The Last Testament of Lord Gwyn
By: Matthew Friend
They say the sun never sets in Anor Londo. They say its halls are built for giants, and that its spires stretch so high they vanish into the clouds. They say the ancient gods still walk it's cobbled streets, and every mile traveled is like stepping into an old legend. They even say that the Lord of Light himself may emerge on rare occasions from his lofty home to walk among the common folk. They say a lot of things, but to Pavarel these were just fairy tales, the fanciful musings of penniless storytellers who'd probably never even seen a guard tower much less a castle. It wasn't until he walked through the gates himself that he realized just how wrong he was.
Emerging onto the elevated promenade, the whole of the city lay before him, bathed in the incandescent glow of a perpetual sun. Every building seemed hewn out of the purest marble, off white and impossibly smooth to the touch. He let his fingers glide along the railing and marveled at just how frictionless it felt. Every street seemed three times as wide as any from home, and even the back alleys were like luxurious avenues. Erected in the center of all the architectural magnificence stood the great Cathedral of Sunlight, home of the royal family and its exalted progeny. Like monstrous multi-pronged lances its towers were held aloft by dozens of arched buttresses, its facade glistening with the reflected light of dozens of high pointed windows. While the road through Lordran had certainly been filled with wondrous sights aplenty, nothing compared to this. Not even close.
"How magnificent" Pavarel exclaimed.
He looked up at Sir Rothschild, mounted on the sable horse trotting beside him. His pointed beard, steely blue eyes, and high cheekbones all exemplified a sort of quintessential nobility which Pavarel lacked. Outside of a chain mail hood, heavy plate mail covered his entire body, and a blue cloak poured like a waterfall from his broad shoulders.
Once he registered his young squires gaze, he looked down at him with a patronizing smile. "Never been to Anor Londo before, have you?" he said.
He'd never even been outside of Astora much less to the city of the gods, but he couldn't tell him that.
"No my lord" he looked back down.
Sir Rothschild sighed "Well, try not to look so provincial" he said looking forward again "We are in the presence of true royalty here" he looked him over once "so at least pretend to have some decorum."
They approached an open-sided tower situated at the end of the lane. The core of the structure looked like an elaborate spiral corkscrew capped with a circular stone slab, but when the approached it Pavarel could see the core rise and fall like a sort of lift. Ahead of them crowds of people piled onto the contraption's flat top, and as the screw span the circular floor rose into the sky bringing them to what Pavarel guessed was another raised walkway. It was all he could do not to gape. He wasn't sure what "provincial" meant, but seeing that his master hadn't regarded the mechanical wonder with much thought, he figured he should probably do the same.
As the two men approached the tower, another man quickly approached them, standing a staggering ten feet tall and clad from head to toe in shining silver armor. A pair of horn-like wings jutted from its all encompassing helmet, and a thin, shadowy slit down the front served as the only window to whatever face lay beneath. The sight of it made Pavarel sweat. The gate guards were one thing, he never had to get this close to them. The armored man thrust out its spear, and Pavarel flinched, but by his master's very apparent amusement, he quickly realized the reaction was unwarranted.
"Please wait here." the man's deep voice reverberated in his helm.
Sir Rothschild's eyes narrowed "Is that how you normally address a visiting Lord?"
The silver knight's head slowly turned towards him. For a moment all the two men did was stare at each other silently "The lift will be here shortly" the silver knight said, tone unchanging.
Before Sir Rothschild could get another word in, the elevator rose returned. The knight retracted his spear, and the two travelers stepped forward along with a handful of other men, crowding around the center so as not to get too close to the edges. Pavarel heard a few men grumble, likely about the space his master's horse was taking. A quick jolt shook them, and the platform began to rise, bringing them to indeed yet another walkway.
"Do you think we shall see any gods, my lord?" Pavarel asked as the disembarked.
Sir Rothschild smiled but didn't look at him "But of course" He glanced down out of the corner of his eye "Why Lord Gwyn himself has personally invited us to sup with him tonight." Pavarel could never tell when his master was being serious or not, which always seemed to amuse his master greatly. When Sir Rothschild finally did turn down at him he chuckled "Really Pavarel you shouldn't be so gullible" he sighed "No, I doubt we'll see anything more remarkable than a giant or two. Even if we did I don't think anyone's seen old Mr. Sunlight for at least a century."
It took two more elevators to finally reach their destination. As the stepped away from the last elevator they came at last to the foot of the grand cathedral itself. It seemed even bigger up close. Gathered at the foot of the high steps stood and sat hundreds of noble lords and squires, all crowded together, kept at bay by a pair of twenty-foot-tall giants, each equipped with armor, shields, and halberds.
Never before had Pavarel seen such a variety of of clothes and armor in one place. Most of them he recognized, Vinheim and Catarina were the easiest to spot, but among them narrow eyed men with curved swords spoke fervently in tight-knit circles, their scale like armor and flower-patterned clothes so foreign he figured they must have come from some far off eastern land he'd never heard of.
"Why are all these people here, my lord?" he whispered.
