Horace and I became separated again; it's the third time this has happened in our short existences as Unkindled.
I do not know why we've become so prone to losing sight of each other. Maybe our bodies have yet to understand we are alive again. Well, as alive as people like us can be. Luckily, our skills in battle remain the same, which is not much to say in my case, but Horace still is the great warrior he was in our previous lives.
But I do I worry about him. I know he's capable of looking after himself and outwit any trap, but my heart aches when he is gone. I rely on him more than he does on me.
It is not a cheerful thought.
It makes me feel like a leech, a parasite, clinging on to the strength of my friend without being able to offer something of worth in return.
Horace disagrees. He claims that my friendship means everything to him, and that he'll gladly protect me from any foe we encounter in our journey. He says that, if it wasn't for me, he'd have no purpose to exist at all.
His sentiment soothed me, but in retrospect, it is alarming. For the first time since I was a child, I am afraid to die for good.
If I am gone, what will happen to Horace?
If I am not here for him, what will he do?
These questions and their answers scare me. I push them away from my mind, but they linger like flies in a hot day, especially when Horace and I are apart.
Luckily, we did find our way back to each other.
The trail of prism stones I set for him guided Horace back to me, but he wasn't the only one that was lured by the stones.
Someone else arrived first.
I was starting to fear the worst, so I went back on my own steps to look for Horace. It was then I discovered the culprit behind Horace's unusual delay.
A wanderer, clad in a much humbler set of armor. The visor of their helmet was lifted, exposing the upper half of their face.
They were Undead, Unkindled perhaps, but unlike me, they were not Hollow. I suddenly became too self-aware of the decayed state of my appearance. I had never been more grateful for having a helmet that concealed my features from the world.
The stranger stared at me, like a child who had been caught stealing cookies from a jar. Their hands were full of the prism stones I had left for Horace.
I raised my voice at them, more angrily than I intended. The stranger said nothing; it was as if they were mesmerized by my presence.
Then, the prism stones escaped their hands all at once. The glowing pebbles scattered across the ground like solid rain.
I don't know for how long we looked at each other in silence.
It was them who first approached me. I did not unsheathe my blade, for I felt no ill-intent from them. Their unintentional destruction of my trail of stones felt like an innocent mistake on their part, not like an act of wickedness.
I was upset, but I did not resent them.
Maybe they had been in dire need of prism stones, and upon seeing the ones I had left behind, they had felt tempted to pick them up and claim them as their own. In their place, I would have done the same.
They walked towards me. Their gait was soft, as if their soles barely touched the ground. Soon, they stood in front of me.
I intended to ask them about their motives, or at least ask for their name, but the stranger embraced me before I could speak.
Their grip was strong, but not oppressive. I tried to pull away, but their arms were locked around my neck.
It was in that position that Horace found us.
I had to signal him that everything was fine; otherwise, that poor stranger's head would have rolled on the floor.
They held me for a long while. At some point, they began to cry. I couldn't not see their tears, but I could l hear their soft sobs echoing inside their helmet.
They said something; it was a sound that almost resembled a name, but it was lost to me. They haven't spoken again since then.
They remain quiet.
This stranger refuses to leave our side. Horace does not like their presence, but truth is that I don't mind.
This world is an empty and harsh place.
If this stranger finds comfort in our company, then they can stay with us for now. They are not a threat, and their blade could prove useful in our journey across the Road of Sacrifices.
For the time being, their presence is most welcome.
I only wish Horace and them would stop glaring at each other all the time. I also wish this stranger would speak to me and tell me their name.
I don't want to call them 'Unkindled' or 'hey, you' every time I need to catch their attention. Sure, it's practical, but it feels rude.
And now I must stop writing. It seems the Unkindled put prism stones in the eyeholes of Horace's helmet and now Horace can't get them off.
I better go to them before either of them throws the first punch.
I swear, this journey just keeps getting better and better…
-Third entry of Anri of Astora's diary.
