For the second time since forever, I thought I should put in that annoyingly cliché disclaimer stating that I, mihairu7(the 7 is silent, always silent), do in no way own the game, art, IP (intellectual property) or plot of Dark Souls. Why you ask? Well because FromSoftware does, that's why.
-are you done yet?
Ah! I see you're finally awake after a week of snoozing.
-no thanks to you, that's for sure. (*clips mihairu7's head with a fist)
Ugh! Okay, I kinda deserved that. But look at it this way, at least you were able to rid yourself of your insomnia, right?
-that is true… now hurry up and address what we needed to.
Alrighto! What's on the agenda today besides that comment about killing traps? Say, what's a trap again?
-Seriously?
Baha! I'm just pulling your leg, I would never kill someone so important just to make the story look better, that's literary suicide!
-the next item is about reviews and author's notes (*peers at unrolled sheet of parchment)
Ah, yes, what of them?
-well, besides the fact that you can't spell ludicrous correctly, you made the last a/u too. Damn. Long.
Aha (*breaks out in cold sweat) sorry about that. Although I do love to insert 'ze explanations', that last one was just too long, 3k in length, actually. While I enjoy explaining the whirlpools of ideas in my head, I don't want to bore people who just want to read ze story already. As for the terrrrrrrible spelling error, I would blame my mental fatigue but that was just inexcusable. Gomen nasai! (*bows)
-The penultimate is why you were away for so long.
Work, college and the turning of a new decade, baby! Yeah!
-Ah, I'll just write 'lacklustre motivation to write' over here then…
Oi! I'll have you know I had already written out nearly 4k in word count when reality hit me like a truck. That is in no way lazy!
-and lastly, you don't like long reviews.
BLASPHEMY! Who said that? Let me at 'em!
-no one said that besides me, now behave (*smashes plate on mihairu7's head as the extras in the background cheer)
AYE!
-he actually loves long reviews, so please don't hold back since he's also friendly to flames, the damn freak. Honestly, he gushes at the notification of ANY review. How pathetic, its no wonder he doesn't have any friends.
Don't you go airing out my torn laundry when you ARE me! I have friends but they're all overseas and busy is all…
-wow… with that reaction people might actually believe me for a change 0_0
Ah, shut up! On with ze story!
The sun… was nice enough in her opinion. She wouldn't deny its warm rays and golden splendour for that would be both stupidity and negligence. It was important for her to realize the beauty in all things despite their obvious ugliness – like the fact that whilst the sun was warm to stand under, it would burn you to a crisp were you to overindulge in its generosity.
In retrospect, she enjoyed the rain much better. It would obscure the bright and optimistic sun with its heavy cloud-cover and deep shadows, soak the dry and cracked ground with the bounty it held within its breast and heal the damaged land from the pervasive attitude the sun always seemed to possess. At the same time, it had its own healing properties to people; like calming a tense atmosphere, cooling hot emotions and filling even the morose with a sense of wonder at how mystifying the simple scintillant drops of liquid air really was.
Then again, its not like the pluviophile1 had even seen the slightest trace of cracked earth over the few decades – or were they actually centuries – that she had spent living in Anor Londo. Whilst the sun forever blinded her after gazing up at it for a few paltry seconds, the smooth stone floors and various levels that separated the lower land from its upper half had never once tasted the test of time. Although the sun's rays where known to bleach anything and everything under its light, strangely the crisp walls never lost their creamy hue. What was even more fascinating was the fact that no matter how many times she stood stationary under those holy spotlights, for countless hours no less, not a drop of sweat would form on her brow despite her heavy brass armour.
Thinking technically however, would she even be able to sweat given her body's… condition? Either way, it was an odd thing being under such a powerful illusion by her Lord.
Once she had wondered if lowering that glorious misapprehension would help in brining forth a deluge of watery wonder but had immediately shook her head at the stupidity of that reasoning; you needed heat for rain to arrive in the first place. Although now that she thought about it, even when the sun had gone down the sky was always clear without a single cloud in sight. That didn't stop her from carrying a fleeting wish that such a blessing would arrive, however. It was a foolish hope she kept in her bosom, but she had done the same thing religiously for Gwyn knows how long now. Staring at the night sky with her helm off, hands clasped and heart expectant for that distant roar in the distant signifying the coming of nature's cool embrace. In all honesty, her hopes would fare better in the Undead Burg, where the only petrichor2 to inhale was the glittering ash falling onto the tar-stained buildings and floors.
She wasn't that apathetic that she wouldn't realize her own childishness, but one had to argue that when you spent so much time under an illusion so fake it was real, the hallucination that the season's effects might arrive spontaneously wasn't that far-fetched. Of course, when thinking about Lord Gwyndolin himself, his magic and ability to warp reality was hardly any hallucination. He was a master of his craft and a genius with a mind far beyond his time. Simply calling the power he imbued into the very skies of Lordran a simple illusion or hoax was practically a profanity to his mighty name.
