The Chosen Undead, born a man and marked into the accursed undead by the Darksign years ago, pressed his back against the cliff. At the edge of the tree line he heard the sounds of the guardians of this forest hunting and calling out to each other as they sought his blood. It was good fortune he had seen this small cliff when he had, otherwise the hunters would have run him down for sure.
The sound of the hunters faded and he dared to breath, but not leave his position. The damp was sinking into the unarmored spaces along his arms from the wet, mossy rocks. Somewhere around here was the grave of Artorias, but his pervious expeditions had failed to locate it. Taking stock of the area about him he almost let a ghost of a smile. Spread before him was the massive ravine that dropped to the basin where the hydra had once nested and a stone bridge leading to a massive gate cut into the mountains.
The bridge and gate were ruined by time, blocks were missing and sections of masonry had fallen without any to tend to them. Green moss clung to many areas, but it was the closed gate that caught his eye. Upon the gate there lay the symbol of Artorias, a wolf inscribed with twisting vines patterns and a strange magical light shone through the cracks beneath the doors.
With any luck his quest was at an end. The grave was here and hopefully, though highly unlikely, unguarded. If his luck were to hold then he might gain some clue as to where the great knight had hidden his ring. Manus had showed him the power of the Abyss once and he would not walk it without the ring Ingward claimed would protect him as he faced the dread kings of New Londo.
Judging the forest hunters to be well past him, he rushed for the bridge as silently as a man in amour might. Under his armored step the stones groaned. An errant step sent a bit of the stone to the basin below, but he did not stop. He threw himself to the ground and slide behind a larger pile of fallen masonry. Had he a human heart of lungs they might have been taxed, but he had neither so he listened for pursers. After two long minutes he heard nothing and began to slowly stand, claymore and shield at the ready.
When nothing appeared at the edge of the forest he turned to the gate. The strange light from under the door was brighter now and he felt ominous dread fall upon him. It was the same dread when he stepped into the lair of the Daughter of Chaos, the moment he first crossed blades with the great Artorias, the moment Manus called upon the dark power of the Abyss, when Ornstein and Smough charged, and countless other times since he broke free of the Asylum.
He would not be swayed by dread though. His was the will to carry on, even though death itself. Death was just a momentary change for him. No matter what lay beyond this door he would stand tall and face it with his blade and shield in hand. Reaching out he pushed and the doors swung open as it oiled, he suspected some strange magic was at work here, but it was what lay beyond that took his breath away.
It was a large field watered by a small stream along the edge, covered in upright swords of a thousand kingdoms, all impaled around and numerous worn stones that might have once been gravestones. Atop the small hill at the center a massive tombstone sat. In front of the giant stone he saw a blade he knew all too well. It was far too large than the one he had been impaled and sliced apart by, but he knew it. The place had all the serenity of a graveyard, indeed he suspected many warriors were buried beneath those fallen blades, and he almost felt at ease. If it were not for that damnable sword he might have laid down his own blade and rested.
A few steps past the open gate, it slammed shut, but he did look back. Magic was like that. Instead he began to approach passing between blades and worn stones. Pausing he knelt beside one such worn stone in curiosity. With the back of his glove he wiped away some of the moss and saw some unknown scribbles; graves. His curiosity stated for the moment he approached the accursed giant sword. If ever there were a way to honor the fallen knight of Gwyn then this was it. Ciaran seemed like the type, though he hardly knew the Lord's Blade that well despite their desperate battle against Manus.
When he stood before the blade he reached out, wanting and needing to confirm that it was real. No illusion could cause him such pain, but the blade was perfect in all its features. The greatsword of Artorias scaled up for the use some giant. A part of him doubted that Ciaran would have approved of some random giant using such a blade.
Then he heard the growl.
Instincts drove him backwards as a gigantic wolf leapt from the top of the large stone and approached him slowly. The massive gray beast growled, but it wasn't as strange as he had thought. It was a familiar almost…
A stone found his boot and he fell. Within a moment a massive furry paw was upon his chest, pushing him down. Intelligent yellow eyes stared at him, teeth the size of swords great closer to him, but he didn't attack. His claymore was beyond his reach and the wolf brought its great muzzle to him, sniffing him.
"Sif?' he whispered half in wonder and in shock. In his heart he wanted it to be true, but he didn't want it to be. Better this was a dumb animal than the noble friend who had aided him against Manus.
