Volume 2 - CH 2.4

A new dawn.

Silver skies, scented with rain. In them, the clouds roiled in a fine curtain, and wrung from themselves a gentle drizzle. A wet pitter-patter was all about, like an airy hum, intersected by the swish-swash of a sword swung many a time over.

One last slash. The steel stopped. The rain resumed.

With the morning training done, I stepped inside from the backyard, body and blade both steeped in rain, which I summarily wiped down. Indeed, even in exile, I yet swung the sword without cease.

Now dry and with a change of clothes, I began preparing breakfast, one a bit more elaborate than usual. A day-off this was, after all. I had time and more to spare.

It was in the course of my cookery that I noticed Mia standing beside me. Her eyes seemed tightly taken with my hands as I prepared the ingredients.

“Mia,” I said. “Want to lend a hand?”

“…yes…”

To her were handed a grater and a peeled potato.

“We’re having pancakes for breakfast. Of the potato sort, that is—’tattie fish’, they’re called ‘round these parts. Not a fish in them, though. But to make them, we first need some grated potatoes. Think you’re up to the task?”

Nodding, Mia took tool and tuber both, and steadily went to work. Albeit the kitchen counter was rather high compared to Mia’s humble height. She stood against it, as though to peek over it. An uncomfortable position, to be sure, and one that convinced me of the need for a stepping stool henceforth.

“…huff… huff…”

With innocent industry did Mia work away, giving her all into grating a potato larger than the hand that held it, so much so that I couldn’t help but watch over the precarious pluck of her efforts, earnest though they may have been.

“Careful now,” I reminded her. “Wouldn’t want grated fingers in with the potatoes.”

“…yes… Master…”

Content, I went to work myself, mincing an onion before setting out some flour and a frypan. The rustling rain washed away the quietude in the kitchen as Mia and I immersed ourselves in making breakfast together. Before long, her toils bore fruit: the potatoes were all perfectly grated.

“A job well-done, Mia,” I remarked. “Right. Now, salt. There’s some on the shelf there. Can you fetch it for me, Mia?”

“…oh… I’ll try…”

Elbow grease was what’s needed for the preparation, and finesse and a fine eye besides, for next came the cooking. The batter was done: a mixture of minced onions, grated potatoes, and flour, seasoned with salt. Into a hot frypan it went, the ensuing sizzle delicious to our ears. And apparently to Mia’s eyes as well, mesmerised in their stare upon the enticing sight.

“Heat—that’s the key,” I broached over the singing batter. “Fry the tattie fish well and they’ll turn right crispy. If not, you’re in for a sad meal. That’s why a bit of boldness goes a long way: cook them like you mean to burn them. Well, almost, anyway.”

In the midst of my explanation was Mia, looking intently up to me, her head nodding and bobbing to my babbling words. Right. For next time, a lesson, then, on how to handle the hearthfire, to complement her new stepping stool.

“And they’re done. Can you set out the plates for me, Mia?”

With the “fish” fried to perfection, we then moved to the dining table. After plating up the potato pancakes, we sat ourselves down across from one another. But we wouldn’t dig in yet: into our mugs, I poured a hearty helping of hot milk.

To be sure, the bovine beverage is not a common accompaniment upon the dining tables of Londosius. Instead, many amongst the disparate provinces find milk more fitting in a potion than a potation. The Buckmann barony, however, bucked the trend, for its folk indulge in the drink with fair frequency. For my part, I, too, partook of it no less fervently, as it was pleasing indeed to my palate.

Perhaps this burly body of mine owed much to the miracles of milk. The assumption seemed sound enough: the nutrients therein well-nurtured the growing body, after all. And as luck would have it, here in Ström was milk a common commodity. Often did I offer coin for it in my visits to the market; more so of late, even, for I made certain Mia had her own good share of it on the daily.

“Many thanks for this meal.”

“…many thanks… for this meal…”

With our usual graces given, we dug into breakfast at last. Into my mouth went a morsel.

Ah. Delicious.

The crispy crust: toothsome and aromatic. The centre: roundly rich and creamy. No doubt the perfect breakfast for a grey day such as this.

“…yummy…”

A compliment from cheeks chock full of potatoes.

“Think so, too?” I echoed. “They’re like velvet on the inside. And it’s all thanks to you, Mia. A fine job at grating the potatoes, you did.”

“…next time… I fry, too…”

“Ambitious now, are we? Glad to hear it.”

Down her gaze went. “…I’m sorry… for having you cook, Master…”

“It’s quite all right, Mia. Cleaning and washing on the daily—you do plenty enough ‘round here already, I’d say. It certainly doesn’t sit right with me to ask too much of you. Besides, like aught else, cooking doesn’t come easy.”

