Many years had passed and King Paracletus, lonesome as he was, did not die a mighty death. He became as the old and forgotten fathers, his knights dwindling in number by twenty. He fought battle after battle, not finding hell, nor demons, but only the fears of his own heart.
He returned home with the head of the mightiest of them all, having broken the crown of the enemy’s head swiftly with his sword molt and coated in gold, containing within the coated surface remnants of the sun and of heaven’s substance. And with the menace slain, a man of his upbringing, he returned home unsatisfied yet in the praise of all.
As he sat upon his old throne in the praise of all, he vowed never to go to battle again, for behold he said, behold! The castle walls are secure and everlasting and his dominion over all ensured, Said he.
King Paracletus, with a heavy heart, placed his sword within a casket, never to be removed, and only to be used in defense of the eighth monastic citadel. He had lost four knights, immortal men, one too many. His crime unanswerable he hid for the remainder of his reign after offering an eternal place in heaven to the families by his holy intercession.
Having slain this mighty orken being, of defiled nature, he merited a place within the heavens and won the heart of that women who was promised to him, an angel so to speak yet a woman.
Her cheeks were as the comfort of the finest milk, her breasts giving the greatest peace, her eyes as stars, her ears as holy placements of the love that would listen to the words and roar of her king. Her body chiseled, her mind sharpened, her virtues emanated as the only lantern within darkness to be found, the one faithful when none other could be, she was a goddess to King Paracletus and knew her rightful place within his holy heart.
Having died, yet living, he lived in the memory of his son, in the thrones he had built for his posterity, and in the wisdom of age he had gone to his fathers.