On a castle upon the cliffs, in a courtyard of bleak images - tombstones seemingly sprouted from the ground like tender spring's flowers, and derelict, masterless swords plunged by the blade into the rough dirt - the dance of single combat played out, its rhythm dictated through the clashing of two unequal blades, the tempo rising and rising and falling and stagnating and rising and falling.
"Well, thou art of passing skill… warrior blood must truly run in thy veins!"
Words of a recent adversary rung true.
The two men here sought to become all that they were not - one through ripping from others what he did not have for himself…
"Honestly, Godrick's no more than a jumped up country bumpkin. Lord? Don't make me laugh."
… the other through carving from himself what others sorely needed. Understanding. Solace. Tenderness. A listening ear amidst the mad-howling wind and a gentle hand upon the red-silk-cloaked shoulder.
"They crossed the sea for me… they fought for me…"
That was what she needed. The despairing, sweet woman - girl, rather - in the shack on the ascent. An honest, human whisper of 'please take care of yourself…' before the knightly Tarnished departed for the clash atop the cliffs with Godrick, he who needed the arms of five men to feel as whole and adequate as one… that whisper was all he knew to summon from his heart for this hurting soul.
The way that she gazed up at him, equal parts in appreciative wonderment and stunned surprise, made him feel for a second that he was a dashing hero aiding a damsel-in-distress. Only for a second.
Clad in trusty iron plate with a claymore upon his back, he was as much a knight as any man could be without having had an accolade ceremony. In truth, though… he felt hardly like a knight, despite the fact that he was promised such a title by his potential Lord, Kenneth Haight. A symbol of integrity, honor… chivalry… these were the knightly standards he did not rise to meet, as far as he was concerned. Standards he would trample over like a blind warhorse spurred on towards battle and moving in obeisance rather than assurance.
In his efforts to do right by all he encountered - man, woman, demi-human, outcast Raya Lucarian sorceress or oversized jar - it felt to him as though his best measured some ways below the lowest mark of 'good enough', time and time again. A knight, he claimed, he never was.
"Oh, a knight, are you? How wonderful."
"I am no knight. I am simply… I. I am Arthur. That is all."
His do-good attempts only ever bore fruit where it did not matter, it seemed. He had ventured into the midst of Castle Stormveil and retrieved for the girl a memento of her men… they who crossed the sea. They who fought. They who were… stuck to the spider. It was nestled atop what could be described best as a heap of gore, the shattered remains of countless men. Brave men, no doubt.
The miasma of decay brought on by such an obelisk to the end of life would consume the senses of a lesser warrior. The sheer scale of death presented… somewhat frightened him, in all truth. To endure all of this for… an ornate brooch swaddled within a red velvet cloth, frayed at the edges and flecked with blood in some spots. What folly. Absurd, righteous folly. The precious ornament took residence within the secure pocket of the knight, beneath his iron cuirass.
This was, in fact, the second castle scenario he had cut his way through; the first, the relief of Castle Morne to the South from the Misbegotten, was spurred mostly by the request of Irina, the blind young woman sitting upon a short stone wall along the path.
The Weeping Peninsula, indeed, brought much weeping for her father after all was said and done.
He declined to resign his castellan duty until the prized sword of the castle was recovered from the hands of the Misbegotten… but he concerned over the wrong sword, and a much crueler one, wrought of iron and hatred, came down upon the side of the road in his absence. Retribution was sworn, but the knightly Tarnished could only lament… "If you should undertake this task of vengeance, the sword will never leave your line, Castellan. What is the meaning of the deep cut if not to scar over and heal? Blood does not fall forever if you so choose. Please… do not throw away what little you have left for… for guilt."
Edgar heard, but did not listen… would not listen… could not listen.
