“In truth, I do not understand myself why I dislike Sarathiel. Unlike Dismas, I suffered no familial losses save for some far-removed cousins. I had never interacted with him before all too often either, for he was a direct descendant. And whilst my own position in the lineage was of admirable prestige, there was a certain distance between our statuses that could never be bridged.
“Ever since I was young, I had always chased after his shadow. Sarathiel represented all that I wished; he was my goal, my ideal, and I longed to garner the same respect he commanded. Yet, even as time went on and the gap in our accomplishments widened, never did I resent him. It was but natural for a man of his birth, and I celebrated his triumphs as if they were my own—we all did. Sarathiel’s deeds were our deeds; they belonged to the family.
“But then, he changed. Sarathiel returned from his expedition, and he locked himself away out of sight. Gone was the man I admired. He became cold, apathetic to all attempts at plea, and eventually he dared to abandon our very family itself. It was a terribly pathetic end to his legacy.
“And yet, even still, I did not hate him. Not at first, but I couldn’t ignore the whispers. Every day, the others would curse him—call him all sorts of unsavory names. Month after month, year after year, until I felt something twist inside me. And I let out an uncomfortable laugh as I joined them in their heckling.”
- Cain Power, Templar of the Order of the Mighty Power
———
Ascalon
The King and his knights dash through the air as the titan stumbles onto its gargantuan feet. If battle is unavoidable, then best to lay the stage far away from the others.
“I am sorry, Sarathiel,” Ascalon says, retracting his blade back and preparing to strike. “I pray for your swift awakening.”
The Mattatron shimmers in anticipation - edge cast aglow in orchid tint - and Ascalon surges forward with a burst of speed, piercing at the arrow-wrought crater in the titan’s chest. The tormented thing howls and fumbles, but it soon regains its footing and swings its axe in a frenzy as if attempting to swat away a bug. Its efforts beget only frustration, for Ascalon evades every blow, gliding with a dance-like sway as the hunk of metal rips past and sends the air whipping into a tempest. But rather than impede, the gust further aids the King as he rides along the current and whirls around its large, mountainous torso.
Cain and Abel drift a fair distance away, and they prepare their own weapons for combat: the older brother wielding a mighty warhammer and the younger brother with coiling spear.
“Ready yourself, Abel,” Cain says. He grips his hammer with both hands, leans far back until his eyes face the firmament, and gathers a heap of magma at the blunt’s end. Like a volcano, it sizzles and churns—begging to be freed.“Do not hold me back.”
The Principality’s Templar chuckles in response before adopting a focused stance. Soon, his wings of water begin to drip upwards - as if in a reverse rain - until a crackling stormcloud emerges and weaves around his spearhead. “Still ever so dour.”
The brothers share a brief, acknowledging glance, and then they unleash their might. The two forces erupt forward in great columns of nature: stronger, fiercer, until their intensity reaches the peak, and they soon unite into a rippling spiral.
The titan has little second to react before the twin calamities near and engulf its entirety. Ascalon promptly flies out of harm’s way, and he witnesses the magma flow in rivers of hot, molten liquid: burning. Feasting ravenously on the newfound banquet of metal, and all the while the tormented being is seized by a spreading jolt of electricity.
And yet, the titan persists in its rampage. It claws away the magma, now cooled to a charcoal black, and it flails every appendage until the discharge is nothing but a feeble static. The assault appears to have only angered it, much less bring Sarathiel to his senses.
But in an odd display, its movements grow sluggish as if a docile spell has overtaken it, and its incessant bellowing gradually fades to a silence. Ascalon wants to believe this a good sign, but instinct warns of something dangerous.
Soon, a crack. A split. And then, at the very top of Sarathiel’s head, a horn rises: a metal horn of smooth edge that resembles a castle’s spire, and Ascalon pales as a turbulent energy gathers at the tip. It grows in size before anyone can obstruct—squeezes into an uneven sphere as varying shades of silver coat the surface.
The energy bursts, and it sends a ray plummeting directly towards Cain and Abel.
Ascalon is struck with a premonition: a sudden, heart-rending future to come. He feels—no, he knows right then and there that the two will be unable to escape the blast. And he shall be forced to watch them perish. Helplessly, just as he has once done all those years ago.
He grinds his teeth, his every sense heightens to its utmost limit, and Ascalon screams with the full force of his soul.
“No!”
With a flap of his wings, the King bolts with a speed that leaves even sound trailing in his wake, and he outstretches his body until the two Templars are safely guarded behind.
They try to protest, but it is too late. The ray advances, and it swallows Ascalon in a vivid, blinding flash. Silver creeps into his every orifice, hardening everything around him until he turns into a living, breathing statue of metal. It feels cool, and then hot. And then it’s as if there’s nothing at all. He cannot even hear his own gasps, for all that overwhelms his ears is a constant high-pitched shriek.
