QuiteTheSlacker
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Chapter 61: The Orchid Goddess
🕑 Added 2024-07-29 20:34:46 +0000 UTC“Curiously, despite how Polus legends allude it so, the Celestial Zweihander Mattatron does not grant its wielder invulnerability. I had the fortune one fine day to have a ‘heart-to-heart’ talk with the late King, Dainsleif, and he was ever so kind as to answer my inquiries in depth - though I suppose my incessant pestering likely had a hand.
“But no, the Mattatron is not connected to the legacy of Freedom’s Will whatsoever. It was merely discovered by a wanderer and then used as part of their warfaring pastime. Why exactly the blade only allows itself to be used by the Inheritors is a question I would very much love to ask; unfortunately, only the wielder can hear its voice, and I have been told conversation is often scarce, especially on the subject of its past.
“In regards to capability, The Mattatron’s true power is rather simple: It spreads, and it intensifies. That is all, but when in the hands of one whose bulwark thwarts any harm… well, I am sure you can imagine the possibilities.”
Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy
———
Ascalon
Ascalon can feel it: the tension in the air. With every breath he takes, his chest rumbles. His throat dries - growing ever more parched - until his saliva is nearly drained, and all that is left is to grind his tongue against the coarse, grainy roof of his mouth. He cannot even swallow without tasting a bitter, almost metallic, grime.
So this is the pressure of a true battlefield.
It is as if every one of his senses have been heightened to their utmost degree. He can hear the creaks of his armor shift with every move, and the mere touch of plate scraping against skin is enough to send a shiver coursing throughout his body. Ascalon feels hot. His blood boils with a harsh jitter of anticipation, and as the King turns his gaze behind, he finally realizes the full scale of his army: knights, far spread and reduced to tiny blurs, and their countenance is not unlike his own—each and every one swathed in an aura of pure grit. Like thunder, their march deafens the sky. All is smothered before the raging spirit of Polus.
And Ascalon is to lead their charge. To be their shield.
Shield… it is a wonderful word. To think the day has come where I may stand side-by-side with the knights as equals. I can think of no greater honor.
But there is one man who does not share the same excitement. He silently strides past Ascalon now, and he demolishes the earth with every heavy thud of his grieves. Step by step, the Steel’s Throne that is Sarathiel walks forward with a reclusive haunt etched into his bulky frame. There is no life in that muted demeanor; rather, the Titan shies away—as if attempting to distance himself from his fellows.
It pains Ascalon to see Sarathuel so dejected, but like Lorelai, he knows direct confrontation will yield naught but empty words. So, instead, the King chooses to ease him the best way he can: with some polite conversation.
“I must admit: I envy you, Sarathiel,” he says. The Throne appears stoic at first, but a slight twitch betrays his false disinterest. “Now that we are close to approaching the fortress, I find myself rather smothered by the atmosphere. It is a heavy thing, indeed, to lead such a large force, and my heart beats with such uproar. Did you feel the same way on your first excursion?”
Sarathiel hesitates for a brief second, and it is evident the topic discomforts him. He groans, then he mumbles, and then finally he confronts Ascalon helm-to-helm for the first time since their morning departure. “… It was similar, but not in the way you expect.”
“How so?”
“Let me ask a question of my own: Why do you think your body feels restless?”
Ascalon ponders to himself, head tilting to the side as he attempts to make sense of his emotions. “Because I am nervous? My mind has been quite preoccupied: of the siege, of our people, and of worry knowing what shall soon occur. I know bloodshed is inevitable, that there are some lives even I cannot protect, but my heart aches nonetheless. I suppose death is one terror I am not yet ready to face: both of our fellows and of others.”
Sarathiel chuckles before the King’s response, but the Throne’s tone is bereft of levity. No, it is crestfallen, yet at the same time full of relief as if he has known Ascalon would say as such.
“Yes, that is your nature,” Sarathiel replies. “You are a gentle man, Ascalon. You care more about others than yourself, but that’s the difference between us. Life is a precious thing in your eyes.”
“I… do not understand—”
“When I first stepped onto the battlefield, do you know what I felt?”
Ascalon remains silent.
“It was joy, Ascalon. Joy, that I could finally rip those disgusting Caelum whoresons apart with my own hands. My body was restless because I wanted to kill.”
