FIRELINK SHRINE

Oscar wondered what Lex could have been doing as he watched the crow take his companion southward. This far north, most places were abandoned. Long ago, the roads had been full of traffic to New Londo, but as the curse began to overwhelm Lordran, the flow ebbed. Now, even the gods had abandoned their ancient home, and the only ones who traveled north were Undead bound for the Asylum. The knight couldn't imagine why Lex would return there but couldn't think of anywhere else he might be going either.

He sighed and decided to ignore it like he did the prophet's other quirks. He was certainly in no mood to wonder what went on in that lunatic's head. Oscar stopped himself. No, perhaps he was the one in the wrong. Madness was the norm for the Undead.

Even for those who held onto hope and sanity, survival came first. Even he didn't think much of it when he consumed the last bits of soul force animating the hollows. Who was to say whether those weren't the last remnants of those victims' identities? Likewise, who was to say that even a discrete soul like this was the Fire Keeper's identity itself rather than remnants of the power that moved her? He cradled his head in his hands and groaned.

Oscar remained like this for quite some time. Eventually, the crestfallen warrior seated on the fallen wall opposite him spoke up.

"What's wrong? Crisis of faith? Don't think about it too hard. Everything gets easier when you admit that it's all in vain."

He began laughing miserably.

"Maybe you're right," Oscar said. "That man I've been traveling with is a prophet. He says that even if we succeed, all of this will happen again in a thousand years."

"There you go," the warrior said, mournfully gazing into the bonfire. "It's not our fault. The world just isn't fair. Not for anyone."

"He also said that it was my fate to die in the Undead Asylum. Don't you think that means something? I'm terrified, honestly. But… if I give up here, then what was the purpose in coming? I was alive when I shouldn't have been. I could have made the long journey back to Astora.

Maybe I could have pretended to be missing instead of dead. Maybe I could have just pretended all of this was a dream. But I have the chance to change something now. Maybe it is all in vain. But don't you think that… even if the Fire will fade again, it's worth the journey for even one more day of light?"

"Don't ask me. I couldn't handle that sort of passion."

They were both quiet for a while, before Oscar rose and walked down the stairs to the lower portion of the Shrine. The knight in golden armor was there – Lautrec, his name was, the murderer.

"Ahh, quite a speech. I'm impressed. I had thought all such fools died before they made it here."

He chuckled quietly with a sound like grinding stone.

"Oh, don't mind me," he continued. "I'm just a little… jaded. I am grateful to you for freeing me. Here is your reward. Please accept it."

He drew something out of a belt pouch and held it up. Oscar approached him cautiously and took it. It was a golden medallion with the sun symbol of the god of war in relief. Strangely, it felt warm to the touch, though Lautrec had held it for only a moment. Oscar eyed it a little suspiciously but tucked it away with his other gear.

"I'm glad you like it," Lautrec said, chuckling a little. "Now then. With my debt repaid, I have business to attend. With luck, maybe we'll meet again."

With that, he rose and walked around one a ruined wall, descending until he was out of sight. After a few moments, the sound of rattling chains echoed up from beneath the Shrine. Oscar shuddered and sat down in front of the Fire Keeper's prison, removing his helmet so she could clearly see his face.

"Hello…" he began awkwardly. "I am told that you are also from Astora. I… I know you can't speak but perhaps you know how to write? I'm sure I could find something for you to write on. I thought it might help… to talk to someone from the same kingdom."

The Keeper didn't react at all within her hood and voluminous robes.

"I… can't say that I understand what you're going through. The son of a count has harsh training and duties but would never experience real hardship. But it is his duty as such to relieve the suffering of the common folk. Perhaps you do not know how to write? I could teach you… when I'm here, at least."

Her head dipped a little.

"What… what is it?"

She was slowly slumping over now. She fell face-forward into the dirt and pulled herself forward, her skirt dragging limply behind her. When she could reach the bars, she pulled herself up again. Her face was wet with tears.

"Thank you," she mouthed.

Oscar gasped quietly and swallowed the lump in his throat. A new Flame might die in a thousand years, but that was no reason to ignore the suffering of the present. He slid closer and snaked an arm through the bars, patting her gently while she wept in silence. They remained like that for a long while, even after she had stopped crying. It was only when the crow passed overhead again that Oscar excused himself to return to the upper Shrine.

He found his usually melodramatic partner in nearly as bad a shape as the Fire Keeper. The cleric was shivering, holding his hands out to the bonfire desperately. Oscar approached him slowly. There was a mad look in his eyes, the look of someone on the brink. Undead didn't always go hollow; sometimes they were just driven irreparably made by their condition.

"Lex," he said carefully. "Is everything all right?"

"I…"

The cleric swallowed.

"I messed up, Oscar. I almost died."

