Thanks to a new reviewer that's been keeping me on my toes with questions and critical responses (which I'm bloody enjoying), I've finally decided to stop stalling and correct the excruciating mistakes made in previous chapters. Currently, all chapters have been updated and possess a few new but small inclusions of explanation for various events in the story.
Again, does the pm system in this app work or am I just delusional because I haven't received a reply yet? Eh, either way please don't be afraid to message me via review if you have questions or via the abovementioned pm system.
Now, on with ze story!
-this is the least you've ever said in an author's note.
Yes, it is. That a problem for you?
Oh, not in the slightest. In fact, I'm rather pleased with you! Congratulations.
That… that's the first time you've ever complimented me (*begins to tear up)
-shut your trap and begin the story already.
Al*sniff *right.
"What's this?" asked the man in teal robes and white gold, as he stood staring at young boy strapped to a rotting chair. "You wet yourself in your sleep again, didn't you?"
"N-N-No S-Sir! It was t-the r-r-rain…"
"Now, now, dear boy… rain doesn't smell like this and you know it. Did you forget how much I hate lies?"
The boy in the chair sucked in a breath through cracked lips and shook his head as fast as he could. The second-long convulsions his body made chaffing his bare skin against the thick leather straps that bound him.
"N-No S-S-Sir… forg-give me."
"Ah, so you were lying after all?" the man smirked as the boy's eyes widened. He was turning out to be more submissive than he had hoped for… this was good. It wouldn't do to have a slave that disobeyed commands.
"A-Actually Sir…"
"Hm?" the man hummed and looked at the boy.
"Maybe… i-if these s-s-straps were loosed then I-I could have done it s-s-s-somewhere… a-ah, somewhere else…" the man merely raised an unamused eyebrow.
"You expected me to remove the restraints, you say?"
"Y-Y-Yes Sir… i-if it isn't t-t-too much to ask- GAH!" the boy gasped loudly as the man in the expensive robes shoved a ringed thumb into one of his open wounds. The boy grit his teeth as his body began to shake violently from both pain and fear, and he suddenly realized that he had talked back. He shouldn't have done that.
"Unbind you? Allow you to relieve yourself? Why in Lloyd's name would I release a monstrosity like you?!" he dug his entire thumb into the exposed wound and twisted. The boy uttered a loud scream that caused the dirty water submerging the floor to ripple. He shouldn't have spoken back, now he would just be punished further. "Do you think the butcher allows the pig his final moments to eat, to sleep, to crap his stomach out? Does the lumberjack feel sorry for the tree he cuts down mercilessly with his glistening axe?" with his other hand he grasped a handful of the boy's hair and roughly yanked his face up to look at him. Deep rings surrounded the boy's eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days and cheeks were sunken as if he had been starved of life itself.
"No, my dear boy. They are not merciful, they are baseless, dark and vile at their work… just like me. They ensure the king gets to feed his face every morning and the foreigner's have a roof over their heads. Their job is to make the land rich in life and happiness, lesser beings aren't given a choice in the matter."
The man retrieved his thumb from the boy's re-opened wound and observed the redness coating it before snorting and wiping it across the boy's cracked lips. In favour of him being scared shitless to even respond, a soft whimper left him and made the man smile. He had been a fool to think that this garbage was ready to be inducted. This boy was more than broken, yes, but his mind was another matter. As it was, the child could barely speak properly in his presence, or anyone else's for that matter. He had done his best to prime him, mould and marble him perfectly like he would a tender pound of meat, but to no avail. It seemed more reconditioning was required with this filth.
The man sighed and walked up to a small table blanketed by more dripping water and muck from the old room they stood in. The boy's bloodshot eye's, that had been trained on the rich man since his arrival, widened significantly as he watched him lift a small blade from the table, no smaller than a buttering knife. His body changed from shaking to a violent convulsion as he attempted to break free of his bindings with futile effort. He knew he would be punished if he spoke, he knew the consequences after experiencing it for who knew how long. So, why had he done it anyways? WHY had his mouth betrayed him like that, didn't his weakened mind know better than to stir a sleeping cobra?
"In this case…" he jolted as the man spoke, watching as his polished shoes took one, two, three steps to reach the chair he sat upon. Without meaning to, the boy gulped loudly, earning him a pleased look from the man before him. It would begin again, he just knew it. Why, oh why had he chosen to open his mouth at all today?
"You are nothing more than a piece of splintering wood and I, your carpenter. It is my job to turn you into what the people require, and in this town, the people require someone who cannot speak back."
He brought the blade close to the boy's tied-up wrists and smiled kindly at him. The boy wasn't fooled; however, such carelessness and it would mean more punishment in the end. The blade inched closer to his wrist before the man guided it downward to rest against the underside of his broken fingernail. With a rush of fear, anxiety, hysteria and hyperventilation, he accidently allowed his bladder to run. He felt the warm liquid release from his unmentionables and shame overtook him as he began to sob bitterly. The man above him simply chuckled in sick amusement as he started digging into the young boy's flesh.
