“Give me what I need to forge a suit of armor!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Black Rose
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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 son
g 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.
The Black Knight Page 50