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Chapter Text

I’ve perched plentiful enough here to not remember my name. This whole task that the undeads have been expected of are a chore, and my strength has dissipated far past redemption. You’ve heard of it- that one day, a Chosen Undead will rise to fix all of the wrongs of this world, bash the corrupt lords on their heads, and kindle the first flame once more. But there’s something that that tale always seemed to never tell. What is it, you may ask? Well, venture yourself on such an overlong, silent, arduous journey, and you’ll find yourself repeating the same hurdle over and over until you start to beg that the hollows won’t shred you with those god-forsakenly sharp swords they’ll never cease swinging. Those emotionless, wordless husks, beating you down over and over, and once you’re past them, there’s a raving furious demon at the bridge who will hammer you dead until you give up. In short, the thing they never told you of the tale of the Chosen Undead- he cannot exist in times like these.

I thought I was that Chosen Undead, when I arrived here at Firelink. I had flown from the Undead Asylum as well, chased there for a reason I’m far past remembering- genocide, perhaps? But what I do know, now, is that there was that damned story of a Chosen Undead circulating amongst the Astorans, the knights from Baldur, the Berenikes, telling us that there really is hope in this rotting world. I had ambition, you see. I thought I had flair, sedentary in rags, bouncing my steel brand against the cold ground to make a tune, and fantasized my adventure when that crow would steal me too. Alas, I find out at Firelink that it is all for naught, and now I mope here, waiting for myself to lose my head- whenever it should happen. Was my driving purpose not to be the Chosen Undead? My expiration is nigh, isn’t it? Why am I still sentient, human, alive despite my purpose already having been failed, or fulfilled, if I was merely another attempt to throw to the hassles of this world? No matter. I’ll wait long enough to hollow.

Yet, amidst the melancholy anguish, I do encounter hopeful people.

Of course, such events of interaction are…forgotten, due to my much reasonable lack of consideration. They’re hollows now, almost all of them. I do not feel remorse, as it happens over and over, until we all hollow out one day, and the first flame will come to its end. I feel sorry for every joyous, smiling soul in these lands, so wrongfully excited about the Age of Dark concluding.

I can hear footsteps, now. Another person, excited to amount to nothing?

The crestfallen warrior mundanely leaned on his glove, elbow digging into the chainmail he had worn for so long. The metal now felt like a sort of mold against his skin. He hadn’t bothered to bathe recently, as heading down to New Londo would take much more motivation than he could rouse. Instead, he watches as a warrior rises out of New Londo, valiant in stance. He had a cylindrical helmet atop his head, reflecting the light above like a dirtied mirror, with two black slits on its front to make vision. His off-white garb, tarnished with war, had a sun on it, seemingly painted with decent handiwork and colors that would make the impression of an emblem. At first, this peasant-like knight took no notice of his spectating sights, heading directly towards the bonfire, and raising his hand above it to let the flames burst with a faux delight, licking his bare hand in welcome. He felt his brow steep in disappointment, watching the other look so…how to describe it, sanguine , in these parts. At least a sweep of temporary relief went over him when the warrior walked up to him now, tilting his helm in a befuddled fashion.

“Well, you don’t look like you’ve hollowed yet- far from it! What brings you here, with your sword resting against the stones?”

The crestfallen warrior took offense, a grumpy, sharp look coming to his eyes to sting the other with a mere gaze. It was nearly as if he was intending to bring himself to his demise, and the reassurance he was still human burned his temperament to an ash. The smoothness of the other’s echoing voice inside the helm was almost…comical, to where the warrior knew he owed nothing to his kindness.

“Firstly, what brings you? Undead from the asylum tend to come from the crow throwing them here, you know. Have you lost your way already?”

“Ahah, no, I am not lost, thank you for asking,” a sweet rise in the other’s voice made the warrior wince with repulsion. “I am Solaire of Astora. I come to this land to search for my very own sun, since this land is the birthplace of Lord Gwyn- the Lord of Sunlight! I am an adherent to him, you see-”

A fleeting few giggles suddenly escaped the spurious depth of the warrior’s listening. Solaire’s helmet reels back in queer surprise, his feather wisping along with his head, before laughing along with the other in good-heartedness.

“Solaire, was it? If your so-called ‘sun’ is in Lordran, then, well, you’ve already lost! This place is for no meager flame to burn, no ambitions to quell- that sun of yours will be snuffed out by a hollow’s foot before you know it.” a cruel sneer pierces his cheek.

“Hmm…no, I do not believe it will. I hear its calling from afar. Giving up so early would be futile, if I can already sense its warmth upon my being! Of course, I had predicted you may laugh at me at the image of this mission, but it won’t waver my spirits. Lots of men have called me mad for this quest I’ve set on, but, the sun is there, I know it! It festers in my heart, and so, I venture forth to its calling!”

The crestfallen warrior’s head slanted aside now, yet out of acceptance. So many people had talked to him, or listened, just to ignore his heedings and encourage themselves onwards and find themselves miserable. It was…predictable, yet also the inevitable, for if you could have such a sliver of hope to be that Chosen Undead (or for Solaire…chasing the sun), you would also have regarded his words as merely downpour and nonsensical ramblings of pessimism.

“...Oh well,” a desultory sigh leaves him. “Onwards you go, then? Take my warnings and foresight for naught but a tale?”

“Oh, not too quick. I’ve worked myself exhausted merely getting here, can’t you tell? I would expect one such as you, so knowledgeable about these parts, to know that Lordran is an arduous enough place to mandate rest before exploring,” Solaire waved his sword suggestively towards the blaze. “I’ll warm myself by the bonfire for a moment; let it rekindle my spirit. Perhaps I’ll find you again, if you’re going on your own adventure.”

“I have no needs to go anywhere. I guess I’ll humor you, while this beating weather melts more of our dignity.”

“You’ll find that it might get boring sitting around all the while,” Solaire smiled below the helmet, though his incalescence radiated outside of the armor. The crestfallen warrior threw his hands up in a sort of defeat, before clapping them back down between his knees, letting his back croon into his terrible posture again. A mocking grin expressed a fake enthusiasm, fooling the other into believing he had changed the bored warrior’s lack of resolve.

“Would you like me to…entertain you? I have stories, if you’d lend an ear,” Solaire watched for a change in reaction, and saw none. The warrior’s stale look made the adherent somewhat insecure of his own capability. He finally exhales, shaking his head in a hint of a no, but then lightly beckoning in offer of the spiels. Solaire softly beams.

“Do you know my homelands, Astora? Well, you probably do, since you’ve heard that old Chosen Undead tale that circles around. I was not noble back in those lands, barely worth that of a conventional knight, yet I could still do good with the blade despite such odds. There is a liberation amidst belonging to none, you see? And with that freedom, I’ve taken a large interest in the companionship and the glory in being a lone paladin. A hint of belonging still lingers in my chest, however. I’ve always been independent, in my adventures, and admire another to battle alongside my prowess, whenever they would come. I could set aside my purpose for a moment to help out another warrior, maybe even like yourself, should you stop slouching over and mumbling about how the world has gone to tyranny. Have some joy in your life, will you?” Solaire laughed away his own provoked thorniness awkwardly.

The other pursed his lips in offense, though didn’t find it necessary to slay that Solaire for his little nip at his mood. Were all those who believed in Gwyn’s lingering relevance like this? Well, to believe in a Lord like Gwyn still was already self-deprecating beyond his concern…

“I guess I will be having a little joy in my life. Have fun, sitting at this bonfire, wallowing in your love-absent prophecy…” the crestfallen warrior rises up, feeling a unique stretch in his tendons long denied from sitting so often with a faked smirk. He rolled back his shoulders in releasing tension, before looking at the mountains afar, bordering the Valley of the Drakes. His palm wrapped around the hilt of his sword lazily and his shield was taken by its bottom, before he swayed, walking somewhere else to wait out his death sentence. He murmured something churlish trailing to the doorway aside the snoring pond, which inhabited no man more pretentious and slick inside the passage- Patches. Self proclaimed, “Trusty”, Patches, who squatted his own days away while not living up to his titles.

“Well, aren’t you looking a little more hollow every day, eh?” The cockney voice made the crestfallen warrior grit his teeth, dropping the shoddy blade with an annoyed clatter against the stones before hunching defeated against the wall. Bleary eyes revise the other’s angled face, and his bald head, growing ever shinier with time, with a grin expressing that of an old, sly thief.

“I did not want to come back here, mind you. A sun-obsessed cur sat himself by the bonfire, and I cannot stand his obsession with merriment. A fool, through-and-through.”

“A fool indeed! But, a tough fool, still hacking through the hardships, hm? I bet the bloke’ll come to his demise soon enough- but, while he’s not, is he interested in some wares, maybe?” Patches rears his head to the other, watching him groan. His smirk leaves his face to look at the other irked. “ Aren’t you just acting the loveliest, mate… ”

“Stop talking to me, you lout. And no, he looks just fine keeping his coins-”

“Whatever suits his purse! He’s missing out on some good stuff, y’know? I already know you’re done and croaked out, but the least you could do is bring some stray customers to me!” Patches waved his hand dismissively at the crestfallen warrior, notably irritated at his lack of efforts to do, well, anything in his favor. No response comes out of the pissed man, looking about set to just leave Firelink Shrine for good. Patches’ sharp look suddenly returns to look at the husk of a vivacious pursuer for glory, feeling his lips curl apologetically, albeit not sympathetic.

“Oi, don’t you sit there like that. You’re making my spirits drain out of me as well.”

The rage started to boil under his skin, as the glint in his eyes somehow darkened more than how his pathetically saddened gaze always mooted. He takes the sword beside him and suddenly heaves it at Patches threateningly, before being struck with fear as the nimble, quick-witted thief had a dead look in his eyes and jabbed the spear directly over his arm, making a wound within seconds. It was chilling, terrifying to the very core- someone like that old thief could strike beyond his expectations.

His eyes shiver, twitching as his shocked stare met Patches’ own irate pierce of the soul. A moment of disciplinary silence kept every hair raised on his body. To see someone so superficially remiss react like so was harrowing.

“Never do that again, cunt. Never.”

The warrior nods fervently, fearing for his life at the mercy of a sharp-edged arrow that could just as quickly puncture his chest as it did his flesh. Patches slowly slid out the blade, letting the blood drip off as the warrior hissed and clutched his arm, the initial impact of the fear fading away. It felt like a searing burn jarring through, and his sword sadly clanged being dropped again while he breathed quickly.

“Very well! Glad we’ve come to our better senses now. Don’t try anything like that again,” he strictly said, a cocky grin returning to his face. The crestfallen warrior was absolutely livid, but kept silent, merely clutching the wound at his arm as he stifled any whimpering of pain. Darting eyes looked to the floor below, to the incision, to the daggered corner of Patches’ mouth, and then receded to look back to the grass peeking through the stone nervously. His reflection gleams in the blade, a singular drop of blood splattered against its steel.

“It’s getting late, but I’m not sleeping next to no crook,” The crestfallen warrior finally spat, taking his sword and shield with a pout and stomping off immaturely before Patches could object. Behind his head he could hear something akin to an insult that flew over his head, making his way back to Solaire without acknowledgement of any thief-said criticism. The knight seemed to be asleep now, sitting cross-legged but hunched over, still and hushed in his rest instead of obnoxiously snoring… like that one onion-headed miscreant had before . He cringed at the thought of it, the way he shoved his hands over his ears and pleaded to the gods that the snoring as loud as a dragon would stop bringing a nuisance to his ever-feigning sanity. He guessed that at least that was something to be thankful for, watching the flames flicker on the metal of Solaire’s helmet with soothing crackles and pops. The sky was starting to look red, coating everything in a dimly golden hue, and he settled down on his spot once more, ready to doze off. At least, he had almost managed to, before a panicked breathing awoke him once more. It sounded…metallic. It was coming from Solaire, who seemed to be leaning further towards the fire to where the feather could’ve burned.

How hasn’t the simpleton jolted awake?!

A swift dosage of brisk comradery shredded through him, awakening his own companionship out of its long slumber. The metal of the tips of his shoes scraped against the hard stone as he fumbled himself out of his seat, letting the burst of energy rush to Solaire’s side, placing a strong hand on the face of the sun on his chest as he tilted the other back, inaudibly, yet forcefully, watching as the feather had a flame grown atop it. A quick blow of air turned the flicker into dissipating steam into the dark sky, before he was struck with wonder how Solaire hadn’t sensed the flame blistering the metal touching his forehead. Suddenly, the helmet perked up with the last of heaving, urgent breaths, tilting his head one way and another as if someone were to kill him any moment.

“Oh my- I thank you and your kind spirit, friend,” his voice sounded much more pent, as if still perturbed by some event.

“What’s wrong with you, Solaire?” the warrior’s head inquisitively lowered to try to greet him in the eyes, darkened by the shadow of the helmet. Genuine concern was hidden behind a stern glare. “Does idolizing the sun so much make you want to burn yourself alive, combine yourself with its fire like a lunatic?”

“N-no! No, I just happened to be resting too close to the flames- I will move away, I promise.” Solaire spoke, his words becoming stuttered and dodgy. A cold sweat was broken below the stoic, neutral look of the helm.

“What even- why would you do it in the first place? A rank corpse burning by the very place I sit would be less than ornate for this deteriorating sanctuary, you hear?” A light shake gave Solaire another startle. “Come on, you can sit by me for tonight. I don’t need you perishing so early.”

A bitter silence was all that came of Solaire when the crestfallen rose back up, seeing the mellow reflection of firelight swirl its way through the shoddy chainmail. He trudged back, slumping his gloved hands onto the shrine’s stones, before his eye peeked to watch if Solaire was going to come up too. The other’s body hadn’t moved at all, merely putting a wound-littered, dirtied hand on his chest. A soft, downcast exhale escapes the warrior’s lungs, before swiveling around and leaning against the wall. Should the warrior’s pessimistic, non-comforting attitude have been honest, the night sky made him much more approachable to where he could spare a few seconds. There was something about that sweet taste of saliva on the tongue that lingered around his mouth, which only made itself present at dusk, that intoxicated him to idolize something other than sleeping away the days.

“Are you going to look at me like a sad dog all day, now?”

“Oh! No, no I was just about going to go back to dreaming,” Solaire shuffled, leaning on his shield as he crushingly wedged his sword into the dirt. He slowly trudged closer to the other knight with his helm down, as if self-degrading for acting so absent in those moments past.

“...Are you well?” it finally broke the hard shell of the warrior to ask.

Solaire’s breath almost stopped, not even with a hitch of sorts. It was like the question was his biggest fear. The warrior tipped his chin down towards the other from curiosity on why the other was so abruptly silent.

“...I fear for my sun, that is all.”

Though the warrior initially had no response, a familiar giggle whispered its way above the wall. The cheeky bastard who would never dare to sleep in front of others clearly had a comment on this close, tender situation, and the vivid imagery of him gleefully snickering with that crooked mouth burned itself into the crestfallen warrior’s mind. Patches is an irredeemable lout . Solaire didn’t seem to hear it, just as solemn and wistful in spirit gazing beyond the edge of the shrine. It was probably the helmet that made him hard of hearing such an implied calumny.

“...What is this sun you seek, anyway? Do you always grow worried at night time that the sun won’t rise again or something? How have you survived all this time, if half of your life was devoid from the incandescent light above?” the warrior forces back his notions of ridiculousness; Solaire seemed like a lost cause, as if only minutes away from hollowing.

“It is not that, but, partially. I was guided to Lordran in some way, perhaps by the seeping trail of warmth from somewhere far beyond my understanding- like a ray of sunshine leading me by its wily, cloaked light. Do you not sense it too, my friend?”

The crestfallen warrior shook his head slow, null of any readable emotion.

“Maybe it is still my own journey then. I have no purpose outside of this furtive call, at least, not of anything that I could hint to. Suppose even now, that we both haven’t hollowed for someone we do not even know of yet- at least, I’m certain I won’t, until I find the source of this painstakingly secretive warmth. Perhaps, even now, you will feel that ray of sunshine too,” Solaire’s voice suddenly escalates in appreciation. “You have the burden for it, my friend, acting all sodden yet still sane as an undead. I could even fight alongside you, should you request me to come to your aid.”

A small wave of the hand dismisses Solaire’s offer, an anxious laugh soothing the sudden empty feeling inside the other. The eternal vacancy of sitting at the fire was starting to settle into the man’s nerves. Purpose sounded like a heavenly thing to be given, breaking the boredom, yet it comes with a cost of work and determination that was long drained out of his body.

“I think I will be just fine on my own,” he replies, before caressing the wound that Patches striked into him again. The sting still dug through his veins. “Maybe I like the peace I have, sitting in this shrine. Maybe that is my ‘sun’...which you praise so often.”

The visor takes a gander at the other man, before finally lowering, to look back at the flames which lick at the night. A warm sigh leaves Solaire.

“Perhaps it is. I am not one to judge your tenacity. The time spent here is enough to toast my good soul, hm?” he looks up suggestively, to see the crestfallen warrior had no reaction once again. He seemed to be pondering about something anew.

“Sleep well for me. You’ve saved my good life, after all,” last words mark the end of the conversation, as his helmet tipped downwards in rest once again. All that graced the crestfallen warrior’s ears now was the tepid, echoed breathing inside the helm, and the ever-blazing bites of fire in the distance. The glove suddenly moved to his chin as he adjusted himself to lay against the firelink wall, letting his eyes wander amidst the stars that kill the sky’s pitch dark.

Whatever is my drive?

Best not to think of it.

Chapter Text

The crestfallen did not wake with a gentle start. Unless the firm hands of an adept knight shuddering you woke at a very, very late dusk, to where when you irksomely blinked you could see a scarlet mass of clouds in the distance that greeted the sun counted as “gentle”, then perhaps it would meet that standard. The chainmail felt like it was sawing through his flesh in the grip, and his bones felt like they had molded into a irreparable skeleton- as if Solaire was shaking a corpse, that was lightly groaning in regret that he had ever lied here.

“Wake, wake, my friend! Please!” The agitated speech pierced the lazing silence, met with the warrior’s eyes trying to make light of the sun knight’s slits in his cylindrical helm. The strong grasp at his biceps made his teeth clench in disturbance, before finally shuffling his boots against the grass to try and push Solaire off. The other staggers back compliant, yet not without balance, sword in hand as his helm swivels to his right- towards the way to the Undead burg, the crestfallen bitterly recalls.

“There’s a lunatic of a gallant here! Rouse yourself, lest you wish to die!”

The warrior beared down on a tired glove against the cold, unforgiving stones that made the uneven firelink walls, licking his chapped lips before letting his cobalt gaze trail up the moonshined, dark grass. He could scarcely glimpse now, boots, rusted yet clearly comprised of gold, or brass, or gold-painted brass if the world had become so desperate to retain its nobility in riches. The armor looked serrated, yet dependable, and the light was barely present to make anything out of the figure other than an intimidating silhouette that striked a bolt of terror through a sleeping man’s heart. An intruder, amidst the serenity of sleep…

“Harshly done, vexatious blighter. I was thinking this negotiation could go much smoother than how you’ve ruined it,” a breathy, off-putting voice whispers its way through the night air like a snake darting up the calves of his legs. A nervous jolt murders his drowsy sentiment, now skulking away against the wall while fumbling behind him for his weapon. Tense worry made his mouth go agape, observing the crude flaxen metal helmet the other wore- only holes could make sight, unevenly scattered below an ugly crown of fixed golden strips. Punctures were littered everywhere on his armor, stabbed or welded in an even succession, and if they were not, then it was instead threaded gold connecting plates.

“Leave the shrine at once. You are not welcome, you mad slaughterer!” the bark coming out of Solaire was salient, letting his gleaming sword swipe out of its hilt to raise defensively. The crestfallen finally feels his calloused palm at his own brand’s shaft- but does not raise, simply analyzing the other and his unnerving, unwelcomed demeanor.

“You…you do not dictate my intentions,” The tone became condescending, pointing a sharp end critically towards Solaire, before raising both sickles up to gleam in the sky. It was like his arms were thrown in defense, yet his weapons harnessed the lunar brightness, as his lifted head witnessed how he twisted its curved edge to watch the avid vermillion in the back mix with the pale light of the moon, darting and slithering among the steel. A deep chuckle suddenly cursed his momentarily indulgence.

A loud SHHHK! reverberated through the air like a spear to all ears, as he brought down his sickles to crudely bash together and let metal red sparks dissipate into the grass while his shoulder rolled back coyly. Below that helmet, he was undoubtedly grinning, panging an absurd panic through both the defenders’ hearts as his movements changed from an uncanny, unbreakable stillness into a vivid dance of a prepared position to battle. The way he moved was alluring, provoking…as if their aghast expressions had only fed his sadistic chuckling.

“What, have you gone witless, the both of y’? I’ll start with the bare one first-” a cruel lunge bursts his greaves into a sprint, as his sickles spread in a severing fashion, preparing to seize the crestfallen’s waist and lacerate the body in two within seconds. The warrior dashes to a side and his sword raises to the other’s neck, forcing the golden knight to falter back while Solaire’s fury was stifled behind his shield defensively raising. If only it were brighter now, it would be simpler to track the both of them than only using reflective light and half-conscious senses!

“Stop with this recklessness, dodgy prowler! Your wild mannerisms will kill you!” barks the crestfallen now, feeling his boot start to dig into the dirt as he prepares to swing a hand onto his other armament should the golden intruder attempt another slice. The other suddenly bows his head downwards, before a wicked snicker peeks through the holes of the crude design of the helmet.

“My goddess demands the firekeeper of this shrine be slain- enter us longer into the Age of Dark! Your incessant kindling of the flame and your herding together like sheep invites someone like I- a wolf, to finish you damned lambs off!” is retorted, making Solaire tense a muscle in his arm to further secure the shield’s position. The way the other’s words writhed with blasphemy made the warrior feel a certain tug at his mouth in disapproval, before his eyes narrowed at the other’s hidden, daunting leer. “We can put aside our blades if you simply let me take her soul- the poor girl, unable to even speak because of the things you flame-worshippers have done!”

“And just who are you to taunt this as if you are a sending from Lord Gwyn? Let the girl be silent, if that is what she desires!” Solaire clearly sided away from the savage. The crestfallen now took the opportunity to scrap over to his buckler- the heater shield being so miniature that it could be considered one, and he defensively raised his own defense from the invader. His feet started to pace opposite of the gold knight, inching down the stairs to where the Firekeeper was penitent in her never ending silence while treading rearwards.

Though his desert was mercied without the knights’ concern, constant bouts mixed with both petty insults and contradicting beliefs made their audience up above, and he barely bothered to listen other than a name which suddenly perked to his ears-

“ Knight Lautrec, was it?! Coming from the depths of Carim to try and purge our good world into an eternal dusk, all because to appease some fatuous lord? Gwyn would spit on your grave if he heard of this! ”

At least now he knew a name, so that he didn’t seem like a delusional, blubbering idiot trying to describe a man who covered himself entirely in disturbing attire consisting of gold. He finally reached the lower part of the shrine as his sword shifted into the cusp of his palm, sparing his fingers to clamp onto the metal bars that imprisoned the woman.

“Hey! Get up! A murderer is preying for you!” he whisper-shouted, trying not to alert the argument up above that he was telling the firekeeper to be careful. Glassy eyes open to acknowledge his presence, her hands slightly parting to reveal that of a tiny, candle-like flame, but yet, no real hurriedness was evident in her form. Her light hair swayed depressingly, and her clothing blended her already well with the dark to become too noticed. A growl of frustration makes him try to rattle the bars with meager success. “Are you deaf? Come on, get back! You’re saving us all; you’re keeping us all sane!”

Her form is unmoving, sparking the warrior’s unrest like wildfire as she didn’t seem to show much emotion, or care; it was almost like acceptance had eaten her body long ago. A sudden clash of weapons starts to sound from up above, the argument turning more volatile than the warrior’s looming anxiety could consume at once. His jaw tensed, before his hand suddenly adjusted to hold the sword like a rapier, stabbing in between the cage bars to her shock as her torso fell back. Her mouth, devoid of a tongue, was agape in sudden surprise.

“Listen to me, you hopeless bird! That gold-lathered knight comes down here and he’ll kill you! He’ll fucking kill you, you hear me?!”

The calamity starts to get louder as it seems Solaire was also trying to ebb down, whimpers and roars accenting the conflict as it descended. Metal footsteps made the crestfallen suddenly jab his sword further as the firekeeper finally started to crawl back, her legs clearly unable to assist her, as if they had been broken by that overzealous nation that prevented her speaking as well. She recoils further into the darkness, now unreachable, and the crestfallen warrior finally sighed-

Before feeling something grimly sharp surround his neck.

Blood, blood trickled down his tendon, and his face was entirely dire, afraid to move a sinew should it get cut through like butter. A crude laugh grates from behind, Lautrec playfully constricting the hostage’s hold like a pure villain of spite, observing maniacally the scars being slowly traced on milkweed-pale flesh. The keeper watched in soundless horror, and he wordlessly stared at her scared form. It was almost like his own cry for help, entirely motionless.

“You retreat now, sun-bather. You retreat, and this bloke’s head stays on his neck, or I’ll go ahead and dirty this sanctuary with the man’s sputtering red.”

“...Ah…no, do not…”

His eyes struggle to move off of her, as if it were not only his head being at threat of an insane slaughterer’s mercy, but every vital organ that could twitch. The way the ichor spilled down his body, the cold, perturbing feel of his own blood- he could describe nothing more lurid than now, looking into the darkness where the firekeeper cowered with her small, devastated eyes. If only he could muster an apology at this moment before his head was off his shoulders, that he truly did not mean all the insults that boomed out of his lungs- that it was all just to save her, and that this sacrifice he would become was entirely necessary for her safety. Her hands closed so that the flame that once flowed through the gaps of her fingers was once again stifled to secrecy, and she watched as Lautrec coldly looked to Solaire, much too sinister to have any sparing intention.

“You’re scared? Is merely I, and not a ravenous demon, already making you lose your sorry mind?”

“I withdraw. Let the man go. He’s done no wrong,” Solaire suddenly affirms, audibly sheathing his sword in a sign of peace- but not letting go. The rusted blood on the silver blades clamped on the crestfallen’s neck reminded him to brace the gruesomeness that may have become of Solaire’s once-clean garbs, if he should ever witness the momentary companion again after now. But, internally, his mouth was drenched in spite, wildly thrashing his tongue in satiation of his urge to bolt while he kept winding insults at Solaire’s choice.

I thought better of you, you auspicious miscreant! I’ll die, I’ll die now, because you can’t help but believe every little kindness in the world is entirely guaranteed! Lautrec meant nothing of a spare!

A shift at the neck, and then, a peaceful glide; the sickles slithered off of the man’s aching nape, in a last cutting insult to the skin. He could hear the air cut in invitation of the blades receding to the knight’s sides.

“What…” his voice cracked, the terror still grasping him by the throat if the steel wouldn’t.

“Better. Now, you retreat, chainmail-clad twit. You both go up the stairs which you came from, and I merely take the soul, which you can so artlessly rekindle with a newer firekeeper,” he spat, before letting his sickle falsely slice through the flesh on the crestfallen’s back. The searing gash roused a weakened cry, before being prodded at the cheek with the spike of the blade, scaring the poor man up. His feet scrambled for any escape, his arms flailing with the barely-clutched sword, rustling through the dirt and grass with terrified spasms for safety. He finally steadied up before his gaze finally found Solaire, who was littered with gashes and cuts all over- yet blood was not plenty on his clothes, for his armor did him well.

A dim nod leaves the feathered helm, with a tinge of blood suddenly seeping down his hand. Lautrec was a formidable opponent it seemed, and now he took his swindled victory, crouching down in front of the cell bars as he prepared to pull them apart-

And then, Solaire lunged forward, his hand clasping on the dotted helm and shoving it backwards with a crude motion that could’ve even snapped the other’s neck as he went back flailing.

“Solaire! Have you lost it?!” burst out of the warrior as he stared in fear. Were they naught more than the murderer’s witnesses, agreeing to sheathe their sights? His hair stood on its ends, convulsing through his arms, watching as the furious rupture took advantage of Lautrec’s undone state and shoved him eerily close to the edge, following up to push him further as golden greaves dug into the ground for a grip.

“What’s with you now?! I thought we had an agreement !” Lautrec’s voice bit back, and the crestfallen could see golden arms now spreading to clutch at the walls which bordered the edge before he would fall off from a simple unexpected shove. Heavy breathing expressed his apprehension in the face of confrontation, staring directly through to Solaire’s enraged eyes, as his heel was feeling the dirt start to give way to his imminent collapse. His chest rose and fell, watching as the Astoran straight sword was inching its way up to below his neck, only forbidden from puncturing the exposed underchin because of the extra armor below the faceplate. Time was suddenly sand, and Lautrec was at the stomach of the hourglass, holding on against the fierce strength of Solaire’s elbows hauntingly pressing against him.

“I don’t care about some peaceful pact between us, I’m not letting you be a monster and take the life of that poor woman!” Solaire’s righteous tone echoed into the valley that Lautrec was nearly about to fall into, while the crestfallen warrior suddenly ran up behind Solaire to take his own weapon into play. Now there were two sharp ends pointed at the underside, and the crestfallen’s own glare looked much, much more deadlier than the merciful resent that was hidden in Solaire’s heart. Now Lautrec was starting to grow very still, a coquettish sneer trying to lessen the mood of having both swords and footing riveting his sanity to keep lucid.

“Aw, come on folks, let’s not get too carried away here on a good knight, shall we?” the breathy voice lightened, though a blaring alarm in both Solaire and the warrior’s head could clearly detect Lautrec’s blatant begging for mercy. He just couldn’t do it crying out loud, as if to impress someone who was watching from a distance. “All that humanity that I have on me will be damned and wasted, never to be found again, since we could never share the scarce thing between us. So what if a lady has to be gutted for the sake of a better world? Please, we could maybe agree she die…much, much later?”

“...”

“Isn’t cooperation a necessity amongst men?”

There was so much reason to simply just get the golden-flamboyant convict over with and thrust him over the edge, and the warrior engraved that into Lautrec’s mind with his cold stare. That’s when the helmet started to shake, swiveling to and fro between both of the offenders’ looming presences, as if something inside him was about to break into a panic- or a flurry of dancing sickle blood-butchery, whichever he was more capable of.

“L-leave me be…”

Solaire’s helmet hastily nodded a no, as the end of his sword now touched at the neck, ready to slay the other with a simple ram should he not truly show a sign of change. The grasp on the wall was beginning to loosen, and a leg finally tipped over the edge, his last heel shaking with discomfort and rage. It was clear that a burst of adrenaline was now powering through his body, he didn’t want to die like this-

“Let me GO !”

And with the booming thunder of that voice, Lautrec braved something hazardous, puffing out his chest to swing away both blades from the vital threat before using both of his hands to barge him towards Solaire. A blood-curdling BANG! engaged their helms giving the impression that with such force, it would definitely throw the other into a concussion, before pushing off the dazed adherent to the grass and then sprinting at inhumane speeds towards the bars concealing his target. The crestfallen warrior was knocked back to see this happen, though not entirely falling to the floor like Solaire, a clear, bloodied footprint marking where Lautrec trampled over his stomach in the sudden swiftness and cleated boots shredded his clothing. Shaky breaths tried to regain himself, yet the warrior races to chase after Lautrec before he could do something too terrible to the handmaiden, only to be shoved away by a strong golden arm and witnessing the murderer bolt for the stairs at an ungodly speed. The crestfallen desperately chases after, before halting- was this really worth abandoning Solaire?

His head turns back, watching as the knight breathed, putting a hand on his chest in minimal comfort. A few choked coughs showed that he was not in the best health, though the crestfallen warrior could not spare time; Lautrec was on the loose in Firelink, and if he could find some sly crevice to hide in like a rodent amidst floorboards then they’d all lose the fight when he finally peeks out to slay the keeper.

“Stop fleeing, will you? Brave the consequences of your trespassing!” the crestfallen shouted, filled with a much newer energy than before as he paced up the stairs to chase after the gold brute. Now he was taking the initiative of the fight, leading the chase. Panting, he could only see the fire flickering, with no sight or indication of where Lautrec had run. It was almost as if nothing had happened, the flames mocking him for believing such a thing in the morning light.

That’s when he heard someone very, very familiar.

“Oi, you looking to buy something mate? Curses, hell are you breathing like that for!? Back from a morning run or something?”

Patches .

His thighs felt exhausted, but he could not afford seeing another battle break out in the Shrine, pumping through the torrid tears to exhaustedly approach the doorway leading to the sketchy merchant’s scene. With eyes starting to grow dreary from fatigue and heavy draws of breath aiding him when he finally rested his hand by the door, he tipped his head up to witness something terrifying.

Both Lautrec and Patches now had their weapons out, and they were watching like hungry mongrels to see if the crestfallen would make another move. His breathing hitched in shock. Of course Patches would do such a thing, but, gods, not now…

“This was the slimy cunt you’ve been trying to get out of your way, eh?” the smooth, catlike voice accented his smirk.

“Yes, this one. The fool thinks he has business with me, to interfere with my loyal, sacred duty- to stop me in my worship for Fina’s tender, unrelenting love- thank her blessing there’s someone like you sane enough to understand…”

“Yeah, yeah, all that and all. Oh! Cripes, a bloody skeleton heading this way!” Patches suddenly pointed towards the catacombs, and Lautrec’s helmet was quick to follow his gesture, before Patches suddenly planted the rubber of his boot into the invader’s back to where he fell to the floor, a loud clatter of metal and armor reverberating through the shrine. Lautrec’s arms quickly scrambled to pick him back up, but Patches’ foot then stepped strongly onto the spine, as his spear gravitated to the exposed nape.

“You’ve got some faith in that goddess, if you had the nerve to even think it’d be that easy to convince me,” Patches let out an ugly sneer, though to the warrior, it made his eyes light up. It was almost like the end to a long war, as he exhilarated in joy, giggling in his own creepy fashion as the murderer was finally put to an inescapable rest. Oh gods, the morning mildew had never felt more serene, as repugnant as his entire body felt coated with blood and sweat.