Sir Rothschild's jaw tightened "I imagine the same reason we are."
This answer didn't help much. Once, on the night they left, he'd made the mistake of inquiring as to the nature of their quest. The answer he got was a curt "Because those are our orders" and nothing more. As he quickly learned, lowly squires were not meant to be privy to such important matters. It took a night with some wine skins to egg out their destination, and even then Pavarel didn't believe him until they reached the outskirts of Oolicile.
Pavarel turned his gaze upwards, soaking in the grandeur of their eventual destination, imbibing the sheer extravagance of the sun-soaked towers looming over them with such disproportionate scale. They filled him with a sudden, uncanny courage. "Why are we here, my Lord?" he said before he could stop himself.
"Because we were summoned here" the knight said "or rather his majesty was summoned, but could not attend"
Pavarel, shocked at the lack of reprimand, decided to push further "Who summoned us – I mean him my lord?" he scratched his head "And why would his majesty not come himself?"
Sir Rothschild sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose "I don't know, Pavarel. Perhaps he was busy. Kings do tend to get busy once in a while."
There was something he wasn't telling him "Yes, but...a summons to the city of God's? I can't imagine that'd be something you turn down lightly."
Sir Rothschild eyed him warily. Pavarel knew he'd gone too far. "You'd do best to quash that curiosity of yours, my boy" Sir Rothschild sat up straight and surveyed the crowd "It could save you from a lot of trouble."
In the banquet hall, the light of the braziers cast long shadows against from floor to ceiling. From wall to wall revelers ate, drank, cheered, wooed, jeered, joked, sang, laughed, and danced like madmen, making the shadows shake and quiver like a sea of windswept trees. From his lonely corner, Pavarel watched the bawdy spectacle, both amused and rather embarrassed. Were these truly the kings of men he'd spent so many childhood nights reading about? No, he thought, these were merely emissaries, substitutes like he and his master, tasked to answer the call in their liege lord's stead. Still, was this truly the best they could send?
For hours they had waited outside. Sir Rothschild, never one to accept delays, saw the obstruction as nothing less than the gravest of insults, and would have confronted the guards himself had Pavarel not talked him down from it. Once they were finally allowed through, they were quickly ushered to a side door to the room they they now dwelt in, with clear instructions delivered by a stern chamberlain to "not wander off." The food and drink was already waiting for them.
As Pavarel mulled over the day's events, a rotund, red faced man hobbled his way towards him, chortling and babbling incoherently before collapsing in a heap at his feet. The stench of alcohol and stale vomit wafted from the pool of drool dribbling from his open mouth. Pavarel stood and carefully stepped around him, being sure not to spill any of the mead. As he navigated his way around the revelers towards the front of the hall, he craned his neck to look for his master. He had to climb onto a table, but eventually found the man stumbling in the wings, mug barely in hand, pleading with a serving wench who clearly didn't want the attention.
With his lord accounted for, Pavarel turned his attention to the front of the hall, where in any other banquet hall a row of chairs for the host and their family might have been. There were none, though, only a row of spear-wielding silver knights, stationary and rigid as statues, their ranks concentrated in front of a forty foot high door wrought of wood and iron.
The question of their host's identity returned persistently to his mind. One of the minor gods seemed a likely candidate, perhaps a distant cousin of one of the greater lords. The god of revelry was his best guess, though his name escaped him. Resolving to investigate this mystery, he took a long swig of his drink and stepped down off the table, but before his feet left the bench, a harsh pang pang pang reverberated sharply from the walls. At first Pavarel thought he'd imagined it, since no-one else seemed to notice it besides him. With the second pang pang pang, the reveler's din subsided, with only a handful still oblivious, their screaming and belching all the more blatant. He looked forward and saw one silver knight standing out ahead of the others, slamming the pommel of his spear into the ground – pang pang pang – plunging the whole room into complete silence.
"Noble lords" he called "stand and recognize your god, Gwyn, Lord of Light!"
A wave of mutters and gasps rippled quickly through the crowd. One of the squires tried to stand, but collapsed with a clatter. A low, creaking groan rumbled through the floor, the vibrations shaking Pavarel to his very core. The great doors crept slowly open, and standing there, garbed in gold trimmed green and plates of silver, was Lord Gwyn himself. Atop his head of rippling grey hair stood a crown unlike any Pavarel had ever seen, with nine great spikes like the cathedral towers adding at least a foot to his already inhuman height. Pavarel couldn't see his face from where he stood, but he could see the immense scraggly beard pouring over his chest.
He held up his hands, his gauntlets glimmering in the dim firelight "Emissaries of the lower kingdoms" his voice rumbled like thunder "I welcome you this night to my home" he lowered his hands "I thank you all for making the long journey here, I know for some the road was hard, so I hope at least the meal is to your liking."
Nobody responded, and by the time anyone realized they should it was already too late.
