A/N: Hello! Are you coming from my other story The Forgotten? I hope you enjoy this story as well! If you're not, I hope you like what I have to offer and please check out that story, if you will. It is a RWBY/Bloodborne/Dark Souls crossover.
Anyway, I am fascinated by the lore of Alva and Zullie and couldn't help but flesh it out. Obviously, lore in Dark Souls can only go so far, but that gives me the freedom to be creative with their adventures! This can potentially just be a one-shot, but if it gains enough traction, I would love to write more of these two.
Without further ado, I present The Witch and the Wayfarer.
Chapter 1: Sweet Miracle of Unquestioning Faith
The wayfarer walked back to the lone cathedral that resided at the edge of Lordran with an exquisitely crafted curved greatsword resting on his shoulder. His surcoat of a foreign kingdom that had torn long ago fluttered in the wind, but its regality could still be made out by its rich red color and gold embellishments. He could still recall the very first time he had reached the cathedral after having wandered the lands aimlessly. He had fond memories of traveling with no other purpose than to see what the world had to offer. It was all fascinating and he will always remember the people he met on his journey, but no place made him want to stay. He wanted to see more and wander more. It wasn't until he arrived at this lone cathedral did he begin to feel otherwise. He was met by its servants, who welcomed him in open arms if he was there to meet the Saint. The wayfarer had no idea who that saint could be, but he became immediately skeptical. Other than the land of Thorolund, most clerics and the sort he met turned out to be scoundrels under the guise of the holy.
He entered the cathedral to see for himself who this saint could be. The servants bowed their heads to him as he walked by before they continued about their duties, allowing him to observe the building on his own. He found it odd that they were so trusting as to leave him to his own discretion. What if he were an assassin? He thought they were foolish to not consider that, though he kept these thoughts to himself.
"Oh, hello."
The wayfarer turned his gaze to the source of the voice, finding a woman all dressed in white, with gold laces stitched into the seams. Her blond hair fell down to her waist, gleaming in the light that shined through the cathedral's stained glass windows. She offered the gentlest smile, stirring the heart of the man who wanted nothing more than to travel.
"Welcome, traveler. What brings you to this cathedral? I sense that you are a great warrior. You are a long way from the great city of Lord Gwyn." The woman said. In her dress, in her form, and in her speech, the wayfarer detected nothing but elegance.
"Great warrior? You flatter me." The wayfarer chuckled. "You said it yourself. I am a traveler. And I have traveled here. You must be the saint of this cathedral."
She nodded. "I am Saint Serreta. I have very little to offer you here except in the way of shelter. Or perhaps you seek guidance on your journey?"
The wayfarer stared at her silently. None had ever asked him that before. He was usually welcomed to enjoy festivities or asked to aid them in various tasks. Warriors greater than he offered their blades in combat should he ever need it, but none offered guidance. Not even the false saints did so to gain his trust. "I do not know," he found himself uttering.
Saint Serreta smiled once again. "We never do know. Such is the beauty of being human."
The wayfarer nodded slowly, as he picked up the blade from his shoulder, allowing it to rest in both his hands, presenting himself as no danger to the saint before leaning it against a pillar. "Tell me, Saint. Why do you reside here, so far from civilization? Who do you expect to come here?"
"You came to me, did you not, traveler?" She said, matter-of-factly. The saint paced over to one of the windows, the stained glass shining all colors of light onto her figure. She turned her back to him, all too trusting of an outsider such as himself.
The wayfarer sighed lightly in defeat as that answered his question. "That I did." He sat down on one of the cathedral's benches, staring down the statue of Gwyn at the end of the cathedral. The wayfarer removed his helmet, placing it beside him on the bench, revealing unkempt black hair underneath, matted from dirt and sweat from his long journey.
"Those who require my help always find their way here. Such is the workings of fate." Serreta looked back at the man clad in armor, eying him peculiarly. "Perhaps it was fate that brought you here for a bath," she joked.
The wayfarer stared at the woman in disbelief before laughing heartily. He never would have expected a saint of all people to joke in any manner. "Perhaps it did…" He turned his head back to the statue. "But fate does not exist. It was a mere coincidence that I happened here."
"And what is a coincidence if not fate? It is only another word to explain the same concept." Serreta justified as she made her way to him, seating herself next to the warrior.
