Aegis

“For it was on the first day humanity was born, and thus Cosmos smiled. She reached out to the newborn life, the child wreathed in her image, and it was then she wrapped her arms around it and embraced it within her bosom. ‘You are my spirit,’ she said. ‘My love, my everlasting companion. Come with me, and let us never separate for all of eternity.’ The child took her by the hand, and so they journeyed across the celestial expanse. Thus marked the beginning of the second day.

“The blessed two found joy in life, for it was good. Their union brought change to the solitary Stars, those divine beings cursed to follow their role’s namesake, and so it was a new era had emerged - the very first since the dawn of the first breath. Cosmos cried, for life was good. Thus marked the beginning of the third day.

“The Mother had never been happier, but even with all her blessings, she was not yet satisfied. ‘This love of mine must be spread,’ she declared. ‘For it shall become our holy duty. And the Stars will shed tears of bliss; they will laugh and smile and know of true contentment. Yet this duty will never end with but us loving two. I must make more children. I must ensure my legacy will endure without end.’ And so it is Creation granted her wish, and humanity sprung forth in droves, and a new hearth was created for their dwelling. Thus emerged the dirt and soil, the sphere of blue and clouds of great white. Thus were the waters risen, and whorls transformed into an endless ocean. Cosmos named this new land Eden. Thus marked the beginning of the fourth day.

“And it is from then on that Cosmos would smile no longer.”

- The Nebulas

———

The Knight

The Knight and the floral man are the last to depart from the theatre. It is late now, and the bustling crowd of merry-goers and performers outside have long since left. There are only empty streets here, save for the two obscured souls strolling wordlessly under the darkened night. They pass the corners - they tread away from the main district - and soon, the narrow lanes of the alleyways surround them from all sides. Tight. Restricting. The Knight cannot even walk without its shoulders touching the cold brick, yet the lanky man is undisturbed: steps silent and body light. All it can see is his robed back as they descend farther into the passage.

Eventually, the man stops before a worn-out door. A prickly rose is embedded in the front, and the words “The Floral Bloom” are engraved upon the wood.

“Here, at last,” the man says, caressing the splintered edges. “Welcome to The Floral Bloom.”

“This is your shop?” it asks dryly, for at first glance the business is rather unassuming. No, it is even more mundane than that; if not for the sign, then the Knight would have never guessed this inconspicuous corner to be the home of a flower boutique. It is hidden here, far away from prying eyes, lurking in a place where only drunks and the dregs of society will pass. “I must admit, this is not quite what I expected. How can you hope to attract any patrons in such a desolate location?”

He chuckles. “Ah, but you are mistaken. I do not hope to attract anyone. I merely wish to provide the utmost quality of service to my guests, and that is simply not feasible in the hustle of such a busy area. This corner is quaint, do you not agree? It has its charm, and besides, I prefer to cater towards a specific… clientele. Fate tends to draw them to me, and it is so I am ever fortunate to establish such fond connections.”

“Fate draws them you say, or is it that you seek them out?”

“Is there any difference? They are chosen, all the same.”

“Of course there is a difference. One has a choice, and the other doesn’t.”

But the man only laughs as if it has just said something rather humerous. “No one has a choice before their destiny. Everything is predetermined: my occupation, my clients, and even our meeting here on this day was set from the very beginning. I am merely following its call.”

“And just what is that call, exactly?”

He stays quiet for a moment - a bit ponderous, a bit calculating - before he replies with an obvious redirection. “Why, it is to serve you, of course! Come now, let us talk inside. My art awaits.”

The Knight stares at him with a baffled silence, for it questions if he really thinks it so foolish as to follow along with such a laughable ruse. Still, the man is, if nothing else, incredibly confident. It respects that to a certain degree—enough to not slay him right away, at least. “I do hope your art is more appealing than the storefront suggests.”

“Hehe, worry not. Outer appearances do tend to be most deceiving.”

He grabs the handle, and the same mysterious scent the Knight has encountered at the castle begins to waft beneath the crevice. Something has changed in the beyond; whatever was previously behind the door is no longer there, replaced by a much more sinister domain.

The door opens, and a bizarre view is unraveled before it: flowers. Strange, otherworldly flowers. They are nothing the Knight has ever seen before, forms twisted and transfigured into a grotesque, yet alluring, amalgamation. They hang from the ceiling with their bulbous petals - pigment drenched in a bloody hue as a faint glow from within illuminates the room in a haunting light - and their stamens extend slightly outward with spindly, thin appendages—like a spider’s leg. It is a disturbing sight. Unnatural, but why exactly the Knight knows not. It oozes a disgusting aura that reeks of depravity.

