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

[DiagorasCinna]

First of all, I wanted to apologize for the long delay (this was actually supposed to be the first half of a much longer chapter, but I decided you all deserved something after this long). I've never been as fast a writer as I'd like, but I promise I'm working on it every day.

On that note, I was hoping to get some opinions on what you'd like to see going forward. So far I've been writing more or less in real-time, never skipping over an emperor, but there are likely to be some dull spots of the playthrough going forward. Would you prefer I keep the same approach I do now, skip ahead and only write about interesting moments, or maybe do some semi-comedic chapters where I cover the boring parts as quickly as possible? If I'm going to take a long time I want everything I do to be worth the wait, so feedback is appreciated.

Chapter 14: The Scarred Woman and the Blind Man

The Gothi stood in the center of the hall, gilded crown in his hands. Nobody was looking at him, though. The crowd had turned backwards, watching the other side of the room as they waited for the new empress to emerge.

Most of those in attendance were there purely out of a sense of duty, repelled by the thought that a woman now ruled them. When Emperor Mac-Laisre died, the Empire of Alba was so newly-formed that every vassal in charge of electing a tanist had yet to even hear of the title. The only vote for Mac-Laisre’s heir came from the emperor himself. The old emperor wasn’t known for being rational, but this choice, at least, he was sure of. He would choose the smartest man of the time traveler’s dynasty, the one with a mind best equipped to endure The Plan, to not suffer as he had. Little did anyone know that the smartest man of the dynasty was really no man at all.

Cumman, the youngest daughter of the late Emperor Cainchomrac, was as shocked to learn of her new title as everyone else. A gifted youth, the princess had taught herself to read early into her childhood, and quickly made full use of the imperial library. Had she been a man, Cumman’s intellect would likely have earned him a position in the clergy, if not a duchy of his own. Instead, she was born with a curse that sealed her fate, or at least it seemed. Before Mac-Laisre’s passing, she had already been pledged to a young French count, where she would move and carry on her royal duties as wife and mother in obscurity. Instead, through the final wishes of a mad, dying emperor, she became the first woman ever trusted with The Plan.

The few vassals happy to attend the coronation felt so only through lecherous intent: men watching the doors with hungry anticipation to see the beautiful young empress for the first time. When Cumman finally presented herself, though, they were as outraged as the rest, if not moreso.

A fat figure walked down the halls, pillows stuffed into her clothing. She wore not the elegant gown expected of her, but a modest tunic of similar make--thought not extravagance--as those worn by her male predecessors. Her hair was cut shorter than most men of the empire, and certainly more than any woman’s. Most distracting of all, though, was the thick fake beard obscuring most of her face.

Like Hatshepsut before her, Cumman suffered no delusions of the stigma she would face as a woman crowned. If her sex was to be a distraction from her rule, it should be as small a one as possible. The public wanted a man to lead them, and so they would have one.

“I am ready for the ceremony, father,” said Cumman, in the deepest voice she could muster. The Gothi looked down at the bearded empress, allowing himself only a brief hesitation before he proceeded as normal.

The crossdressing coronation was the first time Empress Cumman shocked her subjects, but it was soon followed by so many more it would be forgotten. Weeks later, she would break her betrothal and form a new one with an unlanded husband, willing to debase himself and grant his children to the time traveler’s dynasty. Royal women were expected to provide children to continue their line, and before her new betrothed came of age she shocked Alba once more by fulfilling the royal duty.

With the empress upsetting her subjects more with each new day, the most powerful men of the empire, with an imperfect understanding of The Plan, began fancying themselves as de facto emperors, able to ignore Cumman’s rule and convince those below them to do the same.

Most notable among them was King Eogan III “the Brute,” a vicious disciple of Tyr who loved the battlefield above all else. He usurped the Scottish crown through civil war, then wasted no time following the sole instruction of The Plan he knew. He would retake the Ancestral Lands, reducing England to half of its previous size. Eogan made significant strides in the mainland as well, bringing the Kingdom of Brittany under Alban rule.

The empress would be grateful for her vassal’s conquests, but she knew a man as bloodthirsty as Eogan must have had her in his sights, perhaps in more ways than one. Unlike her adversary, Cumman was a woman of letters, uninterested in the battlefield. Indeed, it was only due to the demands of the plan that she thought much of war at all. But with a revolt seemingly inevitable, she knew it was necessary to project an image of strength. And so, like her father before her, she joined the Wolf Warriors.

When she first set foot in the faction’s halls, filled with men twice her size wielding weapons to match, the empress couldn’t help but feel vulnerable. What if there were supporters of Eogan among them, asked an anxious voice in her head? She didn’t belong here, and they all know it. They could kill her right now, and she wouldn’t have a prayer of stopping it.

A man blocked Cumman’s path, staring her down as he crossed his arms. In this moment, the ruler of the empire seemed like no more than a frightened little girl. The man snorted loud enough for the whole hall to hear, then smiled.

“I thought you’d join sooner, my liege!” He said with a laugh, patting the empress on the back. “Come outside, we’ll find someone for you to duel.” As the cheering and sparring of the group resumed, Cumman’s sigh of relief went unnoticed. These men looked like Eogan, but inside they were nothing like him. Politics didn’t matter to the Wolf Warriors. Gender didn’t matter. Anybody who loved the Aesir and knew how to hold a sword was welcome.

Though it could never replace the comforts of the library of Airgialla, the empress had to admit there was something about the Wolf Warriors that made sense. For once, she was free of all the constraints, all the demands expected of her. For once, she could simply be, act without fear of offending a vassal she barely recognized. Even better, it wasn’t difficult to imagine Eogan’s face on whoever her latest sparring partner may be.

Although the empress won her fair share of duels against her fellow warriors, she lost even more, and suffered the scars to prove it. In the days before her father’s passing, Cumman was told she was such a beautiful princess. Even after her coronation, her political enemies begrudgingly admitted she was a radiant woman, if nothing else. No longer was this the case, as thick, hideous scars rendered her beyond recognition.

Though the courtiers who had to look at her lamented the empress’s injuries, she did not. Indeed, she welcomed them. If her beauty was the only thing about her the men of Alba who stood against her could tolerate, she was happy to deny it to them. Those who oppose The Plan deserved nothing.

Though she was happier than she once was, there was only so much stress the training grounds of the Wolf Warriors could hope to relieve. The duties of empress soon grew so taxing she ceased to be surprised that so many before her had gone mad. She was smart, though, she told herself each day. She would stay resilient, lucid in the face of it all. Whether through sheer determination or the will of the Aesir, sure enough, her mind never withered. Only her body.

Cumman lay on a filthy bed in the middle of a secluded shack, covered in rashes and barely suppressing the urge to vomit. This must be the end, she thought. If the plague didn’t kill her, someone willing to attack her in a moment of weakness would. At the very same moment, Eogan’s men were practicing wargames. Purely to prepare for the next English conflict, he claimed, though the empress wouldn’t be so easily fooled.

With the court’s physicians failing to provide any relief, a desperate Cumman searched for any kind of aid she could find. This brought her to France, to the home of Rogier, a blind Spanish mystic forced to flee the Umayyads for his idolatry. Rogier held his hands out over the empress, chanting quietly in tongues she couldn’t understand.

“E … excuse me,” said Cumman hoarsely. “I’m not sure how this is supposed to help me.” Rogier went silent. His hands trembled slightly, as if feeling for something that wasn’t quite there.

“It’s such a pity what happened to your face, you know,” he said. “You used to be so beautiful.”

“You can’t see my face.”

“No, but I can feel the scars.”

“You’re not touching me either.”

“You know, my liege, your illness may not be entirely physical. Have you been … stressed at all lately?”

“I don’t think stress leads to plague.”

“If you expect to be treated, I’ll need your cooperation.”

“Fine, yes, I’ve been stressed. By Freya, who wouldn’t be?” The queen grimaced. All the frustrations of the world were attacking her head at once. “It’s bad enough having to deal with the crown and the…” She stopped herself before she realized what she was about to say.

“...The Plan, yes,” Rogier said with a chuckle, unaware of how the empress was now staring at him.

“How do you know about The Plan?”

“Odin gave an eye for wisdom. I gave two. Continue what you were saying, please.”

“...People don’t respect me,” Cumman admitted. “I’ve tried all my life to do good, but because of how I was born … nothing is ever good enough. They’re plotting against me as we speak, I’d wager. Eogan must be. He won’t be happy until he has the crown, and my head with it.” The mystic lowered his hands. He turned his head up to the ceiling, his chanting replaced with a low, dull hum. A moment later, he smiled.

“Eogan is the source of your disease,” Rogier declared.

“What, are you saying he…” Cumman stopped to cough. “...poisoned me?”

“He’s the source of the sickness, that’s what I can say. Remove the source, and given enough time the illness will disappear.” The mystic gestured for the empress to get off of the table. “Return home, my liege. I’ll begin work on the treatment right away. Try and get some rest until it’s ready.”

“How will I know when it is?” asked the empress as she headed towards the door.

“You’ll know.”

By cart and boat Cumman journeyed back home, back to Airgialla. The entire trip she nursed her own sickness as best she could, all the while taunted by the thoughts of her conversation. How far had word of The Plan traveled outside her dynasty? Back home, another week would pass before the mystic’s promise of treatment revealed itself.

“King Eogan of Alba is here, my liege,” reported a servant approaching the empress’s chambers.

“The usual round of demands, I take it?”

“King Eogan has been … left at our gates, Your Highness. Tied up.” In an instant, Cumman had nearly forgotten her sickness.

“Is he … alive?” she asked. The servant nodded. “Bring him to me. Leave the bindings.”

It was a sight too perfect to see, the man behind so much of her suffering bound like a suckling pig. If the conqueror of Brittany valued anything more than strength, it was the image of strength. He wanted the whole world, Cumman most of all, to believe he was Tyr in the flesh: an invincible force for whom every battle was already decided. If you stood against him, your only choice was whether to die by his hand, or your own. Cumman couldn’t help but smile at that image stripped away, mighty Eogan the Brute bound and gagged, shaking in fear.

The empress lifted his vision upward, made sure he knew full well whose mercy he was at. Inside, her conscience repeated the ancient words of the time traveler: “Strength but not cruelty. Strength but not cruelty.” But she also knew Eogan refused to recognize strength unless it was cruelty. She removed the gag from the king’s mouth before searching for her dagger. She’d let him speak in his last moments, say his prayers and pleas in full instead of muffling them. It was more kindness than he would ever show her.

