Arkonos

Part 2 of: The Red Throne Awaits
The sun shines on thee.
Generations old and young.
Debate the future

Montalieu. 856 ΑΠ

It wasn’t long until after Ernault was finished getting ready in the rather over the top uniform. His tailors finished their work allowing the soon to be king to view it without them blocking his view. They did a marvelous work in tailoring it to his frame. He never knew why father complained about it a lot during his coronation when he was a lot younger, but Ernault paid no mind to it. For now, he continued to appreciate the fine handiwork Galterus and his workers did.

“Everything to your liking, sire?” His friend asked sincerely while bowing slightly. Awaiting his response from Ernault, ever patient for his eventual critiques. Ernault continued to look at the mirror, gazing at himself in the royal uniform before looking back at him.

“Honestly Galterus. This is one of your finest works since you have been hired here at the Chateau. I am grateful for it. You and your helpers outdid yourselves.” Ernault said wholeheartedly before stepping from the pedestal and shaking the head tailor’s hand personally which shocked Galterus which turned to a beaming smile.

“Y-Your Highness! That is high praise coming from you. Your father only thanked me just once during his coronation when you were but a whelp!” Galterus exclaimed fervently shaking the young prince’s hand. “My gods you have made our day Your Highness!” He shook his head before letting go of Ernault’s hand forgetting that he had to leave now. “Sorry sire. But you must leave. Do not want your father to be waiting for you.” He said as he went back to tidying up his workplace, the prince nodded slightly and made a defeated sigh. The kingdom waits for no one, or so Adalger said.

“You are right my friend. I must leave now. You must know that after the coronation there will be a feast for me to help find me a wife amongst the noble families. Will you be there for the festivities?” He asked wholeheartedly as he found Galterus a good friend to escape from the brutal reality of life. Not that he blamed the universe for existing, but he has rarely seen much of the kingdom beyond the city walls. He was walking down the main hallway lost in his thoughts before his father cleared his throat.

“Daydreaming, are you? Boy get your head below the clouds before you lose your breath.” He chided in both teasing and stern voice. Adalger stood by the main door that people enter the Chateau. Ernault could only nod slightly as he heard his father’s voice.

“Apologies father. Just… thinking of what to say at my coronation.” Ernault said softly as both father and son took to their choreographed spots. Once they stopped before the archway. The big archway gate opened, and a bright afternoon sun flooded the grand hall with warmth and the smell of fresh air filled their lungs. A good sign that the god of the sky decided to not blot out the sun. Trumpets loudly blared all over the chateau’s outer walls, signaling the beginning of the coronation ceremony.

“Presenting King Adalger I and Crown Prince Ernault of House Voclain!” The Herald Berthelemy announced atop the front gate. Thus, they began to walk in unison as they walked toward their carriage. Three rows flanking both stood the chateau’s servants dressed in clean clothing all bowed when the royal family took a step forward, staying silent as they bowed before them. Not one dared to interrupt their conversation.

“Oh? What have you decided to say?” He replied immediately in a no-nonsense tone as they were walking. Taking approximately twenty paces before they reached the carriage.

“To be honest I have no clue. How did you come to make your speech to the kingdom when you ascended?” Ernault asked politely as they continued their ceremonial walk. The protocol dictated that both must look straight ahead and must not turn their heads in any other direction.

“Simple really. I made a speech about what was to be expected of my reign. There is no protocols in dictating what a monarch must say during their coronation once the crown is at the top of their head. "Speak from what your heart wishes over these lands.” Ernault could only hum in agreement, seeing no flaw in his father’s wisdom.

“But be careful of what to say. As to not make enemies so early in one’s reign?” The prince replied as to finish Adalger’s sentence for him.

“Correct my son. The noble houses smell blood in the water if your edicts go against their own machinations. As much as they pledge our loyalty to our House, they are just as capable of wiping it off the face of the earth.” The King acknowledged his son’s answer even as they took the final step as the carriage door opened for them. The king stepped in first followed by the prince before the door was closed.

“I see.” Ernault replied as he was looking outside as they felt the carriage horses pulling the carriage forward. Their destination being the Cathedral of the Sun, primary temple to the King of the Heavenly Sky and Lord of the Sun, Hinon. Here is where future monarchs of Ausruni are to be crowned here. Plus, it helps that has a good balcony and gives an astounding view of Montalieu. He looks at his father and asks him a simple question. “What are you going to do now, that you no longer on the Red Throne?” An innocent answer which made Adalger smile.

“I’ll be entrusting you to look after Chateau Voclain as I will be leaving the city and be walking the earth like that of a commoner. Much of our kingdom has been locked in Montalieu. It would be great to scout out the lands outside the city walls.” The King’s answer shocked Ernault.

“You are joking, father. Seriously how would you pass as a commoner in the city?” Ernault could only give a slight chuckle at the answer, but it died quickly when Adalger placed his hand against his face did he knew that he was not lying.

“Your father may be old, and in the twilight of his years before worms gnaw at my corpse. Your father is still full of tricks, some of which you will inherit from me in due time.” He laughed wholeheartedly. Something he has not done in a while and Ernault cannot even fathom it.

“Is that so? You walking the earth like a monk searching for an epiphany? I see you still talk with Madame Deonisia.” Making a barbed comment at his father which made his father laugh harder again.

“Learned that from a bard trying to scrape by? I have heard worse than that my boy.” Playfully punching him before sitting back as the laughter slowly stopped. “My son. I know I have been tough on you the last few years, and if some of that was too much for you to bear. I am sorry if I came off as harsh. But I know you will carry this kingdom back to glory. Since Leone first settled on this island.” He said wistfully, looking over the city who were putting up the colors of House Voclain as the citizens were hastily putting up their decorations.

“I will make you proud father. I swear on your name.” Ernault clenched his left fist as a sign of trust. He did look outside to break the tension. “The people sure know how to decorate. Is the chateau hiring still?” he chided softly.

“If we do that, then we would be hiring all the city. We are not hiring anyone more; the servants are enough and are loyal to us.” He sternly replied but he chortled at the joke. “It is great to see that your mother’s humor is there.” Adalger looked sad as soon as he mentioned the word, ‘mother.’ Something that Ernault deathly avoided like the plague. The carriage turned to a right onto the main road that led down to the Cathedral of the Sun.

“Oh? Guess that was her parting gift to you. Inheriting her charm. You think there would be someone out there for me? Something beyond arranged marriages?” the prince said as he looked at the people bowing as the carriage continued forward. The prince looked back but his father raised his hand.

“As much as we have much to discuss, we are getting close. Remind me to have our talk later after the coronation. For now, we must sit in silence.” Adalger replied honestly and patted his son’s shoulder. A small token of comfort to his son.

The sun shines a brand new day.

Lady of the Forest: Haltija Saga part I
Onni Metsäla was a trapper and a skilled archer of some note. Perfectly sociable on most occasions he was at heart a man of the wilderness. He had no farm of his own but lived as a bachelor together with the Vaisila family where he worked as a farmhand for room and board. When time and weather allowed he preferred to spend his time in the wild. Hunting game for meat and furs that he brought back, prepared and cured. The sun shone bright on this early day of spring. Onni’s wrinkled and sun kissed face was half hidden under a wide brimmed felt hat as he walked along a swirling animal trail. He had unstrung his bow and carried it in one hand with the string tucked away in a leather pouch on his belt. Across his shoulders hung three forest hares that were still thin from the passing of winter.

Spring had arrived in good fashion and most of the forest had become bare. Patches of snow and ice still lingered in crevices and north facing places with lots of shadows. Slowly the moss and plants were being awoken from their long slumber as numerous birds called out amongst the trees and bushes. Onni walked across threaded animal trails. As a woodsman he knew that such trails rarely lead anywhere and they could be deceitful. Yet he used the position of the sun and the mountains in the distance to navigate swiftly. Through experience he knew when the trails started to turn the wrong way and during such occasions he simply stepped out into the unthreaded wilderness until another trail manifested itself. This was the most treacherous of ways to navigate when not walking on man made trails. Onni knew quite well that during such journeys he was always at the mercy of the Lady of the Forest and her whims. But he had never felt her ill minded influence before and he trusted that he wouldn’t on this day as well.

After a time and having crossed a few marshlands Onni walked through a section of pine trees. The moss under his feet was white and gray, filled with dormant lingonberry bushels and heather. The sunlight was warm but the air was cold in any instance of a gust of wind. Onni reached a widow stream that was just beyond his ability to jump safely over. Instead he decided to walk along the stream in search of a narrow place or one where stones could be stepped on to pass with dry feet. As he looked down into the water it was clear that most of the stream was stonebound. A good indication that he should probably run into a couple of good wading spots. Although it could always take a while to reach such a point.

Onni walked slowly along the stream. Eyes darting between the water and the woods. After some time Onni began to suspect that the stream would remain wider than he had initially thought. He had stopped and stood to ponder the stream at a shallow place. The dark water flowed swiftly from the melting spring snows. The sun burned pleasantly and Onni could see that while knee deep the stream seemed perfectly shallow to wade over. He sighed to himself. Having hoped that he would find a place to get over while remaining dry, but now he thought that he was getting too far off course not to simply wade over the stream. He hunched down by the waters edge, drew his small knife and gently slid it down between three rocks under the water. The stream kept flowing calmly and uninterrupted. Onni listened to the sound of the forest and the water but all remained quiet and still. Calmly he began to undo his footwear and started to fold his hoses upwards to his thighs. He was in the middle of putting his footwear inside his satchel when he heard twigs crunch under gentle steps.

He looked up and quickly searched the woodline with his cautious eyes. He felt a chill run down his spine as he caught the shape of a woman walking towards him. He believed himself to be far too deep into the woods to just happen upon a lonely milkmaid. The woman saw that Onni had noticed her and she reached out a hand and waved as she kept walking forth. Her face split in a wide pleasant smile and she laughed heartily and wonderfully. Onni straightened his back slowly and carefully without letting go of the woman with his eyes. She wore an old fashioned simple linen apron dress in white and gray. A narrow leather belt with green embroidery sat snugly across her thin waist. Her reddish brown hair looked like a marten’s fur and wasn’t tied up nor covered in any way but flowed freely down her back and shoulders. Onni swallowed dryly as he glanced her bare feet step confidently across moss and brush.

“I’m so glad to have found you!” smiled the woman with an angelic laugh as she got close to Onni. Standing no further away than any close friend.

Onni resisted the urge to take a step back. He wasn’t one that appreciated closeness even if it came from a normal human. And this woman he knew was anything but. With played calmness he removed his felt hat from his head and held it close to his chest as he nodded in greeting. “I’m sorry, Miss. I don’t remember having met you before.”

The woman gave him a short once over before smiling further. “No, no, we haven’t met. But I’m glad to have found you. I require your help.”

“What can I help you with?” Onni asked and nodded, glancing down as he did so. He saw her bare feet in the cold wet moss. The skirt of her dress moved and swayed unnaturally.

The woman pointed at the calm waters of the stream. “I’m having a quarrel with that pigheaded Vetehinen and he won’t let me pass his stream. I can’t jump over it and I can’t touch the water for then he will come and bother me. Please, Mister. Could you carry me over the stream? I need to cross it to get back home.”

Onni looked between the woman and the shallow stream. His eyes glanced down to his small knife still sitting jammed into the water between three rocks. He resisted to sigh as he realized that the knife would probably be lost for good.

