CHAPTER 5 : LEO

Léo had never felt so useless in his life.

The night seemed to stretch endlessly, like an interminable procession of dark hours marked by the desperate searches carried out by the boatmen. Their calls, the palpable tension of their impatience, the sounds of the water breaking against their paddles echoed in his ears, but Léo couldn't focus. He was there, sitting on the rickety boat, his legs trembling from the cold, his arms numb from the dampness, and he had no idea what he was doing there, nor what he was supposed to do. The absence of any news, the silence of answers, weighed heavily on his mind. The night dragged on, interminable, and each passing minute plunged him further into a silence of despair.

Frozen to the bone, his fingers stiff as if made of stone, and his toes numb, Léo felt like an empty shell. The soaking wet coat that had been thrown over him by his savior clung to his skin, adding an extra layer of cold. The hours passed with desperate slowness. He had curled up, hunched over, head bowed, trying to ignore the pain that tore at him from the inside. His vision, already weak, grew more and more blurry, his balance wavering with every small movement, as if his body no longer knew how to exist. Fear and exhaustion had taken over, and he no longer had the strength to keep scanning the water, searching for the bodies of his wife and daughter. His mind, like his body, had been drained by the pain, by the gnawing anxiety of not knowing where they were.

In a whisper almost too soft to hear, he found himself praying. Words without true belief, a plea to a god he had never believed in. But in this moment of crisis, it was all he had: a final desperate call. Please, spare them… That was all he could form in his mind, like a litany repeated, a fragile but persistent breath of hope. Maybe, he thought, they hadn't drowned. Maybe they had been sent elsewhere.

The fog began to lift, signaling the dawn, and Léo felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, his body was a field of pain and shivers. He tried to straighten up, but his body betrayed him. Each movement drew a cry of pain, his muscles taut, his bones aching. The cold wind whipped his face, but he didn't even notice anymore. He stared at the misty horizon, watching the water move slowly.

No bodies had surfaced. He had checked, over and over again, until he was dizzy. Even though his eyes, still clumsy, might have played tricks on him. If Emma or Marie were here, if they were truly lost in this frozen abyss, wouldn't there have been a body, a clue, any sign of their presence? His heart tightened more and more, but he forced himself to hold on to hope. They had to be alive. He wanted it. He had to.

As the dawn began to touch the horizon, gently breaking the darkness of the night, his savior finally approached him, his steps cautious and measured. Léo slowly turned his head, but his still foggy, feverish mind struggled to focus. Three times already, this man had prevented him from jumping into the water. Despite Léo's desperate screams, despite the madness of the moment. He had wanted to dive in, to lose himself in that icy expanse, to believe he could do something. But no. He had to stay there, he had to wait. Those orders had driven him mad.

Léo lowered his eyes, not daring to look at the other man. A wave of shame knotted in his throat. He didn't want to rely on anyone else. He felt like he was no longer a man, just a burden. How could he stay on the boat, under the watchful eye of this stranger, when his family might be there, swallowed by the cold waters, lost in the abyss?

He felt the firm and reassuring grip of his savior's hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to reality. The simple gesture made him shiver. Léo looked up to meet the man's gaze. The man seemed to be everything he was not: solid, grounded in reality, ready to face anything. His skin, tanned by the sun, weathered by time and life's hardships, this man embodied the harshness of the elements, of existence itself. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, studied Léo with an intensity that made him feel even more vulnerable. There was no judgment in that gaze, but a curiosity almost painful in its depth.

The man's mouth opened, forming words in a language that, although familiar, felt foreign. In that rough English, filled with an indiscernible accent, Léo struggled to decipher what he was saying. The cold, the exhaustion, and the fever slowly creeping into his body didn't help him understand. But he caught one recurring word, one he recognized: "sorry," sincere, deeply laden with regret.