As the name escaped his lips the wolf's expression changed. It looked almost...regretful as it removed its paw. He slowly rose as the wolf padded slowly, tail low, towards the massive sword. He didn't go for his fallen sword or shield. How could he? Here, a thousand years after he had parted ways with the wolf they met again.
Had the young pup he rescued from the Abyss become this? His mind refused to accept it and his heart as heavy with emotions. Here was a friend in this friendless land where only betrayal was the common currency and madness ensued to shatter fragile hopes. Yet through all that a friend remained, the pup full grown in these dark lands. A friend looking after and protecting, he recognized Sif's task now, the grave of the knight they both held in the highest esteem.
Sif looked back between him and the greatsword several times. The same sad expression remained, but he saw resolve in those eyes. Sif would take up the sword against him though it was folly. They had slain Manus and halted the Abyss together. Sif knew his prowess, but had a thousand years to hone his skills. He had no desire to take up his claymore and fight the wolf. Of all the fates in the world this was the worst, he needed time to think.
"Sif? He called out again. The wolf's giant head swung towards him, cocked to one side. "Is this his grave?"
There was no need to say the name between them. The great wolf nodded, his attention firmly fixed upon the Chosen Undead.
"May I pay respects to him?" he asked somberly. It would buy some time to think.
Sif nodded again and withdrew a step. The Chosen collected his sword and slung in on his back before picking his the shield, the very shield that had protected Sif after Artorias was forced to leave him behind, and approached the giant stone.
Before the massive chunk of rock he felt insignificant, even for all his achievements and feats of daring. It was a fine gravestone, craved with intricate figures but weathered horribly by time. "It's good to see you again Artorias," he started to speak, but words failed him for a moment.
"Manus was defeated in the end. Ciaran, Sif and I ventured into the Abyss and slew him. After a thousand years I guess you can rest in peace knowing all three of us made it out alive and the Abyss halted. Your legacy is intact too. You survived in the stories of children and still inspire children to this day.
I…thank you for everything you did. You gave up everything and even when you fell you gave me the tools to carry on. Those skills you forced to learn with your blade, they proved to be Manus's undoing." He was sure that had he still been human he might have been crying. "I own you for that…and now this. I know what needs to be done, but I'm not you!" he cried in frustration. The logical thing to due to fight Sif and move on, but he had no desire to lose another friend. He felt a wet nose and thick fur brush up against his back, almost knocking him over. He appreciated the gesture, but it didn't change anything.
"It hurts," he croaked after a minute. Sif had lain down; a massive paw on either side of him and the wolf's head against him, half propping him up where he knelt. Sif was watching him and the Chosen could only rage at his own helplessness and the weight of everything he had done. "You were a mentor in your madness and you forced me to surpass you by killing you. Quelaag was but a sister fighting to protect her helpless sister and I had to slay her. Laurentius went to that damnable swamp alone and went mad because I told him about Quelana. Reah and her clerics went into the Catacombs and no one's seen them since. Laurtrec murdered the firekeeper after helping me, not to mention all the others!"
He laughed bitterly. "Little wonder men go hollow in this accursed land! Misery and death are the currency of choice. Each day…each day it gets harder to remain sane. Someday I think it would be better to give up humanity if only to end the pain of living." Beside him Sif growled, clearly disapproving. "I'm not strong Artorias, not like you…"
In despair long kept locked away, he turned to Sif. "And you, will you force me to harm another friend? Perhaps you want me to stain my blade with your blood too? Is that the cost of maintaining the Fire, of being the Chosen? To be friendless, bitter and broken by betrayal and death as friends seek their end by hand? If so then I say damn the Fire and damn the Dark! To the hells with both of them!"
The wolf growled in displeasure and he could only laugh bitterly. "Ah Sif! I forget you were just as much a servant of Gywn as Artorias and Ornstein!" At the mention of the Dragonslayer's name Sif growled in anger. "You didn't like him?" The wolf nodded and laid his head upon a paw.
The Chosen Undead stared at the massive tombstone as his thoughts raced alongside memories. Was the chance to save Lordran even worth the pain? One of the four shards of the Lord's Souls, that of Seath the Scaleless, was already his, while the other three remained. How many more friends would he have to offer to the Fire before he had the others? And even then he would have to face whatever Gwyn left behind to relit the fire and save the Undead from their curse. How many more would be demanded for that?
