Oh, I've been waiting for this arc for quite a long time.
-and why is that?
We finally get to see the clash between Seath and Havel, the discord of a strange draconic family and let's not forget our MC's fluctuating plectrum into pseudo-insanity.
-those are quite interesting plots to investigate. Personally, I favour the reunion between Argon and Logan.
Ah, yes, you were always a stickler for the bond those two shared. Which is rather odd, now that I think about it… I liked Logan, I just didn't fancy a partnership between the two. But you do… why is that when you are me?
-the particulars aside, let's begin the story.
Chrysanthemum!
-uh… okay? What was that all about?
I don't know, it just popped into my head.
-I somehow understand you there.
Splendid! Now, on witg- agh!
-what's the matter now?
I bith my thung. Oopths!
If the roles had been reversed this time around, Priscilla was sure Argon would call unwanted snooping into a person's bubble 'insightfully intuitive probing', or some other nonsense that possessed a strange form of logic to the extravagant label.
Unfortunately, this time around it was he that was on the receiving end of the analysing tool called a woman's intuition. Of course, it wasn't very difficult to see that he was already troubled by many things, including the truth that had been nearly lost to the wind itself.
As much as she would have liked to assault her uncle with a volume of connotative insults that would make even his snakes slither back in fear at her formal vulgarity, she knew he meant well. He had been left desperate after living alone for so many decades whilst watching his home slowly erode away as the flame of the Kiln lost its glow. How could she not sympathise with him when she had been in the exact same boat?
However, the only thing that struck her as odd was Argon's response to such a bounty of information so valuable, it would cost more than a few kingdoms' and then some. That being said, it wasn't really unlike the undead to act opposite from the norm, but this was just strange, even in his case.
He had shown a vast dislike to being lied to, going as far as to avoid entering the Shining City at all costs. That alone explained his repulsion after coming to understand part of the truth. Thereafter he had battled her uncle to the death twice as a show of his bottled-up anger and rage – the memory of all that blood of his decorating the walls and floor still made her shiver uncomfortably. And she didn't want to even mention how his entire right side was now covered in those abyssal vines.
Yet, when Gwyndolin had explained everything, Argon had done nothing to express his feelings. Everyone who had had the pleasure – or displeasure – of travelling with the man knew that he was vocal in everything, private or public issues mattered not to him. So why hadn't he, the one who had been lied to and used the most, spoken out or even reprimanded her uncle for his misdeeds?
It would be foolish to imagine that the masked undead didn't care about the curse and perils caused by the Undead Quest, but at the same time it was difficult to pin point whether he did hold a proper opinion to what was going on around him. After they had departed from Firelink, he had begun to drift farther and farther away from her, and she didn't like it.
Normally the invisible distance he would place between himself and her, or even Sir Havel would be easily broken by mere conversation. However, what she felt now whilst walking behind a humming Argon was akin to a poisonous moat instead of some flimsy boundary.
The change wasn't simple to detect, but herself and the ex-Archbishop had been around the Chosen Undead long enough to notice when something was significantly different. A prime example would be how he had asked Sir Havel and herself to leave whilst he conversed with Gwyndolin one last time.
Perhaps 'asked' would be a kinder word because it had felt more like a command. Argon wasn't a man of violence or arrogance outside of battle. In fact, if he hadn't been the Chosen Undead to begin with or been trained in combat; Priscilla reasoned that Argon would probably have been one of the best scholars the world had ever seen. That was why his cold response to Sir Havel's questions shocked her. The face he had worn and the rage he had exuded was as if he was a different person. Granted, she had seen his bloodlust and animalistic tendencies when he had been near-hollow, but this was vastly diverse. It was almost as if the Argon she knew had been replaced by this wrathful duplicate.
And it wasn't just her that thought that, Sir Havel had also been throwing glares at Argon's back. He too must have known something was amiss. Besides being alive for more than humanly possible, the Bishop was a man of great wisdom. That short scuffle of conversation had been more than enough information to awaken his curiosity and bolster his anger at the fact that the undead he followed was behaving like a cowardly lion.
Priscilla sighed out as she and her companions walked in silence towards the marble lift. She absently cast a glace toward the Painting Hall. That had been the first place she had stepped in when Argon had freed her from Ariamis' world. Back then he had been quirky, sharp and mildly guarded with his emotions. She assumed that it was due to being alone for so long that his trust was difficult to earn. That was why he had remained tight-lipped about his past, who he was and what he really felt.
She turned her emerald eyes to his form as the cool shade of the structure before them covered their heads. Now he seemed silent, closed-off and almost cynical in his answers. After all that had occurred, she wondered how the cheerful and lively Argon she knew had changed so quickly within the blink of an eye.
She knew it had something to do with the events that occurred after they had left him in the Great Hall. He had only looked, felt and sounded monotone after they had returned to his side. It was why she chastised herself for not listening to her gut feeling in that moment. Why she hated herself when she had agreed to Sir Havel's opinion that he needed time to himself. She of all people should have known that a man like him who had suffered so much didn't require time alone, he need company!
With all he had faced, weathered and experienced alone in a land brimming with danger at every corner, what she should have done was stand by his side, regardless of what he himself said to placate her fears. Sir Havel wasn't to blame because he wouldn't have known Argon like she did, he didn't understand how the undead was wired to force himself to do everything alone; how due to his loss he contained an uncurable alexithymia1.
Thus, the blame lied with her. Even though she knew it wasn't true, she still felt an ache in her heart. And why wouldn't she? She hadn't been able to help her friend and saviour in the moment he truly needed it. After all he had done for her, she had still let him down.
Why couldn't she have seen the signs sooner? The agony he endured before departure to Anor Londo, the meek persona he had tried to hide when inside the castle. They had both stared her in the face like twin beams of light in the darkness. He would never have asked for her help, of course; he was too modest to ask for anything at all because he had grown up facing everything alone. How could he know to request for help if he didn't even know what the word 'help' meant?
Even so, whether she had failed him or not, she would not give up. Argon was her friend; the closest one she had ever had next to Jeremiah. Besides being her companion, he was also someone she held deeper feelings for. She wouldn't stop in her pursuit to help him even if he refused it, and she would never give up in her mission to understand him because he was too precious a person to allow this cruel world to swallow greedily.
As the trio made their way up the slow lift, Havel echoed the same sentiments as his fluffy-tailed companion. Argon may be a loon, but he had still freed him from a second eternity of imprisonment. Without the undeads annoying voice constantly grating on his nerves, the Bishop would have never been able to leave that Lloyd-forsaken tower or garner the strength and mental stability to exact his revenge again.
