Chapter Nine: The Three Riders

Preoccupied without you, I cannot live at all

My whole wide world surrounds you

I stumble then I crawl

And you could be my someone,

you could be my scene

You know that I will save you from

all of the obscene

I wonder what you're doing

I wonder where you are

There's oceans here between us

And that's not very far!

From "Blurry" by Puddle of Mudd

The white rider moved so far ahead of Wendell and Mordred that they had to struggle to keep up with him. Every time one of them stopped to ask him a question, he would just stare and say nothing. He just seemed to look through them as though he could see through their souls.

Wendell and Mordred followed the rider down a long hill and through a very narrow rocky ledge. Suddenly he dismounted in front of a small lake. He made a motion for the two to do the same.

Wendell and Mordred jumped off their horses. "I like your sparkling conversation," Mordred said smartly to the man as he stood next to him.

"Mordred hush," Wendell commanded him.

They walked forward until the man bade them to stop. "This is getting ridiculous," Mordred mouthed to the king through clenched teeth.

"We have no other choice," Wendell mouthed back.

"I do," Mordred answered going back to his horse and preparing to remount. "I'm leaving!"

"Stop son of Arthur Pendragon," a clear wispy voice called. The men looked at the White Rider.

"I'm sorry did you just say something?" Mordred asked.

"I did," the White Rider replied. "You seek the advice of the witch Baba Yagga for your kingdom." He turned to Wendell who nodded. "And for your soul." He turned to Mordred who tried not to reveal his astonishment.

Wendell stood closer to the man. "Yes that's true. Do you know the way to her house?"

The White Rider nodded. "Indeed I do, but to get through that way you must cross the paths brought on by myself and my two brothers and to see things that you do and do not want to see. Men and women have been driven to death and madness from seeing these things. Are you willing to take that risk?"

Wendell and Mordred looked at each other with fear and determination in their eyes. "We have been warned about the dangers of the Black Forest," Wendell replied. "We are ready." He looked to Mordred who nodded in a more reproachful manner.

"Both of you must sit here," the White Rider motioned for them to sit on the banks of the pond. " I represent the morning of all lives and you must listen and look at what had gone before you in your past to know what lies ahead of you in your future. Will you agree to this?"

Mordred and Wendell glanced at each other and they nodded. The White Rider moved aside and bade them to sit. At first Wendell couldn't see or hear anything, but then looked inside the lake at his reflection in the water. Instead of his own face bobbing in the water he could see a familiar scene and relived it as he had countless times througout his life:

Prince Wendell and his father, King Whitney stood in front of his mother's coffin. Her funeral was a stately affair with many people in attendance. Many of the Fourth Kingdom residents knelt down to kiss her coffin to pay their respects. Whitney stood in somber silence, his head low, holding his son's hand. Wendell stood next to his father his vision being blurred by the tears that he stubbornly refused to let fall. The only thought in his head was that Queen Ashley, his mother with the soft red hair that Wendell would gently tug as a child, the woman who would sing lullabies to him in such a soft pleasant voice, his mother was no more.

Wendell looked up to see someone touch his hand and then King Whitney's hand. It was Nanny Christine. "I must offer my condolences," she said. "I cannot help but feel partly responsible."

"You are partly responsible", Wendell muttered to himself recalling how he once caught her pouring something in his mother's drink.

"Wendell hush," Whitney commanded. "Thank you Nanny Christine, you have been wonderful throughout my wife's illness."

Christine took Whitney's hand and held it even tighter and pulled closer to embrace the king and prince. Their closeness made Wendell wince with pain. Whitney cleared his throat. "Christine, please." He moved away.

"I understand sire," she said. "I have been rather forward." She then moved away, but throughout the rest of the funeral Wendell kept his eyes on his nanny. The prince was torn between his grief over his mother's death and his growing suspicions about Christine...

...Wendell sat on his bed crossing his arms in defiance listening to his father's announcement that he was getting remarried.

"Father you can't get married to Nanny Christine," Wendell protested. "She's- I hate her!"

