Volume 3 - CH 5.3

A year after their departure, I’d followed in Emilie’s and Brother’s footsteps to the 5th. I remember well what I’d felt then: promise, anticipation… all made pale before my many dour doubts. And for why but dreading what drudgery and injustice Brother might had been brooking.

‘Twas a dark day, then, when that all unfurled afore my very eyes. Slight and contempt, scorn and sport—these all were at once his sole companions, and at another, scars carven full into his flesh with every farcical spar.

But what’d bewildered me most was the bond between Brother and Emilie—that is, what it had become. A pair once so picturesque, now fraught and fractured, bound by what seemed more as bondage than a loving bond.

Emilie: an immediately accoladed dame. Brother: her subservient swain. A mistress and her minion. A relationship misshapen.

Yet it remained a matter without remedy. No, not by Emilie’s power could it’ve been mended, nor by her prestige… nor even by her many protests. Such was our society, our world. I’d desired deeply for Brother to do his part, at the very least. To soothe her sorrows, to solve his situation by any means available. But he’d instead kept silent and endured the disdain, devoting himself full-stolid to his martial disciplines—a cowed escape, a meaningless pursuit, no matter how I measured it.

Less and less I knew his heart.

The heart of my own brother.

The heart of whom I so cherished.

Yet soon were my concerns constricted to my own burdens. The abrupt expectation of my parents, the bearing of House Buckmann’s future… Such unwieldy weights, alleviated only by chivalric merit, by achievement… by results.

Nonetheless, passing under the Order’s portcullis for the very first time, I’d steeled myself against one certainty: a harried, handicapped start. Sister to an ungraced, bloodkin to a black sheep—no doubt such a soul would stoke stares most unsavoury. All the jeers and japery reserved for my brother, soon to be mine to share. And though share I did, so, too, was I pitied. More so than I deserved, perhaps. Thus did I climb the knightly ladder rather unladed.

‘…Yoná has bestowed Her blessings upon you, Officer Buckmann… Proper, unprofane blessings… So I say, let not that man drag you down so…’

Words once offered to me by the Mareschal Tallien.

Our Deiva’s is an even hand, never wont to wield unjust retribution. The Order itself is a bastion to such a belief, its knights fast followers of fairness. And so I abided, going on to earn some repute amongst their number, for it happened that I’d been bequeathed a bounty of odyl. Not to the same degree as Emilie’s, but enough to astonish my peers and superiors all the same.

‘…Globus Igneus…!’

A sphere of flames, kindled by my hand as instructed. But more a wonder in the eyes of my instructor, of all those gathered to bear witness:

‘…Praises upon Yoná…’ one of them had uttered then, ‘…a miracle stands ‘fore us…!’

Burning brilliant in the air above me: my very first conjuration of the Globus Igneus spell, but woven to a size manyfold my instructor’s example. ‘Twas not only generous odyl that I’d been graced with—on that day was discovered my talent for sorcery itself.

One year thence found me a lieutenant, leader to my own brigade division. A worthy promotion for House Buckmann’s next-in-line, and certainly a cause for much celebration. But through another lens, it had only seemed yet another rift opening anew between Brother and myself.

‘…Gh… hhach…!’

‘…Oi…! Back on your trotters, sty-churl…! Training’s only begun…! …Tch…! Better a strawman than you…’

Whilst the gown of fair regard was mine to wear, the gazes of reverence mine to garner, down in the dirt was my brother, steeped in soot and soil… and shame. A woefully often sight, and in beholding it, I’d begun to feel… something, somewhere deep in my bosom…

…icing over. Ever so steadily.

‘…Quite the rising star of late… aren’t you, Felicia…?’

‘…Rising star, indeed…! You are our pride, my dear…! Our joy…!’

‘Tis not too far between the barony and headquarters. Thus did I make certain to return home and meet Mother and Father, time permitting. And on every occasion would their compliments rain my way.

…But only my way.

Brother’s was a name long forsaken upon their lips. But ‘twas not to be helped. Mother and Father could not boast of him, no… They could not… Not for that brother of mine.

‘…Lady Felicia…’

My address, cold with decorum… and spoken in Brother’s own voice.

It’d sat ill with me at first, but with his every utterance of it, less and less its briars began to bite.

Neither of us, nor any at all, can dare sustain our childhood innocence forever. Each winter’s passing brings change—to us, to our hearts…

…to the bonds between us.

…

..

.

.

..

…

…Still.

Still, I wish not to cast him from my sight.

Still, I wish not to abandon him.

Such thoughts I inly intone, as though to convince myself of their sincerity. Yet little convincing is needed: in them is nary a lie. That, I can adamantly declare.

I do not despise my brother. Not at all. In my heart of hearts, I harbour no hate for him.

And as with me, so ‘tis with Emilie. Of this, too, am I most certain.

♰

“…”

…Now.

Now could I hear again the howls of battle, the beating of war-like feet, the fanging of swords and spears.