Every failure before was a minor setback, in the grand scheme of this valiant and noble quest, but… to see so personally a consequence of that failure… nobody short of the uncaring or the twisted could remain unchanged in the aftermath. A man served his 'Lord' and manned his castle as the last defender to the very end… but lost his most precious of joys in life for his troubles. Ever since this turn of events, the failures seemed to mount and stack and multiply in the perception of his mind.
What good are the virtues of a knight if, at the moment of truth, they fail him… and those who depend upon him? Of what use is a shield when cracks are driven deep and far across its surface and even the most lacking strike threatens to shatter it irreversibly?
Still… knighthood (as this Tarnished understood it, at the very least) was predicated not upon practicality… but sheer principle.
To dream the impossible dream… to fight the unbeatable foe… to bear with unbearable sorrow… to run where the brave dare not go.
To right the unrightable wrong… to love pure and chaste from afar… to try when your arms are too weary… to reach the unreachable star.
The tenets of countless knights through all of time, their names long forgotten by history at large but their deeds never by those they met.
The tenets of a knight today.
It was with these inherited virtues - noble, romantic and hopelessly hopeful, vowing to stumble until he can only crawl and crawl from then on - that his quest led him to conflict with the most depraved Godrick.
On a warm day atop the cliffs of Stormveil, in the interlude separating blade-dances within the courtyard-ballroom, a claymore was raised aloft and thrust skyward.
"You… pitiful thing! To think that you are of the 'golden lineage'! Hah! Monstrosity! Down with the Grafted!", a mocking mid-battle taunt rung out. The tombstones and planted swords and trees all heard it, and Godrick definitely heard it, if the sudden, furious grunt of exertion and slam of his golden labrys was any indication.
The greatsword found itself under great pressure and force, held horizontally above its wielder's head to stand against the haft of the larger axe and halt Godrick's blow, like a dam to fierce waters. One gauntlet gripped the blade, the other gripping the aged wooden hilt. The axe's swing, forged of the haughty resentment and contempt of somebody who thinks himself his opponent's better, only barely ran into its obstacle in time. The struggle against the weight and unnatural strength bore heavy upon the knight's shoulders.
Slowly advancing, the knight came to within arms' reach (emphasis on arms', plural in the most grotesque sense) reach of the twisted 'Lord'. With one quick motion, he brought the sword from above his head, from blocking, into a readied position for a thrust. With another, he drove it through the chest, targeting the center of his mass in a deliberate maneuver. Impaling it proved rather easy… but reversing this position and returning to a combat-ready stance did not. It required a strenuous pull free, all the while Godrick's axe hands raised up their implement for another devastating assault. A diagonal swing, left-to-right, smashed into the knight's frontal chestplate right as his weapon was freed from the impalement.
Sent stumbling from the blow, his sword became a means of balance for a tense, unsteady few moments. Resolve planted some grounded, leaden steadiness back into the air-filled feet that threaten to topple over at any moment. A wild and uncoordinated arcing slash connected, cutting well across the chest of the 'Lord'.
Go down! Go down! Go down!
"You… are an affront to nature. To all that is honorable… all that is right… beast! Craven! Perish in the mud, where you were birthed, and you shall defile your lineage no longer!"
Claymore held in both hands, directly in front and pointed ahead, it was a stance and taunt that almost dared Godrick to strike him again in retaliation.
Godrick obliged.
One of two axe-heads found itself splitting an already-crumbling tombstone straight down the middle, the knight having side-stepped (or, rather, hastily thrown himself) from its path just a second early enough. The window of time where Godrick smugly reckoned that he had obliterated his target was all the knight needed to rush back in for another assault. A running thrust. Not quite as deep as the previous, but it was a wound nonetheless. In return, another side-swing of the axe struck him, and the two were again at an impasse, no one better off than the other.
His countenance was bloodied and showing the rigors of the battle, but morale roared high within his determined self. Trading hits with this… monster had tested his endurance, as a golden axe was brought to bear against his iron cuirass… but what matters pain to the body of a knight-errant? What matter wounds? Pain is simply weakness fleeing from the body… that is what is said, and it can only be inferred to be true. A victory mired in blood is all the more worthwhile, in the end.
