"Well, you're up soon. With all of that blood as they hauled you down, I took you for dead."

A pause to the hammering of another iron blade.

"Not quite, old man. Not yet."

A grin and a shake of the head.


Arthur hadn't ignored the fact that Roderika kept the shortsword by her bedside. He figured for himself that Hewg had given it to her before his return; a pity, since a small part of him hoped to surprise her when the time came, but right now he was hardly in any shape to instruct her beyond verbal description. At least he knew the smith hadn't disregarded his request.

Still, before that, before she could accompany him, she would tread the path of a spirit tuner. She had a gift, a special attribute which found no match in him. What a waste it would be to neglect it, to refrain from nurturing it into a skill.

He had been gone for four days, absent for the sessions of her studies… but he would not miss them anymore. Not with his leg the way it was, keeping him confined to the Hold. In a way, until it did heal, he was as much a prisoner to the Hold as Hewg… only he had not been such for three-hundred years.

"So, Hewg… I hear that Roderika has been doing well in her tutelage as a spirit tuner. Would you agree?"

"The girl has come a long way… though she still has a ways to go. As ever, time and technique have made her stronger. 'tis good to see."

The knight turned, taking in the sight of her sitting a foot to his right. Compared to the despairing, red-hooded girl upon Stormhill…

'She surely has.'

It was easy to lose himself in the sight, even when he was supposed to be holding a conversation with somebody else. Arthur didn't notice, but the smithing master did.

Hewg didn't seem to have heard the end of Roderika's prattling - no, her talk - of the knight in the days since he left for his journey. The way that a smile immediately beamed on the young man's face now, and his eyes couldn't seem to blink out of sheer consumption with the sight before them… it was good to know her affections still were returned. Too often do men lose their greatest gift - their hearts - in the execution of a grueling duty.

Indeed, Hewg knew something about such a loss. More than most.

He knew, also, that this was one of few things in recent times to inspire any measure of hope. A source of warmth in an undying servitude dictated by iron chains and golden fright. Golden terror instilled from the remembrance of Her.

"Yes… I imagine you and I are both as proud of her as she must be of herself. The Roundtable Hold has a bright future ahead of it… a wonderful spirit tuner and a steadfast smith, complementing good sorts like Rogier and Fia and D. According to Sir Gideon and Enia, this place used to be full of champions, but waned in times since. Perhaps this is a second coming of that glory."

"... and you think yourself one of them, do you? Don't lie to yourself. I've seen more of you losing blood than spilling it, so bear that in mind."

This elicited a scoff from Arthur as he sat against the wall, rough stone-brick at his back. Right across from the anvil, in a space spared from the cluttering of armaments, a crimson blanket spread about five feet horizontally. More than enough space for the two Tarnished with various books stacked on either side… though they sat rather close anyway.

"Say what you please. I put Godrick down all the same, did I not? My blood is something I am quite happy to have taken in lieu of innocent life."

Despite his bravado and heroic posturing, Hewg had perhaps made something of a point. He would do no good by martyring himself for nothing and derelicting his duties early. While he mulled over the Misbegotten man's words of wisdom, and whether they really were wisdom, Roderika joined in.

"Master Hewg… do you mind if Arthur observes as I practice? I think he might find it interesting."

"A live demonstration? Well, how enthralling. I would love to watch… if you would permit it, Master Hewg."

The title, said not with mocking or sincerity but something of a toying mix, accompanied a smirk.

"If you've no better business to attend to, I won't forbid you."

He had spent so much time with Roderika, yet the sense that he knew little about her interests gradually grew. Maybe, just maybe… he could somehow support her in this one, to repay her for just how much she'd aided him in his. No knight can pursue knightly endeavors with blood erupting from his head or leg, after all.

"... now, where were we yesterday? … before a certain Tarnished threw a big commotion into the quiet and cut the tuning short, that is."

As Hewg threw in the comment almost under his breath, Arthur's face contorted into a disbelieving expression. He wasn't angry, but he certainly wasn't happy at the very moment.

"Does that mean me? Is that meaning me? Say, old man, do you imagine I delight in bein-"

There's that 'fighting spirit' of his…

"Master Hewg, I believe we left off on reaching attunement with the spirits on an… emotional level."

