Jul 13th, 2030
"She recognized me last night. A lot of the blood has drained from her eyes," Otto attempted to break the uncomfortable silence that loomed over breakfast.
"Just keep pouring vinegar on my wounds," Brenda chided. The mood, much like the air, was chilly. In Bavaria, the climate seemed governed by whims rather than predictable patterns, oscillating between two distinct moods: the penetrating chill of cold-cold seasons and the deceptive warmth of hot-cold times. The former could swiftly transition from a sharp bite in the air to a deep bone-chill, capable of frosting flesh in an instant. The latter, meanwhile, swung unpredictably; a morning's sweat could freeze by noon, depending on whether the wind decided to whisper down the valleys or roar from the icy peaks. This mercurial weather painted a backdrop of relentless change, mirroring the volatility of their current lives.
"You don't hear me complaining about you holding games while she's undergoing an amputation," Otto responded. His voice carried a mix of resignation and a plea for understanding. He wasn't looking for an argument; in truth, he yearned for a sympathetic ear. Yet, he understood that sympathy was too much to expect under the circumstances.
"I believe you just did, in your own passive-aggressive way," Brenda countered sharply. Unlike Otto, she was spoiling for a fight, her words like a match struck in the dry tinder of their strained relationship.
The tension between them seemed to crystallize with every word, every glance that darted across the breakfast table like a sharp icicle. The chill in the air, amplified by the biting Alpine breeze, mirrored the frostiness of their interactions, a tangible representation of the rift that had formed between them.
Getting no satisfaction from the silence that followed, Brenda verbally charged, her words slicing through the cold morning air with precision. "And I suppose you'd prefer I handle this with the same gentle hand you've shown? This isn't about what's fair or kind, Otto. It's about survival. You picked the girl that was like me, remember? In this situation, I'd damn sure find a way to kill me. There is only one solution. Why you torture her by keeping her alive, I have no idea." Of course, she knew why—he had feelings, maybe even love, beyond the reflection of his love for Brenda. But she knew the words would hurt him.
Otto's face tightened, the muscles around his jaw clenching visibly. He seemed to be searching for a retort, something to counter Brenda's cutting remarks, but the words eluded him. Instead, he redirected his focus to the plate before him, the uneaten food suddenly appearing as unpalatable as the conversation.
For Brenda's part, she had been cutting her mutton into smaller and smaller pieces. When they were too small to get on a fork's tine, she absentmindedly pushed them around.
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with unspoken grievances and the weight of decisions made in the heat of crisis. The wind whistled through the gaps, an unwelcome spectator to the domestic discord. Brenda, feeling the sting of her own words as much as their intended target, sighed deeply, her gaze shifting to the window and the rugged landscape beyond.
Otto sensed there might be some jealousy between Brenda and Sophice but was smart enough to know that voicing that would greatly amplify Brenda's anger. Escalation was her goal, not his.
"The 'games'," she began again, her tone softer, tinged with a hint of remorse, "are not a celebration. I need a new protector, and I need a smart one. Veronika's shoes are large to fill, and yes, I thought a trial of brain and brawn would find me the best candidate. And why not make it a spectacle? The crowd could use some levity."
Otto looked up, his eyes meeting Brenda's with a mix of resignation and understanding. "And what of her?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper, as if afraid to shatter the fragile peace that had begun to form between them. "What happens after... after the amputation?"
Brenda's eyes darkened, a shadow passing over her face as she contemplated the question. "If we are very lucky, the trauma kills her. She'll be spared knowing she was once much more than she is, and you'll be spared having to put her down." There was not the slightest hint of question in that final declaration.
The breakfast table, once a haven of shared meals and discussions about mundane matters, had morphed into an ideological battleground, reflecting the profound shifts in their circumstances. As they persisted in their pretense of eating, the silence between them spoke volumes.
Pike gave two sharp raps on the doorless doorframe.
"Speak," Brenda commanded, her gaze unwaveringly locked with Otto's.
"Wilhelm's back."
