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A quick look in on the distant, distant past of King Anselm and Gregory Marion from my game Ad Lucem.

It was a cold night in the month of Cyriem, and King Anselm found himself utterly without sleep. This had often been the case ever since he’d assumed the king’s mantle at the tender age of seventeen, but rather than easing with age, as he had hoped, his bouts with insomnia seemed to have gotten worse.Presumably, this was due to more worries being on his plate than ever before, what with the rising civil tensions in Desirel threatening to unseat the church- an act which would no doubt force Angelorum, his country, into long and bloody war with them.

 

Not only that, but with his advancing age, there came an endless wave of pressure to find or sire an heir to his throne. He’d married when he first took the throne- an act he’d done with great reluctance, as none had spoken to his heart- but his wife was, alas, barren. As was he. So while the kingdom’s hopes had been high, no child was produced from the coupling, and five years previous, she had passed in her sleep. Anselm told the church and populace that she’d merely caught ill- and part of him wished to believe it- but more, he suspected that she’d elected to end her own life than stay in a loveless, childless marriage. It was a shame, though he could hardly fault her. He had grown quite fond of her, and her passing affected his heart as the loss of a dear friend.

 

His mind always wandered to darker terrains as he walked the castle halls at night. He nodded grimly at the guards on their endless patrols before walking to the castle’s front doors. He needed to be outside the imposing edifice if he hoped to clear his head.

 

Fate had different plans than a calming night stroll, it seemed, for a sudden knocking came at the door, with a woman’s voice crying out, “Let us in! Please, by the gods, give me shelter!”

 

Moments later, the cry was followed by the tromping of armored boots. There was a shrill scream, a dull thud as of someone falling to the ground, and then, silence. Silence, and then the fearful cries of what sounded like a young boy.

 

King Anselm threw wide the door without waiting for the guards’ nod of approval, and the sight he saw chilled him to the bone. Red stained the snow upon the earth next to the castle doors. A young woman no older than his wife had been at her death lay motionless on the ground, the ghost of her last scream etched upon her face. Next to her, a boy who couldn’t have been any older than three knelt, staring vacantly at the woman’s corpse. Before the pair of them stood the imposing figure of none other than one of the Four Grand Paladins, Philbert Bedivere himself.

 

Grand Paladin Bedivere stared between the ghastly scene of mother and child and the bloodied hilt of his sword as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. Anselm, unamused by this display, asked in his firmest voice, “What is the meaning of this?”

 

Bedivere took a few deep breaths as if to calm himself, and replied, “By the Protector, I meant only to take this woman and her child into custody… the blow was meant only to sedate, not… not to kill… Not yet…”

 

Anselm arched a brow. “Taken into custody for what crime, pray tell?”

 

“The highest. She is an Ally of Henri.”

 

Anselm’s breath caught in his throat. In the darkness, he almost hadn’t noticed the onyx and bloodstone amulet which lay upon the earth next to the bloodied corpse’s head. Sure enough, it bore an eclipsed blood moon, the sign of Dark Knights the world over.

 

A frown crossed his face and furrowed his brow as he turned his gaze back upon Grand Paladin Bedivere. “And the child? What would you do with him?”

 

Bedivere’s tone was something approaching remorseful as he said, “What I must. You know the law, Anselm. All who travel with the corrupted are to be extinguished.”

 

“He’s just a child-!” Anselm protested.

 

“He is a demon in the making, Anselm!” Bedivere fired back. “What but a demon would remain as unmoved as this child has upon seeing his own mother’s death?”

 

“One far too young to comprehend what has happened!” Anselm retorted. “One frozen by fear and trauma! Listen to yourself, Bedivere- do you earnestly believe that the Divine Protector would have you murder a babe?”

 

Something broke in Bedivere’s eyes, and it seemed he had found his compassion once more. His hand went to his chest, and he staggered backwards as though dealt a mighty blow. “By the… no… No, he wouldn’t ask me to… And I have already killed a woman seeking shelter during the month of Saint Cyrielle-!”

 

Anselm’s expression became far graver as he came to that same realization. “Yes. You have spilled woman’s blood during the month of their guardian. What shame you bring to the Protector’s laws.”

 

Bedivere buried his face in his hands. “Do what you will with the child. I… I must return to the Tower. I need to reflect.”

 

Upon that word, the mighty Grand Paladin turned and fled like a common cutpurse into the night, back towards Sanctiam and the Tower of the Sacred Chalice, where he ought to have stayed.

 

Once the retreating back of the Grand Paladin was out of sight, Anselm walked to the young boy’s side, taking a closer look at him. From one look at his face, he had a feeling this boy was particularly headstrong. And despite the fact that he appeared to be mute, there was a glimmer of intelligence in his mahogany eyes. His short, violet hair looked as if it had never been properly washed, all mussed and matted and full of twigs and brambles.

 

It took the boy several long moments to register that there was someone beside him. When at last he did take notice of the king, he did so with innocent eyes of suspicion, filled with silent tears. Anselm’s heart broke at the sight, and he knew what it was he must do with this boy.

 

He would raise him as his own, prepare him for the mantle of royalty. With this thought in mind, he silently took the boy’s hand, and led him inside, away from the grisly spectacle of his fallen mother. The child came without complaint, casting his wary eyes all around the pair of them as if he were worried someone would strike the King as well.

 

Though there was little levity to be had in this situation, Anselm could not help but be amused by this, and said, “I think I know just what to call you, little one. Gregory.”

 

The child blinked at the sound of the name, then looked up at the old king, and nodded in approval.

 

The old man and the toddler walked hand in hand back into the castle, each preparing on their own level for a brand new chapter of their lives.