Argon may be a completely different man than what he was not long ago, but he was still the man that had given him a second chance, and without a reciprocated cost in return. Other than his careless good deeds, Havel had to admit that the company was actually better than that of the gods themselves. With those positives listed, how could he, an honourable man of the Rock possibly not help a wayward fool and friend in need, even if he himself was lost to this knowledge?
That being said, helping the boy and carrying out the method to his redemption would be a rocky road, their next stop was the Duke's Archives after all…
They reached the end of their stifling ride toward the upper level of Anor Londo. Havel sighed out in relief. The air had been so thick with unnecessary tension that he had been contemplating smashing the marble ring they had been standing on for some kind of distraction. However, thinking back on it now, that would have been a terrible idea. For one, his Dragontooth would have cracked that stone surface into a thousand pieces; and two, at that altitude they would have all fallen to their deaths.
The waning glow of the sun licked the back of Havel's helm, causing him to turn back and admire the view before him. Whether the sun itself was an illusion or the empty streets of a once proud city howled with cold wind, Havel had to respect the last born of Gwyn. He may have been an annoying runt with more feminine qualities than masculine ones, but he had done his father proud, even if the pathetic god wasn't around to appreciate it.
Making a ghostly kingdom look as if it were in its golden age was no small feat and recreating a previously dead sun was even more meritorious. Gwyndolin had done his best with what little resources Gwyn, the firstborn and Gwynevere had left over. He had made the Shining City a place that renewed the hopes of those outside of its alabaster walls, thus sparking a fragment of hope into the lives of many. For that, he deserved the Bishop's respect – even if he still hated all divinity related to that arrogant Lord of Sunlight.
Havel turned back to Priscilla and Argon. Whether the undead was ready or not, they would still need to discuss a strategy for infiltrating and facing the paledrake.
This may be the party's first attempt at wresting a Lord Soul from its holder but there was still no room for carelessness. They were to face the Duke of Anor Londo. Whether there were rumours of his demise or insanity didn't matter at this point. Seath was still an Everlasting Dragon, his power was magnanimous, and his intelligence surpassed even Havel's. In order to clear the obstacle that lay before them and in order for Havel to gain his revenge, a proper plan would be required. What they were stepping into wouldn't be a walk in Darkroot by any means. It would be a bloodshed from the moment they passed through those doors.
Before the ex-Archbishop could even call out to his companions, however, he was interrupted by a maiden dressed in brass armour. What was surprising wasn't the fact that she appeared to be the first other person besides the soldiers of Gwyn that resided in the kingdom, or the fact that the aura from her meant she was a Firekeeper; but the fact that she had engaged in a full-on duel with Argon of all people.
Havel turned his head towards Priscilla who gave him an equal look of confusion before they decided to rush in and assist their comrade but were abruptly stopped by the undeads voice.
"Don't interfere, this is a matter involving me alone."
At first it was nothing but a peculiar scent, something familiar, curious, suspicious; though not something that would have caused her to worry. Then there came the pain in her chest suddenly as she was watching the flames she protected. It had been sudden, simple, agonising, yet fleeting before it had disappeared entirely as if it had never happened in the first place.
After moments of her rash thinking, crude analysis, and worry, she had known that something was wrong but had done nothing to prove it as fact or fiction. Then the scent had returned.
She knew the person who possessed it was nowhere nearby, yet the power of that aroma had grown so thick that it had assaulted her senses at point blank range, causing her body to convulse in response.
For that which had been but an unclear odour had become a choking miasma that blotted out the horizon itself.
She had been a fool not to notice it at first sniff. Although it had been many, many moons since such a revolting and profane sense had assaulted her form, she had allowed herself to become slow, idle to the signs of sin.
That was why, when he had become visible, tangible before her, she had rushed forth to purge that pitiful excuse of life. She had not notified her brethren, nor allowed a break in the kingdom's wards so that otherworldly members of her order could take her place if she failed; for such was her anger at the sight of utter betrayal.
It was true that her duty was to maintain the fire she had been bound to. Yet, it was also true that she was to be a guardian to the Lord she served without question. Her actions where selfish, yes, but if one were in her boots, which route would they choose; to unwillingly guard the flame like some clingy woman, or to take action against those that dare to harm the one being that showed mercy to someone so hated by the world that created her?
Despite what people said about the gods and their greed for superiority, she would have given everything to be on their side time and time again. The reason wasn't because she was a weaker race or because she was loyal to the gods. It was simply because between the two factions, Man was more monstrous than the deity's themselves. For when man had maimed her, broken her and scarred her until she was a living nightmare given warped flesh, Gwyndolin had had mercy. When her own kind had called her ugly and foul, her Lord had carried her in his arms and declared that she possessed unparalleled beauty. For what earthly eyes could not see, the Lord of the Darkmoon could; and he had nurtured that which he had considered wonderful inside her when all she saw and felt was self-disgust.
In her eyes, you could damn the name of Lord Gwyn, cast stones at the statues of Velka and curse the blessings of Fina, Gwynevere and many others all you liked, but nothing they did would compare to the malic of Humanity. They were a weaker race, yes, made to depict the gods themselves but they were filled with a lust for destruction that no amount of death could satisfy and no amount of blood could fill.
That was why she had truly believed in what fragment of a broken heart she still possessed that he would be different from the rest. Untainted, unspoilt by the embrace of a race that was as cruel as it was discriminatory. But she had been wrong.
After his abrupt revival and crazed words, he had become like those that had broken her. His ominous birth right that declared him a vessel of humanity had sullied her Lord, and in turn putrefied his own self.
She knew that he had suffered far worse than anything she had, which was why she had cast her ballet of hope into his destiny to ascension. She had thought that, since he had not been reformed by the harshness of the world he was endeavouring to save, he would be the one to fix the fractured minds of the human race entirely. But perhaps such a hope had been too selfish of her. He was also human, like she once was, and was prone to make mistakes at some point. She just didn't think that would be possible for him, who had braved much and still possessed a strong spring in his steps after each hurdle. Perhaps that by witnessing his unusual luck and perseverance, she had made herself believe that he was not capable of failure? Whether or not that was the reason, she had never anticipated that this would be the path he would have chosen.
His companions stood stark still in confusion as she rushed him, blades at the ready. They probably wondered why a mere Keeper would do such a thing; did they forget that she was Darkmoon Blade before she was a guard dog to the Flame?