"Of Course, Miss. I was just looking to cross the stream myself.” Onni agreed with an awkward smile to which the woman giggled happily and her eyes shone.

She took a final intimate step forward as her lips curled. Onni swallowed his heart but the woman simply laughed as she grabbed his felt hat from his hand and stepped back. She twirled the wide brim hat in her hands before she placed it on her head and gave him a mischievous look from under its brim. “Thank you so much, kind hunter! I’m Lovi by the way. Silly me to forget my manners.”

“Don’t mention it, Miss. I’m Onni.” Onni played along with the pleasantries. He winced internally at having had to tell his name but he didn’t dare act rude nor give her a fake one. “Now I’m carrying a lot and I need it with me over the stream. Would you help me make sure that I can get everything over with you in just one trip?”

The woman who called herself Lovi as she wore his wide brimmed hat smiled gently and nodded as she looked between Onni and the stream. “How do you propose we do that?”

Onni thought for a moment as he considered the hares hung from his back and the unstrung bow in his hand. “If you hold my bow and ride on my shoulders… I think that should work.”

The woman’s eyes gleamed as she giggled and nodded. Her tone remained friendly but with a serious note as she considered his proposal. Looking at the stream she did a final sharp nod before reaching out with an open hand towards Onni. “Alright, I’m in your hands.”

She reached for the unstrung bow and Onni lent it to her with an awkward movement. With the bow on one hand she watched as Onni hunched down and exposed his back and neck. The woman silently straddled his shoulders and Onni rose slowly and with ease. Surprised at the woman’s light weight. With her thighs around his head his nostrils filled with a scent of pine resin and freshly cut spruce.

“Am I too heavy?” The woman asked with a probing and curious tone as she perfectly balanced on his shoulders. The unstrung bow still in her hands and her bare feet dangling beside his waist.

“Not at all,” Onni assured as he looked out at the stream. He glanced down one final time at the small knife sticking out from the water.

“Is it a serious quarrel…?” Onni asked and bit his tongue as he almost mentioned the Vetehinen by name when he stepped out into the cold water. The bottom of the stream was lined with rocks and sand and felt both slippery and treacherous.

"A serious what? Oh, that…” the woman sounded momentarily confused but then she giggled as she understood Onni’s question. “He’s just a pigheaded bore that expected things from me just for having appreciated his music. Can you believe it? The old toad slime.”

Onni didn’t know what to say at the revelation. Instead he simply grunted in approval and blushed as he kept wading through the stream. The water flowed calmly and while he couldn’t see it anymore he thought of the knife that he had left behind. Iron was the dispeller of the haltija’s power. One never found a drowned man that had remembered to use his knife. But would a small knife be enough when Onni ferried such cargo atop his shoulders? The stream flowed silently with but gentle splashes as he walked. His heart beat hard in his chest. But if it was out of fear for the Vetehinen, the warmth of the woman’s thighs or both, he couldn’t say. It felt like a drawn out eternity but the process was short and completed in just a few steps. Onni’s feet soon reached the soft moss on the other side of the stream. He left the waters behind and he breathed a sigh of relief as he found himself safely on dry land once more. Then he remembered what he was carrying and a chill ran down his spine once more.

“We did it! You did it, brave hunter! Thank you!” giggled the woman and Onni took a few more steps before he slowly hunched down to let her disembark. This is it, Onni though. She won’t go off. She’ll weigh me down like an Äpärä, grow heavy and crush me under her weight.
But none of his fears manifested. As he curled up low to the ground the woman swung a leg backwards and easily slid off his back. Springing up standing behind him with youthful vigor.

“I’m glad to have helped.” Onni mumbled as he proceeded to readjust his hoses and put on his shoes. For a brief moment he hoped that the woman behind him would just disappear. But as he stood back up and turned around he was once again greeted by that happy wide eyed smile of hers.

“Will you be alright from here?” Onni asked, trying to act as normal as possible. The woman smiled and nodded. Still holding on to Onni’s unstrung bow, her eyes seemed to gleam with mischief.

She held the bow close and gave the smooth wood a short chaste kiss before holding it out towards Onni. “My thanks. You’ll never miss a thing again, unless it’s an animal I hold dear.”

She looked like she would laugh but she remained silent as her eyes pierced Onni when he took back the bow. He held it in both hands and looked back and forth between it and the woman. “Thank you, Miss Lovi.”

“Until we meet again, my good hunter.” The woman smiled and took a few steps backwards. She smiled and reached out her hand to point at something behind Onni. “That’s my grouse!”

Onni turned to look but saw nothing. Just empty brushwood, scrawny pines, and a thick undergrowth of young spruce. Confused, he turned back but the woman was gone without a trace. Not even the grass and moss where she had stood looked like anyone had ever been there. Onni looked around but he was alone in the woods. The stream flowed calmly behind him.

Grey Bones: Haltija Saga part II
The old crone’s raspy laughter woke Eevi from her troubled slumber. Her chest beating like runaway horses and her linen undertunic was soaked with cold sweat. The small dark corner of the house was silent and she was alone in her bed for two. Along the other wall the children all slept silently together in a shared bed. The large stone oven, taking up almost a fifth of the house’s interior, had burned out but still emitted a soft heat long into the small hours. Eevi breathed haggardly. Nightmares haunted her and they tore at her soul. She had dreamt of her husband Anssi who was far away. The nightmares had come some week ago and they haunted her with how real they felt. Eevi held her hands against her chest. Her heart beating fast from stress and fear. In her dreams she had felt Anssi’s strained breath. He had been breathing so heavily with his chest heaving like a smith’s bellows. His heart beat but the beats ached in his chest. Her chest?

Anssi was running over cold snow and frozen straights. Every night these dreams tormented her and gave her no room to rest. The night before had been the worst thus far and she had felt it in her body that Anssi was distressed beyond belief. In the dream she had heard an incessant howling that made her blood run cold. Had she told anyone about her dreams she knew they would speak of ill omens. That they would tell her that her Anssi was dead but she kept quiet because she knew he was alive. Anssi was alive. She knew and could feel it in her chest that her beloved Anssi was alive. Troubled but alive. There could be no other way than that he would return home to her. She could feel it. Anssi would return home. He would stand by the door any moment now. Eevi pressed her hands against her face, pale fingers digging into peach red soft skin. All she wanted was for Anssi to come home as she knew that he would.

The next night passed without dreams nor nightmares and Eevi woke up with worry. In her memory echoed the laughter of the crone that had woken her the night before. Ice cold sinewy hands tugged at her heart. She could have sworn that she heard the howl of a wolf echo from far away. Like a whisper traveling with the wind down from the mountain.

As the sun reached noon the kids were gone with the other children of the hamlet. Eevi was outside swinging an axe. Trying to make firewood while in actuality beating her frustration and worry out of her body. The pile of usable wood was steadily increasing, as was Eevi's fatigue and sweating. But her mind was still wandering.

When her axe neatly split another log she could hear the approach of a horse as droplets of sweat ran into her eyes and stung. She rubbed her eyes and put down her axe. Turning around to face the road to the house she saw a rider on a pale horse. Lari, the village head, came riding up towards her home. The man was broad shouldered with a bit of a gut. A healthy and strong man with a bullish head and a woman's heart. A great friend to many and respected by far more, Lari was a good man that regularly checked in on Eevi and the kids.

Lari rode up with a brooding expression Eevi didn't recognize. He sat off his horse and held it by the reins. Lari's strong shoulders were sunken in, almost timid, as the tall man faced Eevi.

“Onni shot a wolf...” Lari spoke with a mellow tone and his face was pale as his blue-grey eyes avoided her gaze. “It ran into one of the wolf pits that we dug before winter.”

“Oh… I thought I heard a wolf howl this morning?” Eevi gave Lari a guarded look, feeling somewhat concerned at the man’s strange behavior. She had never seen him act like the awkward man that now stood before her.

“Yeah, yeah, there was a wolf…” Lari almost mumbled the words with an absent tone, as if the man was drunk or bereft of his senses. “Onni swears that he saw a wolf… he shot it and it wandered off into the wolf pit…”

“Lari… What is wrong? What about the wolf? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Arvo was with him and was the first to find Onni. Arvo hasn't said much since but he did say, ‘that it was a wolf’, he said that… He came and got me and I rode out to check…”

“What about the wolf, Lari? You’re scaring me…”

A horse snorted in the distance and Eevi could see over Lari’s shoulder how Farmer Paavo’s old draft horse came walking out from the three line at the bottom of the hill. It pulled an open rickety hay wagon and two men walked on either side. The one leading the horse was Onni and with slumped shoulders and dragging steps came Arvo. Eevi looked on as they approached slowly, Lari too turned around and noticed the men and the horse. The sun bleached grey wagon had simply wooden spokes as side rails and one could see right through them what the wagon carried for modest cargo. The sight didn’t make much sense to Eevi and it looked wrong. On the wagon laid a heavy woolen blanket strewn out over something.

Halfway up the hill Onni motioned and said something unheard to Arvo who straightened his back and grabbed the reins of the horse. Onni made out to try and walk faster up the hill but as his eyes met Eevi from far away his steps stalled. He kept walking, but dragged his feet in a way that Eevi had never seen before. Her heart was beating in her throat and she felt like she couldn’t breath when she watched the men approach with an ominous feeling. Lari stood next to her. One hand on the reins of his own horse and the other hand swaying awkwardly as if the man was trying to gather courage to place it on Eevi’s shoulder. But the courage never came.

Onni stepped in front of her as he and Arvo reached the house with the horse and the wagon. He had his trusted bow strung over his shoulder and across his chest. Such a hunter and trapper was he that he was rarely seen without his bow.

“I… I came across a wolf on the morrow, up by the Mölm hills.” Onni said after an awkward silence while looking at Eevi whose face grew more and more distraught. “It was coming up west towards the Talo and I didn't think much about it… I… I shot it with an arrow and it took off… I followed it and it ran by the hills straight west… It fell down in one of the new wolf pits…”

“Onni…” Eevi whimpered as she still clutched the handle of her axe between her fingers. Her chest and started to heave with ragged breaths as thoughts of her nightmares started to make themselves increasingly invasive. Her eyes darted between Onni and whatever laid covered under the woolen blanket on the wagon. Lari stood silent as did Avro who’s eyes were fixed at the ground.

“I saw a wolf go down into the pit… but there wasn’t a wolf in it when I reached it…”

The axe fell to the ground with a thud as Eevi dropped it and pushed past Onni. He called out her name but she didn’t hear it. She flew at the wagon and her nails grabbed the heavy blanket like claws. She jerked hard and pulled it aside to expose what it covered. Her heart broke and she wailed as tears quickly began to cloud her sight. Her Anssi was finally home. With pale cold skin and lips that wore the bluish color of death.

“All the Empire is a gang of bandits and, among the nobles, the more grasping the more glorious.”

- Simon d’Alentoise

Soon

“Advance, damn it! Coward!”

The words rung like a hammer upon iron. Through the narrow slit of his visor, the squire could see the knight standing before him, his longsword held high in the air in a stance that invited attack. He circled him cautiously, seeing how their steps mirrored each other, as he heard the metal sound of their sabatons beating against the ground, and his own measured breaths that came in—and out—in a rhythmic manner. They could not keep on like this forever; he could see that they were both waiting, waiting patiently for some mistake from the other. The knight’s cry to advance had been an invitation of sorts: he wanted the squire to move forward, and dressing his wish in the robes of a taunt, had beckoned him to advance.

