Sir Harold was waiting for his ultimate hour. He moved backward and forwards on the chilled ground, periodically tapping iron armoring of his shield with a sword, but even he, who has passed through tens of tournaments with live contenders, was feeling like a fish out of water. Once again he checked up his equipment, tightly pulled down his helmet, already fairly well sitting on his head, reexamined mobility of forearms plates and armor joints, silently sworn to himself under a nose, unsuccessfully trying to fix up a slipped right steel boot, and, at the long last, as if having become happy with a recent audit, stopped, raised a prepared shield higher on a shoulder and pinned the ground with his sword with all possible strength, having leant the elbows on a similarity of newly made armrest. Sir Harold was left with little options left, except for waiting — because this place, thought consecrated, yet nevertheless keeping some ominous silence, could brag with nothing else, except for a pair hundreds of tombs, stretched through its territory in rows.
His beloved, fine maiden Angelina, could show her face in any minute…
* * *
Today sir William was in an excellent spiritual mood, caused not even by those two liters of fine red wine, which he, excited with contemplation of bared female legs, has had to consume for the sake of both heart, mind and liver shortly after the beginning of a ball, by mainly by the comprehension, which has already become slightly vague, that today, in this blessed by the monarch day, his luck, at last, has smiled upon him. The daughter of a local count, who has organized this oh-so-hot (e-e-c!) celebration, fine maiden Angelina, after would-to-be-seem totally unsuccessful month of courting, wheezing of serenades and painfully senseless standing under the windows, at last, has given her consent to their personal meeting, which she unambiguously named as an appointment. And almost everything would be plainly remarkable, if (e-e-c!) she had not chosen a rather strange place for aforementioned meeting, being inspired by that mysterious female wisdom of sorts. No, most certainly fearless Sir William wasn’t afraid of any dead persons, dead men, deceased ones, zombies, skeletons and all their ilk, especially this very moment of time, greatly encouraged by a third finished bottle, but, nevertheless, to choose a cemetery of local small town was rather a… m—m—m… the exotic choice for such appointments.
All these thoughts had been swirling in sir William’s head, while he was unsuccessfully trying to escape from two evils at once — a red one and a female one. They, these two harms, two devilishly pleasant temptations, were still doing their best to try to tempt him, while he, now having remembered of that very meeting and almost instantly having sobered up, smoothly, trying not to make any superfluous noise in a hall, maneuvering on a move between heaps of iron accessories, scattered by newly coming visitors in an absolutely senseless and chaotic manner, was making his way up to a place of a disposition of own metal inventory’s stock.
Still trying to operate accurately, which has become quite a difficult and time-consuming task after the fourth started bottle of wine, sir William, at last, managed to remove his helmet from a previously created own iron heap, and rashly pulled it down on his head, which has somehow become fairly gray-haired. But to put on a breast armor seemed as almost impossible mission — for even wine, especially red one, was capable from time to time to make one look fat somehow unexpectedly, mercilessly and frankly unscrupulously, — however, after just twenty more minutes of curses and crawling he managed to perform this peculiar task as well. The problem in the form of two steel boots suddenly came out of nowhere. Having tried all imaginable combinations (presumably right boot — on a left foot, obviously left boot — on a presumably right foot, etc.) he, at last, was forced to drop that devilishly pointless job, having doomed own feet to travel in a new, yet somewhat little grease drawers. The last in today’s menu (after a red Burgundian wine, that’s it) was plate gauntlets and a faithful sword, which has already become a little bit blunted after his last five years old tournament. Finally, almost after half an hour from the beginning of own regimentals, having taken a sword in a right hand, and a bouquet of roses, scarlet as blood or Burgundian wine, in a left one, sir William slowly and yet somehow firmly started moving in the memorized direction to places so much more peaceful and silent then the castle of the father of his beloved one…
* * *
Sir Harold was starting to lose his patience. Enough time has passed already since that moment when Angelina should appear, but her trace still didn’t appear at all, not to mention becoming cold. And it was the easiest task to catch a cold here — a dank north wind started to blow by midnight, and clouds began to mass highly in a sky, apparently indenting to water the sinner Earth with long-held tears. Over the earth, paying its last tribute of heat to night’s air, a fog started condensing out of nowhere. Sir Harold, who began patting his armor with steel gauntlets and tapping with heels of feet on the hardened ground in a vain hope to be warmed, was almost ready to abandon this useless, judging from the point of place, deed, as suddenly unpredicted, inexplicable, bewitching and frightening phenomenon has appeared.
Directly to his dislocation, slowly and inevitably, being unsteady here and there, slicing a disobedient gray fog with feet and muttering something ominously muffled under his own nose, a walking dead was moving. He was being approached by a revived dead man — the very embodiment of these infernal places, where traitorous Angelina has finally persuaded him to come!
Sir Harold had no more doubt — the hours, spent in this ground crypt, were a great acknowledgment of that feeling. A fear of the enemy, which has suddenly came out of nowhere; a curiosity, which was born; anger on the eccentrical daughter of a foolish count; awe before her as well — all this has now mixed up in a heart of knight Harold into one indescribable and explosive mix, so much stronger than the one, knight William was capable of making from a red Burgundian wine. Without a second thought and realization of what he is aspiring to make, sir Harold rushed forward in a direction of those midnight tombs’ spawn, swinging his sword and instinctively closing his head with a shield, shouting something unrecognizable in the process.
