Crossing Paths

Summary: Getting his father's knife reforged was meant to leave him out of pocket, not with a bounty hunter's prize slumbering in his arms with a fistful of his coat. Close to five years without unnecessary human contact, and now this? Balinor swallowed, and huffed to himself. What sort of idiot was he? What was he supposed to do with a tiny, hungry, possibly traumatised child?

One

'Well, I saw you and... it could have been me in that cage.'

To venture into town was perhaps one of his least favourite things. While one could make a decent, solitary living off the forest, there were still the small necessities to be obtained from the relevant craftsmen. Today he needed to get the blade of his father's knife reforged. It had come to a sticky end, being the only thing to hand when attacked by a hungry wolf two nights past. It was not the initial fight that had done it in, but being flung out of his hand as he pulled it from the dead animal's chest, right into the rocky wall of the cliff behind. Not for the first time did he bemoan his lack of coordination.

He turned the old thing over in his fingers, examining the still slightly blackened blade with a satisfied eye. More a luxury than a necessity, really. Sentimental more than functional for anything beyond whittling. Without being able to whittle, he would likely go mad.

Snatching a breath he shied sideways, almost dropping it as somebody passed by a little too closely. Town always unnerved him, put him on edge. Anybody could be a threat, any one person eyeing him as they went about their business, aware of who he was, and consequently what he was. A danger he would rather, and should rather avoid wherever possible.

Hunching his shoulders, Balinor quickened his pace, anxious to be away from people and back into the forests. A lonely existence his may be, but at least it was an existence. That was more than any others of his kind had. As much as he could not bring himself to be, he at least recognised that he should be grateful.

The streets were not so busy as they were on market day, when he would normally visit to trade the herbs he foraged. In some ways, he felt disturbed by it. People posed a threat, but more so in sparser numbers. Having a crowd to melt into was an advantage. Few people paid attention to one face in the many.

He made his way down the main street, heading towards the forest road across the field at the far end, when his eyes met a sight that turned his blood to ice in his veins.

Standing still and thoroughly unassuming just outside the tavern, was the dark wooden cage of a bounty hunter. The sight of it even unattended left Balinor quaking lightly. Its owner was nowhere to be seen, but that did not make the thing any less sinister. Worried, he made to hurry on, held fast by something he did not expect to see.

From the hay covering the cage floor, a small shape stirred, pushing itself up onto its knees and turning to peer out between the bars. The small, pale and frightened face of a child.

Balinor looked back at the pallid little thing curiously. It was a small boy – very small – likely no more than five summers. He was a striking sight, all wide blue eyes and tangled mop of black hair. He sat huddled up against the front of the cage, staring out at the people passing by in fear and perhaps confusion.

He could have looked comical, to one not possessed of a heart: all awkward childish angles and big ears, but to one less soulless, the sight was utterly harrowing. Unsure of his actions, and certainly against his better judgement, Balinor left his intended path and started over to the cage.

At his approach the boy drew back, staring up at him fearfully. He must have been through a lot, Balinor surmised, staring back at him pityingly, to be so afraid of strangers. It was not as though he himself was particularly strange to look at – his general appearance was not untidy, or wild, though he had begun to neglect it of late and the consequent beard did him no favours in terms of a recognisable reflection. His clothing was not in bad order, and his coat remained well-tended in the leather under piece he wore in the spring warmth today. His height may be intimidating, and to one so small as this boy, a man akin to a stick insect as his tall, not overly broad frame was would probably be just as intimidating as a much heavier set man, he reasoned.

He looked back at the boy searchingly, heavy brows drawn together in sadness. The child quivered, staring back at him, though he did shift after a moment, seeing that Balinor did not act, and reached out to grip the bars.

He was so young, Balinor noted – likely right in his assessment of five summers, possibly four, looking at him again. For him to be in this cage, there could only be one reason. What had happened to his parents, Balinor wondered? If he was alone, then...

The thought saddened him deeply. The sight of the scared little boy locked up in the cage made him sick. There was only one place it could be going, and only one fate that would await the boy when it got there. The same as so many before him.

"Miserable little sod, isn't he?"

