Disclaimer: The Hetalia characters and their personifications belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. 日丸屋 秀和
What Not to do if You are a Knight by Gilbert Beilschmidt:
30.) Do not taunt your love interest to the point of nearly killing you.
31.) Do not trick an entire village in order to make a terrible plan become a success.
(FLASHBACK) - Final Duel
The titian sun hung low in the late afternoon sky as Elizaveta boldly stepped across the dirt-carved boundary to face her final opponent.
Their shadows were grossly elongated misrepresentations of the mere children who now faced off.
They were tired. Exhausted. For 12 merciless, grueling rounds, they had battled before the mass of spectators - not unlike the gladiators of Rome, although, somehow, this was justified. Withstanding the heat, withstanding the pain, the two contenders had fought their way to victory every time.
Both had accumulated numerous lacerations and bruises over the course of the tournament. Their attire was stained with sweat and blood and their burdened, oxygen-deprived lungs screamed for air.
Yet aside from their disheveled appearance and the sound of their rough, haggard breaths, one could not possibly have known of the fatigue they felt. Their expressions remained fierce and stoic. Their eyes blazoned in the golden evening light, giving away absolutely no indication of what internal musings could be hidden behind them.
It was not a wonder that these two individuals were the final contenders of the tournament. They were beyond their years in a multitude of skills; they were exceptional, disciplined, and exactly the breed of warrior that belonged in that elite legion of the Teutonic Order.
After this one, final battle, however, it would all be over. There would be but one winner, and the other would join the conglomerate of losers.
The challengers heard the call
and raised their swords.
The rivals began by circling each other - Elizaveta eliciting that same cutthroat steadiness that she had displayed during every prior round that day, Gilbert flashing a cocky sneer.
Eliza gritted her teeth.
"This is not gonna be good," Antonio breathed from where he stood, powerlessly, next to Francis.
Their mentor, Sir Frederick, had watched his pupils assiduously all throughout the day. Yet now, at the climax of this nightmarish ordeal, he simply left. Perhaps it was pain or disappointment or disgust or shame - it very well could have been a combination of the several - but when the elder knight saw the intensity burning in either opponent's eyes, he found that all he could do was turn away.
Watching his two best students, the children he had partially raised - who he had loved and trained and watched grow up - now locked in mortal combat to decide who would live and who would die, was too sickening, too heart-wrenchingly painful for him to bear.
It was true that he could not have protected them from this; they were ordered to participate, and going against commands given by the superiors of a religious military order would not have bode well for them. Therefore, with no alternatives - no excuses nor safe havens available for his exploitation - Sir Frederick essentially had his hands bound behind his back, forced to choose between his own life and quite possibly the lives of his adherents, or just one of the latters'.
.
"Awww, what's wrong, Eli? Scared you came all this way just to lose?!" the pale child taunted.
She swung her sword downward impulsively, violently, but he blocked the attack with an effortless swat of his own blade.
The next instant, still retaining that impish grin, Gilbert returned the favor. He brought down his sword (and much more forcefully at that) upon the disguised girl before him. He slashed his weapon ruthlessly, pushing her back step by step as he did so.
Briefly, he saw a flash of what might have been fear enter her eyes when she reached the edge of the ring. He smiled evilly and eased up, allowing her to come forward again.
"You can do better, Eli," he sang. "Oh, wait, maybe you can't!"
A feral scream erupted from her throat and she jabbed with lightning speed, lacerating his side clean through the thin armor. Drops of blood hit the earth and turned a vile, rusty color as they mixed with the dirt below.
He cringed and cupped his hand over the newly torn flesh. Okay, he definitely wasn't worried about her showing mercy any more. It was a good thing though; it simply meant that what was about to occur would appear all the more convincing.
After a few back-and-forth sword thrusts between the pair, as well as some scrapes, kicks, and several guttural shouts, Gilbert paused for just an instant and took a deep breath. In his next movement, he intentionally raised his sword high in the air as if about to strike. Then, with her hair-trigger reflexes, just as Gilbert had anticipated, Elizaveta sliced his hand, "knocking" the sword out of his grasp.
It sailed clear out of the ring. All eyes watched it plummet, as if in slow motion.