Firelink Shrine welcomed him with the unnatural sight of a snuffed bonfire.
Griggs held his breath, an unfamiliar feeling of apprehension anchoring his feet to the ash-covered floor. He blinked, but the imagery before him didn't change. The bonfire remained cold and dead. Only dying embers remained whence the fire had burned.
How could this happen?
He answered his own question a second after. He looked at the stairs that led to the shrine's lower floor. Without the need to inspect further, Griggs knew the sinful act that had occurred in his absence.
He tightened his grip on his magic staff and sharpened his ear. The soft murmur of his breathing was all he could hear, but Griggs could feel an intruder luring nearby, like a wolf waiting for its prey to drop its guard.
I am not the defenseless man you thought I was.
He knew it was him, that awful knight of Carim.
The scar on his cheek tickled, as if reacting to his memory. He had always despised needless displays of violence. Griggs knew better than to consider himself a good man, but he liked to think he was merciful and peaceful.
If he had to kill, he did so without pain, and unlike the hot-tempered knights, he didn't rejoice in the blood he spilled, nor did he see death as a merit to his honor. He had always wondered why tales and poems glorified these violent aspects of knightly life, and he doubted he would ever comprehend the men and women that mistook bloodshed with glory.
Yet, not all knights and warriors were the same. Some of them, far fewer than Griggs would have liked, were earnestly honorable and true to their code and duty. They didn't abuse their power, and they had enough good sense to recognize that the killing they committed, no matter how excused by war or conflict, was not without its consequences.
He had come across some knights of this kind in his old life, and now that he was Undead in Lordran, he had found men like Oscar and Solaire. They were decent men; Siegmeyer, that bumbling knight of Catarina, probably was the same too.
But the knight that had left the deepest impression on him, both on his face and on his mind, was the knight of the golden armor.
Carim is a vile place. Its traditions are morbid, its people are wicked, their hearts are dark.
It was a narrow-minded and awful simplification of a kingdom and its inhabitants. It was also a popular mindset among Vinheimers.
Griggs tried to keep his mind open when it came to dealing with people from other places, from the eccentric Great Swamp, to the zealous Thorolund, the haughty Astora and the rowdy Catarina.
He held no judgment upon others and he treated them all the same.
But not with Carim.
He couldn't, not when Vinheim had been victim of its oppressive treatment for so long. Griggs had thought that, perhaps, things would be different in Lordran, and that any Undead knight from Carim he found along his way would not see him as a sorcerer from Vinheim, but as his fellow Undead and nothing else.
He had been a childish fool, and he had paid greatly for his naivety. His punishment had come to him in the form of Lautrec, the golden knight.
Never again will I commit the same mistake.
Then, he heard a sound.
The whistle of murderous blades rang from above him, together with the plummeting echo of an armored body. Griggs dodged the attack with a swift maneuver. He turned around on his heels, and when his body faced the spot where he had just stood, he raised his staff and casted a magic arrow upon his attacker.
The knight of Carim dispersed the glowing arrow with his curved blades.
Drops of fresh blood splattered around the floor as the swords cut through air and magic alike. A few of those drops landed on Griggs' chest. The black silk of his tunic absorbed them thirstily.
Oscar and Solaire are not here to save your life this time.
Griggs thought as the knight of Carim, with his broken armor and an ice-cold glare in his grey eyes, lunged at him with his blood-lacquered swords.
Griggs held his staff before his body in a diagonal position and casted a magic barrier.
Sparks emerged from the violent clashing of magic and steel.
In the nearby ruins, a serpent slept, unaware of the ongoing duel and the murder that had left Firelink Shrine deprived of its bonfire.
"Let's get out of here. We've no business in this awful place anymore."
Laurentius was deaf to the knight of Catarina's suggestions. With a wave of his hand, he signaled Siegmeyer to keep quiet. Once silence settled between them, Laurentius closed his eyes and listened to his surroundings.
