Like the Ghost of a Fallen Knight

by Trefoil-underscore

(Rated M for descriptions of violence/gore/death) Astora has a lot of folklore concerning ghosts, so it's easier than you might think to mistake what type of revenant you're dealing with, when, during an Undead plague, on a particularly dark and stormy night, a previously-dead best friend shows up all muddy in the clothes you buried them in. Halloween update.

He couldn't stay asleep. He wanted to, he wanted to sleep. He felt so terribly tired, but the cold intruded, horrible, aching cold that had sunk right down to his bones. At last he moved with a pained groan, putting out a hand to pull the covers closer. He touched the handle of his sword, lying naked across his body. It slipped down and stabbed into the meat of his left calf. And it burned—a fierce dry cold blazed into the wound, some horrible magic like he'd never felt before. It shocked him fully awake at once. He flinched and managed to knock it to the side without further injuring himself. That wasn't his sword; the hilt had felt familiar for a minute but what idiot slept with a naked sword? Not Oscar, that was an idiot way to die that he'd like to avoid. Was someone trying to kill him? He couldn't see a thing, there had to be something covering his head. He started to raise an arm towards his face and bruised his knuckles on the ceiling, only a short distance above him. Claustrophobia seized him. He tried to sit up and succeeded only in banging his knees as well. There was barely enough room to move.

A few moment later he lay breathing hard, having cut the side of his arm open in his desperate thrashing. The horrible cold burn sank into his flesh while his blood seeped out. He forced himself to lay still and take deep breaths, then slowly, keeping his hands low, reached up to his face. His fingers brushed fabric. Thank the gods, he'd been right. He pulled the cloth down and clutched it to his chest, blinking upwards.

There was no change. He still saw nothing but blackness. Had he been struck blind? He faintly remembered a battle—something had gone wrong, hadn't it?

An unpleasant suspicion seized him, and he explored his surroundings by touch. Walls close on either side of him. A floor of the same cold wood. The naked sword now lying by his side. And everywhere, utter silence, but for his own breaths. It wasn't a pleasant outdoors silence shot with the distant burr of crickets or the faint movements of wind. It was a complete and crushing silence. He'd never been afraid of silence before, he'd thought he rather liked it, but this terrified him. It was a silence so heavy he could hear his heart thudding heavily in his chest, making a sound like a distant drum in the silence.

Again, unwilling to accept what seemed obvious now, he felt around the seams of his prison, then felt the scarf that had covered his face: a light, gauzy thing embroidered with heavier thread. On his chest, only a light shirt. Knights were never buried in their armor.

So he was in a coffin then. It was the only thing that made sense. He'd been buried alive.

No, no that didn't make sense either, because now that he stopped to think about it, Oscar distinctly remembered dying. He'd forgotten it in the unpleasant shock of waking in such a place. He'd forgotten many things, he realized suddenly: they came back to him like pale shadows of memories—things he knew he would never have forgotten, things he knew were precious to him, but now they seemed faded and dim—certainly he ought to remember his sister's name? He knew he had a sister, and a brother as well; he didn't always get along with them but he knew their names. What were their names.

He registered that he was shaking. It reminded him of his death.

It had been raining heavily, and his blue commander's cape hung like lead from his shoulders. Oscar walked his horse slowly through the woods at the head of a legion of knights, wincing at the small unavoidable sounds made by his and his horse's armor, the clinking of movement and the almost musical pings of rain hitting metal. Solaire made less noise behind him, only a faint jingle of loose mail moving beneath his surcoat. He was marvelously light on his feet for such a big man. Oscar was glad to have him close. Solaire wasn't one the Elite Knights, though he well could have been, had he wished it; but he preferred to remain a freelance Warrior, not even a low-ranking knight, because it gave him more freedom to follow his own convictions. One could be a Warrior of Sunlightlight and also an Elite Knight, there was nothing in either covenant which forbid it, but Solaire was quite scrupulous. At another time, Oscar might have thought him unnecessarily so; but with the new laws against the Undead, he was starting to think Solaire had a point. Oscar was sworn to follow the virtues of the Way of White, but firstly and much more concretely to obey the orders of the Crown. And he didn't like what was happening there. After the falls of Balder and Berenike to the Curse, no one wanted to risk an infestation of Hollows, but still.

He refused to call the collections "hunts." The Undead hunts begun by the cleric knights in distant lands were barbaric and unfair things, and Astora would never stoop to such methods. In rounding up their Undead, they used force only when necessary.

Force was, as might be expected, very often necessary. The Undead knew that no one returned from the Asylum. That they were being sent there to rot until the end of the world. They were innocent folk, most of them who'd had the misfortune of being marked by the Curse, at no immediate risk of going Hollow.

Who could understand the ways of the gods.

Sometimes he feared that the gods too were powerless in the face of this Curse. The holy men denied it, but the sorcerers whispered and prophesied, poring over mysteries long buried, and their faces grew drawn and fearful.

The alternative almost seemed worse, that the gods, ever so kind to their charges, had all abandoned them to this affliction. If it were a punishment, why would they not say for what they suffered, and why did it strike so indiscriminately? There was no logic to it.

The Curse had once been only a legend; the graves of men who were strong in life were carefully sealed in case they came back Hollow, stories of wandering corpses circulated now and then although no one had seen one. The Undead were often confused with ghosts, another character common in folklore.

It was said that ghosts would sometimes appear to their loved ones in the dead of night, dressed in their grave clothes, to give a final message or embrace. As long as their dear one held them tightly they would stay, even until the sun's first rays lightened the sky, but if the living one released them the ghost would fade away like a curl of smoke in the wind.

Oscar held up his hand, slowing to a stop. He could see the beast ahead in the clearing, not a natural clearing but one that had been made by its armored tail. It had slashed down great trees older than Oscar and torn up the soft earth of the wood to make itself a comfortable nest, and now its back was turned to them. It was looking down the valley at the lights of the next village. If the last two it had visited were any indication, its intentions were far from friendly.

