The two agents of opposite ideals - the new power stolen from others versus the existing power accepted in the self - stood locked in this clash, this struggle , the knight's two feet pressing against the ground just as the beast's three did, vying for any kind of leverage to break the deadlock. Beneath the battle-worn greathelm, the man grit his teeth, and pushed harder than any man pushed for anything in life.

With a rush and a push, the initiative was his; wrenching his blade from its embedment deep within the axe-blade, he built up a devastating assault. Directly ramming into Godrick shoulder-first, his left shoving against the beast's right, he stepped into a sideways hacking maneuver that chopped deep into his grotesque foe's oversized torso, cutting a swathe into his gut. The motion was repeated over and over and over and over again until resistance had given way.

Howling pain cried out, but nobody bore witness. Nobody but he and his opponent. No knights came to his rescue, and no army of levied men mustered in his yards. No forefathers looked on; if they ever had, shame had diverted their sight long prior.

The cracked golden battle-axe, an elegant labrys of splendrous make, thudded upon the ground, out of its wielder's reach. Illustrious gold had been bested by battered, rugged iron.

Ripping his claymore free, the knight jumped back and lined up a brutal impaling charge. The grafted one had no chance to do anything other than hope… hope for a mercy as Malenia had once granted. Hope for a chance to grovel.

His hope, akin to most others, collapsed upon first contact with reality. The knight sprinted - no, more than sprinted, something faster and more immensely purposeful - until he felt the full length of the blade run Godrick through. From chipped tip to iron hilt, the piercing was thorough and undeniable. All that remained visible from a frontal view was the angled, quatrefoil-embellished crossguard and pommel. From another angle, one observing Godrick's hindside, the blade emerged, crimson blood coating its length.

A miserable, blood-wracked cough fled out of his lungs. Though he despised all which his adversary stood for, the knight declined to prolong his suffering. Rather than wriggle or twist the long iron blade in its carved hole, he extricated it after a mighty and excellent effort.

"...I am… Lord of all… that is Golden...

… and one day, we'll return… together...

… to our home, bathed in… rays of gold..."

A pathetic whimper-mumbling from Godrick was heard (though scorned with silence) by his victorious adversary.

Following a strong shove, the beast was knocked over and laid flat upon the grass. His diluted, wretched blood seeped into the soil.

The knight aligned the midsection of his blade with the trunk of Godrick's neck. He recalled the barbaric, savage idea of sawing through his neck, grinding through his vertebra, going back-and-forth through it like a hand-tool to a piece of lumber ten feet too long. That he ever considered the course of action made him shudder internally.

Never. No man is ordained as a torturer. No reason permits it.

"You are not long for this world."

He knew just what he had to do.

Godrick the Golden, the Lord of Stormveil Castle, descendant of Godfrey… Godrick the Grafted, dismantler of countless Tarnished, the one whose mention sparked hatred and derision from every mouth, peasant to royal. He who denied life and limb to those in his clutches; he who was least deserving of mercy.

He who was granted it.

He who was felled with a downward stroke through the neck more akin to an executioner's than a barbarian's…

… and he who was left over, looming above the gruesome curtain call to this symphony of ultraviolence, his blade having rested against the dirt path long after meeting it at the end of its arc.

No man is a knight who fells a rightful Lord… and no man is a Lord who felled those he swore to protect.

I may be no knight… but I am more than a coward. A defiler. That much is comforting, at the very least.

The fever-rush of the blade-dance wore off, and here he was having slain - executed , even - a demigod, and his helm (along with the head inside of it) had been smashed by an axe, and his skull felt as though it were consequently caved in, and his face was marked with streams of blood spanning the whole of it, and everything hurt, and he knew not what to do.

The courtyard lay silent. No aftermath cheer validated his survival. No birds let loose their songs on tree-branches, and nobody was there to tend to him, nor would they come. The tombstones all around, remaining untouched after the battle that had just unfolded, made him wonder whether any soul would bother to bury Godrick.

He would, even knowing of his deeds, if not for his own foot being halfway into the grave.

