A Fist to the Dark-Blooded: A (Hopeful) Megacampaign AAR

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 7: The Heretic King

“What’s with all these little hammers lying around?” asked a voice in Laigin’s town marketplace.

“They say the duke’s gone into hiding!” whispered another. A cloaked Englishman walked through the crowd, taking in the gossip of everyone he passed. Most people would think it was a curse to be ignored by everyone around them. To Eorcenberht, it was a power. It astounded him how many secrets people were eager to let slip in broad daylight, to anyone who cared to listen.

He wasn’t the only thing in the market the crowd was ignoring. As he walked, a small metallic glint caught his eye. At the corner of a building lay a bright silver coin, completely unnoticed by anyone who passed. This day couldn’t get any better, thought the spymaster. All manner of rumors to report to the king, and a silver that was his to claim. He bent over to pick up the coin when a wall of leather appeared to his left. A pair of boots, he quickly realized.

“I guess it’s true what they say,” said Chief Conn as his fellow councillor looked up at him. “Drop a coin anywhere in Eire, and soon enough Eorcenberht will come to pick it up.”

“Conn?” asked Eorcenberht. “I thought you were in Dyfed.”

“So does everyone else.” The chancellor lifted the spymaster by the collar of his cloak. “Found my silver, I see. Guess that gives you thirty-one, doesn’t it, Judas?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, Conn, you don’t understand!” Eorcenberht smiled, or at least came as close to it as he could at the moment. Conn grabbed his neck and pinned him against the wall.

“Really? Did you sell us all out to a lunatic king in ways I don’t understand, too?”

“We’re not all nobles with land, Conn! Some of us need to feed our wives with whatever we can get!’

“You know, I bet you’re pretty proud of what you can do, aren’t you?” The chief of Westmeath stared out at the passing crowd, none of them who dared to look into the alley. “I don’t know how you do it, turn invisible like that, but nobody ever sees you. Unless, of course, they’re looking for you.”

“You’re the chancellor, Conn!” pleaded the spymaster. “You’re a diplomat, aren’t you? A man of peace, using words!”

“But what if you want to be seen, hmm? Can you make people notice you? What would happen if you screamed for help?” The chancellor removed his dagger from its sheath.

“Come on, Conn! We’re allies in this, aren’t we? We both want what’s best for the kingdom! Maybe we … disagree on some of the details, but…”

“Start screaming, you English bastard. They’ll have plenty of time to find you, we’ll be here for a while.”

Though King Ryan II’s heart had grown harder since he came to power, it had hardly disappeared. As he watched a boat sail to England to bring Eorcenberht’s mutilated remains back to their true home, all the king could think about was how he had done this. He had indirectly killed a man who, for all his faults, trusted and supported him. The spymaster was neither the first nor the last person to die in the name of the plan, but this did nothing to console the king. For the next few weeks, he did and said little, merely stared out into space and made mental notes of how others remarked at Eorcenberht’s passing, notes his mind would bear like a branding for the rest of his days.

The guilt only grew worse the morning he learned that faithful Ailbrenn’s heart had given out. A natural death, at least according to the physicians. The king wanted to believe it was so, but his anxiety refused. He thought back to the way Ailbrenn danced across the sparring field during their regular wargames. He had always seemed the very picture of health. These images were always followed to a council meeting weeks prior, in which Bishop Martan mentioned his latest research, while the king only half paid attention. He swore he’d heard--or had he imagined it?--the chaplain mentioning that he’d discovered herbs with all manner of strange properties, that could slow and quicken the pace of a man’s heart. Perhaps it was all a series of strange coincidences, but the paranoia lingered all the same.

In times of crisis, some people are brought closer to God. Others are pushed farther away. Not long after the deaths of his councillors, the king found a strange book lying in his bedroom. He wasn’t sure who had left it, but in his hour of darkness there was something about its passages that simply made sense to him, made him feel like, no matter what, things would work out in the end.

Like his father and grandfather before him, King Ryan II was now a secret worshipper of the Aesir, a member of the hidden cult the time traveler had founded so long ago. Unlike the past generations, though, there was no politics behind his decision. When he prayed to Odin in the dead of night to guide him as a better ruler, to make him the king his grandfather hoped him to be, it was done with total sincerity.

But it still wasn’t enough for him. He still had to put on appearances, attend the weekly Mass with Bishop Martan, the man who voted against him. He knew, of course, that it wasn’t yet time for his fellow Oathkeepers. He couldn’t publicly be a pagan. But did he have to publicly be a Catholic?

The next Sunday, Bishop Martan stared out at the sparsely filled pews, attempting to conceal the contempt in his voice as he read his sermon. In all his years as a clergy, he’d never seen such a pitiful attendance. It could only mean one thing: blasphemy had come to Airgialla.

When the service had ended, the bishop followed his few attendants outside. Even the area outside the church was curiously deserted. Where could everyone be? He wandered through the empty streets until the first sign of life presented itself: a large crowd gathered in an open field. He pushed his way through the gatherers to see what deserved their attention more than God, only to find his king sitting on a rock with a book.

“Agus na goiridh…” read the king, as he pored over the Vulgate carefully. He’d never attempted something like this before, reading in Latin then translating it live for an audience. “...bhur nathair do dhuine ar bith ar talamh…” The king looked up at his crowd, now with the bishop staring in disbelief. He smiled. “...oír is áon Athar a tá agaibh, noch a tá ar neamh.”

“What are you doing?” asked Martan, pushing himself into the crowd’s view.

“Reading the Bible. It’s Sunday, after all.”

“If it’s Sunday, you should be in church. All of you.” The king turned a few pages back in his book.

“Oir gidh be aít ann a bhfuilid días nó tríur ar ná gcruinneaghadh am ainmsi, a táimsí ann sin ann a lár súd.”

“Don’t quote the Bible at me. I’ve read it all! In the original language! Where did you even get that? You’re not a priest. That’s illegal.”

“Illegal, yes. I’m sure the king will be furious when he hears of this.”

“No, but the Pope will.” The bishop turned to the crowd. “You’re all listening to a tyrant and a heretic, I hope you know. He’s taken away your freedom, and now he’s trying to take away God.” The king turned forward in the book.

“Biodh gach uile anum úmhal do na cúmhachdaibh…”

“Enough!” Bishop Martan stormed off to the comforts of his empty church, where a bilious letter would soon depart to Rome.

Like the time traveler before him, the king’s conversion was followed by a curious surge of military success. Once was a coincidence, but twice was a trend. The king was now all the more convinced that Asgard was watching him, ensuring his success. Though it would be a long, slow process, the king’s armies were now marching through the south of Breatain Bheag, looting the Pope’s property along the way.

One morning, King Ryan II got out of bed with a curious feeling in his stomach. Was he sick, he thought? He put a hand to his chest, searching for any sort of anomaly, when he realized what it was. He was happy. He hadn’t truly felt that way since the day he was crowned. With his campaigns against Wales a success, the Kingdom of Eire had made its first steps into Britannia. He was living up to his purpose, retaking the Ancestral Lands. If only for today, everything in the world felt like it was all right.

Though the king was happy that day, one of his vassals couldn’t be farther from it. The zealous Chief Aed of Tir Chonaill still failed to miss a Mass, unlike many of his subjects as the king’s heresy spread. “It’s like the End Times,” he thought at the latest pitiful church attendance. He and everyone else were all stuck under a king who declared himself all-powerful, then spit in the face of God a second time to boot. But even that didn’t bother him as much as the fact that most people didn’t even mind. Where was the outrage? Where was the mass prayer to deliver them from this tyranny? Had the whole world gone insane?

“Good to see someone else hasn’t lost their mind,” whispered a voice from behind. The Chief of Tir Chonaill turned around to see Chancellor Conn. “Makes you want to scream, doesn’t it? Having a heretic for a king?”

“Go to Hell, Conn,” scoffed Aed. “I know better than to trust the king’s lapdog.”

“This lapdog’s waiting for the right time to bite.” The chancellor slid into Aed’s own pew. The bishop looked up from his Bible and began to read at a slower pace. “The beauty of being the king’s chancellor is I’m the one who talks to all the vassals. Connect with anyone who may be discontent. To the point they may even be a threat.” Conn was smiling now. Aed’s own face was flush with confusion.

“Are you … are you proposing a revolt?” he whispered.

“You’re in Mass right now, unlike your subjects, so you must love God.”

“With all my heart.”

“Well, right now, you’re in Babylon. This is Egypt, this is Rome. You’re under a tyrant king who cares nothing for God. Anyone not standing up against him isn’t on God’s side. And if you’re not on God’s side, whose are you on?”

“...All right, then,” Aed said with a reluctant nod. “What do you propose?”

The next morning, the king took to his throne to see Chief Aed and his chancellor standing side by side.

“Chief Aed of Tir Chonaill requests an audience, my liege,” said Conn with a little bow.

“Very well, then.” King Ryan II put a hand to his forehead. Noble petitions were a waste of time when there was still so much left to conquer. Norns willing, whatever this was wouldn’t take long. “What is it?”