Instantly, her focus shifted, her eyes snapping towards Pike. "Where?"
"In your room - or his."
Before Pike could fully articulate his sentence, Brenda was already on her feet, her pace swift as she climbed the stairs, with him trailing behind in an attempt to keep up.
She flung open her door, nearly colliding with the figure standing just outside. A frail old man barely dodged the swinging door.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" Brenda's concern was palpable as she frantically checked him over, her hands patting his arms through the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.
"You missed me by a good couple of millimeters. You'll need to pick up the pace if you're aiming to catch me," the old man replied with a grin, the warmth in his voice cutting through the tension.
Pike, observing from the doorway, was taken aback as Brenda playfully snatched off Wilhelm's hat, planting kisses on his thinning crown.
"For the first time since I was sixteen, I wish I was straight," Wilhelm chuckled, basking in the affection, though he eventually protested the hug was getting painful.
"You've heard?" Brenda's voice dropped to a somber tone, a shadow falling over her excitement.
Wilhelm's eyes misted over, the gravity of the situation settling in. "I heard. Do you want me to end her? There's not much they can do to me that time isn't already."
"Heaven forbid! I need you now more than ever. We're having a contest in a few hours to find a new protector, and Pike here is on the hunt for a lady's maid."
"Pike?" Wilhelm turned, his attention shifting. "How’s that going for you?"
"Not as well as I'd hoped," Pike admitted with a hint of defeat.
"Would you mind if I took that off your hands?"
"Yes! I mean, no. Please do. Thank you," Pike responded, relief washing over him.
Brenda caught Wilhelm's gaze drifting to the empty bed, a silent reminder of their loss. "Let’s not dwell on that today. Today we celebrate your return. Tomorrow we'll hold her memorial."
"Having the contest the day before the memorial seems badly timed," Wilhelm said, his voice reflecting the frankness he had gradually grown accustomed to, the morning light filtering softly through the window highlighting the lines of concern on his face.
"Oh, you have been missed, Willy," Brenda smiled, appreciating his barely filtered honesty. She poured him another cup of tea, the steam swirling between them like a veil of warmth in the cool room. "And it couldn't be helped. I could neither speed up the memorial in case her body was needed as evidence, nor could I delay assigning a protector..."
"Is that an official designation now?" Wilhelm asked, taking the cup with a nod of thanks, his gaze fixed on her with a mix of curiosity and concern.
"I have no idea. I don't know what Veronika's title was. I always thought of it as 'The Berg,' but I'll be damned in hell before I call somebody else that. It feels like she's fundamentally changed the position," Brenda confessed, her gaze drifting to the seat Veronika once occupied, the emptiness there a tangible reminder of their loss.
"That she did. 'Personal Guard' is what the post used to be known as. Did it need to be a contest?" Wilhelm probed further, setting his cup down with a gentle clink against the saucer, signaling his full attention.
"At the time, I wasn't thinking particularly clearly, and it felt like a win-win. I got protection, and the community got some distraction. I hadn't thought yet about the memorial. And you know how these things are; it looks very bad to change a decision like that—especially one made at such close timing. Which also holds true of the memorial." Brenda's voice trailed off, a shadow of regret passing over her face as she considered the timing and its implications, the weight of leadership heavy in her tone.
"I looked at the flyer on the way in. I can see where not allowing anyone else in the courtyard spares both interference possibilities and the chance that someone uninvolved might accidentally get injured. But why are the spectators not allowed to throw them items from the windows?" Wilhelm inquired, his curiosity piqued as he glanced towards the window, imagining the scene that would unfold below.
"Mostly to stop them from feeding them. This is to be a game of brains, and I don't want them to take the easy, smart route by hiding until almost everyone is wiped out. If they don't get to eat till it's over, then all of them hiding ceases to be a strategy," Brenda explained, her strategy revealing a deeper layer of thought into the contest's rules, her eyes reflecting the tactical mindset behind her decision.
"I knew you'd have an intelligent reason, even if I couldn't see it myself," Wilhelm smiled, his expression one of admiration and a touch of pride, much like a family member recognizing the foresight in a loved one's decisions.
