Morrigan lowers her head, a great sadness passing over her.
“In spite of all he has done, the answer is yes.”
“What if...”
“Yes, Morion?”
“Well, what if he was being restrained there?”
“Restrained?” Morrigan’s eyes change. She looks at phantoms that are not there. “No, that cannot be possible,” she whispers to herself, trailing away from the others, her eyes finally coming to rest on the Knight. “I am sorry, Alastor. Nothing has gone as it was supposed to. Perhaps I was not as brilliant as I thought.”
“Morrigan, what are you saying?” asks Amy, coming up behind the Fairy.
“I wish I knew. I began this whole chain of events to help them, but at every bend in the road it goes horribly afoul.”
“None of that matters right now,” Morion declares with such force it takes even Mikha’el aback. “Is there anything we can do now to bring Alastor back?”
“There might be. I could go to the spirit realm and look for him. If he is indeed bound, then logic would dictate he could be freed.”
“Then you shall do that, and you will take me with you.”
“Morion, it does not work that way. I can move freely between the realms, but it is not as though I can simply open a door and bring you with me. I do not reside there.”
“I can,” Amy says sharply. “As you know, I belong to both realms.”
“I will not allow it. It would be far too dangerous for you alone, and even more so for the both of you given that Morion is still alive.”
“I would wager I spent a fair share more time there than you, Morrigan,” Amy reminds the Fairy. “And I am more capable of fighting them that dwell there.”
“Be that as it may, you would be at a great disadvantage there if you came into the presence of Lucius, and to do so with Morion with you... it is unwise.”
“I am well aware of the risks for my part, but I must do this. Of the two of us, I am the most qualified to venture into the dishonored while you look after Alastor here.”
“And what of Morion?”
“She must do what she feels is her destiny. If she wishes to go with me, then I would take her.”
Morrigan can see she will not be convincing either woman against this action.
“What say you, Morion?” the Fairy asks, turning to the Queen. “The realm of the dishonored is something you will never forget, and in all likelihood will regret having seen. Knowing this, would you still go?”
“Alastor is in this state because of me. If there is anything I can do to amend this, I will, no matter the personal cost,” Morion answers assertively.
Amy and Morion share a glance. For the first time, the two share a common bond. Amy nods appreciatively.
“Come with me then. We should be outside when we cross.”
They both share a final look at Alastor, Morrigan and Mikha’el, but as they start to leave, Mikha’el stops them.
“Be wary, My Lady. I do not think I can endure to lose another friend.” Then, looking to Amy, he adds: “And you. Return with her or do not come back at all.”
Amy does not speak nor acknowledge Mikha’el’s words, knowing them to be justified. She just exits Alastor’s room and heads for the stairs. Morion stops at the door.
“After this is done, I need to know who Cain is, and what he has to do with me,” she says to Morrigan.
Morrigan appears surprised by this, but nods in acceptance.
“I will tell all that I can tell, Your Highness.”
Morion promptly follows after Amy. As they swoop down the stairs, Amy explains to Morion some of the intricacies of the dishonored realm.
“Where we are about to go, it is nothing like this world you are so accustomed to. It is the shadow, the echo, the faint memory of this one. Its physical form is always in constant movement and upheaval and, depending on how hard you concentrate, you can change what you see. Also, do well to remember that it is first and foremost a place of punishment. As such, it is full of those in agony and torment. The rest I shall explain when we are there.”
The Queen questions this decision for a moment, but retakes her resolve, knowing that Alastor would have done the same thing, had their fortunes been reversed. Standing within the courtyard outside the keep, Amy gestures for Morion’s hand.
“What about weapons and provisions?”
“Food is not needed there, nor is sleep. As for weapons, you will see that for yourself.”
Taking Amy’s hand, Morion draws a deep breath as one does on the verge of plunging into water. A bizarre sensation covers the young Queen, while the world beyond her eyelids becomes black. A sound of howling wind whips about her, leaving her skin chill in its wake.
The wind dies without any sort of climax.
Morion opens her eyes, a dull light filling her vision. Like waking from a long slumber, the world is disjointed, a blurred mix of dark and light, shapes and voids. Then the world comes into focus, the colors having strange, otherworldly hues, ranging from blue to green, to purple and orange. The silence after the wind now gives way to a new sound, at first remote but as it grows louder Morion is crushed by it. The voices of an untold, unseen legion, wailing, screaming, crying. The voices of internal torment and inexorable sadness. It grows so loud she is brought to her knees, palms over her ears in a desperate attempt to keep them at bay, lest she be devoured by the emotion.
“Focus! Concentrate on not hearing them!” Amy yells.
“I can not... there is too much pain.”
Amy kneels down, holding Morion firmly.
“You must think of not hearing it, otherwise it will continue to grow stronger.”
The Queen struggles against the onslaught of voices, the cacophony of despair, the symphony of the damned. Cries of anguish, the final words and thoughts of those about to die, wars being fought, foul sins being committed.
In the midst of this, something catches Morion’s attention. A familiar voice. Her own voice. In her ears echoes all her unspoken prayers, her crying and mourning for her murdered father. Even her most shameful desires she hears. Her thoughts are pulled then to Gawain himself, and the voices fade into a single one: his.
