At the request of by beta, here's a definition of a term for you: excommunication. It means being exiled from communion; being denied the sacraments; and, in short, being sentenced to Hell.
——
In the forest, the body of the man did not stir. The animals regarded it curiously: the man was certainly alive, but he would not move. A daring little fawn came up to the man, sniffed him, and ran away, only to stand just out of reach and watch for any reactions. After a short time, he became restless and went off to more interesting forest mysteries.
A bird hopped up by the man's ear, tilting its head to one side, then the next. Then she around to his face, this time pulling slightly at the dirty blond hair…
The man's head shot up, and she stared at him for one petrified moment before he caught her. Not with his hands.
With his mouth.
A few minutes later, he spat out what was left of the bird and looked around. He saw no more birds in the immediate area—the sudden movement of his head had been startling enough, omitting what followed after—and made a noise of disappointment.
Never mind. There would be more birds.
——
William came.
No one at the feast but Harold had truly believed William would come. The news struck them all sober and they stared at each other, faces pale. William was coming with a fresh army, and they had only fought a battle one week ago…
Every soldier simultaneously turned to glare at Edwin and Morkere. If you had done your job we wouldn't be having this problem…snapped three thousand pairs of eyes.
Morkere shrank into nothing—which he did rather often—and Edwin ignored them.
"We must ride to London," Harold snapped. "Get the army ready."
"But…" Edwin coughed politely. "My king, it is a long ride to London, and the men are tired… One day's rest could hardly affect the whole nation."
Harold glared at him. "We are riding to London."
"Yes—but—I mean—"
"We are riding to London," bellowed Harold, "the instant this army gets on its feet and goes out to fight the enemy. I will not wait for anyone who dawdles in gathering together his armor. Get up and move!"
Historians still marvel at the speed the Anglo-Saxon army made, still licking its wounds, as it rode across the country back to London. If the army had sprouted wings, it could scarcely have reached the city quicker. It reached London in four days and then instantly went to sleep.
But Harold reached the city a little later than the others—he stopped a few miles before entering London and went instead into an abbey he had built, called Waltham. He went to pray and find for a fleeting moment some peace…to assure himself that he was guiltless…
His brothers were waiting for him.
"Well?" asked Gyrth. He was impatient.
"I saw…" Harold faltered. "I am at peace."
"That's what you came for, isn't it?" Gyrth queried, bluntly.
"Yes."
——
Cynewulf watched his brother preparing for war—checking his equipment, sharpening his sword, and packing clothes and food. The little boy felt uneasy. He'd seen Cyneheard prepare before, of course, but there was a mood in the preparations this time that Cynewulf had not felt before.
"Cyneheard?"
The man looked at his brother quizzically.
"Do you have to go to war?"
That was a surprise. Cynewulf had always been surprisingly unworried when Cyneheard went to war—Cyneheard had heard stories told by house-carls of mothers and sweethearts who threatened to jump off cliffs, join nunneries, get married to another, and a million other things in the attempt to keep the house-carl from joining battle.
"Yes," he told his brother.
"Are you sure?" asked Cynewulf. "You couldn't stay home just this time?"
"No," said Cyneheard. "Especially not this time."
"Why?" asked Cynewulf.
"Because in the other wars," Cyneheard said, stopping his preparations and going over to his brother, "we were dealing with little enemies—little raiders, who burn a little, hurt a little, and die. But this time we are dealing with a great enemy—a strong leader who leads well-trained men on horseback. They want—and will, if we can't stop them—something more than burning a little. They want England. And we can't let them have it. That's why this time, I must go to war."
He paused as Cynewulf absorbed all this, and added:
"Wyrd oft nereð unfaégne eorl þonne his ellen déah."
[Fate often saves an undoomed man when his courage is good.]
Cynewulf brightened at the quotation from Beowulf—something he knew. On impulse, he hugged his older brother. (He nearly cut off Cyneheard's air supply—the house-carl was wearing his mail.) Then he held something out.
"Take this," he said. "For luck."
It was the little wooden dragon Cyneheard had carved. Cyneheard picked it up, and smiled at his younger brother. "I'll carve a little hole and wear it around my neck. After all," he said, "It's the symbol of England! The dragon…"
Cynewulf grinned. "And when you come back, will Harold have the scop recite Beowulf, all the way through?"
"Yes," Cyneheard assured him. "All the way through."
