The Black Knight
A Dark Fantasy
Written by
S. C. Allen

Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 S. C. Allen

Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
~-~~-~

-Table of Contents-
A Note from the Author
1 - Fate’s Dark Prologue
2 - The First Dream
3 - The Man from Valachia
4 - The Legend of the Black Knight and the Mountain
5 - The Last Ride of Alastor and Gawain
6 - On the Road to the Town With No Name
7 - Dreams of Shadows and Echoes
8 - The Knight's Revelation
9 - Destinies of Past, Present and Future
10 - The Return to Halvard
11 - Fallen
12 - Amy's Story
13 - The Man in the Coffin
14 - The Realm of the Dishonored
15 - Reunited
16 - The Battle of Five Kingdoms
17 - The Descent into Madness
18 - Antecedent
19 - Sins and Vices
20 - The Return of the Black Knight
21 - Alastor's Hollow
22 - Fate's Bright Epilogue
23 - The Black Rose
24 - Again into Her Hands
Epilogue - The Last Dream

~-~~-~

A Note from the Author:
The story here contained was written sometime between 2002 and 2007. The exact dates of when I first started and completed my first draft are unknown, but I am certain it is somewhere between those years. Being my first major attempt at writing a fantasy novel, it holds a special place in my heart, and I spent many sleepless nights working on it, hoping it may be my “big break” into being an honest-to-God writer. However, in 2008 the story, while still being very much part of my heart and soul, was abandoned as events in my life seemed to negate my hopes and dreams.
Now, four years later, new events have brought with them a new necessity, and I feel compelled to release my story to the world, albeit in an unpolished form. Time is working against me, so I make available this book in its most current iteration. There are many things I hope in time to correct. Not the least of which are instances of improper formatting (the result of moving from WordPerfect to OpenOffice to Microsoft Office), mostly minor to intermediate spelling, grammatical and structural errors, overuse of various words (you’d think I owned stock in some of them!) as well as entire scenes that should either have been added, tweaked or, in some cases, removed entirely for the sake of continuity with subsequent stories I have outlined.
Even in a state I am slightly embarrassed to have this book in, I believe that the core is still there, a tale unlike most being released today, and I hope someone, somewhere, in the world enjoys it.
Since I am releasing this eBook version for free (or as dirt cheap as I can release it for), I hope this broadens the number of people who will read it and, if you happen to be one of those people, feel free to drop me a line to the email address below. Let me know what you thought, if you liked it or not, did you get anything out of it… all that traditional feedback most writers want/need/crave. Just please… there is no need to send me a massive email outlining every typo or run-on sentence. I know they are there and, time permitting; they will vanish as I delve into the book with my editor’s cap on.
Who knows…?
Maybe someday The Black Knight could see physical publication, and it’ll be the version I had always envisioned it to be.

S. C. Allen
January 4th, 2012
Saphanels@yahoo.com

Chapter One
Fate’s Dark Prologue
Return to Table of Contents

The Kingdom of Halvard, shining jewel of the heart of man; one of few remaining remnants of good in a long decaying land. Some would call it more of a glorified city than a true kingdom, but long has it endured and many travails has it survived - that is until one moonlit night.
Deep in the halls of the ancient castle which stands at the head of the city, a man waits in the great throne room. The King, imposing in stature and demeanor, paces back and forth in the moonlight. His robes, white with a brown tunic, whip to and fro as he strides. His face reveals a countless and unrelenting stream of emotional conflicts brewing in his mind, waging battle, retreating and starting all over again. He stops for a moment and turns to look upon his throne. A slight smirk plays on his face, but it is a bleak one. Clearly, dark thoughts fill him and he knows it. 
The King sighs and continues his lone vigil restlessly. 
Aimless. 
Worried.
A man waiting for Fate to make up her ever-changing mind.  
After what might have been an eternity, the heavy sound of boots striking the stone floor echoes from the outer halls, coming steadily closer to the throne room. The King stops, again facing his throne, except this time to look at a pendant which hangs around his neck. He holds the pendant reverently, rubbing it with his thumb and smiling a bright smile though, unlike before, it is from a genuinely enjoyable memory. The sound of the boots have reached their crescendo, stopping just outside the throne room and, after a pause, a darkly dressed man enters slowly.
“Uncle!” the man says enthusiastically. 
The King raises his head in acknowledgment, his back still turned to the man. He grips the pendant with resolve, grimacing before letting the pendant slip back under his collar and facing the one who has summoned him. 
“Hector, my nephew. What is so important that we had to meet like this? Could this have not waited until morning?”
“Alas, Uncle, it could not. It is far too important to merely be lumped into the other affairs of the kingdom.”
The King raises an eyebrow to his nephew, annoyed by his presumptuousness. 
“I do believe I am the judge of what is and is not important. I think you will do well to remember that.”
“Of course, Uncle. Forgive me,” Hector replies with false modesty, “but I believe what I have to say warrants it.”
The King has his doubts, but nevertheless motions for Hector to come closer. Hector smiles triumphantly. 
“Well, you have my attention Hector. What is it?”
“An alliance, Uncle,” answers Hector as he holds out a rolled parchment sealed with black wax. “One that would benefit the kingdom in incalculable ways.”
The King takes the parchment and turns his back on his nephew. His eyes are drawn to the black wax seal. His face grows pale, as one who has seen a ghost while someone walks upon his grave as he learns some forbidden truth. He breaks the seal, opening the scrolled parchment. The handwriting on the parchment is exquisite and at the same time dark and spidery. A script not frequently used. The King’s eyes go dark, as one looking behind mortal sight. He begins walking out of the throne room, through the rear hall, out to the gardens in the center of the castle which, even in the dead of night, feels vibrant with life.
“Uncle?” Hector calls out, taken aback by the King’s apparent absentmindedness. He races after his uncle, and begins to speak, but the King raises his right hand with authority, interrupting him as though he sensed the coming argument from his nephew.
 “Do not say a thing.”
Once in the garden’s center, the King stops. Hector stands mute behind his Uncle, awaiting a response.
“Uncle...” Hector begins sheepishly.
“Can you possibly comprehend what you are suggesting to me with this letter?”
“What I am suggesting is an alliance that will ensure Your Highness’ continued reign, and the safety of the kingdom’s people.”
“Are you merely stupid, or completely insane? An alliance such as the one you offer would wholly condemn those whom I am sworn to protect and rule.”
Hector’s eyes race, trying to find the words he needs.
“Uncle, you don’t fully comprehend -” Hector tries to explain, but the King angrily cuts him off with a dismissive gesture, culminating in the ripping to shreds of the offending letter.
“Save your tongue! I have faced the sort of men that reside in the south more than once on the field of battle. The very thought of an alliance is sickening! The only reason you are still even alive right now is out of respect for my brother,” the King declares in a half-roar as he looks hard into Hector’s eyes. Clearly he suspects his nephew of foul deeds. “This ‘meeting’ is over. I will hear no more of this.”
The King lets fall the torn letter, not daring to glance into Hector’s eyes as he begins walking back inside the castle. Hector looks as though he will burst out of anger and fear. 
“Uncle, do not turn your back on me!” Hector yells, unable to suppress his rage.
Infuriated, the King wheels back around to his nephew and storms to within inches from him.
“You dare order me, child!?”
~-~~-~
In an upper room overlooking the gardens, a young woman with dark brown hair and ivory pale skin is awakened by the shouting. She walks over to her window to see the King and Hector on the verge of trading blows. The King’s eyes fill with wrath and he unsheathes a sword that had been hidden among his robes. The woman watches with apprehension.
~-~~-~
“You would draw a blade upon your own blood, Uncle?” Hector asks sarcastically.
“You ceased to be my blood when you murdered my brother, child.”
Hector lets loose a sinister laugh. 
“You think yourself wise? If you knew the true nature of how my beloved ‘father’ died, why is it you could not foresee what is about to happen?”
The King realizes that Hector is no longer looking at him, but at something behind him. The King’s eyes soften. His sword arm falters, falling limply at his side.  
“Yes, I did know. I just prayed that I was wrong.”
“You pathetic old fool.”
A cloaked man stands with a strange looking blade in his hand. His eyes are of the sort of attractive evil that could render entire kingdoms into his will, and full of the knowledge and wisdom of the unseen world. His skin is unnaturally pale, yet immaculate. His face is like that of the dead, preserved for all eternity in its youthful beauty. 
“Necromancer,” the King utters as he faces him.
The Necromancer smiles widely, but darkly.
“Ah, so you remember me? How delightfully quaint,” he says venomously.   
The King sighs, knowing he has been defeated. He looks up and, out of the corner of his eye, sees the beautiful young woman in the window. The King smiles and laughs slightly to himself.
“What could possibly be funny at a time like this?” Hector demands, annoyed, glancing at his uncle as if he has gone insane. But, the Necromancer looks concerned, as though there was some variable he did not think of. “No matter. It ends for you tonight, Uncle. This kingdom will be mine now,” concludes Hector as he unsheathes a small blade.
Suddenly the King looks up at the woman in the window and yells, “Go! Leave this place and find Him!”
The Necromancer swiftly plunges his blade into the King’s stomach as he looks to where the King was looking. The woman cries out in horror as she locks eyes with the Necromancer.
“The Princess!” the Necromancer shouts, “Go get her, you fool!”
Hector does not take kindly to being called a fool, but quickly follows orders, running back into the throne room. 
Now alone with the King, the Necromancer pulls his blade from him and pushes the once great man to the ground, laughing slow and maniacally. 
“Oh, what a poor, diluted buffoon, is he not? But, your nephew does make a good servant... when he does not have his little fantasies about betraying me that is.” The Necromancer muses as he kneels down and looks the King deeply in the eyes. “You know who I am, who I serve, and what I plan to do, is that not correct, Your Highness?”
The King, with his last thread of life, speaks thus:
“He will stop you. By doing this, you have sealed your fate.”
The Necromancer kneels even lower and grins evilly.
“Have I now? I would rather think that it is his fate which I have sealed...”
~-~~-~
The Princess, meanwhile, runs through the dankly lit halls of the upper castle whilst her cousin, Hector, gives chase with sword in hand. The Princess eventually runs into a dead end, with only a window in front and Hector behind. She turns and faces him defiantly.
“Out of places to run cousin?” asks Hector with a sneer.
“You always were too slow to catch me,” the Princess begins as she looks over her shoulder out the window, “and too stupid to realize when I have led you astray.”
Hector fumes and readies his sword for a killing blow when the Princess suddenly leaps out the window. He runs to the window to see that she has mounted her horse and is quickly galloping away. The Princess glances back to see her cousin scowling in anger. She casts him an evil eye before returning her attention to what lays ahead.
~-~~-~
The first thing in the Princess’ mind, heart and soul is to put as much distance between her and her father’s assassins as possible. She quickly passes like a shadow into the forest which encompasses Halvard like a halo, the forest where she as a child explored day in and day out which, even in the dead of night, she can navigate without even the slightest mistake. However, for all her skill, she is no match for the quickly creeping fatigue. She was, after all, only just getting back to sleep after waking from a nightmare she no longer remembers when she heard the shouts of her father and cousin. 
Fear drives her, but the fatigue is almost equally as strong.
Through her mental fight to stay awake, she realizes that she has unconsciously been making her way to the home of Edna, wise woman and adviser to her father. The Princess pushes through her drowsed vision and sees Edna outside her small, though expertly built house, standing at her door as if she had been awaiting the Princess’ arrival all along.
The Princess brings her horse to a stop and dismounts. She weakly shambles toward Edna and then breaks down in tears, falling into Edna’s grasp. Edna attempts some measure of consolation, leading the Princess inside and to a bed already made up for her.
~-~~-~
The Princess sleeps, she dreams, until her dreams cloud and images of the previous night transform it into yet another nightmare in a long chain of them. The recollections of her father being run through, and then the pale face and evil eyes of the Necromancer as he smiles a snake’s smile. The Princess awakes with a shock, finding herself in an unfamiliar bed. She looks around and sees Edna working over a small pot. The smell of porridge fills the small house. Edna turns to see that the Princess is awake and flashes her a caring smile.
“I was wondering when you would awake. The smell of my cooking always had that effect. I still remember little Morion, barely able to look over the table, waiting impatiently for the ‘bestest porridge in the world,’ as you used to call it,” Edna muses and sighs. “Things were so much different then.”
“Edna, my father...”
“I know, Morion. I know,” Edna reassures Morion as she ladles some porridge into a bowl and sets it on the small dining table next to the fireplace. “Come, eat and we will talk.”
Morion pushes the covers off, rising from bed slowly, making her way to the dining table. She sits down and looks at the bowl of porridge, the hot steam rising to her face which for a moment helps her forget everything. Morion looks up at Edna; a small woman with stark white hair, except that her face does not betray her age. She could very well pass for being a young woman if she were so inclined to. However, her mannerisms made her very much like an old grandmother. The paradox had always bewildered Morion, but Edna has always been and always will be true of heart and completely trustworthy. Edna prepares a bowl for herself, sitting at the table, across from Morion.
“Well, eat up. You do not want it to get cold, do you?”
“But, what about...?”
“Even if they, Hector and his little ally, knew you were here, they would not dare to try and enter. You are completely safe. As it is, I have already sent a diversion. Now eat!”
Morion watches as Edna devours her bowl of porridge and feels her own stomach growl. She had ignored it until now, but she was indeed quite famished. Her worry fades in light of Edna’s insistence, so she begins to eat ravenously. Edna realizes that she had forgotten something, promptly shuffling over to a small pantry and reappearing with two small glasses and a pitcher of milk covered over with frost. She fills the two glasses, offering one to Morion, who drinks and is given a slight shock by how cold the milk is. She looks at Edna in surprise.
“Trade secret, little lady,” Edna says with a wink. 
But these sorts of surprises from Edna the Princess has grown used to over the years and they continue their meal quietly. Not that the meal takes long. Even after returning for seconds, and in Edna’s case thirds, it is perhaps, Morion thinks to herself, too brief. Once finished, Edna clears the table.
“Now, about your father,” Edna begins while still putting the dishes in the sink, “tell me what you saw and do not spare any detail, as hard as it may be to speak of them.”
Morion sits thinking for a moment, not trying to remember, but to prepare herself to retell the events which have seared themselves into her memory, never to be removed, forever to be an ice cold scar on her heart.
“Father was arguing with Hector. I could not hear exactly about what, but father grew angry and turned his sword on him.”
“Your father is not quick to anger,” Edna says as she sits down.
“No, he was not...”
“Yes. Was,” Edna corrects herself as she looks into Morion’s eyes.
A moment of silence passes.
“It was then that I noticed him,” Morion begins coldly, “the cloaked man who killed father.”
Edna winces as though a sharp pain has cut through her.
“The cloaked man. Did you see his face?” she asks reluctantly.
Morion looks far beyond Edna as she remembers when her and the Necromancer locked eyes.
“He smiled as he looked up at me. With his blade in my father he smiled...”
Edna closes her eyes and raises her head, deep in thought.
“That man is no normal man. He has no land, yet carries much power in the south. He is known only as The Necromancer. He is evil incarnate.”
“What reason would he have to kill my father?”
“Think hard. Hector was involved. He was always a little ‘off’ as you know.”
“As well as jealous. He believed his father was supposed to be the rightful King, but when he learned that uncle had conceded the throne to father, Hector grew contemptuous and...” Morion trails off.
Edna smirks.
“Hector’s father died rather recently, did he not? And last night, Hector and his ally murdered your father.”
“Hector struck a deal with this ‘Necromancer’ to help him remove all obstacles and take over father’s kingdom?”
“Your kingdom, Morion,” Edna corrects with a swift glance.
“Yes. I suppose so. Which means I am the only one in Hector’s way of fulfilling this plot.”
Edna leans toward Morion as if about to whisper a secret.
“Think hard... was there nothing else that happened, Your Highness?”
“Father had said to go find ‘Him,’ just before the Necromancer attacked,” Morion recounts with a glint in her eyes.
Edna thinks for a moment, then her face reveals revelation.
“Oh! The Black Knight! It’s been a long time since there has been news of him. Even longer since he was seen.”
“Nonetheless, I have to find him. He is the only one that can help me,” except even as Morion says this, her eyes fill with defeat, “but I have no idea where to start looking for him.”
Edna stands up and walks over to a bookcase full of old tomes and volumes.
“Luckily for you, I at the very least have an idea of which direction to go. Ah! Here we are.”
Edna removes a massive, and very old looking, black leather bound book. She walks it over to the table, dropping the book with a thud, spewing dust over Morion. Edna retakes her seat and throws the book open. The book is filled with page after page of maps, alongside hand written text. Edna finally finds the page she is looking for.
“What do these maps show?” asks Morion. “I cannot read the writing.”
“This book was made long ago. It is a... well, census guide of sorts, I suppose, of all the lands that were at one time part of a much older, much larger kingdom.”
“How does that help us find the Black Knight?”
“You know the stories of the Knight as well as I do, better maybe as often as your father recited them to you. The stories tell that he lives in an ancient castle deep in a dark forest.”
“Yes...” Morion lies, still not following.
“Do not be so dense, child! He is a legend! It only makes sense that the Knight’s castle would be somewhere within the territory of the old kingdoms. Somewhere that no one would think to look, or if they did, would be too afraid to go.”
“Oh.”
“Now, if I were a mythical hero desiring a place of solitude,” Edna says as she runs her finger over an invisible route on the map, “where would I roost?” Edna’s finger stops on the outskirts of an unnamed forest range. She taps the forest range for Morion’s sake, ensuring that she sees it.
“Edna, how can you possibly know if that is where he is?”
“It is unnamed! Mapped forests never go unnamed! He has to be there!” Morion smirks at Edna’s eccentricity, but the advisor ignores it. “Not that it matters. You have to trust me. Go east toward that forest, and eventually you may discover more.”
“I have always trusted you. It is just that...”
“You are afraid. I know. You would have to be insane not to be at a time like this.” Morion looks down at her chest, a pendant much like her father’s hangs around her neck. “Besides,” Edna continues, watching Morion hold and caress the pendant, “that necklace you wear all but ensures that you will find the Knight, does it not?”
“One would hope.”
“Well, we have to get you ready then,” Edna says as she stands up, walking to a closet. “You cannot go around with nothing more than a nightgown now, can you?”
Edna rummages through the closet until she finds a set of clothes made from heavy cloth and leather, along with a riding cloak. The outfit of an adventurer. Morion stands and accepts the clothes from Edna. 
After changing, Morion ties back her long dark brown hair and pulls the hood of the cloak over her head. Edna cannot help but smile at the sight. She hands Morion a small dagger, which the Princess unsheathes, checking the edge. The blade itself is rather plain, but the construction is second to none. Morion sheathes the dagger again, securing it on her belt, under the cloak. 
“So, I just wander east until I learn the whereabouts of the legendary Black Knight. Sounds simple enough”
“More or less,” Edna says with a frivolous wave of her hand, “but do not forget: you are now a Queen, the Queen of this Kingdom. The Queen of Halvard. You will undoubtedly find that you have very little influence in the towns and lands outside Halvard’s limits and, as such, revealing your name and position would be most unwise.”
“Any other words of advice? You are officially my advisor now, I suppose.”
“Just one: be wary of taking any companions on your journey, should you come across any. I would go so far as to say accept no help but that from the Knight himself, for he would reveal himself more openly than one might think.”
“Sage and oddly specific advice, Edna.”
“I have engaged in my fair share of quests,” Edna says with a wink. “Now, you must leave, well, pretty much right this moment. I already prepared a pack for you.” Edna walks again to her pantry, retrieving a full and carefully loaded travel pack. “This pack should have enough to last a few days. Mostly food, a few medical supplies. No extra clothes I am afraid.”
Morion takes the pack, and the two exit the house. Standing at the ready in the garden is Morion’s horse, already properly saddled. Morion secures the pack to the saddle then mounts the horse.
“Morion, please be careful. I dare not think I need to mention what might happen if you fail.”
“No, you do not. I will return with all possible haste.” Morion brings the horse around and begins to ride, but a sudden thought grips her mind. She turns back to Edna. “Why do you call him that?” She calls out.
“What do you mean?” Edna asks, completely oblivious to Morion’s meaning.
“The Black Knight. You simply call him ‘The Knight.’ Why?”
“Old habit, more than anything. And it is easier to say.” Morion nods and, as she is bringing her animal back to the road, Edna shouts out: “When you find him, tell him hello for me!”
“As you wish!”
Morion sets her animal onto the road, whips on the horse’s reins and it quickly reaches top speed, galloping away into the east.
~-~~-~
Hector paces about the throne room, which has become full of mercenaries, cutthroats and other various shadowy figures of moral ambiguity. All have come from the south lands. The Necromancer enters the room silently. At the sight of him, the men line up in rows as if expecting inspection. Hector quickly comes to the Necromancer’s side, the two walking between the rows of men.
“These are the best you could find?” the Necromancer asks, unimpressed.
“They are the absolute best at what they do, I assure you.”
“I highly doubt that,” the Necromancer retorts with a sneer, which fades away to a dark smirk. “You hire who you see fit. I have my own... well, let us call them ‘friends,’ for this sort if work.”
Hector watches uneasily as the Necromancer leaves, laughing to himself lightly.

Chapter Two
The First Dream
Return to Table of Contents

After riding for unheeded hours, Morion eventually enters into an ancient forest, with trees hundreds of feet high, and girths nearly as impressive; ages old trees that none could cut down even if so inclined. The canopy of leaves blocks out the sun almost completely, save for the occasional shaft of light which pierces through the dense foliage like a spear through chain armor. Oddly, Morion moves through this forest slowly - not because the going is difficult, but because she finds herself drawn to the place, fascinated by the feeling of safety the trees afford. 
When night falls, Morion brings her first day’s journey to a halt, camping at the foot of one of the massive trees. She decides to start a small fire for warmth, using some of the tools and items given to her by Edna. Propped between the fire and the tree, she quickly falls asleep, unwillingly into the clutches of a dream.
~-~~-~
Morion finds herself back in her room overlooking the castle garden, where she sees the Necromancer, Hector and her father again. There is a bright flash of lightning, and the scene transforms - her father is no longer there, but replaced by another man, no more than fifty years old, perhaps younger even, but prematurely aged by worry, with a short beard and wearing fine black linen. Morion struggles with the face of this man. His face is familiar, but it is shadowy. Her mind cannot focus, so she moves her gaze away, trying to push through the darkness and confusion. 
She looks again to see that Hector has changed as well, wearing a cloak similar to that of the Necromancer. The bearded man looks up at Morion with tears in his eyes just before the Necromancer plunges his blade into the bearded man’s heart. The Necromancer roars with nefarious laughter as the man falls to the ground. The laughter echoes throughout the entire castle and grows in intensity until the very walls shake. Morion has to cup her hands over her ears as the laugh grows and grows. The sound causes the ground in the garden to crack and move. Under the ground, a red light glows, and Morion can see molten rock. Accompanying the sight is the scent of brimstone.
From the molten earth rises a red figure: shaped like a man with the features of a dragon. As it enters the world, it stretches its limbs and flares its wings. The Necromancer and Hector bow in reverence to the dragon. The dragon slowly stalks over to the fallen man, a disdainful growl rumbling from deep in the dragon’s gullet at the sight of him. 
Abruptly, another creature swoops down from the skies striking the red dragon. Morion watches as this second man-dragon, black as onyx and full of wrath, lands with its eyes focused upon the red dragon. The black dragon circles the red one and moves to the fallen man. The red dragon allows the black dragon to pick the fallen man up carefully in its large, taloned hands. The Necromancer raises his blade in defiance, but the red dragon snorts in denial, chiding its servant. The Necromancer lowers his weapon, reluctantly withdrawing behind the red dragon. The black dragon sneers at the Necromancer, then takes the fallen man away, setting him amid a bed of flowers in the corner of the garden. The black dragon sheds a single tear, which lands on the man. 
The black dragon spins back to the red dragon, teeth bared. 
The two dragons leap at one another, clawing and biting ferociously. They wrestle, but the battle is a stalemate - neither gains or losses ground to the other. Amidst their conflict, the Necromancer steps out, looking Morion in the eyes, ignoring the two dragons. The Necromancer reaches out his left hand, and Morion finds herself pulled forward. Not her, she realizes, but rather the pendant around her neck. Morion struggles against the Necromancer’s power. The Necromancer doubles his efforts and Morion is nearly drawn out the window. She continues to fight, despite the Necromancer’s disgusting smirk. No, she fights in defiance of it. The black dragon takes notice, pushing the red dragon away from him so that he may soar over to the Necromancer. 
The black dragon’s actions are swift. Before the Necromancer can react, the black dragon has caught him up in its talons and opened its jaws, preparing to bite the Necromancer. However, the red dragon has righted itself, bounding behind the black dragon and striking it, causing the black dragon to drop the Necromancer. The black dragon quickly swivels and throws the red dragon across the garden effortlessly. Upon returning his attention back to the Necromancer, the black dragon is shocked to find that the Necromancer has transformed into a near duplicate of the red dragon, but still wearing his black cloak. The Necromancer throws the black dragon to the center of the garden. The black dragon attempts to move, but he is pinned down by his wings, the talons of the red dragon keeping them in place. 
Morion closes her eyes as the Necromancer begins to mercilessly attack the black dragon. She then becomes aware of a presence in her room. She faces the presence, surprised to see Hector, still cloaked, with an evil blade in his hand. He smirks, looking much like the Necromancer, before plunging the blade into her stomach.
~-~~-~
Morion awakes with a start and a scream. She looks around for a moment, expecting to see her cousin. She is calmed by the sight of the trees, and the remembering of her task. The fire has long since died and the sun pushes through the leaves. It is just past morning, dew still clinging to the plants. Morion packs up her gear, stomps out the smoldering embers of the fire and continues on her trek. 
By late afternoon, Morion exits the forest. She is greeted by the sight of a huge plain; flat and grassy except for the occasional rock formations and caves. Across the plains, Morion can detect the signs of civilization: patches of deforested land and rutted paths, the telltale indicators of a logging camp. With a smirk Morion whips at the reins, pushing her horse on, cutting across the plain. 
Overhead a flock of black birds keeps pace with Morion, putting her at ill ease. She cannot escape the feeling that they are watching her. The birds then surge forward to the camp ahead. Morion watches the birds for a moment, then ignores them as she yields her attention back to the plain. 
Halfway across the plain, she nears what she had previously thought was merely a old, dead tree or rock formation. Morion slows and then stops as she realizes that it is in fact the ruins of an old statue, with a small shrine at its foot, long since destroyed, decayed and abandoned. The right forearm of the statue is missing, but the rest reveals a man garbed in strange armor, heroically facing south with what can only be assumed as a stance of opposition, the stump of its right arm outstretched while its left hand sits ready on the hilt of its sword. Morion admires the statue in silence, wondering at its origins. After this brief pause, she turns the horse back to her journey across the plain. Morion after only a moment forward comes to a small brook, where she stops to fill her water skin and allow the horse a short but well deserved reprieve. 
The wind changes without warning, carrying a deep, biting chill. The afternoon sun is overtaken by dark storm clouds but no rain falls. Morion pulls her riding cloak tighter as she remounts her horse and continues on. 
By early evening she finally arrives at the outskirts of the logging camp, only to find it long deserted. Tools are scattered about rusted, wood cabins rotted with the ceilings collapsed. Morion notices, however, that the road has recent signs of travel, so she follows it. It does not take long for her to find the reason for the road being used; around a bend in the road, hidden by an outcropping of trees is a town. More of a small city in fact, made of a number of shops, various smiths, houses and inns. Most are common in shape and design, except for one building in the center of town which stands higher than the rest, more dramatically built for the sole purpose of attracting the attention of the wayward traveler. 
Morion rides up to this building, quickly discovering that it is an inn and tavern, bustling with activity: loud voices, music playing and the clanking of mead mugs. The Queen ties her horse to the post outside the tavern threshold and cautiously, with her hand on the hilt of her dagger, enters.
~-~~-~
Inside the tavern, it is nearly full to capacity and busy with people eating, drinking, telling stories and being many shades of merry. Morion, who had never in her life entered a tavern, let alone been so close to so many, stands dumbstruck.
“What’ll it be there, missy?,” a voice erupts, jolting Morion. 
She spins to face the voice, seeing that it came from the bartender and most likely owner of the tavern based on the look on his face. Behind him, a woman attempts to carry two trays of mead while avoiding another woman coming back with three trays of empty mugs.
“Whatever you would recommend for a weary traveler, good sir,” Morion replies with a smile.
“That’d be mead! Does a body good I say. Find a place to sit, and we’ll get to you as fast as we can. As you can see, we have a little celebration going!”
Not sure that she cares to know the reason for the celebration, Morion simply bows gratefully as she begins the daunting task of finding an empty chair. She finds one at a small round table where a man and woman sit, the two talking to one another briskly. The woman has fair hair and bright eyes. The man has reddish-brown hair with eyes to match and a pale complexion.
“Is this seat taken?” Morion asks politely.
“Hmm? Oh, no. Please do sit,” the woman replies with a smile.
“Is it always this busy?”
“Oh, you noticed?” the man asks like Morion’s question was irritating.
“Ignore him,” the woman says, casting a scolding eye at her companion. “He is just upset that someone laughed at his performance earlier” 
“Performance?” Morion repeats curiously.
“You mean to say you do not recognize us!?” the man says with a tone of mock surprise.
The woman looks at him with a smirk.
“He teases, of course,” the woman begins, “we are the bards Cale and Amy. We go from town to town, reciting and performing stories of bravery and renown. Of heroes and villains. Unfortunately, our last few shows have been... well...”
“Disastrous!” Cale interrupts. “Failures of epic proportions to say the least!”
“I am sorry,” Morion says, as though she is responsible.
Amy waves in dismissal. 
“Do not be. It is what we deserve for telling tales of someone so... removed, I suppose, from the minds of people,” Amy replies, glancing at Cale harshly.
Cale notices Amy’s dagger-like eyes. 
“Hey, it is not my fault! The tales of the Black Knight usually go over well in towns like these.”
On hearing that, Morion becomes visibly surprised.
“You know of the Black Knight?” she asks with unsuppressed enthusiasm.
Both bards are shocked at Morion’s response at the mere mention of the Black Knight.
“Yes, indeed,” Cale responds, slightly confused.
“The stories of the Black Knight were usually our most requested, but lately...” Amy speaks, then trails off as Cale finishes her sentence, “it is as though the mere mention of the name is heresy.”
“Why is that?” inquires Morion, leaning in closer to the duo.
“Well, it seems some regions have differing,” Cale starts.
“Points of view concerning the Black Knight,” Amy interrupts, finishing Cale’s sentence.
“Exactly.”
“In some lands, he is revered as a hero,” Amy continues, “ while in other, more remote places.”
“He is reviled and called a demon,” Cale chimes in, “a concept that seems to be spreading.”
“That cannot be true. I happen to know for a fact that he is a defender of the people,” Morion blurts out.
Before the bards can press Morion, a woman walks up to their table and sets down a mug of mead and a plate of roasted meat and vegetables. Morion looks up, about to protest, but the woman quickly reassures her. 
“Worry not, dear. Our beloved owner thought you could do with a good meal. Enjoy.”
Morion smiles and nods in acceptance, and the woman goes back about her work. Ignoring all her sensibilities, as well as manners, Morion begins to ravenously eat the meal before her, with the occasional swig of mead. It does not take long for her to finish.
“Now that you have finished,” Cale says with a slight laugh, “mind telling us where you learned that bit of information from?”
Morion is reluctant to remember how and why she knows what she does about the Black Knight. She places her hand on her chest and looks sad for a moment before answering.
“My father. He had met with the Black Knight on occasion.”
“And who was your father that he was important enough to meet with the Black Knight?” Cale mockingly asks.
Morion does not answer and looks to Amy. The two come to the realization that many of the people in the tavern are eyeing them.
“The Black Knight, whoever he is, has had an effect on the people here,” Amy says in almost a whisper. “The phrase ‘Butcher of Theria’ pops up rather often.”
“Butcher? No. That cannot be correct...,” whispers Morion.
“Well, it is what they say, not us,” Cale tells her.
A man, wearing a hooded cloak, who had been sitting alone in the corner of the tavern stands, trouncing up beside Morion suddenly, startling the Queen.
 “You should be more careful about where you speak of the Knight, lady. He is not all that well received any more, and has far more enemies than he does allies... and those who call him an ally can easily become targets before they know it. A dead ally is no ally at all.”
With that, he exits the tavern. The trio sits silent.
“I wonder what that was about,” Amy says as though deep in thought.
Morion is more than slightly shaken by the cloaked man’s words. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that she was utterly terrified. But, being a Queen, she quickly composes herself as if he had never been there.
“Well, it was nice to meet you but you will have to excuse me,” Morion says politely to the bards, “I have to get some sleep. Goodnight.”
Morion stands, excuses herself from the table, walks to the bartender and pays for a room, which another woman politely escorts Morion to.
~-~~-~
Morion is brought into a charming little room, very much to the contrary of what she had been expecting. The sight of the bed immediately makes her aware of how tired she actually is. Without a second thought she falls onto the bed and quickly slips into sleep. The sleep does not last, though, as Morion is constantly haunted by her dreams. Some dark, some prophetic, some hopeful; all unnerving for her and all involving two creatures: the red and black man-dragons. Morion lays in bed, unwilling to allow herself to attempt sleep again. Her eyes dart toward the window, seeing that it is still quite dark outside. Only a handful of hours, if even that, have passed.
She then becomes aware of a sound coming from outside. At first it sounds like the wind howling, but the pitch begins to change sporadically and she realizes it to be, obviously, music. Morion crawls out of bed, drifting over to the window. Pulling back the curtains only a bit, she peeks out to see that a man is playing a small wooden wind instrument, like a flute. The man sits on a bale of hay in front of a small shop across from the inn. He is the same one who had earlier spoken to her cryptically in the tavern. Morion feels herself calmed and drawn into the music, despite its apparent sorrow. The song could very well be a funeral dirge, but something about it is almost hypnotic, something from a deep and forgotten memory. 
The man suddenly stops and pulls the flute away from his lips, lost in thought for a moment before snapping the flute over his knee and storming off down the road. As he passes the inn, he looks up to see Morion standing at the window, watching him. Morion stands immobile, looking into his eyes, barely visible through the darkness of the hood drawn over his head. She is immediately drawn back to that night in the castle when the Necromancer had looked up at her after running her father through. She might have screamed had it not been for the fact that this hooded man’s eyes were sad and somber; nearly a mirror image of her own. He lowers his gaze, shakes his head and continues on his way. 
Morion lets slip the curtain from her hand then retreats back to the bed. She lay there, thinking for a moment before she closes her eyes and allows sleep to come, the music having run her fear of the nightmares away.
~-~~-~
Morion is awakened by the sound of voices in her room. At first, when the voices are incoherent, she silently curses whoever has disturbed her, having finally found peace in her sleep. As she fully wakes up, it becomes clear who has waken her: the two bards, Cale and Amy. Amy stands over Morion’s bed while Cale stands watch at the door, his hand on the pommel of a short sword hanging from his belt. Amy’s voice has a degree of urgency that makes Morion apprehensive.
“Your Highness, please. We need to leave now!”
Morion gets out of bed in such a way as to keep it between her and the bards.
“What did you call me?” Morion asks, attempting to suppress her fear and outrage at having her identity seemingly discovered through no mistake of her own.
The two bards look at one another, then Amy turns back to answer. 
“We know who you are. We know that you father was killed and that you are looking for the Black Knight.”
“And how is it that you know these things?” the Queen demands.
“The events of the world travel faster than you may think,” Cale replies with a coy smile. “One person tells someone something, that person tells someone else, so on and so forth.”
Morion does not ease after hearing their answer. 
“So you say. What reason do you have for waking me then?”
“In the tavern, we overheard a group of men talking. They have been tracking you, apparently,” Amy replies.
“Tracking me? What do they want?”
Amy and Cale again look at each other.
“To kill you,” Amy says grimly. “They intended to come and assassinate you when the tavern closed.”
“If you want to live, I would highly suggest we escape. Now!” Cale declares as if annoyed by the whole situation.
Morion nods, looking around the room for a moment. She takes notice of the window. She dashes over to it, pushes the panes open and discovers that the drop to the road is not all that far. She has, after all, jumped from higher windows under more dire circumstances.
“Coming?” she mockingly asks the bards before leaping out.
~-~~-~
Morion stands in the center of the road, motionless as the bards follow her lead out the window. When they are standing beside her, they see why she has not moved; her horse has been brutally hacked to death, and Morion’s pack, which she apparently forgot about, has been torn apart and rummaged through. Amy tugs on Morion’s arm as Cale attempts to lead the trio away from the town. Morion comes to, realizing that they are heading into the forest on the town’s north eastern outskirts.
“Why are we headed into the trees?” asks Morion uneasily.
“To avoid leaving tracks. If we followed the road, it would be a matter of only moments before they caught up with us,” Cale answers without turning to face Morion.
They continue onward, making their way through the forest, away from the city, but otherwise aimlessly. Morion stops, a chill having come over her, localized in the core of her spine. The bards notice she is no longer following and backtrack to her. They begin to protest her inaction when a loud crack breaks what in a different life might be called the serenity of the night. A series of low, deep laughs emanate from the trees around them. Morion and the bards stand back to back, unsure what to expect. 
From the shadows of the trees, five gruff men emerge, dressed darkly and wielding roughly forged swords. The five men stop in a ring around the trio. A sixth man walks forward, laughing. He stands taller than the others. He points his sword toward Morion and the bards.
“Some bodyguards. Leading this pathetic little girl right where we wanted her.” Morion unsheathes her blade, but the lead mercenary busts out in laughter. “What’s that? A butter knife? Sorry, missy, that won’t be helping you,” scoffs the leader.
With dark grins, the mercenaries slowly close in. The entire world becomes silent. Morion closes her eyes, knowing full well there is no escape. Her quest has come to an unexpected end. She was going to die.

Chapter Three
The Man from Valachia
Return to Table of Contents

A sound like the rustling of leaves shatters the soundless void that the forest has become. The mercenaries ignore it but then another sound, the cracking of a tree branch, causes them to stop in their tracks. The tree branch makes a final loud snap, falling down with a crash between Morion and the lead mercenary. The mercenaries look up with a start, unsure of what to expect. Morion looks too, but something catches the corner of her eye. She lowers her gaze back down to the lead mercenary, thinking she saw a shadowy shape behind him. She squints, unsure of what it is she sees, if she sees anything at all. Suddenly the shadowy figure moves decisively and a sword’s blade explodes out from the lead mercenary’s chest. The report of the metal passing through flesh and bone cries sickeningly through the trees, causing everyone to immediately divert their eyes to its origin. 
The mercenaries’ stare agape with shock as they watch the blade being pulled back out of their leader. The leader falls forward, revealing the cloaked man from the tavern standing with sword in hand. The mercenaries rush to the killer of their leader, bloodlust filling them and a roar rising from their feeble, frightened gullets. The cloaked man mercilessly strikes them down with a single stroke each, the ease of which almost appears to bore him. After lasting only the length of heartbeats, the battle ends with the last mercenary falling on top of his now dead brethren. 
Morion, Amy and Cale stare at their savior in awe and fear. The cloaked man swipes his blade clean on the clothes of the mercenary he just felled. Morion builds up her courage and steps forward.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demands, her voice gaining strength with each word, her arm outstretched with dagger in hand.
 From under his hood the man looks at her carefully, as if scrutinizing her, deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. He looks at the two bards with a harsher eye, then back to Morion.  He lowers his gaze, finishing the cleaning of his sword before speaking. 
“My name is unimportant for now. All you need to know is that your father contacted me before his death and hired me to help you in whatever ways I can.”
Morion gets ready to reply, but then realizes what the cloaked man has said.
“My father contacted you to help me... before he died. Why would he have done that unless...”
“Unless he was aware of a plot on his life, perhaps?” the cloaked man finishes her thoughts as though it is obvious and common knowledge.
The two bards come to Morion’s side defensively. Cale crosses his arms, looking over the cloaked man smugly.
“You expect us to believe that?” Cale asks in the manner of one who has just been told that the sky is green and up is down..
“A spy, most likely,” Amy adds.
The cloaked man gives a sort of dark sarcastic smile and reaches into his cloak, producing a letter sealed with red wax. He hands the letter to Morion. Morion takes the letter, unable to accept its existence.
“My father’s seal?”
“He instructed me to give that to you in the all- too-very-likely event of you not believing me. His words, not mine.”
Morion breaks the seal, reading the letter voraciously. Near the end of the letter, her eyes begin to tear over. She suppresses the overwhelming urge to cry uncontrollably, wipes her eyes and quickly regains her strength.
“Fine. I shall accept your help, but only for as long as I need it. Afterwards I shall send you on your way. Is that understood?”
The cloaked man looks almost offended by her words, but ignores them with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Quite clearly, Your Highness.”
He sheathes his sword and motions for Morion to follow him out of the forest, traversing in reverse the path that the bards had led her on. She starts after him, matching his stride and walking almost shoulder to shoulder. The bards follow a few feet behind.
“Where are we going, Tristan?” Morion asks the cloaked man quietly.
“How do you know that name?” the cloaked man asks uneasily.
“It is the name in father’s letter. Tristan of Valachia.”
The cloaked man smirks slightly. The bards look to one another, shrugging at the rather unfitting, unflattering name. 
“Your father has a sense of humor, even beyond the grave, that much is for sure. We are going back to town, Your Highness. We are not about to attempt escape on foot.”
“But is it safe? What if there are more of them?”
“There are no more, I can assure you. However, it will not be safe for long. Hector will send more mercenaries before long.”
“How can you know this? And how do you know of Hector?”
“There were two guards outside of the inn. I dealt with them earlier,” Tristan explains as he hands Morion a rough piece of paper, upon which is written a contract for her head, signed by Hector.
“The bastard!” Morion yells, enraged. “He put a contract on me? Hired mercenaries to kill me!?”
Tristan turns his head to Morion, his eyes softening.
“You are a threat to him. Your very existence threatens his plans, whatever they may be.”
Entering the town again, Tristan leads them to a stable, across from the inn - which Morion recognizes as the same building that she had seen him sitting in front of earlier. Tristan gently takes two horses by their reins and walks them out. The horses have already been loaded with packs of supplies and food. He hands the reins of one animal to Morion. The young Queen looks at Tristan, trying to place him. She feels as though she remembers him, but it escapes her as she attempts to grasp it. She lets it fade from her mind, fearing it will drive her mad.
“Mount up,” Tristan barks, “we are not about to walk to the Black Knight’s castle, after all.”
Morion begins to follow Tristan’s order, but Cale steps forward.
“How did you know that was her destination, Tristan?” Cale asks accusingly.
“The same way you do, of course,” Tristan begins while mounting his horse. “She talks far too much for her own good.” Morion attempts to protest, but Tristan raises his hand. “Save your energy and get on the horse.”
Morion follows the order, clearly agitated. During the small exchange of words, Amy had entered the stable and retrieved a large draft horse, shared by the two bards. They begin to mount the animal, which Tristan notices.
“You two need not bother.”
“What do you mean?” Cale asks, astounded.
Tristan looks intently into Cale’s eyes.
“I mean you two are not coming. Obviously.”
“Yes, they are,” Morion interjects.
“No, I am afraid they are not, Your Highness.”
“They are in as much danger as myself.”
“Hardly,” Tristan derides.
“Well, they are my companions, and you are under my employ. I do believe that gives me final say on the matter.”
Tristan darkly eyes the two bards, then looks at Morion, a look of confusion on his face.
“So be it. We leave as soon as they are ready.”
~-~~-~
Hector is in the barracks of the castle keep, having transformed it into his base of operations in hunting down his cousin. He stands over a table, a large highly detailed map sprawled across it. An armored soldier walks in. Hector straightens himself, the soldier salutes and Hector motions for him to come to the table.
“Well, how did our men do, Captain?”
“I believe we should assume they failed, My Lord.”
“Why is that?”
“The secondary force that was sent found them. Slaughtered to the last and no sign of their mission having been completed.”
“In other words, she still lives.”
“It would seem so.”
“Send word to the secondary force to pursue.”
“Sir, we have no idea which way she may have gone, not to mention who she travels with. Those mercenaries were known for being a brutal lot, having never taken a single loss, and now they are all dead.”
“I do not care about that. Send the secondary force east until they find her!”
“But, Sir...”
Hector draws his sword and points the tip at the Captain’s neck.
“Did you not hear me? Send the secondary forces east. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes Sir.”
The Captain bows and makes his way out of the barracks, but not before Hector has the last word.
“Oh, and Captain... if you ever so much as think about questioning me again, I will put your head on a pike and hang you and your family’s bodies over the front gates.”
The Captain does not stop to acknowledge the threat, continuing on his way. Hector returns his attention back to the map.
“You know, a good ruler listens to the advice of his men. Or, at least pretends to.”
Hector is taken off guard by the voice. He swings around to discover the Necromancer walking out from the shadows in the corner.
“I wish you would stop doing that.”
“And I wish you would actually use some degree of intelligence in this matter regarding that woman.”
“What do you mean?”
“How many of those ‘mercenaries’ were sent to kill her?”
“Eight.”
“Eight bloodthirsty and unbeatable champions... killed like swine. Perhaps you should have listened to the good Captain.”
“She is my problem, and I will deal with it as I see fit!”
“Oh, you are right on that front. She is your problem, but each time you fail it becomes more and more my problem. Fail again, and I shall take matters further into my own hands then they already are. I will not let you sabotage the overall plan, my little false king.”
~-~~-~
Two days have passed, and Morion grows impatient. 
She has allowed Tristan to take them along rugged trails and deep into long abandoned paths in an attempt to avoid being spotted, she even followed his advice to ride through the night. She has become tired of falling asleep in the saddle, eating meals in the saddle and only occasionally being allowed to stop and rest. By noon, they reach an open field where she, in protest, brings her horse to a stop and dismounts. Tristan brings his horse around, trotting over to her.
“What exactly are you doing?” he asks.
“Resting! I cannot take another hour sitting on that saddle! I need to stretch and relax.”
Cale and Amy follow her example, dismounting and stretching on the grass.
Tristan leans forward toward Morion.
“You do know that every moment we waste, yet another evil most likely comes closer to us, right?”
“Be that as it may, I will not ride myself ragged and the horse to death. Even you must need to rest, and even if not, surely that animal does?”
Tristan rubs the neck of his horse, gives it a pat and with a shrug concedes. 
“I suppose you are right, but we cannot sit long. We have far to go, and little time to do it in.”
Tristan dismounts, merely standing next to his animal, looking off into the distance. Morion, Amy and Cale raid their respective saddle bags for food. They become painfully aware of their ever dwindling stockpile.
“I do not mean to be rude,” Cale blurts out, “but I believe we are running out of food here, Tristan, and I for one have not seen any decent looking animals bounding about.”
“There is nothing to worry about. The supplies will last as long as they need to,” Tristan says without facing the others. His voice distant and shallow.
~-~~-~
Having finished a spectacularly sparse meal, the group continues. When night prepares to overtake the world, Tristan tosses a rope back to Morion, who rides behind him.
“What is this for?” she asks.
“Secure it to your horse’s reins and throw the end to your companions,” Tristan responds. “I figured it would allow you some degree of security in case any of you fall asleep.”
“You mean to say we are riding through the night again?”
Tristan looks Morion square in her eyes, his own showing what might be interpreted as compassion.
“It will be the last, I promise. The ground we gain by doing this is invaluable. It is a small sacrifice when weighed against saving your home, I would think, Your Highness. Would your father do any less?”
Morion takes Tristan’s last words to heart.
“I suppose you are quite correct, good sir.”
Morion secures the rope, as instructed, then throws the rope back to the bards, who ride behind her. The bards have been trading off their riding duties, and Amy is now the one who controls their animal. She had heard the conversation between Morion and  Tristan and ties the end of the rope to her reins without question - not that she would question it anyway, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Cale has already fallen asleep. The rope has a good deal of slack, so Morion brings her horse up to speed with Tristan. He turns, surprised to see her.
“Is there something wrong?” he asks her.
“I was just curious,” Morion begins, her voice soft and quiet, “why are you helping me? My father’s letter was a bit sparse on details, but he would not hire just anyone, especially if he knew both his and my life were in danger.”
Tristan swivels his head forward, looking up as the last vestiges of light yields to the coming darkness. The occasional star shining through the dark oranges and purples.
“You did not see your father much in the last few years, did you? He always had business in some other part of the land, right?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“My father had been very much the same way.”
“Had been?”
“My father died some years ago. It was your father that helped me in that time. He took me in, guided me I suppose you could say.”
“I do not understand. My father traveled to other kingdoms, other provinces. Sealing alliances, forging new ones...”
“He did, and I acted as his personal bodyguard. It was in those times I speak of.”
“What reason would he have for a bodyguard?”
“Think about that for a moment, Morion. Why is he dead now? Your father had many enemies, I am afraid. If I had taken him on his offer, perhaps I could have helped him.”
Morion twists around to check on the bards, and sees them both sleeping, apparently. She comes back to her guide. Her guard.
“What offer, Tristan?”
“Residence in Halvard.”
“Why did you refuse it?”
Tristan lowers his head, contemplating.
“I was afraid, I think.”
“What was there to fear?”
“Change. Myself. Everything. Nothing, perhaps. I wish I was sure which.” Morion begins to ask another question, but Tristan interrupts: “No more questions, not now at least. You should try to rest.”
“What about you?”
“I will be fine. I am used to riding like this. In fact, it reminds me of one of the treks your father made.”
“Tell me! I would love to know what my father did while away.”
“Not now. Tomorrow, when we rest I will.”
“Very well. What about your name?”
“What of it?”
“I would like to know it.”
“What do you mean? You know my name.”
“No, father said to call you Tristan. Unless I have grossly misinterpreted my father’s writing, that implies that ‘Tristan’ is not in fact your real name.”
Tristan examines Morion’s face, looking for any ill intent. He then checks on the bards. Still sleeping, supposedly.
“Tomorrow, perhaps.”
Morion bows her head in acceptance, feeling as though she has made some progress. She brings her horse back behind Tristan’s and yawns. She looks forward to Tristan, still unsure of him but not as much as in the days previous. He pulls his hood down, revealing dark brown hair. Morion finds herself comforted as she sees his head move from side to side, watching the surroundings like a loyal guard dog. Tristan slowly unsheathes his sword as to avoid making any sound, and rests it across his lap. He can sense her watching him, and thus faces her with a sort of smirk.
“Nothing to worry about. If there was one thing I learned from your father, it was the virtue of always being on guard. Feel free to sleep.”
Morion smiles and nods. She closes her eyes, intending to merely rest them, but she too, like the bards, succumbs to the beautiful unconsciousness of sleep.
~-~~-~
The Queen of Halvard. 
In her few fleeting moments of dreamless sleep, she is free. No worries, no fears. She rules nothing and is ruled by no one. She just is, no beginning and no ending. Absolute, unadulterated freedom. But then the images come to life. The sweet emptiness becomes a prison, and she becomes a slave. Just as sleep is an escape from reality, reality becomes an escape from her dreams.
She rouses herself, finding in her waking eyes an unfamiliar land covered in a thin layer of melting snow, behind them a thin forest, the world ahead shrouded by fog. She spins about in her saddle, searching for her bearings. There is Amy and Cale, also just waking up. There also is Tristan’s horse standing peacefully at the edge of a small, steady brook, drinking and relaxing. Tristan, though, is nowhere to be seen. 
Morion dismounts, stretching and yawning, her joints cracking painfully, the ride through the night having taken its toll. Cale and Amy do the same. The sun has not yet risen, a light mist covers the ground in the grey morning. Free of their burdens, the Queen’s and the bards’ animals walk to the brook to lap at the water - a welcome gift after working so hard. A parched Morion kneels down to drink as well, as do her companions.
“So, where is our loving guide?” Cale asks.
Morion stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, examining her surroundings.
“I have no idea,” she admits, a touch of worry creeping into her voice.
“I would hate to think something bad has happened,” Amy adds.
The sudden report of snow and foliage being crushed underfoot breaks the serenity. Morion’s hand moves to the hilt of her weapon. With each footstep, she unsheathes the blade more and more. From the fog, a figure emerges: Tristan, with an armful of fruit. 
“Good morning,” he says lukewarmly, “here is something that should help you on your way to waking up.” Tristan hands everyone two green and pink fruits, like apples, but slightly smaller and much more fragrant. The flesh of which tastes something like a cross between an apple and an orange. Morion and the bards accept their breakfast gratefully. Tristan lounges with legs crossed at the edge of the brook, his back to the trio. He begins eating his allotment of fruit without hesitation. “After you have eaten, freshened up and filled any water skins you have, we continue southeast for a while.”
“Yet more riding? We have been riding for days!” Cale complains.
“Our pace will be much slower from now on.”
Morion watches as Tristan eats the fruit, already having started his second one. She eyes the fruits he handed to her, and slowly takes a bite, unsure what to expect. She discovers the awe inspiring taste of the fruit and, feeling the tug of hunger, devours both fruits in a matter of moments, finishing at roughly the same time as Tristan. Tristan stands to feed the cores of his fruits to his horse, which accepts them gratefully.
“The cores are safe to give the animals,” he explains, looking at Morion, “the seeds are good for them. Aids in digestion, actually.”
Morion does the same for her animal. The bards have only just begun to eat, with a great deal more reservation about the fruits. Morion looks to Tristan sheepishly.
“Are there any more?” she asks.
Tristan takes a small sack from one of the saddle bags on his horse.
“No, but we can easily go pick some more,” he tells her with a light air. He motions for Morion to follow. He looks to the bards, whom are still eating. “Would either, or both, of you like to come?” he asks them.
The bards glance at each other, as if wordlessly debating with one another. Amy then faces Tristan with a smile.
“I will come!”
Tristan nods, gesturing for her to follow.
“I will stay here to watch the horses,” Cale offers with a tone of nobility in his voice, like one trying to sound brave.
Amy runs to Morion and Tristan leads them to a small glade, moist and green, covered with small fruit bearing trees. Tristan makes to a tree with the same fruit he had picked earlier, while the two women look at the other trees, once heavy with all sorts of multicolored fruits, but now most are bare with only a few over ripened fruits remaining on their limbs to betray what had grown on them. Except one. 
Both Morion and Amy flock to one specific tree in the glade; taller than the others and overflowing with a red and green striped fruit. They both reach up to pick from the tree. Tristan, who had been filling the sack with the green and pink produce, happens to see the women harvesting from the larger tree.
“No!” he yells, startling them. He rushes over to them, violently knocking the fruit they have gathered to the ground. “It figures women would pick from this tree.”
“Why did you do that!?” Morion and Amy both exclaim in unison.
“That is as much fruit as I am royalty,” Tristan explains. “They are corrupt, called Brimstone Apples. One bite would cause your insides to melt, leaving you alive during the process, slowly waiting for death. It looks good, but appearances are quite deceiving. Look at the trees around here. Did you not find it odd that this was the only tree still holding its full crop?”
Morion and Amy step back from the tree, aware of how close they, apparently, were to death. A moment passes, and a revelation crosses Amy’s face.
“What did you mean by that!? Saying that it figures that women would pick from this tree?” Amy asks, slightly offended.
Tristan gives a sort of dark smirk, shaking his head. 
“Nothing. Let us just finish what we came to do, shall we?”
Amy decides to let the matter go, and follows Morion and Tristan to the tree he had been at. They examine the tree, finding the lower branches now bare, and the sack woefully under filled.
“There are some more near the top, but I cannot climb trees,” Amy tells them, her voice quivering as if remembering some past event.
“Neither can I,” Morion adds.
Tristan unsheathes his sword after handing the pack to Amy. He climbs up to the lower boughs, then begins making his way up the tree with great ease, leaping from branch to branch. Once near the top, he hacks at limbs, causing them to fall to the ground, their fruit still attached. Tristan leaps down, landing with grace, sheathing his sword. Amy and Morion begin picking from the fallen limbs and soon the pack is quite full. Morion grabs a few with a sly smile to Amy, eating them on the walk back to Cale and the horses.
~-~~-~
Cale sits on the bank of the brook, tossing rocks across it. Morion takes the cores of the fruits she had already eaten and feeds them to her horse. Tristan takes a whole fruit and gives it to his. Amy does the same, but she suddenly tilts her head to the side, remembering something. Morion catches this.
“Is something wrong, Amy?” she asks her.
Amy is quiet, lost in some far away place buried in the depths of her mind.
“What? Oh, no. I just had the vaguest sensation that I have done this before, that is all,” she finally answers Morion.
“I do believe we can get going again,” Tristan says with a sigh of relief, having not heard the exchange between Morion and Amy.
Tristan unties the rope that had strung the horses together, coils it up and slings it over his shoulder and across his chest.
“May I carry the fruit?” Morion asks.
Tristan nods, and Amy gives Morion the pack with a smile. They all mount up and follow Tristan as he brings his horse to a trot, going south along the brook. 
The sun rises, melting the fog that had been shrouding the land from view. It is in the ending months of winter, the ice melting and giving way to patches of lively green grass and bright, shining flowers. The frost hangs stubbornly from the trees, unwilling to submit to the coming spring. Morion had never seen such a sight. The winters in Halvard were light, not even close to the dramatic scenes playing out before her. 
Tristan, Morion notices as she watches him, is at ease in this place, breathing deep the cold, crisp air. Amy, like Morion is genuinely enthralled. Cale, unlike everyone else in the party, views the landscape with some degree of disdain and even, perhaps, loathing. Occasionally the babbling of the brook is interrupted by the loud singing of birds, who flitter quickly from tree to tree as though racing one another. Slowly the brook begins to grow larger and larger becoming a river, the land on the opposite bank now unreachable. The river lies to their right, and to their left the edge of a lightly wooded forest. 
By midday the dirt path they had been riding on begins to give way to an old paved road; the stones of which are well worn, having been overtaken by dirt and mud, only to be washed by the river and swept clean by the wind - a pattern repeated through untold ages - weathering the stones and making them a permanent fixture on the water’s bank. Every mile or so, the remains of a stone structure reaching out into the river from the road can be seen.
“Those arms you see, stretching from the road into the river, they used to be part of an ancient dam system,” Tristan speaks, offering his knowledge to those in his charge.
“A dam? That would mean that a city used to be around here at one time, right?” Amy asks.
Tristan points to the forest on their left.
“That forest there used to be a massive, thriving city centuries ago. But it was destroyed, and the trees reclaimed the land, shattering stone and, with the aid of the river, eroding brick. There is very little, if anything, left now.”
“How do you know this?” Cale asks.
“I spent a good number of years wandering the wilderness. Learning, discovering the secrets of the land. Trying to find reason in it,” Tristan explains, then trails off into distant thoughts.
The party continues for a brief time in silence, until Morion speaks up.
“Is it possible that the Black Knight’s castle could be found there? I mean, if that city was centuries old, that means it could have been part of the old kingdoms.”
“No,” Amy begins, “the stories always tell of his castle being east of a river, not north of one.”
“I heard that it was the river that was east of his castle,” Tristan adds.
“I would not give much credit to some of those stories,” Cale retorts, “I mean, if I was some all powerful being, I would not want to be found easily. In the dead center of some dark, dank forest would be the most likely place, I think.”
Morion thinks for a moment.
“It would reason that it would need to be near water, though. If it was in fact part of one of the old kingdoms, it would need easy access to water for the people,” Morion concludes aloud.
“That is if it was part of the old kingdoms. For all you know, he could have easily built a castle in some secluded location away from any kingdoms - away from prying eyes,” Cale responds.
“Why would a hero of the people want to hide?” Amy asks Cale.
“As popular as he is rumored to have been, would you want every person who had listened to tales of you coming to your home, asking favors and doling heaps of praise?”
“That does not sound bad at all, in all honesty.”
“It would be,” Morion interjects, “if you spent nearly as much time helping those in need as he did. A refuge away from people might be a necessity I would think. Although a public figure, even he would need some solitude.”
“I suppose so,” Amy agrees.
“In all honesty, though. I have to wonder how someone can spend their entire existence helping people,” Cale declares. “I mean, it just sounds as though there would be no time to actually live life.”
Morion looks around at the land and muses, “The world needs heroes. I suppose he was just meant to be one.”
Tristan twists in his saddle to look at Morion, genuinely taken aback by her comment, but she does not think twice about this. He turns away with a shake of his head, trying to expel some unwanted thought.
“Sure, but did he chose it, or was he chosen? I mean, it is not something someone wakes up one morning and decides to be - forsaking one’s own life - is it?” Amy responds.
They continue to ride for a moment, aware of Tristan’s odd silence. 
“What about you, fearless leader?” Morion blurts out.
Tristan seems to not hear her and merely continues to ride. Perturbed, Morion rides up to his right, and the bards to his left.
“I cannot help but notice your silence on the matter of the Black Knight,” Morion says coyly, pushing Tristan’s arm. 
“What makes you think I know anything about him?” he asks with a annoyed grunt.
“Back at the tavern, you had mentioned being careful where I talk about him. By that, I assume you must know something about him.”
Tristan peers into Morion’s eyes, followed by those of the bards briefly before setting his sight back on the road before him, ignoring the question. Both Morion and Amy sigh in grief, loudly as to make Tristan aware of their unwillingness to accept his silence. Tristan shifts in his saddle.
“What I know of the Black Knight, you would not want to. Keep your fantasies and fairy tales while you can, Your Highness.”
“When you were thinking up that answer, did you honestly believe that it would make you any less mysterious?” Amy asks rhetorically.
“Tell us what you know,” Morion says softly.
A tense moment passes as a look of anguish crosses Tristan’s face.
“The Black Knight was not always some altruistic defender of the people,” he finally responds. “ In fact, in the legends I know, he was once the most evil, vile thing to walk the planet. I for one would want nothing to do with him.”
Morion and the bards stare at one another. The bluntness of the remark taking even Cale by surprise. Morion’s face becomes flush with anger and sadness.
“Why would you say such a thing?” she demands.
“Why do you care?” Tristan replies callously
“Because I met him! When I was a little girl, I met him and saw absolutely no sign of the man you now describe!”
Tristan faces Morion again, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. He thinks to say something but instead he remains silent, returning his eyes to the road.
“Wait, I thought you said your father met him,” Cale points out.
“More than met him. They were friends. I, however, only met him once that I can remember.” Morion looks at Tristan, her eyes cold and dark, “I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but good in his heart.”
Tristan refrains from looking at Morion again, but everyone can see the sneer on his face.
“Maybe I know first hand which is the truth?” he says darkly.
“Any maybe you are a liar,” replies Morion with equal measure.
“Can you prove me wrong, Your Highness?”
“I can tell you one of the stories my father told me about the Black Knight, which he learned from the man himself!”
“Then by all means, do.”
And thus, the proverbial gauntlet is thrown down.

Chapter Four
The Legend of the Black Knight and the Mountain
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The city of Sumestra, a city of artists, of writers and of architects. Sumestra was obscure even in the best of times, and this was how the people liked it. They could work their skill, masters of their forms and slaves only to their passion for their respective crafts. That was, of course, until it was discovered by accident that they sat atop veins of gold and mines of diamonds. Overnight, the existing population changed their occupations, forsaking their art for the sake of riches.
News of Sumestra’s windfall did not take long to reach the ears of foreigners, and soon the great influx of them causes Sumestra’s populace to double, then triple and then quadruple in a matter of months. Despite their greed, the citizens never have to resort to violence. Even with their ever increasing population, it seems that there is always more than enough to go around.
This changes drastically on one dark and stormy day. 
A group of thirteen men enter Sumestra on foot. They are not ordinary men, however. They are wizards. Dark wizards.
The dark wizards use their magics to seize control of the city. They gather the people into the center square of Sumestra. While five of the dark wizards act as guards, threatening to kill any Sumestrians who so much as sneeze in the wrong direction, the other eight start using their magics to gather the riches of the city into the thirteen enchanted carts they have brought with them. The dark wizards laugh as they watch their wealth grow larger with each moment that passes.
The men of Sumestra, having never seen war, are powerless to act, and are thus forced to endure the cries of their women and children. However, some of the foreigners are a different story. Rather than think of fighting the dark wizards, they do the one thing that they know will work: they pray. They pray fervently, heads raised to the crying heavens, eyes closed.
“Who is there to pray to, fools!?” scoff the dark wizards. “There is none who can match our power!”
The foreign ones ignore the dark wizards, continuing their faith-speech.
The dark ones ignore the fools, continuing to steal the wealth of Sumestra, laughing and mocking. Wizards though they may have been, wisdom was the one thing that they lacked which may have saved them. Had they the slightest bit of wisdom, they would have listened to the prayers of the foreigners and fled at the words. 
But, the wizards were not wise. 
They were not even remotely learned beyond being experts of their dark craft. Had they aspirations other than the committing of fell deeds, they would have known that the prayers of the foreigners were at that moment answered.
Atop his massive, armored steed, at the entrance to Sumestra, the Black Knight sits, looking at the workings of the dark wizards. The Black Knight, unseen by all, dismounts his animal, leaving it to guard the city entrance while he, the Knight, slowly walks to the city square. The rain pelts his armor, making the surface shimmer with apparent life. The dark wizards continue to be oblivious to the Black Knight, but the Sumestrians see him, starting with the foreigners, who had all along been expecting their hero. The foreigners stand defiantly to face their hero proudly in audacious disobedience to the threats and demands of the dark wizards. 
The wizards, seeing in the eyes of the foreigners no fear, turn to see what their prisoners see. At the sight of the Black Knight, the five guarding dark wizards shout, rousing their brethren from their spellcraft. They all begin hurling elemental magics at the Black Knight, which manifest in the form of red lightning and blue fire. These magics spend themselves on the Black Knight’s armor harmlessly as the metal clad sentinel marches up the road without any form of weapon drawn. The severity of the dark wizard spells increase, but dissipate on contact with the Black Armor. Finding their spells useless against their foe, the wizards form elemental weapons and storm toward the Black Knight.
As the closest one begins to attack, the Black Knight grabs the sword arm of the dark wizard and throws him against the nearest building. After that, total chaos breaks out, with the Black Knight punching, kicking and throwing his enemies as they come against him. Never does the Knight draw any weapon, for there is no need, since the dark wizards, even with their magical weapons, are not half, not a quarter, not even a tenth of the warrior that the Black Knight is. Before long, the dark wizards are fatigued, beaten, but unwilling to admit defeat. The Black Knight grabs the leader by his robes, lifting him off the ground. The dark wizard spits curses at the Black Knight, but the armored one pays the small words from the small man no heed.
“As I am a man of honor,” the Black Knight speaks, “I give you your lives, and also give you the opportunity to prove yourselves again, having not expected me. You and your brothers may flee so as to recuperate. Tomorrow, you may return to try and best me again.”
“And why would we want to do that?” the leader growls.
“Three chances do I give thee to best me. One have you spent. If in your next attempts, you can defeat me, the riches of this city shall be yours. Inversely, if in your next attempts you do not, you shall leave this city and never shall you return, lest you forfeit your lives back to me. Do we have a bargain?”
The dark wizard within the grip of the Black Knight starts to reject the proposal, but then a wicked thought springs into his mind. A plan to make an idiot of this Black Knight.
“Yes,” the wizard answers with a voice like sweet acid. “Yes, we shall agree to your terms, Knight.”
The Black Knight lowers the wizard, whom smiles broadly at the Black Knight.
“Tomorrow, at this same time,” the Black Knight reminds. “No earlier, no later.”
The dark wizard nods in accordance.
“Brothers, we leave now!” he calls to the other twelve of his kind.
They all send their elemental weapons away and slowly, one by one, file out of Sumestra, leaving the enchanted carts they had brought in the square. When the last of the wizards has left their city, the Sumestrians all stand and cheer. The foreigners run up to the Black Knight.
“We knew you would come!” one shouts.
“We are friends, from a distant land,” says another.
The citizens of the city grow louder in their cheering, but the Black Knight raises a hand for silence. He then explains to the people that the dark wizards will be returning in greater numbers so that they can reclaim the treasures of the city. He proceeds to tell the people that he shall replace the stolen riches in the carts with simple rocks. Some of the citizens attempt to remove some of the gold and diamonds from the enchanted carts, but they are unable to do so. The Black Knight then walks over and tells the people that the magics of the wizards do not work on him. He takes a handful of the treasure and gives it to the man closest to him. The people cannot hide their excitement, and they start to form work chains, bringing the Black Knight buckets, some empty, which he fills with their treasures, and some full of dirt and rocks, which he in turn pours into the enchanted carts to replace that which was removed. By command of the Black Knight, Sumestra hides its treasure in a pit on the outskirts of their city, and at the end of this first day, they have succeeded in hiding half of their stolen treasure. 
The following day, when it comes time for the dark wizards to return, the Black Knight orders the citizenry to retreat to their homes and wait.
The dark wizards enter the city, passing by the Black Knight’s gate guardian, his horse, with an evil eye cast at it, which the animal ignores with the same grit as its master. Their numbers are double what they were the day previous. Unlike before, the wizards come with metal weaponry. But, as before, the Black Knight fights the dark wizards effortlessly without a weapon of his own, other than his own body and his magnificent armor. Even with their increased numbers, the fight has the same outcome. When all of the wizards have been tired out, again, the Black Knight picks up their leader, again.
“That, my foe, was your second try. Do you concede, or will you make your final attempt tomorrow?” asks the Knight.
“We will defeat you tomorrow!” the leader declares.
The Black Knight lets the wizard go, and one by one they all leave the city again to recuperate. The people, at the beckoning of the Black Knight, exit their homes and spend the remainder of the day finishing the task of transferring their treasure out of the wizards’ enchanted carts and replacing the contents. Before sundown, this task is completed.
On the morn of the third and final day, the Black Knight again orders that the people should seek safety within their homes.
The Black Knight, alone, waits in the center of Sumestra as he did on the second day. However, when the appointed time comes for the dark wizards to arrive, the city remains empty. At the entrance, the Black Knight’s horse stamps its hooves and wheels around uneasily, it knowing that something in the world is amiss. The Black Knight twirls around in place, looking for some sign of mischief afoot. 
From out of the largest mine in the side of the mountain which sits at the rear of the city, creatures and men of immaculate evil pour fourth abruptly, brandishing rough weapons. Their appearance in such an unexpected place catches the Black Knight by surprise. Their numbers are at least ten times greater than those of the first day. While the Black Knight fights the first warrior-wizards whom attack him, another group made of half-giants make to the enchanted carts, and they carry them into the mine from whence they came. The leader of the dark wizards laughs his evil laugh at the Black Knight as he signals to his brethren the time for them to escape with their ill-gotten treasure. Not a single foe stays to fight the Black Knight, but retreat swiftly back into the safety of the mine.
Angered, the Black Knight gives chase.
While running from the Black Knight, the dark wizards send elemental magics at him in an effort to slow him down, only their power bounces from his armor and hits the walls of the mine instead. Deeper into the mine they run, which is lit only by the occasional torch or the magics of the wizards. In the heart of the mountain, the dark wizards, followed by the Black Knight, come into a humongous antechamber, many hundreds of feet around and almost equally as high.
“You fool!” shouts the leader to the Black Knight. “Are you so blind that you cannot see when you are being led into a trap?”
All of the evil ones laugh and scoff, but the Black Knight remains composed.
“Have I indeed?” he responds with a tone of mild surprise, examining the antechamber.
Then, with a shout, the thirteen original dark wizards combine their magics and send their mingled power at the Black Knight. They expect the magic to utterly obliterate the metal clad one, yet the Black Knight stands firm in the face of his coming demise. As the magic comes into contact with his armor, it is absorbed by the metal, and then erupts like lightning from the earth, flying up and striking the ceiling of the antechamber. Before they can even wonder about thinking about the possibility of running, the whole of the mountain starts to collapse on all who are gathered within. While the dark ones cry in fear, the Black Knight remains rooted in place, positively tranquil.
Back in the city, the people of Sumestra all let out a collective outcry of anguish as they watch the mountain which they mined their treasures from fall in on itself. When the dust settles, they watch as the Black Knight digs himself out of the fallen mountain. A cheer of victory goes up from the people. The Black Knight walks into their midst, then raises a hand again for silence so as to address the Sumestrians.
“Those dark of heart had sought to steal the riches of the earth. The earth would not abide this, and thus consumed them. Let he who is wise see the lesson in this. Let she with an ear understand these words.”
And with that, the Black Knight mounts upon his horse and leaves Sumestra.
From that day on, the people of Sumestra returned to their passions of old, and never again spent their lives seeking treasure, instead giving to the earth their art, rather than taking it. They also never even so much as thought about retrieving those treasures which they had buried on the orders of their beloved Black Knight, and they were better for it.
~-~~-~
Cale and Amy look at one another, impressed by Morion’s ability to tell a story. However, it is Tristan’s opinion that they all wait for. Tristan looks at Morion for a moment, digesting her ‘proof’ and mulling over the words.
“Do you believe that tale?” he finally asks Morion.
“I do,” she replies with utmost feeling.
Tristan shakes his head slightly, not hiding that he thinks the story childish.
“I stand by what I said, Your Highness. I am sorry if you do not like it.”
Left with that, the company falls silent as everyone becomes lost in their own thoughts. Morion and the bards bring their horses back into a single file line behind Tristan and speak no more on the subject of the Black Knight.
~-~~-~
Evening begins to set in, the sun slowly beginning its fall behind the world. The songs of the birds die away, replaced by the sounds of crickets. The river begins to bend north. The path forks; one way continuing along the river bank, and another going southeast, into a grassy field covered with hills and mounds. Morion examines the land, seeing that the southeast route leads to what appear to be ruins, and it is the direction that Tristan leads them on. As they slowly make their way down the road, Morion discovers that they are in fact ruins, long since destroyed - now overgrown with foliage and creeper vines, the land’s way of reclaiming what was once its own. 
The paved road gives way to decay, grass and weeds breaking the stone and pushing their way out of the cold, hard earth. The ruins themselves are fairly unimpressive: the bases of walls, the occasional broken staircase, and open plazas. Tristan leads them into the apparent heart of the ruin, the walls here thicker than the others and more complete. He dismounts to let his horse graze. Morion and the bards do the same.
“These ruins used to be a fort. Where we are now was the main watch tower,” Tristan speaks, sounding more like a historian than a warrior or bodyguard.
He starts to scavenge around, trying to find any dead branches and plants. Cale decides to help while Morion and Amy sit down, stretching their legs. With armfuls of dead vegetation, Tristan leads Cale to the center of their makeshift camp and they throw the tinder down. Tristan then goes back to scavenging around the camp, finding rocks and larger hunks of dead tree. With them, he starts a good sized fire. Morion remembers the pack of fruits and retrieves them, passing a few out among the bards. 
Tristan stands at the edge of the camp, watching the sun finally finish its fall behind the trees. Morion does not bother offering any of the fruit to him, contempt still in her heart from his words earlier. He finally sits with a sigh, his back to them as normal. He unsheathes his sword and takes a whetstone to it - the sound of the stone on the sword’s blade echoing off of the few still-standing walls. 
None of the company really has the will yet to speak about anything.
~-~~-~
The moon rises and reaches the pinnacle of its arc. Morion wakes, aware that she had dozed off. The fire has lowered, but still burns. The bards lay on the ground close to the fire, sleeping closely. She does not find Tristan, though his horse and bags are still where they were earlier. She stands up, dusts herself off and takes to exploring the ruins. 
The night is still and soundless, save for an odd sound; one Morion does not recognize at first. She follows the sound, coming to a staircase in the side of a large mound. Morion climbs the stairs, there finding Tristan sitting on the edge of what had once been a balcony, looking out over the former fort. The sound was him sharpening a small dagger.
“You sleep much too heavily for someone whose life is in danger,” he says grimly.
Morion looks closer at the dagger. It is hers. She reaches down to her waist and finds the sheathe empty, validating her suspicions. 
“How dare you steal from me! Do you make it a habit to violate women while they sleep!?” she counters angrily.
“You would sling accusations like that to one who merely tries to keep you safe?” asks Tristan as he gives the dagger a final stroke of the whetstone, then wipes the blade with his cloak. He hands the dagger to her, hilt first. “This weapon is already too small to be of much use, but being as dull as it was would have only given you a false sense of security. At least now it will serve its purpose to some extent.”
Morion’s eyes soften, shamed by her words. She takes the dagger back, sheathing it. Tristan looks upon the whetstone with an expression of gratitude and pockets it. Morion sits down next to him, trying to find words for apology. Before she can say anything, Tristan abruptly says one word: “Alastor.”
“Excuse me?” she asks, visibly confused.
“My name, my real name that is, is Alastor.”
“Oh. It is nice to finally meet you, Alastor.”
Morion smiles, but Tristan, that is Alastor, remains grim as ever.
“Unless my memory is seriously failing me, I do believe I owe you a story about your father and I,” Alastor says. “Now seems to be as good a time as any, unless you have any objections?”
“Not at all. I would love to hear what you have to say.”
“I will tell you of the last time we traveled together. It should add some context to the current events. Your father had recently been contacted by an old ally to the north...”

Chapter Five
The Last Ride of Alastor and Gawain
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Halvard, one year ago.
It is not yet dawn. Alastor awaits outside the Halvard city gates mounted upon a powerful black stallion. The animal is more like a draft horse, being nearly twice the size of the average equine. Its size is not without purpose - snow has begun to fall lightly and the saddle bags that it carries are near bursting, full of various supplies. Alastor leans forward in the saddle impatiently. The horse too is tired of waiting and stamps its hooves with a shake of its mane.
Before too much longer, a clatter can be heard on the wind, coming closer. The sound is that of hooves trotting upon the stones of Halvard’s main road. Gawain, King of Halvard emerges. He rides a brown horse, of similar stature to that of Alastor’s, which is also under the load of a large burden, though not equal to that of Alastor’s animal for one reason: Gawain and his horse wear light chain mail.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting Alastor.”
“Not long. Only an hour or so.”
“I had hoped to avoid Morion, but she waked earlier than I had expected. She would not allow me leave without seeing me off proper.”
“How quaint,” Alastor smirks.   
“When you have children, you will understand.”
Alastor guides his horse, preparing to take the north road. The northern road runs parallel between Halvard and the neighboring forest for many miles before making way into the north forest itself and leaving the kingdom behind.
“Me? With children? Unlikely, Your Highness.”
“You never know,” Gawain replies with a grin.
Alastor and Gawain begin to slowly trot down the north road in silence for a time.
“Your letter did not really explain this matter. Why exactly does Judeheim need an audience with you on such short notice?” Alastor eventually inquires.
“I am not entirely sure. It has been a fairly long while since we have heard from them. They have been busy, we have been busy, but we have been allies since before the days of the Old Kingdom. I assume it is simply to reaffirm our ties or some such triviality.”
Alastor thinks Gawain’s words over a moment.
“Triviality, you say? Good enough. Though, if that is the case, explain why you need me. My particular skills are ill suited for trade agreements or alliance reaffirmations.”
Gawain closes his eyes and hangs his head with a sigh.
“There is no fooling you, is there?”
“You are not a good enough liar. What is wrong?”
 “I am haunted by dark dreams, friend.”
“You expect problems in Judeheim?”
“I am not sure. All I do know is that I want to come home to my daughter. With you aiding me, it helps to alleviate any fears I have concerning this trek.”
“Understandable,” Alastor agrees with a nod. “Given that, I would suggest we move as swiftly as possible and void this sluggish pace we are currently on.”
Laughing at the not-so-subtle hint, Gawain whips at the reins, speeding his horse forward and starting a spontaneous race with Alastor.
~-~~-~
Judeheim, far to the northwest, was not so much a proper kingdom but rather a fair sized trade city, in much the same mold as Halvard. It is exclusively populated by a religious sect, and ruled over by the High Council, a group of nine city elders chosen every seven years by the populace itself. Due to their high moral standards, this ruling body has for centuries been free of corruption - which is the primary reason why Judeheim grew from a small settlement into a thriving merchant city, and the central hub of mercantile trade amongst the Old Kingdom. Its rulers were trustworthy, its businesses were trustworthy, and they could smell a poor businessman a mile away. 
Judeheim was first officially recognized as a city by Halvard, thus starting their ancient alliance. The religion of Judeheim is relatively simple: they worship a single, unnamed God, whom created a vast number of servants and agents to oversee the well being of the land. This rather simple faith has resulted in many wars with other peoples, cities, kingdoms and even entire nations; all of which ended in victories for Judeheim with not a single spoil of war taken. These victories can be attributed to one singular factor: everyone of the faith, man and woman alike, young and old, were not mere citizens but warrior priests, trained from birth to protect themselves and those unable to defend themselves.
All in all, Judeheim is the finest ally any kingdom could have.
~-~~-~
Alastor and Gawain ride along the path, racing like old friends. The forest is a blur as they speed through it. The sound of the horses’ galloping thunders through the trees, earth and snow kicked high into the air behind them.
“You spend too much time on that throne of yours, old man!” Alastor shouts with a laugh.
“I did my fair share of adventuring and riding long before you were even born! What I lack in youth, I more than make up for in style and finesse!” Gawain retorts before leaning forward in his saddle and kicking his horse gently on the sides, sending it forward with surge of speed.
Alastor does the same, and the two ride neck and neck. The race continues for only a moment before they see that they are rapidly coming to the crossroad. They bring the animals to a slow stop, not wanting to injure them.
“A tie again Alastor.”
“As always.”
The crossroad was a hub, leading off into three directions - northwest, northeast and south, which is where they just came from. Gawain begins to take the northwest road.
“Where are you going?” Alastor asks.
“Where does it look? This is the road to Judeheim.”
“You were the one talking of ill omens in your dreams. We can take the northeast trail, and then go west once we reach the trade road into the city.”
“But that will more than double the length of the trip and add at least one full day to it.”
“It also offers a much smaller chance of being ambushed.”
Gawain looks from one road to the other, going over the possibilities in his mind.
“I suppose you are correct. If there is anyone waiting for us, they would most likely expect us to take the main road.”
“Besides, Gawain, I know these woods well. The northeast trail has infinitely more defendable positions and places to hide in the event things go awry.”
“Far be it from me to ignore your advice.”
They nod in agreement, veering on to the northeast trail. The speed of their travel lessens dramatically, with the path being barely wide enough to accommodate the two riding side by side. In addition to the meager size of the trail, it is covered in a modest layer of snow, a foot at minimum. Despite slowing them down, the snow is a welcome sight to Gawain, and helps to ease him.
“The snow aids us in one regard, Alastor; it is unbroken and clean, two days old at least with no signs of having been traveled upon.”
“That much is in our favor thus far, Your Highness.”
From then on, they ride in silence, each lost in their own inner machinations. The sun rises slowly, starting its arc high upward into the sky. The further they venture along the path, the more that the snow cover gradually thins until the ground can easily be seen, with only small patches of slush here and there. The ground is wet, but not muddy, and as such, the tracks of animals, small game and birds can readily be seen pressed into it and nothing else.
Some hours pass unnoticed, and soon the sun reaches its peak, signaling midday. Alastor points to a small animal beaten path branching off to the right. They follow this path, coming to a pond which is fed by a diminutive but constant waterfall, that in turn is fed by an unseen river. The pond is surrounded by any number of animals, both large and small. The grass all around is beaten down or stripped away, revealing that the modest basin is most likely one of the few safe watering holes within this portion of the forest. Alastor and Gawain come down from their beasts, moving gently to avoid frightening the forest animals, allowing their own animals to drink and feed at their leisure. The forest animals take interest in the newcomers, but after a moment continue about their routine.
“So, Alastor, have you given any thought to settling down?” Gawain asks, his voice revealing that he genuinely wants to know.
Alastor throws open one of the saddle bags on his animal, taking out some fruit and dried meat. Alastor hands Gawain his portion. As Alastor sits down against a tree he takes a bite of the fruit and looks up at the sky, squinting as the sun comes out from behind a cloud.
“What do you mean?” he asks sarcastically.
“I mean finding a wife. Finally pick one place to have as a home and raise a family.”
Alastor chews slowly as he looks at Gawain.
“No I have not and, in all likelihood, never will, Your Highness.”
Gawain sighs as a father might upon learning his son has chosen a life alternate to one previously hoped for.
“I know that when your father died it put a degree of pressure on you that most men do not have to endure, but you do not have to let the seeking of vengeance keep you from leading a life of your own.”
Alastor swallows and sneers.
“The day of my father’s death sealed my path. I will follow it till the end, even if it leads to my ruin. You know this, Gawain.”
Gawain nods silently. He knows there is no persuading someone who has accepted a bleak fate. The two continue their meal. When finished, Gawain takes a pipe from his saddle bag, fills it and sits down at the foot of a tree opposite Alastor. Just as he is about to strike the tinderbox a flock of birds, which had been singing cheerfully, suddenly flies away without visible cause. The animals grazing and drinking run off as well. Clouds rapidly form and filter out the sunlight. 
Then, snow begins to lightly fall.
“We should go now,” Alastor says as he starts to stand.
“Of course. Odd that the clouds would come in so fast.”
“Odd indeed.”
They, without sound and with all haste mount up, returning back to their road. The snowfall is slow but constant. The miles slowly continue passing, the snow becomes heavier, and eventually it takes to falling more like frozen torrential rain. Alastor and Gawain now struggle to see as a heavy fog takes to encasing the forest.
“Alastor, you are an expert on these lands. Is weather such as this normal for the time of year?” Gawain asks, unease clear as a bell in his voice.
“No. This is not normal for this entire region at any time, and especially at the tail end of winter.”
Heedless of this fact, they push onward. The clouds and fog and ice-rain block out the sun completely, bathing the forest in a pale gray light. The ride, while hard, would not have been impossible if it were not for a sudden explosion of wind sweeping down the road from the north, blasting into Alastor and Gawain, who manage to retain their balance and are forced to raise their arms to shield their eyes, the powerful wind pushing the frozen icy rain directly at them. Even so, the duo stays the course.
“If I did not know better, I might think the forest itself does not want us here!” Gawain shouts over the din of the howling wind. Alastor does not answer, his face contorted in worry as he is lost in thought. Gawain takes notice of Alastor’s silence.
“A kingdom for your thoughts, Alastor. Your being speechless is never a good omen.”
Alastor looks at Gawain, eyes dark and distant. Slowly the words come.
“You are not the only one who has haunting dreams, Gawain.”
Gawain finds something in Alastor’s eyes that is foreign, unseen in all the years he has known the man. 
Fear.
A sharp and piercing wail explodes from the forest. Alastor and Gawain are forced to cover their ears and, in that briefest of instants, the horses rear up, causing their riders to fall. Before either can right himself, the horses have turned tail and begun galloping back down the road which they came, frightened out of their senses. As the men attempt to stand, the wind reacts accordingly, pounding into them with unyielding force, keeping them earthbound. They dig their boots into the mud, their fingers gripping at the moist earth in an attempt to keep from being blown down the road.
“We mean you no harm!” Alastor yells at the top of his lungs.
“Who are you talking to!?” Gawain yells in return.
As though in response to Alastor, the wind changes; rapidly whipping from left to right, to and fro, violently moving the trees and making it appear like they were alive. The tempest grows ever more and more powerful; ice and rain flying everywhere, ripping at the two men like claws. Another wail bursts from the forest and then, just as sudden as it arose, the wind stops and the sky calms, returning to a gentle snow fall. The two men release the tension in their bodies while they loosen their grip on the earth. With sighs of relief they look at one another, discovering they have fallen on opposite sides of the road.
Gawain is about to question Alastor, but swiftly the younger of the two brings his finger to his lips, signaling for silence. At first Gawain is clueless as to Alastor’s insistence for quiet, but slowly the King becomes aware of what Alastor had already known: the sound of heavy running can be heard from the western woods and coming toward them fast. The King looks to Alastor, who signals that he can hear five distinctly different sets of foot falls before he then motions for Gawain to lay as low as possible to the ground. Still covered in the ice, snow and mud, they blend in with the nature around them.
The running increase in volume and urgency, coupled with shouts voiced by grim sounding men. Alastor and Gawain look up to see what appears to be a little girl - pale skinned, raven haired and wearing a white dress - burst out of the western forest, dashing across the road and entering the eastern woods. 
The two travelers push themselves further against the ground just as a small group of men, numbering four total, emerge, following the girl. Once the men have moved out of their field of view, Alastor and Gawain look to one another and with a nod come to the mutual agreement to give chase to the men. Without hesitation or concern, King and warrior pick themselves up from the ground, swiftly following the footprints in the snow. Alastor reaches back with his right hand to unsheathe the claymore on his back, griping it firmly in both hands. Gawain takes the shield from his back, securing it to his left arm, then unsheathes the sword on his belt with his sword hand. 
It does not take long for them to find their prey. The four men have cornered the little girl, but she is not alone. She stands within the arms of a woman bearing similar features and wearing the same dress, almost as though she is an older incarnation of the little one. The rough men do not bother taunting the females, raising their weapons to strike them down. When their arms reach their top swing, it is then that Alastor lets loose a deep roar and leaps at the men. They turn just as Alastor cleaves through one of their rank. With their attention fully on this attacker, they fail to notice Gawain as he comes from behind, striking another of the men. The two remaining have no chance, Alastor and Gawain finish them with a single stroke each.
And there the two saviors stand, chests heaving, staring at the woman and the girl, and the rough looking assailants strewn at disgusting angles in the snow between them. 
The little girl, whose face had been buried in the woman’s side, her little arms wrapped around the woman’s waist, turns her head, seeing Alastor and Gawain where she had expected to find her pursuers. Her face, just moments previous before twisted by fear, begins to soften, giving way to a bright and beaming smile. Her eyes dart from Alastor’s to Gawain’s, both of whom cannot help but smile in response to her. The little girl looks up to the woman.
“Is that them?” she asks enthusiastically.
“Yes, it is indeed,” the woman responds. He voice sweet and gentle and powerful and sure all at once.
The little girl jumps up and down excitedly.
“So I did it? Did I do it good?”
“You have done an excellent job!” The little one’s smile widens even more. “You can go now and play,” the woman tells her.
“Yay!” the little girl screams as she begins to run off. She stops after only a few feet and again faces Alastor and Gawain. “See you later!” she says with a wave of her hand and then runs off into the mist.
The woman takes a step forward and looks down at the slain men, as do the King and his companion. They look back up to the woman, who meets their gaze with a smirk.
“You need not worry about them,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
The two look back down to see that the snow, like a living creature, is slowly rising up and over the slain until it covers them completely. The duo’s eyes snap back to the woman, who smiles, liking that the men are impressed with her handiwork. Gawain looks her over, trying to judge whether or not she is friend or foe. Alastor, however, looks at her as one mesmerized. The closer he looks, the farther he falls. Her skin is at first pale, but on closer inspection it shimmers as if covered by a thin layer of pure, clear ice. Alastor’s eyes eventually find their way to hers, and the two lock their gaze for a momentary eternity.
“Who are you?” Gawain suddenly bursts out.
Alastor breaks himself away from the woman and looks to the King.
“She is a Fairy,” he tells Gawain.
Gawain’s eyes open in slight shock and disbelief. The woman smiles.
“I should apologize,” she begins, “the tempest was not meant for you, but rather those that had been pursuing you.”
“What do you mean?” asks Gawain.
“Men, compatriots to the ones you just felled, have been skulking around these forests, intending to kill you and your companion. Something I could not allow.”
“So you set a trap for them, with that little one as the bait and us the snare,” Alastor observes with a smirk.
The Fairy woman smiles and nods in affirmation.
“You said you could not allow us to be killed. What did you mean by that?” Gawain asks her.
“To die at the hands of brigands would not serve any purpose now, would it?”
“The way you speak of us implies you know who we are, Fairy.”
“Oh, I know of you quite well. Gawain, King of Halvard, haunted by shadowy wraiths in your future yet facing them with tenacious determination.” She then turns to face Alastor. Her deep blue eyes softening. “And Alastor, tragedy incarnate. A man whose path even gods cannot see.”
Gawain’s eyes dart from the Fairy to Alastor and back, sensing some inkling that this is not their first meeting. Gawain ignores this and thinks back to the matter at hand.
“So you know who we are, and you helped us, for reasons unknown, but we - “
“Must continue to Judeheim?” the Fairy interrupts.
“Yes.”
“You will find that Judeheim is... changed.”
“Then my dreams were true,” Gawain says as one utterly defeated.
The Fairy smiles.
“Dreams can be fickle, Gawain. They are like echoes in a cave, or ripples upon water; a mere sign of something greater. In dreams, there are no absolutes. This is something you should always keep in mind.”
“Then the city - the people - they are not lost?”
“It depends. In your dreams, you see a result, not a cause. Do you not?”
Gawain becomes lost in memory. Alastor and the Fairy look at one another, as though having some silent conversation.
“What would you do?” Gawain asks Alastor without facing him.
Alastor thinks for a moment, then answers.
“If one believes that the innocent are in despair now, one should act. Consequences will come later and be dealt with as they arise.”
Gawain takes Alastor’s words to heart and becomes galvanized by them.
“Yes. Wiser words have seldom been spoken, friend.”
“Quite,” the Fairy adds with the tone of one impressed. 
Gawain smiles triumphantly, nobly.
“I thank you for your aid, fair one,” Gawain says with a bow, “but we should take our leave if we are to aid Judeheim.”
“Avoid the road,” the Fairy says. “Alastor knows the animal trails through the western forest. Follow it and you will be in Judeheim long before dawn.”
“What if there are more of those men?” Alastor asks.
“I will do what I can, as will you,” she says with a wide, sly grin.
Gawain taps Alastor’s shoulder with his fist, signaling their time to leave. Alastor begins to follow after him, but is drawn to look back. He glances back just in time to see the Fairy raise her hand in farewell and fade into the mist.
“Until we next meet,” he whispers.
He runs with all speed after Gawain, who has already covered a great distance back. Once reunited, Gawain motions for Alastor to take the lead. With weapons still in hand they rush headlong into the western forest, bounding over obstacles and driven as though a dreadful evil were upon their heels. Gawain keeps pace with Alastor rather effortlessly, even with sword and shield still in hand.
Unaccounted quantities of time passes. Minutes or hours, the two men would not have known, nor would they have cared; their focus sharp, the desire to reach Judeheim relentless. Alastor suddenly changes course, leading on a direct northern path. Frost and dew still cling to the foliage, a chill in the air making every breath painful yet invigorating. The sun had long ago dipped down and the moon has taken its place in the sky, softly illuminating the cold forest with its brilliant pale light. 
After some miles more, they come to a small open clearing, in the center of which the remnants of a fallen watchtower lays in mute ruin. Alastor comes to a halt, leaning against the tower wall. Gawain drops to one knee. Both men heave, drawing air in large gasps.
“How far... have we... come, Alastor?”
“Far enough... to warrant a rest,” Alastor replies with much effort.
Having caught their respective breaths, the two slouch down against the wall, hanging their heads. Gawain looks up to see the night sky through a break in the clouds. He smiles at the sight of the stars.
“Tell me, Alastor: who was she?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know exactly what I am talking about.”
“Oh. Her. I told you, she is a Fairy. You know, one of those enigmatic magical types.”
“I know what she is. I asked who she is. You two seemed... familiar.”
“I have spent much time out here, and met on a few random occasions. Never enough to learn anything useful. In fact, she never spoke to me that I can remember.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Very well,” Gawain laughs and drops the matter.
The clouds gather again, closing off the view to the heavens. Alastor wraps a scarf around his face and pulls his hood over his head in response to the increasing chill. Gawain does the same.
“She must be at work again,” Gawain muses. “Whoever these men are, they are great fools at the very least.”
“Or just suicidal,” thinks Alastor as he stands, strapping his sword upon his back and adjusting his bracers. “We should continue on, lest we freeze here and now.”
“A most undesirable fate,” Gawain smirks in acknowledgment as he stands, sheathing his blade and then tightening the straps that secure his shield to his arm.
“We will continue on north, but we can go at a slower pace,” Alastor tells Gawain.
“Let us be on our way then, as every moment we tarry increases my worry.”
Alastor’s allowing of a slower pace was not merely for easing their journey; the forest north of the watchtower could not be more different than that of the south. Water and ice pool in deep ruts, steep hills whose faces are nothing more than mud walls lay in waiting. Creeper vines hang low from the trees and clog the ground. The earth is so saturated with moisture that it has receded and leaves the roots of the massive trees exposed. All these things the men must be vigilant to avoid. 
The going is slow, but steady, and moves along in silence, save for the somewhat sickening sound of their boots splashing and trouncing in mud. Not even the creatures of the night stir within the woods. In the blink of an eye, the light of the moon, which had been free to shine since they left the watchtower, is blacked out, casting the forest in complete darkness.
“Alastor!” Gawain calls out, but no reply does he receive.
Gawain increases the speed of his stride, fearing the worst. The stillness of the forest makes the sound of his own panting unbearable. His heartbeat like thunder in his ears. The clouds break again, allowing the light back in, but it is too late. Gawain stares off into a pitch black precipice at his feet. Before he can think of stopping, his right foot falls into the nothingness set before him.
Tumbling.
Turning.
Pain.
Gawain falls. His body cracks as he slams against rocks and the husks of fallen, decayed trees. Time ceases to exist. His vision blurs between the sight of the full moon above and the dank, cold darkness of the earth pressed in his face. With all his will, he forces his body to right itself. With all his strength, he plunges his shield into the ground in an attempt to slow his descent. He digs his boot heels into the soft mud, but it does little. He grits his teeth, exerting himself to the brink of exhaustion. Just as he begins to feel in control, the slope beneath him disappears. A yell escapes his lips unwittingly. 
To fall forever becomes the thing that Gawain fears most, more than hitting the bottom, more than anything. The wind whistles as he plunges through the air. It is then that, as fast as the fall began, it ends. 
Gawain lands heavily upon wet but dense earth. He opens his eyes to a world still spinning and now in triplicate. As his mind corrects, he becomes aware of a small grey speck in his vision, growing larger and larger. In his stupor, he is unable to recognize it. But then, clarity. 
The world becomes right. 
A boulder. 
Gawain quickly raises his shield arm and covers his face not a moment too soon. The weight of the boulder smashes his arm violently into his face. The shield cracks and splits in two, the boulder resting in the crater that the shield has become. His arm becomes a throbbing ache. Gawain pushes off the boulder, which rolls to the ground with a thud. The King lowers his arm, draws a deep breath, and closes his eyes. He opens them again to discover a figure standing over him. Gawain’s sword hand immediately moves out of instinct to his belt.
“Relax, Gawain.”
The voice is that of Alastor. He stands with arm extended and hand open. A sigh of relief escapes from the King. He takes Alastor’s hand, and Alastor pulls him up to his feet. Gawain examines his shield, as does Alastor. Gawain unbuckles the shield, holding it in both hands like a fine painting. Aside from being split in two, part of it has broken from when he thrust it in the ground on his journey down the slope.
“Looks useless to me,” Alastor says callously, “which means it is dead weight. Throw it aside.”
Gawain does not argue, as Alastor’s words are, unfortunately, true. He throws the shield down, becoming distinctly more aware of the throbbing pain in his arm. Alastor walks off, examining their surroundings.
They are in a massive trench, twenty feet wide, running from west to east. Gawain stands shoulder to shoulder with Alastor, the two staring up. The walls of the trench are made of stone with a sheer face standing at least fifty feet high. Down the center of the trench, a small stream, barely two feet across, flows from the west.
“We are most definitely not climbing out of here,” Gawain speaks up.
“Too true.”
Gawain examines the trench closer.
“I thought you were an expert ranger, knowing every path and pitfall in this forest?”
“As did I,” Alastor says with a depressed sigh.
“One would come to the conclusion then that this should have been well known to you.”
“It was not here when last I was in this place,” Alastor replies softly as his mind works.
“What could this be then? Part of a dam, or a sewer perhaps?”
“No, the nearest body of water is Sariph Lake, and a sewer system this far from the city leading off into the forests would be useless.”
“Alastor, looking at it, I cannot help but think that it almost looks like - “
“A moat,” Alastor finishes.
Gawain looks at Alastor in disbelief.
“Judeheim has never had, nor has it ever needed a moat.”
“That would be an understatement. If this follows the circumference of the whole city, there would be enough extra room for Judeheim to double or triple its size before even coming near the moat’s edge.”
Gawain takes notice of the small flowing body of water.
“Perhaps following this water will lead us out of here?”
“It looks as though we have few alternate options.”
The two walk westward down the moat, following the flowing liquid. They go slowly out of uncertainty and distaste for the situation. For both of them, the moat’s very existence is a ample cause for caution. Gawain periodically looks down at his left arm; the lack of his shield upon it leaving him feeling inexorably exposed.
“Morion had that shield made for me,” he says as though mourning.
“Do not grieve too much. It did serve the purpose it was intended for; it saved your life, right?”
“That it did. Still, it was a nice shield.”
As they continue on through the night, the light fog that had encapsulated much of the moat fades and the temperature begins to rise. The speed of the temperature increase causes the ice and snow in the forest to melt. It starts with a few tendrils of water snaking down, but soon becomes a constant flow of liquid pouring into the moat. A flash illuminates the sky and the moat, and is soon followed by a massive thunderclap. The men stop in their tracks, look up to the sky and to each other say in unison:
“Wonderful.”
Warm rain starts to fall. 
The shoulders of both men sink, crushed by the turn of events. They continue in spite of the fact that the moat floor has soon become drowned in water, thus transmuting it into a sort of swamp. Each step forward becomes a chore, mud coming up to the knee and loath to release its grip as they attempt the next onward push. In restrained annoyance they slog forward. 
Time, once passing unnoticed, now comes to a mocking halt. 
Minutes become hours, hours become eternity. 
The sound of rain and that of their own legs pushing into and pulling out of the mud become appallingly monotonous. Surely insanity would follow if not for what they saw next.
“Alastor, up ahead.”
“I see. Light is coming out from the side of the wall.”
“A tunnel?”
“Hopefully.”
They hasten their pace as much as their bodies allow, though the light has given them a degree of renewed strength. Nearing the light source, they see that it indeed comes from a tunnel; a long, cylindrical passage with a flat bottom. The walls and ceiling are doubly enforced to withstand enormous pressures.
“It is a spillway from the looks of it,” Alastor observes.
The light shimmers off of the moist walls, coming from some location further within. They enter the spillway to leave the rain behind; voices can be heard reverberating from deep within. Alastor faces Gawain, who nods, acknowledging the voices. Slowly stalking forward for fear of coming across enemies, they eventually come to a fork in the path, forward and right. 
The light and voices come from the right tunnel. Alastor peaks around the corner and spies an open door. Without pausing to face him, Alastor signals for Gawain to follow as he turns the corner into the tunnel. They pass a wide slot in the right wall, and a massive round stone in the wall opposite. Clearly a device meant to block off the path when the moat is filled. The men carefully place each step, not wanting to alert whomever is in the room beyond. Alastor begins to unsheathe his blade, only to strike the pommel against the low ceiling, the sound ringing as sure as any alarm throughout the whole spillway. The voices in the room come to an abrupt halt, which would not have been unexpected. Alastor curses himself and, releasing the grip on his sword, quickly takes a dagger that hangs from his belt. The sound of heavy, iron shod boots trampling rapidly, and the unsheathing of blades from metal scabbards come from the room, followed by battle cries. From beyond the door a man emerges looking much like the ones felled earlier. 
The man shouts in alert. 
Alastor puts forth a burst of speed and takes the man by surprise, shoulder ramming him and plowing through the men behind. He comes face to face with a brigand, quickly plunging his dagger into its belly whilst catching the man’s sword arm as it is swung at Alastor. The brigand yelps in pain as Alastor twists the dagger before removing it and plunging it again, into the brigand’s chest, killing him instantly. Using the sword from the man he has just felled, Alastor defends himself against two more brigands who have righted themselves, previously being knocked to the ground. 
Alastor, with the skill of a master swordsman, deflects the attacks directed at him. He rotates away the blade of one with such force that it flies from the brigand’s hand, shocking two of them, who Alastor strikes down in their momentary lapse. He then wheels around to see Gawain kicking away an enemy whom he has run through, his fourth based on the numbers at the King’s feet. The two catch eyes for a moment, but Gawain’s gaze quickly changes.
“Alastor, behind you!”
The warning is too late. The last remaining brigand swings his blade and smiles at his coming victory. The blade connects. As has become the custom, awareness of time changes for Gawain. His hand outstretched toward Alastor in vain.
However, it is a loud metallic clang heard in place of the sound of metal passing through flesh.
The would be assassin looks up in shock as he realizes that his prey has a claymore strapped across his back. Alastor sneers as he meets his foe and does not hesitate to thrust the sword into him. The man falls backward with a blank stare on his face. Alastor does not bother to retrieve the blade, letting it fall with the brigand. 
All enemies defeated, Gawain reunites with Alastor.
“Are you all right?” Alastor asks while examining the room.
“Just fine. You?”
“I have been better,” replies Alastor darkly.
The room is lined on one side with a row of bunk beds. On another wall, cradles for weaponry. Scattered about the room are braziers for both light and cooking, as well as tables and chairs for eating at. The tables are covered with plates of meat, but the two pass them over, as the meat looks both rancid and undercooked. At the far end of the room, to the left of where the duo had stormed in, is another door. Alastor cleans his dagger using the sheets on one of the beds, thrusting it back into its sheathe afterward. While Alastor rummages through the dead looking for clues, Gawain walks to the door. He opens it, and stares wide-eyed at the sight before him.
“Alastor, you should come see this.”
Alastor compiles. He too is shocked.
“What in the name of...?” 
Beyond the door is a massive pavilion spanning three levels high. Along each wall are alcoves on all three floors, seven feet high and three feet wide. In these alcoves are cylinders made of glass, but they stand empty. On the ground level is found row after row of the glass cylinders standing upon pedestals of black stone, also empty. Alastor and Gawain guardedly step into the pavilion. Free from the low ceilings of the room and tunnels, Alastor finally arms himself with his sword properly.
“What do you make of this, Alastor?”
“I cannot even begin to fathom.”
“Nor I. How many of these glass containers do you reckon are here?”
“Hundreds. Thousands. Far too many for comfort, that much is certain.”
Slowly they walk down the center walkway which divides the pavilion in half. Alastor looks around, seeing unfinished staircases, beams sticking out of the walls forming the skeleton of what would become second and third floors, as well as an eventual proper ceiling. The floor is made up of black and red marble, beautifully set. Sensing no danger, Alastor and Gawain increase their speed in crossing this strange place, a feat that takes many minutes. Once upon the opposite end, they face yet another challenge: rising before them is a massive staircase which, presumably, will lead them up and out. Gawain takes the first step, but Alastor holds him back.
“What is it?” Gawain asks him.
Alastor hands Gawain a small rolled parchment. A note written in a thin, spidery script and signed not with a name, but with an image - that of a dragon.
“I found this,” Alastor explains, “on one of those men.”
“Did you?”
Gawain stares at the note, letting the words burn into his mind. The note reads:

Captain, 
Word has reached Our Lord that the Halvard King has taken the alternate road. Reroute your men with all due haste. Also, be aware that the patrols have just been doubled due to the ‘disturbances’ that seem to be increasing in the forests surrounding this city. Reports blame incidents on an ‘ice fairy.’ Anyone speaking of this creature is to be sent to Our Lord immediately for questioning.
(Dragon)

Gawain looks up at Alastor.
“Interesting that there is no mention of you.”
“To them, I must be no more than a servant of yours, not warranting of note.”
“Perhaps an advantage on our part?”
“Indeed. For now, abandoning the use of my real name seems to be in order.”
“You sound as though you already have a name in mind.”
“That I do. How does ‘Tristan’ sound?”
“Unbefitting. Do you really think it will work?”
“It will do. If our enemies are simple, it will work. If our enemies are cunning, false names would be the least of our problems.”
With a reserved smile, the two men begin their ascension of the long stairs. The way climbs ever upward, exit unseen. The steps are long, low and wide to allow large numbers to travel them with minimal fatigue. All along the walls are small sconces holding burning candles. The sheer number of candles makes the staircase brighter than any of the rooms before it. The walls arch up to a high vaulted ceiling. Because of this, wind channels through constantly, causing a low rumbling howl. Occasionally the wind gusts up and pushes the men backwards a bit. Somehow the candles remain lit, with not even a bit of flickering.
As much as they would wish otherwise, each footfall is an explosion of sound upon the walls, exaggerating the passageway’s size and making them fearful of possibly giving away their presence to any possible sentries ahead. The stairs eventually begin to curve to the left, becoming an upward spiral. After four revolutions, it becomes straight again and a literal light at the end of the tunnel can be seen, albeit some way off; a minuscule pinpoint in the distance. After nearly an hour of slow walking toward the light, they reach the source. The staircase comes up right in the center of the city. They have reached Judeheim.
~-~~-~
The sun has yet to rise, but out in the distance its light is starting to fill the world. The roads are paved with cobblestones, and the sidewalks with a opalescent material. The houses are made of brick with wooden frames. Snow, half melted, still clings to the roofs of the buildings and fills the gaps in the cobblestone. The city itself is as still as a tomb. What should be a busy and bustling market is nothing more than a ghost town. Chimneys stand unused, doors and shutters closed against the outside world. The stairs they had just ascended were a recent addition to the city, from the looks of it, with building instruments still laying beside it.
King and bodyguard separate a bit, investigating their immediate surroundings. They stand upon the main street of the city, which leads from the city gates and straight on to the citadel at the rear of Judeheim. The banners of the city still fly from the buildings, shops and the citadel itself but they are tattered, having been left to endure the elements for some time evidently. Shipping crates still clog the sidewalks and alleyways, yet sit empty. While exploring, they notice the growing sound of marching on the road. They move to hide as fast as possible; Alastor behind a stack of crates and Gawain under an abandoned, overturned wagon. 
The marching boots reveal themselves to be a company of soldiers. They are most unlike the barbarians dealt with previously. These soldiers are armed with strange, curved blades, bucklers and wear scale armor. They stand five men across, and ten men to a row. To the left and right of the soldiers two additional men march, one on each side. They wear grander plate armor, implying from its superior quality a greater rank. 
Alastor and Gawain remain unseen and, as the soldiers pass, slowly come out from their hiding places. They watch as the soldiers march up to the citadel, two soldiers running forward and opening the large doors to let their comrades inside. Once all are in, the two soldiers close the doors behind, leaving no guards outside. Alastor and Gawain meet back in the center of the street.
“Soldiers garrisoning in the citadel?” Alastor says aloud, pondering.
“That makes no sense. The citadel itself is little more than a glorified town hall for the most part. The only protection comes from the catacombs.”
“So there could in fact be an entire army in there?”
 “No. The catacombs were intended for small groups of unarmed civilians, not a fully equipped army.”
Alastor looks back to the citadel, sizing it up, searching for signs of internal or external movement.
“Aside from those that just entered, I see nothing that would lead me to believe it is being guarded.”
“Nor do I. How do you suggest we enter?”
“Why not just walk in?” Alastor answers with a shrug.
With no other discernable ways of entry, they attentively make their way to the citadel, watching for any possible ambushes. At the door, Alastor presses his ear to it, listening for the soldiers, or any other enemies. Hearing nothing, he slowly opens one of the doors and slides in, Gawain following. Their eyes take time to adjust to the low lighting. Crossing the threshold and passing the entrance hall, the door closing behind them with barely a whisper. When Gawain becomes aware of his surroundings, he grits his teeth in anger.
“This is not the citadel I know.”
“How so?”
“It looks as though this place has been gutted like an animal. The outside is merely a facade to fool any who are familiar with the city.”
Indeed, the whole interior shows signs of having been in the process of deconstruction, with new structure being added around it. Remnants of old pillars are visible, once made of a beautiful black and white marble, now replaced by columns that look as though volcanic rock spires had been twisted together.
“I have never been in the citadel itself,” Alastor admits. “Even when my father lived here.”
“Is that so? That is a shame, as this building you see is nothing like it should be. Someone has perverted this once holy place.” They continue further into the main hall. “I see no signs of that battalion,” Gawain says as he looks the hall over with a more scrutinizing eye. “The overall layout remains. Most of the rooms in the left and right wings are small; bedrooms, libraries, meeting rooms. No place that soldiers would be.”
“But you do say this place is different.”
“That is true. However, even though it looks as though the citadel is being converted into a fortified castle, at the same time the outer dimensions are being retained. If I were the one transforming this place, I would expand where prying eyes could not see - down below in the catacombs.”
“Where would we find them?”
“Directly ahead and then down the stairs.”
Alastor gestures that they should head that way. Crossing the main hall, they see that the citadel walls are in the process of being fortified with metal and stone, but work was suddenly stopped. They come to an open stairwell, leading down. A light smoke fills the top of the stairwell, and is coupled with a sickly scent.
“What would you deem that smell is?” asks Gawain.
“It is reminiscent of...” Alastor trails off.
“Of what?”
“A grave. Death. Rotting bodies.”
Alastor’s ominous words do nothing to help them, and in resentment of them they descend into the catacombs. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Gawain releases a sad sigh.
“It is as I feared. The catacombs too have undergone change.”
The landing is a room with six walls, three passages before them, and a high, domed ceiling. The smoke comes from braziers burning rocks covered in a black liquid. They burn bright, but far from clean. A cacophony of voices, cries and the rattling of cages emanate from the left most passage. Alastor motions to Gawain that they should go that way. 
Another staircase. 
More smoke. 
The fetid smell grows stronger. 
The room at the end of these stairs causes the men to recoil in horror and cover their mouths and noses. They have found the source of the rancid scent. Upon two rows of three tables each, dead men are laid out with black sheets brought up to their chests. They examine the bodies uneasily.
“Priests! These men were priests of the citadel!” Gawain declares in a hushed tone, not wanting to draw attention. Gawain directs his eyes away from the sight out of respect for them, whispering to himself.
Alastor gently pulls back the sheet which covers one of the men, revealing that he had been cut open from neck to crotch and roughly sewn back together.
“Gawain, come look at this.”
The King stares aghast at the mutilated corpses. How long these men have been dead cannot be determined, but what is clear is that they were brutally experimented upon. A loud shriek comes from further down the passage breaking Gawain’s trance.
“Your Highness, these men are dead. We can mourn later, but for now let us aid the living.”
As repulsive as the scene is, Gawain reluctantly turns his eyes away from the dead and follows Alastor. In the passage beyond they come to an open door. Inside is a large room lined with metal cages; cages holding men and women prisoner. A ghoul of a man attempts to pull a woman from one of the cells, but she holds fast to the bars whilst those in other cells yell and shout. Alastor moves to one side of the open door, Gawain to the other. Weapons still in hand, they both peer around the corner into the room. Seeing only the one guard, Alastor slowly skulks into the cellblock unseen by his foe, but not the prisoners. They become quiet and still upon seeing Alastor with massive sword in hand. Alastor prowls to within striking distance. The guard realizes the silence of the prisoners and swings about, but too late. Alastor runs him through, and onward until his blade plunges into the stone wall beyond. Alastor withdraws the sword, teeth grit in rage. He raises the weapon above his head and swings it down like an executioner’s blade, ending the guard’s existence. 
Gawain enters, Alastor’s back to him as he cleans his blade of his foe’s blood. Gawain and the woman whom the guard was trying to take lock eyes and they smile.
“Your Highness!” she whispers.
“You know each other?” Alastor asks without turning around.
“Yes, she is the daughter of one of the High Council members,” Gawain answers. His tone that of relief.
Gawain looks to the other prisoners. They nod in acknowledgment as their eyes all meet his. The cellblock houses twenty men and women, ten cells on each left and right wall. The prisoners are all relatively young, none appearing to be more than thirty, but all adults. The free woman moves to Alastor, who still stands over the guard.
“Thank you for your help. I am Dahlia. Who might I ask is the one who saved me?” she meekly asks, trying to get Alastor’s attention.
Alastor pivots around, looking at the small voice speaking to him. Her face, her gaze, is soft. Alastor’s eyes shift to Gawain, then back to hers before he answers.
“Tristan.”
Gawain steps forward.
“A knight in my court,” he adds.
“I am in your debt, Sir Tristan,” Dahlia says with a smile.
“What has happened here?” Gawain asks her.
“The one known as the Necromancer has claimed Judeheim as his own,” one of the male prisoners says aloud.
Alastor sneers at the news, Gawain notices, but he can tell Alastor is still not in the mood to speak.
“Necromancer? Who is that?” Gawain asks the prisoner.
Another prisoner leans forward in his cell, gesturing for Gawain to come closer. 
“Most of us know little of him, beyond the fact that he is evil. Far more evil than any man should be capable.”
“To torture us, he killed the citadel priests in the next room and performed his atrocities so that we could hear and smell everything,” Dahlia adds.
“Do you know what the Necromancer is doing here?” Alastor calmly asks, still not looking at any of the prisoners. “What purpose his experiments serve? Why he chose Judeheim perhaps?”
Dahlia shakes her head sadly. 
“No,” she whispers. “He has been very careful not to say anything that might betray his motives.”
“You are surely not the only survivors? There must be others?” Gawain’s voice shaking as he asks. 
“We have heard the guards speak about the rest of the city being corralled in the bowels of the catacombs. We were separated from the rest with the intention of being killed and cut open, like the others,” another female prisoner speaks up.
The words ease Gawain and rekindle his strength of will.
“Then I received your letter just in time.”
Dahlia looks at the King, her head to the side and an eyebrow raised.
“Letter? We sent no letter. Judeheim was overtaken months ago.”
Gawain looks to each of the prisoners, confusion etched on his very soul. Alastor peers over his shoulder at Dahlia, wondering if the words that had just passed her lips were the same that he just heard.
Silence, then...
Metal bars come down where the door was. Everyone’s gaze darts to the now blocked entrance. Worry on Gawain’s face, unbridled fear on those of the prisoners. Alastor is almost annoyed. All are unsure of what to expect. A loud screeching, like grinding metal, comes from deep within the walls, followed by the sound of stone moving on stone. Everyone looks up to see that the ceiling is separating, with the two halves sliding into the walls. It opens to reveal a second level lined with archers, arrows notched and drawn, ready to release on command.
Alastor, still facing the entrance, grows darker, focused beyond Dahlia and Gawain and the prisoners. His knuckles become white as he redoubles his grip on his weapon. Gawain comes about, wanting to see what has caught Alastor’s attention. The room with the dead priests has soundlessly filled with soldiers, swords drawn. In their midst a muscular man, covered in black plate armor with red trim, stands with his arms crossed, smiling. His size, armor and demeanor leave no doubt that he controls the soldiers. 
“Unless you wish me to have them loose their arrows,” the man says, gesturing with one hand toward the archers, “you will give up without a fight.” Alastor and Gawain look at one another, confirming the singular thought in both their minds: they have been caught, and there is no escape. The man can see this in their faces. “Smart. Hand your weapons through the bars, please.”
Dahlia steps aside as Alastor slowly walks after Gawain, who has already thrust his weapon through the bars, hilt first. Alastor follows his lead, but tosses his weapons out, claymore and dagger, rather than handing them to the two soldiers who stand at the ready. Two other soldiers quickly pick up the weapons and return them to their captain. The bars then raise back up, Gawain and Alastor step out.
“Who are you?” Gawain demands, eyes burning and focused on the man in black.
The captain laughs, but not mockingly. More so as one impressed.
“I would expect no less from a warrior king such as yourself. Since my Master and I deem you worthy, I shall grant you the knowledge of my name. I am Rennir, General and second in command, under the service of Our Lord, known to you as The Necromancer.”
“And what is his name?” Alastor asks, a tint of venom in his voice. The voice of one who knows, and is trying to insult.
Rennir approaches Alastor with a scowl.
“Dogs such as you are unfit to be graced with his name.”
Rennir strikes Alastor, causing him to fall to one knee. Dahlia cries out, but dares not move. “Dogs like you,” Rennir continues, “are unworthy to even speak of him, or to address those he commands.” Rennir then kicks Alastor to the ground viciously. Gawain begins to move to help, but a spear carrier pushes the tip of his weapon in Gawain’s face. Rennir’s face twists in disgust as he looks at Alastor. “Dogs like you are not even good enough to kneel before those whom he commands. Perhaps not even to clean their boots.”
Alastor rolls over to face Rennir. 
“I would much rather be a dog than the half-breed son of a whore,” Alastor growls defiantly.
Rennir grunts and brings the heel of his boot down upon Alastor’s forehead, rendering him unconscious.
~-~~-~
Alastor wakes briefly, watching as the ceiling slowly crawls by before his eyes. He with much taxation raises his head to see that he is being dragged by two soldiers down a hall but, before he can let the thought of escaping fully form, he falls back into the black nothingness of sleep.
~-~~-~
Alastor regains consciousness, but does not open his eyes. Rather, he cannot. He becomes painfully aware of the throbbing in his head, and the burning in his ribs that slowly increase to the point of becoming agonizing. A moan escapes his lips of its own volition.
“Finally coming around, are you?”
The voice is small and distant, but comfortingly familiar. Alastor forces his eyes open to see Gawain, chained about the ankle but otherwise fine. Alastor fully awakens and attempts to move, only to learn that his hands are shackled together and that he hangs by chains from the ceiling, his feet inches off the ground. He moves, but it causes another wave of pain to radiate through his torso.
“Try not to move. Even after you fell unconscious, Rennir continued to kick you. It would seem he did not like having his mother being called a whore.”
“Of course he would think I was talking about him,” Alastor brings himself to say.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Gawain asks, genuinely confused.
“Nothing. Forget about it.”
“Very well...”
Gawain says no more, but forgetting about it is now an impossibility. Alastor looks over his surroundings, ascertaining that he and Gawain have been placed in a barred cell, part of a dungeon. Gawain sits under a small window which is set at the top of the wall. The only window in the dungeon.
“How long have I been out?” Alastor asks.
“A couple of hours, I think. It is not easy to tell time from in here.”
 The sound of boots and the opening of a heavy door resonates out through the dank cavern. Gawain stands. Rennir walks up to their cell and unlocks it. Stepping into the cell, Rennir smirks at seeing Alastor awake and miserable. He steps closer to Alastor, a smile growing on his lips.
“And how are we feeling?” Rennir asks with dark sarcasm. Alastor does not answer. He simply hangs there. “What? Nothing to say?” Rennir asks in response, taking a step closer.
Alastor suddenly kicks down on Rennir’s knee, a loud crack filling the cell, followed by a roar of pain. Rennir’s fury seethes. Limping, he draws his sword. As he reaches back, a voice calls out.
“What do you think you are doing?”
Both Alastor and Gawain raise their eyes to the voice. Another figure enters the cell. He is wearing a black hooded cloak.
“The little bastard! He - ” Rennir begins.
“You were acting like a fool,” the cloaked man interrupts. “Not to mention disobeying me. Anything that he did was a warranted outcome. Be glad he did no more.”
Rennir sheathes his weapon with a sneer and hobbles back with a bow. The cloaked figure now stands before Alastor and Gawain.
“You are the Necromancer I presume?” Gawain asks with a dry voice.
“That I am,” the Necromancer replies politely with a slight bow of his head.
He raises his head high, allowing the light from the window to illuminate his face. It is pale and sickly white. His eyes are dark. But, his face might also be called young and attractive. The paradox is unnerving. The Necromancer smiles.
“And you must be Gawain, King of Halvard. Your near mythical life is the thing of immortal legend. It is a pleasure to meet you, face to face, as the saying goes.” The Necromancer steps closer to Alastor, looking at him, trying to learn as much as he can. A foot soldier comes in carrying Alastor’s claymore and dagger. The soldier hands Alastor’s effects to Rennir and quickly leaves. “And just who might you be?” the Necromancer asks Alastor rhetorically. “Who is the man that can bring such, what is the word... ah yes, malcontent, in one such as Rennir? A feat not easily accomplished.”
Alastor locks eyes with the Necromancer for a brief moment. His eyes harden, the Necromancer smiles in response.
“He is Tristan, my most trusted knight,” Gawain answers on Alastor’s behalf.
The Necromancer faces Gawain nonchalantly.
“A knight, you say? Sir Tristan? Not a very lordly name, is it Rennir?” Rennir does not speak, but grunts in agreement. The Necromancer gestures to Rennir for Alastor’s claymore. Slowly the Necromancer examines the blade carefully, not wanting to miss any details, running his finger along its length. “Oh, I do believe you lied to me. This is not the standard weapon of the men in your court, Gawain.”
“He is also our weapons master; an expert in the use of many types of combat, bladed and not.”
“Sir Tristan, knight and weapon master of Halvard,” the Necromancer muses. “And what a weapon master indeed to wield a sword such as this. Too bad it was of absolutely no use when you were in the guardhouse, just outside of the moat tunnels.”  The Necromancer and Rennir laugh. “No,” continues the Necromancer, “I do not believe you have been entirely truthful in the slightest, Gawain. Halvard has no knights.” The Necromancer steps even closer to Alastor. “Tristan was a poor name to pick. A shame to your ancestors. You are Alastor, son of Eoin, correct?”
“What makes you think that?” Alastor asks, his voice empty of soul and hollow.
The Necromancer lifts the blade to Alastor’s face.
“The crest on this blade was last seen as my Master ran Eoin through.”
Alastor suppresses all emotion. The Necromancer hands the claymore back to Rennir.
“Your master?” repeats Alastor.
“The Black Knight. Who else?”
“You lie!” Gawain shouts.
The Necromancer turns to him, his whole demeanor becoming more impassive.
“Do I?” the Necromancer asks innocently, as though hurt by Gawain’s accusation. “How else could one man completely overtake a city like Judeheim, save one that serves The Black Knight himself.”
Alastor makes a sort of dismissive sound.
“Something to say?” asks the Necromancer as he adopts a more defensive tone.
“What reason would the Black Knight have had to kill my father?”
“Let us just say that he was collecting on a long outstanding debt, shall we, Alastor? Besides, my Master will no longer accept opposition to his rightful claim on these lands.”
“I know the Black Knight,” Gawain speaks up. “Do you really expect me to believe he has become a tyrannical murderer?”
“You dare speak ill of such a noble and just ruler? It matters not. Soon, Judeheim will be under complete control and serve as the capital for the New Kingdom.”
Gawain’s eyes show that those words - New Kingdom - perplex him. Another soldier comes into the dungeon, handing Rennir a rolled parchment. After reading this, Rennir sends the soldier away. He steps next to the Necromancer and whispers in his ear. The Necromancer’s smile fades into a sneer.
“Has she now?” 
Rennir nods, whispering something else.
“So be it,” the Necromancer finally says, turning back to his prisoners. “I will be back to discuss Halvard’s place in the New Kingdom, Gawain. Alastor, you can just... hang around... and I shall deal with you in due time.”
With a fake smile, the Necromancer leaves. Rennir exits the cell, walking now rather than limping, locks the door and he too leaves, still carrying Alastor’s weaponry. A beat passes as the sound of Rennir closing and locking the dungeon door reverberates and fades. Alastor’s body goes slack and he hangs his head. Gawain attempts to run to his side, but the chain binding him to the wall is too short.
“Alastor?”
Alastor looks up at Gawain, but lets his head drop again.
“I am alive, if that is what you are wondering at.”
As if infected by Alastor’s grief, Gawain slumps against the wall and falls to the ground. He looks at the shackle on his leg, hoping to find a way to remove it. It has no keyhole, nor hinge. Nothing more than a solid ring of metal.
“What do you make of this Alastor? There is no apparent means of removing these chains.”
Alastor looks up at his own hands, examining his own restraints.
“You were awake when they chained us, were you not?”
“Yes, but I had been blind folded.”
“I see. They are arcane most likely. The work of dark magic.”
“And how would one go about escaping from said magical bindings?”
Alastor’s body goes slack again.
“I have no clue. Escaping magical bindings is something I have never managed to figure out,” Alastor answers with an intone of memory, not simple joking.
Gawain rests his head on the wall, looks up and sighs.
A unexpected chill blasts in through the window, accompanied with ice and snow. Gawain stands to peer out of the small slot in the wall. The outside world is covered now in snow, ice and sleet. A group of soldiers run by the window, oblivious to Gawain, shouting. The wind kicks up and a strange sound akin to a sword through flesh is heard. 
The shouting has abruptly stopped. The soldiers drop lifeless to the ground. 
Gawain becomes aware of a strange sensation at his ankle. He looks down to see that the metal of the restraint, as well as the chains binding him to the wall, have changed, looking as though they have been frozen solid through their cores.
“Alastor, look at this!”
As Alastor eyes Gawain’s shackle, he too feels that strange cold sensation on his wrists. They have likewise also been transformed. With a surge of strength, Alastor pulls down on his shackles, shattering the chains. Gawain swings his leg against the wall, destroying the frozen bracelet. Alastor does the same, freeing his hands. Alastor rotates his arms and rubs his wrists, trying to alleviate the pain of hanging for so long.
“Perhaps these can be of use,” a voice says from outside.
Gawain and Alastor look to the window as two swords are slid in. They hit the ground with a metallic clang. Taking the blades, they see that they are those of the armored soldiers that had just fallen.
“You are taking quite the risk helping us, are you not?” Alastor asks.
“I have nothing to fear,” the voice says. There is now no doubt. It is the Fairy.
“So, you can render arcane chains useless. How about doing the same to the doors in our way?” Alastor asks as a smirk plays across his face.
“As you wish,” the Fairy replies in a careless tone. Immediately the bars of the cell begin to freeze over. “If you hurry, you can still help those whom cannot defend themselves.”
“Where will you be, Fairy?”
“Waiting at the gates.”
“Why are you helping us?” Gawain asks.
“I have vested interest in ensuring the safety of the innocent. Need I a better reason?”
“Not at all.”
Alastor kicks the cell bars, sending them crashing to the ground.
“Let us take our leave,” he says to Gawain.
They depart the cell, walking down the dungeon halls. The other cells are empty, the devices of torture sit unused, rusted and caked in, presumably, old blood. As they come to the exit, they find that the lock of the massive door is frozen. Rather than kicking the door, Alastor uses the sword to cut through the deadbolt quietly. A ramp leads up to another door that already stands wide open. Passing through the open door, finding themselves back in the citadel’s main hall. The door out to the city lies shattered on the floor, letting the wind and snow in.
“We are free. What course of action shall we take, Alastor?”
“We need what help we can find.”
“Dahlia and the others she was jailed with?”
“Precisely.”
The King and his knight sprint to the catacomb entrance, making their way back down. Again at the hub, Gawain starts to make way to the western tunnel and to the prisoners, but Alastor holds him back.
“Perhaps this time we take the north passage.”
“Is something amiss?”
“No. Maybe. I am not sure.”
The north passage leads to a large sparring ground, for training of the Necromancer’s men, as indicated by the weapons found strewn about. Straw dummies line the right side of the room, to the left a staircase leading up to a second level. Up on the second level, they find the walkway that the archers had been on earlier. The ceiling has been moved back into place. Gawain searches for and finds the mechanism for opening the ceiling. He rotates it, causing the stone to again slide into the walls. The prisoners look up, fear in their eyes, expecting nothing good. Seeing Gawain and Alastor, a soft cheer rises up from them all.
“How would you like the chance to thank your beloved host for his hospitality?” Alastor asks them, sarcasm exuding from every word. They all shout in the affirmative. “Gawain, go fetch some of those weapons on the sparring ground.” The King nods and quickly searches for the best blades he can find. Returning, he gives them to Alastor. “Stay up here,” Alastor instructs, “and I will go down there. Once they are armed we can reunite in the central chamber.”
“Not too many kings would abide taking orders like this you know,” Gawain playfully reminds Alastor.
“I will repay you with double measure someday in exchange for allowing it.”
“Of that you can be sure,” the King smirks.
Alastor leaps down into the small prison, the blades under his left arm and the sword from the Ice Fairy in his right.
“Stand clear,” he says in a low tone.
The prisoners all move to the rear of their respective cells and Alastor commences to hack at the padlocks, cutting through the metal without problem. Soon all the locks are broken and the prisoners freed. Alastor hands the prisoners each a blade, giving the last to Dahlia.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “Again.”
“Where might the others be?” Alastor asks her.
“The only suitable place would be the catacombs further down, but they would not be large enough to hold the whole city.”
“Do not count on that. The Necromancer has been quite busy changing the citadel and the areas around the city itself to fit his whims and needs.”
Dahlia’s eyes change, not wanting to believe Alastor’s words, but knowing that they are undoubtedly true.
“Are we gonna stand ‘ere gabbing, or are we gonna get to saving our people!?” one of the prisoners barks out. 
The rest shout in agreement. As Alastor leads them out, they all stop to look on the dead citadel priests, each uttering a silent prayer on passing. Loud shouts and the sound of metal striking metal break the solemn moment. They come from the central chamber. Remembering Gawain and fearing the worst, Alastor runs after the sounds, not caring if the prisoners follow, but follow they do.
Gawain has been ambushed by a group of the barbarian men, carrying blackened axes and swords. They number fifteen, and their attention lays fully on the warrior king. Gawain stands his ground, defending as the men attempt, and fail, to best him. 
Concepts such as honor and fairness do not enter Alastor’s mind; he strikes down many of the men as their backs remain to him. Taken unaware, the barbarians set their offense on Alastor, and Gawain seizes the opportunity to fell the remainder of his opponents.
“That should not have worked. Whoever these ones are, they are no more than trained dogs at best,” Gawain says as he and Alastor unite.
The prisoners finally arrive in the central chamber, shocked by Alastor’s and the King’s ferocity. A violent burst of cold air rushes down from the citadel’s main hall, and the cries of slain men follow on its wings.
“What was that? It sounds as though there is a battle in the citadel,” Dahlia speaks.
“Did you bring friends?” one prisoner asks with a laugh.
Gawain looks at Alastor and the two smirk.
“You might say that,” Alastor says, amused.
Gawain moves toward Dahlia.
“Half of you need to keep this area secured. The other half will come with me and...” Gawain catches himself, realizing he was about to say Alastor’s name, “me and Tristan.”
Dahlia herself divides the group and, without words, those chosen to guard fan out and stand like sentries. Dahlia has counted herself as one of those who will go with the King and his knight. She turns to face Gawain.
“My city needs saving, I wager.”
Alastor leads the way down the eastern most passage. The tunnel itself is very wide, and descends in a sort of back and forth manner. They eventually come to another pavilion-like structure, except designed for the soldiers of the Necromancer. Stone barracks and sparring grounds fill this underground chamber. The pavilion is made of a series of three tiers growing smaller with each successive higher tier with stone ramps connecting them, and a open court in the center, with the tiers looking over it. At the far end of this pavilion is a massive iron door. 
Large braziers hang from the roughly cut stone ceiling, illuminating the pavilion. The means of lighting these cannot be seen, nor vaguely imagined. Just as Alastor steps into the court proper, the chain mail wearing soldiers that entered the citadel earlier emerge from the barracks and charge toward them. Alastor forgets those following him and rushes forward to meet the coming soldiers with a look on his face that could easily be mistaken for glee.
Easily mistaken, since what he really feels is lust. 
Gawain and Dahlia, stunned for a moment, then lead the prisoners in Alastor’s wake.
~-~~-~ 
Alastor flourishes his weapon and clashes headlong with the soldiers. His first foe is unprepared for Alastor’s rage and is knocked down. Alastor takes the soldier’s own weapon, using it to end him. Two soldiers attempt to strike Alastor, but using a sword in each hand he deflects the swipes harmlessly to the side. Before they react, Alastor swings for the only exposed flesh he can find: their necks. Shocked at first and then emboldened by the sight of their headless comrades, the soldiers yell and redouble their efforts. As Alastor finds yet another challenger, the sound of battle, real battle, starts to surround him; the prisoners, led by Dahlia and Gawain have entered the fray. 
Alastor fells another, and a strange sensation comes over him. 
A sort of absolution. 
A sort of separation. 
Each soldier he comes across is quickly dispatched as though they were merely lifeless husks used for training.
A break in the melee comes for him then, and he can see the fight around him, violent and without mercy on both sides. The prisoners, male and female, their faces contorted in one way or another. One roaring as she strikes a foe, another with vacant eyes as he is slashed by a soldier. Even Gawain and Dahlia. All of them overtaken by the spirit of battle.
Alastor watches, removed from them. He feels nothing. No, not nothing. A sadness perhaps. Something unnamable. Something empty and terrible and frightening.
He turns to face the metal door and there he sees the one whom he has hoped to come across. Rennir. He stands in front of the door like a guard dog, flanked on both sides by soldiers wearing plate armor. In Rennir’s hand, Alastor’s sword and in his belt, Alastor’s dagger. That previous sensation of hollowness is thoroughly replaced. It makes Alastor sneer, draws the curtain around his heart shut.
Wrath.
Malevolence.
Bloodlust.
Rennir scrutinizes Alastor and smiles a dark, evil smile. Alastor stalks toward Rennir, slaying enemies left and right without batting an eye. In a matter of footsteps, there are no more between him and Rennir.
 Rennir nods, and the soldier to his left attacks. 
Alastor steps to the side, avoiding the attack while at the same time thrusting a blade into the soldier’s chest, passing through the plate armor as though it was not even there. The soldier falls, and the other one runs forward. He starts a wide swing of his blade, but Alastor dashes forward to meet him, swinging both of his swords at once. The armored head of the soldier hits the ground dully, his body falling lifeless. Rennir’s face changes. He smirks, but behind it is something else. Fear masked as anger.
“Alastor, son of Eoin. What are those names to me? He said them as though they had some meaning, worthy of remembrance. He failed to mention that Eoin fell like a coward, much like his son is about to.”
Alastor says nothing.
Annoyed that his goading has done nothing, Rennir makes the first move, sloppily swinging Alastor’s claymore horizontally. Alastor stops the attack with one sword and attempts an attack of his own with the other, but Rennir evades. Alastor begins a rapid onslaught of blade swipes and, although he handles the claymore sluggishly, Rennir manages to defend. A soldier leaves the battle with the Judeheim prisoners, intent on aiding his leader. Alastor’s keen senses alert him to this and he wheels about, killing the soldier with a roar. 
Back to Rennir, Alastor finds him already in swing. Alastor raises a sword in defense, but the blade is shattered and the hilt is flung from his hand. The shock numbs his arm, and makes him drop to one knee. Rennir prepares to bring the claymore down on Alastor, but Alastor raises his numbed arm and catches the edge of his own sword on his bracer.
 A sharp metal clang screams out, revealing the bracer to be made of metal, not leather or, rather, hiding something made of metal. 
Alastor turns the blade away and thrusts his other sword into Rennir’s leg, the same leg that Alastor had kicked in earlier. Rennir howls and recoils, losing his grip on the claymore. Alastor does not hesitate to take back his weapon, standing as he does so. Rennir pulls the sword from his leg with a snarl. Enraged, he swipes at Alastor. The sword edge whistling as it cuts through the air. Using a combination of his bracers and the claymore, Alastor renders Rennir’s flurry of attacks insignificant. The skill with which Alastor wields such a large sword takes Rennir off guard, and leads to his downfall. 
Alastor feigns an attack. Rennir tries to counter, but leaves himself unprotected. Alastor kicks again at Rennir’s injured leg, causing him to fall on his back. Rennir raises his sword in an effort to guard, but Alastor’s next attack cannot be stopped; he swings down on Rennir, cutting the sword clean in half and landing in Rennir’s chest.
Rennir is dead. 
Alastor is promptly overcome with the previous sensation of emotionlessness. He kneels down and takes his dagger back from Rennir. As he stands, Gawain and Dahlia run up to Alastor.
“Alastor?”
He hears nothing. His gaze fixed on the fallen Rennir.
“Alastor!?”
A voice, tiny and distant, on the fringe on consciousness.
“Alastor!”
The trance is broken. 
He finally sees Gawain, the voice that brought him around. He also sees Dahlia, her face showing both tire from battle and confusion at the use of Alastor’s name.
“Alastor, are you well?”
“Fine.” A  lie of omission, but a necessary one. Alastor looks down at those he has slain and notices the sword of one of the soldiers. “Is that not your sword, Gawain?” 
Gawain looks down, picking up the sword in question.
“So it is.”
Alastor beholds the aftermath of the skirmish. To his surprise, he finds that only three of the Judeheim prisoners have fallen. The others have their fair share of injuries, but none life threatening. 
Alastor and Gawain then go to the metal door, grasp the handle and start to open it. The door slides easily into the stone wall. Nothing would have prepared them for what resides on the opposite side of the door, least of all Dahlia and the prisoners. Behind the door is a massive cave, the walls honeycombed with small alcoves. The cave is overly full, cramped with the citizens of Judeheim. Entire families and extended families crammed into their little holes, some spilling out and making their home on the rough cave floor. The cave is lit by the hundreds of small bonfires tended to by each family. Children, oblivious to the severity of their situation, scurry and play among the stairs, cut from the raw stone, which lead to the upper alcoves. 
The people stare at the opening like scared sheep. Dahlia runs into the cave horrified. Filth covers much of the ground, and piles of the dead are stacked along one wall, covered with soiled blankets and kept out of eyesight of the young ones. Elsewhere in the cave, crying can be heard, from both babies and women. A group of ragged men step forward.
“What do you want!?” one demands.
 Dahlia meets them.
“We are here to free everyone!” she cries.
The men squint against the brilliant light pouring in from the pavilion. As their eyes adjust, they realize who stands before them.
“Dahlia? Is that you? We all feared you dead!”
“I would be, had it not been for Gawain and his knight.”
The men are visibly drawn to and shaken by the use of that name.
“Gawain of Halvard is here? The King himself?”
“That I am,” says Gawain as he steps forward with a regal, yet subdued air.
The men look at Gawain in disbelief, but one by one they embrace Gawain and sob.
“Are you three the only council members left?” Gawain asks. Their faces become grim. Without a word, they tell Gawain that the whole of the Council, save for themselves, are no longer among the living. “I see,” says Gawain.
Sadness begins to envelop Dahlia, and the men see this.
“I am sorry, miss. But, know this: your father died not of sickness, but in protecting your mother and sister.”
Dahlia takes this news to heart, and buries the sadness deep inside, letting it turn to strength. The men become stone faced as they face Gawain.
“What must we do?”
Gawain walks them to the metal door, showing them the scene beyond.
“As you can see, we have already taken care of your gate keepers. Gather your most able men, have them take what arms they can, and then we lead your people back into the city.”
The Councilmen make haste, and soon news of their salvation spreads among the people. Without being told the citizens of Judeheim are prepared to leave. The Council remnant returns, having gathered the few living knights of the citadel left and they, with the aid of Gawain and Alastor, search through the Necromancer’s fallen soldiers for good weapons. The knights and Councilmen immediately take notice of Rennir and his fallen lieutenants.
“Who fell these men?” one citadel knight asks, astounded. “Who killed this beast of a man and his followers?” Gawain and Dahlia turn to Alastor, and the others follow. The captain of the citadel knights steps before Alastor. “You killed all three of them?” he asks Alastor.
“Yes,” answers Alastor.
All of the citadel knights kneel and bow their heads. The captain looks up.
“That animal committed many crimes against our people. Atrocities I will not mention. We are indebted to you, sir.”
Alastor nods, not caring for the praise.
“We must hurry. One only knows how long our ally can aid us,” Gawain speaks up.
“Ally?” the Councilmen ask.
Gawain smirks.
“It would be better to explain later. For now, escape is of the utmost importance.”
Once armed, and the citizens made ready, Gawain and Dahlia lead the people out of their earthen prison, passing across the pavilion and making their way out of the catacombs. Alastor remains at the metal door, ensuring that no survivor is left behind. The columns of people take less time to complete their exodus than one would expect. When the last of the Judeheim citizenry exit the cave, Alastor enters to double check that none living has remained. He walks around the ground floor, kicking over empty baskets, looking at the untended fires, those items deemed unimportant which lay abandoned and strewn about. 
Nothing important.
Nothing important, that is, until he catches an odd shape in the corner of his eye.
A little girl, and not a citizen of the city, as her perfectly white dress indicates.
“What is a Fairy princess doing in a place like this?” Alastor asks, his voice soft and calm. The emotionless mind having faded. The little Fairy girl giggles in appreciation of his words. Alastor kneels and she runs into his arms. Alastor holds her like a daughter. “Why are you here, little one?”
“She wanted me to find out if you were well.”
“Why would she think I was not?”
The Fairy girl gestures her head toward Rennir.
“He was not a nice man. He did bad things. None will mourn him.”
“It sounds as though you knew more about him than I.”
“He wanted to capture us. Dark thoughts were in his heart. Thoughts contrary to those of his Master.” Alastor does not ask anything further. The Fairy girl leans close to his ear. “She also wanted me to tell you that the dark one fled.”
“Fled?”
“Yep. Once he learned you escaped, he abandoned his followers.”
“Abandoned?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
“We do not know, but that does not mean you can be lazy. There are a lot more of those metal men. The King and the city need your help still.”
“I suppose that means I should go now.”
“Yep.”
Alastor sets her down.
“Will you be safe here, little one?”
“I will not remain long,” she says as she faces the piles of dead within the prison cave. “I must pray for those who suffered.”
“Will I see you again?”
“Not too soon, I do not think. Someday, I hope.”
“As do I.”
“Be careful, Alastor. You are not allowed to die. Yet.”
Alastor bows before the girl with a smile, then runs to catch up to the fleeing masses of Judeheim. 
~-~~-~
Heading back up to the central chamber, Alastor comes across signs of small skirmishes as he passes the occasional dead soldier with weapons missing. Apparently the people of Judeheim are arming themselves as they go along. The central chamber is empty, except for numerous dead soldiers in addition to the barbarians fought earlier, all their weapons missing. A similar scene is found in the citadel main hall. An unholy din is heard out in the courtyard, just outside of the citadel doors. Alastor runs to it. Outside, he observes the entire city engulfed in a full scale war. Those strong enough to fight, man and woman alike, fight against the Necromancer’s soldiers and barbarians. They defend those unable to fight as they flee to the city gates, where they attain some refuge in the forests. 
Alastor watches for a moment, wondering to himself where these reinforcements could have come from. There was no way this number could have been hidden within the citadel and, although they could have taken refuge in the buildings and houses, Alastor cannot help but feel uneasy about it.
Alastor ignores this feeling, joining the fight and quickly finding soldiers to test himself against. They pose no challenge whatsoever, and merely serve to slow Alastor’s search for the Fairy, who said she would be waiting at the gate. Over the course of the battle, smoke slowly fills the air. At first it goes unnoticed, but soon the source becomes apparent - the buildings, the homes and the citadel itself have all been set ablaze.
The flames increase in intensity, seemingly matching move for move the flow of battle. The Necromancer’s soldiers are no match for Judeheim unleashed, but the fires are too far gone to be stopped. Alastor starts directly helping the people of Judeheim, urging them to flee the city. The walls of the buildings begin to creak and crack, then collapse and fall on the streets. At the city entrance, Alastor finds Gawain and Dahlia spurring the people on through the gate.
“Alastor! What took you?” Gawain shouts out.
“I had a little one to look after,” Alastor answers.
As the last of the Necromancer’s forces are killed, all seems well until a voice cries out: “More from the citadel!”
Yet more reinforcements pour out from the still burning citadel. Their appearance comes as a shock to Gawain and Dahlia, as the catacombs and all surroundings were cleared of enemies. Alastor remains quiet, his unease now growing into worry. Unfortunately none of them have time to think on it. They all stand ready to confront the new wave of soldiers, but a figure steps out, as though from nowhere, standing between attacker and defender. 
The Ice Fairy.
Her black hair whipping in the wind, she faces the soldiers and raises her right arm out to them, extending a single finger. The wind makes a sudden change, blowing in from the south and becoming a gale. 
The people of Judeheim, lead by the knights of the citadel, do not look back into the city, fleeing to the forest. Alastor, Gawain and Dahlia, however, remain. Watching the Fairy in awe. 
Rain begins to fall, the wind grows ever more powerful, the temperature drops drastically. Alastor and Gawain smile, knowing what is coming next. The rain is frozen into needles and sent flying into the soldiers. They stand no chance, the frozen spikes pass through the metal of their chain mail and their flesh with equal ease. The Fairy shows no pride in having ended so many lives. After a time of reflection, she lowers her arm, letting the wind die down. The deep cold dies with it. The rain continues though, quenching the flames around the city. In but moments white smoke bellows from the homes and businesses, signaling the fire’s demise. Dahlia runs off to let the people know what she has just seen. Alastor and Gawain begin to walk to the Ice Fairy to thank her, but a fog emanates from her feet, rises and, as the fog dissipates, she vanishes with it.
“Leaving so soon?” Alastor asks softly so that only Gawain can hear him.
“I have other matters to attend to,” the Fairy’s voice replies gently, “as do you.”
“How so?” Gawain asks.
“The true enemy has escaped.”
Gawain whispers a curse to himself.
“The sooner you get home, dear King, the better.”
“I thank you for your aid.”
“It is I who should thank you. You arrived just when you were needed most. Fare thee well.”
The Fairy’s voice goes silent. Alastor and Gawain are left with a slight sense of loss. Gawain thinks on her last words.
“What do you suppose she meant by that?” he asks Alastor.
Alastor smiles.
“I would think her words were obvious. It was she that sent the letter to you.”
Gawain thinks and smiles.
“What of this Necromancer?”
Before Alastor can answer, the people of the city can be heard coming back up the road.
“We will speak of him later, Gawain.”
The Council members and the knights are the first to arrive back at the city entrance, wide eyed and expecting to see the Ice Fairy.
“Where is she?” the knight captain asks, his voice shaky with exuberance.
“I am afraid you missed her,” Gawain answers politely. “She had other matters at hand.”
“You actually spoke to her?” asks one of the Councilmen.
“That we did.”
The knights and Council give a cheer, a cheer that spreads through the people as they learn what has transpired. The knights and Council speak in excited tones with one another.
“Why so jubilant?” Gawain asks Dahlia.
“A long time ago, the citadel prophet had foretold of her. Her coming to our city during a time of need would herald the beginning of the next age.”
Alastor’s attention is drawn to these words.
“What exactly does this next age entail?”
“None of us rightly know,” replies a Councilman almost beside himself.
“Then why is this event so important?”
“Because it is one more step toward everything being made right.”
The eldest Councilman then steps very close to Alastor.
“I would think you of all people would know this, Son of Eoin,” he says to Alastor in a low whisper. So low as to prevent the others from hearing.
“Just because my father was a member of your faith does not mean I am as well,” replies Alastor, a degree of contempt in his voice.
The Councilman nods solemnly, sadly agreeing before stepping away.
By now, the people have begun to flow back into their city. Some to check on their homes, others to tend the dead - both their kin and the soldiers alike. The King, the Councilmen and the knights tour the city, making plans for repair. Gawain promising to have various building supplies delivered, the Councilmen declaring Judeheim’s unending alliance with Halvard, and how trade roads will soon flow both ways between the two. 
The next age would be prosperous for both cities.
Alastor wanders off, uninterested in hearing political discussions, his mind many miles away, mulling over the events he had just taken part in. A few hours pass, and the sun has at last climbed to the top of the world. Gawain, the Council, the knights and Alastor all eventually converge back at the city gate.
“Now, the matter of the Necromancer,” the knight captain begins. “What became of him?”
“He fled before the battle,” answers Gawain.
“What actions do we then take? Evil such as his cannot be allowed to go unchecked. Nay, he must be outright destroyed.”
“I do not intend to let him roam free. As soon as I reach Halvard, I will dispatch riders to track and locate him. He will be brought to justice. Of that I have no doubt.”
Gawain turns to Alastor as he says these last words, casting an uneasy glance.
“We will do the same, once we have settled our own affairs,” a Councilman adds.
All nod and murmur agreements. Save for Alastor, still lost in himself. A moment later he snaps back to the present.
“That being the case, Your Highness,” Alastor says with feign respect, trying to sound as knightly as possible, “we should be on our way back to the kingdom.”
“Yes. Quite right, good sir.”
“But how will you travel?” the captain asks. “You cannot walk home.”
At that moment, two horses can be seen coming up the road. When they near the gates, Gawain lets loose a deep laugh. It is none other than his and Alastor’s animals, still burdened with their supplies.
“Another gift from our lady?” he quietly asks Alastor.
“Of that I am absolutely certain.”
Alastor rubs his horse’s snout, scratches behind its ears and looks into its eyes while Gawain says his farewells to the people of Judeheim. Alastor starts to mounts up, but he finds a neatly folded parchment with his name written on the outside in a beautiful silver script. Rather than open it, he pushes it under his shirt so as to avoid it being seen by anyone, Gawain included. Once on horseback, Alastor casts his eyes to the forest in vain hope of seeing the Ice Fairy.
“Ready, friend?”
Alastor’s trance, an all too common occurrence, is broken. Gawain pulls himself up onto his horse and settles into the saddle.
“Alastor, are you ready?”
“Oh. Yes. I am.”
With a final wave, Gawain and Alastor depart from Judeheim along the primary trade road south. Barring anymore unforeseen events, the trip should be altogether short.
~-~~-~
The journey back to Halvard is quick and uneventful, as hoped, not to mention quiet, as neither man speaks, each lost in contemplation. Since they took the trade road, they are back where they began, outside the Halvard city gate, within the same day. Dusk has fallen, bathing the city in orange and purple. Gawain passes under the gate arches, but Alastor stays outside.
“Is something amiss, Alastor?”
“No.”
“Then why do you tarry?”
“This is where we part ways for now.”
“I do not see why. You are more than welcome to stay here. For what you have done for me, I will have a house prepared for you, and you will eat at my table. For all intents and purposes you will be a prince here.”
“A generous offer, but not one I can take,” Alastor says as while his eyes look upon the city walls and the gate itself.
“I will need your help in dealing with the Necromancer, Alastor.”
“Which is why I must leave. The more we know about this enemy, the better equipped we will be to fight him. I can go places and learn things I would not be able to while here.”
Gawain sighs, but his eyes reveal that he knows Alastor is right.
“How long do you think you will be gone?”
“I cannot say. Weeks or years. It is hard to foresee given the circumstances.”
A moment of silence passes.
“I had hoped to properly introduce you to my daughter, especially after such an ordeal.”
“I am sure that will happen in the future. But not now. Too many questions have been left unanswered for me.”
“Yes. Do well to remember my offer. There will always be a place here for you.”
With that, Alastor nods in acceptance, brings his horse about and rides east.

Chapter Six
On the Road to the Town With No Name
Return to Table of Contents

Morion stares at Alastor hushed. Eyes tearing, but not sad. She is unsure what to make of Alastor’s story, about the Necromancer, about her father. All of his words wash over, swirl about, and break on her mind like waves.
“I know you must have a swarm of questions,” Alastor speaks up, noticing Morion’s perplexed face. “How your cousin became involved with the Necromancer being the most prominent I wager.”
Morion sits still, thinking for a moment. As if just hearing Alastor she stammers.
“Oh, yes. That is a question, but not the one most curious to me.”
“What is on your mind?”
“I grew up on tales of the Black Knight, met him and looked into his eyes. How can one as heroic and good as he become the type to wantonly murder and oppress those he used to protect?”
Alastor thinks about how to answer, rubbing his chin.
“My father had always taught me of the corruption that absolute power can bring, warned me to beware of such power. Fear it and respect it. Not all believe such things. There are the ones who lust for it. Crave it. Do anything, absolutely anything, for it. Soon such power, when attained, takes over and the man ceases to exist, replaced by primal urges. Right and wrong no longer hold sway and one with such power finds that nothing holds him back from his heart’s dark desires.”
Alastor’s voice fades into the darkness, his eyes looking beyond the physical world. Perhaps outward. Perhaps inward. Morion cannot tell exactly.
“You sound as though you have experience on the matter.”
“My family has had dealings with the Black Knight. He has caused the destruction of many of my bloodline.”
“So, my father has been a liar my whole life?” Morion asks, her voice giving weight to her hurt.
“No. Not in the slightest. Your father was never a liar. I will grant that the Knight has done some good in the world, though from my perspective he is far from being the hero you want to see him as.”
The moon dips down, obscured by the trees. Morion begins to ask another question, but Alastor raises his hand.
“It is much too late for more questions or discussions, I am afraid. When next we have a moment like this, we can continue and I will answer as best I can. You should go get some sleep while there is still some to be had.”
Morion thinks about arguing but instead yawns, aware of her fatigue. She smiles with a nod of her head before standing and making way back to the little camp. She stops to turn back to Alastor.
“Thank you for telling me that story. It was nice to finally hear the other side of it.”
“Other side, Your Highness?”
“My father told me all of what had happened in Judeheim. You were exactly as my father had described. Although he did... gloss over some of the details, you telling me that story proves that you are who you claim to be. I now know that I have nothing to fear.”
With that said, she walks away and goes down to the camp, where the bards are still sleeping. The air is warm and calm, so she props up her pack and blanket for use as a pillow. Morion spends a moment mulling over Alastor’s story, smiling. She shortly falls asleep deeply, unafraid of any dreams that might come.
~-~~-~
Alastor, having watched Morion settle into sleep, rises to his feet, looking out over the world before him, the vigilant watchman. Pacing back and forth, like a lion in a cage, waiting. He looks again to the camp below. Cale is looking up at him. They lock eyes for a moment, but Cale breaks the gaze, turns over and pulls his blanket up over his neck. Alastor sneers at the bard as he continues to pace on his perch, eyes sharp and tireless. 
One might see anxiousness in them also.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes to observe the bards cooking over the rebuilt campfire. 
“Good morning, miss. Hungry?” Cale, uncharacteristically cheerful, asks.
Morion looks into the pan, seeing various cured meats frying. It stirs her hunger, but she at that moment remembers that she still has the fruits that had been picked earlier.
“No thank you,” she replies as she takes to searching through her bags. She finds the fruit, holding the bag up victoriously. “I have these still.”
Morion opens the bag with zeal, devouring the little fruits. The bards share a glance and take to their breakfast.
“More for us then,” Amy says with a shrug.
“Where is Tristan?” Morion asks, still referring to Alastor by this false name, partly because there would be a reason her father instructed her to, partially because she would rather not explain to the bards why their guide has two names. The story Alastor told her she would very much like to keep to herself.
“We have not seen him all morning,” admits Cale.
“He does not look like a ‘Tristan’ to me,” Amy muses to herself, not really speaking to anyone in particular, and again falling into the pit of lost memories.
At that moment, Alastor walks into the camp, soaking wet and looking exhausted. He sees Morion sitting with the sack of fruit next to her.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing for one.
She smiles and hands him two. Alastor bows in thanks, plops onto the ground and eats. Cale treads over heavily.
“So, Tristan. What is on our travel agenda today?” he asks Alastor.
Alastor looks at Morion, surprised that she has not told the bards his real name, and being extremely grateful that she has not. She smiles coyly.
“We continue until we enter the town with no name.”
“Town with no name?” Amy repeats.
“Settled by refugees of the last war.”
“Last war?”
“It was also called by some the All Kingdoms War,” Cale answers her.
Alastor nods, confirming Cale’s conclusion. Morion moves closer.
“The All Kingdoms War was centuries ago. Why would people remain out in the middle of nowhere after it ended?” she asks Alastor.
“For the same reason anyone stays anywhere: comfort. Their hiding place became their home.”
“And what sort of help can they offer in this rather delicate situation?” Cale asks.
“They are unsurpassed warriors for one, and they know more about the Necromancer and his doings than just about anyone else, except the Black Knight.”
Cale gives a sort of impressed grunt. Morion takes notice of Alastor’s words.
“How long will it take to get to this place?” asks Morion.
“If we leave now, we can be there just before sundown,” Alastor answers with a hopeful disposition.
Not wasting time, they all take the hint, packing up, mounting their animals and are on their way in moments. 
The ride is quiet, no discussions of heroes and villains. Nothing but the sound of the world around them as it is waking up. After about an hour of slow travel, they leave the ruins behind and come upon a small road that leads into a dense forest. Morion and the bards are at first apprehensive of the trees that rise above them to an imposing height, but Alastor enters untroubled, characteristic of one who has traveled here before. Morion takes strength in this, his story still fresh in her mind. The trees sway gently in the morning breeze, removing all fear and replacing it with a feeling of serenity and safety. The light streaming in through the canopy dances, shimmers, appears beautifully magical. What had been scary on the outside might be called somewhat spiritual on the inside. Even the bards smile. Morion remembers back to the forest she was in all alone after leaving Edna but before finding the town where she met Cale, Amy and eventually Alastor. Alastor rides close to the edge of the road, pulling a thick reed from the ground that had grown to an impressive size. He falls back a bit to ride next to Morion.
“May I see your knife for a moment?” he asks her.
She obliges and hands it to him. He first cuts a one foot long section of the reed, discarding the rest. He then cuts small holes along one edge of the reed, which is actually thick and hollow.
“Thank you,” he tells her as he gives the weapon back.
He takes the lead again. Before sheathing the dagger, an odd thought comes into Morion’s mind. She looks at the blade, there noticing a small glyph near the hilt, etched into the metal itself. Her mind fills with all sorts of hypotheses, but she pushes them aside for the moment. A sweet melody fills the forest. Alastor has made a new flute. Morion recognizes the music as being the same song Alastor had played the night he saved her, except now he plays it brighter than before. Cale and Amy ride up beside Morion.
“What is it he is playing?” Cale asks.
“I do not rightly know.”
“Well, why not go find out?” Amy urges with a grin.
Morion gently taps the sides of her horse, riding up next to Alastor.
“What song is that? What is it called?” she asks him.
“It was a hymn. A song to the nameless God and his servants, asking for protection during times of woe. It at one time had lyrics, but they have long since been forgotten, along with its proper name.”
“You played it before, did you not?”
“I did.”
“But it was different before. Sad if I had to guess.”
“It can be played in hope as well as lament, Your Highness.”
“Lament?”
“For many things. Your father being one. I had hoped it was not true. Finding you in that place alone was proof of what I had been dreading.”
Morion smiles her beautiful smile and falls back in with the bards. Amy moves closer.
“Well?”
“He said that it is a song of protection.”
“It is exquisite. I have never heard music like it, at least, I do not think I have. It sounds familiar, but I cannot rightly say why...”
“It does have that effect. Like you know it, yet you do not.”
Morion trails off. Both women basking in the music and the surrounding forest, which, combined, create something altogether transcendent. Cale, however, seems indifferent to it all.
It takes the entire rest of the morning along with part of the afternoon to finally pass through the forest and into a vast, rolling country. Trees, rocks, hills, mountains, brooks and other such elements of nature mark the green grassy landscape, with uncountable numbers and types of animals going about their routines. The road dips and climbs, winds and turns, but always keeps in the relative direction that they need to go. Alastor eventually comes to a large weeping willow and stops under it.
“You can stop and rest if you so wish,” he tells those under his care.
They all sigh in relief, glad to accept the opportunity of a moment’s pause. Alastor remains mounted however, guiding his animal to a patch of grass. The other horses come over to do the same. Morion watches Alastor, whose back is to her and her companions. Alastor clutches his left shoulder and rotates that arm. His breathing is deep, labored. While Cale and Amy refresh themselves at a small brook, she walks over to her guardian.
“Is something wrong? You look as though you are in pain.”
Alastor jumps a bit, having not expected her.
“Just a little sore, that is all.”
Intuition tells her what to ask next.
“Where were you this morning?”
“You should go back with the others. We need to be leaving in a few moments,” he tells her, ignoring the question.
Walking away, she glances back and notices dark stains on Alastor’s cloak. Dried blood. Secrets. Morion sneers in distaste, annoyed beyond words. She kneels down by the brook, splashes water on her face, still looking up at Alastor.
“What is going on?” asks Amy, having seen the short exchange between Morion and Alastor.
“Nothing, apparently,” Morion answers with an empty tone.
“Mount up,” Alastor says without facing them.
They follow his orders wordlessly. The trio trot up behind Alastor, who then continues the ride onward. 
The day starts to wane into dusk, the road dips, heading down into a smaller path flanked on both sides by rocky walls. Trees grow on these walls at an angle, creating a sort of natural thatched roof. Coming out of this valley, they enter into a wooded area where they find traces of civilization, but not one that Morion nor the bards recognize even in the slightest.
~-~~-~
Massive towers, their foundations made from the trunks of trees hundreds of feet around, loom over them. Morion, Cale and Amy look upon them awestruck while Alastor looks at them in familiarity, the way one does when they have come home. Around the towers are many houses, built not like the towers, but modern cottages, most only one level high, some two.
The towers resemble in style those of the ruins that the travelers had passed by and through, save that these towers are, on the whole, fully intact, only covered in creeper vines and showing some slight signs of decay and erosion. The larger mystery of the towers comes from the fact that the higher levels have doors and entrances yet no visible means of accessing them from the ground.
Alastor brings them to a large building in the center of the town, an inn from the looks of it, with a man wearing a grey cloak waiting just outside it. Alastor dismounts, gesturing for the others to do so also. Alastor and the grey cloaked man embrace like old friends, talking in hushed tones to one another. Although dusk has closed in around them, with only the faint light of the moon and the light of the inn to illuminate, this could not hide the fact that this cloaked man is strange to say the least. He stands nearly a full foot taller than Alastor and, although hooded, what is visible of his face seems different in an indescribable way. It is these things that keep the trio on their animals. Alastor takes notice of this.
“Your Highness, you and your companions may dismount now. We are safe here.”
They do so with the utmost caution. Morion steps forward, as do the bards, unsure of what to expect. The man bows reverently and motions for them to enter the inn. At that moment the inn doors open and two women, dressed in similar garb as the man, emerge. They, with kind faces, take the animals to the stable at the side of the inn. Alastor also motions for them to enter first. They do.
Many is the number of things which is to be seen within the inn, but the first and most prominent is an entire smorgasbord which has, presumably, been prepared for them, with plates and silverware and wine already set. Morion, Cale and Amy take the seats prepared for them, ready to eat their fill, looking around in fascination at the inn as they do so. The walls are painted delicately by the hand of an unbridled master with scenes of the various forests and cities of the Old Kingdom. Alastor and the tall, cloaked man come in soon after. Alastor is placed across from Morion, but no plate is before him. The tall man signals to someone in the kitchen beyond, and another woman comes bearing a large platter of roasted meats and vegetables made especially for Alastor. What is special about this food cannot be determined. Morion looks up from her plate just as the woman sets the platter down and unintentionally finds herself staring at her hands. The thumb and last finger on the servant woman’s hands look almost identical, set on the side of the hand and of near equal length as the rest of the fingers. When the woman finally walks away, Morion looks up at Alastor wide eyed. Alastor smirks and makes a dismissive wave of his hand. 
Once finished eating, the two women who had taken care of the animals return, and are joined by the third which brought Alastor’s food. The cloaked man also returns. Standing at the head of the table, he speaks.
“Honored guests, we shall now show you to your rooms, but do not think that in your rooms you must remain. As it is still early, feel free to wander about the inn, where on every floor you will find many works of art, unseen by the eyes of men and women for many a year, that in truth rival those already seen here, in this very room. Also, if you are in the mood to read, there is a study on the second floor with many novels from numerous cities as well as books of history.
“That said, a word of caution: both your guide,” he motions to Alastor, “and I recommend that you stay in this building. We who you see shall remain, functioning as your protectors while you are here. Are there any questions?”
“Where is everyone else? This town seems a tad sparse,” Cale blurts out.
“In their homes, for the most part. This inn, and the town itself, rarely sees travelers. I and my people live a quiet life, so not seeing our people on the street is normal, for us anyway. Is there anything else?”
Cale does not care for the answer, but cannot argue. Seeing that no one else has anything to say, the tall, grey garbed man motions kindly for the three women, each guiding one of the group, except Alastor, individually to his or her room. 
Up the stairs to the second floor they go, each of them, Morion, Cale and Amy, granted with separate, albeit nearly identical, rooms. Even more than promised, the rooms are themselves filled with beautiful works of art, paintings and sculptures. They are also luxuriously furnished with articles of untold age. They are also extremely clean and orderly, showing signs of being rarely, if ever, used. Morion’s room is distinctly larger, set at the rear of the inn, with an ornate window overlooking a small lake encompassed by stone benches along the closer shore. 
Morion drops her packs, those filled by Alastor, gently upon the floor beneath the window before falling on to the bed itself. The Queen smiles as she sees that even the ceiling is decorated, a wide scene of a kingdom set before a mountain range, the sun shining like a light from heaven upon it.  It takes a moment to realize what she sees; the painting is none other than that of her home, Halvard, as it was when it was first being built. Becoming lost in the sight is by no means difficult, but the spell is unfortunately broken when she is roused by the clamor of heavy footsteps and voices moving down the hall outside her room.
Alastor and the grey cloaked man pass her room on the way up to the third floor. Curiosity strikes the Queen, so she rises up from the bed and stealthily follows the two. At the stairs, she ascends them as carefully as she can, constantly looking over her shoulder for signs of anyone who might catch her, not that what she is doing is by any means wrong. Rude, but not wrong. The third floor is designed similarly to the previous, except rather than art showing picturesque landscapes of cities or nature, they are images of war, battle and conflict. 
She, however, does not stop to look. 
Slinking up to a partially closed door at the end of the hall, Morion peeks in, spying Alastor sitting on a raised table in room full of plants and jars of medical compounds. The cloaked man searches through various vials whilst Alastor removes his outer cloak and shirts. Morion restrains a gasp as she notices Alastor’s torso covered in bloodied makeshift bandages, and many visible scars. They continue a previous conversation.
“Twice you say? Highly odd.”
“The first attack was at night and expected, but the second was before dawn and...” Alastor trails off.
“And?” the other man asks, concerned.
“And within the Corheim ruins. After the night attack, I led Morion and the other two into the refuge of the Corheim, but even there they attacked.”
The cloaked man spins around to face Alastor, astonishment etched on his face.
“He actually had the audacity to attack you there?”
“It would seem so.”
The cloaked man goes back to his search.
“He has become far too powerful in far too short a time.”
“That he has,” Alastor says slowly.
“So, what does our young Queen intend to do? She is to play an important role in all this, that much is certain, yet only she can decide which role that is.”
“Morion plans on enlisting the aid of the Knight, of course.”
“And this frightens you more than you can express, does it not?”
Alastor sighs and lowers his head while the cloaked man mixes herbs in a mortar.
“Yes, Mikha’el, it frightens me. I dread every moment that leads to her choice. Each step toward that castle becomes harder and harder to take.”
“Quite understandable. I would be wary of returning to that castle as well, if it were my father murdered within those walls.”
This revelation stuns Morion, bringing back that feeling of disbelief when Alastor told of his father being murdered in the first place. Mikha’el removes Alastor’s old bandages, discarding them with indifference. He then applies the paste he made to the scab covered wounds. Alastor does not flinch, silent as a grave. Mikha’el lets the paste set for a moment.
“These wounds were very deep, from the looks of them,” Mikha’el observes.
“The wave that attacked in Corheim were far more ferocious than the first.”
“They caught you by surprise?”
“Somewhat.”
“Not likely. Something else was on your mind.”
“Stop prying.”
Mikha’el wipes clean the paste, revealing the wounds closed, but leaving behind fresh scars. The process is repeated a few more times. Then, the blade wounds dealt with, Mikha’el moves his focus to Alastor’s right shoulder, bruised a deep purple.
“And how did this happen?” Mikha’el asks darkly.
“I wish I knew. I usually do not take to bruising.”
“This combined with the wounds give me cause for worry. It is good that you came when you did.” Mikha’el then takes leaves which had been soaking in liquid and applies them to the bruised area. “She is more than I expected,” Mikha’el continues on their discussion of Morion. “To be honest, I had for some time suspected her to have grown far slighter and fragile than the woman who has arrived here with you.”
“She is her father’s daughter, of that there can be no doubt. If she had been so inclined, I believe she would have fought tooth and nail with the Necromancer then and there.”
“A quality that seems to be shared by more than a few people this day in age.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing at all.”
Morion looks away for a moment, cheeks reddened. Not so much for what was said, rather because she just came to the realization that she has been staring at Alastor’s body. Turning back, she watches as Mikha’el removes the leaves, revealing Alastor’s shoulder to be almost completely healed.
“I have done what I can, Alastor, but please avoid fighting twenty men at once when your mind is obviously deeply pre-occupied.”
“I had told her of what happened in Judeheim. Recalling those days unnerved me.”
“Understandable. Did you kill all of your attackers?”
“I honestly do not know.”
“Even if not, it should be days before he learns of their failure.”
“And by then, we shall be at the castle.”
Mikha’el raises Alastor’s left arm, inspecting the bones and joints.
“What of her companions, Alastor? I do not recall Gawain’s letter mentioning the use of bodyguards, beyond yourself of course.”
“They are bards she came into contact with before I found her, before I was able to speak with her.”
“Do you trust them?”
“Do I trust anyone?”
“Then why allow them to follow?”
“The Queen ordered me to.”
Mikha’el’s eyes move from Alastor to the door. He and Morion share a glance briefly before Morion panics, swiftly and quietly running back to her room. Mikha’el smiles. Alastor notices.
“What is it?” Alastor inquires.
“We had an eavesdropper.”
“One of the bards?”
“Not at all. None other than Our Lady.”
Alastor sighs, standing and stretching. Taking up his shirts, he is nauseated by the idea of putting back on his torn and bloodied clothes.
“Do you still have my room here kept?”
“Of course, still bearing a rather full wardrobe.”

Chapter Seven
Dreams of Shadows and Echoes
Return to Table of Contents

Morion gently closes her room door, falling on to her bed unnerved by her short sneaking quest. Without intending to, she comes into the clutches of a deep sleep, finding a dream. Not a dream as she is used to, no, but a new one. A far more dismaying dream.
~-~~-~
Alone in a dark forest she walks. Morion looks down to discover that she wears silver armor, and in her hand she carries a sword which bears the image of a lion near the hilt. Returning her gaze back to the path before her, there stands a bright, shining figure. Immediately she understands the figure as being the Ice Fairy told of by Alastor. The Ice Fairy signals for Morion to follow, guiding her through the trees. The Queen loses sight of the Fairy. She panics, running in the direction where she last saw her but the Fairy is nowhere to be found, leaving Morion to find her own way amidst the now pitch black oppression of nature around her.
Slowly prowling on, she comes to note another light. She wheels about, searching for the origin of this shine. Bewilderment strikes the Queen as she finds that it comes not from an external source, but under her armor. She pulls out her necklace, the pendant becoming a guiding light, illuminating the way. She follows the path lit by it, her hope growing. The sound of rustling leaves fills the forest, like wind blowing through them although the night is still as death. The report of twigs loudly snapping underfoot is added to this. Morion stops to look down. She has been walking on soft grass since the light of the pendant helped her along. The leaves and the twigs become louder, more violent.
Morion swivels around and there, behind her, stands Hector, familiar yet changed. Not the man she knew, but a wraith-like shade in the shape and form of her cousin. Morion attempts to raise her sword arm, except she is too late. Hector shoves her viciously, sending her falling backward. When Morion expects to hit the ground, she does not. The forest, and Hector’s glowering face, fall away, then... nothing. 
In her descent, she sees her father, Gawain. The two reach their hands out to one another, but Morion’s fall is faster. Her father also fades wordlessly away into the black above. She brings her armored hands up to her eyes, trying to hide the gush of tears. Without warning the fall stops. Morion slams onto a stone floor, knocking the breath from her and causing dust to billow up. She cannot suppress a yell of pain, laying there in a daze.
She rolls onto her hands and knees, discovering that she has made a crater in the floor. The fallen Queen crawls out of her pit, still holding her sword. Looking up, she finds herself in a strange room, a throne made of still living bone stands high on a dais, blood flows from the high back of the chair, becoming like a small river and pooling at the base. 
The clamor of a duel is heard around her, rousing her from the fall induced stupor and bringing her to her feet. There in the throne room, two men do battle fiercely. As they near, one is easily discerned as being Alastor, the other Morion also knows, but does not want to believe her eyes. It is the Black Knight, as her father had always described, but at other times, as if by a trick of her eyes, he is more villainous; his armor brutal and sharp. 
They are locked in combat, inattentive to the Queen’s presence. With each attack, a deep voice comes from within the armor. A voice that makes Morion cringe. 
The voice of a demon. 
Alastor defends himself, but he is clearly tiring. Soon he can no longer parry the Black Knight’s attacks. Each time the Black Knight draws blood from Alastor, it grows stronger, the armor becoming increasingly more and permanently menacing. Eventually the Black Knight has become a giant, and Alastor is brought to his knees, near death.
Alastor finally is made aware of Morion, their eyes meeting, both unable and unwilling to turn away. The Black Knight readies his sword to kill Alastor, but at last takes notice of Morion, its eyes burning with rage as she looks into them. Morion freezes in terror. The Black Knight grunts in disgust.
“Whore!” it screams.
It runs toward Morion at full speed, bringing sword to bare. She closes her eyes in the instant before the Black Knight brings the sword down. 
Thunder explodes in her ears.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes violently, rising up in her bed with a gasp. It takes a moment for her to remember that she is safely far, far away from that dream. Calming down, she is soon overwhelmed by the dream, buries her face in her pillow and begins to cry uncontrollably.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes again, just before dawn. Her second sleep was, much appreciated by her, free from any more nightmares. Standing up, walking over to the window, she observes Alastor and Mikha’el in discussion. Recalling the horror of the night before, she needs no time in deciding to go down so that she may speak with Alastor about it. 
Out of the room, down the hall, descending the stairs. The dining room is in the process of being prepared for the morning meal by the three women. One sees Morion and quickly shuffles over to her.
“Awake so early, My Lady? Surely after such a rough journey a few more hours of rest would do you good, would it not?”
Morion smiles and hesitates.
“I have slept enough,” she says. “I need to speak with Alastor.”
“Master Alastor is with Lord Mikha’el by the reflecting lake. Let me show you the way.”
The woman takes Morion’s arm in hers with a polite smile, walking her through the lower floor to a rear door. As the woman opens the door, Alastor and Mikha’el turn to it. The woman guides Morion to them, almost as though she is presenting a bride.
“Our Lady must speak with our Master Alastor,” the woman says with the utmost respect and a nod toward Alastor himself.
Morion cannot hide the despair growing in her as she forces herself to remember in full that most horrid dream. Neither Alastor nor Mikha’el can miss it.
“What is wrong?” Alastor kindly asks.
The Queen looks deep into the eyes of Alastor.
“I need to speak to you about the Black Knight,” she says in a hoarse whisper.
Alastor and Mikha’el share a brief look. Mikha’el nods before he begins to walk back to the inn, the woman catches the signal as well and, releasing Morion’s arm, follows. Alastor gestures for Morion to sit on one of the stone benches. When she does, Alastor sits opposite her.
“I had heard you crying last night, so I decided against bothering you,” he says while staring at the lake.
“You were coming to speak with me?”
“Yes. Mikha’el thought that since you were listening to our conversation, I should explain about and probably clarify some of what you happened to hear.”Alastor faces Morion and smiles; she cannot help but smile in return. “However,” he continues, “that can be discussed later. You said you need to speak of the Black Knight.”
“If he has succumbed to the darkness in the time since my father knew him, would not going to him be a fatal error on our part?”
Alastor sighs, hanging his head low. Sullenly, he speaks.
“I never should have spoken about him. It was not my place. The Knight your father knew, the Knight you met was everything that Gawain taught you of, everything you yourself saw.”
“But what of the Necromancer? You said that in Judeheim he claimed to have acted under the direct orders of the Black Knight.”
“The Necromancer is not one I would place highly upon the list of honorable, truth telling men. For all I know, he may have been bold face lying in an effort to make me say or do something... unintelligent.”
Morion raises an eyebrow.
“If that is true, then explain what you and Mikha’el spoke of last night. You said you feared going to the castle, and Mikha’el even said your father was murdered there.”
“Correct on both counts.”
“Then your father was killed by...”
“A coward. That is all I have ever been able to say for certain,” Alastor says sharply, wanting to bring the conversation to an end.
“Yet, you would still take me there if I wished?” she says, trying to continue on topic but in a more roundabout way.
“Yes.”
“Even though you do not want to?”
“What I want is irrelevant, Your Highness. I am to aid you in which ever course you decide to take.”
“If the Knight is revealed to be a villain, would you help me still?”
“It would give me no greater pleasure in all the world to end the Knight’s life if he has indeed become corrupted, and then after that, if you wanted me, I would aid you in your quest against the Necromancer.”
“Why?”
“I owed Gawain that much, but even if I did not, I would help you simply because it is the right thing to do.”
“Thank you,” the Queen whispers as she takes in Alastor’s kind words.
They sit a moment in silence, the lake now their reflecting mirror.
“Just out of curiosity, do you have any proof of your identity?” Alastor seemingly asks from nowhere.
“Why?”
“I recall you saying that you met the Black Knight when you were a little girl which, clearly, you are not anymore.”
Morion blushes at Alastor’s noticing her womanhood.
“You think he would not recognize me?”
“It is hard to say, but some phrase or token perhaps might ensure he remembers.”
Morion smirks with a raised eyebrow. Taking her necklace, she unclasps it and hands it to Alastor. Alastor hesitates in taking it, staring at the pendant that hangs upon the chain. She insists that he take it so that he can see it. He, somewhat reluctantly, grasps it by the chain, careful to avoid touching the pendant, but raising it so that he can fully examine it whilst Morion explains.
“The Knight gave that to me as he was leaving, after meeting with father.”
“What is so special about it?”
“Nothing, as far as I know, but he gave it to me with a message I will never forget.”
“And what was that?”
“He said ‘Should you ever need aid, seek out Your Fair Knight. The daughter of Gawain will always have a champion in us.’ That last part always confused me a bit.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, him saying ‘us’ has always struck me as a strange choice of words.”
“He was probably just being dramatic. In any event, it sounds like quite a wonderful, if cryptic, gift.”
“The words... at times I wondered if he knew something was coming.”
“It appears he did.”
Alastor continues to stare at the pendant like one entranced. As the sun rises up above the forest, a sound breaks the spell on Alastor, his attention snapping back to the world, full and aware. The sound is heard again, akin to a serpent’s hiss. In the blink of an eye, a creature leaps down from the roof of the inn, Morion its intended victim. Alastor reacts, unsheathing his sword and cutting down the creature in mid-air. Morion lets out a yelp as the creature falls lifeless to the ground with a dull thud. Mikha’el comes running from the inn.
“My Lady?” he cries. 
But Morion does not respond, she is transfixed on the fallen creature.
“She is unharmed,” Alastor whispers. 
“What sort of man is this?” Mikha’el asks Alastor with an air of disgust upon seeing the creature himself.
Alastor kneels down to examine the creature. On Alastor’s touch, the flesh of the creature changes, giving way to rapid decay. However, it does not turn to dust as would a natural man, no. The creature decays into a pile of ashes. Alastor recoils his hand, Morion lets out a little gasp, and Mikha’el mutters under his breath.
“What was that?” Morion asks.
Mikha’el looks to Alastor, whom is still unable to look away from the ashen remains of the creature.
“Alastor,” Mikha’el pleads, “by all that is holy, please tell me that was not what it looked to be.”
Alastor remains speechless. Morion moves closer to Mikha’el.
“What was it?” she asks him.
“My Lady, there is only one word in your language to properly describe what that was: abomination.” 
Alastor rises to his feet, his face drained of blood, his eyes reflecting both fear and hatred.
“Mikha’el, we must travel to the castle with all haste. Send out your warriors, search for signs of any more of these things.” Mikha’el nods, running back inside. Alastor turns then to Morion. “When we are safe, I promise to tell you everything I can. For now, remain steadfast on the goal at hand. Gather your gear and wake the bards.”
“Right.” 
Morion complies, heading back to the inn. Alastor notices that he still holds something in his hand. 
“Morion!” he calls to her.
She stops, returning to him. He places in Morion’s hands her necklace.
“Put this back on,” he orders, “and never take it off for anyone. Not even me. Do you understand?”
“Understood,” she tells him as she clasps it around her neck, letting the pendant fall back into her blouse.
~-~~-~
Outside the inn, the horses have been saddled but not burdened with supplies. Seeing this, Cale speaks up.
“No food? Or water? We are going a little light, are we not?”
“That is the idea,” Alastor says, double checking the animals’ saddles. “We need to travel as swiftly as possible. If all goes right, we shall be at the Black Knight’s castle long before evening has a chance to set in.”
Morion perks up hearing this. She did not think they were so close to the castle as Alastor now suggests.
“Why the hurry?” Amy asks.
Alastor and Morion glance at one another briefly before Alastor answers.
“The Necromancer has managed to track us down. I killed one of his scouts this morning.”
“Did you now?” Cale asks in a mock tone of surprise.
Mikha’el sneers at Cale’s comment while walking up to Alastor.
“No reports of any more around the town nor forests. In fact, we did not even find tracks for the first one,” Mikha’el divulges quietly to Alastor.
“None whatsoever?” Alastor inquires wearily.
 “Correct.”
“Then it was... ”
“Correct. Unfortunately.”
Alastor watches as the bards and Morion mount their respective horses.
“We should be at the castle before by afternoon. Will you be there by then?”
“Sooner, I hope. Once we have made our preparations here, I shall make way with all haste.”
The two share a look of utmost displeasure. A long suspected terror now manifest.
“I have an uneasy feeling about the way events are beginning to unravel, Mikha’el.”
“As do I.”
Alastor climbs onto the back of his animal, signaling for the others to follow him. Exiting the town by the north, they pass men dressed in garb similar to that of Mikha’el, preparing an expedition of some sort. 
“Where are they going?” Amy asks Alastor.
“Far away from here. They are no longer safe in this place.”
“These people will leave their homes, just like that?”
“It is not as though they have a choice in the matter. They either leave, or stay and be slaughtered.”
“All because of us?”
“Not exactly. This day was long in coming. It has been expected to happen one way or another.”
Alastor’s explanation does little to quell Amy’s growing feeling of guilt.
~-~~-~
The road north out of the Town With No Name is paved with centuries old stones. On either side are rows of trees that at the time of planting would have hung beautifully over the road. Now they are unkempt and overgrown, their leaves slowly raining down, their roots bursting from the ground and destroying portions of the stone road. Alastor twists in his saddle to face the others.
“This road stays like this for some many miles so, to make up for lost time, we will travel it at full speed.”
Alastor taps the sides of his horse and the animal goes from a trot to a full gallop. Before any realize, Alastor has pulled many yards ahead of Morion and the bards. Not one to lose a race, Morion whips at the reins, giving Alastor chase.
“Think we should do the same?” Cale sarcastically asks of Amy.
“I believe we should,” Amy sarcastically answers Cale.
Each with a smirk, Cale spurs their horse on, soon closing the gap between them and the Queen. After many miles, the group has nearly united, Morion and the bards riding side by side still chasing the faster Alastor, whose horse does not appear to tire even in the slightest. 
By midday, Morion notices that the road is slowly widening, and the rows of trees lining each side end abruptly. Alastor slows down back to a trot, the others following his example. The road leads to a large four way intersection, in the center of which stands a large fountain made of a dark brown-black marble. Much to Morion’s surprise, water still flows in the fountain, shooting up and cascading down multiple tiers of basins, looking like shimmering glass. The sight of this in the center of otherwise barren land is jarring.
The road continues unbroken to the north, but the east and west roads have been up heaved, and the lands beyond nothing more than overgrown forests and long grass amid decayed stone ruins. Alastor brings his horse directly before the fount, letting the animal drink. He dismounts, speaking as he does.
“We will stop here for a brief time. The water from the fount still flows from ancient, pure springs, so let you and your animals drink deep. Do not wander off.”
All do as Alastor suggests, dismounting to drink from the descending water, while the animals drink from that which pools. Alastor walks about to each of the other roads, inspecting them for any indication of recent travel. Finding nothing, he returns then to the fountain, sitting upon the north facing edge, his back to the others as always. With his left hand he reaches back, taking some of the cold water and splashes it on his face. He slouches over, rubbing his forehead with both hands as one does when in contemplation and immensely tired. 
Having had their fill, the Queen and the bards too sit on the fountain’s edge. Cale stares fascinated by the marble structure, caressing it as if learning something from it through touch.
“Morion,” he whispers.
“What?” the Queen responds, hearing her name.
“Not you. I was talking about this fountain.”
“What do you mean?” Amy questions, confused.
“Morion is a type of dark colored marble. This fountain is made entirely from it.”
“Yes it is,” Morion says, examining the fountain with a closer eye. “It must be centuries old.”
“Why is that?”
“You know this mineral, but do not know its history?”
“I cannot say that I do, completely at any rate.”
“Halvard was the only kingdom in possession of morion ore, and thus the only kingdom that mined and exported it.”
“And how did the name find you?” Amy chortles.
“I was apparently born with a full head of hair, the color of which reminded my father of that ore which our people long ago were known for.”
“Long ago known for?” Cale points out.
“The veins of ore ran out many generations ago. Bought almost entirely by a single kingdom, from what I remember of the records. The problem is that the kingdom is not named.”
Alastor turns around to Morion.
“How far back do your records go?” he queries.
“I believe all the way to Halvard’s origin.”
“Then logic would dictate that the kingdom that bought Halvard’s ore was even older, correct?”
“Yes, I would assume, given that it would have been an extremely expensive commodity.”
“Then why would such a kingdom be unnamed, I wonder?” Alastor concludes in a somewhat condescendingly puzzled tone.
“You sound as though you know.”
“Maybe I do.”
“And just what do you know?”
“A story for a later time, Your Highness.”
“If you say so.”
Both bards share a look of curiosity at Alastor’s exchange, but hold their tongues. Alastor stands, stretches, looking at the sun’s position in the sky.
“I hope you enjoyed this rest, as it will be the last until we arrive at our destination.”
~-~~-~
Back on the northern road, horses again running at full strength, the company moves quicker still, knowing that their goal is now so very close. Morion begins mulling over in her mind past, present and future. 
The murder of her father, her exile, meeting the bards and Alastor. 
The dreams. The dreams she has been having for months. 
Alastor’s story of him and Gawain, his words and small speeches. 
These things all mix and brew together. What does it all mean? What is it leading to? Where is it leading from?
More pressing, far more disturbing is the thought slowly building up like a creature of darkness in her mind: what if there is no reason for it all? All the suffering... for nothing.
~-~~-~
The Necromancer sits alone in a dark room deep in the bowels of Castle Halvard’s keep. In one corner of the room burns a brazier, poorly lighting the room and throwing long shadows along the walls. The Necromancer himself sits at a desk pouring over various ancient books, tomes and scrolls, all bearing the seal of Halvard. He sneers while he flips through the pages, not finding what he seeks. Furiously he turns leaf after leaf until at last he slams the book before him closed.  At that moment an armed soldier comes into the study.
“Sire, we have just received word that every agent Hector had dispatched to intercept Morion was slain to the last.”
“They have all been killed?” the Necromancer asks, not angry but intrigued.
“Yes, Sire.”
The Necromancer falls back into his chair, putting his hands together as he thinks.
“How were they killed?”
“From the looks of the battleground, the Queen’s guide lured Hector’s agents away and slew them all, single handedly.”
“The Queen’s guide? You mean the man from Judeheim?”
“The spy has reason to believe so, Sire.”
The Necromancer looks up at the soldier.
“Give your captain the following order: All soldiers, mercenaries and guards are to fall back and take positions within the city. Use houses and buildings... and their occupants... as is seen fit.”
The soldier bows with a wide grin before taking his leave. The Necromancer stands when he is again alone, cracking his knuckles while visually searching the room. The walls are covered in bookcases that stand the entire height of the room.
“No,” he speaks to himself. “You would not simply hide it within the records of the age, would you? No, that would be most unwise. But, destroy it completely? I think not. The Lesser was far too important to you. You would hide it, yes, but would you think to hide it from me?”
The Necromancer reluctantly stretches a claw like hand toward the brazier. He tightens his hand into a fist, causing the fire to sputter before suddenly going out. Inverting his hand, he opens his fist slowly. In his palm, an other-worldly green orb of light grows. With his left hand, he simply motions to the open door, sending it flying shut. Rotating in place with arm extended, the Necromancer keeps keen watch of the radiating green light. His eyes roll up into their sockets and he swoons, but he catches himself. He grits his teeth as one does in tremendous pain, forcing himself to retain control of the orb. 
Passing by one bookcase, the light of the orb becomes a deep shade of violet. Each breath from the Necromancer becomes vapor, frost latching to his skin, teeth chattering involuntarily. 
Yet... he smiles. 
He slowly shambles to the bookshelf, each step causing the orb to fluctuate, looking like some evil beating heart. His smile becomes a maniacal grin. 
A lunatic, if in the same room, would have thought the Necromancer absolutely insane. 
Releasing his hold on the orb, it fades into an evanescent smoke, the fire of the brazier coming back to life in that same instant. The Necromancer collapses to his hands and knees, breathing heavily, over exerted by the use of the orb. Gathering his strength, he again raises his right hand, palm open to the bookcase. With a shout, he violently closes his hand and pulls it away; the bookcase shatters to splinters, the books become dust. 
All falls to the ground, lifeless in every sense of the term. The Necromancer brings himself up, lumbering to the stone wall behind the case. Putting his hand on the wall, he again grimaces in pain, as though his very life is being drained. Withdrawing his hand, the wall crumbles to dirt and pebbles, revealing a secret compartment; inside which is a red leather bound book with metal hinges and bindings. He reaches for the book reluctantly, but once in his grasp, he smiles triumphantly.
“Foolish man. Your lack of understanding was your downfall. Now, thanks to you, the next age can finally start.”
~-~~-~
Painful monotony. 
Agonizing boredom. 
That is what fills Morion’s mind. Fearful that she cannot endure a moment longer, she spies the sight she has been worrying that she would never see, rising far, far above the trees: the upper towers of a black castle. Alastor slows down to a trot again, as do the others. Riding beside Alastor, Morion asks.
“Is that what I think - hope - it is?”
“Yes. It is none other than the home of the Black Knight. This is his castle.”
Coming out from under the cover of overgrown trees, the sheer size of the castle makes Morion feel as a mere speck of dirt before it. The road comes to the remains of what had been the fortified outer walls of the castle. Though caked in grime and heavily weathered, the embellishments of the walls can still be seen. Like the fountain, they are made of that dark brown-black ore, flawlessly built. Along the edges is scroll work, carved expertly, deeply into the marble. On the wall face is engraved what appears to be a map of the entire region; the castle at the center, roads going out from it like strands on a spider’s web, including the road they had traveled upon. If the map were accurate, then massive sprawling sections of buildings and sub-cities should be standing. Instead, there is nothing but wild greenery, stone ruins and the castle. As they pass the walls, Alastor begins to speak.
“We are now on the royal course, the road leading to the castle.”
On both sides are the remnants of statues, built by master artisans. Most are of men in armor, a handful of women, though only a few are complete. All are in various states of decay, some in near perfect condition but missing an arm or head, others little more than a leg or foot. Morion remembers the statue she saw in the field, with the shrine at its base.
“This was at one time quite beautiful,” Alastor continues. “Gardens and fountains accompanied the statues, but time has been most unkind to this once great place. All that you can see is all that remains. Large portions of the castle have long since collapsed or been destroyed making it, for the most part, unsafe. But the keep is still sturdy, and it is there that the Black Knight has made his home.” 
The castle, even in its current state of dilapidation, is humongous, created near entirely of brown-black ore, having been built on the side of a hill so that it follows the curve of the earth, making the upper levels father back and ever higher. The ravages of time are plain to see, centuries having battered the roofs and walls. Nature has reclaimed much of the castle, either cracked and shattered by growing trees or choked to death by vines. 
“You will notice, Morion,” says Alastor, “that the entire structure was built with that material which you are named for. Halvard’s treasure was valued quite highly here. For a time, at least.” 
At last they are at the foot of the keep which Alastor had pointed out to them. It is almost as grand as the castle itself, its entrance broad and decorated. Morion can easily see a great man ruling from even this, banners flying in the morning sun.
“What is this place?” Morion asks, struck by the awe inspiring sights. “The city I mean? Why is it not on any maps? Why does no one know of it?”
Dismounting, Alastor looks at Morion curiously.
“You mean to tell me you have not figured it out?”
“No,” Morion admits, shaking her head in the negative.
“Really? Think hard for a moment.”
“It looks like part of the old kingdom, if I had to guess.”
“No. Not part of the old kingdom. This is the Old Kingdom. The heart of it, some said. The center of the web, others called it.”
Morion opens her mouth to speak, but the words quickly evaporate. The bards each share a look of equal parts shock and revelation, but soon Amy looks away, her face bunched up as one who is remembering memories not simply forgotten, but that almost appear to have spontaneously formed from the bowels of oblivion.  
Alastor walks his animal with care to a small stable beside the keep. Cale and Amy, herself coming back to life, overcome their emotions and do the same. Morion stares at the castle, the keep and the few bits of standing structure, unaware of the actions of Alastor and the bards. She begins to unwillingly remember all of her dreams. Her nightmares.
“Morion.”
Images of the dreams become hypnotic. 
The dragons fighting. 
Herself wearing armor. 
The Black Knight. 
Alastor.
“Morion!”
The young Queen is yanked back to the here and now. Looking around in a daze for the voice that called her name.
“Are you well?”
It is Amy, standing right next to her, looking up into Morion’s eyes worriedly. Alastor and Cale stand before the keep entrance, waiting.
“Morion?” Amy says again, her voice soft and concerned.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought,” Morion finally answers with a smirk.
“We have come all this way,” Alastor shouts out, “and it is now that you hesitate?”
Morion smiles sarcastically, dismounts and takes her horse to the stable as the others had done. Leading them all finally into the keep, Alastor continues to play the historian.
“The castle was once the center of a sprawling metropolis, the likes of which having been unmatched before or since. Very little remains of the city. As you saw, it has since be reclaimed by the land, replaced by forest and mountain and river.”
The interior of the keep is dark, lit only by the shafts of light which come in through the open windows. The walls are covered in tattered tapestries of red, and paintings coated with dust and mold. Candlesticks and braziers stand, idle for untold time.
“This keep,” Alastor continues, “was built to act as a sort of barracks, housing the royal guards and captains of the army. The kings of the castle also used it as their base of military operations during war and periods of unrest. When properly garrisoned, it was said, this fortification was invincible. Given that the keep still stands long after the castle has fallen probably gives that legend some credibility.” 
Alastor leads them then up a spiral staircase in the center of the keep.
“Where do these stairs lead?” Amy asks, but immediately turns her head away, thinking that she already knows the answer.
“The armories, the living quarters. Near the top we will pass the levels intended only for the king and his family. At the very top, we will come into the Cloud Hall.”
“Why was it called that?” asks Cale.
“When you see it, you will understand.”
The ascent feels like it takes an eternity. When they pass each level, they look down the accompanying halls with fascination, but Alastor does not allow for any sightseeing.
“How much farther?” Cale asks desperately.
“We are almost there,” Alastor replies, his voice suddenly emotionless in the midst of his near passionate explanation of the castle and keep.
~-~~-~
Just as Alastor said, within two more levels they come to the top of the keep, into the Cloud Hall. Seeing it, the Queen and the bards do in fact understand the name. 
The ceiling is high and domed. Open balconies encircle the room, allowing visibility in every direction around the keep. Bookcases cover most all available wall, with an occasional painting garnering what space here or there. Up on this highest level, they can see the very edges of the world. In the center of the hall is a long table, and on each edge a row of chairs, ornately carved and built, but it is the chair at the head of the table that draws the most attention. 
It too is carved and decorated, but is wider and with a higher back. Clearly the chair of the lord of the castle. While the three examine this chair, Alastor migrates to the opposite end of the table, watching them all with the gaze of a hawk..
“If you think the furniture is impressive,” Alastor says in a playful tone, “then you might want to look up.”
The trio does so, and they are pleased to discover a beautiful mural painted over the entire domed ceiling. Like at the inn, the mural depicts scenes of still life, former kings, cities, battles and, at the center, the castle in its former glory. A rushing air fills the room, accompanied by a gentle thud. Almost instinctively Morion and the bards turn toward Alastor. Behind him, a cloaked figure stands like it has been there all along. Out of fright, Morion and the bards all unsheathe their weapons.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Morion cries.
Alastor raises his hand for calm.
“It is Mikha’el, from the town with no name. He is here to help us. In fact, he is probably the best ally one could ask for.”
Mikha’el lowers his hood, stepping forward and bowing before the Queen, while for the most part ignoring the bards. They three all calm down, sheathing their weapons. As Mikha’el raises, Morion apologizes.
“I am sorry, it is just that you appeared so suddenly, and with your cloak, you looked like... “
“No need, My Lady. I understand fully,” Mikha’el remarks with a grin. Not a dark smile but rather a humble one, with no animosity.
“How did you get here?” Morion asks.
“We must all be allowed our little secrets while we can keep them, My Lady.”
Alastor walks out onto the west facing balcony, arms crossed.
“You should all sit and relax,” he says without facing any of them. “After such a long, arduous journey, I would think it a welcome change.”
Mikha’el produces a large leather pack, setting it on the table. Upon opening it, a wonderful smell comes out. He removes small baskets, separating them. 
“What are those? They smell good.” Morion cannot help but notice.
“Roasted chicken, bread, vegetables,” answers Mikha’el.
“Still hot?” Cale asks, amazed.
Mikha’el opens one basket and steam pours out. Morion, Cale and Amy all sit at the table while Mikha’el serves them.
“Enjoy,” he says with a smile. 
Morion accepts her meal gratefully. As she opens her basket, she becomes cognizant of the growing voices of Amy and Cale. What was at first whispered words increases into loud dispute.
“What troubles you?” the Queen asks them.
The bards snap to her as children do when caught in mischief making. After a moment of awkward silence, Amy explains.
“We were just wondering where the Black Knight is, and if he even knows we are here.”
Before Morion can speak, Alastor answers, back still to everyone.
“He knows you are here, of that you need not doubt.”
“And how do you know that?” Cale demands.
“Morion has drawn him here, so it is impossible for him to not know you are here,” says Alastor, almost trying to goad Cale.
“Then where is he?” asks Cale angrily, Alastor’s goading having worked.
“I cannot say,” Morion speaks, trying to wrestle control of the conversation back to herself, “but I am sure that we just need to be patient.”
“So we are going to sit here doing nothing?”
“We should take this time to rest, as has been suggested.”
Cale slams his fist unto the table out of agitation, but quickly regains his composure.
“How do you even know he will meet with us? Half the stories about him do not exactly make him sound like a gentleman.”
Alastor now looks to Cale with a dark grin on his face, his arms still crossed.
“For someone who has absolutely no place being here in the first place, you complain as though you are here on a matter of life and death. What cause do you have for such impatience?”
Cale’s face turns red with anger, jaw tightened, eyes like daggers.
“We are wasting our time just sitting here!” he declares.
Alastor returns back to his watch of the surrounding lands.
“As long as Morion is in this keep, she is safe; the plans of her cousin and his ally can in no way be completed.”
With a final glance over his shoulder, Alastor succeeds in having Cale comply, falling back in his chair like a dog that has just been broken.
“Look,” Morion says, trying to break the tension in the air. “We have not eaten in many an hour. Let us just sit and have a nice, quiet and, most importantly, safe meal.”
Amy agrees happily. Cale concedes to the situation.
After a short while Alastor sighs, starting to pace about the balcony restlessly. He and Mikha’el catch eyes, with Mikha’el giving a sort of nodding gesture.
“I am going to explore the keep,” Alastor announces just as he makes to descend the stairs. Before any can react he is gone. Morion, Amy and Cale shrug, continuing with their meal.

