Vol.5, Ch.3, P.6
“Mm…”
How heavenly.
Soft in its acidity, brisk in its bitterness—mares’ milk had become, by now, an unmissable mainstay of my life here in Hensen. A sip, and down the throat it courses: a stream, cold and crystalline, to soothe the weary soul.
“…”
Alone was I sat in my home, idling the night away. And looking down at my drink as it dithered in its bowl, I began to think. Of our long-awaited departure next dawn; of all the happenings up till this very moment.
Hm. Eight, nine months now it’s been? Since my very first visit to this fólkheimr and the Fiefguard assault that followed? There I recalled it, clear as yesterday: the taking of the soot-steel, the slaying of Ebbe… The fairest of fortunes that’d been, having all the tides turn like they had. And not least to have ridden their momentum to rich reward: Balasthea, Arbel, and then Ström itself—all captured. Quite the beginning… and the betrayal, if I do say.
And then, not even two moons after that, we moved on to Tallien. The felling of my former mareschal, the routing of the 3rd’s knights upon his plains, the conquering of his viscounty… and of course, the deception of Lindell. Even now could I feel upon my skin the heat of Balasthea’s keep, its timbers all aflame and falling to ruin. Yet nevertheless, we’d won that one through, as well.
What a whirlwind those days were, their each and every battle baffling and battering to the bone. Awaiting us now, however, was a clash beyond all compare—a turning point in history, even.
These currents, these winds that we’d been riding; for months had they brought us to victory after victory, taking us deeper and again into the bowels of Londosius, precarious though the ride might’ve been. An endeavour, an expedition earning us new lands and alliants alike, what with nascent parliaments in good operation, the partnership with the Rolanders, the slow but steady breaking of old walls between Men and Nafílim, and the ensuing bloom of culture and commerce both.
The world we so wished for—more and more was it emerging from the mists.
And come our next victory, we might at last taste its reality upon our tongues. What a fine wine that would be, to celebrate with.
And so must we win.
We must.
“…”
I saw it then. In my mind: the holy mountain of Déu Tsellin. The Quire’s cradled babe, the very star to their faith… Surely upon its slopes would they defend it to their deaths. And joining them would be their brothers under the banner of the Crown, themselves loathing no less to see the mountain stolen.
Doubtless the enemy defence would be a mountain in itself. The Quire’s host of keen swords, the Champions Salvator; Londosius’ finest knights, the 1st and 2nd Orders—a threefold foe most fearsome, indeed.
Yet ours ought falter not in the least. Between the Víly-Gorka alliance, the Reùlingen, and the Men of Artean’s Cutcrowns, we were sooner a flood than merely a three-front force. The Reùlingen alone equalled the alliance in numbers, after all; and for their part, the Cutcrowns astonished no less, being of a scale well beyond our expectations.
But all the same would this battle be hard-fought. And for why but that never before, in all my knowledge and reading, had Londosius ever mustered together so stern and decisive an answer.
“…And with Tiselius to lead it.”
First from my lips tonight: the name of Londosius’ most-hailed hero-dame. Mareschal to the knights of the 1st; a commander to recognise my rigours; a gentle soul to understand my wayward ways… and now, my enemy.
She must have her reasons. Just as I. Reasons unwavering; reasons irrescindable.
Reasons to wage this wretched war.
And sharing her fold was to be another mareschal: Sir Stefan Cronheim of the 2nd. And last but not least: Alfred Isfält, master sorcerer and lordling of the marquisate.
Neither, I reckoned, would fall any more easily than the hero-dame herself.
“…”
Grimly I gazed into my bowl. And grimly gazing back was my lantern-lit reflection—standing afront all the fighters in my Gewölbe, friends each and every one. How gracious they were to trust to me, to allow my blade to be their banner. Yet, grateful though I was, my grimness would not go away. Their lives were in my hands. Lives too many to count; lives too heavy to weigh.
Lives to leave tomorrow and like to return never again.
Such is war.
In its throes must something be lost. In its aftermath must someone be missed. Dear losses each and all… and just the same, dooms beyond any of us to prevent. But that was precisely why this battle must be won. For without victory, all would be for naught. Our lives, our efforts, our sacrifices—everything.
“…”
How steeped in silence this night was.
Gulping down my drink, I turned to a window and watched the yonder stars wheel slowly in the bright, black sky. How’s everyone else spending this night? I wondered. These last hours before our wending to war?
Frank himself ought be home with Emma by now. Perhaps in this moment was he savouring venison and sipping bitters, to soon thereafter make vow and vigil both for a safe return, and altogether spend as preciously as he might these waning hours with his wife.
And that was perhaps the precise answer to my ponderings. Soldiers now in inspiriting speech with their parents; in tearful talks with their siblings; in bittersweet embrace with their beloved; or even in silent and starry solitude, communing with companions parted too-soon. Such were the stories playing out, I doubted not, in all the homes and hearths here and there: precious hours being preciously spent. By those that are to go. By those that must remain. Soldiers gaining for themselves one last solace before the grave struggle.
None were now alone.
All were in warm company.
“…”
I looked through the spaces of my home. How wide, how empty they all felt on this night.
“…And how quiet.”
None were here. All sound was hushed. Not even the nightly critters had come out to chirp. Time itself seemed at a standstill.
And amidst it all was but myself.
“Phew…”
So left a breath from my lips. A breath, soft as it was arbitrary. And yet, how loud, how large it sounded.
“…”
And yet, larger still was this silence.
Knock, knock.
