Rolf Returns

[Dobian]

Part One

It was late afternoon on a windy day when Rolf stepped up to the grave marker, his hair blown back by the strong breeze. Khol Thunderstone, 26 Ukatar 1276 – 10 Eleint 1360, the headstone read. Rolf looked down, his blue eyes hard and glassy, and bent to lay Khol’s beloved dwarven axe on the grave, half expecting a bony hand to come shooting out from the ground and grab him. But nothing happened as he laid the axe on its master’s final resting place, eyes still cast downward. When he straightened back up, Khol was standing behind the marker.

“That was kind of ya te bring me axe, brotha,” Khol said.

Rolf just stared at the visage, which looked fully alive and without the horrible head wound delivered by his fatal blow. “Khol,” was all he could manage.

“Aye, it’s me, brotha,” he said, smiling.

“I…,” Rolf stammered, and Khol let out a hearty laugh.

“So yer gonna spend yer whole life blamin’ yerself for winnin’ our little duel?,” Khol went on. “Ye won, an’ now I get te live forever in the grand halls o’ Moradin a little bit sooner. One day ye’ll join me, brotha, an’ we’ll raise a mug t’gether in honor of our kin.”

“I’m sorry, Khol…”

“Aye, ye been sorry fer fifteen years, lad! Not get on wit’ it!,” Khol responded, clapping Rolf on the shoulder. “Go make me proud o’ ye by kickin’ in a drow’s head in me honor, can ye do that?”

“Aye…,” Rolf said, uncertain.

“Then do it, brotha.” Khol smiled, then turned and walked away, disappearing when he passed a nearby pine tree.

Rolf woke up. He had been dozing next to the merchant he was riding with to Sundabar. The elf wizard Alora had kindly teleported him as far as Silverymoon, and from there he had hitched a ride the rest of the way.

“We’re almost there,” the driver said. “You had a good long nap.”

Rolf barely recognized where he was, it had been so long, but then the city gates rose before him, and he knew he was home. Rolf paid the merchant after they rode through the gates, gathered his bag, and set foot. Going by memory, he followed the streets and alleys until he stood before a modest cottage with chickens in the front yard and smoke pluming from the chimney. The door was ajar, and Rolf stepped over the mantle and called out.

“Who’s in me home?,” replied the dwarf who appeared from around the corner. Standing a bit shorter than Rolf, with a round belly and graying whiskers, Olaf Firefist took in the sight of his uninvited guest and his eyes twinkled with recognition. “ROLF, LAD!,” he boomed, pulling Rolf into a bear hug, nearly crushing him in his powerful grip.

Rolf returned the hug, his own eyes glassy and moist. “Aye, I came home.”

“Have a seat, an’ let me get ye a beer,” Olaf said. “Are ye back fer good?”

“Nay,” Rolf said, sitting down in a wooden chair. “I jus’ need te settle some things, then I’m headin’ back te Cormyr where I be helpin’ the Oghrann clan.”

Olaf brought the beers and sat across from Rolf, looking at him appraisingly. “We all wondered what became o’ ye after ye stormed off that day. I guess yer back on account o’ that.”

“Aye,” Rolf looked off to the kitchen, as if looking back across fifteen years.

“Ye remember those?.” Olaf asked, pointing to a narrow table along the back wall of the cottage. Sitting there, cleaned and polished, were his hammer and shield.

Rolf got up from his chair and walked over to the table, tracing his fingers along the curve of the shield and the shaft of the hammer. No trace of Khol remained on the hammer head, which now gleamed in the light of a nearby candle. Rolf stared at it, remembering.

“Thank ye fer takin’ care of em, Olaf, but I don’t need em no more,” he said. “Give em to someone who does.”

Olaf looked at him and frowned. “Seems like we have some things te talk about, startin’ wit’ those funny robes yer wearin’.”

Rolf spent the rest of the afternoon and evening telling Olaf all about what happened after he left Sundabar on the day of the ill-fated duel. He spoke of his aimless wanderings, his arrival at the Council Hills, meeting Devlin Beestinger and Toto Padfoot, being accepted into the Hin Fist order, his years of service in the monastery, his departure and long journey north to Cormyr, his acceptance into clan Oghrann. And at the end, he told Olaf about the dreams, and the guilt, and why he could never lift a hammer again. Olaf remained quiet through most of it, merely nodding and smiling occasionally.

“Rolf,” he finally said, as moonlight poured through the window above their small table. “Ever since I knew ye as a wee lad, I knew ye was gonna grow up into an honorable stout. Ye didn’ let me down. We both know that ye’ve beat yerself up enuff o’er this. Now do what ye gotta do, an’ put an’ end te this once an’ fer all so ye can get back to yer life. Now go get some sleep.”

Rolf nodded heavily and lied down on the bearskin in the main room, quickly falling into a blissfully dreamless sleep from the exhaustion of a long day. The next morning he woke up long after the sun had already risen. Grabbing a slice of bread and an apple off the kitchen table he went out front where Olaf was tending to his chickens.

“Thanks fer takin’ me in, Olaf,” he said. “I better get te me business now.”

Olaf clapped Rolf on the shoulder and smiled. “Ye go ahead, lad, an’ while yer off doin’ that I’m gonna pass the word along that yer home.”

Rolf smiled grimly at Olaf, then turned and headed for the city gates, to a place that had been waiting for him for fifteen years.

[Dobian]

Part 2

It was windy as Rolf entered the cemetery and approached Khol’s marker, just like in his dream. The branches of nearby pines swayed, and he could imagine Khol’s name being whispered in the breeze. He got down on one knee and began reciting a prayer to his patron god, Clangeddin Silverbeard, occasionally looking up to see if Khol would appear before him, but he was alone. He finished, and knelt quietly for several minutes before speaking.

