Aegis

“I used to think I was trapped. That I had to be locked away in this gilded cage of gold for the people’s sake, but… I was only ever fooling myself. No one forced me into this confinement; rather, I chose it of my own volition. I let myself wither in captivity, for to break out into the light was far too terrifying a thought. The unknown scared me. Change scared me. And so I remained behind these imaginary bars, waiting for someone else to grant me leave.

“But that was only ever an excuse. I blamed all but myself for my cowardice, for it was easier to condemn them than to accept the filth in my heart. I remained chained to my naivety, for it was all I had ever known.

“I am not a child anymore. I will not let my identity be decided by those who see only my title. No, this path is my own—a fate strewn by my will. And so it is time to finally leave this cage - this once hated, and beloved, home - and make way to lands still yet unfamiliar.

“I am nervous, but I know the dawn ahead is bright. There are people with me, kind people—ones who trust in my judgment. So I will not let them down, and I will forge ahead a future where we may all bask freely under the Stars’ shine.”

- King Ascalon, Ruler of the Polus Monarchy

———

The Knight

Everything is moving as planned. From the subterranean tunnels, the isolated fortress, and even Ascalon’s rise to confidence… the Knight’s sway has settled quite firmly. Now, all are captive to its guidance—save for the peculiar Joshua whose intentions are still not yet known. But it doesn’t matter; he can do nothing now. Even at this moment, the castle is abuzz with activity as letters and missives are sent to all corners of the nation, and they all carry the same message: prepare for the fateful hour. There can be no stopping the advance, and when Ascalon’s blade claims the Grand General, then shall its relationship with Polus finally come to an end.

And yet, despite how well its schemes are moving along, the Knight feels restless. There is an aching feeling in its chest, but it does not know what it is. It comes in a most mysterious manner, plaguing its being as if by whim, and only does it cease when its eyes are cast upon the young King’s figure. That feeling disappears, and then it is replaced by a stronger, more intense, melancholy.

Perhaps that is why the Knight is now at Ascalon’s door in the dead of night. It does not know why it has come. It does not remember its steps ever carrying itself here. Yet, here it is nonetheless, idly leaning its head on the frame as the faint sound of cleaving air and swinging blade seeps through the wood. Even now, he is training, and the Knight makes no move to interrupt him. It merely wants to stay still where the only barrier between them is this feeble, worn door. The door may as well not exist with how keen Ascalon’s perception is, but still he waits—waiting for it to take the first step.

Why does he tarry, knowing I am here? Why does he always give me space, yet stay ever so nearby that I can find no pause to be alone? I do not know. I think that to myself so often these days, but what else can I say? I really, truly, do not know. All I can do is try and find the reason for myself.

And so it closes its eyes - utters a soft sigh - and grabs the handle, turning it ever so slowly until the door parts way and Ascalon’s armored visage is revealed before it, glowing under the moonlight. He stands there, greatsword resting in his palm, and he raises his head until his amber eyes are peering straight into its own.

“… Why didn’t you say anything?” the Knight asks.

He chuckles, and then he moves to place his blade onto its proper display by the wall. “I thought it would be better to wait. You appeared… conflicted. And content with staying there. It seemed as if you would run away the moment I opened the door, so I stayed my hand. Hehe, It did feel rather embarrassing to have my practice be watched, but surprisingly it was not all too bad. I felt comforted knowing your presence was there; was it not the same for you?”

The Knight doesn’t reply. It stays silent and looks at him, exasperated over how such a man could be so foolishly considerate.

“Did you not wonder why?” it eventually says again. “Surely you found it strange for someone to linger outside another’s chamber. Without a word. Without any prior mention.”

“Hm, it didn’t cross my mind, to be honest,” he says, walking over to the bed and reclining on its edge. “I was merely happy you came to see me. The why does not matter as much than the now; you are here, and for that I am thankful.”

You poor, hopeless imbecile. So observant, yet you cannot see the fake masquerading so plainly.

Ascalon pats at the bedding beside him, beckoning it to take a rest, and so the Knight reluctantly accepts, dragging itself to his side until the two are but a hair’s breadth away from touching each other’s shoulders.

“I couldn’t sleep,” it says.

“Nervous?”

