"Lay out your arms. Let's get smithing."
The claymore is set down upon the anvil. Beaten iron meets beaten iron.
"... what've you done to this blade? Unbelievable. You really know how to make a blacksmith cry."
The morning came, but he felt no ominous beacon glaring down to signal the end of his rest and the beginning of a new struggle. There were no windows, for the Roundtable Hold hardly existed as more than a tangible memory of what once was, but there was, more importantly, nothing to dread this time. Roderika had set in beside him and they had held each other just as before, only much more closely.
Soul met soul on lovers' lips as the fireplace burned on and iron was torn down by two sets of hands. Words, those damned failure-prone noises, unreliable at best, hadn't properly conveyed the message of I believe I want this every night until I die… on either end. They might eventually, but if not, they didn't need to. The connection, young and dim as it burned, wouldn't be snuffed out in the pitch-blackness and eerie stillness of nighttime. Though new and fast-made, it was no whim. It was a romance tempered by the mutual past experiences of its two members but given substance and foundation by the ways they had helped each other since.
To wake up was dismaying until Arthur felt Roderika's lithe arms wrapping his bandage-wrapped back and his bulky arms holding hers, covered in fineries of silk. Her blonde hair, golden and perfect to he and his senses, was splayed slightly across his face in their proximity; just another blissful way they contacted and mingled. They laid sideways and facing one another, the both of them; he preferred to sleep on his back so that he'd wake up without arm-aches and couldn't be ambushed from any particular direction besides behind. He preferred sleeping in another's clutches even to that, though, because he knew he wouldn't be ambushed at all.
Usually he would be unable to sleep without his sword beside him, but they were safe. He was safe. The couple were peacefully subsumed beneath the white-silk sheets and coverings of Fia's bed, which she'd no doubt want back soon. Not yet, though.
Not yet. I cannot lose this so soon… if I exit the embrace now, how can I know it will not be the last? Will I be throwing this new joy I have found from my hand like a fool? I… I wish to keep her svelte body in my arms for so much longer… so many more nights…
I could easily have Fia hold me a hundred… no, a thousand times more, but I will nevertouch her again. There is only one maiden I want… one who will be more than a frivolous, fleeting contact. One who I…
"This won't do. Sharpening it'd only be tacking a meager bit of time onto the thing. You'll be needing a new one soon enough."
A look of very small disbelief crossed Knight Arthur's face. "Is it truly so awful? I can hardly imagine that the chips upon its edges are of boon, but it seems a serviceable weapon still. It worked well enough to, err, lay Godrick to rest."
"These chips might seem nothing, but it all adds. This blood dried upon it hardly helps with the rust. Your blade's on short time. That clock ticks with every swing. It won't be good when it reaches the twelfth hour."
He felt no surprise. His sword, though a valiant companion bound by sentiment, had seen better times and found itself in particularly rough ones following the confrontation with Godrick. Splitting a huge axe's bit in two mid-swing… it is said that the brightest candles burn only half as long, and it is true that the wick's end felt nigh for this accomplished greatsword.
"Unfortunate. I suppose it is only right to send my sword off before it is snapped in twain… it can retire with pride, knowing it put down the beast of all beasts."
It spawned a tinge of melancholy to part ways with an item which had been so stalwart all throughout his quest. That sword had laid beside him when no love had, helped him set himself upright when no brother-in-arms would and protected him when no diplomacy could.
He held the claymore in his hands once more, and took in its features… as well as the wear that plagued them. Gashes, ugly ones, marked its edges. Much of the blade had dried in blood, most newly the crimson life-essence of Godrick, and its composition weakened with resulting rust. Iron had bested gold, but even blood bests iron in the end.
Still, he was not the same man who wielded it against Godrick… the events of the tender night prior, where Roderika spoke words he never imagined he would hear, had ensured it. Times change; he may still have the same face, with the same genetics, but small scars marred it as reminders of all he had endured in his time. New lines served as contours, and old lines faded. The journey would not be the same; this day-long pause had shifted the goal from simple duty to something more… tangible, and real, and meaningful within him.
What is the meaning of the scar if not to heal?
His fortitude and spirit, once composed only of iron, felt infused with something more. Like steel, it was taken from a rawer form and made whole in a process it never knew could occur.
He felt his mortal soul grow enriched in his abandonment of the iron that shrouded it once. For all of the vulnerability that came with it, he found himself tripled in strength - the strength of the heart.
I have changed.
"I don't doubt it. It's a weapon that's felled its mark.", Hewg cut into his pondering with a verbal sword of his own. Despite all of this change, and internal strengthening, he still would need a sword to carry out his quest.
Arthur quietly resolved to set aside the past, as glorious and warm as it may have been, and to seize the present. "It is. Now, though… the time has come for another. Show me your finest blades, Hewg."
