Return to NormalcyA Chapter by SpeedyHobbit Armstrong 'And it’s my fault,' Kiran thought, 'he wouldn’t even be in so much danger were it not for me… no, but I didn’t do anything wrong either. I was accused unjustly.' Kiran’s dark eyes flickered toward his office window. The sun had moved significantly towards the west since the last time he’d removed his attention from his work. The paladin had spent the morning patrolling the southwest of the city of Northchester. Not much had happened other than children playing where they ought not to be playing and getting hurt for it, a fistfight at midday in the Yowling Bobcat Tavern, a wagon with a broken axle requiring assistance, and a vandalized music shop that specialized in string instruments. However, he had returned to headquarters to check on his employees only to learn of a fiasco involving a rowdy group under the influence of an illegal potion that produced hallucinations and rage. They’d thrown turnips, squash and potatoes at bystanders, broken clay pots, upset tables and booths in their drug-induced rampage. Kiran and his men had arrested all of the miscreants, but the question remained of where they had obtained the Draught of Rage.
The constable tapped his quill against his desk, rereading the report yet again as though hoping to see something new. All he noticed, however, were a few spelling errors. It was particularly difficult to focus today, his first day back on the job after the dreadful business with Drémeadow and the daunting task of escorting the refugees through the wilderness in the midst of winter to his homeland. His mind kept replaying images of the Pre-New Years’ Banquet’s dreadful events. The land’s queen, Arabella Foxtrot, collapsing in convulsions as she succumbed to the poison flowing through her vessels. The dusky-skinned elf who served as one of the king’s advisors, Jarmir Esteel, exchanging whispered words with the monarch just before the accusation. As though he, a paladin serving for the causes of good and law and gifted accordingly with powers he would only possess so long as he adhered to what was right and true, would ever poison anyone! Worst of all, the king ordering an attack on Kiran’s supporters.
He still could not figure out what had come over him, enabling him to protect all of those innocent lives. The only conclusion Kiran could make was that his god had somehow worked through him. He never would have been so successful at preventing what would have doubtlessly amounted to a massacre on his own. It was not humanly possible. Between his god’s using him to prevent a slaughter and the sheer luck of the palace’s main gate being open, with the guards allowing them to pass without question, it was a miracle he and the refugees had all made it out alive at all. Off in the distance, the bells of the Pelorian cathedral began to clash and clang out the melodic tune of the national anthem, a sign that it had reached the top of another hour. The paladin hummed along with the song. When it reached a crescendo, the chime commenced. DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! Four o’clock; the end of his shift. Kiran stood, eager to leave. Even though the paladin enjoyed his job, it has been a trying few hours from his lunch break until now. In fact, lunch break itself had been exasperating between the muddy road, the unwanted cheese in his stew, and going to the Duke’s to check on the halfling refugees to find a petulant Folco Foxtrot on the top step of the stairs. Folco had evidently been banished from the makeshift classroom that had been set up for the children and adolescents in a section of the massive attic temporarily housing the 200 Drémeadow refugees for disrupting the lesson. The paladin had done his best to admonish the youth without overstepping any boundaries, but received haughty, stone-faced defensiveness nonetheless. “That’s our bell,” Kiran remarked. He strolled over to his desk, pulling open the near-flat center drawer. Sifting an owl quill, a pheasant quill and a pile of parchment, he extricated a small green pouch and handed it to the lad. “Your wages.” The younger man nodded, then drew open the moss-colored pouch, counting the contents. “Thank you, sir,” he said finally. “See you tomorrow.” “You’re welcome,” Kiran told his subordinate. “Have a good night. I should be in the office around lunchtime, unless anything major comes up before then. Kindly see to it that everything is in order.” After his assistant left, Kiran checked that everything containing private documents was properly locked and tidy, then shouldered the bag and left for the Duke’s. .~~~~ As he entered Awning Square, the marketplace just to the south of the Duke’s gates, the paladin noticed nine refugee children. To his dismay, there was an air of discord. Several were visibly quarreling while others looked uncomfortable. It was atypical for the peaceful folk. From what he had discerned during more than three weeks of exile, cold, blizzards, dearth in game, and the everlasting fear that the group of nearly two hundred halflings he had taken upon himself to protect- after all, it was partially his fault they had to flee their homeland in the first place- halflings did not generally quarrel outright. They favored a more subtle approach to conflict. It took serious difficulties indeed to induce outright fighting. Then again, these were mere children and adolescents who might not have mastered discretion. Moving closer to the bickering youngsters, who were standing in a haphazard circle, Kiran caught several words. “…oughtn’t we to tell somebody? Something could happen to him.” “…you worry overmuch…” The paladin frowned, concern increasing. The squabbling children took no notice of him.
