Disclaimer: Dark Souls and all its characters belong to From Software, and Namco Bandai Games.
Counting Stars
When she crosses the border on foot into Drangleic, the sky doesn't become darker, the air doesn't become fouler, the wind doesn't become colder. The world does feel heavier though (but maybe that's just her overactive imagination giving her hopes and fears a physical weight).
The road has been long and hot and dry and dusty, so she takes a moment to lift her iron mask and wipe thick beads of sweat from her brow and the nape of her neck.
She doesn't wear the mask because she likes the stifling heat or the feeling of metal constantly against her skin. She wears the mask because it prevents others from seeing her face. It prevents her from seeing her face.
It hides the fact that she's slowly rotting.
Lucatiel lowers her mask once more and turns north. She doesn't know where to go in Drangleic, but it's too hot where she is and north is as good a direction as any.
Perhaps once Drangleic was a land of men and great souls, but now Drangleic is a land of monsters.
She cuts down things that have the shape of men but nothing of humanity in them. They're clothed in tatters and recognize no words, only violent want. They shamble loudly and even if they did not their coming is obvious by the rancid stench they exude. But by far the worst thing about them is their skin.
Their skin is greenish-black and bubbles and peels and when her sword bites into their flesh, dark clotted slime oozes out.
It reminds her all too much of the last time she looked into a mirror without her mask.
She tries not to think about it, instead, she tries to focus on the little rush of… of life that she gets every time she cuts down an enemy.
It's not the same rush that comes with killing a truly living human, it's not nearly as intense, but it's still something.
When she can't ignore the smell, sounds, the sight of necrotic flesh any longer, she retreats.
She finds a cave and sits by a pile of dying embers that surround the sword of a long ago fallen hero.
Perhaps some other desperate – no, not desperate, she's not desperate. Perhaps some other wanderer lit a camp fire here and forgot to smother the flames before moving on.
She stands by the flames for a long while, how long she isn't sure. She doesn't want to leave the glowing coals. Something about them makes her feel… something about them makes her feel right. But maybe that's just her imagination again.
There's movement in the dark, and she's almost drawn her sword before she realizes it's just another traveler.
The traveler pauses at the blade that stabs the ground amongst the coals and kneels down and blows on them and all in a rush fire leaps up, kindled again with new life. The feeling of rightness intensifies.
Why hadn't she thought to do that?
All about the traveler hangs a sense of destiny, if not purpose. It is disconcerting, to say the least, and so she does not approach. She is not in the habit of reaching out to people anyway.
The traveler spares her a glance and then moves on, headed forward into the blackness of the cave beyond.
The fortress she comes to is old.
Near the entrance, she finds a dying fire, like the one she came upon in the cave. Try as she might, she can't relight it. Her breath has no effect on the embers and all she accomplishes is to blow away flecks of ash from the cooling cinders.
The creatures here are different than the ones she's fought thus far. The dogs are feral and their teeth rip through cloth like razors. The once-men are covered entirely in bandages – and for that she is thankful.
She's wandering the fortress, aimless, when she finds it.
It's warm, soft, shadow-like even. When she peers at it, it looks almost human. From the corner of her eye, it looks like her.
When she holds it, it's like being back at that fire in the cave. The world comes into focus and… and her thoughts change.
She has to pause and stagger over to prop herself up against the cold stone wall of the keep.
She remembers things, things she didn't realize she'd forgotten. Her life has clarity. She is Lucatiel, a knight of Mirrah. It is a title she earned with blood and sweat and tears and blood. She earned it with her brother not at her side but always one step ahead. And he was one step ahead in coming to Drangleic as well.
She's in Drangleic because she's looking for him, and because she's hanging on to herself with the souls of the slain.
She looks down at her sword and yes, there it is.
Aslatiel.
Her sword was forged for her, just as her brother's was forged for him.
Somewhere out there he's still fighting, still living, still wielding his blade with her name etched into its very heart.
She knows he is.
He has to be.
She doesn't remember losing the effigy.
She… gave it to someone?
It doesn't matter how she lost it.
She doesn't have it anymore.
That she cannot remember what happened, something that happened so recently… this is frightening. It terrifies her, forcing cold fear deep into her very bones.
Every night, she cannot sleep because she's repeating to herself every memory she can think of, some of them over and over and over.
There's one memory in particular that stands out to her as she lies on the ground, trying to rest, a few feet away from a vast pit that simmers with a pale mist that burns the lungs and devours skin.
She remembers lying on green grass, curled up next to her older brother. He's got an arm around her shoulders and he's pointing up at the stars, making up names for constellations because neither of them have the learning to know differently. She doesn't really understand all the things he says, so she just nods along and counts the stars with him.
Years later now, she pretends she's back there in the grass with him. She pretends she can see the stars through the smog of the valley mines.
That little shard of peace from a broken childhood is precious to her.
The oldest memories are the ones she's losing the fastest.
She knows that if she sleeps, if she stops thinking about this one for an instant, it will be gone.
She's in a cave again, leaning against a rocky wall.
She doesn't know how she arrived here.
Her memories have become so unreliable that she's accepted that she lives only in the moment.
Even living in the moment takes all of her focus and leaves little room to dwell on herself.
This is a shame because she feels that if she does not dwell… She's scared what's left of her humanity will slip through her fingers.
She needs to preserve her sense of self.
Somehow.
The souls from the undead she's put to rest aren't enough anymore (they were never enough, not ever).
It's a lost cause.
Killing the creatures won't save her. All it does is remind her that all too soon she will be as they are.
She has to save herself.
She doesn't even remember what she's already tried.
Perhaps if she just sits and concentrates on nothing but who she is…?
Who…?
Who is she?
She's next to a pile of dying embers.
It's alright.
The warmth is good.
She drags herself to it.
She doesn't smell smoke.
She smells… something…
Slowly, she finds the words for the scent.
It's dew on grass.
There's an object in her hands.
She looks down at it.
Dim firelight glitters on steel.
There's a word there.
She lies on the ground and waits to remember the word.