The Tri-National Summit

     It was a quiet day in Meridell.

     Too quiet.

      There hadn’t been a single argument between the “Meatheads of Meridell” in almost three days. Jeran Borodere and Rohane, both knights of the Order, often ran into issues agreeing on… anything. What drills would be most efficient. What formations would lead to the best success. Or even who should get the last dinner roll in the mess hall. Some of the knights swore that they could count the passing hours from the two’s incessant bickering. Granted, Jeran would be leaving on vacation with his sister in a few days, but still. It was unsettling.

     What the majority of the knights didn’t know is that there were times—usually outside of their knightly duties—when they acted like buddies.

     Even that wasn’t happening.

      For the first time in months, Rohane did not show up for his weekly jaunts at Meridell’s seediest tavern, “The Mangled Marrow,” with Jeran and Danner, another knight of the Order. And if there was one thing that Danner learned, it was that Rohane yearned for their weekly get-togethers, fried marrow strips, casual conversations with the locals, and rounds of tavern games…

     It was Lisha who eventually told Danner where to find Rohane: a secluded study, far away from the hustle and bustle of normal castle life. Being a very private fellow, Rohane’s solitude was not a surprise—but for such a long time? And without telling anyone else about it?

     Outside the door, there was a half-eaten plate of food left for the kitchen staff to remove. Flies were starting to buzz around a barely-touched turkey leg. Grimacing, Danner grabbed the metal ring in the centre of the door.

     Knock-knock-knock.

     The blue Wocky teetered a bit when he was greeted with silence.

     “Rohane?” He called, concern creeping into his voice. “You there?”

     Nothing.

     Fearing the worst, Danner pushed the heavy wooden door forward. Taking a few moments to adjust to the dim light, he gasped.

     Balls of paper littered the floor, the rubbish bin, the table. And buried under the largest pile was the hunched over form of a Blumaroo.

     “Rohane!”

     Danner ran over to shake the Blumaroo’s shoulder. Within seconds, the Blumaroo lifted his head, causing an avalanche of paper to roll down his back and to the floor. Deep bags hung under his eyes as he let out a thunderous yawn.

     “Are you okay!?” Danner’s heart was pounding as he mentally recalled the name of every healer within a 10-mile radius.

     Rohane squeezed his temples with his hands. “Yeah.” When Danner looked ready to protest, he added, “Your voice is loud.”

     Hesitating slightly, the Wocky knight spoke in a hushed whisper. “What happened?”

     Rohane stood up from the chair, his muscles popping and creaking in defiance from his poorly positioned nap. After arching backwards and feeling a releasing stretch, he let out a resigned sigh. “Keynote speech.”

     “Keynote speech?” A wave of realization hit the Wocky. “You mean… for the Tri-national Summit that’s happening this weekend?”

     “Yeah, that.” Rohane slumped his shoulders. “Thanks for reminding me.”

     Danner’s eyes scanned the mounds of paper on the ground, each, he realized, full of Rohane’s immaculate penmanship.

     “It looks like you’ve been, uh…” Danner’s eyes widened when he realized that there were already over one hundred attempts on the floor alone. “Busy…”

     “You can say that again.” Sitting back in the chair, Rohane looked down at the ground. “And I still have no idea of what to say.”

     When Rohane found out that he would be the keynote speaker at the Tri-National Summit, you could have sworn that the giant-wigged, prim-and-proper Dean Green had cast a freezing spell—or at least a slowing one.

     As the Brightvale University Dean of Academic Affairs, it was Mr. Green who delivered the news. He had a sort of practised grace that was common with most nobles in court: a drawn-out emphasis on large words, an exaggerated show of respect, and dropping titles as if they were spices thrown into a gourmet dish.

     Rohane, eagerly awaiting a cold bath after doing drills outside, avoided smashing into the green Ixi by inches as he turned a castle corner. The Dean let out a yelp at the near-collision, twisting away as if dodging a wad of dung. After realizing what almost happened, Rohane started to apologize, but the Ixi held up his hoof.