Yet he knew of these tricks. He held his sword low, and feigned an advance—the knight saw this and pounced, bringing his own weapon down, but the squire, having predicted the way it would fall, deflected it. He swerved to the right now, and surged forward with a flurry of strikes. A first. A second. A third. They came one after the other in orderly and metrical swings that left the knight with little time to respond. The squire felt that the ferocity with which he struck would at one moment or other achieve a breakthrough, but the knight held off his offensive stalwartly. Despite his continuous efforts there was no progress, and he could feel that his attack was losing energy. His breaths were becoming less measured, growing more frantic by the second as he began to lose control of the tempo with which he had so clearly dictated his movements. It was no use—he withdrew and held back.

They began to circle each other again, but there was less order in their movements now. The squire could sense the mounting exhaustion, could feel the drops of sweat that carved paths down his face. The knight moved around him like a lion orbiting its prey, the visor of his helmet—clamped shut—making it impossible to discern what he felt. He was completely inscrutable. The squire felt the desperation, the sense of defeat, setting in. How many times had he been here and lost? They both were resting their longswords on their shoulders in stances that heralded a coming attack. This time he would let the knight advance first.

They surged forth almost in the same moment of time. The swords met in between their bodies, and as the two blades clashed together, the knight—almost instantaneously, as if it was all premeditated—let go of the weapon with his left hand, and with it grasped the gauntlets of the squire. In a powerful thrust he forced his opponent’s blade away from him, and in the same movement grasped his neck, and forced him down. The squire fell down with a resounding crash, and though he managed to deflect the first few blows from the knight that now bore down on him, his strength was beginning to fade. With a final resounding strike the knight knocked away his longsword, and he fell upon his opponent with all his might, bringing down his own blade as if to deliver the final blow. It was held back by the squire, who grasped the knight’s hands, attempting to postpone the strike. His strength had been sapped. The steel of the sword glinted in the sunlight and shone through his visor. He could feel his hands weakening, giving way for the blow. Suddenly, he heard the knight speak:

“Enough. You have not done badly. You can let go now.” He said, his words punctuated by the long loud breaths that he took in between each sentence. The squire released his hold over the knight’s hands, and they both stood up. He lifted the visor of his helmet, and looked around a little. They were in a field, flanked left and right by two streams, which seemed to stretch forward interminably. A little ways away from them, bordering the stream, he could see the fluttering of a couple banners and a small array of tents—their camp. He gestured weakly towards it.

“Shall we go back?” He asked. The knight still had his visor clamped shut, and was still inscrutable.

“Aye.” He said curtly. They set off back towards the camp.

For a while they were silent, did not say a word, as they caught their breath. There was a gentle wind in the air, and the spring sun shone softly upon them; it was a pleasant day. As they were coming upon the camp, the knight spoke again. “You feigned an attack, as we were fighting, did you not Jehan?” He asked. His tone was cool and unimposing.

“Aye, I did.”

“You predicted my movement well—I had not expected it. Had you been less rash in how you followed up on it, you would have caught me in a very bad spot. You must be less zealous: the offensive was precise, at first, but you lost control quickly.” He said all this—gesturing with his gauntlet to place emphasis—like a judge pronouncing sentence upon the condemned. Jehan received the verdict with a pensive face. He attempted to obscure his disappointment. “You did not do too badly at all, though.” The knight added reassuringly. They were in the camp now. Servants and soldiers darted from one tent to another.

“I did not best you.”

“So? You should not expect to always best me. A time like that will never come. I fight better than most. Yet you have bested me before, and you will again. Do not let defeat cloud your mind. I repeat: you fought well. Come, let us wash.” The knight led Jehan to a basin full of water. They removed their helmets, and began to wash their faces. When they were done, they took a cloth and began to dry themselves. It was sometime in the afternoon: the sun was descending from its lofty peak, yet still watched over the land tyrannically. Jehan turned his gaze to the knight for a moment.

He was not yet old—he was in that age where one was still robust, but where it was experience, rather than strength, that made him the fighter that he was. Jehan recalled when he had first been taken into the knight’s service, as a young boy: back then he was like an ox, unequalled. He still harboured those qualities, but they were diminished somewhat. He moved slower. There was a sort of wistfulness in his stride now. He had grown a small beard, and his hair, which had always been a dark blonde, was more scruffy and unkempt. Perhaps that was only the result of being on campaign, Jehan wasn’t all too sure, but the squire felt that the years were wearing him down, eroding him ever so slightly. He did not like to have these thoughts: that knight was an idol, a champion of strength to him. It was not good to think that he was losing those qualities which had once made him a god in the squire’s eyes.

A voice. “You have your gaze fixed on me. There is something on your mind?” The knight said. Jehan looked at him, a little startled.

“No, it is nothing.” He said softly. The knight’s lips produced a little smile, as he splashed his face with water once more, letting the water trickle down his neck. He looked up to the sky, a pale blue, with a contemplative expression. Finally he grounded himself, and fixed his gaze back on his squire Jehan.

“You will be knighted soon.” He announced abruptly. Jehan looked at him with a startled look. He had not anticipated this in the slightest.

“Knighted?”

“Aye, knighted. Perhaps when we are done with this campaign, a proper ceremony can be held. The count will knight you. I think the time has come. Do you not think so?”

“If you are of that opinion, Sir.” Was all that Jehan could muster, still taken aback. The knight smiled again.

“Sir Jehan de Valroy. It falls nicely on the tongue, do you not think so?”

Jehan chuckled. “I suppose so.”

“Sir Jehan de Valroy, in service to Ricard de Sarmont, Count of Larsez, Count of Berennes, Viscount of Marçon…formerly a squire in the service of Sir Alain d’Hauteuil. I am fond of it. Yes, I think I will have you knighted by the count very soon.” Muttered Alain. He moved his way over to his tent—from which flew a large banner displaying his arms, a red lion upon a white field—and went inside. Jehan followed. They sat down at a table, upon which some food laid. They began to eat. After a moment of silence, the knight Alain spoke again: “I feel that you should be expressing some gratitude, no?”

Jehan stumbled to find the words. He cleared his throat. “Of course, Sir. I’m very thankful, very thankful indeed. I was just surprised, was all. I’m sorry.” He shared a look with Alain: it seemed to convey years of emotion. They began to laugh, at first softly, then louder. Like the beating of battle drums, they laughed. When they had at last settled down, and began to eat and drink once more, their faces wore joyful expressions. They began to speak of more trivial things, when at last their conversation came to talk of the campaign. Jehan’s face became pensive, and slightly worrisome. It did not bother Alain: in times of campaign, these sorts of expressions were widespread.

“When shall we return to the main army, do you think?” Asked the squire.

“I am not too sure. We have been out in the country for a couple days now, but there’s not been much of anything here. We were meant to clear the land of the enemy, but there’s been nothing. Just hamlets and farmsteads. I had thought we would have run into some of the foe, but I suppose I was mistaken. A day or two more, and we’ll go back. I am reluctant to do so, though.”

“Why do you say so?”

“We are besieging a castle. Sieges are…unpleasant. It is much better to be out in the open country, then to be in some foul camp. The worst sorts of thoughts creep in when you have nothing to do. It is a bad business.” Explained the knight. “We will be going home soon, anyways.” He added.

“You believe so?”

“I know it. This campaign has run its course. We’ve been marauding through the Count of Mourogne’s lands for quite some time now. The damage has been done. Any longer and we risk a strong response. No, I think this chevauchée of ours is just about done.”

Jehan remembered when they had first set out on the warpath. He recalled being at Alain’s castle, and hearing the count’s herald, dressed in the livery of the House of Sarmont, read out the summons. The Count of Mourogne—damnable bastard—had crossed the Arne into Berennes and set some estates ablaze. The immediate cause of the conflict lay in some border dispute that he and Count Ricard had been squabbling over, Jehan knew: a castle built where it shouldn’t have been built, or something along those lines. That was what had caused the conflict. It was what had brought Ricard to cross the Arne and launch his campaign of devastation. Yet the war, the feud between the two? Ah! The roots of that stretched back, years back, into a deep and violent past of which few that were alive then had witnessed.

It involved their grandfathers—Arnaud de Sarmont, Count of Larsez, and Roger d’Iseux, Count of Mourogne—and a marriage, the validity of which depended on whose side you were on. That mattered little now. What mattered was the blood that had been shed, the scores of men that had been killed on both bands. This was the key to it, Jehan reckoned: the blood of the fallen that trickled down from the past and into the present. Into the minds of the living. It clouded their thoughts. So a feud sparks a feud which sparks a feud, and all the land, all the empire, is ablaze with violent fire. This was how it was: like being caught in the eye of an immense storm, being dragged round and round by the waves until—inevitably—you or the other drowned.

So a castle had been built where it shouldn’t have been. That provoked an attack: the Count of Larsez had set the keep ablaze. In reprisal for this, the Count of Mourogne had crossed the Arne and ravaged some of his enemy’s lands. And now, Count Ricard was returning the favour. He had gathered a force, and crossed the Aurne into Mourogne. It was one of those raids, the chevauchée, as Alain had called it, that sought to put every stretch of important land to the sword. So they had rode, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. The Count soon set his eyes on a small castle, a very minor estate, but which belonged personally to the Count of Mourogne. He wished to ransack it. He had set camp outside, and from it had sent forth raiding parties to scour the land.

Alain’s task was more delicate. He had not been given many men. His purpose was less to raid and more to clear the land of the foe, to eliminate any enemy parties that they may have come across. Yet, as mentioned, they had found nothing. The stretch of land they found themselves in now was mostly wooded, and castles and lords were few and far between. So there they were now, encamped by a stream in a field that seemed to stretch forward interminably.

Alain was gazing into nothing, clearly in thought. “A day or two more. A day or two more and we shall return.” He muttered. He rose, and exited the tent. The squire followed. Evening was upon them now, the dying light of the sun setting the sky ablaze in a thousand colours. Most of the men—they were around thirty, in that camp—had gathered round a fire. One of them had a lute in his hands and had taken to plucking the strings, letting out a sweet melody. On the edges of the camp Jehan could see the sentries, watching anxiously for any signs of activity. They were all weary, he felt. The days of endless riding, constant movement, had taken a toll on them, he supposed. He imagined they all longed for home. He did, too.

You will be knighted soon. The words were ringing in his head. He attempted to picture the ceremony. The Count Ricard, the sword in his hands as he beckoned for Jehan to kneel. The flat side of the blade on his shoulder. He imagined it would take place in a hall, in a grand ceremony. There would be others that would be knighted as well. He pictured who they were, and the images moved before him like some royal procession. Sir Jehan de Valroy. No longer a squire, now a knight. For how many years had he served Sir Alain? In service to Count Ricard de Sarmont. Perhaps, if Alain could put in a good word. He had met the count before multiple times, and did not imagine he had left a bad impression. If not, service to Alain’s family could also do well.

It was dark. Above Jehan could see the starlit sky hanging over them like some elaborate tapestry. Below, he could see the men gathered round the fire. Sir Alain was conversing with one of the other knights under his command. They were talking of the coming day, he was sure of that. He fixed his attention on them, to see what they were saying. “I reckon…we follow the road west a little more, see if we can find anything.” Said Alain.

“Go further then?” Asked the knight.

“Aye. That’s the furthest we’ll go. Tomorrow, we’ll keep going west, and then camp. After that day, we can start making our way back to the army.”

