Journey with Sir Alaric Rochefort 01

About Elara's Journal

(@Princess Elara of Alendria writes about her exile with @Sir Alaric Rochefort. @Elara's Journal was given to @Princess Elara of Alendria by her father. It contains Alendrian poetry and many blank pagers for her to write in. She writes in the journal during her exile.)

To my Elara on her eighteenth birthday,

In this book, may you find the quiet space where your thoughts take wing. Let your words be wild and gentle, soul stirring and true. The world will ask you to speak with poise and command—but here, you may speak with your heart.

I have filled these first pages with verses I love, so that you may know the rhythm of @Alendria’s soul. But the rest is yours. Write what you see. Write what you feel. Write what no one else dares to name.

You are my daughter, in accord with the spheres.

—Your father,

Theodor of @House Landon

Scene: @Quiet Glade

The destrier’s flanks heave, foam flecking its bridle. @Sir Alaric Rochefort dismounts with practiced efficiency, his red armor streaked with mud and sweat. He places a hand on the horse’s neck, murmurs something low in Hesan tongue, and gestures for it to kneel. It obeys, lowering enough for @Princess Elara of Alendria to slide off.

She stumbles slightly, barefoot in dew-damp grass, her nightgown torn at the hem. Her hands tremble as she clutches the horse’s mane, then its neck, then its whole body. She hugs the beast like it’s the last familiar thing in the world.

Alaric walks a few paces away and sits on a moss-covered stone. He does not speak. His visor remains down.

Elara stays beside the horse. Her breath is shallow. Her eyes scan the glade, the trees, the sky. She whispers to herself, trying to remember the names of constellations.

Eventually, Alaric turns. He approaches slowly, his steps deliberate.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

Elara looks up. The whites of her eyes are red, her voice hoarse.

"Are you in trouble now?"

Alaric hesitates. His jaw tightens. He looks away.

"I don’t know," he says.

She studies him. The red armor.

"Are you taking me to my father?"

Alaric’s gaze flickers. He sees the hope in her face. He does not answer directly.

"We’ll keep moving soon," he says. "There’s a road west."

Elara frowns. Her fingers tighten around the horse’s mane. She remembers the sword hidden in her cloak. The dull, ornamental blade.

"Are you going to hurt me?" she asks.

Alaric’s eyes meet hers. For a moment, something flickers—pain, maybe. Or guilt.

"No," he says. "I’m not here to hurt you."

Elara's First Journal Entry: A Face

(Journal entries reference her captor @Sir Alaric Rochefort)

My captor wears the same red carapace of death that shattered the world. He stole me away from death instead. He made his horse run like it was being chased by a dragon. We did not stop until the horse begged mercy. We found a clearing. My captor dismounted, and sat down alone for a long while.

I knelt next to the horse to hug it and cry. My captor approached me. He lifted his visor. I saw his face. Skin. Eyes. A youth—not much older than me. His lips spoke his name: Alaric. His jaw was clenched, but his mouth trembled. I think he was afraid. Not of me.

Poem: Alaric

A youth with stormlight eyes
and a mouth that forgot how to smile.
Armor is a wall.
A face is a window.
I looked through.
And he did not close the shutters.

Scene: @Watchtower

The sun dips low as the destrier climbs a narrow ridge, its hooves crunching dry leaves and brittle twigs.

"Why did you tell me to stop singing?" @Princess Elara of Alendria asked.

@Sir Alaric Rochefort responds, "Sound carries. @The Riftwilds are not empty. Bandits, beasts."

Elara falls silent. Her lips press together. She’s never been told not to sing before. Songs were the sounds of life. Now they are liabilities.

Alaric continues. "This land is lawless. We’ll take the old tower ahead for elevation. I’ll keep watch."

Elara imagines the dangers—bandits with knives for teeth, beasts with eyes like lanterns. She pictures them in verse, her mind painting peril in poetic strokes.

"Will they come for us?" she asks.

"Not if I’m standing," Alaric says. "I won’t let anything happen to you."

She looks at his back. The massive @Zweihander of the Sky's Wound strapped across it—onyx and blood-red, etched with runes that seem to hum with menace. It is not a sword. It is a warning.

Her voice trembles. "I have a sword."

Alaric turns his head slightly. "What?"

She reaches into her cloak and pulls out @The Veil, a dull, ornamental blade. "I took it from the wagon before you rescued me. I didn’t know if you were a friend. I didn’t tell you."

Alaric stops the horse. He dismounts. He takes the sword gently from her hands, inspects it, then hands it back.

"Keep it," he says.

A Straw Bed

The stars here are unfamiliar. They blink like strangers, cold and distant. I miss the palace gardens, the way the moon used to lean close as if to listen. There is much silence. I am not used to silence. His eyes are always scanning. He says we are safe for now. I am afraid but I try not to be. @Sir Alaric Rochefort took off his helmet. I thought Hesans would be made of fire. But he was handsome.

I imagined that my father was on an adventure too. Alaric said to hold on to that hope. Father is holding up the sky for us.

The Iron Man

I slept in a watch tower. It was cold and @Sir Alaric Rochefort lent me his firebird cape, which was warm. He did not sleep. He kept vigil all night. I was cross with him. He said duty kept him awake, not bad spirits. He says his past is behind him. I cried because his words reminded me of father when my mother died. Then I pummeled on his iron chest. He just stood there like a fortress. He says we have to move on.

The Voice of Thunder

Bandits approached us on the road. Alaric drew his frightful looking sword and shouted terror. He sounded like thunder splitting mountains. I fell to the ground. The bandits did not live. When it was over he asked if I was alright. I think he was born not on earth but in storm.

Singing

@Sir Alaric Rochefort’s eyes go distant when I hum. He doesn’t scold me. He just says, "Not now." I wonder what music means to him. If it ever meant anything. If someone once sang to him.

He carries a sword taller than a mountain, and he shouts like thunder. But I think he was born in silence. I sang softly today, when he was ahead on the trail. Just a little. Just enough.

Scene: The Cottage of Minor Glories

Rain patters against the moss-covered roof. Inside the abandoned cottage, dust and cobwebs cling to the corners. @Sir Alaric Rochefort limps slightly, his thigh bleeding through a torn seam. He scans the room, already issuing commands.

"I’ll light the hearth," he says. "Eat something, Princess. Then we move at dawn."

@Princess Elara of Alendria, cradling a wheel of fine cheese and a pouch of dried figs, plots quickly.

She approaches the old table, arms full of bounty, and kneels slightly as she lays the food upon its surface. Her sword tilts upward in salute.

"The dragon of the pantry has been slain," Elara declares with a flourish, cradling the wheel of cheese and figs in both arms. "I bring you his spoils, which he guarded most miserly."

She places the bounty on the table with theatrical reverence, then tilts @The Veil upward in salute.

"Sir knight," she intones, voice rich with ceremony, "you are called to sit. Divide the spoils of war. Each warrior his due. Not for his house merely, but for his contribution in chivalry and heroics."

Alaric blinks. His jaw tightens. Something in her whimsy has struck a nerve. Yet he sits.

She lowers her sword. Steps back. Turns toward the fireplace.

"I shall tend the ceremonial flame of Halion the Bound. He slew no beast, he claimed no throne, yet every village knew his name. Not for his sword, but for his flame."

She kneels at the hearth, coaxing embers from old ash. Behind her, Alaric sits. Slowly. He reaches for the figs.