Aegis

“Hm? Why did I grant the Polus Monarchy so precious a vessel? Gehahah! Why, indeed. I admit, it does provide me a slight fancy to imagine those winged farmers wracking their mud-ridden brains over my invention; however, ‘tis not the only reason.

“You see, Nox Caelum has been, how do you say, quite the domineer in this little scuffle of theirs. And we can’t have that now, can we? So I gave the young King an opportunity. I do hope he proves competent. After all, there is no greater profit to be had than in war.

“In the end, after the dust settles and the rivers run red with blood, the only victor shall be I. Unharmed. Unbothered. And the richest in the land.”

- Latizia ‘Gold-Blooded’ Babylon, President of the Ishmahab Federation

———

Lorelai

Steel groans. Guttural hisses. A constant clamoring of sound fills Lorelai’s ears as she monitors the Alexandria’s performance within a sleek, silver command room. Pipes twist and curve from all about the fortress, leading to a central panel where an array of gauges and meters displays everything that need be known to keep the giant hunk of metal operational.

Pressure levels are stable. Structural integrity remains firm. Everything is functioning as it should.

Thank the Stars for that.

Three days have passed since the Alexandria’s departure. Now, the floor which so violently shook with every step of the lumbering fortress has become a daily occurrence. The sudden rumblings took her by surprise at first, and residing within a mobile construct uneased many of the crew members during the first night, but time soothes all worries, eventually. With a steady routine and hardy labor, everyone has grown accustomed to their new surroundings. All she must do now is wait; the Aeternum’s entrance is only a day’s time away.

“Lorelai? I’ve got some more stacks for you,” Celia announces, bursting into the room with a massive pile of documents. She drops the sheets onto the growing mound off to the side and collapses with a sigh next to the baggy-eyed Throne.

“Already?” she mumbles. “I could’ve sworn I went through the last of the reports at midnight.”

Celia chuckles with her face lain flat on the floor. “That was the supply list. This is the crew’s status.”

“And?”

“Well, they’re lucid at the very least.”

“Is that truly what the report states?”

“No, but it may as well be!” she cackles to herself. “Ah, well, I’ll give it to them; they’re handling it better than I thought they would, especially the Seraph. They were pretty jittery at first, being confined in such a small space and all, but put those lugs in a training hall and soon they’re raring to go.”

“Spoken like a true instructor,” Lorelai giggles. “Some restlessness is to be expected. Those who manifest wings will always yearn for open fields. Placing us in an enclosed fortress is akin to depriving a drunkard of their ale: It is not a pretty sight.”

“Speaking from experience?” Celia says, a sly mischief seeping into her voice. “How many times have I had to haul your inebriated rear out after getting piss-faced at Mary’s tavern?”

“Don’t act like you’re any better! I just have a lower tolerance.”

“Uh-huh. And may I mention the lengths I went to sneak you back into the barracks? I had to climb through a window, Lorelai!”

She blushes and turns away, indignant, from her tormentous friend. “In my defense, a Throne can never be seen in an intoxicated state. I have an image to uphold, after all.”

“That doesn’t stop Annalay from passing out on the streets.”

Oh, Annalay. Dear, sweet Annalay. “Well, that’s her charm: wild and free as the woodlands. Her moniker is the Untamed Throne of Nature for a reason. ”

Lorelai hangs her head back and closes her eyes in remembrance. So many memories. So many treasures. Back then, even with the constant threat of invasion looming in the horizon, we found joy in the simplest of things.

A small drink, happily downed after a harsh day of lessons;

A little laugh, nestled in bed with muscles sore and red with labor;

A silent moment, shared in mutual determination. In knowing the gift of true friendship.

“Ah,” she whispers. “Come to think of it, the last I saw Annalay was three years ago. Hehe, I’m already thirty. My, where did the time go?”

“Where it’s always been: flashing right by us,” Celia says. “The only time you Thrones ever come back to the capital is for your annual report.”

“We don’t have a choice. Xeros’s invasions grow in ferocity with every passing year. We can no longer risk leaving our stations.”

