Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.
Chapter 6
The Archives' new inhabitants began to settle into a vague routine.
Solaire had gone, venturing off somewhere again to "find his Sun", the remaining Undead shaking their heads and laughing the moment he was out of earshot.
Sieglinde seemed to linger aimlessly in Anor Londo, nothing keeping her from returning to Catarina, but some indistinct feeling of chivalry obliging her to remain and be helpful.
Laurentius could often be found cross-legged and deep in thought on the Archives' roofs, where his pyromancy was less likely to send Seath's centuries of work up in flames.
Ingward hobbled among the bookcases, not speaking much but occasionally inquiring as to his companions' health.
Logan had cloistered himself in the warmest, quietest, remotest culvert in the Regal Archives that he could find. All throughout the day – and often during the night – Griggs could be seen trudging dejectedly through the vast edifice, carrying armfuls of books that his master requested, and when he wasn't carrying books, he was transporting cups of tea, or plates filled with cakes, or pillows and cushions.
"You know, you're obviously intelligent enough to know this yourself," said Laurentius, "but if you stopped keeping him alive with refreshments or comforts, he might actually be forced to leave his lair and help the rest of us."
Griggs smiled politely. "If it is a matter of 'pulling one's weight', I will take Master Logan's duties here upon myself," he said, in his most conciliatory tone, and Laurentius suddenly realized that this man had dedicated his entire life to maintaining the fragile peace that existed between Big Hat Logan and the rest of humanity.
()()()()()()()()()()()
When Logan deigned to appear before her one day, Nemeta could tell at once that he wanted something. "Enjoying your reading?" she asked, by way of greeting. Had Logan not neglected his studies into the intricacies of human communication, he may have actually noticed the withering sarcasm in her tone.
"Oh, of course!" he said. "Very much so! I don't recall a time in my long career, in fact, when I derived such reward from academic study. Every day brings new revelations. Every turned page brings new epiphanies. To think: I have spent decades seeking out the sharpest minds in sorcery, when all along Seath was residing in his citadel, here, amassing a wealth of knowledge that my colleagues at the university could only imagine in their wildest dreams. Oh, I could become so absorbed with these books that, young Nemeta, you could well become Queen of Sunlight, and I would not notice!"
Logan threw his head back – the movement exaggerated by the broad brim of his hat – and laughed heartily. Nemeta sat in her corner, and thought: Oh good! That would mean I wouldn't have to invite you to my coronation!
Logan went on: "No, little danger of that. I comprehend the importance of these circumstances that surround us. Momentous days indeed, are they not? And how privileged we are to be present, as events unfold! An Undead Curse, ravaging the land. A priceless hoard of knowledge and wisdom, hitherto denied to human beings, suddenly bestowed into human hands. The Lord Gywn's long reign, drawing to a close. A new Lord of Sunlight, stepping forth to take his place! And do you know, young Nemeta, what the most wonderful thing about your coming ascension will be?"
"Whatever could it be?" she asked, blandly.
"We will have a countrywoman of Vinheim upon the throne!"
Nemeta blinked, unsure whether she should be baffled or outraged. "Excuse me?" she said.
Logan continued: "Surely, when you assume your place as Gwyn's rightful heir, you will establish your new capital in Vinheim, yes? Imagine what prestige it would bring your nation, to be the seat of power of your new order! Imagine how much superior Vinheim will seem, in comparison to her neighbours, when the Sun herself makes her home there! Ha ha ha! Oh, I eagerly await to see how Astora and Carmina attempt to conceal their inadequacy when we construct our Palace of the Sun..."
"Vinheim?" said Nemeta, and Logan was either too self-obsessed or too little experienced in the nuances of human speaking to notice the venom in her voice. "You are referring to the nation which came to my home in the middle of the night and dragged me off, in shackles, while my mother and father watched? You mean the same Vinheim that sent me to rot away in that asylum until I went Hollow?"
Logan swept aside her grievances with a dismissive wave. "Phtah! When you are Queen of Sunlight, you must put aside petty personal considerations for the greater good." This point was accompanied with an instructive – and highly condescending – raised finger, the type that he might raise if he were in a lecture hall with an audience of pupils.