Léo shook his head wearily, a trembling sigh escaping his lips. It wasn't this man's fault. He wasn't responsible for the accident. He hadn't triggered the tragic spiral that had led them here. No, it was him, Léo, who felt responsible. But this man... this man, who had saved him from drowning, was not the guilty one. On the contrary, he had risked his own life to give him a chance to survive.

Léo slowly straightened up, clenching his teeth against the pain. He wasn't sure what he was feeling: gratitude, shame, or simply an immense sense of emptiness. But one thing was certain: he wasn't going to give up. Not now. He had to find Emma. He had to find Marie.

"They're alive," he whispered in a trembling voice. "They must be," he affirmed a moment later, almost desperately, as if trying to convince himself.

His words were lost in the cold morning air, but the man seemed to understand. Though the language he spoke was as strange to Léo as the world around him, his knowing look needed no translation. A sad, almost painful smile stretched across his lips. It was a smile that, far from offering consolation, seemed to bear the heavy imprint of shared pain. The man simply nodded, as if sharing Léo's fragile hope, then turned abruptly to shout something toward the other boatmen.

The voices mingled with the fresh wind, but Léo couldn't focus. His mind was racing, torn between the fear of losing his family and the impossibility of escaping this chaos. He didn't know whether the other boatmen had heard his savior or if they were simply busy searching the water. Every movement, every sound seemed to sink him deeper into isolation.

A few moments later, the man finally sat down in the boat, taking his place with the agility of an experienced sailor. His rough hands gripped the oars with complete mastery, as if these motions were second nature to him, as if the lake, the night, and the mist were familiar companions. Léo slumped down in the boat, exhausted, and curled up in the coat that had been given to him. His muscles, tense from fear and cold, felt ready to snap, but he had no strength left to protest. He simply went along with it, his gaze lost on the horizon as the day struggled to break through.

The town, far off, looked almost unreal. As the morning light timidly pierced the dark veil of night, it emerged like a distant, strange silhouette. Modestly sized, it seemed frozen in time, as if history had decided to ignore it. Its wooden houses, with thatched roofs and smoking chimneys, evoked centuries past. Léo searched for clues of modernity, but found none. There were no paved roads, no cars; everything seemed to belong to another era. The town exhaled a rudimentary simplicity, where modernity was a distant concept, almost unreal.

Horses, pulling wooden carts, transported dark crates whose contents remained a mystery. The sound of glass clinking, despite the distance, stirred a vague curiosity in Léo—maybe alcohol? But the thought vanished as quickly as it came. What did it matter what was in those crates? The essential thing lay elsewhere, in the search, in the hope.

Léo slowly turned his eyes toward his savior, narrowing his gaze to take in every detail. The man paddled with quiet precision, his back straight, his imposing figure silhouetted against the gray sky. But what caught Léo's attention was his appearance. There was no doubt, this man, just like this place, belonged to another world. He wore baggy trousers, heavy around his legs, a laced shirt that seemed to come from another time, and a thick wool vest that looked carefully woven. There was nothing in his attire that belonged to what Léo knew: modern streets, urban clothing, lightweight fabrics. Everything about him screamed anachronism.

His boots, worn by years and walking, looked like they belonged in an old adventure film, and Léo couldn't help but grimace. He suddenly became acutely aware of his own appearance: his black sneakers with red stripes, his Levi's jeans, and the sweater bearing the words "Best Dad of the Year" all felt completely out of place. Every fiber of his being seemed to scream its alienness here.

He tried to hide further inside his fur coat, hoping the man wouldn't notice his discomfort. But he couldn't ignore the incongruity of his own reflection in this environment. The contrast was brutal: a stranger in a world where he didn't belong. Léo lowered his head, trying to melt into the shadow, to avoid the curious gaze of his savior from scrutinizing him further. He wasn't ready to accept that he would probably never return home, that the world he knew no longer existed.