He heard nothing.
Laurentius felt like dropping to his knees and digging his face deep into the swamp.
Then, there it was. He heard it again, that beautiful and faint sound.
A voice calling for him.
She was there somewhere; he was sure of it.
"Laurentius, please."
"Over there." Laurentius exclaimed, his teeth exposed in a wide grin. "I can hear her… I can sense her!"
He laughed, his feet chasing after the fading melody. Laurentius did not turn back to see if Siegmeyer was following him. For all he cared, Siegmeyer could just abandon him. Laurentius wouldn't resent him for it.
He had no place in his mind and heart for anything else that wasn't the whisper of the Godmother.
Siegmeyer, Solaire, Oscar, Andre… those were names that held no meaning for him. They were shadows that belonged to his past.
Perhaps if he hadn't heard the voice, Laurentius would still remember who they were and what they meant to him, but the weak song of the Godmother had changed his entire world.
I heard you before, back when Lautrec was trying to kill me.
Laurentius thought as he followed the trace of the Godmother's sound.
It is you, isn't it?
"Laurentius, wait for me! This place it's too dangerous for you to be on your own!"
Godmother.
He had found it, the purpose of his Undead life. She was there, somewhere in that hideous and infected swamp. All he had to do now was finding her.
"Your journey will be for nothing; but Undead as you are now, you've got no choice but to leave, don't you? Well, good riddance with you already. The least we need is for you to start spreading the curse among us."
"You plan to grow stronger in Lordran? And you even hope to find the Godmother there? Please, as if the Godmother or any of her daughters would ever show themselves to a pyromancer of your category."
"Is that truly your purpose? You are chasing after myths and fairytales, you fool. The Godmother and her daughters are long gone from this world. You may be Undead, but that doesn't give you the right to act like this! I swear, it is idiots like you that give us pyromancers the reputation of being unsavory and strange."
Laurentius had always believed that proving his fellow pyromancers wrong, that same people who had always showed him little more than indifference, would fill him with satisfaction. Even if they couldn't see how much they had underestimated him, Laurentius had longed to rise above their lack of faith.
But now that his ears had heard the Godmother, Laurentius realized that his petty resentments meant nothing. His true bliss came not from the inaccurate predictions of his countrymen, but from the Godmother alone.
I am worthy of hearing your voice.
"Laurentius, don't go so fast! I— I can't keep up!"
If my whole life boils down to this exact moment alone, then I am truly the most fortunate pyromancer that has ever existed.
A happiness like he had never felt before leaked from his eyes. Just when he thought his fortune couldn't smile more at him, just when his mind was already painting pictures for him about his meeting with the Godmother, Laurentius heard her voice once more.
He couldn't understand what the Godmother said. He only knew she had spoken a single word, but it made no sense to him.
When I find you, you'll teach me how to understand you, won't you?
"Laurentius!"
You'll unlock my true potential; you'll transform my flame into a force that burns like none other.
The voice led him to his starting point, a broken stone column not too far away from the sewer that housed the bonfire.
Sounds came from the opposite side of the column. They were so clear that Laurentius knew they had not been born from his imagination.
Those sounds were real.
"Godmother."
I exist to you, don't I?
Laurentius did find a woman around the broken column.
They met face to face, with her dark and empty eyeholes sucking the shine from Laurentius'.
Laurentius' overjoyed and deluded mind did not comprehend the Godmother's illusion had shattered until the Hollowed man-eating woman locked her arms around his neck and brought him down to the swamp with her.
Laurentius never managed to break free from that grotesque imitation of an embrace, and his voice was forever silenced when the Hollowed woman finally finished the deed and dug her teeth into his throat.
The pain of having his neck devoured was only a speck compared to the disgrace of his final realization.
He had never heard the voice of the Godmother of pyromancy.