He could give up, like so many before him. Turn his back on the gods and remain as he was. Surely there was another way to break the curse of the Darksign. In another land perhaps there was a way. Lordran was not the last land he knew of. There were other lands to the east and maybe the west where other gods might dwell with their ancient knowledge. Was Lordran worth the sacrifice?
These lands were already lost to hollows and other monsters. Kingdoms and nations were broken by the Darksign already. Could he even replace Lord Gwyn and secure the kingdoms of man from such dangers or would they remain? Was the dying Fire only in Lordran? He didn't know and he had no answers. He was no Artorias.
"Sif," he asked as he stood. "I don't suppose you'll give me his ring." The wolf smiled as only a canine could and he had his answer. "Thought as much," he muttered. Tutored by Artorias was not enough to win the ring of the master in the wolf's eyes. "I suppose you have had a thousand years to think about this haven't you?" he asked rhetorically, looking towards the darkening sky, ignoring the wolf's dead eyed stare. It was already dark in the Darkroot Garden and getting worse.
"May I rest here?" It would be too dark to safety traverse the Garden at this time of night and he had no wish to fight Sif in the dark. There was a measure of peace here at Artorias grave he had rarely felt.
The wolf growled, a negative sound, then rose to his feet. He gave a short bark, almost like a command to follow, as he started for the edge of the forest. The Chosen got the idea and followed after the wolf, his mind lost and heart heavy. There would be no sleep, a habit he forced himself to retain from his time as a human, with such heavy matters of the mind and heart. He would let Sif lead him onwards into the darkness of the forest where even the hunters dared not traverse.
He vaguely recognized the area as the ruins where Oolacile once stood, now mere pile of stones among massive trees. The sun had fully set as Sif stopped and raised paw towards a cave, or so he thought upon first glance. As he entered he realized it was a stone ruin entwined by trees. The cavernous floor was half sand and paved stone. In the back the bodies of a dozen massive beings he recognized as those strange mushroom people lay stacked up, a larder for Sif, but it was the merry fire that drew his eye. Even as the wolf padded past him with a happy bark, he stood transfixed by the figure on the other side of the flames.
"Ciaran?" he asked in wonder for the second time in a day.
It was not beyond the realm of possibilities that the Lord's Blade had survived a thousand years. She was not a human after all. If any could keep to a watch for a thousand years it was that woman. Her devotion to Artorias had been beyond platonic, he was sure.
The porcelain mask had only to nod once and he was overcome once more with warmth. "After these long years we meet again. Come sit and rest. For the man who laid Artorias to rest with his honor intact I gladly offer it."
His words failed him as he walked towards the fire and sat in the soft sand. Two friends, once thought lost to him forever, had revealed themselves to him in a single day. For the first time in many months he felt a small semblance of peace. "Is that…"
"It is I. Ciaran the Lord's Blade," she said with a hint of amusement.
"…how?" Little had changed about her attire. The blue cloth and steel were as he remembered them weeks previously in the coliseum. The only thing she lacked were the weapons she had granted him, the sword and dagger he wore at his side.
"Thou wear my blades. Have they served you well?"
He was well aware she was avoiding the question, but he knew the answer. She was a product of Gywn, a being of another time meant to slay immortal dragons. "Yes, they have tasted the blood of dragons once more."
"Oh? Tell me more," she said in surprise and some measure of delight.
"Two weeks past I slew Seath the Scaleness. It was your dagger which dealt the lethal blow to his head and your sword which robbed him of his immortality." He found himself relaxing as the flames cackle merrily. Behind them, Sif lay watching them and the fire, happily yipped when he mentioned the death of the dragon.
Ciaran laughed, a low and guttural chuckle. "Then the traitorous Duke is slain at last. Artoiras would be glad, for the dragon never sat well with him. Did he suffer for his actions?" she asked vindictively.
"The poison coursed through his precious mind even as I hacked his limbs off," he answered deciding to remove his shield and claymore. "Though it was not without damage. Your dagger was nicked by a bone as I stabbed and the guard of the sword was warped by the strike against his immortality."
