Power of The Night

by JTheGoblinKing

A story explaining Bob's backstory of The Dresden Files TV series.

Power of the Night:

The following is a Dresden Files TV show based fan fiction. This story based on some theories about Bob's past that have been debated and discussed by fans. I did a search and realized no one had really written an out right fan fiction about Bob's past though there are some surprising manifestos written by some zealous fans. This back story was meant to be revealed to us in Season 2 of The Dresden Files. This story is not canon. It is based on fan speculations and theories. The characters belong to the Scifi Channel and Robert Hewitt Wolfe. Credit is also to Jim Butcher for the world he created in his Dresden files novels. The character of Hrothbert of Bainbridge belongs to both Robert Hewitt Wolfe and Jim Butcher. The character of Winifred belongs to Robert Wolfe. Title based on song lyrics by Terrence Mann. I own nothing!

Power of the Night:

Chapter 1:

Streets are calling:

Black magick is easy. It's convenient and it's simple. The more you do it, the more empowered you feel Sure, it starts small. Perhaps first you might weave a little enchantment to lower a woman's inhibitions. Then you might rid yourself of a few annoyances. Perhaps you might compel a demon or two. And the next thing you know you're dressed all in black and cackling about world domination.

Hrothbert of Bainbridge:

The boy was doomed from the start. He did not know what he was, not right away anyway. Imagine, if you will, a young man with dark hair and large, wondering gray eyes, and incredible power... He was born with a great deal of untapped magical potential. The child did not know what he was. How could he? The sort of people he was born knew nothing of this sort of thing.

The High Council was new yet fully functional. It was a secretive and select and barely organized collective of the mystically elite who knew of magick and possessed the potential and power to use it. Wizards are not just people who learn magick. It's a power. you're born with it or you are not. And those who tapped into this power without following the rules of the governing body of this elite group were viewed as sorcerers. Hrothbert had this power and in abundance. He did not learn of his power immediately. And even in 844 AD (the year of Hrothbert's birth) Bainbridge was a small community. A rural part of North Yorkshire England. The community consisted of a small village of peasant farmers and one country lord.

Hrothbert was born the bastard son of the country lord and a peasant's daughter whom had a secret knack for compelling small animals into behaving as if they understood her and obeyed her, a talent that could easily be over looked as one who could train wild beasts. It did not seem magical. It was something that could pass as mundane. Though the father did not publicly admit to taking part in the conception of Hrothbert many knew but politely avoided the admittance of it.

Young Hrothbert was given the luxury of an education. He was taught to read and write at a near by monastery. He could speak English, Latin and French.

Though the boy lived very comfortably he knew he was an outsider. The money he was generously 'donated' by Lord Bainbridge allowed him to dress well and to live with comforts and convenience. It wasn't just that the boy was a bastard (that was bad enough) or that he lived with luxury nearly equal to that of a noble yet he had no title of his own. These things did leave him bitter and resentful. The fact was Hrothbert possessed certain amazing abilities...

It was at the time of his adolescence when Hrothbert first noticed he was different. Sometimes when he was angry or upset things would happen. Little things here and there. A book he wanted to read would fall off the shelf as if he had called to it, someone he disliked would end up in a carriage accident, things like that would happen. He could not help it. He did not know he was doing it. It was a world he stumbled into quite by accident.

Hrothbert always brushed these things off as coincidence. He never once thought he was causing it though he did sometimes feel a strange tingling in the tips of his fingers or the palms of his hands that passed up his arms. There was sometimes a rush of pleasure that he could not explain, a sense of fulfillment or satisfaction when these things happens, a sense of ...accomplishment. The anger that burned inside of him was a private pain of knowing he was an outsider. He never understood fully why those around him did not accept him. He knew he was different. He just did know why he was different. No one liked him. He could sense it in his many aunts and uncles, his grandfather and mother. They resented him for reasons he did not know. His mother treated him well but he always felt she blamed him, deep down inside, for something he wasn't all together sure about. All he wanted was to be accepted. No, he wanted more than acceptance. He wanted to rise above them. How could anyone be content living in a day to day monotony to live and die in poverty?

He was not poor though. He was financially well taken care of and well educated. His future career was secure. He would be a cleric's scribe, copying texts for the clergy, a highly respected and important occupation! But it was not the same as being a noble. He would watch the nobility and wish to be one of them. He always felt like an outsider looking in. He felt helpless to defy his fate. He was trapped on the outside unable to touch or be a part of that world he yearned for so badly.

The boy felt as if he was living on the dark side of a glass wall that divided him from the world he wanted to be a part of.

Hrothbert grew into a handsome man. He had gray eyes and thick dark wavy hair. He dressed very well and in direct defiance of the law, in clothes beyond his station. It was a cruel trick of destiny that he had not been born to nobility. Acting as scribe was easy. It gave him access to a vast and ancient library of texts from all over Europe.

Now it happened that one day when Hrothbert was out chatting with some farmer's son that he truly discovered his extraordinary talents. He was a grown man when all that untapped, and seemingly atrophied potential, bubbled to the surface. The farmer's son had been mocking him. They had been out in the field and the young man had aggravated Hrothbert by mocking him for how he spoke. Hrothbert was not like the other men of his village. Thanks to his monastery education his vocabulary was extensive and his did not talk like a peasant. Hrothbert knew he was better educated than these peasant boys and he took pride in it. Perhaps he was a little arrogant but he was proud of the work and effort that went into his education in an era when simply knowing how to read could mean the difference between wealth and poverty, literally life or death. He was grateful for the opportunities set before him and yet he was always yearning, wanting more- always wanting more. If only he had been born in one of the big houses, if only his father had been a duke... Destiny had dropped him on the wrong side of the gate, or so he felt. And perhaps Hrothbert had been a little rude to the boy but the boy called him something cruel in response.

'You think you are something special! You're not even legitimate! You were born in sin, Hrothbert. Do you even know who your father is? Your mother is a trollop. Everyone knows this. If she didn't have the lord's favor she'd have been-'

'SILENCE!' Hrothbert had cried out in fury. Though now nearing thirty there was a persistent youthfulness to Hrothbert's appearance as if he was aging slower than the others he had grown up with. This eighteen-year-old farmer's whelp saw him as an equal. And he was daring to insult him to an extent that was grounds for calling upon the rights of a duel!