Oscar sized it up. It was a smaller than a dragon and probably didn't breathe fire, so that was good. He hated dragons. But 'not a dragon' was the thing's only good quality. It was huge and black, with armored plates extending down its back and covering its head and tail. Horns like twisted branches forked from its head, and red eyes burned deep in sunken, skull-like sockets. Its arms were proportionally short, but powerful. He'd seen what they could do—claw marks gashed deep into the heavy wood of a beam it had crushed on its last visit to a town, bodies thrown and mangled.

He looked back at Solaire, who smiled: his eyes crinkled under his helmet. "Ready, friend?"
Oscar nodded, then looked back at Mari and raised his shield. She lifted the standard in response. There was a quiet, wet-metal scraping through the ranks as visors were lowered and weapons readied. The archers spread out, creeping closer to the creature still absorbed in the distant lights. Oscar suddenly realized that it could set off at any moment and they would have to chase it down, ruining the element of surprise, and probably meeting it at a double disadvantage as they'd have to leave the slower fighters behind. Not all of them were mounted knights, some of their best warriors, Solaire included, were on foot, and would follow the cavalry charge.

The knights gathered in formation. Solaire moved back and disappeared into the crowd. Oscar felt suddenly more vulnerable without the warrior at his back. He tilted the rain out of his visor and focused on the beast.

Some said it was a demon born of twisted fire in an ancient land. He didn't know what it was, but it wasn't welcome in Astora.

He drew his sword and weighed it, cold and heavy in his hand, a skillfully crafted blade with a powerful blessing. The archers were ready. He gave the signal and they started forward.

Once they were moving, time shifted. They were racing down a tunnel of blurred walls, wet leaves, soft earth; the only clear thing the creature roaring in pain and surprise under a hail of arrows dead ahead, turning slowly to meet them. It was impossible to gauge how long the charge lasted: it seemed to last forever; it seemed to be over in an instant. They were in the clear. The last few arrows arced over their heads, the creature raised a hideous spiked polearm far too large to be called a spear and the knights spread out, weaving around the creature and darting in to attack. A few spears landed, one knight didn't draw back fast enough and was sent flying with a backhand from the creature. Oscar suddenly wished he had a spear. He didn't see any way to land a truly damaging hit on the thing without running right under its mouth and claws, which were already red with the blood of another knight who'd strayed too close. Its back looked too thickly armored to be worth attacking, and as he watched, the tail lashed out to the side and knocked down three horses with their riders. The beast turned and skewered one of them with a quick stab from the polearm, then turned to the next, who raised her shield and ducked down behind her horse, which was still struggling to get up. The blow hit the horse, which cried out loudly.

Oscar had made his decision; the creature was distracted, and he turned his horse and galloped toward the soft belly. Two-thirds of the way there he knew he'd miscalculated, it was already turning. Well, at least he'd distracted it. He raised his shield and prepared to fight on foot if he were unhorsed, but the thing had better aim than he'd anticipated and the blow, stunningly fast—so fast he didn't see it come, only felt it—slammed past the lower edge of his shield and hit him in the abdomen. He shot backwards off his horse, hearing the impossible sound of the chainmail that had protected him from so many dangers tearing like thin fabric beneath the force of the strike. Suspended in the air, he felt the head of the weapon sink into him, only stopping at the second layer of mail. He hit the ground and crumpled over the weapon, only prevented from falling on his face by the haft. Then he was moving again: the beast was pulling the spear back in to ready another attack, but Oscar was still attached to it. He came free when the beast was tilting it for another strike and fell at its feet.

He couldn't breathe, but his heart was beating, so he knew he was alive. The ground shook beneath him as the creature took a step forward, impaling another knight with its spear. Oscar forced his lungs to expand. The soft, unprotected underbelly of the creature was right above him. He might still be able to do something, if he wasn't crushed first. He sucked in another breath, shaky but less difficult than the first. He hoped he would be steady enough to stand.

Far above him, against the cold sky, a lighting spear crashed into the beast's chin and it seemed momentarily stunned, then turned its head to glare at the spear's originator. Another sunlight spear flashed towards its eye, but it ducked and spun the polearm, taking another step. In a moment Oscar would be trapped under its body, and he forced himself up and with a warcry that sounded feeble in the surrounding noise he plunged his sword deep into the soft place between the beast's hip and its tummy. The sword was wrenched from his hand as the creature sank down, screaming. He grabbed for it, but suddenly a crushing force had immobilized him.

The following moments had the same strange absence of time as the charge had had. They did not flow together but existed as puffs of light.

Crushed, lifted from the ground.

Recognizing the red claws wrapped around him. Ground far below, confused movement and a glimpse of lightning.

Flying, tumbling over and over in the air. Glimpses of trees.

He was in the trees, branches raking his helm.

He dimly remembered the shock of crashing into thicker branches and tree trunks on his way down, but there were no images. He must have shut his eyes.

Sudden connection with the ground, and for the second time in a few moments he found himself unable to breathe. His vision had gone strange as well, everything was spinning, it wouldn't keep still.

Perhaps he lost consciousness, but the next memory did not feel like awakening—he was suddenly aware that he was lying twisted across a mess of debris in the woods, breathing in short gasps, right hand clutched to his stomach. The wetness seeped through the layers of his armor down into his skin. He felt the slickness against his gloved fingers.

He became aware that he was shaking.

It was some time later, he thought, that he was troubled by a familiar sound. He knew he recognized it, but his mind didn't want to focus on it. What was it? He couldn't make himself remember through the fog of pain. The trees were still spinning. Why wouldn't they stop?

"Oscar!"

