On The Wings of Hope : Prose

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 a 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) were 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 an 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 a long-held tears. Over the earth, paying its last tribute of heat to a night 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 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 to that feeling. A fear of the enemy, which has suddenly came out of nowhere; a curiosity, which it has 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 last words of a warrior, who suddenly realized the approach of his death and 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.