Hrothbert's thick, wavy dark hair lifted in a sudden wind that blew around them. Hrothbert's long black cloak lifted as if deliberately, giving the appearance that he had suddenly sprouted raven wings from his shoulders. The wind circled around Hrothbert and then the rude boy whom had insulted him was lifted off his feet and thrown backward into a tree.

'Poor ignorant dirt farmer!' Hrothbert said in disgust at the frightened boy. It felt so natural. It was so easy. That wind, it was bowing for him. It had acted on his behalf. Was he controlling it? It was like a reflex, taking as little effort as raising his hand. Was he doing this? He felt a thrill of pleasure and a rush of power at seeing the fear and helplessness in the boy's eyes. The terror in the ignorant fool's expression, it felt good to finally have control. A sense of helplessness was replaced with triumph.

'You haven't the vaguest idea of what you've started!' Did Hrothbert himself know? Well, how could he? Hrothbert's anger ebbed. This boy had dishonoured him and insulted him. How dare he pretend they were equals! He raised his hand. He looked up. He wanted a tree limb to come crashing down. Fall! was the thought. A tree branch snapped from high above and came crashing down, narrowly missing the vulgar boy.

This felt too good to be frightening. It was empowering. Finally, after years of dreaming and wishing he truly was something special. He knew it. He knew he was destined for something great. He felt this electrical-like energy in his very finger tips. He looked down at his pale little hands, smooth and clean from never having to work the fields- the educated boy- the cleric's scribe. Old fears and superstitions did not matter. Nothing mattered. This was good! And soon he would make them all regret treating him like an outcast! Even his education and status as a scribe had not been enough to prevent him from feeling like an outcast.

It was the other boy's voice that called Hrothbert back to the moment.

'Sorcery!'

Hrothbert looked at him blankly. He knew the word. He knew what it meant but that wasn't what this was, was it? A sorcerer? The tingling had not left his fingertips. He had forgotten about the fight. He looked confused.

The other boy scrambled to his feet. 'You're a... you're a sorcerer! That's what you are!' He leapt up and ran away. 'They'll burn you at the stake, Hrothbert!'

Hrothbert wasn't afraid. Let them try. But still... He had to learn more about what this meant. There had to be a way to bring this on without being angry or upset. Little things had happened in the past such as when he'd want something the object might tumble off a shelf or the crops would come in early, or just before drifting to sleep a candle might go out as if on it's own accord but he had always thought this to be coincidences, acts of chance or the wind. Now though he knew better. He was starting to realize he really was ...something special.

Hrothbert had to find out what this all meant. He dashed away from there as fast as his legs could carry him. The sun had completely set and the sky was a deep indigo blue when Hrothbert climbed through the low monastery window. The old monastery stood on a hill. And Hrothbert's education and career had started here so he knew where the window was that had the broken latch.

The monastery library was a large room full of stacks of texts that were already considered ancient. Leather bound, hand written volumes with carefully drawn coloured panel illustrations were kept in neat order beside ancient and deteriorating scrolls of parchment. Arcane manuscripts were kept on high shelves.

The musty smell of old leather and lamb skin combined with the wood of the room. It was a smell many might have found offensive to the nose but Hrothbert found it pleasant. It was the scent of ancient knowledge. It was the scent of learning. It was history. It was wisdom. And it was comforting. The excitement of what had happened in the field was starting to wane. And here in this beautiful, quiet place, it was easy to forget that it had ever happened at all. And he, once upon a time, had been a student here here, a clever boy with so much promise... But those days were long gone. Hrothbert was aware of what happened. And he was something new now.

Hrothbert walked along the shelves of books until he found what he wanted. Here they were, the books no one was supposed to know about. The grimoires and reference books of many accused witches kept here when the villagers had been told they were destroyed in the bon fires. Why keep forbidden wisdom? Well, being an educated man Hrothbert knew the answer to that. It was because it was wisdom after all. And he believed that all knowledge was good, as he figured, so did the monks who kept this place.

Hrothbert carefully removed a large, thick, black book from the shelf. He set the book on the ground and picked a candle stick from off a near by table. He cupped his hand over the wick, wondering if he could somehow make the candle light without trouble. He felt a heat in his hand and a tingling sensation there in his palm and finger tips. There was a soft orange glow from between his fingers. He drew his hand back. The candle was lit. He nearly gasped but he was too amazed and enthralled that HE had done this to react badly. He smiled in self-satisfaction. He set the candle stick down and gingerly he picked up the book. He began to read...

It was nearing dawn and Hrothbert had devoured the contents of nearly nine grimoires of varying levels of magick. Nothing of the contents differentiated between black and white magick. It was just power. Power and the many ways to use and manipulate it, power that was inside of him, just waiting to be called upon by the right methods. And Hrothbert took to it like a fish to water. It came easily to him, all of it. And he knew what he was. Why should he resist it? He should embrace it. It was there. It was his nature. And he was good at it!

There was a glory in his new self. There was a feeling of achievement in the shadows of the evening. There was a satisfaction in this new found knowledge. He knew what he was now. He knew who he was. He was Hrothbert of Bainbridge, the sorcerer, extraordinaire! He did not question his existence as this powerful being. He felt as if he had been set free. He would not fight his instincts. How could something that felt so good be damned or evil? This gift was exempt from all shame. He would embrace it. All the dismal traits of what he used to be seemed to shed away like garments. He would trust in this power. No longer would he listen to the lies and superstitions of the peasant folk. He was above all of them, even the nobility that he had once wished to be a part of. He had always known he was something special and now this confirmed it. He would not shun this glorious gift. He would see this through. He felt like some sort of glorious spectre strutting through Hell out to prove his worth to the universe. Even if he would be viewed as one of Lucifer's angels on the loose this gift was something to be enjoyed. He would embrace it.

If he was destined to be a sorcerer he would be the greatest sorcerer who ever lived!

--

Power of the Night:

Part 2:

Stealing from the light:

Six months had passed since Hrothbert discovered what he was. In that time a lot had happened. Hrothbert experimented with his new found talents. He found a pretty shepherdess and persuaded her to join him for the evening and he had caused her to completely forget the matter the next morning. And that was only the beginning...

The darkness inside of him was growing. He did not realize it right away. It was an addiction. It was a craving. It filled the emptiness in him. It was a hunger he could not begin to describe, a need. There were no regrets or promises. And every day something was a little worse. He did not know what the power was doing to his own soul. The sins were mounting. His introduction to the dark had never been in his mortal plan but this was his destiny. Should he embrace these wicked ways and embrace the darkness of the night?