"Pike? Would you mind fetching us some black coffee and creamy Kuchen?" Brenda asked, her voice carrying through the open doorway.
"Two or three portions, Milady?" Pike dared to inquire, a subtle acknowledgment of the long days they've all endured and the welcome boost a dose of caffeine might provide.
"Three portions? Oh, I'm sorry, Pike. I often forget you might be hungry too. It's odd, but I don't think we've ever actually seen you eat. Please, feel free to grab something for yourself whenever you're getting food for us. Or anytime, really. You know your duties better than anyone," Brenda added, her realization of the oversight bringing a gentle, humanizing correction to her earlier assumption.
Pike, with a slight smile that strangely added years to his appearance, nodded in acknowledgment. "I had suspected as much," he admitted, "but it's reassuring to hear it directly."
As Pike stepped away, Brenda caught the faint sound of his voice, likely passing on her request to another staff member. The soft murmur of his instructions faded into the background, leaving her with a renewed appreciation for the quiet efficiency that defined Pike's service.
In Veronika's absence, Brenda saw Pike in a new light, not just as a dependable function but as a person. Upon reflection, she realized he was probably only a couple of years older than she was. He possessed a quality, possibly practiced, that was soothing yet forgettable; he could blend into the background. His medium build and alert dark eyes suggested a quiet competence she had underestimated, especially his intelligence. Brenda had mistaken his lack of fanciful ideas for simplicity, but now recognized that his grounded perspective and attention to detail were precisely what made him excellent in his role. His loyalty, once assumed, now appeared as a profound personal commitment, adding depth to his character. Pike's discreet presence and judicious actions, she realized, were not just duties performed but reflected a thoughtful dedication to her safety. This newfound appreciation for Pike highlighted his importance not just as a relay but as a key figure in the manor's daily life and Brenda's own sense of security.
As the coffee, now a rich concentrate from evaporation, and the creamy Kuchen were served, along with an array of cups, a silent standoff ensued at the table. Brenda and Wilhelm engaged in a battle of wills to coax Pike into joining them, which he initially resisted. Brenda's insistence, under the guise of expanding his duties to include acting as a maid until a replacement was found, finally persuaded him. Pike, hesitantly drawing a chair to sit in—Veronika's, no less—looked notably out of place, his discomfort palpable. However, as time passed, he settled into the conversation, albeit with his attention frequently darting towards the door, ever vigilant.
The next assertion of will came unexpectedly from Wilhelm, who, when Brenda sought to delve into the details of his recent trip, firmly declined to share any insights until after the memorial. His refusal, devoid of any offered rationale, marked a rare moment of pushback against Brenda's inquiries, underscoring a tension that was unusual between them. Their relationship, typically open and based on mutual respect and shared burdens, hit an unexpected snag, leaving Brenda momentarily at a loss.
Despite this, they continued to enjoy their coffee and Kuchen, filling the room with light, albeit aimless, conversation. The topics fluttered from mundane daily occurrences to light-hearted banter, a temporary escape from the weight of recent events and the solemnity of the upcoming memorial. Pike, seamlessly integrating into their company, contributed to the casual atmosphere, a stark contrast to his usual background role.
However, this brief respite was interrupted as Pike, always mindful of the schedule, informed Brenda that it was time to commence the contest. The moment served as a reminder of the day's agenda, pulling them back from the comfort of their diversion to the reality of their responsibilities. Brenda, acknowledging the cue, prepared to shift her focus to the contest, a significant event that not only sought a new protector for her but also promised a much-needed distraction for the manor’s inhabitants amidst the ongoing somber mood.
Brenda, having opted against formal attire for the occasion, made her way to the balcony overlooking the courtyard from the second floor. The venue was unconventional, but deliberately so; she wanted to underscore the importance of the event from a position of oversight, not direct involvement. From her elevated vantage point, she could survey only a fraction of the courtyard, but it was enough to capture the essence of the contest unfolding below.
