Vol.1, Ch.1, P.1
Revision – 2023.7.7
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Lilies.
Lilies-of-the-valley, as far as the eye can see.
Little bells abloom, all in a white tapestry.
Amidst their snowy swaying I stood, silent and lost in the lilting scene, forgetting chance, forgetting trials… forgetting the sword now trained at me.
Ever long was I fond of them, these flowers. Theirs is never the promise of papillon pageantry, no. But nonetheless I sense much beauty in their bobbing and bowing. A beauty muted. A beauty unmistakable. A beauty hard-mastered by mere words.
A glance, and I glimpsed again the blade poised upon me. Its tip was half-tottering. Its hilt waited hesitantly. Perhaps its wielder knew well what awaited were we to come to blows. Not my sudden defeat, nor my easy surrender. No, not even a slit inflicted upon my skin. And so I let it be.
Looking back to the boundless lily bells, I soon found myself fancying taking one home with me. Indeed, they did seem the sort to be content with life in a pot, to sit beside a sunny window sill and watch the days wheel away.
Imagine that. A burly brute of a man, girt at the hip with a stark-sable sword, his steps bound for home. His sole companion: a potted flower, embraced to his bosom. Silly, I know. A sight sure to garner a good chuckle or two. But that was just as well. After all, I did miss such mirth. Very much so.
Filled with fancies ill-befitting a battlefield, I breathed in the scenery once more.
How nostalgic, this scent.
This hill.
And that day, winters ago—
—when these lilies, too, were in bloom.
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“You were incredible, Rolf! I can scarce believe it!”
So rejoiced Emilie, jumping to and fro in jovial frolick, her azure eyes fixed wide upon mine.
There we were upon that hill, an undulation of earth, bedight in robes of rippling lily bells. And who was its crown but dear Emilie herself, flitting about like a faerie, with sunfire filtering through her fine, flaxen hair, and a smile brimming from her fair and lovely face.
“Well neither can I,” I replied, whelmed by Emilie’s warmth. “Luck—that’s all it was. The fates’ll return to their usual mischief tomorrow, I’m sure, just as I am that Sir Simon was, in fact, staying his hand.”
I’d attended sword practice earlier that day, during which a spar was held. And at its end, I’d somehow eked out a victory. My opponent was none other than the instructor himself, a full-grown man, and full-fledged knight besides.
At a mere fifteen years of age, my body was already both the height and build of an adult, and so was not wanting of physical strength. Would the same were true for my skill, as I’d very well stood to lose for a lack of it. That I’d won at all was owed only to the whims of both the fates and my instructor.
“Oh, don’t rain on your own parade, Rolf! Sir Simon was a lieutenant of the 1st, you know!” returned Emilie, hopping about happy as a hare. We’d shared much of our childhoods together, she and I. And ever did the girl celebrate my good fortunes as though they were her very own.
Emilie was the eldest daughter to the baron-house of Mernesse, a small family, ennobled yet unlanded. At present was she set to marry into House Buckmann, themselves also a baron’s family, but landed and long-serving stewards to this patch of the realm. And as it happened, I was the sole son to that very household.
Put simply, between us was the promise of marriage, a star shining in our shared horizon.
Emilie giggled. “My beloved! My husband-to-be! So strong and handsome is he!” she sang. “Hmm, hmm, hm-hmm! Were I any happier for you, Rolf, why, I’d burst into bubbles, I feel!”
A girl never afraid to unfurl her affection—such was the sort of soul Emilie was. And here was I, flustered in receiving it.
“Emilie… you’re too kind.” Such was my modest answer, and all I could dare muster. Much a mind had I to more fully embrace Emilie’s love, but ever did the right words flee my bumbling lips.
We were both fifteen then. While arranged marriages are common amongst the aristocracy, not few are those who contemn the custom. Why, to do so is practically expected. Yet Emilie was a seldom exception: by her own brazen yet blushing admission, she was most pleased to have me as her future husband.