Power fulfilled the thirst in him. The thirst that made those who defied him face a powerful wrath. In this time he acquired a vast fortune through his powers, the plunder of his magick. He did not view himself as a thing of darkness. He did not know how drunk he was on power, how he was swooning from it. He no fear of crawling creatures now, of foulest slime or swarming rats. Nothing could effect him. Though of course he lived, as he always had, in style and comfort.

Every time he used is powers though he wanted to use more of it. The hunger compelled him to use his powers and when he did the hunger only became stronger. It was strong. It was powerful. It overpowered all sense of right and wrong. The cycle was a vicious one. He was losing self control. The power was like an entity that held sway over him. And he knew he was weak against it but rather than admit to this weakness he embraced it. He let it take him. It was just easier that way. Besides, I did give him everything he wanted, didn't it?

They say that good things come to those who wait. And he had been waiting for so long. He wanted this whether it was right or wrong.

Through a little neuromancy and psychomancy he learned the nature of his conception by forcing the knowledge from the lips of those within the village whom had kept the secret. Well, it was time to pay back the favour of being born an outcast, wasn't it?

The country lord was gone as well as his entire family, banished from their ancestral home by the powerful sorcerer whom had taken claim to their castle. Now the sorcerer Hrothbert of Bainbridge resided in the old castle. The villagers would not move against him. He had claimed his birth right.

The castle had been refurbished into the largest laboratory and work station that any alchemist or sorcerer could hope for.

An intricately drawn binding circle was in the centre of a large room with white candles carefully positioned, wrapped with light blue beads. An iron cage (specifically for holding faeries for study) was positioned near the fire place for easy access. He had converted the castle's dining hall into a vast laboratory for potion brewing. The banquet table now was cluttered with jars and bottles of various strange ingredients. Dragon's blood, unicorn tears, troll dust, bat wings, cheetah hair, captured sunlight, powdered silver... to name a few. Along the walls were rows and rows of potions he had brewed himself and discretely tested on the patrons of a local inn, slipping a love potion into someone's rum, a little sleeping potion into someone else's soup. It was almost usually successful with few surprise consequences. Potions came easily to him to. It was a lot like the science that would later be known as chemistry however potions are more than just chemical reactions. Each ingredient represents a sensation reflecting on the intention of the potion. There's symbolism besides basic chemical responses. And you must infuse each potion with some of your own power. A non-wizard or non-sorcerer certainly could not have made an escape potion the way Hrothbert could! And the castle library was now the largest archive of compiled magical reference books in history. Hrothbert himself had already penned two grimoire's. The first was book of methods of dealing with, harming, or tricking enemies with these powers. The second was a book on how to compel and subtly control those around you in various ways.

Fortunately for him he could work very complex spells and potions with a natural ability he had for dividing his attention and multitasking.

Hrothbert had compelled a few demons by conjuring them and calling them by name. The first was a powerful demon by the name of Manoc and a lesser demon called Akashoartis. He had sent these demons to prevent a small uprising in the village against him.

'Akashoartis I summon thee! Akashoartis I summon thee!' He bellowed from outside the summoning circle he had drawn on the stone floor. He had the tone and manner of a man reciting a dramatic verse for a play.

Hrothbert prided himself on his unnatural talents and yet... he had yet to meet anyone else who practiced magick.

It was late one winter's evening when Hrothbert heard the knock on the door. He sat at a table in his library, adding details to another project of his. The Doom Ring, something not unlike his yet to be perfected doom box that he had designed years ago.

The knocking continued for several seconds.

Hrothbert was annoyed. Who would disturb him at this hour? He closed the book and held out his hand. The door to the library opened wide. In stepped a man wearing a long, dark gray cloak. The man had long gray hair and carried a sword with him. 'Hrothbert of Bainbridge?'

'Yes.' He stepped toward the man with a majestic air about him.

'I am Zabrian of The High Council. We have been watching you. The magick you have been using is black magick.' He said this with an intensity as if the words would matter to him.

'What is the difference?' Hrothbert asked. 'It's power and our right. What is the point of having these gifts if we aren't supposed to use them?' He had heard similar speeches before about the use of magick being 'evil' but no one had ever divided types of magick except in regard to powers bestowed by God or by Satan and Hrothbert had become something of an agnostic. He believed there were powers and beings that he knew nothing about but he did not pretend to know their natures and he doubted any organized religion truly did.

'Not all magick is black magick.' The warden said as if reading his thoughts. 'Protocol says you should be put to death but you do have extraordinarily advanced powers for a sorcerer who lacks proper training. It's your potential that we are interested in.'

'Lacks proper training?' Hrothbert's pride was wounded. He narrowed his icy gray eyes. He was insulted.

'And we could use someone with your knack for understanding and improving upon, if not inventing, spells, charms and potions. You are an inventor and alchemist whose skills can be used for the greater good. Agree to work for us, Hrothbert. Be a proper wizard under the jurisdiction of the High Council. It's not too late. You can be redeemed.'

They were not usually so forgiving of those who use black magick but Hrothbert of Bainbridge was a valuable asset. They knew how powerful he was and they knew that he was an adept pupil for magical knowledge whose grasp on alchemy was far keener than any wizard within the High Council. Zabrian resented this. He would have preferred just taking this cocky bastard's head. He was no better than any other witch or wizard that had gone to the black.

Hrothbert looked at him coldly for a long while. 'I shall have to consider it.'

'Hrothbert, it may pay for you to research the rules of magical conduct as decreed by The High Council.' Zabrian said in response. 'Even as we speak the black magick has a hold on you, tempting you. You will always crave it. Stop using it now and there is a chance you might be able to resist it's use and serve a purpose in magical society.'

Zabrian was gone immediately, a simple optical illusion of seeming to disappear but really he was just tricking Hrothbert's eyes not to see him. Hrothbert knew the trick. He tried to train his senses in to find the obnoxious wizard before he could make his escape but he did not find him.