“Are you serious?” he groaned. The king thought of the plan falling to pieces for the sake of noble entitlement, the future ruined so they could have whatever privileges they wanted to play with. “No, of course not. Leave now.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” said Conn. “If you refuse, it means war.” The king stared at his vassals, so eager to tear apart everything he and his grandfather had given their lives to create. In an instant, his imagination shifted the scenery to a more pleasant image, the two staring vassals’ heads now impaled on pikes.

“Then war it is.”

The first Irish Civil War had begun.

 

[Specialist290]

I'm not sure what side Conn is really on -- or if he's so much "on a side" rather than merely out for himself -- but he's playing a dangerous game here.

 

[Idhrendur]

Oh, what a time to catch up. At least the king is still working for the plan.

 

[Werson]

I don't like that whole "first" before the words Irish Civil War . Seems like we have a turbulent path ahead of us eh?

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 8: The Irish Civil War of 825

For centuries to come, historians would debate why the War of 825 would extend so far past the year for which it was named. King Ryan II was a gifted commander, as his recent Welsh conquests had proven, while the rebels held a mere four counties to their name. The conflict seemed destined to end as quickly as it began, and modern academics will never be able to satisfactorily explain why it didn’t.

One proposed theory, albeit an unpopular one, was that the king, like most people, never expected the revolt to be a major concern. Even if the vassals’ threats were serious, which he doubted, they’d never find a local army willing to rise against him. What self-respecting Irishman wouldn’t want to be part of a united kingdom?

Though the idea of Ireland divided in two was too absurd for him to consider, the revolt would materialize all the same on October 10. Fortunately, many vassals remained loyal, particularly those within the family. The king was particularly pleased that Tanist Natfraech, who had voted against his absolute rule, stayed by his side during the war. Though the brothers disagreed on how to best carry out the plan, they both knew the plan’s future must be protected.

What the rebels lacked in numbers compared to the king, however, they compensated in organization. While the king’s forces scrambled across the island to begin properly coordinating against this unexpected enemy, the revolt laid siege to Connacht at a superhuman pace, with only the meager levies within the duchy to defend. It seemed that King Ryan II’s tyranny would be brought to an end after all, at least during the first year of the war.

As soon as the king had managed to assemble a proper force of his own, however, he wasted no time compensating for his early losses. A massive army soon stormed upon Dubhlinn and captured Chief Iomhar, the weakest link of the rebel faction. A dull man already rendered infirm by the time of the civil war, the king had never suspected Iomhar even capable of a revolt, even if his weaknesses did nothing to hinder the chief’s desire for dukedom. Nevertheless, he was a ruler so inept that it was only by the grace of his wife and council he had any military skill at all, leaving Iomhar as the king’s captive within the year.

With one of the rebel leaders safely removed, the king’s armies turned towards Tir Chonaill. After all, it was Chief Aed who had begun the conflict with his ultimatum. The lands of Chief Conn were initially ignored, being of a lesser concern than those of the public leader. Soon, nearly every civilian in Tir Chonaill, be they noble or peasant, refused to leave the safety of their homes for fear of the menacing army that laid waste to their streets.

Chief Aed’s own forces were still occupied with sieges in Connacht at the time, oblivious to the destruction waiting in the revolt’s capital. By the time a weary messenger was able to reach Aed’s camp, he had scarce time to assemble a force capable of returning home to defend. The army was led by Chief Aed’s most trusted priest, Bishop Cu-Cen-Mathair of Rath Bhoth. Though his faith had waned in recent years, and the troubling thoughts that plagued his mind hampered his abilities as a priest, nobody could deny the bishop was a community patriot. He loved his church, as he did all of its visitors, and he would die before he saw it looted by the army of a heretic king.

As the bishop’s forces rode through the pillaged streets of Tir Chonaill, the sight of what had become of their home was too much for most of the soldiers to bear. This time last year, people were going about their business, buying food in the markets, attending services in the church, and nobody gave a moment’s thought to what issues their liege had with the king. Now the streets were lined with nothing but debris and the hoofprints of enemy horses. How could their own ruler do this to their home? Wasn’t the king meant to be a just man? The only one in the army who felt even the slightest solace in the horrid scene was the bishop himself, pleased to see his church still stood intact.

“Near the chief’s barracks, Father!” shouted a scout peering into the distance. Bishop Cu-Cen-Mathair led the army further into the town, where the king’s men looted what supplies they could from Chief Aed’s own armory.

King and priest stared at each other’s forces for a few moments, not a man in either army daring to make the first move. To Bishop Cu-Cen-Mathair, he was looking at a tyrant, an aspiring Caesar who wished to bring about a godless regime in which all good, innocent men would suffer. To King Ryan II, he was looking at a servant to an archaic order, the very forces of authority his grandfather had traveled back to warn the world about. He wants to interfere with the plan, let the horrible future he was sworn to prevent begin anew.

Though history would call this the Battle of Tir Chonaill, to both of its leaders it wasn’t about Tir Chonaill, or even about Eire. Both men saw the other as a threat to the entire world, and for that he would have to die.

Despite the considerable casualties his forces suffered as the enemy fought to defend their homes, King Ryan II somehow found himself alone with the bishop, standing in front of his church with a sword in hand. He wasted no time at charging towards the threat to his grandfather’s vision.

Soon the bishop lay on the ground, helpless. He looked to the cloudy sky above, a serene painting nothing like the carnage below. Somehow, this felt right. What better to look at than Heaven during his final moments on Earth? The view was ruined soon after by the king standing over him.

The king watched the squirming, bloodied priest, analyzing him like he was what remained of a strange new animal. Tradition dictated that defenseless enemies be captured, not killed. But tradition also dictated the king be obeyed. Bishop Cu-Cen-Mathair was a threat to the well-being of the future, and there was no doubt he’d hinder the plan again if he ever had the opportunity.

The king plunged his spear into the bishop’s stomach, making sure to finish him as quickly as possible. Strength, but not cruelty.

With Tir Chonaill under royal occupation, King Ryan II turned his attention towards Westmeath, home of his former chancellor. Resistance in the province paled compared to that in the revolt’s capital, and Westmeath capitulated soon after the brief siege had begun. As the king took survey of the spoils of his recent victory, he caught sight of a familiar face among the new prisoners.

“My liege!” said Chief Conn with audible relief. “Thank God you’re here! The commanders aren’t listening to me. I wasn’t part of the revolt! Not really. I’d only joined it to sabotage it from within!” The captive vassal smiled as best as he could, stretching out folded hands to his king.

“Could’ve put up less of a fight when we arrived, then.”

“That was for appearances! A good diplomat has to be subtle, you know. If I made what I was doing too obvious, the rebels would have locked me up!”

“And now, instead, I’ve locked you up.” The smile disappeared from the count’s face.

“You have to believe me, my lord. Haven’t I been a faithful councillor all these years? You’d never have taken Seisyllwg without the work I did finding claims for you! I’d say I’ve done more to help Eire than anybody else! After you and your house, of course. Can’t you … can’t you tell them all this is just a misunderstanding? I’m on your side, I always have been, I swear to God!”

“Take them to the dungeon,” ordered the king to the nearest commander. “We’ll figure out what to do with them when this is all over.”

“Figure out what to do?” repeated Conn. “What does that mean? That means it’s temporary, right? Lock me up until the war ends, then let me go? Have to keep up appearances, yes? Just like I did?” The king walked off without another word, retreating to the comfort of his tent as he prepared for a long night of strategy. “What are you going to do with me, my lord? I need to know!”

While the king’s forces were occupied with Westmeath, Chief Aed focused his efforts on recapturing his home. As their liege rode through the streets, many residents of Tir Chonaill assumed it was safe to leave their homes again. Soon business, and rudimentary fortifications, had returned to the land, if only for the time it would take for the king’s forces to hear of the news.

“This was it,” thought King Ryan II as he stared at the hastily rebuilt walls of Tir Chonaill. This was the last obstacle before he could put this silly hindrance behind him. Three years, he’d wasted fighting his own vassals. Three years closer to the catastrophe his grandfather had warned him about. He didn’t intend to waste another day.

In a haste to build any protection, no matter how thin, Tir Chonaill’s new walls were built in only a few weeks. The king’s trebuchets demolished them in considerably less time. The civilians of Tir Chonaill looked on in horror as a stampede of horses ran through their streets once again.

“Back inside!” ordered the king to anyone in his way. Strength but not cruelty, he reminded himself. He didn’t want to spill any more blood than necessary, though necessary some would be. He and his army had a singular objective. Find Aed.

With the town’s pitiful resistance already all but gone, the king soon found himself combing each room for Aed’s own castle, in search of the revolt’s leader.

“We’ve searched everywhere, my liege,” reported one of his soldiers. “He’s not here.” The king stopped in thought, if only for a moment. If Aed wasn’t home, he’d have to be seeking refuge somewhere safe, or at least where he considered safe. A sanctuary.

The king’s men marched to the bishopric of Rath Bhoth, the one building in the county still untouched by the war. He expected all that remained of Aed’s army standing outside the church’s doors, preparing for a final defense. What waited outside instead caught him off guard. Chief Aed was standing at the church’s doors with his hands held up, facing the king’s army alone and unarmed.

“What’s this?” asked the king. “Some sort of trick?”

“No trick.” Chief Aed adjusted his eyepatch, the horrible reminder of defeats past. “Just terms of surrender. Stay out of the church, and you can have me. You can have it all.”

