Morgan Rice: A Sea of Shields

Steffen had already visited many villages, had dispersed wagons full of supplies on the Queen’s behalf, carefully and precisely allocating them to the villages and families most in need. He had taken pride in seeing the joy in their faces as he’d doled out supplies and allocated manpower to help rebuild the villages outlying King’s Court. One village at a time, on Gwendolyn’s behalf, Steffen was helping to restore faith in the power of the Queen, the power of the rebuilding of the Ring. For the first time in his life, people looked past his appearance, people treated him with respect, like a regular person. He loved the feeling. The people were starting to realize that they, too, were not forgotten under this Queen, and Steffen was thrilled to be a part of helping to spread their love and devotion to her. There was nothing he wanted more.

As fate would have it, the route the Queen had set him on was leading Steffen, after many villages, to his very own village, to the place he was raised. Steffen felt a sense of dread, a pit in his stomach, as he realized his own village was next on the list. He wanted to turn away, to do anything to avoid it.

But he knew he could not. He had vowed to Gwendolyn to fulfill his duty, and his honor was at stake—even if it entailed his going back to the very same place that occupied his nightmares. It was the place holding all the people he had known while he was raised, the people who had taken great pleasure in tormenting him, in mocking the way he was shaped. The people who had made him feel deeply ashamed of himself. Once he’d left, he’d vowed to never return, to never set eyes on his family again. Now, ironically, his mission led him here, requiring him to allocate for them whatever resources they might need on behalf of the Queen. The fates had been too cruel.

Steffen crested a hill and caught his first glimpse of his town. His stomach dropped. Just seeing it, he already thought less of himself. He was beginning to diminish, to crawl up inside, and it was a feeling he hated. He had been feeling so good, better than he ever had in his life, especially given his new position, his entourage, his answering to the Queen herself. But now, seeing this place, there came rushing back the way people used to perceive him. He hated the feeling.

Were these people still here? he wondered. Were they as cruel as they had always been? He hoped not.

If Steffen ran into his family here, what would he say to them? What would they say to him? When they saw the station he had achieved, would they be proud? He had achieved a station and rank higher than anyone in his family, or village, had ever achieved. He was one of the Queen’s highest advisors, a member of the inner royal council. They would be flabbergasted to hear what he had achieved. Finally, they would have to admit they had been wrong all along about him. That he was not worthless after all.

Steffen hoped that maybe, that was how this would go. Maybe, finally, his family would admire him, and he would achieve some vindication amongst his people.

Steffen and his royal caravan pulled up to the gates to the small town, and Steffen directed them all to come to a stop.

Steffen turned and faced his men, a dozen of the Queen’s royals guards, who all looked to him for direction.

“You will await me here,” Steffen called out. “Outside the town gates. I don’t want my people to see you yet. I want to face them alone.”

“Yes, our Commander,” they replied.

Steffen dismounted, wanting to walk the rest of the way, to enter the town on foot. He did not want his family to see his royal horse, or any of his royal entourage. He wanted to see how they’d react to him as he was, without seeing his station or rank. He even took off the royal markings on his new clothing, stripping them and leaving them in the saddle.

Steffen walked past the gates and into the small, ugly village he remembered, smelling of wild dogs, chickens running loose in the streets, old ladies and children chasing them. He walked past rows and rows of cottages, a few made of stone but most made of straw. The streets here were in poor shape, littered with holes and animal waste.

Nothing had changed. After all these years, nothing had changed at all.

Steffen finally reached the end of the street, turned left, and his stomach clenched as he saw his father’s house. It looked the same as it always had, a small wood cottage with a sloped roof and a crooked door. The shed in the back was where Steffen had been made to sleep. The sight of it made him want to raze it.

Steffen walked up to the front door, which was open, stood at the entrance, and looked inside.

His breath was taken away as he saw his whole family there: his father and mother, all of his brothers and sisters, all of them crammed into that small cottage, as they had always been. All of them gathered around the table, as always, fighting over scraps, laughing with each other. They had never laughed with Steffen, though. Only at him.

They all looked older, but otherwise, just the same. He watched them all in wonder. Had he really hailed from these people?

Steffen’s mother was the first to spot him. She turned, and at the sight of him she gasped, dropped her plate, smashing it on the floor.

His father turned next, then all the others, all staring back, in shock to see him again. They each wore an unpleasant expression, as if an unwelcome guest had arrived.

“So,” his father said slowly, scowling, coming around the table toward him, wiping grease from his hands with a napkin in a threatening way, “you have returned after all.”

Steffen remembered his father used to tie that napkin of his into a knot, wet it, and whip him with it.

“What’s the matter?” his father added, a sinister smile on his face. “You couldn’t make it in the big city?”

“He thought he was too good for us. And now he has to come running back to his home like a dog!” one of his brothers yelled out.

“Like a dog!” echoed one of his sisters.

Steffen was seething, breathing hard—but he forced himself to hold his tongue, to not stoop to their level. After all, these people were provincial, riddled with prejudice, the result of a life spent locked in a small town; he, though, had seen the world, and had come to know better.

His siblings—indeed, everyone in the room—laughed at him in the small cottage.

The only one not laughing, staring at him, wide-eyed, was his mother. He wondered if maybe she was the only redeemable one. He wondered if perhaps she would be happy to see him.

But she just slowly shook her head.

“Oh, Steffen,” she said, “you should not have come back here. You are not a part of this family.”

Her words, delivered so calmly, without malice, hurt Steffen most of all.

“He never was,” his father said. “He’s a beast. What are you doing here, boy? Come back for more scraps?”

Steffen did not answer. He did not have the gift of speech, of witty, quick-thinking retorts, and certainly not in an emotional situation like this. He was so flustered, he could hardly form words. There were so many things he wished to say to them all. But no words came to him.

So instead he just stood there, seething, silent.

“Cat got your tongue?” his father mocked. “Then out of my way. You’re wasting my time. This is our big day, and you’re not going to ruin it for us.”

His father shoved Steffen out of the way as he rushed past him, stepping outside the doorway, looking both ways. The whole family waited and watched, until his father came back in, grunting, disappointed.

“Did they come yet?” his mother asked hopefully.

He shook his head.

“Don’t know where they could be,” his father said.

Then he turned to Steffen, angry, turning bright red.