by A. J. Cronin
“What has brought this on?” asks Morrigan, concerned and drawn into Alastor’s words. She softly puts a hand on his shoulder.
“What was an injustice in one’s life actually reveals itself as grooming. Preparation for a far greater thing. A forging process. To make a sword, the metal must first endure such extremes: fire, water, hammering, over and over, and when those things are done, honing and sharpening. Completed, you have a work of violent beauty. Art that can kill.”
Alastor trails into nonsensical rambling that only he can hear or understand.
Morrigan is nothing if not stunned. As she tries to speak, Alastor interrupts.
“Can your kind die?” he asks her.
“Fairies you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Of course they can.”
“Can you die?”
“Probably. I would rather not find out.”
“Do you fear death?”
“Of course not.”
“So, to save the lives of the innocent, would you sacrifice yourself?”
“Without hesitation.”
Alastor looks at her, the two locking eyes.
“As would I,” Alastor tells her, as if reassuring her of some unspoken promise he has made. Morrigan, though, does not truly grasp the scope of what the former Knight has just said.
“Alastor, what is it that troubles you?” the Fairy asks, unable to ignore any longer Alastor’s near lunatic mind.
He changes visibly, aware that he is acting stranger than he normally would or should.
“Nothing really troubles me anymore, Morrigan. My eyes have simply been opened to a world I long ignored, and have even longed to escape from.”
“Why carry your burden alone? You have friends who will gladly share in it.”
“That is just it, Ice Fairy: you three cannot help me to carry yourselves.”
“Since when have we become lame beggars that you need to carry alone?”
“I never would call you such things, but your association with me has put you all in danger.” Seeing the look in Morrigan’s eyes that tells him that she does not take him seriously, Alastor quickly adds. “Even you are at risk for having thrown your lot in with mine, whether you want to believe that or not.”
“Is this why you have been so cold to us? To Lisa?” the Fairy asks, paying no heed to Alastor’s warning.
“Will you tell her my answer when you return to her?” Alastor smirks.
“Not if you wish otherwise.”
“I will ask that you do not then. Yes, it is part of the reason for my ‘coldness.’ My apathy. I deemed it the best course to take. Better that she hate me than I to mourn her.”
“Only part of the reason? May I ask what the other is?”
“You can, but if you are half as wise as you have let on, you should already know the answer. You have had the ‘pleasure’ of watching my life, and my darkest days, after all.”
Dumbfounded at first, understanding dawns almost palpably on Morrigan.
“I promise that I will say nothing to the young Queen if that is the case. However, I highly suggest you do so. She deserves that much.”
“She does. I will not deny that.”
“Now, about this celebration,” Morrigan changes the subject, trying to find a lighter mood. “I understand that you somehow found time to invite all of Judeheim.”
“I intend to address the three kingdoms, so what better way than this?”
“The question is how you managed to do so.”
“A letter can travel fast when it is so inclined.”
“If you say so. What sort of address will you be giving?”
“That, dearest Morrigan, you will have to wait for.”
That special bond between Alastor and Morrigan that was thought dead has been brought back to life, though just barely.
“Fine, keep your secrets then,” she says sarcastically, but in the manner of a joke between siblings. “I should get back now anyway.”
When Morrigan vanishes, Alastor turns back to the painting of the Hollow.
“So, that was Morrigan?” a voice asks.
Alastor’s mother, Lily, steps out from behind the door where she had been hiding the whole time.
“That she was, mother.”
“I somehow expected more from the fabled ‘Fairy Queen’ to be honest. She seems a bit absentminded.”
“Lifetimes of skirting between pretending to be human and not probably have that effect.”
“Even so, she looked nothing like the Fairy Queen I saw.”
“Mother?” Alastor exclaims, facing Lily surprised.
“As I slept on the last day of my life, I had a dream of the Fairy Queen speaking to a man wearing a hood and mask. It was most unnerving, actually, as the mask was white and featureless, just the two holes for his eyes.”
“Can you describe the Fairy Queen you saw, mother?”
“Far more beautiful, more regal, but very much the same in other regards. Like twin sisters, but one having led a much different life.”
“What was she and the masked man speaking of?”
“I can only remember that they were referring to Blood Alchemy. Why, I knew not.”
Alastor goes silent, lost in thought. Lily does too, as she tries to remember her dream better.
“I have dreamt of the masked man too, mother.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it was Lucius, but in retrospect the mask is not something he would wear. He thrives on people being aware of him. To hide his face is not likely.”
“True.”
“Anyway, the book is completed, and safely hid in the Hollow,” Alastor tells Lily, both of them ignoring the thought of the masked man. “And, I know where to begin searching for the Last Prophet.”
“Very good, son.”
“What will be my next task?”
“There is none.”
“But, I thought that was why you came here, rather than meeting me in the Hollow?”
“No, Alastor.”
“Then why?”
“So that I may say my proper farewell. The method of my first departure I have rued for a long time.”
“Why leave at all?”
“I am merely sent, Alastor. I have no power myself. I was to instruct and prepare, which is done.”
