Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The First Flame quickly fades. Darkness will shortly settle.

There were but two paths: to inherit the order of the world, or to destroy it—in other words, to link the Fire, or to let it all fade into darkness. The gods were running out of time, and the Primordial Serpent Darkstalker Kaathe was running out of patience; a Chosen Undead never came, thus it was the perfect opportunity to restore the course of nature, to usher in an Age of Dark…

But then, the Darkstaker had a revelation: why stop there? The first linking of the Fire was a sin, an aberration that led to the suffering and enslavement of humankind. The gods needed to be punished, to experience something much, much darker than an Age of Dark, if such thing was even possible.

And so, he made a choice: when the time was right, he would command his Darkwraiths to feed the entire world to Abyss, to spread its tendrils across the earth and consume everything. He would do the exact same thing he once tried to do with the province of Oolacile. This time, however, he would do it right; he had a better grasp on the Abyss, an army of exceedingly capable warriors and no one to stop him...

...Except he wasn’t quite right about that last bit; there was, indeed, someone who could never allow this to happen, but by the time the Darkstalker noticed, it was already too late…

…For he would’ve never expected a Darkwraith to turn against their own people, wreak havoc in New Londo and escape their headquarters, leaving behind a trail of blood and destruction.

This nameless Darkwraith emerged from the very depths of the Abyss and killed their way to the surface, as an act of protest against Kaathe’s decision. Not only did this rebel have the gods on their tail—as all Darkwraiths do; now, on top of that, they would need to watch out for old acquaintances coming after them for refusing their patron’s orders...

No matter. They would destroy anything that opposed a peaceful Age of Dark, one that didn’t entail the corruption of the entire world, of all living things; they’d seen what the Abyss could do when recklessly provoked... They simply would not allow it to happen a second time.

Concealing their identity behind many layers of cloth and armour, with their scimitar as their only companion, they set on a journey to halt the spread of the Abyss by any means necessary. The story begins on a cold, dry night, when the nameless Darkwraith infiltrates the Undead Parish—not to spread death, misfortune and destruction, like one would think, but merely to rest and put this exhausting day behind them; even as a capable warrior, or a ruthless murderer in the eyes of many, the demise of many of their brethren at their hands had shaken them to the core, made them terrified of what was yet to come…

They were hoping the stone walls of the Undead Parish would keep them safe, if only for a few hours… Then the door behind them opened, followed by the sound of footsteps, almost deafening in contrast to the absolute silence the Darkwraith had been welcomed with. They quickly turned around, only to see a pair of lavender eyes fixated on their shrouded form; it was a pardoner of Velka, most likely sent by the goddess herself to guard the Parish; a tall man, dressed in black from head to toe—much like themselves, but that’s where the similarities between the two individuals ended.

The man froze, his gaze fixated on the Darkwraith, definitely not pleased by their intrusion. With calculated precision, his hand slowly moved to the hilt of his rapier.

“O fuck,” the Darkwraith breathed beneath their mask, trying not to make any sudden movements that would provoke the pardoner. “Before you attack me, please, let me explain—“

“I can sense the taint of the Abyss oozing from thy soul, fiend,” he cut them off, his grip tight on the hilt of the rapier. “Speak thy purpose swiftly, or prepare to be judged by my righteous steel.”

The Darkwraith slowly stepped out of the shadows, raising their hands in surrender. “Please… My job is complicated enough as it is now. If you’re not going to help me… at least don’t make my survival any more difficult than it need be.”

The pardoner recognized exhaustion and desperation in their stance, in their voice. The grip on his rapier loosened slightly, but his judging stare remained on the Darkwraith’s crimson eyes, the only thing visible about them beneath the mask.

“I’m just hiding,” they spoke again. “I don’t mean any harm.”

“Hiding…?” He repeated. “’Tis suspicious indeed; thou’rt a Darkwraith, a servant of the Abyss, that much is clear… and yet…”

Suspicion etched upon the man’s face beneath his own mask; he despised Darkwraiths, but he was old enough to know there was always an exception to every norm. Surprising himself, he gave this one a chance, never letting his guard down completely:

“There is something in thy voice... A weariness, a desperation,” he started. “State thy purpose, Darkwraith, for I am moved only by sincerity and a worthy cause.”

“Pardoner, this really does not concern you—“

“I beg to differ, Darkwraith,” he cut them off once again, taking a step closer, allowing them to appreciate just how much he towered over them. “As a servant of Velka, goddess of sin, it is my duty to uphold order and dispense justice to those who transgress. Knoweth this, interloper: thou art standing upon hallowed ground. Thy mere presence threatens the very balance of this realm. Speak thy purpose, and hope that it justifies thine intrusion and trespass—“

But before he could finish his words, an arrow came through the window, cutting through the air, almost grazing the pardoner’s chest.

“Out of the way!” The Darkwraith cried out, pushing him away. They quickly moved to the window, only to see three warriors from the Abyss standing on the rooftop, aiming their bows at them; they’d somehow managed to track the rebel down and follow their trail to the Undead Parish.

The pardoner became suspicious again, quickly assuming the worst: this Darkwraith had tricked him, managed to buy some time until backup arrived; they were planning an attack to the Parish, no doubt. He readied his blade, readying himself for a fight...

However, the moment the Darkwraith jumped out of the window and made their way to the rooftop, skillfully dodging the flying arrows and bolts, he changed his mind just as quickly; he watched the intruder fight their own brethren, showing no mercy, dispatching of them efficiently. His eyes narrowed beneath the shadow of his mask, trying to understand why this stranger was attacking their own kind. After a moment of silent observation, he lowered his rapier, his feet firmly planted on the stone floor as the Darkwraith swiftly entered through the window again, breathing heavily.

“Thine arrival bears too much weight for it to be a mere coincidence…” He softly spoke. “Why dost thou draw such animosity from thy brethren…?”

“You really want me to answer that without thanking me first…?”

The pardoner chuckled, an unsettling and cold sound echoing through the room. “...Apologies for my lack of manners. Thou hast indeed saved me from harm just now… even if thou didst bring it to my doorstep thyself,” he mumbled that last bit under his nose. “Nevertheless, I thank thee for thy intervention—“

“If anyone asks,” the Darkwraith interrupted him, “you killed them. I was never here. Get it?”

There was something about this interaction, this peculiar encounter, that intrigued him; his jaded gaze held a mixture of curiosity and wariness, his eyes narrowing in suspicion… But in the end, he nodded slightly. “As thou wishest, dark one. The blame shalt fall exclusively upon my shoulders.”

“Phew, thank you, pardoner—“

“Hold thy gratitude, Darkwraith,” he interrupted once again. “Thou hast undoubtedly piqued my interest... Albeit reluctantly. There is more to this tale than meets the eye, and I shall have mine answers. State thy purpose, so that we may establish upon equally wary ground.”

“It’s the end times, pardoner: the Darkwraiths are planning to cause an Abyss breakout,” they replied. “Something much, much more dangerous than a simple Age of Dark will take over if no one stops them... If they succeed, Lordran... no, the entire world will be consumed."

The pardoner's lavender eyes hardened at the rebel's words, his expression revealing a flicker of concern amidst his typically stoic demeanor; he felt darkness devour his surroundings as he contemplated the weight of this revelation.

“This… doth explain the desperation thou hast carried,” is all he was able to say. "The entire world threatened by the abyss… I sayest, the gods must be informed of this dire plot—“

“Oh yeah? So they can send another poor fool to link the Fire?” Their cutting voice echoed across the room. “No! I will not have more unnecessary Undead sacrifices, pardoner!”

Silently taken aback by the Darkwraith’s sudden response, the pardoner simply raised a gloved hand to silence them. “Nay, Darkwraith. I do not speak of sacrificing another to the First Flame. The Firelink cycle must come to an end, but being consumed by the Abyss is most certainly not the answer…”

The room grew silent as he took a moment to gather his thoughts; he paced the room thoughtfully, his piercing gaze never difting from the Darkwraith, staring into their red eyes in disbelief as the gravity of the situation settled upon him.

"Thy claims and deeds leave me torn, Darkwraith,” he finally spoke. "If thou art to be trusted, then unravel thine tale in full detail. Who art thou truly, and pray, tell me, what hath driveth thee to rebel against thine own brethren...?"

“Who I am is not important, pardoner,” they spoke firmly. “I ran away from New Londo as soon as I learnt about this plot… Might’ve killed a few of my brethren to break myself free, as soon as I made my own intentions clear. They've been chasing me ever since.”

They took a moment to collect themself after this confession, taking a deep breath, before addressing the pardoner, desperation etched in their tone...

"I've seen what happens when the land is consumed by the Abyss that the Darkstalker wants to spread... I don't want the entire world to be consumed by it.”

The priest of Velka took a step closer, studying every nuance of the Darkwraith's demeanor as they spoke. Deep down, the same apprehension flickered within him, the fear of an impending world shrouded in a corrupting Abyss... Yet, he remained composed, even if his expression was starting to betray him, shifting from suspicion to something resembling concern.

"Thou hast my sympathies, Darkwraith. Thy resolution is… admirable,” he admitted. "I dost not think I can aid thee in thy fight, but I can at least provide thee temporary refuge from thy pursuers.”

“That… means the world to me, pardoner,” they replied. “I am deeply obliged.”

The pardoner inclined his head, the shadow of a solemn smile curling upon his lips. "Come, let us make haste."

He glanced around the room, quickly scanning the surroundings before leading the way towards a hidden passage. With confident steps and measured precision, he navigated through the corridors of the Undead Parish, his black robes swaying as he moved. Minutes stretched into what seemed like an eternity as they ducked through secret doorways and descended spiralling staircases… He keept his gaze fixed ahead, but couldn't help stealing occasional glances at the Darkwraith’s concealed face...

"Thy chosen path hath brought thee much turmoil, Darkwraith,” he spoke, his voice soft like velvet. "I wonder what past deeds hast led thee to this faithful fork in the road... but I do not wish to intrude. Merely curiosity beclouds my thoughts…”

"I can only tell you so much, pardoner,” the rebel sighed. "I have chosen this path, to fight against my own covenant... But I do not wish to endanger others.”

Nodding solemnly, he gazed at the Darkwraith with equal parts understanding and respect. "Thine dedication in forsaking thy own covenant for the greater good is commendable, Darkwraith. It takes courage to confront and defy that which was once believed."

Pushing a heavy oak door open, they reached the sanctum deep wthin the Parish. The pardoner motioned for the Darkwraith to enter, and as the pair stepped in, the air became heavy with a sense of ancient power; the flickering candlelight danced across the ornate decorations, shelves filled with tomes and relics lined the walls... The pardoner scanned the room, his eyes betraying a tinge of nostalgia.

"Rest here," he said, his voice tinged with caution, gesturing for them to take a seat upon a weathered wooden chair. “Thou art safe for now, thy pursuers will not dare tread here.”

“I appreciate your help, pardoner,” their crimson red eyes softened at his words, watching the towering man close the door behind them. “Lordran is lucky to have someone like you.”

A small, lopsided smile played across the pardoner's lips, be it born out of amusement or something deeper. "Luck hath nothing to do with it, Darkwraith. As a humble servant of Velka, I strive to fulfill my duty to uphold justice and protect those in need. I am but a mere pawn in Her grand plan, carrying out Her divine will. Yet... I appreciate thy sentiments," he replied, his voice carrying a sincere and subdued tone.

“Velka wouldn’t have helped me, pardoner. But you did.”

His step faltered for a moment after those words, just a fraction of hesitation in his typical demeanor. Thinking of something to say, he silently moved across the room, deftly lighting a few candles scattered throughout, casting a warm, flickering glow.

“Perhaps…” He finally muttered. “Perhaps there is something in thee that hath earned my assistance, something that goes beyond pact and obligation. There is power in the choices we make, Darkwraith. In this moment, thou art not just a specter of darkness, but something more...”

"What I am is not important,” they replied, discarding a few pieces of armour to move more comfortably, but never revealing their face. "As long as I can stop the others and prevent the gods from interfering with the course of nature... I might as well be no one.”

The pardoner noted their insistence on anonymity, respecting their desire for secrecy. His lavender eyes watched their movements, following the discarded armor with an observant gaze. "Thou deem thyself unimportant, yet thy actions speak louder than any titles or names adorned upon thee," he replied, his voice lowering as he stepped closer. "Thy power to change the fabric of existence shall not be underestimated. Acknowledge thine own importance and tell me thy name, Darkwraith.”

“No.”

Oh.

A faint smile played upon the pardoner's lips at the firmness of their response; it spoke of determination and resolve, qualities he inevitably found himself drawn to.

"As thou wishest," he conceded, offering a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Thy secrets shalt remain as elusive as the mist, cloaked in darkness. Thou mayst address me as Oswald, if thou so desirest.”

“Thank you, Oswald,” they nodded, stretching their limbs before removing their chestplate, the black shirt they wore underneath hinting at their form…

The pardoner's gaze lingered on the sight before him, noting something unexpected about the Darkwraith…

“Thou’rt… a woman...?”

"In form, yes," they sighed. "But I like to think of myself as neither.”

Understanding washed over Oswald's features as he absorbed this revelation, a mixture of curiosity and acceptance shimmering in his lavender eyes. “I see. Forgive my assumption,” he spoke.

Chapter Text

As Oswald opened his eyes on the following morning and registered the absence of the nameless Darkwraith, his mind raced with worry and uncertainty; had they left without a word? Or had something more sinister occurred during the night? His heart quickened in his chest as he glanced around, searching for any clue of the their departure. Unable to shake off the nagging fear, he desperately searched for any signs of the rebel's presence instead, yet all that remained were emptiness and echoes of an uneventful night. Did he imagine the entire encounter? Was it all a dream?

No. He remembered everything, the conversation, their journey to the inner sanctum, all in detail; it couldn’t have been.

And if the Darkwraith was real, then so was everything they’d told him: the Darkstalker was planning to end the Age of Fire with a bang; soon, the Abyss would consume everything. A surge of urgency compelled Oswald to act upon the revelation that still burned within him, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Whether he liked it or not, this fight wasn’t his. He’d told the rebel this much.

The Rebel...

“The Mephistopheles of Lordran,” he whispered to himself. “A devil trapped in an ever-present, private hell of their own.”

He could only hope that, unlike in the original stories, this devil’s presence in his Parish didn’t mean his fate was sealed and signed, his existence damned and beyond helping.

Not that the masked rebel’s words needed any confirmation, but he got it anyway, as the day progressed; soon, news began to spread of upheaval and disturbances caused by the Darkwraiths, word of knights and warriors killing Kaathe’s assassins on sight to prevent an event with catastrophic consequences… Even if no one knew exactly what that event was.

But he did.

And he dreaded to think what the world would become if the Darkstalker won this silent war.

He’d read about something similar happening in the ancient province of Oolacile; Kaathe convinced the citizens to wake the Primordial Human from their slumber and feed on their humanity, promising them that these actions would reward them with great power. Soon after, an Abyss was begat from the awakened creature, one that corrupted all of Oolacile. Just like that, the land of golden sorceries was gone forever, its inhabitants turned into eldritch Abyss-rotted monsters, far worse than your average Hollow.

Unable to learn from his mistake, the Primordial Serpent had brainwashed his warriors and convinced them to re-enact this tragedy. This time, however, the target was not a province: it was the entire world. The explanation? That was what the natural order dictated; that was the best way to punish the gods from altering the course of nature; that was Humanity’s true shape.

And the Darkwraiths, those brainwashed—or perhaps just apathetic—idiots, believed his every word.

But they did not.

That is why they’d set on this journey; that is why they were in desperate need of refuge last night.

Alone in the sanctum that still carried the faint traces of the Darkwraith's presence, Oswald furrowed his brows in contemplation; he couldn't predict what the future held, but he knew he had at least met someone on a righteous quest. As he prepared to face the uncertainty looming before him, he hoped, deep down, that wherever the rebel was, whatever struggle they faced, their resolve would remain unbreakable...

He hoped to see them again. He truly did.

And his wish was granted on that exact same night.

Amidst the candlelit darkness of the sanctum, Oswald turned at the sound of a familiar voice—deep and rather nasally, echoing softly through the hallowed room. There stood the rebel, their form shrouded in dark.

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” they said. “Forgive the… clandestine nature of my reintroduction... Gods, that sounded stupid."

The pardoner stepped forward, his expression a mix of relief and curiosity as his lavender eyes bore into the Darkwraith's. A ghost of a smile danced upon his lips as he answered: “I am surprised thou werest able to navigate these corridors and reach the sanctum without my guidance—”

“I’m not the smartest,” they cut him off, “but I have great memory. Too great for my taste, even.”

"Intriguing, indeed," Oswald replied with a small chuckle, the humour tinged with a touch of concern. "Nevertheless, I am glad to see thou’rt safe. Dost thou need to spend the night?”

“Thanks, but no need. I only came to thank you… for your help."

Oswald inclined his head gently, his serene mask hiding any trace of disappointment over the brief encounter. "Thy gratitude is undeserved, though appreciated.”

“You had no reason to help me,” they insisted. “That means something. And I will not forget it.”

A brief silence ensued as the mysterious Darkwraith fished something from their pocket and handed it to the pardoner; it was small soapstone of an unusual red anjou colour. He took it in his hands, unsure of what it meant… Then they spoke again:

“It seems my dear siblings are targeting the Firelink Shrine and the Bells of Awakening next. They want to destroy any possibility of a Chosen Undead situation that’ll spoil their plans, some idiot getting in their way… I’ll keep watch around the Shrine tonight, but if you see any Darkwraiths in the Parish… use this to call for me…”

Oswald examined the small soapstone provided by the Darkwraith, holding it between his gloved fingers with a practiced ease…

“…And I’ll be there in the blink of an eye.”

"A summon sign... Clever,” he remarked, nodding in understanding, his eyes meeting the masked rebel's concealed gaze. “Very well. Should any of those vile creatures darken the doorstep of this Parish—”

“Vile creatures…?” They interrupted, raising an eyebrow under their mask. “Careful, darling; I’m still technically a Darkwraith.”

A brief, tense silent ensued; Oswald’s eyes opened wide, the realization of his slightly hypocritical choice of words washing over him.

"Indeed… How foolish of me to categorize thee with such disdain," he responded. "Even as a Darkwraith, thou art an exception amidst an aspiring sea of corruption. Forgive my lapse in judgment.”

“Pfft, I was just teasing,” they chuckled. “Just remember: you spot another Darkwraith, anything strange, anything at all, use it. Got it?”

"I… Understood," he assured, tucking the soapstone carefully away into his black robes.

“I hope you understand that you are my only ally in this,” they added. “At least for now…”

That was as endearing as it was discouraging; Oswald maintained his composed façade, yet within his expressive eyes, a flicker of pure dread burned. He’d witnessed the Darkwraith in action, and he’d seen just how capable they were, but they couldn’t be expected to bring down an entire army of Darkwraiths, all by themselves. Thus, being their only ally didn’t exactly paint an encouraging picture… Still a hint of pride gleamed in his lavender eyes.

“I shall keep a careful watch, both for the safety of this Parish and for the sake of thy mission.”

“Thank you, Oswald.”

"There is no need for gratitude. Our paths have intertwined for a reason.”

“I think so too,” they added. “Have a safe night… pardoner.”

And with that, they turned around and disappeared as quickly and stealthily as they’d entered.

As the Darkwraith vanished into the shadows once more, Oswald couldn't help but watch them depart with a swelling sense of apprehension, his lavender eyes lingering on the space they had occupied just moments before; the weight of responsibility settled upon him as he prepared for whatever awaited him, knowing that the battle surrounding the fate of Lordran raged on, despite the eerie tranquillity on the surface…

And so, the night began.

Chapter Text

In the quiet solitude of his tower, Oswald sat perched on a wooden chair. The distant echoes of the howling wind clawed at the windows, and the eerie atmosphere outside spoke of a land shrouded in uncertainty... and, potentially, in all consuming-darkness.

Moments slipped away, ticking by as he waited for something, something he couldn't quite put into words... A sign of Darkwraiths nearby? A sign of the Darkwraith nearby? Perhaps none of that; perhaps this would be another calm and uneventful night, after all.

He hoped that would be the case... But it wouldn't be.

Like a harbinger of imminent danger, a glimmer of dark, nay, abyssal energy clenched its grip around his senses. Oswald sprang to his feet, dread and anticipation coursing through his veins. It was an incredibly powerful pull, one that could only be...

"Darkwraiths..." He muttered beneath his breath.

Ebon blackness seeped through the cracks on the walls, tendrils of the Abyss reaching across the air... Adrenaline surged within him as he swiftly reached for the small soapstone that the rebel Darkwraith had provided him earlier... but then he stopped himself.

"No. The Shrine needs them more than I," he thought to himself. "I can manage."

Oh, how wrong he was.

In a twisted display of irony, Oswald found himself caught in the suffocating grip of the Abyss that had formed around him. In an instant, the tower was overrun; windows shattered, furniture splintered, and the echoes of battle filled the air with a cacophony of clash and strife...

A wave of Darkwraiths surged forward, their malevolent aura sinisterly palpable... with one very recognisable figure leading the hunt:

Kirk, Knight of Thorns.

"The Bell," said the imposing, dark presence. "Where is it, priest?"

Oswald's face remained obscured by his mask as he stood tall, firm, amid the chaotic storm raging around him; the dark energy crackled and pulsated, its intensity threatening to drench everything in an unrestrained void... But he couldn't just stand there and take it.

His rapier and parrying dagger glinted in the shadows as he stepped forward to face Kirk, exuding an aura of unwavering resolve.

"Thou shalt not lay thy hands upon that which is meant for the Chosen," Oswald declared, his voice ringing out with a dangerous blend of authority and certainty. "I shall take no part in thine unholy designs to plunge this land into further darkness. Leave.”

A brief silence followed those words... Then a few of the Darkwraiths chuckled lightly. Kirk remained completely still, impassive, unaffected by Oswald's threat.

"Silence," the Knight of Thorns spoke, turning to face his warriors, before soeaking to the pardoner again. "I can respect a man who's willing to fight for his cause. However, I am not asking. Tell us where the Bell of Awakening is... and you might just live to tell the tale."

"Thy threats hold no power over me, fiend" he retorted, his voice unwavering. "I serve a higher purpose, one that far surpasses thy malevolent ambitions. As for the Bell, it shall remain protected, far from thy corrupt touch. Leave now, while thou still hast the chance."

"What are you going to do, old man?" The Datkwraith captain insisted. "Fight us all at once...?"

Now would be the perfect time to summon them...

But... No. Not yet.

"In the face of overwhelming odds and certain doom... it appears I have no other choice," Oswald replied with a hint of reverence in his tone, as if acknowledging the doomed path he was about to embark upon.

"What foolishness..." Kirk sighed under his helm. "Brothers, sisters... Finish him off."

As the Darkwraiths advanced towards Oswald with chilling determination, the pardoner's grip tightened around his rapier and parrying dagger. What little remained of his confidence emanated from beneath his mask, as he readied himself for the battle that awaited him.

The clash of metal echoed through the air as he unleashed swift and calculated strikes, parrying and countering the relentless assault of the Darkwraiths. His movements were fluid and precise, a testament to the prowess honed through years of serving as, not only a pardoner, but also a knight of Carim; his rapier found its mark, puncturing the armor of the Darkwraiths with fatal accuracy; crimson blood spilled onto the cold stone floor, showing no mercy as he continued to vanquish his foes, one by one...

Yet, despite his valiant efforts, the Darkwraiths were incessant, relentless, their numbers seemingly unending. Oswald felt the weariness seep into his bones as he fought on, his breath ragged but unyielding...

"Fucking rat...! Slaughter him!" Kirk's voice broke through the cacophony of battle, an unmistakable command from their devious leader.

Now...!

Knowing that his very life was at risk now, Oswald focused his every ounce of will and reached for the red soapstone, etching a hasty—but defined—single line against the stone walls, hoping that it would be noticed, that it would be answered...

And as the Darkwraiths closed in on all sides, ready to deliver the final blow, a sudden distortion appeared in the air, followed by a crackling surge of a—considerably different—abyssal energy. The very fabric of reality seemed to bend and tear, revealing a figure stepping through the gateway, a figure that radiated both power and purpose...

"There they are," Kirk muttered. "As ugly as the day they left us."

The masked, nameless Darkwraith stood between Oswald and Kirk, drawing every eye in the room. The warriors hesitated, momentarily caught off guard by the arrival of the runaway; that goddamned rebel had managed to kill so many of them on the previous night, in their successful attempt to escape New Londo...

"Dear," Kirk said, taking a step forward. "Come to turn yourself in...?"

Their only reply was a swift kick in his iron-clad balls and a firm "no."

That swift and resolute action sent shockwaves through the assembled Darkwraiths, briefly shattering their confidence, bloodlust taking a hard pause. Kirk clutched his groin in pain, furious anger flashing in his eyes.

"You will pay for that insolence, dearest!" He growled, slowly regaining his composure as he pulled himself upright. "Upon the cost of your life!"

"Aw, boo-hoo. Is little Kirk mad cause mommy left his side...?" They teased, making a baby voice.

The rebel's words pierced through Kirk's façade, triggering an enraged fury within him.

They must've been close before the nameless Darkwraith decided to turn against their covenant...

The Knight of Thorns charged forward, his blade gleaming in the dim, tainted light. The fight that ensued was a chaotic symphony, as the rebel deftly evaded Kirk's strikes, each maneuver laced with a deadly confidence... like a dance they'd done many, many times before.

Oswald watched, partly in awe and partly in concern, as the nameless Darkwraith fought their old captain, utilizing both skill and cunning. Then, his gaze drifted back to the convocations of the Darkwraiths surrounding him, waiting, watching their leader's desperation; he was given precious time, a break during the madness, and he seized the opportunity.

Drawing upon his own strength and resolve, Oswald lunged forward, complementing the rebel's offensive, aiming for the lesseer warriors with calculated strokes of his rapier...

And with each successful strike, more and more Darkwraiths crumpled to the cold floor, their power slowly fading away.

"Cleaning this up is going to be a chore..." Oswald thought to himself.

Meanwhile, the Knight of Thorns growled in frustration as he fought against the rebel to maintain his dominance; blades clashed and shimmered in a deadly dance, the rhythm of combat harmonizing with the muffled grunts and strained breathing of the duel. Kirk, though formidable, found himself pushed back by the fierce determination with which his former companion fought. Disarmed, he fell to the ground...

But the nameless Darkwraith didn't finish him off just yet.

"Kirk. Please," they spoke. "Stop this. I don't want to kill you."

But their plea didn't have the desired effect; Kirk's visage twisted with a mixture of rage and bitterness at their words. "You don't understand, you foolish wretch!" He spat, struggling to push himself up from the floor. "This is who I am! This is what we are! We embrace the darkness!"

"This is not about embracing darkness anymore, Kirk!" They yelled back. "You know I want an Age of Dark as much as you do! But what Kaathe wants is something far, far worse than that—"

"You think you can change my mind with your petty moral arguments?" He sneered. "You turned your back on the Darkwraiths, on our purpose! You abandoned me! Why should I listen to you?"

"Kirk, I did what I had to do—"

Their words were cut short by the deafening sound of an explosion, coming from the Bell Tower, its fury tearing through the atmosphere and shaking the very foundation of the Parish.

"As did I, love," Kirk finally replied, slowly getting back to his feet.

As Oswald regathered his focus from the explosion, he directed his attention to the aftermath of the chaos; naught but a smoking inferno emerged from the top of the tower where the Bell of Awakening resided. Panic began to cloud his mind as he realized the significance of the destruction...

"No, no, no! What hast thou done, foul fiend?" Oswald spat out, punching Kirk in the face right before he could recover, aiming his blade at his neck.

"Oswald, stop—!"

"Quiet!" He turned to meet the rebel's gaze, instinctively pointing at them with his parrying dagger. "Such help thou art, fraternizing with the enemy—"

"Fraternizing—?!"

"After all that hath transpired," he cut them off, "after thy dubious alliances, thy actions... nay, thy lack of action, hast led to the destruction of this sacred tower!"

"You prick! You'd be dead without me!"

"While I love watching you two argue," Kirk grinned, blood dripping down his mouth after the punch, eyes gleaming with twisted delight as he finally managed to get back on his feet, "I've another Bell of Awakening to destroy—"

"Not another step, Kirk...!" Oswald warned, his voice cold and controlled.

"Oh, pardoner, don't you get it...?" The Darkwraith captain smirked. "It doesn't matter if you kill me now; it won't change a damn thing...! The Bell is no more, and nothing can fix that. The true darkness is coming, wether you two like it or not."

A chill ran down Oswald's spine as the gravity of Kirk's words sunk in; everything he knew, everything he cared about, was gone with that Bell Tower. He glanced at the nameless Darkwraith, his lavender eyes filled with anger and despair... but they simply looked away; they'd lost this battle too, and if his suspicions were correct—judging by the tone of their conversations with Kirk—, they'd lost much, much more than just a battle...

"I suggest, my darling, that you get the pardoner out of here," Kirk started, "lest you want your new toy to burn alongside this Parish."

"You—"

"And lose the mask," he cut them off. "You're not all that important to go hiding your identity like that."

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the intense battle and the destruction of the Undead Parish, Oswald found himself cloaked in sorrow; the rebel Darkwraith had managed to get them both out of the fire, and as they reached safety, they took a moment to catch their breaths…

The air was fraught with tension as they stood in relative peace, the weight of their recent encounter still lingering between them…

"That... wasn't how I expected the night to go,” the nameless Darkwraith finally spoke up, their voice seasoned with resignation.

“Not—“ He started, but quickly stopped himself, trying to contain the rage that burned within him. “Not another word, Darkwraith. I cannot face thee right now—“

“Hey! They blew up the goddamn Parish, not me!”

“Oooh, I am well aware of the events that have unfolded! I am not in need of a reminder," Oswald replied, his voice stern with a hint of disappointment. “But why should I take thy words as truth? Who's to say thou hadn't betrayed me, crumbled under the pressure, just like thou didst with Kirk?!”

“Do you have any idea how many of my brothers and sisters I had to slaughter just to escape from New Londo?!” They yelled back. “I could never go back if I wanted to; I had no reason to betray you whatsoever.”

He regarded them silently, his lavender eyes scouting their face for any sign of dishonesty, piercing through the rebel's hidden identity... And in that brief moment, he realized the sincerity and raw emotion behind every word spoken.

"...Forgive me. I was rash in my judgement," Oswald conceded, swallowing his pride. "The weight of thy burden even I cannot fathom—”

“Listen, I’m awfully sorry that the Parish is gone, okay? That’s the truth,” they cut him off. “But we need to focus on our next course of action—“

“We? Our?” He stopped them. “Oh, I think not, Dark One.”

“I’m sorry, what…?”

“Dost thou propose I simply mop up the ashes of what remains of the Parish and carry on with mine duties as if nothing hath happened?” He responded. "This was no mere setback, Darkwraith. The Bell of Awakening has fallen— I feel its absence in my very soul… Thou hast aided me in escaping from the Parish, but that does not grant thee equal partnership—”

“No! I helped you in much more than just escaping the Parish!” They yelled. “Kirk would’ve split you in half if it weren’t for me!"

“But when thou didst have the chance to finish him off—“

“Kirk and I were very close, Oswald,” they interrupted him once more. “You must understand... it’s not that easy.”