The knight felt the bile rise in his throat. He restrained himself from shouting for Anastacia's sake.

"Up. Get up."

He dragged Lex to his feet and pulled him all the way to the cemetery's entrance.

"You see all these graves? How many of these people were Undead like us, who went hollow? You were the one who kept me from becoming like these poor souls. Where is all that gusto now? Where's the bragging about immortality?

We can't sleep anymore. There are people whose every waking moment is pain. You talk about using souls for greater goods and say the gods are arrogant? What's more arrogant than complaining about one measly near-death experience? Tell that to these people. Tell that to Anastacia."

Lex held his own arms as he shivered.

"You don't understand, Oscar-"

"What's there to understand?" he shouted.

"I've never died before. I've never really been hurt before. None of this is supposed to be real!"

"What do you-?"

"It's all a game, Oscar! It's a game."

He sniffled and tried to get a hold of himself. Oscar glared at him silently until he continued.

"In Lordran, different worlds overlap and pass through one another, right? In my world, there is no Lordran. It's a fiction. A setting. The purpose is to play the role of the Chosen Undead in a grand tragedy. Like a novel, but the reader has a small amount of control over the order of events."

Oscar's first instinct was to disregard what Lex had said. A prophet was something that was believable – the notion that his entire world was fictional was simply too much. But a prophet who knows the future so clearly and immediately as to make battle plans was too convenient. Lex hadn't said that his parrying the demon's weapon on the bridge was amazing; he had said that it was outright impossible. Whether something was possible or not was beyond the domain of fate and prophecy.

If it was a game, though, there would be rules. Someone who was familiar with the game would know them well. Presumably, for a game with the scope of a novel, they would have to be rigid and clear-cut. It wasn't that only one of inhuman strength or skill could deflect that attack: it was that doing so was truly impossible. As much as he wanted to reject it out of hand, it wasn't completely impossible.

"How do you explain my memories? Undead are prone to forgetfulness, that is true. But I still clearly remember much of my home and childhood. This couldn't be part of a game. Not when I'm so insignificant that I die in the opening act."

"I don't know. And that's what scares me. In the game, death is irrelevant to the Chosen Undead. But this isn't the game anymore. What happens when I die… Oscar?"

Oscar's anger simmered down a little. He supposed that even if Lex was completely mad, he wasn't the sort of person who had put his life on the line before. A knight of Astora must stand valiantly even in the face of certain defeat. An out-of-place actor or reader or whatever Lex truly was? Being a little frightened by the prospect of death was understandable – if annoying because of how he had acted previously.

"If you die, you'll come back to the bonfire. Just like everyone else. We may be changing our fates, but the rest of the world still works. You have nothing to worry about. I promise."

He pat Lex on the shoulder. The fake prophet sniffled again and nodded.

"Now," Oscar continued, "like you said. Let's save the, uh, goddamned world. None of this depressing… shit. If this was the game, what would come next?"

"Grinding," Lex said plainly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "We need to slaughter Baldur knights over and over again and collect titanite. I need to upgrade my sword, and you need to upgrade your armor. Your sword can't be upgraded without a kind of rare titanite, and honestly, it's not worth upgrading anyway when that titanite could be used elsewhere. I won't upgrade my robes because I intend to get real armor soon."

"And after that?"

"I need to use that soapstone Solaire gave you. I need to help other Undead defeat the Bell Gargoyles until I've earned ten sunlight medals."

"Just you?"

"Yes, unless you intend to fight with miracles like Solaire."

Oscar shook his head.

"I might consider it. For now, I'll focus on swordplay. A sunlight medal…? Is this one?"

He held up the one Lautrec had given him.

"Yeah, that's it. You talked to Lautrec?" Lex asked, taking the medallion.

"As long as he was here. Which was brief but not brief enough. What role did he play that was worth freeing him?"

"He would have escaped regardless. I suspect his countryman, the Pardoner, frees him if the Chosen Undead doesn't, but there's not really any evidence. I just don't like the Pardoner. I just thought it would be a good idea to have him on our side – or as close as you can get with a guy like that.

As for his role, it's hard to say. He's almost universally reviled for what he will do soon, but he may be the true hero of the story, coldblooded psychopath or not."

"What will he do?"

"We've already started to change the story. I don't want to risk you altering his course. Not yet. I think we'll be fine as long as we don't interrupt his fated progression, but the instant we do, we'll be headed blind into a future where one of the most dangerous killers in Lordran hates us. I know what events in the game trigger his crime. I promise you that I will tell you in time to prevent it."

"I don't like this, Lex. You need to tell me everything. You're so afraid of this game. Why won't you just tell me what I need to know to win?"

"Oscar, this alone, I must keep to myself. I will tell you at the gates to Blighttown."

The knight took a deep breath.

"All right. I'll believe you."