The eight men, contenders for the role of her new protector, were arrayed on the grass, each subtly vying for position even before the contest began. To Brenda, their grouping appeared to consist of four lumberjacks, identifiable by their brawny physiques and rugged demeanors; three mountain men, perhaps distinguished by their adaptability and resilience; and one individual whose stance and build hinted at a military background, an unknown factor in the mix. None matched the imposing stature of Veronika, the woman they sought to succeed, yet each brought a unique presence to the field.
What caught Brenda's attention, however, was the unexpected diversity among them. At least three were clearly not native to the region, a revelation that underscored how international the community had become. This diversity, surprising as it was, also brought a sense of pride to Brenda. The manor, under her leadership, had become a beacon, attracting talents from beyond its traditional boundaries. As she prepared to address the contestants, her thoughts were not just on the immediate task of selecting a new protector but on the broader implications of what their assembly represented for the future of Tal der Ruhe.
Brenda, armed with a bullhorn, projected her voice clearly to the contenders below, outlining the rules with precision. The contestants listened intently, aware that the forthcoming contest was as much a test of wit as it was of strength. She emphasized the opportunity for any man downed during the contest to tap out, ensuring a fair chance for withdrawal without further consequence. This rule, she hoped, would temper the competitive spirit with a sense of camaraderie and respect.
With the explanation concluded, she announced the initiation period. The men would have between five and ten minutes to strategically choose their starting positions within the courtyard—a crucial decision that could significantly impact their performance in the game. The anticipation was palpable as each contestant mentally mapped out his approach, weighing the advantages of visibility against the benefits of concealment.
Then, with a sense of ceremony, Brenda blew her whistle directly into the bullhorn. The resultant blast of sound was unexpectedly loud, echoing off the courtyard walls with startling intensity. It caught everyone by surprise, Brenda included, eliciting a mixture of jumps and startled glances from the assembled group. The sheer volume of the noise served as an unspoken signal that the contest was no trivial affair; it was a serious undertaking that demanded focus, strategy, and resilience.
As the echo of the whistle faded, the men dispersed, each moving with deliberate intent to claim his chosen spot in the courtyard. Brenda watched from her balcony perch, her interest piqued by the diversity of tactics displayed. The contest, conceived as a means to select a new protector, had evolved into a showcase of individual strengths and strategies, a microcosm of the challenges and complexities that defined life at Tal der Ruhe.
The contest, designed to be a testament to agility, intellect, and physical prowess, took on a subdued tone, marked more by moments of stealth and patience than the anticipated fervor of combat. The participants navigated the modified landscape of the courtyard—a space once familiar in Brenda's childhood as a playground of endless possibilities, now transformed into a practical area for vegetable cultivation and greenhouse construction. The directive to avoid disturbing the agricultural efforts added an extra layer of challenge, limiting the contestants' mobility and strategy.
Amid the strategic waiting and careful positioning, one event did capture the spectators' interest. The largest lumberjack, in a bold display of confidence, positioned himself openly on the terrain, eschewing the cautious approach of his competitors. This move, perhaps intended to intimidate, instead made him the target of a cleverly improvised trap. A bola, ingeniously crafted from two cabbages linked by vine rope, ensnared him, bringing the giant to the ground with a thud that resonated through the courtyard.
From the shadows, the ex-military contender emerged, his approach unseen until the last moment. With a swift move, he pinned the lumberjack, his knee pressing down on the man's head, forcing his face into the dirt, cutting off his air until, struggling for breath, the lumberjack tapped out in surrender. This episode, a blend of ingenuity and physical dominance, stood out as a testament to the unexpected tactics that could emerge in a contest constrained by rules of engagement and the peculiarities of the battlefield.
The spectators, expecting a spectacle of brute force, found themselves witnessing a game of cat and mouse, where the most successful contestants were those who mastered the art of the ambush and the strategic use of the environment. The contest, while lacking in constant action, provided a fascinating insight into the varied skills and cunning of the men vying for the position of Brenda's protector, turning the event into a nuanced display of survival and strategy rather than mere physical altercation.
