RP:Sorrow's Pilgrims

Part of the Rise of Larket Arc

Summary: Shaken over Frostmaw's peace accord with Larket, young Rorin challenges Queen Hildegarde. Lionel appears and together the boy's elders speak him down from his hatred. When the 'pilgrim' leaves the room, Hildegarde grants Lionel two important tasks for the days to come.

Frostmaw: Frozen Throne

Rorin stormed his way past giants through the massive double doors to the throne room. His boots clomped through the circular room with much more noise than Rorin usually cared to make. The guards were unsettled- it was perhaps more than a little unusual for a scout to stomp their way up to the queen, weapons at his side and silver and blue armor donned on his limbs. Rorin threw his shield down, the crest of the snow maiden emblazoned on it's face, as he planted the tip of his lance into the floor. "Who do you think you are?!" His voice bellowed as the ground broke under it. "Who do you think you are?!" He screamed again, yanking off his face mask for the first time in front of the queen of frostmaw. Rorin was no grizzled soldier nor a war veteran. He was a sixteen yesr old boy without a wrinkle or a scar on his young unblemished face. "What is this?!" He asked through the tears streaming down his face while he held up a document. It was the publishment of the treaty between Larket and Frostmaw. "How dare you do this?!" He seemed unable to speak without dire distress under his voice, "how dare you do this to me?!" He tore up the sheet and spat on it as he stomped it into the floor. "Do you know what I have to do? Do you know who I am to the people I have to speak to? I have to send them a banner and a few words. I'm sorry ma'am, I did not see your sons face. I'm sorry you're a widowed mother. Your brother or your son or your hysband couldn't be found on the battlefield." He was seething, trembling under the weight of his own words. "Who do you think you are to do this to me? To these people?" He had nothing else to do, he wanted to move, to hit something. "Do you know who I am? For every family I speak to I am death. I am the reason every one of them do not return home, I am the reason each of them do not have a body to put in a grave. But I do not have a reason for them. I didn't train your boy hard enough. I didn't teach him what orders not to listen to. I didn't do my job," he was sobbing now, openly, showing so much himility and hurt in front of a woman he'd only spoken to twice. How could this have happened? How could he have not prayed hard enough? Not taught them to live long enough? Why did it have to be hia fault they weren't coming home?

Hildegarde had been in the middle of an important discussion with her trusted council: merchants of power, soldiers and warriors of great renown within Frostmaw, Captain of her Queensguard and other figureheads of power within the City of War when Rorin came charging up and began to cry out at the top of his voice. With a miniature gesture, the council is dismissed and hurriedly abandon the Queen to her business with the crying boy. Lisbeth, Captain of the Queensguard, remains within the room for she will not easily abandon her charge. Hildegarde waits in silence for Rorin to finish talking, rising out of her throne as he sobbed openly. “You are Rorin. Squire to Lionel O’Connor, paladin and devotee to the gods,” she told him, though he likely did not need this answer. “And do you know who I am, Rorin? Do you know?” she asked him, her voice grave and low. “You know little of war,” she tells him. “You have seen death. You have known death. But you are a novice in it. Do not presume to tell me that you *are* death! I have been at this far longer than you have been, boy, I am the one who has commanded armies and led men to their deaths; I am the one who has put many to the sword and I am the one who has broken bread and shed tears with the families of the dead. Do not presume to think you are the only one to have done this!” she tells him, the butt of her halberd thumping against the floor as if to add emphasis to her words. “I do this for the survival of Frostmaw, for the hearts of the people. Do you wish to be King? Do you wish to wage war endlessly, hm? Because let me tell you, boy, it is no easy thing. I have done what is best for Frostmaw and for the realm. Have some damn wisdom to recognise I have done the right thing and stop thinking with your bloody sword for a minute!”