Closer, that time. Close enough that he recognized his name, and a moment later, knew why he recognized the voice. Leaves rustled nearby. Solaire was going to walk past him.

"Oscar!"

"Hey," said Oscar. It came out as more of a gurgle than a meaningful sound, but Solaire must have heard because the crunching sound stopped and then came closer. Oscar blinked. There were greaves in front of him. His vision slid off to the ground. Solaire sank down and knelt—he tried to focus on his face, but everything kept moving, and it hurt to strain his eyes. Solaire was no longer wearing his helmet and one eye looked swollen. He said something, then reached out and touched Oscar's helmet. Oscar realized suddenly that a piece of twisted metal was digging into his flesh just above the temple and gasped as Solaire gently pulled it free. His head fell back into the leaves and he felt the wind cooling the blood on his face.

"There we go. Can you stand?"

"No. I... don't think I should."

"I'll help you. I'd carry you, but I don't trust myself not to drop you at the moment." Oscar realized through the confusion of spinning images that there were spots of red on the white surcoat and Solaire wasn't using his left arm. "You alright?"

"Oh I'm perfectly fine! Come on, we need to get you back to camp, I can't do anything for you out here. You'll feel better once you get moving," said Solaire. Oscar turned his head and was punished by a whirlwind of images that pounded through his eyes straight into his brain.

Solaire's good arm slipped behind his shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, hoping it would help. It didn't much. Solaire pulled him up and he leaned into him, trying to get his balance. After a few moments he realized he wasn't going to. Solaire nudged him forward and he took a few shaky, drunken steps.

"Don't let go of me," Oscar gasped.

"No, I've got you. Don't worry. Just keep on your feet, I'll guide us."

It was hard enough. Solaire seemed to be moving five directions at once, though he knew that couldn't be true. But his arm was firm around his shoulders and he didn't fall. They had made it perhaps ten steps, though it felt like more, when his body commanded him to stop. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his wound. Flickers of red swam across his vision. Too much red. Too much solid red, thick and wet and heavy in his lap and arms. This.. wasn't liquid, what was this? He lifted snakes of viscera in his fingers and knew he shouldn't be seeing this.

Time became confused again. He was lying down, Solaire was clasping his hand, talking to him. There were stars up above, little lights half-lost in the night. They flicked across his tilting vision, sparkling between the trees.

He must have died then, for he remembered nothing else until waking in a coffin.

He put a hand under his shirt and felt the bandage that had covered his wound when he was buried. There was no pain.

He knew he couldn't have been buried alive.

Next he felt up to his chest, and he knew what he would find before his fingers encountered it. Rough, warped skin and a ring of burning heat.

He was Undead. No wonder the blessing on his sword had burned so much.

His chest tightened. He lay, counting slow breaths, his skin crawling, head pounding, willing himself not to panic. He had to think clearly or he'd never get out of here. He closed his eyes in the dark and tried to imagine that he'd see sunlight if he opened them. He imagined his bedroom, the gentle glow of morning light.
Cara. That was her name. It was Cara, and his brother was Gerald. He could smell the roses in their garden. He shuddered and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, rubbing his arms in an unconscious attempt to soothe himself. He'd never see them again.

There had to be a way out of here. How far deep was he buried? He pried at the seams of the coffin with his fingertips, then with the blade of his sword, which was thin enough to work into the seam and use as a lever. It was very long, he had to use it at an angle, meaning the lid shifted closer to his feet than his head. But after a lot of frustrated poked and twisting, he did manage to shift it. Once he had a gap he could work with things moved much faster. He worked back towards his head, clots of dirt pattering down onto him. Finally he had enough purchase to grab the edge of the lid and push it to the side. As soon as he did a steady rain of dirt came down over his face. He wedged himself into the far corner to breathe. Then he tried to move the lid farther to the side; it had jammed against the harder dirt at the edge of the pit and wouldn't budge. The gap wasn't quite wide enough to fit through, and there was still the problem of the avalanche of dirt piling in, cold and damp and heavy against his body. It hadn't quite trapped him in yet, but he didn't like to think of what would happen if he disturbed it more. Even if he didn't become trapped, how long would it take him to scratch his way up through that? Could the Undead suffocate? Where would he reappear if he died?

Slowly, in the dark, an idea came to him. He hadn't often called upon Miracles in the heat of battle; he felt it wasn't his area, that it would be presumptuous. But he knew how, and at the moment he was out of options. He could only hope the Undead were allowed to call on the gods.
First of all, he needed a talisman, and he didn't have one. But the cloth he'd pulled from his face would have been blessed. He pressed it in his hands and focused, trying to strengthen the link to the divine. He felt a more benign version of the burn from his sword tingling in his palms. Perhaps he wasn't utterly abandoned.
Now, the miracle itself. He'd cast Force before to keep from being pinned down by enemies, but never with any great finesse; it was always a localized blast with no direction. That might help him now, or it might make things worse. What he needed was a path out.
Clutching the cloth in his hand, he wriggled down under the opening and thought of the tales he'd learned of the gods' power, the power that had brought down the ancient dragons, and he felt the same power building in his chest, and instead of releasing it in an ambient blast he channeled it straight upwards in a cone, plunging his arms out into the dirt. A shock traveled through his bones, there was a sound of violently displaced dirt, then silence and the same slow patter of loose dirt falling into his face. The coffin lid had been knocked up, enough for him to squeeze out, next to a loosely-defined tunnel leading upwards. He clawed his way up to a standing position, slid his sword into its scabbard—at least they had had the decency to bury him with his sword belt—and tied the cloth around the hilt, then used both hands to climb. He stepped up on the edge of the coffin, burrowing into loose dirt, and tried to kick it shut behind him. On the third attempt it slammed down on his foot, crooked but more or less in place. He dug upward with his hands, scooping cold, crumbly earth backwards over his shoulders. The higher he got the less crumbly and the colder—and wetter—it was. A faint roaring noise was now audible, and he wondered briefly if he were buried near a road before realizing that it was rain. A few more strokes and the final layer of dirt collapsed over him in a burst of cold liquid. He gasped and clawed himself up to the surface.

