“Morion,” Persephone manages to speak. “They came for our daughter.”
“Where is she?”
“Safe,” Edna tells him, pointing to his and Persephone’s bedroom.
Gawain looks at Edna’s face, seeing there bruises and cuts.
“Mikha’el, Rachel and Edna fought them off, finally killing the last as they stormed into Morion’s room,” the Queen relates to her husband.
The heavy footfalls of armor clad feet sound through the hall. They all look to see Eoin, sad and withdrawn, slowly walking toward them. Gawain is unable to speak as Persephone looks upon the Knight. Eoin now stands behind Gawain. The King confused as he sees a smile pass on his wife’s lips as she stares at Eoin with fascination.
“Fate is quite funny, is it not... Eoin?” Persephone muses.
“How is it that you know me, My Lady?” Eoin asks.
“Despite what Gawain thinks, Eoin, I know your story in great detail.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. I would have to imagine that being forced to kill your father was not a task you wanted.”
“No, My Lady, it was not.”
Gawain can only watch this exchange between his wife and the Knight.
“That is what makes Fate so funny,” she continues. “The things which hurt us most are those which define who we become. Hero or villain.”
“That sounds like cruelty to me, My Lady.”
“It does and, at times, it is. Of that I would not deny, but you must always keep hope, Eoin, otherwise all the pain, all the conflict, everything, will be for naught.”
Persephone smiles broadly.
“You do not hate me?” the Knight asks.
“No. I could never hate you, Eoin. I have seen what you have done; the survivors of Theria owe you much praise. I have also seen what you will do, and for those things I must humbly thank you.”
“Thank me, My Lady?”
Tears well in Eoin’s eyes. The words of Persephone striking deep into his soul.
“Take care of them all, Eoin. Otherwise Alastor will be lost completely. What began with Taranis and Leon will soon be finished by our children.”
Eoin is stunned silent. Persephone turns now to her husband.
“Wife,” Gawain whispers.
“Husband. Trust in Eoin. Your fate is tied with his in ways you are yet to understand.” Persephone places her hands on her husband’s face, looking into his eyes with a beaming smile. The King and Queen share this last moment, treasuring it, for it does not last long. “I go now bravely. I am not afraid. I have faith in Him... I know He will find me there...”
Persephone’s eyes flutter, her arms go slack. Her soul leaves. She has died. Gawain weeps silently, cradling his wife. Edna bows her head, uttering a prayer.
As the tears stream down Eoin’s face, he notices something in the doorway at the end of the hall. Little Morion stands in her parents’ room, the door ajar ever so slightly, staring wide-eyed at the Knight. Eoin smiles at the Princess, and she returns it meekly, opening the door fully. The sound of the door opening causes both Gawain and Edna to turn to the door. Morion runs into Edna’s arms, staring at her mother. Eoin turns away from this moment of theirs and steps into Morion’s room where Mikha’el has remained motionless the whole time.
“Mikha’el?” Eoin speaks compassionately.
Mikha’el stands, holding Rachel’s lifeless body in his arms, the remains of tears still on his cheeks.
“Knight, will you accompany me?”
“I will.”
Mikha’el and the Knight exit Morion’s room, heading down the hall. Gawain calls out to them.
“Where are you going?”
“Rachel must be buried before sundown,” Eoin answers for Mikha’el.
Gawain opens his mouth, ready to tell Mikha’el that Rachel died a hero of Halvard, worthy of being buried beside Persephone, but he stops himself. He merely nods. With that, Eoin and Mikha’el leave.
~-~~-~
Gawain ends the story there. Morion and Amy had both begun to cry, Rachel stares off, lost in the memory of that day, in the memory of her death. Morion and Rachel then lock eyes, the young Queen wanting so much to speak, yet the words do not form. Gawain reaches out, taking his daughter’s hand in his.
“Why can I not remember this?” Morion asks herself.
