For the following weeks Etienne would wish the sun from the sky everyday just so night would fall and he could be with Arlette. He felt cheated by the way that time would play tricks on them. Why was it that it hurried when they were together and slowed when apart? They would spend the night talking, learning about each other, discussing their dreams, deciding how they can be together and what their lives would be like when they were. They were so alike, they knew what the other one wanted, what they were feeling, and their desires were exactly the same. Etienne finally felt that he had found a person that he wanted to share the things that moved him with, because they moved them too. When he had tried to tell his friends or family about a beautiful sunset he had seen, or how he had been amazed when a dragonfly came and sat on his shoulder as he lay in the forest, he was greeted with an indignant reply that would frustrate him. Etienne couldn’t understand why they couldn’t see beauty in the same way that he did, but with Arlette it was different.
Weeks turned to months and they became closer every time they met. Their days were spent thinking of one another and when together in the evenings, time would ride with unbearable haste. Etienne was trying to see Arlette every night but as the months passed it became more and more difficult. There was unrest in the surrounding kingdoms and his father demanded a lot of his time. The time he spent with his father seemed fruitless, 'they spend the whole time arguing,' Etienne would tell Arlette. 'None of them really no what is happening. Scouts have been sent, but as yet none have returned.' Etienne wanted to tell his father of his love but Arlette begged him not to. She would say that ‘now is not the right time’, his father had to ‘concentrate on protecting the Kingdom’. News had started to spread of the King of Chaval planning an attack on the surrounding Kingdoms. Chaval did not need extra land or resources. The seven Kingdoms that made up the area were self-sufficient and lived in harmony, however the current King of Chaval felt it was time to reclaim what he felt was rightfully his. His Great-Great Grandfather, the first Duke of Chaval was unsatisfied with the initial agreement as to how the land, given by King Charlemagne, was to be allocated. He kept his disdain secret from the other knights; however it had been passed to each of his heirs like a curse, until the time came to seek retribution. Whilst the other six Kingdoms concentrated on developing their cities infrastructure and agriculture, and endeavouring to live a peaceful existence with their neighbours, in Chaval they were developing an army. The army was now ready and the time had come for Chaval to unleash his vengeance.

“How dare you interrupt me,” screamed the King of Chaval. The bishop had just walked into the dimly lit great hall, not expecting Chaval to be eating.
“I apologise Sire, I was not told…”
“Not told what? Not told that I was eating. Not told that I asked not to be disturbed,” Chaval said. “What is this swill anyway?” shouted the king as he picked up his plate of food and threw it against the wall. “Go and get me the cook.” A page, who stood nervously in the shadows, immediately jumped to attention and ran to the kitchen. “Well?” said Chaval turning his attention back to the Bishop. From where the bishop was standing he could barely see the king. He sat at the end of the long cavernous room; the only furniture that broke the catacomb was a long oak table and the king’s throne at the far end. The table had been set for his solitary dinner and the darkness was broken only by a display of candles that threw a lucent ghostly amber shadow over the monarch.
“Sire…” replied the Bishop.
“Come closer, you have already ruined this pungent mess of a dinner,” said the king. The Bishop walked toward the king, trying to choose a pace, not too fast or too slow as he knew if he got it wrong it would further anger him. “Hurry up,” shouted the king. “How dare you interrupt me and then walk like I have nothing better to do.” The Bishop sped up until he reached the king and dropped to one knee at his feet. The shadows had hidden the ghoulish figure that now sat before him. The kings hair was thin and long, falling across his almost malnourished looking face like a weeping willow. His eyes were dark sunken slips which stared with evil distain. “What is it?” The Bishop stayed bowed, fearful of making another wrong move, and thankful not to have to look at the skeletal face.
“Sire, your moment has arrived,” he said.
“Continue,” replied the king.
“Your army is ready. Allenay is not expecting us. We can take them now on your order.” The door opened as a petrified cook entered the room with the page.
“What now?” hollered the king.
“Sire, this is cook,” replied the page.
“Come here,” said the king. The page stood back into the shadows thankful that he had completed his errand. The cook stepped forward, fear leaving him mute. “Pick that food up and bring it here,” the king ordered, pointing at the pile of food on the floor. The cook got down on his hands and knees and scraped the food off the floor, careful to ensure that every last piece was replaced on the plate. He carried the plate back to king and placed in on the table. “Now eat it,” said the king.
“Sire?” replied the cook.
“Eat it.” The cook began picking up pieces of the meet and eating them. “Don’t use your hands. Eat like a pig, like a pig that you would serve this swill too.” The cook looked at the king and then quickly turned back to the food. He leant forward putting both hands on the table and started to push the food around the plate with his nose. “How dare you put your hands on my table,” the king screamed and he lifted up a knife from the table and stabbed it through the cook’s hand into the table. The cook yelped in pain, but the king’s evil fury had engulfed his body. He stood up and jammed the knife in deeper, bringing his face closer to the cook so he could see the pain in his eyes. “Don’t ever serve me swill again,” the king whispered into the cook’s ear through gritted yellow teeth. The king stood up looking for the page, “Get this pig out of my site.” The page ran forward and awkwardly worked the knife out the table and the cook’s hand. When it was free the cook sloped to the floor. The page lifted the cook and carried him back into the relative safety of the shadows. The king turned back to the Bishop. “Stand up.” The Bishop slowly stood, his stomach turning as he noticed out of the corner of his eye the blood stained table. “We attack tomorrow. I want every living creature in Allenay to pay for their actions.”

Etienne’s father first heard of Chaval’s intentions when the King of Allenay sent a messenger with details of imminent attack, a distress signal begging for their help. Unfortunately by the time the messenger had arrived it was already too late. Chaval had systematically run rampage through their city. It had been razed to the ground. Every building burnt and only those lucky enough to escape survived. Hundreds of men, women and children unwilling to give up their homes were slaughtered. The ones who escaped were now refugees, and it was only a few days before they could be seen on the horizon heading for Avalon. A line of damaged mourners like a trickle of blood weeping from their broken homeland. The king opened the city gates and let them in promising food and shelter.
Etienne stood beside his father on the castle’s balcony and watched as the slow procession of injured and weeping refugees made their way into the city. In the very far distance a pillar of smoke could still be seen, representing the evil that had bequeathed an unsuspecting city. “Son,” said the king to Etienne, “we will feed and water these good people, and give them shelter. I will not see one stomach go empty, or head uncovered. It is compassion that separates man from beast, and we need to show these people not all men are beasts.”