Chapter Eight
The Knight’s Revelation
Return to Table of Contents

With the earlier than expected setting of the sun, Mikha’el starts to light candles around the Cloud Hall. When the trio have finished eating, Mikha’el clears the baskets away, putting them back into the sack from whence they came.
“My Lady,” Mikha’el whispers into Morion’s ear, “seeing as the day now wanes, perhaps you should seek out our illustrious guide and guard.”
Morion smiles with a nod. When she stands up, the bards look at her.
“Where are you going?” they ask.
“To look around.”
As she nears the stairs, Mikha’el stops her, holding a three armed candelabra.
“My Lady, the keep is a dark place, take this with you.”
She takes the light gratefully with a slight bow of her head.
Curiosity is foremost in her mind upon arriving on the level directly below the Cloud Hall. The corridors of the keep are not as narrow as one would think. A red, worn out carpet spans the entire length of the hall in both directions off the stairs; old works of art adorn the walls, just as battered and moldy as the ones seen in the keep’s first floor. The young Queen is reminded of her own home, struck by the remarkable similarity in structure and design.
She cautiously opens the first door she comes across, revealing a clean, well kept bedroom. Nothing overtly special about it, though the decor leaves no doubt that it belonged to a woman. She closes the door, continuing down the hall, where she comes to a set of double doors. Against her better judgment and intuition, she enters. Another bedroom except much larger. The first thought that comes into her mind is that this would have undoubtedly belonged to a member of the royal family, but not the king. A large bed rests at the far end of the room, set in the center of the wall. Nothing overtly special about it, though the lack of decor leaves little doubt that no woman ever stepped into the room, let alone slept in it. On the west facing side of the room is a balcony, its doors wide open, letting in the evening breeze. Morion steps out onto the balcony, taking in the view of the full moon rising up over the surrounding forests. She drinks in this moment of peace. No fear. All alone. Nothing but the calm and the sweet wind and the pale light. 
With a sigh, she pulls herself away, exiting the room and remembering her task to find Alastor. Having no signs of him on the current level, she descends to the next. At the landing, see spies a faint light coming from one of the rooms down the hall. She slinks lightly to this door which stands open a sliver. Pushing it further open, she finds Alastor there, alone. The walls of the room are covered in old rusted weapons, intermingled with clean, newer ones.
“This was at one time the personal armory of the king. Well, part armory part trophy room to be more accurate,” Alastor explains, presumably to Morion. 
He stands before a large, strange case that would appear to be made out of raw crystal. Morion moves closer to Alastor, so that she can make out the contents: A suit of black armor. Deep in her memories she recalls that day the Black Knight came to her father. The armor he wore was one and the same as that which she beholds now. She begins to formulate a question, but Alastor interrupts.
“What is it? Why have you left the Cloud Hall?”
“Mikha’el suggested that I should find you.”
Alastor laughs a low, sad laugh.
“Very well. Let us go see what bothers him so much that he would send you to retrieve me as a mother fetches her child.”
Alastor blows out the lone candle that was lit in the armory before gesturing for Morion to lead the way back up to Mikha’el and the bards. Slowly climbing the stairs, Morion stops, again trying to ask her question.
“Alastor, I - ”
 Alastor gently raises a hand for silence.
“No more questions, Your Highness. Not now, at least. Please, continue onward.”
A sickly feeling bubbles up in her stomach with each new step taken. The sudden feeling of having made a massive mistake is enough to make her feel faint. When they come back into the Cloud Hall, Cale and Amy immediately stand up.
“Where have you been?” asks Cale with intense worry.
Alastor does not speak, merely walking toward Mikha’el, who stands at the north facing balcony. Morion looks to Alastor, only now realizing that his dark demeanor is not malice, but a deep seeded sadness. She quickly throws on a fake smile to answer Cale. 
“We were just exploring the keep. I can only imagine how beautiful it was in its prime.”
Mikha’el moves to Morion’s chair, pulling it out for her. As he and Alastor pass each other, the share a subtle nod not seen by anyone. When Morion sits, Mikha’el pushes her seat in like a true gentleman. Doing so he leans down, whispering in her ear so that only she can hear.
“Fear not, My Lady. All will, hopefully, be clear very soon.”
At that moment, without any pretense of hesitation, Alastor sits in the large chair at the head of the table. The very act stuns the Queen and the bards.
“What are you doing?” Amy asks with a chuckle, thinking Alastor’s actions a joke.
Mikha’el moves behind Alastor’s right side, arms crossed and face stern. With lowered eyes, Alastor asks.
“What are your intentions?”
“I have already told you,” Morion stammers, but again Alastor raises a hand for silence, looking at her sharply.
“I was not asking you, Your Highness,” he says, his voice kind but dark. His eyes dart from her to the bards, “but rather, them.”
Uneasily, Cale and Amy look into the eyes of the three before them. Composing themselves, Amy answers.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Alastor grimaces as though insulted. He leans forward, then speaks in a tongue completely unknown and never heard by Morion but is somehow, someway, familiar. 
Like from a dream. 
Regardless of knowing them, she can clearly see that Alastor’s words were harsh at least and at most, intentionally insulting. Maybe even threatening. His words cause a visible fear to rise up in the hearts of both bards.
“Alastor,” Morion pleads, “please tell me the meaning of this.”
This is the first time Morion had spoken this name in front of the bards. Cale and Amy snap from their own little world of confusion.
“What name did you just speak!?” Cale demands.
“She called me by my real name,” Alastor tells him coldly.
Cale bares his teeth like an animal, full of rage. Amy looks upon Alastor with a mixture of surprise, horror and with hate boiling just at the edges of her mind. Morion’s head swims in a moment of timelessness. When it feels as though this would never end, the room explodes with violence.
Cale and Amy leap forward; Cale toward Morion, Amy toward Alastor. In that instant of flight, the bards undergo a visible transformation - they become like the creature Alastor slew in the town with no name, except winged and retaining their human elements. Alastor, apparently having expected this attack, dashes to defend Morion from Cale the moment they thought about moving. Amy is too slow in reacting to Alastor, finding herself leaping into the powerful arms of Mikha’el. 
Alastor and the grotesque creature that was and still is Cale meet mid-air, falling to the ground, wrestling with one another, knocking Morion out of her chair and to the floor. The Queen watches in silent horror as the two exchange savage blows, strikes that should cause permanent damage in even the strongest man. 
Amy, firm in Mikha’el’s grasp, struggles against her captor whilst cursing at Alastor in that strange, foreign tongue. Morion does not understand it, but the tone is unquestionably accusatory. 
Cale eventually manages to get the upper hand, pinning Alastor to the ground. Unsheathing a hidden blade, he plunges it into Alastor’s chest and, thinking his foe defeated, sets his attention back to Morion, who had been distancing herself from the conflict. Cale stalks the terror-stricken Morion, fangs dripping with bile, an otherworldly hiss coming from deep in his throat. 
Unbeknownst to Cale, Alastor pulls the dagger from his chest like it was an annoying splinter and comes up behind his enemy. Amy cries out to her partner, but too late. Wheeling about, Cale is met by Alastor’s left hand suddenly lashing out, grabbing Cale by the throat and Alastor’s right hand thrusting the dagger into him. Cale roars in agony. With hollow heart, Alastor twists the blade and then pulls it out through Cale’s side. What would have disemboweled a normal man does something different; black blood pours from Cale, but before it can splash on the stone it becomes ash. The creature Cale’s eyes roll up into his skull. Alastor releases his grip, and Cale falls to the floor, his body rapidly decaying, crumpling to dust and bones as it lands.
Blood trickling out from under Alastor’s shirt brings Morion up to her feet in a flash to help him. Alastor loses his balance, but Morion is there to catch him. A deep yell pulls them from this moment. Amy has dug her taloned fingers into Mikha’el’s arm, followed with a bite, causing him to lose his hold on her. Amy kicks him away, using this opportunity to escape.
Amy leaps from the north balcony, spreading her wings and beginning to fly away. Mikha’el moves like lightning to the balcony; upon reaching it his cloak springs open, revealing it to be not an ordinary cloak, but actually a large pair of wings. Just as he is about to give chase, Alastor calls out.
“Let her go.”
Mikha’el looks to Alastor with supreme disappointment written on his face. He then notices that Morion is staring at him wide eyed with astonishment. As is his custom, Mikha’el bows to the Queen, letting his wings flare majestically before folding them back into his false cloak and coming to Alastor’s aid.
“I told you not to bring them,” Alastor says to Morion jokingly.
“Who... what... were they?” Morion stammers.
“The Necromancer’s spies, Your Highness.”
“There is an infirmary on the same floor as the king’s armory,” Mikha’el tells Morion after giving Alastor a quick visual examination.
The two support Alastor along the way downstairs. Morion’s head swims with the images of what has just happened. More than anything, she feels a sense of absolute betrayal. She turns her face to Alastor, thinking, feeling. Above all, confused. The infirmary is situated similarly to the one Morion had seen back at the inn, where Alastor was previously treated. Alastor frees himself from the help of his companions with an annoyed grunt, bringing himself up onto the center table under his own strength. Mikha’el takes to lighting the room while, again, Alastor removes his shirts. Morion blushes and lowers her head, if only for a moment, as inevitably she finds herself peeking back up. 
She is able now to see closer the scars on Alastor’s body, varying in length and severity, but all appearing somewhat old. The sight helps her to forget the events of only moments ago. Mikha’el returns, carrying jars of leaves and salves. 
“How did you get all those scars?” Morion asks Alastor, unashamed.
Alastor smiles while Mikha’el answers.
“Our mutual friend here thinks - or thought, rather - that he was an immortal. In his younger years, which honestly was not that long ago, he did many things that grown men would fear to do even for eternal glory and limitless treasure. One such thing was wrestling with wild animals, eventually culminating in fighting bears, apparently.”
“Bears?” Morion repeats in disbelief.
Alastor meets Morion’s eyes, a grin on his lips.
“Yes, bears. Among other things.”
“Braggart.”
“I do not brag, Your Highness.”
“I was joking.”
“I figured as much.”
“Even so, those do not look like the markings of animal claws.”
“Think for a moment how you might define what an animal is, Your Highness.”
Mikha’el begins to clean not only Alastor’s fresh wound, but also the older ones previously attended.
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“Fighting bears?”
“Or whatever it is you actually fought.”
“One can never be sure of his limits until he faces them, I suppose, and the only way to face one’s limit is to search for it.”
Morion stares at Alastor, thinking curiously on this. Before even realizing, Mikha’el has fully dressed Alastor’s wounds.
“Alastor, I shall fetch you clean clothes,” he says, then nodding to Morion, “My Lady, I shall return shortly.”
Morion smiles as Mikha’el leaves. She cannot help but feel a deep respect for him in her heart, seeing in him a pure genuineness not present in many others. The face of the Queen hardens though as she faces Alastor. He meets her burning gaze, knowing exactly what she is about to say.
“You cannot be the Black Knight. I met him.”
“When you were a child, of that there is no question.”
“Then explain this whole charade.”
“The Knight you met, the man under that armor, the eyes you looked into: he was my father.”
“Your... father?”
“Yes.”
Another moment of silence. Mikha’el returns. Alastor stands, putting on the shirts and tunic brought for him.
“My Lady knows the truth now, I would wager.” Mikha’el says, reading the faces of Morion and Alastor.
“Indeed she does, or will,” Alastor replies as he signals for them to follow out of the room. “Come.”
Mikha’el hands a candlestick to Morion, then takes one himself. Alastor leads them back down the spiral stair, only the echoing of their footfalls to be heard. The climb down is rapid, feeling like the distance has been halved. In her mind, Morion attributes this to the climb up being full of uncertainty, fear and anxiety; with the descent all that has been allayed, her suspicions confirmed, or at least painted a different color.
 Back on the entrance floor of the keep, Alastor now guides Morion and Mikha’el to the far rear of the keep, where they come to a large oak door. Beyond the door, another staircase, going down into the bowels of the structure. They come into a labyrinthine network of tunnels and closed doors, but never do the three veer onto these paths, Alastor always going straight ahead. Shortly, they find a dead end with only a heavy set of double doors before them, which takes the combined strength of Mikha’el and Alastor to push them open. 
The blood drains from Morion’s face as it dawns on her what the room contains. 
The room is roughly cut from the earth, and in the center of which lays a lone coffin made of some crystalline mineral. The room, Morion discerns, is none other than a mausoleum. She is drawn to the coffin; in her mind’s eye she remembers and sees that day; that day when her mythical hero visited her. The face she remembered clouded by time is now all too clear. The face she remembers now rests peacefully, turned up toward her from behind the crystal. 
The man she had for so long revered is dead. 
Tears well in her eyes as she presses her hands to the crystal coffin, her hero eternally preserved within. Alastor sneers, annoyed, and starts to walk away.
“I do believe that I have fulfilled my obligation. I have safely brought you to the Black Knight,” he says before leaving completely. 
Morion tries to react, but Alastor has already gone, leaving her alone with Mikha’el. Mikha’el, seeing the confusion and conflict in Morion, begins to explain in a low but powerful tone.
“Not long after that day when the Knight visited Halvard, he placed himself in absolute seclusion so that he might study. In the years that followed, he was eventually betrayed by one that was thought an ally. This betrayal led to his murder. The murderer was attempting to absorb the power, the essence I suppose, of the Knight. However, the murderer failed to take the Knight’s son, Alastor, in to account. Alastor was the heir to the mysterious power that the Knight held, and it transferred to Alastor upon the death of his father.”
Morion withdraws her hands from the coffin. She prays for wisdom.
“I had always thought that the Black Knight was something else. Something divine perhaps.”
“You mean to say not human.”
“More than human to be accurate.”
“I would think you are not far from the truth. The Knight and his son are extraordinary, of that I am certain. But, divine? Perhaps, but also perhaps not.”
“You know them better than any it would seem, yet you do not know their origin?”
“What I know is fragmented. Bits and pieces from various sources. Alastor occasionally speaks, but what I learned, I for the most part heard in stories as a child, handed down generationally and watered down, as is the nature of such stories.”
“Tell me what you know, please.”
“It will not satiate your appetite for knowledge, but I will share. Untold centuries ago, either just before or just after the All Kingdoms War, an event occurred. The event changes with each telling; be it alchemy, magic, divine providence or the doings of a rogue fairy; the very bloodline of the Knight was altered, and they came into possession of the Black Armor. Whatever this event was, it transformed them, made them more than men, yet at the same time, less... or so the legend goes.”
Morion says nothing, absorbing Mikha’el’s words intently.
“I will freely admit,” continues Mikha’el, “that Alastor is in fact the only one to speak with on this matter, though getting him to speak on this subject is quite difficult,” Mikha’el finishes with a laugh.
The Queen steps closer to the coffin containing her fallen hero. She is drawn to his face, peaceful yet stern, even in death. She thinks about Alastor; his actions, his words, yes, but more of his demeanor - his sadness. Without breaking her gaze, she asks.
“Is this why Alastor seems so removed? Even when he told me of his journey to Judeheim with father, I could tell that he set himself apart from, well, everyone else.”
“You mean did the murder of Alastor’s father bring about his self-imposed spiritual isolation?”
“Yes.”
“I, of course, think it plays a rather large role in his coldness. His separation from others. I doubt however that he would ever readily admit it.” Mikha’el moves beside Morion, looking down at her with soft eyes. “Besides, My Lady, is it really surprising? You know firsthand the very same feeling, do you not? It, I would think, makes any who feels it feel quite alone, quite apart. One might say that you and he are more alike than appearances show.”
The mausoleum falls silent, Mikha’el bowing his head in prayer. Before long, Mikha’el’s words sink into Morion mind. Her eyes open wide, coming to an epiphany. 
“The Necromancer! The ghoul that aids my cousin; he was the murderer you spoke of!”
Mikha’el nods.
“One and the same, Alastor believes. The source of your grief and that of Alastor are entwined.” Mikha’el smirks. “I do think you have reason enough to go find him again. He is the one which you should be speaking with, My Lady.”
Morion nods and smiles politely before she leaves as fast as her feet can carry her. For the first time in what seems ages, her life is again making sense. Inversely, however, the very things she had spent her life believing in are now shrouded in uncertainty. 
Up the stairs she strides, so fast even she is shocked. Intuition tells her, guides her, to Alastor where she finds him, as expected, in the armory. He is glaring at the armor with crossed arms. Words flow from Morion’s mouth without her even thinking to. 
“The night at the tavern, why did you not just tell me then who you were? We could have rode to my home; we could have killed the Necromancer!”
“I would have,” Alastor says defiantly, “if you were more judicious in the company you kept.” His voice almost accusing as he faces her. “Even if I did tell you who I was, even if those spies were never there, can you honestly say you would have believed me? Trusted me? No, Your Highness; not without you gazing on the body of my father with your own eyes.”
Morion lowers her head, knowing he is right. Alastor goes back to the armor.
“What will we do about the Necromancer and my cousin?” she asks sheepishly.
Alastor answers sharp and brutal.
“I will kill the Necromancer. Your cousin, however, is your problem.”
“But the Necromancer strengthens and emboldens Hector.”
“When the Necromancer is dead, everything he has done will crumble and Hector will return to being the bumbling, inept idiot he always was. You shall take the kingdom which is rightfully yours and, as its Queen, deal with your traitorous kin as you see fit.”
At that thought, Morion smiles grimly.
“Mikha’el told me of your father’s death. Of the betrayal of a friend, and how it was the Necromancer that killed him.”
“Did he?”
“Is it true?”
“Was it true that there was a betrayal and that it brought about my father’s murder? Unfortunately, it is.”
“So then, in Judeheim, you did know who the Necromancer was all along?”
“I did.”
“But, if your father was the Black Knight, why would the Necromancer claim that it was the Knight that had him killed?”
 “The Necromancer tried to steal my father’s power. He failed, and blamed me. He saw himself as the true Black Knight and decided to refer to himself as such. More intended as an insult, I believe, than anything else.”
Alastor’s story takes a new dimension, but this trove of new information breeds new questions. Morion takes a step closer to Alastor.
“Alastor, who was the one that betrayed your father?”
“I would rather not talk about that,” Alastor says, his voice shaky and uneven.
Morion cannot ignore this change in his usually solid facade, but again intuition tells her not to press this. She takes another step toward Alastor.
“Mikha’el also told me what little he knows of your bloodline. That you were changed and came into possession of that armor.”
“This is true, for the most part.”
“But what was this mysterious ‘event’ that changed your family, and what is the importance of that armor?”
Alastor laughs, not fully; rather like one does to a personal joke, known only to him.
“So many questions, yet not the one I would expect to hear.”
Morion raises an eyebrow. Yet another epiphany.
“Why do you not wear the armor?”
“There it is,” Alastor says with mock amazement. “If you took Mikha’el’s story at face value, his version makes it sound as though a gift from God himself was imparted upon my family.”
“One was not?” Morion asks, puzzled.
“No, Your Highness. Quite the contrary. We were cursed. The armor was part of our penance.”
Alastor, a sad smile on his face, shakes his head in disbelief.
“I do not think I know how to react, what to say...” Morion tells him.
“You need not worry about it now, Morion. It will all be clear eventually. For now, we should go back to the Cloud Hall and make a plan.”
~-~~-~
Following Alastor up the spiral stair, Morion comes to realize that her life has become of late one question after another; a thought that nearly makes her physically ill. So many secrets and half-deceits, people purposefully keeping her in the dark, even though her fate appears to be fatally tied to that of everyone else. The frustration is enough to drive her to scream, but she chooses instead to merely crack her knuckles.
Mikha’el is already in the Cloud Hall, standing statuesque on the west facing balcony.
“Alastor,” he calls out, “come look at this.”
Intrigued, Alastor and Morion go to Mikha’el. Far in the western sky, lights like ribbons dance and wave as banners caught in the wind.
“What would you make of that?” asks Mikha’el.
“Perhaps our little assassin has arrived at her master’s foot,” Alastor thinks aloud.
“But that distance took us days to cover. How could she have done it so fast?” queries Morion.
Mikha’el turns to her with a sly grin.
“It does not take nearly as long by wing, My Lady.”
“Assuming she flew the whole way,” Alastor whispers darkly.
A thick fog rolls in, obscuring the view. Alastor slinks away to sit in his chair, Morion following, sitting to his right. Mikha’el stands behind her, watching over them both. Alastor rubs his forehead as if in pain.
“Morion, what is the size of Halvard’s standing army?” he asks.
“Five thousand full time soldiers, another five thousand in reserve. Halvard rotates the standing army every six months to maintain battle edge, but also to allow the men plenty of time to be with their families.”
“Is that all?” Alastor asks, surprised. “I would have thought that a kingdom as large as Halvard would have a much larger force.”
“Well, the army is a formality. My father was a firm believer in the use of militia. Every man from the age of thirteen was trained to defend the city, leaving the army for more important tasks.”
Mikha’el paces about the room, calculating.
“The population of the city proper is quite large, so the total militia is probably close to fifty thousand capable men at any given time?”
“More or less,” the Queen responds.
“What about their loyalties?” Alastor questions. “Were the army and militia in good standing with Gawain before he was killed?”
Morion sighs.
“That was the primary issue pressing on father for some time before the Necromancer came.”
“How so?”
“The army was accusing him of not supporting them properly, putting too much faith in the ability of the militia.” Alastor and Mikha’el look at one another concerned. “Why does this matter?” Morion asks them.
“Because, My Lady,” answers Mikha’el, “Alastor and I believed that Gawain was betrayed from within Halvard, and that was how the Necromancer was able to infiltrate the kingdom.”
“Clearly it was no infiltration,” Alastor corrects. “The army’s allegiance was bought and paid for. Hector’s doing I would wager.”
Morion bites her lip as tears form in her eyes. Unable to contain herself, she slams her fist on the table.
“Damn him!”
“This effectively means that the Necromancer has a full army under his control yet again,” Mikha’el says to Alastor.
“Not counting whatever forces he has since brought into Halvard,” Alastor replies.
A gust of wind blows through the hall. The candles flicker but do not go out. 
Alastor sighs.
 “This then is what we will do: tomorrow, we will ride to Halvard. Against whatever odds we may face, our sole purpose is to find and kill the Necromancer. Hector, Your Highness, is to be ignored.”
“Very well,” Morion agrees, but in her heart of hearts, Hector is now her mortal enemy. It was he that brought about the death of her father. Deep down, she craves vengeance. She wants to watch Hector bleed.
“Mikha’el,” Alastor continues, “will take to the air, acting as our scout and guiding us along the swiftest route.” He looks into both of their eyes. “We leave at dawn. Any questions?” Morion shakes her head, Mikha’el is motionless. “I realize that this ‘plan’ is simplistic, but we have no other avenues of action. All of our wills shall be tested, so I highly suggest spending the rest of this night in reflection and rest.” With that, Alastor stands and begins to leave them, but not before adding to Morion: “As you may have already seen, the bedrooms are just below us on the previous level. Pick any one that suits your needs.”
And then he is gone again. Morion stands, pacing around the hall aimlessly. Mikha’el soon speaks softly.
“I apologize, My Lady, for I must also depart for a time. Fear not, the night is a good night. The air is sweet, the wind fair. In this keep, with Master Alastor here, you are entirely safe. You should rest, while you can.”
Mikha’el bows before leaping from the west balcony. Morion watches as his wings spread open, catching the air and propel him through the night. In moments he is gone. 
Morion is alone.
~-~~-~
Morion’s eyes wander the Cloud Hall, in her soul feeling small and insignificant within the grand scheme, whatever it may be. Lost in this brooding, she goes to find her room. Unaware of her own actions, she descends some flights too many. Like one waking from a dream, she discovers herself before a set of wonderfully carved wooden double doors, already opening them. Her breath is taken away as she beholds the room beyond. An art room, beautiful beyond words and completely out of place within the dankness of the rest of the keep. 
The art room is full of paintings and sculptures. The vaulted ceiling too is a work of art, carved with such intricate detail as to be the work of divine beings. Morion tries to absorb the paintings; many of which are presumably of lords and ladies of the land, family portraits, landscapes of the castle, but it is almost too much to comprehend.
She comes to one painting of what she interprets as a forest glade, in the center of which is an eternally flowing spring. 
Beautiful as the paintings are, none have meaning for her until, that is, she comes to a painting that makes her freeze in place: a portrait of the Black Knight, outside of his armor but exactly as she remembered him. It was not this alone that caught her, however. Standing next to the Knight is a young boy, no more than ten years old, grim faced far beyond his age should allow.
“Lost, Your Highness?”
The sharpness of the voice causes her to jump ever so slightly. She spins around to see Alastor standing in the doorway. Jolted by his abrupt appearance, she throws on a smile before answering.
“A bit, I think.”
“Follow me,” he says with a gesture.
The Queen takes a final look at the portrait of Alastor and his father before following him. Returning to the hall to follow Alastor, she notices a painting that had been thrown behind the door. The painting was a portrait, but the face had been scratched off as if by claws. Before she can inquire about the, quite literally, defaced painting, Alastor shuts the art room doors and guides Morion back to the stairs.
“I thought I would not see you again until morning,” she says gently.
“I remembered that you do not have a proper weapon. Your dagger, while useful if in the proper situation, will be of little use if we are drawn into a battle, and I did not want to spend the morning searching for a sword for you to use.”
Morion’s face hardens.
“Do you actually expect it to come to battle?”
“I would expect no less from the Necromancer.”
A wave of fear washes over Morion. 
War. 
War within the walls of Halvard itself. The prospect of violence. All the pain, agony and death that will inevitably come, that might have already transpired in her absence. She feels the tears coming again. 
The sorrow. 
The helplessness. 
Alastor offers only more questions than solutions. She recalls his words about keeping fantasies and fairy tales. He was trying to buffer the shock, secretly tell her that this was not going to be as simple as summoning her fearless champion, who would then vanquish her foes leaving her and her people safe and sound. 
No, the reality was much darker. Dirtier. Unclean and far from innocent. The future was not bright and shining. It wears a black cloak, it carries a scythe and it wants nothing more than to rape the souls of the just and the damned alike in one fell swoop.
Coming for the darkened recesses of her own mind, Morion’s eyes adjust to the familiar sight of weapons both in piles and set on the walls. Alastor has brought her to the armory, this time paying no heed to the Black Armor. He begins sifting through the racks and mounds of swords.
“Do you have any skill with a blade, Your Highness?”
“Yes I do, as a matter of fact,” she answers, as she herself is now drawn to the Black Armor, taking in every detail.
“How extensive was your training?”
“I would have been able to join the Elite Guard had father allowed me.”
“Elite Guard? You were trained by Gallahad then?”
“Correct.”
Morion’s eyes methodically move over the Black Armor, starting at the helmet, down to the shoulders, the chest, then the arms.
“My father spoke well of Gallahad. He was Gawain’s brother, was he not?”
“He was.”
Alastor makes a sound to himself, some mystery solved in his mind. Morion does not think twice about Alastor’s questions, lost in her examination of the Black Armor. She raises an eyebrow upon discovering that portions of the armor are seemingly missing; the armor that would cover the forearms of the wearer: the bracers. 
Disappointed by the lack of worthy weaponry, Alastor stops his search. A thought comes to his mind, at first preposterous but as he further considers the ramifications, the idea he realizes is not without merit. He faces Morion to ask her something, but she is preoccupied. He then, with a heart full of reluctance, takes down a sword which hangs apart from the rest on the wall within a leather sheath. 
“Morion, see how this sword suits you,” Alastor says.
It takes all her will to let go of her visible grasp on the armor, but she does, taking the weapon that Alastor has presented to her. She takes the weapon in both hands, feeling its weight before she unsheathes it, all the while Alastor explains.
“Despite the overly artistic nature of the sword, it is certainly battle worthy. Its edge can never be dulled, and its blade can never be broken. Legend says that it is magical.”
Morion examines carefully the weapon, especially the edges.
“How old is it?” she asks, seeing unfamiliar writing upon the blade.
“Centuries upon centuries, Your Highness.”
“And yet, it is as though it was made just yesterday. Do you know what the writing says?”
“It was presented by a mother to her son as a birthday present, after saving her and his sister from death.”
“How did you get it?”
“It is not rightfully mine. It has been in this armory for a very long time. This is, as I told you, a sort of trophy room in addition to being an armory. Seeing as its original owner is long dead, I do not think he will mind if his sword is again used for good.”
“Thank you,” she says, sheathing the blade and smiling gratefully in acceptance of the weapon.
“Why did Gawain not allow you to join the Elite Guard?” Alastor asks, continuing his previous line of questioning.
“My training was conducted in secret. None were to know of it, so joining the Elite ranks would have defeated that purpose, obviously.”
Alastor rubs his chin, putting some invisible pieces together in his mind.
“When did Gawain have his brother train you?”
“Shortly after the Black Knight, your father that is, visited.”
“So then, the training was conducted under complete secrecy?”
“Yes.”
“Even from Gallahad’s son?”
As Morion readies to answer, it finally dawns on her the reason for Alastor’s questions. Gallahad was the head of the Elite Guard. And Hector’s father.
“There was a deep, battle honed bond between father and uncle,” Morion says. “I do not believe uncle would have spoken to Hector about my training if father instructed that it was to be absolutely secret.”
“But no doubt Hector was aware of something going on. Something that would cause some discontent to grow in him.”
“Hector always was a jealous little rat.”
“Every family has one.”
Morion smiles at this little joke.
“Why do you ask these things?”
“The Necromancer and his servant will expect only myself, and probably Mikha’el, of coming with the intention of fighting  This gives us a much needed advantage.”
“I understand,” she says, now seeing his line of thinking. “Tell me more about this armor, please Alastor,” she pleads, turning again to the Black Armor.
Surprisingly, Alastor does so.
“As I told you earlier, my bloodline is cursed, and this armor is invariably tied to each of us. Although this armor can bestow incredible power to us, the armor acts more as a sort of doorway into the best - but far more oft worst - elements of our souls. Even those with the best of intentions in their minds can, and usually were, drawn to serve evil.”
“But your father; even in that short time I knew him, I saw no signs of one who had succumbed to darkness.”
“My father was a rare exception, for the most part. He was one of a extremely select few who could wear the armor with minimal taint.”
“If your father was able to wear it, then surely you could...”
“I would rather that we did not continue this conversation,” Alastor interrupts.
Morion bows her head, seeing that the subject weighs heavily upon Alastor. This unspoken admission by Alastor, nonetheless, speaks volumes to the Queen. Thinking back to Alastor’s story, of the disdain shown to both him and his father, Eoin, by Rennir, coupled with Eoin’s murder and Alastor’s clear reluctance - far more than what has been revealed is going on. The more she thinks, the more it seems that Halvard is merely a bit player in the middle of a far larger production.
“Alastor, what will we do now?”
“Sleep.”
With his sad smile, Alastor leads Morion back to the bedrooms. He takes her to the first room she had found, next to the room with the balcony.
“This room should suit you, Your Highness. It was at one time the bedroom of a princess. I shall be in the room next to it, in the event you need me.”
“Thank you, Alastor. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Your Highness.”
Alastor starts to walk away, but Morion stops him, speaking up quickly.
“I remember you now.”
He stops, but does not turn around to face her.
“What do you mean?”
“The day your father visited us. You were with him.”
“And here I thought you had forgotten.”
“I did actually.”
“Not completely, apparently.”
“The portrait I saw of you and he brought the memory back in full.”
“You and I only saw each other once in the time that he was there, and even then it was only in passing. I do not blame you for not remembering.”
Alastor takes one step, but again Morion calls to him.
“Where were you that day?”
Alastor hesitates for a moment before answering.
“Exploring the castle, naturally. I had always been told stories of your castle containing secret chambers. I wanted to find at least one.”
“And did you?”
“...I did.”
Alastor does not allow for any more inquiries, swiftly retreating to his room, leaving Morion alone in the dark hall with her little candle. Stepping into her room, closing the door behind, she looks the room over. The mere thought of the bed makes her aware of how tired the day has made her. It helps that the bed looks extremely comfortable. 
All the betrayal and revelation would have broken a lesser woman, yet she endures. The strength of her father lives on in her. She sits on the bed, placing the candle on the night stand beside it. The sword in her hand receives a second examination. 
She fantasizes about the history of the blade. 
A noble young man looking very much like Alastor saving his mother and sister from a band of thieves. Dueling them with elegant skill. A very romantic hero. She sheathes the weapon again, setting it down on the night stand before blowing out the candle. 
The unanticipated darkness startles her, for only now does she realize that the room has no windows. Laying down, she stares at the ceiling, or what she thinks is the ceiling. The pitch blackness is so deep she fears for a moment that she has actually gone blind. Morion wishes the darkness away, like it was something that could be commanded. It is then that she takes notice of small specks of light forming before her eyes. Fearing insanity or worse, she closes her eyes and opens them again. The lights remain, their number increasing. They brighten and shimmer, bathing the bedroom in pale blue light. It strikes Morion that the lights are in fact real; part of the ceiling. She stands on the bed, running her fingers over the lights, feeling only the smooth stone of the ceiling. She falls back onto the bed. 
Looking with a more discerning eye, the lights appear to form a familiar pattern - none other than the stars that come out at night over Halvard, giving the illusion that Morion sleeps under the night sky. The Queen cannot help but smile, wondering how these lights have come to exist. The curiosity does not last long. Before she knows it, she falls into a gentle slumber, undisturbed by nightmares.
Alastor, unfortunately, is not so lucky.

Chapter Nine
Destinies of Past, Present and Future
Return to Table of Contents

Alastor stands outside the castle, in a time when it was pristine. The sun shines bright, birds are singing, Mikha’el’s race flies here and there busily, content. Citizens walk and talk happily. Alastor spins around, unable to understand what he is seeing. The stairs that lead up to the castle glisten, and a holy light emanates from within the castle itself. The wind blows gently, carrying on it a flowery scent. Alastor breathes deep this peace, a sensation he has never known.
It does not last. It could never have lasted.
The serenity fades. Clouds gather, darkening the sky. The winged and un-winged people alike become fearful and flee in all directions, the birds fall dreadfully silent. The air becomes no longer sweet, but cold, dank, musty and bitter. The cries of two women ring out from the castle. The emanating light becomes slithering shadow, the sky becomes turbulent. Wind howls, rain pours in torrents, lightning strikes, thunder fills the air constantly. The cries of the women become pleadings for mercy, the urgency of them growing and growing culminating in one final pleading. An inhuman roar. The women yell in pain, then nothing. 
The world still writhes, but no sound is heard. 
Alastor steels his will, striding toward the castle stairs, only to be met by an explosion of energy from the castle entrance. The force sends Alastor tumbling backwards, and leaves his ears ringing. As the Knight stands, he sees a figure emerge from the castle; tall and encased in black armor similar, but only slightly, to that which his father wore. Alastor tries to move, but his feet are locked to the ground. A strange feeling creeps up his back, flowing out to his arms and legs, and then he separates; a shadowy doppelganger in the shape of Alastor moving forward to face the armored figure. 
Alastor can only watch as they clash swords in tandem with the thunder and lightning. The armor clad figure swings wide and misses the doppelganger. The doppelganger strikes the armor clad figure, blinding Alastor with a bright white light. When sight is regained, Alastor learns that the armored figure has been struck down, the doppelganger standing triumphant over it. The doppelganger turns his back on the fallen one defiantly and readies to walk away, back to Alastor. 
With a life all its own, the sword carried by the armored figure pierces the doppelganger, but it does not kill him. Rather the armor becomes like tendrils, latching on to him. He falls to his knees, crying out in anguish. The being that had been covered by the armor grows and changes as the armor slips away from it. It becomes a creature of shadow, blood and brimstone. The hellish creature pulls its sword from the doppelganger. Alastor tries to call out to his shadowy self, but nothing comes from his mouth. The doppelganger falls to its hands, looking directly into Alastor’s eyes, reaching out with its right hand toward him. 
The demon laughs at its prey, thrusting the sword into the doppelganger again, killing him, his silver lifeblood ebbing out. The demon takes its weapon back with an evil cackle. The demon steps over the body, heading directly toward Alastor now. Alastor balls his hands into fists, baring his teeth, preparing for a fight. The demon now stands but a foot from Alastor; Alastor looks into its eyes, the demon into his. The demon laughs a deep, dark laugh, passing by Alastor. 
Alastor instinctively tries to move and, to his amazement, he does. His feet are no longer bound. He leaps at the demon, striking it in the back. The demon wheels about, swatting Alastor like a pest. The blow is vicious, knocking Alastor to the ground, but the ground has ceased to exist. 
He plummets into darkness, descending into the very heart-center of the earth itself. The darkness eventually gives way to an orange glow, coupled with the disgusting smell of sulfur. Alastor lands hard upon sharp rocks, barely avoiding being impaled. Getting to his feet, Alastor reluctantly comes to understand that he has landed in the one landscape no man wishes ever to see. Fire dances from fissures in the dead and rocky ground, sharp spires of stone protrude upward appearing as splintered ribs, all the while the sickly smell of burning flesh hangs. Alastor has no choice but to traverse this Hellscape. He has no choice but to endure what may come.
He detects no living thing, nor any dead thing. Miles and miles he travels until, at last, he collapses, falling flat on his face. Lifting his head at the beckoning of his heart after a lifetime of immobility, there he sees standing a pair of feet; pale and delicate. He continues to raise his head to find the Ice Fairy looking down at him, smiling. She reaches her hand out to help him up, which he accepts. Face to face with her, he asks.
“What is this place?”
“The Madness,” is her only answer.
The sight of her pale coldness in this place gives him a hidden hope.
“Can we escape this?” he asks.
“You can.”
With a smile and a caress of Alastor’s cheek, she begins to bound gracefully with an unreal speed toward a circle of rocks further in the interior of the realm. Alastor follows, but he lags far behind the Fairy, as though the very landscape holds him back, unwilling to part with its new occupant. The ring of rocks is visible, but feels hundreds of miles away. The Ice Fairy is already there, bathed in beautiful light, waiting. Alastor grits his teeth, putting forth all his will to overcome this Madness. 
The realm responds in like kind. 
The ground shatters, releasing hundreds of dark creatures, wraith-like images of former men. A cacophony of mocking voices come from the wraith-men.
“Alastor, our precious failure.”
“Brother.”
“Son.”
“Alastor the beloved savior.”
“Bastard.”
“Hero.”
The wraith-men gather together, rise up and become like a tidal wave. Alastor cannot move as the wave crashes upon him. They begin to assail Alastor, striking and clawing at him. He does his best to fight back, while still trying to get to the Fairy. The wraith-men continue to taunt him.
“Betrayer!”
“You are as damned as we!”
“Soulless monster.”
“You are us.”
“Everything will end.”
“Cursed child.”
“We are you.”
“Murderer!”
Alastor pushes through them. Their words stinging, cutting as sure as any sword.
“I am not like you!” the Knight cries.
“Lies!” the voices scream in unison. “You shall burn with us! Our curse is your curse. You cannot fight your fate.”
The wraith-men catch Alastor, pound him down, suppress him. Tired, unable to continue, he lets them take him. His mind clouds, fills with a singular thought: there is no escape. The wraith-men cheer in victory. All, that is, except one.
“Alastor, son of Eoin?” one asks.
“I... was...” he answers without thinking, without looking.
“Alastor, son of Eoin!” the same voice says with a tone of absolute authority.
“I am!” Alastor yells, thinking the wraith-man is trying to torture him.
“Son!”
Alastor looks up. His father, more man still than wraith, stands before him.
“Father,” Alastor whispers, tears welling.
Eoin takes Alastor by the shoulders.
“This is not your fate! Fight this! Take away all that we have wrought! Make it right again, Alastor.”
“How? How can I right all of this? It is too much.”
“You must try.”
At this, the wraith-men become more violent, separating Alastor and Eoin.
“Father!”
“I am so very sorry, Alastor. Forgive me.”
Alastor’s strength comes back to him, but the wraith-men are stronger still.
“Alastor!” a voice calls. Soft, feminine, but strong. The Ice Fairy has returned for him.
Alastor growls, fighting the wraith-men tooth and nail. Rising up above them, he sees again the ring of rocks, and that divine light. He rages. He runs until at last he runs through the wraith-men like they were not even there. Up ahead the Fairy holds the way open. The closer he gets to her, the more powerful the wraith-men become. She reaches out with a look of desperation. With a final surge, Alastor leaps out from the ocean of wraith-men as they claw at him, and into the arms of the Fairy. In the blink of an eye, they ascend out of the Madness.
“Close your eyes,” she whispers to him.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Alastor complies. The Ice Fairy gently kisses him on the lips.
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“When the time is right, you will.”
A lightheadedness comes over him, causing Alastor to lose track of all physical sensations. When this passes, he realizes that the Fairy is gone. He opens his eyes to a familiar sight: the castle, though it is now no more than smoking rubble amidst a burnt and decayed wasteland. Even the keep too has fallen. 
Overseeing this destruction is the demon, laughing and admiring the great work he has wrought, his minions roving about, seeking what next there is to destroy. With the courage gained from his travels in the Madness, Alastor moves to battle the demon, but something else catches his attention. 
From the ruins of the castle, another figure rises. He is of the same build as Alastor, but wearing a hooded, sleeveless tunic, much like the males of Mikha’el’s race wear, except that his is black. Strapped upon the back of this figure is Alastor’s very own claymore. Alastor is unable to see the face of this figure, but he can clearly see that all of his attention is on the demon, and the demon’s to this figure. 
Walking out from the ruins, the figure arms himself with Alastor’s sword. The demon roars in hatred at the figure and the sword he bears, then begins attacking him. The figure avoids the demon’s attacks, moving in most inhuman ways. The demon attempts a powerful stroke, but the figure moves like a dancer, swinging his weapon to meet the demon’s. When the two swords meet, the weapon of the demon is shattered into millions of fragments. Before the demon can react, the figure flourishes his weapon and brings it down on the fell creature. The demon howls in death before it splits in half, the two parts falling to dust when they touch the ground. 
The figure releases a sigh, as one relieved. It then turns toward Alastor, apparently just made aware of him. The figure raises his sword up toward Alastor in triumph, saluting Alastor as one might salute a king. Alastor can now see that the figure is actually wearing a white, featureless mask, with only holes for his eyes and nothing more. Alastor tries to walk to this mysterious figure, but a strike of lightning blinds and deafens him. 
Against his will, Alastor awakens with a start.
~-~~-~
Alastor sits up in his bed, sweat covering his body. He breathes heavily, heart pounding in his throat. Walking out onto the balcony, he goes over the dream again and again and again. Each time he recalls the events and images, the emotions build until he can do little else but yell at the world. Something he does without embarrassment.
He doubles over in internal agony, slamming his hands down upon the stone railing. Opening his eyes, he stares at the ground hundreds of feet below like one entranced by it. His eyes change, a sort of calm coming over him. He smiles insidiously.
“Who would care? Who is here to stop me? If she could, then so too can I, right?”
The dark temptation of the past fills his heart and soul. He stands up straight, eyes never moving from the point on the ground he has picked.
“Why endure anymore? It can all end now, just as she ended it all.” 
Alastor raises one foot to the railing, but then a voice whispers to him, a voice with no origin. A voice familiar.
“What are you doing?”
Alastor lowers his foot, almost disappointed.
“Why do you haunt me, Fairy? What does it matter to you if I live or die?”
“My reasons are my own, child. Besides, who would your death serve?”
“Myself.”
“You lie.”
“You who skulks in the ether, whispering to me, filling my dreams with grim prophesies, has the audacity to call me a liar?”
“Look into your heart of hearts, Alastor. Is self-destruction really an option for you?”
“More than you may know, Fairy. If I am to become like those before my father, then yes. Better to end it now than become a walking nightmare. I will not condemn the innocent.”
“Kill yourself, Alastor, and you condemn them just the same.”
“There has to be someone else.”
“Give me a name, Alastor. For I know none who possess the gifts that have alone been bestowed to you. But if you happen to know a good replacement, do by all means tell me. After which, you may, with my blessing, leap to your death.”
Alastor sighs.
“There is none, we both know this.”
“If that is the case, are you still so willing to doom the innocent, corrupt the pure? Because that is what you will allow to happen.”
“How do I know I will not be the one to do it myself when all is said and done?”
“I have faith in you, Alastor. I do not believe you will become like those Knights of the past. I believe that you are intended for a far greater destiny.”
“And what if you are wrong, Fairy?”
“Then we will have both earned our places in the nightmare.”
“So be it, Fairy. So be it.”
Alastor readies to go back into his room, but the Fairy calls back.
“One last thing, Alastor.”
“Yes?”
“Morion is far stronger than she appears. Stronger than even she knows. When the time comes, she will do what is required of her.”
“I can only hope that the same will be said of me.”
Alastor returns to bed. Not long does he stay, though. Instinct tells him to go up to the Cloud Hall. Leaving his room, he closes his doors as silently as he can. Passing Morion’s room, the faint blue light coming from under the door makes him pause momentarily. He scowls at the Fairy’s handiwork then continues on. In the Cloud Hall, Mikha’el is there.
“Back so soon?” asks Alastor.
“My brother met me halfway.”
“How goes the move?”
“It is finished.”
“That was fast.”
“They had incentive to be as hasty as possible.”
“That they did, I suppose.”
Mikha’el slowly orbits the room aimlessly, deep in thought.
“Alastor, may I ask you a question, one that might be considered bold?”
“Has that ever stopped you? Ask if you will. There is no guarantee I shall answer.”
“As always. How does it feel to be close to her?”
“Her?”
“Do not pretend to not know who I speak of. My Lady, Morion.”
Alastor is struck grim and speechless. Mikha’el ponders this silence. After a moment longer, Alastor finally answers.
“I do not feel much of anything.”
“Really? She seems smitten with you. I figured that you might have...”
“No, Mikha’el,” Alastor interrupts abruptly.
“I meant no offense, Alastor.”
“I know you did not,” Alastor says apologetically. “I just do not wish to think about anyone else. After what happened, I cannot trust myself in that situation ever again.”
“You allude to a situation, yet never speak of it. What happened, Alastor?”
“Like you, I do not enjoy speaking of my failures.”
“Very well, Alastor.”
Alastor moves to his chair, and falls into it, sitting lazily.
“Now I shall ask a question of you, Mikha’el.”
“Ask, friend.”
“If I were to die, or otherwise become unable to do what is required, would you continue this fight?”
“Alastor, why the fatalistic speech?”
“Please... answer my question.”
“Your enemy is also my enemy, and has been since long before you or your father were born. Even if you were never here, this would still have been my battle. I would fight for an eternity to see its end.”
Alastor lowers his eyes and nods his head, pleased with Mikha’el’s reply.
“Mikha’el, I promise you that I shall do all in my power to bring this to the end. Unfortunately, I am but a man. Flesh and blood.”
“I understand, Alastor. I too make a similar promise, of which you have always known existed.”
Alastor stands, walking up to Mikha’el. He thrusts his right arm out. Mikha’el takes it and they shake hands.
“I must find some degree of sleep,” Alastor tells him. “The next few days will be trying for the three of us.”
Alastor returns to his room, a feeling of having got affairs in order bringing him some, though small, peace. He falls into bed, content in the belief that no dreams would come for the remainder of this night.
The Fairy had gotten her point across.
~-~~-~
Morion wakes with ease, gently and gradually. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she notices a lamp burning upon the night stand, light of soft orange filling the room. Over on the vanity, another lamp burns, beside it a silver basin of water, and clean riding clothes. Remembering the night before, she looks up to the ceiling but there is nothing special. The Queen gets out of bed, stretching and yawning, then going to the vanity to wash and dress. Finished, she ascends up to the Cloud Hall where Mikha’el already goes about his duties. Hearing her approach, he greets Morion.
“Good morning, My Lady.”
The sun has already risen, casting a golden light upon the world. It is significantly some time past dawn.
“And good morning to you, Mikha’el,” she responds. “I thank you for the fresh garments. It has been much too long since I had clean clothes.”
“It was not I, My Lady, but Alastor who set your room.”
Morion blushes a bit. Alastor was in her room. Alastor gave her clothes that fit perfectly. Alastor was watching her sleep.
“If that is the case, where is he so that I might thank him?”
“With his father, My Lady.”
“Is that why we have not left yet?”
“No. Alastor felt that you might need your rest, and that a few hours longer here was more than acceptable.”
Morion takes her now accustomed seat, right of the kingly chair, to wait for Alastor. Mikha’el places before her a plate of fruit and a mug of clean water. She smiles and bows her head in gratitude.
“Thank you.”
“Enjoy it whilst you can. The only provisions we are to take is dried meat and a few water skins. Alastor has determined that the two of you must ride as light as possible.”
“As I would have expected.”
Morion eats, preparing her mind and soul for what is to come. Her thoughts invariably go back to the magical stars that helped her sleep.
“Mikha’el, have you ever met the Ice Fairy?”
“The one from Judeheim?”
“Yes.”
“Alastor has spoken of her many times, but I have never myself seen or heard her. Why do you ask?”
“I think she was here last night.”
“Was she?”
“I believe so. Last night, when I went to bed, I put my candle out not realizing that there was no window in my room. I have always dreaded the darkness. I closed my eyes, secretly wishing the darkness away. When I opened my eyes, small lights made to look like the stars over Halvard began to glow from the ceiling.”
Mikha’el ponders, making small sounds of awe and wonder.
“Yes, that sounds like something she would do, based on the stories Alastor has told me.”
“Stories? You mean that there was more than what happened with my father?”
Mikha’el realizes that he has again spoken out of place.
“Yes, My Lady. The Fairy and Alastor have had many more meetings, but the details of these you must learn from Alastor himself, time permitting.”
She has no wish for Mikha’el to betray Alastor’s confidence anymore, so this answer is agreeable to Morion. It sheds some, if only a little, light on the matter. After all, it was this Fairy that had drawn her father to Judeheim, and her father that drew Alastor. The Fairy had known well the evils that had befallen the city, but she lacked the ability to fight it herself. Alastor was for all intents and purposes the Black Knight, a fact her father, Gawain, had to have known. 
In the story told to her by Alastor, she remembers in it the emphasis placed on hiding his name. Had others known his name, but not his face? Dahlia did not know him, no one did, it seemed, except for one of the Judeheim Council. What was it that Alastor had told him? ‘My father was a member of your faith, I am not.’ Eoin was a member of this faith of which the Fairy was an important sign. Morion stops thinking, unable to deduce an absolute answer. Too many pieces remain yet hidden, but at least now that feeling of powerlessness is not so strong as to make her very existence seem redundant. It is now that Alastor enters.
“It is time to leave Your Highness, Mikha’el.” They both turn to him, unprepared for the sight they each see. No longer dressed in the ragtag garb of one who spends his life in the forests, Alastor dons fine black leather and cloth fit for royalty. Even Mikha’el looks at him in reverence, for never has he seen Alastor as he does now. Alastor ignores their stares. “Come now,” he says. “We have no time to waste.”
Alastor beckons to them, and they follow down the spiral stair. As the trio descend, Morion speaks to Alastor.
“The Ice Fairy was, I believe, here last night.”
Alastor faces her briefly, not stopping the climb down.
“She was here, but how did you know?”
“She helped me to sleep. Quite peacefully, as a matter of fact.”
His back again turned to Morion and Mikha’el, Alastor sneers, recalling the horror of his nightmare. He subdues himself.
“I am sure she did so trying to prepare you for the journey ahead.”
His words ring sarcastic and hollow in his own ears.
“Judeheim was not the only time you saw her, was it?” Morion asks.
Again, Alastor looks at Morion if only to acknowledge her question.
“This is true.”
“Will you tell me of these other meetings?”
“You sound like a jealous wife,” Alastor remarks with a laugh.
“No! I am not jealous. It is just that she was aware of my father. That fact seems to indicate that she and I are entwined by association. I would simply like to know more about her.”
“You and her are more ‘entwined’ than you know, Your Highness.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ask again after we have dealt with the matter at hand.”
Morion’s face goes red. Secrets! Secrets concerning her are still being kept as though to taunt her.

Chapter Ten
The Return to Halvard
Return to Table of Contents

Once outside the keep, the Queen’s gaze is immediately drawn to two massive black stallions, bigger than any horses she has ever seen. They are already saddled and loaded with the supplies Mikha’el mentioned. While she introduces herself to the animals, she notices Alastor staring at her.
“What is it?”
“Where is your sword?” he asks her, annoyance in his voice.
Morion curses under her breath, looking up at the tower and sighing.
“I must have left it in my room.”
“We can wait,” Alastor tells her coldly.
Morion takes the far-from-subtle hint and storms back into the keep.
“Why would you do that?” Mikha’el demands, shocked by Alastor’s callousness. “I could have easily flown up and retrieved her weapon.”
Alastor turns to him, morose, withdrawn.
“Will you fight her battles for her? Rule her kingdom for her? Will you fulfill her destiny for her?”
“Making her hate you has now become part of some ultimate plan to make her stronger? Do you really expect me to believe such a thing?”
“I do not care what you believe.”
“You are not so dark of heart as you pretend, Alastor. I can see beyond this new mask. It hurts you to say such things.”
To this, Alastor has no reply.
~-~~-~
Morion runs up the keep stairs, holding back the tears. There is her sword, on the night stand where she left it. She seizes it up with an angry sneer. 
A rapid chill comes into the room. 
She spins around, expecting to find the Fairy, but there is nothing. She starts to leave the room, except something on the vanity catches her. The mirror has frosted over, and upon it is written a message.

‘He fears too much for his own good, this is why he acts so.
His fear will drive him, push him into courses that threaten
him. Only you can help him, Queen of Halvard. Take heart
in this knowledge! Now, wash your face and return to him.’

Morion does take this to heart, a smile burning through the former anger. She follows the last instruction without hesitation.
~-~~-~ 
Alastor and Mikha’el have not moved from their places while waiting for the Queen. She shows the sword to Alastor, then slings it over her shoulder, wearing it in the exact same manner as Alastor had worn his.
“And where is your sword?” Morion sarcastically asks him.
Alastor unstraps his weapon, having previously secured it to the saddle of his animal. He unsheathes it, a bastard sword, but with a longer and slightly broader blade. After ensuring that she has seen it, he slams the weapon back into its scabbard before slinging it on over his shoulder as well.
“Take flight, make sure the ways are clear,” Alastor calls to Mikha’el.
Mikha’el bows, spreading his wings. Morion looks on in marvel as he crouches down, raises his wings and finally springs into the air. Thrusting his wings down, he propels high into the heavens, blasting Alastor and Morion with a powerful gust of wind. Mikha’el, despite his formidable size, darts through the sky like a sparrow. The two riders mount up, Alastor trotting over to Morion after.
“For the most part, you need not worry about running the animal too hard. They have been bred for centuries as war horses, chariot pullers and, more importantly, the king’s steeds. They are nearly invincible, bordering on immortal,” he tells her.
Morion runs her fingers through the horse’s mane, patting its neck, assuring it that she will be good to it. She forgets her emotions concerning Alastor from mere moments ago.
“Thank you for the change of clothes, Alastor.”
He too puts aside his feigned hostility.
“You are most welcome. They are suitable then?”
“Very much so. But I am curious... I have seen no one else around, not least of which a tailor. Where did you get them?”
“They were my mother’s.”
“Were?”
“Yes. She died a long time ago.”
“I am sorry. My mother died too, though I cannot remember how.”
A silent moment passes between the two as they wait for Mikha’el. He soon swoops overhead.
“The way is good, friends! Ride!” he calls from on high.
Alastor and Morion take up their reins. Before setting off, Morion uneasily speaks to Alastor.
“You look quite nice today.”
Alastor did not expect to hear such a thing. After a time, he finally replies.
“As do you, Your Highness.”
Wishing to avoid any further awkwardness, Alastor slaps down on the reins, sending his horse running, Morion soon following. Mikha’el leads them upon a direct westward route, crossing a small grassland and then over a barren patch of ground. Even on the rough earthen trail, the animals gallop like on air. In a flash they come riding into a forest.  They cannot see Mikha’el, and so maintain their heading. The trees blur by so fast that Morion is forced to shut her eyes. The world flickers like a candle blown by violent wind, passing so speedily through the streams of light which puncture through the canopy of leaves. As fast as they entered this forest, they exit. Morion looks back; the keep now small and distant over the trees. 
Looking forward she sees that they are coming to a course of rocky hills and valleys. Morion slows down, somewhat fearful, but Alastor urges his horse on. The animal bounds over the terrain with absolute ease. Morion smirks, following his example. Mikha’el flies far ahead, landing upon a large rock spire jutting out of the earth; digging his toes and fingers into the spire, he flares his wings and surveys the immediate surroundings. Alastor and Morion, after catching up, stop before the spire.
“What is it?” Alastor calls.
“I am not sure. The wind currents feel... different. And...”
“There are no birds,” Morion observes.
“Correct, My Lady.”
Alastor twists uneasily in his saddle, examining the barren valley.
“We continue onward,” the Knight tells them.
Morion and Mikha’el nod; Mikha’el bounding back up into the sky, Alastor and Morion galloping in his wake. 
The loose ground is no problem for the horses, not missing a step. They remain focused as though even they know the stakes. The Knight and the Queen ride side by side, each with the utmost skill. Up, down, across, through. Nothing the world puts in their path succeeds at slowing them. Riding up one last incline, they come to an open plain, grassy and flat.
“Morion, we must move faster!” shouts Alastor.
They both whip at the reins, eking out every bit of speed from the stallions and, as they are starting to cross the plain, they spy another wooded area on its end which becomes their next goal. 
~-~~-~
The trees are long since dead, the grass wilted and brown. Alastor slows down greatly, standing in his saddle, raising his head like a hound that has caught a scent. He then pulls hard on the reins, causing the stallion to rear. Morion brings her animal to a stop, trotting back to Alastor. Alastor dismounts just as Mikha’el lands beside him.
“I assume you smelled it too?” he asks Alastor.
“Yes. Unless I am very much mistaken, it has been following for some time.”
“What has been following us?” asks Morion as she unites with her guardians. “I have seen nothing.”
A deep sound, creaking and groaning, comes from the earth underfoot. Without another word, Alastor pulls Morion down from her horse, moving her between his and Mikha’el’s backs, the two brave warriors drawing their swords. Morion sniffs the air.
“What is that smell? What is following us?” Morion asks frantically.
The earth answers her with a cackle, breaking, opening all around the trio. Out from the stagnant earth rises the undead; vile, putrid corpses given back their former life. The sight causes Alastor to suddenly remember his dream, his nightmare. 
The undead wield viciously evil looking blades and rough forged armor, more for frightening victims than for protection. Seeing the trio, the undead hiss and growl before attacking. Alastor and Mikha’el turn the assault around, ferociously striking out at the undead. They attack with a level of violence that the undead had not, evidently, expected, as the Knight and the winged warrior manage to fell many before the undead properly react. The two have themselves drawn away from Morion during the skirmish. 
Alastor loses himself in the melee. These undead have already chosen their fates. To kill them again brings about a dark pleasure in his heart. He begins to change, purposefully removing limbs and decapitating the ghouls. 
He forgets Morion. 
He forgets Mikha’el. 
He forgets the Ice Fairy and the nightmare. 
More undead burst forth from the dead womb of earth around Alastor, swarming him, incensed that he has not yet fallen. Alastor lets loose a bellow in response to their growling. He cuts through them, each swing of his sword like the stroke of a painter’s brush. The Knight is well trained in the art of combat, a true master of the form. 
He becomes so focused on the glut of foes in front of him that he does not think for a moment to guard his back. One undead slowly slinks up, preparing to stab Alastor. Alastor swings wide, cutting down five undead. It is then that he comes face to face with his would-be assassin. The suddenness of the undead being so close makes Alastor pause long enough that the undead can think to strike.
A flash of steel blinds him. Cavernous eyes open, the undead’s head topples down from atop its shoulders, cleaved from its body. There stands Morion, sword in hand.
“Behind you!” she shouts
Alastor sneers, swinging his weapon backward, still focused on Morion. Another undead is sent back into the earth. Brought back to reality, the Knight fights beside the Queen, and are soon met by Mikha’el. After a score more of the undead are defeated, they cease to emerge.
As instantaneous as they made their appearance, they have left, taking with them the remains of the defeated. In absolute quiet the three stand, heaving, each breath slower than the last as calm washes over.
“What were those, and where did they come from?” Morion shouts.
“They were the dishonored dead,” Mikha’el tells her. “Those who died with an evil heart.”
“Sent by the Necromancer?”
“Without doubt, My Lady.”
“And how did they get here?” Alastor and Mikha’el eye one another warily, then each look to her. “Am I safe in assuming that their being here is a very bad thing?” she asks, observing the usual signs of worry in Alastor and Mikha’el.
“Do you remember when I told you about the Necromancer in Judeheim, the mutilated bodies your father and I found?” Alastor asks.
“I do.”
“We, Mikha’el, myself and others, believe he was experimenting.”
“What sort of experiments?”
“A way to...” Alastor hesitates.
“Alastor? A way to what?”
“To move between the physical world we inhabit, and the world hereafter. The spirit world.”
Morion stares at Alastor aghast.
“I do not understand,” she says. “How can such a thing even be possible?”
“It should not be, not by any means a man could devise, except that the fiend has clearly found a way. The creature that attacked you in Mikha’el’s town was the first proof of such a thing.”
“If he can cause these dishonored dead to just appear where he wills, why not simply continue sending them? Surely there have been millions of dishonored dead. They would win by attrition eventually.”
“Logic would tell us that, given their apparent withdrawal, the Necromancer either has limited control or, more likely, the very act is incredibly taxing upon him.”
“Which means that if we hurry, we might avoid any more such encounters?”
“We can only hope.”
Morion stares at the broken ground, only now coming into the full understanding of how powerful this Necromancer actually is. To command a single of the undead would be fearful, let alone the small army they just faced. Seeing Morion’s expression, Mikha’el places a hand on her shoulder.
“Take heart, My Lady. We will win.”
Mikha’el then leaps upward, retaking his skyward sentry duty.
“Will we win? Can we?” Morion gently asks Alastor.
“We will, or I shall die trying,” he responds as he mounts up.
Something about this answer both helps and hurts. She mounts too, pursuing Alastor as he follows Mikha’el’s lead out of the dead forest. 
~-~~-~
Miles pass by in the time it takes to draw a breath. The stallions do not tire, they run and run, unyielding, unrelenting over this untraveled land. Mikha’el too glides forever, moving here and there, casting his shadow on the riders. Uneventful hours pass, traveling through wood and field. Late in the day, but not quite near the time of sundown, Alastor comes to a halt. Morion rides up next to him.
“Please do not tell me there are more.”
“There are not.”
“Then is something else amiss?”
“No. I am hungry, as are you and Mikha’el I would think.”
Mikha’el lands.
“Stopping to eat I hope,” he says. “I saw a freshwater brook not a mile from here.”
“Lead the way,” Alastor says with a small bow of his head and wave of his hand.
Mikha’el does, and they come to a stop again at the bank of the aforementioned brook. The water curves in the midst of weeping willows, long grass and yellow flowers, all around is the singing of song birds even at the waning of the day. Alastor and Morion take a portion of their food from their packs before letting the stallions loose to graze freely on their own. Mikha’el lands, receiving his ration from Alastor, then walks apart from them, letting the two earthbound kin be alone.
Alastor sits under a willow, watching as Morion washes her face at the water’s edge. She walks to Alastor, dancing and twirling as she does, enthralled by this little glade.
“This place is quite beautiful, is it not?” she asks, sitting down next to Alastor, trying her hardest not to think of why they are traveling together.
He swivels his head about, seeing what there is to be seen.
“I suppose so.”
Morion laughs in disbelief.
“You cannot honestly say that you find fault in such beauty?”
Alastor looks around again, sadness overcoming his face.
“It is hard to see beauty when I foresee what this world will look like if the Necromancer is not killed.”
“What do you see?” she asks, thinking that she will probably regret having done so.
Alastor shuts his eyes. There in front of him, visions of the burning wasteland, his castle, his home, in cadaverous ruin. The ground opens. Orange light, burning flesh and brimstone. The smell fills his nostrils. The wraith-men come. He can hear them calling his name.
“Alastor!”
He opens his eyes. Morion still waits for her answer.
“Alastor, what do you see?”
“The death of beauty. Of life. Of all good things.”
Alastor’s words slap Morion sober. There is no forgetting. No time for fantasies.
They continue their meager meal, each coping with the visions of their inevitable futures, of what shall happen if failure is allowed. Mikha’el comes walking back, looking as though he too has been struggling with his own inner demons.
“Alastor, My Lady, we should carry on for a bit longer.”
Sullenly, Knight and Queen pack up, continuing the journey. The remainder of the day goes by unchallenged, passing over unremarkable landscapes that make the brook glade they had stopped in an undeniable oasis. When the sun readies to set, the pace slows down while Alastor searches for a suitable place to rest. Finding a rocky outcropping, Alastor brings the first day’s journey to a halt. Mikha’el lands, the two riders jump down from their steeds. The wind is still, the only sound that of crickets. Alastor reclines against a smooth rock, ready to sleep.
“What about the animals?” Morion asks him.
“They will not run away, if that is what you are thinking. They will eat, then sleep, and in the morning be ready and waiting for us.”
Morion sits opposite Alastor, facing him. She leans against a stone the same way Alastor has, trying to find comfort. She soon gives up, laying upon the ground as Mikha’el has already done. Weary from the trek, all of them come into the arms of sleep within moments.
~-~~-~
The next day starts bright and early. During their meal, which is only enough to settle their appetites, a thought comes to Morion.
“Alastor, if the castle and keep were once the center of the Old Kingdom, then there should have been a trade road to and from Halvard, would there not?”
“There was,” Alastor answers. “It was once widely used and very well kept. Over the course of time, alliances wore out, the Old Kingdom fell and the road was destroyed deliberately. In its time, it took only a day and a half at a leisurely pace to make the trip to Halvard. Unfortunately, no such roads remain, so we are forced to travel through the untamed lands.”
~-~~-~
The entire second day passes without violence. They stop once at midday, but none of them speaks much. The sun descends, and again they stop to sleep. The morning of the third day heralds ill omen. It is cold. The clouds gather but there is no rain. Not bird nor beast is seen or heard. Morion wakes groggily. Only Mikha’el is there, sitting, watching over her.
“Where is Alastor?” she asks.
“Exploring. As you can no doubt tell, the weather has changed most dramatically. This worried him.” It is at this moment that Alastor returns, fog clinging to him like the fingers of death. “Did you find anything?” Mikha’el asks him.
“Nothing.”
“That is good, right?” asks Morion hopefully.
“You misunderstand, Morion. I found nothing. Not animal tracks, not a single living thing. It is like all of creation is in hiding, and the world itself weeps.”
A shiver goes down Morion’s spine.
“What does this mean?” she asks them.
“Naught, one would hope,” Mikha’el tells her, while Alastor remains silent.
“Alastor?”
Morion looks at him, the look of a fearful child.
“I am sorry, Your Highness. I cannot say.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
“Both, possibly.”
“Nonetheless,” Mikha’el interjects, “we must go on.”
Alastor and Morion share an uneasy glance before heading to their stallions. Mikha’el takes off to find the way, circling and finally giving them the signal to follow. The going is slow or, at least, feels slow. The fog is as tight as a hangman’s noose. Mikha’el is forced to rise and dip, looking like a fish diving in and out of water as he flies above the fog then back down so that the riders can see him. Finally, as has been threatening all morning, heavy rain begins to fall, the droplets hitting with enough strength to convert the grassy plains into fields of mud. 
The stallions remain unfazed. That is, however, until they slide down a steep hill which had been obscured by the fog and unseen by all. The animals lock their knees, riding down the hill with all courage they have. Alastor’s mind races back to the night with Gawain in the forest, falling into that mysterious moat. All he can think of, hope for, is that there is no violent drop now as there was then. Morion has roughly the same thought, although it is not the violent drop that frights her, but rather what might be at the bottom of the fall. 
Mikha’el now notices that the riders under his charge are missing. He descends; when he does not find the ground, he calls out.
“Alastor! Morion!”
But neither the Knight or the Queen can hear him over the rain and grunts of the horses. Fortuitously, the hill soon levels out, leaving them at the bottom of a narrow mud-walled trench. 
Mikha’el dives through the fog. Fear that he has led his allies off a mountain ledge engulfs him. The fog thins. The ground is rushing up to meet him. He flares his wings wide, trying to right himself for landing, but not quite. He falls hard into the mud, sinking into the rain saturated earth.
Alastor and Morion saw the crash. Riding to their winged friend, they dismount with urgency and, with difficulty, they pull him from what would have surely been his grave.
“It is good that you two are well,” Mikha’el says, hiding his embarrassment, checking himself for injuries. “For a moment, I was afraid I had lead you to your doom.”
“It is good that we all three are well,” Morion adds, voice still carrying her fright of Mikha’el’s fall.
Mikha’el brushes what he can of the mud from him, what he misses the rain washes away.
“I will discover what lay ahead,” Mikha’el announces just as he takes to the air again.
Alastor and Morion get back on their horses, riding slowly side by side, waiting for Mikha’el’s report.
“How much longer do you expect it will take to get back home?” Morion asks Alastor.
“I am sorry. I cannot judge how far we have gone today, and that makes it difficult to say how much more we need to go.”
Mikha’el glides down, circling over their heads.
“The path is long and narrow, but level and without any further pitfall. I will wait at its end for you.”
The riders whip at the reins, speeding through the rain and the mist; Mikha’el barely visible in the distance as he flies ahead. The farther they ride down the trench, the more the fog starts to dissipate, the rain likewise lessening to a drizzle. The end of the trench is now in sight, as is a much more somber Mikha’el, standing at the foot of the hill that leads back up.
“You do not look too well,” Alastor observes as he and Morion stop before the winged one.
“I know now what this trench is, Alastor.”
Alastor stands in his saddle, now able to see and properly gauge the trench. It was, before the rain, freshly loosened earth. Ripped apart.
“No...”
“It was an opening for the dead soldiers. It is nothing but a massive, open grave.”
“That would mean thousands of them came from here. What would he need with such numbers...” Alastor’s voice fades as he finds Mikha’el’s face grow grimmer.
“Once you exit this grave, you will wonder no more, Son of Eoin.”
Mikha’el leaps up, flying out while Alastor and Morion ride up the earthen ramp. As they go, a peculiar scent coils into their nostrils, hanging palpably amid the moisture still in the air. The farther from the grave they exit, the heavier and heavier the scent becomes.
“That smell is putrid. What is it? The undead?” the Queen asks her Knight.
Alastor knows it all too well. He smelled it in Judeheim, and in his dream.
“You do not want to know, Your Highness.”
At last they come again onto proper ground, right to the threshold of a thicket of lumber trees. With the fog now gone completely, they can clearly see columns of smoke rising up into the sky, coming from just beyond the trees. Mikha’el lands in a thick, barren tree, looking down at Morion.
“My Lady, you will not like what is to be seen, but see it you must, I am afraid.”
Morion becomes as dismally faced as her two companions. Their words leave no doubt that something horrible has occurred. Not concerned with her own well being, she whips on the reins, sending the stallion headlong through the trees, struck by a sense of familiarity while she does. It takes only strides to pass through the trees, and when she does, it is much worse than she ever expected. Nothing, not warnings or dire words could have readied her for this: the small city; with the tavern-inn at the center, the place she met the bards and Alastor; lays in complete desolation, the buildings burnt to the ground leaving nothing but empty husks. 
Morion leaps down from horseback, walking the blackened streets, the putrid smell growing stronger and stronger. Alastor dismounts also, leaving the animals to Mikha’el’s care. The Knight follows close behind Morion as she discovers the city’s main street. Looking west, she spies the way she first came into the city. She turns her head to the east end of the street, and immediately drops to her knees, jaw agape in turmoil and unbelievable sadness. 
At the intersection in the center of the city, there stands a high mound, the bodies of every citizen piled, previously set ablaze and now a smoldering heap. Men and women, slaughtered without mercy. Morion cries uncontrollably, wailing with unyielding lament. 
She can hear Alastor walking up behind her.
“Why would he do this!? What did these people do!? They did not know who I was. I was not even here through the night!”
“They did nothing. This was an act of pure malicious spite. The Necromancer did this to hurt you. That is all.”
“He had already hurt me! He murdered my father, he murdered the Knight... what possible reason could he have to cause all this pain?”
Alastor looks upon the pyre. The charred corpses indistinguishable from one another.
“The Necromancer serves one that only wants to cause hurt and pain. A force that will never have its appetite for misery satiated. To the Necromancer, this is an homage to He Whom Is Served. It is a prayer. It is a tithe. Simply put, Morion... it is his form of worship.”
Morion stops crying, too tired to go on.
“How do we stop such a creature? How can something that thrives on misery be defeated?”
“By killing his agents first.”
Morion looks up to the heavens in revelation.
“Killing the Necromancer... this will hinder the being he worships?”
Morion stands, staring into Alastor’s eyes, craving his answer.
“It should do more than just hinder him, Your Highness.”
Morion’s eyes darken, a look Alastor is quite familiar with.
“Alastor, promise me that no more will suffer this fate.”
He looks past her to the pyre, then back.
“I promise that I shall try.”
Mikha’el comes out from behind the ruins, doing his best to avoid looking at the dead out of respect for the fallen.
“Alastor, My Lady, let us leave this place. Our adversary awaits.”
Without another word they retake their saddles, continuing westward, neither of them looking back; the sight far too much to take in again. Morion now has her bounds. To the west of the destroyed city is a field, then the forest she slept in, the trade roads, Edna’s home and, then, Halvard.
Morion’s eyes open wide with the shock of realization. Edna! How could she have forgotten her? Her father’s advisor, and the woman that practically raised her. At that moment, Morion knew she would never forgive herself if any ill befell on Edna. She rides closer to Alastor.
“I know the way from here. Before we enter Halvard proper, there is someone I must check on.”
“Who?”
“My father’s advisor, Edna. She lived just outside the kingdom.”
Alastor does not protest, but he does think it over a moment.
“If you want.”
After that, they speak no more. With Mikha’el above them, they continue on, over the plain and into the forest where Mikha’el is forced to fly just under the canopy of leaves in order to keep eyes on the riders.
The forest is dead quiet.
The tramping of hooves.
The beat of Mikha’el’s wings.
The slow, steady breathing of the stallions.
This is all to be heard.
The path narrows and becomes too small, the hanging leaves too dense. Knight and Queen are forced to slow and dismount, Mikha’el to land, and all to walk. They are on one of the old trade roads that serpentines throughout the forest and heads in multiple directions, some roads still in use, others decayed, destroyed or gone completely. 
Morion’s heart pounds in her chest with each foot forward. In her mind she knows that Alastor’s feud with the Necromancer goes back further than hers and her father’s involvement, but in her heart a darkness grows. She wants to be the one to end his life, to take from him what he has taken from so many others. 
Vengeance shall be hers, she swears.
~-~~-~
The journey becomes sluggish and obstinate, the trees have spontaneously grown thicker in the time since Morion was here last.
“Alastor, have you even known trees and plants to suddenly grow wild?” she asks.
“I cannot say that I have.”
“Perhaps nature itself is reacting to the Necromancer’s presence,” muses Mikha’el.
His logic is not argued against. The evil of the Necromancer far exceeds his shadow, making even the earth around him twist and distort into shades of its true form. After an hour of travel, Morion recognizes the lay of the land again, sprinting ahead of the others, leaving her animal to Alastor. He and Mikha’el share an uneasy glance before running after the Queen. 
Just beyond the trees, Morion spots that familiar little cottage.
“Edna!” she shouts as she nears it.
Desperation for a friendly face, longing for the closest person she has to family left, spurs her on making her fleet of foot, much to Alastor’s dismay that is, he being unable to match her speed. He does not shout after her, though, suspecting that there might be unkind ears listening from within the all too unnatural nature surrounding them. In another moment, she is out of sight completely.
~-~~-~
Morion bursts through the front door of Edna’s home, finding nothing but the obvious signs of violence. Tables, chairs and bookcases are all thrown down or flipped over; on the floor blood has been splattered, here and there piles of gore and ash. Upon everything, gouges from sword swings and other such damages. There is not, however, any bodies and, most despairing for the Queen, no sign of Edna whatsoever.
“Edna!” she cries, fearful of her whereabouts.
“You shall not find that old crone here,” a voice whispers from the cottage doorway.
Morion rotates around slowly, deliberately. The voice, sadly, is a familiar one.
“Hector,” seethes Morion.
“My lovely cousin. Welcome home. It is so good to see you again.”
Morion moves to withdraw her blade, but at that moment the entire front of the cottage splinters, and in bursts yet more creatures, but not as grotesque as the others, who were corpses again given animation. No, these look entirely like men, and they wear the armor of Halvard. They deftly capture Morion, who only manages to yell a curse at the traitors before being gagged. The soldiers stop before Hector for their orders.
“Take her to the throne room. Our Master waits there for our guests.”
~-~~-~
Alastor hears the sound of the cottage being torn open and the shouted curse of the Queen. He pushes forward with all strength. Mikha’el hears too, abandoning the horses to give chase. Upon nearing the end of the road, the ground heaves powerfully, and up surges massive trees, thick and gnarled, barring the way out. Vines take life, flying overhead, forming a thick net so as to prevent Mikha’el from escaping. They stand side by side astonished at the sight.
“We must turn back, Alastor, and I can fly us over the forest.”
Alastor nods and the two begin retreat, only to face the eruption of a second tree-wall, effectively trapping them completely. Mikha’el roars, his wings flaring, his hands claw like.
“How can he have become so powerful! To bend nature itself to his demented will? How, Alastor?”
Alastor has no reply. He unsheathes his sword, swinging it once and cutting three trees clean through. Unlike normal trees, these cut ones shrivel and become dust. More try to take their place, but Alastor and Mikha’el do not tarry, leaping through the breach while it is still open. 
The ruined cottage stands hushed, hollow and dead. Mikha’el scours the house whilst Alastor surveys the surroundings. 
“Nothing,” Mikha’el says, returning to Alastor, “except the aftermath of battle, but whatever happened here was days ago.”
Alastor motions for Mikha’el to look at the ground, seeing there deeply cut tracks in the half moist ground.
“It was a trap. They took her to Halvard on foot, and they want me to follow.”
“Then you shall not oblige. I will fly you in.”
“No. I will go alone, do what he expects and may very well desire. You must stay out of sight, but close enough to watch me.”
“No, Alastor! I - ”
“You are Morion’s only means of escape, Mikha’el, and I will not tire you with combat nor as having me a burden.”
Mikha’el does not think of arguing at this, gripping Alastor’s shoulders.
“I will be watching, Son of Eoin.”
“Everything else in this world is of no importance when weighed against Morion. She is your absolute priority, understand?”
“I always have.”
Mikha’el takes to the air, soon gone from sight. 
Now alone, Alastor sets his focus to Halvard. Can one ever actually prepare to face their fate? If it was something that could be trained for, then it would not be something to be conquered, would it? One would simply be going through the motions, learning nothing, gaining even less. Thus, Fate has to be insurmountable, soul crushing, absurdly impossible and, above all, unexpected. 
One must believe that they are absolutely abhorred by Fate. 
Despised wholly. 
Fate must want only the complete destruction of its victim. 
Only then does it carry meaning in being triumphed over. 
With all visible hope exhausted, Alastor does the only thing available to him, the one single act that might carry him through the trial ahead: he prays.
“God of my father, whoever you are, you are the one that influenced him upon his path, and are thus the one responsible for that path that I to this day now follow in his stead. I will not pretend to fathom whatever grand scheme you have concocted for myself, all I ask is for the strength of will and clarity of mind to do what is needed before I fall. Seeing as my failure will hurt you, and those that serve you, far more than it will hurt me, I doubt that my request is unreasonable.”
Unable to find any more words, Alastor ends his prayer, sprinting on toward Halvard, the shadows of the future, and echoes of the past apparently becoming united in a singular goal.