Elizaveta, taking advantage of his momentary inattention, extended her foot and swiped his legs out form under him with her heel, effectively tripping Gilbert and causing him to crash flat on his back into the dust. The air was brutally forced from his lungs upon impact.
Gilbert winced in pain and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring up the length of a silvery blade held point-blank at his throat.
He could not move - she had him pinned. The match was done.
A deafening ensemble of cheers spouted from the crowd as Elizaveta towered over him. She lingered there, panting, dripping with sweat, glaring dangerously down the length of her sword which was still pointed at his gullet. She seemed oblivious to the uproarious commotion around her.
He tried to maintain an unreadable expression while holding her stare.
She, on the other hand, well it was very clear the silent message she was trying to convey: she had bested him. She had finally proven herself. She searched his eyes relentlessly for some form of acknowledgement.
With feigned submission, Gilbert gradually lowered his eyes to the ground.
Only then did she slowly lower the weapon and step off of him. Just as she turned away, a crowd of onlookers swept her up in a laudatory gesture.
There were cries of "VICTOR!", "CHAMPION!", and "HAIL, HOLY KNIGHT!" She was soon whisked away, finally allowing a look of pride to blossom on her dirtied face.
Gilbert remained sitting on the ground, staring like a lost puppy when a tanned hand shoved itself before his face. He took hold of it and pulled himself up. It was then that he was confronted with eyes of Antonio and Francis... and they were crying. Then, Gilbert felt hot tears burn threateningly in his own eyes.
In that moment, the trio of friends all understood the same, undeniable, heart-breaking fact:
the he blond and brown-haired boys were looking into the face of a dead-man.
A feast was to be held later that night in honor of the young champion, the newest member of the Landmeister's legion.
Thus, when it began to grow dark and the light and heat of the day began to ebb, rows of torches were lit. Throughout the illuminated square, long, wooden tables were set and food was splayed across the slabs of oak. It was glorious food: roasted pig, fresh bread, apples, pairs, plums, and beer. From an onlooker's perspective, it would appear that everyone was making merry.
Finally, as the culminating aspect of the festive scene hence described, at the center of it all was an enormous, roaring bonfire.
Elizaveta carried herself taller that evening, an incandescent pride shining through her normally indomitable facade. She had allowed the excitement and elation of what had been accomplished earlier to wash over her completely. She had proven her strength and capability to herself, her friends, to Gilbert, and even the king, who himself would be congratulating her at the feast. Furthermore, after the ceremony, she would be free forevermore. The only thoughts that pervaded her mind were that no longer would she have to bear the suffocating confines of her room or the threat of being married against her will. At that moment, she did not think of her father, nor did she think of her servants or her comrades or Sir Frederick. Again, the only thought of relevance to 14-year-old Elizaveta was sweet, sweet liberation.
Before the supper began, the king took his seat at the head of the tables in a raised alderwood pew. The Landmeister sat at his right while the guest of honor - Elizaveta - was placed at his left. She had been formally introduced and zealously applauded.
But, before they proceeded any further, the king declared he had an announcement to make.
"We are gathered here this evening to honor the brave young warrior who has proven himself worthy to be initiated as the newest member of the Holy of Holy Knights!"
A successive round of applause and cheers filled the air.
"...And of course, our entertainment event for this evening will be the honorable execu-"
"Sir!"
Eli ceased listening to the king's booming speech when a concerned voice caught her attention from behind.
"Yes?" said the young knight.
"You have been summoned by the carriage master. He wishes to speak with you about some travel affairs."
"Now?" she questioned.
The man nodded vigorously, and Eli, supposing the feast would not begin until the entertainment was over, decided to follow him.
The pair abandoned the festivities, weaving their way instead through the throng of villagers back toward the lean-to stables.
"Such a shame," Eli overheard a large bald man saying to his companion, "to lose a group of brave young warriors like these."
She ceased following the lackey momentarily. "What?" she inquired. "Do you mean the contenders? Why, they're not all going into the order of the Landmeister, don't fret! Only the victor will be departing."
"No," retorted the man haughtily, not realizing he was addressing the champion of the tournament, "I'm speaking of that infernal execution rule. The contestants aren't going into the private order of our liege because they're going to be beheaded! It's a damn shame, I tell you!"
