"O, Golden Savior, lead me to the rock that is higher than I
Sovereign Eternal, lift my head from the abyssal depths
Queen of All Men, wipe the blood from my unseeing eye
O Marika, Divine Marika, Gracious Marika, show me the way.
No towering statue of Queen Marika, the Two Fingers, but they would do. So would the slew of wooden chairs along either side of the red carpet, in the absence of church pews. The perfect place for an afternoon prayer; he found it too heavy upon the heart to remain in Roderika's presence.
Marika, I beg more deeply of you than any other thing, preserve her
Protect them all, for I cannot - the heart is willing, but the hands unable
It is not enough to be willing; time and again unable, I am no protector
Of all Tarnished, spare her and draw her pound of flesh from me alone.
He was only driven to such words by earlier events concerning the girl. They were shakily whispered, for they were pleading. Desperate. Afraid. He had already let one girl die, with blood splattered from her head and her chest. It was one girl too many. No more. Never again. No more.
Let not my wishes die in my heart, nor the innocents in my ward
Grace my soul, though I have failed at every turn and challenge
Lead my cowardly feet along your golden path, never wayward
Blessedly they strive, the souls of we cold and damned… O Marika."
These words were recited from a page, a yellow-white sheet with the writings of none other than him. The penned prayer rested on his lap. As the knight raised his head and unclasped his hands, directly across from him came a venerable voice. If sounds could be seen, this one would be smothered in dust from awaiting the one true champion.
"Now that your prayer is finished…
… let the words of the Fingers guide you.
They tremble to welcome you… shardbearer."
To his right, high above did they stand. The medium through which he could hear the Greater Will…
… the Two Fingers…
… but the Fingers were grotesque. Strips or patches of flesh appeared to have rotted away, and the hairs atop the literal fingers did not much flatter the entity.
The old tower's stone depiction of Her Eternal Majesty Marika, in all of her elegance and beauty, was beyond compare… just as it should be. Still, their reader Enia appeared to be a genuine ally in his quest. For this reason, as well as what he thought a shared devotion to Marika's will, he gave them his trust.
"BRAVE TARNISHED,
YOUR GREAT RUNE IS A HANDSOME SHARD OF THE ELDEN RING."
A construct of golden light, the Great Rune of Godrick remained with him all this time, attached to his very being. It thrummed with the power of the Elden Ring and, perhaps, empowered him in turn.
It was not enough alone. No, his endeavor still was to gather more. Gather them all, so that he might fix the whole of it.
"SEEK ANOTHER OF ITS KIND
TO BECOME ELDEN LORD
AND RESTORE THE GOLDEN ORDER."
Such was his mission. His duty. His quest.
The blood of innocents was a necessary price… was it not?
A dead girl he couldn't forget.
"Even if I have to leave her…"
A dead girl he couldn't help but see as he made his vow to Roderika.
"I promise, I would never leave you…"
The more he tried to forget Irina, that blind girl, the more she transposed herself upon Roderika. Spinning around and around, he contradicted himself - he wanted to dwell by her side, but he wanted her to live even should he die. Desires like strands of hair knotted together, matted with blood. Desires like petals blowing in the wind, never settling. Teetering ever between the choices, even in keeping her safe he would hurt her. What does a sword matter if it cannot defend?
Soon he remembered that he would never forget the sick sight of Irina in his life. He shouldn't. No man should forget a young girl with her head hacked open, especially when it was his own fault. What became of her father… well, that was another matter entirely, which ended with a dozen more innocents dead by his maddened hands.
Like everything else he resolved to endure and tried to forget, it all came out and taunted him, just to bring him to his lowest.
Even finding solace in prayer, in friendship and in love had only temporarily pushed it down. Marika hadn't purged it from his mind, Melina knew not of what plagued him and Roderika… she…
"Let their wisdom wash over you."
Submerged in his own thoughts, he couldn't even acknowledge the words of Enia.
The image of a blonde innocent cut up on the roadside horrified him, a rarity among his experiences. It could have been Roderika, which was partly why. It just might have been, if not for him decapitating Godrick, but he would only tempt fate by trying to protect her twice.
