The Black Knight

by Sean Christopher Allen

  In the main hall, Alastor can see Mikha’el much clearer. At first he thought Mikha’el was simply cut upon the forehead, as blood was running down his face, but after another moment of looking, he can see that his friend has suffered a terrible wound to his left eye.

  “Uri’el’s tears,” Alastor whispers.

  “I cry them myself now,” responds Mikha’el.

  “What happened to you?”

  Mikha’el turns his good eye to Alastor, hesitant for a moment.

  “I had my attention drawn away over the course of the battle. A lapse long enough to allow one of the soldiers the chance to attack me.”

  “That is not like you at all. What could have caused you to lose your battle focus?”

  Again, Mikha’el hesitates to answer, waiting until they have left the castle to speak again.

  “Amelia was fighting someone. He looked similar to the man she had traveled with when masquerading as the bards. She beat him easily, but something came up from the shadows. Took form behind her and then...” Mikha’el shudders at the recollection. “And then it destroyed her.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “It is the only word I can think of. When one of the dishonored are killed, they rapidly decay and fall apart, as you know, but Amelia. She just... disintegrated, dust being sent in every direction.”

  Alastor’s heart becomes heavy with sadness and loss, but he lightens this load as he thinks upon how, at this very moment, she is now in Valkyr. The shadow creature, however, is a different story.

  “What happened next?” Alastor asks as they walk into the destitute, body strewn square.

  “The shadow looked at me, and for a moment, I could swear it was laughing before it vanished.”

  Alastor’s stallion is wandering in the square, waiting for its master. Alastor feels his physical strength gradually reemerging the farther from the castle he walks. Freeing himself from Mikha’el, Alastor pulls himself up onto the stallion’s back.

  “Go have that cleaned up,” Alastor says, gesturing to Mikha’el’s injury, “then meet me back at the keep in a few days... no, a week.”

  “A week?” Mikha’el asks, puzzled.

  “I need to be alone for a bit, to think.”

  “And you cannot ‘be alone for a bit’ here?”

  “No.”

  “What about Halvard?” asks Mikha’el, a growing annoyance in his voice. “What about Morion?”

  “I will talk to her when the time is right. No sooner.”

  Mikha’el’s face contorts, showing his disbelief.

  “After all that has happened tonight, you are going to run away? What happened in the throne room, Alastor? You are somehow different.”

  “The keep. One week.”

  With that, Alastor steers away, guiding his animal out from the square, down the main street and finally out of Halvard.

  ~-~~-~

  Alastor looks back at Halvard, a shade of regret eating at his conscience. Being so short with Mikha’el after such a dramatic battle is something he never imagined himself doing, but given the circumstances...

  As much as he trusts Mikha’el, something told him to remain silent about what he saw, but he would have been mute even without that second sense. How could he tell Mikha’el what he saw in that glorious moment of unconsciousness following the plunging of Lucius’ sword into Morion’s pendant? The sight of that place he has never before seen, but against all logic knew the name of.

  “The Hollow.”

  Alastor closes his eyes, hoping for even the faintest vision of that place to still be there. The trees, forever releasing their bloom petals, the air perfumed by the grass and flowers that never wither. The pool of crisp and crystal clear water fed by the everlasting spring and, most memorable, the sunlight streaming into its center, never fading, brilliant but not blinding. In short-

  “Paradise.”

  Even though he knows not where the Hollow is exactly, he feels a pull toward it, as one might feel for their own home. Fortunately, Alastor needs not worry about navigation, given that the stallion seems to share a mind with him, going directly where Alastor wants to go, starting north toward Judeheim.

  A roar of applause is carried on the wind from Halvard. Morion has no doubt revealed their full victory to her people, about how they have avenged themselves for King Gawain’s murder. Sure enough, shouts of “Queen Morion! Long live Queen Morion!” follow. This causes Alastor’s guilt to subside some and, as the shouts give way to the unmistakable sounds of celebration, vanish all together.

