The Tragedy of Elric Evelyn

    Blood stained the narrow dirt road which was usually covered by hoofprints and ruts. Old Lord Evelyn lay amid the bodies of his escorts, two arrows embedded in his chest.
    A boot stepped over a body and came into his view, followed by another. Near the bottom, the brown of the leather had almost disappeared under the dark crimson. He tried to push himself up, his numb fingers struggling to feel his sword. The owner of the boots stopped one and a half yard away. It was a distance, but he still appeared to be towering over him. It was a young man of considerable height, soft brown hair tousled from battle, head to foot like his boots covered in blood. On his coat armour, though bloody, the family crest was visible. The house of Nash.
    Hatred shot through his dying heart, but gave the old man little the desired strength. The old man only twitched before sharp pain blinded him and rendered him limp, choking on his blood. The young man stepped closer. Through the black fog of pain, Lord Evelyn saw him raise his sword. The old man exerted himself to keep his eyes open to glare at his young enemy. Dishonorable slave. But the boy was doing him a favour, was he not? He was finally going to reunite with his wife and son who died all those years ago on exactly the same path. Before that came he just had to keep all his remaining dignity.
    However, the young men did not strike. Maybe it didn’t matter if he did or not. The old man was dying anyway. Attacking a fallen opponent is unknightly. Then he remembered the order he was given.
    "Make sure he is dead. Do it yourself."
    The old man’s glare was already unfocused. He looked at the delated pupils. His hands were sweating slightly in his gauntlets.
    By the look of it, the boy wasn’t going to do anything, except to humiliate him by watching him die. He certainly didn’t need to wait too long, the old lord thought blearily. It was then that his dimming eyes caught the other’s. In that unwrinkled bloodied face were grey eyes exactly like his own.
    Sunlight jumped on the long blade as it was raised again and swung into an arc. In his shock, the old man hardly registered the pain before his world went dark.
    "Elric…"

    Amis shot up in his makeshift bed on the forest floor. It had been three days - one more day and they would reach Lord Evelyn’s citadel and join the main force that had arrived shortly after the assassination succeeded - but every night the old man came back to haunt him in the form of dreams. Or nightmares, more precisely.
    Every night he saw the grey eyes from which life slipped away, the blood-soaked beard whose original colour could barely be seen, the pain-contorted weathered face…and again and again he heard his dying word. Elric.
    Elric.
    Elric.
    Amis was confused, and if he had been honest with himself, scared. Not by the dream itself, though, as it was not his first kill. It was the strange familiarity he felt when facing the wounded man. Even before the attack when he and the others were still in ambush, he had felt that unspeakable tug of familiarity upon seeing the old lord, high on his horse, cape behind his back, grizzled beard visible from under his helmet. He had seen his portraits before and had been taught to hate him ever since his childhood, but he had never felt like that.
    Like he once knew him.
    He lay back and stared at the dark sky. It was pitch dark. Not even the moon shone down. The only reason he could see anything was the dull campfire in the middle of the clearing. Sir Nicolas to his left got up to take the night watch and shot him a strange look as he passed. Amis ignored the look and turned back to face the sky. The next would be him.
    The families of Evelyn and Nash had been feuding with each other since forever. The two Lords had neighbouring fiefs and swords were crossed quite often, but at that time, all the conflicts were just on the border. Now they had far passed that stage.
    Lord Nash always told Amis, his foster son, the faults of the other family. "The Evelyns are a violent bunch. They hold onto a grudge for decades and reflect little. Their swords are always before their brains, if the latter do follow, that is." Amis also knew that Lord Nash lost his own son and sole heir to the other lord. The lady’s declining health kept them from having another child, so when a patrol found a two-year-old Amis in the woods and brought him back, the noble couple, despite his dubious birth, willingly took him in.
    He was ever grateful for that.
    Amis sighed. Lord Evelyn was dead now. The enemy was left without a true leader. If they were lucky, everything was going to end in a few weeks. Somehow, the thought did not bring him much of the relief he expected. The old man’s face floated before his eyes again. He closed them and fell into a restless sleep.
    About half and hour later, he was hurled up by the head knight.

  
    The day after the next found them reach the citadel as planned and join the siege.