Upon hearing these words, Eli paled. "Wh-what? No, no you must be mistaken, sir... I-I'm going to straighten this out right-" Suddenly, she felt a hand seize her arm. It tugged her back toward the horse carts before she could say another word. The bald man only shrugged when he saw his brief conversation partner haul off in the opposite direction.
Her feet tripped along the wet grass unwillingly as she continued to be pulled toward the horses.
More than a little angered that the lackey had interrupted her conversation, Elizaveta opened her mouth to berate him when her eyes were drawn upward. Upon reaching their destination, she noticed instantly that one of the carts was fully loaded, the driver already in the seat, the whip and reins already in his grasp.
"Urgent matters have come up, Sir Knight... I'm afraid we'll have to depart immediately," the lackey explained.
"What? Wait a minute, what are you talking about? Unhand me! I'm going back to the feast. I must speak with the-"
"LOAD THE CART!"
Eli was abruptly cut off and shoved roughly into the carriage. "Hey!" she protested.
Once she was fully inside, two arms clamped around her. She turned around and before she could struggle, before she could draw her weapon or cry out for help, her eyes fell upon...
her maidservant, Irunya. The woman had her wrapped in a tight embrace.
There were two other large men in the carriage as well, along with the driver and the lackey.
"Irunya? What's- what's going on?"
The emotional woman released the young girl and looked her over.
"I'm sorry, dear... but this is for the best."
She gently untied the string holding back Elizaveta's ponytail, allowing her long, curling tresses to fall around her face and spill over her shoulders.
"Irunya, WHAT is for the best? WHERE are you taking me?" Elizaveta demanded. A growing feeling of panic and anger began to overtake her.
"You... can't pull this off, Elizaveta," Irunya answered.
Elizaveta's eyes flashed and her nostrils flared, forming a conclusion immediately. So that's what this was about, huh? Irunya was come to take her home because no one believed she could succeed as a knight. She began to protest indignantly. "YES. I. CAN! I-"
"Not as a woman. Not alone," her servant interrupted. "...So we're sending you away."
"What are you talking about? Sending me away? WHERE? And... and what did they mean about the execution rule?" She turned back and attempted to meet the eyes of the other men in the cart as well. "That's a mistake, right?"
There was no reply.
"Hyaa!" cried the driver.
The carriage began to move.
"IRUNYA, RIGHT?" Elizaveta tried desperately.
Again, she was met with silence.
The carriage trotted further and further away and Elizaveta seemed to be frozen, caught in a whirlwind of confusion. She heard a muffled voice in the background saying, "As far as anyone knows, you are just a handmaid now... a simple, humble servant traded at market... we have a buyer in need of a servant who is willing to take you..."
But in her shaken, uncomprehending state, all Elizaveta could do was stare dumbly at the glowing light of the festival behind her. The lights and sounds grew farther and farther away as the distance increased. "The contestants... the contestants are going to be executed..." she began to mumble lightly to herself. Then, broken out of her state of disorient and shock, she cried, "GILBERT! Let me go! I have to warn him!" She tried to climb out of the carriage, but the two large men seized her.
The village was located in a small valley next to a vast forest. As the horse cart reached the top of the hill, Elizaveta could see the glow of the enormous, paganistic bonfire down below in the valley. Its orange light reflected on the thick wall of trees, casting the figures' two-dimensional forms on the curtain of foliage like shadow puppets on a stage. She saw the shadows of men - a row of men - standing side by side.
Elizaveta next saw the line of figures kneel down. A shadow of a muscular giant stood behind them, his black tonnage dancing in the firelight. The muscular figure raised an ax with both hands, high above his head.
Elizaveta's eyes widened.
"Gilbert?... Gilbert?!... GILBERT!" she began to shriek uncontrollably. The two men in the carriage held her arms tighter and restrained her while Irunya grabbed her waist. Elizaveta fought and thrashed and screamed. "LET ME GO! Let me go! I have to save him!" she bawled. Tears streamed from her eyes and she heaved heavy, desperate breaths. Even with three people upon her, she continued to writhe, throwing a tantrum like a young child out of complete desperation. "FRANCIS! Antonio! Gil! Wait! Stop! Stop, please!"
And then, over Irunya's head, ignoring her servant's pleas to look away, Elizaveta watched the shadow of the ax swing down upon the kneeling figures. She saw the spatter of blood dot the fire light.