     When the Dean addressed Rohane, honey-coated words poured from his mouth like a cup of fine tea. But there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a wriggle in his snout that hinted distaste for the “Hero of Five Lands,” as Rohane was a commoner made Meridell knight. He handed the Blumaroo a royal-seal stamped message and insisted that it be opened and read. Rohane ripped the top of the envelope off and pulled out the message.

     Within the letter body, it said:

     Hero of Five Lands,

     The Tri-National Summit leaders have chosen you to represent our lands. Given your international exploits, we are confident in your abilities and trust that you will bring your best self to the podium, inspiring generations to come. We’re looking forward to your address the Summit’s keynote speaker.

     At the very bottom, in neat cursive, were three signatures: Lord Darigan, King Skarl, and King Hagan.

     Rohane rose his gaze from the letter. “There are better options than me for a keynote speaker. I decline.”

     The Dean merely smirked, as if the notion of saying ‘no’ to him was as strange as a Tyrannian Opera singer.

     “I’m afraid this was agreed upon by all three kingdoms—for some reason,” there was a bitter bite in his voice as he said this, “as was your outfit when it arrives.”

     “And what if I refuse to speak?” Rohane balled his hands into fists. “I wasn’t part of this decision at—”

     “Then you’ll embarrass your King, your nation, and your family,” the Ixi said with an exaggerated shrug, “in front of delegates from around the realms.” Leaning forwarded, he added, “important Neopians who could make decisions about our nations’ futures. So, you have no real choice in the matter. Unless… you want them to face scrutiny? All of them.”

     Rohane bit back the colourful swears that danced in his mind. It took every bit of his energy not to clock the pompous cretin between his perfect, white teeth.

     “There’s a good knight.” Sensing the anger practically radiating off the Blumaroo, Dean Green took a step back. “They tell me you have a way with words, surprising given your humble upbringing.” Not waiting for Rohane to confirm, he continued, “but if you find it too difficult to write a speech about international unity, you could ask the court scribe for assistance. Because really, it has to be good.” He pivoted dramatically on his right foot. “But anyway, good day, Hero of Five Lands.” His bow was so exaggerated that his tall wig touched the floor. “It’s an honor to meet you. I’m looking forward to the speech of the millennium.”

     Back in the study, Danner was fuming. The Wocky paced the floor and roared with disgust—Rohane covered his ears until his friend quieted down.

     “How dare he say that to you!” Danner threw his arms into the air. “What a class-A jerk!”

     “Believe me, I had to keep repeating Velm’s ‘don’t do it, Rohane’ in my head to keep from throttling him.” Rohane huffed, sending a few balls of papers rolling, “but if he treats me that way again, I’ll—”

     “We’ll back you up. The entire Order would be on your side—titles, pomp and circumstance be darned!”

     A smile crept on Rohane’s tired face. “Thanks, Danner.” Stepping back towards the desk, he brushed the paper balls into a pile and pushed them into the bin. “I kind of hope he does—it would give me somewhere to funnel all this pent-up anger.”

     Now that the desk was free of garbage, Rohane placed a new sheet down and stared at it for a few seconds, as if hoping the quill would come alive on its own. Meanwhile, Danner unfurled a few of the trashed ideas and scanned them, muttering to himself.

     “Would you like some help?” Danner finally asked after humming over the wording on a crumpled-up page with a giant X inked over the surface.

     “Honestly, I—”

     “Would love the assistance from Meridell’s coolest archer?” He pantomimed shooting an arrow out the open window and bowed after the invisible projectile struck its mark—a bullseye, apparently.

     The outsides of the Blumaroo’s mouth turned upwards. “I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

     And so, the two pitched ideas back-and-forth. But each time Danner would suggest something, Rohane would shake his head. “Won’t work.” “Thought of that already.” “That was actually my most recent idea...”

     Over an hour later, Danner found himself shooting baskets with the piles of rejected ideas and grunting with every miss.

     “Rohane. Buddy.” He pumped his fist in victory and let out a little “woo!” from a perfect shot. “You’re not making this easy.”

     “Sorry, Danner,” Rohane sighed. “You know I appreciate the help,” he fiddled with the quill, “but it’s hard to know what these academics want. They expect nothing less than perfection and I… I’m not sure I can meet their expectations.”

     “Is this because of what that windbag said? The whole ‘embarrass the kingdom’ nonsense?”