After half a minute of shuffling around the anvil, he had laid out five swords across the workspace. Four were of the same make as those wielded by the Stormveil knights. Elegant and reliable pieces, no doubt; they lent themselves to a refined, swift manner of fighting, very knightly indeed. The engravings gave no tactical advantage whatsoever, but they were signs that these were no first-timer's effort.
These blades' ends looked poorer for thrusting, though; their tip was not as acutely triangular as that of his claymore, and their balance was different. Their shape was more rounded, and seemed far better for slashing than stabbing.
The fifth, distinct in its frame and its utility, was a black-handled flamberge. He had heard only vague rumors of a colorful knight to the East who wielded one and presided over his General's castle. The talk was quite enamoring, and Arthur wished to meet this fellow.
Its steel blade was curved and undulating, like a tall flame; it struck him as something that would be good for inflicting horrendous cutting wounds and rending flesh asunder… if kept sharpened, which would be a much longer process. There would be no way to simply run it along a whetstone as he did with his claymore, given the blade's non-straight shape. Still, it was an unconventional and intriguing blade, much to his fancy, and he found himself gravitating towards it.
As the knight looked over these armaments, deliberating on their use, Hewg stepped back and grunts of exertion came from him. The smith hauled the mother of all weapons across the weathered wooden floor, its massive blade dragging behind his legs.
"By the gods…"
Arthur had no words beyond these awed few.
The colossal thing - a veritable slab of dark iron - certainly was a great sword. It reminded him of a sword he had seen once, in the possession of a mercenary who sat and spoke with him during his time in a foreign land. The resemblance was there, though differences did exist. He recalled how much larger that man was compared to him at the time… and he knew that he would dwarf him still, despite his growth.
It would be a grueling task to carry this beast, let alone swing it for the duration of his journey. The only comparable sword was the prized armament of Castle Morne, which he recalled hauling up the stairs to Edgar. That failure of all failures, he hadn't thought about it and Edgar and poor Irina in quite some time…
No matter. There is nothing to be done about it now.
Hewg took the stunned silence and contemplation as a disapproval, or something akin to it. "Not your preference, is it?"
Brought back to the present moment, Arthur chuckles in the midst of his sentence, clearly more amused than shocked by now. "Who did you have in mind whilst forging this? A giant? It looms taller than I!"
The Misbegotten blacksmith put the titanic thing aside with a smile. It was a heap of raw iron. Arthur had his mind set on the flamberge; if anything, it would distinguish him from some milquetoast sword-and-shield contemporary.
Just as the knight grabbed hold of the sword and its corresponding sheath, Hewg spoke of a softer subject than blades.
"... the girl you brought here. Though she can scarcely swing a blade, she's in much better spirits than when she first trudged in, and she has a gift for just that. Spirit tuning. I saw another one like her, long ago. Their eyes share the same hue."
"She did mention feeling the spirits of those who accompanied her 'attached' to that keepsake I found of them, but nary a thought crossed my mind about her being in actual league with the spiritual realm, given the emotion of the moment. If she has this gift… well, she will need some kind mentor to help her along the path, right? I am no great medium, otherwise I would happily jump at the chance, so how about you? I have yet to ask her thoughts on the matter, obviously, but would you… watch over her as a spirit tuner, or whichever term you choose to use for it?"
"Are you out of your mind? Who'd stay with an ugly brute who only knows how to smith? Absurd… and besides, she'd never agree to it."
"Ugly? Brute? Oh, you deride yourself based on lies, my friend. You are more than you know. Please… do this for her. If she truly is gifted in this way, then what use is there in allowing it to remain raw? You must understand, it is a…"
The knight paused very briefly, but decided to go on with his intended approach.
If this does not get him, what will?
"... a sword with so much more refining to be had. Hammerborne sparks that have not yet lit the night, an edge that could cut ten-thousand times sharper… this is what she must have. I am no protector… just a Tarnished playing at being one. If she came along with me on my journey, well, it is no difficult task to imagine the worst outcome. Under your tutelage here she would be safe. Please…"
"There's some truth in what you say, but I'm sure she'd be more pleased to have a knight like you protecting her. She fancies you. When she first set foot here, you were the only thing she'd talk about."
"I am… just a man, with a man's courage. You have knowledge beyond any words I could say to her. You have a place here, and so she will. I am just a regrettable transient. My life is to wander, it seems."
Hewg laughed dryly and shook his head. "Oh, you truly don't know the half of it, the way she lit up talking about you when we first spoke. … if you're set on this, and if it's what she'd like as well, then… there's no harm in it."
"Thank you. I shall certainly have her speak to you about it, and you will see that it is the best course for her. Now… I should be off. There is still the subject of my armor to be dealt with, so I will halt your work no longer. Thank you for the blade, Hewg."
Arthur slid the blade hilt-deep into its sheath and looked to the smithing master. A nod and that was that.
All knights need armor… and Arthur's was in a sorry state.
