Drummond had taken his sense of taste, the simple pleasure of eating, for granted. As one of the Four Kings, a single gesture could bring him a feast suitable for someone of his stature. He had not made that gesture in quite some time.
"Curse you, Gwyn. May the gods scatter your bones on the midden heap."
The statement was delivered almost unconsciously as he rubbed at his abdomen. He had repeated it often enough since that fateful morning he had woken to find the horrible mark on his flesh. Undeath had been whispers in the city last year, nothing more surely.
And yet here he sat; wasting away. He cursed Gwyn again.
There was no real evidence to say that this condition was contagious like a disease, he had tried to tell his fellow Kings. They had not wanted to take the chance, and as such he was perhaps as comfortable a prisoner as he could be.
He glared at the canopy of his bed above him. It was made of the finest materials, likely worth more than what a commoner earned in a year, but lying in it now gave him no real rest. Every day he felt the exhaustion wearing a little more of his sanity away. He got up again to wander his chambers listlessly.
At first, he had tried to make the most of things. He didn't need to go out to do many of his duties. Much of the paperwork could be done from his study in here. He could pretend that things were normal for a time…
That had gone well enough at first, but fear of contagion eventually halted that as well. Less and less paperwork made its way to him. He shook his head ruefully, a sob escaping his throat before he caught himself. He had never thought he would miss all those papers. This deep in the citadel, deep in the stone, it was silent as a tomb. It was as if he were already dead and buried.
He found himself before a full-length mirror, staring at himself without recognition. After months of seeing only servants then longer without even them, he had taken to just wearing his underclothes. His skin had been somewhat darker before, but now it was a bruised purple-red throughout. It seemed like his eyes were retreating back into his head, leaving them shadowed in the caverns his brows provided.
He held his hands up to his face, flexing them. He still wore his many rings, he had never gone without them excepting sleep. Now that he didn't sleep, they were a permanent feature. He looked closer. There was a small amount of dried blood on a few of them from when he had backhanded that servant so long ago. They had frozen upon entering his chambers and seeing him, delivering the final insult to his pride. He had beaten them about the head, thrown them bodily out, and told them he didn't need any of them as he didn't eat anymore either.
He pressed his face into his hands. How long ago exactly had that been? He hadn't seen or talked to another human being in so long. Another interaction he had taken for granted with his legions of attendees and servants. Strangely enough, they had always seemed much like pieces of furniture instead of people in his mind. Things were different now.
His lips formed words he had never used before with his servants, but no words came out. Realizing no one could hear him, he allowed them out. "I-I'm sorry. Please…please come back."
That was the last of his reserves of poise. He wept into his hands piteously, falling to the floor without trying to catch himself.
"Someone…please…"
"My lord."
Drummond opened his eyes in disbelief, seeing a pair of boots before his face made of some kind of pale material he wasn't familiar with. Strong hands grasped his shoulders, and he gasped at the unfamiliar sensation as he was hoisted to his feet.
"My King, one of your station should be on their feet, wouldn't you agree?"
The King couldn't find any words at first, transfixed by the sight before him. There was a man in strange pale armor, a helmet like a skull and a cape of fine black fur. As he gaped, the figure undid the clasp on the cape and shrugged it off, draping it around his discolored shoulders.
"Who-who are you? How did you get in here? Gwyn above, is the—"
The man waved his hand, cutting off Drummond's deluge. "You need not swear of or by the facetious Gwyn ever again, my lord. The time for such things is drawing to an end. Those that step on us will soon find their footing treacherous."
The King clutched the cape around himself, gathering his thoughts. "Your name, man? Whom shall I thank?"
In a smooth motion, the man drew a wide-bladed black sword. Drummond flinched back, but the man went to his knees, the sword held up to him in his hands.
"I have no name, my lord, being one of the undead. If you so desire; my name in life was Dirk. You owe me no thanks, as I am repaying a debt to you."
Drummond stared hard at the man. Was this a hallucination? Had the solitude finally broken him? Shakily, he laid his hand upon the man's offered sword. It felt real enough. Grasping the hilt in both hands, he hefted the thick blade with some difficulty. "Quite a blade, Dirk. You say you are undead as well? Oh, rise, rise. That won't be necessary."
"My King is a gracious man. I am undead, yes." As Dirk straightened up, Drummond became aware of how tall the man was. He had seen tall men before, and was not one of them, but Dirk exceeded them. The man was about the size of a Silver Knight…
"Any family ties in Anor Londo, Dirk?" His senses coming back to him, politics sprang into the forefront of his mind. If the gods had sent a Silver Knight here in disguise being very mysterious, that smelled of a plot. If they meant to draw him into a hangman's noose, he would do his best to thwart them.