What could he do but bring pain to others? That she would think him so low as infidelity, that was… truly something. The look in her eyes as she asked him…
In the hours since, the weighty and sinking feeling in the center of his chest hadn't vanished. That was why he temporarily exiled himself from the smithy, leaving her to do as she wished and clear her mind.
With all of his sins, he deserved no such clarity, he supposed.
The bastard-son of promise and disgrace…
I will let you down, and I will make you hurt. I can do no other.
The fact that Irina would return to torment him, calling herself 'Hyetta' and feigning ignorance of everything… well, he knew that he deserved it, but he was disturbed still.
In the time since he encountered Hyetta, he almost began to wish that he'd thrown his arms around her and told her how sorry he was for letting her die, that he wished he hadn't just set off for Castle Morne and left her there. Maybe he wished to beg for forgiveness. Irina was such a gentle soul… even as she returned underneath a guise.
It would have been something, a chance at making up for his failure, but there was no good wishing could do; the same went for apologizing. If he had his chance, it passed him by on that morning in Liurnia. Now Hyetta was only-Marika-knows-where, and he was right here, before the Greater Will.
He should be happy that she was given life anew, for he was certain that she was Irina. It was simply impossible, but a fact; dead is dead, but alive is alive, and sometimes dead isn't really dead. As it stood, he was only haunted.
No matter how hard I fight, how eagerly I lay down my promises, the innocents are the ones who suffer. I fear, within every part of myself, that one day… it will be too much, even daring to hope.
… but I made a vow, and this one is the most important of all, for I have only myself to remember it.
"This is my knight's ordeal… my shackle of burden… my everlasting quest.
I will never lose her."
If it means tearing myself apart only to try, then so be it. Gallop ahead at full speed, Torrent, and let our bodies be ribbons by the morrow.
This is my destiny, the final promise of a son to a father - if I cannot be a Lord, I will be a knight.
Once again, resolve held together the bindings of a heavy heart, lifted shoulders burdened by a god-given duty. "Be a man, for you can do no other.", his father had told him. Even were Arthur nothing but a disappointment of a son, a failure of a knight and never a Lord, he would not yield so easily. His purpose was not forgotten, even as the son was a thousand leagues away from home - from the highlands of times better.
"Give up, or continue on your path… either way, take her with you, but do anything besides carry on like this."
Anything besides carry on like this.
The old smith was right; he could waste no more time pitying himself or fearing. Not when there was work to be done.
Pull yourself together, you fool.
You did it once, twice, thrice; you shall again.
Your inheritance is dirt, your birthright ashen… but blood still races through your heart.
Knight Arthur looked up at the Fingers, and then at Enia.
The overwhelming sensation that should come from being in the presence of a god… did not enwreathe him. It was not as it should have been. He knew what it felt like, because he had knelt before the one true god Marika, the Sovereign Eternal whose grace drove him every step of the way. This wasn't it. No divinity abounded, no senses of awe and fealty to a higher being. In fact, if he didn't know better, he might think the Two Fingers a dead creature; what did this say about the Greater Will?
"I will. Tell the Fingers that I will. If I could overcome one so mighty as Godrick, one so powerful and beastly, none should stand a greater chance."
None besides the vile witch Ranni. She who bested him effortlessly.
"Indeed, your accomplishment may shine for now… but remember one thing. The demigods are each and all the direct offspring of Queen Marika. Godrick the Grafted was but a distant relation - the runt of the litter, his divine blood sorely diluted."
The man grew shocked. Not as shocked as, say, finding one's family dead in a fire, but shocked enough.
When he was smashing my armor with that golden greataxe, I had no such thoughts. 'Runt'...
"... what? He was… a runt? That could not be. He nearly killed me. Do you mean to tell me… that he was but a crow among dragons? Inferior?"
The prospect of facing mightier foes than him… unthinkable. Barely had he survived that duel.
"Godrick augmented his strength through ignoble means, the art of the graft, and brought upon himself ignoble death. The greater shardbearers fell to no such depravity… and, as such, their strength is their own. Rotten or discarded of blood as they are, it is divine all the same."
