Jul 12th, 2030
Brenda lay still, the dull hum of the heat pump and the distant clamor from outside merging into a backdrop of her waking reality. The noise was muffled, distant, filtered through the thick windows of the room designed to offer sanctuary from the world's cacophony. Yet, as the veil of sleep thinned, memories of the previous day surged forward with unrelenting clarity. The loss of Veronika—a presence so vital and so integrated into her daily existence—cast a pall over her spirit, a grief that clung with stubborn persistence.
But it was Otto's voice, distinguishable even amidst the distant ruckus, that pulled her fully back to the waking world. It bore a tone she knew well, one that carried his authority and his distress, a rare combination that signaled the gravity of the situation.
The courtyard scene unfolded in her mind's eye, dominated by the haunting figure of Sophice, suspended in air. Her form, dangled by the ankles in a display both archaic and chillingly effective, served as a stark monument to the consequences of betrayal. This act, born from a tempest of grief and anger, stood as a powerful declaration of Brenda's authority. Otto's distinct voice, cutting through the commotion, heralded his return and the unavoidable reckoning that awaited.
Brenda's reluctance to assume leadership had complicated the manor's power dynamics, leaving Otto in nominal control. Despite her influential role in restoring power—a feat that endowed her with near-legendary status—Sophice remained Otto's partner. Directly executing Sophice would have plunged Brenda into a political quagmire. The responsibility, both grim and necessary, fell to Otto. It appeared increasingly likely that Brenda's destiny was to stand by his side, navigating the intricate web of leadership and loyalty that bound the community together.
Emerging from the bed, Brenda's actions felt mechanical, driven by necessity rather than will. The profound loss of Veronika weighed heavily upon her, casting a somber pall over her spirit. Despite the late hour, marked by the clock at just past 1:00 AM, sleep had been elusive. Her attempt to find rest earlier had been thwarted by restless thoughts and the day’s toll, leaving her drained and weary.
Stepping toward the window, Brenda parted the curtains with a hesitant hand, allowing the torches' light, seven by her count, to infiltrate the room's somberness. Below, the courtyard buzzed with a morbid energy, a collective of faces—some familiar, others not—gathered around the stark figure of Sophice, now a symbol of Brenda's rule and its dark necessities.
Otto's presence, central and commanding, drew her focus. The man who had once offered himself, who had stood by her through turmoil and triumph, now stood as a testament to the complexities of their shared existence. His voice, carrying across the courtyard, was a call to order, an attempt to soothe the raw edges of communal shock.
Sophice appeared conscious but detached, her expressions shifting from confused to absent. Beneath her, an elderly but impressively sturdy man worked to reduce the pressure on her body, a gesture of compassion amidst the grim scenario. Brenda had initially contemplated executing Sophice directly, but the intricate politics of the manor, shaped largely by her own decisions, made such an action politically complex. The manor had regressed to a quasi-fiefdom, blending aspects of traditional master-servant relationships with medieval sovereignty. This regression had begun to reverse with the restoration of electricity, yet the formal structure of hierarchy persisted.
Brenda understood that the forthcoming moments would demand the full spectrum of her capabilities: her steadfastness, her intellect, and her capacity for compassion. She was poised to elucidate, to defend, to grieve openly, and to steer with a balanced hand of strength and sensitivity. Ahead lay a labyrinth of trials, where the anguish of bereavement and the burdens of command were destined to intertwine, challenging her at every turn.
Observing Otto, readying herself to merge with the gathering below, a flicker of hope cut through the fog of her trepidation. United, they would traverse the aftermath of this calamity, address the rifts it had exposed, and, in due course, sculpt a pathway toward reconciliation and comprehension. Retreating from the window, Brenda inhaled deeply, steeling herself for what lay ahead. She was a leader sculpted by adversity, propelled by a sense of obligation, and tightly knit to the fabric of community and affection.
Dressing proved to be a cumbersome process, with Brenda feeling as though she was more an obstacle to herself than anything. However, she eventually made her way downstairs and out the east door towards the courtyard. She had barely descended the front stone steps when she was noticed. A pathway cleared through the crowd of about twenty people, a gesture that could be seen as respect or apprehension. During her time getting dressed, they had already cut down Sophice and placed her on a gurney. Arzt, the doctor brought in by Otto from town, was examining her feet, which had turned black. From what she could gather based on previous encounters, the man who had been supporting Sophice likely was Müett, recognized as Mittenwald's informal law enforcer.