For all Laurentius knew, she had never existed in that awful swamp, and the voice he thought he had heard was only a trick of his weak mind.
Why?
Laurentius thought as the woman kept devouring his flesh. At one point, Siegmeyer pulled her away from him after severing one of her arms with his greatsword.
As the two of them fought, Laurentius bleed to death.
Why it wasn't you?
Siegmeyer screamed. The Hollowed woman had torn apart the upper half of his helmet and was trying to sink her teeth into one of his ears.
Why did I think it was you? Why did I think someone like me—
A freezing hell imploded inside Laurentius' chest, breaking his heart, mind and soul, setting free the true form of the curse that festered in his Darksign. He lost himself to madness and fear, and above all, to the despair of knowing that his Undead existence had had no true meaning at all.
How stupid of him to believe he could achieve as an Undead what he had always failed to accomplish in life.
I exist. I am here. Though I'm not remarkable, I could be worthy of your time. So please, someone, anyone…
The memory of the people that had fulfilled his wish, those men he had known for a little but precious amount of time, glowed intensely on his mind before vanishing forever.
No, don't go. Don't leave me alone.
He wanted to meet them again.
He—
He heard the Godmother's voice once more.
She was close, so close.
But—
Where—
He heard…
I'm scared
It hurts
My friends
A name
She said…
"Quelaan."
Siegmeyer made a pause to remove the pot from the fire.
Andre and Oswald watched him in silence. Neither said a word until Siegmeyer was done filling everyone's Estus flask with a generous portion of the soup.
"I killed the Hollowed woman as fast as I could." Siegmeyer said, putting his cooking pot aside. "But I was too late. Laurentius was already Hollow when I approached him. I tried to make him stop, to make him snap out of his madness. In the end, everything those foolish efforts earned me were hideous burning injuries and a new death."
He slammed his fist against the floor, causing the flasks to wobble and for some drops of the soup to spill on the floor.
Andre reacted with a small gasp, but Oswald remained calm and unaffected.
Siegmeyer slowly removed his hand from surface, revealing a deep dent with the shape of his fist. His unprotected knuckles were red and covered with splinters.
"I told him to wait for me, goddammit, but he didn't listen! That fool—" Siegmeyer didn't have to raise his voice for it to sound raw with anger and frustration.
His wrath proved to be as intense as it was ephemeral, or perhaps, Siegmeyer had more self-control than Oswald had believed. Soon, he was calm again, though his tired expression didn't change.
Oswald intended to speak, but Andre did so first.
"There's nothing you could have done, Siegmeyer. You did your part well; what happened down there was nothing but an awful twist of fate."
Spoken like a true Astoran.
Oswald thought, looking at Andre from the corner of his eye.
The feelings of others are always a priority, aren't they? They're a lot more important than logic and objectiveness. A nice sentiment, but in times of despair, comforting words are not always what one needs to hear.
Siegmeyer must have shared Oswald's feelings to some extent, for rather than thanking Andre for his kindness, he remained immersed in a sullen silence.
"It wasn't a twist of fate or some random misfortune." Oswald said, stretching his hands towards the fire. "That pyromancer's Hollowing was merely the result of his actions and his own lack of purpose. He went Hollow because he lost his will to exist and succumbed to despair. He obsessed over some blind ambition, and when he failed to fulfill it, it was more than he could bear, that's all there is to it. So, in a way, Andre's right Siegmeyer, there's nothing you could have done to save him, even if you had been able to prevent his death at the hands of that Hollowed woman."
Oswald directed his gaze at the knight and the blacksmith, curious to witness their reactions.
His expectations were betrayed when he saw a somber but understanding look in Andre's face, while Siegmeyer, rather than shocked, seemed calmer than before.
Their resilience made Oswald feel a twinge of shame. He had meant everything he had said, and though there had been no ill-intention behind his remarks, he couldn't deny that a part of him had expected more controversial responses, if only to amuse himself a little.