Chapter Eleven
Fallen
Return to Table of Contents

At last, Morion passes, or is dragged rather, through the city gate. It has barely been a week since she last saw her home but, to her, it has felt like years. 
Though bound and gagged, she is not blind. 
The streets are lined with the Halvard soldiers, a mix of breeds; some still fully human, others the strange hybrid of man and creature that captured her. The suspicions of Alastor and Mikha’el having been, distressingly, proven true; the army did in fact betray Gawain and the entire kingdom. Queen Morion can also see the citizens peering out of their windows, eyes fearful. Some catch her gaze, their faces going white as they see her in this state. Men, who stand boldly in their front windows and doorways, nod ever-so-slightly to her as she passes, letting her know that their allegiance still is and always will be with the Daughter of Gawain. Wives cry silently beside their husbands as they watch their favorite daughter treated as an animal being taken to slaughter.
The soldiers threaten the people as they pass their homes, but the true of heart remain rooted in place. They will not abandon Morion. 
Even in the position she is in, these small things, the gestures and the looks, give Morion hope. She knows that Alastor will come, and they two shall rally the militia to take back the kingdom. She pushes aside the frightened little girl inside, resolving to find the courage and determination of her father’s blood.
The closer they come to the castle, the heavier the guard around it is, almost as though mustering for war. The armored soldiers curse and mock and spit on Morion as she crosses their path. Though the actions are obviously intended to hurt, she passively ignores them, showing no emotion at all. Coming into the castle’s entrance hall, a shiver runs down her spine. The castle feels different, foreign. A second peculiar sensation startles her. At first she thought it was her own heartbeat, but that is not the case; the pendant, hidden from prying eyes, began to throb the moment she was brought into the castle, reacting to that same change in the castle air that she felt. 
The armor shod boots of her captors fall balefully in the empty hall, devoid of life this once bustling place has become. Her mind wanders to a different time, years ago. A birthday festival for her father, in which the entire kingdom celebrated, coming and going through the castle just as if it was a familial home for all. That was the very same year that she gave her father a shield as a present. The very same shield that saved his life and was destroyed for it in Judeheim. 
An epiphany hits her. 
The people of Judeheim surely would have learned of Halvard’s plight by now. Her hope now grows by leaps and bounds as the idea of defeating the Necromancer and his army of traitors becomes all the more feasible, nay, likely. 
They come at last to the entrance to the throne room. Hector, with the carriage of a man victorious, throws the doors wide open.
“Set her before Our Lord,” he orders the soldiers.
They comply, throwing her hard on the stone floor. There, on the throne seat, upon her father’s throne, upon her throne, sits the Necromancer, flipping wistfully through a large book with a red cover. 
The Necromancer raises his eyes up to what lays before him. He does not smile, but remains morose and solemn. Almost annoyed with something. Or is that disappointment Morion is reading on his face? His eyes dart to Hector.
“Leave,” Hector orders the soldiers coldly, who all comply with a pound on their armor and a bow. 
Hector throws Morion’s sword on the ground between her and the Necromancer. He simply reverts his gaze back to the book he holds.
“Unbind her,” the Necromancer orders Hector.
Both the Queen and her cousin look to the Necromancer in surprise.
“But, Lord...” Hector begins in protest.
“Would you like to be flayed, my little false king?”
Hector says no more, quickly removing the ropes that bind Morion. She stands, removing the gag but saying nothing and remaining motionless. She looks to Hector for a moment then back to the usurper sitting in her place.
“It must be difficult,” the Necromancer addresses her, “to stand there smoldering with rage, your blade just in front of you, your enemy so very close and very much unarmed.”
“Unarmed maybe, but far from helpless,” she responds. “You would not allow this unless you had some leverage that would prevent me from acting.”
“Indeed,” the Necromancer declares as he looks back to her, his face conveying that her deduction has impressed him. “You are not nearly as foolish as I have been led to believe, Your Highness. I will confess that had I allowed you to take your weapon, you would have undoubtedly been able to kill your cousin without challenge. And, in a fair fight, might have been able to kill even me... except...”
“You would never fight fair.”
“Precisely.”
The Necromancer snaps his fingers, and from the shadows behind a column, two figures appear: Edna, worn and weary, and the bard-creature, Amy, holding a sword to Edna’s throat.
“Edna!” Morion cries.
“Had you moved to retrieve your weapon,” the Necromancer continues, “she would have been killed. Not something you would have been able to live with, I wager.”
Amy pushes Edna down on to her knees, though it appears to disturb her to do so. Edna stares at Morion with strong and steady eyes, not caring about anything else.
“You would be right,” Morion tells him. “Now, you seem to have gone to great lengths to keep me from acting, and you have not killed me, so I in turn would wager that you need me alive.”
The Necromancer grins, again impressed.
“Far wiser than even I thought. I see why so much was placed upon you. Yes, Your Highness, I do need you alive. Alastor will be arriving soon enough. His heart is, as always, in the wrong place. When not caught up in his pathetic little bout of depression and self-loathing, he fancies himself a hero of sorts. I shall use this against him. Not the most grandiose of machinations but effective nonetheless, I think you will have to agree.”
“Holding Edna so that you can use me to get whatever you want from Alastor?”
“It sounds so uncouth when said like that, but that would be an accurate description of this little scheme, I suppose.”
“Can you at least let me kill Hector? I came all this way, after all,” Morion replies sardonically.
The Necromancer laughs softly. Darkly. Respect for the woman standing before him begins to brew.
“Have I found in this woman a kindred heart? I thought such a thing would be impossible. Sadly, I must tell you that you may not. As much as I hate to admit this, the fool does have his uses. Take solace, Your Highness, in the fact that, had I not needed him, I would gladly give you the thing you ask for. It would be a beautiful spectacle to watch, I think.”
Hector’s face grows red with humiliation and anger. Morion, though finding these words curious, remains cold and collected. The way in which the Necromancer calls her ‘Your Highness’ is uncomfortably familiar. A soldier barges in.
“What is it?” Hector barks.
“He has come, My Lords. He nears the city gate now.”
A joyous sneer crosses the Necromancer’s face.
“Well then, by all means show him in,” the cloaked one says. “Pull the army to the rear of the castle, except for that one special little company I formed. They know already their duty.”
The soldier salutes his master and leaves. The Necromancer closes the book, setting it between the inside of the throne seat and his left leg. Morion and Edna both make a mental note of this.
“Now, Your Highness,” the Necromancer continues his conversation with the Queen, “do try and play along. I would so much hate taking yet another loved one from you.”
The Necromancer’s smile becomes sarcastic, like a adult who humors a child with fanciful tales and swears to their truth. Morion retains her cold removal. She sees herself becoming, in her mind, more like Alastor. To cut out one’s own heart from the realities of a darkened life was the only way to combat the Necromancer’s vile ways.
~-~~-~
Running along the main road, Alastor soon catches sight of Halvard’s entrance, the same gate he more than a year ago met Gawain at, and at journey’s end, had refused to pass through. 
Spying guards at the gate, he slows down to a walk. The guards stand before the open entrance with an manner of ease, no apparent reason to be otherwise, this day being not but another mediocrity amidst a sea of boredom for those whose duty it is to protect the city. 
Alastor breathes heavy, recovering from his sprint, taking each step now knowing that each one brings him closer to a fated confrontation with an outcome stretching far beyond what his eyes can yet see. Coming before the gate, he comes into view of the guards, who step out to meet him, hands outstretched in that universal gesture of restricting travelers.
“Halt!” their captain commands.
Alastor stops before the captain, carefully examining the situation with as little movement of his eyes and head as possible. They number ten total, counting the captain. 
Alastor cannot help but smirk.
“What is so funny?” the captain demands of Alastor.
“You stand here, pretending to be guards. I find it amusing.”
“You see beyond the mask, Knight,” the captain says with a laugh. “Master expected no less. We shall most enjoy killing you, then every other foul, pitiful creature in this excuse for a kingdom.”
“Petty little sacrifices are all you are. No more. Enjoy oblivion.”
Alastor takes his blade, cutting the captain down without mercy. The other soldiers, seeing their captain so easily dispatched, scatter and flee into the city. Alastor takes a step toward entering the city, but the gates violently shut in his face. The sound of the crossbeams being slid into place is heard, barring the gates from the inside. Alastor grunts in displeasure, pushing on the gate, judging the location of the crossbeams. He smiles, then swiftly strikes the door down the center, kicking the gates open and looking upon Halvard’s vacant streets. 
The Knight walks cautiously, keen eyes darting in all directions, looking for where the inevitable ambush might be. The windows of the houses and businesses are closed against Alastor, making it seem that the city itself is cowering from him. 
Alastor is reminded of the last time he had seen a city shut up around him, and the night that followed. Fate’s sense of humor is not appreciated, he thinks to himself. 
The fog from earlier rolls back in, followed by that heavy rain. Is the Ice Fairy around, trying to help? Perhaps signal him? Or is it just bad weather? Either way, Alastor strengthens his grip on his sword. The pounding rain drowns out all other sound, including his boots upon the wet stone-paved street.
The soldiers leap out of their secret places, coming out from between buildings and alleyways. One leaps down from a rooftop, but Alastor thrusts up his sword, impaling the foe. With enemy still on blade, the Knight revolves around to strike an attacker, cutting him across the chest, ripping apart his armor, then sending the impaled soldier into his attacking comrades.
Three attempt to charge the Knight, but they do not attack in unison. The Knight easily deflects using his bracers and sword, knocking the three off balance. In a single swing, Alastor kills them.
The soldiers that had been knocked to the ground by the impaled soldier rise up, but they number only two. They rush the Knight, but they hasten to their doom. Alastor cuts them down, one than the other, neither even remotely standing a chance.
The street is empty, the final soldiers nowhere to be seen. Alastor continues on to the castle. At its entrance, the Knight spots a single soldier standing guard, but this one is no mere foot soldier - he is a Berserker, a man-giant of massive stature, wielding a blade that dwarfs Alastor’s own.
“You are the Black Knight?” asks the Berserker gruffly, surprised.
Alastor does not speak. He just stands before the Berserker, sword in hand, but lowered. The Berserker becomes agitated.
“No armor and no tongue. You are not he. Taste my steel and die, imposter.”
The Berserker flourishes his imposing weapon, swinging it down on Alastor. Alastor raises his left arm, catching the Berserker blade on his forearm, a metallic clang singing out. The eyes of the Berserker open wide.
“You are him. It was an honor. Remember me, sir.”
Alastor pushes the weapon of his foe away, then brings his own blade to the Berserker’s neck. The Knight steps over the body of the Berserker and pushes open the doors to Halvard’s castle.
The castle is dark and cold, lit only once in a while by lamps burning that familiar noxious substance that was first discovered in Judeheim. All of the paintings and tapestries have been either desecrated or destroyed. The stones have been stained red with blood, unknown of origin. The corridors that branch off into the other wings from the entrance hall into the rest of the castle are pitch black. 
No sound of life. 
The doors to the throne room are sealed tightly. Without missing a step, Alastor slashes down the center of the doors, cutting through the crossbeam, then kicks them into the throne room. The only light in the throne room is that which streams in from the windows behind the throne itself.
“Where I go, even gods fear to tread.”
With those words, he walks in.
“Who dares burst into my throne with such impudence?” a voice cries out.
Alastor’s eyes finally adjust to the dim light, allowing him to see the figure which sits on the throne seat, but it is pointless. Two lamps on each side of the room ignite, exploding to life. 
Hector is on the throne.
 Morion, bound about the wrists, is on her knees before the throne, facing Alastor. To her left, Amy still holds Edna hostage. Hector steps down from the ruling seat, perplexed, unsure what to make of Alastor.
“What is this?” Hector questions. “Some pathetic hero hired by my cousin to best me?”
Alastor says nothing. Morion opens her mouth to speak, but another voice does it for her.
“That, my little false king, is the son of the Black Knight of legend,” the Necromancer says as he steps out from the shadows behind the throne.
Hector looks to his master with a raised brow.
“The son of the one you killed? I expected more given his reputation. From what I understand, the Son of Eoin has spilled enough blood to make even the Butcher of Theria blush with envy,” Hector reflects with an evil chuckle, directed solely at Alastor. “This one looks as though he would be more at home in the south raising pigs.”
Alastor’s face is unchanged by these childish attempts at insulting him. Morion’s eyes do not stray from the Knight. The Necromancer cannot help but notice Alastor’s lack of emotion.
“Only a fool would not fear this one,” the Necromancer tells Hector. “Which is probably why you are so quick to wag your tongue. Alastor here is far more than he seems. He is everything that the Butcher of Theria dreamed of never being, and twice as much as the Butcher’s son ever hoped to be.” The Necromancer, now standing to the right of the throne, laughs to himself, finding contained in his statement some personal joke. Even from under his raised hood, his wide smile could not be more visible. “Alastor, it is quite rude to go breaking through doors when you could have just as easily knocked. Subtlety, I suppose, was never your strong point, was it?” A dark grin, venomous and toxic, spreads further on his face. “Why, you would kill the love of your life if she crossed you, is that not so?”
Alastor’s knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on his weapon, his eyes somehow manage to grow even darker. He bares his teeth momentarily like a wolf, but still he does not speak. The Necromancer and Alastor stare into one another’s eyes, neither wavering. The Necromancer suddenly closes his eyes, sneering in disgust.
“Alastor, Alastor, Alastor... I am exceedingly disappointed in you. You are, for lack of a better phrase, the Black Knight and yet you come here to me clad not in that glorious armor that men would sell their souls to attain, but as yet another pathetic mortal. I am hurt most deeply. My heart, it is bleeding. Why, I would weep utterly if I was not so surrounded by such fine people and my fear of embarrassment was not so strong. I would weep indeed until every last tear was shed. But... you know all about that, do you not?”
Everyone in the room looks on these two in quiet fascination, married with a sensation of absolute fear of expecting battle to break about between them at any moment. Alastor looks Amy in the eyes, then Edna, and finally Morion.
“Are you injured, Morion?” Alastor asks of the Queen, ignoring the others completely.
She shakes her head.
“Take her back if that is what you want,” says the Necromancer with an tinge of impatience.
Alastor does so, cutting her bindings as she stands to meet him.
“Get behind me,” he whispers.
“So, noble Knight,” the Necromancer says slowly, no longer in the mood for his mock drama. “Why is it that you have come so ill prepared?”
Grimly, Alastor answers.
“You know as well as I do.”
The Necromancer’s demeanor changes completely. Gone is the playful sarcasm. He becomes deathly serious.
“That I do... my dear brother.”
The words at first are not heard, but then the shock washes over the True Queen and the False King. Edna hangs her head with a crestfallen sigh. Amy is unchanged. The Necromancer, seeing Morion’s and his servant’s expressions, reverts to his hideously soulless smile.
“A detail he left out of his discussions with you I take it, Your Highness?”
Morion looks to Alastor, expecting some rebuttal, to deny this accusation. Alastor returns her gaze, but his mouth does not open. His eyes tell her everything. 
For once in his life, the Necromancer speaks the unmolested truth. 
Alastor unexpectedly erupts with violence, leaping at his brother, attempting to strike him down. The Necromancer unsheathes a sword hidden in his cloak, blocking the attack. Hector retreats from the throne, not wanting to get caught in their fight. Edna watches, spying that the red book has fallen to the floor.
Alastor and his brother brawl swiftly, their duel appearing almost dance-like, both using a similar technique. But, as abruptly as it began, it ends. As Alastor moves back to guard Morion, the Necromancer laughs.
“What was that, brother? A test of some sort?”
Alastor smirks.
“You are the one sweating.”
Infuriated, the Necromancer leaps at Alastor with a roar. Alastor catches his brother from mid-air and throws him, crashing through the northern wall and into the gardens; the same gardens where Gawain had been murdered, though now devoid of life, all the once beautiful plants and flowers brown and shriveled. Alastor dashes out and the clash between the two brothers continues. Morion rushes out to watch, forgetting her hatred for Hector, the betrayal of Amy and her worry for Edna. 
Knight and Necromancer fight savagely, unaware of everything not in their self-contained world. Their actions and movement leave little doubt as to the fact that neither man is entirely human. Sparks fly each time their blades meet; when one moves out of distance, the other hurls bricks and stone as though they were mere pebbles, only to have them cut or swat away with minimal effort. Neither lands a blow on the other, which causes the fight to perpetually become faster and increasingly more frenzied. A voice cries out, echoing in the garden. Alastor, encountering the source, is made to freeze in his place by what he sees. The Necromancer does the same.
“Knight!” Hector shouts, holding Morion with a knife to her throat. “If you do not want to see her neck become a fountain, you will stop now!” Hector demands.
Alastor places his focus back on his brother.
“Why are you doing this Lucius?” he asks in a whisper.
Lucius smirks as he walks by Alastor toward Hector.
“Come now, little brother. Do not be so dreadfully naive. I get enough of that from the simpletons I control.”
Alastor stretches his sword arm out, the tip of the blade nearly touching Lucius’ back. Lucius stops, then bares his neck to Alastor’s sword.
“What are you planning?” Alastor reiterates.
Rather than speak, Lucius runs a finger along the sword edge. As the blood runs on the metal, it rapidly corrodes, then shatters, the shards falling apart in a cloud of rust when they hit the ground. Alastor is visibly astounded. Lucius watches his brother’s reaction with dark fascination before gesturing frivolously as one unimpressed, continuing onward to Hector, explaining as he does so.
“Without father’s armor, you are nothing. Far too weak to save anything or anyone... least of all one woman. Or two. Or three. Aside from killing, failing the women in your life appears to be what you are best at.” Turning to Morion, he smiles at her, in a faux-handsome way, whispering to her, “If you know what is good for you, Your Highness, you would be most wise in abandoning Alastor as soon as you have the opportunity.”
“Why is that?” she asks uneasily.
“Well, for one, Alastor in small doses will bring no harm, but any extended exposure to him can be lethal,” the Necromancer answers in the tone of a pun, glancing at the Knight. “Right, brother?”
Alastor’s heart grows colder than normal. He lowers his eyes, throwing down the remains of his ruined sword. Raising his eyes back up, something catches his attention. Amy and Edna are both watching him strangely. Intently. One might even see cunning. A plan. He again hangs his head, his shoulders go slack. He has accepted defeat.
“Very well. I yield. Let her go, and you will have me without resistance.”
Lucius and Morion watch Alastor with a sense of intrigue, like ones expecting some surprise twist to an already enthralling performance. But Hector scoffs Alastor’s offer like the simpleton he is.
“You are in no position to negotiate, fool. In case you are blind, you are weaponless and alone.”
“Am I?”
What ensues next happens faster than any of them could comprehend. Mikha’el swoops down, landing beside Alastor with sword drawn. The true shock, however, comes not from him. In that same instant, Amy comes up behind Hector and throws an arm around his neck. Morion escapes her cousin’s clutches, quickly moving to Mikha’el and Alastor. 
Twirling back to face Lucius and Hector, it is Morion whom receives the biggest shock of all: Edna holds a sword to the Necromancer’s throat, but Edna has changed. No longer the old woman with white hair, she has become a dark haired beauty with pale skin, her sword a blade of perfectly clear ice. 
The Necromancer stares at her with burning eyes.
“Morrigan!” he shouts. “And here I thought I was deceitful,” he hisses through his teeth, fearful of moving. 
Clearly, he had not expected her.
Morrigan catches Morion’s eyes, a cascade of guilt flows in her. She smiles at the young Queen, wishing she could explain herself then and there.
“Mikha’el, take Morion away and do not stop for anything,” Alastor orders.
Mikha’el bares his teeth at Lucius and Hector, but he knows the priority. He takes up Morion with his free arm and flies off with all haste before the Queen can protest. Once they are out of sight, Lucius begins to laugh maniacally.
“What is so amusing, Lucius?” Morrigan demands.
“This whole show has been quite impressive,” Lucius says, suppressing his fit of laughter, “but for all my dear brother’s planning and foresight, he forgot one dreadfully simple principle.”
“Which is?” Alastor asks uneasily.
“Why, brother, you forgot how to count.”
From one of the windows, a figure leaps out - a Blader, an expert in short sword use, stealth and, above all, assassination. He falls, plunging his swords into Alastor’s back. Alastor falls to his knees as the Blader pulls his blades from him. Before either Amy or Morrigan can react, the Blader thrusts his weapons into the Knight’s back again. Alastor tries to cry out, but no sound comes, only blood in disgusting spurts.
Amy tosses Hector aside, bounds to Alastor, aided by her wings, and strikes down the Blader with a single fatal blow. She drops her weapon, tending to the fallen Knight. Morrigan backs away from Lucius, sword tip still pointed at him. In her free hand, she holds the red book. The Necromancer sneers at the sight of it.
“I do believe this belongs to him, Lucius,” she tells him.
“It will not be of use to a dead man. Besides, I got what I needed from it.”
“The look on your face says otherwise, fiend.”
The Necromancer merely grins.
Morrigan looks down at Alastor, he bleeding, gasping for air.
“Get him out of here,” the Fairy whispers to Amy.
Amy nods, picking up Alastor in her arms with a strength belied by her light frame. With a final glance of hatred at her former master, Amy takes flight. Morrigan and Lucius stare each other down.
“Never again will I underestimate you, Fairy,” the Necromancer says to her contemptuously.
“Hollow words from a soulless man. Nothing more.”
“No more soulless than Alastor was, Morrigan.”
Morrigan sneers, but says no more, vanishing into mist. Hector’s face becomes red with anger as he stands up from the corner he was cowering in.
“How could you let them get away!? You could have stopped them! I should kill you!”
Lucius pivots, putting his sword to Hector’s throat.
“Threaten me again. I would very much like a reason to peel the flesh from your bones.”
“But we needed him!”
The Necromancer turns his head away, looking to where Alastor had fallen.
“It was not the man we needed, false king.”
Hector follows Lucius’ gaze to see what he refers to: a pool of Alastor’s blood.
~-~~-~
Amy flies fast and hard, but eventually she struggles under Alastor’s weight, having not prepared herself for the burden. She looks behind and, when the city is no longer visible, lands in a lightly wooded area. Mikha’el and the Queen saw their escape, within moments convening with Amy and Alastor. Amy has already begun checking on Alastor’s wounds when Morion sees them.
“What happened!?” she demands of Amy.
“An assassin. We were too slow to react,” Amy says, voice full of sadness and guilt.
Morrigan then runs out from the trees, falling to Alastor’s side, she too examining him. Even with her concern for Alastor, Morion cannot help but stare at the dark haired woman. Alastor’s eyes flutter as he fights to stay conscious. Amy holds him, stroking his face delicately.
“Alastor, look at me. You need to stay awake.”
Alastor grits his teeth, building the strength to speak.
“Lucius... Cain... unbind... ”
With that, he falls out of all awareness. Morrigan stares agape as though dealt a terrible wound.
“What does that mean?” asks Morion. “Who is Cain?”
“It is a matter to be discussed later,” Mikha’el states firmly. “Getting Alastor where we can help him is now our priority.”
Morrigan rips portions of her silken dress, fashioning bandages from them, applying them to Alastor as she speaks.
“Mikha’el, you will take Alastor back to the keep. Amy will take Morion. I will do what I can to speed you along the way.”
No one disputes her instruction. No one except Morion.
“Amy has shown she can carry Alastor. I would rather go with Mikha’el.”
Morrigan looks to Amy, but Amy is still fixed on Alastor.
“As you wish,” Morrigan says with some hesitation.
Amy again cradles Alastor, with care and now proper preparation, soon starting the flight to the keep.
The Queen stares down the Fairy.
“You have much to explain, Fairy. For too long and by too many loved ones have I been deceived. No longer.”
Morrigan has no words, just eyes full of remorse and shame. She nods to the Queen. Mikha’el picks up Morion and follows after Amy. The Ice Fairy is left alone. She looks at the red book with a sense of relief, then vanishes.
~-~~-~
Amy and Mikha’el glide on unnatural currents, the work of Morrigan. The world below speeds by at a blinding rate. Trees and grass, mountain and stream blur together, indistinguishable.
Amy glimpses down to the man in her arms, Alastor, growing ever more lifeless and pale with each beat of her wings.
“I am sorry, my Knight,” she whispers.
~-~~-~
Morion, from within Mikha’el’s steady hold, keeps keen watch on Amy as she carries Alastor.
“She tried to kill us, now she is helping us?” she asks Mikha’el.
“Not quite, My Lady. She tried to kill Alastor and he alone. When they attacked, he was the one that she focused upon.”
“Yet now she fawns over him.”
“She was working in tandem with the dark haired one to free you, My Lady. Perhaps she has embraced our cause and now feels guilt over her previous actions.”
“No, her eyes are not the eyes of guilt. Not over this at any rate.”
“My Lady, the dark haired one. Is she who I think she is?”
“She is.”
“Really? But you spoke to her as if you knew her.”
“I do. Or rather did.”
“My Lady?”
“She can change form, it would seem. She had been an old woman by the name of Edna, my father’s oracle and adviser. Not to mention the woman who effectively raised me.”
“Raised by the Ice Fairy? My Lady, I lack the words to articulate a proper response to this information,” says Mikha’el, astounded.
“As do I,” replies the Queen, not astounded.
They both become lost in thought, flying on in silence. Leagues pass by. A journey that took some days on the fastest horses takes only an hour, for they soon can see the black tower rising, getting closer and closer. Mikha’el flies beside Amy.
“There is a balcony on the western side,” Mikha’el begins to explain. “That is - ”
“Alastor’s bedroom, I know,” Amy interrupts.
Morion and Mikha’el are both perturbed by this. Landing on the balcony, Amy walks through the still open doors, then quickly lays the Knight down upon his bed. Mikha’el sets down Morion on the balcony and immediately moves to Alastor, checking his wounds. Alastor now begins thrashing his arms about, gasping for air, but his eyes do not open. Mikha’el is forced to hold him down.
“Cain!” Alastor calls out before calming down. His body twitches, limbs reacting to some dark nightmare.
“Morion,” Mikha’el calls with urgency, “go to the infirmary, bring bandages and salve.” Morion is slow in following instruction, the sight of the bloodied Alastor holding her mind prisoner. “My Lady! Bandages and salve!” Mikha’el repeats in a shout. Morion comes back to life, quickly following his command, though reluctant to leave. Mikha’el then addresses Amy. “You, go fetch some water. There is a - ”
“Hot spring under the castle,” Amy interrupts, again.
Mikha’el squints his eyes in suspicion.
“How do you know that?”
“A story for a later time,” Amy says as she leaves from the balcony.
Alone with Alastor, Mikha’el tries to revive him.
“Alastor, come back. What about Cain?”
Alastor does not respond. Mikha’el places his hand on Alastor’s shoulder, but a sudden flash in his mind causes him to recoil it. A silent fear, a dark thought, but before Mikha’el can fully attack this oddity, Morrigan appears in the room, Amy flies in carrying a basin and Morion returns with the supplies. Mikha’el takes the steaming basin of water from Amy, pulling a handful of dry plants from the pouch on his hip, he crushes them in his hands then stirs the powder into the water. As the ingredients react, an evanescent mist floats just within the basin. Mikha’el blows the mist upon Alastor, calming the Knight as he breathes it. Then taking the bandages and salves from Morion, he eyes the three women harshly.
“Go up to the Cloud Hall. I will come to you when I am done.”
Morrigan is the first to leave, then Amy and then, against her simpler desires, Morion, closing the door as she leaves.
~-~~-~
Morion takes her seat in the Cloud Hall. Amy, having lapsed back into human form, sits across from her. Morrigan paces about from balcony to balcony, looking anxiously out over the world, and the lazily setting sun. Morion stares at Amy, but cannot bring herself to speak. Amy has to look away, unable to face the angry Queen. Morrigan begins lighting the lamps just as Mikha’el steps up into the Cloud Hall, washing his hands of Alastor’s blood upon an old rag.
“How is he?” Morrigan asks.
“I do not know,” he tells her with an untrusting glance, walking to Morion, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“What Alastor has endured would have killed an ordinary man, except...”
“Alastor is not an ordinary man, we all know this.”
“No, that is not what I mean. Wounds such as those suffered by Alastor would have been lethal many times over. But, even by his standards of survival, these are abnormalities.” 
“What are you getting at?”
“Alastor is wearing parts of the armor,” Morion says emotionlessly, half to herself, almost trance like.
Morrigan struggles to believe this, wheeling about in thought.
“What?”
“He has been wearing the bracers secretly,” the Queen reiterates.
Mikha’el and Morrigan both lower their heads.
“Why would he have done such a thing?” Morrigan asks herself.
“You mean to say that you did not know?” Morion asks, looking up at the Fairy with a mingled sense of disbelief and suspicion.
“I did not. I mean, just the other night, he... on the balcony...” Morrigan says, then fades away.
“Then it would surprise you to know that he has worn them for some time.”
“My Lady? How do you know such things?” Mikha’el inquires, taking a knee to come to eye level with the Queen.
“When he told me of Judeheim, during the battle in the catacombs he went to great lengths to try and explain how he felt as he fought. Later on, when he was fighting Rennir, he revealed that he was wearing metal bracers under his leather ones. He essentially was telling me the effect they had on him, though I at the time could not understand it, even after I deduced that he in fact wore the bracers after examining the armor the night before we left.”
Morrigan moves beside Amy.
“What exactly did he describe?” questions the Fairy.
“Interpreting his story is difficult, but based on what little he told me of the Black Armor, I think that just those small portions of the armor made him into an invincible warlord of some kind. No one posed a real challenge for him, and he knew it.”
Morrigan sits beside Amy, downcast and sorrowful, lost in thought, not paying any heed to the conversation that follows. Mikha’el shakes his head.
“That all makes sense,” he says, reflecting.
“How so?” asks Morion.
“Alastor has always had doubts about being able to defeat Lucius on his own.”
“Lucius?” repeats Morion.
“The Necromancer.”
“You knew who he was the whole time?”
“Yes, My Lady. Alastor had sworn me to secrecy concerning his relation to Lucius many years ago, and even in light of the events recently transpired, he did not wish me to divulge this information to even you, not until it was absolutely necessary at any rate.”
“So, the Necromancer... he really is Alastor’s brother?”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“But that would mean he killed his own father.”
“I had always assumed so.”
“Assumed so?”
“Alastor never spoke in much detail about the events of that fateful day, and I in like fashion never wanted to press him.”
“He would have said nothing, even if you did,” Amy says suddenly. “Alastor keeps many secrets, some deeper than others and some never to be told to anyone. Even those he loves. Or loved.”
Mikha’el stands straight up, becoming an imposing sight, while Morion’s eyes harden toward the pair who sit across from her.
“Amy, now is not the time to speak about those things. There are more critical matters at hand,” Morrigan instructs. “Such as Alastor wearing the armor. I - ”
“No, Fairy. You and her,” Mikha’el interrupts accusingly as he points a finger at them both. “You two are the matter at hand. One of you tried to kill our Knight, now acting as though you were dearest friends with him. The other has evidently proven to be quite the master of deception.”
“All these things are complicated,” Morrigan admits. “They all tie to one another, and where one ends the other begins.”
“Start with her,” Morion orders, looking spitefully at Amy.
“I can speak for myself!” Amy declares.
“Then do.”
“Mikha’el, we need to see to Alastor!” Morrigan quickly interjects.
“I have already done so. More prodding will do him little good.”
Morrigan can see that there is no more avoiding having Amy speak.
“Go on then, Amy. Tell them what they want to know,” the Fairy says kindly.
Amy hesitates, closing her eyes, searching for the correct words.
“At one time, Alastor and I were... close, in a manner of speaking.”
“Lovers?” Morion asks, her voice quivering with a suppressed rage.
“No, nothing of the sort. He never took me into his bed, never held me. In fact, he kept me at a distance, emotionally. For a long time I never knew why. Not until it was far too late.”
“If this was true, why did he not recognize you before?”
Amy’s eyes lower, sadness washing over her.
“I was a different person. Literally. But even though I am physically different, I think he knew.”
“How so?”
“Why else would he have let her escape?” Mikha’el reminds the Queen.
“Well, Amy, we are all ears,” says Morion with a touch of sarcasm.

Chapter Twelve
Amy’s Story
Return to Table of Contents

“I grew up in a small town far to the south of here called Arkelon. At the time of this story, Alastor’s father was still very much alive, doing whatever it was that he did. It was also when Alastor had taken to wandering the countryside. What he was doing during this time, I would come to know. It was impossible not to in fact. What I did not know, however, was the ever ominous ‘why’ of it all.
“My home was under siege by barbarians. They demanded that we share our farms, our trade income, everything for that matter, or else they would take Arkelon by force. Their entire people camped outside our walls for weeks, trying to break the will of our leaders. Just when we were about to submit, fortune smiled upon us: Alastor walked without fear in to Arkelon.”
~-~~-~
Alastor’s eyes move back and forth, taking count of the barbarian band camped on either side of the road to Arkelon. The gruff men and women, barely covered in their dirty hides and furs which make them look like sick, balding bears, sharpen their weapons, watching Alastor suspiciously, unsure what to make of this young man, clad in worn black leather and carrying a sword almost as big as him.
Alastor ignores the laughing and scoffing, maintaining his focus on the town. 
Passing finally through the town’s gates, he can see that Arkelon is in fact little more than a glorified farming community. Next to each dwelling, a small vegetable garden is planted and taken care of by children while their parents work collectively in the larger fields to the north of the town. The few stores and businesses to be seen are closed, signs in their windows stating that all stocks have run out. Alastor’s presence in Arkelon brings work to a halt as those in the city stop to look at him. They know he is not one of the horde outside their walls from the way he is dressed, but they know not if he is friend or foe. Some of the younger children run to their mothers and fathers in the fields, while the older ones band together to confront Alastor.
The leader of these older children is a tall, dark haired girl, eldest of the group, a woman by all accounts. She wields power over the others, possibly the daughter of someone important. She confronts Alastor with a sickle in hand.
“Halt, stranger! Who are you and what do you want? Are you sent by those who hold us captive in our own home?”
Alastor looks at the small mob before him, indifference to them clear on his face.
“My name is Alastor and, no, I am not with those barbarians. That is all I will tell you. The rest of my words are for the ears of your elders or leaders.”
Alastor and the girl stare each other down, gauging one another. She stands out rather distinctly from the rest, her dark hair like a ship lost amidst a sea of gold. Alastor acquires the inexplicable impression that she is out of place among these people. Children now come running from the fields with their parents in tow. One man runs faster than the rest.
“Amelia!” he cries.
The tall girl turns to the man, who then comes up beside the girl, stepping in front of her as if to shield her.
“He says his name is Alastor, and that he is not one of them. Nothing else would he tell me, father,” the tall, dark haired girl says.
The man stares at Alastor with mouth agape, struggling to draw in what his daughter has said.
“Alastor?” he finally manages. “Eoin’s son?”
“I am,” Alastor says, now adopting an even more serious tone.
The girl’s father becomes ecstatic at this turn of events.
“Then your father has learned of our plight?”
“Yes, but I am here of my own volition. His agenda and mine just happen to coincide in this case.”
“Well, regardless of how you have come here, you are indeed here to help us?”
“More or less.”
The man grasps Alastor by the shoulders, smiling broadly.
“I am Frederic, first chair of the Arkelon Council. Come, we must all speak”
Frederic guides Alastor to the Council House at the far end of the town, Amelia following in their wake.
“How long has it been like this? The barbarians out there?” Alastor asks.
“Far too long, friend. For nigh three months they have camped out before our walls, keeping us from leaving and keeping others out. Now that I mention it, how did you get in? They normally bar entrance, threatening death to any who try to come to us.”
“I told them that I was a representative sent from Judeheim to help negotiate your surrender.”
“A bluff I hope,” Frederic says wearily.
“Of course. I could have made many deceptions, but with people such as these, playing to their desires seemed the wisest route. They are too foolish for their own good, and they think that they are the masters of their craft, so there is no reason for them to think anyone else more cunning.”
“They never even asked why a negotiator was armed?”
“Why would they care? One man against a horde is preposterous. They found my appearance comical, and I will gladly let them continue to think so.”
Spite had been growing steadily in Alastor’s voice as he explained, Frederic could tell there was more than the superficial words behind this emotion. 
A change of subject.
“You mentioned Judeheim. Do you carry any news of them? As you might understand, we have had no contact with our friends for a very long time.”
“Judeheim is as it always was when I left it: prosperous and safe.”
Frederic nods. Although unsubstantial, news that Judeheim is well bodes well for the rest of the land, usually.
“You came here directly from Judeheim then?”
“I did.”
“From what I understand, you usually do not have dealings there.”
“That changed when my father decided to move there.”
“Eoin lives now in Judeheim? It has been many years since last we had the honor of hosting the Knight. What is he up to?”
Alastor sighs deeply.
“Father has been absorbed by his studies. He rarely ever leaves the Judeheim libraries.”
“Leaving his work for you to complete I assume?”
“Something along those lines.”
Frederic nods, thinking he understands now Alastor’s somewhat cold disposition. Outside the Council House, Alastor stops, looking at the building, part meeting hall, part temple.
“Alastor?” Frederic asks. “Is there something amiss?”
“No. Nothing. Lead the way.”
Inside, other men of the town are already in heated discussion. They number eleven of various ages, but all are well worn through stress and worry. They all raise their faces to Frederic and Alastor as the two enter.
“Who is this with you, Frederic?” one asks
“Fellow Councilmen, this is Alastor,” Frederic replies.
Amelia sneaks in, hidden in the shadows, unseen by all. The Council all stand in reaction to the name their First Chair has said.
“Alastor? The Alastor?” a Councilman speaks.
“Eoin’s son?” another ponders.
“He is the very same,” Frederic assures with a smile.
The eldest of the Council shambles over to Alastor, placing his hands on Alastor’s face, examining him before looking deep into the eyes of the Knight’s son.
“Oh, yes. This is Eoin’s son, of that there can be no dispute,” the old one tells his kinsmen with a wide grin.
Alastor is offered a seat as the Council sits, but he refuses, standing in the midst of their horseshoe shaped table.
“So, young son of the Knight, are you here to help us?” the eldest asks.
“I am here to end the siege,” Alastor answers coldly. “I am here to punish them for their transgressions.”
“Punish?” Frederic repeats. “How will you do such a thing?”
“He means, in the simplest of terms, he will kill them all,” the eldest tells Frederic.
“No, Alastor,” Frederic says with a shake of his head. “Surely there must be a way to end this without coming to violence.”
“They have imprisoned us, Frederic!” one of the older men yells. “Those damnable barbarians have only given us two choices: become their slaves or die!”
“I will not accept that violence is the only way to deal with them! It is not, nor will it ever be, our way!”
“Sirs,” Alastor interrupts. “You are both correct, for the most part.”
“Oh?” the eldest says with raised brow. “Please explain, Son of Eoin.” 
“These barbarians are a plight that deserve destruction, but it is not by Arkelon that punishment shall be dealt, nor is it being done for Arkelon’s sake. Frederic, you know not the evil they have done, and never could you imagine the evils they plan to do. For what they have done, one must be swift and merciless.”
“But, Alastor -”
“Do you honestly think yours is the first people to suffer under this horde, Frederic?” Alastor snaps.
Alastor’s sudden angry words carry a shock throughout the Council.
“What do you mean, friend?” ask the eldest.
“Five towns do I know of which have been their victim. The two that resisted were slaughtered in one night. The others, who did everything the barbarians requested, were utterly brutalized; their women raped in the town square as a spectacle, the men torn limb from limb for the fun of it.”
The Council looks to each other fearfully at this ghastly news. The face of the youngest becomes a shade reminiscent of green. The eldest is the only one whose eyes remain fixed upon Alastor.
“How do you know this?”
“I looked upon their ruin myself,” Alastor tells the eldest with the somberness of mourning. “Besides, dearest Council... I am not here to ask your permission. This course of action was decided upon long before I came here.”
The eldest laughs heartily.
“He speaks with the same power and authority as his father! Council, I think it is us that should be asking what help he needs, not of what help he can give to us.”
Frederic looks over the Council chambers carefully.
“Alastor, tell me that we will not suffer for this. If what you say is true, I have no desire to stop you, but I do not want Arkelon retaliated against.”
Alastor’s face grows sad, dreary and totally fatal.
“There will be none left alive to do so.”
The Councilmen all nod to Frederic, signaling their approval.
“What do you need then from us, Son of Eoin?”
“Send a messenger out to meet them to announce that you will give your answer at sundown. Once the messenger’s task is complete, order all your people to enter their homes. Have them light no lamps, cook no food. Lock their windows and their doors and keep them so until sunrise, no matter what they will hear.”
“You intend to do this thing alone then?”
“I have little choice in the matter.”
Frederic signals to a younger Councilman.
“Send the messenger.”
The man does so without hesitation.
“Do you have a quiet place where I can prepare?” Alastor asks the Council.
Frederic nods in the affirmative.
“Amelia?” he calls.
His daughter comes out from her hiding place sheepishly. The Council smiles at her in spite of all they had just heard.
“Yes, father?”
“Take Alastor to our home, please. Give him anything he might ask for.”
Amelia gives a courteous bow to the Council, then gestures for Alastor to follow her. Before leaving, Alastor says one last thing.
“Sirs, I am sorry this must happen on your land, in the midst of your good people, but we can no longer endure such evils any longer.”
~-~~-~
Back outside, Amelia leads Alastor to a nice two level cottage which stands beside the Council House.
“Home sweet home,” Amelia sings as she opens the door to the cottage. “Though, it is usually exceedingly empty and altogether lonely.”
“Why is that?” Alastor asks, his tone somewhat melancholy.
“I watch over the town while the others are in the fields, and when the day’s work is done, father spends many more hours with the Council, so I sit alone here.”
“It is only the two of you?”
“Yes. I am an only child, as was father.”
“What about your mother?” Alastor hazards to ask.
“I prefer not to think about her,” Amelia says, the melody in her voice vanished.
“Why?”
“She was a witch.”
Amelia shows Alastor to an unused bedroom that overlooks the town square. It is a cozy enough room, though somewhat bare. A room for guests, apparently.
“How do you know she was a witch?” Alastor questions.
“As I told you, I do not like to think about her. Do you need anything?”
Alastor does not venture to ask any more about Amelia’s mother.
“A basin of water and a towel, if it is not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.”
Amelia goes to retrieve the requested effects without delay. 
Alastor takes his sword off, tossing it onto the bed. He then starts to remove his outer coat and shirts. Amelia returns to find Alastor half naked. She hands the basin and towel to him, trying to avoid looking at him. Alastor sets the basin down on a nearby vanity, splashing water onto his face and chest. Amelia looks on as he washes, blushing as she does so, but she finds that she cannot look away, for the sight of a large number of scars on Alastor’s body will not let her. At least, that is the justification she convinces herself of.
“This is not the first time you have done something like this, is it?” she asks him.
“Washing?”
“No! I mean fighting. Killing.”
“I have done a lot of both. More than any one should, maybe.”
“How is that possible? You do not look much older than myself.”
“I am older than I look. My father has a saying: ‘Fate is a cold cruel maiden. All are bound to her, yet none can honestly claim to hate her.’ This has always been my purpose, and there is no changing it.”
Amelia does not fully understand Alastor’s words. She then recalls what Alastor said in the Council House.
“You said that you did not have any choice in fighting alone. Why?” 
“My father has instructed that I am to do this by myself.”
“What reason could he possibly have to do that?”
“I do not know. I have never known.”
“Then why do it!?”
“Because I must.”
Saddened by what looks to her to be nothing more than a suicide plan and with nothing more to say, she leaves Alastor alone.
~-~~-~
Amelia comes to peek in on Alastor every hour or so as the remainder of the day wanes. Alastor remains seated at the vanity, deep in thought and meditation, avoiding looking at his own reflection in the mirror. Each time she checks on him, he is the same; unmoving, silent, utterly sad she thinks to herself. In her mind, she beholds a man condemned to die, making his peace before facing the executioner, not one preparing to wage war.
The sun descends, Frederic comes to Alastor’s room, Amelia slinking behind her father, the remnants of fresh tears on her cheeks.
“Alastor, it is time,” Frederic announces.
The Knight’s son takes up his clothes, dressing carefully, slinging his blade upon his back and taking a first and final glance at himself in the mirror. He leaves the room, boots hitting the floor with more resolve, echoing through the halls with enough force so as to make all the world aware that the Son of Eoin is coming. Frederic and Amelia follow behind him, but say nothing. 
Alastor steps out from their house, taking in the sight of the empty town, all windows shut against him, a cold, frigid wind blowing, clouds gathering. 
He gives a concluding look to Frederic and his daughter then motions for them to also take refuge in their home. He steps out into the square, ensuring that every home is dark, that no smoke comes from their chimneys. If not for true knowledge, one might think Arkelon to be a ghost town. The sun ducks down behind far away mountains with all the speed it can muster. Even the moon has hid itself behind clouds, to many a sign of foreboding, but to Alastor the least of fears. 
The lighting of torches outside the town walls illuminate the night sky, followed by the hoots and hollers of the barbarians as they prepare to enter Arkelon, sure that their siege has been a success.
Amelia breaks Alastor’s order, peeking out from her bedroom window, not wanting to watch, yet compelled to. She cannot let Alastor do this alone; in the act of watching, she tries to give the Son of Eoin her support.
The barbarians, like water bursting through a dam, storm into Arkelon, their leader at the head, striding triumphantly. Seeing only Alastor in the center of the square, the horde grows angry, savage in voice and movement. Their leader stops only feet from the Knight’s son. Their leader is a strong looking man, tall and with long, brown, oily hair. His face is etched with the signs of a rough life, an existence devoted to doing wrong. Alastor wonders if this man would have been good in another life.
“What is this? The little boy negotiator! Is the sword on your back made of wood I wonder? Tell me, child, what I want to hear.”
“I am afraid I only have one thing to say to you.”
“And what is that?”
“My name.”
“Your name? Unless your name is ‘we give up,’ I do not think I care. But alas, I shall humor you, child. Tell me your name, then stand aside so that we may speak to a real man, if any live in this pathetic town.”
“I am Alastor, your executioner.”
With these words, Alastor withdraws his sword and cuts down the barbarian leader with a ferocity that shocks the horde. They roar like animals, rushing at Alastor before their leader’s body has even fallen to the ground. 
The Slaughter of Arkelon begins.
~-~~-~
Amy stops talking, lost in the reminiscence. Morion and Mikha’el share a quick glance, wondering if the other believes the story thus far.
“These things are true, I assure you,” Morrigan tells them, seeing their misgiving.
“What happened next?” Morion asks Amy.
“After seeing that first kill, I fell away from the window, horrified. I sat huddled in the corner of my room, listening to the battle outside. For so long after that day, the things I heard haunted me. It lasted all night; the screams of dying men echoing through every home, the yells and roars of Alastor growing over those of our enemies. But, with each death rattle, we all knew that, somehow, Alastor was winning. Somehow one man was besting the entire barbarian horde. As dawn began to break, the sounds died out to a silence deeper than any we had experienced. Everyone began to leave their homes. What we saw will never be forgotten by Arkelon.”
~-~~-~
Frederic comes to realize that the battle has ceased. The sounds of melee now but a faint reverberation in his mind. Pale light slowly fills his house. He walks to his front door, pressing his ear to it. Amelia comes down the stairs, quiet, eyes red from crying.
“Father?”
“Stay here. I am going to see if it is over.”
He opens the door slowly, peering out from behind it at the world like he has never seen it before this morning. Stepping outside, he finds the full horror of war; bodies of the barbarians lay strewn about as if a whirlwind made of swords came and swept through, tossing them carelessly throughout the town; the blood of the barbarians form a river that flows down to the gates and out of Arkelon. 
Amelia disobeys her father, following after with a soft foot, looking on with a sickening sensation in her stomach and disgust in her heart. Other men soon follow Frederic’s example and, upon seeing the carnage, push their families back into their homes for their own protection from the gruesome, atrocious sight. The men converge on Frederic, they all walking carefully over the dead. In the center of the town square, where the battle had began, surrounded by bodies, they find Alastor on his knees, sword laying lifeless beside him, he holding a wound on his side with one hand while with his other arm he supports himself from falling face first into the gore. His clothes are tattered, mere threads away from falling off him. Wounds of all kinds can be seen on his body. Frederic moves ahead of the others, falling beside Alastor. Alastor screams, not in physical pain, but with soul-rending emotional agony.
“Alastor?” Frederic whispers.
Alastor raises his head to Frederic. Frederic can see that Alastor is crying, the tears mingling with the blood splattered on his face.
“These heathens were dishonorable in life, and so shall they be in death!” Alastor growls through grit teeth. “Have your men take the bodies outside of the town, into the forest, then burn them. Do not plunder the bodies or their camps, but burn them with everything that is theirs.”
Unable to control his body any longer, Alastor falls forward, caught by Frederic, and falls unconscious.
~-~~-~
Alastor wakes in an unfamiliar bed. Sitting up, he realizes it to be his room in Frederic’s house. He sighs, wishing he had simply been dreaming. Fresh clothes are piled on a rocking chair, his sword, cleaned, rests across its arms. At the door, Amelia stands watch over him.
“How long has it been?” Alastor asks, his voice hoarse and dry.
“Three days. The people have been worried about you ever since father carried you here, half dead.”
“I am never as close to death as people think,” he says with a small, private laugh. Alastor feels the bandages on his body. He examines them with a puzzled look.
“Something wrong with my handiwork?” Amelia asks playfully.
“You set the bandages?”
“I did. Being the nurse for the children of every family in town gives me plenty of practice. I could not do much, I am afraid, beyond cleaning and covering your wounds. Unlike some people in my family, I cannot mend flesh with a potion and a spell.”
“Do not worry about it. Another fight, another scar,” Alastor muses with a passive tone and a smile for his nurse.
“Shall I go tell the Council that you have come back to the land of the living?” she asks with a returning smile.
“You probably should.”
Alastor and Amelia share a long gaze before she leaves. 
~-~~-~
Entering the Council chamber, all gathered there immediately face Amelia.
“He is awake and very much alive,” she tells them.
Frederic is the first to leave, followed by the eldest man, then the rest. Much to their collective surprise, Alastor is already outside to meet them, dressed and looking as he did before the battle.
“Alastor!” Frederic exclaims. “How is this possible?”
“I am my father’s son, Frederic.”
“That he is indeed,” whispers the elder with a smirk.
“Did you do as I told you?” Alastor asks Frederic.
“The deed was done before sundown that day.”
“Good.”
“There was a curiosity, though, young Master Alastor,” the eldest adds.
“Curiosity? What sort of curiosity?”
“A woman came as the men piled the carcasses. A woman not of our blood.”
“A woman? What for?”
“She prayed for the dead.”
“What did she look like?”
“She appeared as an old woman, but there was a youth and beauty in her face. Do you know who she may have been, Alastor?”
“I am afraid not.”
The Council turn to themselves, conferring in hushed tones. Alastor wanders away, surveying the town. The people have thoroughly cleaned the grounds, leaving not a single speck of evidence of the bloody savagery that had taken place.
“What will you do now?” Frederic asks, going back to Alastor.
“I will be leaving for Judeheim, to inform them of what has happened. After that, I do not know.”
“When will you leave?” asks Amelia suddenly.
“Now, actually. It is a long way, and haste would be my ally.”
“Will you not even stay for a feast? We had prepared one in your honor!” a Councilman says.
Alastor looks into the eyes of the Council, and then Amelia.
“What I did was not something to celebrate and, as I told you, it was not done for Arkelon so much as it was done for those others before it that fell into oblivion. If you wish to commemorate my actions, do so. Unfortunately, I will not.”
The Council lowers their heads, sobered but understanding of Alastor’s words. A thought comes into Frederic’s head.
“Wait here,” he says as he runs off to a nearby stable, reappearing in less than a moment with a black stallion, already saddled. “Regardless of the nature, Arkelon is in debt to you. Take this horse, that he may speed you on your way.”
Alastor takes the reins gratefully, letting the animal smell him, then rubbing its snout with care.
“This is a very fine animal,” Alastor says, mounting the animal carefully, petting its neck.
“At one time, we were the breeders of the Old Kingdom horses. It might be long gone, but the blood in these animals is still of the royal line, so to speak,” Frederic explains to Alastor.
“Thank you.”
Amelia runs to the stable also, coming back with her own mare.
“What are you doing?” her father demands.
“He is going to Judeheim, father. One of us should go with him to represent Arkelon, and reestablish our kinships.”
“Then we will send a rider with him.”
“Of which I am the fastest and most able, father.”
“No, Amelia.”
“Frederic, she is our best rider,” the eldest speaks up. “And she is the most familiar of the riders when it comes to the lands beyond ours.”
Alastor cannot help but laugh aloud.
“I do not recall saying that I was going to escort anyone anywhere,” he tells them with an annoyed look on his face.
“Please, Alastor,” Amelia pleads. “Someone from Arkelon needs to go with you to let Judeheim know what has happened in the time before you came.”
Alastor again looks into the eyes of all the Council members, ending with Frederic.
“Is it your will to let this woman act on your behalf?” he asks them. They all nod, even Amelia’s father. Alastor then grimaces at her, trying to judge for himself if she is capable. After a silent moment, he sighs. “You will need supplies. I can go without for long stretches of time, provide for myself when necessary, but to care for someone else is something I have not had to do.”
Amelia hands the reins of her animal to her father, running back to her home. From horseback, Alastor can see to the east. Smoke is still rising up from the forest. The people of Arkelon gather before their homes, staring at their hero with awe. Amelia comes back still stuffing a pack with clothes and goods, enough until they reach Judeheim. She has changed into riding clothes, and she wears a small knife on her belt. As the young woman climbs onto the back of her animal, Alastor moves closer to her.
“Make sure you say your goodbyes. There is no telling how long you might be gone,” he whispers to Amelia.
“Why is that?”
“Trouble and I are very close friends.”
“Are you now?”
“Like an undesirable relative, it makes visits at the most inopportune times.”
Amelia smiles, embarrassed and fearful that Alastor may have already deducted her real reason for wanting to join him. The Knight’s son bows his head to the Arkelon Council as he brings about the stallion, which follows its new rider’s commands readily, and heads slowly for the gates. Amelia looks down to her father, both of them almost on the verge of tears.
“Take care while I am away, father.”
“And you as well, daughter,” Frederic says softly to Amelia. He steps closer to her so that the other Councilmen cannot hear his next words. “A darkness and a sadness fester in Alastor’s heart. I would hope that maybe you can help him, free him of that haunting shadow.”
Amelia smiles and blushes, knowing without a doubt that her true reason for following Alastor is as plain as day, the mask transparent through and through. She waves to the gathered people, then wastes no time in catching up with Alastor. 
Riding side by side, they trot out of Arkelon and out onto the road ahead.
~-~~-~
Amy stops again, smiling as she recalls that day.
“The woman that come to pray, that was you, correct?” Morion asks Morrigan.
The Fairy merely nods, saying nothing. Morrigan too is thinking about some distant occurrence.
“Please, continue,” Mikha’el says to Amy. “This story confirms some of the suspicions I have had for some time.”
“Suspicions?” repeats Morion.
“Yes. Although Alastor and I are friends, there have been a great many portions he would never speak of concerning his travels.”
“I thought he told you everything.”
“No. Quite to the contrary, he has always kept most of his life, the portions spent away from his father or Gawain, secret.”
“Why?”
“I believe the next part of my story may shed some light on that issue,” Amy tells Morion. “The ride to Judeheim was uneventful. Alastor only spoke when giving me instruction, or pointing out some ruins or place of historical significance. No matter what sort of conversation I tried to start, he would refuse to ever speak of himself. Once I made the mistake of asking about his family, and about his mother. He called me a ‘hypocrite of the highest order’ when I pressed him on the matter of his mother, resulting in his being completely silent for two days. That changed somewhat when we arrived in Judeheim.”
~-~~-~
Alastor and Amelia ride slowly into Judeheim, her staring enthralled at the city which, as fortune would have it, has started its annual festival of winter, when the people celebrate the promise their God made to them of sending his emissary during the final season. This time of year holds many special meanings to the people of Judeheim, so they embrace it, a spirit of goodwill and happiness hanging in the air.
The people, upon seeing the duo, swarm around them and cheer, chanting “Arkelon!” From the crowd, several men push toward the riders with wide smiles.
“Lady Amelia, news of your arrival came just yesterday. Come with us so that you may tell our Council all what has happened to our dear sister, Arkelon.”
Alastor gestures for Amelia to dismount as he himself does so. The people take the reins of the horses with care, guiding the animals to the stable of a nearby inn. The men then guide them to the citadel where, as they stand before its large doors, Alastor stops.
“Alastor? What is it?” Amelia asks.
“I have other business to attend to. Go tell of what transpired. I will meet you at the inn later.”
“But... I thought you were going to inform them.”
“I will, but the Judeheim Council likes a good story. They will probably be more interested in your version of events right now, rather than mine.”
As Amelia is drawn into the citadel, she turns back to see Alastor take one of the men aside.
“I need to see my father,” she hears him say before the doors close.
~-~~-~
Amy strains to speak, lowering her eyes as tears begin to well. After taking a moment to compose herself, she continues.
“I told the Judeheim leaders everything I witnessed regarding the barbarians. When the time came to tell them of how Alastor defeated them, they had many questions, more than they had for the whole series of events that led to the encounter. They wanted to know how long it took him, what he may have said during the battle. They even asked to know in what ways he killed the barbarians. I told them of Alastor’s instructions, and that I only saw the death of the barbarian leader. I then told them of the scene afterwards, in the morning. They seemed...”
“They seemed what?” Morion urges.
“Sad. Sad hearing about what Alastor had done. Sad over the voraciousness that Alastor seemed to indulge in. But at the same time, I had a feeling that they too thought that the destruction of the barbarians was a dark necessity. I would soon learn why.”
“How do you mean?” asks Mikha’el.
Amy laughs mischievously.
“As a child, I loved to be sneaky; to listen in on the grown-ups. I never understood what they spoke of, but I felt special to have heard them speak important words. This, sadly, was a habit of mine that refused to die. Never did I think what seemed so innocent would become so tragic.”
~-~~-~
Amelia is led from the citadel by the young daughter of one of the Council members, a girl not yet on womanhood’s doorstep.
“My name is Dahlia, what is yours?” the girl asks of Amelia.
“My name is Amelia, but my friends call me Amy. Nice to meet you.”
“Can I call you Amy?”
“You sure can.”
“It is nice to meet you too, Amy. Daddy told me to take you to the inn. It is where the pilgrims sleep when they come for the festivals.”
“Pilgrims?”
“Oh, yes! My daddy says that there are lots and lots of people that worship our God, but that they cannot all live here all the time. There are far too many.”
“I come from a town that worships Him also.”
“Really!?” Dahlia squeals. “What is the town’s name?”
“Arkelon. We raise horses and are farmers. You have probably eaten fruit that I myself had grown.”
“Wow. Is it pretty there?”
“Yes, especially when the trees flower.”
“I am going to go there someday, since you came to my home.”
“That would be lovely, Dahlia.”
Before she knows it, Amelia stands in front of the inn.
“Here you are, Amy. Daddy told me to go home after I brought you here, so I guess I will see you later.”
“Thank you very much, Dahlia.”
“You are welcome. Bye!”
Dahlia runs off to her home, smiling ear to ear. Amelia walks into the building, where she is met by a beautiful, smiling woman who works at the inn.
“Amelia?” the woman asks.
“I am.”
“Your room is on the third floor, the last room down the right hand hall.”
“Thank you.” 
Tired from the day’s ride and recalling the siege and liberation of her town, Amelia makes getting to her room her only priority. The room is small, but cozy. There is only one bed, which Amelia interprets to mean that Alastor has his own room, or, based on what she remembered of him saying back in the Arkelon Council House, he has a room elsewhere. 
Her pack has been set on the bed, along with new, clean riding clothes upon which is a note. The handwriting is quick, but oddly distinctive. Like the letters of a foreign language almost, but still easily legible.

“Amelia-
I will not be at the inn until later. Saw these 
 and thought of you. I hope they fit.
-Alastor”

She smiles at the gift, wondering if it is Alastor’s version of an apology.  The room becomes a bit warm and closed in, so she walks over to the window, intending to open it to let the cool air in, instead seeing Alastor outside, walking into what appears to be a small temple. Curiosity strikes, and she leaves the inn to follow him.
Entering the temple, she sticks to the shadows, not wanting to be seen by Alastor. Not that it is of much use, the temple is very well lit, but empty. Alastor descends a set of stairs at the rear of the main hall, entering a room marked as a library. He does not close the door fully, allowing Amelia an ample eavesdropping opportunity. She stands to the left of the door, heart pounding, afraid of being caught by Alastor.
All the more reason to do it, she thinks.
“Father,” she can hear Alastor say.
“Alastor, I am happy to see you well,” another voice answers, an older voice, but a familiar one. Amelia easily recognizes it as Eoin. “How did it fare?”
“It was done. Slain to the last.”
Amelia can hear Alastor sigh heavily.
“Alastor?” Eoin says.
“I cannot keep doing this, father.”
“Son, what you have been doing is needed - ”
“So you keep saying! But, father, it is not you doing it! Each time I am forced to kill - ”
“They were followers of Samael, Alastor!”
“It is always followers or worshipers or spirits sent by Samael himself.”
“Alastor, the prophesies...”
“Prophesy be damned, father! I am not ink and paper, written of hundreds of years ago. I am flesh and blood, here and now.”
The library goes silent for what seems forever.
“Alastor. Son, I am sorry. Sitting here, pouring over tome after tome, book after book, scroll after scroll... I have forgotten the burden you bare, the burden I myself have placed upon you even when I did not want to.”
Another moment of silence passes.
“Father, do you truly believe I am the one written of?”
“You know I do. What brings this talk on?”
“If it were all true, then I should not need the armor, correct?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I want you to seal the armor away, father.”
“Alastor, why would you ask such a thing of me?”
“Because...”
“Yes?”
“It has become too easy.”
“What has?” Eoin asks , but his tone betrays the fact that he already knows.
“The entire horde, father. I, alone, killed them. You are the one that has taught me since I was born of the blood-curse, warned me against it. What I ask of you is for the greater good. A measure of protection.”
“You know what would happen if Lucius were to discover that the armor has been sealed, Alastor.”
“He will not. Father, please... I do not want my life to mirror that of those before us. Should you die with the armor unsealed...”
“I know, son. I know. My time is closing. I have spent these last years trying to make amends. With or without the armor, I will die, and I will not do so at the cost of my son’s soul.”
Again the library goes quiet. In her mind’s eye, she can see Eoin sitting, looking up at Alastor, weighing the good and the bad. After a time, Eoin continues. 
“I will do as you ask, Alastor, when I return home. If your mother were still here, she would ask no less, I think.”
“I doubt she would care if she were still alive,” Alastor says with unsuppressed spite.
“She cared, Alastor. More than you could ever understand.”
“Which explains why she is dead, right?”
“Alastor!” Eoin scolds as only a father can.
“Sorry, father. When will you be going home?”
“My study here is nearly complete. When it is done, I am going to visit Gawain to give a book into his safe keeping, then home I shall return.”
“Very well, father. What should I do now?”
“The Council here has had no word of any more followers of Samael, so I believe you have free rein to do as you wish.”
“If that is the case, I will leave Judeheim tomorrow. I would rather not stay too long, for fear that they will receive word of yet more evildoing somewhere.” 
“I know you Alastor. You would never be happy letting people suffer.”
“Which is why I look for those who cannot help themselves, not who Judeheim decides is deserving of help.”
“Quite admirable, as always. The Council will probably be upset at me for letting you go but, as much as I respect them, I will not let them dictate your life. While you are away, make sure to stay in contact with Mikha’el. I will let him know when I am done, and he in turn will tell you.”
“Thank you, father. Until we meet again.”
Amelia can hear Alastor ready to leave, but before she can think of moving, Eoin calls after Alastor.
 “Before you go, answer me one thing: is it true that you are traveling with a companion?”
“Yes. Amelia of Arkelon.”
“Frederic’s daughter?”
“The very same. Why?”
Amelia feels the warmth blooming in her face. Eoin’s voice changes, becoming low and removed.
“How is she? I would gather that she is quite the woman now, being a few years older than you.”
“She is good. Talkative, but I think I like having her around.”
“Very nice. It is not good for a man to be alone, after all. And what of Frederic?”
“He seemed busy with the goings on of his town. He did not care for the way I handled the barbarians.”
“Which would be expected. Did he say anything to you?”
“Nothing beyond those things that dealt with the barbarians.”
“Good,” Eoin says as one relieved. “Well, I should let you be on your way. Take care of Amelia. Knowing her blood, she has a good heart, but a wicked temperament if crossed.”
Amelia finds Eoin’s words odd. So too does Alastor.
“Do you know who her mother is?” Son asks Father.
“I have heard tale that she is a witch,” Eoin answers dryly. “Get going, Alastor. If you get caught up in the festival, you will not be leaving here for a week at least.”
“Farewell, father.”
“And you, son.”
Amelia is brought back to reality, a sudden panic gripping her as she hears Alastor exiting the library. She presses herself into a small alcove meant for a lamp stand, hoping beyond hope not to be seen. Alastor, thankfully, does not; leaving the temple as he did when he entered: oblivious to Amelia’s presence.
~-~~-~
Amy pauses to take a breath, overcome by emotion.
“He never knew I had listened to that conversation. After that day, everything changed. He let me stay with him for as long as I wished, becoming his permanent traveling companion. He spoke much more, smiled even. I think that the talk with his father put his mind at ease, and I like to think that having me to talk to when he wanted helped just as much. 
“With each town or city we went to, I sent letters to my father, containing just enough to let father know I was well, but never more than that. What I shared with Alastor I kept to myself. I saw places I never knew existed, people strange and different. Parts of nature that you could spend days upon days looking at, get lost exploring and never have fear of; true paradises somehow ignored by the rest of humanity. Above all, though, Alastor traveled looking for people to help. Those people who live on outskirts, away from civilization. Or those too poor, or too fearful to let their plight be known. Alastor would swoop in, help someone and leave just as abrupt as he came. He hated being called a hero, and hated even more when people tried to thank him. Life with Alastor was the most incredible experience of my life, even when he grew impatient.”
“Impatient? About what?” Morion asks.
“Word that Eoin’s work was complete did not come as soon as Alastor hoped. Every few weeks, we would travel to a large city or kingdom, where he sat and waited for Mikha’el to come, though he did not know that I knew this. When I asked why we were doing nothing, he would say he was waiting for a sign of what to do next, which I always accepted as a fine answer. Sometimes he would even leave me to go to the nameless village himself, although he told me it was for some other reason.”
Morion looks to Mikha’el for conformation.
“This is true, My Lady. Alastor would come to our village on a fairly irregular basis, asking of news of his father, and then disappointedly leave. Except that this went on for nearly - ”
“Five years,” interrupts Amy.
“You were with him for five years?” Morion snaps as she faces Amy again.
“Yes,” Amy answers the Queen, “and I know what you are thinking. The answer is yes. I fell deeply in love with him. He of course knew this. He always knew. I never really tried to hide it once we left Arkelon. Unfortunately, his feelings for me... well, if he felt anything, he was a master at hiding them. He was kinder, more verbal, but never would you call him romantic by any stretch. Maybe he was, in his way. But now I am jumping ahead. 
“Every winter we would come here, to the tower, to rest and recuperate from the year’s journey. He would tell me stories of all kinds. If they were his family story, or just ones he picked up from other lands, I did not care. He told them spectacularly. Even if he had recited them horribly, it would not have mattered. I just liked being near him.”
Tears begin to stream from Amy’s eyes.
“What is it?” Morion asks, trying hard not to sound spiteful, though in honesty, she is not sure if that is still spite she is feeling.
“If I had known what I was going to do to him, I would have gladly given up my time with him. I wish so much that I could change what happened.”
Mikha’el sits beside Morion, the first time he has done so.
“What happened?” he asks apprehensively.
“In our last travels, he left me in a small city of artists at the foot of a collapsed mountain to go visit the nameless village yet again. When he came back he was giddy, smiling and laughing like a child.”
“I remember that day very well,” Mikha’el says with a smirk. “But it did not last. The next time I would see him, it would be under far darker circumstances.”
“Far darker indeed,” Amy whispers as she prepares to tell this most tragic part of her tale.
~-~~-~
Amelia is given a fright as Alastor bursts without warning into her room above the only tavern in Sumestra. 
“Alastor!” she exclaims, “you are back!
“Father has finally finished! He has already began the trek home!”
“Alastor, never have I seen you so happy. Never have I thought you could be so happy!”
“Never have I been so happy, Amelia. Gather your things, we are leaving tonight!”
“Alastor, it is the dead of night! You cannot be serious about leaving right now. It would be dangerous to go now, so soon after your return.”
Alastor sighs, disappointed.
“You are right. We leave at dawn then.”
~-~~-~
Amy looks from Morrigan, to Mikha’el, and finally to Morion. Apprehension fills her eyes. Her face starts to flush.
“I was so happy for him, even though I should not have known why. But, despite everything, I made a massive mistake that night. I tried to force myself on him.”
“Why would you do that?” Mikha’el asks with a despondent tone. “As much time as you spent with him, you never knew of his fear of fathering a child? That he would not so much as touch a woman until his family’s curse was lifted for fear of causing it to continue?”
“I wish I had known! He never spoke of any curses, never said a word to me of what he was truly facing! It was just he and I, together with our little adventures. If I had known, life would have been much different. So very, very different.”
“How do you mean?” Morion asks, her demeanor softening.
“After I tried to make him bed me, he became so angry that he threw me out of his room, almost literally. I was so hurt and angry. I had spent so many years with him, told him how deeply I felt for him, but he rejected me. I went down into the tavern where I decided to drown by sorrow in mead. There was a group of travelers there speaking about the Black Knight. What exactly they were discussing, I was completely ignorant but, nonetheless, I joined the conversation. One of the men introduced himself as Rennir. He kept buying me drinks, and I kept talking.”
~-~~-~
Amelia slams her pint glass down, nearly shattering it.
“Sure, you know stories, missy, but no one knows the truth about the Black Knight,” Rennir says with a smirk.
“I know all about the Black Knight, mister. More than you. More than anyone in this damn tavern and more than anyone in this damn city, no matter what they keep saying. Dark wizards indeed!”
“And how does one little, frail thing like yourself learn things that some scholars have spent their lives trying to discover?”
“I have been traveling with his son for the last five years, that is how.”
“I have heard some tall tales, missy, and that one beats them all.”
“It is no story. I am serious. His name is Alastor and he came in here not long ago. But, I would rather not talk about him right now.”
Rennir and the other men stare at Amelia in disbelief.
“Tall, dark fellow wearing black that came bursting in here and ran to the rooms?”
“That would be him,” she says, taking another gulp of mead. “Subtly is something the Black Knight did not bother teaching him.”
“And you have been traveling with him for five years?”
“Give or take a month, I guess.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
“But, he is not the Black Knight now, is he?”
“No, his father still is, apparently.”
“I would love to meet the real Knight, but no one has seen him in, what... fifteen years?” Rennir asks one of the men.
“Might be longer, actually,” the man responds.
“The Black Knight has gone to his home in the east, to seal his armor or something like that. Whatever that may mean,” Amelia blurts out while taking another swig from her mug.
“Seal the armor?” Rennir repeats. “Why would he do that?”
“Alastor asked him to. I am not clear on why.”
“A mystery indeed, missy. A mystery indeed.”
~-~~-~
Mikha’el grits his teeth, slamming his fists on the table. He rises up from the table slowly, burning eyes, wings opening, quivering slightly. He stalks out to the balcony, where he roars at the top of his lungs to the world. He storms back into the Cloud Hall, ready to pounce on Amy, but Morion manages to hold him back.
“You whore! You claim to have been from Arkelon, to have worshiped the nameless God, but you betrayed our Knight over a few pints of mead!? And for what reason? Because Alastor would not give in to you! I should rip you asunder here and now!” 
Amy does not flinch at these words, but looks up at Mikha’el with strength, yet tears still in her eyes.
“I am afraid Alastor already beat you to that,” she says darkly.
“What?” says a stunned Morion, letting go of Mikha’el, while his entire form changes at hearing Amy.
“I was drunk. Very drunk. So much so that I forgot what had happened the night before as Alastor and I began the trip back to the keep. In a few days time, I did remember, and I kept it to myself in shame.”
~-~~-~
The trip back to the keep is quiet. Alastor cannot bring himself to speak with Amelia, except when telling her that they will be stopping to eat or sleep. On the final day, as they near the home of Alastor, an unseasonable rain begins to fall. All animals go silent. Alastor brings his stallion to a halt.
“This is not right. It has never rained here during this time of the year,” he says to himself, but so that Amelia hears as well.
Panic grips his heart. He kicks the sides of the stallion hard, speeding homeward. Amelia has trouble following Alastor. She whips at the reins, struggling to maintain sight of him. Though she knows the way, she too grows fearful. Her secret coming to haunt her. 
The tower comes into view. Amelia can see Alastor at its foot, leaping from his steed and running into the keep as fast as he can. Amelia pushes her horse to the brink of death, but she too comes at last to the keep. Ascending the stairs with all haste, a cry stops her cold.
“Father!” Alastor screams.
Amelia pushes on. The stairs become a haze as she climbs. 
There, in the armory, she finds Alastor on the ground, kneeling beside the fallen Eoin. He is long dead. No final words for his son. The assassin has come and gone. Through his tears, Alastor can see that Eoin had sealed the armor, except for the bracers which still reside on the arms of the Knight.
“How?” Alastor whispers. “How could he have known?”
Amelia’s very soul cries.
“Alastor, I am so very, very sorry. I did not think when I spoke.”
“Spoke? What are you talking about?”
~-~~-~
Yet again, Amy pauses. Her guilt eating at her.
“I told Alastor about when I listened in on he and his father, then I told him about the men at the tavern.”
Mikha’el calms down more, folding his wings, giving Morion a nod of assurance that he would not have another outburst.
“What happened next?” he asks.
With a heavy sigh, she looks up into the eyes of Mikha’el, then Morion.
“Alastor killed me.”
The Queen and the winged one collectively gasp.
“Killed you?” they both ask.
“He stood up, took a sword from the wall and plunged it into my heart. His face was the last thing I saw as the life faded from me, but he was not as you might expect. I saw no rage in his eyes. He was so sad, so hurt.”
“What would you expect after telling him that you betrayed his father, betrayed him?” Morion observes, that old spite replacing what kindness was in her voice.
“Perhaps you should let her finish, Morion,” Morrigan tells her, “before casting judgment so easily.”
“Very well.”
Amy lowers her head, having to recall now an even worse memory. Morion and Mikha’el sit back down.
“The horror I felt over doing what I did, and of Alastor killing me, came with me to the afterlife. At first everything was black. I could feel nothing. It was like being born I guess, as light began to fill the darkness, and I became aware that I was actually laying on rough ground. Opening my eyes, the world I found myself in was not that which I had been taught to expect. In my betrayal of the man I loved, I became no better than the barbarians that Alastor had slain all those years ago. I had been cast into the realm of the dishonored dead.” 
The faces of Mikha’el and Morion change. The scope of Amy’s story now hitting them. 
“And there I stayed,” she continues, “for what felt centuries. There is no concept of time there, and it is naught but the souls of the dead wailing, some resuming the sins of their previous lives. An insanity began to grow in the depths of my mind at this constant existence while I grew ever more furious with Alastor. My memories began to fade, only my rage and hate of him who damned me to that place being left to me. That is until he came.”
“He?”
“Lucius, the Necromancer,” Morrigan responds on Amy’s behalf.
“He somehow came into the spirit world, still made of flesh,” Amy explains. “He offered us, the dishonored, a chance for revenge against those who condemned us if we would serve him. Many agreed to his terms and through his dark powers, we were ripped from the dishonored land, given again flesh and bone, but a new flesh to suit his needs. He seemed to know who I was, my history, and how I died. As such, he chose me as his second lieutenant. He needed only say the name, the name of the man I hated, the man I wanted so very much to kill, Alastor, and I would do anything for him. Knowing this, Lucius sent me on my first mission: to find the rogue princess of Halvard and kill her. Alastor, I was assured, would show himself. When he did, I was at my discretion to do as I pleased, so long as it did not conflict with Lucius’ ultimate goal.”
Morion is confused at this.
“I do not understand. If that were true, why did you not simply kill us when you had the chance?”
“We tried. Well, Cale tried. It was his idea to use Hector’s assassins in the forest. Then ‘Tristan,’ as you had taken to calling Alastor, came. Cale did not know anything about Alastor, and I could not fully remember his face. The man who saved you and the Alastor I knew seemed so different that Cale and I had little choice but to play along, continuing the bard masquerade, fearful of whoever this man was because, clearly, he was not normal.”
“Why not just kill us as we slept?”
“Well, if I wanted to, I could not have anyway. ‘Tristan’ never slept, as though his life depended on not sleeping. Which is just a nice way of telling you that he always suspected us of our ties. Twice we signaled for more assassins, and twice ‘Tristan’ defended you.”
“You say ‘if you wanted to.’ Why?”
“Meeting you, talking to you and ‘Tristan’... it stirred something in my soul, a soul I forgot I had. Lost memories that I could not see. Being with you two, I felt human again. I did not want to hurt you anymore.”
“Yet you attacked Alastor when he revealed himself,” Mikha’el points out.
“Cale saw what he called my ‘growing cowardice.’ He threatened to inform Lucius if I did not do what I was sent to do. Cale then began reminding me of the hell that he and I had been living in, that Alastor had sent me to. He rekindled my hatred. But only for Alastor. So it was he and he alone that I tried to attack.”
Mikha’el rubs his chin, pondering over the story he has heard.
“Many questions have you answered, except one,” he says.
“What might that be?”
“Why the change of heart? Why did you help us?”
Amy looks to Morrigan as she answers.
“Understand that it was Alastor that I helped, first and foremost. That you two benefitted is secondary to me. That said, remember that my memories had faded. Who I was had long ago, by my accounting, vanished. This Fairy gave them back to me. I went against my new master in an effort to right my wrongs, as Alastor has done, and his father before him. I see Lucius for what he is, and anything I can do to help Alastor end his terror, I will do.”
“Then you can begin by telling us how the Necromancer is able to move between this world and the other.”
“I did not learn how he managed the feat in the short time between being pulled from the dishonored land and sent on my mission with Cale. All I do know for certain is that all of us, the elite former dead that is, can at will do it ourselves... though at great physical and spiritual toll.”
“A toll? You mean to say Lucius would limit his own lieutenants?” remarks Morion.
“I do not think it to be intentional, but the nature of his power.”
“He is strong, but his craft is not perfect,” Morrigan adds.
“Not yet anyway,” muses Amy.
“What sort of toll is it?” asks Mikha’el.
“Our bond to this world loosens each time we move between the two. Lucius would have been forced to fashion new bodies for those who have been weakened drastically. If we break the bond totally, we are pulled back into the dishonored, wrecked and ruined. A mere shade. In that state, there is no coming back.” 
“Is there any way that this can be used against the Necromancer?” asks the Queen.
“I do not know. I hoped Alastor would have some insight into that.”
“Without Alastor,” Morrigan says with authority, “any more talk on this subject is pointless. The best thing we can do right now is the simplest.”
“And what is that?”
“Rest of course,” the Fairy says, looking to Morion.
“She is right,” Mikha’el says to Morion. “My Lady, it has been a long day. Rest is in order, for all of us I think.”
The Queen nods in acceptance. Amy’s story has fatigued her more than the events of the day, which seem now to exist in some far off place. Now, she thinks, she understands Alastor fully. His coldness, the callousness. Its origin could easily have driven a lesser man to untold depths of insanity. Perhaps, she muses to herself, that process had already began.
“Sleep is most tempting, but I need to see Alastor first,” she tells Mikha’el.
“As you wish, My Lady.”
With a final glance to Morrigan, Amy and Mikha’el, the Queen leaves the hall.
~-~~-~
Back in Alastor’s room, Morion finds the Knight in an ill state. His skin has grown ever paler, his body twitching for some unknowable reason. She looks to his forearms, there seeing the black metal, now freed of their former leather facades. She reaches out her hand to touch the metal.
“I would not do that, My Lady,” Mikha’el’s voice suddenly rings out.
Morion turns to his voice. Mikha’el stands at the doors.
“Why?”
Walking to the water basin, Mikha’el dips a finger into it, then lets a droplet fall into the metal. It evaporates immediately on contact with a loud crackle.
“How is that possible? He is not burnt, and the sheets are not singed. I do not understand.”
“Nor do I, fully at least.”
“What do you suspect?”
“I think it to be a defensive reaction from the armor itself, to protect the wearer. You see, it only reacts in such a way to those things which carry an element of life. It would not burn Alastor, as it protects him, and the sheets are far from living.”
The Queen eyes the armor with aversion. Moving her hand away from the bracers to Alastor’s forehead only to recoil it in horror at the touch.
“He is cold as ice!”
“That he is, though it is of a most unnatural cause.”
“Is there anything we can do for him?”
“My Lady, what afflicts Alastor is beyond my ability to heal. For the first time in many a year, I am at a complete loss.”
“I suppose then that we must trust in fate’s course.”
Mikha’el walks passed Morion, stepping out on to the balcony.
“I have looked into the eyes of Fate, My Lady, and I for one do not believe her competent to complete the task.” As he steps on to the railing, he looks back to the Queen. “I must be alone for a time, to let all I have learned today brew in my mind. I have already lit an oil lamp for you in your room. You should sleep.”
With woe filled heart, Mikha’el flies off.
Morion places her attention back upon Alastor, wanting so much to help him yet crushed by the knowledge that she can do nothing of the sort. Unsure of everything, she kisses him on the forehead, ignoring the chill, before leaving to her own room. 
The oil lamp burns brightly from its place on the vanity, the light reflecting in the mirror helping to illuminate the whole room. She carries it to the night stand, ready to extinguish it. She stops herself. There are no windows in this room. Rather than face the black of night again, she lets the lamp burn as she tries to fall asleep.

Chapter Thirteen
The Man in the Coffin
Return to Table of Contents

In her dream Morion is home again, but it is cold and silent. No one is seen in the city. The world has a darkly serene beauty to it. 
Tragically magnificent. 
The Queen drifts down the streets, through rain which hangs in the air, never to fall, always to be frozen in place. Her feet guide her against her will to the castle. Inside the hall, the music of a harpsichord is playing, coming from the direction of the throne room. Two lines of blue flames, floating on nothingness, light the way. She follows, a fly into the spider’s web.
The blue flames all fly into the throne room, fanning out in an arc then closing in, becoming a halo around the throne seat. Morion follows them in cautiously. The music continues, a lamentable song. A funeral dirge.
“Who comes into my resting place?” an ominous yet wise voice asks.
“Who wishes to know?” Morion responds defiantly.
“Oh, just a sad, lonely man. No different than so many others.”
Morion surveys the throne room apprehensively, but there is no one there.
“Where are you?” she asks.
The voice laughs softly, the music increasing in tempo, but retaining its miserable spirit. A horrid grinding sound is added to it, stone upon stone. Morion watches the throne itself moving, sliding to the left. Once it has stopped, the Queen can see a dark entryway leading down, under the castle. Secret passages in ancient earth.
“I reside down here, child. Come.”
Against her better wisdom, Morion does so.
Deep in the underbelly of her castle, a feeling of dread sparks to life, feeds on her fear, manifests in the form of a rapid heartbeat. The blue flames follow, burning pixies of ill omen. Morion cannot be sure if it is real or her imagination, but she would swear that she can hear the flames laughing, giggling, and just overall making fun of the Queen.
“Who are you?” she asks the guiding voice again.
“Has so much time elapsed that I have become utterly forgotten? A day is as a year in the eye of a god, but to one such as myself, though, centuries could very well have passed in the blink of an eye.”
Morion treads into a coarsely hewn antechamber, opening into a large round room with a domed ceiling. In the center, over a pit of metal spikes like splintered bones and blades like razors, hangs a huge iron coffin bound by heavy chains anchored into the very walls. The music continues, emanating from within.
“Is this a crypt or a prison?” she asks herself.
“A bit of both,” the voice answers mirthfully from within the coffin, hearing her question.
“You are in this coffin?”
“Put all the pieces together yourself, have you? Yes. I am within, bound as a criminal within a box for the dead.”
“I do not understand. Who bound you here?”
The music comes to a ruthless end. Killed with a pound of the keys.
“My bastard son and his pathetic allies,” the voice seethes. “The traitor and the coward! Him and the king of this insignificant castle!” he roars.
The coffin stirs, whomever inside it thrashing about, screaming in agony and hatred.
“What is your name?” Morion calmly asks.
The thrashing stops. For a moment, a sickeningly eerie silence pervades the chamber, but is broken by an odd sound. A sound like sniffing, as a dog on a trail, comes from the coffin.
“I know that blood. The stench has filled my nostrils for far too long in my sleep. Oh, innocent child, how I lament for thee. To be an unwitting accessory in their grand scheme and know me not. Free me, child, and grace shall be given to thee.”
Without thinking, Morion sternly answers.
“Never.”
“You would deny me, child?”
“Your chains tell me that I should hate you, and to condemn you to remain here. So I shall.”
“Then I will slay you, and my son, and bathe in your blood!” the voice roars. The man in the coffin rages, pounding upon its interior with so much force as to cause the chains to rattle and creak. “Free me!”
“Never.”
“Free me!” he yells, slamming his fists against his metal prison.
He continues, yelling and thrashing, his voice growing ever more desperate until at last he lets loose a wail of agony. So loud is the wail that Morion is awoken.
~-~~-~
Sitting up in her bed, cold sweat covering her and with pounding heart, the Queen finds herself in safe haven. She shakes her head, trying to toss out the sound of that abominable pounding and wailing yet, try as she might, it will not end. Her initial thought is that she has finally gone mad but, after a quick tally of her mental faculties, it becomes clear that the sounds are not coming from her mind, rather it comes from outside her room. 
She throws back the covers, rushing to the door, unsure what to expect. Morion tries to ready herself, fingers trembling on the handle. She pulls the door open, exiting the room. In her dark imagination, she thinks she might find signs of supreme violence, conflict most foul. Instead, she comes upon Mikha’el on his knees, striking the wall and given to a half weep, half loathing. 
Morrigan and Amy come into the hallway also, descending from the Cloud Hall with distressed faces.
“Mikha’el? What is the meaning of this?” asks Morion.
Mikha’el grits his teeth, agony written on his face. His eyes looking beyond the wall before him, digging his taloned fingers into the stone. He turns his face up to Morion, but he cannot share her gaze.
“My Lady, I have failed everyone.” 
“What are you talking about?”
“Alastor has died!”
Morion becomes expressionless. Shocked numb.
“That is not possible,” she whispers.
“Most impossible,” the Fairy reiterates.
Mikha’el looks to the women, hoping for answers.
“How so?” he asks. “There is no pulse in him, no breath.”
Morrigan refuses to believe this. She enters Alastor’s room, quickly followed by the others. The Fairy removes Alastor’s bandages, his wounds are closed but now of a sickly color, like putrid, rotten flesh. She also checks the wounds on his back. They too are closed but nevertheless akin to the look of being week long dead. Laying him back down, the Fairy becomes confused. Where Alastor is unwounded, his flesh is normal, and that which was wounded appears to belong to a corpse. Closing her eyes, she places her hands on his chest, over his heart. After a time, she sneers in disgust, opening her eyes and looking at the bracers.
“You damnable villain. Is there no end to your treachery?”
“What is it Edna?” Morion asks, accidently using the Fairy’s false name.
“Alastor is dead, and at the same time, he is alive. Just barely, but the spark is still there.”
“How can he be alive yet dead? Such a thing is madness,” Mikha’el says.
“Mikha’el, has Alastor ever told you, or for that matter any of you, what the Black Armor is?”
“He made allusions, never more than that.”
“Morion?”
“He had said to me that ‘although this armor can bestow incredible power to us, the armor acts more as a sort of doorway into the best - but far more oft worst - elements of our souls. Even those with the best of intentions in their minds can, and usually were, drawn to serve evil.’ That is all he told me, and is thus all I know.”
“Is that all he said?”
Morion thinks for a second.
“No, he had said before that the armor was a penance, not a gift. But he may as well have been speaking in riddles.”
“Those things combine to become a rather accurate, albeit vague, representation of the armor. Adding to what Alastor said, with each wearer the armor does different things, granting power or knowledge. The effect of the armor is as widely varied as those who have worn it.”
Morion is struck by a thought.
“What did it give to Alastor?”
Morrigan smiles broadly, remembering some far off event.
“Alastor, before coming into ownership of these bracers, had the strength of many men and it was nearly impossible to kill him, though he was quite mortal, as both Amy and Mikha’el can attest.”
“And with the bracers?”
“He is, in essence, immortal. Incapable of dying even if he wanted to, it appears.”
“What if he had worn the whole suit?” Mikha’el asks quietly.
“There is no telling, but Alastor and Eoin both believed whatever he became, it would be at the cost of his humanity. It was why Alastor was so fearful of the armor, and why he needed Eoin to seal it.”
“If Alastor is immortal, Fairy, how is it that he lays here now, skirting the two worlds?”
“Lucius must have learned of Alastor’s wearing the bracers, and discerned the effect they have upon him. With that knowledge, it seems that the Necromancer has set into motion a plan to incapacitate his brother.”
“Incapacitate?” Amy repeats.
“A powerful toxin works through Alastor’s veins. A compound forged by Lucius specifically for Alastor. Any other person, and death would have already come. But Alastor’s body is kept alive by the armor. The armor is trying to keep its wearer alive at all costs, but the toxin seems to become agitated by this, growing in potency. The armor reacts to this, the toxin is further agitated. It is as though - ”
“He lives only to die the next instant, in an unending cycle,” Amy interjects, enmity in her voice for her former master.
“Yes, that would have been the result of Lucius’ little trap, except...”
“Except what?” Morion demands.
“Alastor is not in his body. That is, his soul no longer occupies it.”
“So he is dead?”
“No. This is what confuses me. If he was truly dead, his soul gone from the body, the power within the bracers would have ceased, the toxin would take over and Alastor’s body would be overcome by it. None of this is right.”
All of the company in that room become distant and brooding. A horrible thought comes to Morion.
“If Alastor were to die, where would his soul go?”
“What do you mean?”
“He said his bloodline was cursed. If he died, would he have done so dishonored?”
Morrigan lowers her head, a great sadness passing over her.
“In spite of all he has done, the answer is yes.”
“What if...”
“Yes, Morion?”
“Well, what if he was being restrained there?”
“Restrained?” Morrigan’s eyes change. She looks at phantoms that are not there. “No, that cannot be possible,” she whispers to herself, trailing away from the others, her eyes finally coming to rest on the Knight. “I am sorry, Alastor. Nothing has gone as it was supposed to. Perhaps I was not as brilliant as I thought.”
“Morrigan, what are you saying?” asks Amy, coming up behind the Fairy.
“I wish I knew. I began this whole chain of events to help them, but at every bend in the road it goes horribly afoul.”
“None of that matters right now,” Morion declares with such force it takes even Mikha’el aback. “Is there anything we can do now to bring Alastor back?”
“There might be. I could go to the spirit realm and look for him. If he is indeed bound, then logic would dictate he could be freed.”
“Then you shall do that, and you will take me with you.”
“Morion, it does not work that way. I can move freely between the realms, but it is not as though I can simply open a door and bring you with me. I do not reside there.”
“I can,” Amy says sharply. “As you know, I belong to both realms.”
“I will not allow it. It would be far too dangerous for you alone, and even more so for the both of you given that Morion is still alive.”
“I would wager I spent a fair share more time there than you, Morrigan,” Amy reminds the Fairy. “And I am more capable of fighting them that dwell there.”
“Be that as it may, you would be at a great disadvantage there if you came into the presence of Lucius, and to do so with Morion with you... it is unwise.”
“I am well aware of the risks for my part, but I must do this. Of the two of us, I am the most qualified to venture into the dishonored while you look after Alastor here.”
“And what of Morion?”
“She must do what she feels is her destiny. If she wishes to go with me, then I would take her.”
Morrigan can see she will not be convincing either woman against this action. 
“What say you, Morion?” the Fairy asks, turning to the Queen. “The realm of the dishonored is something you will never forget, and in all likelihood will regret having seen. Knowing this, would you still go?”
“Alastor is in this state because of me. If there is anything I can do to amend this, I will, no matter the personal cost,” Morion answers assertively.
Amy and Morion share a glance. For the first time, the two share a common bond. Amy nods appreciatively.
“Come with me then. We should be outside when we cross.”
They both share a final look at Alastor, Morrigan and Mikha’el, but as they start to leave, Mikha’el stops them.
“Be wary, My Lady. I do not think I can endure to lose another friend.” Then, looking to Amy, he adds: “And you. Return with her or do not come back at all.”
Amy does not speak nor acknowledge Mikha’el’s words, knowing them to be justified. She just exits Alastor’s room and heads for the stairs. Morion stops at the door.
“After this is done, I need to know who Cain is, and what he has to do with me,” she says to Morrigan.
Morrigan appears surprised by this, but nods in acceptance.
“I will tell all that I can tell, Your Highness.”
Morion promptly follows after Amy. As they swoop down the stairs, Amy explains to Morion some of the intricacies of the dishonored realm.
“Where we are about to go, it is nothing like this world you are so accustomed to. It is the shadow, the echo, the faint memory of this one. Its physical form is always in constant movement and upheaval and, depending on how hard you concentrate, you can change what you see. Also, do well to remember that it is first and foremost a place of punishment. As such, it is full of those in agony and torment. The rest I shall explain when we are there.”
The Queen questions this decision for a moment, but retakes her resolve, knowing that Alastor would have done the same thing, had their fortunes been reversed. Standing within the courtyard outside the keep, Amy gestures for Morion’s hand.
“What about weapons and provisions?”
“Food is not needed there, nor is sleep. As for weapons, you will see that for yourself.”
Taking Amy’s hand, Morion draws a deep breath as one does on the verge of plunging into water. A bizarre sensation covers the young Queen, while the world beyond her eyelids becomes black. A sound of howling wind whips about her, leaving her skin chill in its wake. 
The wind dies without any sort of climax. 
Morion opens her eyes, a dull light filling her vision. Like waking from a long slumber, the world is disjointed, a blurred mix of dark and light, shapes and voids. Then the world comes into focus, the colors having strange, otherworldly hues, ranging from blue to green, to purple and orange. The silence after the wind now gives way to a new sound, at first remote but as it grows louder Morion is crushed by it. The voices of an untold, unseen legion, wailing, screaming, crying. The voices of internal torment and inexorable sadness. It grows so loud she is brought to her knees, palms over her ears in a desperate attempt to keep them at bay, lest she be devoured by the emotion.
“Focus! Concentrate on not hearing them!” Amy yells.
“I can not... there is too much pain.”
Amy kneels down, holding Morion firmly.
“You must think of not hearing it, otherwise it will continue to grow stronger.”
The Queen struggles against the onslaught of voices, the cacophony of despair, the symphony of the damned. Cries of anguish, the final words and thoughts of those about to die, wars being fought, foul sins being committed. 
In the midst of this, something catches Morion’s attention. A familiar voice. Her own voice. In her ears echoes all her unspoken prayers, her crying and mourning for her murdered father. Even her most shameful desires she hears. Her thoughts are pulled then to Gawain himself, and the voices fade into a single one: his.
“My God, grant your servant who is about to die one request - give my daughter and Alastor the strength and courage they will need to combat this hideous foe before me, this damnable villain.”
“Alastor,” she whispers.
Again, the voices change.
“Father!” is the cry. “Please, this cannot have happened!”
Another familiar voice, but different than the one she knows. Alastor, younger, but him nonetheless. Looking up, she can not only hear, but see through Alastor’s own eyes the fateful day of his finding Eoin slain.
“Father,” whispers the young Knight, on his knees, looking down at his father sprawled out before him. “What will I do now? I cannot be left alone. Not again. Please.”
Just then, Amy, the true Amy, runs into the armory. Morion is stunned by the sight of her, for Amy in life was almost identical to herself. If she did not know better, Amy could have been her own sister. 
The mirage continues. 
Amy explaining her crime. 
The vision becomes watery, and the Queen realizes that Alastor is crying. He takes up a sword, just as Amy described, and thrusts it into Amy’s heart. Morion shakes her head and looks away, wanting it to be over, the sight too horrible to watch, but it does not end. 
Morion looks back. 
Alastor shambles backward, covering his face from the sight of Amy slumped against the wall, unsuppressed lamenting emanating from him. He looks at his father, and to his companion.
“What have I done? Amelia... father...”
In a rage, he pulls a sword from the rack on the wall. 
The very sword that he would eventually give Morion. 
He holds it, looking at it.
“Mother, your son follows your example! Nevermore shall he draw breath! Let us fester in misery as one happy family!”
It happens in the blink of an eye. 
Alastor has thrust the blade into his own chest. He falls forward, the beating of his heart weakening, going silent. He reaches out to his dead father with a quivering hand as the world around him fades.
“Amelia, I am so very sorry... should we ever meet in another life, I will not ask for your forgiveness.”
With a final stretch, Alastor tries to grab the hand of his father, but his aim is amiss. Instead it lands on the bracer on Eoin’s forearm. The metal comes alive, reaching to Alastor’s arm with a claw like grip. 
The second bracer does the same. 
They reform, seamless on his arms, the blackness clouding his eyes chased away by the crystal clear clarity of the display before him. His heart beats again.
“No...” he whispers, not wanting to believe what has just taken place.
He sits up, glancing down at the sword in his chest, then to the black metal he now wears.
“No.”
He claws at the metal, trying to take it off, but he cannot. There are no seams to try and rip open.
“No! This cannot be.”
Alastor pulls the sword out from his chest, dark blood covering it. He throws the sword aside, looking down at the wound above his heart. He touches it, putting his fingers into it. 
It is real, yet he is alive.
“So be it,” he says without emotion. “Life is a far greater punishment than death, I suppose.”
He stands, looking at the bodies of those he loved more than anything.
The vision finally ends, and there standing in front of Morion is Amy, in her inhuman form, but the Queen now sees beyond it to the real woman. In this form, she is still Amelia. The fair-haired bard was Lucius’ mask for her.
“Did you see that?” the Queen asks Amy.
“No. What you saw could only be seen by you, as it was you who conjured it. What did you see?”
“Alastor and... you. I saw - ”
“Oh,” Amy interrupts, almost embarrassed. “Do not tell me. What you saw was clearly meant for you alone.”
Amy helps Morion to stand. Both of them examining carefully their whereabouts. Morion is shaken by the experience, and the sight of the twisted, mocking world around does not help.
“What sort of place is this?” she asks with disdain.