The next morning, Empress Cumman woke up in better spirits than she had ever remembered. True to the blind mystic’s word, her sickness died with Eogan. She would live, yet every step of the recovery process brought with it new questions. Rogier’s methods seemed to go against logic, perhaps even all earthly science. As the ruler of the empire and a scholar, it pained Cumman to know that so much remained beyond her understanding.

She needed to know more.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 15: Pawns on the Board

Cumman demanded to see Rogier, in hopes the mystic would explain himself. However, the scouts dispatched to Auvergne found his shack abandoned. Like the Caliphate before it, Rogier seemed to have abandoned Alba for a new, unknown land.

When told of the news, the empress’s curiosity only grew stronger. She’d have her explanation, even if it meant traveling the ends of the earth. Through Christian and Saracen lands walked the scouts of Alba for years, in search of anyone willing to speak of The Plan. No answers were found in Rome, nor Constantinople, nor even the Great Library of Baghdad. It was only at the furthest edge of Alexander’s empire that a worthy candidate presented herself.

Her name was Maki, and though only a child her wisdom shocked even the empress herself. From her time in the imperial library, the name “Buddha” was not new to Cumman, but the name was all she knew. Speaking to one of his disciples was unheard of. Indeed, with her appearance in the court of Airgialla, the empress was certain Maki had become the first Buddhist to ever set foot in Eire.

“If it’s not too rude to say, all of your ideas seem so … foreign,” said the empress to the child, near the end of one of their late-night discussions as they walked through the castle’s halls.

“Foreign only in presentation, Cumman. The Noble Truths belong to the world. They say your Odin hanged himself from Yggdrasil for nine days in his pursuit of knowledge. Gautama meditated beneath the Bodhi Tree for seven weeks in his. Even in this distant land, people seek enlightenment. You do.”

“I’m afraid what I want to know most of all is different from our usual talks,” Cumman confessed. “You came here because you told my men you know of The Plan.” At this, Maki smiled. The empress had never seen her face depart from its stoic frown before.

“I do, yes.”

“And just what do you know?”

“I know a man, your ancestor, came from another time with visions of changing the world. He had known suffering in his former life, and hoped to create a world without it.” Maki closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “A noble goal, but a foolish one.”

“Are you trying to say you know better than our founder?”

“The first step to enlightenment is to acknowledge duhkha. Existence is suffering. That can only change if the nature of existence itself does. Your Plan should encourage change from within, for people to improve themselves, so that it may spread to the world around them. Instead it advocates only changing the world, while the people who make it remain the same. A dead tree will not bear fruit no matter how much you ask it.”

“That isn’t true! The Plan tells us the right way for a ruler to ask. It says to…”

“...to rule with strength, but not cruelty,” finished Maki. “And where was this wisdom when you killed a man who could not fight back?”

“That…” Without realizing it, Cumman grabbed at her hair, turning just slightly away from the child’s gaze. “That was a special case. Eogan was…”

“...someone you desired to kill. Tanha. Desire is the origin of suffering. The Plan does nothing to discourage these wicked thoughts. It even encourages them. Its first command is to conquer land, to desire territory that you don’t have.”

“So what should I do, then? What should anyone in Alba do? We’ve been working towards The Plan for two hundred years now. Are you saying it’s all wrong?” Maki closed her eyes and turned her head down to the floor. It was difficult to make out in the darkness, but the empress could have sworn the child was silently laughing to herself.

“The Plan is … like your story of Odin,” she answered. “There’s a truth at the core of it all. A man really did find wisdom underneath a tree. But that truth has been twisted, corrupted until it can no longer be recognized. The Plan seeks nirodha, an end to suffering. A noble goal. But its commands have only brought more suffering. To yourself, to the men before you, to your subjects, to your enemies. As long as it seeks to achieve a better world through evil means, it will fail.” The child stopped walking. Cumman looked around to realize they were standing by the gates of the castle. “I’ve enjoyed speaking with you, Empress. I hope you’ll heed what I’ve taught you. But I’m afraid there is nothing left to say. I’ll be returning home now.”

“What, tonight?” asked Cumman. The child nodded. “We haven’t arranged a boat for you yet.”

“No need. I can return home myself.” Maki pushed the door open, revealing the black landscape of Airgialla at night. Were it not for the stars in the sky, it would seem as though nothing were outside at all, the child stepped into a void.

“You can’t walk back to India.”

“I won’t.” With that, the child walked into the darkness, disappearing from Cumman’s vision, and her life.

The empress never forgot Maki’s warning, though as the years went by she tried to. Day after day, a nagging voice in her head planted doubts, and an even louder one countered with a new rationalization. Perhaps The Plan really was a set of bad guidance, but it was still more guidance than most rulers ever received. Any instructions that could turn a lone village on an island of tribals into an empire must have had something worth adhering to. Besides, they were the words of her ancestor, the founder of her kingdom, the man from the future. Who could ever trust the word of the Buddha, whoever that was, over his?

So she upheld The Plan as best she could, and continued the endless campaign for the Ancestral Lands. If her own assuring mind ever failed to silence the doubts, the screams of the English always worked.

As the years went by, Cumman scarcely worried over her actions at all. Sometimes, in the dead of night, while she struggled to sleep, Maki’s old words would keep her awake. But with the sun came confidence, came pride. She was in charge. She was the empress, and a damn good one, she could say by now. At the start of her reign, the vassals doubted her, thought a woman ruling was doomed to fail. She was sure plenty in England thought the same way, before she slaughtered them. She was an empress and a warrior, confident that she would never fear a man again.

But as vicious as she could be on both the throne and the battlefield, Cumman tried to be as pleasant as she could elsewhere. When meeting someone new, she always attempted to introduce herself with a cordial bow and a big smile. It was a practice she employed when she saw a face she didn’t recognize in the imperial gardens one day.

His name was Augusto, a Catholic monk on a pilgrimage to where St. Patrick’s Cathedral once stood. Cumman’s predecessors would’ve arrested a follower of the White Christ on sight, particularly one who had somehow entered palace grounds uninvited. But even if she wanted to, she couldn’t bring herself to send him away. The empress had done much in her strange life, but she’d never met a Christian. She’d seen--and killed--many, but the idea of a normal conversation with one intrigued her too much.

For the rest of the afternoon, Cumman and Augusto walked through the garden, talking of Jesus and Odin, of how the pristine view of Sliabh Beatha compared to the seven hills of Rome. Though the monk’s face was stern, there was something calming about it. For once, the stress of royal life, the fear and doubt in Cumman’s head, were all gone. There was nothing to worry about today. Just a pleasant day talking with a new friend, learning of a strange land and stranger gods.

“Dear me, when did it get so late?” asked Cumman, looking up at the dimming sky.

“We weren’t paying attention, I suppose,” laughed Augusto. “Darkness can surprise you if you don’t keep a watch for it.”

“Well, I did very much enjoy meeting you, Augusto…” said Cumman. She always hated her attempts at royal formality. She sounded more like a child at play. “I should prepare for bed. With my husband. I wish you the best of luck with the rest of your journey.”

“Dominus vobiscum, Cumman,” answered Augusto with a bow. “I hope your kingdom can be as kind to all Christians as you are to me.”

“I told you, friend, I can’t just wave my hand and make something so. There are … certain policies in place here, much older than I am. But I’ll do what I can. You have my word of that.” With that, the empress departed for the comforts of the castle. She expected to never see the delightful pilgrim again, unaware she’d encounter him in her room that same night.

Cumman stared at the chess pieces in front of her, crude imitations of a kingdom at war. They were a preferable sight to her opponent. Though he was the same man she’d spoken to hours before, Augusto’s presence was so sinister she could barely bring herself to look at him. The monk himself didn’t seem to notice. He simply watched the board, smiling wickedly as he pinched the head of his queen.

“You know, if your plan was to improve Alba’s impression of the White Christ, threatening murder is not the way to do it,” mumbled Cumman, without making eye contact.
“I wouldn’t insult Jesus right now, if I were you.” Augusto moved his bishop with one hand, still brandishing his dagger in the other. “You don’t have much time left to accept him, but you can still be saved. Sic enim Deus dilexit mundum…”

“That’s enough of that!” interrupted Cumman, blocking the bishop’s path with a pawn. “Kill me if you must, but please, don’t pretend you’re a mystic. I’ve seen the act before, from people who did it much better than you.”

“Ah yes, Rogier and Maki. Wonderful characters.” Augusto’s bishop took the empress’s pawn. For the first time that evening, he had left Cumman unnerved.

“...You know them?”

“I am them.” For a moment, the empress was left speechless. Just a moment.

“Ridiculous. Rogier was blind. Maki was just a little girl.”

“I contain multitudes.” The monk made his move. Cumman was finally looking at his face, though by now it was less interesting than her own, eyes widening in realization.
“So…” She put a finger to her rook, thinking about the castle’s position. “Odin, Buddha, and now Christ. Just which god do you really follow?”

“Why do I have to be a follower?” Augusto said with a smile. “Don’t worry about what I am. Or do. Checkmate’s not far off, might as well do what you want in your last moments.” The empress said nothing to this; she simply made her next move. “I didn’t want it to come to this, I really didn’t. I hoped you’d realize the truth about The Plan on your own. Thought if you killed someone over it personally, with your own hands, you’d be put off enough to never do it again.”

“So you gave me Eogan…” mumbled Cumman as she made her move.

“That’s right. Didn’t work, though. Might have just given you a taste for blood, judging by how England looks these days. That’s my fault for being too subtle. So I decided I’d just tell you, make it clear no good could come of the path you’re on. But you didn’t listen. That one’s on you. The peaceful solutions didn’t work, so now you’ve got to die…” A knight took the empress’s rook. “But like I said before, it isn’t too late for you to repent.”

“And abandon The Plan?” The queen avenged her castle, capturing Augusto’s knight. “I’ve read of what becomes of the world without it. I’d be a monster to let it happen.”

“You’d be a bigger one if you follow The Plan.” A bishop aligned itself with Cumman’s queen. “You’re building a dictatorship, Cumman. I know that doesn’t mean much in this age, but eventually, there’s going to be a time when people realize dictators are bad. Like, you’ve read about Athens, right?”

“Of course, it’s part of the Ancestral Lands.” The queen retreated to safety.

“In a different book. Did you ever read about the government they used to have in Athens? Democracy? It’s supposed to return. Around the world. Everyone able to choose their own government. And you’d replace that to make them all slaves.”