“Agh…damn you…damn you!...Fine, I concede…” Lautrec wheezed.

“Good,” Patches suddenly spat at his armor, watching as his saliva soaked between a fold in the golden plates. “You’ve done and scared off a potential customer of mine! I don’t want nothing out of you,” his foot suddenly grinds harder, prompting a strained grunt of pain out of Lautrec. Patches’ smirking head suddenly rears back to look at the crestfallen warrior, who was still watching, yet smiling tiredly in approval.

“You just can’t trust no one in this world, can you? Luckily he didn’t think of swiping a coy sickle at me first like he did to you,” Patches chuckled, resting his weight on Lautrec’s back who was mumbling a curse under his breath. His hand suddenly reached into the garb around the waist, trying to rummage for secret pockets of sorts while the knight was severely weakened, feeding Patches’ his inner thief to the brim.

“Th-thank, you…” the crestfallen warrior coughed out, before tracing his fingers along the scars on his neck and acknowledging the light cut in his back. “Y-you’ve got quite the nerve though, to scare me dreadfully like that.”

“Mm, I’m sure we can make amends. You never were too thankful of what I do,” his rummaging hand lifts suggestively, before his head slowly turned towards the catacombs as he witnessed a shadow loom over the three of them. Someone unfamiliar to the warrior had emerged, bobbing his mace with a stern expression at the treatment of the golden knight.

“I see the recklessness hasn’t changed still around here, hasn’t it?” his voice croaks, as ugly in vocal fry as that of an aged toad. His outfit looked worn and his golden emblems were off-yellow, with an abhorrently blonde haircut on his head and eyes like resting, judging azure spectacles. The warrior could recognize a Thorolund knight when he saw one, but what was he doing… here ? In Lordran?

“Oh quiet, you old codger. Gwyn forbid we defend this shrine, no?” Patches had a long groan at the sight of a righteous cleric, mockingly using the name of the Lord of Fire. The crestfallen looked befuddled with this new, sudden person, and how Patches knew him.

“Hmm…Well, I critique you not, yet the heavens will judge you much more harshly than I,” the general mused, and Patches coincided he was going to collapse miffed on the floor should the priest decide to continue a corny, moral-ridden conversation. There must’ve been something much more irritating than his demeanor, it seemed, as the pudgy-looking man took grace in leaning over to inspect Lautrec’s dirtied, tarnished armor. Even the golden helm inched away at the sight of his presence. Patches’ mouth clearly stretched into a nauseated frown at the sight of this, before huffing out a breath.

“Oh ‘father’, if you’d like to take him off our hands I’d be more than gracious to your service for the world,” Patches half-heartedly muttered, before already ripping out a rope from his wares to force Lautrec’s arms up and tie them together. Instead of a contradiction as expected of such an unpleasant, stern man as a Thorolund elite would be, he instead chuckles, kneeling to meet Lautrec’s gaze with a worrying, sinister sharp gaze.

“I’ll take care of this sinner then. The wrath of the gods will not be so merciful…”

Patches finished tying the knots and took the rope between his teeth as he chiseled away at the lasting threads with a dagger, and Lautrec was now incapable of escape on his own. Patches’ adept skillfulness at his craft left no breaks for the prisoner, hearing a last grumble of something along the lines of “ You’ll bloody pay, you thief- ” before getting pat on the back so passive-aggressively it made Lautrec hack out something vile. The cleric takes him by the underarms, before nodding towards Patches. Amidst this all, the crestfallen warrior felt too…out of place, to ask anything.

“ Vereor Nox ,” the new man concluded the conversation, before hoisting Lautrec up so that he was practically hauling the convict away. The helmet was drooping miserably at this, and no further words came from the murderer. The crestfallen warrior’s look only worriedly trails as the golden knight is stolen, before finally looking to Patches, who seemed to be watching this unfold with a contented frown now.

“...Who was that?” the crestfallen warrior finally inquires, desperate for answers as morning was shifting to a more colorful noon.

“Hmm? The cleric with the maddening preaching? That’s that old bloke Petrus. He’s…something, that’s for sure- no good comes out of him,” he sighed. “Nothing too important; go on and fix the repairs needed after this ‘war’ you speak of. Lautrec will be a changed man by tomorrow, probably.”

The crestfallen warrior worriedly nodded, as if there was something suspicious amidst that weird description. Suppose that was for his own discovery, however, as he started to walk back to the central bonfire, and then a thought jolted through his mind as he ran downstairs to where the firekeeper mourned.

Was Solaire alright!?

His eyes laid on the passed out knight who hadn’t moved since Lautrec paralyzed him, and he quickly rushed to the sun warriors side, trying to shake him awake. His outfit was still a dirty mess and some bleeding clearly dried on his front, yet otherwise he looked fine, as his hand twitched and his helm slowly turned to meet the afraid, anxious comforting of the warrior. Solaire seemed...dazed, but not deeply injured, awake enough to prove some perseverance.

“Ahh, you come back, now. I was just about dozing off there,” he muttered, attempting to rub his eye yet realizing that the helmet was still on, instead chuckling at the foolishness. “Is Lautrec gone?”

“He’s gone, I think. Won’t be coming back here anytime soon,” gritted teeth growl at the memory, before his hand touches the scars that were trying to heal up at his neck. He lets go of Solaire after the response, letting his helm gently land on the grass with a steady removal of the hand, before standing up and looking to the distance.

“Do you want to rise yet? I don’t mind sitting down here…watching for any peeving crooks that might make their way,” he reluctantly muttered, realizing Solaire had split open his pessimism into making him willing to guard the other like the knight had awoken him in the very early morning.

“I’d like to rest a while longer, but I will make sure to not take lengthy hours. Go…patch yourself up, if you can,” Solaire’s head returns to gazing off into the sky, trying to find the sun to trail with his pupils.

“Hm.”

The crestfallen warrior didn’t move away, and his head turned to see the Firekeeper having shifted herself to the front once more. It was timid, and slow, but there was definitely a little bow of the head with her hands together in prayer, like a thanks she couldn’t express with words.

A little smile came on the warrior’s face.

Chapter Text

Ahh…Fina…

I’ve failed you, my love…

Please, do not let your fickle embrace leave me now…I cannot hear you…

Did you not promise, your everlong guidance, by my side forever lest I perish in your duty? Do you not still trace your nourishing fingers around my aching neck still? Your fingertips, white and capricious like a sudden gust of snowflakes across my bare skin…and your silhouette, that casts a shadow in my dense, strewed forest, so that even a mere vision of you could encourage me to keep treading further…legs covered in vines from the gaping, nipping thorns…

The poor servant to her mercurial entice was pleading in mind; he was a child to her motherly aura that he’d pick up crumbs after, in hopes of embracing her again. In truth, despite how he scarred his reputation with a gnarly intrusion and a lust for murder, his own troubles addled him to where he felt almost brainless without a guiding whisper, or a guiding touch, or a guiding feel across somewhere he loved, just for a hint of approval. It was…laughable, how it could be so disparagingly interpreted, as if it were a man who was hungry for a woman’s turn of the eye. But, that’s what others would think, should the intimacy he felt from her volatile praise slip at his tongue to another’s judging gaze. To him, it was something much, much more divine. Like he had once known the audience to Fina, and her departure and promise she’d one day come home stuck like an icicle in his heart- and, my, the icy jab never came off a bitter cold. There was no warmness that he felt, no other love to grace his hardened stoicism, and it enabled the goddess to clench a strong grip on his aloof isolation. It was like she’d dissected him and ripped out his heart, and yet he begs for it back, only to be met with nurturing, fond eyes accompanied with a small smile that would delusion him to think yes. But, she never moves, never returns, only to arouse him with the hallucinations that she might be by his side.

But now, all might’ve been lost, for her demand he’d gift her yearning with the soul of a firekeeper was failed. The only thing he could feel shoving through the amorously crafted arms melting down his chest was only the hent of another man- a punisher, maybe even destined to have taken him by Fina’s own curse. But he hated, oh he hated, when she was infuriated. It was enough to strain his eyes shut and pray they would never reopen, and wish that he could somehow plug his ears with sharpened daggers as he’d rather bleed than hear of the cleric’s grunts and occasional hums of exhaustion. His constriction with the ropes that bound him were just as crude as he’d expect of Fina to send to him; she was clever enough to build that impression on his deluded thoughts. Suddenly, he felt his body thrown to a stone wall, grass blades uncomfortably creeping between his legs as strong huffs came out of both men.

Heavy panting spares them both a moment, amplecting the menacing tranquility.

“So, let us begin. Yet, should haste be of concern, I could let you sit for a moment longer,” frequent pauses litter the man’s words.

“...”

Petrus could only interpret tethered, weighted breathing, as if the golden knight’s panic had risen the moment he cooed anything. A clear stroke of anxiety had swallowed Lautrec’s movements, evident in the way his arms shivered with nonverbal wishes that this were over. A low, degrading chuckle left Petrus, intentionally terrible in foresight, making the knight suddenly freeze while trepidation coated his skin.

Lautrec felt a sudden, strong hold at his cheeks. The fuzzy yet starchy sensation of the cleric’s gloves ruined the chill of his goddess around his face, making him growl with discontent and croon his neck stressed. The metal helm was starting to slide off of his face, and he was well past thinking he could stand a chance anymore, letting fresh air flow to his skin for the first time in months. His face was greased with long-time spit, blood, and grease that accumulated in addiction to having been in that dark mask of love, and his hair was disgustingly laced with various fluids and knots to where it was once smoothly straight, but now more poofed, and not in a fashionable, healthy manner. His eyes were still shut tight, dry lips pursed together, resisting any holy hypnotism that could slyly hush the influence of his goddess.

“I know you are awake. You have a name, do you not? Introduce yourself, I ask politely.”

No words left him once again. He knew that pacifism and little quips into his psyche could be easily reflected with being quiet.

That is, he believed so, until a strong, blunt force that felt like a brick shot into his cheek in a brisk motion, making him cough while an iron fist trailed his curve downward and leered sadistically when he gasped for air after. The spiked sensation let him deduce that it was Petrus’ glove which ravished his cheek, opening his sharp eyes to reveal two tired, glassy irises under eyelids that fit well with his hooked nose. He perfectly conveyed the look of a sodden madman- and if not sodden, then manic. He wearily witnessed crude fingers rolling out and in, as if the deliverer was admiring his aptitude, and it tossed rage in his soul. The brute punched him.

“Hasn’t that helped you open your eyes now…worry not, I’m kind, generous, especially to your kind.”

Lautrec was confused, trying to deduce what ilk Petrus was speaking of. His mind dwelled on the covenants they didn’t share- what vile quality his worshipping had that the Way of White wouldn’t love. Did they not idolize great faith, great nobility, unwavering devotion and dedication, to where the simple difference of working under two kindred gods could still bind them together? Or did the Way of White really treat other deities so blasphemously, to where its priests could never grow an alliance out of their engorged beliefs? It felt…befuddling, and unfair, and only blazed his anger more.

“What kind!? Hell, you Thorolund locums are all the same! By Fina’s name I’ll kill you when I get free of these ropes-”

His hair was crudely yanked, a feigning whimper of a scream ending his words, before meeting with the sharp knuckle to the cheek again, with a mortifying CRACK ! Petrus disgustedly unhanded the other man, shaking his mitten clean of the grease that accumulated in Lautrec’s hair over time.

“You, are of a different faith. All of you Carim scum, washed up on the great beach of impiety, like rotten seafoam ruining the beautiful, vast ocean. Wherever did Gwyn leave you?” His sordid, half-lid eyes admire Lautrec’s devastation. The man quickly shot his head this way and that to look for anyone, any escape, yet only finding stone walls surrounding them in some surreal section of Firelink. Wood chests sat afar, trailing chains facing to the wall, yet whatever was inside them the gold knight could make no clue of. His hateful gaze returns, trying to recall some lacerating response to hurt the man’s hallowed ego.

“Gwyn left me as soon as you louts bashed in the skulls of thousands of undead! Thousands of people who practiced different faiths, hundreds of innocent men merely sick with the darksign- I remember it all! You, with your mace, were part of that legion that felt it so right to purge men after men and force us to flee in great fear!”

“Silence!”

“Fuck you! And fuck your stupid Gwyn too!”

Another sharp hook to the jaw bursted from Petrus, and now Lautrec tastes blood while his mind was dazed from the force. His face was bruised, and yet adrenaline satiated it all to rattle his muscles again in a frequent, involuntary twitching to free himself. Petrus looked hurt now, despite his gritted teeth, as if the spat reminder of their genocide on the undead reminded him of something abysmal, before shaking his head and letting his hair disarrange into something rugged.

“You listen to me. I could snap your neck as we speak, so why don’t you temper yourself? I do not have to free you…”

Lautrec’s head hung low, dirtied curls of his locks shrouding his sight of the other when his face was becoming red with fury. If only he had a knife, something like it, to kill this subhuman ogre…

“...Swell, you’ve settled. Now, listen closely. I did not expect you to mention that I was…participating, in that carnage- I thought the memory of such a thing was already washed free out of the undead. But, you are here, and such a thing would spoil my reputation being told to every other man in this shrine-”

“I would tell them.”

“Halt your words. I offer repentance, with a reason you shouldn’t expose the heinous past. Let me tell you- no one, can hear what we say, secluded behind these stone walls.”

“...So then the genocide, you admit to it. To me .”

Petrus’ fist was preparing to reel back once more, shaking with contempt, though his soul was swaddled with a unique sympathy. He had never talked about how he was trudging through the brambles, dodging through trees in heavy, unbreathable armor, as his comrades made a paste of what were undead and forced them away from the heart of Thorolund. And now, he was undead, with the majority of that land, long jaded from its glory. The city was never permitted to converse on it after the war was over, so guilt grew in his heart, festering with an inability to speak of his troubles. Maybe it was to hide hypocrisy, how only when others were undead did Thorolund have great value.

“It was not…out of choice.”

Lautrec didn’t believe it, like Petrus was kissing up to him now that something much more personal was laid belly-up on the table, and the gold hands were holding a shovel to gut it for everyone to see its gruesome innards. He was robbing the grave in which laid the dark history of that disgraceful city. He watches the grass now, surrounded between his legs, unwilling to meet any sorrowed pout the cleric could muster.

“Believe me, this once. It was all men, who had to participate, and should they stay home they were regarded a coward and soon murdered by another with a strong grudge for their unwillingness to lay their lives for the city. I…did not mind such consequences, such hatred- I was strong enough to fend off angered ruffians, yet…as I remember, my parents’ command was absolute.”

“Coward, letting your mother dictate you,” Lautrec hisses.

“She is a benevolent soul!”

“My mother didn’t force me to war.”

Quietness, undisturbed, lips begrudgingly apart from offense. A feline’s paw would have been louder than them both. The priest managed to suddenly calm, still doused in offense, but in that which he couldn’t muster the efforts to punch the lights out of the madman anymore- especially not after knowing Lautrec could run his mouth with news that he was involved in the slaughter. There was still spite laced in those eyes, despite the kindness to spare.

“Do you…remember, your mother?” Petrus’ head suddenly tilts, very considerate to someone who had nipped deeply at his subservience. Manipulation might’ve been at hand.

“She was unloving. She was a harlot. I was too young to understand before you cruel slaves to Lloyd’s word estranged me from the woman, to where I was shouting for her in Carim, unaware that she was never going to come,” Lautrec darkly monologues. “I was part of those lives you took. I was part of those undead chased about, retreated to where they could in fear of confrontation by the leaden steel. And yet, you , have not caught me, until here.”

Petrus didn’t say a word.

“Let me go or kill me. My time is trickling faster than yours,” his body shifted with celerity. “Yet, you damned clerics would rather appreciate another undead’s blood on your hands.”

“...I am undead as well.”

Lautrec’s eyes narrowed in unchanged denial, looking up at the other angled ominous with a shade. Petrus’ hollowed features suddenly became much more apparent, a sliver of a corrosion peeking up his neck despite humanity. His eyes were also somewhat deep-sunken.

“The curse has plagued the city too. We’ve grown past such ideas in desperate measures. The fire fades, you know. Lloyd’s final solution…helped not.”

A soft reassurance developed in Lautrec’s chest, like a promise death was evitable. Whether or not it was Fina’s influence, he believed it was regardless.

“The undead mission was forced upon me, and now I wait for my companions…yet no choice was ever offered on my wills to go to Lordran. How did you get here? I can tell you’ve been fooled by the thief, Patches…”

Lautrec paused to think, as if confessing such a wicked plot to feed his goddess’ demand by slaying a Firekeeper and taking their soul would not be well received. But, at the light that Petrus may sympathize with such controlled violence imposed by greater law (although in the follower of Fina’s case it was to charm), he took a heavy exhale.

“I was sent to assassinate.”

“In the broad of day?”

“In the night, yet I failed, because the warrior with a sun on his chest awoke much too easily. It was by command, like your Lloyd- but it’s too much right now to tell. Do not spread this failure to anyone but who knows of it first, will you?”

“...I comply, if you tell nothing of my history,” Petrus grimly nodded, before getting off of his knees to slump his way over to one of the chests. The manner in which the cleric seemed like he was leaving alerts Lautrec to recoil his knees in worry, as if he were left here to starve to death, before noticing how Petrus instead decided to open the mouth of a chest. It was filled with…metals, now that his helmet hadn’t obscured too much of his vision, and the pile reeked of death all the way to where he was tied. He felt his nose wrinkle disgusted, watching as the priest shoveled through knives and maces and axes and other tools of slaughter with an accustomed ease. Suddenly, Petrus returns from pillaging, rotating a honed dagger by its hilt to check for eligibility. His looming form intimidates, causing Lautrec to swallow some of his own old blood down instinctively, as if fearful for his life in that very moment those eyes seized him. He was going to kill him. The shadow in his eyes told the knight that.

Petrus kneeled, before taking Lautrec’s shoulder in one swift motion, and using it to pull the man’s body rudely towards him. His cheek grazed the others, sweating and agitated, and Lautrec winced, expecting the knife to spear through him in that instant as the other hand grasped behind his back.

“You, be smarter with those murders next time. Don’t even think about coming around here again to cause a ruckus. Whatever dark lies in your heart, mine is much worse, MUCH worse.” Petrus criticized abruptly, a sudden flare of rage exposing itself from being pent in conversation before Lautrec started to feel the rope shifting to and fro behind his back as the blade sawed through. The bark of boiling fury deafened his retorts.

“You blunder another kill, and maybe I will enjoy a poor undead’s blood on my hands. You’ve insulted me horribly. Now, when you are freed, you do not make a sound- and you follow me while I show you an elevator by here. If it falls, it is your tragedy. If it supports you, then go kill your keeper as you wish, yet do not ever think of taking this one again.”

The arduous voice hissing into his ear rose something in him scared and primal, pulling his wrists apart where Petrus hacked in order to avoid a vein getting cut in his unanticipated cold fury. He felt the binding snap with freedom as his arms jolted in tensity, looking at the sky to realize it was starting to grow into a mellow evening at his time of liberation. Of course, no word came out of him, thankful that Petrus quickly retreated to go to one of the stone walls and start to pull unsecured, aged bricks out of their places and make a clumsy path to an elevator just to the left. A soft exhilaration of luck left his chest.

“...”

He bit his tongue, merely feeling for the hilts of his sickles and standing to walk towards the opening with as much complete steadiness that he could to not alert the wrath of that man. Petrus was the least of his concerns after now, he agreed, reaching for his cold helmet discarded aside and shoving it back on while he made his way to the hidden exit. The distant embrace of Fina suddenly strengthened again, making Lautrec’s lip curl with desire, watching light re-enter through the holes of his helm instead of his bare eyes.

“ By the way ,” he heard at his left before leaving, making his steps pause so Petrus wouldn’t stab his back should he ignore his words. The voice sounded much more like a devious purr. “ There is a living keeper at the parish. Do with her whatever pleases your demand. ”

He stepped into the elevator’s shaft without a response, a mechanical groan, and the rattle of the ornate gate closing behind him.

While his head was turned upwards in hope as contraptions whirred their way out of rust, his mind raced with thoughts, billowing in like wind into a house made of cotton. It was all so confusing, how that man was in those wars, how he offended his being, however still spared him amidst the seething offense that spiked inside of his core. Petrus never even spoke of the persecution himself, keeping his secret for so long until Lautrec felt to bring it up to him. He could even recall his face now- the blood which was strewn across the stout skin, the piercing gaze that looked almost inhuman despite blue eyes, bobbing his mace with sprain and stress as he looked, not sadistic, but desperate- like murder was a means of escape. If he had changed now then it did not matter, for it was the least of the Carim knight’s concerns, hearing the chains rattle while being presented with a glorious overview of Firelink Shrine, seeing the hefty cleric making his way back to normalcy. Suddenly, a dark black cover shrouds away the view before he can see anything else, and the squeaking machinery slows, slows further…

And then stops, with the gate shaking open once more behind him. He can feel it- the frosty chill tickling the back of his neck, and a distant, distant chuckle of Fina’s gentle voice, beseeching him to witness the view behind him. Gradual steps accent gold boots, letting the light seep into his helmet’s spotted visor.

The brilliance was beautiful. The off-shade of candlelight’s orange coated its radiance at this hour, so the room was dim, but somewhat romantic with dynamic light. A large, well-sculpted statue of a mother holding a child was surrounded by snake-like protrusions of prickets with their wax flames, while a mural of Allfather Lloyd holding an orb with two bulls behind him further adds to the centric force leading eyes to the gown-draped madonna. There was a geometric altar in front of the sculpture, with a sleeping woman, curled in a fetal position so that the top could fit her feeble, resting form.

It was likely the firekeeper Petrus spoke of.

It was strange to see such a thing, as there were no fires around, yet maybe she had kindled the candles from losing their luster. She seemed to wear a ragged, monochrome robe, and her face was in a dozing, neutral expression. She even seemed…at peace, if it were not for Lautrec staring at the woman direly. He starts to step forward, slow, steadied step after another, before finally rushing up to the lady without hesitation with his blade up in a slash.

And then he brought it down with a fast swing, the woman’s neck strongly severed of its sinews. Yet, even when she was supposed to jolt awake and scream for help while her blood bursted out of the incision, she still lay, while the liquid poured down like rivers trailing across her neck. His gaze suddenly darkened, realizing what this meant after realizing her body was entirely still-

“ She’s dead, ” a thought whispered, and he drew his blade back in regret, shaking it free of stains. The streams of blood looked much muddier, mocking a heavy ink in this lighting, seeping down her fair skin horrifically and dripping down the sides of the altar. A loud, sudden laughter cries from behind Lautrec that sounded nothing like his goddess- the sudden screech of his armor accenting his need to force his head backwards in acknowledgement and ready his sickles- until realizing who the person was there, giggling so madly. The golden knight stills.

Leather black clothes composed of his outfit, weakly copying a maiden’s dress, while fashionable belts littered his waist. Folds in his clothes emphasized themselves with the hard shine made by proper kemptness. His chest was wheezing with hilarity as he struggled to keep his hands off of his stomach, having a great humor of this whole situation. A skillfully embroidered helm covered his face like a revealing mask, and some loose, gray strands of hair peeked out to droop to the floor, shaking with his entertainment. The view made Lautrec snap together his weapons in demand, head twitching.

“Hell’s wrong with you? You want me to slit your throat next?”

“Ahah- ah, no, no. I just can’t help and chuckle at thy tragedy, rich with unknown that the woman had already long passed. And better, disturbance of a corpse tallies as an account of sin! Thou art just in for something punishing~”

“Shut it! Speak your damned intentions with me, or I’ll enact mine first,” a bloodlusted stare met the old man, far past the mocking joy that he radiated.

“Heheh! fine then,” the other’s voice barked, rich with emotion. “I do not believe thou will recall me by name, so, I spare you the efforts in a swell introduction,” the witness bows, his face much more content now. His gesture seemed genuine, both hands emphasizing his truthfulness in greeting.

“I am Oswald of Carim, the Pardoner. Splendid to meet thee again, Lautrec .”

Chapter Text

His wrist stingingly tensed, the muscle clocking the sickle aside provocatively while a scornful look tried to elicit an origin for where that title was mentioned to him in the past. To be fair, his knowledge eroded of other nations as his conquesting for Fina was hampering his leisurely time, to where even that of a pardoner he could not define. He watched as the leather-clad knight tipped his head downwards and swung a foot in interest, as if awaiting some response of acknowledgement. The way the other’s smile slowly jaded off of the pale skin disdained Lautrec for his lack of memory, two mitts rising in suggestion.

“What’s wrong with you? Haven’t thee not even a single memory of I? We come from the same city’s hearth, do we not?”

Carim…the city spoiled in gothic architecture and vast churches, though not like that of which Thorolund owned- instead, much more dark and desolate in hue, as if comparable to a funeral than a holy sermon. Its people were much more accepting and its religious practices much more vast, as they branched from the despised men that worshipped any other than what the House of Thorolund approved. A husband to Fina would reside in that city, that which I was chased to- was it not that my marriage occurred in Carim? Yes, on its soils, definitely not any others that spurned me for my faith instead. And, so it happens to be, pardoners also lived on those same lands, yet unknown of purpose to myself anymore.

“To come from the same city does not entail I would know of you. Your clothes look nothing like that of Fina’s betrotheds, and only those do I familiarize myself with,” he gravely humbled.

“Thine demurring art greater than respected! Yet, in such a place like Lordran, does it not concern thee to spare a moment of speaking to a man who comes from the same gods once revered together? Her omnipresence Velka could very well be here like her beauty, Fina, and they’d likely have lived in greater harmony than thee’d consider! Is it not natural that a mother knoweth her daughter?”

Lautrec’s eye twitched. “What knows you of Fina’s origins?! She was certainly NOT daughter to Velka!”

Oswald swayed his head back, watching off to an elongated corridor surrounded by sculpted plain columns, before suddenly hunching over and raising an arrogant finger at the other, eyes shrouded in a dim shadow and a grin yellowed with the light.

“Thou art long diluted from thine goddess, Lautrec. Come, and by power vested in mine spirit by her fairness, I’ll help thee reconcile. Does that not appeal to thee?”

Disbelief crawled through his senses. The very notion that Oswald may be more knowledgeable than him was like a curse he couldn’t rid himself of- a torment of that which a wiser could sway over him like a looming pendulum over hungering eyes, only a tease out of reach just to lure him further into falling for- maybe a scheme, laced away behind beady dark eyes beseeching him. Even more so, it could be that the pardoner was merely flaunting his pervasive knowledge to beckon some obeying action from him in the promise of his Fina finally returning, and take him by those reigns which the fickle lass guided him and throw him into a prison- or worse, kill him, completely uncalled. A tender rush of cold wind at his nape was mistaken for his bride’s fluctuating, gentle stroke, as if she had agreed with him, silent herself.

“How do I know you’re not lying, you sod…” he began to back away, cautious of what a follower of Velka’s may do to prove themselves. Lautrec’s blades hid his gold behind sleek, sharp edges, poised in defense. All that he could see from Oswald, sauntering playfully afar, was him reaching into the burnished cloak that he wore, before retrieving a book, plentiful of little parchments worn long past their years. His palm acted as a lectern while he flipped open the papers with a puff of dust illuminated by dusk candlelight, before his fingers traced the spine.

While Lautrec’s weapons sank slightly, he still perused over the absurdity of such a reaction. A small gasp left Oswald, before suddenly turning the book to face the addled man, a suave finger tracing over a messily scrawled name.

“Thou hast been indicted; an accusation yokes upon thine name. Art thou aware that the frame art around thy head, for attempted theft of a poor maiden’s soul?”

Lautrec halted, now growing spiteful that the news scattered akin to wildfire, until the memory panged in him in that moment of what pardoners could perform. The trafficking of sin was entirely in their black gloves, and they could make him vulnerable to punishment, prompting a turn up of his golden head. The orange light traces down the holes of his metals.

“You erase that! I can’t afford the Darkmoons on my hide; my business is just as grueling as it is!”

“I cannot merely do such a kindness, dearest Lautrec~” a sultry voice coos, satirizing the gilded knight’s indignation. “Thou art in dept in sin, and alas, thou must perform virtue, or absolve of such counts. Should art be so willing to pay in souls…”

Lautrec’s head shook madly, his weapon slicing downwards to scrape against the floor. A serpentine movement guided him away from the other’s avaricious gaze, looking afar and incurious.

“Bad omens will not deter me from my duty. Maybe I can afford such a thing, such as sin, trickling down my back…” the delivery of his tone suddenly steepened with conniving glee.  “Perhaps Fina would even like it…keheh…”

The mask tilts in offense, before clasping his book back together, and then raising his hands in thought, similar to that of a suggestive hug. The pose was very eccentric, but quite ubiquitous to find amongst such pardoners. At least, common in that of which Lautrec’s memory could fetch for him.

“Would thou stick to thy promises of dedication to fend against the adversity, if I told thee there were another coming to us? Perhaps, the omens thee said thee can repel?”

An urgent spike punctured Lautrec’s certainty.

“What are-”

“A second set of footsteps approacheth this chapel, heavy, adorned in impenetrable metals, carrying a sword most certainly lethal. Thee stayeth here, and perhaps thine sins may be confronted; the ethical soul would not find thy misdemeanors kind.”

Lautrec shook with anger, unknowing of what the pardoner spoke of. He recoiled tremulously, before his head lifts with contempt-

“And what of you? Hells, I can smell blood on that frumpy dress of yours! You fool me not, not!”

“ Of myself ? Hah! Such would amaze thou what I can do-”

And within an instant, the position Oswald held suddenly collapsed, the arm taking his cape by a hem and suddenly whiffing it around himself like that of a vampiric, voguish devil. Yet, when he had enclosed himself below the leather, his form suddenly spun lightning quick, and morphed within a heartbeat into a raven, cawing a cackle while jet-black feathers fluffed out. Lautrec instinctively lunged forward to try and clutch the newborn avian by its legs, yet the wings had already flapped aggressively enough to take to the air, darting upwards to disappear from the scene. His mind was struck with awe, having long forgotten that sin-traffickers could mold their bodies into crows, leering over every edge like a plague of infringing vermin.

He jogged back to try and find the ebony fowl, noticing it perched on a ledge that overlooked the altar. A single clawed leg was angled forward to hook onto the lower ceiling, its talons scratching the ancient paint while a beak surveyed the scene. Lautrec tried to hoist his sickles up and dismember those scrawny legs, to be only met with vain, shaking his head enraged while mocking flaps from above kidded his efforts with another yap.

Gods, damn it! Gods!

To worsen his unrelenting fret, Oswald hadn’t bluffed, as he heard the distant sound of those stomps now. Clearly that bird's hearing must have been more sensitive than his. Lautrec’s legs quickly darted to hide behind a wall that would seclude him from the entrance of the church, watching in fear of the arch that was efficiently constructed right before him as an alternate entrance. The only thing that could aid him now was the night, the darkness, and the way candles had not too significant of a luster radiating off of his spikes and curves.

“Hello? I heard a commotion in here!” a deep voice boomed, immediately bringing the attention of both men to watch the entrance before the flaxen knight. It sounded very unfamiliar to Lautrec, and he was glad of this; if it had been Solaire or that other unnamed chainmail morose knight, then he couldn’t afford another rendezvous at this hour- especially not after his defeat that could turn his cheeks florid with rage upon mention.

“Hello?” announced itself again, with a knight now stepping into the scene.

His armor was comically rounded and his origins were clearly able to be traced: only those knights of Catarina would ever wear a cataphract so humorous yet sturdy. Something of a redolent scent wafted away from the candles, and the onion helm’s visor atop of the visitors head was easy to be led on, and observe the way lurid patterns of blood ebbed down the stone. It was blackened, and it could make a poor, innocent maiden retch at the sight of it. Upon comprehending what the onion knight saw, his sword suddenly raised to the air, lengthy enough to measure up a smidge shorter than Lautrec’s height.

“Murderers, I see you! Whoever was responsible for this deceased girl? I, Siegmeyer of Catarina, will give her that deserved vengeance!”

The roar of a cry prompted Lautrec to cower, slithering among the walls like a gleaming shadow lined with rays of fire. One boot carefully placed after another with deadened footsteps, trying to edge his way out of the visor’s line of sight before the onion helmet would rear to his direction and haul down the giant blade.

“I command it! Reveal yourself, heathen!”

His tracks remained guile, cunning prowess set to the test while desperately praying he made no noise. Even Fina was absent now, so that her licks upon his skin would not deter him from inching to his target.

I could not stab the bloke in his jugular spine, too coated by bulbous rolls. A simple bounce would be all I could get, and he’d surely bring the steel to my prone flesh. The door to escape...I crave it.

While Siegmeyers steps were warily staring to enter the building, approaching the corpse with a readied stance, a sudden caw croaks from above. Both of the tense men were alerted to the small crow, and Lautrec cursed under his breath, and the way its head cocked to a side, only a simple tilt away from exposing his location.

I could either risk my cover and flee into the dusk, or fight the perpetrator one on one. A fair fight it would be, alas, my defenses match not of this gallant!

“Bird! You reveal to me who this fiend was, and I’ll reward you!” the curved arm raised in acknowledgement, pointing to Oswald’s sleek feathered body. Lautrec’s breath caught in his throat while the bird flapped its feeble wings, disregarding the request in the only way it could without exposing itself as a human.

One simple turn of the beak, and he’s done for.

“Raven, I demand it! Do you not care for this sorry woman, her life strained away by vile daggers? You witnessed it, did you not? Her blood, it still flows and pools below my feet!” the hollow voice huffed, echoing within the onion chamber before his legs scattered back in disgust of the black mud that was splashing onto his greaves. His sword suddenly reeled back over his shoulder, and his helmet tilted to observe the area-

And the visor suddenly landed before Lautrec, and paused, its silence excruciating.

“...”

Don’t. Move. A muscle.

He would be much more comforted if the surveilling glare skipped over him from inattentiveness, yet it did not, soliciting some shift in the golden traced mask or a response. If it were not for the time being a late night, he would have escaped, definitely, yet the kindled candles prevented such a thing. If only he had snuffed them earlier with a wave of his blade, he would not be in this terrible position, exposed by tiny lights. Siegmeyer’s armor started to slowly approach, step by unbearable step…

And then Oswald exploded into a flurry of void black feathers, crowing ostentatiously.