"But now to the matter at hand" his gaze scanned the room "for I have not called you here simply for the sake of merry making." he paused, seemingly to allow his revelers to guess his reasons. "Doubtless you all are aware of it, the growing darkness that now spreads ceaselessly across this world. Though the sun still shines, demons walk freely on the roads, false gods take root in heathen lands, and the cries and prayers of kingdoms claimed by the abyss echo even to these very halls" the mention of the abyss sent a chill through Pavarel's spine "Be thankful, then, that your prayers have not fallen on deaf ears, for it is this reason that compels me to call you all here" a long pause, not a single sound "What many of you have heard is true" his voice rang decisive "the great flame, the source of all life in this world is indeed fading." a hiss of fervent muttering surged through the room. Ten feet from Pavarel, a dozen men in black robes and large hats converged in a tight clusters. "In fact" Gwyn continued "it has been fading for some time now."
The muttering crescendoed into an unholy din. Wails and cries for answers flew through the air, each one battling for attention over the others. The shadows shuddered, becoming more and more agitated with each passing second. Before the chaos reached its peak, Gwyn held up his hand, and the room almost immediately fell into silence again.
"My scholars have labored tirelessly. Since before many of you were born they have been searching for a means to prolong the life of the first flame, and until now every attempt has failed"
"What do we do" one man yelled, followed by a chorus of shushes.
"But even as the fire fades" Gwyn's voice dropped "hope and unwavering persistence have at last yielded results." Pavarel felt a shock of hope surge through his chest like lightning "For in my ruminations I have at last uncovered a method with which we may fuel the first flame, a way to keep its light burning FOREVER!" On the last word, the very pillars of the earth seemed to shake "No longer must man quiver against the ever encroaching darkness, no longer will the specter of the endless night loom over your halls. I have called you here in this unprecedented gathering not to cower, but to celebrate, to usher in the rebirth of fire, so that we may all share in the joy of its life giving light" Gwyn cast his arms wide as if to embrace the whole room. "So eat, my children" he bellowed "eat, drink, and revel in the gift that I have given you. For it is all that I have to give."
On the final word, he turned and strode back through the door way from whence he came, no glances back, no acknowledgment of the crowd still gathered and gaping. The door groaned to a close, and with the thud of its closing the first cheers came:
"Hail Gwyn, Lord of Light!" cried a lone voice "Hail Gwyn, Lord of Light!" came the second. Soon the whole hall seemed to erupt with the rapturous, thunderous calls of the assembled lords. Even as Pavarel spotted grave looking men whispering in the corner, it could not quell the soaring zeal he felt in his heart, and soon he joined the chorus as well.
"HAIL GWYN, LORD OF LIGHT! HAIL GWYN, LORD OF LIGHT!"
Men of every sort lay strewn about, carpeting the floor of the now-silent banquet hall with their limp, flaccid bodies. Accommodations were granted to all who wanted them, but most were either too drunk or too tired to make the long journey upstairs. One man lay splayed on has back, and while most of his body was on a bench, his head draped by the neck upside down off the end. Another man muttered in his sleep, some lewd fantasy about a dragon woman.
From his resting place atop one of the tables Pavarel watched the refracted light from one of the windows inch its way across the high vaulted ceiling. While it was true that the sun never set, that didn't mean the sun never moved. Instead of night the room was graced with a half day's worth of peaceful twilight. To Pavarel the bloom of deep orange was more hypnotic even than moonlight. It was like the whole place was pulled from of a dream. He wondered what his parents would think once he told them of his journey, how magnificent it had all been, how he, Pavarel of Astora, had seen Lord Gwyn himself with his own two eyes.
"P-Pa-Paverel" a voice moaned beside him.
He rolled over and saw his master, laying in a heap on the floor, barely conscious, eyes unfocused, and with his hand pawing lightly at the air. However much Pavarel wanted to sleep in a nice bed, he had a duty to his master to "be always by his side", which unfortunately included situations like this.
"Pavare...P...Pavarel muh boy…" he muttered again "Could you be a good lad and fetch me some" he swallowed hard "some water to drink?"
With that said, he wouldn't pass up a chance to leave if given the chance.
"Yes, my lord" he sighed.
The halls of the great cathedral sprawled about him in a maze. It all looked the same to him, length after length of winding, identical looking staircases and barren hallways (and perhaps the occasional ornamental suit of armor). The austerity seemed at odds with the splendor of the city outside. Perhaps this was simply the way the guest dormitories were decorated, he thought, though at this point he wasn't even sure that's where he was. Pavarel stopped, trying to recall the directions they were given just hours ago. No matter how much he rubbed his temples, he just couldn't nudge them out. "Never did have a good memory" he mused to himself.
It'd been half an hour since he set out. At every juncture, indecisiveness gnawed on his choices. More than once he stopped and turned, fully intending to find his way back, even if it meant eventually facing his master's wrath. Every time he would move to do so, he closed his eyes and stopped, convincing himself that since he didn't know the way back, he may as well go forward. Coming to yet another staircase, he sighed. This was the third one he'd climbed, and his leaden legs weren't eager for another. Still, with nowhere else to turn, he began his reluctant ascent.