“It was a life changing day. Traumatic for a girl so young,” Gawain answers. “For a time you did not speak at all. When you spoke again, you never talked about what you saw, except for the Knight. Always did you ask about him.”
“Edna, Morrigan that is, may have had a hand in that,” Amy muses.
“Possibly,” Gawain concedes.
“What happened afterwards?” asks Morion, momentarily brushing aside the issue of her missing memory.
“Eoin returned, revealed more of his life and his plans to destroy Cain. I helped him as often as I could, fighting many battles by his side. He even saved Halvard no less than three more times, but those I only learned of after the fact. Eventually something else caught his attention and he did not visit Halvard for some years. When finally he came back, it was to give you that necklace which you have worn every day since.”
She handles the pendant curiously, running her finger over the crest engraved on its face.
“What is the importance of it? Surely it is not simple jewelry.”
“Eoin kept his secrets well. When it came to dealing with Cain, he would leave nothing to chance, and as such, the secret of that necklace died with him.”
“My necklace has something to do with Cain then?”
“I deducted such, but it is nothing more than that: a deduction.”
“What did Alastor’s father tell you of Cain?”
“Not much beyond what I have already told you. He lived centuries ago, the ‘Father of fathers’ as their bloodline calls him, and the first Black Knight. Vile and evil to a degree none of us can ever really know, he was imprisoned beneath Halvard, where it has been the duty of our blood to make sure he stays locked away while Eoin’s blood seeks out the means of killing Cain completely.”
“Completely?”
“He is unable to be killed by traditional means. There was apparently a weapon that could seriously harm him, which is how he came to be bound, but not kill him.”
“So he has lived under our castle for centuries, bound in his metal coffin?”
“He has.”
The room falls silent for a moment while everyone thinks over what has been heard. Amy becomes uneasy by some thought.
“What is wrong?” asks Morion.
“Sir,” Amy says, looking to Gawain. “How did your wife know about Alastor? Or, of Eoin’s history for that matter?”
“That was to my last day a question that haunted me. Even Eoin was unsure what to make of Persephone’s apparent clairvoyance.”
“I hope you are not offended by this, but is it possible she was a...”
“A what, Amelia?”
“A witch, sir.”
“After her funeral, I searched through her diaries, but found nothing except that which is in the heart of a woman. It did not settle my suspicions, though. Persephone had no living family for me to speak with as far as I know, so her secrets, whatever they may have been, were buried with her.”
“Father, you do not mean to say you believe mother was a witch, do you?” exclaims Morion.
“I do not know, to be honest. Of her life in Theria and earlier, I knew not. She claimed that it was too painful to remember, to speak of, which I attributed to Theria’s destruction. In retrospect, I see it could have been more.”
Gawain looks at Amy oddly, the implications of her question starting to burrow into his mind. Amy notices his changed gaze.
“Did I say something to offend, sir?”
“No, I just find it strange that you happen to bring up her being a witch, when I never voiced my notions concerning Persephone to anyone, not even Eoin or Alastor. In the things
I said, what would make you think she was such?”
Amy sees that she has not veiled her words thickly enough.
“My mother could see the unseen, do the impossible. She was called witch for it, and was to be executed. My father felt betrayed, but he still loved her. The night before she was to die, he sent her away. The way you described your Lady Persephone... it reminded me of my mother. I am sorry...”
“No need for apologies,” Gawain tells Amy sympathetically.
“If mother was a witch, would not Morrigan have known?” Morion thinks aloud.
“She may have, but she never approached me on the subject, and I never spoke to her on it.”
“May I ask another question?” Amy asks of Gawain.
“You may.”
“Your Lady Persephone mentioned two names: Taranis and Leon. Who were they?”
Morion leans forward, just as curious, if not more so, as Amy concerning those two names.
“Taranis was a King of Halvard. Considered by many to be the best we have ever had. A sentiment shared by even myself.”
“And Leon?”
“I presumed him to be of Eoin’s blood, but as you may have guessed, Eoin was quite reluctant to go into details of Leon’s life.”
