Chapter 45

Mindless

Soft hair pressed against my cheek. Orlai, head wedged between my shoulder and neck, arms embracing me, slept on top of me. Breath soft and steady she was motionless aside from her shoulders rising and falling ever so slightly. The Princess sighed, jade eyes hidden beneath pale lids, long scar scrawled lengthwise over her face, thin lips parting ever so slightly. I couldn't help smiling as she let out the occasional snore between breaths. Half of her face hidden as she nuzzled my chest, the other on full display for my inquisitive eyes.

A morning breeze from the open window across the room ruffled my hair. The creamy white curtains hanging on either side drifted into the air a moment before floating back down. The breeze carried wet smells, dewy grass and cold, damp air. Muscles relaxed, body and mind at ease from the company of Orlai. I exhaled. It was warm. Breath shallow so as not to risk waking her I stared at the Princess as she slept unable to look away.

This was a dream.

It had been a very long time since last I'd dreamt and I found it somewhat odd I could so confidently identify what I was experiencing. I knew it was no vision or hallucination it was much too calm and controlled, pleasant even. At least for the moment. I eased closer, holding the Princess tight, imagining how it would be if this could go on forever. I knew better but–

Orlai moaned, sounding awake but wishing she was asleep, and burrowed deeper into my embrace. She hummed happily and kissed my collar bone. Our bodies were bare, nothing more than thin white sheets covering us, I acutely aware of her shapely form and our romantic entwinement. Silky skin against my own and soft features huddled close Orlai's toned body was unbearable to leave untouched. I leaned forward, lips gently brushing her forehead, and placed a hand on her cheek, other hand carefully caressing her back. She smiled, humming again, and squeezed. I rested my forehead against hers, almost speaking, but decided against ruining the moment with my usually rough and clumsy words. Orlai was just as beautiful as I remembered.

Just as I was about to settle in a realization occurred to me.

I never slept. I was dead. The living dreamed, not the dead.

Adrenaline surged my veins and my heart thundered like a drum, peaceful sensation swept aside by urgency and doubt. My limbs were warm, senses dull, heart alive and angry, breath fast and short. I was alive. I jumped from the bed, Orlai giving a startled shout as she rolled off and landed on the floor with a fleshy smack. I ran to the window. My breath caught, heart stopping.

I looked out over Oolacile. Flourishing and alive it sprawled across a large, forested hill roughly a mile or so in length from its longest side. The stone buildings weren't overly tall but made up for it with exquisite craftsmanship and artistry. In their windows lights glowed off and on, origins blatantly unnatural by their patterns and colors. Mages, I thought with a snarl. Oolacile was town of mages. Of course it was, nothing good ever happened when mages were involved.

Scholarly people in white robes trimmed gold walked the streets several stories below, chatting idly as they visited shops and stores carrying various goods and purchases ranging from silk robes and pretty baubles to staffs and glowing bags. I recognized the gathering hall at the other end of the town as the one from a vision shortly after arriving in Lordrans past. The same hall where, in reality, that giant mushroom that called herself Elizabeth resided. Was this a vision too?

Slender arms enveloped me with tender but resolute affection, "Honey." I winced as vengeful nails suddenly dug into me, "That wasn't funny." Orlai snarled, voice a blade at my throat. Her grip softened, "But more importantly, what's wrong?" I didn't answer, struggling to string two coherent thoughts together, gears of my mind jammed. "Artorias?" The Princess cooed lovingly, breasts pressing against my back and thighs pinching one of my legs as she snuggled up against me. A javelin of shock struck me in the chest, both from her actions and words. Head jerking to Orlai I was too stunned to act immediately, a multitude of thoughts and emotions warring for my attention.

"What did you call me?" I blurted a second or two later, thankful I hadn't said something else. She raised a playful eyebrow, lips twisting into a sly grin,

"Artorias, what else?" She dragged a hand down the side of my face, entrancing eyes fixed on my own, "You are my faithful knight aren't you?" Those jade eyes glittered, tanned skin glossy in the light of the rising sun. I almost surrendered.

This was something more sinister than a dream. It was simply too good to be true, I was undead and Orlai was a goddess. This was a trick. Tearing myself from her grip I dived out the window.

"Artorias!" Orlai screamed. I crushed any emotion I felt from that cry of horror and despair. A hand grabbed my ankle, momentum slamming me against the wall of the building. "ARTORIAS!" I glanced up at the desperate, enraged, and determined expression of Orlai. Jade eyes firestorms of fury, teeth bared and grinding, she held on desperately. "What are you doing?!" She gasped with effort, face turning red, "Are you insane?!" I kicked, breaking her hold. "ARTORIAS!" She screeched, tears in her wild eyes, hands clawing after me as she wailed in despair, "WHY?!" A spear of guilt pierced my beating heart. I wondered for a single, naïve moment:

What if this wasn't a dream?