The knight nodded in agreement. “Alright. It is a shame we will return empty-handed.”

“We were tasked to clear the land of the enemy. If there is no enemy to begin with, what are we to do? Better to find nothing than to find the most terrible of danger. Better to return with an empty hand than with a maimed one.”

“There is truth to that.” Said the knight, and he departed.

Sir Alain began to pace up and down the camp. Jehan watched him closely. Without the visor of the helmet, he was much less inscrutable. In fact, the squire had acquired the skill of reading him quite well. He could tell he was rather anxious about something. These lands made one anxious. In the night, with only the star-speckled sky and the occasional glint of the moon, the land was shrouded in darkness. Out yonder, beyond the stream that the camp bordered, Jehan could see how the field gave in to the thick woods, covered in an impenetrable darkness. Being so far removed from the army made one uneasy. Aye, a siege was unpleasant, but to be inside the sprawling camp of a large army was to be safe and secure, for the most part. The breeze of the open country made one feel freer, more alive, yet the vast openness of it was unnerving.

He resolved to go to sleep under the open sky. He laid down on one of the bedrolls, his gaze fixed up at the stars that seemed to glimmer and shine in the dark. He could still hear the soft plucking of the lute strings, could feel the music nearly lulling him to sleep. He was tired. A day or two more and we will go back. In a day or two we will be back to the main army, and in a week or so we will have gone back across the Arne and we will be in Berennes again. Then I will be with Alain, and soon I will be knighted. A knight. Sir Jehan de Valroy. The soft blow of the flat edge of the sword. The Count Ricard. Alain by my side, or before me. I, a knight. Soon.

“Nature begets among the faithless men of barbarous, rash, and felonious
manners. They are thirsty for the blood of others and prodigal of their own.”

- Jindrich I

Eventually

Lichnberk was a modest castle built on a steep hill named Oskstejn, which stood overwatch next to the river Odava. It commanded the villages Lichnberk Obec, Cvilna, Stralvec, and Ziltor which were attachments of the property since the land was exchanged and purchased under the reign of Jindrich I. It had once stood as a Royal Castle, as it still maintained within its high walls an old palace built by a grandson of King Hynek III. There were three gates in total that led into the castle. On the west, which had a double gated entrance and another upon the less traversed east a single but smaller gate which led to a pathway towards Ziltor and a stream which broke from Odava. There was one narrow tower which in the past may have been a residence but had recently become untamed and in ill repair, and so was now merely used for observation by the nine-man garrison which upheld order within and outside the castle.

Inside the walls there was the palace which though old, demanded respect, as it was made out of ancient stone which had not deteriorated in the last century. Some repairs had recently been done, but mostly cosmetic in nature, trying to restore some of the older and more worn walls. The palace was only one floor but held inside a hall for receiving guests and holding small assemblies from the local communities, but also had a room for dining with said groups. There was one extra residence which served as a room for the servants. In the past it might have served the Lord of Lichnberk when it pleased him but no kindred of Vitekov had spent a night in that room since their investment of the castle. Petr z Lichnberk, as he was known after his move into the castle abode had two new buildings constructed to fit his preferences. One hunting lodge, which was longer than it was wide, itself had a small kennel for his two greyhounds. It also had lodging, though it was uncommon for the Lord of the Castle to spend his nights there. The new building was made of stone and was in all but name another palace and designed like those found in the Empire. It had its own cellar vault, and had two wings, though one wing was unfinished, and would likely remain unfinished for some time still.

There was a small stable which could only accommodate three horses conveniently and the stablemaster himself was not fond of dealing with more than five at the most. There was another building made of lumber from the nearby forests which was a new construction in the last decade. It was mainly a building primarily designed to fulfill multiple roles that the staff of the castle might require or need. Lately the garrison however had become familiar with spending their evenings and nights there, as it was warmer and more pleasant than the small lodgings built near and in a few places almost on the wall that they used to loiter around.

Cenek of Lichnberk resided in the completed wing, and for four years had ruled the castle on his brother’s behalf as a castellan and judge over their joint estates. He was twenty and of modest stature, like his castle. He was brown of head and black of eyes, though by no means blessed by the gift of the Otců, the Sires. No one in his kindred had been blessed as far as he was aware, at least in regard to his branch, but that was not unusual or a dishonorable thing for kindred of their station.

Cenek had been reading a letter sent that morning by the assembly held at Cvilna regarding a teacher the village had elected without confirmation from his honor. They adamantly defended the teacher and asked, but in Cenek’s opinion, demanded the teacher be confirmed by their Lord, which in this case was him. He was not unsupportive of the notion, but he had wished to secure a friend the income that came with the occupation. He did not know the man whom they appointed, but he supposed it was unnecessary to deny the village their rights especially when they were often rather submissive when it came to how their village was managed.

He fiddled with a button on his gown and wondered what his brother would likely do. A sly smile formed, as he remembered how abrasive and stubborn his brother was, just how self-serious he could be at times. Cenek knew he was less caring in some regards, but he thought of himself as a reliable sort. Afterall, he had managed the estate of his family for years and had done decently to bring over tenants and encourage migration to their new projects in the region.

He shrugged however, placing the letter aside, knowing well he did not need to write back for now. He lifted a cup to his lips and took a sip of water mixed with raw honey, a healing element his mother always said. He was not ill, but he enjoyed the taste, and it improved his constitution, which as a youth had never been well, but had improved. He stood up, the clerk who had been writing a response to Ziltor regarding the construction of a well looked up, “Your lordship?” He asked, as he placed his pen down, “We’ve still the matter with Lord Jan to discuss, his squire will need an answer by tomorrow night.” He reminded him, though Cenek had not forgotten, he merely cared little for Jan’s request.

Cenek imagined the squire’s face, and frowned, having spent one evening a week ago with the man and remembered it as rather dull, though that might have not been the boy’s fault, “Citbor,” Cenek began, addressing the seneschal by name, “Inform the lord’s squire I will dine with him in my lodge, the hunting one tomorrow evening.” He said, with the intention to go and perhaps hunt some game this afternoon. “Tomorrow night, we can discuss the forest over whatever I or the gamemaster finds.” He said already dreading the conversation, which he knew would go nowhere. “And also,” he began, wondering what he might add, “have the youth washed I suppose, and let him have access to our library if he can read in the meantime.” Cenek said merely trying to be a good host. Most minor nobles could read, he thought to himself. Perhaps this youth knew his letters, and besides if he could, maybe they could talk about a book or two he pleasantly thought.

It would be a more enjoyable conversation than the latter, he pouted, remembering why the youth was there. Cenek did not remotely care about Lord Jan’s intentions to cut some of the outlying timber. He had been granted permission to raise a new castle some miles south, but Cenek knew his lord brother would never support his trees being used by an enemy of his faction at court. Lord Jan z Kasov was the brother of one of the barons, another Jan, though this one was known as Jan Cont, or the Elder. Supposedly Cont received his name for his time in the empire, where many of those lordlings on the coast bequeathed him with the formality of their Comte, a rank or honor, he supposed. Jan Cont would never receive such a title in the kingdom, Cenek knew, but the baron did enjoy the idea of it will glee, so he had been told by his brothers at court.

“As you wish.” Citbor started with an air of disregard, “but I doubt very much that the youth will be interested in your collection, as it is meager in some regard, your Lordship.” He added, rudely in his sly humor, thought Cenek, but he supposed it was like Citbor to be sour. “You perhaps could take him with you.” He added insult.

Cenek knew he meant the impromptu hunt and frowned. “You’d have me take the lad then?” He asked aloud, though already well aware of what his dare steward implied.

“That lad is your age,” he began, as he set aside a note for himself later, though Cenek knew not what it was, “you’d do well to ingratiate yourself,” he was already continuing, “your brother has spoken of marriage, and that youth you scorn so badly now comes from well-regarded kindred with sisters to spare.” He concluded, as he dipped his pen in new ink and began creating a response to whomever he had decided needed a personal response from the lordship.

“Oh marriage is it.” He snorted with a defeated grin, as he stroked back his mane of brown, “Well I suppose there’s no harm in that then. I’d have you locate the lad and have him outfitted for an adventure, unless he has his own kit, though he seemed to bring little.” He said more to himself than to Citbor, who’s ever dull eyes seemed unimpressed by his Lord.

“Of course, your lordship.”

Cenek began his way to the door, before turning, “Citbor, I’d have Sir Petr and yourself dine with us tonight then.” Petr was a knight who served his brother, and so served him as well. He lived very close by and served the kindred as a familiaris. He was some ten or twelve years Cenek elder’s but he enjoyed the older knight’s company when he could have it. It was short notice for a summons, but he knew Petr would come regardless.

“I would but I have duties in the Obec this evening, if you remember. I am to dine with the bailiff, the short one with the stubby nose. His niece is being wed and he needs my approval for some of the formalities, as I am sure you recall from when he asked for permission to have the village have the day off.” He said politely, but with his familiar air of duty. Citbor was much like that, always very dedicated to his duty to the household. Cenek supposed it had proved well for him, as he had managed to lift his family out of their obscurity and into his home.

“Yes, of course, well inform the bailiff, uh what was his name?”

“Hans.” He reminded his lord. Cenek remembered now; he was one of those men whom his lord father had moved here. He was of those of old Iskezen, likely from the border where their like were still dominant.

“Inform Hans I hope his niece’s wedding is splendid and that I wish I could have come, or whatever you find convenient. And do give him whatever gift you believe is appropriate, I do not remember his family well, are they of some importance?” He asked out of feigned interest in formality.

“Vaguely,” he said with a casual judgment, “They own some properties and are by no means ignoble, but, well they are not very popular among their own tenants. This Hans fellow is a surprisingly good servant when it comes to the rest of his kindred. Your father liked him, you know.” He added, something Cenek did not ignore.

“In that case ensure he’s well pleased, if he is such an asset and if father enjoyed him. Well I am sure he knew better than I am in this case.” He said, now quite done with work. “I am to go now, I presume this will be farewell then. Please travel safely. You are a boon to this estate you know, we’d be hard pressed to replace you before the harvest.” Cenek grinned.

Citbor nodded, “Of course, which reminds me then. I’d like to bring along Mikulas and Arnost, as you shouldn’t need them. Mikulas requested he be allowed to visit his mother, she’s sickly, in the Obec, and Arnost was in need of some repairs done to his riding boots, though I mostly require him for his familiarity with the locale.” He explained; both men were members of the garrison, both the good sort of men you want in a fight.

Cenek grimaced at the thought of his garrison being undermanned, but that shifted to indifference, “Both? Well I don’t care I suppose, take them then, before you wound me and this castle.” He said in a bid at farewell and retreated from his office before his wise seneschal could create or find more chaos.

Two of the guards, Cenek thought to himself; that Citbor believes himself the lord of this hall, demanding two guards for a visit to a village, a village so close he could hurl a stone at it. He chuckled to himself as he made his way through the hall, before spotting Mikulas himself speaking with one of the wenches, a fine lass with a finer… well, “Mikulas.” He said with complete authority.

Mikulas, a youthful man with robust shoulders, stood at good attention at the sound of his name. “Your lordship.” He stated plainly but sharply as he recognized his master; Cenek liked him, he was a good soldier.

“You’re to find your friend Arnost and then return here to the Seneschal. He’s to have instructions for you by the time you’re at his office.” Cenek explained with an intended vagueness. He enjoyed making things sound more pressing than they were since he’d be a boy. Perhaps that devious nature was why he was still here, instead of at court. He frowned at his own thoughts, and now his mood lashed out, “Go on now.” He commanded in not so kind a tone. He had not meant to, but with a shrug he did not care.