The supremely civil discussion unfolding around the anvil was cut off by her voice. Neither one was at all willing to speak over her. She knew this very well, which was why she interjected when she did.

"... yes, we were. As I told you… they can be channelled more strongly if they're understood and have a positive bond with their master. It's not enough to bring form to their dead ashes - it must be with a mutual trust."

Intriguing, all of it. That was how the knight saw it, as an outsider looking in. He never was able to see or hear spirits beyond faint cries from the deep. That Roderika could was… odd.

"... what did she say to me? … 'spirit tuning is not merely the simple act of imbuing strength. It is an art that lies somewhere between tuning an instrument and conducting a conversation, leaving both parties enriched.' … or something like that."

Such words, the apprentice could tell, were not Hewg's own. Still, he delivered them all the same, and she understood.

"There may be an issue, if that's true… because my only means of practice so far has been the brooch. The spirits of my companions linger on around it… but I fear our connection is already enriched beyond belief. It was such a way even before they became spirits… such that they saw fit to fight for me, even when I was a millstone around their necks."

"... then you've no further use for it in this. Have you anything else to practice with?"

A few seconds of thought ensued. Her eyes turned to the man sitting beside her.

"Arthur… do you still have the ashes I gave you when we first met?"

He let out a 'hmph', as if to say 'of course I do; why would I ever discard them?'.

"Why, yes, I do. They should be with the rest of my things in the living quarters. Wait here, and I shall return… shortly."

As he finished his sentence, the knight began to stand… only his leg still had a great deal of pain from the severe laceration it had sustained. One hand with its palm against the wall to steady himself, the other grasping his shoulder to soothe the pain of its injury.

"No, allow me… it was a hard enough task to get you up these stairs. I can't imagine you going down them."

I don't want to imagine you tumbling down them.

Arthur almost wanted to protest, to deny her help and affirm his own independent ability, but he never would. Just like when they'd had their second meeting in the roundtable room and she'd set him down on Fia's bed, he didn't have such a hollow heart as to push her away.

"... alright. My possessions are upon the chair by the fireplace… I suppose D had no better place to lay them. Bring up my swords while you are down there, would you please? They should be… somewhere. I imagine he hid them… but not too well."

"Of course."

With this, Roderika set off down the stairs… but not before helping Arthur set himself back upon the ground. As loath as he was to admit it, he was more or less at the mercy of his injuries for the time being. She could see it in the grimaces he would fight down when trying to stand on his wounded leg, and the way his left arm would quiver when he raised it too high.

She was soon at the base of the stairs, probably just out of auditory range from any conversation the two men might be having (short of either one screaming bloody murder, which she doubted would come to pass). Making the oh-so-perilous crossing from the pantry to the room where they'd eaten half-an-hour before, the carpet of red luxury and faded prestige made hardly a sound underfoot. Naturally light of step, she was never one to tromp about. Good daughters are quiet, keep out-of sight and do what they're told, never kicking up a fuss for father or making trouble for mother.

By the fireplace, there they were, his possessions as he'd said they'd be. They laid neatly upon the wooden chair in front of it.

Upon the flat of the chair, there sat three dull-brown pouches tied at their necks. In the middle of them, almost like a feeble bird in the nest, was the familiar container. Immediately she swooped it up and held it gently so as to avoid rough handling. Black ashes of the spirit Aurelia, even through the glass and leather gloves, thrummed with an arcane sensation. She slipped the object into her pocket, but the feeling persisted.

It feels just as I remember… just as strangely comforting as when I sat alone within the shack. I was never truly alone… even if my company dwelt between the bounds of ordinary life and absolute death.

Even when life seemed the bleakest, I always had somebody… I never was as isolated as I thought.

Now that life has brightened, and continues brightening, I still have somebody…

A smile softly stretched across her mouth. Having found what she needed, Roderika looked to the pouches on the chair's seat. So long as she didn't take or damage anything, having a look would be perfectly harmless.

Picking at random, the first vessel was stuffed with runes - the fragmented, ubiquitous traces of the shattered Ring, found among all life in the Lands Between. Were these instead golden coins, replaced on a one-to-one scale with the runes here, he might just have enough gold to feed a starved village. Maybe he could even make the tithe in church.

