Chapter 2: The Memorable Siege of Vandfjord

 

 

Legend

A blinding white flash of light had lit up a dark world. I saw it for what it was: just lightning at night.

Once the bright light had faded and I saw the settled landscape, I noted all was instantly silent. It was like a power that was thought to have come from the Gods had quieted the world and its gathered masses.

As I had noted, this was a settled area, and those within this town were gathered outside rather than hunkered down for the night. And yet, here I thought all was in silence. Instead, I had heard what the thunder brought: a delayed fearsome quiet.

It was a foreboding message, a fate that any second the silence would be broken with the roar of battle. That explained why so many were outside.

But an instant later, there was an unexpected roar of a different kind. At first, I wasn’t certain why a second streak of crackling light broke through the black sky.

Then I saw why.

This flashy lightshow had revealed a new scene to me. I was familiar with what I saw, and I was amused, but to all mortals, what they saw was best avoided, let alone an event they never wished to see: their deaths.

To be honest, I hadn't minded if their lives were lost. These were Norse, but the ones to greet them with death were also Norse. Two of my children fighting over who was the better.

With a smile on my face, I watched as this dark and stormy night was now far from a quiet one. If only I had a front row seat...

"...What am I thinking?" With no mortal having the ability to see me, and no boundaries keeping me out; I went in there for a closer look.

Cries of men, women, and children rang in my ears to outperform the serenity I had found in the rain. But they were challenged by the streaking cold flames thundering through the cloudy skies. Each time, I had the opportunity to see what that light broke away and those who hid themselves in the darkness.

This lightning though, its power struck all these people deaf. Even me!

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the heavens were angry about something. After a moment of investigating this town, I figured out what that something might be: these locals feared not the nature of the Gods.

It was mortal hands that terrified them. I bet that made the Gods jealous.

In the closed off courtyard, I approached one of these frightened persons. Once I was in their heads, I learned that these were the Dansk town-folk. And this was of a historic place called Vandfjord.

More was required for me to learn what was happening here. I pulled from their thoughts what I needed.

This settlement laid within the land of Ormond, which was a stretch of coastal property in a kingdom called Munster.

And that had stuck out in the south of a tolerant kingdom called Leinster.

But Leinster buffered an enemy from this town, and Vandfjord was further south of this hostile kingdom called Meath. Interestingly enough, it was not Irish there that called it home.

The Norse, or as they were calling themselves, the Dyflin. I found that more and more interesting...

Some yards away from this huddling mass of Dansk were those who could bring harm to the Dyflin. Big, small, fat, skinny, and all manner of folk who wished nothing more than to live their lives peacefully, but they now held weapons, or wore armor, and all burdened their shields over an arm. Even some saw through the visor of their conical helms who it would be they'd hack to pieces if they were tried.

If lucky, or skillful enough, they could chance at seeking out such a vengeance on those who would try passing them. For to cross these Vandfjord folk without contest... That was, while these Dansk still lived, it would mean the Dyflin wished not to fairly come to blows, but to touch those scared people huddled and embracing one another away from where the fighting should take place.

These were their frightened loved ones.

Their family.

No. No one would pass these men without feeling the bite of steel first. In fact, despite this being nothing more than a memory, I was absolutely willing to go back and correct this if any one of my Norse dared to display dishonor.

I would not tolerate cowardice.

As for these Vandfjord, the now mean and great men, they had their night cut out for them. 
These were men who had barred themselves from death with anything deemed a weapon, all practical shields, and every item to hold against the battered gate. They had better do, well, better if they wanted to secure that yard.

But overall, if this was their best: I congratulated them. This was a last stand.

"Just how I like it. No surrender."

And their security was slipping. As the Dyflin pushed against the gate, the Vandfjord were skidding back, but the two lines of men had wavered to a halt.

Compared to my Norse, these were a formidable cousin: the Dansk. Danes came, conquered, and bred a crop of localized warriors.

They kept the enemy from entering their last safe place and this hold on their town. If they fell here, there would be no further going back to Eire for the Norse. At least, the more Germanic Norse would have to forfeit the Emerald Isle.

Dyflin in Meath, home of the Norwegians in Eire, had come from their seat in Ostlandet. And the Dyflin would literally ram a new claim into this town’s gates again and again until the Dansk learned their stay was at an end.

