Author's Note: Yeah, I know it's been awhile, but I've been very busy. This is somewhat on the backburner because I'm trying to finish another story up before I devote myself to this one. That said, I hope you enjoy the chapter. If you like to review, that would be greatly appreciated. Happy holidays to all.

1584- A Village in England

It is said that men fear what they don't know, but is it not equally true that men fear that which is known to them …

A somber deed it had been, but one necessary for the ambition consuming him to reach the places it sought. "You'll never be rid of me," she cackled. "Never, never, never…" The sword so proudly displayed atop her mantle was his; its sheath hung from the belt around his waist. Did her blood still stain his hands? He had thought he had cleansed the foul substance from his palms at the running creek just her hut , but the feel, it… he still felt it. He would always feel it, like he would always hear her voice, with that honey smooth calmness and the false sincerity, whispering and whispering the fate and fortunes of those still to come, of a warrior that would avenge her… of a warrior….

He looked over his should back to the where smoke still poured from the ashen remains of his childhood. Henry, son of an unnamed soldier and a woman who died in childbirth, left to the witch that had assisted his dead mother give birth, had died last night. Today was the birth of one with a new name and new life. Today was both the birth and christening of The Great Bartholomew of Sandwich. Bartholomew of Sandwich was an orphan, like Henry, but he had been left to an abbey. The visions he would claim as his own, he would say came from God; whereas, the ones the witch had had were from the depths of hell, for she was the wife of the Devil.

If he said God gave him the visions, the eight hundred he wanted would follow him down to the underground land the witch had spoken of to him in the hushed evenings as she cooked their simple meal of stew and bread. He'd burn like her if he spoke the truth. "You understand nothing. Not all magic is evil, foolish child."

The sheathed sword felt heavier than it had looked upon her mantle. His hands still felt slick with blood. He told himself he had ended her suffering. Where he had been quick in the deed, the village would've slowly roasted her to death in another of their barbaric executions. She should've been thankful he had shown her such mercy. When he had gone to her she had been sleeping. Sleeping, but just before the deed was done those green eyes had opened and had looked him in the eye. No protest had came from her; instead, she spoke to him her last words. These were the words that now rang in his ears and assaulted his mind: "You're a fool, Henry, who doesn't know his place or understand his purpose. Remember, silly boy, there comes a time for every man to pay for their actions."

She gave to him her curse. The visions. Now his soul was as tortured as hers, but he knew his path. Regalia, his destiny.

2007- Virginia

To a tune similar of the score of the original (as in black and white) Psycho, his alarm incessantly caterwauled, seeming to screech,"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! I TOLD YOU TO WAKE UP, SO GET UP. WHY THE AREN'T YOU GETTING THE *bleep* UP!" And so on and so on it would continue until a disgruntled bed-headed Gregor forced himself to roll over and hit snooze. His eyelids closed for a moment weighted down by the memory of a good dream while also relinquishing in the early morning's silence. With a loud groan he forced himself to do as the alarm clock bid and begin his morning routine: shower, dress (jeans, white shirt, and a gray zip up jacket), comb his hair, eat (Raisin Bran and OJ), brush his teeth, grab his backpack after a quick once-over to make sure everything's there, and then, finally, wait…

Wait beside his sisters at the driveway beside their mailbox on the dirt road they now called their own. One sister, Lizzie, had her nose stuck deep in a history book as she did some last minute cramming while the other held Gregor's hand and told the latest greatest news about everyone in her grade in her usual upbeat manner. "Erica's having a pool party for her birthday. Do you know if I can go, Gregor?"

"We'll have to ask mom, but I'm sure you can, Boots."

"Really, great! What do you think I should get her?" Boots inquired.

Gregor shrugged, "What do you think she would like?"

Boots shook her head, "I don't know. That's why I asked you." Gregor chuckled, but Lizzie shot them both an irritated glance.

"Could be quiet I'm trying to study?" she snapped.