Arzt had seemingly begun his examination at Sophice's head before working his way down to her feet, because he was now standing between her and Otto, engaging him in a serious conversation. "Her feet are beyond saving; I'm fairly certain amputation will be necessary. There's also eye damage that's likely to be permanent. Currently, she's quite incoherent, but a week of rest might alleviate some, if not all, of her confusion. There's also the possibility of kidney damage, but we can't determine that without more invasive methods."
Internally, Brenda screamed, "She doesn't get a week; she dies at dawn," but she forcefully held back her outburst, literally biting her tongue to prevent the words from escaping. Yet, restraining herself consumed much of her patience and tact.
"I had," she started, catching herself before saying 'ordered,' "requested for her to remain hung until morning. We lack a formal brig, and my intention was to ensure a night of safety for myself. Now, without my assigned protection, I find myself at a disadvantage."
From behind her, the nominal doctor interjected, "She would have likely been dead by morning. Even now, her survival isn't guaranteed."
"She would have already met her end by my hand, but I deemed it wasn't my place. This task falls to Otto," Brenda declared with a deliberate loudness, ensuring her voice carried throughout the courtyard.
Otto's face, already a confusing mix of emotions from anger to confusion to duty, now took on a look of terror. "I don't know if I have all the details; there are many conflicts between what I was told in town by my messengers and some I've talked to here," he stated, this part directed to the crowd, sounding almost regal before his tone became more private for the last part, addressed to her, "Can we go upstairs and discuss what happened?"
They remained silent until they had climbed halfway up the stairs. "Jesus, I was only gone for less than a day," Otto said, his tone so drained of life that Brenda couldn't tell if it was a rebuke directed at her or merely a statement of fact.
"Veronika thought your absence was the trigger for her actions. She believed Sophice needed a day without you here. That Wilhelm was away as well was probably just an added bonus for her, or possibly something she didn't even know about. Oh, Wilhelm—this is going to destroy him when he gets back."
She didn't want him in her room, which had become a site of mourning for Veronika, and doubted either of them would be comfortable sitting on the bed that held such heavy memories. Thus, she guided them towards his master bedroom. They walked in silence, each ensnared by their own stormy reflections. Brenda wondered if he viewed their room as a place of mourning for Sophice, though her fate hung in a balance less definite than Brenda would prefer. She harbored a belief, perhaps unfairly, that men didn't experience emotions as profoundly as women did.
"Why did you bring The Ghost?" Brenda’s question hung between them, laced with both curiosity and concern.
"Müett Becker? It seemed like a legal matter, and the whole purpose of my trip was to diminish the 'us versus them' mentality. Presenting the illusion of being under their jurisdiction seemed like it could only help," Otto explained, his voice reflecting a mix of rationale and a hint of defensiveness.
"There's no court or trial, just him. And maybe the Bürgermeister. What happens if things don't go my... our way?" Brenda's question hinted at the unease that lay beneath her calculated facade.
"I’m not even sure what 'my way' is yet," Otto admitted, his voice carrying a note of unexpected bitterness. "And I think they're as afraid of losing our support as we are of losing theirs. Everyone knows you could cut off the power if you wanted. Plus, with you planning to produce crops in winter, people really want to stay on your good side."
The mood in the room shifted as Otto’s words peeled back the layers of their precarious relationship with the town. Brenda mulled over his comments, grasping the delicate balance of power and mutual need that characterized their dealings with Mittenwald. The presence of Becker, underscored the seriousness of their predicament. Known for his silent, efficient manner and backed by professional soldiers with military-grade weapons, Becker represented the law's reach and its potential threat. His role as a silent arbiter of justice, operating from the shadows, made him a potentially formidable adversary should their relationship with the town sour. Otto's approach, fraught with risks, highlighted the fragile dance of diplomacy and deterrence they navigated together.
"If anyone's above the law, it's you," Otto countered, his tone laden with a mixture of frustration and resignation.
"There's nothing to be 'above the law' from. Your simulacrum sexdoll tried to kill me," Brenda retorted sharply, her voice thick with contempt.