"Wendell," Whitney wearily replied. "You are fourteen years old, act like it!" Wendell looked hurt by his father's comments. King Whitney sighed. "I'm sorry, Wendy, I'm just very tired tonight and am not feeling well. But I do love Christine. She has been like a second mother to you and has been a wonderful companion to me. I am not trying to replace your mother. I have spent seven years grieving for her, and in some ways Christine has filled that void left by her death. Do you understand? Now what is wrong with her?"

Wendell gulped. His suspicions had never really died but he never caught Christine doing anything wrong, but she always seemed so fake. Whenever she complimented anyone, the prince could catch the hardness in her eyes like she was lying through her teeth. Would his father believe him if he accused Christine without any hard evidence? And plus he did seem so happy with her, maybe it was just his imagination playing suspicions with his mind. "Nothing," Wendell grumbled. "I just don't like her."

"I am not like either of your great grandfathers, Wendell. You know I would never bring anything or anyone in this palace that would harm you or the kingdom," Whitney explained. "I trust Christine, and so should you."

Wendell sighed and unfolded his arms. "Alright. I trust her." He embraced his father as the two bade goodnight to each other, but Wendell silently vowed to continue keeping his eye on his new future stepmother...

... A scream woke Wendell up from his slumber. He had a restless night because of a slight fever, and this aroused him. He opened the door to his bedroom to see Lord Rupert running through the hallway. "Queen Christine, I have news!" Queen Christine was seated in the throne room and came in the hallway upon hearing Lord Rupert's cry.

"What is the matter, you fool, my husband is resting!" She commanded. "Need I remind you that he is ill?"

Lord Rupert stammered his face pale and Wendell could see that there was something wrong. "That is it your Majesty, your husband the king is dead."

Christine put her hands on her face and gasped. "Oh no, it cannot be."

As for Wendell he began to hyperventilate, his heartbeat coming fast. This can't be true? His father can't be dead. He was waiting for Lord Rupert to turn around and laugh telling him that it was a joke.

"No!" Wendell yelled. He ran down the stairs and ran to Christine. He knew he saw her pouring his drink, just as he had seen her do to his mother's seven years ago. "You are the cause of all this! You murderer!"

Christine laughed. "He is exciteable because of his father. Understandable, he must return to his bed!" At first Lord Rupert wouldn't move. "I am now the ruler and you will obey me!" Then her tone softened. "Never mind, Lord Rupert, I will take him to bed and then I will see to my husband."

She then grabbed Wendell by the arm. "I will forgive you for your accusation, Wendell since it was the words of a grief stricken prince, but watch what you say."

She led Wendell into his room and offered him his nightly cocoa that had been by his bed. "Now drink." When Wendell refused, she continued. "How could I have poisoned it? It's been here the whole time."

Wendell shrugged and then drank. He felt sleepy and curled up on the bed as he slept he could hear Chrisitne's voice speaking to him. "Oh Wendell if you had been able to warn your father before we married, but you couldn't could you? His death is now on your head, but the only comfort is that you won't live to feel guilty." Wendell was only conscious of the candles being dimmed as he slept...

... Mordred stood in the battlefield. All around him were the sounds of men fighting and dying. Though he fought earlier, he was not fighting now. He leaned against the tree looking at the king in his gold armour. He remembered when he first became face to face with King Arthur, his father, to tell him of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guenivere's affair. He had never seen him before then, but had heard that he was magnificent in appearance, though young one could see him as a powerful king. . Despite his initial hatred, Mordred would have to agree. Arthur did seem brave, handsome, heroic all of the stuff that most men would depend on. Mordred hated that about him, but Mordred also felt impressed. Was he really hurt when his father asked who the devil he was? He remembered his flippent answers, "Eloquently put who the devil indeed? I am hurt in my heart, not my most vulnerable spot." Was he truly hurt that his father would not acknowledge him? It did not matter now he had a job to do and he was here to do it, to destroy Arthur: Auntie Mab wanted him destroyed and he would do it.

Arthur approached him, his famous sword Excalibur in his hand. "Mordred." He greeted him with the fierceness of a trained warrior.

Mordred returned the greeting. "Father," he said appreciating the irony.

"It's time to end this," Arthur said wearily and was that a touch of regret? No Mordred didn't want to think about that.

"We agree on that point at least," Mordred said sarcastically. "You know had you lived, I don't think we would have ever truly been happy." Better to think what was not and never will be. Better instead to fight to the finish.