Chapter Fourteen
The Realm of the Dishonored
Return to Table of Contents

Alastor opens his eyes.
Instinctively he tries to move, but he cannot. He is bound about the wrists between two pillars, on top of each burns a pale blue light. The chains themselves are bound directly to the bracers on his forearms. With a sneer, he lets his body go limp, defeated and, for some unknown reason, quite exhausted. 
His hair falls into his face, where he receives a mild surprise. His own hair is now stark white, and a blue robe is girt about his waist, leaving his chest, shoulders and upper arms bare. 
A flash of memory passes before his eyes; blades exploding out of his chest. 
Trying to yell but only having blood spray from his mouth. 
Flying through the air, a sweet, familiar voice talking to him and then... then that beautiful sensation he felt all those years ago when he last heard that voice. 
Death’s soft wings gently caressing his face. 
That sensation which was stolen from him by the very things which now bind him to the pillars. So beautiful a thing to have taken away so many times now.
Alastor looks down at his chest, half expecting to see the tell tale signs of his injuries, but there is nothing. More than nothing; all his scars are gone, as though they have never existed. As though they never could.
“How could I have died?” he asks himself. 
“You did not,” a voice calmly answers from behind Alastor.
The Knight tries to find the origin of the voice, but the vicinity is utter blackness, the light from the pillars lighting nothing but a small halo around him.
“Show yourself, Lucius,” Alastor smolderingly demands.
“As you wish.”
With a snap of his fingers, Lucius lights turquoise flames around the perimeter of the chamber. Alastor looks up, grimacing at the what stands before him: a large metal coffin bound to the walls by heavy chains. Lucius slinks around to face Alastor, each sizing the other up, taking note of the other’s appearance. Lucius still wears his black robes and cloak, but now with the hood down. Long, black hair frames a darkly attractive face. Interestingly, Lucius appears more ‘alive’ here than in the living world itself.
Lucius is visibly astonished as he looks upon his brother’s countenance.
“What is this? White hair? Robes? So, this is what you really look like, brother?” Lucius questions with a sense of removal from the situation. He runs his fingers through Alastor’s hair. “This is awfully surprising, given that your hands are just as bloodied as mine. If not more so.”
“If I am not dead, how and why am I here?” asks Alastor, ignoring Lucius’ statement.
“Come now, brother. You know where we are and, thus, what I intend to do.”
“That does not explain how you are keeping me here.”
Lucius gestures to the bracers with a lazy glance.
“Brother, what Samael has wrought is His for evermore. Be it you, or our father’s father, this shall never change,” he explains without any sort of animosity or egotism. “I willingly gave my life to Him, devoted my life to His aims and He, in return, has bestowed many wonderful gifts upon me. Of these gifts, one of the greatest was complete knowledge of this realm. After many years of study, I finally grasped how best to utilize and manipulate it.”
“Spare me the diatribe and answer my question.”
“As you wish. Not too many years ago, I learned that you were indeed wearing the unsealed portion of the Black Armor regularly, and through the accounts of your various exploits, deducted the armor’s effect upon you. After that, it was merely a matter of brewing a divine little necrosis toxin; a beauty of a poison that uses the bracers to keep you alive and dead endlessly; the remnants of my work you saw in Judeheim, I am sure you recall. I then set in motion a little plan to draw you back to me, using Halvard and its virtuous, pure hearted Princess-turned-Martyr Morion as bait so that I might get my little potion in your blood. All flawlessly executed if I do say so myself. 
“Once in that wonderful twilight state, being constantly drawn between the realms, I simply bound you. You belong here, after all, what with you so boldly wearing Cain’s Armor, even if for the noblest of reasons. Embracing that curse which you were always so fearful of. As I said, what is Samael’s is His, including the armor, and all those born from the blood of the man whom it was forged for.”
Alastor looks to the bracers, cursing himself.
“Congratulations, brother... but why separate me from my body, yet keep my body alive? You had plenty of opportunity to kill me long before I and the armor came together.”
Lucius gestures grandiosely to the coffin, almost like he mocks the situation. Alastor does not properly take note of this, nor his brother’s changing attitude.
“To free our Father of fathers, of course. His lock skirts the realms, so I needed a key which could so the same.”
Alastor laughs.
“But you do not have my body. I was carried away by my friends.”
“You call them friends? To each his own I suppose, but you are correct. I do not have your body, I do however... have your blood, which should be enough.”
Alastor curses himself again, hanging his head in defeat.
“Why do all this? The same blood that flows in my veins flows through yours as well.”
“That is not entirely true, is it? A point father was always adamant to make known to me,” Lucius muses with a smirk. “Even if it was, though, it would not change one simple fact.”
“What would that be?”
“You got to the armor first,” Lucius replies with a playful tone of annoyance. “That Fairy drew me away long enough to keep me from gathering father’s remains. You arrived at the keep before I realized what she had done, you touched the portion father still wore and thus it was bound to you. Not that I care anymore. I much prefer this line of events. Self-sacrifice has absolutely no appeal to me.” 
Alastor absorbs Lucius’ words, dissecting them.
“I never heard that Cain’s lock was dual natured,” he says.
Lucius grins his sarcastically sadistic smile.
“With the company you keep, I find it odd that you did not know this.”
“The company I keep?”
“I would advise you to question Morrigan, but as you can see, she is not around, and you will be here for a while yet.”
The coffin stirs, the faint sound of breathing coming from it. Alastor’s strength begins to rise from its forgotten depths, and he tries to pull on his chains.
“You will not keep me here, brother.”
“You can never, by your own will, free yourself, Alastor. It is your own evil that keeps you here. As such, escape is impossible.”
The stirring of the coffin increases, causing Lucius to laugh gently. Alastor stares harshly at his brother.
“Nothing is impossible.”
“We shall see, little brother. My work here is done for now. Nevertheless, I am not totally without love for you. I will leave you some old friends who have been dying to see you again. Enjoy your stay.”
“Cain would never share power, Lucius,” Alastor calls out.
Lucius ignores this, vanishing into the darkened recesses of the chamber, just as figures emerge from the shadows of the prison tomb.
“Is that really him?” one of the figures asks.
“I do not remember white hair. Do you?” asks another. 
“It is him. There is no doubt,” says a third.
As the figures near Alastor, he can see that they are men, inhuman like the rest of Lucius’ private army. Their faces appear familiar, but they are lost to the domain of forgotten memories. One of the men steps forward, asserting himself as the leader of this group.
“Greetings, Alastor. It has been too long. Based on the look upon your face, you do not remember any of us.”
“I am afraid that I do not.”
“Why would you? Why bother to remember the faces of those you have killed?”
“If I killed you, I am sure there was a very good reason.”
All of the men growl at Alastor’s words.
“Is that so? I doubt Amelia felt the same way.”
Alastor bares his teeth in the purest of burning hatreds. His keepers laugh heartily. 
Weapons materialize from their hands, spectral swords real as any metal. As they pull back to strike Alastor, a bright light explodes, followed by a righteous shout. Another man seemingly comes from nowhere, knocking Lucius’ executioner detachment down. 
With holy fury, the man swings down his sword upon Alastor’s chains, shattering them utterly and freeing the bound Knight.
“Alastor,” he pronounces, “we must leave this place at once, but we must fight our way out.”
The executioners arise, joined by more from the shadows. Alastor merely thinks of his sword and it appears in his hand. Without pausing to ask questions of his deliverer, he cuts a swath through the attacking foes. They do not fall, but on contact with Alastor’s sword, they simply disintegrate. With each defeated foe, two more take its place. The righteous man fights just as effortless and fiercely as Alastor. Over the course of battle, they come back to back.
“It would seem you have made many enemies in your life, Alastor.”
“That I have, and I would have thought you to be one of them.”
“You mean to say you remember me?”
“I have spent every day since trying to forget. You were the leader of the barbarians that attacked Arkelon.”
“Indeed. Heimdal is my name, and the event you refer to is much different from my point of view.”
“How so?”
They are then interrupted as a group of creatures attack like a pack of wolves.
“A story best saved for later, friend!”
The longer the battle rages, the more the creatures increase in number. Soon a different sound comes from the coffin: laughter. Alastor knows what manner of being occupies that box. It was the one thing that struck fear into his heart as a child. 
The destiny, so forcibly thrust upon him by so many, within arm’s reach.
“Right place, wrong realm of existence,” Alastor whispers. “I will return, Cain. Of that you can be sure.”
“I await with bated breath, child,” Cain whispers back, “as I have already waited for so long.”
Heimdal has been clearing the way to the tomb’s exit.
“Alastor, come now! Important things need to be said, but not here!”
“Go on, child. It is most impossible for us not to meet again,” Cain conveys in the mocking tone of a caring father.
Alastor follows Heimdal, cutting down those who try to stop him. Arriving at a stone stair, Heimdal leads Alastor up and out. The Knight looks back down the passage to the following horde when another flash of light fills everything, blinding all. When vision is restored, it is discovered that a wall of light now blocks off the stairs, keeping the creatures within the prison tomb. Heimdal looks at the wall with relief, which Alastor takes note of.
“Whom do you serve?” Alastor asks him.
“Once we are away from this place, I can tell you.”
Alastor nods, and the two continue their escape.
Bounding upward, much faster than one could in the physical world, Alastor examines the sword in his hand. The shine of the blade pulsates in rhythm with his own heartbeat, which is all the more curious given that he has a heartbeat here. Releasing his grip on the weapon, it fades away to nothing. 
Light can be seen ahead, and the two come into the unnatural glow of the dishonored land, standing in Halvard’s central square. The stairs they just ascended begin to change, and the passage itself closes. Alastor can conclusively determine that those stairs were never really there; the result of some force willing them and the passage to be.
“Come now, Alastor. The powers that be,” Heimdal says, pointing a finger skyward, “are going to great lengths to free you from this place.”
Alastor turns his eyes skyward to see another wall of light slowly enveloping the shadow Halvard. The two run with all haste to the city gate. Just as they exit, the dome of light closes down. Alastor cautiously touches it. It is physical, but causes no effect on him.
“Is this just a physical barrier?” he asks Heimdal.
“No. If one of Lucius’ minions touch it, they will immediately fade, losing their form for some time.”
“You know my brother’s name?”
“I know a fair share more than that, friend. I shall explain along the way.”
Heimdal takes Alastor along the northern road from Halvard, the very same road that in the mortal world would lead to Judeheim.
“Where are you taking me?”
“The only sacred ground in this forsaken place: Valkyr.”
“How can there be sacred ground here, and why does this realm mirror the other?”
“The second question I shall answer first. Before the first dishonored dead arrived here, it was a shapeless mass. As more and more people found themselves here, their very memories began to sculpt the landscape. Each new arrival here changes this world. Making a long, confusing story short, as people die and come here it changes to reflect the memories of the places they knew best, more or less making it identical to the mortal realm, most of the time.”
Alastor is slightly unnerved by this.
“So, it is not an exact duplicate. Whichever places are more strongly remembered would be more detailed than those which are only vaguely recalled, correct?”
“Aye.”
“And the existence of holy ground?”
“That is a fairly recent occurrence, by my estimation of time at any rate. As you very well know, this was to be a place of punishment, reflection and waiting. One fine day, one of the nameless God’s servants somehow convinced Him that there were people in these lands that in life deserved to be here through their actions, but were of... well, a better heart then their actions in life showed them to have. This servant said that there would be some among the dishonored who would repent, embracing the nameless One and aiding His cause.”
“And that is what you have done? Repented?”
“Aye.”
“Is aiding me a condition of this mercy?”
“It is part of it. Once you are safe, I am to continue scouring the land, as many of us who have repented do, searching among the millions of dishonored for another like ourselves.”
“Redemption does not come free.”
“It is a very small price to pay for a second chance, and a price I gladly pay to avoid the madness that this place can bring.”
“Understandable,” Alastor says softly, remembering the dream Morrigan gave him, remembering the true Madness, an all too real inferno hidden deep under the land of the dishonored.
As the two men slowly walk the road, the ghostly images of men and women fade in and out of sight, most seemingly unaware of Alastor or Heimdal. Alastor raises an eyebrow.
“Confused?” Heimdal asks.
“Yes. I thought everyone who came here did so ‘whole,’ as you and I are.”
“Those were not people. Not exactly. Everything that happens in the mortal world has an energy to it. Every bad thing that happens there, and even every good thing to an extent, it leaves an ‘imprint’ here.”
“Which is what those were?”
 “Yes. However, some of these events are so powerful, that the imprint can be imbued with a sort of life, and can become spirits that walk in both worlds.” 
“Ghosts?”
“Not exactly the best of words, but yes, ghosts. Among other things.”
Another ghost image appears before Alastor, stopping him. The figure is a man, Alastor’s height and build, its face utterly dead. It just stands there, staring through Alastor.
“These cannot see us at all?”
“Correct. Trust me, the ones that can see you will let you know they see you.”
Alastor passes his hand across the image’s face, moving right through it. After which, the image dissipates. Alastor and Heimdal continue walking, the Knight most perturbed over the whole series of events.
~-~~-~
Still outside the sharply distinct visage of Alastor’s keep, Morion and Amy get ready to depart.
“Now, concerning weapons,” Amy instructs, “since this realm is by its very nature conflict incarnate, all who come here are armed, though most do not know this.”
“I do not follow.”
With a sly smile, Amy extends her arm, and from her hand what appears as mist-like shadow mingled with ribbons of liquid silver twists and tightens into the shape of a sword. Amy grips the hilt and the sword becomes as solid and real as any normal sword.
“And that, my Queen, is all there is to it.”
“But how is it done?” Morion asks, a touch of annoyance in her voice at Amy’s lack of proper instruction.
“You simply will it to be. It is as easy as taking a breath or blinking. Or, in your case, as easy as conjuring visions of the past.”
Morion hesitates, but does as Amy explained. To her surprise, it works. A slender bladed sword forms, exotically crafted and detailed like no other sword she has seen or even imagined. Feeling she understand the process, she wills the weapon away.
“Interesting. Now to our mission. Where might we find Alastor?”
“Where else but where he was injured?” shrugs Amy.
Morion glances around the dishonored world, taking note of the somewhat surreal appearance of everything, and especially of the castle and keep, which have a decidedly hellish aura despite being visibly normal.
“Onward to Halvard then, though I do not know if I have the heart to see this version of it.”
The two women begin their walk. Morion looks back almost by reflex, but does not behold what she expects. The castle is whole, pristine. A sound of whispers surrounding it. The Queen tries to focus her mind on it, only she cannot. Something clouds her. Instinct tells her not to even think about this until Alastor is safe, and so she looks away, uninterested.
Amy inspects herself while they travel, grunting in displeasure at being forced into her abominable other form. Shrugging this off, she glances at Morion, seeing worry and concern on the Queen’s face.
“You did not have to come, Morion,” Amy says, trying to be as gentle as possible. “Neither of us had to. We could have let Morrigan go and we could have stayed with Alastor.”
“No, I could not have sat there while that Fairy did whatever she may here. And, it is best that I came. What I saw in that vision, she could never have shown me.”
“You do not trust her?” 
“I did, when I thought she was someone else. Now that she has proven otherwise, what reason do I have to continue trusting her?”
Amy hears under this the accusation whispered against her, unintentional though it may have been.
“None, I suppose,” Amy utters while trying not to be offended by Morion’s words. “But coming here against her warnings, this is not simply a matter of you not trusting Morrigan, is it?”
Morion’s eyes become distant, her face expressionless.
“Whatever do you mean?” she responds, feigning ignorance.
“You love him. You love him and it is that which scares you.” Morion turns to Amy with a look of slight shock. “Do not be too surprised. I was in the exact same position as you, once upon a time.”
“Then I will not deny that I love him, but why would that scare me?”
“On one hand, you feel that you should never tell him what is in your heart. Learning about his past has surely increased your leaning towards this. However, on the other hand you feel with all your heart that you alone can help him through whatever his tumultuous destiny has in store, and that this is so certain, you would risk anything to tell him how you feel. Am I correct?”
Morion hesitates, looking in to, searching the depths of, Amy’s eyes.
“Yes, and making it all the more unnerving is that I still do not know what his ‘destiny’ is. I feel as though I am swept up into this grand series of events, the meanings of which are known to all except myself.”
“You, Your Highness, would not be the only one. I forced my way into his life, not fully aware of who he was. I always thought of him as one does of any other man. That mistake, as you can see, cost me dearly.”
Morion and Amy smile, a bond has now been forged between the two. Morion now feels a sympathy towards Amy’s plight.
“Is there no way for you to be ‘normal’ again?” she asks.
Amy sighs.
“Morrigan insinuated that there was, and that Alastor would play an integral role in such a plan.”
“This is why you rebelled against Lucius? The belief that Alastor could free you from this?”
“That was how I interpreted Morrigan’s words. Of course, I could have understood wrong.”
“Then that is all the more reason to find him. Perhaps he can shed some light on the matter.”
“This is my dearest hope.”
Awareness of time is different within the land of the dishonored. In the mere moments since their talk had began, since Morion looked at the complete castle, she turns back again to find it out of sight completely, they having traveled many miles away from it. Morion raises her eyebrows, not sure if she is impressed or utterly frightened.
And so they continue to trek, conversing together, speaking of their previously innocent lives. Before long, in relative terms at least, a suspicion of being watched creeps over Morion, but she pushes it to the back of her mind. In reaction to this, though, an idea comes to her.
“I thought there would be more people here,” Morion says to Amy.
“There usually is.”
“So this is not normal?”
“Not even remotely. Something is most definitely wrong here.”
Amy looks around uneasily. For someone that had spent years in this place, the idea of her being apprehensive is most unnerving to the Queen.
Each step now comes with the utmost caution.
~-~~-~
“Would you mind explaining how you have come to serve the nameless God?” Alastor asks. “After all, the last time I saw you, you were a servant of Samael.”
Heimdal looks at Alastor as one hurt, but not by the words, rather by the remembering of the past.
“I was many things in life, but never did I, nor those people whom I led, serve Samael. At least... not directly.”
“To serve him is to serve him, whether it is direct or not.”
“Strike true Knight, but my people at one time did in fact serve the one you call the nameless God, and to us the Great Father. It was long before my time, but our stories and scrolls left no dispute to the God we kept. At any rate we began to change. Our God became gods, and even they changed with the seasons. When we needed good crops, we worshiped one, when we went to war, there was another. 
“There was always another, Alastor.
“The worship became soulless, mechanized you might say. Devout religion without any purpose but the motions of religiousness themselves. We were the very definition of stagnation, and it showed in our society even. There was no love in us, no natural affection. There was lust and excess, and that too was devoid of meaning. It just was. At the time I took control of our people, we were on hard times as a result. Crops would not grow, the waters of our forefathers and foremothers receded, the animals fled. When it looked as we would soon die out, he came to us.”
“Lucius?”
“No. A man. A distant brother of ours by the name of Rennir.”
Alastor stops cold in his tracks. He tightens his hands into fists unconsciously.
“Rennir? Are you sure?”
“Aye. I have had a long time to think of that bastard son of a jackal.”
“It sounds as though you have ill feelings towards him,” Alastor says satirically.
“I am sure that I am hardly the only one,” Heimdal says, noting Alastor’s tightened fists. “But my reasons are great.”
“I would not doubt that for a moment,” Alastor agrees as he continues walking.
“When Rennir came, we embraced his presence. He taught the people of his god, that if we would worship him, we would survive. Many of us, myself included, were angry with our gods. Absorbed with our anger, we fully accepted what Rennir taught, whole hearted, never questioning. I am ashamed to admit that I heeded these things, but I will not deny the truth.”
“I think I know now where this story is going,” Alastor says with a lowered head and grave voice.
Heimdal smirks as he continues.
“Rennir taught us that the Great Father, whom we no longer knew as our own, was in fact the Great Enemy, the liar, the deceiver, and that the god which we all now served was the opposing force. Rennir, acting as our seer, our oracle, instructed us to go out and take what we needed and what we wanted from them who claimed the nameless God as their master. This was our divine right, and in this endeavor we were successful. Too successful. We began to indulge in the conquest, the bloodlust, and the other crimes which I shall not name, for you know them well. We roamed as a horde. We would lay siege to a city or town to settle in it, but grew bored as we sat in one place, so we would move on.”
“And then one day, you came to an unassuming town called Arkelon.”
“Aye. It was fair sized, but still a meager little child where cities are concerned, so we expected no resistance. To our great surprise, they did not fear us. They even defied us. So... we decided to play with them, amused by their apparent courage. We took pleasure in telling stories of what we would do to their people. We so enjoyed talking loud so that they could hear us on the other side of their wall. Then, fortune would have it, a young man dressed in black with a face grim as Death himself walked through our camp and directly into Arkelon. We mocked him, laughed. Little did we know what Fate had in store for us. That very night, She severely punished us for our transgressions; our executioner had walked among us. The Angel of Death did not pass over us.”
Alastor and Heimdal share a glance. Heimdal’s eyes show immense mourning. That night in Arkelon flashes through the Knight’s mind.
“You cannot understand how much I regret that night,” Alastor tells Heimdal.
“You should not, dear Knight.”
“How can you say that? I slaughtered all of you!”
“And we deserved it! Every last one of us. We acted like animals, worse even. What you did, I thank you with all my heart for.”
Alastor looks at Heimdal aghast. For years, this singular event has been the source of his greatest guilt. No, Alastor corrects in his mind. It was the second greatest. One night in Arkelon had brought along with it many woes.
“How can you thank me for what I had done?”
“It led me back to true faith, Alastor.”
“I think you might need to explain that.”
“When you first killed me, I raged. I could see the shadows and hear the echoes of my people’s battle with you, and I watched as one by one my brothers and sisters came into this realm after me. At first I thought it a mere fluke. I knew that, within moments, I would be face to face with you again, where I would revel in my people’s victory over you. But they continued to pass into the dishonored, laid to waste by Death’s blade. Our numbers grew larger, but we all waited, absolutely sure that our surviving brethren would best you. 
“While the others who died cursed you, a singular thought began to creep into my tattered soul: how could our enemy be so powerful? Then, it dawned on me with such force I think I wept. He was not our enemy. We were his. He was the hero, we were the villains. 
“When we realized that every one of us fell to you, killed in battle with a lone man, my people grew furious, engulfed in a burning hatred. In short, they became exactly what this realm was made for. A small number, myself included, were humbled by our defeat. There was always strife amongst us, but we did in death as in life, wandering the dishonored lands together until, at last, your brother came. He offered us revenge against you if we would serve him. The moment he told my brothers and sisters that they would again walk the plains of the living, they swore allegiance, save that small handful of us which bore you no ill will for what you had done.”
“What reason did you have to believe that remaining would be of any good?”
“There was none, really. We collectively felt a need to endure our penance, even if it was for an eternity. The guilt we suffered for our past lives was enough to keep us from returning. We saw Lucius for what he was, and none of us wished to cause pain again.” Heimdal clasps Alastor’s shoulder. “So, I say it again: Thank you, Knight.”
Alastor cannot so easily accept this. He finally takes the time to survey the land around him, immediately recognizing the area they are in.
“We have already passed Judeheim? Where is this ‘Valkyr’ then? There is not much farther north we can go.”
“We are nearing it, and when we do, there will be little challenge in your mind of its origin.”
Alastor finds this statement most interesting, but another thought comes in.
“Why have we not seen anyone else here? There are thousands of years worth of dishonored dead, yet it has been... well, empty, save those who attacked in Cain’s prison and the shades we have passed.”
Heimdal’s face contorts as he struggles to find the right words.
“Alastor, in the time since Valkyr’s creation, a proverbial line has been drawn in the sand in these lands.”
“You are preparing for battle? You can not mean that even here, you are readying for war.”
“I have said perhaps more than my allotted portion. When in Valkyr, the Archgeneral will explain to you.” 
“Archgeneral?”
“God’s emissary to the dishonored.”
Alastor has no choice but to nod in acknowledgment that he must wait for his answers. He veers his focus to his hands, remembering the bracers with the still connected segment of chains attached.
“Who am I?” he whispers.
“Show me a man who does not ask himself that very question, and I shall show you a man who lives in an illusion of his own making,” Heimdal says reassuringly. “In life, that question haunted me. So much did it consume me that I let my rule over my people become tainted.” 
Heimdal stops Alastor, looking stern and serious.
“What is it?” Alastor asks him.
“Alastor, if there is a single piece of advice I can give you, it is this: Release whatever guilt you are carrying. Wallowing in that darkness will do nothing to change the past. Whatever you have done to others, whatever others may have done... in the end it all serves to make you stronger, not weaker. Guilt will do nothing but cause your resolve to atrophy and your heart to decay. Even here, you are still a man, flesh and bone... figuratively speaking. You cannot see what each event of your life is leading up to. Letting yourself take the blame for every evil in your life will keep you from seeing the intended good. All things can be worked for good, which makes guilt one of the only true evils. Remember that, Knight.”
Heimdal places his hand on Alastor’s shoulder before continuing on.
Alastor’s mind wanders, falling into deep introspection. He looks at Heimdal from the corner of his eye, his words burrowing far into the recesses of Alastor’s hidden self. The Knight casts his eyes downward, watching each step forward when Heimdal suddenly and triumphantly shouts.
“Ah! We have arrived!”
Raising his head, Alastor is stunned by what he sees. 
Sprawled out before him is a bright, shining city, encased in a high and beautiful wall. The wall is made of a white stone inlaid with veins of gold and blue metals forming intricate patterns that shimmer in their own light. Before the two men, at the end of the road they stand on, stands a massive pair of gates, solid and shining like a polished shield. Heimdal leads Alastor down the hill toward the gate, the city becoming lost behind the walls. Guarding the gate are two men, each wearing white, hooded tunics. They both wield golden-bladed scythes, crossed before the gates.
“Heimdal, brave and true, you have returned,” the gate keepers say in unison.
“I have,” Heimdal responds.
“But, who is this one with you?” asks the guard on the right.
“He is not one of this realm,” asserts the left.
“This is Alastor,” Heimdal begins to explain.
“Son of Eoin,” says the right keeper.
“Brother of Lucius,” adds the left keeper.
“You have been expected for a very long time,” they again say in unison. “Yet your arrival here is premature. Enter friends, brothers, and report to the Archgeneral. This turn of events is now of the utmost importance.”
The gates are opened, the keepers part their scythes. Heimdal passes through first. The keepers give him a respectful nod as he enters Valkyr. Alastor slowly follows, but as he does so the keepers lower to one knee and bow their heads in reverence. Before Alastor can question them, the gates close.
Beyond the walls, the city itself is made of that same white stone with the blue and gold metals. Striking Alastor is the fact that no building is locked by means of a door, instead only curtains of white, blue or gold hang in their thresholds, except for a single, massive structure at the city’s heart with doors of gold and inlaid with silver. The buildings themselves are clear of purpose; halls for eating, houses for sleeping, armories and barracks for forging and training. The true focal point of the city is the building in the center, without question in Alastor’s mind a temple.
Stretched out before the temple is a wide court, full of men and women, marshaled together, some sparring in practice, others talking in small groups. All of them wear armor. Alastor is immensely impressed by the armor they all wear. The metal is bright, almost like silver, covering only the front of their bodies, and even then just the most important parts of the body. By the way the people move, Alastor gathers that the armor is extremely light, and not cumbersome in the least. Their helms are more akin to crowns, protecting the forehead while from the brow seven talons curve over the top of the head, with the center most talon being longer than the rest. The look is most attractive, Alastor thinks, and especially among the female soldiers.
In the center of this ocean of armor clad figures is another man, taller and wearing full plate armor of gold rather than silver, and with a purple mantle about his shoulders. He wears not the simple circlet-helm of the silver armor wearers, but a full helmet which covers his head. All are oblivious to Alastor.
Heimdal makes quick work of changing that.
“Soldiers of Valkyr!” Heimdal shouts. “I come back to you, bringing with me a mighty friend!”
All eyes shift to Alastor and Heimdal. Hushed whispers move through the crowd. Others, unarmored, pour out from the buildings. The gold clad soldier stands like a statue, staring at Alastor, giving way to shaking his head in disbelief. He strides to Alastor, passing Heimdal with a pat on the shoulder. The gold soldier stands an arm’s length from Alastor, taking in the Knight but still unable to trust his eyes.
“You should not be here, Alastor. Not yet.”
Alastor crooks his neck, finding the voice from beyond the gold helmet familiar. He is forced to think for a moment, and then it hits him.
“I would think you should not be here at all, Gawain.”
The man removes his helmet, revealing a much younger, yet darker of heart, Gawain than the one Alastor remembers.
“Under the current circumstances, I would not want to be anywhere else, friend.”
“What circumstances might those be?”
Gawain casts his gaze out over the city, to the innumerable denizens which dwell within the walls.
“Let us speak in the temple,” Gawain tells Alastor as he begins to lead him.
While they move through the armored men and women, each and every one drops to one knee with bowed head.
“Why do they do that?” Alastor asks of Gawain.
Gawain searches Alastor’s eyes, gauging how best to answer.
“Alastor, you are important here. Or will be, I should assert. Suffice to say, I will not tell you anymore than that. I hope you understand.”
Alastor says nothing, used to that old excuse. They ascend the stairs to the temple. Inside, it is empty.
“You are the Archgeneral Heimdal and those gate keepers spoke of I assume?” observes Alastor.
“That I am.”
“Which means you are also the servant that convinced the unnamed One that there were good people amongst the dishonored.”
“Correct.”
“None of this even comes close to what father tried to teach me.”
“I just about said the same thing as I awoke after being killed by Lucius.”
Gawain stops walking as he sees by Alastor’s expression that the use of that name was unexpected.
“You know about Lucius now?” Alastor asks.
“I have since learned everything there is to know about your brother, and I understand why you never told me about him, even after our little skirmish in Judeheim. Do not feel guilty for keeping that knowledge to yourself, Alastor. Had our roles been reversed, I have no doubt that I would have done the very same.”
“It was father who instructed me to never speak of him.”
“I had assumed that Eoin would have done that. From my new perspective, I can see what might have happened had myself or others learned of Lucius’ family ties.”
“Perhaps now you can tell me why I am here. Heimdal had mentioned that a condition of his ‘salvation’ was to protect and deliver me here.”
“Is that so? Strange that he knew you were here and that no one else did until moments ago. Please, tell me what you can about your arrival here.”
Gawain directs Alastor into a sanctuary filled with benches. Gawain sits and gestures for the Knight to do so as well.
“How far back do you wish me to go?”
“Start after I died,” smirks Gawain.
Alastor cannot help but laugh as he tries to recall everything that has happened up to this point in his life.
“If I remember right, when I received your letter, I set out immediately to find Morion.”
Alastor stops as he sees Gawain’s eyes light up at the mention of his daughter’s name.
“Continue, Alastor.”
“Unfortunately, two of Lucius’ agents found her at roughly the same time as I did, in a small tavern east of Halvard.”
“The woodcutter town?”
“The very same.”
“We have recently received many of their population here.”
“Really?”
“We will speak of that later. Go on.”
“Well, Lucius’ agents posed as bards and Morion quickly engaged in talk with them about the ‘mythical Black Knight.’ They befriended one another easily. I, not wanting to make matters worse, watched and waited. In the night, assassins came to kill Morion, and the bards acting as altruistic, loyal friends tried to lead her secretly away. In reality, they were luring her into the assassin’s hands, whom they in fact commanded in secret.”
Gawain’s eyes change to slight annoyance.
“How can she have been so readily beguiled?”
“To be fair, it was impossible for her to know the extent of Lucius’ power. All she knew at the time was that he was your murderer.”
“That is very true.”
“I easily enough came in and dispatched the would be assassins, pathetic mercenaries hired by Hector to aid the bards. I told Morion I was commissioned by you to guide her to the Black Knight’s castle, using your second letter as my evidence. She accepted, but was adamant that the bards be allowed to follow. As I had no other course of action, since violence upon her new friends would be a sure sign of my allegiance with the Necromancer, I acquiesced to her orders... of course, I took the extremely long route home.”
Alastor and Gawain share a smile.
“And Morion never suspected who you were?” Gawain asks.
“Not in the slightest as far as I could tell, even after I told her of you and I in Judeheim.”
Gawain nods.
“You grew into quite a different man than I expected from the child who came with Eoin all those years ago. For her to not remember you is not at all unexpected.”
“I am not very much changed, Gawain. I was simply better at hiding myself back then. Everything that has happened since has merely darkened the threshold of an already sunless room.”
“Is that right?” Gawain lowers his head. “I do not believe so. You did not change until after Eoin... please, let us turn back to your story.”
“We soon came to Mikha’el’s village and there had our first introduction to Lucius’ ‘creatures,’ dishonored souls given dark, degenerated bodies.”
“Now, Alastor... you skipped a part.”
“How could you know?”
“We are always aware of new arrivals here,” Gawain says with a sarcastic grin.
“Then I need not go into detail. Battles such as those I do not like to recall.”
“Understandable, but answer me this: did Morion know about the violence that occurred while you kept watch over her?”
“Not until she was eavesdropping on Mikha’el and I speaking of it.”
“So you kept it away from her on purpose?”
“I could not stand to have her watch something like that. It was the same way with Amelia.”
“But with Amelia, she had seen what happens after you fight. Is that why you kept her with you? Because she had already seen you at your worst?”
“Yes,” Alastor says after some hesitation.
Gawain gives Alastor a moment to compose himself, knowing he has drudged up the young Knight’s most painful memory.
“Please proceed.”
“As you knew, Mikha’el and I had suspected Lucius of being able to move between the living and the dishonored lands simply as a means of transport, but the creature appeared to prove otherwise. Unfortunately, with Morion and the spies in tow, I could only instruct Mikha’el to investigate and then make the preparations to abandon their previously secret home, while I brought your daughter to the keep. I kept them in the Cloud Hall for a time after Mikha’el arrived. I was amused slightly at prolonging the drama of revealing myself, but eventually I did. Morion did not want to believe me whatsoever, for she thought father was still her mythical hero.”
“She always spoke of him, asked me of him. I of course gave her the more exaggerated tales. The stories of great deeds and valiance with a moral at the end. Eoin had once instructed me ‘if I am to ever be spoken of, please speak only of those instances which might help people.’ So I did, and they became a small religion to Morion. Growing up, she drew pictures and even wrote her own stories about him.”
“The fiction is far more enjoyable than the fact.”
“Indeed. So what happened when the bards learned who you were?”
“They changed. Physically, I mean. They became winged creatures. Lucius’ way of mocking the Guardian race. Mikha’el later confided in me that Lucius failed in that regard. He was even somewhat amused by it. Only one bard was killed, the other I let escape.”
“Escape? Why?”
“At first, she - ”
“She?”
“Yes. There was a man and a woman.”
“I see.”
“She reminded me of someone. The way she spoke, even the way she asked questions. But, more than anything, her eyes were the same.”
“You cannot be serious...”
“I wanted so hard not to believe it, even in light of the fact she called herself ‘Amy,’ but when she transformed, I could not fool myself any longer. Lucius brought Amelia back with the sole purpose of killing me. His version of a joke, I think.”
“And you did not have the heart to kill her a second time.”
Alastor laughs dark and low at what Gawain said.
“I tried to remove the heart that had done so the first time, remember?”
“I am sorry, I did not mean...”
Gawain allows a moment of silence to pass.
“It does not matter, Gawain. The past is what it is.”
“Anyway, knowing my daughter, even after that she still had trouble believing you.”
“Yes, so I fulfilled my ‘contract’ to guide her to the Black Knight by showing her father’s tomb.”
“Seeing the Knight dead probably sobered her up.”
“Quite. Some of her naïveté faded that instant, I believe.”
Alastor stops, a perplexed look on his face.
“What is it, Alastor?”
“That was only a few days ago, but it seems much, much longer.”
“The realm has that effect, and to make matters worse, it never goes away.”
“The day after, we made way back to Halvard to confront the Necromancer. After a few unexpected battles, we did so.”
“Not before you came across the woodcutter’s town, utterly destroyed.”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry she had to see that. This whole story fills in around all the small pieces I have learned from the people who have recently died. Part of me worries about the scope. Now, what happened in Halvard?”
“Not far from the city, Mikha’el and I were separated from Morion. The trees themselves blocked our way, bursting forth to try and restrain us. When we attained freedom, we only found a broken and shattered house.”
“Edna’s. Morion’s home outside the castle.”
“I instructed Mikha’el to fly overhead while I assaulted the city. I came across only minimal resistance and quickly found Morion in the throne room, along with Edna and Amelia, acting as Lucius’ personal guard. Lucius revealed to Morion that he and I were brothers just to spite me, and on top of it kept making allusions to Amelia and myself to Morion, though of course your daughter did not have the vaguest clue what he was actually saying. We dueled before being interrupted by Hector.”
“How could that pathetic wretch get the two of you to stop?”
“Having a blade to Morion’s throat while Amelia was watching on was enough to get me to stop. Lucius stopped simply because I had.”
“Hector... I should have killed him myself when Gallahad died,” Gawain says to himself with a low snarl.
“Hector thought he had the upper hand. I offered up myself in exchange for Morion. Hector thought it was a joke, but Mikha’el came down, sword drawn and then Edna became Morrigan, who was - ”
“The Ice Fairy from Judeheim?”
“Very well... how did you know that one?”
“Who do you think I first met after I died? Morrigan explained that she had been masquerading as ‘Edna’ for an extremely long time, moving me in line with what Eoin was doing. I was upset at first to learn this, but in retrospect, it makes sense. Again, I do not blame you for never telling me.”
Alastor smiles appreciatively before continuing.
“The best part was that Morrigan had convinced Amelia to aid us, and she was then the one holding a blade to Hector.”
“I always knew I liked that girl, even though I never met her.”
“All appeared to be going so well... until I was struck down.”
Gawain now is the one that struggles.
“Knowing what I know now, I find it extremely hard to accept that you could be killed. I thought the bracers prevented that?”
“That is the problem. I am not dead... not entirely.”
“What!?”
“Waking up here, in Cain’s prison, Lucius explained that he poisoned me in such a way as to keep my body in an endless cycle of death and rebirth.”
“How is that possible?”
Alastor raises his arms, showing Gawain the bracers. Gawain coming to understand their meaning.
“Lucius figured out that I was wearing them. He talked about how ‘what is wrought by Samael is his’ and that since he served Samael, he had the ability to trap me here, since I wore these.”
Gawain’s eyes become very cunning and introspective.
“What reason did Lucius give for bringing you here, Alastor?”
“To unlock Cain’s bindings. Apparently, they exist in both realms at the same time. He needed a ‘key’ that could do the same.”
Gawain stands, his mind racing. He paces as the pieces start to fall into place.
“Alastor, I do believe I know now why you were allowed to be brought here ahead of schedule.”
“Ahead of schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Pray tell.”
“When I died, Morrigan led me to what you would call heaven, and the first thing I did was look for someone. Unable to find this person, I spoke with God himself. There, in His presence, I was told of what is to come, and my place in it. I begged to be allowed to search among the dishonored not only for those who might aid Him, but for my friend, whom I believed far better suited to the times ahead than myself.” Gawain stops, turning to Alastor slowly, methodically continuing. “Do you know of whom I speak?”
Alastor, watching Gawain with a sharp eye sees in Gawain’s face almost too clearly the answer.
“You came here, gave up paradise, to find my father?”
“Yes. I have even mustered an army to aid me in this task, which you saw but a portion, yet... Eoin is nowhere to be found.”
Alastor falls away from Gawain, his body going slack, panic gripping his heart of hearts. An imagined smell filling his nostrils.
“I know what you are saying now. You cannot find father, because he was never here to begin with.”
“No one of your blood is, Alastor, not as long as the curse brought upon it by Cain lives on. I only recently learned this. I had hoped to find a way to him, but I am unable to make the descent.”
“But I can.”
Gawain nods apologetically.
“Eoin was a far better man than I. The very thought of him being in that place... I cannot endure it.”
“I know. That thought has haunted me since his murder.”
“Alastor, I will not ask you to do this.”
“You know you would not need to ask me, Gawain.”
“So, you will...?”
Alastor looks deep into his soul, making sure that its answer is the same which his mind has come to. Regretfully, it is.
“I shall descend into the fiery abyss of the Madness and free my father.”

Chapter Fifteen
Reunited
Return to Table of Contents

Amy and Morion walk over yet another hill. A smile passes on the Queen’s face as she comes to realize where they are. It fades away in roughly the same moment.
“This is the city where we first met,” Morion says.
“But then Lucius had it destroyed,” Amy softly adds.
“Why did he do that? Alastor told me what he thought, but I want to hear from you why the Necromancer did it.”
“You do not want to know.”
“I need to know, whether I want to or not.”
“He thought it would be amusing to hurt you and Alastor. He revels in causing that sort of pain. It was why he sent me in the first place.”
“The monster...” seethes Morion.
They walk through the ruins, both mournfully. For Morion, the buildings constantly fade between the two versions she saw. One moment they are burned out husks, the next they are back to normal.
“Are you seeing what I am seeing Amy?”
“Yes. You want the city to be as it was, but it is at odds with what those who died here saw.”
“That is why I saw the black castle collapsed one moment, and then whole?”
“Probably.”
“That would mean someone who saw the castle whole wants it to remain?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
The woodcutter town is quiet, as every place they have walked through has been. The lack of wind or sound increases the feeling of dread. Amy and Morion wander the streets, looking for some sign of life, or unlife, as the situation might deem. Coming to the tavern, Morion is brought to a halt.
“Morion? What is it?”
Morion does not speak, but her unmoving gaze is all Amy needs. From within the tavern, orbs of light like eyes can be seen carefully watching the two women.
A shriek breaks the stifling silence.
Creatures more hideous than any seen yet spring forth from all directions, their hissing and gurgling growls filling the city. Amy and Morion summon their weapons, defending themselves against the snare. It does not take long for it to become apparent that the creatures are not there for them both. The foul things only notice Morion, and they attack her with relentless tenacity. Amy does her best to aid Morion, but it is practically in vain; Morion has found an inner wellspring of strength, fending off her attackers with such ease and savagery that Amy is reminded of watching Alastor.
Morion moves swiftly and decisively, almost feeling where the next attack will come from. The young Queen dodges attacks while viciously counter attacking, letting out snarls of anger and irritation. The fight moves along the city’s main street, creatures continuing to pour forth from the buildings. 
Amy forces herself into the fray, felling one foe after another and finally earning her the attention of the monsters. 
With each creature Morion sends back to the black pit of the void, her weapon changes, grows, eventually looking similar to Alastor’s own claymore, but it does not change her ability to fight. If anything, it increases her lethality. Her mind begins to wander, her attention drawn elsewhere, yet she remains all but invincible. 
A sadness falls on her like a veil, and she recalls Alastor, in the catacombs of Judeheim, the description he gave of that battle, the sensations he felt. The very same sensations she now feels. What this means, Morion cannot grasp. She simply defends herself.
The battle grows at a perpetual rate. 
Morion and Amy defeat the creatures as fast as they appear, causing their rage to increase, which in reciprocation causes more creatures to ooze from every shadow and every crack with evil intent. Neither side has any desire for this to end, but at that moment a single voice cries out, bringing all to an instantaneous halt.
Morion and Amy set their attention skyward, seeing there a winged woman, like one of Mikha’el’s race, wearing beautiful golden armor. Four more such women fly with her, two to each side, all wearing silver armor. In their hands they all wield fierce looking spears. The creatures grimace and howl at these winged women before scurrying away into the darkened corners of the buildings and into the trees. The soldier in gold catches sight of Amy, not hesitating to swoop down in an attempt to attack her. Morion dashes to Amy’s aid, catching the soldier’s spear on her blade.
“Stand down!” the soldier demands. “This is one of them!”
“She is not!” declares Morion. “She is my guide here. And my friend.”
The soldier backs off, carefully examining the two women with confusion on her face.
“You are not dead. Either of you...”
“Well, I was dead at one time,” Amy chortles.
“You. You are one of Lucius’ lieutenants, are you not?” the soldier asks sharply.
“Not any more. My alliance rests alone with the one she seeks,” Amy answers, gesturing to Morion. “None other in all of creation can claim it.”
The gold clad soldier faces her compatriots briefly, then looks back to Morion. Morion’s heart still races, the sword in her hand remaining. The Queen stares down the soldiers, woeful of heart and wary of soul. The face of the gold clad soldier changes a bit as she looks into Morion’s eyes.
“You are looking for Alastor, are you not?” the soldier asks in a gentle tone.
“I am,” Morion answers as emotionless as possible.
The silver clad soldiers look for some sign of deceit in Morion, but the one in gold becomes almost compassionate.
“You are Morion, daughter of Gawain?”
Both Amy and Morion are somewhat dumbstruck.
“How could you have known that?”
“Lucky guess, based on a description given to me.”
“Who here could have possibly given you such a description?”
“I think it best for us to leave this place before continuing this conversation.”
“Why?”
“This territory has become the spawning grounds for creatures such as the ones you just faced.”
“Where is there to go? And, more importantly, who are you?” Amy sternly asks.
The golden soldier gestures to those in silver, sending them away.
“I am Rachel, general of the forces of Valkyr.”
“Valkyr?”
“The Holy Refuge, for those dishonored who have repented of their sins.”
Morion looks to Amy, Amy has become crestfallen and removed, stunned and confused all at once at this claim.
“How can a holy place exist here?” Morion meekly asks on Amy’s behalf.
“There was a man of the highest order of honor that spoke on behalf of the dishonored to God himself. God found wisdom in the man’s words and set up Valkyr.”
“Will you take us there?”asks Amy, her heart downcast, eyes focusing on nothing, but still aware of the mission at hand.
“I shall.”
Morion and Amy allow their weapons to vanish. Rachel smiles then motions for the two women to follow her. She leads them north, leaving the forsaken city behind. Rachel guides Amy and Morion along paths neither has ever traversed. The Queen watches as Rachel folds her wings over her armor, forming that natural cloak that their race has been gifted with. She is reminded bitterly of Mikha’el, and thinks on how much she wishes he was with her in this wretched place. Morion turns to Amy, finding her still depressed.
“Amy? What is bothering you?”
“I think... maybe I made a mistake in coming here.”
“But, without you, I could not have come here.”
“I know, and understand that I wanted to come here just as much as you did, but that does not stop me from feeling like I did something very, very wrong.”
Rachel looks over her shoulder, but says nothing.
“Is Alastor in Valkyr?” Morion asks Rachel.
“I am not sure. He should be by now.”
“You mean to say that you do not know where he is?”
“Last I heard, he was in Halvard. I was on my way to help, but I then received orders to search for anything or anyone out of the ordinary.”
“Halvard? So he was still there?”
“Yes and no. From what I understand, Lucius was keeping him bound in Cain’s prison.”
“Cain’s prison?”
“Yes.”
Morion recalls her dream from the night before, Rachel unknowingly confirming the location of that chamber she was in. The chamber that held Cain within a coffin of metal.
“Why is his prison under my castle?” Morion asks angrily of no one in particular.
“A question best asked of someone else, My Lady,” Rachel answers dryly.
~-~~-~
Alastor steps to the shrine at the far end of the temple. It is little more than a table made of gold, and on both sides flanked by silver lamp stands.
“Alastor, what you are about to do, no one has ever done and it should not be taken lightly. If you need more time to prepare, time is the one luxury we have in ample supply while you are here. As much as I wish to have the aid of my friend, I will not risk his son, who has become like my own.”
The Knight stares unblinking at the golden table, the symbol of sacrifice.
“This very moment has long been in my heart and mind. Morrigan has known this day would come, and she has tried to prepare me for it... only now can I see that. I will descend, and I shall liberate Eoin, my father, the best our family blood has ever known.”
Gawain stands beside Alastor, reflecting.
“Then the choice is made, but so much has happened in so little a time. Rest for a while, please, for as real a dream or vision might feel, it will pale in comparison to the real thing.”
“Of that, I have little doubt.”
Gawain takes Alastor out of the temple. The soldiers have dispersed, going about their duties, sitting in prayer, studying or talking amongst themselves.
“Funny, is it not?” Gawain remarks with a smile.
“I fail to see what you mean.”
“Not even death has kept either of us from engaging in yet another little adventure. Men like us, we are raised to believe that death is an ending. We do as much as we can while alive to be remembered. To help others. To right wrongs. To leave a legacy. In reality, life was little more than a sparring session for the true battle yet to be fought.”
“It has to end eventually. Surely good and evil cannot simply go on for all eternity?”
“That is what all this is, Alastor... a means to an ending, as it were.”
A stirring moves through the people. Rushed words, pointing and running. Alastor and Gawain stop walking, unsure of what has happened. Up in the air, four armored soldiers are seen flying into the city. They land before Gawain.
“Where is Rachel?” Gawain asks as he looks over the four.
“She is coming,” one of the winged females answers, “and she brings with her two others: Lady Morion and her guide.”
Gawain turns to Alastor, confused, but Alastor keeps his eyes on the winged soldier.
“Morrigan is here?” Alastor asks.
“No, sir,” she replies. “The guide looked like a Lucian lieutenant, yet her heart was innocent, I believe.”
Gawain’s heart slinks away from him as the dark of sadness overtakes.
“She has died... I failed utterly.”
“Archgeneral,” the soldier speaks up, “Lady Morion is not dead. She is here, very much mortal.”
“Are you certain?” responds Gawain.
“There was no question, Archgeneral.”
“How long until they arrive?”
“We had stayed just out of eyeshot, as per Rachel’s orders to watch for enemies. They should arrive momentarily, sir.”
Gawain nods and dismisses the four with a look of gratefulness. He glances back to Alastor both heartened and dismayed.
“First you, now Amelia and Morion, and still alive on top of it all. Lucius’ meddling with this realm is weakening it. Why Samael would allow this, I cannot fathom.”
“Since when would Samael care about the natural order?” asks Alastor.
“When that order is actually in his favor. This realm is for the dishonored, which was the sole domain of Samael until the foundation of Valkyr.”
“Maybe it is Valkyr itself that has Samael using such desperate measures.”
A shout rings out from the direction of the gates. Gawain sets his helmet back on, and the two men go to investigate.
~-~~-~
Rachel stands inside Valkyr, beside the open gates, but Morion and Amy are outside; the two keepers barring the way, their scythes crossed.
“She is my guide!” Morion shouts. “My friend! I told you this already!”
Gawain walks up to Rachel authoritatively. Alastor remains behind Gawain, trying to stay out of sight.
“What is this?” the Archgeneral asks gruffly, trying to mask his voice.
“They will not allow the other one to pass,” Rachel answers the Archgeneral.
“Their kind is not permitted here,” both keepers respond. “She belongs to the enemy.”
“But she has recanted, abandoned Lucius!” Morion argues.
“One can never recant their blood, child. You would do well to remember this.”
Amy remains silent, dejected. This was what she expected.
“I know of this one, I can vouch for - ” Gawain begins, but is cut off.
“With all due respect, Archgeneral, you have already made a claim, and this dishonored is not the one of whom you spoke.”
“Then I will vouch for her! She is good, she is innocent!” Morion exclaims.
“Alas, you have not yet earned the right to make such a claim,” the keepers tell her with genuine kindness.
Morion looks to Rachel out of desperation.
“I cannot,” Rachel tells Morion with genuine sorrow. “I have already laid a claim as well...”
Amy falls to her knees, unwilling to remain standing. Morion looks to all whom are gathered, but droop their heads, hearts wilted, unable to do anything.
“I can vouch for her,” Alastor announces, coming out from behind Gawain.
The gate keepers turn their ears to Alastor, but their scythes remain crossed.
“We are listening,” they tell the Knight.
Morion stares at this white haired man, not able to comprehend his identity. Amy slowly raises her head to this voice. The voice she has not heard in so very long, not since the days before she joined the numbers of the dishonored.
“She came to this place because of me,” Alastor begins explaining to the twin keepers. “Her name is Amelia, and was a good and honorable woman in life. Any choices she made here were done so in distress because, from her point of view, she was wholly forsaken, and as such was left with no option but to follow Lucius. Had this place, this sanctuary, existed at the time that Lucius recruited her, I know with all my heart and soul that she would be standing here, on this side of your gate.”
Silence grips all. The keepers look to one another, conferring together wordlessly.
“Your words carry much weight, Alastor, son of Eoin,” they say. “Will you give us your undying word that she is deserving of being redeemed?”
“Her very being here is proof enough. She came here knowing full well that you could have ended her at first sight.”
“Her actions, past and present, are not of consequence, Lord Alastor. What we ask is your word, your promise, that her blood is redeemable. This is all that matters.”
“You have my word. My promise,” Alastor says with the manner of a king. 
The keepers again look to one another. After a moment, they uncross their scythes.
“A word of caution,” they speak solemnly, looking into Amy’s eyes. “Though you are now most welcome here, with a place of honor, your flesh still belongs to the enemy. Until you die, freeing yourself from Lucius’ bond, you cannot remain. Once Lord Alastor leaves, you will return with him to the world of mortality.”
“I understand,” Amy says meekly.
Morion looks down to Amy with a smile before stepping into Valkyr. She stares again at Alastor, seeing but not seeing him. Amy stands, ready to step through the gates, but she becomes motionless, hesitant. Her eyes and Alastor’s meet. Gawain, still unrevealed to his daughter, takes Morion gently by the shoulder, moving her to the side.
“Watch carefully,” he whispers to her.
Morion has the immediate urge to come face to face with the large man in golden armor, but does not, watching instead as Alastor steps closer to the gate, holding out his hand to Amy.
“Amelia, you can never know how sorry I am for what I did.”
“You might have pierced my heart, Alastor... but I wounded you far deeper,” Amy says with a mock smile.
“There is no excuse for my monstrous action.”
“I was not blameless. I did come here after all.”
Amelia takes Alastor’s hand and, with his help, steps through the gates. As she does so, energy and white fire engulf her in an instant, consuming her yet leaving her unharmed. Her skin, her wings, it all becomes like ash and falls away like a fragile veil, leaving behind her true self, the dark haired beauty, Amelia of Arkelon. Amy falls, overwhelmed by the change, but Alastor catches her, holding her. The clothes she wore, nothing more than tattered and singed rags have become a spotless white tunic. The people of the city cheer triumphantly.
“Why do they cheer so?” Morion asks the man behind her.
“It is always a joyous occasion when one joins our numbers, but she represents something new. She is the first of her kind, the first of Lucius’ army to be brought back from that brink of desolation.”
“There will be more?”
“I very much hope so,” Gawain answers, unable to hide his voice in light of his happiness.
Alastor helps Amy to stand, cradling her while she relearns how to control her body. Gawain allows the two a moment alone.
“As much as I hated you, or thought I hated you, I could not bring myself to take revenge at the keep,” Amy whispers to Alastor.
“You need never think of those things again, Amelia.”
“So, what have you been up to?” she questions with a sly smile.
“Fighting off legions of evil doers, trying to come to grip with who I am.”
“Just as I left you? Well, I guess we will have to try and change that.”
“Alastor,” Gawain calls, “if all is well, I do believe we have imperative matters to discuss.”
Alastor nods, letting Gawain lead them away. Gawain stops though, looking to Rachel as a sudden thought comes to him.
“Shall I join you, Archgeneral?” she asks.
“Yes. I think it would be best that you did.”
“Very well, sir. I will follow soon, but first I must speak with my soldiers.”
Alastor takes a long look at Rachel, thinking for a moment he has seen her before. He cannot think long on it however, as she flies off swift and sure. Gawain resumes taking them toward one of the lesser buildings, away from a majority of the population. 
~-~~-~
They come into a meeting hall, fuller than one might expect: cabinets with their unknown contents, bookcases full of scrolls and volumes, silver lamp stands and in the center a wonderfully wrought table of wood, surrounded by likewise magnificent chairs, and a bowl of the best looking fruit any had ever imagined on the table’s center, alongside a crystal pitcher of some golden drink.
Alastor brings Amy to a chair at the table, while Morion stops to face the gold clad warrior. The beginning of tears forming, and with them a smile skirting across her lips.
“Father,” she whispers as she moves to take off his helmet.
Gawain takes her hands gently, stopping her. He looks to Alastor, who nods. Gawain loosens his daughter’s hands, letting her remove the helmet. Morion smiles wide at seeing the face of her father, different as it is.
“Hello, daughter.”
Morion drops the helmet, throwing her arms around Gawain’s neck, holding him tightly in spite of his armor. She eventually pulls away, perusing his face.
“You look so different. Younger, I think.”
“This is my true self, free of the woes and sicknesses I carried in life.”
“But, you still look like you.”
“Aye, why would I not?”
“Alastor. He is almost a different man completely,” she says, turning to the Knight, who is oblivious to her words.
“Alastor is... unique. An anomaly and a curiosity.”
“How do you mean?”
“I am unable to say. When the time is right, all will know.”
After making sure Amy, still reeling from her transformation, is well, Alastor walks to Gawain and Morion, Morion meeting him halfway. Her scrutinizing eye now falling on him fully.
“Are you really my Alastor?” she asks, more of herself than the others.
“I was unaware that I was yours, Morion,” Alastor responds with a smirk.
Amy and Gawain manage a laugh, but Morion can only smile.
“You are definitely he,” she tells him. “And that means we can leave.”
“I am afraid, Your Highness, that I will not be leaving any time soon.”
“What? Why not!?”
“There is... a... task that I must first complete, Your Highness.”
“What could be more important than Lucius! The longer we remain, the stronger he becomes!”
“Morion,” Gawain speaks softly, trying to calm her down. “Lucius will be dealt with in time.”
As Morion begins her objection, Rachel enters, bowing before all, then walking to Gawain with a peculiar expression.
“How goes things?” Gawain asks his general.
“I am unsure,” Rachel replies.
“Unsure? What troubles you?”
“Except for the fell spawn that attacked your daughter, we have had no sign of Lucius’ army.”
“None whatsoever?”
“Correct.”
“Highly odd.”
“Why is that, Gawain?” Alastor asks.
“Lucius made no secret of his disdain for me and Valkyr. He delighted in causing mischief, attacking those whom we send out to search the dishonored. He even took Halvard as his staging grounds, both here and in the living world, as a way to insult me.”
“I think I know why you have not seen his army then.”
“By all means, tell me.”
“As Heimdal and I escaped from Cain’s prison, a covering of light began to encase Halvard. It was solid, impenetrable and, from what Heimdal said, untouchable by Lucius’ minions, lest they should lose their forms.”
“Most interesting.”
“Wait, father... what do you mean by Halvard being Lucius’ staging ground?” Morion asks.
“Daughter, surely you are not blind, nor deaf?”
“If she is those things, than so am I, Gawain,” Alastor says on her behalf.
“I have been recruiting from the legions of the dishonored, as he has been doing. He has raised an army, and so have I. What else do men use armies for?”
“A war? Here?”
“Not any war, Alastor. The War of Twilight.”
Alastor lowers his head, the simple truth he suspected now known.
“Now I understand why you need Eoin.”
“He prepared for this since he was a child, though then he knew it not. As a man, he led wars, commanded many great men, commanded me. As a father, he prepared you, even though he had only a inkling of what role you might play. Here is his life, come full circle, Alastor. His being in the pit of the Madness is a technicality, the fulfillment of the rules brought about by Cain’s pact-curse, but it is a fate he does not deserve.”
Amy and Morion look to one another, not understanding what the two men mean. Alastor and Gawain step aside, speaking in hushed tones. Rachel takes notice of the confused Morion and gently sits her down beside Amy.
“My Lady,” Rachel says, her face now much kinder, even loving, as she speaks. “I should apologize for my earlier harshness. I had to make sure you were who I thought you were.”
Morion smiles and nods in acceptance of this apology, but having this winged woman call her ‘My Lady’ leaves a strange feeling in her heart. The Queen looks to Alastor and her father, noticing how the Knight almost appears to be the greater of the two, the age one was in the land of the living holding no credence in Valkyr. 
The Knight and the King come to an agreement, shaking hands, clasping shoulders. Alastor looks to Rachel, Morion and finally Amy.
“Pray for me, My Ladies,” he says before leaving the room like a bolt of lightning..
Both Amy and Morion rush after him, running across the court and to the temple, but Alastor is much faster, covering the distance in an instant. In the temple shrine, they see Alastor. Mostly. He has knelt before the golden table, becoming a faded image of himself and then descends through the floor like it was water. Gawain and Rachel walk in calmly.
“Where did he go!?” demands Morion.
“Alastor has gone where no man should ever have to go: he has descended into the Madness, the lowest and most foul place of dishonor, where he shall rescue his father.”
Amy’s eyes gloss over and her heart skips a beat as she becomes lost in herself. Morion’s reaction is as opposite as can possibly be.
~-~~-~
In a small room adjacent to the temple shrine, Morion paces back and forth.
“My Lady, please sit down. When your father returns, he will explain all,” Rachel says calmly to the frustrated Queen.
Morion stops, eyeing Rachel suspiciously.
“Why do you call me that?”
“What?”
“‘My Lady.’ Why do you address me with those particular words?”
“If it offends you, I shall stop. I was merely trying to show proper respect.”
“No, it is not that it is offensive. Rather, I am only called that by one other person.”
Rachel smiles unabashedly.
“Would this other person by chance be Mikha’el?”
“Yes! How can you possibly know that?”
“Because Mikha’el is my brother, of course.”
Morion stops her pacing, stunned. Amy raises an eyebrow, but otherwise remains absentminded, her thoughts solely on what has happened to her, and more importantly in her heart, the well being of Alastor on his most demanding quest yet. She of course starts to entertain fantasies of what he goes through, and wishing more than anything she could be with him, helping in what ways she can.
“Mikha’el never even alluded to having had a sister,” Morion stammers.
“Most likely because the memory of her death is still haunting him,” Gawain says while he enters the room. “Seeing you, dearest daughter, probably brought that memory back full force, like the opening of an old wound.”
Morion struggles to speak, Gawain’s words making her head swim in an ocean of incomprehension.
“What would seeing me have to do with his memories?” she finally manages to speak.
“I was always glad that you were too young to remember.”
“Remember what, father?”
“Morion, what Mikha’el is to Alastor, Rachel would have been to you, except...”
“Father?”
“I died,” Rachel finishes with a removed smile.
“How?”
“Protecting you, My Lady.”
“...father?”
Morion becomes light headed, the blood draining from her face. She swoons. Gawain and Rachel both move to catch her, but it is Rachel that proves the swifter.
“My Lady, please sit,” Rachel whispers, helping the Queen into a seat.
“Father,” repeats Morion, sounding winded, tired and wounded. “I can understand others doing this, but why you? Why have you of all people kept so much from me? All these secrets. Pieces of history I have never been told. Why have I been kept in the dark about so much that would affect me?”
Gawain sighs. He knows that he has wronged his daughter.
“Morion, you must realize that none of us; Eoin, Alastor, Mikha’el, not even Morrigan expected events such as those which have transpired to occur. We thought we were in control, that we had everything planned for what was foreseen. I saw no reason to tell you, because from our point of view, everything was in proper line. It was simply a matter of time for Alastor to do what was necessary.”
“What, father!?” Morion yells. “What was in proper line!? What is this conspiracy you all refer to yet never tell me about? What is this secret that has been decaying Alastor, making him do things that no man should have had to do?”
“The destruction of Cain.”
Morion stares at her father.
“Cain. The man bound under our castle?”
“Yes. Did Alastor tell you?”
“No. Just before Amy and I came here, I dreamt of him.”
This comes as a disappointment to Gawain.
“Then I will not lie. The man under the castle is indeed Cain.”
“Who is he?”
“Eoin told me many things about him, but as you might have gathered, he is the progenitor of their bloodline, and he was the first Black Knight.”
“Perhaps, My Lord,” Rachel speaks up, “you should tell her of how you first became involved with the Knight.”
“Yes. Morion needs to know how we came to this point,” Gawain declares with a nod of approval, taking a seat facing his daughter. “And, seeing as there is no way of knowing how long Alastor will be, there is absolutely no better time to tell this story. It will hopefully offer some context to the events of the last weeks. Understand first, daughter, that all my life, I had only known of the Black Knight, not the man under the armor, but the hulk of armor itself. The Black Knight I knew of was... evil, to say the least.”
“Alastor mentioned that most of the armor’s wearers were so.”
“Alastor was most likely referring to his own grandfather. A man that neither he nor Eoin would ever again allow to be spoken of, to the point that they destroyed all physical references that they could. It was not until you came to the age of five years that I actually met Eoin.”
Rachel sits beside Gawain. Morion and Amy share a glance, the Queen looking for an ally in what she is about to undertake.
“I am listening, father.”