Lionel || In the days since the Battle for the Bridge, Lionel has alternated between restless and well-rested. He seems to flit back and forth like a pendulum. It feels like forever since he’s just sat down. So, Lionel sits. At Síocháin, he reclines with books and cider and ale. His dwarven compatriots try their best to cater to his every whim… but that’s not Lionel O’Connor. He will never be a man to be waited-on. These thoughts trickle more feelings over Briar; he’d never have survived four months thirteen days as Frostmaw’s Knight-Commander without her. And really, that’s just it -- the woman was meticulous. She kept track of -everything,- including the number of days since they’d met. It rolls over him like a storm. Brand visits. Catal is discussed, Lithrydel discussed, all of it without the pity Lionel so loathes. It feels good. Alvina visits. That, too, feels good. A few days roll into, and out from, one-another in a blend. Dawn gives way to dusk and dusk reverts to dawn. The rolling feels good, too, but not entirely satisfying. It isn’t like Lionel -- not anymore -- to be elsewhere when political machination is manifest. When Tratt Milous, senior of his dwarves, rushes home to notify Lionel of the pending peace talks, Lionel contemplates how the ‘him’ of six months ago would have reacted. ‘Let them talk. When the evil spreads, I’ll cut it off at the neck.’ The words feel alien in his mind. It simply isn’t true anymore. He wants an active role in the discourse, not just the derring do. And he’s lost that. He’s lost hundreds of lives, he’s lost Briar Ku Risu, and he’s lost -that.- Letters arrive at Síocháin, hastily written with the results of Hildegarde’s negotiations. Much of the text, he’s expected. There are elements, however, which disturb him even more than the rest. Before he knows it, Lionel is dressing himself for travel. In his customary black silks, he hops into his carriage, drives the horse himself, and returns. And what a return this is. As he arrives, and as gatherers flock out from the throne room in remarkable haste, and as he hears the tail end of the queen’s reply, Lionel’s heart sinks in silent knowing as to whom it must be that she speaks. With the door opened and the Catalian charging forward in his stride, he mouths a single word, desperately. “Rorin.” If the squire should turn, he’ll see a knight who is begging him, reconsider.

Rorin cared little for figureheads and nobiles. He cared not for merchants and 'people of power'. He cared for empty homes and stones over empty coffins. He cared for men and women who were his friends. Who he had sent to their deaths. Every night drinking and training and every tale of home. Every life that would never rest. Never be at peace. Because of him. "I have the wisdom to know you are weak. I know that these are not Larkets Terms of Surrender," he sneered despite his tears, "I know that I cannot look our people in the eye and say someone died for a good cause. That Frostmaw did the right thing. All I can say is that you left a madman to play king. A tyrant to do as he wished. I could not walk the streets of Larket and wish them peace for I see nothing but those without faith and fear in their hearts. Because we did not win," he trembled, he could barely breath, "what did our people die for? Why have my friends died?" He grasped her by the collar, unable to hold himself together, he collapsed. "Why does Macon get to live?" He melted onto the floor. A soldier reduced to the boy he had been. A killer peeled away to reveal the child still within. "Why does Macon get to live?" He asked again, on his knees with one hand on the queen and the other a wet fist on the floor."

Hildegarde does not care for the sneer nor the words of Rorin. He may call her weak but she knows otherwise. As he grips her collar, the knight stands stonily still even as Lisbeth grips the hilt of her blade in preparation to intervene. As he melts onto the floor, the Silver dips slightly with him in order to prevent discomfort. “Listen to me, Rorin,” she tells him. “You tell me the terms of the agreement. Tell me. And I will tell you why I acted.”

Lionel clenches his open palm into a fist at Rorin’s transgressions. As above, so below -- the fault of the squire rests firmly on his knight. Standing here in witness to Rorin’s outbursts, Lionel cannot endure. “Rorin,” he repeats, before the boy can answer the queen’s request. And as he speaks, the Hero of Hellfire steps briskly, deliberate stride toward the pair. “Your first mistake is believing she is weak. I know she is not. I would not have come back if she were.” Whether he means this as reference to a return to the light here in Lithrydel or his arrival here today, Lionel is not clear. By now, he is fairly close, and his face is etched in sorrow. “My queen,” Lionel remarks, and he bows even in walking. His eyes flicker to her for the duration of that bow and then descend upon Rorin like a remorseful viper. “The burden is not yours alone. The guilt will -never- be yours alone. The lives lost are -not- lost because you did not train them well enough to live. That is rarely the way of things in war -- and there are other wars to come. With Macon? I cannot say. For now, he gets what he can, but he gets less than he’d have had were he bargaining with someone of lesser spirit than Hildegarde. This isn’t about bleeding in vain, Rorin.” He’s hovering over the boy now, his feet on opposing steps toward the queen’s chair. Has he positioned himself with discretion toward her protection? It might seem that way. Still, it’s unlikely the Catalian thinks the queen can’t protect herself just fine, either way. “This is about ending the bloodshed for long enough that we may heal. Macon’s day will come. Whatever dark force compels him will end. Somehow, some way. I don’t have all the answers. But there will always be evil in this land.” His tone abruptly changes. “And if you, in your sadness, grab Queen Hildegarde like that again, I cannot guarantee I will have you at my side when the need is great for good men and good women to stand against that evil.” He pauses. “Do I make myself clear?”