“As long as the Pope interferes with my business, I’ve a right to do the same with his.”

“No, no, you … not THE Church. This church! Promise you won’t go inside, and I’ll surrender.”

“Why? What’s in there?”

“People are in there, Ryan. Ordinary people praying to God for their lives, for all of this to be over. The bishop here was a friend of mine, you know. He was a good man, looked out for his congregation. And you killed him right here. You’ve destroyed all I have twice now, and I’d rather rot in your dungeon than see you do the same to the one thing left. Promise me, Ryan. Say you’ll stay out of the church.” The chief was beginning to cry now. The king’s nostrils flared before turning to his commanders.

“Put him in irons,” he ordered. “And any of you stand too close to the church you’ll be going with him. The war is over!”

“Know this, though,” said Chief Aed as the cuffs clamped around his wrists. “I was willing to give everything, even my own freedom, to protect Eire. You were willing to destroy it. Which of us really won today?”

“Um … me. I won. That seems pretty clear, doesn’t it?”

With the surrender of Aed in 828, the civil war came to an end, with all of Eire back again under the rule of the time traveler’s dynasty. During the celebrations that followed, King Ryan II, and many of his secret peers, made a special announcement: a public conversion.

It was Catholic zealots who stood in the way of his absolute rule, and Catholic priests who supported the revolt against him. Jesus Christ Himself was on the side of the rebellion, and yet still it failed. To the king, his triumph in the civil war proof that his kingdom had earned the favor of Odin. With the blessings of the Aesir, he knew he had nothing to fear, public perception included.

The king traveled across his kingdom with three fat sows, prepared for a series of public sacrifices to Eire’s new patron deities. At Caill Tomair, he offered a pig to Thor, who the forest was sacred to. At Ard Mhacha, where in centuries past St. Patrick spread his lies, he offered a pig to Odin, praying that his own rule be half as just as the Allfather’s. Finally, at Rath Bhoth, where the civil war had come to an end, he bled a pig outside the church for Tyr, thanking him for all his past successes in war and praying for many more in the years to come.

Though the sacrifice was performed right outside the cathedral’s doors, the king was careful not to touch the building itself.

 

[stnylan]

A bold bold move. Let us just hope he does not rue it in times to come.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 9: Other People

King Ryan II wandered through the endless field, brushing away the fog with each step he took. There was never a new sight. Nothing but a flat black field as far as he could see, which admittedly wasn’t much with the dense fog that surrounded him. The unpleasant scenery was a minor concern, however, compared to the circumstances. He had no idea where he was, or how he got here.

After what seemed like hours of aimless wandering, he caught sight of another person. A woman was standing in the distance, shrouded in a black cloak.

“Excuse me!” cried the king, running towards her. “My lady! I … I think I’m lost, can you help me?”

“I can,” said the woman. Her voice was stern, almost emotionless, and yet it was still strangely calming to hear her. “What do you need?”

“I need … I need to get back home. Back to…” The king put a hand to his forehead. It was so hard to think straight. “...Airgialla! Back to Airgialla.”

“It could help to retrace your steps,” suggested the woman. “What were you doing before you arrived?”

“I was … I think I was at a desk, and … I can’t remember,” he weakly admitted. “I don’t know how … I can’t remember anything.”

“Easy, now. Calm down.” The woman put a hand to the king’s cheek, though it was little comfort. She was as cold as the air that surrounded both of them. “You must remember something, anything. Go back as far as you need to.”

“I remember…” The king squinted, mustering all of the energy his mind could spare. “I remember my name. My name is Ryan. Ryan mac Aillil. But everyone called me … something else.”

“Stop to think about it. Maybe it’ll come to you in a second.”

“Second! Yes! Ryan the Second! King Ryan the Second!” In the middle of a world of despair, the king managed to smile. “I’m a king! I’m the King of Eire!”

“Kings lead very busy lives. No wonder you can’t keep track of it all.”

“Busy, yes…” Slowly but surely, the king’s past was beginning to return to him. “I remember … a war. A civil war! And I won! And then…”

“And then you abandoned the White Christ for older gods, gods of the distant north.”

“Yes, I … wait, how do you know that?” The king pointed at the woman. “Who are you?”

“A friend. Who want to help you remember. What happened next?”

“After I converted … that’s right, there were sacrifices. First of animals, then of men.”

“Of men?” asked the woman. “Didn’t somebody close to you warn you of strength, but not cruelty?”

“Strength, but not…” The king rubbed his temples in frustration. So much knowledge had already returned to him, finding there were still gaps angered him beyond words. “Where was that from? The Bible?”

“A different source. One you never stopped believing in.”

“Wait, I know now!” said the king with relief. “This wasn’t cruelty, it was justice. I didn’t offer innocents to Odin. I offered cruel men. Men who wished to do my kingdom harm...”

The king closed his eyes and smiled contentedly. He could still hear the final pleas of the treacherous chancellor before the dagger pierced his spine. “Yes, and men who wished to deceive the good people of the kingdom with falsehoods…”

“I thought the point of a sacrifice was to give up things you would miss,” said the woman.

“I did lose things I missed! Not at the blot, but after … other lands heard of the Catholic king’s conversion. Didn’t take it well, took out their frustration at whatever pagans they could…”

“The holy set aflame…” mused the woman. “I cannot imagine how you felt.”

“There weren’t words for it. I wanted…” The king’s fists clenched involuntarily. He could remember the day he heard of Irminsul’s destruction. Remember the unbearable pain inside. “I wanted to run across the sea, find every last person who had a hand in it, and choke the life out of them while their families watched.”

“But you didn’t do that, did you?”

“No,” he answered with regret. “I had to settle for Christians closer to home. I remember … hiring a smith, yes. I forged a special axe just for that day, replace that worthless chicken bone in the treasury, cleave some skulls with fresh steel.”

“Then I brought my armies to Breatain Bheag, found all the followers of the White Christ that I could.”

“And what did you do then?” The king closed his eyes, letting the visions of a lengthy campaign overtake him. This time the memories only came in fragments, bits and pieces He saw churches, and flames. Heard singing, and screaming. The most vivid memories couldn’t be seen or heard at all. They were only words, echoes of “Plan” and “Irminsul” written again and again like the scribbling of a deranged monk.

“I did … what was necessary to retake the Ancestral Lands,” he answered. “Strength, but not cruelty.”

“You know, I think I’ve figured it out. I know where I am now.”

“Do you, now?” asked the woman. “Please tell me. I’d be delighted to hear your answer.”

“This is…” The king stopped to collect himself. His mind was nearly at full strength, yet he felt so weak. “This is Valhalla, isn’t it? I’m … am I dead?” At this, the woman pulled back her hood, letting the king see her for the first time. She was beautiful, yet terrifying, her face permanently locked into a stoic frown. More unnerving was her skin. Half of her body was a dark, icy blue, divided cleanly among the center.

“Valhalla is for those who fell in battle,” said the daughter of Loki. “You fought bravely many times, King Ryan, but that wasn’t how you died. This is my realm. This is Hel.” The king stared blankly at the goddess as the reality of the situation began to sink in.

“No…” he mumbled. “That … that can’t be right. All those battles, really? I didn’t die in one? No Welshman ever got a lucky arrow in?”

“It seems your final memory still eludes you,” said Hel. “Allow me to assist you.” The goddess put a blue finger to the king’s forehead. In an instant, he was back home, back in Airgialla. He sat at a private desk, facing a mountain of papers demanding his full attention all at once. On one corner of the table lay a crude map of Britannia, a giant island of too many kings and dukes to remember, and he was expected to conquer all of them. Beneath it was another map, even less accurate, depicting all of Europe.

Next to them was a stack of domestic affairs, vassals and courtiers all expecting him to do something or other. At the top of the list was a request concerning a border dispute between two counts. The previous land survey conducted to determine the boundaries of their provinces was found unsatisfactory, and they wanted him to do it again, at the expense of all the other assignments waiting. Domestic affairs were a Sisyphean errand. No matter how hard he worked to diminish the stack, the demands always grew larger. By now, the list was so large and disorderly it had mostly obscured the ledgers for the royal treasury, still awaiting his verification. And of course, there was his grandfather’s book, its withered pages now a dull yellow. The plan that must always be upheld, be on his mind all the time.

The king closed his eyes, tried his best to shut all the thoughts and demands and obligations out of his head. He wished, just once, he didn’t have to think about any of it. He wished he could just rest. He wished he could just…

“I died at my desk,” said the king, as his surroundings returned to the afterlife. “Me, a king. That’s a sad way to go, isn’t it?”

“Few choose their deaths. And those that do are even sadder.”

“So, all that work, all that fighting, and … this is what I get? No Valhalla?”

“Don’t despair, good king.” The fog cleared, and the king found himself in a bright green meadow, like the Irish wilds he rarely got to see, save from his window. “I promise you, only good things await for you in Hel. There are meadows, and mansions, and even people you might recognize…”

The goddess stepped to the side, revealing a man standing behind her. The king immediately recognized him, despite never seeing him like this before. He was young again, his cheeks unscarred, his mouth without foam, and both hands still intact, but the structure of his face was unmistakable. More importantly, he wore the exact same crown as the king.