Ascalon remains trapped in place for what seems like an eternity; the seconds pass by ever so slowly, and not even his invulnerability can repel the encroaching metal. He cannot move for as long as the ray endures.
But just as he begins to wonder how long it shall take to drain Sarathiel’s stamina, the ray suddenly disappears. Ascalon wastes not a chance and breaks free from the silver coating, and he looks at the titan only to bear witness a broken horn—severed. And within the clutches of Surasha’s whip-like blade.
“Damnit, Sarathiel… you’re not making this easy for us.” The titan attempts to grab at her, but she leaps to the side and runs across its jagged body before slamming the horn straight into its eye. It flails and crudely bashes its own body as she continues her sprint, and from her scabbard leaks an endless flow of pale-green poison: oozing and bubbling as it lands atop the steel and corrodes it into a dirty brown. The damage is minor, but Sarathiel’s fatigue gradually reveals itself. Injuries mount, movements become sluggish, and its breath teeters out in pained, hoarse cries.
Meanwhile, Ascalon is beset with a duo of displeased stares from Cain and Abel, but whatever lecture it is they wish to hold, the current battle is of more pressing matter. They bid their King a final admonishing look before hurrying to Surasha’s aid, and he in turn takes a brief spell to catch his breath: to recover, though it does not weigh easily on his mind to rest by himself. Still, there’s nothing to be whilst plagued with a quivering hand.
Our assault is proving effective, but to whittle him down so shall not provide the necessary shock needed to wake Sarathiel. There must be a more powerful, more sudden, force. Yet is that truly possible for a being of such great size? If only we had another of similar ability…
In an instant, epiphany strikes like a thunderbolt, and he calls out to the other Templars with a new message.
“Everyone, we must change objectives!” he commands. “Focus only on binding Sarathiel’s movements, and render him immobile until I am in suitable position. Understood?”
“We’re supposed to restrain him!?” Surasha shouts in disbelief. “Stars… fine, let’s see this grand plan of yours then.”
She soars up to the titan’s neck and extends her whip-blade, wrapping it around its nape and then pulling as hard as her strength allows. Sarathiel chokes from the strain and attempts to tear the blade off, but it is useless; the tension is too tight, the cord too thin, and before long its back arches behind into an unbalanced fumble. But Surasha is not finished just yet, and she calls out to Cain with a directive of her own. “Cain. Magma. Now!”
Despite her short plea, the Templar replies with a hearty “By your word!” and gathers a lump of magma before shaping it into a large chain. He flies inbetwixt the titan’s legs, wraps the chain around it until the ends are tightly bound together, and he joins Surasha in fellow struggle—grunting in exertion whilst preventing Sarathiel from escaping the fetters. The only one left to act is Abel.
His task is short; he simply draws his spear back, condenses the surrounding water until it forms a coating of ice around the pole, and he unleashes it with a boom: sending the attack penetrating towards Sarathiel’s center. It flies past the initial mark left from the Astral Arrow, follows along the path laden by Ascalon’s sword, and it pierces deep into the titan’s very heart.
With point lodged in its most vulnerable, the spear explodes in a frosty, chilling cloud, sending crystals to root deep all throughout the titan from the inside. Such a blow shall only serve to freeze it for a moment, but that moment is all Ascalon requires.
The King descends to the ground, and he stands under the titan with zweihander firmly in his hand. Soon, a chant parts his lips, and an orchid manifestation takes form once more.
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“Forgive mine hurried prayer, o’ embodiment of Polus,” he says, breath growing ragged as the strain sends his blood ablaze. “But thy faithful are in dire need. Save this poor soul from its suffering, and deliver onto us our cherished friend anew.”
Ascalon closes his eyes, and he entrusts his everything to the flow of Creation. It envelops him in warm, gentle light, coiling all around his body, and then: a strange feeling. His perception expands far out to the distance as if his spirit has abandoned physical form, and he can see the beyond with startling clarity: see the dewdrops forming on blades of grass, see the nicks and marks of his knights’ armor in the marsh, and he can see the worried face of Lorelai. Her scrunched brow, her worried eyes, and her lips curled into a frown… he can see it all.
And then, the world suddenly becomes smaller. No, rather, he is the one growing bigger. Ascalon rises past the treetops, higher and higher, until eventually his height mirrors that of the colossal titan.
Yet height is not all that has changed; as the King looks down upon his new form, he is met with a familiar sight. This scarred face, this translucent flesh… Ascalon has succeeded, for he has become one with the orchid goddess.