And then, as a taste, he started to recite:
"Þá wæs on sálum sinces brytta
gamolfeax ond gúðróf géoce gelýfde
brego Beorht-Dena gehýrde on Béowulfe
folces hyrde fæstraédne geþóht·
ðaér wæs hæleþa hleahtor· hlyn swynsode·
word waéron wynsume. Éode Wealhþéow for
[Then the treasure-giver was greatly pleased,
gray-bearded, battle-famed, chief of the Bright-Danes;
the nation's shepherd counted on Beowulf,
on the warrior's help, when he heard such resolve.
There was laughter and noise, a pleasing din,
the glad words of men. Wealhtheow came forward…]
He rode away with the rest of army towards Hastings. Brihtric stayed behind—he was too old to fight two straight battles, and Cyneheard had entrusted him with Cynewulf until he returned.
Cynewulf watched him leaving, waiting impatiently for when Cyneheard would return. But unconsciously, Cyneheard had lied to the boy.
There would never be a when.
——
They arrived at Hastings, as the fyrd came in from most of the surrounding country. A message went from Harold to William, and then from William to Harold—both sides were fairly certain of what they would hear and listened to the messages with only half a mind: the other half was composing rebuttals.
But in the message William sent, something was there that neither Harold nor anyone listening expected—not Gyrth and Leofwine, his brothers; not the menacing house-carls. That one thing would destroy Harold before the battle ever started.
It consisted of one word.
Excommunicated.
Everyone in the room stared at the messenger—an obviously uncomfortable monk—as if he had only just appeared. The monk faltered and fell silent beneath the shocked and frightened glances of the six men in the room.
"What?" asked Harold. He was speaking quietly, but the dead silence in the room made everyone wince as if he had screamed at the monk.
"William wishes to say…"
"No," snapped Harold. "Not that part."
The monk swallowed, and then whispered, "You and your followers have been…"
"Say it!" hissed Harold.
"…excommunicated…"
Harold's soul was ripping, ripping slowly and agonizingly.
"Why?" asked the king, half-sobbing, half-angry. He could see Hell… Hell lay in the eyes of a man who whispered eternal damnation…
The monk shrank before him. Gyrth and Leofwine sat motionless, mouths frozen in sounding out ex. Two of the house-carls were quietly leaving—the third stood still, dark blue eyes fastened on the monk.
In the woods, the word was whispered from tree to tree in ugly raspings: excommunication. The brooks slapped against the muddy banks, sneering: excommunication. The call of a nocturnal bird rang over the land, calling: excommunication. The night could talk of nothing but the promise of damnation.
But the monk said nothing.
"Why?" begged Harold.
Silence.
"Tell him!" snarled the house-carl. He grabbed the monk by the throat, staring at him with hatred. "Tell him, you fat little—"
"Put him down," commanded Harold. "He is a man of God."
The house-carl took a few steps back, away from the monk. The monk looked at them both frantically, apparently wondering whether he should finish his message or run for his life. The house-carl was visibly seething: he was like a chained, berserk wolf. At the slightest command he would probably rip the monk to pieces.
"I don't know," said the monk. "I was not told…" He glanced uneasily at the house-carl. "Allow me to finish my message."
Harold nodded. "And do not fear Cyneheard. He will not hurt you."
"William…asks for single combat between the two of you to decide who might be in the right…"
Single combat? Right. That's why he brought the army over here, isn't it? thought Cyneheard. That's why he's sent us all to Hell, hasn't he? For single combat! HA!
"We march at once," Harold told the monk.
The monk looked at him questioningly.
"We march to battle."
"But—single combat—"
"You may go and tell William that tomorrow, we will face him—that tomorrow, the hand of the Lord shall show the rightful claimant."
The monk stuttered, back away, and fled into the night.
"Ex…" Leofwine shook his head. "What could you possibly have done?"
"I swore an oath," said Harold, mechanically. "I had to."
"Out with it," commanded Gyrth. "Why didn't you tell us this before?"
Harold paused. "It was two years ago. I went out fishing, and there was a storm—remember?"
"Yes," said Gyrth. "Mother went berserk. Go on."
"I was blown off-course, and landed at Normandy. Well—not quite at Normandy. I landed on a neighboring count's land, and promptly ended up in prison. But William heard of it—somehow—and he came and demanded my release.
"I liked William—liked and feared him. I fought alongside him and saw how merciless he could be in battle: I lived at his home and saw the devout kindness he gave to his wife. But I could not forget Wulfnoth, who was a hostage in Normandy then, is a hostage in Normandy now, and who will probably be a hostage in Normandy ten years from now."