His head came out into a shower of cold rain. He was right on level with the ground, covered with water, all trembling and distressed with little drops from the sky. A few tiny streams had developed down the sides of his hole.
He got out up to his shoulders and then stopped, arms slipping in the wet grass and feet finding nowhere to brace, panting. He felt himself start sliding backwards, dug in with his nails and somehow flung himself out onto solid ground with a final panicked struggle, falling with his face in the rainwater.

It made sounds like glass, the tingling drops hitting the layer of rainwater on the ground. He slid his fingers through it, feeling the cold, the good solid ground, the grass, the roots holding it all together. Then he pushed himself up to his knees and looked back at the hole.

He needed to hide that.

Fortunately the top level of the ground was very wet, so it was easy for him to smooth out the dirt over his grave and let the water carry away the traces of tampering. He hoped. He didn't want to know what would happen if the authorities found out that a previously dead Elite Knight was wandering around as an Undead.

Finally, satisfied with his deception, he stood up. He had a fine large headstone, carved white marble. Not like that was any real help to him, but it was nice to know that he'd been valued.

He frowned. There were little blades of new grass growing in the mud of his grave. How long had he been gone? He looked down at himself and his heart nearly stopped. His body was shrunken and decayed, the flesh almost falling apart. He rubbed some of the dirt from his shaking hands and examined them. He couldn't see details very well in the stormy night, but they looked like the hands of a mummy more than the hands of living human.
He shifted his attention to his clothes. He'd been dressed in a long, thin white tunic, pants and... some kind of cloth footwear that was useless for walking. Not that they had counted on him walking anywhere but into the afterlife, so it need only be symbolic. But at the moment, standing with his toes in the freezing water, it was remarkably inconvenient. The sleeves and neck of the tunic were stitched with gold thread, as was the cloth now tied around the hilt of his sword. The weight of his sword was in danger of pulling his belt off over his hips—the belt hadn't been fastened very tightly when he was dressed, and he'd shrunk since them. He hiked it up and tightened it. He was smeared with mud, one leg and one sleeve showed red streaks of blood, and his tunic was rapidly becoming transparent in the rain.

Right. No chance whatsoever of passing as a normal human.

He looked around. He was in the higher part of the graveyard; the cathedral rose beyond a gentle slope of dark grass strewn here and there with wildflowers. He turned and looked at the silent rows of marble monuments, a few bearing tokens—ribbons or wilted flowers, a little bell that tinkled quietly in the rain. He wondered what stories were buried here, what mute testimonies were left in small objects on the crust of the earth.

And—he realized, now that he was at a different angle, that something had been left at his own grave. A small bundle propped against the headstone. He walked closer and touched it. A handful of bright yellow wildflowers, wrapped in a strip of cloth. He lifted them carefully to look at them. They were fresh. The fabric was simple homespun, but had been decorated with red paint. He had no idea who could have brought it. It didn't seem like something anyone in his family would do—although, he could be wrong. But it did remind him of someone. It looked more like something that...

Of course, he realized now. Solaire had visited him. He smiled, warmed by the thought that the warrior would take the time to collect flowers for him. Not that it meant anything much—a handful of wildflowers; he'd probably just been taking a walk through the area and thought that it would be nice to leave them on the grave, because that's the kind of man he was. But still. It was heartening to think that someone remembered him.

Meanwhile, about a mile away, Solaire collapsed.

He'd been swaying on his knees for some time, but had ignored it. It seemed exhaustion had finally caught up with him.

He lowered himself to the ground and allowed himself to rest for a few moments. He thought the goddess would understand.

He was in the old shrine in the woods, abandoned and overgrown now, the statue of Caitha enshrouded with creeping vines. It was said she wept bright red tears for the undeserving dead, and blue for their loved ones.

He let his cheek rest on the cold smooth stone tiles, worn by many years and many feet. How many of the bereaved had visited this place over the years, each with their own individual pain? He thought the thought should comfort him a little, but it only made the night seem darker. Caitha wept in sympathy, but she could not return the dead.

They had come here for solace, and to beg her protection for the spirits of their loved ones as they journeyed to the afterlife. But surely there were many who had prayed for miracles. And not the ordinary kind, but the kind no human could do. They prayed that the past be changed, that death be undone. The prayers took different forms, some indistinct cries of hated or longing, some attempts at bargaining for what could not be returned. Some only asked for a dream, so that they might have another chance to say goodbye. And according to the tradition of the area, this was where Caitha excelled. She could not return the dead, no one could, but in her mercy she sometimes allowed spirits to pass through the veil and visit the ones who grieved for them. Many were the loved ones who'd kept vigil here, back when the shrine was in common use, hoping for a vision. Some had received comforting dreams, a few, according to legend, had received visits from ghosts—usually when the lost one had died at an especially importune time. There was a ballad still sung in the area, so old the details of its origins were lost, which told the story of one such ghost.

He returned dust-grey o'er the fields so green
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
From the cry of ravens and steel swords keen
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

He came to her home, asked to see his fair bride
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
But her mother hid her face from him and cried
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

He went out searching through wood and street
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
And at each place where they used to meet
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

But ah, she was nowhere in the forests bright
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
Her bed was of earth, her bower of starlight
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

And at last in moonlight wander-weary
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
He lay himself down in the shrine of tears
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

There was more, but his memory of the verses after that was a bit spotty, because he was usually crying by the time the ghost reappeared. He remembered bits and pieces—for example, when she appeared

Lovely like starlight, fair and cold
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
He called her name but she did not hear
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

Like a shadow from a speeding star
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
Forgotten at morning light, she passed
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

He took her hands like a breath of snow
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
and by that touch she turned and knew
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

She saw her love and turned to him
(Where are you now, daughter of the fields?)
And the moon hid her face, the stars went dim
(Ah where have you gone, forever gone)

There were a few more verses that he could never remember because he was inevitably a teary mess during them, then:

He wove her a crown of white star flowers—to bind her to the earth for an hour... The sky grew grey, her eyes grew pale...