“…cooking… I want to learn, too…”

“Then you’ve some lessons to look forward to,” I grinned, gladdened by her spirit. “Ah, Mia. Don’t forget your milk.”

“…oh…”

Thus went our breakfast, served and savoured to our greatest satisfaction. Thereafter did the both of us go about our disparate duties: Mia with her foresaid chores, and myself with the work I brought home.

The hour-sand flowed by till nigh-noontide, when I found Mia coming into my room.

“Hm? Oh, right. My thanks, Mia,” I said, taking her offer of tea, the brewing of which she’d taken up just recently. “…Ah. A fine cup, this is.”

And as I sipped away at the scarlet brew, my eyes wandered to the window, discovering the morrow’s rains to have receded. Indeed, splashes of cerulean skies now peeked from between the parting clouds.

“Mia,” I started again, inspired by the sight. “How about we go for a walk?”

♰

Across avenues and through the thoroughfares we walked. Wet cobblestones snooped conspicuously above the pools and puddles of rainwater, like bales of turtles tarrying about a pond. And as we stepped through them, there was roused in the air the perfume of rains now passed.

The soaked streets themselves were as a speckled mirror, reflecting the silver-blue mottle of the skies above. Flanking the footpaths were the shops and stalls, their eaves and awnings collectively adrip with the drizzle’s dew, each drop a gem bedazzled by the silver sunbreak.

The beauty of boulevards, fresh from a rain’s farewell—if memory serves, there once lived a particular playwright who penned songs of high praises for idyllic scenes such as this. An effort well-inspired, I’d say, for I shared in his admiration.

And amidst it all were Mia and I, just now nearing the town centre, where awaited the marketplace.

I should say, Mia was free to venture off outside as she pleased. Of this I’d apprised her well before, though truth be told, it was not so simple a matter. While she was lawfully a slave, she was yet a Nafíl, and the fates were ever fain to rain misfortune upon a soul of her kind, were she all alone in her wanderings through the warrens of Man. And that’s to say nothing of Mia’s mind itself, fraught as it was with fear for the mere presence of my own kin.

For that reason, it’d been my earnest intention to take her along on such a stroll were the opportunity to ever arise. And today, it finally did.

“Hmm,” I wondered aloud as we browsed through the grocers’ stalls. “Next… we’ll get some sausages. And a head of cabbage, too—good for a pickled side-dish, it is.”

After a trip to the butchers and the green-grocers, I found my purse a bit less burdened, but my hands all the more so.

“…can I carry, too…?”

“Ah, right. Here you are, then. My thanks.”

Not this colossus of a cabbage would Mia hold. To her, a pack of dried apricots instead, sure to be a delight in meals to come. As if knowing this, she held the pack with all preciousness, till there came a stillness in her stare, fixed as it was upon some stalls further ahead.

“First time seeing them, Mia?”

A nod.

If my readings ring true, then it’s certain that open-air markets such as this are also a convenience common in the Nafílim cultural sphere. Though looking at Mia, it would seem none of theirs offer the sort we Men like to call “street food”.

A perfect chance, then. There’s a first time for everything, as they say.

“Right. Looks like lunch is in order, and I know just the menu for us.”

And off we went to the foodstalls, where greeted us sights and scents delicious enough on their own. A moment later and a few coins lighter, we came away with lunch in tow: two skewers of pork, grilled and glazed with sauces both sweet and savoury. Then, upon a nearby bench we sat ourselves, having set down our purchases.

“Here’s yours, Mia.”

“…thank you…”

After taking her share rather clumsily, we were then ready to eat.

“Many thanks for this meal.”

“…many thanks for this meal…”

Shoulder-to-shoulder, we began nibbling away at our lunch. A tasty one, at that. For however divorced Arbel was from the coasts of the continent, it more than made up with its illustrious livestock industry. Hence could one scarce go wrong in selecting any of this province’s myriad samples of pork. Why, Mia herself seemed quite taken with it, for her share was soon all but polished off.

Albeit a bit too quickly, perhaps. Was it a meal too meagre? One more visit to the foodstalls it was, then. It wouldn’t do for naught but meat to compose her meal, anyhow.

My mind turned to menus more filling—perhaps a sausage roll on a stick would do the trick. Pondering such, I scanned about for any foodstall that might offer the treat, till my eyes spotted Mia staring off to the near distance.

For there in her view was a family.

One of four, filled with warmth and felicity. Mother and daughter, hands clasped. The son, seated upon his father’s shoulders. Within the waxing sunshine, their smiles, their laughter, beaming, brimming.

