Every Rose has it's Thorns

Well, I honestly wasn't expecting to be back for this, but here we are. Thanks to an inspiring piece of music, one that invoked memories of Dark Souls, I bring you this tale. One of tragedy, one of sorrow, but also one of love. For aren't love and tragedy one and the same?

Best Song for this Story: Starset-My Demons

xxxxXXXXXxxxx

Death.

Death had come for the infamous Knight of Thorns. Former Darkwraith, one of the first betrayers of that dark order, and likely the last one standing. Here he lay, bleeding out mere feet from his beloved. Mere feet from the woman he had given up his brothers, his fellow warriors, for. He had begged her not to look, not to see him in this weakened state, but she hadn't listened. She spoke words of encouragement, words of hope, but even she knew they were false. The wounds were too greats.

Blades of his former companions had split his flesh, spilled his blood upon the cold ground. They had pursued him to this sanctuary, finally found his hiding place. They had invaded him, numbers nearly a dozen, fighting him many against one. He had fought back, killed them all, but he was practically immobilized. Losing an arm and having one of your legs practically torn off would do that to you.

He had fought well, he knew, and his foes had paid dearly for their victory, with their lives. But still, they had their victory. It filled him dually with anger and sorrow, knowing he had lost like this. That he would die like this.

His mind flashed memories before him. Memories of victory, of defeat, of that damned undead, who had beaten him not once, not twice, but THREE times. Each of those losses had been a bitter pill to swallow, but he had endured. He had always endured. But not now.

This was his last death. He knew it. He had never been a true undead, anyhow. He had pretended. He was really a human, and now he would die. At least he would die with his beloved, that woman for whom he had given up his life. But all he could wonder was one thought.

"Who will help you now?"

xxXXxx

Red.

Red was his life. Red was the colour of the orb that brought him to the worlds he killed the inhabitants of, the colour of the blood he spilled, the colour of the worlds he saw through his eyes as a phantom. The world was red. The blood was red. He was red.

Red.

He stood in the sewers of the Undead Burg, his sword and shield in his hands, ready to spill the beautiful, entrancing, red blood of his newest victim. Red was his life, after all. And now he would coat the mildewed walls of this place with it. He would paint this place red.

He grinned beneath his spiked helmet as his foe walked into his vision. A man clad in the armour of an Astoran Knight, the righteous sods that they were. He carried one of their swords, and one of their shields, as well. But he didn't carry himself like a noble. He carried himself like a real warrior, one who had been fighting for years of his life.

Kirk loved him already.

The man took up a fighting stance, his shield held up and his sword held by his side, the grip loose but firm. This knight knew what to do in a fight. Kirk took no time making his motives clear, charging his foe. He awaited the inevitable panicked slash or thrust, one that he could parry, only to riposte and hammer his blade into the foes guts. But this man was different.

The knight sidestepped Kirks frenzied rush, slashing only once Kirk had his back to him. The blade, fortunately for Kirk, caught on one of the armours titular thorns, glancing off. Kirk spun, bringing his weapon around in an arcing blow, only to find the man's shield in the way. Then the knights sword met Kirks shield, and they found themselves face to face, struggling for dominance.

Kirk smiled. Now this was a fight! Two equally matched warriors, facing each other in a one to one duel. No allies, no environmental hazards, just two men equipped and ready for battle. Kirk was loving every moment of it.

Kirk rolled away, letting the man stagger slightly from having all his momentum being forced to move forwards. Kirk lunged forwards, bringing his black blade up to throat height, but the man brought up his own silver weapon up and parried the blow, before counter swinging. Kirk stepped away from the knights swing, kicking at the man's knee. The knight jumped back, and Kirk was left wrong-footed.

That was not good.

The man stomped down hard on Kirks leg, breaking it beneath his booted foot, before slamming his shield into Kirks head, denting his helm and ringing his bell, so to speak. Kirk was dazed and in pain, and opened his eyes in time to see the blow that ended his invasion hammer into his throat.

xxXXxx

The second time Kirk invaded that knight, he had found a better place to do it.

Just beyond his home lay the ruins of Izalith, his mistress's former home, before she was forced to retreat after her and her mother's unholy transformations, from the mighty witches of fire, to ungodly abominations. Kirk snorted at that. Who was he to call anything 'ungodly'?

His blade in hand, he strode down the narrow walkway, the heat from the fiery river below washing over him, though his phantom status meant he was a lot less aware of it than the knight was. And there he was again, the same knight, with his same weapons, though his sword appeared to have been upgraded with titanite, the same going for his armour.

Kirk tightened his grip on his sword, feeling the weapons leather-wrapped hilt through his armoured fingers. The knight was still clad in full armour, in this stifling heat, and Kirk was honestly astonished. Whenever he came down here, he had a tendency to pull off his helmet, at least, but here was this man clad in full plate, mail and a surcoat. Even the brown scarf around his neck was still there.