He looked to the saint, raising an eyebrow as to why someone of her prestige would sit next to a dirty vagabond such as himself. His lips curled into the slightest smile, receiving one in return from her. She was not like the other so called saints he had met. She was real. She was true. "Maybe. I do not know. Such is the beauty of being human."
Serreta held a hand over her mouth, but he could see her shoulders quickly rising and falling from a silent laughter. She lowered her hand when composure returned to her. "Yes, that is right."
The wayfarer chuckled as he shook his head before finally standing up. "Well, this has been a nice stop, but I best get going. There is more to my adventure."
"If that is your wish." Serreta stood up as well before bowing to the warrior. "Blessings upon your journey."
The wayfarer smiled once again. This short resting stop has been more memorable than he had anticipated. He picked up his helmet from the bench and adorned it once more, becoming a faceless vagabond once again. The warrior casually picked up the Murakumo as he made his way back to the cathedral's entrance. He placed a hand against the large wooden doors, but stopped himself from opening it when he heard voices from the other side. The warrior leaned his head against the door to listen.
"This looks like the place."
"I told you. It's just one girl and a bunch of hare-brains that serve her. Easy gig."
"If it's so easy, how come no one's pillaged the place yet?"
"I've heard rumors that everyone just leaves this place alone because the girl is most holy, or some shit like that. She's just a loiter-sack, if you ask me. This is just a long time coming."
"Is something the matter?" Serreta's voice came from over his shoulder.
The wayfarer turned back at the saint, placing a hand on her shoulder. She did not flinch. She was far too trusting. "Hide yourself and the others. I will handle this."
"What is wrong?" She asked, concerned.
"Hide." He said once more, a sternness now in his voice. The saint hesitated before nodding, hurrying off as she spread word to the servants of the cathedral.
The wayfarer turned back to the door and opened it abruptly, knocking over someone from the other side.
"Hey, what the—!" The man on the ground shouted, before cutting himself off after seeing the armored warrior before him, who had an oversized curved sword resting on his shoulder. "Damn it," the bandit cursed as he scrambled back up to his allies. "I thought you said this place didn't have any knights!"
"Hey, I only told you what I knew!"
The knight closed the door behind him before counting them from behind his visor. Five bandits. That was quite a few of them for him to pay attention to while also preventing any from entering the cathedral. He would have to be careful. "Leave this place."
One of the bandits rose his hands in resignation. "I didn't come here looking for a fight, guys! You said this would be easy!"
The other four armed themselves, each carrying a different weapon: a knife, a club, a woodcutting axe, and a smithing hammer. All without a doubt scavenged or stolen. "Don't worry. This will still be easy. It's only one and there's five of us!"
The fifth one gritted his teeth before taking up his crossbow, aiming it at the wayfarer. "I still don't like this." The cowardly bandit fired a bolt at the wayfarer, but the weak construction of the old and neglected crossbow was incapable of firing it at a high enough velocity to pierce the wayfarer's armor. The bolt simply bounced off the breastplate. Sounds of disapproval were shared amongst the other four before they all charged him. The warrior began to slash in front of them to force them to flinch back. When they did just as he predicted, he feinted it, instead allowing the momentum to carry him forward, bashing his shoulder into one of the bandits. His armor-clad body easily broke the bandit's ribs before he was flung back by the force, into the ground. Not wasting a moment, the wayfarer picked up the bandit's knife from the ground, throwing it straight at the throat of the hammer-wielding bandit. The man dropped the smithing hammer to hopelessly clutch at his throat. He gripped the handle of the knife, much to the protest of his allies. "No, don't!" The man pulled it out, the life immediately leaving his eyes as blood spurted out of the wound.
The three left watched in horror before turning their attention to the armored warrior once again. "You bastard!" The axe-wielding bandit began charging forward, pulling the weapon far over his shoulder with both hands as he did so. The wayfarer shook his head at how easy the bandit made it to read the attacks before effortlessly parrying the strike to the side with the back of the Murakumo before a quick twirl of the wrist brought the belly of the blade to the man's neck. The curve of the blade easily sliced across the bandit's neck, bringing him to his knees before falling over, staining the ground crimson as the thick red liquid continued to flow from the fatal cut. He picked up the axe from the ground, ducking an attack of the club-wielding bandit before swinging the axehead into the bandit's abdomen, drawing the head out as much as possible as he pulled it to ensure death. The warrior turned his attention to the crossbow-wielding bandit, who began shaking. Was it from fear? Or perhaps he was itching to kill him.