I smashed to the ground.

My eyes snapped open.

Rough bark against my neck, tree swaying above, rays of sun bleeding through its canopy and leaves whispering in the wind. I growled in irritation, massaging my forehead. It had been a dream hadn't it? Not that it mattered anymore.

Extracting myself carefully from the sleeping form of Doll curled next to me I stood and looked around. We'd found a nice spot, a lone tree on a hill overlooking the forest offering excellent visibility and comfort. A perfect camping spot. I sighed, scanning the tree line.

Doll and I had returned to the Royal Wood, its inhabitants' disposition unchanged in the wake of Artorias' death, and rested. We bathed in a cold stream, Doll insisting I help her with the process. Once we dried she asked the bramble men for food. They offered a full basket of fruits and vegetables that I ignored and Doll tore into with vicious abandon. I'd never asked if she was a vegetarian but food was still food I suppose. Night fell shortly after and I picked the hill as our chosen spot for the night. Doll drifted to sleep quickly, nestled against my side while I kept watch. The last thing I remembered was the moon, shining bright and full in the night sky, relishing its momentary dominance. Then the dream.

What was wrong with me?

I never slept and never dreamed, regardless of my exhaustion. Was this a byproduct of killing Artorias? I put a claw to my chest. Silent and cold. Good. Too many things were changing too fast. Flesh icy, heart quiet, emotions dulled and body numb; these were what I knew. I'd been so focused on controlling senses the living treasured, worthless distractions and indulgences, that I'd been dedicated to cementing the fact that my body was undead. However, while I had been so centered on physical traits, mental thoughts wreaked havoc now. Whispers finally defeated, silenced and banished to oblivion, new foes unconquered arose on the battlefield of my mind. Memories flashed across my vision.

I was once a Child of Fire.

I stood on a great marble balcony at the foot of an astronomically huge palace in a courtyard so large it could fit the whole of the Sunlight Palace in Anor Londo. Golden skyscrapers reached overhead, numerous windows mirroring a sharp blue sky. An ocean of faces looked up at me, cheers hammering my ears in an ever-present roar. Dragons circled above, eyes fixed on the massive man standing next to me.

The one I called Father.

His eyes glowed white-hot, hair short and fiery orange, a tall golden crown resting amongst the blaze on his head, robes of gold and red draped over his imposing, muscled body. "Greetings, subjects!" He boomed louder than the crowd, lifting both hands into the air. Ears ringing, I fought the urge to wince as the cheering spectators turned to screaming fanatics. Yelling whatever emotion they felt with all the passion and energy they could, cries rising steadily in their intensity. Father basked in their desperation, smiling broadly and chuckling quietly, "Behold, those of you who have withstood the Dark so long!" Father gestured grandly with a thick arm to me, "Gaze upon the Child of Fire, deliverer of faith and chosen champion of the righteous Gods!" The crowd's screaming held at such a decibel and strength only iron will kept my arms at my sides and shoulders straight. I wanted to keel over and hide, "He goes now to kill the Child of Dark, Chosen Undead, for betraying the ones she serves!" His hands rose again, spreading as if to hold the entire ocean of faces, "The Gods!" The cheers were unbearable. Father might as well have been listening to a report from one of his brown-nosing assistants from the smug pride in his expression. How could he stand it? "Let us rejoice during this momentous hour, this glorious occasion, this grand leap towards a peace too long considered impossible!" I nearly looked away when a heavy hand dropped onto my shoulder, "Our champion has already himself proclaimed victory to be inevitable on this fateful day!" The screams crashed over me in waves, hundreds of thousands of hands flailing about, hundreds of thousands of eyes wide with feverish dedication.

No more.

I just wanted silence, or at the very least something to do, not stand around like some doll to be admired or champion to be showcased. I yearned to act, to do. I hungered for the taste of blood and high of victory. I wanted to be free for once in my miserable life.

I remembered the day Father and his fellow Gods sent me down to kill the Chosen Undead. At the time I had no name other than "Child" or "Champion." I'd been given a sacred duty they said.

Descend to Lordran, kill the insane Chosen Undead, replace her.

Complying without question I found my quarry, a depraved humanoid of decayed flesh and luminescent equipment. She wielded magic with unrivaled skill but fell to Artorias' Greatsword like so many others and relinquished the Dark Soul unto me. I then became undead, mindlessly tending to Lordran and the World's Flame until Orlai, the next Child of Fire, came to kill me. Well, she was supposed to kill me.

I shook my head, trying to organize the storm in my mind.

