Having unscrewed the canister of his pen, his hand brought a small glass pot closer. He dipped the canister into the pool of black ink, and pressed a button. By some mysterious mechanism, the ink was drawn into the cartridge as if it were an automatic syringe. Before long, it was filled. The glass pot was pushed aside, and the canister was precisely returned to the body of the pen, screwed tightly into position. Another button was clicked a few times, and a bead of ink was released from the pen’s mouth. The man waved his hand over the parchment, which was branded with a noble sigil. His words were written in an eloquently kind manner, colouring the page with sentences that were precisely measured out. Near the middle of the column, the colour of its words was light, and starting from there again, its author ran his hand flat along the parchment, straightening the sheet before placing the tip of his pen on its surface to rewrite his words. He felt that this letter was to be his final draft, confident that the version in progress was to be the one he could seal.
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 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 in the least annoyed. He certainly could have done better with some silence, but a single sigh was enough to let out all his would-be anger. Calmly, the passive man resumed his work when another knock interrupted him, but the noise originated 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 handle turned and the door swung open. Entering it was a soldier. A wall of light followed him and brought the study into its warm embrace, but when he stepped forward, he did not shut the door behind him.
The inexperienced soldier delivered his report as he stood to attention. “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?)” The man, who seemed to be the garrison commander based on the badge on his desk, repeated his words, 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 put in a standoff).” He described their situation, which sounded dire.
Setting his pen down 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 revealed a man in his thirties whose eyes were small but not deceitful. His nose was straight, unlike a crooked criminal’s, and his hair was brushed aside, which let his every expression be seen. A noble’s aura exuded a rare scent of honesty that was helped by his attire nothing more worthy than that of his civilian rank, yet he was not so underdressed that it would bring shame to him. He may have been no soldier despite his military office, but he seemed to be a man of righteousness and principles. He deemed what he had heard insufficient evidence to judge the matter, and he lifted his head intently. The look in his eyes demanded more information.
The messenger 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, and it looked to have caught the lord’s unwavering attention.
Unsure of why he should have a 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 him.
“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 for themselves.)” The captain’s counsel was also repeated.
“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 received an apology from the noble lord, who averted his eyes from the soldier, fearing it would appear as though he had scolded the messenger for someone else’s actions.
The young lord sighed and stopped fidgeting with his ring. His shoulders slacked and his body slouched as if all energy had left his body in an instant. He quietly moved his pen into its container and placed his pot of ink over the parchment so it would not flutter away. His chair was pushed back when he stood up, but he stopped 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. He felt his entire body tremble as he stretched his arms and legs like an old machine whirring to start as he continued around his desk towards the doorway, his footsteps echoing on the red stone tiles. His soldier clicked his heels and lowered his head in obeisance before accompanying the garrison commander out of his room. Turning around a corner, into the sun, they moved west, and their shadows changed.269Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiCD2DzXgPT
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