    The majestic stone walls were blackened by smoke and striped with assault ladders. Swamped by Lord Nash’s infantries, it looked like a lonely island standing in a dark raging sea from a distance. The west side of the rampart had crumbled at the top under the constant firing of the ballista. Solders from both sides could be seen fall from the gap. The battering ram could be heard over the battle-cry, playing a strange rhythm against the gate. The moat was filled with tree trunks, rocks, soil and bodies. Arrows rained upon the invading army, punctuated by the occasional fall of men.
     One hand holding his shield over his head, Amis tried to reach his dangling sword with the other as he run unsteadily across the roughly heaped moat. From behind, the faint sound of a blade being drawn reached his ear. It was not uncommon in a battle, but an indistinct feeling urged him to look around. Sir Nicolas met his eyes with a firm nod and put his dagger between his teeth. Distracted, Amis nearly stumbled on a body. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, namely the siege, and pushed down the lingering suspicion. Sir Nicolas was a noble man. Honestly.
    Somewhere during the battle, Lord Evelyn’s severed head was spiked on a pole and raised over the rampart. The defenders were wrong-footed. Almost instantly the resistance thinned out.
    Amis was already fighting on the rampart. He did not notice how he ended up where he was, but when he looked around all he could see was Evelyn’s men in yellow. It seemed that one minute ago Sir Nicolas was with him and then they were separated and he was surrounded. No one was near enough to give him a hand. To his credit, Amis managed to remain calm. He was one of the best fighters in his foster father’s fief, after all. He had won numerous tournaments and emerged victorious in various melees, and this…this was just like another of those. So he parried and thrusted and slashed as his opponents fell back. By the time the stick with Lord Evelyn’s head was put up, he had regained his confidence and joined another Nash’s man. He was tired, but uninjured.
    They took over the castle by sundown.

  
    Amis walked down a corridor on patrol. Peasants taking refuge within were being cleared out of the castle, as well as those who worked under the family of Evelyn. A week and their world was toppled, he thought. Suddenly he found himself picturing the corridor bustling with servants, fruits, neatly folded linen sheets and cloths in their hands, manservants carrying their master’s armour and maids their lady’s jewelry box. He made a turn, and his mind instantaneously supplied him with an image of a lady, delicate and fair, soft brown locks braided and piled on her head. She looked out from behind those heavy oak doors to the bedroom, saw him and beamed. Warmth filled his chest before he blinked and the lady disappeared and he became keenly aware of the unusually cold night air…and the eerie silence.
    He quietly drew out his sword and turned on his heel. He stood face to face in front of a masked man in peasant clothes, but Amis was not fooled, because the sword the other held was definitely a knight’s.
    "Who are you?"Amis demanded, his sword ready, "Show your face!"
    The man ignored the question and gave his sword a small swing, as though to limber his wrist, and its tip drew a figure of eight. The movement gave him away. Amis had seen it countless times on the training field to recognise it and only one would do that. His pulse quickened as he remembered the fleeting moment during battle and felt a sense of betrayal.
    "Sir Nicolas," Amis spat through clenched teeth, "To what do I own this…honour?"
    Sir Nicolas growled in frustration and sprang at him.
    Their swords clashed.
    "What have I done to deserve this?" Amis fended off a jab at his chest and asked, "Did I ever offend you?" And it was then that he realised what was really wrong with the situation. If he had offended the elder knight himself, the latter would have challenged him into an actual duel, rather than sneaking up and trying to stab him from behind disguised as a peasant at dead of night.
    "Who sent you?"
    "Why does it matter?" The reply was accompanied by another blow.
    The two men fought way past midnight. The noise was harsh and loud, but it was a secluded corridor far from the main castle, so no one heard them. Even if they did, none was alarmed. Their skill was paralleled with each other and both sustained some injuries during the fight, but Amis, being younger, was harder to tire out. He caught Sir Nicolas stagger and knocked him down. He kicked the other’s weapon out of reach and stepped a foot on his chest, holding the man at sword point.
    "Who sent you?" he tore off the mask and asked again, word by word, panting.
    The elder man did not reply this time, too busy gulping for air.
    "I know there’s someone behind this. Who is it? Whose order are you receiving?" The point of Amis’ sword was already pressed into the other’s neck, and a bead of blood formed around the point where the metal met the flesh. It felt a bit surreal, threatening someone whom he always saw as a respected comrade, but this man was trying to murder him and by doing that he would somehow cause harm to Lord Nash, which must have been the reason the man was sent. How exactly it would work Amis was not sure, as he knew that Lord Nash never really took him as something like a son, but Amis looked up to him as a father, so maybe that meant something. He pressed on, "What is your plan?"