Yet, after all her time in service to the Darkmoon Lord as both a Blade and Keeper, she had to wonder whether Lordran was just so cursed that even the rain had shied away from it. Perhaps it, like many undead that had come to the land, were just so fearful of falling under a gravitational force of unfathomed wickedness that all it could do to escape defilement was meander around the once great kingdom altogether.
The brass-keeper sighed as she adjusted her position against the alabaster wall stained with soft reflections of amber, onyx and red. Maybe she would never be able to see the rain ever again? Maybe by her remaining a Keeper of the bonfire she was just damning herself to some endless loop of stagnation and idleness; forever vexed with her wayward thoughts? She hated the thought, yet similarly didn't mind it altogether. Anything was better than the suffering she endured before her Lord had found her.
Suffering… an unhinged way to live in pain without relief. An agony inescapable. Much like the life of the undead that had come into her chamber not long ago. If anyone wanted to know what true suffering was all about, he was the only one worthy enough to answer such a question. It was no secret to her what his future entailed since Lord Gwyndolin had seen it fit to make his dependents aware of his plan; there weren't many of Darkmoon Blades anyways. Whilst she didn't admire the way in which her master was going to bring about Lordran's revival, she knew he must not have had a choice; especially with that rancid beast whispering in his ear as if his opinion meant anything now that Lord Gwyn was gone, and Anor Londo with him.
Still, when she uncharacteristically used the meek reserves of sympathy she possessed towards the Chosen Undead, she had to admire his spirit and determination. From what information she and her companions had managed to gather about him – which was barely anything but hearsay – it was clear that Argon was if anything, a nobody in every sense imaginable.
He possessed no redeeming features linking him to any nation despite that his skin tone and battle style appeared to circle around Carim, if he had been a man that was as knowledgeable as a sage then he hid it well with that idiotic spiel of his; and from what a dejected knight in worn chainmail had said, Argon had only chosen to accept the quest after his rescuer had 'anti-climactically bitten the dust during his exodus'.
Usually unknowns were considered dark territory since their motives were anything but honourable due to their past. Her master had preferred to look at the Estus flask half full, however, stating that being the Chosen Undead held no relation to whether one was of noble standing or not. She had accepted his words – even if she had mentally scoffed at the answer – and thought little of it after that. In actuality, she knew Lord Gwyndolin probably just accepted the fact that someone had managed to enter the kingdom after the first had fallen off a ceiling beam and to his hollowed demise.
Even so, when thinking about the undead and how far he had come – going as far as to free her master's niece on his journey – she pondered on whether the task set for all worthy undead was just too harrowing to finish. Possessing the power to defeat all four of Lord Gwyn's allies was daunting, there was no doubt that if you didn't harvest an unbridled might within you then the chances of success in acquiring a Lord Soul was slim. However, the physical challenge the quest posed wasn't what managed to creep through her armour like amorphous fingers and latch onto the heart she had forgotten she possessed; it was the psychological trauma of it all.
Thinking back onto how Argon had appeared and behaved was proof of her spontaneous need to worry…
The flames of her fire never stuttered, that much was an absolute no other Keeper could attest to. Whether trouble or peace, the swirling tongues of auburn would never rupture their slow, lazy approach towards the white ceiling above. That was why she was on guard when her passive bonfire had suddenly begun to writhe and collapse in on itself, as if it was struggling to contain something, or someone.
She watched with narrowed eyes, a hand on the hilt of her dagger as the flames sputtered and spun violently, flicking against the ground, walls and stairs; wrestling with this unseen beast. For a moment she thought the coiled sword itself would be uprooted as the embers and ashes below it shuddered roughly. Her chamber was a mess of noise and flickering shadows until suddenly everything when still before a loud roar shook the foundations of the square room.
The brass-Keeper flinched as the volume caused her head to spin before she witnessed a body flash into focus as it thumped against the ground, bouncing against the tiles before hitting the wall. It took her a moment to realize the hollowed body lying on the floor and breathing raggedly was Argon, and it was only when she dropped out of her fighting stance and approached the now calm bonfire that he rose to a sitting position, wrinkled skin half covered in what seemed like black tendrils.
The undead remained panting breathlessly there as she returned to leaning against the wall.
"So you've come back alone, I see… and shirtless."
Argon seemed not to hear her over his deep gasping, or he was just ignoring her. She merely shrugged and continued to watch the flames slowly dance around the coppery coiled sword whilst keeping him in her periphery. If he had any knew secrets it would be wise for her to observe or listen to him before reporting it to Lord Gwyndolin; although if she knew her master, he was probably already aware that Argon was with her.
It had been a shock to see the Archbishop with him when he had arrived, and an even greater surprise to see the princess donned in the clothing of a Velkian pardoner. Although she hadn't had the pleasure of being alive when Havel the Rock was exiled, tales of his might and imposing stature was legendary. Lord Gwyndolin himself had even spoken about how much he had respected him after staring down Seath the Scaleless without batting an eye. To see the same man here in the very castle he had been exiled from, alive and still cognitive had been something of a treasured moment to her – even if she hid it well behind her indifferent personality.
