MASK OF THE CHILD

A Dark Souls fanfiction by MungoJerry

- Chapter 2 -

Grasping

"I'm going to save him."

Gough stopped mid stroke in his carving and turned to regard the small grey form leaning over the battlements. He could just make her out, through the rough holes she'd picked through the resin coating the front of his helmet. It was funny, after getting used to being blind for so long, this half sight seemed almost a nuisance. When he carved, he chose to close his eyes and focus on the feel of rough archwood in his oversized fingers. He would not share this with the child, however.

And it was, he admitted, a pleasure to see the sky once again, what little he could see. She had wanted to work on them more, but he'd bid her focus her energies on the problems of Oolacile. (And allow him to moulder.)

"When I was a little girl," she spoke again, following his silence, "I adored the stories of the Four Knights. Ornstein, the cunning dragonslayer with his lightning spear. Gough," and here she turned to offer him a smile, "the marksman and most noble of the giants. And of course, Ciaran!" here she leaned backwards, hands clinging to the battlements to hold her upright, "The skilled and graceful assassin, dancing through the shadows to deliver the Lord's justice, and a woman warrior besides! In my mind, she was just even with..." she straightened, then leaned over the wall again, slumping. "To think I would get to meet you. You're all... Just as amazing as the stories say." Those she had met, at least.

Gough remained silent, leafing through his thoughts. As a leader, he knew what to say and when. He knew the pain of words, the depths the scalpel of truth laid bare. And yet pain forged the soul, seeding wisdom. He never denied his men this, and he would not deny the young warrior before him.

With a heavy sigh, Gough said, "Child, you are cruel to prolong this game of suffering, both to the Knight Artorias-" she flinched, hunching in on herself, the witch's hood falling over her brow, "- and to yourself." He put his hands on his knees. "End this, and restore his honor." What stalked below was an empty husk. And nothing was going to change that.

Even without the resin coating his helm, Gough wondered if he would've stood a chance, had he the opportunity to do the deed himself. Artorias had, on occasion, prodded Gough to refine his close quarters skills. He allowed the barest shake of his head, in amusement, at the thought. He treasured it- it had been a long time since much had amused him. His now silent visitor managed to tease these things out.

Poor child.

He wondered what good his words would do, if any, in the face of her mad resolve.

The sky in the west glowed a soft orange, and he heard the call of a passing bird, doubtless fleeing Oolacile for gentler lands. He saw the human draw down her hood, pull out the mask- the one she said was enchanted- and tie it on. Then she turned and sat down, leaning against his knee. It reminded him of when his band of hunters had passed through a human hamlet after slaying a pair of dragons in the area. The locals had insisted on hosting them for the night, feeding them and showering them with flowers and meagre gifts. The children had stuck with him the most, though, their watery eyes peering up to meet his helm in wonder, their amazement at the size of his bow and the strength and skill with which he wielded it. They pooled at his feet like wolf pups, and his men did not dare scoff when he scooped them up and let them swing from his arms and climb on his shoulders.

He wondered, sometimes, what became of that hamlet.

Much like he wondered what would become of the young, potentially hollowing woman resting at his feet. She was absentmindedly worrying her left gauntlet, picking at the armor as if it itched.

He reached out and grabbed another rough lump of archwood from the pile, running his fingertips over the surface, feeling out the knots and burrs. He could feel a future shape beneath the dense, uneven shell, a faint echo of ancient powers. The abstraction of a face, a feeling. Regret.

I'm sorry.

After an eternity, Ciaran felt the world shudder. It reminded her of her earliest days as a Lord's Blade, when one of her comrades roughly shook her awake. Her sister in arms had hummed with excitement, because she thought Ciaran should be awake to see the procession of the Lord's Three Knights. Blinding light lanced into her world and the pressure binding her in place released. She felt ground beneath her feet, but instantly fell to her hands and knees from weakness.

The air cleared her head, and her shoulders tensed when she heard a rumbling groan that built into a hair raising cry. Lifting her head, she saw two things: Artorias prone on the ground directly in front of her, and beyond him, beyond the arched gateway leading to the Township, the hulking form of the beast, thrashing and howling as if wholly unhinged. Her breath stilled and she grasped the ground when it stopped to turn toward her, locking hollow eyes.

And then it was gone, collapsing and fleeing into the chasm, leaving shattered stone and crushed bloatheads in its wake.

Ciaran was kneeling on the ground beside Artorias when the small contingent of silver knights finally caught up to her.