"Master Logan, did you come to me for a particular reason?" asked Nemeta, her patience fraying.
"Yes," he said. "My concern lies not merely with the prestige of Vinheim, but also the preservation of academic achievement. Young Nemeta, Seath's work is of immense, incalculable value, of that there is no question. However, these Archives – these walls, these hallways, these passages – are mere stonework and masonry. They can be easily torn down, with little cost for posterity."
Logan stepped close to her, and despite all the power that she had accumulated, despite all the demons and monstrosities that she had overcome, Nemeta was still seized by a faint frisson of discomfort. "I must secure a promise from you," he whispered conspiratorially. "As Queen of Sunlight, your duty will be to protect and champion culture, and learning, and wisdom. When you come into your dominion, and succeed Gwyn, these books must not remain in Lordran. They must be conveyed to Vinheim, where they will be safe, away from the attentions of thieves and barbarians and deranged Hollows. After you link the flames, we will construct a new archive building – named after you, naturally, as so many other fine buildings will be – and there we will store Seath's work. Imagine what benefit the students of the universities would obtain from them! Imagine what dizzying heights Vinheim could reach with such learning at its disposal! Imagine how boundlessly the folk of Vinheim will cherish you, to know that you blessed them so!"
"You're asking me move all of these books to Vinheim?" said Nemeta, one sceptical eyebrow raised. "There's tens of thousands of them."
Logan shrugged. "T'would be a modest feat indeed, for a Queen of Sunlight..."
()()()()()()()()()()
Patches stumbling along at her heel, Quelana crossed the marsh, and clambered aboard the gigantic wooden contrivance that would bear them upwards to the surface of Lordran. Only as Blighttown was dwindling beneath them did she realize that she wasn't even sure of her own intentions.
When the Everlasting Dragon revealed Nemeta's true destiny – hatred and vengeance practically oozing from its ancient tongue – Nemeta was filled at once with a sickening chill, a stomach-turning concoction of anger, terror, and, worst of all...powerlessness. She had paced up and down across the banks of the swamp, unaware that her eyes were bulging, unaware that her fingers were gesticulating wildly, unaware that she was snatching up the putrid air of the mire in frantic, hurried snorts. She suddenly felt as though all the power in all of Lordran was arrayed against her; she would attempt to seek out her student, but Frampt and Gwynevere would scheme and conspire to keep them apart, to prevent Quelana from warning Nemeta of her awful fate until it was too late.
As the ropes pulled and stretched, carrying her ever higher, Quelana thought: To what end am I working towards? I wish to do what is right by my pupil, do I not?
Or do I simply wish to protect her, regardless of what is right?
When I find Nemeta, what should I tell her? That her hopes are for naught? That she is going to endure a thousand years burning in agony at the heart of the First Flame? That she is going to spend a thousand years atoning for her childish, silly dreams?
Foolish thing. See how far your fancies have taken you.
If I tell her the truth, how will she respond? Well, I expect there will be a lot of crying, and screaming, and accusations. Our saviour is going to have a tantrum. That is sure to be enjoyable.
But what then? What comes after?
The contraption deposited Quelana and Patches on a walkway high above the marsh. Bidding her servant to take the lead, Quelana followed Patches as he navigated his way up a baffling network of ladders, ropes, walkways and bridges, the air growing clearer and crisper the further they went.
Even though Nemeta was in dire peril, and even though Quelana's mind was alive with images of her pupil writhing in flames, the familiar comforts of home exerted their pull on her, and as Blighttown receded further and further into the shadows, Quelana was seized by an overpowering, suffocating anxiety, a cloying dread that demanded much effort to conceal from her slave. Even now, while her protege was in terrible danger, part of Quelana wished to turn back, to return to her old den. Part of her wished to curl up in the reeds, and drift to sleep, and dream that her mother and sisters were still alive.
Let my student sacrifice herself. I deserve another thousand years of punishment.
Coward. I'll never escape what I am, will I? Not truly.
At last, they made their way down a long, winding passageway, finally emerging upon a ledge on the side of a wide gorge. Peering over the edge, gazing into the noxious murk that had been her home for so many centuries, Quelana tried to remember how long it had been since she had ventured outside of Blighttown.