Nevertheless, she did not relent in her attack. They were swift, quick and deadly; as a swordsman should be, woman or not. That being said, he had still dodged all of them without even raising his fist. How infuriating that it was the Chosen Undead of all people that would sin against the gods.
As she stepped back to gain her breath, he signalled for his advancing companions not to interfere, and he was correct in what he said. This was a matter that only involved him. It would be both stupidity and unchivalrous to involve a goddess and an archbishop in such an affair, especially considering that both titles directly contradicted the sin that their companion carried.
Without waiting for him to draw his weaponry, she dashed forward again, stabbing with her estoc; once, twice, thrice, and backstepped before swiping at him with her dagger, blunt as it was. She landed a single cut on his oddly made coat fitted with knives. He was just as skilled as her brethren had reported him to be. And that was the problem.
Under normal circumstances, the virtuous thing to do was allow your foe to at least equip his shield before this spell began, but this was not the time for righteousness. He had sinned against the gods, as such, the likes of chivalry and kindness could never be afforded to betrayers of divinity. He was not a phantom either, which made him nothing more than a speck of dirt on one's boot that demanded immediate cleansing.
He had not summoned any arms from his infinite armoury yet, even though he could have used the moment she lunged forward again to his advantage to impale her with a polearm. Instead, he merely side-stepped before back-peddling; it was the most annoying thing in the world.
Was he not taking this seriously, or did he think this was amusing since she was a woman? No, he knew the gravity of his actions well; and his companion was the niece of her Lord, so he wouldn't think like that of an arrogant steward. So why was he still unarmed? Why did he not defend himself? Surely, he knew she would not stop until either of them was lying dead on the warm ground, right?
She didn't wait for an answer. As an alternative, she slashed with her estoc, twisted with her dagger splayed and lashed out with a fast kick to the side of his calf. In turn, he leaned away from her blade, twisted when her dagger came near, and caught her boot with a counter-kick. He did so all without losing a single ounce of energy.
He pushed her back after a moment of their stillness and she stumbled, anger filling her sight behind her visor as she crouched.
She had known that he was suffering with the effects of the Abyss, such compensation was only natural after he had declared besting an ancient evil not even Knight Artorias could win against. Although calling the effects of the abyss motive for his rash change in persona was a weak excuse. Surely, the reason had to be something else. A break in the soul, an ulterior motive, a secondary agenda, maybe a secretive mission to destroy Lordran instead of save it? It just had to be one of those reasons. It would be the only way to explain this heart-breaking turn of events that caused her hope to shatter, and her morality to be questioned.
How had he become like this? What happened for him to take wrongful actions against the side of Light and call it just? Was it because he didn't believe that the side of Gwyndolin and the relinking of the Flame was the right choice? If that was so then what else did he propose to do, allow the Age of Man to prosper? That was madness, even for the undeads case. He was much smarter than that to allow such a thing to happen.
Even though her duty was to deliver judgement to the sinful, she knew she could not win this sorry excuse for a battle. She may have been the strongest of the Darkmoon Blades and the right hand of her Lord, but against a form of untold power such as him, she was fighting a losing battle. The act of him fighting bare handed was enough proof to support such a statement.
The odds wouldn't have even been in her favour if her brethren were here to support her. And in the non-existent chance that she actually did manage to gain the opportunity to strike the killing blow, his companions would break their given command and rush in to help. As if facing someone who had the potential to become the strongest being in the world wasn't difficult enough, she would also be facing the trusted comrade of Lord Gwyn during the Age of Ancients, and the cross breed goddess of Gwynevere. In terms of strength, she would rank lower than the Royal Sentinels next to these three.
She was panting as she stepped back from her latest flurry of attacks and sweat was beginning to make her damaged skin chaff against her armour and obscure her vision, all while he stood stationary. She saw the heterochromatic glow of his eyes from behind his mask as evening began to creep in. She wondered if they looked at her breathless form with pity or contempt, although disagreeing with the latter – even if he had sinned, he was still not a man to display such lesser emotions.
The Archbishop and Princess remained where they were. Sir Havel was a stoic well… rock, and the Princess the complete opposite. Her heart was worn on her cheek as she stared wide-eyed at both of them, wondering why and what had caused such a development. Truthfully, she wondered the same as the goddess but didn't offer an answer. She was about to die anyways, what was the point of answering something Lord Gwyndolin himself probably couldn't explain?
Mustering up the last reserves of her strength, she decided to walk forward – there was no use rushing to your death, after all. As she did so, she memorised the shape of the area she stood in, the colours reflected by the setting sun. She pondered on how she would never get the chance to see it rain in Anor Londo and how she loved it when the glowing moon rose into the sky, reminding her of the god she served and adored with all her heart.
As she entered into Argon's personal space and swung her blade, she thought about how her brethren would miss her, and how when she did fall, her bonfire would be snuffed out just like her own short lifespan.
The undead before her continued to duck, dodge and side-step her attacks but she was relentless, flowing like a raging river with each strike. She would not let up, she would not back down for she was a Blade of the Darkmoon, an embodiment of the arbiter's that judge the sinful.
She watched intently as Argon's body moved just as smoothly. First, he avoided her dagger before knocking it out of her hand. Then he allowed her kick to strike his thigh, which he reciprocated with a boot of his own that took the wind out of her sails. As she dropped to her knees, she desperately jabbed with her estoc. Her eyes widened in shock when he opened his hand and received the attack.
The sound of metal touching flesh wasn't as loud as she would have thought, but the blood that sprayed against her was quite significant. Time seemed to slow down as she watched her blade impale his palm until the hilt. She would have stabbed his mask as well if her blade were any longer, but he had decided to grab the guard of the blade before that happened and bent her wrist. She cried out in pain as he forced her fist into an unnatural position. Even as his grip threatened to break her hand, she wondered how he hadn't even uttered a sound when she had stabbed him, or how his grip was still this vice-like.
He brought his face closer to hers and her eyes were blinded by an amber and violet glow. As she began to see her life flash before her eyes, it was only then that he began to speak.
Argon watched the Brass Keeper struggle in vain as he held her sword arm in his grip. He knew that it had to come at some point, it was just a shame that it had to happen. Thus was the price of peeling the scales from one's eyes, was it not?
