QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 75: Wake Up, O' Sleeping Beauty
🕑 Added 2024-09-18 03:29:29 +0000 UTC“I am becoming too fond of Ascalon. Ever since that moonlit night together, I find myself shying away from his gaze. It is gentle and warm and… confusing. I once thought him to be just like that lonesome Star, but now I am not so sure. They are certainly similar in regards to tendency: impulsive, naive, and ever so self-sacrificing. They both yearn to explore the wider world and break free from their sheltered existence. I suppose it is only natural for a child to resemble their parent.
“Yet when I look upon him, I see not just a copy or replacement, but a person wholly unique. He is kind, but also firm. He adores the new, but never forgets his hearth. And greater than any else is his sincere belief in the goodness of others.
“The Star I knew would obsess over their children’s every worry. They would decide what made the other happiest, and though my beloved meant well, their love was far too smothering.
“Ascalon, however, is the opposite. He does not attempt to intrude upon my heart. He does not beset me with veiled words of concern. No, when he wishes to comfort someone, he merely stays by their side and lets his presence be known—as if saying that he shall always be near in their hour of need. He waits for them to confide when they feel safest.
“Ascalon is different because he trusts in the resilience of humanity. And it is that quality that I…
“… At the end of this facade, when I shall have to commit the cruelest sin, what face will I greet him with?”
The Knight
———
The Knight
It has been some time since Ascalon’s last message. The Knight paces back and forth nervously outside the fortress gates, waiting for the King to send any confirmation of his well-being. He is not a man who would fall easily, yet nonetheless it cannot help but grit its teeth in concern.
Aegis is also restless. The little babe clutches the Knight’s head with a grunt and tries to pull it away, his eyes squinting in revulsion towards an unseeable force within the walls. He cowers by instinct as if his mortal enemy lies beyond.
Something abnormal is afoot.
The Knight attempts to reach out to the other Templars and ascertain their status, but the link is hazy—just like with Sarathiel whilst he was trapped in the mist. Could they be in a similar situation? Possibly, however it cannot know for certain unless it descends into the fortress itself.
Alas, its duty binds it. For so long as it holds the title of Strategist, it must remain here on the outside: powerless. And awaiting a voice perhaps never to come.
A second later, it hears a pair of footsteps coming its way. Deborah and Soloman depart from their respective Orders’ formation, and they join the Knight by its side—leering at the Magnus Murus with concerns of their own.
“Still no word from them, Lorelai? Deborah asks. She grips tightly on her bow and fiddles with it absentmindedly, glancing between her knights and the fortress.
“I am afraid not, Deborah,” it says. “Not from Ascalon, and neither from the Templars. Although we must remain hopeful, I admit it does not rest easy on me to stand by whilst such uncertainty remains.”
Soloman nods in agreement, and he casts a loathful glare towards where Aegis just so previously beheld. He needs not say a word to convey his thoughts: “danger.”
The three mull about in their unease, but Deborah soon chimes in with a proposition. “What if Soloman and I were to go in and search the vicinity? We could keep the link constantly maintained while I report on everything I see. That should at least help somewhat with figuring out what’s going on.”
The Knight has considered it; however, the Virtues and Sovereignties rely on attacking from far, and to force them within the narrow, uncharted confines of the fortress would pose incurring unnecessary risks. But… strange, why should it care about such things?
Although it is all too aware of its feelings toward Ascalon, the Knight has scarcely interacted with the other Thrones. So why does it now hesitate?
That nauseating sensation is returning. Its chest tightens, and its breath turns sharp. Realization slowly dawns on its perplexed mind; it is becoming one of them.
It acts as if it truly belongs to Polus.
No, 2I am not… this cannot continue. I will not forget why I am here.
All it must concern itself with is Ascalon’s safety and the successful siege of the fortress. What is lost along the way matters not.
“… A wise proposal, Deborah,” the Knight says, patting her shoulder. “Let us do that then, but promise me you shall prioritize your safety.”
The Virtue’s Templar salutes it with a bright cheer. “Don’t worry, I’m not as reckless as the others.” Soon, she barks out orders to her knights and prepares to leave, but not without first raising her arm and entrapping the silent Soloman in an uncomfortable hold. The man attempts to break free, but his resistance is short lived; he merely lets himself be dragged away. “Come on, Soloman! Let’s hurry on before the others get into trouble.”