()()()()()()()()()
Late one night, Laurentius wandered about the Archives, and happened across a six-eyed sorcerer, lurking in a narrow space between bookshelves.
There was much shouting, and struggling, until at last the others – Logan excepted, of course – came running, and the sorcerer was defeated.
"How did he get inside?" asked Sieglinde.
"There's supposed to always be a guard posted at the entrance!" said Laurentius. "Right, who nodded off and let him in?"
"Until recently, these Archives were the sorcerers' lair," said Griggs. "Who knows what secret passages there are, in and out of the place?"
The group collectively groaned.
"I'm going down into the Catacombs, soon!" said Nemeta, indignant. "This is just another problem that I did not ask for!"
"Well, there is no sense in losing our minds," urged Griggs. "While Lady Nemeta is preparing for her expedition, the rest of us should remain alert, and see if there is anything else that the Archives are hiding from us..."
()()()()()()()()()
Patches stretched his arms wide, and filled his lungs. Granted, the quality of air in the Valley of Drakes was not exactly exemplary, what with a gargantuan Undead Dragon in residence nearby, but it was certainly an improvement upon Blighttown. "Ah! Never thought I'd see the day!"
Gazing warily around at the unfamiliar landscape, Quelana felt pangs of discomfort and fear entirely different in nature from the desperate terror that had driven her from her home. "Are you acquainted with this realm, trickster?" she asked.
"Am I? I tell you, I could make a very lucrative living as a guide! Not that there's much demand for such things in this particular locale...people don't come here to see the sights...they come here to drop dead, and rot to ashes..."
"Yes, yes," she said, in no mood for a lackwit's ramblings. "We're going to Firelink Shrine. Lead me there."
A hint of gallant chivalry becoming evident in his bearing, as though he were escorting a helpless maiden, Patches began marching through the valley, Quelana following quietly in his path. Now that they were clear of Blighttown, and traversing a less oppressive region, Patches evidently felt more at ease, which had the unfortunate effect of loosening his tongue.
"I had a hard life, I did! Abandoned on a doorstep. When I was old enough to walk, I was old enough to steal, and so I was sold to a man who had his very own army of children thieves. A dozen of us, sleeping together on the floor in a single room. Yeah, he'd send us out onto the streets everyday, to sneak our little fingers into rich peoples' pockets. We got a right thrashing if we didn't earn our keep."
"I used to be a humble, honest merchant, you know, but I tell you, the Undead Curse has ruined the economy! Forced me out of work!"
"I bloody hate clerics! Lying, thieving, backstabbing, two-faced crooks – well, I am too, but they do it on a much grander scale! And you know what I hate about clerics most of all? Know what really gets my hackles up? The unjust persecution of pyromancers! I tell you, the ill-treatment of pyromancers makes me sick! Pyromancers have no better friend than me, let me tell you. Yeah, I'd give a limb, if it helped a pyromancer..."
Patches babbled on, and Quelana trudged along in his wake, becoming increasingly lost in her thoughts, until the charlatan's voice had become as distant and inconsequential as the constant buzzing in the background of the Blighttown swamp.
If I tell Nemeta the truth, what then?
What if she does not believe me? No, no, she will take me at my word. She is my student; I have her trust, if not her respect.
She will abandon her destiny, surely? She is merely a young girl; she hasn't the stomach to sacrifice herself. The only reason the silly thing has come so far is that she's convinced that she is going to become the Queen of Sunlight! It was not strength or bravery that empowered her to ring the bells, or to claim the Lordvessel, or to slay Seath. It was fairy tales and fantasies!
If I tell her that Frampt and Gwynevere have been manipulating her, she will abandon this silly quest, will she not?
She will.
I know my own student.
I know my own student. I know how foolish she is. I know how daft she is. I know how she gets that glint in her eye just before she does something that she knows will infuriate me.
Nemeta got it into her silly, unreasonable, fancy-filled head that she was going to be the new Lord of Cinder.
What if she gets it into her head to sacrifice herself?
She'll do it just to madden me, she will.