"You look dreadful, rest a while." she said, as he reversed his hollowed form. It was only after his wrinkled skin had turned back to pallor muscle that a particular scent had hit her like a bash from a sentinel's shield.
After establishing her covenant with Lord Gwyndolin, she had been tasked with finding and punishing those had had angered or sinned against the gods. Utilizing eye-orbs was the best way to find those deemed guilty before putting them to the sword. However, there was also a particular scent sin's against divinity carried, whether small or large; a distinct smell that was unlike any other. It was indescribable yet specific, the very same one she smelt on the Chosen Undead before her that made her senses spark into a flurry of danger signals.
"Putrid…" Argon growled through gritted teeth as he kneeled before the fire, glaring darkly as the light illuminated his half-covered face and heterochromatic eyes. "Filthy, vile, unforgivable…"
The Keeper pushed off from the wall carefully and rested a hand once again against her dagger. "Argon…" she flinched in both surprise and shock at the animalistic gleam he directed towards her. It was as if the jovial undead she had seen not long ago was purged from existence. In fact, it was also the first time her wary eyes had seen his fully uncovered face. She didn't need to possess any apathy to agree that this mad visage didn't fit someone with naturally handsome features.
"He killed me… impaled my mind, ripped out my eyes and broke my skull. Hands and blue fire, snakes that grew dire… they all taunted me, mocked me and laughed as I fell. He marked me, stained me, blemished me with his filthy hands!" the Keeper could only watch as Argon punched the floor in uncharacteristic anger, cringing when she heard both his fist and the tile crack loudly. She would have moved to draw her weapons, but she was frozen by the crazed glare she was locked with. His muscles kept tensing it was if he was daring her to make a move, waiting for her to initiate a fight he knew she would lose. The Keeper was no stranger to combat, she had fought countless battles for her life and come out scarred or exhausted, and knew she was no slouch when it came to battle. However, staring at those amber and violet orbs placed a fear in her that she hadn't felt since she was human; a primal, sinister fear that forced to flee even though her mind knew she should stand her ground and fight.
"I'll return the favour, I'll rectify his mistake!" as Argon rose, the brass-Keeper involuntarily took a step back, still locked in a staring contest with the undead as he placed his tendril-covered hand against the hilt of the coiled sword. "Undead can revive and anger can manifest into rage if left alone. But can sinners be allowed a second chance? No… they lost that choice when they were blindly led towards the path of greed, lust and adversity towards the weak."
The flames once again writhed against some invisible strain placed on them as they enveloped Argon, who grinned maniacally at her as his body was whisked away to the destination of his desire; but not before he finished his monologue to nobody in particular.
"So like those unnecessary snakes with wings, all sinners must be snuffed out… don't you agree?"
He never waited for an answer as the flames absorbed him into their depths, leaving a quiet room behind. The brass-Keeper simply sighed in relief as she crashed to her knees, breathing heavily as the murderous intent Argon carried departed with him.
She shivered at the memory the undead left behind and glanced at the stairway leading towards the castle itself.
For both Argon's sake and those around him, she prayed he would be able to stand up to the trying test her Lord had concocted. For if someone as powerful and unflappable as Argon couldn't save Lordran, then no one could.
He had said it. Exorcised the demon, performed an ablution, pointed out the drake in the room; he had done it all with the most composed face and demeanour he could muster despite the shame in his chest and the guilt that sucker punched him in the ribs like a blow from Smough's great hammer. It had been so nerve-wracking that he had recast his serpentine illusion as a form of comfort.
And with every word, event and action he had explained in extremely vivid detail, he saw the respect his niece had for him diminish bit by bit, the rage in Havel increase second by second, and Argon's impassive stare grow into agonizing intensity. He didn't even know why he had agreed to open his closet of a million skeletons for an undead he had been forced to kill and bring back to pseudo-sanity twice, but here they all were. He would have loved to blame it on his bad luck, Velka's supposed interference or even that damned fool dripping with the blessings of Fina, but he knew the truth all to well in the midst of his house of lies. The reason he had been brought to this unfortunate ending, this oblique scenario standing near a precarious ledge was due to his own folly. It would have been pure stupidity to play his hand ignorant now when he was caught with his hands in the proverbial Lordvessel, anyways.
And so, here he was standing before an archbishop with an aggressive personality, a cross breed that could drain his divine soul of all life even if they were related by blood; and an ironically still nonchalant Chosen Undead that had tried to carve his snakes into material for kindling. Personally, he was just glad that rancid snake, Frampt wasn't here to justify his means to an end as if it was expected of him; that would just be a tragedy that would land his head impaled on the bottom of Havel's Dragontooth.