"Apologies." Swallowing his pride, Oswald joined his hands together and spoke from his heart. "I should not have worded it that way."
"You said nothing that wasn't true, Oswald." Siegmeyer replied. The easiness with which he dismissed the matter made Oswald wish he had been more prudent in his statements. "And, to be honest, though Laurentius' death still pains me, that's not what disturbs me. I may be a bumbling onion, but I am not so childish as to burden myself with regrets over the people I kill. Laurentius… he was no longer the pyromancer that fought by my side or the friend Oscar and Solaire knew, he was a Hollow. The moment he didn't react to my words or my pleas, I had no choice but to kill him. His demise is my responsibility, and I will assume it without needlessly chastising myself about it. May Gwyn forgive me if what I am about to say sounds ruthless to you, but it is not his death what weighs on me and makes my Darksign pulse with a chilly sting."
Siegmeyer wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Despite his obvious distress, Oswald had heard nothing but sincerity and the steeled fortitude of a seasoned knight in his claims.
He could only imagine how many times Siegmeyer had fought against his own conscience back in his youth, when his path as a knight of Catarina had just begun.
For Siegmeyer to speak about his deeds with such a neutral sense of duty, free from the romantic notions knights tended to use to soften their actions with, was something Oswald had not expected from him.
A growing respect for the knight of Catarina blossomed in his chest.
"The way he went Hollow scared me." Siegmeyer confessed at last.
Oswald gave him a nonjudgmental look, and he hoped Andre had done the same.
"Laurentius was not in dire need of Humanity. His body did not seem consumed by the Hollowing, his mind was clear, he had enough sense in him to worry about the sake of his friends." Siegmeyer kept his voice low. Oswald guessed he did so to keep their conversation from reaching the ears of Oscar and Solaire downstairs. "Yet, he Hollowed in an instant. One moment he was running around Blighttown, looking for a voice only he could hear… then, he was a fading corpse with a severed spine under my sword."
Siegmeyer laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it, only the sour realization of what he had done.
"Why did he have to go Hollow? He was fine! He was just here, begging me and Andre to help him rescue Solaire. He was so worried, he—" A single tear that was quickly wiped away abandoned Siegmeyer's eye. It was the only one he shed. "I just don't understand. How could he lose himself in an instant? It was like nothing I've ever seen before, and it scared me. It scared me, because what guarantee do I have that the same won't happen to me?"
Siegmeyer covered his mouth, as if preventing more verbal weakness from escaping lips.
Oswald applauded his self-awareness and control. There was much Oscar and Solaire could learn from Siegmeyer. Perhaps he would suggest them to travel with the Catarinian knight, but that was a matter for another time.
It all depended on what Solaire would confess to him.
"I understand, Siegmeyer."
Andre said, resting a comforting and giant hand on the knight's shoulder.
"It is a fear that plagues me too. It has plagued me for as long as I can remember. I have been in this land more than any of you have. I have met many strangers; knights, sorcerers, bandits, or just fools who came here seeking glory or an escape from the Undead curse. Some of them merely came here to let go of their vilest and lowest instincts, claiming that, after being branded with the Darksign, they no longer held any moral compromises with this world. These people are all dead now, or maybe they still exist as Hollows. And that fate terrifies me, for it can swallow you up in the blink of an eye. At the faintest moment of despair, it can reduce you to a shell of your former self. Maybe… No, not maybe."
Andre stared into the fire.
"That's why I refused to help Laurentius. That's why nothing matters to me other than my weapons and my craft."
Andre's voice was so empty that Oswald fear he would go Hollow that instant, but much to his relief, the blacksmith remained sane.
"That's why I am a believer of fate, because it is always easier to blame on fate that which I can't understand or control. This has been a great relief to me. If someone around me perished or went Hollow, I could always say that there was nothing I could have done. If my help would have been useless against someone else's fate, why should I even worry or try? Why should I burden myself with the misery of others? I'm just an old blacksmith who has no intention of going Hollow. That is my fate, the rest is out of my control."