The two fought axe to sword. Arthur pushed Mordred forward and in the confusion, Mordred could feel the back of his own axe buried into his chest. Mordred screamed as he felt his blood pouring out of his body. He looked up at Arthur. The king could barely be seen through Mordred's black helmet. He removed it so he could look one more time at his father through his own eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mordred," Arthur said. For a half second Mordred was stunned. After all of this, King Arthur still felt sorrow at what he would do? After Mordred started a revolution, and had Arthur's wife nearly burned? He could still forgive him? Mordred knew he had to continue before he let the realization sink in that was killing not only a good king but his own father.

Maybe he could appeal to Arthur's own guilt. "Tut, tut Father another sin," he mocked. "You would kill your own son." King Arthur's eyes softened and his hand stayed. Mordred could see regret in the older man's face and pity, and was that forgiveness?

No, Mordred thought to himself, do it now! He couldn't feel remorse about this. This was the moment he had prepared his whole life for being told either by his aunt or his mother every night before he went to bed how evil King Arthur was. Being taught to fight picturing each person that he slaughtered was King Arthur. He was a creature without pity or emotion Mab had seen to that, well Mab and his mother and in some ways his father. He was destined to kill Arthur and he would do it. Without another thought he plunged his sword into his father's chest.

Arthur drew back and instantely pushed Excalibur through Mordred's chest. As he fell, Mordred should have been happy that his job was complete but he felt nothing. Not sorrow, not regret at his own life slipping away, not jubilation at his mission complete, not remorse over Arthur's death. He felt nothing but darkness...

Wendell woke up suddenlly. "I should have told him!" he said. "I let my father die! I wanted to, but he wouldn't listen! I should have made him!"

At that exact moment Mordred woke up. "He could have saved me and I killed him!"

Wendell looked around. He was not in Castle White hearing about his father's death and being poisoned by his stepmother. He was now in the Black Woods, hearing the sounds of morning larks and the wind blowing through the branches with the White Rider looking over at them, his face impassive and nonchalant.

Mordred also seemed to adjust to reality, but Wendell noticed that he kept looking down at his hands and chest as if still seeing the blood on them.He even seemed to rub his hands, as though he were washing the imaginary blood away. He caught his breath slowly and rapidly. "Why have you done that?" he hissed to the Rider.

"I?" The White Rider replied. "I did nothing, you did."

Wendell had no answer and Mordred was shaking. "You will find my brother-"

"-What makes you think that we would want to see your brother?" Mordred said slowly. Wendell glowered at the Rider but considered it tactful to remain silent.

"Without seeing both of my brothers you will never see Baba Yagga," The Rider smartly replied. "To find my older brother, you two must go into the clearing in the forest and you will find him."

He then disappeared into the breeze, his voice still echoing on the wind.

Mordred and Wendell rose to the clearing path that the White Rider pointed out. They dismounted to walk a little closer. Neither one of them would speak of the events that they had witnessed, but they weren't far from their minds.

In his mind, Wendell saw the deaths of his mother and father by his stepmother, and how he couldn't help. Why did he let them die? Did he? Could he have warned them? Would it matter, now that they were dead? What kind of son and king did that make Wendell to think that way?

He rubbed his head in annoyance.

He looked at Mordred. The knight was muttering to himself most of which Wendell did not understand but he caught words like "murderer", "Betrayer," and "Father." He held his sword tightly as if anticipating an enemy. Wendell couldn't imagine what Mordred saw, but knew that it must have been awful. Wendell gently touched the other man's shoulder as if to give him a sign that he wasn't alone. Mordred drew back as though he were bitten by a snake. He glanced at Wendell, his eyes were glazed over and dilated. He snarled at the king, but then turned back not saying anything else.

The king and knight walked to the clearing without too much trouble. Considering all that they had been through, neither was surprised to see a rider mounted on a horse. Unlike the White Rider, this one was decked out in red. He wore red armour from head to toe and was mounted on a flaming scarlet horse. He removed his helmet to reveal his long waist length auburn hair and eyes that were like flaming embers. He carried a sword that blew in flames in one hand and carried a gold goblet in his hand.