After the first three spirals, the sunlight seemed to grow brighter, a refreshing change of pace from the gloomy, windowless passages below. After the fifth spiral, he slowly realized that this staircase was far taller than the previous ones, and the more he climbed, the more the darkness. His eyes strained, struggling to prop his sagging eye lids. Another twist, then another, and still he seemed no closer to the top. His heavy, thick soled leather boots thudded against the stone, each step reverberating up and down the shaft.
He froze.
A set of voices echoed above him, human voices. He'd encountered a few other men on his journey, but all of them were either asleep or near passed out. By the earnestness of their chatter, these ones seemed very much awake. At first all he could hear was mumbling, but curiosity got the better of him, and as he snuck closer the voices became sharper and more distinct.
"We have to make our move NOW" a young man's voice snapped "If what Gwyn said is true this could be our last chance!" The man's refined accent implied nobility.
"No" another, less refined voice said sharply "we need to wait."
"Hmm, I agree." Said a third voice, gruffly and measured "Strike now and we risk exposure. Our cause will turn to ash in our mouths."
A long silence fell between them and Pavarel stopped. Had they heard him?
"Then why would he announce it like that?" the first voice finally said.
"Perhaps it's a ploy" the second voice replied "A bluff to bolster his fading followers" he laughs "I wouldn't put it past the old codger."
"Shhh!" the third voice hissed "Keep your voice down, will you. Have you two forgotten where we are? These walls have ears, you know. If even one of his servants hears us we may well be fed to the fire ourselves."
"But Lord Kaathe said–"
Far in the distance a door creaked open, and the voices fell silent once more. For nearly a minute Pavarel stood frozen on the stairwell, craning his neck, trying to get a view of the three men. He took a soft, cautious step, then another, then another, but no matter how much he tried he just couldn't conceal the sound of his steps. If they hadn't known he was there before they certainly would now.
Once he at last reached the top, he found himself in yet another hallway, just the same as all the others before. Looking about he couldn't see any sign of the three men. The couldn't have gone, he thought, he would have heard them. The silence unnerved him. From the stairs the hall branched into four paths, each one stretching until they were nothing but pinpoints. Pavarel looked this way and that, gauging each hallway, trying to decide which identical hallway looked the most appealing.
A heavy set of far away footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He swiveled, panic clutching his chest. It sounded like a giant – was this the wing he wasn't allowed in? He couldn't tell which direction the sound came from, it seemed to come from everywhere. He lunged down the hall the echoes seemed quietest, but he barely made it thirty feet before the sound grew louder. Giant wooden doors lined the hall, so choosing one he threw himself towards it. When it wouldn't budge, he gripped the handle, dropping as much weight on it as he could until at last it lowered. The gold-leafed wood, slowly swung open, pulling Pavarel by its steady inertia.
A wave of sweltering, dry heat almost blew him backwards. Squinting, he brought an arm up to shield his face, but still his eyes watered. The air reeked strongly of singed hair. Beneath his feet he felt the stone give way to a thick, woolen rug, it's texture inhibiting him from shuffling his way forward. His eyes refocused, and when he saw what lay before him his hand just barely caught the scream that came tumbling out of his mouth. Mounted on the far side of the room, ivory fangs glistening in the light, hung row upon row of snarling dragon heads of all shapes and sizes. Some had two horns, while others had three. Others had snouts like hounds, while others seemed to have mouths within mouths.
"Does my collection impress you?"
Pavarel yelped and seized. Reluctantly, he cast his head sidelong to his right away from the monstrous display, and saw that the room he had entered stretched nearly fifty feet. Nearly half of the far wall was made of a single, great fireplace, it's hearth blazing – more like a furnace really. In front of it, blocking the light, sat a high-backed arm-chair, its red upholstery framed by elaborate curls of burnt mahogany. Though the back blocked any view of its occupant, a pair of long, gauntlet clad arms hung over each side. The fire-lit silver framed a thick woven cloth of deep green. All at once the realization of who sat in the chair struck him, and a primal, instinctual fear clutched at his throat, choking him, guiding him quivering backwards step by step. Just as he moved to turn and run...
"Wait" The voice rumbled with a familiar thunder.
Pavarel did as the voice commanded – unwillingly it seemed. His whole body quivered, but still he stood rooted, his mind going blank, blinded by reverent terror.
One arm rose from the armrest, and a long bony fingers beckoned. "Come closer, child." the voice said, quieter this time.
Pavarel's body remained rigid, the weight of his transgression sinking in.
"Do not fear, my son" the voice said, almost kindly "I will not harm you."
At these words, the bonds on Pavarel's body seemed to loosen. His right foot shuffled forward, but his legs were so weak that a bump in the carpet almost sent him tumbling forwards. Another step. His hands wound there way around each other, their dry cracks now seeming like fissures in his skin. The closer it got, the more the chair seemed to loom, and Pavarel made special care to avoid the long shadow it cast across the floor. Reaching what he figured was an adequate distance, he stopped again, averting his gaze as best he could, all the while hoping the giant had forgotten his presence.
"What is your name?" the seated figure said.
"P-p-pavarel, my lord" he wanted to announce, but the words caught in his throat and came out more like a whisper.