“H … hello again,” said King Ryan II. The visitor in front of him smiled, though only slightly, before opening his arms and embracing the king in a hug.

“How fares the plan?” asked the time traveler.

“Well, last I checked,” answered the new arrival. “There’s still much to do, of course, but I have faith the future’s in good hands.”

 

[Specialist290]

A sad death, but a touching reunion, in its fashion.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

First of all, I'd like to give a big thank you to @Lord Decobius for nominating me as Character Writer of the Week! I've been going through a lot of doubts lately, both with this AAR and writing in general, and it warms my heart seeing so many people enjoy what I have so far! I guess I need to find a successor for next week, though.

Chapter 10: Where the Demons Dwell

As the crown was lowered by a local Gothi onto the head of the third King of Eire, the crowd erupted into tears. King Natfraech himself said nothing, save the oath of coronation. As the chief of Tir Eoghain, he always considered himself a man of the people, beloved by noble and commoner alike, a trend that seemed to continue on this day. Inside, however, he scarcely felt like a man at all. Even ignoring the unique burden of his family, there was something dehumanizing about the crown. He was no longer allowed to be himself, to be a person, not when the fate of a kingdom rested on every decision he made. He’d have refused the crown if he could, but he knew nobody else was better equipped for the royal duties. He had been humbled through pride.

These concerns only grew when he read his grandfather’s instructions, or at least as much within his understanding, for the first time. He’d had a lifetime of education in the basics of the plan, yet even that had failed to prepare him for seeing it in full. Natfraech thought back to the day he voted against his late brother’s plan for absolute rule. It all made sense now, he thought. The plan was like an elaborate mechanism, enormous yet delicate. It only took the failure of a single part to mangle it all beyond recognition.

King Ryan II was a soldier at heart. His home was the battlefield, a chaotic environment where those next to you could be killed at any moment. He was used to unpredictable events. King Natfraech had always preferred the study of mathematics, a world of proofs and logic. With math, everything made sense. Every equation had a solution that could be reached through a rational method. Now he’d been tasked with managing more variables than any one man could hope to keep track of, where he could do everything right and still very well fail, not that he’d live to know. The plan wasn’t math; it was madness.

One number weighed especially hard on the mathematician king’s mind: at 46 years of age, his reign would likely be a short one. In many ways this was a relief, knowing the royal burdens wouldn’t trouble him for long. However, it left him with scant time to train his successor, whoever that would be. Before King Ryan II’s death, Natfraech’s heirdom was repeatedly taken and returned at the ever-changing will of the vassals. Tanistry was a flawed system, the king had decided, and though he wouldn’t live to see its end he hoped his tanist, whoever it would be, would share his sentiments and work towards a better law.

Though King Natfraech’s reign was brief, it did bring an important milestone to the Kingdom of Eire. In April 837, the king’s mother, Countess Bernegildis of Mortain, passed away, passing her title to her son. Though the loss troubled the king, he knew nothing could be done about it. After all, she was quite old.

With this, the time traveler’s kingdom now possessed its first territory in the European mainland, an important, if largely symbolic, step in the quest to retake the Ancestral Lands.

In the end, however, for all the promise he held before his coronation, King Natfraech’s only true achievement as king would be to outlive his mother. In 840, old age brought his brief reign to a close. He passed away in his sleep, clutching his grandfather’s book in his hands. Hearsay soon spread through the kingdom, even among those who knew nothing of the mysterious royal book, that the king had been exposed to some sort of horrible truth, a revelation so maddening it drove him to death. In time, though, these rumors, much like the once-loved king himself, were forgotten.

In his place was King Cainchomrac, a son of one of the time traveler’s matrilineally wed daughters. Despite his unique ancestry, Cainchomrac was, at his core, a simple man. Skilled in the art of diplomacy, though poor in intrigue, Cainchomrac was less interested in conquering people than befriending them. He was a man who always spoke honestly, and assumed those around him did the same. Though he knew his crown came with an oath to uphold his grandfather’s plan, it would only be done with extreme reluctance. Like Natfraech before him, he had begun to rue the laws of tanistry that granted him the throne to begin with. It was a system that seemed to always elect able kings, but not willing ones.

Though he has little interest in fighting, he knew war was expected of his ancestral obligation. Fortunately for him, as more citizens of Eire abandoned Christ in favor of older gods, organizations appeared in which the new king could train his martial prowess.

His membership in the Wolf Warriors brought King Cainchomrac a new interest, not only in the art of war, but in his faith. Gothar within the society hoped to educate the king, explain that his home was once host to a whole set of local gods, though not the Aesir. The cathedrals that now covered his kingdom were the products of invasion, he was told, a hostile attempt to deprive Eire of the old gods.

One evening, the king had difficulty sleeping, tortured by thoughts of the Aesir and Vanir, of the Tuatha De Danann, of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Though Eire was now a pagan nation, many subjects stayed true to the teachings of St. Patrick. “Foreign invasion,” the phrase repeated in his head, again and again. Though most churches had long been converted to shrines to Odin and Thor, many still kept their crosses intact. Was his kingdom still victim to a long invasion as he slept? Could Roman agents be silently working to subvert everything his grandfather had done to save the future?

In an unusual burst of sleepless panic, Cainchomrac hurried out of his bed and staggered to his study. Lighting a candle, he aimlessly flipped through the ancient pages of his grandfather’s book. There was so much in The Plan, the time traveler must have advised something specific he could use. Soon, a sentence caught his eye, faintly scrawled in the margins of one of the page in crude, panicked handwriting.

“Don’t trust the priests.”

King Cainchomrac didn’t remember seeing that sentence before, although he’d only half paid attention during his original reading. What did it mean, he wondered? Should he not listen to what the Gothar told him? After all, they were priests, of a sort.

No, he decided. His grandfather was writing in a Catholic kingdom. “Priests” could only mean the priests of the White Christ. This part of the plan deserved special attention. Though those before him spread the word of the Aesir throughout Eire, they still patiently suffered the foreign invaders that remained. If it weren’t for them we’d have the whole Isles by now, a voice in Cainchomrac’s head told him. Christianity must be purged from the Kingdom of Eire.

An opportunity to stop the foreign threat presented itself in the English county of Wiltshire, just outside of Eire’s new Welsh borders. There, the Gothar told him, lay Stonehenge, a magnificent construction of the pagans of old. Before the Angles, the Romans, and Jesus Christ, it stood strong, a testament to the power of the pagans of old. Back in the mainland, he was told, the Christians claimed outrage that Jerusalem was under the rule of the Muslim Abbasids. Yet just outside the king’s own borders, they controlled the Jerusalem of a far older faith, regarding it as little more than a curiosity.

Stonehenge had to be liberated.

 

[Cromwell]

I'm glad you won (a well deserved) writAAR of the week, or I might never have discovered this great work.

The post death scene was an excellent way of keeping the time traveler himself in the story. I hope we see a few more of those over the generations. I'm sure he will see good and bad in how future generations interpret his book which they are already finding difficult to understand in parts.

 

[Specialist290]

Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. The Plan is undoubtedly a great burden for those charged with carrying it out, especially in the face of a hostile world.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 11: yesmen

“Rocks,” said Duke Eadweald of Wessex to the neighboring nobles that had gathered in his castle. “That’s what the crazy heathen killed so many good men over. That’s what one of my own burghers was sacrificed to a false idol over. He didn’t want money. He’s spending money fixing the rocks up, my agents say. He didn’t even want the title he took from me, I don’t think. He just wanted the rocks.”

“They are very big rocks, aren’t they?” asked the Duke of Lancaster. “Can’t fault an Irishman for being impressed.”

“Our host has a point,” said Duke Gospatric of Mercia. “The Irish may be happy with Wiltshire for now, but if you think they’ll stop there you’re dumber than they are. We need the one thing that Cainchom...cainker…”

“Just call him King C,” said Eadweald. “It’s easier.”

“There’s something King C has that we don’t: organization. The whole damn island working together to serve one king. All together we’re still bigger than he is. He’d stand no chance against us if we were one kingdom.”

“And who would the king be, I wonder?” asked the Duke of Essex. “We all know you’d stab your mother for another acre of land, Gospatric. Your pitch won’t fool anybody.”

“Eadweald,” Gospatric pointed at his host. “Are there churches in Wiltshire?”

“Of course there are. It’s not savage land.”

“Not yet it isn’t. And those churches have priests, right? A sweet old bishop?”

“He’s hardly sweet, but an old bishop, yes.”

“Well, the old bishop is dead. If King C hasn’t torn out his guts for Odin yet, he’s sharpening the knife. The church is gone too. Probably taking it apart one stone at a time to give him more rocks for his little circle!” An uneasy laughter circled among the crowd

“The fact is, I’m the biggest of us here,” Gospatric continued. “And as I see it we’re all about to have a king no matter what. The question is, will he be an English Christian who wants to protect you, or an Irish heathen who wants to throw you to the wolves? I know which one I’d pick.” The crowd was silent now, each of the nobles glancing to each other, as if any of them had a hint as to how to respond. Eventually, Duke Eadweald walked up to Gospatric, a guest in his own home, and got down on one knee. After some initial discomfort, everyone else had done the same.

The Kingdom of England had been formed, with zealous Gospatric as its first king.

