Vol.6, Ch.1, P.4
“Gerd,” Emilie said cheerlessly, “what’s this commotion?”
“Not to worry, madame. A jolly and unbiased debate is all it was,” Gerd answered diplomatically, “over whether the ungraced’s deed was some diablerie or no. These chaps seem quite convinced of the former.”
At once, the young mareschal guessed the matter at hand and turned a sombre stare to the knight-leaders. “…He’s done naught so base,” she said to them, low and stern of tone, and yet sad all the same. The leaders winced whence they stood, as urchins caught amidst some mischief. But the least perturbed of them said in defence:
“With all due respect, madame, I should believe otherwise. Rending down the Dēlūbrum roof; ensnaring the Mareschal Cronheim in the collapse that followed—indeed, the audacity of that… that deceitful dastard…” he added with a hiss.
Emilie inly frowned at the knight’s decreasing composure. “You would take strategy for trickery?” she argued. “With the blade of wit has he won. A dastard would sooner’ve fled in misery.”
“But, madame—!”
“For the Dēlūbrum was to him the lion’s lair, have you forgotten?” Emilie persisted. “Indeed, Cronheim had all the advantage in the world.” So resolute was her remonstrance that all the knight-leaders quailed in complexion. But heeding this not, Emilie continued, “Rolf, your so-called ‘dastard’—with means neither to wield magicks nor withstand them did he penetrate the enemy host, infiltrate the Dēlūbrum alone, and thereupon do battle. And then, with but sword in hand… vanquished the 2nd’s mareschal.”
One knight quivered and shook his head. “Nay… nay, nay, there ought’ve been something else,” he objected. “A-a sleight of sorts, unseen! Unreported! Un…!”
…Unjustly wrought. That should be the truth of it. It must be. Otherwise, otherwise… The knight, catching his thoughts with a last jolt of prudence, pressed shut his livid lips. But the look upon his face full-revealed his raw reservations.
“…Nay. I see still no other way of it,” Emilie calmly countered. “Very well, then. Suppose you were the mareschal’s opponent instead, with ploys aplenty to play. Could you, even then, have claimed his head yourself?”
The knight-leaders all startled. The proposal was as to them a thunderclap, that ever as they assayed to answer, they found themselves stifled instead at the throat. For nay. Nay, they could not have vanquished the hero-knight, even with all the deceits of the Devil at hand. With a swing could Stefan out-fence the very finest in the craft; with a sweep could he sunder any to stand in his way—be it armour, army, or mountain. Not that these knight-leaders were themselves pushovers, of course. They knew well enough their way around a hilt; but whether they possessed the mettle to match the hero-knight for even more than a moment was another matter entirely.
But now was that so-valiant hero-knight vanquished; he who ought know no superior, defeated by him most inferior. Aface so baffling a truth, the knight-leaders stood steeping in silence.
“Heed this well, you hard-heads,” said Gerd. “That ungraced sop grinds my gears as he does any of yours. But dare you underestimate him, or any enemy, and you’ll only end up as the late mareschal has, may he rest in peace. Ply those pates of yours, men! For Londosius and our Deiva!”
At the lieutenant’s stern words, the leaders duly conceded with downcast faces. But even then, their shoulders trembled from the shame aboil in their bosoms. Being too whelmed by her own worries to heed their humiliation, the woman first to speak to them on this evening then approached Emilie, hands clasped and quivering.
“M-Mareschal Valenius, madame…” she began. On any other occasion would this townswoman have jumped and rejoiced just to meet the new hero-dame. But as Emilie saw, there was no joy to be marked upon the woman’s mien. “Was it… ‘Rolf’ that you’ve said?” she asked Emilie, as one speaking of a ghost. “But, isn’t ’e the one… the one banish’d…?”
Without any answer to give, the young mareschal pursed her lips. The pain to be seen therein roused in Gerd such a rush of anxiety that he caught his breath. This was a most troubling question, indeed.
“Banish’d… only to go on an’ slay our Sir Stefan, an’ scatter our knights an’ soldiers…” the woman said on. “By me troth, it can’t be ’im… can it, madame?”
“…’Tis very much so,” Emilie answered at last, though without any warmth. Of such unquenchable cheer did her greener years note her. So sunny and so very vernal. Yet in that moment, that all seemed like some long-faded memory. “He whom we expelled… He plays now a new part, and to such accomplishments against our realm,” Emilie flatly confirmed. “…Accomplishments beyond any of us to match.”
“Then… then all this mess were—”
Catching herself, the woman gasped. But rather than grudge her the slip of the tongue, Emilie showed only a shake of the head.
“Nay. ‘Mess’ is precisely it,” the mareschal conceded. “Scold us, if you wish. Goodness knows we deserve it.”