“All the same! If thy hand hadn’t faltered, perhaps the Parish wouldst still be standing now!”

“Oh, no, no, don’t you dare imply now that this is my fault—“

“Tch…” Oswald emitted a low, bitter laugh. “Thy defensiveness speaketh volumes, Darkwraith. I was naive to expect humility.” Oswald's shoulders slumped, weariness evident in his next words: “very well then... If thou choosest to take no responsibility for thine actions, then so be it. But do not expect further aid from me. From this point forward, our paths diverge.”

“Are you fucking serious—?!”

"Completely." Oswald's voice was cold and unwavering, void of any sympathy. "May the dark guide thee, nameless, faceless Darkwraith, for thy path now turns away from mine.”

“You know what? Fine! Turn away, like none of this will affect you if Kaathe gets what he wants...!”

“Mark my words, Darkwraith: I shall find a way to rectify this mess in spite of thee.”

“In spite of—!” They growled, unable to believe what they were hearing. “Honestly, fuck you, Oswald! Let’s see how well you fare when all our heroes die and Kaathe gets what he wants!”

And without another word, they simply vanished, as if they’d torn the very fabric of reality and exited this plane of existence through an unseen gateway. Oswald could only watch in silence amid the swirling echoes of their departure, filled with conflicting emotions of anger and regret; he knew, deep down, that his actions were driven by pride and arrogance... Now, the weight of that reckless, impulsive choice to push the nameless Darkwraith away lingered upon him, as did the uncertainty of the future and the imminent threat of the Darkstalker’s vision of an Age of Dark.

What now? He had nowhere to go back to… He was all alone once more.

Meanwhile, the nameless Darkwraith found themselves filled with a bitter blend of anger and determination; while Oswald's dismissive attitude had stung them deeply, they were resolute in their mission to prevent Kaathe from achieving his destructive goal. Despite their ominous exit, they hadn’t gone too far from where the Parish stood, finding refuge in the Darkroot garden for the time being.

Their brethren had managed to destroy the First Bell of Awakening, which didn’t exactly paint a hopeful picture... But perhaps they could still save the Second.

And as they silently thought of their next course of action, they felt a known presence lingering nearby...

“I was hoping I’d find you here...”

The rebel quickly turned around, their heart skipping a bit, startled by the sudden approach; before them stood Kirk, bruised and beaten from their encounter, approaching them with an air of caution, despite the devilish smirk on his face.

“Our little prodigy,” he kept talking, “and now, our worst enemy...”

“You’ve given me enough trouble for the day, darling,” they calmly replied. “I suggest you take whatever warriors must be hiding behind those bushes over there and fuckin’ leave me alone.”

“You think me a coward…? No, no. I came here by myself.”

“And you’re leaving by yourself."

"Oh, I highly doubt that," Kirk chuckled menacingly, his eyes gleaming with a volatile amusement and malice. "You and I both know that we need each other now more than ever—”

“Oh?” They turned to meet his gaze. “Is my little Kirk begging me to return to New Londo, even after I killed his special unit just yesterday…?”

Kirk’s smirk faltered for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the words of his former companion. “You bested them indeed… And I applaud you for that. Truly—”

“Flattery never got you anywhere, Kirk,” they cut him off, a tinge of sarcasm in their voice.

"You always were one to see through hollow compliments," Kirk conceded, suppressing his apparent frustration. “Listen; despite everything, we need you. Don’t underestimate how valuable you truly are to our cause—“

“Your cause will be the end of everything as you know it,” the rebel insisted. “You don’t know what will happen if Kaathe gets what he wants, Kirk! I’ve seen it, and it’s no paradise like he promises.”

“Pfft. Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” he sneered. “You’ve played your games for long enough. We are willing to overlook your little rampage if you come back willingly—“

“Fuck you. I’m not going.”

“I repeat,” he added, frustration obvious in his visage. “I’m not going back without you. We need you. I need you.”

“Mhm, beg a little harder, darling.”

“Oh? Would that convince you to come with me willingly…?”

“No. Fuck off, Kirk."

Kirk's jaw tightened, anger burning in his eyes; he had always been the one in control, manipulating others to fit his whims… But in the face of their defiance, he found himself at a loss. With a frustrated sigh, he took a step back, his tone dripping with exasperation, his words laden with resentment:

"You think you're so clever, don't you? Well, have it your way, love,” he growled. "When the Darkstalker's Age of Dark descends upon us and the world crumbles, remember this: we got to the First Bell of Awakening before you did; we won, while you and that useless pardoner… Well, facts speak for themselves, don’t they…?” He sneered. "Your road will only lead to despair, knowing you had a chance to be on the winning side—"

“You talk too much! Leave me alone, goddamnit!”

“Mark my words,” Kirk insisted one last time. “We will meet again, and perhaps then… your tone may change.”

With a final smirk, Kirk turned and disappeared into the darkness of the Darkroot Garden. Alone once more, the rebel couldn't help but contemplate the choices that lay before them; they knew that they couldn't stand idly by as the world waned…

…But gods, things were looking grim.

Chapter Text

It felt as if the gods had fallen completely silent after the Undead Parish was destroyed by the Darkwraiths. Days had passed since then; Oswald had no news whatsoever of that nameless rebel… For all he knew, they’d probably met their demise by now, yet somewhere, deep within Oswald's melancholic heart, a flicker of hope ignited. That warrior's tenacity for survival couldn't be underestimated, after all.

“Something on your mind, pardoner…?” Said the blascksmith André of Astora as he worked in his forge, occasionally shooting glances at Oswald across the room.

Lost in his own thoughts, Oswald had been drawn to the sound of André's voice; startled, he directed his gaze towards the blacksmith and offered a small, but weary smile.

"It's naught but the turbulence of recent events, André," he replied, his voice heavy with a touch of longing. "Alas, I blame mine wandering thoughts for such silence.”

“Hmm. I can’t blame you. This land won’t be the same with the Parish gone,” the blacksmith replied, pausing his work for a moment. “Those damned, damned Darkwraiths… “

"Indeed," Oswald sighed, his gaze turning distant as memories of the tragic battle from a few days ago flooded back. "The destruction they hath wrought... unfathomable.”

“They were never this… present,” André added. “I wonder what they’re up to.”

“Oh, the answer to that question would most certainly haunt thy every waking and sleeping hour, old friend—“

“So you know?”

Oswald glanced at the old blacksmith, the mask partially concealing his darkened, sorrorful expression. Taking a deep breath, he nodded slowly.

“I do, my curious companion... to an extent,” he replied. "But some tales are better left unspoken.”

“Well, I may be speaking for myself here, but if I knew the reason behind the Darkwraith’s recent attacks, I certainly wouldn’t keep this information to myself,” André spoke sarcastically. “But then again, that’s just me.”

“Ah, thy bluntness is ever a thorn in mine side,” he chuckled softly. “As intriguing as it may be to discuss their sinister motives, it bears great risk. I dost not think the world is ready for that sort of information—"

“Try me,” he insisted. “Perhaps it’s better that we all know what we’re up against, so that we may have a chance to defend ourselves.”

The pardoner mulled over the blacksmith's words, the weight of his suggestion sinking in; his determination was certainly… commendable, to say the least. After a moment, of silence, he finally nodded, regarding his old friend with equal parts appreciation and caution.

"Very well, André. If thou art truly adamant about this knowledge… then I shall impart to thee what I know,” he breathed, his voice tinged with resignation. “Wouldst thou believe me if I told thee these wicked Darkwraiths are intent on feeding the entire world to the Abyss…?”

“That’s… an exaggeration… Right?”

"'Tis no exaggeration, I assure thee," Oswald replied, his gaze piercing through the smith. "Kaathe and his Darkwraiths have planned to bring about the end of both the Age of Fire and the Firelink cycle, by plunging the world into an abyssal darkness. They seek to destroy the very fabric of reality we hold so dear.”

“That’s… no mere Age of Dark, I assume…” André muttered, is words failing him at the unfathomable revelation.

"Nay, my friend; it is far, far grimmer than that,” the pardoner declared.

A tense silence ensued, the weight of this world-shattering information hanging heavily in the air. The blacksmith let go of his hammer, his gaze turning troubled as he contemplated the gravity of what he had just learnt, his expression an undecipherable blend of emotions; he now knew why those filthy Darkwraiths had targeted the First Bell of Awakening and the Undead Parish, why they were being spotted outside their headquarters so often lately, why they seemed to be more aggresive than usual…

“May I pose you a question, pardoner…?” He finally spoke.

“Ask freely, friend,” Oswald nodded.

“Forgive my curiosity but… How did you come upon this information…?”

Oswald's eyes gleamed with a mix of weariness and determination; it was a question he had expected sooner or later. With a deep sigh, he finally offered an answer…

“Knowest thou of a rebel…?”

“A rebel…?”

“A rebel,” he repeated. “A renegade, nameless Darkwraith, one who set out against their brethren and escaped the ruins of New Londo to stop this catastrophe. I was… fortunate enough to encounter them, as they didst try to hide in the Parish on the night they escaped—"

“What manner of tale is this, Oswald…?” The blacksmith stopped him.

“Believe what thou mayst, André; this tale doth extend beyond ordinary circumstances, but so does the Darkstalker’s plot,” he replied, his voice low, almost conspirational. “They were present when the Bell was destroyed… I wouldst have perished without them. Hance, our paths briefly intertwined... before diverging."

“You realize how outlandish this sounds, right…?” André insisted. “You sure you’re not going Hollow, pardoner…?"

Oswald's expression turned grave, his eyes narrowing with disappointment at his friend’s words. "I assure thee, I am far from Hollow; the gravity of my predicament hath not diminished my sanity.”

“You have anything, anything at all, to prove that what you’re saying is true…?”

Oswald fell silent for a moment, searching his thoughts and words for something that could alleviate André's suspicions—although in all honesty, he could hardly blame him; with such an unlikely story, his friend's need for tangible evidence was more than justified. Then, he recalled something, his posture straightening as an idea formed in his mind; he began searching his pockets, eager to find the one evidence he’d managed to hold on to.

“Yes, here it is,” Oswald muttered, producing the soapstone the Darkwraith had given him on the night the Parish was destroyed. “Here.”

“What… am I looking at…?” André asked with a small voice, his complexion growing pale all of a sudden.

“You are looking at a fragment of their twisted existence,” Oswald explained. “A summoning soapstone, linked to that rebel’s very being—“

“Anjou.”

“Yes, ’tis exactly what I thought,” Oswald nodded. “The anjou red of it is indeed very unusual—“

“No, no,” André cut him off. “Anjou. That is definitely theirs. If what you’re saying is true then… gods, it can only be them…”

“W-wait…” Oswald stammered, trying to make sense of the blacksmith’s words. "Anjou, as in… a name…?”

André simply nodded, his eyes wide open under his bushy eyebrows, like he’d just encountered a ghost from his past. At his reaction, the pardoner felt a flurry of emotions rush through him—concern, surprise and relief, knowing that he didn’t just make this entire thing up, that it wasn’t a fever dream, consequence of the recent loss...

“Anjou…” He whispered to himself, before turning his attention back to André. “What dost thou know of—“

“No,” the blacksmith firmly spoke. “I’ve said enough. There must be a reason they are trying to keep their identity a secret, and I’ve already betrayed enough compromising information about them by speaking their name out loud...”

“But—“

“Enough, pardoner. Please,” he insisted. “We don’t speak of the helpless here. If you two cross paths again, and if they so will it, they will tell you themself, but you shan’t hear it from me."

Oswald had no choice but to shut his mouth once again; although torn by his desire to understand and unravel the truth behind the not-so-nameless Darkwraith, he begrudgingly acquiesced to André's plea. Reluctantly, he nodded, realizing that his friend had a point.

"Very well," Oswald conceded, a solemn undertone evident in his voice. “I understand. ’Tis not my place to question, neither beest thine to answer.”

With a heavy sigh, he tucked the anjou red soapstone away once more, the weight of the situation settling upon his shoulders. The two men locked gazes for a moment, understanding and unspoken respect passing between them.

“All I can say is,” André broke the silence, “even if they are a Darkwraith in name… that’s really all they are: a Darkwraith only in name.”

At this reassuring formulation, Oswald nodded wordlessly, even as his mind was overcome with thoughts and unanswered questions. As he watched André resuming his work at the forge, the pardoner of Velka knew that he couldn't ignore his duty, his potential role in preventing the end of the world… And perhaps, just perhaps, finding this Anjou again would offer some semblance of hope in the face of the impending darkness...

Hells, as if he didn’t feel terrible enough for pushing them away already.

Chapter Text

Blighttown.

That was the Darkwraiths’ next stop, and thus, that was the Darkwraith’s next stop; the Second Bell of Awakening was located deep below, almost at the entrance of the city of Lost Izalith. That secluded spot, as hard as it was to believe, was now the last stronghold against Kaathe’s plot to engulf the world in Abyssal darkness; if the rebel managed to save this Bell, then perhaps they would have a chance to turn things around…

And if they failed… well, they might as well find a ditch to bury themselves in.

The Undead Burg, the Undead Parish, the Depths… and finally, Blighttown; that was the known path, but the not-so-nameless Darkwraith knew better; it’d been a while since they were free to roam the surface, but fortunately for them, just like they had told the pardoner Oswald of Carim on their second encounter, their memory was exceedingly great…

…perhaps even too great for their taste.

There was a shortcut, one that connected the Firelink Shrine with another—albeit more secluded—entrance to the undeground city of Blighttown. Taking that shorter route was their best option if they wanted to get to the Second Bell before Kirk and his soldiers ruined everything.

Kirk...

Gods, as if their predicament wasn’t bad enough already. They still pondered on the weight of their encounter at the Darkroot… Maybe he was right; maybe their mission was a lost cause. Still, they reached the conclusion that they’d much rather go Hollow trying to prevent another Abyss breakout than being a witness to such a thing taking place a second time, on a much, much larger scale than the first; they were ready to do whatever it took, as long as they didn’t have to go through it while they were still sane.

And so, they allowed themself a short break at the Firelink Shrine, their first stop in their little crusade to save the Second Bell of Awakening… and whatever good that did to this gods’ forsaken land. Away from prying eyes, they took a moment to refill their Estus flask and sharpen their scimitar and parrying dagger. Shrouded in the shadows, they were practically impossible to spot in the labyrinthic sanctuary… unless one knew where to look.

And it just so happened that a certain pardoner knew exactly where to look.

Velka's skeleton key, Oswald of Carim, stood upon the rooftop overlooking the Firelink Shrine. As the rebel Darkwraith prepared themself for their next battle, they were entirely unaware of the figure watching them intently from afar; he knew they would need to return to the Shrine at some point, as do all Undead who travel to Lordran. With an austere posture, he observed their meticulous preparations, wondering how they would react to his presence after their last encounter and the tragedy that followed suit: would they view him as a potential ally again, or merely a meddling thorn in their side...?

There was only one way to find out; and so, Oswald leapt from the rooftop, unnoticed by the Darkwraith until he finally gathered the courage to step out of the shadows and show himself...

“Pardon my intrusion,” he spoke softly, his deep voice weaving through the silence. “But it appears our destinies are intertwined once more.”

“And you just decided on that…?” They replied, not meeting his gaze.

Yes, he definitely deserved that kind of reaction. Oswald bowed his head slightly, a fervent apology etched across his features—darker than ever in the dim light of the Shrine’s bonfire.

"In truth, fate beckoned me here," he admitted, his voice laden with sincerity. "I cannot stand idle while Kaathe's nefarious plans come to fruition. "I... yearn to ensure that an Age of the Abyss shalt never happen. However, I too shalt understand if thou deemest me unfit to be at thy side—“

“Alright, let’s get going then.”

The pardoner blinked, taken aback by the unexpected response. “Oh… Well, I didst not expect thou wouldst—“

“I don’t like you,” they cut him off again. “Not one bit, not after the way you spoke to me after I risked my own ass to save you from fuckin’ Kirk and his soldiers… But I’ll take whatever help I can get.”

Ooh, he truly deserved this indeed…

“Well, as... displeasing as it may be to find myself in thy ‘good’ graces,” he replied, sarcasm bubbling beneath the surface of his velvet tone, “we have a common goal in stopping the spread of the Abyss. Therefore, I offer whatever aid I can provide.”

“Mhm, and what’s with the sudden change of heart…?” The Darkwraith asked, their piercing crimson red eyes finally meeting the pardoner’s, analyzing his expression.

"I still believe our paths hath crossed for a reason,” he sighed. “I... saw the depths of my own arrogance. My reaction, when I pushed thee away was… misguided, to say the least.”

He paused after those words, trailing off as his gaze shifted downward, his brows furrowing; he knew his vanity mattered little compared to the devastating crisis at hand, but he never expected to have this conversation with a Darkwraith, of all people.

“I suppose,” he continued, “upon reflecting on the severity of this calamity, I hast come to realize the futility of our conflict..."

“Go on…”

“…And I wish to apologize,“ he resumed, ”for failing to get mine priorities straight… for the way I spoke to thee,” the pardoner concluded, his eyes meeting theirs with nothing but sincerity, exhaling a shaky breath. “Now, doth that make any sense, Darkwraith, or hath my partial redemption turned me into naught but a foolish old priest clamoring for threading shards of understanding...?"

A tense pause followed that convoluted apology—the best he could manage, really—, an uncomfortable silence that made the priest feel vulnerable under the Darkwraith’s scrutinizing red gaze. After a few seconds, they broke their intense stare and let out a slow, deliberate sigh.

“Okay, fine,” they simply spoke. “Sure. All's good."

And again, Oswald couldn't help but blink in surprise at their response, his eyes widening ever so slightly. He had expected a colder reception, or at least a slightly more elaborate one.

“Thou’rt… not going to say anything else…?”

“I conform easily, darling,” they replied.

"Yes, I can... certainly discern that," the pardoner said, quirking one corner of his lips in a half-amused smirk. "Very well then, let us proceed with thy mission, 'darling'.”

With a nod of agreement, Oswald took a step forward, indicating for them to lead the way, and so the unlikely duo set off towards the path that would lead them to Blighttown—

“Where art thou going…?” He asked. “Blighttown is that way—“

“Do you really wanna go through the Burg, the Depths and the upper city?” They cut him off, turning to meet his gaze. "‘Cause I don’t really feel like it, and we really need to get there before Kirk does. Get it?“

Realization dawned on Oswald at their words. “What, knowest thee of a shortcut, or—“

“Yeah, Ozzy, so if you could just follow me and stop complaining—"

An indignant huff escaped Oswald, not particularly fond of being referred to in such a familiar manner, but he swallowed his pride and fell into stride beside the Darkwraith.

“Lead the way, then,” he spoke, his tone tinged with resignation. “But mark my words, ‘darling,’ should this shortcut—” he paused mid-sentence, arching an eyebrow and raising a finger at their face to emphasize his following statement, “—discard us straight into the clutches of insurmountable danger, I shalt find great pleasure in reminding thee, once more, of thy sweet reassurances of—“

“You done speaking…?"

As that sharp interruption cut him off, he went silent once more, his mouth shutting with a click; there was a veiled hint of annoyance in his eyes, but he decided to keep his displeasure to himself for the moment. Instead, he briskly gestured for the Darkwraith to take the lead once more, adjusting his grip on his rapier as they set forth on their expedited journey towards Blighttown...

“If I mayst ask…”

“Mhm, go ahead.”

“What… kind of shortcut and path art thou taking exactly...? I hath assumed Darkwraiths hardly ever roam the surface,” he spoke, his tone now truly a curious one. “So why knowest thee of this shortcut even…? Do tell.”

“It’s been almost a hundred years since I saw the surface, it’s true,” they admitted. “But before that, I knew the layout of Lordran like the back of my hand… Shortcuts, secret pathways, you name it. Fortunately, this place hasn’t changed much, so I can still navigate this place without too much issue."

“A hundred years of darkness… Perish the thought.” He fell in step beside them as they marched towards the elevator on the lower level of the Shrine.

“It’s not that bad when you get used to it,” they shrugged, activating the contraption...

...And as the elevator reached the bottom, they stepped off, the sounds of the nearby New Londo echoing through the mist. With a jerk of their head, the rebel beckoned him to ignore the ruined city and focus on the path ahead; to get to that secret entrance, they needed to reach the Valley of Drakes, accessible through yet another elevator, not too far from their position.

Oswald followed, but his eyes lingered on the distant silhouette of the darkened, ruined buildings of the Darkwraiths’ headquarters, the door to the Abyss...

“And why hath thou not sought thy freedom in all this time…?” He asked.

At his question, they stopped in their tracks, glancing at the flooded city for a moment, before confidently replying…

“…because it was extremely convenient.”

Chapter Text

After an uneventful short walk around the perimeter of New Londo, the unlikely duo reached the elevator leading to the Valley of Drakes; the valley shrouded them in an eerie mist, the swirling fog obscuring the twisted path ahead. They traipsed carefully along the precarious ledges, their steps sure and deliberate as they navigated the treacherous terrain...

“Watch your step,” the Darkwraith spoke. “I’m not jumping down to catch you if you fall.”

The pardoner cast a disdainful glance at them, annoyance and amusement dancing in his eyes. “Falling is not part of mine strategic plan today," he retorted dismissively.

As the valley gave way to a narrow pathway, the murky pungent scent of decay clung to the air; a distant rumble urged them to quicken their pace, as if the very earth itself was rebelling against the chaos that loomed on the horizon.

“They’re closing in from the other side,” they breathed with a hint of bitterness in their voice. “I can sense Kirk’s presence.“

“Then let us hasten,” he replied, his voice carrying a sense of determination. “We must happen upon the second Bell ere they do.”

Across a narrow woden bridge was a sink in the mountain walls, which appeared to be naught but an average cave from afar. As they stepped closer, however, the passage revealed itself; the air inside was heavy and damp, carrying a distinct odor of rot, mildew… and poison.

“Blightown,” Oswald whispered to himself. “By the Lords, thou werest right…!”

“Were there ever any doubts…?”

“Hmm. Certainly not,” he responded with a curt nod, stepping into the entrance of the poisonous underbelly that lay before them.

Now deep into the labyrinthic maze of wooden walkways and rickety platforms that comprised Blighttown, the pardoner could feel the toxicity of the environment seeping into his very essence. And so, the duo ventured into its depths, the fetid stench growing stronger with every step as a thick layer of putrid fog enveloped them, obscuring their surroundings…

“Such a wondrous place,” Oswald mused, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Quite the invigorating atmosphere, is it not…?"

“You’ll miss even the nastiest of places after a hundred years,” they smirked in response.

“Likely naught but a dire delusion, my dear.”

Carefully navigating the precarious wooden platforms, leaping over treacherous gaps and dodging the poisonous swamp to the best of their ability, they forged on forwards to Queelag’s Domains. In any other circumstances, this would have been one of the most dangerous spots in Lordran, but the Chaos Witch Queelag met her demise at the hands of 'one who could have been a Chosen Undead', many, many years ago…

…which at least meant the path to the Second Bell of Awakening was clear.

Finally nearing their destination, Oswald felt a wave of relief wash over him; as they crossed the threshold into the shadowed expanse of Queelag’s Domain, so dangerously close to the gates to the demonic ruins of Lost Izalith, the eerie silence enveloped them; before them, was the Bell, untouched by the Darkwraiths. Despite the slight sense of accomplishment, there remained an undercurrent of uncertainty, the daunting knowledge that the worse was yet to come...

“Kirk and the others will be at the gates soon,” the rebel's contralto, nasally voice broke the stillness, as they closed their eyes to focus on their surroundings. “He isn’t far—"

“’Tis not my place to ask, but,” Oswald interrupted, “what kind of bond didst thou—“

“You’re right, it’s most certainly not your place to ask, Ozzy."

Their dismissal cut through his words, effectively silencing Oswald's question; intrigued but respectful of their boundaries, he chose not to press further. Instead, he made a mental note to return to that conversation when the timing was more agreeable…

“Very well,” he simply replied, putting on an apathetic façade to mask his own curiosity. At least, he could find some solace in the fact that they were both thinking on the same wavelength: stopping the Knight of Thorns was the priority at the moment.

Their respite was short-lived, however, as a ghastly sound pierced the air, followed by the reverberation of footsteps and an unmistakable dark aura, approaching rapidly...

...and surely enough, in just a short instant, Kirk and his warriors became visible in the distance, relentless in their mission, like a train on fire with no stops and no care for everything it burnt along the way. The Darkwraith captain spotted Oswald and his former partner, now an enemy of his covenant with Kaathe and the Abyss, and a painful, bitter blend of exhaustion and pure wrath washed over his expression.

"Gods' piss, you never listen to me...!" Kirk marched forward, facing the red-eyed rebel. "What are you trying to accomplish, now...?"

"You're not destroying this one too," they firmly replied. "I'm not letting you—"

"And you brought the old man too," he cut them off, directing his attention at the pardoner. "That's perfect; I've been wanting to paint the land red with his intestines since our little date at the Parish..."

Oswald could feel a rush of indignation surge through his veins at the Knight of Thorns’s words, but he maintained his composure, a mélange of calm, cunning, and confidence displayed on his face; his voice, when he finally spoke, resonated with an ominous edge...

“Thou speaketh so boldly, Darkwraith,” the pardoner replied, a hint of danger lacing his words. "But thou art but a vessel of the Abyss... Nothing more."

He could've sworn the rebel's eyes smiled at his words... but Kirk’s reaction was the exact opposite:

"You two are naught but complete nitwits, who fail to recognise what's best for you, for humankind!" He yelled, unable ro contain his anger. "What a crazy, crazy, crazy way to define your pitiful existence—"

"Says you," their former partner cut him off. "You're one to talk..."

"Shut up, shut up, you miserable fool!" His eyes were bloodshot as he faced them again, but there was a tinge of bitterness and longing in them, as if speaking those words was physically painful to him. "You could've had everything, my dear...! You could've been there with me, by my side, as the world welcomed the true Age of Dark, like it was always meant to... where you, my dear, truly belong—"

Those seemingly misplaced words earnt him a slap across the face from the red-eyed Darkwraith; the sharp crack of palm meeting flesh echoed through the hollowed chamber, leaving a resounding silence in its wake. Surprise flickered in Oswald's eyes at the unexpected turn of events, watching as Kirk just stood there, a stunned expression frozen on his face. Some of the soldiers gasped at the scene unfolding before them, a few of them unsheathing their weapons, waiting for the Knight of Thorns's orders...

But he remained still, bringing a hand to his cheek, feeling the sting of the impact...

"Very well," he finally spoke. "There's no fixing this, no talking any sense into you—"

"Ugh, how can someone be so misguided?!" The rebel yelled in frustration.

"I only want what's best for humankind, love," he insisted. "But you fail to see it, so this can only end one way: with you, your little pardoner and that stupid Bell above, burning in the lava pits of Lost Izalith."

And with that declaration of intentions, the clash began.

Chapter Text

There would be no hesitation in Oswald's strike. Not this time. Not against Kirk.

Oswald and the rebel exchanged glances for a moment as the chaos of battle unraveled before them...

“Leave Kirk to me. You watch my back,” the Darkwraith’s crimson red eyes seemed to whisper to him.

“Can I trust thee not to let thy feelings guide thy hand this time...?” Oswald’s gaze asked in response.

“I don’t make the same mistake twice,” they blinked back.

And with that, the masked warrior unsheathed their scimitar, countering Kirk’s first attack, which he’d aimed directly at Oswald; the pardoner took a step back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the clash between his companion and Kirk—sighing in relief as they’d stopped a blow that would’ve most likely split his skull in half; he wasted no time in taking action as the Darkwraith soldiers charged towards him, their weapons glinting in the dim light of Queelag’s Domain…

One warrior lunged at him with a spear, aiming to impale Oswald, but his parrying dagger swiftly deflected the blow, leaving the attacker exposed and vulnerable. In a swift movement, the pardoner's rapier found its mark, piercing through the soldier's chest with great precision; another foe swung a curved sword towards his head, but he danced deftly out of the way, his blade retaliating with ruthless efficiency. He fought with a measured grace, his movements calculated and elegant.

The battle circled around them, a whirlwind of clashing steel and desperate cries; with each enemy he dispatched, whether with a piercing thrust or swift parry and counterstrike, he turned his attention back to the central vendetta being enacted between the rebel and Kirk; he was indeed a formidable adversary, swinging his thorny barbed sword with brutish force, but the rebel Darkwraith moved with the elusive agility of shadows, their scimitar slashing at Kirk's armor, where it held a relative advantage over his heavy blade; sparks flew as steel met steel, the sounds blending with the echoing groans of the surroundings…

“Why would you deny humanity the chance to be invincible?!” Kirk yelled. “Why would you turn away on our ultimate goal?!”

“You don’t know what this ultimate goal brings, Kirk!” They replied, matching his desperate tone. “I’ve seen what it’s like, I’ve seen what it does! I’d rather die a thousand times than go through it—!”

“That can be arranged, love…”

And with that, their clash intensified, the rebel vaulting over Kirk's frenzied swing, landing a swift kick to his side. Oswald observed the volatile exchange, his eyes flickering with concern and intrigue at the battle unfolding before him; he dispatched the final soldier in his immediate vicinity, then hastened towards the rebel and the Knight of Thorns, fiery fury surging in his veins...

With a lethal grace, he lunged forward, his rapier aimed for Kirk's side, left exposed after the rebel’s attack, but before the blade could connect, the Darkwraith captain spun and parried the blow just in time, his barbed sword repelling Oswald's advance…

“A two against one, is it…?” Kirk sneered. “Not very honourable from either of you, I must say…"

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, babe” the rebel retorted.

“He speaketh of honor…?” Oswald chuckled darkly. “How very droll."

Coming at the Knight of Thorns from different angles, the pardoner and his Darkwraith companion launched their combined assault. Oswald's rapier sliced through the air, its needle-like blade probing for vulnerabilities in the Darkwraith captain's defenses; the rebel continued their relentless onslaught, their scimitar dancing with deadly precision…

…but Kirk proved to have the advantage over the his former ally, skillfully parrying their attacks, landing counters that showered sparks and left gashes across their armor; their fluid movements faltered, their strikes growing weaker and less confident, less coordinated. As he lunged, they danced away, narrowly avoiding the Knight of Thorns's sweeping attack. Oswald saw an opening and struck, aiming for Kirk's exposed flank, but his blade was swiftly parried, the barbed sword effortlessly deflecting the blow; once more, the Darkwraith captain retaliated with a swift strike, catching the rebellious warrior off guard and knocking them to the ground.

“No wonder you two get along so well,” he chuckled, advancing towards them. “You have much in common: you’re both old and tired.”

As the rebel struggled to their feet, Oswald instinctively moved to intervene, determined to protect his unlikely ally; with a swift motion, he brought his rapier down upon the Knight of Thorns's sword, attempting to disarm him and create an opening for his companion to counterattack...

“Thy words are as weak as thy understanding, Kirk,” Oswald retorted, his voice holding a hint of icy venom.

With that, the rebel kicked their former partner in the chest, causing him to fall back; caught off guard by the sudden strike, Kirk stumbled backward, his cocky smile morphing into a scowl of frustration. They didn’t give him a moment's respite; taking advantage of the opening, they sprung forward, their scimitar glinting with deadly purpose…

…but then something unexpected happen.