"Worthy wounds for slaying so great a foe! Few of your kind might account themselves among dragonslayers and foremost among them would be thou for twice have their kin slain the beasts. Had this been another time thou might have been gladly welcomed among us! May I see them?"
Wordlessly he drew the pair and offered them to their previous owner. His pervious doubts and despair threatened to return, but he tried to focus upon Ciaran, anything to keep the dark thoughts at bay. He watched as she turned the dagger over in her hands, admiring the nick on the blade. He turned his attention back to the fire, to keep those dark thoughts away. With dawn he could make his choice.
"Ah! The damage is not so great to the sword. A skilled smith ought to fix it in but a few strikes, but I sense that is not why Sif has lead thou here," she said kindly as she handed back the blades.
The question. The question he had been dreading and she had asked it. "Of late the cost of this…journey has been made clear to me. Sif guards the ring and will not hand it over despite my need." He knew the wolf's pride would not let him walk away with the ring without a deathmatch. "In the name of reigniting the Fire and saving the Undead from their fate I have seen naught but death, despair and misery come to those I call friends. Now, a thousand years after, another friend may die for the sake of the Fire." He looked forlornly towards the now sleeping Sif. The wolf's body rumbled with a heavy breath and his rear leg twitched as he chased some animal in his dreams.
"Men," Ciaran sighed quietly before clearing her throat. "Is the cost beyond what thou can bear?"
"For this I don't know," he answered without hesitation. It was too much to ask him to slay the wolf who had taken a blow meant for him by the abomination Manus, yet it was too much to offer up one life to save the countless legions who would suffer the curse of the Darksign. "Lose a friend or lose nameless masses…" he let the words die as he stared into the flames. In them he saw not merry cackles, but horrific scenes of fallen friends slain by his hand without a choice. Ciaran sighed heavily, surprising the Chosen Undead and pulling him from the flames.
"It seems that thine histories are not so different Chosen from my own. I too faced such a dilemma in my time. What do you know of Gywn's war with the Dragons?" she asked quietly in somber reverence to the dead.
"Little enough," he answered. "Gywn and the other Lords fought, the dragons died and Gywn established his kingdom."
"A general outline true, but incomplete. The Lords arose and did not wage war immediately upon their birth, but waited. In secret they grew in strength and craft. They crafted kingdoms of my kind in the depths of the world, hidden from the dragons in the depths of archtrees. From these they drew armies, the knights of Gywn and other giants. I was but a child when I encountered dragons and it was the start of the sacrifices," her voice grew distant as she began to relay her tale.
"Our people needed new land to farm and build. Upwards we expanded despite Gywn's command not to climb too high. My family was among those who went to this new frontier and there we found a harsh, but fertile land. Little did we know that the land was a trap, a creation of a dragon lurking on a hidden archtree fallen to look as a mountain. Gwyn's knights came to us in anger, among them was Artorias then but a young knight of no great rank. They commanded we retreat lower but the dragon sprang his trap before we could act.
With a terrible fury the beast set upon us and soon others of his kind joined the battle. The knights fought, but retreated. I refused to leave my family when the commander of the knight appeared driven mad by dragon and with sword in hand slaughtered turned on us. Artorias himself slew his commander, but the dragon's had to be stopped. They could not be permitted to learn of the full extent of our caverns or Gwyn's plan would have been ruined.
It was then that the others of the village, those who had survived long enough for the knights to drive off the dragon, approached the knights and offered atonement for their sins with their bodies. In order to preserved the Fire they would offer their bodies, my friends and extended family, save the children who would be sent with the knights underground.
The second in command of knights accepted and no matter how I raged, Artorias held me firm. The knights gave their armor to the villagers, but there were too many children to safety bring all below. Lots were drawn and many of my childhood friends were to stay, brunt as additional offerings to keep the Fire safe. For many years I hate the Fire and its servants, foremost among them Gwyn and Artorias.
I clung to that hate, using it to strengthen myself as I vowed to never let the Fire destroy that which I loved again. Then the war with the Dragons began. I fought in earnest, not for Fire or Gwyn's ambitions but to repay the debt of a life owed to Artorias. In that time I came to understand him as I fought beside him. I learned of the tragedy of his life and resolved to fight for the Fire at all cost. It was what drove him onwards even as we lost battle after battle.
