- I don’t battle with my fellow countrymen! - sir Harold replied.
- Especially for ones such as you! - sir William welcomed his reply.
- Wait a minute, do you mean that you both know each other?! - Angelina was surprised, still trying to keep on herself a plaid, which has almost flied from her back.
- A bit ... - sir Harold answered evasively.
- We battled once in a tournament, - sir William dispelled her doubts.
- A-a-a-n-n-d-d ... who finally prevailed? - Angelina found nothing better but to ask exactly that way.
- Doesn’t matter ... - a fellow countryman William answered evasively.
- Let’s leave, - fellow countryman Harold summed up.
- One Burgundian wine for each of us? - knight William made an offer.
- To end such an end, it will surely suffice! - knight William assured him.
And with these words being said, two fellow countryman, who have known each other for almost five years, two knights without a sign of fear or reproach, two admirers and subjugators of ladies and two fans of red Burgundian wine, slowly and continuing speaking and approvingly knocking each other with steel gauntlets on shoulders, were going away from a mournful place of bitterness, eternity and love, which has mournfully become a bitterness in the eternity.
They were departing - and the culprit of the future celebration, eccentrical maiden Angelina, or just Anzhelina, or even simply Angelica, was sitting on a free tombstone and crying.
What was she crying about that very day? Did she cry of the eternal and endless love, which she has always wanted to have, and which she always had to kill for the sake of social norms, accepted in a society? Did she cry of a proud and unshakable machismo, easily shaken by a red Burgundian wine? Did she cry of own powerlessness to solve something through power? Or of own unwillingness to solve something at all for now?
Who the dead man knows what was she crying about that dark and mourning night!
But anyway, even this seemingly eternal night ended once ... and the very next morning from almost inconspicuous apartments of a count’s castle a painfully familiar voice cried out:
Heck, and where is my last saved bottle of Burgundian wine?!
Morals :
The less we know the woman - the easier we live,
The more we know the woman - together better thrive.
05.04.2011