Hey! Destruction here! I recently saw Kingdom of Heaven featuring Orlando Bloom and I just had to fix things up and get Death on it as well! You there Death? Death…? (turns around slowly)
Yeah…I haven't actually seen the said movie, so I shall smile and nod and pretend I understand what's going on at this present moment. (stands and broods about her other abandoned fics under the name of Taluliaka)…….
Disclaimer: We have nothing against French people, their throats and we don't own Kingdom of Heaven. Right now, that is BUT in the future…possibly
This story is called
The Kingdom of Blacksmiths, Dying Knights and Flags
But may also be known as:
In which we begin in France, where the French are, Frank the One-Handed Grave Digger is Not Helped by the Priest Like Priest whose Name is Bob, who Strangely Enough, Speaks with An Irish Accent, then Again we Are In France or Are we? And The Necklace is Stubborn, Bob is Killed in A Dramatic Duel to Death Against the Fathers of Various Village Boys, Actually We Lie, he wasn't, Balian of Ibelin is Accosted by His Father and Taught to Fight in About Five Minutes, he Fights over a Flag in Jerusalem only To Return Home to Be Accosted by Someone Claiming to Be the King of England. Somewhere along the Line he is Knighted, but Lets not Tarry With Useless Information…
We begin in France, because this is where the movie begins, so we thought we'd set our little parody there too. Of course we could have done it in the middle of the desert and nobody would have cared, but we like to stick to the story when we insult and offend it and anybody associate with it in outlandish and generally very silly ways.
Frank, because that is his name, nobly digs a hole in the background. He seems to be having a bit of trouble, oh, no he's just taking a swig of vodka every second swing. Frank sways, clutching the bottle of vodka in his only hand and attempts to take another sip before dropping heavily in a dead faint. The shovel is dripped from his hand as his only desire at that moment is the vodka. He fails though, splashing drops of vodka on his face and coat, missing his mouth entirely.
But he is not alone. No a priest is there with him, watching in a priest like way and offering no help to the poor, exhausted, one handed, vodka craving man named Frank. He then turns, looking back at the dead body and as he does a big hairy rat crawls across the covered face of the body and accidentally drags the cloth away.
The priest, noticing the rat, gives a high pitched scream and lifts a leg, trying to shoo it away, while also looking back to see if Frank had noticed his high pitched girly screaming which made it to be a rather funny position. Frank, to drunk to notice anything other than a bottle of vodka or a naked woman, didn't seem to have heard him.
Satisfied, the Priest…erm…Bob returned to a priest like position, with his hands tucked inside his robes and a serious face on. Suddenly, while casually gazing in the distance, not really looking at anything in particular, he noticed that the victim, a woman was wearing a necklace. It was a small silver, or perhaps steel, figure of Jesus on the Cross on a thin piece of leather. But Bob could have cared less what it was made of – it was SHINY and frankly, that was all that mattered.
He rushed forward, beady little eyes wide and pudgy, notably dirty hands reaching for the piece of shiny treasure. He squatted down beside the body, checked to see if Frank of watching (which he was not) and tugged at the necklace.
It remained fastened around her neck.
Cursing, as priests do, he tugged harder and still it did not come off! He used both hands and leaned back, pulling with all his might! The necklace. Would. Not. Budge!
"Damn!" he said, in an Irish accent for no particular reason at all. The accent that is; you have a right to curse when the shiny necklace you happen to be stealing off a dead woman just doesn't come OFF!
"Erm, excuse me…" a voice said in an English accent.
Bob just ignored it and kept on pulling, gritting his teeth. Oh, the determinedness of this determined priest.
"Excuse me!" the voice said a little louder.
"I'm a bit busy laddy, come confess your sins later!" Bob replied, giving an extra hard pull.
"Sir! Could you clear the road! A whole lot of men on horses with pointy things are going to pass by in a moment and you need to be off the road! And that's a suicide. You'll need to remove its head."
At this Bob looked up. Remove the head…hmmmm…
The man, who seemed to know that the woman had committed suicide and what to do when one commits suicide and is therefore dead and in hell because suicide is bad, galloped off.