Soon, their boat bumped against an old wooden dock that creaked under the impact. Léo eyed the wet planks with instinctive distrust. His memory still marked by the brutal collapse of the barrier that had sent them plummeting into the void, he hesitated for a moment before accepting the helping hand of his savior. His rough, powerful hands closed around his arm firmly, stabilizing him effortlessly. Léo knew he would never have been able to get out of the boat on his own. His legs trembled beneath him, his sore muscles refused to respond, and his frozen feet barely felt the ground beneath them. The fever, coupled with exhaustion and panic, prevented him from finding his balance.

As soon as his feet touched solid ground, his knees buckled under his weight. Dizziness blurred his vision, and he staggered forward. His unsteady body was caught just in time by his savior, who, fortunately, watched over him with the vigilance of a bodyguard. The man hadn't let go of him since pulling him from the icy waters, and in that moment, Léo was infinitely grateful.

"Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, mumbling in uncertain English.

He prayed that his French accent wouldn't make his words unintelligible. The man replied with a calm smile, as if he understood far more than just the simple thanks. He muttered a few words in his own language, then, seeing Léo's puzzled expression, repeated more slowly.

"You're welcome."

Léo blinked, surprised by the simplicity of the response. It took him a few seconds to process its meaning. The accent had muddled his understanding, but the context helped him decipher the words. A faint smile tugged at his cracked lips, and he clung to this small victory. It wasn't much, but here, in this unfamiliar place, it meant far more than a simple exchange of pleasantries.

A sudden buzz broke the moment.

A crowd of curious onlookers quickly gathered at the edge of the port, drawn by the nighttime commotion. Men, women, and children crowded the quay, eager to understand what had kept the boatmen occupied throughout the night. Voices rose, murmurs spread like wildfire among the onlookers. Some pointed at Léo, exchanging intrigued glances, while others whispered behind their hands, fueling the growing rumors.

Léo felt a grimace twist his face. He didn't need to be a genius to understand that he stuck out like a sore thumb here. His clothes, soaked and marked by logos that were far too modern, made him an outsider at first glance. He cursed his bad luck inwardly and muttered softly under his breath.

Then, a booming voice cut through the ambient noise.

Silence fell briefly as the crowd parted with an almost unconscious discipline, forming a clear path. A man appeared in the space thus created, walking toward them with a determined stride. He was of short stature but had a solid build, his round belly betraying a clear fondness for the pleasures of the table.

His immaculate canvas trousers contrasted sharply with the more rustic attire of the villagers. His shirt, edged with delicate golden thread, spoke of obvious wealth, as did his thick wool coat, which seemed new and well-maintained. His shoes, shiny and spotless, gave the impression that he rarely set foot on uneven ground. Léo noticed out of the corner of his eye that a cotton napkin was still tied around the man's neck, and crumbs lined the corners of his mouth.

He had clearly been disturbed in the middle of breakfast.

Léo observed the man cautiously. His demeanor, though lacking immediate aggression, exuded an authority that left no doubt as to his role here. He wasn't just a curious villager. No, this man seemed important—perhaps too important for his intervention to be good news.

The tense silence that fell as the man approached didn't escape Léo's notice. Every step he took seemed to weigh down the atmosphere, and suddenly, the attention of the entire crowd was fixed on him. In that moment, Léo realized he was at the center of something beyond his control.

The newcomer's gaze swept over the assembly with frightening scrutiny, lingering for a moment on each face, as though trying to read their thoughts. When his eyes finally landed on Léo, a chill ran down his spine. The man's expression, a sneering grimace on his lips, left no room for kindness. He didn't need to speak for Léo to understand that he held him in utter contempt.

An immediate animosity rose in Léo's chest. He hated him instinctively.

A tense exchange ensued between his rescuer and the man Léo assumed was the Master of the town. He didn't need to understand the language to sense the tension that had tensed the boatman's shoulders. The boatman spoke bravely, but anxiety seeped into his movements. Léo couldn't grasp any of the words in this harsh, rapid tongue, which to him was nothing more than an incomprehensible cacophony. Yet, he had no doubt that he was the focus of the conversation. The question was: to what extent?