At that, the silent leaders clenched their fists in further humiliation. And then did Emilie scoff. Not harshly, mind, but rather hollowly, and withal in mockery of herself; for she realised what it was that she had said: he whom we expelled.
We.
Not I.
Verily; even unto this moment, even after all was said and done, was she in search of something else to blame. And oh, how small she felt for it. How miserable. How pathetic.
But the townswoman—bless her heart—knew naught of such misery when she then asked what Emilie dreaded most to hear:
“N-no, madame, I mean… Weren’t this ‘Rolf’ your… dearly b’loved once?”
“…”
“Madame…?”
“…‘Beloved’,” Emilie lipped after a pause. “That I wonder. ‘Betrothed’ we once were, certainly. But…”
She had loved him. And she did love him yet. At least, that was how things should be. For now were they foes to one another. Why? so oft had she pondered, why? Did they not live upon the very same soil? Did they not search the very same skies? Then why must so large a rift remove them so? Why must walls, war, and all the world assay so madly to tear them apart?
“W… wot say you meet ’im, then, madame? An’ talk ’im out o’ it?” suggested the woman. “You were both warm once, weren’t you? ’E ought lend an ear, then… right?”
“…”
Emilie again gave no answer. She had none in her left to give. All this “mess” had been of her own making. This she knew very well. This she regretted every day, every hour, every waking moment.
Would she were strong. Strong not of clout or command, but of character, of conscience. Indeed, had she such strength so true to wield, then surely would things have turned out differently. But instead, what she had, what she had been handed, was mere praise and empty power. This, too, she realised and had reckoned with, if only too lately.
Whereas he had been the spoke opposite on the wheel, being praised never in the slightest, and yet possessing prowess beyond any to compare. Unsulliable and insurmountable, he was a man never to surrender to any enemy, nor kneel to any god.
Thus, ever and anon had Emilie wondered: that perhaps she had never deserved to stand beside him; that perhaps it was never meant to be. And in so doing, always would she be brought to the brink of tears. Now was no different. But somehow staying them, Emilie mustered herself as best she could to say something, anything at last. Only, wary of wounding herself any further with such thoughts, she but chose words safe and vapid:
“How might we talk… if we can’t even meet?”
Torn by tangible distance rather than a difference of heart; was such what she wished now to believe? Emilie knew not. Not the answer, nor even her own heart. Not anymore.
“W… well, send for ’im, maybe,” the woman persisted sheepishly. “’E would answer, wouldn’t ’e?”
I did! Emilie wished to scream out, recalling the call for the post of chief adjutant many moons ago. I did send for him! I truly did! But did he come? Did he answer? And there did she remember standing all alone in that dim parlour, awaiting the reunion that never came.
“Come. That’s enough,” Gerd warned the woman. “This touches policies of Sword and Crown. It’s nothing so simple that a tavern-stay could solve.”
Those words of his should have served a lifeline to Emilie. Yet they irked her instead, seeming more a whip to lash into her conscience the coldness of it all.
‘Nothing so simple’? Why? We ought see eye-to-eye, yet sooner we turn the other way. We ought soothe each other’s hurts, yet rather we wring and wrench away at them.
Why? Why must this be?
Dearly did Emilie wish to ask another soul these questions so burning. But considering her company, she but cast her eyes down in dejection and said naught.
“I knows that. I does, but…” the townswoman sputtered, “…but, couldn’t summat’ve been done, then? Anything at all? I mean, they were b’troth’d once, weren’t they…?”
Emilie clutched at her own breast asudden, feeling as though some icy and formless blade had stabbed it deep. And there, she strained to keep from screaming in pain.
Gerd, perceiving this, speeded up his words. “Don’t you worry, now,” he said to the woman. “We’ll be rid of him, soon or late. Right then, you two. High time we ran along. Tavernkeep! Here’s extra for the trouble!”
“Aye, can’t keep the marquis waitin’, can we?” cried Raakel, as though to clear the air. And as Gerd placed a handful of coppers on the counter, so did Raakel turn an admonishing eye to the wordless knight-leaders. “Don’t be drinkin’ an’ drollin’ too much whilst we’re gone, eh?”
And with that, the trio began their way out. Emilie, however, glanced vaguely at the woman, whose lips quivered yet with many more questions to ask, and then turned away to the door. And when they were gone, all the tavern was left cold and quiet.
♰
“‘Send fer ’im’. Hamph,” scoffed Raakel. “Aye, that we did. An’ work’d out grand, didn’t it?”
Raindrops gently percussed the carriage as it trotted down the avenue to the marquis’ manor. Therein the three sat, each staring out at the grey gloaming beyond the windows.