Staggering about, his victorious sword now a meager walking-stick, he imagined getting to the Roundtable Hold in the aftermath of this battle to be as big a triumph as beheading Godrick. It certainly felt like it as he fell back against the titular roundtable and cast his armament to the aged wooden floor.

He used what he reckoned to be the last of his strength to gaze backwards, upside-down, at grace. Right above the center of the table, hovering above the spire of ancient armaments embedded within its wood, he still saw it. He was still worthy. Through his failings… his hardships… his fears… he was still worthy.

My quest does not end here… I have miles to go before I sleep. It is not over… not until I win.

His bloodied countenance went from a pained, exhausted grimace to a pained, exhausted smile; this unseen rejection of sorrow grew softer and warmer than any expression he had produced in a long time. A chuckle of genuine joy escaped his mouth, more out of relief than mirth, and reverberated within his iron helm.

The thought, though despairing for others, served to reinvigorate him… in heart, at least. In bodily health, he still felt the consequences of the punishment he endured in his duel with Godrick. He pondered on the difference between being valiant and being foolish; to stand before a ten-armed beast and trade blows could err on either side of the debate.

As his eyes were set upon the guiding light, the golden radiance that had not yet abandoned him, so were the eyes of the Stormhill maiden set upon him. She stood silent by the fireplace, her red-silk hood hung up nearby.

'It's him… the one who listened to me… who spoke to me… who comforted me… the only one who… who…'

She recognized him without any delay, having still cherished the feeling of his calloused-yet-gentle hand upon her downturned, slumped shoulder. He had slipped off his cold iron gauntlet just for her, so she might feel his bare skin's warmth, and whispered sweetly to her, though he would not think it to be anything significant. It was. To her, it meant everything . She had nothing… nothing to offer, and nothing to be taken … yet he stopped on his journey just for her. He never asked for anything… except one thing.

"Please take care of yourself…"

He would not have suspected it, but those words… those words were the kindest she had heard in all of her life.

He spoke to her, and everything was… different. New. Made brighter simply from his inflection and his verbiage and his care.

She was relieved - more frankly, ecstatic - to see him, but soon disheartened to see him apparently unwell.

His suit of battered iron armor, dinged and dented and beaten from helm to heel, gave everything away. The nearby greatsword that had been dried over with the defiled blood of a beast. The cuirass that had been scorched and thrashed by a monster beyond most nightmares and waking fears. The helm covering his head, slumped back against the table, angled up and gazing at something she never saw.

If not for the gentle rising-and-falling-and-rising motion of his chest as he took in and let out air, she would think him dead. She had heard him faintly laugh to himself as he fell backwards and looked up, but knew not the cause. All she had was a twisting feeling inside of her that something had happened.

"... ah, it is you again. I hope you are… well. I apologize for the… the sorry circumstances of our second meeting. I had hoped to see you whilst I were more… vivid. This is… yes. I am sorry.", the knight spoke. He had inadvertently pierced through her thoughts and silent observations, holding back the bodily pain that lingered from manifesting in his voice. At some point he had summoned the strength to sit upright and now looked directly at her.

"Greetings. It's… nice to see you again. You… you look unwell . Are you… alright?" Her first inquiry was brimming with concern and worry for him. Despite his best efforts, it was blatant that he was in an unfortunate shape.
"Worry not… this is… simply a minor consequence of… a Tarnished following his quest. There is nothing to frown over. I am just… somewhat faint." He lied. Badly .

He never was any good at it.

She inched closer, briefly glancing down at his bloodied claymore as she did so. "I can tell that you're… you're… hurt, aren't you? Even with your armor, and your words, I can tell…"

She looks so… worried. There is… no good to be brought in deceiving her.

"Alas, I am. It was a… a magnificent fight. The best I have fought. Perhaps the last, if my fears paint themselves into reality's canvas." Then came the full extent of worry in her expression.