"And yet, two people are dead—one at the hand of your protector, and it sounds like Veronika killed herself," Otto added, his words heavy with the weight of the day's tragic outcomes.
"Fuck you," Brenda spat venomously, "end her life tomorrow, or I will. Then you can manage the fallout in our community as you wish."
"So, you believe you are above the law?" Otto's tone carried a challenge.
"We had an understanding that outside these walls, you would lead, but inside, you would defer to me. So, in a sense, yes, I am the law here," Brenda conceded, her frustration mounting at the contentious turn their dialogue had taken.
"Look, I'm in shock—you're grieving, not to mention running on empty. Why don't you go get some sleep, and I'll go sit with my lady?" She noticed the emphasis he put on 'go.'
"You can still call her that?"
"Just go. Go to bed. We both need time to sort out our emotions and feelings, to have a moment to breathe so we can start to think clearly."
4 and a half hours later, the sun's intrusion into her room pulled her from a fitful sleep, and she had no recollection of how she returned to her bed. Her mind might have been so engulfed in turmoil that she was oblivious to her surroundings, or perhaps she had been so close to sleepwalking. Although not fully rested, she was no longer teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Her thoughts had organized enough to allow her to contemplate Veronika's funeral with the same practicality she would apply to sorting through these legal complications.
Wilhelm was due back tomorrow, and she harbored a fervent hope that someone had managed to inform him beforehand. The void left by Veronika's absence was painfully apparent; any successor in the role of protector would inevitably be male and, unlike Veronika, would have to stand guard outside her door alongside Pike. The task of finding another maid who could also serve as a confidant loomed large, yet the thought was too painful to consider immediately. Her room felt achingly empty without Veronika's presence.
"Pike!" she called out.
The prompt thud against the door served as his response. Brenda marveled at his constant vigilance and presence.
"I'm without a go-between, and I haven’t memorized the damned codes. Just come in here," she commanded, her voice a mix of frustration and urgency.
Pike entered tentatively, his eyes darting around the room, half-expecting, half-denying the emptiness he found. "Milady?"
"Relax. The world isn’t ending. I’m not about to cause you harm," Brenda assured him, observing as he comically attempted to loosen his stance.
"I require a new Lady’s Maid—find someone astute enough to select a clever candidate," she instructed, unconcerned about Pike picking up on any implied insult. "She must be capable of keeping her own counsel. Begin the search tomorrow. Also, we need to inject some levity into our current atmosphere. Inform the strongest men that I am in need of a new protector. We’ll determine who it will be through a contest—the last man standing claims the position. It will be held this Sunday at noon in the courtyard. There will be no fatal blows allowed, but beyond that, there are no restrictions. It's a test of both brains and brawn, and they must stay within the courtyard's bounds."
She dismissed Pike and stared out the window at the cut rope dangling from the tree limb. How could Sophice's death present more problems than her life had? It was barely 8 o'clock, and she already found herself contemplating a retreat back to bed. With her eyes closed, she envisioned Sophice, her feet rendered useless, her mind weakened, hovering between life and death. Otto, fraught with emotion, sat by her side holding her tiny hand, his resentment towards Brenda slowly fermenting. How had everything become so disastrously distorted?
She glanced at the cold eggs on her dining table, only vaguely remembering Pike admitting a mousey young maid who had brought her breakfast. Her stomach had been in knots, the mere thought of eating tightening its coils even further. At this moment, she felt as though she might never be hungry again. Her gaze kept drifting to Veronika's bed, akin to a tongue reflexively seeking out an empty tooth socket. She longed for Wilhelm's return; the void left by Veronika's absence was palpable. She craved conversation, a chance to vocalize and untangle the whirlwind of emotions within her. But Wilhelm was away, Veronika was gone, Otto likely wasn't ready to speak with her, and Pike, for all his loyalty, was neither equipped for nor comfortable with deep conversation. The realization hit her: she really should have made more friends by now.
As the sun ascended, the day unfolded in a surreal tapestry, each moment embedding itself into her memory in fragmented snapshots. She recalled the summons, strangely not finding it peculiar; after all, who would have the audacity to summon rather than request her presence? She mused over the peculiar ease with which she had grown accustomed to being dressed by others. Just years ago, she was capable of shearing her sheep, crafting its wool into garments, and adorning herself in these creations without any assistance. Now, the task of slipping into pre-made attire on her own seemed a cumbersome challenge. Nevertheless, she managed, and Pike guided her downstairs to one of the mansion's dignitaries' rooms at the main corridor's termination.