“…”

Down did Mia’s gaze turn. A heavy gloom then veiled her visage. Even from the side of her face was it painfully apparent. And so did my hand alight upon her head.

“You all right there?”

“…yes…”

A reply most quiet.

“You know, Mia. Sorrow’s not something to be suffered alone,” I broached. “Share it with a friend. You might find it a lighter burden than before.”

“…”

“Sharing—that’s what friends do. Whether it be food or fun. Happiness or hardship. Or laughter and lament,” I went on. “That’s why, I’d be very glad if you would share with me your burden, Mia.”

Her languishing look, once fallen, then wended its way up to me. Slowly, but without surety.

“…you’re… my friend…?”

“Aye. That I am.”

“…even though… you’re my Master…?”

“‘Master’? Not really, I’d say. By the covenant, sure. But of the bond between us, well… I’d like to think we’re warmer than that.”

“…”

“How about it, Mia? I’ll lend both ears to aught you have to say, if you have the heart for it,” I said as softly as I could. “Your story. Might I hear of it?”

“…”

For a mired moment, Mia looked fixedly at me. Her eyes had not the empty and soulless quality of before.

No.

In them was emotion.

Quivering emotion, steeped in sorrow.

I thought to free her from that deep dolour, a paralysis upon her heart as it was. Perhaps then, with her bosom unburdened, might her true and erstwhile nature find the spirit to sprout once more.

Before long, after a while of looking upon each other, Mia at last parted her lips with all quietness.

“…Master… I…”

What followed was indeed her story. Her journey. Her struggle. Told most timorously, her words waxing and waning with the hurt in her heart.

Then was it known to me that Mia was once one of six.

Six souls, bound by both blood and love—a family.

Her father was a lumberjack, carving out a living for his dear family. But with the times as war-like and uncertain as they were, so, too, was her father a serving soldier.

“…Papa… Papa was the strongest…” Mia recalled, “…no one else in the village… used a big axe like him… and he… he often went… into battle with it…”

“A battle-axe? Impressive. No common man can wield such a thing,” I remarked.

“…but… but one day… Papa didn’t come home…”

What came instead were the rank and file of Londosius, there to ravage and rifle her village.

Mia continued on with her tale, her voice at times wavering and broken. Indeed, a voice of a most gentle and endearing quality, made to relate details most jarring and dismal.

Of how her brother bore himself against the soldiers assailing their home, only to be cut to his death.

Of how her father had returned as a war-fallen corpse, only to have his head presented as proof of his death.

Of how her mother was bound up and left to scream for her children, only to be struck to her death.

Of her two sisters. One, left to an unseen fate. The other, captured along with Mia herself, only to quail to her death.

The tragedies upon her family, all told with appalling particularity. Only, Mia said very little of herself, and even less of what she had suffered in captivity. I knew then, more than ever, that Mia was indeed a child who cherished her family more so than she did herself.

But it need not be said: this child, too, was victim to viciousness and cruelty, more so than the mind can conceive. That much, I was certain of.

“Mia… You’ve been through much. Truly.”

“…yes…”

There we sat, the weight of the past pressing upon our spirits. After sorting in silence all that she had said, I spoke once more.

“…Mia. What’s done is done. None amongst us can ever hope to change that. All the hurt, all the suffering… The pain of the past never goes away,” I said heavily. “But you know, Mia. The future is different. It can be changed—and by my hands, I will see it done.”

“…”

“Your days yet to come—they’ll all be free of sorrow. And I’ll make sure of it. I promise.”

“…Master…”

In my bosom I then embraced her. The ensuing while, long and wordless, was filled with her weeping. What those tears portended, I could not know. But for her, some comfort, at least, to shed them in the company of another.

“Tell me one more thing, if you can, Mia?” I asked upon seeing her sobs subsided. “The day your village was attacked—when was it?”

“…seventh…” she answered against my chest. “…the seventh… of Visdrekmánuðr…”

“…That long ago, was it?”

Of late, a certain possibility prowled about my mind. Only, something unspoken in my heart stayed my lips from speaking of it.

Visdrekmánuðr.

A month of the Nafílim calendar. That would be four moons ago from this moment.

That meant only one thing.

Mia was taken—nay, abducted, on whose watch but my own.

Rolf Buckmann, Acting Commandant of Balasthea Stronghold, allowed this to happen.

────　Notes　────

Visdrekmánuðr

(Language: Old Norse) “Month of the Wise-Wyrm”. The “ð” is pronounced with a voiced “th” sound, as in the words “this” and “there”.

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