The addiction to power is something no one can truly understand unless they have experienced it for themselves. It's a sense that if you're not in complete control of everyone and everything around you that you are utterly helpless. It's a need to be in control compulsively and perpetually. It's a rush that comes from knowing that everything is bending to your will and your will alone. There's an emptiness inside and for a little while that void fills, not so much full, but gone. The rush of power takes it's place. That terrible black space. It's a hunger almost as sharp and as keen as a hunger for food. That terrible emptiness of being an outsider is gone. You cannot be an outsider if you're in complete control. Well, that wasn't true. And deep down inside Hrothbert knew this. It's actually a little more profound when you're in complete control. You can't walk through a crowd, you're no longer a stranger in a crowd but rather you are separated from it. And he could not decide if that was worse.

Hrothbert stepped to the window. He perched one leg up on the windowsill and looked out at the sleepy village beyond. It was a beautiful, starlit night. Hrothbert spread his arms out. He felt his entire body descend inward, to grow small and compress. A complex feat of magick. He had shifted into the form of a falcon.

The falcon spread his majestic wings and slipped out the window in an elegant sweeping motion.

Power and control seemed to be what most men desire. Most people long
to be popular, respected, followed. They yearn to stand out in the crowds
and to seem to rise above all else. Well, now what most men seem to want and
what a man needs is not always the same thing and the same could be said for
an 'all-powerful sorcerer.
Can one person really claim that he can rise above all others, to be worshiped, feared and loved like some sort of holy deity? Can anyone really claim superiority above another? And power, control, leadership in that world would mean trying to claim popularity, status above most others. Can anyone really be so arrogant to try and hold God-like status above all others?
Power; is it really so grand to stand and watch a world from a far, up on high, on the opposite end of a rose painted glass wall?

To crave the respect and admiration of a following and to have the respect
and admiration of a following show two very different aspects of the ideal.
The reality of this strange grand thing is the reality that is of social isolation and ostracism. It is truly lonely at the top. And it is very hard to be the outsider, the one to be isolated and pulled out and marked You can never be as simply others are, which is impossible when you are truly something extraordinary and Hrothbert truly was something extraordinary.
That sort of thing can alienate a person, pull you away from the rest of your world, segregate and lock you away from others. It can be a walking death sentence for those who crave individual contact with others. Popularity, fame and status can make someone it's hostage. As easily as someone could think to claim it, it can claim them and hold them as it's prisoner. And then that person would be at it's mercy until and if it releases them.
Hrothbert did not loathe those in his village though there was that resentment.

The power from Black Magick can make someone feel as empty inside as any physical hunger. It might seem to grant you all that life has to offer as it's prize but these ephemeral trinkets are fleeting and bring no peace to a restless soul. And lust and material gain is no real replacement for any real friendship or love.
It might seem that power and control can bring you or should bring you closer
to others or at least that is the mundane notion of the majority in society. These are the foolish and unenlightened masses. To draw in a crowd who would worship you is not the same as to draw one individual who would love and see you as their equal.
Truthfully in fact power obtained through Black Magick detaches you. It locks you away from others, separates, divides, and alienates you from all the individual beings that can offer you the things of real value in life. It also can corrupt your
very soul. If power is not taken responsibly it can and will corrupt you.
If you have tremendous power, as what Hrothbert possessed, there also comes also a tremendous responsibility and power would corrupt the irresponsible. And Hrothbert knew he had been irresponsible. He was falling down a slippery slope.

If one were to stare into his strange, tired eyes which were not really icy and cold at all, (that was an illusion too) they might see a weariness of someone who had experienced too much and understood too much all too fast.

A powerful sorcerer can claim to have everything that he might possibly want but he would not have in fact everything that he needs. The sense of being close to others when surrounded by followers is merely an illusion like most of Hrothbert's magick.
Hrothbert supposed this kind of alienation can be described simply as being like an animal doing tricks in a cage. And he simply would not have that! And that person is locked away from the spectators that fear and or envy.

And those who do not love and worship you for the mere reason that they can are envious, hateful and angry. They would resent everything that you would seem to embody.

The falcon soared over village.
The small buildings of village below him seemed to reach up, unable to touch the realm that he had stolen as his own while in that form. He felt the wind rushing under his soft falcon belly. The wind stirred his feathers though never disturbed them from their setting in his light falcon self.

Hrothbert could feel the chill in the air.
The air was crisp and pure, clean and frosty.

Hrothbert loved the winter. It was his favourite season. It seemed a reminder to him that there can be a coldness to beauty. That death can be beautiful and the must beautiful things often are the things frozen and hard to touch for their icy burn. He loved the poetry of the winter season. He loved how the season of darkness and death must come so that there could be rebirth. And it also reminded him of the passing of time, how nothing ever really died but only changed. For there always came the rebirth. Just as after a dark night there would always come the dawn. The winter was change. It meant change to him. And there was one thing that Hrothbert always welcomed. It was change.

Hrothbert had learned early on that change was not always a bad thing. There were good and bad change, change for the better, change for the future, change in one self. If one did not bend to change, he reasoned, then it could very well break you. With change there always came the choice to bend or break. And Hrothbert was not one to allow time to be his master. He would never allow himself to be broken.

Hrothbert flew gracefully, flying as the falcon was instinct for him. Hrothbert just loved the feeling of the cool, clean, icy breeze under him.
Hrothbert flew higher and higher, trying to let go of everything but the universe spreading out before him as the air thinned around him. Trying to get away from everything including the hunger inside for power.
He was at least for the moment free. He could forget it all. He flew higher then the mountains, reaching for the moon and the stars, beyond the heavy clouds. He flew where the wind was strong and the air was weak, if that can be described somehow.
He looked down once more at village below him; still able to see and hear it perfectly with the falcon's heightened senses.
He loved the stirring of the brown, dead leaves that crunched under people's feet.
And then their came a despair. Hrothbert had never felt so lonely in his life, the villagers could never understand him really though he believed that he understood them perfectly.
The falcon descended down into a dive. As he came close to the ground the falcon dissolved. Angles seemed to shift. Perspective altered.

Hrothbert stood where the falcon had been. He was dressed all in black. If he was headed down a dark road he would at least do it in style. He had on a long, black velvet cloak. He straightened his clothes as if the flight could have mussed the fabric. He tipped his head up and he walked into the dimly lit inn. It was a shabby place that smelt of ale and burning wood. It was a strangely comforting smell. Of course the chatter of the inn suddenly went quiet. Everyone turned to stare at the sorcerer whom now dominated all their lives.