“Enough,” Kirk spoke.

Startled by his abrupt change in tone, the Darkwraith halted mid-attack, scimitar still poised in the air as their eyes narrowed in suspicion; Oswald, too, observed the Knight of Thorns with a cautious gaze, his rapier held at the ready…

“Thou hast had enough fun, boastful Knight?” The pardoner questioned with an edge of skepticism.

“Yeah, the fuck you mean ‘enough’?” They added. “You had the advantage a few seconds ago, was that all it took to make you lose interest…?”

For a moment, Kirk's face held a mix of fury and frustration, his muscles tensing as if he intended to lash out again; but then, against all expectations, he let out a bitter laugh, his gaze narrowing on the duo.

“You may be onto something, love," he replied, seeming paradoxically calm amidst their confrontation. "But listen closely, for I won't be repeating myself: this game is not yet over. I shall retreat for now, let you and your charmer relish your seeming victory… But remember: the Abyss awaits its hungry embrace—"

“No, really,” they cut him off. “What’s with the change of heart…?”

“I know when to quit… Unlike others,” he sneered. “I’m out of soldiers, our of energy… and not interested in fighting the two of you at once.”

“Hm. And I was so ready to kill you—“

“Oh, I bet you were, darling,” the Knight of Thorns added, a begrudgingly conceding smirk creeping onto his face. “You’ll have to wait a bit longer for that… But you’re already used to that, hm? My little Abyss-rotted wretch, who spent their entire existence waiting for something that never came—“

Their grip on their scimitar tightened as Kirk's words hit painfully close to home; for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though they might resume their assault… But then Oswald stepped forward, putting a hand on their arm, silently urging them to hold back…

Remembering their earlier agreement to not let their feelings guide their hand, they reluctantly stood down, though their gaze remained locked on Kirk with smoldering intensity. “Get the fuck outta my sight," they spoke, unable to hold back the seething rage in their voice.

The Knight of Thorns chuckled with equal parts mockery and resignation. “Your wish is granted, my dear…”

With those words, he turned on his heels and retreated, disappearing into the darkness, leaving behind the hollowed husks of his defeated soldiers...

The weight of the battle hung in the air, the adrenaline slowly dissipating amidst the stillness. Oswald approached his companion, concern etched across his weathered features.

“Thou have withstood a trying battle,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But anger is thy greatest weakness… Remember not to let thy feelings carry thee—“

“Ugh, shut up—“

Oswald raised an eyebrow at their blunt retort but chose to disregard it for the moment; he understood the need for space.

“At least the Bell is safe,” they spoke again. “Didn’t think he’d withdraw so easily... He must be plotting something else.”

The pardoner nodded, absorbing the gravity of their assessment. "Indeed, his retreat is but a temporary respite… Although…”

"Although…?”

“Why art the Bells of Awakening so important to the cause…?” He mused. “Yes, I understandeth they beest important to the entire ‘Chosen Undead’ plot… but other than that…?”

“They are important to the ‘Chosen Undead’ pantomime because they’re the only channel of communication with Anor Londo,” they somberly replied. “Destroy them and all contact with the Lords is lost forever; destroy them… and we’re on our own.”

Oswald's lavender eyes narrowed in understanding, the gravity of the situation weighing on him…

“We couldn’t get to the first one in time,” they continued. “But we saved this one.”

“Indeed, but art thou certain thy former allies shan’t try again in the future…?”

“I need to find the Servants of Chaos… Oh gods, I hope some of them survived after Queelag’s death,” they muttered. “I’m sure they can find a way to secure it. They’ll do a much better job at keeping it safe than us, I’m sure of it.”

“We can only hope, my dear," Oswald said, his voice filled with quiet determination. “But that can wait. I believe we hath earnt a respite…”

“Yes, please…"

Finding a relatively secluded spot within the chamber, they leaned against a nearby wall, the tension dissipating as exhaustion settled in their muscles. The pardoner's eyes scanned their surroundings, ensuring there were no immediate threats lurking nearby; satisfied with the temporary peace, he turned his attention to his weary companion…

His concern pulled at his perceptive nature, and he knew that the wounds from this encounter weren't just physical; with a soft sigh, Oswald spoke, his voice soothing and careful.

“He doth not deserve thy wrath, my dear…”

“Hm...?”

“Kirk.”

“Oh, yeah, him…”

"His words may sting thy heart, but remember thine anger only feeds his purpose,” Oswald advised, his tone filled with a mix of wisdom and empathy. “Do not allow him to manipulate thee, Anjou—“

“What…?"

With eyes wide open and a quick jerk of their head, the rebel’s gaze found Oswald’s; an eerie silence, a tense pause hung in the air, with the pardoner’s words—that goddamned name—lingering between them…

They could do naught but stare at each other, the weight of their hidden truth unspoken but heavy. Oswald bit his lip, aware of his mistake; it was as if time itself had frozen in that brief moment... before 'Anjou' blinked and composed themselves:

“Where… where did you hear that name…?”

Chapter Text

“It is... merely a name that hath escaped mine tongue,” he stammered, his expression betraying a hint of conflict and vulnerability. “Do pardon me—“

“Answer me,” they cut him off. “Where did you hear that name, Oswald?”

There was a tense, eerie pause, and the pardoner sighed resignedly. “I spoke to the blacksmith André of Astora,” he confessed. “I showed him thine soapstone and… he thought of thee, remembered thee... said thy name out loud.”

His voice held a hint of both apprehension and curiosity, as if he feared their next words; the not-so-nameless Darkwraith’s eyes widened at the unexpected revelation, their disbelieving silence stretching between them… and suddenly, as if none of that truly mattered to them, they closed their eyes, taking a deep breath.

“I see,” they simply spoke. “Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am not this 'Anjou’, Ozzy.”

“Do not try to—“

“I’m not trying anything, Oswald,” they insisted. “The one you’re talking about, Anjou of Carim… they perished a long, long time ago.”

In that moment, Oswald's mask revealed a flicker of doubt and confusion, though he quickly regained his composure. “Then why didst André…” He stammered, murmuring sheepishly. “The red soapstone…?”

“I have their artifacts, it’s true,” the rebel added, “and we share a similar goal too, but I am not them; they’re gone… been for a very long time.”

“Seems too convenient…”

“I know, and I understand why you would not believe me now,” they leaned back against the wall, never averting their gaze. “I haven’t been exactly… open about my identity, so I understand this need to connect dots—”

“Precisely,” Oswald interjected, his voice tinged with skepticism, “but the way thou dost present it maketh the dots seem too convoluted… and thy argument, too poor, too hard to believe. I am no fool, dear rebel; there must be more to thy story,” he pressed, leaning in slightly.

“Well, you’re free to believe what you wanna believe, handsome,” they dismissively rolled their eyes. “I’ve chosen to stay nameless and faceless for as long as this lasts, so if you wanna think I’m the elusive Anjou of Carim, I won’t stop you—”

“Who was this ‘Anjou of Carim’ to begin with?” He interrupted yet again. “Pray tell.”

“A cautionary tale of sorts,” they teased, “someone who lived a long, long, long time ago, witnessed and survived the Abyss outbreak in Oolacile... and caused significant amounts of trouble for Kaathe and the Darkwraiths back in the day... Couldn’t be me."

“Well, if thou’rt not this ‘Anjou’—even if judging by thine explanation there art far too many coincidences... Who art thou, then?” He insisted, very much aware that his insistence was bordering on intrusive.

“Pfft, I literally just told you I’m trying to conceal my identity, Ozzy...! Don’t ask me none of that!”

Oswald let out a frustrated sigh, seeing that his probing was getting him nowhere. “Just… give me something, a name I can call thee... Even if it’s not thy real one.”

“Well, why not give me one yourself, little pardoner?” Their eyes seemed to smirk mischievously under their skeletal mask. “Go ahead… This could be fun, and I am in need of a diversion.”

He paused, a flicker of amusement crossing his face at that childish—albeit rather entertaining—proposition, their audacity not going unnoticed; the pardoner shifted his position, facing them, his lips curling into a wry smile as his mind formed an answer…

“Very well, my dear nameless, faceless companion,” he started. “How doth… Thalia sound…?”

“Like you need to think harder.”

Oswald raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eyes. “Hmm... Then how about Raven? It suits thy mysteriously enigmatic nature, does it not…?”

“Ooh, as much as I adore ravens, I’d rather not be compared to one,” they chuckled. “In the unlikely event of you getting to see what I look like under this mask… you’ll see why.”

“Thou’rt only making me more curious now…”

“Well, that’s too bad. I don’t trust you enough,” they replied in a mocking tone. "Go on, keep it up.”

Oswald let out a low laugh, relishing their playful banter; his mind raced, still searching for a suitable name… “How about… Evelyn?” he suggested with a smirk.

“I killed an Evelyn once…”

“Well, that removes our chances for Evelyn… Then, how about Azure…?”

“Ooh, I fancy that—no, no, wait, nevermind; I killed an Azure, too.”

“Quite the track record, hm? Is there any name thou hast not killed?” He responded, equally fascinated and intimidated.

“I haven’t killed an Oswald yet—“

The pardoner cackled darkly at their quip. “Ah, well, let us hope it remains that way… But I’m not naming thee Oswald—”

“And I’m forever thankful for that,” they chuckled. “Go on, keep thinking."

He smirked, leaning slightly closer. "Then how about something unconventional, but fitting… like Rogue?”

“You’re terrible at this, darling.”

“I aim to please,” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but very much enjoying their teasing. "Very well, my dear critic; how about Sage?”

“I’m not smart, Ozzy; the irony would be too painful,” they shook their head dramatically.

“Ah, but thou art witty,” Oswald responded, chuckling softly. “Hmm… Thy relentless critique demands a name befitting such high standards, so how about Viper? It is both bold and dangerous, just like thee—”

“Did you just say I deserve a cool name, then called me a snake to my face, in the same sentence, darling…?”

He actually laughed heartily at their reaction, acknowledging the unintended irony. “Ah, point taken... But I assure thee, my dear snake, I didst mean it in the most endearing way possible.”

“You’re not making it better, sweetheart,” they teasingly replied, raising an eyebrow under their mask. “Come on, I’m sure you can do better than that…!"

Oswald leaned back, thinking for a moment, a mischievous glint in his lavender eyes. “How about Sylanthis?”

“Gods above and below, I wouldn’t even know how to spell that!”

"Fair enough, it is quite the mouthful,” Oswald conceded with a smirk, clearly enjoying the playful back and forth. “Perhaps a simpler name then…"

“Give me something short and practical, please..."

With a gleam of amusement in his eyes, Oswald leaned in closer; a thoughtful pause hung in the air as he pondered their request... Suddenly, a mischievous smile curled upon his lips.

“Sitri.”

“You rat, that’s a demon’s name!"

"Indeed it is... But is there not a sense of defiance in embracing such a name?” he mused. "Acceptance of darkness, if thou wilt—”

“I’ve accepted enough darkness for a lifetime, darling… for many, many lifetimes, I’d say.”

His expression softened with understanding after those words; perhaps that was a bit insensitive, despite the playful nature of his suggestion. The pardoner shifted his weight, feeling a pang of guilt for his words. Mirrowing their seriousness, he settled for a calm, delicated tone as he spoke again...

“My apologies,” he softly responded. “I didst not mean to trivialize what thou hast been trhough… It must have burdened thy heart greatly.”

“It becomes easier with time,” their eyes smiled under the mask. “Don’t even worry about it—“

“Mephistopheles.”

“Hm?"

Oswald frowned slightly, realizing he’d said that last bit out loud… but he quickly composed himself, his eyes flashing with self-reproach.

“Forgive my slip of tongue yet again," he stammered, “but I drew this comparison between thee and the figure of Mephistopheles, the morning after thou didst take refuge at the Parish..."

“May… may I ask why?”

Oh, boy.

The pardoner took a moment to collect his thoughts, choosing his words very carefully... “Well, the figure of Mephistopheles is a complex one, often seen as a symbol of temptation and manipulation, an emissary of higher devils…"

He paused for a moment, his eyes never once wavering from the rebel's gaze, his tone lowering to a near whisper when he spoke again...

“But that couldst not be further from the truth,” he continued. “Mephistopheles only didst appear to those whose souls were already beyond any salvation, merely to observe and learn, like a harbinger of crashing truth; he was trapped in his own personal, never-ending hell… much like thou art.”

An uncomfortable silence hung heavy between them, the weight of the Oswald's words lingering in the air. He steadied himself, waiting for their response, unsure of how they would react to his comparison…

“That… was oddly accurate,” was their only reply.

He sighed and nodded solemnly, his lavender eyes piercing through the mask. "I hath seen more than my fair share of souls, my dear... And I darest say, thine own carries the weight of a thousand worlds…”

Ouch.

He reached out, his gloved hand hovering in the air, as if unsure about touching them... But then, with a resolved determination, he let his palm rest gently against their shoulder.

“But thou art far from alone in thy struggle,” the priest of Velka remarked. "We may bear different burdens, but our paths have converged for a reason.”

The yet-to-be-named Darkwraith’s eyes widened in surprise at the touch, the warmth from Oswald’s hand seeping through their armor. For a brief moment, they hesitated, their body painfully tense... before finally, they relaxed, leaning into his touch; slowly, they nodded, acknowledging the unspoken connection between them.

"Thank you,” their voice wavered slightly, a trace of emotion seeping through their words. "It's... strange finding this kind of comfort in someone I barely know.”

“Comfort oft ariseth in the unlikeliest of places,” he murmured gently.

Oswald held their gaze for a moment longer before finally retracting his hand, the moment passing but not forgotten…

…no it could never be forgotten; that was now a core memory for the both of them.

“Shouldst I assume… that I hath no choice but to keep referring to thee simply as 'Darkwraith', then…?” The pardoner broke the stillness once again, smirking playfully.

“Given your lack of imagination and poor, terrible, taste in names… yes. Yes, please."

Chapter Text

As the duo finally emerged from the ominous and eerie hole in the ground that was Blighttown, they found themselves back at the Firelink Shrine. There they sat, in a secluded spot shrouded in the shadows, but not too far from the bonfire. Oswald turned slightly, noting the very much still nameless Darkwraith sitting beside him, their pesence providing a certain level of reassurance… in spite of the obvious gap between them.

He gazed out towards the dying embers of the bonfire, the flickering light casting dim shadows upon their features. A momentary silence prevailed, broken only by the crackling of the flames and the distant sounds of the undead world, before he found the courage to break it...

“What beest our next course of action, then?” He finally asked.

“I don’t know. I never really had a plan for any of this,” they confessed. “Chances are things are going to get harder from here. I will understand if you decide you no longer want to—“

"My commitment to this cause is unwavering,” he cut them off, turning to face hem fully. "No matter the challenges ahead, I choose to stand by thy side, Darkwraith.”

“Even if that means taking this fight to Anor Londo…?”

“Even if that means taking this fight to the very the ends of Lordran and beyond, my dear,” the pardoner replied, his voice firm with determination.

He wanted to think that the exaggeration in his words would tease a smile out of the Darkwraith, but the mask made it extremely hard for Oswald to figure out their emotions; only their eyes were visible, those crimson red irises that pierced through his very soul everytime he met their gaze...

Gods, he found himself wishing they’d show him their true face, even just once; he couldn't help but feel a slight pang of longing, a desire to dig beneath those crimson eyes and unravel the mysteries that lay within... But he knew better than to push any further; with a nod, he broke eye contact and turned his attention to the horizon as the sun set slowly, painting the sky in hues of orange and indigo.

“We shouldst spend the night in the settlement near the Firelink Shrine,” Oswald spoke. “’The shrine itself is not exactly a… safe haven for thee.”

“Yeah, I’m very much aware,” they replied in a tired voice, slowly getting back on their feet. “Lead the way then…”

Oswald rose to his feet as well, his black robes swaying in the breeze. “Art thou feeling alright, my dear?” He turned to meet their gaze once more, noting the weakness in their tone.

“Just exhausted is all,” they dismissively relied. "Haven’t had any decent rest since I spent the night at the Parish—“

“Sweet child, that was days ago—!”

“Exactly,” they cut him off. “So let’s get going. Resting near a bonfire doesn’t do anything for me at this point… I crave some sleep."

Oswald nodded understandingly; he had witnessed firsthand the toll that their journey had taken on them; the weight of their burdens, their complicated relationship with Kirk... Without further words, he gestured for them to follow as he led the way towards the nearby settlement.

It was a short, uneventful walk from the shrine to said settlement, but each step carried with it a sense of weariness; Not-Anjou walked very close to Oswald, hiding their signature Darkwraith armour to the best of their ability as to not attract any attention from the villagers. Finally, they arrived at a small, rundown building on the outskirts; it was a humble shelter, very far from being anything luxurious whatsoever, but a great improvement from their current predicament nonetheless.

“Is it really okay for us to stay here…?” They asked, unsure of wether or not they should step inside. “Who owns this place?”

“It belongeth to an old friend of mine,” he replied, a faint smile creeping into his face as he turned to face them. “Thou couldst say I inherited it.”

“Whatever happened to them…?”

"Unfortunately, he met an untimely demise," he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. “We lost track of him after he went Hollow.”

“Well, I’m… sorry to hear that,” the Darkwraith crossed their arms, their tone not really matching their words.

“Oh, but that was a very long time ago. Let us focus on the present instead, hm?”

The inside of the building was modest, with a table cluttered with various trinkets, a dusty bookshelf filled with tattered volumes and a few small, worn-out beds at the end of the room; the air was musty, but it carried a faint scent of familiarity… and the clucking of chicken, for some reason.

“There’s a farm here?!” The Darkwraith asked, as soon as they heard that unexpected sound.

“Down those stairs over there, yes,” Oswald smiled, amused at their reaction. “There are a few chicken coops underneath the main structure—“

“Who is taking care of them with the owner gone?” They interjected, their eyes wide open in genuine concern.

“They’re undead, my dear,” he smirked. “Fear not. They can be left to their own devices. They are a resilient bunch.”

“Undead chicken?!” They repeated, their eyes suddenly lightening up. “Oooh-hohoho, I gotta see that...!"

Oswald laughed heartily at their reaction, watching them run down the stairs, pleased to see them in better spirits despite their exhaustion. “We shouldst get some much-needed rest first, dear—”

“Fuck rest, I wanna see the chicken!” They shouted from the lower floor.

His smile only widened at that response. A brief silence ensued, followed by a high-pitched “hiii” coming from underneath the building. Chuckling to himself, the pardoner followed after them, descending the staircase with careful steps. As he reached the lower floor, he found the Darkwraith seated on the floor, surrounded by a small flock of white, fluffy chicken, contrasting greatly with their dark atire. The sight was indeed peculiar, but also strangely endearing, as the birds seemed extremely curious of the new arrival.

“Thou art quite fond of them, I see,” he remarked, a playful glint in his eyes as he rested an arm against one of the coops. “And it seems thou hast made quite the impression on them."

“I love chicken so much, you can’t imagine,” they replied, chuckling at one of the silkies pecking curiously at the hem of their cloak. “I grew up in a farm like this. I caught all sorts of aviary diseases in my youth… but it was totally worth it."

Oswald’s smile didn’t leave his face, watching the interplay between the rebel and the curious. "Who wouldst hath thought that behind that ominous Darkwraith exterior lied a chicken enthusiast…?"

“Yeah, I see how that may be hard to believe. We are the, uh, 'enemies of every living thing that has a soul’ after all, hm?” They sarcastically replied. “I say fuck that. I’m not letting anything happen to these babies; I’m not letting this world be consumed by the Abyss.”

The priest's smile faded a little, replaced by a soft expression of admiration at their words, a mixture respect and endearment in his lavender eyes. He joined them on the floor, surrounded by the fluffy flock of silkies, and extended a hand towards one of the docile birds, ruffling its feathers gently.

"Thy compassion is a rare and precious thing," he murmured, his voice lower and more sincere than before.

“Hm. I’ve also killed thousands of humans in my time as a Darkwraith, so I don’t think that’s entirely accurate—”

“Thou can strive for redemption,” he cut them off. “Thou hast shown thy willingness to make amends. That is a commendable path indeed.”

“You tryna' sell me absolution, pardoner…?” They teasingly raised an eyebrow, holding one of the chicken in their arms.

Oswald chuckled, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Perhaps I am... or perhaps I see the potential within thee. It shalt be a decision that lieth solely in thine hands—“

“No, darling,” they confidently replied. “I’m not feeding Velka’s ego anymore. I’m her dead angle."

That choice of words left him wide-eyed; coming from anyone else, he would have simply scoffed, deemed them unworthy of such a gift… But he couldn’t help but admire the path they’d chosen to embrace. Truth be told, his own reaction, how easily he’d accepted their thoughts on absolution surprised him greatly, his smile only deepening at their defiance.

Such audacity.

“Fair enough,” he said instead, getting back on his feet. “The choice is always thine.”

“You goin' up?”

“Aye, I shall retire for the day,” he nodded, brushing some dust and hay off his robes. “Hopefully, I shalt be granted some semblance of sleep.”

“It’s… not even that dark outside yet—“

“Thou dost underestimate the power of my melodramatics,” he replied, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “Indeed, ’tis not the nighttime yet, but his old pardoner requires his rest. Feel free to stay with the chickens for as long as thou desireth, my dear; I shalt be in the room upstairs, shouldst thou need me."

With a nod, he began ascending the stairs, leaving the Darkwraith with their newfound feathered friends. Smiling to themself, they kept petting one chicken who seemed to be paying special attention to them and spoke to it in a baby voice…

“Ooo, he’sh such a gwumpy and bwowing old man, ishn’t he…?” They ruffled its feathers, watching the silkie bob their head in amusement. “Gwandpa needs hish shleepytime—“

“I HEARD THAT, YOU HARLOT.”

Chapter Text

Oswald lay on the creaky bed in the dark room, the moonlight filtering through the small, dirty window. Sleep didn’t seem to come, his mind filled with thoughts of the exahusting day behind them; the battles, the Darkwraith’s unknown identity… and, of course, the fate of the world. He tossed and turned, his white hair splayed out on the pillow, until the sound of soft footsteps on the creaking wooden floor disrupted the silence.

With a sigh, he rose from the bed, his eyes inspecting his surroundings bathed in dark; he could discern the figure of the elusive rebel, a book in their hands, seemingly pacing around the large room.

“What troubles thee, my dear…?” He softly spoke.

“Oh, you can’t sleep either…?” They replied, their red eyes finding his, bright as candlelights, as if glowing in the dark.

"Doth I appear to be sleeping...?" He teased, a smirk dancing on his lips. "I must admit, sleep evades me tonight. And thou, dear Darkwraith, seemest to be in much the same predicament. Pray, do share what keeps thee awake."

They scoffed. “Same as you, probably.”

Ouch.

Yes, that was accurate.

Oswald sighed, getting out of bed, crossing the dark room to get closer to them; his steps were calculated, almost silent on the worn-out floorboards…

… and then he bumped his knee on the old table.

“Oooh, someone’s eyes are not used to the dark...” They teased, chuckling at the sound of the impact but not tearing their eyes from their book.

“Ouch… Merely a momentary lapse in grace," he retorted, rubbing his knee. He couldn't see the rebel clearly, but he could feel their playful gaze upon him. "Thou takest great pleasure in mocking me, don't thou...?”

“I could argue it’s your fault for trying to cross the room in total darkness, handsome.”

“Ah, thou hast a point, my dear," he chuckled. "My sense of direction seems to have failed me momentarily… and I suppose mine eyes art not the best suited for these conditions either. I couldst never read in total blackness... like I assume thour’t doing now.”

“Yeah, I was…”, they started, closing the old book and placing it back on the shelf. “…trying to get my mind off things, I s'pose.”

His brows furrowed in concern as he approached them, guided by the sound of their voice. "Dost thou wish to share thine thoughts with me, or shall we find another means of quieting thy worries…?"

“Ozzy, you really have no reason to be so kind to me—“

"No reason, thou sayest…?” He cut them off, softly reaching out and clasping their hand in the darkness. "Dost thou not realize that thou hast become a beacon of light in these dark times? I am but returning the favor—“

And then he froze.

He noticed something.

He was touching their bare hand, with his own freezing in place against their cold skin. They weren’t wearing their armour, only the clothes underneath and—probably—their mask.

The pardoner’s mind raced with conflicting thoughts; he was so tempted to create a light source, if only to see their hands, any visible patch of skin that would reveal more about who this Darkwraith truly was under that well-protected, unbreakable façade; the allure of their mysterious identity and the intimacy of the moment proved to be a formidable challenge to his self-control...

…but he resisted.

In that moment, Oswald made a decision; a decision to restrain himself, to let go of his burning curiosity and to respect the boundaries that had been established between them….

“Forgive me,” he whispered, mustering all his willpower and gently releasing their hand. "Rest assured, there is no ulterior motive behind my kindness—"

But they simply chuckled, their glowing red eyes never drifting away from his. “Oh, you’re adorable, Ozzy,” they spoke, leaning in slightly. "Truly.”

A strange blend of relief and frustration washed over Oswald: relief that he had managed to maintain his composure, frustration that his desires had been momentarily ignited so easily. The pardoner sighed, the tension replaced by a newfound ease between them.

“That is… a descriptor I rarely hear, my dear. I am glad to know that my virtues are not entirely wasted on thee," he replied, the sarcasm lacing his voice.

“Jokes aside… Thank you.”

“Hm? For what…?”

“Don’t think for a second that I don’t know what just happened here, darling,” they spoke, their tone equal parts soft and menacing. “Your face, your expressions, they remain the same as ever even in complete darkness, and I was able to read them perfectly just now. You could’ve taken advantage of my trust and turn on the lights or something… But you didn’t.”

He was taken aback by their perceptive words, his expression shifting from playful to contemplative at the revelation. “Thou art not wrong, my dear. But the trust thou'st placed in me is invaluable, and I shall not betray it so easily.”

There was a brief pause, an uncomfortable moment of stillness following his words, which felt like an eternity of sensory deprivation—the only comfort being the Darkwraith’s red eyes; unblinking and unmoving, they simply stared at the pardoner, as if trying to reach into the depths of his very being…

And then, their hand found his again, although not exactly in a comforting manner... No, this was different; it felt as if they were testing him…

“Is that so…?” They spoke in a deep, cavernous voice, leaning closer.

A shiver ran down Oswald's spine at the sudden change in atmosphere. However, instead of pulling away, he held his ground, refusing to let uncertainty—or fear—overtake him.

“Yes,” he replied firmly, mustering his confidence. “I dost stand by what I said. I am a man of my word; thou mayest test me in any way thou desires, but thou shalt find that my integrity remains unyielding even in—”

His words were cut off as he felt their cold, cold hand on the side of his neck, their long fingernails grazing his skin, a feeling so foreign to him…

“And you’re not one bit intrigued to see what I look like…?” They spoke in that same low voice.

He couldn’t hide it; the pardoner's breath hitched at the touch upon his skin, the sensation sending a delicious shiver through his body… "I admit... curiosity doth stir within me, my dear," he confessed, his voice laced with a hint of longing.

But even in that moment, he held firm; he resisted the temptation to yield to his curiosity, to let his own whims consume him.

"But I have made a vow, Darkwraith,” he firmly spoke. “A vow to uphold the boundaries thou hast set. I shall not cross them, no matter how enticing the unknown may be.”

Their touch lingered for another moment, those red irises piercing into his own eyes, as if trying to search for any signs of dishonesty…

…and then, they finally withdrawed, taking a sudden step back.

“You’re boring,” they scoffed. “But I very much appreciate your loyalty.”

And then, Oswald exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his shoulders relaxing as their touch finally retreated… but hidden behind a façade of calmness and composure, there was a hint of disappointment in his eyes… But of course, he wasn’t going to let it show so easily.

“I shalt take ‘boring’ as a compliment coming from thee,” he spoke, his voice betraying a hint of playful sarcasm. “And… thy appreciation is duly noted.”

At those words, a single, soft chuckle escaped the rebel's lips as they moved in the darkness, this newfound playfulness in their crimson gaze giving way to something more inscrutable, amost enigmatic… and then they did something that Oswald did not discern at first…

…but it only took him a few seconds to decipher their actions, to see the importance his previous self-restrained held at that moment.

They’d just put on their mask.

Which meant they’d been unmasked for the entire duration of their conversation, unbeknownst to him.

He felt his heart skip a beat; the thoughts raced through his mind, filled with curiosity and questions...

“What… what werest thou trying to accomplish…?” He asked, struck by the sudden realization.

“Nothing, truly. I really thought you were asleep when I took it off,” they calmy replied. “Don’t wory, I somewhat trust you, but I’m not making this same mistake again.”

The pardoner’s mind reeled with a mixture of emotions; surprise, curiosity, and a touch of disappointment reflecting in his expression. “By the lords, my heart cannot take all this teasing, my darling—“

“You’re undead, handsome. Of course it can,” they chuckled. “My antics won’t kill you just yet.”

“Thou enjoyest testing my limits, hm…?” He muttered, slowly returning to his bed across the room, careful not to bump his knee against the table again. “Death has eluded me many times, so perchance I can withstand a little more teasing—”

“You mean it…?"

The pardoner settled back onto the old bed, directing their gaze towards them once more.

“Of course not, child,” he finally replied, dropping the sarcastic tone. “Now, I must insist thou retirest for the night. Restlessness shall not make thee any more prepared for the battles that lie ahead, my dear enigma.”

Chapter Text

The first rays of sunlight streamed through the small, dusty window; Oswald stirred from his slumber, stretching his limbs and rubbing his eyes. As he sat up on the bed, his thoughts immediately drifted to the events of the previous night, his encounter with the still-very-nameless, faceless Darkwraith…

That strangely intimate moment resonated in his mind, left a trail of unanswered questions… But for now, the urgency of their mission took precedence over personal curiosities; if they desired to remain faceless, that was their problem, their business, not his. With a sigh, he rose from the bed and began dressing himself.

Something far more interesting: Not-Anjou was no longer there. Had they left while he was asleep? Did they take offence at Oswald’s behaviour last night? A twinge of surprise and concern crept into his features as he realized that his enigmatic companion was quite literally nowhere to be found.

“Curious,” he mused aloud, furrowing his brow. He trusted that they wouldn’t vanish without good reason; perhaps they had gone off to attend to some matters that required their immediate attention…

And then he heard it; the excited clucking of the chicken below the building.

His curiosity piqued, Oswald descended the stairs, following the sound; there, amidst the feathery chaos, sat the Darkwraith rebel, their skeletal mask still firmly in place and their hands gauntleted again, showing not a single patch of skin. The pardoner approached them, his steps cautious yet determined. Then, he cleared his throat softly to grab their attention.

"Ah, there thou art. It seems thou hast found solace among the poultry once again," he remarked with a wry smile.

“Well, I needed the comfort of some old, white-haired, curious and extremely talkative beauty this morn,” they slyly replied, their red eyes meeting Oswald’s. "And you were asleep, so...“

How shameless. Thie priest’s eyes narrowed as he caught their playful jab, his lips curling into a smirk. “Thou’rt relentless in thy jesting,” he replied, his voice dripping with mock annoyance. “Wilt thou ever tire of teasing me so…?”

