The Desert of the Lost: A Very Short Part Three

People had brought what little firewood they had, so that Ma's funeral barge became a tower of flame in the center of the Lake. Those same people were gone now, and had followed the custom by leaving as soon as Da had left; even though he had left far earlier than was decent.

Bard remained after they had all gone, staring straight ahead of him into the flame; his insides numb; his insides imaginary; his head a nauseous mix between up, down and doubting the difference between the two. The one constant left in his life – her – stood close beside him: close, but not touching.

Sigrun was looking towards the fire with beautiful blue eyes as red as his own were; her cheeks pink from cold, and her tangled hair dancing about her shoulders in the wind. He was sure that she could sense his gaze – he knew it – but still she looked away from him towards the funeral barge; pointedly avoiding his eyes. When the tips of Bard's fingers touched hers, she said nothing; her hand slipping into his and holding it tightly as he looked once more at the tower of fire, and felt the numbness within him clench and roil.

You don't use your last arrow to save one person, his da had told him, you use it when it can save the whole kingdom, and not before.

The words had haunted him since they had been spoken, and in his mind, Bard saw their truth; saw the wisdom in their cruelty. But if the last arrow ever happened to be in his hands, and the one person he wanted to save was Ma, or Sig –

I would use it.

Sig was still holding his hand and still avoiding his eyes, and he coloured slightly as he considered that the reason might have nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the disjointed series of disturbing (and incomplete) memories that had been chasing themselves around his brain since waking up that morning with his head feeling like it had been nailed to his pillow during the night.

'Did I propose to you last night?' Bard softly asked; looking once more out onto the Lake.

There was a long silence before she replied.

'Yes,' Sigrun eventually said.

Bard swallowed.

'Did you say no?'

Sigrun looked at him.

'Yes.'

He didn't particularly want to burst out laughing, but he did it anyway.

Something sombre and unidentifiable flashed across Sigrun's face for the tiniest of seconds – a tiny darkness; a tiny hurt – before she was smiling, and laughing with him, and he forgot that he had seen it at all.

'It was a close one, Bard the drunk,' she said; punching him in the shoulder.

'It would've ruined everything, wouldn't it?' Bard surmised; punching hers.

'Ruined is an understatement,' Sigrun snorted, 'just imagine. We'd have to see each other all day –'

'Every day.'

'Rain or shine.'

'Summer or snow.'

'We'd kill each other.'

'We'd both be dead before a month had passed.'

'We'd have to…'

Sigrun's words died on her tongue as her eyes flashed from Bard's to a point just over his shoulder, and as he turned back towards the Lake, he heard her say:

'Is that your da?'

He didn't even need to squint to see that it was: his da, in a rowboat; streaming across the lake in an elegant ribbon of grey and gold, towards the funeral barge.

Bard began to entertain thoughts of murdering his father for the second time in twelve hours.

'What is he doing?' Sigrun muttered.

'If he's drunk,' Bard seethed, 'I swear I'll –'

Sigrun shook her head.

'He's rowing too well for a drunk man.'

And he was. The rowboat on the Lake drew closer and closer to the pillar of flame; Bard's da did not look left or right, but straight ahead, and Bard frowned, and muttered, almost to himself:

'Then what is he doing?'

Sigrun did not reply. Her eyes fixed on Da's figure grew less confused, and more afraid, and a dreadful suspicion stole over Bard's entire being as Da brought the rowboat neatly alongside the burning barge and seized hold of the rigging with one hand; the oars still clutched in the other.

The rowboat came to a stop, and Da pulled himself to his feet.

It was only when he flung the oars into the Lake that Bard began to scream.

'DA, NO!' he bellowed; waving his arms above his head; as if that would help at all, 'DON'T, NO!'

'MISTER BAIN, DON'T!' Sigrun yelled; terror making her voice crack; 'DON'T!'

'DA, NO! DON'T DO IT!'

'MISTER BAIN, NO!'

'DA! DA!'

He ignored them. He climbed the ropes and reached the fire. The fire was tearing up the deck. Bard's da was a small, solitary figure against the inferno; looking up as though bewitched by it.

'DA, DON'T!' Bard shouted.

'DON'T DO IT, MISTER BAIN, PLEASE DON'T!' Sigrun screamed.

Da turned slowly to face them; the fire already licking at his clothes. And Bard could feel his eyes upon him; his eyes were searching and meeting Bard's; his da could see him; he knew that he could see him –

'Da, please don't,' Bard sobbed; desperation choking up his voice as his heart turned the colour of coal; 'please, please, don't –'

Da hesitated for one more moment – or perhaps he was simply waiting.

Then he fell onto his back into the flames and let them swallow him whole; and Bard turned and ran; sprinting for the barge with Sigrun, with the entire world screaming into him and onto him –

'Get the mooring!' he bellowed at her; leaping into the boat and preparing to cast off, and she unwound the rope in seconds; giving the boat a mighty shove away from the wharf and leaping onto it before she could be left behind; as good as any boy.

Then the flame on the Lake roared huge, high and lion-like to the sky, and reduced the funeral barge to cinders and ruin; the fire fed too quickly by too much new flesh. Bard felt himself filled up by horror; the flames burning as though they were licking at his own flesh. He could feel them burning through his skin, his muscle, his bones, but leaving him alive, leaving him here; not taking him with; leaving him. And where he was, he slumped to his knees and vomited what felt like his whole heart out of himself; collapsing into Sigrun's arms through the sound of his own screams.