"Yes, when this is all over, you will be an abomination worthy to serve the people. For now, it is time for your daily reward…"
The world blurred into a blot of dark ink, churning like a stormy sea and staining Argon's vision obsidian. His mind doubled over in the waves of his insanity as the figure in black continued to drag him to an unknown destination. He could still feel the shards of red crystal imbedded into his palm – how could he not when it bled profusely – but the pain was more a mild tingle than anything else. He felt his arm being tugged from the wrist to the left, the right, six steps downwards and ten more upwards.
He didn't know where he was going, he didn't need to know, the cells in his brain were only focussed on revenge, he trusted his feet to take him to whatever destination his prey lay in. That was the reason he had broken his own secret vow by allowing a crack to form in his dam of emotions.
What use were those false laughs? Those forced smile's, that agonizing way of speaking? What benefit did pretending to be happy ever do for him besides make him sick to his core? Was it because he honestly believed that all that time spent inside his cell in solitude had changed him? What, was becoming undead suddenly like turning over a new leaf, out with the old and in with the new? Pathetic.
He had lost his memories of being human, every undead did at one stage or another, but was that enough to reform the maniac still breathing? Of course not! An alleyway hag didn't change when wearing stolen clothing, now did she?
As the figure pulled him deeper and deeper into the void, Argon heard sounds, voices in the murky distance. Men conversing, possibly three or four of them, he didn't know for certain. What he did know was that he saw solid ground, the same black but clearly visible for some odd reason. He didn't question it as the figure in black let go of his wrist and allowed his boots to gently rest against the newly formed floor.
Almost immediately, the inky darkness around him thinned and his vision opened to witness a large hallway that almost completely resembled Anor Londo, were it not that everything was shrouded in charcoal. From the grand pillars to the glass ceiling, it was all shadowed, as if the area he was currently standing in were the alternate reality of the real world. Argon sniffed the air and rolled his unusually lighter shoulders. So, this was what it felt like to invade another's domain.
"Ah, it seems… we have a guest." A deep, throaty voice echoed towards him, causing his hands to clench into fists.
That voice…
Argon looked straight, towards the opposite end of the hall and saw a sight that made his corporeal form pulse with black strands of darkness. Lautrec stood with his arms crossed over his golden breastplate, his helm cocked to the side as he stared at his invader and chuckled. Covering his vanguard stood three more people coloured in hues of white, yellow and red, although he couldn't care less what they looked like or who they were. He just thought that they were in his way.
Rage began to bubble in his chest as he took large steps forward, building momentum with his lighter body as he drew his pronged Knight Spear from his inventory and growled at the traitor. He wouldn't need to rely on his sword just yet. Lautrec heard it and began to chuckle louder behind his helm, making his companions share twisted smiles of their own.
"I suppose your sense of justice turned you to seek me out after I put that cur out of her misery," the knight sighed and began walking forward, his companions following in a wide arc around him, weapons drawn. "a shame to put such beauty to waste over a few sprites, but then again, you wouldn't have been able to keep the mood going with how pitiful she looked if you did decide to take her." Argon snarled at his remark and quickened his pace, his grip in his spear so strong it would have broken the shaft were it not Lordrian steel.
Lautrec, the Embraced. He had to scoff at that moniker. Embraced by who – or rather what – when all the sniggering shmuck of snobbery could ever hope to expect was being shanked by a hollowed thief for his greed. Cresty said he was loved by the goddess Fina? This filth was probably her floormat then, or a towel for when her hands got dirty. Who could ever love a sadistic sinner like him, not matter how sugar-coated his words were?
As the masked undead neared the quartet, Argon noticed one of the outlined sinners raise up a staff. To the extreme right, the one outlined in red drew another staff and a blade whilst the one in the middle held up a wall shield. Great, two sorcerers, a tank and a huge prick. The odds – like all these pathetic god's – were never in his favour. Well, what did he care, nothing was going to stop him now that Lautrec was here anyways.
"Oh, how this turn of events fails to sadden me… just remember I did warn when you freed me from imprisonment, didn't I?" the knight drew twin shotels from his hip and raced forwards to meet him.
The masked undead roared behind his mask and spun when the knight was four feet away, whipping the pronged head around in a wide arc, its enchantment glowing faintly. Lautrec wasn't phased and lifted both shotels as the spear reached him. Argon grunted when his attack forced his weapon to rebound off the knight's pauldron and cause his arm to wobble.
He had put too much force into that swing in his rage. That was a rookie mistake.
The yellow knight shoved Argon's spear aside and dived for his knees, slashing deep lines just above his hips that quickly coloured crimson before rolling to his feet a metre behind him. When he saw the undead gasp and double over, he took the initiative and delivered a solid round-house kick to Argon's back. He sniggered throatily as the undeads mask kissed the ground below.
"Seems you've gotten slow while I was away." his companions shared a laugh as they all approached, still a good few feet away. One of the sorcerers, the one in plain robes lowered his staff and cancelled his magic from firing. Argon supposed it was due to Lautrec being in the way but scoffed at the idea. He probably thought Argon was weak, not worth expending a spell-cast. He was going to regret that decision, they all were.
Argon slowly rose to his feet, his blackened form cascading with inky waves of black as he did so. It was odd, that attack from the knight had hurt and bled just like any other attack would, so why had the pain disappeared almost immediately? Why wasn't his body heavier? He knew Lautrec was no fool, normally an attack like that would have made him bleed faster than Blighttown could poison you. He had cut him there on purpose, yet Argon could still move as if nothing were wrong? He didn't question it as he picked up his spear, turning to face the murdering lunatic with more rage building.