Obviously she would not rob him, even if he had no Finger Maiden (and thus no way to turn these runes into strength); she set the first pouch down and poked through a second.

Instead of more runes, as she half-expected, there was a metallic object. Completely solid beneath her fingers, its form revealed itself when she pulled it into the light of the fireplace - it was some sort of pendant, as evidenced by the thin brown string looped through a ring at the top. Further examination displayed that it was an insignia - a militaristic one, it appeared.

Dark iron cast in the shape of a colossal axe, foregrounded by a flowing war-banner - this was something more than just a souvenir. This was a piece of history, though which age of history and to whom it originally belonged she had no clue.

The axe, a double-bitted weapon, was missing a large portion of its right head… but the jagged, sharp edge betrayed that it was originally constructed with both. Broken or snapped off, it was, and now only the right blade remained. The war-banner behind the axe was raised aloft with the emblem of a beast in its center… similar to the axe of Godrick, the beast she recalled seeing upon the flags of his men.

How… strange. Perhaps he looted it from Stormveil. Such things as these are the marks of a 'Lord' who's proud of himself… of the things he's done in his reign… but Godrick did nothing worth such pride.

No… were it from Stormveil, I imagine he would have made it of gold. Arthur told me that he seemed quite fixated on the concept of a golden life, a golden lineage.

Back into the pouch, it went. An intriguing item, and one she'd surely inquire of later. What could it represent? How did he stumble upon it? These were questions for later. There remained one more pouch… but as she set down that which she already held, she turned and noticed the bed opposite to Arthur's. His steel suit of armor lay empty, the pieces lifelessly strewn across the white-silk sheet in the absence of its master. She couldn't pass up the chance to inspect the various components, since right now he wasn't wearing them.

When she stepped forth and peered into the visor of his helm, a helm crested by the figure of a dragon, she saw only darkness.

It looks quite… stifling. Cold. Solitary. Ah, but I know such feelings could never ensnare him. Not after all he's endured to get this far.

The cuirass was marred by scrapes, burn marks on various spots, bloodstains only half-cleaned… she imagined no less would be upon his armor. Blood spilled and flowed as ordinarily as water in the Lands Between. Still, the idea of what dangers he faced was unpleasant. To imagine him striving forward alone with only a will and a dream by his side… that was disheartening. Disheartening, yet… able to spawn a sense of admiration. Joy. Even as he suffered things no man should… exile, injury and despair… he was one man who hadn't given up. It was that same sense of iron-plated courage he'd imparted upon her, and even now, it remained.

Beneath her hands, it was so heavy. Obviously, as well-built and trained as he was, moving within an entire panoply of such thick steel must have felt as silk fineries did to her… but she could still hardly fathom equipping such encumbering armor. She had never worn armor at all, in fact, but she saw no regular battle like he did.

When the time came, she sure would, though. Her heart buzzed with a slowly-brewing anticipation of the day when she'd once again venture out. When she would be by his side for every step of the way, repaying a kindness, a love which saved her.

The chestplate held many indicators of a perilous life, and the gauntlets would likely be the same. As she stepped forward to confirm this, though, her left foot intruded just a few inches too far beneath the bed. The toe of her leather boot knocked into something metal and, from what she felt, heavy.

Of course, being the inquisitive woman that Arthur knew her to be, she knelt down to find the object. As it turned out, beneath this unused bed was the knight's sword stashed. The greatsword he had chosen to replace the battered claymore with was sheathed and left underneath his armor. Only… alongside it there sat a second, smaller sword far more intricate and eye-catching, sheathed in quality leather.

Where the golden cruciform hilt met its tapering steel blade, a large glintstone was inlaid and flanked by several smaller red gems. This was clearly no poor man's weapon. Even its scabbard, a thing of brown leather, was unique. Where could he have gotten such a thing? He had replaced his eroded sword the week prior… but when did he pick up this smaller, luxurious sword?

Is he starting a collection?

Truly, the sword was sumptuous and brought a memory to her attention. The most renowned of soldiers in her homeland - the imperial knights - carried such elegant weapons fit more for a ceremony than a war. Though much different in appearance, this too seemed like a sword provided by an artisan rather than an army's quartermaster.