Frampt and Gwynevere will attempt to manipulate her. I have an inkling that Frampt is too old and stuffy to have much power over Nemeta at all, but Gwynevere...
Gwynevere will prey on her guilt. She'll make use of the admiration the young girl has for her. If Nemeta betrays so much as a hint of reluctance to inherit Gwyn's mantle, Gwynevere will deploy that heartbroken expression of hers, and then Nemeta will cast herself into the flames just to restore the Princess' damnable feelings.
Quelana remembered Gwynevere. They were both daughters to Primeval Lords. Princess of Sunlight Gwynevere got to swan around in opulent palaces, feast on delectable dishes, and dress herself in absurdly luxurious robes. Meanwhile, Daughter of Chaos Quelana got to constantly perspire from the molten lava that surrounded her, subsisted on worms and grubs as part of the ascetic lifestyle forced upon her by her mother, and dressed in heavy black robes that itched and clung to her skin in the heat.
Oh, how Quelana hated to hear Nemeta gush about simpering, ladylike Gwynevere.
I'll bind Nemeta in chains. I'll drag her back down to Blighttown, and I'll hide her there, as I hid myself for a thousand years.
Gwynevere will send her agents to free her. No matter. I'll carry her to Ash Lake. I'll imprison her within the roots of a tree, and I'll bring her little treats and presents to keep her happy. The Everlasting Dragon lurks down there, but Ash Lake is inconceivably vast. They'll never find us. No one will ever find us.
But she will never forgive me...
No.
I must tell Nemeta the truth. It's the only way. But what if she chooses to sacrifice herself?
I must horrify, and terrify her. It falls to me to tell her of the thousand years of agony that await her, if she links the flame. I need to tell her of the dreadful fury of the Everlasting Dragon, and the cruel, pitiless joy that it will take in her suffering.
I need to fill her with fear, so that she will abandon her task.
And then I must steal her far, far away from Lordran.
()()()()()()()()()()
Early one morning, Big Hat Logan exploded with rage. Griggs tried his best to placate the man, to no avail. Logan stormed through the Archives, in search of Nemeta, Griggs trailing after him, begging him to return to his study, wondering aloud if it would in fact not be more polite to deliver a message to the lady instead of disturbing her...
The sorcerers found Nemeta hunched in a corner, cradling a flame in her palm. "Young Nemeta," bellowed Logan, his face red, his voice quavering. "Books are being stolen from the Archives!"
Nemeta regarded him dully. "Really?" she said, at last.
"It's the six-eyed sorcerers!" he snarled. "They steal inside during the night, and slink away with their slain master's work! Curses upon them!"
Over Logan's shoulder, Nemeta could see Grigg's mortified, apologetic face. "Well, perhaps if you took part in guard duty, they wouldn't get in," she said.
Logan predictably ignored her. "Young Nemeta, we must recover those books, they're priceless! As a student of sorcery, surely you comprehend the importance of this! We must find the sorcerers' new den, and reclaim what has been lost!"
Perhaps if you squinted at the walls as well as you squint at those books, you'd find out how these sorcerers are getting in.
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Patches had, of course, tried to lead his captor into a trap. Quelana was not so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice that the thief was purposely luring her in circles around a forest, probably hoping that some peculiar tree creature would ambush and kill her. She seized him by the scruff of his neck, and then forced him inelegantly against a tree, the roiling inferno of her pyromancy flame hovering inches from his wide, terrified eyes.
"You have three hours to bring me to Firelink," she said. "And then I burn you to a cinder. I'm willing to run, if it saves your life."
He made it, to his credit. They raced through the forest, into the rubble of an old church, past a bewildered-looking blacksmith, his hammer frozen in mid-strike, into a deserted city, through the side entrance of a decidedly more intact church, and finally down a long elevator to the shrine. Quelana left Patches bent double at the entrance to Firelink, coughing and spluttering, struggling to regain his breath, while she advanced through the ruins, searching for her student.
()()()()()()()()()()
At last, Nemeta managed to purge the irritation that Logan had caused within her, and returned to her flame.
