Chapter 46: Part One - Chapter Forty-Six - Homecoming

Homecoming

1st Day of Winter

767 Karloman’s Peace

“Please wait here, Teacher,” the servant requested, his soft voice carrying a reverence and submission shaped by a lifetime of fear. “I shall fetch the lady of the house at once.”

“Is Lord Agilolfing not available?” Porfinn asked on Ekkehard’s behalf.

“No, he is not,” the servant replied, bowing his head respectfully before disappearing into the depths of the house, the double doors closing behind him with a muted thud. The reticent servant had escorted Ekkehard, Porfinn, and Emich into the residence and left them in the confines of an ornately adorned vestibule.

The space, resplendent in design yet imposing in its ostentation, did not serve as a welcoming introduction to the house but rather as a purgatory for guests, forcing them to wait until their worthiness for admission was judged. Grand in construction, the ceiling soared ominously above, while the expansive floor stretched so vast that the lamplight couldn’t adequately fill the room, creating a theatre of shadow and light.

Two walls, drenched in a regal shade of magenta, contrasted starkly with brickwork, the raw bones of the house, audaciously displayed at opposite ends of the chamber. Iron sconces clung to the painted walls, cradling flickering oil lamps that cast a ballet of quivering silhouettes across the room, allowing Emich to instinctively find a home within the room’s shrouded corners.

Thick garnet curtains veiled held captive by golden tassels veiled each doorway, concealing all access to the home beyond as if hiding some sinister truth. Above, a mural stretched across the ceiling, grandly depicting a family history of ancestral victories in battle. Their gaze remained forever etched in the dark granite slate of the floor below. All of this was accentuated by an array of ancestral tributes: busts, paintings, and sculptures. Each piece silently testifying a storied past. A solitary oval-shaped ebony table stood in the room's core, its surface supporting a single white marble vase filled with delicate lilies, their scent providing a rare sensory escape in the otherwise cold embrace of the room.

Profound silence pervaded as the trio of visitors waited. As they did, Ekkehard felt a shroud of isolation envelop him, brought on by the otherworldly hush created by the room’s thick walls. They masked any semblance of the life that must have existed beyond them.

The house was almost exactly as he had imagined in his dreams—and his nightmares.

Ekkehard endured the imprisonment of the room, feeling his muscles tense and tremble at their oppression until, at last, the doorway the servant had left by flung open once more. “The lady of the house,” the servant announced, “Madam Meinnelda Agilolfing.” He stepped aside, allowing a woman to enter, bowing deeply as she passed.

“Yes, yes, that’s quite enough of that,” the woman snapped as she entered, shooing away the servant. “Don’t go far,” she instructed, “I will need you when this is over.” The servant bowed his head and exited, closing the door behind him as he went. Ekkehard and his companions alone with Meinnelda, and she examined them, as a jailor might his charged

Her eyes glanced briefly over Emich and Porfinn, quickly dismissing them as unimportant, and focused on Ekkehard. Despite the gravity he felt, he had not turned to acknowledge her arrival, instead choosing to study one of the many portraits hanging along the vestibule walls. Meinnelda’s eyes narrowed as they took him in. His indifference to her presence was clearly novel, and she came to stand beside him and looked at painting herself.

The picture depicted a man with an imposing aura that seemed to command respect even from within the confines of the canvas. Tall and lithe, his angular face featured sharp cheekbones and jowls, which the artist had accentuated. A forward-cutting crop of silky black hair crested just above a pair of engrossing black eyes. He stood prominently, back straight and head held high, staring down his nose at the portrait’s viewers. His visage exuded a predatory and authoritative presence. He wore plate armour made of large singular pieces joined by a plumed helm, which he held under his right arm. A longsword hung sheathed at his waist, and with his left arm, he supported a large riveted square shield. It was an archaic variant of formal military ceremonial garb; it was clear that military service and command were paramount to him and those who came after him.

“Diocaitus Agilolfing,” she said, naming the man in the image. “My husband’s great, great, great grandfather, I believe. He served as the General who Protects the West during the reign of Emperor Candidus Syra.” She paused and took a heavy breath, her chest rising with pride as she did, and then she added, “He commanded the equivalent of twenty cohorts today.”

“Is that right?” Ekkehard asked, his voice colourless and disinterested.

“Oh yes, quite right,” the woman continued, oblivious to his apathy. “He brought our family much prestige and honour. He was the first Agilolfing to not only hold a titled position but also the first to serve within the royal court itself.” She pursed her lips together, and Ekkehard heard the quiet smacking sound they made. “Quite the moment for our ancestry. Good stock. Good stock indeed.”

“Yet now Diocaitus’s descendants brew beer and pick apples,” Ekkehard remarked, his voice devoid of levity. He turned to face the woman as he delivered what he knew she would consider an insult and added in a cold and dismissive tone, “Not quite the legacy he hoped for, I suspect.”