How glad I was when I’d heard those words. I much wanted to return some words of my own, to tell her how grateful I was for her affection. Indeed I ought have. To stay silent was surely an insult to her, but try as I might, my heart was ever content to keep within its cage. Cowardly, I know. Hardly the look of a prodigy others so saw me to be. Whatever convinced them of such, I wonder?
Yes, that’s right. “Rolf Buckmann, the boy prodigy,” they’ve always spoken of me. A wunderkind, wise and courageous, masterful in myriad subjects—or so they say. By my measure, I reckon my courage quite lacking, at the very least, for were I as they say, would Emilie not be in my embrace at this moment? Receiving in her ear honeyed words from my heart? “Emilie,” I would whisper to her, “I, too, am happy beyond help, to be able to hold you as I do now, to see your smile more intimately than any other eye. Why, I could very well sing of this privilege to the king himself, were I afore his throne.”
…But nay. Such remained a reverie as I looked upon Emilie, and she upon me. And in the midst of that moment, there echoed from far behind a voice dear to both our ears.
“Brother!”
“Felicia,” I called back, turning about. “What is that you carry?”
Up the hill she daintily climbed: Felicia, my younger sister. Long were her locks, and like mine, deep and dark as night. But unlike my eyes of onyx, hers were as regal rubies, bejewelling a face every bit as fair as Emilie’s. Indeed, a most charming sister, if I do say so myself.
“A sweet something to celebrate with, dear Brother!” said Felicia, settling down amongst the welcoming lilies. We joined her, and watched in wonder as she unveiled from a wicker basket a pie replete with a parade of berries. Then, with practised strokes, she began slicing wedges out of it, each a work of art on its own. “And one for you, as well, Emilie.”
“Oh, Felicia, it looks splendid!” squealed Emilie, receiving her share with shimmering eyes.
“A celebration, you say?” I wondered aloud.
“Why, for your having bested Sir Simon this morrow, Brother. ‘A dynamic strike from the high guard!’ everyone said,” recounted my sister.
“Ah… right,” I returned, and yielding a grin at my slice of pie, “…Thank you, Felicia.”
I dared not downplay my achievement. Not now, at least, when such a marvel it was that was perched upon my plate.
Felicia was long in the habit of baking sweets to commemorate my every feat, big or small. Just this past week, I’d astonished our governess with an error I’d discovered in a heraldic text, for which occasion Felicia later presented to me a plate of gaufrettes. Ah, yes—delectable they were, down to the last bite. Though today’s berry pie was even more so.
“A fine pastry you’ve baked, Felicia,” I complimented her. “The aroma alone is a treat.”
“Truly!” Emilie echoed.
“‘Twas made with Staffen rum. Dear Orla had told me that it works wonders for a pie,” explained Felicia. Often was she to be found in the kitchen pursuing pastrymaking perfection, and in that process had got along very well with our maids and cooks, Orla included.
“My stomach growls for more,” I confessed. “Spare me another, Felicia?”
“And me!”
“I’m glad ‘tis to your likings both,” my sister said with a soft giggle. “Here you are, then. Oh, we mustn’t forget the tea.”
Up the bell-lily hill billowed a balmy breeze. The three of us were sat there, shoulder-to-shoulder, our faces beaming from the titillating tartness of Felicia’s berry pie. Silly chatter and conjoined laughter chimed through the air.
“Brother, might you regale us with another tale?” Felicia requested.
“A tale? Hmm, a tale, eh… How about something I’ve read in a book recently—one on the relative densities of heavy metals found in knights’ gear.”
“R-Rolf! That sounds more a lullaby than a legend,” Emilie quipped. “How about something more… thrilling, let’s say?”
The land, washed white with lilies-of-the-valley. The sun, shining softly down upon the three of us.
“Hmm… right, how’s this? From the chronicles of a southbound excursion: a creature most rare and riveting. Does that tickle your curiosities?”
“It does! Tell us more!”
“Then it’s settled. Let me tell you of a southern specimen—a critter they call the ‘hippo’…”
Our childhood brimmed with such bliss, and this was but a scene from its last day, one forever enthroned in my memory.
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