Here goes a little something. If I get a review, it'll turn into a bigger something. It may become a rather grand something. Hope you enjoy.
The sun was hanging in the sky. Never shifting, never dimming, and not quite shining so much as letting its unfriendly light drift earthwards, into the land of Lordran. The boy didn't know if the sun was illusory, as so much was in this land of cold hearts and dead eyes. He thought he might like to know, but it was far from pressing. In fact, the only reason he was contemplating that distant object was to keep his thoughts away from what he had just done. Yet the memory of blood mixing with pestilent water was worming its way into his head, causing him to focus on the sun even harder. He was undead - his hollow eyes were no longer vulnerable to light, even when it was as bright as the one into which he glared so intently.
Footsteps nearby caught his attention. The boy turned his head to see a man wearing hard leather armour slowly making his way around the aqueduct piers. He noted with approval that the man kept his footing - clearly, it was not this person's first experience with treacherous footing. As the man drew closer, his eyes, which the boy noticed were dark as was common with undead, came to rest on the bloody curved knife in the boy's hand. He did not immediately react, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he spoke, his voice quite level.
"I hope that blood doesn't belong to anyone around here." He took as step back as the boy began shaking. A quavering reply, so quiet it was almost a whisper, issued from the boy's mouth.
"No... no... no one from around here... not here..."
He tried to stand, but his legs shook too much, and he sank back against the wall with a groan. All of a sudden, the boy's expression took on an air of exhaustion, as if the thing ailing his mind were tiring him physically. The man stood there for a moment, his face expressionless. Then, with the faintest look of sympathy, he turned and made his way back across the aqueduct, towards Firelink Shrine. The boy didn't watch him go; his dark eyes were closed, and the same scene was playing over and over in his head, twisting around his consciousness like a serpent. He hoped with all his being that that scene wouldn't appear so vivid forever, or even the week to come; too much of this and he knew he'd hollow. The event playing in his mind had taken a part of him away, a remnant of those he lived for.
The boy shook his head, trying to shut out the memory. Though guilt gnawed at him like poison, he did have other things to worry about. Like Aengus, for instance.
The Chosen Undead walked over the fallen hollows on his way back to Firelink Shrine, unintentionally kicking more than one off the edge of the cliff to his left. The crestfallen warrior, eyes normally downcast, looked up as the other man strode towards the bonfire before him.
"So, you've met him?"
"Yes, though I feel 'meet' is too strong a word to describe that encounter. Weird kid, huh?"
"Only as much as anyone who comes this way. He's on the edge of hollowing, you know."
"Purposeless?"
"Hopeless... and it's no secret why. Years ago, he crawled out of New Londo just after it flooded, clutching his parents' humanity in his hands. His skin was shriveling before my eyes. And to make it all worse, he only survived by consuming that humanity he brought with him. The look on his face... there's not much rattles me, but those eyes chilled me, I'll admit."
"From New Londo, you say? Hmm... that's interesting. I thought no one survived the flooding."
Suspicion appeared in the warrior's eyes. "How would a prisoner of the Asylum know that?"
Thinking quickly, the Chosen Undead cooked up an answer. "The... man in the cell next to me came from Lordran and got imprisoned by the Asylum demons. I think he mentioned it once."
Despite the slight hesitation, the crestfallen warrior either bought it, or didn't care enough to call it out as fabrication. His tired gaze returned to the fire, seeming to drift away in its strange, almost ethereal blaze. "This land is done for. If our very gods show their love by drowning us like rats, what hope is there for the lot of us? I might as well walk into the Burg, sword sheathed."
The Chosen Undead smirked, his own stare following the seated man's into the flames. "Maybe we all should. Then again, my interest has been piqued. I've passed through this world before in another time." Ignoring the look of incredulity shot his way by the warrior, he continued, his fireward gaze intensifying. "A man whose words I'm certain can be trusted told me that this world has infinite parallels, and that this time has repeated itself more than once. I've seen the events to come play out before many times, but never with that boy present."
Deciding to indulge this man of questionable sanity, the crestfallen warrior inquired with more than a hint of sarcasm, "And you think he'll have some influence on these events you claim to know so much about?"
"My friend," the man said, ignoring the dirty look shot at him by the warrior, "we're all chiseling our names into the wall of history, however insubstantial that wall may be in a land such as this. The presence of one who time has glossed over is more significant than you could know; he could very well be the key to avoiding the dark fate Gwyn set us up for."