The exchange lasted for a few minutes before the nobleman, visibly tired, decided to take the lead. His pace was slow but assured, marked with a sense of importance he seemed intent on imposing on those around him. He approached Léo and tilted his head slightly in his direction. A deliberate gesture, purely theatrical. Then, he launched into a pompous speech, his loud voice thick with arrogance, resonating like a declaration of authority.

Léo furrowed his brow. He had no idea what this man expected from him. What was he supposed to say? Was he even supposed to say anything at all? He searched for a hint in the nobleman's posture, in his penetrating gaze, but found nothing but disdain and smugness. Before he had to make a decision, a deep voice rose beside him.

The boatman had spoken.

A few well-chosen words were enough to interrupt the Master, who raised an eyebrow before closing the discussion with a simple nod. He turned on his heel without further ceremony, disappearing into the crowd as if Léo were already nothing more than an insignificant detail in his day.

A deep sigh of relief escaped the survivor's lips.

Yet the nervousness didn't fully leave him. Something was wrong. Why hadn't his appearance caused more of a reaction? Why hadn't this man, so clearly influential, paid more attention to him?

With a haunted look, he turned toward his rescuer.

"Why?" he asked simply, the weight of the words failing him.

The boatman blinked, looking puzzled. Not immediately understanding the question, he tilted his head slightly. Léo grimaced. Damn language barrier.

He thought quickly before taking another approach. He gestured to the crowd around them, then pointed toward the silhouette of the nobleman moving away.

"Why?" he repeated, his eyes pleading for an answer.

This time, he noticed a strange glint in the boatman's eyes. A spark of understanding. Then, without saying a word, the boatman made an unexpected gesture: he brought his fingers to his ears.

Léo raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Why his ears?

His heart skipped a beat.

With hesitant slowness, he raised his own hands and placed them against his temples, lightly brushing his fingers against the shape of his ears.

The shock hit him like a thunderclap. This wasn't normal.

His breath quickened as his fingers explored an unknown texture. Where, once, there had been round, familiar ears, now he felt only sharp ridges, unnaturally long and thin contours.

A shiver of horror ran through him.

"No..." he murmured, his throat tight.

His body reacted before his mind fully understood the magnitude of the nightmare. He recoiled sharply, pulling away from the boatman's supportive grip. His legs, weak, gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees on the cold, hard ground.

A violent wave of nausea gripped him.

His stomach, emptied by the cold and exhaustion, contracted forcefully. He vomited everything left inside him onto the dirt, until only the burning acid of bile scraped down his throat. His body trembled, shaken by uncontrollable chills, his fingers gripping the earth as though he could anchor himself there.

What had happened to him in that car accident?

A firm hand settled on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. He had no strength to protest as his rescuer gently lifted him, his strong arm enveloping him to keep him from collapsing. He didn't immediately realize he was being led elsewhere, away from the crowd, away from the eyes. It was only when he saw the shadow of a roof above him that he understood the man had brought him to his home.

Léo looked up at the modest building. A simple, rustic house, yet welcoming, its wooden walls seemed imbued with a warmth that contrasted with the biting cold of the morning.

He opened his mouth, trying to express something, but no words came.

Finally, he took a deep breath and, in a weak but sincere voice, he said:

"Thank you."

The boatman offered him a smile, a gesture filled with kindness that confused him. How could a man be so good when he owed him nothing?

A thought crossed Léo's muddled mind. He didn't even know this man's name, the one who had saved his life. With a slow but sure movement, he tapped his own chest before declaring loudly:

"Léo."

The weariness in his companion's eyes softened. His smile widened slightly. He tilted his head and replied in a calm voice, a single syllable:

"Bard."

The name resonated strangely in him. Like a musical note suspended in the air, an echo of a past or future he didn't yet understand. Léo etched it into his memory.

He knew, deep down, that this man would eventually be as important as the one who ruled this town. And perhaps even more so.