“Not quite.”

“That is a lie.”

“Not a full one.”

“Is it about the invasion?” he asks, gently laying his hand atop the Knight’s own.

“Not in the way you think. I am not nervous about our success, for I know you will be a fitting leader. People naturally flock to your side, Ascalon. You have always had the capability to end this war; you only required the confidence to reveal it.”

“Then what are you nervous of?”

“… I don’t know. Is that strange?”

He laughs: a twinkling, airy laugh full of life. “If that is strange, then I suppose all of humanity is as well. Emotions, instinct… they are not something we can control. It is a mysterious thing, this will Cosmos has granted us, and every day I can’t help but marvel at all the fickle feelings that come sprouting out of my heart.”

“Do you suppress them?”

“Sometimes. I am a King, after all. There are times when I must control my expression, when I must act with neutrality even though I’d like nothing better than to shout out my grievances, but you know what, Lorelai?” Ascalon takes the Knight’s palm, and then he joins it with his own—fingers interlocking together until it is as if the two are but one whole. “You cannot keep those emotions buried forever. One day, there will come a time when they come bursting forth, and you will not have the choice where and when it occurs. It may come in the privacy of your room, or it may come in the presence of others. A single slight, a minor annoyance, or simply just the fated time… once that spark is set alight, there can be no controlling what is spewed next. And most likely, it shall hurt the people around you.”

He speaks as if talking from experience, but the Knight cannot imagine the kind Ascalon ever exploding in rage. The man it has seen thus far has always been understanding, always eager to lend his aid—the epitome of a benevolent ruler.

And yet history has shown time and time again that those with kind hearts are the most susceptible to corruption. They cannot bear the world’s cruelty, and so they diverge into one of two paths: hatred, disgust, a mind twisted by madness. Or they hold steadfast to their beliefs and emerge stronger than ever before.

The Knight is neither. It is only tired—tired of the world. Tired of existing. Tired of repressing these unneeded emotions for eons and eons without end. And despite all its efforts, those emotions emerge now as it finds itself growing ever so closer to the man it must one day slay.

“How do you stop it then?” it asks. “When you cannot bear to suppress those feelings any longer?”

He pauses, slightly tilting his head in thought, before eventually shuffling away from the bed and giving the Knight’s arm a slight tug. “Would you like to see for yourself?”

“… Very well.”

The two leave the bedside with their hands still intertwined, and then they make their way towards the moonlight’s source. A translucent glass wall blocks the room’s end, but with a push of Ascalon’s hand, an opening swerves out, allowing them to walk out onto a twinkling marble terrace.

A small portion of the city can be seen from here, and while it is a calming sight, Ascalon is not done just yet. A mischievous giggle parts his lips, and then his grip tightens as Creation begins to manifest upon his back.

“Hold on, now. Do forgive me if I am a bit rough.”

In an instant, the Monarch’s Wings are brought into the world, black and bespeckled amber shimmering in full display, and then Ascalon leaps into the air and takes off with the Knight close behind. They soar high, higher, and higher still into the darkened sky, until the two are brought to the very top of the castle. There are only spires here, and their shape tapers off into little sharp edges, but the incline is not very steep. On the contrary, it is the perfect elevation for one to lay upon - like a small hill amidst a meadow - and so it is the two make their landing on the cool base, and they rest upon their backs—arms and feet spreading wide as to welcome the evening dusk.

The view is incomparable to before. Here, the entire city is enveloping them—from the great, towering walls of the beyond to the districts cast aglow in their own unique decoration. They surround the two from all sides, leaving not a square nor street unseen, and all-the-while sparkles of the most pure white flicker about in rays shed by the celestial body hanging above.

“… I come here,” he says, breaking the silence. “When everything becomes too much to bear. When the pain in my heart refuses to settle. I come here, and I let my mind drift to those far off lights out of reach. I wander there in the sky, and I dance amongst the drifting nebulas. Hah, I suppose you can call this my secret hiding spot. But it is special to me—a place where I may abandon all worry and simply exist: not as the King, not as the Inheritor of Freedom, but as me.”

He turns his head and scratches his helm’s cheek in a rather bashful manner. “Well, what do you think?”

