I love this chapter too much hngg

April rested in Bradford's arms, snuggling close to his warm chest as he fed her through a bottle. Bradford sighed tiredly, rubbing his baggy, blurry eyes through the crook of his other arm, blinking through the dim darkness as another yawn escaped his beak.

The vulture wore a silk dressing robe over his pajama shirt and pants, and was slowly moving here and fro in a rocking chair as he held the three-week-old duckling with a gentle grip. A dim rubber duckie nightlight plugged into the wall near the crib illuminated the room slightly, which didn't help Bradford's already poor eyesight.

He knew he should've put on his pince-nez before preparing the bottle and tending to the crying child. He was so half-addled from endless wakings throughout the nights for weeks that he had automatically went to get the formula and comforted April, and by the time he sat himself in the chair with her did he realize he forgot his glasses again for the third straight feeding in two nights.

It's almost like I'm sleep walking when I do this now, he sardonically thought as he slightly shifted April in his arm. Doesn't mean I should make a habit out of this.

April's gaze had aimlessly went around the room before finally settling on Bradford's face. She had recently started to take some interest in her surroundings, but throughout all her feedings April always seemed to have fixed her eyes on the person who was doing the feeding, which often was the old buzzard. And every time it happens, every time she looks up at him with that curious yet satisfied look, he felt a little flutter inside him, and a small smile always tugged at the edge of his beak.

Even after all this time with her, even with the sleepless nights and constant wakings, he could never feel annoyed or frustrated by her. Because seeing her look up at him, her beating heart close to his, with their gaze met in that still darkness, with all the world quiet around them…it was all he ever wanted each night. Even through the blurriness, he could still see her large eyes watching him carefully, contently.

A glint in the darkness caught the side of his gaze, making Bradford lose focus and jerk his head up to search quickly for its source.

But there it was again, sitting on the wall mantle that Heron had ordered to be made for him. The Sword. Even without his glasses, he could see it from across the room, the edge reflecting a jagged, yellow light.

Bradford had protested against The Sword being hung on his wall in the same room a small child would be sleeping in. He didn't want April to see such a dangerous object in the same place he wanted her to associate with safety, peace, and quiet. He wanted it stuffed somewhere else in the building, where he didn't have to lay his eyes on it again for a very, very long time. But Heron didn't want to hear any of it.

"You found the pieces, the Sword formed for you, why shouldn't you keep it as a worthy trophy?" she had said with her signature laugh. And as much as Bradford wanted to tear down the tacky showmanship of an object he wanted no association with whatsoever, at the same time he feared to touch it, to even get near it.

According to Finch's journal, he knew the bearer of the Sword would have their inner strength emerge and manifest itself to the world. He knew why the Sword didn't form for Black Heron: all her cheeky mockery and bravado was a fake mask to hide her impotency as a "villain," as she calls it. She made up for her lack of tact and planning with being loud and boisterous, which never helped anyone including herself. She had no inner strength to show, no need to push beyond herself, no need to change, no need to tap into herself and fight against true adversity.

But he knew the feeling well. He dressed in it, drenched himself in it for decades and decades. But he kept it within himself, quiet and unnoticeable by others.

He slightly feared what that Sword would make of him, how it would judge him, how it would manifest his hidden strength into the real world. How would he feel? What would he look like? How would he look upon himself? How would the world look upon him? As much as he didn't want to admit it, deep down, he knew he had a darker, more ruthless side to himself, a part he wanted to hide from the world, even from himself. Would the Sword bring that part of him out, would it do something drastic to him, change him…or worse?

Too many uncertain variables. Too many risks to take. Better to not think about it. It only brought forth more memories that he'd like to forget.

They say time heals all wounds. But even after so many, many years he could never forget them. As much he wanted to, he couldn't. And in some ways, he knew that was his own fault.

Some hidden part of himself wanted to rewind those images, wanted to remind himself, again and again. To mock himself, to shame himself, blame himself, make himself angry. To keep the anger and wound fresh in his mind after all these years. It was the only way to keep him on the path he was on, he reasoned to himself. The path he had set for himself long ago. Without those painful memories, who was he?

The child unwound her small arms from her wrapped blanket and held onto the bottle with her meek hands, a slight noise coming out of her throat, gurgling into the half-finished bottle. Bradford lightly took the bottle away, set it down on the nightstand, and used the blanket to wipe the traces of milk from April's beak. April swallowed the last of the liquid down, another light noise came out of her, and then she softly started sobbing, her arms reaching out to the air.

"I hear you, I hear you," he said tiredly, picking up the bottle again and bringing it close to her beak. April automatically reached out to the bottle and laid her hands on it, suckling once more. Her eyes watched the bottle closely, and then glanced up at her caretaker once more.

Bradford sighed through his nose, closed his eyes, lowered his head closer to the child, and slowly nuzzled her soft face gently with the edge of his beak, practically preening her downy feathers. The motion comforted him.

As long as she were with him and under his care, he will never expose another child to that sort of life. Ever. He'll have that mantle torn down by tomorrow, and the shadow of The Sword will no longer hang either over him or his ward ever again. It would be a balm on his conscious.

"You're safe now, April," he whispered, a hoarseness in his voice. "You're safe here. I'll make sure of it."