I have felt many things throughout my struggled existence. From pain to elation, hatred to exhilaration, a life spanning eras held more than enough time for the broad spectrum of feeling.
It was a long, long time ago, far too long ago to be recollected clearly, that I was but a young man, naïve and hopeful for the world. There had been stories, of course, and legends of the Linking of the Fire. I had thought maybe, just maybe, I could be one of the heroes of yore, to create my own legacy of mystic tales and wonderful miracles. The great Knights of Astora, their blue crest a blazing dragon of nobility and beauty. Or perhaps the so-called “onions” of Catarina, men and women with large armor to match the size of their hearts.
Gwyn and his four knights, bastions of greatness, were fit for the most miraculous of legends. Tales of gods, striking down the Everlasting Dragons and protecting the people of the land from the most horrific of beasts. They were heroes, to be sure, paragons of what a knight stood for. Yet, one particular tale had fancied my interest the most.
Artorias of the Abyss, the Wolf Knight. Oh, what a grand tale he was! To have walked the Abyss itself, slaying ghoulish wraiths and husks of the dead, to save a beautiful princess from a most horrific monster. A fairy tale and nothing more, a few had said of it, but it was a most majestic tale indeed.
But my time of naivety and hope had been all but extinguished by my twenty-fifth winter. For, the Darksign had appeared upon my flesh, a rotting foundation for what I would eventually become. A harrowed undead, fit for nothing. I was cast aside, left only to decay as madness began to set in. I had known that I would eventually hollow, though I did not know when. The only thing I did know, was that if I kept my optimism, if I kept something close to work for, I would keep my sanity, and perhaps become human again.
Then, I had felt hope—there were others like me. For, I had found a particular group of undead, seeking only a purpose. They had established themselves in Farron. It was a mystical wood, the birthplace of the legend of Artorias itself. They had given themselves meaning once more, to carry on the legacy of the ancient hero. We would crush the Abyss, the Dark, wherever it was. The ranks of the Watchers were small at first, but our numbers bloated within months—the Watchers appealed to many aimless, wandering undead, searching only for a reason to live.
But, for the longest time, I could only remember the fire, the burning sensation as my flesh and blood was lit alight. Many decades after our foundation, we had given ourselves to the flame, a last effort to defeat the Abyss. So many undead had deserted us by then, some of them my dearest of friends, but it was our last purpose.
It was a rather excruciating purpose, to burn for all eternity. Madness had gripped our hearts, and I had known only pain. And then, untold millennia later, the fire bore the audacity to call us forth once more, and burn ourselves once again for a frail old lie. Though we rejected it at first, we were forced to bear our embers, our ashes stolen by what some called an Unkindled to light the flame.
The ruse would have succeeded, if our murderer had not betrayed the Fire itself. Now, I felt exhaustion. Relief, perhaps, that the flame would be snuffed out. I was dead, at last, and I would remain so forever. My brothers were with me, for one final moment, and darkness set in. The sun itself would die, eventually.
I did not know, then, that my soul would be thrown, split from my brothers. To lands I did not know of, yet great magic laced their painted threads. Maybe it was a calling, one last purpose to protect a kingdom from the Abyss once more.
Or, perhaps, my soul was just searching for something, someone, to hold onto.
I awoke upon a cold surface, and pain wreathed my limbs as, once more, I felt. A low whine escaped me, one I hoped none of my brothers would ever know of, lest they make a mockery of my existence. The ground whereupon my face sat was cold. Stone, cold stone.
Yet, I was puzzled. For all that had happened, I knew within myself that I should not be able to know as I did then. But against all odds, I thought, I felt.
I lived.
My memories were patchy, to say the least. I recollected only threads, pieces, but I still knew that I should not be alive. I had been killed, slaughtered in a chaotic mess as the blood of my friends, my compatriots, mixed with my own. And then, I had been burned, along with all of my brethren, to link a dying flame.
So why, then, did I live? Why, then, could I feel?