As he approached the bandit, the wayfarer threw the axe down at the writhing one on the ground, who had been incapacitated by his broken ribs before his skull was caved in. The bandit breathed heavily as the crossbow slipped from his fingers, his knees giving away as well, falling to the ground with it. The wayfarer raised the Murakumo, resting it on the bandit's shoulder, who closed his eyes in anticipation of an execution.
"Stop it!" He heard the saint cry out. He listened to the hurried footsteps behind him, but he did not allow his eyes to leave the bandit. Saint Serreta practically slammed herself against the warrior's back, but he did not budge. She wrapped her arms around his waist in an attempt to pull him away, but to no avail. "Stop it, please!" She cried once more. "No one should have to die…Please, just stop." The wayfarer heard soft sobs as she weakly pulled against his body, pleading that he would stop further bloodshed. He sighed before pulling the blade away from the man's neck, holding it at his side. The saint finally gave up her futile effort and looked at the bandit from behind the wayfarer, before stepping in front of him. "I-I'm sorry. I have nothing to compensate you with. I do not have what you are seeking for. Will you please leave?"
"You…" The bandit began, as he looked up at the saint, wiping tears from his eyes. His face quickly twisted into an ugly rage as he screamed at the top of his lungs. "You killed my friends!" The bandit moved with surprising speed, pulling a knife hidden in his boot and stabbing it towards the saint's side.
The wayfarer, unable to properly deflect the bow, shot his hand in front of the blade. It easily pierced the leather of the glove and through his hand, only stopping at the plate that covered the back. He grimaced from the pain before roaring in anger, curling his fingers around the blade and wrestling it out of the bandit's hand. The warrior kicked the bandit in the chest, knocking him onto his back before stomping into the bandit's neck, making a discernible snapping sound. He took a step away, choosing to leave the knife in his hand to prevent excessive bleeding before looking back at the saint, who covered her mouth at the barbaric sight, but couldn't look away from the corpses he had left behind. There was a long silence between them, only the sound of the wayfarer's heavy breaths to fill the evening air. Finally, the saint chose to speak. "Why did you kill them…?" She managed to quietly ask.
"You are a fool," he growled. "These stampcrabs were right, you are all just a bunch of hare-brains."
"Excuse me?"
"These people had come here to hurt you! They were going to pillage this cathedral, kill all the servants, and kill you. That's not if they rape you first. And what do you do? You place yourself before him with no plans to protect yourself. How naïve can you be?!" The wayfarer scolded, pointing a finger at the woman in the same manner. "And how could you not have anyone to protect you?! A saint should have a knight to serve her and protect her. I do not care if you had never been harmed before—You have to be prepared!" He yelled at the woman, who flinched at his shouting. "What if I hadn't been here?! What would have become of you and this cathedral?!"
"Then do you not think it was fate that brought you here?" She uttered, albeit hesitantly, for fear of the man's ire. The statement brought pause to the wayfarer. "If you prefer, you may call it a coincidence. This was the first time such an incident had occurred…And it was the first time I required someone's aid." The sudden spark of determination in Serreta's eyes were not lost on the wayfarer as she stepped towards him, staring him down unwaveringly. "For the first time, someone came to me, not in their own time of need, but in mine. You are correct. I am naïve of the workings of most of the world outside this cathedral. I believe only in the good nature that I know exists in the hearts of all, but that blinded me from foreseeing that I could put myself and my servants in danger."
Saint Serreta gently lifted the wayfarer's hand before gripping the hilt of the knife. For whatever reason, he trusted that she would do him no harm. She carefully pulled the knife out, the blood immediately beginning to pool in the palm of his hand. The saint tossed the knife into the dirt before placing her hand over his, staining her palm red as well. Without saying a word, her hand began glowing in a brilliant golden light before she pulled it away, revealing the now completely healed hand. The wayfarer rose his hand in the light to study it before touching his palm where the wound once once. A miracle. Except Serreta did not require singing a single tale or a catalyst to direct the power. She was a true saint.
"Traveler."
He returned his gaze to the woman, whose palm was still stained red. The spark in her eyes had not left her. "Please, tell me your name."
The wayfarer stared at her, uncertain of what her intentions were, not that she would be able to tell through his visor. "Alva."
