Chapter 5

He rubs his freshly pecked face. The absence of intimacy ruminates in his mind. In loneliness he watches the medical staff work on his father. Amalija, a female nurse, whose shape he can see in detail through her clothes, hooks him. Sending selfish thoughts of her living in the solar, providing infinite access. She is writing on an electronic tablet, using her index as a stylus. As she inscribes the notes, it automatically organizes itself within different sections, files, and documents in altered font colors.

He grabs her arm softly. She stops writing and nods at him. He takes her out the room and up to his chambers. She, in a very routine and relaxed manner, spreads herself on the bed. Amalija poses proactively to the Prince's delight. Every sway is picture worthy. Her uniform slithers off as he clutches her hands.

"Let me."

She struts naked to the entrance of the bedchamber with a model's walk, barefoot, and seals them inside by closing the door.

Later that night, Drago sits atop the Hill of Sorrowleaf,

...an Avalon territory recently acquired by Alastair. Next to him is his latest creation, an impaled soldier's head on a stick. Which to him is like arts and craft. He sets a rolled cigarette in his mouth and strikes the match off the corpse's helmet.

A crescent moon shining in the ultramarine-night sky. Highlighting the grisly backdrop, splashed with vultures who've come for the feast. He exhales and looks at piles of cadavers littered below. He sinks his shoulders and crosses his arms in front of him, resting them on his knees. Some small part of him is still human. The cig loosely hangs from his lips as a strong hand lands calmly on his shoulder.

"Are you ready?"

Drago shakes his head. The hand retreats and we hear the vacant footsteps exiting the land.

"I've killed you all... Sorrowleaf is ours again," Drago emits under his breath.

He lies back on the grass and continues to smoke, watching the exhaled cloud reach upwards, wishing he could follow.

"So detached...what a tyrant I have become. A true last hand on a live man's heart that I claim, and then add to my trophy collection of soldier souls. All for a stone, relic, rune. What to do once the prize is won, return it and play again? Drago wonders.

Paskel, a high-ranking Alastair soldier, with a youthful face for an older man sits next to him. He indulges his lungs too.

"Ever wish you could use the new experiences to go back in time and show up that one voice, that one naysayer?" questions Paskel. Contemplating his own descent into the dark.

"In what context? Using the skills gained from a new lover, on an old lover?" retorts Drago.

"Something similar. I wonder if...I would've passed the challenge before, I may not have ended up so torn apart. I could have rested my head years ago. Now, my mind plagues me with thoughts of these," Paskel admits as he motions his hand across the mass amount of dead enemies on the hill.

"Perhaps life would've been different if I didn't entertain the challenge. War is inevitable, but murder is always a choice," he continues.

"Every day is a challenge. And to answer you truthfully young one, I would've been this way no matter what my past put me through. I'm a carrier of death. In all forms. Not just the physical," quips Drago.

"You, Drago, are far beyond the norm. Truly you must know and have accepted this fact. Aside from the rune, you are the entire war. Our god."

"I wouldn't say all that Paskel. I merely put the King on his deathbed, he still breathes....just very painfully. Now his stubborn son must be dealt with," declares Drago.

"I'll bash his skull with my bare hands if I get grip of him. He's no soldier. Not even a Prince to be true. Just a delay in what will shortly be Alastair's dynasty, whereas, you Drago shall become king."

"I have no desire for that. King is what Lord Quinn desires. When the time comes, anyone can take the crown. Just remember what happened to the previous owner of it."

Meanwhile on Avalon's training grounds,

...multiple squires' and knights are running drills. Preparing for the next attack, having lost many at the Hill of Sorrowleaf. The Black Knight riding a horse keeps circling them with a touch of fright. Cantering about like the headless horseman. Yelling to keep control. He is stronger than his physique shows, and his armor is heavily plated. His escutcheon shield is regally decorated with Avalon's symbol proudly showcased. He is a seasoned killer.

"And what do owe the pleasure, Black Knight? Looking at your past self, getting whipped into shape?" the general jokes.

"These lads have it easy, all descendants of noble men. I was an orphan, from Oglolor of the north. I was never loved nor named, and I didn't need either to grow in power."

"Well you surely needed my father's help when he found you face down in a swamp. He claims that the dirt and mud turned your breastplate black. In his creative mind, it was a symbol. And because he saved your life, he named you..."

"The Black Knight!" exclaims an excited squire who regards The Black Knight as a hero.

"My father also said, you wept like a child," goofs the general.

"Ha! Bite your tongue, or would you wish to see my spiked mace remove your tongue? My broken arm has healed since the battle at the Hill of Sorrowleaf."

The general shakes his head no, feeling he went a bit too far. Feeling like the people who suspected The Black Knight to have an equally black heart might be correct. The Black Knight reverts his attention back to the squires.

"When your enemy shows you weakness, what do you do?" The Black Knight questions.

"Kill with no regard!" the squires respond.

"When your enemy shows you strength, what do you do?"

"Regard your kill in excellence!"

"And when the weakness shows in you, what do you do?"

"Regard the moments as your last breath!"

"Precisely my lads. Keep the three elements in your mind, and become a war god amongst the best. You must never let your weakness show, no matter the pain," chants The Black Knight as he dismounts his stallion.

He approaches a young squire, scrawny child, doesn't look like the war type. The young squire looks back with buckling knees.

"Hmm, do you see? Your eyes show me your death. You are scared, refrain from showing it, this mental trait alone will prepare you for the burden of killing another man."

The Black knight notices Kip, even skinnier than the last one, passing out and collapsing to the ground. He walks over and yells at him.

"How dare you sleep? Awake and on your feet!"

Kip begins to twitch while on the lawn. He has auburn color hair, and an innocent face.

"Dear god, what's his disorder?"

"He's got nerve problems sir," one of the squires answers.

"Nerve problems? Did you know about this?" The Black Knight questions the general.

"His name is Kip, and he's tried to hide it with an amalgam of excuses. Whether it be heat exhaustion, or dehydration. I believe he has epilepsy sir. However, he is the best archer in the troop. The boy seems to possess supernatural skill."

"With this disease and shaky hands? How can I even fathom?"