Alastor’s unique insight to the workings of the afterlife keep this news from being as soul crushing as it normally would be.
“Will you then aid father in Valkyr?”
“I hope so, but as I said, it is not in my power to outright decide.”
Alastor nods in understanding. Wanting to cry but unable, Lily storms to Alastor and embraces him. Alastor recalls the last time he held on to his mother. He was barely waist high to her. Now, Lily rests her head against Alastor’s heart. It takes all she has to pry herself away, but she does. Neither can speak, but they do not need to. The hug was worth more than clumsy words could ever hope to be. Lily vanishes, leaving Alastor happier than he can remember.
An idea hits him sudden and powerful as his mind veers to the celebration about to be held in Essain. Without hesitation, he dissipates to the Hollow, which is now in a lovely spring phase, no falling leaves, petals or snow. The idea bursting to get out, he speaks to his refuge with excited authority.
“Give me what I need to forge a suit of armor!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Black Rose
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Finally, after months of waiting, and a full week of hard labor, she was going to see Alastor again.
In her room alone, Lisa is just raising from a dream that bit by bit vanishes the more awake she becomes. Her handmaids enter her room just as she sits up in her bed. They come with her gown, basins of hot and cold water, and other items to help the Queen prepare for the celebration.
With the handmaidens Edna enters, looking like her normal self, though now wearing a sheer white veil over her eyes. She speaks as the handmaidens usher L
isa behind a privacy screen.
“It has started early, Your Highness.”
“Why?”
“When the first Judeheim pilgrims arrived, and friends met, and families reunited, it was inevitable. Nothing could have stopped the joy and happiness.”
“I know what you are going to tell me. Alastor intended it, right?”
“Of course. Mikha’el’s people have even joined in the festivities, acting quite ‘human’ they would say.”
“And Mikha’el himself?”
“Standing atop the city gate, waiting.”
“I understand wanting to see Alastor, but waiting at the gate?”
“He mentioned having a dream, which he feels only Alastor can interpret for him.”
“Well, Alastor should be here soon, and we can all have our moment with him.”
“Hopefully.”
“What?” Lisa exclaims, not liking the doubt in Edna’s voice.
“He is not at the keep, but his animal is.”
“He could not have walked!”
“Obviously, but it is how it is. If he comes, I will be most interested to hear his explanation.”
“If!?”
“Sorry. When.”
Lisa lets out a yelp as one of the handmaidens accidently pulls the strings of her corset too tight.
“Be careful, please!”
Edna leaves, the shadow of a smirk on her face.
~-~~-~
Mikha’el continues his vigil, waiting patiently for his friend and compatriot. His spiritual brother. Like everyone else, Mikha’el has also donned new vestments for the occasion: a hooded tunic of the finest white linen with blue trim, and a belt of pure silver arranged like plate armor across his waist. A woman of his kind flies over to him, landing weightlessly.
“Cousin,” she says happily, “come join us! We have started a game with the Judeheim and Essain people. Two sides with six players. It is very - ”
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” Mikha’el tells her, grim and sad.
“The dream keeps you from having one day of being lighthearted?”
“It was not a mere dream. I have never had a dream as real as this one. It was a vision.”
“Then why not tell our interpreter?”
“In my heart, I know only Alastor will understand. It is as if I have been given a message, sealed with secret meanings of which are solely intended for him.”
“Be that as it may, do you truly believe that you will be able to take him aside as soon as he arrives? Have you not told us that he is to speak to everyone gathered?”
Mikha’el looks from his cousin to the road and back, realizing his indisputably selfish desire.
“I suppose I can tell him later. If it was a vision, it would be impossible for me not to tell him.”
“That is more like it!”
“Now, tell me more about this game...”
And they fly off to join in on the fun being had throughout the city.
~-~~-~
The cold of the Hollow’s pool is, as always, cleansing and rejuvenating. Alastor exits from the water, loath to do so. The last two days were spent amid a flurry of hammer strikes, burns and deep cuts, all while forging his armor. He could have easily requested the armor from the Hollow itself, but to build it with his own hands offered a greater sensation of satisfaction. Also, this armor, forged by he himself, would truly be part of him and, without question, his creation and possession, unlike the last armor he wore, Alastor thinks to himself.
Standing now before his creation, he sees that the work is very good, the form of the armor being everything that Cain’s was not: handsome and majestic. Wordlessly he runs his fingers along the metal, which is warm to the touch, a smile on his face. Whereas Cain’s Armor was built with fear, that is to cover every possible part of the body from injury, Alastor’s is simple in comparison; protection for the chest and loin, the arms and legs, and a simple helmet, all of a silverish-blue hue. Alastor steps back, realizing that without meaning to, he has recreated the armors he saw in Valkyr.
An interesting coincidence.
“Clothes,” Alastor says to the Hollow, and there materializes on his body his traditional black tunic and pants.
“Armor, to your master,” Alastor orders with a gentle voice, and the armor complies, strapping itself to the new Knight in ribbons, not the vicious tendrils of Cain’s Armor.
“Sword and Shield.”