"..."
If he did such to me, I can only imagine what they might… what I might suffer.
He brought his right hand into a closed fist. This was the hand of Marika, the hand of Melina, the hand of his father. The hand of a heroic lineage. All of their strength surged within his veins.
Hah. They dare not imagine what I shall do to them.
This is where the real fight begins.
Arthur knew that battling the divine would not be easy, but then again, no glory is won by fighting with petty scoundrels.
I have no concern. When I slash the throat of Ranni, and cleave through Rennala in fair battle, another shard will be in my hands.
Melina has turned my human bones into something strong, strong enough to challenge the inhuman and the wicked; I've no excuse to fail her.
Her, and Roderika. They both empower me, rely upon me… though Melina never did need saving.
The shardbearers whose wills clash with ours, they may be far above my lowly station…
… but we are all peasants before Marika.
In such a level battleground, they will die at my feet, one by one. Thus will the Ring become whole.
He did his best to convince himself. It seemed to work.
"Divine blood or not, I can spill it. Even if my greatest battle so far is an effortless feat to all of them, the favor of the Queen lies with myself and myself alone. This must amount to something."
"Great Runes are the stuff of demigods, the children of the goddess… but, tainted by the strength of their Runes, the children warred. None could become Elden Lord… and so grace was extended to your kind, the Tarnished. Be sure that you keep it within your sight… the Fingers expect great things from you."
I am here to sweep up their mess, their selfish grabs and reaches for power… I was called from my home for that alone. Dreadful, but then again… such is the duty of a Lord. Handling taxation and famine will seem positively easy compared to this.
"I will. I would hate to disappoint, since it seems as though nobody else cares to actually go about fixing the state of these lands… save for Sir Gideon, of course."
Gideon Ofnir, that old man perpetually stationed over a desk with some paper or other spread atop its surface. Now that Arthur thought about it, speaking with him and figuring out his next steps would be wise. The 'All-Knowing' would surely be of aid in this. That would have to come later, though.
"Anyway… I shan't let Her Eternal Majesty down, nor the Will or the Fingers. Goodbye for now, Enia; when next I visit, I shall have the Great Rune of the Carian in tow."
The knight hobbled down the red carpet. He could feel the colossal presence of the Greater Will even as he turned and left. Still, it was incomparable to the golden atmosphere of Marika, and he did not respect it nearly as much.
The grand double-doors took him back into the roundtable room. Some champion he must have looked, limping about like a sort of kicked mutt. He wanted to just leave now and saw through Ranni's head, claim her Great Rune from wherever it lay, do anything other than waste time sitting.
It would prove that he was no… what was the word Roderika used to describe herself? 'Milksop'? Yes, it would prove he was no milksop. He couldn't cling to the glories of a past victory for much longer, that much was certain. The entire I slayed Godrick bit might have been getting old; it was so last week.
The pain of his leg discouraged him from leaving immediately, as much as he could ignore it with enough focus. It hurt too much to even set into a proper sword stance, not helped by his elbow and shoulder; riding a horse and fighting were out of the question entirely.
Though it was not so bad as before, he would require days of recovery, at the very least, and those were days when he could not distract himself with the natural course of duty. The struggle to survive in the wilderness, the solitude that always occupied his mind. Here, no matter which wing of the Roundtable Hold he entered, his thoughts followed.
Now he was thinking about the fact that, for every day the Lunar Princess lived, he was failing Queen Marika and her golden son. He was thinking of who might be able to advise him on this. Destined Death, in the hands of Ranni… here he recalled his conversation with the debilitated scholar Rogier.
Perhaps he still sat upon the balcony, wasting away.
At nothing, he seemed to be looking. He appeared ragged and awful, despite his colorful aristocratic garb of blue-and-yellow-and-brown. His health, clearly, was waning; this much was evidenced by the pallor he'd taken on and the dark circles beneath his eyes.
The massive, pointed hat on his head slouched down with it, only having turned up when Arthur spoke his name. The blanket over his lap must have been due to a chill only his ailing body felt within the temperate Hold.
"Well, it's good to see you safe. It's been quite a while. What do you need?"