The figure hummed, seeming to consider his name carefully. "And where are you from, Paverel?"
"Astora, my lord..." Pavarel replied "from Yuris, that's a town in the Royal Vale."
Another long pause.
"Do you...hate me?"
This must be a test. He must sense his impiousness nature, why else would he ask such a question "No!" he blurted out "Of course not my lord"
The figure turned slightly towards him, then sat back again, like he was about to look but decided not to. "Well, you should" the figure tapped his fingers on his armrest.
"W-why, my lord?"
The tapping stopped. The wood of the armchair creaked and groaned as the figure stirred. Pavarel's stomach clenched as the figure turned more and more until his whole head emerged from behind the wings. The crownless head of Lord Gwyn loomed over him, his eyes burning behind a curtain of grey hair with a primal, smoldering fire.
"Because I hate you."
Pavarel almost passed out right there. This was it. This was the end. Nothing could save him now.
As the seconds passed, and he found he was still standing, Pavarel dug into his mind for more words. "Might I ask what I have done to earn your lordship's disapproval?" he muttered.
The fire in Gwyn's eyes seemed to fade just a little. It looked like the corner of his mouth may have even twitched. With a long sigh Gwyn rolled back over and disappeared behind the chair wings once more as the wood groaned beneath him.
"Oh you haven't done a thing" he waved his hand dismissively, the chair still creaking as he settled back in "In fact I imagine you've lived your life most righteously."
Silence, save for the roar of the flame. Pavarel almost turned to leave, but curiosity had overtaken his fear and instead he ventured a few small steps forward until he stood at the chair's flank "My lord, I don't -"
Gwyn planted both of his hands into the carved wooden knobs at the end of the armrests. With an aching groan, he lifted his body out of the seat, and as he rose, Pavarel could smell an eye-watering must, like he'd just opened the door onto the ashen ruins of a library. At full height, the being must have been at least ten, maybe eleven feet tall. His gaze fixed frontwards and downwards, brow furrowed as he studied the leaping embers in the ornate fireplace with a studiousness, scholarly look, like he was somehow reading it.
He looked sidelong at Pavarel, then past him towards the far wall. "Do you see that head mounted on the wall over there?" he said nodding towards it.
Pavarel turned and again saw the mounted dragon heads.
"Which one, my lord?" studying each on carefully.
"Second down, third from the right." Gwyn raised his hand and pointed at it "Do you know how many men it took to kill that beast?"
Pavarel couldn't even begin to guess "A hundred, my lord?"
Gwyn chuckled "Three hundred and fifty seven" he said, accentuating each word "Three hundred and fifty seven. Now those were three hundred and fifty seven of the most courageous men I ever knew."
Pavarel looked at the dragon's head again. It wasn't even the biggest, much less the fiercest. He wondered if they had to wash the blood off its teeth, but forced the thought down along with his nausea. Instead he looked back at Gwyn "It must have been a great battle my Lord."
A flash of what might have been nostalgia fluttered in Gwyn's eye, but only for a moment "Yes, I suppose it was." he turned back towards the and looked upwards. Pavarel followed his gaze, but only saw darkness. "Once" Gwyn said "before any of this" he waved, gesturing absentmindedly at the room "my kin and were little more than husks, meager things really, mindless. Did you know that?" he turned to Pavarel but Pavarel had no answer. Gwyn grimaced "No, there were no nights or days to measure our suffering. Barely fit to be dragon food, that's what we were." Gwyn let out a long sigh, eyes clenched shut "Even now I still dream about it, thousands of us huddled beneath the trees, cowering in the dark" the muscles around his mouth fidgeted, like he was pain, but as the seconds passed his face softened, fading like a balm had been placed on an open wound. In it's place his age seemed to melt away, replaced by recollections of youthful splendour "The day the fire revealed itself to us..." Pavarel could practically hear his jaw clench "you cannot imagine what finding that kind of power is like."
There was nothing Pavarel could say other than "No, my Lord."
Gwyn's head turned slowly, a mischievous look etched into his face that verged on madness "Would you like to see it?" he whispered.
Pavarel didn't know what 'it' was. "See what, my Lord?"
With startling swiftness, Gwyn turned and knelt in front of him, the armor on his shins clinking and rattling as they made contact with the floor. Head bowed, he brought one hand up slowly, deliberately, and pressed it softly against the core of his chest. Pavarel heard him take a single, long breath, and as it released, his hand withdrew, and a small, luminous ball of pale, shuddering flame emerged seemingly out of nothing, nestled comfortably in Gwyn's cupped fingers. It was the most beautiful thing Pavarel had ever seen, and he didn't even know what it was.
"There isn't much of it left" Lord Gwyn whispered like an old storyteller "only a fragment. But it should be enough."
Pavarel could see the light reflected in Gwyn's eyes. At first it seemed loving, like a father holding their child, but as it grew brighter it pulsed with greater urgency. The softness gave way to a look of insatiable lust. His brow shuddered, beaded with sweat, his lips curled into a vicious snarl.