When news of the rival kingdom first reached Airgialla, a panic overcame King Cainchomrac. For as long as The Plan had been existed, the only advantage the family from the future had in the near-impossible task of taking the Ancestral Lands was that their neighbors were as small and conquerable as they. The time traveler had little to say in his writings about the original history he hoped to erase. After all, if the Plan was followed such information would be useless. One aspect of the old timeline was made clear, though, lest the Plan be brought to an early end: Ireland must beware England.

In truth, however, the gathering of English nobles was far less a threat to the plan than one that occurred a short ride from the king’s own home. By now, Cainchomrac had proven the most controversial ruler in the history of a dynasty with ample competition. Disloyalty had run rampant through the kingdom, growing more and more suspicious of their ruler’s claims that everything was done in the name of a better future.

“Si tibi voluerit persuadere frater tuus filius matris tuae, aut filius tuus vel filia, sive uxor quae est in sinu tuo, aut amicus, quem diligis ut animam tuam, clam dicens: Eamus, et serviamus diis alienis, quos ignoras tu, et patres tui, cunctarum in circuitu gentium, quae juxta vel procul sunt, ab initio usque ad finem terrae, non acquiescas ei, nec audias, neque parcat ei oculus tuus ut miserearis et occultes eum, sed statim interficies: sit primum manus tua super eum, et postea omnis populus mittat manum. Lapidibus obrutus necabitur: quia voluit te abstrahere a Domino Deo tuo, qui eduxit te de terra Aegypti, de domo servitutis: ut omnis Israel audiens timeat, et nequaquam ultra faciat quippiam hujus rei simile.” The bishop looked up from his Vulgate to face the crowd in front of him at his. Most of them were listening intently, staring with a furious determination as if they hung on to every word, though they didn’t understand any of it. A few others were simply there for the ale. It was pitiful, having to hold Mass in a tavern, but doing it at “The Temple of Odin,” as it was now called, was out of the question. At least he was far from alone in his outrage.

“That means that if someone you know worships false gods, they must be put to death.” The priest banged a fist on a nearby barstool. “Not coddled, not invited into your home. Killed. It’s a commandment that hasn’t received its due attention as of late. When Old Queen Ylva got off the boat all those years ago, she should have been stoned. Instead we gave her idols a space in Eire. We broke God’s law, and we’re paying the punishment for it. We didn’t kill the heathens, so now they’re killing us. They’re looting our own churches, building shrines to their idols everywhere they can. They’re sacrificing people, for God’s sake! And as long as we stay quiet and let them do it, we might as well be doing it ourselves!” With this, the crowd shifted from the traditional silence of Mass to the raucous cheering of the tavern they were sitting in.

“I say we kill the king!” screamed one of the attendees. The crowd grew even louder now. The bishop smiled, but said nothing. The dignity of the cloth prevented him from seconding such a statement, but he didn’t see a need to silence it either.

“Ite, missa est,” he said contentedly. With that, the crowd hurried out of the tavern, every one of them in search of arms. God had given them a commandment, and they could ignore it no longer.

By this point, Eire had been no stranger to revolt. Too many failed to understand all the sacrifices The Plan required, who would happily jeopardize the future for their own selfish gains. King Cainchomrac paid the newest form of rebellion no mind at first, confident that, in time, it would be crushed like all those before it.

In doing so, however, the king underestimated how many followers of the White Christ still lived within his borders. The revolutionary rhetoric of one bishop soon spread throughout the clergy, incensing Christians across Eire to stand against the tyrant.

The rebels were supported not just by church, but state. Shortly after the Christian revolt had begun, fleets of missionaries sailed from England, hoping to spread the word of God to pagan lands. Officially, these visitors denied any connection to King Gospatric. They were sent by the church, if not there of their own free will. They were not English priests, they insisted to any authorities that stopped him, but priests who happened to be from England. However, by some means or other, the king could never be sure of the precise contents of their sermon, nor what supplies entered the kingdom aboard English boats.

As the population’s ire festered, the revolt soon graduated to a civil war, with Irish and English Christians (still insisting they were independent volunteers, of course) alike taking arms against King Cainchomrac’s comparatively small forces. While the diplomat had learned much of combat during his time in the Wolf Warriors, no training could prepare him for five thousand men storming the capital walls.

The mood inside the royal palace of Airgialla was difficult to think about. A thick sense of anxiety seemed to permeate the air, infecting anyone inside it. Most people, including the king’s own wife and children, sat in the corner of a room behind barricaded doors, waiting in terror for the end of the siege, whichever form it took. Others were running across the castle in a panic, looking for their loved ones, or improvised weapons, or some intangible sense of safety that surely must have been in some room.

Only one person did neither. King Cainchomrac knelt in front of a small shrine, eyes closed, his only company a crude wooden carving of a one-eyed man. He attempted to shut himself off from the panic of the outside world, take no notice of it, and hope it similarly ignored the fear in his heart. Once he was calm, or as close to it as the circumstances allowed, he folded his hands and began to pray.

“Oh, great Odin … Dagda … Jupiter … Jesus Christ, if you’re able to listen…” he pleaded. “I … I don’t know what’s about to happen. I never wanted any of this. I swear on all my ancestors, everything I did was to help the kingdom. I don’t know why they have to hate me so … I just wanted to do good, but they couldn’t … wouldn’t understand me.” The king grimaced, plagued by intrusive thoughts that seemed to have no hope of ever stopping. It was getting harder to think straight. The faint noise of besieging soldiers was growing ever louder.

“I need this to work, gods.” With nobody but Odin watching, the king began to shed a tear. “Maybe I don’t deserve your favor, but The Plan is bigger than I am. I need it to keep going, even after I’m gone. All this work, all the suffering that’s been brought for it … it can’t all be for nothing. If there’s any justice in this world, it can’t all be for nothing. People have died for it. Family’s died. I’ll die, by the looks of it. They can do what they want to me, if that’s what it will take, but please, don’t let The Plan suffer.” The king lowered his head, crying and concentrating all at once, trying to sift through the fear and the sorrow and give the prayer the energy it deserved.

A stiff, cool breeze blew through the indoor shrine. The king could feel the soft vibrations of footsteps behind him. He turned around to see a man he couldn’t quite recognize. He didn’t even seem like a person at all. He was more like the vague impression of a person, the hazy memory left after waking from a dream. King Cainchomrac forgot the stranger’s face even as he stood there.

“Whatever your faults, nobody can deny your piety, Cainchomrac. Not many kings would humble themselves like this.”

“They couldn’t hold you off, then?” retorted the king. “Fine, then. Do it quick.”

“I am not here to do you harm,” said the stranger. “I’m here because I heard you.”

“Heard … me?” The king looked back at the carving of Odin. “Are you…?”

“A friend. A friend who knows of The Plan. That’s all you need to know.” The stranger adjusted his cloak, further obscuring his already inscrutable face. “It’s a worthy goal to work towards, isn’t it?”

“‘Worthy’ doesn’t begin to describe it. It’s all I can think about anymore. When I’m not at work on the plan, I’m berating myself for neglecting it.” Cainchomrac squeezed his arm in anxiety.

“There must be other pursuits in the life of a king.”

“King’s just a job, and I doubt it’s much better than the fields. I slave away all day, piss off the world without even trying…” Even with the stranger’s conversation, he could hear the readying of catapults in the distance. “...and it’s lonely. By Freya, is it lonely. Being king means you’re never a normal person, to anybody. Councillors are probably all plotting against me, courtiers are afraid to talk to me any more than they have to, even my family’s only here for their royal duty … only reason I haven’t taken off my crown and walked off into the sea is because of The Plan. I need to do it. I need to save the world. Without it, I might as well not be a person at all.”

“The world is not yet meant to fall,” mused the stranger. “I come to you with an offer. I can end this revolt, make it as if it never happened. I can guarantee Eire never falls from within, nor wants for money.”

“Bullshit. They’re at the walls right now. Nobody can do that.”

“I assure you I can. It just requires a certain … command.”

“But not for free, I take it? What do you want in return?”

“Only your understanding that this is temporary. It must be ordinary men who decide the fate of the world. When all of Albion is under your rule, my protection will expire.” A storm of footsteps were heard in the halls. An army had entered the castle.

“Well, you can’t make things worse, can you? Fine, I accept.” With a curt bow, the stranger stepped out of the room, leaving the king alone by the shrine once again. Moments later, a courtier peeked through the door.

“My liege?” he asked. “Duke Tudur of Seisyllwg requests an audience.” The king stepped out of the shrine to see the leader of the rebel forces, sheepishly avoiding eye contact with his enemy. Behind him stood a legion of soldiers, each of them looking similarly ashamed.

“We surrender,” said the duke.

“...What?” asked the king. He craned his neck at the enemy forces in front of him. “...Really? Why?”

“Never mind why.” The duke’s eyes widened. “Just … do what you want with us. We’re done. It’s over.”

As the rebels willingly lined into the king’s dungeons, Cainchomrac felt more terrified than before, despite his victory. They were on the verge of victory. There was no reason whatsoever for them to surrender, yet they had. It felt like he, or the stranger he spoke to, had cheated somehow, tore apart reality to force a shape that made no sense. He wasn’t sure what it was, but powerful forces somewhere had a stake in The Plan.