And to that, the Knight really only has one response: a genuine one, free of manipulation and deceit. A response from the bottom of its heart. “It’s beautiful, Ascslon. It really is.”

…

“Ascalon.”

“Yes, Lorelai?”

“You have changed.”

“How so?”

“The cage in your heart is gone. That solemn, gilded cage… it has been replaced by a great blue sky. It stretches so very far, and yet I do not feel overwhelmed by its vastness. Instead, I feel curiosity. Resolve. You have truly become free, haven’t you?”

He stays quiet, and to the Knight it seems as if he himself doesn’t know the answer. But it can see it clearly: the bright, wonderful soul of a man who has escaped their regrets. He no longer concerns himself with the views of others; instead, he looks out to the expanse—eyes full of innocence and wonder of what lies beyond. New journeys. New adventures. An epic he may call his own.

It is so, so very envious.

“You never did finish that story,” it says to him, though it isn’t particularly in the mood for stories. Perhaps the Knight just wants to be distracted—anything to take its mind off this jealousy creeping within.

“My, and what better setting to finish it under,” Ascalon chuckles. “Where did we leave off again? Ah, yes: The day Arthur gained his wings. It was said that all those in attendance found themselves prostrating before his majesty, and soon, word of the young boy’s feat spread to every corner of the nation. The people were elated, a hero had descended at last, but not all took to his fame kindly. No, there was one person most displeased with the sudden shift in power, and that person was the current Ruler of Camelot: Mordred the Dreadlord.”

Mordred. That man had died before my awakening, so I know very little of what his reign entailed. Though, Arthur did speak of him often—of how vile he was… and pitiful.

“The law of Camelot was very simple: The strong reign free, and the weak are left to suffer. But in their suffering will hatred brew, rage turned into strength, and so they shall eventually oust the old as the new Lord. Such was their philosophy, and Mordred was no stranger to the cycle of power. He, himself, had risen from a poor urchin of the streets, but it was because of this upbringing that his paranoia grew to alarming heights. He sought to eliminate all who would stand in his way: from assassinating once-trusted retainers to seizing control over all means of production. His obsession knew no bounds, and it was thus the common people were caught in-between his bid for dominance.

“Many who would become a member of the Round Table suffered because of his plots. Valkyrie was a fallen noble, her father accused of treason: Morgana was an Astrologian, but the mage tower she served was brought to ruin. Even the gentle Isolde, an apothecary of humble dreams, turned to the use of poison when her shop was burned down for refusing the Dreadlord’s affection.

“Arthur bore witness to all these travesties, and he resolved in his heart to create a world where even the weak may prosper: a world where might was used in the service of others, not just for oneself. His pure-hearted devotion was seen by all, thus did many others flock to his side and created a new organization—an army that which would raze the corrupted system to its very roots.”

Pure-hearted? No, Ascalon. He was not pure of heart. His motivation was inspired purely by guilt. Guilt, for once believing in Mordred’s words. Guilt, for being the judicator of the Dreadlord’s will—blissfully ignorant and believing his cause was in justice’s name. Arthur’s desire for freedom was only realized upon the finding of his lord’s blade thrust deeply into his back. Only then were his eyes opened to the atrocities wrought in Mordred’s name, and he would come to regret his naivety for the rest of his life. Haunting him. From betrayal was obsession born—one of perpetual self-flagellation.

But the Knight will not reveal the truth to Ascalon. It does not want to mire the image of his hero, for the King’s words are ever so impassioned when speaking of such false legends. But, even if it does, perhaps he will not be so affected. No, it is more likely he would come to understand Arthur’s pain, for that is who he is: a kind man, one who would have given the first King the forgiveness he needed.

“Eventually,” Ascalon continues. “Arthur, with the aid of his Knights’ Round, slayed the Dreadlord once and for all. The people celebrated, and order was brought to the newfound kingdom of Polus… but his duty was not yet done. Arthur was afraid of the power he wielded, that his will would one day become corrupted by the temptations of being a ruler, and so he did the unthinkable. He, who was more unbound than all, purposely shackled Freedom’s Will with a curse, restraining its passing onto those only of the knights’ bloodline. The celestial zweihander Mattatron, the invulnerability granted by the Monarch’s Wings… they would only be as powerful as the user’s following, and so he ensured that every proceeding ruler would follow the people’s wishes. Forevermore.”

