Faith Of Our Fathers
Posted: Sat Aug 20, 2022 7:25 pm
Faith of our Fathers! living still
In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword:
Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy
Whene'er we hear that glorious word.
Searing 6, 122 Age of Steel
"Anton," Franz announced, standing from the dinner table after the family had finished their meal. "Come." Wordlessly, son followed father, leaving behind his mother and siblings to march through the stone halls of the manse Michaelis. The pair did not speak as they walked.
War demanded much of men, but wealth and status brought many comforts. With the conflict against Kazlasi frozen in endless march and counter march, it was not uncommon for officers and even some enlisted to take leave from the army and return to Zaichaer for a spell. Franz had arrived on one such break from the front early in the day, having taken the post ship along with a gaggle of other officers. His homecoming had been a surprise, but not surprising, for he had the luxury of making many such visits over the preceding months.
His actions tonight were odd though. The family had only seen him act in such a manner when upset, but all news both at home and abroad had been at worst neutral since the fallout from Kelgarde's coup had settled itself. Franz and his brother had retained their commands after renewing their oaths of loyalty, and Anton had only risen in the esteem of the State through his service to the Institute. There was nothing to suggest anything amiss, and so his stern demeanor and demand that his son follow him caused confusion and consternation.
Stranger still, he did not take Anton to his study, the habitual place for his tirades and vexations to be released. Instead, Franz walked right past the oak doors, heading deeper into the ancient estate. Age and faded grandeur filled those hallowed halls, the oldest stones predating the Sundering itself. It was here, in the fortress-hall of the Lords Castellan, that the family had first made a name for themselves so many centuries ago, and it was here that the latest bearer of their legacy returned.
Franz's aura was a complete mystery to Anton, filled with emotions that he had never seen in his father before, a grim determination filled with what he could only describe as faith. Ultimately, the tension grew too much for him, and the lordling broke the silence.
"How goes the war?"
"It goes," came the curt reply, Franz cutting off his son's attempt to create conversation. Soon the only sound that could be heard was that of their footsteps against bare stone, each one echoing up and down the hall.
Before the onset of the Graveplague, it had been tradition that each Michaelis be buried with arms and honors at their ancestral seat, high in the Astralars. To commemorate the glorious dead within the capitol however, a vast space had been dedicated their memories. The Hall of Portraits contained massive depictions of each deceased Duke, stretching back to the dynasty's very founding. Prior to the rise of the Order, it had also served as the family's chapel, but they had broken their altars generations ago. Yet, the Hall itself remained, and it was here that Franz brought his son.
Marching beneath the paintings of their forefathers, the Duke and his heir had entered into the physical embodiment of their history, generations staring down at them from Sigismund to Michael. The earliest dynasts had all been painted well after their deaths, depicted by artist's renditions which did their best attempting to follow their coinage and popular memory, the founder himself shown on gryphon back with his helm closed. Franz did not stop walking he had approached that last painting, the man immediately falling to his knees. The stone floor where he knelt had been polished smooth by generations of Michaelis doing the same, and Anton followed suit.
"You must know something, Anton. It is well past time for you to know it," Franz said gravely. "I had hoped to delay it longer yet, but if the rumors are true, this may well be my last visit home until the war is concluded. Our legacy must be passed to you. Where do we kneel, my son?"
"Upon the altar of Aileor," Anton replied, the fact having been driven into him from his earliest years.
"And who is Aileor, to a Michaelis?" Franz asked, his eyes upon the portrait hanging above him as he remained knelt where the altar to the Dragon God had once stood in the days before the Order of Reconciliation.
"The God of my fathers." This was no secret, but the fact that Franz was quizzing his son at all upon the topic could have but a few reasons.
"What is He master of?"
"Divination, Foresight, Peace."
"Long have we used the first of His domains so that we may bring about the third. Long have we remembered our devotion to Him, and the rewards He has bestowed upon us. Now, my son, it is your turn. Shall you embrace Him?"
"You mean-" Anton began to ask, before the question died upon his lips. The Michaelis had always kept to the old ways, they had always flaunted the strictures around them, and they had always gotten away with it for the simple fact that they knew when and where to fold. It was no surprise that this, too, was had been maintained. So ancient and noble a house - one which had faithfully served the Kings of Karnor until that line was ended - viewed itself as merely temporarily embarrassed by the present state of affairs. And now it was upon him, to decide whether or not to continue the turning of the wheel.
"I know little of the faith of my fathers," was what he said instead, bringing his own gaze up to the portrait of Michael to mirror that of his father. "But I shall learn."
"Such is well. Our time is short, but He has granted you a tool in His wisdom. I know of this Alodi that you sneak out to speak with, she will be invaluable while I am absent. She servers Galetira, the living daughter of our lord, and will know much of Him," Franz said confidently, to Anton's shock. He had thought he had concealed the Orkhan woman from all who would judge him for association with a diviner of her station, but not only had his father known and hid that knowledge, he had in fact approved.
"The war will drag on, and on, and on," Franz continued. "But I doubt we shall see victory, not so long as the powers that be remain. An upjumped officer with delusions of grandeur can never truly rule over a kingdom as ancient as Karnor. They can barely rule over the city of Zaichaer. Remember that, my son. The Grand Marshal can only promise death and blood, not peace and plenty. We may yet succeed in a conquest, but it will not forge a realm," he said, spitting bitterly. "No matter how much we suffer, foreigners shall hold sway over the North for so long as we remain mired in bigotry. Perhaps Kelgarde shall change things, perhaps not. Only He knows."
Only a Michaelis could think to call the Synnekar foreigners, but the dynasty's memory was long. The carefully cultivated facade of a loyal soldier to the State had all but stripped away in this former sanctum of the God of Divination, Franz refusing to lie in the sight of the object of his devotion. ""The Dornkirks might be high officers of the state, and the Angevins lord from the sky, but it'll be House Michaelis down in the mud and the blood doing the fighting and the dying for their pomposity and vanity. But we will do our duty, unto the ending of the world. Don't forget that, Anton."
"I will not, father," Anton croaked out, surprise and emotion overwhelming him for once.
"There's a good lad. You've made Michael proud enough, I'm sure, but we haven't the time to list the hows. There is work to be done you know," Franz said kindly, finally tearing his eyes away from the portrait of his ancestor to smile at his son. "Do you remember that little estate, south of the city, in the pocket between the river and the mountains?"
"Wh- I mean, yes, father. I do," Anton spluttered out. It had been a favorite summer retreat, close enough to the city to make in a single day's ride, while distant enough - not to mention up river from - Zaichaer to enjoy nature unspoiled by the hand of man.
"Very good. I am entrusting it to your care until the war is concluded. Take care of it, Anto- no, my apologies. It will not do to treat you so casually. Take care of it, Count Ravensreach."
For the second time that day, Anton was frozen into silence, and he was grateful his face was bent towards the portrait of Michael. It gave him something to focus on as he gathered himself. Letting out a shaky breath, the son too turned his head to look into his father's eyes, light gleaming at their corners. "By your will, my lord Duke."