Hey all, welcome to my first ever Dark Souls story! I'd like to say upfront that while I know a fair bit about Dark Souls, there are probably lore aficionados out there who know way more than me. So for those people, go easy on me—I might take some creative liberties here and there.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review!

Prologue

Ornstein pulled his spear from the now motionless undead warrior at his feet. His resplendent golden armor gleamed in the surrounding torchlight of the cavernous cathedral that had been his post for years uncounted.

This battle had been brief—the undead had seemed ill-prepared for their fight, stumbling blindly into their lair without any semblance of strategy. It had been nimble though, diving and rolling out of the way of a few of Ornstein's attacks before finally being skewered and ravaged by the divine lightning that impregnated his weapon.

His eyes lingered on the body beneath him. It was such a small, pitiful thing. Its armor was old and rusted, its skin dry and withered beyond all recognition. Had it been a man? A woman? Why had it chosen to come here, of all forsaken places? Had it come with the intention of killing him, or simply wandered into their cathedral by accident? He found himself too numb to care.

It didn't really matter, in the end. Nothing mattered anymore.

Leaving the body behind, Ornstein turned to face the massive armored figure behind him. His rotund armor too was gold, though not nearly as well-kept, and his helm was crafted into the shape of a face locked in an eternal smirk. The figure lazed by one of the ruined stone pillars that had been destroyed during a fight long ago, resting nonchalantly on his gigantic hammer. Low, metallic laughter echoed from behind the smirking helm.

"This one put up no fight at all." The figure said, nodding in the direction of the undead. "Hardly worth our time, eh Dragonslayer?"

"We have been guarding this cathedral for ages uncounted, Smough." Ornstein said dispassionately as he flicked the blood from his spear. "Our 'time' is worthless."

"Heh, I guess that makes this little morsel less than worthless, doesn't it?" Smough crossed the room to the body and turned it over with an armored boot. When he did, he grunted with clear disappointment. "Damn the gods; it's hollow. I was hoping from some real, living flesh to eat."

Ornstein's own lion-head helm hid his look of pure disgust. Smough had many qualities that made him detestable, but his insistence on eating the poor souls that wandered into their midst was the worst by far. He pointedly took a few steps away from his companion and leaned against one of the in-tact pillars on the opposite side of the room.

He watched as Smough removed his helm, revealing his massive, bald head. Two dark, beady eyes lay too close together on his round face, and his crooked nose sat above thin, worm-like lips. Holding his helm in one hand, Smough reached down with the other to effortlessly pick up the fallen undead warrior. He licked his lips and opened his mouth wide, revealing the few rotting brown teeth still left to him. "But it's as the clerics say; waste not, want not." He brought the undead's head to his waiting maw.

"Do that elsewhere." Ornstein said sharply. "I've no interest in watching you gorge yourself on the dead."

Smough paused momentarily before slowly lowering the body back to his side. His dark eyes flicked towards Ornstein as an oily smile crawled onto his face.

"Oh, a thousand pardons, milord!" He said, sarcasm thick on every word. "Have I offended your knightly sensibilities?"

Ornstein sighed inwardly. This again. Smough took every opportunity he could to needle Ornstein about his station as a knight under Lord Gwyn. Jabs about his "knightly sensibilities" were the most common, but over the centuries he'd been mocked for everything from his armor, to his spear, to the lion-crested ring he wore on his finger.

"Cannibalism is abhorrent, Executioner." He replied coolly. "You don't have to be a knight to know that."

Smough's smile only grew. He waved the body in Ornstein's direction, as if offering him a snack. "If you tried it, Dragonslayer, you'd understand. After a bite or two, you'll forget all about that 'chivalry' you love so much."

It had taken him awhile, but Ornstein had eventually concluded that the constant slights at his expense came not from mockery, but from some deep, long-held envy. Smough had wanted, perhaps even still wanted, to be a knight; though Ornstein for the life of him couldn't imagine why. Gwyn was gone, his order of faithful knights had been gone for even longer. What was the point of being a knight of a dead lord in an empty world?

Ornstein let Smough's abuse slide off him. It had been many years since he'd cared enough to truly be bothered by the larger man's goading. "Never mind," he said tersely, "I'm going up to my quarters. Do what you wish."

Pushing off the pillar, he strode towards the immense stone stairway that lead up into the bowels of the cathedral. It was only a matter of time until Smough got bored and began his grizzly feast—better to leave beforehand.

"Suit yourself, Milord!" Smough's voice echoed after him. "More for me, then!"

/

Ornstein entered a modest stone chamber he'd claimed as his on one of the higher levels of the cathedral. It was Spartan in nature, containing little more than a worn bed and a mount for his armor and weapon. There was a doorway on the opposite wall that lead to a small balcony overlooking the main hall which he quickly closed, lest any of Smough's…noises find their way to his ears.