At that moment: the subtlest of disturbances. Though the disturber herself had grown sunnier and more sanguine of late, her door-knocking was timid as it ever had been.
“Come in,” I called out. And there she appeared: Mia.
“…G-good evening,” she greeted.
“Mia,” I said to her. “Have a seat.”
Whilst she obliged, I poured up another serving of the mares’ milk and offered it forth. It, too, was a favourite to Mia, for a fermented drink though it may be, it hardly had any headiness to it, and thus was a treat to be enjoyed as well by children like herself.
“Thank you…” she said. And though she received the bowl gladly, I sensed a tenseness in Mia’s hands as they brought drink to lip. And after a while of silence, she said nervously on, “I’m… I’m sorry. It’s late, and… and you must be very busy.”
The long breath before the battle. The night before the nightmare. Not a time to be squandered, these hours. Of course, a damsel of thirteen summers ought not perceive such a grim subtlety, I should think. Mia’s was a curious case, however, being a soul perceptive beyond her years.
“Busy?” I echoed. “Perhaps. But all the same, I’m glad I have you to spend it with.”
“M… me, too,” she replied, before looking demurely down. What a wonder: to see her once-blank face now so full of expression. “Tomorrow…” she said at length.
“Yes?” said I. “What of it?”
“Tomorrow’s the march, or…?” she asked. Hesitation hung in her tone. “A march to a battle bigger than… than ever…”
“‘Bigger than ever’ is right,” I answered honestly.
Not that there was any use in hiding it. To be sure, we in Mia’s circles took care never to let slip even a peep of war in her presence. But with all of Hensen stirring of late, with all the wains of weapons wheeling and all the ranks and files roving, it was only a matter of time before she realised.
“Don’t worry, Mia,” I assured her. “I’ll come back—no matter what.”
“I know…” she answered, and swiftly, at that. A sign of confidence, perhaps? What gladness, if so. “Because I know as well that you’re strong,” she continued. “Very kind… and very strong.”
“Am I, really?” I said in half-jest. “Have I your word?”
But Mia nodded earnestly. “In the forest; at the fort…” she pointed out, “…you’ve saved me so many times. I know you’re strong.”
Albeit was it merely wood-wolves that had harried us back then. But as for Balasthea… in that battle, in that burning keep, it was not strength that had seen me through—it was rage. A burning in my own bosom at the sight of Mia being held at swordpoint. There was much to reflect on, thinking on it now, and much to repent for. But that Mia herself thought no dimly of it was a great relief, at the least.
“…So please,” she said, “don’t be afraid.”
I paused for a moment. “Could never’ve hid it from you, could I?” I then said.
“…No.”
War is hell. That, none can doubt. And neither can any face such hell without horror, without fear. Yet with courage enough in his heart can a man confront it—the greatest of fears, the gravest of fates, the grimmest of foes. Such was ever my way, my most secret of weapons.
And fearfulness is itself naught to be ashamed of. Bitter though it may be, we all need at least a spoonful of it in our lives, if ever we mean to spring and sprout from each our soils. This I knew. This I believed. Yet, for whatever reason, I found myself ill at ease on this night—much more so than all ill nights before. An impasse it felt like, or perhaps more an ember, smoking and smouldering deep within me. So deep, in fact, that I could scarce reach down to snuff it out.
Yes; fear this was.
Afraid I was.
That by the slightest misstep might I shepherd us all to ruin. That after one blink of an eye might I see next all my alliants lying dead. For such was precisely the peril we soon would face. Such was the hell awaiting us all.
As I pondered this, however, I found Mia getting up and coming about to my side.
“Mia?” I said. “What is it?”
Knowing not why she was now so anear, I but stayed sat and gazed up at her. And at that moment, Mia reached around my head and held me in her bosom.
“…It’s all right,” she said softly. “All’s well. All’s to be well. Because you’re strong, Herr Rolf… stronger than anyone else. Stronger than you believe.”
“Stronger than anyone else”—those were her words. It was clear to me then that in her eyes, I was the strongest and mightiest of them all, though that was scarce the way of it. But just the same, it was her truest thought, her very trust in me—and come hell or high water, I would see her faith fulfilled. I must.
Releasing me, Mia then gazed back, as though to peer deep down into my depths. A silence next passed between us, till at length, with a voice clearer and stronger than all I’d heard from her before, Mia said to me, “I await you here, Herr Rolf. Here in Hensen. So please, come back safe and sound… and soon.”
“…Aye. That I will,” I answered her. “Thank you, Mia.”
So easily, so naturally did come to lip those words. For in hearing hers, I felt the fuming fear in me fade all at once.
“How very strange,” I mused, “that you can read another’s heart like a book.”
A child tremendous in her experience. Such was Mia, for better or worse. Nonetheless, such experience, such days had perhaps imparted to her such perception as I beheld it—a heart that could scry clear those of others; of mine. It left me astounded, frankly, if not in sound defeat.
“…Not anyone’s,” Mia then said. “Just yours, Herr Rolf.”
“…Oh? That writ on the cover, am I?” I replied dryly. But Mia said no answer. Instead, she once again brought her arms about and embraced me to her bosom. Only, now did she do so strongly—much more strongly, in fact, as though all her strength went into the gesture.
Mia? I thought. It’s rather hurting, right about now. And hard to breathe. But despite myself, I aired not those words.
“…”
“…”
And so did this silent night sail on, till all the stars dwindled out of sight and dawn began to break.
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Thanks for the chapter.
Mia really is the best character, Despite everything she has endured, she is the one character that completes everyone else.