Bob dragged the body off the road and over to a handy axe. He lifted the axe and with a mighty whump plunged it into the nearby grass. He tried again and again. In fact he tried many times before he eventually got it right and decapitated the woman. Smiling he hefted the bloody axe onto one shoulder and slipped the necklace over his head. It took several tries but eventually he was proudly wearing the shiny figurine of Jesus that he stole from a dead, now headless, woman.
Needless to say, by now Frank had passed out. That last swig of vodka never did go past his lips. Poor guy, all he wanted was some vodka…
…
A lot of men rode up to the blacksmith's shop in a lot of pomp and stuff. You know, flags flying, trumpets blowing and torrential rain. Oh wait, the torrential rain was just typical bad weather. Sigh, it always happens at the worst moments.
Balian stepped out and watched them arrive. Their apparent leader dismounted, smoothed his thin, French moustache, walked forward and stopped about a metre away from Balian.
In an outrageous French accent he said, quite loudly, "Where iz zee blackzmith?"
Balian put one foot forward and said gallantly also in a French accent because well, they were in France, "I am zee blackzmith!"
The man tilted his head in confusion, "I am zorry, I didn't catch zhat!"
Balian repeated, louder, for the man was old and hairy, "I am zee blackzmith!"
"Er, zay again?"
"I am ZEE BLACKZMITH!"
"I ztill do not underztand you."
"I AM ZEE BLACKZMITH!"
The old man didn't say anything for a moment, before inquiring, "What exzzactly are you trying to zay?"
"Oh, for God's sake man!" said Balian, in his natural English accent, "I'm Balain the Blacksmith!"
"Ah!" said the old man nodding, "Why did you not zay zo in zee first place! Our horzez need shodding and I don't know about zee other guys, but I could do with a good meal, no?" At this he guffawed, and being French his throat expanded in the classical French-Frog-Guffaw style.
Balian got to work, trying to ignore the embarrassing man who smoked a pipe in the rain while waiting for his horseshoes.
When he was almost done the man came up to him, following him around and trying to speak with him.
"My name iz Godfrey." He said, "I knew your mother and well, to put it plainly, you're my zon and I want to take you to Jeruzulem with me on the Cruzades!" He struck a pose and Balian just said the phrase that he kept using to explain away everything, usually why his apprentice should do the washing up and not him.
"I am zee Blackzmith."
And that was it. Wow. And it worked to because poor Godfrey looked a little downcast and walked away, with slow dejected steps, his head hanging. He looked back occasionally to see if his son was looking and possibly changing his mind.
Balian pounded away at the metal, like all good blacksmiths do, and didn't look back.
…
Balian, surprisingly attractive in a sort of cross gender way, pounded away at metal, as blacksmiths do. It was late at night, and the priest had just arrived after burying the woman. He then proceeded with a prepared speech about how he should pray and ask God's forgiveness or atone for his wife's sin in some way.
The words 'your wife' are used quite often and it is painstakingly obvious to anyone who happened to overhear or be watching from a shadowy corner, conveniently placed window, camouflaged in the haystack or on the nice sturdy rafters that the woman who committed suicide was Balian's wife.
At this moment it is appropriate to feel sorry for the poor, angsty man whose wife committed suicide because their child died and left him all alone in the big nasty world as the bastard son of some woman.
Aaaaw...
Anyway, the priest had been harping on about hell for a while so Orlando, sorry, Balian decided to ask, "Is she in hell then?"
"Ah, yes." Bob replied, with his over the top Irish, possibly Scottish, accent that seemed to grate on everyone's nerves because they seemed to omit every second consonant. This is the translation: "But you can atone for her sins with prayer, fasting and charitable works and…"
Balian turned around to ask if cutting out the Priest's tongue was a charitable work to find the priest really close behind him. "Erm…"
He then noticed the necklace the priest was wearing, "That's a nice necklace you've got there. Where'd you get it?"
The Priest fingered it proudly, "Oh, this? I stole it off your dead wife after I decapitated her."
Balian, about to return to pounding metal, stopped. He then stabbed the man with the nearest implement, a flaming fork, in the eye and watched, delighted as flames spread over the Priest's highly flammable robes and the Priest screamed in pain. He began rolling around in the hay, and since hay is flammable it went up in smoke too.
Two shadowy figures decided at that moment to vacate their hiding spots. It was getting a little hot…
Balian looked around, saw his blacksmithing place practically burning to the ground around him and said quietly, "Damn."