Even so, he hated the fact that all he saw before him was a defeated knightess on her knees. He had felt it in her attacks but after seeing her aura with his right eye, he knew that resigned persona when he saw it. She had faced him in battle as was her job, but she had come at him with the acceptance that it was in vain. If there was one thing he hated at that very moment, it was her lack of conviction. For someone so devoted to Gwyndolin, she wasn't very good at deciding for herself the eventualities of her fate. Since that was the case, he had decided that perhaps she needed the motivation she was lacking.
"That's it, huh?" he asked as he came closer to her, his gaze fixed on the eyes hidden behind that brass helm. "I knew you were neutral but not acquiescent."
"What purpose would fighting back do? It's clear that you would be the victor."
Argon grunted before pulling her up by the sword that was still embedded in his hand. He would need to get himself another Estus flask when this was over.
"So, you loved Gwyndolin but not enough to continue living for him?"
She turned her helm to him and stared. It appeared he had hit the nerve he was looking for.
"Whatever hope I had has been crushed."
"Oh, don't start blaming everything on me," Argon pointed a thumb behind him, "these two already do that on a daily basis."
The two people in question replied with a look of embarrassment and a short grunt, respectfully.
"You were a fool to place all your aspirations in me in the first place. I may have been human but I'm certainly not your saviour."
The Brass Keeper shrugged her shoulders weakly in reply. It seemed his words weren't getting through to her at all. In fact, it seemed like she was only bothering to answer him for the sake of it.
Well there goes the easy approach.
Argon sighed as he tugged her sword away from her. As if her submissive voice was bad enough, now even her movements were weak-willed and monotone. The undead muttered under his breath as he tossed the blade to the ground carelessly. At least the bite of her blade had more go than she did, it almost hurt when it had pierced his palm to the hilt.
He spared another look at the Keeper before him. Her neutrality was all but gone now. That previously clipped tone she used to use had vanished, and her usual logical answers were now slathered in pessimism. He would bet that if he removed her helm, she would resemble a zombie. It was a shame that his mere appearance had done this much to her, and he honestly despised himself for it. However, what she needed was to realize that believing in him to live up to prehistoric expectations was just foolishness, imprudence without thought. It was time she learned that.
"Gwyndolin wasted his time on you." The knightess turned her visor to him as he walked around her.
"I honestly thought he kept you around so he could have a bit of girl-time, but after he mentioned that you were his go-to subordinate… I'm just disappointed."
"Argon!" Priscilla gasped. She had been expecting a change in her companion but to think he would purposefully degrade someone for the fun of it was going too far. She took a step forward to give him a piece of her mind but stopped when Havel held out his arm in front of her. She turned her gaze to the Bishop's helmed face in confusion. Was he going to allow Argon to say such things when this woman who had help both of them was at her weakest?
She knew there was probably a very good reason she had attacked the masked undead – the fight with her uncle looked like a pretty good one to her – but he wasn't just defeating her in battle, he was making her feel inferior. After he had saved Queelan and become enraged that the Keeper in Firelink had perished, he should have known better than to put down someone who had already known what it was like to suffer. Yet for some reason, Havel found it relevant that things should run its course? Either both men were insensitive or there was something she was really missing out on.
"Don't 'Argon' me, you know it as well as I do that she's wasted space. What was fem-boy thinking when he made her his second-in-command? Was he in need of some feminine atmosphere that he just got any old broad to be his Blade? How pathetic."
"Take that back."
"Hmm, what was that?" Argon asked looking back at a trembling knightess.
"I said take that back." She repeated as she rose to her feet.
"And why should I? Is my bad-mouthing also considered a sin, now? Are you going to try and kill me again for calling things as they are?"
The three of them watched as the Keeper curled her hands into fists and approached Argon. she seemed ready for round two.
"You can say what you want about me, I don't care." She stopped walking when she was mere inches away from Argon's mask.
"But don't you dare speak a word against Lord Gwyndolin with that blasphemous mouth of yours."
Argon scoffed before rapping against her helm with his knuckle. He was mildly amused that she had enough fire in her to stare him down, let alone want to engage in a fistfight.
"Blasphemous, am I? Then what would that manipulating son of bitch be considered?"
It seemed that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Before the undead knew it, he was forced to dodge a fast left-hook, followed by a kick aimed for his chest. He uttered a chuckle when her attempt to trip him failed and returned the gesture with a quick slap to her back, sending the knightess stumbling forward.
"Argon, this isn't you. Please stop this." Priscilla begged but it fell on deaf ears as she watched the two collide. This time it was the Keeper that was on the defensive as Argon fired off open palm strikes to the woman's shoulders, waist, and chest. When his combination of hits had finished, he had begun to use his legs; using his boot to strike the knightess' ankle, chest and helm in quick succession before delivering a strong roundhouse. The sound of her brass armour scraping against the clean tiles was like someone had dropped an anvil into a quiet library.
"Sir Havel, we need to stop him," the cross breed breathed in desperation as she attempted to push away the Bishop's arm. "he's not in the right state of mind and if this continues, he'll end up killing her."
Although a simple duel of hand-to-hand combat wasn't that fatal, Argon was pitted against the Keeper of Anor Londo. If she was dead set on killing him after he had tried to claim Gwyndolin's soul then she would not tire in her attempts now that she had been riled up. Argon wouldn't intentionally kill her but if she continued her way of attack then she would collapse from exhaustion, and that armour didn't look like it would comfort her fall.
Other than that, she didn't know what the undead was thinking in that head of his. If he was suddenly struck by a lucky shot to the face, there was fear that he might start allowing that violent split-personality of his to take over. And personally, she didn't want to see someone who had accepted them into her domain die due to hate-speech and taunting. Hopefully Sir Havel's thoughts copied her sentiments. If she could get him on board then this needless fight would end.
"She will be fine, Priscilla."
"S-Sir Havel?" the cross breed paled as she stared at the unmoving Archbishop.
"Just watch."
She couldn't believe it. Even the honourable Havel the Rock was content to watch as a Firekeeper was beaten to a bloody pulp. She wouldn't stand for it.
With a mighty shove, she managed to force Havel's arm down and began to approach the two people engaged in a pointless battle. However, as she was about intervene, Havel's shadow covered her form before she was yanked back by the arm around her waist.
"Sir Havel! Let me go at once, this battle needs to be stopped!"
"I told you to watch, now don't make me say it again, dammit." The Bishop grumbled; his eyes focused on the two before him. He didn't like the idea of watching a woman getting pummelled either, but there was a method to Argon's madness that he wanted to see play out, even if Priscilla didn't see recognise it yet. Argon had become different, that was true, but his actions and motives were still the same. That sole reason was why he refused to intervene. His trust in the undead was unwavering, and he would be damned if he were to just see the broken man as a completely different person just because he had had enough of the lies clouding his judgement.