The sitting room, a cozy octagonal chamber bathed in the gentle light filtering through its sole window, offered a tranquil haven from the manor's usual bustle. Centered around a polished wooden table, three plush chairs invited intimate conversations, their arrangement fostering an atmosphere of warmth and privacy. The window, framing views of the northern courtyard’s verdant tranquility, admitted daylight that danced upon the room’s surfaces, highlighting the rich textures of the wood and fabric. With only one door granting entry, the room felt like a secluded world unto itself, a place where time seemed to slow, allowing for reflection and deep connection.
Becker entered with a surprising vitality, tipping his hat in greeting before taking his seat with a casual grace. A figure loomed in the doorway, his presence nearly filling it — a tall man who bore a passing resemblance to an aged Otto. Initially, she presumed him to be one of Becker's associates, but a closer observation of his posture and alertness revealed his purpose: he was there to protect her. This realization brought a nuanced shift in the atmosphere, a silent reassurance mingling with the underlying tension of the impending interrogation.
The Ghost's voice was a distant murmur, failing to grasp her immediate attention. Her focus was repeatedly drawn to the imposing figure in the doorway. He stood as a tangible representation of the looming conflict potential between her domain and the town. Yet, considering the somewhat legendary tales — possibly exaggerated — of Becker's accomplishments, she found herself pondering whether this mountainous guardian stationed at the entrance would pose any significant obstacle to Becker, should the need arise.
Brenda forced herself into the present. In the dimly lit room, furnished with pieces that spoke more of necessity than comfort, Brenda sat across from Becker, the ex-military man known for his succinct manner and keen intellect. The noon light struggled to pierce the heavy curtains, casting elongated shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around the edges of her consciousness.
Becker cleared his throat, a prelude to the interrogation to come. "I understand these past events have been... challenging," he began, his voice a mix of empathy and formality. "But I need to understand what happened from your perspective."
Brenda glanced out the sitting room’s lone window, her view of the northern courtyard momentarily distracting her from Becker’s questioning. The tranquility of the scene outside, perfectly framed by the window, contrasted sharply with the turmoil of her thoughts. The room, with its intimate circle of chairs around the central table, felt like an island of calm, yet her mind was anything but peaceful.
Brenda, her gaze drifting to the window, then to the empty chair beside her — Veronika's chair — felt a pang of loneliness. She yearned for interaction, for a distraction from the tumultuous storm of emotions within her. Yet, the thought of recounting the previous day's events, of giving voice to her grief and guilt, twisted her insides with an almost physical pain.
"Oh, the events... yes, they were... challenging," she echoed, her voice trailing off as her mind wandered to the cold eggs on her dining table that morning, the silence of the room amplifying her solitude. "You know, I had breakfast brought to me today. Cold eggs." She offered a weak smile, an attempt to steer the conversation away from the painful memories.
Becker, eyebrows slightly raised in bemusement, nodded slowly. "I see. However, I'm more interested in the specifics of Sophice's actions and the subsequent... decisions made."
Brenda sighed, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood on the table. "Decisions, yes. There were many decisions. Like choosing breakfast, you know? Eggs or pancakes? But how do you choose when all you can taste is ash?" Her attempt at levity fell flat, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind, away from the questions she dreaded.
The family colors, red and black with accents of silver, were omnipresent throughout the Manor, echoing its legacy in every corner. From the dark hues of red and black mahogany woods to the drapery and the ornate throw rugs, the motif was unmistakable. She found herself drawn now to the large, round rug that dominated much of the room—a striking pastiche of red and black, with intricate silver outlines tracing the edges of the black patterns. Silver fringe adorned its perimeter, lending a refined touch to its bold statement. The rug, with its compelling design, threatened to monopolize her attention, symbolizing the all-encompassing nature of her family's legacy and her place within it.
Becker leaned forward, his patience evident yet finite. "Brenda," he began, adopting a more personal tone, "I'm here to piece together facts, to understand the actions that led to the current situation. Your insights are crucial."
