Disclaimer: I do not own rights to the Dark Souls or Fire Emblem franchises-I have just inserted my own interpretation of the characters. This is also my first fanfic... so feedback is definitely welcome. Leave some reviews on what you think! Thoughts are always welcome :)
It only took a second for him to pull out the claymore.
The undead was familiar with the blade—its long, double edges, being the only source of comfort that preceded his dreary surroundings. In his most darkest, hopeless moments, he held nothing else. Nothing eased him greater than holding its tender and firm metal. He'd drawn the blade from its sheath countless times before; with an intent to maim, to kill and reap. It's edges had seen the blood of battle, the sorrow of defeat—and today, he thought, was no different.
It rained.
After escaping a long and dark passageway, he'd established that as nothing more than fact. Eerily, sheet after sheet of water pounded heavily against his armor, resounding off like wooden shells. Every so often a tendril would escape past the small slit of his visor but, in a second, he adapted to the feeling and strained his eyes ahead.
The undead had arrived at the entrance of a castle. Even against the storm, every breathing second it seemed the world would light up in a flash of light, gradiating the looming castle in a luminous luster.
Even with his compromised vision, he could tell that it was fairly guarded. Several sentries were stationed in his immediate vicinity, each one covering a good radius with long-ranged weaponry. A crossbow. Two wicked blades, flamberges, and a cast of torch light-the only obstacle to the only entrance.
It was a typical setup to him - if not - a faulty one. They appeared to be relatively relaxed, chatting waveringly to each other, their heads turned from the passageway. Simple, doubtless targets.
As another sudden flash of lightning bashed through the wind, the undead ducked low, using the sound to mask his run to clear the tunnel.
Nothing changed no matter how many times he killed them, took their souls. They came back every time, repeating, falling to the next death with no recollection of the last life. He supposed they were used to it by now - death - but it served him no good to embellish in those sympathies. He had been killed, at times, in more horrific ways than the methods he had used to kill. This wasn't a job he had to do—this was his life.
Their royal armor was forged in a dark iron gray, compacted into two metal plates that defended the majority of their torso. Running the armor around his careful eye, he could tell it was already worn, and couldn't easily withstand more than a couple hits. Quickly finding cover along the cliff that followed the passageway entrance, he switched to a sturdy length of wood that was his longbow. Carefully he aimed, mincing the pull on the strings until he was confident of its power.
He relaxed, allowing the beginnings of a smile from elapsing within him. This was it; he felt at home. This he thought, this moment, were the only seconds he felt truly relaxed in the dark world of Drangleic.
His fingers unraveled around the only trigger.
Immediately, the farthest guard with the opposing crossbow was thrown backward, meeting the ground in a sharp disruption of water. It happened at extreme-speed, faster than the other two guards could react.
Unfaltering, the undead stepped forward, lowering his center of gravity and sheathing the longbow, he breathed, easily brandishing claymore as his fingers twitched in expectation.
With one fell swoop he rushed forward, meeting the first guard in a horizontal thrust. His target shifted backward, drawing, and, equally as fast, was met with another blow that sent him to a dissipation of ash.
It only took him a second to pull out the claymore.
A burst of ash quickly disrupted his visor, prompting the undead to fall back, gripping the blade vertically to his head. Another blade met his. He felt the impact, the clash of eating steel as he stepped back, rolling through a patch of mud and disorientedly finding the way to his feet.
With a blind, diagonal strike, he met flesh. Escaping from his mid-roll, the guard hesitated as soon as he made it to his feet. It was his mistake, and the undead's blade dug deeply into the newfound bone beyond the plates of steel. The guard stared, helpless, as he fell to ashes and was washed down the slight incline of passing water.
He'd stopped feeling the repercussions of killing a long time ago. His fingers didn't do so much as flinch at the impact. The undead had long forgotten his humanity, he'd even tossed it aside, letting it rot with every fiber of his flesh. The more he seemed to kill, the more he lost. And, the more he lost, the more his soul felt the rising desire to kill.
Sturdily he climbed up the rapidly increasing incline, heading in the direction of the bridge that connected to the castle.
The bridge was elongated, painted in a pallid gold. Several extensions of the bridge were evident on either side; miniature balconies that overlooked absolute death. Rain slid down hard on its flat surface.
The undead noticed, as he approached the cusp of the bridge, the disappearance of the Emerald Herald. Her absence was disheartening. Earlier, he never ceased to find her there, unwavered as his landmark to proceed. Through his journey she had always comforted him, in her own way, and never faltered in providing him with his next goal.
Without her, he felt just a little more lost than before.