Rorin searched for answers in Hildegardes eyes. "Why does Macon get to live? Have my friends died for nothing? What did we win? Please," he beggee her, "tell me what we've won. Tell me what these people were worth to you," he had some hope somewhere. He had some thing that lived inside him that wanted nothing more than to hear a comforting word. Anything to put him at peace. To let his heart rest. Under all his despair there was something that still hoped she could say anything that woukd let him know. Let him know just what to say, just how he could still hold his head up high. He was a boy who had made others pay the ultimate price. He blamed himself. That was his duty. This was his service. Lionel cuts in like a knife and his words are like a maul. "Yes, sir," Rorin would speak roughly through a closed throat. Somehow he knows he has done wrong. The squire would look broken for a moment, lifeless and hung like a doll. Slowly he would stand and turn towards the door. "Excuse me, my lady." His words were carefully plucked and his mind returned to a position of duty. "I have interrupted your proceedings. I apologize." He was not sorry for what he said, not yet. That time would come. "Perhaps I should go. Thank you sir Lionel," for putting me in my place, he thought. He was not excused yet and could not leave. But perhaps his transgression had cut deeper than he believed. Time would tell and words from broken hearts would spill. Until then he did not know. Not who he was. Nor what he could do.

Hildegarde glanced at Lionel as he spoke and technically interrupted her. She did not appreciate it right at this moment, not when she was in the middle of trying to prove her point! So as Rorin rose up off the ground and stood tall, so too did Hildegarde. “I made a deal to prevent further bloodshed. When you have been fighting as long as I have, you will one day understand this. Macon lives for now,” she emphasises the ‘for now’ aspect. “We have something that he wants. We need time to strengthen our forces. Why do you speak to me as if I am a moron?” she asks him sincerely. “Do you think me weak because I am a woman? Do you forget that I have fought more wars than you have? Do you forget that I conquered this City of War in order to become its Queen? Do you? Then consider yourself reminded.” Hildegarde now looks between Lionel and Rorin, as if she were addressing the two of them. “I wish you would put more faith in me, rather than spend your time judging me and questioning me. I have faith and trust in you, but I do not have it back.”

Lionel blinks to suppress his sorrows. On one side of the man is a squire who knows the rage of tears. On the other is a woman, his queen, whose faith has been shaken in them both. Between them, he purses his lips and glances to and fro. He knows Rorin’s tumult; he knows Hildegarde’s meaningful gestures. He recognizes them both too well -- he’s spent enough time with monarch and soldier alike that neither need speak in order for him to understand. Lionel turns toward Hildegarde, but rather than adding more words to the flames, he simply lowers his head in quiet respect. His stance is rigid, stressed. His face is guilt, apology. And he retreats downward from the steps he has taken, to stand beside Rorin, as if to recognize his place is no longer so close to her as all this -- but still he will serve. “You will have it,” is all he says, and his head remains lowered as he looks to Rorin with a nod.

