Aegis

“The kin of Cosmos call it many names: miasma, malaise, the mist. They believe it to be the weeping souls of all perished under a baleful death. They are not entirely correct.

“In truth, it is Creation’s grudge. The divinity loathes me more than any other in this world, and so it festered my breath - enveloped me in a perpetual shroud of woe - all to bring about the ceasing of this fractured heart. It failed.

“This grudge has persisted since the very beginning. Now, it is a part of me. Creation has since long lost its control. I need only stir the malice to call it forth.”

- The Knight

———

The Knight

A peculiar union of clinic and storage now serves as the Knight’s current abode, boxes cluttering the space around the cot it lies upon, and a thick scent of herbal concoction wafts throughout from the Polus healer’s attempt at treating the being’s feigned lunacy. Night has fallen; the encampment is slumbering. Now, the being has truly adapted to their mannerisms and language. It has no need for this charade any further.

A kick taps its chest-plate. An angry Aegis is demanding to be let out, upset after being forced to confine himself for the past few moons. Ah, you little troublemaker. Had it been daytime, you would have wrought us much trouble.

The Knight releases its cage of skin and Aegis slides out, tumbling onto the floor with a mighty thunk. The baby pouts; he refuses to look at it.

“Does my protection inconvenience you to such lengths? It is necessary, child. They can not be allowed to discover your presence. One glance at your celestial eyes is all that is needed for you to suffer a life of servitude.”

Aegis does not care. He slams his rear onto the floor and grunts in defiance. So young, yet already so full of rebellion.

“Hm. There is another way, but it will depend wholly on your efforts.”

Aegis is curious now. Although The Knight’s exact words are not completely conveyed through their shared curse, it appears intention is still properly understood. The child is excited at the prospect of finally leaving the stuffy enclosure.

Creation is already eager to provide aid to him. Perhaps he can yet invoke the spells of the Astrologians.

“Now, do you see that area over there?” It points at a flat section of the tent devoid of other objects.

Aegis looks at him blankly.

“Pretend that you are… hiding. You need to use the surrounding Creation to veil yourself. Create a space in which only you can see through.”

But its words are only met with more confusion. Is my explanation lacking? Well, there is not much I can do as one who has never felt that resentful being’s blessing. What to do… ah. Yes, perhaps that shall work.

There is one lesson it has held true in its heart after eons of existence: efficient education lies in practical experience, and there is no greater motivator than duress.

The Knight stands up, and it crashes into the table. A loud jolt rings through the air, spreading throughout the entire camp. Soon, curious whispers trickle in from outside, and faint traces of footsteps are heard in the distance approaching them. Aegis panics and flails about as he tries to beg for the Knight to let him back in, but his desperation begets only a stern refusal.

“You must hurry, child. All you need do is beseech Creation’s assistance… no, command it. Force it to bend before your will. You are its beloved spawn. Make use of its love.”

The footsteps are becoming louder, each stomp crunching the dirt and emitting a tortuous echo. With a flutter, the entrance to the tent opens and Aegis closes his eyes.

“Is everything ok here?” a rosy-pink haired officer says, peeking his head nervously into the space. The man is tan of skin, face embellished with emerald green eyes, and despite the tailored suit suggesting of higher position, his soft exterior reveals a youthful naivety still yet untainted by caution. This shall prove simple.

The Knight picks itself off of the floor and readies its vocal tract. It is time to see if its deception has rusted with age.

“W-Where am I?” it asks, backing away with a nervous trot. Its voice shakes, body trembling with fear, and it cowers onto its knees with a pathetic whimper.

“You’re sane!” The officer tries to approach it, but quickly stops after a sudden harsh cry of refusal. “A-Ah, my apologies. Easy now, you’re safe here. This is the northern border of the Aeternum. We discovered you stumbling through the forest; the miasma had consumed your mind, but we’ve been diligently treating you these past few days. You don’t need to worry.”

He takes a single step forward, carefully gauging its reaction. “I’m not going to hurt you. No one here is going to hurt you. Everything will be ok. Will you allow me to…?”

But the Knight sets a clear boundary.

“That is fine as well,” he says. “I’ll just ask a few questions. Is that alright?”

It nods.

“Good. Good… ok. Now, let’s start off with a simple one. What is your name?”

It doesn’t respond.

“Not good. Very bad, actually. I can’t imagine how much suffering the miasma has put you through—”

“I want to rest,” the Knight says.

“O-Oh! My bad. Yes, no doubt you’re feeling quite tired after your ordeal. I just have one more if you…?”

“…Alright.”

“Thank you! Really. Now, do you remember anything about yourself?”