(Wulfnoth was the youngest brother in Harold's family.)
"And I was as much as hostage as Wulfnoth, despite not being one in name—I had been shipwrecked. If I needed anything, I had to get it from William: if I was ever to get home, it would be from William's consent and aid. He refused to free Wulfnoth for a trivial reason…and then…
"I had to swear an oath—to support William as the next king of England. And I did! When the men talked of who would be king, then I spoke for William! I spoke for him in private and in public, and I tried to convince the witan. But they chose me—and they represented England… I couldn't just abdicate in favor of William. I had suggested him and they wouldn't hear of it—abdication would do nothing! Nothing, do you see?"
He looked pleadingly at the three men in his headquarters, and they nodded.
"I shouldn't have sworn the oath—I knew it then, and I know it better now. But I thought it was the only way to get home…and I liked William… We were friends, and I thought, perhaps he might understand…"
"It doesn't seem to be a reason for ex…that," mused Leofwine. "Is that the only heinous sin you've committed?"
He received withering glances.
"It must be a lie," Cyneheard snapped. "We've had spies in Normandy—we've sent our tribute to Rome—we are a faithful people—and we were never asked! The Pope never sent to us, never heard Harold…"
"But why should the monk lie?" asked Gyrth. "Or William, for that matter? How could anyone lie about…"
"And Harold did what he could…"
Harold looked at the three furiously arguing men—all trying to convince themselves that they really were in the right, that they were not sinking at every second into the depths of Hell…
Cyneheard left, too angry to continue speaking. Excommunicated! And for what? For preferring a king that spoke their own language, knew their own ways…
He wondered if the other house-carls had told. It wouldn't surprise him. He looked around at the men, nervous and quiet. It could just be pre-battle nervousness, of course. But he could feel the word excommunication hanging in the air, a deadly poison waiting to be loosed.
Well, he would not loose it.
He wandered through the camp, then noticed a few men—farmers?—near the edges…with packs…looking around to see if anyone noticed them…
Deserters.
Wulfgar was closer to the deserters than Cyneheard, but he before he could stop them, he noticed the sprinting house-carl. He and Cyneheard hated each other enough as it was—better not to be seen with deserters.
"And you're going?" snapped Cyneheard, drawing up to the men.
"Home," one of them told him.
"Really?" hissed Cyneheard. "Right now your home is a place for you to sleep tonight before you go out to slaughter William tomorrow."
"Perhaps," answered the man, shrugging. "But I'd like to know what Harold's ever done for me, that I should risk my soul trying to save his position."
Cyneheard looked as if he'd been physically struck, and then started to speak: softly, dangerously; his dark blue eyes were fastened on the man before him.
The man couldn't move.
"What has he done?" asked Cyneheard. "He's kept peace for this land for many years—even when it was another king's duty. He's watched two brothers die and left another to rot. He's risked his honor; he's risked his love; he's now fighting a battle that could send him straight to Hell so that you can stuff your fat faces beneath a free English sky and talk about how useless he is!"
He lashed out abruptly, striking the man across the face. All of his anger towards the monk and towards William and even towards Heaven for not instantly striking the monk with lightning as he lied poured out over this man.
"Go on," sneered Cyneheard. "Go, run away. This army has no need for men like you. Risk your soul? You don't have one."
The man backed away, and ran, dropping his pack.
Cyneheard looked around and saw Wulfgar. "Are you leaving too, village boy? Are you running off like a dog?"
Wulfgar shook his head.
"Why not?"
"Because…it's my duty!" snapped Wulfgar. Why did Cyneheard act this way? Of all the villagers in the world, why single Wulfgar out for special hatred? "What other reason do I need?"
"Don't you just want to be a hero?" asked Cyneheard. "Go home with a scratch and tell girls how fifty Norman knights with fire-breathing steeds came and attacked you? That's the only reason you're here—because you want to be a dragon-slaying Beowulf without any of the hardship."
He stalked off.
"That's not true!" Wulfgar yelled.
Cyneheard walked away without turning to glance at him.
——
The Normans charged up the hill, crashing into the English defense. They were repelled. The Normans roared their battle-cry of Dex aïe—the English were too angry for "Holy Cross", so they shouted defiantly: Ut! Ut! [Out! Out!]