From afar I watched the fray as it raged where the gate once stood. There, with desperate industry, the Fiefguard toiled to turn the tide of Nafílim, but try as they might, more and more their number bled, more and more their brethren broke, all against the brimming brunt of their foes.

A humbling sight surely unlost to Viola’s eyes. Hers was a high perch upon the watchtower, where to this moment was she dictating the defence with the field commanders. Yet the effort seemed fraught: no sooner after the gate had been unmade that the battle began to boil to its present pitch, with friend and foe alike feverishly mired in a mad mêlée. All advantage offered by our defences was fast fading; through Viola’s fingers was fleeting the fine sand of victory.

Though I thought her hardly at fault. The situation was dire to begin with. Many Fiefguard captains had been cut down in the prior battle. Yet despite scarce time to regroup and reforge the frayed chain of command, the Fiefguard fought rather well under Viola’s watch. But mightier still was the enemy’s momentum. Unchanged, our situation would soon fail.

As if to corroborate my reckoning, there next swelled a chorus from the frontline, terrible as ‘twas sudden. The Fiefguard had foundered. Through their ranks then flooded the Nafílim, breaking brazenly into the camp proper.

Now more than ever, the Fiefguard seemed destined for defeat. And just as destined: the fall of Arbel, the Nafílim occupation of Ström, the loss of Londosian land—a calamity certain to appal our posterity. And to think, that counted amongst the confederates to this historic crisis could be that brother of mine. I had many words for him, if so, and a great many more I should like to hear from him.

For that very purpose had I sued to join this battle, a request heeded only on condition that I standby in this corner of the rearguard. Viola was most loath to let me meet my own brother, I think, and so had disallowed me from lifting even a finger to reinforce her men.

All fine and good, truth be told. Where that brother of mine might appear, I could well-foresee. Turning ‘round, I looked up at his probable destination: the bastille, looming grim and grey against the besmoked skies. Why he would, whether he would—these I ill-guessed. But if for certain he’d made fast friends with the Nafílim, then more certain again would he make haste to this very structure, and there endeavour a deliverance of the prisoners within.

I stood alone here in the open. Gone were the few Fiefguardsmen once manning this post, having hastily headed off to their final reckoning at the fray. But that struggle was theirs and theirs alone to assay. Mine was to wait. For the sharer of my blood. For the inspirer of Viola’s trepidation:

‘…Brigadier…

…That brother of yours has sore-scorned both Crown and kinsmen,

choosing instead to walk the treacher’s way… for why we can never know…

…And in bringing to bear the full brunt of his fearsome prowess

has he made culled and cornered curs of the once-proud Fiefguard…

…Who with right mind, then, should reckon he surrender

when such a storm it is he rides against us…?’

“Fearsome prowess”.

Wielded to “make cornered curs” out of the Fiefguard.

The words of the renowned Zaharte captain herself. And regarding whom but my own brother. Yet in hearing them was I hardly filled with pride and joy—I had but stood, silenced by their meaning. Just as I’d been silent these many past seasons. Silent of trust in Brother’s strength. Silent of praise for all his pains. Silent, like all the others in the Order.

Nay. ‘Twas perhaps jealousy and shame that Viola had teased out of me. A mere sellsword, neither an associate nor an acquaintance of Brother, yet speaking of him as though she’d shared more winters with him than his own sister.

Was it simply that somehow, somewhere deep in my heart, I yet yearned for him? Just as I’d done during our littler years? Was it that too hastily, too capriciously had I despaired at his present pitiableness? At his sheen, sullen and sallowed as ‘twas to his former shine? Such thoughts I’d felt faintly afire in me when Viola pressed for my answer there in the manor.

Yet what recourse did I have? Who was it that failed me? Who was it that fell to arrant frailness? Had my brother remained the lodestar I so adored, would we yet be whirling in woe as we were now?

Mine were not the clouded eyes here, were they? Of course not. My measure of him was most certainly sound. Why, lo—there’s Brother now, hurrying hither. To this very place, to the deliverance of the prisoners—just as prevised.

Yet in seeing him, trouble sooner beset me than cheer, truth be told. Trouble for his coming. Trouble for his presence here upon a battlefield, of all places. ‘Twas all an error; to this moment was he elsewhere, far away on his holiday—a gladness, if so.

But nay. Familiar was his form. Fleet was his faring. Onward he hurried my way, surrounded by what else but a pack of Nafílim fighters—his comrades and escorts, like as not, having just felled in his place the Fiefguardsmen barring their course.

Before long, the two of us stood aface, still and silent. Five months in the making, my reunion with Brother—Rolf Buckmann, the exile.

A rather unremarkable length of time, thinking on it. But one feeling more an eternity from last I’d seen of him at the hearing…

…from last we had words for one another.

“Felicia…?”

“…Brother.”

Never was his face a fountain of expression. Still, in our earlier days, I’d prided myself in guessing his heart with just a single glimpse.

But now…

…no longer could I see the heart behind those eyes.