Vol.6, Ch.2, P.3
It was terribly clement, if I recall. Skies clear and scorchingly blue… on that day when I was banished from the Order. How very hard, I thought then. Even the weather celebrates to see me gone.
There I stood at the portcullis, equipped with what little I had left to my name. And there they stood: some of the knightly leadership, gathered as though to drive away some leper from their hamlet. But before I could oblige and quit their company for good, there came from afar the rumble of hoofbeats; and in a moment, there was Emilie, high ahorse and with more knights in her tow.
‘…Madame…! …Come to send off the ungraced for good, I presume…?’
‘…I suppose I have…’
Eyes more azure than the clearest sky then looked to me, and I to them. Till at length, I… I said something, I believe. Something… something… What was it, now? So very much has happened since then; to recall is as to delve through a whole mountain for a single, certain stone.
But if memory serves…
‘…Be well, then…’
‘…’
Ah. There we are. Those were the words, if they could be called such. All our long years of intimacy and society—severed by but three simple syllables.
Thence onwards, we both began our new lives, Emilie and I—lives lived apart for the first time in our knowing. And not half a year later, there I was, drawing the blade upon Londosius, my fatherland. And in so doing, I realised deep down that now, now were Emilie and I truly and unchangeably sundered from each other. That were we to meet once more, most certainly would it be upon the battlefield, blood, fire, and all. Such was my thought. Such was what I steeled myself for.
Only, such did not come to pass.
What ought be a raging battlefield was instead a round chamber atop a steeple tower. Blood was black ink and waxen seals; fire was sunlight sighing in from the lancet windows. Indeed, rather than be arrayed for battle, there we were: alliance and Londosius, standing vis-à-vis with only a table to separate us.
“Our participants are as promised.”
Fishing me then out of those long thoughts was the princess’s voice. And true to her words, across the table was Her Highness and the Lord Chancellor Hugo Rudels, as well as Emilie and two other legates of the realm.
“As are ours,” I replied.
Two-three, three-two, I next noted, counting each party’s portion of combatants and civilians. Our messages seem to differ. But swiftly I put away that thought; for now did convene and commence the historic parley of our time.
∵
“Pray allow Us first this matter,” said the princess. “War-Chief Rolf. We owe thee a true apology.”
I blinked. “…‘Apology’?”
The introductions were done with. The princess had pronounced herself the voice and will of the absent king, and I the Himmel’s. Thus was established what Londosius had wanted: at the very least, the “trilateral” appearance of a talk. And that had gone by smoothly enough. But even as we were all sat, settled, and prepared to discuss reconciliation, there did the princess offer it: an official apology. I and the others could but sit in amazement, as though met with an opening move most unexpected.
“Verily; for unjustly passed was thine expulsion,” Her Highness explained. “An inquiry proceedeth as to the missing steed so bequeathed to the Lady Emilie by my king father. Yet, the present findings speak clearly enough: that thou, Rolf Buckmann, wast wholly faultless in the affair.”
With that, the princess put palm to breast and slightly but solemnly bowed her head, as did Emilie beside her. Meanwhile, the chancellor sat grave and silent with shuttered eyes. The remaining two legates, however, merely looked on. But clear to me was that even as they assayed to stay stoic, beneath their cheeks did clench and grind their growling jaws. The pair plainly detested the idea of apologising to an apostate.
Nevertheless, this was something of a conundrum. Inconceivable enough was this very meeting, but an apology for an ungraced besides? Passing bold. Still, I could scarce answer as Londosius desired.
“Your Highness,” I said, “I am not come today craving apology.”
“Perhaps not,” came a cold snarl from Hugo Rudels. It seemed the lord chancellor was suffered to speak freely between the princess and myself. I had heard him to be of mind bright and sharp as a blade, and beholding him here, I sensed that repute to stand true. “Accord and compromise,” he said on, “these be more to your taste, I presume? Then better to take the outstretched hand than to strike it away, if… if amity should be your aim, no?”
