The Whirlwind 13: Bard
How Alfrid had managed to sneak inside Erebor still remained a mystery. It was a testament to his character, or lack of thereof, that he had hidden among the women and children of Dale, whilst most of the Lake-town's folk who had listened to that weasel's advice and chosen to stay on the Lake, had perished there under the swords and torches of the fleeing orcs. Even Alfrid's precious employer, the Master of Lake-town.
He had been less successful sneaking out, and got caught with a corset-full of Erebor jewels.
Now, three months after the Battle, when both Dale and Erebor had survived the beginning of winter and secured the means to hopefully live through the rest, the time had finally come to deal with the less urgent matters, Alfrid's trial among them.
Bard would not blink an eye should the weasel continue to rot in the Mountain's dungeons, but the Dwarves were right to say that the case presented a good opportunity to revise the rules for the conflict of their laws. After all, Alfrid was a citizen of Lake-town, now named Esgaroth again. Burnt down and almost abandoned as it lay, it still belonged to Bard's jurisdiction, and so did Alfrid. On the other hand, his crime had been committed on Dwarven land, and against them.
Bard had very few tools to navigate these waters apart from his common sense. He trusted the dwarves of Erebor to be honourable, and they had proven to be good neighbours so far, but he also knew them to be shrewd negotiators. As little as he cared about Alfrid's fate, he worried for the precedent he would set with his inexperience.
That was why he wasn't willing to accept any proposals during the first meeting with the dwarves, no matter how straightforward they first appeared. He could see the moment Balin realised that was the case—the old dwarf ceased his attempts to finalise their agreement in one sit, as they had done previously, when talking about matters that Bard knew something about—like fish. Or timber. Or cattle.
"Shall we schedule another meeting, then; three days from hence?"
Bard thought of the thick law books now spread all over the table in their kitchens. "Let us make it a week. I will take full responsibility for causing Alfrid to sit imprisoned without a sentence for that much longer."
"He has been rather vocal about that lately," Glóin said, a wicked smirk twitching his beard. "The guards hear him complaining—on each of the weekly visits they come to feed him!"
Bard winced, imagining someone else from his neighbours enjoying such hospitality.
"Glóin only jests," Balin was quick to add. "I won't claim the accommodation is pleasant, but we have been feeding him enough to survive this long, even when we have so little food to spare ourselves."
Bard only nodded stiffly in response.
"If I may impose on your time for a few minutes more, I hoped to have a word in private," Balin spoke again.
Bard thought he rather knew what this was about, and he inclined his head only very reluctantly.
Glóin, Ori and the Iron Hill dwarf whose name Bard had forgotten soon after being introduced, quickly exited Bard's office, left to the gentle care of Sigrid, who had graciously added the position of his attendant to her already long list of obligations. He was constantly left with the feeling he did not thank his daughter even remotely often enough.
"There is another offense that needs to be addressed. Or more precisely, two counts of offense, one perpetrator," Balin went straight to the heart of the matter when the door had clicked shut behind Sigrid's back.
He paused to give Bard a chance to speak, but Bard did not intend to make this any easier on the Dwarves.
Balin let out a rather articulate sigh but did carry on. "We know that the Easterling stays with your family in this house, although he conveniently disappears whenever we have arrived for an audience. The King requests him to be brought into the Mountain for a hearing."
That was hardly a surprise. The only thing surprising was the fact that the dwarves had waited so long to approach this. "On what charges?" he asked, regardless.
Balin shot him an unimpressed glare but spelled out the accusations just the same. "On the charge of theft and subsequent destruction of the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain, treasured heirloom of the Kings of Erebor. And on the charge of assaulting the King under the Mountain himself."
How hefty it sounded when put like that. Bard raised his chin, openly staring at Balin across the desk, ready to disperse with the pompous talk. He'd always lacked the patience for it. "We both know he destroyed the stone because it was possessing your king. And he only put Thorin to sleep so you dwarves could start preparing for the army of Orcs on our doorstep."
"And if that was indeed all there was to his motivation, a hearing could and would clear any misunderstandings and settle our differences."
"Don't try to play me a fool, Balin—you would have addressed this openly and not in secrecy, only after the others have left the room, had you truly planned to give Harry a fair trial."
"We understand he is a close friend to your family. As our most valuable ally, we regard this delicate matter with the caution it deserves—as of now, only the members of the Company know of his transgressions."
"And you also cannot forget that the lad saved the life of the other nephew. The only heir Thorin has left."
Balin winced at the reminder. "Aye, there is that."
"Would Harry receive a nod of gratitude whilst being pushed into your dungeons?"
"It would not come to that."
"Is that your word? Can you guarantee Harry would be treated fairly if he goes anywhere near your Mountain?"