"Welcome King Wendell White and Mordred, Son of Arthur Pendragon," The Red Rider greeted in a low warm voice. "You wish to seek answers."

"What must be done?" Wendell asked. Secretly, he was afraid to find out what would happen but he knew that they had to be done.

The Red Rider held his goblet in front of him. Closer the two men saw it had a dark red liquid inside. "I represent the day in the lives of all men and women and you must hear and see yourself as you are now to see into your future. Are you willing to take that risk?"

Wendell looked to Mordred. He looked as though he hadn't heard the Red Rider's words. "I will but I don't think that he is well enough to make that decision."

"I can speak for myself," Mordred interrupted, his voice hoarse and quiet. "I am willing."

The Red Rider then handed them the drink. "Drink this and you shall see and learn."

Mordred hesitated, but took the drink. It felt hot like pure fire falling down his throat. He held it open for Wendell who drank after him. The king gagged and Mordred could tell that he looked just as sick as Mordred felt. Mordred tried to take another step, but he felt dizzy and faint. The world seemed to spin around him and he struggled to keep balance but the ground closed in on him as he fell...

... Mordred woke to find himself surrounded by the same walls that he saw through most of his eternal existance. He groaned, back in the Underworld. Was his escape into the 9 Kingdoms just a dream then? A distraction to keep his mind occupied from the long centuries of torture? Golden eyes peered out at him from every corner boring into his soul and accusing him. He turned from them putting his hands over his eyes. As he did so, he noticed that his wrists were no longer bound by the chains. He laughed and looked down at his ankles, they were free as well. He laughed and stood ready to walk away from this prison. As he walked he heard a distinct sound almost like a raven's cawing. Mordred tried to ignore it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it sounded like it was calling his name. "Dread!" It cried. "More dread! Mordred! Murder! More dread!" It cawed. Mordred clenched his hands into fists ready to fight the words off as he could hear the birds getting closer, but the sounds multiplied. A flock of birds flew down at him crowding around him each one calling his name with those accusations. "More dread! Murderer! More dread!" Mordred fought them off with his fists struggling as the birds crowded around him almost devouring him with those words.

Mordred could see an opening as he pushed the birds away from him. The knight covered his ears and shut his eyes from the accusations and ran to a far off tunnel to get away from the words. Not caring where he was going, he lost his footing and fell screaming into a hole below...

... Wendell found himself floating in the air. His body felt light like there was no weight at all to it.

He looked down below to see the villages flying by from under him. He recognized them as those from the Fourth Kingdom. He suddenly heard his name being called on the currents of wind. He then felt weight returning to him as he landed in a burning village.

The chaos was enormous! He was in Beantown, but things were hardly from their usual bust productive selves. People were running down the streets as their homes and shops caught on fire. Mountain Trolls killed people with their axes and grabbed others throwing them in their carts.

Wendell winced at the scene, but then grabbed his sword ready for action.

All of a sudden his eyes were focused on a young man and woman who were trying their best to fight off their intruders. ."Why doesn't King Wendell protect us?" she asked.

The man scoffed. "Can't you see? He turned coward and ran!"

Wendell shook his head. "No, it's not true! I would never do that!" But the people couldn't hear him.

"You speak treason!" the woman accused.

"I speak truth," the man replied. "When Relish the Troll King attacked our villages three years ago, where was he? Nowhere to be found!"

"But he returned with his head," the woman reminded him.

"No, that was a trick remember?" he said. "He was no good for us then and he is no good for us now. He is nothing but a shadow of a king!"

"He could be dead," the woman yelled.

"If he is not we should call for a regime change anything would be better than King Wendell the Witless!" The couple moved further along until they could not be seen.

"That's not true!" Wendell stammered. He reached to attack the young man to shake him and make him see that he really did care for his people, but his body floated through the non responsive couple and he fell to the ground.

"I should be here," Wendell muttered. "I should have helped them." He tried to rise but no one could see him. He fell once more feeling the flames gather around him...

...Every bone in Mordred's body felt like it was broken. A boot stood in front of him. Mordred reached out to touch it and see whom it belonged to. He looked up the person's body and red and gold uniform and found himself face to face with King Arthur. "Father," Mordred spat.