“Amity”—the very word seemed anathema to the man as he wrung it from his throat like water from stone. And that face of his; I had hitherto marked him a soul more composed than his legate counterparts, but to judge by the fluster fuming now upon his face, I was proved wrong. Evidently, it was my refusing his princess’s apology that broke the calm camel’s back, as it were, if he’d disliked the idea from the start. But I had nary a mind to soothe his nerves nor say soft things. What’s more, to accept their “sorry” would’ve afforded us no favours in the bargaining to come. Indeed, not only was the apology unneeded, but deceitful withal, I deemed.
“I am due no apology,” I returned, “for it is not I who is burnt of home, nor butchered of family, nor massacred of community.”
A silence ensued. Repealing my expulsion ought’ve served the perfect opening to a council for reconciliation—that is, absent the repugnance pulsing now through three of these Londosians’ veins. Unfortunately for them, this exiled man troubled little about his banishment. Nay, such a trifle was far removed from the concerns of the Himmel. And certainly, matters more pressing sooner deserved our time.
The princess sat stiffly. Her eyes quivered. Like as not, she’d realised full what I was driving at: that her apology was sore-misplaced; that those truly wronged were nary here to be seen. The chancellor beside her, too, must’ve gathered the same, as he furled his fingers into fists that quaked visibly upon the table.
“War begets woe, War-Chief,” he said very slowly, as if to cool the fire in himself. “Yours should not claim to be the sole side to suffer, now.”
“Nor should yours claim rightness in wreaking such ‘woe’ upon our innocents, to begin with,” I countered. This was a point painfully plain, worthy of no mention—in my mind, at the least. But nay, not in that of these Men. To them, all Nafílim were sport, spoil, and prey.
“Innocents?” said the chancellor. “Surely, you do not suggest Londosian innocents so spared from your warring?”
“If any brave should ever prove so bloodthirsty, then by my troth, it is a heavy hand that shall befall him,” I answered, swift and stern. “But speak not of blood on our hands when all of Londosius bathes in it, Chancellor.”
A “heavy hand”, indeed. As war-chief, I needed little of Alban’s behest to promise here the “handling” of any brave with a taste for Londosian innocents. In my eyes, such crime, such carnal caprice had no place on the battlefield nor off. But all that ill-compares to the too-many massacres carried out by military command—and worse, by national policy. That was the sin upon Londosius’ head, the weight whereof I dared not brook to be minced.
“War-Chief Rolf,” said the princess, quietly cutting into the ice now increasing betwixt the chancellor and me. “’Tis the fate of all peoples upon this earth: that as with blood and borders, so with beliefs.”
True enough. Peoples band together for all manner of reasons, religion being chief amongst them. And in so doing, creed and conscience crystallise in their hearts, hardening their bonds ever more, but in the same stroke estranging them further from their neighbours. Thus are flags of different colours flown, and foreign tongues spoken, and the winds of war awoken. What hope had we here, then? Hope for the arrow of Treaty to pierce the parapets of Principle and Precept? Ones not least formed and fortified since time out of mind?
It cannot. We cannot. To defy this fact is folly. Nevertheless, some pledge, some commitment from Londosius must needs be made. To us the Himmel, that was our dearest demand: the guarantee of a reformed Londosius. To have this agreed to only vaguely would but prove vain, and like a house built upon sand, consequently leave to crumble completely whatever “reconciliation” came of it.
“‘Beliefs’,” I said. “Princess, I seek here a promise. Nary one that needs haste if it cannot be helped, but at the least, one fulfilled in time and earnest: a promise that such ‘beliefs’ be reformed.”
The princess paused and pressed her lips “…For that,” she then answered, “an empty promise be’eth all in me to make.”
A faint furrow then passed upon her brow—a look of both sorrow and bitterness, of strain and frustration. Doubtless only after great pains of compromise, of persuading the glacial magistrates of Central had the princess managed to arrange this meeting. But to then be pressed, upon the very meeting, with so steep a demand… Who, indeed, could deny the princess her disappointment? Like as not, she was crying out in her heart; crying the question of how so old and deeply rooted a creed of a kingdom might be moved.