Chapter Sixteen
The Battle of Five Kingdoms
Return to Table of Contents

Gawain sets his daughter into her bed with care, not wanting to wake her, while his wife watches from the door.
“More birthdays like this one, and she will be spoiled in no time, Gawain.”
“Our daughter will only turn five once, Persephone,” he says, walking back to her. “Besides, we both know she will never be spoiled. She takes after her mother far more than she does her father.”
Persephone grins coyly, draping her arms around Gawain’s shoulders.
“Sweet talk will avail you not, dear husband.”
“Yes it will, dear wife.”
At that, the two kiss softly, letting themselves get lost in the perfect peace of the moment. Like all good things in life, it does not last. Rachel comes into the hall, walking morosely toward the King and Queen.
“Rachel? What are you still doing here? I thought you were off visiting your brother?” inquires Persephone.
Rachel raises her head, the lines on her face showing clearly the worry in her heart.
“I had a premonition along the way, so I returned. As soon as I stepped into the castle, Edna asked me to come let you know that there is someone in the throne room to see you, Lord Gawain.”
“At this hour, on this day?” Gawain says in bewilderment. “Go tell Edna to send this visitor away. She knows that no business, kingdom or otherwise, was to be had today. Whoever it is, he will have to come back tomorrow.”
Rachel vies with her tongue to find the right words to explain.
“Edna was quite adamant that I impart to you that this is no ordinary guest.”
Gawain opens his mouth to argue, though he stops at the sight of Rachel’s face, seeing on it something never before seen and wholly undesirable in someone normally so very strong. Letting go of his wife, Gawain starts to the throne room.
“Rachel, stay with Persephone and Morion. Please.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Gawain’s heart races, mind full to overflowing with possibilities. Walking through the moon and fire lit halls of the castle, instinct drives the King’s feet away from the throne room. He clenches his hands, grinds his teeth in anxiety. He comes into one of the guard houses, nearly scarring to death those stationed there. Gawain gestures to the pair closest to him.
“You two, come with me. The rest of you, silently gather the rest of the castle guard and come to the throne room.”
The men snap to action without question, but the King’s disposition lets them know clear as day that something is amiss. As the King and his swordsmen descend the stairs to the entrance hall, a palpable sensation of foreboding hangs in the air like musty fog. Gawain stops before the throne room doors, gesturing for the swordsmen to have their blades ready to be unsheathed. 
The King throws open the doors, no clue as to what truly awaits him beyond; there before the throne, back to Gawain and his men, a lone man, imposing in stature, clad in black armor, stands in mute, statuesque perfection.
“Who are you?” the King of Halvard demands.
The armored man rotates around to face Gawain and the swordsmen.
“Does this armor not spark even the faintest of memories, good King?” he asks.
Gawain stares abhorred at the man.
“The Black Knight?” Gawain mutters.
The swordsmen draw their weapons against the Black Knight without being ordered. 
“That is what some have taken to calling me,” the Black Knight says with an almost dejected tone.
The Black Knight raises his hands, opening them to show that he is unarmed, but Gawain does not care.
“Kill him!” the King growls to his men.
“Put those weapons away!” a voice cries out, annoyed.
Gawain wheels to the voice, finding Edna storming toward him.
“Edna, what are you doing here?” the King demands.
“Keeping you from making a grievous mistake from the looks of things!” the advisor shouts.
“Mistake?”
“Perhaps you should let the man speak before condemning him, Gawain. He has come unarmed, into the very heart of your kingdom, after all.”
Gawain burns, turning back to the Black Knight, not even trying to hide his scowl.
“Speak,” is all he says.
 The Black Knight lowers his arms, while Gawain signals for the men to lower their swords.
“You have every right to believe me a villain, but I am not the same man whom has created that reputation. Long ago, our fathers of old were allies. Friends even. Working together to fight a terrible evil and maintain the peace of the lands. However, while your fathers maintained their honor, eventually the blood of my forefathers fell to the wayside, and they committed many unspeakable, abominable acts. I intend wholeheartedly to try and make atonements, but for that I need your help Gawain, King of Halvard.”
The Black Knight’s voice is calm and gentle. Gawain with his expert ear can hear no deception in his words. The King gestures to Edna, now wanting her advice.
“He speaks the truth, of that I am most certain,” she speaks in a quiet voice.
“Very well then, Knight,” Gawain barks. “What do you need of me?”
“A somewhat more private place to talk, perhaps? This throne room,” the Knight says with a quick look back at the throne seat, “despite being quite beautiful, is far too open for comfort.”
Gawain signals for the men to remain in the throne room while he leads the Black Knight to the castle library. Edna follows quietly behind with a sly smile on her face.
~-~~-~
The Black Knight runs his armor clad fingers along the many rows and volumes of books, laughing or making an impressed sort of sound every once in a while. Gawain and Edna both sit at the central table while they wait for the Black Knight.
“This is quite the collection,” the Knight observes. “More than I would have expected to be honest. There are some books here that I thought long destroyed.”
“Now, of what service can I be to you, Knight?” Gawain asks, still untrusting and more than slightly perturbed.
The Black Knight forsakes the library, resetting his attention back to Gawain and Edna, a sigh of annoyance coming from him as he does so.
“Do not call me that,” he tells them as he removes his helmet. “My name is Eoin, and I would much prefer you call me by it.”
Eoin sets his helmet on the table. Gawain has trouble looking at the man behind the armor. Except for his long black hair, Eoin appears to be no older than himself. Edna smiles at seeing the unmasked Knight.
“As you wish, Eoin. I am listening.”
“Thank you, Gawain. Ensuring the safety of peace loving peoples has been the central pillar upon which my mission of undoing the evils of my blood has sat. Recently, while aiding a small artisan city in the east, I have learned of something that threatens those who I have sworn to protect.”
“What sort of something?”
“An army is being assembled in the south.”
“For what purpose is this supposed army mustering?”
“Quite simply to destroy all cities that profess faith in the nameless God.”
Gawain’s eyes search Eoin suspiciously.
“If half the stories I have heard concerning the Black Knight are even remotely true, I would think that you should have no problem with one army.”
Eoin smirks.
“That would normally be true, except this is not one army. It is three. Combined from the armies of three Samael worshiping kingdoms.”
“Three armies of Samaelites acting as one? I find that a hard story to swallow.”
“You know of Judeheim I assume?”
“Of course I do. Judeheim is more than an ally to us. We are an extension of it, and it of us.”
“Tomorrow, Halvard will receive representatives from Judeheim to collaborate what I have told you.”
“Why would they send people and, more importantly, how would you know this?”
“Because I have already recruited Judeheim’s aid, Gawain. It was the High Council itself that suggested I should try and enlist you, but they also knew that the likelihood of you trusting or believing me was low.” 
Gawain leans back in his chair, hand skirting the metal of his sword’s hilt. Never in a hundred lifetimes would he think he would be sitting and listening to the Black Knight, regardless of whomever occupied that contemptible armor. Unwilling to make up his mind, he glances over to his advisor.
“Edna? What say you?”
“I have felt a growing void, but I could not place it,” she says, closing her eyes. “Eoin’s story gives shape to the void, and if it is true that Samaelites gather, it is of grave importance to you, Your Highness.”
“And why would that be?”
“Because this army would exist only to crush followers of the nameless God, and they gather to the south. Where do you think they will strike first?”
Gawain knows the answer. He rubs his chin, evaluating all that has been told to him.
“What must I do to keep Halvard safe?” he asks Eoin.
“In order to meet this army before they come within striking range of Halvard, you would have to leave before dawn, the day after next. Sooner is preferable.”
Eoin suddenly averts his eyes away from Gawain and Edna, as one might do when they hear an unexpected sound. His face reacts as though he is being spoken to, learning some secret, and his silence causes Gawain and Edna to look at one another in utter bewilderment.
“Eoin? Are you well?” Edna asks.
Eoin’s attention is brought back to the King and his advisor.
“I am sorry that I could not fully explain the situation, but I must take my leave right now.”
Before either can react, Eoin takes up his helmet, places it back on and storms out of the library. Gawain stares at the doorway, equally shocked and dumbstruck as the Black Knight leaves as sudden as he came.
“Edna, friend... did all of that just happen?”
Edna holds back a laugh.
“I am afraid so, Your Highness.”
“In honesty, I do not know what to make of this.”
“The man, or his story?”
“Both. Every fiber of me wanted nothing more than to have him killed. That is a lie. I wanted to do it myself, and watch each drop of life ebb out from him. But...”
“Hearing him talk, seeing his face, looking into his eyes. It all brought everything you know about the Knight into question.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know what I think of him.”
“I do.”
“Eoin, by all appearances, is a good man. What I know for certain, though, is that he is not the Butcher of Theria, not the man who has caused so much grief. The armor is the same, more or less, but the man inside could not be more different.”
“So I should believe him? Trust him?”
“I cannot tell you whom to believe or trust, Gawain, but you will probably know for certain tomorrow. If he spoke the truth, you will get verification from Judeheim, and then there will be no reason to think his words on friendship were a lie.”
Gawain puts his hand to his forehead, searching his own heart and soul.
“Halvard has not gone to war since my great-grandfather was King, and now I face one with only a day at best to prepare. What am I to do?”
“Do you want my honest opinion?”
“I always do.”
“Go rest. Try not to dwell on these issues now, not until the company from Judeheim arrives. To think of war before then would be folly.”
Gawain finds some comfort in this, but a new revelation comes to him only to rob it away.
“Persephone! What do I tell her? She will want to know who it was that came calling.”
“Knowing your wife’s connection to the Black Knight, I would advise judiciousness with what you tell her.”
“I will not lie to her.”
“I said nothing of lying, dear King.”
Gawain stands, feeling like he has aged years in the short time Eoin was there. Edna remains seated.
“What will you do?” he asks her.
“In situations such as this, there is but one thing I can think of doing: research,” she answers, looking around the library.
“If you find anything, let me know.”
Too tired to say anything else, Gawain leaves Edna to her study. In the throne room, the guard is fully assembled. The watch captain steps forward.
“My Lord, we came as quietly as possible to avoid waking the castle. Those who were with you told us of our guest, who ran out of here without a word or even a nod. What has happened?”
“I want you to go to my brother and tell him to start making preparation for war.”
“War, My Lord? Should we not then call up the militia?”
“No. I do not want word of this to reach the ears of the kingdom, not yet. You are all to remain silent on the matter, is that understood?”
The gathered men bow in acknowledgment. The watch captain dismisses his men, then goes about the order given by Gawain. Gawain stands alone in the throne room, still internally debating what to tell his wife. He finds himself facing his throne seat without willing himself to. 
A peculiar phenomenon creeps over his mind, almost like his own thoughts are being smothered as they form. He falls forward, but catches himself. A sensation of momentary non-existence. He leans against the throne, unable to figure out what this means, so he ignores it and heads back to his quarters with more important things to deal with.
Rachel and Persephone are still in the hall, talking. Morion’s door closed so as not to wake her. The two see Gawain coming towards them.
“Who was that?” Persephone asks.
Gawain raises his hand, signaling for his wife to wait while he faces Rachel.
“Edna is in the library,” he informs Rachel. “Tell her to apprize you of the situation and help her in any way she might need.”
Rachel bows and leaves without a word.
“Gawain, what is this all about?” Persephone presses.
“The visitor was a man named Eoin. He came to tell me that he believes an army of Samaelites has begun to gather in the south.”
Persephone stares at her husband as if he is unfamiliar to her.
“Who is this ‘Eoin,’ and of what worth is his word?”
“On both counts, I can only say that I am uncertain. His claims are questionable, yet he did offer some semblance of trust, I suppose.”
“And what might that be?”
“Tomorrow, ‘representatives’ from Judeheim will supposedly arrive, substantiating Eoin’s story.”
“What will it mean if this does happen?”
Gawain lowers his eyes.
“Halvard will ride to war.”
Persephone goes silent, staring at Morion’s door.
“And if not? If this Eoin is proved to be a liar?”
“I do not know. All logical thought eludes me.”
“What does Edna say?”
“She has reason to believe Eoin and his story to be genuine.”
Persephone paces across the hall, worry and fear slowly building.
“Edna has never been wrong. If she believes him, then war is in our future.”
“Unfortunate, but probably true.”
Persephone stops, coming close to her husband.
“And when war does come, will you ride out to fight it?”
“An army of Samaelites, Persephone. Is it not my duty to do so?”
“Yes, but what of your duties to us? Morion would not do well to grow up without her father.”
“Better to live without her father than to not live at all.”
Persephone embraces her husband, holding him tightly.
“What will you do now?”
“Edna told me that I should rest,” he says with a small laugh.
Persephone gazes longingly into his eyes.
“Then it would be best if you follow her advice,” she says coyly, leading him into their bedroom.
~-~~-~
In the morning, Gawain wakes with the rising sun. Not wanting to disturb Persephone, he slides out of bed as slowly as possible. After dressing he makes for the throne room, finding that his brother is already there.
“Good morning, Gallahad.”
“With your wife, I bet all mornings are good,” Gallahad snickers.
Gawain smiles, but says nothing on the particular subject.
“Is the army ready?”
“Yes, and the Elite Guard as well.”
“The Elite? Why?”
“Edna informed me of the details concerning our little visitor last night. Seeing as we might be dealing with Samaelites, I felt that the Elite Guard would make a good addition to our numbers.”
“Good thinking, but there is still a chance that we will not go to war, brother.”
“As father said, ‘better prepared than conquered.’ I think this is the sort of situation that calls for his teachings.”
“Indeed.”
“Gawain, I am curious as to why you do not at least alert the militia leaders. If the people are in danger, they should know.”
“There is more than Samaelites in play, Gallahad,” Gawain says, realizing that Edna has kept Eoin’s identity secret. 
Gallahad picks up in Gawain’s tone that something is missing.
“What are you not telling me?”
“With luck, it will not matter.”
Gallahad tries to press his brother for more information, but a Halvard swift rider bursts into the throne room.
“What is the meaning of this?” Gallahad demands.
“I am sorry, My Lord,” the rider begins to explain, “but this is of the utmost importance.”
“Speak then,” Gawain urges.
“Your Highness, a large company of men come upon the road from Judeheim.”
“So soon? Their representatives would have had to travel through the night to be here already.”
“I know nothing of representatives, Your Highness, but members of the Council were with them.”
“That makes no sense,” says Gallahad, looking to Gawain. “Why would the Council be accompanying delegates?”
The rider looks to the King and his brother, confused somewhat by their apparent lack of understanding.
“My Lords, I think you misinterpret what I am telling you. The Councilmen do not accompany delegates. They are leading an army.”
Gawain goes numb, his eyes losing their luster.
“Are you certain?” the King hoarsely asks.
“Most certain, Your Highness. I spoke with one of the Councilmen, and to my very own brother, who is one of their army’s number.”
Gawain falls down into his throne seat, holding his head lest he lose his mind. Not only did Eoin speak the truth, but the matters are far worse than the Knight had led Gawain to believe.
“What is their number, rider?” Gallahad asks for Gawain.
“There were six Councilmen, each in command of five hundred men, totaling three thousand, give or take the odd freelance pilgrim who took to the call.”
“Three thousand?” stammers Gawain to himself.
“What should I do now?” the rider asks.
“Ride back out to them, escort them, then come back here once you arrive with our brothers.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The rider bows before swiftly leaving the throne room. Gawain rubs his forehead, trying to alleviate the stress caused by his ever increasing burden.
“Brother, what would you have me do?” asks Gallahad.
“I suppose there is no more avoiding it. Gather up the army and Elite Guard, then... then inform the militia captains. Halvard is going to war, whether we want to or not.”
“Very well.”
“Wait,” Gawain calls as Gallahad makes to follow his orders.
“Yes?”
“Would you do anything different if you had accepted this throne?”
“You are a better man than I, Gawain. I gave you the throne so I would not have to deal with situations like this.”
“Humor me.”
“In that case... no. Given the severity of the situation, I cannot say I would do anything different.”
“Thank you.”
Gallahad says nothing more, seeing the obvious pain in his brother, and goes to do his duty as Gawain’s second in command. It is then that Edna enters, silent as a ghost’s whisper, yet somehow Gawain knows she is there without looking.
“I wanted so much for Eoin to be a liar, Edna. Nothing more than some man in black armor. But... everything, even what he said about our ‘fathers of old,’ it was all true, was it not?”
“Yes. I found numerous references to ‘The Knight.’ whom the kings of Halvard held in high regard, but then these gave away to writings of the ‘Black Knight,’ the great villain.”
“Then Eoin is indeed trustworthy?”
“I would stake my life that Eoin might be even more trustworthy than Gallahad.”
Gawain looks up at Edna, not even remotely amused by her insinuation.
“Even if that were true, it would take much to erase the memories of the Butcher of Theria, and even more to earn my trust.”
“That, Gawain, is exactly what Eoin is trying to do.”
The King falls quiet again, dwelling upon these words.
“Edna, could you please let Persephone and Rachel know that I wish to speak with them?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Left alone, Gawain no longer has time for loathing, thinking of what may come. Now the only thing in his mind are battle plans. So lost in tactics and maneuvers, he does not take notice as his wife and royal guard enter.
“You wanted to see us, My Lord?” Rachel speaks, rousing Gawain from his contemplations.
“Yes. Yes I did. I will not try to soften this: we are going to war alongside Judeheim.”
Persephone looks to her husband in dismay.
“I do not understand,” says she, perplexed. “You said that you would not know until you received confirmation from Judeheim.”
“One of our swift riders returned just moments ago.”
“And?”
“Judeheim has built up an army of three thousand, and they march here as I speak.”
The Queen looks to her husband as though he spoke a foreign language.
“Judeheim has never formed a traditional army, and never would they venture out to face a foe.”
“This is correct, wife.”
“Yet, right now, an army is out upon the road?”
“There is.”
“What does this mean?”
“That the threat posed by the Samaelites is far greater than I was led to believe.”
“What shall we do, My Lord?” Rachel asks as one ready for a great task.
“I want you both to stay with Morion. The militia will be responsible for the protection of the city, while the Elite Guard will be temporarily joining the army.”
“Then I should join you.”
“No. I need you two safe.”
Rachel is disappointed by this.
“My Lord, I know that I am Morion’s personal guard, but would I not serve her better by aiding you in battle?” she protests.
“I cannot risk that. Should the battle go ill...”
“Should the battle go ill, who is better equipped to come back to our fair kingdom and warn the militia?”
Gawain stands, ready to counter, when he catches his wife’s eye.
“She is right, Gawain,” Persephone tells him. “Rachel is your most capable warrior, and should anything go wrong, she might be Halvard’s only warning.”
Gawain knows Persephone’s wisdom is indisputable and, with no chance to change her mind, nods in agreement with her. Rachel and Persephone, as two best friends, embrace before the Queen retreats to her daughter’s bedroom. Edna then enters, bringing with her Gawain’s armor bearers.
“Your Highness,” she says to him, “it is time to ready yourself.”
Gawain steps forward, letting the bearers encase him in his royal armor.
“Rachel, go to the armory yourself. Gallahad should be there, so let him know you will be going with us,” orders the King.
Rachel smiles, bowing as she leaves.
“She is Morion’s guard, yet she is to go into battle with you?” Edna inquires.
“She is the only member of the Guardians that Halvard has, and Persephone thinks that should we fail, Rachel would be Halvard’s last hope. Although I know this is all too true, it still does not sit well with me.”
“You see Rachel as a jinx? That if she comes, it will mean you will lose?”
“I have no intention of failing, with or without Rachel, but I cannot deny that I feel some degree of apprehension. Dread. Any number of fell emotions concerning this.”
To this Edna, amazingly, has nothing to say. Before long, the armor bearers finish. They leave as Gawain’s sword boy enters, presenting the King with his ancestral weapon, a sword handed down from father to son, gaining a mythical status within Halvard. Gawain straps the sword to his hip before giving the sword boy a glance, a nod and a clasp of his shoulder, a sign of deep respect. The ward too leaves, then Edna proudly sets upon Gawain’s brow a crown; though made of gold and silver, it is of simple construction, akin to a circlet.
“Let us go out into the courtyard. I will not hide in this room any longer,” Gawain says defiantly.
~-~~-~
The army has begun to assemble within the grand court, Gallahad taking stock of their numbers. Members of the militia have also gathered, wanting to hear from the King himself what is happening. Seeing Gawain emerge from the castle, the massive crowd becomes very loud, a hundred different questions being asked in one voice. Gawain raises his hand for silence, then points to one of the senior militia captains, allowing him to speak.
“Is it true? Are we going to war?” the man asks, worry and anger and fear all in his voice.
The crowd of soldiers all shout in agreement with the question. Gawain waits for quiet before speaking.
“It is indeed true,” Gawain shouts so that all can hear. “Very soon, Halvard will ride to war.”
“Against who?” a faceless voice amongst the crowd asks.
“To our south, three kingdoms, devoutly loyal to Samael, have gathered together.”
“Three kingdoms? If that be the case, why are not the militia being called up as well?” asks another.
“I will not, cannot, leave Halvard, our home, our heart, undefended. The militia always has, and always will be the protector of our fair city.”
“But how can just our army repel three kingdoms worth of foes?”
“We will not be alone. For the first time ever, our kith-kingdom, Judeheim, has gathered its own army, formed from their citizens and from pilgrims alike. Their numbers shall join with our own. Even as I speak, they march to us.”
As though on cue, a trumpet blows from the city gates. The crowd hums with murmurings, all turning to watch the main road. Gawain pushes through the gathered masses, separating it. He sees, walking up the road, the swift rider leading the six Councilmen-turned-generals and in their midst, encircled by the Council, Eoin. 
The Knight towers over all near him, his armor drawing to him the eyes of Halvard, fear of him gripping the hearts of even the stoutest, war hardened man. When they finally stand before the King, the swift rider bows his head, then falls in with the army. Beside Eoin, somehow previously hidden from view, is a man slightly taller than the Knight wearing a hooded tunic and cloak. The Councilmen part, allowing Eoin to step forward, meeting again Gawain’s scrutinizing gaze.
“You said Judeheim was sending representatives, Knight. I see a fair share more than that,” Gawain says with a touch of dark sarcasm.
“I felt it prudent not to divulge their true nature.”
“Why?”
“I had an overwhelming desire to continue living beyond the night. For someone such as myself to talk of a Judeheim army... well, I doubt you would have listened to a further word from my mouth.”
Gawain smirks at Eoin’s logic.
“I cannot deny it, I am afraid.”
“I would not want you to. It is a testament to your justness that I was not killed immediately.”
“You have Edna to thank for that, more than myself.”
“You could have ignored her.”
“You do not know Edna then.”
The two share a laugh while the combined kingdoms watch on. Seeing his brother on such friendly terms with one so imposing, Gallahad can do naught but stare in fascination at the Knight. In contrast of his outward appearance, the voice that issues forth from behind the helmet is calm, just and good.
Rachel comes out from the armory. She catches sight of Eoin and a roar of rage bellows from her. She takes to the air, blade drawn, ready to strike down the Black Knight. Swift as lightning, the cloaked man beside Eoin leaps up, his cloak springing open to reveal wings. He and Rachel meet in mid-air, crashing to the ground. Rachel thrashes against the winged man, shouting and swearing, but he holds to her fast.
“Let go of me! He killed them all! The Butcher! The Monster!” she yells, her eyes shut.
“No!” the winged man tells her adamantly. “He is not that one.”
The voice causes Rachel to become still immediately. She opens her eyes, unable to comprehend who she is looking at for a time.
“Mikha’el!”
“Hello, sister.”
Mikha’el stands, helping Rachel to do so also. Brother and sister embrace, but her eyes quickly revert back to Eoin, who stands most vulnerable.
“He is the Black Knight. I saw firsthand what he did. Butcher of Theria!” she hisses through her teeth, then staring back at Mikha’el with aching soul. “How can you defend him!?”
“He is the Knight, but he is not the one that committed those atrocities. His name is Eoin. He was the son of the reviled one, but he is nothing like his father.”
The words wash over Rachel, bringing out a different person all together.
“You can not mean to tell me that he is the one written of,” she whispers to Mikha’el.
“We are still not sure,” one of the Councilmen answers Rachel, keeping his voice down so that only she and Mikha’el can hear. “We believe so, but more study is needed.”
“So, Eoin is genuine?” Gawain asks of the Council. “He is not what his father was?”
“Eoin is what he is. A man trying to right the wrongs of his past.”
“Then Judeheim ‘approves’ of him?”
“Indeed we do. He has spent the better half of the past year with us, enduring our questioning. In all honesty, we are the ones who sent him here.”
Gawain and Gallahad are taken by surprise a bit by this small revelation.
“Is this true?” Rachel asks Mikha’el.
“Yes, sister,” he answers.
“How did you become involved with him?”
“I had a dream, actually, so I sought him out. I found Eoin in Judeheim, and there learned his rather noble intentions.”
“Which are?”
“To undo, or at least attempt to make up for, the evils of my forefathers,” Eoin says, walking up to Rachel and Mikha’el. “I have become used to saying this, but I know my word means nothing to you, yet hopefully Mikha’el’s does. Any aid you can give me would be of great value.”
“That would depend on what My King says. I serve him and his family.”
All heads turn to Gawain. The King looks into Eoin’s eyes, visible through the narrow slit of his helmet. Eoin stares back with strong, calm, compassionate eyes.
“I think we will find no better ally this day,” the King says slowly, thoughtfully.
Eoin extends an open hand to Gawain. The two kingdoms watch as Gawain takes it and the two men shake hands, sealing the alliance. A strong wind blows through the gathered. Reluctantly a Councilman steps forward.
“Gawain, we must now speak in brief of the battle to come.”
Gawain acknowledges this, then addresses the crowd.
“The army is to assemble and report to Gallahad on all things. As for the militia captains, inform those in your command, and your families, of what has occurred, then take up your assigned positions in the city.”
The word of Gawain is obeyed without hesitation. The militia disperses while the army forms ranks. The King guides Eoin and the Council back into the library. They all sit down to the table. 
“Eoin,” the oldest of the Councilmen speaks, “perhaps you should inform good King Gawain of what we know concerning the three armies.”
While standing at the head of the table, Eoin does so.
“The Samaelite army was formed from the populations of three small, obscure kingdoms to the far south, outside our realms of influence and knowledge.”
“This is interesting, but I care little about how this force was formed,” Gawain says impatiently. “All I want to know his how large their army is.”
Eoin removes his helmet, setting it down on the table.
“I was unable to obtain solid numbers. It could range from five to one hundred thousand, not that it would matter either way.”
“Why is that?”
“They are from bad stock, one might say. Castaways from the degenerate kingdoms of old.”
“Eoin, this makes no sense. Earlier you made it sound as though this battle was a matter of life and death,” Gawain interrupts, annoyed.
“Let the man finish,” the Councilman says.
Eoin’s eyes grow sad, dark and removed.
“The men on their own are nothing to fear, this is true. Except they are not alone. They are led by a man named Mors, whose very presence seems to transform the men into perfect instruments of killing. They have become so loyal to Mors that they would risk their very souls if he so asked.” 
The name ‘Mors’ stirs up the phantoms of the past in Gawain’s head. He struggles to remember, but draws a blank.
“Why does that name sound so familiar?” he asks himself.
“He has gathered this army in the Wastes,” Eoin says, not hearing Gawain.
Gawain comes to, rejoining the conversation.
“The Wastes? The desert beyond the Magda valley?”
“The very same.”
Magda valley is a conundrum to all. Upon its northern side rests the Grey Woods of Halvard’s southern border. To Magda’s south, the Wastes, a place where nothing grows. When one stands upon either of these borders, looking to the opposite side offers a sense of the surreal, like looking on a far off painting. As for Magda itself, none knows how it was created, but all recognize it as unnatural and to be avoided at all costs.
“You intend for us to meet them at Magda, and to fight within the valley itself, am I right?”
“You are.”
“Wonderful,” the King says, leaning back in his seat with a defeated tone.
“Fret not,” the Councilman speaks.
“How can I not? It was bad enough that we know not the size of our foe, but now we must face it in the one place forsaken by God.”
“Forsaken? Possibly, but perhaps that is for the best.”
“How can that be good for us?”
“It is Eoin that will be leading our armies into battle.”
“I fail to see how Eoin leading us into Magda is a benefit.”
“Because, Gawain,” Eoin says solemnly, “the power of this armor, my power, increases greatly in places such as Magda.”  
Gawain stares at the Black Knight. The mythology and legends flooding the King’s mind.
“Why is that?” he asks cautiously.
“Magda is ‘God forsaken,’ as you said, and I am not an entirely holy creature.”
Gawain searches for reaction from the Councilmen, but they do not display any change.
“So be it. Judeheim and Halvard will march together, led by Eoin. When do we leave?”
“As soon as your army is properly prepared.”
“What about a battle plan?”
“That will be discussed once we are at the valley’s edge.”
Gawain again rubs his forehead, the stress of the situation becoming monotonous.
“Then let us see how they fare, shall we? The sooner this is over, the better.”
~-~~-~
Gallahad silently walks up and down the rows of men, looking at them as a father does his sons. The army sees Gawain before Gallahad does.
“Hail, Gawain!” they shout.
Gallahad, now wearing his own armor, strides to his brother.
“How are they?” the King asks.
“Afraid, brother.”
“Understandable. Very few of them have faced full scale war.”
“It is not the prospect of battle which they fear, Gawain.”
“Then what is?”
Gallahad’s eyes dart to the again fully armored Eoin.
“Him. The Black Knight. The families of many of these men were Therian born, as you know, and they are only here because of what he did.”
“He is not the same man, Gallahad.”
“He wears the armor, and that is what the men see. That could be God himself in there, and that would not change the distrust and fear.”
“What about you?”
“I have absolutely no cause for trust, either.”
Gawain decides at this moment to avoid telling his brother that Eoin will be leading their own army, as well as Judeheim’s.
“If that is the truth, then I am sorry to say that I have no words to change yours or their minds at this time. This course is unavoidable, and Eoin is an irrefutable part of it.”
Gallahad looks beyond the words, beyond Gawain’s eyes.
“Persephone does not know about Eoin, does she? About who he really is, I mean.”
“No, and she never will. Am I clear?”
“If you say so.”
Eoin and the Council come up behind Gawain and Gallahad.
“If your men are prepared, we should leave now,” the Knight whispers.
Gawain nods, relating their current plan to the army.
“We march south, not stopping until we are on the very edge of the Grey Woods, overlooking Magda valley.”
The army, while inexperienced, does not react. The men make no sound, their faces show no expression. They might be nothing more than an army of statues. Mikha’el finds Eoin and the two take their leave of Halvard, followed by the Councilmen. 
Rachel comes from the stables with two horses in tow; one brown, the other white. Gallahad takes the brown horse from Rachel politely; afterwards she brings the other to Gawain. The brothers mount, slowly leading their force out of the city without any fanfare. To make the scene even more depressing, the clouds have grown dark, bloated with rain anxious to fall while lightning and thunder dance on the outskirts of the world, ready to strike when least desired. Birds sit on the branches and boughs, remaining song less almost as if they are vindictive at what will happen in the coming future. If there be a light or a melody of good in the world, of the sort to raise a man’s soul from the mire of destiny, they are resolute to not be it.
Gawain can see Eoin outside the city gates, mounting a terrible looking black stallion which is covered in war armor, similar in design to the Knight’s. Finally reaching the gate himself, Gawain now sees the Judeheim army in all its scope. Some three thousand men encamped around his city walls, most resting or praying. 
Though the Judeheim citizen army all wear the same uniform armor, it is not hard for Gawain to spot those who came of their own will, the religious mercenaries, the pilgrims who heeded a call. They come in their own armor, more often resembling Eoin’s than any others, and they carry their own, sometimes savage looking, weapons. As out of place as they look, they walk and speak amongst the Judeheim army like brothers. 
Each of the Councilmen shout a different word, which causes each group to spring to their feet. Of interest to Gawain is their manner of uniform. Unlike the Halvard army, who wears a sort of plate metal suit, the Judeheim wear a lighter armor which only covers those areas where wounding might prove lethal, and under that they wear light robes. When the Judeheim forces have made ready, Eoin leads all south, towards the two kingdom’s shared fate.
~-~~-~
The march is swift, yet the dreariness of the world makes it feel antithetic. They come finally into the Grey Woods, the southernmost portion of Halvard. There are no roads through this patch of land, and so the armies have little choice but to disperse amongst the trees. 
The Grey Woods are so named because all the trees are of a pale, almost sickly color. One would think the trees dead, but one would be very wrong. They continue to grow, larger and stronger, but the leaves and needles of the tree are forever brown regardless of the season. These ghostly trees, it was taught, are the result of Magda’s mere proximity and proof of the valley’s evil. A mist clings to the ground and the branches, creating a fretful atmosphere, like the trees might at any moment spring to life and crush those within on the slightest whim. This mist, coupled with the overcast sky makes telling time impossible. 
The world is a bleak, pale nothing. 
Afternoon passes unnoticed, until it starts to slowly grow darker with the sinking sun. Eoin lights a torch, but none can see how he could have done so from horseback. All the more intriguing is the fact that the fire burns brighter than a torch should, gently bathing the Grey Woods with a golden light. He holds it aloft, becoming a beacon for everyone. As the journey drags along, the men begin to dull, reverting back to their civilian selves; talking to each other, telling stories and, above all else, complaining. The two thousand of Halvard and the three thousand of Judeheim generate a bedlam of sound in the deathly silent wood. Even Gawain, Gallahad and the Council partake in the mutiny of their own secrecy. 
Eoin grows frustrated and stops, gazing back to the five thousand that follow him. The fire light makes his black armor shimmer with a life of its own. He says nothing, just staring menacingly at the men in his command. The terrible sight of the Black Knight’s glaring makes many of the men who can see it cringe and recoil. Not to mention fearful of letting even the smallest of sounds pass their lips.
“Ahead is a large clearing,” Eoin finally speaks. “It is there that we will make camp, hidden from our foe. Once camp is made, Gawain, Gallahad, the Council and I will speak together to discuss the plan of battle.”
Eoin resumes the forward march, leading the men through a final thicket of overgrown trees and into a massive oval pavilion of barren land, surrounded all around by the Grey Woods. The two armies break into their smaller units, setting up tents and fires for cooking. Members of the Halvard Elite Guard set up Gawain and Gallahad’s tents, and then a central tent for the leaders to meet in. Eoin is the first into the meeting tent, followed soon after by everyone else.
“So, what exactly is our plan?” Gallahad asks with a touch of distaste about having to speak to Eoin.
Eoin crouches, pulling back the rug, exposing the bare ground. He draws a large gash in the dirt with three fingers.
“This is the valley itself,” he says. He then draws three X’s on the farthest side of the line in a tight group. “Mors is a man of brute force. He will send his men as he would send a punch, tight and fast, expecting to batter his way through any defenses.” He then draws a smaller series of circles on the opposite side of the valley, two rows thick. “When we exit the woods, I want our army lined up against the valley mouth like so, in two separate lines.”
“Is that not spreading our line a little thin?” Gawain asks.
“No, it is perfect,” Gallahad says reluctantly.
“How so?”
“Mors will be expecting to bludgeon through our lines and break our wills with a sudden, violent attack. If my memory of Magda is not too clouded, and based on how Eoin wants us to line up, I believe more than roughly half the army will be hidden from view. We will be able to wrap around them unnoticed, forming a nice, little noose. The center will catch Mors’ proverbial ‘punch’ and the rest come in to attack their rear. As I said, perfect in its simplicity.”
Everyone looks to Eoin.
“I will lead the center of the lines to catch Mors’ attention. Gawain will lead the right line, Gallahad the left. Councilmen, you can divide yourselves accordingly. When I and the center meet with Mors’ army, the left and the right will close in. Is this understood?”
They all agree, seeing this plan as the best means of minimizing Halvard and Judeheim casualties.
“Very well,” Gawain says, “is there anything else to discuss then?”
“There is one last issue,” Eoin responds.
“What is that?” asks Gallahad.
“Mors. None of you, nor any of your soldiers, are to engage him under any circumstances. He is mine alone to deal with.”
“How will we recognize him?”
“The same way you recognize me, I assure you. There will be absolutely no mistaking when you see him.”
“Why do you want Mors to yourself?” Gawain asks curiously.
Eoin begins to speak, but stops himself. He looks at his gauntleted hands, then angrily clenches his fists.
“I have my reasons,” Eoin hisses before standing and leaving the tent fervently. 
Something tugs at Gawain’s mind, maybe his heart. Either way, he is compelled to follow Eoin. 
He finds the Knight on the outskirts of the woods, looking out over the valley. The sun had long ago set fully, and with it the mist and the fog, leaving the moon illuminating bright what will soon become a battlefield.
“Who is Mors?” asks Gawain.
Eoin does not move, keeping stoic watch of the valley.
“It is not all that surprising that you do not know, or at least remember, who Mors is. It was, after all, your wife and her people that were most affected by him.”
“What do you know of my wife?”
“Theria, her home and her kingdom, was wholly destroyed by my father. How could I not know?”
“And what has that to do with Mors?”
“Mors was many things to my father. He was his right hand, his advisor and, ultimately, general of my father’s mercenary army.”
“Mors led the army? But I thought it was the Black Knight...”
“Father was far too busy slaughtering people at random to control an army, even his own. That he left to Mors, who was honestly more apt for that role anyway.”
Gawain struggles to think straight. Emotions build up and then come into direct conflict with one another.
“That is why you want to kill Mors? Because of Theria?”
“I wish I could say that was why. It has a nice degree of altruism to it. No, I want to kill him for what he made me do.”
“And what might that be?”
Eoin finally turns to face Gawain, removing his helmet and holding it at his side. Eoin’s eyes light as he recalls events past.
“Growing up, I loved my father. There were times when he showed signs of being a good man, potential to use his power for great deeds. As I became older, and coming to comprehend the actuality of my father’s character, I tried to change him, but as I spoke in his right ear, Mors would corrupt his left. It was Mors that convinced my father to do many of his most horrible things, including the ravaging of Theria. More recently, Mors convinced my father that I was a threat to his power.”
“No, Eoin... you cannot be telling me that your own father...”
“Indeed he did. My father tried to murder me. Even with his armor though, he was somehow no match for me. I was forced to kill my own father, and this armor became mine. Mors fled from my wrath, taking with him what remained of my father’s army.”
“Remained?”
“After being forced to kill my father, I decided to ‘liquidate’ the army while searching for Mors. Mors gathered the survivors and ran off like a coward.”
Gawain drinks this new knowledge in slowly, but the bitter taste becomes unacceptable. 
“How can a father so easily be swayed against his own son?”
“Do not think on it too much, Gawain. Fathers battling their sons is a common occurrence in my family,” Eoin answers with a sad, humorless chuckle.
“This sort of thing has happened before?”
Eoin laughs more readily, genuinely surprised by Gawain.
“Since you seem to be interested in my past, I will tell you of it, but not now. Go back with the others. They will no doubt want to confer with you regarding tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Mikha’el and I will scout around, make sure we remain hidden throughout the night.”
As if summoned, Mikha’el walks soundlessly up to Eoin, almost startling Gawain.
“Eoin and I will ensure the safety of the whole camp, I promise you, Your Highness,” the winged one assures.
“I could never doubt the word of Rachel’s brother. Good night, friends.”
Gawain goes back to the meeting tent in a daze. It is not every day that a cornerstone of your beliefs is forever shattered, replaced with something so wholly opposite you can do not but wonder what else in life is not what it appears. If anything is what it claims at all, for that matter. 
Back in the tent, Gawain finds everyone waiting for him.
“I suppose you knew all of Eoin’s story long before you came here?” he asks a Councilman.
“We did. We wanted to tell you, but in truth it was never our place. Given the circumstances of his history, it was best if Eoin himself told you.”
Gawain notices Gallahad’s changed expression, and Rachel sitting on the floor with her head lowered, trying to wipe tears away.
“But the Council just told you, I assume?”
“Yes,” Gallahad answers mournfully. “Yes they did.”
Gawain can see that the story of Eoin and his father has been a trying experience for his brother and his favorite guard.
“That being the case, there is nothing more we need to discuss,” Gawain says more to the Council than the others. “Tomorrow, we prepare according to Eoin’s plan and fight. When this is over, Halvard and Judeheim can sit around the feast table and speak fully on these matters.”
Each Councilman agrees, standing and leaving to their own camps, bowing respectfully to Gawain and Gallahad as they pass out of the tent. Gawain sighs deeply as he falls down to the floor, fatigued beyond comprehension. Gallahad gently clasps Rachel’s shoulder, as she tries to suppress further sobs. Gawain cannot remember Rachel ever looking this way. He looks at his friends with a more discerning eye.
“Why do I get the distinct feeling that the Council told you a slightly differing story?” Gawain asks.
“They said Eoin would be modest on the subject,” Gallahad says.
“Oh?”
“You were not there that night, but Theria was an unequivocal ruin in the wake of the Black Knight and his army. Truth be told, no one should have escaped alive, yet Halvard holds more than a fair number of refugees. The Therians always considered it a miracle. It was, I suppose, just not in the way you might expect.”
“You mean... Eoin was there?”
“More than simply there. He was the one that repelled the mercenary army. He masqueraded as one of their number and when the time was right, he entered the city and attacked his father’s soldiers. Every Therian alive owes their very existence to Eoin. Apparently the Black Knight was oblivious to the machinations of his son, but Mors was not. He was not happy with Eoin taking his victory away, and so he convinced the father to eliminate the son.”
Gawain is speechless. The three sit in silence, the sounds of the camp outside becoming a sort of music to them, voices melding into a single, varying tone.
“My Lords,” Rachel finally speaks, “should we tell the soldiers who Mors is? It might make them more willing, giving them the warrior’s edge they will need.”
“No, not tonight,” Gallahad answers for Gawain. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
“My Lord? Do they not deserve to know?”
“They do. However, if we tell them now, they will spend the rest of the night seething. They will not sleep, and when we fight, they will be slow witted.”
“But, if we tell them in the morning, their rage will be focused, strong.”
“Correct.”
At this, Rachel smiles.
“After all these years, it looks as though the people of Theria will finally have their vengeance.”
“Yes, Rachel,” Gawain answers. “Yes they will.”
Gawain stands, stretching his arms.
“Where are you going, brother?” asks Gallahad.
“To my tent. I will not be of much use if I am slow witted, will I?”
“No, you would not,” the King’s brother replies with a grin.
“You two should get some sleep as well. Sleep brings focus, focus brings victory.”
“Father had a good phrase for every situation.”
“That he did.”
Gawain leaves them with a smile. The noise of the soldiers slowly dies out as the men take to their own tents and bedrolls. Gawain enters his tent and collapses on the cushions made up to function as a bed, not thinking to remove his armor, having forgotten that he is wearing any. Weighed down as he is by all that he has learned and of what will soon come, sleep comes swiftly for the King.
~-~~-~
Morning arrives sooner than desired. Gawain is awakened by Rachel, she kneeling beside the King with a plate of food.
“Your Highness, you should eat.”
Gawain sits up, realizing now that he fell asleep in his armor. The King takes the plate, eating slowly.
“Where is Gallahad?” asks the King.
“With Eoin, readying our army.”
“Really? I thought Gallahad could not stand to work beside Eoin.”
“Lord Gallahad’s and my opinion of him drastically changed in light of what the Councilmen told us.”
Gawain now remembers what Gallahad said concerning Eoin’s defense of Theria.
“That is good to hear.”
“Though you managed to find slumber, he and I were both stirred so much that sleep was but a fantasy. We both left our tents and met together, each intent on speaking with Eoin.”
“What did you talk about?”
“It was mostly Gallahad and Eoin that spoke and that was usually about the battle to come, but your brother succeeded in steering their talk to the fall of Theria. Eoin was most reluctant, but conceded. Gallahad did not hide from Eoin his hatred for the Black Knight, but made sure to emphasize that he held no animosity for Eoin in light of what he did for Theria. Gallahad even congratulated Eoin for being the one to kill the Butcher of Theria, but I could see it pained the Knight to hear this. Despite that, the two became quick friends I think.”
“What about you?”
“I do not know what I feel, My Lord.”
“Why not?”
“I watched Theria burn. I saw as the Black Knight cut down man, woman and child. It is hard for me to accept that he has been killed. Although I know that a debt of gratitude is owed to Eoin, I cannot help but think I felt a sense of... loss. The revenge I hoped for has been snatched away.”
“It is nice to know that I am not the only one that feels this.”
“My Lord?”
“Persephone still wakes from nightmares of that day. As her husband, and as the King that took in the survivors, I felt it was my place, my duty, to avenge Theria. To learn that he fell to his own son through the manipulation of Mors, I felt an enormous emptiness. I could not place it, but I now see clearly what I felt.”
“Perhaps, My Lord, it was for the best that neither of us were the ones to have killed the Butcher.”
“Why is that?”
“A life craving the death of another is hardly a life at all. When that thirst is quenched, what is left but nothingness? Could little Morion look at her father and not see a murderer? Could my brother still see me, and not see the beginnings of a new monster?”
“If you or I had been the one to kill Eoin’s father, who knows what manner of creature we could have become. You are right, Rachel. Thank you.”
Rachel smiles politely, glad that her King found wisdom in her words.
“This all reminds me of why I came here to begin with. Eoin asked me to tell you that as soon as you are ready, we will begin forming the lines at the valley mouth.”
“Did he say anything about the enemy?”
“Yes. Mikha’el flew in the night and discovered that Mors’ army is still at the edge of the Wastes, but were preparing to move out. Eoin thinks that the battle will take place in the ‘dead center,’ as he said, of the valley, which is apparently a good thing for him.”
“Thank you, Rachel.”
“No need, Your Highness.”
Gawain comes to an immediate decision, a resoluteness filling his eyes.
“It is time, Rachel.”
“My Lord?”
“Please, go to Gallahad. Tell him to inform the soldiers of Mors’ true identity.”
“As you wish, My Lord.”
Rachel nimbly vacates the tent, leaving Gawain to ruminate on the war slowly creeping towards him like a feral lion. He continues eating, the conversation with Rachel resounding in his ears, trying to indulge in this brief moment of solitude. Bit by bit, the plate is made empty. A loud shout erupts from outside which converts into cheering, chanting and yells from the Halvard army. The King rises to his feet, checks over his armor, then he too exits his tent to meet with his people.
In the Halvard camp, the complete army is gathered, every man on his feet. Gallahad has stirred the soldiers into a righteous fury. Eoin watches on with his arms crossed, nodding in agreement with every word that issues from Gallahad’s mouth. When the army sees Gawain, they let loose another cheer. Gawain nods, but lets his brother remain the focal point.
“With Eoin leading us,” Gallahad continues, “and Our King on his right, we will defeat this enemy, led by the demon Mors, and at long last return honor to those who fell at Theria!”
Another massive cheer. Eoin steps forward with a raised hand, trying to bring silence to the men.
“You will be intermixed with the Judeheim army, standing shoulder to shoulder with your brothers and friends. The two armies will be divided into three groups, one led by myself, another by Lord Gallahad and the last by your good King Gawain himself,” Eoin speaks with a booming voice. “The Councilmen of Judeheim will act as lieutenants to each of us, and should be treated as such. Once we exit these woods, you are to line up, two men thick and no more, along the mouth of Magda. I am going to lead the center force. When we have met the foe, Gawain and Gallahad will use the valley walls to sneak around and envelop Mors’ army unseen.
“They are violent and fierce, holding fanatical devotion to their lord, but they do have one immense fault: they are slow, both physically and mentally. They will wield cumbersome weaponry, the sort used to cause horrific results. You, however, are faster, lighter on your feet. You will easily decimate this army and forever be remembered as heroes.” Eoin stops as the army shouts in response. He again raises a hand. “Men, heed these words: keep Theria in your minds and in your hearts! Never falter! Maintain your will and, above all else, do not lose faith! If you do these things, death will have no choice but to pass you by!”
Eoin’s final words garner the greatest applause from the Halvard army. All fear these men had of the Knight have been evaporated completely. Even Mikha’el and Rachel join in the praise of the Knight. 
Seeing his men, his brothers, his friends like this brings a realization to Gawain. The day will not even come close to what he anticipated. Seeing these soldiers, under the watch of this armored man, Gawain realizes that winning is not a possibility, but an inevitability.
“Continue to give me wisdom and courage,” Gawain whispers. A small, simple prayer to the unnamed God.
Today’s outcome will forever mark Gawain, and he knows it. The Council comes to Gawain with resolute faces.
“We are ready to fight, friend,” says the youngest of them.
“As are we,” the King replies, looking to Eoin.
“Gather the men together, sirs,” the Knight calls. “The chaos of war calls to us as a father calls to his sons; a call we shall heed obediently.”
~-~~-~
The camp is left standing, wasting strength on packing it away being of no profit. The animals are left too. The army gathered, Eoin leads them out of the Grey Woods and to Magda’s mouth.  The sun still sits low, but its light assaults the valley below harshly. From this vantage point, the Wastes can be seen; plain, barren and dark. At the opposing end of Magda, a cloud of dust swarms upward, drifting towards them. Mors’ Samaelites are on the move. Eoin steps out in front of the army as they form their lines and separate into their three groups. The Knight speaks now in voice heroic to the gathered leaders of the two nations.
“Your Highness, Lord Gallahad, High Council. When the battle comes, you will all know what to do. I have faith in all of you. We will win, and you shall all return home to your loved ones. I promise.”
Mikha’el steps out from the mass of soldiers.
“What shall I do, Knight?”
“Stay with your sister, watching over Gawain. Protecting his life is your utmost interest.”
“I will die before I fail, Knight.”
Mikha’el falls back into his position beside Rachel, who herself stands beside Gawain.
“To your groups!” the Knight calls out.
The order is followed. The Council distributes between Gawain and Gallahad’s armies. Eoin speaks now to his own men.
“Remember what I told you, everyone. Do as I said, and you will be for this day immortal and, every day hence, a legend.”
In Magda, the Samaelites near the center of the valley. 
The time has finally come. 
With a shout, Eoin leads his group down into the forsaken land. Gawain and Gallahad watch as the villain-turned-hero races headlong towards the enemy. Now the Samaelite army is no longer absorbed by the cloud of dust, and it is clear that their numbers are greater than desired. This does not, however, dishearten the combined forces of Halvard and Judeheim. No. It, in fact, encourages them. Theria is thought upon by all, and each foe that is to be felled will be done in Her remembrance. 
The King, the Council, Gallahad, Rachel, Mikha’el and every gathered man watch each step of Eoin and his diversionary soldiers. The wind and the valley carry the sound of their running, mingled with the shouts and yells. The world slows down as Eoin and the Samaelites come closer and closer. 
An ear-splitting crash echoes through the valley, metal upon metal. 
Roars and screams. 
The two forces have met like titan waves that clash and mingle together. The battle has begun. Gawain and Gallahad unsheathe their swords and with a great cry lead their soldiers as Eoin had instructed.
~-~~-~
As planned, Gawain comes out from the shadows of one of the valley walls, looking upon the rear of the Samaelite army. The King can scarcely hear anything over the battle cries of his soldiers as they run to join the fray. The Samaelites are in a flurry, but they cannot best Eoin and his soldiers. Eoin himself has separated from the majority of his men, splitting the focus of the Samaelites in half.
They attack Eoin relentlessly, but he easily defeats all who come across him, and occasionally some are thrown away viciously like they were nothing more than rag dolls. Although he cannot see him, Gawain smiles broadly at this apparent display of the Knight’s power.
Each step closer, every moment which passes, Gawain tightens and tightens again his grip upon his sword. Across the valley can be seen Gallahad and his company. Eoin’s plan has worked. The Samaelites are encircled completely. 
The noose closes in. 
There, in the midst of the foes, Eoin can finally be seen, brandishing twin blades which appear to have grown from his forearms. He swings wildly but, being so surrounded by enemies, this tactic is effective, cutting through the Samaelites by the dozens.
The unoccupied foes take notice of the ranks closing in around them and reform their numbers to face them. A seemingly innumerable flood of Samaelites run toward Gawain, teeth bared equally as fearsome as their blades. The King leaps at them with a roar, bringing his sword down on the closest Samaelite, earning his first kill. Others swarm about him, but the King feels a sudden exhilaration, his own strength and speed increasing beyond what he knew possible. Easily he defends himself and defeats those which attack him. So lost in the bloodshed, the King loses count of how many he has slain, but he cares not. All that matters to Gawain is that there is an ample supply upon which his sword can feast.
From the corner of his eye, Gawain can see that his soldiers are in a similar position, standing knee deep in dead, victoriously increasing the numbers of the fallen Samaelites. The din of battle spirals out of all semblance of control, deteriorating into an uncontrollable maelstrom of savagery and slaughter, spreading out over the valley floor. Gawain’s blade sings its beautiful siren call before yet another Samaelite falls at the King’s feet, bringing him a momentary lull. He examines the battlefield, finding no sign of Mors himself. Gawain’s mind suddenly changes, feeling like he did in the throne room after Eoin’s first visit. 
To not exist. 
Completely empty and hollow. 
The sword falls from Gawain’s hand as he braces his forehead, struck incapable of action by this mysterious sensation. A spear strikes the King, only glancing off his armor, but the force knocks him off his feet. He lands in a collected pool of blood, which is icy cold to his skin as it seeps through his armor. This rouses him, allowing him to regain control of his mind just in time to see a Samaelite preparing to bring his weapon down on the King. Gawain smiles to himself. This, he thinks, is to be his end.
“Be a good girl, Morion.”
The Samaelite stops cold, two blades piercing through him. One withdraws, and by the other is the Samaelite thrown away. Forward steps Eoin and Mikha’el. Mikha’el extending his free hand to the King while Eoin defends them.
“On your feet, Your Highness!”
“Thank you,” says Gawain as Mikha’el pulls the King up from the befouled valley floor.
“Think nothing of it.”
“What happened to you?” Eoin asks gruffly.
“I do not know. I suddenly felt as though I - ”
“Ceased to be in control of your body, like you no longer existed?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Mors is near, but I cannot find him.”
“Mors did that to me? How can he have done such a thing? It is not the first time I felt such.”
“It is not? Well, there is no time to explain, just avoid him if at all possible if you see him.”
“The King is safe. I need to return to my sister,” Mikha’el announces, flying away.
The Samaelites, as though of one mind, set their collective attention to Eoin and Gawain, evidently forgetting everyone else. The two men fight back to back, striking down their assailants like they were pests. 
Time passes relentlessly, and as the sun reaches its noon peak, it is usurped by the coming of storm clouds. The heavens are ripped open, letting loose a deluge of rain. The rain mingles with the blood, fashioning the floor of Magda into a red-brown pit of mud. Many Samaelites try to flee, and the soldiers of Halvard and Judeheim give chase. Unfortunately, they could not have seen they were entering a trap. From behind rock walls, behind hills, and coming up from the mud itself, reinforcements reveal themselves. The soldiers of good stop in their tracks, quickly retreating before being overwhelmed.
Eoin and Gawain run to meet with the soldiers, reuniting with Gallahad and a number of the Council on the way. Above, Mikha’el and Rachel circle the field.
“Mors!” Mikha’el cries to the men below. Eoin’s attention is immediately piqued. “He comes from the south with more men!”
Eoin breaks away from the group to make for a hill. Gawain follows. From the higher vantage, they can see for themselves that Mors has indeed joined the fray. Gawain looks on aghast at Mors. He is a giant of a man, taller even than Eoin. His armor, while similar in shape to Eoin’s, is far more evil looking, covered in spikes and blades.
“Coward,” Eoin snarls as he starts running toward Mors.
The Samaelites try to stop the Knight’s progress, only to find death sooner than later. He cuts a bloody swath through them, his blades becoming the last thing the Samaelites see. Through the human wall he pushes, finally coming before Mors. He leaps at his enemy. Mors deflects the attack. The Knight takes a step back, the two armor clad figures standing motionless, staring the other down intensely. 
“Greetings, Eoin. It has been far too long,” Mors says with venomous sarcasm. “How do you like my armor?”
“A cheap imitation if I ever saw one.”
“Do not be so sure, child.”
Mors swings his serrated sword at Eoin, but Mors’ movements are sluggish in comparison to that of the Knight. Gawain watches them fight, slowly walking toward them unnoticed. The Samaelites become disjointed, forgetting not only about the King, but the battle around them all together, standing in a daze.
“You should be dead right now,” Eoin growls.
“And you should be thanking me! We both knew your father never stood a chance against you, and now you have the power of that glorious armor!”
“There is no power in this walking coffin worth having.”
Eoin plunges his blades into Mors’ mid-section. Mors yells in pain, but it gives way to a slight laugh. He still lives.
“I will not be that easy to kill, Eoin.”
Mors kicks Eoin away. He cradles the wounds given him by the Knight, blood still flowing out from under his armor, but he remains standing. Mors snarls, standing upright and continuing his assault on Eoin like nothing has happened. Their duel increases in intensity, even as the war around has ended completely. Eoin pays no heed to anything except Mors, and so does not notice as Mors’ elite soldiers take up position behind him. Just as one tries to strike Eoin, Gawain slays the elite soldier, than another and another.
“King of Halvard!” shouts Mors.
“At your service,” says Gawain mockingly as he swings his sword upon Mors.
Mors catches Gawain’s edge with his free hand. Eoin attacks as well, with one of his blades, forcing Mors to defend with his sword. Eoin thrusts his other blade into Mors’ side. The villain roars angrily, kicking Gawain away, but is unable to free himself of Eoin. The Knight, having Mors immobile, begins to rapidly stab his enemy with his other blade, cutting through Mors’ armor like paper. Mors regains his composure, sending Eoin flying away, skidding through the mud, with a single backhand blow. Mors storms over to the Knight as he tries to stand, swinging his sword madly upon Eoin. 
The serrated blade cuts through the air with a high pitched scream. When the blade comes into contact with the Black Armor, it shatters violently, sending the shards flying in all directions. Mors reels back from the force. Eoin strikes swift, bringing his blades up into Mors’ chest. The Knight stands, raising Mors into the air, then pulls his blades out through Mors’ sides, nearly cutting him in half.
Mors crumples to the ground, his helmet falling off. Eoin stands over him, stepping on his chest, blade at Mors’ neck, ready to finish his foe. Faced with death, Mors does not beg. Rather, he laughs. Gawain stands beside Eoin, joined by Gallahad and the Council, all unsure what to make of this.
“Do you find your coming death funny, Mors?” Eoin asks.
“No, not at all, I am just wondering what Alastor would think if he saw you like this.”
Eoin throws his own helmet off in a fit of rage, pressing down harder on Mors’ chest.
“How do you know about Alastor?”
“My dear Eoin, I know a fair bit more than just the existence of one son.”
Mors then turns his eyes to Gawain, giving to another fit of laughter. “And I know the true fate of small kings in their little gardens.”
“Speak!” Eoin demands.
“Alastor will enjoy a fate worse than your father’s. Without her, he does not stand a chance against Samael or his chosen,” hisses Mors. “The Madness will welcome its new occupants very soon. Any moment now, I wager...” 
Like in the library, Eoin twists his head as though listening to some unheard sound. His eyes open wide with shock. Mors laughs again, seeing Eoin’s expression.
“No... that cannot be right...” Eoin whispers. 
“Elizabetha still meddling where she is not wanted, I take it?” Mors chuckles.
Without another word, Eoin finally plunges his blade into Mors’ neck, killing him.
“Mikha’el!” Eoin cries with urgency. “Mikha’el!”
Eoin’s voice cracks. He cannot hide his fear. Mikha’el comes on swift wings with his sister right beside him.
“Knight, what do you need?”
“Go to Halvard castle now!”
Mikha’el needs no more than to see Eoin’s eyes.
“Rachel!” Mikha’el shouts as he takes flight.
Rachel hesitates, looking to her King before following her brother.
“Eoin, what is wrong?” Gawain asks fearfully. “What did he mean by those words?”
“This was a diversion, Gawain.”
“Diversion? What for? What is at the castle that would - ”
Gawain does not finish. He can only think of his wife and daughter.
“Come!” Eoin orders as he mounts his war horse, which has come to the Knight’s aid without being called, joined by Gawain’s own animal. Gawain clambers onto his animal and the two gallop back to the castle as fast as their horses can bear.
~-~~-~
The journey back is far speedier than the trek to Magda. Gawain can barely keep his eyes open, the hypnotic rhythm of the passing trees threatening to make him fall. His horse follows Eoin’s lead in the absence of Gawain’s command. When they arrive at Halvard’s entrance, they come across signs of conflict. Along the road, bodies of both militia and Samaelites lay dead.
“Please God, no...” Gawain pleads desperately.
Eoin and Gawain whip at their reins, getting every last bit of strength from the animals. In the courtyard, Gawain wastes no time, leaping from his horse and running inside the castle. More bodies. None living are to be seen or heard. 
Absolute, unparalleled horror grips the heart of the King. 
He bounds up the stairs to the royal quarter, following the trail of dead. In the hall, outside Morion’s room, the King finds that which he feared most: Edna, kneeling beside a fallen Queen.
“Persephone!” Gawain cries, running to her.
“She lives,” Edna whispers.
Edna moves aside as the King drops down to his wife. He looks at Persephone, holding her hands as she struggles to stay awake, each breath she draws is punishing, the result of two wounds upon her chest. Gawain’s eyes move to the doorway of Morion’s room and sees only Mikha’el kneeling over.
“What has happened here?” Gawain asks, turning back to his wife.
The Queen tries to answer, but only coughs blood.
“They came without warning,” Edna answers on her behalf, looking to the dead bodies of Samaelites in the hallway.
“What did they want?”
“Morion,” Persephone manages to speak. “They came for our daughter.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe,” Edna tells him, pointing to his and Persephone’s bedroom. 
Gawain looks at Edna’s face, seeing there bruises and cuts.
“Mikha’el, Rachel and Edna fought them off, finally killing the last as they stormed into Morion’s room,” the Queen relates to her husband.
The heavy footfalls of armor clad feet sound through the hall. They all look to see Eoin, sad and withdrawn, slowly walking toward them. Gawain is unable to speak as Persephone looks upon the Knight. Eoin now stands behind Gawain. The King confused as he sees a smile pass on his wife’s lips as she stares at Eoin with fascination.
“Fate is quite funny, is it not... Eoin?” Persephone muses.
“How is it that you know me, My Lady?” Eoin asks.
“Despite what Gawain thinks, Eoin, I know your story in great detail.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. I would have to imagine that being forced to kill your father was not a task you wanted.”
“No, My Lady, it was not.”
Gawain can only watch this exchange between his wife and the Knight.
“That is what makes Fate so funny,” she continues. “The things which hurt us most are those which define who we become. Hero or villain.”
“That sounds like cruelty to me, My Lady.”
“It does and, at times, it is. Of that I would not deny, but you must always keep hope, Eoin, otherwise all the pain, all the conflict, everything, will be for naught.”
Persephone smiles broadly.
“You do not hate me?” the Knight asks.
“No. I could never hate you, Eoin. I have seen what you have done; the survivors of Theria owe you much praise. I have also seen what you will do, and for those things I must humbly thank you.”
“Thank me, My Lady?”
Tears well in Eoin’s eyes. The words of Persephone striking deep into his soul.
“Take care of them all, Eoin. Otherwise Alastor will be lost completely. What began with Taranis and Leon will soon be finished by our children.”
Eoin is stunned silent. Persephone turns now to her husband.
“Wife,” Gawain whispers.
“Husband. Trust in Eoin. Your fate is tied with his in ways you are yet to understand.” Persephone places her hands on her husband’s face, looking into his eyes with a beaming smile. The King and Queen share this last moment, treasuring it, for it does not last long. “I go now bravely. I am not afraid. I have faith in Him... I know He will find me there...”
Persephone’s eyes flutter, her arms go slack. Her soul leaves. She has died. Gawain weeps silently, cradling his wife. Edna bows her head, uttering a prayer. 
As the tears stream down Eoin’s face, he notices something in the doorway at the end of the hall. Little Morion stands in her parents’ room, the door ajar ever so slightly, staring wide-eyed at the Knight. Eoin smiles at the Princess, and she returns it meekly, opening the door fully. The sound of the door opening causes both Gawain and Edna to turn to the door. Morion runs into Edna’s arms, staring at her mother. Eoin turns away from this moment of theirs and steps into Morion’s room where Mikha’el has remained motionless the whole time.
“Mikha’el?” Eoin speaks compassionately.
Mikha’el stands, holding Rachel’s lifeless body in his arms, the remains of tears still on his cheeks.
“Knight, will you accompany me?”
“I will.”
Mikha’el and the Knight exit Morion’s room, heading down the hall. Gawain calls out to them.
“Where are you going?”
“Rachel must be buried before sundown,” Eoin answers for Mikha’el.
Gawain opens his mouth, ready to tell Mikha’el that Rachel died a hero of Halvard, worthy of being buried beside Persephone, but he stops himself. He merely nods. With that, Eoin and Mikha’el leave.
~-~~-~
Gawain ends the story there. Morion and Amy had both begun to cry, Rachel stares off, lost in the memory of that day, in the memory of her death. Morion and Rachel then lock eyes, the young Queen wanting so much to speak, yet the words do not form. Gawain reaches out, taking his daughter’s hand in his.
“Why can I not remember this?” Morion asks herself.
“It was a life changing day. Traumatic for a girl so young,” Gawain answers. “For a time you did not speak at all. When you spoke again, you never talked about what you saw, except for the Knight. Always did you ask about him.”
“Edna, Morrigan that is, may have had a hand in that,” Amy muses.
“Possibly,” Gawain concedes.
“What happened afterwards?” asks Morion, momentarily brushing aside the issue of her missing memory.
“Eoin returned, revealed more of his life and his plans to destroy Cain. I helped him as often as I could, fighting many battles by his side. He even saved Halvard no less than three more times, but those I only learned of after the fact. Eventually something else caught his attention and he did not visit Halvard for some years. When finally he came back, it was to give you that necklace which you have worn every day since.”
She handles the pendant curiously, running her finger over the crest engraved on its face.
“What is the importance of it? Surely it is not simple jewelry.”
“Eoin kept his secrets well. When it came to dealing with Cain, he would leave nothing to chance, and as such, the secret of that necklace died with him.”
“My necklace has something to do with Cain then?”
“I deducted such, but it is nothing more than that: a deduction.”
“What did Alastor’s father tell you of Cain?”
“Not much beyond what I have already told you. He lived centuries ago, the ‘Father of fathers’ as their bloodline calls him, and the first Black Knight. Vile and evil to a degree none of us can ever really know, he was imprisoned beneath Halvard, where it has been the duty of our blood to make sure he stays locked away while Eoin’s blood seeks out the means of killing Cain completely.”
“Completely?”
“He is unable to be killed by traditional means. There was apparently a weapon that could seriously harm him, which is how he came to be bound, but not kill him.”
“So he has lived under our castle for centuries, bound in his metal coffin?”
“He has.”
The room falls silent for a moment while everyone thinks over what has been heard. Amy becomes uneasy by some thought.
“What is wrong?” asks Morion.
“Sir,” Amy says, looking to Gawain. “How did your wife know about Alastor? Or, of Eoin’s history for that matter?”
“That was to my last day a question that haunted me. Even Eoin was unsure what to make of Persephone’s apparent clairvoyance.”
“I hope you are not offended by this, but is it possible she was a...”
“A what, Amelia?”
“A witch, sir.”
“After her funeral, I searched through her diaries, but found nothing except that which is in the heart of a woman. It did not settle my suspicions, though. Persephone had no living family for me to speak with as far as I know, so her secrets, whatever they may have been, were buried with her.”
“Father, you do not mean to say you believe mother was a witch, do you?” exclaims Morion.
“I do not know, to be honest. Of her life in Theria and earlier, I knew not. She claimed that it was too painful to remember, to speak of, which I attributed to Theria’s destruction. In retrospect, I see it could have been more.” 
Gawain looks at Amy oddly, the implications of her question starting to burrow into his mind. Amy notices his changed gaze.
“Did I say something to offend, sir?”
“No, I just find it strange that you happen to bring up her being a witch, when I never voiced my notions concerning Persephone to anyone, not even Eoin or Alastor. In the things I said, what would make you think she was such?”
Amy sees that she has not veiled her words thickly enough.
“My mother could see the unseen, do the impossible. She was called witch for it, and was to be executed. My father felt betrayed, but he still loved her. The night before she was to die, he sent her away. The way you described your Lady Persephone... it reminded me of my mother. I am sorry...”
“No need for apologies,” Gawain tells Amy sympathetically.
“If mother was a witch, would not Morrigan have known?” Morion thinks aloud.
“She may have, but she never approached me on the subject, and I never spoke to her on it.”
“May I ask another question?” Amy asks of Gawain.
“You may.”
“Your Lady Persephone mentioned two names: Taranis and Leon. Who were they?”
Morion leans forward, just as curious, if not more so, as Amy concerning those two names.
“Taranis was a King of Halvard. Considered by many to be the best we have ever had. A sentiment shared by even myself.”
“And Leon?”
“I presumed him to be of Eoin’s blood, but as you may have guessed, Eoin was quite reluctant to go into details of Leon’s life.” 
Morion leans back in her seat. Her father’s story has satisfied many of her thoughts and questions, but now many more replace them. Who exactly was her mother? Why in all her life in Halvard had she never heard tale of the city of Theria and what happened there? Had Morrigan blocked or possibly removed these memories? Even with these somewhat disturbing thoughts to dwell on, she finds her thoughts now turning to Alastor. The past will be dealt with in time, for it is the present which needs the full of attention.
“Will Alastor be able to free Eoin?” Morion asks her father.
“Daughter, I scarce want to think of what will happen if he does not.”

Chapter Seventeen
The Descent into Madness
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Plummeting through the pitch black of nothingness, Alastor’s mind focuses keenly on his previous dream of the Madness; the shades of that visit ever present before him. When he passes beyond the blackness, he can immediately feel the scorching heat of the nightmarish landscape below. 
With but the simple touch of his foot upon the ground, a fire comes up, engulfing him. It does not consume, and fades as sudden as it manifested, leaving Alastor in his normal corporeal form. Gone is the white hair and robe, replaced by his usual dark garb. So too changes the bracers, the chains replaced by curved blades, like those his father would use when he was the master of the Black Armor. The Madness has done to Alastor what Valkyr had done to Amelia, only in reverse. The Knight grits his teeth at seeing the blades, disgusted by them and unable to manipulate them in any way.
The Madness is just as it was in the dream. Rocks, sharp and jagged, the flowing rivers of molten rock and liquid metal winding through the cracked and charred land. The Madness has a backward feeling to it, with the light coming from below, and nothing but a sky of shadow. The ground is covered in ash and dust and half-decayed bone.
With only his instinct to guide him, the Knight starts walking. He climbs over crags and trudges through pits of putrid mud, the contents of which Alastor does his best to avoid discovering. Into valleys and through what appears to be sacrificial courts encircled by spires of stone that curve downward like talons ready to crush whoever might worship there. He travels on, not knowing if he is going anywhere. 
For a brief moment he plays with the idea that the Madness, for all its frightful imagery, is alarmingly tame. The moment ends when an ear piercing wail rips across the whole of the Madness. Alastor stops, wheeling about, looking for the origin of the wail.
“What have we here?” a voice slithers, echoing off non-existent walls.
“New arrivals are always such a joy,” speaks another.
Alastor maintains his silence, searching for the ones who have made themselves known. From under boulders, from the shadows, and from the hellfire rivers, men emerge, nothing close to anything Alastor had ever seen in the land of the living. These are demonic, their flesh ripped, torn and charred like having been tortured. The demons hiss and snarl as they look upon Alastor with their dead, cloudy eyes.
“A fresh soul to tear asunder. How delightful!” one demon says, nearing Alastor.
“Where is Eoin?” Alastor demands without any emotion.
Hearing that name causes the demons to cringe.
“That name! How dare you speak it!”
The demon gets closer, sniffing at Alastor like a dog. A look of terrible revelation fills the demon’s ragged face.
“It is his son! Rip him apart!”
Like ferocious beasts the demons leap at Alastor. The part of Alastor which he had for so long tried to bury comes back to life. He craves this battle like a starving man craves food. Here, in the Madness, there is no fear of damnation for giving in to this dire yearning. He is condemned to the realm already. 
A devious grin crosses his face as he cuts down the closest demon, then the next and the next. The demons revert to the ash of the land as they are felled, the essence of the demon being pulled into the ground and beyond the molten stone below. With the destruction of the last demon, new ones spring up, now armed with weaponry appearing to be built with bone and sinew. For all their monstrosity and hatred, the demons do not stand a chance, even in hell, of ever coming close to besting Alastor.
With each enemy sent back into the ethereal nothingness below the Madness, the Knight grows in power and rage. The demons swarm together, forming a legion, killing Alastor their only lust. Encircling him, they strike at Alastor triumphantly, plunging their barbed swords into his body. The Knight does not stop even then, continuing to sweep his blades through the horde, destroying the demons by the score. 
Seeing no way of defeating this man, they flee like frightened animals.
“Leaving so soon? Cowards! Come back and face me!” Alastor growls.
The Knight suddenly becomes light headed, falling to his knees while holding his forehead. Righting himself, he looks to the bracers.
“Am I not free from you even here?”
Now ashamed of his loss of control when fighting the demons, he continues onward.
The Madness slowly but surely begins to have an effect upon Alastor; when he passes a standing spire, he cuts it down with a bark. The bones he comes across, he kicks. The occasional rogue demon he sneaks up on, he for no reason than for the sake of doing so dispatches it. The tedium and monotony of trekking through this place is occasionally broken by the sight of a lost soul, usually engaging in a one sided argumentative rant, fully engulfed in their own personal insanity.
“The Madness indeed,” Alastor whispers as he passes.
Seeing these truly dishonored men and women help Alastor regain himself when he finds his mind and heart slipping away from reason. Alastor unexpectedly comes to a sudden precipice overlooking a deep gorge. Much to his astonishment, he can see that at the bottom of the gorge is a conclave of the lost who have grouped together, not yet having given in to the raving delirium these plains bring. The Knight readies to meet with them, but movement on the edges of the encampment catches his eye. In an instant, demons attack them. Since the dead cannot die, they feel all the pain without the sweet release death brings. Some try to fight back, but not long. Their agonized screams fill the valley. Part of Alastor’s mind, the one nearest his heart, tells him to run to their aid. He squashes that idea without a second thought, remembering where he is, and that those souls below were not innocent. They have come to this place of their own accord. 
In the Madness, Alastor is no hero, for there are none deserving of heroics. None except one. 
Or so he thinks.
Alastor turns away in disgust, tuning out the screams, continuing the search for Eoin. Alastor gets to thinking and a depressing thought comes to mind. So gloomy and terrible is the thought that he laughs.
“What the hell am I going to tell him? How do I explain why I have come here? ‘Hello, father! Why am I here? Well, you see, Lucius mostly killed me, leaving me alive in both realms at once. Oh, and Gawain was murdered and now has holy land among the dishonored and I am here to take you there!’ I am doing it and I do not even believe it.”
“Talking to yourself is never a good sign, friend. Has the Madness claimed another victim?” a calm, soothing voice asks.
Alastor stops, expecting another demon attack.
“Who wants to know?”
“An interested observer, I suppose.”
“Suppose?”
“Being stuck in this nightmare for so long, I forget who I am but... strangely enough... I never forget you.”
“Show yourself.”
“If that is your wish.”
From behind Alastor, a man walks around. He is the same height and build as Alastor, and to the Knight’s surprise wearing a form of the Black Armor, although lacking the helmet. This stranger’s armor is not too different from the suit Eoin wore, but simpler of shape and detail. As the current Knight looks upon this man’s face, he cannot help but feel some familiarity with him.
“What is your name?”
The armor clad man struggles with the question, face bunching in torment as he tries to summon any memory at all, let alone search for an answer to Alastor’s inquiry.
“I am afraid that you have caught me at a time when I am unable whatsoever to recall my own name.”
“Do you remember if you were a Black Knight?”
The man looks at the armor he wears with curiosity, then to Alastor’s bracers.
“Like the others, like you, it would seem that I was.”
“Others? What others?”
“If you continue on your path, you shall find others like us.”
“Like us? By chance, do you know if one named Eoin is there?”
“Eoin... your... father, correct?”
“Yes. How...”
“Oh, yes... of all those Black Knights who are in this cursed realm, Eoin is the only that does not deserve his place. Do you intend to free him, Alastor? Ah, yes... your name is Alastor. Such an old name, though it is not fitting for you. It belonged to a coward, and you are definitely not a coward, coming here so brave and selfless and defiant.”
The Knight becomes fearful of this man who knows his intention, yet at the same time curious of him beyond all reason.
“Yes, I am here to free him. How did you know this?”
Again the man struggles.
“I do not know why I know these things. All that has been constant in my mind has been you and a woman. You two have haunted me so, but comforted me as well.”
“A woman? What is her name?”
“A riddle to me. I see visions and disjointed images. Growing up, she protected me, encased me... yet it was my father that corrupted her, the same father which corrupted you. In spite of all this, she is inherent to your fate, as you have been in hers. Her love for you shall enable you to do that which none of us could accomplish. Who is she?”
“Morion...” Alastor whispers to himself.
“The last ruler of Halvard is what the Fates called her.”
“The last? Are you certain?”
“More than this I do not know, or perhaps do not remember.”
“I see.”
“There is a goodness, a holiness perhaps, in you. The sort I thought long dead. It has rekindled my hope. It has made my time here almost worth it.”
“Do not be too happy. I have done many shameful things.”
“Yet Amelia is better off now. What you have done for her has prepared a better future for us all.”
Alastor’s eyes gleam with a dark fire.
“How do you know about Amelia!?”
The armored man begins to speak, but falls forward, holding his forehead, pained, much as Alastor had done. A far off sound fills the Madness. Battle has broken out ahead.
“Go now Alastor. Eoin needs your help. My Sons intend to destroy him utterly.”
“Sons?”
“Yes,” the man laughs. “Except for Eoin, yourself and I, our ‘illustrious’ bloodline is quite lacking in quality.”
“You are Him. The Lesser! There is so much I want to ask you...”
The man looks up at Alastor, clarity filling his eyes.
“If my visions are to be trusted, we will have ample opportunity to speak together of our shared past when the time for it comes. Right now, Eoin needs you. Help me by helping him. The wolves are at the entrance, hungering, Alastor. There is no time to question yourself. Do what must be done!”
Alastor, despite wanting nothing more than to stay and talk, runs toward the battle. He glances over his shoulder, but the armored man is nowhere to be seen.
~-~~-~
Alastor runs without ceasing, never tiring. Because of this, there is no way for him to gauge how far he has gone except for the gradually increasing sounds of fighting. He comes to another cliff, overlooking a vast lowland less chaotic than the rest of the Madness. Below, a large mob of armor clad men fight with a lone man wearing brilliant silver armor. Alastor leaps down, charging unseen toward the mob. 
The bloodlust returns. 
The young Knight laughs fiendishly as he ploughs through them. Before they can react, Alastor slays them in droves, sending them, like the demons, back into the ground. Now closer to them, he can see that these foes are, without any dispute, former Black Knights. His ancestors. His blood. Any sentiment that might have developed is removed as he recalls the unwritten stories of the villainous acts of his forefathers. 
The Black Knights take notice of Alastor’s presence and prioritize their attacks, putting most of their strength and focus on this intruder. Alastor grows annoyed by their attempts, now trying his best to cut a path through the Black Knights. Fury building, he feels the demon inside start to slip from its bindings again. He swings his blades one last time through a wall of black metal. As the foes fall to ash, Alastor is brought face to face with Eoin. Father looks upon son, horrified.
“Alastor!”
“Father!”
“No, you cannot be here. After everything I had done, all the planning! This cannot be!”
“Worry not, father. I only suffer from a temporary case of half-death, nothing more.”
They are interrupted by the attacks of more Black Knights. Father and son fight side by side, repelling the villains with ease.
“Hold fast, Alastor. They will flee when they realize they cannot best both of us!”
“I always wondered what a family reunion would be like,” Alastor sarcastically quips.
“Except we are not all here, are we?”
“No, father. We are not.”
Alastor swings his blades wide, one bracer accidently coming into contact with Eoin’s armor. A cold, searing pain rips through Alastor’s body, dropping him to his knees with a roar. Eoin turns about to aid his son, but the Knight refuses to be touched, standing by his own power.
“Alastor, what was that?”
“Nothing. Just keep fighting, father. We will not be able to leave with them following.”
“Leave? No, son. You of all people should know that leaving this place is impossible.”
Alastor and Eoin continue to fight, talking as they do so.
“Gawain says otherwise.”
“Gawain sent you?”
“Not precisely. I would be here regardless. His aims and mine just happened to coincide... and he was the one that secured your freedom.”
“Really? I look forward to returning to Halvard and thanking Gawain.”
“I hate to tell you this father, but Gawain is not in his kingdom anymore.”
They strike down more of the Black Knights. Their numbers dwindle to a trickle and finally there are no more. Father and son emerge victorious. Eoin turns to Alastor.
“Not in his kingdom? What do you mean?”
“Lucius has forced many changes in both worlds, father.”
Eoin paces, thinking, while Alastor looks around for some clue about how to leave. He looks for any familiar landmark seen in his dream.
“I am sorry, Alastor.”
For a moment, son does not hear father. When the words finally penetrate his mind, Alastor turns to Eoin.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes I do. Had I listened to your mother, had I been as true to her as she was to I, Lucius would have never even come into being.”
“What is done is done, father. God willed it, and it is my lot to endure and triumph. No blame do I put on you,” Alastor tells his father, but deep down, son knows this to simply be a recitation of everything he had been taught. In his heart of hearts, he knows he does not believe it. He knows without question that he has never believed it. 
Eoin knows not how to reply, so he simply states how he feels.
“Be that as it may, Alastor, guilt is always with me. While you might forgive me, I doubt your mother would. My betrayal of her was my greatest sin, bringing about her death which will forever haunt me.”
Alastor tries to comfort his father’s conscience, unaware of what his father has actually said, but the answer he had been searching for comes suddenly to mind.
“Father, are there any unnatural structures here? Perhaps a shrine or an altar that looks holy in nature?”
“Yes, there is. Why?”
“It is our way out.”
“How do you know this?”
“Morrigan showed me.”
“Morrigan? The Fairy Queen?”
“Queen? I do not know about that, but a Fairy she is.”
“Since when did you begin dealings with one such as her?”
Alastor looks grimly to his father.
“When Lucius subjugated Judeheim.”
“Subjugated? How could he gain control of the Council?”
“He did not. He amassed an army and took Judeheim by force. He imprisoned a majority of the people within the catacombs. Those not imprisoned he performed experiments on.”
“What sort of experiments?”
“Necrology. The result of which brought about my being here.”
Eoin falls to his knees in anguish, slamming his fists into the ground. The whole of the Madness seems to shake under his might.
“Does the evil in our blood know no bounds?”
“Father, the sooner we escape, the sooner we can end this curse.”
“Have you found a way to kill Cain then?” Eoin asks hopefully.
“Not quite,” the Knight answers with a repressed chuckle. “Lucius has begun the process of unlocking Cain’s prison.”
Eoin smiles fatally, laughing, so hurt by this news that it has become funny.
“That I am the father of damnation and salvation is too terrible to bear. Do you know what you will do?”
“No, but based on what Gawain was saying, I think that maybe we will be given some clue once you are freed from this place. Show me to the stone altar so that we may finally take our leave.”
“That, my son, sounds like a good plan.”
Eoin stands and begins walking, Alastor following, both men silent. 
For what Alastor thinks to be hours, though it could very well have been minutes or centuries, they go on, nothing said, nothing seen. The silence of the Madness becomes too empty for Alastor.
“Father... those were former Black Knights that attacked you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Why do they hate you?”
“Maybe you missed it, but they seemed to hate you more.”
“Why?”
“I would think that obvious. Both you and I are an aberration. With only a single exception, all the rest of us have been devoted only to themselves.”
“Funny. It was that ‘exception’ that told me where to find you.”
“You met Leon?” Eoin asks, stopping.
“It had to be. When the sound of you and the Black Knights fighting reached our ears, he said his ‘Sons’ intended to destroy you.”
“In all my time here, he never showed himself to me.”
“Yet he knew of you. And me. And Morion. Along with some other choice people.”
Eoin smiles and continues walking.
“What he said is for you alone. But... since you brought her up, how is little Morion?”
“Not so little, but alive in spite of her own actions.”
“Oh?”
“She nearly allowed herself to be killed more times than I care to think of now.”
“What danger can she possibly be in within Halvard?”
“She has not been in Halvard since...”
Alastor stops, not wanting to finish.
“Since when, Alastor?”
“Since Gawain was murdered, Morion fled, and I became her bodyguard.”
“Who killed him?” Eoin asks, but he knows the answer.
“Lucius.”
Eoin becomes withdrawn and emotionless.
“Then how is it that Gawain has sent you here?”
“I will leave that for him to explain. I am still perplexed by the whole series of events that led me here.”
“I understand, I think.”
“At least Lucius is living up to our family history,” Alastor muses.
“He is at that.”
Both men allow the silence to return, a welcome guest in all truth. 
~-~~-~
They eventually pass through the largest of the dark sanctuaries that either has seen in the Madness, with a large coffin shaped stone at its center, standing upright. Shambling around this coffin is a woman dressed all in black silk and lace, with a veil covering her face. As father and son near her, she freezes in place as she notices them. Eoin and Alastor find her presence here more than bizarre. Eoin watches her apprehensively, but Alastor is drawn to this veiled woman. 
He has no clue why.
“What are you doing here, miss?” asks Alastor.
The veiled woman tilts her head to the side, observing Alastor. Alastor cannot see through her veil, but she is clearly scrutinizing him carefully. Her head turns then to Eoin in his silver armor, then back to the black clothed Alastor.
“Waiting,” she says with the voice of one who has been crying for a lifetime.
“What for, miss?”
“My sister.”
“What makes you think your sister will be coming here?”
The veiled woman takes a step toward Alastor, reaching a hand out to him, touching his cheek gently with her fingertips.
“What is your name?” she asks.
“My name is Alastor,” he answers with a gentle voice.
She again looks to Eoin, nodding to herself it seems.
“Too soon! You do not belong here!” she says almost threateningly with a hiss. “Be gone! You have somewhere else to be, do you not!?”
Alastor can only watch as the veiled woman shambles back to the coffin. She turns back to father and son one last time, giving a shooing gesture to them, like their presence is a nuisance to her.
“Come on, Alastor. We should leave her be,” Eoin says walking up to his son. “The altar is some distance away, and I would not like to keep Gawain waiting.”
Alastor unwillingly moves away from the veiled woman. He does not know why, but he feels supremely sorry for her. His heart aches to help her, but now is not the right time... apparently. He follows his father’s lead.
~-~~-~
They travel forward without contest. The occasional lost soul they come across fleeing at the sight of them. It is an eternity before the stone altar of Alastor’s dream comes into sight. Unfortunately, it is not unguarded. Black Knights, accompanied by demons and wraiths, surround the altar and the ring of stone spires.
“Wonderful,” sighs Alastor.
“They seem to have found more Knights,” says Eoin.
“Found more? What do you mean?”
“When I first came here, to see one was rare, but when they saw me, they began to band together, united in their detest of me. When they were not fighting me, they would search for others.”
“But those are not all Black Knights, father. Demons and wraiths of the Madness are with them.”
“Which is something I have never seen. What it could mean eludes me.”
“It appears as though we have no choice but to fight through them.”
“One last obstacle before freedom? This is a fight I can actually look forward to, especially since it means I can finally fight beside my son.”
“Just make for the altar table itself. I would rather not spend forever fighting them.”
“Agreed.”
Alastor and Eoin harden their resolve and start the attack on their enemies vehemently. They separate, assaulting from two angles.
~-~~-~
Alastor finds himself guided farther away from Eoin than he would want by the evil congregation. With son separated completely from father, the wraiths and Black Knights unleash the full force of their hatred upon the Knight. The skirmishes earlier were nothing more than a means to gauge the strength of this youngest member of their household. Try as he might, Alastor slowly becomes overwhelmed; the strength of his heart no longer matching that of his blades. 
The Sadness, Alastor’s own personal curse, slithers over Alastor.
Confronted by all the evil his blood has to offer, the Sadness saps his will and his hope as it has done countless times before.
~-~~-~
Eoin, meanwhile, battles with a subdued attitude. His forefathers and the denizens of the realm are nothing more than irritating flies, as they always have been. He moves through the mob like they were a swamp, but closer he comes to the altar nonetheless. It is some time before he realizes that Alastor is nowhere to be seen.
“Alastor!” he calls, but nothing except the cackling, mocking of the Black Knights does he get in return.
Eoin readies to search for his son, but a monstrous figure from his own past rises up before him, barring the way. There, with mace in one hand and blade in the other stands the Butcher of Theria himself.
“Eoin! I should have killed you when you were nothing but a thought and a speck within a peasant girl’s womb!”
Seeing his father free from Mors’ influence, Eoin rapidly is forced to come to the conclusion that whatever good he saw in his father when they were alive was nothing but a passing fantasy.
“Sometimes, father, I wish you would had.”
The Butcher brings his weapons down upon Eoin. Eoin waves his arm, pushing his father’s weapons aside like they were no more threatening than switches from a tree.
“Your victory over me was a fluke, boy!” shouts the Butcher.
“Let us test that, father!”
~-~~-~
Alastor fights still, but sloppily, the swords of his enemies stuck in him. The demons and wraiths claw at him, but still he resists.
“Stop fighting us!” the Black Knights say to Alastor. “What hope do you have?”
“I... have... none,” he whispers in reply. “I never had...”
The Knight is unable to swing his blades any longer, the desire to give in too great, too strong. The Black Knights and the other foul things close in but, like a bolt of silver lightning, Eoin comes to his son’s aid. Without thinking, he grasps Alastor’s arm to pull him away, but as before, contact with Eoin’s armor causes Alastor to yell in pain and lose control of himself, falling to the ground.
“Alastor, I cannot carry you! You can only leave under your own power!”
“Then I suppose I will not be leaving...”
Not willing to even think of abandoning Alastor, Eoin does his best to keep the monsters at bay. Desperation drives him on, yet the congregation of darkness never thins out. The horde is endless. Eoin resolves to stay and fight, even if it means a lifetime longer in the Madness. When all seems to be nothing more than a stalemate, something happens that Eoin never thought possible: a blast of cold, frigid air moves through the Madness, followed by a soul rending wail. 
The sound of a frightened wraith. 
All fighting stops as everyone and everything turns to see the cause. The Black Knights and otherworldly things closest to the altar are violently thrown into the air. This unseen force comes nearer to Eoin and Alastor, tossing aside the Black Knights while the demons and wraiths flee in absolute terror of what is coming. Eoin stands ready to face whatever may come. Expecting to be faced by some powerful new foe, Eoin is nearly struck dumb when out emerges a raven haired girl, no older than fifteen years, wearing white.
“Eoin, brave and true, your allotted penance is at an end. Stand before the altar and you will be taken out,” the girl says to Eoin, gesturing to the path she has made.
“I will not leave my son,” he tells her firmly.
“Alastor shall follow shortly. I promise.”
Alastor looks up to see the source of this sweet, innocent voice in the midst of the Madness. He laughs to himself as he sees the girl, and all the Black Knights which stand frozen by their fear of her.
“Father... please go,” Alastor pleads gently.
Eoin struggles internally before finally listening to Alastor. As he stands before the altar, Eoin embarks on his ascent, leaving the Madness behind at long last.
Alastor is left alone with the girl and the forest of immobile Black Knights, still as the spires around them. One of them finally builds up the courage to attack the girl. She swings her arm as if to strike him, but a power issues forth from her, causing all of the Black Knights to lose their physical form in an instant, bringing about a snow of frozen ash.
“It has not even been two years since last we met, little one,” Alastor says, “and not only do you look different, I would swear you have even surpassed Morrigan’s power.”
The Fairy girl walks around Alastor, still on his hands and knees, pulling the swords and blades from the enemies out of his body as a mother might remove splinters from her child.
“Why do you let them hurt you so?” she asks, ignoring Alastor’s musing.
“Weapons have never been a threat to me, Fairy.”
Pulling the last of the swords out, the Fairy girl kneels down before Alastor.
“I am not speaking of swords and arrows.”
Alastor sits up, looking into the Fairy girl’s striking green eyes.
“Then what do you speak of?”
She places a hand on Alastor’s face, caressing his cheek with the tips of her fingers, then moves her hand down to the center of his chest.
“Why do you let them hurt you here?”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Alastor says as he stands, using his blades to assist him.
The Fairy girl stands toe to toe with him, staring into his eyes.
“Like Leon before you, you let them steal the hope and love from your heart. Why do you allow this?”
Alastor looks away from her, back to the wasteland of the Madness.
“It is difficult to maintain hope and love when I am faced with what I am to become.”
“After everything Eoin has taught you, why do you believe you would become one of them?”
“Father believed what he did about me because of his own sins and, because of what he learned, thought I was unlikely to fall prey. He never knew that from the first time I killed, I felt the corruption eating at me.”
“So, you then believe that Eoin was wrong about you? That he, and Gawain and so many others died in vain?”
“I do not know,” Alastor sighs. “I have never known...”
She places a hand on Alastor’s shoulder, running it down his arm and finally coming to rest on the bracer. Strangely enough, the metal reacts to her touch, changing color from black to silver. She giggles soft and low.
“Even if you have no faith in yourself, we do. We always have.”
She removes her hand, causing the metal to revert to its normal state.
“We?” Alastor asks, returning his focus back to her, having not seen nor felt his bracer change.
“Very soon, you will know who we are. Very soon, you will know who You are. Your questions will be answered. For now, however, you must see this small part of your destiny through with only that which you have been given.”
“And here I thought Morrigan and what she said was unnerving.”
“Go now,” the Fairy girl says with a smile.
Alastor tries to smile, but he cannot. As he heads for the altar, he stops.
“I suppose that the next time we meet, you will be older?”
“If we meet.”
“Like always. Goodbye, again.”
“Goodbye.”
Alastor strides to the altar. He places his hands upon it and, like Eoin, he starts the ascent back to Valkyr. The journey upward gives the Knight plenty of time to reflect upon his life, his fate, his place in the ancient tale. The more he tries to follow the threads of history, the more tangled they become until finally where one begins and another ends is impossible to discern. So lost in this confusion, Alastor does not realize that he has entered again the Valkyr temple until he is suddenly engulfed in fire once more. 
Unlike before, this time there is excruciating pain. 
He falls, writhing. 
Morion, Eoin and Amy all run to his aid, except Alastor cannot hear them over his own screaming. When the fire subsides, he is left in his alternate form, white hair and all, causing Eoin to recoil.
“That is what he looks like here,” Gawain says, coming beside Eoin. “Why that is, I have only theories.”
“I would very much like to hear those,” Eoin says slowly, still unsure what to make of the white haired man that looks like his favored son.
Amy and Morion both help Alastor to stand, each bearing his weight as they carry him into the meeting room within the temple.
“I am getting sick of this place,” Alastor says as the two women help him to sit down.
“What do you expect when you are not even supposed to be here?” Gawain asks with a mirthful tone.
“Supposed to or not, I would think this realm would be a little more accommodating given what I just did.”
At that moment, a woman enters, wearing a white, hooded robe and carrying a golden scythe, she looking much like the twin gate keepers.
“Alastor,” she says with a cool, ringing voice, “you have completed a most arduous task worthy of commendation, but now you must rejoin the world of mortality.”
Alastor stands, nodding in respect of the recognition given to him.
“How am I to return? My body was gravely poisoned.”
“The poison has been neutralized. All that remains is to send you back, which must be done outside of this city.”
“What about Morion and Amelia?” Gawain asks.
“They too shall leave in like form. Follow me.”
The hooded woman motions for the three to follow her. As she leads them out, Eoin, still in his silver armor, stops them.
“May I follow, to see my son off?”
“Why?” the hooded woman asks, not wanting to know herself, but wanting to discern if Eoin even knows.
“I do not know when I might see him again. To part so suddenly again I do not feel I can endure.”
“Admirable. Follow if it is your wish.”
Morion is the last to leave the room, taking a moment to embrace Rachel and thank her. Gawain stops his daughter at the door.
“Father?”
“Keep the story I told you in your heart. Remember Persephone’s last words. Alastor needs you, so be sure to take care of him.”
Morion kisses her father’s cheek, but does not say goodbye. By the time she exits the temple, the others are already at the city gates. She runs to catch up. They exit the city with no fanfare, the gates closed behind them.
“Until we all meet again,” the twin gate keepers say in unison to those departing.
~-~~-~
The hooded woman guides them south on the road. Morion and Amy have become good friends over the course of their journey and talk together as if they were simply shopping in Halvard. Alastor looks back to them, noticing Morion’s necklace.
“Father, there is something I need to ask you,” he whispers.
“And what might that be?” answers Eoin.
“I always wanted to, but I never had the courage.”
“That, son, I do not believe, but ask away.”
“The necklace you gave Morion. What purpose does it actually serve?”
Eoin glances back to Morion also, making sure she is preoccupied.
“It negates the power of the armor,” he says solemnly. “It took all my strength to make it, which was partially why I went into seclusion after that visit to Halvard.”
“As I suspected. I handled it once and felt... empty. Just being in its proximity made me weaker even. But now I want to hear why you made it.”
“Your brother had shown a penchant for darkness early in life even before I sent him away and, in spite of all I hoped for, I was afraid you might also. I merely planned accordingly.”
“Your plan was for her to kill me if I succumbed to Cain’s will?”
“Yes, Alastor. She is a descendant of the Halvard royal blood that aided Leon, and it would have been her place. The necklace was to make sure she was able to accomplish what I hoped would never be necessary.”
“A lesser man might become angry knowing that his father planned for his own son’s death, but I am actually quite grateful.”
“Grateful? How so, Alastor?”
“You have removed my greatest fear, father.”
As Alastor says that, he laughs and hangs his head.
“What is it, Alastor?”
“Had I known, I would have never asked you to seal the armor.”
“And I would not have been murdered, right?”
“Yes.”
“Be that as it may, I feel that it was better for it to be this way.”
“Why?”
“If I did tell you about the necklace, and you did take the path of evil, what would have been the first thing you did before claiming the armor?”
“I would have...”
Alastor trails off. He knows what he would have done in that situation, and so does his father. He would have gone to murder Morion himself.
“And after the threat she posed was removed, you would have come to me, Alastor, wearing that pendant. My father’s actions would have paled in comparison.”
“Please, do not compare me to grandfather, even theoretically.”
“I am sorry, but I want you to understand fully why I made the choices I did. Sending you out, having you fight in my name without the armor... I was trying to temper you. I needed some indication of what you were to become.”
“Did you ever get your indication?”
“Honestly? Not until you came back from Arkelon with Amelia.”
“What did she have to do with anything?”
“It was a sign to me. That you would take Frederic’s daughter as a companion had implications I could not ignore. Coupled with the fact that, even after facing such an overwhelming force and having the curse rage in your veins, you wanted the armor sealed... I knew then that I had accomplished my task in raising you.”
Alastor takes in his father’s words, but realizes an oddity.
“Wait, you still did not explain why me traveling with Amelia had any importance.”
Before Eoin can answer, the hooded woman gathers Alastor, Morion and Amy together in a glade off the road. Amy looks at Eoin, ashamed. He smiles at her like a loving father, giving her a slight bow.
“Father!” Alastor calls as he tries to stop the hooded woman, but a flash of light blinds all three. Before the world vanishes completely, Alastor can hear his father laugh slightly to himself.
~-~~-~
Amy and Morion discover themselves outside the keep, exactly where they left. As Amy expected, she has reverted to her fallen form. She takes her alternate shape, not wanting to endure her more grotesque self.
“Amy!” Morion exclaims.
“What?”
“You are yourself!?”
Amy feels her face, then looks at her hair. It is black-brown, not blonde. She no longer has the body of the bard. She alternates forms a few times to make sure it is not a fluke. She cannot suppress a smile and a cheer.
“I will take this as a gift, I think.”
They look around and, not seeing Alastor, run into the keep. 
The sun is setting, darkening the land. A welcome sight for the two women, as in the dishonored lands night never falls. Up the spiral stairs they bound until they come at last into Alastor’s room again, where Morrigan and Mikha’el both hold Alastor’s body down as it forcibly pushes out the remnants of the Necromancer’s foul toxin painfully. When all the poison is forced out, Alastor’s body falls back down, sleep and rest coming for him at last, his proper color returning, the dead flesh of his wounds fast healing as the bracers can finally do their work. Mikha’el takes note of the reappeared Morion, and beside her an unfamiliar woman.
“My Lady? You have been gone only moments. You have succeeded in bringing him back already?”
“Not exactly,” Morion concedes.
“But he is back, which is all that matters,” Amy says.
“And who are you?” Mikha’el asks.
“It is Amy,” Morrigan says as she cleans Alastor’s body of the toxin remnants and finally pulls the blankets over him. “The real Amy, Amelia, that is. Now that Alastor is safe, I would very much like to know how you regained yourself, not to mention everything else that happened.”
The four exit Alastor’s room, going to the Cloud Hall, where Morion and Amy recount all that they saw, all they did and all they witnessed while in the dishonored lands.
~-~~-~
The hours have slipped through the hour glass unnoticed as Morrigan and Mikha’el listen attentively, asking questions of every detail. When Amy and Morion’s tale finally comes to an end, none is more affected than the Fairy.
“It sounds like Alastor never needed our help, but your going was clearly not in vain,” Morrigan says thoughtfully.
Mikha’el stands, walking out onto the balcony.
“In case you want some confirmation from me, My Lady,” he speaks, “your father’s story was wholly accurate.”
“Why did you never come back to Halvard then?”
“After allowing your mother and my sister to die, I never had the heart to return, even at Eoin’s request.”
“You did not allow anything to happen. Their deaths were not your fault.”
“So I have been told, yet the words never alleviate the guilt... the feeling that it was my responsibility and that I failed so horribly at the task.”
“You should not let this guilt continue, Mikha’el.”
“Allow me my indulgences, My Lady.”
Amy comes up behind Mikha’el slowly.
“Such indulgences can be far worse than the crime that brought the guilt in the first place,” she whispers to him. “Indulge too much, and you will forever regret it.”
Mikha’el faces her, uncertain of how to respond, so he just nods.
“How long do you think Alastor will sleep?” Morion asks Morrigan.
“His soul endured a great hardship. To be pulled into death, then to travel to the Madness and back, facing the horrors there. He could sleep for a hundred years and I would not be surprised.”
“Is there anything we can do to help him?”
“No, I am afraid.”
Morion sinks back into her chair, glad that Alastor is well, but disappointed that there is nothing more she can do for him at this point. That disappointment becomes a small defeat as she remembers the bigger picture.
“We cannot defeat Lucius and Hector without him, and each hour we give them they solidify their hold. What am I supposed to do?”
“Have faith that Alastor will awaken soon. Beyond that, there is nothing.”
“Nothing...” Morion repeats to herself.
The Queen pushes herself out of her seat and leaves without another word.
~-~~-~
Gently Morion pushes the door to Alastor’s room open. The Knight has not moved since last she saw him. She sits beside him, caressing his forehead. The warmth has reentered to his skin.
“Who are we, Alastor?”
The lamp light flickers but stays strong. In the corner of the room is an old chair, covered in dust, not having been used in years from the looks of it. Morion walks over to the chair, cleaning it off then moving it beside Alastor’s bed. She falls into the chair, intent on watching over the Knight for as long as she can.
~-~~-~
The Queen is roused from her sleep. Amy stands over her, shaking her shoulder slightly.
“Amy? How long have I been asleep?” Morion asks groggily.
“All night.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
Morion looks into Amy’s face, seeing that her friend has something to say, but is not saying it.
“Is something wrong?”
“No. Morrigan wants to speak with us, up stairs.”
“About?”
“She did not say, but I could tell that it was important.”
Morion reluctantly leaves Alastor, following Amy to the Cloud Hall. As they go up the stairs, Morion can unquestionably see that this was not what is bothering Amy. 
“Amy, what is really upsetting you?”
“I had... a... dream,” Amy says hesitantly.
“A dream? What sort of dream?”
“I saw three woman dancing in a forest around a fire. They were speaking the language that Lucius spoke in private. The same language Alastor spoke when he confronted me and Cale.”
“Do you know who they were?”
Amy looks deep into Morion’s eyes, on the verge of some emotional breakdown.
“One was my mother. One was a pale woman with black hair. I could not see the third. They all had black flowers in their hair.”
Amy can say no more and continues up the stairs to the Cloud Hall. Morion can do little more than put her hand on Amy’s shoulder in a pathetic attempt to comfort her. Upstairs, on the table is set a platter for Amy and Morion.
“Please, both of you, sit and eat,” Morrigan says as the two enter.
Morion does so, although uneasily. Amy refuses the food politely.
“What did you want to speak with us about?” asks Morion.
“The time has come to finally tell you both the story into which our lives have all been woven: I am going to tell you the story of Cain, and his son, Alastor the Lesser.”
“Alastor the Lesser?” Amy and Morion both stammer.
“The man for whom our Knight is named,” Mikha’el tells them.
Morion pushes aside the plate of food.
“By all means, do speak, Morrigan.”
“The story takes place during the golden age of the Old Kingdom. In fact it starts in the Old Kingdom: the Kingdom of Valachia, where we now sit. The story truly begins many, many years into Cain’s rule of Valachia, just before the All Kingdoms War.”