“Makes sense. That damned corvid is only getting older. More desperate.”

“And so are we.”

Celia pauses, her eyes transfixed to the dull, flat ceiling. “Yeah. I guess we are.”

…

“Lorelai?”

“Yes?”

“You ok?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then maybe you should pick your head off of the floor.”

Hm. How did I get there? She climbs off of the cold, metal base and staggers herself back upright, body cast in a ghastly glow. The fiery balls of light above are starting to blur in a most peculiar matter. “That was quite odd. It appears I was suddenly transported to the floor.”

Celia places a worried hand on her shoulder. Hands, actually, for three have suddenly manifested before Lorelai’s misty gaze.

“Want me to take over?” she asks. “Oops, my bad. That wasn’t a question. Go lay down. Now.”

With a grab, Lorelai is tossed onto a nearby lounge, mind dazed with flickering shadows and blurred visions. This seems strangely familiar.

“Celia…”

“Nope, you of all people shouldn’t be acting like this. Sleep, you stubborn fool.”

Lorelai starts to protest, but her inner rationality emerges victorious in the end. She’s right, I have been overworking myself lately. Not even I can avoid the curse that is anxiety.

“Thank you,” the weary Throne cedes. “But I’m not going to slumber for long. Don’t get too comfortable there.”

“Sure. Whatever makes you feel better,” Celia teases. “I’ll wake you when the sun’s up.”

She collapses, every part of her body limp with fatigue, and gently closes her eyes. Soon, memories begin to flood in. Happy, ephemeral, and fleeting. Phantoms of a distant past. But, right now, they are more real than any other.

———

Lorelai

“Rise and shine! We’re finally here.”

Memories are gracious, indeed. Yet, so is the present.

Lorelai stirs awake from her slumber and, with a quick smack of her helm, clears her mind for the day at hand.

“How long was I asleep?” she asks to the indistinguishable blob of color swirling in front of her eyes.

“About three hours.” Celia appears from behind and nudges a mug of steaming water into her hands.

“That quickly?”

“Guess I’m just a better captain than you, Madam Perfect,” she says with a hearty guffaw. “Come on, let’s get ourselves some fresh air while we can up on the deck. I’m itching to have a close look at what we’re dealing with.”

“I’d like that. Stars know when we’ll see our meadows again.” Because from now on, only darkness and gloom awaits them.

The two leave the control room and steadily make their way through the tight, twisting halls of the dull fortress. Greys and silvers are the only hues plastering the surfaces, while a constant odor of metal and grease fill the nostrils with urges of suppressed gags. Many a knight have fled to the sickbay since the journey’s beginning, yet Lorelai doesn’t particularly mind the stench. It smells like the battlefield, of demolished steel horrors and plates rusted with blood and fluid.

Every time a Caelum legionnaire is cut down, a sickening mixture of brown and crimson would stain her armor in filth. Beady-red eyes, a gaze steeped in madness, and a terrifying indifference to their own festering wounds: That is what those abominable unions of man and machine are. If you let yourself be distracted by such a small thing as smell, then your life will pass before you can even realize it.

Screams. Wails. Cries. It will surround you. It will attempt to overpower your every sense. But you cannot allow yourself to heed it. No, you must block it all off. Distance yourself from it until that ever-growing necropolis becomes a mere monotonous sight. No matter how many fall clutching to your side, you must continue marching forward. For if you look back, then you will be dragged away by those that you couldn’t save. Being a leader requires one to submerge their soul in the foulest pits of misery. To rise back up, tainted and sullied, with the vestiges of your prior self a mere whisper in the wind. Forever changed. Forever vanished.

The stench has never left. It is a part of her now.

“I’m going to get really mad if you don’t respond soon.”

Lorelai snaps to attention and discovers a stern Celia tapping her foot away in front of her. Have we made it to the deck already?

“Didn’t hear a word I said, huh?” she says. “Figures. You’ve had this blank stare on for a while now.”

“Hm? How could you tell?”

“Heh, I can read you like an open book. You were normal at first, then you became all broody for some reason.”