“The Plan says that’s a flawed system that belongs in the past.” Cumman moved her king to the side, where pawns remained to shelter it. “If King Ryan II hadn’t abolished the council, they’d still be arguing with each other to this day. Nothing would ever get done, even if their survival depended on it. They might even elect a tyrant with all the power you fear, but not the restraint The Plan provides. The Roman Republic failed, and so will anyone who imitates it.”

“Of course The Plan says all that!” scoffed Augusto. “You’re not even yourself anymore, you’re just The Plan’s pawn!” With that word, the monk moved a pawn of his own. “You used to be smart, now there’s only one book you care about. You used to be beautiful, now you’re covered in scars you got fighting and killing for The Plan. Forget what I said earlier. I don’t feel bad for what I’m about to do. I’m not killing you, not really. The real Cumman died the day she was crowned.”

“So you preferred me before, then?” Cumman’s grip on the table tightened. “A helpless little girl, all set to be married off and forgotten? The only queen that’ll die tonight is your own.” With that, Cumman’s spare rook took the monk’s queen. “Your move.”

As Augusto stepped away from the board, there was a visible sadness in his eyes. He wished to disregard the game and slaughter the empress right there, but he had made an arrangement. He was a steward of the natural order, of things being how they should, and to go against his word would violate all he believed in. As he warned the empress so long ago, a goal cannot be achieved through opposite means.

The spirit departed, and Cumman’s campaign for the Ancestral Lands would continue without further incident. She would never sleep well again, though. The voice of doubt, of questioning The Plan, remained. And it was now terribly loud.

 

[TheIndustrial0ne]

I'm happy to see you're still going with this! I was the first to comment after you posted in the FB paradox group, and I've been enjoying your writing every step of the way.

 

[Idhrendur]

Well that's creepy. And does this mean there's a counter-plan? Another means to avoid the terrible future? Or is that future really worth it to have democracy?

 

[Thousandflowers]

Wow excellent updates!

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 16: Isten Akarja

Pope Urbanus II anxiously paced around his throne room. When he reached one side of the lengthy chamber, he spun around on one foot, then began walking towards the other. The Vicar of Christ had become possessed by fear.

In his younger days, when he was a mere bishop, the state of the world made sense. There was the Roman Catholic Church, the one true faith. There were those to the east who followed the Patriarch of Constantinople over the Bishop of Rome, still brothers in Christ despite their differences. There were the perfidious Jews, who he regularly prayed that they might still accept Christ. Then came the Saracens, disciples of a false prophet, conquerors of the Holy Land, Egypt, and Hispania. Like the Jews, the Pope prayed for their souls, though he feared any contact with their kind would be by the sword.

Finally, there were the heathens, savages clinging to their idols because the word of God had yet to reach them. The answer here, the Pope always thought, was simple: send missionaries, give them a chance to accept Christ and be saved. It would not be a quick process, but it had seemed to be one with guaranteed success. The once indomitable gods of Olympus were long dead and buried, replaced with Jesus Christ. The very city he called home once claimed Jupiter as its patron. Now, it was Saint Peter. What hope could any lesser idol stand?

Somehow, though, the situation had changed. Not only were the pagans resisting conversion, but, in apparent imitation of the Mohammedans, they’d spread their faith by conquest to Christian lands. To the west were the Norse pagans of Alba, led by Emperor Finnacan “Red-cheeks.” Blessed with both fierce anger and insatiable ambition, Finnacan had spread Alba’s reach further into France. With each new day, more in the former domain of Clovis tossed aside The Bible for some new strange scripture, known only as “The Plan.”

To the east lay an even greater threat, the Tengris of Hungary, believers in shamans and spirits. At least the Albans, savage though they were, had a veneer of organization. The Hungarian leader, Grand Prince Jeno Zsigmond II, was a syphilitic tribal and made no effort to hide it. He had no desire to build, only to conquer, and he did so with terrifying efficiency. Though France had been left smaller from its struggle against Alba, the kingdom still remained. Meanwhile, Hungary had already removed the Kingdom of Germany, the Pope’s homeland, from the map.

If left to their own devices, soon Odin and Tengri alike would push to the center of Europe, leaving Italy cornered. To the Catholics of the region, including the Bishop of Rome himself, the entire peninsula felt like walking the plank: the sea on one side, murderous pirates on the other.

“Your Holiness?” said a servant, doing his best not to comment on the unusual scene he’d walked in on. “A messenger has arrived from Constantinople.” The pope stopped in his tracks and hurried to the Chair of Saint Peter. He straightened himself in his seat, gripping firmly onto both armrests, attempting the best image he could of a man in control.

“Yes, of course,” said Urbanus. “Bring him in.” A Greek man clad in silk robes entered the room, lowering himself on one knee before the pope.

“The Emperor of the Romans, Valerios Souanites, requests the aid of the Patriarch of Rome,” said the messenger. “Emperor of the Romans,” repeated the Pope in his head. Ridiculous. Urbanus ruled Rome. Valerios had never even seen the city for himself. He was an emperor, to be sure, but not a Roman. Especially not to anyone here.

“Aid with what?” asked the pope.

“For too long, Jerusalem has been in the hands of the Saracens. Christians throughout the Orient are expected to pay tribute to warlords for denying the Prophet. Truly, these are a people for whom nothing is sacred. If their campaign continues, how long until Constantinople falls? How long until Rome? The only way to prevent this fate is for Christians to fight back. We ask that you, and all your subjects, assemble an army to assist us in freeing the Holy Land from the godless Arabs.”

Urbanus shifted in his chair. He bit down, tried to hold his breath. God’s living emissary had an image to maintain, especially in the presence of a guest. It was soon too much to hold in, though. The pope held his head back and laughed, raucously and without shame.

“Muslims!” Urbanus shouted, letting the word echo through the hall. He leaned closer to the messenger, who was far more skilled at staying silent. “You want Christians … to have a war … against Muslims! Now! That’s the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard!” He pointed to the door. “You go back home and tell the Greek Emperor to thank God he’s only got Saracens to deal with! At least they’re not complete heathens. They’ve got one false prophet. We’re surrounded by dozens of whole false gods. Don’t waste my time asking me to even think about the Saracens!” Without another word, the messenger returned to his feet and began the long, awkward walk to the first boat to Constantinople.

“Are you all right, Your Holiness?” asked the servant, once the two were alone. Without even looking at him, the pope snapped his fingers and pointed to the door again.
“Wine,” he ordered. The page ran off, leaving Urbanus to slouch in the Throne of Peter. A moment later, the servant returned, carrying a bottle of wine and a metal goblet on a tray. As soon as it was close enough, the pope snatched the bottle and began to drink directly from it.

“Unbelievable,” mumbled Urbanus, mostly to himself. “The Greeks are worrying themselves over Saracens when there’s a much bigger threat over here. It’s not even worth thinking about them. Not when God’s about to be wiped off of Europe.” He took another swig of the bottle. “We shouldn’t be helping them. They should be helping us.”

“Yes, they … should be helping us,” said the servant with a bow. The pope sat up, though only slightly.

“Christians … Christians fight back, hmm…” Another sip. The bottle was nearly half empty now, though he’d started to see it a different way. “You know what? I’ve got an idea.” With his free hand, he made a vague gesture in the page’s direction. “Maybe we go send a messenger boy of our own.”

“To Constantinople, Your Holiness?”

“No. To the world.”

Within the week, the Pope’s agents had spread across Christendom with an announcement: if the pagans would not accept Christ peacefully, if they desired violence against Christians, they would receive exactly that. The time had come to take arms against the heathen, to subjugate their lands as they had already done to Christian kingdoms. The first target would be the closest to the Vatican’s own walls: Germany must be liberated from Hungarian rule.

The thought of a holy war quickly proved a popular one. First in Italy, then France, Catholics began assembling arms as they fantasized freeing Europe from the pagan menace. Though the Prince Jeno tried to avoid the news reaching his own subjects, the gossip of a trader proved stronger than any law, and the Christians of Germany began to eagerly await the invasion of their home.

Similar thoughts would reach the Catholic community of Alba, who grew more disgusted by the faith pushed by the crown each day. It was not of Christ, that much they knew, but by now they weren’t sure if it was even of Odin. From the outside, it seemed that the Alban crown now only worshipped itself, with the time traveler as prophet, The Plan as gospel, and only a rudimentary acknowledgement of the Aesir. The remaining faithful prayed that they would be next after Germany, that the Apostles’ Creed would once more be chanted in place of “Strength but not cruelty.”

They found themselves in unlikely company, for though he would never admit it, there was perhaps no greater supporter of the coming crusade than Emperor Finnacan, whose marshal first told him the news during one of his traditional dinners: an entire roast swan for himself alone.

“Great,” he murmured, as he tore off as much of the bird’s leg as could fit in his mouth. “Let them fight each other. Without Jeno, Germany will be easy pickings.” Though Alba would play no direct part in the crusade, Finnacan had standing orders to deliver any rumor on the movements of both sides.

In the coming months, a curious sight came to each village of Germany. Every town across the kingdom saw a new fleet of cavalry, commanded by Magyars who refused to speak to the local population, not that most of them could. New fortifications were hastily built, particularly around the southwestern border, across from Christian lands. When pushed for an explanation by local authorities, Hungary’s commanders would insist it was an effort to aid the laborers of the community, creating new construction jobs so that they may not grow idle. Nobody was convinced, not when each night was accompanied by the loud prayers of shamans that Tengri might grant them protection. As unthinkable as it sounded, Germany would soon be the sight of a great war.

One fateful morning in 933, an army with crosses painted on their shields approached the Hungarian border. Most were there under orders from Rome, some from Constantinople, and a rare few even from Alexandria. They hailed from realms as close to the battlefield as Lombardy and as far from the battlefield as the failing kingdom of England, still praying their own liberation was to follow. At the front of it all was Erichnoald Petringi, a knight in the Pope’s command who held every word of Christ dear, save “Blessed are the peacemakers.”

In the distance, Alban scouts watched the border. As ordered, they would only observe the conflict, so as to deliver a report to the crown. They saw Christian and Tengri charge towards each other at the Hungarian border. They saw lances piercing throats, axes cleaving apart heads. In the days to come, they would have seen the walls of Stuttgart demolished, heard the screams of civilians as the armies of Christ rode through the streets, watched soldiers run out of the local temples, shattering any item that carried even the illusion of idolatry. Their full report to Emperor Finnacan can be viewed to this day in the private collection of a library in Clauin Eois, and has been reproduced in its entirety here:

“It’s terrible.”

Though it seemed at the time it never would, the terror eventually ended. As Pope Urbanus II had hoped, Germany was liberated. The Kingdom of Hungary, though still alive, had been crippled in a way it would never truly recover from. Erchinoald was crowned the first king of the new Germany, and wasted no time purging his lands of whatever pagan influence remained.

