“A knight?” The fisherman could not help but rubs his eyes in doubt as he bore witness to a sight that he’s only seen once as a boy. Perhaps not even directly, as the memory lingered in his mind so faintly that it seemed as though the impression came from a story.

His father once told him Ascalon was the home of pride and honor, where virtuous knights roamed the streets to maintain peace and order. They stood tall, coated in shimmering glint of Ascalonian steel plates, of such elaborate make that each piece seemed much like painting; Inscriptions, telling tales of dragons, brigands, and demons all felled by the hands of heroes holding heroic blades of Ascalonian make.

He dreamt of becoming one, as any boy should. It was the dream of children to have more than their parents ever could, and perhaps the latter dreamt much of the same. For the skies to remain ever clear, and for the light to remain immutable as it guided the children down the straight paths of a life devoid of hardship and adversity.

But such is the nature of dreams, no? To be distant? Unreachable, as they glimmer on from high, like the stars in the sky? Like the home, from which children were born and raised, fading further and further behind them as they cheerfully sprinted away in pursuit of the day, never knowing of the days they will leave so far behind.

“Ariete, Thiago!” The Knight boisterously commands as he raised his staff high into the air while his steed drew its forelegs high in much a similar manner as well. Suddenly, with a huge gust of air, the mount charges ahead with a loud, vigorous cry, just in time for the Knight to bring down his weapon in a massive, sweeping strike that cleared the clamoring of wolves in front of them, with the beasts either sent flying or fleeing by the sheer force of the strike alone.

As the wolves fled in fearful whines and cries with their tails tucked in tightly between their legs, the fisherman then, could not help but notice the fact that the knight’s steed was in fact not a steed at all, but rather, a bull—A toro, of black, thinly furred sun-scorched skin, and of raging bulk and muscle just poorly contained within its rippling physique, as was made evident by the puffs of white mist it exhaled from its nose with every breath.

The Knight’s voice as well, the fisherman could not help but note—seemed a touch bit higher than his steely exterior would’ve implied. It did not matter, of course, though the strangeness of it all does lend credence to the idea that old fisherman might’ve been dreaming all along.

“Tu! Rusticus!” The Knight calls out, shaking the man out of his stupor. “Ubi sunt ceteri!?”

“Wait—uh, tch—ah, goddammit!” The man stumbles over his words and breath, suddenly aware of the fact that he did not speak Iberian at all. At least, not all that well. “Ego, noli, Iberianus!”

“Ah?” The Knight’s pause was as incredulous as it was palpable. “Iterum dic?”

“Iberiana, not good, very bad!” The shorter, notably steedless man ‘elaborates’ with a few choice gestures towards his mouth and a vigorous shaking of his head.

“Esne Ascalonus!?” The Armored One seemed to perk up a bit at that.

“Ita! Ita!” Finally, naively thought the fisherman. “Ego, Ascalonus, Ita!”

“You should have—” The Knight suddenly pauses, tugging at the reigns of their agitated steed and forcing it to make an abrupt turn just in time to gore its horns against a particularly rude wolf who had the very bright idea butting in the midst of a very important discussion. “—started with that!

"Survivors!” The Knight then loudly continues, turning their attention back to the man. “Are there more left?”

His wife. His son.

“Ita—” The man catches himself, “—Yes! My family, they’re still—!”

A deep, loud cry however, cuts the pair off amidst their conversation. A sound then, that was followed shortly by the sound of a loud crack and the Knight’s burden beast abruptly springing into motion; It gallops forward, kicking its hind legs into the air where another wolf had now found itself with its fangs and jaws locked tightly against the poor old toro’s leg. It desperately clamped for its dear life, growling viciously even as it fluttered on high in the scorching air, much akin to laundry on a particularly windy day.

The Knight reacts swiftly, not even uttering a sound as their staff once more came swinging about like a hammer—It meets the feral beast by the back of its neck with such force that it could not even let out a cry of pain as its neck instantaneously snaps and the force of the blow forces its throat shut before air could even dare to burst out of the its lungs.

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Unfortunately, however, that particular course of action failed to take into account the fact that the poor wolf’s fangs had still burrowed themselves deep unto dear old Thiago’s leg, and instead of simply dislodging and coming lose, they gouge out no small amount of flesh before said teeth were then forcibly dislodged from the wolf’s broken gums, and all of them scatter, along with the beast’s soon to be remains more than a few feet away.

