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 gaun
tlet 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 h
er. 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.
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