     “No, not really.” Rohane ran his hands down his ears unconsciously, dotting them with ink. “I’ve been forced into plenty of smaller-scale, public-facing things; none of those ever had me feeling like this.”

     “Is it your family?”

     On the wooden desk, Rohane had brought over a sketch of his older brother, mother, sister-in-law, and baby nephew. All of them had wide grins on their faces. Rohane placed the quill down and swapped it with the lovingly made portrait. Noticing a speck of dust, he brushed it aside and smiled before realizing that he still had not replied to Danner.

     “I don’t want them to go after my family because of me.”

     “You don’t think he’d—”

     “I do.”

     Danner’s tail bristled. “If he tries, I’ll—”

     “We’ll stop him.” Rohane cracked his knuckles. The idea of Green laying a finger on his nephew made the Blumaroo imagine many ghoulish fates for the pompous Brightvalian. Danner’s face darkened as he imagined similarly, though neither knight illustrated what those ideas were.

     “Although,” Danner tossed another crumbled paper ball into the trash bin, “he sounds like just another noble windbag, full of hot air without any real bite.”

     Rohane took a long breath in and exhaled it loudly, ripping a failed idea in half as he did. “I sure hope so.”

     “Which is why you should speak from the heart, Rohane.”

      “I tried that already, Danner—in at least five versions that I already scrapped.”

     Danner placed a hand on his friend’s tense shoulder. “They want to hear you Rohane, not some flowery, prose-filled posturing. Speak about your friends, your adventures, and the stuff that you guys did by being a team. All of that… it goes above class. It’s universal.”

     The old Weewoo clock in the corner of the room chimed five times, a little white bird-like Petpet flying out its centre and rocking back-and-forth after each utterance of its famous “weewoo” call. Like clockwork, both of the knight’s bellies rumbled. Danner took a few steps towards the door, but paused when he saw Rohane wasn’t following.

     “Aren’t you heading to the dining hall?”

     “Can’t. Not yet.”

     “But you gotta eat, R.”

     “I will.” He paused. “Eventually.”

     The door felt heavy against Danner’s arms as he stood there, waiting. Since their brainstorming session, the plate of food outside had disappeared, but there was evidence of a petpetpet or two skulking around the vicinity.

     “Rohane…” the Wocky wavered for a few seconds before finally saying, “want me to grab a plate for you?”

     The Blumaroo gave a soft “sure” before busying himself with the arduous task before him, but as the sun fell beneath the horizon, so too did his quill fail to rise again. It lay on the desk, its ink left to dry, as Rohane rose to leave his study for the first time in days.

     The castle scribe, Mr. Quillwright, was known to be a nervous Cybunny with fidgety ears and whiskers that practically trembled when he spoke. Upon seeing the exhausted knight’s head poking into his office, he let out a yelp, which he claimed as being caught off-guard. Not wanting to give eye contact, the scribe’s gaze lingered on Rohane’s recently stained tunic.

     “S-sir Rohane.” He bowed slightly, letting his tightly tied-back ponytail hang over his spotless blue and red robes. A small courier bag dangled in front of him.

     “I take it you’ve been expecting me?”

     “Y-you could say,” the scribe’s whiskers began to quiver. “I h-heard you might need assistance with your s-speech.”

     “Well, I—"

     Before he could fully answer, Mr. Quillwright dug his right hand into the bag and removed a neatly packaged stack of papers tied up tightly with twine. He thrust it unceremoniously into Rohane’s grasp. Receiving the speech, Rohane held his tongue beyond saying, “thank you,” as he knew the scribe to be nervous, but this seemed… excessive. Even for him.

     Maybe Dean Green threatened him as well, Rohane realized glumly and adding this to the growing list of reasons why he disliked the overdressed Ixi. Told him that he would need to write something worthy of my station.

     Acting as if he could read minds, the Cybunny’s ears shot up. “Something the m-matter, Sir?”

     Rohane quickly fixed his face from showing whatever it was that was eliciting the scribe’s fear, then tucked the speech under his right arm. “Not at all. Thank you for your help.”