If Orlai was a Child of Fire, why hadn't she killed me on sight? Why had she instead told me a story about finding the Chosen Undead and taking him from the "false world" of Lordran to save some land from the "Darkness?" I understood "false world," Lordran long proven to be a joke, but not the part about me stopping the "Darkness." Where would she have brought me? She seemed to forget the quest entirely as we travelled together. Was it not important enough or a lie that faded from the front of her mind? If that… Angel hadn't killed me and abducted her what would Orlai have done? What might have gone differently between the Princess and I? Had Orlai been sent down prematurely?

In conflict there were always two sides and it seemed the gods were at odds with something. The Darkness and Abyss came to mind first but there could be others I knew nothing about. Another power might have sent her early in hopes that she was too weak to defeat me. Or that we join forces? I shook my head, unable find a concrete answer. I continued sifting.

Why had I been so afraid to remember?

Maybe the fear of my memories was intentional, a sort of seal to prevent me from discovering anything? If so, when was it placed? I had a reason to find the Gods and question them now but was that the only reason my memories were sealed?

I held up a single claw, examining it. I had been manufactured. For some reason, out of everything, that felt undoubtedly true. Seeing past the steel burned black to the human hand within, the thought of not actually ever being human left me feeling disturbingly indifferent. How much humanity had I lost that such discoveries hardly shook me? Did I ever even have any to start? Why was it I felt nothing now after emotion and thought plagued me so much before? The wind faded, sunlight darkening, sense of smell vanishing as I stared at my gauntlet and shut out the world.

I really was just a tool. Whenever an undead requested something of me before I knew the outcome I would always follow their instructions, sometimes to my reward and sometimes to my damnation. Methodical as a machine I traveled Lordran, hitting key points and gathering required items or equipment, hardly ever thinking on the point of the task. I never questioned, never thought, never considered. I only acted.

I was mindless.

The claw dropped to my side, sightless eyes rising to look out at the Darkness I stood in.

Ilyena and Laurentius told me I was a hero, a grand champion destined for glory and greater things. I believed them. Struggling to fulfill their ideals despite how polarized it was from my typical actions and morals I yearned to please them, afraid of what might happen if I did not. Such short-sightedness was my own fault.

Priscilla called me Child of Dark, carrier of Darkness and nemesis to the gods, that they were to blame for everything that befell me. After murdering her I took her words to heart and struck out on an idiotic quest for vengeance against the Gods. I would never uproot the evil seeds that outburst planted in me or forget the blind, terrible hatred that controlled every decision I made.

All undead called me Chosen Undead, Primordial Serpent Frampt, Gwynevere and others urging me to light the World Flame again and again. I believed them because I'd never known anything else and yearned to please, to be accepted so that they might appreciate me. I wanted companions, supporters, anything, if just for someone to smile when they saw me.

Orlai.

Orlai said I was a hero too. I'd drive the Darkness away from an obscure and far off land. I had never asked if it was true or not but she told me of her servitude to some sort of lordship and hatred of it after admitting she was not a princess or mage. I had also been drawn to her, like a moth to the flame. I yearned to please her, to see those rare smiles, if only for my own indulgent. Never had I met someone so alive, so energetic, so… so human. In fact, she, a living being, should have been revolted by my deathly state and emotionless disposition. Orlai would harp on it even. Yet we came to care deeply for one another. My reasoning was easy enough, because she was kind, talked back to me and was entirely new in every way. But why had she fallen for me? Just because I'd saved her life from the golem? The quest she said she was on perhaps? I couldn't fathom it.

I snorted. Of course I couldn't fathom it. I was nothing more than a clone, a tool, a mindless drone. Whenever someone came to me I happily bent my knee and acted the hero playing whatever part they wished of me just like a good storybook character. At the very least though, I had to accept that fact. I couldn't kill myself or whatnot so best to get over it and move on. Business as usual really. I needed to remember and improve.

I sighed, "Accept it." I muttered to myself.

I was a clone, artificially made. Though why weren't all Chosen Undead male then? Artorias was the original, a man. Unless he was secretly a woman? No, there had been both male and female Chosen. The relation between Artorias and I wasn't purely based on gender. Our souls perhaps? One of my claws twitched towards the pouch with Artorias' soul. No. I had no soul aside from the Dark Soul.

Words echoed, spoken to me during the clash with Artorias, "The Dark soul has escaped but its influence, vestiges of bastardized power, remain yours." The Dark Soul.

The Dark Soul was the technical origin of mankind. The Gods destroyed it, supposedly for the world's own good, and accidentally created countless shards in the process. Those shards became mankind and, conversely, an item that fueled the Bonfires called Humanity. I had used Humanities to reverse Ilyena's Hollowing once before and could do the same for myself if I died and became Hollow. The Chosen Undead was special though, different from undead and humans. I carried the largest shard of the Dark Soul, using it as tinder to light the World's Flame. Yet the voice made it sound like I carried the entire Soul.

Three questions popped to the front of my mind.

