The gallant knight had trekked for many months through many mountains and many forests to reach the asylum. Few undead, he'd thought, had made it as far on this journey as he had. He knelt, resting his tired legs for a brief moment and taking in the dilapidated building before him.
The Undead Asylum, the ultimate fate of those poor souls who were caught bearing the Darksign, stood before him. When the mark had appeared over his heart six months ago, he'd dreaded the thought of coming here. The children told each other stories about it to scare each other: demons roaming the halls and hollows, those undead who'd lost their minds, waiting around every corner to feast on the souls of the living. He'd remembered the sobs of a mother begging for mercy as the soldiers tore her away from her children to take her here. He wondered if she still thought of them or if she'd lost her mind by now.
Knight Oscar of Astora shook his head, clearing his mind of its useless thoughts. He hadn't hidden his mark for months and trekked halfway across the world to submit to fear now. He still remembered his last conversation before departing home.
It was in the dark of night when Oscar took his leave. He'd made sure his children were asleep and that his equipment was prepared before taking his first step out of his home. For a moment, he thought that step would've been the most difficult one on his journey. But a tiny noise in the grass behind him changed that very quickly.
"Father? Where are you going?" his little girl had asked.
He knelt down to face her, lifting the visor he'd so scarcely removed nowadays. Though his face had acquired a sickly pale complexion, his eyes still shone their brilliant green. He gave a reassuring smile.
"Away to a faraway place, my dear."
"Are you going to be a hero?"
Tears had formed at the corners of her eyes and he caught one as it ran down her cheek.
"Of course. Why the tears?"
"I don't want you to go, father!" she cried, the streams now pouring down her face. "I don't want you to be a hero! I just want you here!"
Oscar sighed.
"I don't want to leave either darling, but the world needs me. I have been chosen, and there is no great honor for me to embark on this journey."
"Can't the world wait?"
He shook his head.
"I'm afraid not."
Resignation appeared on her face as she wrapped him in a tight embrace.
"I'll miss you, father."
"I'll miss you too. And I hope one day you'll understand."
He broke their embrace and did not look back as he took step after painful step away from the life he'd known.
The crumbling roof of the Asylum offered Oscar his only glimpse into the conditions within. The children's tales seemed far fetched from what he'd seen: quiet hallways filled with cells of the undead who looked more corpselike than human. Some, having broken free of their cells but unable to leave, roamed the hallways, banging their heads against the walls or knelt in prayer. None of these poor fellows would likely be of much help to him except one.
Through a hole in the roof, Oscar spotted you, sitting in the corner of your cell, neither howling in madness nor crying in despair. Judging by the discolored skin and bulging ribs, you'd clearly been there for months if not years. But you'd lasted this long without succumbing, and in life, Oscar had been a hero.
It took Oscar several hours to find an escapee's corpse and several more to carry it up to the roof but he did so without hesitation. As he threw the corpse into your cell, he'd wondered what you would do with your newfound freedom. Would you aid him on his quest or would you simply flee to live out your days elsewhere?
A large thud accompanied by the shaking of the roof distracted him from his thoughts and he turned around to see the massive winged monstrosity that caused it. He unsheathed his sword and stood ready, as he'd done hundreds of times before, and did battle with all his might.
It was not enough.
The hole in the ceiling through which he had fallen lit Oscar in what would be his final moments. There he laid atop a pile of rubble in a dark room with no one in sight. He contemplated his flask momentarily before refusing the sip.
He had not earned the right to continue. His first battle in his journey was an utter failure and so was he, he'd thought. The light in his eyes dimmed as he rested his head on the rubble. He closed his eyes and slipped into what he thought would be his final rest.
When he came to, he saw the face of the undead he'd helped minutes… or was it hours ago? You noted the dulled eyes behind the visor as Oscar lifted his gaze to meet yours. For a moment he stared, having forgotten himself, before finding his words.
"Oh. You. You're no hollow, eh?"
Your silence gave him pause until you shook your head.
"Thank goodness. I'm done for, I'm afraid. I'll die soon, then lose my sanity"
His voice lowered in resignation as he spoke those words.
"I wish to ask something of you. You and I, we're both undead. Hear me out, will you?"
He awaited your response, which came in the form of nothing more than a nod.
"Regrettably, I have failed in my mission."
Oscar dreamt of brighter days in his youth when his father told him the old legend. It had been passed down to him by his grandfather and by the latter's father before then. Though none knew of its origin, the old tale had always given him hope for a glimmering future, one without the curse. Until a few moments ago, he was certain that it was his destiny to fulfill the prophecy in their tale.
"But perhaps you can keep the torch lit. There is an old saying in my family: 'Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of ancient lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the undead thou shalt know.' Well, now you know and I can die with hope in my heart."
With that, Oscar slumped backwards, content to take his last breath. You waited a moment before turning back to the point from which you came. Suddenly, he jolted upward and grabbed your arm.
"Oh, one more thing. Here, take this."
He placed the flask of golden liquid into your hand and wrapped your fingers around it. His armored hands remained tightly wrapped around yours as if the fate of the world depended on it.
"An Estus Flask. An undead favorite. Oh, and this."
He released your hand and fished a key from his pouch, handing it to you.
"Now I must bid farewell. I would hate to harm you after death. So go now. And thank you."
Oscar watched as you clambered out of sight before grasping his sword. He smiled for the last time, knowing that he'd done all he could, and prayed that you would make it all worth it in the end. And he brought the edge of his sword against his throat and pulled.
Why did he trust you, a stranger he'd never met, who'd not spoken so much as a word to him? I wonder, was it because he believed you were truly the one who would bring about his vision? Or was it out of necessity, a hope that his death would mean something in this uncaring world?
For that matter, why did you oblige his request? Had you heard the tale yourself and sought to save the world as well? Did you do it to honor the last wish of the one who'd saved you? Or was it for the sole purpose of not losing your mind lest you meet the same fate as he?
Regardless, the embers of his soul marched forward with you and the path he'd walked was now yours.