“I’ll keep you guessing,” they added, getting back on their feet. “The truth is, I went humanity-hunting last night; I felt like I was running out of juice... and a tired Darkwraith is about as useless as a Hollow with a broken sword—“

“…humanity-hunting—?!”

“Calm down, Ozzy…!” They cut him off, raising their hands. “No one was killed, no one went Hollow. Trust me, even I know my limits.”

Oswald took a moment to steady his breathing, his anger slowly subsiding; he trusted their words, but he couldn't shake off his concern entirely...

"I must admit, thou doth know how to give me a fright," he remarked, his tone slightly lighter. "But... I am relieved to know that thou art fine.”

“Thank you,” they replied. “I promise, I’m not killing anyone while our alliance lasts… Other Darkwraiths aside, of course.”

The pardoner raised an eyebrow at their remark. "Well, I suppose that is somewhat comforting," he replied with a hint of sarcasm.

The Darkwraith simply rolled their eyes as they walked past him, playfully punching him on the shoulder before going up the stairs. Despite his efforts to remain serious, he couldn’t hold back a chuckle at their behaviour, rubbing his shoulder with a mock-suffering expression. After one last glance at the chicken, he followed after them, ascending the stairs, shaking his head in amusement…

Gods, how’d he come to enjoy a Darkwraith’s company so much…?”

“So, your highness,” the rebel teased, turning to face him, “what is the plan for today?”

No, they definitely weren’t making this easy.

“I believe t’would be best to make a stop at André’s forge,” he not-so-confidently replied. “The state of thy scimitar is rather deplorable—“

“I’ve been living like a rat since I escaped New Londo, Ozzy,” they retorted. “Some of us can’t just walk into a forge and expect not to die in the process.”

“Well, fear not,” he replied, his voice sincere. “André is already aware of mine alliance with thee. Thou shalt find that he is quite an understanding—“

“I know who André is, babe,” they interjected. “Knew him from before I became a Darkwraith.”

Oswald's eyes widened in genuine surprise, his eyebrows darting upwards. "Thou knewest André before thy descent into darkness…?”

A brief silence followed; despite the rebel’s advice, he found himself trying to connect the dots at that revelation, hoping to find a link between this unexpected fact and everything André had told him before his reencounter with the Darkwraith... Gods, nothing made sense anymore.

“What is the part thou’rt not telling me, Darkwraith…?”

“Far too many things, darling. You should start asking this question differently,” they teased. “I’m choosing to tell you a small part of the big unknown, not the other way around. But hey, at least I’m honest about it, aren’t I?”

"Thou certainly dost have a way of turning the tables on me, my dear,” the pardoner spoke, his lips twisting into a playful smirk as he regarded the ever-so-enigmatic Darkwraith. "I must admit, thou hast me... intrigued. But do not think this means thou shalt be exempt from my persistent inquiries, for I am a stubborn pardoner, through and through.”

“I don’t doubt it. Shall we get going, then…?"

With that, they made their way out of the settlement and to the ruins of the Undead Parish, and as they walked through the decaying remains of the once breathtaking building, Oswald couldn't help but feel a strange mix of nostalgia and dread; this place held memories of his past, of battles fought and souls absolved... But now, it was but a pile of rubble and ashes.

“We’ll take it back,” the Darkwraith softly spoke, sensing his melancholy. “I can assure you.”

He glanced at them, their words a whispered promise that stirred a glimmer of hope within his heart… even if those words were coming from a Darkwraith; a smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he nodded in agreement. “We shall,” he afirmed, his voice filled with unwavering conviction.

They arrived at the familiar sight of André's makeshift forge, the blacksmith himself hammering away at a red-hot, son-to-be weapon. Oswald approached him, his voice filled with respect and familiarity:

"Good day, André,” the priest of Velka called out, his voice carrying a warm tone as he approached the blacksmith. "I am glad to see thee in good health."

André paused his hammering and looked up, his face lighting up in recognition. “Good day indeed, pardoner! Was beginning to wonder if you’d gone hollow out there…!”

“Mine last visit was merely a few days ago, friend” he chuckled. "Much hast happened since then, but as thou canst see, I am not a Hollow just yet…"

André smiled at his words beneath his rebellious white beard, thinking of something funny and light-hearted to say... But then his eyes inevitably found the Darkwraith walking closely behind the pardoner, moving as if they were trying to hide their presence to the best of their ability…

Oh, but that wasn’t any Darkwraith; he knew those eyes, he was sure of it. That could be no other than…

“...Anjou,” André muttered. “By the Lords, Oswald, you were right—“

“Sorry to disappoint you, darling,” they cut him off, “but I am most certainly not Anjou of Carim—"

“Hmm. You must be right, sorry,” the blacksmith interjected. “I highly doubt the real Anjou of Carim would’ve ended up joining the Darkwraiths.”

Ouch.

For some reason, perhaps simply out of offence, the rebel’s breath hitched at those words; their crimson eyes narrowed at André, their fists balling and their entire body tensing up, as if they were containing themself to the best of their ability, trying not to lash at him. That strange reaction didn’t go unnoticed by Oswald, and he decided to seize this opportunity…

“Just who is—or rather was 'Anjou of Carim', if I mayst ask…?”

And the Darkwraith shot a menacing glance at the pardoner as soon as this question was asked; they’d spoken about this elusive figure in the past, but only barely, enough to party satisfy his curiosity, but leaving the most relevant bits out of the table. Fortunately for him, André was much, much more talkative than the rebel.

“Anjou of Carim, Anjou of the Abyss, whatever you want to call them,” André started, “was a knight of Carim, much like yourself, Oswald... Though many say they weren’t born in Carim, but merely escaped from somewhere else—”

“Oolacile,” the Darkwraith added. “They were born in Oolacile."

Oswald listened with a mix of fascination and concern, his eyes fixated on the Darkwraith standing next to him.

“Is that so…?” André continued. “That does explain a lot, as it is known that Anjou had ties to Oolacile. Did they not witness the fall of the golden city?”

“Correct,” was their only reply.

And the pardoner began connecting more dots...

'I’ve seen what happens when the land is consumed by the Abyss that the Darkstalker wants to spread.'

'This is not about ‘embracing darkness’ anymore, Kirk! You know I want an Age of Dark as much as you do! But what Kaathe wants is something far, far worse than that!'

'I’ve seen what it’s like, I’ve seen what it does! I’d rather ‘die a thousand times’ than go through it again!'

He’d heard the Darkwraith speak these words, merely days ago. He paid no mind at those moments, not thinking much of the meaning behind those words, but those quotes had come to mind for a reason: for the rebel to say such things, that could only imply that they’d witnessed first-hand what had occured in Oolacile all those years ago…

…much like this Anjou of Carim apparently.

The pardoner simply observed thr rebel's stoic demeanor throughout the conversation, that cold detachment in their eyes as they spoke of that 'cautionary tale', as they had called it once. It was clear that there was more to the story...

“Anjou was known for their connection with the Abyss,” André resumed. “They could go in and out of it, traverse entire lands within it in mere seconds… I witnessed it first-hand; I saw them disappear, leaving no trace of them ever being next to me, just to appear somewhere completely different in the blink of an eye… Oh, but that was a very, very long time ago...”

“The ability to traverse the Abyss at will… It is a power that surpasseth the capabilities of any mere mortal," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the Darkwraith’s…

…because he’d seen them do that too. At least, he thought so.

“Truly,” André resumed. “Aside from that, they were an exceptional warrior; they halted the spread of the Abyss in Oolacile, before it could consume all of Lordran; fought the Darkwraiths as a Knight of Carim, in spite of their connection with the Abyss. Made quite a name for themselves, that Anjou.”

“Whatever happened to them…?” Oswald asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

“One day, they simply disappeared—“

“They died,” the rebel interjected, stepping between the two men. “The Abyss overpowered them, and they died a quick, painless death. End of the story. Can we get back to what we came for, please…?”

Oswald could sense the defensiveness in their voice, the dismissive tone to avoid further questions…

“Art thou not entertained?” He teased. “Is this story not to thy liking, my dear?”

“We don’t speak of the dead—”

“But we do steal their artifacts, hm…?” He spoke, hinting at the red soapstone, which they confessed belonged to Anjou, but was now in their power for some reason they never specified. “Quite the contradiction, is it not?”

André could only watch as that heated conversation took place; the tension was palpable, the Darkwraith rebel before him only seemed to grow more nervous by the second.

“While I’m truly flattered at what you’re trying to hint,” they retorted, “I am not Anjou. I’m a Darkwraith. Always been—“

“Quite literally, thou didst tell me, before coming here, that thou knewest André from before thy time as a Darkwraith,” he cut them off. “And, as a matter of fact, that beest not even the first time thou’st hinted at being something other than a servant of Kaathe in the past.”

“Well, I lied, okay—?”

“André, dost thou know this Darkwraith?” He stopped them, facing André.

“No, I don’t think I do—“

“See?” They spoke.

“But thou knewest André of Astora, correct, my dear?”

“Who doesn’t know André of Astora, Ozzy…?” They raised an eyebrow under their mask.

“Fair point,” Oswald admitted with a soft chuckle. “But then again, couldst thou explain to me why our friend André calledst thee Anjou when we first—“

“I don’t know, Oswald! Your guess is as good as mine!”

But the frustration was obvious in their voice, and their crimson red eyes seemed to dart all over the place, as if searching for an escape, a distraction… Oswald couldn’t help but study their behaviour; he observed their restlessness, noted the growing unease within the rebel. Something was clearly amiss, and he wasn’t one to let things go without further investigation…

“Knowest thee, if I werest a legend, a 'cautionary tale' passed amongst Darkwraiths, with tremendous power and prestige,” he started, "I wouldst not hide it from my allies—"

“Good for you,” they cut him off.

“Thou enjoyest this game of secrecy and half-truths, doth thou not…?”

“And you weren’t joking when you said you were stubborn as fuck—“

“Alright, enough, you two,” André finally intervened, rising from his seat. “Save that energy for fighting the Darkwraiths. If the rebel says they’re not Anjou, then they’re not, okay…? What is your name, friend?”

“I don’t have one.”

Oswald rolled his eyes and sighed, his brows furrowing in exhasperation. He cast a piercing gaze at the Darkwraith, a subtle warning hidden in his words, before directing his attention at André once more.

“André, old friend, I presume thou art able to assist my nameless companion with their weapon, then...?"

“Of course, pardoner. May I see it…?”

Rather reluctantly, the Darkwraith unsheathed their scimitar and presented it to the blacksmith of Astora. His blue eyes carefully inspected the blade, his fingers tracing the dull edge.

“Quite an old scimitar, is it not…?” He muttered.

“Always had it,” they comfortably replied, glad to finally shift the topic of the conversation to other matters.

“Always…?”

“For as long as I can remember, yes.”

André nodded, his expression pensive. He took a moment to examine the scimitar in more detail, observing its wear and tear, the dulled blade, and the intricate engravings on the hilt...

No. The topic of the conversation hadn’t shifted at all, unbeknownst to them.

“I’d recognize this blade anywhere, my friend,” the blacksmith added.

And with those words, the Darkwraith’s blood froze once again, a flicker of unease crossing their eyes.

“What happened to you?” André asked, finding their gaze again. “Why are you hiding, Anjou?"

Chapter Text

“I must agree with Oswald, friend,” André spoke, hammering away at the old scimitar. “If I were a living legend, I wouldn’t go to these lengths to hide my identity from my allies—.”

“Even if that means letting everyone see that you fell from grace, André?” They replied. “Easier said than done, buddy."

“How couldst thou lie to my face like that…?” Oswald muttered.

“Technically, I did not lie, handsome,” they cockily replied, turning to meet his gaze. “When I had no other choice but to join the Darkwraiths, Kaathe erased my identity completely. The old worm requested that the name 'Anjou’ never be used again. No one’s called me that in centuries—“

“Not even Kirk…?” He interrupted.

“Especially not Kirk,” they smirked. “By the gods, he despised the idea of his favourite Darkwraith being the former Darkwraith enemy número uno."

Oswald couldn't help but let out a low chuckle, shaking his head in amusement. "Indeed, I see why he wouldst find that… unpleasant.”

André, meanwhile, continued his work, his hammer striking against the anvil with a resolute determination, fixing the old, nay, ancient scimitar. His voice carried equal parts curiosity and concern: “you rebelled against your people, despite everything,” the blacksmith spoke, his voice almost toneless against the relentless clanking of metal. “Why not claim that name again…?”

“Because a part of me wanted—no, needed that change of identity as well,” they firmly replied. “I was someone who fought against the Darkstalker's Abyss! And despite that, I was eventually forced to join my nemesis. Gods above and below, I simply couldn’t bear the shame—“

“That being said,” André interjected, “why did you join the Darkwraiths? What drove 'Anjou of the Abyss' to join Kaathe’s forces…?”

“Do you not see the irony in your question, old man?”

Ouch. Rude.

André paused in his hammering, his eyes narrowing at the Darkwraith's words. "Enlighten me, then," he calmly replied.

“Ugh. I was a victim of circumstance,” they replied. “I wasn’t lying when I said my connection with the Abyss was… well, demanding... overpowering.”

“And so, thou didst choose to join the very force that sought to spread the Abyss further,” Oswald chimed in, his voice laced with a blend of curiosity and judgement. “For power, perhaps…? Or for some other reason altogether?”

“For survival, Ozzy,” was their reply. “You’ve a goddess watching over you, pardoner; you could never understand. As a matter of fact, you 'people of the surface' may not know this, but Darkwraiths get the most humanity out of all cults and covenants in Lordran... and trust me when I say I require a lot of humanity to sustain myself.”

Oswald raised an eyebrow, intrigued by their statement. “Thy words imply that thou hast a more… voracious appetite for humanity than most Darkwraiths," he purred, his voice slightly laced with amusement at their confession. "Tell me, my dear rebel: how doth thy insatiable hunger manifest itself?”

“Oh, you wanna know, pretty priest…?” They added, in an extremely unfitting flirtatious tone.

"I am indeed quite curious—"

“Alright, either focus on the matter at hand or take this elsewhere, you two," André stopped them, his voice firm and commanding. “So, not only 'Anjou of Carim' is still around and somewhat sane—“

“Watch it, blacksmith—”

“—but, as it turns out, they’re now also a Darkwraith, the very people they swore to destroy, and in denial of their past identity,” he concluded. “That is... certainly a lot to take in.”

“And yet here we are, fighting side by side to prevent the end of the world,” Oswald mused, a hint of irony in his voice. “Truly, fate doth have a peculiar sense of humor—”

“But I must ask,” André resumed. “Must you hide your face…?”

“Do you remember what I look like under this…?” They gestured to their skeletal mask.

The blacksmith paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. It had indeed been quite some time, but surely he could still remember the face of Anjou of Carim, right...? He wanted to speak, but he quickly realized, much to his chagrin, that he had completely forgotten what it looked like.

No, not a single memory of that elusive visage remained.

“I… I do not,” he confessed. “I recognized your eyes, your presence—“

“But not my face, right?” The rebel cut him off. “Exactly."

Silence hung in the air for a moment, as the weight of their shared past settled between them. Oswald observed the exchange between the two, his lavender eyes narrowing in contemplation; it would be a long time until he could finally see the face of his Darkwraith ally, it seemed.

“We shalt put this matter aside for now,” the pardoner spoke firmly, his voice carrying an authoritative tone. “Anjou or not, we need to focus on stopping thy former acquaintances.”

“Right, right…” They shook their head, folding their arms around their body. “Let’s please set aside our personal matters… my personal matters, to be more precise...”

“Of course, Anjou—“

“Drop it, Oswald!”

“Of course, of course, right—!” He quickly corrected himself. My apologies...”

Gods, he would need a while to process that entire conversation.

A few moments after—mostly filled with uncomfortable silences and some awkward stares—André finally finished his work on the scimitar, examining it closely one last time before nodding to himself in satisfaction and finally setting it down on the workbench. “There. Better than ever, if I do say so myself.”

The Darkwraith took a step forward and slowly picked up their weapon, running their fingers along the newly sharpened edge.

“Thank you, André,” they softly spoke. “I appreciate this.”

“You are most welcome,” the blacksmith replied with a warm smile. “Please, both of you, do not hesitate to come visit me whenever you need, y’hear?”

“We shall keep that in mind, André,” Oswald assured him. “Thou art a true friend in these troubling times.”

With that, the pardoner and the rebel left the forge, turning their attention back to the looming threat that brought them together in the first place. André watched them depart, a half-smirk creeping onto his face…

“What in the abyss is going on with those two…?” He muttered to himself.

Chapter Text

As they walked away from André’s forge, Oswald turned to the not-so-nameless—yet still very much faceless—Darkwraith, with a raised eyebrow, his voice carrying equal parts curiosity and concern. “There remains a matter of great importance that we art yet to discuss…” He spoke.

“Hm?”

He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "It is... rather evident that thou dost bear certain appetites that are unique to thy existence as a Darkwraith," he began cautiously. "Thou hast mentioned thy insatiable hunger for humanity, and I cannot help but wonder, how doth thou satisfy such cravings? Is it simply through the consumption of slain foes, or dost thou—“

“The Dark Hand, Ozzy,” they cut him off. “An ability, if you can call it as such, that allows Darkwraiths to extract humanity from other humans. What, were you hoping that I could bite you in the neck and take all your humanity to myself…?”

“Oh, worry not, I know better than to test the limits of thy hunger, my dear.”

“Yeah, no,” they added. “That would also require removing the mask, and neither of us is quite ready for that.”

"Ah, the eternal mystery veiled behind that mask…” He mused, his voice carrying a mischievous undertone. "How tantalizing it is to wonder what lies beneath… Still, another thought crosseth my mind—”

“Ask away. You might as well have me write my entire biography to you at this point.”

“Why dost thou require more humanity than other Darkwraiths?”

“To put it simply,” they shrugged, “this body is not efficient. Over-exposure to the Abyss is amazing in theory, but not in practice. It’s taken a toll on me, and now I need great amounts of humanity to sustain myself, lest I want to go hollow.”

“I see…” The pardoner nodded, his expression understanding.

An uncomfortable paused followed, one that neither of them dared break for a while. Was there really anything left to say? The rebel felt like all their secrets lay bare to his unlikely companion, much against what they had initally planned… but at the same time, it felt like a weight had been lifted off their shoulders; now they knew that this pardoner of Velka was much more understanding that they initially thought. After all, not everyone would be willing to travel with a Darkwraith, let alone a human-made-legend of sorts, who betrayed their own cause for survival and ended up joining their sworn enemies, just to abandon them when things got too ugly for their tastes…

Gods, their existence was a whole mess.

But at least, they weren’t alone in this.

As the silence stretched on, Oswald took a step closer to the Darkwraith, a glimmer of empathy in his lavender eyes, and placed a gloved hand on their shoulder. “What is on thy mind?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You said,” they started, “that you would remain by my side, even if that meant taking this fight to Anor Londo. Correct…?”

“Aye, that I did,” he nodded, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

“That might be necessary. Perhaps not today, but the time will come... and, when it does, I need you to be ready.”

His gaze hardened at those words, but the determination never left his eyes.

“I understand,” he added. “In the meantime, I suggest we take all the rest we can get. Thy… humanity-hunting session last night left thee exhausted; thine eyes reflect the toll it hath taken on thee.”

“It was a very much needed session, mind you,” they replied, their tone mocking. “And at the end of he night, I took a small detour to Blighttown, to make sure the Servants of Chaos had secured the Bell of Awakening, so we can stop worrying about that."

“Thou’rt in good terms with the Servants of Chaos? I findeth that hard to believe.”