"A fight? What sort of thing could leave you in a state like this? … … … You… don't tell me…" She was hardly a few feet away from him, and could not refrain from fretting over him. It is true that they did not even exchange names, but acquaintance is no prerequisite to wishing the best for one another. He illustrated this truth to her in full during their first meeting.

"The Lord of Castle Stormveil is… no longer. It was a hard battle, but… I remain, for the time being. He does not, and never will." The addendum 'for the time being' frightens her, but the fully-sunk-in confirmation that he had fought Godrick the Grafted frightened her quite a bit more.

"... … can you remove your helmet for me?" This is a request the knight initially considers refusing, but he acquiesces.

Surely she has seen her share of blood in her journey; mine could hardly be that disturbing to her.

As his dented helm was lifted off of his head, and his full visage was clear, her eyes widened slightly.

"What is… you call this a 'minor consequence'? You're more than just a little 'faint'!"

Paths of blood marked his face, from his scalp and hairline to below his neck and collarbone. Individual blood-drop trails and wider occurrences of sanguine remnants were all over. Small cuts, awfully harsh bruises, a particularly damaged portion on his scalp, where blood had seemed to flow abundantly from… his head was certainly that of a warrior. As her expression slipped more and more from concern to unabated shock, the reality of his condition truly set in.

He set down his helm and shook his head. "I am… fine. If I am not, then I shall be. Please… worry not." He summoned the bravest face possible. Even he had his moments of faltering, though. This became one of them.

"What are you saying that for? Don't you feel the blood all across your face? You look horrid, and that's not an insult! If this is only the head, I dread to imagine the hurt that's been put on you elsewhere."

"Nothing to be done about it now." A shrugging gesture accompanied this statement.

"Yes, there is. You're…"

She contemplated this course of action, before deciding wholeheartedly to proceed.

"... you're going to take off that armor, and you'll let me take care of you. It's… it's only right. You helped me, back at Stormhill, so I'll help you now." She nodded as she spoke.

She need not do that… this is somewhat… excessive… is it not?

The knight protested with half-sentences, but that protest did not turn into resistance. He did not remotely have it within him to push her away, let alone admonish her.

"Sit here, and I'll go fetch… something to take care of you. We should have something here…"

"The… the madam in the room through that doorway and straight ahead, Fia… she has a bed. It may be easier to attend to me while I lay down, though I wish not to stain her silk bedding with-"

She cuts him off in her haste to ensure his wellbeing. "Alright, we should go. I can aid you in walking, if y-"

He returns the favor. "No, I shall walk… I would not want to lean upon you and strain your bones, for… I have the build of a warrior, and you, a… an intellectual ."

"Regardless of which of us has which build, we should get going! Wounds don't clean themselves."

The Deathbed Companion immediately perked up as the maiden and knight approached, one stepping lightly in leather boots and the other shuffling forward in metal sabatons. "Greetings, great champion called by grace. Woul-"

Roderika spoke up, clearly insistent. "My apologies, but the situation is quite… dire. He's hurt, and badly so, and I wish to use your room to tend to him… and to lay him down in your bed while I do so."

The Deathbed Companion nodded politely and that was that. Though she was not acquainted with the girl, she certainly knew this knight, and knew firsthand of his warmth. He was far better held living than dead, she mused to herself, so this was the best choice. Fia left them to their business.

As he set himself down upon the soft bed, Roderika was beside him, having found a rag to wipe away the crusted blood that had taken residence on his face. Where she found water with which to wet it he could only imagine.

Wherever it may be, it's better than using her spit, probably.

Either way, his face, though still pocked with nicks, scratches and other delightful rewards of battle, was far less awful when it was not covered in his own blood. He absolutely felt the difference. That was not the end of it, however.

"... now the body."

"Do what you will… I only hope I have no need of this bed for longer than tonight."

Roderika methodically got to unbuckling his iron cuirass. The denting from the fight against Godrick, among others, had scarred the armor, and it was hardly so gleaming as it once was, though it was still quite knightly. Beneath his chestplate there was a tough gambeson, bloodied and indelibly so.