When the war ended and Gwyn's kingdom established, Artorias departed at Gwyn's command to halt the Abyss. I followed him in secret, despite the oaths I swore to serve Gwyn as his knight, for as a moth is drawn to a flame I was drawn to Artorias. Oaths sworn to a Fire I held no trust in were naught but words to me, words being fickle in matters of truth and lie.
Here I stand today because I chose the path I did. Still I hold out for the end of Fire, the end of my existence and the end my memories. To choose Fire or not is a choice none should take lightly." She rose suddenly, startling both the Chosen and Sif. "I must clear my head," she offered in explanation as she walked towards the cavern entrance.
When she passed beyond the portal and was swallowed by the night, he was left reeling. Ciaran had hardly been the most open of individuals a thousand years past. It seemed that in the intervening time something had changed. Yet her story offered no easy answers. Sif was the path of Fire, sacrifice of friend, and Ciaran the opposite. Each filled with regrets and no easy way forward.
Once more his gaze settled upon the low burning fire and he stared into the depths, no longer seeing the flames or logs but his own thoughts of what would be demanded of him. Before the Fire or the…Dark, a nice contrast to Fire he thought, he weighed his options in agony.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Dawn brought and he came out of the trance like state as the first rays of like entered the cave and fell upon him. Sometime in the night Sif had moved towards him and he now lay against the giant wolf's side. An arm's length away Ciaran hugged her knees as she rested. The warmth of the wolf was comforting, the heartbeat thumping with calming regularity.
He was loath to rise, but a night in thoughts was enough. He had come to a decision.
"Thou hast reached a decision," she stated.
He wasn't too surprised she was awake. She was the former assassin of the gods. "Yes, I've decided."
She unfolded her arms and adjusted her gauntlets. "I thought as much. Will you share this with Artorias?"
For a moment he wavered. It was one thing to say it in his head and another to say in front of fallen legend he learned so much from. It was fitting though, Artorias and his legends had driven his path to becoming a knight, but it was time for the child to put the legend to rest again. Artorias was a man, powerful and flawed, the same as him. "The last decision of the apprentice to the master, fitting I should think."
Ciaran sharply prodded Sif, who whined and open one eye. "It is time to rise. A choice has been made and it will be before Artorais. Thou must eat," she commanded.
Sif whined pitifully, shutting his eyes, but Ciaran poked him again. This time he snarled slightly and she pointed to the giant mushroom things. Grudgingly the giant wolf rose and went to his larder to eat. The fire had died out in the night, the Chosen stirred the ashes watching for embers but there was nothing. If he hadn't lost the pyromancy glove fighting Ornstein he could have lit it, but the glove was gone and with it the galvanizing fire.
He was shaken from his thoughts by Sif dropping one of the massive mushroom near. The wolf ripped into the strange flesh with ease, blood and organs coating his muzzle. "A far cry from the pup ripped at Manus's flesh," he fondly recalled.
"Indeed," Ciaran said with equal fondness as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come, let us leave him be."
He had stiffened the moment she touched him. There had been no warning of her approach. She was beyond good, beyond skilled. A thousand years to master her craft had made her into something far more the knight she had been when they last fought together. He followed her out of the cavern and into the forest.
Sunlight filtered through the trees. Water was running somewhere near. It was a new day, a new day for the new man he was. No more dithering, he would regret and hate his past but it would not bind him. Under the new dawn he vowed to remind himself of that when he feel into the depths of despair. Ahead Ciaran waited between two large trees. He could almost imagine she wore a knowing smirk beneath that mask, but he had only seen her face once before and only for a moment.
He followed her between the trees and up a steep hill. Below them the expansive forest of Lordran spread out like a green sheet and beyond that a range of mountains. The sky was clear with only a few wispy clouds in the sky. It was a beautiful scene akin to the overlook from the top of the Parish or the Anor Londo. He would not soon forget it. He turned to Ciaran, intending to ask the question he had forgotten last night. She looked back as if daring him to ask.
"When we fought Manus," he began and halted, looking towards her for permission to continue. When she gesture him to continue, he knew it was safe. "He hit your mask with his staff." He saw her stiffen, a slight movement in her shoulders and arms ready to swing towards a sheathed blade. She hadn't expected this. "It was only a moment, but the mask moved enough for me to get a glimpse." He heard her draw a sharp breath.
"Thou did?" she said in a low voice.