“You’re not my only unlikely ally, darling.”

~~~

As they arrived at the small run-down building at the settlement near the Firelink Shrine, Oswald took a moment to light up the small makeshift fireplace, then removed his coat and settled down on a worn-out wooden chair, his eyes fixed on the warm, flickering flames.

“Comfortable enough, I hope?” He turned to the Darkwraith, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“I didn’t really mind the cold, to be fair,” they started, sitting on the floor. “Or the heat, for that matter. But whatever works for you, I guess.”

“Thou’rt truly a strange one, my dear.”

“Yeah, we’ve gone over that,” they replied in exasperation. “But what about you?”

“Hm? What about me?”

“Don’t play stupid,” they chuckled, shifting their position, lying on their stomach to better meet their gaze. “It’s so fucking unfair that you know practically everything there is to know about me… when I know quite literally nothing about you.”

Oswald chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ah, but the mystery surrounding me is a part of my charm, is it not?”

“Ha-ha, yeah, no,” they sarcastically replied, their gaze becoming much more intense. “Indulge me, just this once, and tell me: who is the pardoner Oswald of Carim really?”

His smirk widened as he leaned back in his chair. The old pardoner sighed in mock exhaustion at the Darkwraith’s request, even if he was actually extremely flattered that they wanted to know more about him...

Then again, it was only natural; just like they’d mentioned, it was unfair that he and André had practically forced the truth out of them, while they knew virtually nothing about their ally, except for his name and his role.

"Thou art relentless, my dear rebel,” he began. "Very well, I shall appease thy curiosity, if only for a moment: I am but a mortal man, bound by duty and faith. I was… I was once a knight of Carim, much like thee.”

“You were born in Carim, I assume…?”

“Indeed, a humble birth in the land of Carim.”

“Mhm, and how’s the trauma?” They teasingly asked.

“Oohh, thy words cut deep, darling,” he smirked, matching their tone. “But it doth get better with time, I s’pose."

“Ooh, that’s the spirit, handsome."

He couldn’t help the low and melodic chuckle that escaped his lips at their flirtatious reply. "Thou dost have a way with words, my dear… and I must admit, thy flattery is a gift to mine ears."

“Pfft, it’s not that deep, priest. Don’t let it go to your head,” they remarked, not dropping the teasing tone just yet. “So, a fellow knight, hm? Remarkable. That’s interesting and all, but how didja go from a knight to a whole pardoner, if I may ask?"

“Well, I was trained as a knight from a young age, honing my skills in combat and whatnot,” he explained. "One fateful day, a confession weighed heavily on my soul, revealing the darkness that resided within me... A confession so profound, I found myself compelled to devote my life to the service of the Goddess."

“Have you ever met her…?"

The flames of the fireplace danced as Oswald paused, contemplating the question. "Met Velka in the flesh? Nay, I cannot claim such an encounter,” he crossed his arms, shileding himself from the cold to the best of his ability. "But I have felt her presence, witnessed her divine influence... And I dare say, I am honored to be chosen as her servant—”

“Gods, you really are a priest,” they cut him off, turning to lie on their back.

Oswald chuckled softly. "Indeed, I am a man of the cloth, as they say. But do not let my title fool thee completely, my dear. I am not as pious as I may appear...”

“Yeah, yeah, I’d figured out that much already, you flirtatious prick.”

“Art thou… comfortable lying down on the floor? I couldst get thee a chair, if thou desirest—“

“Alles gut, pardoner. Good for my back.”

“Oh well, as thou wishest, rebel,” he replied, his tone laced with a tinge of amusement. “Thou’rt definitely a strange one—“

“Hey, you’re the one working with a Darkwraith, not me.”

“Touché,” he conceded with a smirk, directing his gaze at the fireplace once more. “The Devil on my shoulder... Fate doth have a peculiar sense of humor, does it not…?”

“You can say that again… In fact—“

With those words, they swiftly got back on their feet and made their way to the old bookshelf, grabbing one of the dusty tomes—although calling it a tome, considering the worn-out state of the hard-back cover, was kind of a stretch—, then presenting it to Oswald.

“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?” They asked with a smirk, sitting on the armrest of his chair, almost too close to the pardoner. “Read a few scenes the other night. It reminded me of what you said to me after our last enounter with Kirk... You rat."

Oswald's eyes widened in surprise as he gazed upon the book; it was indeed a rather old and worn-out copy of Goethe's ‘Faust'.

Because of course, it had to be ‘Faust’. It could only be ‘Faust’.

He chuckled softly, taking the book in his hands and skimming though the faded pages. “A droll coincidence, indeed.” He leaned closer to them, their proximity almost intimate. “And… what dost thou think of it?”

“That I’m no more of a Mephistopheles than you are a Faust, darling,” they teased. “That's what I think of it and your, why, almost offensive comparison.”

The priest's light chuckle grew into a low, melodic laugh. "Ah, my apologies if my comparison struck a nerve, my dear, but dost thou not see the irony in our roles? The parallels art... hard to ignore, to say the least.”

“Grey, dear friend, is all theory”, they recited Mephisopheles’s quote from pt. 1, the 'Studierzimmer’ scene, “and green the golden tree of life.”

“I swear, ’tis like a dream to me,” he continued with the Student’s response to that line, his eyes sparkling with approval and appreciation. “Beautiful.”

“And corny as fuck, if you ask me,” they replied, getting up from the armrest.

"Ah, so the rebel hath a critical side as well,” he purred. "I shalt remember that. For what it’s worth, wouldst thou allow me to read thee a passage from the same scene?”

“Pfft, sure, go for it, old man,” they spoke dismissively, eyeing other books in the old shelf.

Oswald chuckled softly at their dry and toneless response, taking it as a challenge; he cleared his throat and opened the book to a marked page, his eyes scanning the lines before he began to recite…

“In the end, thou art — what thou art.
Set thy hair in a thousand curlicues
Place thy feet in yard-high shoes,
Thou shalt remain forever, what thou art."

“Ouch,” was the Darkwraith’s only response. “Point taken."

“Mhm, dost thou find the words striking a little too close to home, my dear?” He smirked, lowering the book and looking at them with a sly smile.

“Quite, but... I enjoyed that,” they confessed, sitting in front of the fire, very close to his chair. "You have a nice voice.”

That… was an unexpected reaction indeed; that out-of-nowhere compliment caught Oswald completely off guard for a moment, a faint blush tinting his cheeks at their words… or perhaps it the warmth irradiating from the fireplace. He hoped the latter was the case.

“Well, I am glad thou findest my voice… pleasing,” he replied nonetheless, his voice a little softer than usual.

“Read me another one,” they interrupted, cossing their arms on top of the armrest of his chair. “I find this oddly therapeutic… and, well, much cheaper than actual therapy.”

He couldn’t help but smirk at their teasing words and the unexpected request, but he also felt drawn to the allure of sharing this rather endearing moment with them; in truth, he couldn’t deny himself this opportunity to explore this newfound connection further…

With a nod, he turned his attention back to he book, flipping the pages until he settled on a passage that caught his eye:

“How about this one…? Mephistopheles says…
‘There beest lots of time: thou’st the gist.’

To which Faust replies…
‘No, no! The Devil is an egotist,
does nothing lightly, or in God’s name,
to help another. So I insist,
speak thy demands out loud,
such servants are risks, in a house.’

And Mephistopheles says, again…
‘I wilt be thy servant here, and I wilt
not stop or rest, at thy decree:
when we art together, on the other side,
Thou wilt do the same for me.’”

“Wow, that’s… literally how you and I met,” they spoke.

“A serendipitous coincidence, indeed.”

“Mhm. Dreadful."

Chapter Text

The night grew deeper as the crackling fire cast dancing shadows around the room, its warmth enveloping Oswald and the rebel Darkwraith. By the time their eyes fluttered close, the pardoner had recited a fourth of the entire book. Seeing as they could no longer hear him in their sleepy state, he finally closed the old tome, wondering how his companion could fall asleep in such an uncomfortable position—sitting on the floor, with their back stretched to be able to place their folded arms on the armrest of the chair he was sitting on.

They did look exhausted, and if they’d truly spent at least half of the first quiet night they’d had in days hunting for humanity, then they most likely were.

“Thou hurledst me back so cruelly,” he recited this passage by memory, “into the changeful common state of men.”

Another quote from ‘Faust’, by Faust.

They offered no reaction. The rebel was indeed fast asleep.

But he felt thankful for that; that came our rather corny, to be completely honest. Although, deep inside, he knew he couldn’t help but feel a touch of tenderness towards them, that elusive Devil on his shoulder...

With care, he rose from his chair, gently picking them up in his arms—and gods, either them or the armour was heavy—and carried them to the small bed in the corner of the room… while praying to Velka that they didn’t wake up and get any wrong ideas about this completely innocent gesture.

As he set them down on the old mattress, a small smile played on his lips as he tucked them in, making sure they were comfortable and warm under the covers. He couldn't help but feel a sense of protection as he watched them sleep peacefully. This living-myth-made-villain before him had acted as a guadian presence to him ever since they’d showed up in his life; this was the least they could do to start returning the favour.

For a moment, he allowed himself to linger there, silently observing their serene expression, the soft rise and fall of their chest, the flickering firelight painting a warm glow across their skeletal mask…

His hand hesitated for a moment, slowly reaching out to caress the edge of that damned mask; he couldn’t help but wonder what lay beneath it, what secrets and scars it concealed… But alas, the realist in him prevailed.

He was beyond such desires; he needed to respect their wish for anonymity, for keeping their visage hidden. Instead, he allowed his touch to linger for a brief moment, his hand tracing down the edge of their cheekbone, before reluctantly pulling away. With a final, affectionate glance, he turned from the sleeping Darkwraith, making his way to the window to gaze out at the darkened landscape; the night was calm, holding its secrets close as the fire continued to crackle behind him… Alles geheim, all so secret,, much like Anjou themself.

He so wished he could call them by name without making them so, so uncomfortable.

Eventually, the morning sun peeked through the cracks of the worn-out curtains, casting a gentle glow over the room. Oswald stirred from his sleep, rubbing his eyes and stretching his weary limbs… And the first thing he heard was a knock on the door.

“Strange”, he thought to himself. He quickly made his way to the door, slightly disoriented from waking up. As he pulled it open, he found the source of the knock—or rather, it hit him in the face…

…in quite an alliteral sense, as a matter of fact.

“You despicable rat!” Said the man who’d showed up to his door, clad in a rather peculiar—and very, very recognizable—golden armour. “I know you are hiding one of—oh wait, it’s just you.”

Oswald quickly regained his balance and looked at his unexpected visitor: it was none other than Lautrec of Carim, a self-proclaimed knight who, in his eyes, had a penchant for strife... and betrayal.

"Lautrec,” Oswald said with a forced smile and an annoyed tone of voice, straightening his robes as he recovered from the surprise impact. “How lovely to see thee again—“

“Enough,” he cut him off, raising one shotel to his neck. “Where is the Darkwraith?"

The pardoner didn’t budge; his gaze flickered with pure annoyance as he stared into Lautrec's eyes through his help, unfazed by the blade pressed against his neck.

“The infamous Knight of Carim seeketh answers,” he remarked, that sly grin creeping onto his face again. “Why, when didst thou decide to abandon thy criminal ways in favour of—“

“I thought you were wiser, pardoner,” he interrupted once more, the blade of the shotel slightly pressing against Oswald’s neck. “I have spoken to the right people, and they told me they saw you walking with a Darkwraith. Care to explain that to me, old priest…?”

“Ah, Lautrec,” he spoke with a sardonic chuckle. "Thou shouldst know better than to believe every idle rumour whispered in thine ear.”

Gods, he hated that damned pardoner. Despite the sharp edge of the blade pressed against his bare neck, he did not show any signs of fear or submission… What if he was making a fool of himself in front of one of the man he hated the most in all of Lordran? A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes, hidden behind his golden helm...

“You… you mean to say I was lied to…?” The knight asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“Thou'st been deceived—“

“No. No you haven’t, babe,” said a third voice coming from inside the building.

Immediately after, the Darkwraith revealed themself, masked and clad in their usual armour, slightly pushing Oswald to the side as they approached the doorstep.

“I’m right here, handsome,” they continued. “Y’found me."

“What art thou doing…?!” Oswald mouthed, his eyes wide-open at the inexplicable actions of his Darkwraith companion.

“Calm down, Ozzy. Lautrec’s an old friend of mine,” they replied. "Let’s just hope he remembers that bit.”

Lautrec's grip on his shotel loosened slightly as confusion and surprise washed over him. A brief silence ensued as recognition struck him like a blow…

“Wait… Anjou?!” He gasped, slowly lowering his weapon.

“Ugh,” they rolled their eyes under the mask. “Gods, I will never get used to it again—yes, darling, it’s me."

Oswald's eyes widened in disbelief as he witnessed that strange interaction. The tension in the air seemed to melt away—partly, at least—, leaving behind an awkward silence as Lautrec observed the rebel Darkwraith, attempting to reconcile their current appearance with the character he once knew.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You were always a bit of a clown, just the tiniest bit insane,” he began. “But this… this is something else.”

“Things happened,” was their only reply. “I did what I had to do. Not proud of it, but it is what it is.”

The pardoner culd only watch the exchange quietly, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “I must say,” he interjected, crossing his arms, “this is quite the revelation. How come ye knoweth each other…?”

“Knights of Carim,” Lautrec said.

“Same school,” the Darkwraith added.

“Oh. I see,” Oswald remarked, pausing for a moment, considering the implications. “An unexpected connection, indeed—”

“Yes, yes, shut up, priest,” Lautrec spoke again. “Explain yourself, Anjou. What is going on? Why are you a Darkwraith? Why all these recent attacks...?”

“Gods, you’ve some catching up to do, big boy,” the rebel answered in mock exasperation. “First of all: don’t call me by name—for the time being, at least. Second: come inside. We’ll tell you everything.”

Curiosity piqued, the pardoner watched as Lautrec reluctantly followed the Darkwraith inside the building; as he closed the door behind them, he couldn't help but wonder how this unexpected reunion would further complicate their already perilous journey…

The priest of Velka disliked few people in Lordran as much as he disliked the so-called Knight Lautrec of Carim; he believed him a criminal, an obsessed man willing to commit any atrocity known to humankind in the name of his capricious deity: Fina, the goddess of love and beauty… or something like that.

But perhaps, just perhaps, he could come in handy. Oswald despised him greatly, but that didn’t make him any less capable in battle. On top of that, he seemed to be in friendly terms with the Darkwraith…

…emphasis on 'seemed'.

The knight deliberately sat on one of the chairs and removed his helm, revealing his pale complexion, golden eyes and messy gray hair, then looked directly at the Darkwraith, as if expecting they’d to the same… but they didn’t.

And then, he remembered something:

“I… can’t remember what you look like—“

“Oh gods, it worked like a charm,” the Darkwraith replied.

“What worked like a charm…?” Oswald interjected.

“No one remembers what I look like,” they retorted. “Not ‘Trec here, not André, not no one. I get to have that to myself. Made a deal with Velka back in the day, when I knew I had no choice to join the Darkwraiths... for obvious reasons.”

The pardoner’s eyes widened at the mention of his goddess. "A deal with Velka...? Truly, thou art full of surprises, my dear," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "To have struck a bargain with the Goddess of Sin herself... that speaks of great devotion... or great desperation.”

“The second, darling. The second.”

It suddenly made sense, that entire conversation about the rebel being Velka’s dead angle. Just how many secrets could this elusive individual keep…?

For the next few minutes, the Darkwraith explained everything to Lautrec—everything he was alowed to know, that is—, from why they became a Darkwraith, to their escape from New Londo, Kaathe’s plan, the destruction of the Undead Parish and their victory over their former brethren in Blighttown… and mostly everything in between. Lautrec could only listen, eyes wide open, as everything started to click: the frequent Darkwraith attacks, the Parish being burned to the ground, the weaker connection with the gods in Anor Londo…

“it’s the end times, is it not…?” Lautrec asked in a small voice.

“Not on my watch,” they spoke.

“And what’s the vieillard’s role in this…?” The knight said again, directing his gaze to Oswald.

“Merely an unwitting ally in this battle against my companion’s former brethren,” the pardoner replied, frowning at Lautrec’s tone. “Our aims allign, for the time being. The Darkwraith and I have joined forces to prevent the end of the world as we know it—“

“Preventing the end of the world...?" Lautrec scoffed, leaning closer to the rebel. “Leave this to the youth, old man—“

“I’m much older than Oswald, darling,” they interjected.

A tense silence followed that bit, broken by the perdoner’s misplaced chuckle at that peculiar exchange. “Ah, indeed, I shouldst have known,” he spoke, addressing the Darkwraith. “The Devil knoweth more through being old than through being the Devil…"

“…and better the Devil you know,” they added in a rather flirtatious tone, “than the devil you don’t.”

“You two disgust me,” the knight of Carim muttered.

Chapter Text

“A Darkwraith, hm…?” Lautrec broke the tense silence. “Fate’s a bitch indeed.”

“You can say that again,” they scoffed. “Second-in-command, as a matter of fact.”

“Is that so…? Kaathe lost quite the treasure indeed.”

“Nah, he didn’t like me that much, to be fair… for obvious reasons,” they chuckled, shifting their position slightly to better meet his gaze. “But my position was rather comfortable, I won’t deny that; I was only topped by Kirk… in, uh, more ways than one—“

“Shut up, I don't wanna know—“

“You know what’s funny?”

“Tell me.”

“I trained him myself.”

“Is that so…?

“…in more ways than one.”

“Stop it,” he brought his hands to his face. “Please.”

Oswald sat behind them, leaning back against the wall, watching the exchange unfold, with an amused glint in his lavender eyes, as the duo rested near the fireplace; no armour, no animosity whatsoever, just two former knights enjoying some mundane banter. He figured they had a lot of catching up to do, and knew not to interfere… Not too much, at least.

It was an odd sight, though, seeing the usual stoic Lautrec showing a hint of feeling as he conversed with the Darkwraith, losing his composure at their shameless teasing… Indeed, it seemed this unexpected reunion had brought up some interesting memories and emotions.

“For what it’s worth,” Lautrec began, “I am glad you’re still around.”

“Aw, you’re so cute when you wanna be—“

“Shut up,” he cut them off. “Listen; I want to help. I’m not going to sit idle while you two do all the dirty work. Those Darkwraiths can be a handful—”

“Phew. Yeah. Truly.”

“So I will fight alongside you,” he added. “And… the vieillard too, if I must.”

It was almost entertaining, adorable even, to watch him try to offend.

Nevertheless, Oswald's lips curled into a faint smile at Lautrec's unexpected offer. "I am pleased to accept thine assistance, knight," he replied, his voice dripping with his usual sarcasm.

The Darkwraith’s crimson eyes moved from Oswald to Lautrec with curiosity. They considered asking why those two hated each other so much, but they decided they would address the topic some other time, when the tensions between the two Cariminer men had subsided a bit… if such a thing was even possible.

Still, they couldn’t help but feel a sense of—cautious—optimism, truly a luxury in these times.

“Not my place to ask…” The Darkwraith spoke again, with a small voice. “But I kinda wanna know… who gave you that tip?”

“Hm?”

“Who told you about Oswald and I being in this settlement…?”

“Oh, that. It was some crestfallen warrior at the Firelink Shrine,” Lautrec replied. “Why?”

“I wanna know whose humanity I’ll be stealing tonight."

Lautrec’s eyes widened even further at those words, instinctively finding Oswald’s across the room, as if silently asking him is that was normal… but the pardoner simply rolled his eyes. “Quite alright, worry not,” he said. “They shan’t be responsible for any deaths whilst they fight alongside us… Except our foes’, of course.”

“Oh… I see.”

“So, my dearest friend Lautrec,” the rebel spoke again, their tone hinting to a complete change in topic. “I assume you’ve encountered some of my lovely people in your travels. Any news we would consider relevant?”

“Indeed I have," Lautrec replied, his voice taking on a somber tone. “I’ve only had a few encounters with them, but from what I’ve seen, they have become even more ruthless and relentless in their pursuit of humanity, though they seem to be more… organized than before.”

“Ah yeah, Kirk enjoys bossing them around,” they leaned back, lying on the floor. “Alles wie immer. Does a good job at it, too.”

"Oh, I didst not just hear thee complimenting our enemy, my dear," Oswald interjected.

“Babe, I’m big enough to give credit where credit is due,” they replied, their eyes meeting Oswald’s. “And you gotta hand it to him; Kirk is… formidable; he has that soldier—no, that captain mindset, and he rarely gets out of it… But that’s also why he’s such a dangerous enemy—“

“Someone’s still infatuated…” Lautrec chimed in.

“With another human, yeah,” they retorted. "Imagine having a crush on a deity.”

“Touché,” he took a sip of Estus as he answered.

“Anyting else, Lautrec…?” Oswald added, arching an eyebrow. “Any useful information whatsoever…?”

“Not much, no,” he admitted. “But if they tried to destroy the Bells of Awakening, they must be trying to break all ties with Anor Londo—“

“Just as I imagined…” The rebel muttered.

“…so that no one can stop them when they invade the city,” the knight concluded. “Darkwraiths in Anor Londo is a worst-case-scenario.”

“I don’t suppose Sen’s fortress is still functional…?”

“Not anymore,” Lautrec crossed his arms, his expression becoming bitter. “Some Chosen-Undead-wannabe disarmed all traps in there.”

“If I understandeth correctly,” Oswald interjected, “Sen’s fortress beest our best chance to ambush Kirk and his soldiers. Correct?”

“That’s… one way to see it. Heard from that crestfallen warior that they’re planning to raid the Fortress tomorrow night, as a matter of fact,” Lautrec admitted, nodding to himself before directing his gaze at the Darkwraith again. “Anjou—“

“Ugh.”

“Stop complaining. Can you still do that thing?”

“What thing?”

“You know the thing, that—“ he drew a line in the air with his finger, making a brief whistling noise— “thing.”

An uncomfortable, dead-silent pause, and then…

“What the fuck does that even mean, Lautrec?!”

“Warping, ‘Jou! The warping thingy!”

“I can’t warp, you moron!”

“Yes you can, you red-eyed sewer rat!” He yelled back. “Saw it with my own eyes—“

“Oh wait, yeah, I think I know you know what you mean,” they spoke in a much calmer tone all of a sudden. “Yeah, yeah, I can still do that. Still, that’s not exactly warping—"

“Don’t care,” Lautrec stopped them again. “Can you get to the top of the Fortress while I re-activate the traps?”

“Aha, that I can—“

“And can you,” he continued, “take someone else with you when you do that thing…?”

“Never tried that before. Why?”

“Because I’m thinking you and the vieillard should keep watch around the higher level and secure the entrance to the city,” he explained, “while I dispatch them from within the Fortress.”

“Sounds like a bit too much weight on thy shoulders, does it not…?” The pardoner chimed in. “dost thou believe thou’rt capable of—“

“Please, pardoner,” he interrupted him. “You’re talking to someone who constantly goes in and out of Anor Londo. I know that damned Fortress like the back of my hand,” he confidently leaned back, taking another sip of Estus. “Trust me. We have the advantage.”

Oswald studied Lautrec for a moment, his lavender eyes glinting with a mixture of skepticism and begrudging respect. "Very well, knight. I shall trust in thy experience then," he conceded, a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

“A wise choice, indeed,” Lautrec added.

“So. What until then…?” The Darkwraith asked.

“We wait,” the knight of Carim replied. “Nothing moves, nothing stays still. Those connards are taking it slow, so no need to rush things.”

Chapter Text

The night was dark, the moon hanging high in the sky, casting its pale light upon the worn cobblestones as Oswald stood outside the building he’d inherited. He watched the other inhabitants of the settlement walk past him, wondering if they were aware of the current state of the world...

Perhaps not.

It was unbearably cold outside, but he did not want to go inside just yet, not while that poor excuse for a knight was still awake and bitching around. Gods, he despised him; even if he was a great addition to their team—if this strange alliance between assassin (formerly), knight and priest could be called as such—, he was still the most annoying man to be around… even if the Darkwraith didn’t seem to mind his company.

Speaking of which…

He heard the main door open; always so percetive, the rebel walked out of the building and approached Oswald cautiously, sensing he’d been outside for perhaps a bit too long. They stood right next to him, seemingly unbothered by the chilling cold; the pardoner glanced at them, his gaze lingering on their masked face for a moment before he turned his attention back to the scenery before them.

“Thou seemest quite at ease with this weather,” he mused.

“A century in the Abyss will mess with your senses,” they softly replied. “I can barely feel the breeze.”

“Breeze…? Dost thou not feel the wind on thy face? ’Tis unbearable cold, my darling,” the pardoner chuckled, directing his gaze at them again.

“Is it…? Hm. Yeah, it did mess me up bad."

His amusement softened into something closer to concern, but it quickly faded when he saw they seemed completely unbothered by it; if they weren’t worried, why should he be? So he simply sighed, perhaps as an attempt to shield himself from the cold—trying to hold back a shiver—, or perhaps he was simply tired, exhausted… very much not content with his current predicament.

“A coin for your thoughts…?” They broke the silence, their glowing red eyes fixated on his.

Oswald turned his head to look at them once more; he couldn’t help but be captivated by the intensity behind that skeletal mask. He took a moment to consider their request, his voice laced with weariness as he responded: "Oh, my thoughts… They art a tangled mess, my friend,” he sighed deeply. "I find myself questioning our choices, whether 'tis wise to trust that deplorable—"

“Hey, I get it, he’s not the nicest,” they cut him off, chuckling softly. “But you should see him in action. If he’s only half as good as I remember, then it will al be worth it. Trust me.”

"Hmm... Thou dost speak of him with such conviction," he remarked, a note of caution in his tone.

“Because I can, darling. I know Lautrec. Besides, you only need to put up with him until this is over, then we can all go our own separate ways—“

“And what beest thine intention for then?" Oswald interrupted them, his voice softening. "What wilt thou do once this ordeal is behind us...?"

“I… I never thought of it, to be fair,” they muttered. “I’m not going back to New Londo, that’s for sure. I want to mess up the place bad, so that there’s nothing to return to, but... other than that…”

A dry silence ensued; there was no way they could’ve made any plans for when this was over, because their only goal at that moment was to halt the spread of the Abyss, ever since they managed to escape it. Once that was over, their purpose would be exhausted; they would have no place in this world...

And Oswald couldn’t bear the thought of that. His brow furrowed as he pondered their words, their unfinished, yet perfectly clear reply.

"Perhaps... perhaps there is something beyond our current endeavor," he ventured, his voice soft but hopeful. “Existence is ever-changing, my dear. There may yet be a path that will reveal itself to thee once our task is complete.”

“Oh. I like your optimism, Ozzy,” their eyes seemed to smile at him.

“Optimism... Aye, thou canst call it that, I s’pose," he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But I speak from mine own experience, my dear; the world has a peculiar way of presenting opportunities when thou least expectest them..." He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his voice taking on a softer tone. "And truth be told, I... rather enjoy having thee around. Thou dost bring a certain excitement to my otherwise dreary existence.”

“Like the Undead Parish burning to the ground…?” They teased.

“Low blow, little Devil,” he chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “But I won’t deny, 'tis the thrill of chaos and unpredictability that brings a certain allure to our partnership.”

“Hmm. Yeah, I think so too—“

“We art bound by a shared fate,” he cut them off, his voice much more melodramatic all of a sudden. “Like Faust and Mephistopheles—“

“Ozzy, you can stop making that comparison anytime,” they interjected, placing a hand on their shoulder in mock exasperation.

"Oh, but 'tis such a fitting allegory," he teased further, his voice dripping with mock drama. "Alas, thou dost not appreciate my literary charms...”

“Hm. 'Two souls live in me'—”

“—'alas, irreconcilable with one another',” he finished. “Oohh, I knew thou werest just teasing me, my darling..."

Those words hung in the air for a moment, the weight of unspoken thoughts lingering between them. Oswald finally turned to face them fully, his lavender eyes searching their masked face for a sign, a glimpse of what lay beneath…

“Oswald…” They spoke in a small voice.

“Yes…?” He responded, his own voice softening.

For a moment, it felt like they wanted to say something world-shattering, smething that could potentially change the way they viewed each other…

Which is why they decided against it.

Instead, they sighed deeply, withdrawing their gloved hand from his shoulder, alowing it to slide down his coat, before meeting his gaze again.

“You’re going to freeze to death here,” they reluctantly spoke. “Come back inside. Sit by the fire.”

A flicker of disappointment passed through the priest's eyes, but he quickly masked it with a complacent smile, nodding in agreement. “Very well," he acquiesced, turning to follow the rebel back inside the old building.

No, the fire wouldn’t be enough to warm him up now, after that cold, cold interaction… And the lingering thought of what could’ve been.

But perhaps, it was for the best.

And he knew better than to dwell on what-ifs and missed opportunities.

As they walked inside the building, they found Lautrec was still awake, sitting next to the Fire and skimming through the pages of an old book, not paying any attention to the duo as they stepped inside… but in reality, he was just really good at feigning disinterest.

“Priest,” the knight spoke, breaking the tense silence, raising a finger. “A moment, please…?”

Oswald glanced at Lautrec, his expression neutral, before he nodded and moved closer to him… keeping a safe distance, just in case.

“What dost thou require, knight?" He asked.

“Who owned this house...?"

The pardoner blinked at that question, slightly taken aback by the unexpectedness of it. He looked around the humble abode, his gaze drifting across the aged furniture and worn wooden floors…

“It belonged to an old friend,” he admitted. “He went hollow and eventually disappeared. I inherited this place quite unexpectedly. 'Twas simply bestowed upon me—“

“This friend of yours,” he cut him off. “Who was he? More specifically, what was he?”

Oohh, that tone.

He sounded rather terrified… like he’d seen a ghost.

And if there was anyone there who knew about 'ghosts', it was the rebel Darkwraith; they walked towards the knight of Carim with a determined stride, swiftly taking the book from his hands and eyeing through the pages, their red eyes quickly taking all the details.

“You see it, ‘Jou?” Lautrec asked. “Tell me I’m not just imagining it."

Oswald’s eyes widened as he began to realize what Lautrec was hinting at. He stepped closer to the rebel, looking at the pages of the book; written on the old paper were descriptions, sketches, and accounts of figures clad in dark armor, wielding wicked-looking weapons… and a few personal retellings of certain events.

But most importantly, that was...

“...Fraser’s handwriting…” The pardoner muttered. “'Tis unmistakably his, but—“

“Fraser...?” They repeated, meeting his gaze with wide-open eyes. “Fraser of Zena?”

“Yes… Correct...” He nodded gravely. “How come… Why knowest thee of him..?”

“Oh... Oh my, this is embarrassing for you, babe,” they rolled their eyes, smirking under their mask as they tossed the old book over their shoulder. “Turns out I’m not your first Darkwraith friend.”

An uncomfortable paused followed, in which Lautrec got up to pick up the book his companion had so dismissively discarded with a low grunt, while Oswald tried to come into terms with the fact that his old friend, the righteous man he’d inherited this house from, was actually, secretly, a Darkwraith.

“That lovely story about Fraser going hollow and disappearing,” they resumed. “Who told you that?”

Oswald's expression shifted, his brows knitting together in equal parts confusion and realization. “He had a daughter,” he replied. “She told me—“

“Alles lüge, they cut him off. “Lies, all of it. Kirk killed him. Man was getting out of hand, that’s what Kaathe told him; gave him an ultimatum, but Fraser chose to forsake the Darkwraiths to be able to walk the surface freely, so the Darkstalker had Kirk... fix things, you could say.”

The pardoner's eyes widened, the gravity of the situation sinking in; he remembered Fraser as a man of secrets, but he never suspected the depths of deceit that lay within his old friend. The air in the old house—a Darkwraith’s humble abode, apparently—seemed to grow dense with tension, as if the weight of the revelation was bearing down on them all...

“Kirk… murdered Fraser?” He repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

“As happens with everyone who refuses to get back in line,” they replied. “…As would’ve happened to me, had I not killed my way to the surface—”

“Enough melodramatics, you two,” Lautrec interjected, opening the handwritten book again by one specific page and showing it to them. “You two fail to see why this is helpful for our cause.”

Oswald’s attention shifted to the page that the knight of Carim was pointing at, curiously mingling with a hint of trepidation; his eyes scanned the strange map drawn on the old paper, but he failed to recognize the location, to figure out what any of that meant. “What am I looking at…?” He muttered.

“You don’t know where this is?” The Darkwraith asked, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve... never been to Anor Londo before…?”

“No, no I have not,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Never had a reason to, so never have I set foot in the City of the Gods.”

“‘Jou, you know what these are…?” Lautrec asked, pointing at a few marks scattered across the map.

“Oh, these are no longer operational—“

“‘Jou, what are they?” He insisted.

“We planned to raid Anor Londo, many decades ago, but we were eventually chased out of the city after a few days. Those were our hideouts,” they traced a few lines on the paper with a gloved finger: “one near the entrance, one beneath the Darkmoon Tomb and this one, the most important one of them all, behind the cathedral. I assume…” They paused, considering their next words, before nodding to themself. "Yes, for sure; that's the one they'll be targeting if they make it to Anor Londo—"

“Why art thou so sure of that…?” Oswald chimed in.

“What’s in the cathedral, vieillard?” Lautrec smirk. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. You, of all people, should know."

Oswald's eyes widened once more at the realization, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place: "The Painting of Ariamis," he muttered, almost to himself. "They seek to desecrate it—“

“—and if they succeed—”

“—then Velka will be no more.”

“Correct,” Lautrec smirked. “If enough of those connards get to Anor Londo, then not only Velka, but also Fina, Gwyn’s children—if they’re still there—, the Blades of the Darkmoon… They will all be in danger. Quite frankly, I don’t think any of them could halt, and let alone withstand—“

“Hey, you never know!” The rebel cut him off. "They chased us out of the city once, handsome. Of course they could—“

“Things change, ‘Jou,” he insisted. “The Fire fades; the gods aren’t as mighty, as powerful as they used to be. Any attack, no matter how small, how insignificant, would leave them vulnerable and exposed. And on top of that…”

“…Kirk is leading them,” they concluded.

“Precisely,” the knight nodded, his piercing golden eyes fixated on theirs. “And… well, you know him better than I; you know he won’t allow the smallest mistake.”

That shut them up completely; Lautrec was absolutely right.

“I’ll give this one another read tonight,” the knight spoke again, “and I’ll see if this Fraser man wrote anything else that can be useful to us.”

“Well, his dedication is appreciated, at least,” Oswald thought to himself. “Perhaps Anjou is right; perhaps he is not that bad—”

“Get the old man to bed, ‘Jou,” he resumed. “He’s not useful to us if he can barely walk in the morning.”

“Nevermind. He is the scum of the Earth."

Chapter Text

The morning sun cast a warm glow upon the room as Oswald stirred awake. Lautrec would most definitely be happy to learn that the vieillard hadn’t died in his sleep… or maybe not, if the feeling was remotely mutual. The pardoner stretched his limbs, feeling a slight—perhaps not-so-slight—ache in his joints…

Gods, he truly was old.

As he slowly rose from his bed, the memories of the night before flooded back to him; the revelations, the plans… and the knowledge that Anor Londo was in grave danger, more so than he’d initially imagined. He could only sigh deeply, push his anxiety aside and hope for the best.

He quickly got dressed and walked to the main area of the building, his eyes scanning the room, searching for his unlikely allies; he only saw the rebel Darkwraith, standing by the window, gazing out at the settlement… His own personal Mephistopheles, the bane of his existence...

“Good morrow, my dear,” he greeted, trying not to let his anxiety show.

“Hm?” They turned to meet his gaze for a moment. “Oh, yeah, mornin’, Ozzy.”

They quickly turned their attention back to the view before them. It was clear that the Darkwraith was also not too excited about the day ahead. Still, a conversation about their course of action was inevitable:

“Hast thou given any more thought to Lautrec’s plan?” He inquired, approaching the Darkwraith and resting a hand on the windowsill.

“I have, but I still don’t know if I can actually take someone with me when I’m travelling through the Abyss—someone who isn’t a Darkwraith, that is,” they replied, crossing their arms. “Don’t know how your body would react to it.”

“That remains to be seen, I suppose.”

“Da gibt es mehr zu sehn,” they replied. “Much remains to be seen.”

“How doth it feel?” His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered their words.

“Oh, you wouldn’t like it,” they chuckled softly. “Imagine, if thou wilt, walking in absolute, pitch-black darkness, where it’s unbearably cold and the ground isn’t even solid beneath your feet; you only know where you’re going because the Abyss is leading the way, and in just a few steps, you can bridge great chasms, cross enormous distances, go anywhere you desire…”

Oswald's curiosity was piqued, despite the warning in their words. He leaned closer, his voice low and filled with intrigue… “And how doth one obtain such a close connection to the Abyss to be able to do such a thing?”

“You just need to be lucky enough… or unlucky, rather.”

He tilted his head slightly, concerned etched on his face. "Surely there must be a price to pay for such power," he murmured. “I dost not want to imagine…”

“There is, darling... There really is. But you’re not ready for that conversation yet.”

“What dost that even—“

“Tidings,” Lautrec’s deep, growly voice chimed in, cutting Oswald off. “I’m glad to see you’re up early.”

The pardoner inevitably turned his attention towards the knight of Carim, with a look of annoyance in his eyes that quickly turned into worry and intrigue, as soon as he saw the exhaustion etched in his expression; it was clear he’d spent the entire night doing some thorough research, while he and the rebel slept. A part of him felt guilty.

“Good morrow, knight,” he finally said. “Hast thou found anything useful in Fraser’s writings…?”

“Allow me a moment to get ready,” Lautrec replied in a monotone voice. “I will explain everything on the way to Sen’s fortress."

“Take your time,” the rebel replied, grabbing Oswald by the sleeve, guiding him to the door. “We’ll wait for you outside.”

And the pardoner simply allowed himself to be led by the rebel, their touch on his arm sending a—very much involuntary—tingle down his spine. Once again, he was met with the cold breeze, though not as cold as last night’s, fortunately. Such a cruel, cruel winter this was.

He couldn’t help but glance at the Darkwraith by his side, their face still hidden under that skeletal mask; the events of the previous night had brought them closer in a way, but there was still so much he didn't know about them, so many secrets lurking beneath that mysterious fassade.

The single thought of it made him feel… exhausted.

Huh. How strange. What an odd feeling.

~~~

“Fraser was a low-ranking Darkwraith,” Lautrec explained, leading the way to Sen’s Fortress. “His involvement wasn’t all that important to the Darkstalker, so it wasn’t imperative that he spent all his time in New Londo.”

“Yeah, that checks out,” the rebel added. “He was one of our lesser strategists—“

“Lesser?” The knight interjected, glancing at the rebel through his helm. “Oh, absolutely not! Perhaps his lack of involvement and meaningless status led you all to believe that he was disposable,” he explained, his voice laced with sarcasm, “but he was aware of the Darkwraiths’ every plan and action, inside and outside of New Londo.”

The pardoner listened intently as they walked, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stone pavement that marked the path from the—ruins of—the Undead Parish and Sen’s Fortress. His mind raced as he took in this new revelation; not only was his old friend a Darkwraith—part time, at least—, but he also was, for whatever reason, leeching on all their intel and keeping it to himself...

It seemed almost too convenient.

"Then, pray tell, why dost thou believe he kept his knowledge hidden?” He finally asked.

“Simple,” the knight smirked under his helm. “Unlike all the other Darkwraiths, he was a good man—“

“I’m right here,” the rebel interjected.

“I’m not even going to look at you, ‘Jou,” he dismissively replied. “Like I was saying, Fraser’s intention’s didn’t align with the Darkwraith’s. On top of that, because his schedule allowed him to go in and out of New Londo as he pleased, he managed to build a life on the surface, a house, a family... and he was determined to protect it.”

“And I assumeth... that led him to be extra vigilant of the Darkwraith’s plans,” the pardoner mused.

“Correct,” Lautrec nodded. “Would you believe me if I told you that he had somewhat predicted this entire predicament? Kaathe planning to cause another breakout, I mean.”

“Gods above and below...” The Darkwraith whispered to themself.

“Thou jests, surely”, Oswald replied, his voice filled with equal parts disbelief and dread. “He foresaw all of this…?”

“Not in great detail… But he had his suspicions, yes.”

“And he had spoken not a word of it?” The priest insisted, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine at the thought that someone knew what was coming, and yet nothing was done to prevent it…

…and that someone was none other than a close friend of his, no less.

“Had he spoken,” the rebel began, “he would’ve most likely compromised many people from the surface; Kaathe would’ve made haste with his plot, and we wouldn’t have had the time to defend ourselves.”

And at their words, the pardoner’s expression softened ever so slightly, a heartfelt blend of understanding and guilt for his reaction washing over him. “He chose to bear the weight of this burden alone…” He murmured, his tone filled with respect. “To protect those he held dear.”

“To protect all of Lordran, probably,” they concluded with feigned compassion. “What a guy.”

With each passing day, a revelation made itself clearer: things are never what they seem; we may never know what truly hides behind a façade...

…as annoying as that may be.

The team finally reached the gates of Sen’s Fortress… the very much closed gates of Sen’s Fortress, as a matter of fact, thwarted by large gates barring the entrance. That presented a problem, for obvious reasons… potentially, at least.

“‘Jou,” Lautrec spoke. “Can you fix this?”

“Can do,” they confidently replied. “Gimme a second.”

They made a strange gesture, as if clawing on the empty space in front of them, creating a tear in the very fabric of reality, then walked inside the gateway they’d created. Oswald had seen them do something similar to this before, when they seemingly materialized out of nowhere after he summoned them in the fight for the First Bell of Awakening...

Now he could put that mysterious action of theirs into words; they were walking in and out of the Abyss.

“I wonder how they do it,” Lautrec added, completely unimpressed by the way they simply vanished. “They make it look so easy…"

The pardoner couldn't help but agree with Lautrec's sentiment; the way they'd effortlessly slipped into the Abyss, without hesitation or any visible sign of strain, was truly perplexing. No wonder it would lead many to believe Anjou of Carim was some sort of legendary being…

…but alas, they were only human after all... An unlucky one at that, as they’d told him earlier.

"If only it were so simple for us," Oswald murmured nonetheless, shaking his head.

The faint sound of a level being pulled, coming from a nearby balcony inside the fortress, made itself heard; merely seconds after, the large metal gates rose, allowing entry to the decrepit, empty Fortress. The Darkwraith soon returned to their side through yet another abyssal gateway, their eyes fixated on the interior of the ancient training tower.

“Looks like our last Chosen Undead cleared the fortress for us,” they spoke. “Seath’s snakemen are nowhere to be seen, and all traps have been disarmed."

