Testament; a V/O AU, Chapter 1
Jan. 22nd, 2007 08:47 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
zee113.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
vigorliTitle: Testament
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zee113
Rating: NC-17, eventually
Warnings: AU, violence
Beta: The ever helpfulliriel1810
Disclaimer: This story is purely fictitious. However, it is not even my fiction but a VigOrlified rewriting (slash translation) of a Hungarian novel. Almost everything is borrowed and no disrespect was meant.
Summary: In a tragic time in Hungary, when the country is divided by invaders and politics, Orlando Babochai is a real swordfighting champion. Intrigues and plots within plots follow after he fights his deadly enemy, the man who killed his father.
Author's Note: 1. This is my 2006 NaNoWriMo story which means it is already finished. I will post it (hopefully) one chapter a week, or as it is edited and betaed.
2. Beautiful banner bymesnica. *sends kisses*
Chapter One
Shadows flickered through the high vaulted ceiling of the big room. Only the glowing embers of the open hearth gave some light, cinders drifting when the wind howled down the chimney. A candle was lit on the big trestle-table, but it only emphasized the gloom. Its light stayed on the table over which eight or ten people were bent, watching the pen in the minstrel’s hand eagerly.
The shadow of the pen wobbled sleepily on the wall and when it stopped, people lifted their heads and sighed, as if they were the ones writing the letter. It’s a hard task, writing… but it was done now.
‘Read it, minstrel, from the beginning.’
The minstrel started to read. His breath made the candle flicker and the hiss of wax on cold metal fell into the darkness.
May this letter be given to the Aga Oglu in Koppany.
Greetings to you, mighty Aga. I request from you the day that you will fight me with a naked sword. May you know, mighty Aga, that I am the son of that Raimond Babochai whose head you took some years before. You are a warrior and you shall not deny me the right to avenge my father's honour. This shall be my only letter to you. I await your correspondence as to whether you shall come or not, for I wish to take your head for that of my father’s, or lose my own, trying. For I cannot eat my bread in honour and in peace until I have this issue settled between us. I expect to see your answer soon. May God keep you in His peace.
This letter was written in Fonod, on the first Wednesday of the month of Saint George, anno domini 1586.
Son of Raimond Babochai
Silence surrounded the minstrel who looked up expectantly.
‘Well written,’ Sean said. He came to Fonod from Buda, high castle of the now non-existent Hungarian kings, not finding a place among the Germans or the Turks. He was considered a foreman by many, for he stood his ground in every fight and kept his sword sharp.
‘Good letter,’ the others said too, and started to talk.
Orlando Babochai kept silent. He looked beyond his comrades, beyond the flickering light of the candle, the noise of conversation fading out in his ears, and an image came back to him from the past.
***
It was a windy day in May. His mother kept watching the road to Bezens often. The sycamore trees kept bowing in the wind, though the air didn’t move around the manor. No leaf whispered in the gardens, and behind the house the waters were calm like a giant mirror. As if the whole world was one being set on waiting.
Then there was dust over the road to Fonod.
The table was set, tin pitchers filled with wine lined up by the wall. His mother looked up at the crucifix, then out the window again.
‘This was the last time I let your father go. If a man wants to duel he shouldn’t get married. Sweet Jesus, they come so slow…’
The cloud of dust seemed to stop despite the cool air that rushed through the door, as if the wind had just arrived. The heavy linen tablecloth lifted a bit, and there was such a musty smell of meat and wine in the room as if a forgotten closet got suddenly opened for some unknown reason. Orlando and his mother shivered, and looked out on the road over which the dust stood stubbornly.
‘Why are they so slow? My God in heaven… They should be here by now… Oh my sweet son…’
Orlando could hardly recognize his mother. She had tears of fear in her eyes and grey lines on her face. She didn’t look out the window any more; but he did. He couldn’t believe that something bad could happen to his father while duelling the unknown Turkish champion. He had killed fifty warriors before, why would this be any different?
The soldiers came slowly, very slowly. Fear froze and grew around Orlando, and soon he saw something that stroked his heart with icy fingers.
They came with their heads uncovered. They brought a dead body…
He hugged his mother with wild pain then, and his mother could feel in his caress her son’s hurt and his comfort.
The big grey horse of his father stopped before the house, and the soldiers lifted off his dead body…
***
Someone hit the table and the vision was gone.