Once his armies were returned to full force, the king expanded his presence on the mainland, conquering the French county of Caen through a naval invasion. To the inhabitants of the province, the brief war seemed an impossible sight. Who could ever imagine boats of soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy? It didn’t take long for Caen to surrender, earning Eire the contempt of even more neighbors.

But the war in France would prove to be nothing more than a small prelude to Cainchomrac’s greatest triumph. Though it was through his mother he was part of the time traveler’s dynasty, the king--and nobody else--still remembered his father: King Uuen II of Pictland, a ruler so unpopular he was assassinated in Cainchomrac’s infancy. From the start, The Plan had ordained Scotland (as its new Frankish rulers now called it) as part of the Ancestral Lands, but for the current king this was doubly true. It was time to avenge his father, to reclaim his birthright.

With Scottish forces still recovering from a recent civil war against their foreign liege, the conflict proved trivially easy for Eire. As his army laid siege to Din Eidyn, Cainchomrac scarcely thought about the war he was in. His mind was still in the past, of when he was on the other side of the siege. “I shouldn’t be here now,” he thought. In the first days after the revolt, he suspected the stranger who blessed him with protection was Odin. He since decided that couldn’t be the case. After all, the stranger had two eyes … did he? What did he look like, again?

He was no normal man, though, that much was clear. Eire had the favor of the divine. King Cainchomrac believed this long before the revolt, he believed it after, and as he snatched the crown off of the humiliated King Arnoul’s head and lowered it onto his own, he believed it more strongly than ever before.

By the end of the Irish-Scottish War in 862, King Cainchomrac boasted the thrones of Ireland, Wales, and Scotland. Though the English threat remained strong, Cainchomrac felt his realm was large enough to warrant a new title, an announcement for the entire world to pay heed to.

As the newly-crowned Emperor sacrificed a sow to Odin at the end of his coronation, he looked at the crowd of admirers. He once complained he was a lonely man, yet for just one moment as he gazed at the field of cheering subjects, he wasn’t.

He looked down at the pig, only to see something in the corner of his eye. He looked back at the crowd. Standing in the back, was there … somebody he recognized? He scanned the area again, only to see nothing of interest.

Maybe it was in his head. Best not to think about it. Best to enjoy the moment.

The Irish Empire had begun.

 

[Cromwell]

Excellent news, and an interesting mysterious stranger for us to think about. It seems it's time to do something about all the Christ cultists left in the realm and get the people worshipping the old gods as they should.

 

[Specialist290]

In politics as in physics, every action begets a reaction. Cainchomrac is fortunate to have support from such a powerful player in the games of the divine

 

[Lord Decobius]

The Plan has grown so powerful, it even entices the gods. Or some other time traveler. Either way, the world should fear the potent power of The Plan.

 

[stnylan]

The Plan is clearly an example in practice of a bureaucratic juggernaut.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 12: On Thee, Our Hopes We Fix

Eanhere woke up from the most wonderful dream. He dreamt that he was a king.

This alone didn’t mean too much. Even after he woke, he was still the King of England, for whatever that honor was worth. In the dream, he was king over all the Isles. England, Scotland, Wales … even Ireland. He strained his head, trying to remember as many details in the dream as possible, when he remembered a crowd of protesters. Irish protesters. The Irish were angry about the English taking over their land! Ridiculous. How did he not realize it was a dream until he woke up?

But his imagined rule extended far beyond the Isles. In his dream, Eanhere controlled more land than Alexander and Trajan, combined and tripled: the largest empire of all time. He ruled much of the Middle East, still under the rule of the Abbasid Caliphate in the waking world. He ruled Egypt, and Nubia, and even the uncharted southernmost depths of Africa. He ruled the distant kingdoms of India, known to him and all his subjects only by vague reputation. He even controlled lands in distant unknown continents, the fictional product of a sleeping imagination.

A moment later, another detail of the dream hit him: there was a song. A song his millions of subjects would sing to honor him. There were lyrics to it … what were they? Were they even real words at all, or perhaps the same nonsense he saw when he attempted to read in a dream? The lyrics were lost, but the melody still lingered in his head: Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmhmmhmm…

“Daddy! Daddy!” shouted young Princess Sigrid as she ran into the room. “Wake up! Wake up!”

“I’m up, dear, calm down.” King Eanhere lifted his daughter up onto the bed, careful not to place her too close to her still sleeping mother.

“It’s Gorgeous Day! It’s Gorgeous Day!”

“It is a gorgeous day, isn’t it?” The king looked at the rising sun out the window.

“No, no, Daddy! It’s Gorgeous Day!” The realization hit the king. It was April, wasn’t it?

“The festival is today, Daddy! You’ll take me, won’t you? Please?”

“Don’t I always?” the king said with a laugh. “Come on, now, wash up and we’ll be off.”

The streets of Lundenwic were stuffed with villagers, laughing and dancing with glee, oblivious to what lay outside their walls. The royal family paraded the roads, accompanied by a sizable escort of armored soldiers. Eanhere waved to the crowds, attempting the most earnest smile he could. As far as his subjects were concerned, there was no reason to not be happy today, and as their king he had an obligation to pretend that was so. In the back of his head, the song from his dreams kept repeating: Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmhmmhmm…

“Daddy?” whispered Sigrid, tugging at the sleeves of her father’s robe. “Why do we have Gorgeous Day?”

“You asked me that last year, didn’t you?”

“Well, I want to know again!”

“Just tell her the story,” whispered Queen Aethlthryth through the teeth of her smile. “She’ll be begging all festival if you don’t.”

“Well, if it would please my liege,” said the king with a mock bow, as his daughter laughed. “It isn’t Gorgeous Day, dear. It’s George’s Day. Saint George’s Day. We hold it to celebrate Saint George.”

“And who is he?”

“He’s the patron saint of England! Who God has protecting us all. He was a Roman Christian soldier, who was persecuted for his…”

“I want to hear about the dragon, Daddy.”

“I could have guessed. Well, one day Saint George was visting Libya…”

“Where’s that?”

“Libya? Oh, I don’t know … somewhere in Africa, I think?”

“I thought he was the hero of England, Daddy.”

“All right, fine, have it your way. Saint George was visiting England, when he found a village terrorized by an evil dragon…” With the word, King Eanhere’s mind began to wander. He thought of his own dragon: Emperor Conri of Eire, the newest leader in the long campaign of British conquest.

Conri didn’t look like a dragon, of course, though he hardly looked like a human being either. When a plague of consumption overcame Eire, the stricken emperor was left at the mercy of an incompetent physician who could think of no solution beyond repeated amputations.

An eye was the first to go. Conri didn’t mind this so much. Indeed, he took his new resemblance to Odin in stride. But the disease persisted, and with it left a leg, then an arm, and by then the emperor was half gone.

The one comfort of his injuries was that Conri frightened his enemies as much as his own court. With every raid he committed against England, rumors soon spread of cities falling to the Metal King, outfitted in so many prosthetics he seemed like a machine, a weapon of war in his own right.

“Daddy?” asked Sigrid. “Are you going to finish the story?” Eanhere returned to the present, still waving to the crowds without even realizing.

“Right, of course. Sorry, dear. So, the villagers thought they could make the dragon happy with sacrifices. Every day, they’d send somebody for the dragon to eat so he’d leave the rest of the village alone...” Once more, the king’s thoughts shifted to Eire. Conri didn’t have the means, financial or diplomatic, to bring about the full-scale invasion of England he dreamed of. Instead, the dragon settled for small offerings, seizing a new county every half a year or so.

“I don’t get that part, Daddy. Even if the dragon eats them one at a time, after a while wouldn’t he eat everyone anyway?” The girl had a point, the king realized. Conri’s conquest of England may have been slow, but the results were already visible. Eire now controlled the entire duchies of Cornwall and Wessex, with the capital itself bordering the now-Irish counties of Oxford and Winchester.

It wouldn’t be right away, maybe not even in Eanhere’s lifetime, but if it kept up for long enough, the dragon would indeed swallow up all of them. And yet all throughout Lundenwic, everyone celebrated as gleefully as they had in all the years before. Bless the poor bastards, he thought. The water was rising so slowly that nobody had any idea they were drowning.

“Well … well luckily they stopped the dragon before it came to that, sweetie. You see, the day St. George came, they were about to sacrifice the mayor’s own daughter.”

“Come on, Eanhere,” whispered the queen. “You’re going to give her nightmares with this sort of talk.”

“So … a princess, then?” asked Sigrid.

“No, not a princess, the mayor’s daughter, she was…”

“...like me?” With that, the most repulsive image entered the king’s head. He saw his own daughter, chained to a tree and dressed in a bridal gown. A gruesome, slavering dragon crawled towards her, an army of unwashed Irish barbarians following shortly behind.

“...No, not like you, Sigrid. I’ll never give you to the dragon. I’ll die before I do.” The princess took a step back, eyeing her father with confusion. A few spectators still applauded the royal family, but slightly slower than before. Why had the king stopped smiling?

“...But the dragon is gone, Daddy,” said Sigrid with a nervous laugh.

“I wish, but no, it’s not.”

“Uh … yes it is. St. George stops him, remember?”