After a raucous assembly and a few inspiring words from Deborah, her group sets off into the fortress. As planned, the link persists unbroken, and she reports on every little detail about her surroundings.
“Do you see anything unusual so far, Deborah?” The Knight asks.
“Not quite. The halls look like what I would expect from a Caelum fortress, though it does look a bit beaten up. The floor is messy and the walls are torn; I think the knights met some kind of resistance here, but I don’t see any bodies so they should be fine.”
After witnessing the bizarre weaponry of the Caelum firsthand, it would not be surprising if Nokron littered the bastion with all sorts of unusual traps. But surely that cannot be his only asset; such things would only serve to be a slight hindrance.
“Continue,” it says. “Whatever has ensnared the Templars likely lies deeper within.”
“Got it, proceeding along.”
The next few moments result in only passing comments from Deborah—mundane observations and the occasional banter. However, it is after she conveys her ascension towards the upper floor that their group finally encounters a sign of life,
“Lorelai? I hear something,” she says. “There’s a noise coming from above us. I think someone’s fighting up there. But it’s weird, I—I feel so filthy all of a sudden.”
Deborah’s voice begins to cut and skip unnaturally, as if something is interfering with the sorcery. It tries to speak out to her, but she reacts as if not one of its words has gotten through.”
“Where are… can you hear… roof’s crumbling… I think it’s… AGH!”
And then, there is nothing. The Knight is left to infer from what vague information is available.
There must be a physical threat, that is for certain. Yet what is there that can threaten the Templars save for Nokron? And he… I have a suspicion he is currently locked in combat with Ascalon. Hm, will I truly be forced to enter myself?
But before it can, the link with Deborah is re-established—slowly, at first, but gradually it becomes more clear, and the Virtue’s frantic voice comes through with a panic.
“Lorelai… Lorelai! Can you hear me!?” she shouts.
“Indeed, what happened in there?” it replies. “All I heard was a scream before you went silent.”
“It was—Stars, I don’t know what it was. Cain and Surasha came crashing down from the upper level, along with this… thing. I can’t even describe it: monster, creature? I don’t know. Cain was able to encase it inside his magma, but he was severely injured as a result. Surasha is tending to him right now; I was trying to reach you, but I think being near it impeded our connection.”
“I see…” it says. “Once Surasha is finished, tell her to contact me at once. A firsthand account of her experience shall be most important in determining our next move henceforth.”
“Got it, I think she’s almost done anyway. I’ll go ahead and see if I can find anyone else.”
Deborah’s voice disappears. And soon, a new one comes seeping through: one utterly exhausted and weary in spirit.
“… Lorelai?” Surasha grumbles, her tone that of a woman twice her age. “This place’s a lot more dangerous than I thought. Hells, I’m tired… not sure if we’ll be able to go on any farther in this state, especially with this damn idiot knocked out and laying around.”
“It is good to hear from you too,” it replies with a chuckle. “But, please, one matter at a time.”
“Ah, sorry.” She takes a deep breath and begins to recount her arduous tale. “Everything was going smoothly, at first. Then all these saws and spikes started pestering us. We were able to tough it out, but the real danger came from this fleshy looking abomination. Nothing we did seemed to hurt it: slicing, bashing, beheading, none of it. And trying to go near meant risking getting doused in its blood; we lost a couple of knights because of that… just melted into a puddle right there. Only reason we’re still alive is thanks to Cain, but he got too close and—well, let’s just say I had to graft him some new skin.”
“That is strange. You say the thing could not be killed?”
“Yep. I think it’s still alive even now, if you can even call whatever that is alive.”
The Knight recounts of a similar sorcery—an army composed of bone and rotting flesh. What was their weakness again? Ah, that is right; slaying the invoker. The dead shall never pass until Nokron is dealt with.
“You have fought hard, Surasha. For now, gather your division and make way towards the outside with Cain. I cannot let you advance whilst so fatigued.”