"I say, why are you here anyway? I thought I left that maimed woman's soul behind, as disappointing as it was?" Lautrec questioned him before chuckling darkly. His companions were almost upon them now. A few more seconds and Argon would be outnumbered again, not that it bothered him much.
He growled and stepped forward. Lautrec spun on his heel and outstretched his arms, aiming to shred his opponent to ribbons with those deceptively sharp blades of his. The undead raised the shaft of his spear and blocked both strikes before using the back end to knock the knight back as the glowing spearman entered the fray.
He rose his wall shield, deflecting Argon's jab and scored a nick against the undeads shoulder. Argon grunted and jumped back, flexing the muscles in his thighs before rushing forward and swiping at the shield with the haft. He earned another cut against his left knee as a reward for his efforts. Then it was the sorcerer's turn. A spark of blue caught the undeads eye before he saw a soul spear fly towards his mask. He dived backward into a quick roll as the soul energy zipped passed him but didn't account for the next one that curved around the spearman and knocked him flat onto his back, a few more feet away from the object of his rage.
He panted loudly as he saw his form flicker and make parts of his body transparent. His effigy had been sufficiently damaged by the few attacks he had allowed to enter his personal bubble. A foolish mistake due to a mind clouded by revenge. He stood up again as Lautrec rushed forward again. Argon when to do the same when logic struck him. They were toying with him. Taking turns to score damage, chip away his health and send his on his way. Lautrec was acting smug, more than usual as well. His companions knew this invasion would end with the knight as the winner and him the loser, it was why that sorcerer hadn't used his strongest spell in the beginning of the fight. The undeads eyes widened beneath his mask.
The knight knew he would come seeking revenge. Why else would that red-eye orb be lying with Anastasia's clothing? Surely the young woman wasn't an invader of worlds with those broken legs of hers? Of course not, it was the doing of this murderer. He knew how much Argon had cared for the Firekeeper behind bars, used her death to activate his rage and force him to invade. He had known that Argon was bound to make it to Anor Londo, and now he was using his rage to best him, tear him apart piece by piece.
How clever…
As the yellow knight leapt into the air with his arms drawn back to end the undead, the spear in his hands vanished and he jumped back, drawing his sword as Lautrec landed, shotels striking nothing. The knight raised his helm towards him and scoffed, lowering his arms as the spearman came back for round two.
He would need to keep a level head if he was going to win. Before crushing the red orb, he had come here solely for his hatred and revenge. Now, after clearing his head momentarily and focussing, a second reason entered his mind. He deflected a thrust aimed for his chest and shoved the spearman back to get a glance of Lautrec.
Anastasia.
Her soul hadn't been taken from her as he would have hoped, the fluffy ball of white was still in his storage pocket as proof. Lautrec had even said so himself, but that wasn't what worried him. It was true that by using the soul he could revive the Keeper without worry, however, a soul alone didn't make a person whole or even alive for that matter. A puppet needed more than organs and a soul to become a living entity, it needed the ability to think, experience and remember its past deeds to evolve.
It needed memories to grow.
It had been brief but had been enough for the Chosen Undead to understand why he needed to go after the ungrateful knight in the first place. While his rage and need for revenge had been some of the reasons, the main one was the fact that he couldn't hear of see Anastasia from inside her own soul. He knew there were probably thousands of others flitting around in that soft ball of tentacles but at least he had a proper face to search for within the object. Yet when he looked, he couldn't even hear her voice within it. He saw her life trapped within the soul, of course, but she hadn't uttered a word unlike the other voices around her or even make a move to try and call out for help. It wasn't because she was speechless or that she didn't feel like crying, no. It was simply because she was more like an empty shell within her very own soul. She was like a puppet cut off all strings, void of everything.
Argon watched the spearman ready his shield and he gave it an almighty boot, sending the man stumbling. From the shock on his face, it seemed he hadn't expected him to have that much raw strength in his lithe body, what a pity. The masked undead advanced on the man. A spear was raised in a last-ditch effort to impale him, but Argon slapped it away before driving his blade deep into the brown leather of his opponent. The spearman gasped loudly as the hilt of Argon's Silver Knight Sword touched his chest and his companions stood shocked, Lautrec excluded.
That was right, he had made that promise at Anastasia's grave so that he could retrieve her memories. He wouldn't leave her to be a sad husk like the many other hollows he had killed – not that she would have gone hollow in the first place with her being a Firekeeper and all. He calmed his mind and racing heart down as he felt the black veins on his face stretch down his shoulder. He wouldn't allow his rage to get the best of him, not when he was so close to that armoured bastard now.
The sorcerer in red raised his beak-shaped mask to him and Argon had to wonder if plague-masks were still in fashion as the foe fired another soul arrow at him. The undead smirked and jerked his blade. The dying spearman gave a shout as his body was forced to take a step to the side before a burst of azure flame blasted his spine, filling his mind white with pain before he burst into souls.
