—A Loyalty Unbroken—
My chest tightened at the sight, breath caught as if gripped by an invisible hand—yet I dared not show a flicker of fear.
I knew too well—if he sensed even a trace of hesitation, any hope of dialogue would vanish. The situation would spiral into the worst possible outcome.
Against such a being, resistance was meaningless.
Escape was a delusion.
Dialogue remained the only thread of survival.
"General Kael."
I forced my voice steady, each word leveled and clear. "You spent your life on the battlefield, defending the kingdom and its people. Would you now raise your blade against those you once swore to protect?"
The moment the words left my lips—
The war-axe poised above my head halted.
Aurelius looked down at me.
Even among ancient warriors, he stood imposingly tall—close to well over six feet towering over any mortal man—his form draped in heavy armor. Time had worn the metal, yet it still radiated a cold, oppressive authority.
"You..."
His voice rumbled as if from within the steel. "Are you a subject of the Kingdom of England?"
"Yes."
I did not hesitate. "I am."
He fell silent.
It was not an empty silence, but one heavy with scrutiny. His gaze swept over me like an unseen blade, cutting through flesh, probing the soul beneath.
Then his tone sharpened abruptly. "Then why do you wear such strange garments? England has never known attire like this—are you deceiving me?"
Before I could answer, the axe edged forward.
A chill crept up my spine—the ghostly cold of sharpened steel.
Half a step more, and it would be over.
"General, hear me out."
I spoke calmly, deliberate. "I speak no falsehood. Have you considered how many years have passed since you last fought—since you were sealed away?"
I drew a slow breath. "Times change. Kingdoms endure. England is no longer as you remember it. Everything moves forward—the lives of the people, their customs... even their clothing."
I did not know if he could truly grasp my words.
But I knew one thing—
He was a general of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom.
His faith was carved into his very bones.
Even after a thousand years, his loyalty would not waver.
As long as I stood before him as a subject of England, I still had a chance.
He stiffened.
The axe slowly lowered.
Aurelius remained still, eyes lifting toward the night sky. Dark clouds hung low, moonlight fractured and faint. His gaze drifted across the surroundings—the desolate ruins of an abandoned film set, crumbling structures, cracked ground, a ghost town forsaken by time.
He murmured, as if confirming it to himself:
"Anglo-Saxon... still stands."
"My Anglo-Saxon... still stands."
He chose to believe.
"Those shadow-soldiers always told me,"he said, a cold scoff in his tone, "that the Anglo-Saxon kingdom had fallen—that it was gone from this world."
Then his voice grew firm, pride resonating through the armor. "But I knew they lied. How could a kingdom led by His Majesty Harold II ever fall?"
He had no visible face.
Yet when he spoke of England, of his king—
I could feel it: a pride that crossed death, that defied time itself.
Suddenly he turned to me, his voice dropping low:
"Then tell me—"
"What kind of king is Harold II... in your eyes?"
A question that meant life or death.
A wrong answer, and it would end.
No second chances.
But I had read his heart—why would I dig my own grave now?
I straightened, expression solemn, and spoke word by careful word:
"A hero."
That one word.
It was enough.
Resolve lay within it—and so did my path to survival.
In that moment, I finally understood—
Why he killed.
Why he became the Nightmare General.
He had heard Harold II insulted—and without hesitation, he had raised his axe.
How could a general of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom tolerate such slurs in his presence?
How could he allow the king he swore to defend be dishonored?
And above all—
How could Harold II ever be called an oath-breaker?
"One more question."
His voice was low, urgent. "Did the king... defeat William of Normandy?"
He had fallen early in the Battle of Hastings.
He knew nothing of what came after.
And in death, he had been sealed here—cut off from history itself.
Looking at this restless spirit, my heart stirred with unnamed emotions.
After a pause, I replied, my tone deliberate and grave:
"King Harold II... was a true hero.
Though he... ultimately fell to William of Normandy,
his wisdom and courage have been remembered... for over a thousand years."
Aurelius froze completely.
I could not see his expression.
But I knew—
He understood.
The next moment, he shook his head wildly, voice breaking:
"No... impossible!"
"The king cannot be dead!"
"You lie!"
His emotions surged like a collapsing dam. "The king was brilliant! Fierce and fearless! How could he have fallen?!"
The war-axe swung violently in his grip, a storm of rage swirling around him.
Then he raised it high—and brought it down toward me.
I did not move.
There was no point.
For a heartbeat, my mind went blank.
But the expected pain never came.
Only a fierce gust of wind rushed past me.
Then—
The ground shook violently, as if struck by something immense.
A sharp pain shot through my feet, and I nearly stumbled.
A harsh, grating sound followed—the grinding of ancient plate armor.
I opened my eyes slowly.
The war-axe was buried deep in the earth,
a mere hand's breadth from where I stood.
Aurelius had not killed me.
He had instead channeled all his fury, grief, and despair—
into the ground beneath us.
Now, he knelt on both knees,
head tilted toward the sky.
His faceless visage seemed etched with desolation and defeat.
"My king... My king!"
His trembling cry echoed through the empty film set.
"You... have left us after all, my king..."
His voice faded, dissolving into helpless anguish.
To him, Harold II was a god.
An invincible force.
To learn that his god had fallen—
how could he ever make peace with a thousand years of waiting?
He was a ghost.
But forever a ghost of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom.
Even after millennia, his loyalty would not fade.
I stepped forward and spoke softly:
"In truth... the king never truly died."
"He lives on in memory. The history books will forever record all he did for England."
"So, General Kael...
You need not grieve."
Aurelius did not respond.
He remained lost in his sorrow.
Perhaps—
He had always known the outcome.
He had simply refused to face it.
A thousand years of unrest, of sleepless death—
not only because his body lay broken, unburied,
but because—
he had never received the answer.
Now he had it.
And with it, he had lost his last anchor.
After a long silence, he lifted his head, gaze distant:
"What is the world like... now?"
"Are there still wars?"
"Do the people of England... still starve?"
"No longer."
I replied gently. "They no longer suffer the scourge of war. They do not go hungry—they eat bread and beef daily."
I left out the long and bloody history in between.
Some truths were better left untold.
I would not shatter the last faith he held.
"No more war..."
"Bread and beef every day..."
Aurelius let out a long, slow breath.
Then he looked up at the night sky and whispered:
"Is this not... the very world the king wished to see?"
"Is this not... the kingdom he sought to build?"
He smiled.
A smile of deep contentment.
A glimmer of tears shone in the emptiness.
They who had suffered, whose bones never knew peace—
still they could smile, hearing that later generations lived in safety.
A general like that—
deserved respect.
"My honored king!"
Aurelius rose suddenly, spreading his arms toward the dark sky, shouting:
"Do you hear? Do you see?"
"Peace has come to the land!"
"The oath you swore—it is fulfilled!"
"I know it was you who watched over England all this time!"
"Long live the king! Long live him! Long live him!"
With that, he knelt once more.
A cold breeze brushed my face.
A fine, clinging drizzle fell, cold and damp.
The night held its silence.