by A. J. Cronin
“Why have you done this!?” Alastor demands as they fight.
He and Lucius come face to face, blades locked. Lucius, as always, seems amused by it all.
“Little brother, never asking the right questions.”
“Oh? What questions should I be asking?”
“Foolish child, where is the fun if I tell you? Well, a hint I shall give nonetheless. Cain made a pact with Samael. Cain received this armor, along with the unlocking of his own blood... so, what did Samael get in payment I wonder?”
This thought makes Alastor lose his concentration just long enough for Lucius to take advantage. He knocks Alastor’s sword away, then swipes at his brother’s exposed body, giving him a deep wound. Alastor falls backward, his chest bleeding profusely, yet Alastor does not seem to notice.
Lucius stands triumphantly over Alastor. He readies a killing blow.
“Do not miss,” Alastor says with a smirk.
“I do not intend to. Farewell, brother.”
Alastor smiles darkly as Lucius brings his weapon down, but Lucius suddenly shouts in pain, a sword bursting out of his belly. The Necromancer lurches, spinning around to see his assailant is none other than Lisa, her clothes tattered and bloodied.
“I will be taking my city back now,” she sneers.
“Whore!” Lucius shouts, genuinely enraged by the Queen’s presence.
Lucius appears to forget Alastor, placing all his attention on the Queen.
The Necromancer bares down on Lisa smugly, thinking her to be easy prey. Trying to strike her, Lucius’ attack is deflected effortlessly. He tries and fails again, Lisa following with an attack of her own, her sword, Charlotte’s Defiance, cutting through the armor and finding Lucius’ flesh. He curses her in that mysterious, wicked tongue before he begins to attack her rabidly. The Queen of Essain keeps pace deftly as though Lucius’ assault was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Even with all his newfound power, the Necromancer cannot touch Lisa, yet she somehow repeatedly succeeds at drawing his blood and rendering the armor essentially useless. The once demure Queen now shows her true colors; a warrior fierce as even Alastor, teeth bared, roars and growls, all previously hidden within her. Lucius becomes increasingly agitated by Lisa, resorting to pure, beastly strength to try and fell her, but to no avail. He swings his weapon far too wide, allowing Lisa the opportunity to kick his necromantic blade out of his hand. Enraged, Lucius returns the favor, disarming the Queen.
“I have waited so very long for this moment, Lisa!” Lucius snarls poisonously.
He forces a disgusting blade-chain to grow from his gauntlet. The Queen backs away, Lucius stalking her, corralling her into a corner. Absolutely enthralled by the taste of his coming victory, Lucius does not notice Lisa’s eyes, not until...
“Farewell, brother.”
Alastor thrusts Lucius’ own weapon into his back. Lucius flails, trying to grab the hilt of the sword, but his alchemic weapon has begun to do what it was built for: taking the life force of those it is used against. A moment later, Lucius is no more, his robes, his armor and his sword all falling to the ground. The armor takes a moment to register that its wearer is dead, but soon reattaches to Alastor, becoming complete yet again. Alastor looks down upon the necromantic blade fearfully, spitefully. Fixated so wholly on the dark weapon, he barely hears Lisa speak.
“What now, Alastor?”
He kneels down, the sword sitting like a siren on top of what could be called Lucius’ remains, calling to him, pulling him ever closer. The armor is silent, no voices echo in his head.
“What now?” Alastor repeats in a whisper, directed to Elizabetha.
She does not answer. Alastor is left to his own thoughts.
Picking Lucius’ sword up, a single, terrible thought occurs to him: turn it on himself. Bringing the point of the blade to his chest, he wills the armor to open above his heart.
“What are you doing!?” Lisa cries out.
“In this sword is all the evil and treachery of my bloodline. With mine added to it, it will all be over.”
“That cannot be so!” the Queen shouts, tears in her eyes. “There must be another way!”
Alastor ignores her. He reaches out, ready to plunge the sword into his chest, except Lisa grabs his arms, stopping him. He starts to scold her, when something catches his eye.
“The necklace,” Alastor says. “Put it on the floor!”
Remembering what Alastor had said about the pendant, Lisa is more than hesitant to acquiesce.
“Alastor, I cannot,” she says, clutching the pendant in her hand. “You told me never to take it off, not even for you!”
“Trust me,” he pleads.
“Alastor! I... what if... ?”
“Please, Lisa. I beg you.”
Lisa looks beyond the Knight’s helmet to the eyes behind the visor and, ultimately, to the heart behind the eyes. Fearfully, the Queen tugs her necklace off and throws it down in front of Alastor. She realizes that it is her very life she has given to Alastor.
But it is shown to be a fear unfounded.
Right as it settles, Alastor brings down the tip of his brother’s sword into the dead center of the pendant. The sword and pendant explode with a violence that was completely unexpected, sending Alastor and Lisa flying in opposite directions; Lisa slamming hard into the nearby wall, Alastor sent soaring across the room, landing at the foot of the throne. Even more unexpected, when Alastor lands, the armor loses its sheen, corrodes to dust and falls from him.
The armor is now nothing but a memory.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alastor’s Hollow
A group of Essain militiamen, led by Mikha’el, burst into the throne room. Among them is Morrigan, in her Edna guise.
“See to the Queen,” Mikha’el orders while he moves to Alastor.
Coming back around, Alastor immediately knows that something is different. He looks at himself, finding his clothes covered in what looks like black sand. By his hand lays Charlotte’s Defiance.
“What has happened here?” Mikha’el asks him.
With Mikha’el’s help, Alastor stands, picking up Charlotte’s Defiance as he does so.
“Cain is dead, Lucius is dead, the armor is destroyed. Anything else we can talk about later. Right now, I want to leave.”
“Alastor?”
“I am more tired than I have ever been in my life.”
“I understand.”
Alastor is barely able to stand, let alone walk. Mikha’el has to support his weight as they slowly hobble away. They can see Lisa watching them but, having to deal with her subjects, she cannot protest as Alastor and Mikha’el slowly leave the room. They pass by Edna without a word, she looking to Alastor in disbelief.
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 fal
l 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 Essain?” asks Mikha’el, a growing annoyance in his voice. “What about Lisa?”
“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 Essain.
~-~~-~
Alastor looks back at Essain, 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 Lisa’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 Essain. Lisa 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 Lisa! Long live Queen Lisa!” 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,” Lisa’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 him 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 i
n 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.