Balin didn't answer right away. Bard followed him with his eyes as the old dwarf slipped down from his seat and paced the few steps towards the windows, showing a generous view of the Gates of Erebor in the distance.
"Grief is often blind, and lashes out in all directions," Balin said then. "When Thorin woke, a battle had been fought without him, and his nephew lay dead. He blames himself for not being the one to lead his warriors, not the one to die in defense of his home and his loved ones. And he also blames the Easterling for being the cause of it."
Bard nodded in appreciation for Balin's sincerity, even as he felt his face contort into a frown. "And yet, you would have me hand him over?"
"No," Balin breathed out, shoulders sagging. "I would not recommend such a course of action."
Bard waited in confusion whilst Balin gathered his thoughts.
"I have delivered my King's message, as was his bidding. Now, as my own conscience dictates, I implore you to send the lad away instead. He would not receive justice had he stood in front of Thorin as the King is now, ridden with grief and shame. But he cannot remain under your protection either, not for much longer, for it would surely create a chasm between our two realms; one that we can ill afford this early into our cooperation."
Bard began shaking his head even though he recognised some truth in the Dwarf's words. But sending Harry away was not an option.
Not just for the fact that the lad's help was invaluable to Bard and Dale right now. Had that been the only reason, Bard would have simply chosen to learn to manage without Harry's aid. He suspected he might have to one day regardless, as he was beginning to understand Harry was as restless as the wind that often carried him on his wings.
Very much unlike the Lonely Mountain and her dwarves, who would stand as Dale's closest neighbours for many centuries to come. Had this been the whole of it, the choice between Harry's fable—if great—help and the dwarves' steadfastness would be an easy one.
All of that paled before the real reason why Bard could never take back his promise of friendship. All the people in Dale who survived the dragon's attack and the orcs army were indebted to Harry in ways the dwarves of Erebor could never understand, nor replicate.
"I had given the lad my word, Balin. I won't take back my protection, neither to hand him over to Thorin, nor to send him away from the home I promised he'd always have in Dale."
Balin hung his head, though there was very little surprise in the gesture. "And yet, for all our sakes, I ask you to think of an alternative. What does the boy think? From what I have seen of him, I doubt he'd like to be the cause of a rift that would be costly to both sides."
Bard frowned, in annoyance at the manipulative question, but also at the knowledge Harry had most likely heard it. He had the uncanny ability to perch on the balcony of Bard's office for most of the important conversations, especially once dwarves had chased him out of the house. There was very little chance he would have missed this one.
As was the custom by now, Harry had reappeared within minutes once the last dwarf rode out of the city walls. Bard heard him talking to Bain as the two of them walked onto the courtyard below the windows of Bard's office. He rose from his desk to inspect, finding them just when they shed their outer coats and picked up their practice swords for a spar.
Bard leant against the wall by the window, settling in for a watch.
Bain was improving, his reactions steadily getting more instinctual and thus faster for it, although it took Bard only a few short minutes to collect enough issues to fill up the next practice session or two.
Harry, on the other hand, continued to be abysmal. He was already dreadfully clumsy with his dominant arm, but for reasons known only to him, he insisted on using mostly his left. It left him woefully inaccurate and imbalanced, and his strikes weak whenever he failed to imbue them with whatever strange power lent him his sudden bursts of strength. His restlessness was his greatest hindrance, though, and Bard was ashamed to admit he was swiftly reaching the end of his own patience as a teacher, faced with Harry's flippant approach. Even young Tilda had shown more perseverance.
Even now, Bard hesitated to come down onto the courtyard, rather worried he'd be persuaded into an impromptu lesson. He glanced back at his table, searching for an excuse, but his eyes only landed at Balin's proposal, taking the prime spot on the desk.
Resigned to the risk of a sparring lesson, he seized the notes and headed down the stairs. He learned early on that matters needed to be dealt with immediately when an opportunity presented itself, as one was sure to be interrupted with a fresh problem soon.
"It doesn't have to be good—as long as it looks good enough," Harry's voice carried over the clunks of the wooden swords as Bard stepped into the freezing cold of the winter afternoon. He bristled at the now familiar excuse.
He was spotted almost immediately. "Bard! Does this look at all natural?"
Harry proceeded to attack Bain's sword, not Bain himself, raking its edge under a strange angle. Harry's own blade gained a glistening sheen for a moment, as if a reflection of a red flame ran along its length, and then Bain's sword was flying from his hands and into Harry's.
During the past two months, Harry had insisted on giving Bard plenty of opportunities to get accustomed to his strange ways. Even now, Bard only blinked, suppressed his bewilderment, and simply answered the question he was asked. "You barely touched his blade."
Harry's excited face fell. "Well…" he said and continued for a few more words in his mother tongue.
"What did you say?" Bain asked.
Harry shortly tilted his head in contemplation. "Dale wasn't built in a day. It means that every great thing takes some time to create, or in this case, practice." He paused to frown at the blade in his left hand. "At least the beam is almost gone."