Every night was starting to feel quite the same. There was a peculiar estrangement. Nothing seemed real. Nothing seemed right. It was if he was playing a part in a show. And no one else seemed to realize he was just going through the motions. He was playing a part. Nothing seemed able to penetrate him. Nothing could reach his heart. He had always been strong willed and moving head long into his new experiences as a sorcerer and now he felt like he was wavering. Nothing seemed to matter. Nothing meant anything. He felt bored. He felt... lonely.

He felt like he was just going through the motions, like he wasn't even really alive. He had lost his drive. Was this really him? There were very few that would deny that Hrothbert of Bainbridge was probably the greatest sorcerer alive. His talents were renown all over Europe. When it came to charms and enchantments woven under the moonlit night he could dazzle without really making an effort. With just a little bit of effort he could alter everything around him. With a gesture of his hand and a few choice incantations he could sweep the strongest men off their very feet. And yet the empty nights stretched out before him and he was growing weary of standing alone. Somewhere deep inside of him an emptiness, besides the need to use his powers, had begun to grow. There was something out there- a longing he had never known before.

He was a master of potions and an adept for alchemy. He could summon storms and alter appearances. No wizard could match the power and force to his own incantations. But who could ever understand that the great dark sorcerer was weary of his place. And he would give it all up if he only could. There was an empty place inside of him that called out for something he did not know. And nothing could fill that void.

Hrothbert's bitterness increased. He looked around at them with cold gray eyes. And then... then he saw her.

She sat at a small wood table, completely alone. Her hair was blond. She wore a dark blue gown that looked like it had been cut from the fabric of the night itself. She was beautiful. She was more than beautiful. He could sense power in her. Hrothbert moved toward her and she smiled at him invitingly.

'Pardon me, madam, I could not help but notice you were sitting here all alone. I an Hrothbert of Bainbridge.'

His heart quickened at the very sound of her voice. 'My name is Winifred.' She leaned close and whispered to him. 'I am a sorceress.' Something about the boldness in the way she said this delighted him, made his heart race with desire.

He grinned broadly, forgetting about the warning of the High Council. Here was a rogue like himself. A woman whose power might well equal his own. A match. He might have just found his own equal but opposite half. He sat down across from her and ordered two drinks, one for himself and one for her.

She was not just beautiful and powerful. She was captivating. She was bold. And soon they were inseparable. It was no longer black magick that filled the void inside of him. She did. It seemed the darkness had been pushed away by her light. A fever had broken. And it was as if a relieving cool rain was falling. The hunger was gone.

She taught him spells he had never heard of before. And she was intrigued by all of his charms and wisdom. He felt whole with her. He was in love.

The villagers knew that the sorcerer was courting a sorceress. They did not know if this was a good thing or a bad thing. The fact was he was not paying much attention to them, which seemed good, but what would happen if those two combined their powers? What if they had a child? What would that child be like?

Either they were making dark mischief or they were walking hand in hand through the woods, smiling at each other like love sick children. There were whispers though. Winifred craved power. So did Hrothbert but some felt the sorceress was using the sorcerer. There were times when they seemed to be at a distance from each other. And it was Hrothbert showing most of the affection. Hrothbert became like a tamed puppy. He was out right sweet with her. And despite her being a sorceress her use of magick never went as dark as Hrothbert's had been before meeting her.

Hrothbert kept his darker spells a secret from her but sometimes he felt as if she must know about them. It was so hard to resist that temptation. She did not see him trembling with the need and want. She did not know how intense the desire to use black magick could be. Compared to him she was an innocent, or at least that's how he felt.

The years passed and the lovers seemed to be living a Happily ever after...

The High Council Warden whom had paid Hrothbert that long ago visit, Zabrian, had kept a watch on Hrothbert. He knew what he was doing. And the High Council patience had worn off. They had been generous and patient but now it was time to take action.

Twenty-five-years had passed and Hrothbert's hair had gone white. He was still handsome but now his long hair was tied back in a tight pony tail pulled back. He wore a long black jacket that draped like a cloak. He had on black trousers and leather boots fit for any terrain.

Winifred had been very young when they met and she was still beautiful in her late thirties. Glamour kept her looking younger than she truly was. But she did not need it. Hrothbert would always find her beautiful.

He had gifts delivered from the far east for her. She was fascinated by the far east, the legends and myths of Asia, things he knew so little about. His knowledge was based on Western magicks. He would give her anything her heart desired.

He wore rings that she had given to him which contained a little power. He never took them off.

Hrothbert felt as if he had lived his life in darkness, living in shadows. It was if he had never existed in light, never felt the warmth of the sun until he met Winifred. Suddenly everything was good and right. And in turn he reflected this feeling in how he treated those around him.

When he had been just alone as the sorcerer Hrothbert of Bainbridge it had not seemed like a sad or tragic existence. He had just figured that was his place. Now everything was different. It was as if he was bathed in warmth and light. He was under her spell but it wasn't any sort of magick that could be caused with a wand or enchantment. This was something more profound. It was love. He had lived in a world of magick and charms and he had always taken for granted that he was the only one there. But her power shown, brighten than even his own. She completely eclipsed him. There was nothing he could do about that. She had won his soul. She owned him. He belonged to her. She made him feel complete. He was drawn to her like the tide is drawn by the moon. He could feel her presence all around and within him. He surged like the ocean. He helplessly held to her.

All of Hrothbert's life he had tried so hard, doing his best with what he had before him. Nothing much had happened to change that until he met Winifred. Something about him stood apart. There was a whisper of hope that had seemed to fade... until he met her. Now he really had a chance. Everything was starting to fall into place. He felt as if with her he could over come his darker desires once and for all. He could see his past for what it was and finally, truly, let it go. For her he would swear off all dark magick.

When he had been alone sometimes he would secretly cry himself to sleep, meandering through lonely days and empty, endless nights. Now he was no longer walking through the heart of darkness. Now he had finally reached an end to the endless night. Nothing had prepared him for Winifred's smile which lit the darkness of his soul. He felt innocent in her arms. With Winifred Bob felt alive, truly alive. And he had a profound love of life so long as he was with her. He reveled in every simple experience, taste, touch, feel... everything was glorious. Even the most mundane experiences seemed magical all because of her. He loved life, especially with her, because of her. And he would not take it for granted.

Zabrian had finally gotten consent to destroy the sorcerer...