Andre laughed. There was nothing but scorn in his hoarse chuckle. "What a wondrous philosophy I have invented for myself, to excuse my cowardice and my selfish bullshit."
"You saved us, Andre. Don't you forget that." Siegmeyer stated, putting his hand above Andre's. "Without your help, we all would have died in Blighttown. Oscar, Solaire and I owe you our lives."
"Lords, look at me." Andre said, letting out a hearty cackle. Unlike Siegmeyer, he felt no need to hide the tear that escaped him and became lost in his white beard. "Being comforted by an onion! An onion that has proven to be twice as wise and brave than me. It seems that time is not always the best of mentors, or maybe I'm a rather mediocre pupil."
"Regardless," Oswald intervened dryly before the conversation digressed into another of Andre and Siegmeyer's good-natured arguments, "your fear of the Hollowing is rightly justified."
Oswald almost felt guilty when he saw how his interference instantly snuffed out whatever little joy had started to illuminate Andre and Siegmeyer's faces.
He didn't felt bad about it for long.
They were grown men, not children, and the subject they were discussing was not some trivial matter.
A man's responsibility to be strong is his alone. If the world's hardships prove to be more than he can endure, then he should perish and make way for those who have what it takes to survive.
Carim may not be a perfect place, but Oswald couldn't agree more with many of its philosophies and ways of life.
Their precepts were seldom kind, considerate or merciful, but so were the world and the people that inhabited it.
The faster one came to terms with this truth and started acting accordingly to it, not with resentment but with a proud and defiant acceptance, the better.
"There is this misconception that the Hollowing is a gradual process, like a lethal disease that slowly shows its symptoms until it ends with the victim's death. This perception is true to an extent, but it isn't absolute. Look at Oscar, for example. He is half-Hollow, and yet, he's managed to keep his sanity, most likely while suffering new deaths and new hardships along his way. His determination to move forward keeps his curse at bay and his mind sane. Now, take a look at this pyromancer. Laurentius was his name, right? I have no doubt he was a nice man, and I do not intend to judge his character now that he is dead, but his quick Hollowing happened because his heart was feeble. In the end, you could say that one's resistance to the Hollowing is only as strong as their willpower."
"So, as long as we remain strong and we wish to live, are we safe from going Hollow?" Siegmeyer inquired. "That's too convenient and idealistic to be true, Oswald."
"Indeed. Quite perceptive from you, my dear knight." Oswald conceded with a small bow of his head. "Having purpose and the will to live is not a cure, it is more like a drug that delays the symptoms. In the end, an Undead will always go Hollow, but only those strong enough will outlive the rest, while those who are weak are doomed to lose themselves in an instant. That's why there is no shame in using your craft as an anchor to sanity, Andre. If making weapons gives your mind peace and keeps the Hollowing at bay, I see no reason why you should be ashamed of it. Everyone has their own coping methods."
"Yes." Andre said without looking directly at Oswald. "Perhaps."
Neither him nor Siegmeyer added something else to the conversation. Oswald was disappointed about how quickly the subject had been put to rest, but he didn't insist.
In any case, there were more pressing subjects that had to be addressed. Oswald turned his attention to the stairs.
Oscar and Solaire were still nowhere to be seen.
You'd better not be wasting my time on purpose and procrastinating the inevitable. Such behavior would be dispiriting and shameful for all of us.
"Should I tell them?"
Siegmeyer's question took Oswald off guard. He asked the knight to repeat himself.
"About Laurentius' true fate." Siegmeyer closed his eyes for a short moment before he continued, "should I let Oscar and Solaire know? It was never my intention to deceive them or hide what I had done, but I feared that such news would be too much for them, weakened as they are now, especially for Solaire."
It seems you are the receptor of quite the amount of sympathy and consideration, Warrior of Sunlight.