‘To the duel!’ Dominic lifted his cup; he could always find a reason to drink. Orlando, too, emptied his cup while thinking of his father. Ever since he had to bury him, Orlando couldn’t think of anything else but fighting the Turk. When he had a pleasant dream, it was about standing on a big meadow; then his sword flashed, horns resounded, and the Turk fell.
That’s why Orlando ran off from home; his mother would never have let him go. He became a squire; and as the years passed by, the squire became a silent, sad cadet. He excelled in the small raids and ambushes even when he was young. Later Orlando fought a lot with lance, but his true weapon was the sword. Oglu killed his father with a sword, so a sword it had to be. Whenever he heard about a master swordfighter, he found him and learned from him.
‘I don’t understand why you insist on a sword,’ David said. ‘That Turk’s sword is like lightning. It’s famous everywhere in the outer forts, in Transdanubia, maybe even in Vienna!’
‘My sword is just as good,’ Orlando replied.
‘That’s stupid,’ Sean piped in. ‘You fight the enemy with that which he doesn’t know. I’ve seen Oglu’s sword. I wouldn’t give a shaftless spear for your head, Orli. Oglu could kill even me, despite me seeing a few things in my time…’
‘You, even I could kill,’ Orlando smiled. ‘We can try. Of course just for the game, with a light sword, in helmets and those iron shirts.’
Sean jumped up.
‘Light the candles and push the table aside. You get a pitcher of wine for every hit you deliver. Are stabs allowed?’
‘Only at the chain-mail,’ their comrades shouted. Everyone was talking at once. ‘This is good! Orlando needs things like this to learn.’
Seers were appointed to judge the fight. Torches lit up the room in the wrought-iron stands along the wall, and the crowd fell silent when the fighters stood up against each other.
Then the handle squeaked on the big oak door. The door opened up, and a huge giant of a man entered. The flame of the torches fluttered and the fighters lowered their swords.
‘What’s this? Who gave permission?’
His voice was like whipcord. The older soldiers surrounded him immediately.
‘Captain, sir! This is just a game! A bet.’
‘Well, then, of course that’s different.’ Captain John Rhys-Davies ruled among his soldiers with an iron will and an iron fist. Secret duels were severely punished; they were only allowed with the Turks, and even then only in unavoidable cases.
‘Let’s see it then.’
The fighters stood up again. Sean, who looked like a bear, turned out to be fast as lightning. He tried one feint after the other, to no avail. Orlando never attacked, only parried. Even Captain Rhys-Davies grew impatient.
‘Why don’t you attack him too, son?’
Orlando just shook his head. Not yet. Sean started to lose his temper.
‘Just look at this kid, god damn him,’ but he couldn’t reach him. The ‘kid’ was cool as ice.
And then Orlando said, ‘You can start counting now. One…’ His sword smacked Sean on the head.
‘Two.’ Sean’s head again.
‘Three.’ That was his chest.
Sean saw red and tried to jump on Orlando. But Orlando’s sword was hard against his chest by now, and if the fight had been for real, Sean would’ve been dead.
‘Stop now!’ The Captain said. ‘What was the bet about?’
‘A pitcher of wine for every hit,’ was the reply.
‘To your health then, Sean,’ the Captain laughed. ‘Bring back the table.’
The fighters took off the chain-mails. Sean huffed a bit, but then shook Orlando’s hand.
‘You’re a good swordsman, Orli, and you’re gonna be even better. I wouldn’t give a wooden penny for the Turk…’
Captain Rhys-Davies’ eye flashed, and Sean wanted to tear out his tongue. He knew his captain well enough to know that he would mercilessly impede Orlando’s fight if he could. The comrades looked at each other and turned their backs to Sean. Orlando paled at the thought that his duel wouldn’t happen. He’d rather die. His face was all white when he stood up from the table.
‘Captain, sir. You know now what I am about to do. I’m not angry at Sean for telling. Let us speak truth here. When the headless corpse of my father was brought home years ago, when the big grey horse stopped in front of our house with that bloody package on top of it, you were there, captain. I ran into the house, stood in front of the crucifix, and promised to God that I would not rest until I took revenge for my father’s death. This is my time now. You may lock me up in chains, but I will keep true to this holy vow.’
With this, he sat down.
Only the torches spluttered and swung the shadows on the walls, and the wind howled in the chimney. In the great silence the voice of the captain was like the toll of a bell.
