Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!

Warnings: Character death, very anti-Norman… Knowledge of 1066 required.

********

In the fall of 1066, William and an army of 5,000 Normans sailed from France across the English channel and landed in England. At the same time, the king of Norway and an army of Vikings invaded England. King Harold and the Saxons fought off the Viking invaders and faced the Normans. At the Battle of Hastings, Harold was killed and the Anglo-Saxon army defeated. William, now known as William the Conqueror, declared himself king of England and set up a strong, efficient government. William had taken the first step toward making England a nation.

On the surface, you know, there's nothing wrong about that account of events. After all, William did set up an efficient government. And most historians say the Conquest was for the best… William won, and improved things. Simple and clean.

But they don't mention the villages that were permanently harmed. No one reminds people on tours that those castles were originally built to throw rebellious Saxons in to rot. Because, in the grand picture of things, that's not important, is it?

Perhaps, it should be. But the boy that was trampled to death isn't important either… Nor his friends… One of which was mercifully killed in battle—the other was thrown into one of those beautiful, romantic castles, until he died. Those people aren't important either. The fact that William himself repented on his death, so ashamed he was of all he had done…

None of that's important. If it was important, it would make its way into the books, right?

Why don't I show you all the unimportant little details…

*********

The village of Horstede, snuggled in England, near a place called Hastings, was feasting. It was New Year's; and, just like several other days of the year, it meant feasting and a break from labor. Riddles were swapped—some witty, some highly indecent—ale was downed, and there was a general mood of content hanging in the air.

"Ælfwynn!" called a boy, looking around. "Ælfwynn?" He pushed some of his strangely pale hair out of his face and looked around. "Ælfwynn??"

"I'm right behind you," said the girl he was looking for. She smiled, her warm blue eyes full of happiness. Then, looking around, she asked, "Where's Wulfgar?"

Deor pointed at a blonde-haired boy over in a corner, telling riddles. "Riddling."

"He can guess riddles?" said Ælfwynn, staring.

"No. But he's trying to learn them. I lost the taste for it when they reached the bawdy ones."

Ælfwynn made a face and muttered something, and the two walked off, laughing. Wulfgar looked up to see his two friends disappearing, and got up from his table and followed them, almost tripping over himself like an oversized puppy. "Deor! Don't just wander off like that when I need you."

Deor grinned, looking almost mischevious—well, for Deor. "But I thought you were telling riddles, Wulfgar!"

The boy shot Deor a look. "It would be better to say I was trying to get away from them. The cloud was fun, the others…"

The white-haired boy held up a hand. "Please, don't talk about it."

Wulfgar nodded. "I don't really—OW!" He turned to see a very guiltless looking Ælfwynn pretending not to know about the packed ball of snow that had just hit the back of his head. Glaring, he packed his own snow and threw it at Deor.

"What did I do?"

"I don't want to throw a snowball at a—" Deor's own snowball came hurtling at him.

Aldwulf, another member of the group, came over. "Hey, guys, I was—"

Fwhack! Wulfgar had ducked, and so Deor's snowball had hit Aldwulf directly in the face. Deor blinked, smiled innocently, and ran for it.

"GET BACK HERE!"

In the midst of the furious battle of snow, a ball went flying, and ended up colliding with someone's much-abused fence. It stood there, then collapsed. No one had noticed—yet. The four stared down at it, then at each other.

"Anyone," said Wulfgar, "up for a game of draughts?"

They all headed off as far from the collapsed pig as possible.

*********

The two men sat, playing at chess. One was young, with cold blue eyes and dark chestnut hair. The other was somewhat older, with hair that was standing on the edge of grey, though not there yet. Inside, the room was relatively warm, while outside a cold New Year's day reigned. But the men were not concerned with the weather—and barely with chess.

"Do you think he will live?" asked the older one, tentatively moving a pawn. It made a scraping noise against the smooth surface of the board.

"No," replied the other, taking out a knight with his bishop. The move was silent.

The older one moved into position to take the bishop. "You believe there really is no chance—none at all?"

"Outside of miracles, no. Queen takes rook. And a miracle, Brihtric, is too much to hope for."

"Why are you always such a pessimist?"

"Checkmate," said the other, without bothering to reply to that question.

Brihtric stared at the half-forgotten game in surprise. He was indeed beaten. Respectfully, he tipped his king over, then pushed the board aside. "Enough of chess, Cyneheard. Let us say Edward dies. What then?"

"Then the witan will elect a new leader," said Cyneheard, carefully replacing the pieces on the board, for the next players.

"I know that. But who do you think the King will choose as his heir?"