Perhaps the reasons for his companion snapping and lashing out at Gwyndolin were more complex than Havel gave them credit for – and if he trusted his gut then they definitely were – however, right now he understood his companion. And however messed up his methods were, he was content to allow the undead to play them out until the end. He just hoped that their cross breed would soon figure it out and feel the same.
"What do you care whether I slander fem-boy's name?" Argon pondered, ducking from a punch and retaliating with a solid knee to the Keeper's helm. "Weren't you content with dying a few minutes ago?"
"You have no right to bring Lord Gwyndolin into this!"
"You're right, I don't." Argon blocked a gauntlet aimed for his mask. "I just enjoy making things personal."
The knightess growled as she advanced, hands raised to strike. However, it was only after she had madly dashed forward that she realised the error of her ways. In a flash, Argon planted his knee into her midsection. Although she was wearing armour to compensate, the force in that raised leg caused her platemail to buckle. He followed up with an elbow to her helm and she spun before hitting the floor.
She scurried to get to her feet and when she opened her mouth to breathe, she felt warm blood running out from her nose. Still filled with anger that he would violate her master's name, she blindly ran forward. This time it only took him one strike to knock her down. Her armour clattered loudly as she skidded across the floor, panting like an overworked hound.
"You… will pay for… your foul words."
Argon harrumphed as he stared at the downed woman. "Do you really think that's possible? Look at you."
The Keeper gasped as she shakily rose to her feet. The undead uttered another tired sigh as he cracked his knuckles.
"At least that hopeless fool could have trained you better… what use is getting back up anyways? Was fem-boy proficient in teaching his subjects how to be masochists too?"
"Lord Gwyndolin… is the greatest master I know, and he means everything to me." She replied weakly. It was clear she couldn't continue fighting, yet she still limped towards him until his shadow covered her form. With some effort, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. "Do not sully his name. Say what you will about me instead. I've no purpose in this life anyways…"
Argon narrowed his eyes at the woman.
"Is that so?" he asked. When she didn't reply he shrugged his shoulders. The silence that settled over the four of them lasted only a few seconds before the sound of warped metal filled the air. When the Keeper looked forward, she saw Argon's fist buried in her abdomen.
The woman choked before a mouthful of blood erupted from her mouth, pouring out of her visor like rainwater through and aqueduct. The force of the strike was so great even her feet had left the ground for a moment. As stars began to fill her line of sight, she saw the undeads boot coming toward her face but was too weak to even register the pain as she sent skidding across the floor once again. She knew the Chosen Undead was powerful, but this was beyond her imagination.
"Stop it Argon, you're going to kill her!" she heard Priscilla plead and managed a weak laugh. Wasn't she already dead inside?
Argon looked at the woman laying on the floor before him, a fist-sized dent in her armour. He had thought that she would understand, given her past was similar to his own. He knew that his decision to try and slay a god might have been one of his more idiotic ideas but his choice was something she should have understood at a single glace.
Yet, here they all stood. In this mess of emotions, time and place; and she thought she had nothing to live for? The sight of that pitiful form on the ground annoyed him. It didn't matter whether she had placed all of her trust and hopes on his shoulders, he would not take responsibility for something so freely given on a whim. She was indecisive too. One moment she wanted to die by his hand, the next she wanted to protect Gwyndolin's name.
She, like him, was a disorientation of feelings that needed sorting. Perhaps it was all the time spent up here, alone with her own thoughts and idleness that caused her to be like this. Even so, it was agitating that she behaved as if there was nothing left for her in this sham of a world, especially considering the fact that she still had everything.
It made him angry, thirsty to empty both her body and soul onto the floor for her stupidity, but her relented. Instead, he walked up to her panting body and lifted her by the hinge of her breastplate. It was almost like lifting the lid of a chest if he ignored the clinking metal and wheezing breaths she gave.
When she was on her knees and staring up at him, he used his other hand to lift her helm and throw it behind him. What stared back at him was a face of gruesome appearance. It was difficult to tell if she was even alive with that glassy stare of hers.
"I you have no purpose in life, why are you trying to hard, huh?" her hairless eyebrows twitched for a moment before furrowing in thought. "You should have died after I punched you, but for some reason you're still clinging to a life you want to so freely give away."
The Keeper stared at the floor. It was clear she didn't know the answer.
"People like you are detestable. Instead of desperately grabbing onto the only life you have, you choose to give it away after your expectations are shot down, and reality begins to seep in. You refuse to acknowledge the truth and shatter your own bones to escape it.
"But what you don't realise is that the truth you try to run away from is the one you frantically yearn for. What pisses me off though is the fact that you have a purpose but choose to squander it."
"How bold of a betrayer."
Argon snarled under his mask before wrapping his hand around her throat. "Rejoice in the news that you have another route to walk through. Your life may feel like agony, but it's nothing compared to the suffering of so many others. At least you have a master to serve, most don't even have a father."
The knightess looked at him, her thoughts swirling in her head like a muddy river.
"But how can a face like mine even deserve a second chance?"
Argon raised an eyebrow before pulling his mask off. His multi-coloured eyes stared deeply into hers. "Does it look like mine does?" she stared at the black veins contrasting against the pale white complexion.
Argon released his hold on her before drawing his Velkian rapier. The occultic magic seeped into his system before the world turned monochrome around him, blanketing the Keeper, Havel and Priscilla in a shadowy silhouette. The urge to use it was intoxicating, yet he ignored the temptation as he dropped it at the knightess' feet; and immediately all colour returned to his senses.
"You're not worth staining my hands. So, if you want an end to a life you see as worthless, use that sword. However, if you know yourself, and I know you do, you'll remember that there's still one person worth living for."
Argon watched as the knightess lowered her hands to grasp the hilt of the blade but stopped, her fingers a hairs breadth away. She looked up to him.
"Is that really all it takes?"
"I don't care about this world, its people or its plans. However, as long as there's a single person I hold dear, I'll fight until I make their prosperity a reality, regardless of what it costs me." Argon put his mask back on and walked toward the east corridor. The Keeper watched as Havel dragged a confused Priscilla with him to follow their companion.
"Death is not a mercy." Argon stated when he was under the entrance of the building leading to the Duke before he turned around, the pale moonlight now shining upon his mask. "At least, not for you and me."
And then he and his companions left, leaving behind nothing but her battered body and the influx of her thoughts.