Meinnelda Agilolfing bristled at the words, her body stiffening as she inhaled, catching herself before she could respond too sharply. Every bit the noblewoman, she was elegantly framed, slightly thinner than she should have been, making her skin taut and tight. Her slender proportions and commanding yet alluring posture were accentuated by the fine, tightly wrapped gown of midnight blue adorned with translucent silk ribbons of pine green. Dark hair framed her striking emerald eyes, and despite her seasoned years, she retained a beauty that spoke of carefully maintained prestige. Hanib would have considered her a prize, Ekkehard had no doubt—another of his family’s grand conquests. The woman seemed entirely satisfied with being such a trophy, as far as Ekkehard could tell. He suspected she was proud to be one.

“I am sorry, Teacher,” she said calmly, forcing herself to let the slight go, her voice measured and controlled, if only barely. “But no one has told me yet—why are you here?”

Teacher, she called him, for that was how he appeared to her. Ekkehard wore the Hofamat that once belonged to Abbot Zhu. The priest had donated it to him—Ekkehard remembered that clearly. The man had said he no longer needed it, not now that Ekkehard had revealed the truth to him and had told him it would serve as an announcement of his purpose. He had come to guide the people of the empire to true enlightenment. But before he could fulfil that grand mission, there were some final, personal matters to attend to—the closing words of this chapter of his life.

“Apologies, Madam,” Ekkehard replied, bowing his hooded head. “How very rude of me.” He gestured toward Emich, who stood patiently at the back of the room, holding an intricately designed wooden box. “I bring a gift intended for your husband, but I understand he is absent. Is that so?”

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“You have been informed correctly,” Lady Agilolfing responded, her tone polite yet guarded. “My husband is in the city on business. I don’t expect him back for several days.” She looked at the man skulking at the back of the room and stared at the heavy iron chest in his arms. She took a half step toward the man, then halted, turned back to Ekkehard and asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, Teacher, how do you know my husband?”

“In truth, I don’t really know your husband,” Ekkehard answered, moving toward the dark table in the middle of the vestibule, the lady following him as he did so. “I’ve only met him once, briefly, in Werth, not all that long ago.” He indicated for Emich to place the box on the table, and Emich complied, carefully putting the container down with a clangour before retreating to the shadows of the room’s circumference.

“Oh, you are the Abbot of Werth then?” Meinnelda asked, her voice rising slightly with interest. “Do you have news of my daughter, perhaps? Does she fare well? Did she send a letter with you?”

“I’m afraid I have no letters,” Ekkehard replied, disappointing Meinnelda. “I am not the Abbot of Werth, though I was in the city on the day of your daughter’s union. That is how I came to meet your husband for the first time. As I mentioned, this gift was intended for him, but since he is absent and you are here, perhaps you would receive it in his stead.” Ekkehard gestured to the box.

“Very well,” Meinnelda said, stepping forward to unseal latches that held the box closed. As she lifted the lid, she shrieked in horror and staggered back from the table, the metal lid snapping shut. Her face was pale with shock, her wild eyes darting from Ekkehard to the other two men and back.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Agilolfing screamed at Ekkehard, her voice trembling with fear and fury.

Ekkehard ignored her, turning his attention to the box instead. He lifted the lid back entirely, exposing its contents to the room, and tutted. “They haven’t held up very well at all,” he remarked, shaking his head in mocking disappointment as he looked upon the liquefying remains of two severely decayed heads. “My apologies, Madam. I should have ensured better preservation. Such a shame.”

He turned to regard her, then back to the heads, indicating them with a nonchalant wave. Meinnelda didn’t recognise the "gift" for what it was, which irritated Ekkehard. Her response was pure offence and disgust, far from his intended reaction. “I thought this would be better received,” Ekkehard said, his tone almost casual, “but I understand your confusion.”

He nodded, signalling Porfinn and Emich. They moved quickly, grabbing Meinnelda by the arms and forcing her toward the table. Lady Agilolfing struggled and fought, but her slender frame was no match for their strength. They held her firmly, forcing her to gaze inside the box. She closed her eyes, but Porfinn slapped her sharply across the face when he noticed. She gasped in horrified indignity, and the men held her head in a tight grip. “Look!” Porfinn barked, his voice filled with cold command.

When Ekkehard was certain Meinnelda’s eyes were fixed on the box, he spoke again, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Allow me to enlighten you,” Ekkehard said, his tone almost condescending. “I know it’s hard to recognise them now, but this one here,” he pointed to the leftmost mound of putrefied flesh, “this one is your dear daughter Adhela, and that one beside her, her beloved—the husband you sold her to. They make quite the couple, don’t you think?”

Meinnelda’s face turned ashen. She looked back at the heads of her daughter and son-in-law, her mind struggling to reconcile the horror before her with the reality of what she had just heard. Then, she screamed—a primal, heart-wrenching cry that echoed through the chamber. “Help me!” she howled, her voice filled with desperation and terror. “Someone, get in here and help me!”