‘I understand what you say, son. Yes, I was there. Yes, I promised your mother that I wouldn’t let you enter into a deadly fight. And yes, I have received a strict order from Duke Ernestine to impede all duels, even with confinement. But I’m not bowing before the Germans, just understand that the Magyars are dwindling in this country, and the foreigners prosper. This is all true. But you made a holy vow for your father’s salvation. He had been my best friend from childhood, and I don’t want him to ask me about his soul in the afterlife… May God rest his soul…’ He waved his hand. ‘Go then, I let you. Bring the wine now.’
For a moment longer, silence reigned among the soldiers, then they all shouted in relief.
‘Long live the Captain!’
They went almost wild, shaking each others’ hands and drinking. Orlando hugged his captain.
‘Dear Uncle John!...’
Captain Rhys-Davies was also touched, even though that only happened to him once in every ten years.
‘Stop hugging me! One thing I tell you though, if anything happens to you, I’m will not be the one to tell your mother, I had rather jump into the trenches from the tower. Have you written a letter yet?’
The minstrel gave him the letter and he read it at once. ‘It is a good letter. An honorable letter. It fits the one who sends it and the one who receives it.’
They drank. ‘Long live the fighters!’
‘Where’s the minstrel? Where’s his lyre?’
The minstrel took out his instrument. All the torches but one were put out. The old lyre sang tentatively, dreamily. The minstrel plucked the chords as if he was looking for a song, and the soft music drifted sadly in the air.
Some rested their heads on the tables, some just stared in front of themselves. A wild bitter sadness seized their hearts like death.
The instrument cried, groaned, bewitched, complained and buried. It was a song about the outer forts, life of the soldiers and their only treasure, their honor.
After the song, notes fell off the chords, as if they were pebbles falling into water. Heavy sighs came from many lips.
‘Play us something cheery now, damn you, or we shall all weep like ladies of the court.’
If someone would’ve come to the fort that night, surely they would have wondered about why those boots were stomping way into the morning, because there weren’t many reasons for soldiers to dance about. And they would have wondered even more seeing that the Captain had the first place in the dance.
But who would’ve wandered around at night that way? Maybe the wind, and a few lone wolves on their way home to the Bezens groves, where the moor dreamt up mares and dawn came like a sigh of relief.
tbc
Author:
zee113Rating: NC-17, eventually
Warnings: AU, violence
Beta: The ever helpful
liriel1810Disclaimer: This story is purely fictitious. However, it is not even my fiction but a VigOrlified rewriting (slash translation) of a Hungarian novel. Almost everything is borrowed and no disrespect was meant.
Summary: In a tragic time in Hungary, when the country is divided by invaders and politics, Orlando Babochai is a real swordfighting champion. Intrigues and plots within plots follow after he fights his deadly enemy, the man who killed his father.
Author's Note: 1. This is my 2006 NaNoWriMo story which means it is already finished. I will post it (hopefully) one chapter a week, or as it is edited and betaed.
2. Beautiful banner by
mesnica. *sends kisses*Chapter One
Shadows flickered through the high vaulted ceiling of the big room. Only the glowing embers of the open hearth gave some light, cinders drifting when the wind howled down the chimney. A candle was lit on the big trestle-table, but it only emphasized the gloom. Its light stayed on the table over which eight or ten people were bent, watching the pen in the minstrel’s hand eagerly.
The shadow of the pen wobbled sleepily on the wall and when it stopped, people lifted their heads and sighed, as if they were the ones writing the letter. It’s a hard task, writing… but it was done now.
‘Read it, minstrel, from the beginning.’
The minstrel started to read. His breath made the candle flicker and the hiss of wax on cold metal fell into the darkness.
May this letter be given to the Aga Oglu in Koppany.
Greetings to you, mighty Aga. I request from you the day that you will fight me with a naked sword. May you know, mighty Aga, that I am the son of that Raimond Babochai whose head you took some years before. You are a warrior and you shall not deny me the right to avenge my father's honour. This shall be my only letter to you. I await your correspondence as to whether you shall come or not, for I wish to take your head for that of my father’s, or lose my own, trying. For I cannot eat my bread in honour and in peace until I have this issue settled between us. I expect to see your answer soon. May God keep you in His peace.
This letter was written in Fonod, on the first Wednesday of the month of Saint George, anno domini 1586.
Son of Raimond Babochai
Silence surrounded the minstrel who looked up expectantly.