"What is that look upon your face for? This is standard fare within the work of a warrior. I am sure that not all of it is mine, if it brings you comfort."

Roderika was in not much of a jesting mood.

"... put your arms up, would you?"

He complied. His gambeson was pulled over his head and off of him entirely, discarded on the floor. Next came the thin gray shirt that separated skin from armor. It went as she looked over his upper body. He felt nearly naked without his gauntlets, and he promptly equipped them once the upper garments were off, as though wearing them would fully counteract the fact that he wore no shirt.

Bruises and cuts littered his torso, as did scattered instances of dried blood. He was well-muscled, and brawny, but still no match for the likes of that large fellow Blaidd. In the midst of his battle with Godrick he felt grateful for the existence of filling foods, otherwise he may not have been strongly-built enough to trade blows with and win against him.

"You're quite fortunate in that you'll be needing no stitches today. I only hope that you haven't got any broken bones or anything of the sort."

"Given how I stood toe-to-toe with such a foul thing as Godrick, I would not be surprised. His golden axe struck me with full force more than once."

She began to worry once more. "That's… not good."

"Yes, it even crashed into me once on the head."

Her expression darkened slightly. "It what?"

"Well, my helm was not dented so by falling over in church. This is nothing abnormal."

"Well… don't let that happen again. You may not be so lucky as to walk away with bruises and cuts. Take too many hits to your head, and you may end up abnormal."

"..."

"Looking at visible injuries, these bruises do look rather painful, so I would recommend that you refrain from getting any more."

"We shall see. The life of a knight is seldom graced by a peaceful moment. … excepting this one."

"... thank you.", he added. He never did thank her for doing this.

Her smile is at its most charming here. He looks at her and sees sweetness manifest. "You're very welcome. After all you went through, in that castle, you deserve more. This is just… the least I can do for you."

Within his pocket, though, there remained something precious, he had just remembered. Nestled in soft red velvet, it had reminded the knight of his mission during the most fearful segment of battle.

Once the time is right, I will return this to her… she deserves to have it.

The metal outline of the brooch, once pressed against him by his armor's cozy fit, now was… absent. Feeling for it with his hand, he soon knew why.

She had it. Seeing the red velvet fabric sticking out and reaching into his pocket out of sheer curiosity, unable to help herself, she held in her hand the memento of her men. The brooch. It was untouched, shielded safely from Godrick's wrath by the knight and his armor.

"What's this? A… a keepsake from… my men? You found this for me?"

"Ah, you have it. I retrieved it for… for you. It was in a… dreadful place within that castle. A… a mound of corpses elevated it. I… had it within that exact pocket as I fought Godrick, and… at the moment when I was closest to death, it… inspired me. You inspired me."

A warm sensation, like a hundred furnaces burning coal, enveloped her. She looked up at him with an expression of wonder and gratitude.

"Thank… thank you. They really believed in me, until the end… so did you. Whispering kindness in my ear like you did. I couldn't even govern myself to step beyond the bounds of that miserable shack, and you… were there for me. You… did all that for a… a craven like me. I couldn't go through with it. Not after what you did for me. You're… truly a knight in all the highest ways, you know."

Her expression is somewhat more downcast, but she is not hopeless… simply wistful.

"You need not thank me. It was simply… right. It was what anybody should have done. … and… I appreciate the sentiment… however, I am no knight. Call me Arthur, for that is who I am. What I am. Nothing more."

She smiled softly, though she quietly noted his rejection of the title. "Ah, yes, we never did exchange names… I should have told you mine sooner. My name is Roderika."

"... that is a wonderful name, Roderika. You… are no craven. You referred to yourself as such, here and even during our first encounter. You… are more than you know. Better than you know. Even if you find yourself to be low… you can always resolve to be better far than you are. Speak no ill of yourself… think no ill of yourself… Roderika. Please."

A tinge of redness found itself upon her face, and yet again she wondered what made him so… kind. Especially towards a supposed coward like her who lived while brave men died gruesomely.

"... virtue must truly be your master, I suppose."