It was an autumn afternoon when Hrothbert was walking with Winfired as they often did in that time of the year to watch the changing of the leaves. The tints of gold, red and orange... Winifred and always liked those colours. They walked arm in arm until she heard the noise in the bushes. The stirring of leaves and twigs. Winifred saw the arrow before Hrothbert detected it. She did not think to use magick to stop it, she followed a more primal instinct. She followed a more profound instinct- love. She gave Hrothbert a shove out of the way. The arrow flew at such an angle that it grazed Hrothbert as he fell but it caught Winifred... Right in the chest. It pierced her heart.

Hrothbert felt his entire world shatter in that moment. It was as if the forest dissolved. He turned his head from his mortally wounded lover. He could see Zabrian crowing in the bushes with the bow. He glared at Zabrian and the ground startled to rumble. The very Earth swallowed up the warden.

The pain was too deep. There was no satisfaction in hearing Zabrian's dying scream.

Hrothbert ran to Winifred. He grabbed her in his arms. He held her cradled against himself.

'WINIFRED! No. Don't die. Please don't die on me, Winifred. Don't. Don't die. I need you. Don't go. Don't leave me. Don't.' His words seemed to drone together on him. There was too much pain for the emotion to even reach his voice. But he saw the blood in her mouth. She was dying. 'You'll be all right. You'll be all right. You'll be all right.' He repeated it like a hiccup. But no. She would not be all right. She would be dead. And she knew she was dying too. He could see it in her eyes. 'I... I'll find a way to bring you back! I won't let you die. I can't let you die. I'll bring you back somehow.'

Winifred seemed to struggle to form words. She tried to say something but no words came. She put a hand weakly to Hrothbert's cheek. and he felt her hand resting there for a moment before it dropped. She was dead.

Hrothbert was in agony. The anguish was terrible. He roared with pain and rage. It didn't even sound human. The despair was deep and it was primal. He rocked with her body against his. He wept with her in his arms. 'I love you. I'll bring you back. I'll bring you back to me...'

--

Power of the Night:

Part 3:

Shadows Calling:

The nights passed. Hrothbert was obsessed with bringing her back. He went through every grimoire he could find, studied every ritual, every charm, every spell... There had to be something, some way to bring her back. Even if he had to invent a method himself with his own dark knowledge. He had to have her back. The world was empty without her. He could not bear to be alone. You don't leap from loneliness to bliss just to exist in that same loneliness again for there est of your life! You just can't! The grief was too deep. All he could think about was Winifred. He felt no remorse at killing the warden, Zabrian. The High Council did not move against him again. Perhaps they were afraid to. Or perhaps they thought he had been dealt with. It was a fledgling society after all. Still new. Still barely organized.

Hrothbert began to experiment which required test subjects. Living test subjects to be killed and brought back. He had to perfect a process. Apparently no one in Europe had yet figured out how to raise the dead through sorcery. He had to do it. He had to invent it.

He had to do this for Winifred. He had to find a way to bring her back, body and soul. He had to make sure he would never lose her again, not ever again. How dare they take away his happiness like this! He did not even know what spells he should try. Where was Winifred? Lost in some Hell? How many disasters was he doomed to have? What is the purpose of ever trying to be a good person if it all ends like this? Winifred... The thought haunted him and hurt him. Where was she? Perhaps he was being punished because he was never as good a man as he could have been. Hell, most of his 'goodness' had been for her sake, for her approval and attention. Maybe he had been evil all along. So it didn't matter how far he descended into darkness now. All desires to help others are worthless, perhaps he never had been selfless but he loved her. Didn't everyone deserve love? And what about her? What had she done to deserve this fate? There was no point in even pretending he was a good man. He would never even try to be a decent man without her. Well, why should he? She was all that mattered.

Something had changed within him. Something was not the same. He could never go back to what he used to be. He had to trust his instincts. He could not second guess himself now. He could not abide by any magical laws, not when Winifred was at stake. And he would make The High Council pay. How he loathed them!

Captives were easy to obtain. He kept them chained in a dungeon, plucking one a night. At first he could not bring them back at all. Then the sloppy resurrections. They'd come back half conscious, or decomposing. Or they were mindless ghouls. One semi-successful resurrection craved human blood. And each effort required two villagers. One to die and be brought back, and one to be the battery. An equivalent exchange was needed. One life force for another. For each life there had to be a death.

Hrothbert had hardened his heart. He had to. Nothing else mattered but to bring Winifred back. Nothing had value without her. He needed her. It was as if everything good about him, all potential he had for being a good person- for over coming his own darkness- it had all died with her. He was lost without her. His own conscience which had just started to develop was now crushed under foot. He was lost and alone.

He could not run from what he was. He could not hide all the pain inside. When he looked at the world with his empty gray eyes the night seemed to fall and there was only darkness. He was alone and on the edge of something terrible. He felt so cold and empty inside. But he was not numb. The dull, persistent pain continued.

The world was a dark and bleak place and only he could make it right. And once he would have her back by his side he would avenge her utterly. They would rule this pathetic world together! They would change the world, destroy The High Council and it would be glorious. All that power and the world would be a better place. Surely after having experienced such a horrible death she would see things his way and agree.

The desire to use black magick had seemed like a game he could not win. The darkness had ached and torn away his strong heart. There was a fire inside that would not stop burning and it was eating at his very soul. He had descended further into darkness than he had ever gone before. He could not turn black. He had stumbled past the point of no return. The night waited in darkness for him. He had to give in and he had no reason left to resist either.

At one point Hrothbert had captured some hapless young maiden whom lost her way. Her name was Isabella. She was physically a great deal like Winifred but not enough so to wring sympathy from his heart. He stabbed this girl with a dagger. Hrothbert retrieved a captive. The prisoner was unable to cry out, rendered mute by an enchantment. This prisoner was an unpleasant farmer whom once mocked and threatened him in his youth. He used him as the power source. The spell worked. He brought Isabella back.

'How did it feel? What did you experience?' He asked rapidly. Hrothbert ignored her weeping as he forced her to describe how she felt. She had a screeching headache. And there was a pain in her chest where she had returned into herself with the painful convulsion of life. He killed Isabella a second final time.