“Best get used to it,” said Gerd, sighing. “When the winning stops, the whining starts. I wager in weeks’ time, they’ll cease to be so civil. That’s ever the way of them, the commons.”
Raakel breathed a mist upon the glass. And watching it fade, she said, “Ye knows what? Forget Tallien; ’ad we advised fer Déu Tsellin instead, might the day’ve been won, do ye reckon?”
A fair point. In throwing down the Dēlūbrum’s roof, Rolf had won the mountain—a trick he had tried once before in the drear of Godrika. Thus could Raakel scarce help but fancy that things might have taken a different turn, had they been there to counsel against his wolven wit.
But Gerd merely shrugged. “Hard to say. Were it only so simple,” he said; but a moment, and Raakel found him deep in some thought. “…Nay. Maybe… hmm…” he then murmured. Raakel pressed him with a grunt, to which he looked up and apologised. And turning back to the window, he said, “Maybe it never was for us to be at Isfält. All the world’s on the move, I well-feel; on the move—and leaving us far, far behind.”
It was nothing they could help. In seeking the best hand for Déu Tsellin’s defence, the Princess Serafina had weighed to a nicety the mights of each of the Orders. Never, then, could the 5th have found themselves upon that mountain, much less shoulder-to-shoulder with the realm’s sharpest. And so had Gerd and all been left to watch from afar as Déu Tsellin shook and fell. But the thought scarce allayed the lieutenant’s doubts. On and on, he imagined it: the white waters of History passing them all by. And oh, how it hounded him so. For far at the fore of that flow was none other than him.
“Thass a mite much o’er me head, if I’m honest,” Raakel remarked.
To which Gerd smirked. “I envy that simple pate of yours sometimes, you know that?”
Raakel smirked back. “Aye? Well I can solve that proper quick, I can,” she quipped with a crack of her fists.
“Nay, I mean it. And in a good way, really,” defended Gerd. Not always had Raakel been so brutish. And being privy to this, Gerd was impressed with how the woman-warrior had turned out. If only some of that simplicity could rub off on her, he thought as he turned his eyes aside to his silent superior.
“…”
“Emilie,” said Gerd. “You’re all right there?”
“Ah… yes.”
So was her simple answer. But ever as the carriage glode down the lane and the rain played upon its canopy, in Emilie’s ears, there echoed naught but the words of the woman from that tavern:
‘…Couldn’t summat’ve been done, then…?
Anything at all…?
I mean, they were b’troth’d once…
…weren’t they…?’
Nay.
There was naught to be done. Naught. Because I had not the strength for it.
And everyday do I rue it. Everyday am I ashamed. Were the chance given me, I would go back. Back—to uproot, to upright it all.
But I can’t.
I can’t.
And how it hurts me so.
How it stings. How it tears deep.
Why?
Why must the pain pang me so? Why must every living second be a misery? Just because I was powerless? Because I had not the sight to see all ends? Oh, were this world at peace; then powerlessness would be nary a sin, nor nearsightedness so evil a vice.
Were this world absent of all who would disturb it, then none of this would ever have come to be.
So moiled the thoughts in Emilie’s mind. That half of them were scarce more than excuses and escapisms was painfully clear to her. Nevertheless, ever would she repeat them. No matter the moment; no matter her will. For deep within, past all the pain and pity, did it lie: the world so fair, so free, so full of heart and harmony—the world that was their childhood. And despite herself, never could Emilie let go of it.
How eternal it had seemed to her then. The wonderful world, never to wilt, but ever to flower—now left to fade with each passing day. For the sweet and innocent girl yet in the mareschal’s heart, that was naught to be accepted.
“Things’ll get right fussy ’gain, I bet,” Raakel mused. “What with the 2nd headless an’ all. Twice-headless, even.”
“I don’t doubt that,” said Gerd. Lending their discussions a distant ear, Emilie herself tore her thoughts aside to the state of the realm.
Despite Gerd’s doubts as to the 5th’s place in the present world, like as not, their turn upon the stage would come soon enough; for be they swimmers in the waters or lookers-on from overland, they and the denizens of Londosius were all of them firmly painted into the scene, willing or no.
Indeed, now were the Nafílim beginning to gnaw deep into the ribs of the realm, that no longer could any Londosian spear be suffered to lean idle, nor any blade be left long unbloodied. The slumber of old shall lift, and war shall be waged—upon the Nafílim; upon their traitor-champion Rolf. Much there was then to consider, and just as much to do.
“…”
Yet, ever as she watched the marquis’ manor emerge from the rainy mist, Emilie could not help but think: I don’t want to consider. I don’t want to do. I don’t.
Down courses inscrutable was the world wending, turning and tossing all along the way. And so naturally could Emilie never have scried—
—that close at hand, indeed, loomed the long yearned-for reunion.
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