It ended with the soldier begging his love to take him with her, but at the first ray of sunlight above the hills she melted away in his arms,

and he stood in the hill's hidden heart...grey in the cold silver morning.

Some versions of the song ended there; some included a final few verses in which he visited her grave for the first time, something he hadn't been able to bring himself to do before. (Solaire had once had a heated debate with someone over whether it was because he was in denial, was simply too grief-stricken to visit the grave with any composure, or actually did not realize she was dead until he saw her as a ghost.) Not that it really mattered in the end.

But unlike the warrior returned home in the ballad, Solaire didn't have more time to grieve. Perhaps he was being too hard on himself, but he knew he was letting his responsibilities slip. He'd done nothing for the past weeks. He couldn't sleep at night and he was useless and exhausted during the day. He was a Warrior of Sunlight, people needed him, and he could barely leave his room.

He shouldn't have tried to move him. He was just trying to help but he shouldn't have moved him. It was his fault. He told himself that Oscar had been mortally wounded, he would have died anyway, but it had still been because of him. He'd been afraid to look at him too closely. He was afraid of death, he wanted to believe that there wasn't actually anything seriously wrong with him, that if he just got him back to where the healers were they'd fix him up and he'd be fine, and he'd been careless, and Oscar had fallen right there while he was supposed to be holding him and clawed at his guts which had spilled into his lap.

"Ah," said Solaire. He wasn't sure what else to say, and he was suddenly very cold. Everything around him froze.

Moving slowly, trying not to think about it, he gently pushed Oscar down on his back, gathered the hot viscera in his hands and pressed them back into the wound, then sat with his shaking hands clamped over it, applying pressure, as if that could heal him. He wished he knew how to heal. Spears were useless in this situation.

Oscar was breathing in short shallow breaths, staring off into the trees. Solaire followed his gaze and realized that it had grown clear; the sky was blazing with stars, drifting in and out of view behind grey shreds of cloud that moved slowly across the whole sky.

"You know what David told me?" Said Solaire, desperate for something to say. His own voice sounded strange and strangled in the cold air. "He said that stars are all the suns of distant worlds. It's a funny idea, isn't it? Their light seems cold and dead, unlike our sun. But perhaps it's only because they're so far away. The light grows cold before it can reach us." He wiped one hand off against the leaves and stroked Oscar's hair. He was still breathing unevenly, starting off into the night. He couldn't tell if he was listening. "Do you think they all have worlds? What if some are just it there, by themselves. It must be lonely."

Oscar seemed for a moment to have stopped breathing, but the blood continued to well up under Solaire's hand and his chest rose and fell once, then once again after a long pause. Solaire stroked his hair and noticed that his eyes had become very dark. Leaning closer, he saw that the dark pupils had expanded, eclipsing the blue.

He knew what death looked like, but for some reason he hadn't moved from his position, had kept stroking his hair and talking to him, almost pleadingly. Eventually the knights found them and pulled him away. He didn't remember what had happened for the rest of the night, but he remembered Oscar's death in blinding detail. It hadn't let him rest in weeks.

But now, close to sleep, he had drifted into a feeling of calm. He felt almost numb from exhaustion, and the relief of being able to lie down and relax his tired body spread across him like phantom sunlight. He realized he could ask for a dream—one that would give him comfort, one unrelated to the memory he couldn't escape. It was burned into his memory now. He couldn't think of anything else. If he could see him again as alive—at least, as not dead, not like that—he thought it would ease some of the pain.

"Please let me see him again," he whispered against the wet stones. "One more time. I need to say goodbye."

He traced his fingertips through the puddled rainwater. For a moment, at least, he felt at peace. He had asked for the impossible. He knew it was impossible, but at least he'd voiced it. Perhaps now he could begin to move on. Maybe. Eventually. For the moment he allowed himself to wish for the impossible, and slowly to fall into a cold, shallow sleep.

As he stood there at his grave, wondering what to do, Oscar heard distant screaming. He put down the flowers and ran towards the sound.

Beyond the church, towards the woods, the ground dropped down in a sharp slope. Only the poor were buried here, in ground that was always wet, narrow markers leaning together in uneven rows. He'd thought he was alone, but someone was out here in the rain; a woman in drab clothes waving a sputtering torch. He moved closer, peering around a monument. She jabbed with the torch at one of the dogs that circled her, warily, not attacking but not retreating either. What were they doing? She waved the torch at another one, which backed away, head down, then circled towards the others, which had instantly crept closer while the woman's back was turned. He realized that the ground at her feet was freshly disturbed mud like that on his own grave, and that it had been torn up recently. The dogs' forelegs and jaws were muddy. It seemed this body hadn't been buried deep enough, and the dogs had smelled it and come hunting.

A slow wave of rage spread through his mind as he watched the woman scream uselessly at the dogs. He jumped down from the monument, hit the slick grass of the slope and slid downwards, breaking into a run once he'd recovered his balance, then taking the last several feet in a leap. His sword, once again in his hand, sank through the body of a dog and into the wet ground. They moved quickly after that, two fleeing and one throwing itself at him. He struck down the one that had sprung at him, nearly beheading it, knocked down one of the others as it ran and killed it as it struggled to rise. The last dog, when he looked for it, was disappearing into the distance at a speed he hadn't realized dogs were physically capable of. Hopefully it would be too traumatized to come back. Maybe not, but hopefully.

