I had a name, once.
By now, it is irrelevant to know my name.
I am the Chosen Undead, the one who will decide the fate of the world.
This land I roam is a place of sadness.
A wide-spreading curse runs rampant like a plague.
The curse of Undeath makes it so that no one can rest in peace when they die;
Either as nebulous spirits or as withered-looking hollows, no one dies.
While the idea of never staying dead might sound good, the adverse effects is that eventually, an undead will go insane.
My weapon: a Zweihander enhanced with a chaos-flame, black burning with white wisps along the blade.
It had long since out-classed my divine straight sword, though it is kept as memento.
My spells: a pyromancy stream of fire that gushes out like a hose of magma.
Mother always knew how to warm people's hearts, as well as their clothes.
My armor: a full-suit of an elite knight's armor, the visor down to hide my face.
Father was a noble who saw much in Mother dearest, as he knew his way with blades as did in flames.
My shield: a tall metal shield of Balder, though it was thankfully lighter than most shields of its size.
I had this shield for most of my journey, and it defended myself and allies many times.
I stand at the kiln of the First Flame.
I have already vanquished the poor, maddened soul who had once been here himself for the Flame to be fueled.
He had existed at the time the First Flame had become lit.
From the Flame came the distinction between light and dark, hope and despair, good and evil, warmth and cold.
The Flame had also given the world souls, a source of power for the world.
But after many, many years, the Flame had faded.
The man now slain by me and pillaged for his souls, was once a god.
Not too surprising to me, though.
I had faced three or so other gods and slaughtered them and their servants as well.
All of whom had lost their grips on the world and had descended into insanity or deception.
At the time, I was told and I had believed that I was doing right for the world.
I was told that the world's gods I have slain are suffering by not having their mind about them, and I was easing their pain by killing them.
I had believed that kindling the Flame would keep the world in light and would give people back the sanity they've lost.
But that was a lie;
A false hope to try to make the bad situations not as bad.
I was lied to, out of good intention, but a lie all the same.
The Flame was as much the cause as is the cure for this curse.
I later found one who told me truth, but a truth that was not satisfying either.
I was told by this one that a great abyss is the origin of humans, and by proxy the undead as well.
I had heard from this one that the gods in this land are either insane, using illusions to have control over things, or they have abandoned the world entirely.
I was told dark was where humans would thrive.
But in my travels, I have been to a city that did have a taste of what is promised.
The city below was a horror to behold, as the townsfolk were mutated into monsters that had no semblance of sanity in them.
These two choices I have, these two conflicting tellings, are not truly the best outcome either way.
The worst part is, the choice is just as irrelevant as my name.
I had found in many ravings and maddened scrawls from a great library of sorcery that the Flame never truly dies, but it can be dimmed to a point where it seems like it is gone.
The Flame existing at all has made a cycle of flame and abyss.
An age of Fire will always follow with an age of Darkness.
An age of Darkness will always be quashed by an age of Fire.
Whether I believe the lie or the truth, my choice will not change anything in the long run.
Fate, it seems, has decided to make the world remain in a permanent limbo of ebb and flow.
I have no desire for the suffering of others to circle like this.
To light the Flame is to sacrifice myself for a dying hierarchy and for false hopes as the "hero".
To smother the Flame is to doom the world to true madness and for power of my own as a Dark Lord.
The best decision, I guess, is to do nothing.
The Flame will pitter out to embers, and I will not leave this tomb.
I sit in this tomb for uncountable lengths of time.
I was in my home village, far away from the disasters of the undead curse and looking as I had remembered it as a child.
I had sprinted down the dirt roads I knew by heart to my home.
I opened the door to see my parents, my mother a Pyromancer and my father a Knight.
We had embraced, having it been so long since I have seen my dear old mother and my stalwart father, but two persons were missing.
I asked my parents where my younger brother and sister are.
They tell me that they will be home soon and that they want me to help kindle the fireplace.
I looked out the window to a sea of endless black, a sight of the Abyss itself.
Looking back to my parents, they were actually not my parents here, but actually two god-persons whom I was told to kill for the greater good.
The woman who was my mother now was in the form of the first practitioner of pyromantic arts, The witch of Izalith.
The man who was my father now was in the form of the legendary knight who slowed the spread of the abyss, at the cost of his sanity and his life, the noble knight Artorias.
The knight and witch asked again to kindle the fire, pointing at what was now the Flame itself.
The pathetic puff looked like something fit to sit upon a candle, yet I could feel its warmth from a solid few feet away despite its size.
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
The illusion faded, and I felt guilt.
It was something common now, after taking the time to realize how much I have hurt others for the sake of blindly doing what I'm told.