Oswald thought.
But I doubt much of it is justified or earned.
"That's a decision you have to make, Siegmeyer." Oswald replied. "It's up to Oscar and Solaire to be strong enough to deal with the truth."
Before Siegmeyer could process Oswald's advice or Andre could give his own opinion on the matter, a sound came from the lower floor.
It was the sound of steps slowly making their way upstairs.
"Are you ready?" Oscar asked Solaire after helping him get dressed with the new set of clean clothes Andre had left for him.
The Estus-infused water had returned to Solaire a moderate portion of his strength. It had also cleaned his body, but he didn't look like the man he had been before they had entered the Depths.
The scars the parasite had left on Solaire's face, while not disfiguring, were pronounced; and his skin, though free of evident signs of Hollowing, looked duller.
Oscar had scrubbed Solaire's face carefully, thinking that his pale semblance was perhaps because of a layer of filth that refused to be washed way.
He had also believed that it was merely a symptom of dizziness and exhaustion, and that it would fade away given time.
But now that Solaire stood beside him, Oscar began to fear it was a permanent change.
Oscar said nothing about it to Solaire. The least his friend needed was to be burdened by the state of his appearance.
Solaire took a moment to steel his resolve. Slowly, he rested his arm around Oscar's shoulders.
"Yes, I'm ready."
There was no fear in his voice nor any trace of shivering in his body, but the look in his eyes gave away the fear Solaire tried to keep hidden.
Oscar hesitated, wondering whether it was better to pretend he was oblivious to Solaire's nervousness, or to say something of comfort while he still had the chance.
His knightly side suggested him to opt for the former, but his human side convinced him to choose the latter.
"No matter what happens, I'll be by your side."
Solaire flinched.
He turned his head to Oscar.
In response, Oscar held Solaire's wrist tighter and readjusted his arm on his shoulders.
"I'm scared, Oscar." Solaire said without shame. "But it's not my well-being which scares me. That's why I need you to promise me that you won't get yourself involved if pardoner Oswald deems me worthy of a punishment."
"Solaire."
"Please."
Oscar considered Solaire's petition with the respect his friend deserved, but he couldn't give Solaire the answer he wanted.
"You know well I can't agree to that."
Solaire sighed.
"You are an awfully stubborn man." Solaire said fondly, pulling Oscar slightly closer to him. "A stubborn fool that I am fortunate to have by my side."
"You say that because you treasure me as a friend, or because you're literally using me as a crutch?"
"The answer is obvious, isn't it?" Solaire replied with a small smile. "After that bath, the least I want is to touch the floor. Andre may be a remarkable blacksmith, but he's definitely is not the tidiest."
"Maybe the concept of a broom is unknown to him, like that of a shirt."
Solaire snorted. That small sound brought more relief to Oscar than a dozen of Estus infused baths would have.
The possibility of taking a bath himself was a tiny hope that paled in comparison of the situation both he and Solaire were about to face.
"Dammit," Solaire covered his face, "how can I even think of laughing at this moment?
"Laughing is good." Oscar said. "Especially in times like this."
"But I don't have the right— "
Solaire left the thought unfinished. Oscar was relieved he did so.
"Let's go." Solaire said.
Oscar secured his hold on him and walked with him toward the stairs.
Together, they made their way to the upper floor.
Forgive yourself, Solaire.
Oscar thought of everything Solaire had confessed to him. He did not judge his friend, but he doubted Oswald would be as understanding.
Even then, it was difficult for Oscar to fathom Solaire hurting an innocent; the image of him stabbing a defenseless fire keeper in the shoulder during a fit of rage was something his mind refused to accept.
You didn't kill her, my friend. That fault is Lautrec's alone.
Oscar had wanted to tell Solaire this, but he knew Solaire wouldn't allow him to excuse his behavior or the pain he had caused.