As the hours stretched on, the initial excitement of the contest gradually waned, replaced by the rhythms of daily life within the Manor. The novelty of the event was such that updates were eagerly relayed by children who darted up and down the corridors, their voices carrying the latest tally of contestants still vying for the title of Brenda's protector. Their energy seemed to inject brief moments of enthusiasm among the Manor's inhabitants, momentarily drawing their attention away from their routines to speculate on the outcome.
In the midst of the afternoon's lull, a piercing scream shattered the relative calm, slicing through the silence that had settled over the courtyard and the subdued murmur of the crowd. The scream, raw and laden with agony, served as a stark reminder of the grim reality unfolding elsewhere within the Manor. It was Sophice's amputation—a moment Brenda had managed to push to the fringes of her consciousness amid the day's distractions.
The contest, conceived in part to divert attention from this very procedure, had fulfilled its purpose too well, allowing Brenda to momentarily disengage from the harshness of the decisions she had made. The scream, however, offered no satisfaction nor stirred any guilt within her; it was simply a consequence of actions set into motion, a necessary culmination of events that had spiraled from Sophice's betrayal.
Brenda remained impassive, her expression unchanged as the scream echoed off the stone walls, a testament to her resolve and the weight of leadership she bore. In that moment, she was reminded of the complex tapestry of duty, justice, and survival that defined her role within the Manor. The scream, while momentarily arresting, was a singular point in the broader narrative of the community's struggle to find a path forward amidst the remnants of a world left behind.
By the fifth hour of the contest, the field had narrowed to two contenders, a fact that rekindled interest among the spectators. Groups of people congregated at windows overlooking the courtyard, their faces pressed against the glass in anticipation of witnessing the final showdown. Yet, as the standoff between the remaining contestants stretched into a prolonged game of strategic positioning and patient waiting, the onlookers' attention began to waver.
Hunger and the demands of the day gradually pulled people away from their vigil. The corridors, once alive with the excitement of the ongoing contest, quieted down as individuals turned their attention to meal preparations or sought sustenance to break the monotony of waiting. The children, who had served as enthusiastic heralds, found their audience diminishing, their updates met with nods and smiles but a diminishing sense of urgency.
The contest, initially a focal point of the day, had become a backdrop to the rhythm of life within the Manor, a testament to the community's ability to balance the allure of entertainment with the practical demands of their existence. The enduring standoff in the courtyard, while still a matter of interest, had settled into the fabric of the day, a long-drawn duel that would eventually resolve itself but no longer commanded the undivided attention of the Manor's inhabitants.
The contest's culmination, after more than seven grueling hours, came not with the expected fanfare but with a subdued yet profound demonstration of strategy over sheer physical prowess. The wiry ex-Gebirgsjäger, identified by Wilhelm as a man with a keen eye and an indomitable spirit, emerged as the victor not through force, but through a clever ruse that turned the courtyard's very acoustics against his last adversary.
This decisive maneuver, executed with the stealth and precision of a predator in his natural element, captured the attention of those few who remained watchful. The ex-soldier's patient wait, his keen understanding of the terrain and human nature, allowed him to exploit the slightest mistake of his opponent—a rustle, perhaps, or a breath too loud—pinpointing his location with eerie accuracy. In moments, what had been a tense standoff resolved into a swift conclusion, with the ex-Gebirgsjäger asserting his dominance in a quiet confrontation that mirrored the silent efficacy of nature itself.
From her balcony perch, Brenda observed the final act unfold directly beneath her, the scene somehow perfectly framed by her vantage point as if by design. The contest, conceived as a spectacle, ended not with the clamor of combat but with a silent acknowledgment of skill, reminding all present that true power often lies in the unseen, in the quiet cunning that turns the tide of fate.