His next target were two Mastodons, plated in a sharp texture of gold residing at the very end of the bridge. Their position was fixed in two statues - in stone - overlooking the defense of the castle.
Rotating a halberd in his main-hand the undead stepped on cautiously, keeping his helm level to their massive weapons-where he dispatched them, quickly.
Every move, every fault of their armor had been carefully rehearsed to him in a complex apparatus. He learned, to near-perfection, the efficiency of killing, and bolstered an unending confidence that no other undead could come close to competing with.
The Mastodons were finished, turned to ash, just as fast as they had begun to unpetrify.
In five paces he tore through a cleft of spear-men, burrowing the edge of his halberd soundly at the brisk of their skulls. His steps syncopated with the jabs of his blades, tearing through the forefront of the formation until he stepped onto dry ground.
The front gates were already open wide, two embracing arms that guarded a path of stairs. With trained eyes the undead rotated with unbent efficiency, marauding a clear path where no royal swordsman could touch.
When he thought he was in the clear, however, two royal swordsmen charged him on his first backward step. The first, after feinting a slash to his side, bursted into an overheard cleave at blistering velocity. It was a good strike, perhaps by sheer luck, and the undead's instinct reasoned it wouldn't miss. In a recessive back-step, he was cut, nicked by the wicked serrated edge of the flamberge.
Cursing, the undead staggered, whipping his claymore in a defensive rally. Without a word the two swordsmen pressed him, analytically, wrought with swords to punish any mistake.
The second swordsmen swung just as fast. It came from his left - a dry thrust - but predictable, and the undead capitalized on it quickly. Empty of bravado, the undead pulled his shield into an arc, instantly repelling the blade and swordsmen—into the ground in seconds.
In seconds the felled knight was dead, and, not long after that, the undead stood in an increasing pile of ash. His sword arm danced, backstabbing a sift of air.
He had to be careful now that his goal was close. One slip-up and he would be dead - again - only to wonder if he could muster the courage to get up.
Taking off his helm, the undead remedied his wounds with a golden flask—the medical drink, estus. The fluid was tasteless, empty, yet seemed to heal any wound instantly. He no longer required food to survive, but instead necessitated this replacement—a tasteless, dry, sorrowful drink.
It was ironic, to him, the journey that had taken him this far. Not long ago he had sat in a field alone, tasked with bearing a curse he had no intention of keeping. Initially he had spent his time pondering his life outside of Drangleic—but he adapted. Every thought of his home, even if he had no recollection of it, would paralyze him.
He no longer thought of escaping to his home.
Training his eyes on the surroundings and casting away his doubts, the undead walked further. 'Room' was the wrong word to describe the immediate interior of the castle. Its size alone merited its own house, its own cathedral—the undead was unaccustomed to such a grand entrance.
This castle as he remembered, Vendrick's own castle, would be his final destination. His memory only elapsed his time in Drangleic but, he was sure, he bore no hesitation as he walked forward; his stricken gait echoed off the castle's great, marble flooring.
"Halt, there." A voice suddenly called out to him as soon as he'd entered.
"What I see... Is this... some sort of a dream ?... Where am I ? What has happened to our castle ? Who are you ? And by who's permission do you stand before me...?"
The undead stopped mid-pace, his plated Forossa armor falling silently to a halt as he neared the beginning of a cleft of stairs. A ghostly figure resided above him, cloaked in transparent chancellor armor. His eyes gathered off, gazing to no one. For several moments he stood in silence.
"Chancellor. I have come to slay the queen."
The undead's stance shifted rigidly, uneasy, expecting a reaction—a strong one. However, even with that the chancellor didn't so much as move from his position, "I... see... it is no testament then, that you have made it this far..."
He lowered his gaze, settling his eyes between the visor of the undead. "My lord made magnificent findings on souls... an accomplishment for the ages...since ages long, long ago...King Vendrick, we must fight back... or they will take Drangleic."
His pressing look reminded the undead of the hopeless looks of the hollowed. Ripe with a sunken face, they traveled aimlessly, without purpose; shackled by the fate of the cursed. The sight sulkened him. To the undead, to his very soul, he wished he could end his misery as soon as possible.
"It's over now. Drangleic will be safe, even if I have to fight the queen herself; I'll do it." He could not tell if the ghoul ahead of him was listening, but his words were reasurring.
It was true. This, since the beginning, had been his end goal. Drangleic had become corrupt under the vacancy of its ruler, Vendrick, and now that he had served his time, the undead would end it.
The undead stood so silently that when the chancellor spoke, he embedded every word. "The Queen was a women of unparalled beauty. Long ago the queen came to us, alone, from a faraway and distant land, she warned our lord of the looming threat across the seas... of the giants."
