Warning: This work has been rated 16+ for violence.
It was the sixteenth century Denmark. Jutland, the wealthiest duchy in Denmark was standing with pride and honour in the lap of the Baltic Sea. The moment before dusk was approaching. The stagnant air changed under the lambent sun. Weak rays of sunlight kindled the clouds, and burnt across the sky, turning it into a sea of flames.
The Danish troop was marching towards the town gate. Sweat stung their eyes as tiny vipers, dripping from a gore sprayed face. Their parched, panting tongue collected the dust-choked air. It intermixed with the bitterness of iron. Deafening, the blood pounded in the ears, drumming to a ferocious beat inside the helmet. A sandstorm was howling towards them and a sea of enemies became visible.
The Danish general screamed, “Attack!”
The sound was enough to obscure the thunder of steel striking. Pain from a dozen wounds registered, drowned out by the heightened sound of war drums. Throbbing ache from the shattered hand which hung trembling on the right side. Above the lower scent of sweat was the acidic smell of inescapable fear. It carried aloft from clashing bodies that howled amidst a sea of scarlet liquid. It drained from a friend and foe alike, to soak a once vibrant field of yellow flowers.
The General in gold, lustrous armour, his battle horse neighed at the sight of the enemies. Its thick muscular legs matched well with its rider coated also in thick armour. Underneath the armour, the wounds scared his body. He gained those from countless battles and skirmishes. His eyes like his soldiers were full of hatred and anger, eager to slaughter the enemies. The piercing stare seems to enter the opponent lines, and none of the enemies dared to meet his gaze.
The General entered the core of the army. Millions of cannonballs blazed the bloody ground. The troops included ally and foe turned into pieces at once. The shields were trying to barricade the flying arrows in the air. The vile burnt smell darkened the evening air. There was nothing but only dead Danish soldiers. The Norwegian troops hacked through the enemy lines and mowed down every single body standing in between them and victory.
The General with the remaining soldiers returned to the palace. The guard walls were standing with pride for protecting the deity of wealth for centuries. The Danish troop entered the armoury when a sharp sound pierced the eardrum.
The Norwegian army broke the wall with siege weapons. They broke into the palace with a hundred and thousand in number. The General ran towards the secret tunnel. But a powerful figure blocked his way, “Now your little game of hiding seek is over.”
A dark knight came out of the group. He took off his helmet. His green eyes were moving like a snake. Sweat was dripping from his black hair. He kicked the General hard on his abdomen. He fell apart from there. Fortinbras went near him, “Now you are on your knees like a good pet.”
He kicked the General again. Saliva mixed with blood came out from the mouth of the poor king, “Mercy, Prince Fortinbras.”
The General tried to get up. But Fortinbras hit his chest with the leg, “Kneel like a good pet dog.” He came near the ears of the General, “There is no mercy near Fortinbras. You should think twice before rising against me.”
He took his blade and cut the skin on the chest. The General screamed in pain. “Does it hurt? Do not faint, so fast. The game is in the Middleway,” Fortinbras cut off the skin in the abdomen. Groaning in pain, the General stopped breathing.
The air became heavy. Everybody was standing still. Fortinbras hit again and again until the floor filled with poppy-red blood. His hands filled with blood. Fortinbras took the crown from the king. Then he went near the golden statue of honour, “Good statue but not too good to survive.”
Fortinbras broke the statue with the swipe of his sword. He occupied the throne and put his leg on the head of the statue. He kicked it heard, “Now you see what happen if someone dared to raise his head to Fortinbras. Kneel before me like my pet and I will give you protection”
Each and every living being knelt down to their new mighty king. The Norwegian General entered with a captive young woman. She had deep cuts all over his body and was struggling to walk. But an aura of royalty was coming out from her.
The General threw her near the feet of Fortinbras, “My Lord, this is Duchess Athela of Jutland.”
He pressed his fingers hard on her cheek, “Well, well, a naïve girl like you put a good fight in front of the mightiest troop. I will give you a position in my court for that. You will be the oracle in the temple of darkness.”
“Maybe I lost, but I am still the Duchess. Any self-respected person will treat me with dignity even while giving a death sentence,” Athela told with bravery.
“I will reward you for your bravery,” Fortinbras signalled to bring the prisoners of war forth.
The general brought his sword up and bellowed his ritual. The deep strong voice quakes the earth, and the enemies shivered in fear. He slices downwards with force and accuracy at the neck of the prisoners, blood spurting out as he soaks his sword in the blood. The soldiers behind him erupt in cheered for approval and the horses neigh.
They did the ritual. The enemies paid with blood. Minutes later, the tumultuous uproar died down, and only silence remained.
But why an outside force captured Denmark? Did not the royalties were worthy enough to protect their kingdom. This question led us to a funeral procession for the answer.