These more northern Norse had knocked loudly on that very gate for a long time. I was growing quite bored of this knocking around.

But I still watched. There had to be a reason my male counterpart kept this moment in history alive.

Instead of focusing on the action -- or the lack thereof -- I appreciated the masculinity of these Dyflin warriors. Tired arms and weary legs pushed beyond their limits to splinter and plow their claim through the gates to the Danish settlers.

Quite an arousing sight, all of these powerfully built men passionately placing their hearts and souls into what they do best. Despite all this rain here to cool them off, they apparently were still too hot and sweaty to wear a shirt.

That was bold of them. And yet, they gritted and beared with the thought of the danger to come after the gates would fall.

Sadly, those of Dyflin's ruling caste had cared only to shed the last of Dansk blood. If the men here proved themselves as the masters of battle, no other would ever compete for this strip of land again.

That was, no other Norse would lay claim. The Norwegians would have thought to have won the isle.

But that wasn’t what I had gathered from these thoughts. These Vandfjord and Dyflin were aware of a third faction.

This isle was first a home to the Ireren. Basically, they were Irish who would again and again send any invader back out into the salty seas. Yes, they would lose ground, and yet, they would regain that piece of land back over and over the course of hardier generations.

A never ending war for dominance.

Such Ireren -- or from what I have picked out of someone's brain -- a more specifically named Oriels that came from Ulster had sent aid in wish to win favor and quite possibly allegiance with the Dyflin. I found it strange that these local folks provided a measure of tolerance, a restraint, from killing who they deemed as invaders on their borders.

Those of Norse blood could wander across their land without harassment, so long as they kept their hands where these Oriels could see them.

“But why?” In a moment, I understood. The explanation was seen right before me: Norse against Norse.

If these men crossed the border, one Norse had easy access in reaching the other. It would mean the Norse weening each other to a smaller number. And, of course, one less Viking to worry about in the end was a blessing to the Ireren.

Plus it was always easy pickings when these Irish only need to surround one rather than two enemies.

But they were wrong. I reminded myself there indeed was one other to worry about. The whole reason why I jumped into this crazy male me's head.

A half-breed. The instant I scanned over everyone's thoughts, I found him and knew this was no ordinary child. I couldn't read his mind.

He was small. Actually, for a second there, I mistook him for a girl.

But I wasn't going to give up my fight for his mind. Instead of spreading my influence over this entire mass, I focused on him. And with some difficulty, I managed. His thoughts were…

”Ah, I see. Unnatural birth will born an unnatural life.” I had to only look to discover the beautiful oddities in this kinder's kindred.

His hair was jet black and darker the more I looked into the fine threads, and long, while gleaming wetly in blue hues from the reflected strobes of nearby lightning. The boy was also pale, more so white as the moonlight. And he was soft of hand, gentle, never one to work in the field.

Of course, he had royal blood to excuse him.

In an amused tone, I asked: ”Are you a brat?” But the air about him didn’t feel high and mighty. No arrogance.

That did not mean he wasn't spoiled. His eyes never looked down upon the people. I would have expected those born from a high station to always have their noses turned up.

But that was not what I saw in that mind. Not this boy.

He stared out over the heads, helms, and walls... Even beyond the enemy. He wanted answers.

”Who am I?” was what he wished to ask from those sweet lips.

"Aw... Do you lacked acceptance here?"

Tuning him out, I returned my attention to these people and saw they never considered him a Dansk. To all of them, despite the fact he was their prince, he was an outsider.

”Who are you?” I had to look deeper.

His father was a ruler, a royal Dane, but the mysterious mother… She was of a different crop of royalty. A sole leader and representative of her kind, for she was alone in the world.

From what I gleaned from all these minds, she never was seen in the light of day, only heard when spoken of in whispers, and ever only spotted within the shadows.

A dark and beautiful creature. One of the many various races that was thought to have vanished from the world.

...And sadly had. In one of the Vandjford's townsfolks, I saw this boy's mother being murdered. Executed, to be precise.

"A spawn of Satan? Seriously?" This town had better not have been christened. But I saw the accusation that the boy's mother had bewitched the Danish lord. And that the mother never attended mass with the rest of these folks. "Ignorant Christians. Don't any of you know to believe in the power of Hell is also blasphemy?"