That part is accurate, at least. But Ascalon is missing one very important detail.

The Knight begins to ask a question—one it already knows the answer of. But it wants to hear Ascalon say it with his own words. It wants to be punished by his voice, knowing that doing so shall not give it salvation or reprieve. “Why did he not pass Freedom's Will down to his own descendants?”

And to that, Ascalon responds with a sad, quiet hush. “That is not mentioned in the legends, though I do not blame the bards for choosing to exclude it. A children’s story must close with a happy ending, after all, for the reality ever tends to be much more somber.”

“Tell me, Ascalon. I want to know.”

He sighs, but there is no avoiding what must come. So, Ascalon chooses to confront it plainly. “I assume you have come to realize there are none among the nobles with the last name of Polus?”

“Yes.”

“It is only natural, for Arthur died before he could sire an heir—slain by the one he loved most.”

The Knight’s breath quickens. Its chest rises and lowers in chaotic, uneasy bouts, and its soul burns, overcome with guilt. Guilt: It almost wants to laugh, for in the end it isn’t really that much different from the sorrowful Arthur. They both are ever so foolish, only... one is still alive—still torturing itself for reasons it desperately wants to know.

“Lorelai,” Ascalon murmurs, and his demeanor changes into one of worry. “I know you are still hurting—still trapped by the murky waters in your heart. I cannot even begin to fathom its depths, that darkness lurking beneath, but know that I will always be here for you.”

“That is nice, I suppose.”

“I mean it. You do not have to confide in me, nor do you have to reveal why you carry such despair, but at the very least, I will always come to your aid—whether you wish to complain about your day or just need a shoulder to lean upon.”

“Oh?” it says with a dry chuckle. “I appreciate the thought, Ascalon, but I do not need any help.”

“Surely there’s something! Hm, let’s start with this: Tell me, what do you want?.”

“What I… want?”

“Indeed, what you desire most at this current moment.”

“Why must it be what I want?”

“Because all you have done thus far is help others,” he says, and there is something about his tone that strikes mercilessly against its fabricated heart. It is not physical pain; rather, something much more senseless. “You helped Annalay see her mother; you helped Dariel gain the conviction to follow in his own path as an officer; and you helped me discover the courage to break free from our old traditions. This and many more have you helped, yet never once have I seen you take any time for yourself. Have you ever, truly, dedicated a day to just enjoy life as you wish?”

The Knight attempts to refute him at first, but the words stop at its throat before it can leave. Have I… ever tried to enjoy life before? No, not just that, has anyone ever asked me what it is I wish to do? Before I took in Aegis, my every moment was dedicated to ensuring humanity’s imprisonment. Every calculated move, every sweet croon, was all for the sake of my duty. Even now, not much has changed.

Not once have I ever wished for anything. No, that is not correct. There is something, but…

“I—” it mumbles. “I do not…”

“What is the first thing that comes to mind? Do not hold back.”

I…

“I want to sleep,” it says, voice barely a whisper. “I want to dream.”

Ascalon lets out a little chortle. “Well, I can certainly help with that.” He picks himself up, and then he moves over to the Knight. Slowly, with a gentle touch, he reaches out and touches its head. It stares at him at first, confused and a little bit resistant, but it gives up and allows him to take hold before placing it right in the middle of his lap. “How’s this? I’ve heard tell from Deborah that her mother once did this with her as a babe. It is supposedly very calming.”

“… It’s uncomfortable,” it mutters, and before it realizes, a loud giggle escapes from its chest. “What were you even thinking?”

“Hm, is it the metal? he asks with the most dumbfounded of looks.

“Yes, it is the metal, Ascalon.”

“Hehe, not very soft, I assume?”

“Very.”

“I apologize. I can get up if you would like—”

“No,” it quickly says. “Would it be okay if we were to stay like this for a little bit?”

“Of course! Use my lap for however long you wish.”

The two remain close for a while. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes turn into hours, and eventually, its eyes begin to droop… before shutting firmly tight.

For the first time in all its long years of existence, the Knight drifts off into slumber, and it dreams. It dreams a very happy dream.