He seemed to notice the scrolls in Bard's hand next. "Is that it?" he asked, dread spilling into his tone.
Bard nodded. "Shall we?"
Bard found very little aid among his people when it came to the finer matters of governing a city. The one scribe Lake-town could afford to employ was the weasel who now rotted in Erebor's dungeons. Most of the townsfolk were illiterate, and none of them were familiar with the books of law from the Dale of old. A fact that Bard intended to change as swiftly as possible, starting with his own family.
In the meantime, he once again found an unlikely source of help in the scrawny lad that looked barely older than Bain. And yet, he appeared to be given education able to rival Balin's. However, very much unlike Erebor's Royal advisor, Harry parted with his wisdom with only great reluctance.
Actually, Bard had never seen him complain so much when offering help before. Certainly not when Bard had sent him off to hunt down rogue orcs scattered across the wilds, nor when he'd left again to shepherd a trip of goats through already snowed under passes. Come to think of it, he hadn't said a word of complaint when the whole city was called to the fields, to pick the rocks out of the vast farmlands south of Dale. Nor had he hesitated when all men went to bury the bones of the long dead.
And yet, when he'd seen Bard bowing helplessly over the moldy books that first night, Harry had heaved a great sigh of suffering and let out a lot of empty threats since.
That had been a long week ago.
"Back home, they couldn't have tortured me into this," he let them know once again when they settled down around their kitchen table, Sigrid and Tilda joining them with a tray of tea and biscuits.
Bard knew by now to ignore the grumbling and distract Harry instead. He placed Balin's scrolls on the table right in front of Harry's chair at the same time Sigrid had passed him a steaming cup of tea. Harry shot them both a knowing glare, but went to sip on his tea and read the first scroll, blessedly without further protests.
"Let the Dwarves have the choice of punishment," he was saying a few parchments and hours later, when the light of day was long gone and they'd lit lamps around the table with bright flames to see the tiny script. "Although as an act of goodwill, you can mention they should probably amend their law where it currently allows no alternative punishment to shearing a beard. I can't see that having the same effect as a deterrent on our men, let alone women.
"Afterwards, propose to add a simple condition—that the chosen punishment must comply with the fundamental principles of Dale laws. Which are? Bain?"
Bain's eyes widened at the attention suddenly being directed at him. "Ehm, I don't-"
Harry sent the lad a disapproving stare, though not unkind. "If you can't recall something, what do you say?"
"I will confirm my thoughts and announce my decision later," Bain quoted Harry in a solemn voice before rushing to add, "and then I go searching in the books."
Harry grimaced. "You do need to adjust that sentence to the situation a bit, but yes, you got it right." He passed Bain one of the thick criminal law books. "The main principles will be described right at the start."
"We can mention the basics," Harry continued, already adding notes to Balin's proposal, "and require the chosen punishment to be fair, proportionate, predictable, and all that generic drab. Any ideas why, Tilda?"
Tilda's head, which had been continuously drooping down by then, whipped up. "Because that's the right thing to do?" she answered hesitantly. "To try to ensure the punishment will be fair… and propor- proportionate to the crime?"
"Yes, sweetie," Harry was quick to smile at her. "That's certainly correct. I'm sure our honourable dwarves couldn't argue against setting such noble guarantees. Sigrid, any ideas why else it's important?"
Sigrid didn't even look up from her mending as she calmly answered. "It is as you said—it's our foot in the door for that discussion. We need to make sure we don't shut ourselves out from any part of the decision making process."
Bard couldn't help the prideful smile as Sigrid repeated Harry's previous advice almost word for word.
When plied with enough tea and biscuits, Harry proved to be an excellent tutor.
"I'll be leaving once Alfrid's trial is over," Harry said when the children had gone to bed.
Bard froze where he was shuffling the books back into a semblance of order. He shook the surprise off quickly, though—or was he at all surprised? All that he felt for certain seemed to be a sudden but fierce urge to light his pipe.
"Let's talk on the balcony?" he asked, knowing Sigrid would complain of the smoke here in the kitchen, especially after Harry's perplexingly stubborn objections to it.
Harry seemed to have seen right through his request. "Those dwarves and their filthy habits. We should have dunked that first gift of tobacco before you'd had your first taste."
"It might have been better," Bard allowed, already walking away.
Harry and his soft words followed. "Tell Balin I'm willing to give in to his request and leave. In exchange, ask him to be the children's tutor. You can say it's another attempt to deepen Erebor-Dale relations, but the kids will undoubtedly get an excellent education out of it. Which I'm starting to understand is rather an expensive commodity in these parts. I'm doing my best with the four of you, but once we branch out of criminal law, I'll be out of my element—oh hell, it's freezing out here!"