A dangerous thrill seeps into Sarathiel’s rising voice. His body shivers, his form stiffens, and a savage growl parts from his lips as he continues to speak with an increasingly manic air. “Never once did I think about protecting anyone. No, I only wanted revenge. I wanted to crush, to maim, to grab hold their throats and strangle them bit by bit until the light in their eyes faded away in l utter agony. I relished in their screams; I felt pure, unparalleled ecstasy watching them gurgle in pain as blood and spit oozed out of their foaming jaws.
“And you know what, Ascalon? I didn’t feel guilty even once. This was merely justice, their comeuppance for all the atrocities they had caused. They were monsters that needed to be eradicated, and I was just the executioner. I killed, and I killed, and I killed until there was nothing left. And when my bloody haze finally came to an end, I realized that I was all alone. There was no one else to call monster except me.”
Ascalon is speechless. He attempts to say some words of comfort - anything to soothe the poor Throne’s pain - but no matter how hard he tries, only shaky breaths are muttered.
If Lorelai’s suffering is like an ocean - a bottomless, eerie abyss from which naught ripples in the waves save for an all-consuming fatigue - then Sarathiel’s is like a wounded beast. It howls and threatens to bite all who come near, and yet never does it seek for help. The beast chooses to remain alone, even when its wounds begin to fester and its mind gradually whittles away from the stress. It does not want for salvation; rather, its pain is an atonement. A punishment for reasons the Throne refuses to reveal.
“Sarathiel…” Ascalon says. “That’s—”
“Despicable? Vile?”
“You know that is not what I meant—”
“Ascalon,” the man says with solemn sobriety. “You do not know how happy I am that someone like you is our King. Please, stay the way you are. No matter what you see out there, no matter how much anguish you experience, stay the same adoring man we know and love. Do not become like me.”
Before he can speak any further, an ear-piercing shriek suddenly booms into existence and causes all of able-hearing to clench their heads as a vicious song of grating steel ripples through the space—groaning, guttural, an inhuman reverberation beyond the likes of any man or creature. No, the source can be naught else but mechanical origin. It lies far ahead, beyond the swampland’s barrier, and deep into the grassless plateau. The army quickly hurries to reveal the source, and there, jutting ominously into the sky, is the clear sight of their objective: the Magnus Murus.
The great fortress is even more menacing than Ascalon has thought. To those stationed atop the ramparts, the Polus must seem nothing more than mere dots cluttering the dirt, and the armaments mounted upon the top are of strange design—their form bearing a faint resemblance to that of a ballista, yet the exterior is covered in a slick sheet of dull metal. But what draws Ascalon’s attention are the very walls that block all passage forward: It resembles a huge slab of alloy more than anything else, and its surface lacks any defining features or nicks. The walls are completely smooth all throughout.
At least, that is how it seems at first glance. But as the mechanical noise grows more intense, Ascalon bears witness to a most startling view: The walls. They begin to shift. Thousands upon thousands of little tiles break free from their stationary hold, and they congregate near the center wherein a massive pile is formed from the various bits of metal. They twist, they alter, and they change, rapidly growing in size until a structure resembling a large, obsidian obelisk is constructed. And its tip is pointed directly at the Polus forces.
“That,” Sarathiel mumbles. “Does not bode well for us.”
Ascalon nods, for he can feel a dark energy exuding from its frame. It reeks of despair, of countless slaughter for the sole purpose of rendering Creation inconsolable, and as the two speak, that energy takes form as a web of overlapping beams—weaving and threading together until everything is condensed into a spiraling ray.
“… How despicable,” Ascalon growls. “I suppose the Alchemist is desperate, but never would I have thought him to sacrifice so many this soon.”
But Nokron has made a grave mistake, one he could have never predicted.
Without a second thought, Ascalon unsheathes the Mattatron and slowly paces in front of the others. The Celestial Blade glows in excitement, it bids the King to unleash its full might, and so he complies. He thrusts his trusted friend skyward, and he closes his eyes as a chant steadily rises from his throat.
“Ascalon, are you certain about this?” Sarathiel says whilst blocking his way.
“What other choice do we have, Sarathiel?”
“I will intercept it.”
“Then you will die.”