The crimson sorcerer audibly gasped in shock, taking a step back as the weight of his actions hit him. Argon took this moment to draw his own miniature staff and prepare a spell. Lautrec noticed and began to run forward, intent on stopping him from casting any lethal magic – he was the only person in the room that knew how devastating he could be when it came to magic anyways. Again, Argon smiled to himself as the incantation had been spoken. It was too late.
The yellow knight was about to hurl a throwing knife at him to stop whatever ranged attack he was going to use when he noticed the undeads sword change from a glittering silver to a hellfire of blue. He stopped running. Lautrec turned back to his companions and prepared to make a run for it before Argon closed in. It was smart but also badly planned, he didn't realize that he was already too close for comfort.
The Chosen Undead ran forward and shoulder-bashed his next foe – he knew he had been doing that a lot lately, but he agreed it was pretty fun – and slashed downwards as Lautrec tumbled. A loud hiss from the knight sounded as Argon's blade tore across the knight's back with a shlink. Lautrec fell to the floor with a great clattering, breaking the sorcerers from their shock. He managed to scramble to his feet and roll forward before the same glowing blade severed his head from his shoulders. As he did so Argon looked up and saw the regular sorcerer casting another soul arrow. The Chosen Undead made a break for it, running up the dark stairway on his left.
He heard the spell before he saw it and rolled forward on the stairs, sighing in relief when the ball of azure flame missed him. He climbed more steps as his foes regrouped and ran for him. With a few deep breaths and a quick lift of his mask to drink from his Estus flask, the undead climbed the stairs and turned to the corridor it led to only to see it blocked by white fog. He groaned and turned towards the stained glass windows a fair distance away.
Of course I can't run into other rooms during an invasion… damn you luck.
With a quick wave of his catalyst, six large balls of soul energy came to life around his body and he stopped by the bend of the oval-shaped second floor. This was far enough, he mentally agreed as he drew his Dragonslayer Bow and planted it into the shadowed ground before resting his blade on the ground. With a loud grunt he knocked a hexagonal arrow against the curved side and yanked back the drawstring. When his chosen target's head appeared in his sight, he let the arrow fly.
He smiled in satisfaction as a face squelched and a body burst into white but cursed when he saw the crimson sorcerer and yellow knight run at him. Lautrec was a clever strategist and excellent in both battle and manipulation, Argon could give him that. However, he was like a mindless hollow in comparison to Argon's skill and talent. The bow in the undeads hands dissipated and he picked up his blade before retreating. Lautrec and his beak-masked companion – who Argon decided to dub as 'Birdman' because why the hell not – followed him around the bend of the floor they were on when six balls of soul energy flashed into their faces.
Birdman ducked and rolled but was hit by three of the balls that blasted him off his feet and against a round pillar of shadow, whilst Lautrec simply shook off the pain and swiped at Argon the first chance he got. The undead raised an eyebrow at how the man could bleed from more than a few strong hits and still fight unhindered and kicked, watching as the yellow knight backstepped and lunged. His shotel landed a clean cut through Argon's shoulder and the undead returned the favour with a slash to the chest. Lautrec uttered a loud gasp and stumbled backwards as a torrent of blood poured from the magic-enchanted strike.
Argon grinned as he fell to one knee, gripping his wounded chest. The undead knew what a strike from an enchanted blade felt like, he had been on the receiving end from it on multiple occasions by the various other invaders that had tried to claim his soul or steal his humanity. The burn it left was like living acid, coursing up your body as if it wanted you to suffer intensively as the pain reached for your limbs, your organs, your head… it was so potent it even had the potential to sever your own soul in two.
"Not so cocky now, are you?"
Lautrec only growled in reply, dropping his weapons to stem the bleeding. Argon turned his head towards the remaining comrade that managed to recover from the blast he had dealt and readied his sword. Birdman groaned and looked up at Argon. if he were glaring at him he couldn't tell because the next thing he knew, he was being aimed at with a catalyst that looked more like a metal rod with the ends sharpened to a point. He rushed him immediately.
Birdman faltered, not used to close combat and tried to impale the undead, but Argon pivoted on his heel and severed the man's outstretched arm, his blade running though the appendage like a knife through butter. Birdman fell to his knees and roared in pain before his head was cleaved off, the beak-mask bouncing against the floor with wet thuds. Argon turned back to Lautrec as the enchantment on the blade wore off and he flicked it of blood as the yellow knight stood.
He briefly remembered his words to Priscilla about being a grim-reaper and chuckled. He would see her soon enough.
"While some… might call me a mur-Gwyn that hurts!" Lautrec began, grunting as more blood flowed freely from his chest. It seemed Argon had cut him deeper than he originally thought. "While I'm labelled as a murderer, and for good measure, I-ooh- have to say that you must be the most… ugh! Violent undead alive, and I mean that whole-heartedly."
He gripped one of his curved blades whilst his other hand reached behind him. Argon tightened the grip on his blade and took a step forward.
"Ah, easy now," he said and chuckled, quickly putting his hand in the air. "just reaching for something to cover this wound." He started to chuckle darkly again until Argon took another step forward.
"Okay, okay… I get the message." He grumbled, still gasping between words.
"Why did you kill her?" he had to know. Whether it was him or his rage speaking, whether the man would give the information freely or he had to sever his limbs first, he just… had to know.