I shall take him. This… filthy beast is mine. He tires. I do not… not until it is complete. Man triumphs over monster… just as the morning sun vanquishes the midnight dark. My destiny calls… as does his grave.
The images of the injustices done not only in Godrick's name but by his hand (all ten of them) conjured great wrath into the mind of the knight. Pile upon pile upon pile of corpses, skin scraped and stripped and shredded and limbs taken and stolen and gone. All for… what? A sick power-hunger? Monsters like this… cannot exist in this world. How could they?
A determined overhead chop landed true, and the beast's blood seeped from his… from its shoulder. The latest strike of many. One strike too many, perhaps. Too many for Godrick to simply allow.
The knight had no words as one of his foe's many arms was severed by his own chopping. No words at all. He stepped back and merely observed, semi-wide-eyed, driven to do so by pure shock at the sight. Blood sopped from the massive axe-wound, only for the injury to be… handled shortly after.
"Ah, truest of dragons. Lend me thy strength! Forefathers, one and all... bear witness!"
"..."
Flame. Flame spewed across the path, maybe ten or fifteen feet forward from Godrick's… dragon hand. Standing too close, the knight could feel the heat take hold of his iron suit. The sensation was agonizing; though flames did not yet engulf him, the temperature of the armor's interior felt as though he were being cooked alive.
His nerves boiled, skin fried, blood sizzled within his body.
He grimly imagined that his eyes were like old fruits, growing charred and wrinkled and small and useless in their sockets with exposure to the heat. He would not have been surprised if his armor had gone so far as to melt and fuse with his skin, creating a revolting chimera of flesh and iron. Hell took its residence beside him in his thick metal coverings, as it felt.
Fire is a quintessential primal fear. The best antibiotic, it destroys all plagues and cures all diseases… including excessive thought. As his steely composure liquidated, he lost all inhibitions and simply frenzied. Only the barbaric ideas remained.
Finish him, or you will burn. Your skin will slough off and your skeleton will remain as a desiccated remnant of another pathetic victim. He'll put you on your knees, smash you open and pull you apart, and do it while you still breathe so you knowyou've lost before you expire.
Drive your blade through his neck and saw through his vertebra until the grinding stops and his head falls to the ground for you to hold aloft by the hair. SWING. KILL HIM. LEFT. RIGHT. LEFT. RIGHT.
Neglecting self-preservation in this offensive frenzy, the axe smashed into the helmet, interrupting a flurry of side-to-side swings which savagely ripped widely across their target's torso in arcs. The brain-cage was rattled, and all aspects of the world as sensed grew odd.
"I COMMAND THEE, KNEEL!"
The echo of Godrick's order bounced within his considerations.
Stumbling about, the maintaining of two feet planted on the ground was a miracle of the human spirit… but as with most miracles, this was short-lived, and his knees buckled underneath him.
GET UP. RISE TO YOUR FEET. GET UP. The battle is not yet over… we have not yet lost… and we have not yet won.
Something about this pulverizing blow, oddly enough, brought the knight back to the realm of the combat strategist. He became very aware, suddenly, of his own mortality, and resolved not to allow such a blow again. There existed a strange, discomfiting, pressing feeling on the right side of his head's top, though whether that was a portion of broken skull, a profusely bleeding scalp or his helm dented inward was difficult to tell at the moment.
Struggle. Stumble. Go. Go forth, and finish it. You have it within you… grasp the sword in your hands, and with it, you may do wonders… dare to defy your 'betters'…
Blood trickled down his visage. He could feel it, coming down his forehead and cheek and jaw akin to a raindrop racing across a window, only stickier and more viscous. He could smell it like a raincloud's droppings on the wind, only the sanguine scent was… metallic, more so than the greathelm itself, whose dark interior seemed to foster such a smell.