Chapter Eighteen
Antecedent
Return to Table of Contents

Alastor, son of Cain, hurries through Valachia castle, coming with all haste into the throne room. Atop the dais stand two chairs, one large and centered, and one smaller, set to the right of the larger. Upon the King’s Throne sits a large man, hair like midnight fire, deep in thought, unaware of Alastor. Cain in the flesh.
“You called for me, father?” Alastor asks.
“Ah, yes,” Cain says, raising his eyes to his son. “Alastor. Thank you for coming when I asked.”
“That is not my name, father.”
“That is the name I gave you, is it not?”
“It is, but I prefer the name mother gave me.”
“Leon?”
“I earned it, did I not? Was it not you that taught me that a man earns his identity through his actions?”
“That I did. Very well... Leon... I have a task for you. Quite important it is.”
“I am listening, father.”
“I need you to travel east, to Elenesia, and deliver this personally to their king.”
Cain stands, handing Leon a scroll with a seal of black wax.
“What is this?”
“An offer of alliance,” Cain says with a cunning smile. 
Leon holds it, staring at it with a sense of foreboding. He looks to his father with gloom in his eyes.
“Lord Cain,” a voice booms.
In walks a member of the Valachian Royal Guard.
“What is it?” Cain demands.
“Your guest has arrived. He awaits in your study.”
“Excellent!” Cain exclaims. “You are dismissed, captain. Let my illustrious guest know I will be there soon.”
The guard leaves with a bow. Cain turns back to Leon.
“This letter is to reach the Elenesian king in no less than three days, so you need to be off within the half hour. Do not bother to say farewells to your mother and sister, they are already aware of this little task.”
Leon looks into his father’s eyes. He knows the price of failure, and he knows the price of refusal is even worse. Not even the Son of Cain is free from wrath. Leon simply tucks the scroll into his coat, bows, and leaves.
Outside the castle, Leon’s horse has already been prepared, packed with provisions. As he mounts, a young woman with beautiful blue eyes runs from the castle directly to him.
“Leon!” she shouts, trying to keep him from leaving. “Where are you going?”
Her brown hair is braided fancifully, face contorted by worry.
“Father is sending me to Elenesia, Charlotte.”
“And you would leave without letting your own sister know?” she asks, almost hurt.
Leon looks back to the castle, spite written on his face.
“Father told me that you and mother already knew.”
“Father said nothing of you leaving to me, and had mother known she would have stopped you from going all together.”
Leon and Charlotte look at each other, a silent understanding passing between them.
“Well, now you know,” Leon smirks, trying to lighten his sister’s mood. “I must leave now if I am to arrive in my allotted time.”
“When will you be back?”
“Four or five days, if the roads are clear and the weather is good.”
Charlotte examines her brother’s animal and the packs it carries.
“Wait right here!” she cries before running back into the castle.
Leon waits a moment, but begins to set his animal toward the road, fear of disobeying his father greater than the possibility of hurting his sister. Just as he is about to whip at the reins, Charlotte reappears carrying a leather bound item.
“What is that?” he asks.
Charlotte removes the leather wrapping, revealing a sheathed sword.
“You cannot travel abroad without brining Lionkiller with you, brother,” she says as she presents the sword to Leon.
Leon laughs as he takes the sword.
“I have not seen this since... wait, I thought father had this destroyed?”
“So did he, but I ‘liberated’ it and have kept it safe for you.”
Leon lays the sword relevantly across his lap.
“Thank you, Charlotte.”
Leon caresses the sheathe like a childhood pet.
“You are most welcome, Leon.”
“I will see you when I return.”
With a reserved smile, Leon starts south down the main road which divides Valachia, stretching from the castle to the southern border. As he passes the outer wall which encases the castle and its court, he turns back to Charlotte and waves, and she does the same with a worried smile.
The city is busy, with trade carts crisscrossing the streets, carpenters building, women in front of their houses sewing in groups while the children play. The people do not overtly acknowledge Leon, instead giving a smile and a nod, which he returns subtly; a subtle sign of respect between the Son of Cain and the subjects of his rule. Leon after some time comes to the center of Valachia, where stands a beautiful fountain of black-brown marble, imported from some kingdom he could not care less about. 
At the fountain, the main road splits into four, one for each point of the compass. The Valachian prince takes the eastern road, the longest of the four. Before coming to the eastern border, Leon passes the older homes of Valachia, where many of the earliest families resided, and have since been converted into vast mansions. He also passes the better markets, the superior smiths and, finally, the barracks, training compounds and sparring fields of the Valachian Dread Knights, the backbone of the Valachian Royal Army.
All of the four entrances into Valachia are guarded by the army, but only the eastern gate is protected by the Dread Knights, both to defend the wealthy of Valachia, and to guard against the kingdoms of the east, where many kingdoms not part of the Valachian Empire reside, some opposed to Valachia zealously. Elenesia is the closest and, luckily for Leon, the most neutral of these.
As Leon nears the gate house, the Dread Knight on duty stops him.
“Halt! Citizens have no business...”
The guard instinctively stops speaking as he sees the man on the horse.
“What do I have no business doing?” Leon asks, speaking in such a tone as to sound threatening. A tone that works quite well.
The guard’s face is drained of blood as his mind finally comprehends completely who he sees.
“Prince Alastor, do forgive me. I meant no disrespect, my orders were to keep the draw bridge up and to turn away any who tried to exit by this gate.”
“Who gave you these orders?”
“The King himself, sir.”
Leon shakes his head in amused disbelief.
“Well, soldier, I am also under order from the King; I am to travel east, so if you wish to keep your head, lower the draw bridge so that I may leave. Please.”
“Y–y-yes, Prince Alastor.”
The Dread Knight guard runs into the gate house with all haste. In moments the bridge is lowered and the gate is opened. Leon crosses, looking down to the river below. Once on the opposite side, the bridge is raised back up.
~-~~-~ 
The landscape beyond Valachia could not be any more different than that within the kingdom. Laying in persistent barrenness, a vast stretch of dry earth, hills and mountains. Grass does not grow, and only the heartiest of shrubbery exists. The trunks of dead trees still stand tall, now home to any assortment of foul, dark creatures. A long, weather beaten stone road, decrepit and forgotten, is the only one to be found in this wilderness and is thus what Leon travels upon. 
The road twists and swerves around rocks and hills and the stumps of massive trees, but it always falls back into a direct eastern route. A deep loathing for his task stirs in Leon, accompanied with that too familiar apprehension. He grips the hilt of Lionkiller, constantly looking to and fro in constant vigil, nervously waiting for some unseen foe to jump out from the dead land and attack him for what he is soon to do.
Carrion fowl duel in the air, protecting territory or, much more likely Leon thinks, a fresh kill. The relatively flat earth eventually gives way to steep rises and falls, some close, some which extend for a mile or more. By the time the sun has descended, Valachia has become impossible to see, now nothing more than a shade of a memory, alive only in Leon’s thoughts. 
The moon hangs low in the sky, so close one might simply reach out and touch it. In the brilliant light of the night-sun, Leon makes the decision to continue onward for a few more miles. When the time does come for him to stop and rest, the Valachian prince happens across a lone tree standing upon a hill, still in full bloom. He dismounts beneath the wondrous boughs of this magnificent tree, and finds at its roots a small spring, fresh water constantly flowing into it from the ground. Both he and his horse drink deep from this spring which has kept this tree thriving in an otherwise dead land. The water has the effect of filling his stomach, sending hunger far away from his thoughts. After drinking his fill, Leon reclines against the tree, grip firm on Lionkiller, and allows himself to fall asleep.
~-~~-~
With the dawn comes a piercing cold. Leon rummages through the packs on his horse, finding only dried meat and stale bread. Cain knows how to feed his messengers well. He throws much of the bread to the wayside, making a meal from the meat and the spring water. After eating he mounts up, sets back upon the old road and casts a parting glance at the tree and its spring. 
The morning portion of the ride is uneventful, save for passing by the remains of a lake bed, now nothing more than a dried pit of sand and bones. When afternoon advances he foregoes any rest. The thought of delaying rekindles his fear of Cain’s anger.
Leon becomes restless in spite of himself, the trek starting to feel like nothing more than a test of patience amidst tedium. When he thinks he might be numbed by the absolute lack of stimulation, the eastern lands readily bring to front their cruel reality. Not a half mile away, Leon can see smoke rising up; a nomad encampment is being pillaged, but no sounds does he hear. Leon brings his animal to a full gallop, riding toward the encampment in the hopes that he might be able to help. 
Riding into the nomad camp, Leon finds no one in need of assistance. The tents are naught but empty shells filled with straw dummies. The instant the Valachian prince comes to the realization of this camp’s true nature, an arrow flies, coming within a hair’s breadth of his horse’s head, causing it to rear and send Leon flying off, crashing to the ground. Riotous, deep growls and cries scare the horse further away. Leon stands, keenly aware that he is being surrounded. When fully upright, he can see his assailants: rough, savage looking brigands. Based on their manner of dress and poorness of their cloth, Leon deducts that they are Sand Pirates; a loose confederacy of outcasts from numerous kingdoms that wander the east, waiting for their opportunity to strike unsuspecting travelers, stealing what they can, taking slaves and killing what displeases them.
“Well what have we here, boys?” speaks their leader. “A would be hero for a village of scarecrows!”
The Sand Pirates laugh, but Leon does not move or speak, using their moment of mirth to take stock of their numbers. Directly before him is the leader, with four men flanking him. Based on the way their eyes move, Leon gathers that there is a similar number behind him.
“Seeing as he is coming from the west, I think he just might be Valachian, boss,” says the man closest to the leader.
“I would have to agree. Tell me, boy... what is your name?” the Sand Pirate leader demands.
Leon thinks swiftly. They already know he is Valachian, which would mean they know of Cain. The mere mention of Cain usually strikes dread into the hearts of men, and likewise those associated with the King.
“Alastor,” the Valachian prince blurts out.
The Sand Pirates laugh, but their leader’s previously strong face changes. He raises a hand for immediate quiet. The silence continues for a spell while the leader weighs this turn of events. In this time Leon becomes aware that in his hands he holds Lionkiller, still wrapped in its leather like a baby in a blanket. 
“You are Alastor, the Valachian prince?” the leader finally speaks.
“I am called such by some.”
“Son of Cain?”
“Unfortunately.”
The leader unsheathes his sword, pointing it at Leon.
“I want his head,” he calmly says to his men.
The Sand Pirates act without delay. As they close upon him, Leon unsheathes Lionkiller. With nimble and decisive movements, he attacks the Pirates before they react to him. He kills one after another with blinding fast, powerful strokes, each maneuver well planned to avoid counter attack. 
The dust settles. Leon is emotionless as he looks upon the bodies of his fallen foes. His eyes move to Lionkiller, once brilliant silver, now crimson red. For the first time in its existence, Lionkiller has tasted the blood of man and it would not be the last. Leon kneels, cleaning his blade on the cloth of the Pirates and putting it back into its sheathe. Without a care, he leaves the false encampment and the Sand Pirates to the elements, following the tracks of his runaway horse.
Leon’s horse has managed to get itself stuck in a briar patch. The prince takes the horse out carefully, doing his best to calm the animal before continuing on the road. Leon grows oblivious to the world around him. Clouds gather unnaturally fast, break open and unleash a torrent of heavy rain on the eastern lands. He unsheathes Lionkiller, letting the rainwater purify the weapon. He stares at the blade, hypnotized by its beauty. The sword conjures ghosts, long thought to have been left to the grave. Leon struggles with his heart, finally raising his eyes to heaven.
“By all things holy, please do not let me become like him. I cannot, will not, endure such a fate!” Leon pleads to whomever might be listening.
The rain does not stop, lasting into the evening and beyond. 
Soaking wet, Leon finds refuge in a shallow cave just large enough to shelter him and the horse. The whole of the night slips by, dreamless and uncomfortable, culminating in Leon waking in a pool of rain water in the morning. The rain itself has finally lessened into a mere drizzle. Hunger strikes, so he goes to examine what remains of his food. The rest of the stale bread is now all but ruined, nothing more than mush at the bottom of the pack, but the meat is still edible, so Leon is not forced to go without some sustenance.
~-~~-~
Although the sun is hidden by the clouds, making tracking it near impossible, by Leon’s reckoning after only two hours of travel he comes to the first signs of true civilization: houses of brick and stone, farms and paved roads. At a three-way crossroad, he is forced to stop. Many of the people are indoors on account of the rain, however hospitality would be lacking even in the summer. Shutters are closed against the stranger at first sight of him with each house he comes near, except one. An older woman steps out from her home, standing under the awning of her porch.
“Lost?” she asks.
“Which road will take me to Elenesia?” inquires Leon.
“The one to your left, good sir. It is not far.”
“Thank you.”
Leon starts to follow the woman’s instruction, but she calls after him.
“A word of caution, good sir: whatever it is that you have come for, do not tarry long in Elenesia.”
“I have only come bearing a message,” he says without bothering to face her.
“Deliver it, and then ride home with all haste. As is the nature of Lions, they roam about, seeking whom they might devour... but I do not need to tell you, of all people, do I?”
Leon twists in his saddle to look to the old woman, but she is gone. He starts to go to her house, but he seems to hear Cain’s voice in his mind. A voice from years past, warning him of what would happen if son crossed father again. Leon trots back to the roads, taking the left most as the woman told him.
The population increases the further along he travels, and so too does the quality of construction, the mud brick homes giving way to exquisite houses and mansions and stores built from rare varieties of stone and other exotic materials. These streets too are closed against Leon. If not for the smoke from chimneys and the light that peers out from behind the shutters, one might think this city deserted. He soon passes through a thick wall which divides this apparent lower class from the even larger and more ornate houses and shops which reside within Elenesia proper. Leon is struck by the lack of any sort of gate with which to bar passage into the city, the wall apparently doing little more than marking the city limit. 
His mind ticks with all the tactical mistakes in the city design. He fantasizes about how easy it would be to take the city, about hoisting the banner of Valachia high above it. He shakes these thoughts out. They are not his, but his father’s. He tries to see Elenesia through the eyes of one who has not lived in Valachia his whole life. It is quaint, not without its charms, but he does not care for the overall architecture. Perhaps, he thinks, the marble which forms many of the Valachian buildings has wormed its way into his blood, making him partial to it even in light of his hatred for his own kingdom. All things considered, Elenesia is the most developed kingdom which rests outside Valachian influence he has yet seen. Which is actually not saying much, as the few places Leon has seen were small, insignificant towns at best, hovels belonging to barbarian heathens at worst.
The Elenesian palace now comes into his view, set in the center of the city. Unlike the city, devoid of people, the palace is well guarded, with patrols going their rounds and two fairly large guards at the entrance. Leon is stopped by these two as he nears them.
“What business have you here?” the larger of the two guards asks hoarsely.
“I am a messenger from Valachia,” Leon answers, not risking to reveal his true identity again.
The guards eye him harshly, looking to one another, then back.
“Give the message to us, and we will give it to our king.”
“I am to deliver it personally.”
Leon dismounts, standing nearly a foot taller than the guards. They pretend to not notice his intimidating stature, instead turning their eyes to a more manageable threat: Lionkiller, which Leon holds in his left hand.
“Surrender your weapon, and we shall escort you to our king.”
Leon obliges by handing over Lionkiller with false submissiveness. The guards then wheel around, leading into the palace. A darkness grips at Leon’s heart, his task now about to be completed, he cares not to drink in the splendor of the palace. Inside, they come to an open plaza, where countless powerful men and beautiful women are gathered, jovial of speech and light hearted. Could it possibly enter their darkest dreams what manner of man has just walked into their midst? Leon thinks to himself. Servants move in and out of the gathered with food and drink. A glint of detest arises in Leon in response to how these people carry themselves with their wantonness; shades of his father’s attitudes concerning those people and faiths outside of Valachian territory. This thought, however, Leon does not try to chase away.
The guards bring Leon to the king, a young, suave man, eating with his many wives and concubines. The sight of this little king does little to change Leon’s opinion, and makes his task somewhat easier, much to the Valachian prince’s chagrin.
“Your Highness, a messenger from Valachia,” speaks the previously mute guard, introducing Leon.
The whole of the palace becomes quiet as a crypt, all eyes gawking at Leon and their king.
“What have you for the King of Elenesia?” asks the closest and most beautiful of the queens.
“Only this,” Leon says, reaching into his coat and taking out the sealed parchment.
The Elenesian queen reaches out for it, but Leon ignores her totally, handing it to the king, who takes it reluctantly. The queen sneers at Leon for his disrespect of her. His task finished, Leon wrenches back possession of Lionkiller and storms out of the palace before the scroll can be opened. The words of the old woman at the crossroad repeating over and over in his ears. He mounts his animal, whipping at the reins. The days of rationing his horse’s strength pays off, the horse barreling at full speed out of the city, past the houses and shops and back to that single road to the west. He does not even look twice as he passes the homes at the crossroad.
He rides thus for some hours, eventually slowing to a pace much kinder for the horse when it appears that he is not being followed. The full force of the rain seems to retaliate against the previous peace as the day wanes. Not wanting to remain in these lands a moment longer than he needs to, Leon resolves to ride through the night.
~-~~-~ 
At around midnight, thunder begins to roll across the east, lightning reflecting off the rain and creating the illusion of two different worlds occupying the same place. He raises his head up to the sky.
“What must I do? What can I do?”
He hopes for some sort if answer, but only receives the continual sound of the elements.
“What hope is there?” he whispers, his heart defeated.
~-~~-~
The night slogs along endlessly, Leon feeling the strong pull of sleep. He skirts the edge of horrible reality and the sweet emptiness of dreams, even into the new dawn. The sun finally shows its true power, banishing the storms to oblivion and rejuvenating the Valachian prince as it climbs to its rightful place at the top of the world. To his surprise, Leon has come to the tree and the fount that had protected him three days previous. He stops, resting under the tree, letting the horse do as it wishes after its hard labor. The horse drinks from the spring, ignoring the many pools of rainwater.
“We are almost home, friend,” Leon says to the animal, petting it as it laps the spring water.
Leon rests for half an hour, stretching his tired muscles.
When back on the road, Leon constantly is checking over his shoulder, part of him still expecting to be followed, or rather hunted. Before the ending of the day he arrives at the river and the east entrance to Valachia. The bridge is already down, with no sign of the eastern guard at its post. 
Entering the city he also finds the Dread Knight buildings, the shops and homes all completely empty. He rides forward, contemplating the possible reasons for the lack of people. Reaching the center of Valachia, the answer is thrown hard into his face with a vengeance.
At the fountain, the prince finds the largest crowd he has ever seen, a sea of loud talking Valachians standing about while eagerly keeping their eyes upon the western road. An old man hears the sound of clacking hooves upon the road and, twirling about to them, discovers Cain’s son mounted on powerful steed.
“Prince Alastor! You are home again!”
“What is going on here?” Leon asks forcefully.
“It is most fortunate you should be here now, for your father also is to arrive at any moment with our triumphant soldiers!”
“Triumphant soldiers? What are you talking about, old man?”
“Oh, yes... you left on your errand before he departed. Well, Cain took the army to one of the western kingdoms and broke them in less than three days. Not a single one of our men perished, and the opposition lost only fifty.”
Leon is dumbstruck by this. Before he can continue questioning, a cheer explodes from the far end of the crowd, the old man spinning back to see what has caused the commotion. From atop his animal Leon can see all too clearly: Cain riding in from the west, leading the Dread Knights and behind them the regular army. The procession comes finally to the fountain, and then moves north to the castle. Leon can only watch from the edge of the gathered, unseen, the dark foreboding that had been in his heart finally making its reason for existing apparent.
“Cain! Cain! Cain!” the majority of the people shout, along with other praises lost in their dissonance.
The few who are motionless and quiet seem to have their eyes drawn to Leon as he sits upon his horse, and his eyes to theirs. The Guardian race files overhead, throwing streamers, paper rain and carrying banners. One however, not flying, spots Leon and pushes his way through the crowd to the prince.
“Master Leon, it is good to see you are safe,” he says, standing nearly tall enough to speak face to face with Leon.
“Hello, Uri’el,” Leon responds a bit dryly.
“Why did you not tell me or my wife that you were departing?”
“Father sent me out in a hurry, not allowing me the luxury of farewells.”
“I see. What did he send you to do?” Uri’el asks, his tone almost accusing.
Leon lowers his eyes, hesitating.
“He sent me east, to Elenesia, to deliver a scroll.”
Uri’el’s expression changes, every good feeling that might have existed has been sent far, far away.
“I see. I suppose you will want to meet with Elizabetha and Charlotte after informing your father of your success?”
“I get the distinct impression that father will not care that I have come home with my task done,” Leon says, still stunned by the gathered mass before him.
“Well... after you have seen your mother and sister, please do come to my home. There is something I need to discuss with you.”
Leon nods to Uri’el, staring at the tail end of the procession.
“What do you know of this?” Leon asks, gesturing to his father, referring to the battle Cain was in.
“What I want to discuss with you involves this as well, but is best left to speech in private.”
“I will see you as soon as I can then.”
As Uri’el readies to fly away, he spies Lionkiller laying across Leon’s lap.
“Lionkiller? I thought that sword was destroyed.”
“Charlotte saved it from the furnace.”
“Quite brave of her. Did it see any use?” Uri’el asks, though his tone is more revealing of his knowledge than he tries to let on.
“It did.”
“Tell me of that when we meet.”
With the slightest of bows, Uri’el leaves, flying to a tall spire near the west end of the kingdom center.
The castle road is packed, impossible for Leon to get through on foot, let alone on horseback. He backtracks to the eastern road, finding a small alleyway which winds north behind shops and inns and smithies. He comes to a stable with all but one of the stalls full. A young woman is tending to a recently born pony. The clacking hooves of Leon’s animal echoes loudly through the alleyway, catching the attention of the stable girl.
“Leon!” she shouts with a smile. “I was worried when they came for your horse but would not tell me what they intended to do with it.”
“Father simply sent me on an errand. Nothing more.”
Leon dismounts, handing the reins to her. She looks into the animal’s eyes, scratching it behind the ears, petting its neck.
“He is very tired. How far did you go?”
“A city-kingdom called Elenesia.”
“In the east?”
“Yes.”
“He seems sad, but still proud. Just like his rider.”
Leon smiles, but has no response to that attempt at making him feel better.
“Take good care of him for me. He deserves a nice, long rest.”
“Like I would do any less than give my best care?”
“Of course not.”
Leon leaves the alley, going back to the fountain. A full celebration has broken out, loud music can be heard coming from all along the northern road. Crestfallen, he veers away from that road, ducking into an old, abandoned cathedral on the corner of the southern road.
The old religious building is dark and musty, moisture hanging heavy in the air with that disgusting smell that accompanies. The pews have begun to rot, the rugs and tapestries fallen apart, eaten by bugs and decayed by time. At the rear of the cathedral a spiral stair descends deep into the earth; at its bottom Leon comes to a tight, cramped, twisting tunnel. There is no fire to light the tunnels, but there is a bluish-green luminescent mineral within the walls offering some, however small, degree of light to travel by. He navigates the tunnel for some time before coming into a beautiful grotto, humongous in size and scope. The luminous minerals grow in abundance here, and an underground waterfall pours into a deep pool. 
At the far end of the luminous grotto is a staircase hewn from the stone. Leon ascends these stairs, coming to a door presumably made of marble. A secret latch within the door unlocks it, allowing him to push it open. He has to lean into the door with his shoulder, but eventually the door gives, revealing the inside of the keep which stands beside the castle. Leon steps inside, closing the secret door behind him until he can hear the lock catch.
Although Leon can hear the boisterous celebration outside, the keep itself is quiet, without any living soul to be seen, despite being lit by carefully tended lamps and candles. He walks up the spiral stair to the fifth floor, where the keep and the castle are connected by a wide hall. He stops for a moment, looking out the windows to the court outside and the growing celebration. Cain drinks wine while a number of young women dance around him. Then their clothes start falling off to the cheers of those gathered. With a snort of disgust the prince turns away, hands balled into excruciatingly tight fists. 
His gloves rip when they can bare his wrath no longer.  
The castle too, Leon discovers, is rather empty, which he prefers, as it allows him to move freely within the corridors. He walks slowly through the castle, prolonging as best he can the necessity for talking. He eventually makes for the gardens, where he finds his mother and sister tending the night plants together. Charlotte sees him first, running to him and throwing her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. As much as he likes being home, he cannot even fake a smile, let alone hug his own sister back.
“What is wrong?” his sister asks.
“Nothing, I am just tired,” he answers. Lying to Charlotte has become far too easy for him over the years. He hands Lionkiller to her.
“Did you have to use it?”
“Yes.”
Charlotte looks into her brother’s eyes.
“Except this time, it was not against unruly animals, was it?”
“No.”
She lowers her eyes. Knowing that her brother has taken a human life almost makes her sick to her stomach, but she knows that if he did, it was warranted.
“What do you want me to do with Lionkiller?” she asks.
“Hide it again. Who knows if or when I will have to use it next.”
Charlotte nods sadly, taking the sword reluctantly.
“Go tell mother about your trip to Elenesia. She has been worried by it since you left, though of course she never said so.”
When Charlotte leaves, Leon’s mother beckons to him. Elizabetha is an elegant woman, fair haired and kind faced, but she is frail, appearing to suffer from some hidden sickness. She sits upon a stone bench set before a small, artificial waterfall. Leon sits beside his mother.
“Hello, son.”
“Mother.”
“Continuing to do your father’s bidding?”
“I suppose.”
“Did you know he was to go to war the very same day he sent you away?”
“No.”
Elizabetha sighs, her suspicions about her husband confirmed.
“He sent you away so that you would not interfere. Most bold of him.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why indeed, Leon.”
“You say that as though I should know.”
A moment passes as Elizabetha looks into Leon’s eyes, peering into his soul.
“It could not have been easy for you to take the lives of those pirates, even if they might have deserved it.”
“How did you know about that!?”
Elizabetha giggles at her son’s shock.
“Dear Leon, I see and hear much more than you or your father will ever know.”
“And here I thought father was the cryptic one.”
Another laugh from her.
“Are you not supposed to meet with Uri’el?” she asks from out of nowhere.
“I am. I will not ask how you knew that as well.”
“Well, you will not think me wicked for knowing this. Uri’el visited not long before you came to let me know you were home.”
“Seeing as you knew about the pirates, I do not suppose there is any point in recounting the rest of my trip, is there?”
“I would not keep Uri’el waiting, Leon, as he has been waiting for three days to speak with you.”
“What about father? Last I checked, he was not privy to second sight, and might want to know how the trip fared.”
“Tell him tomorrow. He is so busy with his little celebration that he probably does not know we exist right now. Uri’el should be your only concern at the moment.”
Leon stands, ready to leave.
“Sometimes you frighten me nearly as much as father does, mother.”
“It is the prayer of my heart that someday, somehow, you will see as I do, Leon.”
The Valachian prince leaves the way he came, revisiting to the keep, the secret grotto and finally exiting the cathedral. He does not have to travel far, walking to the spire that Uri’el had flown to earlier. The stairs are on the outside of the spire, circling upwards, eventually coming into a large, comfortable home, like a manor in the sky.
Uri’el sits with his wife in the study, pouring over maps and documents. As the couple sees Leon, Uri’el whispers to his wife, who rises to leave the room, giving a slight smile to her guest.
“I am glad to see you safe,” she says as she passes Leon.
“Come and sit, please,” Uri’el calls to Leon.
The prince collapses into the thick, comfortable chair with a sigh.
“Here I am,” he says. “What do you wish to discuss?”
“First tell me of Elenesia.”
“There is not much to say. I went there, delivered the message and left. It rained a good portion of the time.”
Uri’el gives a dismissive wave of his hand.
“What use did Lionkiller see?”
“Sand Pirates laid a trap; a fake village set ablaze. When I came into the center, they attacked. I fought back.”
“How many?”
“Ten, I think.”
Uri’el looks up from the map he had been studying.
“Is that it? They attacked and you defeated them?”
“Their leader asked my name before attacking. After I told him, he calmly demanded my head.”
“And you killed all of them without a single wound to show for it?”
“Have you forgotten who trained me?”
“Of course not. But I am well versed in the ways of the Sand Pirates, and their tactics.”
“They thought I was unarmed, but I had Lionkiller in hand, still covered. A mistake they will have an eternity to mull over.”
Uri’el goes back to his map, marking various places using a quill pen. Leon does not rightly care to ask why.
“I see. What about when you delivered the scroll?”
“Like always, I gave it to their king and left before he could open it.”
“Did you read it before giving it to him?”
“I never read the letters. I just deliver them.”
“And your mother has the nerve to call you Leon,” Uri’el scoffs in disgust.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Leon asks angrily.
“I think it quite clear, but in case it is lost on you, I will say this bluntly: you are a coward.”
“How dare you!” Leon shouts, shooting out of his chair.
“How dare I?” Uri’el counters, he too standing, facing Leon with a righteous fury. “You are the one who delivers those letters, you are the one doing Cain’s work, knowing full well what each of those letters contain! This little ‘festival of victory’ your father has stirred up is the work of the last one you so easily delivered. Do you even know how many died in Cain’s siege?”
“Fifty.”
“You cannot honestly tell me that you believe that lie too...”
“If not fifty than how many?”
“A city of one hundred thousand, Leon, nearly decimated under the heel of the Dread Knights. Only when there was none left who could pick up a sword did they finally yield to Cain. The survivors barley numbered five hundred, the streets red with the blood of their brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it with my own eyes!” Uri’el says, his wings flaring open. “And what I saw was not an isolated incident. It was but another in a long chain of such events, and you know this, even if you do not wish to admit it!”
“What do you expect me to do about it!?”
“Fight him!”
“Are you mad? The instant he was given even the slightest inclination that I might raise arms against him he would... no, I do not even want to think what he would do...”
“There are many who would stand with you, fight beside you.”
“I would be leading them nowhere but to the bottom of a shallow grave, Uri’el. Even if I were so inclined to rebel against father, I would not risk the lives of others.”
“Those others would risk their own lives regardless.”
“I am sorry. I will not do this.”
“And I cannot abide it! I will not let my child grow up in the service of a tyrannical madman whose lust for power has no end!”
Leon opens his mouth to argue, but Uri’el’s words clutch away the hostility, their meaning taking a moment to form.
“Child?”
“Yes. Shira finally carries a child.”
Leon falls, defeated, back into the chair.
“I cannot risk rebellion against my father. I will not.”
“There are many who will, kingdoms to the west.”
“Then let them. I will not attempt to stop them, but I shall have no part of it. You are not the only one thinking of the lives of loved ones.”
Leon stands to leave. As he walks away, Uri’el calls out.
“No more kingdoms will fall to your father’s insanity, Alastor. I would give my life to see this promise through.”
Leon does not acknowledge Uri’el and, after a brief pause, leaves. 
~-~~-~
Leon returns to the castle, this time pushing through the crowd, which eventually parts for the prince. When he finally comes into the outer court of the castle, Cain catches sight of his son.
“People of Valachia!” Cain exclaims. “The man whom without my victory would not have come. My son, Alastor!” Cain cries, gesturing to the prince in the crowd.
The people begin to chant the name of Alastor, embracing him, swearing fealty to he and his father. Cain rushes out to Leon, embracing him fiercely.
“How went Elenesia?” he whispers.
“Even easier than normal, father.”
“Good, good. We can speak later, but for now, enjoy this, as it is for you also.”
At that moment, many of the harlots come dancing around the prince. Now it is his heart that falls apart at the stitches. 
A lion without claws is not much of a lion at all.
~-~~-~
The celebration lasts for hours, but Leon grows tired of it long before it comes close to ending, avoiding everyone he can while sneaking back into the castle, sleep the only thing on his mind. In the morning, he receives a summons from Cain. 
Reluctantly, Leon heeds the call. 
~-~~-~
Over the course of two weeks, Leon is sent to the east three more times to deliver yet more wax sealed scrolls, though these times are far less eventful than the first, with no surprises upon returning home. For a time, Leon is not called by his father, but likewise he does not see much of his mother, sister or even Uri’el and his wife, Shira. 
This suits the Valachian prince well. 
To be alone is a rarity. 
The lack of contact from his father, though, gets him to thinking that perhaps Cain has finally had his fill of conquest. That open rebellion will be something he never has to see. The drought of summons ends one cold fall morning.
~-~~-~
“You wanted to see me father?” Leon asks as he enters the throne room.
Cain is pacing across the room, thinking upon some quandary.
“Yes. Tell me, son... what do you know of the kingdoms of the western lands?”
“Not much to be honest, father. The extent of my knowledge is what was taught to me; that many of them have been our allies since before your rule of Valachia began.”
“That is all you know?”
“I have had no dealings with the west, father. I have never needed to, as Valachia has always had what I needed.”
“That is now the problem. Many of the goods we have enjoyed for so long were brought here from the west, and from one kingdom in particular, Halvard, from which the materials to build this castle and much of the old city came.”
“I do not think I follow. What exactly is the problem, father?”
“We have received no trade from Halvard for the past month.”
“You wish me to travel there and discover the reason for this?”
“Yes. I would hope it is a simple matter of bandits, something which the likes of you could easily deal with. However, if it is not, come back to me.”
“As you wish, father.”
“Do not procrastinate on getting to the bottom of this, if at all possible,” Cain tells Leon as the prince is leaving the throne room.
Outside the castle, Leon’s horse is, like always, prepared, but now packed with a sword and shield baring the Valachian crest.
“In the event that Cain’s hope of bandits proves true, good Prince Alastor,” the stable master holding the reins to Leon’s horse explains with a chuckle.
Leon takes his animal with a nod of his head and mounts, waiting for a moment, half expecting Charlotte to run out from the castle, demanding to know where he is going this time. When she does not, he begins to ride away, somewhat saddened that his sister has not come to see him off. 
At the fountain, he heads onto the western road, passing under Uri’el’s spire, again expecting to be stopped and questioned, but there is nothing. He continues to Valachia’s western gate. The land beyond, he sees, is the complete antithesis of the east lands; green, rolling hills and tall, strong trees as far as the eyes can see. He rides out of Valachia, oblivious to what the near future will hold.
~-~~-~
Leon does not bother to take notice of the beautiful landscape, instead keeping watch attentively for signs of roadside robbers, or perhaps a blockade. The journey to Halvard is taken slower than previous outings and stopping to rest is far more frequent. Days pass sluggishly with no evidence of anything out of the ordinary. Not traveler nor evildoer is seen. The trade road he has taken, the longer of the two that go west, guides him through forests and glades, beside lakes and waterfalls, but still he comes into contact with no one. This longer road passes a city called Judeheim, but he does not look upon it long, passing through and going south. Finally, the day comes when he arrives in Halvard, currently in the process of constructing a thick outer wall. 
Trotting into the city, all work stops as the citizenry stare at their foreign visitor. The Valachian prince looks in admiration at the castle rising up over the city, freshly built; the stone and glass, the fantastically wrought metal shimmering in the sunlight, giving the illusion of having been made out of jewels and precious other materials. Without realizing it, he has ridden up to the castle entrance. 
He dismounts, walking to the castle doors. 
The guards nod to him with the slightest of smiles, allowing the visitor free access. None of the suspicion Leon was so used to in other lands and upon other faces is present on these men. He passes slowly through the outer hall which leads to the throne room, a beautiful and wondrous sight, full of spectacular art of myriad mediums, nothing like the cold, sterile hall leading to his father’s throne. The doors of the Halvard throne room are open for the guest, and Leon walks in, the doors shutting behind him. 
Leon’s preconception of kings and queens is wholly obliterated as he sees the rulers of Halvard upon their throne seats.  The Halvard King is no older than Leon himself, younger possibly, and to his right sits the Queen with flowing brown hair and hazel eyes. In her arms she holds an infant, some months old.  
The King leans forward wordlessly, summing up Leon. The Queen does the same in her own way. Leon readies to speak, but the King holds up a hand for silence. A young maid enters the throne room from a side door, whom the Queen hands her child to. When the maid has left, Leon again tries to speak.
“I am - ”
But the King nods to the guards stationed behind Leon, previously unseen by the Valachian prince.
“Seize him,” the King says with a smooth tone.
The guards act decisively, grabbing Leon’s arms and pushing him to his knees in one well orchestrated movement.
“What is the meaning of this!?” Leon demands. “Do you know who I am?”
“All too well,” the King replies in something akin to a low growl. “Alastor, also called Leon by some, the only begotten son of Cain. And, before you ask, I know why you are here also.”
The King stands up from his throne, walking over to Leon. The Queen watches with a cold detachment, never stirring, simply watching, her eyes never leaving the form of Leon.
“Then why are you doing this?” pleads Leon. “I merely came to discover why trade with Valachia had ceased.”
“Cain knows exactly why trade stopped. My letter to him was quite clear. Given your reputation, you probably do not realize nor care what his true intention was in sending you here.”
“I fail to see how the two things are related.”
The King stares harshly at Leon, as does the Queen.
“You would fail to see the connection, of course. How you can live so blind is a mystery to me,” says the Queen, her voice almost cruel.
“Take him to the dungeon,” the King finally orders the guards.
Leon tries to free himself from the guard’s grasp, but the King himself strikes Leon ferociously, rendering him unconscious.
~-~~-~
When he awakes, Leon discovers himself in a small cell in a dark dungeon, the only rays of light coming from a single lamp hung upon the farthest wall. He rubs his face, the pain of the King’s strike still very much present.
“Which one are you?” a voice from the darkness asks. A small, sweet, feminine voice.
“What?” Leon asks, still groggy and slow.
“Are you Alastor, son of Cain? Or, are you Leon the brave hearted?”
“Both.”
“No. You are not both. That is wholly impossible.”
“Why is that?”
“Alastor is nothing more than an extension of his father’s hand. A shallow, cowardly little boy. Leon, however, is a champion of the weak. Leon, I have heard tale, has saved a fair share of lives on his secret excursions, the ones his horrid father never had any inclination of. So, I ask again: which are you?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Never mind how I know and just answer the question.”
Leon sits in his cell, thinking for a moment.
“I do not think I know.”
“What will it take to make you decide?”
“I wish I knew.”
“At least you are honest in this regard. May I ask another question?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Everyone does.”
“Do they? I somehow doubt that, but ask away.”
“Why are you so afraid of Cain?”
Leon falls against the cold wall of his cell, wrapping the darkness around him like a cloak. No one has ever asked such a question of him, but it is not the question that makes him slink back from the light. It is the answer.
“He raised me to fear him.”
“How?”
“He would beat me near death when I did anything out of order. He butchered my pets as punishment, and sometimes he would do it as a warning just to keep me in line. When I became older, and thus able to fight back, he would threaten to do terrible things to my mother and, eventually, my sister once she was born, if I ever refused to do exactly as he commanded.”
“So then, it has never been the fear of yourself being killed that has you doing his will, has it?”
“No. It was never myself I thought of.”
“The thought of him hurting others, your mother and sister... this is how he broke you.”
Leon thinks hard on this statement, leaning back into the light.
“He did.”
“Does it sadden you that your obedience, brought about by this breaking, has resulted in the deaths of thousands?”
“It is a guilt that consumes my very soul.”
“Then why did you not confront your father?”
“People in far off lands, whom I would never meet and for all I knew never even existed, or my mother and sister whom I love more than anything in the whole of the world. How could I be asked to make that choice?”
“Did it ever occur to you to ask your mother and sister what they thought?”
“Never.”
“At least you are honest in this regard as well.”
The dungeon falls silent and Leon is left with that feminine voice still hanging in the air like a tainted veil, the words a barbed arrow piercing through his heart and hitting his very soul, and he left unable to pull it out lest he cause even more damage. 
Hours pass as he broods, reexamining his entire life carefully. The lamp sputters and goes out and still he finds no sleep, his very existence now coming into question for him. Even as the dawn breaks, he contemplates.
So lost within his own mind, his own past, his heart buckling under the weight of his many decisions, or lack thereof, that he does not notice as the Halvard King enters the dungeon and stands before his cell. Leon’s metal and stone womb of rebirth.
“I feel I should apologize for what I did yesterday,” the King speaks gently.
“I bare you no ill will, good King of Halvard,” Leon replies.
“Why is that?”
“My time here has given me an ample chance to think about the very things I hid from myself for so long.”
“If I let you out, will I have any trouble with you?”
Leon looks up at the King, genuinely surprised by the question.
“Why let me out?”
“We have much to speak of, I think.”
“Releasing me is not a necessity for speaking since, after all, we are speaking right now.”
“True, but I have found that a man speaks more truthfully and honestly as a free man rather than a prisoner.”
“As you wish. You shall have no trouble from me. I give you my word, worthless though it may be.”
“Your word has more worth than you think.”
As the King opens Leon’s cell himself, the Valachian prince is struck curious by those words, but he holds his tongue. The King reaches down to help Leon from the floor, which he accepts gratefully. After dusting himself off, Leon is guided out of the dungeon and outside, from a small, thick building standing beside the castle.
“Dungeon?” Leon sarcastically asks, realizing that it was simply a room made up to look like a dungeon.
“Allow a king his indulgences. We do not believe in torturing our evil, though a cell made to look like a dungeon usually has the same effect on a man. The word simply slipped out when it came to you.”
The King and Leon return to the castle, going to the gardens within its center, where the Queen sits in waiting. She smiles at seeing her husband, or so Leon thinks.  She stands and walks directly to him.
“I am glad to see you well, sir,” she says. Her voice much different than the cruel one that confronted him in the throne room only a day before.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” replies Leon.
“I am Taranis,” the King speaks, “and this is my beloved wife and queen, Isolde. By what name shall we call you?”
The memory of his conversation with that sweet disembodied voice revisits him, the voice which asked who he was. 
Which was the real him, and which was the mask? 
The Valachian prince stammers for a moment, unsure what to say. He looks to Taranis, then Isolde, and back. They can both see the turmoil in his eyes, trying to decide the answer to what should have been a very simple question. 
He remembers now his mother. 
He remembers too Charlotte. 
Remembering Charlotte makes him think of Lionkiller.
In remembering Lionkiller, he recalls the name given to him.
“My name is Leon.”
The King and Queen smile at each other upon hearing this.
“Very well, Sir Leon. Let us walk the grounds as we speak,” says Taranis light heartedly.
Isolde joins them as they walk aimlessly around the gardens.
“I do not understand,” Leon starts. “Yesterday, you looked at me as though you would have wanted nothing more than to kill me. Both of you. Yet, now, you act toward me as one might an old friend.”
“Even after all we were told about you, I found it - ”
“We,” Isolde quickly interjects.
“Yes. We found it hard to separate you from your father.”
“After being told? Who could you possibly be speaking with about me?”
“Uri’el,” Isolde answers. “He spoke to you about western kingdoms that would fight with you, did he not? We, along with Judeheim to our north, are those of which he spoke.”
“Uri’el?” whispers Leon. “Is he here?”
“No. He avoids coming here as much as possible, lest Cain become overly suspicious.”
“But my father clearly did. He sent me here as a spy.”
“Husband?” says Isolde, looking to Taranis.
“Leon, I do not think that ‘spy’ is the right word,” Taranis says.
“No?” asks Leon.
“No. Uri’el and you were close friends, were you not? And Cain is, after all, a very paranoid man...”
“What? He thought Uri’el and I were plotting against him? If that were the case, why send me to my allies?”
“I wish we knew.”
Leon gets to thinking of Uri’el and the last time they spoke. Without meaning to he has stopped walking, sitting upon the edge of a raised flowerbed.
“Is something amiss?” asks Isolde.
“The last time Uri’el and I spoke did not fare well.”
“So he told us.”
Isolde’s maid comes out, carrying a small platter of food. The maid nods to her mistress and the King, then stands before Leon.
“For you good sir,” she says, presenting the food to him.
Leon looks to Taranis, who gestures for Leon to accept. Taranis and Isolde both sit on a stone bench opposite Leon.
“You did not have to bring me anything,” Leon says to the maid, feeling somewhat guilty.
“It was no problem. I thought you might be hungry, so I quickly prepared this for you.”
Leon smiles, both at her kindness and the familiarity of her voice. Leon accepts the platter of food with a nod. The maid leaves with a small bow, looking keenly into Leon’s eyes. Leon likewise stares into her shining green eyes, making her pause momentarily before finally leaving. While he eats, the Valachian prince continues the conversation.
“What I do not understand is how only two, rather meager from what I have seen, kingdoms can hope to defeat Valachia. Our army is second to none and equipped with the best weapons and armor money can buy. And that is all without me bringing up the Dread Knights, father’s beloved death dealers.”
“I never said it was only two kingdoms,” Isolde replies with a clever grin. “There are others, I assure you, but it would be most unwise to reveal their names.”
“And you should know, Leon, that weapons and armor alone do not an army make,” Taranis adds. “The will to live, to survive, to protect, to live in peace and harmony, these things are stronger than the desire to conquer.”
“What about the Dread Knights?”
“Reputation more than anything fuels them. Fear is their greatest weapon and without it, they are but men, encased in metal and leather. Nothing more, Leon. Metal can be cracked, leather torn, men slain.”
“I still do not see how you can possibly overcome my father,” Leon pessimistically rebuts.
“It is not in the strength of our arms, in steel and iron, we place our faith, Leon, but in our very hearts and souls.”
“I do not follow.”
“We believe God himself will aid us, in his way.”
Leon shakes his head.
“You do not believe in God?” Isolde asks.
“Religion died in Valachia long before my father became king.”
“We are not speaking of religion, of mechanically repeating vows and prayers, but of faith.”
“I see no difference.”
“Have you never turned your eyes upward, asking something unseen, unheard, for help?”
Leon peers into Isolde’s very soul. The road to Elenesia does he travel again in mind’s eye. A road best left neglected to the ravages of time.
“I would be a liar if I denied ever doing so.”
Leon finishes his food, but the maid is nowhere to be seen to take the platter back.
“Just leave it on the edge of the flowerbed,” Isolde tells him as she and Taranis stand.
“So you are absolutely resolved to face Valachia,” Leon speaks as the trio continues walking. “I can see there would be no maneuvering you from this course, but how do you intend to do it? Valachia was designed to be siege proof, with streets that taper at specific points and lead out into open courts. Any army that might enter would become nothing but fodder for our archers.”
Taranis and Isolde laugh together.
“You never paid much attention to Uri’el, did you?” Taranis asks.
“Apparently not,” Leon answers, frustrated.
“Worry not, for I know how to make it all clear.”
Taranis and Isolde guide Leon out of the castle, walking along the western road and soon coming to a walled court. Within there are many men and women, dressed in what might be described as peasant clothing, training at sword play and battlefield tactics. There are a few armored men acting as trainers.
“What is this?” inquires Leon.
“Halvard keeps a standing army mostly for appearances, occasionally for special uses, but they do not make up our primary means of protection. No. The people themselves are our sword arm.”
“Militia? Are you trying to tell me that there is a secret militia in Valachia?”
“There has been for some time, Leon.”
“And Uri’el leads it? He has been trying to recruit me?”
“Recruit you yes. Make you a general. The general to be more exact. However, he does not lead it.”
“He is our contact,” Isolde adds. “But the true leader has always remained hidden.”
Leon hangs his head with a sigh, leaving the training compound.
“What is wrong?” asks the Queen in her gentle, sweet voice.
Leon starts to laugh, the laugh of a man who has had a horrid secret revealed.
“Leon?” speaks Taranis.
“I know who the Valachian militia leader is. When last Uri’el and I spoke, he tried to tell me. Mother tried so hard to tell me as well. I am a coward. A blind, stupid coward.”
Before either Taranis or Isolde can ask what Leon is talking about, a horn call goes up from one end of the city, then another and another.
“Someone or something nears the city!” shouts Taranis.
Taranis starts to run toward the city entrance, Leon following close behind, but they need not run far to find the reason for the alarm: the sky has become full of the Guardian race. As they finally cross into Halvard proper, many fall to the ground in exhaustion, those who are able to land on their feet immediately move to the aid of their brethren. Hundreds descend upon the city, most bearing wounds hastily bandaged, if at all. One such flier lands in front of Leon. The Valachian prince runs to this one, quickly embracing her only to find that it is none other than Uri’el’s wife, her arm cradling the child still inside her.
“Leon!” she cries as she sees who holds her.
“Shira, what are you doing here!?”
“Your father has done a terrible thing!” she says from behind clenched teeth.
“Taranis, please see to the help of the others!” Leon demands, seeing the Halvard King standing beside him.
Taranis wastes no time, and does not object to being ordered. Isolde kneels beside Leon, she too awaiting orders.
“What can I do?” she asks.
“She is with child. Help me take her inside, please.”
Shira catches a glimpse of Leon’s eyes.
“You are different,” she says to him as he and Isolde help her to stand.
“What do you mean?”
“Your eyes have changed.”
“They have not changed. They have been opened.”
“It is about time,” Shira says with a smirk.
Isolde takes them into a part of the castle away from the shouts and running of the castle court going to the winged ones’ aid. They sit Shira down on a couch, Isolde beside her, Leon kneeling. Shira still pants, tired beyond words. She caresses her stomach, thinking only of the child within.
“Isolde, can you fetch Shira some food and water?” Leon asks of the Queen.
Isolde does as instructed, leaving Leon and Shira alone.
“Leon, Cain has finally gone truly mad,” Shira whispers.
“Tell me what happened.”
“After you left, he closed Valachia. The next day, he sent the Dread Knights to kill us.”
“What? You and Uri’el?”
“No, all of us winged kind.”
“Why?”
“He learned that we made up the bulk of the opposition. The second he sent the Dread Knights after us, battle broke out through all of Valachia.”
“Is Uri’el with you?”
“No, he is still there, now leading the militia, or he was when I left him. Leon... I... there is something I need to...”
“What, Shira?”
Shira tries to speak, but is overcome with emotion, starting to cry uncontrollably. 
“I am so sorry! We tried to protect them,” is all she can say, Isolde returning as she does.
Leon dares not speak. In his heart that old fear laughs in his face, cackling. 
That old fear has his father’s voice.
“Isolde, take care of Shira,” Leon says before storming out of the room.
He runs outside of the castle, searching for Taranis. Leon finds the King amongst a group of Guardians, who fill the King in on what has transpired.
“Where is my horse?” Leon demands of Taranis.
“In the stables. Why?”
“I have to ride back to Valachia now.”
“I shall go with you,” Taranis says without needing to think.
“No. I am going alone. You need to stay here. Just show me to the stables.”
Taranis can see the anguish in Leon’s eyes and obliges without protest.
~-~~-~
Reunited with his animal, Leon gallops at full speed out of Halvard, bounding onto the Valachian trade road, this time taking the shorter of the two. He rides without ceasing. For all the remainder of that day and into the next, horse and rider share the same heart and mind. They cover nearly all the distance to Valachia, but the animal can take no more, its heart of flesh gives in, causing the good animal to die instantly in mid-stride. 
The crash should have killed Leon, but he stands without injury, the briefest of moments of mourning passing before he begins to run on foot, forced to leave his friend behind.
An unnatural speed propels him, he running faster than even his horse under the best of conditions. Why can he run so? He does not care. Anything that can get him home sooner is welcome with open arms.
Leon comes to Valachia before dawn has fully broken. The western gates are firmly shut, barred from within. Fueled by rage, he rams the gate with his shoulder, causing it to jolt and buckle violently. Leon taps into some hidden strength, ramming the gate again, causing the crossbeams on the other side to crack. With a final surge of inhuman power, he crashes through the gates, destroying the crossbeams and leaving the doors open in his wake. Leon is grossly unprepared for what lays beyond; bodies of men and winged kind alike are strewn about, littering the ground, the streets red with their blood. Dread Knights patrol, finishing off any survivors amongst the dead, ignoring Leon as soon as they look upon him.
Leon runs headlong to the Valachian castle, holding back the dam of emotion building as he looks upon the bloody ruin of his city. The outer court of the castle is more a slaughter house floor than any place where some joyous celebration might have ever been held.
Leon stops before the steps to the castle.
“Father!” he yells with scorching fury. “Show yourself!”
From the castle entrance emerges a figure, tall, clad in black, horrific armor. He walks with slow and measured steps out, standing at the head of the stairs.
“Alastor, I had so hoped never to even see you again. But, seeing as you have returned, I shall gladly be the first to welcome you home,” Cain says, supreme evil exuding from his voice.
“What have you done!?” demands Leon.
“I have done nothing any other king would not do when faced with insurrectionists: I executed them.”
The two stand motionless, staring at one another.
“Where is Charlotte and mother?” Leon finally asks.
Cain laughs, his low, sinister laugh reaching out and striking the walls, multiplying them until it sounds as though a thousand Cain’s are laughing at Leon.
“To think that my own wife and daughter were the ones leading the opposition to me, but in the end it was most fortunate.”
“Where are they?”
“You should know that they not once implicated you. I am sure that their loyalty is soothing to your conscience. Then again, maybe it is not,” Cain says with another small chuckle.
“Where are they!?” repeats Leon.
“It was their blood that sealed my pact with Samael,” Cain answers, raising his arms, staring at his gauntleted hands, “and it was Samael who forged this armor for me, using my... sacrifice.”
Leon swoons at the ramification of Cain’s words. He had suspected. Feared. Cain’s words have a finality, cold and cruel.
“Monster!” he roars.
“Foolish child. I spent so many years trying to warn you of the price betraying me would bring. Now you, like those whores, shall pay with your life.”
Leon leaps toward his father, up the flight of steps in a single bound, arms outstretched. Leon is stopped in mid-air just before Cain. Cain laughs as he sees Leon’s confused face. Leon looks down to see what has stopped him, discovering himself impaled upon Cain’s sword. The Valachian king flings his son away with a snicker. Leon rights himself in the air, landing as if unwounded at all. He leaps back up against his father again, this time mindful of the sword. 
Landing weightlessly, Leon grabs his father’s arms as he tries to swipe his sword at his son.
“I will rip you apart for what you have done!” Leon growls, unyielding hatred seething in him.
“I think not, child.”
Cain strikes Leon using his armored head, ripping a gash in the prince’s face. While his disowned son is staggered, Cain slashes Leon down across his chest. The strike would have cut an ordinary man in twain, but Leon, it would seem, is no longer an ordinary man. The prince falls down the stairs, hitting the ground hard. He stands defiantly, but his knees buckle. Cain descends the stairs, ready to finish his son off.
From nowhere, Uri’el swoops down, embracing Leon. The winged one looks up with loathing at Cain, a gash running down from the center of his forehead to the left side of his jaw, his left eye missing.
“You shall pay dearly for what you have done, Cain. It will be God’s will,” says Uri’el before taking to the air carrying Leon.
“God’s will?” Cain yells in retaliation. “Your god has no strength left in this world. Run back to Halvard, cowards. I will deal with you soon enough and show you true strength!”
Uri’el flies fast and far, never looking back to the accursed city. When far outside of Valachian influence, Uri’el lands, Taranis awaiting. Leon runs away from them both, still covered in his own blood. He runs and runs into the trees, trying to outrun his grief but the grief finally lashes out, ensnaring him. He falls to his knees, the truth striking him harder than any blow or sword swipe his father could have given him. 
Charlotte and Elizabetha are dead. 
Murdered by Cain. 
He cannot hold the anguish inside, crying to the heavens, tears streaming down his face, mingled with blood. He pounds his fists into the ground, yelling at the top of his lungs until his mind can take no more and he passes out.
~-~~-~
He wakes in a nice bed, light from an overcast sky outside coming in through a window to his right, the sound of rain gently pelting the glass creating a pleasant rhythm. He groans as he stretches his sore muscles. The sound of his waking rouses a woman who had been sitting beside his bed. She jumps from her chair, standing over Leon.
“Where am I?” he groans.
“Judeheim, sir.”
A familiar voice. As his eyes adjust, he finds Isolde’s maid leaning over him.
“I remember you. I never did thank you for the food, and I never found out your name.”
“My name is Cardea, sir.”
“Well, Cardea, why am I here?”
“After Sir Uri’el brought you to my King, you were overcome by - ”
“I remember that part,” Leon interrupts, “what happened after that?”
“You were in a mania for a long time, sir. Skirting between sleep and wake. You would thrash madly, yelling, cursing... lamenting. Only in the last two weeks have you been at peace.”
“Two weeks? How long has it been since that day?”
“Just over three months, sir.”
Leon rubs his forehead, unable to believe he has been incapacitated for so long.
“Why am I here rather than in Taranis’ kingdom?”
“You were, for a time,” a voice calls from the doorway.
Leon sits up to see Uri’el. Uri’el walks into the room, gesturing kindly for Cardea to leave. Leon cannot help but stare at Uri’el; he now wears an eyepatch, the scar on his face very prominent, but the ones on his body now nearly faded.
“What dictated that I should be brought here?” asks Leon, ignoring any formalities.
“When in your mania you began to speak, and more often rant, about Samael.”
“Samael?” repeats Leon. “Yes. Cain mentioned Samael.”
“We know. Once you are dressed and feel up to it, we all have something we want to discuss with you.”
“And who might this ‘we’ you speak of be?”
“Taranis, Isolde, myself and the elders of the Judeheim High Council.”
“If that is their wish, I shall do so.”
Uri’el nods, leaving while Cardea returns carrying clothes for Leon. Leon can see that in the short time she was gone, she had been crying.
“Clothes for you, sir,” she says meekly.
“Why were you crying?”
“Perhaps it would be best to explain after you have spoken to my King and the others, for what they have to say is of greater importance.”
Before Leon can tell her of how he does not rightly care about what they have to say, she leaves without another sound. Leon climbs out of bed, nearly falling as he tries to stand, having not used his legs for so long. He dresses in the clean clothes and finds Uri’el waiting outside his room. Uri’el and Leon do not speak on the way to the Council chamber within the Judeheim citadel. There, Taranis and Isolde are deep in conversation with three elders. Taranis stands, smiling at seeing Leon awake and well.
“Leon, it is good - ”
“Leon is dead,” the former Valachian prince quickly interrupts.
“What do you mean?” implores Isolde, alarmed and fearful that something might be wrong with him.
“Leon died upon the steps of Valachia castle. I am Alastor, nothing more.”
Cardea has snuck in, hiding in the shadows, listening intently, while the others look at each other, unsure how to respond. The Queen stares into the eyes of this man who looks like Leon, finding little else but an empty shell. She faces her husband on the verge of tears then sits down.
“Very well,” says Taranis. “Please sit... Alastor.”
“I would rather stand.”
“As you wish,” Taranis assents while he and the elders all sit. 
“I suppose the first thing we should do is appraise you of the current state of the lands,” speaks one of the elders.
“Yes,” says another, “In the time since you have been... unwell, Alastor, much has changed.”
“Cain had begun a complete conquest of every kingdom, city and village he came across,” begins Taranis. “But at his every move he has faced opposition, slowing him down drastically. His army has been decreased into nothing but a few remaining survivors, however he himself cannot be stopped.”
“Numerous kingdoms and cities, even those once peacefully allied with Valachia, now fight actively against him,” adds Isolde. “There is not a kingdom in these lands that has not taken sides and become involved in one way or another.”
“Where is Cain now?” Alastor asks.
“He was last seen heading to a little city that had previously gone relatively unnoticed: Arkelon,” Taranis answers. “By God’s good grace, the people have been able to flee long before Cain should arrive.”
“Cain’s tactics make no sense,” an elder speaks. “Arkelon poses no significant threat, nor advantage.”
Alastor grows tired of hearing these things, grows tired of their apparent blindness.
“Who is Samael?” he suddenly, and almost angrily, asks.
“The enemy of the nameless God,” the elder answers. “Everything that he is, good, just, Samael is the exact opposite. Why?”
“And what is the faith of Arkelon?” Alastor continues, trying to make these small men think just a little bit.
“Like us, and Halvard, Arkelon are servants of the nameless God.”
“Why do you bring up Samael so suddenly, Alastor?” asks another elder. “You spoke of him in your mania, but none of us could get a solid answer from you.”
Alastor looks into every set of eyes aimed at him before answering.
“Cain has made a pact with Samael, sacrificing his wife and daughter, and in exchange Samael wrought a suit of unnatural armor.”
The three elders look to one another, understanding Alastor’s words before anyone else.
“God help us... Samael has created his agent,” cries the most senior of the elders. “Alastor, is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Aside from the armor, Cain was... changed.”
“Changed? How so?”
“Inhuman strength, physical abilities, and apparently, near immortality.”
“How do you know that?”
“I fought with him briefly. In terms of strength, we were evenly matched.”
“I do not understand,” says Isolde, confused.
Alastor steps forward and picks up the large wooden table which they all sit at with a single hand. They all gasp, and Alastor sets the table back down.
“Whatever Samael did to Cain, it has had an effect upon myself as well. My horse died before I reached Valachia, and I ran on foot the rest of the way. The gates were barred, and I broke through them. Above all, Cain impaled me, broke open my head and gave me a sword strike that should have cut me in half, yet here I am, quite alive.”
“What does this mean?” Taranis asks the elders.
“Cain’s path of destruction makes sense now,” says the elder closest to him, grasping finally what Alastor was trying to force them to understand. “He has been traveling between those places that swear loyalty to the nameless God.”
“But, there has been heathen kingdoms which were destroyed.”
“Only because they stood in his path, Taranis. Fighting against him because of their hatred of Valachia, which makes them his enemies all the same.”
“I see...”
“What can we do?” Isolde asks the elders.
“Samael’s agent he might be,” Alastor speaks, “Cain is still a man with an overdeveloped sense of vanity. He would not abide any challenge to his strength.”
“What are you proposing, Alastor?”
“I am proposing you send word to your allies that Alastor, son of Cain is alive and well, waiting for his father in Halvard.”
“Is that wise?” Taranis asks. “You just got through telling us he is probably invincible.”
“If he is, then we are all damned regardless.”
The elders, Taranis and Isolde all exchange glances.
“Alastor, can you leave us so that we may discuss this matter?” asks the elders.
“Of course,” Alastor answers with a sarcastic sneer.
Alastor leaves coldly, passing Uri’el without so much as a nod or gesture. Cardea rushing after him. 
Alastor leans against the citadel with his arms crossed, staring at the remains of snow on the ground. Cardea slowly walks in front of him.
“It is true then, I suppose?” she asks him.
“What?” he replies without looking up.
“Charlotte and Elizabetha. They are dead?”
“How do you know about them?”
“Charlotte and I were best friends when I was growing up in Valachia.”
“I do not remember seeing you.”
“Why would you? You spent most of your time training or engaged in some other nonsense.”
“That sounds like me,” Alastor says, looking up at Cardea. “If you were Valachian, how did you become Isolde’s maid?”
“My father saw what Cain was coming to, and moved our family to Halvard while he could still do so without arousing suspicions of disloyalty. Charlotte and I would write to each other, but the letters stopped when Taranis cut off trade.”
Tears form in Cardea’s eyes as she thinks about her departed friend. Alastor lowers his head again.
“I would hate to think of what she told you about me,” he thinks aloud.
“She wrote only the best of you, I promise.”
Cardea begins to cry uncontrollably. Alastor pulls her to him, the two embracing in their shared sadness. They stand outside the citadel, unaware and not caring of the goings on of the rest of the city. Alastor holds her tight, even though he is not sure why. He has never had the desire to hold anyone, nor a real reason to. In holding her, something inside changes. Possibly.  After a time, Uri’el, Taranis and Isolde exit together. Alastor and Cardea separate.
“What was decided?” Alastor asks.
“We will return to Halvard as soon as you are ready,” Taranis answers.
“We can leave now, then. I have no reason to remain here.”
They waste no time with farewells, retrieving their animals from the stables, buying a new horse for Alastor and setting out for their home. Uri’el flies on ahead to Halvard by order of the King. Alastor does not speak to anyone, but rides next to Cardea. Although he looks at her occasionally, he cannot bring himself to speak with her; every time he tries, his mind fills with images of his mother and sister and, more morbidly, how they may have been killed. Even with these imaginings he feels nothing. He shows no emotion. He cannot. This lack of feeling should frighten him, he thinks, but it does not.
The ride is slow. There is no need for them to hurry at this point in time. When night finally falls, Taranis leads them to a glade not far off the road. With Alastor’s aid they start a nice, large fire. Taranis and Isolde lay near the fire, looking up at the stars. Alastor slinks away, sitting at the foot of a willow, as far away from the light of the fire as possible, leaving Cardea alone. The young woman lays down, eyes fixed on Alastor, watching his motionless form until she falls into slumber.
In the morning, Cardea is the first to wake, or so she thinks. Alastor has not moved at all, still staring into nothingness. She stands, quietly walking to him, kneeling beside him.
“Have you been awake all night?” she asks.
“I could not sleep, even if I wanted to. I have no desire to see the phantoms my mind might create.”
“Really? I sleep so that I can dream.”
“Do you?”
“When I dream, I can see things as they were. Sometimes, I can see what is, and at other times I can see that which gives me great hope.”
“What might that be?”
“I dream about the things which will be.”
“You can see the future?” asks Alastor, curiosity written in bold on his face.
She simply nods, smiling.
“May I ask you a question?” she asks.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Everyone does.”
“Ask your question,” he tells her after a moment’s hesitation.
“How did you receive the name Leon? Charlotte always called you by that name, but never explained its origin.”
Alastor thinks about whether or not he wants to answer, debating with himself.
“When I had reached my eighteenth year, mother commissioned a sword, made by the finest smith in the west. It was not a birthday present, mind you, but a sort of trophy for something I had done. I will not go into what, but my mother thought it was deserving of a gift. My mother, Charlotte and I went in secret to receive it. On the way home, we were attacked by a pack of feral lions. Aside from the fact that they were not native to anywhere in the west, these animals were unnatural, twice the size or more than normal lions and infinitely more savage. With just my newly forged sword, I slew them all. Mother said that I had fought so fiercely that I put the animals to shame, and that I should be the rightful owner of their name. She re-christened me Leon, and Charlotte named my new sword Lionkiller.”
“That explains why Charlotte spoke so highly of you. Tell me, though: why did the sword go into hiding?”
“Cain was none too happy about the three of us leaving Valachia in secret, and even less so when he learned it was for such an extravagant present that, in his eyes, was completely unearned. When he learned that mother had given me a new name on top of it all, he took it as a personal insult. He seized Lionkiller and ordered it to be destroyed.”
“Except Charlotte stole it back and hid it.”
“Yes,” Alastor whispers, haunted. “Yes she did.”
Cardea can see in his blank eyes that he is reliving that day, and then thinking about the fatal day three months previous.
“You should not blame yourself for their deaths.”
“How can I not? If I had the courage to stand against Cain, they would still be here.”
“You cannot change the past, but you can understand it. They died fighting Cain and his evil.”
“How can you know how they died?”
“I told you... I dream. I saw them fight. They held back Cain so that the others could flee and... I saw them die. In my dream, she did not speak, but I could feel that it was Elizabetha’s will, not Cain’s, to have you in Halvard during that terrible moment.”
“Why would she do that?”
“That, I do not know I am afraid.”
Alastor’s eyes lower as he contemplates on this. Cardea takes Alastor’s hands into hers, sitting beside him, resting her head on his shoulder, waiting for her King and Queen to wake. 
Alastor does not object to her being so close.
~-~~-~
By the time they have all eaten and made ready to leave, it is nearly afternoon. They ride at a similar pace as previously, and again there is no air of urgency, however unlike the day before, the world is not as dreary. Taranis and Isolde chat merrily in disregard of the reality they live in, recounting their respective childhoods to Alastor and Cardea, culminating in how they met and eventually married against their parents’ wills. Alastor and Cardea both realize in their own time that Taranis and Isolde were awake and listening while they spoke earlier that morning.
With the approaching dusk, Taranis again brings them all to a place to rest, this time by a small brook. Again, Alastor helps to build a fire, but this time staying with the others. The King and Queen continue speaking of their lives together, with Cardea periodically interrupting to ask a question or confirm some hunch. Alastor remains silent, but listens carefully.
Midnight soon comes and none show signs of tiring.
“What is to happen when we arrive back to Halvard?” Alastor suddenly asks. “What had the elders to say about my plan?”
“They agreed with you,” Taranis answers. “When we get home, I am going to send riders out, as will Judeheim. Afterwards, we wait.”
“Good,” Alastor says softly, laying down. “You can continue talking. I need to sleep,” he tells them, and in moments, he does.
~-~~-~
Alastor wakes before dawn, Cardea sleeping beside him. Taranis and Isolde are already awake, preparing the animals for departure.
“Good, you are up,” Taranis says, seeing Alastor.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no, no... we just need to get going. Halvard is not far off, and the sooner we arrive, the sooner we send out the riders.”
After Alastor has woken Cardea, they are on their way, slow as the days before. Cardea and Isolde ride together, talking in lowered tones occasionally sprinkled with a giggle or two.
“I never gave you my condolences,” Taranis tells Alastor. “I am sorry for what happened. If we had any indication of the sort of heart Cain actually had, we would have acted sooner.”
Alastor looks briefly to Taranis. For whatever reason, he is not as sad as he should be, nor as sad as he would like to be.
“What happened was unavoidable.”
Taranis thinks about this, nodding his head.
“Perhaps. It may take a long while before Cain comes for you.”
“He will come the instant he hears that I am alive still.”
The coldness and matter of fact tone Alastor uses to say this catches Taranis.
“I, even to this day, cannot fathom why a man would chose to become what Cain has become.”
“Power can be quite alluring to a man who spent his life without it.”
“How do you mean? Valachia’s power goes back centuries.”
“You do not know about my father’s childhood?”
“Details of his youth are hard to come by, especially outside of Valachia I would imagine.”
“His family was nomadic, exiles from their natural home. Where their home was, none know, and he never spoke of. Through disease and death, Cain was left alone. He came to Valachia by chance, where he was taken in as a child of the court. His hardships ingrained in him a feeling of being owed reparations by the whole world, so he killed his way through the royal family until he became king himself.”
“How can that be? I have been to Valachia on many occasions, and only saw him as beloved by many of the people.”
“He spread his lies through the affluent members of society, telling of the corruption and other vices that had wormed its way among the royals, not the least of which was that the true king and his family were a clan of blood drinkers.”
“And the people at the time believed this?”
“Cain’s promises of a new age of wealth made it easy for them to swallow his thin explanation for slaughtering the royal family.”
“And no one questioned anything?”
“Remember that religious faith had already decayed amongst the people, and with it common sense. Wealth, leisure, self-gratification... these things were all that mattered to most of the population. However, you know that not everyone believed this, but early on they learned to keep quiet, lest their family suddenly find itself at the bottom of a grave.”
Taranis laughs darkly to himself, the state of Valachian affairs being so strange and disturbing.
“Let us assume we can stop Cain, Alastor; what will you do with Valachia? You would be the king for all intents and purposes, after all.”
“What will I do? Disperse the people and then tear down that damned city into rubble, that is what I will do.”
“You would abandon them?”
“By now, all the good people have fled. Those who remain are as guilty as Cain. What I intend to do is a mercy far above what they deserve.”
“What of your kingship? You would give that up?”
“I have no desire to be a king and even if I did it would not matter. Cain was not a rightful king, nor am I a rightful prince. Valachia will no longer exist, its kings dead, forgotten by history. It is the fate it has earned for its sins.”
Lost in talk, they have finally come to Halvard without noticing. They ride into the city, seeing the races of winged and men working together on construction of the walls and battlements, which with this new influx of aid is now nearly finished. Uri’el waits outside the castle, four swift riders ready to go. Taranis gives them but a gesture and the four horsemen ride out of the city as if they were in a race. Alastor, Taranis, Isolde and Cardea all dismount.
“I was beginning to wonder what was taking you so long,” says Uri’el.
“Alastor needed some time,” Isolde whispers to him as she passes.
As they walk into the castle, Alastor again avoids contact of any kind with Uri’el.
“Is there a room I can have while I am here?” Alastor asks of Taranis and Isolde. “Preferably apart from the rest of your court. I need to be alone.”
“Of course,” Isolde tells him. “Cardea can take you to a proper room.”
Cardea tugs at Alastor’s sleeve, taking him up to the highest floors of the castle.
“Why do you want to be alone?” she asks him as they walk through empty halls.
“I need to think. To prepare.”
She leads Alastor to a corridor at the rear most of the castle, and then finally to what shall be his room while in Halvard. The room is not a simple bedroom, but an entire home within the castle.
“What do you think?”
“Extravagant. Of what use is this part of the castle usually reserved?”
“Royal visitors, for the most part. None of the court are allowed here.”
“Good.”
Alastor walks around, finding a couch set before a window which looks out onto a lake behind the castle, and the mountains beyond. The lake has a hypnotic quality. Alastor sits, staring out.
“Is there anything you need, Alastor? Anything at all?”
“No. My isolation is all I need.”
Cardea suppresses a sob, leaving without making even a murmur, closing the door behind her. Alastor reclines on the couch, the lake outside becoming his reflecting mirror. Soon, he thinks, his father will come, Cain’s only intention being to kill his son, and then anything and anyone which may cross his path. Alastor’s eyes never leave the living portrait of the lake and the mountains, the evergreens and the birds which call them home. 
Even with the coming of night, he does not budge.
Cardea checks in on him, but he does not acknowledge, or even become aware of her. She kindly leaves food for him, then leaves.
~-~~-~ 
This is the manner of things for a week. Alastor, silent and sad. Cardea waiting on him, hoping each time that she enters for him to speak to her, if only a single word. At the end of the week, Cardea enters Alastor’s quarters much earlier than normal.
~-~~-~
“Alastor,” Cardea says barely louder than a mouse, “Taranis needs to see you. I think it is about...”
“Father.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he tells her, his voice distant and rough. “Let Taranis know I will be down momentarily, please.”
“I will, Alastor.”
Before leaving, Cardea sets down a new set of clothes, dyed black, along with new boots and gloves. As soon as she leaves, Alastor stands, removes his old garments, washes in a basin from which the water constantly flows, and finally dresses in the new clothes brought to him. A grim smiles crosses his lips as he looks at himself in the mirror. 
Heart, body and soul, he thinks, now all matching.
~-~~-~
In Taranis’ throne room, Alastor finds everyone he had expected to see, along with many winged ones, including Shira, no longer with child, standing beside her husband.
“How long until he is here?” Alastor bluntly asks Taranis.
“Three days.”
Alastor laughs obscenely, a sneer on his face. 
“Alastor? What is it?” Uri’el asks.
“It must consume him so, to think that I am still alive, and that whatever he had done to him has affected me. Now, he can taste my torment.”
“Alastor,” Taranis speaks, “we need to make a plan.”
“What is there to plan? Either I kill Cain, or Cain kills me. If the latter should happen, then you should pray to your god that you can overwhelm him with sheer numbers.”
“And if we cannot?”
“Prepare for eternity.”
Like in response to Alastor’s darkness, the sun’s light is suddenly dimmed, followed by the sound of thunder in the distance. Rain begins to pound the castle, taking all within off guard by the abrupt appearance of such a storm. Alastor laughs to himself softly, leaving the throne room as he does so.
“Where are you going, Alastor?” Isolde calls after him.
“Why, to stand in the rain, of course, Your Highness.”
Uri’el and Shira chase after him, finally catching him outside. Uri’el grabs Alastor by the shoulder, twirling him around.
“What is wrong with you!?” Uri’el demands.
Alastor opens his mouth to argue, but instead swoons, nearly fainting. Uri’el and Shira hold him tight.
“I wish I knew,” sighs Alastor as they bring him back up to his feet. “Cain’s blasphemous act has done more to me than change the physical. Something inside has been horribly influenced.”
“We can all see that, Alastor.”
“Can you? I guess you would...”
“We are here if you need us, brother. Shira, myself, Taranis, Isolde, Cardea. All of Halvard and Judeheim. If you feel yourself slip, we are all here for you.”
Alastor steps away from Uri’el and Shira, walking toward the militia sparring ground.
“Thank you very much, but I do not think that any of you can really help me. Not anymore.”
~-~~-~
The sparring arena is empty, but the training dummies are still set up. Alastor steps on a wooden sword and, picking it up, he haphazardly strikes at the nearest dummy. At first, his fight with the straw man is playful, a swing here, a parry there. But Alastor’s mind slips back to Valachia, when he stood at the stairs, looking up at Cain in his armor. His attacks on the dummy become more ferocious, and soon he dismembers the stuffed man until he breaks the wooden sword. He swipes up another, taking it to another dummy, then another and another. Minutes later, Alastor stands amidst the remains of all the straw men in the yard.
“Not a vision of the future, I hope,” a voice calls out.
Cardea steps carefully over the sackcloth and hay remains as though they were real men, slain in a war.
“Only if my father has made duplicates of himself,” Alastor replies sarcastically.
“What do you see in your future, Alastor? What do you see after defeating him?”
Alastor has to think for a moment.
“Truthfully?”
“I would ask for nothing else.”
“Nothing. I see absolutely nothing.”
“Do you truly have no hope?”
“I am empty, Cardea.”
“Is this what Elizabetha and Charlotte would have wanted of you? To be a wraith-like shadow of who you really are?”
“No more than they may have desired to be killed by Cain so that he could make a deal with the devil.”
“Then why do this to yourself?”
“It is all I feel anymore. Nothing good. Nothing pure. Just a hollow void and a hatred, burning like the sun, stoked by the evil Cain has wrought. Evil that I, through my inaction, allowed.”
“I told you that your mother’s and sister’s deaths were not your fault.”
“It is not only them I think of! All those who died, Uri’el’s brethren, those who followed mother and sister’s rebellion, those whose lives I forced them to forfeit by handing out those damned letters! All the lives since. All those to come. Past, present and future haunt me all at once, Cardea. Coupled with what father has inadvertently done to me, I am barely able to maintain my sanity, let alone think of a future with hope for myself.”
Cardea looks deeply into Alastor’s eyes, into his soul, finding there the anguish so prominent in his voice.
“What should I do?” she asks, feeling completely helpless in light of what Alastor has said.
“Do you hold faith in this nameless God, Cardea?”
“With all my heart, Alastor.”
“Then... pray for me. Talk to your God on my behalf.”
Cardea leaves, on the verge of tears, heading for Halvard’s temple, the second largest building in the whole city. Alastor falls down to the ground, still holding the wooden sword, and there he remains, alone, until Taranis visits with him a lifetime later.
“A nice mess you have made here, Alastor.”
“My apologies, but I need to spend the time until Cain arrives training.”
“I would think that real men would offer more resistance than straw ones.”
“What do you recommend?”
Taranis smiles, cunning and humored.
“Wait here,” he says, leaving in a rush.
Alastor is clueless as to what the King has planned. Taranis soon enough reappears with Uri’el, and with them come winged ones and Taranis’ own Elite Guard. Wordlessly, they surround Alastor, taking up wooden swords. At first Alastor is unsure what to make of this, but then that malignant smile spreads across his face. He stands and they all attack him at once, leading to a grand mock battle which migrates around the whole militia complex.
Alastor spars with them far into the night, none able to best him. The King, eventually forgetting that this is supposed to only be a means of training, unleashes his full fury on Alastor. Alastor comes to learn the means of controlling the darkness inside, sending Taranis to the ground at every turn.
And so, the next three days are spent similarly; Cardea is joined by Isolde, Shira and her newborn in the temple, while Taranis leads the others in the preparations, using Alastor to gauge the potential strength of Cain. Alastor uses them likewise, gaining greater and greater mastery of himself. 
The whole time, the rain does not cease. 
On the morning of the day Cain is to arrive, Alastor stays in his allotted section of the castle, watching the lake move as the rain hits its surface. 
A knock at the door.
“Enter,” Alastor calls out.
Uri’el walks in.
“Taranis has given you permission to take what you want from his family’s armory.”
Alastor reluctantly steps away from the window, following Uri’el.
“So, a son or a daughter?” Alastor asks while the two walk.
“A son.”
“What did you name him?”
“Ari’el.”
Alastor smirks, looking to Uri’el.
“Nice name.”
“Shira thought so.”
“She is too kind.”
“I like the name also.”
The castle, Alastor comes to discover, is devoid of any of the court. The halls quiet and unlit.
“A little empty, is it not?”
“Taranis sent everyone to their homes, to spend time with their families.”
“Good man.”
“Indeed he is.”
“Where is Cain?”
“Roughly a mile away by now. He is alone, making his way slowly.”
“Do you think he might be afraid?”
“Of you?”
“Yes.”
“I believe so. He feared you before, and now that you are a bit more difficult to kill, I would believe that fear in all likelihood remains.”
“What was there to fear? Mother had told me that I was sent to Elenesia so that I could not interfere with him, and it was not the first time she spoke such.”
“Elizabetha was enigmatic. Frighteningly so, to be honest. Her and Cain were the antithesis of one another. Why she chose him as a husband I could never get her to explain.”
“Wait... she chose Cain?”
“You did not know?”
“I never heard of such a thing. Why the hell would she have chosen a man like Cain?”
“As I said, she never told me, but that did not stop me from forming an hypothesis.”
“What is that?”
“To give birth to you. Cain probably knew this was why she married him, and is probably why he feared you. Why he raised you the way that he did.”
“How could she know...”
Alastor stops in the middle of speaking, recalling the ways in which his mother spoke. ‘It is the prayer of my heart that someday, somehow, you will see as I do, Leon.’ Was that a simple hope of him seeing Cain for what he was, or something more?
“Elizabetha was not normal by any means, Alastor,” Uri’el says with a lower voice. “Part of me wants to say that she was not even human.”
“Coming from someone that is not human, I am not sure what to think of that.”
“I have spent enough time with your kind to know when one is abnormal.”
“Abnormal?”
The two continue walking to the King’s armory.
“I have not the words to articulate my thoughts on her, but I know she was different from the rest of your kind.”
“Was she wholly unique in that regard?”
Uri’el pauses, formulating his answer.
“No, actually. She was not, but she was fairly unique amongst the abnormal, with the exception of one, if that makes any sense to you.”
They enter the armory, finding Taranis there, looking through the weapons, armor and other pieces of equipment.
“Alastor,” says the King as the two walk in, “feel free to take what you want. You need to be well armed when you fight Cain.”
Alastor scrutinizes the contents of the armory room, unimpressed. The metal work is good, the swords and shields are expertly detailed, but he finds fault in it all.
“There is nothing here that could stop father,” Alastor tells Taranis.
“How do you mean? This is the finest Halvard’s smiths have ever produced in the entire history of the kingdom.”
Alastor takes a simple blade, holds it out and breaks it with his bare hand, sending shards flying.
“If I can do this, so can he. These might be of use against men, but not him, especially with the armor he wears.”
“You cannot face him unarmed.”
“I do not think that will be an issue,” Alastor says, turning to Uri’el.
Taranis observes them, unsure what to make of Alastor’s somewhat cryptic words and that slight glance between the two.
“What about armor?”
“Unnecessary.”
“So, you will face him unarmed and without armor. Tell me, Alastor... have you gone completely insane?”
“While I would rather not be without a sword, armor is too cumbersome anyway. And to answer your question: not completely. At least, I do not think I have.”
Alastor leaves the armory, Taranis and Uri’el following. 
On the streets of Halvard, both the army and militia stand, waiting and ready to act if they are needed. The grand courtyard outside the castle is empty. Alastor moves to its center and there he kneels on one knee.
“Should not you two be with your wives?” he asks Uri’el and Taranis.
As if hearing Alastor, the castle empties into the court, and the winged ones take to the roofs of Halvard’s houses and businesses.
“While we might not be able to fight him, we will not abandon you to Cain,” Uri’el assures Alastor.
Cardea comes to Alastor, steps soft as a ghost, carrying a bundle. She falls to her knees, Alastor staring at the bundle in disbelief as she opens it, revealing a leather sheathed sword. The hilt leaves no doubt. Cardea hands it over to Alastor.
“Lionkiller,” he stammers. “How do you have it?”
“You told Charlotte to hide it when you came home from Elenesia, remember? In her last letter to me, she explained that it was Elizabetha who told her to send it here.”
As Alastor unsheathes the blade, a small, tattered piece of parchment falls out. On it is written three words in a delicately beautiful script:

Take heart, Alastor

“Mother,” he whispers as he reads it and reads it again.
He folds the parchment and puts it in his shirt. The horn at the gates is sounded, causing all eyes to migrate toward its direction. As he stands, Cardea embraces Alastor, kissing him softly on his cheek.
“We have faith in you,” she whispers in his ear. “We always have.”
Cardea retreats, standing with Isolde and Shira, who holds little Ari’el. The soldiers and militia run up the main road to the castle, fear in their hearts and on their faces. The Guardians on the tops of the buildings flare their wings and growl as Cain passes by them. 
Cain is steady and apathetic to the men and winged as he makes his way up the road, his armor different than it was in Valachia; spikes, hooks and other disgusting things used to literally rip his victims to shreds. Coming into the courtyard, Cain stops, looking around at all gathered there. Inevitably, he looks to Alastor, and then to Lionkiller in his right hand.
“That sword!” Cain growls, his voice inhuman and unholy. “Why does it still exist?”
“Consider it Charlotte’s last act of defiance, father,” Alastor answers dryly.
Cain wastes no time, barreling toward Alastor with sword drawn. Alastor does the same, running at Cain, throwing Lionkiller’s sheathe to the wayside. Cain swings wide, trying to cut Alastor down, but Alastor falls to his knees, sliding on the wet, rain soaked road, rotating and plunging Lionkiller into Cain’s side. Alastor rips his sword out of his father’s side, cutting clean through the Black Armor.
“Damn that sword!” Cain roars as he staggers from Alastor’s attack.
Alastor jumps to his feet, ready to face Cain, but Cain is already mid-swing. Alastor instinctively raises his shield arm to catch the attack, but his eyes open wide as he remembers that he has no shield. Cain’s sword cuts through Alastor’s flesh, but is stopped at the bone. He shunts Cain’s sword away and thrusts Lionkiller into Cain’s ribs. They push each other away, standing still for a moment.
“What have you done to me?” Alastor demands.
“I did nothing, pathetic child, except unlock what was apparently within you all this time,” Cain answers vindictively.
“And what was within me?”
“Ask your mother!”
Cain attacks Alastor again, and the two fight wild and savage, each wounding the other with strikes and gouges that should be fatal to anyone else. The sound of their epic battle rumbles through Halvard, louder and more powerful than the rain and the thunder. The more frenzied they become, the more that their injuries and lacerations stop healing. Alastor’s clothes are torn, leaving his wounds exposed, while blood flows out from under Cain’s armor.
Seeing both men so winded and hurt, the soldiers, the militia, the winged and even Uri’el and Taranis unsheathe their weapons, ready to pounce in at any moment.
Even with the armor, Cain is only an equal to Alastor. This thought infuriates Cain, causing him to find a second wind. Father beats son down; Alastor, unable to maintain his strength, falls to the ground, Lionkiller slipping from his hand.
“Just like when you were younger, right Alastor!?” yells Cain as he punches and kicks Alastor. “Or is it still Leon? You are nothing but a weak little kitten!”
Alastor struggles to move, slipping on the wet ground each time he tries to find a foot or hand hold. Cain circles Alastor, watching. All of Halvard is frozen, by fear, by disbelief. Cain readies a final blow, pulling his arm back to thrust into Alastor.  
Alastor can only think of those three words on the parchment. Take heart, Alastor. Elizabetha had never called him by that name, even before she gave him his second name. Could she have seen what was to come? Could she have known he would abandon the name he earned? Time stops as a cheerless smile crosses his lips.
Just as Cain’s blade is but a hair’s breadth from him, Alastor rolls to avoid it while retrieving Lionkiller. Cain plunges his sword deep into the stone road, all the way through and into the earth itself. In that same instant, Alastor drives Lionkiller into Cain, upward through his ribs, piercing his black heart. With a final twist of Lionkiller, Cain falls backward, lifeless. 
No roars. 
No screams.
He falls silently. The crowd looks on breathlessly, the reality of what they have seen not yet sinking into their minds.
Alastor lurches forward, standing over Cain, he himself unwilling to accept that he is dead. He kneels down, thinking of removing Cain’s helmet to check. The moment his finger touches the black metal, the armor reacts, showing a life of its own. It reaches out, like the tendrils of some sea-beast, coiling around Alastor, smothering him, encasing him. Alastor screams out in agony as the living armor holds him, but more terrifying to Alastor than the act is the will, the armor reacting to his own darkness and turmoil. 
He feels it looking into his heart and soul. The armor becoming part of him. 
Alastor writhes, overcome by the armor’s affect on his mind. But, like with all things, it subsides. Alastor rolls to his hands and knees. Through his blurred vision he can tell that his hands are not bare, but gauntleted, and his head covered by a helmet. Sitting up, he sees Cain, nothing more than a battered, broken man. Alastor feels his chest. There the armor is too. He stands, still in a daze, just noticing the hundreds of horrified faces looking at him, none of which matter except for Cardea, though she looks at him as she always had. A cough breaks the silence. 
Cain still lives. 
“How can this be?” Taranis says, running to Alastor’s side.
Alastor again looks at his metal clad hands.
“Samael’s agent will not so easily be killed it seems, Your Highness.”
“Is there nothing you can do? Use the armor perhaps?”
Without consciously thinking, Alastor wills a blade to come from the armor, a small laugh coming from him as he sees it. He attempts to run Cain through, but the blade retracts the closer to Cain it gets. Uri’el retrieves Lionkiller, which had been sent flying away when the armor latched onto Alastor. Uri’el hands Lionkiller to Alastor, but the armor prevents him from taking possession of it, the joints of the armor locking up until Alastor stops trying to take his weapon.
“Behead him,” Alastor orders Uri’el.
Uri’el swings the sword, but even as it passes through Cain’s flesh, the wound heals instantly.
“This is not good,” Uri’el says darkly.
“Uri’el, fly to Judeheim and let them know Cain is fallen but still alive,” Alastor orders. “They might know what we can do.”
Uri’el gives Lionkiller to Cardea before leaving. Cain stirs. With a shriek of hatred, Cardea thrusts Lionkiller back into his heart. Cain stops moving, but his breathing continues.
“What does this mean?” Taranis asks Alastor.
Alastor peers at all the gathered people, looking into their eyes. Into their souls.
“It means, Taranis... heartache. Until we can find a way to kill Cain and destroy this damned armor, the threat will never be over.”
~-~~-~
Morrigan pauses, as if recalling some further event.
“They eventually sealed Cain,” she continues, remembering that she is telling the story. “The combined efforts of the Halvard and Judeheim priests creating a sort of spiritual key that kept his consciousness itself from waking. Or so it was hoped.”
“Amazing,” Mikha’el whispers.
“In all honesty, history judged Leon too harshly,” Morrigan reflects. “He did everything in his perceived power, and he accomplished more than was expected of him, especially afterwards, but he came to be called ‘The Lesser,’ just the same.”
Morrigan again becomes silent.
“What happened after that?” Morion asks.
“Oh. Eventually Leon achieved a greater control over the armor, culminating in being able to remove it at will. He married Cardea and had children, but after that, his story is lost to history. It does not take much to figure out what happened though, and it is safe to assume that he was eventually betrayed by his own blood.”
“Leon was betrayed by his own offspring, even after all he did?”
“Cain’s curse lived on, and to this day continues to do so.”
“But what about what Cain said, about how all Leon’s strengths were actually attributed to Elizabetha?”
“After Leon died, that too died with him. No one, as far as I am aware, knows more beyond what I have recounted to you.”
Morrigan stands from her chair, pacing across the Cloud Hall. Amy and Morion look at each other, silently reaffirming, both now knowing to a greater degree the origin of Alastor’s dark, tainted heart, and the destiny he is caught up in. Morion also finally sees her place in it all, or at least she suspects. Mikha’el laughs lightly as he thinks over Morrigan’s tale.
“What is it?” asks Amy.
“I had no idea that Uri’el was so directly involved in the affair.”
“Of what importance is that?” Morion asks him.
“Uri’el was my ancestor, as Leon was Alastor’s. Fate is not lacking for a sense of humor.”
“No, it is not,” Morion agrees.
Mikha’el’s smile changes, raising an eyebrow as a thought comes to him.
“What happened to Lionkiller?” he asks Morrigan.
“Why?” the Fairy responds.
“It seemed, from what you said, to have an extremely adverse affect upon not only the Black Armor, but Cain himself.”
“After Leon learned to control the armor, he was able to wield it again. He renamed it, then hid it in the event it was ever needed again.”
“Renamed it?” repeats Morion.
“Yes, to ‘Charlotte’s Defiance,’ of course,” Morrigan says with a small smile.
“Fitting.”
“Where was it hid?” inquires Mikha’el.
Morrigan takes a bundle from behind a bookshelf, setting it down before Morion. She uncovers the bundle, finding the sword Alastor had given her.
“Does this look familiar?” Morrigan asks her.
“I thought this was left in Halvard,” Morion says, amazed and relieved.
“This is Lionkiller?” Mikha’el asks.
“Charlotte’s Defiance,” Morrigan corrects with a grin.
“May I?” Mikha’el asks the Queen, reaching his hands out so that he can see the sword himself. She hands it over carefully. Mikha’el unsheathes the blade, looking at it in wonder. “An exquisite weapon,” he whispers as he sheathes it, handing it back to Morion.
“Why did Alastor give it to me?” the Queen asks, unnerved.
“Only he can tell you why,” Morrigan tells her, “though I am sure it was quite deliberate.”

Chapter Nineteen
Sins and Vices
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The world outside has become dreary and overcast, but remains calm and cool. While the others talk about Leon, Alastor and all points in between, Morion slinks away to check on the Knight himself. Alastor sleeps peacefully. The Queen sits on his bed for a time, holding his hands, her eyes occasionally migrating to the bracers. Forced into accepting that Alastor will not be waking anytime soon, she returns to the others.
“How is he?” Amy asks.
“Good, I think. He is at peace it seems.”
“Something I always thought impossible to hear,” says Mikha’el to himself.
Morion is struck by a thought like lightning from heaven.
“Can you tell me more about Cain’s curse?” she asks Morrigan.
“I can try,” replies the Fairy. “What specifically do you wish to know?”
“Alastor explained to me about the curse, and the armor being penance.”
“Yes, we talked about this. The armor and the curse are halves of a whole. The curse itself, the aftermath of Cain’s pact with Samael, can manifest in any number of ways, but more often than not it makes one more than human, and at the same time magnifies the vices in ones heart.”
“So, if someone had violent tendencies...”
“They become like Eoin’s father, a sadistic, murdering madman.”
“And what part does the armor play in that?”
“The flood gate through which the curse can flow.”
“If all that is true, how did Eoin and Alastor overcome their curses?”
“Who said they did?” Mikha’el counters.
“What were their vices then?”
“None of us knows. All I can tell you is that they both have avoided the darker fate of their precursors, striving to end Cain’s pact and destroy the armor. Except...”
“What?”
“Something went awry.”
Morion moves her sight to Amy, recalling the story of Eoin’s murder. Morrigan notices this.
“No, Morion. What Mikha’el refers to goes a bit farther back than Eoin’s death.”
“Then what happened?”
“My father gave in to his curse, and nine months later, my brother was born,” Alastor exclaims bluntly, coming without warning into the Cloud Hall.
They are all shocked at first, seeing Alastor up and about, however that shock gives way to overwhelming relief. Alastor takes his normal seat at the head of the table.
“Eoin gave in to his curse?” repeats Morion. “I do not think I understand.”
“My bloodline has had many lusts, usually for power or bloodshed. My father was far simpler - he had an unquenchable thirst for the ‘company’ of women.”
Both Amy and Morion blush, completely not expecting to hear such things of Eoin. Even Mikha’el is struck by this small though, by Alastor’s tone, powerful bit of information.
“Why would Lucius’ birth so greatly affect what Eoin was planning?” asks Morion, still unclear.
“In my father’s youth, he would have as many women as he pleased. There were no ideas or grandiose plans in his mind; that is until he met my mother. She did not give in to him as so many others had, and this troubled him, ate at him. My mother became all he thought on, bordering upon obsession. Other women lost their appeal, and he found himself falling in love for the first time in his life. It was my mother that began the transformation of Eoin’s heart toward the truth of our blood, and the inherent evil we possess. 
“In short, it was mother that brought about the divide between Eoin and his father. 
“After Eoin was forced to kill his father, mother took him to Judeheim, which is where he converted fully to the nameless God and devoted his life to ending the curse. He studied prophesies and began to see parallels between his life and what the old texts had to say. He married my mother, expecting to have a son, me to be precise, but his wife remained without child. Thinking he wasted his time, read too far into prophecy, he let his cravings out for a little air, having countless secret whores, all the while pretending to be the Eoin my mother married.”
Alastor pauses, the shade of a sneer passing on his face. 
“A few years passed,” Alastor continues, “and one day Eoin learns that his wife was pregnant. On that same day, he meets his bastard child, as did my mother. She was not angry, but her heart died. Father took Lucius and his mother in to our castle out of guilt, and through his guilt named me before I was born.”
Alastor stops, letting the story sink into everyone’s mind.
“Alastor,” speaks Mikha’el, “I was always under the impression that you were so named because of the prophesies Eoin studied.”
“No. Father had not delved that deep into them until after I was born. He so named me because he felt no better than Cain, and that the history of the name was more than fitting. He felt that the son whom his wife would give birth to should be the means of his eventual destruction, a walking punishment for his crime.”
“That makes it all the more interesting.”
“What happened to your mother, Alastor?” Morion asks.
Alastor looks to Morion, then to Amy. Amy smiles at him, both she and the Knight reminded of the last time this question was asked. Alastor nods, answering the question at last.
“Father took in Lucius and his mother against my mother’s pleas, so she took to living in the keep, alone, while she carried me. After I was born was no different. She kept me in this very tower, as far away from Lucius and his mother as possible, and here we lived until the day she went into the forest, never to be seen again.”
“She vanished?”
Again Alastor pauses, and again he looks into Amy’s eyes, not Morion’s.
“No. She killed herself. Unable to live with her hollow heart, and unable to abide Lucius. Eoin she grew indifferent to, but she hated Lucius and his mother.”
Morion and Amy bring their hands to their faces, horrified.
“That is when Eoin cast Lucius away and returned to Judeheim?” Mikha’el asks Alastor.
“It was.”
Morion takes special notice of Mikha’el’s words.
“Cast away?” she repeats.”Is that why Lucius is the way he is?”
“No,” says Alastor. “Lucius had always shown a darker side. Father kept him and his mother out of a feeling of responsibility, but when his true wife died, so too did that feeling.” Alastor laughs softly. “Fearing his first born, and completely unsure of my fate, father used his power over the armor, a control far greater than that of the Lesser’s, to create an icon; an item endowed with the ability to negate the power of Cain’s armor, and thus capable of defeating whomever, Lucius or myself, would wear the armor next.”
Revelation fills Morion’s face as she reaches for her necklace.
“You mean to tell me...”
“One and the same, Your Highness,” Alastor says soft, tragic.
“Alastor,” Amy speaks up, “with what we know of your family’s history now, why would Lucius want to revive Cain? From the sound of things, none of your ancestors had any intention of doing so.”
“Honestly, I was hoping you might know, Amelia.”
“I cannot say that I do, sadly. He never spoke of Cain, or much of anything for that matter.”
“Is it possible he is trying to create a rebirth of Valachia?” Mikha’el asks. ”He has, after all, raised a sizeable army, gained control of a kingdom by means of murder and subversion. And, more importantly, the world has another Alastor. The similarities cannot be ignored.”
“Except that reviving Cain would mean that Lucius would have to abdicate power which he has spent years seizing for himself,” Amy points out.
“Or, he could just be doing this to instigate me,” whispers Alastor.
“All of this for the sake of sibling rivalry?” queries Morion.
“No,” Morrigan speaks, “something more sinister, though no less personal. Lucius was taught the family history just as Alastor was. This is a sick joke born from Lucius’ demented mind.”
“You mean forcing Alastor to battle Cain, as Leon did so long ago?”
Alastor stands abruptly and leaves, going down the spiral stairs.
“But I thought Alastor was supposed to fight Cain?” Mikha’el asks Morrigan.
“He would have, in time, after he was properly made ready.”
“And that is why Lucius had Eoin murdered, so that Alastor would never be made ready?”
Morrigan and Mikha’el begin discussing the intricacies of fate. Amy leans toward Morion.
“Perhaps you should go talk to him,” she tells the Queen.
~-~~-~
Morion finds Alastor in his room, on the balcony. She walks beside him, standing silently, still holding her necklace. Alastor watches her, the forlorn look on her face.
“What is wrong?” he asks her.
“I had always had a set idea of what this necklace meant. Something better.”
“A betrothal?” Alastor smirks.
“Yes,” Morion answers, not having the courage to face Alastor.
“I lied to you I am afraid.”
“How?”
“My father did not fear Lucius, at least not in the way he feared me.”
“What does that have to do with lying to me?”
“That necklace was not made for the possibility of Lucius taking the armor first. Just me.”
“Why would you keep that secret?”
“It is not easy to openly speak with the woman intended to be your executioner, I am afraid.”
“Executioner?”
“A far cry from a betrothal, no?”
“Quite.”
“May I ask you something, Morion?”
“Of course.”
“If you had all the power in the world, right now, what would you do?”
“Reclaim Halvard,” she exclaims without hesitation.
“And if you had to die in order to claim that power, would you still?”
“Without a doubt. There is nothing I would not sacrifice to bring freedom back to my people.”
“Death does not frighten you?”
“Why should it? After seeing my father again, I would embrace whatever fate might be in the hereafter.”
Alastor grins, detached from everything, at these words. Morion had never seen the Madness, so she had no reason to fear it, and she never will.
“I wish I could know your optimism, Your Highness. Your fearlessness.”
“Why do you ask me these things?”
Alastor sighs as he thinks of an appropriate answer.
 “I suppose I was looking for confirmation.”
“Of what?”
“What I should do.”
“Did you find it?”
“I believe so.”
Morion places her hand on Alastor’s.
“You will go to face them both then?”
“I do not see much of an alternative.”
“When will you go?”
“At such a time as Fate in her infinite wisdom instructs me to.”
They stop talking, staring at the world. Morion rests her head against Alastor’s arm. He does not try to stop her.
~-~~-~
A blackness engulfs the west, ominous clouds gathering. Alastor heaves a heavy sigh. Morion too knows that the building storm is the sign that Alastor has been waiting for. She does not find Fate’s grotesque sense of humor even remotely amusing, and ending this perfect moment with Alastor borders on unforgivable.
Morion looks up into Alastor’s eyes, and he into hers. Cautiously, she leans forward, bringing her lips to his. They kiss, albeit briefly. Alastor says nothing, and neither does she. He takes the Queen back up to the Cloud Hall with the others, who are also looking out from the tower balcony. Morrigan, however, is nowhere to be seen.
“Where did the Fairy go?” Alastor asks Mikha’el as the winged one faces him.
“She mumbled something about needing to pray, then just left.”
“Where?”
“She did not say.”
Alastor and Morion both turn to Amy.
“Morrigan said nothing to me,” she admits.
“Did she leave before or after that storm started?” Morion asks.
“Just as it began, actually,” Amy recalls.
Morion stands with Amy and Mikha’el, at which point Alastor tries to make a stealthy exit, only to be caught.
“Where are you going?” Morion calls out.
“Down to see father,” he answers with a lukewarm tone.
“Hurry back, then. We need to start formulating a proper plan for assaulting Halvard.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.”
~-~~-~
In Eoin’s crypt, Alastor stands beside the encased body of his father.
“It is such a strange thing,” Alastor whispers to himself. “I spoke with you what was only a day or so ago, yet here you are. Can you even hear me I wonder? Whether you can or not, I need to say this: Cain is revived, father, and the armor is still whole and Lucius is the cause of it all. Together they will bring only pain, death and destruction if I allow them to go unchallenged. Father, I know what you believed but... nothing that has happened since you died has made any sense whatsoever. What am I supposed to do? Lucius alone would not have been a contest. Time consuming maybe, but I would have been the victor. Cain alone would have been nothing more than a recreation of Leon’s duel with him. But... both? What would you have done, father? What would Leon have done? Not that those situations hold any meaning. I am not you, father, and I am not Leon-Alastor either.”
Alastor sets his right hand on Eoin’s crystal coffin.
“I am going to unseal the armor. Success or failure hold no sway. If I triumph, then the curse is ended anyway. If I fail, Morion is more than capable, now equipped with all she would need. I know this is far from what was planned, but I see no other choice.”
Alastor stands still for a time, staring at his father, remembering not how he was in life, but in the Madness, and in Valkyr. The Knight in Shining Armor. Alastor leaves the crypt, methodically climbing up the spiral stair. He pivots his head upward, wondering what Morion, Amelia and Mikha’el might be discussing. He also ponders on why Morrigan would leave. His history with Fairies praying was not an ease to his mind. The first time was in Arkelon, after killing the barbarians. The second was in Judeheim’s catacombs, that time it being the younger Fairy. Alastor at that memory wishes he could speak with that younger Fairy right now. Unlike Morrigan, Alastor finds that she is one he can talk to and get answers from. She, even though appearing young, had a very matriarchal quality to her. A grandmother. Perhaps even a mother. Yes. That is who she reminds him of. He shakes the thought from his head, however. To think such things now is childish.
Rather than going back up to the Cloud Hall as he said he would, Alastor heads for the armory.