This victory, while it may have lacked the overt drama many had anticipated, spoke volumes about the essence of protection and leadership within the context of their new world. It affirmed that the qualities necessary to safeguard the Manor and its inhabitants extended beyond physical capabilities to encompass foresight, patience, and the ability to anticipate and outmaneuver threats in the most unexpected ways. In this new protector, they had found not just a guardian but a strategist, someone whose talents promised a future where intellect and subtlety were valued as much as, if not more than, brute strength.
Walking down the hall to her room, Brenda saw Otto waiting by her door. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the confrontation she anticipated.
"Done with your game?" His voice was laden with a mixture of anger and sorrow.
Brenda chose to overlook the nuances in his tone, focusing on the matter at hand. "Have I completed the contest to select someone who might one day save my life? Yes, I've done that without your assistance."
"She's currently unconscious. In a cruel twist of fate, she was fully aware during the procedure," Otto informed her, his words tinged with a complex mix of emotions.
Brenda remained unmoved. "You'll find no sympathy from me. How much longer do you think you can delay doing what needs to be done?"
Without uttering another word, Otto simply shook his head, a gesture of resignation or perhaps disagreement, and walked away down the hall in the opposite direction, likely heading to his own room.
"Tomorrow is Veronika's memorial. The day after, at the latest, I expect a public decree outlining the decisions and actions to be taken," Brenda called after him, her voice firm, echoing down the corridor long after Otto had vanished from sight.
Despite her certainty that nobody had been in the hallway during her confrontation with Otto, moments after she closed her door, the distinctive double-tap at the door frame signaled a visitor.
"I still don't have a go-between. Bring him in," Brenda instructed, her voice betraying none of the caution that the situation warranted. Although she suspected the visitor might be the contest's victor, several other possibilities crossed her mind. And then there was the question of Wilhelm's whereabouts—where had he disappeared to at such a critical time?
Pike open the door man looked thoroughly confused unsure of whether the man was already the protector or whether he should stay in the room with him but what the hell would he do if action was called for?
Brenda saw his confusion and correctly interpreted it saying "leave the door open but stand outside. I'll be fine."
She remained seated at the entertaining table. The man entered and stood across the little table. Heels, rear, spine and head all perfectly straight aligned and stiff. A wiry ex-Gebirgsjäger whose mere presence seemed to carry the chill and resolve of the Bavarian Alps. At 28, his features were etched with the kind of seriousness only years of disciplined military service could sculpt. His eyes, sharp and observant, missed nothing, reflecting a lifetime of vigilance in the harshest of terrains. Despite his youth, there was an undeniable weight to his bearing, a gravitas born of experience rather than age.
"Frau Myers," he greeted, his voice firm, yet carrying an undertone of respect. "I am Ägidius Willstehen..."
Brenda couldn't help but let out a short, amused huff, cutting him off. "Ägidius," she repeated, feeling the weight of each syllable. "I could be dead before I got all four syllables out in an emergency."
"Hauch," he replied, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. "It was my call sign in the Gebirgsjäger."
"Hauch," Brenda tested the name, finding it fitting for the man before her. It captured both his physical agility and the subtlety of his intellect, qualities that had undoubtedly contributed to his victory. If you were an enemy, by the time you heard him, it was too late. His forthrightness, wrapped in a layer of formal respect, set a tone for their interaction that Brenda found unexpectedly comforting.
He looked at the two empty chairs, looked at her, appeared to think, and then said, "I'm unsure of my position, ma'am, milady," he shook his head at that, not liking the taste of it, "Miss, do I have the position, or is this now an interview for it?"
Brenda paused to consider his words before replying, "Let's call it a bit of both—a trial period to see if you fit in. Meanwhile, you must be hungry; I know I am."
"My training involved spending months in the mountains without supplies. I've had my fill of grubs while waiting for that last climber to get into position. But, Miss, I'm not from around here. I don't have lodgings. This was an application for the community as much as it was for the position."
"First, I noticed you had trouble with calling me 'Milady.' Early on, which wasn't that long ago, I didn't like people calling me that either. But now, it feels wrong not to. Until I manage to dismantle this whole feudal system, how about you go with 'the Lady'—capital L?"