He turned around to look for the woman, and realized that she was also fleeing at a surprising speed, in the opposite direction.

Oh. Right.

He gave his hands another uncomfortable look, then watched her take refuge behind a large tree and peer out at him. Well, someone had seen him now, at any rate.

He ought to move on, but he paused a moment to look at the grave. There were flowers planted all around it, but many had been torn up by the dogs. He collected some of the strips of earth and flowers that had been torn up and tucked them back into place, then set off into the woods. He paused to look back and saw the woman at the grave. Was it too much to hope that she wouldn't report him? Perhaps. He continued into the darkness of the trees.

He had no idea what he should do next. His family... might not turn him in. In any case, they weren't nearby. Who did he know that he could really rely on? And where was he? It was so dark, he kept slipping and falling on uneven ground. At least in the forest he was hidden, that was why he'd come in here. Had to be. It was the explanation that made sense.

It made sense more than the truth, which was that he felt something drawing him deeper into the darkness. He didn't understand it, but it felt warm and vibrant and he let it pull him through the trees for what felt like a long time, until after a moment of confusion he realized that the pull was now coming from behind him. He backtracked, and slipped down into the bottom of a ravine he'd crossed not long before. The pull was strong now, and he thought he smelled something comforting, like the smell of a blazing fire at a midwinter's feast. He saw a glimpse of light through the bushes ahead. Coming closer, he saw that they were not bushes, but branches of shrubbery lashed together to create a screen, and leant against a hole of some sort at the base of a huge tree. He pulled it aside and warmth and firelight caressed his face. There was a washout under this tree, a big one, and on the smoothed-out earth floor there was a fire. A campfire, he thought at first, rather stupidly, as it was obviously all alone and unattended and very magic. He slipped under the screen and stumbled towards it, and at his approach the low flames leapt up cheerily.

It was absolutely not a campfire, he realized. A strange spiraled sword stood upright in the center of the flames, and scattered about its base, in place of the usual kindling, were scraps of bone. This was one of the Bonfires of the Undead.

He'd always wondered how they all managed to find their way to the bonfires so easily. It seemed he'd got his explanation. It blazed against his spirit like the sun, so bright it washed out the details of the world around it. He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he'd always be able to find his way back here.

He slumped down close to the fire and stretched out his hands to the flames, singing his fingers, wanting to pull the warmth into his body. Even the sharp heat of a burn wasn't enough to warn him away.

He paused: the cut on his arm was healing, the edges of the wound closing together in a pink line. He flexed his arm, watching the transformation. The cut on his leg was healing in the same way. Suddenly daring to hope, he stretched out his hand to the fire in mute appeal and something kindled in his chest. Light burst from his body and coursed through him, and when it faded he looked human again. He felt his arms, then hugged himself, laughing raspily. Perhaps now he wouldn't be arrested on sight. He needed a plan. But now he felt that everything was open to him. It would be alright.

He tried to think of where he could go. Home was far away, and he wasn't sure how his family would react to his new status as an Undead. He knew some of his friends lived in this area—he thought—which city was this? His memories were still hazy, but they were coming back. This was... the one near the fields, where the fair, that one time... Solaire. Solaire lived here. Near the woods, at a Covenant manor, with several of his brethren Warriors. Oscar had been there once or twice, he knew the general location.

That was the one person Oscar felt sure wouldn't turn him away.

It wasn't far, but first he had to figure out where he was. He knew where the bonfire was, but which direction had he come from and what part of the town was the graveyard in anyway? After what felt like several years of stumbling around in the dark wet underbrush he found the edge of the woods and caught sight of the town. He picked what felt like the right general direction and started walking, keeping in the trees, hopefully out of sight of the town. The night was still dark and rainy, so hopefully, even in his light clothes, he wouldn't be seen.

As he moved, he started to think that being human again wasn't so great after all. He felt the cold more keenly, and his feet dragged, his legs cold and aching and tired. His body hadn't rebelled like this before, although it had appeared to be in worse condition. He was shivering uncontrollably by the time he found the right place.

He gathered a handful of acorns, stood under what he remembered to be Solaire's window, prayed that he hadn't moved or else this could turn out extremely awkward, and started throwing acorns. The first bounced off the stones to one side. He quietly cursed his aim and the second pinged off the glass. It didn't make much sound. He sighed and pulled back his arm for another throw, hoping Solaire was a light sleeper and that the acorns didn't sound too much like raindrops.

"Oscar?" said a voice from behind him, and he spun. His tense posture relaxed when he recognized Solaire.

"There you are!" he said. Solaire didn't respond. Odd—it was the middle of the night, but he was fully dressed, and looked like he'd just come from the woods. And his hair was down, loose over his shoulders instead of gathered in his usual neat ponytail, and tangled with leaves. There were dark circles under his eyes and his usual jolly smile had been replaced by a haunted look. "...Solaire? You look terrible, are you alright?"

The air was driven out of his lungs when Solaire swept him into a crushing hug. He grunted in surprise, reflexively attempting to pull away. But it only took him a moment to adjust. He was warm.

He wrapped his arms around Solaire and rested his head on his large friend's shoulder. He smelled of rain and dead leaves and Oscar wasn't sure what else, something comforting, and he was warm and steady and Oscar realized he felt more alive than he ever had since waking up in the ground.

"Glad to see you too, friend," he said, breathing in the comforting smell of an alive human being.

Solaire didn't respond. Or let go.

Oscar was okay with this. He was finally starting to feel warm. He could fall asleep here. He almost did, then, shaking himself awake, realized that the hug was getting very long, indeed perhaps weirdly long, and tried to squirm out of his arms. Solaire grasped at him almost in a panic.

"Please don't go."

"What?" said Oscar.

"Not just yet. I have—I wanted to speak with you."

"Okay. Can I breathe?"

Solaire loosened his grip slightly.

"Sorry."