“I’ll re-activate some of them,” Lautrec said as he stepped inside the tower, his eyes skillfully inspecting every single mechanism, avoiding all suspicious areas with excellent precision. “You worry about taking our pardoner to the top level. That’s where you two will be most useful—”

“Lautrec, you might want to reconsider this distribution,” they interjected. “They will be coming from below. I know you’re a capable fighter, but you’ll be all alone—“

“I’ll be defending myself with the Fortress, ‘Jou,” he cut them off this time. “I studied this place, had to learn the placement every single trap by heart to be able to cross it again and again. I’ll make it functional again and wait for them at the core, right after the first elevator,” he confidently declared, smirking under his helm. "Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

“You better…”

“You and the old man go to the top, clear the area if you need to,” the knight instructed, “and—listen to this one—re-activate the iron golem.”

“I’m sorry, what?” They shook their head at that last bit.

“Re-activate the iron golem.”

“I know what you said, dumbass! How the fuck are we supposed to do that!?"

“Usually it takes an Ancient Dragon soul—“

“Oh well, that’s too bad, I left mine in New Londo,” they sarcastically interrupted. “How the fuck do you expect us to have a—“

“Let me finish, rat!” Lautrec snapped back. “You, ‘Jou, can manipulate abyssal energy. Come up with something. Gather enough of it to re-activate it for the night.”

That actually sounded feasible; the rebel’s gaze softened after that explanation.

“And you, old man, watch their back,” the knight of Carim turned to face the pardoner. “You make sure nothing happens to them. Understood?”

Oswald’s gaze met Lautrec’s, a moment of silent understanding passing between them. “No need to tell me twice, knight,” he affirmed, his voice unwavering.

“Good. I’ll meet you at the top once I’m done down here.”

And with that, he walked deeper into the Fortress, leaving the pardoner alone with the Darkwraith once more. Gods, what an intense conversation.

He had to give credit where credit was due; Lautrec was a great addition to the team, despite his unbearably rude, cold attitude towards them.

Oswald and the rebel exchanged a glance, no words needed to convey the sense of determination and commitment they both felt.

“Come now,” they broke the tense silence, rubbing their gloved hands together. “Let’s see how many seconds of pure abyssal darkness that body of yours can withstand."

“We shall find out, won’t we…?” He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he played along with the Darkwraith’s teasing…

...even if he was very much aware that those seconds of pure abyssal darkness were most certainly going to be agonizing.

Chapter Text

“I’m going to ask you to close your eyes,” they spoke softly, too close for comfort, “hold your breath and hold on as tight as possible. Chances are your grip will loosen once we enter the Abyss.”

“How so…?” The pardoner asked cautiously, sighing deeply and getting ready for the worse.

“You might lose yourself a bit once we’re inside,” they cryptically replied. “Happens often if you’re not used to it. Humanity overload. And not the good kind.”

“Thou’rt being very cryptical about this entire deal…”

“I’m being as clear as one can be about this. You’ll understand once we reach the top,” they concluded, holding out a gloved hand for him to take. “Now, are you ready?”

Inevitably, the pardoner hesitated for a moment, contemplating the consequence of what they were about to do. He stared at the outstretched hand before him, a myriad of thoughts swirling in his mind.

“Thou sayest,” he began, “that this Abyss thou dost enter is not like the one the Darkstalker wishes to spread, correct…?”

“My connection is with the pure, Primeaval Abyss only,” they reassured him. “Not the corrupted void that Kaathe is cooking up in New Londo. You’ll be safe; I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

Pure, Primeaval Abyss. That didn’t make it any less scarier.

Still, he’d rather take that path than expose himself to all the sangers of Sen’s Fortress. And so, still apprehensive about what lay ahead, he reached our and clasped their hand in his, his grip firm and resolute.

“Very well,” he nodded, steeling himself for the unknown. “Lead the way.”

“Remember to hold your breath, close your eyes and don’t let go, alright…?"

“I will heed thy instructions. Lead on.”

With a final nod, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly; he gripped their hand tightly and braced himself for the unknown, prepared to face the Abyss… or so he thought.

He felt a surge of energy coursing through him as they stepped into the pitch-black void; in an instant, the comforting sensation of solid ground vanished beneath his feet, replaced by a disorienting feeling of weightlessness. It was as if everything around him melted away, leaving only darkness and a deafening silence…

No, there was no sense of time or space; he simply existed in a void, unaware of anything outside of it. He could feel himself move forward, but just barely. Rather, it felt like he was being moved, from one point to another. It was disconcerting, to say the least, but he held on, his grip tightening even further, despite the numbness that was starting to take over his body. The rebel’s guidance was crucial, leading him through the darkness with expert precision, never letting go of him; they navigated through the swirling tendrils and shifting shadows, their control absolute… How could one ever get used to this, much less control it?

And finally, after what felt like an eternity, the darkness began to fade; light gradually seeped back into Oswald’s closed eyelids, and he cautiously opened them, finding himself standing on solid ground once more, atop the battlements of Sen’s Fortress; he released his breath, feeling the energy slowly return to him, and his gaze instinctively found theirs.

“I got you,” they spoke softly, with a smile in their eyes, their gloved hand still clasping his wrist tightly. “I told you I’d keep you safe, handsome."

Oswald blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment—even if he knew they most likely didn’t mean it; a faint flush crept up his neck, blending with the pallor of his skin. The intensity in those crimson eyes, regardless of the mask that obscured their face… it made his heart skip a beat.

Not the time, not the place.

“And thou hast proven to be a person of thy word,” he replied, his voice softer than usual. He quickly regained his composure, though, and cleared his throat. “And so we have arrived at the top of this accursed Fortress. What cometh next?”

“Next cometh finding a way to re-activate the Iron Golem,” they sighed. “Let’s hope Lautrec’s right about this…”

And without another word, they walked towards a flight of stairs leading to the very top of the structure; behind the great wall at the end of the structure lied the lost City of Anor Londo, and right in front of it stood the inactive automaton that was the Iron Golem. The pardoner followed close behind, his gaze fixed on the magnificent sight before them; the colossal metal giant towered over the landscape, motionless and silent, yet his presence was undeniable...

“Sen’s Fortress was a training ground for knights,” the rebel began. “Those who made it to the top and defeated this thing were deemed worthy enough to serve Gwyn as one of his Silver Knights...”

Their explanation was punctuated with a swift kick to the Golem’s leg.

“That poor excuse for a deity was truly full of shit,” they concluded with frustration.

And Oswald couldn't help but agree with their sentiment, for he himself had seen the consequences of Gwyn's rule and the oppression it brought upon humanity. "He was indeed a deceitful being," the pardoner commiserated, his voice filled with a touch of bitterness. “The Chosen Undead that cleared this Fortress… they never reached the Kiln, did they?”

“No,” they sorrowfully replied. “Gwyn… or rather, what remains of him, still feeds the First Flame, but that can only last for so long. And when he’s finally consumed…”

“…the Age of Fire wilt be no more,” Oswald finished their sentence, a sense of resignation in his voice, ”and Kaathe wilt enact his plan.”

“Precisely."

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of that last exchange hanging heavily in the air between them. The pardoner gazed up at the motionless Iron Golem, contemplating the gravity of the situation...

“What beest thy plan to awaken this creature from its slumber?” He inquired.

“Trial and error. I’ll try to channel enough Abyssal energy through its core,” they replied, climbing the automaton until they reached its armoured chest, where the core was. “Might take me a while. I take it that Kirk and his buddies will arrive when the sun begins to set, so I might not make it in time… Can I trust you to watch my back…?”

"No harm shall befall thee while I draw breath,” he nodded firmly, determination shining through his eyes. "Thou canst rely on me.”

∼∼∼

Meanwhile…

Lautrec roamed through the hallways of Sen's Fortress, his steps purposeful and confident; just like he’d previously explained to Oswald and the rebel, he knew the layout of the former training ground like the back of his hand, having navigated its treacherous traps and defenses many, many times before. It was, after all, the quickest way to Anor Londo, where his goddess resided…

Fina. He’d promised her that he would fight for an Age of Dark in her behalf, but what the Darkwraiths wanted was something different, something much more dangerous and lethal. That cult of the Abyss was a plague that threatened to destroy all that was important to him; their victory implied an Age of True Darkness, the death of all deities in Lordran, and of course, that included the one he loved.

He needed to protect Fina at all costs. That is why he’d sided with an old friend he’d never expected to meet again… alongside one of the clerics he despised the most in all the land. Fate was so ironic.

He’d managed to re-activate some of the deadliest traps in the Fortress; the axes swinging from the ceiling, the pressure plates on the floor that triggered bolts and poison darts, those impossibly tricky trapdoors… Hopefully that’d be enough to stop a big percentage of their enemies. He would deal to the survivors himself, and leave the survivors of the survivors to Oswald, the rebel and the Iron Golem.

The plan seemed perfect, flawless… So why was he feeling like Death was close at hand?

Not in a metaphorical way, but in a literal sense; he felt as if a deadly presence, like a Grim Reaper of sorts, was silenly watching him from the shadows… but that was impossible; he and his companions were the only living—undead—beings in that Fortress at that moment. He was sure of it.

So he decided to ignore that strange sensation for the time being; must’ve been his anxiety playing tricks on him. He dreaded a potential encounter with the Knight of Thorns, but he couldn’t let this fear control his senses.

And so, he remained on high alert as he continued to navigate through the hallways; every creaking step, every distant sound made him tense, ready to strike at any potential threat, never distracting him from the matter at hand, however. By the time he was done, the Fortress was a deadly machine once again, like it used to be when it served as a training ground for future Silver Knights; the silence was gradually replaced by the symphony of the deadly machinery, slowly coming back to life after the last Chosen Undead’s presence… Gods, what a waste.

With that, he made his way to the core of the Fortress, right after the first elevator… and a sense of foreboding settled over him. The large room was dimly lit, with gears and mechanisms whirring in the background…

The sun was setting.

Soon, the Darkwraiths would be at the gate… Perhaps they already were.

Chapter Text

It was an unmistakable kind of Darkness, one that seemed to move through your bones, leaving your entire body cold and trembling. Such was the presence of the Darkwraiths.

That Crestfallen Warrior at the Firelink Shrine was absolutely correct about that rumour, and the members of the Darkstalker’s little club where right on schedule.

Lautrec could hear them walking into the Fortress from his position, smiling inwardly at the screams that followed shortly after, as more and more of those wretches fell to the Sen’s defences. He was so very proud of his hard work.

“Leave them! Keep moving forward!” He heard a gravelly voice command, reverberating through the stone walls. That was most likely Kirk, the notorious Knight of Thorns. Lautrec fantasized with the idea of Kirk falling to one of the traps, a quick, easy solution to the abyssal invasion problem, though he knew that was extremely unlikely…

Still, the idea was rather funny.

As he listened to the approaching footsteps and the muffled cries of the unsuspecting Darkwraiths, Lautrec braced himself for the inevitable confrontation; he waited at the core of the fortress, armed with a shotel in each hand; his senses heightened, he focused on the many sounds that flooded the area, the rustle of armor and weapons, coming closer with each passing second...

The first visible foe emerged from the shadows, clad in dark armor, wielding a menacing blade… Yes, indeed that young man before him looked menacing alright—but in the end, he was hardly a challenge; with a swift, calculated strike, Lautrec struck his opponent's arm, disarming him, right before delivering a deadly blow to his chest. And thus, the Darkwraith soldier crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

If only all Darkwraiths were so easy to beat... However, Lautrec quickly realized, that young man was but a distraction, and the next enemy wouldn’t be so easy...

No, definitely not.

From that same corner appeared the Knight of Thorns himself. He’d sent that young man to check if there were any traps awaiting at the core of the Fortress, before going in himself; that’s how much his soldiers’ lives mattered to him.

“What manner of joke is this?” Said Kirk, walking decisively towards Lautrec. “Who in the Abyss are you?!”

“I fail to see why you must know,” the knight of Carim simply replied, pointing one of his shotels at him.

Kirk didn’t like that answer, and the subsequential clash of steel against steel filled the air as he went head-to-head with that pretentious warrior clad in golden armour.

And gods, what a battle, Lautrec thought to himself. The Darkwraith captain’s reputation was definitely well-deserved; he fought with a ferocity and skill that demonstrated his prowess in battle, and on top of that, making things worse for Fina’s knight, he had his lackeys with him. More and more were joining in the battle, trying to corner him like a rat, while others seized the opportunity to move forward, further into the Fortress, in hopes to reach the top.

Their combat continued, each of its participants attempting to find an opening to strike, but Lautrec was able to match them blow for blow, his movements swift and precise. He may have been outnumbered, but he was much, much better than those pitiful, lesser Darkwraith warriors, which fell like flies around him… The Knight of Thorns, however, was a completely different story; he was resilient as they came, and no matter how many attacks Lautrec was able to land on him, he barely gave any reaction at all.

“We were told the Fortress’s traps had been disarmed!” Kirk yelled. “Was it you, knight, who re-activated them?”

“What if I was?” Lautrec replied in a cocky tone that did not match his predicament at all.

“Commendable, I’ll give you that much,” he conceded. “But I sincerely hope you did not think this would be enough to stop me—”

“And I sincerely hope you do not think I am alone in this” he talked back, matching his tone.

A brief silence, as if realization had struck Kirk like a blow at that last bit.

“So,” the Darkwraith captain spoke, “that explains the miasma.”

The miasma?

What was he talking about?

None of the traps in the Fotress involved any kind of disease or toxic miasma. A few of the pressure plates triggered poison darts being shot from the walls, but that was nothing compared to what Kirk was talking about… And oh, was the knight of Fina ever so lucky that the helm he was wearing concealed his confused expression at that moment.

Still, despite the many questions that arose in his mind, he chose to say nothing and hope for the best; only good things would come from leaving his opponent with the intrigue.

And the battle raged on, Lautrec slowly pushing his way through the enemy lines, trying to halt their advance to the best of his ability—even if at some points, it was inevitable. The ones he could keep inside the core, however, Lautrec felled them one after another, attacking the lesser soldiers with one shotel, the other always aimed at Kirk. Slowly but surely, they were dying…

…though not all at his hands.

There it was, so far, now so close; within handreach, yet so deadly to the touch.

He saw what Kirk meant; the blight, the miasma reflected on the corpses of a few of the Darkwraiths that lied dead on the floor, and he was so, so sure he had not killed those. The Knight of Thorns noticed it too, taking a few steps back. “What trickery is this?!” He yelled again, his voice filled with a mix of anger and frustration. “Did you do this, knight…?!"

And as if on cue, that horrible sensation had returned; the presence of Death, not as a grim fate, but as an entity that coexisted with the others inside that secluded space… No, it hadn’t returned; it never left the room. Lautrec had just stopped paying attention, but now it was stronger than ever...

But by the time they all realized, only five people remained in the room: Lautrec, Kirk and three lesser Darkwraiths.

“Who did this…?” Kirk asked aloud, no authority in his voice; only pure dread. “Who is casting this…?”

And Lautrec was forced to confess his involvement—or lack of thereof, rather. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you I don’t have the slightest idea, right…?”

Kirk's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the golden knight, his suspicion palpable. "You expect me to believe that you have no inkling as to the source of this… ugh, whatever this is?! Do not play me for a fool, sewer rat! Who is your ally?!"

Though tempted to respond with a scathing remark, Lautrec held his tongue. His focus shifted, as the mysterious presence still lurked, seemingly growing stronger with each passing moment...

He then noticed the pale yellow eyes of one of Kirk’s lesser soldiers, a tall, well-built man; they didn’t look natural at all, so detached from the rest of his form...

“Perhaps, just perhaps,” the knight of Carim spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You should be looking at your own allies, Darkwraith.”

Kirk's eyes widened in realization as he slowly turned to face his remaining comrades, his gaze falling upon the one with the unusual eyes. The lesser warrior simply looked back at him, unsuspecting, unmoving.

“You…” The Knight of Thorns spoke. “Who are you, soldier...?”

The Darkwraith remained silent, staring at Kirk with those unsettling, dead eyes, as if not understanding his question. Lautrec could only watch the exchange from a safe distance as the room grew heavy with tension.

“Answer me,” Kirk insisted. “Who are you? I don’t recognize the eyes behind your mask—“

“Then perhaps it’s about time I remove it,” a feminine voice cut him off, coming from the pale-eyed man in front of him…

Yeah, that was definitely suspicious, but it was about to get much, much worse.

The entire Fortress seemed to become dead silent as those words were spoken, and then, the oddly-voiced soldier writhed and distorted aggressively before Kirk’s unsuspecting eyes… Right before exploding in a burst of… humanity?

Yes, it was unmistakable; what burst forth from that impostor’s body was a mass of wild humanity—corrupted, toxic humanity, a swirling cloud of dark energy that shot in all directions, attacking everyone indiscriminately, killing the remaining two lesser soldiers in an instant… And no, unlike Lautrec, Kirk wasn’t fast enough to dodge it, not entirely at least; his left arm was caught in the miasma that’d killed so many of his companions before.

He could only watch as his flesh began to rot, when he quickly removed his gauntlets and shoulder pauldrons to see the damage; starting with his fingertips, slowly spreading to his arm, his entire muscle tissue died with each passing second, and the pain—oh, the pain—was utterly unbearable...

And he quickly understood he needed to stop it before it consumed him completely.

A drastic choice.

Lautrec could only watch with wide-open eyes as Kirk’s desperation grew, drawing a dagger from his belt with his good hand, severing his own infected arm and the rot along with it. A bloodied mess, the Darkwraith captain fell to his knees, clutching the stump where his arm used to be, pain coursing through his entire body. The dark cloud slowly dissipated—no, it simply moved aside, revealing the figure that’d caused all of this, slowly finding its place behind her back.

And so, wearing all that wild, primeval humanity like a mere cloak, an emaciated-looking woman approached Kirk; this deadly, dreadful entity had infiltrated the Darkwraiths, worn the skin of a soldier like a mere disguise and ultimately killed so, so many soldiers from within the cult, going completely unnoticed up until now. She watched Kirk as he agonized, with those same pale, unblinking eyes; there was no emotion whatsoever in her expression, no remorse, no compassion, as she stood before the Darkwraith captain, watching him like he was nothing.

“Who are you?” Kirk growled. “How dare you pose as one of us?!”

“You should’ve just let it kill you,” the woman replied, her voice like a soft hiss. “Would’ve been less painful than this...”

“Answer me!”

“But alas,” she resumed, completely ignoring the Knight of Thorn’s words. “Common sense is not so common.”

And with that, she drew a curved greatsword from her humanity cloak, probably the largest blade Lautrec had seen in his entire life—as well as the ugliest; it was made out of bones and dead matter, and the darkened blade was equally old and worn out as it was sharp. That strange, dead aura, the presence of a 'Grim Reaper' inside the fortress... it was this woman all along.

A Gravelord Servant. A nightmare incarnate.

No one, and he meant no one deserved to die at the hands of someone like that... Not even son-of-a-bitch Kirk.

“I’ll look after things,” she said, aiming the tip of the blade at the Darkwraith's neck, ready to plunge it deep. “I’ll send your remains back to the Abyss when I’m done with you—“

"Stay your hand, reaper,” Lautrec declared, his heart racing as he witnessed the imminent threat and the horrible kill she was about to deliver. “There's no honor in killing a helpless man—“

“Would you rather have this helpless man throw the entire world into Abyssal darkness?” She cut him off. “Where’s the honour in the corruption of thousands of innocent, helpless undead?”

A Gravelord Servant with a moral compass? That was rich.

But admittedly, she was right.

Meanwhile, Kirk was ever so thankful for that distraction; gathering all his remaining energy, he pushed the woman back with his remaining arm. The Gravelord Servant stumbled back, momentarily caught off guard by his sudden burst of strength, and he used that opportunity to run as far as he could, successfully fleeing the scene, despite his faltering steps.

Well, shit.

The Garvelord Servant quickly regained her balance and directed her gaze at Lautrec once more; because he’d spoken out of turn, because he’d created a distraction, Kirk was still alive…

“…after all this effort,” she spoke. “Infiltrating those Darkwraiths was no easy task, you know…? You couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to show compassion.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“No matter,” she cut him off. “Will make my mission more interesting.”

So this Gravelord Servant also sought to stop the Darkstalker’s plot to spread the Abyss… Perhaps he’d judged her too quickly.

“Why would Nito send one of his servants to stop the Abyss…?” He finaly asked.

“That’s Gravelord Nito to you, knight,” she was quick to correct him, directing her pale yellow eyes at him once more. “And we may live in total darkness already, but the dark is one thing, abyssal corruption is another,” she explained. “Now, you said there were more with you, if I heard correctly...?”

Lautrec hesitated for a moment, weighing his options…

“Correct,” the realist in him finally spoke.

“Good. I’m going to need all the help I can get—“

“Hold on a moment,” Lautrec interrupted, taking a cautious step towards her. "You are going to need all the help you can get?! Who do you think you are, lady?!”

“Someone who could’ve killed Kirk had you not interrupted,” she replied, with that same apathetic expression and empty voice. “But you fight well, I’ll give you that much... Perhaps we can help one another.”

Yes, she was definitely far more reasonable than he would’ve expected any Gravelord Servant to be. The knight considered her words, his mind racing with endless posiblities and the implications of having someone like her in his already extremely unlikely camapign against the Abyss. Lautrec narrowed his eyes, studying the woman with suspicion…

“You wore the skin of a Darkwraith,” he spoke in a small voice. “You must understand that isn’t exactly… Well."

“A mere parlour trick. I assure you.”

“Doesn’t make you any less dangerous,” Lautrec added. “How do I know you won’t do the same to any of us?”

“I’ve better things to do with my energy,” she quickly refuted. “Are you done? We’re wasting precious time here.”

Lautrec held his ground for a few seconds longer, but finally, he sighed and nodded. "Very well. We have a common goal, after all... But be warned; if you betray us or put any of my companions in danger, you will face the full extent of my wrath. Understood?”

“Ah, empty threats, my favourite form of comedy—“

“Tell me your name,” he cut her off. “I refuse to fight alongside a stranger.”

“Víbekka,” the woman replied. “Víbekka of Carim.”

Lautrec's eyes widened in surprise—not that she could actually see them, or the rest of his face for that matter—, before rolling to the back of his head in exasperation. Gods, this was starting to feel like one hell of an annoying family reunion, with so many people from his homeland randomly coming together to stop a giant worm’s plot.

“Something the matter, knight?” She spoke, breaking that short pause.

“Cosmic irony,” he simply replied. “Fate’s a bitch."

Chapter Text

“Augen auf,” the rebel Darkwraith spoke, still working on re-activating the ancient Iron Golem. “Keep your eyes peeled; I can hear them coming.”

The pardoner simply nodded in understanding; he remained altert, heightening his senses; Indeed, he could already hear the heavy footsteps of the approaching Darkwraiths, echoing through the mist as they drew nearer. He could only hope Lautrec had managed to stop as many as possible...

Oswald's eyes locked onto the first Darkwraiths that emerged from the shadows; he gripped his rapier tightly, hoping he would at least be able to buy his companion some time, enough to re-activate the automaton.

“Have at thee, wretches…!” He muttered, darting between the Darkstalker’s soldiers with striking precision.

Lautrec and the Fortress’s traps had definitely made a dent in the army, which made things much easier for Oswald; each moment of hesitation from his opponents was swiftly punished, the thin blade of his rapier finding its mark. His focus remained solely on defending the rebel, ensuring that they had the time to do their thing, and with each passing second, the clash of metal, the cries of pain and the cracking of bones filled the air… but in the midst of the battle, he noticed something:

Kirk was nowhere to be seen.

That was strange, to say the least… and very, very suspicious. Where was he…? Why wasn’t he leading them?

As he struck the final blow, sending yet another Darkwraith sprawling to the ground while he waited for the next wave, Oswald turned his attention towards his companion once more; their fingers danced across the surface of the iron automation, the black void forming in its core growing larger with each passing second… Slowly, the gargantuan machine roared to life, its metallic limbs groaning with the weight of ages.

“It’s done…!” The rebel muttered, amazed at their own handiwork.

A sense of relief washed over them both as the Iron Golem joined the fray, unleashing its devastating attacks upong the next wave of Darkwraiths, turning the tide of battle in their favour once again. The pardoner took advantage of the chaos, darting around the battlefield with enhanced agility, fighting alongside the rebel and the automaton as a well-honed machine—pun very much intended—, their combined efforts decimating the Darkstalker's forces…

…but their good luck could only last for so long.

Just as they were gaining the upper hand, the Golem fell to the ground once more, lifeless; a chilling breeze swept through the battlefield and an eerie silence fell upon the battleground, as a figure emerged from the darkness. Just like that, Oswald’s previous question was suddenly answered: there he was, Kirk, the Knight of Thorns, his armour battered and bloodied… missing an arm.

Such a deplorable state... The rebel felt their heart skip a beat at the sight of him. Inevitably, his eyes found theirs, a twisted smile spreading across his face, despite the excruciating pain of his injury.

“Well… if it isn’t my little runaway,” he taunted, his weak voice dripping with malice. “Seems we can never escape each other, can we…?”

“You don’t have to keep fighting in this state, Kirk…” They softly spoke.

“Don’t you dare pity me!” He spat bitterly. “I am not quitting this time! I’m beyond redemption now… and I will see Kaathe’s wish through—“

“Did Lautrec do this to you…?” They cut him off.

“Enough talk, traitor!” He seethed, his voice dripping with rage. “You don’t have the right to care about anything that happens to me anymore...! You are nothing!”

The rebel blinked at his pained response, taken aback by the pure hatred beneath those words, which still hurt like hell despite everything. For a moment, their resolve wavered; the weight of their own actions, the memory of their shared past… and now, the venomous words of someone they used to care for, and it was all overwhelming, all made of broken things…

And it simply couldn’t be fixed; it was beyond repair.

“I’m giving up on you, Kirk,” they simply said, tightening their grip on their weapon. “You never listened to me, you never saw what I saw… You never cared. You deserve this."

There was a moment of silence between them, the air thick with tension and unspoken emotions...

Kirk's grey eyes bore into the rebel, a mixture of anger, betrayal… and a hint of something else: regret. His arm trembled as he struggled to raise his weapon, fueled by his wounded pride and the desire to prove himself, but as he witnessed the determination in the rebel's crimson stare, he realized that this battle, this clash of ideologies, had already been lost on his part.

Yet, with a roar of defiance, he charged forward, desperate to strike them down. The rebel directed one last reassuring glance at the pardoner, a silent promise that they wouldn’t let their emotions betray them this time, before lunging at him. Thusly, Oswald could only watch as the subsequential battle unfolded, the sound of clashing weapons ringing in his ears, his eyes tracing every movement. He couldn't help but feel a sense of melancholy at the sight of former allies, former lovers, turned enemies. He stood ready, prepared to intervene if needed, but he knew that this was a battle that the rebel needed to face alone...

They needed to confront their past and come to terms with the choices they had made.

With each strike of their weapons, the rebel showed a level of skill and resolve that surprised even Oswald; it was as if they had tapped into a source of inner strength, fueled by their determination to no longer be defined by Kirk's expectations. Finally, with a swift and decisive strike, they disarmed the single-armed Knight of Thorns, sending his weapon clattering to the ground. He simply stood there, defeated and vulnerable, his anger melting away into equal parts exhaustion and resignation.

Another silence followed, broken only by the sound of their heavy breaths. The priest of Velka watched from a distance, his expression impassive, but inside, he couldn't help but feel a mix of compassion and relief for his companion; they had faced their demons, their own personal hell, and emerged victorious…

…Kirk, however, wasn’t so content with his current predicament.

“After all we’ve been through, love…” He spoke. “You would simply discard me like that…?”

“HAST DU SCHON GEMERKT?!” They yelled. “ICH MAG DICH NICHT!”

Oswald's eyes widened at the sudden outburst; their voice echoed with a raw intensity, their words filled with a deep-rooted resentment and frustration that had been building for far too long—the full force of their anger unleashed. Whatever they had said, it clearly carried deep-rooted emotion and frustration.

Kirk flinched at the intensity of it all, his face contorting with a mixture of pain and anger, eyes wide with shock and hurt despite his previous words. “Then it seems our paths truly diverge here,” was all he could say.

“Walk away, Kirk,” they added. “If I see you again—“

“Spare me your threats, Anjou of Carim,” he cut them off, their voice filled with ressentment as he spoke their real name, probably for the first time ever. “There! Have at it, play the role of the hero while it suits you. Won’t change a thing,” he continued, chuckling bitterly. “And don’t you worry, my dear; you won’t see me ever again. I’ll be long gone—”

“That’s for certain,” said a fourth voice.

Kirk wasn’t fast enough to turn around and face the woman who, in one fluid motion, drove her greatsword deep into his back, impaling him in a ruthless display of power. Still cloaked in corrupted humanity, the Gravelord Servant Víbekka reamained still, watching as the Knight of Thorns gasped for air, his eyes widening in disbelief, as the light in them slowly began to fade.

“It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere…” The woman spoke right before withdrawing her weapon, the sound of metal scraping against bone echoing through the air. “And you, Kirk, were the perfect example of it."

Despite their previous statement, the rebel let out a pained gasp at the sight of Kirk perishing at the hands of that stranger; they hoped to best them, to defeat him, but this…

So many words left unspoken; so many emotions that would need to die alongside him.

Oswald approached them, offering a hand for support, which they unthinkingly took in a sudden motion; their fingers interlocked, providing a subtle strength that helped them steady their shaking form.

“It’s over…” Oswald murmured softly, his voice a comforting presence in the midst of the aftermath, before directing his gaze at the woman. “But this outcome was not necessary, Víbekka.”

The rebel turned to look at him. Did he know this woman?

“Pardoner,” the Gravelord Servant coldly spoke, hiding her weapon behind her cloak of humanity. “Why are you fraternizing with an instance of the enemy?”

“This one is different... A rebel,” he refuted, his grip on their hand tightening. “And thou shalt not touch them. I implore thee to see reason, Víbekka; there is no victory in senseless killing.”

A tense pause followed, only broken by Lautrec’s rushed steps as he managed to catch up with Víbekka, and oh, the look on his face, when he finally understood what had transpired while he was busy clearing the Fortress… Kirk’s corpse was a welcome sight, but gods, was the carcass ugly.

In truth, however, his arrival only added another layer of tension to the already fraught situation; his eyes flickered between Kirk’s lifeless body, the Iron Golem, Víbekka and the rebel standing beside Oswald. The mix of emotions he was experiencing was undecipherable, even to himself.

“So,” he broke the silence nevertheless. “This is what has become of the notorious Knight of Thorns, huh…? Quite the, uh, interesting turn of events—“

“You’re not helping, Lautrec,” the rebel spoke, interrupting his word-vomit, fixating their red eyes on the Gravelord Servant. “Who the fuck is this?"

“Víbekka of Carim,” the woman’s eyes narrowed as she replied, her tone extremely pretentious as she stared at the rebel. “Highest ranking member of the Gravelord Servants and direct servant to Nito, First of the Dead. And you are…? Forgive me if your significance escapes me—“

Lautrec elbowed her as she spoke those last words, effictvely cutting her off and catching her attention. “That’s Anjou of Carim,” he muttered, hoping that she’d recognize the name and that their significance wouldn’t escape her… but her next words were rather disappointing:

“Who…?” She simply said, rising an eyebrow.

“No one, okay?” The rebel replied, their voice laced with bitterness. “I’m just a traitor to the Darkwraiths. That is all you need to know.”