“Raven! Have you found them?” The knight's attention was redirected, his sights now focused on the bird and its spasm of action. Lautrec’s breath huffed out of his chest, a small shift in his arm sparing him the rigorous focus.

The sudden fix of wings led the raven to dive to the elevator opposite of where Lautrec hid, entering the shaft before suddenly levitating up the chute out of Siegmeyer’s perception. The onion knight trails fast, and before Lautrec knew it, the man was before the elevator door, standing inquisitively.

“Bird! Do you imply that this elevator goes upwards or downwards? I do not want to crush you if it rises!” he spoke, his hands placed on the stone archway and tilting his head upwards. It must have been very dark, Lautrec concluded, for the helm was struggling to acknowledge anything before it.

An idea sprang before him.

“Hello? Bird? I’m stuck in a pickle!”

Lautrec was starting to sneak, the tips of his pointed soles flattening themselves to make mere a sound. His obvolvent weapons follow behind curiously, flames jiving at the prickets to where a haunting silhouette grew while his slow approach commenced. Siegmeyer’s pose hadn’t changed, the poor man too enticed by the faint flapping from the chute that was luring him.

“I cannot climb this thing! By what I see of these chains, one escalates downwards while this one is at its highest! Raven, return to me!”

The gullibility of the poor man was recognized by Lautrec’s goddess, who even chuckled at the back of his head while a malicious grin grew. Shadows puffed along walls, and now he was directly behind the other, looming with his darkened armors only shone on at the backside. He stood eerily still, a thigh rising up with a small screech of the armor’s design.

“Oh…” The onion knight's head now tilts downwards, in acknowledgement that suddenly a black had swallowed some of the light that shone into the shaft’s ornate platform. His head started to turn backwards-

Before a quick kick at his rear sent him plummeting down onto the brass.

A harrumph of disgruntled pain left the man, the sounds of his armor banging against the other metal chiming throughout the church. The satisfying shift of the elevator’s raised platform sinking pierced the air, and the gate had already closed, leaving specks of shadows to seep into the elevator while the helmet raised in trying to make out the perpetrator.

“You! You ready your sword this instant!” Siegmeyer attempted to scramble upwards, before the chain rattled, foredooming his descent. All he could do was shake his rounded fist at the other while sinking below, the darkness devouring the luster of his own silvery armor within seconds. Something of a virtuous threat was garbled up the chute of the elevator trying to scare the gold knight, but he only chuckled, while Fina left a cold kiss on his neck. It was not too frigid to scare him, and lingered just long enough to endear his “assassination”.

The church was silent now. His body turned to return back to where he was going to escape, yet his heart blasted through his chest with an audible, growly yelp. The dark man had returned within an instant, now beside the deceased keeper with that iconically despicable pose.

“Splendid work, I congratulate thee! And, yet, had it not been for my egregious disruption, the man surely would’ve driven his blade down thy skull!”

“I could’ve defeated ‘im,” Lautrec snaps back, recalibrating quickly. “Don’t underestimate me.”

A bellowing laughter leaves Oswald, before suddenly taking a kneel beside the poor keeper. Her darling eyes were closed asleep with plush lips draining of their pink glow, and the ink was starting to dry. His leather glove traced along her cheek with a wily grin.

“Sir Lautrec, have thou a clue of what I’ve done? She had murdered herself out of her own spite, her own dedication- to kindle these lights forever…” his mask tips aside to let the candles trace their glow through the pattern on his forehead. “Only I possess her soul, which was so freely offered amidst her corpse. Thy Fina demands such a precious, marvelous thing, does she not?”

First, an iota of comprehension. Then, a small nod left Lautrec, discreetly terrified of what Oswald was suggesting. His unnerving, unfathomable knowledge of the world had him worried sick of what the mysterious pardoner would want.

“Well, I delight thee with a trade. An exchange, between thee and I, unspoken to any other. Thou art a host of sin at this moment, yet, thou art a quite difficult task to outsmart, I see. Thine conniving form melts into shadows away from sights, and should blades attempt to slay thee…I’d expect lots failing in their task from thy wit…”

“Stop dallying around. Give me a straight answer.”

“I offer that thee would exchange thy position of sin for another, not as wise or stealthy as thee. Then, the maiden’s soul is more than in thine hands- entirely at thy will. If thee wishes to usurp, ravage, or deliver, that would be entirely thine to choose.”

Another positive shake of the head, yet still stoic. He wished to be intimidating to the other like Oswald furtively scared him.

“Now, pick. A name to replace thy demise.”

The book was once again fetched by nimble fingers, and Lautrec thought about the deal for a moment. This was undeniable to take, yet with the offer of any man to be targeted by virtuous knights was simply too much to spoil him with. He could offer the half-brained thief that had shoved him to the floor, or the sun-brandished knight who had the capability of defeating him, or…the cleric, who seemed to be so rigorous and stern. Each notion and situation hammered through his mind, thinking of the ways that they could be butchered for his own good- obstacles removed from his path.

Patches. Patches would never trick me again if he was gone.

“I offer Patches, the merchant at Firelink.”

“Marvelous choice, good friend. Yet, I tell thee dejectedly, that Patches art not his real moniker. His name is long discarded, and even the best of pardoners have heard his title, only to find that he would not register as a real being. Strange, and woeful, yet any other names could make for a greater sacrifice than him, I’m certain,” Lautrec swore he saw Oswald dart his tongue across his upper lip at the idea.

“...Solaire.”

“The man art much stronger than thee. Dost thou not remember I commence this barter for a weaker victim?”

“Petrus.”

Oswald paused, as if trying to make a retort, yet his lips instead curled into a smirk of approval.

“Remarkable. Now, my pen. Thee hast to fetch.”

Lautrec’s stance shifted in a trice, throwing a sickle upward with an alluring flamboyance. Disappointment made itself transparent.

“ I have to fetch the thing? Can’t you turn into a bird and bring it in your talons yourself? I’ve got nothing to spare for your antics, your…foolery.”

“And yet thou’st the efforts to complete a barter when needed. Art thou not tempted for the soul? Lady Fina would surely desire such a gift, would she not?”

A quick hiss behind his helm signaled his loss, grumbly and discontented with the pardoner’s lack of motivation to do it himself.

“I left the pen in a cell, where I’d been seeking refuge until thine boisterous steps and rambunctious guises stirred a thrill within this church. It’s only up a littlest of stairs, surely no burden on thine shoulders! Heheh!”

An annoyed huff of stale air came from deep within the suit, stuffing the chamber with the ghastly echo of his breath. He could hear a last chirp fueled with encouragement leave Oswald upon his departure, and a sudden flutter in the wind, yet couldn’t find himself bothered enough to turn around and stare at the obnoxiously unhinged nature of the man or his raven counterpart. Burdened, somnambulatory hunks of metal tread escalating, and then opening to a hall, still eerily dim and star-lit. It was almost…thoughtless, the way he approached, the tensity strangely sapped out of him by something delirious. Was something occurring?

The hollows had most likely fallen asleep at this hour, none waked to disturb his drowsy saunter littered with a tampering feeling- as if magic were cast upon him. Powder, maybe. A quick slice of Fina’s fingertip along his spine shook him to life, continuing downwards and seeing a sombering balder knight just by, its sword laid adjacent to thinned, scrawny legs. It was starting to grow bloodcurdling dark where he was walking- though, he needed that soul, curtly reminded by his love with a cup of an iced palm around his cheek. It was…a cell, Oswald told.

Yet he could find none, with his weighted lean guiding blurred eyes to watch down the hall- except for a neatly bordered wall, barred with not copper, but wood. Everything which he couldn’t observe was morphing into hallucinations played by the mind, splatters of strongly greyed colors dancing outside of the glows. His weapon suddenly chips into the wood with a dull noise, wrenching it out of place sloppily and loud pounds reverberate through the hall when it is cluttered that made Lautrec wince from the volume. Another flight of stairs, yet, through it, he could vaguely make out candlelight shaded by striped bars blocking its way.

Step, step, by unbearable step…

His thigh felt like it was straining to the last of its malleable cells, and now he was certain this was the inevitable work of some mist sprayed about the mundane smell of the prison. His suspicions were too set aside to combat it, resorting to focus on remaining bipedal on his way to the cell. A weight unbearable crushed his back, finally managing to place an outstretched palm upon the bars, slowly opening with the emergence of the minute gleam.

The timid flame burned my eyes to a crisp.

His arm darted over his helm to hide it away and return the coolness of Fina in his drowsed state, yet suddenly a hard shove forced him tumbling downwards next to the candle. While his body was sprawled in defeat once more, dilatory groans radiating off the walls, a loathsome chortle sang its way through his hypnotized senses as a crude rattle and slam sealed his fate. The tiny flame mocks in its little frisk of air.

“Lautrec! Art thou not gullible enough to find this to happen so easily?! Where’s thine goddess to chaff thou away from such demises, eh?”

He couldn’t respond, merely laying with his cheek pressed into the holes of his armor. His nature was evidently too weary to respond to such a thing, and Oswald chuckled at the weakness, while a telltale lock of the cell door made Lautrec’s lips purse one last time. A flutter of wings then commenced- Oswald must’ve abused his avian form and some concoction to do this. Now it was him, the candle, and no rumored pen at all. Only his trapped self. He felt…stupid, yet not hopeless, merely letting sleep take over him while it could in this safe haven locking him away from any stray hollow or knight.

A cold feeling sneaks along his waist, turning into a chilled hug, and he finally fell asleep with himself fully suited, sweaty, and revolting in hygiene.

Fina …

Chapter Text

Another mildewed morning for the peevish man lingered upon him, who woke to realize that not only his chainmail had pressed red patterns against his calves, but the grass was making their little marks as well. Spittle felt molded around his mouth as if he had wrestled for this tranquility to take a messy nap, his tongue immediately fussing to stifle the dry feeling out of the ins of his cheeks. Sweat gave the impression that there might’ve been a putrid stench simmering off of him, yet he was long past the point to care, since other scents of death and rot clouded Lordran before he could. Making a picture of the scene, there was the seemingly vacant cage where the Keeper should have been, and there was Solaire, his dirtied chest rising and falling gradually. Nothing had changed- or so he thought. The Keeper never bothered to make herself casually visible to the others anyway, and Lautrec was a threat long dealt with from what he could recall.

“Sun knight,” he says with an austere gloom. Solaire did nothing in response, maybe too engrossed in the dawn-ish sunlight. How long had they both slept? Time was like an incomprehensible enigma, and they were both less than capable of harnessing an understanding of it, especially not as humans, inferior to the gods who must’ve inferred it much more proficiently. Lesser terms had been used to describe the chronological passing to humanity, hence such phrases as “a little past dusk” or “on the crook of noon” would be a vague, difficult, yet best answer. With a finger decisively on his chin, he judged maybe a full cycle of a day, or maybe only a minute passed, the way that the sky seemed to not have moved while they slumbered.

Either way, Solaire still seemed resting, and the warrior was in no right or urgency to rouse him. The snaps of his joints eased his tendons when he quickly shoved a fist into the cusp of his palm, and then reached back to feel for a bottle- or, Estus, as you may know it. Warm liquid fizzled through the glass and lightly toasted his fingertips, although the bottle was almost rigid from ages of being unused, but he took it out still to set beside Solaire cordially. Should the sun-loving ally have woken and still felt woeful, at least he’d have a generous serving of the fire to drink from.

It was then that the warrior finally rose up, still tilted and weighed by his own body, the static feeling of a foot fallen asleep fizzing through his leg uncomfortably while he tried to shake his boot free of the stress. It was almost as if he had to imagine a delectable treat on a string being hung in front of him just to get him to move anywhere, his hand trailing through his skimpy haircut to fluff it out and wake from a deathly, hollow-like state of autonomy.

Firelink seemed to not have differed, the bonfire still the only living soul of the center when he wasn’t there to slump by it. He could hear something like…commotion, coming from over the wall, with a deep yet familiar voice echoing through the air. It sounded diluted into a reverberation from coming out of an empty helm, and it was attempting to make conversation with a cockney, suave voice- none other than Patches could fit that tone. He felt tempted to eavesdrop, and with no other business that could be better to do, he found himself tracing step after step to sow his spying.

“Ah, do not be so difficult! Your words fool me! I only need to know where I’ve ended up!”

“Come on mate, you’ve heard my story! Are you senile or something? We’re in Firelink!” The wimpy tone clearly belonged to that of an irritated bandit who could profit wildly from a stray customer, possibly such as this one.

“Senile! No, shocked! Bemused , foul compeer! I’m having trouble comprehending that one such as you could possess the scroll to break this curse set on me!”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they’ve all said! Now, do you want to give me some coin, or never see that daughter of yours again?”

The sudden change in the crestfallen warrior’s face said everything, with his lips parted and a disgusted look overcoming him. He had always thought lowly of that slinky thief that did nothing but rob corpses and men and addle his mind insane, but he could not imagine Patches ever doing something so degenerate as now. But, it couldn’t be true , he was still trying to hear the argument.

“I cannot make the money to pay you in this state! I am naught but a phantom, like you’ve told me! Can’t a kindness of heart let you change your prices for even a moment?”

“I’m not a charity! Cripes, at the very least I’d expect you to not talk back to your only medium! If it weren’t for me already being kind enough to recognize you, you’d be nothing but a wandering spirit watching men after men talking endlessly amongst each other while you can only wish for your body back!”

“...Well, fine!” the strong voice exclaims, and metal steps turned their way from the vendor to run for their own freedom somewhere else. That place elsewhere happened to be just around the archway the warrior was listening from, and the onion knight faced the chainmailed loafer once more, a groan almost instinctively exiting the crestfallen warrior upon sight of the bold armor. Absolutely nothing good came out of the ceaseless rambling Catarinians could do of their honorability.

“Oh! Can you see me, too? Do you happen to possess a scroll which can free me from being deceased? I would appreciate it greatly, for my knighthood’s conquest!”

The warrior squinted, tracing the bulbous armor downwards with baffled thoughts. Was the greatsword-welding bloke with the spirit of an undying warrior really so gullible?

“Did Patches tell you you were a ghost?”

Almost comically then, he heard the thief loudly sigh at the cover blown. Siegmeyer’s head tilted a way, before a gasp came out of him.

“Oh! I remember you!” The rounded glove tries to point, incapable of such an expression so it seemed like he was awkwardly trying to hold the other. “You were that grouchy, impartial knight that always sat here! I’d thought you had run away by morning when I didn’t see you again, yet you’ve returned!”

“Oh, hm, I may have been busy at the time,” the crestfallen exigently piped, strangely peering aside from nervousness. He didn’t have the heart or bravery at the moment to retort about how much spite and unresolved rage he had about Siegmeyer’s odd habits that irked him to the point of leaving.

“Ah, well hopefully now you are free to assist me! You see, I, Siegmeyer, as you know, have fallen into quite the pickle! You are seeing a trifling apparition, while my real body is still lifeless, and I must return to it before I degrade past the capability of being alive once more! I do not wish to become ash now, I have conquests to fulfill! Now do you possess the scroll to help?”

The crestfallen warrior suddenly giggled, leaning against the wall as the other looked confused. His hand waves upwards suggestively in apology.

“What’s got you laughing? Are you going to try and make me pay for it like that other ruffian here did? I have no coin, none!”

“You aren’t a ghost,” the crestfallen childishly grinned with his sodden gaze making a fool of the knight. “You’re being deceived. Is that armor fatter than your wits now?”

“Don’t disrespect my gear, you wear only chainmail to defend yourself! At least speak like that with a sword on your belt!”

“Alright, sure, I apologize dearly- yet you are still being slyly toyed with. Had it not occurred to your dead brain that a few rumors of how you’re a ghost could get a man some cash? You aren’t this lenient, are you?”

A shuffling sounds from afar, as if the thief were fleeing before the warrior could get it through Siegmeyer’s thicker skull than that of an average undead, and the crestfallen nodded to Patches’ direction invisibly. The onion armor rustled in worry, and he ran back to the merchant, his sword lifted in agitation.

“You stay right here! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Aw, hells-” Patches scoffs, and the crestfallen warrior felt intrigued enough to even approach the scene himself, the soles of his boots flowing across the floor to avoid making a dramatic appearance. It seems that Patches was packing some minor trinkets and baubles into miniscule bags and discreet pockets littering his shirt, undisturbed by the threat made.

“Well? Aren’t you going to apologize for attempting to, to-” a gruff rage filled Siegmeyer’s voice while the crestfallen sophisticatedly bent forward to watch the helm shake with fury. “Haven’t you any final words? This is a battle, you depilated ruffian! Ready your weapons!”

Patches shrugs absently, taking out his spear and bending his knee in an assertive stance while bracing the eagle-brandished greatshield in front of him. A slick twitch in his eye intimidated his opponent, who was steadied with his sword, yet none of them had braved a single action against the other. It was like preparing for a draw with blades. The silence was so astounding to where a cat’s lucid paw would have been more shocking, and the crestfallen warrior felt inappropriate standing here, as if the match were shorn to be a brawl between two men purely for the honor of it with no witness to say a word. He swore- the shadows had even grown longer from the adrenaline.

Yet, suddenly Patches’ head shakes, before a flamboyant yawn leads him to try and cover his mouth out of etiquette. Siegmeyer did nothing but watch, unsure if this was making a fool out of him or not, yet he purposefully bent his knees deeper to prepare a lunge for the other’s throat with the sword turning into that of a javelin at this angle. The crestfallen warrior watched astounded, before seeing Patches wave his hand dismissively.

“Oh, cripes, guess you’ve won! Ah, maybe your prowess had proven me the worse fighter as soon as we’d started that standoff,” his spear whipped over his shoulder with the wind shredding upon its ascent. A coy smirk made the knight take great offense, stammering for an announcement of how this had ended unfairly only to be interrupted by a strong strut off to the catacombs’ direction.

“Hey! Wait, you! Have you gone insane?” The crestfallen warrior felt the need to run after, or lightly jog, to match the speed of how Patches felt the need to simply leave upon surrender. His splendor in this walk was immaculate, to where a mental interpretation arose that he might’ve done this on purpose just to flaunt the stride. Yet, he paused, turning his head back with that of a nonplussed scowl to face the chaser. “Aren’t you familiar with how dangerous going to the catacombs is? Are you killing yourself?”

“Ah! Nonsense, man!” Patches snickered, before his eyes spitefully narrowed. “I’m merely leaving because you’ve been a nuisance to me, that’s all.”

The warrior took a stupified backstep, though his expression was quickly drained of surprise, understanding why Patches would say such a thing to a man who had been of no use to him and warded off a customer to swindle. The crestfallen didn’t have his brand, as he’d left it back with Solaire resting askew on the floor, so he rolled his eyes in the intent of hitting Patches somewhere deep with his uncaring demeanor.

“Coveting thy neighbor is only human, yet gods, I can still afford a few more days to slave away to time. Glad you’ll be taking your petty thief business elsewhere before you decide to rob me too.”

“And I’m sure happy that you’ll hollow earlier than I will, you sack of bones,” Patches leers when he watches the confidence drain from the other.

“Return, bandit! This match isn’t over!” Siegmeyer suddenly roars from spectating, and both men are shocked by the heavy steps approaching. Almost like a bullet, Patches darted off headfirst, like his hairlessness would offer greater dynamism when his footsteps danced on the pathway to the graveyard avoiding bones and graves like a weasel. It left the crestfallen flabbergasted, but not defeated, with his spite for the cueball bastard returning when setting his hand on the crook of his arm.

“Oh, well, at least he’s gone before thieving our belongings and leaving us bare, hm?” Heavied panting breathed at his side, and he turned to see Siegmeyer with his hands on his knees in rest. A forced smile tries to sympathize; he still could not tolerate the foolishness of the other.

“Let's just head back. I have another friend you can talk to instead of me.”

Siegmeyer’s eyes almost lit up, despite having no visual indicator of his eyes, so it was shown in the tip of his helm upwards with startled hope. The crestfallen warrior had already begun pacing to the bonfire, so Siegmeyer trudged behind, yelling every few moments for the man to halt for a moment and it landed on the warrior’s deaf ears. He couldn’t bear one day with Siegmeyer’s constant bouts of how he should marshal his efforts together and make of himself a fine, parrying swordsman, so another day of this would be more than intolerable.

Arriving at the lower floor with the firekeeper still sleuthed away behind bars and shadow, Solaire had finally managed to get himself up, with the bottle half-emptied of its contents. His head still dropped low, deep in thought, until the rustling of grass blades prompted him to acknowledge the approaching men.

“Oh! Is that another companion of yours?” Solaire mused, seeing the heavy armorer slump behind the crestfallen warrior exhausted from how much bursted energy he expended. “I’d never have expected a knight of Catarina around these parts!”

“Yes, yes…has Lordran not already proven to draw many undead to its ugly core?” the warrior lamented aggressively, before stepping aside, and taking the sword he left on the ground to sheathe it back into its scabbard. A sour expression looks back to the tired onion knight, who was hanging to the loose bricks in the sanctuary walls for security. 

“Oh, I’ll get up!” Siegmeyer hollers, devoid of contempt despite the crestfallen’s bitterness. “I- I would need to sleep after, however…”

The very mention of sleep made the crestfallen grim recalling the obnoxiously loud snoring, preparing to leave the scene before the heavily-armored man would flop over and snort to the high heavens. Though, before his foot reached the first step, he felt the need to watch back at Solaire, who also happened to have his eyes on him. The feather flutters solemnly in the morning wind, and his head cocks aside, like in wonder that the warrior would even consider looking in his direction.

He was not brave enough to confront his decision to look back, and simply nodded, as if in promise that this would not be the last time he’d speak to the sun knight.

…Whatever was that? Not my concern…

But it was his concern, his weight on his shoulders, and he felt it heavily when he was back to sitting timelessly on his perch like the place-holding man he was. He would be much more at ease if it were not for the laughing and yelling about that was occurring below the shrine, like Solaire had bonded much quicker with another adventuring knight than he, who could barely tread outside of Firelink’s boundaries without immediately feeling a terrible guilt or yoking strand like he was imprisoned. Compared to Solaire, he was like a sheep tied to a leash on a fencepost, and the sun-chaser had much more liberty than him. Perhaps it was a matter of purpose, like the crestfallen was destined to sit forever until he could get up and link the fire, unlike finding a sun.

Or perhaps it was merely a fleeting affection that had caught him, that made him look back for only a moment. But it could not be…

“Hasn’t it become stale for you yet?”

The voice hadn’t even startled him, knowing that deep, croaked tone from that interaction he had with Patches. His head turns upwards to see the flaxen hair rustle with the breeze calmly. Although there was a clear intention for poise and comfort, Petrus’ eyes seemed to perfectly maintain eye contact, it made the warrior off-put from his peace. His palms were pressed together in a praising fashion, though to the warrior, it radiated the same fashion as that of a schoolteacher leering over his shoulder. Not that he’d happen to recall much of schools or any educational material; Lordran was far past preserving history and knowledge in the scourge of the undead curse.

“What are you even talking about?” a morose swing in his tone demeaningly questions the priest.

“Those two knights, over there. You’ve been peering like a lost widow at their quarreling and humors. I’d thought maybe I could…assist you,” A wolfish glint in his eye suddenly appeared, though vaguely, to where the crestfallen assumed this was empathy. Sympathizing with others, in excess, was a sin, yet he hadn’t known that yet.

“And what of it? It’s not my worry, and not yours either, you pious eavesdropper. How about you return back to…whatever you were doing with that Lautrec?”

“Sir Lautrec’s been dealt with, I promise you,” something devilish crossed his face, before his eyes suddenly fixated just below the jaw of the other. The warrior’s brow furrowed in confusion, before his gloved hand slapped to the scar, gritting his teeth with disinterest. He wasn’t certain why the wound was catching an eye, but he surely could not spare the time to explain, admittedly embarrassed by how Lautrec had pinned him so easily by a mere misinput of how close the two men were when he was busy swatting away the poor Keeper.

“The scar,” Petrus brought to light, and the sullen warrior exhaled a sharp sigh of his vexation.

“Oh, what the hell does it have to do with you?” he snapped. “I don’t need any bandages or petty medicines! It’ll heal well on its own- go back!”

The desired reaction of the cleric getting insulted was fetched with ease, though it seemed that the looming man wouldn’t go, simply sticking by with a fickle glimmer of sadness from the neglect. It could’ve been a farce, it could’ve not, though he suddenly grasped onto a shoddy talisman of fabrics and held it furtively.

“Perhaps you could let me not tend to your wound, but perform a miracle on it. Doesn’t it hurt to be slit so haphazardly?”

It was then that without even an objecting word, a string of words in a language he didn’t know were already being hummed. Although he was so averted to refusing any assistance or kind deeds done without payment, an eternal longing for just any kind of companionship gripped at his heart, and his hand dodged away from the incoming fingertips of the fuzzed glove. His eyes were blackened with gall when he was looking away at where the portly gladiator and the sun knight he knew were celebrating, while he could not work the attitude to sit by them, and hence sat glaring afar. The tickling, small feel of the glove’s tracing fingers were accompanied with a rejuvenating sensation and a subtle glow up his tendon, as if his skin were being anointed, and sewing itself back together.

“Better?” Petrus felt the need to ask, before taking back the talisman. The warrior knew not how to say thanks, but at least nodded, before a grave stare shot at the stout man.

“Go away, will you? I have better things to do than speak to you.”

“I, object, kindly,” a colder tone made audience. “You imply that you’d rather seep blood to death than to heal, and that’s quite counterintuitive, is it not?”

“I didn’t mean it in that way!” the crestfallen’s voice rose, though instead of that of a strong bark, it was more of a raspy, wimpy exhale. His hands shook furiously, trying to not cry and wail how much he had grown attached to Solaire to where him being happier with another man to match his jolly spirits was a raw jab- straight into his long-hardened feelings. “J-just get away! You go about your business, and I’ll go about mine!”

Petrus’ teeth grit below his pursed lips, evident in how his helpful bearing dropped from his stern onlook. He turned back wordlessly, disappearing back into the corridors and complexes that was Firelink shrine, and with the leave of the ugly-fashioned cleric the downcast soldier instantly shoved his face into his hands in mourning. How could he ever stroke the energy to talk to Solaire like Siegmeyer did? How would he ever find the courage to achieve feats appealing to the sun knight, and not only that- the confidence? Why had his attachment suddenly grown? Was it the way that the sunlit blade had saved from from imminent death, or maybe the way he had lifted the feather away from the roaring flames- ah, at least in all of it, though he might’ve been not nearly as worthy of a fighter, he hoped that Solaire would look on him as he looked on his jovialness too!

“My friend?”

The warrior snapped out of his lamenting thoughts, suddenly being greeted with Solaire’s helm homing over him not judgmentally, but, benevolently, as if a sparkle of joy was hidden in the cavernous dark covering his face. Siegmeyer was treading afar making his way to the Undead Burg, though upon seeing how the man’s face scanned his rotund armor, the onion knight motions a wave back dreamily. Solaire put a fist to his chest and cleared his throat, immediately focusing the crestfallen’s attention.

“You are awake, I see. I thought you might’ve fallen asleep, sitting like that!” Solaire chuckles, and the warrior couldn’t help but feel the edge of his mouth twitch into a secluded perk of joy. The man’s laughing was contagious. “However, I do want to tell you- this good fellow here has motivated me to continue on my journey to venture and locate the sun. It was bound to happen someday and all, yes?”

Oh, of course, of course the crestfallen warrior knew.

I wasn’t that stupid to forget, was I?

A shaky nod comes out of him, before lifting a hand in understanding, and then abruptly bringing it back down. It was like he was drowning in self-disappointment and masking it away, but Solaire could clearly tell, with his head aside in interest.

“I had predicted that you might’ve been a little disheartened by the news- yet fear not, my friend, for it is evidence you are not yet hollowing! I knew you were not only a bitter puppet, heh, as much as you try to be so solitary. Is it for your dignity, or your solace? I’ll never tell,” Solaire tried to cheer the other up into maybe giving a rebuttal or a sharp bite at him for describing him so lowly. Though, he was only met with haunting dead eyes. A bright tune was speedily hummed before reaching into his back pocket and fetching a small little medallion, shimmering in the midday sunlight.

“You would know what these are, yes? Worry not if you don’t, for it is just a keepsake for assisting me, in that rendezvous with the golden fiend. You may be quite penitent, but surely you could handle a parting gift!”

The crestfallen hesitated before reaching a hand outwards, and Solaire dropped the token into the outstretched palm, the sun-like symbol tampering the golden light above while he was tantalized by its significance. He held it to his chest dumbfounded, and felt a searing feeling below his eyelids, before Solaire clasped a hand onto the chainmail shoulder.

“Try to live a little sometime, my friend. You’ll find it so, so enlightening.”

And with those parting words he rose up again, looking to Siegmeyer with a confirming nod. The crestfallen could hear the greatsword being plucked out of the grass while Solaire’s iron greaves retreated, leaving him watching the quiet rustling of the grass below. That, and the ginger-golden medallion encased in his hands, the only thing left of Solaire’s stay.

He could now feel how the wind longingly laced through his strands, the loneliness seeping in. Siegmeyer and Solaire were still laughing together, before finally forking their way from his sedentary enclave while he spectated, unable to say a word. Both of them were charging towards the ample horde of undead that were drowsily moaning, slaying them with enough ease to where they had cooperatively reached the stairway quick, which intersected the depths and deeper into the town. Though it was not his first time, the crestfallen warrior felt irredeemably empty, and he couldn’t sound a word.

Solaire was a man of battles, and I was not. Is it not destined that I could never belong with him until the end of the flame swallows us all?

He couldn’t explain it, his vision now growing illusioned and blurry when he looked back to the medallion. It was so simple to ridicule himself for his laziness, his inability to muster the courage to follow along, and his social lack, to where he just felt his neck churn into a croon of depression, clutching the medallion tighter as the white-hot sensation at the creases of his eyes started to leak into saddened streams.

Oh gods, I’m worthless, I’m truly…nothing…

His fists were quick to wipe away the little tears that forced themselves out, trying to keep an angered expression from huffing chokes out of his throat. This was nothing but a bump in the long path, and he was growing all worked up over it. He just needed to give it a little time, a little bit of wait…

Solaire was so, so kind…

*

His moody normalcy was restored within days, and his remaining wounds had now turned into those of heavy bruises that occasionally attracted his attention to rub a hand over. The warrior impatiently bided time below the crow that leered over the Shrine, and witnessed it occasionally gust waves of wind and fly away to hunt and fetch some large animal that it chose to feast on. The medallion was now hidden away inside a fold of his chainmail where he hoped that no man would ever think to stick his hands inside for the looting, though the sorrow, irredeemable dejection downpoured many nights away still scarred its bright surface. The crow one day came back, its claws gripping tight on that of a feeble human, before dropping the new knight with a dramatic tumble only a few rolls away from the bonfire. The crestfallen warrior strained his neck to try and see who had come, watching the nose of their helm suddenly perk up as their uncalibrated hand pawed around the grass blades, and finally managed to hoist their legs upwards, like a dying being trying to restore its resolve.

Another undead…?

Chapter Text

Now, of course, this was all the same. This was only a hideous face that’ll ask me, “Where am I? Who are you?” before setting off to their own doleful woe. It was almost as if my life were but a script, and I was made death’s ghoulish companion to all these sorry corpses. I’d hope that the hollow may not inquire too deeply of questions, so we can all move on with our despondencies, and I’ll never see their face again.

Their gloves looked profoundly rugged, the metal on them more likely described as tin instead, that could probably turn victim to maybe a nudge on the forearm and be forever dented. This undead was littered with signs of being washed up from the asylum, bathed in blood- raining blood, as if they had fallen victim to a terrible weather that made the precipitation red with gore. It was a disgusting, onerous sight, one irksome enough to make his cleaner self dart a hand to cover his nose and repel the virulent scent drowning into Firelink.

To his greater misery, the undead managed to rise up, still drenched and repugnant. Reanimated, they immediately dived to land on their stomach while a convulsing spread of fingers reached for a fleeting few of the bonfire’s timbered ashes, and their palm seemed to grasp at something outside of the warrior’s perception. It was a histrionic display of what was potentially tragic to another’s vision, but of course, if it didn’t concern him, then he was the only witness to the carrion’s flailing, and no one else was there to shed tears.

A huff reminds him he was still human compared to whatever was hidden away in that metal suit.

It was then that something very, very strange happened before me.

Almost like ribbons to a dancer, the flames suddenly kissed the fingertips and wisped around thinly-protected arms, and the hollow didn’t scream or beg for them to recede. It was almost like using magic to let the fire eat their body, rising off of their charred flesh, yet none of their armor had suffered the liquefying effect of burning heat. The crestfallen warrior had a stunned look, unsure how to react, while the blood turned into red smoke dissipated like some pleasant aroma. The knight found the strength they needed, getting up, and then looked to him as if this were entirely casual while the flames seeped back into the usual flickering.

The warrior found himself speechless, being beseeched by some eldritch magician. What was even the correct response to witnessing such a miracle?

It seemed his awkward silence was not meant for long, seeing the way the shoddy armor approached him humane and sentient. He couldn’t decipher anything behind the helmet, quite similarly to previous men he’d met, but he’d at least expected some greeting sentence.

“...”

The warrior cocked his head aside, confused.

“Is it far from custom to say ‘hello’ anymore?”

The question wasn’t muttered like some somber, lost soul expected more. It was grumbled half-heartedly and no retort came from the husk.

“You aren’t even going to ask for some answers like the rest of them? Just going to stand there and…watch? Have you even an idea of what you’ve come for?”

There was no reaction from the other, simply beginning to place their hand onto the hilt of a pathetic weapon. It clearly wasn’t in aggression, just trying to communicate a vague statement, before their finger pointed to their neck assertively. The crestfallen took a moment of thinking, unfamiliar with such a strange gesture. His first assumption was that the knight may have wanted to slit their neck, though it couldn’t possibly be so- the world hadn’t waned so decrepit, had it? He gasped in realization.

