Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.
Chapter 4
The first time the Warrior set eyes upon Nemeta, he burst out laughing. She might have felt offended, if not for the fact that his laughter seemed so...unenthusiastic.
"Please, sir," she said. She knew that there was a plaintive whine to her voice, as though she was on the verge of bursting into tears, but by now all the pride had been well beaten out of her, and she was far too miserable to attempt to disguise it. "Please, sir," she said again, but what could she ask of him? Her family back? Her life restored? Please, sir, will you wake me from this nightmare?
"I suppose sometimes even this accursed place has a sense of humour," he said. "Oh! What a pretty dress you're wearing! And your face! Your skin! You're so beautiful and innocent! Just arrived in Lordran, hmmm? The Hollows are going to have their fun with you..."
She wrung her wrists, and shivered in the cold. "S-sir," she said. "I am Nemeta of Vinheim. My f-father is a wealthy and influential merchant..."
He laughed again, that laugh that somehow contained a reproachful, resentful quality. "Haven't you realized, by now? All your wealth is no use to you now. You're trapped here. We all are. So you might as well do what most of us do."
"What do people do here, sir?"
"We do what I'm doing now. We find ourselves a peaceful corner, curl up into a ball, and feel sorry for ourselves. Hah hah hah hah!"
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Probably for the best that Ingward and Solaire discovered Rhea.
When they first arrived at the entrance to the Regal Archives, the Undead had been confronted by a pair of enormous boars, clad head-to-cloven-foot in heavy armour, their sharpened tusks barbed with cruel, rusted hooks. After defeating these demons, the companions decided to divide into groups, and clear the Archives corridor by corridor, chamber by chamber.
Solaire and Ingward fought their way into a massive cellar, a great cylindrical pit lined with prison cells. It was within one of these cells that they at last found Rhea. She lunged at the sight of them, pressing against the iron bars that held her captive, swiping hungrily at the air, grasping at the nourishing lifeforce that hovered before her, just out of reach.
"The child has gone Hollow," said Ingward.
"Poor thing," said Solaire.
If it had been Griggs that discovered her, he probably would have been so eager to avoid breaking Nemeta's heart, that he would have convinced himself he could save Rhea. He would have kept her imprisoned in that cell, and there she would have festered as Logan half-heartedly searched for a way to restore her humanity. Nemeta would have seen her friend, ravenous and deranged, her flesh rotting, her eyes empty of all warmth and feeling.
If it had been Logan that discovered her, he would have found some way to make the situation even more horrifying and embarrassing than it already was. Perhaps Nemeta and the rest would have wandered into the prison to find Big Hat in the middle of dissecting Rhea's corpse, performing experiments on her remains. "Well, she was lost, anyway," he might have said, nonchalantly depositing her entrails in a bucket.
Sieglinde had already slain her father. No sense in forcing her to put another lost Hollow out of its misery.
Fortunate indeed that Solaire and Ingward found Rhea instead. "This is a cruel world," said Solaire, keeping Rhea's maddened glare for just a moment. "I only wish your final moments might have been a little less lonely."
Solaire drew his sword, and Ingward stepped back. The door to Rhea's cell was flung open, and she was cut down.
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Emerging from the lift, Nemeta pranced through the ruins of Firelink, and presented herself before the Warrior. He tried to ignore her, at first, but it soon became clear that she was potentially willing to stand in front of him forever. "What is it now?" he said, seeing no other option but to acknowledge her.
"I hope I didn't disturb you, earlier."
"You're disturbing me now."
"Of course I'm disturbing you now. That's intentional. I said, I hope I didn't disturb you earlier."
Grudgingly, he tried to cast his mind back to earlier. What happened...oh! "It was you?" he asked. "You rang the bell, above in the Parish?"
She smirked in triumph.
"You never give up, do you? I don't know how you do it."
"It is a challenge," she conceded, nodding. "But I never realized I had so much strength and fortitude within me..."
"I preferred you when you were a tattered, sniveling little lass," he said. "Hah hah hah hah! My, I remember the day you arrived here as if it was yesterday. You cried for your father, do you remember that?"
Nemeta's superior expression did not falter. "The difference between us, sir, is that if both our fathers saw us at this exact moment, my father would be proud of me..."
"Oh, I can't decide what's worse. Becoming Undead, or you."
