This place… was dreadful.
The table was hard, and even after being woken up just to have a sack of provisions put under her head, she felt the same.
The floor was hard, as well, and she decided that only a minute after taking her makeshift pillow there so she might lay down.
A slit of moonlight laid itself against the darkness from a window by the door; even when the shutters were closed, they were so poorly-made as to allow in light.
How the knight could sleep in such miserable conditions, she couldn't fathom. He was soundly resting in an open spot, flat upon the floor and perfectly still.
Moonlight cut into the room through the imperfect shutters of another window, this one further away from the door.
It glinted from the chestplate whose surface rose and fell with every unconscious breath taken.
Knightly gray iron reflected it plainly, unlike the rune engraved starkly on the plate's center.
The moonbeam died upon that emblazoning, just as Marika's golden dawn would send fleeing the forces of night.
… or so Arthur might say, anyway. Not her.
If not for the makeshift pillow, she might just have a crick in her neck. She already felt halfway there. The floor was, indeed, hard.
She felt like a convict laid out on a cold dungeon's stone; the barrier of white-silk all around her skin changed little. It was cold, such couldn't be denied, and… there shouted up a voice in her that said 'I deserve better than… this, don't I?'. To be demeaned by such conditions…
Another said 'no… I'm still just a craven, deserving of nothing - brave as I could ever try to be, nature can't be changed'. She had already fallen from royal grace, having never even seen the golden sort… and so it would be silly to desire anything more.
The movement of the water outside, it was like the waves breaking upon a ship. A titan of wood, a horse that treaded water, a trip without return she and her companions had made.
How long it was, she couldn't be certain, but it was a long time of drifting into sleep only to find herself pulled out of it, into sleep, out of it…
Two corners of her mind dulled themselves with an effort to drift into the night and get past it as the other two struggled to stay vigilantly awake.
Nobody wise could lower their guard in an unfamiliar place, nor one owned by an absolute stranger of such a menacing appearance.
… but she hardly knew what it meant to properly guard oneself, for an idle, royal, go-nowhere life afforded few opportunities to learn.
To be guarded was a different thing, this she did know. Acts of service, all for her.
"..."
The ceiling was very plain, yet Roderika had memorized whatever contours and marks there were. Errant strands of her hair clung to her forehead in a mild sweat.
She kept her eyes open, too afraid to shut them and be swallowed whole by the darkness… the abyssal sea. Was she afraid? What a… childish thing.
I have to be brave.
Why so? Did she not know that the darkness of one's eyelids is a comforting thing moreso than of the night, if only because it comes from oneself? Perhaps she felt there was no choice in any of her ordeal.
There burned no fireplace to save her from darkness, and shadows covered the floor - if she stood up or stepped forward even once, she would fall in and never make her way out.
There was no grace, and she had nary a clue what it looked like. Was it gold of the sun, or of wealth? Either deserted her, with only one sure to return.
In the abject darkness, she laid. She was covered with gooseflesh, shuddering bumps from a chill coating her spine, and it wasn't from the cold.
All around, there was fog - two seas, one of black water tainted by the unending night, another gray and shrouding everything beyond herself and the miserable shack.
Arms hugging her shoulders or folded upon her stomach, either way the darkness enclosed her like a barrel full of brine. The lid sealed her in, and no pushing or struggling could bring escape. Drown, breathe, drown.
I have to be brave.
She looked within her mind to know what the outside world might look like. She thought of what she saw.
Moonlight upon the surface of the lake, it was more akin to the sun smothered by water striving yet to claw itself up. In night the sun would die, and in her dreams it would rise - by morning the sun would rise, and by night it would die.
She wished she hadn't. She closed her eyes to sleep and to dream, but in this folly she was upon the sea once more.
The carrack, it sways like all other ships upon the seas;
It finds its way through the fog, the unending storm-toss.
The first of the dead is floating along, stolen by disease;
The first of so many to come, enough to do mothers loss.
Such a craven, a deplorable coward in my sea-drifting coffin;
Undeservedly I live, my feet upon stony shores, sun upon skin.
That sun's a cavalier, yet here his lance won't break - he's late;
The death and the grief are here, battle lost, war yet to abate.
