Elaine shivered, pulling the frayed black shawl tighter around her
thin shoulders. The carriage jolted without warning, nearly knocking Sturm
out of her lap. The coarse and uncivilized coach driver, all they could
afford, paid his passengers no mind, seeming to seek out rather than trying
to avoid the pitfalls and bumps on the dirt trail, which were made no
better by the driving rain.
Elaine sighed bitterly, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening. She looked down at the child sleeping in her arms. Little Sturm was too young, he would not understand what had befallen for years to come. He did not know that he would never see his father again. Unable to do anything but shake with tears that would no longer come, she stared out the coach window, or tried to through the storm.
It was fitting of the gods that she be sent off this day, in this accursed rain. Elaine tried to pray, tried to remember how. She wished she knew, wished the gods would answer. Auguste had tried to preach about Paladine and Mishikal and their sons, Kiri Joliath and Habbakkuk, to her, only to receive murmered disinterest in return. Gods, she would give anything to hear that lecture again, or even just the sound of his voice. The anger Elaine had felt all day at the loss of her husband was beginning to subside, only to be replaced with anguish. She weeped bitterly, finding that her tears had yet to run out. As she cried, she began to remember. Elaine did not want to remember, the pain was too fresh, but the memories came, flowing on and on.
***
A very unladylike word flew from Elaine's lips as yet another wooden soldier was crushed underfoot. She sighed in exasperation, "Sturm, please be a good boy and put these away now. I told you never to leave them out, and now look, one is broke."
"Yes, Mother," the pudgy little four-year-old replied sullenly. Elaine sighed. She was always irritable these days, even with her little son. She bent down swiftly, her long skirts billowing around her as she pulled the child close.
"My son, I am sorry I am so cross these days. Much is going on that you are still too little to worry about. You must try to not get upset if I am angry with you. I just want you to be a big, strong boy."
"A knight," the boy corrected, a pout still on his face. "I am going to be a knight, Mother."
Elaine rose and smiled, falling into a deep curtsy. "Forgive me, milord. A knight." He nodded seriously, and then bowed. Elaine chuckled to herself quietly, only to be joined heartily by a booming laughter behind her. She spun slowly, and meandered demurely towards her husband and lord, Sir Auguste Brightblade. "Greetings, milord. How are you this fair morn?" she asked, curtseying again just as deeply.
Hiding his chuckle deep within his long, flowing mustache, Auguste bowed rigidly, and rose still smiling. " 'Tis a fine morn, indeed, milady." He held out his arm, and led Elaine from the room where Sturm had quietly gone back to his toy soldiers. He was making believe the broken one was wounded in battle, much to his mother's amusement.
"He will be a knight someday, and a fine one at that," Elaine muttered, with such pride as only a mother knows. Sturm's father just shook his head quietly. "Auguste, what is it? Is there news?"
The knight's normally warm brown eyes were forboding as he spoke. "Tis worse than we feared. The Knights of the Rose are more torn than ever. If they do not appoint a Grand Master soon, there will be nothing left for one to preside over. The High Clerist and the High Justice are further divided than ever before, and dragging the knighthood down with them." Auguste's usually smiling face was buried in his hands as he sighed.
Elaine patted his stiff shoulder gently. "Where do you stand?"
"Between the two, as always. The High Clerist is a doddering fool who wants to retreat from the world, like the elves. The High Justice is determined to start a war with whoever we can. The hobgoblins seem to be his favorite target at the moment, but no doubt it will be the elves or dwarves next! Est solarus oth mithas. My honor is my life. Have they ever heard it, either of them? The Oath and the Measure demand we show neither cowardice nor foolhardiness. Showing both at once is tearing us in twain."
"Will it rip you in half as well?" Auguste did not answer, did not need to. His silence spoke volumes. Elaine moved to him, and he held her close. His arms, muscled and rigid from many battles, made her feel safe, and the faint scent of leather and steel was comforting.
Elaine had grown up the daughter of a minor noble, a scribe. Her father had not wished her to marry a knight. "Take a husband who won't get himself killed in battle," was the only thing she could remember him saying about her future. She would have listened, but watching several jousts involving a certain young knight convinced her otherwise. Her father had argued bitterly over her choice; he had even refused to pay her dowry in the end. It turned out Auguste had been smitten by her pale face and dark hair, and he convinced old Heror Brightblade that a dowry was unneccesary.