The Warrior was spared another of Nemeta's ripostes by a commotion to the side. The portly cleric, Petrus of Thorolund, blundered into view. "Oh, heavens, is nowhere in this land safe?"
"What's wrong?" said Nemeta.
His words were blurted out between hurried breaths. "She has been butchered..."
"Rhea is dead?"
"No, not the Lady Rhea. The Fire Keeper! She has been murdered in her cell!"
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As she gazed upon Rhea's remains, Nemeta found herself thinking of her father and brothers.
Such a sheltered life she had lived. For twenty-two years, they had kept her safe. For twenty-two years, her father and brothers had kept her innocent. For twenty-two years, her father and brothers had kept at bay all the charlatans, all the tricksters, all the deceivers that might have wished to do her harm. Gods, she had never imagined that the world was so full of liars, degenerates, deviants, sadists.
Nemeta's thoughts turned to Lautrec of Carim. So charming. So charismatic. How easily he made her laugh. How skillfully he wormed his way into her estimations. Oh, she knew that he was a scoundrel. She knew that he was a cur, caring only for himself and his own advancement. And yet, somehow, she had deluded herself that he had a core of nobility to him, an essence of inner decency. Somehow, he had made her believe that, beneath all the crudeness, beneath all the duplicity, he had a heart as golden as the armour he wore.
And then he waited until Anastacia was alone and helpless at Firelink, and slid his blade into her chest.
Nemeta looked at Rhea again. Mindful of his companions' feelings, Ingward had concealed her dessicated face beneath a shroud. Laid out now in her white robes, Rhea was as beautiful as she could be, considering the environs.
Seath the Scaleless. When they first arrived in Anor Londo, the Undead had encountered the Lady of the Darkling, who guarded her bonfire in solitude in that vast, forsaken city. "The Duke?" she asked, her voice issuing forth from the armour that enveloped her. "In legend, he turned against the ancient dragons. He became Lord Gwyn's confidante, was granted dukedom, and was allowed to pursue his research."
"What sort of research?" asked Logan.
"Scales of immortality," she replied, airily. "The one thing that he did not have. But his very research drove him mad. The archives became a dungeon, a place for sinister experiments."
Sieglinde gasped in horror. "Experiments? Oh, poor Rhea! We can't waste any more time! We must be on our way!"
"Few dare even approach the duke's forbidden Archives," said the Fire Keeper. She paused a moment, and cast her gaze around the assembled party. "But I suspect you have little interest in any warnings I may offer."
Nemeta gazed upon Rhea's lifeless form, and wondered: Is this the world that my father and brothers kept hidden from me? Lautrec of Carim murdered Anastacia, so that he could steal her innocent soul. Seath the Scaleless conducted his experiments upon Rhea, so that he might discover the secret to immortality. Rhea spent her final moments in this life in terror, and agony, so that Seath could prolong his wretched, dishonest life.
How could I be so blind? How could I be so ignorant to the fact that the world is so full of such evil men?
Nemeta stood with her fists clenched at her sides. "When I am the Queen of Sunlight," she said, not turning her gaze from Rhea, "this will happen no more."
Sieglinde was standing at her side, lost in her own reverie. "What?" she said.
"I don't know precisely how," she went on, "but I'm going to make this world more honest. Women like Rhea will no longer fear the designs of depraved ghouls such as Seath, or Lautrec. When I link the Flame, dishonest men will prey on the weak no more."
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The Warrior's nostrils were filled with a revolting stench, and his hard-earned lunch almost found itself onto the stones at his feet. "What in the world is that smell?" he wondered aloud, and then, somewhere off in the ruins of the shrine, came the thundering sound of a cavernous, mucus-filled throat clearing itself.
The Warrior sat in stunned silence for a moment, the fetid stink of rotting flesh wafting about him. Then, for a second time, a large volume of rotten sputum was noisily expelled, and the Warrior realized that something very large and very loud was very politely trying to announce its presence.
A voice reverberated around the shrine. "Greetings! Am I...alone? Hmmm..."
The Warrior rose from his seat, and headed towards the source of the noise. For some reason, he felt at that moment as though he were wading through the thick, tangible horror of a nightmare. The Warrior passed through an archway, and was confronted by the monstrosity that had now taken residence in the shrine's pool.
"Greetings," declared the serpent. "I am Kingseeker Frampt, close friend of the Great Lord Gwyn. Chosen Undead, who has rung the Bell of Awakening, I have been tasked with enlightening you as to your destiny."
