Chapter Two: There's a Time for Us.
One month prior to Firelink Shrine.
Tarkus, the young vibrant warrior had returned from Balder, his assistance in cleansing the Undead outbreak, which had spread within the cities walls, was over. It had been difficult to contain, every burg, back alley and settlement had been plagued by the curse. The only safe house was the castle, with its tall impenetrable walls. He did not feel fatigued, he had kept up with the Balder Royal Guard and the Elite Berenike Knights, the best of the best with ease. He ambled around his home town in Berenike, the streets were stark of the usual hustle and bustle. There was no welcoming parade, no hero's solace, he expected as much though. He strode down the familiar stone carved steps that wound into a narrow burg. As he emerged onto the cobbled street the light faded, the towering old thatched houses cast a dark shadow down the street, blocking the day's bright sun.
The highway was once bustling with people tugging carts behind them, merrily co-operating and bartering with one another, a swell of economic growth.
Animals were marched up and down for sale and there was always a commotion, a loud back ground buzz from constant bickering of all sorts. Even though Tarkus was born into royalty, proud son of Iron Clad, he had always dwelled down here. He belonged with the people, he understood their struggles and strife unlike the Council of Berenike. The citizens trusted him, he went out of his way and took great pride in speaking to each and every one of them and could appreciate how much effort life was day in day out for a peasant in the slums. They all knew he was a royal Berenike but it didn't stop him, he would take off his armour and don ragged clothes to slog away at menial tasks. No King wearing a crown would ever lend a hand, in fact, no one could remember the last time he made an appearance down here. Now and then a rabble of people would throw abuse at Tarkus, ranting about how the King left them in squalor, but he took it on the chin and luckily they weren't foolish enough to get too close. He was a giant of a man, all Elite Berenike Knights were overwhelming, their very presence and posture; when they made an entrance everyone would look up, their colossal size filling the spectator's view.
His fond memories of this place and friends warmed him, the first time he felt joyous in a long time. Slaying countless Undead, once living, breathing humans who had become withered and corrupt tended to make one cold and heartless. He looked up and down the street at the houses, they were boarded up with planks of wood. His bliss drastically vanished, he had seen this somewhere before…
Roofs had gaping holes, not from thieves but from salvaging humans, desperately struggling to contain the Undead. A cart lay on its side, stripped of wood, its wheels hung loosely, one squeaking as it spun one last time.
Tarkus looked at his neighbour's house, a criss-cross of wood and a smearing of red… to indicate the Undead? Or someone's struggle?
Wait… It'd been so long since he'd been back to his wife and child, this was his house!
The shadowed street enhanced the sombre mood, Tarkus' mind vacillated to a dark desperate place, his thoughts led only to a body; its skin pale and plastered to its bony bursting ribs. Its skull a mess of black, lifeless and devoid. But maybe… they had to be alive!
He charged through, shoulder first, ramming the planks into splinters. He stumbled through as the last slat crashed to the floor. A fetid smell, one of rotting corpses hit him hard, harder than anything he had faced on the battlefield. Adrenaline attempted to block out the nauseating feeling. He stopped as he was struck violently, gripped in a sudden silence as recent memories flooded his mind.
He cleaned his Greatsword of Undead mess, a ritual after every bout, until a muffled sob broke his trance. This was unlike the usual groans he was accustomed to when rampaging through the inhuman horde. He edged towards the voice, a mirage of swirling colours paved the way to a door, its outline bright white and its surface barred and battered. He tore the wooden barrier from the door and immediately turned to the crying. A shaking outline, small and curled lay in the depths of the corners darkness. From the state of it… it was Undead. It must have heard his steps? It didn't stir. He proceeded nervously, why so fearful Tarkus? He turned it over with the blunt face of his sword, not to cut it. A small girl in rags shivered and looked up, her eye sockets a dark mass of emptiness…
"Help me…" She croaked meekly. He took his helmet off and held it under his arm. He looked the abandoned child in the eyes, they seized him in a dark grasp. His mind was racked with a throbbing, crushing, immense sorrow. This giant man had no power here, he could not save her or any of them…
Sweat dribbled down his brow, across his cheeks and down the side of his mouth. Under his armour he suddenly felt claustrophobic, every crevice a hot pool of sweat. His neck jittered back and forth. One wall was smeared with a river of blood, copious individual trails dribbled off, where people had tried to escape using their severed limbs, clawing desperately… No it was too horrific to imagine.
A fissure in the roof rained down a speck of light upon a kneeling woman.
"Alandra!" Tarkus called out, he rushed over and held her in his arms. He pressed his head against her bosom, he could smell her sweet flowery scent.
"You're alive!" He rejoiced.
He pulled her closer, but he couldn't feel her under his reinforced armour. He removed his helmet and smelt her hair, it reminded him of a better time; the smell of pollen and daisies gliding through a summer's day. An incandescent yellow god beaming down upon the two, a tartan cloth spread across a green luscious landscape. Tall blades of grass and buckled tree's, a horizon suffused with purple and red, staring into those ardent eyes, a never ending passion.
"Tarkus?" Whose voice would interrupt this loving embrace?
"She… she's not breathing Tarkus."
The smell changed. He heaved slightly, the taste of death vivid on the end of his tongue.
He shuffled backwards on his knees and held her at arm's length to behold the atrocity before him. This must have been some sort of mistake? The sickening sensation grew, he fell to his hands, her body limply plummeted to the blood stained floor.
Tarkus coughed uneasily, choking. He gasped, but all he could taste was his own fear. A hand gripped him tight.
"LEAVE ME!" He urged, for the man's safety. The Knight of Berenike walked away shaking his head.
"No… no…" Tarkus cried, scurrying, grabbing her torn clothes and pulling her upright. Her skull dangled precariously, disjointed bones and ashen skin, the emaciated state of her body… He looked around… everyone, they were piled Undead. They were weeks old! And no one had told him. Anger swept over him, he struggled to find strength, to believe what was happening. He held her tighter, never wanting to let her go.
"But… but why? I love you… I will never love someone as much as I love you…" He held her close, tears soaking her rags. As long as he held on, his world remained an unsullied globe, acknowledging would shatter it into a million pieces, irreparable. He felt a sudden spasm. A jolt fired through her misshapen body, her wrist cracked and turned making a grinding sound like a doors rusted joints. He felt her arm writhing and clawing at his throat. He pulled her away, frightful, dislodging her arm. Her arm clung with a tenacity to his throat. He grabbed the limb two handed and stumbled, tripping over a leg sticking out of a heap of disfigured bodies and landed into them.
"Argh!" He thrashed and threw the arm to the floor, it twitched and continued to scratch its long yellow nails across the floor in hope of sinking them into flesh.
His wife lumbered forwards, zombie-like, sluggishly swaying to and fro.
He could barely see in the sparse light from the crack above, he swivelled and looked at the light creeping from the doorway with no door. Dammit… he thought, his plan was to lock them in. There was no way he could… No.
"Daddy…?" Highlighted in the slit of light were the prominent edges of a hollowed child's skull, obliquely staring at Tarkus. The gaunt boy's voice trembled, he was petrified, forlorn, staring desperately.
"My… my son…" Tarkus knelt down, with tears streaming down his face and arms outstretched.
The boy limped forwards, slivers of cloth hung loosely off his shoulders and around his waist.
Tarkus gestured with his hand, his son clung onto him and as they hugged he felt a hard bony hand wrap around his neck, the boys thumb dug harder, the pressure squeezing his father's throat.