The knight, raised his shield, beckoning for Kirk to approach. Kirk had learned, however, and stayed back, his own shield raised. The Astoran visibly twitched his shoulder in a shadow of a shrug, before throwing caution to the wind and charging Kirk with his sword up and his shield raised. Kirk raised an eyebrow, before raising his own sword and charging right back.

The two met in the centre of the walkway, and silver met black as their blades hammered into each other, sending sparks flying into the air. They both struggled for several seconds, pushing shield against shield, sword against sword. Kirk eventually gave up, letting the man's blade swing towards him, bringing up his shield and thrusting his sword forwards simultaneously.

The blade hit home, digging into armour and flesh as it struck the man's stomach. Kirk grinned beneath his helmet as he twisted the blade, pulling it out with a sickening 'schlick' noise that most men would find nauseating, but Kirk found to be akin to music.

The knight and he dueled back and forth, the knights blade swinging in an arc of shining silver as Kirks blade slashed in a blur of black. Blows were struck to armour and shields, but no injuries were sustained, until the knight was backed up against the edge of the cliff.

He kicked Kirk away and Kirk rolled with the blow, rising to his feet several feet away as the man fell to one knee. Kirk smiled, a sadistic leer, and charged, weapon held over his head. He realized too late he had been fooled. The knight rolled to the side, and Kirk found himself teetering on the edge of the drop to a painful, burning death.

He could have made it back, stopped himself from falling, had it not been for the knight kicking at his knee. Kirk howled as he fell, blade falling from his grasp as he fell from the cliff towards the red hot river beneath him.

xxXXxx

His last death was the hardest to bear.

He had entered the ruins of Izalith themselves, frighteningly close to the Witch's sanctuary. His red and black form was surrounded by demons, and he saw more scattered around the place. He gripped his sword ever tighter, looking for his foe.

There. Upon the zenith of the pyramid, staring at Kirk as though he awaited his arrival. Kirk knew it must be a trap, but he didn't care. He climbed the stairs to the top of the pyramid, reaching the summit, and found the Astoran standing on the other edge, weapon in his hand. The man bowed, a simple gesture, and Kirk returned the favour. This would be a duel between equals, they both knew, and would have to be initiated properly.

Then they fought.

Kirk was a whirlwind of destruction. His blade was everywhere, slicing and stabbing from every angle and every position possible. It was a black blur, a tear in reality itself trying to slaughter his foe. But still the Astoran stood.

If Kirk was a whirlwind, the Astoran was a fortress. Every blow was met with a gleaming silver blade, every slash deflected and stab parried away. The man was untouchable. Kirk was infuriated. The knight hadn't even struck back yet, and Kirk was already tiring.

Then his sword was met by the dragon-crested shield, and forced back, pushing Kirk dreadfully off balance. The blade of silver swung once more, and bit deep into Kirk's armour and side. Blood flowed from the crushed and split plating. It was a deep, beautiful red.

Red.

Then Kirk was falling, back towards the precipice on the edge of the pyramid. His armour was carrying him over, but something stopped him. His eyes snapped into focus, in time to see the Astoran gripping him by the collar and pulling him away from the lethal fall. Kirk didn't fight back, too tired and hurt to care.

The knight lay him down on the floor, the brown stone warmed by the amount of lava around. Kirk would have been comfortable, had it not been for his current blood loss amount. Then the knight reached for Kirk's helmet.

Kirk tried to move away, but his strength was sapped, and he allowed the Astoran to pull off the black steel helmet.

Kirk knew what the knight was seeing. He was seeing unkempt black hair, stubble, a sharp, hawkish nose, and deep green eyes. He was seeing the scar running the length of Kirks left cheek, and the scar that marked his chin. He was seeing the true face of the infamous Knight of Thorns.

He was seeing Kirk.

Then, the knight did something stranger. He removed his own helmet, revealing an atypical face for an Astoran noble. Instead of the usual pale skin and blonde hair, the knights skin was shade darker, suggesting a life spent in the sun, and light brown hair, the colour of the stone around them. The knights eyes were a deep blue, so much so that Kirk felt like he could drown in them were he to look too hard.

But he didn't have time to look, because the knight placed his hands on Kirk's chestplate, saying something. Kirk's vision was fading, but he could see lips moving, in a sort of chant. He could barely hear what was being said, but one word rang clearer than the rest.

Forgive.

And with that, Kirk died for the third time.

But this time, it was with a tear in his eye, and sense of enlightenment in his chest.

xxxxXXXXxxxx

Well… that's that. I've been in a melancholy mood lately (friend died) and this was sort of me dealing with that. See ya.