I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! Shouldn't that be a little obvious by now? I don't own the title either… It's from a song. Called, obviously, "Simple and Clean". Finally remembered to disclaim that…
Sorry for the long wait… Road trip. A very worthwhile road trip (^^), but that is what caused the delay, for the most part. That and a change of betas… Welcome Tamara. No, I did not change betas on a whim—B/k was absent. -_-;;
Does anyone know how to center text? It's a bit confusing…
********
"Tostig," said Cyneheard, incredulous. "Tostig came back."
"Yes," said Brihtric. "He's been fighting for food from the coast. And you're stopping him."
Interesting. We're all waiting for an attack from William's army, when Harold's brother decides to show and proceeds to try and take over the country, thought Cyneheard, securing his ax and sword.
Harold's preparations were still not ready—in particular, he was building a fleet—so the force he led was composed mainly of house-carls, all marching from London down through Kent, past Canterbury, and down to Sandwich, there to catch Tostig and punish him for the damages he had so far inflicted—and possibly send a small warning over to William.
They finally reached Sandwich. Harold asked for the whereabouts of Tostig, and the reply spread through the lines like wildfire:
"He left."
"He what?"
"He ran away when he heard us coming. Ha!"
"We marched all this way for nothing…"
With a bored and sheepish annoyance, the army of house-carls turned straight around and headed back to London.
Later Tostig decided to reappear in his old earldom of Northumbria, but there the two existing earls—Mokere and Edwin—drove him off. Almost all of his sailors had deserted, and in twelve tiny fishing boats, he drifted off, the north wind driving him, and sought refuge in Scotland. It would not be the last of Tostig, but England was relieved of him for the time.
.
"It's too bad about Tostig," said Brihtric, watching Cyneheard savagely hack at a piece of wood with his seax. "But you don't have to act that way about it." He scooted a pawn two spaces forward. He had so far taken five moves in a row without Cyneheard noticing.
"Time—wasted—stupid—Tostig," snarled Cyneheard, who was in no mood to speak coherently.
"…Though, despite your attempts to deface that piece of wood forever, it's turning out well," the thegn noted, changing the subject.
Cyneheard looked down, to see a rude carving of a dragon in his hands. "Uhn? –What do you mean, deface?"
"Don't tell me you were actually trying to carve that…" said Brihtric, eyeing the gashes in the side of the dragon.
"Of course I was," snapped Cyneheard. "What else would I be doing with it?" Before Brihtric could reply, he added, "I think I'll give it to Cynewulf."
"Fine. Now…It's your turn," said Brihtric.
"Why have you moved five pieces?"
"Erm…"
"Brihtric…"
"…Look, Cynewulf! Why don't you give him your present…And…I'll be going!" ended Brihtric, leaving.
"Present?" asked Cynewulf, curious. Cyneheard's face relaxed, and he handed Cynewulf the funny little dragon, which the boy regarded eagerly, despite the fact that one wing was nearly hacked off. Cyneheard noted this.
Funny… You'd think that it was a dragon before I carved it…
His brother ran off, laughing. The house-carl, tired, slumped onto his chair, and fingered the black knight he had been going to move. He was beginning to tire of chess… Perhaps draughts would be better to take up.
The piece of wood, dropped onto the board, knocked the white king off and then fell noisily onto the floor, as the house-carl left to follow Cynewulf, and perhaps get outside.
A careless thegn, entering the room, trod on them both, splintering them beyond recognition. The pieces disappeared into the woodwork, and as Cyneheard did not play chess again, their absence was not noted.
********
Deor stamped on the dirt beneath his foot, preparing to cast it on a swarm of bees, calling out the correct phrase for laying his claim. As almost no one else in Horstede had bees, this was somewhat pointless, but there was no point in risking the loss of bees, and of honey, propolis, and beeswax. Then he said, tossing the earth over the bees,
Stay, victorious women, sink to earth!
Never fly wild to the wood.
Be as mindful of my good
as each man is of food and home.
