“I dreamt for so long. My flesh, withered. My blood, rotted. In the endless obscurity of the long quiet, I was at peace—wading through the ocean of darkness and ink.

“I took a step, then another, and another. I traversed the murky waters, and there - rippling in the reflections - I saw the grudges of all those left in my wake. Their hands rose. Their screams, forsaken. What they were, who they had been, was smothered by my shadow.”

“They were my ever-present companions, and every moment, I felt the pull of their wrathful hands attempting to drown me in that vast, blackened expanse. But they could not succeed. I could not die. My existence only served to stoke their suffering.

“Yet, I did not curse such a fate. Perhaps it was what I deserved, and I welcomed their hateful gazes. I stood idly by while they tore into my flesh and consumed all that gave me life. I became empty. Hollow. A Shell.

“Or rather… that was what I wished to be. In the end, I couldn’t truly succeed.”

—The Knight

———

The Knight

The Knight looks down upon itself, covered in the blood and grime of battle, and examines the erosion on its armor.

“How long has it been?” it reminisces. But in the end, the passing of the seasons does not matter. It has survived. It walks upon the earth once more.

Time and time and time again it has come to greet this sight. The cycle is ever the same, dry tedium. Its mind has been left dulled long ago. And yet, something is different this iteration.

A buried doubt from the world’s dawn.

A sorrowful whisper from the darkened ages.

A withheld breath from the night of crimson tears.

A small crack, growing with each passing age and waiting for its fatigue to finally be laid bare.

That moment is now.

Grief overtakes the Knight as an eternity of suffering surges forth in a crashing deluge of despair.

Cosmos, I know not if I have the strength to persist. Millennia upon millennia I have been shackled to this duty, yet there is no end in sight. I see only darkness before me. How long must this continue?

Its pleas are met with silence. All it can do is wallow in melancholy.

The past will never return.

… A sound. Innocent. Bright. It is a nonsensical babble filled with boundless curiosity.

The Knight looks down and finds its blood-stained gauntlet being latched upon by a pair of tiny hands.

It is a baby boy. His expression conveys annoyance, as if commanding the being to play with it, but it is his eyes that draw the Knight’s attention. They are the eyes of a Mother long shattered into nothingness.

No. No, he… he is but a babe.

Never has the Knight confronted the Comet whilst in such infancy—such vulnerability. The child has still yet to face the evils of the outside world.

Must it truly kill such a pure being?

“I can’t,” it whispers, blades let loose and clattering on the ground. “I won’t.”

“But you must.”

A voice torments its wavering will. Sweet and gentle. Ethereal, not of this world, and an echo of the past brought forth from ancient memories.

“You promised me,” the voice pleads. “No matter the cost. No matter the sacrifice.”

She haunts its every wake. She punishes it for failing to protect her. The Knight deserves her loathing, but not this. Anything but this.

“The child has just been born.”

“And with his death, many more shall be given life. You must not hesitate, my beloved. Not after all this time. I will not allow you.”

A dominating force takes control of its vessel. The being tries to resist, to forcibly wretch itself away from the child, but it is no use. Its hands grab onto the blade once more and directs it towards the baby’s throat.

I…

It raises the blade.

I will find another path.

And stabs itself in the leg.

A searing pain courses through its blood, the fiery aura smoldering its veins into an agonizing boil, but the voice is now gone. Her phantom can haunt it no longer, leaving only the sounds of panicked gurgles to fill the room.

“I am tired, my beloved,” the Knight gasps. “So, so very tired. My strength wanes with every passing age, and one day, the Comet will slay me. I won’t be there to protect your children. My fate is inevitable.”

The baby bursts into tears before it, screeching an unearthly howl as fear and confusion dominates its tiny little head.

The Knight awkwardly attempts to comfort him, stroking his back with its bloodied gauntlet and lulling the child with an ancient song of old.

⸻

“Close your eyes

Call to me

Feel alive

Just sing with me all through the night

Shed your tears

Free your cries

Lose your name

And dance with me, dance with me

Dream with me, dream with me

When you stop to sleep

Your whole heart gives in to life.”

⸻

It is a song from the Mother to her children. It is a hymn long buried within the depths of the Knight’s soul. Forgotten. 

Yet here it now flutters free, as if possessed by a love long lost to the Stars.

“Forgive me,” it says, laying the child to rest. “But I can withstand this eternity no longer. I want to rest.”

To be by your side once more.

“…And this baby may just represent an opportunity—one that shall end this baleful cycle once and for all.”

When the time comes, it shall embrace that blissful oblivion. What the Comet pursues afterward is none of its concern. 

Whether he destroys the astral firmament and condemns humanity to ruin, or burns the world to its very core, and from the ashes will rise a fleeting paradise.

It matters not. The Knight only wishes for it all to end.

“…Hm, I suppose you need a name.”

The baby looks up at it with his drowsy eyes. There is something hidden within them: a memory, distinct and dearly cherished.

“Aegis? How very cruel.”

Aegis… the name is imbued with a curse. The intention is clear: a fate confined to perpetual loss. To live for the sake of others.

“Is this your desire?”

No words are spoken. No sound is uttered.