    A small movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention and he quickly reacted. A flash of light and an agonised cry and Sir Nicolas’ dagger flew aside with the hand that clutched it.
    "Tell me now. You treacherous wretch! Who sent you and what’s your plan? What has the lord done to make you plot against him thus? You can easily bleed out, so tell me now," Amis fixed his eyes on the other man who now curled up on the floor hugging his wrist with large drops of sweat falling from his forehead. "Or do you need more motive? Your Eda, your 'most beauteous Eda.' I know where she lives. Maybe I can’t make you tell me, but her?"
    Sir Nicolas glared up from his humiliating position. "Don’t you dare involve Eda, ignorant boy. You want a name, and you will get two…" He paused for breath and a distorted sneer appeared on his face, "You’re a naive boy. You talk about 'the lord' like he were your father. You swallow whatever he gives you. The obedient boy from the woods."
    Amis unconsciously took a step back. Apparently the man said the last sentence to hurt him, yet he could not see why it should be, and that unnerved him. The elder man was trembling and pale with pain and loss of blood, but a nagging feeling made Amis suspect that it was he himself that was the weaker one. "What do you mean?" he asked. He sounded hesitant despite his efforts. He should be furious at the implication and finish off the slandering man instead of asking for any details. Lord Nash raised him up. Lord Nash was a noble man.
    Sir Nicolas seemed to have read his mind. "You honestly think he could willingly take in a random bastard boy? Then why didn’t he make one himself, eh? Because you aren’t one!" What little strength remained in him was leaving him with his blood, and his vision became blurred. The boy was laughably naive but was loyal to the point of cruelty. Lord Nash was right. Anyone would like this boy if they didn’t know his background. But once they did, they must destroy him. "I do pity you, and I wish I succeeded in my deed, for that would suit you better. My lord your beloved foster father sent me, both to get you and to kill you," his voice was growing weaker and weaker, but he still managed a scornful smile, "All for the satisfaction of turning Evelyn’s son against his father…now you’ve got your answer. Just end my suffering or leave me be. I can speak no more." And with that he closed his eyes.
    Silence fell. Amis stood dumbfounded against the wall, his sword pointing at the floor. He stared at the other man, his mind both full and blank. The latter was still lingering. And Amis found himself ask, numbly, "What is my real name?"
    Sir Nicolas could very well have been unconscious, but an answer came nonetheless, from where he was not sure.
    "Elric Evelyn."

    "Time to get up now!" cried the now familiar voice of a girl, and a pair of hands were clapped twice, loudly. Then the curtain was drawn open with considerable force and sunlight streamed in mercilessly.
The young man groaned in bed.
    "Come on Elric get up! A whole day’s work’s ahead of us!"
    Elric opened his eyes and found the girl grinning at him.
    It had been four months since he was found ( for the second time in his life but this time for real ) in the woods. Royse was gathering herbs when she stumbled on him unconscious in his chainmail, mumbling and burning with a fever. She somehow took him back, chainmail and all, to her hut which was in a tiny village he had never heard of and tended him. For about three weeks he was on the brink of death but Royse managed to pull him back. The first thing he opened his eyes to had been the sunlight which seemed to be a permanent resident in the hut. Gradually he learnt her name, that he had been in her deceased father’s room and that he, in a rare moment of clarity, told her his name was Elric. The month after that was mostly spent in awkward silence with Royse busying herself in the fields and "Elric" recovering, but then they grew familiar and talked more, and he found behind the blushing face a mischievous elf. They went together to plough fields, to gather herbs and even to the market. Elric also learnt and helped with a lot of heavy work. The villagers were friendly, too, always with a kind smile or gesture. At first some asked him where he was from, but when he gave no answer they did not press on.
    It was like another life. And he liked to pretend that this was the only one he had ever lived. He was as content as he could be.
    But at night, the shadow of the other life where he was under the name Amis would creep up to him with the dark and swallow him whole. Then he would see his fathers: his natural father whom he killed, and his foster father who tried to kill him. And he would burn once more in his personal hell.