Mikulas moved with tempered but real haste to collect his layabout of a friend. Cenek watched him scurry, before making it to his chamber, and instructing his servants to fetch him some clean water and his favorite houppelande for the evening’s dinner with Sir Petr. He had himself washed and he snacked on some in season fruits and nuts to hold him over till the evening. In his state of inaction and boredom he instructed one of his prettier servants to invite the squire to dine with him as well, if Citbor could not be there he had reasoned he could invite the stranger in his stead.

The evening came before long and as expected Sir Petr arrived. Cenek heard the commotion before he even saw the man, his loud laughter ringing through the courtyard as a younger voice chuckled along. In good fashion he had brought along his eldest, a handsome boy named Jindrich, after the King and another son named after himself who was not so handsome but was tall for his age. Along with them he brought his mistress and common-law wife, an empyrean with black of black eyes, and haunting blond hair.

At seeing her his heart twisted in many directions, her oval head and sharp cheeks so enchanting, she could be a siren at sea. It was not the first time he’d seen the beauty, but regardless he was always placed under her magick just at the sight of her figure.

His enchantment was broken however at the approach of his friend, who grabbed him a cheer, “Short notice cousin for a feast!” He laughed, as he held Cenek in his arms for a moment, before releasing him from the grasp of his bear arms. “Lucky for you I was in your village, uh, Jindrich, boy, which of your cousins' villages were we near?” He asked his eldest.

Jindrich, a dashingly handsome boy of fourteen answered with a command befitting his kingly name, “We were by Stralvec, father.” He said with coolness as he greeted and held Cenek in a shorter embrace. “It’s good to see you again, cousin.” He added, before gesturing for his younger brother to make greetings.

The boy Petr was only twelve but was around the same height as his older brother. He was the son of that mistress, and was by no means his brother’s equal, at least under Jindrich’s Law, but he was treated like an equal son regardless, especially here so far in the country away from court and the customs of the south. “Cousin.” He said shyly as he made his greetings, and Cenek bid him warmly.

“Yes, Stralvec, that was it.” Petr the man spoke again, continuing his conversation, “Good village you have there, more hands than I remember last time I was there.”

“Citbor had some of the laborers from the Obec moved there to aid them in laying seed.” He explained casually, as he then looked again at the mistress. “It is wonderful to see you again, Lady Elena.” He said regardless of knowing she was no real lady.

She bowed with respect but said little in return other than ‘thank you’. That was very much like her, Cenek recalled. She barely had a hold on the language in truth Petr had once told him and even after all these years she was much more comfortable speaking in the western tongue of her people. Cenek was not familiar with what land she was from, but she sounded like his people’s Iskezen folk.

Cenek and Petr then began a steady march away from the courtyard, accompanied by his sons and his mistress. They had much to talk about, so it seemed. Petr had been south and spoke of looming war in the empire. Supposedly the king had already left the realm to his estates in the empire and was having them prepared for possible more eastern pursuits. If such news was true, Cenek wondered if the king would call his banners to aid them in their far-off war. Petr was hopeful for a chance at war, he spoke of a dragon, but Cenek was surprisingly he found, weary.

He shook the thought of it as they came to the old palace. He saw the squire and wondered.

"All of the Empire is divided into three parts, one of which the Lysmers preside over, the Adebrans
another, and the Montlions, whose personal fief extends beyond the grasp of Peregrinus, the third."

- Aymon V of Veronais (attested)

Now and Then
Early Spring 944

The bay roan went cantering up the muddied path, a day-and-a-half of rainfall flooding the neighboring fields and washing mud and debris over the road. Fields as far as the eye could see were still soaked: In spite of the warm sun soaring overhead, the water collected in ditches and bumps along the pastures, and at the foot of the raised planting mounds where farmers just last autumn ran their ox carts through to plant the winter crop.

This caused the young roan’s hooves to squelch noisily against the ground, but the creature seemed unbothered with the world around it as her rider pulled gently against the reins to muster her along. She snorted in response but kept straight along the path, and soon the fields began to shrink in size as each plot fell in closer together, compacted more and more with each strike of the roan’s hooves against the earth. Soon came cresting just over the horizon the tops of cotter homes at the edges, then towards the center the tiled roofs of gabled houses, revealing a community that could not be any larger than two or three hundred.

The town was known as Andren, and it bore great interest to the roan rider. The finality of his destination. Andren was a small town by all means, supporting itself largely by farming, with only a single sheep pasture in the distance to diversify their means. Here the forests were thick and left for hunting, and so the peasantry uncommonly shaped their lives around nature, instead of clear-cutting and making space to grow. The crop fields were driven into the ground, marked by fence, hedge or dirt embankment, from the paths all the way to the beginning of the forests, and followed the woods like a traced line. With the good weather, shoots of crops covered the field, the bulbs of cabbages still unsprouted, and the emerald color of young wheat still untanned.

Andren was a tenanted town, and the manor it belonged to largely fell under the demesne of the Lady Bouncourt. Jehannete was her name. She was an exceedingly young woman, just around the age of eighteen now. That much the rider could recall, as the roan’s master was a stranger to these lands, and lived further to the east where his own property stretched near the border of Betoges, a comtial territory.

He did not know about the calamities that had befallen the Bouncourts. Jehannete’s father, Louys, had married fair Blanche, the eldest child of the Count of Masenon, who more importantly was the uncle of Duke Renaud, who owned or broadly held privilege over all these lands. Louys was by all accounts a well-liked and chivalrous man, but spent little of his days in his own lands since he often traveled to the imperial courts. The duke’s father, Martinus, at times kept him in his court as a personal knight and assistant, and proclaimed him twice herald in his name. No doubt the good Louys bubbled with pride at wearing the ducal arms, especially when he accompanied the late Martinus away to the east on campaign, just past the lands of Severnes and Foroux. Past the Sonere river, which now serves as the border against the damnable eastern horde, the Feterine lords had sent a pitiful petition to the Office of the Vicar, begging them for assistance against the conquering Sanjarid forces that had carved through Feterina’s eastern lands without much difficulty. Their offers of course varied, but it was said that some of the noble houses there had offered to rejoin with the empire and accept its grace and law should help arrive.

The roan rider knew this part of the tale all too well. Though he had not known Louys Bouncourt at all, he too had ridden east and joined the massing imperial army as they crossed the river and sought to save the cities of Nanes and Menoro from the Sanjarids. At first the campaign went well, and a few small skirmishes with the Sanjarids left the vicar-led imperial forces in good spirits. Quickly that changed at a town called Miletta, now secured a bloody place in history’s annals. The Field of Fire took many lives on both sides as the two armies clashed in a pitched engagement, and the arrival of the Sanjarid emperor, the renown dragonrider, sent the army into disarray and forced a rout of the imperial lines. A host of men chose to remain behind and fight a delaying action, supporting the retreat all the way back to the Sonere, where the river-crossing was contested by what remained of the Sanjarid force. The roan rider was in the part that crossed. Louys of Bouncourt was not.

What mattered to Andren, was that its master had died, and though Louys was an honored, courtly figure, he was not dutiful in regards to his house, and in the years married to Blanche they had only a single child, Jehannete.

By now the settlement had come properly into view, and the roan rider was quickly taken notice of. Though he was without his armor, and his horse was adorned only with the most unremarkable of traveling gear, it was clear to all that he was a knight. The reason for his arrival was even less mysterious, given the numerous similar sorts that had made their way to Andren in the past few days. The only symbol on his person that betrayed his identity was a small heraldic shield sewn into the chest of his paltock, showing the figure of a standing goat in a field of red.

He was Sir Bertran d’Arregon, though his name was far removed from these parts. His cutting black eyes, like two shadows peering from marbled white, inspected the peasants that had come to see him. A few gathered around the road, and watched as the knight’s head moved on a swivel, teetering back between them all as he took in their presence before disregarding it entirely. Further off, towards the edge of the farm fields, he saw a few peasants armed with simple spears sauntering off into the woods. Probably for hare hunting, which was tolerable.

He continued riding forward, tightening the grip on his reins so his roan would not go wandering off distracted by the onlookers. For a time he remained silent, listening to their loud pondering while they followed him into the town center.

“Is he a knight, father?” One of the older boys asked, looking towards a middle-aged man in a straw hat and gray tunic.

“I’d say so.” The older man replied. Bertran could sense his eyes falling onto his scabbard concealing his blade as he said that. If he looked below, he would have seen two more fastened to the side of his mount.

Two of the men bickered among themselves.

“He’s here for Almaurry’s daughter, no doubt.”

“Could he not just be a messenger? The lady has a few of them already up at her keep. How many could be coming just for little Perette?”

“A messenger? C’mon, look at his eyes. Black as coals! He’s here to see Perette.”

By the time he reached the center of the community, where some of the gabled houses formed a tranquil square, a group of ten villagers had gathered around him. Moving the reins to hold his horse in place, he patted the roan’s long neck with his leather-gloved hand and unceremoniously removed his boots from the stirrups. Dropping down, his boot let out a broken babble of a noise as it sunk into the ground, but he threw back his traveling cloak and rested his hand against the waist of his paltock.

“I am looking for the house of Perette the Empyrean.” He announced to good effect, as some of the peasants seemed quite pleased to have guessed his purpose. He made no effort to hide it. “Would any of you happen to guide me there?”

The peasants nodded and broke out into a discordant array of agreements and acceptance, and quickly Sir Bertran found himself at the front of a mob of villagers as they ushered him up the street, the knight keeping his horse by his side.

Behind him, some of them continued to whisper.

“What do you think he intends to offer her?”

“That blue knight—what was his name?”

“Hebert, I think.”

“Ach! he was the one that came with the whole group of them. He offered Almaurry money, without question. Said he would take her to his son, and wed them one day. And she’d have an estate of her own, by all rights.”

“Hard to believe.”

Another in the back spoke up, “I’ll be glad when she’s gone.”

“Shame on you, Huet. Almaurry’s a good man. After Lady Jehannete freed them from her hand, he did nothing but help us. Remember he even went to the city for us. None of us made that trip before.”

“Only because of his daughter. Only because of Perette. And now all sorts of people are coming here for this matter. For her gold eyes. I hope they take her away soon so we can all go back to our lives.”

Eventually they reached the home in question. It was an unassuming small house on the edge of the town center, but unique in that it had an enclosed pasture with a coop for chickens to lay. It had no tiled roof, instead thatched, and was clearly a ser home until just recently. An older woman and a girl were standing outside, and upon seeing Bertran and the others approaching she sent the girl running off into the house.

A moment later the father of the family came out into the light. He wore a scraggly beard and mid-length brown hair with a felt cap on his head. From his belted tunic and patterned hose—far nicer than any of the peasants around here could come to save and afford—Bertran figured he was taking advantage of his newfound freedom.

“I have come to see Perette.”

Bertran announced, not waiting for the father to speak first. The man looked at him and nodded, taking a step towards the fence gate. From the doorway, his wife and other daughter watched on with curiosity.

“Of course, Sir Knight. What offer do you have? I’ve heard plenty in the past few days, it has been hard to decide.”

“I’m sorry. Almaurry, is it?” The knight countered, his lip twitching slightly as he rested his hands on the rim of his belt. “I did not know I was making a deal with you. I thought it was with Perette.”