The false Charlotte’s Defiance comes to Alastor’s hand, which he then sheathes upon his left hip. The shield, a simple one with three points at the top, and a tapered bottom follows, which Alastor secures upon his back.
“Cloak,” Alastor says, and on his back a dark blue riding cloak forms to cover his back.
Alastor, impressed by his own handiwork and with the Hollow itself has a thought which makes him emotionless, staring blankly into his own soul.
“Flowers,” he says in a monotone.
At his feet sprout and bloom roses of all imaginable colors, most of which unnatural to their earth-grown brethren. With the same removed spirit, he takes the flowers up before dissipating, reappearing not outside Essain, but in the hidden grotto under his keep, Eoin and Lily’s resting place.
Standing over their graves, he sets down the roses between them, saving but a lone rose, a rose black as midnight. Words come to Alastor’s mind, grand speeches full of the wisdom he has learned which he wants to relate to his fallen parents but, he thinks, the flowers should say all that is needed.
“Farewell,” he concludes, leaving as he came.
He reappears outside the keep, in a field of wild flowers. In the center is a patch of barren ground, with a stone set at its top, worn with age, the inscription now illegible but leaving no doubt that this is yet another grave. Alastor kneels down, setting the bud of the black rose down on the headstone.
“Twice I had you, and twice I lost you,” Alastor speaks, his voice full of buried pain. “Once to my own rash stupidity and this second time for reasons I do not even know. If I knew the suffering I would inflict by accepting you as my traveling companion on that day, I would have turned my back on you and your town, never to look or even think on it, or you, ever again. Yet, what is done is done and your story adds to the torment of my deeds. Even faced with this new path, I can never forget the one upon which I had previously walked. At times I busy my mind so as to drown out the past, but it is always there, reminding. Taunting. I should have told you then. I... owed it to you. Maybe if I told you... you would not have felt shunned. My father would not have been ambushed and I, in the end, would not have...”
Alastor cannot bear to continue speaking. He stands, eyes fixed on the grave. He steps back, wanting to look away, but he does not.
He cannot turn his eyes away from Amelia’s grave.
Calmly, Alastor’s stallion comes up, sniffing at the Knight as if to try and share in his loss. Alastor pets the animal and, with a reassuring sound, dissipates away while looking back to the barren mound, materializing in the forest not far away from Essain’s main road, the stallion with him and seemingly undisturbed by that strange form of travel.
“Go find some place to relax for a bit,” Alastor tells the animal before setting it loose. “We shall be starting a new adventure when I am finished here.”
It replies with a low neigh and snort, as if excited by this news.
Something as simple as walking forward does not come easy, as Alastor is stricken half fearful at the thought of addressing the three kingdoms all at once, where previously stealth and misdirection were his greatest of allies. Fear relinquishes its power back to Sense and the steps soon follow, heading to the road proper.
The sound of celebration is carried loud on the cool, breezy air, and Alastor can see that there are none watching the city entrance for him. Though grateful for this, in the same thought he scolds the city for dropping its guard. Even with Lucius gone, the lessons of the past have always taught that one should never fall into the l
ull that apparent security can bring. Security, as attractive as it may appear, is nothing but an illusion.
A wisp of smoke seems to appear from nowhere before Alastor, and as suddenly fades. For that brief moment, it was man shaped, forcing Alastor to stop. The apparition involuntarily reminds him of the ghastly shades present in the dishonored land. With unease, he brushes it away, resuming onward. Coming at last to the Essain gate, Alastor remembers another day, when Gawain offered him residence within the city.
“How would it have been if I accepted?” he wonders to himself.
Passing through the threshold, Morrigan appears as though summoned.
“I thought so!” she exclaims on seeing Alastor.
“Hello, Morrigan.”
“Do not ‘Hello, Morrigan’ me! You are not one of them anymore, are you?”
“Which ‘them,’ Morrigan?” Alastor asks, feigning ignorance with a sly smile.
“Being coy is most uncalled for, Alastor. You know perfectly well what I mean!”
“I do. You must realize, of course, that it would not be prudent to speak about such things at this time, Sister.”
The playful look vanishes in an instant from Alastor’s face, and Morrigan remembers with all seriousness some old, forgotten memory.
“Yes. Quite right, Alastor. I will go tell her that you have arrived.”
The Fairy fades as her words end. After but a few more steps, a winged boy flies overhead, chasing a wildly thrown ball. The winged boy catches the ball, but becomes mesmerized by the sight of Alastor. He lands before Alastor, still staring.
“You are the Knight? The one we are waiting for?”
“They still call me a Knight?
“You are wearing armor. That makes you a Knight, does it not?”
“I suppose I am then.”
“Alastor?”
“Indeed.”
“Mikha’el talks about you all the time lately, but when I told him you would be coming today in new armor, he did not believe me.”
Alastor looks at the boy, impressed.
“Mikha’el should know better than to ignore the word of a Dreamer, would you not agree?”
The boy smiles at the compliment.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Master Alastor?”
“Ah, yes there is, but you should already know what I would have you do.”