Where does daylight flee when I cry for it most? Where, and why?
If only to be held, to hold, I would embrace anyone whose guise
Is sunlight and whose eyes don't judge; even if I'll embrace a lie,
A sweet thing distanced from a sordid past, I'll seek the sunrise.
In the wicked heart of a castle, everybody lays dead one on top of another on top of another. Where once I was brave, now I'm afraid, for I'm so utterly alone in the dark. A stray sliver of wind grazes against the building's side, and I gasp at its threat. I have to be brave. To be brave is to forget the past, even if you must scrape it off the roof of your skull like scum off your boots.
Something draws near.
"..."
Softer than shadow, with feet fleeter than a burglar, the spider arrives. It ensnares me within the webs of night, and I can't get away again, not even to seek light. Its dozen-or-more limbs can pull apart any man, no matter how grand his heart or sturdy his armor - I've seen it, even in the blur of a cowardly retreat. I have to be brave.
They will do the same or similar or worse to a craven wretch with only a little sword she doesn't even know how to use beyond clinging to it like a little soldier doll with its own arms stuck in place, incapable of defending itself. Don't think of their names or their faces. I have to be brave.
My gloved hands fumble with the handle of the shortsword and pull it halfway-out, but frozen nerves halt everything. I have to be brave.
Those men once fought for me, once tried in vain to comfort me, yet now their hands seize hold of my arms and legs and pull and pull until my torso gives and I
"..."
fall asleep at last, the spider staring me in the eyes from across the room.
It crumples to the floor, dead, when I blink and vanishes entirely as I yield to a fathomless slumber.
Through the shutters, a sliver of the sun arrived, poking at her eyelids. They opened, hazy. Even as the sun's arrival heralded the early morning, it was much too late. Alas, this time she didn't gaze up at the ceiling for a crawling, infinite moment; her fatigue claimed the last of her wakefulness once more.
The sun having long-risen, two men sat on the steps leading to a shack's front door. The wind, a gentle near-noon breeze, was just another passing witness to their discussion.
"… oh, allow me to guess, that silly economist merchant put these nonsensical 'us versus them' ideas into your head?"
At this, the convict crossed his arms, looked away for a second and then looked back at the knight.
"So what if 'e did? It's more than Marika ever did for me."
"Perhaps Queen Marika acts in her own ways. You will neither earn her favor nor better your life by treating her as a devil. She must be busy, being both a goddess and a queen - were she able, I know she would make gentle the life of her subjects… of her realm."
From the criminal came a scoff, even as the fond look of the knight was kissed by the sun - the warmth of Her Eternal Majesty manifest, perhaps.
"That's easy for you to say when ya got 'er guidance in your eye. You can't expect to wield executive power just 'cause some golden tart put her leash 'round yer neck and called it grace."
The knight's smile became just a bit smug… but it was rightful, for he saw grace where no other did.
"I do expect such. That is the sole purpose of my entire bloodline; her rune is even engraved finely upon my armor, as you can see. … and she is not a 'tart'!"
"Yeah, sure…"
That very same smile turned itself down at the dismissive tone… or perhaps it was because the momentary fervor had worn off. For but a moment, he recalled how recently he had made his first prayer - how silly to feign piety when he was still so worldly and unsure.
"..."
A thread of golden grace presented itself, tapering off into the great sky, and he was assured that - as wavering as his belief may be - Queen Marika remained his ally.
"… anyway, you hungry, mate?"
It was just the question Arthur wanted to hear. Instantly his mind shifted from the political and socioeconomic state of the Lands Between to… food.
"Of course I am, Boggart."
"Then there's a problem."
It was just the response Arthur didn't want to hear.
"I'm fresh outta prawn."
With a similarly-instant speed, his face fell.
"What a disaster. I suppose we will have to settle for the provisions we packed."
The knight shook his head.
"Roderika seemed to be excited at the prospect of trying some shrimp, too. I know I was looking forward to having it again."
Given a moment to think it over, Boggart stood up.
"Don't worry, mate - I got a plan."
"Do you? How grand. What is it?"
