Vol.6, Extra 1, P.2
“Cry ‘wolf’, and here we are…” muttered Rolf as he beheld the scene afore him. That in it would be nary a vándýr to be found was something he had both known and expected for a while now. That was partly why he had let the children free to fetch their water, but now did he regret it. For menacing the scene was something just as terrible.
“Sch…! Scheisse!” a harsh voice slashed the air. “Scamps first, now soldiers!? Men!? Why here, why now!?”
There, bristling and bellowing by the banks of the spring, was a rogue, to judge his crude speech and uncouth appearance. Thirty or so in his years he appeared—and, as well, a Nafíl.
As a matter of fact, he was a fugitive, freshly fled from Hensen’s turnkeys and hoping now to hide in the forest till things “blew over”, as it were. But imagine his amazement when, whilst slaking his thirst along the shore, he had been chanced upon by a pair of children. To him, that was evil. Little is more precious to a fugitive than his own face, after all, just as little else is looser than the tattling tongues of brats. But with his likeness discovered, he had descended unto something of a fearful fit, seizing the young lass in his arms, but left wondering what to do next after having watched in horror her friend fly out of sight. And now, here he was, square in the stare of a war-chief and a sorcerer.
“Unhand her!” cried Rolf from afar. But the rogue gave no answer. He simply panicked whence he stood, mumbling and mouthing incoherences, as the lass squirmed and quivered in his clutch. Rolf strained a sharp eye at him. No weapon was upon him. And scrying this, Rolf made his decision: to neutralise the criminal before the lass in his grasp could be affrighted any further. But as he next found, Alfred had very much the same idea.
“Fiþerġiefu.”
There: an incantation. And a familiar one; for once before had the former lordling used this spell against Rolf when they were yet foes upon the slopes of Déu Tsellin. And now, unyoked from gravity by its virtues, Alfred flew forth with the grace of a feather, and to the rogue’s dismay—“Eh!?”—the speed of a falcon.
Now was the fugitive face-to-face with the sorcerer. But no sooner had that yelp escaped his throat than did Alfred raise a swift staff. Nay, not another magick was to be conjured here, but rather an angry and utterly frustrated stroke of stern and solid silver.
Bock! went the blow. And taking it square on the pate, the ne’er-do-well buckled flat upon the bank. And so strongly was he struck that he went limp and lost all consciousness immediately.
In the excitement had the lass spilt from his hold, but in a blink, she next found herself safe in Alfred’s arms. And there, quivering still, she snivelled and sobbed quietly on.
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“I… I’m sorry…”
It was a while after Rolf and Alfred had bound the rogue in what belts they could spare, and waited till the lass’s sobbing had subsided, when those words left her lips. Indeed, despite her spite, she yet remembered her manners. Naught could justify a wilful lie and all the wiles to follow, after all, regardless of the anger or grief from which it grew. And so did Rolf accept her apology with a nod. Only a nod, mind. He said no more of it, for as Alfred had deduced, words, whether soft or stern, could not salve her sores so deep.
Albeit after a while, Rolf did say something to the two. And what he aired was not disapproval, but a proposition. “…That hole earlier. It wouldn’t do at all to leave it alone. Let’s get to filling it.”
Thus was explained Alfred’s prior suspicion. Long outlawed in Hensen was the hollowing of holes in the forest, if even for hunting. Braves, lumberers, and now merchants, to name a few, frequented its paths and spans to a degree that such holes hurt more than they helped. And so was it also required of all to reclaim any errant ones or ones remaining, even those small in size, and certainly those of size, just like the pitfall so intended for Rolf.
And the lad and lass, denying not that the dyke was their doing, could only cast their eyes down.
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The pitfall was certainly a pit, but many hands make light work, as the wise say. And sure enough, with four pairs in the effort, the pitfall was filled in before long. It would have proved easy enough for Rolf and Alfred alone, to be sure, but they had thought better to have the children help out.
“Well, we did it—together,” was Rolf’s appraisal of the work. Of course, filling a hole was little to write home about. But as he said, it was done together, and that was what counted; that was one step in the right direction. Or so did he wish to believe, at any rate.
Long it would be before these children may forgive or forget, if ever at all. But there was nothing for it. The trial must be tried, and seam-by-seam the hurts be healed. And that was good enough. For now, for today, that was good.
And then there is also Alfred’s utter anger to consider; an anger fully displayed when he had sent his staff striking down. For the lass, at the very least, that was something strongly conveyed and clear to remember: that in Men, too, may she find aid, sympathy, and compassion.
Such were Rolf’s meditations as he next softly said, “Good. Looks nice and level now, wouldn’t you say?”
“…”
The children remained silent. But Rolf remained undeterred.
“Right,” he next said. “Come, you two. We’re headed home.”
Still were they silent, but nevertheless they nodded. And as they went on their way, the two wept quietly, one tear after another.
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Upon their return to the garrisons of Hensen, both Rolf and Alfred duly reported every detail of their strange adventure, including the conduct of the children. The perilous “pranks”, however, went unprosecuted. That is not to say the little ones did not receive a stern lecture. They, in fact, did; just that to go further and mark them criminals was clearly out of the question.
Afterwards did Rolf commission a minor inquiry into the matter of the children. And lining up with what he had guessed before, it came to light that the lass’s elder brother, whom she had adored very much, had fallen in battle against the forces of Londosius. For his part, the lad was a next-door neighbour, and himself had loved the lass’s brother as his very own. And so there it is: in losing a loved one to war, so had the children come to know hate. A hate for Londosius; a hate for all Men—a hate that had festered into vengeance.
But of course it had. The two were young, tender; pure to such a degree that when hate was sparked in their hearts, they knew not at all what to do but give in and point fingers and plot revenge. The latter is to be deplored, certainly, yet in the former were they faultless. Nay, it is the elders to be blamed here; the elders that had dared contrive for them so cruel a world, and withal moved their innocent hearts to spite and malice. And rightly so for these elders, there is naught else to wear but the shawls of shame and penance.
On the night of his return, Rolf could but fold a frustrated arm, close a contrite eye, and loose a lamenting sigh to the stars above. Because for this story, there is no neat and ribboned ending to be told; none that would see, say, the lass visiting the garrison again with a garland of flowers to give and a grateful smile to bear. No; for just as Rolf could not forgive the world as he sat under its cold sky, neither could the lad and lass yet forgive his kind as they curled up and cried in their corners.
Ever and anon would they remember their brother. Of his gentle pats on their pates or his smile warm and mild as a midspring morning. And in so doing would angst and urges beyond their control wrap and constrict their bosoms tight. Yes, yes, they knew indeed that good and gracious souls could inhabit these sons of Men. But no matter how much such reasoning resounded, the darkness in their hearts would not die.
…However, there was hope. A faint hope, mind; faint as the last star in a sunrising sky—a hope that this day in the woods had at least thawed something in their hearts. Such was Rolf’s belief. A belief answerless, yet steady still.
Upon one day thereafter, the lass chanced upon the host of Hensen as they marched through the streets to train outside the town walls. And at the head of the manifold files, there strode both Rolf and Alfred. And for a briefness of a breeze, the lass’s gaze followed their grave and gallant figures.
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“Answerless, Yet Steady Still”
End
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