(English!) The Rose and The Bleeding Stag

Chapter 6: Ripping off the Rose

Ripping off The Rose

Harold had shut his eyes, almost as a refusal to see what was happening around him. It was as if the world had stopped as that icy dagger had touched the skin of his throat. That stranger held him tightly by the shoulders, forcing him to that position. Chills of cold, fear, and terror glided down his back, and the only thing he could hear was his heartbeat and the blood that was pumping in his ears. What would happen, he did not know, but he was not afraid to die. What he feared was something else: he feared he had to see collapse right under his eyes all that he had known until that moment. Although he hated his position, he loved his people, his land. And he loved freedom, though it was something almost totally unknown to him. He opened his eyes and let his gaze wander around, as far as that position allowed him, laying it on his dearest friend, lying on the ground, bleeding and with a grimace of pain painted on his face. A dark-haired man towered over him, continuing to turn around him, with an amused expression on his face. His father, a little farther, carried serious wounds on the face and chest, and a man of average stature with hair as blond as the summer sun was standing on what had before been his throne and kept shooting arrows from the distance, with the precision of a hawk swooping on his prey.

Harry felt his legs soft and his head in an incredible state of confusion. He wanted to scream and writhe from that grip, but he knew that a single wrong movement would have led him to certain death. It was as if his whole world was collapsing under his gaze and he, helpless as he was, remained as a spectator to that nauseating and, in some respects, almost ridiculous show. He was about to let go, but a blow behind him awakened him from that stupor in which he had collapsed for a matter of seconds: from the back of the hall, in the sound of swords and daggers, among that throng of corpses, came a great squadron of soldiers wearing the Royal armour. King Edmund had gone calling for help and in a short time he had gathered his forces, uniting them with the rest of King Edward's troops, leaving only one part to defend the rest of the town, plunged into utter chaos. The soldiers had burst into the Great Hall, and the host of Vikings, in comparison, seemed now no more than a small group of young boys in arms.

Louis had been distracted for a few seconds by what had just happened: he could not believe his eyes, as well as Zygvarr and Njall and all the rest of the men who, now looked around in search of an easy escape route. His plan was turning into smoke, and his dreams slipped through his hands like small grains of fine sand.

"Run! Run Away, Retreat! "He had shouted, loosening the grip upon Harold's body, who had readily profited by the momentary weakness of his adversary to writhe by that mortal grip, and had turned around, landing him with a kick in the back, which had him writhing in pain.

"You Little Bastard." Louis had whispered through his teeth in an attempt to get up again but being landed again by a powerful kick fixed by Harold on his side.

"No, Louis!"

He would not have had a chance if, once again, Njall had not been attentive enough and swift in the stroke of an arrow, which was once struck Harold on the right hip.

"AH!"

The prince had slumped to the ground, sore, while the blood was beginning to flow abundantly from his right hip, from which he had removed the tip of the dart. He felt his sight darkening and his head spinning, but he tried to get up again, only to fall back once more, beating his head on the cold floor of the hall. After that, he fell into the darkness.

Louis was, however, alive and present, and he was certainly not a fool: he had understood that if they had not repaired elsewhere immediately, there would have been no escape for them. So, he ordered his men to retreat. But it was not the end, not for him. In a fraction of a second, his mind elaborated a series of ideas, plans and thoughts. He had looked up at Zygvarr, who had swiftly understood his intentions, and had indulged them with a sneer which, quite often, appeared on his handsome face, like a gash on a white canvas.

Louis quickly slumped over Harold's helpless body, observing him for a few seconds before making a quick decision.

"Njall, Zygvarr, out!"

He had intimated to his companions a dry and single order, and the three had left the hall, preceded by the rest of the warriors, who had run away after stealing as much as possible in terms of gold and silver.

Louis still felt the adrenaline of the battle flowing into his body, as he ran to the darkest and most hidden place they could find in that forest.

The battle had ended in favour of the king's guards, who were now praising their victory, raising swords as a sign of celebration, while the king and the numerous wounded men were swiftly brought to the great infirmary so that they could be quickly cared for and medicated.

"The King! Save the King. "He had intimated William, as he was lifted from the ground and carried away from that place.

King Edward, still shaken and bleeding, had been loaded by the guards on a rudimentary stretcher, made of wood and canvas, and had been transported swiftly up the staircase leading to his apartments. The man, though the prey to excruciating pain, had not even mentioned a lamentation, dared not utter a word, and remained there, with a harsh and merciless expression on his face. He had not mentioned talking, not even when his doctors had informed him about the severity of the wounds on his chest and shoulders.

But something would soon upset his state of mute reflection on those events, awakening him from that silent meditation of vengeance. A thought, fleeting and swift as the sting of an insect, had crossed his mind, throwing him into a state of profound turmoil. He had suddenly seated himself on his bed: the face as white as a corpse, blue eyes obscured by a shadow of terror, his bare chest studded with cuts and wounds still open. He had looked round, and under the troubled gaze of those who surrounded him--doctors, monks, guards--he simply posed a question: "My son... where is my son? Where's HAROLD?! "

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