This statement confounded him, both as a reply to his affirmations and as a sudden, independent speculation. He was no slave or servant. He had no master.

"... what do you mean?"

"Oh, I… heh, I was a bit… vague, wasn't I? I mean to say… you claim to be no knight, but of everyone I've known, you've been the only one who truly deserved that title… and every knight need a master, doesn't he? Your master… seems to be virtue."

This praise, foreign to him, left him stunned. Hardly too stunned to respond, however.

"You are such a kind one, but… you are wrong, I believe. I am… nothing but a man in a panoply of iron swinging an iron sword for a set of values that are worth less than dross. That is… all. I… never seem to do good with all of this supposed virtue, so what kind of virtue is it? What use is it, then, besides a flowery embellishment of my purpose? What am I but a… a pretender?"

He was not being humble, though it was a core element of his nature. He was being vulnerable, admitting his fears… something that was not . As he did so, he stared directly into her eyes, hoping for at least some sort of understanding, even if it were the kind that spawned derision. In its stead he found tenderness and empathy.

Does he truly consider himself such? Just a man swinging a sword for… nothing? He is so much more than that… more than nothing.

A soft hand placed itself upon an uncertain, weary shoulder. This time, the maiden tended to the knight. She came in close and gazed directly into his insecure eyes, never breaking this contact for even a second.

"You have done good. You… you saved me. I was… well, if you hadn't come along and… defeated Godrick…"

'Defeated'? A very sanitized description of reality. It likely is better that she continues to imagine it in such a way.

"... I would… I would have… joined my men. I told you… back when we first spoke, when I was so out of my mind with fear. Told you that I would be heading along to meet that fate. 'Stuck to the spider'... remember? Well… thanks to you, I never got the chance. You saved me from something horrid. So… speak no ill of yourself and think no ill of yourself... alright?"

The thought of Godrick taking her apart still made something inside of him turn, no less than it had in the darkest moment of his clash with the beast who grafted.

Another, far larger thought came to him, however.

It was not all folly. The impossible dream was not so 'impossible' after all… virtue is not a falsehood. It is real… and I can strive to make it real… it matters not if I win, or lose, so long as I follow the quest. The quest to strive ever upwards. The quest to forge a brighter world for others.

This realization - this affirmation of purpose and of possibility - prompted him to smile. It was not a deliberate choice, but happiness simply creeping out of his feelings and onto his physicality.

In his joy, he did what was only natural when a lovely maiden was touching him so and whispering such sweet things to him.

He gently wrapped his arms around her, coming in for a tender embrace that seemed to dissipate many of these shattered self-doubts with finality.

She did the same and felt the same. Chins rested upon the crevices between the necks and shoulders, and arms clutched tightly as though everything would fall away if they slackened.

Roderika's blonde hair brushed against Arthur's nose, and for this sweet time they were not a young girl labelled as a Tarnished despite never having seen grace, or a young man attempting to make real a human vision of heroics in a world that seemed to scorn him for it.

They were not the maiden from Stormhill and the knight whose eyes still saw grace; they were Roderika and Arthur.

He adored the feeling in his facial nerves as her soft hair grazed them, a nigh-tickling sensation, and she equally prized the way he clung so tightly yet gently to her, knowing his own strength and her own size.

His cold gauntlets were kept from chilling her back's skin by the fine silk attire she wore. He recalled vividly how soft it felt upon his bare hand during their first meeting, and enjoyed how soft it felt upon his naked forearms now.

Arthur was the first to pull away. She, reluctantly, did so as well. It was not out of regret; Roderika soon learned this when he removed his gauntlets yet again, this time to take his bare hand and brush her golden middle-parted hair away from her forehead.

This time to lean in once more.

This time to softly plant a kiss upon her forehead.

This time to feel as she gingerly returned a kiss upon his cheek.

This time to meet her lovely gaze and smile fondly.

This time to wonder whether the eyes truly are windows to the soul.

This time to notice as she became immensely rosy in her cheeks.

This time to feel a burning sensation in his face.

This time to realize that he had gone and done the same.