Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.
Chapter 7
Nemeta said: "Nito. The First of the Dead. What does that even mean?"
Ever since the day Blacksmith Vamos' face finally rotted completely away and fell off his skull, he had to rely on his voice and posture to convey his emotions. At this very moment, he was feeling rather irritated, and so he let loose a long, wearied sigh, and exaggeratedly sagged his shoulders. "What does what mean?" he growled.
"Why is Nito 'The First of the Dead'?"
"Well, it's not advanced alchemy, is it? Lord Nito is The First Of The Dead because he was the first man ever to set foot in the underworld. He was the first mortal ever to perish."
"That's it?" Nemeta seemed genuinely displeased; offended, almost. "Nito proclaimed himself the ruler of the realm of the dead simply because he was so incompetent that he got himself killed before everyone else? Doesn't set a very high standard for royalty, does it? I have to fill up the Lordvessel and link the flames before I can declare myself Queen of Sunlight, you know. I have to earn my lordliness."
Had Vamos still been in possession of his breath, he would have grumbled under it. Instead, he yanked a sword from the coals, and prepared to bring his hammer down. Vamos was not accustomed to suffering fools, but this particular fool had an occasional habit of bringing him the most remarkable embers, memories of Flames that could make metal do the most wondrous things. And so Nemeta babbled and chattered away, and Vamos gritted his teeth – all the enamel decayed away long ago – and tried to allow her words to wash harmlessly over him.
Vamos was willing to suffer a little, for the sake of his craft.
Another notion drifted into Nemeta's head. "What if a mouse had been the first to die?"
Vamos struck the red-hot metal.
"Would we hold feasts in honour of a gigantic, skeletal rodent?"
Another hammer blow; another burst of sparks.
"Does it not bother you that I'm going to slay your Lord?"
The hammer hovered in mid-air, then lowered, and Vamos turned in his seat. Nemeta was leaning insouciantly against the wall of the crypt, staring blandly at him.
Vamos knew how powerful Nemeta had become. When she had first come to Lordran, Nemeta was a scared, waifish little girl, desperately yearning for home. Now, the scared, waifish little girl was an illusion, a costume, a disguise.
What did she want? Was she trying to provoke him into a fight? Vamos knew that he wasn't a match for her, as bitterly as it pained him to admit...
Vamos set his tool aside, and fixed his gaze on Nemeta a moment. At last, he asked: "When you were little, and it was time for your bed, did your father tell you a story, before you went to sleep?"
Nemeta's brow creased in confusion. "Yes?" she replied.
"If I tell you a story, little girl, will you bugger off and leave me to my smithing?"
Her expression turned sour, in the same way that it sometimes did when people made unflattering comments about her dress. "Tell your story, then," she said.
Vamos made himself comfortable, and for a fleeting moment, Nemeta fancied that she might be a child again, seated at the feet of a storytelling crone, the room awash with the light from an open fire. Vamos began: "In the Age of Ancients, the world was unformed, shrouded with mist. A land of grey crags, towering trees and ageless, everlasting dragons..."
Nemeta groaned openly, and rolled her eyes. "And then the Flame came, and then Disparity, and then there was light and dark, and life and death, and heat and cold, tra la la la la. Everyone knows that story."
Vamos leaned forward, demanding her attention. "Yeah, but do you ever really think about it?"
She rather theatrically straightened herself. "Pray tell, o blacksmith, what aspect of the myth have I neglected?"
"When the First Flame appeared, it brought Disparity. Light and dark, warmth and cold, and, most relevant to our interests, life and death. Life and death. Do you understand? Without the Flame, there is no life and death."
Nemeta's features scrunched up as she made sense of this. "No life and death...no Gravelord."
Vamos went on: "If you knock off Lord Nito, you take his soul, and feed it to the Lordvessel, and then you go on to link the Flame – at least, that's the plan. If Lord Nito does you in, the Flame goes out. No Flame, no Disparity, no life...no death. We go back to the way things were when the Eternal Dragons ruled."
"Lord Nito will still exist, but without life or death, what sort of realm would he rule over, then? No one being born, no one dying. The whole world, occluded by mist. No time, no getting old, no decomposing and rotting into ashes, just...eternity. A miserable dominion, indeed! No, Lord Nito wants you to slay him. He wants you to become the new Sun. Time runs short for the Gravelord, one way or the other. If the Flame is linked once more, Lord Nito will be gone, but at least there'll be death. At least flies will settle upon rotting flesh. At least maggots will feast upon kings. Keh heh heh heh heh!"