Balinor turned, almost leaping out of his skin at the sharp stench of ale drifting on the breath of the squat, large and bearded man stood beside him suddenly. He flinched, feeling cold from head to foot. Thankfully the man was too drunk to notice his reaction with any real attention. He carried on speaking instead, grinning at the shivering child almost maliciously,

"He ought to fetch a good price when I bring him in. Uther doesn't get many this small, I'd wager."

"Ho-" Balinor cleared his throat and swallowed. He indicated to the child with a nod of his head, "how old is he?"

"Four summers," the bounty hunter replied, with a slight widening of his grin. "That's what his little mother shouted anyway. 'Leave him be, he's only four summers!' Ha! A small sorcerer he may be, but a sorcerer nonetheless, and Uther will pay well for him all the same."

"He can't have magic so young," Balinor tried, "magic shows no sign until adolescence at the earliest."

The bounty hunter shook his head, and folded his large arms across his chest. "Rarely does it happen, but it does happen."

Rarely indeed. Balinor squeezed his eyes shut a moment, recalling his own childhood in which magic had been a close companion to him also. Rare, but not rare enough that this man should be unaware of it. He pinched his brows, finding his eyes drawn to the terrified child once more. "Uther will have him executed," he murmured quietly, hoping against hope that the boy did not know what that meant.

The bounty hunter chuckled. "And I will have my coin."

It was all that Balinor could do not to recoil from the man. Instead, a frown on his face, he turned his head to look at the child sitting looking back at him, gripping the bars. "Do you have magic?" he asked the boy outright.

No reply. The child did not speak, though fear flashed in his eyes. Balinor tried again,

"Have you magic?"

Still the boy did not speak.

"You'll get nothing from him," the bounty hunter grunted. "You'd think him incapable or an idiot, if you hadn't heard the way he screamed for his mother."

Balinor's jaw clenched. Unconsciously he flexed the fingers of one hand, and turned to the boy once more. "Do you have magic?"

Still nothing. The child just stared up at him, his shakes increasing.

Balinor did not break his stare. He lowered his head slightly that he locked eyes with the lad.

'Do you have magic, boy?'

The child snapped to attention, and glanced about in confusion as to where Balinor's voice had come from, before taking one of his hands from the bars and hesitantly pressing it to his forehead in surprise as the realisation set in. He looked up at Balinor in astonishment, his eyes slowly shuttering in thought. He seemed to be grappling with something. Then he raised his eyes to Balinor once more, and very hesitantly nodded his head.

Balinor returned the nod, surprised momentarily as he got a questioning sense from the boy, punctuated by the lad's slow blinking. Only the sense of a question it may be, but he understood what the boy asked without words, even if it should be obvious.

He answered with a nod, and clenched his fingers into a fist.

Why he did what he did next, he couldn't be sure. He turned and threw a punch straight into the bounty hunter's jaw. The man went down, not unconscious, but certainly disorientated by the impact. Balinor ignored his shout of rage, rushed to the door of the cage and hovered his palm over the lock.

"Tóspringe*."

The door clicked open. Balinor pulled it aside and held his arms out to the boy. "Here!"

The child did not move. He stared back at Balinor with wide eyes, frozen to the spot. On the ground the bounty hunter tried to roll onto his shoulder and get up. Balinor tried again, nodding his head at the boy encouragingly,

"Come on!"

The urgency in his tone seemed only to make the child more nervous. He blinked at Balinor, and looked up and around the cage, his shakes beginning again.

Balinor felt shaky himself. He'd started to sweat, the shiver of cold below his shoulder blades that of fear.

The bounty hunter was on his feet, swaying drunkenly from foot to foot as he made attempt to straighten up and turn without listing sideways. "Sorcerer!"

Balinor bit his lip and looked to the boy one last time. The poor child seemed just as afraid of him as he did the man who had captured him. He would get nothing out of the boy while he felt so, and yet-

'Come on, boy.'

The little lad rocked forward onto his knees a moment, considering Balinor carefully, before launching himself forward across the cage and into his arms.