"You are not worthy to address me as that," Arthur said icily. Mordred stood up to look his father in the eyes. He looked cold and emotionless, nothing like how he remembered.

Arthur grabbed him by the arm and squeezed it so tightly that Mordred thought that he would break it. The young knight winced in pain. "My son, my murderer, my bane," he whispered in his ear. "My monster!"

Mordred pulled himself from his father's grasp. "You are hardly one to speak of morals, an adulterer who slept with his own sister and allowed Guenivere her menage a trois!"

"Yes but my sin did not have me marked for all eternity, instead it created our destruction! Yours is remembered," Arthur said. " I should have ordered you killed at birth, a creature without feeling or pity!"

"Then why didn't you?" Mordred asked. The king drew back and Mordred realized what was going on. "You're not my father!"

The spirit transformed into the image of Mordred's mother, Morgan Le Fey. "No, I am a demon," she said. "I am your evil all of the evil that you have done and will do!"

"It matters little to me," Mordred replied but even he could not convince himself of that.

The spirit transformed again, this time in the image of Frick. All around him, Mordred could see demons closing in on them through the walls. "Oh it doesn't? Why don't you see for yourself?"

Mordred suddenly found himself in front of a familiar cliff. It was Tintagel Castle, his mother's home in Cornwall but it was not Tintagel Castle anymore. Where once stood a beautiful castle replete with spleandour and elegance, now was a shell with nothing but walls. He could see a group of people surrrounding the castle. They held glossy booklets and strange objects that flashed. Mordred was blinded by the flashes. An overweight woman stood at the front and pointed at the castle. "This is the famous Tintagel Castle where Arthur was conceived during the famous one night stand between his mother, Igraine and father Uther Pendragon. It was rumoured to also be the home of his sister, Morgan Le Fey and her son, Mordred. Mordred as many of you know I'm sure was evil personified! Born of an incestuous union, his whole destiny was to kill his own father. There were even rumours that Mordred was not the son of King Arthur, but instead the son of a demon."

"That is not true!" Mordred objected but no one could hear him.

"He certainly acted like it," one of the tourists replied and the other tourists laughed. Mordred mimicked their laughter.

The tout guide nodded. "At the very least even if he wasn't a monster he certainly behaved as one. He tried to take over Camelot during his father's absence and wed his father's wife, Guenivere. Remember this was a time when marrying one's stepmother was considered incest. This fact proves his evil. Every move and aspect of his life detailed his evil nature. It was even believed that Sir Thomas Malary supported Arthur's decision to have Mordred killed at birth, and his only flaw was not making sure that the job was complete!"

"You are a lier," Mordred screamed at the woman. He had heard this version of the story in the Underworld before and even though he laughed at it then, now it bothered him. This is what people said about him, what was he? Next to him, his personal demon took the form of King Wendell . It laughed and whispered mockingly in his ear, "Die, dear Auntie Mab it is the last thing that I shall ever do." ...

... Wendell returned to reality seeing the Black Forest all around him. He still recalled the images that he saw. After he left Beantown, he astral traveled to Kissing Town, Little Lamb Village, even the villages near the castle were under attack and everywhere he went he could hear people calling his name. Many cried out for him to save them to help them in their time of need. But some cursed his name and many words were less kind than the young man in Beantown. Some called him "incompetent ruler" "cruel dictator," "and an insult to the true name of White." A small group was even ready to march to Castle White and order Wendell to be disposed and would have done it if they hadn't been captured by a Mountain Troll. Wendell fell his hands and knees on the ground and caught his breath. Was it true? Was he fit to rule? He thought of his beloved grandmother, Snow White. She told him that he would make a good ruler someday. What did she know? Would she have ever left her people in such a mess?

Mordred woke up also recalling the images and voices in his head. After he left the tour group at Tintagel, he could hear his name everywhere. In a high school classroom a teacher was explaining to her students that Mordred "was created to bring dissenssion to Camelot." A priest was telling his flock about the "spawns of the devil throughout time" including Adolf HItler, Judas Iscariot, and Mordred himself. The image that hurt worst was the one he could never forget: He saw his mother Morgan Le Fey in a white gown talking with another woman he knew to be Virginia Wolf. How she got here, he did not ask, but he did hear what she said: "I can't think of my son with any sort of affection. What kind of mother would feel that way about her son, the only child she would ever have?" Mordred felt cold and alone upon hearing those words.