     ~x~

     The day of the Summit came quickly. Droves of immaculately dressed scholars and dignitaries flooded into King Skarl’s largest, most eloquently decorated banquet hall. Florid aromas filled the air from garlands that hung above the doors. A single orange rose stood in each glass centrepiece. Musicians played the hammered dulcimer and lute while a baritone and soprano serenaded the arriving guests. Neopians clustered together in colour-coded groups: purple, green, and blue. Rarely, if ever, did the colours intermingle, although a brave few souls insisted on sitting at tables with Neopians from beyond their geopolitical boundaries.

     Rohane attempted to slide into the room undetected, but found this to be a fruitless effort.

     Then again, it was hard not to be noticed.

     When Rohane saw the monstrosity that they were calling a “ceremonial robe,” he silently wished that he could be anywhere—anywhere else but that dressing room being fussed over by self-important Neopians. At the very least—small consolation though it was—Jeran was away with his sister. Lucky for Jeran that his plans were put into place long before this whole affair.

      Royal blue robes with green and purple flanks fit loosely around Rohane’s frame while a purple tam made his head feel hot and sweaty. A silver sash slung over his right shoulder and swept towards his tail; logos from all three lands alternating across. Cloth of gold-covered his neck collar and wrist cuffs—even this amount would well surpass the annual income of some families in his rural farm village. He scratched at the collar with discomfort, feeling like he was wearing someone else’s fur.

     Unlike Rohane, Danner wore far simpler robes. Being from an upper-class family, Danner was used to dressing up. Serian, the Darigan Eyrie dignitary who sat two chairs down from Danner (and the self-proclaimed “rival” of Sir Rohane), seemed equally at ease.

     Dean Green started the conference with a few loud taps to the podium, an effort to silence any cross-chatter. Straightening his neck ruff, he addressed the audience in a voice that could only be described as snobbish.

     “Good afternoon, distinguished guests. Welcome to the first of many Tri-National Summits.” There was a smattering of unsynchronized claps. “Thank you, thank you.” He bowed to the crowd. “Before we make it to our main speakers, let us welcome the Hero of Five Lands. Surely, a knight this famous is certain to have remarkable insight.” He spared a pointed glance at Rohane, who had since dug his nails into his hand. Danner offered Rohane a thumbs-up, which Rohane reciprocated with a face he hoped would not reflect his terror.

     The crowd consisted of mostly Brightvalian and Meridellian scholars with a notably smaller Darigan delegation. Nevertheless, they burst into a hearty applause at the introduction’s end. Rohane shuffled towards the stage, trying all the while to maintain a forward gaze and plastered-on smile. Focused on walking confidently, the Blumaroo hardly noticed his suede black shoes catch onto the leading edge of the robe. Within moments, he sailed forward and onto his squishy nose, eliciting gasps from those around, and more than a few offers for aid. Waving those away and cradling his hurting face, he brushed aside the pain and marched on towards the podium where a smug Dean stood idle.

     “Break a leg,” smiled the Dean, before taking a step back.

     Keep pressing me and you’ll get your wish, the Blumaroo thought as he snorted, hoping that his disdain wasn’t too obvious. He then unwrapped the speech from its folder and set it up on the stand. In his exhaustion, it had proven difficult to practice the whole thing more than once, but it would have to do. At least soon, this whole nightmare would be over…

     The world seemed to spin as he clutched the podium and grit his teeth:

     “Imagine a world,” Rohane did his best to keep his voice steady, “where Meridell, Brightvale, and Darigan Citadel were at peace. Pretty great, right?”

     Murmuring agreement peppered over the room.

     “A show of hands: who would like to see this become reality?”

     The audience rose their hands slowly, awkwardly, as Serian and Danner shared a concerned glance.

     "Life is like a box of marrow cream pies,” he continued. There was a slight uptick in this voice that made it sound like he was asking a question. “Each one unique, but still a part of the same packaging. And that packaging is like our three kingdoms: divided on the inside, but in the grand scheme of things, still the same box.”

     Puzzled looks and scoffs came from the audience members. Some younger, college-aged guests found their napkins to be a more interesting distraction than the speech. One bored Mynci laid his chin on the table while a robed scholar at a neighbouring table—presumably his professor—looked on in horror.