Oh, the tension…

Oswald gave the rebel's hand a reassuring squeeze, his lavender eyes meeting Víbekka's gaze with a calm intensity. "Regardless of their past loyalties, they art crucial in this battle against the Darkwraiths… They didst start it all, as a matter of fact. It is not for us to judge their worth or significance," he spoke, his voice steady and assertive.

The Darkwraith let out a deep breath, their eyes instinctively finding the pardoner’s… and Víbekka quickly understood what was going on.

“Fine,” she simply said. “Whatever the case, the Knight of Thorns is finally dead—“

“We’re not done yet,” the rebel cut her off. “Kirk was no one in the grand scheme of things. We still need to go to Anor Londo.”

“And why is that?” Lautrec asked, not happy with the idea of setting foot in that gods-forsaken city, even with Kirk dead at his feet.

“Because if we are to stop this, we must be able to get in and out of New Londo,” they explained. “And for that, we need the Lordvessel. If I recall correctly, that shit never left Anor Londo.”

“And why, Darkwraith, should we even need to be in New Londo?” Víbekka interjected.

“Because, Gravelord Servant, none of this will stop until Kaathe is killed. Kirk was the Darkstalker’s sword, but he will be replaced in time."

Oswald listened intently, his mind absorving every word spoken; whatever the outcome of this battle, a journey to Anor Londo was inevitable if they wanted to stop Kaathe and his malevolent machinations.

“Thou’rt coming with us, Víbekka?” The pardoner finally spoke.

“I don’t really have a choice,” she sighed in bitter resignation, a reminder that everyone present was bound by their circumstances, forced into this conflict against their will. “I hate having to neglect the Gravelord, but he won’t ensure humanity’s survival if Kaathe gets what he wants… so I must do it for him.”

“Thou hast made a difficult choice, Víbekka. I commend thee for thy sacrifice.”

The rebel and Lautrec stared at each other for a second. Seriously, how do these two know each other…?

Chapter Text

Getting to Anor Londo from Sen’s Fortress usually required surviving the traps and defeating the Iron Golem, an automaton animated with the soul of an Ancient Dragon, charged with guarding the entrance to the City. Then, Batwing Demons would fly down to carry the soon-to-be Silver Knight to the other side of the wall.

However, the rules were slightly tweaked after the last Chosen Undead managed to reach the other side—before they were conveniently lost. With the Iron Golem already defeated, and no one left to repair it, one only needed to know how to call for the Batwing Demons and convince them to give them a lift. Fortunately for the unlikely campaign against the Abyss around which this story revolves, Knight Lautrec of Carim was an expert in going in-and-out of the city, for his love resided deep within it.

And was he a blessed one, for his love was none other than Fina, goddess of—you guessed it—love, beauty and all that jazz; he’d dedicated his entire undeath to her, after he was exiled from Carim the moment it became known he'd contracted the curse. He would say it was his true calling…

…others, like the god-hating, murderous Gravelord Servant Víbekka of Carim, thought otherwise. Not that it was any of her business anyway, what that deplorable, misguided so-called knight decided to do with his energy.

Whatever the case, the Batwing Demons carried the rebel, the priest, the mercenary and the knight to the other side of the wall, to the lost City of Anor Londo. They landed right next to the keep where the main Bonfire could be found, a secluded space, far from the core of the city where the gods resided. The not-so-nameless Darkwraith wasted no time, sitting next to the flames without a word, unable to get the image of Kirk dying at the hands of that Gravelord Servant out of their head...

He had it coming, but gods, was it tragic.

Oswald was quick to join them, turning his back to Lautrec and Víbekka; he sat beside them, his black robe pooling around him, and placed a hand on their shoulder. He did not say a word, and simply allowed his presence to offer some very much needed comfort.

“Disgusting,” Víbekka whispered to herself at the sight of the scene unfolding in front of her, before she began to walk away from them.

Her reaction didn’t go unnoticed by Lautrec who, choosing to give Oswald and the rebel some very much needed privacy to… well, talk about whatever it was they needed to talk about, decided to follow the Gravelord Servant.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asked.

“I refuse to fraternize with a Darkwraith,” she spat, walking out of the keep. “And I am most certainly not spending the night around them—“

“Cut it out, will you?” He interjected, still walking behind her. “They’re nothing like that. I’ve known them all my life—”

“People change, knight.”

Gods, that reply cut him deep.

The Knight of Carim sighed, his footsteps slowing as he pondered her words. "I can assure you that they're still the same person I knew. Try to understand; we all have our demons to wrestle with.”

“I agree with you there,” she conceded, glancing at the knight as she walked towards an abandoned area in the city, “but I’m still not lowering my guard around them."

“Hm. As you see fit—”

“Why are you following me, knight?” She stopped in her tracks, directing her pale yellow eyes at Lautrec.

“Because you may be extremely suspicious of ‘Jou,” he began. “But I am extremely suspicious of you, reaper.”

Such a bold statement, the distrust between the two was at its peak; Lautrec's accusation hung heavy between them, and Víbekka squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze with an unwavering stare. “And what, pray tell, makes you so suspicious of me?”

“Your methods, for instance,” he confidently replied. “Your detachment, your lack of mercy… You look like the kind of woman who would sever our heads at the least disagreement—“

“I’m not a monster,” she cut him off.

“Maybe not in your eyes,” he insisted, his tone tinged with skepticism. “But your actions… they leave much to be desired.”

“Oh, and what would you have me do, knight?” She scoffed. "Dance and sing songs of peace while the world crumbles around us…? No, thank you. That’s Oswald’s job, not mine.”

And he actually found that comment rather funny; he let out a soft chuckle that reverberated from beneath his helm and helped dissipate the tension, if only for a little bit. “At least we can agree on that…” He whispered.

Even amidst their differences, that simple shift in tone was enough to create a rare moment of very fragile camaraderie between them. They stood there for a moment, in complete silence, both harbouring their own secrets and doubts… but it was good to know that neither of them intended to kill each other in their sleep. For now at least.

Maybe, just maybe, they had more in common than they realized…

“Voltaire, right?” Lautrec broke the silence at last.

“Hm?”

“You quoted him earlier. Twice, to be exact.”

“Did I?”

“'Common sense is not so common'...” He recited. “The Pocket Philosophical Dictionary, correct…?”

“Correct,” she conceded, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “That’s certainly refreshing, you’re… smarter than the others."

The smirk slowly dissipated from his face, wondering what she meant to say with that very obtuse statement. Was she talking about Oswald and ‘Jou…? No, that didn’t seem to be the case.

“Others…?” He repeated after her, his curiosity getting the better of him.

And her eyes widened in realization of something that, apparently, he had yet to find out for himself.

“I take that back,” she cryptically said. “And apparently, you’re not ready for this conversation—”

“If that is the case,” he cut her off, "hinting at whatever it is you’re referring to—and in such a teasing manner to boot—, doesn’t help much, as you can probably understand.”

“Hm. Fair enough. I suppose I might as well stop talking, then—”

“Don’t you dare, reaper,” he scoffed. “Not now that you’ve opened this can of worms, you simply must tell me. Who are the others you speak of...?”

“The other Knights serving the false deity you call Fina, of course.”

“Pardon...?” He took a step forward, disbelief creeping into his expression. “You’re making a mistake, lady. I am alone in my servitude to the Goddess… And she is most certainly not a 'false deity', mind you—“

“She’s really good at it, indeed,” she cut him off, speaking to herself. “I wonder how she does it.”

“Do what…?” He asked, his voice laced with confusion.

“Brainwash you all into believing that bullshit, what else?”

"Watch your tongue, Víbekka,” he took a step forward, eyes narrowing at the Gravelord Servant. " You dare to blaspheme against Fina, the one who blesses us with her light and love? Your ignorance is astounding—“

“You Children of Fina’s light are all the same,” she interrupted once again. “You really believe you’re the only one she has promised her favour and protection to…? That’s rich—”

"You know nothing, Víbekka!” He snarled. "You know nothing of the faith, the devotion, the connection I share with my goddess! You speak out of turn, and you will regret it—"

“Let me guess,” she insisted. “She came to you when you were at your lowest, promised you her never-ending love, her favour, her devotion to you, as long as you were willing to do anything for her...?” She smirked, as if saying these words brought her great amounts of satisfaction. “And just like that, you were made into her mindless slave… Correct?"

The accusation struck a deep chord within Lautrec, digging deep into the very core of his devotion, his beliefs… and for a fleeting moment, his stern façade faltered; he clenched his fists, trembling with anger, indignation… and confusion.

How on Earth did she know all that? How on Earth could she know that...?

“You don’t understand,” Lautrec spoke once more. “You could never understand; our connection is far deeper than you can comprehend. It's not mindless servitude; it is devotion, loyalty, and a bond that transcends mortal understanding—”

“You’ve deluded yourself,” she sneered, giving him a look of pity, as if he were a lost child who couldn’t see the truth for what it was. “Your words are a façade, a comforting lie you tell yourself to justify your blind servitude.”

Lautrec gritted his teeth, his hands once again balling into fists as his anger flared… Nevertheless, beneath that anger, there was a flicker of doubt, a tiny seed of uncertainty that Víbekka's words had managed to plant; for a split second, he considered the possibility that he might be wrong, that his unwavering devotion to Fina might be nothing more than an illusion... But he quickly pushed those thoughts aside, like he always did.

How dare he doubt his goddess’s love for him…?”

“You speak of things you know nothing about! You claim to see through the illusion, but the only one here who is deluded is you.”

“Deflection,” she scoffed. “That false deity’s got you wrapped around her finger. You’ll end up just like the others… and your name will be forgotten.”

“You think you can undermine my faith, my purpose?” He took yet another step closer, his voice dripping with venomous determination. "You underestimate me, Víbekka. Since you’re so wise, why don’t you tell me just how the others end up, hm? Let us hear what you come up with—“

“Dead, hollow, forgotten by the deity who claims to love them more than anything in this world,” she cut him off. “Left to rot, once they finally notice they can no longer fulfil her twisted desires. You claim I have a severe lack of compassion, and that might just be the case… But you’re no better, I’m sure; you would do anything Fina asks of you.”

Oh, gods, he could feel it, the weight of her accusation settling heavily on his shoulders, shaking the very foundation of his not-so-unwavering faith; she knew far too much for a Gravelord Servant, and if her words were to be believed, she was speaking from experience… and that didn’t paint a good picture for him.

He stood there, frozen in shock, his eyes widening as he felt her words pierce through his defences; it was like a truth he’d been reluctant to confront, but that darkness lurking beneath the surface of his devotion was now more obvious than ever... He’d been too afraid to acknowledge it, to question it, and now that he did, he felt uncertainty gnaw at his resolve...

But Fina loved him… didn’t she?

Why was he even entertaining the possibility that his devotion, his loyalty, his love, had been misplaced all this time? How dare he think such a thing…?

Víbekka watched Lautrec silently, witnessing the internal struggle that had erupted within him. His previous reaction was very much expected, but this vulnerability… it was different from anything she’d seen before. With a sigh, she decided to take a step back, her tone shifting slightly when she spoke again...

"I may think your devotion to Fina is laughable, but I see the torment this truth brings you. I won't push any further if you aren't ready to confront it.”

At those uncharacteristically empathetic words, Lautrec's stormy expression softened; that sudden change in tone had indeed caught him off guard, and perhaps, just perhaps, she was not a monster incapable of compassion, after all. In all honesty, at that moment, he found himself torn between the desire to push her away and the longing for someone to understand his struggle, to offer him a way out of the darkness that seemed to close in around him...

It was a moment of vulnerability he couldn't deny, even if it was only to himself.

“You said there were others,” he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Where are they now?”

“'Please, don’t speak of that terrible place that once guided your war-horse and your living stake’,” she recited. “’We are dancing in circles with the dear living dead, we are blessed by the corpses that coil ‘round our necks—‘“

“What does that even mean?!” He cut her off.

“It means we don’t speak of the hollow, knight,” she suddenly dropped the theatrical tone. “But you needn’t be one of them. Don’t let that false deity drag you down that path.”

Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had been too blind, too willing to devote himself to a ‘deity’ who might not have his best interests at heart...

But still, the thought of abandoning his faith, of forsaking everything he believed in, was a terrifying prospect; it meant questioning his own identity, his purpose, and facing the harsh truth that he may have been living a lie all along. He could only stare at the Gravelord Servant in front of her, the trigger of this crisis, with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

“And just how am I supposed to free myself from this darkness?” He asked, his voice cracking in desperation. “How do I not end up like the others…?”

Yet another pause followed his pained question, one that Víbekka seemed to have a very clear answer for:

“How is that any of my business?”

Chapter Text

Away from Oswald and the rebel, in need of some privacy for a very, very difficult conversation, Lautrec and Víbekka found refuge in an abandoned inn near the outskirts of Anor Londo, not too far from the keep. The Knight of Fina had discarded his armour and rested with his back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the ghostly figure that was Vibekka as she moved accross the room, blocking all entrences with whatever furniture she could find.

“Is that really necessary…?” He asked.

“If you’re not going to help me, at least shut up and let me do my thing,” she replied, pressing an old wooden table against one of the closed doors. “I won’t feel safe knowing that anyone can enter the room from the outside while I sleep.”

“Anor Londo is practically empty, reaper—“

“Stop calling me that.”

Oh.

He was not expecting that.

Lautrec sighed, his outburst subdued. "Apologies, Víbekka," he muttered.

As the room finally felt somewhat secure, Víbekka moved to sit opposite Lautrec, her pale, piercing gaze penetrating through him. She too had discarded what few armour pieces she wore, and her humanity cloak was no longer hanging from her shoulders; apparently, she could summon and unsummon that black cloud of miasma at will…

Convenient.

"You know, Víbekka,” Lautrec spoke, breaking the eerie silence. "I never expected to find myself in this situation, to question everything I believed in, the very foundations of my faith…” He conceded. "But now, here we are, and I can't help but feel… lost—“

“Listen, I can’t offer you a quick solution to that,” she cut him off. “But you’re the first Knight of Fina to actually question your devotion. That means something.”

Despite the emptiness in her statement, it felt so very strange that the words of this deadly Gravelord Servant sitting before him were like a flickering light in the darkness he'd found himself in; a spark of hope, however faint, that showed him a different path from the only one he’d been shown. Lautrec sighed, leaning back against the wall, his eyes finding Víbekka’s again…

…and gods, was she a rare one.

“What is on your mind, knight?” She spoke, her breathy voice barely above a whisper.

"I suppose… No, I fear that I may have been blind," he admitted. “Blind to the hold that Fina has had over me, blind to the consequences of my unwavering devotion... I have been so focused on pleasing her, on fulfilling her desires, that I forgot to question if it was truly what I wanted, what I believed in.”

“And what will you do now?”

Lautrec sighed, running a hand through his grey hair as he pondered her question. “I know I can’t continue down the same path, that much is obvious… Despite that…”

He couldn’t find the words to finish his own sentence; such was the magnitude of his internal struggle. Víbekka could only watch him in silence, her expression unreadable as he tried not to break down in front of her, hiding his face behind his hands.

“I would very much like to understand you, Lautrec,” she spoke, moving slightly closer to him. “Would you allow me to... see inside your heart?”

That sounded oddly intimate coming from someone like her.

The Knight of Carim lifted his head, peering at her through his fingers; there was something about this woman, something that intrigued him, a curiosity amidst the turmoil that consumed his soul… “In this moment of uncertainty,” he began, letting out a long breath and lowering his hands, “I find myself willing to trust you, Víbekka. It's strange, but I believe you know me better than I know myself at this point—“

“Wrong. I know nothing about you,” she interrupted. “But I am awfully intrigued, as to why anyone would choose to follow someone like Fina."

“Then do what you must,” he added. “That thing, seeing inside my heart, whatever that means—“

“That would require close physical contact,” she interjected once again. “I would need to be hugging you. Do I have your permission for that?”

Oh, yes, that was indeed an oddly intimate thing coming from someone like her. Such a bold request, and yet, she sounded so, so detached…

He hesitated for a moment, his breath hitching against his will, his gaze flickering between Víbekka and the shadows dancing across the dimly lit room. There was an undeniable allure to her proposition… but she was still a Gravelord Servant, someone who prioritized death over everything, someone who took immsense pleasure in robbing existence of its life…

…but perhaps, she too was as misunderstood as he was, and in his current state, he felt he had little to lose.

After all, it was just a hug… right?

“You… have my permission,” he finally nodded, offering his weak trust in that vulnerable moment.

And without another word, she simply closed the distance between them, her arms wrapping around his body in a gentle embrace…

…and gods, she was cold.

The contact was equal parts freezing and electrifying, sending a shiver down Lautrec’s spine as he felt the complete lack of warmth in her skin... and yet, her touch was surprisingly soft, contrary to what he had expected from someone so closely tied to death and decay. Seconds passed, and he realized that this embrace held a certain tenderness he had not anticipated, as if she sought solace in the confines of his arms as much as he did in hers…

No one, not even Fina, had hugged him like this before.

“You made a mistake in the past, before you became undead,” she broke the peaceful silence, fosucing on reading him, like he was merely an open book to her,” and you still haven’t forgiven yourself for it… Correct?”

“Correct,” he conceded, his body tensing at her words.

“I won’t pry,” she resumed. “I don’t need to know what it was. But I can see that, when you were forced to forsake everything because of it, you understood Fina coming to you as a divine sign, a chance to redeem yourself…”

Lautrec’s only reply was yet another shift in his breathing at her astute observation, his grip on her tightening involuntary…

“She promised you her everything,” she spoke once more, “and that included the evil in that corrupted, rotten soul of hers… A chalice of love, laced with deadly poison, but you believed you deserved any form of punishment coming your way, so you simply allowed it."

'He simply allowed it’... Gods, had someone less dangerous than this woman told him these exact same words, he would’ve pierced their heart in an instant… and yet, the only heart being pierced at that moment, he felt, was his own.

She was right; it was deplorable to think that he’d only questioned Fina because this Gravelord Servant in his arms had chosen to speak ill of her in front of him. The weight of his guilt, of the burden he had carried for so long—but never cared to notice—, became almost suffocating at the moment… and so, he bit his lip, feeling the sting of tears welling up in his eyes.

“Too much…?” She asked.

“No,” he shook his head, his voice choked with vulnerability. “It’s… just enough,” he added, releasing a shaky breath as his fingers gripped the silky fabric of her undershirt.

“You can let go whenever you desire,” she replied. “I understand how… intrusive this is—“

“No,” he cut her off, his voice filled with raw desperation. “Please, not yet… Not when it feels like you’ve unravelled a part of me that I never knew existed…”

And so, he held her a little tighter. Granting his wish, she decided against withdrawing from his possessive hold on her, and she found it wasn’t entire unpleasant; she even allowed herself to run her icy fingers through his hair as she relaxed into his embrace…

…and gods, did that send yet another shiver down his spine. His grip on her only tightened, his mind slipping further and further into a state of bliss as he savoured every fleeting moment of her touch.

What was this woman doing to him…?

“You’re touch-starved,” she said, bluntly.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if he was confessing a sin. “I am…”

At those words, Víbekka slowly recoiled from the embrace, but her fingers remained buried in his hair, chasing away the emptiness that haunted his soul with her tender touch… And he blinked, his gaze meeting hers, silently begging her to stay, to continue filling the void that had plagued him for so long.

She found his reaction rather endearing; her hand trailed from the back of his neck to his cheek, brushing his skin with a gentleness that didn’t suit her at all. For a moment, lautrec froze in time, his eyes lost in the depth of her gaze… and then, in an act that surprised even himself, he leaned into her touch; his eyes closed, and he allowed himself to bask in the tenderness that radiated from her cold, cold fingertips…

Gods, he truly was touch-starved… He was making a fool of himself in front of her…!

But she did not withdraw her hand at his reaction; she simply continued caressing his face, her delicate touch trailing down to his jaw, his neck, before returning to his face, as if testing his limits. She knew what she was doing, he just didn’t care; he felt like she could do as she pleased with him at that moment…

He couldn’t help but wonder what her intentions were; it was a paradoxical feeling, to surrender himself so willingly to someone so closely tied to death, to allow this Gravelord Servant to touch him so intimately... Yet, as her freezing fingertips brushed against his skin, he felt a warmth stirring deep within his chest; even in her coldness, she was offering him a comfort that no one, not even Fina, could provide him...

Once more, her caress trailed down his jaw, her fingers brushing over his collarbone, as her eyes inspected his reaction, as if ready to stop should he ask her to do so…

But oh, how could he ask her to stop…? No, he wanted to cherish every second of her touch, to drown in this bittersweet sensation that she had sparked within him. And so, as her fingers traced patterns over his collarbone, his body responded to her every action almost involuntarily; he found himself yearning for more, for her touch to linger, to explore every inch of his forsaken skin…

All rational thought seemed to melt away, the desire consuming him entirely, leaving only the raw intensity of his longing. His eyes fluttered open to meet her gaze, and with quiet desperation, he murmured: “don’t stop…”

“I don’t intend to,” she softly replied. “Unless, of course, you ask me to—”

“Never,” his response was immediate, filled with fervour and need. “Never stop…” He pleaded.

“How charming,” she scoffed. “Look how easily he’s found a replacement for his goddess—“

“Hush,” he protested, taking her hand in his, halting her caress for a moment. “You misunderstand. It’s not about replacement.“

“Then…?”

“It’s about connection,” he clarified. “Fina might’ve been a part of me… but so are you now, in this moment."

“Sounds about the same to me."

“Perhaps,” he conceded, his fingers intertwining with hers in a rather sensual manner. “But it's different with you. It feels… alive. Raw. Real. Fina was a distant memory, but you... you’re here with me, in the present…”

He leaned in closer, his eyes matching the intensity in her own…

Tilting his head, he chose to closed the remaining distance between them.

Chapter Text

“I had the pleasure of training Kirk when he came to us,” the rebel darkwraith spoke, raching out towards the meek Bonfire, feeling the warmth of the flames on their gloved hands. “We became inseparable, despite our very obvious difference… and my very obvious display of defect.”

Oswald listened attentively, his lavender eyes focused on the Darkwraith's masked face as they spoke. “And what, pray, was this defect, if I mayst ask...?” He inquired, his voice carrying genuine interest.

“My affinity for the Abyss didn't make me a Darkwraith at heart,” they remarked. “I joined them out of desperation, not because I shared their ideals, and oh, I made sure to remind them of this at all times. Out of them all, Kirk seemed to understand me the most; we thought very much alike… but then…”

“But then…?” Oswald prompted.

“He changed. Overnight, it felt like,” they concluded. “He made it his number one priority to become the highest ranking Darkwraith, to earn Kaathe’s favour… just to end up like… this.”

“Power hath its way of corrupting even the noblest of souls,” he mused quietly.

“Oooh, he was never noble,” the rebel scoffed, their crimson eyes finding his own. "He deserved what happened to him, but I still need to make peace with the fact that he’s gone… all because of that ‘Víbekka'—who the fuck is she anyway?!”

“A Gravelord Servant, in case that was not obvious,” he began, “and someone very dear to me.”

“A priest of Velka in good terms with a Gravelord Servant…? That’s definitely unsual.“

“I suppose it is,” he chuckled softly, “but I trust thou knowest by now that I am not conventional in my alliances…” He elbowed them playfully. "Besides, Víbekka and I hath known each other since before we became undead.”

“Oh? How so?” They asked, shifting their position to better meet his gaze, thankful for that very much needed diversion.

“There was a time,” Oswald began, a nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “in my days as a novice priest of Velka, when I camest across a very, very difficult child…”

“Go on…”

“A young girl, cursed with orphanhood at a tender age,” he explained, unthinkingly leaning closer to them. “And oh, was she a force to be reckoned with; she challenged authority at every turn, questioning everything, refusing to conform to the impossibly complex religious system of Carim... Wise men said she wouldst end up killing a deity one day—”

“Did she...?”

“Oh, but of course,” he replied with a smirk, enjoying their captivated attention. “She was still in her youth when she killed Caitha, Goddess of Tears. The truth of the deity's demise was kept well-hidden by the higher clerics in Carim. The author wouldst have also perished, had I not intervened—”

“And why, if you don’t mind me asking, would a priest of Velka want to rescue the murderer of another deity…?” They interjected, rising an eyebrow. “Seems counterproductive to me."

“A fair question indeed,” Oswald chuckled softly. "In her defiance, Víbekka brought a very much needed change; our religious system was built on corruption, preaching love for a deity they had imprisoned themselves, kept chained in a forgotten cathedral…”

“Wow, I had… no idea…”

“I knowest not what drove Víbekka to commit this act,” he continued. “Anger, hate, perhaps even compassion… But I made the choice to assist her in escaping the city safely. A few decades later—”

“…you found each other again, in Lordran,” they spoke. “Correct?”

“Indeed,” he nodded with a fond smile. “We hath traveled separate paths; she’d become a Gravelord Servant… a fitting title for her.”

“You can say that again…” They conceded. “Won’t she be mad you told me all this, though...? She doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

“I trust thee with this knowledge,” he teasingly replied, “and in thy ability to keep certain matters a secret... For is that not thy specialty, my darling?"

“Oohh, you prick!” They chuckled, feigning offence.

Very amused at their reaction, Oswald's laugh echoed softly through the room. “Ah, thou knowest I mean no harm. Still, thou canst hardly deny the truth in my words…”

They rolled their eyes at his reply. Indeed, their new identity—or lack of thereof, rather—was built out of secrecy, out of denial; even if at certain points they felt compelled to reclaim it, to take ownership of that goddamned name ‘Anjou’ and start using it like they never fell from grace, they were very much aware of their current predicament: no, they wouldn’t feel comfortable, safe, until the threat of the Abyss was eradicated.

Their eyes instinctively found Oswald’s again; this pardoner sitting beside them, so dangerously close to them, had become not only their greatest support, but someone surprisingly dear to them. Nevertheless, that kind of conversation would most likely never happen; no matter what, he was a man of the cloth, a priest devoted to a deity, and he could not—and should not—allow himself to feel too much. The rebel, on the other hand…

…they were no one.

And as soon as that idea flooded their thoughts, reminding them of their place in this world, they immediately averted their gaze… But Oswald wouldn’t let them; he’d noticed the flicker of conflicted emotions in those crimson eyes of theirs, the strugle within them that they tried so hard to hide—and had become extremely proficient in doing so. So he reached out, his gloved hand gently grasping theirs...

“Please, do not hide from me,” he murmured, his voice soothing and gentle. “I value thy thoughts; do share them with me.”

“Gods above and below,” they chuckled softly, finding his gaze again. “Whatever did I do to deserve you, Ozzy...?"

“Deserve me?” He replied, his thumb caressing the back of their gloved hand. "My presence in thy life is but a testament to the whims of fate, merely a twist of destiny… One I am most thankful for.”

“Pfft. Hopeless romantic…”

"Is that a complaint, my dear?” His lips curled into a mischievous smirk. "Or art thou secretly enjoying my romantic tendencies…?"

“I’ll keep you guessing, handsome.”

“Thou’rt such a tease…”

Oh, well.

Perhaps they could never have something ‘real' with someone like him… but this flirtatious state, for lack of a better words, wasn’t too bad either; they could simply coexist in a desirable middle term, in which the undeniable connection between them was often mentioned, but never explored too much…

How deplorable.

"What dost thou think will happen now...?" The pardoner broke the silence once more.

“What are we talking about now…?”

"The impending battle," Oswald clarified. "With Kirk defeated and the Darkwraiths scattered, what art we supposed to expect? What beest our next of action, thinkest thou?”

“I don’t have an answer to that question, babe,” they sighed. “I would like to know whether or not our… their bases in Anor Londo,” they quickly corrected themself, “are still operational. We may have stopped Kirk’s squad, but there could be others hiding there. Fraser must’ve had his reasons to worry about those very specific locations, after all.”

“Thou spoke about the Lordvessel,” he said, “before we arrivedst in the city. Why is that important to our mission?”

“For a few things,” they began, narrowing their eyes. “First of all, if we get before they do, we will have it,” they retorted, their voice laced with sarcasm. “Because if they get it, we’ve lost; they will destroy it. Securing the Lordvessel is our top priority, so we can get in and out of New Londo safely.”

“I fail to understand why securing the Lordvessel playeth a part in that...”

“You know nothing of it, do you…?"

"Enlighten me, then,” Oswald replied with a slight tilt of his head.

“There’s a reason it’s a Lord-vessel, not a reglar one,” they explained. “Its main purpose was to contain the souls of the four Lords, blah blah blah, the Firelink cycle, whatever,” they rolled their eyes as they spoke, their tone denoting their disinterest in the legend of the Chosen Undead. “But if you burn something else inside of it—say, a bone, a piece of wood, anything that can burn at all—, you can use it to return to one specific location—“

“I findest that extremely hard to imagine,” he cut them off.

“You’ll see it in action, then. Just keep in mind that it’s imperative that we secure it. That’s our chalice of hope."

“Very well, I shalt trust thy judgement, then.”

“That’s really all you have to do, Ozzy,” they gave him a sarcastic, playful glance.

“Oh, of course, my dear,” he added, his voice dripping with mock humility. “I shall endeavor to do my best to meet thy lofty expectations.”

The Bonfire seemed to hold its breath as the two shared a comfortable silence. Outside the keep, the night sky stretched above them, its velvety darkness only pierced by a few flickering lights dancing in the distance.

“Where did those two go…?” The Darkwraith asked.

“Hm. I doubt they went too far."

Chapter Text

Indeed, Víbekka and Lautrec hadn’t gone too far, yet to them, it felt like they’d entered a separate world altogether; bodies intertwined in an intimate embrace, lips locked together in a long, possessive kiss that seemed to have no end, they’d completely forgotten themselves in each other. The Garvelord Servant's hands caressed the knight's body deliberately, while he…

…he was terrified of touching her, actually.

He couldn’t possibly deny the raw attraction—nay, desire, that pulsed through his veins, but a deep-rooted fear held him back. Everything had happened so fast, too fast; he’d accepted his misery, denied his Goddess and chosen to lust over a fucking Gravelord Servant instead, over the course of a few hours… How could he not feel anything but dread at that moment?

Sensing this, Víbekka pulled away slightly, her pale yellow eyes locking with his…

“Perhaps…” She spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps we’re wasting each other’s time here—"

“N-no, Víbekka... Please…” He interjected, his heart tightening at her words, panic rising within him. “It’s just… Oh, I’ve a lot to process, you must understand—”

“Do you or do you not want this, Lautrec…?” She interjected, leaning closer. “It’s really as simple as that.”

Lautrec bit his bottom lip, conflicted emotions raging within him. He looked deep, deep into those unsettling eyes of hers, searching for clarity, for an answer to his own doubts... Slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, his grip gentle but firm.

"I want this,” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “I want you, I know that much. But I’m also terrified of touching a Gravelord Servant.”

“You fear I might hurt you…?”

"I fear many things," he confessed softly, his gaze dropping to their entwined hands. "But it's not just about physical pain; I fear getting lost in you, the darkness that surrounds you, the power you possess... I fear that I will become nothing more than a tool for your desires—”

“Is that truly how you see me…?”

Oh, gods, he was only making this worse…

“No! No, no, I worded that horribly…!” He answered. “It’s not how I see you, it’s how I fear I would become if I lost myself in you.”

