The three knights, now standing by ourselves, sought to follow the mysterious being that wore a black hooded robe. That black entity slowly walked afar.
These knights sneaked towards the black-robed man.
"He hath not showed himself... What shall we do?" said a knight, in a low tone.
"I know not... but thou shalt be warned..." advised another knight in warning.
"But... why?" asked the third knight in distress.
The town was left in silence, but the black-robed man wandered further.
A whispering wind blew in the knights' path.
"That black robe... hath gone afar!" witnessed the first knight.
"And thou shalt all..." paused the second knight, as the three stopped sneaking.
On his right hand wielded the second knight an arming sword, blocking the other knights' way.
That whispering wind was heard.
A shadow appears but was blurred in the fog.
"What must we do now?" asked the third knight, shivering himself and slipping on the ground.
"...RUN!" screamed the running second knight, and followed the other knights to the shadow in the fog.
Nearing the shadow, these three knights were easily exhausted, gazing the same black-robed man.
"Thou must stay here. I will carry on to this." requested the first knight.
Now wielding his arming sword, the enraged first knight shouted in rage charging fast to slash the black-robed man.
The black-robed man turned to the first knight, but his face was still concealed. He quickly grabbed his black longsword and slashed the charging man in armor.
The first knight was blown by his slash, as the black-robed man unveiled his face in hood. His face and closed lips were completely covered with gore, his eyes red, and his black hair covering his forehead and left eye.
"Who... art... thou?" asked the retreating first knight trying to get up in place, still staring at the man.
The following dawn before sunrise, outside a feudal manor, a young, jolly, barefooted squire, wearing a red brigandine and brown trousers with a sword resting in a scabbard on his leg, rode on his trotting horse.
Then came at his left a loyal feudal lord, having a wide grey mustache and a grey beard, wearing a red robe decorated with golden ornaments, a black cape, and a pair of leather boots. He had his sword in his scabbard resting on the saddle of his trotting horse.
"Draven..." called the feudal lord to the squire.
"Sire..." responded Draven.
"I owe thee a favor, kid. Thou didst a good job grooming and feeding thy fellow knights' horses. Thy friend also polished the knights' swords."
"Sire... how dost thou know these things? It is all my routine with my friend, sire."
"Ah, so thou two hast a plan without being told by thy lord."
"Aye, sire."
The feudal lord patted Draven with his right hand, appreciating his nice deed.
"I will count on thee, Draven. An example of a future noble knight." praised he.
"And I will thank thee for that, sire." replied Draven.
As both horses trotted in the town, lots of shops were seen, with few shopkeepers in. Seeing a shop of fruits, two shopkeepers were bidden by Draven. One of the shopkeepers was a flat-chested, green-haired, light-skinned, blue-eyed young girl. She wore a beige dress and carried a small basket of apples in their shop.
Draven stopped at the shop of fruits and met the young shopkeeper.
"Good morning, sire. Is there anything I can do for thee?" asked that shopkeeper.
"Let me buy three lemons." answered Draven.
"One lemon costs three gold coins, sire."
"No problem, dame."
Draven grabbed his bag of coins passed it to the young shopkeeper. The young shopkeeper grabbed nine coins from his bag. Another shopkeeper grabbed an empty leather bag and placed the three lemons in.
"Lorraine, kindly pass this bag to that squire." requested the second shopkeeper.
"Lorraine?" wondered Draven.
"Excuse me, sire. Thy bag of gold is in our shop. Also, here came thy order, three lemons." said Lorraine the young shopkeeper as she handed two bags, one containing Draven's gold and the other one containing three lemons.
"And excuse me, dame. Who is Lorraine?" asked Draven.
"It is I, Lorraine. Thou canst call me Raine for short." answered she.
"And I am Draven. Nice to meet thee, dame."
"Same for thee, sire." said she with a smile on her face.
Draven left the shop of fruits as Lorraine went back in. The feudal lord followed Draven but stopped at that shop.
"Good morning, His Majesty. Is there anything I can do for thee?" greeted Lorraine.
"Hmmm... what about thy apples? How much?" asked the long-haired feudal lord.
"One apple costs two gold coins, His Majesty."
"Well, ten apples for me. Wait... let me hand over my gold bag unto thee."
"Sure."
Still riding on his horse, Draven stopped at a closed church. He dismounted from his horse and slowly walked to its door. With him lightly pushing two doors, they opened slowly. Inside, thin rays of sunlight shone on the chandeliers, pulpits, lecterns, and church chairs with kneelers. In front of the priest's table, flowers and saint statues; there came a winged shadow standing in front of him.
