“Heh, gettin’ tired are ya, Sarathiel? Don’t tell me a big oaf like you can’t handle o’ bit of heat! Though, I guess the desert is a little… hot. Very hot. Ah, well, all the more reason we should ‘urry up and gut this Caelum snake already! Come on, Velcroz ain’t gonna wait all day. Let’s finish this and get a drink at Mary’s—my treat.”
- Belladonna Dominion, Former Templar of the Order of the Prowling Dominion
———
Sarathiel
There are those among the knights who fight with elegance: calm, calculating, and confident. Their every step is purposeful, and to stand against them is to be left utterly bewildered. Those are the knights who succeed best in the kingdom. Even the Powers, despite their crude reputation, are no strangers to such tactics; they wait, they defend, and then they strike. To Polus, combat is a graceful affair. One of honor.
But Sarathiel is different.
There is nothing honorable in the way he moves. There is not a hint of grace in his disheveled, barbaric appearance. A menacing horned helm; a cuirass of jagged plate and unsightly grime; and a brutish growl that crawls up his throat… he cannot possibly compare to a knight—not when he charges with the savagery of a rabid beast.
Yet, a knight he is, one bearing a duty even a beast can accomplish: bring down the wall. Clear the path forward. And so he pushes on, stomping the earth whilst holding on to the last feeble scraps of sanity he can muster.
Control it, Sarathiel. Keep it buried deep. Do not let it escape. Do not forget who you are.
Even when his vision is dyed in red - even when pure, boiling rage threatens to consume his mind - Sarathiel charges ahead and braces for the coming onslaught.
He does not need to wait long until the fortress begins to change. The once-rigid panels give way, and rows upon rows of tiny openings are revealed before they’re quickly filled with a horde of clunky machines. The structures appear vaguely similar to that of a cannon, but the barrels are smaller. More compact. And soon, the ends rapidly propel into a spin.
A shriek.
A flash.
And then, a loud shrill flies past Sarathiel’s head. Then another, and another, until he is suddenly overcome with a storm of metal projectiles pounding at every surface of his steel frame. They crash with a force, sending little sparks to blanket his figure in a veil of embers, and a searing pain begins to gnaw at his muscles. Even with his bulky armor, the damage is mounting, tearing down his defenses as if thousands of needles are stabbing all at once. This cannot continue.
Sarathiel sucks in a puff of air until his lungs are about to burst, and then he unleashes to the world a great, mighty roar. Creation flocks to the titan’s call, and soon, his arm begins to change. Blood transforms into silver; armor and flesh meld together into an abominable fusion. Tears drip down his cheeks as excruciating agony claws at his very soul, but the man can only endure as his limb is mutilated into an amalgamate of pulsating, gashed sinew. Everything, from the bone, veins, ligaments and tendons, are altered into a hideous metallic replica.
And from the transfigured arm, a clump of steel amasses at his fingertips: gathering, clumping together, until a crude shield is formed—shape coarse and uneven. But it is suitable enough, and Sarathiel continues his advance whilst the Caelum’s barrage ricochets against his new bulwark.
“… Sarathiel…”
In the midst of the relentless attack, a voice echoes clear. It forces itself into his head with a tone far more refined than any of his delusions could possibly be.
“Lorelai?” Sarathiel says.
“Indeed, how are you faring thus far? I can see your charge in due thanks to Soloman’s sorcery, but it is best to hear of one’s condition from the person themself.
“Bearable. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Sarathiel… is that really the truth? I saw your transformation, and you seemed to be in great pain.”
He scowls. Lorelai’s always been an observant one. “I’m used to it. But nevermind me, how are the others? Is the King doing well?”
“Yes, thanks to your efforts. The Caelum’s defenses are primarily focused on stopping you from reaching the wall, and the remaining projectiles are spread thin attempting to halt Ascalon and the main division.”
“Good, then leave the rest to me.”
“Please be mindful; an army of legionnaires have begun to assemble by the gate. It will not be long before you need contend with them. Fortunately, Deborah is prepared to lend assistance—”
“I don’t need it. Tell her to save her strength for Nokron.”
“… Are you sure?”
“I’m certain.”
“Very well, then simply call my name if you ever decide against so.”
“I won’t.”
No matter how abnormal he may appear, Sarathiel is still a Throne. He will not be stopped by the likes of a few, measly soldiers. The fortress’s projectiles are a greater threat at this moment; however, his body is quickly growing accustomed to the assault. Now, the rain of metal feels no more strenuous than a light tap.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
But as the titan begins to settle into a comfortable pace, a staggering force rams into his shield, and he momentarily stumbles over his feet as the impact explodes into a fiery combustion. The flames whip and lash over the metal, blaze engulfing his body in an inferno, and billows of smoke soon engulf his lungs, his nostrils, his every orifice in an unbearably-constant suffocation. Yet he has not a second to react before the force hits him once more—harder, more furious. The impact feels akin to the projectiles of before, but they do not simply crush and bounce off anymore; no, they burst into fire. And the fumes that rise in turn plague the air with its sweltering choke. He cannot breathe. He cannot even swallow without the exhaust constricting his throat.
Without any other choice, Sarathiel holds his breath, and he focuses the flow of Creation down into his windpipe before settling it firmly in the lungs. Then, it assails him once more: pain. Pain as his organs are ripped to shreds and combined with a barbed steel. Pain as his throat is encased in a thin sheet of metal. And pain knowing that he is slowly turning less human: more fiendish, like the war machines deployed by Caelum. Only, some humanity still remains in him; it will not stay that way for long.