He sounded different, Oscar thought. He and Solaire had come through terrible battles together and the Warrior's bravado had never cracked. Something had really shaken him, and it bothered him.

"What happened to you?" Oscar asked.

Solaire just stared at him oddly for a few moments, then he laughed.

"...What?"

"You died," said Solaire simply. "You probably don't remember—"

"Oh I remember. Well some of it, anyway." Oscar grimaced, and Solaire nodded, looking at him seriously.

"I'm sorry."

"...Excuse me?"

"I'm—"

"My death was through no failure on your part, you know that."

"No, it was—I..."

"Solaire? It was not." He felt guilty?

"I shouldn't—I shouldn't have moved you, I was... I was just trying to help..."

"Hey." Oscar patted his shoulder, not quite sure how to deal with this outburst of emotion. Solaire looked like he was going to cry and that made him more uncomfortable than waking up in a coffin. Solaire wasn't a person who cried. It was like the very fabric of existence had warped while he was gone.

"I was... I should have just carried you—"

And then Solaire was actually crying and Oscar panicked.

"Hey hey hey hey hey! Hey. Stop that." He pulled Solaire's head down to his shoulder and held him stiffly, rubbing his back while he sobbed into Oscar's already drenched shirt.

He was sorry that Solaire had felt responsible, had had to carry this burden, but at the moment his overwhelming feeling was one of pleasant shock that someone cared enough to be bothered by his death. Of course, people would miss him as a knight, they would miss him on the field, his family would be pissed at losing the most visible symbol of their status, but he hadn't thought anyone would really miss him, as a friend. He wasn't that interesting a person.

Oh lovely, now he was going to start crying. This was just a very rainy night wasn't it.

Solaire straightened and pressed their foreheads together. "You're cold," he murmured.

"Yeah," said Oscar.

Another wave of rain came, drifting cold and soft across the back of his neck. He didn't mind, but he started to shift away, thinking he'd suggest they go inside, if it was safe. Solaire grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and hung on, pulling him back.

"Don't go. Please don't."

"I... Okay? I won't."

"Okay. Okay, good." Solaire nodded, then seized his hand and pulled him toward the woods. "Hey—I just remembered, I—well, can I show you something?"

"Of course...?"

He had no idea where Solaire was going. But whatever he was doing seemed important to him. As was keeping Oscar close—every now and then he suddenly tightened his grip on his hand, as if afraid he'd slip away.

They were down in the dark part of the woods when Solaire paused and began to search around in the undergrowth, then suddenly dropped to his knees with a pleased gasp.

"What?"

"Star flowers."

"...Okay."

Oscar tried not to be annoyed that they had walked all the way out here for some little wildflowers. Solaire looked at the flowers, then back at him. It was clear he wanted to pick some but didn't want to drop Oscar's hand.

"You can let go, I promise I won't leave," chuckled Oscar. Solaire considered this, then pulled Oscar down next to him and kept an arm around him as he pulled up flowers and knotted them together into a wreath. Oscar watched in amused confusion.

Something pinged at the back of his memory. A lot of details were still foggy. What was it about white star flowers? Why did he remember that phrase specifically?

Solaire finished making his wreath and carefully settled it on Oscar's head, then lifted his hands, finally releasing him.

"...There."

He smiled. It was a relieved smile.

Oscar remembered.

Oh. Ohhhh.

"Thank you," he said, carefully feeling the flower crown. Right. How to reassure him? ...His only idea was to be blunt and hope for the best. "By the way. I'm not a ghost."

"Ah... alright. Okay."

"No, really. ...Dammit. That's exactly what a ghost would say, isn't it."

"It is."

"Mm." Oscar thought about this, then laughed. "You're right. Oh well. You'll just have to believe me."

Solaire took his hands again.

"Do you feel the cold?"

"Yes. But it's not all that bad."

Solaire rubbed at his hands, trying to warm them.

"Hey," said Oscar. "Any chance we could go inside?"

Solaire looked up as if he hadn't considered this before.

"Oh! Right, that would be much warmer wouldn't it. Of course, how silly of me, keeping you out here in the cold! Come on."

Oscar was half-asleep for the walk back, then they were inside—and without anyone noticing them, fortunately, he thought—and in Solaire's room, and he was drying off and borrowing a shirt that wasn't wet and too thin and covered in grave dirt, and his consciousness sort of melted away into a comforting warmth. He was too tired to be really bothered by the flower crown—some of the stems were poking into his scalp, but he didn't want to upset Solaire by taking it off. Solaire was still hovering close to him, unwilling to let him go. He ought to stay awake and reassure him that he wasn't about to disappear, but he was too tired. The room disappeared into comforting oblivion.

He was warm. Lying buried in soft covers. He smelled a bit like dirt still, but that was fine. He just didn't want to move. His body was pleasantly limp, and he felt like never moving again. Solaire apparently had other ideas. He was thrashing around on the other side of the bed. Blinking over at him, Oscar saw him pick up a wreath of wilted flowers and stare it.

"I wasn't dreaming."

"Nah," grunted Oscar, stretching. Solaire's head whipped around, then his hand shot out and squeezed Oscar's shoulder.

"You're still here?"

"Uh, huh. Good morning."

Solaire reached up and ripped the curtains open, flooding them both in bright sunlight. Oscar writhed and groaned.

"Uaaaargh too bright."

"Oscar!"

"Yes?"

"You're alright?"

Oscar laughed.

"Yes. Fine. Well, I feel like I could sleep for a year, but otherwise fine." He yanked the curtains closed again and nestled back into the covers.

"You're still here." Said Solaire, marveling.

"I am indeed still here," said Oscar, half-opening his eyes to watch his reaction; "The Undead tend to stick around."

For a moment Solaire looked shocked. Then he threw back his head and laughed. It was the old laugh that Oscar recognized, and he smiled; this was the Warrior of Sunlight that he knew.