The winged shadow spread his wings, but Draven remained standing erect.
"Art thou an angel?" said he, as he encountered the swinging chandeliers.
The winged shadow charged to Draven, colliding with him which made him blown out of the church to his horse.
The squire tried to get up in place while hearing a weird, somber, slow screech from the winged shadow.
"It is obvious." said the winged shadow.
"If so... then... who art thou?" asked Draven, shivering with his bent legs vibrating. Draven froze and was now wet with his sweat.
"Zen." responded the dark angel.
"Zen please... try to hurt me not... try to harm my fellowmen not... please... I am begging thee..."
Draven, still staring the fallen angel Zen, slowly grabbed his sword from the scabbard. Wielding it, he pointed it to the fallen angel, which was coming closer.
"Zen... if thou dost this..." said he, with his right arm vibrating with his sword.
The sword pierced below Zen's ribs and above his abdomen. Still, the fallen angel came closer. With his hands, Zen grabbed Draven's sword, as blood slowly flowed out his stomach. The apex came out from his back and blood flowed out of it.
Draven was forced to release his sword, as Zen forcefully pushed its handle out from his body.
The sword was dropped, with blood stained on it.
"I... will... hurt... them... not..." promised Zen.
Draven sighed in relief, but slowly picked up his blood-stained sword.
"And thy name is..." asked the fallen angel.
"Draven..." answered the young squire, still breathing heavily.
"Worry not, young guy. I can be a human, just likest thee." pleaded Zen, with his wings slowly fading as their feathers slowly falling like leaves.
Then came a black-haired, light-skinned young guy wearing a black brigandine and a black trousers. His brigandine, however, was blood-stained.
"Zen..." wondered Draven.
"It is still me." said Zen, covering the part stained with blood with his right hand. "Now tell them not... that I am... a fallen angel... I am begging thee... thou shalt not do it... It's only betwixt us two... and whoever thy friends loyal to thee... Now I... will leave. Farewell..."
Zen slowly disappeared like a vanishing spirit. Draven was left speechless, witnessing a pile of black feathers in front of the church.
Sighing, Draven was forced to grab a long broom from a workshop and cleaned this mess.
"Hey, thou must ask a permission!" shouted the broom maker.
"I am so sorry, this church needeth to be cleaned!" replied Draven.
Raine, witnessing the black pile of feathers, rushed to sweep using her broom from her shop.
"Sir Draven!" said she.
Draven turned his head to Raine, who was running into him.
"May I help thee?" asked Raine.
"Aye. Thou canst." replied Draven.
As both swept the black pile of feathers, other peasants grabbed their own brooms and helped.
"It is alright, my fellowmen. Just kindly help us." requested Raine.
"Agreed. We cannot leave thee behind." said one of the peasants.
"Aye. One can rely not only his self, but also his fellowmen and God!" said another one.
"No regrets, no grievances!" added the third one.
Draven, Raine, and the witnessing peasants cleaned up the alley where the church was. A priest wearing in black robe, having a very short grey hair close to being bald, with grey mustaches and beards and having a pastoral staff on his left hand, slowly walked to the church as the peasants willingly kissed his right hand or put it on their foreheads.
"May God bless thee..." said the priest.
"Good morning, Father." greeted the peasants.
"A pleasant morning to all." replied the priest.
Carrying bags of feathers, the peasants transferred them to a wagon.
"So, I will leave the rest to thee, my fellowmen. I have a quest to finish, and lo, there came my master." said Draven.
"Thy master? Let me guess, Lord Sol?" said a peasant.
"Aye. Lord Sol, the feudal lord of this fief. Three knights were his vassals."
"Thou knowest, Sire Draven, we want thee to be one of the vassals, one of the knights."
"Well, I can not, I am still young."
The feudal lord, who was Sol, came again to Draven on horseback.
"Draven, what was that?" said he.
"Canst thou make this Sire Draven a knight? Look, many peasants are loyal to him, even to the priests, fellow knights, and even to the lords." requested the peasant.
"And even to God." added another peasant.
"I am sure of this, too, but we need more time. As he saith, he is still young. Full-fledged knights came at their twenty-first year. As in his age, he is a squire." replied Sol.
"My brothers and sisters, thou hast to wait for the right time to come. There is always time for everything." added the priest.
"Well I shall go now. There is a quest I have to get done." bade Draven, now mounting on horseback and letting his horse gallop.
"Draven!" shouted Sol, following him where he went.