‘Well written,’ Sean said. He came to Fonod from Buda, high castle of the now non-existent Hungarian kings, not finding a place among the Germans or the Turks. He was considered a foreman by many, for he stood his ground in every fight and kept his sword sharp.
‘Good letter,’ the others said too, and started to talk.
Orlando Babochai kept silent. He looked beyond his comrades, beyond the flickering light of the candle, the noise of conversation fading out in his ears, and an image came back to him from the past.
***
It was a windy day in May. His mother kept watching the road to Bezens often. The sycamore trees kept bowing in the wind, though the air didn’t move around the manor. No leaf whispered in the gardens, and behind the house the waters were calm like a giant mirror. As if the whole world was one being set on waiting.
Then there was dust over the road to Fonod.
The table was set, tin pitchers filled with wine lined up by the wall. His mother looked up at the crucifix, then out the window again.
‘This was the last time I let your father go. If a man wants to duel he shouldn’t get married. Sweet Jesus, they come so slow…’
The cloud of dust seemed to stop despite the cool air that rushed through the door, as if the wind had just arrived. The heavy linen tablecloth lifted a bit, and there was such a musty smell of meat and wine in the room as if a forgotten closet got suddenly opened for some unknown reason. Orlando and his mother shivered, and looked out on the road over which the dust stood stubbornly.
‘Why are they so slow? My God in heaven… They should be here by now… Oh my sweet son…’
Orlando could hardly recognize his mother. She had tears of fear in her eyes and grey lines on her face. She didn’t look out the window any more; but he did. He couldn’t believe that something bad could happen to his father while duelling the unknown Turkish champion. He had killed fifty warriors before, why would this be any different?
The soldiers came slowly, very slowly. Fear froze and grew around Orlando, and soon he saw something that stroked his heart with icy fingers.
They came with their heads uncovered. They brought a dead body…
He hugged his mother with wild pain then, and his mother could feel in his caress her son’s hurt and his comfort.
The big grey horse of his father stopped before the house, and the soldiers lifted off his dead body…
***
Someone hit the table and the vision was gone.
‘To the duel!’ Dominic lifted his cup; he could always find a reason to drink. Orlando, too, emptied his cup while thinking of his father. Ever since he had to bury him, Orlando couldn’t think of anything else but fighting the Turk. When he had a pleasant dream, it was about standing on a big meadow; then his sword flashed, horns resounded, and the Turk fell.
That’s why Orlando ran off from home; his mother would never have let him go. He became a squire; and as the years passed by, the squire became a silent, sad cadet. He excelled in the small raids and ambushes even when he was young. Later Orlando fought a lot with lance, but his true weapon was the sword. Oglu killed his father with a sword, so a sword it had to be. Whenever he heard about a master swordfighter, he found him and learned from him.
‘I don’t understand why you insist on a sword,’ David said. ‘That Turk’s sword is like lightning. It’s famous everywhere in the outer forts, in Transdanubia, maybe even in Vienna!’
‘My sword is just as good,’ Orlando replied.
‘That’s stupid,’ Sean piped in. ‘You fight the enemy with that which he doesn’t know. I’ve seen Oglu’s sword. I wouldn’t give a shaftless spear for your head, Orli. Oglu could kill even me, despite me seeing a few things in my time…’
‘You, even I could kill,’ Orlando smiled. ‘We can try. Of course just for the game, with a light sword, in helmets and those iron shirts.’
Sean jumped up.
‘Light the candles and push the table aside. You get a pitcher of wine for every hit you deliver. Are stabs allowed?’
‘Only at the chain-mail,’ their comrades shouted. Everyone was talking at once. ‘This is good! Orlando needs things like this to learn.’
Seers were appointed to judge the fight. Torches lit up the room in the wrought-iron stands along the wall, and the crowd fell silent when the fighters stood up against each other.
Then the handle squeaked on the big oak door. The door opened up, and a huge giant of a man entered. The flame of the torches fluttered and the fighters lowered their swords.
‘What’s this? Who gave permission?’
His voice was like whipcord. The older soldiers surrounded him immediately.
‘Captain, sir! This is just a game! A bet.’
‘Well, then, of course that’s different.’ Captain John Rhys-Davies ruled among his soldiers with an iron will and an iron fist. Secret duels were severely punished; they were only allowed with the Turks, and even then only in unavoidable cases.
‘Let’s see it then.’