"Edgar… Harold… Duke William… The throne is Edgar's by right, but he's thirteen. I'd rather not watch a thirteen-year-old boy run the country," muttered Cyneheard, sliding a rook over to its corner.

"Nor do I. Harold's been putting in many good words for Duke William, lately—and Edward did grow up in Normandy, after all—"

"If Edward elects a foreigner, the country will refuse whoever he picks. William, Harald, Swein… I doubt it would matter. And William's not only a foreigner, but he has a weaker claim than the other two."  Cyneheard set a white knight down with a sharp click!

"But the only Saxon of royal blood is Edgar, and, as you said, he is two years too young. I suppose he could choose Harold…or Tostig." Brihtric added the second name as an afterthought—and a rather unsavory afterthought.

Cyneheard smirked, fingers lingering on a pawn as he replaced it. "Tostig? After Northumbria? He's in exile, Brihtric, and he's not coming back. Even Edward, in the worst of his regretful moods, wouldn't dare even bring Tostig back."

"Harold?"

There was a pause, and Cyneheard rolled the king piece around on his hand. "If he chose Harold… I doubt we would have anything to fear, from the people—or from any of the frustrated would-be heirs."

"I suppose you're biased, being his house-carl," said Brihtric. He picked up the black knight from the taken pile and placed it, the last of pieces, into its square.

"Oh, I am. But I'll still stand by whoever they pick. The witan aren't called wise men for no reason—they'll do the right thing." Cyneheard stood, and stretched. "I'm off to Cynewulf. Goodbye, Brihtric."

Brihtric watched the young house-carl walk off, and allowed himself a smile. Cyneheard could be refreshing—at least he didn't run around with long hair, imitating those in Flanders. Young people…

*********

Cyneheard strode down the passage, worried. Why did Edward have to pick this time, of all times, to die? He could have at least waited two more years…

A voice broke into his thoughts. "Cyneheard?"

He looked down, and smiled at his younger brother. "What?"

"Why is everyone so worried? No one will tell me anything."

Cyneheard sighed and led his brother to their chamber. "Come here, Cynewulf, and I'll explain."

The boy plopped down by his older brother, and stared up at him. "Well, brother? What is it?"

Cyneheard traced patterns on the floor. "Edward the Confessor has reigned in England for as long as you can remember, Cynewulf. But he's dying. And the great problem is that he has no heir—Cnut made sure of that. The only boy left of royal blood is Edgar, and he's too young to see after the country. No one wants a foreigner—and that leaves us with Harold—or Tostig—who, while English, are not royal. It goes on forever this way."

Cynewulf stared down, quiet. Then, he said, softly, "What will the witan do?"

"I don't know. No one knows, not even they… If only Edward would wake up and tell us what he wanted. I wouldn't be surprised if he was vague in death as he was in life." Cyneheard laughed harshly. His brother looked up, startled, and the older sibling stopped.

"Do you understand now?"

Cynewulf nodded. "Brother?"

"Yes?"

"Who do you want to be king?"

Cyneheard, who was leaving again, looked back.

"What really matters, Cynewulf, is what the witan want."

*********

It was January Fourth, and Edward still showed no signs of waking. Cyneheard stood quietly in a dark corner of his King's bedroom, watching everything, but saying nothing.

Queen Edith was there, of course. And Harold, as the senior earl of the kingdom, would obviously be there. Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, stood near Harold, and one of Edward's foreign friends, Robert FiztWimark, waited also. Cyneheard noted the last with satisfaction. If anyone tried to deny whatever would happen by calling it an English lie, they would never get around FiztWimark.

He was distracted from this line of thinking by hearing the king stir, and listened attentively. This was it. After six days of torturous waiting and wondering, they would finally know the heir to England.

And so it was a shock to the house-carl to hear him start to prophecy about dead Norman monks and curses, and trees joining together.

Cyneheard was gratified to hear Stigand murmur to Harold, "Raving, pure madness." Edward suddenly seemed to snap out of it, and spoke, weak with sickness, but apparently sane. He told them not to mourn; and blessed his sobbing wife. Then he stretched his hand out to Harold, and spoke the words everyone was impatiently hoping for.

"I commend this woman and all the kingdom to your protection. Serve and honor her with the faithful obedience as your lady and sister, which she is, and do not deprive her, as long as she lives, of any honor she may receive from me. I also commend to you those men who have left their native land for love of me and served me faithfully. Take an oath of fealty from them if you wish, and protect and retain them; or send them with your safe conduct across the Channel to their own homes with all they have acquired in my service."

And with that he fell back once more. Relief flooded Cyneheard, and he glanced at Harold, and finally, after all the agony of waiting and the torture of doubt, he knew it. Harold, his lord, was king.

Edward had declared him so.