Morion leans back in her seat. Her father’s story has satisfied many of her thoughts and questions, but now many more replace them. Who exactly was her mother? Why in all her life in Halvard had she never heard tale of the city of Theria and what happened there? Had Morrigan blocked or possibly removed these memories? Even with these somewhat disturbing thoughts to dwell on, she finds her thoughts now turning to Alastor. The past will be dealt with in time, for it is the present which needs the full of attention.
“Will Alastor be able to free Eoin?” Morion asks her father.
“Daughter, I scarce want to think of what will happen if he does not.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Descent into Madness
Return to Table of Contents
Plummeting through the pitch black of nothingness, Alastor’s mind focuses keenly on his previous dream of the Madness; the shades of that visit ever present before him. When he passes beyond the blackness, he can immediately feel the scorching heat of the nightmarish landscape below.
With but the simple touch of his foot upon the ground, a fire comes up, engulfing him. It does not consume, and fades as sudden as it manifested, leaving Alastor in his normal corporeal form. Gone is the white hair and robe, replaced by his usual dark garb. So too changes the bracers, the chains replaced by curved blades, like those his father would use when he was the master of the Black Armor. The Madness has done to Alastor what Valkyr had done to Amelia, only in reverse. The Knight grits his teeth at seeing the blades, disgusted by them and unable to manipulate them in any way.
The Madness is just as it was in the dream. Rocks, sharp and jagged, the flowing rivers of molten rock and liquid metal winding through the cracked and charred land. The Madness has a backward feeling to it, with the light coming from below, and nothing but a sky of shadow. The ground is covered in ash and dust and half-decayed bone.
With only his instinct to guide him, the Knight starts walking. He climbs over crags and trudges through pits of putrid mud, the contents of which Alastor does his best to avoid discovering. Into valleys and through what appears to be sacrificial courts encircled by spires of stone that curve downward like talons ready to crush whoever might worship there. He travels on, not knowing if he is going anywhere.
For a brief moment he plays with the idea that the Madness, for all its frightful imagery, is alarmingly tame. The moment ends when an ear piercing wail rips across the whole of the Madness. Alastor stops, wheeling about, looking for the origin of the wail.
“What have we here?” a voice slithers, echoing off non-existent walls.
“New arrivals are always such a joy,” speaks another.
Alastor maintains his silence, searching for the ones who have made themselves known. From under boulders, from the shadows, and from the hellfire rivers, men emerge, nothing close to anything Alastor had ever seen in the land of the living. These are demonic, their flesh ripped, torn and charred like having been tortured. The demons hiss and snarl as they look upon Alastor with their dead, cloudy eyes.
“A fresh soul to tear asunder. How delightful!” one demon says, nearing Alastor.
“Where is Eoin?” Alastor demands without any emotion.
Hearing that name causes the demons to cringe.
“That name! How dare you speak it!”
The demon gets closer, sniffing at Alastor like a dog. A look of terrible revelation fills the demon’s ragged face.
“It is his son! Rip him apart!”
Like ferocious beasts the demons leap at Alastor. The part of Alastor which he had for so long tried to bury comes back to life. He craves this battle like a starving man craves food. Here, in the Madness, there is no fear of damnation for giving in to this dire yearning. He is condemned to the realm already.
A devious grin crosses his face as he cuts down the closest demon, then the next and the next. The demons revert to the ash of the land as they are felled, the essence of the demon being pulled into the ground and beyond the molten stone below. With the destruction of the last demon, new ones spring up, now armed with weaponry appearing to be built with bone and sinew. For all their monstrosity and hatred, the demons do not stand a chance, even in hell, of ever coming close to besting Alastor.
With each enemy sent back into the ethereal nothingness below the Madness, the Knight grows in power and rage. The demons swarm together, forming a legion, killing Alastor their only lust. Encircling him, they strike at Alastor triumphantly, plunging their barbed swords into his body. The Knight does not stop even then, continuing to sweep his blades through the horde, destroying the demons by the score.