It was the scouting party she'd originally led from their small encampment on Oolacile's border. She originally planned on going alone- she was far faster and quieter alone- but this small group had insisted on accompanying her. As they were able. She accepted on the condition that they be satisfied with following her trail. She had not slowed down for them.

Alone in the colliseum, she'd rocked back and forth, one arm wrapped around her waist, other clutching the mask on her face, as she processed it.

He was alive.

When she'd leaned towards his hood, close as she ever dared, she'd felt faint breath warm the side of her face. When she rested her trembling hand on his chest, it had moved- ever so slightly- up and down. Up. Down.

Oh, gods.

She didn't understand, after everything that had happened, why they were still alive- what she had witnessed. Ciaran had heard rumor of the terrors the abyss could spawn, of the murderous dark wraiths and their ability to feast on the souls of the living, but this?

He was still alive, she was still alive, but what had it taken from them?

Ciaran forced herself to stand, straighten, and face the approaching knights. She marched towards them and pointed a finger at the spearman, Yvir, who she knew to be swiftest.

"You!" she said, strident, "Drop your spear and shield. Run back to the bonfire and meet the rest of the contingent. Stop them there and set up a tent. Knight Artorias is gravely injured. Send a stretcher back to us and have the healers prepare to receive him!"

And if what Elizabeth had told her was true…

"And send more knights and healers to scout this area for Hawkeye Gough." Elizabeth had made it sound like he was trapped here someplace, possibly injured. She felt a pang of guilt for having nearly forgotten. What if he, too, had been attacked?

Without hesitation, the knight did as she ordered, disappearing into the trees.

"Sir Artorias-!" one of the knights gasped. It was a human knight, a former warrior- refugee- of New Londo. He'd begged to join the force formed to investigate Oolacile and see what had become of Artorias and Gough. She had reluctantly allowed it. What was his name… Ludo? It didn't matter.

Struggling for control, she called the Observer to task as she guided the shocked knights through the process of rolling Artorias over, cutting off what remained of his cloak, and then rolling him back onto it, using the dropped spear to make one side of a makeshift stretcher. They would have to mostly drag him back to camp. There was no way they could risk treating him here, but she allowed the time for one of the knights to administer a minor healing miracle, for what little good it did. Hoisting the ungainly body on the stretcher, they began the careful march back.

As they descended the threshold of the colosseum, Ciaran stopped them up short, and the human dropped Artorias's arm. She almost turned to berate him, but instead focused on the masked man in black blocking their path. He was a little beyond the bottom of the stair, gloved hands clenching and unclenching. It was obvious he didn't intend to move. Just a glance at the grinning mask made her want to strike the man in the face and break it to pieces. She signaled for the crew to gently seat Artorias on the stairs before striding down the rest of the way.

"Move aside, human. Any business you have will have to wait. Otherwise…" here she drew her gold tracer and leveled it at the interloper, "I will toss your remains into the chasm myself."

She heard the scouts behind her stirring, the ringing of a sword being drawn.

The man's fists stayed clenched as his gaze appeared to move to the ground, before snapping back up to meet her. "Is he dead?" His voice was low, with a gravelly quality like a leaf smoker.

She tucked her chin slightly and answered, "No. And I would like to keep it that way," she took a step forward, "this is your final warning."

"Tell me what happened!"

Ciaran had no care for the note of desperation in his voice as she prepared to cut him down, but the barest groan from behind made her stop and turn. Was Artorias rousing?

A sound caught her senses, and the faces of her knights snapped beyond her shoulder in alarm. When she whipped back around, lowering herself, the man was aiming a crossbow at the center of her mask.

The nerve! "There is no time for this!" she hissed, cursing herself for not killing the man on sight, for letting herself be so easily distracted.

"Tell me what happened, my lady, and I'll let you pass."

My lady, was it? She was quite done.

"Don't ignore me, woman-"

In an instant she was upon him, dodging his clumsy crossbow bolt with ease. Some strange mercy made her flip the tracer in her fist at the last second, burying the pommel in the pit of his stomach. She pulled her fist back and grasped his right shoulder, as if to embrace him, then grabbed his opposite arm and pushed forward on the shoulder, moving her right leg around to kick out his own and plant him on his back in the mud, her blue skirts and sleeves whirling.

He lay gasping on the ground, fighting for the air that was knocked out of his lungs. Ciaran bent down and picked up the crossbow, shouldering it.