*********

The messenger ran swiftly through the streets of Rouen. Duke William was in the park, he'd been told, and thence he went, as fast as he could bear. That was his job, after all.

He finally found William, preparing to hunt. The Duke stood in his group of friends, next to a page who was holding a strung bow. "Word! Word from England!" the messenger called. A slow smile, invisible to the messenger, spread across William's face—fading the instant he heard the news.

"King Edward is dead, and Harold is raised to the kingdom," said the messenger, bowing.

Whatever equipment William himself was holding was dropped. William played with the laces of his cloak, staring outward, then left. Like that.

Robert watched after him, worried. He was just a low-ranking knight (as knights go)—but this sort of behavior never boded well. It might mean war.

War wasn't uncommon in Normandy—when the knights couldn't find anyone to fight out of the country, they generally fought each other. The Church, in fact, had declared certain days of the week illegal to fight upon—something, Robert thought, the peasants were probably grateful for. It could be hard to plant when horses kept on trampling your crops into the ground.

Robert himself was nothing very warlike, to look at—he was, in fact, quite short. And his hair stuck out every which way. But he could be a fighter when he needed to, and despite his concern, he participated in the battles with the same gusto as everyone else did.

"I hope this is some sort of mistake," he said, glancing over at his friend. Stephen was a good bit taller than Robert, with pale blond hair, and tanned skin from working for days in the sun.

"I doubt it," muttered Stephen.

"Do you think it will mean war?" asked Robert.

"Robert. Here, an argument over livestock means war."

"Yes," said Robert, "but England's… Over there," he concluded, waving an arm in the general direction of England. "Across the water."

"Good for England," snapped Stephen. He was like that—moody, stormy, everything. Stephen had not particularly wanted to be knight—but he'd been pushed through the training anyway, and he still wasn't over it.

Robert sighed, and gave up trying. When Stephen got like this, there was no talking to him.

*********

William sat on the boat, cutting its way through the Seine, staring down at the water. Would you really do this, Harold? he asked of it. William received no reply—but he hadn't really expected one. There would be no reply until Harold could make one.

I don't believe it, thought William, watching the waves part on the prow. We fought together—he saved my soldiers in battle, dragged two from quicksand… Why do that, if he was an oath-breaker? No. It's a lie…

Lap, lap, lap, went the waves on the boat sides, but the boat finally stopped with a crunching noise. William stalked off the boat, and through Rouen to his palace. No one even tried to speak with him—whether he believed it or no, William was angry. The Duke finally reached the palace hall, where he settled down on a bench, leaning against a pillar.

He'd write a message to Harold, he decided. As quickly as possible, to clear the entire mess up before any knew about it. That would leave Harold free to act on his conscience. A letter—a letter would do it…

The sound of humming reached him, and he looked up to see his steward—another William, William FitzOsbern, making his way through a crowd of worried people—probably worried, thought the Duke, over what had caused his anger.

But FiztOsbern's message to William was direct and short.

"They all know, William," he said, dropping into place beside his duke. "The word has spread through the whole city."

There was no good in trying to hide it anymore.

*********

His name was Shadi, and he walked through streets of Rouen, unseen by any of the people. He wore a long robe that came down to his feet, and a turban upon his head.

He arrived at a soldier's tent, and, revealing himself to the soldier, inserted a key in his forehead. Then Shadi withdrew it, and said to the man,

"You will meet another soldier named Robert, and you two will gamble together. Before the game concludes, you will offer this—" Shadi placed a rectangular box, fashioned of gold, upon the table, "—as a stake. And you will lose it…and you shall not regain it."

Shadi turned away, and left, walking into nothingness, and towards England, a gleaming golden pendant swinging in his hand.

********

That's all for now. Yes, this first chapter had…nothing to do with Yu-Gi-Oh! That will change, I promise.

I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you who is who… But if you can't tell, then I'm not writing correctly. Bleargh. (pauses) Horstede is a real village—anyone out there that's read 1066: The Year of the Conquest? Yah. I got the idea from that book, so root, root for David Howarth!

The whole part with William hunting and boat is laid out in a poem whose name escapes me. Point is—I didn't make it up.

Glossary of Anglo-Saxon Names and Terms

Aldwulf—Old wolf [I think—not sure.]

Ælfwynn—elf joy

Cyneheard—Noble bitterness

Cynewulf—noble wolf [Cyneheard and Cynewulf is the name of an entry of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, year 755.]

Deor—deer [Deor was also a poem—named after the poet—on the nature of disaster.]

House-carl—personal bodyguard. "Hearth companion". In war, they protected their leader. In peace, they acted somewhat like a police force.

Witan—wise men. They were basically the king's counselors.

Wulfgar—Wolf spear