“There once was a mother, her warmth for all to embrace

Her love shone through even the darkest of disgrace

But her children were feared, for their power defied the Stars

And so she wept until naught remained but scars

Her will was split into six

Her soul forever affixed

Her children became confined

Her beloved lost to time

But not all is hopeless; there is always the light

For the Comet shall come, shining ever so bright

As they always have

As they always will.”

- Opening lines of The Nebulas

———

The Knight

Far, far away from the kingdoms of man, there stands a Knight adorned in shining, silver armor. Alone. And surrounded by an endless sea of death.

Corpses shredded and torn into a rabid pile of flesh rise up from all over the red expanse. The bodies arch up in yearning, hands reaching out to the boundless heavens up high, but it is no use. They sink, further and further, until the last vestiges of their being are swallowed by the crimson tears of the damned.

The Knight is silent. The world is hushed. Tranquility festers all throughout the grim necropolis - throughout the razed mounds of earth and soil scorched into a charcoal ash - and nary a sound cuts through the peace save for the occasional droplet of blood.

But it is not the blood of humanity; rather, it resembles the starlight—blue, purple and white swirling in a microcosm of galaxies.

Now, it mingles with the dirt, dripping from a splintered lance impaled upon the Knight’s stomach.

Shards of steel and blade are buried deep in its flesh, yet the solitary being pays no heed to its wounds. Its gaze remains affixed to the starry skies - eyes lost with a darkness not unlike the husks that lie sprawled out far beyond the horizon.

If it sets its sight to the firmament above, then it shall not need to look upon the carnage of the earth below. It shall not need to look upon the destruction brought forth by its own making.

However, the world will not allow it to escape from reality so easily. A faint gasp escapes from a still-breathing remnant nearby—the sole survivor belonging to the forces sent to slay the Knight, though it appears they shall not carry the title for long. They have been severed in two, lips pale and fingers waning of warmth, yet they cling onto consciousness in a vain struggle for life as limp intestines and organs spill out of their body’s gaping maw.

The last warrior locks eyes with the Knight, despair etched onto their star-speckled irises. Their voice quivers as they confront their executioner, and a weak, pained rasp trails behind every word.

“So this is the end?” they sputter. “Hah, I… I see. We fought for so long, struggled against this baleful fate cast onto us, but to think our end would be so pitiful. It almost makes me want to laugh, if not for this wretched pain tormenting my soul.”

Tears swell up in their eyes, head thudding onto the scarlet dirt as the last remnants of strength begin to fade. They are dying. The end shall soon come - a fact the warrior knows more than any other. It is a shame the Knight shall never be allowed to experience such bliss.

Stolen story; please report.

“And yet, why is it that your heart trembles with such sadness?”

The Knight doesn’t answer. It merely stands still, stoic and emotionless, and yet a haunting chill envelops its gaunt appearance.

“For my executioner to mourn my own death… I know not how to feel. Your agony courses through my blood, yet I know not the cause. I see only darkness enshrouding you. Will you not allow me even a single glimpse? Do you refuse, even now while my life wanes, to grant me a single, parting word?”

There is no need to. It is for the better that the warrior’s last sentiment of the Knight is of hatred. It must be despised. It must be revolted.

For that is all it has ever known.

“How cruel of you,” they say with a sad smile. “I have only ever wished to be free, but now I shall cast my desires onto you. May you eventually find peace, o’ Constellation of misfortune.”

Eventually, color drains from the warrior’s face. Their eyes glaze over, and the Knight is once again left alone, surrounded by a mound of carcasses. There is nothing left for it here. It must go.

After a moment, it turns around and trudges through the decimated plain. The Knight’s plated foot tramples atop the withered and the fallen alike, rot permeating the air with its putrid decay, while the squelching of dense sludge assails its ears with every passing breath. Slowly, gently, it marches forward. But with every step, a growing weight pulls on it from behind. It starts as a faint tug, a feeble wrench, but the force hounds on it by the second until it is as if the roots of the world itself are attempting to halt its advance.

The Knight glances below, and is met with the spectral hands of the slain. Innumerable creatures of malice manifest from the underground and claw all over its body, wailing out to the Stars and attempting to drag it deep below the mud and filth alongside them. They are phantoms - a final, last stand brought forth from the Knight’s lingering reflections - but their efforts are in vain. No matter how many sink into the endless void of ruin left behind its wake, it shall continue to march on—enslaved by a purpose that has shackled it since it can remember. It is a prisoner just as the others are, forever chained to the earth in an eternal struggle for duty.

Eventually, the revenants weaken. Their ethereal forms shatter into pieces, leaving behind a trailing wisp of darkness before disappearing from existence entirely. It has survived once again.

… But must it truly continue to be this way? It is tired, so very tired. And yet, the Stars above are indifferent to the plight of those that remain below the nebula. They twinkle and glimmer, as if mocking the Knight for its senseless conflict, and innocently dance amongst the sky with nary a care nor worry. The earth is hidden from their sight—isolated in its corner of the universe.

The world is getting darker; the Knight’s body slowly begins to crumble from the inside, muscles and will battered from the seemingly-endless battle, and it soon collapses onto its knees. Perhaps the time has come for its long struggle to come to an end; perhaps it can finally know rest, drifting away in eternal oblivion.

“… Rise, my beloved.”

A hauntingly bewitching voice invades the Knight’s mind, electrifying every surface of its body and forcefully lurching it back to reality. It is a soothing voice with words rich as dew - tone a seductive allure of comfort and sweet promise - and soon, a new phantom descends from the dusk, hands tenderly wrapping around its neck in a yearning embrace. It cannot bear to look at it, for the mockery of memory dons the appearance of the one it cherishes most.

“You cannot rest,” the wraith pleads. “You must rise. Again, and again. Until they are safe from those who blot out the sky above. Protect them, my shining Constellation, for that is your duty.”

The reflection lingers in a spell of frozen eternity before planting a soft kiss on its helm’s cheek and fading back into the long quiet. It cannot disobey the voice; it cannot disobey its final wish. Death has refused entry to its kingdom once again, and so the Knight tightens the chains around its soul once more: willingly, and with solemn acceptance. As it always has, and always will in the morrow to come.

It staggers forward and resumes its march through the land. There is no destination. No master to return to. It simply stumbles on, leaving behind the mountainous flesh heap to fester in their loathing.

The journey is long, night and day blending together until the bloodied soil is replaced by a thriving forest: pure, innocent, and free of blight. Eventually, the trees give way to an open clearing. Vibrant flora surrounds the border while fauna and wildlife innocently lay about in the meadow, slumbering atop the soft grass. They perk up as The Knight enters the hidden sanctuary, curious, and a bit alarmed, at the newcomer, but their worries soon disappear. It has no reason to harm them. If only the same can be said about humanity.

It makes its way towards an overgrown shrub at the center of the meadow. A large boulder rests atop the leaves, and the radiant moon illuminates a small spot in front of it, as if gently inviting the weary husk to lay down and take a long rest. The Knight obliges and collapses in the spotlight.

As the light fades from its eyes, it takes a final, mournful look at the starry sky above.

One day, when Cosmos sheds a tear from beyond the veil, and the forces of Creation hither forth a new era of prosperity, a Comet shall be birthed by the earth and sky. They will bring change to the world and rally humanity together under a singular banner. They shall reach out to the astral realm up high. But when that moment comes, the Knight shall awaken once more, and it will plunge mankind back into the depths of despair.

They must never be allowed to leave the earth; thus is its duty. Thus is the curse of man’s beloved creator.