Still, we the Himmel could not back down now. Resolute anew, I spoke again to the princess. “Your Highness hopes in your heart for the people’s ease, do you not? Then know that we are both of a piece.”
“I mean much to,” said the princess. “But pray understand: little is left Us save to forget futilities; to focus solely upon what is feasible.”
“And withal what is non-negotiable, I should hope?” I asked.
Her Highness returned then a pained look. “Should ultimatums be all that is offered between us,” she answered grimly, “then I fear this meeting itself is made futile.”
“…And you wonder why I took up the sword.”
At once, the princess gasped and shrank. Her shoulders shuddered. That line of mine, uttered like a low growl, did not come out by conscience. Nay, for it is not in me to negotiate by intimidation. Only, it was merely that I could not help myself. I could not hold back the anger in me, nor baulk the cries of a people plundered of those precious to them.
I could not help but remember Mia when she’d wept into my bosom on that lonely night in Arbel.
“…”
For her part, the princess sat at a loss for words. An anxious sheen now shone upon her brow. Things had turned ill. But at that moment:
“…Your Highness. A matter, if I may?”
There was Emilie, asking in almost a whisper as she gazed gravely down at the table. Yet, having known her for nigh-on all my life, I knew her face to be nary one of despondency, but of determination.
“Thou mayest,” answered the princess. “All here are so permitted.”
“I must preface,” Emilie said, “that this touches the repatriation of the War-Chief Rolf.”
A nod. “So be it.”
…My “repatriation”. There seemed to be some plan on Emilie’s part to see me once again a subject of Londosius. But at the very utterance of the word, the legates both furrowed their faces in plain displeasure, whilst the chancellor remained unchanged.
“As broached, much arrangement awaits the return of War-Chief Rolf to his mother-realm,” Emilie then pronounced to us clearly. “A sudden proposition, I know, but he himself may find it most mete to his interests: that the reformation of Londosius may be best endeavoured from within, not without. And to avail him in this, I mean to invest him with power aplenty.”
“And how might that be suffered to stand?” I responded. “Given what ‘misgivings’ the better part of you harbour for me?”
“I will stand with you against them,” declared Emilie. “This time, for certain.”
What followed was a spiteful strike of the tongue, though one almost too hushed to be heard. It’d come from the far right—from the scowling mouth of a legate, who earlier had introduced himself as a high name amongst Central, to my recollection. It seemed his own misgivings had got the best of him. Emilie, however, brooking none of it, turned a stone-cold stare upon the man. Unshuddering and unshifting, her azure eyes seemed ready at any moment to burst with thunder and lightning upon him.
And for a span, no one spoke. Not even the lancet windows dared creak against the high, wuthering winds. And all along that time, the legate endured Emilie’s eyes, till at last, his brows bent and buckled, and looking away, he cast down his face in defeat.
Pitying him not in the least, Emilie turned back to me and continued, “You spoke of change, did you not? That this realm needs above all else its faith, its morals remade? Then let it so be done. By your hands, by your will; by the wisdom of Rolf Buckmann, son of Londosius and a sword most concerned in its correction.”
I felt then Emilie’s regard harden upon me. Not in the same scathing way as it had upon the legate, nay; but rather, more and more it roiled with pure resolve. As clarion as a summer sun and as intent as imminent rain: a mighty resolve to right all that had gone awrong.
“At the very least shall you be unhindered by the Order,” Emilie went on, “for, as Mareschal, I will forbid any knight or swain who so dares. And maligners shall molest this mandate on pain of short shrift… and a fell stroke from my blade besides.”
“Blade?” I echoed. “You would behead on my behalf any who harries me? Be he your own knight?”
“I would. I will,” was Emilie’s swift answer. “For you ought come back to us, Rolf. You must.” With that, she relented a moment, taking in a deep breath. And then, fixing her steadfast gaze upon me again, she pronounced, “Come back —if you mean ever and truly to put an end to this war.”
───────── ∵ ─────────
Comment (0)