Aegis

“When the first King, Arthur, overthrew the ruler of his old nation, he was accompanied by seven loyal knights who would become the pillars for the orders that exist today. They were called the Knights of the Round Table.

“Sir Galahad Principality, his steps as light as the flowing river.

“Sir Kay Power, his rage an inferno whorl.

“Dame Isolde Virtue, her grace second only to her poison.

“Sir Tristan Cherubim, his arrow a pursuer without escape.

“Dame Morgan Sovereignty, her umbral magic a terror unparalleled.

“Sir Percival Dominion, his gaze pierced through the facades of men.

“Dame Guinevere Valkyrie, her strength the mightiest of them all.

- Legends of the Knights of the Round Table: Penned by Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

———

The Knight

Time has always been rather inconsistent to the Knight. Some days are long, where every hour is beset by some manner of excitement, and others pass in a blink of an eye: decades, centuries, aeons… vanished into obscurity. Those fleeting days have become the norm as of late despite its initial reception, and it has gradually become accustomed to the daily routine of those who serve in the castle.

And that routine is work. Never-ending work.

It is no wonder why Templar Dismas has bid it to assist Ascalon; the King spends his every waking moment either signing documents or attending to the court’s demands. The rare times he can obtain some semblance of peace is then dedicated to honing his strength, but even that small period is quickly shortened as preparations for the funeral reach its busiest. Nowadays, one cannot even take a step out into the halls without being trampled by a stream of haggard knights and hectic officials. Everyone is exhausted. That is, everyone except Ascalon.

Surprisingly, despite being the most occupied of all, the man has never once wavered or succumbed to fatigue. On the contrary, there’s a certain liveliness in his movements that clashes quite humorously against the gloomy-eyed environment. The Knight has watched him all this time as his attendant, helping him with paperwork while steadily reintroducing itself to those of the upper class, and yet it has not been able to glean anything of worth about him other than a few meaningless quirks.

For example, Ascalon writes with both of his hands. The people of this kingdom tend to be more inclined towards their left, but the King uses this modest trait to plough through his workload with twice the speed of a common scribe.

Another is that he rarely eats full meals. There is a dedicated banquet hall where one may gather along cohorts; a variety of dishes are all laid out so that one may serve themselves with the dishes they most prefer. But never has it seen Ascalon actually partake in such courses. Instead, he subsists off dry, cured meats and the occasional basket of fruit. Not too sweet, however: The sugar makes him wince.

It can list more, if it so wishes. About how he tends to doze off during the evening hours only to snap back awake with an embarrassed cough; about how he hums to himself a cheerful little tune when he thinks no others are around; or about that sigh of his after a long, tranquil day that never fails to stir a strange heat inside its chest. All this it has come to know in but the span of a week.

Meaningless. Completely, utterly meaningless. And yet, the Knight does not particularly dislike it—learning more about Ascalon. Before it can even realize, his gentle figure has already been ingrained in its memory: just the two of them in his office. Watching the sun slowly set.

It is nice. Though the Knight hasn’t had much opportunity to inspect the city since its excursion with Dariel, Ascalon has done his best to keep it from feeling listless. He does this by talking often, sharing his stories. And so it is that the two of them are here now: one last story at the eve of their work’s culmination.

“What shall it be today?” it giggles as it sets down an ink-tipped quill on its desk. Everything is finally finished. Now, all that’s left is to wait for the morrow. “I quite liked the story about the boy and the beanstalk. It did have a rather odd ending, however. What was the moral lesson: Stealing should be encouraged?”

“It is… ambiguous, I’ll admit,” Ascalon chuckles. “But I guarantee this next story will be even better. It’s a personal favorite of mine; I used to read it everyday before I was brought to the capital.”

“Oh? An epic about a hero of old, perhaps?”

“Hehe, how did you know?” He reaches underneath his counter and pulls out a very worn book. The leather cover is frayed, covered in small scratches and stains, while the pages have aged into a pale yellow. Still, Ascalon holds it lovingly—as if it is his most priceless treasure. “This old thing is ‘The Sword in the Stone’: a legend about the founder, King Arthur, and his rise to lordship.”

The Knight flinches. That is a name it does not like much to remember, but it is curious how that man’s life has been preserved.

Ascalon sits upright, clears his throat, and begins to recount the tale with a grandiose voice. “Once upon a time, in the now fallen land known as Camelot, there lived a humble farmer’s boy by the name of Arthur Polus.”

“… Polus. ‘Sky’ in the old tongue,” it murmurs. “How very fitting.”