Even with his affliction, he was no less affable.
"Help, Rogier. I need help. Direly."
"You need help? With what? I can't imagine the man who defeated Godrick would have much use for one in such a sorry state as me."
"I know who killed Godwyn upon that night… the Night of the Black Knives."
Instantly, with the liveliness of a man unplagued, he shot up straight and looked up at the knight.
"You do? I can scarcely believe you managed to learn such a thing. When we spoke, you didn't even know what the Night of the Black Knives was."
"I have my ways… as simple as they are. It was Lunar Princess Ranni, or, as she dubbed herself, Ranni the Witch. She did it. She admitted it plainly and without provocation, almost as if it were not something deserving of shame."
For a moment, the spellsword's eyes glanced off to the side in thought. They then centered on absolutely nothing as he seemed to comprehend something, and finally gazed back up at the knight.
"Lunar Princess Ranni… well, I take it she was within Caria Manor?"
"Yes. I fought a spectral knight to reach her, and it was quite a glorious battle… but there I sustained a horrific cut upon my leg, and now I struggle in walking alone. Thankfully I am the very symbol of gracefulness and balance."
He was not, in fact, though he did do a fine job in not verbally crying out from his wound. Where he was average in dancer-esque finesse, he was blessed in fortitude.
"I attempted to mete out justice right then and there, but my injuries proved too severe. That… and I was much too cowed by the prospect, the threat of Destined Death. Thus, I left… and I have been quite ashamed of it ever since."
Rogier went silent for a brief period, thinking to himself.
"I see… well, unless Ranni kept a portion of the fragmented Rune of Death for herself, she couldn't inflict such a thing. She only imbued the knives of Godwyn's assassins with it… hence 'the Night of Black Knives'."
Arthur looked at him with eyes that just about said 'what do you mean?'.
"Wait a moment, you never mentioned any of this business with knives when we spoke last week, nor 'assassins' in the plural. I thought she was going to kill me herself! She outright said that she could send me to the same fate as Godwyn without lifting a finger. Do you intend to tell me that she did not directly kill him… and she employed a bluff upon me?"
The spellsword put a hand forward so as to reply 'wait a moment'.
"Yes… but it's good that you didn't attack her. She's quite powerful, to my understanding, so even without the Rune of Death involved it wouldn't have gone well. Besides, when they aren't hideous monsters - take Godrick, for example - it's not a good look for us Tarnished to murder royals like that."
Arms folded in slight frustration, the knight cooled off after some thought. Rogier had done nothing wrong, really; he could have simply told him nothing at all and left him unaware of this Godwyn business, but chose not to.
"Why? They stand directly in our way, even without a slew of grafted arms, and they hold shards of the Elden Ring. They are our enemies."
"Because those royals will become your vassals… should you become Elden Lord, I mean. Somebody has to succeed a titleholder in the wake of their… untimely demise, so better not to deal with an angry successor. You should foster goodwill where you can; it'll make fixing the Lands Between a less bitter affair, if only slightly."
Sound logic, Arthur knew. Perhaps it was best to… leave well enough alone. Only a bloodthirsty dog would go around seeking to kill people.
… but Ranni was not a person. She was… well, he couldn't put it out of his mind, the idea that Queen Marika could suffer so at the hands of some conniving wench like her.
He hated the Lunar Princess. That was the best way to phrase it. She was less than a person; murderers renounce their right to life when they violate others'.
No exception could be made for Ranni, even were she a royal. Her crime against the golden lineage of Marika (and the common people as a whole) proved unforgivable, but that was her act alone. Other shardbearers might be worthy of mercy.
"This is all presuming I do become Elden Lord, but… I think you are right. I still wish I had not gotten myself injured like this, though. I dread going down those stairs to reach the living quarters. … hmm. Do you think jumping off of this balcony would be a more efficient means of traversal?"
Arthur looked over the thick wooden railing, down to the grand hall below. It appeared much vaster a distance than it did from below. His one leg was already slashed at the thigh; he would rather not have the both of them broken entirely.
"Actually, nevermind. I found an independent answer."
"You might end up with a bearing like mine… quite unable to move. I'd advise against it."