"HAH! Yes! … oh, bloody hell that hurts."
"I warned you that jumping was unwise."
"No, you told me that I should jump at the bug and it would recoil from shock."
"Dear me… what was I thinking?"
"HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?!"
Laurentius caught himself as the pain flooded his mind again. It was not comforting to have lava sprayed into an open wound. It was even less pleasant to be told by the person that told you to do it that you were an idiot for attempting to do it in the first place.
"Come now, don't sulk about such paltry matters. At least we killed it."
Solaire was right about that, at least. They had been thrown around the cavern like ragdolls, sliced and stabbed by those creepy wriggling legs made of iron and sprayed with so much lava that the pyromancer thought he was pretty much clean-shaven by now.
"Still though, for it to only drop a ring is strange." Laurentius mumbled as he pushed the orange accessory out of the boiling liquid fire with the tip of his axe.
"Are you forgetting the many souls we were given?" Solaire said. The pyromancer turned to the glowing yellow phantom who was currently standing in a small puddle of lava. He knew phantoms didn't feel as much pain from an attack compared to the person they were assisting but wasn't he at least a bit aware of his phantasmic feet burning? And how was it possible that he could run on lava without a care in the world?!
When he had first told Laurentius of how he had run from the Centipede Demon they had just killed, he had thought the man insane. However, after witnessing his phantom form sprinting over the stuff whilst defending and attacking, he was beginning to understand just how formidable his new friend was.
"You're right, that was a lot of souls but without a merchant nearby, how can we use it?"
Solaire waved his index finger in the air as he clicked his tongue. The way in which he did so made Laurentius imagine this sly grin on his helmed face.
"Yet again, you forget the things that stand before your eyes, Laurentius."
The pyromancer quirked an eyebrow. "And what have I been missing?"
His glowing friend pointed an overjoyed finger toward the entrance they had previously come though. The swamp-dweller turned around and noticed the bonfire from before softly cracking in the distance.
"You want us to use our souls in that way?"
"Weaponry and armour aren't the only way to strengthen oneself. As undead, we have the ability to transcend human means. With that knowledge, a good way to sharpen your sword is to become your sword."
Laurentius nodded along with the man's logic. He was right, one of the reasons undead are so feared is due to their ability to use souls to become faster, stronger, and even smarter if the conditions are met. Whilst possessing the best armour and weapons affordable to you was a great way to become indominable, buffing up on souls was like spiking your Estus flask with Power Within to give it an extra kick.
The pyromancer gulped a mouthful from his Estus before turning back to Solaire. "With the way you word things, you and Argon could be brothers."
"I'm sorry, did you say 'Argon'?!" the knight asked with excitement brimming in his voice.
Yet again, Laurentius frowned in confusion. It was like someone had just flipped a switch that made him go from serious to exuberant. "Um… yes. Do you kno-"
"PRAISE THE SUN!"
"Wha- Hey, why are you hugging me?" he stared at the knight in confusion as he glomped Laurentius in a bear hug, only to faze right through him and fall to the floor, splashing lava and boiling hot pebbles everywhere.
"Well this is odd." Solaire stated plainly as he sat on the floor before jumping up, unintentionally throwing a handful of melting stones at the swamp-dweller.
"Oi! Watch the lava!" Laurentius cried as he jumped back. Most of his clothing had already been melted thanks to that ugly bug with the face. He didn't want to lose anymore, lest he be running around Izalith without a shirt or trousers on. He wasn't like his masked friend that chose to fight every invader he came across bare.
"So you know Argon, huh?" he asked Solaire, who was patting off imaginary dust from his clothes.
"Indeed. He was the first one that I came across who didn't mind my appearance or manner of communication."
"That does sound like him."
"Although, now that I think about it with a clearer head, he was rather strange as well. Perhaps more peculiar than I!" the knight laughed heartily. Laurentius couldn't resist doing the same. That sounded a lot like Argon.
"How is he? Last I saw, we were in the Kingdom of Sunlight."
"You travelled with Argon to Anor Londo?" Laurentius was wide-eyed. He knew Solaire was strong, but he didn't think he was that strong. Then again, if he were to think about travelling with that undead, it made sense that you needed to be powerful to accompany him. He wasn't one to boast, but he did do his fair share of adventuring with said masked undead and his fluffy-tailed companion, so he wasn't out of the running just yet.
Even so, for the yellow knight to claim that he made it to the Shining City was not a joke someone could simply dismiss. Solaire must have been extremely powerful to manage braving Sen's Fortress, and with a maniacal Chosen Undead in tow.
"Accompany him? I'm afraid not." The pyromancer paused and regarded Solaire with a blank expression.
"Pardon me… what was that, mate?"
"You have been pardoned," Solaire chimed with what the swamp-dweller could imagine was a smile behind that helm. "unfortunately, I was not with the brave soul when I ventured into Anor Londo. If I remember correctly, it was only during my tenth morning that he and I crossed paths inside of the castle walls." He finished, a hand under where his chin would have been.
Laurentius, for his part, simply sweat-dropped. If he was to believe the glowing knight with a smiling sun on his chest correctly, it was that he had gone into Sen's Fortress, a universal death trap, managed to reach the top of that living nightmare and enter the sacred kingdom that was Anor Londo. Thereafter, he had spent ten full days there and pulled off entering the castle where he and Argon were reunited.
If he were to process this information carefully – and he was doing so with utmost care – it would mean that Solaire was not only the second person in history to enter the Shining City but also strong enough to get there by his own strength.
The pyromancer took a moment to stare at his phantasmic companion once again. Solaire was busy doing that thing he did when he was first summoned. He looked kind of like an eagle if he looked at it from a certain angle. He was also murmuring something incoherent that Laurentius couldn't make out.
The pyromancer simply deflated at the sight and sighed, placing a hand on his head.
Yep, another crazy crackpot with more than a few bolts missing… where do they all come from?
"Ah, that's right, I nearly forgot," Solaire spoke up and dug a hand into his pouch before tossing something to Laurentius. "here you go."
The swamp-dweller caught it and splayed his fingers to get a better look at the object he was given. It looked like a circular relief of some kind at first, but after considering its weight, size, and familiar smiling sun emblem, Laurentius came to understand that it was actually a medal. Strangely it was also oddly warm, and he didn't mean hot because they were in Izalith, but warm as in it felt rather soothing to the skin.
"A gift from me to you." Solaire stated. "You found my summon sign by its brilliant aura, and we both engaged in jolly co-operation. For that, we are no longer mere acquaintances but friends, brothers of the rising sun."