"Alva. You are correct. I need a knight." Serreta took a single step towards, as if she drew all her purpose with it. "Will you be my knight?"
The wayfarer had never been a knight before. He never wished to serve a noble, for it would shackle him to one place. For as long as he could remember, he had been on the road, traveling and seeing the different kingdoms. The thought of settling down had never occurred to him, but something about this woman made him think otherwise. For the first time, he thought that perhaps he had seen enough. "Yes."
"Then, welcome to this cathedral as Sir Alva, the first knight of Saint Serreta." The saint smiled brighter than he had seen before. She uttered two more words quietly that could have easily been lost if the wind were any stronger. "Thank you."
"Sir Alva!" The voice of one of the cathedral's servants called out to him, breaking him from his thoughts.
The knight looked to the source, finding the cathedral servant he had become most fond of—Grant. He jogged enthusiastically towards the knight, waving at him as soon as he got Alva's attention. The knight laughed heartily at the sight of his friend, clapping him on the shoulder before pulling him into an embrace. "Grant!"
"Sir Alva!" The servant cheered before he took a step back. "You have returned! Were you able to discover any news of the illness?"
The knight sadly shook his head, much to Grant's disappointment. "I talked to the village leaders and heralds in the nearest surrounding towns. They say there have been no reports of any new or mysterious illnesses in all of Lordran."
"I see…" Grant trailed off. The servant turned his back to the knight, walking away before stopping one final time. "Our Lady wishes to see you."
"I will go see her immediately." Alva affirmed, watching the servant nod his head before returning to his duties. The knight sighed, making his way through the cathedral's doors and up a spiral set of stairs to the saint's chambers. He rose his knuckles up to the door, curling his fingers multiple times in hesitation. Before he could knock, he heard the saint's voice from the other side. "Come in, Alva."
The knight pushed the door open, finding the saint sitting up in her bed, offering him a smile. However, it had lost its normal radiance she carried. This smile was somber. "How did you know it was me?" He asked as he closed the door behind him.
"I recognize all of the footsteps that walk in this cathedral. I look forward to yours the most." She said. It lacked her usual playfulness. Now, she said it as if she would never get to hear them again. Alva chose to stand at her bedside, but Serreta grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to pull him down. "Please, sit."
He looked between his armor and the clean, silken sheets. "I am dirty."
"It does not matter. I want you to sit beside me."
The knight nodded, dusting himself off as best as he could before seating himself on the bed with her. He took off his helmet, placing it on the bedside table. He returned his gaze to the saint, who shifted her hand down from his wrist to his hand. Alva frowned as he watched her wrap her fingers around his palm. The knight enclosed his fingers around hers. "How do you feel?"
"I no longer feel sick."
"That is wonderful!" Alva's lips curled into a smile as he rejoiced, but it quickly disappeared as he looked up at Serreta's face, who looked ever more downtrodden. "Lady Serreta, what troubles you?"
"I died, Alva." The saint muttered, her grip tightening around his hand as her eyes stared blankly at her lap.
The knight frowned, not understanding what she meant. She was clearly sitting with him, very much alive. Not lively, perhaps, but alive. She did not appear to be jesting with him either. Serreta would never joke in this manner, so she was either being as cryptic as usual, or there was more to this than meets the eye. "Lady Serreta, what are you talking about?" Alva squeezed her hand in return. "You are right here with me."
"I died, Alva." The saint repeated. "I finally succumbed to the illness…and yet, I woke up." She gripped his hand as tightly as she could, but the dainty woman could only muster so much strength.
"If that is true…is that not a good thing?" He asked, in hopes that perhaps that would be comforting. "What you're describing right now is immortality. That's something even the Gods in Anor Londo lack. There are countless tales of men who went on to search for such a thing."
"No, this is wrong." Serreta emphasized, shivering as she did so. "I shouldn't be alive, Alva. If this is what immortality is, I don't want it. I never wanted it. How could anyone want this?"
"Would you not consider this a blessing?" Her knight attempted to assure her.
"No. No, I would not." Serreta finally looked up at him with nothing but pain in her eyes. "This is not a blessing, but a curse." The saint turned slightly to show her back to him before slowly undressing.
"Lady Serre—!" Alva began to exclaim upon the sudden action, but cut himself off when she exposed her bare back to him. Upon her smooth and soft skin was a single blemish that resided in her left shoulder blade—a black gaping hole. The knight studied it silently, but was able to see naught but darkness from the seemingly bottomless pitch-black hole. It was indeed a curse.