The knight smiled and nearly laughed. Even when he was in poor shape, Rogier was a good friend - a friend who bore heartiness. That was exactly why it was bitter to see him in such a wretched way.
"Speaking of that, are you… recuperating well? I can hardly tell. It has been nearly a week since you had that 'mishap'. You termed it that, but what sort would lead to a thing like this?"
Perhaps he was cavorting with Fia. Sexually-transmitted illnesses like the great pox were no joke… not that Arthur, holding the chaste type of unwed virginity, should know anything about them.
"... no. Now that you're back here… maybe I should tell you… lately, I feel I'm on the precipice…"
The spellsword closed his eyes and yawned before rubbing at his eyes with trembling hands. Even after the yawn, the weight of sleep bogged down his voice.
"... of falling into a deep… fathomless slumber. Ever since I ventured beneath Stormveil, and interacted with a relic of the Night of Black Knives… I haven't been able to walk."
"What happened? Did you… encounter the blight of death, the accursed taint that D told me of?"
A wistful smile appeared on his face, at the mention of D… an old friend. All of his life, Rogier behaved with utter detachment. No one noticed the anger, grief, regret, or fear that existed along with it. Nobody but D.
Such was past now, their friendship severed. At the very least, he had something of a new comrade in Knight Arthur. The fellow, while an unimportant nobleman with his own undeniable leanings towards Marika, proved more receptive to what he said than D. As such, he was no replacement, and never would he be.
"I did. A twisted remnant of Godwyn the Golden. I have an inkling this could spell trouble for you, somehow… so I just wanted to get the apology out of the way beforehand… since you're so scary, and all."
"Me? Scary? In what world?", the slayer of Godrick said as he looked down upon him. Even while standing side-by-side he would tower over Rogier; such a difference was only exacerbated as the latter sat.
"This one. This one, which I might be departing from… soon…"
His voice trailed off, like he'd fallen asleep in the midst of telling a story. His story couldn't end here, not in some chair upon a balcony. That fathomless slumber would have to wait.
"No. Come on, Rogier… hang on for dear life. There is still much to be sorted through, remember? Ranni, Godwyn, the Night of Black Knives?"
The insistence in Arthur's voice seemed almost inconsequential when set against the overwhelming approach of slumber.
"..."
"Rogier?"
Asleep. No amount of nudging could rouse him, it seemed.
"..."
"... well, great. Simply perfect."
With Rogier's wise counsel at an end for now, the knight carefully bent down to adjust the white sheet over his lap, pulling it up to better cover the sleeping man. Here he caught a glimpse of something quite disturbing.
Tendrils, or spikes, or thorns of death were entwined around his legs. They were snaking their way up from his boots, and now seemed to partially wrap around his thighs. Some 'slumber' he would have when… no. That day would not come.
By his right foot sat the item that put the 'sword' in 'spellsword' - a slender thrusting sword whose hilt and crossguard appeared to consist wholly of gold. Within the center of that crossguard was a red gem inlaid, reminding him of his knightly sword's blue glintstone. It would fetch a fine price in any other circumstance, though the merchants of the Lands Between were unwilling to pay more than a measly sum for anything.
This was hardly his sort of weapon, really - it was much too thin and light to block effectively, and had insufficient weight for any sort of serious maneuvers. In short, an aristocratic weapon, of little use to a knight.
Still, it was sharp, and perhaps it could be of use to Rogier.
I hope you are a still sleeper, lest you suffer a nick or two…
In his infinite wisdom, Arthur nearly touched the thorns before deciding that he had best protect his hand; instead of a greatshield, however, he chose to wrap the sheet thickly around his fist and hope for the best. He pried the thorns away from the spellsword's leg as best as he could, and got to work in sawing at them with the blade.
Even if this only bought the fellow more time, it would be worth it. He was a good friend, having imparted some knowledge of Lands Between history and made him less ignorant. What sort of friend could simply let him be? Even if he were a stranger, it would be only right to help him all the same.
Despite its exceptional quality and honed edge, the blade moved back-and-forth uselessly. The thorns felt rock-hard beneath his hand; perhaps death is simply incontrovertible, an unstoppable force whose will is absolute.