"They do indeed," chuckled Solaire, recovering. "My, how stupid I am. I thought you were a ghost."

"Hm yes, I guessed that. Sorry for the confusion."

"Oh no, I'm just glad you're not going to disappear."

"No. I don't plan to, anyway. Which brings me to my question—if you don't mind me staying here for a few days, while I figure out what to do next—"

"Oh of course not! Stay as long as you wish, though I expect you'll want to get in touch with your family now that—"

"No. No I'd rather not tell them, actually, if we can avoid that."

"Oh. Are you sure? They must be grieving for you."

"They'll live," said Oscar. Solaire looked curiously at him. "Oh, I suppose I should tell them, but I'd rather not yet. I'm not sure how they'd react."

"Huh. I know you've had trouble with them, but is it really that bad?"

"Yep," shrugged Oscar, pretending to go back to sleep. Solaire was silent for a moment.

"Alright, then I am your new family, if you'll have me. You don't deserve to be orphaned."

"I would be honored!"

"Excellent! Then it's settled, you'll stay here. I have so many people I want you to meet! Ahahaha, oh, I told everyone you were dead, this will be interesting to explain."

"Wait a moment," said Oscar. "Is this safe? I mean, if you trust these people, then I will too, but—"

"Oscar, the Warriors of Sunlight keep to themselves for a reason. We have our own jurisdiction, so as long as we don't do anything to attract attention, we're more or less left alone to do as we please. Half of us are undead. I'm undead."

"You! Since when?"

"Oh I don't know, a while. I was going to tell you at some point but I kept forgetting. Anyway, you're welcome to stay here as long as you like. By the way, have you ever considered becoming a Warrior of Sunlight?"

"I hadn't, but I might consider it," said Oscar.

Epilogue

Meanwhile, three Warriors of Sunlight were having a morning meeting in the kitchen. Crispin, the youngest, was struggling not to nod off in the chair closest to the fire while Llewellyn, a grey-haired veteran, nursed a cup of herbal tea.

"We need to do something," said Catherine, the third of the group, arms folded on the table. She was a scarred middle-aged woman with tightly braided hair.

"I mean, yes, but what? Do you want to be the one to bring it up? He won't even look at us anymore, how are you going to start a conversation?" said Crispin, shaking himself out of his fire-warmed stupor.

"That's the point," said Llewellyn, drumming meditatively on the table. "This isn't like him. He's drowning in his sorrow and it's up to us to snap him out of it."

"Well that's dramatic language. But you're right. I'm just not sure how to approach this, you know? It's not—"

Their conference was interrupted by Solaire kicking the kitchen door open and shouting "GOOD MORNING, FRIENDS! I would like to introduce you to someone!"

He was momentarily taken aback by the intense triune stare he got in return.

"What?"

"Okay, well, never mind what I said," said Llewellyn. "He's fine, apparently."

"Solaire, you look much better," said Catherine. "We were getting worried. You weren't talking to us."

"Ah, yes, I'm sorry."

"No no, it's alright, we're just glad to see you doing better. Who's this friend?"

"Ah! This is Oscar! You know, dead Oscar? Previously dead, I mean."

"Well, sort of dead," said Oscar as Solaire hauled him into the room. He was wearing Solaire's clothes and they were far too big for him. He felt silly, but he was smiling.

"Oh, another one!" commented Llewellyn, as if this explained everything, and returned to his tea.

"I, ah, just woke up and I have no idea what is happening but I'm glad you're happy?" said Crispin.

"This is Oscar. The dead guy. Remember?" said Catherine, standing.

"No? I don't—oh yeah! Ohhh! Wait he's back? Oh! Hey! Welcome back! It's not that weird once you get used to it I promise."

"Welcome to the House of the Western Sun," said Catherine, giving him a slight bow which he returned. Crispin stood to greet him likewise. "You're welcome here. Especially if you stop Adherent Solaire from moping around in the woods all night, melancholy doesn't suit him."

"He really missed you," said Crispin.

Oscar, lost for words, just laughed. Llewellyn hoisted himself out of the chair with a grunt and clapped him on the shoulder before limping off towards the fire.

"You want some tea?"

A/N: Not really connected to any of my other works, per se, though I use a lot of the same headcanons as for "Adventures" Oscar, such as that he's morally conflicted about his duties as an Elite Knight of Astora and has a... not always good relationship with his family. Also good friends with Solaire. Actually, the only real difference is how I believe he became undead; see below.

Inspired in roughly equal parts as far I can tell by the cling-to-your-loved-one aspect of Tam Lin and various other European folklore, Where the Red Fern Grows, and that one line in the Dark Souls intro that appears to imply that the Undead are usually resurrected after death but sometimes, in times when the Curse is especially strong, just... become. Undead. While still technically alive. I had previously assumed Oscar was an example of the second case, (his backstory in Adventures), which makes for extra drama if people don't realize he's become Undead; but this story was inspired by me going "wait but what if he did die first."

I started this in, like, August or something, and meant to finish it in a few days. It was too long. I ran out of creative juice until right before Halloween, when I realized it would make a perfect Halloween special update and rushed to finish it. I feel like the ending is exactly that, rushed, and I feel like it might be a technically better piece if I cut out a lot of the beginning too, but I wanted to show the story from all angles. Oh well, it's good enough, and it's now 1AM of All Hallow's Eve, so it's going up as is. Hopefully it's intelligible. Happy spooks to y'all, happy Halloween to those of you who celebrate it, and to everyone else have a happy completely random ordinary autumn day! Enjoy this ghost(?) story for no reason!

Special thanks to FollowerofMercy and her mother for helping me research how difficult it would be to move inside a coffin. Y'all are beautiful and terrifying. Stay safe. I sincerely hope you are not put in another coffin for very many years, both of you.