     “Hey, who wrote this?” whispered the Darigan Eyrie. “It doesn’t sound like Rohane at all.”

     “It must’ve been the castle scribe,” Danner hissed. “But why would he write something so… bad?”

     Serian bit down hard with his beak.

     “And so, we, the cream pies, are all just trying to make our way in the same confectionary packaging, and we all… we all…” Rohane stopped. For a few seconds, no one made a sound as a majority of the heads turned his way. “Ugh. What am I even saying?”

     He tore the speech in half with a loud rip. A few audience members gasped.

     “Sorry, everyone. That wasn’t my speech.” He cleared his throat, trying to keep the anger from showing. Either the scribe or Dean Green had wanted him to look like a fool, and he had a sneaking suspicion he knew which one of them put the plan into motion. As to whether Green blackmailed, coerced, or bribed Mr. Quillwright, he did not know. That would be an interrogation for later, preferably with Danner by his side. “What I meant to say is this: most of you know our story—how we travelled from Meridell to Faerieland, visiting five lands in total, doing our best to help those in need. We all came from different corners of Neopia, all bringing our strengths, our perspectives, our ideals—to create something bigger than ourselves.”

     Now the audience seemed genuinely interested, many of the younger ones leant their elbows on the table while their nearby elder colleagues tapped them with annoyance.

     “And well,” Rohane’s voice rose, “isn't that the point of unity? Being able to work together, no matter how different you are? Using those differences to make each other better Neopians. Picking your teammates based on the merit of their character and the strength of their heart. And not because they're from the same place you are.” Fighting against his racing mind, Rohane chose to move his gaze around the room. “I ask you—ask all of you—to think about the strengths of those around you. Think about how together, you can make something greater than yourself and change the world.” He shot a glance back at the Dean, who was steaming with rage, and smirked. “I, for one, look forward to seeing our teamwork.” Unsure of what else to say, he added, “Thank you all for coming, and happy Tri-National Summit.”

     Both Serian and Danner sunk back into their seats, feeling suddenly exhausted, while the rest of the room rose to their feet and clapped with thunderous applause.

     “I told him to speak from the heart,” Danner whispered, wiping the sweat from his brow.

     “Thank Darigan for that…” Serian brushed away the small pile of fur that had accumulated on his robe. “He did good.”

     “He always does… he always does.”

     As Rohane walked down from the stage, he was greeted by a number of Neopians from all three lands hoping to get in a word in edgewise, including a Darigan Kau with a strong handshake and piercing red eyes.

     “It’s an honour, Hero of Five Lands,” she started, “an honour to meet you.”

     Scrunching the fabric with his free hand, he returned her handshake just as firmly. “Rohane is fine, Ms…”

     “Dr. Hollyhock, a botany professor at Darigan Citadel College. I—”

     “Dr. Hollyhock?” a deep, feminine voice carried over the crowd belonging to a finely dressed faerie Lenny with tied-back head plumes, “the Dr. Hollyhock?”

     The Kau gave a hearty chuckle. “Yes, that’s me.”

     “I’m Dr. Rune, Brightvale University lepidopterist. I read your research on invasive plants and alternative hosts for butterflies—I was so hoping to meet you.”

     “And collaborate?” There was a hopeful rise in her voice.

     “Yes!”

     Rohane gladly took the two’s conversation as an excuse to back away and began to scurry towards the table where both Danner and Serian sat. From behind him, there came a series of unpleasantly loud claps.

      “I knew he could do it,” said Dean Green with a slimy smile. “See? Unity comes from all sources, no matter who their family is. How quaint.”

     With this many eyes on him, Rohane choked back a retort as King Hagan called for order to return. Meanwhile, Danner held his arm over Serian’s waist before he could bolt up; the Eyrie ground his beak together as his hackles rose. Seeing this, the knight shook his head in warning, causing the Darigan to slide back into the seat.

     “That was a brilliant start to this partnership of nations,” the king declared, “and what is sure to be a fine partnership for decades to come!”

     Dean Green laughed ominously, rubbing his hoofs together in malevolent pondering. “Oh, I’ll make sure of that. But this is the last time they’ll be cheering for the so-called Hero of Five Lands…”