Gregor nodded and brought his index finger to his lips to gesture to Boot's for her to be quiet, and so a silence prevailed over the siblings. Of course, not everyone knew that they ought to be quiet, for off in the distance a rooster was loudly crowing, the lead in a chorus of chickens and morning birds.

Ruth, the busdriver, was late. Now with her being a very relaxed, go-with-the-flow kind of person, such was not terribly unusual. In fact, she tended to be late more often than early, but Gregor didn't mind. He didn't like his school. Not for homework reasons, or that it was too easy (it was and it wasn't, you know), but he didn't fit. Due to the smallness of the district, he'd been thrown into a place where practically everyone had known each other since preschool or birth. It didn't help there was one fleet of buses for the entire district. I'll let that sink in. Three separate schools and only seven to eight yellow buses that didn't even invest in seatbelts shared amongst them. One bus; three different school groups (a.k.a you got your elementary, your middle school, and your high school) on one bus. So you can guess how the daily route was like: pure chaos.

However, at least, in Gregor's opinion the ride wasn't as bad as usual. Sure, being the first stop in the morning sucked, but, at least, you always were ensured a place to sit. The last stop couldn't always say that. Also the worst of the worst of the schoolchildren, a kindergartener boy by the named of Willie, had caught a stomach bug and was thus stuck home in bed for what was probably going to be an entire week. Boy, did Gregor pity that kid's parents.

In fact, it wasn't a bad day at all. Sure, there were the stares and some snide comments, but not nearly as awful as his first year here. First hour, girl asked if he wanted to sit next to her and they had a pleasant conversation about the weather, well pleasant 'til the president came up. Good old politics, you know. Second hour, he found out he had gotten a B on an essay that he had thought was going to turn out to be D quality. So yeah, life was going pretty darn great until third hour, Ms. Brown's most fascinating (*read* "Snore, breath, snore.") class, Economics, rolled around. Topic of the day: Communism. Mid-drool the class phone started ringing, forcing Ms. Brown set down her piece of chalk and pick up the receiver. The enthuism that had her beaming as she taught disappeared and she started to look toward Gregor the same way one might look at injured puppy. His mind went to overdrive. His first thoughts had jumped into analyzing what he could've done wrong within the past day, week, month, but he didn't think his wrongdoings would merit such a look of pity. No, not at all so…

"Gregor," her voice shot through the class and felt like an arrow running him through as he swallowed nervously. The chatter of his classmates ceased as they too waited to find out the source of such melodrama.

"Gather your things. Principal Tyler has something to tell you," she somberly relayed. A low hum of oohs, 'What'd you do, Gregs?' and an assortment of other calls filled the room as he rushed to stuff his binder and stuff into his too small of a backpack. Brown shushed them and placed a wrinkled hand on his shoulder as she led him to the quiet of the hall and closed the door behind them.

There, beyond the view of his classmates, she pulled him into a hug and kindly said, "I'm sorry, Gregor."

"'Bout what?" he stupidly pondered.

The teacher sighed, and resigned herself to only shaking her head. "I don't expect you to do the homework, so don't worry about it Mr. Collins."

Good, because his textbooks were all returned less than a week later when he was withdrawn from the school. It was a small funeral. Nothing showy, just less than average. They had deserved so much more was all that he could think of as the scenery of the Virginian town that had been home for past few years vanished on the horizon. Uncle Tim was at the wheel, and his wife, Aunt Veronica was in the passenger seat beside him. What he would give for her to stop looking at him like that? He knew what she was thinking, what poor children. Especially the boy, imagine not knowing you were adopted. Gregor shut his eyes tight. "You are not going to cry," he said to himself. "When you get to Ms. Cormaci's you can cry, but not until then."

2007- A Boarding School in Denmark

"Don't forget your papers are due Monday, and have a good weekend," the professor called after her students who were eager to start their weekends, well, except one.

"Professor?" a timid voice ventured.