Even so, it was very solidly-built and less diminutive than the shortsword by her bedside.

As the day still held many hours (by her estimate), surely a few minutes could be spared to unsheathe the sword and get a feel for it. Weighty but refined, its composition boasted steel, gold and glintstone in one exquisite package. Thus were the metals of warriors, aristocrats and scholars brought together, if only in this sword.

How fun, directing a swing and a slash at an incorporeal (or, rather, non-existent) foe with a blade so fine it might just cut through the air and leave a mark. As frightening as the outside world had been in earlier times, if she were by Knight Arthur's side, surely her quaking heart could be stilled. Surely, if she had endured such loss and such fear already - come out of it stronger - then nothing could poison her conviction.

How does he do it? Does he…

She put two hands on the hilt, a crystalline blue without equal, gripping it in the plush leather of her gloves. These were comfortable and well-made gloves, but she was under no delusions about the fact that they weren't exactly knightly standard in terms of holding up to battle. Sooner or later she would shed the final remnants of her old life - a prestigious life whose pains and safeties she could never go back to. The clothes on her back and boots on her feet - white-silk and leather - would wear down, rip and tear in all the wrong spots. It would turn out to be 'sooner', if she… when she embraced the life of a Tarnished and went along with him.

Or does he…

One hand - her off-hand - departed from the handle, leaving the other to thrust the sword into an invisible foe. She chained the attack into a slash, though poorly, and a swish came as a sweet sound. Now she was only toying with it, because who could resist swinging such an elegant blade just sitting there? Not her, and not Arthur, that was sure; he must have taken a liking to it, for he'd be something of a fool not to. She resolved to develop a similar affinity to things like this, because joining him on his quest would demand no less.

No, he certainly…

She commanded the sword with two hands again, only her hold was firmer and accompanied by her idea of a warlike stance. Imitating what she had seen of the warriors in her homeland's tournaments, as well as the ways her companions fought so bravely in these lands, she was still an absolute novice. Above her head and to the left, she held the sword readied for what would surely be a devastating swing.

… like this?

Roderika focused deeply and, without knowing, emulated Arthur's pseudo-amateur propensity to throw his full weight into every swing… only, of course, she had far less weight to throw. She also emulated the way he had unwittingly cast forth the colossal greatsword of glintstone… instead of a mob of soldiers, though, her first targets with the weapon were the books and rug that sat before the fireplace.

The blade extended only until it met the floor, and then yielded to the architectural geometry. It gave no such courtesy to the various objects in its path; some books were sliced in half, some into uneven one-thirds and two-thirds, with the corner of the red rug cut cleanly off. From the force, said books' halves and one-thirds and two-thirds were sent flying to the right, loose pages even joining them briefly before fluttering to the ground. A scene that would, in Bookville or Rugberg, be a horrific massacre without precedent. As it stood, though, all it seemed was a stupid accident.

… I see.


I hope he doesn't notice the damage to the carpet. If anything… the fireplace simply devoured its very-flammable corner until I put it out. Of course.

Her determination to look at and mess with his items hadn't lessened… despite the 'mishap' she had now finished cleaning up. There remained one pouch unopened out of the three upon the chair. Given the dangers he must have regularly faced out in the world, it was not beyond reason that he might carry gunpowder for… extreme situations. With this in mind, she stepped back slightly from the fireplace as she opened the receptacle.

It was lighter than the previous two, despite being more sizable, and the reason why became obvious as she opened it. Thin-stemmed blossoms, pressed down to fit, were bursting with vibrancy. A day-and-a-half in this pouch hadn't dulled their saturation, despite Arthur's worries of wilting.

The flowers of her old life, her old home, were pretty and soft and abundant in the countrysides… but never had she seen any like these. Roses, red with unbidden desire that darkly wilts. Edelweiss, white with unblemished innocence too easily ravaged. Daisies, yellow with springtime sweetness and a puppy love.

These… what were these? What could they mean?

In the palm of her hand, they were just teeming with an irrepressible blue glow. In full bloom…

… these are like nothing I've ever seen before. Prettier than any flowers I've ever held, with the greatest radiance I could hope to behold.