All at once, he stood, his eyes still fixed on the little flame. His chest heaved and his nose flared "I wrested my kingdom from those beasts" he snarled "paid for it with the blood of my men." the whole room shook and trembled "I earned my throne, it is mine by right!" The fire in his hand and the fire in the hearth erupted, and for a brief moment the shadows seemed to retreat, cowering into their corners, then quickly returning as the fires faded. Gwyn closed his eyes, wheezing, like he'd sprinted a hundred miles. He toppled and landed with a heavy thump into his chair, hunched over, the flame still held aloft by his shaking, shuddering hand. His eyes remained fixed on it, he now seemed to regard it with a kind of reverent adoration. "But you won't betray me, will you." Pavarel couldn't tell who he was talking to. It looked like he was hypnotized, like the flame somehow spoke to him in some secret language with words only Gwyn could hear "Remember this" he looked up from the flame "friends are fleeting, temporary. Oh they'll thank you well enough while you serve their purpose. It's when the gifts stop that they betray you. Nothing but parasites that's what they are." Pavarel wondered who 'they' were "Heed my advice, my child" Gwyn wagged his finger weakly "cast aside your friends, for they will serve no good in the end. I have. They were fools. They couldn't see that everything I did was for them, not me. When they transgress, it is I who must pay the cost." he glanced at Pavarel "They forgot what it was like before me. Before this." he held the flame aloft. Slowly, and with great care, he placed it back against his heart, where it sank in and disappeared like it had never been there at all. Gwyn leaned towards him, his eyes wide, and his mouth slightly agape "I ask you, Pavarel of Astora" he pleaded "is it wrong to want to create? Is it wrong to want to preserve, to build?" he paused. The fire in his eyes had dimmed, and to Pavarel he almost seemed human. Gwyn flinched and sat back again, like a reflex against vulnerability had been triggered. He stroked his beard thoughtfully "Have you ever lost family, my child?" he muttered.
Pavarel had many specific examples, some recent, but instead simply said "Yes, my Lord."
Gwyn laughed once, softly "So have I" the wood of the armrests crackled, fingers clutching them in a vice grip "I've slain countless beings. I have commanded armies, I have leveled mountains until they were nothing but ash beneath my feet, and yet..." a long pause. His grip loosened. Pavarel couldn't see his face, but noticed his breaths shuddered, like he was sobbing "...my wife" his head bowed "my son..." another pause, then a deep breath "Sometimes I wonder if any of it is even worth saving."
"But my Lord, there..." None of the words that came next seemed adequate. After all, how to you console a god? "There are good men, my Lord." he finally said "Countless men, still loyal to you and your rule."
A bitter smirk, barely visible beneath Gwyn's ruffled facial hair, briefly reminded Pavarel of his master "Hmph, such sentiment" Gwyn tilted his head lazily towards him "And who might these good men be? Hmm? Could you name them for me? Perhaps you're referring to that oaf you came here with? Yes I remember him, drunkenly having his way with the first women he saw. If that is the standard of noble perhaps I've overestimated you."
It was true, Pavarel was having trouble thinking of his master's noble qualities "Maybe he's not the kindest man, or the bravest, or even the strongest, but surely he's done something of merit, he's come to your city twice after all!"
Lord Gwyn belted out a laugh, frightening Pavarel and forcing him a step backwards "You're loyalty is admirable" he said, wheezing "though, I'm afraid, misguided. When you meet him next, ask him why he ever left the city in the first place, hmm? See what you think of him then."
"So you do hate me?" Pavarel said.
Gwyn folded his arms over each other and rested his elbows on his knees "No, Pavarel of Astora, I don't hate you." his eyes fixed on the fire "No, what I truly hate is a world that sees fit to bring order to chaos, as if such things are natural." His eyes go unfocused "You humans live and die entirely in the sunlight. You have never known the true price of power. How can you? You are such children" a smile creeps across his lips, and Pavarel sees a row of yellowed teeth peeking through "So desperate for guiding hand. A father's hand." after a long pause, he scoffs "Humans inherit the world, ha! Nonsense! Blasphemy!"
Through the heat, Pavarel's head swirled under the weight of words, words like chaos and power. "My lord, what do you mean by, 'inherit the world?'"
Gwyn sat up and leaned back. He laughed deeply, paternally "It doesn't matter now. You need not worry yourself over it any longer."
Though the soothing sound of his voice filled his heart with reassurance, Pavarel couldn't help but feel the tickle of curiosity at the edge of his mind. "Why are you telling me this?" he said stepping around so he could see Gwyn's face.
Gwyn didn't move. He didn't even seem to be looking at him. His eyes seemed distant. All at once, the illusion of strength and comfort was broken. What Pavarel saw slumped in the chair to be seemed little more than a sad, old man. Beyond pity, the sight seemed almost disconcerting.