  Resting the naked blade of Charlotte’s Defiance across his lap, he again closes his eyes, begging his mind and any powers that be to give him that vision of the Hollow again, a vision so powerful and beautiful, Alastor would gladly relive this day to see it again. Fate obliges her new champion.

  Alastor falls asleep.

  ~-~~-~

  He lays in the Hollow, at the foot of a tree, dreamily looking up at its branches. He is not merely laying there in leisure. He is waiting for something. As though intent on shattering this peace, a voice calls out.

  “Alastor, I want to talk with you,” Mikha’el says, nothing more than a disembodied voice.

  “When the time is right,” answers Alastor lazily.

  “Alastor, I want to see you,” Morion’s voice then calls.

  “When the time is right,” Alastor repeats.

  Alastor remains reclined, but opens his eyes in anticipation of the next, inevitable voice.

  “Alastor, I want to kill you,” says the final voice. It is masculine and high, but terrifying in its cool, sure tone.

  Alastor’s heart races as he lay there. He hesitates in answering this voice that he has been waiting for.

  “When the time is right,” he repeats slowly, methodically, for the final time.

  As the final measure of sound escapes his lips, he wakes to a bright evening.

  ~-~~-~

  The moon on high is alone in illuminating the road he travels upon. He thinks on the dream he has just had. To some, a threat of being murdered would make it a nightmare, but it does not cause him any fear or fright. There is, in actuality, some degree of gratitude in his heart. An unasked question answered. After a moment, Alastor steers the stallion northeast, away from Judeheim and into a forest he has never ventured in to.

  The trees are close knit, their roots having risen up and entwined with one another, forcing Alastor to dismount, leaving the horse behind so that he may continue onward.

  “Go on home. I will follow soon,” Alastor tells his horse, the gift given to him by Frederic of Arkelon. The animal nuzzles Alastor before doing as it has been instructed.

  Hours pass while he fights his way through the ever thickening growth. The trees and plant life grow more aged the farther he goes, yet in defiance of this they are exceedingly alive and show no signs of rot or disease as most old greenery does. He becomes tempted to use his sword to cut through the low hanging boughs, but the idea of causing damage to things which have lived for a hundred lifetimes of men seems wrong. Criminal even.

  More hours fall away, the forest remains resolved to stop any intruders. Stars twinkle before Alastor’s eyes. He becomes light headed then collapses. He listens to the roaring of his body and stops to rest, finding dreamless sleep the moment he closes his eyes.

  Alastor opens his eyes again what feels only moments later with a start, half expecting to be surrounded by enemies. Old premonitions die hard. The little amount of sunlight streaming in shows that it is sunset. Alastor rises up and continues, ignoring the pains of thirst and hunger. The thought of the Hollow makes such things as physical sustenance appear absurd and trivial. With the arrival of night comes the expected darkness, now made darker by the impenetrable branches of the trees. Soon the forest becomes as ink, yet Alastor strives, drawn to the Hollow.

  Around the time that midnight should be rolling around by Alastor’s estimation, he is forced to again stop, this time because the trees before h
im grow so tight together, and so thick, they effectively form an impenetrable wall. Their bark is smooth and without knot or blemish, making climbing impossible. In fact, if not for their roots, they might be mistaken for man-made pillars, so perfect they are. That new found, all-knowing, indescribable sense of divination in Alastor gives him the answer to passing.

  “Open,” Alastor commands, his voice powerful, but full of wisdom and kindness. The unfamiliarity of it catching even the man from whose mouth it issued off guard.

  There is no time to think about the changes in himself, as the trees have begun to move. Two trees pull in on themselves, creating an arched opening through which a lone man might pass through. Beyond the trees Alastor sees at last with his own waking eyes. Not a dream or some fantasy, no. Before him is the Hollow, more beautiful than the images in his head could ever hope to be.