First, was my relation with Artorias the Dark Soul itself? Had he been a carrier or… or had he been the Furtive Pygmy? I shook my head. That wouldn't make sense. The Dark Soul could never come before humanity. I wasn't sure, leaving the thought for later.

Second, if I carried the entire soul that meant mankind was extinct and I could make use of power that even Gods feared. If that was the case, why could I never consciously use it except for extreme moments when I lost myself? Another seal perhaps? A question for later, I didn't have the Dark Soul anymore apparently which lead me to the third question.

I had "vestiges of bastardized power?" What did that mean? The Dark Soul had never given me any sort of advantage or assistance through luck, magic, power, miracles, anything really. Unless… unless the Dark Soul was how I revived? No undead ever respawned except certain enemies when I killed them until the next cycle. If Andre died, he would not reappear until after I'd Linked the Flame and reappeared in the Undead Asylum. The best generalization was that if I could talk to the undead. If those specific undead died they would not respawn.

I had never been able to discover why I was different, or if I even revived in the same world, dimension, or time, but now that I supposedly didn't have the Dark Soul I wasn't going to try experimenting. When I considered it though, ever since the Four Kings the voices had been almost entirely silent. Maybe I had I lost it then?

A soft voice derailed my train of thought, "Chosen?" Doll chirped. I blinked. I stood atop the hill above the Royal Wood, morning sun rising slowly to the east chasing foggy clouds over the western horizon. I had things to do. Putting the mental debate aside for the moment I looked down at the cheery girl. Her golden eyes glowed unnaturally, serpentine tail twitching with excitement as she bounced happily on the heels of her bare feet. How could she stand to walk everywhere barefoot? "What are you thinking about?"

I smiled, hood and mask still gone, "Nothing, little one." I rumbled. Despite the smile I regarded her with suspicion. She understood more than she was telling me, I was almost sure of it. I couldn't recall anything about her or Priscilla, at least not that which I already knew, and that put her in a gray area. A very dangerous gray area. Through some sacrifice on the part of Priscilla Doll had been given life, probably from the soul of Priscilla that was once in my box considering its absence, but either way a key item suddenly becoming a living, breathing girl was a bit much to take at face vault. She had been given a body for a reason. Nothing happened without a reason.

What if she was Priscilla? I stared at the small girl. This was Lordran's past, what if she was left here and grew up into Priscilla? Doll cocked her head to one side with a curious grin, golden eyes focused on my own, "Chosen?" She asked, "What's up?" I shook my head. Impossible, otherwise the Priscilla I knew would have said something sooner instead of suddenly throwing herself at me.

"Nothing," I sighed, "Just thinking." Now was not the time. She was welcome company and had proven her usefulness. I would confront Doll until after we escaped the past and returned to the future, or before if she gave me reason to.

Doll's eyebrows shot up and she suddenly grabbed one of my claws with her small hands, "Thinking?!" She exclaimed with a level of honest wonderment I found somewhat insulting, "Are you really?" I nodded. The girl giggled, lips curving up in a smile, pearly white fangs gleaming, "You must have hit your head pretty hard fighting Artorias!" I answered with a strained smile and patted her head. She wasn't wrong. Hooking one arm under her slender thighs and the other around her back I lifted Doll up and onto my shoulders. She laughed happily as I did so, "You're pretty used to me being up here huh?" She settled quickly, snuggling close and roughly grabbing two handfuls worth of my hair. I winced at the all-too-common treatment and suffered in accepting silence. The sharp jerks and tugs of my hair were nothing compared to the usual injuries I sustained in battle but that still did not stop them from hurting.

I grasped each of her legs for safety, "Oolacile awaits," I grunted, "will you be joining me?"

"Of course!" She chirped, "I'll follow you wherever we go!"

"You may not survive."

She hugged my head tightly, "I know. Didn't I say I was sick of just watching? I'm going to help you Chosen!" I wondered if the determination in her voice could hold against whatever waited for us. If Artorias had fallen what could she, or I for that matter, hope to accomplish? Full of questions and confusion, I imagined this was the point in the stories when the hero had some sort of inspiring speech, earth-shattering motto, or sly remark on the situation. Instead, I growled a few choice obscenities I'd overheard Orlai using at one point under my breath. Doll leaned forward, "What did you say Chosen?" She asked rather innocently.

I grunted, "Nothing." Doll shrugged, sitting back up, and started humming a light-hearted tune. I stared at the grass around my black-steel boots. Summoning whatever courage and determination remained in my empty heart and ancient mind I took a heavy step forward. I closed my eyes, searching for peace of mind.

After a few seconds Doll's humming stopped. "Chosen?" She tapped my head, "Why did you stop? We're not there yet." Nodding, I rolled my shoulders and pressed forward marching Doll and I towards whatever hell awaited us.

Let them come.