"Yes, just for a moment though," he assured her.
The moment turned awkward. He couldn't bring himself to ask she remove the mask. He wanted to know what she really looked like, but didn't dare push her. She was a….well not quite a close friend, but not an acquaintance. Removing her mask was akin to seeing her true self, for the assassin that could hardly be comfortable. She made no motion, leaving him to think she was offended and he prepared to retreat when her arm rose.
"Well, if thou hast seen that much then there's little need to hide it. Prepare yourself, I'm told I'm shocking," she said with dark amusement. Slowly she used both hands to remove the mask. He was trebling slightly in excitement and trepidation. Her hands clicked something on the mask and she began to lift the enter helm. If what he had seen before was any indication…
A milky left eye, scarred flesh pulsating with evil gray light on an elegant cheekbone, lips twisted into a permanent smirk, a right eye of the deepest red, porcelain skin, an aristocratic nose and straight pale ivory hair cascaded to her shoulders freed of the helms bonds.
"…beautiful," he muttered in awe.
"And horrifying," she added with some amused. "It has been a long time since I removed this thing," she mused, looking to the mask.
"I have seen many of both, but you…" Words failed him. The illusion in Anor Londo was beautiful, demons were horrifying. Ciaran was neither; she was akin to the Fair Lady or the dangerously horrifying beauty of Quelaag. The only word he could compare her to was unique and so very…dangerous.
"The scars of war," she leaned against a tree and folded her arms after dropping the helm. "The dragon of which I spoke left these marks. While it is long gone, I still bear a portion of its evil in these scars; neither enough to poison my veins nor to gain anything useful beyond scarring."
"No, you have lived and it has not. Your beauty is not dismissed by so such minor features from victory," he corrected and instantly regretted. The accursed had no libido, but he could only imagine what she looked like without those scars. Such a beauty would put the noblewomen to shame and drive empresses to tears. He found himself cursing the dragon for robbing the world of such a being.
Her pale cheek was tinted red, but she did not look away. "Thou are the first human to look upon my face since I was disfigured. The third to see this visage, after Lord Gwyn and Artorias. Consider thyself among the lucky," she said with the nearest form of a real smile.
"I am honored," he said with all the due reverence. Had he still been among the living he would have sought her relentlessly even if she had a thousand years or more on him. "The stories speak of great beauties that launched ten thousand ships to war, but the real thing is so much…more. Even the goddesses would be hard pressed."
At this she laughed, throwing back her head and revealing the scarring ran to down her neck. "Oh my! Thou were a charmer once human!" She calmed herself, still smiling and clearly pleased. "Alas thou have no goddesses to compare me to, for they put all to shame. At the height if their power they were magnificent," a faraway look entered her eyes, "beyond simply stunning. With a single look was to be enthralled, male and female alike."
He tore his eyes away from her and forced himself to look out towards the distant mountains. Somehow the world felt darker than he recalled. "What did you wish to speak about?"
"Yes, the original intent," she said from behind then was beside him. "I had not thought this would occur today," she said with some amusement.
He forced himself not to look at her. His thoughts wandered back to Artorias and wondered what kind of relationship they had. Once he had seen Artorias face, when his mentor lay slain upon the stones, he had removed the helm. Even when warped and twisted by the Abyss Artorias had been fair and handsome, the pinnacle of what passed as handsome among the kingdoms of men. It was not hard to imagine his face beside Ciaran, fair and beautiful beyond any hope of humanity. If anything humanity futile attempts at beauty were vain reflections of their predecessors. "I am blessed and cursed it seems," he said to himself.
"Hmm?"
He would have slapped himself. Of course that would get her attention. There was nothing left but the truth now if they were baring faces today. "Twice I have gazed upon your kind. Once just know and after Artorias lay dead. Two faces fair beyond my reckoning, casting a long shadow of any human beauty."
She chuckled. "Then I suppose all is well then that the Undead bear no libido."
"Indeed," he thought for a moment, part in disappointment and in relief. Haunted by beauty was hardly what he needed in a dangerous land such as Lordran."I can't help, but feel were avoiding your original intent." He imagined she was wearing a knowing smile, but didn't dare turn to her.