Even as he applied more and more of his strength, it did no good; any more and he might just snap the petite blade in two. It felt that way, at least. Surely it would happen before the thorns gave way. The sheet went back to its spot atop Rogier's lap, the sword by the leg of his chair.
Damn.
The knight stepped away and ventured down the stairs to the roundtable room, leaving the spellsword to his slumber. He could only hope that it would not be eternal; had enough men and women not perished already?
Back by the Table of Lost Grace, all was quiet, save for the sounds of Arthur's hobbling. It was good that he'd put on some proper trousers in the hours since he'd left his swords with Hewg… otherwise he might have seemed less dignified than he imagined himself. It was even better that these were new trousers, neither tainted with his own blood nor cut open at the thigh.
There were few options for his next course of action. Sir Gideon, Roderika or Liurnia (and those damned spitting, oversized crayfish). He couldn't run, wear armor or wield a sword presently, so the third of them was no good. Speaking with Sir Gideon might be a fun time… but he was likely busy. 'The pursuit of knowledge is without end', et cetera, et cetera…
Besides, going to talk with him would just be putting off what he knew had to happen - another conversation with Roderika. She would make his heart burn and ache and regret.
With only a touch on his wrist, or a tender hug, she would also remind him that not all was lost - there still was somebody who had faith in him. Even after she learned of Melina, and misconstrued his bond with the spectral lady, she believed him. There was nothing to fear; he hadn't thrown it away yet.
If I should falter… I know you would open your arms out to me. Even as we have little idea what we are doing… something special is still blossoming.
In the middle of the transition between the roundtable room and the Eastern wing, he halted. Something of great importance came to mind, something so absolutely vital that the consequences of neglecting it might be calamity.
He couldn't just go in there without checking his appearance.
What sort of ignorant knave would? Roderika was royalty, quite literally, and even her expatriation didn't change that. Not in his eyes, at least; damned be whatever law said otherwise.
There was one way to see himself, beyond having an out-of-body experience or imagining his appearance - a mirror - and quite unfortunately the nearest one was in Fia's room. This would not be an issue if entry to her room did not require passing by the smithy quite conspicuously.
"Alright…"
Out of sight from Hewg, who still sounded like he was banging away at some weapon or other, he prepared himself. He would need to be swift in crossing, so as not to let her see him in a state less than his best. (Of course, 'his best' was probably when he felt the heaviness of a full steel suit upon his body, but that was not exactly a viable option now.)
The knight peeked around the end of the doorway, careful not to be especially unsubtle, and looked. Roderika was nowhere to be seen, and Hewg was - where else? - behind the anvil. She, he reasoned, was down the stairs. Getting down there to meet her would be a pain, but he had endured worse.
Half-between a hurried walk and a run, he made his way into Fia's room and, in his haste, didn't look anywhere else than the direction of the mirror.
"Hello, Fia. I hope all has been well."
Before even finishing his sentence, he had inspected himself and begun to apply what necessary changes he could. This manifested chiefly in the form of tidying up his hair with his hands. Sleep and the general events of the day, as non-violent they were, had ruffled it to an extent.
"Greetings, great champion called by grace. Y-"
The mirror's surface was so clouded that everything beyond his own figure came out like a blur. An absolute blur. Even then, he had to lean in close to get a good view of his hair.
"You can call me Arthur, since that is my name. Quite flattering, though, 'great champion called by grace'... so thank you."
Medium-brown locks of hair, variously grimed with dirt and blood and sweat. The last time he looked in this mirror, they were accompanied by a headband of a bloodied white bandage.
The thought of bathing before next meeting Roderika seemed a good one. There was surely a tub large enough to hold him, and if not, there always remained the watery expanses of Liurnia. Crystal-clear, crystal-blue… a good dunk and soak would be peaceful, so long as those damned giant crayfish stayed away from him.
His hair was set into as neat a way as it could be, and he next focused on his attire. The linen shirt came untucked on the right side, hanging over the side of his trousers, which just wouldn't do when her white-silk fineries were always perfect and so elegant. Her worst was certainly leagues above his best… but that was no excuse to sink below standard.