Balinor picked him up and spun away from the cage, ducking a clumsy swing by the bounty hunter as he went. He stumbled a few steps, throwing out his magic to steady himself and thwart his treacherous feet, finding himself overbalanced by the lad's extra weight and his own unsteady manner. He made a run for it.

Behind he heard the bounty hunter shout out, the jingle of chain mail as others, likely better equipped, joined the chase. He was dimly aware that some of Eldred's* men had been drinking outside the tavern that afternoon, and that in avoiding the bounty hunter's punch, had sent the man crashing headlong into the swinging door of the cage. He had thrown the first punch. He had taken the boy.

Slaving was not against the law in Essetir. Brawling and common assault were. Technically, Balinor realised in disgust, he was the criminal here.

The child whimpered, able to see back over Balinor's shoulder. His little fingers twisted up in the soft leather of Balinor's coat, pulling it tight across his shoulders. They must indeed be being pursued, Balinor reasoned, hefting the child further up onto his hip.

Part of him – that sensible part, presumably working from somewhere in his head – questioned his sanity. What did he think he was doing? He could not go getting involved in these things! Doing so would draw attention to him. People would become interested in his identity, and then they would seek him out.

Eventually, Uther would come. Sooner rather than later if he interfered with the work of bounty hunters in the king's 'employ'.

Stay away. Stay quiet. Stay safe.

Those were his rules.

But the part that oft ruled him when others were involved protested vigorously. He knew in his heart that he could not stand by and do nothing. How could he walk away knowing that this tiny child would be drowned for something so totally outside of his control?

He could not. Just as he could not allow a wound to go untreated, or allow an animal to suffer. Nor would he ever.

The tavern wasn't far from the edge of town, the forest not far across the field beyond that. Once he got into the trees it would not be difficult to lose his pursuers. The boy, still as he clung, would get heavy soon. Despite the physical work of his lifestyle, Balinor knew that he was not a particularly large man. Carting weights for a prolonged period of time was not his strength. Especially not while sprinting. Plus the sharp bone of his hip must be digging into the boy's thigh, silent as his unexpected charge remained.

Even so, without armour to weigh him down, and possessed of long legs, he did not doubt that he could outrun Eldred's men. So long as they did not have-

Something whistled by, thudding into the bark of a nearby oak as they broke the tree line.

- Crossbows. Again, not a problem. When he was alone, and could turn quickly.

He heard the release of bowstrings behind and clenched his teeth.

The boy's breath hitched with a sob of fear, and the bolts shattered mid air, pelting the surrounding undergrowth and the back of Balinor's thick hide coat with dull splinters.

The shouts of alarm behind, and the boy's hiccup of surprise encouraged Balinor to veer off the main path onto a small game trail he knew.

He had no doubt as to what had just happened - had felt the boy use magic as his own seemed to answer it in light, dancing flickers of warmth across the surface of his skin. The lad had power, and it was raw, and untamed, and emotional.

… And it had saved both of their lives.

He ducked left, adjusting his hold on the boy as he bent low, ducking between two close-growing bramble bushes that had almost intertwined over a tiny, muddy path. Once through he moved a short distance down the path until he could step off onto the springy grass at its side. He turned, hefted the boy to a more comfortable position, and surveyed the damage his passage had done to the ground.

Through the trees, he could hear Eldred's men crashing their way along the game trail in search of him. With a deep breath, he focused on the muddy path.

"Astyré se Eorðe.*"

At his behest, the soil shifted, rolling over itself to erase his tracks and repair the ground. Satisfied, he turned away and headed off into the trees, along the network of tiny trails he knew to be made by the regular passage of rabbits.

The boy stared over his shoulder, back in the direction they had come. The shouts of the rampaging Essetirian soldiers grew quieter as they raced off, following the wrong path past the overgrown bramble bushes. He was no longer interested in them, however. His eyes remained on the path, and the newly turned earth that had disguised their way. That had kept them hidden, and kept them safe...

* Tóspringe – Spring asunder

* Astyré se Eorðe – I guide the Earth

*Eldred - Cenred isn't King yet, so let's put his father on the throne, and let's call him Eldred.