"When I woke up, I was cursed with this unsightly thing. I sense the darkness of humanity from it. Everything I have worked for as a saint…and I have been tainted." Serreta said with a soft sigh.
"No, that is not true. You are the best of all of us. No one can disregard that." Alva argued. "This mark does not make you any less of the person you already proved yourself to be. Besides, no one will know about it as long as you keep it hidden."
The saint shook her head. "It does not matter if they do not know. I know. It is not right for a saint, cursed such as I, to tend to those who seek guidance." Serreta wrapped her robe around herself once more.
"Even if you are cursed, who better to come to in their time of need than you?" The knight tried to reassure her again, but it was obvious it was falling on deaf ears when she turned to him.
"Please, Alva. Leave me. Leave this place." Serreta said, but her eyes weren't entirely honest.
"As if I would do that," Alva refused. "I do not care about this curse. I will remain by your side."
"Alva, please. Don't make me beg you. You deserve better than to remain idle here." The saint said woefully.
"Was it not you who said that our meeting was fate? Let me stay." Alva spoke gently.
Saint Serreta stared at her knight, admittedly touched by his unwavering loyalty. She managed a smile as she placed her other hand over his. "Then I will change my request. Please, go find a cure for this curse. It doesn't matter how long it takes. Come back when you find it. I will be waiting for you."
Alva opened his mouth, but hesitated. "That would still mean I would have to leave you."
"Alva, you are the only one who I can trust with this task. You have traversed so many lands before. Who better to seek this cure than you?" The saint reasoned.
There was a long pause as Alva kept his head down, his eyes fixated on their hands held together. "Fine," he finally answered. "I will go find this cure. I swear it on my knighthood." He looked up at the saint with conviction. "I will not idle. I will begin this search immediately." The knight stood up from the bed, almost regretting the decision when his hand left hers. He picked up his helmet, placing it over his head once again and made for the door. "Wait for me."
"I will wait for you."
The knight closed the door behind him, running into Grant right outside. "Oh, good. I was hoping to see you before you left."
"You're leaving again, Sir Alva?" The cathedral servant asked.
"Yes. I am going to find a cure for Saint Serreta. But…I have to know that she will be safe here without me." The knight looked back at the door to her chambers.
"Of course. This is not the first time you have left the cathedral, Sir Alva." Grant reassured.
"This time, I am afraid that I will be gone for quite awhile. Likely far longer than ever before. Please, Grant. Promise me you will keep the Lady safe."
Grant couldn't see his expression through the visor, but never had he heard the knight this serious before. "I swear it, Sir Alva. You have trained us in the way of the sword so that we may all properly serve and protect her. The day has come. Please, trust us."
The knight pat the cathedral servant on the shoulder before walking past him to begin his journey. "Thank you, Grant." And so, Alva the Knight became Alva the Wayfarer once again.
Grant watched the knight leave before knocking on the saint's door. She called for him to come in from the other side before he opened the door. He studied her face carefully, seeing nothing but pain. "There is no cure, is there, Saint Serreta?"
"No, not for a curse like this." The saint admitted.
"Then why did you send him off on a fruitless task?"
"It was the only way to get him to leave this place. A man like that cannot remain idly here. I will not keep him shackled to me. He will leave this place and meet someone irreplaceable. Such is his fate." She offered a smile, as pained as it was. "Someone who will be far more important to him than I."
"You can accept that, Saint Serreta?"
"I can."
Alva decided the first place he would search for any information regarding the cure for the Undead Curse should be the Great Swamp, which resided on the outskirts of Lordran. It was an inhospitable land, unwanted by all except for those who lived there. The Great Swamp was populated by all sorts of outcasts and exiles. While often overlooked by others, they never shied their eyes away from the outside world. Where better to get information than the place that is always watching? The knight wandered through the Great Swamp, receiving wary stares ever since he entered the decadent area. He couldn't blame them. A knight such as he walking through what was essentially the slums of the world usually did not amount to anything positive for the unfortunate folk living there. Hopefully they would at least give him the chance to speak before jumping to conclusions. The knight stopped at one of the huts, knocking on its door—which was more like poorly nailed planks than a door.
"The fuck ya want?" A raggedy voice called out from inside.