"As you wish, Arthur. I see circumstances have compelled your stay at the Roundtable Hold once again."
"They have. Quite good of you to notice, madam."
"Would you… allow me to hold you briefly, as you did before? Perhaps you might share with me some of your lifely vigor, and your stout-heartedness."
Though a certain pride swelled within his heart at it being dubbed 'stout', he shook his head.
"No. I've no interest in such things… besides with one person. I mean no offense when I say that it is not you."
He bent down to fully tuck the ends of his trousers under the thick cuffs of his boots. These were more comfortable than sabatons, he had to admit, and they were quite attractive. Brown leather, weathered with wear, always was a beautiful thing to him.
"I see."
"You understand, do you not? What we had was nothing but a… a platonic experience, experimentative, and it happened before I had a belonging to anybody."
I am no disloyal wretch. Never again will I touch you. I am past it, the time when I was longing for an embrace and unfulfilled in that longing.
"I will gladly be your friend, but the only lady I hug is Roderika, and that'll not be subject to change."
Though it was not his intent, his explanation came out bluntly in its tone, and perhaps conveyed hostility. He felt none; Fia was a good person, and had done nothing wrong. He couldn't explain to himself why his words took on the manner that they did.
It made him think back to how… curt Roderika had seemed in the moments leading up to that sentence - are you going to leave me? - which had struck him across the back of the head like a hammer.
Dazed and stung, hurt and guilty, he couldn't forget it. He knew he shouldn't… because he might just end up saying something stupid and awful for her to overhear again. Lessons are worthless if the bad times are forgotten, because one forgets just what will happen again.
"Of course… Arthur. I am first and foremost a Deathbed Companion, and my aims are not vulgar. I would only gather the warmth of champions so as to bear life anew. If that is your wish, so be it."
… 'bear life anew', you say?
If the knight didn't know better, which he did, he would think her to be speaking of something other than… whatever a Deathbed Companion does.
"I am glad we have an understanding, Fia. Thank you for the mirror… and for letting us use this room last week. Had I known there were unused living quarters downstairs, I would not have booted you from here… but thank you anyway. I was in quite a rough way, having just fought a ten-armed monster, so I appreciate it."
He meant to stray the line between pleasantries and strictly-business; he was just about done preening in the cloudy mirror, and without looking he bid her farewell. A wave of the hand as he rushed (as fast as any recently-wounded man could rush) to seek out his sweetheart.
Such was the cloud of the mirror and the haste in exiting that he failed to notice something quite vital - Roderika was, in fact, sitting beside Fia. Arthur was not the only one to seek the advice of a fellow Tarnished after the spirit tuning sessions.
In the end, from the confirmation of what she had just overheard, it was clear whose conversation was more productive.
Both came to an unexpected end, though - one with a deathly slumber, the other with a knight barrelling through the doorway to use the mirror.
The woman in white-silk stood and waited for footsteps upon wood to grow distant; it was then that she exited, resolved to pursue the knight.
"Goodnight…"
"Sleep well, Roderika… I know I shall."
"The servants are full wroth. Filled with hatred for every one of us.
They've since come for every one of the companions I escaped with.
They haven't spared a soul.
I fear it's no different at Castle Morne… please, I implore you.
Would you mind taking a letter to my father at the castle?
My sole wish is that he escape, even if his honor should be the price.
Please... I just want him to be safe..."
He awoke. Total darkness was approaching with the waning of the fireplace's blaze.
He was dreaming of the Weeping Peninsula - of Irina, alive and then dead and now alive again as somebody else. He felt disturbed.
He wished that this feeling would sink beneath the surface and drown with finality.
He wished that being in a lovely embrace could achieve just that.
He wanted to pray. Pray before the most holy figure - the grace of Marika.
He separated himself very gently from Roderika, whispering 'I shall not be long' in case she could hear him.
He made his way up the steps and through the smithy. He saw Hewg asleep behind the anvil, taking a rare break from his work.
He entered the central room of the Hold.
He saw it.