"And I appreciate your company, Becker, really," Brenda replied, a genuine thread of gratitude woven into her words. "It's just that... well, have you ever found it hard to stay on one track? Like when a train jumps its rails and suddenly you're off in the wilderness?" She laughed, a hollow sound that failed to mask the turmoil beneath.
Becker's demeanor softened, his military posture relaxing ever so slightly. "I understand it's difficult, but let's try to focus. Were there any signs that Sophice planned her actions in advance?"
Brenda nodded, her mind briefly aligning with the question. "Signs... yes, there were signs. Like when autumn comes and leaves start to fall, and you know winter is on its way. But it's not the cold I mind, it's the emptiness." Her eyes flicked to the empty chair again, her heart aching for Veronika's steadying presence.
Brenda's eye was captured by a tapestry from the 16th century faded over the ages, basically red and black remained. It was a battle, difficult to make out the factions but it looks like more rams were getting slaughtered than people. Why keep such a grizzly thing, she thought? Wasn't this the part of their history they were trying to forget?
Recognizing the struggle within her, Becker decided to shift tactics. "Let's approach this differently," he suggested. "Tell me about Veronika. What would she have said about all this?"
The mention of Veronika's name grounded Brenda, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of her thoughts. "Veronika," she whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "She was always so...direct. She'd say, 'Brenda, stop dancing around and face it head-on.'"
Inspired by Veronika's imagined advice, Brenda took a deep breath, her gaze meeting Becker's squarely for the first time since the interrogation began. "Alright. Let's face this head-on." And with that resolve, she began to recount the events, the conversation slowly finding its track, guided by the memory of a friend's unyielding spirit.
"I don't have to speculate about what the Berg—she really embraced that nickname—would say. There were things she actually said."
The conversation paused, suspended in the air. Becker waited patiently, then intervened, "And what were those things?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Veronika warned me something was amiss. Pike's post was deserted, and the water supply had ceased. There was something else troubling her too, but I can't quite recall what it was."
"Did Pike often abandon his post?"
"Never."
"He must have taken breaks for meals, sleep, and other necessities," Becker's remark wasn't quite a question, but it carried the inflection of one.
Veronika and I would often jest about it. It's a mystery how he managed it."
"Managed? In the past tense? Has he been dismissed from his duties?" Becker adjusted his sleeves, pulling at the fabric of his button-down shirt to straighten them crisply.
"Heavens, no! He was the victim of a poisoned muffin, courtesy of Sophice's servant..."
Becker disliked interrupting her but needed to maintain clarity in their discussion, "The same servant Veronika dispatched?"
She nodded, her gaze drifting away, her focus momentarily lost in the swirling memories.
"Have you ever had a fresh, warm apple fritter?" she suddenly inquired, apropos of nothing. Without waiting for a response, she continued, "I don’t remember the last time I ate, but suddenly I’m hungry again. That’s probably a good sign. Pike?" Her words flowed in one continuous stream, a reflection of her scattered thoughts.
"Yes, milady," Pike’s voice answered from somewhere in the hallway. She hadn’t seen him, but she knew he’d be there, ever vigilant.
"Two apple fritters on two plates, please. See to it."
"I’m on it. Good to see you're eating again." She had intended to ask him the name of the man standing in the doorway, but the thought slipped through her mind like water through fingers. She tried to grasp it again later, but it eluded her, lost in the shuffle of returning appetite and the comforting prospect of apple fritters.
Becker realized the conversation was slipping from his grasp. He wasn't accustomed to wielding authority so openly, and this scenario was far from the interrogations he knew. Brenda, a figure he recognized solely by her formidable reputation and decisive actions, clearly wasn't in a state to be interrogated. Yet, from his experience, he understood that it was precisely in these moments, when defenses were down and the façade was fractured, that the purest truths emerged, albeit requiring a reservoir of patience. He wished their prior interactions had been on more neutral ground, establishing a rapport that might have made this exchange less one-sided. Last night, amidst the charged atmosphere of the courtyard, he had keenly observed her—her command was undeniable, marking her as the linchpin of Tal der Ruhe.
