( autumn of 1066; the norman invasion of britain )
my home;
this will always be my home.
this took my life to make.
When he finally rises, he immediately regrets it. Three days of lying prone and almost lifeless have done little to aid the impossible levels of pain that flow freely throughout his body. He can’t help the small, childish whimper as he scrambles to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall of the almost fallen house in which he has taken refuge. He longs to sink down again, to hide in the corner until the aches and the weakness leave him, but there’s no way of telling how long this will take. The very thought of having to look upon his beloved town again, almost entirely raised to the ground, has tears gathering and rolling down his muddy cheeks in thick, unashamed streams. For a moment, he feels all strength leave his legs again and he collapses to his knees, crying out pitifully as he drops forward onto his hands. His palms are bleeding, and the corner of his tunic is caked with blood from an unfortunate run in with a Norman. At the time, he felt so thankful that such a thing couldn’t kill him. He had no idea then that he would still come so close to breathing his last breath.
Eventually, he forces himself to move again.
Each joint and bone feels as though it has been broken. Repeatedly, like they’ve been crushed into tiny, useless pieces. He can feel his heart beating up a bruise against his chest, the sheer intensity uncomfortable and sickening. He knows that he has to do this. Facing the devastation that undoubtedly awaits him is inevitable. It won’t fix itself simply because he wishes for it gone.
The faint glimmers of afternoon sunshine on a murky, bleak day sting his eyes, momentarily blinding him as he staggers from the shadows of his refuge. As the sheer brightness filters away from his vision, for a moment he wonders if some angelic force has descended upon his precious town, rejuvenating it and bringing it back to him. It’s a touch of desperation that throws him to such a conclusion; he has never found much solace in religion, but just for a moment he prays that his town, his pride and his joy, may be instantaneously rebuilt. His prays go unanswered, and when his vision clears, the sight before him threatens to knock out whatever life he has left.
He cannot claim to be a sweeping, marvellous settlement like London. The town has always done well for itself, earning at least the vaguest of respect and acknowledgement. He has always had every right to be pride of what he has become, what he has been growing into for the past centuries. All that he has treasured lies about him in a crumbling, broken heap of bodies, blood and utter waste. The soil underfoot is soft and slippery, recovering from the recent of rain. Smoke coils menacingly and vindictively from the remains of a thatch roof, mercifully saved by the shower. What does it matter? The inhabitants of that poor house are unlikely to still be alive. Everything is bare. Whatever was left behind has been looted and snatched up by any poor fool who survived. The silence is deafening around him, to such an extent where he stumbles forward, clutching at his hair, his ears, feeling a helpless scream rising in his throat as he searches for some way to drown out the hideous sound of absolutely nothing.
The scream reaches his mouth and resonates around him so finely that he thinks for a moment he’ll go mad. He covers almost no ground before he falls to the mud, clutching at his chest and his stomach as the pain and emptiness surge through him. His face is soaked with his tears once again, his sobs making his entire body tremble. He feels like little more than a child, lost and hurt, needing comfort and protection. But his protection is gone. Weakness and darkness grip his consciousness as he realises that the people who gave the town - and himself - life are no longer here. If any have survived, he cannot for a moment blame them for staying as far away from this hell.
He wonders if death is always so torturous. He can’t imagine that a town or a city dies from one fell swoop of an invader’s sword. They are not as fragile as humans; the decay is slow, excruciating, as waves of people are executed where they stand and their buildings, their homes are sacked. An unstoppable wave of bitterness washes over him. A human can die quickly and with minimal pain if circumstances allow it, or even if they choose to. He cannot have the same luxury - but then, he isn’t exactly human. Natural laws don’t apply to him. The knife wound from the solider would have killed him days ago, were he anyone or anything else. It was deep, inflicted with anger, intent and bloodlust. He wonders what exactly his beloved town could have done to incite such hatred. Was it just the status of being an English settlement? The people were treated with no more respect than game or objects, everything destroyed just so that these damned Normans could prove their strength and superiority.
He moans and weeps, no longer caring that the pain around his collar bone is almost too much to bear. He feels distinctly short of breath, lumps in his throat making it difficult to swallow the stagnant, death-tinged air around him. His cheek is pressed against the stamped upon patches of grass, and for the barest of seconds he relishes in the fresh scent of the rain-drenched ground. He digs his nails into the soil, gritting his teeth as he tries desperately to contain yowls of torture and anguish, his behaviour dissolving into the pure, innocent grief not at all unlike that of a child. A part of him longs to see his fellows once more before all the light leaves his eyes; he wishes he could pull on those silly, child-like curls again, or admire those long blond tresses, feel entirely reprimanded by a single stare those commanding, serious brown eyes. For the most part, he has often enjoyed his solitude, but in the wake of this destruction, the thought of being alone adds insult to injury. He longs for the safety of someone’s hand closed around his own, or the comfort of arms closing around his shaking, terrified body. With all his heart he wishes he could have seen his town flourish, grow into the city that it would have undoubtedly become. He hasn’t even lived for three centuries yet. What kind of life is that for a town - no, not for just a town, but for a peaceful, blossoming town that had its entire existence ahead of it?
I love you, he thinks as he mindlessly presses his body to the ground. I adore you. You deserve to have lived, my beautiful, wondrous Oxford. What I wouldn’t give to have been able to protect you.
As the sun slowly sinks beyond the horizon, he loses the strength to cry. The convulsive, involuntary spasms of his body slowly give in to exhaustion, his groans reduced to miserable whimpers of defeat. Blackness creeps through his mind, from the edges of his thoughts, enveloping all that it finds in its path. His noisy, laboured intakes of breath slowly begin to even out, until he grows so still that it seems that he has fallen asleep under the gathering stars.
this will always be my home.
this took my life to make.