Nemeta seemed doubtful. "Is Nito going to let me just slay him?"
"No, of course not!" came the abrasive reply. "He's a king. He has standards to keep. He'll fight you; he'll give you a bloody good fight. He just wants you to win."
"Well," said Nemeta, hotly. "When he's bearing down on me in an avalanche of disease and death, I'll be sure to take comfort in the thought that his heart's not in it."
()()()()()()()()()()
Sen's Fortress was built as a proving grounds by the ancient gods.
So what did Quelana have to prove?
That she was worthy of setting foot in Anor Londo? That she was deserving of entry to the gods' gleaming marble city?
'The gods'.
Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, had always respected the Witch of Izalith, and rightfully so; she possessed her own Lord Soul, and she and her daughters had played as crucial a role in the victory against the Everlasting Dragons as he. Lord Gwyn knew that the Witch of Izalith was wise, and strong, and powerful.
Unfortunately, the respect that he held for the Legendary Witch was not in evidence in his children.
The Firstborn. Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight. Gwyndolin, the Dark Moon. They had always looked down upon the Witch of Izalith, and her daughters. No, no respect was to be accorded to pagan enchantresses living in a cave far below the surface, far from the light of the glorious Sun. No respect was to be accorded an eccentric sorceress who jealously guarded her brood from the outside world. On the occasions that Quelana and her sisters visited Gwyn's palace in Anor Londo, Gwynevere and Gwyndolin would treat them with no more reverence than they would their court jesters.
In the caverns of Izalith, the Daughters of Chaos subsisted on grubs and larvae. Gwyn's children found it so amusing when they discovered that they did not even know how to utilize cutlery.
On a fundamental level, Quelana had always been ashamed to be her mother's daughter.
Of course it embarrassed her that she and her sisters scrabbled about in the dust and shadows while Gwyn's offspring flounced about in exquisitely-tailored finery.
Of course it embarrassed her that she and her sisters were so tragically, excruciatingly ill-prepared for life beyond Izalith.
Of course it embarrassed her that a prince, or a king, or a particularly powerful hero, could win her mother's favour by offering his seed.
Of course it embarrassed her that she and her sisters partook in rituals involving nudity, and dancing, and animal sacrifice, and that high society in Anor Londo loved to make jokes about it.
"Why is it that no one ever tells stories about your brothers?" Nemeta had asked, once.
"We never had brothers," said Quelana. "Never for very long. Whenever mother gave birth to a boy, if he was lucky, he would be allowed to leave with his father. If his father wasn't there, or if he didn't want him, mother cast him to the fires."
Nemeta spluttered with appalled laughter, and, inwardly, Quelana's heart broke. Nemeta changed the subject, babbling blithely about inconsequential things, and it never even occurred to her that Quelana had just unveiled secrets that she could not bring herself to reveal for over a thousand years.
Sen's Fortress had been built with the purpose of testing Undead pilgrims that wished to seek out the Realm of the Gods; essentially, it was intended as a mechanism to ensure that Nemeta was worthy of inheriting Gwyn's crown. Standing in the interior of the fortress now, however, Quelana was seized by an unshakeable certainty instead that the place was constructed with the sole purpose of offending her.
Quelana needed to deliver a warning to her student.
Her student was in Anor Londo.
Sen's Fortress was obstructing her, and what a perplexing, treacherous, painstakingly-crafted obstruction it was.
The swinging pendulums, the narrow walkways, the gaping chasms, the concealed pressure plates, the tumbling boulders, the Snakemen, all hindering her, delaying her, frustrating her, all conspiring together to boil her blood with outraged indignation.
What did Quelana have to prove?
That she desired with all her heart to help her pupil?
That she deserved to sabotage Gwynevere's deception?
That a creature as lowly as a Daughter of Chaos was fit to walk the flagstones of shining, lustrous Anor Londo?
Sighing deeply, Quelana allowed herself to simmer in rage a moment, and then pressed on through the fortress. Her anger alone would not help Nemeta.
()()()()()()()()()()()
The thing that most unnerved Griggs about the Regal Archives was how surrealistically ubiquitous Seath's books were. They were everywhere. In the main part of the building, Seath had long ago filled all of the bookshelves to capacity. When that space was exhausted, he had stored his tomes in the prison wing, installing shelves up and down the length and breadth of the massive place, books stowed away alongside his anguished magic experiments. Every day, the Undead discovered some new hidden nook or culvert, all filled with the crazed Duke's research.
