~Roland ✧ Chapter III~
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Oh Lady Sun, most merciful and wise, please give unto me a morsel of thy strength…
Oh Lady Sun, most merciful and wise, please give unto me a morsel of thy strength—
Over and over do I pathetically pray as I rush through these halls, which at present appear to me like some manner of torture chamber, filled to the brim with clammering bodies and chatterings and shouts too multitudinous to comprehend. It is cursed, wretched—oh, most wretched!—and, I do imagine, shall only grow unbearable once I enter the great hall.
At last, once I do arrive…yes, it is precisely so.
Dismissing mine emotions, gazing upon the scene with objectivity, I am certain it is most jovial and lively: at the end of the hall, before a great tapestry of Our Lady, a spirited ensemble plays merry music. About the tables, throngs of people converse; amidst mine own countrymen, I notice many Folwêšiâns, in their resplendent attire, as the brocade which adorneth many of the glimmers gently beneath the candlelight. As long as I am able to focus upon this, it is most charming—in one corner, I do notice a man speaking to the Folwêšiâns enthusiastically, waving his arms almost like some wild creature; in another corner, do I notice a group teaching the Folwêšiâns how to dance our dances, which they appear to take great interest in. Yet, I can scarcely gaze upon it all for long, for the many sights, sounds, scents—all of it serves to stir mine head, like a stew in a pot—one which hath cooked too long, and now the meat falleth apart into nothing. My vision doth begin to blur, the sounds grow even more indistinct than previously…
Oh, how I do wish I could avoid this whole foolish affair—I am no longer a player in this drama, I retired from that life long ago. It is clear I belong not here, in mine habit most plain, its pale colors speaking to my piety and poverty in equal measure.
With the racing of mine heartbeats, I rush to the most secluded corner which I can find—behind a pillar, against the far corner of the room, against great red curtains.
Oh, My Lady—why must I be the chronicler? Why can His Majesty leave me not in peace!
However…my next thought alarms me so.
If thou wert home, within that small hut that hath become thy cage—wouldst thou have met that kindly Folwêšiân man?
As I consider him, one last time do I gaze upon the party, and see him not anywhere. A strange longing now tucks upon the fringe of mine heart…
How odd indeed; though once did I live in this place, it is the foreigner who hath become a more pleasing companion to me, and not mine own men…
“My, my—why dost thou yearn so sorrowfully, Brother?”
I gasp, taken aback from the interruption of my musing; yet, calm doth cleanse me as wits return, and the familiarity of the voice doth also—that it is one of the few from this place which I retain any fondness for.
“Charles,” I say in greeting, turning aside to face the man.
To the right of me he stands, the one whom, I notice now, doth quite resemble Etsuo, at least in size and stature; yet, I do believe Charles is—somehow—thinner and higher, like a sprightly young tree…
Within this hall, he doth appear almost threatening, as he, like myself, deigns to wear his usual attire, which do not appear especially inviting: robes of pure black, the only blot of color being the deep violet scarf which doth illuminate his illustrious station. He, too, weareth a hood, which in this hall batheth his face in shadow…only the lower part of his dark tan face may I see, framed by the long, wavy strands of his now fully silver hair. Yet, despite the unnerving air which this giveth to him, he still bears a most amiable smile.
“Prêzjêne bon, Béror,” he greets properly now. “A surprise it is to see thee—it hath been an age since thou hast visited my domain.”
“You say as though it taketh not an age to copy a tome,” I smile, swiftly forgetting whatever…queer thoughts had gripped me before.
“Yet thou visitest me no longer; thou merely sendest thy servants to fetch my tomes.”
With this, I gaze to the floor, covered in tiles of white and black—and shame soon overwhelms me…
“Charles…” I mutter, “You know—”
“Aye, I know much—more than thou believest I do, I am certain,” saith he. “Still, there is no reason to let thy shame engulf thee.”
“A-Aye…"
“What business dost thou have here this night? Thou appearest as misplaced in this scene as I.”
I cannot help but shuffle, slightly uneased by his manner. Always had I enjoyed Charles’ company—his intellect is most assuredly great, as he thirsts for knowledge as a common man thirsts for water in the full swell of summer—and this makes him a most intriguing interlocutor indeed. However, I had forgotten the disquieting miasma that clingeth to him, as it doth frequently to scholars, forever locked within their libraries amidst tomes unknown; however, perhaps due to his most high station, and the untold hours he spendeth in study…yes, this especially afflicteth him, despite the affability he otherwise doth project.
“His Majesty did decide that it was I who should be the principal chronicler for this historic visit…”
“That is so?” Charles says, “Thou seemest displeased by this development.”
“…My,” I nearly gasp, gazing away from my companion, and to the many colors which swirl and sway within the great hall. “You remain as perceptive as ever, I see…”
With this, he doth chuckle, most amused—yet, our conversation is swiftly shorn short, as the harsh blast of a horn hails us to our seats.
“Come, Brother,” Charles says, placing his hand upon my back. “I was informed our chronicler would be seated by me—and it doth appear he is thee.”
With this, he leads me through the throngs to our table, set already with a great many cups generously filled with wine, and fine platters rather than the usual trenchers. With resignation and dread do I notice that this table is the one which sits at the far end of the hall, closest to that merry band—where only the most exalted members of the manor sit, including…
With mine head pounding, as my focus doth return to the cacophonous sensations which surround me, I sigh with relief as Charles and I sit at the far end of the table—a respectable, comfortable distance away from His Majesty.