"Excuse me, but I am a knight looking for—"
"Don't care."
Alva sighed, figuring that would be the answer he would receive. "Just tell me what you know. You don't even have to step out of your home."
"Tell ya what I know, eh? You, a knight?" Alva heard the man inside the hut spit at the word. "A knight who got everything just worked out for him, yeah? What, got bored of ya fancy life and came here to mock the rest of us, eh? Fuck off. Comin' to me—to us for help?" The man inside the hut scoffed.
"It will only be a moment…" Alva trailed off, knowing he wasn't going to get through to the man either way.
"Did'ja not hear me the first time? I said fuck off! Want me to burn ya? Need a fireball in ya ass to get you to understand?!"
"Alright, alright. I'll be on my way." Alva sighed heavily as he waved his hand off towards the hut as if the man could see it. The knight shook his head, looking down at his feet as he walked away. The sound of an old man's laughter is what got him to look up.
"Oh, don't pay the folk here any mind. How can they take care of outsiders when they can barely take care of themselves?" The old man remarked.
Alva studied the strangely cheery old man for the circumstances of the Great Swamp. His personality was not what the knight was expecting from this place, but he certainly looked the part. The old man wore a blindfold that covered much of his face, yet Alva was certain that the man could see him. Most of those who lived in the Great Swamp adorned themselves with articles of nature, and this old man was no exception. His raggedy attire was a combination of woven cloth and raven feathers, with several feathers sticking out of the collar. "A community only exists when it helps one another."
The old man chuckled. "I agree with you. But they do not love one another because they do not love themselves."
"Does that include yourself, old timer?" Alva asked curiously.
"Not quite, because I'm willing to help you." The old man gave the knight a kind smile. "What brings you to the Great Swamp? Did you come to learn pyromancies?"
"No. I came in search of a cure for the Undead Curse. Do you know it?" Alva asked with hope in his voice.
"The Undead Curse?" The old man made a fearful expression. "I have only heard rumors. Do you know someone who is a afflicted?"
Alva only nodded.
"I see…" The old man shook his head. "I am afraid that I know of no such cure. Until now, I only knew of the Undead Curse as a rumor. I would like to think of myself as one of the more knowledgable people here in the Great Swamp, so I do not believe you will find an answer here."
The knight sighed heavily, but nodded his understanding. "Coming here was a waste of time then. Thank you anyway, old man."
The old man watched as the knight began to walk away before he had a sudden revelation. "Wait, wait!" Alva turned back to the man, hopeful that he would have any information to lead him to his next destination. "There is one here in the Great Swamp who I am certain knows more than I. However, I must warn you, she is ousted even among those who live here."
The knight frowned behind his visor. An outcast among outcasts? "Why is that?"
"She is a witch," the old man answered. "Since the Witch of Izalith became the Bed of Chaos and brought forth the demons, witches have been outcasts from society. The witch who resides here does not take kindly to anyone, but that will not be your only obstacle. The eyes here in the Great Swamp are always watching, and none take kindly to the witch either. If they see you approach her, they will likely take action."
Alva shook his head at how needlessly complicated the situation was. "You don't seem to be unfavorable of witches yourself. Why haven't you done anything about it?"
"Now, now. There is only so much this old man can do. It is up to you young ones, now."
"Sounds like an excuse to me," Alva smirked.
The old man chortled. "Maybe so."
Alva put out his hand. "Tell me your name, old timer. I am Alva."
The old man took the knight's hand in his, shaking it with a smile. "Cornyx. You may find the witch's hut on the highest hill. I wish you luck on your sworn duty."
The knight nodded in thanks before waving the old man off, turning to go search for the witch. The hut on the hill was easy to spot, as it easily stood out from the rugged grasslands and treacherous swamps. He approached the hill, feeling all the prying eyes on him. Alva cursed to himself. He'd rather not have to fight an entire group of people adept at willing fire at their fingertips. The knight finally reached the top of the hill, studying the hut. It contrasted greatly with the others in the Great Swamp. While all the other homes were adorned with articles of nature, this one was thoughtfully built with a solid construction. He raised his knuckles to knock on its door, but a voice sounded from the other side first. "I will not help you, knight."
Alva grumbled. Why did he even allow himself to be optimistic over a witch. He should have expected this response. "Why not?"
"Why must everything require reason?" He heard the feminine voice growl. "You asked me for help, and I gave you my answer."