“Oh, right! Yes, of course, the story… well, Saint George finds the princess, and when the dragon shows up to eat her, he sticks it with his lance!” The king mimed a jab as his daughter laughed, in imitation of the brave warrior he wished to be.

“And he kills the dragon, right?”

“Not yet, no. He ties the dragon up and carries it into the town square. He says he’ll kill it right there if the whole village was baptized. They agree, of course…”

“Of course,” he repeated in his head. Because who wouldn’t accept Christ after a visit from a living saint? In the present day, conversions didn’t seem to come nearly as easily. As the time traveler’s pagan kingdom grew, many a missionary had traveled to Airgialla in hopes of saving their souls, from England, France, and even Rome itself.

Every time, the result was the same. As soon as word of the priest’s arrival had reached Conri’s ears, they would be locked in his dungeons, with no hope of poisoning the minds of Eire. After a while, they would be held for ransom, then sent back to wherever they came from, shaken yet unharmed. Strength, but not cruelty.

The Saracens fared no better, as an Andalusian imam learned when he came to Eire with the teachings of the Prophet. Jesus and Muhammad alike seemed helpless in convincing the new empire to abandon their idols. Theirs was a kingdom in which truly nothing was sacred.

“And once they’d all converted…” The king raised his arm up into the air. He could almost feel the hilt of the sword in his hands. “Whoosh! He sliced the dragon’s head clean off!” Sigrid laughed and clapped to herself at the hero’s triumph.

“So Saint George saved the princess, then,” she said.

“Well, he was only there because God knew he needed to be. God saved the … king!”

“I thought we were talking about the princess, Daddy.”

“No, no, I mean the song! That’s how the song went! ‘God save the king!’”

“What song?” The king didn’t bother with an answer, too busy replaying the song in his head. Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmhmmhmm, something something something, God save the king. That was part of the dream, he was sure of it.

“...Are you all right, Daddy?” asked Sigrid. In an instant, the king returned to his senses and noticed his daughter looking up at him with concern.

“...Uh, yes, of course I am. Come along now, dear. There’s still so much of the festival to see!” With that, the king tried to put the thoughts of Irish invasion and strange dreams to rest, enjoy the moment with his family. The thoughts still lingered in his head, though. They always did.

Before too long, night fell, and the royal family had returned to the safety of their keep. Princess Sigrid thought of Saint George, whisked to sleep by images of knights and dragons. Queen Aethlthryth thought of England, and not in the way she usually did, as she recalled the day’s festivities. King Eanhere, however, tossed and turned in his bed, tormented by thoughts of Conri. God had helped England’s patron saint triumph against a monster. Where was God for England now?

Even when, despite his torment, sleep finally overtook him, he felt no better. Afterwards, he found himself inside a palace far more decadent than his own, wearing strange clothing unlike any he had seen in his life. The dream from before had returned.

All night long, he heard advisors of another age and world discussing the news of his glorious empire, filled with names and terms he couldn’t understand. “The President of the United States is on the telephone … the Soviet Union has tested a hydrogen bomb … President Jiang wishes to talk about Hong Kong…” It was confusing, yet at the same time blissful, the idea that his own kingdom could ever be so large.

As the sun drew closer, the dream ended just as it had the night before. A choir of loving, devoted subjects singing the same song in his honor: God save our gracious king! God save our noble king! God save the king!

Then Eanhere opened his eyes. Back to reality, back to an England that doesn’t even control all of itself, let alone lands beyond. Back to meetings with his council to discuss defensive plans for the next Irish invasion, destined to fail as badly as all those before. His dreams of an all-powerful England was lovely, but in the end that was all they were: dreams.

The dream replayed the next night, and the one after that. Night after night, for months, that was all he knew. The king began to dread sleep; though his dreams were pleasant, the return to the world of the waking, the reminder that his fantasies were never meant to be, grew maddening.

It was February now. King Eanhere II had heard the same song in his dreams every night for ten months straight now. As his council spoke, he said little, just stared at the wall in front of him with a dazed glare. The more he slept at night, the more tired he was in the day.

“Next item on the list, Emperor Conri has accepted our latest terms of surrender,” announced the king’s chancellor. “Peace has been restored in exchange for the Isle of Wight.”

“Wight, eh…” The king slumped deeper into his seat. “They really can’t leave anywhere alone, can they?” Though he was awake, the choir still sang in his mind, reminding him of what could never be.

“Finally,” added the steward, “preparations are underway for this year’s Saint George’s Day celebration. We’ve found a local theater troupe willing to perform a play on Saint George and the Dragon. They’ve built this giant leather dragon that multiple men get underneath … it’s quite fun.”

“Sure, seems nice…” mumbled the king.

“The best part is, the dragon looks like a giant snake, just in case!”

“Just in case?” Eanhere repeated. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” The steward tugged at his collar, avoiding eye contact with his liege. “If … circumstances were to ever make our celebrations … inappropriate.”

“What kind of circumstances?”

“Oh, any kind. Weather, disease, dragon attacks … the whole play would require only minor rewrites to change it from ‘Saint George and the Dragon’ to…” The king was staring at the steward now with a silent fury none of his council had ever seen before. “...‘Saint Patrick and the Snake.’”

“I can’t believe it,” answered the king’s marshal. “Do you know how much of an insult it is to even suggest something like that?”

“Yes! Thank you!”

“The Irish have their own gods now, remember? When they take over…”

“When?”

“...if we put on a play about Saint Patrick for them, they’ll have our heads!”

“Well, they’ve got some giant snake they believe in, don’t they?” added the spymaster.

“Oh, right, the Midgard Serpent,” said the chaplain.

“Well let’s just make the new play about that somehow.”

“Hey, what if instead of a lance, Saint George had a hammer?” asked the chancellor. “Then he could be Thor!” The whole council nodded in agreement, leaving the king to stare at them all, speechless. Only in his dreams was there any hope for England.

Send him victorious! Happy and glorious! Long to reign over us, God save the king!

“Daddy! Mommy! It’s time for breakfast!” shouted Sigrid as she skipped into her parents’ chamber. “Come on! They made cake!” She opened the door to see only her mother in the bed alone.

“Mmgh … I’ll be there in a minute, dear” the queen mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Probably passed out at his desk, I’d bet. Go get him for breakfast, would you?” Sigrid nodded, then ran through the halls of the castle, arms stretched out and laughing to herself the entire time. She would have walked slowly, had she known she’d never experience a moment so carefree again.

The study door creaked open. As the queen had predicted, King Eanhere was slumped over the desk, as he’d been found many mornings before.

“Daddy! It’s time for breakfast!” Normally the sound of his daughter’s voice was enough to wake the king, though this time there was no response. “Come on, Daddy! Aren’t you hungry?” Sigrid poked her father’s shoulder. Still no acknowledgement. “...Daddy?”

 

[Cromwell]

Always nice to have a switch to a new point of view in an AAR. Will the death of the old king of England create any new opportunities for the plan to be advanced I wonder? Conri must be weighing up the odds and licking his lips.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 13: A Beautiful Dungeon Wall

Though Emperor Conri had many enemies, particularly in England, he rarely thought of them. In his mind, anyone who opposed him wasn’t really a person, or even a threat. They were an obstacle, a stone in the road for him to step over. When you were trusted with a task that the fate of the world depended on, it wasn’t worth the energy to worry about those in your way any more than necessary. There was only one exception to this rule, one adversary that kept the metal king up at night: his brother.

King Mac-Laisre of Bhreatain Bheag was not only the ruler of the Welsh section of the empire, but the man chosen by the royal electors, most of them recently conquered, as the heir apparent to the imperial crown. His true loyalty, however, was not to the Emperor of Eire, but the King of the Jews. Despite the efforts of most of his dynasty to replace the White Christ with the Aesir, Mac-Laisre remained a devout Catholic who saw the songs of Valhalla as no more than a poor imitation of the Pope’s promises of eternal life.

This opinion was rare in the time traveler’s dynasty, but not in the general population. Though Eire had been under pagan rule for over a century now, most provinces of the empire, especially those newly annexed, remained Catholic. Many local Gothar attempted to proselytize among the population, but even more local bishops were quick to remind their flock that “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”

With every visiting missionary that Conri imprisoned, the resentment of Eire’s Christians grew stronger. Before long, a faction had emerged demanding an emperor who respected the one true God, and rallied around Mac-Laisre as the most likely to achieve that goal.

“Emperor Mac-Laisre,” the king whispered to himself one evening as he stared at himself in the mirror. “It doesn’t sound too bad.” When he first heard the talk of a new Christian rebellion, the king was reluctant. For all his religious disagreements, Conri was still his brother. Mac-Laisre also knew of The Plan, even if he wasn’t privy to its full details, and knew a civil war could only hinder it. Still, the thought of being emperor grew more tempting with each day. Besides, his chaplain told him Eire deserved a pious emperor. The Plan wasn’t more important than God, was it?

“It is…” said a voice. Mac-Laisre turned around to see a man whose face he couldn’t quite make out in the dark. “...a nice title, but one I’m afraid you’re not meant to have yet.” The king unsheathed a dagger and pointed it at the intruder, though he remained as stoic as before.

“S … stay away from me,” Mac-Laisre stammered. Though the details of the stranger’s face eluded the king, it almost seemed as if he was smiling.