"Your answers will have to wait. Be grateful for my patience."

Turning, she jogged back to the shocked group standing guard over Artorias's prone form. On her signal, they heaved him up once again and started for the camp. The human watched the dark robed man nervously as they passed, saw him struggle to his feet while clutching his stomach, watching them go.

He began to follow them.

"My lady…" he started, but Ciaran quickly interrupted him.

"I know. Let him come. He may be of use." He knew something about what she'd experienced, she was sure of it. It seemed her senses had been aware of the possibility before her conscious mind.

So she let the wretched creature trail after them, assuring herself that if she found that Artorias had somehow suffered from the delay, the man in black would see the end of her mercy.

He wasn't, and then he was.

He remembers madness and pain so complete it became numbing, crushing him to a fine point deep within himself. The center of a storm with no eye, buffeted by winds of shame and guilt. Part of him tried to reach out into the abyss, to rip apart its source, but his struggle only fed it, and together they tried to rip apart himself and whatever stood in their way.

Bloatheads, stone, and the little grey thing. Each time the grey thing approached he would crush it, but the task became more difficult with each clash, until the ashen form seemed to dance around every strike, like a mote of dust escaping his grasp. The abyss drew pictures out of its fervid paths, and he saw the faces of animals and people, weaving through the storm. Cats and wolves. Knights and gods.

He had failed them all.

And then something had happened, something...

The abyss had seized- and then- something began pulling it away. But it hadn't wanted to leave, it had sunk its roots and fibers and talons deep and clung tenaciously, because they belonged together now, and hadn't he promised himself, for the sake of the people, to the dark? Don't let me go dontletmegoDONTLETMEGO-

-then its hold snapped, and-

He is. Here. He can't move, he can barely see, and he's surrounded by a muffled cacophony. He's on his back, and someone is putting something in his mouth, trying to get him to drink. A canteen, water. He coughs, swallows a little bit. His mouth is dry and his throat aches, the latter making swallowing painful. The Abyss, it's gone. Isn't it gone? But he almost can't handle the silence, and the emptiness feels hostile, the vacuum left behind.

It is gone...

He feels the canteen again, and almost chokes on bits of something that go down with the water. Immediately, he feels a measure of strength return. The pain wracking his body ebbs, and the echo of the vacuum begins to recede. His newfound energy allows him to summon the will to push back on it, focus more on his surroundings. The effort is draining, but he fights the urge to let go, slip away into empty blackness. He'd spent long enough there as it was.

He fights his eyelids, forcing them into shakey slits, and sees a shadow hovering above. It's a person, he knows this person, with her delicate mask adorned with ivory locks. Ciaran. Of course. She's always there for him, isn't she? A hand in the dark, covering his back. There to pull him out of the fire. A voice of reason.

She's shaking, he notices, and a woman is talking, but it's not her. He can almost place the voice, tremulous and aged.

"-y the -ods-"

"Thank you- izabet-"

"-time- take more-"

"Tell me- is it- who-"

Ciaran is talking to the woman, but she sounds odd. And she's still-shuddering? A bit?

Is Ciaran cold? Sick? That shouldn't be possible, with the healers, with the light of their Lord. He thinks maybe he should offer his cloak, but he can't feel his left arm. Did something happen to it? What about Sif? Sif is large, with ample fur. If Sif sits close to Ciaran, then she'd feel better. Where is Sif? He tries to turn his head, but something is keeping his head in place. Hands. Are they hers? They're not armored, so they can't be hers. Ciaran is always armored.

The thought makes him a little melancholy, but then he remembers that he wears his armor most of the time as well, along with the rest of the Four, so he can't really fault any of them for it.

But isn't hers different? He can't think of why, can't connect the dots, and it bothers him. Ornstein was always telling him to use his head more. Ciaran, too.

His head is resting on something that shakes each time Ciaran shakes. Why won't she stop shaking?

He tries again to lift his arm- his off arm- towards her, but it has worked for too long without rest, and as soon as he lifts it a little it falls back down heavily.

He feels one of the hands leave his head and touch his shoulder, and the mask comes closer. It no longer shakes, and he can hear breath draw behind it.

"Rest now," she says, voice full. The silky hair tickles his nose.

Part of him wants to argue; he should be awake. He should be doing- something. Something. What was it?

But he trusts her, because Ciaran is his... friend, and his body agrees with her suggestion. Rest now, come back stronger.

So he slips back into darkness, despite his misgivings as to what awaits him there.