    He did not know how he left the castle that night when he found out Lord Nash’s plan. Everything was a blur. The only thought he had at that time was that he was suffocating and he had to leave, had to breathe. He had to find a clearing or the stone walls would collapse on him. Maybe if he could get out into the cool night, the nightmare would end. However, when he did get out - curious that no one took note of his bloodied state - he was not met with calming cool night air but fire and smoke. Houses were being burnt down, some with people inside. There was also scream, although afterwards he could not be sure it was not his own. He must have managed to walk away, or maybe got himself a horse, because the next thing he remembered clearly was the sunlight in Royse’s little hut which was miles and miles away.
    "Elric!" A hand smacked the back of his head, and a bowl of porridge was put before him, "What’s with you?"
    Elric blinked and smiled at Royse. "Nothing. Thank you for your concern, milady."
    Royse laughed. "You’re so weird sometimes, sir knight. Now eat before your feast turns cold."
    Elric hurried to comply. Then they went to work in the field.
    They spent a whole day out. Near sundown, the two of them sat down by the field to rest. The golden sun was on fire, but different from the savage fire put up by barbaric soldiers, it was soothing and splendid. The cloud on the horizon was lit into various shades as the entire sky western sky glowed with orange and red. As Elric looked to his side, he saw Royse gilded in the gaseous gold, all rosy cheeks, tanned skin and dancing brown eyes. She was so young and alive. She was the very picture of life. For some reason, his heart clenched at the thought.
    Royse sensed his gaze and turned around. Their eyes met. For a moment Elric thought the girl would look away, but she did not. The dimming sunlight burned in their eyes but kindly hid their mutual blush.
In the past few months, while cultivating crops, Elric had also grown a special seed in his heart for this loveliest creature he had ever had the fortune to meet. He had kept it hidden, for fear that the gesture would not be returned, but now seeing the other’s earnest eyes and intense look, he could not help but smile till it hurt. In the quiet golden field with only her, he felt real peace. The pain was forgotten - the buried grief, vengeful thoughts, false idol, misplaced faith and useless regrets…they all left him, for now.
    Elric found her little calloused hand, lifted it to his lips and, his eyes not leaving hers, pressed a light kiss on its back. He thought the redness in her cheeks more appealing than that of the sun.
    When the sun was completely down, they went back, not chatting as usual but in companionable silence. Night fell.
    It was not until the next evening did Elric realise that for the first time in four months he did not dream about either of his fathers, or the vague shape of his mother, not even Sir Nicolas. He lost sleep that night.
    Every night for four months he burnt in betrayal, guilt and hate and now they disappeared, leaving him not with the expected relief, but an unspeakable hollowness and dread. Before he was fully recovered, he spent all day in bed just going through plans of revenge. When he was better, over and over again he studied the map of Nash’s castle printed in his mind whenever he was alone or making the repetitive movements in the field. However, whatever plan he made was never carried out. It wasn’t that he was unwilling. He just thought the time might not be right. Now, though, he questioned the Elric from before. The time was never wrong. It was his heart that went off the course. He wanted to be with Royse too much…but how could he blame himself? He still wanted and always would want to be with her. And more. He wanted to spend his life with her…as husband and wife.
    But again, what man would he be to deserve a good girl such as Royse as his wife, if he couldn’t even avenge his family and clear his own name? His parents were slaughtered, his land was seized, and he himself was humiliated, deprived and reduced to a patricide and traitor. He would never stand that even if he were alone. He was not a coward. Besides, if Royse was to marry him, it should be to him Sir Elric Evelyn, son of Lord Aldith Evelyn, not him a suspicious armyman she picked up from the woods.
    The sudden disappearance of his painful motive made he fear that he had gone soft.
    Elric must leave, so that he could have the chance to return deserving to the things he longed for.
    He sneaked up at night, stole his chainmail and sword from one of Royse’s trunks. Then he left, without even one last look at the obliviously sleeping girl, confident that he would return.
    He walked a day to a neighbouring village, got himself a horse and rode to Lord Nash’s fief.
    He was spotted before he reached the citadel. When he was on the drawbridge, a crossbow was fired. He fell into the moat.

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This is a homework given by my English teacher in uni. It was written last year and, I'm afraid, was rather hastily ended. I dug it out tonight on impulse and posted it despite its lack in quality. I'm far too lazy to add more interactions between Elric and Royse or the final confrontation I originally planned.
I never did any research on the time period so I suspect the historic accuracy of this story is pretty much non-existent.