"That does seem to be the theme this morning," she mirthfully said before growing serious. "Then I shall be frank. Abandon this quest. Let the Fire die. My Age is over, let the next come. Thou need not sacrifice more. The world is and was, even under the dragons. It will and shall be under the Dark. What good are more meaningless sacrifices to a world that cares not. Do not throw thine life away on a futile quest like…" her voice faltered suddenly.
He looked at her. Her lips trembled slightly and her right eye appeared watery. He was not the only one with memories. "You have been through this before," he whispered.
"With him," she affirmed.
He wanted nothing more than to comfort her in that moment but felt it would be hardly appropriate. He was unsure, the man who would charge raging demons and monsters! It was hardly fitting if he were the Chosen Undead as Frampt claimed. In truth he had already given up the quest. He was sick of the Fire and the Dark, sick of Lordran, sick of monsters and demons, sick of the sacrifices asked of him. "You have nothing to fear. Unlike him, I have had my fill of Fire. Let it all fade I say. Why should I have to burn everything for the nameless masses or gods who can't be bothered to care," he declared resolutely.
Relief and joy replaced trembling and watery eyes. "Good. I apologize for my behavior. It was shameful to react like that. One would think a thousand years would be enough time…but it seems I was mistaken," she said self-deprecatingly.
He turned back to the mountains with a smile on his face. He removed the helmet with practiced ease and placed it in the crook of his arm. "Chosen Undead my ass. To hell with that snake, Lordran, and the gods. My name is Mikael, not Chosen or any of that rot. I will leave this place and the kingdoms around it." He turned to Ciaran. "I would ask you to come, but this is his resting place so I shall not ask you to part from it."
She regarded him strangely. "Mikael," she played with the name, drawing it out as if savoring it.
Still gazing towards the distant lands, were he knew Lordan ended, he went on speaking his mind. "Men and women have entered this land by sea. I will set out and find a way. Then I will depart the kingdoms where the undead plague runs wild. Beyond them I hope to find answers, perhaps even other gods who might know of ways by which this curse may be undone.
Those who I might call friends here are dead or lost. To the rest I have no ties. None will care, for them I shall be another failed hero, another damned soul. Though I would be lying if I said I would not regret leaving you and Sif in this dark land. Still I understand why you would wish to remain with Artorias until death comes by blade or the end of Lordran itself," he said heavily turning back towards the assassin.
She was still starting at him intently. He dared to meet her eyes, noting that behind her milky eye he could make out a tint of red. Perhaps the evil curse was not so great.
"Artorias…" she began and faltered before trying again. "He…he would not have me sit idle in the world. That I recognize. For a thousand years I have mourned and watched his grave, even as nature reclaimed the city. Rarely did I venture beyond the forest and never for long. Every day I prayed for death to join my dear Artorias, but I found nothing but continuation of a life without purpose."
He noted that there was something in her eyes, a fire, akin to a spark of life. Resisting the urge to smile he kept his face neutral. Already he had an inkling of what the knight was about to say.
"No longer am I content to wait for death. The world has changed and I not with it. Perhaps it is time that I look beyond the Fire and defy the stasis it would have me keep. To stay here another thousand years? Ha! No more, I will see the world and change as thine kindred of the Pygmy are apt to do," she declared, never wavering.
"It would seem my arrival has prompted you to action," he said no longer hiding a pleased smile. "To the hells with the Fire and Lordran!" He extended a hand, offering her the final chance to stay or go.
For a moment she looked strangely at his gesture, breaking eye contact. With a swift motion she removed her left gauntlet in a single motion. Pale skin glistened from a thousand years hidden from the sun. Already the morning rays fell upon them as she clasped his forearm.
His first thought was about her skin. It was softer than a feather, but harder than steel even as it trembled ever so slightly. Her strength easily exceeded his and, while not comparably to a giant, clenched his forearm with a vice like need. He squeezed as hard, trying to reassure her though he doubted she needed it. "Come what may I will be there beside you," he assured her. The Darksign would see to that.
"Mikael," her voice was grave, "Artorias showed me the Age of Fire. In my foolishness to accepted its stasis. Now…I wish to learn about this new world beyond this dying land where thine kin make their abode. If thou would seek out other gods and an end to thine curse then I shall aid thee so long breath remains."
It was done. His course was set. No longer would he or Ciaran be pawns of the Fire. "In the light of a new day no less," he added. Unbidden his mid wandered to long lost Solaire and he offered up a prayer that his friend would meet a swift end or find his sun at last.
