[PK] WHO FIGHTS, RESTS

[juliaINC 592]

 

WHO FIGHTS, RESTS

 

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Saint Emma,

Your Faith you wielded as 

A weapon greater than spear or seax;

Teach us pious brothers and sisters,

How virtue can be

Sharper than steel,

As quick as a bolt, 

And unyielding as the tallest shield.

 

Spoiler

 

NE STEP AFTER ANOTHER. Mud-caked boots of the warband shuffled forward in rhythm. Young Isolde’s gloved hands trembled as she gripped her spear too tightly, her armor weighing heavier with every breath. Her gaze darted across the bushy treeline.

“Johanna, with me,” Commanded Warchief Wilhelm. “The rest of you, remain posted until ordered.”
Isolde glanced at her sister-in-arms, then to Wilhelm, searching their faces for reassurance. She had never sought glory, and yet here she stood, awaiting their return as they disappeared among the trees. What had compelled her to come?

To her right stood Princess Adalfriede of Minitz. Isolde straightened, unwilling to lose face. Moments passed in taut silence before the sharp whoosh of arrows cut through the air, striking down Johanna and Wilhelm.
“Onwards, with haste!”

The warband surged forward, shields raised against the onslaught. Step after step, Isolde struggled to keep pace, her boots slipping in the churned mud. Leaves rustled and boots thumped as chaos erupted—a band of Franks descended upon them.
“Ambush! Slay them, slay them all!”

The clash of metal on wood rang out in a wild cacophony. Two men turned toward Isolde, her hesitant stance drawing their attention like wolves scenting prey. She backed a step, her grip tightening on the spear until her knuckles ached.
Who rests, rusts. The thought flared briefly, sharp as the cold air. Now, there would be no resting for Isolde.

One of them lunged. Instinct took over. She swung her spear in a wide arc, clumsy but enough to make him stumble. Her heart raced as she stepped forward, sweat dripping from her brow. She drove the spear into the soft flesh beneath his throat.
The man gurgled, sagging against her spear before crumpling to the ground. Blood splattered her boots, mingling with the mud.

The second man charged. She struck again, the point of her weapon sinking into his chest. He fell with a gasp, his body limp.

Isolde stood over the corpses, her breath ragged. The rush of victory surged through her, strange and unfamiliar. She dared not look at their faces, only at her boots, where the mud ran red with their blood.

The weight of Isolde’s Adalfriede-gifted spear never felt so familiar yet so heavy. She traced the engraved image of her first kill, the blood-stained victory which granted her the regard of Princess Adalfriede, and a place in her hird. Now, the years of glory felt like an eternity ago, as did the fading memory of Adalfriede’s face.

The clinking of armor, the murmur of commands, the hurried stomps of boots—each sound amplified in her ears as the warriors gathered to face the band of Thunder Warriors.

The attack began with the piercing roar of a warhorn, men ascended the walls and rained fire potions at the men of Roland Thunder.

She wasn’t young anymore; her body betrayed her with every motion, the joints aching as she marched into the gatehouse, shield and spear at the ready. Her gaze flickered across the line of men and set upon a youthful shieldmaiden. She was younger, eager, her eyes burning with the thrill of fighting the band of Thunder Warriors.

The heavy doors groaned open, and the sounds of the impending battle seeped through the cracks. Another distant horn, low and mournful, echoed in the cold air, signaling the clash of steel.

The warband surged forward, and the ground beneath them shook with the weight of their steps, Isolde felt it in her bones. The world had narrowed down to this—her, the spear, and the men who would fight beside her.

She cut through the line of Thunder Warriors, leaving one dead, and pressed onward to their Leader. Steel clashed as they met, her strikes fierce and determined. A shadow of her younger self surged within her as she feinted, aiming a thrust toward his exposed side.

But the Leader was a formidable foe, skilled and unyielding. He turned her blows aside with ease, and with a swift, brutal stroke, shattered her spear into splinters.

Anger flared within her as she stared at the broken shaft, the last link to Adalfriede reduced to dust. Though tired and weak, she summoned all that remained of her strength for one final charge, hurling her weight against him.