The Warrior bowed his head. "The Bell of Awakening...it can't be...that proud little doll...that snooty little princess...she has rung the second bell!"
The serpent continued: "Chosen Undead, your fate is to succeed the Great Lord Gwyn. So that you may link the Fire, cast away the Dark, and undo the curse of the Undead. You must prove yourself worthy of being the Great Lord's successor..."
"...that conceited little monster...that dainty little brat..."
"...to this end, you must travel to the lost city of Anor Londo, and there petition the Princess of Sunlight, and receive from her the Lordvessel..."
"She won't rest until I'm Hollow! I, I mind my own business! I sit in my little corner, and I don't bother a soul! But she, she must be loved by everyone! Oh, she won't rest until every Undead in Lordran admires her, will she? And she will never, ever leave me alone, will she! She will always come skipping along to torment me, to let me know what a wonderful, impressive little rabbit she is!"
At last, Frampt realized that the human before him was not listening to his speech, but rather simmering in an inferno of his own roiling hatred. "Ah...forgive me," he rumbled. "Are you, in fact, the Chosen Undead?"
The Warrior tore himself from his monologue, and glared at the Kingseeker. He did not say a word, and so Frampt asked: "Did you ring the Bell of Awakening?"
There was a scuffling from behind, and Petrus lurched into view. "Is something the mat–oh!"
"Are you the Chosen Undead?" asked an increasingly dubious Frampt. The newcomer was a little rotund to be succeeding Gwyn. Neither of these men would make very impressive Lords of Sunlight, come to think of it...
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It didn't surprise anyone, of course, when they found that Logan had abandoned his duty of exploring the Archives. They discovered him, predictably enough, crouched on the floor in a small library, books strewn about him, immersed in Seath's research. "This place is truly magnificent," he enthused. "More than expected, even. A great pool of knowledge, the fruits of superior wisdom and an unquenchable desire for truth. Some would say Seath had an unsound fixation …bu this work is a beautiful, invaluable progress demands sacrifice."
"Yeah," said Laurentius. "And apparently, the sacrifice involves us running around this cursed bloody archive while you're all cozy in your little library."
"Let's not waste any of our strength arguing with him," pleaded Griggs. "We should focus on winning the Archives."
However, in the end, Logan's decision to indulge in research proved bountiful. "The secret of Seath's immortality: the Primordial Crystal, a sacred treasure pillaged by Seath when he turned upon the ancient dragons," he told them. "Only by destroying the Primordial Crystal can you so much as scratch Seath's hide."
Nemeta fought her way into the crystal forest that bordered the Archives. Massive, hulking golems rose to confront her, and she blasted them into a thousand glowing shards each. She crossed invisible bridges, inching her way across vast chasms.
On some level, Nemeta understood that the growth of this forest was fueled by untold thousands of women sacrificed to Seath's work. His victims languished in that dank, lightless prison, their life essence torn slowly, agonizingly, from their unwilling bodies, their screams and wailing echoing throughout the dungeon – and all the while, Seath was surrounded by thousands of pristine crystals, pondering immortality.
At last, Nemeta found the Primordial Crystal, nestled in a cave at the heart of the forest. Sure enough, she found Seath, also; the Duke had perhaps sensed that his long life's work was in peril, and had hurried from his tower high above to prevent its destruction. He was not swift enough. Nemeta kindled Quelana's flame in her palm, and the Primordial Crystal yielded beneath a relentless blaze.
Seath roared in fury, though Nemeta was unsure whether he was angry that his crystal had been destroyed, or if the aeons had driven him completely mad, and he simply became enraged at the slightest inconvenience.
Much later, perhaps Nemeta found it within herself to feel a twinge of sympathy for Seath. Since arriving in Lordran, Nemeta had beheld two other dragons – oh, how distant her previous life now seemed! - the first, savage and pitiless, frightening and terrible; the second, proud and dignified, ancient and unimaginably wise. Her childhood fantasies had come to life before her eyes.
How unlike his brethren Seath was. How misshapen and deformed, how wretched and pitiful; the discoloured skin, the unseeing eyes, the disfigurement, the deformity. It was not unreasonable to imagine that Seath may have been shunned – persecuted, even – by his own kind, who looked upon him as an aberration, an abomination. Perhaps one day, Nemeta would feel sympathy for this creature.