“So you remember. Yes, it was a very regal name, especially for a child hailing from a small little village out in the plains. The people then were of much poorer folk, forced to labor the land under the watchful eye of Camelot’s enforcers, and kindly Arthur suffered even greater hardship for he was of the lowest class: an orphan born from slaves.

“Slave: a despicable title. It is hard to imagine in this era—that such cruelty could have ever been enforced. To treat our own kind as mere property to be bought and sold… no wonder Arthur grew to loathe them. Ever since his birth, he was treated as a lesser being.”

Cruel? Perhaps, but it is not unimaginable how it came to be. I needed a method in which to punish those who did not adhere to my laws.

The Knight is the one who invented slavery, the very first back in a time when it still believed in coexistence. When it reigned as ruler of all. Mankind is a species full of unpredictability, and part of that innate nature is a desire to trample over others—a belief that they are superior. Those few troublemakers always did cause me trouble. Stubborn, too: Even when I threw them into the gaol for their crimes, they would never reflect. I did not understand. Did they not already have all they could want? Why must they greed for more? Irritating, it was very irritating.

And so, instead of letting them rot away whilst contributing nothing of worth, I devised a most ingenious solution: I put them to work. I stripped them of their rights in a show of warning to others who’d dare go against me. I placed a guard to watch over their every waking moment. They had no personal freedom, no privacy, and no control over their way of living: Thus did I control every part of them. It was very efficient; rarely did anyone ever act out since I implemented that system.

Looking back, the Knight can understand why such treatment may have not been the best of ideas. It has felt this most especially when their resentment spiraled into an uncontrollable rebellion. Still, it is not its fault that those in the future would twist its well-meaning punishment for their own gain.

For one, it has never intended for the status to be passed down onto their descendants. Others have merely adopted that particular detail as an excuse to maintain a convenient workforce.

It has also never intended for slaves to be sold as some public commodity. No, those recusants belong to the central authority, the government, where they can be properly monitored and given clear direction. To allow others that right is to only encourage the philosophy of elitism—class difference.

A philosophy, in fact, that is rampant even now.

“Do you not find it hypocritical?” it asks. “That you scorn such treatment while perpetuating the divide between noble and commoner?”

Ascalon does appear to know of his own contradiction, and he sighs with a great, weary huff. “I agree with you. Is it not ironic that which made our founder rebel has become a core part of our culture? Whilst we may not own others, it is clear there is a stark distinction between the treatment of a high-born and the treatment of a common laborer. It wasn’t always like this however. Back then, the Seven High Houses were no different from anyone else. All they had were their families’ legacy and their duty to serve the people.

“But as time went on, that duty was warped into a sense of superiority. They believed themselves better just because their blood was that of a heroes’, and unfortunately, the people agreed. The citizens of Polus revered Arthur and his seven noble knights with such fanaticism that they willingly prostrated themselves before the orders’ descendants. Thus was the title of ‘Noble’ born. How saddening, don’t you agree?”

It is, in a darkly humorous way. The Knight has seen it firsthand—how that pitiful King wished to change the world. The lengths he has sought. The sacrifices he has made. If Arthur is to see his beloved nation now, he would no doubt raise his blade and purge it in a sea of blood and flame.

But regardless of what it thinks, it is surprising that Ascalon is being so blatant with his distaste. These are very dangerous words he is saying right now—one that could land him blasphemy.

“Ascalon, are you certain about telling me this?” it says.

“Of course,” Ascalon replies instantly. “I know you are not one to judge another based on status.”

Still, to place such trust in it… how foolish. Even he cannot escape the consequences if his words are to be leaked outside this room. And yet, his expression shows not a shred of worry. Ascalon wholeheartedly believes in the Knight.

Ordinarily it would be happy about this, but for some reason it cannot be rid of this strange sensation of guilt. Bothersome. So very bothersome. It is like a leech, this itch inside me. I want to scratch at it. To claw at it. To tear apart my insides until everything is an indistinguishable mess.

“And I…” he continues. “I would confide in you quite often about this matter. About my wish to end this loathful hierarchy for good. Unfortunately, I know not if I will succeed in this lifetime. Society is ever so resistant to change, and to bring about such reform would no doubt cause much conflict from either side. I cannot have that, not when we’re in the midst of a twenty year long war with no end in sight. The moment we are divided is the moment we fall before Caelum.”

He sighs again. The Knight would be hard pressed to remember a day where he hasn’t sighed or groaned or bemoaned about some matter involving the nation, but he does so out of genuine concern rather than vitriol.