When Quelana gave Nemeta part of her flame, she gave the girl part of her essence. Nemeta peered into the fire as it quivered and fluttered in her palm. Gradually, her surroundings retreated away from her awareness. The Archives, gone. Anor Londo, lost to shadows. Lordran, a distant nightmare in the past. Her mother and father, a painful memory, now forgotten. The hordes of Hollowed, far beyond her reach. Seath the Scaleless, a powerless fiend, unable to harm her.
Eventually, Nemeta was floating in a warm, welcoming void. There was nothing but herself, and the fragments of her Mistress' soul contained within the flame.
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Quelana allowed her cowl to fall to her shoulders, and Frampt's massive, bloodshot, jaundiced eyes widened in astonishment. "The Witch of Izalith!" he breathed. "Can it be?"
Quelana pulled the hood back over her forehead, guiding the errant strands of her hair back into the darkness within. "My mother perished a thousand years ago," she said. "I am all that remains of her...her eyes, and her nose, and her cheekbones. I am Quelana, last surviving Daughter of Izalith."
Frampt regarded her gravely. "Your mother, the Witch of Izalith, still lives."
"But not for long, I take it."
The serpent peered warily at her. "Hmmm. You have heard, then."
Quelana nodded. "Indeed. The news reached even my far-flung home. A Chosen Undead has arisen to link the flame. She has been tasked with slaying the Primeval Lords, and claiming the throne of Lord Gwyn."
"That is correct."
"What is the Chosen Undead's name?"
"Nemeta of Vinheim."
For months, Quelana's insect servants had followed Nemeta around Lordran, tracking her movements, listening upon her conversations. Quelana knew that Nemeta had kept her a secret; she had spoken of her to no one – least of all to Primordial Serpents – and there wasn't a soul in the realm that knew that the Chosen Undead was the student of a Daughter of Chaos.
There was no danger in revealing herself to Frampt, Quelana knew. He did not know of her allegiance to Nemeta.
"I've never heard of Vinheim," said Quelana. "Is it an impressive kingdom?"
If Primordial Serpents came equipped with shoulders, Frampt would at that moment have shrugged. "I have never seen it myself. I have been rather somnolent these past few centuries. It can't be too modest, considering that it gifted us with Lord Gwyn's heir," he said.
Quelana looked about. "Is the Chosen Undead here, now, in these ruins?" Hardly anyone was present – was this not the place where all the sane Undead gathered? The shrine was almost deserted.
"No," said Frampt. "The Chosen Undead has slain the Duke of Anor Londo, Seath the Scaleless, and now occupies the Regal Archives."
She's in the Archives. "I see," said Quelana. "Part of Lord Gwyn's Primeval Soul has already been reclaimed, then..."
"Indeed. The Chosen Undead must now acquire the Primeval Souls of the Gravelord Nito...and your mother, Daughter of Chaos."
"My mother perished a thousand years ago," insisted Quelana. "That abomination in Izalith possesses nothing of her wisdom, nothing of her knowledge, nothing of her passion. My mother is dead!"
"Then you will not oppose the Chosen Undead in her quest to vanquish the creature that...replaced your mother?"
"Of course not. I will not stand in the way of history. Lord Gwyn's successor may have his throne."
Frampt nodded, satisfied. "Very well. It pleases me, Quelana of Izalith, that you survived the destruction of that great city. Tell me: when the reign of Nemeta is ushered in, do you intend to make yourself more...conspicuous? We stand upon the cusp of a new era. It would greatly benefit the world if a Daughter of Chaos chose to serve in the court of the new Sun."
"We shall see," replied Quelana. "Perhaps I have indulged too long in solitude."
She turned to leave. As she was at the threshold, she turned back towards the serpent.
"Kingseeker Frampt, is Nemeta of Vinheim truly a worthy successor to Lord Gwyn?"
Frampt seemed taken off-guard by this question. "What could you mean?"
"Is she a fitting heir to Lord Gwyn? Is she wise? Brave? Just? Strong?"
The Primordial Serpent was an ugly, warped creature indeed, but even with its misshapen features, Quelana could tell that the thing was confused. "She has claimed the Lordvessel," he said, his booming voice seeming paradoxically faint, as though he was stating the most obvious truth imaginable. "Soon she will gather the Primeval Souls. Of course she is a worthy successor to Lord Gwyn."