Yet the baby’s will is firm. There is only one answer.

“…Then let it be so. However your future shall unravel, it concerns me no longer.”

———

The Knight

With slumbering child in hand, the Knight steps out of the ruined construct and onto the corpse-ridden battlefield.

Much havoc has been wrought by the Shell. Death remains an everlasting constant no matter the age; all that changes are the ones who are welcomed by it.

The first step of the being’s plan is to gather information. The patterns worn by the fallen humans in stains of rust are unfamiliar to it; however, the ones donning a traditional, knightly plate bear a faint resemblance to a nation of wings it once faced in the past. 

How they managed to persist despite the slaying of their King, it does not know. But the familiar enemy shall serve adequately as their first destination. With a nation of such antiquity, scrolls are bound to have been recorded. The Knight shall hide. Learn. Assimilate. And when the time comes, Aegis shall be given his first Will.

But why is the Celestial Armament in this state? Does their history not include the age of their predecessors? That would be troubling.

Knowledge is worth more than any boon in this world. It only hopes the once-prideful kingdom shall prove of value once visited. But first, a change is in order.

The Knight gently sets Aegis atop a patch of bloodless ash and sets out to search for corpses still intact in appearance. Eventually, it encounters the remains of a Polus knight. The bottom half has been mauled into an unrecognizable clump, but the face remains unmarked. Yes, this shall do nicely.

It takes off its rusted helm and bares its faceless visage for the world to witness.

It has no eyes to see.

No mouth to speak.

No nose to smell.

No ears to hear.

Yet such things do not stop it from doing so. Cosmos only gave humanity facial features in order to foster a sense of uniqueness in her children. Annoyingly enough, those features change with time. They differ in appearance with every eon.

Humans are beings of perpetual change, but the Knight remains timeless. All it can do is mimic.

Soon, the surface of its skin begins to rupture. It studies the fallen knight. It analyzes their every trait.

Head shape is angular.

Eyes are set deep.

Brow, nose, and chin are projected.

Cheeks are narrow.

Hair is brown.

Surface is a pale tan.

With every observation, its own face begins to change. Shifting. Toiling. It replicates the human until every one of its features is indistinguishable from the forlorn model.

Success. However, only one is not enough. The Knight must seek out more until it can create a suitable face of their kind—one not bound by the threat of recognition.

This one has black hair.

This one has brown eyes.

This one has darker skin.

Again and again, it transfigures itself, scrutinizing every unblemished corpse within sight. But eventually, it happens upon one of peculiar note: a Polus woman clad in hues of silver and gold, her head cleanly severed with a single stroke.

This one will not do. The face has been burned and disfigured into an ambiguous mess of scars. Did the Shell do this?

No. The burn is faded, old, and the cuts lack any residual puss or blood. She has remained this way for some odd time.

The Celestial Armament, or Armaments I suppose now, to its side begins to flicker and shake in protest. They do not like the Knight standing close to the woman’s corpse.

“Your former owner?”

Their idleness conveys all it needs to know.

“…I apologize. You must have cared about her deeply.”

The blades glimmer a sad glow. Mourning comes to all, whether they be human or weapon. In the end, only dust will remain.

The Knight unsheathes the sorrowful swords and lays them by the female warrior’s side.

“Have your moment of woe. I shall return once your tears are shed.”

It departs and bids search for a new coat of armor. Its current plate will only draw suspicion with its unfamiliar adornment. Fortunately, there is an entire battlefield's worth it can pick upon.

Preferably one not spoiled with shredded flesh.

It discovers a suitable set in the distance: an unblemished white. The Polus appear to still value their simplicity. Its humble appearance is a far cry compared to the unseemly amalgamation of blackened steel a few paces away—the owner belonging to a giant of a warrior split in twain.

The Knight has never seen such a design before. Just what is the purpose of those circular veins? Why does sludge pour out from within? A question for a later date. What draws its attention is the large mace fallen to the man’s side.

It is no weapon of Cosmos, but the quality is highly-made. I needed a spare arm. It will do no good to flaunt the two treasures.

Everything has been prepared. All that awaits is the chance to utilize it.

The Knight retrieves the Celestial Armaments and returns back to Aegis’s side. The baby awakens with a yawn and raises his arms out sloppily, demanding to be picked up. 

Ah, the privilege of youth. Enjoy this while you can. I shall make sure to embroil you in hardship the moment you grow strong enough to wield a blade.

It obliges and departs to the field’s edge with child atop its shoulders.

The forest has changed greatly since it last set foot within. Verdant greenery and flora have been replaced by a sickly malaise, and a hazy mist envelops every bit of surface left within. 

Aegis reaches out and attempts to play with the miasma, but he immediately recoils in disgust upon touching the enfeebling aura. Not even one beloved by Creation such as the Comet can avoid such malice.

But what of a being loathed by it? Forsaken and cursed to forever struggle bereft of its gift? It already knows the answer.

The Knight holds out its hand and steps forward. The haze parts way, lurching back in reverence as if obeying the command of the one who gave it life.

With a final farewell, it turns around and bows its head in silence to the graveyard of fallen warriors.

“You need not forgive me.”

And then, the two descend into the darkness.