He continued to stare down the trio before him as they processed, broke down, over-thought and regurgitated his words into looks of disdain, disappointment and shock – and monotony if he counted Argon's blank look. He didn't blame them for creating this uncomfortable silence that now resided in the area. If he were in their shoes, he would probably also have stood there motionless to brew the machinations of a failed successor to the Throne. Yet he wouldn't understand how his champion, the one that should be affected the most by all this revealed blade in the shadows, was as collected as a Stone Giant. If anything, he should be twice as angry as the ex-bishop, overly untrusting compared to Pricilla's state of appal – possibly as insane as he was a short time ago.
Instead he merely stared at Gwyndolin's covered face blankly before scoffing and pulling on an odd coat of dark leather, straps, a high collar and small knives hidden in various pockets and sleeves dotted around inside the supposed set of… armour. The Lord of the Darkmoon wasn't the only one confused and perturbed by the undeads behaviour; it seemed Havel had removed his helm to frown in outrage whilst Priscilla had attempted to approach the man to assess whether his battle had destroyed his ability to comprehend properly. However his companions reacted to such an action of dismissal, Argon seemed not to care in the slightest as he gently moved out of the goddess's reach and motioned towards the lifts on either ends of the room.
"We're leaving." He said simply and turned to gaze at Priscilla. She flinched at the monotone look he gave her, her own eyes straying away from his heterochromatic orbs for some reason. "Not like there's any reason to stay, we got our questions answered."
"Did your battle rattle out what dregs of common sense you have left?" Argon turned his head to Havel, his mouth set in a snarl towards the undead. Whilst it might have been possible for him to brush off Priscilla like some fluffy cobweb, it was going to be a different story when regarding the heavyset man in armour. The bishop may have acted blind towards his companions' personal issues but when those issues correlated with the fate of the world, he was religiously devoted to say the least.
"You were just told the reason for this quest and you're going to walk away?! Where's your courage, boy? Are you content to allow the masses of undead living here perish like the rest!?" Havel screamed, closing the gap between himself and the Chosen Undead. "What happened to your exuberance now, eh? Was your entire personality of irritating humour and nerve-wracking arguments simply a charade to gain our trust? What's the matter with you?!"
Argon switched his gaze to a worried cross breed standing behind the crackling bonfire. She looked like she wanted to step in but there was apprehension in her body, debating on whether to choose a side between the uncle that lied to her or the Chosen Undead that would eventually die for her. It was a cruel thing to do to the woman, Argon agreed, but at this point her stagnation needed to end. She had spent far too much time as an obedient sheep following a scapegoat.
Though it was her original decision to follow him, and her obedience was far more rewarding than her sacrifice, things were vastly different now after the scenario had begun to become more interesting. At this moment in time she was at a terribly forked road that only led to dismay anyways. Argon pondered how she would determine her sad eventuality; living a lie upon a fake throne of gold, with an uncle that had let his own idiocy carve out his fate; or siting before the opened, deserted doors of the Kiln, on her knees with handfuls of his body turned to ash in her pretty hands.
It was sad, bleak, morose. But she had to decide either way. None of this was her fault but he couldn't feel it in him to tell her that; it would be a waste of words when she stands motionless outside of those ancient doors watching him become the successor of Cinder – or whatever fem-boy had called it.
Then again, would she be left alone when he had also been privy to the sad, dark truth? A smile fought to break out on his face at the thought.
Havel was beyond appalled. This undead was not the Argon he knew and respected as a worthy adversary. The Argon he knew possessed empathy and integrity despite his obvious flaws and childish ignorance. Yet when he looked at the undead in front of him, speaking as if he was content to allow the world to keel over and die, he knew that those blank but glowing eyes belonged his comrade. It was taboo to think about, but what if the joyful man in the tower had been nothing but a farce the entire time? A mask like the one he always wore to obscure the diseased truth behind it. Whether it was true or not, he couldn't stand idly by and allow him to treat humanity like the gods had. He would be sure to rectify his mistake long ago by not acting sooner.
"Well? Aren't you going to answer me you sad excuse of a man?" Argon looked back at Havel, his blank expression contrasting against the Archbishop's vexed growling before he smirked lightly.
"I thought speaking to inanimate objects was something only the insane did."
The tips of Havel's ears grew to a vibrant red and it almost looked like there was steam coming out from them as he ground his teeth at his companion. He was all for petty arguments and little squabbles when they held no sway in a normal conversation, but the undead was really rubbing him up the wrong petrified tree. The man acted like he didn't give a damn about the sullied history explained to him mere moments ago. Maybe that battle with Gwyndolin had taken away what minute sense of reasoning Argon had left, which was the reason for his indifference. If so, perhaps if he 'helpfully' gave the Chosen Undead a few 'light' knocks on the head with his Dragontooth, he would be brought out of his idiotic spiel?
With that in mind, Havel took a step forward to administer a healthy dose of 'medication'.
"Go wait downstairs Havel." the bishop stopped mid-step and looked at Argon with a frown. The peon dared to order him around? Havel wondered how shallow he would have to make the undeads grave when he beat him and his arrogant face into a pale floormat.