“… Templars, your duty has been fulfilled.” Ascalon’s voice resounds with an otherworldly echo, as if he has transformed into a true divinity. “Flee now: You need not struggle any longer, for I am here.”
The newly embodied Ascalon seizes the titan’s bound arms with his giant gauntlet, and he anchors himself to the earth’s base. The ground below rumbles; it cracks and fragments from pressure. For the King strains every last drop of strength in his body, and he lifts Sarathiel into the air.
There, the titan floats helplessly; its shadow blots out the land behind for leagues and leagues, submerging everything in a temporary period of night. But the darkness soon recedes, and the titan slowly, gradually, falls forward, plummeting with a distraught cry until—it crashes.
And so does the surrounding terrain rupture, shatter, fling out into millions of little fragmented pieces. Yet, the most broken of all are the pulverized remnants of Sarathiel—flattened into a dull, muted sheet. Its arms are mangled, beastial helm crushed into a bloody silver pool, and its prior aggressive nature is replaced with a sad, dejected groan.
But Ascalon is not finished.
He grabs ahold of the titan, and he lifts it up into the air again. And he sends it crashing down again, obliterating its wrecked body even further. And then he repeats it all once more, and more, and more: each one more merciless than the last, yet Ascalon for not a second falters in his brutal onslaught. It pains him to see Sarathiel suffer, but it would pain him greater to lose a trusted friend. And so he persists, crush after crush, hoping that the next blow shall be the last.
Finally, after an excruciatingly long session of age of punishment, the titan succumbs, and its body breaks all at once. Crumbling, crumbling, until all that’s left is a mound of silver shards.
Ascalon’s own transformation dwindles, shrinking back down and returning to his corporeal form of flesh. Yet despite his victory, the King cannot celebrate, for he collapses in place and spasms with a grunt as the backlash enacts its toll. He has expected as much considering the short length between the goddess’s summoning; this pain is nothing compared to what Sarathiel must have felt.
“Ascalon!” Surasha shouts, and she lands near with the other two Templars close behind. “You really tore the whole place apart. Come on, get on your back. I need to—”
“I am fine,” Ascalon says, pushing her away. His only plight is of exhaustion; to have Surasha heal him would be a waste, and so he puts on a stoic front and stands back up, carefully making sure to display not a sign of weakness. “Sarathiel is likely in greater need than me. Have you found him?”
The others give a slow nod, and they point towards a figure resting atop the mound’s highest peak. There, the original Sarathiel lies worryingly still, but thankfully the King can see his chest faintly lift: the Steel’s Throne yet breathes.
“Haha, ah… quite the trial he has put us through,” Ascalon chuckles. “Come, let us see to his aid.”
With a weak flap, Ascalon takes off with the others and flies to the Throne’s side. As they approach, Sarathiel sputters to life in a coughing fit, but his body is still too weak to move. All he can muster is a slight turn of his head as he greets Ascalon with a sorrowful, despair-wrought whisper.
“Ascalon…” he says.
“I am here, Sarathiel,” Ascalon replies. Surasha quickly sets to work as the King hurries over and holds Sarathiel’s hand. “I am here for you. Please, save your strength; Surasha shall be finished in a moment.”
“You should have let me die.”
Ascalon scowls. “You know I would never do such a thing.”
“It would have made things right.”
“You were ambushed, Sarathiel. Any one of us would have ended up the same in that mist.”
He lets out a hoarse cackle, but the exertion causes him to wince. “You’d have conquered it just fine, Ascalon; I know it. The Templars too. No, the fault is with me. I am not as strong as you think I am.”
Sarathiel brings his head back and looks up at the sky. “I… never truly left the desert that day. I couldn’t bear living with the memories, but instead of facing myself I ran away. I didn’t have the courage to accept it—to accept that I was a monster.”
Ascalon remains silent. Right now, what Sarathiel needs is not to be consoled. No, his expression begs for someone to simply listen.
“In the end, I achieved my dream. I returned home with Velcroz’s head, and I was granted the title of Throne. Finally, I could escape from the Power’s influence; I could live as my own person and not some political tool for those bastards to flaunt. Years of struggle and hard work, and here it was: the culmination of all my efforts. I should have been happy. I should have, but… I knew. I knew I did not deserve it.”
He swallows, and his voice quivers as if every word that follows brings him pain. “When I closed my eyes, I saw them: the knights I left behind. I saw their faces frozen in terror, and I saw my reflection—an unforgivable, pathetic wretch that should have never been born. Everywhere I went, their corpses followed. Sometimes in broad day, others in the corner of my eye. They merely stood there, judging me, but what could I have possibly done differently? Velcroz was… Velcroz was too powerful. I had to do something drastic, and I—hells, I thought I had it under control. I tried desperately to rein it in, but look at me now: repeating the same mistakes. Committing the same atrocities. If you had not been here Ascalon, I would have…”
Sarathiel stops, and the light in his eyes slowly begins to darken. Like a vast, bottomless pit, it threatens to swallow all in its hopelessness.