The explanation made Laurentius smile. It wasn't every day you found a person as friendly as Solaire, especially in conditions like these. It was even rarer for a person to just simply announce that they were your ally after less than a few hours together.
"Thanks mate."
"My pleasure."
Solaire was very much an oddity like their masked friend, but he was like the pleasantness of the first sip from a fresh pint of ale. Someone so refreshing and warm that he didn't mind the strangeness at all.
He gazed at the medal in his hand again. This served as more than a show of goodwill, but an olive branch that you would be hard-pressed to find anywhere else in Lordran, maybe even the world. He would treasure this, perhaps even invite him to meet his soon-to-be squeeze if he survived down here in the belly of the beast called Izalith.
"Wait, hold on just a moment…" Laurentius pocketed the medal and withdrew his bottomless box from another pouch under his Izalith coat.
Solaire watched his new friend with interest as he raised a miniature-sized chest in his palm before dropping it to the ground. His eyes nearly bugged out of his visor when the tiny trinket grew to the size of treasure chest that slammed against the floor with a loud crash, sending hot rocks in every direction – including through his phantasmic form.
"My… well that was a very interesting thing to observe." The knight said as the pyromancer threw open the lid of his chest and dug his arms into it.
It took him some time before he gave a shout of triumph and took something out of the box before tossing it as Solaire. The knight had to jump to catch the unexpected projectile before he turned it over and stared at it with curious eyes.
The familiar warmth was the first thing he noticed, followed by the reassuring weight before he saw the identical smiling sun on the flat surface of the circular piece of metal.
"Ah! You are already familiar with this custom? How foolish of me, I should have asked first."
"Actually, that was given to me by Argon." Laurentius replied as he pocketed his now tiny version of a chest. The knight blinked. How did he manage to do that? What peculiar magic, and very intriguing to boot. "When he saved me from being eaten in the Depths, he gave that to me as a show of our newfound camaraderie."
"The same Depths where he, myself and that golden knight with the odd swords killed the sewer dragon?"
"You mean it was you guys that killed the Gaping Dragon?!" Laurentius exclaimed in awe, his jaw slack.
"Oh, yes. It was quite feisty but after we severed it's tail… things became easier."
The swamp-dweller was left speechless. He had heard from Griggs and one of the merchants that new lived in Firelink that someone had killed that monstrosity of stink and teeth. To come to the understanding that one of those dragon slayers had been the man in front of him, however, was a great shock. This guy just never failed to amaze him, and he so damn humble about everything!
"Well… we should probably get going then. You said you were resting near another sea of lava like this one, right?"
"Indeed, it's just through that tunnel to the left. Come find me after you've rested at the bonfire. I'm sure that with your help, I may be able to find my own sun down her-"
BOOM!
Both men stopped what they were doing and turned to the tall walls around them. There was silence for a while for the same sound echoed around the area they stood in, shaking the walls and stalactites of rock.
"Um, Solaire… did you hear that?"
"I think I did."
"Do… you know what that was?"
"Not a clue. I wasn't aware of any other demon down here besides the large one at the entrance of the Izalith Rui-"
BOOM!
Both men looked at each other dead in the eye.
"You did manage to slay that lava-oozing beast before coming here… right?"
"No, I used an alternate route to get here."
"There was an alternate route?"
"Well no, I climbed down the walls to the floors not covered in liquid fire," he didn't want to spill the secret that he had been showed an easier method to get to the lower floors just yet. "How did you arrive down here?"
"Oh well…"
"Please don't tell me you ran across that bed of lava as well?"
"Haha… well you see-"
CRASH!
The pair of undead shielded themselves as something gargantuan slammed into the are they were standing in, sending waves of lava and molten rock in all directions. They were lucky enough that the waves subsided by the time they reached the island the pyromancer and phantom were standing in.
Unfortunately, they weren't lucky enough to avoid the spire-tall monster towering above them, covered head-to-toe in oozing liquid flame. It was a beast both men had done their best to avoid when they had first entered into what was left of Izalith. A beast that Eingyi had described as a monster no soul knew much about.
And that monster was named the Ceaseless Discharge.
Laurentius gulped as the demon glared down at the two of them. This was it. He was certainly done for now. There would be no reuniting with his good friend and oddball Argon, no joking around with Priscilla and he wouldn't get the chance to remember how soft the lips of his dear Quelana felt against his own. And of course, this would be last moment he would spend with his new friend, legend and oddball, Solaire.
With a sad look on his beardless features, Laurentius wondered why his luck always ended up with monsters trying to eat him. Perhaps when he finally died, went hollow, got killed by Argon who would know that he failed in his mission and finally went to whatever Heaven existed up there, he would find out…
The beast roared loudly as its red eyes settled on him and Solaire before it began advancing forward. It was slow but those pools of lava growing at its feet would definitely catch up to them soon. It wouldn't take long to melt their skin off from their bones. Probably less than a few minutes at best, he had done the math.
"Buck up, lad, let this not be your final resting place!" Solaire said before giving his cheek a light slap. The pyromancer was forced out of his daze before his mind began thinking of certain tactics to avoid being turned into a crispy undead. He went to take a step forward before a glint caught his eye, forcing him to look down.
It was then that he remembered the ring the Centipede Demon had dropped. With a bit more life in his movements, Laurentius picked up the ring and examined it. He had never seen such a thing before, and if he observed the filigree of ancient runes carved into the band, it was clearly an item of old Izalith.
"Have you an idea, Laurentius?" Solaire asked as he drew his phantasmic sword once more.
"Sort of. Take a look at this ring. Its one made by Izalith."
"And what do you suppose it does?"
The pyromancer shook his head. "No clue. All I know is that it came from the centipede Demon."
"Is that a good thing?"
"Well, when we faced it, it was able to walk on lava."
"Don't all demons in Izalith do so, however?" the knight questioned as he flung a bolt of lightning at the slowly approaching foe. His aim was true, yet it seemed like it did no good. There was a mild crackle of lightning around the forehead of the monster but nothing more.
"Well, yes, but the one we faced just now seemed to be more resistant to it."
"Now would be a good time to prove your point, the beast is almost upon us."
"Maybe it has something to do with this ring." He said finally, making Solaire turn to him.
"So, you mean this ring nullifies the burn of lava?"
"Guess so."
"Are you certain?"
"We won't know unless we try."
Solaire nodded for a moment before taking the ring from Laurentius' hand. "Well, here goes."