“You cannot speak?”

The knight affirmatively nods, their hands retreating behind them politely.

“Ah, well, a tragedy to be you, wouldn’t it?” the warrior abruptly laments, and impolitely, for that matter. “No concern of mine, though, for I don’t expect to see much of you after this short encounter. A voice can get you so far, can’t it, in this world so bent on first impressions?”

A quick cross of the arms and a strong, invisible glare whipped something timid into the crestfallen’s soul. It wasn’t enough to have him cowering for his weapon, but was enough to stop the mocking, his cocky grin turning into a disciplined flatline.

“I’ll tell you this. Your fate lies better rotting away with the rest of the hollows than trying to scrape for bringing salvation to this lost world, but, I guess if you’ve now nothing better to do…there are actually two Bells of Awakening. The tale spread only spoke of one, yet there are two, but such discrepancies surely mean nothing to someone as ambitious as you, hm?” the crestfallen’s head deepens, watching for some either affirmative or disappointed reaction. There was no motion this time.

“Well, just as the story goes, you ring both, and something brilliant occurs. A marvelous goal, yes? But, I’ll inform you, there is only disappointment on the path to it. If you’d like to entertain yourself better, then this bench is all comfortable, especially for someone as silent as you. I wouldn’t mind accompanying myself with someone who cannot talk, opposed to someone who rambles on about clinging to hope and not succumbing to despair.”

The knight’s nose reared dejected, and the crestfallen sneered at the reaction.

“Well, it’s not a surprise that it’s all miserable, hm? I was once like you, and now, well…what’s the use in beating a deceased horse?” his shoulders sank obediently, and it supplicated a sudden shake of the fist from the hollow. It was like they were mutely communicating a threat.

“But of course, I am not to judge your motivations. You are at your liberty to beat your fists against thousands of undead like you, until they bleed, and you’ll admire the peace in, well, giving up.”

The knight tips their head to look to the conglomeration of undead, before their greaves lifted, and thus marked the beginning of the pilgrimage to ring the bells. This once, clutching their sword and bracing their shield, they blatantly mimicked that of what was once the morose soldier, looking wistfully afar.

Though, the knight was met with the same difficulty, as each undead would bark for another and soon masses of rotted flesh would barricade themselves, becoming almost like an inescapable horde of flailing, broken swords that slashed jagged wounds repetitively. It was impressive how quick they could shred the poor knight’s flesh, flinching over and over, until one sly undead thought to slash at the neck and the head went soaring, blood and ashes spreading everywhere before the protagonist’s body fell over, rigor mortis teasing joints while it all faded to ashes.

The crestfallen wasn’t surprised, plainly balked. The taste in which undead would prove to be the “chosen” undead would surely fare farther than this. He sighed absent-mindedly to resume his eternal glooming.

Though, once more the flames kindled, and a new undead rose from the heart of it. The warrior gasps upon the newly-molded knight being remade from the ashes, yet he could not say he was aghast, already having bore witness to the soldier usurping some of the flame to regenerate themselves. A searing step of metal flamed the grass below it in a narrow fissure of fire, and the newly made hollow walked out, just as mysterious and silent as before. They shot a critical look to the crestfallen’s direction, and the man sighed, somewhat irritated that he was demanded more speech out of.

“What’s wrong? Having too much trouble? Don’t expect me to help, now…” the warrior murmurs, and to his enlightenment, the undead walks back to where they had attempted to fight before. While his palms cradled his jaw to prepare to maybe nap through this commotion, he suddenly noticed a hollow, screeching and clawing to the heavens while the knight dragged the meager thing to the Shrine by the arm.

“Oh, wh- don’t bring that scanty thing here! I won’t kill him any faster than you will!” he harshly criticized, witnessing how the knight hurled the sad hollow to the ground just shy of being blazed by the bonfire.

Their arm raised, and then they threw their shield aside in a deflecting motion while the insane hollow attempted to find a new balance on the grass. The warrior tipped his head aside befuddled, before a gloved finger pointed curiously.

“You want to parry it?” he tried to decipher, met with frequent nods out of them. “Well, what am I supposed to do? You aren’t making me get up…”

It was then that metal fingers aggressively gripped on the hollow’s leather collar and stomped towards the sitting man, brandishing the insane human like a weapon and letting its bulging eyes claw at the warrior with rotted, uneven nails. The loose gaping of its jagged teeth scared him into submission as his face physically recoiled back, and he was bitterly reaching for the hilt of his own weapon.

“How about you stop terrorizing me, hm? I’m already pained enough by you!” chainmail shoes stood where he once sat, and the sword was pointing to the flailing undead’s forehead, ready to pierce should the knight make any sudden movements. They whipped their rusty tower shield to a side again, desperately trying to convince the crestfallen to teach them how to parry while pink, raw fingers were madly waving.

“Fine, fine! You want to learn so terribly I’ll show you! You ever pull this stuff again, I might just leave Firelink without another word, and you’ll be left more desolate than now,” the crestfallen huffed, and with those words, the hollow was heaved aside to clank its rancid self against the stone paths that encircled the bonfire. The knight politely stepped back, something clearly glinting in their covert eyes.

He scraped his way back down, fetching his heater shield from beside him, watching the way that the sunlight refracted into a blinding light against it. Even the undead knight had thrown a gauntlet before their eyes, flinching from the brisk gleam.

Now, it became time for him to test his own prowess, his heel digging into the ground while the sunlight faded away from the steel. His sword was held offensively while watching the hollow akin to the appearance of raw meat rise from where it was begrudgingly thrown, turning its head to pierce the light of red eyes into the crestfallen’s memory.

Steady.

One of its paws had started to rip the grass, trying to find something to attack with now that the sword was far from it. A stray piece of brittle glass cut its feeble palm, and lodged itself further into its poor fingers while blood seeped to the ground. It was trying to use the little thing as a sword, yet it was sharp on all edges, and a timid creak of agony trilled from the sensation.

Hollows would do anything to hurt, wouldn’t they? Is this what they think they’re meant for? Fighting, until they cannot?

At least I am not so clueless.

The wretched undead now climbed the firelink wall, and shoved the stones to lever itself around, head hung low while threatening the crestfallen with its gut-wrenching appearance. It was difficult to believe this armored, tattered thing was once human, and even scarier, its tragedy could happen at any moment to him.

Its bleeding hand threw itself into the air before limping forward, preparing to strike the crestfallen warrior down with a lazy, slow throw of the arm that he sternly watched. It was terrifying to imagine blundering this, the glass surely was able to scar his cheek open, and he could not afford to embarrass himself in front of someone he had just met.

Watch for the sunlight, watch…

The piece of glass was still trailing downwards shakingly, and a white light suddenly coated its clear exterior.

Now!

Bracing for impact with his eyes shut tight, his shield flung aside, feeling the way that the hollow’s weak attempt of an attack abruptly slid off its face. It was stunned, flailing backwards exposed, while the slow open of the crestfallen’s eyes made him smirk proudly.

“There. That’s how you perform it. Were you watching closely?” he spoke, pacing away from the hollow to not expend its use by jabbing it mercilessly with a clever riposte.

The knight didn’t have a reaction, their empty gaze communicating neither an affirmative yes, nor that they were distracted. Their nose angled to the hollow angering once more, while the crestfallen warrior backed away behind the bonfire to witness what he had faintly taught with only a demonstration.

Should they fail, my spirits will not dampen any further in disappointment. I expect nothing.

It was gradual, with the knight bracing themselves and nearly dropping their sword in focus. Their posture was much too languid for fighting, and the crestfallen pointed out nothing to help. The flimsy undead regained its autonomy as it suddenly charged much quicker with the blood-stained glass, and the knight whipped the shield aside much too soon, staring in horror as the hollow grazed the armor with an ear-splitting clash of materials. He sighed, watching the knight let out an obvious puff of pain while walking back from another slash of glass made by the hollow. Their fists were shaking with rage, trying to perform the trick again when the it attempted to maim them once more, to where it was done far too late and the hit was not only lacerated deeper into an existing wound, but also the shield bashed away the hollow’s arm with bruising damage.

They suddenly lowered their shield and started to use their sword, beating down the hollow in their frustration with unparalleled speed, marks and spurts of blood coming from each hit the knight slit into his target. The hollow collapsed downwards while the knight was too engulfed in their fury, each hit after another purely charged with regret and disdain while the light faded out of those red, monstrous eyes.

The crestfallen did naught but watch, and saw how the knight looked back at him. Their hands suddenly tried to excuse themselves, but it wasn’t the warrior’s concern.

“Well, killing that hollow wasn’t my fault, was it? I showed you how to do it, and, well, it isn’t so easy, is it?”

The knight couldn’t say anything, just looking at the gored body they had mangled.

“Throw it over the edge, go busy yourself with someone else. You’ll learn eventually.”

Discreetly, the crestfallen warrior didn’t want to tell them how the light reflecting off of a person’s weapon could hint rhythm to a smooth parry. His demotivational monologuing was his forte.

The body was taken by the arms, and heaved over the edge of a cliff with no landing. Its fall from grace was witnessed by the knight who stuck their head over to watch them disappear below grayed clouds, and the crestfallen warrior returned to where he rested, setting the shield aside once more. The knight looked to the warrior for advice.

“You’d really get some benefit out of something to write with. Now, stop bothering me. You imply too many questions, even if you're silent.”

Their determination regained, metallic gloves rusted in red taking their brand and shield once more. Though, instead of challenging the horde again, they disappeared behind the archway beside him. He didn’t recall anyone else who lived here aside from the obnoxious snoring under the lake that flooded a majority of that one room, until the man came into his head.

Petrus!

The cleric who had approached him in his most miserable time panged in his head, and he couldn’t bear the idea of the priest informing the knight that he had been so stressed with emotions back then. The blush flooded to his face, not from any sort of admiration or love, but from the grave, macabre doom he’d feel if Petrus told the undead anything of how he was able to cast that miracle on his neck. The question rose to him- why did the cleric even perform such a thing? Wasn’t Thorolund revered for its unwavering loyalty to missions and a tendency to never stray from a set path, making healing him out of the ordinary? No matter- he couldn’t afford the conversation becoming about him.

He waits timidly, still hearing the soldier's footsteps crunch against grass and bluntly clamping on stones. The water sloshing aside and dampening their feet was also clearly picked up on, while his teeth grit in hopes he wouldn’t hear the blonde’s voice.

To his dismay, he could hear the alluring, sing-song croak. Afar.

“ Oh my, a visitor? Well, my apologies sincerely, but if you were not ordered here, then I would like us to keep our distance. ”

The enigma of introductions made the crestfallen cock his head aside. While Petrus warded off the knight, he seemed to be rather enthusiastic about making bonds with the warrior. What was going through the man’s head, he struggled to decipher, burying his face in his hands to enhance his eavesdropping.

“ Didn’t you hear what I said? By the likes of you, I’d expect you weren’t so persistent, in standing there without words. Though, if it really offends you so…here. A small gift. Maybe you could interest yourself with it. ”

He could hear a shuffle distantly, and everything went silent. His head turned to see that the knight was approaching the center of the Shrine once again, and turned to him upon watching the warrior’s face following their approach. A lean, and an unfurl of their palm showed the crestfallen a small, bronze coin, and the warrior was unsure what to say.

Though, vaguely, he was reminded of where he had learned to parry from it. But he couldn’t say that.

“What is it? Do you want to buy something? We tend to use…souls, in Lordran, not coins.”

The knight shook their helm, before pointing to the little copper and then lifting their hand in suggestion.

“I…don’t really understand. Get away, won’t you? I enjoy napping throughout my day.”

The knight grew dejected, before taking the coin back and shoving it in some crevice of their armor. Their sword unsheathed once more, accompanied by the shield, and they went back to grinding away at the undead. Their tactic had clearly changed, taking them on one by one by throwing loose stones, yet every few slashes they would attempt to try a parry for luck. Sometimes they hit it, sometimes they did not, but at least they were not dying so senselessly.

The warrior’s head faced downwards once more, trying to recall what that coin had to do with his battling. It grinded at his memory to fetch more meaning to it, while a muzzy voice could make an audience in his head.

“Make haste, make haste! Brandish your swords! March! Now, fall back!”

“Don’t let the enemy see your sweat! It’s trailing down your forehead- into your eyes’ sockets, but the burning salt won’t distract you! Kill them! Shout!”

It was a sharp, demanding tone, one that clearly belonged to a bombastic general. But, he had forgotten who it could possibly belong to, or if it was directed towards him, or if it was even in a war. He vividly remembered the stress in parrying, however; two strong hands gripped at his wrist while another blade would come down, and his eyes were strained to look at the way the light hammered down to the hilt before his shield was thrust aside without his own command.

“Now, you.”

He remembered the blade now- it wasn’t even sharpened. A hunk of rounded metal designed for practice, but, when it bludgeoned him on the chest, it hurt all the same. He could even recall the exact way that his breath hissed through his lips, a little jump in his throat, while terrible disappointment shot through his veins. He knew he was scolded after, but he couldn’t remember the exact words, fabricating a story in his mind from what he knew. But he was still desperate for answers, his brow lowering while he watched the knight disappear from his sight to the burg.

Did this undead feel the same disdain as I had once? Embarrassment, chagrin unending?

He was grasping for names, accurate terms to describe what each and every memory weighing him meant. It was all secluded, murky, and he felt that finding the origins to such thoughts would be impossible.

That is, until he remembered the exchange of dialogues- who had given the coin.

Perhaps Petrus knew a little more than he. Talking to others would be lethally boring to the warrior- deathly so, but, this time he at least wanted to know who he was. Hopeful enough, maybe Petrus even knew his name.

He ventured over into Firelink, clutching the little medallion. Would Solaire look upon this moment with honor? He would think so, as the superior sunlit knight seemed to be so concerned of the warrior’s constant sitting about.

He gained sight of the armored cleric once more, who turned his head aside to see the approach. A daggered smile poked the corners of his cheeks.

“Interested in miracles, now?”

Chapter Text

Although the cleric had spoken only one nonpartisan sentence, the warrior already felt himself subsidiary, in a way. The imperative statement centered around the priest’s kindness only being bought with souls or miracles left the crestfallen feeling unhuman to have not been greeted with some friendly invitation like he was approached earlier, despite impolitely snapping at the man. Something in him pulled on his heartstrings to lower his face in disappointment from irritating Petrus earlier, but maybe Thorolund was too wealthy to care for apologies. Either way, he bit his cheek.

“Have you gone silent like the other knight? Must be…dreary, for you undead, standing still. If you’d act such a way, then I’d prefer-”

“I have business with you.”

Petrus pursed his lips nettled.

“I would prefer you asking first, instead of watching strangely next time. Remember, if you are hollow limping around that way, then my mercy won’t be so feasible. Now, which miracle do you want to be taught?”

The crestfallen shoved his glove into the pocket of his chainmail armor, met with empty eyes trailing his movements. He wasn’t sure if Petrus was irked, or if he was quite stern-looking naturally with his nose scrunched. It almost made him want to lift his own lip into a wily, clever sneer to rival who looked more offending. Either way, he happened to recall that he had not taken the coin at all from the knight, so the leather of his gloves clapped together, defeated in how awkward this came to be.

“The mute undead showed me that coin you gave them, and now I’ve been haunted by it. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

His soft, husked voice was met with a tilt of the head.

“Do you want another? My condolences, but the church is no charity, mind you.”

“I- I didn’t even ask for one! What…”

The crestfallen found himself poignant, digesting the reality that Petrus was truly some level of a merchant instead of an approachable gentleman for the talking. It was a hard idea to get peacefully behind, but it was certainly not untrue, and he had no one better to speak to.

“I’ll just get right to it, then,” he sighs, balancing his weight on a leg to loosen the tension.  “I can’t manage to unscramble my memories, but that undead showing me the coin sprung questions of my past in me that I cannot answer. I suppose you might’ve known better- but, I don’t expect much…”

The cleric idly bounced his spiked mace in thought. Time was going peevishly slow, to where the crestfallen found this interaction unbearable.

“Ask what you wish. If I cannot give an answer, then do not pester me for it.”

It exceeded the warrior’s expectations that he wasn’t eagerly thrown aside or scolded, letting his eyebrows raise faintly elated. His eyes were still a permanent, soggy sight, incapable of showing his reverence.

“D-don’t give me a coin, just show me one. You didn’t run out, did you?”

The priest’s eyes narrowing evidenced Petrus disliked the question, supported in a droned hum. It was then that he set the knight’s patterned shield aside the walls, and dug his fingers into the hem of his belt. Another coin came out, but this time coated in silver, and his thumb firmly secured on the face of the change before presenting it with distrust in his grip.

“You even think of matching that thief from the catacombs, and I’ll enact the wrath of the gods upon you,” was vilely spit.

“I’m not going to covet anything! Consider being a little less defensive, will you?”

“You laughed with him before I dealt with that gold knight; I suspected an alliance, reasonably. Now, look. I’ll only let you see it once.”

His thumb nicked upwards and it immersed the crestfallen warrior, time suddenly becoming much more valuable to his dour nature. A clear depiction of a knight facing to a side was sculpted from the metal. He couldn’t say it was nearly as impacting as the bronze, but before he could think deeper into his memories of being trained into a once determined warrior, the coin was fetched back harshly.

“Now ask.”

The crestfallen camouflaged his dire urge to gesture his hands up in displeasure from how little time he was allowed to consume its significance.

“Who even uses this form of currency, then? I know you must come from Thorolund, but I can barely recall…”

“Primarily the Baldur Kingdom. Long fallen now, yet once also a faction of the Way of White. Their gold coins have the profile of Allfather Lloyd sculpted carefully on their faces, and the bronze Mcloyf, who was the god of medicine and drinks- wine, such and such. This has their king, Rendahl on it.”

The crestfallen warrior felt an odd sting on the mention of that old, eroded city. He wished to say he didn’t care, but somehow he did, and dearly.

“How did it fall, once again?”

“Pilgrimage. I cannot explain further, that history is much too sacred for your ears.”

Whether or not Petrus was lying of its prestige he could never tell, but he knew he was groping for just any vague response to help him recall more.

The hollows tend to throw their swords at you with a slower pace. It gives you time to really focus. I wished we would practice at their speeds instead, since that’s all we would be slaying.

It was spoken sweet, and softly. A cooing belonging to a mother or a sister, or a valued company or friend much too far back for him to elaborate further. He could remember the phrases that people told him much more vividly than scenes: blares of fiery red or soaring blood or swinging steel. Perhaps it was because speaking to others happened so rare, compared to mindless war and discord occurring so often.

Try to live a little sometime, my friend. You’ll find it so, so enlightening.

He refused to trace those words back. With a newfound lead, he swallowed that memory.

“I might have been part of that pilgrimage. I was at war, I believe.”

“You certainly were not. If you were, I would know.”

“What- how? Were you part of it?”

Petrus chuckled. “I would know, because all the men are dead. It was suicide.”

His eyes didn’t darken out of sullen surprise, just out of the memory of hearing of it creeping back to his soul. The gasp that he let out in the asylum, when he had gotten word that the efforts to heal the world again were in vain, and his hand creeped to cover his mouth. In the present, his reaction would’ve probably been a kick and a sigh upon this news, as no efforts ever really worked .

“But what if I was somehow left behind?” his words groped for answers out of reach. “The name of the kingdom speaks to me, can’t you understand? Just answer me a little more on why they left for pilgrimage!”

Petrus’ hands swayed upwards, shrugging indecisively. “If you’re so bent on sticking with a city long deceased from its valor, I cannot judge you. Yet, could you not ask me about it? Aren’t there others about this shrine?”

“It’s only us two.”

The cleric’s mouth tightened, a breeze of wind accenting itself dramatically on the mention of the fact. Though, the crestfallen noticed that there was no glimmer of hope lost in his eye- in fact, there was no glimmer in those dark pupils at all. He was entirely unbiased, unlike the crestfallen, who found himself longing for friendship so dearly at the moment. Talking to Petrus would’ve been much more preferable when he wasn’t feeling so suddenly downcast from solidarity.

“Less people to disturb me, then.”

A thought suddenly questioned in his mind. Although he begged for his own history to be unveiled, what was with this cleric, so out of place? All he seemed to do was complain and stand himself, after all.

“Then why are you here? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I cannot tell you that, unfortunately. Could you maybe meander in your memories elsewhere?” his hand waved to a side, before fetching his shield from being dug into an exposed patch of dirt in the ground. It was briskly shaken to litter the specks of dust off its spiked bottom out into the overgrown, neatly laid stones.

The crestfallen was left to huff disappointed, wondering if maybe his memories could be divulged some other day, by some other person. Surely Baldur hadn’t slipped out of everyone’s minds, hadn’t it? While his steps retraced back from whence he originated, he gave one final glare over his shoulder.

Despite his edge, Petrus was entirely unattentive. Clearly in his own world, standing, unchanging.

Stupid cleric.

He returns. To feed his pessimism, nothing had changed, nothing arrived, yet an disconcerting sensation suggested elsewise. Without thinking much about it, he sat back where he usually nested, ready to let his cheeks be engulfed by the cusps of his palm for more long hours.

That was, until he heard the shuffling of metal footsteps.

Why is my life suddenly growing to be so much more…remarkable? Hectic?

The undead made themself clear once more, somehow having sleuthed under the crestfallen’s surveillance entirely. Though, the warrior had to admit, he was somewhat at fault for having talked to Petrus all this time and monitored nothing. His hand raised to stroke his shaved stubble before smirking at the knight, seeing them enter limping.

“Do you need help? The bonfire’s right over there-”

He gasped, eyes darting to observe gold claws just beside the knight’s neck. Not just any golden claws, but those belonging to a madly devoted knight that was once well taken care of. At least, the cleric promised such, dragging him away without another word. But now, as the undead’s boot displaced to let Lautrec lean over with his dotted, bloodied helmet, the jagged gold of his crown beseeched a negative reaction from the crestfallen.

“Don’t you- I know who you are! What- you’re supposed to be gone!”

A low growl of a sinister chortle radiated out of the brass chamber. His fingers gingerly played with the undead knight’s neck, leaning his armed chest over the poor fellow’s back.

“Can’t you set aside your stubbornness? I was promised a warm welcome here, and now I crave some peace in my old life.”

The crestfallen’s glare hadn’t a minute to spare of Lautrec, pissed, refusing to look at the “innocent” comradery trying to make itself transparent. Almost comically, the knight suddenly straightened their back, letting Lautrec tumble off with a nasty few coughs of distress echoing out the cocky bastard’s armor. There was some dried blood seeping out of the holes of the lower helmet. Part of the warrior’s curiosity was enticed by how Lautrec had ended up this way, disgusting and distraught, and another begged him to not mess with the golden brute again.

Lautrec made his way wobbling to the warrior, the creaks in his joints now much more intimidating. It was like being beseeched by a monster- a harrowing, wretched monster.

“Your giddy sun friend isn’t present for a reason. Now, dally here, and we’ll have no business. Understand?”

“Keep your hands off the poor woman, for the gods’ sakes!”

The knight's head perked up in confusion. Clearly they were uninformed of anything that occurred before their brisk arrival. Lautrec angrily twitched his head, before shaking his fist at the chainmail collar that surrounded the warrior’s neck.

“Last I remember, it was you who was madly sticking a blade through that woman’s cage. Trying to scare her off? Slit her neck?” It was so easy to imagine that Lautrec licked his dry lips like a snake’s forked tongue when he spat that out.

The warrior’s teeth gnashed to where he even felt a creak. The tense staring into six different holes that he tried to place eyes on was drilling a migraine into his head, and the odd staring of the mute knight made them both deeply uncomfortable.

“Just leave me alone. Your intolerableness is enough to slay the poor firekeeper.”

A harsh scoff dissipates out to the side, and Lautrec was abandoning the conversation before the undead could even reach to let him explain himself. They rear their helmet’s nose to stare down the sarcastically-charged warrior.

Somehow, this was the only time the crestfallen could see emotion in that dark, hollowed void of a person. Raw apprehension.

“You’re one sad knight for putting up with all this, you know?” The crestfallen’s head angled to a side, and was returned with a nod. “Not even one bell rang yet, and you’ve met that sorry excuse of an elusive assassin. You know, Firelink would look much better without that nuisance being only a sprint away from the girl below. I’m no expert, but…if you won’t intervene with whatever’s been stirring in the opulently-dressed man’s head…”

The undead precipitously raised their sword to the crestfallen’s nose, and he was quick to raise his hands in surrender. Though, to luck, the knight pulled out parchment from the satchel nested around their waist. Their sword lowered apologetically, before slamming the parchment to the wall next to the crestfallen to dig into it with an orange soapstone. Their change in tranquility was shocking. The residue of the crystal rubbed off words on the paper, yet the warrior was fairly certain that edging words directly into the Firelink walls would have sufficed just as efficiently. Maybe the knight cared for the preservation of the sanctuary.

They finished writing, and held up the script inches from his face. Their clad hands dug into the neatness of the yellow-edged note, crinkling its face.

I know you’ll kill her.

He found himself at first speechless, but then shaking his head dismissively.

“Is this because of that bastard saying I swung a blade into the cage? She was going to die if I didn’t! Had I not gone out of my way to ward her off, his shoddy sickles would’ve reached her first, and this bonfire wouldn’t even be lit anymore!”

The silence from the undead started to grow unnerving, taking down the letter from accusing the solemn man. It was still in their hands, and they couldn’t decide where to move next, even some sinister intention from them radiating from their frustration to execute both men who could pose harm to the keeper.

Which was strange, considering the crestfallen recalled the knight had never even visited the keeper themselves. Some distant empathy must kept them longing.

They finally follow Lautrec’s path, and a sullen grunt escapes the crestfallen. The undead even looked back for a moment to inspect if anything was wrong, and it only prompted him to ponder their naivety. Sure, there was no definite way to prove who was right who was wrong, only recounts of who did what without a solid vision, but their ability to have a good enough heart to want to talk to men instead of accepting their condition and simply killing those who imperiled a threat was much too meek for Lordran.

That hollow will get what’s coming to them.

Slurred bickering that the warrior couldn’t understand softly trilled his senses. He half-expected another race of blades to break out and rampage the liberation, already floating his hand back to stroke the hilt of his sword, just to know it was still there and not snatched off by some slick bandit. The giant crow wafted an upheaval of air past his body and wind fluttered the strands of his hair, before its form disappeared into blue skies. The sun nipped at its rear feathers like shears.

The undead finally made their way back up, holding the same paper but this time with a new jarringly bright message scrawled on its surface. It seemed to have grown routine to shove things in the crestfallen’s face, he thought, after he flinched at the distance the undead would limit between him and the text.

Fess up.

“What are you doing with your time, hm?” the crestfallen snapped at the message, knocking the knight upright attentively. “If you’re just going to flaunt accusations after accusations, you’ll get nowhere! Even I’m sick of your pretentiousness, and I’ve dealt with everyone before you!”

Somehow, their brittle claws on the parchment unclutched, as if his words had hit them harder than any mindless hollow could. Now the glove holds the paper gently, and the knight let their head tilt down, before an ample shrug came from their shoulders.

“Don’t act like that,” the crestfallen kept his stoicism. “If you’re going to pout about how you won’t believe either of our words, that pretentious cleric is over there for the listening. It’s common sense at this point; crying won’t do you any good.”

The knight perked their helm up with the idea. Surely Petrus would know better than either of the men spitting rumors on each other’s names. The crestfallen smirked, idyllically, his eyes creasing like a snake when he saw the undead trot off to ask Petrus of what occurred. From what he’d remembered, that cleric had hauled that sobbing, ropy fiend to his disciplined demise. But his fingers tapped his chin in wonder, questioning if his memory had failed him when recalling that Petrus would ensure Lautrec never returned to Firelink. Oh well, that was something to complain about later.

Yet once again, he was disturbed, met with Lautrec’s shadow looming insidious. Both of his sickles were in his hands, yet truth be told, the warrior did not feel nearly as threatened anymore. The fear which was subtly invoked before had lost its meaning, its cunning unpredictability.

“What did you tell that undead,” Lautrec gruffly murmured, letting his breathiness sharpen the tone. “You’re just as cocky and desperate as I am for that hapless maiden.”

“Oh, could you leave me alone ? What’s wrong with you anyway? I’m sure there’s plenty of firekeepers out for the killing that aren’t kindling a fire!”

Lautrec’s crown descended, darkening his visor. The crestfallen wasn’t sure if this was some subliminal message to stop speaking immediately, or if it was some attempt to rattle his nerves chilled. Maybe it was a reminiscence. Either intention was met with a huff and his rheumy gaze, too downtrodden and effortless for this.

“I heard you directed the knight to the cleric.”

“Yes, and I’m expecting that that priest beat some manners into you like your sorry mum never could. Can you go bother the undead?”

Some motion came out of that hushed shadow, and to the warrior’s demise, Lautrec seemed to have leered closer to the poor man’s neck with his rough, flaxen head. Twitching in his cheek to resist any heated puffs summarized his unease. He swore not to look, knowing broad daylight was no time to initiate assassinations out of bitter reluctance towards not acknowledging the bastard.

“ That cleric is nothing like you’d think. ”

With those sly words hissed, his nervously dull expression was somehow perturbed even more edged and fidgety, before taking the initiative and slamming his palm on Lautrec’s helm. He flung back the man from leering so closely, rubbing off his perspirated shoulder- a victim of Lautrec’s weighted breaths. The knight somehow sleazily stumbled in his push back, letting his arms sway to the force before baring his sickles out to the sides to rebalance. Although he didn’t act on it, he was clearly furious.

“Stop harassing me, will you? I already asked you to leave me be!” commanding jolts in his words echoed through the skies. The crow was coincidentally fetched back from afar, its wings vigorously flapping before claws scratched against the bricks of the Shrine and a stone loudly shattered at the floor behind Firelink. A soft caw came from its roost, settling back on the eggs.

Before Lautrec could speak, his voice caught in his throat upon seeing the timely re-emergence of the undead from the archway. He looked terribly aggressive in this stance, and the crestfallen could see how his weapons tried to hide themselves politely in some appreciative bow.

“Terribly hot evening, isn’t it?” Lautrec tried to quip, but a silent finger rose from the undead. It silenced both the men, and both attentions were focused on the stern double-tap on the parchment.

Although the undead could not speak, their convex helm looming ominously over the paper spoke the words invisibly.

Petrus told them who’s fussing to kill that poor firekeeper.

The loss of anticipation was evident in the warrior’s expression, while Lautrec still tried to develop some merciful hint in his submissive stance. His back arched, nodding ingenuously, as if he were a child and this heartless framing was going to ruin his innocence.

The paper flipped, and both suspects had a swing of emotions. The name glowed.

“ The chainmailed man. ”

B-but how? Petrus?

A vile cackle of the gold knight snarked from behind the crestfallen’s head, all his hairs raised while they approached closely. Lautrec even had to clutch at his knees, still giggling madly as the undead demanded some answer from the pale-stricken warrior.

“H-he’s lying! That blunt-”

“The cleric is not!” The meaner voice interrupted, before pointing a sickle lustrously at the warrior’s cheek. “Let me handle this madman for you, my friend. He’s absolutely shocking, innit?”

A relief pooled in his stomach when he saw the knight raise an armored finger to silence Lautrec, and their palm clasped the blade to gently bring it down, as if Lautrec were a doll. The wind tensed the scene, grass blades gently whispering among themselves.

Their soapstone dirtied their mittens once again, scratching a long sentence below the culprit’s title. They held it up to both the golden knight and his plaything, who had his hands raised in a timid beg.

I trust neither of you. Petrus will watch over you both, until I can settle this later.

It was now that the crestfallen was rather thankful for the merciful naivety of this undead. Lautrec tilted his head understandably, yet the warrior liked to imagine the man was fuming. As the knight ran away to bring the newly-appointed watchman, the crestfallen couldn’t help but already have a bitter stare at the professional priest, knowing now that Lautrec wasn’t necessarily bluffing about that Thorolund paladin’s legitimacy. The church had its influence, and it was being abused, as his mace rested in his palm to the knight’s contentment.

“I’d prefer if you both sit yourselves down and reconsider your choices. Thank you…what was it? Chosen, Undead?”

The knight gleefully nods, before waving goodbye to the absolute saint . The crestfallen bit his tongue back from hissing at Petrus like the dirty liar he was, until the undead disappeared from sight to return to their arduous journey. The crestfallen regretted telling them about that. Or teaching them how to parry. Or telling them to go off and speak to this man, who was now standing like some automaton of a sentry.

Even Lautrec collapsed down, knowing this would take a good sliver of time. Neither suspect wanted to speak, especially not around the noble face of Thorolund. The unfiltered, raw slick from the humidity felt evident as ever. To break the spite searing out of all three men, Petrus suddenly sighed, cocking his head to look at both of the convicts.

“I’ve got better to do than looking at you, but, if I left in silence, you would rip each other to shreds and the hollow might end me for it. Let us partake in a momentary understanding of things.”

The morning star retreated back to his side.

“I told falsehood, though such is no sin. You both, however, have lured me into this mess ever since I talked to that undead. Now, discuss how this all went. Before I take it in my weapon’s strength to let you be judged by the firmness of your skulls.”

Chapter Text

“You know well what happened.”

The phrase shot out of him without hesitation, and Lautrec made no objection.

“You could’ve solved this whole thing. You could’ve just told the truth, and had that golden fiend chased away from us. You dug yourself into this hole, and for why? Why, when you took it in your own hands to punish this foul criminal?”

Petrus’ eye twitched, and even Lautrec’s head leaned to ask the same inquiries without a sound. While the warrior’s tone was more punishing and riddled with spite towards Petrus’ framing, this was salvation to the other; surely there would be no mercy left in stock for Lautrec if Petrus hadn’t bluffed about who was scrambling for that maiden.

His rage was still unhinged, dementing his patience for an answer.

“Why won’t you answer anything? Why is it always when anyone talks to you, you keep any answers sheathed behind a curtain of your own boasting divinity, like you’re so much more important than the rest of us? You’re only human- gods, leave this place!”

“I cannot do that.”