Anastasia had been an innocent person, one of very, very few in Lordran. While her status as a Keeper made it impossible for her to ever leave, and people adventuring only saw her as a means to keep them alive, she was still a person. Not a thing. Not a tool. Not an object. To Argon, she had been a sanctuary, something to keep his thoughts calm whenever another death sent him back to the genesis that was Firelink. He had spent many hours just sitting and talking to her. It didn't bother him that she was unable to reply or that she seemed more wary than friendly whenever he dropped by at first. What had mattered to him was the fact that she agreed to listen to him.
He had even asked to be certain. He knew he could come across as loud, overly chatty, tactless or even unintentionally rude when speaking, it had happened many times when talking with Cresty, and he had learned his lesson not to joke with the undead merchant about whoever this 'Yulia' woman was. Even his recent travels with Priscilla had taught him that he hadn't learned much about decent conversation. He knew he was a mess on the inside, and after Oolacile, he agreed nothing would ever be the same again.
However, Anastasia had been different. Despite his grand flaws, she had been the first to warm up to him before even Laurentius came into his circle. She had been the one to silently motivate him, give him that genuine smile of hers that made his body flush with warmth. She had trusted him when he said he would do his best to help her even though he didn't have a plan in the slightest.
To see that she, a Keeper of pure innocence- no, a woman had suffered such a terrifying fate just because her blasphemous country deemed it so… it made the edges of his sanity warp, writhe like a serpent on fire. And this… this man had just simply killed her as if it were the most average thing in the world. What for? He didn't know, but he would find out before his time was up in this shadowy world. He would allow his shackled wrath to take over just this once, if only to sate his urgency for revenge.
"Who?" the knight asked and readjusted his grip on the curved sickle. "I kill a lot of people."
"Why did you kill her?" Argon asked for forcefully this time, punctuation his words with a loud stomp forward.
"Oh, you mean the wench." He chuckled when Argon growled. He was going to kill this man, the same way that he was going to receive an explanation. Enough was enough.
"Well, you see… it was necessary."
"HOW?!" he roared and began advancing forward.
"I was short of a few sprites and besides, it was more of a mercy to her than living."
The Chosen Undead stopped. He was right. How could he have been such a fool? Anastasia was a Firekeeper, after all. No matter how much he could have done to help, she would have still suffered. Look at Quelaan, her pain had been doubled due to the many that had perished in Blighttown and Izalith alone, never mind all the undead that had come and died millennia ago. He should have understood better, tried to sympathize with someone going through worse than his stupid mission of suicide. It was worse for her because she had never even chosen to leave her home. Maybe he should let her rest? She had been through so much, suffered a thousand-fold. What mercy was it to revive her when she would be healed physically but forced to suffer the same terrors over and over again?
Even so… that doesn't justify murdering her.
Not seeking retribution would have been an insult to her memory. Her memory… they were trapped, weren't they? No, was it taken by someone? Yes… yes, taken, stolen! But by who? Who had stolen them again?
Argon blinked and stared at a wounded Lautrec. His mind began to swim in the dark waters he knew he shouldn't go to, but for what little damn he gave right now, he allowed the iron bolt on that rusted door to remain unlocked. And then, as if a switch had been flicked, Argon looked back up at the yellow knight and grinned madly behind his mask. The imaginary door in his mind swung open with a terrifying creak.
"You knew I'd come running when I realized you killed Ana."
"Figured it out, did you?" the knight spat before plunging his hand behind him and haling out his Estus flask. The man already knew he was being probed for whatever knowledge he possessed, including his motives. Argon supposed he was just using every opportunity he had before their… third round? He couldn't remember but he did know the knight wouldn't be sane again after he was done with him.
"You purposefully left her soul behind but sucked out her memories so I'd have a reason to find you, in case my anger wasn't enough to spur me on. You even left a shard of your armour behind as path marker for me to blindly follow."
"It's better to plan for possibility than certainty." The knight lifted the flask to his helm and poured the liquid flame through the gaps in his visor. Almost instantly, Argon saw the wounds he had dealt close and heard him sigh in relief.
"So, why did you want me?"
"Ahh, much better…" Lautrec said, replacing his flask. "you cart around humanity like souls, a trove of riches for the taking."
Ah, so that was it. Greed. While he could understand that kind of thinking… he was still sickened to his core. Although… he should have expected it, he had a bad habit of crushing spare humanity whenever boredom arose.
"I'm going to take back Anastasia's memories. You won't stop me."
"Oh, I have no doubt about that, however, I'd like to play a little game."
"A game?"
"Yes… something to stir the pot."
"For lack of what little damn I give, tell me what you have in mind."
"How about a wager?" the knight asked, and Argon raised an amused eyebrow before nodding in agreement. It didn't matter what he tried to do to delay the inevitable, this was the end of the line.
"If you can manage to disarm me and gain the memories of that woman from this hand…" Lautrec stuck a hand into his pouch and withdrew a round ball, no bigger than a marble. The centre swirled with a murky white and red that chased each other around the small orb. Argon focussed on it and felt the warm, comforting set of emotions he felt when grasping Anastasia's soul. Good. It was the real thing.