“Tch. Vah—” The Knight curses under their breath as they worriedly ran a soothing hands on the bristled furs that ran along the length of his beloved steed’s back while it irately brays. “Serenare, Thiago. Bene es?”

The beast, of course, has no response. Though perhaps the sudden shaking off its head seemed answer enough, as coincidental as the act had been. The Knight’s lapse in morale and bravado must’ve been obvious, judging by the reaction of the rest of the wolves. They had looked up from their meals of nothing but scorched bone and leathery scraps of cloth, locking their voracious gazes upon the veritable stack of meat that had now presented itself before them—Lured over by the scent of blood, fear, and fresher cuts of meat that far outstripped the likes of burnt, meatless cadavers that they’ve been desperately gnawing away at for the last few hours or so.

“Do you need—”

“Non, bene rusticus!” The Knight promptly cuts the fisherman off with a slight raising of their free hand. “We will handle this. Go, to your family. We shall act as bait!”

“…Are you sure?”

“Wounds are best put to use, non? No matter, we have been through worse. You are needed elsewhere. Urgently, perhaps.”

“Right.” The man nods, though a tinge of hesitation remained in his expression.

Still, he could not find it in him to waste the chance that he had been given, not when his benefactors had already paid the price for it. They were right, in a sense; There was more use to pain than suffering.

And so did the fisherman ran, turning his attention back to the burning remains of his home, where against all odds, the door remained steadfast amongst the flames. Immutable, and utterly unassailable. Precisely how a door should be, except of course in the precise predicament that he now finds himself in.

He reaches for the old iron handle—an evidently bad move on his part in no small part to the searing heat that now branded itself unto his hands with a scalding hiss. He pays it no mind, however, instead opting to push the door open with forceful shove, only to meet resistance.

“Ines!” The fisherman hoarsely calls out—Anxious. Desperate. “Are you there, Ines!? It’s me! Open the door!”

There’s no response, save—however, for the incessant crackling of fire. A chill quickly comes crawling up the man’s spine, and with renewed vigor, he repeatedly slams his fist against the unmoving door.

“Lif! Is your mother alright!?” Once again, no answer.

The man pushes himself off the door, quite literally tearing the molten, seared skin of his hands off the old iron handle without paying the pain any mind. Whether or not he did not notice, or simply didn’t care, was besides the point.

All that mattered to him at the moment was that he get this blasted, infernal door out of his God damned way.

And so he tries again, and again, and again, and again, with each lackluster attempt accompanied by the hissed curse beneath his laborious breaths.

He felt helpless, and yet at the same time so utterly consumed by the fires of determination and desperation; Both made inseparable and intangible within the intermingling screams of instincts that howled out from within the hollowed confines of his worthless head.

He was useless, that much he knew. He had always been useless, but even still—she chose him. Amongst all others, she chose a stranger who could not even care for himself, let alone others. He was loved—and that love had saved him in all the ways that he found so difficult to put to words. It was all that mattered in the world.

He hadn’t thanked her nearly enough, for staying by his side through the darkest of hours. He hadn’t cherished her dearly enough, for finding him when he was lost, time and time again. And most of all, he had not loved her deeply enough, for all the love that he been given, which had given him more hope and warmth than he could’ve ever hoped to know in his long lived life as an irredeemable dullard of no significant worth.

He would not let it end here, he couldn’t—He would never forgive himself if he did.

At long last, the door gives way to his relentless barrage with a thunderous crack that he alone could’ve known. Fissures form along the surface of the old, withering wood and he knew, at this point that the door would not hold for long before came asunder, as long as he held fast in his attempts to bash it down with his shoulder.

Finally, the fisherman releases the handle, though perhaps it would’ve been more apt to say that he tore his hand free from the burning scrap of metal that had molten and singed the skin of his palm. He could barely feel the pain, apparently drowned out by the ceaseless ringing that droned incessantly into his ears, only accompanied by the frantic, pulsing rhythm of his pounding chest and whatever ruckus there was going on behind him.

He takes a deep breath, takes a step backwards to earn himself a little more momentum, and then—

=HA!=

He yells, mustering every bit of force he could within the cramped confines of his battered old shell once more before slamming his numb, aching shoulder against the door—which now gives way to his advance with an explosion of dust, debris, and splinters.

Only to be met with darkness and silence.