That left this young boy being the sole heir to a lost people. An extinct dark race whose appearances matched their ever shaded underworld.

Just as his hair was dark, he had the sparkling black coals for eyes. Unusual, and foreboding, but enchantingly beautiful. They could be mistaken for a dark brown, but shine the light, see past the startling whites of his eyes, and all would discover the pale orbs that encircled those pooling dark centers.

Hypnotic black eyes. ”How peculiar...” I wanted to know what sort of dark bloodline he hailed from, but without the pure mother, I hadn't a chance to discover that mystery.

For now, I had to settle with this interesting boy.

"You were right. This boy is more important than Kris."

It was with those dark eyes that an interest of rage and terror swelled. Just as his people were cornered, so was he. They all were within that courtyard, watching, waiting, and expecting at any moment for those wooden gates to explode with a Norse Winter’s fury.

"A fall of bloody bodies." That was their prediction of what would be cleaned up after tonight.

Not him. He never looked down on his people, but expected them to rise up in challenge. And from just his behavior alone, I saw if tonight was the last he'd be alive, scorn would not be his deathmask.

He was prepared for a last stand. And so his fear was replaced with a fool's courage. I commended him for it.

All attention had been directed at the gate. Funnily enough, that left him to his own devices.

I supposed the dark haired boy was readied to be met by his foes in the stirrups. That was one difference between him and my giant daughter. Where Kris was strong and sturdy, this boy preferred a swiftness reinforced by a power.

That power being, he took to the reins of a giant black beast with a massive back and broad body. More importantly, the way this animal stood ready and willing to be mounted, it was trained for war. From the looks of it, with iron-shod hooves impatiently cantering across the soggy courtyard, it was eager for the bloodshed to come.

A nightmare of a charger... I didn't care for the name, Darkness. So I decided to give it a new one: "Heimdall." All the beast waited for was to have the gates open and to be given permission to ride.

Before the boy could weigh any options, let alone seek an opportunity like his impatient charger was doing, I watched as once again a white line of lightning had streaked out across the sky. This time, there had been an angry divine hand to hammer down with a clash loud enough to shatter every and all composure.

"Oh, did I piss someone off?" I searched and found my answer, but it wasn't what I had thought. "Here I expected it was my choice of names for a beast of burden."

There was a God not amused with mortals being more frightened of other mortals. Divinity was not so easily ignored.

But not for the horse to judge. It neither feared the roar of man or the God.

"...I spoke too soon." I couldn’t help but let slip a “snrk” noise when a second strike of electrifying light reinforced the initial deafening thunder.Envy much, thunder God?”

As mentioned before about me speaking too soon, that one extra crack of lightning did scare the horse.

In quick rapid beats and splashes, the hooves of this midnight demon, which I reminded myself had tolerated the first ear-splitting explosion of thunder so well, had after the second flashy firecracker popped off to have carried its unprepared rider in a panicked rush.

That was to simply say, "Seen live, horses gone wild."

Heimdall had taken the precious, and in my opinion too young, prince… I just realized I had forgotten his name.

”Laurel." I thought about my male self and said, "So that is who you wished to apologize to? What did we do to him?”

The horse took the regal passenger directly toward the only exit in this courtyard: the gates.

"Ah, yes, you'd go off and through the only path you've been trained to travel." I shook my head and stated: "Horses are herd animals. But as for men..."

And back to those hardy Vandfjords and Dyflins whose shoulders crowded and shoved into the only object dividing them. A barrier, a gate keeping their cousinly neighbors separated. If it had fallen already, the two would have hacked each other to mince meat.

But as soon as that horse came up from behind the Dansk, those guarding the gate had quickly dashed out of the way and down someplace both muddy and murky. If they hadn't jumped out of harm's way, they'd have their backs trampled.

"It is one thing to face an enemy, but it is another to have a big surprise come charging in your rear." I couldn't help myself from cracking up at the bad pun I saw in my words.

These men dove into the murky gutters. It was a dugout foundation designed to protect their flanks. I'd seen it once before in which they'd filled the trench with the nearby coastal waters. It was meant to slow any invasive enemy from pouring over the sides by having to wade across.