"And take Priscilla with you, the adults need to talk." at the mention of her name, said cross breed turned her worried gaze at her saviour. As much as she would have liked to argue, whine, complain or berate him for fighting the last known member of her family; a glance at Argon's monotone face made her rethink her options as a cold shiver ran down her spine. For once that happy face that she had only seen smile and laugh when in dire situations was staring down distastefully at Havel. His now fully clothed body was tensing and relaxing continuously as if preparing for another round of brawling, and his eyes that had been so full of life glowed in the dim corridor like cold flames on a wall bracket.
It was true that she had been travelling with Argon for quite some time now, but in all reality, she still didn't know more than a crumb about him. Outside of the jolly persona he wore – which she questioned whether it was truly genuine after looking at him now – she had never really gotten to know the darker, instinctual version of the man she held feelings for. Argon still displayed his alexithymia3 unconsciously despite being around people he could trust, which wasn't much of a red flag considering the nature of a person's secrecy when in a land brimming with more than just hollows and monsters.
However, when she took a look at the man she saw standing before herself, Havel and her uncle; she wondered if the real reason Argon hadn't opened up was because his unclosed truth was the animalistic visage currently staring Havel down.
"Why you arrogant kn-"
"I said go." she flinched as if struck against the cheek. Argon had never used that tone before or glared like that before. It was primarily because he was never the blood-thirsty undead his enemies believed him to be. She knew him to be sweet, kind and jolly; however, what she saw now was cold, indifferent and dangerous. It was as if another person had just stepped into his monochrome skin and taken command of his body.
"The last time I checked," Havel said, containing what little compose he had, "I didn't take orders from you. This is a party after all, and not a band of soldiers."
"Well, unless you want me to show you who's daddy… you'll wait downstairs."
Argon and Havel stared one another off. Priscilla had her hands squeezing the leather of her bodice and Gwyndolin… was Gwyndolin, calmly staring at it all without a single judgement. He watched Argon's companions stay their ground for a few minutes more before eventually giving up to their black and white companion's steely gaze. Havel huffed for a moment and directed a snarl at the god before approaching a lift that would better accommodate his size. As for Priscilla, she spent the remainder of her time contemplating on how to react to everything that had just played out, before sighing in defeat and walking towards the lift on the opposite end of the room. She spared her uncle a brief glance and Gwyndolin felt more guilt creep into his heart at that shattered look of hers. He would have opened his mouth to say something but lost the opportunity when she disappeared from sight as the lift descended.
All the same, the Darkmoon Lord couldn't prevent the sigh that escaped his lips. That had been both unbearable and relieving for him. Unbearable because he had to explain to his champion, his niece and his father's former comrade his dastardly plan. And relieved because after so many centuries of bottling his emotions over such events, he was finally able to let some of them free. Subsequently, he was slightly winded. That had been the first time in actual centuries whereby he had spoken more than two sentences in a day to more than a single person. He admitted that it felt… good somehow, but he had to focus on the consequences of his actions right now.
The fact that he had told Argon the truth was both a terrible idea and act of good faith; however, he would be able to breathe better without a halberd piercing his chest now that he had given something new to the undead; a right to choose.
Of course, Argon already possessed the freewill to choose and would have probably decided his own alternate route regarding the Kiln even without his intervention. That being said, now at least the undead would possess a clearer vision when deciding his fate. It wasn't the least he could for him, but it was all he could think about currently.
"If you're waiting for me to say you're forgiven, you might as well just bend over and allow me to kill you." Gwyndolin brushed aside his thoughts as he considered the Chosen Undead.
"I do not wish to be comforted, merely understood in my methods."
"So I'm supposed to understand and accept why I have to burn for eternity so you can sit on your feminine ass for another millennium? Just how proud are you that you think burdening humanity further is a noble deed?" Argon raised an eyebrow at Gwyndolin as he took a step forward. "And give me my goddamn sword back, or are you planning to tear me a new one with that revised use of pine resin?"
The god looked down at the sword in his hand. The blade was clean, without a spot of blood even after it had severed Argon in half not long ago. It was to be expected, however; considering the strength of the spell he had used against his champion was enough to level a forest with a few swings. The blood would have simply dripped off the blade anyways since it was made of Lordrian steel. Borgus had been so meticulous in his craft that the weapons the Silver Knights used were never sullied by the blood of their foes, as opposed to the nightmarish tools of their black-suited counterparts.
Without any hesitation, Gwyndolin handed the sword to one of his snakes. Said reptile grasped the hilt and slithered forward until it was a foot in front of Argon. The undead merely raised his blackened hand under the snake's jaw before catching the sword as the snake released it from its grasp. Argon gave the sleek weapon a gentle smile as he sheathed it.
"Come to daddy." He said before turning on his heel and walking off the platform Ornstein had once stood garrison at.
Gwyndolin raised a hand to stop him but Argon was already on the lower level of the Throne Room, steadily approaching the Great Hall where Havel stood brooding in the centre of it all, his arms crossed.