After depositing his weapon onto its mount, he sat on his bed and removed his helm, holding it in both hands. He hadn't seen his true reflection in centuries, but in the polished metal of his helm he could just make out the mane of short-cropped auburn hair that sat stark against his pale skin. He maneuvered his helm until a distorted version of his eye stared back at him. The gold made it hard to make out their hue, and Ornstein realized with mild surprise that he couldn't recall the color of his eyes. Were they grey? Perhaps green? After a few more moments of inspection, he gave up, placing the helm on its wooden stand.

Keeping the rest of his armor on, Ornstein lay back onto his bed, staring up at the familiar stone ceiling. He briefly contemplated sleeping, but ultimately cast the idea aside. The same curse that lay heavy on Lordran and kept death away also made things like eating and sleeping non-essential. So while people like Smough could choose to eat and drink and sleep as they wished, they did so purely out of preference.

Ornstein had little interest in any of those things now. He never ate, drank water only seldom, and slept only if his boredom became unbearable. Most days, he simply stared at his ceiling, letting time slip past him in a sort of trance.

There had been a time when days like this had excited him; when an intruder wandered into their midst. It had lit a small spark of excitement inside him, and rekindled his purpose. He'd even felt the familiar rush from wars long ended on a few rare occasions. But given enough time (and there always seemed to be enough), even the occasional battles began to feel monotonous.

Now, all fighting did was stir up fragments of memory from the bottom of his mind. He'd remember a vaguely-familiar face, a few words of some conversation had lifetimes ago. They weren't true memories, just blurry visions, and they did more to remind Ornstein of all he'd forgotten rather than actually help him remember anything. He hated that.

It would be several days until he'd be able to settle his mind back into its thoughtless peace, maybe he could—

A sound from the main hall beyond his balcony made Ornstein sit upright in his bed. It was the telltale creak of the massive front doors.

Two intruders, so close together? He thought, more surprised than anything else. It seemed that the number of adventurers attempting to pass through their cathedral had grown fewer and fewer as of late, so two in the span of a day was strange indeed.

Ornstein quickly put on his helmet and picked up his spear before opening to door to his balcony. He stepped out onto its small terrace, expecting to see Smough at the ready against some armored stranger, but instead was met with something else entirely.

It was dark in the hall, silver moonlight pouring through its high windows. This didn't surprise him, the days had a tendency to slip past faster now. What did surprise him was Smough's absence. Had he not heard the door too? Deciding it didn't matter, Ornstein began to scan the hall for his challenger. He looked to the door, then down the hall itself, but saw nothing. Had he imagined it?

Just then, however, a new sound reached Ornstein's ears. A sound he hadn't heard in a long time.

Crying.

Hollows didn't cry, did they? They wailed occasionally, perhaps, but never cried. He tried to pinpoint the sound's origin, but the large, echoing hall made it all but impossible. Curious, Ornstein leapt deftly from his balcony and landed with a crash on the stones floor below. The crying stopped suddenly, as though the noise had scared its source into silence. Did hollows get scared?

Ornstein began to stalk the room, his spear at the ready. His curiosity was at its peak now. What sort of challenger cries and hides in the face of its adversary? He had almost made it all the way to the front of the cathedral when something finally caught his eye. A brief glimpse of white, disappearing behind a nearby pillar.

Ornstein adjusted course for the pillar, raising his spear into a striking stance. He wouldn't be caught with his guard down, should this be some kind of trick. As he got closer, he could hear the a faint whimpering sound.

You've given your position away too easily, He thought grimly. And it will be your end. In one blindingly-fast motion, Ornstein closed the distance between him and the pillar, rounded its side and drew back his weapon to deliver a killing blow…

A small figure sat huddled against the pillar, with its legs drawn up to its chest. A tangle of long, dark hair hid its face, which was buried defensively between its knees. It wore a plain dress of white, which nearly matched the pale skin beneath it. The figure's small frame, for too small to be a normal undead, shook violently.

Ornstein's spear lowered to his side as confusion overtook his senses. He dropped to one knee before the figure and reached a gauntleted hand towards it. His own size was huge by comparison, and the single finger he used to gently prod the thing's arm was several times larger than its shoulder.

Its head snapped up at the contact, and two large, deep-blue eyes stared at him, wide with fear. Its face was pale and round, with a small patch of freckles dusting the bridge of its petite nose.

It wasn't hollow. It didn't even look undead. And…

Ornstein pulled his hand away as if he'd been burned. Beneath his helm, his own eyes grew wide.

This was a child.