Back in Rome, the Pope had the first restful sleep he could remember. Christianity had triumphed over paganism once again. He didn’t delude himself into thinking his mission was over, though. Elsewhere in Europe, Hungary still remained. And so did Alba.

 

[Cromwell]

It seems the plan has powerful enemy. Alba must not be the new Germany, the Pope must be humbled.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 17: The Pitiful Adventures of Ceithernach the Mad

For nearly two centuries now, the Empire of Alba had grown strong. Though the British Isles were not yet completely conquered, it seemed it would only be a matter of time before the meager remains of England fell, paving the way for the rest of the Ancestral Lands.

What had led to such success? What turned an island of tribals into the empire that terrified all Christendom? Much of it could be attributed to The Plan, of course, which lent its leaders an unprecedented foresight. But even this gift was worthless without capable leaders that could carry out its instructions. Somehow, the time traveler’s lineage had produced just that, a lengthy series of rulers who, despite their personal flaws, were capable of understanding and executing The Plan.

A series that would finally be interrupted when Emperor Finnacan choked to death at one of his nightly feasts, leaving the throne to Emperor Ceithernach.

Before he claimed the throne, it was easy to see the appeal that led to Ceithernach’s election as tanist. He had mastered the art of diplomacy from an early age, and was a skilled warrior on top of it all. Though he was short, he was of a fierce physique, leading to the more devout pagans of the empire to think he was one of the dwarves of Svartalfheim in the flesh. The idea was enforced by the emperor’s own piety, for he revered Thor so much it was no stretch to believe he was one of the forgers of Mjolnir.

He was a man of many strengths, and only one weakness: He was insane.

Nobody was sure if The Plan had driven him to madness, or if he’d been that way long before, but the emperor clearly wasn’t well. Many servants reported seeing their liege late at night, running through the halls shouting curses at unseen enemies. Eventually, he’d stop in his tracks, out of breath, fire in his chest. He’d heave and moan loud enough to wake the whole castle, even spit on the ground, before running and screaming once more.

This isn’t to say that he was blind to The Plan. If nothing else, he understood the military campaigns it demanded. This meant the marshal deserved special attention among his council, much to the pain of whoever held that seat.

“Have you conquered England yet?” Ceithernach asked the marshal, as he did every morning.

“We’re still working on it.” The marshal breathed deeply through his nostrils. His new job had quickly taught him the importance of patience. “Once our forces are resupplied, we’ll ready a siege of Norfolk.”

“What about Sussex? Have you done Sussex yet?”

“...No, the army’s en route to Norfolk. But once they’ve finished, we could send them south if you’d…”

“Send them to Sussex! Top of the list!” The emperor demanded, pointing his thumb to the ceiling.

“Of course,” said the marshal, through clenched teeth and a forced smile. “I’ll send an order to redirect them right away.” The next morning, Ceithernach approached the marshal again.

“Have you conquered England yet?”

“The order to redirect to Sussex is en route,” the marshal answered calmly. In the days to come, this exchange would repeat, again and again, word for word. Hundreds of miles away, soldiers at the gates of Norfolk cursed and complained as they abandoned a mission in progress for their new orders.

“We’re really pushing this to Sussex?” whined a siege engineer, gesturing towards his catapult. But they were in no position to refuse a command from the crown. After a trip so miserable the battle that followed felt like relief, Sussex had fallen.

“Have you conquered England yet?” asked Ceithernach the next day.

“Sussex is now under our control,” announced the marshal, smiling proudly. The emperor didn’t share the sentiment. He simply stared at the commander.

“...What about Norfolk?” he asked.

“You said to go to Sussex instead.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re way past due on Norfolk now. I need you to take over Norfolk. Top of the list!” The marshal’s body began to shake with rage. He threw his hands up into the air and screamed, storming out of the council chambers. At this, Ceithernach smiled.

The next marshal brought in to take his place would soon quit himself, though not nearly as dramatically. So did the one who replaced the replacement. As the cycle repeated again and again, Ceithernach’s marshal was seen as a cursed position. The only thing more dreaded than fighting the Alban army was managing them.

The rest of his council didn’t fare much better. At times it seemed the emperor thrived on granting assignments that would place them in harm’s way, such as when he sent a seeress to convert the Archbishop of Canterbury. “It’ll save so much time!” Ceithernach insisted. “Convert the archbishop, and then he’ll go convert everyone else when they come to church!” Seeress Gydja questioned her liege’s reasoning, but knew that a good employee always did what was asked of them.

The castle staff at Airgialla soon devoted most of their time ensuring no word of the emperor’s madness left the castle walls. The future depended on Alba’s survival, and with silence, they hoped, it would endure the reign of one bad emperor.

Despite their efforts, however, rumors of Ceithernach’s antics soon spread, particularly among those with a claim to the empire. The first to take advantage was Iestan, a distant offshoot of the time traveler’s dynasty, which was by now so large many of its members knew nothing of their duty. A proud Catholic, Iestan had long wanted to rise against the ruling apostates in his family, and saw this as good a reason as any to finally take action.

A powerful friend had once promised Alba would never fall from within, and even now he honored that agreement. Iestan sheepishly surrendered days into the revolt, just as many would-be usurpers before him. But such events were now a near monthly occurrence. Throughout Alba, nobles and commoners alike rallied around the nearest claimant to the throne they could find, in hopes of someone, anyone, being a new, saner emperor.

One particular camp in the Isle of Man hoped to install Princess Lerben, a daughter of the late Emperor Finnacan who remained a guest in the castle halls. Eventually, word of the faction reached Ceithernach. The little girl in his castle was a threat to his rule. Every time he saw her, playing in the halls, eating breakfast in the morning, he was haunted by the thought that she’d take it all away from him.

So he ate her.

For all of his flaws, though, Ceithernach still understood the importance of expanding Alba’s realm. Indeed, under his rule, the empire made its first forays into Scandinavia, settling on the coast of Westrobothnia. Long before that, Roman missionaries had convinced the northerners to accept Christ and toss aside the idols of Asgard. Now, the Gothar of Alba had a means to return the Aesir to their native lands.

By now, the tales of Ceithernach the Child-Eater had spread well outside Alba’s borders, to even ears in the Vatican. To Pope Silvester IV, the time was ripe for a second Crusade. He had the perfect enemy in Ceithernach, a ruler so unpopular even the most devout pagans of Alba were likely to welcome their Catholic liberators.

Of course, rumors of the Pope’s plan traveled to Airgialla just as easily. As with the princess before, Ceithernach used this threat to his rule to demonstrate his unique talent for creative problem-solving.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” asked the new pope, as he watched his predecessor be lowered into the earth. “We’ve got Jesus Christ on our side. They’ve got a bunch of statues. We have God’s messengers on earth. They have a man who ate a little girl. How are we losing?”

“Unified leadership, perhaps,” whispered the Patriarch of Constantinople, sent to represent the Roman Empire at the funeral. “One order is easier to follow than two, even if it is from a man who eats children.”

“Can’t even wait until the old pope’s all the way in the ground before you start stirring trouble again, can you?”

“Not stirring trouble, just making an observation. Christians have two people to listen to, me and you.”

“And Jesus.”

“Right, and Jesus, of course. The Saracens have got two different caliphs, don’t they? But the heathens just have their emperor. One person, one set of orders to follow.”

“But he’s a lunatic.”

“You think pagans care? If they were capable of making good decisions they wouldn’t be pagans in the first place. We’re divided, and they’re not. We argue with each other, and they act without thinking. As long as that’s the case, we can’t compete.”

“And which of us would you want in charge, I wonder?” The old pope was fully buried now, but the new pope wasn’t even looking.

“I suppose the fairest method would be to pick whoever’s been a leader longer.” The Patriarch could barely conceal his smile.

“That’s you, though. I just became Pope, that’s not fair and you know it.”

“All right, then. How about whoever tends to the most people?”

“That’s you too.”

“The one closest to the Holy Land? The one that the strongest secular ruler favors? The one with the language more people speak? The one who hasn’t already lost to pagans again and again?”

“Stop it! Stop, this isn’t funny! All of these are you.”

“Really?” The mourners had begun to disperse. The few who hadn’t were looking more at the new pope’s scowling face than the old pope’s grave. “Well, I suppose it should be me, then.” The Pope leaned towards the Patriarch until they were close enough to kiss, not that either of them ever would.

“I have a plan to unite Christianity,” said the Bishop of Rome. “One where we’d both have a chance to lead.”

“And what would that be?” asked the Patriarch, already knowing the answer.

Without even realizing it, the madness of Ceithernach had pitted Christian against Christian, too obsessed with their differences to even think about the enemy that threatened them both. The Pope summoned the full forces of the Roman Catholic Church, demanding that the Greek traitors to the line of Peter be brought to justice for their heresies. A mighty army marched east, walking through Tengri Hungary without even a second thought to the pagans they once fought a crusade against. They weren’t worth it. They had to focus on the real enemy. The true threat to Christianity.

Through Greece the Catholics marched, breaking into every Orthodox church they could find and destroying everything inside. (“Not again,” remarked many a bishop.) Eventually, they arrived at Constantinople, and the indomitable Walls of Theodosius. For centuries, the city’s fortifications had stood as a testament to the invincibility of the Empire. But no wall could ever hope to stand if enough people wanted it down. Every healthy Catholic man in Europe was part of the lengthy siege. As West pushed against East for days on end, the army’s accompanying bishops read from the Book of Joshua, reminding both sides of the siege what God had done to the walls of Jericho. It took more time than seven days, and greater weapons than trumpets, but Constantinople’s walls would soon meet the same fate.

The Patriarch of Constantinople, who had indirectly started the Crusade, was unharmed in the ensuing carnage, as the soldiers had strict orders to not touch the Hagia Sophia. Instead, he had the unique privilege of watching in horror as the rest of the city burned. Sources claim that Kyros, the last Roman Emperor, escaped the city, but like his Western counterpart five centuries prior nobody is sure of what became of him after. As far as most are concerned, he simply disappeared, and a prestigious line of emperors as ancient as Augustus Caesar went with him.

The Roman Empire had fallen, destroyed on orders from Rome.

When news of the fall of Constantinople reached Airgialla, Ceithernach burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, cackling madly for hours on end, only stopping to breathe. Greece was part of the Ancestral Lands. Many an emperor dreaded the day they’d finally fight for it, to face an older, greater empire. Now they’d never have to. The Empire was in pieces, each of which could be trivially picked up.