Only the god of the dead probably knows, what exactly sir Harold was yelling during those instants of time. Perhaps, these were the last words of a warrior, who suddenly realized the approach of his death and for the first and last time in his lifespan dared to look into its eyes without fear… Or, possibly, these were words of a lover, rushing to face the enemy and protect his beloved one… Or, maybe, these were mutual agonal damnations of former friends, who have gone into their hatred far too far. Heck, who really knows what he was screaming! It’s truly difficult to notice that in minutes like that. Anyway, but in that very instant of time, when he at last reached oh-so-dead-one and with all possible force smashed him with a sword into armored chest, his last words sounded approximately like: “…ie, beast!”
“Oh-m-m-m-m-y-y-y-y-y-y! Ouch, it hurts! Now I’m gonna make you, assh…!” the almost-dead-one started to yell, and, having dumped a helmet from a left hand, which has unknowingly taken a place there, and having bared his feet (or were initially like those?), jumped out forward, violently swinging his sword in turn. “Now I’ll make ye! Like that! And that way! Y-e-a-a-h-h! Take that, you! W-w-h-h-h-o-o-o-h-h-h!” he continued screaming, turning around over his feet and sending new blows to the unknown foe.
Finally, either having been inspired with a made progress or having definitely lost all battle heat, it suddenly ceased swirling and stupidly stared ahead.
“Harold!” “William!” “William!” “Harold!” suddenly shouted both died one, as well as nearly died one.
“What are you doing here?! You have nearly killed me, you iron fool!”
“Just look at yourself, dressed up like a walking dead and roam the nights dead one knows where!”
“Boys!” approaching female voice suddenly broke the chill darkness. “Boys, don’t even dare to quarrel!”
And, having that said, just like a werewolf from a night, maiden Angelina, or Anzhelina, or even Angelica, or just even Angela for members of her family only, or just “my beloved”, appeared, covered in a bit disarranged from a fast-running plaid.
“I’ll explain it all to you right now!” she promised, smiling. “Well, here… it’s… a timeframe accident, yes,” she admitted confusedly.
“You!” sir Harold exhaled.
“You!” sir William repeated just the same.
“How dared you!” Harold croaked.
“How you dared!” William paraphrased.
It seemed as if former friends, who have now almost come to senses from a previous shock of their meeting, are now ready to seize each other once more.
“Duel!” sir William shouted.
“Duel!” sir Harold confirmed his fears.
“Up to the first blood!” sir William tried to be more specific.
“You bet!” sir Harold encouraged him.
“Let’s do it!” sir William allowed.
“To battle!” sir Harold ascertained.
“K-k-k-i-i-i-i-l-l-l-l him!” Angelina screamed suddenly.
And a fight, which has almost taken place, still remained insolvent.
“So you…” sir Harold tried to begin.
“Has made us meet together for a purpose…” sir William tried to continue.
“For you it was…” sir Harold assumed.
“Entertainment!” sir William was terrified.
“You…” sir Harold almost went angry.
“Inutile so-to-be-writer…” sir William almost calmed down.
“So-to-be-count-daughter,” sir Harold corrected him a bit.
“Count-yet-another-useless-night,” sir William uttered with a braided language.
“Let’s get out of here,” sir Harold offered.
“Sounds reasonable,” sir William summed it up.
“Boys, boys, wait a moment, where are you going? What, are you not going to fight for me?!” maiden Anzhelina asked with astonishment and sacredly, having quickly glanced over both of them. “And for what damn reason have I then specifically asked you to put on those rusty cans, and what for did I constrain myself for more than a month, and for what unknown purpose did I ask my father to buy that red Burgundian wine, from which one of you have definitely lost his head along with a helmet and started crying with these ping Burgundian snivels?!” she was enraged.
“I don’t battle with my fellow countrymen!” sir Harold replied.
“Especially for the ones such as you!” sir William welcomed his reply.
“Wait a minute, do you mean that you both know each other?!” Angelina was surprised, still trying to keep on herself a plaid, which has almost flown from her back.
“A bit…” sir Harold answered evasively.
“We battled once in a tournament,” sir William dispelled her doubts.
“A-a-a-n-n-d-d… who finally prevailed?” Angelina found nothing better but to ask exactly that way.
“Doesn’t matter…” a fellow countryman William answered evasively.
“Let’s leave,” fellow countryman Harold summed up.
“One Burgundian wine for each of us?” knight William made an offer.
“To end such an ending, it will surely suffice!” knight William assured him.
And with these words being said, two fellow countryman, who have known each other for almost five years, two knights without a sign of fear or reproach, two admirers and subjugators of ladies and two fans of red Burgundian wine, slowly and continuing speaking and approvingly knocking each other with steel gauntlets on shoulders, were going away from a mournful place of bitterness, eternity and love, which has mournfully become a bitterness in the eternity.
They were departing — and the culprit of the future celebration, eccentrical maiden Angelina, or just Anzhelina, or even simply Angelica, was sitting on a free tombstone and crying.
What was she crying about that very day? Did she cry of the eternal and endless love, which she has always wanted to have, and which she always had to kill for the sake of social norms, accepted in society? Did she cry of a proud and unshakable machismo, easily shaken by a red Burgundian wine? Did she cry of own powerlessness to solve something through power? Or of own unwillingness to solve something at all for now?
Who the dead man knows what was she crying about that dark and mourning night!
But anyway, even this seemingly eternal night ended once… and the very next morning from almost inconspicuous apartments of a count’s castle a painfully familiar voice cried out:
“Heck, and where is my last saved bottle of Burgundian wine?!”
Morals:
The less we know the woman — the easier we live,
The more we know the woman — the more together thrive.