With a quick use of his teleportation, the god flashed behind Argon's retreating form, his hand once more raised. "Argon, wait. We have not ended our discus-"
"What's there left to talk about, Gwyndolin?" the god froze at the plain question. He was correct, what was there left to speak on? He had already told the undead everything, endured numerous questions – if shouting, threats and blasphemies against his name could be called mere questions – from both his niece and Havel, and nearly had his life taken when Argon went berserk. If anything, there should be more wallowing in shame on his side that he had allowed things to play out this way – even if most of it was out of his control – but Argon didn't need to know that-
"You should spend the remainder of the day brewing on how pathetic you are for letting things go to this way."
-unless Argon already knew about that bit of information. He sighed softly as Argon turned away from his again to pick up the discarded weapons he had dropped in their battle. The Darkmoon Lord watched him in silence as he procrastinated on what to say next. As calm as his face may have seemed at the moment, his mind was aflutter with worry over what he could do to fix the grave he had just dug himself. However, since his mind was filled with uncertainty on what to say and confusion on why he wanted to say anything at all; the only thoughts that were the first to cross his cerebellum was the state the Throne Room was in.
He knew his battle with Argon had been intense and he hadn't been merciful in his approach to the maddened undead but… the floor looked as if it had been carpeted a deep crimson, and the walls and pillars were pock-marked with holes, burn marks from spells and the occasional outline of Argon's lithe physique. He wasn't even joking – not that he had ever joked – when he said that the stairs were flooded. There was just… a lot of blood.
"I don't hate you, if that's what you're struggling to ask me." Gwyndolin turned his head towards Argon as he placed the fragments of his Demon Hammer in one of his pouches. The Darkmoon Lord's mouth opened to reply but again, no sound escaped – just warm air.
"I hate what you've done, sure. But I don't hate you. Even though you've sentenced me to everlasting suffering despite proving myself to be the Chosen Undead, the sins of the father are not something I can blame you for."
A weight seemed to lift from the Darkmoon Lord's chest at that. After badgering himself continuously for well over a thousand years he knew, deep in his weak and wounded heart, that he was not entirely to blame for the fall of Lordran, the curse to humanity, loss of his own people. It was as if Argon was both angelic and demonic in his treatment towards Gwyndolin. But those few words moved heaven and earth for the lonely god.
"But I'm still not lighting that fire."
Immediately, the weight that lifted from Gwyndolin's chest fell back down with greater force than before. It was so great, in fact, that the feminine male found himself almost toppling onto the floor – that is, if his snakes hadn't found it necessary to push back against his less than significant weight at that very moment. He let out a shaky breath before snapping his head to Argon's position so fast, the undead thought he might get whiplash.
"What does thou mean by that statement? Does the act of succeeding my father not decree thou responsible to linking the Flame and preserving the Age of Fire?!"
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Gwyndolin heard Argon laugh. It wasn't one of those insane cackles that had torn the corners of his mouth and pained the ears… but a soft, warm sound. When said noise had reached the Darkmoon Lord's ears, he had had to strain his hearing to listen to it. He looked at the undead, his champion and Chosen One as he calmly walked up to the god.
The afternoon sun cascaded through the smooth glass, placing the room in an amber glow. Gwyndolin noted how his grand illusion wrapped around the thin veins coating Argon's right side like pitch-black armour. It was as if the darkness of the veins were absorbing the light and growing thicker; yet, as the bright hues latched onto the undeads arm, Gwyndolin could make out the small gaps betwixt the veins, showing pale, white skin beneath. It almost looked like he was wearing the shadows themselves on his right side.
"I'll admit, you've got me stuck between a rock and a hard place; or in this case, Havel and Blighttown." The god snorted; Argon grinned in return.
"But I don't intend on letting you false gods rest on filigreed chairs as if you've earned it," he placed a hand on his hip and stared up at the god before him. There was no malice behind those multi-coloured eyes or hatred, merely understanding. It was strange and oddly normal, considering the bedlam that the two men had just gone through not long ago. "yet at the same time, I don't intend on letting the world grow as dark as this empty space you call home. Humanity, lesser and greater beings don't deserve to suffer from the actions of a single, selfish race."
Gwyndolin nodded once in agreement, the remainder of the world didn't deserve the turmoil that followed after another dwindling of the First Flame. Inversely, there was still one matter that needed obvious debate. Like how Argon intended to keep the First Flame burning without offering his soul to it like his father had long ago. Currently, there was no other option one could take when deciding the fate of the Kiln and the world itself. There were just two avenues; relink it and preserve the Age of Fire for another millennia – if not more – or allow it to die and usher in the Age of Man.
Whilst the second option was something his father was repulsed by, the Darkmoon Lord could see the positives within the stereotype. Humanity ruling over the world wasn't necessarily a bad idea given that the majority of the world was made up of human souls. However, with the rise of Man came the insurgence of the Abyss. Man was a powerful adversary and a terrifying enemy. Yet, only few were strong enough to best the temptation of the Abyss, Argon was… well, he hoped he was proof of that strength.