"I had yet to ask you a thing." Alva corrected.
There was a pause before he heard the witch snicker from behind the door. "I suppose you are correct. Fine. I will humor you."
The door opened, but the witch was sitting at the far end of the hut, across from it. She must have used her magic to open it. The knight stepped inside, looking back to see the door immediately shutting behind him. He made a mental prayer that he would be able to walk out the same way he came.
"Well? Out with it, knight." The witch stood up, approaching him. She stepped into the light, revealing a purple dress with frilled cuffs, more befitting of royalty than one who lives in the Great Swamp. The most noticeable part of her attire was her purple pointed hat, the symbol of the heretical magical crafts. The witch looked up at the knight, giving pause to all of his thoughts. The Great Swamp had more surprises than he had anticipated, but this one tops them all. To think there was a woman whose beauty rivaled that of Saint Serreta resided here. She had short black hair and dark brown eyes that peered into his visor. "Did you not hear me the first time? You are testing my patience."
"Pardon my intrusion." Alva snapped out of his captivation by her beauty, something that was not lost on the witch. "Would you know of any cure for the Undead Curse?"
The witch frowned. "The Undead Curse?" She paced over to a wall where her stave leaned against, picking it up in hand. "You should just go home. Forget this journey."
"What? Why?" The knight asked, bewildered.
"I do not know who sent you on this fool's errand, but such a cure does not exist." The witch looked back to the knight with a smirk. "You were lied to, knight."
Alva curled a hand into a fist. "She would never lie to me."
The witch sneered. "Oh, she doesn't does she? Well, if it makes you feel any better, everybody lies, knight."
"Maybe. But not her." Alva said adamantly.
The witch had difficulty containing her ire. "What makes you so certain that she doesn't lie, knight? You think she's perfect?" She snickered. "Being afflicted with the Undead Curse is as far from perfect as one can get."
Alva immediately pointed the Murakumo at her, his free hand shaking with rage. "Watch your tongue, witch, or you might just lose it."
"Oh, how scary." The witch spoke sarcastically. She pointed her stave at the knight in return. "I will allow you to leave right now and never return to this place. I suggest you do so, because you may never again see the light of day."
Alva wasn't certain he could defeat the witch, who was undoubtedly adept in all manners of magic, particularly dark sorceries. He couldn't risk being defeated here. He still must find the cure for Saint Serreta. The knight lowered his sword and turned to leave. "Goodbye, witch."
She watched him walk away as she returned the stave to lean against the wall. "Goodbye, knight." With a flick of the hand, the door to her hut opened, but the two were greeted by a mob.
"Shackin' it up with the witch now, are ya?" One of the men accused Alva from the mob. The knight recognized that voice as the rambunctious man he first tried to speak to. "We're sick of ya. Leave this place, outsiders!"
Alva stared daggers at them, though it went unnoticed as the visor hid his expression. "I was just leaving."
"We're talkin' about the both of ye," another raggedy man stepped forward from the crowd, pointing a finger behind the knight.
The witch grimaced, opening her mouth to shout at the mob, but stopped when the knight in front of her spoke instead. "I don't see why she has to go anywhere. This is her home."
"We don't care. We want her gone." A woman said, sporting similar garb to Cornyx said. The woman raised a palm, igniting it in flames by simple will. "Step out of the way if you don't want to get burned, too."
"That will not do," Alva said with a steely demeanor, holding the oversized curved sword in front of him. "You all will leave her alone." The witch stared at the knight curiously. Why was he protecting her? This man had absolutely no obligation to her. The only thing he should be caring about is whoever he is searching this cure for, and even then, she doubted that anyone can be as dedicated, or love anyone as he seemed to.
The knight's response earned snickers among the mob before them. "Fine," the woman grinned. "Then burn with her!" The woman raised her ignited palm towards the knight, blasting a cone of fire. Alva heard hurried footsteps behind him, a stave suddenly shooting into his peripherals. Dark magic engulfed the stave before the knight and the witch were surrounded by a distorted space. The fire reflected against the dark energy, bouncing straight back at the caster. "Cuculus!" Some of the mob exclaimed as the woman was felled by her own pyromancy, but fortunately for her, her damp clothes from the swamp were inflammable.
"Okay, knight. Prove me wrong." The witch whispered into his ear before she began running off.