He rode in the general direction of where he saw his father and his men head off. After getting lost, falling down the same hole twice, killing a wandering Priest in mindless rage and falling down another hole he reached the Crusaders' camp.
His father, Godfrey, stood up and threw the bowl of soup behind him, the hot liquid landing on a rather hairy, big German man with lots of axes, and shouted to Balian, "I knew you would come!"
"Iz zat why you left the horze at my shop, fazer?" Balian asked as he dismounted.
Godfrey waggled a finger at him, "You are very zmart!" Grabbing the young man he hauled him around and shouted to the other men, "Did I not tell you my zon is zmart?"
The group raised their tankards, shouted "Aye!" and drank in toast.
"Eh," said Godfrey, "Zey like to toast people a lot…"
…
Later, after more toasting Godfrey decided that it was time Balian learned to fight. Balian tried to protest, "I am a blackzmith!" but was forced into it. Big, hairy, German men with axes can be very influencing. Balian was handed a big heavy sword and stood about five metres away from his father.
"I don't zink…"
He was too late. His father began attacking him with all sorts of moves that only an experienced knight, hardened by years of battle and taught for a long time by a really good mentor, could ever use. Of course Godfrey was old, so that could account for it.
Balian only just managed to defend himself from his father's onslaught, protesting every step of the way.
"I am a blacksmith! A BLACKZMITH! 'ow is zis teaching me to fight?" he shouted.
Godfrey stepped back, catching his breath. "Well, zon. If I attack you for a few minutez, zhow you one move," he held his sword in both hands above his head and Balian copied, "You will zuddenly develop the skillz it normally takes yearz of dedicated practize to mazter."
And it did. Work, that is. Suddenly Balian began attacking back at his father, who was now on the defensive. After a few minutes, they called for a break and drank some wine.
When they returned to fight Godfrey lowered his sword, "Now that you have zuddenly developed the skillz it normally takes yearz of dedicated practize to mazter, you can fight the much younger, big, hairy German man."
"The one wiz zee axes?" Balian asked.
And Godfrey thought for a moment, "Wee, zee one wiz zee axes. Hermangoodmanmillkavoltzwagendoitch Er Lainder, ztep forward and attack my zon."
Herman….The big, hairy, German man with the axes stepped forward. They squared off, raised their weapons and were about to attack each other when someone coughed loudly.
Everyone turned to look at who had coughed, interrupting the fight and therefore the betting on who was going to win.
A group of men on horses with big hats, gold stars on their jackets and thick American accents stood, or rather, sat on the outskirts of the camp on their horses.
One of them said, "As the sheriff of Ibelin I ask the Bay-lin come with us. He killed some priest and now he's gotta pay for murder."
Godfrey stepped forward and said quite simply and very arrogantly, "No."
Balian walked up next to his father and announced to everyone, "What they say is true. I did kill a priest."
Godfrey stopped him from walking toward them, "I am Zir Godfrey of Ibelin and I zay to you, Zheriff – no!"
The Sheriff seemed disappointed but tipped his hat, "You are lord. I must leave you be." He made some movements with his hands, gesturing to the thick bushes near the camp and they rode off. When they reached the bushes they split and quickly scampered behind the bushes.
"We know you're zhere!" said one knight. He was promptly killed as an arrow sprouted from his eye.
The rest of the group shrugged and went about their business for a minute before turning around in surprise as they were attacked from behind the bushes near the camp. They all rushed about, even Balian, though he muttered once, "I can't believe I'm doing zis. I am a blackzmith!", killing their enemies.
After some nifty horsemanship and a swing or two of the sword the battle was won! However about half their group was dead or injured and Godfrey had an arrow in his leg. Unfortunately our big hairy friend Hermangoodmanmillkavoltzwagendoitch Er Lainder was dead, killed after having three arrows in his throat and his arm chopped off. He went down fighting though…God bless the guy…
Anyway….
Godfrey was whining about the arrow hurting so the Priest opted to take it out, after all the leg was turning a greenish colour. Yuck. After he took half a rotten wooden arrow out of the knight's leg and bandaged it up, he stroked the leg lovingly.
"Er, zhat are you doing?" asked Godfrey curiously.
"Nothing…" said the Priest, quickly removing his hand, his Irish/Scottish accent thick.