  Walking through the tree-arch, it closes behind Alastor, again forming a solid wall. Bloom petals falling gently from the trees caress Alastor’s face on their way to the ground. His eyes immediately stop upon the pool in the center of the Hollow, the sight of it making him painfully aware of how tired and hurt he is. The pool is eternally fed from the mouth of a small waterfall in the midst of a formation of rock.

  Not in the mood to over think, he undresses and steps into the pool, the interior made of what looks like marble smoothed to a fine polish by time. The farther into the center he goes, the deeper the water becomes until at last it is deep enough for Alastor to stand on the bottom, completely covered. The water is crisp and cold, yet relaxing and comforting as warm bath water. The combination of invigoration and soothing is a confusing feeling, but a good one. While still at the bottom of the pool, he drinks the water, quenching his suppressed thirst.

  Alastor swims back to the edge of the pool, sitting upon the naturally formed steps. A strange feeling has begun coursing through his body, like a fire pushing through his veins, but cold, eventually settling on his many injuries, old and new. Examining himself, he finds absolutely nothing, the exact opposite of what he was expecting. His scars have vanished, the wounds he had suffered over the last days are gone, even his few teeth that were broken or rotted are renewed.

  He stands, looking around at the Hollow, excitedly intimidated by it now.

  The Son of Eoin walks out of the pool, looking to put his clothes back on, but the thought of wearing such dirty clothes after his wondrous bath in the pool borders on disgusting. Alastor silently wishes he had something else to wear and no sooner than the thought is finished, there appears from nothing a new set of clothes next to his own, folded and waiting. A simple tunic and pants dyed black. He pulls these clothes on fast, then picks up his sword.

  “I do not think you will find any foes here on which that sword would be of any use, let alone any foes to speak of,” a soft female voice calls out.

  Alastor spins around, sword stretched out, but there is no one there.

  “As you have not shown yourself, whether you are friend or foe is yet to be seen, would you not agree?” he calls in reply.

  A medium haired woman materializes from a mist some distance away. At first, Alastor thinks it is Morrigan, but that illusion fades the next instant. The woman gives a blissful smile to Alastor.

  “Oh, what a man you have become, Alastor. To say that I am proud of you does not put what I feel to justice.”

  Alastor’s sword arm falters, losing the strength of will that was only just in it, falling to his side, Charlotte’s Defiance slipping from his hand. He knows the woman he is looking at, but he truly cannot believe his eyes.

  “Mother?” he stammers.

  “Once upon a time I was, son.”

  She again smiles, but this time a sadness is included with it.

  So many questions to ask, but Alastor chooses the one most immediate.

  “Mother, what is this place?”

  “You mean to tell me that you have not realized on your own?”

  “I guess I have not...”

  “The Hollow is a gift intended solely for you.”

  “Gift? Who could possibly give me something like this?”

  “Can you not think of who might have the power to give you this?” Alastor’s mother asks, a playful smile on her lips.

  Alastor knows who she is alluding to, but the idea is so preposterous that he cannot help but laugh.

  “A gift from God you mean?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  Her tone is that of true disbelief, that her own words are so common place, to think that someone would not, could not, believe them is unfathomable.

  “Well, yes it is actually,” Alastor replies sheepishly.

  “Regardless of if you can accept the truth or not, the Hollow is yours, earned through your lifelong service.”

  “Lifelong service?”

  “So I have been told.”

  “Told? You do not know the things I have done?”

  “No, but I would very much appreciate if you would regale me with your story.”

  ~-~~-~

  Alastor sits at the foot of a tree, much as he did in his dream, his mother sitting close by. He recounts to her every event since she died, pausing only to answer her occasional questions. When the time comes to tell her of the more recent trials he has endured, she remains silent, listening attentively, taking in every detail. When he finishes relating the battle at Halvard castle, and his arrival at the Hollow, his mother simply stares at him.