Personally, I would’ve preferred a wall. But these were not Danes, they were Dansk. And some of these Dansk adopted the use of their neighbors: such as the Cyrmru's bows cut from the Yew.

A loud knock against hard wood pulled my attention away from the moat and back to the gate. While the huge warhorse reared itself up, having met the very gate --

-- in the same instant, that gate broke down.

Those Dyflin who'd hoisted the ram and ran inward, well, now they were immediately knocked flat by a black beast. The horse had struck out at the siege weapon, and the unexpected swing of horsepower and weight from that ram had ripped the hastily crafted log right out from those once firmly handled grips.

Not too sure, but I thought I heard a few cracked knuckles from the blow. And more than a few cracked asses from their fall.

I supposed the rain didn’t help matters for them. It was already really slippery tonight, and if I didn’t know any better, which I did from experience, I foresaw the soon to be freely flowing blood to add onto the slip and slide party.

As for the training in that horse, it must have been bred for only one pure and wildly fueled purpose: battle. Even by this unnatural weather, if the mount wasn't knocking back anyone, it then threatened anybody foolish enough to approach too closely to the war-beast.

Those solid hooves, to be kicked by them must have really hurt. I watched those nightmarish iron shoes as they raised up, shot out, and heavily down at the fallen ram’s crew. If they weren’t up and fleeing from under that horse’s crushing weight, they were then to be sent either flying back, rolling crippled on the ground, or laid flat and flattened to hopefully be soon dead.

The boy-prince, who happened to be moreso wailing than shouting his warcry, looked to have taken in this frightening scene better than those frozen in shock. I saw their huddled security be broken in the courtyard and watched as they scurried to assist their Vandfjord warriors up out of the moat.

Back to the boy, I caught that the prince would be in jeopardy if he were to sit idle any longer. These bloody, shocked, and enraged Dyflin who had survived the first onslaught of the horse had become reckless: they charged at that lone boy.

But a flash obscured my senses. "...That's a first."

When I could see once again, I saw an interestingly enough strange scene before me.

Those of Dyflin who had advanced on the boy were now knocked senseless. All had been laid out across the muddy ground as if paralyzed.

”Ahmm... What happened?” I had to halt the whole memory, and technically this reality, to rewind a bit to see what I had missed.

There was the boy.

"Check."

The rampaging horse.

"Double-check."

Those angry Norse.

"Triple-check."

The Dansk still working their way out of the moat...

Having seen nothing in this instance, I repeated: ”What happened?”

When I went back over the scene again, this time around I had relied on a different sort of sense. I didn’t see, nor hear, or felt a difference that could knock these warriors flat on their backs.

To understand the situation and the circumstances of these felled men, I probed their minds. I felt their pain. They were helpless because their formidable bodies cramped and fought against their will.

"Stunned. A lightning strike?" I had not seen one.

Not until I reached out and touched the boy.

That was the instant I felt the low hum of yet a third strike of lightning. This had not come from the sky, but from the child.

No one saw that white streak of cold fire, and for good reason: it wasn’t designed to be seen. A perverted darkness.

"Black lightning?"

Laurel, the boy, did not go unscathed from that strange bolt of lightning. 

In only an instant, the lone rider sat straight, choking on a tongue swollen with agonized terror. I supposed if it weren’t for the cool pelting rain, he might’ve fallen off his horse from the overheated shock.

How the steam had rolled away from his shoulders reminded me of a misty fog sliding down the shadowy slopes of the mountains. I witnessed his rapid recovery.

"...You are a half-breed." I smiled at the boy.

At last, the obviously still injured boy let out a terrible scream. I had to let up my touch on the boy before I too screamed from the shared awareness of pain.

The severe sensation of that abnormal lightning was intense enough for me to not partake in its knowledge. I could do without being hurt.

His mutually screaming horse, which had been stunned for but a moment, finally had broken free from its period of unnatural paralysis. I was surprised it didn’t keel over dead.

As I thought about that, those around ground zero were indeed deceased. And those nearby were still way too out of it for them to move just yet.

The Prince and his dark nightmare mount spiritedly charged onward.

While the boy was busy regaining his senses, I looked to see how the rest of the townsfolk viewed this turn of events.