"I will surrend-"
A throwing knife stopped Lautrec's explanation as it grazed his arm and drew blood, breaking his focus momentarily. Argon dashed forward at the yellow knight and brought his blade up to slash against Lautrec's middle. The knight stiffened at the suddenness of the assault and prepared to do the same. As Argon neared he saw the curved sickle approach his right hand, he smiled. Why did everyone expect him to only use his hands?
He stopped a metre short and twisted, lifted his left leg and swung it. Lautrec made a surprised sound in this throat as the boot to his closed hand broke his knuckles and made him drop his weapon. When Argon's foot touched the ground again, he swung his sword to spill Lautrec's guts, but the knight quickly jumped back. He raised his right hand holding the marble into the air as Argon tried to grab it before attempting to smash a broken fist into his masked face. The Chosen Undead dodged the strike and dragged his blade across the broken hand, making Lautrec yell in pain. The knight moved to run for the stairway, but Argon bashed his shoulder into him, spun and swung his blade upwards. The yellow knight of Carim roared as the Silver Knight's blade sheered through his unguarded wrist.
They watched the gloved appendage fall in slow motion before Argon returned the round-house kick he had received earlier and sent the knight tumbling onto the ground, clutching the bleeding stump that remained on his arm. Lautrec uttered a loud scream at the new pain that flared into his recently healed system. The hand fell to the floor with a wet smack and Argon walked up to it, momentarily forgetting about the source of his rage. Carefully, he opened each finger until the small orb was visible, gently cradled within the palm and picked it up with his thumb and index.
It felt as light as a marble as he stared at it, admiring the way the two opposing colours swirled back and forth between each other. It was surreal, entrancing… peaceful. Then he realized that these where the memories of an actual living being, and that wonder was purged, replaced by his unholy anger and resentment.
"What was it you were saying if I won?" he asked, pocketing the orb and walking slowly towards the weeping knight. His boots echoed around the room with each step he took, and for a moment he wondered if they had sounded like that this whole time. Had the thought of revenge clouded his awareness that much?
"Y-You…" Lautrec whimpered out weakly. Argon smiled again. It was finally nice to see this cocky fool act like the pathetic sinner he was. Wait, sinner? What was he talking about? He wasn't some kind of god to judge others, so what the hell was he calling the man a sinner for? He was probably the worst of the lot himself in that regard, right? Eh, that didn't matter; what did was that no matter what the knight had done, it was for survival… he hoped.
"Bastard."
"Now, now, don't insult yourself. I'm not a mirror to reflect assholes whenever I see them." His grin merely widened when he heard the yellow knight growl at him. This was just golden – pardon the pun – for his tired eyes to witness, he was going to experience dinner and a show as he claimed his long-awaited revenge. Oh, how he enjoyed poetic justice. Unless… what he was talking about wasn't poetic justice at all. Was it just plain old revenge served cold? Perhaps it had a dash of sweetness to it to amplify the flavour? He couldn't care less, however, it was finally time to let his wild thoughts rampage. With uncharacteristic glees, Argon imaged that iron door being opened wider and wider until the hinges threatened to snap.
This was going to be fun, he thought, as he removed his torn Izalith robe to reveal the pale, scarred flesh beneath.
"Un… wanted."
"Huh? What was that?"
"Unnecessary."
"Could you speak up please. I know I just chopped your hand off, but you could act like less of a child about it, 'ya know…"
"You… you aren't worthy of her love."
Argon frowned as he watched the knight stand up. He didn't make a move to drink from his Estus and it was only until the man bent over to retrieve his blade that Argon realized the flask was an emerald green. Empty of the flames from the bonfire. He had used them all to heal his previous injuries.
Blood poured unceremoniously from the red stump on Lautrec's arm as he breathed heavily, readying himself to do something rash. Argon stayed on guard and tightened his grip on his sword, this was far from over.
"You don't deserve to be loved by her." He rasped out in anger, lifting his helm and staring at Argon like a madman ready to pounce.
What the hell was the matter with this guy? He murdered an innocent Firekeeper so that he could draw him into some elaborate trap and steal all his humanity, and now that the odds weren't in his favour the man was acting like the maniacs in the Asylum? Perhaps the word 'Embraced' was the correct word to describe the yellow knight, Argon mused and tensed as the madman began to run at him.
If he were the goddess Fina, he would also feel sad for a pathetic psychopath that served him. What use was all that strategizing when the man was an obnoxious child mentally?
The Chosen Undead grunted as Lautrec collided with him. For a moment he even wondered whether killing this basket case was even worth it given his mind was a rotten vegetable. Although, whilst the knight was certainly mental, his skills and strength weren't something to laugh at. They both jumped back before clashing blades again, steel grinding against steel and sparks flew like miniature bolts of lightning as both undead fought for dominance.
Argon could still hear the man muttering unintelligibly to himself about 'her love' and 'not worthy' but chose to focus on the shotel inching closer and closer to the eyehole in his mask. The muttering grew louder, and Lautrec breathed rapidly as if he were excited to win this tug of war. Argon smiled behind his mask as the end of the sickle touched the white porcelain. Did this oaf honestly think it would be that easy?
Slowly, as if to keep the suspense, Argon began to push back. The blade that was a few inches from making his right-side blind moved away and approached Lautrec. The knight made a surprised sound and growled at him as he was overpowered. Argon could give the man props for trying at least, with one arm he was still a beast.