"We… are going to hunt us some crab, instead. … why's your face look like that, mate? Figured a tough knight like you'd be jumpin' at the chance to swing a sword 'round."
Arthur now stood and shook his head firmly.
"If you mean to hunt those gargantuan devils that take on the guise of crabs, then I shan't. They are too hideous and too awful."
"What're ya talkin' about? They're just crabs, mate."
"I have fought and killed enough upon the River Siofra for one lifetime. They are dreadful, with those… large claws and beady eyes devoid of love or compassion."
Beneath the iron mask, Boggart's look was one of confusion.
"What the hell's 'Seaoffra'?"
"A river… but that is besides the point. I wonder if my steely fighting instincts have rusted during these last few days spent idle. I've not brought a sword to bear, except against Roderika."
"..."
"Wait… not in that way. In the sense of training. I was teaching her swordplay. She was actually the one swinging at me… so you see?"
Arthur looked through the eye-slots of the iron mask, gauging whether he was believed. He told only the truth, and surely that was known.
"Sure, mate. I believe ya."
"Really. Unlike you, I am not in the habit of threatening defenseless women."
"I said I believe ya."
"Good."
Boggart leaned in, looking the knight in the eyes all the while…
"Let's go hunt us some crab, mate… how 'bout it?"
"I still shan't."
… and then sighed.
"Look, mate… you like that girl…"
He jabbed a thumb towards the cabin.
"... right?"
"Of course I do."
"Well, what better way to make 'er happy than crab for breakfast? Come on."
The knight was considering his words, and rethinking his refusal, as told by his expression.
"If yer so worried about gettin' rusty, better to get some practice 'gainst things that can 'ardly fight back, ain't it?"
From firsthand experience, the knight was certain that they most definitely could fight back… but the logic of such a highly-educated aristocrat as Boggart was irrefutable.
"I suppose you would know very well the art of attacking defenseless beings… ah, sure. We will hunt giant crabs. What could go wrong?"
"I knew you'd see it my way. A hunter 'as to hunt, mate. Let's go."
"Right now?"
"Yeah, right now, mate."
Arthur looked at his bare hands, and then laid against his face one of his palms. If he were to fight such vile creatures, he would need to be properly-equipped - gauntlets and a helm were essential in any battle.
"Give me just a moment. I need my equipment."
"Equipment, ya say?"
"My…"
Clumsily those same hands gestured to his head. He turned to enter the shack.
"What, yer brain? Didn't figure ya had one."
Immediately he turned back, never one to allow another the final mocking word.
"No, you peasant, my helm."
"Yeah, yeah… we're huntin' crab, not fightin' an army."
"Roderika, we… ah."
There laid his newly-appointed page, still asleep, head pillowed by a few sacks of the softer provisions. She was a few feet from the table which held his helm, gauntlets and sheathed flamberge.
How irresponsible of her to sleep on the job - a squire is supposed to accompany their knight upon a hunt.
I would know.
Well, I suppose that Boggart can play the role.
Closer, he stepped, careful not to be so loud as to wake her. Just as he reached the edge of that table, he looked down to her.
"..."
Roderika's hair, kept rather well for so long, was at last disheveled and disordered. It would have taken quite a lot of turning to achieve it - he could only hope she'd slept soundly. She seemed to be doing so now.
"..."
It looks… peculiar. I've not seen it in anything less than a proper state.
Oddly, he found himself charmed by the sight. What a silly idea - a princess, even an exiled one, with a head of tousled hair. Its basic shape was retained, but errant strands clung to her forehead like they'd been caught by a sleeping sweat.
It was then, after looking and smiling dumbly for a very short while, that he remembered to grab his equipment. On went the gauntlets, which were almost like a second skin to him.
With the flower-bedecked greathelm in one armored hand and the greatsword in the other, he looked upon the woman once more. The neutral expression she wore on her pretty features, the way the silk of her garment looked so very soft, the regular lifting and falling of her chest as she breathed.
That shortsword she'd been equipped with, partly-drawn from its sheath, the fingers of her right hand gnarled around the weapon's crossguard.
Such a sight made him uneasy. He was unsure of what to make of it.
"..."