Seeing no way of defeating this man, they flee like frightened animals.
“Leaving so soon? Cowards! Come back and face me!” Alastor growls.
The Knight suddenly becomes light headed, falling to his knees while holding his forehead. Righting himself, he looks to the bracers.
“Am I not free from you even here?”
Now ashamed of his loss of control when fighting the demons, he continues onward.
The Madness slowly but surely begins to have an effect upon Alastor; when he passes a standing spire, he cuts it down with a bark. The bones he comes across, he kicks. The occasional rogue demon he sneaks up on, he for no reason than for the sake of doing so dispatches it. The tedium and monotony of trekking through this place is occasionally broken by the sight of a lost soul, usually engaging in a one sided argumentative rant, fully engulfed in their own personal insanity.
“The Madness indeed,” Alastor whispers as he passes.
Seeing these truly dishonored men and women help Alastor regain himself when he finds his mind and heart slipping away from reason. Alastor unexpectedly comes to a sudden precipice overlooking a deep gorge. Much to his astonishment, he can see that at the bottom of the gorge is a conclave of the lost who have grouped together, not yet having given in to the raving delirium these plains bring. The Knight readies to meet with them, but movement on the edges of the encampment catches his eye. In an instant, demons attack them. Since the dead cannot die, they feel all the pain without the sweet release death brings. Some try to fight back, but not long. Their agonized screams fill the valley. Part of Alastor’s mind, the one nearest his heart, tells him to run to their aid. He squashes that idea without a second thought, remembering where he is, and that those souls below were not innocent. They have come to this place of their own accord.
In the Madness, Alastor is no hero, for there are none deserving of heroics. None except one.
Or so he thinks.
Alastor turns away in disgust, tuning out the screams, continuing the search for Eoin. Alastor gets to thinking and a depressing thought comes to mind. So gloomy and terrible is the thought that he l
aughs.
“What the hell am I going to tell him? How do I explain why I have come here? ‘Hello, father! Why am I here? Well, you see, Lucius mostly killed me, leaving me alive in both realms at once. Oh, and Gawain was murdered and now has holy land among the dishonored and I am here to take you there!’ I am doing it and I do not even believe it.”
“Talking to yourself is never a good sign, friend. Has the Madness claimed another victim?” a calm, soothing voice asks.
Alastor stops, expecting another demon attack.
“Who wants to know?”
“An interested observer, I suppose.”
“Suppose?”
“Being stuck in this nightmare for so long, I forget who I am but... strangely enough... I never forget you.”
“Show yourself.”
“If that is your wish.”
From behind Alastor, a man walks around. He is the same height and build as Alastor, and to the Knight’s surprise wearing a form of the Black Armor, although lacking the helmet. This stranger’s armor is not too different from the suit Eoin wore, but simpler of shape and detail. As the current Knight looks upon this man’s face, he cannot help but feel some familiarity with him.
“What is your name?”
The armor clad man struggles with the question, face bunching in torment as he tries to summon any memory at all, let alone search for an answer to Alastor’s inquiry.
“I am afraid that you have caught me at a time when I am unable whatsoever to recall my own name.”
“Do you remember if you were a Black Knight?”
The man looks at the armor he wears with curiosity, then to Alastor’s bracers.
“Like the others, like you, it would seem that I was.”
“Others? What others?”
“If you continue on your path, you shall find others like us.”
“Like us? By chance, do you know if one named Eoin is there?”
“Eoin... your... father, correct?”
“Yes. How...”
“Oh, yes... of all those Black Knights who are in this cursed realm, Eoin is the only that does not deserve his place. Do you intend to free him, Alastor? Ah, yes... your name is Alastor. Such an old name, though it is not fitting for you. It belonged to a coward, and you are definitely not a coward, coming here so brave and selfless and defiant.”
The Knight becomes fearful of this man who knows his intention, yet at the same time curious of him beyond all reason.
The Black Knight Page 35