In this new wake of how the battle was unfolding, the Dansk men of Vandfjord, those who had guarded that ruin of a gate and sunk in the moat, had all rallied in response to the boy screaming his ”war-cry.” And they saw him as a hero, however accidental that had been. 
I would keep the truth of that to myself.

These men gathered their resolve -- that was after they had been lifted up and out of the moat. 
And after their feet were firmly back on the wet and muddy ground, they followed their prince and sallied out like an angry mob onto those unwelcomed Norse still laid out by the broken gate.

...I felt like a hypocrite when I did nothing to stop this one sided massacre. But when I reflected back to this being the boy’s doing, I couldn’t move myself towards ruining the advantage the prince gave his people.

On that thought, I had to chase after that battle-steed or lose out on what would happen next.

With the lines more than even, this boy-prince, Laurel, broke through the second advance party. A line of Dyflin that would’ve flooded into the Vandfjord's broken gate.

It was a very monumental event. I suddenly realized I knew who this boy was and what he made of himself at the tender age of twelve.

“Sort Lyn Fyrste, the Black Lightning Prince.” As I remembered the name and title, I had to wonder why my other self didn’t just say who this was to begin with. It would’ve saved me time and effort in figuring everything out.

Many would have been surprised to learn that this young black prince had not intended what had occurred tonight. That was, if any were to dare to learn of the truth.

If I recalled, a king prevented such facts to be investigated. Another prince would learn of it, but that was another hushed voice among the few who truly knew what had happened here.

”...Actually, I still don’t know how this ended. Hey! Wait up!” As if that black beast could hear me, I raced after that horse out of the town.

There was broken red-clay and bloody crimson-life flowing down the street. Like I thought, 
it was gonna get more slippery tonight.

The paved way was stamped and cracked wide by the madly charging black beast, so at least that gave these men some traction. Unlike its supernatural black prince, this horse was… Well, however mighty it was, it still was just a horse and would die by the powerful pointblank shock it received tonight.

I could tell by just looking at its crazy and erratic behavior.

Until the berserking horse ended its rampage, no enemy had dared to stand in their way. At least, not until they saw how mad that frothing beast appeared to be.

And because of that excuse, the prince had reached the occupied outer-ring belonging to the besiegers. I wondered how this would turn out.

Now that I saw where the end of tonight would be held, I wanted to know who would be ending it. I was to witness a man I would’ve loved claiming and adding to my collection of warriors. But I was already spent on what I had done to save a giant of a woman and her unborn.

So I just watched and enjoyed the show. But first, I had to know who the contenders were.

"Time to poke around some heads again."

Dyflin's king, Erling Vidkunson Giske, born of the greater Vestlandet, a seat found to the west of Ostlandet, had taken his men in a far and wide search for glory and honor. I saw that they were to seek a death that would found them a greater seat.

"Ah, Valhalla. Yeah, they do have good seats there, but good luck getting past the hounds."

If I remembered correctly, there was one seat for every man, for all proven warriors. At least, those that proved themselves worthy to meet again in the great halls.

Not all warriors were worthy of that great house. I had seen to that and collected them for my own gain.

This warrior king, seeing that their lines had broken, had just discovered it was by a mere boy. I watched as this king had set out to mark the end to what he considered a fiasco personally.

I was more amused by this. While his men fought for their very lives behind the walls of Vandfjord, a king would test this lone child.

”This will be interesting.” There was plenty of space for the two to combat on horseback. The question I had was, ”How long until that black smoldering nightmare of a horse realizes it’s already dead?”

The mud splashed and broke away from the ground by the instructions of a quick whip of the switch. With heavy hooves at a gallop, the king and charger had chased down the hill after the approaching image of this lone dark figure.

It amazed me. The stormy scene of the open coastal field, with a ring of vikings cheering on their king for the coming battle between leaders -- 

-- all the while, the king had to realize this was just to run down a prince who was too busy desperately clinging to his dying horse.

A terrified and hurt boy…

”Okay, I can’t stand by and watch this.” Memory of my male counterpart or not, as I had done before, I could alter things a bit more if I had to. But first, I required the knowledge of how this night would play out.

The man, a king, a true warrior, paused. He halted his charge and stared at this black mass of a mutilated beast.