With nothing else to do, Arthur stepped outside and shut the door behind him.
"Took ya long enough."
"I suppose."
Down the steps and onto the dirt once more.
"Good, ya grabbed that big sword. Be needing it."
"The story of my life, you just told."
"Heh."
Onto his head, he secured the helm. The only way to see was straight ahead - neither upward nor downward, and not even in his periphery.
Now they were akin to one another, each man clad in iron.
"Don't think I'll let ya have all the fun."
Even with his vision so utterly diminished by the helm, he could make out what Boggart was doing - stepping over to the cauldron that, previously, brimmed with the finest prawn known to man. Past it, he picked up a pair of spherical iron objects and secured them around his fists.
"... what are those contraptions?"
They were perfectly round, and… very amusing in shape.
"These… are the fists of Big Boggart, mate."
Arthur raised the greathelm from his head, taking a good look at these purported fists.
"No, those look simply like metal privates."
"Yeah, figures a flower like you'd think that."
He brought the helm down to eye level and looked at the cerulean bloom bequeathed unto him.
"So that you know, Aurelia adorned me with this flower. I believe that it makes me look very manly, thank you very much."
"Maybe the crabs'll think so, too."
The greathelm went back on, complete with the very manly blue flower, and they struck out on their quest for crab.
"The girl still asleep when ya went in?"
"Yes, it was quite a journey from the royal manor to here. I can only imagine her fatigue."
"Royal manner? What, you visitin' 'er parents?"
"Not her royal manor, Boggart. The Carians'."
Through the water, they walked, Arthur choosing not to ride on horseback; what a rude thing it would be, to make the fellow walk alongside him like that. Something indicated to the knight that the convict wouldn't be so amenable to riding with him as Roderika was.
"Who're the Carryins?"
"The royal family of this region. Their daughter murdered the son of Her Eternal Majesty and caused the Shattering."
"Oh, so they're assholes, are they?"
"Essentially. I hear that their eldest son is quite the respectable warrior, though - he learned magic and conquered the stars. Perhaps one day we will meet, and I will be certain of one good Carian."
The two roving men strode along the surface of the lake - with much daylight left, they felt no need to hurry. It was plentiful with patches of grass, the Academy in the far North - it just occurred to him that he retained the strange 'glintstone key' needed for entry - and yet no crabs yet.
"Where the hell did ya get this? That sword."
The arming sword's glintstone stood out just as much as the gold. In his hands was the sheathed flamberge; on his hip was the bejewelled sword.
"Well, I… err…"
"Did you steal it?"
"No. I… borrowed it."
"Story of my life, or whatever ya said."
All the world's riches or allure couldn't pry him from the gentle climate of the Liurnian lake. Cooler than Limgrave, which was itself a perfect place for an armored man like himself. No giant crabs, still. Daylight was lesser now, much spent in vain.
"Quite frankly, Boggart, I wonder… do you sleep in that mask of yours?"
"D'ya sleep in that armor?"
"... yes."
"There's your answer, mate."
The knight halted after a prolonged silence, tapped Boggart's shoulder. Through his helm, he spied a congregation of crabs in the water. Feeble and single-minded creatures, they scurried around an enclave of soil amidst the lake, doing crabbish things incomprehensible to mankind.
"Look, a congregation of crabs, huddled around that dry spot."
"Nah, they're called a cast, mate."
He and Arthur approached the cast of crabs.
"You seem to know your animals."
"Gotta know 'em to cook 'em."
Boggart knocked over one small, defenseless crab with his foot. While the creature struggled to right itself, its brethren turned to look at him with their beady, dimwitted eyes.
"What're you lookin' at? Wanna start somethin'?"
The amusement of picking on the weak, yet without truly bringing them harm, was known only to him. Beneath the iron mask he smirked, looming over the crabs like a giant over a village.
"What a lowly thing to do. Simply kill it, if such's your intent - refrain from toying with it."
"Kill it? Nah. Ain't enough meat to be worth the trouble. We're lookin' for those bloody big crabs, 'member?"
"As you say…"
Further the knight watched them, as the crab uselessly attempted to turn itself over.
"Wait…"
"Yes, Boggart?"