But the man was young and well-trained. He sidestepped her attack, his blade flashing upward to pierce her throat.

She stumbled, her vision fading as the weight of the world pressed down. The last thing she saw was the Leader’s muddy boots, wet with blood. A strange solace washed over her as the clashing of metal slowed and the images around her blurred. In this moment, she was certain—she had fought, died a warrior, not as an old, sickly woman. And in that certainty, she found peace. At last, Isolde could rest.

 

 

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[crazedpudding 2512]

Frederica becrossed herself with the Lorraine, muttering a quiet prayer for the hirdwoman. 

[alienescence 1415]

The woman Mother Josefina had known since she was a small child, had died an honorable, albeit harsh death. When Isolde's body was done being cared for, Josefina wept and prayed over the warrior's body.

[Toffee 2843]

Hoofbeats echoed through the Ferdenwald, Isolde and Adalfriede riding side by side across that yet uncharted terrain. They reached a crest of a hill and a sea of purple unfolded before them, all the way to the distant river and the ice-capped mountains beyond. Heather, Isolde said, snapping off a sprig and giving it to Adalfriede. They continued on, past the flat clearing that would one day be Kretzen, and came to rest on a land bridge, their feet dangling over the edge. They spoke of everything and nothing. Men. Children. The way the water played across the rocks below, the wide river becoming a thunderous waterfall. Duty. Honour. Deceit.

 

Isolde had been her first friend, when Adalfriede hadn't been sure she was capable of such a thing. She welcomed her honoured hirdman into the Skies, that woman who had taught modern Reinmar the meaning of the word shieldmaiden. The first words she spoke?

 

"You did not rest, and you did not rust."

[Morphine 823]

Oswald, while never really knowing his great-aunt very well, took time to reflect upon her achievements in life and arranged for a proper farewell come the time of her funeral.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the skies, Roland greets his Reinmaren sister with open arms, happy to see her once more!

[hopey 364]

Catherine Severa, who had known Isolde since youth, trembled upon hearing the news. Feeble and aged, most of her memories waned. Yet throughout all her years, Isolde’s kindness lingered like the sun's warmth; vibrant and ever blossoming. She would know no serenity in Isolde’s absence, for when the sun is to set, sleep couldn’t dare reach her. 

 

“Oh, Isolde. . .” Was all Catherine could bleat, a lump overwhelming the back of her throat. Only bitter grief consumed the elderly Stassionite; an ache too impossible to shake.

 

[Plausifraunz 361]

She did not die on that hill that day. Those Franks had failed to kill her. Rather atop the pyre she burned. She perished in rust, rather than fight. A failure she saw herself as yet in Isolde the true life she wished she had. Not jealousy, but pride and joy.

"And so we shall meet again old friend," Johanna perhaps mulled in the seven skies, "I ever do wonder, shall we bellyache one last time?"

[rep2k 3192]

Witmar stood in solemn silence, the parchment trembling faintly in his gloved hands. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came forth - not yet.

 

"A book and... spectacles," he muttered under his breath, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth before it faded just as quickly. "Mother, even in passing, you find a way to make me happy. You're the one keeping me humble, oh it is true."

 

Slowly, Witmar folded the will with care, tucking it into the folds of his priestly robes. He turned to face the empty altar before him, his voice steady but low, carrying the weight of both his faith and his sorrow.

 

"May the Skies welcome you, Mother, though I doubt even the heavens will escape your sharp tongue. Rest well... and danke."

 

With deliberate steps, Witmar approached the altar. He lingered there, head bowed, the faint scent of incense filling the air as the priest stood between his duty to the divine and the raw ache of a son mourning his mother.

[ViewerDiscretion_ 248]

"Oh sister..." Varik sighs, gazing into the hearth before him. "I had so hoped to speak with you again." With that, he slumps deeper into his seat, reminiscing on the old days. "Through battle and strife, you stood proud, since that day you climbed the tower."

[Sarven 2619]

Theodemar signed the cross as he watched on with grief at the grave, but he steeled himself, for the Duke had not the time to dawdle in sorrow.