Finally he perfected the spell. It had taken years but it did not matter. In that time he had written four more grimoires full of spells of the likes of which the world had never seen before. This time he would bring Winifred back. It would work! It would work. It just had to work. Hrothbert was like Prometheus. He had found a forbidden fire. He had stared into a black void. It was as if all of his emotions had died with Winifred. Why couldn't he feel? He wanted to feel the fires of passion again. Now it seemed that through the darkness she called to him, to make his way into darkness- to save the day or maybe destroy himself. It was probably all the same. He descended into the darkness. Where else could he turn? Let the fires burn his soul again. The torch he carried for her scorched him. He had to have her back. He had to save her. He was drawn to the darkness. He would never learn. Would he? It was an addiction and without her it was all he had. He was too far gone to care. He could not defeat his own demons. He had to see this through. No one could face the cold deep inside. He had to save her from Hell and in doing so he would save himself. He wanted her back so badly that he would risk anything and everything to do it. These endless, lonely, empty nights would finally end.

She did not want to come back...

It was warm and peaceful. There was no pain. There was no fear. There was no doubt. There was just love. The sense of peace and love. And nothing bad could ever reach her. She did not want to come back.

It was like being ripped from the womb. She tumbled down, down, down... Everything hurt. She shrieked. He had done it. He had crossed the line. She knew it. Everything hurt. That sense of peace and comfort replaced with every ache and pain of life. A body reforming. And she knew... This was worse than just coming back. His spell had worked. It had worked too well. She would never be able to go back to where she had been. He had made her something new. She was immortal! His spell had worked too well. She was now something beyond human. She would never die!

Hrothbert knew his spell had worked but something had happened. Just as she was coming back someone had transported her with magick. Where was she? Winifred looked around in a daze. Thirteen cloaked figures stood around her. She was frightened and her vision was hazy. Her eyes were only just barely reconstituted from the corpse her body had been. Everything was still refurbishing within her and it hurt.

'Where am I?' She asked in a gasp.

'You are with The High Council.' Came an older man's voice. 'Don't worry. You're safe. However, we require your assistance. It's Hrothbert of Bainbridge. He's become mad with power. Look at what he's done to you. He means to take over the world. He must be stopped. Will you help us?'

Winifred looked down at herself and asked 'What am I?'

The shrouded figures looked to each other as if reluctant to answer that question.

Hrothbert had brought her back against her will. How could this be? Didn't he know how horrible that was? It felt like something inside of her was broken from the experience. She felt hurt and betrayed.

--

Power of the Night:

Part 3:

Look out for the darkness:

Hold on to your soul:

Where was Winifred? He knew the spell had worked. He had felt it. There was no doubt in his mind. It had worked. But where was she? There was an explosion of flame behind him. The door to the tower room came crashing down. The shrouded figures poured into the room.

'WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!? How dare you!'

Hrothbert raised his arms and the blue electrical-like energy crackled at his fingertips. It shot from him, almost like lightning, hitting at least three of the wizards, throwing them backward.

'Hrothbert of Bainbridge,' One of the untouched figures called, 'You have been found guilty multiple crimes of black magick. Enthralling, mind manipulation and mind reading, transfiguration, demon summoning, the crime of murder. You have taken lives, including that of a High Council Warden, with black magick! You have tampered with the forces of life and death. You have used forbidden power to raise the dead.'

Hrothbert sneered. 'Do you really think YOU could stop me?' A heavy wind rose around him that howled like the torrent of a hurricane. candles, incense, jars and various objects around the room got lifted into the air around him. The door to the room slammed shut, blocking out several of the in-coming wizards, leaving behind five that had gripped to the walls or heavy pieces of furniture to keep their ground. His anger and self-confidence wavered for a moment.

'Where is Winifred?' The venom was gone. He sounded lost and confused. He truly did not know. They must have taken her. What had they done to her? Did they kill her just because of what he had done? He didn't know if he should fall into despair or absolute fury.

'WHERE IS SHE!?' An athames dagger with a white handle flew straight for the chest of one of these wizards. He would destroy the entire High Council for what they had done!

He did not feel it happen...

He did not have enough time to feel it. It was abrupt and the pain was only a split second though excruciating. He hadn't even sensed that someone was behind him. Whomever it was knew well how to cloak themselves from him. Hrothbert fell face down to the floor... dead.

A petite Asian woman with a dark gleam in her eyes stood over the corpse with a small axe. Mai's expression was hard. The axe had been enchanted to penetrate enchantments. And Hrothbert had taken the blow right in the back of his head.

Hrothbert felt himself rising up and out of himself. He was confused, uncertain of what was happening. No one ever really expects to die. He could see his own body far below him. He wasn't in any physical form.

Then something ensnared him. Something held him fast. He struggled, trying to push with all of his being- whatever he was- to get away. What sort of power was this? He felt a need to get away, a compulsion. He struggled but he was held tight. There was no escaping this.

It seemed like hours had passed. He almost was growing used to struggling and straining against the force that held him. His consciousness felt dim, hazy. He was vaguely aware of what was going on around him and he did not like it.

Finally the thing let him go and he felt himself tumble down and into something that made his very essence vibrate with horror at the unnatural quality of it. There was a pressure holding to him like chains.

Mai looked down coldly at her handiwork. The other wizards had stepped back. The many interlocking spells all served a similar purpose. Hrothbert's soul was trapped. The freshly carved skull sat in the centre of a low alter. The skull was now covered in markings of various symbols, sigils and runes all with the purpose of binding a soul. They were no longer in the castle. This was the High Council headquarters. The light inside of the skull darted around like a panicked fire fly.

'Let it out.' Mai said. 'I want to hear it scream.' The utter lack of feeling in her voice was enough to send chills down the spines of the other wizards, who though they did not pity Hrothbert of Bainbridge, could not help but to appreciate the extent of his punishment.

He felt like he was drifting. He vaguely knew what was going on but it was hard to string words together. Thoughts were muddled. Everything was hazy. It was hard to focus. It was like being in a dream just as waking consciousness sets in during the early morning hours. He was struggling to rouse himself. It was so difficult to keep his thoughts together. It was like being in a fog. He could not see. he could not ear. He could not taste. He could not touch. He was not even sure if he had a body. But he was aware. He could sense these things as if he did have these senses. He could sense motion, sound, colour, texture, substance, he was aware very keenly in a way that was beyond mortal senses and yet for some reason, not as good as mortal senses because they were not as precise or as distinct as mortal senses. Sure he was more aware of detail but it was not the same as feeling with actual physical form. It was something impossible to describe. It was like a dream.