"I dare say there's not a book in this entire edifice that will not intrigue me, Griggs!" said Logan. "To say nothing of his intellect and knowledge, Seath was a very engaging writer! So many great sorcerers were rather dry reads...quite ironic, isn't it, that a dragon knew how to engross and captivate his readership! Have you not perused the Archives yourself, Griggs? You should do so at first convenience; this fire-breathing beast really wrote very good prose!"
"Master, as your apprentice, my duty is to ensure that your academic faculties remain as sharp as ever...would you not consider a rest? You have been studying relentlessly for days..."
"Nonsense! I've never been so spellbound by research in my entire career. I feel as though I could continue this for weeks! I tell you, Griggs, when young Nemeta has lifted the curse, and we are able to return to Vinheim, I will devote all my energy exclusively to the study of this fine work."
Well, that is good news, thought Griggs. You can concentrate on Seath, and all the other professors can deal with respectable magic, and never have to endure your company again.
"Sometimes I don't know whether to be astounded by Seath's intellectual accomplishments, or be moved by his...his...oh, I shouldn't say it, but...his humanity."
"Master!"
"He desired eternity so much, Griggs! That is the one theme that endures throughout this entire body of work! Crack open any book in this entire citadel, and you will perceive the yearning that Seath had for immortality - for the immortality that his brethren possessed, and which was denied him. You can see the burden that his inevitable death placed upon him. It was his sole obsession in the entire world."
"Innocent people were tortured and murdered for the sake of his research, Master."
"Precisely!" said Logan, beaming. "Which is why we have a moral duty to ensure that Seath's knowledge benefits humankind. Their sacrifice must not be in vain, Griggs."
()()()()()()()()()()
Navigating their way through the upper levels of the fortress, Quelana and Patches entered a chamber, and discovered a man huddled deep in thought in a corner. He was clad head-to-foot in thick plate armour, with an iron greatsword waiting at his side, but such was his air of despondency and hopelessness, that the overall impression was that of a scrawny, cold child hiding himself beneath wooden boards to shelter from the rain.
"Hello!" said Patches, cheerily. It was then that he noticed the crates and chests surrounding the stranger. "Ooh, not travelling light, this one."
The stranger's eyes were wide and frightened, his skin sallow and clammy; it seemed as though they had dragged him from some morbid trance. Finally, he said: "I'm not travelling at all. These goods stay here, and so do I. This is my lot in life. Don't steal from me, please."
Patches put his hands to his mouth, stifling a horrified gasp. "Steal from you? Good sir, you have mistaken me for a common thief. I am a heroic adventurer, en route to Anor Londo."
The stranger seemed unimpressed. "Oh, but don't misunderstand. It really doesn't matter to me if you steal my wares. You'll only get killed by the Hollows, and then I'll have to carry it all back."
Patches eyes narrowed in confusion. "Are you a merchant?"
"What's mine is yours, but at a price."
"I have a difficult time picturing this place as a thriving hub of economic activity," said Patches. "Where do you get your wares?"
"From fools such as yourselves. Oh, don't worry; unlike you, I'm not a thief. I just scavenge trinkets and baubles from the corpses of people braver, stronger and more deluded than myself."
"Well, it is a lucrative way of making a living," said Patches, and both the merchant and Quelana understood at once that he was speaking from experience. "Have to be careful to nab the loot before they go Hollow, though, eh?"
"Yes," said the merchant."You have to be quick."
The merchant peered over Patches' shoulder, at the figure standing silently behind him. "Is your companion shy, hmmm? Hiding something underneath those robes? Is she almost Hollow? Ashamed of her rotting, putrid flesh?"
Quelana stepped around Patches, and addressed the merchant. "Are you a student of pyromancy?" she asked.
"Pyromancy? No, no. No, I was a soldier, once. In my old life. I came to Lordran in search of fortune and glory. Just like all the others. Just like you."
"I am no treasure seeker," said Quelana. And I did not spend a thousand years wandering a swamp to be told otherwise. "I have no interest in fortune and glory."
The merchant waved a dismissive hand. "Bah. We're all here for the same reason. You see, I used to believe in the 'fundamental goodness of humanity'. Until I learned better. We're really no different than those vile creatures roaming about. We're all driven by conceit."
"Perhaps if you could bring yourself to care about someone other than yourself," said Quelana, "you could bring yourself to leave this place. Come, Patches. We will bring our patronage elsewhere."
They made their way out the door. "You think you're different?" said the merchant, apparently caring little whether his voice was audible or not. "You can't hide it, you know. Your avarice. Your greed. You're really only fooling yourself."
Quelana left, and for a few hours after, wondered how an ordinary human could see through the magic that obscured her from the vision of mortals.