It was like when he was in the Underworld hearing his name. Before he had gotten used to it, why did it effect him now? Because he saw and heard what people said? Was it because that he had been away from the underworld for so long that he had forgotten what it was like? Or were they finally starting to get to him, now that he had no defense? The demons closed in around him always surrounding him.

Mordred looked around the forest. He could see the demons even now! They were in the trees and in the ground! The trees contained the eyes that always seemed to follow him and accuse him! From far away he could hear the birds chanting once again his name, "More dread! More dread! Murder!"

"I will end this!" Mordred yelled at the demons swirling around him. He raised his sword and ran.

Wendell turned to his companion. He couldn't see or hear anything apart from the usual sounds of the forest. "Mordred where are you going?" He followed Mordred further into the forest away from the Red Rider and into the approaching night.

Mordred dashed through the forest. Everywhere around him he could hear the voices of accusation from the sounds of the bird's. He could see the eyes burning into him from the trees and all around him he could feel the presence of the demon's from the Underworld. He wanted to fight them off, but they were overpowering, it was as if the entire Earth declared him guilty. Mordred covered his ears and shut his eyes, but still the accusations were all around him! "No!" he screamed. He felt someone fall into him and tackle him to the ground.

Wendell kept a grip on the knight. Mordred struggled in Wendell's grasp as he maintained his control on him. "Mordred, there isn't anything there," Wendell said. "It's all in your mind."

"There all around me," Mordred said quickly throwing Wendell to the ground until he was on top of him. "They come to me as my enemies, even you! I will silence you, I will silence all of you!"

Wendell once again knocked him down keeping his grip on him and holding him by the wrists. "I am not your enemy, Mordred and I will not be silenced!"

Mordred seemed to struggle and come back to life. He breathed a bit and seemed to calm down, perhaps more out of exhaustion than any acceptance of reality. The fiery look in his eyes seemed to calm down to a slower resilience and languidness. "I am in control now," he said. "Thank you."

Realizing that Mordred was better, Wendell removed his grip on him. "I wonder where the third rider is," Wendell said aloud. And whether you should follow him, Wendell thought glancing at his companion. It was clear that Mordred was teetering on the edge of madness. If he had another scare he may lose his mind completely. Wendell wondered how much longer he could handle these visions himself.

Suddenly Wendell heard a sound like a horse's snort and he could see the four legs of a black horse. Mordred saw it too and the two followed the trail of an ebony horse all the way up to its rider. He was dressed in black armour and carried a black lance. He removed his helmet to reveal raven colored locks that trailed down to his waist and dark eyes that glittered in the moonlight.

"You have made it past my brothers," The Black Rider spoke in a low threatening voice. "You have one more test before you reach the Baba Yagga through me. You wish to turn back."

Mordred did not speak, but Wendell thought about it. "I cannot."

The Black Rider nodded. "Very well then. Through me, you will see your night as all men and women do. You will see what you will become." He pointed at a small cave that one would have to crouch down to get inside. "Go through there and you will know what lies in store for you. I will then lead you to Baba Yagga."

Wendell slowly rose and looked inside the cave. The wind howled inside seemed to warn them away, but the king gathered up his courage and prepared to head for the cave. Mordred rose and seemed to lose his balance, but he too walked inside following the king into the cave.

The cave practically glittered with the crystals that emanated from the walls. The stalagtites and stalagmites glowed with an eerie iridescent green and blue light. As Wendell and Mordred walked into the cave, they could see their images reflected from the cave walls. Wendell's reflection at first just seemed to imitate the king's movements moving from wall to wall. Mordred appeared to follow close behind him warily, then stopped. Suddenly, the scene changed and the reflections of Wendell and Mordred were in the Black Forest. Wendell looked behind him to make sure that Mordred was still close by, even calling his name. Mordred raised his sword and grabbed Wendell by the wrist throwing him against a tree. Though neither of them could hear what was said in the reflections, Wendell's face at first showed fear and confusion, as Mordred argued with him. Wendell's mouth did not move and he stood silent and at attention his mouth opening once as Mordred ran the sword through the king's stomach. The king convulsed and then lowered his head and remained still.