“Better than to risk endangering your life. You have not used the Monarch’s Wings in actual battle yet. How can you be sure the strain won’t overwhelm you?”
Ascalon chuckles. “I am not, but I will try, and I will succeed. Know this, Sarathiel: I will save everyone possible. There will be no heroic sacrifices, no martyrs in this war. We will survive, and we will return home together.”
For that is the King’s duty. No, it is Ascalon’s sincere wish.
Sarathiel glowers at him, but Ascalon remains resolute. Nothing the Throne says will change his mind, and so the rugged man can only sigh in defeat as he stands aside and lets the King make his way forward.
“Thank you, my friend,” Ascalon says. “And… I do wish you wouldn’t be so eager to harm yourself. Your life is as precious as any other, Sarathiel.”
“Hmph, move along already.” The man bids him away with a pedantic wave, but though his face may be obscured, there is surely a smile hiding underneath.
And so, Ascalon takes a deep breath, and he commands for the world’s Creation to congregate upon his back. Sparkle upon sparkle flock to his call, and soon, the Monarch’s Wings emerge in all their amber-bespeckled glory—the light pouring forth to envelop his everything in a blinding glow.
“O’, to you, my most treasured blessings: This earth of wonder, mine fellow kindred, the holy Mother that which grant us grace, and everyone who doth rest under my wing…” he whispers. “Receive my proclamation.”
The Mattatron resonates with the King’s call, blade shaking in thrill as it welcomes the amber light into its own cool alloy, and then comes a surge of blue. It gently rises up and kisses the light, embracing it whilst intertwining in merry union—a marriage. A sacrament of matrimony. And as the two lovers adore in the other’s presence, their hues combine as one. Brighter, and brighter, until a newborn dye is birthed: a divinity of orchid blossoms.
“You are my guiding Star. All that I am and ever will be is because of your trust. As long as your faith in me holds strong, I will never waver. I am immovable, indomitable, and so I shall be until mine final dawn awaits.”
The grotesque spiral nears the end of its convergence, the very pressure causing its frame to convulse as an unnatural howl continues to persist and plague the world with its blasphemy.
“I bid thee all: Hearken to this plea. Anoint me thine wishes for the morrow, and so shall it take form as the one who doth shield us all. Rise now, sacred guardian of Polus, for you are the almighty: the people’s will given flesh.”
With a final, chilling wail, the spiral explodes. The air freezes, a loud boom crashes into all, and thus is an immense ray of pure darkness sent hurtling forth at the Polus forces.
“Rise, our goddess of victory.”
Ascalon guides the orchid light to the Mattatron’s end, and he releases the energy soaring straight into the clouds. It flies to the very top, and then it scatters—showering those below in a glittering pastel veil. But from that veil does a titanic figure manifest into the world: a woman. An armor-clad woman whose skin is of the richest purple and whose armor gleams with a translucent luster. Her eyes are hidden, covered by a winged helm, and on her back are countless little feathers of pure light forming into an all-encompassing span.
The woman is the mirror image of Lorelai.
The giantess takes one step forward, and she shields the army behind the safety of her colossal wings. Waiting, bracing herself for the inevitable, and as the ray of destruction finally collides with her being, it disperses in a sparkling downpour of dust. The orchid goddess holds steadfast, visage undeterred and full of determination, until the last remnants of the ray finally vanish—gone without so much as a sound. And so too does Polus’s guardian fade away with her duty complete; she bids the knights one final smile before returning to the heavenly realm up high.
“Hm,” Sarathiel says. “So Lorelai is your goddess of victory?”
Much to his dismay, Ascalon’s cheeks flush in embarrassment, and he attempts to respond with some semblance of dignity. He does not succeed. “The deity shapes itself into the image of who I respect most.”
“I see,” Sarathiel teases, and for once his gaze is devoid of self-contempt. He appears relaxed, staring up at the sky with an innocence not unlike the man of his youth—before his departure to that far-away desert. But sadly it does not last for long, and he turns to face the Magnus Murus with renewed gloom. “Then I suppose it is my turn next.”
“Sarathiel,” Ascalon says, grabbing onto his shoulder. “Please be careful.”
“… By your order.” With a slight crack of the neck, Sarathiel tenses his body, and he takes off, charging with reckless abandon towards the fortress gates.