Someone placed their hand against the skull's cranium and said in a commanding tone 'Hrothbert of Bainbridge, I summon you! Show yourself!'

Suddenly everything became clear! This was a nightmare. It could not be real. It was too surreal. He felt himself being tugged as if by an invisible leash that pulled at all of what he was. He jerked up and passed through his own eye socket. His own eye socket! Just hours before his own gray eyes had stared from these holes. Just a few short hours before there had been his face, his pale skin, his muscles and flesh. He had been alive. How quickly everything could change!

The orange-yellow light hovered at about eye level surrounded in a blackish smokey haze. Hrothbert darted forward, trying to get away. He could not get very far though. He managed to dart past the other wizards but he was stopped abruptly near the door to the hall in which they stood. The pressure that seemed like invisible chains held him tightly to the skull.

The Asian woman was wearing a light pink and blue kimono and hr long black hair was tied up in an intricate bun that allowed several loose strands to fall out around her youthful looking face. She was pretty.

Hrothbert concentrated. It was revolting and horrible to have to do this but he did. He focused on how he should look and he felt himself shifting just as he would if he had transformed himself into a falcon only this was something strangely easier.

He willed himself to move downward until the illusion of his feet touched the ground or at least seemed to. That was better. At least now he looked like a person. He could feel the weight of heavy manacles on each of his wrists. He looked down at them and saw the sigils that he knew to be the spokes of the third pentacle of Saturn on these bracelets. They were not mere bracelets though. With his own unreal eyes, with his senses he could feel and detect the ghostly chains that the mortals in the room could not see. They held him to the skull. His skull! The skull whose jaw now only was held in place by a crude, wire mesh hinge! Dear God! He was trapped! He was quaking. 'What have you done?' And how long must this go on?

He looked down at his hands, the nimble and graceful fingers that would never again touch the world and the manacle bracelets not so discretely hidden by the sleeves of his cloak or rather the illusion of his cloak, just as he knew the rings on his fingers were not really there either.

'Hrothbert of Bainbridge, you are hereby sentenced to being confined to your skull for all eternity. Your soul forever ensnared, forbidden to move on. You will never again effect the physical world. You are a slave to whomever possesses your skull. You are now and forever a source of magical knowledge, a tome with a voice. You are an insubstantial puff of air doomed for all time.' Mai said. 'A tool, a piece of property. This is your punishment for all time.'

Hrothbert looked as if someone had smacked him across the face. 'No. NO! No, this can't be! Where is Winifred?'

No one answered him.

'Where is she?!' Fearing the worst- and this was the worst- he lunged for Mai. He meant to throw her to the ground but he found himself passing straight through her. He recomposed himself behind her and turned around to face her as she turned to face him. 'What I did, I did out of love!'

'Love,' She said coolly 'You don't know the meaning of the word love.'

'Who are you?'

'My...' She was going to say something else but she paused. 'Mai.' She had hardened her heart. Not only had she been ripped from Heaven but she was fully aware of the horrors that her beloved had done. He must never know what she, Winifred, had become. She had to do it. She had to stop him and killing him was the only way but she could not bear to be parted from him. She could not bear to send him to Hell. He had no idea that she had saved him from his own victims, waiting on the other side. He had no way of knowing that she hoped, that perhaps, in time, he would learn from his past and reform. He had no way of knowing that the true reason he would never be released was because she could not bear to lose him forever. She resented him. She could not forgive him. ...She still loved him.

She had been in Heaven and now she felt like she was in Hell. And this grieved her because she still loved him. And she knew it though she would not admit it. He must never know the truth about what really became of her.

Hrothbert could never be told the truth of what had happened. He could never be told what really happened to his beloved Winfired. She had come from the grave and it had effected her mind to be ripped away from that peace. Why couldn't he just let her go? Didn't he know there was something better waiting for her? Everything had turned out so wrong. Didn't he know enough to know to let her go? She had been happy. She had been at peace, somewhere without pain, without sorrow and without suffering and he had robbed her of it, selfishly, for his own desires.

Now her existence would become a show with this new identity. She would play her part and never again open her heart. It was safer that way. Safer for her. Life is not perfect. Hrothbert had never accepted that. Sometimes things turn out wrong. But in the end if you make efforts to improve the world you lived in, sometimes something better waits on the other side. He had betrayed her, not just in bringing her back, but in the lives he had destroyed to do it. She had never wanted that. She would never want that. Surely he knew this.

Where she had been, there had been no pain, no fear, no uncertainty, no sorrow, no grief. And now that he had pulled her out of there it seemed that was all that was left. Peace, light and comfort replaced with darkness and grief. And it was just going to get worse, wasn't it? She had condemned Hrothbert but he had damned her. There was nothing that could make her happy now in all the world. Her lover was condemned by her own will and she was condemned to exist as this ...this thing, this drake who had ties to the other side for having had been a mortal sorceress who died. Could she ever recover from feeling this agony of knowing?

Hrothbert looked at her in utter terror. 'No! No! Mai, you can't leave me like this forever!'

'Oh, but I can.'

He was feeling dizzy. If he was mortal he would have vomited. Attached to his own skull! The head which had once been his own, once alive and whole. How could he bear this? The tools used to condemn him were still within view but he could not touch them. He was helpless.

The true horror of this experience caught up to him. He began to scream. No words, just a scream that echoed into the night.

He tried to run away. He tried to rise up and away. Forgetting to maintain his form he would transform into the light and he darted over the room as the hateful eyes of the wizards stared at him. He bounced all over, trying to pull away from his invisible bonds. All the while he was screaming in terror and rage.

He was doomed. He would forever be trapped on the opposite side of a wall. He was separate from all things living, all living sensation, just a perpetual awareness. He would never again touch a living heart. He would exist in this cold, lonely eternity. He would always be an outsider looking in on a world he could never again be a part of. He could not run from what he was. He could not hide all the pain inside.

It would go on forever. Was this to be his fate for all time? Would he ever be forgiven? Deep inside, something in Hrothbert knew that wherever Winifred was, it was her forgiveness that he needed.

Soon would come a procession of masters who would look at him as nothing more than an object or slave or someone who deserved to suffer as much as possible for all time. For some he was a slave, for others he was 'the skull' and those were just the less sadistic owners...

And so began a long, long eternity...