He paused, bringing his eyes back to the gate's doors, where his tone suddenly darkened into a new shade of black. From his first word, the chancellor seemed to usher an aura of cold and, unknowingly, the undead shivered.
"The land from whence she came was not unlike ours, unlike a world where nations would rise and fall upon. She has seen many world's... looking for one worthy of ending the age of fire... she is the queen of many... the usherer of dark. We must heed this warning my lord, Vendrick, as she may have found her harbinger...
"It was from the distant lands that the queen brought peace to this land... a peace so deep... it was like...the dark..."
It didn't take the undead long to react. Unsuprisingly, the chancellor had no recollection of meeting the undead. He usually spoke the same words, every time the undead would pass, but now was different.
Before the undead could pinpoint what exactly had changed; the chancellor stopped abruptly. For what seemed an eternity he froze. Unspoken, he stood with a blank stare that and raised his hands forward, embracing the specks of light that echoed past the gate's opening. That
The undead had come to slay to queen. To him, that much was irrefutable. Yet, as he walked on, he couldn't stop the chancellor's cryptic words from falling back on him. The anomaly faded quickly however as, unlike any other time, he was quickly sparring with the face of death.
Smashing the butt of his halberd into the first heavily-armored guard near the right tunnel, he fell back, reaping the blade onto the solid marble flooring. The blade screeched, sparking in an array of gold. His opponent wavered. The guard raised their shield, eerily stepping to the forefront of the hallway in a tactical retreat.
It was there that the undead realized there was something, very, very wrong.
He felt a powerful presense impart from deep within the castle-the eerie, familiar sound of an invader.
In seconds the undead was surrounded. A large complex of soldiers materialized from his left, embrazen with a convoy of equipment. Their entrance was soundless. Planned. Efficient. Coordinated. His vision was suddenly brimmed with enemy swords blazing-the room had quickly become swamped with guards.
No. Guards only divided a fraction of the raiding forces. Each soldier was unlike the kind the undead had seen before, wielding axes, spears, and foreign swords. Their armor was unsightful and fortified: They rushed forward positionally, spreading from both exits in a fan.
Their eyes, however, were what really caught the undead's attention. Instead of the faint glow of the undead, there was... Purple.
In those seconds every escape route was cut and, narrowly, the undead heard the slow whir of gears as the castle's gate closed behind him.
Devoid of hesitation, the he dashed away from the line of soldiers, digging into the floor as a blade of silver cut overhead. He countered steadfast. His claymore switched in and he swiped up, smashing metal in a non-fatal attack.
His grip switched, barring the onslaught with his sleightful hands. He backed up. On his right he transitioned to his claymore, his left a sunlight blade. Whirling the two weapons straight from their sheaths, he clamored backwards; a galeforce of power as he rounded the stairs.
Where there was a line of swordsmen there was the undead's flashing swords—every line faltering in rapid strikes.
At the very edge of his vision he saw the guard by the door. He stood unmoved from his position but, as the undead turned to look, he realized there was only one.
He activated chaos storm.
It was his last ditch move, his trump card. His left hand reflexively pointed upwards, a pillar of power as he stared downward at the stairs below. The motion itself burned his very surroundings—but was stopped by a single sound.
"RRRRRrrraaagggh!"
As his cast readied he raised his gaze. At the bottom of the stairs a single enemy, a mage as it appeared, held up their hands in a powered gesture. The motion struck fast: faster than the undead could move.
"...What?"
In a burst of sheer force he was blown backward. Stipples of green crests whipped him away from the stairs, fragmentating his vision in an explosion of sound. The undead's sight spurred, toppling, as he fell backwards mid-air into the castle's throne room.
He dove down instinctively, driving the tip of his sword into the room's red carpet. The blade sparked, slowly pitching him to a screeching halt. That attack alone was enough that the undead found it difficult to stand. His armor had been battered in dents. The exit itself was swamped with soldiers, a formation of shields and arms-an impossible line of defense.
The undead breathed heavily, gasping for air that didn't seem to be coming. It was too late to break for an escape. It was suicide. The large expanse of the room would be an ideal battleground should his opponents advance but, with an almost uncanny intelligence, their stature remained by the door. He had witnessed these undead being so collected, so coordinated and calm—as if an invisible force were controlling them.
"Why, isn't this a most pleasant surprise! You must be the one who has been causing the ruckus over here. I daresay, you have meddled enough in our affairs, have you not?"
A wash of cold overcame the undead as he stood up, bringing his knight-shield to a defensive position. The voice came from behind him, opposite the doors, and his gaze settled on the voice's location, a figure clad in dark, sitting upon the king's throne.
