Worthy

When Lorian originally set out, he thought he at last had a sense of purpose, but realized he had no true goal to reach. While there were many creatures that had reputations for being formidable and would no doubt make a fine prize, none of them were at the level Lorian wanted to pursue.

He had been travelling through the outskirts of the land overseen by Lothric castle, which was primarily filled with farmland and peasants who couldn't even imagine a life like the one Lorian had been privileged enough to live. When they saw him, a young Prince adorned in brass armor he didn't quite seem to fill out, they hesitated to approach him. But they were kind enough after the fact. They allowed him shelter, sold him food, and ensured that at the very least he would not perish out here due to missing basic necessities.

The sun had started setting by the time Lorian approached the next village. At a distance it seemed no different from any of the other villages, but as he drew closer, Lorian could not shake the sense of dread he felt. The villagers were oblivious to everything, even as he approached. There were no lights on in any of the buildings, and several of them appeared to be clumsily boarded up - or had been previously, as it seemed several barricades had already been torn down.

Lorian drew his sword as he approached the nearest peasant, noting the pitchfork in his hand. As soon as he was behind the man, Lorian placed his free hand on his shoulder and the man contorted and howled, incoherent as he - no, it - twisted itself around, faster than Lorian thought possible, and shoved its pitchfork towards him. Lorian countered with his blade as quickly as he could given the suddenness of the attack but felt the bite of metal slip between the plates of armor.

He quickly moved backward, this time readying his blade and easily blocking the pitchfork during its next swing, following with a slash at the creature's throat. Lorian watched as its head fell to the ground, rolling a few feet before stopping and the body falling to the ground in front of him. The creature was emaciated and clearly once was human but had long since hollowed. So this was the undead curse. The fate of those doomed to lose their very sense of self, nothing better than mindless beasts in the end.

From around him, Lorian could see and hear several more approaching him. It seemed he would finally get to test his skill in combat after all.

As the first group drew nearer, Lorian took note of the weapons they had. For the most part they seemed to only carry the tools they'd had prior to becoming hollow - pitchforks, scythes, saws, and the occasional dagger. So long as he was careful, their weapons would pose little threat if he could prevent them from swarming.

Lorian moved forward, baiting the two closest to him to rush towards him. The one on the left would reach him first. Lorian steadied his sword, balancing the grip in his left hand as he thrust it forward, barely waiting for it to pierce the skull before he kicked his right foot out, staggering the other hollow and causing it to stumble backwards. He pulled his sword free and cut down the second one as quickly as the first.

The blood and adrenaline that was coursing through him practically sang in Lorian's ears.

He knew these enemies were hardly worthy opponents, but the experience of fighting against a real enemy - as opposed to sparring tutors trying to train him without true killing intent in their blows - was incomparable.

This is what he was meant to do.

With a grin creeping onto his face, Lorian made quick work of the rest of the hollows, cutting down the last one as the sun faded over the horizon. It would be foolish for him to try to move to the next town at night, so Lorian looked through the buildings and found one that looked the most habitable before he made his way inside. He searched through every room, checking to make sure no hollows were holed up inside before barricading the door.

It was a modest building, with a fireplace in the small kitchen area and a bed that hadn't seen use in quite some time nestled in the corner beneath a window. In a stroke of luck there was still firewood stacked neatly beside the fireplace, which Lorian quickly placed inside and set fire to with the help of a loose stone and his sword.

Lorian was suddenly very grateful he had paid attention to his tutors when they took him along on the long hunts that required them to camp out in the forests.

Now that he was convinced of his moderate safety for the night at least, Lorian began the process of unbuckling and removing his armor, setting it beside the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, realizing consciously for once just how long it had gotten. It fell down just above his shoulders, and would undoubtedly only grow longer while he was away from the castle.

Though Lorian was just on the cusp of adulthood, he was larger than the average peasant by a significant amount. Many attributed it to his heritage, the genes of his mother and father were declared royal afterall. His mother's presence in particular had been said to be larger than life, in more ways than one. With that in mind, Lorian understood that he was a poor fit for such a bed, but laid down upon it anyway, both legs hanging over the edge.

He closed his eyes, slinging a loose arm over them to block out the residual light of the fire he had stoked to life. As he willed himself to sleep, he let his mind wander. Lorian wondered how his brother was faring back at the castle without him; wondered what his tutors were teaching him; wondered if Lothric was thinking of him and what Lorian had set out to do.

It was only in the most recent years, after Oceiros began leaving with the Sages on more frequent travels, that Lorian and Lothric had begun to grow close. As children, Lorian would sneak into Lothric's room to check on his brother and they would talk for hours until Emma returned and sent him away, but even those moments were far and few in between.

Lorian was grateful for his brother, and he knew Lothric felt the same. Without each other, they had each been doomed to a life of solitude within the castle's walls, each being sheltered and secluded for separate reasons. It was especially trying to be each other's only peers, yet unable to see one another and interact. They were each surrounded constantly with tutors and servants; any chance at a true childhood had long since been lost.

Lothric was the only one who looked at him without pity. Not like the others who viewed him as though he was branded with his father's shame. He knew Lothric envied him, despite being the heir; he told Lorian as much often. What I would not give to be free of this curse, to be free like you; I would rather endure Father's shame a hundredfold, he would say. On some days, Lorian wished he had been worthy enough for the flame - sometimes for the sake of his own glory, sometimes for his brother's peace of mind. On other days, he wished the flame had never existed at all.