"You don't deserve it. You're not worthy, not pure. I'll kill you, I'll k- AGH!" Argon smashed his fist into Lautrec's helm and watched him stumble. He knew he must have broken a few bones but didn't voice his pain.
"Enough." The undead said as the knight got his bearings and began to growl at him again. Was this guy rabid or something? If so, he would need to keep him at a distance before this firecracker decided to take a bite out of him. Why was it always the crazy ones that kept screwing his miserable life up?
"Fina is mine." He rasped.
"Good, keep her." Argon replied and double-handed his blade. He wouldn't remain in this world long if this kept up and that agonising headache was beginning to return.
"Lets just hurry up and end this, Lautrec. I've got places to be, Lord's to kill and a cross breed to tease."
"Keh heh heh…"
"The hell's funny now?" He really wished he had stayed in the main hall.
"Even though you have an inkling of what's going on, they're still playing you for the fool you are."
Argon frowned. Was he referring to Frampt and Gwyndolin? Impossible, how could he even know their masterplan for an invader from another realm? "What are you talking about?"
Lautrec chuckled again. It was starting to piss him off. "Do you know what being the Chosen Undead means Argon?" he didn't like the way he said his name either. He agreed, the name Argon was an odd name, nobody named their kids that. Even so, not everybody had the right to haphazardly utter it on their wicked tongue's, especially not this fruitcake.
"It means I have to take Gwyn's seat, and somehow preserve the First Flame, however that works… why?" he decided to play along as a last gift to the murderer. He was going to die by his blade in a few moments. "Did someone tell you about it? I don't suppose the Flame requires firewood, does it? If so, do I need to fan it or something?"
"For all your intelligence, you're still a fool."
"Keep talking. I'll know how shallow to make your grave when this is over."
"Then I'll see you in hell when you link that Flame… or don't."
"What are yo-"
"But that doesn't matter now," Lautrec interrupted and prepared to charge. "You'll be snuffed out soon enough, unwanted trash."
Argon stiffened at his words as recognition grazed the edge of his memory. "What did you just say?" he asked softly as if his voice was unsure of itself. The knight chuckled darkly and for the first time, the undeads curiosity didn't feel like venturing into such unchartered waters.
And then Lautrec began to speak.
"You are vile, dirty, unwanted. Unclean, end him… end him now," the undeads head began to split from the intense pain pooling at the centre of his brain as the yellow knight approached, uttering those words that froze his limbs on the spot. He tried to react, to attack but his legs were locked in fear as an unholy rage from deep within began to stir. He knew that rage, that anger, that unhidden wrath than wanted to peel his skin off and devour everything. He had felt it before crushing that orb and experienced that dream that only cracked the flimsy wall his psyche had put up.
"Snuff out the unclean… snuff out the unwanted! End them, end them all!"
Argon shouted as the pain grew fiercer and the buzzing in his head got louder before Lautrec cackled and spoke again, his blade poised above his head as the Chosen Undead dropped to his knees.
"Now, be purged like the filth you are… you pathetic atrocity."
And then, as if all the emotions he had felt since arriving in Lordran came together into a single wave of despair, the dam in Argon's mind burst and everything went red again.
(Year 996, The Age of Fire.)
"How is the boy taking to your visits, my Lord?" asked a hunched servant as his master dropped into an ornate tub filled with steaming water and rose petals. The servant watched as the water rapidly rose at the new addition of weight before fountains worth overflowed onto the floor. His master simply sighed and leaned forward as the hunched servant began to lather his broad shoulders, bony fingers running over muscles shoulder-blades.
"What's that, Covance, are you displaying actual worry?"
"Not at all," the hunchback replied and placed a tall glass of wine to the man's awaiting hands. "the change of noise at regular intervals have just been… growing since my Lord has begun his experiment."
"Reconditioning Covance." The master corrected and drank deeply from his glass. Besides his obvious misconceptions, his servant was correct, the noise in their small town had been increasing after he had decided to train another one. The villagers were also complaining about the disturbance of the peace due to 'poorly concealed crying'. He couldn't fault the boy in that dingy cellar for having an exceptional set of lungs on him, neither could he find a reason to fault him for the noise. As it stood, the boy hadn't seen the light of day for nearly two Summers, how could he have known people could hear him wail in agony? Even so, he had caused his good citizens to be suspicious of their loving ruler. That would not do.
"He shows far too much resilience, I'm afraid. I train and train him but just when I think he's ready he goes and disappoints me and we start from zero again."
"It must weigh heavily on my Lord's shoulders to receive such an unworthy candidate." Covance stated as he poured more water on his master to wash away the dirty soap suds. With a trained hand, he combed back the man's hair and pinned it to the back of his neck. The master took a moment to carefully pat his chin-length hair before rising from the tub and spilling more water onto the floor.
The hunched servant admired the large, muscular form of his Lord; toned legs, wash-board abdomen and the thickest set of arms he had ever laid eyes upon. His skin shone like orange leather in the afternoon sunlight and the smile that never left his face stood out like etched symbols on a wooden surface.