The swarm fell as the gritty earth hit it, and then Deor, retiring to a safe distance, watched to make sure that they did not leave. Bees had been good this June, and he watched as they settled near his home. That was good, though he wished it had taken longer. Someone had been waiting for that in the back of his mind.
Goodbye, it murmured.
Ecghete straightened slowly, giving the bees a wary eye and walking as far as he could from them. Unfortunately, walking away from the bees meant walking into the girl he could identify as someone in Deor's mind. What her name was, he could not tell.
"Deor!" she said, surprised. "I thought you'd be working with the swarm that just came…"
"I did," Ecghete quickly replied, attempting to fix a grin onto his face. "They were a very well behaved swarm, so I left them to build their nest and…um…find father," he ended weakly.
"I thought your father was in your house," she said, puzzled. "Deor…"
"Oh! Right! In the house—foolish me," he added, "so forgetful…"
The girl was not convinced. She started to interrogate him.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine!"
"Is your father all right?"
"Yes!"
"Are you becoming ill? Your voice is getting hoarse…"
"Nononono—I've just—been—talking to the bees."
From Deor's prison, Ecghete could swear he heard hysterical laughing. The boy would learn his mistake soon enough. Right now, the problem was getting past this…female.
"You've been talking to the bees."
"Exactly!"
"…You know, Deor, if there's a problem, just tell me. Honestly. The bees?"
"Um… I think I hear my father calling," stated Ecghete, tearing off for the woodland, leaving an extremely confused Ælfwynn behind him. Distractedly, she muttered,
"But your house is that way…"
********
Robert was tired, but content. Tomorrow, he and Stephen—and others—would be leaving for the coast, and wait for favorable winds. But tonight, he would finish the puzzle. Surprisingly, he was making progress on it. With a great yawn, he fitted another piece in.
"There…" he muttered sleepily, fingering the large piece—the one with an eye on it. "This is the last piece…maybe I'll put it in…after I sleep a little…"
He reached out, still yawning heavily, to insert the last piece, but fell asleep. The eye had almost fallen into its slot, but it needed a small push…which it received.
"See? Even knights have to sleep," said the small lisping thief. "You need to get over this fear of knights."
They both stepped out of hiding and looked around, and then the gruffer one saw the glinting golden heap. With a smirk—albeit a slightly nervous one—he reached out for it, and ended up bumping the hand, causing the last piece to slip in place, Robert's hand now covering a good deal of it.
The gruff thief sprang backwards, and started to whisper angrily at the lisping one. "What now, oh great one? How are we going to get it out from under his hand now?"
His partner made no answer except to point dumbly behind, mouthing something. With a snort, the other turned to see that the puzzle was glowing brightly, and the knight was moving. But it did not seem to be the same knight that had gone to sleep. The two red-purple eyes that turned to them were not stable. The grin was not sane.
They bolted and ran, but ended up going nowhere. With a frown, the crazy Robert stood, puzzle swinging on his neck, and announced,
"Penalty game."
*********
"Be quiet," muttered Stephen, clenching his forehead. "Just—be—quiet."
Eleanor, his sister, frowned. "All I said was—"
"I said, be quiet!" growled her brother. "I don't need to see anyone before I go to war, least of all him—or our beloved father," he added, disdainfully. "Nor do I need to see you."
She looked down at him, worried. "Stephen… I'm just worried about you." Quietly, she stretched out her hand. "I'm sorry that—"
He turned to her, still angry but quieter. "I know you're sorry. And…just leave, Eleanor. I'll be all right."
She left, looking back at him. He was staring at the wall, as though trying to find something in it. She bowed her head and walked away, leaving him still staring, his head now resting in his hand.
He fell asleep that way—and dreamed. This time the dream was different. This time, he could run, but ran the wrong way, and fell headlong into flames. He woke, as dreamers always do, just before he died. It was a cool, quiet night, dark and comforting.
He looked out the window and listened for something living. But the only thing he heard, after he slept again and woke for the last time that night, was the faint chanting in Latin, of Vespers.
That morning he left, with Robert, to go to England. Eleanor watched after him and then quietly walked to the family chapel, fingering her rosary. But Stephen never looked back to see her.