"I've come in the nick-of-time... so fast in fact, that I have I might have traversed time itself! I feel most welcome here, it is such an expansive world after all."
In one fluid motion the undead turned, flicking his pyromancy flame in the direction of the voice. He kept one watchful eye on the force behind him, as he stepped toward the voice in a slow side-step. A rapid firestorm of lava emitted from the undead's hand—battering the air as fermented lava voided the distance in a split second.
As the fallout of the explosion dissapated from the throne, the dark figure rose callously applauding, "Magnificent. I'm surprised to be graced with seeing you alive. Such ferocity and heart I had not imagined could be so pronounced in a place such as this. You truly have my utmost regards... heh heh..."
The figure's robes stretched far onto the ground where he stood - and from his beard he discerned it was a male - his figure towered over the throne chair. Undoubtedly he was the source of the dramatic increase of undead.
Visibily shaken, the undead grasped his flame and rotated to the outer perimeter of the room. By that line of thought, logically, he would just have to kill him to end it. He grasped the claymore tighter. "No matter... this world doesn't need self-important scum like you." The figure stated, "I've come too far to have it beheld. Isn't that right, my queen?"
The light in the room dimmed; the torches were extinguished.
From the dark, several black orbs materialized, hissing to life as they positioned themselves around the edges of the room.
It was planned all along; he'd strode into this elaborate trap hook, line and sinker.
Behind the undead, a fog wall assimilated.
"Yes... Validar..." The voice - this voice - emanciated to him from every direction, speaking from every wall within eyesight. Its tone was hollow, befitting, as every second the undead lost - scrap by horrific scrap - his humanity. The undead's vision blurred as he faced the queen's chair. It was splashed with dark, much like its adjacent seat. However, seated in the throne...
Sat the queen.
"Together, let us smite him before he advances..." the queen uttered, raising one pointed finger in the undead's direction, "Come now, we shall show him... the dark... and our new collaboration."
He suddenly fell to his knees, the floor accelerating into a spin beneath him. Two forces of terrible power wrought at the undead's soul, reaping at every fiber of his body.
He rolled quickly as a black wall of dark powered past him. Looking carefully he could see the tendrils of ash rise off the attack. It was an unsightly, black lightning. The power, he felt, was out of this world.
"Validar..." the undead spoke, embedding the name to his soul, "I'll kill you."
"Surely you can try, friend. However I'm afraid you've already lost... As we speak my men are escaping the castle walls and into your precious little world-don't worry. I know all about your little quest for rebirth but, I'm afraid your queen and I will have to take care of some unfinished business. Namely ridding this place of light... Heh heh heh... this won't be unlike the world I have come from, it is by nature that I will destroy ALL. HAHAHA! It is DESTINY! It is Grima's wish!"
He stopped, suddenly quiet and raised his fist high into the air. "This is the end, pitiable fool. I only wish I could toy with you a little longer, it would have been quite pleasing. Unfortunately my time here will be quite short. It is by Grima's wish, have you; good-bye!"
"Grima...?"
He felt the innate feeling to dodge, his instincts screaming to move. However, his sense of time only slowed as he stared, the visor of his helmet growing dim of light. He felt strangely terrified. Death had grown numb to his senses—however, as the undead peered into the dark, he felt to his very bones that this was one life he could not take back.
The blast ravaged his very armor ripping through in a fit of screams and black. His vision blackened. He fell back, his shield, useless.
As he was on the brink of consciousness - the end of life - a bright flash of light flickered before him. It was subtle, like a candle lit in the depths of darkness but, only all around him. He felt warm, stickled with life as his world lit up.
"You will not die as of yet, undead, as this is not the end. Just close your eyes and relax you will be protected. Let us make way as I explain. I shall guide you, save you from this fate-I am Nagi."
Thanks for reading :D As you can probably tell from my writing, it's mostly been affected by western influences but, I'm hoping it can at least scrape by fanfic criteria... hopefully. This is my first fanfiction, so I'm welcome to new ideas.
Anywhos, there are a couple glaring problems that I have to address now in this AU before I go on. I tried to make the world a bit more 'realistic' by removing some of the functions that were present in the original game. Like warping for one. And those omg-godmode-I-frames. I also limited the undead's equipment box, or 'the bottomless box', to only what he can carry and his hot-bar.
I'm looking forward to continuing-especially later on when I can write out what goes on around the Ylissean camp. That'll be a bit down the road though, next chapter I'll be bringing in Lucina. It will be the apocalyptic future-to-the-past thing after all. I welcome any feedback I can get and, again, thanks for taking the time to read. I appreciate it :)
- Sxilenced