Ceithernach decided to celebrate with a night of passionate, furious lovemaking with the only woman he ever desired.

 

[Cromwell]

It might be for the best if the time traveler's dynasty retook the leadership. The incumbent seems a little odd... Rule with strength not with cruelty doesn't seem compatible with eating children.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 18: Rule Hibernia

Despite the fear of many an Alban that being ruled by an idiot would spell the end of their nation, Ceithernach’s many bizarre sexual exploits would one day kill him, and the Empire did not go with him.

In his place was Emperor Lorcan, already 59 years old when he took the throne. Frail from birth and wrought with bouts of paranoia, most assumed Lorcan’s reign would be brief and unremarkable. The first aspect proved true, but the second was as far from it as could be. Lorcan would receive the great privilege of being the ruler to finally unite the British Isles.

By the time of Lorcan’s coronation, the Kingdom of England was on its last legs. Save a small exclave in Normandy, all that remained of England was a small circle in the center of the island. They were surrounded on all sides by Alba, like sharks circling their prey.

Culturally, they had already fallen to Alba, as a series of royal marriages with Bhreatain Bheag had placed the Kingdom of Lloegyr, as its new king called it, under Welsh rule. Yet the English remained independent, with no regard at all for the plan. Like all those before him, Lorcan knew the things England would do one day if it was not destroyed. His predecessors were satisfied with incremental change. Pick England apart, one province at a time, and eventually it will fall. Two hundred years of that, and it still stood. No more, he decided. It was time for real change, by any means necessary. On the night of his coronation, long after the party had ended and the new emperor was by himself, he placed his hand on The Plan and swore a solemn oath to the time traveler and all the gods of Asgard: England would die before he did.

However, the greatest enemy in Lorcan’s reign was not England, but a force much smaller, and from farther away. It started as nothing more than rumors from traveling traders, passed along from one market to another until it had gone as far as Airgialla. The core of the rumor was clear, though: something was wrong in distant Cathay.

When the word first reached Emperor Lorcan, he didn’t think a Chinese plague was any concern of his. There was a time, he knew, that Alba would need to concern itself with the Far East, but he was sure he would be long dead by then. There were too many pressing issues that demanded his attention right now.

But just as word could travel far beyond China, so too could the plague. Not long after, the same traders, looking considerably paler than before, spread rumors from Persia, claiming the Saracens had suffered the same sickness.

At this, Lorcan cursed. He was stubborn, but no fool. The plague was heading west, and it would only be a matter of time before it reached Alba. So much of the royal coffers had already been spent outfitting the army, preparing for war against England. Now he needed to divert whatever funds he could into the empire’s physicians. Few things were as frustrating as a plan falling apart, and he was working with the most elaborate plan of all time.

Fortunately, past rulers with a better heart than he had already built hospitals throughout Eire. A small sum was set aside for whatever expenses the empire’s doctors might deem necessary, and a team of scribes ensured no province was without at least a basic understanding of Hippocrates and Galen.

But in spite of it all, Lorcan’s soldiers still wielded the best arms money could buy, and they still drilled daily for the coming war. The pandemic had not stopped Lorcan’s aspirations, but only made them stronger. He swore an oath England would die before he did. With talk of a plague on all the world, Lorcan feared his death would come sooner than expected. This meant, of course, England’s must as well.

When the order came to march on England, Lorcan’s knights could scarcely believe the order. Most of them were dying already, or at least felt close enough to it. If they had their way, they’d be doing the same thing as the rest of the empire, lying in bed and waiting for relief, in one form or another. But the crown had deemed their work essential. Lorcan made this word sound like high praise, yet the workers who heard it felt more like sacrificial lambs than heroes.

Still, it was an order from the emperor, and that made it law. The final, horrible campaign against England had begun, blood in the summer of plague.

Though the war lasted only a few months, to all involved it seemed like it would never end. The Bishop of Worcester, tasked with comforting English soldiers in their final moments, observed a cruel irony as he reflected on the war in his later writings from prison. The dying English had Heaven to look forward to. The dying Irish had Valhalla, an eternal battlefield. They would leave a war that only seemed unending for one that truly was. Hell seemed merciful compared to their Heaven.

The battles themselves would have seemed comical, were they not so gruesome. Soldiers on both sides appeared more like shambling corpses than fighting men, slowly teetering across the battlefield with all the energy of the sick, barely able to hold their swords. Most men fell over dead, or close enough to it, before an enemy weapon could go anywhere near them. At times it seemed less a war between Alba and England than man and disease, and at least there the winner was clear.

As for Lorcan, he would know nothing of the war he had started until after it was over. As the land was consumed by equal parts plague and fear, the emperor had closed the gates of Airgialla’s palace as soon as his armies first marched off. He, and the most trusted members of his court, were trapped inside, physically safe yet cursed with maddening isolation.

None of them knew when, or if, they’d ever be allowed to see the world outside again. Minor annoyances, like the heat of the room, were now infuriating. Things once seen as the comfort of home, like the imperial library, seemed more like the amenities of a cell. They had each other, at least. But they also had each other’s thoughts.

“What if this is punishment from God?” asked a bored chambermaid, rocking back and forth as she cradled her legs in a fetal position.

“Which god?” asked Lorcan, idly brushing the dust off the nearest wall.

“You know which one.” At this, the emperor scowled.

“There’s something there, isn’t it?” asked the court Gothi, a converted bishop. “I remember before, there was this story…” He put a hand to his forehead, struggling as he recalled forbidden knowledge. “...Something about a plague and a king?”

“So Eir heals plague and the White Christ starts it.” Lorcan was pacing around the room now. “All the more reason England needs to be crushed.” He stared out the window, out at the radiant sky. Even on a pristine day like this, it seemed so dark inside.

“What if it’s already over?” he mused. “What if we won days ago, and nobody ever told us?”

“What if we lost?” asked the marshal. Before he could even realize what he’d said, Lorcan ran across the room and punched the soldier in the face.

“Then we gather whoever’s left and do it all again. England must be destroyed.”

“Sure all the widows we’ve already made will love that,” retorted the marshal, rubbing where he was struck.

“I’m dealing with the fate of the world here. I don’t care what some widows think.”

“You should, you’ll be one of them soon.” His first remarks came with immediate regret. This one, an unrepentant smile. Everyone remembered the events two days prior, even if they wouldn’t speak of it.

For the emperor’s safety, he claimed, Flannacan refused to let Lorcan see his wife while he tended to her. All he had was the physician’s word that she was sick, but stable. He’d tried his hardest not to think about it until now. The marshal was still smiling. He knew he’d suffer for it, but telling off the emperor was the only relief he’d had since the quarantine began. Lorcan said nothing. He simply charged at his councilor, pinning him to the ground with both hands wrapped around his throat.

“You … evil … bastard!” mumbled the emperor. “I’m going to turn you into meat pie and eat you while your children watch for that!” The marshal pushed the emperor away and returned to his feet, unsheathing a dagger. The rest of the room said nothing, but made no effort to leave, only watch.

“Big talk! Big talk! I fought the whole French army, you think I’m scared of a scrawny old man? You want your pie, come cut a piece.”

“It’ll take more than a child’s knife to stop the emperor!” Lorcan drew his longsword, barely able to be held indoors without scratching the walls. The rest of the court stared on in silent horror, desperately wishing the two would start but unable to conjure the words. The two men ran at each other, only for a panting messenger to run into the room before blade could meet flesh.

“It’s … it’s over!” the young courtier declared. In that moment, it was as if the marshal never existed.

“What is?” Lorcan asked.

“The war, my liege. They’ve surrendered.”

If the quarantined in Airgialla were on the cusp of madness, their counterparts in England had long since crossed the threshold. At least Lorcan’s castle was far apart from any battlefield. The court in England was surrounded by war. Even in the dead of night, as they tried to sleep, they could hear the screams of the dying, the thunder of cannons. After months of death, both the fear inside and the reality outdoors, the remaining lords of England were willing to do anything to make it stop, and so the ultimate sacrifice was made. The last trace of resistance in the British Isles had capitulated. Alba was now a truly united empire, underneath the rule of Lorcan and The Plan.

After the plague had subsided, Lorcan threw a celebration unlike any seen in Alba before. The castle of Airgialla was stuffed with visitors from all across the empire, drinking and dancing with a fervor not seen in years. The emperor himself was smiling the brightest of them all; the cruel warlord his court had grown accustomed to seemed to have disappeared.

Similar joy could be found on the faces of all those attending from Scotland and Wales, by now all too accustomed to life under the rule of The Plan. The humbled visitors from newly-annexed England had the weakest smiles at the event, though they won every single drinking contest. Even a few foreign dignitaries were in attendance, mostly in hopes of placating the man who’d soon set his eyes on the mainland.

The few exceptions were refugees of the old Roman Empire, many of them former Orthodox bishops. Following the fall of Constantinople, the Pope had formally declared the faith of the Greeks to be heresy. Ironically, the bishops found more tolerance in Alba than they did under any Catholic ruler.

Though it seemed as if the entire realm and then some had attended the feast, the highlight occurred in the dead of night, with only one witness. With a pulsing head and a mouth of cotton, the barely conscious Lorcan wandered into his room. Empress Aelflaeda was still in the ballroom, celebrating the victory--and her recovery--with more energy than she’d had in her life. Lorcan didn’t mind. It meant he could enjoy the space of the bed alone, or so he thought.

He shut his eyes and tossed and turned for a few minutes, trying to force himself to rest in spite of the fire that lingered in his body. After a while, it hurt to even keep his eyes closed. They sprung open, and his heart skipped a beat. A figure was standing over him in the darkness, though the emperor couldn’t see his face.

“Congratulations, Lorcan,” said the stranger. “I’m surprised it had taken this long, but England is yours.” The emperor tried to speak, or maybe scream, but found himself without the energy to make a sound. “The challenges ahead are even greater, though. Perhaps I should extend the agreement I made. It’ll have to end eventually, though. After you have all the Ancestral Lands? Would that be fair?” The room fell silent, as one of the men waited for an answer the other couldn’t possibly give. “...Well, I’ll find something that works. In the end, it’ll all go according to Plan.” With that, the figure stepped out of the door, leaving the frightened emperor alone.

He didn’t sleep that night.

 

[Cromwell]

A close call with the mightiest of enemies at the end there.

I assume the rest of France will be next logical target, or Scandinavia maybe?

 

[NarcomancerPL]

I think now we have evidence, that "The Plan" is not good thing and maybe even work of evil forces...