But those spider-like flowers are not the only species in this degenerate bouquet of a space. There are familiar sights as well such as lavenders and purple hydrangeas resting within the confines of glass displays lined to the side. And a red carpet lies underneath, covering a floorboard infested with orange chrysanthemums growing below the wood; yet their growth is not chaotic. They are meticulously arranged, forming a pathway as if to serve as a guide through the maze of flora.

“… Deceiving indeed,” it says as the masked man leads it to a silken lounge. He gestures for it to take a seat and then saunters over to the displays, meticulously inspecting each bloom and humming to himself as he searches for a fitting specimen. One after another, one after another, he shoves his face against the glass. He ogles the petals, the stems, the ovaries, and then he gently picks it up in a tender hold—like a parent with their child. There is genuine love in that gaze of his, a mark of a true artist. And a complete utter devotion towards the refinement of one’s craft.

A pity, the Knight contemplates. What caused such a pure-hearted desire to become so malformed? No, perhaps it is because of his obsession that he is able to be so fervent. Madness is but a step away from passion.

Eventually, he finds his mark: a peculiar flower with six lance-shaped leaves. The edges are drenched in white, intensifying into a deep pink towards a center while red freckles are dotted near the throat. The man cackles in satisfaction as he carefully shields the flower and presents it to the Knight with a flourish.

“I do believe you will quite enjoy this child,” he proudly declares, placing it atop its gauntlet. “It goes by many names throughout the world, but I much prefer the Polus’s moniker: the Stargazer Lily.”

“Stargazer, you say?” the Knight says while stroking the leaves.

“A ravishing flower, is it not? Its namesake represents prosperity, abundance, and a deep connection with culture. I dare say it is a fitting symbol for the Throne of the heavenly skies.”

Hoh, will he shed his guise at last? “So you know who I am? Interesting, I don’t remember ever taking off this cloak. How exactly did you find out?”

He chuckles and waves toward his rose-embedded socket. “Oh, I have my tricks madam. Call it the ‘Maestro’s Eye’. I have a talent for finding people. It is my gift, a blessing granted by Cosmos upon my birth, although there was a time I failed to recognize her majesty. My purpose…”

Something dreadful suddenly courses through him. It passes by and soon disappears just as quickly. But its singular appearance is enough to leave a lasting impression—an impression of agonizing despair. Of pure, vitriol hatred towards the world and all it has brought. That feeling is malice in its rawest form.

“… Ah, but nevermind that,” he says, returning back to the perverse madman it has come to know. “What matters is the present and the future to come. And you, my most esteemed Throne, have a very special future awaiting you.”

The man collects himself and casually strolls towards the back of the shop where yet another door is located. But something is different about it. It feels endless. Whatever lies beyond is no mere closed space; it is much more grand. More open. And according to the Knight’s sight, there is even a ray resembling sunshine trickling below. But that is impossible. It is currently twilight, so where does that door lead?

“Follow me, if you would so please,” he beckons. “Beyond here lies my most treasured possessions. Normally, I would bar entry to this area from my other guests, but you… you are special. You deserve to bear witness to my life’s work.”

“My, what an honor,” it says with words dripping in ridicule. If the man has noticed its sarcasm, then he pretends to be unaware. Or else he truly is ignorant, and his attention is smitten with something else. Something more murky. Nonetheless, the Knight rises and follows him to the door.

Prepare yourself, Aegis. I have a feeling this fraudulent peace shall soon come to an end. The hidden baby above taps its helm in affirmation, though it can sense his increasing worry. The masked florist has unnerved the child since the very beginning, and he wishes for nothing more than to quickly flee towards safety. That is something they cannot do. They must solve this threat now.

The door creaks open, and the man steps into the light. “Without further ado, welcome to my sanctuary.”

The Knight enters as well, and it is soon mesmerized by an impossible sight.

They are outside. But not out on the streets of the Capital. Not under the pale gleam of the moon. No, they are outside and standing under the blistering heat of the mid-day sun. The ball of flame glares far, far above them, high above the cloudy skies of blue. It shines its light upon the realm below, and the Knight looks down to find itself standing atop a verdant field of grass. Luscious. Rolling. The meadow stretches far beyond the eye can see, spreading without abandon as gorgeous flowers of every species lie scattered about in an ocean of perpetual bloom. It is as if they’ve been transported to a newborn land—a land still yet untouched by humanity.

At first, the Knight believes itself to be caught in an illusion. A trick of the mind. Yet that cannot be, for it can feel the wind lash at its helm in gentle whips. It can feel the hot smolder of the sun and the cool breeze rushing through. This is no spell, but a desperate dimension entirely. It has never seen such a thing before, to force creation into conjuring a realm solely for one’s own use. The man doesn’t appear to be powerful, and yet he has just become the most dangerous being it has encountered since its awakening.

