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Vol.4, Ch.1, P.6

 

“I, Rolf, do solemnly accept this high office of War-Chief,” I began firmly. “Just as you accord me your confidence, so must I my gratitude: thank you, each and all. I swear upon my sword to strive might and main, to bring honour to the Víly name and neglect not the trust so given on this day.”

A prepared speech, I admit, and one I’d thought would well-suffice on its own. Yet, when all was said and done, I could not help but feel it… lacking. That words more worthy of this convocation, of this momentous and yet grave occasion, ought be aired. And yet, if I’m honest, airing my heart was ever an effort more affrighting than a bloody fray. Revealing my deepest pith to so many a gathered person? Let alone one? A thought to chill the soul, that.

But loath though I was, it must needs be done. These members, these leaders deserved that much, at the very least.

“…I say ‘trust’, but such is hard-given and hard-gained, I know,” I continued, less sure. “That this office and this day grant me precious opportunity to implore your confidence—this, too, I understand. Thus I mean not to squander it, nor betray the charity of your trust.”

Every eye was trained to me. Eyes piercing, impenetrable. Beset by the barrage, I felt next a great anxiety boiling up from within, dragging down my every bone. More than once have I spoken afore assembled authority, but those served purposes more impersonal. Here was I to convince the convoked not of my innocence nor of the soundness of some stratagem, nor raise an alarum to some exigency. No; here was I to show them my mind and thought, to reveal a reason fair enough to entrust to Rolf, Man and treacher, the charge of a great many of their sons and swords. And with what but mere words…

Never in my life had I chanced such a trial. Suffice it to say, I was frightened.

“Although… I must admit, I have betrayed before. I’ve betrayed friends. I’ve betrayed family. I’ve betrayed Man himself. But, you must know, I…” Pausing, I gulped. “…I would not be standing here afore you all had I betrayed my own heart. That much, I beg you understand. But, what I wish most to say is… is…”

Thundering off with enthusiasm was all fine and well, but now were my words beginning to crack. To have one’s heart be understood through the spoken word… An easy skill to most others, surely. But not to me. Not yet.

“Apologies. The right words escape me,” I said lowly. “But, to the point. I should say… I…”

Stares, pressing down upon me like millstones. Emotions, imbued in their every weight. Under such a burden, I steeled myself anew.

“..Nay,” I said, before unbuttoning my doublet and baring my bosom full. “Pray avert not your eyes,” I implored with raised palm, stilling the faces afore me in their astonishment. “What separates us?” I broached. “Man, Nafílim. Myself, you all. Are we so different?”

Different of skin, sure. Theirs was a gentle tenné to my pale complexion, after all. But such was not my point. Such was scant “difference” to me.

“Not so, I say. Not at all,” I said, shaking my head. “We live upon the same land, strive under the same sky. We worry over the same woes, cherish the very same treasures. We are all children, born together.”

The brows of the assembled collectively bent, oblivious yet to the intent behind the spectacle. But enduring their scrutiny, I continued.

“Thus must it be in our power, our will to walk hand-in-hand,” said I, then pointing a thumb to my own bosom, “so long as we all share what’s hid in here.”

Our hearts—and the valleys gaping betwixt them each. A distance that turns Men and Nafílim on each other, stirring them to war. But were such a void bridged, naught else should remain that would so bar the crossing of companionship.

Looking about, I could yet glean the glimmer of mistrust in the members’ gazes. At the very least, however, lacking was the cold light of scorn. Indeed, though leery, they were nonetheless lending their eyes and ears to the maunderings of this Man.

“…At the last, I beseech you: allow me a seat by your side, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you all,” I continued, “not on account of what blood courses through our veins, but what beliefs beat in our hearts.”

No. No good. I was speaking in circles. Rolf the yapping cur, chasing his own tail—no doubt an irksome sight to those forgathered, experts of public speech as I’m sure they all were.

“…Again, I apologise. My words reach you not…” I said with relent. “…Then this I say: I… I believe we each hold in our hands a common right. In every hand… in every heart born to this world—the right to a life of peace. Or at the least, this ought be the way of it. And to shield such a right, to protect such a peace, I shall… I will…!”

Before I knew it, my tone was flush with fervour. Catching myself, I scanned about again, finding the members yet silent and staring on. Such quietude were as pins and needles upon my skin. My bare skin… Right, I was yet naked from the waist up, and afore what but a chamber brimming with Vílungen leaders. Mustering my courage, I continued on—lowly now, to hide my humiliation.

“…I’ve… I’ve made a promise once. A dear promise, one to end needless loss. A promise to forge a future more fair. If you would allow me aught, then pray, allow me just that: to take up the sword and fulfil this little promise of mine.”

We have in each of us a reason to fight, a boon awaiting us at battle’s end. Some reasons are well-worthy of reverence. Others, perhaps not so. Ever have I striven for the former, but whether my mind sooner seemed the latter in the leaders’ eyes, I could not guess.

“…Pardon. I’ve maundered overmuch,” I said. “Perhaps my words were as wind. If so, then shall I show my meaning in battle. That is all. Thank you.”