No… I can't continue on… please… I'll kneel, just bring the axe down on my neck and let that be it… please…
Though all rational instincts commanded him to flee, to quit… to kneel… there was one small but unending voice in his pounding heart and bloodied head that instructed him otherwise.
GET UP.
A voice, and the memento. It remained unharmed in the pocket beneath his armor, and that was enough. He could feel its metal outline pressing against him, brought in tighter by the close fit of the armor. He could suffer… fail… die… but only after he had done right by her. That girl. The blonde-haired maiden in the soft and pretty noble attire. He hadn't even caught her name, but that was of no matter. He was no knight… but he could prove himself worthy of being one on some far-off, dull day if only he could do right by one person. If only he could glimpse the unreachable star once, in pursuit of the impossible dream, whose reward was only naive death and folly.
"Tell them I love them…
… and that, despite my craven heart…
… I'm sure I'll be joining their club soon enough."
No. No way in hell.
You're not dragging her off to tear her apart.
She needs me.
Within the confines of his battered iron greathelm, he found that his headspace was… different. There dwelt only a silent, indefatigable resolve where, fleeting moments before, noisy confusions and wrathful violent desires were given free reign to blare.
Like warring, disparate city-states united at last under one regal banner, one marble throne and one gem-set crown, his every thought now served the same purpose.
He pried himself up with his sword as a lever, his knees still weakly threatening to give way for a second time. It mattered nothing; so long as he could push himself up again, no tumble would be anything other than a small obstacle. Nothing but.
What matter wounds? For each time I fall I shall rise again, and woe to the wicked!
To fight not with a lust for blood but a love for virtue, that is what makes a sword shine in the dark of night; it is the knight which makes the armor gleam true, not the armor which makes the knight.
It was with this understanding that the Tarnished stood up straight, claymore clutched tightly within his gauntlet-clad hands. The trumpets of glory called to him, and who was he to deny the conspiring forces of fate their champion? Worthy he may not be, but chosen he was, and he would stand firm.
There came an end to the stumbling, and the unsure movements. Every step in this long dance of ultraviolence was measured, and every half-inch of sword movement served a purpose. The sword-play lessons and efforts in improving his clumsy footwork from his youth sprang to mind, superseding the sheer, brutal force that came with the intention of absolutely destroying Godrick. The barbarian at the gates retreated, and the knight, gleaming in armor and gallant in spirit, rode in.
Godrick, the mighty 'Lord', stood shocked and stricken with indignation at the sheer will of his challenger. To not only endure such blows but to rise up again…
'What makes him believe he can be so different? What… what makes him so different? He is… just another Tarnished…' , his pitiful mind wondered.
"Oh? Athirst for more punishment? Very well.", his arrogant mouth said.
"The tree of virtue can only be refreshed by the blood of the valiant and tyrannical. I am ready; what say you?"
… now!
An impatient, hateful overhead swing bore down on the knight (with all of the appropriate force accorded to it), and, yet again, gold collided with iron.
The claymore carved a deep crack into the bit of the axe, deep as it could go before meeting the beast emblem in the axe-head's center and the haft that divided it in two. As swift as he ever had, the man had stepped back and brought his blade up from the ground in an arcing motion with remarkable force, aiming specifically to strike his adversary's armament from underneath.
A precise maneuver, immensely risky but victorious; had distance, speed or required force been misjudged, an arm very well may have been shattered or lost in the resulting blow. As it stood, though, here was one man defying the 'Lord of all that is Golden', swimming upriver and moving upriver, contending with what is to institute what should be.
What is fate but a final moment? What is destiny but where our tales end? It is not some predetermined road we musttake, but only the death of the road. The trail is the thing, not the end of the trail; travel too fast, and you miss all that you travel for. It is true that we cannot escape what is commonly held to be destiny, but we may fight not to be enslaved by it. The fear of helplessness in inexistent fate need not manifest into true helplessness as we walk our paths.