The Ball

[garentoft 8352]

THE BALL

 

An artist’s depiction of the Celebration at Otistadt, 372 ES.

 

Spoiler

 

 

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The sun had moved to a high position over the Rimeveld hills that surrounded Otistadt. The cold winds of the Rimeveld, along with tiny flakes of snow that landed gently in Harren’s lap. The wheelchair’s wheels crunched against the path of dirt and gravel that led to the Ludovar keep. He looked behind himself to Adalia as they arrived near a particularly icy stretch of path, “Be careful.” He said, “I do niet want vy breaking vyr legs too.” He jested, chuckling quietly.

 

She had marched down the hill, and set herself beside him in the grass, overlooking the Ibor Strat. He hadn’t wanted to speak with her, and had sat there in the hopes that she wouldn’t find him. Nevertheless, she had searched, and she had found. Even such a small gesture was surprisingly meaningful to him. 

 

They spoke for a few hours by the riverside, about what his cousin had told him only hours prior. She had explained herself to him, and while it had taken a while of convincing, he came to realise her motivations, of what had really occurred. All seeds of doubt were ripped from the ground, replaced only with the blossoming seed of understanding.

 

That poem he had stuffed in his pocket earlier, From Oren to Greyspine, a short piece about his struggle with being apart from her for long periods of time due to his occupation, was swiftly removed from his pocket, and presented to her to read. He could tell by her face that she had adored the poem, and that had made him immensely happy. He planned to write more as soon as he returned to Providence, there was still hope he would be able to present some to her at their wedding, like he had originally planned to do.

 

She had departed later, she was an Alderwoman, after all, and had to attend the Royal Duma before the ball in Otistadt that would conclude the Lifstala. Harren was then, once more, left alone with his thoughts. As much as Harren had his fears that she would leave him, that he wasn’t good enough and she would find someone else, those fears were reciprocated by her. He considered that perhaps they were both equally scared of it.

 

It was as he had hoped. He had ripped the roots from that rotten, doubt-ridden tree, and, in turn, they had been able to plant a new tree. One that would grow from understanding and dedication. Communication and cooperation. This tree would not spring from either of them, but serve as an intertwined growth from them both.

 

And then they arrived at Otistadt, a small group had gathered outside the castle, waiting patiently to be let in by the Ludovars. Adalia rolled him inside and parked him against the wall, standing there by his side as they locked hands. The celebration was spent primarily doing two things, armwrestling and dancing.

 

The armwrestling had come first, and Harren had been one of the earliest competitors, armwrestling against the Count Ludovar. But he was not much of a warrior, he never had been, and he never would be. The pen was mightier than the sword, after all. Despite some embarrassment from his defeat, Adalia reassured him and partook as well, though she would also go on to lose, he would reassure her in turn, just as she had him.

 

Then came the dancing. Harren had made up his mind as soon as they arrived, he would attempt to stand from the wheelchair and dance. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to, and even if he was, if it was wise to do so, but the thought was not one that bothered him much. While he had to endure some pain, he managed to dance with Adalia. His head was almost entirely rid of thoughts. The only thing on his mind was her, him and her, the two of them, we, us.

 

And when towards the end, Lord Ludovar asked if there were any engagement announcements from anyone at the celebration, the two concluded with a simple: “We are getting married.”