On The Wings of Hope : Prose

- 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 pretty simply “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 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 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 flied 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 end, 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 a 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 - together better thrive.

05.04.2011