“I am a knight, that much I know for certain, and I remember steel. Flashes of light. There was a woman clad in wings - a towering construct - and enemies in strange, mechanical armor. I… there was a mist. It spread to us all, and then there were screams. So many screams. It invaded my mind, whispered such vile things to my heart, and I wanted to claw and claw and claw it out of my wretched chest. I had to. I yearned to. I, who am I? Why was I there? I don’t remember. I don’t want to—”

The officer rushes in and quickly wraps the Knight in a clumsy, yet good-natured, hold.

“Stop. That is far enough,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to continue any further. I apologize for stirring such painful memories.”

“I want to rest. I want to forget.”

“I understand.” He lets go. An awkward air lingers for a moment, the young man unsure of his next course of action, until eventually he decides to carefully trudge back to the tent’s entrance. “Take as much time as you need. A representative from the capital will arrive soon to take you back soon, anyway. I’m sure you would much rather recover while far away from the forest.”

“Yes. Um, thank you, and I’m sorry for lashing out.”

“Think nothing of it!” he exclaims with a blush. “The fault is mine for straining you right after your awakening. If you need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to seek me out. I’ll be at the brown tent with an insignia of a winged sword engraved at the entrance. Please, do take care.”

The officer bows his head and silently takes his leave. Embarrassed mutterings follow his trail, fading into the night’s obscurity before allowing silence to reign supreme once more. Aegis, meanwhile, is still in the corner scrunching his eyes shut in desperation. Such sorcery will not fool the Knight’s vision, but it is an adequate first attempt.

“You can open your eyes now, Aegis.”

The concealment wears off and the baby collapses onto the floor with a deep sigh, exhausted after the mental burden the Knight has inflicted upon him.

“That was a wonderful display. Whenever you wish to veil yourself, close your eyes just like that and imagine the world sheltering you from the outside.

Aegis burps - Is that an acknowledgment? - before letting his eyes droop and falling asleep, hands curling around the Knight’s finger.

A representative, hm? Perhaps an audience with the King is not far off.

But, for now, rest is truly in order. And it will do so whilst accompanied by a bundle of warmth it hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

———

Dariel

Dariel is in a good mood. The air outside is fresh with the scent of setting spring, and a cool lash of air tinges his skin with soft shivers. It’s a beautiful day outside; how fortunate that he needs not bask in it alone.

A few days have passed since his - rather mortifying - intrusion of the survivor’s quarters, but thankfully the kind soul appears to hold no grudge towards him. On the contrary, they’ve even volunteered to help with various tasks around the camp. He has tried to refuse them. After all, what madman would attempt to work after suffering such mental agony? Alas, people are complex. Physical labor only seems to be aiding in their recovery. How curious the temperament of a knight is. I suppose being outside does help with the blood flow.

It is a bit concerning that the miasma is still leaking from their body, but if it is affecting the survivor, then they show no sign of it. That, or they are simply enduring. He hopes it is not the latter: false bravado will only lead to an early grave.

“Oh, hello there! How are you doing?” A voice asks from behind, knocking Dariel out of his stupor.

He turns around and comes face to face with the jovial knight in question hauling a gigantic log of wood in their arms. What tremendous strength! The officer almost blurts out his admiration, but luckily catches himself at the last second lest he behave like a greenhorn.

“I’m doing quite well,” he says, attempting to give off an air of confidence. “But I really don’t think you should be exerting yourself like this.”

The survivor bellows out a hearty, mesmerizing laugh that rumbles clear despite the bustling camp. It’s strange, but Dariel feels… comforted by the sound. Their voice has a seductive quality to it - as if it can charm anyone into becoming a lifelong friend - and the rich, androgynous timbre of their pitch soothes his tired gaze in an instant. Friendly, powerful, yet gentle at the same time. Even now, he is not quite sure if they are a man or a woman, but the officer dares not ask at the risk of appearing inconsiderate like before.

“Aw, don’t be like that now!” they say, gracing him with what he thinks to be a wide grin under the helm. “I just wanted to help out and stretch the old body. Wait, am I old? Ah, well, no use thinking about such stuff! I’ll find out eventually.”

Dariel sighs and throws his hands up in surrender. There’s no winning against that boundless cheer. He suspects that if he takes a whole knight division’s worth of rowdiness and concentrates it into a singular being, the result will most likely be similar to the lively soul before him. They are a Polus knight through and through.

“Heheh, if our elders had the same energy as you, I’m afraid the court would never be able to convene.”

“Oh? You sound like you’re personally familiar with them.”