“ It’ll be fine, Lindo’s looking for him!” one of them, a boy in his late teens, insisted emphatically. “Stop worrying so much!” “Aye,” concurred Tumis’ sister Lydia, twirling one of her braids on her finger. “Really, the fool ought not to have run off like that.” One of the younger hobbits said doubtfully, “I think you lot hurt his feelings. Maybe that’s why Lindo went looking for him? To say sorry? Didn’t you say they were best friends?” Kiran’s brow furrowed. He was beginning to get an inkling of who was being discussed. He only hoped he was wrong. Tumis flapped his hand dismissively. “He’ll get over it!” “Aren’t you afraid he’s angry at you?” asked Geronimo, sniffling slightly, “since…” “Please,” interjected Lydia. “He was already angry about class.” “You mean when he got in trouble?” replied Geronimo. Kiran’s heart sank even further. His theory had grown much stronger; it just needed confirmation. If it was who he thought it was… if he had gone off on his own… A sullen-looking Donna Tofty snapped, “Never you mind. I don’t think anything more of it than that he’s making a big fuss over noth- Roxy, stop it!” Five-year-old Roxetta, who had been toying with one of the rips in her cousin’s skirt, jumped and relinquished her grip. “Maybe Folco just went back to the Duke’s attic,” Clotis put in. Kiran’s stomach seemed to drop out from under him at the mention of Folco’s name- the very confirmation he needed. Swiftly stepping behind a taciturn girl named Fern Gardenoff, Kiran demanded “Where’s His Highness?” Nearly every child in the group startled. Fern whirled around, wide-eyed. None of them replied, but simply stared, a few of them stammering slightly, looking alarmed at the look on Kiran’s face. “Well? He shouldn’t be alone!” “He went that way,” replied Misa Salinger bravely, pointing the complete opposite direction of Duke Ivan’s. The young man felt his stomach clench. “He might have doubled back where we could not see?” suggested Clotis. “That’s what Lindo thought,” Lydia added, taking heart from the initiative of her brother and friend. “He said he would check the attic.” Kiran frowned at them. What was going through their minds? Why weren’t they more concerned? Ought they not to have figured out the dangers of the young prince wandering off by himself? They’re just kids… a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him. At the same time, if anything happened to him… His thoughts were broken by a small child’s voice from the level of his knee. “What if Prince Folco and Lindo get lost?” asked Roxy. Kiran’s eyes widened slightly. Was that the worst they thought could happen? Folco Foxtrot was doubtlessly considered a traitor for aiding Kiran and the refugees. And it’s my fault, Kiran thought, he wouldn’t even be in so much danger were it not for me… no, but I didn’t do anything wrong either. I was accused unjustly. Those kids might not realize though… or they do but don’t want to… “He wouldn’t… you know… run away?” asked Brenner Wooling dubiously. Kiran stared intently down at the young halflings, who ranged in height from around knee-level to his waist. The children fell silent. “Listen closely ,” he added sharply, “I want you all to keep an eye out for him, and if you see him, tell him I need to speak with him and wish him to come to me as soon as possible. Don’t stay out too late. Be sure to be back in time for dinner’s distribution. Make sure word gets to me if anyone sees him… or Lindo, for that matter. In fact, if you see Lindo, ask him to come speak with me. Do you understand?” The children glanced sideways at each other, their faces varying from guilt to exasperation to slight fear. “Well?” There was a chorus of nods and mumbles of assent. “Thank you,” the paladin said in dismissal, sighing slightly, his brain abuzz with activity. “I will speak with you all later.” This could be very well be nothing; however, Kiran Mani felt very responsible for anything that happened with anyone in this group, particularly Folco. Folco Foxtrot might only be a nineteen-year-old halfling kid struggling to cope with the disaster that had befallen them all as much as the rest, possibly even more as the son of Drémeadow’s king and queen, but he was the refugees’ reluctant leader and the one glimmer of normality when it came to their life after New Years. His safety was critical for both Kiran's peace of mind and the morale of the group of refugees struggling to regain a sense of normality and safety after their lives had been destroyed.
© 2015 SpeedyHobbit ArmstrongAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor
SpeedyHobbit ArmstrongLong Island, NYAboutMy name is Cher Armstrong, also known as Speedy Hobbit. I'm a USATF athlete in racewalking for the Raleigh Walkers club team. I just graduated from Queens College in Queens borough in New York Ci.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|
prev chapter
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