Chapter Twenty
The Return of the Black Knight
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The Black Armor stands where it has since Eoin encased it, the helmet looking as though it wears a mocking smile, knowing that it is soon to have a new wearer. Alastor reaches out, forcing a reaction from the bracers. What was once solid metal changes, moving, reforming, and finally becoming taloned gauntlets. Alastor looks at them with a mix of fascination and disgust. He flexes his fingers, forming fists, feeling a taste of what the armor has to offer. 
The Knight digs his talons into the crystalline formation, piercing it with loud cracking, splintered slivers falling to the ground. The armor itself reacts, expanding and contracting to help free itself from its casing. Tendrils form from the talons, burrowing in and finally causing the crystal to shatter. The talons retract their tendrils, and Alastor is left staring at the armor, into the eye slits of the helmet. He reaches out to take the helmet, but it, the armor, reaches out first. Alastor briefly panics, but he remembers what his father taught him. He remembers hearing Eoin’s explanation of how it felt to have this parasitic armor latch on for the first time. The shock fades, and he becomes motionless, letting the armor do what it will, reshaping itself to mirror Alastor’s internal state. 
More disturbing than the fact that the armor is alive is that Alastor can hear, as well as feel, a heartbeat from the armor. No story, nor tale, from his father ever warned of this. The spirit of the armor finally enters Alastor’s psyche, triggering the darkness of Cain’s curse. Alastor drops to his knees, trying to cope with this change. Pounding his fists into the floor, he cracks it, shakes the tower itself. 
He roars.
He snarls. 
He then remembers Lucius. Cain. His mind refocuses, the building rage and darkness channeled and the overwhelming desire for self-destruction calmed. The Knight faces the armory wall, the west wall, as though he can see his brother from here. He plows toward it, smashing through the wall and leaping from the keep to the ground far below.
When he lands, he discovers his stallion there as though it had been waiting the whole time. A bit of ice can be seen on the reins. When the Knight mounts, the armor spreads over the animal. It rears up, frightened, but soon finds control once the armor has finished its work. The stallion, without Alastor needing to rein it, starts the journey to the west. This, the greatest of horses, has proven its worth.
Halvard awaits them both.
~-~~-~
Morion, Amy and Mikha’el discuss the best way to infiltrate Halvard and avoid the turncoat army. A roar interrupts them, followed by the keep shaking violently.
“Alastor!” Morion whispers before she runs down to the armory, Amy and Mikha’el following after her with panic in their hearts.
The keep staggers severely, dust being knocked free from the bricks, followed by one final tremor and a loud crash. They come into the armory, see the hole in the wall, and below Alastor riding away at unnatural speed. Morion and Amy stand there, watching, while Mikha’el examines the shards that used to hold the Black Armor.
“No, Alastor,” he speaks softly, “what have you done?”
Amy hears Mikha’el, coming up behind the winged one, she too seeing the shards.
“He did not... ?”
Mikha’el leans against the wall, gathering the shards into a pile with his foot.
“Why, friend? This is not how it was supposed to be.”
Morion storms out of the armory back up to the Cloud Hall, her friends following after. Morion takes up Charlotte’s Defiance, slinging it over her shoulder, wearing it as Alastor would. She tries to leave, but Mikha’el stops her.
“Get out of my way!” the Queen demands.
“You intend to follow after him?” Mikha’el asks authoritatively.
“Yes!”
“How do you plan on doing that? Running?”
“If I have to!”
“That will not be necessary,” Amy says.
She has reverted to her creature form, wings open.
~-~~-~
Alastor’s heart pounds wildly, the speed with which the horse runs bordering on nauseating. Except, the heartbeat of the armor drowns out his own.
“Do not let the darkness consume you, Son,” a small, strong voice whispers. “It is for you to dominate, not it of you.”
The voice sobers Alastor. It is not one that he has ever heard.
“First a heartbeat, now a voice. Have I finally gone insane?” he asks.
“No, child. This is not mania.”
“Why have I never heard of the armor speaking, or of being alive for that matter, then?”
“Because until recently, I have been silent for the most part, waiting through the centuries for you, child. Those whom I have spoken to knew their place.”
“You called me Son.”
“I did, Alastor, but that is of no consequence at this time.”
“Then why speak?”
“Know this: live or die, how today ends cannot be changed. What you do, you have been groomed to do.”
“Eoin was wrong?”
“No, just short of sight, like so many of my grandsons.”
“Then all the choices I have made were nothing but illusions?”
“No, dearest Son. You are nothing if not the sum of the paths you have chosen. Always remember that you are who you made yourself.”
The voice goes silent. Elizabetha goes silent. Alastor is left with only the heartbeat, and a newly cleared mind. The darkness of the curse slithers like a serpent, but Alastor keeps it away.
“Dominate it,” he speaks softly to himself.
When Alastor takes notice of his surroundings, he ascertains himself being closer to Halvard than expected. Rain falls in heavy sheets while lightning arcs across the sky like white veins, the thunder sharp and swift. This is Alastor’s weather.
The stallion feeds on, finds its strength from, the Knight. It fears not the land, pushing through swelling flood water, plowing through briar patches, and gliding over rocky ground with uniform ease. Over hill and through forest, the Knight finally comes into Halvard’s boundary, the walls of the city coming ever closer. A grave sound pierces through the Knight’s helmet; the thunder is nothing to it, the heartbeat of the armor dim as the flapping of bird wings. 
From Halvard, war. 
The Knight comes onto the road to Halvard, spurring the stallion for more speed. As the gate comes into view, Alastor is given an atrocious sight; a river of blood-tinged rain water pours from the city. Flames roar like monsters from the homes and shops. Smoke rises like a serpent from its lair. He leaps from the animal, the armor retracting from it as he does so, and runs headlong into Halvard.
The militia has come out of hiding and fights their former brothers, the turncoat army. The Necromancer’s army of dishonored bolsters their numbers. The militia faces sure destruction, but they are rallied together nonetheless, fighting with such fierceness as none have ever had before, bravely facing certain death.
Alastor holds out his right hand, calling on the armor to form a sword, a claymore like he used to wield. Pleased with his armor, the Knight runs to the closest battle he can find, which takes no searching whatsoever. The Knight comes across a lone militiaman about to be executed by a group of turncoats. They are completely oblivious to the Knight. The armored one moves as a shadow, impaling the soldier whom was readying to murder the militiaman. The turncoats give a shout of fear, taken surprise by the Knight. They angle their swords on him, but the armor reacts, lashing out with bladed tendrils. The turncoats lay dead before they are even aware of it; the Knight lets the body of the impaled soldier fall from his sword. The militiaman looks at this armored savior, breathless.
“What has happened here?”Alastor asks, his voice suddenly noble and fierce and all together not his own.
The militiaman stands, not afraid of the Knight. Not any more at least.
“Halvard was told that Our Lady Morion was dead, and that she killed her own father. We, the militia and the city itself, decided as a whole that Hector was just as trustworthy as Samael, so we rebelled rather than endure his rule.”
Alastor looks hard at the man, trying to see if there is anything hidden in his words. There is nothing but truth in them he decides.
“Morion lives,” the Knight says.
The militiaman smiles, spirit lifted by the words, but he suppresses this as soon as he does.
“Is this the truth?”
“It is. Tell the rest of your militia to spread the word. I am sure that Lady Morion will want her kingdom back.”
The militiaman readies to run off, but he stops himself, swinging back to Alastor.
“Knight, will you be aiding us again?”
At that moment, the creatures raised by Lucius all become aware of the Knight, murder filling their dead eyes, and to him they run, shamble and crawl.
“I have business in the castle, which will draw most of the enemy to me. Do what you can against your traitorous army.”
The militiaman does as ordered, going to find his fellow city defenders before the damned creatures descend upon the Knight. The armor comes to life again, aiding Alastor as he cuts through the creatures who now block his way to the castle. With each creature felled, another worms up from the ground to replace it. 
It does not take long for the Halvard main road to be up heaved completely. 
The perpetual numbers do little to make the Knight care. To unleash his full fury and strength brings an almost maniacal joy, and with no guilt or fear, Alastor embraces this whole heartedly.
~-~~-~
Amy, carrying Morion, and Mikha’el fly faster than either has ever flown before. With the rain pelting them in the face like rocks, they have to keep their eyes half closed, making the flight all the more treacherous. Morion is Amy’s only burden, while Mikha’el has taken it upon himself to carry their weapons. The lightning starts to exhibit signs of being controlled, or even perhaps is itself sentient, as the strikes grow more frequent and closer to the trio.
“Is it me, or does it seem like the lightning is trying to hit us?” Morion asks Amy.
Amy does not answer, focused completely on flying. Soaring over a patch of trees, lightning manages to split the trunks, sparking fires even in the rain. Amy flies closer to Mikha’el, brow furrowed.
“Blood is being shed,” is all she says.
Halvard lays just before them. Morion can hear the nerve wracking sound of metal on metal, her fears have been consummated. Passing over the walls, they spot Alastor fighting in the midst of a glut of creatures. Amy lands, setting Morion down, followed by Mikha’el. They start to run after Alastor, but a battle between militia and turncoats spills out from a side street. Mikha’el gives his companions their weapons and the three join the fray. 
Amy remembers her form and reverts to her human shape so as to avoid being mistaken for an enemy.
Detested by the mere sight of the traitors to Gawain, Mikha’el, using his twin swords, takes to fighting the turncoats without mercy, using his blades and wings to separate them from the militia. Not so much to help the defenders, rather he wants the betrayer army to himself. The militia watch in shock as Mikha’el moves and battles in his inhuman way. One militia member turns to see Morion standing beside him, sword drawn.
“Lady Morion!” he exclaims. “You are alive!”
“Very much so,” she answers. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“Hector announced to the kingdom that after you supposedly killed Gawain, you ran off in fear. He claimed to have caught and killed you.”
Morion’s eyes fill with tears, but her heart with anger and hate.
“Worry not, Your Highness,” another militia soldier says, coming forward from the group. “No one in Halvard believed Hector, which is why we started up this little rebellion!”
Morion cannot help but smile at the allegiance shown to her and her father. A runner comes up to the idle militia group.
“We need help at the northwestern quarter!” the runner shouts.
The militia follow the runner, but Morion stays in place. The first man she spoke with notices.
“Your Highness, come with us! Seeing you will undoubtedly give the people a second wind and allow us to crush these traitors!”
Morion forgets Amy, forgets Mikha’el, even Alastor. She follows the militia, only thinking of reclaiming the kingdom.
~-~~-~
Amy stands near the Halvard entrance alone. She can see Mikha’el, his battle moving deeper into the center of the city. Morion has gone out of eyeshot completely. Alastor, on the other hand, is still very much visible, farther up the main road, surrounded by Lucius’ dishonored, making progress toward the castle with the speed of one ensnared within a mire. Although she has grown to care for Mikha’el and Morion, at the forefront of her mind, clawing its way through the years of accumulated hatred and confusion, her love for Alastor blooms full once again. She runs over the bodies and piles of decayed matter toward the Knight so that she might aid him. Running, she remembers the words spoken to her at Valkyr. Fear and hope both battle within her, as clear and as real as the death-giving taking place. 
A sudden sensation of sickness overtakes her, stopping her cold, doubled over.
“Why would you have come back, I wonder?” a cheerless male voice asks.
Amy transfigures into her creature form against her will. She cries in pain, her blood becoming like liquid fire, pulsing through her, threatening to rupture her skin. Through the agony, she forces her head up, seeing one like herself. Cale reborn, given a new body but his face remains.
“Why would a weak traitor like you return!?” Cale demands.
“To earn a wondrous gift that has been given to me,” she whispers as she pushes through the pain and draws her sword on Cale. 
Cale grins through his dog-like teeth as he catches her sword on his.
~-~~-~
“Wail and cower!” the Knight shouts to the creatures as he swings his blade through some that try to flee.
The heartbeat has gone silent, or it beats so fast that it has no end. Alastor cannot discern. The remainder of the creatures run in terror, and before Alastor can think of giving chase, Bladers and Berserkers pour out from the castle. 
In Alastor’s left hand, the armor forms a second claymore. 
Even with their immense size and cruel weaponry, Alastor cuts through Lucius’ elite minions just as he did the lesser dishonorable creatures. The few which manage to bring their weapons into contact with the Knight are left unarmed, the metal of their swords and war hammers twisted and shattered by the living tendrils of the armor.
“This is too easy,” Alastor whispers.
“How else should it be?” the spirit of Elizabetha responds. “Did you expect to face equals?”
“Elizabetha, I feel inhuman.”
“You are wholly unique, separate from all. Even those whose physical strength might far exceed yours, you are unrivaled. Remember this, Son.”
Again, Elizabetha is a sobering force on Alastor. He stops fighting, letting his more than capable armor do the dirty work. While he strides to the castle indifferently, the Bladers and Berserkers stop attacking, seeing no way to penetrate the Knight’s defense. Alastor ultimately arrives at the grand outer court. Standing at the castle entrance is a lone man, large and ghastly.
“Rennir,” fumes Alastor.
“How did it feel to kill me?” Rennir asks as the Knight nears him. “To feel my life end through the steel of your sword?”
“I felt the most horrible thing a man can feel after killing another: nothing.”
Rennir examines Alastor’s statement for a moment, finally coming to the conclusion that it was not an insult. Nor does he truly understand the statement.
“Why Lucius did not let me kill you in Judeheim, I may never know... but here I am, in the land of the living, facing you, yet again. Fate is quite funny.”
“You have no clue just how funny it actually is.”
Rennir wastes no more time mincing words, attacking Alastor. The Lucian elites do so as well, thinking Rennir will sap the Knight’s attention. A fatal mistake on their parts, not that they would care; being nothing more than a pseudo-living wall to slow, not stop, the Knight. Alastor does not direct his weapons upon Rennir, only defending while the armor deals in its own way with the elites. Rennir grows angry that Alastor exerts no effort at all to fight him.
Alastor abruptly falters, a short moment of that non-existence Eoin had told him, warned him, about many years ago. Rennir tries to run his blade into Alastor’s back, but his sword breaks. The armor finishes off the last of the Lucian elites before impaling Rennir against Alastor’s will. The Knight stands, the armor holding up Rennir, struggling upon the tendrils, before him.
“Are you a coward now, Alastor? Hesitation is for the weak. Kill me!”
The Knight allows the claymores in his hands to rejoin with the armor.
“I killed you once. I have no desire to do so again.”
The armor throws Rennir aside. Without looking back or with a second thought of his foe, Alastor walks to the castle entrance. Lucius’ former right hand is deeply shamed by Alastor’s reluctance to kill him, so he slinks away.
“You do me proud, Son. Very proud,” Elizabetha whispers as the heartbeat of the armor slowly calms back down to its normal rate.
Alastor does not answer. He does not need to. 
The castle is barred from inside, not even the slightest amount of give in the doors. The Knight digs his taloned fingers into the wood much like he did when he freed the armor. The talons again form tendrils which burrow in, splinter the wood and twist the iron, opening the way. The interior of Halvard castle is lit by those lamps which seem to follow Lucius, smelling horrid and giving an unnaturally colored light. The Knight’s footfalls echo balefully loud within the castle, making it feel far more empty than it in actuality is. The closer he comes to the throne room, the stronger a previously unnoticed scent becomes. 
The Knight’s eyes adjust to the dimly lit hall, and he sees at last the bodies of many militia men strewn about, but not a drop of spilt blood stains the floor. The heartbeat of the armor ceases all together, leaving Alastor with a palpable shade of abandonment and loneliness. 
He thinks for a brief moment that he hears a gasp of horror from Elizabetha.
Standing at the threshold of the throne room, everything in him goes blank. Thoughts, feelings, hopes, dreams, fears; all vanish. For a whole life, his life, to point to a singular moment in time is not an easy concept to grasp.
He brings his right hand up to test the doors, but instead becomes fixated on his metal limb. The doors open of their own volition, bringing Alastor back to his task.
“Enter,” a voice calls out from within the throne room.
The voice is not that of Lucius nor of Hector.
“Take heart, Alastor,” whispers Elizabetha.
The Son of Eoin steps inside slowly, cautiously, the doors closing behind him. The throne room has been transformed in the time since Alastor was here last. He can see that the wall which he had thrown Lucius through has been repaired, and that the decoration has been changed to something vaguely familiar. Alastor sighs as he comes to recognize the design of this new throne room. He had seen it many times in the past. He used to spend days there by himself, and eventually with Amelia, regardless of the collapsed ceiling which threatened to fall on them at any moment. 
The Halvard throne seat itself has changed also. What was once an unassuming seat for the king and his queen is now raised much higher, a small staircase climbing up to a single seat. All within the masonry, bones seems to have been added like straw into bricks. On this seat, a man sits. Calm, watchful. 
Not Lucius. 
Not Hector.
“Cain,” Alastor says with absolute coldness.
“Alastor,” replies Cain in equal measure.
“How do you know who I am?”
“The smell of your blood removes all doubt concerning your identity. Offspring of my traitorous son, bearing his name no less. An amusing twist of fate, I must say.”
Cain stands from the throne seat, the moonlight illuminating his form. He is dressed as a dark king. He laughs smugly while he descends the stairs deliberately labored.
“Be that as it may, you did not explain how you knew I carried your son’s name.”
“Did you think I was asleep when you snuck down into my prison all those years ago? No, I was very much awake, and I heard every word you had to say. To be honest, it invigorated me to find one so young and so defiant. It has made these last years quite tolerable.”
“In that case, I regret ever coming into your prison in the first place.”
Alastor clenches his fists. The armor reacts to his emotional state, causing spikes and blades to extrude from its surface. This makes Alastor’s already intimidating form even more so.
“Ah, my beloved armor,” Cain says with grotesque pleasure, “how it has changed. It makes me wonder...”
“What exactly?”
“About how different you and I are, of course.”
“We are nothing alike.”
“We are not? You are either a liar or naive. You control that armor as none before you ever had, except me. How many lives have you taken over the course of your existence? How many have you killed just to enter this castle tonight? How often did you enjoy the taking of said lives?”
“I hated myself each and every time I had to kill.”
“Then you are indeed a liar.”
“Who are you to call me a liar?”
“I felt your heart in Arkelon, boy. Although you felt the guilt afterward, during that battle you loved the power. You even thought for the briefest moment that not even God himself could stop you. Do you deny this?”
“That was nothing but a fleeting thought spawned by the moment.”
“But there, thought by you, nonetheless.”
Cain stops halfway down the stairs. Alastor again has a bout with the non-existence, but he somehow expected it, forcing his mind through it.
“Well done, Alastor,” Elizabetha whispers.
Alastor does not acknowledge this overtly, rather thanking her for her praise from the safety of his heart. Yet, even so, Cain tilts his head as if confused.
“Interesting,” Cain says, genuinely astonished. “But for naught. You might be able to control the blood in your veins, but the armor is mine alone.”
Cain reaches out with his left hand, exerting his will on the armor. The spikes and blades retract, and the armor forces Alastor to his knees. He is now a puppet, the armor his strings. Cain tightens his hand into a fist, forcing the armor to start crushing Alastor within.
“Dominate it!” Elizabetha calls to him, her own disembodied voice strained.
The pain of being crushed alive scalds Alastor, Elizabetha’s words falling on deafened ears. In agony and desperation, Alastor whispers.
“God of my father, I will accept any destiny except this one! I will not die this way!”
If by answered prayer, or simply made bold by his own words, Alastor forces the armor to cease its constriction. Cain exhorts all his will against this unforeseen resistance. However, like being thawed from a block of ice, Alastor regains control of his limbs and, finally, his whole body. The armor obeys Alastor wholly now.
With a growl, the Knight forces the spikes and blades return to the surface of the armor.
Rather than grow wrathful, Cain laughs.
“Such tenacity! I feared my blood was only diluted through the years. To see it so concentrated in one so young is astonishing. You have done well in bringing him to me, faithful servant.”
“I thank you, my Dark King,” says a voice from the shadows.
Lucius steps out, creeping behind Cain, subserviently.
Alastor makes no movement, lets no emotion brew.
“Son, remain vigilant,” whispers Elizabetha.
“First you free me from the confines placed upon me by my son, now you give me his heart reborn. For this, you have rightfully earned your place beside me,” Cain continues praising Lucius.
“You humble me, My Lord,” Lucius says with a utterly disgusting and unbefitting tone of servitude.
From over Cain’s shoulder, Alastor can see Lucius’ eyes clearly, scrutinizing him. Alastor can only watch the growing, sadistic grin on his brother’s face. Time seems to stop as he reads Lucius, only now coming to comprehend too late the full extent of the Necromancer’s little game. 
Even with helmet in place, Lucius can see Alastor finally understanding.
“My, my... little Alastor now sees what he has been so damned blind to since it all began,” Lucius says with a serpent-like hiss. “You said so yourself, Alastor, that Cain would not share power, did you not dearest brother?”
Cain’s eyes open wide with shock.
“Brother!?” he yells, starting to wheel around to face Lucius, but he is too slow.
The Necromancer plunges a blade into Cain’s back, the tip exploding through his chest. As the dark king squirms in torment of the arcane weapon in him, Lucius whispers into his ear.
“As you murdered for power, so too have I. Do not feel bad, dear Cain; betrayal runs in the family. A tradition you yourself started. Be proud that it has so lovingly been carried on through the ages.”
The necromantic blade begins to drain the very life from Cain, and eventually he simply disintegrates into dust, his clothes falling pathetically to the ground. The life stored in the blade transfers into Lucius, who loses control of himself, falling to the ground, body wracked by unexpectedly intense pain. 
Alastor tries to strike his vulnerable sibling but, like a coiled snake, Lucius’ sword arm springs upward to catch the attack. As the blade created by the armor and the necromantic blade meet, portions of the armor unbind from Alastor and clasps on to Lucius. It takes everything Alastor has to break the bond of swords, but Lucius is still left with a gauntlet and portions of the arm and chest plates. Alastor’s armor compensates by shifting various parts, including the helmet, to cover the more vulnerable sections of his body. He is also left winded by the sudden decrease in power that the complete armor had previously provided.
“This is most interesting,” Lucius reflects as he feels the effect of the armor for the first time.
“What have you done?” Alastor asks, in shock, staring at Lucius with an accusing gaze.
Lucius moves his eyes from the armor to his brother, about to answer but staying silent for a moment before finally responding.
“What you could not, Alastor. I have done the thing which you were groomed to do, but had not the faintest hope of succeeding at.”
It hits Alastor with such force; the realization that Cain is dead, killed by Lucius. Not sleeping. Not weakened. Not confined. Just... dead. And yet, the curse is still present, the darkness still skulking in his depths. Another thought enters Alastor’s mind.
“You did not simply kill Cain, did you? You absorbed him. Became him. That is why the curse still thrives.”
Lucius grins widely.
“One man’s curse is another man’s blessing, brother.”
Alastor creates a new blade in his hand, poised to attack Lucius. Lucius continues to watch Alastor, grinning, making no attempt to defend himself. Alastor reaches the apex of his swing, all focus on his brother.
Lucius stands his ground.
A sword comes down on Alastor’s shoulder with such force as to make his swing go wildly off course, gouging the floor. Lucius tries to impale the staggered Alastor, but Alastor grabs the necromantic blade with his free hand, ignoring the pain of having a sword in that arm’s shoulder. More of the armor uncoils from Alastor’s hand, using Lucius’ weapon as a conduit to travel from the Knight to the Necromancer.
Alastor manages to pull the necromantic blade from Lucius’ grasp, throwing it aside. When Lucius moves to retrieve it, Alastor frees the sword from his shoulder and there finds Rennir, again. Lucius reappears, he and Rennir fighting against Alastor together; Alastor’s already dim focus now divided between his enemies; he having to be aware of where they are, mindful of his own attacks while also needing to defend against theirs. Rather than fight Lucius as he normally would, Alastor dodges his brother’s attacks, not blocking them, as physical contact would just supply him with more of Cain’s Armor.
Alastor, a man who has decimated legions of foes is now only able to hold two men at bay, neither gaining nor losing ground to Rennir and Lucius. Lucius’ act of betrayal against Cain has somehow also had an effect on Rennir. The Knight is acutely aware of these facts, which forces a rage to grow inside. The very thought of being weaker than these two marring his mind and soul, while tearing his heart to pieces.
“Alastor,” Elizabetha whispers. “Listen to me: the bleak future you were raised to accept is no longer there. A new fate will be born this night, and the only thing you must do to attain it is not lose heart and take it! There is a strength and a courage in you that has been hidden for too long, my favored Son. Find it and unleash it!”
And so, hope is given back to the hopeless.
Alastor digs deep into the wellspring of his spirit, finding there a primal might. He kicks his brother aside, then coldly strikes down Rennir even easier than he had done in Judeheim. The Knight abandons his armor-born sword, taking instead Rennir’s. 
Alone, for what Alastor hopes is the final time, the brothers continue the duel which they started days previous. No longer using the armor as a weapon prevents Lucius from claiming any more, letting the Knight concentrate solely on the fight.
The throne room thunders with the sound of their battle. Metal upon metal. The shuffling of their feet. Their heavy breathing.
“Why have you done this!?” Alastor demands as they fight.
He and Lucius come face to face, blades locked. Lucius, as always, seems amused by it all.
“Little brother, never asking the right questions.”
“Oh? What questions should I be asking?”
“Foolish child, where is the fun if I tell you? Well, a hint I shall give nonetheless. Cain made a pact with Samael. Cain received this armor, along with the unlocking of his own blood... so, what did Samael get in payment I wonder?”
This thought makes Alastor lose his concentration just long enough for Lucius to take advantage. He knocks Alastor’s sword away, then swipes at his brother’s exposed body, giving him a deep wound. Alastor falls backward, his chest bleeding profusely, yet Alastor does not seem to notice.
Lucius stands triumphantly over Alastor. He readies a killing blow.
“Do not miss,” Alastor says with a smirk.
“I do not intend to. Farewell, brother.”
Alastor smiles darkly as Lucius brings his weapon down, but Lucius suddenly shouts in pain, a sword bursting out of his belly. The Necromancer lurches, spinning around to see his assailant is none other than Morion, her clothes tattered and bloodied.
“I will be taking my city back now,” she sneers.
“Whore!” Lucius shouts, genuinely enraged by the Queen’s presence.
Lucius appears to forget Alastor, placing all his attention on the Queen.
The Necromancer bares down on Morion smugly, thinking her to be easy prey. Trying to strike her, Lucius’ attack is deflected effortlessly. He tries and fails again, Morion following with an attack of her own, her sword, Charlotte’s Defiance, cutting through the armor and finding Lucius’ flesh. He curses her in that mysterious, wicked tongue before he begins to attack her rabidly. The Queen of Halvard keeps pace deftly as though Lucius’ assault was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Even with all his newfound power, the Necromancer cannot touch Morion, yet she somehow repeatedly succeeds at drawing his blood and rendering the armor essentially useless. The once demure Queen now shows her true colors; a warrior fierce as even Alastor, teeth bared, roars and growls, all previously hidden within her. Lucius becomes increasingly agitated by Morion, resorting to pure, beastly strength to try and fell her, but to no avail. He swings his weapon far too wide, allowing Morion the opportunity to kick his necromantic blade out of his hand. Enraged, Lucius returns the favor, disarming the Queen.
“I have waited so very long for this moment, Morion!” Lucius snarls poisonously.
He forces a disgusting blade-chain to grow from his gauntlet. The Queen backs away, Lucius stalking her, corralling her into a corner. Absolutely enthralled by the taste of his coming victory, Lucius does not notice Morion’s eyes, not until...
“Farewell, brother.”
Alastor thrusts Lucius’ own weapon into his back. Lucius flails, trying to grab the hilt of the sword, but his alchemic weapon has begun to do what it was built for: taking the life force of those it is used against. A moment later, Lucius is no more, his robes, his armor and his sword all falling to the ground. The armor takes a moment to register that its wearer is dead, but soon reattaches to Alastor, becoming complete yet again. Alastor looks down upon the necromantic blade fearfully, spitefully. Fixated so wholly on the dark weapon, he barely hears Morion speak.
“What now, Alastor?”
He kneels down, the sword sitting like a siren on top of what could be called Lucius’ remains, calling to him, pulling him ever closer. The armor is silent, no voices echo in his head.
“What now?” Alastor repeats in a whisper, directed to Elizabetha.
She does not answer. Alastor is left to his own thoughts.
Picking Lucius’ sword up, a single, terrible thought occurs to him: turn it on himself. Bringing the point of the blade to his chest, he wills the armor to open above his heart.
“What are you doing!?” Morion cries out.
“In this sword is all the evil and treachery of my bloodline. With mine added to it, it will all be over.”
“That cannot be so!” the Queen shouts, tears in her eyes. “There must be another way!”
Alastor ignores her. He reaches out, ready to plunge the sword into his chest, except Morion grabs his arms, stopping him. He starts to scold her, when something catches his eye.
“The necklace,” Alastor says. “Put it on the floor!”
Remembering what Alastor had said about the pendant, Morion is more than hesitant to acquiesce.
“Alastor, I cannot,” she says, clutching the pendant in her hand. “You told me never to take it off, not even for you!”
“Trust me,” he pleads.
“Alastor! I... what if... ?”
“Please, Morion. I beg you.”
Morion looks beyond the Knight’s helmet to the eyes behind the visor and, ultimately, to the heart behind the eyes. Fearfully, the Queen tugs her necklace off and throws it down in front of Alastor. She realizes that it is her very life she has given to Alastor. 
But it is shown to be a fear unfounded. 
Right as it settles, Alastor brings down the tip of his brother’s sword into the dead center of the pendant. The sword and pendant explode with a violence that was completely unexpected, sending Alastor and Morion flying in opposite directions; Morion slamming hard into the nearby wall, Alastor sent soaring across the room, landing at the foot of the throne. Even more unexpected, when Alastor lands, the armor loses its sheen, corrodes to dust and falls from him. 
The armor is now nothing but a memory.

Chapter Twenty-One
Alastor’s Hollow
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A group of Halvard militiamen, led by Mikha’el, burst into the throne room. Among them is Morrigan, in her Edna guise.
“See to the Queen,” Mikha’el orders while he moves to Alastor. 
Coming back around, Alastor immediately knows that something is different. He looks at himself, finding his clothes covered in what looks like black sand. By his hand lays Charlotte’s Defiance.
“What has happened here?” Mikha’el asks him.
With Mikha’el’s help, Alastor stands, picking up Charlotte’s Defiance as he does so.
“Cain is dead, Lucius is dead, the armor is destroyed. Anything else we can talk about later. Right now, I want to leave.”
“Alastor?”
“I am more tired than I have ever been in my life.”
“I understand.”
Alastor is barely able to stand, let alone walk. Mikha’el has to support his weight as they slowly hobble away. They can see Morion watching them but, having to deal with her subjects, she cannot protest as Alastor and Mikha’el slowly leave the room. They pass by Edna without a word, she looking to Alastor in disbelief.
In the main hall, Alastor can see Mikha’el much clearer. At first he thought Mikha’el was simply cut upon the forehead, as blood was running down his face, but after another moment of looking, he can see that his friend has suffered a terrible wound to his left eye.
“Uri’el’s tears,” Alastor whispers.
“I cry them myself now,” responds Mikha’el.
“What happened to you?”
Mikha’el turns his good eye to Alastor, hesitant for a moment.
“I had my attention drawn away over the course of the battle. A lapse long enough to allow one of the soldiers the chance to attack me.”
“That is not like you at all. What could have caused you to lose your battle focus?”
Again, Mikha’el hesitates to answer, waiting until they have left the castle to speak again.
“Amelia was fighting someone. He looked similar to the man she had traveled with when masquerading as the bards. She beat him easily, but something came up from the shadows. Took form behind her and then...” Mikha’el shudders at the recollection. “And then it destroyed her.”
“Destroyed?”
“It is the only word I can think of. When one of the dishonored are killed, they rapidly decay and fall apart, as you know, but Amelia. She just... disintegrated, dust being sent in every direction.”
Alastor’s heart becomes heavy with sadness and loss, but he lightens this load as he thinks upon how, at this very moment, she is now in Valkyr. The shadow creature, however, is a different story.
“What happened next?” Alastor asks as they walk into the destitute, body strewn square.
“The shadow looked at me, and for a moment, I could swear it was laughing before it vanished.”
Alastor’s stallion is wandering in the square, waiting for its master. Alastor feels his physical strength gradually reemerging the farther from the castle he walks. Freeing himself from Mikha’el, Alastor pulls himself up onto the stallion’s back.
“Go have that cleaned up,” Alastor says, gesturing to Mikha’el’s injury, “then meet me back at the keep in a few days... no, a week.”
“A week?” Mikha’el asks, puzzled.
“I need to be alone for a bit, to think.”
“And you cannot ‘be alone for a bit’ here?”
“No.”
“What about Halvard?” asks Mikha’el, a growing annoyance in his voice. “What about Morion?”
“I will talk to her when the time is right. No sooner.”
Mikha’el’s face contorts, showing his disbelief.
“After all that has happened tonight, you are going to run away? What happened in the throne room, Alastor? You are somehow different.”
“The keep. One week.”
With that, Alastor steers away, guiding his animal out from the square, down the main street and finally out of Halvard.
~-~~-~
Alastor looks back at Halvard, a shade of regret eating at his conscience. Being so short with Mikha’el after such a dramatic battle is something he never imagined himself doing, but given the circumstances...
As much as he trusts Mikha’el, something told him to remain silent about what he saw, but he would have been mute even without that second sense. How could he tell Mikha’el what he saw in that glorious moment of unconsciousness following the plunging of Lucius’ sword into Morion’s pendant? The sight of that place he has never before seen, but against all logic knew the name of.
“The Hollow.”
Alastor closes his eyes, hoping for even the faintest vision of that place to still be there. The trees, forever releasing their bloom petals, the air perfumed by the grass and flowers that never wither. The pool of crisp and crystal clear water fed by the everlasting spring and, most memorable, the sunlight streaming into its center, never fading, brilliant but not blinding. In short-
“Paradise.”
Even though he knows not where the Hollow is exactly, he feels a pull toward it, as one might feel for their own home. Fortunately, Alastor needs not worry about navigation, given that the stallion seems to share a mind with him, going directly where Alastor wants to go, starting north toward Judeheim. 
A roar of applause is carried on the wind from Halvard. Morion has no doubt revealed their full victory to her people, about how they have avenged themselves for King Gawain’s murder. Sure enough, shouts of “Queen Morion! Long live Queen Morion!” follow. This causes Alastor’s guilt to subside some and, as the shouts give way to the unmistakable sounds of celebration, vanish all together. 
Resting the naked blade of Charlotte’s Defiance across his lap, he again closes his eyes, begging his mind and any powers that be to give him that vision of the Hollow again, a vision so powerful and beautiful, Alastor would gladly relive this day to see it again. Fate obliges her new champion. 
Alastor falls asleep.
~-~~-~
He lays in the Hollow, at the foot of a tree, dreamily looking up at its branches. He is not merely laying there in leisure. He is waiting for something. As though intent on shattering this peace, a voice calls out.
“Alastor, I want to talk with you,” Mikha’el says, nothing more than a disembodied voice.
“When the time is right,” answers Alastor lazily.
“Alastor, I want to see you,” Morion’s voice then calls.
“When the time is right,” Alastor repeats.
Alastor remains reclined, but opens his eyes in anticipation of the next, inevitable voice.
“Alastor, I want to kill you,” says the final voice. It is masculine and high, but terrifying in its cool, sure tone.
Alastor’s heart races as he lay there. He hesitates in answering this voice that he has been waiting for.
“When the time is right,” he repeats slowly, methodically, for the final time.
As the final measure of sound escapes his lips, he wakes to a bright evening.
~-~~-~
The moon on high is alone in illuminating the road he travels upon. He thinks on the dream he has just had. To some, a threat of being murdered would make it a nightmare, but it does not cause him any fear or fright. There is, in actuality, some degree of gratitude in his heart. An unasked question answered. After a moment, Alastor steers the stallion northeast, away from Judeheim and into a forest he has never ventured in to.
The trees are close knit, their roots having risen up and entwined with one another, forcing Alastor to dismount, leaving the horse behind so that he may continue onward.
“Go on home. I will follow soon,” Alastor tells his horse, the gift given to him by Frederic of Arkelon. The animal nuzzles Alastor before doing as it has been instructed.
Hours pass while he fights his way through the ever thickening growth. The trees and plant life grow more aged the farther he goes, yet in defiance of this they are exceedingly alive and show no signs of rot or disease as most old greenery does. He becomes tempted to use his sword to cut through the low hanging boughs, but the idea of causing damage to things which have lived for a hundred lifetimes of men seems wrong. Criminal even.
More hours fall away, the forest remains resolved to stop any intruders. Stars twinkle before Alastor’s eyes. He becomes light headed then collapses. He listens to the roaring of his body and stops to rest, finding dreamless sleep the moment he closes his eyes.
Alastor opens his eyes again what feels only moments later with a start, half expecting to be surrounded by enemies. Old premonitions die hard. The little amount of sunlight streaming in shows that it is sunset. Alastor rises up and continues, ignoring the pains of thirst and hunger. The thought of the Hollow makes such things as physical sustenance appear absurd and trivial. With the arrival of night comes the expected darkness, now made darker by the impenetrable branches of the trees. Soon the forest becomes as ink, yet Alastor strives, drawn to the Hollow. 
Around the time that midnight should be rolling around by Alastor’s estimation, he is forced to again stop, this time because the trees before him grow so tight together, and so thick, they effectively form an impenetrable wall. Their bark is smooth and without knot or blemish, making climbing impossible. In fact, if not for their roots, they might be mistaken for man-made pillars, so perfect they are. That new found, all-knowing, indescribable sense of divination in Alastor gives him the answer to passing.
“Open,” Alastor commands, his voice powerful, but full of wisdom and kindness. The unfamiliarity of it catching even the man from whose mouth it issued off guard.
There is no time to think about the changes in himself, as the trees have begun to move. Two trees pull in on themselves, creating an arched opening through which a lone man might pass through. Beyond the trees Alastor sees at last with his own waking eyes. Not a dream or some fantasy, no. Before him is the Hollow, more beautiful than the images in his head could ever hope to be.
Walking through the tree-arch, it closes behind Alastor, again forming a solid wall. Bloom petals falling gently from the trees caress Alastor’s face on their way to the ground. His eyes immediately stop upon the pool in the center of the Hollow, the sight of it making him painfully aware of how tired and hurt he is. The pool is eternally fed from the mouth of a small waterfall in the midst of a formation of rock. 
Not in the mood to over think, he undresses and steps into the pool, the interior made of what looks like marble smoothed to a fine polish by time. The farther into the center he goes, the deeper the water becomes until at last it is deep enough for Alastor to stand on the bottom, completely covered. The water is crisp and cold, yet relaxing and comforting as warm bath water. The combination of invigoration and soothing is a confusing feeling, but a good one. While still at the bottom of the pool, he drinks the water, quenching his suppressed thirst.
Alastor swims back to the edge of the pool, sitting upon the naturally formed steps. A strange feeling has begun coursing through his body, like a fire pushing through his veins, but cold, eventually settling on his many injuries, old and new. Examining himself, he finds absolutely nothing, the exact opposite of what he was expecting. His scars have vanished, the wounds he had suffered over the last days are gone, even his few teeth that were broken or rotted are renewed. 
He stands, looking around at the Hollow, excitedly intimidated by it now. 
The Son of Eoin walks out of the pool, looking to put his clothes back on, but the thought of wearing such dirty clothes after his wondrous bath in the pool borders on disgusting. Alastor silently wishes he had something else to wear and no sooner than the thought is finished, there appears from nothing a new set of clothes next to his own, folded and waiting. A simple tunic and pants dyed black. He pulls these clothes on fast, then picks up his sword.
“I do not think you will find any foes here on which that sword would be of any use, let alone any foes to speak of,” a soft female voice calls out.
Alastor spins around, sword stretched out, but there is no one there.
“As you have not shown yourself, whether you are friend or foe is yet to be seen, would you not agree?” he calls in reply.
A medium haired woman materializes from a mist some distance away. At first, Alastor thinks it is Morrigan, but that illusion fades the next instant. The woman gives a blissful smile to Alastor.
“Oh, what a man you have become, Alastor. To say that I am proud of you does not put what I feel to justice.”
Alastor’s sword arm falters, losing the strength of will that was only just in it, falling to his side, Charlotte’s Defiance slipping from his hand. He knows the woman he is looking at, but he truly cannot believe his eyes.
“Mother?” he stammers.
“Once upon a time I was, son.”
She again smiles, but this time a sadness is included with it.
So many questions to ask, but Alastor chooses the one most immediate.
“Mother, what is this place?”
“You mean to tell me that you have not realized on your own?”
“I guess I have not...”
“The Hollow is a gift intended solely for you.”
“Gift? Who could possibly give me something like this?”
“Can you not think of who might have the power to give you this?” Alastor’s mother asks, a playful smile on her lips.
Alastor knows who she is alluding to, but the idea is so preposterous that he cannot help but laugh.
“A gift from God you mean?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Her tone is that of true disbelief, that her own words are so common place, to think that someone would not, could not, believe them is unfathomable.
“Well, yes it is actually,” Alastor replies sheepishly.
“Regardless of if you can accept the truth or not, the Hollow is yours, earned through your lifelong service.”
“Lifelong service?”
“So I have been told.”
“Told? You do not know the things I have done?”
“No, but I would very much appreciate if you would regale me with your story.”
~-~~-~
Alastor sits at the foot of a tree, much as he did in his dream, his mother sitting close by. He recounts to her every event since she died, pausing only to answer her occasional questions. When the time comes to tell her of the more recent trials he has endured, she remains silent, listening attentively, taking in every detail. When he finishes relating the battle at Halvard castle, and his arrival at the Hollow, his mother simply stares at him.
“What is it?”Alastor asks, afraid that he may have said something wrong.
“Morion sounds absolutely lovely. She will make a good queen. But, Alastor...”
“Mother?”
“Amelia. How could you have done what you say you did? I know you loved her, Alastor. They way you spoke left no doubt to that, yet you killed her.”
“The betrayal I felt at that moment you cannot understand, mother. I will not deny that I loved her, and it was because of that love that the betrayal was all the more potent. It was the same way I felt when...”
“When, Alastor?”
“After you...”
“Died?”
“How could you have killed yourself when you were needed most, mother!?”
“I did no such thing!” Alastor’s mother yells, jumping to her feet.
“That was what father told me.”
“And that was not exactly the first, nor last, of his lies was it?”
“Then what really happened when you went into the forest, mother?”
“I was murdered.”
“By who?”
“Who indeed, Alastor?”
“I do not understand.”
“Who had the most to gain by ridding you and your father of me? Who had the most to fear as I raised you, and you grew older? After the story you just told me, has the truth of my death truly not occurred to you? ”
Alastor knows the answer without thinking.
“Lucius’ mother? But why?”
“It was not just that whore, but her son too. They lured me out into the forest, telling me that you had hurt yourself. She used some witchcraft that made it so I could not move, then ordered her own son to kill me,” she tells Alastor, her voice seething with suppressed rage.
“Then consider yourself avenged, mother. As I have told you, Lucius is dead,” Alastor says through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the old wound, ripped open again. The idea of his mother being murdered by his half-brother threatening to tear his own soul asunder.
“Lucius, while the evil offspring of a witch-whore, was little more than a simple lapdog, Alastor. He was never your true enemy.”
The divination inside gives him the immediate answer.
“You speak of Samael?”
“I do.”
“But, I thought Samael was the enemy of God himself?”
“A miss-teaching. They are nowhere near being equals, though Samael does not wish this teaching to be corrected, as it makes his power appear greater than it is. In truth, Alastor, you and he are most alike, but of course the complete antithesis of one another.”
“The way you speak of him, you almost make him sound mortal.”
“He is not an all-powerful deity, son.”
“So, he can be hurt? He can be beaten?”
“Yes, in much the same way you can.”
Alastor stands, pacing across the Hollow until he is stopped by the sight of Charlotte’s Defiance laying in his path. He looks at the sword lovingly.
“Elizabetha spoke of a new fate. She said ‘A new fate will be born this night, and the only thing you must do to attain it is not lose heart and take it!’ Is this what she spoke of?”
“It is, Alastor.”
Alastor continues to stand still, staring at the sword.
“What must I do?” he asks without breaking his gaze.
“Then you accept this task? Embrace this new fate?”
“Whole heartedly, mother.”
“Even if it costs your life?”
“I have already seen what lays beyond. I now know that the damnation I faced is no longer in my future, so I no longer fear death. And thus I repeat: What must I do?”
“The Fairy you know as Morrigan has secured a red book that is blank, except for the last page. I want you to return home and write in that book all you have seen, done, and been a part of, except for this Hollow and everything we here discuss.”
“Why?” he asks, looking to his mother, confused. “Why exclude this place?”
“The Hollow is your sanctuary. Your refuge. But, as you hopefully have figured out, it is so much more. While you are here, you are immortal, and any wounds you suffer are healed, no matter how old or grave, by dipping into the pool, as you have already done. And, you know that is not all. Here you can will the creation of anything you desire, as you did with your clothes. As you can see, this would be a horrible temptation to lesser men and women.”
“I cannot tell even my friends?”
“You may tell them as much or as little as you wish, Alastor, but remember: the less they know, the less knowledge there is that can be used against them and you. I trust your judgment in this accord.”
Alastor nods in understanding.
“What shall I do after writing my story?”
“See to your friendships, of course,” she answers with a smile. “You will need allies, so isolating yourself from those who love you would be quite... stupid.”
“And after that?” Alastor laughs.
“An important task. Search out for one called ‘The Last Prophet.’ But, that is something we can discuss later.”
“Sounds good.”
Alastor tests the Hollow, willing his clothes to change into his riding gear, complete with a new sheathe for Charlotte’s Defiance. He looks at the tree-wall and sighs.
“Alastor?”
“I am not looking forward to traveling back through the forest from whence I came.”
“You will not have to.”
“Excuse me?”
“By taking ownership of the Hollow, it has granted you a new ability. You can travel anywhere you want, granted that you have seen where you want to go and can focus fully upon it, and no matter where you are you can return to the Hollow in like manner.”
“Is that so?” Alastor smirks. “Well, I shall be off then.” As he looks upon his mother, a thought comes to him. “Why not come with me?”
“I cannot. I am dead, remember? My time here is limited to setting you upon your new path. When you leave, I will depart as well.”
“Depart? Where to?”
“Where we shall meet again someday.”
Alastor, smiling at her answer, closes his eyes, readying to test this new form of travel, but yet another thought enters his mind, breaking his concentration. His mother can see this.
“Alastor, what is wrong?”
“You said that Lucius’ mother used witchcraft on you.”
“I did.”
“Did father know she was a witch?”
“I know what you are thinking, as I have had many, many years to think of it myself. She was a very beautiful woman, you might remember. Knowing Eoin, she would not have had to cast a spell to make him her own.”
Alastor thinks of correcting his mother, telling her that her guess as to the reason for his question was wrong, but the sadness in her eyes tells him not to. He quickly formulates a new question within the same vein as the previous.
“Do you have any idea what became of her? I saw her last when father sent Lucius and her away.”
“Where she is, I know not. But, I do know this: she is not dead.”
The bitterness in her voice is clear as crystal. She makes no effort whatsoever to mask it.
“Something I shall investigate, mother.”
“There is no need, Alastor.”
“Yes there is. Inside, I feel that I must. It is the same feeling that led me here.”
“If that is the case, then do not ignore it. Just do not seek her out if you intend to do so on my account. I will not have my son further tainted by revenge.”
Alastor bows to his mother, then wills himself to his keep. The sensation is not as strange as Alastor anticipated. A fog appears to surround him, along with winds that swirl the mists around. After only a short moment, he stands before the keep, the mists dissipating and then vanishing, just as he had seen all the times Morrigan showed up from nowhere. 
The sun has started its descent from the sky, signaling that it is late in the day, but how many days since leaving Halvard, he cannot tell. There are no horses outside the keep, nor any signs of visitors, so Alastor enters his home. Instinct tells Alastor to do something before ascending to the upper most levels of the tower. 
He goes first to Eoin’s crypt. 
Eoin’s body is no longer encased in the crystalline coffin, but lays on the stone bed which held it up. The work done by the armor has since been broken, a thought that gives Alastor a nice sense of comfort. He carefully picks up his father, carrying the body down to the lowest level of the keep, through the secret door and into the underground grotto, still luminescent, the waters of the fall still flowing. He walks to the far end of the pool, where a lone headstone is already standing, facing the waterfall. On the stone, roughly chiseled, is written:
 
‘Lily, wife and mother - deserving of more than she had’

Although the grave is many years old, the solitude of the grotto has ensured that it remained undisturbed, looking as it did when it was freshly filled, and even more so since a shovel still rests beside it. Alastor gently sets down the body of Eoin a good distance away before taking up the shovel and starting a second grave beside Lily’s. 
When the grave is finished, Alastor lays Eoin down in it, then covering him with the earth. Alastor throws the shovel away, staring down at the two graves.
“I will make you a headstone soon enough, father. I realize you did not think yourself worthy to be here, but I, and I think mother would agree with me, believe otherwise.”
Alastor bows his head and leaves the grotto.
Up in the Cloud Hall, it becomes clear that no one is there with him, nor has there been since all his friends left to follow him to Halvard. On the table is the book his mother told him about, set down before his chair. Just as he sits, Morrigan enters.
“How is it that you are already here?” she asks, shocked to see Alastor there.
Alastor can only smirk.
“What do you mean?”
“Mikha’el said you went north and that you would meet him some days later. There is no way you can be here before him.”
“Yet here I am. What are you doing here?” Alastor asks, ignoring her question, his smirk disappearing.
Morrigan takes this sign and asks no more about the speed with which Alastor has returned to the keep.
“I needed a quiet place to think,” Morrigan answers. “The trial is not going as well as Morion hoped.”
“Trial?”
“Yes. Not long after you left, the surviving members of the army were rounded up by the militia. The army was going to be killed then and there according to the justified punishment, but Morion decided to put them on trial for betraying and aiding in the murder of Gawain.”
“The army was right there working directly under Hector and Lucius. How could a trial be going poorly?”
“Some of them claim to have been bewitched, tricked or threatened into following Lucius. The rest, however, continually spout of their eternal loyalty to him. The problem comes from the fact that they kill themselves, or those who have recanted Lucius, at every chance they get.”
“Maybe I am missing something, but I fail to see what is wrong with that.”
“They claim to be reuniting with Lucius so that he might have his army back, so that they may eventually come back to Halvard and slaughter everyone. This scares the people, and Morion has trouble keeping the calm. She wishes you were there to help her.”
“She is more capable than she thinks.”
“It is not just that, but stories have also began to spread through the city, stories about you and the battle with Lucius. Morion tries her best to assure the people of what happened that night, but without you physically there to relate your story you are a, for lack of a better word, myth in Halvard.”
“So, their faith in Morion is tied to my revealing myself to them?”
“Somewhat. Remember, their memories of your father fighting with Gawain are faded, but still very much part of them. They never knew the truth, so they feel left in the dark where the Black Knight is concerned.”
Alastor analyzes what Morrigan has said in his mind. He opens his mouth to answer, but stops himself, looking pained to do so. He places his hand on the red book and very slowly, with all his will says:
“You can tell Her Highness that I will visit her kingdom when the time is right. No sooner, no later. Nothing will make me change my mind in this regard.”
Morrigan eyes Alastor suspiciously, taking note of how he clutches the book as though it is supporting him.
“When will that be?” she asks.
“When I have finished writing.”
Alastor’s mind screams at him, tells him, demands of him that he say nothing more, remembering what his mother’s spirit had told him. Though Morrigan is the least likely to face any danger for knowing what Alastor has been instructed to do, keeping even her unaware as much as possible feels like the right thing to do. Morrigan quickly asks the inevitable question.
“Writing what?”
The perception that Morrigan is seemingly unaware of both the Hollow and his meeting with his mother do not go unnoticed by him.
“Thoughts, mostly,” he lies.
“And that cannot wait until later?”
“No. One must strike whilst the iron is hot, I suppose you could say,” he tells her with a cold sarcasm.
Morrigan knows all too well a lie when she hears one. At this moment, something dies between the former Knight and the Ice Fairy.
“If that is your decision, I shall not bother you anymore,” she replies just as coldly, moving to leave.
She stops at the stairs, waiting for Alastor to call her back, but he does not. She departs in her more divine manner, blasting the Cloud Hall with a frigid wind. Alastor sighs as he stands up from the long table, taking up the red book. He descends a level, going into the keep library. He searches for ink and quills. When he finds what he is looking for, he sits at the lone table and sets to his task.
A task that he fears will hurt even more before it is finished. Before he can put ink to page one, he wipes away the tears, the result of being so heartless to one who has only tried to help him through the years. To one that has loved and cared for him like a sister.
He can only pray that, in the end, it will be justified. God willing.

Chapter Twenty-Two
Fate’s Bright Epilogue
Return to Table of Contents

Three months have passed since the fateful night of Halvard’s uprising, the destruction of Cain and his servant-become-traitor Lucius. Halvard, under the rule of Queen Morion, slowly returns to its former glory. Those who had fled in the wake of King Gawain’s murder come home, and with the survivors of the night rebellion, as it came to be called, work hard to rebuild that which was destroyed. Morion has fully accepted her role of leadership and works diligently with the people of Halvard, often side by side in the reconstruction of buildings. She also reestablishes ties to Judeheim, itself finally coming out of its turmoil, and the two kingdoms begin an age of peace and prosperity without the threat of Cain’s evil.
On a day like many before it, Morion is aiding in the building of a row of houses when the appearance of an old friend causes all work to stop.
“Mikha’el!” Morion exclaims, seeing the winged one simply standing at the edge of the building site, smiling. She rushes to Mikha’el, the two soon embracing. She then looks around, disappointedly.
“It is only me, My Lady,” Mikha’el tells her sadly.
Morion is clearly hurt. She looks into Mikha’el’s lone eye.
“Three months, Mikha’el. He would not come for the trials when I needed him, and he could not even visit when we started the reconstruction. Why has he so forsaken me and this city?”
Mikha’el leads the Queen away from the others who have already continued working.
“Alastor is a much different man than he used to be, My Lady. He has been in deep study since the battle with his brother. Something has very deeply troubled his heart. It is like looking at Eoin again.”
“Something so troubling that he could not even come to see me once after that day? If he is so tormented, I might be able to help him!”
“It is complicated, My Lady. He holds his true thoughts back from me and even Morrigan as you know, though she still will not say what was said between them to cause their falling out.”
“Things are always complicated when Alastor is involved,” Morion says spitefully, though her eyes reflect sadness, not hatred.
“But,” Mikha’el says, his tone becoming lighter, “that is why I am here.”
“Because Alastor is complicated?”
“No, My Lady,” says Mikha’el with a chuckle. “I mean that Alastor will soon tell you himself the reason for his absence.” 
Morion stops, staring at Mikha’el as if he just spoke some foreign language.
“He is going to finally come here?”
“He would like to arrive one week from today. Will you allow him?”
“Of course I will allow him! But, why a week?”
“All part of his grandiose plan, My Lady,” Mikha’el says with a smirk as he looks to the sky.
Morion follows his gaze to see the sky full of the Guardian race, swooping and diving down from above, landing in the city to astonished cries and cheers. Halvard’s old friends have come out of hiding.
“Alastor’s plan you say?” asks Morion, unable to believe what she is seeing.
“With Cain gone, and with him my people’s fears, Alastor thought that we should rekindle the oldest of alliances, between your race and mine. As such, he has sent us to help with your rebuilding so that in one week’s time, he can give his announcement to all of us, in a celebration the likes of which has not been seen in these lands in dozens of lifetimes.”
“If that is the case, you can tell him for me that he will be most welcome here.”
Mikha’el bows to the Queen, then leaps into the air, flying back to Alastor’s keep.
~-~~-~
Alastor is in the small library, sunlight from a clear, spring day outside streaming through the windows as he sits at his desk with three open books in front of him, one the red book, full of his own handwriting. He is very excitedly checking his own book, then comparing his words with those in the other two. He smiles and laughs as though some idea has been confirmed. He closes the two books, placing them on top of a rather tall pile, next to many other such piles situated around his desk. 
He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. Thinking, debating, deducing. Again he laughs before resuming his writing. The book is now nearly full, only tens of pages remaining. 
He stops suddenly mid-sentence.
“Why just her? Of everyone there, she had the most to gain from...” he whispers to himself, then trails off back to writing. “I miss you, Amelia...”
Moments later, Mikha’el enters the library.
“How did it fare?” Alastor asks without looking up from his book.
“Well. Very well, actually, as you said it would. The people of Halvard embraced my people as long lost brothers and sisters. Morion, however, is still most worried about you.”
“Which she should not be.”
“Yet worry she does. She wonders why, in all this time, you have not gone to see her once.”
Alastor looks up. At the top of his desk rests Charlotte’s Defiance, conjuring all sorts of differing memories.
“I have my reasons,” Alastor says softly, distantly, returning to the book.
“Reasons that are only known to you, of course.”
The annoyance and hurt in Mikha’el’s voice cannot be ignored.
“Did not you at one time ask me to blindly trust both my father and you? When the curse raged through me and the only thing I could think of was self-destruction, did I not follow the conviction of you and my father? Have I not come through that greatest of tests the victor?”
“You did, and you have, Alastor.”
“All I ask of you in return then is to trust me in a like manner.”
“If that is what you want of me, then you shall have it. I will know what all of this is about in one week time at any rate, correct?”
“Yes,” replies Alastor dryly, pretending to be absorbed by the work before him.
“What shall I do next then?”
“I would think you should be in Halvard. You are the leader of your people, and it would only strengthen the bond if you were there, standing by Morion, during the rebuilding and preparations.”
“And to be a replacement for you.”
Alastor looks up to Mikha’el, somewhat taken aback.
“I suppose so,” he answers honestly.
Mikha’el bows and makes to leave, but he stops.
“Is there nothing you can give me to tell her? Some token so that she might accept why you have remained absent?”
“And be a token to you and Morrigan as well?”
“Yes, actually. The Fairy is just as worried about you as Lady Morion, if not more so.”
“Alright. Ask them this: Of all those traitors Morion held for trial, who was missing? Think back to the night of the battle. Who was missing then as well?”
Mikha’el turns to Alastor, perplexed, but understanding soon shows in his eye.
“Hector? Knowing him, he fled.”
“Why would the man at the center of such a violent and methodical mutiny just flee?”
“He was a coward.”
“Perhaps, but remember this: my brother chose followers of fanatical devotion. He would never have chosen a man who would abandon him in such a way.”
Mikha’el knows that this is entirely accurate. Lucius’ true followers were so devout that they killed themselves just to be with their master again, and Hector was essentially Rennir’s replacement. 
Rennir, who died twice for his master. Even Cale returned like a dog to serve Lucius a second time.
Hector could not have fled.
“You think that Lucius sent him away before the battle, Alastor?”
“That is one hypothesis.”
“What could be so important that Lucius would do such a thing?”
“That, Mikha’el, is of the utmost urgency to discover.”
Mikha’el thinks briefly.
“Thank you, Alastor.”
Mikha’el leaves, flying off to Halvard. 
Alone, Alastor takes up the sword called Charlotte’s Defiance, carefully examining the symbols etched in the blood groove. While still holding the sword, he flips to the last page of the red book, finding the same symbols amidst a language he cannot decipher, all written in a silver, flowing script. Below all of this are three images: the sword, a shield and a suit of armor. The story of Charlotte’s Defiance, formerly Lionkiller, made no mention of a shield or armor. But, then again, the story does not tell of the weapon’s forging, beyond that it was a present for the Son of Cain, Leon-Alastor, commissioned by his mother, Elizabetha. 
Elizabetha, a woman who exhibited an unnatural awareness of the world. A woman whose spirit had resided in Cain’s Armor for centuries, waiting for that brief moment when the Son of Eoin and Lily, Alastor, would wear it. 
Alastor stands, closing the red book and, taking it up with the sword, travels to the Hollow. This spontaneous method of travel has become an invaluable tool for him, crossing vast distances in the blink of an eye. The spirit of Alastor’s mother has not been seen since his first trip to the Hollow, which Alastor presumes to mean that she was indeed sent there that first time, and that she will not be seen again until his task is complete. 
He would have it no different, as the thought of his mother haunting this most special place is disturbing, if not a little annoying. He walks to the side of the waterfall, standing in front of bare rock.
“Hiding place,” he orders, and the rock opens, revealing a fairly large opening. In this he places the book and, after a moment of contemplation, the sword as well. “Duplicate the sword,” Alastor says, and next to the original a fake is created, the raw materials coming together from the rock to form an exact copy.  “Close,” he says after taking the fake sword.
He sits at the foot of his favorite tree to think.
“Snow,” he tells the Hollow, and it obeys. A gentle downfall of snowflakes starts from the sky, dusting the Hollow and dropping the temperature a bit. 
A dreamless sleep comes unexpectedly. In it, he can hear only voices.
~-~~-~
“I can only hope this will be of some use to him,” says the first. Alastor’s father, Eoin.
“When the time comes, Alastor’s own wisdom will draw him, of that there can be no doubt,” says the second, Gawain.
“I inadvertently set him on this way. What if I have destroyed him?”
“He is better than the both of us. He will succeed, and then he will understand, far, far more than the scarce little we do, or ever will hope to.”
“Yes, Gawain. You are right.”
“No, it was Persephone that was right. She hid her true diary and it has led us to this point, so it is in her that I now trust.”
“Regardless of how we came to this, I only hope that it will all make sense to him. It feels like I should do more.”
“There is nothing we can, old friend. We can only sit and wait for our resolutions, never speaking of these things lest unfriendly ears learn and find Alastor too soon.”
“Too soon...”
The voices fade, but the sleep does not end. A new voice echoes through his mind. The voice he heard in a dream once, in a dream where he lay, waiting for it.
“Little Alastor, you have nothing in your future, except death. Everyone you love, everyone you desire to protect. Even yourself. Death. The stench and rot of the grave is all you can look forward to. Fear it, for it is all, and it is I who come to deliver it.”
“No,” Alastor protests. “I will triumph over death. Conquer it. It is death that shall fear me. You shall come to fear me.”
~-~~-~
Alastor wakes with such a feeling of conviction that he smiles. He stands and immediately dissipates, arriving at the outskirts of Judeheim. The sun has begun to set, so the streets are relatively empty. He carefully makes way to the temple, mindful to avoid contact with any of the people still out and about. 
The temple is vacant, so Alastor heads directly to the library. Inside, Alastor hurriedly searches, unsure exactly of what he is looking for.
“Good evening, Lord Alastor,” a woman gently speaks. Alastor swings around to discover the librarian, a kind looking old woman. She bears some resemblance to Edna, Morrigan’s other self.  “We were not expecting a visit from you, but seeing as you are here unannounced, you are most likely here on an important quest of some sort. How may I assist you?” she asks.
Speechless for a moment, Alastor finally finds the words.
“I believe that my father may have left something here for me. A book, or documents or something of the like.”
The librarian smiles coyly.
“Eoin said you would come or, rather, hoped you would come for these.”
She takes Alastor to an older area of the library, where many of the books are coated in a fine layer of dust.
“What do you mean by that?” Alastor asks, hoping for his newest dream to be given some context.
“While you were away, Eoin had constant visits in his final years here, keeping him informed about his... dark son. The one he would not speak the name of.”
“Lucius.”
“Aye. Hearing about him saddened Eoin so very much. He was afraid that you, My Lord, would never come to take his ‘final gifts to you,’ as he called them.”
“Father thought Lucius would kill me?”
“He never said that directly, but he noticed how evil the dark son was growing, and feared that there was nothing his first born would not do to acquire power. Ah, here we are.”
The librarian stops, taking two leather bound volumes from a shelf. One of the books is decidedly older looking than the other. She hands them both to Alastor with a smile and a bow of her head.
“What are these?” he asks.
“One is your father’s journal of his years of study here. He thought there may be some information useful to you in it.”
“And the second one?”
“Eoin’s true gift to you: Leon’s memoirs.”
Alastor’s eyes open wide. He is holding the very thoughts of the man whose true name he bears. The shock wears as he realizes the name that the librarian used.
“You called him Leon. Most who truly know of him call him ‘the Lesser’, or any number of other names.”
“None of which are very nice, all insults to a great man. Your father believed that it was a disservice to call Leon by any other name.”
“How did father find this?” Alastor asks while he gazes upon the cover of Leon’s book.
“That, Eoin never spoke of. It was a journey he wished to tell no one of, but it forever changed him.”
Alastor wants nothing more than to keep asking this kind old woman more questions, but the longer he stays, the more likely someone will see him.
“I wish I could stay, but I have an urgent matter which needs my attention,” he tells the librarian. “Could you please not tell anyone I was here?”
“Keeping secrets is my specialty, Lord Alastor, which your father could attest to if he was still with us.”
Alastor sees a glimmer in the librarian’s eyes. She still holds secrets. He, in the times to come, will without doubt cross paths with her again, one way or another. He bows and swiftly leaves the library. Outside, he goes behind the temple so as to be hidden as he dissipates back to the Hollow, then to his keep, appearing exactly on the spot where he originally left.
Falling into his chair, he sets the books down so that he can light the candles on his desk. By the flickering light, he looks at the books. Though his father’s words might help, it is Leon’s memoirs that pull on him. He opens it, venturing into the mind of the Son of Cain. Maybe he holds the elusive answers.
~-~~-~
“You wished to see me?” Mikha’el asks as he enters the throne room.
Only Morion and Edna are there, but the throne room still feels crowded. The tools and scaffolding still remain as they try to fix what Cain had done in his short time free.
“Did you know that Alastor is having the people of Judeheim come here for the celebration?” Morion asks, annoyed.
“No, My Lady. And, to be honest, I do not see how he found the time to do such a thing. Each time I have ventured to the keep over the week, he was there, in his study, as he always is.”
Morion looks to Edna for an answer.
“Alastor keeps his secrets well, these days, Morion,” Edna tells her.
“But why!?” Morion demands. “Why keep secrets from us?”
“Knowing his altruistic nature,” Mikha’el speaks in a half whisper, “if he did indeed discover something that might do his loved ones harm, he would rather they be angry with him than to subject them to unspeakable dangers.”
“You think there is more to what he told you about Hector, then?” Edna asks.
“Most definitely. When he spoke of Hector, his tone was like that of when he used to speak of Lucius. Not so much fearful, but concerned. That is the only way I can describe him.”
“So, we must simply trust him?”
“Yes.”
“In two days, hopefully, he will tell us everything,” Edna says, more to herself than the others.
“Do you wish for me to go check on him?” asks Mikha’el.
“No,” Edna answers. “You are needed here. I will go myself. The city will not notice if an old woman is gone for a bit.”
Without another word, she vanishes.
“Alastor is far from being the only one acting odd lately,” Morion notes.
“Quite, My Lady, but there is little we can do about it. I say, let us return to our work. What will happen will happen. Let Knights and Fairies have their eccentricities.”
“Agreed.”
~-~~-~
Morrigan walks into the keep library, but Alastor is not there. The study where Alastor would normally be found has been drastically changed. Gone are the stacks of books and scrolls, along with all signs that it was for the most part the only room Alastor spent time in. With growing concern, she rushes up to the Cloud Hall, but it too is empty. All the way down to Eoin’s crypt. 
Nothing.
Finally, she checks the art room and there she finally finds her quarry. Alastor stands rather comfortably, arms crossed behind him, while he stares at a painting that he never gave much thought to; a painting his mother created shortly before he was even born. The title is most simple: ‘The Hollow’
“It is beautiful,” Morrigan speaks softly of the painting.
“Oh, it is beautiful indeed,” Alastor replies, his tone gentle as one recalling a favored memory.
“Why are you not in your study, writing?”
“I would think the answer obvious. I am finished.”
“May I ask what you have spent so long writing?”
“My life, in all its bleak and violent detail, dearest Morrigan.”
“Why?”
“My mother asked me to. She made every painting in this room, interestingly enough.”
“How is that possible? Some of these are of you and Eoin after she killed... ” Morrigan stops her tongue, coming to realize what she is saying.
“She was murdered, Morrigan. My mother did not take her own life,” Alastor corrects with an even tone.
“Excuse me?”
“Lucius and his mother killed her.”
“How can you know this?”
“Magic,” Alastor says with a sly and sarcastic grin.
“Funny. Please explain to me how is it that she painted you and your father as you would be in the future?”
“The concept of a Seer is not unheard of to you, is it?”
“I have honestly only known of one to be genuine.”
“And, given who that one was, is it then surprising that my mother was a Seeress also?”
Morrigan has to stop for a moment, find her bearings. To hear Alastor speak in this manner is completely unexpected. This Alastor is not the same man in the slightest.
“I suppose not, Alastor.”
“My father had said that ‘fate is a cold, cruel maiden. All are bound to her, yet none can honestly claim to hate her.’ I think that when you are in the midst of it, then yes, it can feel that way. But, being on this side, it is not so cold and cruel anymore.”
“What has brought this on?” asks Morrigan, concerned and drawn into Alastor’s words. She softly puts a hand on his shoulder.
“What was an injustice in one’s life actually reveals itself as grooming. Preparation for a far greater thing. A forging process. To make a sword, the metal must first endure such extremes: fire, water, hammering, over and over, and when those things are done, honing and sharpening. Completed, you have a work of violent beauty. Art that can kill.”
Alastor trails into nonsensical rambling that only he can hear or understand.
Morrigan is nothing if not stunned. As she tries to speak, Alastor interrupts.
“Can your kind die?” he asks her.
“Fairies you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Of course they can.”
“Can you die?”
“Probably. I would rather not find out.”
“Do you fear death?”
“Of course not.”
“So, to save the lives of the innocent, would you sacrifice yourself?”
“Without hesitation.”
Alastor looks at her, the two locking eyes.
“As would I,” Alastor tells her, as if reassuring her of some unspoken promise he has made. Morrigan, though, does not truly grasp the scope of what the former Knight has just said.
“Alastor, what is it that troubles you?” the Fairy asks, unable to ignore any longer Alastor’s near lunatic mind.
He changes visibly, aware that he is acting stranger than he normally would or should.
“Nothing really troubles me anymore, Morrigan. My eyes have simply been opened to a world I long ignored, and have even longed to escape from.”
“Why carry your burden alone? You have friends who will gladly share in it.”
“That is just it, Ice Fairy: you three cannot help me to carry yourselves.”
“Since when have we become lame beggars that you need to carry alone?”
“I never would call you such things, but your association with me has put you all in danger.” Seeing the look in Morrigan’s eyes that tells him that she does not take him seriously, Alastor quickly adds. “Even you are at risk for having thrown your lot in with mine, whether you want to believe that or not.”
“Is this why you have been so cold to us? To Morion?” the Fairy asks, paying no heed to Alastor’s warning.
“Will you tell her my answer when you return to her?” Alastor smirks.
“Not if you wish otherwise.”
“I will ask that you do not then. Yes, it is part of the reason for my ‘coldness.’ My apathy. I deemed it the best course to take. Better that she hate me than I to mourn her.”
“Only part of the reason? May I ask what the other is?”
“You can, but if you are half as wise as you have let on, you should already know the answer. You have had the ‘pleasure’ of watching my life, and my darkest days, after all.”
Dumbfounded at first, understanding dawns almost palpably on Morrigan.
“I promise that I will say nothing to the young Queen if that is the case. However, I highly suggest you do so. She deserves that much.”
“She does. I will not deny that.”
“Now, about this celebration,” Morrigan changes the subject, trying to find a lighter mood. “I understand that you somehow found time to invite all of Judeheim.”
“I intend to address the three kingdoms, so what better way than this?”
“The question is how you managed to do so.”
“A letter can travel fast when it is so inclined.”
“If you say so. What sort of address will you be giving?”
“That, dearest Morrigan, you will have to wait for.”
That special bond between Alastor and Morrigan that was thought dead has been brought back to life, though just barely.
“Fine, keep your secrets then,” she says sarcastically, but in the manner of a joke between siblings. “I should get back now anyway.”
When Morrigan vanishes, Alastor turns back to the painting of the Hollow.
“So, that was Morrigan?” a voice asks.
Alastor’s mother, Lily, steps out from behind the door where she had been hiding the whole time.
“That she was, mother.”
“I somehow expected more from the fabled ‘Fairy Queen’ to be honest. She seems a bit absentminded.”
“Lifetimes of skirting between pretending to be human and not probably have that effect.”
“Even so, she looked nothing like the Fairy Queen I saw.”
“Mother?” Alastor exclaims, facing Lily surprised.
“As I slept on the last day of my life, I had a dream of the Fairy Queen speaking to a man wearing a hood and mask. It was most unnerving, actually, as the mask was white and featureless, just the two holes for his eyes.”
“Can you describe the Fairy Queen you saw, mother?”
“Far more beautiful, more regal, but very much the same in other regards. Like twin sisters, but one having led a much different life.”
“What was she and the masked man speaking of?”
“I can only remember that they were referring to Blood Alchemy. Why, I knew not.”
Alastor goes silent, lost in thought. Lily does too, as she tries to remember her dream better.
“I have dreamt of the masked man too, mother.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it was Lucius, but in retrospect the mask is not something he would wear. He thrives on people being aware of him. To hide his face is not likely.”
“True.”
“Anyway, the book is completed, and safely hid in the Hollow,” Alastor tells Lily, both of them ignoring the thought of the masked man. “And, I know where to begin searching for the Last Prophet.”
“Very good, son.”
“What will be my next task?”
“There is none.”
“But, I thought that was why you came here, rather than meeting me in the Hollow?”
“No, Alastor.”
“Then why?”
“So that I may say my proper farewell. The method of my first departure I have rued for a long time.”
“Why leave at all?”
“I am merely sent, Alastor. I have no power myself. I was to instruct and prepare, which is done.”
Alastor’s unique insight to the workings of the afterlife keep this news from being as soul crushing as it normally would be.
“Will you then aid father in Valkyr?”
“I hope so, but as I said, it is not in my power to outright decide.”
Alastor nods in understanding. Wanting to cry but unable, Lily storms to Alastor and embraces him. Alastor recalls the last time he held on to his mother. He was barely waist high to her. Now, Lily rests her head against Alastor’s heart. It takes all she has to pry herself away, but she does. Neither can speak, but they do not need to. The hug was worth more than clumsy words could ever hope to be. Lily vanishes, leaving Alastor happier than he can remember.
An idea hits him sudden and powerful as his mind veers to the celebration about to be held in Halvard. Without hesitation, he dissipates to the Hollow, which is now in a lovely spring phase, no falling leaves, petals or snow. The idea bursting to get out, he speaks to his refuge with excited authority.
“Give me what I need to forge a suit of armor!”

Chapter Twenty-Three
The Black Rose
Return to Table of Contents

Finally, after months of waiting, and a full week of hard labor, she was going to see Alastor again. 
In her room alone, Morion is just raising from a dream that bit by bit vanishes the more awake she becomes. Her handmaids enter her room just as she sits up in her bed. They come with her gown, basins of hot and cold water, and other items to help the Queen prepare for the celebration.
With the handmaidens Edna enters, looking like her normal self, though now wearing a sheer white veil over her eyes. She speaks as the handmaidens usher Morion behind a privacy screen.
“It has started early, Your Highness.”
“Why?”
“When the first Judeheim pilgrims arrived, and friends met, and families reunited, it was inevitable. Nothing could have stopped the joy and happiness.”
“I know what you are going to tell me. Alastor intended it, right?”
“Of course. Mikha’el’s people have even joined in the festivities, acting quite ‘human’ they would say.”
“And Mikha’el himself?”
“Standing atop the city gate, waiting.”
“I understand wanting to see Alastor, but waiting at the gate?”
“He mentioned having a dream, which he feels only Alastor can interpret for him.”
“Well, Alastor should be here soon, and we can all have our moment with him.”
“Hopefully.”
“What?” Morion exclaims, not liking the doubt in Edna’s voice.
“He is not at the keep, but his animal is.”
“He could not have walked!”
“Obviously, but it is how it is. If he comes, I will be most interested to hear his explanation.”
“If!?”
“Sorry. When.”
Morion lets out a yelp as one of the handmaidens accidently pulls the strings of her corset too tight.
“Be careful, please!”
Edna leaves, the shadow of a smirk on her face.
~-~~-~
Mikha’el continues his vigil, waiting patiently for his friend and compatriot. His spiritual brother. Like everyone else, Mikha’el has also donned new vestments for the occasion: a hooded tunic of the finest white linen with blue trim, and a belt of pure silver arranged like plate armor across his waist. A woman of his kind flies over to him, landing weightlessly.
“Cousin,” she says happily, “come join us! We have started a game with the Judeheim and Halvard people. Two sides with six players. It is very - ”
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” Mikha’el tells her, grim and sad.
“The dream keeps you from having one day of being lighthearted?”
“It was not a mere dream. I have never had a dream as real as this one. It was a vision.”
“Then why not tell our interpreter?”
“In my heart, I know only Alastor will understand. It is as if I have been given a message, sealed with secret meanings of which are solely intended for him.”
“Be that as it may, do you truly believe that you will be able to take him aside as soon as he arrives? Have you not told us that he is to speak to everyone gathered?”
Mikha’el looks from his cousin to the road and back, realizing his indisputably selfish desire.
“I suppose I can tell him later. If it was a vision, it would be impossible for me not to tell him.”
“That is more like it!”
“Now, tell me more about this game...”
And they fly off to join in on the fun being had throughout the city.
~-~~-~
The cold of the Hollow’s pool is, as always, cleansing and rejuvenating. Alastor exits from the water, loath to do so. The last two days were spent amid a flurry of hammer strikes, burns and deep cuts, all while forging his armor. He could have easily requested the armor from the Hollow itself, but to build it with his own hands offered a greater sensation of satisfaction. Also, this armor, forged by he himself, would truly be part of him and, without question, his creation and possession, unlike the last armor he wore, Alastor thinks to himself.
Standing now before his creation, he sees that the work is very good, the form of the armor being everything that Cain’s was not: handsome and majestic. Wordlessly he runs his fingers along the metal, which is warm to the touch, a smile on his face. Whereas Cain’s Armor was built with fear, that is to cover every possible part of the body from injury, Alastor’s is simple in comparison; protection for the chest and loin, the arms and legs, and a simple helmet, all of a silverish-blue hue. Alastor steps back, realizing that without meaning to, he has recreated the armors he saw in Valkyr. 
An interesting coincidence.
“Clothes,” Alastor says to the Hollow, and there materializes on his body his traditional black tunic and pants.
“Armor, to your master,” Alastor orders with a gentle voice, and the armor complies, strapping itself to the new Knight in ribbons, not the vicious tendrils of Cain’s Armor.
“Sword and Shield.”
The false Charlotte’s Defiance comes to Alastor’s hand, which he then sheathes upon his left hip. The shield, a simple one with three points at the top, and a tapered bottom follows, which Alastor secures upon his back.
“Cloak,” Alastor says, and on his back a dark blue riding cloak forms to cover his back.
Alastor, impressed by his own handiwork and with the Hollow itself has a thought which makes him emotionless, staring blankly into his own soul.
“Flowers,” he says in a monotone.
At his feet sprout and bloom roses of all imaginable colors, most of which unnatural to their earth-grown brethren. With the same removed spirit, he takes the flowers up before dissipating, reappearing not outside Halvard, but in the hidden grotto under his keep, Eoin and Lily’s resting place.
Standing over their graves, he sets down the roses between them, saving but a lone rose, a rose black as midnight. Words come to Alastor’s mind, grand speeches full of the wisdom he has learned which he wants to relate to his fallen parents but, he thinks, the flowers should say all that is needed.
“Farewell,” he concludes, leaving as he came.
He reappears outside the keep, in a field of wild flowers. In the center is a patch of barren ground, with a stone set at its top, worn with age, the inscription now illegible but leaving no doubt that this is yet another grave. Alastor kneels down, setting the bud of the black rose down on the headstone.
“Twice I had you, and twice I lost you,” Alastor speaks, his voice full of buried pain. “Once to my own rash stupidity and this second time for reasons I do not even know. If I knew the suffering I would inflict by accepting you as my traveling companion on that day, I would have turned my back on you and your town, never to look or even think on it, or you, ever again. Yet, what is done is done and your story adds to the torment of my deeds. Even faced with this new path, I can never forget the one upon which I had previously walked. At times I busy my mind so as to drown out the past, but it is always there, reminding. Taunting. I should have told you then. I... owed it to you. Maybe if I told you... you would not have felt shunned. My father would not have been ambushed and I, in the end, would not have...”
Alastor cannot bear to continue speaking. He stands, eyes fixed on the grave. He steps back, wanting to look away, but he does not.
He cannot turn his eyes away from Amelia’s grave.
Calmly, Alastor’s stallion comes up, sniffing at the Knight as if to try and share in his loss. Alastor pets the animal and, with a reassuring sound, dissipates away while looking back to the barren mound, materializing in the forest not far away from Halvard’s main road, the stallion with him and seemingly undisturbed by that strange form of travel.
“Go find some place to relax for a bit,” Alastor tells the animal before setting it loose. “We shall be starting a new adventure when I am finished here.” 
It replies with a low neigh and snort, as if excited by this news. 
Something as simple as walking forward does not come easy, as Alastor is stricken half fearful at the thought of addressing the three kingdoms all at once, where previously stealth and misdirection were his greatest of allies. Fear relinquishes its power back to Sense and the steps soon follow, heading to the road proper.
The sound of celebration is carried loud on the cool, breezy air, and Alastor can see that there are none watching the city entrance for him. Though grateful for this, in the same thought he scolds the city for dropping its guard. Even with Lucius gone, the lessons of the past have always taught that one should never fall into the lull that apparent security can bring. Security, as attractive as it may appear, is nothing but an illusion. 
A wisp of smoke seems to appear from nowhere before Alastor, and as suddenly fades. For that brief moment, it was man shaped, forcing Alastor to stop. The apparition involuntarily reminds him of the ghastly shades present in the dishonored land. With unease, he brushes it away, resuming onward. Coming at last to the Halvard gate, Alastor remembers another day, when Gawain offered him residence within the city.
“How would it have been if I accepted?” he wonders to himself.
Passing through the threshold, Morrigan appears as though summoned.
“I thought so!” she exclaims on seeing Alastor.
“Hello, Morrigan.”
“Do not ‘Hello, Morrigan’ me! You are not one of them anymore, are you?”
“Which ‘them,’ Morrigan?” Alastor asks, feigning ignorance with a sly smile.
“Being coy is most uncalled for, Alastor. You know perfectly well what I mean!”
“I do. You must realize, of course, that it would not be prudent to speak about such things at this time, Sister.”
The playful look vanishes in an instant from Alastor’s face, and Morrigan remembers with all seriousness some old, forgotten memory.
“Yes. Quite right, Alastor. I will go tell her that you have arrived.”
The Fairy fades as her words end. After but a few more steps, a winged boy flies overhead, chasing a wildly thrown ball. The winged boy catches the ball, but becomes mesmerized by the sight of Alastor. He lands before Alastor, still staring.
“You are the Knight? The one we are waiting for?”
“They still call me a Knight? 
“You are wearing armor. That makes you a Knight, does it not?”
“I suppose I am then.”
“Alastor?”
“Indeed.”
“Mikha’el talks about you all the time lately, but when I told him you would be coming today in new armor, he did not believe me.”
Alastor looks at the boy, impressed.
“Mikha’el should know better than to ignore the word of a Dreamer, would you not agree?”
The boy smiles at the compliment.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Master Alastor?”
“Ah, yes there is, but you should already know what I would have you do.”
The winged boy flies away, declaring the arrival of the Knight. In a flash, the streets fill with people. The winged fly and take to the rooftops. Alastor looks at the people in the crowd, trying to be pleasant, but he does not look into the eyes of any if he can avoid it. Never having been one to even remotely enjoy fanfare, the cheers and praise, all undeserved in his opinion, makes traveling through the throng toward the castle courtyard difficult, but he somehow does so with a subdued smile.
Among the people, he sees many familiar faces, mostly from Judeheim or the Guardians, but even they he tries to ignore lest his state of mind become altered with unneeded sentimentality. The message in him is of the utmost importance and must be delivered free of emotional ties or taint. Each step forward, each moment that passes, the assemblage becomes thicker, but always makes room for Alastor to walk until, at last, he can see the grand court and the speaking podium of the royals. There stands Morion, with Edna on her right, and on her left Mikha’el, with the Dreamer boy beside him, looking at Mikha’el in triumph at being proven correct concerning his vision. 
Here, Alastor forgets himself, his eyes drawn into those of the Queen of Halvard. In them, he sees that which he hoped not to, and so breaks himself from that shared gaze. He finally comes to the foot of the speaking podium and ascends the stairs to where his allies wait for him. He nods to each in turn before Morion steps aside, granting Alastor control. Alastor looks at the great mass of life before him. The three kingdoms, though the phrase is larger than the reality.
The words that Alastor had so carefully planned begin to escape him as he beholds the countless faces angled up toward him. He shuts his eyes to them, finding his former resolution. Slow and meticulous, he speaks.
“Not long ago, a plague befell you three peoples. It started in Judeheim, where many suffered and died from it. A year later it came here, to Halvard and took the life of a great man, a great King, along with the lives of those who fought against it. Finally, the Guardians, the winged kind, who for centuries have lived in hiding peacefully, were forced into a second exile when the plague found them too.
“By most of you, this plague was called by a simple yet deadly name: The Necromancer. To the rest, however, he was Lucius, the disinherited first born son of Eoin, the Black Knight, a man whom all of you knew, and my father.”
Alastor pauses. This news is known to Judeheim and the winged, but amongst the Halvard people, a murmur passes from mouth to mouth.
“This plague,” Alastor continues, “threatened to destroy all good things. It came here, to Halvard, for one purpose: to revive an ancient terror of which many have been told of since childhood, but through the ages has become little more than a fairy’s tale. Cain, blood drinker and king of that heathen kingdom of old, Valachia, of which, I am sad to say, I am a descendant. But, by the grace of the One we all hold allegiance to, and the help of the good Queen Morion of Halvard and the just King Mikha’el of the Guardian kind, along with many other friends I would call my brothers and sisters, Cain was finally destroyed, followed in like method by Lucius, thus putting an end to the plague.”
The people cheer as one, but Alastor raises a hand for silence. All fall quiet and curious, but none more so than those standing behind him. For them, the many months since that battle have led to this moment. Alastor goes on.
“However, even though this was a momentous day, a grand victory worthy of your cheers and happiness, you must all ask yourselves: what was the origin of the power that these two monstrous men held? What sort of creature could give men, born of flesh, such horrible abilities? I have assembled you all here on this day not to frighten, but to warn, so that you may in turn prepare. My brothers and sisters, Cain and Lucius were the servants, the products, of that creature we all know. Our greatest of enemies, Samael. Betrayer and accuser. Samael is alive and well, not in some unseen realm of existence, not in some hell, but here, just beyond our reach, plotting and planning not simply to rule over humanity, but to completely destroy any who oppose him and conquer the rest.
“Cain and Lucius are gone, but Samael’s servants are many, and his mind is always on finding more. It is for this that I ask you three peoples: do not be lulled by the beautiful fantasy of a moment’s peace. Yes, there are breaks in the battle, but the war still rages. Until the war is over, there will always be someone or something seeking your end. It may not be tomorrow, or the next day. Next decade or next millennium, but that is no excuse to let the edge of your blade dull or to let your shield rust. Be vigilant! Remember the pains of yesterday that you might be guarded against them in the morrow.” Alastor stops momentarily for a smile, which catches some people off guard. “With that said, though, it does not mean, I think, that one cannot take a moment, however brief, to enjoy a victory such as the one we have earned. Friends, take your joy this day!”
The people cheer louder and longer than ever, some breaking out into song and others to chant. Alastor bows low to the people and steps away from the place of speaking. Edna leads Alastor, Morion, Mikha’el and the Dreamer boy down to a feasting table set up with food just placed.
“Nice speech,” Edna whispers as Alastor sits at the table. “You really have changed. I look forward to aiding you in your new fate, Brother.”
~-~~-~
The people set up their tables and picnic areas and the whole city takes to their meals. Alastor eats with a smile, saluting to the people who look to him, but he remains silent, avoiding the gaze of Morion. Morion, though, spends most of her time picking at the food in front of her, instead staring at Alastor, obsessing about talking to him. Alastor playfully places his helmet onto the head of the Dreamer boy, who sits between Alastor and Mikha’el, brought to this place of honor by Alastor himself. 
The boy wears the helmet proudly.
After a short while, people end their eating and yield back to their various celebrations and games, bringing a state of jubilant chaos to Halvard. Alastor takes this time to sneak away, going to the throne room of the kingdom. It has been brought back to normal and, perhaps, more grand than before. 
Alastor stares not at the room, but the throne itself, and its base. He walks to the seat, touching it, unable to remember how to open the secret passage. 
The throne stirs not by his touch or by his thought. He then remembers that as a child, when he sought out Cain’s crypt, the way was already open. Cain had been waiting his arrival that day, apparently. No. That cannot be the case. Someone else would have had to open it. Of course, there was only two people that could have done so...
Alastor stands to one side and pushes upon the throne with his shoulder. It is stubborn at first, but gives, sliding on stone rails. Walking down into the ancient prison crypt fills Alastor with dread, but it is necessary. 
There, in the room where Cain had been kept, stands the empty coffin, the chains that bound it are no more, but that was expected. The coffin itself, however, was not. The Knight reluctantly touches the coffin, but feels nothing. The Knight then takes to examining the crypt, searching for any clues.
“Alastor?” a voice calls, gruff but calm.
Alastor looks to the crypt entrance and sees Mikha’el.
“Yes, friend?” the Knight asks.
“What are you doing down here?”
“I had hoped to find something. A relic perhaps. Maybe something more. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to speak with you before Morion or the Fairy got to you,” Mikha’el says with a subdued smile.
Alastor looks beyond the fake smile, finding his proud and noble friend distant and saddened.
“What bothers you, Mikha’el?”
Mikha’el struggles for words, becoming frustrated before finally managing.
“A dream most disturbing.”
“Dreams, it would seem, are running rampant as of late. Tell me of it.”
“I remember it as though looking at it anew. I am in a city of pale stone and glass towers, standing upon a smooth road. Amid the towers, with all roads leading to it, is a citadel that stands far above its brothers. Inside this citadel, I find a throne room with a single seat. Upon this throne sits a man wearing an expressionless, faceless mask. On the left of the masked man stands a living skeleton cloaked in flowing black robes. On the right, a red dragon, except that it wears a hide of black scales over its own skin. I moved to speak, and my voice was taken by the masked man. I went to draw my sword and the dragon stole it. I started forward to strike the man on the throne, and the skeleton snatched my soul. I then awoke, crying.”
Alastor steps closer to Mikha’el, somewhat stunned into quiet.
“Have you told anyone else?” the Knight finally asks.
“No. This dream, I knew, had to be meant for you. I am curious, does it have meaning to you?”
“It does, but do not ask me to explain.”
“Why not?”
“The time is far from right. What you saw was to me a verification of an idea. Unfortunately, for every loved one of mine, secret shall it remain until the correct time.”
Mikha’el cannot hide his disappointment, but nods in acceptance.
“Did you find any such relic or item?” Mikha’el asks, gesturing to the room.
Alastor looks uneasily to the coffin, then turns back to Mikha’el, shaking his head.
“No, I did not.”
Alastor and Mikha’el leave the crypt, pushing the throne seat back over the secret entrance.
“I should return to the others,” Mikha’el says, beginning to leave the throne room.
“Mikha’el, I have a bit of counsel to give you,” Alastor calls after him.
“Yes?” he says, looking back to Alastor.
“Listen to your nephew more, especially now.”
“It was pride that made me disbelieve him.”
“Such pride has no place in the heart of one such as you, not with what you have seen and done.”
“Thank you, Son of Eoin.”
Mikha’el bows and walks away.
~-~~-~
Alastor exits through an alternate way, avoiding the primary castle entrance. The joyous sounds continue to fill the air, bringing a small smile to his face. He sneaks through the back streets and alleys, making way to a side route from the city and into a forest glade, near a body of water watched over by the rear of the castle. There, waiting, is Alastor’s black war horse, grazing in the light of the lowering sun.
“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Alastor says to the animal, petting its mane.
“Well, that speech nearly made up for it,” a gentle voice replies.
From behind a tree, Morion reveals herself, crafty and proud. She beat Alastor, and she knows it, the shocked look on his face leaving no trace of dispute.
“Morion,” Alastor says surprised.
“Alastor. Trying to leave without even so much as looking at me?”
Alastor says nothing in defense, though not for a lack of trying.
“Did I do something to offend you?” Morion pleads, standing an arm’s length from Alastor.
“No, Morion. Nothing of the sort.”
“Then what changed? That night, before you came here, we kissed. Now you are repulsed by me?”
“Did you hear nothing I said today?”
“I heard it, but what I did not hear was a reason for your sudden change. What I did not hear was why you took so long to come back here, and do not dare give me some story that Hector had you worried!”
“That was not just some story, Morion.”
“I want the truth, Alastor!” Morion demands, ignoring his comment. “I want to know what happened to you, what you are planning, everything.”
Alastor laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You were not listening at all. Samael is what happened, Morion. Samael is what I am planning, Samael is everything. Your cousin, Gawain’s murder, my brother, all the way back to Cain and Leon, Samael has been at the center of it all.”
Deflated spirit in hand, the Queen lowers her head.
“So, killing Lucius was not the end, was it? I mean, it was naive of me to hope it began and ended with him, but I wanted so much to believe it did.”
“I hoped such too, but it was always a false hope.”
“Alastor, say that I do believe you, and Samael is a true threat, that Samael is stalking us. How do we fight something which pre-dates man, a creature which has and always will desire our destruction?”
“That is why I have been missing for three months, Morion. Well, partly.”
“You are making no sense...”
“The less you know, the safer you will be, Morion. Please trust me in this regard.”
“More secrets. More trust.”
“Like before, a necessity.”
A moment of absolute quiet passes between the two.
“Where were you going in such a hurry that you abandoned the very celebration you called together?” Morion eventually asks to break the silence.
“I was beginning a trek to the northwest, to be honest.”
“Northwest? The Scyld?”
“You know of them?” asks the Knight, impressed.
“The Knight is not the only one who has taken a moment at one time or another to study distant lands, you know,” the Queen answers proudly.
“I never meant to imply that you were unlearned, but few know of the Scyld.”
“Why are you going there?” she asks, again ignoring Alastor’s previous comment.
“I am looking for someone,” Alastor says bluntly.
“Who?”
“A friend. Potentially at any rate.”
“Is it so important to leave now? Can we at least not sit and talk if even for only a brief time?”
Alastor searches for an argument or excuse, but he knows that he does owe her this, so he concedes, and the two sit. It is Morion who speaks most, recalling the last three months, with Alastor only adding his opinion or observation where prudent. When it comes to the trials of the army traitors, he pays the utmost attention.
“Many times, I was sorely tempted, Alastor.”
“How so?”
“I wanted nothing more than to find out why our own people would betray us, my father, but at times a darkness came over me and I...”
“And you what?”
“Desired to execute them to the last myself. No questions or protests. Just kill them. Cold blooded and remorseless.”
“Did you?”
“No! Of course not, but that is what makes it so strange. When I would fight this urge, they would end up killing one another in a mania.”
“It is good that you did not give in, Morion. Who knows what evil would have befallen your home had you indulged.”
“I sometimes feel regret that I did not kill them. Does that make me wicked?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“I have seen your heart, watched your actions, and heard your words. I promise that wickedness is nowhere found in you.”
More quiet follows as Morion absorbs Alastor’s words. Edna then comes into the glade, smiling gently.
“My Lady,” she says to Morion, “I believe the time has come for a few closing words to this day.”
Alastor stands and gestures for the Queen to follow Edna. She stands and does so, but not before stopping to speak one last time to Alastor.
“When will you be back?” she asks.
“I know not.”
“Tell me the truth: will you return at all?”
“I know not, Your Highness.”
Morion thinks about this for a spell, then turns her beautiful eyes up to the Knight.
“Alastor, one last thing.”
“Yes, Morion?”
“I am sorry about Amelia. I really am. I liked her. In the short time I had with her, she became like my sister. I just wanted you to know that.”
Alastor is unable to speak. Morion turns reluctantly away from Alastor, letting Edna lead the way back to the throne room. Before they are gone from sight, Edna swings her eyes to Alastor and gives him a reassuring nod that he is doing the right thing. 
~-~~-~
In the throne room, the leaders, elders and people of importance have gathered. Morion sits upon her throne, looking back at all those clustered around her.
“What are we to do?” asks Dahlia of Judeheim.
“The Knight requests vigilance on our respective parts. Samael is no longer a legendary villain, the fireside myth. He is quite real, and every one of us must take him deathly serious.”
“The Knight asks for us to be vigilant, of which I understand, but the question becomes what are we to do about Samael?”
“We do nothing overtly, presumably”
“And what is he going to do?”
“If I have interpreted him correctly, he is to take a more hands-on approach to fighting our infernal foe.”
“He would take all the risk and have us do nothing?”
“It would seem so,” Morion says with a displeased tone.

Chapter Twenty-Four
Again into Her Hands
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Alastor mounts up, giving one last look to Halvard and everything he knows and loves. Onward through the western portions of Halvard’s forests, through mountains, across stretches of desolate wasteland, all the while an unseasonable cold creeps over the world. 
The days of wandering become weeks, the weather gives in to fits of snow and sleet, but resolve in the Knight’s heart will never fade. No weapon forged can kill it. Though he could continue non-stop, stop he must for the sake of his horse, so that his lone traveling companion, the last evidence of Amelia’s existence, may rest.
With the sun falling, Alastor seeks out shelter, finding a small cave. While the good beast grazes on what little it can find, Alastor decides to try and find sleep out of longing, having forgotten the sensation, only to be roused by the howling of dire wolves in the distance. As they sound far from them, Alastor ignores them. A dreamless, unrestful sleep is all the Knight takes.
The tramping of hooves. Loud neighing. 
Growls. 
Barks.
Alastor’s eyes open with a jolt to find wolves the size of his horse attacking, tearing at the stallion. One wolf leaps at Alastor, but he moves just in time, unsheathing his sword in one swift motion. The leaping wolf slams into the cave wall, falling dazed to the ground. Alastor thrusts his sword into the wolf’s head, killing it. 
Three more remain, attacking the stallion. 
Alastor takes one by the scruff, killing it the same as the first, gaining him the rancor of the two surviving. The dire wolves both leap in unison as if of one mind. They tackle Alastor, knocking the weapon from his hand. One wolf bites at Alastor’s arm, but the armor holds unyielding. The other tries to go for the Knight’s throat, but Alastor punches and claws at the wolf’s eyes, forcing it to retreat with a yelp. 
Alastor reclaims his sword with his free hand and thrusts it repeatedly into the wolf still gnawing on his arm. The final wolf springs back on Alastor, catching him off guard, trying again to go for the throat. Alastor drops his sword, holding the jaw and snout of the wolf within a hair’s breadth, its breath smelling of the grave. The weight of the wolf pressing full on Alastor’s chest keeps air from filling his lungs. The teeth of the horrible beast brush against his face, ready to clamp down. Annoyed and angered, the Knight’s strength surges. He pushes the wolf away and begins to widen its mouth, culminating in a loud snap, signaling the break of the animal’s jaw.
The dire wolf bolts away in defeat, unable even to yelp, soon lost in the falling white haze of snow.
The Knight sways his attention to his stallion, but it is too late. The faithful animal is, sadly, no more. Fallen while protecting its rider. The feeling of loss once more takes its place in Alastor’s heart as yet another loved one is taken.
“This cave shall be your tomb,” he whispers into the stallion’s ear, then taking the dead wolves and throwing them out to the elements like they were filthy rags. 
After retrieving his sword, the Knight stands at the mouth of the cave, stoic in his memorial while a blizzard builds around him. Gazing down at the sword in his hand, an interesting flash of inspiration comes to mind.
“I suppose that makes you Wolfkiller,” he says to his weapon with a sullen grin.
With a final grunt, Alastor sets his back to the scene hesitantly, making his way on foot into the great unknown, wrapped in his cloak, strength of will drastically lessened by the parting of one of his best friends. Doubt, previously part of his old life, makes an all too abrupt reappearance while he walks on.
“I stand ready, Fate. Unlike before, I wholly embrace what lay ahead. ”
~-~~-~
Now half a year into her reign, Morion comes to loathe the mundane repetition of the day to day ruling of Halvard. Spending hours negotiating trade agreements, seeing that the kingdom law is enforced, dealing with disputes between citizens. 
Marriage proposals. 
You would never think that only months ago the city was bursting with life during a celebration which was all too soon forgotten. All this takes its toll on the young Queen. A longing for the days of adventure festers in her mind, kept under forced bondage lest she commit some action unbefitting of her position.
In Morion’s all too brief times of peace and solitude, she has taken to keeping a diary, detailing even the darkest desires of her heart, every detail of her life. At the end of yet another day filled with a near mirror image of the last, she sits to write when she is suddenly interrupted by Edna.
“Any news of Alastor?” Morion asks, hoping that to be the reason for the interruption.
“No,” Edna says as though she too is disappointed by this lack. “I have traveled to his keep many times, and all that changes is the growing thickness of dust that covers every part of it.”
Morion has grown accustomed to not hearing any information on Alastor’s travels.
“Then why are you here?” she asks Edna, somewhat shortly.
“I had a question regarding where Alastor went.”
“I already told you that all he said to me was of seeking out the Scyld to the northwest to look for someone that might become a friend. He was quite disinclined to tell me more than that much.”
“Why?”
“Well, before telling me where he was going, he said that the less I know, the safer I would be. But, again, I already told you this.”
“Oh, I know. That is my point, well, that part about Alastor saying you were safer not knowing.”
“You are talking in circles, Morrigan.”
“It is not like Alastor to just wantonly hint at things, is it?”
“I do not follow.”
“When he thinks something is dangerous, he keeps it hidden, correct? Lucius, namely, but even his own identity he hid from you for a time.”
“But in those cases he did try to tell me, in a roundabout way. I was just too simple to understand.”
“Exactly!”
“I take offense to that!”
“No, not about you being simple, I mean... why would he outright tell you where he is going, but do so after telling you that knowing too much is a danger?”
“He would never do that, now that I think about it.”
“Knowing his aim in this trek is powerful knowledge in itself.”
Morion’s mind begins to piece Edna’s ranting together.
“So, there is more behind what he said?” she asks Edna.
“I believe so. I think he may have been giving you yet another clue, a clue not to the past as before, but what will happen in the times to come.”
Morion leans back in her chair, thinking on this all the while unknowingly imitating the way Alastor would sit.
“He was surprised when I told him that I knew about the Scyld,” the Queen muses.
“And why would that be unless he intended that bit of information to carry a deeper meaning?”
“Except all of this goes against what he said, that to know too much is dangerous.”
“Ah, true, except Alastor knew very well the drastic difference between knowledge and wisdom, Your Highness.”
“And what Alastor wants me to gain wisdom in involves the Scyld somehow.”
“In all probability, yes.”
“And what that may be would be hidden, or at least of the sort that it would be ignored and have fallen into obscurity.”
“My assumption exactly.”
Morion debates internally, glancing at her diary.
“Tomorrow, can you go to Mikha’el and ask him to see me as soon as he can?”
“I will.”
Edna departs with a proud grin, leaving Morion to ponder what Alastor had actually been up to, and what he has planned. Morion does not add this new development to her diary, instead retiring to bed for the night.
The following morning, Morion gives control of the day’s duties to her new Citizen’s Council, formed in response to the chaos of the night rebellion, while she delves deep into Halvard’s library. By the late afternoon, she has gathered a small but decent collection of books, letters and scrolls that have even the faintest of references to the Scyld. Edna eventually enters the library, bringing with her Mikha’el.
“My Lady wished to see me?” Mikha’el asks as Edna leaves.
“Yes,” Morion answers, sounding regal despite her dust covered appearance. “I was curious if your people by chance had a library of any sort?”
“My Lady,” Mikha’el says with a slight laugh, “my people were the keepers of the Valachian library. When we were exiled, we were forced to abandon it. After Cain was defeated, it is said that Leon gave the entire collection to us as a means of apology to Uri’el and Shira.”
“Really? How large of a collection is it?”
Mikha’el cannot suppress a louder laugh.
“Do you really not know of the Valachian library?”
“No...”
“Well, My Lady, it would take a structure some twice the size of your fair castle to hold it.”
“How can that be? Your village had no such building.”
“You stayed in but one cottage. The library was underground at one time, but after Eoin’s death, Alastor asked us to hide it somewhere more secure.”
“Why?”
“It contained numerable tomes which he thought might be too dangerous in the wrong hands, but far too valuable to destroy.”
A light seems to illuminate Morion’s face.
“I think Alastor intends for us to use this library, Mikha’el.”
“My Lady?”
“What do you know about the Scyld?”
“Beyond that they exist? Nothing.”
“I guessed as much. If it is at all possible, I would like to look through the Valachian library for information on the Scyld.”
“That can easily be arranged, but what have the Scyld to do with Alastor?”
“It was to them that he traveled, but there is more to it, I believe.”
Mikha’el thinks for a moment, rubbing his chin.
“When would you like to visit the library, My Lady?”
“As soon as possible! I do not wish to remain idle here any longer.” 
“Very well. I shall go make the necessary preparations. I will come back to you when all is set.”
“Thank you, Mikha’el.”
“Thank me not. As it concerns Alastor, it concerns Samael, and as our Knight said, we must remain vigilant.”
Mikha’el, as is his custom, bows and leaves. Morion, tired from her work, now has a palpable feeling of success. The day ends on a higher note than last, her nightly duty of diary writing letting her chronicle this new task proper. When she has finished, she goes to sleep, finding a dream unlike any before it.

Epilogue
The Last Dream
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Morion is in an ancient underground temple. 
Pillars fallen. 
Wall carvings faded beyond recognition.
She is not herself, but a bodiless specter, an observer. 
In this temple, she finds a scene that makes her heart heavy with dread. 
A black dragon lies, defeated, on the ground. Beaten and bloodied, but still alive. Looming over it, a red dragon stands victorious. Standing beside the red dragon, a skeleton wearing black robes. The skeleton holds in its claw-like hands two marionettes, their strings cut. In the right hand, a female puppet, and in the left a male. Though motionless, the eyes of the puppets blink and cry while beholding the fallen black dragon. 
The red one roars triumphantly while the robed skeleton cackles madly. Morion tries to shout, to call out to the black dragon, be she has no voice here. She can only watch what occurs next.
The red dragon pulls its head back and strikes, ripping at the throat of the black dragon, killing it. The roaring and the laughing grow louder and louder, darker and more insidious.
Even in her dream, Morion weeps uncontrollably.

~-~~-~

The Legacy Will Continue…