“Ah.” Oh no, I shouldn’t have mentioned that…

“I-It’s nothing,” he begins, voice slowly rising to a fluster. “I just happened to have the privilege to witness one of their sessions first hand. Yes, I am definitely just a regular official from the academy. No royal blood in me whatsoever. Nope. Indeed.”

The survivor doesn’t look convinced.

“Hm, come to think of it… I don’t think I ever got your name. What was it again?” they ask, and strangely enough, he feels compelled to reply.

“Stars, how rude of me,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’m Dariel, a simple advising officer. That’s me.”

“Is that so? But I have a feeling you’re not as simple as you claim to be.”

“W-Whatever do you mean?”

“Tell me, what is your last name?”

Their voice is more like a command rather than a question. It surges through his body in a wave of paralysis, and soon, words start to bubble from within and leak out before he can attempt to resist.

“Cherubim. I-I’m from the Cherubim royal line.”

Now you’ve done it… damnit. I can’t bear to look.

Dariel hesitantly opens his eyes and prepares to be greeted by a strained, distant demeanor, but to his surprise the survivor remains exactly the same.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” they guffaw, delivering a soft slap to his back. “Don’t know why you were acting so nervous there.”

On the contrary, they appear to be a bit friendlier than before. How odd. Do they… really not mind my status?

“…I’m surprised you’re so indifferent,” he says, “Normally when I mention my heritage, others become a bit wary around me—almost as if they’re afraid to commit an offense.”

It was quite easy to take the original officer’s place, though I did have to hand over a hefty sum of my monthly allowance.

Still, he doesn’t regret the decision. If Dariel is to prove himself through his actions, not his bloodline, then masquerading himself as a commoner is a necessity. He is treated as an equal here, as a comrade, and to reveal himself would mean for that fellowship to disappear in a sea of envious gazes—of caution and jealousy. Just like in his academy days.

“Well, you don’t have to worry. You’re you. That’s all I care about.”

Their words are said so casually, yet it brings comfort to the worried noble’s heart - like a drizzling shower of bliss.

“If only others thought the same,” he mutters with a bitter smile.

Dariel looks out to the capital far beyond the vibrant blue sky. The quaint kingdom is hidden, veiled by drifting clouds and rolling fields; even so, he can still feel himself there, shouting away in the midst of an impassioned session. There is no other place he feels more at home, at ease. But, eventually, a seed of doubt has begun to grow. It seized my heart - opened my eyes - and when I finally awoke, all I saw were the twisted faces of those I used to admire. Knight, noble, subject… awash in a sickening shroud of dispute. Of spiteful eyes and venomous scoffs. Why are we so divided? Are we not supposed to be gathered in mutual solidarity?

The survivor places a gentle hand on his shoulder. It feels nice, a breeze of sweet soothing, and in their touch is a feeling he has long sought to reach: understanding.

“Dariel, let it out,” they say. “No matter what doubts you have, what anger you hold in your heart, it will all be ok. I won’t judge you. I’ll only listen.”

Here they stand, a complete stranger the officer has only just met, yet in their demeanor is a boundless capacity for kindness. If it is with this person, with this knight of wholly different background than him, then he may just be able to trust them—to call them friend.

“...The reason I left the capital was to escape from my own cage of ignorance,” he begins, dropping onto the dirt with a thump and preparing for a long story. “What was it truly like for the knights out on the battlefield? What were their grievances? From operations to camping to even the littlest of intricacies such as how they sleep: I wanted to learn. I wanted to experience, for I believe a truly capable official is one who understands the affairs of both noble and subject: knight and bureaucrat.”

A flame has been lit within the officer’s bosom. He does not want to hide any longer, to conceal the fervor festering in his heart. It is as if his body is being filled with energy, and soon, his words grow into a vigorous speech.

“It frustrates me! It frustrates me whenever I see the court devolve into a rabid pile of disagreement with neither consideration nor grace. The nobles and officials have good intentions, but they’re obstinate. Stubborn. And I used to think that was simply just their pride as a servant to the nation, but now I see it for what it truly is: a refusal to listen to any other but themself. How can you possibly expect to know the needs of the citizens if you’ve never even set foot outside the capital? I just can’t understand.”

Grandfather should be the voice of reason, the one to mediate between the two parties as someone who once served as a Throne himself, but even he has fallen to the temptation of superiority. I fear he no longer listens to my words.

“And the knight orders… well, I’m sure you know best.”

The survivor chuckles at the statement, as if they have an entire lifetime’s worth of experience to call upon. “Headstrong? Unruly?”