Still, I wonder why he would have these. Are they medicinal? Bestowed with the properties he might need to stave off death for just a day more?

If so, they must not have been medicinal enough for the injuries that have now forced his stay here.

I can't help but wonder why he might have such things. None of my companions ever did take the time to pick flowers during our journey to Stormveil. We were far too concerned with living from one day to the next.

Wondering proved quite the action for her as she stood alone. With only the arrhythmic crackling of the fireplace three feet away to spur her on, she pondered.

Briefly, but briefly enough, a hundred-million fiery stars spread all along the ceiling in the room and the red rug was a dirt enclave amidst riverwater. Herba soaked in arcane dew swayed along the riverside, and before her stood an unending night.

Siofra.

"I love you."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"I love you, too."

The atmosphere of the moment it all truly began, there it was, and she was wrapped in it. It was a blanket bedecked with the stars which harbored countless blazing dreams. The fire engulfed her now, but rather than eat away her skin and blacken her bones, it brought a smile to her face as the crescendo of her emotion.

It was for her, that was why he collected them. He loved her.

Even with nearly a week apart, plenty of time to reconsider his feelings, he still did.

She would have connected such an act with sentiments already known, if only… she were used to receiving such things as flowers.

Luxurious gifts of silver and gold had long frittered away their luster, even before her exile. Trifling things any self-respecting aristocrat would scoff at - a basic sword of her own, flowers plucked right from the ground - were the entire world to somebody like Roderika.


"Now that she is out of earshot, we can talk like men."

The knight stood and approached the anvil. His grit, as steely as his armor, pushed the pain of his injury from his mind.

"Do you think me some damned idiot, speaking to me like that in front of her? I have lost plenty of blood, sure, but you have no idea the amount I have shed in return. Am I simply some callow know-nothing to you? Let me tell y-"

"I don't doubt that you can swing your sword, but you're deluding yourself if you think yourself a 'champion' - if you think this lot to be 'champions'. Make no bones about it, the Roundtable Hold is no glorious place. It hasn't been for years."

Again did Arthur hold a disbelieving look at the smith's words.

"Do you mean to tell me that you can look on its warriors and see anything less than great heroes?"

"I do."

The knight's expression remained, neither evolving nor neutralizing.

"Your sight must be fading with age, then… or do you simply choose not to see? Have the sparks of this labor stung your eyes one-too-many a time? Sure, Rogier may be… in poorer health than he once was, but the state of the present hardly erases the achievements of the past. He was a splendid spellsword before, I am told, and D is as battle-ready as ever. Even Sir Gideon is continuing the good fight, surveilling the Lands Between like no other can. These are champions if I ever did meet any."

"Undying, smithing for you fools… I've seen this happen before, a hundred times over. It always does - there's no doubt."

"What do you mean?"

Back did that hammer go, striking at a sword and battering it into shape. Despite the ongoing conversation, Hewg's focus didn't waver.

"As the Hold worsens and declines, anyone who shows up like a pup dragged in from the rain… they all think they'll be the one to change it because they've the shine of untested naivety in their eyes. Don't mistake it for grace. You're no different. Those men who wanted to be Lords… Vyke, Bernahl, all of them. They left only disappointment for everyone they made their promises and boasts to."

"..."

No longer on the offensive, the knight ruminated over these words and he suddenly felt an acute embarrassment at his anger. So indignant… for what?

Do you rank among the disappointed? Is that why you say this?

When he spoke the name 'Vyke', Hewg seemed to look up at Arthur and see something familiar in him. A resemblance. Bernahl, though…

… but what is your meaning? Bernahl seemed steadfast when I met him in Limgrave.

Aged and gray of hair, yes, but still a stout knight.

"... and now you come back after worrying the girl sick and enrapturing her heart at the same time. I don't know what she's told you, but you've a great effect on her. I've taught her what I can, but the going is slow. Slow, when you're off getting yourself covered in blood, at least. She was more concerned than I ever thought possible after she and that D tended to you… but even before that, you never seemed to leave her mind."