"Huh? What do you mea- By Gwyn, why did you throw it at the demon?!"
Solaire turned back to Laurentius in what looked like confusion in an odd sort of way. "Oh… did you have a different plan?"
"Yes, it was to put it on and get the hell out of here. There are two exits, remember?"
"Ahh. I had completely forgotten about that. Terribly sorry."
"It's alright, let's just see what we can do to slow this thing down."
The yellow knight nodded in agreement before both of them turned to the hulking mass of bleeding flame and brimstone. They were about to charge when they noticed that the thing had stopped moving.
Upon closer inspection, it seemed like the thing was in some sort of discomfort before it began to moan. Then the unexpected happened.
As if time itself was reversed, the monster began shrinking dramatically until it was the size of a normal human before it exploded, showering the area around it with lava.
Laurentius flinched as large globules of the substance was sent hurtling towards them. He closed his eyes and raised his arms to shield himself from the brunt of the force when Solaire stepped in front of him, shield raised. The impact of the lava jerked his phantom body but he stood strong.
Both men waited for a few moments before they simultaneously peeked their heads above the shield only to see the form of a pale young man in burnt robes lying unconscious in a pool of lava. Even though the very sight of the man was odd to begin with, it was even more perplexing that he wasn't being eaten alive by the dangerous liquid his body was floating in.
Solaire dropped his shield to his side as Laurentius sighed out in relief. That had just been too close for comfort.
he watched Solaire walk over the lava without a care in the world to stand beside the man. With a tilt of his helmet he crouched down and picked up something that was resting on the pale man's chest before raising it up for Laurentius to see.
The orange glow of the Izalith ring caught the pyromancer's eye before Solaire let out an amused chuckle.
"Well that was easy."
Word Bank
1. Alexithymia – (n.) the inability to express your feelings.
Ze Explanation: The Darkmoon Knightess
I know that the Darkmoon Knightess is called the Darkmoon Knightess, but I found calling her 'the Keeper' and 'the Brass Firekeeper' a better fit. Now, I've done research on why her body is deformed and it stated in a wiki that its due to the surge of humanity in her body that deformed her skin. After learning this, I still wanted her back story to be more tragic so I mention a vague memory of how she was mistreated when she was human. This could mean many things from her being abused, to the xenophobia shown against her like the humans did to Anastasia, etc. I didn't want to be too specific with that, just the fact that her deformity is also due to her time as a human, and one of the reason's Gwyndolin took her under his wing.
The whole lifeless thing Argon hammers out of her is due to Argon not living up to the expectations she had of him. In her mind, after witnessing his unbendable determination, she begins to think that he would be the one to change the mindset of the cruelty of most of humanity. However, after he gains the hostility sin from fighting Gwyndolin, her mind breaks and starts to think that it's all a means to end, thus the complete submission when Argon disarms her.
I can't exactly remember if you possess that eternal sin after killing Gwyndolin in game (probably not) but basically, he has a similar sin like the one you get after killing Gwynevere's illusion. The only difference here is that the sun doesn't disappear. The sin will stay on Argon but it isn't as bad as the one you get after killing Gwynevere. Aaand… that's how my logic chose to make it… yeah. Because trying to kill the creator of said illusion deserves a lesser stain on your personal record, ne?
Other than that, I wanted to explain my take on how the magical rings work in Lordran.
Ze Explanation: The Magical Ring System in Lordran
We know that wearing two is the general maximum a person can wear at a time when in Lordran. My lore (if you could call it that) is that you cannot wear more because the magical buff is just too much for the body to handle since it's like filling a balloon with too much helium. The balloon, like the human body, is flexible, able to exceed its limits but not its genetics. If it exceeds certain parameters of magic, it will explode due to the influx of power, like the balloon. Take the pyromancy 'Power Within' for example; it grants you immense power at the cost of your own life-force. The reason it does that isn't just because it is magic derived from pure flame but because the spell turns your body's abilities into overdrive. Something that you naturally can't handle (I hope that was the correct explanation to use as an example. I haven't been able to play and SoulsBorne games for nearly two years now, dammit. My memory has tiny holes in the important parts that I need).
The magic rings work the same way, pushing the human (and in this case, the undead) body into a supercharged vessel. The magic works wonders, strengthening the body and buffing the capabilities; however, cells in the body can only regenerate so many times before they just die. A constant flow of overwhelming energy and any undead, one with a corrupted Lord Soul included, would simply go poof. They're just not able to handle that much power in a direct, unfiltered method.
However, in rare cases, undead are able to wear a third ring, but even then, it's pushing the envelope rather far. We've already seen Argon use many rings against Gwyndolin, although when you think about it, his mind was broken, he was abyssal and greatly masochistic. So, you could say that all those variables assisted in his overload of power when he used those rings.
With regard to the other games, you'll note that the MC's are not Chosen Undead but 'Bearers of the Curse' and the 'Ashen One'. They can wear more rings for several reasons, most notably though would be the theory that the magical properties of items there aren't as potent as Lordran's (though I doubt that); they're able to wear more of them because they just look cooler, or that the DS 2 and 3 programming was just better than the first one (most likely). So, I'm not contradicting things when I say the max is two rings in this fic.
Oh! I almost forgot to mention the whole Phantom thing. In Game, phantoms cannot speak, I know this. Funny story actually-
-nobody cares.
Shut it. Ahem!
Ze Explanation: The Phantoms In Game and how they can speak
So, originally, I had planned on allowing them to speak but I hadn't created the right plot for it. When writing the first battle between Argon and Kirk, my first idea was to make him physically warp there. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about that little (massive) bit of info and made him appear as a phantom that conversed normally. Also, for some reason Kirk was inflicted with the same wounds he garnered when attacked as a phantom. I think I explained that briefly somewhere in the actual story but it was very vague.
Now, I have not created a theory for this scenario. I just twisted the canon here whereby the phantoms can speak. Sorry if you were expecting some awesome theory of mine. However, now that I think about, perhaps there is a theory regarding this flying around somewhere in my head. So, if I do manage to find that theory, I will present it to you in 'Ze explanation' somewhere later on.
For those of you wondering how Solaire was able to pass through Laurentius that one time when trying to hug him… that was his phantom form glitching or some synonym like that. He was in that form for too long and he momentarily became intangible.
Anyways, thanks for reading. Please Read and Review, I'd love to hear your thoughts – as always.
Take care and have an awesome day/evening/whatevertimeitisdammit
Ja ne