Vol.6, Ch.2, P.7
“Mm? What?” uttered Lise as I looked upon her. Plain was her expression, if even a mite puzzled. And there was her timbre, too. So usual and so… well, “Lise-like” did it sound that she seemed nigh out of place in the tense meeting at hand.
“…”
And then I knew shame.
The princess’s was a proposal most unprecedented. Certainly could nary the mind of a nation change so asudden, not least that of Londosius’. Our demand that it must was admittedly quite absurd, therefore. But to be offered the very reins to the enterprise with the aid of both mareschal and princess? Indeed, it wouldn’t seem aught strange were I to take them up on it. No, not at all.
That was my thought when I’d turned upon Lise, believing that she’d be quavering with worry that I would go; only, of course, to find her constant, as if Doubt and Disquiet had never known her. And so was I forced now to confront an uncomfortable fact: that I’d wanted her to worry, to feel some fear or even jealousy. For on this day had she shown the capacity for it. Angry and grating she’d been as she argued with Emilie, and on whose behalf but mine. This is nary my hubris speaking; she really, truly had been.
As a sprout of a boy, I’d received praise neither small nor seldom. “Rolf the rich-gift” I’d been called; “bright-brained”, the “prince of talents”, and so on. But come the Deiva’s disfavour, all of that vanished, turning instead to murmurs of sorrow, scorn, and all things between. Within those two ages of my life, however, I could recall nary a soul becoming earnestly incensed for my sake. Hence, it seemed to me now, that I’d been glad for Lise’s anger, and became full of myself for it.
My face now flustered hot. Having made new friends in foreign lands is all fine and well, but to then think myself the centre of their lives all of a sudden… Oh, how shameful, indeed, Rolf you wretch.
“…Chief Rolf?”
“Hm? A-ah, right.”
And worse, to must be dragged out of those thoughts by the princess herself. What was I doing, daydreaming in the middle of a meeting like that? Especially one so momentous? Goodness. Perhaps Yoná was right to snub me, after all.
But mastering myself, I made my even-toned answer. “Well, let me see. Yes. Your Highness, I’m afraid I must decline.”
A buried betrothal, unearthed and honoured again by the Crown; a large swathe of land for a fief; and the peerage of marquis, to boot… Alf’s foster father the slain Bishop Balbreau had himself been a marquis, speaking of. Why, even the lord chancellor here, too, boasted that same title. Altogether, this was a princely proposal, one had to admit.
Thus to him who so refused it could the princess but ask, “…Might I hear thine heart as to why?”
I paused in thought, and then began my answer. “To usher in an outsider, and further on to equip him with power copious, that he might remedy the dark heart of a troubled nation… That is very sweet to the ears, I must say. But the rub remains: that it chiefly contrives to estrange him from his new home.” To this, the princess fell silent. “What’s more,” I said on, “whether Your Highness’s proposal may pave the way to peace hangs yet in doubt.”
Her Highness stirred. “Yet for peace would I pave it,” she reaffirmed her resolution. No maiden of scheming and malice she was, this Princess Serafina. That much could I measure of her. Regardless, it was not in me to accept.
“That I dare not gainsay,” I said. “But, Your Highness. To spend days serene with those whom we belong: that is peace. Yet peace awaits neither him who must part from them, nor those who must remain to miss him. Nay, even if in so parting he wins serenity for all the land, it becomes not ‘peace’, I say, if some therein must weep themselves to sleep each night.”
“…Is that a peace for all?” said the princess. “Or but a peace for thee?”
“For myself,” I said, “and for all whom I hold dear.”
“…”
All was hushed again. Lise looked long upon me; and her father, with his arms folded and eyes closed, nodded contently to himself. There was then the sound of our two officials quilling quickly away at their papers; whilst afore us, the princess hung a downhearted head, the chancellor tapped a fretful finger, and the legate clenched a grating jaw.
“…Why?”
And finally there was Emilie, murmuring in quiet injury.
“Why say all this only now?” she said on. “Where were those words when you parted… from me?”
“Emilie,” I said. “I’m truly sorry.”
A question pacified with a mere apology—there were other ways to have gone about it, certainly. Ways better, wiser, more delicate. Only, none of them came to mind, let alone mouth. And more certainly still could I have handled our past parting a mite more diplomatically. But I was callow back then, and blind to too many things.
Yet in parting—in meeting new faces and fighting new foes—had I gained some wisdom, or at least grown some good sense. And in the end, that was for the best, I think. I hurt for Emilie, of course, but not without walking this path could I have changed as I’d done. Would we were all born with the wisdom required of us. Sadly, it is as babes witless and weeping that we must come into this world, not sages wizened and worldly.
“Why didn’t you come?” Emilie pressed me, though with words too few. But recalling the matter of the adjutancy many moons ago, it was plain enough. “Why… why did you… tear yourself from me so!?” Now was her voice grown angry, and my mind made to remember our parting at the 5th’s gates. Sure, it’d been her very hand that cast me from the Order; thus to feel aggrieved now went against all reason. Emilie herself understood this well, I didn’t doubt, but such was the hurt in her heart that she couldn’t help but scream it all out. “If only… if only…!”
“Lady Emilie,” said the princess. “Pray comfort thyself—”
“Come back!” Emilie cried on nonetheless. “I won’t do you wrong! Never, ever again!”