“Oh no,” Ekkehard mewled, “No, no. There’s no point in that, my lady,” Ekkehard said, his voice calm and composed. “My men are already in the house. Your servants are either dead or dying. We might have even heard it if your grand walls weren’t so thick. Marvellously made, I must say. You must be very proud of your home. Am I right?”

Meinnelda’s nostrils flared, and her eyes widened with desperation and hatred as she glared at Ekkehard. She struggled further against Emich and Porfinn’s restraint, her efforts in vain. “If you lay a hand on me, my husband will have you killed,” she spat defiantly, a glimmer of arrogant confidence still evident in her tone.

Ekkehard tutted again as if frustrated by a child unable to grasp an introductory lesson. “Madam,” he replied with a hint of ironic sympathy, “your husband is in the city. You don’t expect him back for days. I doubt he can do much to stop me right now.”

Her stare turned venomous as she met his gaze. “What are you going to do with me?” she demanded, her voice sharp and biting.

“Ah, now that is the question,” Ekkehard said, inhaling deeply as he pondered the answer. Meinnelda, as far as he knew, hadn’t directly participated in the evil done to him and his family. She may know nothing of it, and if that was true, then she was innocent—a mere bystander in her husband’s cruelties. But another perspective gnawed at Ekkehard, one that considered her silence, her inaction, and her continued support of her husband as sufficient grounds to find her complicit in his crimes.

She had profited from Hanib’s heinous acts and had done nothing to stop them. It was even possible that she had the influence to prevent him from committing such atrocities in the first place, yet never did so. It seemed reasonable to Ekkehard to consider it her duty to wield that influence for the betterment of others, and in choosing not to do so, she was negligent to her neighbours. This made her guilty by omission—a compelling argument in his mind, especially when he reflected on his innocence and the horrors that had been visited upon him regardless.

However, what struck Ekkehard as odd was that he didn’t feel any firm preference between the notion of her innocence or guilt. He was the victim in this matter, yet he didn’t feel that way. It was almost as if Hanib’s crimes had happened to someone else—someone he had been before but no longer was. Ekkehard would carry out his judgment dutifully because it was proper and necessary that he did, but it brought him no satisfaction. He had no personal desire to punish Meinnelda or her husband. He would do so because it needed to be done for the world’s sake, not his own.

“I hadn’t expected to find your husband absent,” Ekkehard told her, having made up his mind. “So, I suppose I’ll need to get a little creative. Your husband and I seem to share an appreciation for art. He recently commissioned quite the piece for me. It’s only fitting I return the favour.”

As her fate became clear, Meinnelda began to shed tears of fear, struggling harder to break free. She failed.

Later, one of the apple trees in Hanib’s orchard was felled and fashioned into a wooden post. A hole was dug, and the post was raised. Meinnelda’s body was bound to it with ribbons. Her head was removed and sewn into the palms of her hands so her suspended body held it before her, gazing back at any who stopped to admire the Lady Agilolfing. What little remained of the two heads Ekkehard had brought as gifts were sewn onto Meinnelda’s shoulders. She had been turned into a three-headed marker, both a warning and a promise to Hanib. Behind her, the home of the Agilolfing family burned at Ekkehard’s command.

Ekkehard examined the totem with mild ambivalence. He wasn’t quite finished, but the end was nearing, and he felt a muted eagerness to move on. Turning his back on the Hanib’s wife, he returned to the head of the small army of followers that waited upon the roadside, his brothers and the Red Angel at their head.

“Are we headed to the city?” Gerwald asked, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle at the head of the procession. He cast a nervous glance at the Angel, still uneasy in its presence. Ekkehard expected his chest to twinge with guilt over his brother's discomfort but found none came.

“Yes,” Ekkehard confirmed as he mounted his horse, the Angel waiting by its side. It wasn’t yet midday, and the journey wouldn’t take long. They would reach the city before evening fell, and Ekkehard would look upon the face of Hanib before long.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Florentin asked quietly, his voice laced with hesitation. Neither of Ekkehard’s brothers fully grasped the transformation Ekkehard had undergone. They sensed his growing vision, which extended beyond mere revenge, but they had yet to fully understand its scope, unlike the throng of worshippers who followed them.

Ekkehard noted the fear in his brothers, a fear rooted in the fervent devotion of those who had pledged themselves to his cause without knowing his true intent. But vengeance still anchored his brothers to him, and as long as his actions promised them that reward, he knew they would stay by his side. Once their thirst for retribution was satisfied, he could free them from their past and reveal their new purposes, one he was confident they would embrace.

“Come,” Ekkehard ordered, urging his horse onward. “It’s we brought this to an end.” As his horse carried him toward the city, Ekkehard’s hand unconsciously stroked the surface of the Book of Heaven.