But not now. She felt nothing but disgust, and distaste, and contempt, and righteous fury.
"I don't know what manner of man Lord Gwyn was!" she screamed. "Perhaps he was a good, noble soul, and you deceived and corrupted him! Or perhaps he was a wicked, poisonous man, and both of you were perfectly suited for one another! But it makes no difference, now! When I am Queen of Sunlight, I will fill my court with brave, decent men and women! And evil brutes like you can crawl into the dark holes where you belong!"
Incandescent with hatred, Seath began dragging himself across the ground towards her.
"I've seen your experiments!" she cried. "Those poor things, innocent women that you twisted and perverted. But it doesn't really matter. There's only one woman that you need to think of. Rhea of Thorolund! You thought that she was yet another victim, just another test subject for you to fill your prison with, but you were wrong. She was my friend! She is the reason you die today! You were dead the moment you took her!"
Seath raged and stormed, thrashing and pounding at this insolent human, this insect. Meanwhile, a steady, unflinching calm emanated from Nemeta's flame, dulling her fear, honing her focus, channeling her anger into strength. Seath exhausted his strength, and then the Duke was slain. Rhea was avenged, as were the Ancient Dragons that Seath betrayed so long ago, and his soul took its place upon the Lordvessel.
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When Petrus entered the church, he found the Warrior seated on the pews, a drawn sword across his knees, an eerie smile on his face. "Oh..." he said, caught somewhat off-guard. "Ah, good day."
The Warrior regarded him silently for a moment. "Looking for someone?" he asked, his voice charged with that unnerving sing-song quality.
"Ah, I am merely making sure that my Lady is well." He cast a glance around; the church was empty, but for him and this odd man. "Ah, you haven't seen her nearby, have you?"
The Warrior was silent for a few moments again, as though words and actions needed to reach him across a wide abyss. "M'lady is not here," he said, finally. "M'lady is somewhere else."
"Well," said Petrus, preparing to leave. "I will bother you no more..."
"Young Nemeta is not here, either," said the Warrior. "Do you know where she is? She's gone to Anor Londo, to find the Lordvessel. Incredible, isn't she? When she first came here, months ago, I was so sure that she'd be Hollow in no time. Poor, defenceless lamb, crying for her father...she certainly showed me, didn't she?"
Petrus stood in that awkward stance that people fall into when they're tethered in place by an unwanted conversation. "She is a remarkable young woman," he said.
One moment, the Warrior's eyes were in the distance, and the next, they were fixed firmly on the cleric. "So strong. So determined. Such a talented sorceress. And yet! She has a weakness. Do you know what that is?"
"No."
The Warrior leaned forward in his seat, and peered darkly at Petrus. "I think you do," he said. "It's a weakness shared by m'lady."
The cleric's brow furrowed.
"Neither of them can recognize a scoundrel when he's standing directly in front of them."
Suddenly, the Warrior was on his feet, and racing at Petrus. He closed the distance between them, and thrust his sword at the cleric's abdomen, but the blade clattered harmlessly across the side of his shield.
"What, ho!" the cleric bellowed. He brandished his mace, and tried to get his back to a wall. "Have you gone mad? Have you gone Hollow?"
"I may not have the strength to ring bells!" snarled the Warrior. "I may not be magnificent enough to go searching for Lordvessels! But I am more than a match for a roly-poly degenerate such as you!"
The Warrior poked and prodded at Petrus' shield, trying to provoke him into swinging his weapon. He wasn't particularly concerned with breaching his defenses; he knew that the cleric did not have much in the way of stamina and fortitude, and that as soon as soon as he was exhausted, he would be easy to strike down.
"Madman!" roared Petrus. "I will not fail in my duty to protect my charge!"
"M'lady will never know what happened to you! She'll never know how you intended to cut her throat."
"How dare you!"
The Warrior suddenly seemed thoughtful. "Oh, but even if she knew that I saved her, I suppose she'd still be as glum as ever. Still..."
A moment's inattention was all that Petrus needed. A massive blast of energy rushed out, knocking the Warrior from his feet, and depositing him heavily on the stone floor. Writhing about on the ground, the Warrior pushed his way through a haze of pain, and then realized with a laugh that he had dropped his sword.
"Not too shabby," he said. "Not too shabby..."
