Vol.5, Ch.2, P.1
“…Even absent what succour their numbers alone may promise, I say here that many tactical boons await us were we to join hands with our Mennish counterparts…”
How many times now was this? Of attending the vindarþing, of orating afore emissaries and officials? I’d long lost count over these months, frankly, but I was hardly complaining; it was proving fine practice for public speaking, to which by now I’d grown quite accustomed. The usual unsavoury stares and scowling brows from the graven-faced audience, too, had softened somewhat by this point. Were I to guess, I’d say I was earning the trust of my detractors, if even little by little. The victory at Tallien, too, seemed to have helped that front immensely.
“…That’s to say, by bringing in fresh minds of foreign races and foreign creeds, so do we bring in fresh insight and perspectives certain to expand our tactical capability. As an example…”
The Cutcrowns—a resistance group we’d discovered acting from the shadows of Artean; Mennish swords drawn against the Londosian establishment. One might imagine their numbers to be small under so weighty a reign as Londosius’, but such was not so: many they were, and just as far-reaching, that at present were we considering seeking out their cooperation. Today’s council itself was convened for that very purpose. A festival of tongue-flapping, to be sure, but there was nothing for it: discussion and debate were part and parcel with the office of war-chief, and I full-intended to falter not even in them.
“…To be sure, this is neither a rarity nor an exception. The annals of military history recall time and again such cases, of foreign commanders and admirals being invited to avail an otherwise…”
Still, such work oft left me out-of-kilter, so to speak, as though more and more was I straying from the sword. And for a man who felt in his element brandishing the blade on the field of battle, that was a worry, indeed. Thus ever on such days did I endeavour a great deal more training than usual. And from the looks of today’s proceedings, tonight was sure to be a sweaty one.
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“Rolf! Good work today!” greeted Lise, as we met amongst the crowd cascading out from the Þinghǫll foyer. The vindarþing had just been adjourned, and the sun and breezes felt all the gladder for it. Though on the whole was it a meeting of civil officials, this council of Hensen was oft visited by those from the military. They could not speak unless spoken to, albeit, but nonetheless were they free to sit in on the assembly as they pleased—just as Lise had, and Monika with her, whom I found standing beside her superior.
“Little Mia’s come today, I remembered,” said Lise. “You wouldn’t mind if we tagged along?”
After I gratefully accepted their company, we set off abreast from the bustle. Sure enough, Mia was in Hensen on this day. That’s to say, there were many a day over these past few moons that found her a visitant, for not seldom did she come and go between her village and the fólkheimr. But this day was different: she was come not to visit, but to settle here for good.
It’d been something well in the works. Winter-yeared matron Irma, along with her helping hand Eva, had been tirelessly caring for Mia and the other orphans back in their village. As all the homes there were in ruin, it was in the safety of the shrine and its cellars that they lived. Only, living there was precarious enough, as one would expect. With her hopes of reopening the orphanage right here in Hensen seeming now brighter, however, the good matron had decided to finally make the move—with Eva, Mia, and all the other children in tow.
Hard by mine was their home situated. I hadn’t thought well of it at first, to be frank. After all, it was mostly a housing district for the Hensenite braves where I lived, and I bemoaned having to expose Mia to even the slightest reminder of war. But as it was her very wish, there was nothing for it. I did come around to it in the end, however, as in any case, living anear a familiar face ought prove some comfort to her.
“I must say, a gladness it was for the motion to pass,” said Monika. “Joining swords with the Cutcrowns? A tall hurdle, that.”
“Towering, even,” I added. “But, that’s one river crossed. Now we wait… to see if our potential ‘friends’ will be fain to follow.”
“Yes… Fair winds be with Frieda,” Lise said wishfully.
As Monika said, newly authorised in today’s vindarþing was the official outreach to the Cutcrowns of Artean, and headed to their guildhall at present was none other than our resident freelance Frieda, with whom their leader was well-acquainted. Would that such intimacy could give purchase in the negotiations to come.
Battle preparations were proceeding steadily, for our part, and withal the mustering of our braves coming along to schedule. Our next hurdle, then, was how best to incorporate into that fold the Cutcrowns themselves, as well as the Reùlingen, our alliants-to-be.
As ever we walked down the Hensen townscape, the three of us discussed at length how might all the foresaid pieces fall into place. Before long, however, we arrived at my home, afront which we found Eva waiting.
“Here already?” I called to her. “Apologies; we tarried a bit much. Though I would’ve minded little had you helped yourself inside.”
“It is all fine,” said Eva. “We arrived but a moment since.”
“We”, indeed, for upon hearing our exchange, forth from the porch sprang Mia herself, appearing hale and sprightly.
As we all met each other, I then found the little girl standing close beside her elder sister and looking up at me rather demurely. There she was, all attired airily in what resembled a smock, fashioned like a chemise or a one-piece dress, one seeming gentle and refreshing to wear on a fair day such as this. Altogether was Mia fair to look at, that I found it nigh-unimaginable that ever was there a time when she was as sooted an alga as myself.
Albeit I remained as steeped in the stuff as always, whensoever I must brandish the black blade.
“…Herr Rolf,” greeted Mia. Mirth was on her lips. Yes, indeed: Mia was smiling. Like a little daisy at dawn was she smiling, and what a gladness it was to see.
“Why, Mia,” I said to her, bending down. “The road’s been long, hasn’t it? You must be all worn-out.”
“No,” she answered, shaking her head softly. “I’m well.”
The coursing of six months—and with it, the passing of Mia’s birthday. Thirteen years of age she was now, and much healing was had that she now spoke and answered with greater spirit, a far cry from her former timorous mutter. Such, too, was a gladness to my heart, that I felt then and there the joy of a father in seeing his child sprout from seed to sapling.
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