 

[Cromwell]

Heresy!

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 19: The Crusade for France

With the British Isles now safely under Alban rule, the empire could shift its focus to the rest of the Ancestral Lands. During his quarantine, Lorcan had prepared some rudimentary plans for an invasion of France, though he found himself with no time to make them a reality. He swore England would fall before he did, and it was that oath, through plague and war, that kept him alive. Not long after fulfilling his vow, he paid the price for it.

Succeeding him was Emperor Donnucan the Butcher, leader of the Wolf Warriors. Though his reign was brief, it marked a noticeable break from tradition. Unlike every emperor before him, Donnucan did not dedicate his first day on the throne to reading The Plan. He was a warrior and a brute, through and through, and detested anything intellectual. To him, any time spent on the mind was neglecting the body, and “literate” was just another word for “weak.” The Plan said to take over France. That, he felt, was all he needed to know about it.

But before he could even think of France, a quirk of inheritance had caused the Scottish county of Fife to leave his realm. It was now under the rule of the Latin Empire, the new Catholic kingdom propped up by the Vatican as the new heirs to Constantinople. Ironically, the Bolghars who ruled the Latin Empire were recent converts from Tengriism themselves, less Christian than the Orthodox Empire they had seized their territory from. But Khagan Shilki pledged allegiance to the Pope, and that was enough.

Not long after, Latin boats stuffed with Catholic settlers set sail for Scotland, a Christian enclave in the middle of the Ancestral Lands. Shrines to the Aesir were gutted, returned to the Catholic churches they originally were. Shilki himself praised the retaking of Fife as a second, smaller Constantinople, a symbol of how Jesus Christ would always triumph over heathens and heretics.

From the comfort of the Great Palace, this was an easy claim for the khagan to make. To the Catholics of Fife, there was no doubt their defiance would be short-lived. A lone Catholic province surrounded by a zealous pagan empire, ruled by a warlord who loved conquest more than all who came before him. The churches prayed to Jesus once more, but mostly they prayed to survive what was to come.

As expected, Donnucan soon declared war on the Latin Empire to take back what was his. The khagan dispatched his armies as quickly as he could, but the time it took for a boat to travel from Constantinople to Scotland was more than enough for Donnucan to lay waste to the province. He hadn’t read The Plan, knew nothing of the phrase “strength, but not cruelty.” The emperor showed no mercy to traitors, even to the point of desecrating the graves of fallen saints.

Though the churches were destroyed, a certain piece of Christian imagery became even more widespread in Donnucan’s wake. If they wanted to be like the White Christ, he reasoned, they should meet his fate. When the Latin Army finally reached Fife, they were greeted by a forest of giant wooden crosses, a dead Catholic nailed to each one of them.
“Your Holiness?” said a servant in Rome. “Khagan Shilki is here to see you.”

“A messenger from him, you mean?” asked the pope in his throne.

“No, sir.” The servant stepped aside to reveal the khagan, clad in the bloody armor of a Bolghar warrior. Despite his conversion, Shilki could never abandon the aesthetic of his pagan ancestors. There was something to be said for striking fear in the hearts of king and priest alike just by looking at you. As the ruler of the Latin Empire, Christendom praised the khagan as the new Caesar, but deep down he’d rather be the new Attila.

“They’ve had it easy for too long,” he snarled. “They spread their idols, they loot our churches, and now they’ve ruined my land! I want another one.”

“A … another what?” asked the Pope.

“Another Crusade, what do you think? Burn the whole damned thing down, like we did to the Greeks.”

“The Alban Question isn’t as easy to answer as you think. Their forces might be larger than the Greeks by now. They’re farther away too.”

“I don’t care if they’re on the moon.” Shilki stepped uncomfortably close to the Throne of Peter. He could have grabbed the pope’s throat in that very moment, if he wished, and they both knew it. “They attacked my people, and they’ve got to pay for it.”

“Beati pacifici quoniam filii Dei vocabuntur,” quoted the Pope, a hand held up to Heaven. His eyes were shut in solemnity, not looking at Shilki, not looking at his anger, not looking at what drove him here. He didn’t care. He was glad they were dead. That must be it. The khagan spat on the ground, inches away from the pope’s throne.

“Beatus qui tenebit et adlidet parvulos tuos ad petram,” he quoted back. “The Latin Empire will march on Alba. With or without your aid.”

“You can’t win against them alone.”

“No, I can’t.” The khagan looked to the ground in shame. “But I can take as many heathens with me as I can. And if I do nothing, I’ll never know peace. I’ve made my choice. Now make yours.”

While the Bishop of Rome agonized over his decision, the Emperor of Alba enjoyed the most pleasant evening he’d had in years. He had celebrated his victory against the Catholic menace by spending the evening with his fellow Wolf Warriors, singing and dancing and downing all the mead he could handle. It was a perfect day, but like all of them, it had to end. The emperor was now in bed, silk covers on top of him, a loving wife asleep at his side, and a belly of mead to satisfy him until the morning. He could die happy, he thought. A few hours later, he did.

In the days to come, rumors would circulate through the Empire over Donnucan’s death. One servant claimed he’d seen a chambermaid in the castle earlier that day who had never been there before. A few members of the Wolf Warriors complained of feeling sicker than usual after their drinking contest, as if someone had tainted the mead. Countless theories would develop over the years of just what killed the emperor. One of them was even true, though the man who guessed it would never know. But whatever the reason, Donnucan was dead.

In his place was Emperor Dubthach, only eighteen years old. Despite his youth, he was blessed with unusual strength, making him appear almost like a hero of classical myth. He had the temperament to suit the reputation, a man of ambition and pride, already blessed with the empire’s highest honor at a young age. But behind the new emperor’s impressive facade lay a man of only modest skill. The only true achievement to his name was finishing his schooling, and just barely, at that.

This was not to say that Dubthach didn’t care for his royal duties. Indeed, on his first day alone he proved an improvement over his predecessor by reading The Plan, or at least attempting to. But not long after, he would inherit a responsibility not even the wisdom of The Plan could prepare him for.

Though Emperor Donnucan was dead, Khagan Shilki’s demand for justice remained. In fear of the new heir to the Romans dying violently, the Pope had given in. The Third Crusade was underway, targeting a child who had never even heard of the first two.

When news reached Dubthach that all of Christendom would soon march on his borders, the young emperor thought little of it. To him, the crusade was a chance to prove his worth as both a ruler and a warrior, nothing more.

The beginning of the war seemed to confirm Dubthach’s attitude. The first army to join the Crusade for France was France herself, the kingdom with the most to lose. The initial battles were no more than one-sided conflicts between Alba and France, the same skirmishes Dubthach’s predecessors had fought for years to pick the kingdom apart, county by county.

Eager to prove himself a worthy successor to the crown, Dubthach even traveled to the mainland to personally fight in the Crusade. The idea that he’d be up against an entire religion never occurred to him. To Dubthach, the entire ordeal wasn’t even truly a war. It was a game, the sort of make-believe war he’d played at with his father years ago.

The gravity of the situation only reached him as reinforcements arrived. With the fall of the Orthodox Church, the Pope commanded nearly all of Christendom, with all the soldiers that entailed. France, Germany, Lombardy, and the fractured remnants of old Byzantium had all gathered for the young emperor’s head. At the front of it all rode Khagan Shilki. The crosses of Fife were trapped in his mind. Even as he slept, he could see his subjects rotting away. It was time for Alba to know a fraction of the torment they’d done to others.

Though Alba’s mainland holdings offered considerable levies, the bulk of her army remained in the Isles, too far to offer aid in time. The forces at Dubthach’s side quickly proved no match for tens of thousands of Crusaders. With each day came news of another defeat, of Alban France pushed further away until all that remained of it was a thin rind of beach.

The war reached its ultimate low at the Battle of Mortain, where the Latin Army had pushed its way to the coasts. “Let them swim!” roared Shilki, as his men routed Alban cavalry into the sea. “This is God’s land, and they don’t deserve an inch of it!” In the midst of the carnage, he caught sight of a young soldier holding a pristine axe, one that had clearly never known battle before this day. Such a weapon this late in the war could only belong to a man of wealth. To the emperor.

“Come over here!” roared Shilki, charging towards Dubthach. Before the emperor could even realize what had happened, the khagan had pinned him to the ground. Shilki tossed his sword aside. For this, he wanted his bare hands.

“Let them be like their god!” Shilki sunk his hand into Dubthach’s eye socket. In a battlefield filled with screaming, the emperor’s agony drowned out all others. “That’s what your old emperor said, didn’t he, huh? When he put my people on a cross? That’s what you think is right, is it, you damned heathen?” He felt something thick, deep inside Dubthach’s head. He began to pull. “Well maybe … you should be … like yours!”

In the safety of his tent, Dubthatch felt the bandages wrapped around where his eye used to be. There was an unbearable phantom pain, begging him to rub at an eye that no longer existed. In the distance, the horrible sounds of battle raged as strongly as before, even without their leader.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” asked Dubthach despondently.

“I don’t think so, no,” said the physician, wrapping another row of bandages around his liege’s head. “But I’d trust in what the soldiers have to say.”

“No, it’s over,” moaned the emperor’s marshal, swaying back and forth with a bottle of wine in his hand. “Better practice your surrendering now, this time tomorrow this whole land will be Catholic.” Suddenly, in spite of all the misery, the emperor began to smile.

“That’s just what I’ll do,” he said. “Send a messenger to the crusaders. Tell them we’re prepared to discuss terms of surrender.”

The Pope writhed uncomfortably in his seat. The chair offered to him by the Archbishop of Rouen for his visit may have been fine for anyone stuck out here, but it paled in comparison to the comfort of the Throne of Peter. Khagan Shilki chose to stand, cleaning his sword as he waited for the enemy to arrive.

“You don’t need to do that,” said the pope. “It’s a surrender. There won’t be any fighting.”

“You know, the Greeks left a lot of books behind in Constantinople.” Shilki held the blade up to his face, taking a moment to admire his reflection. “One of them’s got a funny story about a surrender. See, there’s this giant horse…” The doors of the church swung open. Emperor Dubthach approached his enemies, armed escorts at his side.

“We surrender,” he said plainly, as he sat opposite the pope. “All of Alba’s holdings in the region will be placed under Catholic rule, and I’m willing to attend a humbling public ceremony to make the announcement official.”

“We’re both pleased to hear that,” said the pope. He turned to look at the khagan, who was staring at the door, trying to avoid eye contact with both of them. “You’d cede it back to France, I assume? Although I’m sure the Latin Empire would be happy to take it under its rule.”