"...the Lady," he tasted the words.
"Pike? Where does my personal guard sleep? It makes no sense for him to be outside the walls or in the wings. There must be a policy for this, right?"
Pike, accustomed to Brenda's manner of asking a question and then elaborating, patiently waited for her to finish before answering, "That's what the bedroom across the hall is for. I've just got a few things I've been keeping in there to stay close. I can have them moved out by the time you people finish dinner."
"I don't need more than a bed and a shelf. And if there's room under the bed, I don't even need the shelf. If that stuff helps you serve the Lady better, keep it there."
Pike looked at Brenda for confirmation, but she chose to let them work it out between themselves. "The room is yours. Feel free to divide it up, or not..." Brenda let the sentence trail off.
"Pike, Hauch and I will take dinner down in the small dining room. Double portions, and he can also take over Veronika's job of finishing my food," Brenda attempted a joke but it fell flat, the memory too raw. "And find Wilhelm. Tell him to get his bony butt down there too."
"By the way, I'm curious, was it an accident that you finished the last man right in front of me?"
"It wasn't an accident. After he finally shifted quadrants, I could have finished him off immediately. Instead, I spent 20 minutes maneuvering him into position," he stated, his tone matter-of-fact rather than boastful. This straightforward admission lent even more weight to his capabilities.
As they descended the staircase, Brenda couldn't help but notice Hauch's protective stance. Unlike Veronika, who had always shadowed her closely from behind, ready to thrust her out of harm's way against a frontal assault, Hauch positioned himself slightly behind and to one side. This arrangement, she mused, was akin to a chessboard, offering him greater flexibility to defend her from a broader array of angles.
Dinner that evening came with a small fortune; one of the older chickens, having outlived its egg-laying years, had been prepared for the occasion. Serving an older chicken was a reminder of the cycles of the estate—it wasn't as tender as younger poultry, but it was a rare enough treat to make the meal special. As they enjoyed the meticulously prepared dish, Brenda shared her vision for their community, explaining how Hauch's military discipline could benefit and sometimes complicate their governance. They exchanged life stories, allowing Brenda to gauge his capacity for confidentiality and trustworthiness.
Wilhelm arrived later, humorously excusing his tardiness, "Apologies, my Lady. At my age, nature sometimes calls...gradually."
Hauch consumed both his portions, more than a quarter of Brenda's, and the majority of Wilhelm's single serving. Their conversation, interspersed between mouthfuls of chicken, carrots, cabbage, and freshly harvested corn, spanned several hours. By the meal's conclusion, they felt a newfound familiarity with one another. Brenda was particularly taken with Hauch's openness, though she harbored a nagging suspicion that his adeptness might mask any deceit. Wilhelm, she noted, had a knack for posing insightful questions that might have otherwise slipped her mind.
Their discussions persisted even after the dishes had been cleared. It was then that Otto decided to join them, adding a new dynamic to the evening's exchange.
"I've decided to banish Sophice."
"You can't just leave her to fend for herself," Brenda protested.
"Compassion? This is unexpected from you," Otto remarked, an eyebrow raised.
"Oh, you're mistaken. This isn't compassion. If she gets eaten by a bear or accidentally crawls off a cliff, I wouldn't lose sleep over it. I'm concerned that without supervision, she'll find a way to return and finish what she started," Brenda clarified, her tone cold.
"My God, you're paranoid," Otto said, disbelief coloring his words.
"It's precisely what I would do," Brenda countered, her gaze steady.
"It doesn't matter anyway," Otto said, shaking his head as if clearing bees. "I originally took charge here to keep your home in decent shape for your return. You've come back. And being a king, lord, or whatever the hell I'm supposed to be, isn't the life I imagined it to be," he took a breath forcing the pity out of his voice to deliver the blow.
"You don't have to worry about her being unsupervised, and I'm not leaving her to the bears. Give me one week to get everything organized, and her to heal. And then, next Sunday, she and I will both be leaving," Otto concluded, his decision echoing a sense of finality and relief.