Rorin had gotten through to her. These were not a queen and the squire of her knight. This was a woman and a boy. No matter who they were what they had been through was of a difference much more substantial than mere words could say. Rorins shoulders were high for no other reason than to put his head low. "I believed I was stronger. That Frostmaw was stronger. That we would not forgive. Because we will never forget our fallen." The truth played out between his words. He had emptied himself. He was lesser. He was the one who was weak. What he needed was to be reassured. Despite his battles he was still just a child. "I cannot tell you..." where did his faith lay? Where was his strength? "Thank you." Was all he could tell her. For now he would walk and he would fight. Fighting was perhaps all he could do. It was true he had not considered Hildegarde as a woman. As another feeling being. He had only thought if her as a queen. Now that she spoke... was that how he seemed? That he thought her a moron? An idiot ready to surrender a war? No. He had come here not to judge her but to hate. And the truth became that he did not hate her. He hated this part of himself. Faith. This was the first time Rorin would question if he truly had it.

Hildegarde looked between the pair and waited in silence for a moment. “Frostmaw is strong because it can forgive, but it does not forget,” she tells Rorin firmly. “We must stop looking for a fight and do what is right for our people: which means we need time. This peace treaty has purchased us that time and I intend to use that time wisely. When you can show that you have faith in me, that you can trust and respect me, I will divulge my plan to you both. Until then?” the knight sighed, “Until then, we must continue to rebuild and strengthen our city.” The Silver reclaimed her throne, sitting down with a heavy sigh. “You may go if you wish,” she tells Rorin, before looking at Lionel, “You will stay.”

Lionel raises himself higher as he listens to the queen’s wisdom. There is a deep cant of the head when she mentions a plan to be revealed at some later time. Lionel has set his heart upon Frostmaw as the perch from which to worry over all Lithrydel. It is unlikely that he will ever remove himself of that perch unless it is mandated -- and he is thankful such a thing has not transpired. As such, he will await the point in which Hildegarde is comfortable speaking to him of such things. He will await and he will worry and he will watch. Lionel will use the contacts he has built up since his return and collectively they will keep a vigil from Rynvale to Chartsend. All-the-while, he will serve. She asks him to stay; Lionel tilts slightly, near-imperceptibly, a curiosity forming on his countenance. He keeps it mild so as to remain poised. “Yes, my queen.”

Rorin did not know what to think. Forgive but do not forget. Rebuild. And when the time came... It was not his path to search for a fight. It was his place to follow. "Your enemies are my enemies. Your wars are mine," he recited. This was a knights oath. He was a paladin. Kings and queens meant nothing under gods. But this was a war of where his heart should stand. "Please, excuse me." He concluded their meeting with nothing but a hand on Lionels shoulder should the once commander let it lay there. He was sorry. But that was not right to say. Rorin would take his leave, pacing solidly in a solemn kind of despair. There was much to think of.

Hildegarde waited for Rorin to leave for exhaling audibly. It was difficult to deal with the raw emotions of the boy, particularly in these trying times. She had done it all before, she had even been in his position before: ranting at the Queen and demanding that more be done, only to have an all too similar conversation. “You have heard about the treaty? Do you know the ins and outs?” she asks of Lionel, not quite looking at him.

Lionel allows Rorin’s hand to stay there as long as it is needed. As the boy departs, the man considers. All those times he had raged against the proverbial machine come flooding back to him in recollection. Rorin, if Lionel’s gauge is accurate, will outgrow it and become a far wiser man than he. The doors close and the queen’s questions are overheard. Lionel recomposes himself into an affirmative nod. “The broad terms, yes. Frostmaw pays for Larket’s repairs.” He winces. “I should probably, um, donate generously toward that end. Heh.” He clears his throat. “We recognize Macon as a rightful ruler.” He sneers lightly, but suppresses the worst of it. “If Kelovath is found, he’s theirs.” A complicated emotion comes over him for that one. Josleen has spoken to him in confidence of her suspicions, just as she has with the queen. “...the Thane marries the Usurper-King.” He’s uneasy.

Hildegarde nodded as Lionel recounted the agreed terms. “We can pay for the repairs. They didn’t say it needed to be gold, so I can pay as I like for that. I have plenty for that,” gems, furs, meats, they all had a financial worth. Macon didn’t say she could not pay the value of the repairs in meats! Not that she would stoop so low. “We are to repair the fort wall and half the bridge. It could be worse, but it’s not too heavy. It will delay our own repairs, though,” she thinks aloud. The sneer in regards to recognising Macon expresses Hildegarde’s thoughts on the matter, it is not something she is all too pleased about but what can she do? “He is the ruler. He has won Larket over and there is little we can do to stop that, considering there is no other heir. Let him have it. But Macon said if Kelovath was captured in Frostmaw, not found. So only if we capture him… do we return him,” she said, wagging her finger at Lionel. He would catch her meaning, surely. “Yes. The Thane marries the *King*,” she corrects him politely, “and hopefully she can keep Larket looking upon us with a kind eye until we are strong again.”