"When we find it… how're we gonna bring the crab back?"
Both of them knew that they had little clue - as well-muscled as they were, the giant crabs weighed more than even a warhorse.
"Well… I… maybe we could bring the cauldron out here and break it down to boil it piecemeal?"
"Don't be daft, mate. You wanna spend all night out here? Those things're bloody huge."
"Alright, High Lord Jailbird, what is your idea?"
"I 'aven't got one."
Knight Arthur sighed, and overturned a crab of his own, being mindful not to kick it in the process. The sabatons that filled with water dripped as he lifted them to step. Luckily this freshwater bore less threat than that of the salty sea; time would be had later to dry them and prevent rust.
"Perhaps we should think about this before we actually fell one of those colossal crabs. There is little sense in killing without a means to bring it back."
Another crab overturned by Boggart.
"Nah, mate, we just gotta find it first… and then we'll figure it out."
Another crab overturned by Arthur.
"Perhaps…"
By this point, when they had ceased to deliberately keep a count, there were some dozen lesser crabs flipped upon their 'heads'. Even being of feebler nature, they were quite sizable… though not enough to threaten the knight.
"Where'd ya even get that armor, anyway? Last I remember, you were in that stupid dragon 'elmet."
This distraction ended a fairly-sized pause. At this time they were listless.
"There it is again. What makes you say that? I quite liked that dragon-crested helm."
"Then why ain't ya wearin' it?"
Knight Arthur smiled, for he now had a reason to speak at length of his lineage and grace-given purpose.
"What I wear now is my ancestral armor, Boggart. Its tale is one of honor utmost, of a duty fit only for the most faithful son there could be."
He paused to gesture with grand scale, and so did the convict stop to watch. Bemusement? Genuine interest? Boredom?
In the middle of a rare soil patch amidst water, he placed one hand upon the engraved rune of Marika - which happened to be situated over his knightly heart - and swept the horizon with the other. With grace of sweet Queen Marika in his eyes, he stared into the sky.
"A glorious thing, it was upon my back as I first departed from my homeland, and as I slew Godrick. It was inherited by myself, a fortunate son of the House of Wallace… for it was written in our very bloodline that whoever did see grace must take it in his voyage across the sea, back to our homeland of an era past."
Soon enough he stepped off of that soil for oratory purposes, facing the opposite direction, and Boggart took his place. Two sounds of weighty thudding against the dirt weren't cause enough for the knight to turn around.
"Indeed, I am that seer of grace, and I have made the voyage. Hark, Boggart, for I speak proudly!"
Looking off to the West, he swore that for just this glance he saw the towering tip of the stone citadel which was home. Tartan-clad on the castle parapet, a highland piper stood alone; he signalled the beloved son's return with a melody which travelled along the wind, heard even from a thousand leagues away.
"Five-hundred years ago, this rune-crested cuirass was donned by my great ancestor William Vallance, sworn knight of the Elden…"
The noise of trickling water against soil - 'water' - broke into that piper's melody and caused him to turn around.
"There is no way."
Boggart stood on the soil, his back facing the knight, hands positioned in a way that must have been upon his pelvis. The iron spheres once upon his fists now were on the ground, off to the side.
"… are you seriously relieving yourself now? Had you any manners, you could have at least gone somewhere else and done it, or at the very least waited for me to finish spea-"
"Don't talk to me while I'm pissin', mate."
"This is unbelievable."
In frustration, or frustration's feebler equivalent, he stripped himself of his gauntlets and threw them down on the dirt, far enough away from the disrespectful convict that the stench of urine did not strike.
Through the slit in his helm, all that could be seen was a hundredth of the dirt and water below. The sun, magnified tenfold as it reflected from the water, bounced through that slit and stung his eyes for a brief moment.
"Truly, you could have waited."
"Look, mate, we been walkin' all afternoon, and we ain't got no bloody crab for it… now do we?"
"There are plenty all around us, plenty indeed, yet you insist upon finding those vile giant crabs. Well, where are they? Where?"
"Didn't I say not to talk to me while I'm pissin'?"
Fingers clutching the sheathed flamberge, there was nothing to do but pace within the vicinity while Boggart did what he needed.