“Where is this?” it questions.

“My very own paradise.” The man opens his arms wide and takes in a deep, gluttonous breath. He lets the light wash over him, and he embraces the surrounding world. “I call it the Garden of Eden, for this shall be the final destination of the worthy. Of the most beautiful of humanity. Their sorrow, their ugliness, their love… it will all be safe here, safe in a land where they may bloom without worry. Thus is the duty given to me by the Mother, and it is why she has granted me this sacred garden.”

He beckons it forward, and so the two walk side by side through the realm. It really is peaceful here where naught can be heard but the sounds of nature, and the Knight cannot help but view this space as something beautiful. It knows this beauty is a deception. It knows the truth of those flowers so falsely innocent. It knows what truly lies beneath; nonetheless, this space is beautiful. No matter how it has come to be.

Soon, the pair arrive at the only landmark of note: a lone birch tree surrounded by four flowers encased in an amber substance. Their beauty is forever imprisoned, trapped in a constant state of eternity. The masked man walks up to one of them, and he touches the display with what appears to be a sentimental yearning.

“I call myself an artist,” he whispers. “And yet, in my lifetime, I have only managed to create four flowers of true divinity.”

He caresses the case, and inside lies a flower that resembles a carving of crystal. Seven petals surround the jewel-like heart, and each petal is dyed in a color of the rainbow: a fiery red; a cool blue; a leafy green; a vibrant yellow. And so on, until they all merge together into a dazzling prism.

“The first was my mother, who worked so hard to ensure I grew up proper. Without her, my love for art would have never bloomed.”

He moves on to the next flower. Unlike the first one, it emits a despicable aura, more so than the spider-like flowers of before. Pitch-black tendrils spit out from the center, a noxious green slime is splattered in unsightly patterns without reason, and its petals lay decayed in but a dirty pile of filth. It is repulsive, and merely looking at the pathetic thing is a waste of the Knight’s effort.

“The second was my father. I learned from him that there was beauty in everyone, no matter how darkened their soul may be.”

The third flower is towering in size compared to the others. It is also the one with the least floral shape; the pallid white stem is large and thick, taking on the form of an adult woman’s torso, and the leaves curve into two round spheres of sagging clumps. It is as if the thing is attempting to replicate a bosom, yet its seductive facade is betrayed by a gaping maw in the chest’s center, opening up as spikes surround the vibrant red lip.

“The third came from a particularly lascivious woman. She was a fellow admirer of the arts such as myself, and in the end, she became that which she cherished most.”

The final flower is strange. Not in outlandishness; rather, it is but a simple red rose. And yet, there is something mesmerizing about it. Out of all the flowers thus far, it is the most beautiful despite its mundane appearance. Innocent. Unknowing. It is the very essence of virtue, of a purity unsullied by human emotion.

“The fourth came from an exceedingly ordinary man. He was average in every sense imaginable: average appearance, average personality, and average ability. Yet, despite his mediocrity, he became the star of my little collection. Fascinating, isn’t it? The most unique of souls laid blended in amongst the crowd, his true potential undiscovered. That is, until he met me. And so it was that I gave him a new purpose.”

He turns around and faces the Knight. His demeanor is different now; the man who attempted to manipulate it at every moment is gone. Now, there is only a misguided child. He pleas with his lone eye, begging for it to listen to him. For the first time since this prolonged charade, the man is truly sincere.

“Do you remember what you said to me at the theatre?” he mutters. “Cosmos… you are correct. Our Mother has never left, for she is here with me. She is this garden, the rose blooming from my eye. She is the land, the soil, the dirt in which humanity shall be saved. This is my destiny. I am the savior. And it is your destiny to bloom as one of the chosen—as my magnum opus.”

The Knight doesn’t say a word. In a way, it feels pity for the man. He has given his heart, his very soul, to a cause born of twisted ramblings and false revelations. It is his only purpose, and if he is to learn the truth, then he shall surely crumble. That is why he is so mad; it is all he can really be.

“… I see,” he says with a bitter laugh. “You, too, have refused me, then?”

“Are you really that surprised?” it replies, throwing away its cloak unsheathing the twin celestial blades for battle. “You know who I am. You know where my devotion lies.”

“I suppose I am not. Still, I had hoped for one with such darkness as you to embrace my gift. A shame. Truly, a shame.”

With a sigh, he reaches behind his back and reveals forth a curved, serrated dagger. It is small, jagged blades jutting out with a malevolent bloodlust, and a crimson liquid drips from the weapon’s edge: sticky. Spurting. Like an abnormal form of sap.

“Ah, now this won’t do. I believe I’ve never formally introduced myself! To think I’ve been so utterly rude all this time. Do forgive me,” the man cackles. “I go by many names, but you may call me Satanael.”