I can help not but gaze down to the plate before me, clear and empty, and wish to make my mind such as well… How frustrating it is that, as much as this is my desire, as much as I wish to be away in peace and quiet and prayer, it is regardless my duty to be here, to remember every inane word which spills from our sovereign’s mouth.
“Art thou well?” Charles whispereth in mine ear after some minutes, “Verily, forgive my frankness—but longing doth drip from thee as water from a washcloth. It is a sorry sight indeed.”
“Merely wish I were home—in the manor of Our Lady, rather than this prison,” I mutter, now shifting mine own gaze to him. At last, may I—at least faintly—see his face, long and sharp, beneath the shadows… From under his shroud do his eyes pierce me with an unnerving sense of awareness.
“That is all?”
I furrow my brow in consternation. “…What else would it be?”
“Nothing,” saith he, and then takes a most delicate sip from his goblet.
This is curious even for him…what about my manner doth concern him so?
I close mine eyes, and sing silent praises as quiet descendeth steadily upon the hall—that is, until footsteps loud resound around us, reflecting from the walls of stone. I gaze up to the sound, only to be thrust into a storm of strange emotions, as I notice it is Etsuo rushing through, worry painted upon his face as obviously as if it were coated in rouge, appearing as rough and uncouth as ever.
Nearly do I feel shame upon his behalf—but, before I may dwell upon it too deeply, the shame is replaced by surprise as he rushes to my side.
“Forgive me!" he says unto me, bereft of breath, “I was…distracted.”
“I see…” I sigh as he seats himself, bearing more nobility now than merely a moment prior.
“…Who is this?” Charles asks now of me, a curious tone tinging his voice.
“This is Taishi Etsuo, or Etsuo…he is the principal chronicler amongst the Folwêšiâns.”
As I speak, I return mine eyes to him—and notice his eyebrows furrowed, mouth pressed into a line straight, and his grassy green eyes piercing me as though he stares into a lake clear and blue.
“May I be of your acquiantance?” I hear Etsuo inquire unto him, his own voice as cheerful as ever.
“I am merely called Charles—no other title necessary,” he facetiously grins.
“…Have you no title?” Etsuo asks in clear confusion.
“He is a scholar, and the principal keeper of the king’s library,” I sigh. “Pay no mind to his mischievousness, he is more affable than he appears.”
Before Etsuo may say another word, the horn resounds again, but now with a pronouncement—
“Arise for our radiant Majesties, bathed in light and blessed with glory by Our Lady, Léon Delaroux de Soléiâ and Mechtild de Pêlplin; and may we rise for our guest most noble and esteemed, of Our Lady’s eastern court: His Highness Tadamichi de Folwêšiâ!”
Mine heartbeat doth quicken, my anxiety reacheth a zenith; to gaze upon Her Majesty once more—no, I can bear it not—
Yet I have not a choice.
With all the others I rise, and to the entrance I face; I assay to turn my gaze away, as well as I may, to look upon His Majesty, or His Highness—or, failing this, at least unfocus mine eyes, and look too deeply to none—
Yet as the trio arrive…mine eyes are only fain to gaze upon her.
She weareth a veil of vivid pure white, upheld on either end as Our Lady doth fashion it, and a gown of glorious gold that sparkles the same as her eyes…
Though many years have passed since our parting, she appeareth little different from my memories, slightly stouter and more worn with age—though rather less so than myself. Her skin, as dark and clear as polished mahogany, warmly gloweth under the candlelight above…
Swiftly, frustration wells within me. Away from this place, within mine home, under the guidance of My Lady true, it is easy to condemn her, to brush away our days as merely a farce—whether due to mine own lust, mine own weakness, or due to her wicked ways, her harlotry, this doth depend on the day…
But, now, with her gentle beauty before mine eyes…the ire melts as ice in spring, and rather pity is planted within mine heart—
Why dost thou appearest so sorrowful?
I roughly bite my lip, and once more glue mine eyes to the plate below. Perhaps this be undecorous—yet I would rather be known as an old insolent monk, so long sequestered away as to forget the civilities of society, than have rumors of my transgressions past revive and haunt me once more…
“Brother,” Etsuo whispers to me, leaning down ever so slightly, “Are you unwell for—”
“Please, mention it not…”
“Yes, well, then…would you wish for me to observe all in your stead, when she is around?”
Now I turn to him, brow furrowed deeply.
“…Why do you offer this?”
“Because you appear most uncomfortable…” he saith with a small frown, “This displeaseth you?”
His face bears an expression of such innocence, understanding…how?
“No, not at all,” I sigh. “You are merely a confounding creature.”
He nearly releases a sharp laugh, yet quickly covers his mouth so that it may be stifled.
“And how so?” he asks now with a grin, most amused.
“Why are you so kind?”
“My…are people so cruel here that kindness itself be a foreign sensation for you?”
“No, it is merely…”
Before I may finish my thought, a light tap do I feel upon mine arm.
“Be careful,” Charles whispers unto me, “Before they notice thy murmuring.”
I simply nod to him.
“…I simply understand it not,” I mutter, ending our conversing with haste.“But…mâzjêrêne.”
…Thank you.
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