“I didn’t say I was giving anything up. I said they’d be placed under Catholic rule. And I’d attend a ceremony for it. A baptism.”

“You can’t be serious!” screamed Shilki.

“I am. Following false idols has caused me nothing but pain. You should know that better than anyone.” The emperor tugged at the bandages hiding the hideous wound that was once his eye. “I’m prepared to accept Jesus as my savior, and teach all of Alba to do the same.”

“It’s the horse,” whispered Shilki into the pope’s ear. “It’s worse than the horse. He’s planning something. He has to be, if we’re supposed to let him keep everything.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said the pope, even quieter. “But we’re not in the business of turning away converts. Especially one as big as this. We say no to him, every other heathen will assume we’ll do the same.” Both of the Catholics looked to the pagan in front of them.

“Quod Deus purificavit, tu commune ne dixeris,” Dubthach quoted with a smile.

The next day, Emperor Dubthach was lowered into a baptismal font by the Pope, cleansed of his sins for all of France to see. All of Christendom cheered at the end of another victorious crusade.

Soldiers who survived were reunited with their families. The dead were buried and mourned. In Rome, the Pope celebrated another triumph of Christianity, and went to sleep at night with wonderful thoughts of Hungary. In Constantinople, Khagan Shilki publicly praised the victory, but went deep into the imperial wine cellars when nobody could see him. And in Airgialla, the newly converted Emperor Dubthach opened a new cathedral. He attended Mass every week and sang the praises of Christ. And when everyone had returned home, when the Crusade was nothing more than an ugly memory that nobody would dare revisit, he sacrificed to Odin once more, an offering from one oathbreaker to another.

Days passed since the great deception was revealed. Each morning the emperor woke with a strange anxiety. This would be the day, he thought, an angry messenger came to him and announced the crusade had begun anew. And every day, he was proven wrong. After a while, Dubthach’s de-conversion was as old and forgotten as the war that preceded it. Once more, he could resume his royal duties without fear.

“Where to, my liege?” asked the driver, as the emperor shut the door of the carriage behind him. With the crack of a whip, the horses began to walk.

“Dubhlinn,” said the emperor. “There’s a new shrine to Tyr for me to dedicate.”

“Dubhlinn it is.” The carriage headed towards the nearest southbound road. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not as smart as the priests. Tyr’s the god of…?”

“War,” said the emperor with a smile. “Protector of soldiers. They said they wanted a warrior king at the ceremony. The champion of the Crusades!”

“Champion of the Crusades…” repeated the driver. The carriage was outside of the city now, nothing but wilderness as far as anyone could see. “But that’s not right, isn’t it? You lost that.”

“No I didn’t!” said the emperor with a chuckle. “Still got the crown, still got my land … only thing I lost is this right here.” He pointed at his eyepatch.

“But you surrendered.” The horses started to pick up speed. “You were only allowed to keep anything because you promised to accept Jesus Christ. Which you then went back on.” With this, all the levity vanished from the emperor’s face.

“So who sent you?” Dubthach asked. “The Pope? Shilki?”

“My employers value principle,” he said, eyes still on the road. Not even for a moment would he honor his victim with a glance. “They like order. They like it when things go according to plan. A proper plan, not the ramblings of a crazy old king.”

“And what does this plan lead to?” said the emperor. The only answer to this was the driver’s silence and the gallop of hooves.

“There are things my employers dislike too,” the driver eventually said. “One of them is cheating. Maybe that’s why they hate your Plan so much. Kind of one big effort to cheat the world, when you think about it. But your kingdom’s done plenty of little cheating along the way, with the help of that friend of yours. Cheat yourself more money, cheat away any revolts, even cheat your way out of a crusade.” The horses were moving at an unnatural pace now. Outside, the emperor could see nothing but a bright green blur.

“Listen, I don’t know what the men before me did, but I’m not like them!” The carriage was beginning to shake. “Tell them I’m willing to talk with them! Negotiate!”

“Like you negotiated with the Pope?” The driver let go of the reins. The horses were now moving without guidance. “We forgive you, all we’re doing is giving you a pass to cheat again. No, we’re done with forgiveness, Dubthach. For you and everyone after you.” The carriage careened to one side. Dubthach felt weightless. He felt his stomach rising up to his head. And then, he felt nothing.

 

[Cromwell]

Well the young emperor got his punishment for kowtowing to the pope pretty quickly but the real question is who was the coach driver sent by?

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Chapter 20: Skipping Ahead

Though it spelled his own doom, the deceit of Emperor Dubthach had succeeded in its goal. The Empire of Alba had survived intact, even with God Himself calling for its destruction. Every emperor to follow, as well as all those lower in the chain of command, were now convinced the empire was invincible. The true challenge of The Plan was no longer in implementing it, but in waiting. Given enough time, future emperors decided, eventually it would bring about itself.

This seemed to be confirmed by the greed of the empire’s lesser vassals, who waged constant wars of conquest to expand their demesne, inadvertently bringing more of the Ancestral Lands under Alba’s wing. The Kingdom of France would fall not at the hands of an enlightened emperor, but of King Dyfnwallon II, an English Catholic vassal. He knew nothing of The Plan, and would have called it blasphemy if he had. He did not take France because a man from the future decreed it must be taken, but simply because he wanted it.

The empire permitted these vassal-led invasions, as it would fulfill the first order of The Plan sooner. But trusting these conquests to the aimless whims of vassals also brought a slew of unexpected new territories, firmly outside of the Ancestral Lands, such as when the newly-conquered French vassals chose to veer into northern Iberia.

In the years to come, many emperors would agonize over what to do with these unwanted spoils. It seemed wrong to object to any new territory, but the Ancestral Lands had firm borders. To take land elsewhere was to deviate from The Plan, and not following The Plan, they were told, would mean the death of mankind.

The Plan itself offered no specific guidance on this subject. The time traveler had never anticipated his kingdom extending beyond the Ancestral Lands. In truth, he’d be surprised to learn it had already come this far. The closest he ever came to giving any advice for this unthinkable issue came in a single passage:

Stay out of Africa. Stay out of the Middle East. Stay out of the Americas.

A command that was somehow both clear and confusing. There were boundaries Alba was never meant to conquer, that much was clear, but what of places that were neither the Ancestral Lands nor these forbidden regions? Were they “the Americas,” whatever that meant?

The issue wouldn’t receive a proper resolution until the reign of Emperor Dunadach the Bear, the former king of Scotland before inheriting the imperial throne. Though more concerned with the battlefield than legal tactics, Dunadach was a shrewd man who opted for an unorthodox approach: ask someone else. It had long been a tradition to never reveal The Plan to anyone, but the unwritten rule was literally just that. Nowhere in its unbearably lengthy pages did The Plan explicitly forbid sharing itself.

It couldn’t be shown to just anyone, of course. The new emperor was no fool. But surely there was no harm in inviting a small team of scholars, sworn to secrecy, who could interpret it better than he? The ports of Airgialla were soon overwhelmed with boats of literate men from all over the known world. Most, of course, already lived within Alba’s borders, but the emperor couldn’t afford to miss out on any perspectives. Christians and Muslims--though never particularly devout ones--were specifically sought out, just in case God had an insight the Aesir could not provide.

Even the wisdom of the seldom explored South was consulted. For centuries, Alba, like most of Europe, thought little about Africa. Its northern coast, once home to mighty Egypt and Carthage, had now long been under Saracen rule. There were a few friendly traders with interesting goods, carrying fruits seen nowhere else and statues said to be carved from the teeth of great beasts. But little thought was given to the land they came from, especially south of the cruel Sahara.

Ironically, it was The Plan’s commandment to “Stay out of Africa” that sent Dunadach’s mind there for the first time. “Stay out of Africa. Stay out of the Middle East.” To The Plan, these two regions were fit to be mentioned together. Both had Muslims, he knew of that much. But the Middle East had ancient and enviable empires, the finest scholars in the world, the Library of Baghdad. Could Africa be hiding treasures on the same level? Better, even?

He dared not defy The Plan, and as it commanded, he would never even consider conquest in Africa. But surely it did not prohibit the peaceful exchange of ideas? Any people The Plan demanded he respect must have something to say about it themselves. For this reason, Namandje the Fearless, a Mande mystic, became a respected advisor in the emperor’s court.

After months of study and deliberation, the scholars delivered their interpretation: If The Plan explicitly prohibits conquest in certain areas, rather than just saying “Stay in the Ancestral Lands,” taking land anywhere not listed, though undesirable, was permitted. Though none of them could tell the emperor just what an “America” was, they were confident Alba’s new territories were an America. The time traveler wouldn’t have used such a strange name, they argued, if these “Americas” were called anything else.

At the ruling that would be known for the ages as “The Law of Dunadach,” though he had little to do with it, the vassals of Alba cheered. They now had a license to loot and pillage as much as they see fit, at least in their immediate surroundings. Stay out of Africa, stay out of the Middle East, stay out of the Americas, and stick your fingers in wherever else you’d like. The easily excitable king of Finland had sent his armies towards the Slavic east within minutes of the decree, adding even more to Alba’s unplanned expansion.

While Alba’s reach grew, its rival empires found themselves unworthy of the title. Despite its biggest threat being bound to go nowhere near it, the Abbasid Caliphate could not survive the outrage of its own subjects. For God to favor a kingdom of idolaters over the followers of the Prophet could only mean that they had been led astray by a corrupt caliph.

All sorts of heresies spread throughout the empire, each of them denouncing the rule of Caliph Al-Mustamsik. The growing discord would soon erupt into revolts, then civil war, until it was clear the prosperous, united Arabia of years past would never return. Rather than draw out its demise any longer than it needed to be, the caliph reluctantly abdicated, ending the lengthy reign of the Abbasids, and the Islamic Golden Age with it.

Christians throughout Europe soon rejoiced at the fall of the Saracens, unaware that they would soon meet the same fate themselves. Though officially the Greek Orthodox Church was no more, many Greeks of the old empire still secretly resented Rome. To them, the Pope was nothing more than a tyrant who had forced them to embrace a false religion, with the Latin Khaganate less a legitimate state than a twisted insult, handing the former capital of the Romans to a group of barely-literate Bolghars.