Sarah Cormaci curiously turned around to see which of her students had chosen to stay behind for a moment. It was the girl that always sat in the third row to the back, the quiet one that she'd never actually hear speak until today. Sarah didn't judge her for being quiet; in fact, the girl, whose name was Laura, looked to be quite well put together as she always wore nice clothes, like today she wore a lovely floral skirt with a turtleneck that coordinated well with the colors in her skirt, and personality wise, she always seemed cheerful enough. Sarah set down the rag she had been using to clear her whiteboard, and replied, "Yes, Laura?"

"You're from New York, right?" the student, Laura, mumbled.

Sarah gave a brief nod as she gathered her things, the ungraded papers, the lesson plans, and her assortment of red pens into a duffle bag. "I am." She zipped up the bag and swung the strap over her left shoulder. "What is about, Laura?" she inquired as she led the girl out of her classroom and into the hall.

Laura nervously tucked a dirty blond lock away from her face and behind the ear before she quietly responded, "Well, I was in the library." Sarah nodded for her to continue, and gave her a smile in an attempt to make her more comfortable while Sarah busied herself with locking up for the weekend. "And I came upon this name, and it just came up once more… in connection to New York."

"I see. This mystery person, might they have a name?" the teacher amiably teased.

Laura nervously chuckled. "Of course, umm... it was something like Bartholomew of Sandwich?"

The teacher's smile vanished and a low "oh" escaped her lips. "Him, yeah, I know of him."

"Great, could you tell me who he was then because I asked the history teacher, and he knew as little as myself," Laura urged. Sarah swallowed, she could say a good deal about him… she'd crossed that damn ocean to get away from the memory of him and his Regalia.

"He's a legend," Sarah spoke, "and that's all there is to him."

"A legend? Just a legend," Laura repeated, her face contorted in a perplexed expression.

"Sorry to disappoint you, kid, but I'm sorry that's all there is," Sarah apologized, sticking to her claim. "Have a good weekend." She didn't look back as she hurried off to the teacher's apartments in the far left part of the campus. Locking the door to her given apartment behind her she got straight to the grading of papers. A couple hours in a friend dropped off Lydia and they had dinner, a good-sized meal of pizza and garlic bread. Following their dinner Lydia had settled down on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and put a Disney movie into the VCR, Aladdin, she thought it was; meanwhile, Sarah had gotten back to grading or was attempting at it, anyway. She stared at the pages, at their Times Roman or Ariel Fonts, at the red markings she had written in the margins of those she had already gone through, but her mind couldn't focus on her task. No, instead her mind kept going back and thinking about him, Bartholomew.

In a way she had lied to Laura, by telling her he was just a legend, when, in fact, he was a bit more. Sarah groaned and pushed her arms out wide, feeling the ache of stretch. For years she had buried him, buried everything associated with that place, but tonight she couldn't shake it. For weeks she had had this feeling that-that something had changed. She rubbed her forehead and told her herself, "Don't think about them. It doesn't exist." Sarah glanced over at Lydia. "It can't, it shouldn't, exist. "

In the kitchen the landline started to ring. Sarah capped her red pen and forced herself to saunter into the small kitchen. "Hello. Yes, I'm her… Papa, that you? Has something happened? Are you alright?" Sometime later Sarah set the phone back on the wall.

Lydia's attention strayed from the movie as she heard her mother sobs. Without pausing the movie the little girl of only six years inquisitively ventured into the kitchen to find her mother red-eyed and slumped down on the floor. The small girl sat down beside her mother and leaned her head against her mother's shoulder. The child's eyebrows frowned as she sweetly asked, "What's wrong Mama?"

Her mother kissed her forehead and sullenly replied, "We're going to New York." New York, a picture of an island of skyscrapers filled the young girl's mind.

"Why?"

"Because we're going to live your Grandpa Isaac…"

"Really?" the child excitedly asked. Due to the distance, and the ocean, and the cost the airplane fare she had never actually met him; though, with all the stories Mama told of him she felt like she would be able to identify him anywhere. Like she knew that he walked with a limp, so he had a cane that was black with a silver skull atop it; also, he had an accent you couldn't readily identify, but it sounded old fashioned; he loved morbid jokes about death and disease; and he spoke several languages, which included at least two Native American dialects. Lydia also knew that his chosen profession was undertaking and because he owned the building that housed his funeral parlor he and her grandmother lived upstairs in an apartment there.