The Table of Lost Grace, once the gathering-point of champions aplenty. Now there was only Arthur.
"Show me the way. Your Eternal Majesty… tell me what to do. I am losing sight of myself… losing slowly to the ghosts of the past. Here, where I have no cause to lift a sword, I cannot distract myself from it… the greatest failure in my life. I sinned against the innocents - the very people I swore to protect. I let a girl die. It always catches up to me, even after I suspect I have moved on. I need something. Anything."
In the territory between dusk and dawn, he knelt; grace enveloped him in rays of gold and kept darkness at bay. Within grace, a simple movement or whine could be the smallest of signs. Flickering, hid in a long, still night.
Queen Marika, she had to know how much he needed her kindness. She owed it to him. He had rejected his own god for her, the god of his homeland. There, such an act would have earned excommunication or worse. The god of his land was the patron god of knights, a warrior-deity who smiled upon Arthur's entire lineage, and as he prayed before the stone statue He was renounced… all for Marika. Was it not enough? She could ask no more from him… but she could, so long as she gave him any response at all. Any sign.
"Take this cup from me… Queen Marika. My woes, burn them away, will you not? I am only a journeyman believer, but I would never take your blessings for granted. Give me a sign… give me your commandment."
He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the table's surface, hands clasped in prayer above it.
His faith was so brittle and new, yet he put his full weight upon it. If Father Beauclerc were here to see him, he might have laughed Arthur out of his church as a fool - kneeling, halfway-prostrating himself for the chance of a pagan goddess' commandment.
He heard it.
See the white light
The light within
Be your own disciple
Fan the sparks of will
The sound of speech thundered through his head. Booming, echoing all around and all across like nothing. It drove a stake into everything he perceived and removed it, all in two instants that were so quick as to be one.
With confusion, a shock of the voice within his ears, he raised his head to look around.
He was alone. Alone, but for grace's radiance above the table, lost to all except him. The sound was an echoing voice from across the sleeping Hold and a whisper from an inch away, and it reverberated in his entire skull. His soul.
For a long, quiet moment, he knelt there without moving or blinking or breathing or thinking.
Arthur was alone.
"Who said that? Show yourself."
"..."
Nothing.
"..."
Nothing.
"..."
"Show yourself! I heard you!"
Arthur was alone.
The voice was not anybody's. He didn't even recognize it. How could he, when it overwhelmed his senses?
More importantly, how could a voice have no source? Was he maddened? Nobody else seemed to hear it, because the only sounds now came from him. If they did, surely they would have investigated it.
Without answers, the Knight of the Roundtable Hold looked up at grace. Now, from its hue, he came to speculate that the voice was golden. Divine. It spoke within him… and he still felt the shivers upon his wrists. These shivers danced along every nerve he had, every inch of flesh that made up his being.
"Was it you? Your Eternal Majesty…"
He separated his hands and set them flat upon the table.
"... Marika…"
Once again he submitted himself before the presence of the one true god.
"... do it again. Say it again, please. I need to know… say it again. Please."
Nothing.
Despite the silence, the words did not die out. Like an inscription into a posie ring, they were engraved upon his mind. Nothing could revert their burning-in; he would remember these, the words that the voice was so merciful to speak unto him.
See the white light - the light within. Be your own disciple; fan the sparks of will.
Such a sentiment was… comforting. It was an iron shield, a suit of armor fit to surround him in battle eternal. A gift.
… but was it truly hers?
Words of power, calling to my soul… holding me together where other Tarnished fall.
No longer waiting, the commandment has come.
Still…
How do I know it was not my own?
Does my spirit speak in the stead of Queen Marika?
Is this a guise? A self-deception?
No. It could not be so. I would never.
He had no clue of what her voice sounded like. Presumably it was feminine and kind, but no gender could be properly given to that which he heard; such was the extent of its thundering pitch and awe.
One thing was certain - when he lifted his head and recalled the words of power, all seemed just a bit brighter. Such was impossible, for none could be so radiant as the grace of gold… but the impossible is the ultimate ideal. The impossible dream, and the impossible quest.
"Thank you… Queen Marika."
He felt that, in this moment, neither were so impossible.