Like the caliphate before it, the Latin Empire was soon host to a great nationwide revolt. When ruled by an unfit tyrant who cares nothing for, maybe even delights, in the suffering of their people, it seemed like madness to enable them. Even after the ruling Dulo dynasty, seeing the writing on the wall, hoped to abdicate, the Pope refused. For the first time in centuries, Christianity had united leadership. Was such an admirable goal not worth any earthly hardship? It was only when a crowd of armed Orthodox zealots stormed the Hagia Sophia, beheading the Catholic Archbishop of Constantinople as they shouted the Nicene Creed in Greek, without a “filioque” to be heard, that the Pope relented. The Latin Empire was dissolved, its Bolghar rulers fleeing to the seclusion of Trebizond, while the holy city of Constantinople was placed in the hands of a more enlightened ruler who would respect its subjects.

Islam and Christianity alike had lost their greatest kingdoms, but the people of The Plan remained strong. Emperor Dunadach took advantage of his rivals’ fractured rule to push further east into the Ancestral Lands. With most of France now under Alban rule, the empire’s main focus shifted to taking Germany. The emperor felt particular pride after the successful siege of Cologne, the final resting place of the Magi. Though the bones of the three kings remained undisturbed, the shrine was repurposed into a propagandistic museum of the Catholic Church’s misdeeds, a reminder to the newly conquered Germans to be thankful for the tyranny they’d been freed from.

A permanent garrison was established in the city of Trier, which The Plan described as the future birthplace of a great hero. The Kingdom of Germany, established during the first Crusade, was now the greatest obstacle to Alba’s goal of reclaiming the Ancestral Lands. A force at the kingdom’s borders would allow for war to resume in an instant, as needed.
However, this was not to say the empire’s efforts were concentrated in Germany alone. Similar skirmishes of conquest occurred in Scandinavia, as Dunadach sought to wrest Sweden from the hands of the Catholic converts who now ruled over it.

Before too long, Alba had made such strides through Germania and Scandinavia that all of the the gods’ most sacred territories were under their control. Emperor Dunadach personally planted a sapling in Paderborn, at the spot where old Irminsul once stood, and offered a sacrifice to the Aesir at the Temple of Uppsala. After centuries of struggle against the Messiah and the Prophet, the growth of Alba, combined with the collapse of the Abbasid and Latin Empires, had turned Germanic paganism into one of the largest faiths in the known world.

It was time to make that official.

 

[Cromwell]

Well I hadn't anticipated the "problem" of the Britian expanding so fast lands would tumble into the realm that are not even wanted.

With nobody knowing what the Americas refers to will anybody guess it refers to a new continent once it's discovered? A clever leader could expand there and argue the plan could have been talking about anything.

 

[MatthewP]

Interesting to see where it's going to go from here. The butterfly effect suggests no one will ever really know what an "America" is in this world. Even if there is still a mapmaker named Amerigo one assumes that naming the continents after him will be seen as a thin pretext to keep Alba out of the new world.

 

[DiagorasCinna]

Before I get into this chapter, I have a quick personal note. I don't want to get into too much detail, but my mental health hasn't been too great recently and it's been getting harder to work on this, and it doesn't feel right when I do. Like I'm just putting words down without them meaning anything. Maybe I'm being too self-critical, I don't know. Now, I am not giving up on this, or at least I have no real plans to right now. As awful as I feel, abandoning a project would make me feel worse. But if you're interested in this story and think it's worth continuing, or can be improved somehow, that would definitely help me feel more motivated. And a big thank you to everyone who's commented already.

Chapter 21: Daybreak of the Idols

There was a legend told among the Gothar of Alba of Ragnarok, the great war at the end of time. Loki would lead an army of giants against the Aesir, until all the gods were dead, and the old world with it.

Before the time traveler arrived in Eire to set things right, he was familiar enough with the story, and to him a story was all it was. Ragnarok was a fairy tale to entertain children, far removed from the real end of the world. The celestial wolf Skoll would not devour the sun. Instead, its heat would become insufferable. The world would not be plunged into unending winter, but instead have “winter” reduced to nothing more than a memory. Most importantly, the gods would not destroy themselves. Fenrir did not devour Odin, nor did Jormungandr poison Thor. The Aesir were killed by the White Christ centuries before the world met its end.

Ragnarok was a lie in the old timeline, but in the new one created by the time traveler’s actions, it would prove slightly closer to the truth. There was a war--a series of them, in fact--and at their end, the gods would destroy themselves.

With every major pagan holy site under Alban control, Emperor Dunadach sought to reform the imperial faith into an organized religion, capable of properly competing with the God of Abraham. However, as a military man, the emperor understood little of the Aesir beyond prayers to Tyr. In addition, associating with scholars of other faiths made the priests reluctant to accept any attempts by the emperor to alter their church. The emperor’s attempts to change the gods would fail, until the goddess Hel changed him.

Following in his footsteps was Emperor Gofraid the Just, a member of a Scandinavian offshoot of the time traveler’s line, and son of a Finnish concubine. Despite his age, and unimpressive standing in the dynasty, there were many virtues to the new emperor that attracted the electors. He was unusually blessed in the arts of stewardship and diplomacy alike, always sought to rule justly, and acted with temperance and diligence in his daily life. Most important, however, was his piety. Gofraid was a zealot from the northern origin of the imperial faith. He loved the Aesir above all else, and it seemed they loved him just as much in kind. It made him an attractive choice to the priests among the electors, who never could have guessed that he would be the one to destroy the gods.

As he read The Plan, Gofraid was troubled to learn he was taking orders from an ancestor not nearly as devout as himself. In the hidden pages of his manifesto, the time traveler had given his successors countless warnings about the duplicitous nature of clergy. In the time he fled, wrote The Plan, the world would be beneath a theocracy, where a jealous God called for the blood of innocents and his servants were too happy to provide it. In time, this would pave the way for an even crueler state.

The time traveler’s own false conversion to the Aesir, the Plan revealed, was more in the name of pragmatism than faith. The Catholic Church that ruled Eire before his arrival would never conform to The Plan. It had its own leaders, its own hierarchy, with no hope of change. The Aesir, however, were unorganized. Malleable. A formless pile of clay ready to be sculpted into whatever shape was needed. If there was to be a faith at all, The Plan argued, it needed to represent values that the future would depend on.

A fleet of messengers traveled across every province of the empire, declaring that the Emperor had codified their faith, bringing about certain new rules expected of every follower of the Aesir. The first of these would prove the most controversial.

For centuries, the Aesir had bred a cult of warriors who spread their faith through conquest and pillaging. It was a successful strategy that had allowed their pantheon to survive well after so many others had fallen, but it was incompatible with the idea of “strength, but not cruelty.” In the present, there was a need for war, as Alba fought for the Ancestral Lands, but the hope was that afterwards they would never fight again. The sooner such a mindset could be cultivated, the better. Tyr was reborn as a god of “protection,” and Albans were encouraged to pray for the day when every ruler in the world was as wise as Odin, that war may never come.

The other new beliefs were created with similar visions of a better, fairer society. A new cult to Freyja was established, exalting the virtues of femininity. Women were now permitted into the priesthood, and even allowed to own and inherit property. Nobody would be seen as worse for the circumstances of their birth, nor would they be seen as better.

For all that had changed since the time traveler’s arrival, Alba was still a land of class: of nobles, priests, and commoners, with no hope of escaping one’s caste. Gofraid knew these divisions would not be erased anytime soon, but they could at least be relaxed. For centuries, tanistry had been used to make sure the next emperor was chosen not by birth, but who was most worthy of receiving The Plan. The empire’s priests would now encourage its worshippers to think similarly, to reward those who are noble by deed, not by blood. The slim chance of a commoner being elevated to nobility was a poor consolation to The Plan’s vision of neither class existing, but it was a step forward all the same.

Finally, there was the issue of the new church’s leadership: none. The pagans of Alba had fought for too long against Pope and Caliph alike to accept such a figure under a different name. The church already had its leader, ancient and incorruptible, and its name was The Plan.

While the followers of the White Christ and the Prophet trembled in fear of the heathens becoming more united, the reality proved far from it. Many other pagans, particularly in those where the Aesir were already revered before Alban rule, decried the reformation as heresy, an attempt to twist the gods into something they were not. Many secret ceremonies were conducted to the old true gods, especially Tyr, in defiance, though Gofraid paid it little mind. Publicly, the virtues of The Plan were being preached, and that was all that mattered.

The emperor was more concerned with events not in his own nation, but a land so distant most of his subjects had never heard of it. Through the rumor of passing traders, news would eventually reach Alba of a new empire in the distant east, formed by a Bengal king named Rajyapala Pala.

Gofraid knew the concerns this new empire raised were irrational. Bengal was thousands of miles away from even the furthest reaches of Alba. There couldn’t possibly be a conflict between the two, not in a hundred years. But there was still something troubling about another ruler rising to his own level. How was The Plan meant to create a better world if there were others in power who cared nothing about it? There were so many variables in play, so many things that could go wrong over the years. The logical part of the emperor’s mind tried to assure him everything was fine, while a more cynical voice told him a powerful king would rule over the Bengals forever.

One morning, Gofraid was greeted by the horrible light of the sun. He tossed and turned in his bed, trying his best to appreciate the warmth of the covers in his final minutes. Soon he would face another day of royal duties, of listening to the complaints of his subjects regarding the Reformation. What he wouldn’t give to never work again. A woman walked into the room, witnessing the emperor as he struggled to wake up.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. “You can tell the council that. And draw a bath too, would you?"

“I’m afraid I don’t serve you, Gofraid.” The woman removed her hood and revealed her face, dark blue along one side. The emperor’s face showed no emotion, but only because the panic within was impossible to convey.

“H...Hel,” he whispered hoarsely.

“And the man who thought he could change the gods.” Gofraid could feel his heart stop before the daughter of Loki began to smile.

“I don’t know what they say in Asgard, but I liked the new prayers you wrote for me. ‘Protector of the dead.’ It felt good, hearing something nice for a change. Whether it’ll hold is a question for the Norns, though.”

“So … so you’re not angry?”

“Of course not. I’m only here to do my job.” The goddess held out a hand to the emperor. “Come on. Out of bed. Let’s go for a walk outside.” The emperor stared at Hel’s hand in hesitation before grabbing it.

“It’s not too hot outside, is it?” Gofraid asked as she pulled him up.

“No, nor too cold. It’s the perfect temperature outside, and it always will be. Come, now. Let’s visit the family.”

 

[Cromwell]

I'm certainly enjoying the AAR and this might be the most significant update of all (so far anyway). The reformation of the faith to be more in line with the plan will make it far easier to ensure the empire stays on the path outlined in the future. Hearing you have pleased a goddess with your new prayers is certainly an encouraging thing to hear to take to sting out of death. It also feels very suitable to have an Empress right after elevating the position of women in the empire.