Bard passed Harry the coat he'd snatched on their way to his office whilst Harry was busy chatting away. It wasn't like him to talk this much—and Bard wondered what made him uneasy so.
"I meant what I said to Balin—you'll always have a home in Dale," Bard hurried to assure his friend. "No matter what the dwarves say or do, I would never hand you over."
Harry, now buried deep in Bard's spare cloak, sent him a warm smile over its collar. "I know, Bard, my friend. I'm not leaving because Balin suggested it."
Bard searched Harry's eyes for a lie, but he was ready to trust his sight when he found none.
He took out his pipe and fumbled with the tobacco to stall and gather his thoughts. When it wouldn't light in the falling snow, he turned his eyes at Harry in a silent request.
"Oh no, I won't support this addiction."
Bard scoffed but didn't plead further. They stood in silence for another long minute, until Bard finally cracked a spark just so and the leaves caught fire.
"When you killed Smaug and asked that I'd take the deed for my own," Bard finally started, "a part of me resented you for it. It'd worsen when you refused to take charge, even though you obviously had more experience with leading a people than me."
"I told you, you would have killed the dragon anyway, just a few minutes later."
"I've grown out of such thoughts, though," Bard continued, paying Harry's well-repeated objections little mind. "I understand now that you're not to be chained to one city, one people—you've helped us more than anyone in Dale will ever understand, and now when the worst of our struggles are over, the time has come for you to continue on your journey. You've always been meant for something more."
There was a beat of silence, before Harry's arm whipped out of the tangle of cloth and snatched Bard's pipe. "You obviously spent too much time with Gandalf, that fanciful fool," Harry grumbled, before he drew in a deep inhale of the tobacco.
Bard was still a novice, keeping to careful, short puffs. Harry, however, let out a cloud of smoke that immediately engulfed his whole head when he exhaled—smoothly, without a single cough. "No, still disgusting," he said then, handing the pipe back.
"You got it all rather wrong, my friend," Harry said next. "I'm not meant to do anything. Not anything small and certainly not anything big. I'm not even meant to be here."
Bard felt his brows furrowed in confusion. Harry sent him a small smile as he continued to explain, "Think of me as the opposite of your new acquaintance, Gandalf, the Grey Wanderer. He seems to roam Middle-earth with a great purpose guiding his steps. I intend to do a bit of roaming myself, but altogether delightfully... purposelessly."
"And," he carried on, mild reproach entering his tone, "Dale is not chaining me down. I plan to return at some point, as soon as I feel like it, and not because of some great task pulling me back, but because I'd simply like to see my friends again."
Bard took a few puffs, trying to discern whether he believed Harry's words. The lad appeared entirely certain of what he'd said, yet Bard knew how easily one's wishes could blind them to the path their steps were truly leading them on.
Either way, Bard felt it wouldn't yield any aid to Harry should he share his doubts. If Harry was meant to learn differently, it would be through his own eyes, not Bard's words. Rather, Bard asked about something else that he'd been pondering for a while now. "How about your home? Do you have anywhere else to return to?"
Harry froze. It took him a long moment to answer. "I do," he said at long last, surprising Bard with how resolute his voice sounded after his initial hesitation. "But the beauty of it is that my home will keep—as long as I wish it to. I had a revelation the other day—rather embarrassing that it took me so long, really—I've realised I'm in no rush. I've realised how big this place actually is and I'm tired of keeping to its doorstep. Flailing in the draft of the half-open door, as it is. This is the real reason I'm leaving, Bard. I want to discover the rest of this world, and maybe even find my own footing in it."
"Where do you plan to go, then?"
"First east, then west."
Bard nodded at the confirmation of what he'd suspected for quite some time now—the East was not where Harry originally hailed from. Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Harry's eyes soften.
"And when I come back," Harry said, "perhaps we could have a nice long chat and I'll tell you more about my home."
Harry paused for a moment, inclining his head in contemplation. Mischief lit up his eyes, and for the first time in many months, he seemed to truly look his age. "I already look forward to it."
A/N:
We're almost at the end of the first part—just one last, shortish installment and we have the first arc all wrapped up!
Until then, here's another recommendation.
I enjoy describing a character through the down-to-earth realism of everyday life, even in a high fantasy world such as Middle-earth. Yes, there's certainly a need for many fate-defining dramatic scenes on our quest to overcome the evil of the world, but I always like to intersect them with enough gritty ordinary moments. Speaking of grittiness, here's a favourite of mine:
The Sea King by Doghead Thirteen
A one-shot of another adult Harry, finding his place and purpose in the deadly waters on the coast of Alaska. A Harry cool as a cucumber always gets my approval.
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(I'd like to give something back to the authors that have directly or indirectly inspired me in my own writing. At the end of my chapters, I'll be mentioning stories that I'm more than happy to recommend for your further reading)