That’s strange, I usually do quite well at maintaining an impassive demeanor, “Is what you’re thinking right?” Celia mutters with terrifyingly accurate foresight. “Yeah, that ‘pristine lady’ front won’t work on me, darling.”

“Truly? It seems I still have much to learn,” she giggles. It appears her previous thinking is wrong. There are some things that never change, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Yeah, that’s what I like to see! But I think we can do a little better.”

With a mighty kick, Celia busts open the deck’s entrance and strolls out into the pale light of the newborn dawn. A cool, chill gust welcomes Lorelai as she follows along, dyeing her cheeks red as a sprawling view of grassland and tranquil prairie unfold before her, stretching out far beyond the eye can see. The war has yet to reach this part of the land, and so the flowers bloom without abandon—carrying gentle drops of the world’s dew atop their petals.

How many times has she flown in the sky without truly taking in the beauty of the fields below? It doesn’t matter. She can see it now.

“Now that’s a view I can never get tired of,” Celia says, taking a seat by the edge. “Little moments like these make you really think about why we’re here. Why we’re still struggling. It’s all for this: clear skies and a quiet field.”

“And so that others may witness it alongside us.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know. The spot right next to me is empty after all.”

“Hehe, We can’t have that now, can we?”

The Throne sets herself down and takes a moment to fully bask in the sun’s warmth. They say a view is worth a thousand words, but I can’t truly agree. Right now, not a sound needs to be uttered at all.

But all good things must come to an end, eventually.

“…You ready?” Celia asks with a sad sigh.

“We must.” If they desire for this beauty to last, then they must confidently peer into the darkness.

“Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

Lorelai rises up, etching one last glimpse of the sunrise into her mind, before slowly turning around. The vibrant greenery is no more. Instead, there is only rot.

In front of her disgusted gaze is a sickly forest enveloped in a perpetual, hazy miasma. Pitch-black sludge covers every corner of the withered thicket, soiling the dirt with a pallid, sickly ash, and feeding upon every morsel of life it can latch onto. It’s as if the decaying forest is stuck in a perpetual, despairing scream; the miasma infects all, polluting the trees with an oozing puss, whilst defiling the purity of Creation until the gentle divinity is transformed into a sobbing, tormented wraith. She can almost make out the faint figure of human faces swirling about in the mist, calling out for help and begging to be released from their prison of eternal anguish. An illusion? A trick of the mind? Perhaps not, but it is better to not think of such possibilities lest the answer unnerve her to the very core. The dead are already dead. Lorelai must think of the living.

It was a wise decision to forbid entry to the deck. I shudder to imagine how those who’ve yet to experience horror would react before such a sight. But even with experience, one cannot fully stave off the oppressive air. Celia turns gaunt, and her hands begin to shake; it’s apparent the ghastly visage is eroding at her mind.

“Celia? Do you want to go back inside?” Lorelai asks, concerned. Although her friend is no stranger to the grotesque and violent, it has been years since she’s left the capital after becoming the Seraph’s instructor. Perhaps I was a bit too hasty.

“No,” she gasps with a gulp of air. “I’m alright. Like I’d let something like this get the better of me. I just… I just need a moment. I’ll be doing all the surveying, anyway.”

“If it’s too much, then I would be able to take on that role. Weren’t you a better ‘captain’ than me?” Lorelai says humorously, attempting to distract Celia from the forest’s malaise.

“Hah, I may be the better captain, but you’re the better leader. We need you down there in case anything goes wrong.” With a slap to her own face, Celia shrugs off the darkened aura around her and returns back to her cheery self. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

She wants to object, but Celia’s resolve is burning bright. She can trust her; her friend is strong.

“Then I won’t impose on you any further.” The two clasp their hands in solidarity. The tender atmosphere between them is now gone, replaced by a tightened sense of duty. “I shall return to the main control room. Can I count on you to serve as our eyes?”

“Of course. Nothing’s going to escape my sight,” Celia salutes.

There can be no more playfulness. No more recollection. No more melancholy. Every moment moving forth shall require a steady hand and a staunch determination.