“That doesn’t even begin to describe it! One time, the Templar Regent of the Order of the Powers even spat on an official after he was insulted. It took weeks before their feud was mediated, and I believe he still holds a grudge over the affair. Ugh, relations between the two compartments are only getting worse over time. One refuses to revise their outlook, and the other has long since given up on cooperation. If it wasn’t for the wisdom of our majesty King Ascalon, the court would constantly be at each other’s throats. It’s almost humorous in a way, but I’m not laughing anymore.”

Dariel sighs and rubs his tired temple, eyes slowly filling up with a dark shadow.

“I came out here to change that. To return back to the court as a new man. But now? I don’t know. The longer I stay here, the more the foolishness of my actions come to haunt me. I’m just one person, a tiny speck amongst the endless crowd. How can I hope to mend our bonds alone?”

I can hear them: grandfather’s words. “You are but still a boy.” Defiance soared within my heart then, eager to prove him wrong, but perhaps he was right. I was just trying to rebel in the only way I could. How pathetic.

“In the end,” he spits. “All of this, everything… it’s all worthless—”

The survivor rushes in and clasps Dariel in a tight hold. His face is overcome with a vibrant red, arms half-heartedly attempting to push the ever-so warm presence back in protest, but his pleas are only met with a tender hush and a caring stroke of his back. It is as if he’s back in the arms of his mother, of one who will accept his everything with a fond smile.

“No, Dariel. You are wrong,” they say, voice so utterly imbued with conviction that the officer can’t help but follow every word with reverence. “Your efforts aren’t worthless. They’re precious, so very precious, for it reveals in you a force greater than any other: courage. The courage to see the world with your own eyes, to feel it with your own will, and to strive towards what you believe is right. Do not doubt yourself. Stand tall with pride, for the man before me is truly strong.”

“I-I,” he stutters, trembling with a helplessness that pierces the very depths of his soul. “You’re just being kind, but mere words won’t change who I am.”

“You’re right. Words are only the beginning, a spark to ignite the embers within, but if you believe in their potential, then someday those embers will transform into a roaring flame.”

They slowly relax their hold, softer and softer, until the arms binding him with love can be felt no longer. Dariel is free, yet his mind is still bound by their fleeting grace. He wants to cry out in refusal, to bid them return and chain his body in that enticing affection, yet his body does not move. His mouth refuses to open. There can be no relying on their goodwill forever. I must not run away from myself. Not anymore.

A tear swells in his eye, gently drifting down his cheek in a flowing arc. Then another. And another. He knows it is a shameful display, but here, in this moment, Dariel can be at his most vulnerable - safeguarded under the nurturing gaze of a true friend. When his heart can ache no longer, a small smile graces his lips - a bright, beautiful smile filled with genuine joy.

“...Do you really think I can do it? he says with a hearty laugh. “It might take a while with how stubborn those elders are. Stars, I may become an old man myself by the time I get through to them.”

“Change always takes time. It starts small, but really all things do. And that, I believe, is what makes humanity special: the ability to transform into so much more.”

How do they always manage to find the right words to encourage me? I truly am fortunate to have met such a kind person so far away from home. But, that’s odd. What was that just now? Could I have been mistaken? Or…

Their words remain ever so caring, but there’s something else mixed within. It passes by in a flash as if it has never existed to begin with. And if so, then that would be a great relief, for if it is truly as Dariel believes, then that feeling can only be one thing: Sadness. Bottomless, heartrending sadness - an abyssal ocean filled with naught but an eternity of misery. If he loses focus for even a second, then those murky waters will swallow him whole—bereft of the chance to even mutter a cry.

“Um, is something—”

But before he can finish, a gust of wind billows through the entirety of the camp, sending both knight and debris scattering about in a chaotic jumble of confused, disorderly shouts. Dariel only barely manages to hold on by clinging to the dirt, the surging tornado fluttering here and there in a mad song of merry glee, but at least his new friend appears to be unharmed, or rather unbothered, by the sudden affair.

Eventually, the gale dissipates. The screeches of the air halt to a still. And there, way up high casting a boisterous shadow upon the irritated glares of the people, is the visage of a cackling woman armored in thorns and blessed with wings of leaves and bark. She lands, whistling a jovial little tune as the sudden visitor stomps over to Dariel and hoists his trembling legs back atop the earth’s floor.

“Hm, I recognize that damnable hair,” the female knight says. “You must be the grandkid of that scowling codger. Nice to meet you, I’m a… let’s say dear friend of his.”

He responds with only a grumble and squirms out of her hold, attempting to dust off his suit after someone so rudely stained it in grime. It doesn’t work.

“I greet the Untamed Throne of Nature: Annalay Virtue. May the light of the great Mother guide you always.”