“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.
&nb
sp; “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.”
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