Then the King Erling directed his full attention to the Prince Laurel. A mighty hand raised the sharp length of his sword, a piercing steel tip pointed and had demanded with one gesture before a word had be uttered: “Du will overgir ov meg!”

"Yield?" That wasn't going to happen on my watch, but I waited to see how Laurel would respond.

The Prince directed his full attention to the King. A beautiful pale-white face had raised, and I saw on the tip of his nose his sniveling, and the sight of his wide open black eyes zeroed in on the King's gestured demand. The boy started to cry.

”Nope! Let’s change that.” With a flick of my wrist, I had this scene taken back a moment before the boy’s waterworks were seen. "Okay, sorry kid, but I'm not for seeing you getting wasted this way. Show some backbone."

And that pretty little boy looked up at the King of Dyflin. When their eyes locked, Laurel’s crying had instantly quieted. I took the pain and fear away.

In one act, the boy-prince's character changed. From a child, to a soldier, a leader, and now finally the hero Vandfjord thought him to be.

This young boy had let go of the dying horse. As I saw the long and powerful legs of the beast had at last collapsed, I broke away from witnessing that overdue death to see a more glorious moment in time.

With the black charger's last bit of momentum not being lost, the boy’s small and light frame had propelled him up and of his mount to fly in the air.

From the perspective of this King, I could only assume what he saw…

”Wait a sec…” I paused the scene, stood by Dyflin's King, and made him share his sight with me.

To him, this boy displayed a suicidal bravery that had him leaping from his horse in an attempt to fall onto the man’s presented sword. A mental envisioning of what the king saw in the prince showed me he thought the boy would rather die than to submit.

"Ah... haha... okay, believe what ya want."

But seeing was believing, and the pointy end was aimed at the kid. It truly did appear as if Laurel had resolved and accepted his fate.

All thanks go to me for that, so, yeah, if I hadn't the insider's knowledge, I would believe it too.

Instead of the suicide, and in an indecisive state of panic, the king threw his sword down with one hand and offhandedly caught the boy.

”Aw, this looks like… okay, I have to change one tiny bit of this scene.” Another flick of my wrist, and I had influenced the king to be more decisive.

Protectively, Erling embraced the boy quickly. It was really touching, but again that was because of my touch to this picture.

As I looked over the scene, I thought it was a little bit too dark for either of them to appreciate. So with the spark of a distant lightning, I had shined a light between the two, and had the hammer of thunder to cause the King to wake up and realize what he had done.

Shocked at what the king held, the boy was thrown. And that was when I disconnected from the king before I shared his outrage.

Time had to be paused again just so I could recover from my belly-ache of laughter. After that moment of hilarity, I resumed this memorable reality.

I caught on that the power of the king's arm was a force to be reckoned with as the prince continued rolling across the ground... Then again, Laurel was a featherweight of a kid. I bet he could be blown over with a strong enough wind.

In any event, this was too much rolling around. With my mocked theory put to practice, I blew the prince in the opposing direction and watch as he at last laid onto his stomach to rest and breathe out a sigh of relief. I figured he needed it.

When he had collected himself, he picked up his pride by pushing himself up on all fours.

I supposed my influence on his mind had him not wanting to be seen on his knees. This was something for me to take a note on for later. Just in case if I had to go back in that head to set things straight again.

Before he stood, there was a glint of light being reflected off a long blade of steel. The king had thrown that weapon down to catch the boy, and now Laurel could have reached for it.

I thought about that, and said, "This sword was thrown away. Doesn't that mean...?"

Instead of the boy taking up the sword, he balanced himself on his feet, and in defiance, both in pose, gesture, and features; he faced the grand height of both king and his mount with a black boot planted firmly on the fallen sword.

In the white and blue colored hues of lightning, I watched as the dispersing gloom of this black night revealed to me quite a scene. And I was still amused at the apparently confused king who had yet to understand what caused him to save such a reckless boy in the protective way he had. I certainly implanted quite a memory for that Norseman to forever remember.

Unable to hold it in a second time, I laughed again.

Each time the green-grass, brown-dirt, and gray-stone had lit up in a flash, I caught how the King looked at the boy. I couldn’t help but tap back into the man’s head and see what was ticking.