“I’m not complaining,” she says, sighing in relief. “Guess it’s up to me to haul this big lug outta here—wait, what is… what the hells is that?”
Surasha’s voice suddenly shouts, but rather than alarm, wonder and awe possesses her as she sputters and stumbles over her own breath. That is not the sound of one in danger; on the contrary, she is oddly pensive.
“I—that can’t be right,” she mutters. “Why is that here? I don’t…”
“Surasha? Surasha! What happened?” it exclaims. But as soon as it attempts to reach out, the Knight’s head is besieged by a cacophony of familiar voices. The missing Templars all regain their connection at once, and they relay to it a similarly dumbfounded gasp.
Abel is the first to speak with actual words and not vague mumblings. “Dame Lorelai? How fortunate you are now here. I do not know why, but the fortress is—”
Who is then interrupted by a cursing Dismas. “Agh, Stars almighty my head ‘urts. First that ugly lookin’ mug comes chargin’ in, and now the whole place’s a damn—”
But it is Surasha who replies with the most confusion, for when she speaks again, she does so with a heart dripping in nostalgia.
“It’s the forest,” she says in the tiniest of whispers. “There’s vines growing on the walls, leaves sprouting from underneath the cracks: dirt, flowers, shrubs… it’s all here. Hah, I can’t believe it: the passage’s been transformed into a forest. My—my hometown’s forest. Damnit, am I seeing things now?”
Surasha mutters to herself, still partly in doubt, however the reports from the others soon affirm that her claims are no mere delusions. Deborah, Abel, Dismas and all: they tell of an identical landscape. Earth and foliage has overtaken the entirety of the fortress, turning it from an industrial nightmare of human invention into a realm where nature has reclaimed its authority.
Even the Knight can see traces of the overgrowth from its position. Large branches burst out from the walls, and flowers overrun the sides in matching hues of white and yellow. It lends the Magnus Murus the image of an old ruin, abandoned and left to suffer the elements.
And yet, despite the takeover, it feels not a shred of harmful intent within the vegetation. It is serene, graceful: a far cry from the corrupting influence exuding not so long ago. This growth cannot possibly be from the likes of Nokron.
“It’s all so familiar,” Surasha says, snapping out of her daze. “I, um, how do I explain it? It’s like I’ve traveled back in time. This earthy smell, the soggy air, and an unbearable urge to scratch my skin—I can never forget it. This was my life for years, but even when I was too weak to move, I never felt down. I was happy because a certain someone would always come back. To sing to me, to care for me… to make sure I never felt alone. Oh, Ascalon: you did something stupid again, didn’t you?”
It tries to reach out to him, but nothing. The King does not respond, and soon a most horrid question worms its way into the Knight’s head.
Is Ascalon dead?
Eons and eons of existence, countless lifetimes of apathy and neglect, yet those ageless memories all but disappear as a single, raw emotion infests its everything: terror. Terror the likes an eternity imprisonment cannot possibly compare. Terror such that even if the earth is to rot and the waters dry, it shall remain here - unchanging - whilst collapsed in a pile of its own disbelief.
It raises a trembling hand and pounds at its heart, desperate to bring some modicum of sense back into its being. But no matter how hard it hits, the thumping becomes stronger. More violent. More hysterical.
And then, deep within the pits of its soul, something snaps. And the Knight abandons every last shred of rational thought.
“I hereby order all remaining knights in the fortress,” it begins. “Retreat at once.”
The Templars shout out in protest, but it is stern—fiercely so. Its tone allows no refusal, and its words are eerily calm, yet lying underneath is a presence that commands all to bow and cower. It drowns them in the suffocating reverberation of its command.
“From now on, I will handle this personally.”
They reluctantly agree and fall silent. Now, it must calm the terrified child atop its helm.
Aegis buries his head in his arms, trembling before its extreme surge of emotions. It is at these times the Knight loathes their shared curse; the boy does not deserve to suffer under its own conflict.
“I am sorry, Aegis,” it whispers, steering away from the surrounding Polus guards. “I have hurt you, and for that I have wronged. But I must plead to you now for assistance. Please, lend me your wings. Ascalon is… important to me. From the bottom of my heart, I wish to save him.”