"Wha—Hey!" Alva looked to the woman who was already making her escape, the knight beginning to scramble after her. He looked behind him, seeing the even more furious mob chasing after them. "Persistent lot," he grumbled.
Ahead of him, he saw the witch suddenly stop and turn around, pointing her stave in his direction. "Get behind me, knight!"
Alva watched the stave channeling energy at its tip, forcing him into a full sprint. A stave in the hands of any competent sorcerer is far more intimidating than a crossbow. A stave wielded by a witch? Downright terrifying. He came to a full stop as soon as he was behind the witch, looking back to see her plan fall into action. The stave emitted a dark fog that stretched out in from of them, bringing the pursuing mob to a grinding halt. They each made attempts to cover their noses and mouths from the mist, but they showed its affects as soon as they came into contact with it. The Great Swamp inhabitants began keeling over and wheezing, clearly having been poisoned by the dark mist. The witch turned back to the knight with a smirk before calmly walking away. Alva took one final glance at the coughing mob, scanning for Cornyx. After being satisfied by not seeing the old man among them, the knight took after the witch.
The two had yet to leave the Great Swamp, but they were far enough from the main locality where most of its inhabitants reside. Night had fallen upon them and the weather had chosen to take a turn for the worse, forcing the pair to seek shelter. It wasn't long before they were able find an alcove that provided enough protection from the elements. Alva immediately slumped against the stone wall before sliding onto the ground with heavy sigh. The witch followed behind him, raising her stave in the air, casting a sorcery that flicked all of the dirt and grime off the both of them. The knight looked down at his cleaned armor. "Thank you," he tiredly managed.
The witch didn't say anything in return, instead silently seating herself across from the knight. She stared at the wayfarer, her eyes reminding him that of hickory—a beautiful dark brown, yet unyielding. The silence between them was only filled by the sounds of the rain echoing into the alcove before the witch chose to speak. "Why?"
"Why?" Alva repeated as he picked up the helmet from off his head, letting out a soft sigh as the cool air met his face.
"Why did you stay back there? You had no obligation to me. You could have left. You should have. That was the logical thing to do." The witch said, her eyes unchanging as they continuously inspected the man.
Alva wondered the same thing. Was it his sense of honor? That couldn't be it. A knight he may be, he was only relatively recently anointed as one for the Saint. At heart, Alva knew he was still that same vagabond. His own azure hues stared back at the witch, who was surprisingly waiting for his answer patiently. Ultimately, the knight only shrugged. "Why must everything require reason?"
The witch stared at the man in disbelief, a snort escaping her before she began to laugh. "Are you absolutely mad? You took on all those pyromancers without a plan?"
"It worked out, didn't it?" Alva shrugged again.
"Right, because you handled that all by yourself," the witch sarcastically responded, pulling the pointed hat from her head and placing it in her lap. The man was taken by her appearance once again, something that again, was not lost on the witch.
"Of course." Alva affirmed, nodding his head. He watched as the witch's lips slowly curl into a smile before a laugh escaped her once again. The knight found himself laughing with her. It was contagious. Silence fell between them again before he spoke again. "What did you mean back there? You said prove me wrong."
The witch smirked before she began to crawl up towards the knight. "What are you doing?" Alva asked with a frown. The witch pressed her body against his as she leaned her face against his ear. "I told you, there is no cure. Why don't you forget about her. Just think about me."
The knight pushed her away as he himself leaned in the opposite direction. "You must mistake my benevolence for carelessness. I have not forgotten what my sworn duty is."
The witch shook her head as she sat herself in front of the man. Her smirk changed to a small smile. She didn't believe there was anyone who was dedicated enough to continue an impossible task. No man who could love one enough to do so without question. And yet, here he was right in front of her. Maybe she would allow herself to believe in him. "What is your name?"
The knight looked at the witch strangely. "Alva."
"Alva. My name is Zullie. I will aid you in your search for this cure."
A/N: This chapter's title is a quote from Kurt Vonnegut's Mother Night, "Say what you will about the sweet miracle of unquestioning faith, I consider a capacity for it terrifying and absolutely vile."
I typically do not explicitly say what magic spell was used in the chapter. In case it was confusing, these are the hexes that Zullie used in this chapter: Twisted Barricade; Dark Fog.
Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it as much as I liked writing it. Please, let me know if you would like me to continue this. It would be super motivating!