Covance drew a bath-towel from a nearby table and began to dry his master's chiselled form vigorously as he spoke. "Perhaps he is not the right one for the position my Lord has so graciously chosen him for?" The master chuckled as his glass left his lips and he raised his arms. Covance dutifully began to wipe away the droplets of water remaining on his wet skin.
"He may be difficult to cultivate Covance, but he is worthy," he left his servants side and pulled on a heavy robe with white fur trimming over his impressive shoulders. "he's already passed my test months ago."
"If so, then why hasn't my Liege placed him in armour? This has been the first of thousands to keep my Lord more than a fortnight of initiation."
The master smirked wider and stood before the large window before them. "Indeed, he is Covance. Yet, despite absorbing my teachings as desperately as a Dragon Scholar, he still resists the collar I place on him. When my back is turned, he shreds his own skin to tear the fabric away and sprints off into the deep midnight. Even so, when it comes time to locate him, I am both surprised and disappointed to find him rested behind the very door he escaped from lost in the maze of his dreams."
"Is it truly wise to remain steadfast in this endeavour then, Lord Stein?"
"Oh yes. He will bring me abundant satisfaction… why else would he choose to consume the old baker rather than his pastries after escaping this eve?"
"My Liege?" Covance was confused by the master's words. The boy was still locked up in the cellar, he had seen to it himself. And what did the master mean by 'consume the old baker'? Then suddenly, a loud knock sounded at the door gaining both men's attention before it was violently thrown open and a dirty child with pale skin and open wounds was unceremoniously thrown at his Lord's feet. Covance's eyes widened considerably as the panting city guard walking in, a hand holding his bleeding shoulder as scratch marks adorned his sweating face.
"Forgive me for my intrusion, Lord Stein but your subject was found escaping his confinement." Covance gaped at the master as the boy remained plastered to the floor, as if an invisible weight were somehow pressing against his back after entering the master's bathing chamber.
"Has he now?" the master asked in mild amusement and he began to grin maliciously when the boy on his hands and knees began to tremble at his voice. "Pray tell, what happened to you, soldier?"
The guard did his best to stand upright and salute. "Sir! The subject reacted violently to recapture after he was found to be…" the guard hesitated for a moment.
"Go on." Said the master.
"He was found to be eating the old baker… alive, Sire."
"How many of you tried to stop him?"
"Four, my Lord."
"And how many suffered the same fate as old man Rolf?"
"Th… Three my Lord. I was the only survivor."
At this, Covance audibly gasped and backed away, nearing slipping on the water on the floor from earlier. This boy, this bleeding, trembling child that lay prostrate before the master had escaped the cellar he had personally locked, eaten baker Rolf alive and murdered not one but three city guards before finally being apprehended. The hunched servant would never be a fool to question his Lord's sagely wisdom for a second – he had predicted the boy's movements flawlessly after all – but the fact that he was training this monster to join a league only made Covance stare wide-eyed at the master. Was Lord Stein truly going to allow this feral imp the sacred right to become his Lord's unseen hand?
"I see," the master's voice broke Covance from his trance and he watched in shock as his Lord crouched down to pat the trembling child on the head. The servant was about to call for him to stop, fear gripping his heart that his Lord might suffer the same fate as Rolf and the others when the child just stiffened and slumped to the ground. The guard shared an equal look of outrage before calming himself as the boy began to sob loudly, his bony frame shaking with each loud intake of breath. "as expected, I suppose… Covance."
"Y-Yes, my Liege!" the hunched servant stood to attention, wrinkled eyes wide.
"See that the boy's wounds are tended to and he bathes tonight." The master lifted his intimidating gaze to the wounded guard. "Clean up the bakery and placate anyone who overheard the struggle."
"Yes, Sire!" both men screamed in unison and the guard departed as quickly as his injured body could allow him. Covance, meanwhile, began to reach out for the boy to escort him to the servants' bathhouse when a muscled hand stopped him. He looked down to see the master smiling at him with that calculating look in his eye.
"Clean him up here. I don't want anyone seeing him in the castle Covance."
The servant nodded firmly and cautiously took the child's dirty hand, flinching when he jerked in his grip. He assumed the boy would have tried to take a bit out of him as well but was surprised when he did nothing more than blindly follow Covance's directions, not even indicating his pain when the hunchback dabbed a cleaning agent on his torn skin.
"When dawn breaks, wake him up and feed him," the master stated and walked towards the opened door. The boy lifted his head towards the retreating footsteps before whispering something that only Lord Stein seemed to hear before he turned and offered a bone-chilling smile. "he will begin training as a Lithecore immediately."
The boy began to tremble again at the master's voice and Covance watched as the boy's bloodshot amber eyes widened in terror, his malnourished chest rising and falling rapidly as he stared at Lord Stein.
"You'll make a fine addition to the league, now won't you, you vicious atrocity?"
How many of you caught the Phantom of the Opera reference as well as the Black Butler one? I couldn't resist throwing it in there.
Now, I might mess up parts of this whole Argon background thing and will most likely revise certain aspects of it. The flashbacks are the reason I haven't updated within a week as per the trend that the past four chapters I've previously written have.
The only thing I have to say for now is stay safe while at home, don't binge on the junk food and please read your pm's if I've sent you any (otherwise all the thanks and praise I wrote into them will go to the inanimate site, and who wants that?).
Oyasumi.