With a scandalized, indignant cry, Petrus brought his mace down on his adversary's head. The Warrior lay sprawled motionless across the flagstones for a few moments, and then the magic keeping his long-dead body intact dissipated, and he crumbled into nothing.
Gulping at the air, Petrus glared at the spot where his foe had lain defeated. He wondered if the Warrior had told any of the others about his intentions for young Rhea. He wondered if it was safe to return to Firelink. He wondered if he should abandon this place, and find some isolated region of Lordran where he would be secure. Damnation upon that lunatic! With a sinking heart, Petrus realized that the future had become very uncertain, and rather more hazardous.
Then he heard a growling sound, and looked up.
The Warrior had lured Petrus away from the elevator to Firelink – perhaps intentionally. He was now at the opposite side of the church. Petrus realized now, also, that their brief fight had been very, very loud.
The place had filled with Hollows. How silent they could be, when they wanted to be. Balder Knights, noted Petrus. Eight of them. And they're standing between me and my elevator...
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The first time Anastacia mustered the courage to leave her cell, Kingseeker Frampt was snoring loudly. She loitered in front of him for several minutes, wringing her wrists, scuffing her shoes in the dust, looking anxiously about, desperately wishing that some harmless explosion would occur nearby so that the great serpent would wake up.
After gathering some more courage, the Fire Keeper took a deep breath, and cleared her throat – and then winced, instantly ashamed of her own insolence.
Frampt remained steadfastly asleep. Gods, how he smelled!
Anastacia knew that she was being irrational. She knew that, but for herself and Frampt, Firelink was completely empty, and that she could scream and shout and sing as much as she desired; there were none there to hear her, no one for her to offend. All she needed to do to wake Frampt was to fill her lungs, and raise her voice, just once...
Anastacia cleared her throat again – and winced, again. To an impartial observer, her voice was as slight as a gentle breeze, but to her, it was as obnoxious and inconsiderate as an earthquake.
Frampt continued to snore. Defeated, Anastacia returned to her cell, and waited until he was awake.
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Anastacia realized that Frampt was awake when she heard him grumbling to himself about some piece of meat trapped between his teeth, and the inability of his tongue to dislodge it. It took her a full twenty minutes to scrabble together enough bravery to leave her cell, and then she inched timidly towards his chamber.
"The Fire Keeper of Firelink Shrine!" announced the serpent. "Art thou well?"
"F-forgive me, Kingseeker. I do not wish to offend you with my presence..."
"Come child, do not be bashful. It takes much to offend my senses. I once knew Executioner Smough..."
Too late did Anastacia realize that he was making a joke, and she inwardly scolded herself for not politely laughing. "If it pleases you, Kingseeker...these r-ruins have been abandoned, and there are none else to a-answer my question...a, a woman restored my life to me, and allowed me to continue my duty as Fire Keeper...but I regret that, in my distraction, I did not remember her name, or anything of her. Who was this woman?"
"It was no ordinary woman that rescued you!" said Frampt, grandly. "For young Nemeta of Vinheim is the fabled Chosen Undead, the rightful successor to the Great Lord Gwyn, and the soul prophesied to link the Fire, and end the curse of the Darksign..."
Anastacia blinked in astonishment. "Can it be true?" she breathed.
"Indeed it is! Young Nemeta has accepted her role, and at present, is gathering powerful souls to satiate the Lordvessel."
For a brief few moments, all of the shame and self-loathing that had been hammered into Anastacia vanished, and she spoke freely of her innermost desires. "...she will lift the curse of the Undead...I can die human..."
"When the Fire is linked," said Frampt, "you will have peace, child, in whichever way you seek it. We will all have peace."
"You know," he went on, becoming almost jolly, "it was rather generous of her to resurrect you, was it not, so that you could be alive to witness these momentous days?"
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The insects were listening, and Frampt and Anastacia thought nothing of them.
The insects left Firelink, and descended into the chasm, flowing past the Valley of Drakes, down into the murk of Blighttown. There, they swarmed about their Mistress' head, a thousand little voices whispering in her ears, passing on the conversation that they had heard.
Quelana listened, and a cold, affronted anger began to rise within her. She knew when a trickster was spinning lies and deceptions. She knew enough to recognize when a young girl's hopes and vulnerabilities were being preyed upon...
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Thank you for reading. If any of this story seems at odds with the continuity of the game, well, I plead slight AU. The important thing is the characters of Quelana and Nemeta, so that's where my focus goes.