“Well… I’m her father.”

“As you are. But it is her I’ve come to see. Is it not her right to hear and make her own decision?”

The father thought for a moment then sighed, nodding his head.

“Very well.” He said, then unlatching the gate moved to the side so he could enter. The others watched, a look of annoyance on their faces since they would miss the conversation now.

Almaurry entered first into the home and Bertran quickly after. It was simple, as expected of a cottage, and turned dim the moment he passed the threshold. The packed dirt floor was still there, but a few cloth rugs in intricate patterns covered it now. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the mother and daughter watching from the corner; the woman seemed somewhat surprised that he entered their home, but it was Almaurry’s choice and she wouldn’t argue with her husband. Especially now.

Sitting cross-legged on the edge of her bed was the girl in question. Perette. She had long brown hair, just like her father, but it was braided and woven back to make her presentable. She had the look of a debutante about her. She watched him, her eyes silently trailing between her father and the well-dressed stranger in her home.

“Golden eyes. Like it was said.” Bertran spoke to himself. He flashed the girl a slight grin, the lines of his mouth curling only for a second as he turned back towards the father. “She seems to be in good health.”

“She is. A dithery little thing.”

“Has she expressed any… signs?” He asked, gesturing with his hand a movement of his fingers before he began to remove his gloves.

“Oh, ah, yes. About two years ago my wife was making a fire for our hearth, you see. Perette here was helping. I was out helping some of the men in the field. Anyway, she was having trouble with the kindling—it was wet.”

He paused to look at his wife. He spoke in an aggravating way, not keeping his story to the point and constantly adding unnecessary details, but Bertran was too interested in the girl to risk offending her father and allowed him to continue uninterrupted.

“It was a wet spring then. Kind of like now, actually, now that I think about it. Anyway, she was having trouble starting the fire and I guess it was getting to her. Frustrating her, I mean. Very wet spring. Anyway the kindling wouldn’t light, but the next thing I heard was my daughter took the twigs and grass into her hands and suddenly… well…”

He took a heavy breath through clenched teeth.

“A fire. She made a fire.”

“Anytime since?” The knight asked.

“No, no. We asked her to not do such things. It’s dangerous. The house could catch fire. And the bailiff came down and said he heard that doing such things too often was bad for you. Bad for your constitution.”

“He’s not entirely wrong.”

Bertran turned to look at the girl for a moment, who had remained quiet entirely, though her little orbs of gold kept flicking curiously between himself and her father. She was probably coached to remain quiet and let him do the speaking.

“I would like to speak to her.”

“Surely.”

“Alone.” Bertran clarified.

“I think not!” Almaurry said, looking frustrated. “I’ve already invited you into our home. My home. This is already more than the other good lords wanted. So if you have anything to say to her, you can say it here, right now.”

Bertran’s visage remained stoic as he turned towards her. “Very well, but I ask that you remain quiet and do not interrupt me when I speak.”

He kneeled, putting weight on his good knee, and it was the first time the family had seen the knight betray any signs of his age. In hindsight, the grayness that flickered about his hair like scattered pepper should have been given more thought. The colors of his eyes were more catching though; it had a way of making people forget more important aspects of himself.

“Do you want a chair, sir?”

“No, this is most fine.” He answered, then turned his full attention to the girl. “Hello, Perette. How old are you?”

The girl looked at him, then glancing at her father knew she had to answer him.

“Eight.”

“Born in ‘36 then. Interesting.” He said nothing more regarding that thought. “Perette, I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of offers from your father that have been made. Made regarding you, that is. And a lot of it is certainly confusing, I imagine. Do you understand why, that is?”

“Why they’re asking for me?”

“Yes.”

“My… eyes?” She said, gesturing towards her golden-hued irises.

Bertran chuckled. “In a manner of speaking that is true. They do want your eyes. Not literally, of course. You see, Perette, many of these lords have been coming here because they’re vain men. Hopeful men. Arrogant enough to gamble against fate, disregarding you entirely. Some of them have come here, I imagine, because they want to marry you to their sons. They want you to bear them grandkids; many grandkids. All because they have this foolish hope that you can put a drop of consecration in their blood if they try hard enough.”

He leaned forward, grunting softly as he put pressure on his knee.

“Now, you see,” he raised a finger as he spoke, “Not all of them are that brazen. Some of them just want you as a trophy. A status symbol. Maybe for their sons or young brothers. Or they just want you at court. A golden-eyed woman would give any estate a boon. None of this I can fault you, it's a life of luxury and leisure. You’ve never known it, but you can imagine it. Dream it.”

Bertran rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, thinking of his words.

“But I’m not sure if you want that. Perette, the world is a large place, too great to spend your life squandered in some castle. You see, you are capable of great things. Things that most people can only dream of, except that this is something you already have. You were born to it. Blessed. As an empyrean, your blood is coursing with the power of gods long-gone. It’s a great honor that allows you to rise to feats most people never can. I’d hate to see you waste it.”

He glanced back for a moment at her father and mother, then his eyes went just as quickly back towards the girl as he rested his right hand against the top of his scabbard, where the hilt of his blade, wrapped in black leather, could be seen.

“What I’ve come to offer you, or what I’ve come to offer your father, though I really hope you would consider it yourself— is a chance to make yourself greater. To make your own life. You’re eight years old, that’s a near perfect age. What I offer is to take you as my page, and to train you as my squire. Hone your holy gift into something more than just a marriage pact. You have every right to refuse. You have every right to want that lap of luxury instead. I just don’t want to see you squander something so great for mere money.”

He watched Perette’s face for some time as he finished speaking, but the girl said nothing immediately in response. It seemed she was confused and plagued with a multitude of options.

Who could blame her, Bertran thought, knowing that her view of the world was so constrained and small, and since her birth she likely grew up knowing she was different but never quite understood why. This was always a predicament of the commoners.

Knowing that she would give no answer now, Bertran stood to his feet carefully and thanked Almaurry and his family for their time. He slid back on his gloves and readjusted his belt. Almaurry promised that they would consider his offer, that it was a fair one, but Bertran knew by the look in his eyes that the former-serf was much more interested in wealth and a position of security for his daughter.

In the morn, Sir Bertran received his answer. Though he might have spoken his way into the local estate of the lady, or beseeched one of the artisan families near the center to accommodate him, he was as he knew a stranger to these lands. Furthermore he had come clearly to subvert the plans of various local families of repute, and chose to remain out of their graces by staying at the local tavern brewery. It wasn’t the most pleasant of accommodations, but they granted him use of one of the servant quarters, and he offered reasonable pay which the owner did not refuse.

Sitting alone at one of the tables on the outside of the tavern, he was a lonely sight as most villagers were just waking up to tend to their farms and homes. Beside him sat the innkeeper, who was an early bird and a gentle enough soul to see that the good knight did not sit alone. Between the two of them was a pitcher of weak wine that he poured between two pewter mugs.

“So they chose luxury then?” The innkeeper said with a laugh, though the innkeeper was sure to make himself sound quite serious.

“Aye, a pity, but it’s not unexpected. From the perspective of the father, it is hard to pass up such money. And his daughter will surely want for nothing with such a betrothal. Still… what a waste.”

The innkeeper thought for a moment as he took a drink, his eyes breaking away from the knight’s darkened visage for a moment.

“You have to tell me, sir, has that ever worked on someone before? I mean the holy types, of course.”

Bertran raised an eye at his words, then nodded with a slight smile. He thought back with the innkeeper’s words echoing in his ears, to a time many years ago when he was far younger, and the matters of today seemed distant and unimaginable. In his mind he could feel his youth return to him, as his hair brightened to an auburn undulled by age. Even his muscles felt more strong, his skin flushed with coursing blood eager for whatever could come.

Ahead of him, his eyes focused on a young man he had not seen in many years. A spirit of youth at fourteen, his white pearly eyes gleaming back at him through an open-faced bascinet that hung snuggly to his head by the neck strap. His dulled blade was in a low-guard position, pointing broadly in Bertran’s direction, though he hesitated and seeing his tutor’s distant look held back his movement.

“Sir? Are you alright?” The boy asked.

Bringing Bertran out of his stupor, he looked strangely at the child before him, whom he knew instantly as Thierry. His squire. The boy he had taken onto training from a local lord who had no knowledge of what to do with him or his gift.

“Yes, yes, lad. I’m alright.” He muttered, regaining his senses and trying to recall what he was doing. “Where were we? Right, right…”

He raised his own blade forward, holding the point towards Thierry, and then dropping it down towards a similar half-stance, the bladepoint looking as gentle as a quill pen as it angled towards the boy.

“Attack me now. Take your sword and try to strike me. Don’t hold back!”

Thierry nodded and moved forward, his feet pacing in two-steps as he closed the distance, then lunging drew his blade forward from the right side and struck at Bertran’s left, but the knight was far faster and deflected the blade back. He could have followed through, but the lesson was more about his squire and guiding him along.

Showing no uncertainty, Thierry continued the onslaught, his blade bouncing in his hands and shaking his knuckles but he held firm, moving the sword to the side and changing his facing to strike high at Bertran’s shoulder. The attack was countered predictably, and he moved again, now towards the knight’s right as he tried to overwhelm his defense by these little adjustments. Yet nothing phased Bertran, who met each movement with a flick of his blade, holding his sword at langort guard so he could keep his squire away and move his blade to whichever side.

Eventually Thierry tired and fell back away, taking a few steps and holding his blade extended from his side at rest. Bertran gave him an exasperated look, his mouth ajar as he watched.

“I don’t get it, Sir Bertran: Why must we fight in such a mundane way?”

“Sword fighting is a core element, lad. It’s basic. If you do not have the basics, how can you expect to fight? Now come on, pick up your blade, I could’ve cut you like a pig letting your guard down like that.”

Thierry sighed and hefted his sword back into an inside ox position, the blade extending from just at the base of his chin. He waited for a moment watching Bertran’s stoic stance, still as snow on a winter’s day. The calmness of his master aggrieved the young man, and he lunged suddenly with his blade, moving the swordpoint forward only for the knight to deflect it away with a benign movement of the arms. The blades clashed for a second with a terrible scraping noise. A follow-up by Thierry likewise was defeated, as his guard moved from a forward point to his left, and he struck with a backhand blow that Bertran stepped away from and brushed off with his own strike.

The squire took a breath and looked disturbed, his eyes narrowing as he bit the inside of his lip. He went for another strike, but hesitated and held the blade in place before swapping to his right, the blade close at his side. Bertran barely caught notice of the change in his posture, a flicker of understanding in the boy-warrior’s pale white eyes; the swirling of color and scenes reflecting in his focused pupils. He swung out with the blade, making a determined strike that Bertran stepped away from and went to counter, but Thierry rapidly changed his stance and feinting with the sword brought the blade low to his right and contacted with the knight’s side, tearing his red jupon.

Thierry looked proud as he withdrew his sword, bearing a smile on his face as Bertran hurriedly raised his visor, cursing as he fastened the hatch.

“Boy! What are you doing?”

The squire was unsure of how to answer or how to meet his master’s outburst, and meekly explained that he had hit him as instructed.

“Now you lie to me?” Bertran roared, his face flushed with bloody anger. He reached forward and swiped the squire’s blade away, letting it rattle against the stone ground while he discarded his own blade. “Do you think I’m blind, son? That you use your quicksight to beat me; do you think me a stupid fool, is that it?”

