feel the weight of a quilt thrown on top of him, and he realises his shirt is gone. His injuries throb with a dull pain. He pokes gingerly at his side, and it makes that pain radiate outwards, but it’s bandaged. He doesn’t have nearly the flexibility required to check his shoulder and back, but he assumes they must be bandaged too. The arrows are gone.
With a groan and a whole lot of effort, he pushes himself up and sits on the edge of the bed. He makes sure not to slouch too much, so he doesn’t irritate his wound. Taking in his surroundings, its got all the makings of a humble cottage. Wooden walls, wooden ceiling, wooden furniture. Delicate, light curtains diffuse the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window, and there's a pile of extra blankets folded on some piece of furniture at the end of the bed. It’s nothing like the gilded, lush, meticulously cleaned quarters he used to have. He doesn’t know if he likes it, but he basks in the warmth of the sun anyway. He lives to see another day, and at this point, it’s all he can ask for.
The tattered bag he managed to scrounge up early on in his travels lays at his feet. He attempts to bend over to check if his meager belongings are still inside, but his injuries protest the movement. He grits his teeth and fists his hands in the sheets as he waits for the flare of pain to go away. He pokes at the bag with his foot, and he can feel that his book is still inside. He’ll have to accept that for now.
The door opens, and the woman he saw walks in with a tray. She doesn’t look surprised in the slightest to see him awake. Her expression is carefully measured, mostly neutral, but betraying a twinge of disapproval. She does not want him here.
“Hello,” he says. His mother always told him that was the first step to making friends. He doesn’t need this woman to be his friend, but he needs her to like him enough to not turn him in. He’s seen the bounty for his head, though. It might be a tall order.
She simply hums in response, and sets the tray down on the bedside table, next to a vase of colourful wildflowers. It’s laden with food. Eggs, sausages, bread, a bowl of fruit, small pots of jam and butter, and a glass of juice to wash it all down.
“For me?” He asks as she turns to examine a number of vials and jars lined up on the dresser.
“No one else here.”
He picks up the fork and stabs a sausage, devouring it in three bites. He didn’t realise how hungry he was. “Thank you,” he says.
She snorts. “Don’t thank me. If it were my decision, you’d be getting toast and a swift kick back into the woods.”
He takes a bite of the bread. It’s still slightly warm. “Thank you for saving my life, then.”
She picks up a short, wide jar with a vaguely green substance in it and some fresh bandages. “Again,” she turns to face him, and her eyes are piercing and cold, “don’t thank me.”
His second bite of bread feels like a lump of glue going down his throat as he remembers what she said to him before knocking him out. He seriously doubts this woman will let him get close enough to her daughter to thank her for saving his life and allowing him a nice breakfast, but he keeps it in mind. He decides to focus on something else. “What was in that vial?”
“A sleeping potion.” She rounds the other side of the bed and climbs on behind him. He can feel her removing the bandages back there. “Stitches are much easier to do when your subject isn’t squirming around so much.”
A potion? “Stitches?” Her hands are warm as she spreads whatever paste is in that jar over his wounds. He cringes as small stabs of pain radiate outwards at the disturbance.
“You got yourself torn open pretty badly on your side, and those arrows were no walk in the park, either.” She attaches new bandages to his back and moves to sit next to him. She angles him so he’s leaning over a bit, giving her better access. “Do I want to know why you were left in my meadow like a sad porcupine?”
He could laugh at the vision of a porcupine with only two quills sticking out of it, but the woman’s disdain and the weight of his life keep him in check. “Probably not.”
She removes his bandage, and he risks a glance down. It’s not nearly as gruesome as it could be. His skin is pink and puckered, and there’s some dried blood around it, but neat stitches hold it all together. “You don’t have to worry about whoever’s after you,” she says as she wipes away what must be the previous application of the green stuff, and the dried blood along with it. “This place is protected, they won’t find it.” She applies a new, thick layer of the paste, and covers it with a clean bandage.
“Thank you,” he says again, and she doesn’t bat it away this time. “My name is Barry, by the way,” he rambles nervously as she stands and puts the jar back with her other tricks. “Well. Actually, it’s Sildar. Sildar Hallwinter. But–”
“You know it’s dangerous to give a witch your full name,” she says.
“Oh. Um.” A chill goes down his spine. What can a witch do? What can she know? Can she read his thoughts? See his memories? Or are her skills limited to sleeping potions and healing salves?
She smiles at him, and it’s dangerous. She’s enjoying the look on his face far too much. “Eat. I’ll be back to make sure you’re still alive in a few hours.”
Then she leaves, and he’s alone with a tray of delicious food. He eats, half expecting his next bite to make him keel over, but then the tray is empty, and he’s still alive. He wonders vaguely if maybe he should’ve just let the soldiers get him. At least he knew they were going to kill him. This woman seems like she would and could kill him, and the only thing standing in her way is her little girl. But how far does that hospitality go? How much healing will she grant him before throwing him back to the wolves? What can she do, now that she knows his name? What will she do if she finds out what kind of powers he’s meddled with himself?