The panoply of armor, this iron suit that had been with him from the start… he inspected it beneath his bare fingers and found the cold sensation of its metal to be comforting. A smile sprung up on his face as he recognized the source of every nick, scratch, ding and dent on the cuirass' frontside. That same smile dimmed ever so slightly as the crusted-on blood halted his finger; he recalled just how much death had been meted out, by his hand or others, in these fractured times.
A bloodier villain than war, terms cannot spell out. It brings me no joy to know that, for all of my 'noble' words and ideas, my voice is in my sword, in the end.
He shifted his attention to the greathelm held between his forearm and stomach. It was irreversibly dented, and blood stuck to the inside portion where it had apparently conflicted with his scalp following the blow. The wound's smell had grown within since the day prior, and it was obvious. No repairing this. Might as well replace everything; out with the old, in with the new. He set down the battered remains of his armor, besides the sections covering his legs, on the roundtable.
Barely half-a-dozen steps outside of the doorway, sets of old knightly armor sat unused, displayed on stands. He gazed upon them and knew them immediately to be those of the Stormveil knights. Taking one helm in his hand, its visor closed shut, he admired the dragon figure atop the helm's peak, dust-covered as it may be. Dragons are dragons because a man cannot beat them… so what is a man who slays dragons? Is he greater than a man?
He brought the helm up to eye-level and gazed into the visor slit, into the abyss of an empty helm, and was glad to feel nothing gaze back. Next he saw the outside world from within it and felt very comfortable in the old thing. Naturally Arthur's further action was to pull down the matching cuirass from the display stand nearby and take that on, as well. Despite being a thick piece, it was no heavier than his original set of armor. He had gotten used to the feeling of iron bearing down on his shoulders, and in fact knew the experience to make him stronger in constitution and body.
It brought a smile to be the man in the iron suit with a valiant greatsword once more. Soon he would hold his sword to the sky again and the fight would continue. A dull, faint ache still persisted in sustaining this weight. The wounds from his duel with Godrick had not vanished, but they were fading. They would fade. His journey had yet to end… and for every scar he may come out of it with, the good times to come brought a smile to his face without having even occurred yet.
One of those good times, he would bring about himself.
There existed a place of sight so very comforting to him that he wanted to share it with Roderika. It was fantastical, and there were so many words that could be said between the two of them. More than in the Deathbed Companion's room. There, even with as much privacy as they had (which was a large amount), he never did manage to push out those three special words.
It was too soon. Too soon for them. Istoo soon. What sort of meaningful romance blooms in so little time? Stop this delusion. It was not even last week that I first found her in that shack… but she knows me so well, she proved it last night. She softened my soul with that care of hers.
Some knight I am, cowed more by affection of woman than by danger of beast.
It is all… too much for me.
Fia had returned to her room, having gone who-knows-where? in the time that Roderika had attended to Arthur. He paid her no mind. How could he? Arthur sought out his maiden by the fireplace in the central room where she stood prior.
She knew him right away, in spite of the new armor covering him. She smiled without even thinking, as if it came so naturally as breath. That sweetness-laced expression still sent all manners of joy racing in him.
"Hello, Roderika. I… I trust you have been well since we… well, since the morning?"
Her smile did not fade. She looked up to him, at an angle needed to meet the eyes of somebody half-a-foot taller.
"I have. Your wounds, how do they feel? I hope I did a good job with them. It was my first time."
"You did wonderfully. I feel that I am in prime fighting shape already. If Godrick wills himself back into this living realm and wants a second battle, I will be more than able to give him just that. Thank you again."
"You're welcome, again. It's really not much compared to what you did for me… I feel almost… unequal in this giving-and-getting."
Knight Arthur shook his head and removed his new helm. No need for it here. He could hardly peer into her eyes meaningfully with a faceful of steel.
"It is everything. Even without it, when you simply spoke to me last night, that itself was more than enough. I… I feel as a new man now from what your words stirred in me. I have set down the ways of old, as comfortable as it was to stagnate in them, and now a new path is opened. I will walk it, thanks to you. You have done so much for me…"
'I can still hardly believe that the words of someone like me could have such a meaning to a brave knight like him. What he's describing, it's exactly how I felt about his hand on my shoulder, his sincere care… how I feel now. He's courageous, strong and well-composed… everything I'm not… so why are his words so close to my own thoughts?'
'... if he can be brave through all of this, then I must try as well. Try enough to do just this one thing…'
"Forgive me for asking more of you so soon… but I… I haven't been able to fully distance myself from those thoughts that plagued me when we first met. I can't bring myself closure… I feel I need to go back. Back to Stormveil, to see my men. I know it won't be nearly the same as when they were alongside me, but I just… need this. Will you take me?"
Opposite answers were given by the expression on his face and the sound from his mouth. Of the two, the latter was what counted.
"I will."