Then the knights attacking the right wing of the English army broke apart, fleeing the English soldiers wildly. The right wing shouted Ut! with great fervor and chased the knights, who were throwing the infantry and archers into confusion. Hundreds of horses fell into a single ditch; on the muddy floor of the valley where the battle was being fought, horsemen struggled.
Just for a second, the battle swung by a hair.
If the line had followed the right wing, William might have been crushed.
But the world would never know—the line did not follow. And the right wing of the army stood alone, stranded in the midst of the enemy—and William was bearing down upon them.
"Form a shield wall!" Cyneheard snapped to the men around him.
They looked at him, blinking, frozen.
"Do you want to die?" he shrieked. "Form a shield wall!"
But there wasn't time—and the Normans were falling down upon them—
Cyneheard dropped his sword and used a battle-ax—a weapon the Normans did not know. He had stood in the front line and watched the wounds it could inflict on horses. He knew that very soon, he would die. There was no way this bunch of frightened men could beat the Normans.
But perhaps, just perhaps, they could kill enough to turn the tide of battle…
The first knight he spotted who was close enough to kill appeared to be wearing a good-luck charm—an upside-down pyramid of gold. Before Cyneheard could attack, the man had done…something to first few men he had met. Cyneheard had not seen a weapon move, but he saw the men drop, and hacked at the legs of the knight's steed. It screamed in pain, and shook off the rider.
The knight turned towards Cyneheard, and raised one hand, thrusting it forward and calling something in French. Cyneheard dropped flat and watched as the man behind him fell screaming.
The good-luck charm.
Cyneheard attacked, aiming not for the body of his enemy, but the golden pyramid—the shaft of his ax slammed against the pyramid, shattering it into a hundred strange pieces…
The knight dropped, and someone screamed in rage. Cyneheard turned—and for a second, he thought he saw a dark man in a robe, face distorted with anger—and then he saw the shining curve of a weapon, that he could not block in time.
But it sank into something else before it struck him, and so did not kill him instantly—it was stopped by the little dragon…
——
It had started that morning.
Ecghete had been restless and bored, and had inquired of Deor how many people there were in Horstede.
The answer: one hundred.
Deor had no idea what significance "one hundred" had for Ecghete, but it meant something important. Ecghete suddenly started asking questions: was Horstede well equipped against attacks? Did the people know how to use weapons?
No and no.
Why are you so curious? asked Deor.
My king is here…very, very close, hissed Ecghete. But I will not reach him. Your village has one hundred people.
Deor pointed out that most of the men were at war, and then asked why Ecghete was so anxious about "one hundred".
It would not mean anything to you, Ecghete informed him.
Tell me anyway, Deor said.
Kuru Eruna, Ecghete murmured mentally, village of a hundred people—all dead. All but me. And the man who killed them is here—and he will do it again…
Deor was feeding a dog at the time, but he stopped at that. When?
He did not wait for Ecghete's answer. He ran outside, looking up and down the pathway—the village was half-empty. Of course all the fighting men were in the army—and the only one who could have understood was Wulfgar, and he was gone long before.
But perhaps there was still hope…
"Ælfwynn!" he called, running up and pounding on her door.
She came out, looking at him curiously.
"Deor?"
"Ælfwynn, you must do me a favor…"
"What?" she asked.
"You need to go and hide in the forest. There's a little cave near the brook—the one with the berry bushes—you must go and hide there, and take anyone who will listen…"
"Why?" asked Ælfwynn. "Deor—you've been behaving strangely ever since that house-carl came…"
"No," said a raspy voice. "He hasn't."
Someone else looked at her through Deor's eye. Just for a moment, the face was split—one side Deor, the large brown eye pleading with her; the other side the Someone, eye narrow and mocking her. Then he was Deor again.
Ælfwynn backed away. "Deor—who—what—"
"Will you hide?" he asked her.
"Yes," she told him. "And I'll take anyone who heeds me—but Deor, will you tell me what's happened to you?"
"Not now…" He grabbed her hand. "Don't waste time. Go as soon as you can, and don't come back until tomorrow morning. All right?"
She nodded, and pulled away.
Deor dashed through the beehives, tripped over something, and pulled himself up. He dug through the house for twine and a straight stick, and used this to tie his seax to the stick. It was a makeshift javelin, and while he still had time, he wanted to practice. He went to the one place where he might find solitude: Æðelfry's grave. It was quiet there, and he practiced lunging (with much tripping) and slicing (with less tripping).
