Bardr POV
"Bardr of Tyson village, you are charged with harboring a spy. You'll be sent to the military headquarters in the capital."
That was my sentence, my punishment, and now I was walking for said punishment.
The village streets that I had known all my life now felt alien beneath my feet. Faces that had once smiled at me, offered me drinks, praised me as a hero, now twisted with contempt.
"Look here he comes."
"Are those scars from being tortured?"
"He'll be sent to the battlefield soon."
"The traitor got what he deserved."
Those were the voices I heard as I walked to where a platoon of soldiers were waiting to pick me up. Each step was a battle, my body still weak from the interrogation they had put me through. My hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the exhaustion that had settled deep into my bones.
I clenched my teeth, trying to stand tall, trying to show that I wasn't broken. But my body betrayed me. My crutch sunk weirdly into the earth, which made me with all my exhaustion fall to the ground in front of the captain of the platoon, an awakened, I noticed.
"Get up now!" the captain yelled as he struck me in the head with his boot. It hurt, gods did it hurt, gods did I hate my flaw.
I was pulled up to my knees by two soldiers, their grips tight enough to bruise. The captain stood over me, his shadow falling across my face. His eyes were cold and yet they were filled with what I could only measure as disgust.
"The traitor can't even stand on his own," one of the soldiers sneered, and the others laughed.
Then I heard a voice that cut through all others.
"Pops!"
"Honey."
I turned my head to see Sinbad in the crowd, in Esra's embrace. My son's face was streaked with tears, his small hands reaching out toward me as if he could somehow pull me back to him. Esra held him tightly, her own face a mask of despair. She looked thinner than I remembered, worn down by worry and grief.
"Sin, Esra.." I muttered, gods did I hate for them to see me in this state. I had wanted to spare them this, but it seemed fate like always had other plans.
The crowd around them shifted, faces turning toward my family with the same contempt they had shown me.
"Get out of here," I heard a voice in the crowd say, belonging to a woman. "Get out now!"
"She's right traitor, you let that spy come here!"
"Right!"
"Traitor, get out and die on the battle!"
The words seemed to whip the crowd into a frenzy, their voices rising in a cacophony of hatred. I saw Esra pull Sinbad closer, trying to shield him from the vitriol. But Sinbad, my brave, foolish son, pushed against her grip.
"Stop it!" Sinbad yelled over the crowd. "Don't say bad things about my pops!"
His voice was so small compared to the roar of the crowd.
"Shut up!" a man in the crowd yelled, as he began to walk towards Esra and Sin. I recognized him, a fisherman who had once shared drinks with me, who had once called me a friend. Now his face was contorted with rage.
"The kid of a traitor, will only grow up to be a traitor himself."
The man's hand was close to Sinbad and Esra, reaching out as if to strike them. I felt anger boiling deep from within me, rising up through my exhaustion and pain like a tide. Even though I was tired, hurt and battered I still yelled out.
"Don't hurt them!" I clutched my cane and slowly got up, ignoring the protests of my broken body. My voice carried across the square, silencing the crowd for a moment. "Don't harm my son. Don't harm my family."
"Pops," Sinbad's voice was small, but in it, I heard a mixture of fear and relief.
The captain stepped forward, his hand on his sword. "Shut your mouth, traitor. You have no right to speak."
I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the crowd, on the people who had once been my neighbors, my friends. People I had fished with, drank with, laughed with. Now they were strangers, filled with a hatred I barely recognized.
"Listen you bastards," I spat, tired of all of this, so very tired. The words burst from me like water through a broken dam. "Let me show you what war is!"
With the hand that wasn't holding my cane, I reached to my shirt and ripped it from my body with all my strength, the fabric tearing with a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden silence. I could see Sin's eyes widening but he needed to learn this lesson too. Everyone did.
"This is what war is."
The scars that littered my body, my chest, my arms, my back, my amputated leg, I wanted them to know it all. The jagged line that ran from my collarbone to my navel, the puncture wounds on my shoulder, the burn marks that spread across my right side like a grotesque tattoo.
"On the battlefield I watched millions of people get maimed and die." My voice was steady now, fueled by a clarity that had been missing for so long. "I've seen men younger than me, stronger than me, braver than me, reduced to bloody scraps of meat. I've heard them cry for their mothers as they died. I've held their hands as the light left their eyes."
The crowd had gone silent, their eyes fixed on my scarred body. Some looked away, unable to bear the sight. Others stared, transfixed by the horror written on my flesh.
"Do you still want to send your families to war? Your sons, your husbands, your brothers? Do you think war is a good thing?"
I saw some of the villagers exchange glances, doubt creeping into their expressions. But before any could respond, the captain stepped forward, his face twisted with rage.
"Take him away now!" the captain yelled as I was pulled back by the soldiers. Their hands were rough, uncaring of the wounds they pressed against.
"You're poison," the captain hissed at me. "Spreading your cowardice to these people."
I didn't bother to respond.
"Honey!" I heard Esra yell from behind me as I was dragged toward the waiting carriage.
I craned my neck to see my family one last time, with one final lesson to impart to my son. Esra was struggling against the grip of a neighbor who held her back, her face streaked with tears, Sinbad himself had tears running down his chubby cheeks.
"Sinbad."
I looked at my boy. In that moment, I saw the man he would become – strong, determined, unbroken by the cruelties of the world. I saw the future in him, a future I would never see myself.
"Live well, I'm sure you'll grow up to be a great man. Take care of your mom for me," I finished with a smile, a genuine smile, because if there was one thing I was sure in this world, it was in my son.
Sinbad seemed to take it to heart, the tears stopping in their tracks before nodding at me.
That's good.
I was sure he would grow up to be a man I would be proud of, no I was already proud of him. Although I still would have wanted to take him fishing with me at least one more time.
The soldiers shoved me into the carriage, and the door slammed shut with a finality that echoed in my chest. Through the small window, I caught one last glimpse of my village, my home, my family. Then the carriage lurched forward, and they were gone.
As we rode away, I found myself thinking not of the battlefield that awaited me, but of simpler things. The feel of the sea breeze on my face, the weight of a fishing net in my hands, the sound of Sinbad's laughter. These were the memories I would hold onto, the ones that would keep me human in the hell that was to come.
I closed my eyes, exhaustion finally claiming me. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I saw Sinbad standing on the shore, waiting for me to come home from the sea. It was a good dream, one I hoped would stay with me until the end.
Narration POV
The carriage traveled for days, winding through forests and mountains, past villages not unlike Tyson. Bardr was kept in chains, fed just enough to keep him alive. He was rarely spoken too, almost like he was a disease that the other soldiers would catch.
When they reached the capital, Bardr was taken directly to the military headquarters. There, he was processed like any other soldier – given a uniform too large for his wasted frame, a sword he could barely lift, and orders he had no choice but to follow.
Three weeks later, he was sent to the front lines. The battle raged for days, a bloody stalemate that cost thousands of lives on both sides. Bardr fought as best he could, his crippled leg a constant hindrance. But in the end, it wasn't his leg that failed him.
A few months later, the family was notified of Bardr's death. They said he died honorably, fighting for the glory of New Parthevia. His sword was in a casket sent to them along with some money, but his body was never returned.
Esra wept when she received the news, but Sinbad did not. He took the sword from its casket, held it in his small hands, and made a silent promise to the father he would never see again.
The war continued, indifferent to the loss of one more soldier, one more father, one more husband. The empire marched on, and the people of Tyson village went about their lives, trying to forget the man who had once dared to show them the truth about war.