“I am tired,” the Throne says. “It is not too late, Ascalon. Raise your sword. Deliver the final blow. If living means having to suffer this guilt for even a second more, then I would rather—”
Ascalon rushes forward, and he traps Sarathiel in a wide hug. The man is speechless at first, and he tries to wriggle out of the King’s grasp, but it is vain: Ascalon huddles tight and refuses to allow even a gap between the two. Normally such closeness would be out of character for him, but there is something about Sarathiel’s request that suggests this to be the right decision. And it works. He can feel the tension in the Throne’s body slowly melt away.
“You are not a monster,” Ascalon says without a shred of doubt.
“Ascalon, you don’t know—”
“You are right. I don’t know what happened to you in the desert, but I don’t need to know. Think, Sarathiel: did those faces you see truly view you with disgust? If your actions were all that could be done, then I find it difficult to believe the knights of Polus would not be so understanding. Look back to that time, and tell me what you saw.”
“I—” Sarathiel chokes. “I saw the one I loved most.”
“And what was on their face?”
“… A smile.”
“And what were their words to you?”
“They told me…” Sarathiel shakes and trembles in resistance, holding back a guttural wail as he recalls days long past, but then his motions stop. And a wave of emotions surge through as he lets out a mournful, bittersweet sob. “They told me to live.”
“Then that’s exactly what you must do.” Ascalon continues to hold him close as Sarathiel frees his heart and sobs, for only when one releases their burdens can they finally begin to heal.
Eventually, the Throne’s voice grows hoarse, and his eyes soon dry. Sarathiel looks brighter. Happier. And Ascalon can sense that something has changed within him: a new resolution, a new hope, and a desire to live on for those watching from high above.
Ascalon smiles, for he has a suspicion that Sarathiel no longer needs to worry about the mad titan inside him. Perhaps the two have already reconciled.
“You have fought hard,” Ascalon says, letting go at last and allowing an impatient Surasha to continue her treatment. “Rest now, Sarathiel. You may leave the rest to us.”
He walks a few steps away and joins with the other Templars. Cain and Abel have remained silent thus far, but Ascalon sees clearly the former’s lack of hostility; he appears confused, yet also understanding. Hopefully this small change in perception will be the step needed for Cain to truly break free from his family’s prejudice.
Ascalon is about to call the other knights back, but he feels as if something is missing. And when he turns back around to look at Sarathiel, the King finds an ominously-still Dismas standing right over the Throne’s body.
“The one ya loved most, was it?” the Dominion asks with a dangerous glare. “Heh, no need fer a smart man to figure out what ‘appened. Just answer me this: What was she like in her final moments?”
“Dismas,” Sarathiel begins, hesitating at first before replying in stride. “Belladonna was—she was always full of life. Brave, fearless… and above all, kinder than anyone else. And even when I had lost myself, she never once wavered in her love. Bella brought warmth to this world until the very end.”
Dismas says nothing. He stands there for a moment with dagger clenched in hand, but eventually he turns away and begins to sink again into the shadows.
“Is that so?” he mutters. “Well, that’s all I needed to hear. Not so hard now, was it?”
Without a sound, Dismas disappears. And Ascalon can finally breathe a sigh of relief.
“… Ascalon…” Lorelai’s voice says in his head. “Ascalon, I see everything has been resolved?”
“Fortunately, though not without some minor difficulty,” he replies.
“Hehe, I saw it all firsthand. Do not worry, I shall have one of the Seraph come and take Sarathiel away from the battlefield. You, however, still have one remaining foe to vanquish.”
“… Nokron. I assume he has yet to leave the Magnus Murus?”
“Indeed, and the same holds true for his army of legionnaires. I know not what the Alchemist plans, but he is certain to be of greater danger whilst in his own territory. Be careful, Ascalon: I mean it. No running into any more silver rays, not with your fatigue.”
“Ah, you noticed?”
“I’m always watching over you. Of course I noticed, so from now on leave the brunt of the siege to the others. Do not join the fight unless absolutely necessary.”
“Very well, I shall do only what I am capable of.”
“That is… not quite what I requested, but I trust you. Just remember: please be safe.”
The connection severs, and Ascalon faces his Templars. The battle has worn them slightly, but still their condition appears apt for raiding the fortress.
Though their rescue has succeeded, the main culprit responsible remains at large. He will pay for his crimes.
“Everyone,” Ascalon says, pointing his greatsword at the gates’ opening. “Let us seek justice for Sarathiel.”