So concluded my farce as I bowed my head deep.

“…”

Silence.

Standing there, staring on in stillness: a perfect silence.

But before long, a sound pierced it all.

Pa. Pa-pa. Pa pa-pa.

Raising my head, I looked to its source.

There to the side was Alban, beaming warmly and clapping his large, callused hands. A few others then joined him, their claps echoing scant through the cavernous air.

But in time, some more hands added themselves to the pitter-patter. On and on, the clapping steadily crescendoed, till all the þinghǫll was pealing with applause. Full-humbled, I bowed once more, feeling anew the weight of my new office.

This ill-meant complete recognition from the assembled leaders, to be sure. But at the very least, here was given to me trust, much and meaningful. Raising my head, I gave my thanks to the clapping crowd, before re-buttoning my doublet with a flustered face.

 

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“The motion is pass’d. From here remains but negotiation with the Gorkungen,” declared the chairperson, before turning to the jarl. “Sire. That, we leave to you.”

“As brothers we are, the jarl and I,” said Alban. “A fast alliance I foresee.”

It bears another mention here that all Nafílim are organised into disparate clans. Though “clan” is a loose term, for these folk do not especially heed the maintenance of blood lineages. In fact, few can trace such lines back farther than generations yet recently remembered. As a man can wed into another clan, so can he tie the knot with a woman from his own. Collectives much guided by freedom, for sure, these clans of the Nafílim.

One might say that “tribe” is more on the mark here. Only, being of the same clan is, to these folk, a token of community, of identity, and is not so easily given up for the sake of semantics.

To the point, the motion passed just now much concerned another Nafílim clan: to wit, the forming of an alliance between us Vílungen and the folk of Gorka.

Our path hereafter would require beyond all debate such alliances if it is a lasting end to this war that we so desired. For as yet, we utterly lacked swords and soldiers enough to march on Redelberne, the very heart of Londosius itself. Hence the purpose of this very day, this very vindarþing: to set in stone the Vílungen will for both alliance and negotiation with our Gorkungen guests.

“The Jarl Dušan has arrived, I presume, Sire?” one assembly member asked.

“Indeed, as of yesterday,” answered Alban. “Your ears have heard this, but I assure you once more: the Gorkungen smile upon this matter.”

Our jarl had prepared much for this occasion, fostering the formation of the alliance as much as his authority could allow before bringing to table today the very matter. In fact, such was his effort that all that remained was the vindarþing’s blessing.

Something ought be said about the speed with which this mountain of a motion was passed. Oft is a parliament glacial in its deliberations, a dire disadvantage against autocratic swiftness such as that found in our Londosian adversaries. But Alban, being a jarl most capable, had dwindled such disadvantage down to its barest. For that, let none gainsay his quality as a leader.

That selfsame jarl now turned to me. “And you, Rolf,” he said. “You must attend.”

“Right,” I answered. “As agreed.”

Already were the Gorkungen come to Hensen, with their own jarl as their representative, who himself apparently had much a mind to meet me, of all people—and face-to-face, at that. Of course, I could not refuse. Yet some wished I had, as made evident by the next voice.

“Sire, if I may,” spoke one assembly member. “This negotiation, it is paramount. Perhaps too paramount for a hatchling war-chief…” he trailed off, before: “…and a Man besides.”

His tone was dark with distrust. A few others subtly nodded along.

“Forget not: the Gorkungen care and crave for battle,” Alban objected. “So must you see why Dušan desires much to meet this Man, this giver of victory to us Vílungen.”

Yet, however loving of battle the Gorkungen may be, they rightfully cared little for allying with a losing side. A chance for triumph was their condition. But with the recent victories under our belts—not to mention a Londosian land lost to our very hands—never before had alliance seemed more tantalising. Doubtless would the talks ensue smoothly.

…Were it not for one wrinkle: the Gorkungen had requested conference with the Man that had gifted the Vílungen their triumphs. Not that I ever fancied myself solely responsible for such a miracle. Far from it. But that the Gorkungen jarl wishes to meet a son of the enemy was a troubling thought to some amongst the assembly—more so again now that they could not dissuade any mind against it.

Upon that son they next gathered their gazes. Wariness and worry clouded them all. To them I turned, glancing between each and every one of their uncertain stares.

“And if I may,” I addressed them, “it is perhaps because I am a Man that the Jarl Dušan would wish to measure me to a nicety. If so, then all the more reason, I say. At the very least, let me assure you this: he shall reckon my resolve to be no lie, that I mean to wield alongside my sword my very life. So if you would, if even just this once, pray trust to me that I would bring you no shame,” I told them with full honesty, earning from the jarl a slight smile.

“Whichever the way, our Gorkungen guest is not to be contemn’d,” spoke the chairperson. “Let us, then, lay our trust in the Sire and his champion war-chief.”

Not solely by the sword can so large an enemy as Londosius be brought to heel. What we needed was something more: the shield of fellowship. Self-evident though this may be, in that moment was I reminded anew of its sheer gravity.

 
 

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Chapter 1 ─ End

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