To him, the warrior king had noted the ignited spirit reflecting in those black eyes of the prince. They were startling in the light, fixated on each other, locked, and he felt the boy daring the mounted royal to come down and be met.

”I wonder how the kid feels?” I decided to tap into that dark-haired noggin too and get a look.

...That took some effort.

In his adrenaline, the child fought every fiber of his body, as if he were possessed. It was from the natural instinct to bolt back to the safety of his town, to the conflicting desire he had of picking up the sword and lashing out. He couldn’t move, dared not to, if he wanted to salvage what peace he found between running away and fighting back.

He chose to stand and prevent his adversary from further combat.

But then, they both could hear the curses. Norse accents, voices, but in the slightly different Danish words away from the Norwegian language. The black prince’s Dansk were reaching closer to that spot the two royal bloodlines decided to hold their staring contest.

I, and those two, had realized Vandfjord had won an advantage and would meet the two to break this bewildering standoff. And with that, the siege.

This little prince would now be the vanguard of a new line of battle, a leader of his men by an already set example, and if need be, the first to die in a fight for that silent and peaceful night he long wished to have.

"Oh, boy..." It would not be long before he’d gain that wish, for the prince could hear the line of shields clatter together in their protective form in ranks. There was also the smacking of spears hoisted over the shielded wall. And I could've been mistaken, but I thought I heard the whoosh of an ax being prematurely thrown by a shield-biter.

Too soon, the many that stood would fall on both sides.

Thankfully, I could sense much more than what these men, and boy, could ever have. There was a third enemy: the natives. Those who stood back and would only love to watch the two Norse hack each other to pieces.

All Oriels needed to do was pick off any who stood up from the bloodbath.

Then the surrounding Ireren would find their victory with ease, but the two sides had to clash first. I didn't enjoy how that would turn out.

”Do I really have to change things for a third time?” I already saw how this was going to end, but I would not allow it. I hated treachery.

Trickery was one thing, treachery was a whole other category. So I planted a little something under both those royal crowns.

Once that thought entered the King's mind, he shook his mighty mane of gray hair and dropped his head in disbelief. It was a shame, doubly so for both having lost the chance to secure this town and secondly for what waited on the outskirts of this battlefield.

He felt betrayed.

On the other hand, Laurel wasn’t concerned. He had the present enemy to survive before dealing with another. He had his priorities in order.

I thought about the boy’s bravery for a moment. Then I decided to influence a decision on the king.

And now there was a third shame to be considered. One that the great warrior king would never admit the truth because it would tarnish his reputation.

To him, he'd realized that to have rather than take this boy-prince's opportune moment of a worthy death, he had instead held this young one as if they were flesh and blood. Like a protective father to his child.

After I was done manipulating the man, that shame would be deeply rooted into the king’s soul. From now on, if I had sowed enough weeds in this memory, this would blossom and influence all of his decisions regarding this boy.

Technically, if this king followed his own rules, then he would've known what happened tonight was he'd broken one of his own sacred laws.

"That's right. You took away a warrior’s death from the boy."

That was something this warrior king and his company very deeply cared about. And he believed he had failed to give Laurel his greatest glory on this field.

No one would ever know what transpired between the King of Dyflin and the Prince of Vandfjord. Not unless I counted, and I was certain no other would learn of this either.

Leaning close to the king, I mentioned: "Not unless you have trustworthy folks in your court."

But I remembered who's memory this was and I searched for the masculine entity. There should've been a shadow, much like myself. If I wasn't mistaken, he would've looked out for the boy.

”Where are you? This is your memory, not mine.” I looked around, but didn’t catch sight of my male counterpart.

When I gave up my search, I returned my attention to the two royals.

In respect, the King saved face by bowing his head to the small dark figure standing before him. Then soon after, he turned his mount to return up the hill.

All those of Vandfjord watched the King of Dyflin depart with his following bands of Nordic warriors…

”...Oh, is that it? Where’s the singing fat lady?”

Now I was truly confused by what my other self complained and apologized about. Other than what I had done to interfere with how the events took place, it looked like everything went perfectly well.

Once I returned back to my fiery hole, I supposed there was some reading to be done.

”Time to hit the history books.” I sighed and left this reality to enter my Hellish one...