"Because I am afraid." Gwyn whispered "The dark frightens me. Truly it does. It frightens me more than anything, even dragons." Gwyn glanced downward, shifting in his chair "It must surprise you to know a god can be frightened?" suddenly his gaze grew harder, accusatory "There is a darkness inside you Pavarel of Astora. You may not feel it, perhaps you never will, but it is there, festering at your very core, just waiting for a moment of weakness." Swiftly he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees again "If it had its way it would devour everything in its path and you would be powerless to stop it because that is your nature." Eyes pleading, the muscles in his face twitched "This world is cruel, and it is wicked, and it is I who must save you. I must protect you – ALL of you..." he smiled madly "from yourselves." Gwyn's face hovered a few feet from Pavarel's. His eyes darted across his features, like he was searching for something.
"Father?" a voice lilted from the doorway.
Only Pavarel turned to look. Standing in the doorway he'd left open stood a being even taller than Gwyn, thanks in no small part to the cluster of pale blue tentacles propping it up beneath it's white, dress-like robe. It's androgynous figure seemed almost repulsive to Pavarel, but no matter how he tried he couldn't look away, and the being looked back. Face half hidden by a decorative sun-shaped headdress, his eyes were not visible, but still he could feel its spite strike him like an arrow from across the room.
"Half your knights are waiting in the great hall, as you instructed." it said still staring at him.
"Thank you, Gwyndolin" Gwyn waved a hand "that will be all."
Gwyndolin didn't move. He turned to look at Gwyn "Father, I..."
"I said that will be all" Gwyn's voice snapped, filled with bitterness.
Gwyndolin's mouth contorted into a snarl. His head snapped to face Pavarel again. His lips and nose shuddered, like he was about to say something horrid, but instead he simply turned and drifted out of the room.
"I enjoyed our little chat." Gwyn rose from his chair "you may rest here if you like. And please..." his head bowed as he passed "...forgive me for what I am about to do."
Gwyn drew in a sharp breath, and his vigor seemed to bloom right before Pavarel's eyes. His shoulders squared, and his head rose to look forward, eyes filled with regal determination. With long strides he crossed the room, with only the clink of his armor and the thud of his boots announcing his procession.
Just as he reached the door, he stopped. "Go on, sit by the fire" he glanced over his shoulder and smiled warmly "I imagine it should burn for a little while longer" and with that he was gone.
A vague loneliness settled into Pavarel's heart. All at once the muscles in his body loosened, and with it a dull throbbing tingle surged into his limbs. It must have only been a few minutes, but to his aching, anxious body it felt like it'd been hours. With Gwyn gone, the shadows of the room seemed to creep closer, and Pavarel fidgeted, uncertain.
He took a step back, and felt the lick of the flame's dry heat brush against the nape of his neck. It's warmth beckoned. With nowhere else to rest he turned and clambered up onto the chest high seat. Once there his body seemed to melt into the fabric, shadows closing in fast on his fading consciousness. Pavarel laid his head onto the armrest, feeling the texture of the thick weave press against his cheek. The size of the chair made it so he was able to bring his legs up and curl comfortably. It would only be for a few minutes, he told himself, then he would get back up and fetch the water he was sent for. Within seconds, all thoughts of his master and his mission were gone. His lids grew heavy, and the darkness found him, his fading mind sung to sleep by the roar of flame and the crackle of embers.
A firm hand on his shoulder was the first thing Pavarel felt. Snapping awake, he looked up and saw a gleaming silver knight looming over him, his face invisible beneath his winged silver helm. The sight made him jolt up, but the firmness of the giant man's grasp kept him in place.
"Lord Gwyndolin has requested you depart at once."
The knights grip loosened and Pavarel slipped off the edge of the chair, coming to his feet with a clumsy stumble. He glanced around the room to get his bearings, seeing in the full daylight the bookshelves and wall mounted arms that had once been shrouded in shadow. The fire still raged in its hearth – though now it seemed somehow brighter than before. He tried to ignore the knights glare, but couldn't, feeling its invisible gaze drill into the back of his head.
"Come with me please?" the knight turned and walked towards the door and Pavarel followed. In the full daylight the place seemed less intimidating than it had before, for one because he was well rested, but also because he could now see the ends of the hallways. Somehow it seemed all seemed so much smaller.
They encountered no-one on his way back to the feast hall, which Pavarel found odd. He'd imagined the cathedral bustling with gentry and nobility, especially after such a great feast. Once they entered the hall, few men were left, and none of them still slept. The men they passed watched him cautiously with hungover gazes. Pavarel figured they were trying to guess what transgression he'd committed to earn such a knightly escort.
Sir Rothschild was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, now back in his knightly attire save for the cape. As soon as he spied Pavarel, he snapped erect and strode confidently towards him, arms swinging in frustration.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted.
"He was a guest of Lord Gwyn" the knight said, nodding in Pavarel's direction.
His master froze. If Pavarel had been only allowed keep one memory, it would be the look on his face at that exact moment.
"Yes, well..." he could see the gears of rationalization turning in his brain "thank you for returning him to me."
The knight head darted between the two of them "Please grab your things and depart at once" and then he turned to march away.
Both Pavarel and his master looked at each other in shock "Well, we can at least stay a little while longer, right?" Sir Rothschild hoisted a nearby bag "I mean...we still need to pack."
