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.”
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“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.
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