“Ye remember the time when we fought that white dragon? The thing whipped me legs out from under me wit’ its tail an’ was gonna rip me throat out when ye chopped his neck wit’ yer axe,” he said. “Ye saved me that day…an’ ye wouldn’t even take credit fer it…,” he trailed off, wiping his eyes. “Ye were me brotha…ye always will be me brotha…,” he broke off and sobbed quietly, tears falling to the hard earth.

“Rolf,” a voice called out.

Rolf looked up, remembering it. But it was not a voice from a dream, it was a voice from his past. He stood up and turned, and there was Thilla, looking almost exactly the same as that terrible day fifteen years before.

“How long ye been standin’ there?,” Rolf demanded, confusion and anger rising in him.

“Long enough,” Thilla said, stepping forward. Thilla was a beautiful dwarf, with long blonde hair and clear blue eyes, an upturned nose and smiling lips. Short but proportioned, her full figure accentuated by the flare of her hips. It was no wonder why Khol had been so enamored of her, she had once been the most sought-after prize of the clan males. But to Rolf, she was the she-devil who was the reason Khol died and Rolf’s life was ruined. He stared at her with contempt in his eyes.

“What d’ya want?,” he flared. “Ye said all ya needed te say that day, an’ I’m here te make me peace now.”

“I’m sorry for what I said, Rolf,” she stepped closer, and then stopped. “It wasn’t your fault…it was all mine. Do you know what happened after you left?”

Rolf said nothing, only stared at her, fifteen years of hurt and resentment in his eyes, so she continued.

“I became an outcast, a pariah,” Thilla said. “No one would want me. I was a woman of dishonor. Ever since, I have lived alone. Ever since, I have regretted what I did to Khol, what I did to you. I’m sorry, Rolf. I came here to beg for your forgiveness,” she concluded, her diction refined, her words solemn.

Rolf blinked a few times, folded and unfolded his powerful arms, and looked away. “Why, Thilla?, he asked.

“I was young, and foolish. I didn’t know what I wanted, and I didn’t know how serious the game I was playing was,” she said. “I can’t take it back, I wish I could, but I can’t,” she wiped a tear off her cheek.

“We all have regrets, lass. I have spent the last fifteen years filled wit’ em.”

“I heard you came back, and I also heard a little about what you have been doing all this time. A monk! I never would have guessed it,” she said. “I hope it has helped you find peace.”

Rolf nodded. “Aye, it has some. But I still have dreams about that day, an’ I still have me memories of it. I came back te make me peace, te pay Khol the respect he…,” Rolf put his hand up to his eyes. Thilla took the final few steps up to him and put her arms around him.

“I’m sorry, Rolf.”

Rolf stood motionless for a moment, then put his arm around Thilla and gently patted her back. “I fergive ya, Thilla,” he said.

Thilla pressed her face into his shoulder, his robes absorbing her tears. “Thank you, Rolf.”

They stood that way for several moments as the wind died down, before both turning and kneeling silently at Khol’s grave, each quietly paying their respects to the great dwarf warrior. As the sun got low in the sky, they got up and walked arm-in-arm back to the city gates of Sundabar, and then proceeded to Thilla’s cottage, where Rolf said goodbye at the door.

“We got our own paths te follow now, Thilla,” Rolf said. “I’m headin’ back te Cormyr te help the Oghranns an’ do the good work o’ me order.”

“I know,” she said, smiling but with saddened eyes. “May Moradin watch over you always, Rolf.” She kissed him chastely on the lips, turned, and entered her cottage, closing the door behind her.

Rolf slept a blissful, dreamless sleep that night. The next morning, he got up early, said his goodbyes to Olaf, and caught a carriage back to Silverymoon. He found a mage who could teleport him to Great Gaunt in Cormyr, paying him generous coin for the service. His mood was bright, his shoulders no longer feeling the weight that had been on them for so many years.

Thilla woke up a little later that morning to knocking on her door. She opened it to find Reginald Hornblower standing there, his red beard neatly trimmed. Reginald was a messenger for the clan council.

“You are requested to stand before the council immediately, Thilla,” was all he said, turning sharply on his heels and departing.

Confused and worried, Thilla hurried over to the council building, entering its austere chambers where Olaf and two other dwarf elders sat behind a table, torches lighting the gray stone walls. Along the walls were mounted various weapons and the trophy heads of ogres, giants, and even a red dragon, which loomed behind them.

The dwarf in the middle simply nodded to Thilla, rolled open a parchment, and began to read:

Me name is Rolf Battlehammer, formerly o’ Clan Battlehammer an’ now o’ Clan Oghrann an’ the Order o’ The Hin Fist. I served the Sundabar Batlehammers wit’ honor until a day fifteen years ago, when I made a mistake that cost me best friend’s life. I have lived wit’ it ever since, an’ came here te seek peace an’ fergiveness. The lass Thilla also made a mistake that day, an’ she has paid the price. She is a good an’ decent lass, an’ I have fergiven her. I know that Khol would fergive her too. I ask in the name o’ Clangeddin Silverbeard that ye do the same, an’ let her be accepted among ye again.

Signed in blood an’ stone,

Rolf Battlehammer

[/i][/b]

Thilla stood speechless in wonder and confusion.

“There be no official action te take on this, Thilla,” Olaf began kindly. "But unofficially, ye are a part o’ this clan an’ will be accepted among us from now on. Now go on, lass, we’re done here,” He smiled.

Thilla walked out of the council building and into a bright autumn day, smiling for the first time since she couldn’t remember, and with a determination to give back to her clan for the second chance they had just given her. Her life had purpose again.

“Bless you, Rolf,” she said.