Her ear-splitting scream erupted across the entire valley and over the forest. A hand clamped over her mouth until the shriek left her throat dry. "No," she grieved, choking pitifully on her tears, "no I'm sorry! I take it all back! Please! I didn't know! I didn't know! Gilbert!" Her body went limp. She was livid and hopeless and heartbroken and exhausted all at once. Her back shook with uncontrollable sobs.
All she could think of, at that moment, was the day she first saw the red-eyed boy... how they had made that STUPID plan together. How she had actually convinced herself that she, the Lord's daughter, could become a Teutonic Knight, and how, even then, she knew it would only end in someone getting hurt. It was all. Her. Fault.
She thought back to Gilbert. She knew in an instant this had been his plan all along. That there was no real sincerity in that fight, or the degrading remarks, or even the dropping of that sword. He had sacrificed himself to ensure her safety, her liberation... he had promised seven years ago to make her a knight, to give her freedom. Today, he had given her both. She was both the champion of the tournament and free from her marital engagement because of him. And where was he now? Dead. Dead dead dead dead dead. Lying in the dirt - young, innocent, brave. To give one's life for another, was that an act of love? Or was he simply that committed to his duty as a knight? Both possibilities hurt Elizaveta to think about.
So, with her head hanging down, the girl continued to weep. She crumpled to the ground, inconsolable against Irunya's comforting whispers. Eventually, the young warrior lost consciousness, lamenting the image of the shadowy ax which burned itself into her mind. And as she slept, she whispered his name over and over again on her lips.
*Meanwhile, down at the tournament festival*
The supper had only just begun. The appetizers were finished, the main courses were splayed out and all of the losing contestants knelt in front of the bonfire, facing the king. Several hooded men with enormous axes looked down menacingly upon the row of kneeling boys.
The king clapped his hands several times and the collective chatter fell silent. Feet began stomping like a drum role. Hungry. Hungry for the dinner and hungry with blood-lust, eager to see the heads of the would-be champions roll. But all this was put to a halt when a voice cried out, "Why, where is the guest of honor?!"
Everything was suddenly stopped and all persons looked around.
"He slipped off near half an hour ago," answered the plump king. "Where is the little devil?"
All eyes scoured the tables, but the mystery knight was not there. "Search the camps!" came a call.
They did so, and found neither hide nor tail of the green-eyed, pony-tailed knight. Voices began to rise: how does one simply disappear? Did he run off? Had he fallen ill? Was he lying injured somewhere? Why now?
Then, with near impeccable timing, a horseman came galloping onto the scene from the dark path out of the woods. He emerged from the shadows and became visible to the crowd after entering into the light of the glowing torches.
Antonio and Francis began to sweat upon recognizing the uniform. Gilbert hardly glanced up from where he knelt in the dirt. It was all part of the plan. He sighed and hung his head lower.
It should be noted that by this point Gilbert had simply given himself up to fate. No more ruses: his bag of tricks was empty. He was out of ideas. But was it worth it? Elizaveta was safe... she was free now and she could be happy... so yes, his life was worth that. It was his duty as a knight. It was his duty because he loved her.
The man on horseback addressed the crowd. "Gentlemen and ladies, I beseech you! I come from the castle of Lord Héderváry. His daughter, Lady Elizaveta, has been kidnapped!" There were several gasps from the crowd. "We have already sent out search parties. Her absence was discovered this afternoon! We are looking for any information."
It did not take long for the excited group to start making all sorts of wild assumptions, which was precisely what Gilbert had hoped for:
"Both the knight and the noble lady have disappeared? Why, they must have eloped together!"
"No, he kidnapped her!"
"You idiots, the knight's been HERE all day!"
"A secret meeting then! Forbidden love. He has taken her half way across the kingdom by now!"
And the rumors spiraled on and on. Without either Eli or Elizaveta there to counter their conjectures, the rumors seemed like the most reasonable, obvious conclusions in the world.
He supposed even if Eliza wanted to come back, he had burned that bridge for her now.
"Quick! Send search parties after them! No! Block all of the roads and ports leading out of the area! Wait! First we must be sure these conjectures are true!" bellowed the king. "You there, boy!" He pointed his fat, jeweled finger at Gilbert.
Gilbert barely raised his head and gave a grim stare to acknowledge he had heard the monarch. "Come forward, boy!"
