Unscrewing the canister of a pen, gently, a small glass pot was brought closer, slowly, and in no rush, the canister was dipped into the pool of black ink. A button was pressed and by some mysterious mechanism, the ink was drawn into the cartridge as if it was an automatic syringe. Before long, it was filled. The glass pot was pushed aside and the canister was precisely returned into the body of the pen, screwed tightly into position. Where an index finger laid, another button was clicked a few times and a bead of ink was released from the pen’s mouth. Drying the ink on the page, the man waved his hand over the parchment which was branded with a noble sigil. His words were put in the kindest and most respectful manner, coloring the page with sentences each measured out to be of the same length running down the sheet. Near the middle, the color of its words were light until the ink was no more, and starting from there again, its author ran his hand flat along the parchment, straightening out the sheet before placing the tip of his pen on its surface returning to his writing. Lightly stroking and leaving trails of more words, he felt that this was to be his final draft. Many failures of his had been tossed aside into a pile, confident that this version in progress was to be the one. The sunlight that coursed through his window moved across his desk like a hand on a clock. For hours he had toiled, hoping that his project would be completed before the evening. However, since noon had struck, some commotion troubled him. It felt as though it was loudly knocking on his head yet he did not appear even at the least annoyed. He certainly could have done better with some silence but a single sigh was enough to have let out all his would-be anger. Calmly, the passive man continued in his work when he was interrupted by another knock. But this came from his door. His brow twitched having been disturbed twice in succession, testing the thick patience he may have had, when a second knock followed mistaking that he had not heard the first.
Taking a breath, the writer relaxed his hand and sat upright. “Bjeden tu rænkommen. (Enter.)” He permitted, speaking in an upper-class dialect.
The door handle turned and the door swung open. Entered was a soldier and behind him was released a wall of light that commanded the study in its complete embrace. But when the soldier stepped forward, he did not shut the door behind him, whether purposefully or not, to let all hear what he had to say.
Brought to attention, the inexperienced soldier delivered his report, “Frærer jegisk, fændne es aned wurisk dorne. (My lord, the enemy is at our gates.)” Bluntly, the messenger repeated as he was told.
“Fændne? (The enemy?)” Who appeared to be the garrison commander from the badge on his desk, he repeated, unsure if he had heard him correctly.
“Ja, dejes akdtæng soldadne, klæded en…fremdisk klædingne… (Yes, they number eighty strong, dressed in…unfamiliar clothing…)” Giving a firm nod, the messenger added from his own record. “Weres enen paten. (We are now pit in a standoff).” He described the situation that seemed immediately dire.
Setting his pen on his desk, the garrison commander gradually moved forward, leaning over his parchment. His hands were held together, rubbing the ring on his fourth finger. The light then revealed a man of his thirties whose eyes were small but undeceitful. His nose was straight unlike a crooked criminal’s and his hair was brushed aside that let his every expression be seen. A noble’s aura exuded a rare scent of honesty that was helped by his being dressed in the attire of nothing more worthy than that of his civilian rank, yet he was not so underdressed that would bear him the shame of an aristocrat pretending to be a commoner. He may have been no soldier despite his military office and appeared scholarly in stature, but he seemed to be a man of righteousness and principles from appearance and his air alone. Honest in his post, he deemed what he heard insufficient to judge and raised his head, intently. The look in his eyes demanded more information.
Having noticed his slight gesture, the messenger took a breath and straightened his back even more. “En fændisk kan kennen Dænisk, henes junge, aben haben fremdkleneg. (One of them speaks our language, a boy, however accented.)” He mentioned what looked to have caught the lord’s unwavering attention.
Unsure of his own part to play in this matter, the garrison commander frowned. “Und wares dej relaubednej. (Then why have we not let them in?)” The young lord questioned.
“De kapidæng haben enegsd dadet kan en lisd. (The captain fears that it is a trap.)” He replied in a tone agreeing with his commander. “Dad, en henedumdreren, de fændne wille reoberer wurisk maureeding. (That, in the minute we lower our guard, they will seize this fortress as theirs.)” The counsel that the captain had received was repeated for his knowing as well.
“Eb de fændne willed enegræfen, dej willed enegræfed wit fræhæd, und sikreed æntusettednej akdtæng soldadne. (If the enemy wished to attack, they would have done so openly, and certainly not with eighty men.)” The garrison commander dismissed the threat as quick as the glint of the sun on his glass came and left. “Ak, bæber jegeb falsk, esed de fændne ennej Græsburg nuk wjer dagne inged. (And if I am not wrong, were they not in Tschrewa just four days ago?)” He remembered also.
Looking down to his feet in embarrassment, in silence, it felt as if he was the one who had wronged his commander, but the truth was far from it. He attained the apology of the noble lord who averted his sight away from the soldier fearing that it seemed like he had admonished the mere messenger for something another had done. The young lord sighed and stopped fidgeting with his ring. His shoulders slacked and his body slouched. As if all air and energy had left his body in an instant, he quietly moved his pen into a container and placed his pot of ink over the parchment so it would not flutter away.
His chair was pushed back when he stood but he held there for a while. “Jeg wille sær de dumuldne wit augne jegisk. (I shall see to this commotion myself.)” Shaking his head, he decided.
The lord had not risen from his chair since morning and perhaps it was time for his body to move. Even as slight a movement as standing up was required a stretch as blood rushed down to his legs. He felt his entire self tremble like an old machine whirring to start as he continued around his desk and walked towards the doorway, his footsteps echoing on the red stone tiles on the floor. His soldier clicked his heels and lowered his head in obeyance before accompanying the garrison commander out of his room. Turning around a corner, into the sun, they moved west, and their shadows changed.68Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFi1AUuaMCx
