“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 ov
er 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 agre
es 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.
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