As Brenda’s gaze drifted, lost in thought, Becker seized the moment to recalibrate his approach. It dawned on him that Brenda needed to talk, perhaps more for her own sake than for his inquiry. If he could just keep her speaking, inevitably, she might divulge something critical. This realization demanded from him a level of patience he wasn't accustomed to exercising. The thought briefly haunted him: what if, in this fragile state, she revealed something damning? What then? He had no clear answer, entangled as he was in the complexity of the situation and his own moral compass.
These were indeed extraordinary times, he reflected, contemplating his own transgressions which, like hers, were born out of necessity rather than malice. Brenda had rekindled power, was at the forefront of projects to mitigate the water scarcity in winter, and championed the innovation of solar greenhouses for year-round sustenance. Such contributions were not only invaluable but indispensable. This was not a person to be ostracized from society. In acknowledging her essential role, Becker understood that his duty was not to judge but to listen, to learn, and perhaps, to assist. This meeting, while fraught with the tension of official scrutiny, held the potential for a pivotal alliance, one forged in the acknowledgment of shared objectives and mutual respect.
Despite the nuanced understanding Becker had reached, the matter of precedence still loomed large. It was an irony not lost on him that on the cusp of negotiating the bounds of Mittenwald's jurisdiction over Tal der Ruhe—before any semblance of agreement had been etched, much less codified—he found himself in the position of rendering judgment on a crime committed within its domain. Thus, he resolved to deliver a verdict, establishing the prerogative, while leaving the minutiae of their agreement to be detailed later. This decision, pragmatic as it was, underscored the precarious balance between maintaining order and navigating the evolving dynamics of their relationship.
As Brenda continued to speak, Becker devoted himself to listening, recognizing the importance of this moment not just for the legalities at hand, but for understanding the fabric of Tal der Ruhe and its de facto leader. The situation, complex as it was, afforded him a rare glimpse into the personal struggles and triumphs behind Brenda's public facade.
And so, amidst the weighty considerations of justice and governance, there was a moment of simple human connection. They shared apple fritters, indulging in the warm, comforting flavors that seemed, for a brief interlude, to bridge the gap between their worlds. The tea, served in dainty China cups, lent an air of civility and normalcy to their meeting—a stark contrast to the gravity of their discussions. Its delightful orange color played with the light. And the citrusy aroma filled the air. This gesture of shared sustenance, while small, was a testament to the potential for understanding and cooperation, even in the most extraordinary of circumstances.
For five uninterrupted hours, they engaged in deep conversation, occasionally meandering through the courtyard to relish the fresh air, accompanied by the heavy, sweet scent of rare white lilac trees—majestically standing one in each quadrant, enveloping them in its intoxicating fragrance. Their day was punctuated with the enjoyment of a delightful dinner, rounding off a period of connection and reflection. The day's serenity, undisturbed by outsiders, was a testament to the respect and discipline of their respective lieutenants, and Becker's walkie-talkie remained conspicuously silent.
As the hours unwound, Brenda's narrative clarity improved markedly, though the emotional toll was evident. Through their extensive dialogue, Becker gained not only a detailed account of the preceding day's turmoil but also a deep insight into the inner workings of the Manor and a comprehensive sketch of Brenda's life. Had he ever had descendants, he could easily envision her in the role of a granddaughter—a significant acknowledgment from a man of his disposition.
The day's discussions culminated with a unique endeavor: employing an aerial drone to investigate the pump house. Housed within a briefcase that also contained the control mechanism and a monitor affixed to the inside lid, the drone offered them a remote view into the site of conflict. As the drone buzzed and navigated the confined space, Brenda narrated the events that had unfolded within those walls, her voice steady over the drone's mechanical whir. This innovative approach not only underscored the gravity of the situation but also highlighted Becker's adaptability and resourcefulness in seeking the truth. Through this blend of personal interaction and technological investigation, Becker not only pieced together the narrative of the Manor's recent crisis but also forged an unexpected connection with its formidable matriarch.
The situation had crystallized for Becker. While there were minor details yet to be finalized, he anticipated no startling revelations. Sophice's guilt was evident, yet her current condition — crippled and nearly incapacitated — posed a moral dilemma. What kind of society did they aspire to be? This question lingered in the air, its weight shared not just by him but by the community at large.
"Given her current state, what do you think should happen to Sophice?" he asked, seeking Brenda's perspective.
