Volume 1 - CH 1.1

Lilies.

Lilies-of-the-valley, as far as the eye can see.

Little bells abloom, all in a white tapestry.

Long have I loved these flowers. They promise no pageantry of brilliant blossomings, but in their unmistakable downcast dangle do I sense their particular beauty—one that I struggle to put to words.

And lost was my gaze in them, just as my wits were to the sword so set upon me. A glance at the blade betrayed a slight quiver in its tip, its master’s hand perhaps well aware of the sheer valley between our prowess.

But I paid it no mind and left it to shiver ever more, for instead I drowned myself in the sea of lily bells once again.

Perhaps I should take one home with me. They seem the sort to be content with life in a pot. A broadly-built man well on his way home, stark-sable sword at his hip, a potted white flower embraced to his bosom. A silly sight, I admit, sure to garner a good chuckle or two—smiles I would like to see, laughter I would like to hear.

As these fancies, for battlefields ill-befitting, filled my mind, I took in the scenery once more.

Ah, yes.

Lilies like these bloomed, too, upon that hill, on that very day.

♰

“You were incredible, Rolf! I could scarcely believe it!” Emilie rejoiced, her azure eyes wide and fixed upon mine. We were there on that hill, enrobed as it was in bell-bedight lilies and Emilie herself serving as its crown, with sunrays scintillating through her flaxen hair and a hearty smile upon her fair visage.

“You and I both; Lady Luck merely smiled my way, that’s all it was,” I responded, impressed by Emilie’s bursting joy. “And Sir Simon wasn’t giving it his all, I’m sure.”

I had partaken of sword training earlier that day. A spar was held, where I somehow eked out a victory against a full-grown instructor. At a mere fifteen years of age, my body was already both the height and build of an adult man, and so was not wanting of physical strength. Though, the same could hardly be said of my technique, and I very well stood to lose because of it. That I won at all was owed purely to the fates and my instructor’s own reserve.

“‘Twould seem Lady Luck has an eye for talent, then! Sir Simon was a lieutenant for the 1st Order, you know!” returned Emilie, hopping about happily. All through to our earliest days, she had always celebrated whatever good fortune found its way to me, as if they were her very own.

The eldest daughter of House Mernesse, she was. While a small, yet ennobled family, they held no domain of their own, and it was decided earlier on that she would be wedded to House Buckmann. Though both houses were headed by barons, the one that owned land was the latter—the Buckmanns, my own family.

To put it simply, laying on the horizon was the promise of marriage between us.

“To think, my beloved husband-to-be is this strong already,” Emilie said after a giggle, “why, I’d burst with pride if I was any prouder!” A girl of affection most assertive—that was the kind of soul Emilie was. And here was I, flustered in receiving it.

“Emilie…” began my modest answer, “…you’re very kind.” For some time now, I had thought to more fully embrace Emilie’s love, but the right words would always escape my lips.

We were both fifteen, then. While arranged marriages are a long-held tradition amongst the nobility, it is no strange phenomenon to harbour contempt in having one’s prospective spouse be chosen by others. For her part—and by her own admission, no less—Emilie was pleased to have me as her future husband.

I suppose I should have confessed how thankful I was of her feelings. Failing to do so was surely an insult to her, but my own words fumbled all too easily. A coward, I know. Not the prodigy that others saw me to be. I wonder what it was that convinced them of such, speaking of which.

Yes. That’s right. ‘Rolf Buckmann, the boy prodigy,’ they’ve always said. A wunderkind, brave and wise, excellent in myriad things—or so it seemed.

At the very least, I thought my own courage to be rather scant. ‘Emilie! I, too, am proud! To see your smile with such intimacy is my sole privilege—why, I might go door to door just to boast of it!’ If I was brave as they say, then surely these words would have been most enthused to leap from my lips.

While such thoughts thundered through my head, my betrothed continued to gaze intently upon me, and it was then that a voice echoed from a ways behind us.

“Brother!”

“Felicia!” I called back, turning about. “How goes it?” There she was: Felicia Buckmann, my younger sibling. Her locks were long, and like mine, deep and dark like the night. Our eyes differed, however: where mine were as onyxes, hers were as regal rubies, and the face they bejewelled was an even match for Emilie’s in its beauty. A most charming sister, if I do say so myself.

“A berry pie to celebrate your triumph, dear Brother!” said Felicia, settling down beside Emilie and I before unveiling from a basket a pie replete with assorted berries. With deftness, she proceeded to slice out a few wedges. “One for you as well, Emilie.”

“Oh Felicia, it looks wonderful!” exclaimed Emilie, her eyes sparkling with joy.

“Celebrate my triumph, you say?” I asked.

“I’ve heard you bested Sir Simon in a spar. ‘A dynamic strike from the high guard!’ they all said,” Felicia recounted.

“Did they now?” I returned. “Well thanks anyway, Felicia.”

Against my own heart, I dared not downplay the achievement at that moment. After all, Felicia was in the habit of baking sweets to commemorate my every deed, little or no. Not long before, our governess was most taken aback after I discovered an error in a heraldic tome. For that occasion, Felicia presented to us a plate of gaufres—ah, delectable they were, indeed. Though the berry pie before me was even more so.

“A fine pastry you baked for us, Felicia! The aroma alone is a treat,” I complemented.

“Truly!” Emilie echoed.

“I made it with Staffen rum. Orla told me it works wonders for a pie,” explained Felicia. She had often found herself in the kitchen indulging in pursuits of pastry production, and in the process got along very well with the maids and cooks, Orla included.

“My stomach growls for more. Spare me another slice, Felicia?”

“And me!”

“I’m glad it’s to your likings both,” my sister softly giggled. “Here you are, then. Oh, we mustn’t forget the tea.”

Up the bell-lily hill billowed a balmy breeze. The three of us were sat there, shoulder to shoulder, our faces beaming from the sour-sweetness of Felicia’s berry pie. Silly chatter and conjoined laughter chimed through the air.

“Brother, won’t you regale us with another tale?” my sister requested.

“A tale? Hmm, a tale, eh… How about something I read in a book recently—one on the relative densities of heavy metals found in knights-wear.”

“R-Rolf! That’s more a lullaby than a legend,” Emilie poked. “How about something more thrilling, let’s say?”

The land, washed white with lilies-of-the-valley. The sun, shining softly down upon the three of us.

“Hmm… right, how’s this? From the chronicles of a southbound excursion: a creature most rare and riveting. Does that tickle your curiosities?”

“It does! Tell us more!”

“It’s settled, then. Let me tell you of a southern specimen—a critter they call the ‘hippo’…”

Our childhood brimmed with bliss, and this was but a scene from its last day, one ever enthroned in my memory.