His point was that there would be only so much peace before a single ruler of humanity would fall short of their predecessors' glory and accept the invitation to damnation. Whilst the gods weren't any better when it came to dominion, they would ensure the Abyss would never spread but remain an inkling of its former self. When considering the lesser of two evil's, which intellectual mind wouldn't choose the Age of Fire? It was currently a safer option, after all.
"A method untravelled is one thou tred upon. It will be difficult to find what thou seek' eth."
"I know that. But it's the only conclusion I'll accept."
"It will be a wearisome journey. Thou may fall before the final hurdle."
"Worse than what I've already been through?" Argon raised his eyebrow, a smirk lifting his mouth. Gwyndolin offered a smile of his own in return and the undead nearly did a double take on how warm the gesture seemed. In fact, this was probably the first time he had seen the feminine male offer more than a cocky grin – not that he could complain. In any case, Argon smiled wider, his eyes closing as he showed his teeth.
"There is no rest for the wicked. I'm sure I'll manage… somewhat."
"And is thine mind fit for departure? Remember that my niece and bishop stand alongside thou."
A sad look graced the undeads features as he looked at the ground. It was a look the god knew well since he had possessed the same crisis for centuries, a sense of self-identity.
"Honestly, I don't know… I know that I became someone different after killing Lautrec, and that I had these ideals I hadn't known even existed until I fought you. But after I was returned to the flames those ideals and that drive seemed to fade…
"Don't get me wrong, I still feel like killing you. But… at the same time I'm unsure if doing so will bring me some sort of relief or sadness. In my mind I'm conflicted; one side calls you a sinner, and the other calls you a friend. I still don't believe that you and your kin are worthy enough to call yourselves god's. And in the same way, I don't who I really am with all these new memories I receive as the time goes by. Perhaps it has something to do with this right side of mine…" Argon lifted a hand to cup his veined cheek. The veins themselves felt foreign to him, itchy and cold. They were like barnacle's sticking to the bottom of a ship, uncomfortably catching against the tall seaweed in the shallower areas of sea.
As he caressed some of the veins, his hand reached up and covered his violet eye. Even his sight had been affected by this strange plague that neither poisoned nor maimed his body, just his mind. He closed his left eye and peered at Gwyndolin for a moment. The same swirls and pools of colour that could never be seen before became visible, both encasing and emanating from the Darkmoon Lord's centre.
"Either way, I've still got a world to save. I'll figure it out whilst I find a way to not burn my soul ad infinitum." And with that, the current king of Anor Londo watched as his champion left his sight; long, black hair lifting in the gentle breeze as he approached his party wating in the other blood-soaked room before them.
Gwyndolin huffed. Out of all the possible undead he had watched, scouted and considered to be the One, he had never truly found someone like Argon. The first human to renounce the gods around him, seek not power but knowledge and display a will as unbendable as Artorias'.
It was an oddity, but one the god proudly called his own. One of his snakes caught his attention and he glanced downward to see it dive into his robe. His eye's widened when he saw the state of the cream fabric he wore and his cheeks took on a light shade of pink – not that one would have seen it under his oversized crown.
There were more holes in it than blood-spatters and in various places closer to his thighs, the torn fabric nearly showed an uncovered display of his pelvis. He was glad he had decided to recast his serpentine spell when Havel and Priscilla arrived.
He looked at the snake as it returned from within his robes holding something in its jaws. The sight briefly reminded him of a younger Sif carrying the Greatsword his master had gifted to him before the god turned his head back to Argon.
"Argon," the undead stopped and turned his head towards the god, a curious look on his face, "do not forget this on thine travels." His snakes brought him closer to the Chosen Undead before the one still holding his mask extended towards Argon's chest.
The undead opened his mouth in surprise before smiling and taking the mask from the serpent's jaws. In a rather peculiar sight, Gwyndolin watched as Argon reached out with his other hand to scratch the reptile's head affectionately. It hissed softly in reply before retracting into the mass beneath the god. As the undead lifted the plain mask against his monochrome face, the god had to wonder if Argon knew that his snakes weren't actually real, but an extension of his will.
The thought left his mind, however, as Argon lifted his head to the god again to reveal a familiar sight. The mask itself was a blank thing, with nothing but double slits for eyeholes. Yet, it was something that comforted him, oddly enough. Argon eye's glowed in their different colours at him before he placed a hand over his heart and bowed respectfully. Gwyndolin returned the gesture, bending his head slightly and looking up as Argon stood to full height once more, gave the god a casual stare, and walked off; his companions in tow as they passed through the now opened doors of the Great Hall.
Gwyndolin ensured that the sentinels outside didn't attack them and when he could no longer see their forms in the light above, he allowed himself to collapse against the floor.
He panted raggedly. Those events had taken too much out of him. From the mental exertion to the physical fatigue, he was completely spent. His body had lost too much blood and his snakes were the worse for wear, with severed heads and missing scales that could have been used by Borgus if they weren't just illusions.