The next scene showed King Wendell's funeral. It was a modest affair with only a few mourners in attendance, not the stately affair that both his parent's funerals were. A priest spoke for a very short time, then Wendell was buried unceremoniously in an unmarked grave. The next scene showed Wendell's courtiers signing a contract which gave sovereignty to the remaining kingdoms.

The next scene showed Mordred on a battlefield hacking creatures left and right, his sword bloody from the many battles. He staggered through the dead bodies, his face twisted and full of hatred. His body seemed to be weighted by his deeds, as he stumbled forward. He walked until he was alone in a field. He looked down at his bloody sword and the blood that fell on his hands. Mordred then fell to his knees to the ground below.

"Noo!" Mordred yelled. He collapsed to the ground of the cave. Wendell also sprang back to life, and put his hand on Mordred's shoulder. The former knight was shivering uncontrollably and began to rock back and forth. He kept muttering "The monster brings dread," over and over. Wendell gently held Mordred up by the shoulders and led him out of the cave.

True to his word, The Black Rider waited outside for him. As soon as they were outside, Wendell let go of Mordred who fell onto the ground. He hugged his knees and rocked back and forth in a slow manner. "The bane and the son are one and the same," he said slowly as if unaware of the other's presence. "He brings death. He always has always will. All of the Earth sees him."

Wendell knelt down next to his companion. Mordred's eyes were completely dilated and he had a blank stare as though he was unaware of the world. His hair was in a tangle and his face was like death.

"You know what you have seen," The Black Rider asked. "You knew before."

Wendell nodded. "I have had that same dream for weeks before these events happened."

The Black Rider smirked. "And you still travel with him."

"I had no choice," Wendell answered.

"You do have a choice," The Black Rider said. "And you made it. Some run from preceived death others choose not to run from it."

"I wonder if I made the right one," Wendell said. Mordred stopped rocking and sat still and nonresponsive. "Why does this not affect him the same way that it does me? Why is it so difficult for him?"

"He will not allow himself to feel remorse," The Black Rider replied. "Yet he is troubled by who and what he is for the first time he is becoming aware."

Wendell shuddered remembering the people's words about him and his unmarked grave. "Is this really what we are and what we will become?"

"It remains for you to decide, Wendell White," The Black Rider answered. "Baba Yagga's house is down that road."

"Thank you," Wendell said. Just then the Black Rider disappeared into the wind.

It was on the tip of Wendell's tongue to go ahead and make the trip to Baba Yagga, but he knew Mordred would never be able to make the journey. He was under no condition to travel again for the night. Wendell lay Mordred down in the grass, he then looked at the trees and felt for a strong vine. They appeared strong enough to hold Mordred at least for the night anyway. Wendell bound his companion by the wrists and ankles. "It will keep you from harming others or yourself."

"The only way to stop me is to stop me forever," Mordred mumbled. He then fell to the ground and rested.

Wendell removed his jacket and placed it on the body of the shivering man. "The Earth hates me, all who know me hate me, but why are you doing this?"

Wendell thought. Was he doing this for the hope that Mordred wouldn't kill him? He couldn't convince himself of that nor could he convince himseld that he was doing this because Mordred saved his life by the river or to clear his own name. Right now did any of that matter except what comfort he could give to Mordred? He thought and then recalled Henry V. Virginia once surprised him with a collection of plays by the Tenth Kingdom author, William Shakespeare. Wendell was instantely transfixed in the worlds and conflicts of the nobles, and royalty of the plays, he even had a 9 Kingdoms troupe perform the plays on a regular basis. One of his favorites were Henry IV and V, because he related to the tale of Prince Hal, a young spoiled prince thrust into kinghood at an early age and was always tested to prove himself.

He knew of only one thing that he could say to Mordred that might give him comfort, "We few we happy few, we band of brothers/For he who sheds his blood with me today shall be my brother."

Mordred stopped twitching long enough for Wendell to be convinced that he was asleep. He then lay next to him but even though he was exhausted the images filtered through his mind making his sleep a very troubled and fitful one.