Vol.6, Ch.1, P.10
“Well, paint me surprised,” mused Frieda as we strolled down the streets of Hensen. “’Tis more mingled than I imagined.”
True enough, a glance here and there would reveal Men mixed in with the Nafílfolk—an increasingly common sight ever since the signing of the Treaty. Indeed, of late, the fólkheimr had been absolutely bustling, its gates gushing with comings and goings beyond count. We had the Rolanders, too, to thank for this, what with their branch now open and in full operation.
“You’re hardly alone,” I said to Frieda. “Seems like yesterday when it was just me and Sig. What sore thumbs we were.”
And I was all the gladder for it. Certainly did things have a long way to go yet, and many a wrinkle still to smooth out besides, but here it was, right afore my eyes: a glimpse of the world I so wished for.
“An’ not too much gawkin’ an’ gogglin’ to be seen, either,” noted Frieda. “Awful taken to dealin’ with Men, ain’t they? The local folk.”
“Gladly enough. Albeit not all the hedges’re got rid of; in places unseen do some embers smoulder still,” I said, before giving a grave look. “…Frieda.”
“Aye, I know,” she whispered back. “Things ne’er could be so easy, could they?”
Not over one winter could six hundred summers of strife be undone. Too much had the warring races wrought and reaped. Too much and too many. And so it was that no few Nafílim grudged still the sons of Man. As a matter of fact, cases akin to Dita’s—of those fain to forgive by grace of Reason, but sooner stayed by the icy rime of Wrath—were sadly neither so uncommon. There was no easy remedy for this; just patience and sympathy on our part to slowly warm away the winters in their hearts.
Still, the prospects were promising, one proof whereof being none other than that very same Dita. Hers was amongst the many deeds that’d won us the day at Déu Tsellin, having counselled the routed Reùlingen to remain in the fight and succour the Cutcrowns in their darkest hour. I admit, my knees had very nearly given out when I’d heard the story. All of my heart knew joy then. And I’d made certain to say my thanks when I’d found Dita at the recent ceremony. She’d answered with only a flat face and an equally flat “Very well,” of course, but nevertheless, the thorns in her mien, I sensed, were already lessened in their sting.
“Mmm, so many firsts for the eyes an’ ears—an’ nose, too,” Frieda said, her voice reviving with wonder as we now wandered through a busy market square. “Has all got me giddy, if I’m honest!” What zest there was in Frieda; one could scarce help but have high hopes for her. Doubtless would she, too, prove paramount in the plights to come. But, as if catching herself, she said more sadly, “No, I ought be not so blithe; not when war’s brewin’ abroad an’ all still.”
“Nay, have at it,” I said. “No one would blame you.”
Indeed, who would? He is a fool who chides cheer, who champions misery and modesty merely because War and Death are in dance. Nay; it ought suffice that we love and honour Life as it is. If anything, little is more precious than mirth, dare I say. Should we forget it, then all the easier might our humanity slip from our hearts, when battle rages and blood runs in rivers at our feet.
“Aye? Well then, don’t mind if I do!”
“I wouldn’t for the world.”
After browsing the markets, I led Frieda further about the fólkheimr, coming by the Concern’s branch, and even showing her the west end, a sad portion of which had been sacked and torched by the Fiefguard in the year past, but was now on the mend. And soon, we began discussing forthcoming matters as we walked, during which Frieda expressed a firm resolve to learn and absorb the Vílungen brand of soldiery. She hardly needed a lesson in the art of combat, naturally, being herself a former freelance of much fame and many a feat to her name; but having never got a taste of a proper battlefield prior to Déu Tsellin, she’d realised that there was much work and study ahead of her. For exactly like Frieda, a good majority of the Turnlancers were themselves once mercenaries. Thus, as an attaché, the imperative task fell to Frieda to learn all that she may from the Vílungen and “translate” it, as it were, into something her comrades may readily adapt to their mercenarial style. And goodness, if she wasn’t the perfect fit for the job.
Frieda herself seemed to have fathomed well the weight so placed upon her shoulders, as she answered after a thought, “Drills, if I had to pick,” upon my asking her of what sat atop her list of priorities. “I’d like to peep a session or three.”
“Our drills? Hmm. Point taken,” I said, falling into some thought myself. “Sharing does sharpen a military, to be sure, even be it rudiments and regimes.”
“Ya think so, too?” Frieda said. “Ah! That reminds me: the orderin’ o’ our rosters. We’ve try’d things your way, but some o’ it…”
On and on our discussion went. And ever as it did, I found myself in wonder at Frieda. Easy and suave she was, whether in port or speech, but at her roots was she quite the earnest soul. Just from her words alone, I could sense that she’d spent many an hour mulling over the future, both near and far.
So much has changed of late, not least with the heralding of the Himmel: history’s first alliance to surpass the boundaries of race. For Frieda and myself, there was, indeed, much to consider and to do, so that our comrades may think first to cooperate than squabble, and thus become a force fiercer as a sum.
“Speakin’ o’, how does some joint exercisin’ sound to ya? If we can get ’round to it in three—no, two months, then all the better,” Frieda suggested. “Er, sorry. Not really my place to speak on that, innit?”
“On the contrary,” I said. “It’s valid advice, I’d think, from one officer to another. Besides, I much appreciate your opinion, so don’t you trouble about holding anything back.”
“All right, then, I won’t,” chuckled Frieda. “Aye, ’tis better like this, us bein’ mates an’ all—an’ you havin’ seen more o’ me than I’d like to admit.” Frieda then flung my way a rather mischievous look. “Mmm? Hallo, what’s this, then?” she sang, catching me queerly quiet. “Summat come to mind, ’as it?”
“Not at all,” I mumbled. I’d crossed her unclad figure on an occasion or three, sure; but to be clear, that was scarce all that came to mind about her. “Save for your swordcraft, that is,” was my quick follow-up. “Aye, now that’s a lasting impression, if I had to name one.”
Frieda’s smirk soured asudden. “I’ll take that as a compliment…” she said. Or grumbled? Goodness me; ever the twisty topic, this.
“Herr Rolf!”
And at that moment, like a rope lowered to lift me out of this chasm of a conundrum, echoed a call from a brave of mine. Only, I found him coming hither all in a rush, and the look upon his face was very grim. “You’re needed!” he cried. “Straightway!”
“‘Straightway’? What’s the matter?” I asked as he came about, all the while feeling like it was out of the frying pan and into the fire with me.
“Word has come,” he panted, “from… from…”
And, indeed, it was. The short report he then gave was naught that anyone could’ve expected: that, right amidst this great preparation of ours for the battles to come, Londosius had made its move. A most incredible one, at that, leaving even me utterly stupefied—a move called “reconciliation”.
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