"We're going to live over a funeral parlor?" Her mother nodded. "Why? Couldn't we stay here?"

"Lydia..." Sarah attempted at an explanation, but broke into another series of sobs. Lydia warily watched as her mother cried; she wasn't sure she wanted to hear more. "You-you have a brother, Gregor. He's fifteen and he's going to live with us now, along with his two…" her mother paused, sniffled, and continued, "with his two sisters."

Lydia frowned. They were moving to a funeral parlor to live with… Her eyes widened in dismay. "When are we leaving Mama?"

"In a couple days."

"In a couple days," the child incredulously repeated. She tried to picture him, but the image her mind created startled her. For some reason her mind couldn't think of him as a regular teenager and instead she saw him dressed in armor like the warriors in the history books her mother sometime read to her in place of a bedtime story.

2007- Regalia

Though informed of the passing years' events by his daughter, King Thomas saw no Peacemaker, only a rat wearing a mask of alliance. Ripred had taken his time arriving at Regalia's walls, happy as he was to be reunited with his wife and pups. Arrogantly smug he snacked upon his favorite dish of a shrimp n'cream in clear sight of the king. Judith acted as the mediator, not that she was without her doubts, but because the relationship between her and her daughter was still so frail she didn't dare risk denying the girl as of yet. She was not the mother of her daughter anymore, only a stranger who had to regain the girl's trust. The alliances with the rats and the mice, especially the mice were important to Luxa and therefore were now important to her, as well. A gathering of humans, gnawers, crawlers, mice, spinners, flyers, and any other species cared to join had been gathered, which to her surprise included diggers, hissers, and stingers as well as some particularly noisome shiners, to talk over the miraculous resurrection that returned many to each of the species that populated the Underland.

Judith eyed her twin. He looked happy yet stubbornly solemn beside him his son and their hisser friend. Now considering he had never been the jovial sort, solemn was not out of place upon his face. They were speaking of the boy's mother, and Judith couldn't help but note the pain in the eyes that were so like her own. Though a protective jealousy over her twin had a place in her heart, she was not without compassion. How would she feel if Thomas was lost to her? No doubt, Hamnet felt much the same for whoever his Overlander woman was.

Placing her hand on her husband's shoulder Judith whispered into his ear, "Perhaps, you could offer to aid Hamnet?"

He sighed and shook his head. "Judith," he began, clearly intending to argue otherwise.

Judith raised a determined brow and forcefully added, "For me."

"My focus must be on my people. This woman was an Overlander, not an Underlander," he protested. Judith frowned, and Thomas reluncantly conceded, "Very well, but I make to you no promise except that I offer to him what I am able, my love, and no more."

Judith kissed his cheek and thanked him before pushing him toward her brother. King Thomas nodded cordially to his brother-in-law as he approached. Hamnet's boy bowed his head while Hamnet stood to greet him. In a show of brotherly love he embraced his wife's twin with a hearty hug and a "Nice to see that you are well."

"Likewise," Hamnet replied, his despondent tone relaying the fact his thoughts were elsewhere and not at the meeting where they were presently gathered.

"So, I heard that you and your son plan to journey to your..." Thomas hesitanted. He could say wife, but since the two had met and lived in the jungle Thomas doubted there had been a marriage ceremony between the two, and the term 'lover' might serve to diminish her value.

Mercifully, Hamnet understood and responded before Thomas could add insult to injury. "Indeed, we have plans to do such."

"Would you like me to go with you?" Thomas offered.

"No, I wouldn't want to distract you from your duties. As king, you are most busy and I would hate to interfere," Hamnet declined.

"Are sure? It would not be an issue…"

"Tell Judith, thank you for her attempt." Hamnet smiled and departed the meeting. In truth, he already knew what he would find when he reached what should've been his love's resting place, and he didn't care for anyone except his son to see him cry.