by A. J. Cronin
“It is complicated, My Lady. He holds his true thoughts back from me and even Morrigan as you know, though she still will not say what was said between them to cause their falling out.”
“Things are always complicated when Alastor is involved,” Lisa says spitefully, though her eyes reflect sadness, not hatred.
“But,” Mikha’el says, his tone becoming lighter, “that is why I am here.”
“Because Alastor is complicated?”
“No, My Lady,” says Mikha’el with a chuckle. “I mean that Alastor will soon tell you himself the reason for his absence.”
Lisa stops, staring at Mikha’el as if he just spoke some foreign language.
“He is going to finally come here?”
“He would like to arrive one week from today. Will you allow him?”
“Of course I will allow him! But, why a week?”
“All part of his grandiose plan, My Lady,” Mikha’el says with a smirk as he looks to the sky.
Lisa follows his gaze to see the sky full of the Guardian race, swooping and diving down from above, landing in the city to astonished cries and cheers. Essain’s old friends have come out of hiding.
“Alastor’s plan you say?” asks Lisa, unable to believe what she is seeing.
“With Cain gone, and with him my people’s fears, Alastor thought that we should rekindle the oldest of alliances, between your race and mine. As such, he has sent us to help with your rebuilding so that in one week’s time, he can give his announcement to all of us, in a celebration the likes of which has not been seen in these lands in dozens of lifetimes.”
“If that is the case, you can tell him for me that he will be most welcome here.”
Mikha’el bows to the Queen, then leaps into the air, flying back to Alastor’s keep.
~-~~-~
Alastor is in the small library, sunlight from a clear, spring day outside streaming through the windows as he sits at his desk with three open books in front of him, one the red book, full of his own handwriting. He is very excitedly checking his own book, then comparing his words with those in the other two. He smiles and laughs as though some idea has been confirmed. He closes the two books, placing them on top of a rather tall pile, next to many other such piles situated around his desk.
He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. Thinking, debating, deducing. Again he laughs before resuming his writing. The book is now nearly full, only tens of pages remaining.
He stops suddenly mid-sentence.
“Why just her? Of everyone there, she had the most to gain from...” he whispers to himself, then trails off back to writing. “I miss you, Amelia...”
Moments later, Mikha’el enters the library.
“How did it fare?” Alastor asks without looking up from his book.
“Well. Very well, actually, as you said it would. The people of Essain embraced my people as long lost brothers and sisters. Lisa, however, is still most worried about you.”
“Which she should not be.”
“Yet worry she does. She wonders why, in all this time, you have not gone to see her once.”
Alastor looks up. At the top of his desk rests Charlotte’s Defiance, conjuring all sorts of differing memories.
“I have my reasons,” Alastor says softly, distantly, returning to the book.
“Reasons that are only known to you, of course.”
The annoyance and hurt in Mikha’el’s voice cannot be ignored.
“Did not you at one time ask me to blindly trust both my father and you? When the curse raged through me and the only thing I could think of was self-destruction, did I not follow the conviction of you and my father? Have I not come through that greatest of tests the victor?”
“You did, and you have, Alastor.”
“All I ask of you in return then is to trust me in a like manner.”
“If that is what you want of me, then you shall have it. I will know what all of this is about in one week time at any rate, correct?”
“Yes,” replies Alastor dryly, pretending to be absorbed by the work before him.
“What shall I do next then?”
“I would think you should be in Essain. You are the leader of your people, and it would only strengthen the bond if you were there, standing by Lisa, during the rebuilding and preparations.”
“And to be a replacement for you.”
Alastor looks up to Mikha’el, somewhat taken aback.
“I suppose so,” he answers honestly.
Mikha’el bows and makes to leave, but he stops.
“Is there nothing you can give me to tell her? Some token so that she might accept why you have remained absent?”
“And be a token to you and Morrigan as well?”
“Yes, actually. The Fairy is just as worried about you as Lady Lisa, if not more so.”
“Alright. Ask them this: Of all those traitors Lisa held for trial, who was missing? Think back to the night of the battle. Who was missing then as well?”
Mikha’el turns to Alastor, perplexed, but understanding soon shows in his eye.
“Hector? Knowing him, he fled.”
“Why would the man at the center of such a violent and methodical mutiny just flee?”
“He was a coward.”
“Perhaps, but remember this: my brother chose followers of fanatical devotion. He would never have chosen a man who would abandon him in such a way.”
Mikha’el knows that this is entirely accurate. Lucius’ true followers were so devout that they killed themselves just to be with their master again, and Hector was essentially Rennir’s replacement.
Rennir, who died twice for his master. Even Cale returned like a dog to serve Lucius a second time.
Hector could not have fled.
“You think that Lucius sent him away before the battle, Alastor?”
“That is one hypothesis.”
“What could be so important that Lucius would do such a thing?”
“That, Mikha’el, is of the utmost urgency to discover.”
Mikha’el thinks briefly.
“Thank you, Alastor.”
Mikha’el leaves, flying off to Essain.
Alone, Alastor takes up the sword called Charlotte’s Defiance, carefully examining the symbols etched in the blood groove. While still holding the sword, he flips to the last page of the red book, finding the same symbols amidst a language he cannot decipher, all written in a silver, flowing script. Below all of this are three images: the sword, a shield and a suit of armor. The story of Charlotte’s Defiance, formerly Lionkiller, made no mention of a shield or armor. But, then again, the story does not tell of the weapon’s forging, beyond that it was a present for the Son of Cain, Leon-Alastor, commissioned by his mother, Elizabetha.
Elizabetha, a woman who exhibited an unnatural awareness of the world. A woman whose spirit had resided in Cain’s Armor for centuries, waiting for that brief moment when the Son of Eoin and Lily, Alastor, would wear it.
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 Lisa 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?” Lisa 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.”
Lisa looks to Edna for an answer.
“Alastor keeps his secrets well, these days, Lisa,” Edna tells her.
“But why!?” Lisa 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,” Lisa 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 no
rmally 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.”