The crestfallen’s regard abruptly spun to Lautrec, who couldn’t even muster a vile grudge unlike himself. It was like his poor, insane self was getting fed up over nothing, with his eyes piercing and maddened. His fingers curled into a crude fist, shaking, before his head finally fell into his hands. It was better to shroud himself away, in his own thoughts, than beat against walls that never felt like they could topple.

He could hear a gentle churn of metal joints move- Lautrec’s armor hadn’t been taken care of for a while, and it gave away his faint shifts. The warrior wished in this moment that both men would get in a fight to the death, so that he could stop feeling the weight of an unright accusation seeping down his shoulders like a bucket of blood running down through his chainmail.

“I’ve made up my mind,” Petrus’ voice broke the fathomless silence. The warrior immediately assumed Lautrec must’ve sliced his weapon through the air to make the cleric let both men out without consequence. Or, maybe just himself, knowing how the rogue really only looked after his own hide.

“But after I give you the answers to such questions, you both are to leave me be. Do not intercept my mission. Do not tell the Chosen Undead, as they call themself, anything. You only receive this knowledge so that I can explain myself entirely.”

The knot in his stressed mind loosened. He refused to look, letting his sharpened hearing tell him everything of what occurred, as if some inconvenience would saunter its ugly way into this heartless tryst if he even saw a blade of grass.

“I await here M’lady and her two young knights, and we guard as her defenses. We are all undead clerics, unfortunately touched by this wicked curse, and now we are sent on pilgrimage to kindle bonfires. With enough kindling, we will seek ascension, in which Thorolund will be granted magnificent power. We set off to the catacombs at my command.”

Hearing his purpose let his tenseness simmer down, now brave enough to bar his fingers apart and slide leather palms down his cheeks. It felt much more tolerable to look at both men now. Lautrec’s helmet seemed dark, still ominous, as if when Petrus took him for discipline he knew much, much more.

He’s not saying anything.

Petrus suddenly licked his lips, letting his palms artfully clasp together.

“I accused you illicitly. I will admit, I did not expect to see the Chosen Undead be so merciful, alas, kind spirits come in all disguises-”

“You wanted me killed,” the warrior intercepts. “Don’t deny it by being all privy.”

A weighing, hard reticence murdered any unbridling from the pressure once more. Lautrec, even when spared in the crestfallen’s eyes, himself was in a wordless concern. The cleric’s head lowered, pondering.

“If I had accused Sir Lautrec, we would all not see the light of day. The gold-plated man could go wild in carnage since he certainly evades the clutches of death by the ‘Chosen Undead’- not only that, but I have ties with him that he would expose to doom me, if not execute me firsthand after his rioting. But you, you were more expendable than he. Your anger would mean much less.”

The tips of his gloves dug into his bones, hurt beyond what words could describe. Being treated as more of a strategic commodity than human had him reduced to naught but a pawn, and no person could tolerate such a thing without feeling the belittling force of looming men. Lordran was never kind, but maybe the men who prowled around its parts were even worse behind their backs.

I would kill him if I could. I could kill anyone. One strike on my body, and it’s over; I’ll kill them all.

To support the intrusive thought, Lautrec rose, silently idled. His palm steadily lifted, and then he offered it to Petrus, like asking for a shake of the hand. Like the priest was some divine genius for throwing someone much weaker in his eyes to the wolves so petty secrets and covert wrongs could stay secluded. To dramatize it all, the afternoon sun was lowering its ball of light, almost like a halo around the cleric’s hair if the warrior squinted enough to not let its radiance scar his sight.

“I refuse.”

Lautrec’s hand retracted embarrassed. Nuanced grudges between the three of them tarred the serenity of the Shrine quicker than all of them could imagine. 

“So now, you can comprehend. None of this was meant in a heartlessly apathetic, ill fated clash of emotions, but merely a duty that I must complete. My safety. Honesty is a virtue, yet, what is good doing, if not only for the temporary happiness of men?-”

Petrus was suddenly interrupted as all three men felt a shock up their spine from a loud, rambunctious yet rhythmic toll from above. The crestfallen lifted his chin to distantly watch where the bell rang, seeing clouds sweep aside from their fluffed journey across blue-grayed skies, unveiling the architecture of the Undead Parish’s ornately constructed tower. The hypnotizing melody conducted a small, small smile out of the crestfallen’s lips, looking away to not let the two cold brutes notice.

Maybe they could be the Chosen Undead after all.

Lautrecs gauntlet shook at the corner of his eye, as if his palm coated in sweat nervously.

“Isn’t that a beauty,” the knight cooed, sarcastic in tone.

The rattling of the elevator from afar sounded again, an iota of time sparing the three of them to run. Petrus straightened up to keep an impression of authority, and Lautrec scampered off, his hairs probably bristling with eager anxiousness if Petrus were to suddenly change his mind. The Chosen Undead’s steps neared the situation once more, looking to both men who remained, before following Lautrec themselves but notably not talking to him. The telltale shriek of metal enveloping iron bars gave away that the woman was still there, and the undead was admiring cognizant liveliness in her soft breaths the warrior couldn’t hear. The warrior wasn’t sure if Lautrec had successfully hid from the knight, yet it didn’t seem to matter, them returning to plaster the note against the stone walls once more.

It was given to Petrus trustfully, who rustled it out before reading.

“After a thorough inspection, I joyously inform you no men had attempted to attack the girl. It was all a misunderstanding. I must return to my duty now; M’lady would be disappointed in my insubordination. Goodbye, for now, unless you’d like to learn more miracles.”

The paper was returned before his heaved steps would abandon the scene, and the Chosen Undead was left. The warrior could sympathize that they had probably felt heavily disappointed upon receiving this news, as if excited to execute one man or the other. To somehow entertain the dejected knight, the bell of awakening tolled once more, reminding them of their prominence. They started to pace towards the crestfallen warrior, but they wrote nothing, simply just watching.

“Chosen Undead, is it? A true title for someone who's brought even a sliver of hope to my heart. The first bell may be wrung, but unfortunately, the other is much, much more difficult to reach. Blighttown is no forgiving settlement, I tell you.”

They ominously lingered, before their arm directed a finger to point to a spot only shy of where the crestfallen sat.

“Have you decided to sit yourself down, then?”

A brisk shake from the nose of their helm intervents, before tracing out a circular shape. The crestfallen had to look for himself, before seeing that golden medallion gleam out from his armor’s pocket.

Oh.

He fetched it, seeing a small scratch across its front scarring the sun. Fingertips raised its face to the other knight.

“Do you…recognize this?”

The knight happily nodded, before digging in their own crevices of armor. They suddenly took out a light heap of the medals- perhaps around four or five in hand. A warm feeling shrouded their fondness.

“Have you met the knight who gives them out? Solaire, was it?”

They nod, sheathing the sum of metals back into them. Could it be somehow comprehendible to say, that the crestfallen knew at this moment what a smile looked like behind a helmet? It was obvious that Solaire’s mood was contagious- an inspiration to all undead.

“Now, I may be asking much, but if you could, could you inform him I wonder how he’s faring? He’s simply an old friend.”

Another nod, before their helm looked off to the side. Poignantly.

It was almost like a moment of reflection for the thoughts that rushed through either of their heads- a replay of all that’s happened. The crestfallen knew that the sun-bathed name had his eyes creased in both catharsis and a longing, but to acknowledge his depression of it would be fatal to his composure. Maybe the undead felt similarly.

At least I know one man can believe in me when the rest of them won’t.

“Chosen Undead,” breaks the pregnant quiet. “If the cleric told you that you had to kill me, for whatever reason that blasted church could give, would you do it? Would you even kill anyone, for that matter, who still has their wits about them?”

No response. Only a voided deadpan.

“Fair, I assume. Just…at least keep my request in your mind, will you? Solaire’s…a good man.”

They nodded, standing still for a moment longer, before finally retreating to the bonfire that witnessed it all. Their hand somberly waves over its flames, the lights tenderly holding a dirtied palm before slithering up the rotted, dried blood like veins. As the fire crept up their jaded, ragged scarf, they sat down for a while, letting the heat caress their body like wax from a candle.

The warrior would be lying if he said he didn’t feel something compelling at this moment. For once in his life, someone did sit with him, and it wasn’t the crow that squawked away the morning hours with no words to speak. When men failed him, there was a beauty in things that couldn’t communicate, knowing they couldn’t voice any criticisms or praise. Perfect, null peace, and adorned by that peculiar undead now. Chosen , undead.

A sharp breath left him when he swallowed down the losses he had taken from the two, before suddenly stepping up from where he sat, a flurry of a stretch emphasizing how long his thighs hadn’t known movement. The undead’s head spun to realize that the warrior had done such a thing, surprised with the advance in momentum. His eyes creased in a friendly affirmation before heading to the tree that was just by the stairs leading to the firekeeper’s prison. Even through gloved hands he could feel its stinging bark, yet he settled down at the hump of its trunk now, before letting his head lean back like stargazing. The crow was the stars to him in this moment, and the undead his friend.

His head crooned to a side to see that the knight was staring uncertainly, trying to inspect if maybe they had done wrong and prompted the warrior to move from where he once slaved away hours. Either way, they didn’t seem to mind checking if so, letting the flames roost their body from the pilgrimage they dedicated to. A loud pop from the flame sounded, before he lost his head in the clouds, watching the bird do what it had always done, time and time again.

I wonder if that bird is smarter than I. If I was a crow, I wouldn’t have been throwing men here and back at that asylum. I had never heard it speak, but if it could understand the words among humans, then does it know the tale? The tale of the Chosen Undead?

Almost coincidentally with his thinking, another crow fluttered down from the skies. He couldn’t trace it back where it came from, but he noticed it gleefully eyeing the knight’s body, its beady eyes twitching its head to get a close look.

Maybe crows are fascinated with men. Watching men, judging men, whatever those pesky birds caw about. Maybe they are gullible to prophecies. If only I could be a raven, and escape from this place populated by miscreants plentiful.

He turned his head back to realize that the hollow now fled off, not even bothering to speak with the golden knight. Not that he was complaining, just observing they really hadn’t learned much in their life to keep that murderer idle. Almost as if they were born yesterday.

His eyelids drooped to try and quell his fascinations into a dream, but he kept himself awake, knowing that if he fell asleep he could easily fall prey to any of Lautrec’s sudden antics while he was fenceless. Maybe even the priest had something vile to execute up his sleeve. The raven afar was now watching him, clicking its beak in a tasteful manner.

A terrible idea worth trying. Birds can’t talk. Most of them.

“Hey, you. Could you understand me?”

The bird suddenly stilled, its head looking only a little past the crestfallen’s umbered hair. When he watched behind, he could only see the vast valley that stretched beyond his vision’s end. He returns to the crow, sighing miserably.

I don’t want to give up yet.

He suddenly lifted his arm, a vague recollection of a falconer's tactics raising in his mind. A decisive stare was made by the crow, before its wings fluttered to take to the air, and it hovered to watch for a reaction. Its claws spread horrifically like the giant crow once did at the asylum, and then pulled at the crestfallen’s arm after landing. The short, trimmed talons forbade it from snipping at the flesh of the warrior’s arm, clutched on the chainmail. He was shocked, but lightly, like his pessimism was minimally pleased.

It was then that he warily lifted a crooked finger to the crow’s beak, watching for its hesitation or fear. It seemed to brave it. He began to lightly stroke the feathers of its gullet, appreciating the way its eyelids thinned with delight. It was like the purr of a cat, yet cats were more of a thing from elaborate jungly gardens, not suited for sanctuaries in Lordran.

“Do you understand me?” he whispered again, but even then he had no response. There was no helpful nick of the skull upwards to signal that the raven even heard anything- it could’ve been deaf. Either way, he was thankful for the small gesture of kindness that was sitting on his arm as his hand slowly lowered to rest on his outstretched leg. His eyes weighed on the sight of his sword and shield lounging on the stones.

“I need you to watch for men,” the warrior murmurs absent-mindedly. At this point, he found himself careless of whether or not the bird would comply- he was sick with the need for a rest from the frantic activity. Just before he let his eyes close, the raven finally turned its head to watch him sleep, and the soft balance of its feet never left his arm until he couldn’t feel his body anymore.

*

Although he should have been granted a generous moment of rest, ear-splitting caws scarred his moment of peace, and false cold sweat illusioned his senses into a nauseous arousal when he felt the jet black wings pattering against his arm. At first he could barely understand what went through the mind of the squawking animal, thinking it must’ve dodged away from him from some lapse in memory (for he had never taken ravens as smart animals) or a rabid stroke of adrenaline, until he felt in front of him messily to try and coax the thing away and sensed his hand land on a firm, sharp piece of metal. His eyes shot open in an instant, fingers immediately darting to place on the underside of the curved blade, as if reimagining the strong crisis that same weapon had caused him a small sum of days before.

The incessant bastard!

The force in his hand raising threw the knight’s weapon hovering so morbidly over him, hearing the tumbling clanks of metal feet stammer. Blood was drawn from the risky placement. He quickly shuffled off of the lounging tree that made his sleeping place, observing how the purple-ish shade of his chainmail gave away that it must’ve been late at night. Even the stars would blurrily peek through the cotton smears of clouds, just as distracting as when he heard the deep voice of Lautrec call for the crestfallen warrior to halt for a moment. He ran for his own sword and swiftly pointed it at the dimly lit gold knight, unwilling to listen for any pleas to calm.

“Get back! Back, I say, you wretched scum of a man!” he shouted louder than the other yelled, not caring if he would awake anyone else. “I’m sick of you! I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick! ”

For once, the golden knight had not bared his sickles like fangs from a bloodhound, and instead cowered himself, moonlight kissing his crown while it trickled down the holes of his helm receding.

“Did you not hear me?!” The warrior hissed. “Go back to the hell that you came from! I want nothing to do with you- nothing at all! Not anymore!”

His voice cracked, the pressure of getting no peace in life blanketing over his reason when seeing that gilded hand point abaft his position. Dodging back, he tried to trace the motion, seeing the crow that was once resting on his arm bristled and watching at the accusation.

“Oh- what’s wrong with the bloody bird! Just get out! You tried to kill me, you bastard!”

His temper finally exploded; perhaps the night’s somber mildew growing on his nerves is what finally spiked his calves to pounce forward and nearly drive his blade unshielded into the nuisance’s neck, if not for the assassin’s skills to counter it with a catch in the hearts of his steel scythes and fling the warrior back saving him. Red sparks flew wildly, dancing with the dusk’s gloom before Lautrec suddenly threw his weapon back and grasped the warrior’s right wrist, leaving him stranded with his brand while he grimly stepped to pin the man against the Firelink wall in a crude manner.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re going to listen to me good, boy-” Lautrec tried to command, before the warrior’s iron fist punched the knight’s arm. Hard .

It was perhaps the most raw energy he’d ever exuberated, a conniving, dire satisfaction stemming from Lautrec’s weak yelp from the impact. He immediately dashed back, his blood riled up in his veins, burning his muscles- unadulterated rage was channeled through his body.

“I’m no fucking boy to you, Lautrec! I’m just as much of a man as everyone else! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!”

Lautrec still hadn’t taken a leap forward like the snaking, wily opponent he was with scissoring blades. It made the crestfallen feel even less valued in the moment- like he was nothing for being taken seriously, except for the message Lautrec was trying to send while pointing to the bird.

“I’ll cut your head off faster than you’ll listen to me- I just have no use for a sorry corpse like yours,” the knight purred, before starting to pace towards the warrior and shove the free hand in his pocket to fetch a dagger- it was sharp and thin, built for deflecting incoming slashes, and he positioned it softly on the lip of his helm’s mask.

I don’t care.

The crestfallen’s movements were brisk, unrelenting, when he sprinted to a side and fetched his shield to brace towards Lautrec. The golden knight’s efforts to parry his longsword were in vain; the tiny dagger could offer no salvation by the sudden bash of the strong, old guard against his body. The first time he felt the impact he heaved an exhale, and the second time the crestfallen tried to do the dirty trick he managed to drop his other sickle and pressed against the shield with his hands.

I can’t even see him anymore.

The crestfallen could practically hear the way Lautrec’s knees buckled and he fell downwards, spiked feet only narrowly missing a clever stab at the other’s shins. They were laying down now, and to his pleasure, there was pure terror behind the foe’s mask. A vivid flash to when Lautrec toyed with his neck pounded a searing pain into his head, revenge murdering his sense of reason when the healed wounds on his body reminded him of that night.

I’ll just fucking kill him.

He let his shoes shred the grass, moving himself to where he was practically straddling the other knight, but his entire body’s energy was pressed into making sure that Lautrec wouldn’t suddenly throw off the shield during this execution. The cold midnight sweat was now rewritten in his mind into boiling disgust, and imagining the catharsis after he would jam his sword right into the man’s unsightly face. Lautrec was still resisting, his legs flailing behind, clearly shouting curses and threats back to back, but to the warrior this was only a maniacal dog crying for its freedom.

Like some machine crafted for death, he felt his right arm raise while his eyes stared directly into the spotted gold, savoring every moment that he could get without a smile. Just before he could deliver that final stab, someone grabbed at his arm, before another grip at his waist tried to pry his angered self off.

What! Why me, why me! What’s wrong now?!

The sword was quickly uprooted by its hilt from his right hand before he felt himself being tossed over, Lautrec’s scrambling for liberation loud and mocking. Two leather-clad knights were pressuring his joints, empty reactions in their faces in how red the crestfallen’s face was in frenzied fury.

“Let me go! Who are you?! Stop, stop this madness!” the crestfallen shouted, his chest heavily lifting and exhaling with fervor. Soon he couldn’t even feel his muscles move from the weight of the two clerics- he could decipher them now, as the adrenaline was leaving his head. They were like a battle-bonded pair, restraining him in all the correct places while muttering complaints or instructions over his head- he couldn’t know at all. All he knew was one of them had dirty blondish hair and didn’t seem to bother for a helmet, while the other wore one, and could only murmur or sigh in response to the blonde’s comments.

“Let me free! I’m no criminal, he is!” he snapped, acknowledging the way his jaw felt exhausted at this burst of energy from awakening disturbing the peace. The night was fuzzed and hypnotizing him, as his breaths started to fade from their restlessness, and he could see the looming figure of another person. But this time, he knew the last man, as his obnoxiously pompous hairstyle signified his prominence over the other two clerics, with stubbed golden squares on his shoulderplates titling an elite.

What is this? I must get up, I must!

“Damnatio ad bestias, men” Petrus’ monotone voice said, before himself leaning forward to beseech the crestfallen’s position. He was restrained from attacking, and mentally demeaned, to where he knew not to shout something blasphemous towards the church’s knights before he’d meet a gruesome end. He was panting, restlessly, and begged for his life without words.

“What is this? What is wrong ,” the judging voice grasped his heart cruelly. “Do you and Sir Lautrec regularly get into these bloodthirsty fights? This is no proper manner to treat a truce between men.”

“Th-There was no truce! He was going to attack me first, I swear!” he felt like his throat could explode any moment, a misty feeling pooling up in his eyes that he tried to swallow down. His sinews were exposed from stress, veins peering from the skin.

 The priest gives a final stare, before suddenly lifting his hands in good honor.

“Vince, Nico, unhand him.”

The two knights stood off of the warrior, who could still feel the crushing sensation of his arms and legs being pinned. He tried to stand, wincing with the exhaustion of his muscles, letting his leg shakily surrender close to his stomach.

The three clerics clearly spurned him, and he tried to ward off the disappointment by brushing away a few stray hints of grass from the back of his head. What felt like hours passed, and Petrus waved his hand, beckoning the knights to go back to where he stood.

“Splendid. M’lady would surely be pleased.”

That’s what he heard directed at the commander’s party, and before he succumbed to loneliness once more, he swore he saw a little smirk on the blonde’s face from the praise. His neutral, outraged look stared at one of the stones before him which was tainted with an old splatter of someone’s blood.

…I could have killed that man. I could have proved myself.

A strong dismay toyed with his eyes now, feeling himself squint while the tears clouded his sight. He was too easy to cry, sniffing the sadness off, trying to remain stoic as he looked around at midnight to see that the raven still hadn’t left. Its head was cocking this way and that, monitoring everyone, before its left eye faced him directly.

“...Don’t look at me like that,” he whimpered, and the bird immediately took its harrowing pupils elsewhere. Now it could understand. Letting his arms cross over his knees, he shoved his face into the dark nook he made for himself, and the bonfire kindly illuminated some strands of chains in his misery.

Solaire would felicitate this attempt.

His hand shoved into his pocket once again to fetch the medal, seeing the sun’s face. Merely witnessing it was heavenly- a symbol of the only man who saw potential in him.

Is it for your dignity, or your solace? I’ll never tell.

The symbol spoke to him without moving its mouth.

Try to live a little sometime, my friend. You’ll find it so, so enlightening.

With no motivation to hide his thoughts, he wallowed in the happier times, fidgeting with the coin while letting his eyes subtly close. He was engrossed in the kindness. It was still night, and if he tried, maybe he could fall asleep without having to let salt run down his cheeks.

“Hello?”

This voice was forbearing. It had a small, kind demeanor to it, and the warrior mustered just enough interest to lift his head up. He let the nighttime shadow hide away the pain in his expression.

“I know this may not be the right time, but…” the voice said, some facial features artistically drawn by the bonfire’s luminance. “I just thought you might’ve needed a little something to get going after that whole encounter. Please, take this.”

A darkly gloved hand with a yellow collar around its wrist descended, holding a fissure of dark in its palm. The warrior shakily let his palm cradle the black vessel, before the white outline melted into his grasp, and a fickle fade of particles lept off of the other man’s fingers. He took a long moment to watch it dance, its unusual fizzy feeling tingling his nerves.

Humanity.

He lifted his head up further, seeing the face of the other much more clearly now. He had kind, brown eyes, and a dark academic outfit belonging to a mage. A small hat rested professionally atop his brown locks, and he had a distant smile- if the warrior squinted enough, he could see rosy cheeks. The lovely gaze made the warrior brave enough to collapse his apprehensive stance,  crushing the gifted humanity into trailing down his being.

“Who are you?” The warrior couldn’t mock the sorcerer, too tired to make some witty comeback about the other’s willingness to be so generous to strangers.

“I’m Griggs, Griggs of Vinheim. I’m here to await Master Logan- the legend himself, lost in Lordran.”

He bit his cheek back, resisting the urge to mention that it might’ve been lost to time, but he swore he had met the mage before. Passing through Firelink Shrine.

“I do remember you, by the way. You’ve never been the kindest, but after that…well, forgive me, but I felt terrible. I had to at least assist you from drowsing out in the open.”

The crestfallen noticed that during Griggs’ approach, he had made no sound, somehow more catlike than the thief who had escaped his hellhole days ago. His head suddenly tilted to a side, letting his arms now rest in the grass.

“Do you have a moment?” The question was depressingly spoken.

“Well, since Master Logan or that Chosen Undead who rescued me from the bandits aren’t here, I suppose I do. Why?” He fondly replied.

“Could we…talk, together for a bit? Outside of here?”

This was shocking even to himself, seeing the way Griggs’ smile changed to a gasp. He could feel the way his eyelids were starting to droop evidently, and the sorcerer soon nodded his head.

“Now?” The warrior added.

“I’d be glad to,” Griggs’ eyes crinkled with appreciation. The warrior felt guilty for his harsh treatment of passers by, but at least there was forgiveness in the gentle mage’s soul.

“Could we go to New Londo, then?”

Despite his recommendation of such a desolate location, he could still see the other’s smile brighten, raising his hand to his nape to excuse any unwillingness. He had such a friendly demeanor for someone who likely had other conceits to solve before prioritizing the mental well-being of the crestfallen.

“I would have to fetch my catalyst, but sure, we can walk along the cliff of it. Just not too far- I don’t really enjoy ghosts.”

A bittersweet smile crossed his face, watching as the sorcerer’s robes fluttered with the moonlight when he left. Although his legs heavily ached, he didn’t mind in the slightest straining them to get up, made soft-hearted and uplifted by Griggs' consent. Without waiting, he set off down the spiraling stairs, and he vividly recalled the way Lautrec’s head followed him as if he were going to ask something, but he didn’t grab the warrior’s attention at all.

Like I’d matured past that petty man’s greed.

Chapter Text

Nightmarish clicks and whirrs characterized the vast, empty feeling of the lift at the base of Firelink, heavily rusted and frequently stressed out of its chains with eons of escorting hollows, men, and gods alike through its descent. The size of the platform was plenty apt for guiding only one man, but it was depressing to witness, as if its value that it once squired eroded with time- and the city itself, flooded out of its misery. It even took a considerable effort to jam the heel of his slack boot into the pressure plate to move, enough to have made him rub his stomach under flaccid chainmail in consideration of the weight he might’ve lost with time. It was a miracle that the rattling of the elevator worked at all, albeit worrisome, its long-time use probably prone to suddenly getting a link caught on a misplaced blade and leaving him stranded in the abyssal chasm of the way downwards. Luckily, such expectations did not occur, yet he’d now nested a primal fear of getting stranded on the journey back.

A rotted doorway that looked like it had been shattered by some large mallet instead of constructed for satiating august times passed over his head, and one of his feet pointed out to a side before locking eyes with the infinite dark ahead. It was dim enough to where the nauseating blurs of spectral colors made him faint trying to focus his eyes on them, so instead he faced the torches, embers that once burnt a proud orange now coated by the blue influence of phantoms. Every inch of the place decayed before him, but he was delighted nonetheless, as if this were a home to his expired soul. The platform was fetched back up behind him, signaling that Griggs didn’t abandon him- handsomely so - and he disappeared down copious sets of winding stairs before the sorcerer could catch him detached in the dusk beauty of crumbling grounds.

Their sharp mouths gutted words and yells with dead groans. If they didn’t, then they only drooled or shook their heads, forlorn, silently wailing for anyone to hear them while they were burned by empiric spurning; they were ripening into fine, heartless monsters. Hollows, skin-tight and red with their veins lacing their flesh, littered this place like a Firelink Shrine of their own. Although he should’ve been terrified, doomed, or skittering out the way he came in the idea of how these men could react to him approaching, he instead found comfort in all the crying. It proved him right, when the undead covet to prove him wrong by ringing bells.

A generous ledge stuck out, with a hollow looking into the water absently. When mute cacophonies scarred the ears of all others, this one sat alone, distant from all the other undead. The warrior felt a strange drawing to all things glum and melancholy, and this specific, outcast zombie was enough to get him to sit by its side, letting his feet dangle over the cliff. He had never feared heights, and this hollow did not either, it seems. Its gangly, twiggish fingers bared untame nails, and it watched at the waters with its mouth gaping, fascinated by the way it churned.

“Have you still your wits?” the crestfallen attempted to ask, met by the slow turn of its scoured but dry face. It was steady, shaking, but it still locked eyes with him, the red pupils only developing compared to that hollow he used for demonstration beforehand. Its tongue tensed, emphasizing the emptiness of its rancid mouth, before it turned back down, still pondering.

Arrogant man. I like him.

Before he could admire any longer, the hollow was suddenly shoved off, and its flailing body was met with the waters swallowing him whole. The warrior’s head darted behind hurriedly to try save himself before a foot would kick him too, but instead he saw Griggs, who had eyebrows raised in concern.

“You aren’t getting yourself in trouble, are you?”

The smooth voice tormented me .

“Oh, no, I was just…pondering, I guess. He didn’t mean no good. It was time for him anyway.”

It was impossible to catch from the sorcerer’s angle, yet the warrior’s eyes bore into the waters that had now stilled from lapping against the beachside. He temporarily clung to the reality that the hollow hadn’t drowned, but it surely did, now only food for whatever lurked in the murky depths.

Startling him, Griggs replaced the spot of the hollow, replacing the scarlet fingers with a sturdy glove. Shifting himself into place, he smiles, politely initiating a conversation.

“You wanted to talk?”

“...That would be correct. I do.”

“Take your time then. I’m sure Master Logan won’t be too concerned about returning to Firelink soon.”

There was a mental balance established in his mind: one side weighed what he could tell, and the other a box full of forbidden secrets he’d dare never say to anyone but himself. A convoluted middle was the latter but vaguely mixed with euphemisms and anecdotes,  so the bearing of it all wouldn’t expose him for some rugged thief or some misunderstanding along that line.

A voice can get you so far, can’t it, in this world so bent on first impressions?

“Do you know of Baldur? Like the kingdom?” he asked, prioritizing his desire for purpose.

“Oh, indubitably. Learned plenty about it in the Dragon School. Does it interest you?”

“Do you know why they all rushed to pilgrimage? Or is Thorolund not the only city so centered on barring history?”

The insult was clearly meant for the priest, but Griggs looked taken aback hearing it. It was indefinite to conclude whether this was out of offense for such an assumption being plainly made, or misinterpreted to paint the warrior as a man unacquainted with privacies of other establishments. Either way, it wasn’t enough to make the mage roam away, or maybe use the bloody boot to drown me next.

“It was in efforts of rekindling,” Griggs finally said. “The Way of the White believe that with another martyr to fuel the First Flame- and many bonfires with it, it would revitalize the health of this accursed land. They had failed the journey to ring both of the bells, and here they are now, wandering amidst churches and burgs. Sad, isn’t it?”

So that’s why I’m here. That’s why we would only be fighting hollows. Why was I left behind in the Asylum? Is it because I was undead?

He grimly noted in his mind that the feminine voice which lamented in his memories about fighting must’ve been his mother. He didn’t want to believe he was absent of both parents in reminiscence.

“It’s…tragic, but, what if they had done the journey regardless of guarantee of the world’s rebirth?” When he spoke of the macabre event, he notably wasn’t so solemn about it.

“That’s a question I get troubled with often. I’ve found it therapeutic for the mind to simply stray from thinking about the promise of doom or revival, and instead focus on my works. It’ll make Logan proud, after all.”

He empathetically loosened his hard expression upon hearing it, recognizing he wasn’t the only one carrying on in hopes of appeasing another. 

“So, why do you want to see him so awfully? Will it bring you sweet gratification?” The crestfallen asked gingerly.

“Oh, well, I don’t mind seeing him himself. His teachings are what I’m after. What I’ll do when I meet him…well, that’s of my own conceit, isn’t it?”

The coy sentence was interpreted as some furtive friendship- maybe closer, between the two, and it made the crestfallen grin immaturely. Though when Griggs saw the sly smirk, he didn’t blush or giggle; he grew nervous upon seeing his gaze. The crestfallen quickly assumed it wasn’t his matter to be concerned of.

“So was that all?” Griggs hoped.

“No, no, I got off track. I’m…sorry…” the growl in having to return to the issue lingered.

“Nothing to apologize for. Go on, try again,” a fetching tone made itself prominent, with the sorcerer shifting in his seat. The warrior started to wonder whether his own demeanor was a little too cruel for strollers in Lordran, when men like these came around.

“Life in Firelink Shrine’s been unbearable,” he grieved. “It was once somewhere where I really did enjoy sitting away for days, but, a few unwelcome neighbors soured it dry of the peace I yearned for. The undead has done me little harm, but, Lautrec only a floor below has tried to kill me not once, but twice, and Petrus has used me for some scheme I cannot possibly understand because it's so ‘confidential’, almost having me killed for the livid priest’s benefit. It’s just grown terrible and the hours draw on too lengthy now; I feel like I’m already hollowed every minute I spend inside it.”

It was quite satisfying to have someone listen, he realized, observing his sapphire reflection below with aged eyebags. If Lordran was not attempting to devour itself whole in an eternal round of a war-circled ouroboros, then maybe he’d come to this moral earlier.

“Maybe you don’t have to spend your time there. You could move away from there for a good while, couldn’t you?”

A long frown came on his face at the well-meant advice.

“But I’ve got really nothing to do outside the place. That new undead’s been sapping away at the job I was supposed to get done, and I feel jaded even sitting here . It’s just a little colder than what I like…”

“Don’t you have something that’s keeping you going?” Griggs wits, unintentionally harsh to the warrior. “Maybe all those stresses in your life are keeping you running about, in Firelink. It’s better than going hollow, is it?”

The crestfallen heavily sighed. “Well, if you really insist…I’ve been hoping for someone to come back soon.”

A soft smile lifted the angel’s bow of the sorcerer’s lips. “And who?”

It was then that his hand came back to procure the medallion again. He noticed that its golden, orange color was shaded a bioluminescent green in New Londo.

“Do you know the man who has this symbol painted on his chest?”

Griggs briskly shook his head otherwise. “I tend to know people better by name, not clothing.”

“Ah, well…” his sentence was cut off, deciding to let the cold breeze of the beachside simmer over the bridge of his nose. “He’s pleasant. Jovially pleasant. Solaire of Astora, does it ring a bell?”

“Oh!” Griggs suddenly said. “Yes, yes it does! The undead told me about him earlier, asking if I’d seen him around anywhere. I haven’t, but should I tell them to tell Solaire to greet you if they stop by?”

“No, no, no. Let them keep searching,” he sighed, looking afar. “I’ve answered what you’ve asked, though. It’s mundane, and I cannot predict when the knight will come back, but when he does…”

Griggs tilted his head inquisitively aside, somehow both restricting and cheering what he’ll say.

“I guess I’ll ask him if he can stay a little longer.”

Saccharine quietude followed his vague confession.

“That’s nice to hear,” Griggs commented, before looking towards the voided distance along with the crestfallen. “I hope he comes back, then, if Master Logan won’t sooner. I’ve only heard good things about this Solaire.”

Although he didn’t make a movement or sound, the crestfallen’s affirmation was discreetly present.

“I think I’d rather wait down here for him, as long as you’re here to keep me sane. It’s a bit cold, but not enough to scare me back to the Shrine.”

Griggs turned his head aside, trying to keep a polite gist to his minimal gestures. “I can’t stay, my friend.”

“But why? Do the hollows curdle your blood?”

“Oh, it’s…” Griggs’ speaking lowered to a susurration. 

“ There’s someone here beside us. Don’t look, don’t be alarmed, it's no business with anyone but myself. ”

Though the crestfallen was no victim to curiosity, the muttering had his back pricked with unease. Spiked enough to witness Griggs rising from the corner of his eye, still fondly admiring the dead architecture of the ghost town.

“Let’s head back. Unless there’s something more you’d like to discuss?”