The fighters stood up again. Sean, who looked like a bear, turned out to be fast as lightning. He tried one feint after the other, to no avail. Orlando never attacked, only parried. Even Captain Rhys-Davies grew impatient.
‘Why don’t you attack him too, son?’
Orlando just shook his head. Not yet. Sean started to lose his temper.
‘Just look at this kid, god damn him,’ but he couldn’t reach him. The ‘kid’ was cool as ice.
And then Orlando said, ‘You can start counting now. One…’ His sword smacked Sean on the head.
‘Two.’ Sean’s head again.
‘Three.’ That was his chest.
Sean saw red and tried to jump on Orlando. But Orlando’s sword was hard against his chest by now, and if the fight had been for real, Sean would’ve been dead.
‘Stop now!’ The Captain said. ‘What was the bet about?’
‘A pitcher of wine for every hit,’ was the reply.
‘To your health then, Sean,’ the Captain laughed. ‘Bring back the table.’
The fighters took off the chain-mails. Sean huffed a bit, but then shook Orlando’s hand.
‘You’re a good swordsman, Orli, and you’re gonna be even better. I wouldn’t give a wooden penny for the Turk…’
Captain Rhys-Davies’ eye flashed, and Sean wanted to tear out his tongue. He knew his captain well enough to know that he would mercilessly impede Orlando’s fight if he could. The comrades looked at each other and turned their backs to Sean. Orlando paled at the thought that his duel wouldn’t happen. He’d rather die. His face was all white when he stood up from the table.
‘Captain, sir. You know now what I am about to do. I’m not angry at Sean for telling. Let us speak truth here. When the headless corpse of my father was brought home years ago, when the big grey horse stopped in front of our house with that bloody package on top of it, you were there, captain. I ran into the house, stood in front of the crucifix, and promised to God that I would not rest until I took revenge for my father’s death. This is my time now. You may lock me up in chains, but I will keep true to this holy vow.’
With this, he sat down.
Only the torches spluttered and swung the shadows on the walls, and the wind howled in the chimney. In the great silence the voice of the captain was like the toll of a bell.
‘I understand what you say, son. Yes, I was there. Yes, I promised your mother that I wouldn’t let you enter into a deadly fight. And yes, I have received a strict order from Duke Ernestine to impede all duels, even with confinement. But I’m not bowing before the Germans, just understand that the Magyars are dwindling in this country, and the foreigners prosper. This is all true. But you made a holy vow for your father’s salvation. He had been my best friend from childhood, and I don’t want him to ask me about his soul in the afterlife… May God rest his soul…’ He waved his hand. ‘Go then, I let you. Bring the wine now.’
For a moment longer, silence reigned among the soldiers, then they all shouted in relief.
‘Long live the Captain!’
They went almost wild, shaking each others’ hands and drinking. Orlando hugged his captain.
‘Dear Uncle John!...’
Captain Rhys-Davies was also touched, even though that only happened to him once in every ten years.
‘Stop hugging me! One thing I tell you though, if anything happens to you, I’m will not be the one to tell your mother, I had rather jump into the trenches from the tower. Have you written a letter yet?’
The minstrel gave him the letter and he read it at once. ‘It is a good letter. An honorable letter. It fits the one who sends it and the one who receives it.’
They drank. ‘Long live the fighters!’
‘Where’s the minstrel? Where’s his lyre?’
The minstrel took out his instrument. All the torches but one were put out. The old lyre sang tentatively, dreamily. The minstrel plucked the chords as if he was looking for a song, and the soft music drifted sadly in the air.
Some rested their heads on the tables, some just stared in front of themselves. A wild bitter sadness seized their hearts like death.
The instrument cried, groaned, bewitched, complained and buried. It was a song about the outer forts, life of the soldiers and their only treasure, their honor.
After the song, notes fell off the chords, as if they were pebbles falling into water. Heavy sighs came from many lips.
‘Play us something cheery now, damn you, or we shall all weep like ladies of the court.’
If someone would’ve come to the fort that night, surely they would have wondered about why those boots were stomping way into the morning, because there weren’t many reasons for soldiers to dance about. And they would have wondered even more seeing that the Captain had the first place in the dance.
But who would’ve wandered around at night that way? Maybe the wind, and a few lone wolves on their way home to the Bezens groves, where the moor dreamt up mares and dawn came like a sigh of relief.
tbc
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Date: 2007-01-23 07:53 pm (UTC)