Lionel takes it all in, thoughtfully. “Our own repairs,” he repeats, considerate of that need. “Five Catalian dwarves form a kind of… retinue of mine, I guess you could call it. They found me not long after I came back. They built my own house -- someday you ought to see it, they’re good cooks, too -- and, well, anyway, I could task them toward restoring Frostmaw. Or maybe the portions of Larket, instead. They aren’t Frostmawian, nor do they wear the banners as such. They -do- respect you and the rule of law here but they’re technically unaffiliated. It might go over better… I don’t know.” He chuckles dryly for going on overlong about such a thing. That bit with Kelovath is given only a knowing smile. Even still, Lionel should like to have some answers over that at some point… but it’s not worth mentioning just now. If Kelovath is seen, Lionel will intend to tell Hildegarde and to go from there. They’ve both heard Josleen. Speaking of which… “I worry for her,” he admits, briefly gazing elsewhere. “Thane Josleen, I mean. I worry.”

Hildegarde nodded at the thought of sending the dwarves to Larket, then quickly shook her head. “No, we will send giants and our own men. Let Larket see it as penance. The dwarves can do masterful work here in Frostmaw, Larket will receive standard labour,” it was petty, but it was strategy at its best. Although Lionel was not the only one who worried for Josleen, Hildegarde was perhaps the only one who so truly despised this union. She didn’t like the idea of Josleen marrying. Particularly marrying someone like Macon. Was it the fact that Josleen was not marrying someone like her? Or her? Or was it simply because she felt Josleen deserved better? Who knew. “It is frightening, yes. But she has accepted his proposal. And we cannot do much about it, not without falling back into war.”

Lionel immediately registers the queen’s intelligence in keeping the dwarves here instead. It’s so clear he’s surprised he hadn’t realized it in the first place. He’s certainly without reason to ever suspect Hildegarde might harbor deeper sentiments over Josleen than he currently figures, so there is only more slow nodding and a dawning determination. “My queen.” Lionel returns his attention to her directly, pauses, and sighs. “I’m sorry.” Another slight pause, just a second or so but it’s there for a reason. “What would you have of me, right now? Today? This week, the next month -- anything you need taken care of, tell me and I’ll do it. There are no shortage of missions out there, reasons to help, reasons to travel. But my place, no matter rank or power or right, is first and foremost to do your bidding.” One last pause. “Please.”

Hildegarde said to Lionel, "I need you to find me a terramancer. Or a skilled stonemason. I do not want it advertised loudly, but I want such an individual found and hired into our services, If there is more than one, fine. But find me those with the skill."

Lionel can feel a brow furrow in soft wonder, but he has no reason to question anything Hildegarde ever does -- and certainly not something like this. For the repairs, he reckons, and it's as well to leave it at that. "It will be done." And now, the reason Lionel believes he had departed his estate in the first place... even if he'd not been consciously aware at the time. His heart is always three steps ahead, as it were. "If you could but do me one further kindness, beyond what has already been done. Please, tell whoever it is that is appointed Knight-Commander that... the fallen deserve a great and meaningful funeral, and soon."

Hildegarde shook her head, “The position of Knight-Commander remains empty for now,” she looks at him, as if to imply that it is empty for a reason. “I suspect Lisbeth might appreciate the help of a man who was there at the fight in organising a funeral,” she is giving him these liberties, that much is clear.

Lionel swallows to refrain from breaking composure. Moments like these, he’s raw passion. In front of most anyone else, he’d conceal it, but she has always been different. Reverent. Towering. He couldn’t don that kind of mask if he tried. “I think I know a guy,” he replies, his words catching in his throat and breaking. “...W-will there be anything else, queen?”

Hildegarde said to Lionel, "Find me Rorin's measurements. He needs armour befitting a paladin of Frostmaw. That'll be all."