Nearly a thousand years, and still he sat in the same empty hallway. Smough presided over the lower floor, hunched and hateful, shooting occasional glances upwards. It was no secret they despised one another, but they were the greatest warriors left at Anor Londo's disposal. Gwynevere had to be protected, no matter the cost. She was the last beacon of hope that the people had, and so long as she sat the throne everyone knew that someday, everything would be okay.
That's what he told himself, of course. He saw it every day, the darkness creeping closer and the uninterrupted tide of undeath heaving itself at the city of gods. Few made it to Lordran sane, and even fewer past Sen's Fortress. The number that persevered all the way to Lord Gwyn's keep could be counted on one hand, but none had made it past these final two protectors. It is whispered, however, that the current one proclaimed to be the Chosen Undead is powerful, more so than any that came before him.
Ornstein was not afraid, though. A thousand years he has stood sentinel for Gwynevere as the flames faded, and thousands before that he struck out against any that disobeyed Lord Gwyn. It was his repentance, to serve the gods' will unquestioningly. Millennia since he had betrayed Lord Gwyn and sided with the Immortal Dragons, and millennia since he had been struck down and cast from grace into the lowest of poverties. Every year, every day since a fight to prove his lesson has been learned, that the gods are loyal to their followers and magnanimous in their rule.
He should have been killed on the spot, sitting there amidst the dead bones of his drake mount, but Gwyn showed no anger or hatred for his oldest son, merely disgust. He was not killed, not even physically struck. His name, however, was scoured from the records, his statues smashed, and his paintings burned. Gwyn had his youngest, the wretched Darkmoon, use the power of Lordsoul of Light to cast the greatest illusion the world will ever know. From that day on, no one knew the name of the old God of War, not even himself.
Centuries were dedicated to fighting upwards through the ranks, proving that although his name was taken, his drive was not. Standing atop the a cliff to dive at the enemies below, spear in hand, was all it took for the people to name him after the great birds of prey that sat on the cliffs.
Ornstein.
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Lightning no longer came when he called, but that was no surprise. Even gods needed faith, and he had none left to spare. Drangleic was a horrible, squalid home, but it was all the home he had.
Countless years, time beyond human understanding was devoted to the family that punished him. He accepted this burden without question, for it was a burden of his own crafting. All he did since that fateful defeat at the hands of his father was work ceaselessly to earn their forgiveness, and he honestly believed that he had. Gwynevere was always kinder than their father, and as soon as the First Flame was rekindled, she would see his pious and humble service for what it was, an apology.
But no, now he understood what the truth was. They called him a traitor, cruel and deceitful, but now, here he stood in some forsaken land after giving everything in service to the house.
Gwynevere had abandoned him. Had she asked him to stay and defend Anor Londo, he would have taken the duty as another job to be done, one more stone to place in rebuilding the trust of his family. She did not ask him, however. She had been secreted away in the dark of the night by her royal guard and Gwyndolin cast his second greatest illusion.
One thousand years, he had stayed in the keep, protecting a lie that that presided over a falsehood. They had not asked him to stay, had not given him this assignment. That had tricked him, into it, letting him believe it was his final act of diligence. They still did not trust him, and they never would.
No longer a god, and no longer a stalwart defender he was simply an Old Dragon Slayer.
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The Lion's armour had grown heavy and burdensome, and so was cast off. The Dragonslayer's Spear felt unwieldy and slow, and so was thrown to the ground. Gods could rage and throw their fits, but their impotence was clear.
The Primevil Lords were gone, and the gods had abandoned their flock to whatever fate awaited them. It was a world where humanity cowered in fear of predators and the gods huddled around the vestiges of the old world, seeking a bit of solace in this new age that was so hostile to them. This was the home to neither man nor deity, and so he strode it victorious.
Stripped of everything by his father, deceived by his brother, and deserted by his sister, what a poor lot in life he possessed. But now he understood his place in the world. His father had inadvertently made him great in his attempt to humble.
The time was gone when gods could sit and rule from on high, and humanity squirmed in their own filth. Only those that could survive by their own merit would see this darkness through.
The lightning came again when he called. No longer did he plead his father's name to make it come, instead he invoked no name. For that was who he was, no matter how much he sought to change that and become accepted again. Too great to ever be a man, but struck down to low to be a god, he was the perfect survivor in such a world as this.
A Nameless King.