The Distinguished Mr. Rose Chapter 48: Chapter 48: I Cannot Remember Them, Not a Single One

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Chapter 48: I Cannot Remember Them, Not a Single One ——— Ogier I cannot remember much of my homeland, for it was at the tender age of ten years that the paladins of Francia came upon my village; and it was also then that they wrenched us away. Away from our homes. Away from what we knew. The Danes were an isolated people. There were no empires, or emperors. We lived near the brooks and hills, wanting naught but what nature granted us and to prosper while surrounded by our kindred. My time as a Dane was short, but I treasure it nonetheless. It was only as a Dane that my life was simple. Simple is good. In my ailing years, I wish for nothing more than to spend my last days in dull monotony. But such a gift will never be granted to me. My mind slows with each passing season. The luscious green meadows and the flowers that laid before our steps… my memories blur of that time. I remember frolicking, and laughing, but I cannot see the color. Were the flowers blue, or red? I do not know. I remember running into the arms of those I called parents, but I cannot see their faces. Whether they greeted me with brimming smiles, or an endearing sigh and a ruffle of my hair—I do not know. All I remember is being taken from them. The Franks arrived on frightening large boats; and they descended upon us while donned in hulking armors and steel. We were no louts. Our people had fought against the beasts and monsters ever since the first ancestor made landfall. My father himself was a proud and confident warrior, but the last I ever saw of him was of his impaled body. I remember seeing the blood drip from his chest - his eyes pleading me to run away. I remember that very clearly, even if I do not wish to. I do not know what became of my mother. The Franks had captured me before I could run into the forest. They stowed me away on their boats, as well as the other youths my age. Shackles bound my hands and legs; I remember how the chain scraped into my flesh, the dried blood on my parched, withered lips. I was but skin and bones when we finally docked against land. They shuffled us off in dirty rows toward the capital. This part I do not remember much. I was too tired, too fearful of what fate awaited me, and so I closed off my eyes and ears. I buried my heart and silently obeyed as they forced a new name and identity on me. Holger Danske was not Frankish, and so I was to be called Ogier. When I had awoken from my daze, I found myself in a strange new land. The people here were dressed in different cloth, and they prostrated before a being I had never heard of. It was then that I learned religion. They said I was a child of the Mother, the Imperial Eagle from whose womb all life had emerged. The rites of my ancestors were filthy magics corrupted by those who turned away from Her embrace. But now, I could be saved. They told me that they had freed me from hell, and that if I followed their words, then God would bring me to Paradise upon my passing. I remember feeling confused. Was I already not in paradise, before? My home was beautiful. But they called it stained. I wondered to myself then—how truly great must the Paradise of God be if my hearth I thought perfect was as unruly as they claimed? I wished to know. I wanted to grasp after what hope I could, or else I would not be able to carry on. I was young. I was naive. From thereon after, they shoved us into cold buildings with barred windows. They called it a school, and it was there we were taught the values of the Frankishmen: how to properly speak, manners, and of course the holy scriptures. They said to us that the Emperor was the avatar of God, that the one called Pepin, the cur responsible for my people’s massacre, was a deity I had to worship. I remember feeling conflicted, because I could never hold reverence for that man no matter how much they spoke of his greatness. Even when I rebelled, and they whipped my shins and ankles, I could not bring myself to forgive him. I needed someone to b