“No, sir. Nothing of the sort.” He sheepishly replied.

“Then what of it?”

“Well I… I wanted to win, sir. You said to try and hit you, and I did. I’m not sure what’s the matter—”

“You foolish boy. You’re my squire now, not a page nipping at my heel or fetching me water. If you are to learn sword art, you will learn the techniques as all do. Not shirk them by relying on some… ability.”

Thierry looked away, breaking his locked vision with his master’s face, but he felt unsatisfied with his explanation.

“You’ve said that it’s a gift, sir. My abilities. What empyrean would hide them? Should hide them?”

“Blast it, Thier!” Bertran said, and he cursed again as he leaned forward and picked up the two sparring swords. He looked at the point that his squire had struck him near the waist, seeing where the blade had torn his jupon. A good hit like that with a real sword, with some force behind it, would not have cut through his armor, but it would have hurt.

He stepped off to the side where sitting on a bench was a tray with an array of wineskins, and popping the tied lid took a heavy drink.

“It’s not that you should hide it.” He finally answered, wiping his bearded mouth with his hand. “Use it if you must. When you must! Will you wear yourself down against every foe because you despise the mundane?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I got carried away.”

“Ach, it’s not that that’s the matter. It was a good strike, by all counts, but you should’ve landed it with skill alone. You didn’t need an edge for that.”

Pausing to pass the wineskin to him, he continued, “This power. Godly or not, it will wear you down, boy. If you rely on it, it will pound your body and soul right down into the dirt. You remember Sir Emery, don’t you? From Port-des-Fleurs?”

“Ah, the old man with the eyes like me. Of course.”

“Old man?—He’s thirty six! That shriveled skin and broken bones of his used to contain a killer’s spirit. He made a living hunting down outlawed knights and brigands, and took their heads for coin. Killed over forty men, at least those worth remembering. He used his nature every chance he had, never held himself back. He once boasted, I heard, that he could win a duel in six seconds, and I believe him. But he lost his duel with life.”

Bertran stepped forward, placing a hand on the shoulder of his squire then cupping his face.

“I don’t want you to end like that, boy. Don’t live like a raging fire quenched by a drizzle when you can be a hearth that burns for fifty years. Do you get me?”

“I think so, sir.”

“There’s no thinking about it, temperance is the greatest gift we have. Think of Ducatus, his imparted words to us: Contentment comes from the root of diligence. See, son, we don’t fight to live brazen lives. We’re not to squander these gifts, for they’re ours to use wisely. A divine gift must not be wasted.”

He turned away from him, pressing his blade into his chest and handing it off. “Now that’s not to say I won’t teach you a thing or two about your blood. If sword-swinging is an art, then so too is what we do. But that’s for later; now’s for repetition of the mundane.”

What a funny word. He must be spending time with the priests. He thought, resuming his position on the sparring grounds.

“Back to it then. His Grace has requested that I accompany him to the Montlion lands as one of his men. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, so I’d like to see you learn something before I do.”

“The vicar’s lands?”

“Aye, as for why I don’t know. He wants us to leave at a moment’s notice, but hasn’t sent word yet. And no, before you ask, you cannot come. It’s a bandit’s country in the west.”

He smirked, then brought his blade into a steady position at a low guard pointing towards Thierry.

“Now bring your sword arm up like this, lad. By your waist. It’s a better guard. Well?”

“Sir?”

“What? Just like this, lad.”

“Sir Knight?”

Bertran looked up, feeling the weight in his bones as he looked across the table at the innkeeper, a puzzled expression on the man’s face. He regained his senses as the man asked him if he was okay.

“Sorry, my mind went elsewhere.” Rising to his feet, he glanced at the innkeeper and laid a gold lerin on the table. More than generous for the accommodations he requested of the man. “I must be going. My time here has come to an end. The child’s made up her mind.”

“But sir, my question?”

“What is it?” Bertran clicked impatiently, stopping in his tracks and turning around as he realized he had not answered him. Before the innkeeper could repeat it, the knight cut him off and gave an answer regardless, “A time or two, yes. Not everyone thinks we should be such gentle people.”

The knight nodded, turning away from the innkeeper and leaving the drinking tables as he went to fetch his horse from one of the hitching posts at the corners of town. As he reached her, and began to place a few of his belongings in one of the satchels, he stopped and looked out on the town as it rose from the horizon and spread around him. What a waste of time, and his bones ached in preparation for the long ride ahead back to his lands.

Cruel fate it was to be.

Songs of the Fallen P.1

“Push! Push! Keep pushing, I can glimpse their crown!” urged Greta, one of the two attendants in attendance. Irene, her counterpart, clasped Hildegard's trembling hand, offering whispered prayers for her comfort and safety.

In the chamber, all eyes were fixed upon Hildegard, the Empress of the Volhreich, as she laboured to birth her and Hildebrand's baby, the emperor. From lowly castle servants to the most distinguished knights, gathered in solemn observance, a custom of the land. Some whispering amongst themselves, and others casting prayers for her’s and the baby’s well being Seated nearby, Hildebrand offered silent reassurance,holding her hand. With each arduous push, Hildegard's grip on his hand tightened.

With one final, determined effort, the newborn entered the world, his first cries echoing throughout the castle halls. “It's... It's a boy!” exclaimed Greta, her voice filled with jubilation. The chambers erupted in joyous celebration as the infant, blessedly healthy, brought relief that no complications had marred the birthing process.

“Gods be praised.” Hildebrand whispered, his heart brimming with gratitude for the favourable outcome.

Greta swiftly attended to the newborn, cleansing him tenderly before swathing him snugly in a towel. With gentle hands, she placed the precious bundle into Hildegard's waiting arms. The empress pressed a tender kiss to the infant's forehead, her touch reverent as she caressed his tiny head. Glancing toward Hildebrand, a smile of shared joy graced her lips, mirrored by the emperor's own expression of warmth and contentment.

Hildebrand rose from his seat, his gaze fixated upon the newborn's face. A solitary tear of joy trickled down his cheek, overwhelmed by the emotion swelling within him. Addressing the assembly gathered before him, he spoke with solemn conviction. “This child, born of my beloved wife, shall one day mature into a man of strength and virtue, worthy of admiration and respect. His name must reflect the legacy he shall forge, a name to be revered by generations yet unborn.” With a measured pause, Hildebrand pondered deeply before delivering his words, “Helwig. Henceforth, he shall be known as Helwig von Lillien. May his legacy remain untarnished.”

“Is he... gesegnet (Blessed)?” Inquired Clas, one of the castle knights.

“Greta, what say you?” Hildebrand inquired, turning his gaze towards her, seeking guidance.

“Only time will unveil the truth, yet I sense a certain promise in him.” Greta responded, her tone thoughtful, “And he possesses the same gaze as your father.” she added, her observation adding to inquiry.

“That's reassuring, I suppose.” Hildebrand remarked, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Indeed, now hush, all of you. Her Majesty requires rest.” Greta commanded, ushering the attendees out of the chamber with gentle yet firm insistence. As the room emptied, only Greta, Irene, and Hildebrand remained. However, shortly thereafter, even Hildebrand was bid farewell, leaving Greta and Irene to attend to the new mother and her precious child. Hildebrand retreated to his own chamber, surrendering to the embrace of night's tranquillity.

A few minutes after retreating to his chambers, Hildebrand gravitated toward the balcony, drawn by the allure of the night. Standing amidst the tranquil stillness of the night, he gazed at the sprawling city of Lilienheim, illuminated by the ethereal glow of the moon. Serenity enveloped him as he beheld the heart of the empire, where tradition and progress seamlessly converged.

Lilienheim, the capital of the Volhreich, embodied the blend of antiquity and innovation. Here, old and new Vindari architecture coalesced with Imperial-inspired edifices, while Valainese fashions, borne of marital alliances, afforded the affluent elite a myriad of sartorial choices.

Amidst this convergence, the traditional guild system, that kept a strong grasp on the more well crafted society, underwent a metamorphosis, embracing a new era of restructuring. Simultaneously, clandestine religious movements, once confined to the shadows, dared to challenge orthodoxy, their whispered dissent gradually permeating the lower strata of society, particularly among the credulous peasantry. Lilienheim was the cosmopolitan heart of the Reich.

However, amidst the complexities of imperial politics, societal shifts, and religious upheavals, Hildebrand's mind was consumed by a singular preoccupation: his newborn son and the weighty mantle of fatherhood that now draped over his shoulders.

Would he prove himself a worthy steward of his child's upbringing? Could he nurture him to become a benevolent ruler, capable of guiding the realm with wisdom and compassion? Were the blessings bestowed upon his son genuine, or merely fleeting whispers of fate?

Such thoughts weighed heavily upon Hildebrand's mind, each concern reflected an aspect of his newfound responsibilities. Yet, before he could delve deeper into contemplation, a gentle knock at the door interrupted his reverie.

As Hildebrand turned to face the door, his eyes met Irene's gaze. “Irene? Is something amiss?” He inquired, his tone tinged with apprehension, fearing that some unforeseen event had transpired.

“Not at all, your majesty.” She responded softly, her voice a soothing balm to his troubled thoughts, “I simply wished to ensure your comfort. May I be of assistance with your evening rituals? Perhaps a refreshment or a meal to ease the day's burdens?” Relief flooded Hildebrand's heart as he beheld the caring countenance of Irene. Though she was but a young woman of twenty-three, her presence exuded a reassuring sentiment of competence and empathy that Hildebrand rarely found in any of the servants. With her long, flowing blond locks framing her gentle features, she embodied grace and diligence in equal measure.

The daughter of Greta, Irene had been groomed from a tender age for the responsibilities of her station. Under the tutelage of her mother, she would one day inherit the mantle of a midwife, her dedication was evident in every task she undertook, and the diligence in achieving them only helped.

“Thank you, Irene, but I'm quite capable of managing on my own for the moment.” Hildebrand replied with genuine gratitude, his tone respectful and appreciative.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” Irene responded, her tone deferential as she spoke, “I shall take my leave now, I do not wish to impose further upon your time.”

“Hold, Irene.” Hildebrand interjected, his concern evident in his voice, “What of Hildegard? Is she well?”

“Mother attends to her.” Irene replied, her words measured and reassuring, “At present, she rests, yet thankfully, her health remains robust.”

“Oh, excellent. Would you be so kind as to bring young Helwig to me, then? I yearn to lay eyes upon him.” Hildebrand requested of her.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Irene responded with a graceful courtly bow, her gesture impressing Hildebrand. Rarely had he witnessed such refinement from someone of her station.

Shortly thereafter, Irene returned cradling Helwig in her arms. Hildebrand gently accepted the child, drawing him close as he gazed upon him with tender affection. A smile graced his lips as he engaged in playful interaction with the infant, eliciting a faint yet heartwarming response from Helwig.

“Behold, my son, the city and its vast expanse beyond.” Hildebrand murmured softly, his voice imbued with a sense of reverence, “One day, all this shall be yours. You shall inherit the mantle of emperor, guiding our nation with wisdom and benevolence. Though Ulrich may not walk among us in flesh, I am certain his spirit watches over you from the realm beyond, brimming with pride.”

“I have no doubt.” Irene replied, with a warm smile.

“Thank you, Irene. I certainly hope so.” Hildebrand expressed with gratitude before turning to Irene with curiosity, “But, Irene, may I inquire: how did you come to master such a graceful bow?”