The child peaks out from his cover, and he glares at the Knight with anger burning in his tiny eyes. But after his rage burns away, there is a desire to forgive: to reconcile and forget about such tiring feelings. He wishes to simply make amends with his parent.
Parent? You see me as a parent. I—thank you, Aegis. I promise never again to break your trust.
With their bonds rekindled, Aegis manifests his star-speckled wings, and the two take off: flying to the very top of the fortress.
Locating the King would ordinarily prove difficult in the fortress’s labyrinthine halls, but fortunately the Knight has a companion most acute to the fluctuations of Creation. Wherever the mist is most concentrated, Ascalon likely awaits.
“Can you feel it?” it says, urging on Aegis’s senses. “The evil that which you saw before, focus on it now: find it, envision it, conjure a perceivable form.”
The child squeezes his eyes shut and hones in on that repulsive force. Soon, his thoughts merge with the Knight’s, consciousness overlaying as the two become of one mind, and then it witnesses the world as Aegis does: a breathtaking, wondrous utopia where Creation soars free in bright ribbons and sparkles of color. They flitter about, laughing. Singing. Joining together in a merry celebration of life.
But in the midst of those innocent sprites, a dark shadow glints clear from behind the metal walls. It attempts to grope and defile all that is good, but something prevents it from spreading its stain.
A light, one of blinding white and taking human form; it clutches at the shadow and entraps it within a gentle embrace, as if even such a detestable thing is deserving of love.
The Knight recognizes that figure, for it belongs to the man who so effortlessly has captured its affection.
“You have done well, Aegis. Rest now, I shall take care of the rest.”
It raises the twin blades, slashes through the steel, and descends into the Magnus Murus. Deeper, and deeper, it goes, breaking past all before its path in a tempest of destruction until—it bursts forth into a large chamber.
There, wrapped in a delicate wreath of flora and brush, is Ascalon. He stands perfectly still, suspended upright by the dense foliage growing without end. And all the while, light trickles down from the opening above, bathing him in rays of gold.
He looks beautiful, like a living painting.
“So this is where you have been,” the Knight whispers, slowly moving near and caressing his helm. “Locked in a dream. Slumbering ever so peacefully. Oh, my courageous, and foolish, Ascalon… why must you insist on shouldering every burden alone? No one would fault you for being a little more selfish.”
It wraps him in a tight hug—clinging on as if he will forever disappear if its hold loosens for even a second. These sensations it has long thought lost, it bestows upon him. Every belated skip of its heart, every smile it has worn in his presence: it understands now, the reason why it feels like this.
The Knight loves him. It loves Ascalon.
… Soon, a disgusting presence creeps onto its body. The shadow from before frantically escapes the King’s binding and transfers itself to the Knight, and so does a new voice sputter in its mind: the voice of the Alchemist.
“I—I’ve finally escaped that wretched prison,” Nokron says. “No matter, this new body shall do nicely to regain my strength. As long as I can take over their soul—”
“I am afraid that will be difficult for you,” the Knight interrupts. “You may try, but the result shall not be as you think.”
The man spits out a hollow laugh. “Ah, is that you, Lorelai? What a surprise. I know not how you managed to fool the Grand General’s sight, but there shall be no escape from death’s grasp this time. Your past is mine to exploit just like that brute, Sarathiel. I will turn you into another—”
But he says not another word. There is only silence, a faint gasp, and then: the Alchemist despairs.
“No. N-No, what is this… eternity? Endless. Dark. I see nothing but a void, an infinite ocean of ink. I cannot reach the depths of your past. I cannot even see the surface.”
The Knight sighs. This is an expected outcome, but still it cannot help but feel a bit disappointed. “I was curious to see how far you would delve, but it seems my expectations were for naught. A pity.”
“You are not Lorelai. Who—what are you?”
The Knight doesn’t answer.
The last fragments of Nokron’s consciousness fade, pulled apart by the vast and umbral sea. There is no battle, no final bout of resistance. He simply disappears, existence snuffed without so much as a cry.
The siege is over. Polus is victorious. Now, there is but one thing left to do,
The Knight leans in close, lips brushing against the King’s ear, and it whispers.
“Ascalon, it is time to wake up.”