"Perhaps you should have started before your squire arrived" the knight said "and I must insist, lower humans are no longer welcome within the city."
"Lower humans!?" Sir Rothschild belted so everyone could hear.
Pavarel grabbed his master's arm to placate him. "But why?" he said.
"I'm afraid it's none of your concern" the knight nodded towards him "those are simply our orders."
His master stepped forward, finger raised, but but before any curses poured out...
"Where is Lord Gwyn now?" Pavarel said louder than he intended.
Pavarel could feel the contempt pouring from the knights narrow helm slit "He departed some hours ago" he said.
"Where did he go?"
"That's is also none of your concern" and with that, the knight marched away.
As he disappeared around the corner, Pavarel felt a firm pat on his left shoulder blade "Well, you better get cracking, my boy" Sir Rothschild nodded towards the quickly departing knight "Seems our guesthood has been revoked."
By the time they reached the city gates, whatever boost in status Pavarel enjoyed that morning was all but gone. His master had found the perfect excuse for the clear impossibility of his squire having an audience with Lord Gwyn. The knight was hungover and had simply lost his senses, which of course explained his unforgivably rude behavior. Pavarel didn't have the nerve or the heart to plead otherwise. He preferred it this way. Better the same old same old than resentment and jealousy.
"Quite rude to shove us off like that" Sir Rothschild said with the confidence of distance "Travel all this way for weeks just to send us gallivanting home once they're done with us."
A large black crow leapt from a nearby high window, screeching hoarsely. Pavarel tried to recall as many details from the night before as he could, but found much of it had faded like a dream. Maybe it was a dream, at least partially. His master's logic did seem rather convincing.
"It's a shame" Sir Rothschild continued "it really is a magnificent city."
The question Gwyn instructed him to ask returned "May I ask you something, my lord?"
Sir Rothschild eyed him warily "If you must?"
Pavarel wondered how he should phrase it. He spoke slowly "You implied yesterday that you'd been here before. If this city is so magnificent, why did you leave?"
His master tossed his head back and sighed, like he knew this question was coming "In my younger days – in fact around your age I think, I had dreams of becoming a knight. Not just any knight, mind you. No, a silver knight, one of Gwyn's finest. Did you know they allowed human's into the silver knights?"
Pavarel shook his head.
"Well they did, but after months of training and trials, they told me I didn't have the 'noble fortitude' to be a knight, so they sent me back home with my tail between my legs. All of that work" he scrunched his nose "nothing." he looked forward, and for the first time Pavarel saw what might have been pain in his master's eye "Worst day of my life" he muttered.
Pavarel would have been satisfied with that, but his master kept going "They don't care about us, my boy." he glanced backwards towards the cathedral "And why should they, to them we're simply passing through. We're the bastard children of history, you and I" another crow burst from a tree far below "But history is filled with usurper bastards. Our time will come, just you wait. God's mean less these days than you imagine." he nodded towards him "You'll learn that someday, I'm sure." his eyes narrowed "Gracious, lad, what's that on your chest?"
Pavarel followed his master's gaze downwards until he saw something peaking out the top of his tunic. Fingers clutching at the collar, he pulled it down as far as it would go, and saw emblazoned just above his left breast a black, incomplete circle, like a brand. Unlike a brand, though, it didn't feel painful. In fact it almost seemed soothing, cool even. With the tips of his fingers he rubbed at it, softly at first, then again, harder. No matter how much effort put into it, it just wouldn't come off.
"Quite the souvenir" Sir Rothschild grinned, flashing his teeth "if I didn't know better I'd say you had more fun than I did."
They passed underneath the high arch of the main proscenium, and sprawling before them lay the road through the royal wood. Two helmeted sentinels watched them as they passed – only them, none of the others that filed around them. The black mark, innocuous as it seemed, weighed heavily on Pavarel's mind. He tried to rub it off again, but still it remained, not a single bit removed.
"I'm sure its nothing" his master said "Just wash it off at the next river."
With one last look, Pavarel glanced back, and as the gate slowly came together, he became suddenly aware of an anxiety blooming inside his chest, a sudden realization that, very likely, this would be his last chance to look upon the great city of Anor Londo. His window on it narrowed, and he tried with desperate concentration to etch every last detail he could to his mind. Only a slit now, the light compressed to just a sliver, with the sun now hidden behind the high wall. Soon even that was gone, and with a dull, thunderous BOOM and a creaking clang, it vanished.
Pavarel turned and looked down the road, straining to see as far as his eyes would allow. It was going to be a long journey, but a bearable one. More than anything he couldn't wait to tell his mother all the wondrous things he had seen. He hoped she would believe him. She'd never been outside of Yaris before. How would he describe it? How could she imagine it? He hoped he'd be able to remember all the details. Details would be important. Even as he tried to recall them they seemed distant, almost fuzzy, like looking through warped glass. After a mile of straining, he resigned himself to the simple fact that could never capture the splendor of the grand cathedral in mere words. Some things he just could never do. His memory never was that good, after all.