"Great. Simply wonderful."
It was a muttered complaint, for himself more than the convict or the crabs.
With a dozen of those crabs overturned still, their various little limbs squirming without result, he retreated inward. It was to consider the situation.
How pitiful a hunt, so far from the vaunted deer-hunts of better days.
If only I were in pursuit of a bear, or a lion - if only it were my father I now hunted with!
Various lesser crabs were kept at bay with shoving motions that grew into kicks as the moment dragged on.
At least we have the bread and cheese… but to use up provisions so soon may be folly.
Below him, the earth tremored.
If we should cut our losses - take these smaller crabs as a lesser prize - it may…
Courtesy of the helm which protected him so, he hardly saw or heard a thing… not until it was too late.
… wait… what is that shifting of water beside me? That rumbling upon the ground?
He knew not what he'd done.
Downward Arthur's gaze went, through the visor able to see the very soil part.
A claw as large as himself unburied itself. Sharp, without doubt heavy, and only the beginning.
Without fail, a full-bodied, giant beast masquerading as a crab - replete with beady, hateful eyes and a wicked presence - had revealed itself.
Knight Arthur stood before it, flamberge sheathed in his hands. Back, he stepped.
"Boggart, our prey is upon us!"
Having just concluded the act of relieving himself, the convict looked behind him (without rotating his body accordingly - privates are called such for a reason).
"What're y… oh, shit!"
With greatest urgency, he fumbled with his 'sword', meaning to put it away… just as the knight readied his.
"Where in the hell'd it come from?"
At last, with his manhood tucked away and safe from harm, he armed himself.
"How am I to know? The ground spit it out from under me!"
The two large iron balls - the fists of Boggart - seemed hardly fit to fight such a beast.
"Get back, Boggart - this fight, I shall win!"
A black sheath made its thud against the soil, rolling from its own weight into the water at soil's edge.
In the sunlight shone the flame-bladed greatsword, two bare hands gripping its hilt. Its master stepped over the discarded gauntlets without heed, daring not to break his focused gaze.
"..."
Boggart did no such thing as 'getting back'.
"Ready, mate?"
"As ready as any man ever was."
Two men, shoulder-to-shoulder, weapons at the ready - the steely flamberge and the iron fists versus claws bigger even than the knight, and surely able to crush him.
"..."
The crab glared at them. They glared back.
"Come hither, you bastard!"
"Yeah, we ain't afraid of ya!"
They convinced themselves, at the very least. The crab? Maybe, or maybe not.
If it could speak, it would beckon them to meet their doom. In knocking around the lesser crabs, they had sown the wind; indeed, they would duly reap the whirlwind.
With Arthur standing at Boggart's left, the monstrous being raised up the claw which - in their view - was on the left. It had issued a challenge, thrown down its proverbial gauntlet.
"Go on, mate, get 'im!"
The knight stepped forth, some fifteen feet remaining betwixt man and monster.
In his first act of combat, that man bent down, seized one of his own fallen gauntlets and flung it at the crab. It uselessly impacted against the carapace of the being, unfortunately failing to smite it down.
At the very least, it provoked a response. The crab approached, just as its foe desired.
"That is right, scurry over! I taunt you! Consider that a slap!"
A most awful foe closing in, Knight Arthur set his feet into an immovable stance and raised up the greatsword for an overhead chop.
"You got 'im, mate! Fuck 'im up!"
Even touching the ground by the pommel, it ended just an inch or two past his shoulder - it was a great sword, that much went without dispute.
"Come forth, devil-crab! I've no fear of you!"
"..."
No response was had - the beast was afraid! In its eyes were said a thousand words of uncertainty and fear. Twelve feet, eight feet, four feet, close contact!
Emboldened, the knight slammed down the sword like an executioner certain.
"Die, monster!"
With a resounding impact the flame-bladed sword did meet the claw of the crab, and the very earth shook from far-East to far-West.
Birds once perched upon a nearby tree sought out safety elsewhere, their wings carrying them away from the battle with haste, driven so by the thundering clash. Even they knew, in spite of their fleeing, that it was a battle to be retold throughout the ages.