Slowly, gently, I braced my hand against the ground. I let out a pained groan, my bones aching as I rose. A sudden dizziness came about me, causing me to waver about. I shook my head, trying to relieve the building pressure inside.
Then, daintily, I attempted to crack open my eyes. They were dry, sorely so, as if they had been closed for millennia. Yet despite the pain, my vision cleared, allowing me to see my surroundings.
A dark room, it seemed, and a damp moisture filled the air. It was quiet, and the faintest hints of light shone from a small crack above me—a window. I could hear the whistle of wind outside, similar to the sort one would hear in a valley or mountain. Nearby, an unusually small and filthy bed sat in a corner. Too small for a man, yet too large for a child.
It was a cell. A jail, it seemed, of the sort to house criminals and prisoners. Bars, metal bars, were arranged in rows before me, a door to keep me in. It was clear, however, that this prison of mine had not been used in a long while—the bars had begun to rust, and it seemed that the cells were not very well maintained. Outside my cell, a light flickered weakly.
Then, I looked down upon myself—unclothed, as it was. My flesh was bare, uncovered, and I could feel a cold chill rolling upon my skin. A simple loincloth covered my waist and groin, and that was all I had.
My flesh was rather fascinating, and my eyes glazed with interest over it. Small, tiny cracks were visible all along my arms, barely noticeable pockets of what looked to be fire in between them. Dust and dirt speckled my body, and I could feel thin sheets of dried blood along my flesh.
Out of curiosity, I placed a pair of fingers on my neck, feeling for a rather familiar sign. I found it quickly, roiling under my chin. It was a rotting, scorched reminder of my curse. It burned to the touch, scalding my fingers. I knew, then, that I was still an undead, though now without a purpose.
I was a fool for thinking that I could escape the darksign so easily.
I do not know for how long I had sat there, undisturbed. Minutes, it could have been, or perhaps hours. The light outside my window had dimmed ever so slightly, and the cell had taken a cold chill. And then, sometime later, I was roused from my thoughts, the sounds of hooves upon stone and brick echoing across the hall.
Hooves—that was an anomaly, to say the least. One did not expect to find horses in a dungeon, yet now they resonated in a cacophonous chorus. There were several beings, it seemed, and voices. Some rough and hard, yet two of them stood out from the rest.
The first was noble and kind, a pleasant song to an ear. She—the voice was feminine in nature—seemed to be in charge, ordering the others. Doors opened somewhere outside my cell, and the hooves and voices began again.
The second voice caught my ear. It was harder, of sorts, than the first, but younger, it appeared. If the first had been a melody of a song, the second voice was its accompanied harmony, rolling through the air like a moon to the day’s sun.
The voices came closer, their echoes louder. I could hear what they were saying now.
“Last door, princess. The… creature, is being held in these last few cells,” a male voice said.
Royalty? But a curiosity, to be sure, that I was dealing with a princess rather than a king or queen. I was unable to resist the curiosity, and I looked up from my spot on the ground, at least somewhat eager to see who it was that held me prisoner. Shadows appeared outside, wavering in the faint light. Yet, something was inherently wrong with the shadows, something different. For, strangely enough, they took the form of some four-legged creature.
I could not help it—my mouth fell open upon the sight of my jailers. It made sense, after all. The sounds of hooves, their shadows, yet I could not believe my eyes. Coats of color, golden armor upon their bodies. Some bore sharp horns upon their heads, while others possessed wings. Two of them, their figures sleekly feminine, were both horned and winged, larger than the rest of the gaggle.
Horses. Of all creatures to have imprisoned me, horses. A sick joke, it could have been, yet these creatures, these animals, were very much real.
“Is that it?” one asked, and my attention diverted to her. At once, a particular scent came about me, smelling curiously of lilac and strawberries. Even in the moldy darkness, her pearly-white coat glowed and her mane flowed like a stream of beautiful color. She bore golden and violet regalia along her body, yet a glance into her eyes revealed a hard, yet warm nature. A strange dichotomy.