So whilst he still can, he hurtles forward—past the explosions, past the floggings of flame. He grinds his teeth until the very ends are flattened, and he maintains his stride even whilst his steel-wrought flesh scars into a charred black.
But just as quick as it starts, the heat disappears. There is no blaze - no fire to burn - and at first Sarathiel sighs in relief believing the Caelum munitions to finally be exhausted, but how wrong he is. For a mere second after, his shield becomes encased entirely in ice. The frost creeps into his armor’s gaps, it hardens his body until every move feels as if being gored by little spikes, and his breath spews in little puffs of rime. Yet, though the pain might be lesser compared to before, the cold is much more dangerous for at least the fire kept his spirits awrath. Now, he grows sluggish. His eyes droop; his thoughts fade. He can feel the frigid grasp of slumber slowly encroaching upon him—latching at his brain and feeding it sweet songs of lure.
The brain. The problem is the brain. For as long as the brain remains throbbing, he can resist the chill no matter how gelid.
Sarathiel knows what must be done.
As his steps start to slow, the titan grips his forehead, and he mutilates his brain until it’s a deformed, wretched pile of the steel he so abhors. And he regrets it. He regrets it, for the agony is unlike any he has felt from the assault thus far. It is more despicable, more gut-wrenching—an endless revolving cycle of hatred and violence and utter contempt for the world and all within it. But eventually his mind dulls, and so too do his emotions. Sarathiel doesn’t feel anything. Not fear, not worry, nor does he mind the frost eating away at his bulk.
The only remnant left of his former self is one thing, and that is uncontrollable rage.
With a human’s rational no longer able to hold him back, Sarathiel drops onto his hands, and he sprints forward with a derangement that cannot possibly be called human. No, he rushes at the fortress on all fours like a lowly animal, and his form gradually changes to fit his new cruel nature: jaw widening, back arching, and nails sharpening into a set of pointed claws. This thing no longer has duty on its mind; it only sees the bodies ahead. It only wishes to spread carnage and fear into the world—to bathe in an endless field of still-beating hearts.
“… Sarathiel…”
The beast ignores the voice. It cannot eat it, this strange wraith. It cannot find it, it cannot see it, thus it pays it no heed.
“… Sarathiel—”
But their incessant call infuriates it to no end. The beast twirls around, chomping its fangs in frustration as something strikes at its hide from above. It is ticklish.
“Sarathiel!”
What is it supposed to be doing again? It does not know. It cannot see the prey from earlier with the constant explosions of fire and ice and then fire again. But it cares not; move forward. If it moves forward, then surely something will jump into its maw. It wants to relish in the blood, to feel the soft, plump taste of flesh spread all throughout its—
“SARATHIEL!”
The furious voice screams with an anger so intense that Sarathiel instantly snaps awake from his daze. The steel in his brain reverts back to flesh, his body returns to the somewhat-human appearance of before, and he dashes to the far end of the battlefield until the Caelum armaments can no longer barrage him with their bizarre merge of sorcery and technology.
“Argh…” he groans. “I knew this would happen.”
“Sarathiel, what was that?” Lorelai asks, her voice drenched in concern.
“Nothing, I just got a bit carried away. It won’t happen again.”
“Pardon me if I do not find your words truthful after your previous claim.”
“Believe me, don’t believe me, I do not care. I’m already close to the gates; please, we can talk after the siege is over. My mood’s not the greatest right now.”
“… Very well, but we will be having a conversation later.”
“I will not look forward to it.”
Sarathiel stands up and lets out an exhausted groan as he attempts to loosen his burned, frozen, and contorted muscles. The Magnus Murus’s entrance lies not so far away, but during his long plight an endless sea of Caelum troops and machines have gathered to form a tight defensive line. There is only one way through, and that is forward.
The titan digs his heels into the ground, he clenches his fists whilst encasing his body in the sturdiest metals he can muster, and then he bolts forward with his entire weight focused into a singular, devastating charge. His steps become heavier; his speed becomes faster; his figure is blurred in a streak of shining steel as he propels ahead with a simple, but steady, dash towards the legionnaires. They bunker down and ready to halt his path, but it is no use. With a deafening cry, Sarathiel smashes straight through the barricade and sends countless of the soldiers flying in battered pieces, yet still he does not stop. He plows through the Caelum fodder and advances into their formation with neither care nor worry for the splattered body parts soaring all around him—painting his armor in a blend of blood and oil. Every soul who dares block his path is quickly trampled beneath his feet, squashing into a trodden clump of flesh as he effortlessly stampedes through the bodies.
His charge is unstoppable. His body is unbending. The moment a legionary draws too close, they join with the bloody trail left in his wake—reduced to a feeble smear. There is nothing they can do to halt his momentum, and soon, Sarathiel finally closes in on his objective: the gate. All he must do is crash straight into the gate, and it shall come tumbling down. And he will finally know rest after this far, far too tiring of a day.
He braces for impact and surges forth.
But, just as he is about to make contact, a figure materializes directly next to his side—as if they have appeared from out of thin air.
It is a man: a man in a black, mechanical suit.
“To think such a large army would fail so simple a task,” the man rasps into his ear. “No matter. I shall reverse this mess. I shall bide us more time.”
Sarathiel’s vision distorts. Everything merges together into a chaotic, hazy palette of blurs… and then, the world is still once more. Only, the Throne is no longer at the fortress gates. No, he’s been transported back to the very start: right in front of the legion’s pulverized barricade.
Sarathiel is dumbfounded, but he has nary a breath to spare before the legionaries descend upon him—just as confused as he is and eager to avenge their fallen brethren.