It's natural, she thought, softly kneeling. He wanted to be a scholar… He wanted to learn, and he had to fight. Of course he'd hate people who could learn. I understand, I think…
But why does he hate even those who can't?
********
Ecghete now knew the forests quite well, memorizing hiding places and good ambush locations. He stood now before his favorite hiding place, a hidden crevasse between two stones. It reminded him of a tomb, and he liked tombs.
"Good," he said, slipping between the rocks and crouching in the cool, damp place between. "Now, when Atemu comes, I'll be ready for him. Atemu will come…" he said in a half whisper, playing with the Ring, and watching the individual tassels ring and spin. "You'll draw him here, you'll bring him here, and then we'll kill him, won't we?" Bright brown eyes followed every movement the Ring made. "Yes…we'll kill him…"
A low, but growing laughter started, echoing through the forest. No one heard it but a frightened fox and the spirit of a boy fighting for his own body—and perhaps the newly awakened spirit in Robert, who, returning to his Puzzle, stirred as if he had received a challenge.
Eventually the laughter stopped, and Deor, shaken and tired, stumbled out from the rocks and made his way home. For a moment, the idea of simply not going home occurred to him, so as to keep Horstede safe, but the only thing that kept Ecghete from causing too much damage was the need to keep up a front.
He had reached the village boundary when the spirit, visible only to Deor, lifted his head and sniffed the air, turning to his host. "Do you smell that?"
"No," said Deor.
"I smell blood," murmured Ecghete. "And feeders on blood…"
A slow grin spread across his face, as he smelt the air and disappeared back into the Ring. Weaving in her home, Ælfwynn looked out to see Deor tiredly make his way to his cottage, looking ready to fall apart. Her shuttle fell onto the floor, dirtying the wool, as she looked after him and worried.
********
The grey eagle's keen claws, O King, you dyed in blood,
The wolf was always fed before you went homeward, sang the Norseman of Harald Hardrada. He was the king of Norway, who rejoiced in bloodshed, in senseless brutality and death. A true beserker, he was glorified and uplifted. He had been everywhere—Byzantium, Russia, Africa—and had a brutal anecdote for all. There was the kidnapping of Maria, the niece of the Byzantine Empress, or the staged funeral, or the time he had set a village afire with a great host of small birds.
Yet Harald Hardrada was bored.
For fifteen years, he had fought against Denmark and their upstart king, Swein. It was a kingdom that rightfully should have been his. And two years ago, the war had ended—but not the way it should have, with Swein dying slowly and Harald king over a crushed and broken Denmark. It ended with Harold losing, Swein very much alive, and then two long, tedious years in which there was no one to fight but his own country.
He was not just bored—he felt as though he was slowly decaying.
And that was when Tostig came, to ask him to conquer England, with a promise that he would arrange for the earls to betray Harold and to support Harald. It was the promise of a maniac; there was no one in England to help Tostig. But Harald, itching to fight, believed him.
That September, they would attack England.
********
It was a lazy August day at Pevensy, and the fyrd was still waiting. Wulfgar tossed the pebble into the air, then caught it. It was just about the only thing he had to do, so he threw it again. Catch, throw. Catch, throw. Catch, throw—
"Would you stop that?" asked Aldwulf. "Why don't you play draughts, or something?"
"Because I don't want to," said Wulfgar, tossing the pebble back up.
"You've got to have something better to do…"
"No, I don't…"
Aldwulf snatched the pebble out the air, glaring at his comrade, who was desperately trying to retrieve it from him.
"What the point of being here if all we do is throw a rock into the air?"
"We're hear to watch for ships. Give me back my pebble."
"No. Look; the fyrd is supposed to stay for two months. We've been here far longer. There's no point in us being here any more. They aren't coming."
Wulfgar gave up getting the stone back. "Because they could still come."
"Please—"
There was a cough, and both turned to see Cyneheard, looking at them with utter scorn. Behind Cyneheard stood a smiling boy, with wild dark hair, who waved at them. And beside him stood an older man, with yellow hair that was starting to grey. Wulfgar and Aldwulf both stared at them cluelessly.