She chuckled, but didn't release the grip on his arm. In secret he relished the chance to touch her skin, if only for the alien feeling he had been so longed denied. Lordran was not known for its silks or crafts of beauty. It took him only a moment longer to realize why. A thousand years in a rut was a long time, one could not change in an instant. "Ciaran…" words failed him.
She shook her head. "Do not speak lest I lose this courage."
The unspoken desire not to let go needed not be said. "We should return to Sif and see if he too wants to change. Take my hand."
She looked at him in confusion then dawning realization. "It would be sensible. Moving through these woods with gripped forearms would limit ones movements."
He could hardly deny her words, but he was undead and undead were greedy if nothing else. He merely wanted to feel that skin and grip longer. In truth he was glad for a moment his blood no longer flowed for he was sure it would be in his cheeks. "Ah…yes, exactly!"
Tucking her glove into her belt, she quickly let go of his forearm and took his hand before seizing her helm from the rock she left it on. Instead of donning the helm as he expected, she seemed content to carry it. Likewise he deiced not to redone his and stepped towards the slope. "Shall we?"
She nodded, with a small smile playing on the edge of her lips. "Thou know…" she began after several minutes of easy walking, "the last man was graced with hand the Abysswalker."
He nearly tripped over an exposed root, only to have her pull him upright. In her eyes he saw a playful light. "Then I shall try to live up his impressive standards," he teased lightly, "though I not liable to live up to his stature." Inwardly he felt a sense of something almost like glee spread. Once more he was experiencing what the world had forgotten and from a beauty no less.
"In some ways one may argue thou have already surpassed him," she said as they neared the den. "Kalameet and Manus met their ends by thine hand and other demons. Perhaps in this Age thou shall rise above his immense stature." Now she wore an impish smirk, barely visible upturned lips.
Ciaran, he decided, was fun when she was not in mourning or on the hunt. She was like Tarkus and Solaire on those nights they gathered around Firelink with drink in hand as Laurentius conjured sparks and Logan argued with Reah over the finer points of philosophy until one or the other threw their hands up in frustration only to be laughed at by the company. Even the more reclusive individuals and endless wanderers had joined them from time to time. Now they were gone, missing, slain or hollowed.
"Of what dost thou ponder?"
Ciaran words broke him out from his pleasant memories as they turned dark. He realized he had stopped and she looked at him curiously. "Apologies, I was lost in memory."
"A good one I should hope?"
"Aye, one of the better ones. I think…" he hesitated for a moment, wondering if he dared to say it, "I think you would have gotten along merrily with those I met in this land."
A shadow of doubt crossed her face only to be swept away in a moment. "I doubt that," she quietly muttered, "but enough of the past! Come! Sif remains to be convinced."
She tugged gently and he willing went with her. Those he called friend were gone. Firelink was all but deserted, its flame extinguished. No more would come there seeking refuge by the Fire. There was no future in these lands and a bright one waited him, hopefully with Ciaran and Sif by his side. "Somehow I think Sif will not take kindly to leaving the grave," he voiced his concern before they turned into the cave. "I have no desire to taste that sword of his on my flesh." Ciaran only answer was an amused snort as they entered the den as Sif started to walk out. The wolf paused and only stared at them, more specifically he realized, at their hands.
…
…
…
Could wolves even make that shocked expression?
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A/N: Thus begins the intrepid journey of three brave souls across many lands to find another cure for the Undead plague and learn to live again! They would go on to have many adventures and fight many foes and meet many new faces. In time even gods would cower before the might of the man, assassin and giant wolf [and not merely because of a giant wolf with an equally large sword].
Or not.
I started this as a spur of the moment thing. I wanted to give Sif a happier ending, but it soon morphed into this. It's more of character drama as I found myself writing a wholly different story about two broken people [with a giant wolf everyone loves] and filling in the blanks. Ciaran's backstory and the order of certain in-game events were altered, but such is the nature of time in Lordran. Who is to say what is truth and what is fiction?
But here this skald must call it a night and bid all a goodnight! Perhaps other skalds may take this tale and sing of their further adventures for such is the way of Souls to have neither beginning nor end set in stone! For none can own the tales of Dark Souls in the end. Fare you well till we met again fair traveler!