"I don't want this to sound vengeful, although there is an element of that," she began, taking his hand to underscore the gravity of her next words. "You have to understand that I think of her as me. The feral me of four years ago. When I think about what she would do, I think about what I would do. And if that was me lying there, having trouble thinking, being half blind and crippled with nothing but time, I'd be plotting a way to kill the woman who made me this way. Regardless of her state, she's dangerous. I'd kill her myself, but that’s politically problematic. I’d like Otto to kill her." She paused, allowing the magnitude of her statement to fully permeate the conversation.
Her words, delivered with a raw honesty, shed light on the complexity of their predicament. Brenda’s comparison of Sophice to her own former self, the "feral" version from years past, was revealing. It highlighted not just a personal vendetta but a pragmatic recognition of the threat Sophice continued to pose, even in her diminished capacity. Brenda's reluctance to personally exact revenge, citing the political intricacies of their community, underscored the delicate balance of power and justice they navigated.
Becker absorbed her perspective, understanding that the decision regarding Sophice extended beyond mere punishment; it was about safeguarding the future of Tal der Ruhe and defining the values that would guide their society. Brenda's suggestion that Otto be the one to enact the final judgment added another layer to the already complex dynamics of leadership, loyalty, and responsibility within their community.
"If it's weighing on your mind, I'll let you know that I've decided Sophice is guilty. However, I'm less certain about what her fate should be. I think I should discuss this with Otto and perhaps Irma."
"Just like that? You’ve decided the matter of jurisdiction and are ready to play judge, jury, and executioner?" Brenda’s response held echoes of her old self, almost palpable in the room.
"Until someone tells me otherwise," he replied, attempting a gentle smile, "until we have a formal system in place, I'm the only one I trust. And I believe you'll agree that the stakes are nothing less than the future of our Commonwealth."
"Commonwealth," she echoed thoughtfully, the term resonating with her. "I think I like the sound of that. And just to factor this into your thinking—if you're considering leniency, in my view, she has forfeited all rights to any of our resources. If you don't end her, we're under no obligation to sustain her. If no one steps forward to care for her, feed her, and keep her safe, then nature takes its course."
Brenda’s words, stark and uncompromising, laid bare the gravity of the situation. Her mention of a “Commonwealth” hinted at a vision of collective responsibility and mutual support, but also underscored a harsh reality: in their fledgling society, resources were precious, and mercy had its limits. This wasn't just about retribution; it was about the allocation of scarce resources and the collective well-being of their community. Brenda’s stance, while harsh, was grounded in the stark realities of their circumstances, presenting Becker with a crucial, yet grim, aspect to consider in his deliberation over Sophice’s fate.
"It's been an unusually pleasant day, Miss Myers, but if you don't mind, I think I should go talk to your..." His voice trailed off as he mentally shuffled through several potential titles and their corresponding relationships.
"Friend," Brenda interjected, offering him a graceful exit from his predicament. "Thank you for asking, and thank you for your patience and presence. You may leave."
In the intricate ballet of monarchs, who is the first to bow? And what significance does it carry when one does? The subtleties of politics drained her. She longed for Otto's presence, wishing he was here with her instead of with... her. The room felt too large without Veronika, too quiet without Wilhelm's counsel, and too cold without the warmth of companionship she now realized she had taken for granted. Brenda sank into a chair, the day's events swirling in her mind like leaves caught in a storm. The decisions that lay ahead, the judgments to be made, the alliances to be forged or broken—all these weighed heavily on her shoulders, a mantle of leadership she had not sought but now found herself wearing.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Brenda realized the journey ahead was hers to navigate, fraught with challenges and uncertainties, but also with the potential for renewal and growth. The Commonwealth, a term full of promise and solidarity, offered a vision for the future, a beacon guiding her through the tumultuous waters of governance and survival.
With a deep breath, Brenda rose from her chair, her resolve strengthening. She would face each day, each decision, with the courage and determination that had brought her this far. And in the quiet moments, when the weight of her role threatened to overwhelm her, she would remember Veronika's unwavering spirit, Otto's steadfast support, and the collective strength of a community united in purpose. The path forward was uncharted, but Brenda Myers, leader of Tal der Ruhe, was ready to lead the way, guided by the principles of justice, compassion, and the enduring hope for a better tomorrow.