"You're going home," barked Cyneheard.
"…"
"So pack up, and we'll be taking you back. I assume you'll have plenty of work to do—winter is coming on, after all."
Aldwulf shot off to pack, humming music. I hope that annoying boy hasn't been skulking around Wærthryth while I'm gone, he thought. Though Wulfgar won't tell me who this person is. All I know is that whenever I'm around her, he starts looking all nervous and coughs. There's got to be someone lurking that I can't see…
Wulfgar was still staring at Cyneheard. "We're leaving?"
"Yes," said Cyneheard. "You're leaving. The threat is over. No one's going to attack us now. Go home and farm; you aren't needed anymore."
"That it?" screamed Wulfgar. "We didn't do anything!"
"Be glad you didn't," replied Cyneheard. "Now…"
"I'm not leaving," said Wulfgar. "I'm not leaving until no ships are sailing anywhere."
Cyneheard was beginning to restrain the urge to hit Wulfgar in the face when the five became aware of the presence of a sixth man; a short man with chestnut hair and an equally dark moustache, regarding them with warm, dark eyes. "Let them stay, Cyneheard."
"My—"
"It won't lay all of the surrounding villages to ruin if two boys stay on a few more weeks. Let them stay…" He turned to Wulfgar. "Though you may wish to show more respect for rank in the future; a rebellious attitude is no good in any army."
With that he left.
"Who was that?" asked Aldwulf, disappointed. He could not now go home without looking inferior in the brown eyes of Wærthryth.
"You don't know?" asked Cyneheard, disgustedly.
"No…"
"It was Harold," muttered Cyneheard. "Here you live, in a place owned by him, and you don't know what he looks like…" With that he turned heel and left, the little boy trailing at his heels, waving good-bye to them.
"H…h…h…h…h…h…"
"Thank you, Wulfgar," muttered Aldwulf. "Now I really can't go back…"
"H…h…h…h…h…"
"Will you stop that?"
"H…h…h…h…h…"
********
…Meh. I'm feeling very dissatisfied with the story, suddenly. Which is a bad, bad thing when you're entering it in something. Oh well… Harald is very much historical. I hope the two—Harold and Harald—don't get too confusing, though in the books I've read they aren't, so… (shrug)
Evil Bakura had his little Gollum moment. Back away slowly…
Replies:
angelkohaku: Ya want to know what has a freakishly demonic grin? This Strawberry Shortcake doll they advertise on television. Actually, it's her younger sister, "Apple Dumpling" (don't ask me why I know all this), but the point is that they are both frightening. And have demonic grins. That actually look a lot like Evil Bakura's… Only more so… ^^;;
Little_Child_of_the_West_Wind: My friend vows that Ryou Bakura and Evil Bakura are both Gollum clones… (Well, Bakura's Smeagol and Evil Bakura's Gollum…) ^^ The poem is very good… I'm just way too lazy to review it… But now you know! ^^
Tuulikki: Ecghete means "fierce/deadly/violent/sharp anger". Plus, it looks cool. I tried to cut back on the history here…which was hard. But I'm not here to write Harald's biography, I'm here to write about 1066… (chants this to self) And thou art excused. ^__^
Mouself: (twitchs) Typo… (starts to go beserk) Typooo… Egg head? -.-
Flaming Tigress Mage: There's one other that I know of… Actually, two. Ori is entered the historical category as well… ^^;; (is swamped by information) Information overload… @_@;; Ooh, Tamara won't be happy… You used the salami! (gasp)
: A heck of a lot. Harold was innocent of every single charge laid against him—this is not my bias, it's fact—except for the oath. The oath… Now, that's an interesting happening. Nobody actually knows what happened, though it did take place… I'm sorry if that was confusing, though. I deleted the parts where the narrator pointed out the falseness, perhaps I should have left that in…
Seeky L.H. Wolf: I'm a Saxon geek… Not a Norman geek! Look at Tuulikki's review for the meaning of the name. ^^U
Chibi Kita: Couldn't you write it down, or something…? Because if you honestly can't tell… Then this whole thing is a failure.