“Oh, I think I’ll stay back a little longer,” the warrior urged, before his head turned to look into Griggs’ eyes once more. “Do you prefer payment for this? I haven’t a lot, but-”

“Oh not at all, thank you!” Griggs quickly said. He was growing nervous, the crestfallen noticed, but didn’t want to tense his worrisome mood further by acknowledging it. “I’ll see you back at the Shrine if you decide to return. Do be safe for me, and don’t hollow, will you?”

The crestfallen nods steadily, seeing the sorcerer make his hurried jog back to the lift. Once he was truly stranded, he waited a moment longer to no longer hear the distant machinery of the chains rattling, and began investigating.

I won’t tell him for now.

He made no efforts to sneak around the place, knowing that no undead specifically here had given way to violent insanity and was prepared to pounce on him. If they had, then the water would have probably drowned them first, judging by the interest of the man kicked off the cliff. Thoroughly inspecting each ragged hollow to see if they had any signs of speaking about them, they either hissed, or were too absorbed in their own pondering to care.

He then found the stairs by the coastside, protruding from the isle oddly. Though such placement of the stairway was terrifying, with no handrail to save someone from tipping in the wrong direction, he was still enticed enough to at least stick to holding the jagged, miniature caves in the wall. His feet were nearing the mouth of a cell burrowed out, like the firekeeper’s, and one of his hands fastened to the bar before looking inwards.

A new mage’s head lifted slightly, before meeting eyes with the crestfallen, his eyes impatiently darting about the man’s face. There were numerous scratches against the cell wall of no particular origin the warrior could place, and the darkness coated everything behind the new sorcerer.

“Are you hollowing, or do you just like staring?”

A comical frown crossed the crestfallen’s face.

“Do I look hollow to you yet?” was snapped back. The sage gasped, a twinkle coming to his pupils.

“Oh, you’re sane. That’s a damn pleasure, all the other prisoners just like to gaze at me until they get their hearts fill and leave,” his hand raised to suddenly play with a tiny whetting knife, imbued with sorceries’ sparks along it. “How did you get out and not turn hollow?”

The crestfallen’s head tilted aside confused. “What does that mean?”

“The Undead Asylum. Last I’ve heard, they only have blasphemers and undead in that place.”

The warrior tried to respond, but knew that he was empty of answers, as to why he hadn’t already gone insane. There was Solaire, he discussed earlier, but that definitely wasn’t strong enough, especially not when he’d felt meaningless for months past never even having met the sun knight.

“Eh, better not for me to pry,” the sorcerer diverted the hush. “I’m Rickert of Vinheim, a once great blacksmith who lives out his last days here. You?”

The warrior refused to answer, skipping the question wordlessly.

“Do you need assistance escaping? I could try and saw the bars open-”

“Oh! No, no, don’t do it!” Rickert panics, jolting his hands to phantom his refusal. “I won’t last out there; too many awful hollows now!”

The crestfallen felt impolitely shushed, as he was about to groan about how devastating it was outside, and the sorcerer instead answered eagerly with the knowledge in mind. It was his role to complain enough about the events of Lordran and make people hide away in cells or ponder the hours alone.

“I wasn’t going to,” bitterly hissed the warrior, yet instead of an insult darted back, Rickert calmed with an exhale and excused his outburst with a wave of the hand.

“How did you come in here anyhow?” he asked, observing the iron welded skillfully. It was a tender, darkish blue at the roots, as if secured by magic. “Did you imprison yourself?”

“Strictly. I don’t need to come out there. Many reasons, as you know, undead and ashes floating in the air, a tendency to banish blacksmiths away- too much.”

“I haven’t heard of the last one,” the crestfallen peered askance.

“Oh it's true. There once was an occult artisan in Lordran I heard- got thrown off, imprisoned in a gaol and erased from our history. I’m certain the god-killing enchantment was stowed away for good reason, but the more I wonder about it, if the world starts branching into a dislike for sorcery-imbued armaments too then I’ll be done for.”

The crestfallen remembered nothing of such a tale, yet logically, the gods would likely not support divine-slaughtering means, even alone let anyone know that smithery existed.

“You haven’t told me your name?” Rickert once again asked.

He frowned, waving his hand absent-mindedly as an excuse.

“I’ve forgotten mine,” he finally groans.

“Well, wouldn’t it be necessary to give yourself a name? People tend to go hollow without identity.”

His foot kicked a rock off of the edge of the stairs, watching how the water would swallow it whole. Although the question would’ve been much more meddlesome if it were asked on the surface, he instead found that his reaction was much more laxed, and his heart less encumbered by it.

“I just never thought of a name that seemed fit. Is it really so horrible? We’ll all hollow out someday- what’s the point of getting attached? Elation is met with heartbreak much too often here for me to want to call out a undead’s name as they stoop mad.”

Even though it was blatantly repetitive every human he’d talk to with such a nihilistic opinion would disagree, the mage only traced his whetting knife against the ground, as if wise enough to both agree and reject in silence.

“I took you for a Benjamin. You know- if you’re ever out of ideas.”

The warrior’s mouth flattened. He wasn’t looking for suggestions.

“This conversation entertains me enough, but I am a smith- I prefer to busy myself to the hammering rhythm. Is your sword looking shabby yet?”

“No- no it doesn’t,” his hand waves over the protruding hilt from his belt to see that the weapon still bears some strength to it. His brows suddenly lifted, recalling his purpose in this conversation. “There is a sorcerer in Firelink Shrine, if you know the place. Don’t you wish to recollect? Or…”

Another shake from the mage’s head. Worry started to blur the cynic’s apathy.

“Vinheim’s not the city you would think it is. Sorcery’s been abused for countless years, and now there’s clandestine organizations of assassins. Not too unusual of the wise duke that established the place, but, should some members dabble in magic outside of what the academy commends, they’ve all turned either undead and fled or they’ve already had their throats slit.”

The warrior’s expression darkened, strained by what this could lightly imply.

“I always thought they might have sent a few daggers after the Big Hat, once ‘royal’. The intellectual has some fame to him- too curious for his own good, probably. The sleek killers are only another reason for me to stay put; the way sorcery works and spins is for the cheeky sages, but should arts like smithing come under the academy’s interest to kill off…well.”

Every nerve in his body forced him to still, shaken by who he could’ve been talking to that curtained their agenda behind a pleasant appearance.

“How…do you know?”

“We’ve developed a nickname for them back when I was at the school theorizing about the organization, something like ‘black-coats’. If I’m mistaken, ‘black-cloaks’. Their outfits were always much darker in hue, and they had this specific ring that only they were bestowed with which had a slumbering dragon on it. They always said that it was to quicken their magic, but I don’t believe it.”

I cannot tell beige from blue in this setting, but I swear, Griggs couldn’t have been wearing anything too dark…

“Now, are you going to ask more? I’d rather not talk about those rodents. Should the academy have ever found out I myself knew of such a thing from talking with peers then I’m certain a black-coat will put an end to me too.”

A good-bye couldn’t even rise out of his mouth, and he shuffled away, the steps glowing as the only sound that disrupted the glooming quiet. He felt so heavy and betrayed, but of course, this was only on par with his expectations. Rickert said nothing in response, only the faint scratching of the smith’s sorcery knife on the floor droning onwards, and yet, it sounded like a conclusive understanding of how the crestfallen felt, thinking that Griggs could be a genuine friend.

Maybe Rickert too, knows what it’s like.

It wasn’t unlikely.

When he had finally made his way back up the lift to greet the noticeably humid air of the Shrine once more, he had to squint from the sudden blaze of sunlight piercing his retinas. Lautrec was quick to jerk his head, seeing the warrior emerge back from the depths. Wiping his skin dry with the collar of his glove, he squinted to see someone else knelt before the cage with the firekeeper in it. Though, there was no threat to be found, only a blonde, bulky-armored cleric with a scripture lecturing the girl. Vince or Nico, he couldn’t tell, but not Petrus.

Concerned for her safety, he tried to intrude on the conversation, and was met with a gray-gloved palm raising to his sights while their head turned disgusted.

“Can’t you see there’s official business going on here?” the cleric’s voice spoke, with a writ paper angled away from the crestfallen to read. “Carry on, will you? The girl’s tired enough as she is. You’re weirding her out.”

Something in the crestfallen pulled at his soul to not stay any longer, though of course, his curiosity was yet to be sated. Regretting assuming that all the priests in these parts must’ve been kind enough to explain, he inched to Lautrec, letting his soles not make too loud of a patter against the soil. A hard glance put the gold madman in his place.

“Don’t get cunning. Now, what’s happening here?”

“The Thorolund nobles are walking around like they own the Shrine,” Lautrec instantly replied, obviously inconvenienced by the obstacle preventing him from staring. “This one here- ‘Vince’, or whatever, decided to come down here and tell me to not pull anything foolish while speaking with the heathen.”

“Heathen?”

The gilded helm lifted to let his faceplate reflect some sunlight off of the edge, mocking the warrior for being unknowledgeable.

“What’s with you and defending people that you barely even know the names of?”

“Just tell me what’s the purpose of a cleric coming down here and I’ll stop being a bloody nuisance,” he stabbed back.

“Stick to that promise, half-wit. The girl’s got her tongue cut out for disrespecting the names of gods, and of course, Gwyn’s boot-lickers have to make it my issue now. It’s like she hasn’t already had the names of his holy rapt family etched into her mind.”

The warrior looks back to Vince explaining, who seemed undisturbed by the two displeased onlookers. Only defined by faintly orange auburn light, he could see how the firekeeper pressed herself against the back of the cave, traumatized, pressured…

Poor girl.

He chose rather to be blind than intervene, already burdened by the depressing low that rushed at him to look at Griggs’ clothes, his gloves too, to deny his suspicions. His metal shoes weighed heavily up the stairs. When he finally came back, to see the sorcerer humbly waving with a pretty smile, he could only blankly gaze, seeing black robes flutter in the light breeze. If Rickert wasn’t lying, then…

It is what it is.

He sat back at his spot, refusing to speak further with the sage. Although Firelink seemed to fill more and more with stories, the fire still blazed onwards, and had never waned ever since he arrived. At least it was still there for him.

Two more unknown men made their presence while he mourned, as he could hear Griggs talking with new voices. He was too exhausted to look, too acrid to consider what they were speaking of, to where he let them depart their ways into the Shrine without a single greeting from him when their shoes would catch his sights in the grass. One of them, with muddy loafers and untied laces lingered a little near him to consider whether or not to raise his head out of his hands, while the other, garnished with rich brown boots had pretended to not even notice.

He lifts out of his palms to look back at Griggs after the walking died down, who seemed to be engrossed in a few books surrounding his cross-legged feet. A quill and ink was generously nearby, and even the crow that overlooked the Shrine was interested, as if attracted to what the dainty scholar wrote.

All he could do was let his eyes darken, unseen.

Snake in the grass.

Chapter Text

In continuity with the warrior’s conventional, unfaltering sense of disdain and mortification at every undead in Lordran, he ground his temples against the cold grass which protruded from the gaps in Firelink’s eroded bricks in a desperate attempt to knock himself out with a few dreams and distract himself from the reality everyone was gruelingly disappointing. Lamentable for him, it was about time the Chosen Undead grew the once-desolate place into something like a complex, inconveniencing him with the matter that conversations bantered every other minute. He would curl his fingers to grasp at loose pasturage and even plump and fluff it into a cheap pillow if he didn’t need the feel to expend stress by holding it, just to lay his head, maybe even close his eyes, and then someone would start talking with someone else. A hotspot of commerce and communication made itself a hearth, and it had him constantly rubbing his eyes, just to hear the dings of the bells again reminding him the undead was doing proud work.

Though, everyone’s incessant chattering was not enough to beat him down yet. Instead, there was worth in solving his vexations, gaining enough (deplorable) confidence to fuss a bum or two to shout elsewhere. Vince’s unsolvable lecturing still hadn’t ended- probably noble in some cleric’s eyes - so he crept towards the lake of the Shrine, where Petrus and another voice seemed to be conversing. Putting it aside for reference in his mind, there was a loosely-dressed man who sat cordially delicate, following his tracks with deep, brown eyes, but made no attempt to converse as if it would make the warrior implode. The tiny, colorful stones of his garb did entice him eccentrically, but he refused to acknowledge further, set on making the conversations around Firelink mute themselves.

When he arrived at the scene, Petrus seemed to be shuffling his pockets around for spare change while a flamboyantly-dressed man stood in front of him, waving a key by his fingertips to let the rusted bronze dance with the sunlight. The person appeared to wear an opulent quantity of tunics draped over their shoulders with plenty of buckles and jewelry, and wore the rich boots which had ignored him so parsimoniously before. Two stubby horns spun upwards on a golden helm, expressing splendor beyond necessary means of dignity.

“You rich aristocrats won’t sell me short now, will you?” the picky sound hissed through incisions of teeth in the mask’s strange cheshire smile. “I’ve got a quaint amount of time, confidante!” 

Their odd movements suddenly stilled, chin lowering. “Yet- I’ve got some karmic feeling…”

The helm spun to greet the crestfallen, its inch-high spectacles making themselves prominent to clash against the perfect gold. As if predicted his appearance, his glove was already raised in greeting, fashioned with silk and golden bracelets galore.

“Haia! Seems the rumors are correct- excuse me, but your outfit is quite unimpressive. Of course, a few trinkets or diamonds could change that-”

The crestfallen’s hands abruptly slapped away at the aberrant trader, whose hands were starting to reach to the warrior in some intrusive manner. They didn’t look hurt, at least the mask hid it well; they seemingly had a moment of reflection.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry, I’ve gotten ahead of myself!” they piped, before flipping the keys in the ring to lessen the awkwardness. “I’m Dohmnall of Zena, a one-of-a-kind unique vendor. Care to take a look? I first saw you, assumed you might’ve not been interested in conversing-”

The warrior couldn’t keep up with the merchant’s bolting words, racing through his comprehension lightning fast before he could even respond. Petrus didn’t seem to mind, still scourging his armor for souls, while the warrior struggled to lace phrases.

“Cat’s got your tongue?” Dohmnall tried to perk a reaction from his ghostly-stunned self, before the cleric finally fetched a generous sum of flailing currency, white phantoms congregating in his hand while he tapped the bizarre on his shoulder.

“Hmm…not enough, I apologize,” he hid away the keys beneath patterned covers, and the crestfallen could see something fuming in the way Petrus’ eyebrows sank to glare. The priest’s hand clasped onto Dohmnall’s shoulder unwelcome, and the timid peek backwards could be read through the smiling mask.

“I understand you must have your own business, but you must comprehend, you, that our mission is of great urgency to the world. Should there be any stray locks in the catacombs, we must not waste our hubris in finding some pesky, tiny key lodged in between unsurmountable stones. It is of great benefit if we were to even borrow your product-”

“Are you mad?” a vanity-dressed glove slapped away the elite cleric, and the inhale of preparation to explain how sending away his products would be suicide was clashed when Petrus shoved the merchant stumbling towards the crestfallen, who caught Dohmnall by his arms. The golden helm was noticeably warm for something that should’ve been cold, and it frightened the warrior, forcing the eccentric to balance himself.

“Now what’s that all about!-”

“ Stop ! ” was demanded, and everyone’s attention was fetched by the maiden, sitting at the front of the shrine. She had her head turned back, hands still together in prayer, as white robes veiled any other expression other than loose strands and a porcelain pale face.

“Refrain from behaving like hollows, you three. No violence should disturb this Shrine. Petrus…get away from those fools.”

His mace fastly unsheathed, and a shadow leered over his front, obedience exerted in subtle actions. “My condolences, M’lady. Though, this disrespectful pitchman here-”

“I care not for what happened, for I know no excuse other than the merchant threatening to harm us enough to even justify pushing him away,” her voice struggled to cry orders, soft and hushed. “You’ve offended the names of our forgiving gods, Petrus. I’m sure Vince and Nico would frown at this occurrence.”

The helmeted cleric closer to shadowing the girl gasped, and dramatically scowled, though it didn’t seem to stab anything through Petrus’ feelings. His head tried to lower anew and mutter an apology, though was interrupted by another few words from her:

“And who is this, that had to bear witness to the jibing of our sanctity?” her silken mittens broke the prayer to point weakly at the crestfallen. “This gentleman behaved akin to a Thorolund exemplary more than either of you troublemakers. Nico, escort him here, and kindly. Don’t stray like that again, Petrus, lest you tarnish our image further.”

A sharp breath shot out his nose, humphing his chest upwards pompously.

“Ut vis, My lady.”

Dohmnall watched oddly at the crestfallen, seeing how his sights went blank with terror when watching Nico approach him, his armor rattling the chains of his loose leggings.

No, no, I didn’t ask for this! But…who am I to object…

When the warrior met Nico’s face inches from his own, he observed the way the other was clearly exhausted, eyes deep-sunken and mouth destitute of having the energy to brightly lift his cheeks. However, the lazed look had no impact on his chivalry, lifting a respected glove to kindly take the warrior’s palm. The crestfallen hesitated, trying to look at Domhnall for some partisan reassurance, though the rim of the glasses couldn’t bend to their wills and at least give some hint of sympathy other than a yellow-chipped faux smile.

In seconds, he found himself overlooking the pearl-white clothing, as the lady returned her head back into intensive praise. Nico returned himself forwards, feigning disinterest, positioning his axe just shy of obscuring both the warrior and the maiden away from others’ observation.

First, wanton hesitation, observing ivy creeping up Firelink’s sooted walls and vases. Then, her hand gestures for him to kneel, respectfully. He abides.

“Do you go by a name?”

He shook his head, tampered mentally greater with the thought of ‘M’lady’ calling forth his execution by the burly cleric’s unforgiving hatchet than an identity. Although she was not facing him, she might’ve understood by the soft rustling of chainmail.

“I call you not for any purpose of business, but that I am gravely anxious of how you may view my companions, after all this and when we’d restrained you. The merchant is not nearly worth the impression, as his own fastidious self would be far beyond remembering this customer, but you- I’ve heard of you lots.”

He tenaciously clenched his jaw.

“At first, a ruffian, attempting to slay the foul-mouthed lout according to what Vince had told me, but now I realize you are both witness and victim to the behavior of my dear companions,” her voice lowers. “They can tend to be brash.”

Her silent woes showed through the way the fabric of her hand shivered, and he was not brave enough to murmur criticisms of his own towards the ‘right’ ways of the church to its fair maiden. She was irked by this, he keenly observed, like craving the freedom to speak to him as a human did to another equal, but restricted under the mission’s pressure and her own nobility.

“This is an apology,” she narrowed. “If my companions and I may never complete this undead mission, then I beg, do not curse our name in your spare hours. I wish for you to never be disturbed again. If any of my abetters ask, or command you to obey, tell them I bequeath you solace from their decrees. Refer to me as not ‘M’lady’, or Maiden Thorolund, but as Rhea. To refer to me by name is enough for them to heed.”

“...Yes, Rhea.”

“Please, do not abuse this knowledge to court my clerics; leading them by this yoke too often would only annoy them. Our journey is arduous as is. That is all- you may free roam once more.”

He stood gradually, and Nico nicked his head to a side upon hearing the clinks of the poor armor. The warrior was still shocked, as he had not expected for any good to have risen out of speaking with a noble maiden, the power resting in the forefront of all the thoughts he sported. Domhnall seemed to have fled or maybe slithered away in the way that peddlers do. With the newfound command in his hands, his decisions all pointed to directing Vince to stop harassing the poor girl downstairs with divine words.

Though betwixt escaping his way to the heart of the Shrine, he saw the golden head rear its rich horns again at the east of him when he passed a first archway, and the merchant had his hand raised in a begging plea for the warrior to hesitate. The ragged man in the back he saw before seemed to be smoking a generous helping of herbs, the vapor trailing off its tail end lit by a pyromancer’s finger.

“You’ve survived!” Domhnall’s gleeful tone hinted at a phantom smile below the mask. “And I mean that mentally, of course- I wouldn’t expect the fair lady there to start massacring you for catching my wild arms. What did she tell you?”

Characteristically, the warrior dithered from the task he set himself on.

“She gave me authority to lead around the clerics,” the crestfallen warrior glowered, trying to keep an impression that there was no friendship to be made between him and the marketer.

Domhnall’s lavish gloves halted in frantic movement, making it easy to imagine a saucer-wide stare of shock was on his face.

“...You’re not fibbing?”

He tilts his head affirmatively, watching the way Domhnall’s shoulders folded in and threw up his arms in joy.

“Impressive! Laurentius, did you hear that?” he exclaimed, turning back to see the man smoking give a quiet thumbs up. “Grand news!”

“Quieter. I don’t need the entire shrine hearing before my right is revoked as fast as I achieved it-” the malignant contempt was picked up by the other man.

“Oh, yes, yes you are right. Sorry, sorry,” a careless wave of an apology. “But my question returns- do you have a shy need for goods? Oddities happen to be what I adore, if you own them.”

It was difficult to reject the same men over and over again, but by now, he only had enough souls to spare for lethal emergencies. A heavy sigh tried to mock the other, radiating disinterest greatly.

“No, I cannot afford such trinkets for now, I’m sorry-”

“Ah, not even a lone soul?”

“A lone- what, what in this world is worth a single soul?” Disbelief coated his mind.

A sniveling giggle weaved its way through the holes in Domhnall’s mask, before he fetched remains of a green blossom from between the folds of his baggy sweatpants. It looked mundane, fitting the price that was mentioned, and the crestfallen had to stifle a disrespectful laugh at the merchant’s efforts.

“Now, it’s not the product, it’s the way you use it,” Domnhall said, letting a nimble flick of the wrist motion to who he had referred to as ‘Laurentius’ earlier. “You could discuss it with him- he knows more.”

It was then that the crestfallen recognized the grass being smoked was that same strain being offered, and although the weed was a temptress to someone who spent countless days fantasizing about all the negatives and inconveniences, his self-worth told him otherwise. It was strong enough to not speak to the pyromancer yet, but dig his pockets to buy the little thing regardless. A singular soul…

“Oh! I knew you’d come around~” the cherishing flail in his words said everything. The crestfallen offered dirt’s worth, and now he held a little leaf in the palm of his glove. “Will that be all? Good trade, by the way-”

The warrior hid the blossom’s stem adjacent to where the jaded emblem was- the medallion. With a swift discard of any further conversation by turning his head away and walking off, Domhnall decided to probably prowl for more customers, already making his cunning way to where the assassin- mage sat.

The lecture was still going, it seems, and Vince’s voice was starting to crack every few syllables. Whatever clerics had for making exceptionally long and prosed scriptures was beyond his curiosity to ask, approaching the intensive priest reading through the paper. It was almost as if the little parchment was writing itself, and Vince was only picking up the crumbs of the new words, based on the way he spoke every few sentences and then paused to squint at something messily scrawled by a drugged madman. Lautrec didn’t seem to mind, in his own world, with his foot excruciatingly twitching in reaction to every patriotic sentence in the length of the text.

The crestfallen leaned over once more to tap the cleric on his shoulder, and unlike the youngish face he recognized earlier, an almost sleepless, purple-bagged frown met his intrusion. If the glare of those grayed eyes could kill, he’d have dropped dead then and there.

“You again? Haven’t I already scolded you?” It was the only line Vince could say bereft tumbling. Instead of crudely shoving away the peering man, he instead waited, as if this were an excuse to finally take a break.

Rhea, Rhea, Rhea, her name clouded his mind to not get wrong.

“Your lady, Rhea-” he saw the way Vince’s empty eyes lit up. “She’s asked me to inform you you should go. The firekeeper-”

“Anastasia,” the cleric begrudgingly corrected.

“Yes, her. She needs silence now, said Maiden Rhea.”

Vince watched like he’d never heard such a thing his entire life, his bottom lip quivering expecting for the warrior to suddenly laugh at him falling for it, but no chortle or snicker leapt from his chest. The cleric struggled to cover a growing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“W-well, fine! The- the sinner c-can have her repose,” he trembles, flinching when he had to unbuckle his knee from consistently kneeling in such a fixed pose like the other cities would bawl at the thought they weren’t as upright as Thorolund. The parchment was returned to an enclave in his thigh’s metal covering with a dramatic grumble, before he hoisted his mace off of the soil, and finally the shrine knew peace downstairs.

Even Lautrec, who housed the edge of his vision, had raised the punctured helm in surprise. Seconds later, he made no comment and instead shifted his grounded sitting into a different, more open fashion. The warrior now knelt in front of the bars again, wary that his back was turned to the grisly lunatic, though noon, once again, was no time to kill. 

“Anastasia?” he felt the need to call, and her fulgurant locks swept aside to reveal her face. Wet strokes traced the plush of her sodden cheeks, and her chest still shivered agonized. Somehow, it was only when the cleric pressured her she would look so disheveled, but when Lautrec was licking his lips at the idea of fetching her spirit from her carcass, she seemed only saddened. The sight bit his heart, but not enough to comment, only to look back at Lautrec who didn’t appear to be paying attention.

Her pallid cheeks were rosy with dismay. She was beautiful, but in the way she was frail and helpless, like only a master painter could conjure her depression in an artistic medium.

I’m sorry.

He didn’t say a word, only rising and going back the way he came. Anastasia’s bleak distress was the only thing on his mind, and he felt the terrible, pounding sensation of his heartbeat rattling his bones every second returning to where he was supposed to be slaving his hours. He was unsure if it was because she was so fair and kind in her silence and to see her cry was dreadful, or if she somehow possessed him to not stop thinking about her. It was most likely the first option, and the place where he sat before and ingrained red marks of chainmail into his bottom didn’t look nearly as appealing anymore.

He remembered- he had bought a small herb, to soothe his senses. He hadn’t imagined he would use it as early as today, but it seems autonomy had a mind of its own, absent-mindedly pacing towards the pyromancer he had seen earlier with a blunt coaxed between two fingers.

“Oh, hey!” Laurentius was enthusiastic, already displaying a crinkle at the edges of his eyes. “I remember you! Well- I mean, I saw you only a moment ago, but bear with me- the leaf’s still got me a little dizzy, if you know what I mean- heh…”

The oddly more lax accent that the pyromancer had caught the warrior off-guard, much more used to professionalism.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all,” the warrior chuckled himself, pretending her grim face didn’t plague his mood. “I just…you remember that Domhnall?”

“Oh, yes, yes I do!”

“Well, I bought this little thing,” he waved the grass instructively. “You know how it is.”

Laurentius’ hands threw up nonchalantly, not even asking for why the warrior would stoop to this level or why he seemed to be so unaverted from taking a whiff of the sedating blossom.

“Give me that- I can show you how to use it. It might not go down your windpipe too easy the first time, but if you find it too unsavory, you don’t have to do it again,” Laurentius fetched the drug from the crestfallen’s loose grip, and flicked his tips to summon another candle-like flame. The green of the leaf charred into a gentle yellow, and then turned into a crisp black, its smoke ascending into the wind.

“Here, try it. You’re no lightweight, are you? By the looks of it, you shouldn't be.”

The warrior would be lying if he said he didn’t take great offense to it as if Laurentius were referring to the light pudge of his belly, but whisked the serving from the pyromancer's hands. Either man looked a little hurt by the reaction.

Putting the dry end to his mouth, he took a deep breath, finding that it was much more tolerable than the bonfire’s occasional belches of smoke. It crawled into his lungs, and then when he moved aside the herb, steamed out in a straight line. It was euphoric, but not addicting, like he’d heard some undead who peddle with the drugs in the Great Swamp would fall victim to.

“Oh, great! You’ve got a knack for this, haven’t you?” Laurentius laughed, before his hand pet the patch of Firelink’s green left of him. “Don’t be a stranger- talk for a bit! I’ve never considered myself too social, but the grass always feels better with a friend.”

A low sigh left the crestfallen’s throat, but he complied anyway, his brows sourly digging into the bottom of his forehead when slouching beside the other. He could see a tiny, heartful shine in his eyes, as if confident the herb would make the warrior more pleasant.

“So, you do this often?”

“No, no,” the crestfallen said before bringing the end of the blunt to his mouth again. The scent was already killing his memory of the pale, tainted face. “You?”

“Oh, not often, but I’m open to the opportunity. It’s a good way to pass time in Lordran, especially when it wasn’t nearly the beauty I expected,” Laurentius’ hand raced to cup his face. “I’m sure you’ve got a good dose of that, haven’t you?”

A grin suddenly scourged his face, with a long, croaked laugh following that statement. “Oh, this place is absolutely morbid!”

“I know, right?” he giggled too, albeit not as expressive as the crestfallen did. His palm landed on the stones beside him, before leaning meekly. “So what’s your story?”

“Hmm?” the warrior strains, pulling the joint askew.

“Your story, my friend. Don’t tell me two puffs have you marveling.”

He puts the roll to his lips once more, feeling the flourish of the high convulsing in his lungs by some hallucinating snake. The smoke dissipates out the plush of his bottom lip.

“So, I ended up here by…a bird,” the warrior starts, pinpointing nothing. “And then…yep! Here I am…yeah…”

His language was merging with Laurentius’ accent, puffy pupils under half-lidded guise trying to take the other seriously.

“What did you ask again?” He slurred.

“Oh- give me that,” the more alert pyromancer snatched the simmering leaf out of the other’s hold, and was immediately met with retaliation, the crestfallen pawing at the lap of the other to try and whisk back the blunt.

“I thought you weren’t so easy with it!” Laurentius criticized, taking his own drag of the smoke while the warrior murmured something indecipherable. “Was I wrong for assuming you were light? I mean- you don’t look like a pyromancer but I’m all kind with second chances-”

“Mmprh- nah, nahh, I’m heavyweight…give it back-” he giggled, his fingers suddenly wrapping around the string of the woven necklace and being quickly batted off by Laurentius.

“Oh my man, my man! What’s wrong-” Laurentius suddenly put the other end in his mouth, shushing out the flames to the crestfallen’s dismay. The joint could probably be reused, but the warrior was acting astonishingly out of character for his usual self. “Come on, you’ve had enough. What’s all this? You’ve never seen a blossom before? They grow countless in the marshes, my friend- you don’t have to pout.”

By more reasonable means, he would never have collapsed on Laurentius’ lap at all, but the lace of the flower was a sedative to any negative comment he wanted to bicker. At this point, he’d forgotten his troubles, and the sobbing of the firekeeper whittled itself down to a slight inconvenience than the elegiac epiphany he’d blown it out of proportion to be. As the leaf was tossed aside, the pyromancer’s neck crooned downwards to see the crestfallen still lounging, unsure what to do but bashfully smiling regardless.

“Hey, come on,” the warrior was lifted under the armpits, a reluctant grumble coming out of his chest. “Act a little more normal, will you? There’s someone coming- I think.”

“There’s someone comin’...?”

“There is. Maybe your ears aren’t as sharp as a pyromancy teacher’s apprentice, but trust me, look normal.”

The crestfallen pushed himself off, exercising the pull of the sinews in his thighs when he dug his elbow into his knee and tried his best to open his eyes fully. Looking to the pyromancer for approval, he could see the disgust in his face from how terribly he was trying to disguise his intoxication, but was given a polite smile and a thumbs up nonetheless.

Good enough.

Though the clever smirk splattered across his lips was doomed away, as not only the heroic “Chosen Undead” made their presence known, with muck and other waste surrounding their metal boots, but the tan, tender hand that belonged iconically to Solaire was linked with their fingers. Their outfits both looked disgustingly littered with numerous gashes and dirt, but valiant nonetheless, their invisible gazes locked while Solaire’s tattered vestment’s sun came into view. It took a solid few seconds that felt like hours for Solaire to tilt the visor and see a rather boozed warrior, who presented insanely trying to look normal.

“Ah, hello! I’ve returned by a few requests- see you’ve made a new friend?” The friendly tone warmed all hearts.

While the crestfallen nodded slowly, starting to grin again, Laurentius spared him of the embarrassing casuistics by sticking his hand outwards in greeting to grime-dressed Solaire.

“I would be Laurentius, of the Great Swamp. You?”

Chapter Text

If the warrior was wiser, he would’ve had a rebuttal on the idea of the pyromancer shaking hands first with his (parasocial) best friend, but of course gaiety and fun artificially coursing through his perceptions let him spectate rather unenvious. It was Laurentius who was taking a loss in his opinion; the bandages surrounding his hands would dirty with the remains of Blighttown- Blighttown, with the second bell?- and from what he’d heard, the gorge was no sanitary basin. The undead knight approached the crestfallen similarly, sticking out a hand in greeting, with their own expression trying to match the jolly uptilt of Solaire’s visor when theirs was more of a downwards, slender arrow. Despite how the impression might have usually been bothersome or evoking, the warrior was unclean, and in the high he couldn’t think of a reason the knight could mean ill will. The cold, bloodied glove shook his, and brusquely, letting a light giggle seep from the warrior’s shit-faced smirk.

“I’ve got all the pyromancy from the Great Swamp around this place. At least- I think I’m the only one. New people rush in and out day by day- I’d hope to meet another pupil to be less lonesome,” a tiny dip in Laurentius’ voice suggested otherwise, as if he’d be lackluster compared to anyone else from the Swamp. “You look like you might be agile with the flames. Consider trying?”

“Oh, no, I apologize- my faith in the sun is what gives me my strength,” a polite decline removed his hand from the pyromancer, facing his palm momentarily to see a char of warmth. Solaire nervously moved the limb to show the little discoloration, and Laurentius gasped, before laughing off the fear the other grew. The warrior snickers along, of course, too infatuated by the drug to recognize it wasn’t in his character to not be alarmed.

“Don’t worry about that- you see, pyromancy comes from the body in tune with nature itself, so of course it comes to be that you’d have gained a little warmth from my touch. At least you aren’t burning or anything,” he teased his fingers to suddenly shoot a flame from the hearth of his hold, and then mute it, stupefying Solaire for a split second.

“That’s quite impressive,” Solaire commented, and to no surprise the crestfallen caught that the undead had gazed at the spark along with him. “It’s strange how I never see many pyromancers in Lordran like I see clerics or scholars of Vinheim. Even Blighttown seems to be barren- isn’t it only shy of Lost Izalith? The home of pyromancy?”

