"There you are, little man. I have been expecting you." Morlock's voice sounded calm, reassuring, his features that of a pleasant, benevolent elder, tolerant of this interruption. "There is a place for you, here in my book. Would you like to see it?"
Baldric nodded. Morlock picked him up then, set him on his knee, suddenly and inexplicably a child, sitting on a grandsire's knee. Before them, on the table, lay a great book that was open to text and illustration that the Wizard had been setting down. There was Baldric's army, and Morlock's castle.
"As you can see, little man, I have been writing this tale from the beginning. Back here," he flipped back several pages, ". . . here is the tale of your birth, and subsequently the story of your life, until the present moment. As you can see, the rest of the story is as yet unfinished. What should I write, do you think? Would you like me to write you out of the story altogether?"
Baldric, a frightened little boy, shook his head in mute fear, his eyes wide and luminous in the candle light.
"No? Then what do you suggest? Shall I unleash my vast armies upon yours? Or do you have the good sense to abandon this folly, and join with me?"