Quelana allowed her gaze to fall to the ground, and affected an air of sadness and dejection. "Lord Gwyn was the finest of men. Courageous. Mighty. Learned. Kind. Honourable. I remember him so well, even now. He endures so well in my memory."
Frampt seemed to sag. "None have forgotten him," he said, his voice leaden and empty.
"Is the Chosen Undead truly his equal, Kingseeker?" Her voice was hopeful, though infused with pleading. "Such wickedness, in this world, and such evil. Is Nemeta truly up to the task?"
"She has overcome all the trials and tests with which this land could confront her..."
"...as could an accomplished thief, or a skilled liar, or a cunning murderer. The world has no need for mercenaries, or sellswords, Kingseeker. It needs a Sun. As Kingseeker, you are tasked with discovering a deserving replacement for Lord Gwyn. You have seen this girl, Nemeta, with your own eyes. What do you make of her? What, in your estimation, marks her as a worthy heir?"
Frampt cleared his throat, and began stumbling and staggering through his assessment of Nemeta's character. "She...well...she is full of life, clearly. She will certainly prove to be a vibrant Sun. Also, she is...uhm...she has a very strong sense of justice, yes! Lord Gwyn's great virtue and moral excellence will endure in his successor, of that there is no doubt. Furthermore, the Chosen Undead has a great interest in...in..."
Quelana motioned him onwards. "...yes?"
"...in...in...fashion. Yes. The new Queen of Sunlight will be very fashionable. Lord Gwyn was never one for style, it must be said. The Princess Gwynevere will be very pleased that the new Sun will have such a sense of...elegance...yes..."
Clearly, no creature in Lordran was better suited to deciding the suitability of prospective monarchs than Kingseeker Frampt.
Quelana was not yet satisfied. "What do you imagine the kingdom of Nemeta will be like, Kingseeker?"
"Very just," he declared. "Very fair. Very...uhm...youthful. And very well-dressed."
He was a pompous, self-important, self-righteous creature, drunk with the prestige that Gwyn's legacy granted him. But even as he blathered on, even as he became lost in his own indulgent vanity, as Quelana peered at him from the darkness of her cowl, she perceived an undeniable grief in his eyes, a sorrow and bitterness that Frampt could not quite disguise.
Frampt was describing a kingdom that he knew would never exist. Frampt knew well that if Nemeta linked the fire, she would be condemned to a thousand years of agonizing flames.
"You have put my doubts at rest, Kingseeker," said Quelana. "Thank you."
And with that, she turned on her heels, and made her way out of Firelink.
()()()()()()()()()()
"Where to now, My Lady?" said Patches, brightly.
"Anor Londo," said Quelana. "Do you know the way?"
"Oooh, there's only one way to Anor Londo! We have to go by Sen's Fortress. No worries! It's a straightforward journey, nothing to worry about at all! Nya hah hah hah!"
Quelana sighed. She had no other choice. Sen's Fortress it was.
()()()()()()()()()()()
The Undead turned out for Nemeta as she prepared to set out for the Catacombs.
"This is so strange!" said Sieglinde. "When I was a child, I used to leave chestnuts out for Nito every year on the Night Of The Dead. And now you're venturing out to slay him!"
"My father used to tell me stories about him, at bedtime," said Nemeta. "Papa's eyes would have popped out of his skull if he had ever known that one day his girl would be fighting him."
"It's strange, really," said Laurentius. "I always thought that, of all the kings, in all the world, old Nito was the one who would rule on his throne for all time. How can you topple death? But you will do it, my friend! An Undead Curse, Lord Gwyn being replaced, the First of the Dead being slain – I suppose we really are witnessing a revolution. These are weird times, indeed. Stay safe, friend."
"As a healer, I spent my entire life fighting the Gravelord," said Ingward, "fending him away from the sick and the weak. I hope you give him an awful thrashing."
"Good luck," said Griggs. "When you return from your journey, I promise you these archives will be a lot more comfortable than you remember them."
Logan had chosen not to be present.
"Thank you all, very much," said Nemeta. "See you all again soon."
Nemeta knelt next to the bonfire, and transported herself to Firelink Shrine.