“That’s an astute observation,” Laurentius wagged his finger positive. “Pyromancy tends to fall short of the modern expectations- it is significantly more primitive, unlike sorcery or beliefs in the gods. While the flames shouldn’t be underestimated, we pyromancers have never been looked upon too intelligently by what the other arts consider themselves, and as such we tend to stay nestled in the Great Swamp, where our works are mostly uninterrupted and hidden. Some pyromancers have even mastered being entirely invisible within the depths of nature, and it may be the reason that you aren’t finding them in Blighttown- camouflaging was mastered against the invasions my ancestors and mentor himself had to endure. I would be amused to teach some of the spells I know, but, I understand if you’d decline.”

Before Solaire could honorably object once more, the Chosen Undead unhandled the warrior to briskly offer their grasp to Laurentius. Shock flared in those deep brown eyes, far from expecting anyone here to take the offer, but the knight had.

“Er, you? You would like to try? Firelink’s not nearly as lush and prolific, and I-I’m unsure if I can teach you certain tricks-”

The knight imploringly nods their head, uncaring for how Laurentius was insecure in his ability.

“Well then! We’ll get started right away- could you avert your friends away from where we conjure and practice? Don’t want anyone bursting into flames,” the pyromancer’s head spun forth and back to whimsically locate some clearing of nature, before worryingly pointing to Solaire. The crestfallen audibly caviled at the demand, but the sunlit partner already descended his arm to prepare and hoist the man upwards.

“Oh, come on, it isn’t so miserable,” Laurentius responded. “Maybe you might find a liking in the arts too. Breathing nature’s herbs is only bonding with it.”

The warrior's concerns rocked this way and that, weakly digesting what Laurentius said, before following along Solaire’s offer, and then veering so his body would foxily land just behind the garb and his fingers would latch to the chainmail. A little ‘oh!’ of acknowledgement came from the sun knight, before warmly chuckling at the way the warrior was so much more friendly with his gestures.

“What’s got you tipsy? Grass?” Solaire lilts as if Laurentius hadn’t called the fact out loud. “Come on, I’ll take you someplace nice. Don’t mooch for this too often- I’ve got quests to do on my own time.”

“Awww…” the crestfallen partially faked admiration, while Solaire wrapped an arm around his waist and escorted him back to the bonfire. His mushed thoughts were so entranced by this moment, thankful he had stupored over the knight’s shoulder with a large grin. It was so childish, and Griggs even seemed to notice, who had first opened his mouth in confusion to scan if the warrior was hurt with his fleeting eyes, and then went back to reading literature, ignoring the oddly intimate interaction.

“That man ov’ there, by the way…” the warrior leaned close to the greathelm, and Solaire had to pause before the thrust of a step would knock the crestfallen tumbling off. A loose pointing hand flung itself unstably towards Griggs, who raised his head befuddled.

“Murd’rer, he is,” the warrior purred.

“Oh, well that’s…that’s lovely to know-” Solaire struggled, strongly unnerved to have been told that freeform of context. He attempted to wave to the sorcerer but found his energy too expended, like crestfallen weighed more like a full-grown bear than just a clinging man. Griggs smiled and returned to fiddling pages with his front fingers like the parchment would fly away from him if he didn’t, and Solaire twisted his back to let the warrior gradually fall down to where he usually sat, letting his hands catch their balance before the man was practically laying across the seat, laughing nonsensically.

Solaire started to stroke the chainmail along crestfallen’s arm like it would calm him down, kneeling before the other. The warrior could only intake afterimages of this scene, weakly swatting away at the other’s benevolence.

“It’s pleasant to find you this way, instead of sulking,” he stated. “I suppose you still chose to hold back from adventure?”

“It’s better than sloshing in corpses and Blighttown. I’ve been at my happiest I’ve ever been!” He believed under the influence.

“Sure you have,” the sarcasm that Solaire rarely ever used fell under the warrior’s detection, accompanied with starting to dig his fingertips under his iron gauntlets to satisfy the itch of having metal constantly pressing against his chainmail forearms. “The knight told me you wanted to see me soon, and here I am. Something on your mind?”

“They told you?” An acetous taste settled on the bed of his tongue. “I never told them that! Perhaps they misinterpreted- I wanted you here for other reasons than just seeing you…”

“And that would be…?” Solaire’s concealed brows raised, with the feather ludicrously floating.

The warrior had to rattle his thoughts, for a moment staring at Solaire completely blanked while beating himself over (but milder than usual) for a response. It was definitely sharp to avert the focus into how he hadn’t tried to lure him here for his own gain, trying to talk to him and prove himself a good samaritan in the little things he did, but now the leering blockade that was what excuse to conjure stood in place of it.

“You’re just the only slightly bearable person here,” he shifted his face towards the clouds, now a radiant orange. “It’s just all so mundane, undead running here and there with some business that I can’t stick my nose in unless I want to get wrapped up in a story. I would say I wish to leave, but I’m still chained here, and I don’t want to get slashed deathly in the Burg.”

“So you’re going to complain endlessly until it all fixes itself?”

At first, he was going to look disappointed, but as his head turned aside, he sported a proud, crafty simper. It stayed for a long minute.

It’s plainly how I am!

The minute gestures Solaire tried to express afterwards showed that despite not agreeing to the wordless objection, there was a barrier of respect between the two of them he refused to shatter. It may be in the idol’s eyes that laziness and idle “sitting around” was dishonorable, but after trying to convince the crestfallen so much (and not to mention, the warrior was mentally elsewise with the herb puffed), he simply just put two fists to grind into the chainmail of the thighs through the garb and huff a sigh.

“And if a beast overruns this sanctuary?”

“Well, I could muster some energy to not be sheepish in that time, but the only beast I know of was the one that attacked Astora-” Solaire nicked his head in recognition of the location. “But Astora’s quite distant from Lordran. We all come here by purpose anyway, don’t we?”

Solaire suddenly raised an inquisitive hand, but before he could ask a question, a loud FWOOSH! interrupts. A few embers licked the warrior’s backside through the sudden heat of the rocks, and a worried clamor of gauntlets clinks behind the two. Laurentius shouted a quivering apology, claiming the blast of fumes was a mistake, before mumbling a scold to the knight that was barely audible. When the last of the smoke died out into the air, the undead seem to have fled journeying again out of embarrassment- not that it would be of concern to the warrior.

“What I was going to ask,” Solaire tried again. “Hollowing tends to fester and grow when we are truly helpless. I abhor informing you, yet, your spirit seems completely missing- I’d think you were hollowed ages ago. How have you remained sane?”

Owch.

“Ahh, I’ve been asked that countless times, Solaire, best believe you aren’t the first,” the crestfallen finally straightened up, letting his slumped-over sitting pose make its return and hang his head. “I believe I was destined to just…complain.”

“Complain?”

“Correct. When everything goes right in Lordran, and I won’t have a single nuisance, or a single scenery that irks me wrong, or that undead curse finally leaves, I will most definitely hollow. That being said, I would probably never hollow if there was no curse, should that Chosen Undead ever cure it. I would even be happier as a hollow nowadays-”

“Don’t say that.”

“But really! Solaire, if I would hollow, I would hollow out of happiness,” the valor in his voice was peculiarly present. “I’ll be mindless and know no friend from foe, but my mood would be unendingly terrific!”

The sun knight had to think about it for a moment, raising the crook of his thumb to his tawny scarf in thought.

“Have you ever felt near-hollowing?” He suddenly asks.

The crestfallen shook his head honestly.

“...You won’t like it.”

A shrug came with a petty chortle, and it was unclear whether this was a lack of clean grounding that made him have his hopes of living eternally so high in the clouds, or if he really did have this train of thought.

“Then I’ll just complain my way out of it.”

The warrior’s humor didn’t seem to match with Solaire’s. A tense moment of silence lingered around the two when the sun’s adherent seemed to have no metaphorical sunshine to give, and instead he looked to the archway, desperate to change the subject.

“The clerics seem to have departed.”

“They have?”

He swirled off of his crude mattress (the stones that consisted of his perch) and let the loose strands of his hair skip atop his forehead when trying to angle a kind view, a sliver of the arches dividing permitting a short sight of an empty- harrowingly empty room where the clerics once were. It was strange to not see the sanctuary occupied, especially when Petrus tended to at least populate the vases and licks of light shimmering through trees, making the scene feel much less lonely than it proved to be with strewn pottery.

Solaire abruptly cleared his throat.

“Did you know the Chosen Undead is only shy of ringing the other bell? A few more minutes, a few more whisks of their sword, and, well…Siegmeyer’s been betting on it, at least, as he’s gone and sat at Sen’s gate to await their victory. Now, come on, let’s go and do something worthwhile. Maybe even organize a celebration for when they come back?”

“A celebration?”

“What’s the harm in it? The Land of the Ancient Gods may just have my sun, and time’s only ticking shorter before I’ll hear the bell ringing below this Shrine. I believe Anor Londo might have some answers for my yearning anyway!”

“...”

The dejection isn’t worth putting in words.

“What’s got you all sad? You’ll not be complaining about one bell, but two! Ahah- don’t worry, I was only kidding,” Solaire got up to chuckle before elbowing the warrior, who looked more nauseated than horrified. It was better than his off-putting deathly stare that could’ve fogged over the friendliness the sunlit warrior was spreading, standing up to look at Solaire in the hopes of hearing a bright idea of how one could organize a ‘party’ out of the rotting place. Solaire had the phantom of his chin crooked between the fingers of his hand, before an idea let the helm suddenly twitch aside, clearing his throat.

“I have a thought, but it may be out of my mind. Care to hear?”

The crestfallen approvingly sighs, resting his hands on his thighs while huddling in.

“I believe if we could somehow make pyromancy and sorcery collide together, a whirling dance of blue and flames, it could possibly clash into a rambunctious explosion. Both magic and blazes make quite the light, don’t they? If somehow, far away to make it harmless, soundless enough to not turn us deaf…can you envision what I’m saying?”

“No,” the crestfallen objected, before snickering at the idea. “It sounds like it could kill someone. Why would you detonate such a thing on land?”

“Oh, no, no,” Solaire’s hand clasped on the warrior’s shoulder, before spinning him scarily smooth to where he was hugging the stunned man with a single, hooked arm and pointing towards the dark-ish sky. The warrior was still recovering from the whirl, shaking his head. “There. At nighttime, the sky will be lightless, except for the stars, an astronomer’s delicacy that we wouldn’t mind messing with too much since I’ve found no astronomers in Lordran. I only wish that somehow, a student who harnessed flame and a student who harnessed the strings of whimsical magics I could never understand threw their conjuries into the air to collide…”

Solaire imitated an explosion with his free hand, trying to ignore the way the crestfallen had his mouth half-open in disappointment.

“And you think that will work ?”

“Well it was only a curiosity. That, or I’d probably spend the hours knitting maybe a pleasant crown of flowers using the creeps of vines and dandelions that I occasionally see sprouting-”

“Please, not that,” the crestfallen objected, even though any other time when he was more of character he would prefer it. “I’d rather hear combustions in the air over the occasional moaning those distant hollows can do. Go ahead- I’m sure you’ve already met the pyromancer, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll plan to ask him. Could you…talk with Griggs?”

The hesitance between Solaire’s request and demand was entirely hallucinated by the warrior, pretending as if he hadn’t asked that at all. He clicked his tongue before looking to the sun’s direction, coming closer and closer to resting by the distant horizon.

“Would I really have to?”

“Well, I could ask both men myself, but I would appreciate it if you could assist me even a smidge of your time- oh?”

He looked away, and the warrior tried to follow Solaire’s eyes. Heavy panting was coming from within the Shrine, rather full and controlled compared to a stray hollow or animal’s.

“If you won’t be talking to me, then maybe you could go check on the man afar? He seems in need of aid.”

The crestfallen refused to admit that the sudden heaves could be traced in name back to their owner.

Petrus.

“Yes, I’ll busy myself. Good luck trying your time making two different arts combine, heheh.”

He left the conversation first, knowing that as soon as Solaire would even hint at such an otherworldly, strange idea to either students it would be met with rabid arguments and maybe a ‘explosion’ of its own right at the steps of the winding archways. It was in his duty to keep serenity in the Shrine, yet, to see Solaire unamused after asking a few times would soothe his crestfallen soul, like he wasn’t the only one flailing for success. Petrus timidly caught how the warrior rapidly approached, his eyes widening in shock, before a whimpery waver in his voice let his jaw clench.

“Crying now?” The warrior confidently teased.

“Oh, shush-” Petrus broke his sadness to bark it. “N-not crying, mind you. Grieving. I’ve damned myself beyond redemption, and, eh…”

“Your friends?”

“Yes, yes, M’lady and her once-living companions I’ve lost. I-it happened quite instant; once I was trailing behind her highness and the two, but then they swerved a sharp angle in the catacombs and- and…”

The crestfallen’s eyes rolled at the story. The other didn’t take it too lightly, jaw convulsing with lips tightly pursed, but then he sighed, instead of acting forward and attacking the warrior free of the criticisms of Lady Rhea.

“Right, right, I know. I sound pathetic- b-but I am. I’ve disappointed not only my good Lady, but the gods themselves- their spite curdles in my heart-” he hiccuped a squeak in his voice, self-loathing in the way his eyebrows delicately sorrowed. “You’re right to be disappointed-”

“Disinterested,” the warrior cuts in. His snide remark, however, raised nothing in the somber soul, who remained looking to the jagged cuts in Firelink’s stones instead of finishing his crying.

“Correct. Lose faith in the Way of White, if you must, for I am the martyr that deserves to be the sprout of blasphemy.”

The crestfallen’s brows knit within a second after that sentence. A cleric encouraging renouncing the very faith said to alleviate the curse- even save Lordran? This had stemmed into a conversation more baffling than what Solaire was trying to achieve, who seemed to have already gotten the bad edge of insults from Griggs only shy of where Petrus was sniveling. It was no surprise that a Vinheim scholar may be reluctant to dabble in primal arts, yet the warrior hadn’t known the definitions of some of the emphasized words being scolded and wasn’t keen on learning what they meant.

“What?” he astoundedly asked.

“I’ve no worth anymore- death could be my only release from this misery I’ve felled upon myself. P-please, other than miracles, don’t inquire I speak of my disgrace. I’m sure any attempt at letting me experience salvation from my dearest church’s revulsion would result in- in…” Petrus started to hem his pleading with a shaky breath, and his pupils would flinch back and forth between the warrior and something past him.

His head turned to follow the timid flickering, and saw a hint of the golden helm that seemed to have crept up spying before Lautrec’s fingers unfurled from the arches’ legs and disappeared. It could’ve even been an illusion, as the warrior had to take a moment to recognize what he had just seen, before a hand suddenly placed on his shoulder. Shocked, he immediately returned his attention.

“By the way,” a slight growl rose in the quivering voice. “I want to let you know something deplorable. Since you’ve caught sight of the man who just…peeked…”

Petrus’ voice lowered to a whisper.

“Be careful talking to the assassin. He’ll say things just to make you distrustful, and then eat you whole for h-himself,” the cleric attempted to keep his puffy-eyed sadness in his voice. Though, instead of being met with sympathy, the warrior was absolutely seething at the advice.

“What, and trust him over you?” a half-loud tone from the crestfallen made Petrus put a shaky finger to his lips. “No, both of you would take advantage of me for a pocket of souls! The idea that I would even forgive you after your companions pinned me to the ground when that brute nearly killed me-”

“It was not my fault…” Petrus felt to intervene.

“Sure it wasn’t! Don’t act like you’ve absolved from that- I can swiftly recall a good smirk or two from one of you damned clerics! To think I would ally with you now- gods, you are pretentious!” the crestfallen snapped. “Thank the lords that your pesky friends are abandoned, I hope that Undead finds them all hollow! The only ‘good’ one was Rhea, who even gave a smidge of sympathy, and you’ve all tainted her polite intention with your recklessness! I-if you ever think I’ll even do so much as turn my back on someone like you, I’d be maybe even more addled than if I had to turn my back to that golden madman! Did you deliberately leave your friends-”

A hard, painful slap crossed the crestfallen’s cheek. What was once bitter misery now turned into evil, ominous overlooking, watching akin to a hawk over the flinch and whine that the warrior was stifling. The force was sudden, and stingy, leaving a red mark without question despite how Petrus hadn’t even used a bare hand.

“I didn’t leave them. Your sense of importance perturbs me. I try to mend our relationship with a helpful tip, and this is how you repay me?” Petrus leered, absolutely venomous with spite. “Go ahead. Talk to Sir Lautrec instead. He’d make a better audience to your foolery than one so prominent as I.”

Cold.

“F-fine then!” The warrior straightened up, hostile in gaze. “He’d make better company than you- anyone , would. You are sick .”

The last insult made the mist in Petrus’ eyes water more than when he’d been choking on the loss of his companions.

“Leave. Or I’ll be using my mace to put you in your worth instead of the hand.”

The bite of the warrior’s tongue from the threat and his slow inching away gave Petrus the space he ordered, and soon the crestfallen sped off, rounding the same edge which Lautrec had been caught gawking at the interaction. It would have been safer to run back to where Solaire was arguing, yet his anger demanded he prove that he could withstand Lautrec’s eerie fashion for longer than the “valuable” cleric. A cold sweat felt like it tormented his temples when seeing the man resting absently by the wall, overlooking the water and admiring how his aureate, dark figure faded off from the ripples. The spotted mask lifts to see the warrior, no words coming from that dim expression. He would have never imagined siding with Lautrec on anything ever since that early morning when he had tried to steal the life from that firekeeper, but now, it was almost as if Lautrec was a reluctant hero in the scene.

But he cannot be a good person. Certainly not,

“Are you having fun staring?” Lautrec finally spoke, flipping the tiny parrying knife he had been fiddling over his finger. “Wisened up?”

“D-don’t even think about telling me that you’re no villain,” the crestfallen darted back, quickly looking to a side to see that Solaire had managed to get Griggs and Laurentius sitting a few feet apart.

“I’ll be honest with you, chainmail man-” the warrior had to immediately turn back around just to grimace at the nickname. “Oh, I’m sorry, have you found a name yet?”

“How about you speak without using my name? I wouldn’t even tell you if I had to.”

“Well, whatever’s your fancy. We’ve always been on opposite ends of this whole ordeal that is our stay here, yet you already know my intentions.”

Anastacia. Tragically weeping, Anastacia.

“Fondly,” sarcasm in the warrior’s voice is always prideful.

“Well, whether or not I emerge victorious in my sneaking about, the second bell marks my departure. It is awfully close to ringing too. I’m sure from what I picked up that that bloody cleric doesn’t give a damn me telling you anything, so, listen here. Really, listen .”

Offended by how the crestfallen decided to instead gaze at the approaching-dusk sky, Lautrec’s greave suddenly fastened on the collar and yanked him close, a yelp coming from his throat.

“ Listen. ”

The warrior was already fumbling for the hilt of his sword, albeit carefully, since Lautrec could push him back and drown him in the lake’s water if he wasn’t balanced.

“I have never tried to kill you. Every time we’ve been grappling, someone else has been throwing you as bait, or I’ve needed you as leverage. I’ve tried to kill that bloody crow who happens to be a man that tracks me like I’m prey, the firekeeper, but I’ve never, ever tried to kill you ,” the pronoun was gruesomely spat, and the warrior swore he could feel a gust of Lautrec’s hiss on his neck. “We both know that woman is miserable. She’s been massacred by zealots, blood-stained and crooning, tortured like some dove to pious bastards. She even begs for me to free her, when no one’s watching, and she knows well what relieving fate she’ll have in my goddess’ demand-”

The warrior finally swiped out his blade, and Lautrec fearsomely let go, seeing its steel reflect against the pond water. But he was not furious. Neither of them were. Only opposed to one another, because that was what they were used to, and the gold helm even tilted precariously at the sight of the warrior’s blade trembling.

He’s right, he’s right, he’s right and I can’t do anything! It hurts!

The crestfallen fetched back his brand. He couldn’t see the expression hidden behind the spots- never could, and he was shivering from how morally dubious he was becoming of either path of preventing Lautrec’s success or just sitting there, never to intervene with the events that so often trivialized the easiness of the place. Swallowing, he craved for when he hadn’t even risen from his spot to interrupt the peddler, and he lowered his weapon, just standing there and letting his unbridled, hateful stare at Lautrec’s navel say what he lacked the skill to put into phrases.

“By the way,” Lautrec leans inwards once again. “I still remember when I told you that Petrus was nothing like you thought. And you rejected me, time and time again, and now it's so difficult to imagine I’m a savior in wolf’s clothing. That man would kill you, everyone would, and here you are, just now taking it through your muddled, young mind.”

I felt defeated without even taking a hit.

“Solaire never would.”

Lautrec had to shrug at the fact, playing with his knife once again. It was a beauty in the way its steel was so satisfyingly straight, but not to the warrior who felt his chest weaken with loathing.

“I’ve no business with that. I’m only here for the maiden, and her alone. Don’t go near Petrus anymore, once again. That advice, alone, I’ll rest on your shoulders, because I know he’ll think you won’t believe me.”

He was filled with scorn for the day. The warrior left the scene, with the last thing he heard being a devious snicker. He hated everything about the Shrine momentarily, so much, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. It was always a fact he had known, walking with his head down where Solaire would probably be begging for peace between two factions, but to have it be so apparent now that he was insignificant was starting to grow painful. If only he could re-soothe his misery once more, and light an herb once again, blowing out his feelings like languid smoke into the air.

All of a sudden, a loud pop detonated in the air.

How even-

He could already hear the exclamation of excitement from afar, and his chin raised to see Solaire pointing wondrously at the near-black sky. He had somehow managed to perform a cooperation between the pyromancer and the sorcerer, and while he was stammering for words, he took notice of the warrior approaching and subconsciously pulled his shoulder close like before.

“Look, look! I’ve done it! You were wrong!” Solaire was quaking with glee, before Griggs and Laurentius both looked back from the front edge of Firelink Shrine for a command and were met with a hastened nod. A dumbfounded crestfallen warrior saw the way Laurentius’ arms hypnotizingly spun to conjure a flame, and Griggs’ staff lifted to the air, and they expelled a wild dance of blue and wildly-chaotic orange into the air and let the two forces clash by the time the two incantations reached to wisp by the clouds and blow into a beautiful combustion.

“Did you see it? Oh my- a fraction of the sun’s radiance itself!”

“Is the Chosen Undead coming yet?” Laurentius excitedly turned back.

“No, no keep going! Show the pal here! Show him-” Solaire had to rustle the crestfallen who was completely agape with wonder. “Show him!”

It came, another, after another, after another, but somehow, the warrior found it impossible to focus. He was not fascinated, but entranced by something entirely elsewise. As more works would wither out into fading lights, it was not the artistic appeal of combustion that captured him, but each boom in the sky sounded devastatingly familiar. One sound was masking the other, and before he knew it, he was aghast, looking afar, realizing there were not only the explosions ringing through the air, but…

Bang, bang, bang… Bang, bang, bang…

The Chosen Undead had rang the second bell, and it made the crestfallen turn blind to the brilliance above him. His vision was fading.

Bang, bang, bang…

“...D-do you not like the display??” Solaire tried to get a word, but the warrior had felt something else dragging him deeper into unconsciousness, paranoia swallowing any joy or devastation or feeling from his body. There was nothing to see, nothing to smell, nothing to scent or be saddened about…

Bang…bang…bang…

…

I was asleep.

Chapter Text

It was wildering to describe the scenery. Once, it was nearly the pitch of night, bursts of flames and magic in the sky- a celebration , he repeated, and now when he had struggled to open his eyes, everything was a pallid gray. Maybe it was the white, morning clouds in the sky that led him to believe that, or the way that the shading of natural greens and exuberant hues of the sky’s gentle blue had now turned into more shades of silver, and no colors glistened from the creases of mountains ahead colliding together. The flame from the bonfire was beginning to lose its vibrance as well, instead of orange, turning a ghoulish tan. Not only that, but it seemed to retreat to its core, like it was starting to lose its steady brilliance. It was almost dream-like, and sickening, like his eyes had degraded from the night before and those explosions would be his only memory of color outside of his current spectrum.

I cannot see.

His head was resting on a poor clump of grass by where he sat, evidently not made by him, since he could only recall that he had fallen asleep in Solaire’s strapping arm and not done anything otherwise. Whoever had fixed him the sorry pillow would still receive his thanks, though dry-given, since his sourness never really receded. When he looked down to his stomach, seeing only a crescent of the chainmail below his chest from his angle, it didn't have that gentle color of blue anymore; it was gray, dark gray, anything other than what he was used to. When he shakily attempted to shift his hip, he noticed that his joints somehow felt much more fixed, like a contraption in dire need of oiling. Maybe it was simply the morning hassle. He didn’t want to ponder otherwise.

He could still hear, thankfully, yet as if his brain felt hollow, sounds would echo through his mind like musical tunes. The only voice he could discern would be of Solaire’s, who seemed to be talking to the Chosen Undead based on the jittery joy of his words. He could also pick up on a silent swipe of what he thought was a blade, only inches away from above him. Struggling the tendon of his jaw to view upwards, a faded version of Laurentius appeared, whose tattered robes would swoon to every honing sharpen he made on an average bandit’s dagger. For a long moment, the crestfallen decided to gander, amused by how long it would take the pyromancer so engulfed in his work to realize the man beside him had finally woke. It proved to be only a generous minute, as one of the sparks from his dagger landed only shy of the warrior’s cheek, and Laurentius gasped after seeing him.

“Oh, good morning! You must’ve been tired last night- we had to carry you up here. Did you get a terrible night’s sleep or something? If I had heard the absolute volume of those works in the sky, hah, I wouldn’t have even blinked!”

The warrior nervously grinned, nodding his weighted head. It really did feel like his body was constricting against him.

“Sure, it’s not easy at all to sleep in Firelink anyway- all that bustling about, people shouting here and there,” at least my voice hadn’t corroded into any croaked octaves. “I didn’t even think you and that petty sorcerer would make it.”

“Eh, that knight Solaire really bonded us together. I at first thought that Griggs would never agree to even bear a pyromancer’s warmth, but turns out, the scholar sported an interest for it! Not learning it since he called it a waste of his time, but, you know, respectfully watching, unlike some sorcerers I once talked with around Lordran. He’s not all that pompous; he just happens to look professionally snarky!”

The crestfallen recalled hearing Griggs shout multiple insults back and forth with Solaire, so he’d imagined the scholar before that night detested pyromancy. The knight had to use some charismatic encouragement to get the sorcerer to even think of meddling in primal arts, hm?

“Did I interrupt the…explosions?” The crestfallen asks, back to looking at the distant archway that housed the route to the sewers and the Burg he’d given up on conquesting.

“Yeah, we thought you might’ve fallen gravely ill! Solaire especially- he looked like he was about to lose it, aside how he never really takes off that clunky helmet of his. He’s still here, but now that the Chosen Undead has come, they’ve decided to address an elephant in the room.”

“And who would that be?”

Laurentius grew disconcerted. “A serpent has come from the pond.”

This unsettled the warrior’s memory. Not that it was unusual for mythical creatures to show up in the Shrine (as stranger has happened), but that the pond was not solely a fanciful reserve of clear water in front of that motherly statue.

“...Was it there all the time?”

“Maybe- don’t ask me if it was! I might be fond of nature and all, but the thought of a serpentine, gargantuan creature slithering throughout the shrine while I wasn’t aware…” the pyromancer grimaced. “It was while you were asleep- me and Solaire were just about to consider checking if you might’ve been under the weather with a fever when Griggs decided to go back to scavenging more unconventional sorceries from spellbooks, but then a sudden loud splash of water scared us senseless. Surprised you slept through it, since afterwards loud curses and growls blasted throughout the shrine. We immediately ran for it in case we had to slay some beast, but no! There were apparently the traces of two doors in the ground, and they had finally opened, and now one of those primordial vipers revealed themselves. He hasn’t left yet, by the way.”

“...What?”

To hear that a legendary serpent which was only spoken of in context of advising gods and humans alike in tales had been snoring below the pond was a pleasantly unpleasant surprise. He still remembered that occasionally, the lake rattled with the shivers of its snores, and it kept him sitting closer to the bonfire than out back.

“There’s just a huge snake is what. He’s been angry at all of us. Breath smells terrible, but otherwise, a tolerable creature.”

“Why can’t he just leave us alone?”

“He said it was something about the fate of the Undead. He squinted at me and Solaire, asked if either of us rang the bell, and then told us to find who rang the bells and bring them to him. When we brought the Chosen Undead, though, he was immediately dissatisfied, and started to hiss at us to find the ‘real’ Chosen Undead. Strange fellow, but, we’ve tried to tell him they were the only suitable person to fit the title and he huffed. He’s still there, if you’d like to see him, yet if he’s in a bad temper, I’ll help you come back here.”

The crestfallen warrior squinted, still stomaching that this had occurred. Weirder things have happened, and yet, this was torturing in a way he couldn’t describe. It was like a pulse inside him, foreshadowing something grim from the arrival of a snake.

“By the way,” Laurentius felt to add. “You don’t have a fever, which is nice. You’ve just passed out.”

The warrior shrugged, albeit it seemed more grating chainmail against rock that both he and the pyromancer recoiled at the shriek of. Pressing his gloves against the firm stone to lift himself upright, he murmured what was supposed to be “sorry” but came out more like “shitty”, and then lingered his eyes to stare at the ground.

“What’s got you so down?”

“Ah, it’s nothing. I guess I’ll see what that snake is all about. Nothing better to do, mhm,” he ignored a panging feeling in his gut that he shouldn’t. He was consistently irked about just anything that he had gotten up to do, so this seemed equally as unfun as whatever else he could find to grumble about.

“Alright, gently. I don’t know why you’ve passed out, but if you need some help, I don’t mind guiding you forward step by step.”

“Oh, I’m sure it's nothing serious-” the crestfallen suddenly coughed into his elbow, taking a quick gaze to see if there was blood, and then heaving himself upwards off of the bench to Laurentius’ positive amusement.

“The pond, yes?”

“Yeah, the pond. Do you want me to come along?”

“Eh, no. I’m sure I can talk to snakes myself,” the crestfallen chuckled, balancing his steps forward to make sure he wasn’t prone to collapsing.

“I’ll get off your ass then. You don’t go falling into the chasm that snake came out of, alright? No telling what’s below.”

The crestfallen nodded, softly furling and unfurling to test his fingers’ skills. Everything seemed intact, yet while he was worriedly striding, he checked his arm again as if blood would magically appear. He had his teeth biting into the skin of the inside of his mouth marching to where the supposed beast had risen, straining to ignore something rather odd. There was no blood, and he saw no scar that should’ve been there from when Patches drove the pike into the crease of his arm.

Instead, there was ash.

Ash.

When he had arrived, the serpent immediately caught his eye. Its bared, unshrouded, rotting teeth that were in desperate need of care took his attention first, clattering idly and below pulled-back reptile skin that had more of a resemblance to raw leather than scales. It had auburn, scorching jaded eyes that were looking at something other than him, occasionally scrunching its nose to let two fleshy sacs that may have resembled whiskers twitch and swing. It was both human and snake in form, an ugly conglomeration of the two, to where the crestfallen physically chilled when its bulbous eyes somehow still accompanied with eyelids guided its slit eyes to and fro and stared impolitely at the crestfallen.

“Another of you? No, no, you are different. Are you…?”

The crestfallen fearfully freezed, immediately taking a scent of that awful breath that came out of its cavernous jaw. As his eyes were wide, focused on the snake like a plea for freedom, he noticed the undead knight and Solaire suggestively turning to him. They seemed uniformly baffled, and he couldn’t conclude whether it was because of him or the serpent beseeching him for a vague introduction.

“Did you ring the second bell?”

His head slowly shook in fear of aggravating the snake by sudden movements, and then timidly pointed back to the two knights just to redirect those slits of eyes. Solaire silently agreed with an affirmative nod.

“No, no, stop this foolery! I know well that that is not the undead who rang the second bell. You seem much more fit for such great achievements,” the snake animalistically grumbled. “I can see it within you. Chosen Undead.”

“I-I’m no Chosen Undead!” the warrior felt to peep out of his inferiority. The serpent was about to open his mouth in objection, but Solaire interrupted him.

“Frampt! The person who rang the second bell is here- why won’t you listen to us? Are they unlike the prophecy foretold?”

“They don’t call to me. This outcast here, however,” Frampt squinted. “He is much more fit. His spirit radiates much brighter than who you’ve bought me. This was supposed to be the man who rang two bells.”

“But Frampt-”

“ Kingseeker , Frampt,” the serpent corrected, finally moving its head away to unpin the crestfallen on the spot. “I’ve come for the Chosen Undead. Who you’ve bought me should have perished years before. How they’ve escaped the belly of the asylum, I cannot tell.”

“But they have! Pray, Kingseeker Frampt, avert your attention!”

“But how? How did they do it, and not the man here?”

“...”

Solaire turns to the warrior, who silently cursed the other for driving Frampt’s bulging, angry eyes back to him.

“It’s too difficult…” the warrior whispered. The serpent seemed to have dryly understood regardless of volume. “I couldn’t pull it off like they did.”

Discreetly, this was sending him to be more diffident, letting his tongue press the roof of his mouth to ground his grayscale emotions but only tasting something more sand-like and…different, from the taste of spit. He was somehow in need of water, but entirely unthirsty, creating a confused paradox in his mind while Frampt chatters before him. A hiss suddenly shimmered from the depths of the snake’s throat, buzzing his nerves back to focus, before seeing that the serpent turned back away to look at Solaire and the knight.

“Very well. So, Chosen Undead, you’ve fulfilled the tale. Must I recite?... In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of the Ancient Lords. When thou ringith the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know… ”

The knight beckoned their metal nose upward, listening to the story once again despite not asking for Frampt to articulate it. Although the crestfallen was starting to grow unimportant in this scene, he remained bystanding, morbidly curious with what a primordial serpent would do with the mythological hero that he took the knight for.