  “What is it?”Alastor asks, afraid that he may have said something wrong.

  “Morion sounds absolutely lovely. She will make a good queen. But, Alastor...”

  “Mother?”

  “Amelia. How could you have done what you say you did? I know you loved her, Alastor. They way you spoke left no doubt to that, yet you killed her.”

  “The betrayal I felt at that moment you cannot understand, mother. I will not deny that I loved her, and it was because of that love that the betrayal was all the more potent. It was the same way I felt when...”

  “When, Alastor?”

  “After you...”

  “Died?”

  “How could you have killed yourself when you were needed most, mother!?”

  “I did no such thing!” Alastor’s mother yells, jumping to her feet.

  “That was what father told me.”

  “And that was not exactly the first, nor last, of his lies was it?”

  “Then what really happened when you went into the forest, mother?”

  “I was murdered.”

  “By who?”

  “Who indeed, Alastor?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Who had the most to gain by ridding you and your father of me? Who had the most to fear as I raised you, and you grew older? After the story you just told me, has the truth of my death truly not occurred to you? ”

  Alastor knows the answer without thinking.

  “Lucius’ mother? But why?”

  “It was not just that whore, but her son too. They lured me out into the forest, telling me that you had hurt yourself. She used some witchcraft that made it so I could not move, then ordered her own son to kill me,” she tells Alastor, her voice seething with suppressed rage.

  “Then consider yourself avenged, mother. As I have told you, Lucius is dead,” Alastor says through gritted teeth, trying to ignore the old wound, ripped open again. The idea of his mother being murdered by his half-brother threatening to tear his own soul asunder.

  “Lucius, while the evil offspring of a witch-whore, was little more than a simple lapdog, Alastor. He was never your true enemy.”

  The divination inside gives him the immediate answer.

  “You speak of Samael?”

  “I do.”

  “But, I thought Samael was the enemy of God himself?”

  “A miss-teaching. They are nowhere near being equals, though Samael does not wish this teaching to be corrected, as it makes his power appear greater than it is. In tr
uth, Alastor, you and he are most alike, but of course the complete antithesis of one another.”

  “The way you speak of him, you almost make him sound mortal.”

  “He is not an all-powerful deity, son.”

  “So, he can be hurt? He can be beaten?”

  “Yes, in much the same way you can.”

  Alastor stands, pacing across the Hollow until he is stopped by the sight of Charlotte’s Defiance laying in his path. He looks at the sword lovingly.

  “Elizabetha spoke of a new fate. She said ‘A new fate will be born this night, and the only thing you must do to attain it is not lose heart and take it!’ Is this what she spoke of?”

  “It is, Alastor.”

  Alastor continues to stand still, staring at the sword.

  “What must I do?” he asks without breaking his gaze.

  “Then you accept this task? Embrace this new fate?”

  “Whole heartedly, mother.”

  “Even if it costs your life?”

  “I have already seen what lays beyond. I now know that the damnation I faced is no longer in my future, so I no longer fear death. And thus I repeat: What must I do?”

  “The Fairy you know as Morrigan has secured a red book that is blank, except for the last page. I want you to return home and write in that book all you have seen, done, and been a part of, except for this Hollow and everything we here discuss.”

  “Why?” he asks, looking to his mother, confused. “Why exclude this place?”

  “The Hollow is your sanctuary. Your refuge. But, as you hopefully have figured out, it is so much more. While you are here, you are immortal, and any wounds you suffer are healed, no matter how old or grave, by dipping into the pool, as you have already done. And, you know that is not all. Here you can will the creation of anything you desire, as you did with your clothes. As you can see, this would be a horrible temptation to lesser men and women.”

  “I cannot tell even my friends?”

  “You may tell them as much or as little as you wish, Alastor, but remember: the less they know, the less knowledge there is that can be used against them and you. I trust your judgment in this accord.”

  Alastor nods in understanding.

  “What shall I do after writing my story?”