“I apologize for the sudden shift in mood,” Ascalon says with a bashful scratch of his helm’s cheek. “Let’s continue with the story, shall we?”

“But of course.”

“Thank you. Now, Arthur - the young boy as he was - did not think much about his life. His only concern was of survival, and so he spent his days in grueling labor. To him, this was all he had ever known. Normal. And so it would be until his death.

“But one fateful day, his dull routine was interrupted by the sound of a roaring horn. A messenger from the mainland had come, and with them, a most interesting decree. The Lord of Camelot had invited everyone, from the poorest farmer to the wealthiest merchant, to come partake in a festivity without restraint: The Ceremony of the Sword in the Stone.”

“Quite an interesting name.”

“And literal as well. Legends say that long before even the founding of Camelot, there was a warrior without equal. They roamed the land searching for worthy opponents, yet in all of their battles, not once had they ever felt the sting of defeat. There are many records of their exploits - some believable, others outlandish - but the one constant in them all is that the warrior was never once harmed. Not a drop of blood was spilled. Not even as much as a scratch. It was as if they were completely invulnerable.”

Oh? Now that sounds very similar. “The Inheritor of Freedom: one preceding Arthur’s oath,” it mutters.

“Indeed. And so they continued their quest, battle after battle, until they made their final appearance at the hill where Camelot’s capital would eventually lay. They raised their weapon, the celestial zweihander: Mattatron, and then they plunged it directly into a great, hulking boulder. ‘Hear me, all those who seek mine inheritance,’ they proclaimed. ‘Thy worthiness shall be tested. Thy mettle shall be made clear. To you, who doth pull this sword from the stone, I bequeath the legacy of Freedom: And so thine shall become the rightful heir of my will—the strongest in the land.

“From that day forth, it became a tradition for all to gather and try their hand at claiming the sword. Year after year did many a hopeful challenger come, and yet no one ever succeeded. Time passed, a nation had risen, and the ceremony had transformed into one of entertainment: an excuse to revel from dawn to dusk in merrymaking. No one truly believed they would succeed.

“That is, except the young Arthur Polus. As the child of a slave, he was never granted leave to participate in the festivities. Only citizens were allowed to attend, and in the eyes of the law, he was but of rotten birth: a being lower than human.

“But that did not deter him. For the first time in his life, Arthur had felt his smothered heart beginning to stir. Beating to life. Something about the decree called out to him, stoked the flames of ambition in his eyes, and so he ran away. He could feel it—that this was his destiny. There, in that place, was where he could finally find his life’s purpose.

“Of course, it would take a long while before Arthur reached Camelot’s capital. He endured the elements, walked the trails until his soles bled, and suffered many a night writhing in pain from hunger. Yet he persisted. He pushed on to the end, and when he finally took a step into the grounds where the sword laid, the festivities had all but almost finished. He was the very last to challenge the ceremony, and so the eyes of all in attendance were upon him—eager to watch him fail. They saw his mud-stained clothes and snickered. They howled at his decrepit, bony figure. Everyone thought him nothing more than an amusing end to the night.

“But they would laugh no longer, for Arthur took the sword in his hands, and then he pulled it out with not a single bit of resistance. The people were starstruck. They could not believe their eyes, but the scene before them was very much real. And those that saw him that day said it was as if the Mattatron itself had leapt from the stone to welcome him. Soon, a flash of light consumed them all, and when the world was clear once more, a pair of brilliant amber wings had manifested upon his back. Sparkling. A monarch given birth.”

“And then what happened?” the Knight asks.

“That… is a story for another day,” Ascalon chuckles. “I was having so much fun that I failed to realize the sun had already set. My apologies; I’ve taken up too much of your time.”

“Are you truly going to stop at the best part? My, to think you would have such a sadistic side. You tease me, Ascalon.”

“Hehe, I can be mischievous when I want to. But we really must get some rest. Tomorrow is an especially important day. Who knows? Perhaps it shall mark the start of your own legend—one where you emerge from the realm of eternal rest as a divinity, reborn. There you shall be, showering the light of hope unto all.”

“How grandiose, but I do not think it will be as lavish as that. As long as even one person can find strength in my presence, I will be content.”

“Are you certain that’s all you wish for?”

“Well, it would be rather nice if a certain someone would finish their story later.”

“Hm, you strike a hard bargain. But I suppose that can be arranged.”

“Promise?”

He giggles, and so it is that unknown feeling returns to the Knight in full: strange, uncomfortable, yet more precious than anything else. “I promise.”