“I’m no threat to you, good king. You have plenty of others already. The only thing I’m out to kill are these silly thoughts of revolt.”

“You’re an agent of Conri, then?” The king asked, lowering his dagger.

“I agree with your brother on this matter, but I don’t take orders from him, no. It doesn’t matter who I am. Just what I’m here to do. Tomorrow, your Christian friends are going to start a revolt. You’re going to stop them before they do.”

“I doubt they’d listen if I told them to stand down.”

“I didn’t say that. You’re going to tell the emperor you surrender. War starts, an hour later, war ends. Like it never happened at all. Business can continue as usual.” The king stared at his guest for a moment before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.

“Just surrender? Really? He’ll throw me into the dungeon.”

“He probably will, yes.”

“So why on Earth would I do that?” The stranger put a finger to his face, chuckling to himself.

“You’re a Christian, aren’t you, Mac-Laisre?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all, just asking. What do you think about Jerusalem?”

“What do I think about it?” asked the king. The spirit nodded in response. “I’ve never been myself, but I imagine it’s … incredible. To stand on the same ground as Christ…” The king stared at the wall on the other side of the room, picturing a world far away from Wales. “It tears me up, knowing now all those Saracens live there.”

“Well, how’d you feel if nobody lived there?” The stranger took a step closer to the king. “Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, the whole Holy Land and everywhere around it, nothing but one big burning desert, barely fit for a lizard to live.”

“Are you saying a revolt over here will destroy Jerusalem over there?”

“Give it enough time, and what happens here will carry into places you’ve never even heard of, Mac-Laisre.”

“A pretty line, but no word from a stranger is worth sacrificing my freedom over. The door is behind you.” The king pointed a finger in his guest’s direction. In response, the stranger placed his hand on Mac-Laisre’s forehead.

The castle walls melted away. In their place were a million grisly images of a different, darker age. An endless war fought by machines that could tear apart a man in ways never thought of before. Thousands of children so emaciated they were nearly skeletons. Lakes receding, fields barren, cities flooded. Innocent civilians transformed into ashes. People on fire. A world on fire.

The stranger’s hand drew back. Mac-Laisre was once again surrounded by familiar walls, though the terrible images still lingered in his head. He felt his face, assuring himself he was truly safe, panting in agony the entire time.

“What … the hell … was that?”

“The world without The Plan,” answered the stranger. “Just some of what it’s meant to prevent. What anyone who interferes will cause. Makes the dungeons look like Heaven, doesn’t it?” There was a stirring in the king’s stomach. He felt an urge to vomit. “Now, you have a choice. You surrender tomorrow. You stay in the dungeon for a while. But not forever, I don’t think. Either that, or you fight against The Plan, and I make sure the future you chose is all you’ll ever see for the rest of your days.” With that, the stranger departed, and the nauseous king was alone.

The next morning, Mac-Laisre set sail for Airgialla on a boat filled with the most zealous Christians in Wales, aspiring heroes of the revolution. There wasn’t a quiet moment the whole trip, as the soldiers drank, sang, and talked about what they’d do to the heathens of Eire. The only silent one among them was their leader. King Mac-Laisre refused to say a word until the boat had reached port. The few times he set foot outside his cabin, he simply stared into the sea, refusing to acknowledge any of his men.

Emperor Conri looked over the roof of his castle to see an army at his gates, brandishing swords, lances, and banners adorned with crosses. At the front of it all was King Mac-Laisre, clad in regal armor yet wearing the same distant face as he had on the boat.

“What’s this about?” asked the emperor, so accustomed to the comfort of home he was unaware of the discontent outside.

“I have an army with me!” announced Mac-Laisre. “An army willing to fight to place me on the throne! And as their leader…” The king turned around. The mob was smiling at him, waiting eagerly for his next words. “...We surrender.”

“What?” asked the emperor and his enemies, in unison.

“We surrender. Lock us up. Me, them…” he gestured at the crowd behind him, so stunned they’d forgotten the weapons in their hands. “Then … do whatever you want.”

“...Why should I?” yelled the emperor.

“Would you rather fight a war?”

“I would,” said one of the rebels behind the king.

“I’m not asking you.” Mac-Laisre looked back up at the emperor, who was still trying to make sense of the scene in front of him. After a moment, he pointed at a nearby guard.

“Open the gate!” he ordered loudly, though not too confidently. “Escort the prisoners to the dungeon!”

Within the hour, King Mac-Laisre was sitting within a cell, listening to countless other new prisoners praying for God to strike him dead. The king gave no response. In fact, most days he said nothing at all, and did nothing beyond the bare minimum his body required. As the gaolers patrolled the cells, day after day, year after year, the disgraced king was nearly always doing the same thing: staring at one of the walls in his cell. It was plain, undecorated stone, covered in so much grime it had gone from gray to brown. But it was there, and it belonged to a world with The Plan, and for that, it was the most beautiful thing the king had ever seen. For fourteen years he enjoyed his perfect view, until one day when the door to his cell slid open.

“It’s time,” said the guard as he entered the room.

“Lunch already?” asked Mac-Laisre, eyes still fixed on the wall.

“No. Time for your coronation, my liege.”

Though he betrayed an army of his fellow Christians a decade prior, everyone who knew of Mac-Laisre’s treachery had since died in the emperor’s dungeons. To the rest of Christendom, Mac-Laisre remained a hero; a martyr, even, suffering unjust imprisonment at the hands of a pagan tyrant. Though he’d long since lost his freedom and his mind, the king still had the vote of Eire’s Christian vassals longing for a pious emperor. And so, with the death of Emperor Conri, the crown had no choice but to pass to a decrepit prisoner who’d spent the past fourteen years staring at a wall and loving it.

On his first day as Emperor, Mac-Laisre read The Plan, just as all those who came before him. On his second, he performed a sacrifice to Odin, renouncing the White Christ after a lifetime of faith. Observers to the ceremony noticed a dull look in the new emperor’s eyes, always staring directly in front of him, his vision never shifting. It was as if he was performing the entire act in his sleep.

As strange as the new emperor appeared to those around him, his rule was little different from his predecessor, continuing Conri’s lengthy campaign against England. If the kingdom could only be taken one county at a time, he decided to at least opt for the biggest symbolic victories. In 890, Irish forces took London, forcing the English crown to relocate their capital to Surrey.

Four years later, Eire marched on the county of Kent, home of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the most sacred Christian site in the Isles. With English forces weakened by a recent civil war, the conflict proved trivial. The only resistance of note came when Irish troops reached Kent’s castle, where a young woman had chained herself to the gates.

“I won’t let you take this, you bastards!” screamed Duchess Sigrid of Kent. “You took my father, and I swear to God I’ll sarding die before I let you take anything else!

“Do we kill her, my liege?” asked an Irish commander. Emperor Mac-Laisre looked at the woman, staring back at him with intense hatred. In her head, the emperor was suffering every torture her imagination could conjure. Mac-Laisre himself only thought of the visions the stranger had granted him so long ago. The look in Sigrid’s eyes was as close as he’d ever come to seeing them again.

“...Only if we can’t cut through the chains,” he ordered. “Try those first.”

“No! Get back!” screeched Sigrid, kicking as soldiers approached the gate. “You’ll never be satisfied, will you, you Irish shits? How many more children need to be orphaned just for you to have a bigger crown? You! Judas!” As the troops examined the locks, she turned her focus back to the emperor. “You’d better kill me right here, you godless old sard. I swear on my lord and savior Jesus Christ, as long as I’m breathing I’ll make sure you know a taste of what you’ve done to me. Englaland aefre! Englaland aefre! Pater noster, qui es in caelis…”

To this day, the precise fate of Duchess Sigrid remains a mystery. Modern historians have proposed a myriad of theories, each as thinly backed as their competitors. Perhaps she was killed that day. Perhaps she not only lived, but was responsible for the emperor’s own suspicious death. Perhaps Mac-Laisre took pity on her and granted her a small title and pension, or she fled elsewhere in England to live the life of a commoner. In the nineteenth century, a drunken professor at Ollscoil Átha Cliath proposed she married Romulus Augustulus, the only man who understood her plight, and passed the time confusing historians together. Nobody has ever been confident enough to say he was wrong.
What is known was that on that day, Kent came under Irish rule. The former Christian emperor had rendered Canterbury a former Christian holy site.

Though much of England still remained, with this new conquest Mac-Laisre controlled enough of the British Isles to be called their rightful ruler, and so he declared the Empire of Eire to now be the Empire of Alba.

That night, Mac-Laisre allowed himself the first moments of personal enjoyment he could remember. The castle of Cluain Eois was alight with dancing and drinking, and none felt as much ecstasy as the emperor. In the midst of his drunken rambling, the founder of the new empire mumbled to himself “I’m just like Alexander the Great.”
Two days later, the comparison proved more apt than he thought.

 

[Cromwell]

Well the empire of Alba declared by perhaps the mostly unlikely monarch yet! Or at least the most unlikely monarch yet until you look at his successor. Who knows what a woman will manage to make of the plan in a time that was very much a man's age.

Let's hope the loss of Canterbury will further discredit the Christ cult and lead to more people (both in the nobility and the peasantry) adopting a faith more suited to the plan.