"I care not to ask more. You're as mad as that sorcerer's apprentice. Go throw your infinite lives away, for all I care - who knows? Perhaps hollowing is a comfortable experience."
"That seems unlikely," the man said, his smug expression annoying the warrior as he put his hand out to the bonfire, restoring his flesh while the faint groans of the hollows up the hill resumed. "Tell me, why is he hollowing now? You mentioned his parents' demise; were that the cause, he'd be long gone."
The warrior, realizing the conversation was heading in a direction that would allow him to voice his beloved pessimism, responded with slightly less annoyance in his tone. "Not long ago, he descended below Firelink Shrine - I heard the elevator come and go. Back to New Londo, the fool, and days later returned, face white as a sheet and his knife stained with blood. No doubt some poor soul met his end at the end of that blade - maybe insanity has already set in."
The Chosen Undead said nothing this time. His mind was whipping through possibilities, pondering what to do next. An unexpected variable, for no apparent reason - someone had survived the flooding of New Londo, and had come here. What drove this person? What purpose did he hold in his heart, preventing him from hollowing? The blood on his knife was indicative, but it could belong to anyone or anything. Someone was dead...
An idea came unbidden into the Chosen Undead's mind. Foolishness. Madness. But something new. And oh, how he longed for novelty.
"What's his name?"
"Eh?"
"The boy. What's his name?"
"He calls himself Ren. Fittingly short, for the bearer of such a small soul."
The Chosen Undead barely heard him. He was already gone up the hill, longsword and heater shield at the ready.
The sounds of fighting reached Ren's ears, but he disregarded them. They didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Except Ae... his name. It was deserting him. He could barely recall the faces of those who had begged him to live for their sakes... all was reddening, darkening, dying.
Something hard made contact with his forehead, snapping him back to awareness. Ren's eyes opened, the blurry scene before him quickly solidifying and sharpening. Before him stood the man from earlier, his hand extended and holding a quivering humanity sprite. In an instant, hunger overtook the boy's every sense, and he snatched the humanity and crushed it before the man could react. He snarled in relief as his being was filled with lucidity, his eyes able to focus. In that moment, he saw the hollow at the top of the stairs draw back its arm to throw a firebomb, and, rising swiftly, shoved the man back against the aqueduct pier and dived forward just as the explosive shattered where they both had been standing two seconds ago.
As additional firebombs were launched and hit the other side of the pier, the hollow not recognizing the presence of a wall between it and its target, the Chosen Undead climbed to his feet and grinned at the boy.
"Not bad. You've got good reflexes - though you'll need more than just that to traverse the challenges ahead."
"Ah, thanks... what?"
"You know of the Fate of the Undead, right?"
"Um... I've heard of it. I don't know anything about it, except for the bells thing."
"Perfect. Do you know who I am?"
"Not a clue."
"Glorious. Have you ever been away from Firelink Shrine or New Londo?"
"As far as Blighttown and the Valley of the Drakes - now slow down, where are these qu-"
"Not quite what I was hoping to hear, but aside from that, you seem to be the man for the job."
"Eh?"
"See, it has come to light that you -" he intoned, pointing theatrically, "-are the Chosen Undead, the one destined to know our fate and save us all. Go do your thing."
"Me? Hey, now - how do you know this? What is this madness? Explain yourself!"
"No. Best of luck, Chosen Undead."
Having delivered his message, the man turned and, before Ren could lift a finger, dove from the aqueduct to his death. The boy gasped, reaching futilely after him as if to call him back from the immeasurable drop into the canyon. Despite the water with which the man would meet, such a fall would shatter every bone in his body, and he would subsequently drown.
Ren stood shakily, his thoughts in a jumble. The Chosen Undead? The subject of a dubious prophecy? Surely this was nonsense, the inane ravings of a man with Dark rotting his mind.
...But if it were a lie, did it matter? Ren held up his hand, scrutinizing the lines that marred its skin. He was, he knew, hideous - yet he knew this because he could see his hand clearly, for the first time in days. The stone around him was in sharp focus, every detail standing out to his ember-filled eyes. To his surprise, a mad grin crossed his raisined visage. Hope, a feeling he couldn't remember knowing, was pouring into him, fueling him almost like liquid Humanity. A purpose. A flame to light the way.
Something new.
Withdrawing a wooden flute from a pouch on his belt, Ren blew tonelessly into it, sending a shrill blast of sound into the ravine below. His smile growing wider, he cocked his ear, and was filled with childish joy when a roar, laced with an electric crackle, answered his call.
Hope. A purpose. Something new.