The hooded man wrenched Gilbert upward and shoved him forward so that he stumbled before the king, hands secured behind his back with thick rope.
"You were both apprentices of Sir Frederick, yes? You grew up together?"
Gilbert gave a solemn "Yes, Your Highness."
"Well, God-damnit, tell us, son, would he have run off with the Lord Héderváry's daughter? Were they in love?"
"I cannot say, Your Highness."
"Well what CAN you say, lad? Is he the type that would sacrifice honor and glory for a woman? Was he known for succumbing to passion?"
Gilbert raised his chin in a more dignified manner and asserted, "I do not know all that goes through my comrade's head, Your Highness. I cannot tell you what he is saying or thinking or feeling at this moment... but I can tell you this: wherever you find Sir Eli, you will also find Lady Elizaveta Héderváry." Well, if you're gonna start telling the truth, might as well be on your death bed.
The king and Landmeister stared at him for a moment before the king broke out into a fit of laughter, "BAH-HAH!" He elbowed the high Teutonic nobleman next to him. "I like this young man! See how he is so clever? He tries hard to tell the truth while at the same time wishes to preserve the honor of his own opponent! How blithe! How commendable! Alright, my lad, that is all the word we require of you then."
Gilbert bowed begrudgingly before turning around to head back to the circle of boys in front of the bonfire.
"Wait," he heard the Landmeister command, "where do you think you're going?" Gilbert opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted. "This tournament was intended to select the most strong, devoted, honorable knight to my ranks... and I believe you have demonstrated precisely the fierceness and devotion I am seeking. Further, this tournament is in need of a champion. And it's only fitting that the second place finisher be given that right."
Gilbert's eyes went wide, then returned to their stoic guise.
The hooded executioner was ordered to untie Gilbert's bonds - which he did - and led him to the honorary seat next to the throne.
With a statue-like demeanor, Gilbert sat patiently and honorably next to the royalty. When the ecstasy of the crowd began to settle, Gilbert sat impressively, and watched each of the young boys fall to their doom without a flinch or a twitch. He watched the ax swing down upon the very first victim. From far away, he heard a faint, blood-curdling scream somewhere above him, or at least he thought he did. He tried not to let any expression creep onto his face, for the only way he could stay alive now, was to be, permanently, the model, ruthless soldier that the Landmeister was hunting for.
So, the rumors concluded that Eli and Elizaveta had run off together, since neither of them were ever seen again.
Elizaveta had ridden all night that evening and, against her will, she embarked upon a river and was brought to a foreign land where people spoke a different tongue. Her face was always blank, however. It never showed fear or curiosity or a smile. A certain light had been lost from her eyes that night. She had made a vow to herself in that wagon: she would relinquish herself to fate as a lowly servant-woman, so she could never hurt anyone again. She figured that spending the rest of her life cleaning and being beaten would serve as proper punishment for the lives she ruined, the people she killed.
The man who had originally agreed to take her was unimpressed with her lack of skill and she was traded and traded again. It was after the first year of her new role that a procession of Italian mercenaries promenaded through the market and one spotted her. He was a royal - a king named Romulus - who had looked at her curiously with his hand upon his chin and leaned in close, examining the broken, dirty little maid. Her lifeless eyes did not meet his.
Then, leaning back he smiled, as though he had seen something behind her grim face. It was then that Romulus decided to bring her home to a 12-year-old, feisty little girl, and Eliza- Kitty's world, got just a little bit better from there. Though she never forgave herself, she vowed to serve dutifully. Perhaps giving happiness to this lonely girl would make up for the happiness she had stolen from others...
Gilbert eventually became the leading knight for the Landmeister's private sector. Antonio and Francis, forever loyal to their friend, rose through the ranks quickly. They too endured brutal labor and remorseless training to make their way into the Landmeister's legion. They overcame together. They dealt with the guilt together. They stayed bonded together.
Sir Frederick eventually passed away, and the boys, although hardened in spirit, still retained their foolhardy personalities.
Eventually, however, there came a time when they could no longer go along with what their commander was asking them to do. This branch of the Order was truly a meld of ruthless men. It was a condemned hoard whose primary purpose was to kill... and for too many nights the young men went to sleep with blood-stained uniforms.
Escape, seemed the only option.