“My God, grant your servant who is about to die one request - give my daughter and Alastor the strength and courage they will need to combat this hideous foe before me, this damnable villain.”
“Alastor,” she whispers.
Again, the voices change.
“Father!” is the cry. “Please, this cannot have happened!”
Another familiar voice, but different than the one she knows. Alastor, younger, but him nonetheless. Looking up, she can not only hear, but see through Alastor’s own eyes the fateful day of his finding Eoin slain.
“Father,” whispers the young Knight, on his knees, looking down at his father sprawled out before him. “What will I do now? I cannot be left alone. Not again. Please.”
Just then, Amy, the true Amy, runs into the armory. Morion is stunned by the sight of her, for Amy in life was almost identical to herself. If she did not know better, Amy could have been her own sister.
The mirage continues.
Amy explaining her crime.
The vision becomes watery, and the Queen realizes that Alastor is crying. He takes up a sword, just as Amy described, and thrusts it into Amy’s heart. Morion shakes her head and looks away, wanting it to be over, the sight too horrible to watch, but it does not end.
Morion looks back.
Alastor shambles backward, covering his face from the sight of Amy slumped against the wall, unsuppressed lamenting emanating from him. He looks at his father, and to his companion.
“What have I done? Amelia... father...”
In a rage, he pulls a sword from the rack on the wall.
The very sword that he would eventually give Morion.
He holds it, looking at it.
“Mother, your son follows your example! Nevermore shall he draw breath! Let us fester in m
isery as one happy family!”
It happens in the blink of an eye.
Alastor has thrust the blade into his own chest. He falls forward, the beating of his heart weakening, going silent. He reaches out to his dead father with a quivering hand as the world around him fades.
“Amelia, I am so very sorry... should we ever meet in another life, I will not ask for your forgiveness.”
With a final stretch, Alastor tries to grab the hand of his father, but his aim is amiss. Instead it lands on the bracer on Eoin’s forearm. The metal comes alive, reaching to Alastor’s arm with a claw like grip.
The second bracer does the same.
They reform, seamless on his arms, the blackness clouding his eyes chased away by the crystal clear clarity of the display before him. His heart beats again.
“No...” he whispers, not wanting to believe what has just taken place.
He sits up, glancing down at the sword in his chest, then to the black metal he now wears.
“No.”
He claws at the metal, trying to take it off, but he cannot. There are no seams to try and rip open.
“No! This cannot be.”
Alastor pulls the sword out from his chest, dark blood covering it. He throws the sword aside, looking down at the wound above his heart. He touches it, putting his fingers into it.
It is real, yet he is alive.
“So be it,” he says without emotion. “Life is a far greater punishment than death, I suppose.”
He stands, looking at the bodies of those he loved more than anything.
The vision finally ends, and there standing in front of Morion is Amy, in her inhuman form, but the Queen now sees beyond it to the real woman. In this form, she is still Amelia. The fair-haired bard was Lucius’ mask for her.
“Did you see that?” the Queen asks Amy.
“No. What you saw could only be seen by you, as it was you who conjured it. What did you see?”
“Alastor and... you. I saw - ”
“Oh,” Amy interrupts, almost embarrassed. “Do not tell me. What you saw was clearly meant for you alone.”
Amy helps Morion to stand. Both of them examining carefully their whereabouts. Morion is shaken by the experience, and the sight of the twisted, mocking world around does not help.
“What sort of place is this?” she asks with disdain.
Chapter Fourteen
The Realm of the Dishonored
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Alastor opens his eyes.
Instinctively he tries to move, but he cannot. He is bound about the wrists between two pillars, on top of each burns a pale blue light. The chains themselves are bound directly to the bracers on his forearms. With a sneer, he lets his body go limp, defeated and, for some unknown reason, quite exhausted.
His hair falls into his face, where he receives a mild surprise. His own hair is now stark white, and a blue robe is girt about his waist, leaving his chest, shoulders and upper arms bare.
A flash of memory passes before his eyes; blades exploding out of his chest.
Trying to yell but only having blood spray from his mouth.
Flying through the air, a sweet, familiar voice talking to him and then... then that beautiful sensation he felt all those years ago when he last heard that voice.
Death’s soft wings gently caressing his face.
That sensation which was stolen from him by the very things which now bind him to the pillars. So beautiful a thing to have taken away so many times now.
Alastor looks down at his chest, half expecting to see the tell tale signs of his injuries, but there is nothing. More than nothing; all his scars are gone, as though they have never existed. As though they never could.
“How could I have died?” he asks himself.
“You did not,” a voice calmly answers from behind Alastor.
The Knight tries to find the origin of the voice, but the vicinity is utter blackness, the light from the pillars lighting nothing but a small halo around him.
“Show yourself, Lucius,” Alastor smolderingly demands.
“As you wish.”