Oscar knew better than to condescend his friend in this manner. It wasn't that Oscar wanted to pretend Solaire's actions hadn't happened, he only wished for Solaire to not burden himself with sins that weren't his, or to let his own sins crush him.
I did the same. I still do, but what has it gained me? It didn't undo my mistakes; it didn't make me a better person or brought the Chosen Undead back to life.
The memory of the Chosen Undead didn't come alone, and Oscar almost tripped on the last step as he remembered the dreadful serpent that now inhabited Firelink Shrine.
There is so much we need to do, so much we have to solve.
With the help of Siegmeyer, Oscar found his balance again.
Solaire asked Oscar if he was alright; he also told him he could stand on his own, but Oscar reassured him that he didn't have to worry about him.
Together, both Oscar and Solaire faced Oswald.
Our journey can't end here. I won't let that happen, Solaire.
"Well?" Oswald welcomed them with his arms wide open. The bonfire glowed behind him, accentuating his shadow and casting it over Oscar and Solaire. "Have you come to confess?"
Andre had stood up as well. He and Siegmeyer remained nearby, their indifferent expressions betrayed by the tense look in their eyes.
Oscar felt how his heart thumped inside chest, so loudly and quickly that he feared it could be heard by everyone in Lordran.
Solaire was calm. Scared as he was, he did not cower before Oswald.
"Yes." Solaire said to the pardoner.
"Then, by all means," Oswald took a step closer to Solaire, and Oscar had to repressed the impulse of aiming his sword at him, "speak."
The bonfire flickered, halting Solaire as he drew breath to talk. The dancing flames shattered the tension in the old church. Not even Oswald remained indifferent.
As the flames continued to dance, a body manifested at their center.
Once the ashes gave a complete form to the figure, it emerged from the fire in the form of a man and collapsed to the floor.
"Griggs?" Siegmeyer asked.
The fallen sorcerer breathed heavily. He raised his head, exposing a frown so pronounced that it looked as if the skin of his face would rip open.
"What is this?" Oswald inquired, furious at the unexpected interruption. "Couldn't you have chosen a more appropriate time to perish, sorcerer?"
"I'll kill him." Griggs hissed without paying attention to Oswald. He tried to stand up, but his body was still weakened from his recent rebirth. Siegmeyer and Andre knelt next to him and got him back on his feet.
Griggs did not thank them for their help. It was as if his mind wasn't there, as if it remained trapped in in the final moments of his recent death.
"I swear I'll kill that bastard."
Oscar's heart dropped to his feet.
It's him.
"Who are you blabbering about, Vinheimer? Listen, I do not care what or who got you killed, but I'm going to ask you to keep quiet. We are in the middle of a confession, as you can see, and I would not want you to—"
"The fire keeper is dead." Griggs announced coldly. "It was him, that godforsaken bastard with the golden armor. That despicable knight of Carim."
Oswald remained still, as if time had stopped for him.
A hell-frozen silence spread across the room.
"He killed her, just like he killed me." Griggs continued, staring down at Oswald. "It was him."
"Chosen Undead… link Gwyn's fire. What? No, no, I don't like to eat people. Kaathe! Leave those kings alone!"
Frampt became aware of his sleep-talking as the sound of furious voices and the hurried trotting of numerous feet waked him from his sleep.
"Hmm? No, I wasn't sleeping!" Frampt excused himself as he let out a yawn. "I just closed my eyes for a moment. In any case, now I stand ready to… Hello?"
Frampt blinked, confused as to why the crowd that had woken him up wasn't standing in front of him already.
"You are all very rude." Frampt said, offended and a little hurt by how his presence remained ignored.
He wondered if he would have to make a sound to earn their attention.
"Maybe a roar would do? I must say I'm not fond of the idea, as I've been told my roars sound like hellish screeches, but I don't think I have a choice."
Frampt pondered about it for a few second before deciding it wasn't a bad idea after all.
He cleared his throat, drew breath and exhaled his distored voice.