Beside her stood a horse of almost complete opposition. Her coat was a dark indigo, her mane an otherworldly silk of a sapphire-like blue. Small speckles of light patterned her mane, and it reminded me of the night sky. She bore similar jewelry as the first, yet all colored a deep black and silver. I could only assume that she, too, was a princess.
One of what I assumed were their underlings responded, his suspicious gaze aimed at myself. “Yes, princess. Stripped of its armor, clothes, and weapons, as it is, but it is the same creature.” He seemed to be a unicorn of legend, his blue-shaded mane a stark difference from the ethereal nature of those of the “princesses.”
“It’s awake. Have you spoken to it yet, Captain?”
The unicorn shook his head in reply, still glaring at me. “Not yet, my princess. It has been in a deep slumber since it arrived, but it seems to have awoken now."
“Very well,” the princess responded, and she stepped forwards. “My sister and I will speak to it ourselves. If it can speak, that is.”
The captain, as his rank was, nodded, stepping backwards. I watched, silently, as the princess and her sister approached my cell, an air of confidence about them. Stopping just short of the bars, the princess took a moment to look over me. Her gaze felt like needles pricking at my bare flesh.
“And that is our dilemma. Can you speak?” she asked, looking down upon me.
I returned her stare and nodded plainly, rubbing my legs with my hands. I felt scars upon my skin, a dim heat emanating from them.
The princess frowned, evidently displeased at my failure to truly speak. “What is your name?”
Her question stopped me, her words digging forcefully into my mind. What was my name? It had been so long, after all, yet I should have known it. But I did not. And so, I shook my head.
“What are you?” the princess asked, taking another step closer. “And, I implore you, speak.”
“An undead,” I replied, and I watched for their reaction.
The princess and her sister tensed almost immediately, and the soldiers behind them raised their arms, stepping forwards in an obviously protective manner. Yet, the princess’s sister raised a hoof, urging them back. Looking curiously at me, she spoke.
“How, then, can you speak, if you should be dead?” she asked. “We have never seen a creature like you before.”
I shrugged, looking away. Her eyes were bright, and I sought to avoid them. “Don’t expect you would have. But I’m not a hollow. At least, not yet.”
“Hollow?” the dark one queried, though her larger sister gave her an admonishing look. “What do you mean, hollow?”
Gazing once more into her cerulean eyes, I chuckled darkly, in an almost sinister manner. “I mean I’m not insane, yet. Though, I don’t think I shall last long, at this rate.”
The first princess spoke in turn, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Then where have you come from? And are there more of you out there?”
I switched my gaze to her. “Not here, I suppose. And there were many of us, so many. But, I would assume they’re all burned to ash now.” I leaned back, bracing myself against my hands. “That, or they’re without a light.”
It was interesting to see, that the two princesses reacted so differently. For while the brighter one, larger than her sister, hardened her gaze even more, the second looked at me with only abound curiosity.
“I should think you have tales of undead creatures?” I asked, a somber smile upon my mouth. They nodded, and I continued. “Well, be glad they’re only tales. Your entire world could end, if they were more than dreams and nightmares told in the dark.
I don’t remember the rest of our short-lived conversation being of much substance. The first princess had asked fleeting questions, our talk brief in manner. Soon after, the princesses had left, their entourage following briskly on their tails. Doors shut, lights flickered off, and I was left once more in the silent darkness, with only my thoughts to accompany me.
But the smaller princess, her form so reminiscent of the night, and silent after her first questions, had looked back upon me one last time. Her expression was of curiosity and interest, and perhaps a notion of pity. I expected to see her again.
If only Hawkwood, my dearest of friends, could hear me now. He had always been the more downcast and despondent of the two of us. I laughed to myself in the cold, quiet darkness. The malevolence of my voice surprised even myself, its tone dismal and grave. It was then, that I realized what I was.
I was simply… crestfallen.