Perhaps it was the quiet and peace of the grave, and his absorption in practice, that caused him not to hear the first scream. But soon he heard the shrieking of the women who had been left behind, and the children who were too young to fight, all of it caused by one man…
If it was a man.
The stranger was tall and swayed from side to side, dirty blond hair tangled in brambles. There was blood all over his face and shirt, but not the stranger's blood. A few of the villagers were lying dead on the ground—had they opposed the stranger's attack?
Deor saw that one house was on fire. The fire licked at the next house hungrily…but the next house was not a house, it was the church…
The church where Æðelfryð lay…Deor attacked. It was unexpected, but futile. The stranger was a soldier of some sort—Norman, of course—and Deor barely managed to pull away alive.
Aim to kill, you fool! snapped Ecghete. Don't dodge—just go straight for his heart or his back and make sure you hit him.
Deor dodged again—he had to.
Why do I bother? growled Ecghete. He took over.
Ecghete shoved the seax deep into the stranger's heart, and left the stick jutting out. But he had gotten too close, and the stranger's sword hacked straight through his neck…and the world turned over, into a sea of darkness…
——
William stood in London, received as king by the English people. The faces around him were uneasy, distrustful, but ready to test him. He looks like good man, people murmured to one another in English. Perhaps he is one…
"William!" called a woman from the crowd, in French.
He turned. She was a noblewoman, aged and worn with care, but bearing herself proudly.
"Yes?"
"I have lost my sons," she said, softly. "My husband I lost years before… Do me the honor of allowing me to bury just one of them."
William nearly answered "yes" on the spot. Of course he should let her son be buried—it was the honorable thing to do. But something about it irked him—something he could not place, but a very real and bothersome problem.
"Woman," he asked. "What is your son's name?"
Her face turned to lock his gaze, eye to eye.
"His name is Harold."
"No," said William. "Your son lies rotting on the cliff by the sea—when the cliff falls, so shall he, forgotten by the land he failed to steal."
"Let me bury my son!" she cried.
"No."
"I will pay his weight in gold," she said. "I will pay more than that… Just allow me to see him put to an honorable rest."
"No."
"William!" she screamed, in English. He could not understand her anymore.
"Give me my son!"
The hope in the heart of the English died as William walked away, silent.
"Coward!" she howled after him, face torn with grief. "You have stolen my children, dishonored my husband, conquered my land… Coward!"
The despair in her voice wormed its way into the hearts of the listeners—and from there, to the nation.
——
"English?" asked the Byzantine helping to unload the boat. The elder of the passengers—an experienced-looking man, though aged—nodded. The younger of the two said nothing, staring quietly out into the space beyond the sea.
"We see so many of you," sighed the Byzantine. "Soldiers, nobles, young children…" He looked down at the small, black-haired boy who was looking out to sea. "All of them crying, begging for news of anyone."
The boy turned. His eyes were dark grey—flat and lifeless. But something flickered within them for a moment, and he whispered:
"Have you seen my brother?"
"What does he look like?" asked the Bynzantine, startled.
"He is tall," murmured the boy. "He is tall and strong and he is the bravest, most loyal house-carl ever to be born. He has brown hair, very dark brown hair, and the most beautiful blue eyes… Like an icy sea… His name is Cyneheard."
The Byzantine looked at the distant grey eyes—alive only with great effort, as if looking from a world in another universe.
"No," he told the boy. "I haven't seen your brother."
"They say he's dead," the boy said in a sing-song voice. "They say he's dead, but they're all wrong… He's alive and he's coming to take me home, and soon I'll be a house-carl, too…" He smiled up at the Byzantine—a smile without joy or emotion, a smile devoid of everything but shape. "Will you give him this when you see him?"
The boy held out cupped hands, hands that carefully held out nothing.
"He made it for me," said the boy. "It's a dragon."
The Byzantine reached into the hands and carefully cradled the air in his hands. "I will," he assured the boy.
The boy smiled again.
The Byzantine looked at the older man. "He won't live very long, will he?"
"No," said the older man. "His soul is already gone… His body is late in following."
They looked at the smiling, lifeless boy who was looking once more at something beyond the sea—something beyond their ken.
Oft him anhaga are gebide
metudes miltse þeahþe he modcearig
geond lagu lade longe sceolde
hreran mid hondum hrim cealde s
wadan wræclastas wyrd bið ful aræd!