Dirk made a motion as if to spit to the side but stopped midway. "Apologies, my lord. No, my lineage is pure. Humanity runs deep in my soul." He spread his impressive arms wide. "What you see before you is the cure to the travesty you find yourself mired in."
The King studied the sword before handing it back to Dirk. He knew nothing about weapons, he was just processing. "I have heard of no such power. You were seen by a cleric?"
The large man sheathed his sword, walking over to a dresser. "You would not have heard of it, guarded as it was by Gwyn and his ilk. They would be content to let humanity waste away into slavery and madness from the curse they have wrought upon us."
Drummond had heard plenty dissention about the gods in New Londo. It was the general opinion of those that lived there, being almost entirely humans. Displeasure was always voiced in hushed tones behind closed doors. You never knew when that blasted Lord's Blade would show up and snoop around. Dirk turned back from the dresser, Drummond's crown in his hands.
"By taking as long as I have to reach you, I am still indebted to you. Would you accept my service and the knowledge to draw upon humanity to save yourself?" He placed the crown into the King's mottled hands, bowing.
Drummond stared at the crown. It was missing a jewel from when he had thrown it against the wall. Looking past it, he saw Dirk motionless in his bow.
He was a King. He cast his eyes around his chambers, his disgust rising. He was a King. It was high time he acted like one. Raising the crown to his head, he took Dirk's arms and lifted him back to a standing position.
"I accept."
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"It seems like so long ago that were here last, doesn't it?" Artorias ducked under an arch, frowning. "I'm going to have a sore back from all the hunching today, I know it."
Ciaran navigated amongst the columns and arches with ease. "That's what you get for being tall."
"Yes, that was a poor choice on my part." He scratched Sif's ears affectionately. "Fortunately, I won't have to delve too deep into New Londo proper this time. Just be careful, alright? It seems like this place gets worse every time I come here."
She looked back at him, a hand on her hip. "You know, I'm the one that can blend in here. I've been here so many times that I could get around with my eyes closed. I have six different aliases to choose from, a network of eyes and ears, and years of combat experience behind me."
"Wait, you have six aliases? Is that including the one that I helped make?"
She pulled on a pair of worn leather gloves. "I have six aliases here. And no, that alias isn't…ready for a field test."
Artorias sat down on a rock outcrop, crossing his arms. "I thought it was good. I wrote up a whole backstory for it."
A beat-up pack joined Ciaran's outfit. "Ah, yes. I thought the part about being a traveling clam hawker was…um…inspired."
He smiled proudly, oblivious to her tone. "That was a good part. Sometimes fact is stranger than fiction, right? No one would suspect a thing."
"And the part where I don't have any clams…?" She looked at him wryly from her hood.
"That should be explained on page…twelve? Bandits came upon you on the road, riding wolves." Sif sniffed indignantly. "Sorry Sif, they can't all be paragons like you. These wolves were trained harshly by the bandits after their mother was slain by a dragon. They learned the value of speed early. Ciaran, I mean Betsy, had to leave her wares behind to escape from the swift wolves."
Lacing up her stained boots, Ciaran rolled her eyes. The fool man had no future in subterfuge, but that lack of guile was somewhat refreshing. She did still have the thirty-page monstrosity scrawled with large crude letters that he had written up for her, just not on her person. "Regardless of which alias I use; I should be the one worried here. You're cutting through the Valley of Drakes after all."
He waved her concern away. "It's of little consequence. I've fought a dragon before."
Her eyebrows climbed and she crossed her arms. "And that encounter went so well."
"Relax, I'm much better equipped and trained now." He grabbed Sif's ears and wagged them back and forth. "And now Sif has a new sword! What could possibly go wrong?"
She crossed her arms and let the silence speak for her.
"Hey, you said it yourself; you won't stand out in there. I will. Between us, I'm better equipped to deal with a platoon of heavily-armed cultists if they do come boiling out of the lower entrances. Besides, this close to the city, there's unlikely to be any drakes." He eyed the nearby arch. "Not to mention my back will thank me for this."
She shrugged, turning back to pick up the walking stick to complete her disguise. "I guess you're right. Nothing to worry about. That is, unless you need an alias." She chuckled to herself, settling into the stance of a hunched old woman.
"Actually, I had begun working on one for myself…"
Sif nudged his master's elbow urgently.
"Hm? Oh right. Time for that later." He bent down, flipping up her hood and planting a kiss on her forehead. "Farewell, my little bee."
She rolled her eyes in reaction to her pet name, but reserved a smile nonetheless. The Hornet ring was her symbol for her position, but as stealth was required it remained hidden for now. Artorias loped off down a path, Sif in tow as she prepared herself to tease out what secrets New Londo had to offer.
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As always, thank you to my readers for their continued support. I know the time between chapters has increased, but we're winding down to the last portion of the tale after so long! Please leave me a review so I know how I can improve things, thank you!