Hold your tongue, you codger, I… but…

"... well… I had nary a clue. I only… all I wish is to do as I should, and do nothing less than what a knight must. Some blood is inevitable, and as a man who has forged swords for so long, you ought to know that."

"Different words bring the same meaning… I've heard a sentiment like yours since the beginning of my servitude to you fools."

Have you? … I want to doubt it, but I… cannot.

"What do you suggest I do, then? Retire to some dull riverside village and live out the rest of my days weaving flower-crowns? Give up and go home?"

"If it would spare the girl from worry and heartache, then I do. Give up, or continue on your path… either way, take her with you, but do anything besides carry on like this. One of these days, wandering with only a sword for company, you'll end up dead. It happens to all who live by them… the swords I forge."

After all of your talk about such a journey being unsafe for her… you would rather I bring her along? Ah, but you have scarcely met the villains I have…

Godrick, the Lord of beasts… Ranni the god-slayer. Such 'people', Roderika never should know.

"I've seen the same look of hope in countless eyes before - and I've seen the aftermath. A slain man. A broken woman. Many times, I've seen them… because loss and despair are part and parcel with war. That's what this is, an unending war… and she's in the middle of it no less than you are. You might think martyring yourself is a righteous action, but for her all it'd bring is grief. She's still recovering."

Anywhere but at the smith, that was where Arthur could look. At the sword being beaten into form, or the wooden floor, or to the side… but not at Hewg. That's because he was hearing something he dreaded to admit was real - the deconstruction of a status quo, a new way of life that he'd cobbled together after parting from the old.

This - what he and she had - was nothing more than a soft moment amidst an age of violence and bloodshed. Neither of them could change that. The most awful thing about knights is that they inevitably die, pursuing one quest too many, and leave behind a gap not easily filled.

I almost wish for a world without knights… so that what we have could persist, unhampered by my own duty.

No… I wish for a world where knights are not needed.

Only then would the root of the danger be destroyed.

Neither world will ever come to be. I am a knight, and I will never know any other way.

I still have a duty to see through… and by Marika shall I do so.

"Hewg… I know that you are right. I am not stupid; I know of the ways in which this world turns. That is why I ask you now… if something fatal were to happen to me, could I not count on you to look after her? She would be safe here, and taken care of… I know so. There would be no other way; she cannot return home, not ever. I could, were I to find passage overseas, but her family… threw her away at the first chance. At least, such is what I have come to know. The Hold is all she has now, besides the pale ghost of a trauma resisted more than vanquished."

The smith shook his head.

"No. I don't doubt that she might fare better… but I can't. I'll look after the girl like I have, but only so long as she has hope. As awful as that sounds… too many knights like you have asked the same thing, and to see the look on their maidens' faces every day was something harrowing. Those were women who had died alongside their men, only they did it without knowing. If I have to see something like that again… it just may be too much."

"... but this time can be different. This time, something can go right in this world. Even if I have to leave her… to depart from here and never come back…"

The greatest failure of his life, a dead blind girl by the roadside, stuck to Arthur like the iron chain around Hewg's ankle. Just for a moment, or a period of time slightly longer than a moment, the expression of a man with a great remorse took shape. It was a haunted look… far from the assured air of a gallant knight. Still, it was nothing the smith hadn't seen before in other men… nor was he surprised by how the knight now shook his head and seemingly did away with it.

"... it will be different for Roderika. I'll not… fail another girl. Another innocent."

"Leave her? Nah, you couldn't be so callous. I know you better than that. I don't doubt your commitment to her and her wellbeing… which is why I say all of this."

"Believe my words, Hewg. Can you really deny me that?"

"... I suppose it's too late now. My faith has gone the way of the Roundtable Hold - nothing left but ugly tatters."

Thus did the knight make the latest of his vows - promises only he would know and only he would strive to uphold. Promises he would value so highly as his own life.

A true knight raises up the weak and despairing, those in need… I will restore your hope, your faith. I swear it. Hope where there can be none, and light where the dark blots all shine… this is my cause.

He never did suspect that one man cannot bear the weight of a thousand valorous promises alone. Had he known, Knight Arthur would still have taken them upon his shoulders all the same. To fight even a losing battle is the greatest honor of a knight.