[Who liveth alone longeth for mercy,
Maker's mercy. Though he must traverse
Tracts of sea, sick at heart,
- Trouble with oars ice-cold waters,
The ways of exile - Weird is set fast.]
——
"Stupid English boy," snapped the guard, in French. He threw the wildly struggling youth into the cell and walked off. Wulfgar lifted himself up from the ground and ran to edge of the cell, up to the barrier.
"Listen!" screamed the boy. "I did nothing!"
The guard did not turn. He did not know English.
"What was I supposed to do?" shrieked Wulfgar. "Let some foreigner grind my sister into the dirt?"
The guard still did not look back.
"If Harold was king," hissed Wulfgar, "I would be heard."
But the guard could not understand him.
Heald þú nú, hrúse, nú hæleð ne móstan
eorla aéhte. Hwæt, hyt aér on
góde begéaton· gúðdéað fornam
feorhbeale frécne fyrena gehwylcne
léoda mínra þá mé ðe þis ofgeaf:
gesáwon seledréam· hé náh hwá sweord wege
oððe fægrie faéted waége
dryncfæt déore· duguð ellor séoc·
sceal se hearda helm hyrstedgolde
faétum befeallen· feormynd swefa
þá ðe beadogríman býwan sceoldon·
gé swylce séo herepád sío æt hilde gebád
ofer borda gebræc bite írena
brosnað æfter beorne· ne mæg byrnan hring
æfter wígfruman wíde féran
hæleðum be healfe· næs hearpan wyn
gomen gléobéames né gód hafoc
geond sæl swinge né se swifta mearh
burhstede béate· bealocwealm hafa
fela feorhcynna forð onsended.
[Hold now, earth, now that heroes may not,
the treasure of princes. From you long ago
good men took it. Death in battle,
awful life loss, took every man,
all of my people, who gave up this [life],
who knew hall-joys. Now I have none
who might carry sword, [polish] the cup,
gold-plated vessel; the company is gone.
The hardened helmet now must lose
its golden plates; the stewards sleep on
who were meant to burnish each battle-mask;
so too the war-coat that withstood in battle
the bite of iron across shield-clashings;
it decays like its warrior. Rusted, the chain-shirt
cannot follow close by the war-leader,
far beside heroes. No harp-joy,
play of song-wood—no good hawk
swings through the hall, nor the swift roan
stamps in the courtyard. An evil death
has swept away many living men.]
——
Documentation of Anglo-Saxon poetry selections:
From "Beowulf", line 572b-573a [Cyneheard's short quotation—unsure of the translator. It might be Bruce Mitchell]
From "Beowulf", line 607-613 [longer recitation by Cyneheard, translated by Howell D. Chickering, Jr.]
From "The Wanderer" [selection three, final Cynewulf scene, translated by Michael Alexander]
Weird equals wyrd, an untranslatable Anglo-Saxon word that at its most basic level means "fate". But it's a lot more than that. The "fate" in the first quotation is also wyrd.
And the really, really long one that ended the story is also from Beowulf. It's commonly referred to as "The Lay of the Last Survivor". [translated by Howell D. Chickering]
I don't think it was considerably OOC for Cyneheard to smile—at Cynewulf, that is. It is true that in the entirety of the show, I've only seen Kaiba smile once. But since that was towards Mokuba… Oh well.
I think there are only three violations of Yu-Gi-Oh! canon that deserve noting:
1) Deor and Ecghete can communicate, even though Deor has not come into contact with another Millennium Item. I did this solely because I wanted to write a dramatic scene for Ecghete's appearance—I will excuse it by saying that the Anglo-Saxons had a greater appreciation of the supernatural and that it also took place on a grave, where Ecghete is much more potent… But I really did it because I wanted to write the scene.
2) Stephen. Technically, there should be no version of Marik in here, since the Ishtars are an ancient family in Egypt living underground. I wanted to write Marik in, so again this is canon violation because I really wanted to put something in the story.
3) The appearance of Dark Stephen. There is no Rishid in this story, and so I've had to release Dark Stephen without him. He is still born through the hatred and anger of Stephen, but in this version he comes out only after Stephen has been the witness to senseless carnage.
Anyway, it's been good to write this…perhaps some day I can de-Yu-Gi-Oh!ize it and make it into a story. (grin) So if you ever come across a 1066 novel with a house-carl named "Cyneheard", perhaps I wrote it. (Yeah, like that will ever happen… [snort])
As an aside: the report of excommunication that reached Harold was, in fact, false.
The End.