With a snap of his fingers, Lucius lights turquoise flames around the perimeter of the chamber. Alastor looks up, grimacing at the what stands before him: a large metal coffin bound to the walls by heavy chains. Lucius slinks around to face Alastor, each sizing the other up, taking note of the other’s appearance. Lucius still wears his black robes and cloak, but now with the hood down. Long, black hair frames a darkly attractive face. Interestingly, Lucius appears more ‘alive’ here than in the living world itself.
Lucius is visibly astonished as he looks upon his brother’s countenance.
“What is this? White hair? Robes? So, this is what you really look like, brother?” Lucius questions with a sense of removal from the situation. He runs his fingers through Alastor’s hair. “This is awfully surprising, given that your hands are just as bloodied as mine. If not more so.”
“If I am not dead, how and why am I here?” asks Alastor, ignoring Lucius’ statement.
“Come now, brother. You know where we are and, thus, what I intend to do.”
“That does not explain how you are keeping me here.”
Lucius gestures to the bracers with a lazy glance.
“Brother, what Samael has wrought is His for evermore. Be it you, or our father’s father, this shall never change,” he explains without any sort of animosity or egotism. “I willingly gave my life to Him, devoted my life to His aims and He, in return, has bestowed many wonderful gifts upon me. Of these gifts, one of the greatest was complete knowledge of this realm. After many years of study, I finally grasped how best to utilize and manipulate it.”
“Spare me the diatribe and answer my question.”
“As you wish. Not too many years ago, I learned that you were indeed wearing the unsealed portion of the Black Armor regularly, and through the accounts of your various exploits, deducted the armor’s effect upon you. After that, it was merely a matter of brewing a divine little necrosis toxin; a beauty of a poison that uses the bracers to keep you alive and dead endlessly; the remnants of my work you saw in Judeheim, I am sure you recall. I then set in motion a little plan to draw you back to me, using Halvard and its virtuous, pure hearted Princess-turned-Martyr Morion as bait so that I might get my little potion in your blood. All flawlessly executed if I do say so myself.
“Once in that wonderful twilight state, being constantly drawn between the realms, I simply bound you. You belong here, after all, what with you so boldly wearing Cain’s Armor, even if for the noblest of reasons. Embracing that curse which you were always so fearful of. As I said, what is Samael’s is His, including the armor, and all those born from the blood of the man whom it was forged for.”
Alastor looks to the bracers, cursing himself.
“Congratulations, brother... but why separate me from my body, yet keep my body alive? You had plenty of opportunity to kill me long before I and the armor came together.”
Lucius gestures grandiosely to the coffin, almost like he mocks the situation. Alastor does not properly take note of this, nor his brother’s changing attitude.
“To free our Father of fathers, of course. His lock skirts the realms, so I needed a key which could so the same.”
Alastor laughs.
“But you do not have my body. I was carried away by my friends.”
“You call them friends? To each his own I suppose, but you are correct. I do not have your body, I do however... have your blood, which should be enough.”
Alastor curses himself again, hanging his head in defeat.
“Why do all this? The same blood that flows in my veins flows through yours as well.”
“That is not entirely true, is it? A point father was always adamant to make known to me,” Lucius muses with a smirk. “Even if it was, though, it would not change one simple fact.”
“What would that be?”
“You got to the arm
or first,” Lucius replies with a playful tone of annoyance. “That Fairy drew me away long enough to keep me from gathering father’s remains. You arrived at the keep before I realized what she had done, you touched the portion father still wore and thus it was bound to you. Not that I care anymore. I much prefer this line of events. Self-sacrifice has absolutely no appeal to me.”
Alastor absorbs Lucius’ words, dissecting them.
“I never heard that Cain’s lock was dual natured,” he says.
Lucius grins his sarcastically sadistic smile.
“With the company you keep, I find it odd that you did not know this.”
“The company I keep?”
“I would advise you to question Morrigan, but as you can see, she is not around, and you will be here for a while yet.”
The coffin stirs, the faint sound of breathing coming from it. Alastor’s strength begins to rise from its forgotten depths, and he tries to pull on his chains.
“You will not keep me here, brother.”
“You can never, by your own will, free yourself, Alastor. It is your own evil that keeps you here. As such, escape is impossible.”
The stirring of the coffin increases, causing Lucius to laugh gently. Alastor stares harshly at his brother.
“Nothing is impossible.”
“We shall see, little brother. My work here is done for now. Nevertheless, I am not totally without love for you. I will leave you some old friends who have been dying to see you again. Enjoy your stay.”
“Cain would never share power, Lucius,” Alastor calls out.
Lucius ignores this, vanishing into the darkened recesses of the chamber, just as figures emerge from the shadows of the prison tomb.
“Is that really him?” one of the figures asks.
“I do not remember white hair. Do you?” asks another.
“It is him. There is no doubt,” says a third.
As the figures near Alastor, he can see that they are men, inhuman like the rest of Lucius’ private army. Their faces appear familiar, but they are lost to the domain of forgotten memories. One of the men steps forward, asserting himself as the leader of this group.
“Greetings, Alastor. It has been too long. Based on the look upon your face, you do not remember any of us.”
“I am afraid that I do not.”
“Why would you? Why bother to remember the faces of those you have killed?”
“If I killed you, I am sure there was a very good reason.”
All of the men growl at Alastor’s words.
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