Long ago—well, a summer and a half past rather, though it certainly felt like “long ago” to me—had I brought down the lord of Albeck, and in so doing, delivered Emilie from a fate most foul. Very good, I thought then. No more worries, no more regrets. She is safe… and set for life. And thereafter, I left. Everything, everyone; all was put behind me.
Then there was Mia, and my reuniting her with her dear sister. And when that quest, too, was won, I’d thought then much the same: that being rejoined with Eva ought Mia be fine henceforth; that, as a Man of war, it would be ill of me to stay any longer by her side. And on that occasion, too, did I set off thereafter.
Thinking on it now, however: was leaving them, in truth, naught but a service to myself? A “hero”, riding off into the sunset, satisfied with the “good” he had done? In her case, Emilie had shown some resolve to see me off, what with the expulsion and all; thus had my leaving her got to it some crumb of closure, at the least. But as for Mia… nay, no such mercy had I given her, for it was as she slept in her sister’s arms that I’d vanished from her life.
By Eva’s words, Mia had then sought after me, long and tirelessly. To Hensen had they gone, and there the little girl wandered, on and on, through the smouldering ruins, searching for any sign of me. And they’d even visited Balasthea, whereupon Mia, Eva had said, would oft stop and stare at empty spaces, and put her small hand upon any place where once I might’ve sat or stood. I remember the revelation shaking me to the bone, stunning me as though a hammer had been brought to my head. All muscle and no sense, I’d reproached myself. I ought kick myself till something cracks.
And so had I learnt my lesson: to never part from where or whom I belonged.
“Emilie,” I said, “it’s as I’ve said at the start: I’ve got now a promise to keep. And dearly do I wish to see it through.”
“But what of ours?” Emilie returned. And standing asudden, she cried, “Ours, Rolf, ours! Made so, so many springs ago!”
Lise herself then sprang up. “Quit this carping,” she growled, low but fuming and forcible; and with brows bent forth, she fired unto Emilie a piercing stare. Time and again had they locked horns today, but afire now was the friction betwixt them—and withal the light in Lise’s eyes. “A mareschal you are? A hero?” she chode. “Then behave like one—half like one, for once.”
“You’re hardly one to talk, jarl-daughter,” Emilie countered.
“Listen, you,” snarled Lise. “’Twasn’t Rolf who’s done the backstabbing. You well-know this; but for your own solace do you forget it.”
“Oh, peace. Peace, you,” Emilie nigh-exploded. “You don’t know me… You don’t know my misery!!”
But there, she did explode. Raw emotion rammed our ears. Lise, however, remained unmoved as she said, “Misery? Who here doesn’t know misery?”
“Who!?” Emilie raged. “Is any here a mareschal as I!? A hero, as you say!? I never aspired to titles so petty! Let alone desired them! Not one bit! You know nothing!”
Those were no words to be aired afore the princess, if even in error. Indeed, there the other Londosians sat, utterly stunned at a livid and unleashed Emilie.
“But still! Still I took the path! For ’twas the only one left me! The only one!”
“…”
Lise was now silent; but all the same, she stood, staring upon Emilie and weathering her words as they came.
“The misery, the torment… You don’t know…! You don’t…!!” Emilie agonised on, gripping painfully away at her chest as words once trapped seemed to trickle from betwixt her very teeth. It was then that I rose slowly from my seat.
“You’re right, Emilie. I don’t. But I do try,” I said to her. “The burdens you bear, they are all too heavy. Every finger, every toe, every thought toils to keep them aloft. There is no freedom for you.”
Emilie nodded unsteadily. “…No,” she said. “None at all.”
“Still, wounded and whelmed as you are,” I said on, “ever do you give your all to your duties. Indeed, you endure duress beyond description, and fulfil your office as burns a flame till the last of its fuel.” Hearing this, Emilie pressed her lips and furled her fingers hard upon the table. “And so are you praised,” I continued. “Too much so, you measure, and that, too, only adds to your burdens. Nay; that isn’t so, I say; for you are worth every glowing word, Emilie. You really are. And that, I do know well.”
Emilie’s face softened bitterly. “Rolf…”
“Beware,” Lise broke in with a grumble. “A ‘but’ comes here—as is its wont when his words seldom run long.”
“…But,” I put out, having naught deft nor witty to defy Lise with. Such was the sort of man I was: ever too straight to out-joust her stringent jibing. No helping that now, however. What must be said, shall be—straight and clear. “I, too, shoulder my own duties, Emilie,” I said. “Duties that need doing; promises that need keeping… all on this side of the world.”
To speak of “sides” when peace was so sought for; to but embolden the line separating these two parties in parley—not the wisest choice of words, certainly, but it was honest, at the very least. For I could not go back. Not to that side. Not whither my spirit no longer lives.
“…hh.”
A bout of hurt then harrowed Emilie deep. But fortunately enough for one as witless of aught but swordplay as I, she did not let seep a single tear. If she had done, my thoughts, my will, I think, might have thinned to nothing right then and there. Still, like vines of barbs and needles, a silence now grew anew. But bafflingly, the person to save me from its sting was the one longest quiet in this council: the remaining legate—
—who banged fist to table, stood, and roared, “Enough!”
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