“I’ll tell you your fate. You, Chosen Undead, who rang the two bells, are tasked with linking the first flame once more. It will solve the grieving fate of Lordran, and you will be forever beheld as a token of glory to the history of Lordran- the Chosen Undead, who cured the world of the curse and brought the Age of Fire back to fruition. A daring, intrepid lionheart.”

The knight shyly brought their metal hand to the chin of their helm, and then faced Solaire excited. Solaire was still watching upwards at the way Frampt had directed his attention to two more onlookers.

“A pyromancer and a sorcerer. What interests you, of the successor to Lord Gwyn?”

The crestfallen nicked his head to see that Griggs and Laurentius had grown curious, both standing aside each other and pleasantly astonished as the snake looked towards them. Solaire had mended their contempt.

“The successor to Gwyn?” Griggs broke the silence.

“The successor themselves. Standing before you, clad in…steel,” Frampt straightened his spine upwards, before tensing his tendons in the jaw to shiver out what was probably a sore muscle from resting timelessly. “This knight will bring glory to Lordran.”

There was a long fizz of silence, beseeched by the destiny given to someone who had arrived later than any of the audience to Lordran, shocking all their minds. The undead’s unwavering persistence and willingness to head-on with the task was present, although it meddled me mentally to admit , and now that they were bestowed with the honor of trailing in the footsteps of a god- not a god, but the lord himself, Gwyn… well, they certainly deserved it, did they not?

But even then, it hurts to see it fleshed. They weren’t supposed to be the savior- I was, but that’s of no one’s concern anymore. It’s the things you do, not the things you think. That moral was taught much, much later than I wish it should’ve been.

“Are you all finished being youthfully beguiled? Your friend here will stride to great lengths, but it is a sign that all of you must have pursuits as well. The bells have rung, and so, I urge you all onwards to follow what called to you even before I spoke of futures,” although Frampt could not smile, it was clear he was attempting his best to facially sympathize with the majority of the Shrine growing amused with thought. The majority, of course, not including the crestfallen.

Because it was my place to ring the bells.

His heart sank with his drive further leaving him, and instead of hopeful flickers in his pessimistic hubris egging him onwards to do things, there was now absolutely nothing that even motivated him to lift his chin up, now just louring to the abyss below Frampt. His arms even tried to dig into his chainmail as if there would be pockets to only be met with the stale uniformity of his unsightly bland outfit.

“Well, he’s right,” Solaire broke the misty wonders lingering in the air. “I have my quest for the sun, and now that Anor Londo’s been unbound thanks to you, Chosen Undead,” the helm tipped somewhat lovingly to the other’s sharp visor. “I’m going to finish the mission I was brought to Lordran with.”

The sentimentalism completely bugged the crestfallen’s chagrin, greater than when he was internally lashing himself for his incompetence. Seeing the knight even turn endearingly to Solaire took a beating to his soul.

If only…

“I suppose it’s about time I try to make that journey to Blighttown again,” Laurentius commented, before shrugging in a half-procrastinating manner. “Chosen Undead, if you ever have any curious pyromancies to show me, then don’t forget to come back to your fellows here, will ya?”

“Yes! Return, please,” Griggs followed. “I know you’ve never really meddled with sorcery, but you’ve definitely enlightened me with Solaire- a good match, you two make.”

“Oh stop-” Solaire quickly interrupted, chuckling afterwards rather nobly. The knight had their head held up in pride, before giving a polite thumbs up, and then the focus was redirected to the outlier who stood at the right nook of the once-full pond, and was visibly frustrated. The warrior stole a second of thinking.

An uplifting note to myself: Petrus, Lautrec, or Anastasia were not here to celebrate. Domhnall’s whereabouts I cannot center yet, but he is definitely missing as well.

“I don’t really know what I’ll do, but, I must say it is incredible that you’ve managed to ring both the bells,” the fact was uttered happily, but sincerely forced. “Maybe I’ll finally do something with myself. The snake has a point, after all.”

A warm clap filled with satisfaction came from Griggs, followed by Laurentius, and soon both Solaire and the knight had given their applause. He couldn’t stifle the smile that he had grown from the unaccustomed praise, but it was eerily dimmed, as Frampt’s piercing, narrow gaze bore into his chest. No matter how much he could positively run from it, the Kingseeker knew that he was supposed to be of greater importance than he proved to be. It made him remember that Griggs himself had been rooting for the warrior to rise up after that short conversation in New Londo.

There was a talk he was too deaf to hear that sparked between Solaire and the knight, and soon Frampt interrupted the jolly interaction and snapped their attention back to him. It seems that the other three, including him, were dismissed, and now it was up to them to dissipate throughout the Shrine how they wanted with the promise that the Chosen Undead will rejuvenate the world. Griggs and Laurentius seemed to have set off together, and to not awkwardly decorate the urgency Frampt glowered at the knight, he decided to pace elsewhere.

He couldn’t resist something, though. He knew that he was at awful ends with both men, Petrus and Lautrec, but, since they had both not attended, maybe there was something busy going on that he could maybe scowl or gawk at to distract from the awful weight in his gut. Dipping his nose to check on the vases that decorated the back of the clerics’ prayer room, he did see Petrus, still solemnly looking to the weeds cracking a Firelink stone. He was still engulfed in mourning, but as soon as his zen was disturbed, darting up to see the warrior, there was a clear toxin in his eyes that ushered him out of the place without even a gesture.

I did deserve it, after all.

The warrior replaced himself on the seat at the front of the Shrine, returning to acting like some grouchy, morose outcast with an ugly slump. The Firelink Bonfire somehow dimmed worse, and he found that very inconveniencing, even when his eyes moved themselves to try and catch sight of that crow, Lautrec’s target, which he told the crestfallen it was actually rather human than merely some off avian. He still ambiguously juggled the suggestion in his mind, but wasn’t at all perturbed, settled that stranger things have occurred anyway.

That nagging feeling in his throat tickled his nose again when he sneezed once more, hiding it all in the nook of his arm. More ash. Ash, ash again. He was not worried at all, only nauseatingly sallow, and he swore he felt his eyebags droop a little deeper.

Laurentius and Griggs seemed to have replaced themselves while he wasn’t watching. He tried to fall asleep again while gazing at the coiled sword, while every once in a while Frampt would boom some criticism or command at the Chosen Undead. His world was still gray, and he was still hacking ash, making the time draw unbearably longer than what he could usually complain about. In fact, complaining seemed helpless now- he was starting to crave when the Shrine didn’t feel as degrading, despite how it almost always shoved how meaningless he was right under his nose when he talked to anyone.

A belied dim palm danced his boredom, clearly belonging to the sun knight. He could barely even care to look at Solaire, but found himself doing so nonetheless, the flamboyant feather starting to annoy him irrationally.

“What am I going to do for you?” the passive-aggressive voice was unrelenting with internal enmity. “You’ve got your sun to chase now, right? An old crestfallen warrior like me has no more use for you- admit it.”

Solaire gave off a hurt impression, his fingers creasing regretfully. “It’s not about your use. I just wondered how you were doing after you collapsed.”

“Oh- I’m, fine…” the crestfallen illicitly ushered a comma into his statement to delay saying it, before the fingertips of his gloves shamefully digged into the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me to say.”

“You’ve done no wrong, no wrong at all,” Solaire shook his head, accenting his genuinity with a light laugh. “I just wanted to tell you something, now that I think of it. If it doesn’t bother you.”

“ What is it, ” he sighed unenthusiastically.

“You’re coughing ashes.”

Oh.

When he first heard it, he was unmistakably somewhat baffled that others could see it. Willingly exposing where the soot would pile, he tilted his head to realize that the ash never seemed to have flown off, the same shade of powder sitting atop chainmail. Everything was monotone, so it was near impossible to discern flakes of the fire and his own armor apart from texture, yet even that grew increasingly unclear the longer he stared.

“And what about it? Did we not all cough ash sometime, in our lives undead?”

“We don’t always. I forewarned you it wouldn’t be pleasant, but I suppose now you know it- you are hollowing .”

He guessed correctly in his mind, yet the morbid information hadn’t shattered his heart like it was supposed to. Furrowing his brows like some miserable dog and folding his arm back over his knee, he saw Solaire kneel before him.

“Please, be alarmed. Your vacancy of worry is making me terrified.”

Looking down at Solaire from this angle gave him the same satisfaction as when he was grinning over the knight being distraught trying to manage and befriend both Griggs and Laurentius together. But this time, it didn’t feel like any twinge of coy elation from the others' failures. Only, closure, ominous closure, that let the wet feeling at the top of his mouth return from the uneasiness in this confrontation. Maybe the dejection was preventing him from hollowing- no, too silly to believe .

“Well, you were always talking to a dead man,” the crestfallen lamented. “Frampt spoke that I would be your Chosen Undead, and I’ve failed, to no surprise. I’m really nothing much, nothing at all. It feels nice to now get it off my chest that I’ve never had that hope in myself you’ve believed me with, alas…” he gazed wistfully past Solaire’s iron, a little smile lifting his cheeks. “I think you already knew.”

“If I had known, then I would’ve never given you that medal,” the sun knight huffed. “But I suppose I would’ve given it to you regardless, now that I think about it. You’ve been a saint to me back then, offering me that Estus.”

Silent smiles crossed both of their faces, before the warrior coughed again, this time rather painfully than usual. An additional regurgitation of his lung’s capacity would audibly heave, and Solaire nearly tried to grab at the warrior’s arm, but was shaken off with a bat of the right hand. The warrior pleaded that he was doing alright again, but Solaire still couldn’t stop watching, seeing how the crestfallen now took an effort to dust off the soot and let it float off of the edge of firelink in its weightless ash. A tender sigh left his mouth a while after, and the warrior was starting to feel wretched for making Solaire fret about him.

“My friend,” the peasant prepared. “Hollows aren’t welcome in the Shrine. Come to this realization, please. Everyone’s stared worried at you at the announcement of the Chosen Undead’s fate, because that ash is much, much more obvious than you’d think to others.”

The warrior somberly lost the glint in his eye, a shadow coating his features. He said, I know , without having to say it.

My time is up.

A soft moment of silence passed between them, and then Solaire lifted his helm, crestfallen himself.

“Do you want to go somewhere, before it all happens? I know you were never fond of people, so, I guess you wouldn’t like to turn here.”

The warrior let his mouth crease open, the concave of his lips rather dry. “I have to go now?”

“We could wait, but by then, there’s no telling when you are really hollow. Do you have any goodbyes that you’d like to make? I just don’t want you to go insane flailing that sword of yours in the faces of defenseless peoples that may come by. I may never come back to Firelink, but I’m sure you too would wish that no one ransacked this sanctuary, would you?”

His head slowly nodded. “I just want to go with you, when I turn hollow.”

“With me?” Solaire spoke heartfelt.

“With you.”

There were many lavish draws of reticence that occurred between their conversations, filled with the warrior coming to terms, and then unwilling to accept, henting for excuses or faking good health, unaware how the bones of his hands started to become more apparent in his knuckles. Griggs had watched afar, similarly as concerned as Solaire, and even motioned to the sun knight at some point that it was ready time to take the warrior somewhere else before he’d madly lunge at some poor soul. He was a swordsman, after all. It was met with barely any fussing when Solaire suddenly took the lead and cusped the tricep of the tired man, forcing him off his seat, except for the extra sneeze of ash that poured down shy of the painted sun on Solaire’s chest. He was escorted down the flight of stairs that curled along the edge of the Shrine (and without tripping down any, for the path down here was rather memorized compared to the rest of Lordran for the crestfallen).

When they had reached the bottom, Solaire immediately gasped, the sight blaring and brutal. The warrior could lightly tilt his head to see that blood was splattered throughout the twirls and stands of grass, and he hung his head, pretending to feel Solaire’s disappointment washing over him. Pretending, potentially not, but still imagining it out of how often he was disappointed with himself.

“He’s killed the Firekeeper?” Solaire gasped, and then noticed how the crestfallen’s head was falling ill and low. A palm quickly fixed the man upwards, and through his dreary sight, the crestfallen made out a long, inky splash coming from the prison cell that was burrowed into the Firelink walls. “Oh, my…”

“I’m sorry,” the warrior apologized instantly.

“No, it’s not your fault. Lautrec’s a wily demon, and now he’s got his way with us…the bonfire’s probably not going to last, is it?”

“Not at all. Not at all…”

The remembrance flickered in his mind of that moment, when he had finally seen Anastacia’s tear-lathered face through the cage bars after Vince wouldn’t leave. The lass was prone to sadness more than any other that resided in this Shrine, and he even recalled when he wordlessly agreed to himself that Lautrec’s scythes were liberation to her undying fate. He felt guilty for it, heavily so, and Solaire had to ruffle his hair just for him to stop thinking of how prolonging her life only made her world more miserable.

“Is the fire out? Do you remember?”

He shook his head, though confirmation was quick to come. The knight’s footsteps raced down the stairs, and immediately ran up to the side of both men, taking in a realization of their own when the blood rivered out across the scene. It was nightmarish to think of what Lautrec must’ve done to cause this much shedded gore to defile the soul out of the woman, yet for the crestfallen, it was healthier not to think.

The knight motioned with their forefinger to the two, curious as to what they were doing down here.

“Oh, we? I’m taking this friend somewhere safer. He’s only a little sick- surely he’ll come back. Don’t you worry a bit, Chosen Undead.”

The knight briskly shook their head from the corner of the crestfallen’s emptied eyes, and before he knew it, Solaire unleashed his arm to where now he was idly meandering. Not too far, that is, just enough to really gaze into the ugly black that shredded across the grass. In the garish mind, he could also hear that the Chosen Undead and Solaire were exchanging a few whispers- not of my business, I would think- and then the scene turned quiet again, where he tried to interest himself in the sky, yet that too was sinking into a light gray instead of a brilliant blue.

He suddenly felt the Chosen Undead guide him, turning him around from looking off cliffsides and instead watching into the visor, while their mental glove pressed a little harder than what was comfortable for the warrior. He had noticed how there were slight dents and scratches everywhere on the headpiece, like white lines interrupting monotone gray.

“I didn’t kill her,” the warrior emphasized. “I never did. It was Lautrec, I told you-”

Like the knight didn’t hear anything, the crestfallen was pulled into a hard hug. His wide eyes watched over the shoulder, seeing how Solaire found this entirely unsurprising, despite the abruptness of it. He was now afraid that maybe he’d feel a knife or two tracing along the ridges of his back to peacefully execute him fast, yet the only sharpness that he felt was the side of knight’s nose tracing neatly across short hair.

“I’m sorry.”

The warrior had no reaction to hearing the voice for the first time, shadowy and whispered. It sounded poor, moaned, and yet peeping small, like a baby fledgling chirping out of the breathing holes fashioned across the helm’s mouthpiece. His own hands tried to creep up and mimic the hug back, knowing this may be the last time he’d ever see the knight he miserably taught to parry, and he whispered a question into where the knight’s ear would have been below the helmet. He was unsure if the Chosen Undead heard it, but after a long moment stuck in this rough, elegant pose, a name was returned as an answer.

“Oscar.”

Now he confirmed to himself he was the only nameless undead in the Shrine. The Chosen Undead- Oscar’s arms freed him, and he returned to accepting his death sentence, seeing Solaire was rather hurried to escort him down to New Londo. His fingers grew so much more sensitive to where Solaire’s skin now felt almost deathly scorching, and the last of the knight flashed through his mind when he was turned around and led with the iron brace around his waist to help him forward. He could hear apologies being muttered by the sunlit boy, but they had all fizzled into his memories, indecipherable as he heard a choke from the sun knight’s throat. Whether it was hesitation, melancholy, or both swirled perfectly together into a bleak conception, he couldn’t truly understand when he nearly fell asleep on Solaire’s shoulder, now practically being carried downwards the edge of the Shrine’s spiraling stairs.

What happened after that, is very, very difficult to remember.

*

The second bell has rung!

A jubilant hoist to the gods, Lord Gwyn himself, and all others who are in support of my journey- I’ve done it; I’ve fulfilled the tale!

Oscar was infatuated with joy when Andre had finished smithing the edge of his sword, embedding the titanite into the steel, and handed the gleaming blade back into his quaking hands. Though he could barely feel it, there was a happy raise of his eyelids below the helm that smiled childishly at the blade being gifted.

“Now, you be careful out there,” Andre’s gruff voice moved his long beard. “No sword is good when the wielder is reckless. You’ve heard that warning plenty from me, so maybe I trust you’re wiser to not hollow in the meantime.”

A guffaw of a laugh sang through the room, rattling his bare chest while Oscar pleaded in inaudible thanks in front of the blacksmith. He could swear there were almost tears in his eyes- Sen’s gate is open! I’ve done it, I’ve done it!

He swiftly sheathed the blade back into its scabbard at his side, brimming in glee when he made his way back up the stairs to the bonfire. Solaire was cross-legged at it, staring into the way the bright flames danced, deep enough in thought to where he gasped when he finally noticed that Oscar had arrived. The knight flung open his arms, before racing to the peasant’s side, urging the notion that it was time! We’re going to Anor Londo, Anor Londo!

“A-ah, not yet. I’m still a bit…exhausted. We’ve done lots today, don’t you think?” Solaire told, rather gentle in how he wished to calm Oscar’s ecstatic mood. The knight was heavily disappointed, expressing it in a long droop of the arms and back, and droning an immature, muted groan.

“Come on, I’ve worked myself out. My muscles are tired, don’t you see?” Solaire tried to lift his arm, acting like the wrist was broken or some faux excuse that ushered Oscar to sit himself back down. “It’s good for the soul to rest anyway. You don’t want to become unquenchably bloodthirsty, do you?”

The knight shook his head, but was still rather dejected that he couldn’t rush ahead to the city. Watching the fire was not nearly as entertaining as bearing witness to the mythological establishment that was Anor Londo, said to have been home to the gods themselves. His head quivered to look into Solaire’s slits of eyes, seeing the glimmer of the flame reflect in the upper half of the cheek clouded in dusk. He had become better at scrutinizing, the more he talked with the sun knight, and grew rather enamored with how Solaire was built perfectly in the undead’s eyes. His design was painted and clothed by himself, yes, and he definitely had a fashion sense to it.

Solaire suddenly tilted his head back upward, before looking at the knight, as if he had noticed that Oscar was attempting to gaze into his eyes. His feather was still swaying to recover from the stark movement.

“Chosen Undead,” Solaire spoke. “Would you mind if I told you something that’s been biting at my thoughts? It won’t take long- I assure you.”

The undead nodded quite positively. He never wanted Solaire to believe that there was no place for him to speak of his feelings, for that would be rather harsh, and no one deserved as Oscar did to have been hushed.

“Thank you,” Solaire began, before suddenly sleazing his arms on his thighs to a position where he could weigh his head down in recall. “Before I tell you this, could you promise you wouldn’t forget it? I know it is very much to ask of you, considering that lots of us have hollowed dead out of our memories, but I do like to believe that you are much more adept at listening, with your voice taken from you.”

Oscar silently laughed, before nodding, placing a gauntlet on his chest and another palm upwards in honor. Solaire chuckled gloomily.

“That’s nice of you. So, I remember you were frantically looking for Lautrec when I had gone with that chainmail fellow. Did you ever end up finding him?”

The knight shook his head, reluctant to tell that he had found a blackened orb that screeched when it was picked up to see him. Almost like a crow, but more inhumane, clearly some descendant of a living creature that didn’t really understand where it was or where it came from. Nonetheless, it rested in his numerous bags and pockets, and Oscar prayed it would be of at least some use when retrieving the soul back to its rightful owner.

“Well, that is a shame. He’s assuredly going to turn up sometime, so I doubt we are stranded without an answer.”

Oscar wasn’t too sure how to react, so he speechlessly sat.

“I was beginning to talk to you about what happened while you were searching. It’s just been circling around me, that’s all,” Solaire accidentally rephrased. “When I entered the lift, I was still escorting him like the ill boy he had become. His head drooped over my shoulder; I could feel his light breaths shimmering down my neck, like he was breathing ash itself. A horrific thing to imagine, yet, I didn’t believe it, rubbing my hand at his waist up and down the abdomen just to wake him in a soft chuckle. He was ticklish, cutely so.”

The knight smiled at the description.

“I remember the first time I stepped out into New Londo- it had been a while, ever since I sailed to Lordran from Astora in a frantic haste of a race against time. I was paddling along, myself choking on ash, and the only elation I felt from the draining fate was when my hand finally touched the crusted wood that made the jagged New Londo bridge, lined with ghoulish blue torches. My vision was somehow recalibrating, and I felt something inside my soul revive, fetching me with borrowed strength to lift myself upon the planks and see the world return to its vibrance. I was hollowing, and when I started running closer and closer to the morbid beach, I could feel my humanity somehow regaining at my soles. At first it was the feet that sped my recovery to my body, then it jolted to my hands when I dodged into this shabby elevator that I could only hope wouldn’t collapse, and then finally, I opened my eyes outside of the staircase to see the blue sky, and Firelink Shrine’s remains- I was in Lordran. But I hadn’t found my sun here, Chosen Undead. I was far from it.

“That’s when I met the chainmail knight- and he was the first man I met, aside from that morose girl who didn’t even lift her head at my feet. I tried to strike conversation with him, but he kept telling me that the world was bound to end, again and again, no matter what would occur or who would quest to Lordran. It had my fate jaded, and I decided to try not to notice the ash swelling in my throat, as I sat by the Firelink bonfire to recover myself. It all went murky after that, yet I remember that warrior coming right back, lifting my face, shouting at me if I had gone mad. I asked stupidly what happened, I think, and he told me that my skin should’ve been searing, the way my feather had caught the bonfire flame and the fire was preparing to consume me. I thought it was absurd- the fire tends to heal undead, but then I remembered that I was hollowing, so the warrior saved me from becoming fuel for the fire. ‘Not yet’, I wordlessly repeated to myself when I returned to his seat beside him. ‘I’ve still got things to do.’”

The knight didn’t interrupt, seeing Solaire’s helm lift up to check if the undead was listening. Oscar still was, in the way his face never turned away, but of course that was the only way to show he was listening since he couldn’t speak so loudly like Solaire could.

“In other words, I never left the warrior because he had shined a light in my dark when my destiny of the sun couldn’t. That’s what’s kept me close to him, despite his demeaning attitude and hopelessness. He was anxious, human, just as myself, and now that it was time for him to go, I felt an honor to escort him. You took his purpose, I believe, yet I forgive you, because you were not aware of such a feeble, strange thing that is what makes everyone start hollowing. He told me that he would hollow when there was nothing to complain about anymore, but discreetly I didn’t believe him. Now, I stand correct, but I wish it hadn’t come so soon.”

Solaire raised his head, linking his hands together. Oscar still watched.

“This time, when I had come to New Londo, it was much lonelier than I remembered. Desolate. I’d like to think it was because in my frantic hurry the hollows that moaned around doubled and tripled in my mind, but maybe it was simply because the place was much quieter than I remembered myself panting and dashing. The chainmailed- I’ll call him crestfallen- the crestfallen man had been watching out into the dark with calm, shrewd eyes, like some dissatisfied cat being held in my arms. He didn’t complain, however, and that’s what made me hurry, in fear that in the next coughing fit he would have, his conscience would burst out and he’d shred me maddenned. Not that I fear losing to him; I fear killing the people I would never want to.

“I sat him on the edge of this deceased beach, adjacent to the bridge, shifting him upwards against a heavy vase while he would try and reach for me to leave him alone. I wasn’t going to- no one should hollow alone. I adjusted myself to sit in front of him, before straightening my back, watching afar for any pirates that may have sailed in from the other parts of the world outside of Lordran, or any stray ghosts that wanted to exact their revenge on living souls. I never understood why he picked this place, yet I’m in no right to judge people’s tastes, no matter how humdrum or grim. While he was planning to maybe just stare into the sky, I decided to at least entertain him- I asked what made him happy, in sick times like these.

“He told me nothing did. He told me absolutely nothing appealed to him when he was irked or diseased, and nothing appealed when he was perfectly healthy. I told him that was a lie- that I knew that he had some recreations and bliss in his time at Firelink, even if it may have been as miniscule as smoking an herb. When I reminded that time- I remember how his thinned eyes shot open to the sky like he was seeing stars, and he pushed himself off of the vase, and then said, ‘You’re talking about the little things?’

“I should inform you, this was in no mocking tone. This was genuinely intriguing to him, all of a sudden, and it became difficult to look at his sodden, emerging wrinkles across his cheeks. There was a sparkle in his iris, I tell you- he wasn’t going to groan and hum of how utterly boring the little things in life were. He put a finger to his lip, squinting in thought, before answering that he liked flowers. Chosen Undead, would you believe me if I told you that cross man liked flowers?”

Oscar shook his head.

“I’d never thought that I’d hear him say, in that moment of dire honesty, that it was flowers that made him happy. Daffodils, he named, were rather rare to find, but some still rot on the edge of New Londo, only wilting because the sun faded away. He admired orchids, lilies, roses- all those kinds of flowers that looked colorful put together. When he had turned blind to colors, he told me, he had dwelled in the realization that he would never be able to discern some flower’s vibrances from others, and it made the world much more mundane. He told me he loved them only when there was nothing else to love, entertaining him by their gentle sways and pretty blooms, but now he could only see white flowers, and their uniformity ruined his taste.”

The knight nods. White flowers, unless accompanied by maybe vermillion lighting, were not the most vibrant and vivacious. Some people tended to like white flowers for their pale beauty.

“When I informed him that flowers still held their fragrance despite an absence of color, he told me that they had started to smell ashy. I don’t know if he was lying, but I'm not too curious. He had already told me another thing that he liked- sun bunnies.”

The knight ticked their head confused.

“I didn’t know what they were either, and he gave me a hard look, like I had been hit in the head by a brick. He then asked me if I forgot, but I told him if it was related to the sun, I’d always remember. He huffed, before remembering that Baldur, where he said he’d come from in his memories, and Astora, spoke two different languages inside the intricacies of culture. He tells me that in his earlier times, his mother told him what sun bunnies were- they were reflections of light made by the bright rays that would bounce off of pretty glass or ornaments, and make moving shreds of light against walls and faces- sun bunnies. He liked them because they only came at golden times of day.”

Solaire suddenly pointed up to Sen’s revealed wall, that was speckled with yellow spots now that the sun moved. It was scratched by trees, making multiple sun bunnies, and the knight nodded along. They were very, very pretty, these sun bunnies, despite having no conventional name in the language that Lordran spoke.

Sun bunnies.

“He tells me that remembering that gloomed him- his mother was dead. I asked if she was really dead out of morbid curiosity (and I realize that was rather impolite of myself), and he shook his head, but he assumed with the rest of Baldur having degraded to near nothing now that its army was expended, his mother was definitely hollowed. He mentioned it very soft-hearted, but didn’t seem too estranged or overwrought. He then asked me if I had a mother.”

The knight lifted his head. This was the first time Solaire would talk of his family.

“I told him my mum was a good woman. She was awfully kind and docile, along with my father, yet he had perished when the beast sieged Astora. It made her very worried for me, always yelling for me to come home by sunset and be careful fighting monsters and men, and I never thought that that would be much of a problem for me. Though, when the curse finally stitched itself onto my back, I told her that I was growing drawn by a calling to the Land of the Ancient Lords, and it made her deathly paranoid. She prayed; she begged that I would stay home, being the son that she loved, and I kept trying to calm her and tell her that I’d never leave her worried. I remember vividly she said, ‘please, I wish to only mourn for one boy, not two’, with tears speckling her pretty eyelashes. I snuck out in the middle of the night when I realized this curse was growing lethal, and that sentence was the last she spoke to me, other than tiny ‘goodnight's or ‘sleep well’s.”

Oscar looked at him surprised for abandoning the poor woman.

“When I find my sun, Chosen Undead, I’ll come home. Don’t she worry, I’ll find it. She sometimes plagues my nightmares and pulls back my motivations, but this curse tells me to look forward, lest the only reunion I’ll have is decaying in her arms.”

The deathly tone that weighed each sentence was making the knight uncomfortable, dusting off the steel shoulder. Solaire understood the subconscious gesture.

“The crestfallen told me I was full of high hopes. I replied, ‘I’m familiar with that’. He shrugged, before laying his cheek against the cold belly of the vase. He then asked if I could still fight, if I had followed in my father’s footsteps. I told him I could. He then asked if I could defeat him. I squinted my eyes, confused, asking him what he meant, and then he said ‘I don’t want to lay away my days. You seem formidable enough of an opponent, so, come on. Let me have some fun for once.’”

The knight tilts, asking for the answer.

“I did. We returned to where the hollows were moaning, and he brought out his shield and brand prepared, with a new ferocity to those eyes that were long gone. I bought out my own equipment, and there was a tense silence, before he whipped forward with his sword first.”

A quick scan of Solaire’s clothing showed there were barely any cuts or bruises visible, seemingly intact.

“I didn’t have the heart to tell him, but as he went on, he was starting to miss, and I was barely expending my efforts with my blade. I pretended to act like I was being some valiant swordsman ridden with valor and courage, occasionally nearing hits to his neck so his eyes would widen with fear before he’d dash back (which I’d let him), and he’d try to counterattack before I threw him off with my shield. This felt like it had lasted for hours, me pretending to be a gallant terror of a knight, but he believed it, and it made him start to frown when he couldn’t defeat me. I didn’t see it at first, how his eyebrows sank and his mouth somehow frowned lower, before I parried him this once.”

No comment came from Oscar, invested.

“I parried him near an edge. It was facing over this overlook of the water, and when he was flailing, he accidentally lost his grip on his weapons and they figuratively shattered against the floor. When he was making no effort to recover, I could see his feet starting to shift, bending the chainmail at his knees ever so slightly like he was trying to hide it from me. His heel was drifting, trying to get closer and closer to the edge; Chosen Undead, he was trying to fall into the water. Had it not been for my hair bristling at my neck, I wouldn’t have leapt forward and caught him, dropping my own sword beside his to retrieve him back from trying to flood his lungs.

“...He landed on my chest. Like a dying man, he landed, with his shoulder against me and his legs crooked to a wrong, unnatural stance. He started to cough again, putting his hands on my shoulders, and when he could finally speak again, shrouding my painted sun in ash, he hid his face and spoke, ‘have I made enough of myself?’ And I said, ‘of course. Of course you’ve made enough of yourself. Why do you ask?’ And while he was against my chest, he broke, trying to hide the cracks in his voice when I felt the grasp of his fingers tightening on my shoulder. He was crying. And he kept repeating, ‘no, let me go. Let me drown- I am worth nothing at all, to no one. I’m done hiding from it- the fish will find more use of me.’

“A-and I reply, ‘no, no, you are worth much more than you think to me. You are worth the entire world, the sun itself, to my heart. If it came to be, I’d wish to see your silhouette at the end of a dark tunnel, just so that I could at least be illusioned with the hopes of seeing you once more…’ He couldn’t take it, my praise, and he kept sobbing into my sun, begging more that I’d just let him go while his gloves started to tighten on my garb like he didn’t want to. I was watching a broken soldier hammer at my robes, one who had saved me once before, and I was clueless on how to bring him salvation.

“Soon, he quieted, but I could tell by the way his tendons shook he was still mewling, just muffled in my arms instead of the dark. I wrapped my hands around him while I was trying to comfort him out of his sadness, but he kept calling for his mother, ignoring that I was ever there. I couldn’t save him, after all.”

I refused to show what emotion I am feeling.

“So then, I tried to make him dance. He never said he liked it, but it could aid him, so I tried it,” Solaire’s words wavered.

The knight didn’t move.

“Just to calm him a little more, I tried to open my arm, letting him tumble outwards towards the sea before catching his groping hand to the dark with my other. He was almost zombified, not in looks, but in the way he couldn’t stop tearing up speechlessly. That’s why we had taken so long in New Londo. I was trying to teach him how to dance, bringing joy to his body, and soon he catched on, as I saw how the look in his once-sorrowful eyes turned mindless. He grew weak and unable to replicate any of the tricks I did, but somehow, without saying anything, he found himself much happier when I would play with his frail body, not calling to his mum a-anymore.”

Solaire suddenly sniffed, putting a hand to his forehead.

“And I told him, ‘You’re doing great. Keep your head up. Please, don’t leave me. I love you, crestfallen. I love you.’”

He quieted.

“And I swear, I may be lying, but deep in his voice I might’ve heard, ‘I love you too’, muffled under his hiccups and ash. That man, that roughed, passionless man told me he loved me. ‘ He understood nothing of love by now’ , I thought. But my words meant true, regardless of whether he had forgotten what love meant anymore. When we were done dancing, it ended only because he had fallen into my chest once more, but this time, he didn’t beg to let go. He liked dancing, and it was shown how his legs this time had lost their function, and he was only held by the grasps at my garb. I was t-tear stained, Chosen Undead. I couldn’t leave him.”

Oscar’s heart was already shattered, shown in the way how his neck was tilted downwards in mourning.

“Soon enough, he tired, falling asleep p-peacefully. I carried him like a bride back in Astora’s brighter days, letting his tears dry on my garb when his head instinctively brushed against my cold self, and I laid him against the same vase I had before. I sat there for a long while, just watching, and I refused to say anything else, knowing that I could see how his skin would turn more t-transparent…and I could see his veins…”

A last sniff came from him.

“And then I came back to Firelink, trying my best not to look back. I did a few times, admittedly, still wishing he returned. I-I’m sorry, Chosen Undead, I know it was indulgent of me to stay by his side when he was hollowing and I should’ve left without word, but…”

The knight suddenly hugged him, and Solaire was back to whimpering away his sniveling, while the knight tried his best to hide the story that had made him cry too. The elegiac beauty of it all, dancing , and how it momentarily made a warrior forget before he had slipped off…

But that was all over now.

“Chosen Undead,” Solaire breathed a moment after. “That was all I needed to tell you. I-if you want to go to Sen’s Fortress n-now, I’m ready.”

The knight slowly unhandled Solaire, before shaking his head against it.

“Well, we can rest, then…”

The knight took out a sliver of paper, before his soapstone grinded against the parchment once more. He left it by Solaire, whenever Solaire would turn his head, before tracking back to the Undead parish. The sun knight leaned over, reading the note:

I’m going to go pick you some flowers. I love you,

Oscar.