Sometimes, it even becomes where I do these heinous acts because they give me a small rush that makes me feel alive, or because I'll gain more souls to better equip myself.
I knew well that I am not any better than any other demon or monster I had faced.
I plunged my sword into the ground, making it a post to hang my helm on.
I then waited for someone else to take my place, who would hopefully know what the right decision is truly.
I hear the wall of fog fade through.
A hero had come to face me and to either quash the Flame or to kindle the Flame.
My time has come.
The hero wears armor like mine, metal and protective.
The hero uses a smaller, quicker straight sword and an enchanted staff as probably a catalyst for sorceries.
The hero uses a far heavier shield than mine, oddly enough.
I take heed of this newcomer.
Knowing that this might be the last time they see me, I put on my helm and pull out my sword.
The blade feels so heavy in my hands despite the training I have done to wield such a weapon.
Guilt, it seems, is catching up to me.
I drag the point of my black-white flaming sword along the ground and trace my name on the ground.
The markings I have made in the ash are not legible words that I remember, but I hope that this hero will know what I am doing.
I bow before we duel, as does the hero.
Our blades clashed into each other;
Our shields parried and bashed each other;
Our spells struggled against each other.
Soon, my shield broke from his blade, as did my arm.
I roared in pain, then scorched the hero with boiling red.
His blade then broke from a heavy, overhead slam with my blade.
The hero cried out and flung a slew of misty white arrows, piercing my chest.
We soon exhausted our spells as well, both of us.
Shield and staff against ultra greatsword.
Neither of us could out do the other.
The madness of cycle returns.
I knew that this hero would most likely kill me, so it wouldn't matter what I did.
"Love me all, or despair on all," so sayeth a maddened scholar.
I dropped to my knees and wept.
I wept for the despair that was this world.
I wept for the adventurer who only wanted to be a hero, but fell to despair and insanity.
I wept for the optimist knight who wished to bring light into the world, but was consumed by maggot-like demon that made him think of the sun.
I wept for the millions of hollows and friendly phantoms who I slain for souls and humanity.
I wept, and the hero was confused.
This hero knew what I knew.
They had already come up with a plan of their own to break the cycle.
A total cataclysm of the world, total doomsday to wipe the world clean of everything.
I wasn't sure about it, but the hero stabbed my throat with what's left of their sword.
Being undead, I didn't die from the stab, but this "hero" drained me of what souls I had and approached the fire.
I struggled to get back my bearings on the world, stumbling over to the armored Armageddon.
I was too late.
The "hero" took the flame from its place and absorbed the Flame into themselves.
I watched with horror as they began to burn, but not in a way that this kiln could contain.
A great blast threw me against the wall.
The last thing I saw was a rift and a red phantom.
I woke sitting near an old shrine where I remember it being the place I first arrived at.
The Firelink Shrine, in all its beauty of mossy ruins.
Near the bonfire sitting in the center of the small recession in the ground was the red phantom who had saved me earlier.
Strange thing, since red phantoms are normally ones who invade upon a person's world to kill the said person.
I asked the phantom who she was.
She shook her head and faded, leaving an orange soapstone message where she sat.
I read the message on the ground:
"The world is dead.
Permanently.
Except for you and occasional phantoms.
However, you are too skilled to be beaten, so no phantom will want to come to you, anyway.
This is the end of the cycle you so desired.
No one else is left now."
The message faded, as did my hopes for a happy ending.
The world is now forever dusk, and never sun nor moon.
I wander around the empty lands, once crawling with undead or monsters or golems or all sorts of things.
I stand at the balcony where I first met the great knight of the sun.
He'd always go on about "Jolly Cooperation" and his desire to be radiant and hope-giving like the sun.
He'd always do that somewhat charming "Praise the Sun!" that he always exclaimed before and after a successful battle, posing himself to a Y-shape and looking upward.
Oh, the good times of silly praising of the light in the sky at any moment appropriate.
I stood at that balcony and gave a half-hearted mumble and posing of the naïve knight's signature gesture.
I remember the name of this good knight.
He was the knight Solaire of Astoria.
He knew my name well.
He always tried to be a friend that a person could count on.
And he was always dependable.
It is sad that I couldn't save him from his fate.
My name is irrelevant now, with no one to come.
No one would be here to hear it.
I can never die, but that is no blessing.
If I do die sometime in the future, I don't want to always come back.
I've dealt with many lifetimes worth of suffering and sorrow.
At least to my credit, there won't be a cycle of this madness anymore.
My name…
I grab my piece of orange soapstone from my belt and write in my name.
My name now is orange chalk on the ground for phantoms to see;
Speak legends of.
The one without Fate.
The one who defies Fate.
The one who wouldn't listen to white lies nor black truths.
My name is important.
My name is Oscar.