These thoughts carried him into a light slumber as he lay in the too-small bed, far away from home. He dreamed of the castle, of the training yard where he trained and fought against his father's trusted advisors. But in the dream he had no sword while the others did., clamoring around him with deadly intent in every strike they sent his way, and it was all Lorian could do to dodge.

From beyond them, in the distance, he could see Lothric in the garden, surrounded by his tutors. Lorian spared glances between the strikes aimed at his person, watching as one of them held out a flame, a tiny ember, not much more than a spark in the wind. He watched as Lothric grasped it and the ember burst into a raging fire, consuming him whole. Shock racked through Lorian as he screamed, and he grew careless, blind to the blade that was rushing towards his chest until it was about to pierce and-

Lorian woke up.

His hand was extended out in front of his chest, gripping a blade that had been about to sink into his heart. Distantly he realized his hand was bleeding, and watched for a heartbeat, mesmerized by his blood dripping down onto his chest. He pulled the blade forward and to the side, dragging his assailant towards him, wrapping his free arm around the intruder and flipping them off the bed onto the ground. The stranger dropped the blade, which Lorian took for himself and pressed to their throat.

"Who are you?" Lorian growled, pressing the blade into their flesh hard enough to draw blood.

"Ah, forgive me," the intruder - a man - pleaded, trying desperately to maneuver his head away from the blade, "I meant you no harm. I saw the hollow outside and assumed that you must be one as well, or at the very least just as mad for holing up here surrounded by corpses."

Warily, Lorian removed the blade, stood up, and repeated his question, "Who are you?"

The man stood as well, hands raised in front of himself. He was fully armored including a full face helmet, so Lorian couldn't read the man's expression. "I beg your most humble apology, my name is Ser Alva. I was simply looking for a place to spend the night when I stumbled upon you."

"Are you alone?"

"Regrettably, or perhaps fortunately. Yes. For the time being at least." Alva sighed in relief as he watched Lorian lower his sword, and Alva lowered his hands in turn. "I bear no ill will or ill intent, I am simply searching for a cure for someone very dear to me."

Lorian nodded understandingly. If there was a chance there was a cure for what ailed his brother, he would have gone searching for it long ago. Though he had no basis for trusting this man who had just tried to kill him in his sleep, his instincts led him to believe he should. So far on his journey it was rare that Lorian encountered anyone with ambitions beyond surviving the day. "It seems we are travelling similar paths. You may stay for the night; I will be leaving in the morning myself."

"You are too kind. Please allow me to heal your hand to repay you for the misunderstanding." Alva held one hand outstretched, the other pulled out a small cloth item from a pouch on his waist. Lorian extended his bleeding hand, curious.

Similar to what Lothric had done not long ago, Alva began to chant something under his breath and a light soon wrapped its way around Lorian's hand, mending his flesh back together and closing the wound. Unlike Lothric's miracle, the one cast by Alva did not have warmth and did not linger; instead the miracle quickly began disappearing before it fully finished healing him.

Alva shrugged sheepishly as he put the cloth talisman away. "Unfortunately I'm not very familiar with miracles. I usually stick to the more understandable world of metal and steel." He gestured over his shoulder to the corner across from the bed. "D'you mind if I rest over there for the night?"

Lorian shook his head, sitting back down on the bed as he watched the man walk over to the corner and sit down. He didn't remove his armor and he left his sword beside Lorian, clearly trusting Lorian despite having almost stabbed him mere minutes ago. Lorian was still exhausted, having been woken from his sleep too suddenly. He settled back down in the bed and stared out the window above him for awhile.

"You said we walk similar paths, friend." Alva called out softly from across the small room. "What exactly are you searching for?"

"Worthiness."

He heard Alva hum thoughtfully. "How will you know when you've found it?"

"He will tell me. Perhaps not in words, but I will know all the same."

"He?"

"Yes."

"Not much for talking are you?" Alva asked.

"Not with someone who tried to kill me recently enough for the blood to be fresh." Lorian answered.

Alva laughed, "Fair enough."

Silence fell between them and Lorian listened until Alva's breathing even out before he shifted his attention from the window to the fireplace. The fire flickered softly, a shadow of the crackling fire it had been when he first settled into this building for the night. The image from his dream crawled back into his mind, beckoned by the fading flame. He could still see it if he looked closely enough. Lothric, body enshrined in flames, mouth open in an eternal scream as he burned and his body turned to cinder.

"My lord," Alva called out, clearly not asleep like Lorian had once thought, "Forgive me if I'm wrong but you're one of the sons of King Oceiros aren't you?"

Lorian did not look away from the fire. "I am."

"There's a rumor going around that there are entire colonies of wyverns out there. Not many, but enough. They're supposed to be out beyond Irithyll at a place where dragons are still worshipped. I had planned to go there once, from the rumors that the curse could be cured with dragon's blood." Alva's tone grew sour. "But I believe that's just desperation to pin a cure on the impossible, knowing it will never be achieved. Worthiness, though. That may be able to be found in a dragon-kin. After all, the Kingdom of Lothric was known and respected in the past for being Dragon hunters, was it not? What better way to prove your worth?"

Lorian couldn't stop his laughter at the thought that he would go through all this to please a father who had seen him as worthless from the moment he was born. A father who had resigned from his family and locked himself in with his books. At the same time, he considered his father's reaction upon learning that his worthless son had slain a dragon-kin.

And, more importantly, he imagined Lothric and had no doubt that his brother would see the irony and the worth in bringing back such a prize.

"Thank you. For the advice." Lorian said, honestly. As Lorian fell into an uneasy sleep, he considered his future, knowing that when he awoke he would be setting off to slay one of his Father's precious dragons.