"It matters not," Auguste whispered huskily, holding his wife close. "It matters not."
Elaine sighed bitterly, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening. She looked down at the child sleeping in her arms. Little Sturm was too young, he would not understand what had befallen for years to come. He did not know that he would never see his father again. Unable to do anything but shake with tears that would no longer come, she stared out the coach window, or tried to through the storm.
It was fitting of the gods that she be sent off this day, in this accursed rain. Elaine tried to pray, tried to remember how. She wished she knew, wished the gods would answer. Auguste had tried to preach about Paladine and Mishikal and their sons, Kiri Joliath and Habbakkuk, to her, only to receive murmered disinterest in return. Gods, she would give anything to hear that lecture again, or even just the sound of his voice. The anger Elaine had felt all day at the loss of her husband was beginning to subside, only to be replaced with anguish. She weeped bitterly, finding that her tears had yet to run out. As she cried, she began to remember. Elaine did not want to remember, the pain was too fresh, but the memories came, flowing on and on.
***
A very unladylike word flew from Elaine's lips as yet another wooden soldier was crushed underfoot. She sighed in exasperation, "Sturm, please be a good boy and put these away now. I told you never to leave them out, and now look, one is broke."
"Yes, Mother," the pudgy little four-year-old replied sullenly. Elaine sighed. She was always irritable these days, even with her little son. She bent down swiftly, her long skirts billowing around her as she pulled the child close.
"My son, I am sorry I am so cross these days. Much is going on that you are still too little to worry about. You must try to not get upset if I am angry with you. I just want you to be a big, strong boy."
"A knight," the boy corrected, a pout still on his face. "I am going to be a knight, Mother."
Elaine rose and smiled, falling into a deep curtsy. "Forgive me, milord. A knight." He nodded seriously, and then bowed. Elaine chuckled to herself quietly, only to be joined heartily by a booming laughter behind her. She spun slowly, and meandered demurely towards her husband and lord, Sir Auguste Brightblade. "Greetings, milord. How are you this fair morn?" she asked, curtseying again just as deeply.
Hiding his chuckle deep within his long, flowing mustache, Auguste bowed rigidly, and rose still smiling. " 'Tis a fine morn, indeed, milady." He held out his arm, and led Elaine from the room where Sturm had quietly gone back to his toy soldiers. He was making believe the broken one was wounded in battle, much to his mother's amusement.
"He will be a knight someday, and a fine one at that," Elaine muttered, with such pride as only a mother knows. Sturm's father just shook his head quietly. "Auguste, what is it? Is there news?"
The knight's normally warm brown eyes were forboding as he spoke. "Tis worse than we feared. The Knights of the Rose are more torn than ever. If they do not appoint a Grand Master soon, there will be nothing left for one to preside over. The High Clerist and the High Justice are further divided than ever before, and dragging the knighthood down with them." Auguste's usually smiling face was buried in his hands as he sighed.
Elaine patted his stiff shoulder gently. "Where do you stand?"
"Between the two, as always. The High Clerist is a doddering fool who wants to retreat from the world, like the elves. The High Justice is determined to start a war with whoever we can. The hobgoblins seem to be his favorite target at the moment, but no doubt it will be the elves or dwarves next! Est solarus oth mithas. My honor is my life. Have they ever heard it, either of them? The Oath and the Measure demand we show neither cowardice nor foolhardiness. Showing both at once is tearing us in twain."
"Will it rip you in half as well?" Auguste did not answer, did not need to. His silence spoke volumes. Elaine moved to him, and he held her close. His arms, muscled and rigid from many battles, made her feel safe, and the faint scent of leather and steel was comforting.
Elaine had grown up the daughter of a minor noble, a scribe. Her father had not wished her to marry a knight. "Take a husband who won't get himself killed in battle," was the only thing she could remember him saying about her future. She would have listened, but watching several jousts involving a certain young knight convinced her otherwise. Her father had argued bitterly over her choice; he had even refused to pay her dowry in the end. It turned out Auguste had been smitten by her pale face and dark hair, and he convinced old Heror Brightblade that a dowry was unneccesary.
"It matters not," Auguste whispered huskily, holding his wife close. "It matters not."