The Throne Room and Great Halls was also a matter he would have to fix. Besides the torrents of blood covering the walls, floor and pillars, there was also the issue of how much smaller his army had become now that Argon's party had decided to have a field day with his Knights. Not only that but he had allowed a phantom to invade the castle, a mistake Ornstein would have chastised him for if he had the authority, the poor scholar of his elder brother.
Be that as I may, the god sighed out in exhaustion. Surely his divulging of the truth would be considered as a good deed that availed him some comfort at night. Dealing with Argon would have been a feat any god would have struggled with, as such; he felt was entitled to a rest.
Just as Gwyndolin was about to summon the last of his magical reserves to get him the Izalith out of his dilapidated Throne Room, his senses registered the life-force of someone that had been in the castle from the time he had been fighting Argon. He had been foolish not to have noticed it sooner, it was a dire mistake when he was currently so weak. Nevertheless, they were here, he might as well deal with them now rather than regret it later.
With a groan, Gwyndolin rose back onto his snakes, a focussed look replacing his tired features. "Who goes there?" he bellowed, the echo bouncing off of the walls and between the thick pillars. He sensed the intruder stop moving and he turned towards the stairs connecting the Great Hall to the Throne Room.
"Show thineself, interloper! I am Gwyndolin, Lord of the Darkmoon, son of Gwyn. If thou seek' eth audience with me, they may come forth."
The god waited a moment before he heard the clinking of chainmail against armour as the person climbed the stairs to reach him. Gwyndolin prepared himself for another battle, just in case, making his snakes tense and lift their heads in preparation to strike.
But when the figure finally came into focus from the stairwell, the god had to raise an eyebrow in surprise. He had certainly not been expecting something like this to wander into the castle, and to find audience with him, no less. Suddenly, an idea lit behind his turquoise eyes, making him smile broadly. For once, it appeared that bastard, luck, was on his side for a change. He shook his thoughts away before regarding the figure before him, placing a hand under his pale chin.
"How interesting…"
Add that to the… what was that arc called again?
- Arc Chiaroscuro.
Great name, awesome meaning!
- you sure you want to call it that. Looks a bit too complicated for people that don't read a thesaurus like you and I.
You and I are the SAME person. And no, that word isn't complicated. People use it in art and film, plus it's Italian, damn it! Why wouldn't I use it?
- you're right. And thank the reader that offered it up. Why this idiot didn't think of something like that is beyond me.
Shut up! Now, let's add it to the word bank ;p
Word bank
1. Pluviophile – (n.) a lover of rain; someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days.
2. Petrichor – [pet-ri-kuhr] the scent of rain on dry ground.
3. Alexithymia – (n.) the inability to express your feelings.
4. Chiaroscuro – (n.) the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting. An effect of contrasted light and shadow.
Firstly, I must say sorry for being afbesik-
-speak in English (*smacks Mihairu7 with a frying pan)
Yeouch! Where the hell do you find a frying pan every time you want to hit me?!
-I'm not going to answer that. Besides, I'm pretty sure you spelled that word wrong.
I did not! Anyways… sorry for being away for so long; increased workload, a boatload of new orders to be delivered and just general finals have kept me busy thus far. Damn pandemic's not even giving me time to shave-
-nobody cares.
I will asphyxiate you!
-…
Ahem! I will post the next chapter as soon as I possibly can, I want to make up for a full month of inactivity. Please note that I will in no way EVER leave this fic unfinished, or any other for that matter, at times I'm just really busy. However, I started this fic with decent upload times, and I don't want to throw that away.
If you guys are wondering what Argon's mask looks like exactly; imagine Ciaran's one but just plain white. The eyeholes I mention are shaped like the following symbol: ' ~ '
I wanted to make him wear a cooler one like Haku's Hunter-nin one or Yoshimura's One-Eyed Owl mask but… that would be both a terrible idea and a crossover, and you all know how I feel about 98% of crossovers.
Regarding Gwyndolin's thoughts about The Ringed City, I will not be adding that journey to this fic. I aim to dedicate this story solely to DS 1 lore with one or two mentions of the other games. In the future, I might write a DS 3 fic that occurs after Kingdom Come's events, but I doubt Argon will be there. I'm thinking along the lines on making Gwyndolin the MC. There aren't enough fics of him currently, as it is. Perhaps I'll give Argon a cameo appearance or something… I'll decide that after I've written this fic and its spin-off. Thank you to the readers and reviewers that support where I'm going with all this, it really means a lot to me.
Please do R and R, as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions. Why you ask? Well, because those very thoughts and opinions could be brilliant ideas that I haven't thought of yet; ones that could make this fic all the more interesting to read.
Have a splendid day/afternoon/evening/youknowthedrill and don't become another bloody statistic on some governmental sheet of paper. Stay home, eat your vegetables, take your vitamins and be wise, scrutinize! (Ooh! That last one rhymed!)
-I said nobody cares, now stop doing that.
That's it, come here and be smothered to death!
(*grabs illogical self and coddles him like a child)
-and you call Argon insane.