Later, when the Priest was watching Godfrey sleep fitfully due to his fever Balian approached him stealthily from behind. He held a frying pan he had swiped while the cook slept drunkenly in one hand. His eyes were wide and bright, and he grinned devilishly as he raised it above the Priest's head.
Said Priest turned around, "What are you doing?"
Balian quickly assumed a swashbuckling position, "Just, eh, practizing my swordplay, you know!" He jabbed at the air with the pan, "Aye, avast! He he…"
The priest turned back to Godfrey and Balian lowered the pan and walked away, sulking, "Damn!" having been thwarted once again because you see this wasn't the first time he had tried to kill the priest. If only he could. Kill the priest, that is.
…
We now fast forward to Balian in some weird white robes kneeling before his father, who slurred some oaths and stuff. He hit Balian on each shoulder, slapped him so he would remember something, told him to serve the king and go to Jerusalem.
After he was officially knighted he stood up and walked over to one of the other knights in the room while his father swayed in his chair.
"Why am I being knighted now, by my drunken fazer?" he asked, examining his arm where one of the sword swings had cut him since his father kept on missing.
"He's not drunk!" the knight said, "He's dying!"
Balian sighed and turned to look sadly at the man and then gasped, "Oh God!"
He knelt once more before his father and clutched at his shoulders, "Fazer! Speak to me! What wizdom do you have to pazz on to me before you go? Tell me quickly!"
"Mhm…go...to Jeruzalem…mahmmm" replied Godfrey.
"Why?" cried Balian, "Why must I go to Jeruzuelm? Looze women? Good wine? Cheap petrol?"
"No!" said Godfrey sharply and cast his eyes skyward, a dreamlike look on his face, "Zee best game of capture zee flag ever…"
And he died. Just slumped over and died.
"No!" Balian cried, "Noooooooooo!"
…
Later on, in Jerusalem,
Balian was in the thick of it, slashing down enemies with his mighty sword, knighting randoms for bringing him a drink, slapping people and challenging them to duel. Ah, all in a day's work for a knight…
And then he saw it!
A flag! The flag! It was red, unlike all the ones he had painstakingly embroidered every night he was here. He rushed up, ignoring the wound in his hand, to the tower at which a hysterical Saracen waved his red flag. He ran up, poked the man in the shoulder and the all out war for the flag was begun.
The bit, kicked, hair pulled, insulted, grabbed and punched for the flag and eventually, with a well placed kick to the head, Balian had the flag! He held it up triumphantly, smiling and laughing. He had the flag!
"Ha ha!" was all he got out before an arrow sprouted from his shoulder.
It appeared that holding the flag made you a target for the archers, so he dropped it over the wall, into the faces of several incoming Saracens. Eventually, out numbered and out-gunned, Balian invited the Saracens back into Jerusalem, but only if they didn't eat the knights for dinner and escorted them to the coast so they could all go home.
Balian was a bit sad. He had lost, his father had asked him as his dying wish to win and…actually no he hadn't. He just said to go to Jerusalem for the game. He never said Balian had to win! Considerably happier, Balian trotted off for the coast, beginning a good game of Eye Spy.
…
Balian stepped out of his blackened blacksmith shop which smelled heavily of soot, smoke and burnt flesh. He noticed a group of men on horses not two feet away, so stepped back. The apparent leader dismounted and turned to him.
"Where iz Balian?" he asked, French accent apparent.
Balian's eyes widened. They were looking for him! Had they found out about the other priests he had killed? He had to think of something quick!
He stood gallantly, "I am zee blackzmith!"
"Are you zure?" the man asked.
"Wee, very zure!"
"Ok then. Well, we are looking for Balian." The man informed him.
And again Balian informed him, "I am zee blackzmith!"
"But are you a knight?" the man pressed.
"I AM ZEE BLACKZMITH!"
The man sighed, clearly not believing him, "Very well then, if you say so." He mounted his horse, saluted the blacksmith and told him, "And I am zee King of England!"
He then trotted off happily with the other men, leaving behind a highly confused Balian.
"But I am zee blackzmith…" he muttered and went back to pound metal, just to prove it!
There. Now go forth and multiply and send reviews for those who have commanded the multiplying to read and digest in a slow and majestic manner.
Death and Destruction, Supreme Executives and Commanders of all Beetles, Bears and Bush Turkeys