“Partly from my mother's teachings, Your Majesty, but also from observing the conduct of other nobles.” Irene responded, a hint of bashfulness colouring her cheeks as she averted her gaze in embarrassment.

“Please convey my commendations to her, and continue your commendable efforts.” Hildebrand replied, acknowledging Irene's dedication. His curiosity piqued, he continued, “And tell me, Irene, are you versed in the arts of reading and writing? It's rare to find such interest in noble culture among individuals of your station.”

“Somewhat, sir. It is a requisite skill for my position.” Irene responded respectfully.

“Well, if ever you find yourself in need of assistance, I would be delighted to offer guidance in secret.” Hildebrand offered with a playful wink.

“Truly a jest, Your Majesty. Shall I fetch young Helwig?” Inquired Irene.

“Please do, before Greta scolds me soundly on the morrow.” Hildebrand chuckled lightly, “But return swiftly.” he added, a note of concern creeping into his voice at the thought of Greta's potential ire if Helwig were absent too long.

A while later, Irene returned to find Hildebrand still standing upon the balcony, clad in his hoodless, black tappert and leather boots, his gaze fixed upon the moon, “Was there aught else you required of me, sire?” She inquired, once again intruding upon his contemplations.

“Aye, tarry a while with me, keep me company.” Hildebrand beckoned, extending a welcoming gesture to Irene, “Sleep eludes me this night, and I find solace in conversation.”

“But sir, with me? Would it not be more fitting for you to seek the company of one of your status?” Irene queried, her tone tinged with uncertainty.

“I mind not in the least, and besides, who among those of higher station is available at this hour for me to while away the time with, hmm?”

“I concede your point, yet I fail to comprehend what solace or conversation I could possibly offer to you.” Irene remarked, her tone marked by humility.

“Irene, my father imparted a lesson upon me long ago, one that has shaped my understanding of rulership. To be a good sovereign, one need not wield power with an iron fist, nor pursue conquests in the name of gods or nation. While I confess, the notion of quelling that rebellious king in the south has crossed my mind on occasion, two centuries of self-rule suffice. No, a true ruler is one who listens to their people, who acts in their name, and fosters a bond of understanding and cooperation between subjects and crown. Engaging in conversation with you brings me no displeasure, though it may not align with the expectations of some. It is simply a pursuit I relish, and I find solace in our exchanges each time we share them.” Hildebrand elucidated, his words imbued with sincerity.

“Your Majesty, I am deeply flattered.” Irene replied, her cheeks flushing with colour, “But what of Her Highness, Hildegard? Would she approve?”

“Hilde? Ah, she can be rather stern and aloof at times. Her family, the Von Sillians, are infamous for their austere demeanour. Truth be told, our union was arranged by my mother, as is customary among nobility. My father, wise as he was, assured me that affection would blossom in due course. And indeed, there are moments when I glimpse the possibility. Yet, at times, it proves challenging to foster deeper sentiments for her.” Hildebrand confided, his tone tinged with candour and vulnerability.

“It seems that way sometimes.” Irene murmured softly, her words barely audible, unaware that Hildebrand had caught them.

“Indeed, have you discerned?” Hildebrand was taken aback by her observation, astonished that anyone could perceive such nuances.

“Indeed, sire, the servants are privy to such matters.” Irene responded with a hint of solemnity, “Gossip, as is often the case. Many speculated on the lack of an heir, attributing it to such perceptions. Regrettably, some were less discreet, even suggesting, albeit imprudently, that infertility might be the cause.”

“Ah, yes... I am well… acquainted with those rumours.” Hildebrand acknowledged with a touch of resignation, “Mayhaps this birth shall put an end to such speculation.” he added with a note of hope.

“Apologies, my lord, if I have offended you in any manner.” Irene quickly interjected, in an apologetic tone.

“Not at all, Irene. You could never offend me.” Hildebrand reassured her with a warm smile.

Irene's breath escaped in a sigh of relief at Hildebrand's response, her shoulders easing with newfound tranquillity. Then, with a touch of sincerity, she exclaimed, “Verily, the life of a noble appears fraught with trials, and doubly so for one who bears the mantle of ruling a realm.”

“You don't know the half of it, my dear. Dealing with the raucous nobility, always ready to tear each other apart, and managing relations with foreign counterparts can be quite exhausting. Have you ever heard of the Von Thaur? Their historical family rivalry is well-known in the courts of the empire. They're constantly at each other's throats, pushing for the reunification of their lands, under either Hertil or Albrecht, whenever they can at the Reichstag (Imperial Diet). However, it always ends in a stalemate, partly because I ensure it, and also because I personally don't support either of them.”

“Why not indeed? Why not settle it once and for all?” Irene, though not well-versed in politics, harboured a keen interest in understanding, and listened intently.

“It's... not as straightforward as it may seem. Taking sides would only stoke the ire of a host of nobles and potentially incite rebellion. Nobles are known to be as petty as that. So, maintaining my neutrality and allowing them to resolve their differences is the wisest course of action. While Hertil may have a slight edge in my estimation, that's just between you and me.” Hildebrand chuckled softly, “I'm planning a banquet to celebrate Helwig's birth, but by Frid, the mere thought of having those two in the same room gives me a headache. And they're not the only ones with a rivalry.”

“Your Majesty, I must confess, it all sounds rather overwhelming. I used to dream of being a princess since childhood, swept away by a dashing knight to a grand castle. But now, the weight of such responsibility... I fear I could never bear it.” Irene admitted, her tone tinged with apprehension.

“Fear not, my dear. Princesses are often pampered, with responsibilities shouldered by their betrothed. Besides, I have no doubt you'll find your knight in shining armour someday” Hildebrand reassured her, his gaze drifting towards the horizon. Turning back to Irene, he gently placed his hand upon her face, his touch tender as he caressed her cheek, “I've never truly noticed until now the captivating beauty of your grey eyes.” He murmured softly, brushing aside a lock of her hair, “Your soft, pale complexion, your lustrous blonde locks... they're alluring, enchanting. And your... sweet scent, what is it?”

“Sandalwood.” Irene replied with a smile, “I acquired it from an eastern merchant who visited. Perfume making is one of my favourite hobbies.” As she felt Hildebrand's hand, emotions stirred within her that she had never experienced before. Hildebrand, too, was engulfed by unfamiliar emotions, though he misinterpreted them. Despite himself, he found something captivating about Irene, her sandalwood scent overwhelming his senses and evoking sensations he had never known, “M-My lord.” Irene stammered, sensing the tension, “I believe it's time for me to take my leave. You must be weary.”

“No, no, please stay.” Hildebrand insisted, his tone earnest. “I would relish your company a while longer. I hope you don't mind, for I feel there is much more we could discuss.”

“Not at all. I was hoping you'd say that.” Irene responded with a smile. She remained by Hildebrand's side, and as the night wore on, the sounds emanating from his chambers persisted until morning dawned anew.

A Howling Wedding: Haltija Saga part III
The Joholla farm was the second largest farm on the Rånolla mountain. A tall spruce covered mountainside that was surrounded by glittering lakes on three sides. The largest lake Boviggen to the east that connected to the meandering worm shaped lake Gräsviggen to the south, which in turn was connected through a stream to the small lake Råviggen to the west. All filled with quick and green-backed perch. The mountainside was steep but not too steep that fields of rye couldn’t be worked and tended to. From the top of the height where the farm houses were located and with the rye fields below, one could see for miles and miles, dark green woods dotted with blue lakes against blue skies. It was Osmo Joholla and his cousin Sakari Rånolla that had first broken new ground around Rånolla and burned the spruce trees that gave vitality to the fields. Sakari had also carefully planted rows of Rowan trees all along his farmstead's border. Osmo had been the great great grandfather of the current farmer at Joholla, who was also named Osmo. It was Osmo’s son Matti, named after his grandfather, who was getting married on this cold night.

The house at Joholla was decorated with garlands of spring flowers and lanterns. Little Lena, who was but nine years old, was tasked with helping to serve the guests. She had been helping all day. First with the preparations before the ceremony and now late into the evening during the feast. Lena was tired and grumpy and she hadn’t had much to eat. But she had partaken of the drinks that she served the adults and that had kept her going as the sun came down.

Oli the farmhand was playing on his fiddle with such vigor that no one of the fifty or so guests could sit still. The mood was happy and cheerful And there were many friendly faces. Even the Vaisila family from the other side of lake Boviggen had come by to celebrate. Lena had noted them in particular because old Pauli Vaisila was so tall that he had to watch his head through any door. The dances went on with merry steps hammering against the wooden floor and the alcohol flowed down through thirsty throats. Lena had just helped old man Jarmo get a refill of his wooden mug when an ice cold wind swept over the room. The main door was open and three unknown men stood in the entrance of the foyer. Lena sees as one of the strangers grabs a tankard that he tears from the hand of a nearby guest but she can’t really see from who. Oli is still playing on his fiddle and most guests don’t seem to notice the strangers at the door.

Kallu, the brother of the bride, walked forth to intervene as he saw the stranger grab the tankard. Lena couldn’t hear much of what was said, only loose and random words and sentences here and there. From the words she gathered that the strangers were three Korjau who live nearby. Possibly by the Trolltarn-hill up north for that was a dreaded place. Lena has never seen a Korjau before but her mother and father have told her that they were different from Tyrns like her and to be wary of them. The Korjau, whose names Lena gather to be Jongu, Idga and Guivi appear angry over not having been invited to the wedding. The shouts nearly drown out Oli’s fiddle.

Lena sees the familiar red color spreading in blotches across Kallu’s rageful face. He’s mad and Kallu is so unpleasant when he gets mad, Lena thinks. He grabs a stick by the foyer and raises it in anger. Determined to get the three Korjau out of the house. He swings the stick but Lena can’t see if it hits any of them. Shouts and curses echo. Kallu’s thundering voice can be heard bellowing; “Out you Korjau-devils, out!” The uninvited Korjau backs out through the door and Kallu follows suit and the shouting match continues outside but Lena can’t see anymore of it. She can only hear the angry voices. Then the minutes pass but Kallu doesn’t come back inside. Lena shivers with fright as she hears a howl from a dog or a wolf. A few of the other guests start getting wary about what’s happening with Kallu and some decide to go out and check. Kallu’s two close friends Jussi and Atte go outside to check and they remain gone. Oli has finally stopped playing his fiddle as then four other guests walk outside to check on the commotion. Lena thought that she saw both Henri from Joppo and uncle Toivo walk out. Shortly thereafter another eight guests walked out. Aunt Essi and her husband Pekka were with them. In the end it’s eighteen guests with Kallu that have stepped outside but there’s no more shouting. Just queer noises.

Lena stepped up to a small window and tried to look outside as the bride walked out to see if she could calm the situation down. Lena struggles to see out into the dark but her tired and scratchy eyes slowly adjust. She sees and hears as the bride screams. She screams and in the queer darkness of the night her mouth seems to get dragged forward and grow out from her skull. The bride’s entire face seems to get longer and pointy and her jaw widens. She fell to the ground and broke her fall with her arms and hands. But the hands were no longer hands but hairy paws as the bridal dress unfurled around her.

Lena closes her eyes, too afraid to say a word or to make a sound, and when she opens them again a few heartbeats later the bride is gone. Where the bride had fallen stood a large gray wolf with strange blue eyes. Blue human eyes like that of the bride. Lena’s eyes meet with the blue eyed wolf and the beast howls in the night. Without warning the wolf turns and runs off into the woods followed by a pack of eighteen other wolves.