When he finally rises, he immediately regrets it. Three days of lying prone and almost lifeless have done little to aid the impossible levels of pain that flow freely throughout his body. He can’t help the small, childish whimper as he scrambles to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall of the almost fallen house in which he has taken refuge. He longs to sink down again, to hide in the corner until the aches and the weakness leave him, but there’s no way of telling how long this will take. The very thought of having to look upon his beloved town again, almost entirely raised to the ground, has tears gathering and rolling down his muddy cheeks in thick, unashamed streams. For a moment, he feels all strength leave his legs again and he collapses to his knees, crying out pitifully as he drops forward onto his hands. His palms are bleeding, and the corner of his tunic is caked with blood from an unfortunate run in with a Norman. At the time, he felt so thankful that such a thing couldn’t kill him. He had no idea then that he would still come so close to breathing his last breath.
Eventually, he forces himself to move again.
Each joint and bone feels as though it has been broken. Repeatedly, like they’ve been crushed into tiny, useless pieces. He can feel his heart beating up a bruise against his chest, the sheer intensity uncomfortable and sickening. He knows that he has to do this. Facing the devastation that undoubtedly awaits him is inevitable. It won’t fix itself simply because he wishes for it gone.
The faint glimmers of afternoon sunshine on a murky, bleak day sting his eyes, momentarily blinding him as he staggers from the shadows of his refuge. As the sheer brightness filters away from his vision, for a moment he wonders if some angelic force has descended upon his precious town, rejuvenating it and bringing it back to him. It’s a touch of desperation that throws him to such a conclusion; he has never found much solace in religion, but just for a moment he prays that his town, his pride and his joy, may be instantaneously rebuilt. His prays go unanswered, and when his vision clears, the sight before him threatens to knock out whatever life he has left.
He cannot claim to be a sweeping, marvellous settlement like London. The town has always done well for itself, earning at least the vaguest of respect and acknowledgement. He has always had every right to be pride of what he has become, what he has been growing into for the past centuries. All that he has treasured lies about him in a crumbling, broken heap of bodies, blood and utter waste. The soil underfoot is soft and slippery, recovering from the recent of rain. Smoke coils menacingly and vindictively from the remains of a thatch roof, mercifully saved by the shower. What does it matter? The inhabitants of that poor house are unlikely to still be alive. Everything is bare. Whatever was left behind has been looted and snatched up by any poor fool who survived. The silence is deafening around him, to such an extent where he stumbles forward, clutching at his hair, his ears, feeling a helpless scream rising in his throat as he searches for some way to drown out the hideous sound of absolutely nothing.
The scream reaches his mouth and resonates around him so finely that he thinks for a moment he’ll go mad. He covers almost no ground before he falls to the mud, clutching at his chest and his stomach as the pain and emptiness surge through him. His face is soaked with his tears once again, his sobs making his entire body tremble. He feels like little more than a child, lost and hurt, needing comfort and protection. But his protection is gone. Weakness and darkness grip his consciousness as he realises that the people who gave the town - and himself - life are no longer here. If any have survived, he cannot for a moment blame them for staying as far away from this hell.
He wonders if death is always so torturous. He can’t imagine that a town or a city dies from one fell swoop of an invader’s sword. They are not as fragile as humans; the decay is slow, excruciating, as waves of people are executed where they stand and their buildings, their homes are sacked. An unstoppable wave of bitterness washes over him. A human can die quickly and with minimal pain if circumstances allow it, or even if they choose to. He cannot have the same luxury - but then, he isn’t exactly human. Natural laws don’t apply to him. The knife wound from the solider would have killed him days ago, were he anyone or anything else. It was deep, inflicted with anger, intent and bloodlust. He wonders what exactly his beloved town could have done to incite such hatred. Was it just the status of being an English settlement? The people were treated with no more respect than game or objects, everything destroyed just so that these damned Normans could prove their strength and superiority.
He moans and weeps, no longer caring that the pain around his collar bone is almost too much to bear. He feels distinctly short of breath, lumps in his throat making it difficult to swallow the stagnant, death-tinged air around him. His cheek is pressed against the stamped upon patches of grass, and for the barest of seconds he relishes in the fresh scent of the rain-drenched ground. He digs his nails into the soil, gritting his teeth as he tries desperately to contain yowls of torture and anguish, his behaviour dissolving into the pure, innocent grief not at all unlike that of a child. A part of him longs to see his fellows once more before all the light leaves his eyes; he wishes he could pull on those silly, child-like curls again, or admire those long blond tresses, feel entirely reprimanded by a single stare those commanding, serious brown eyes. For the most part, he has often enjoyed his solitude, but in the wake of this destruction, the thought of being alone adds insult to injury. He longs for the safety of someone’s hand closed around his own, or the comfort of arms closing around his shaking, terrified body. With all his heart he wishes he could have seen his town flourish, grow into the city that it would have undoubtedly become. He hasn’t even lived for three centuries yet. What kind of life is that for a town - no, not for just a town, but for a peaceful, blossoming town that had its entire existence ahead of it?
I love you, he thinks as he mindlessly presses his body to the ground. I adore you. You deserve to have lived, my beautiful, wondrous Oxford. What I wouldn’t give to have been able to protect you.
As the sun slowly sinks beyond the horizon, he loses the strength to cry. The convulsive, involuntary spasms of his body slowly give in to exhaustion, his groans reduced to miserable whimpers of defeat. Blackness creeps through his mind, from the edges of his thoughts, enveloping all that it finds in its path. His noisy, laboured intakes of breath slowly begin to even out, until he grows so still that it seems that he has fallen asleep under the gathering stars.