“I’m not asking you to 'lose yourself in me' or any of that lovey-dovey bullshit, Lautrec,” she replied. “I am not Fina.”

“Then what do you want from me?” The knight pleaded, wincing sligthly at the mention of his former Goddess’s name, leaning in even closer. “Please, I must know…!”

“What do I want? Is it not obvious…?”

Once again, Víbekka resumed her painfully tempting, yet extremely gentle caress, her cold hands sliding beneath his shirt and trailing up to his chest, sending a chill down his spine. As if that wasn’t answer enough, she then moved even closer, pressing her body against his and brushed her purple-ish lips against his ear, whispering…

“I want the warmth of another human being,” she confessed. “And you, Lautrec, are one intriguing specimen… I find myself drawn to you, like a moth flickering towards a flame. I can’t describe what it is, but I cannot deny it either."

All he could do was savour this sensation, close his eyes and lose himself in her touch, in the heat of their bodies pressed close together. Víbekka’s words resonated deep within his conflicted heart, stirring up emotions he so desperatly needed to bury, but oh, the longing… it was undeniable.

No, he could no longer deny himself of this…

“I…” He began, his voice trembling, in spite of his newfound resolve. “I’m drawn to you as well, that is the truth… And oh, it scares me, truly… But I cannot deny it. If this is what you truly want, then I’m yours—“

“Stop focusing on what I want, Lautrec,” she cut him off. “You’re part of this, too. So what do you want…?”

It dawned on him; how could he have been so blind, so consumed by his own fears and doubts? He had forgotten to consider his own desires, his own needs…

“I want to be enough for you,” he whispered, his voice laden with realization. “I want this, Víbekka. I want you.”

“That’s really all I need,” she added, slowly closing the distance. “For tonight, at least…”

Gods, she had a way with words despite her toneless, monotone voice... Lautrec’s heart thudded in his chest as her lips met his own yet again. As her hand trailed down from his cheek to his collarbone, a chill took over the knight’s entire body, a reaction that didn’t go unnoticed by the Gravelord Servant. Smirking, she withdrew from the embrace, enough to break the kiss, while still allowing him to feel her unnaturally cold skin against his...

“No need to be so nervous,” she teasingly whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you… unless you ask me to.”

“Don’t tempt me, sweetheart...”

With a single chucke, Víbekka moved even closer, as close as she could get to him, straddling his lap, wrapping her thin arms around his neck for balance. Her eyes, still dead and undecipherable, seemed to have considerably softened after that last exchange, like she was willing to care for him in ways no one had, in spite of her obvious true nature. Lautrec’s hands instinctively found their way to her hips, savouring the contrast of her cold body against his, the weight of her presence against him… and gods, if that didn’t feel completely surreal.

He admired her features; her pale complexion, her aquiline—very Cariminer—nose and angled jaw, contrasting greatly with the lack of warmth in those pale yellow eyes of hers. Oh, indeed, her presence alone was intoxicating—figuratively, of course, not to reference the circumstances of their first interaction. Lautrec pulled her closer; she seemed to enjoy taking her sweet time, her movements slow and deliberate… but he felt like he would explode if she didn’t just hurry.

Thus, he pulled her closer, brushing his lips against her cold, exposed neck as he allowed his hands to explore every contour of her body. She tilted her head slightly, allowing him more access, as her fingers tangled in his hair, gripping it gently… then slightly tighter.

“That’s better,” she whispered. “Good boy…"

Oh, gods…!

His breath hitched at those words. Good boy. It was a phrase he would’ve never expected to affect him so deeply, but in that moment, it lit a fire within him, fueling his desire and awakening a newfound sense of… submission?

“Tell me…” He sighed, looking up to meet her gaze. "What else would you have me do...?” He found himself asking, his voice laced with eagerness.

And she raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Is... this how you want this to go?”

His cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson as his eagerness betrayed him; he hesitated for a moment, his breath catching in his throat as he looked deep into her eyes, searching for any sign that she was merely teasing, that she didn’t truly want this level of control... But all he saw was a glimmer of curiosity, mischief dancing within her gaze...

She wanted this.

Finally swallowing the lump in his throat, he nodded, a subtle grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes, Víbekka,” he replied. “I want to surrender myself to you, to be at your mercy. Show me...show me what it truly means to belong to you—”

“Is it just surrender, knight,” she started, her grip on his hair tightening, forcing him to tilt his head back to face her, “or a willingness to be mine in any shape or form…?"

"Willingness, my mistress," he breathed, his voice laced with a newfound confidence. "I am yours to command, in every shape and form… I want to embrace whatever you desire of me, to be molded by your hands...”

Víbekka’s eyes fluttered closed at his words, tilting her own head back as if his declaration of intentations was music to her ears…

“Your decadence is delicious,” she added, tentatively lowering the straps of her undershirt. “Show me the extent of it.”

Was this truly happening…? These things never happened to him…

His eyes fixated on her with a mix of awe and desire as he obediently complied, gingerly tracing his fingers along the exposed skin, reveling in the softness, in the texture of her flesh… His hands greedily found their way to her bare breasts, cupping them with devotion...

“Good…” She simply said, her voice barely above a whisper. “No need to be bashful… We’re past all the pleasantries now, I think.”

Oh, no, no, bashfulness was no longer a concern for the knight; he had shed his reservations and embraced the darkness within. With a newfound assertiveness, he leaned in, capturing one of her hardened nipples between his lips, flicking his tongue against it in a slow, deliberate motion…

Her soft moans were all the encouragement he needed; he kneaded her waist tightly, pulling her even closer, as if wanting to devour her completely. She could feel her fingers working on his shirt, undoing its buttons, exposing his own body to her. It was only fair, after all, and oh, if the sensation wasn’t sending electric jolts of pleasure coursing through his entire body... His lips continued their passionate assault on her flesh, alternating between gentle nips and swirling licks, all the while humming appreciatively against her breast…

As his shirt was discarded and his chest exposed, he felt her touch trailing lightly over his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His breath hitched as her fingers danced along his abdomen, tracing the lines of his muscles, before venturing further downwards…

“Someone’s having fun... around me, no less,” she smirked. “And I’d always thought I was rather… colourless.”

Lautrec couldn't help but chuckle, the sound interrupted by a soft gasp as her fingers dipped below his waistband, teasingly brushing against his hardened length. “Oh, believe me, Víbekka,” he managed to utter through his growing desire. “Being in your presence is far from colourless…”

“That’s good to know…” Her eyes found his again as she spoke, giving him a rather… appreciative smile? It was hard to tell.

“Víbekka… could I ask you to…” He started, but quickly stopped himself. “No, nevermind—“

“Say it.”

“I-it’s really nothing, I just—“

“Say it,” she insisted. “Now.”

Lautrec swallowed nervously, his voice barely a whisper as he summoned all his courage. “Don’t judge me for this,” he spoke, leaning back against the wall, taking a deep breath. "Say… say something degrading.”

“Hm?” Her eyes opened wide at that peculiar request. "You sure this is what you need right now…?”

“Gods, yes I do, please…!” He replied firmly. "I need it… I need to feel that loss of control, to be reminded of my place in your presence—“

“For the love of Death, you're perfect,” she cut him off, one of her hands trailing up to collar around his neck, her grip practically non-existent, however. “I’ve stolen Fina’s most valuable ‘asset', haven’t I…?”

'Asset'. His breath hitched at the intended cruelty in her words... but it was extraordinary; there was something about the way she said it, with that eerie calmness, that sent shivers down his spine. He felt himself start to tremble slightly under her touch.

“By the lords, no…” He breathed, his voice feigning desperation and denial, but also betraying the awe he was feeling at her actions. “I am not—"

“Oh, yes,” she insisted, her touch growing more bolder by the second. “You know your place, darling. Your actions speak for themselves…”

What was this woman doing to him? How could he allow himself to be so pathetic? And why, oh, why did he enjoy it so much…? Even if it was all a game to them, he couldn't deny the truth in her words, as much as it pained his pride to admit; there was a masochistic pleasure in yielding to her, in embracing the darkness within, and he found himself surrendering to that pleasure, to the power she held over him…

“You choose silence, then...?" She purred, her fingers tentatively tracing his length, her touch enough to tease him to an unimaginable extent, without granting any real relief.

He hadn’t decided to stay quiet, but the thoughts, the sensations… They were overwhelming. "Please," he managed to speak, his voice strained with desire. "Stop teasing me, Víbekka. I can't take it anymore... I need you—"

“Someone’s impatient…” She cut him off, raising an eyebrow. Gods, she was good at this… Too good.

He felt like he was gonna die if she didn’t have her way with him already. His cheeks flushed with equal parts frustration and arousal, his mind clouded with desire...

"Yes, Víbekka," he admitted, his voice strained. "I am. I am impatient for you. Please... I'm yours, do as you please…"

She chuckled, brushing a finger against his lips. “That’s a good boy…”

In a sudden motion, she took hold of his hardness and began pumping it at a deliciously slow pace, despite the tightness of her grip. She smirked at the sight of Lautrec losing himself in her demanding touch; she, and only she was in total control of the pleasure he felt at that moment. One wrong movement, and she’d take it all away from him…

Lautrec's eyes locked onto Víbekka's, a mix of desire and vulnerability within them. The sensation of her grip, firm yet tormentingly slow, made him tremble with need, craving for more of her touch. "Please, Víbekka…" he whispered in her ear, his voice a desperate plea. "I need more...I need you…"

“Mmmh, I love hearing you beg,” she whispered back, her stroking slowing down to almost a stop, teasing him further. “Be good and do it some more…”

There he was, sitting on an old mattress in an abandoned inn in Anor Londo, with his back against the wall and a Gravelord Servant on his lap, allowing himself to be treated like a mere toy, an object for pleasure, an ‘asset’ like she’d previously worded it. He would be disgusted at himself for this later, but now… oh, right now he felt like his life would’ve never been complete had he never experienced this. His body twitched with frustration, but he couldn't deny that this torment was incredibly arousing…

"Please, Víbekka," he pleaded, giving in to his desire. "I beg of you, touch me. Give me the pleasure I so desperately crave. I will be good for you, I promise…"

Gods, he couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

“Very, very good, my dear…”

And with that, she tightened her grip even further, almost to a painful extent, quickening her pace. Her eyes never left him, not for a second, as she took in his expression, which reflected nothing but raw desire; the intensity of her touch, the way she manipulated him so effortlessly, brought him to the brink of ecstasy. He arched his back, his hips involuntarily thrusting towards her hand, desperate for release…

"Víbekka," he gasped. "I can't hold on much longer... Please, let me..."

But his plea was cut off as his climax overwhelmed him, his release shooting out from his throbbing length, spilling over her hand. He shuddered, his body trembling with the force of it, completely consumed by the sensation coursing through him…

But she remained silent for a moment; her eyes remained fixated on his, her expression indecipherable, as if giving him time to process what had just occurred, while judging him for his shamelessness… and much to his chagrin, it was working: how could he allow himself to be so easily swayed, to lose himself like that in a moment of weakness…?

But then, her gaze softened.

“How are you feeling…?” She whispered, gently withdrawing to wipe her hand with an old rag.

Was she for real? He could’ve she gone from the cruel mistress from a few seconds ago to the most uncharacteristially kind being in existence…?

His breathing was heavy as he tried to catch his breath, his heart still pounding in his chest, body still trembling from the aftershocks of his release. He took a moment to compose himself, raising his eyes to meet Víbekka's gaze once more...

"I... I'm feeling... spent," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of self-deprecation. "And... strangely content. Thank you, Víbekka.”

“Don’t thank me, knight,” she replied, putting the straps of her top back in place, before leaning closer once more, her piercing eyes staring right into his soul. “I enjoyed every second of it.”

He actually felt extremely relieved to hear those words escape her lips... Despite the rollercoaster of emotions and sensations he had experienced, it seemed that he had managed to please her, fulfill her desires, whatever they were, whatever she meant. It was both thrilling and very validating, for some reason.

“I’m... glad," he responded.

She lied back on the old mattress, next to his still seated form, eyeing him in an inviting manner. “Come,” she said. “Let’s talk.”

Talk? Now? After everything that had just happened…?

Lautrec was very obviusly taken aback by the sudden shift in mood, but he still complied without hesitation, moving to lie down beside her...

"Of course," he replied, his voice slightly hoarse. “What… do you want to talk about...?"

Chapter Text

The Abyss runneth deep.

The Darkwraith rebel heard those words once; they knew this much, though they can’t remember where they heard them or who spoke them. Nevertheless, that strange statement burned in the back of their mind for centuries to come, haunting their dreams, feeding their—now extremely justified—dread of an Abyss-rotted world.

The Abyss is always present, it runneth deep; give it the wrong kind of attention, corrupt it to no end, allow it to fester, and everything in its path will be consumed, leaving nothing worth saving. They—the once called Anjou of Carim, knew that very well; they’d learnt to respect the Abyss, and in turn, the Abyss was able to respect them back, for when you gaze for long into the Abyss, the Abyss also gazes into you.

Kaathe, on the other hand…

Oh, Kaathe. He’d become so obsessed with making Gwyn pay for his First Sin that’d hed decided to do exactly the same as him—just the other way around—, by causing another Abyss outbreak, using the entire world as fuel for the all-encompassing, all-corrupting darkness...

...for when you gaze for long into the Abyss, the Abyss also gazes into you. Whoever the fuck said that phrase was really on to something.

Needless to say, sleep evaded the rebel. They could only watch Oswald's figure leaning back against the wall, his features obscured—not by his mask, which he’d discarded so that he could sleep more comfortably, but by the collar of his long black coat and his silky white hair. So yeah, there he was, their unlikely ally, sleeping so peacefully, unaware of the anxiety that had taken over their entire body...

…but perhaps it was for the best.

The priest shifted slightly in his sleep, in the dimness of the room. Even in slumber, there was an air of authority around him, an unshakable confidence that seemed to seep into every aspect of his being... but beneath that exterior, he too carried his own burdens; a faint furrow appeared on his forehead, a silent testament to the dreams that haunted him...

He too was extremely worried about their current predicament, there was no doubt about it.

Sighing deeply, they allowed themself to succumb to this moment of weakness; they walked to Oswald, then sat down next to him, carefully leaning against his sleeping form… And he stirred slightly at the touch, his senses gradually bringing him back from the depths of slumber, much against the rebel’s intention. As consciousness returned, he noticed the presence beside him, oddly warm and comforting; it took a moment for him to fully register the Darkwraith's proximity.

“My dear..." He spoke softly, his voice still thick with sleep. "What is it that troubles thee so? Thou seemest... restless.”

“The usual, Ozzy… The usual….” they conceded, their voice rather shaky and barely above a whisper. “Sorry I woke you up, I just…”

They couldn’t finish that one, as the calmness in their tone was but a pretence; anxiety and dread seeped through their voice, despite their effort to make it seem like it was nothing. They’d withstood so much, bottling it all up and keeping to themself, so it was only natural that they could no longer contain these emotions like they’d done so far.

Oswald’s eyes softened, concern flickering within their depths as he looked at their companion. He shifted his position slightly, turning to face them fully, his gaze searching theirs…

“I am here for thee,” he said, his voice gentle. “Pray, speak thy mind. I shan’t get any more sleep until thou doth tell me what worries thee so."

“That’s... emotional blackmail, sweetheart,” they tried to joke.

“'Blackmail' is such a strong word. Let us call it… persuasion, instead," he replied, his voice warm and playful. "But I assure thee, 'tis nothing but my sincere desire to aid, so I beseech thee... Share with me thy thoughts.”

“I’m just... having a bit of an anxiety attack, I fear…"

“Anxiety, thou sayest…?” he murmured. “Well, forgive me for assuming, but… if such is the case, thou’rt doing an amazing job at concealing it.”

“Spending a century with a worm that forbids you from showing any sign of weakness will do this to you,” they dryly replied, clutching their chest. “But gods above and below, I feel like I could cough my heart out…”

Oswald's expression softened even further, sympathy and understanding evident in his lavender eyes as he gently reached out, placing a comforting hand on their arm. "My dearest... Thou art not alone in this struggle...” His touch was warm and soothing, a balm to their troubled soul. “I am here for thee, always... We shalt face the Abyss together—"

“Don’t—“ They cut him off, their voice extremely shaky. “Don’t even mention it… please…”

Instinctively, his hand retreated, taken aback by their unexpected reaction. Oswald’s words died in his lips as he witnessed te depth of their distress, and he immediately understood the pain that clung to the mere mention of the Abyss… It was only natural, all things considered.

"I... apologize," he said softly, his voice filled with regret. "I did not mean to distress thee further. Please forgive me. Let me be here for thee in whichever way thou needest—”

“I could…” They began, doubting their own words. “I could really use a hug, now…"

Oh.

Strangely, it felt like this was their very first approach of this nature since they knew each other, when clearly that was not the case: there was the time when they spent the entire night so dangerously close to each other, reading excerpts from ‘Faust’, or the time he almost saw the face beneath the mask, had it not been for the all-consuming dark of the night… all that aside from the occasional ‘accidental touch’, that is.

But that was the thing; it had always been accidental in nature. This time, however, they’d requested it. And who has he to deny them of a simple, meaningless embrace…?

Because it was meaningless, was it not…?

He couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation at their request; it was a simple gesture, one that could easily carry no implications, beyond a show of comfort and solace... and yet, a part of him couldn't help but wonder if there was something more, something deeper hidden within the desire for such a connection…

Maybe there was. Maybe it’d been there all along, right in front of him.

Without uttering a word, Oswald put those thoughts aside and opened his arms, pulling them into a warm embrace, holding them tightly, yet tenderly against his own chest. The feeling of their body against his was oddly soothing, and he held them in a way that conveyed both a sense of protection and a very much shared vulnerability. Even if the Darkwraith was far bulkier than him, they felt so small in his arms…

“I am here for thee, my dear,” he whispered softly, his voice a gentle melody in the quiet room. "And I promise, I shall offer nothing but solace and understanding…”

Nothing but solace and understanding.

What did he mean by that…? Was this to say that he would offer them the solace and understanding they needed at that moment, or that his need—rather his obligation to comfort them was the only reason he’d chosen to actually grant them their request…? In spite of the anxiety they were already feeling prior to this doubt, it was this idea, this stupid thought, what caused them to grit their teeth in a desperate attempt to hold back their tears…

…all this was, obviously, unbeknownst to the pardoner, who simply thought the tension in their body was simply consequence to the strain of holding back all the Abyss-related trauma. Yet, he chose to press a kiss to the top of their head, allowing his lips to linger for a brief moment...

If only he knew...

But he did sense the slight stiffness in their body, a tension that couldn’t go unnoticed, as his lips touched them, even with all the unnecessary layers of cloth that covered their entire body from head to toe. He couldn't help but wonder if his actions were too forward, if this display of affection was unwelcome... But at the same time, there was a part of him that yearned to offer them what little comfort he could.

Slowly, he pulled away from the embrace, his hands lingering on their arms for a few moments longer before letting go. He gazed down at them, concern etched on his features, while he searched for any signs of distress...

"I... I hope I did not overstep any boundaries," he said softly, his voice laced with genuine worry. "Please forgive me if I did—“

“It’s alright, Ozzy,” they cut him off. “Thank you. This… this means a lot..."

He gently reached out, his hand finding theirs, intertwining their fingers. "I am glad," he murmured, his voice a mere whisper. "To offer thee any solace, any respite, is a privilege I do not take lightly...”

'A privilege.'

That very specific wording sent shivers down their spine. Had they not chosen to wear this mask... who knows what they would’ve done at that moment. Admittedly, whatever that was, they would’ve probably regretted it afterwards. Gods forbid that the Darkwraith scareth the righteous pardoner.

It was impossible, anyway, given their respective roles and status and importance in this deplorable existence.

And so, they simply let his words hang in the air, with its unspoken implications lost in the peaceful silence between them, for sometimes, it was the absence of words that spoke the loudest. For the time being, as they remained there, they could feel the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his presence, and the knowledge that, in that moment, they were not alone.

As for Oswald…

Well. The pardoner could’ve simply left it there, but the single thought of facing another wave of what-ifs for not taking this given chance was enough to make him cry with impotence. Instead, he held the Darkwraith’s chin, bringing their masked face close to his, and then he… hesitated, considerably, for a few seconds.

His own breath hitched as his eyes met theirs, as wide open as his own. Don’t go there, said a voice in his head, much against what he was truly feeling. Perhaps it was his own subconscious, memories of past conversations with this same Darkwraith in front of him, the lingering presence of the fact that they would most likely go hollow once their purpose was exhausted…

…perhaps it was Velka herself, commanding him—his most valuable asset—to take a step back, to let go of her 'Dead Angle’ and focus on the task ahead, for what good was he if he succumbed to these emotions…?

The consequences would be dire, should he choose to listen to his heart instead of his brain… but that was something future Oswald would have to deal with. Present Oswald had a different priority at that moment, and no, he couldn’t bring himself to listen to that voice in his head… against all rationality.

Instead, he let go of his doubt and leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between them, allowing his lips to brush softly against the cool fabric of their mask. A lingering kiss. A silent confession; a chaste, fleeting touch, a delicate connection that carried a world of unspoken longing…

Time and space had merged in them…

And then, just as abruptly as it began, Oswald quickly pulled away, his own breath uneven, his heart pounding in his chest; he looked at them with eyes wide open...

“By the lords…! Forgive me... if I have overstepped any boundaries once again," he said, his voice shaky and filled with uncertainty. “Gods, I knowest not what came over me—“

“Oswald—"

“I-I couldn't bear to resist mine own desires,” he cut them off. “As… foolish as that may be…!”

“Oswald!"

He abruptly cut himself off, his words catching in his throat as they spoke his name a second time. He looked at them, his eyes wide with concern, awaiting whatever it was they had to say...

“Yes...?” he managed to pronounce, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I have… no idea what your intentions were with… whatever that was,” they spoke, clearly shaken up by his actions, which did little to nothing to calm their anxiety. “And as much as I, uh, appreciated it—and trust me, I really did…”

The paused for a second, sighing deeply, as if already regretting what they were about to say…

“…perhaps it’d be wiser, for the both of us, if you didn’t do that again,” they concluded. “Please."

And just like that, his heart sank, their request striking him like a painful blow. To hear them ask him to refrain from repeating it... it was a sharp reminder of the boundaries that existed between them, boundaries he had carelessly crossed.

In what world, in what conceivable universe, could a Darkwraith be more rational, more civilized and proficient in self-restraint than a goddamn priest…?

“I... I see,” he said, his voice laced with a heavy note of resignation. “I apologize, truly, if my actions have caused discomfort or distress—“

“It’s none of that, Ozzy,” they interrupted. “In other circumstances… well, who knows…! But you’re a priest, a man of the cloth, and I’m—“

“Much more valuable than thou dost imagine, my dear. To this world… to me. That is the truth,” he interjected, his voice steady, but laced with a faint sadness. “But thy comfort and well-being are of the utmost importance to me, so I shalt refrain from… such actions, in the future.”

“Thank you…”

Another brief pause hung heavy in the air… but the pardoner simply couldn’t drop the matter.

“Know this, Anjou,” he spoke once more, his voice soft and a hint of sadness in his eyes. “This brief moment... it shan't be forgotten, for I am only human, flawed and susceptible to weakness, in spite of my vows to the Goddess. In this fleeting encounter, thou hast given me a glimpse of what could have been—“

“Please, let’s just drop the subject,” they cut him off once more, shaken by his use of their forgotten name. “That’s... quite enough."

And at those words, all he could do was nod and concede to their request. He let go of their hand, his touch lingering for just a moment longer before finally pulling away.

“Very well,” he spoke, trying to put on a composed demeanor, pushing his own emotions aside for the sake of the task at hand…

…but deep down, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have transpired, had the circumstances been different. With a bit of luck, the weight of this exchange wouldn’t seem so overwhelming tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“You’re not gonna tell me where you two went last night…?” The Darkwaith elbowed Lautrec, as they ventured deeper into the lost City of Anor Londo. “You quite literally disappeared—“

“The Gravelord Servant and I agreed to leave you and the priest some space,” he cut them off. “You looked like you needed it.”

“You’re never this nice…” They smirked under their mask. “What’s the part you’re not telling me?”

Lautrec shifted uncomfortably, a slight blush on his cheeks beneath his helm. “You can stop talking anytime, ‘Jou.”

"Well, I suppose I'll have to use my imagination, won't I…?” They teased.

“What are you implying, rat?!” He whispered loudly, eyeing Víbekka and the pardoner walking behind them, praying to some unknown deity that they hadn’t caught any of that.

“Calm down, babe…!” They teased. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of—“

“Exactly. There’s nothing,” he interjected. “Let’s keep moving.”

They ended that short—yet intense—conversation with incredulous ‘mhm’ before dropping the matter completely… But they knew Lautrec; there was something about the way he spoke, the way he carried himself on that morning, that revealed a certain sense of liberation to him, one that wasn’t there on the night before.

By process of elimination, that had to be Víbekka’s doing... as unlikely as that could seem at first glance.

It was stupid to think about such matters, and quite frankly, it was none of their business either. Still, it was a welcome distraction from the lingering thoughts about their own encounter with Oswald from last night. They realized, by the look on the pardoner’s face as he spoke to the Gravelord Servant, that he wasn’t as secretive as Lautrec about such matters… and that, again, this Víbekka was, indeed, far more sensible than she appeared at first glance.

Gods, as if their current predicament wasn’t dramatic enough, why were now ‘feelings’ making things more complicated?

Enough of that. Their journey was already fraught with danger and uncertainty, and the last thing they needed was emotional entanglements further complicating matters. And so, with a resolute shake of their head, they refocused their attention on the task at hand...

They’d reached the core of cthe city in no time, once again, thanks to the one who would’ve been a Chosen Undead; the poor fool was competent enough to direct the central contraption towards the cathedral, where the Lordvessel was being kept; it was a straight path from their position, which made things extremely convenient... What wasn’t so convenient, though, was the presence of armour-clad giants guarding the entrance, which obviously presented a problem; they didn’t imagine they’d be too happy to see a Darkwraith, a Gravelord Servant, a follower of Velka and Lautrec—whatever he wanted to call himself these days—trying to gain entry to their sacred cathedral.

“We need a plan,” they said, turning to look at their companions. "We can't afford to rush in blindly—“

“Illusions,” Lautrec cut them off. “They’re not as strong as they look.”

“Explain yourself,” Víbekka spoke, crossing their arms.

“What do you not understand? They’re illusions, straight up,” he reiterated. “The city is practically desert. Only a few deities remain… and a few of their human servants, of course. But the rest are all illusions, spectres created by Gwyndolin.”

“Wait, what do you mean the city is practically desert…?” The Darkwraith inquired once more. “Where did everyone go?”

“They either went somewhere far from Gwyn’s influence or… hollow, I guess”, he dismissively replied. “Either way, they’re gone, and in their place are these filthy illusions. I can assure you, they’re not as strong as they look. Furthermore, if we pay them no mind…”

“…they shall leave us be,” Oswald continued. “Let us not walk too close to them, then."

“Right…”

With their mind set, they cautiously approached the entrance, keeping a careful distance from the armored illusions. Lautrec led the way, his footsteps echoing through the grand hall as they made their way towards the cathedral… He was right: the giants barely noticed them at all, which was a most welcome relief.

As they reached the heavy doors, an air of tension hung over them. They exchanged glances, each of them aware of the stakes they were facing. “If I am correct,” Lautrec muttered, “the Lordvessel should be on the second floor.”

“How do you know so much about this place…?” The rebel asked in absolute awe.

“Fina’s city,” was his only reply.

Oh, the way he’d spoken the deity’s name, like a bitter man speaking the name of his former lover, with nothing but disdain in his voice. If anything, this confirmed their theory; Víbekka had done something to him last night, something that’d made him… change his mind about Fina…? Again, it was none of their business, but they smirked at the thought of it, nonetheless. What was going on with those two…?

With a firm push, the doors creaked open, revealing the sacred interior of the cathedral. The final leg of their mission awaited, and so, they stepped inside, ready to face whatever challenges came their way.

“Gwyndolin sent someone to protect the Lordvessel,” Lautrec spoke, his voice echoing across the stone walls of the cathedral. “The last real knight who still remains in Anor Londo… and an illusion, powered by a soul fragment of the man it’s supposed to be replacing.”

“They won’t give the Lordvessel to us willingly, I suppose…?”

“No. No, they won’t,” the knight replied. “Highly unlikely."

“Then we’ll have to kill our way through,” the Gravelord Servant chimed in.

The rebel scoffed. “Of course you’d say something like that—“

“Got a problem with that, Darkwraith…?” Víbekka interjected, locking eyes with them. Her body stiffened, ready to retaliate...

…but Oswald’s voice cut through the building tension: “Enough, both of ye. Let us approach this situation with caution.” His tone was firm and commanding, reminding them of the gravity of their situation. "Save thy quarrels for another time.”

With a collective nod, Víbekka and the rebel reluctantly backed down…

It would take a while for those two to get along, it seemed.

Thus, they proceeded through the grand hall of the cathedral. The stained glass windows illuminated the area with a soft, ethereal glow, casting colorful patterns across the marble floor, a reminder of Anor Londo’s majesty… even if there was practically no one left to enjoy it.

“Through these doors,” Lautrec spoke, stopping in his tracks, “is the last chamber, which connects to the upper level of the cathedral. If Smough and Ornstein are still around… then they’re here."

They exchanged glances, a mix of determination and nervousness filling the air; they had come so far, faced countless challenges, and now they were on the cusp of their objective. With each step, the weight of their mission grew heavier upon their shoulders…

Lautrec took the lead, his shotels at the ready, with Víbekka, Oswald and the rebel following close behind. As he pushed the door open, he expected to find the illusionary Dragonslayer Ornstein and the Executioner Smough, standing at the center of the chamber like sentinels, guarding the access to the Lordvessel…

…yet, what they found, was much much different, and much, much more horrifying…

It simply couldn’t be.

...and yet…

“Kirk...?” The rebel’s shaky voice echoed in the large space. “B-but… you were—“

“Not until I’ve achieved my purpose, my dear,” he cut them off. “Not until Kaathe allows it.”

There, standing before them, was indeed Kirk, the Knight of Thorns; still missing an arm, his armour was tattered and stained, his thorns dull and broken, but his role as a captain prevailed… and he wouldn’t be relieved of it until the world was shrouded in Abyssal darkness, no matter how many limbs he lost, no matter how many times he died.

“Impossible,” said Víbekka, equally shocked. “No, you shouldn’t be here! No one can survive a direct attack from the Gravelord Sword, not even other Servants can—!”

“The Abyss runneth deep, rat,” was his only response. “Everything can be undone by it… and trust me, my fate is not one that pleases me. At this moment I hate Kaathe as much as you all do, but alas…”

A brief, tense pause ensued, in which Kirk exhaled a painful sigh. Then, fixating his empty, dead gaze on the rebel once more, he concluded…

“...I won't, cannot die... Not until my purpose is exhausted,” he breathed. “Whatever you do, this spark of life that Kaathe is feeding me against my own will… it won’t go away, not until the world is shrouded in Abyssal darkness.”

Oswald’s eyes instinctively found the rebel’s, uncapable of imagining how they could feel at that moment; they’d endured all five stages of mourning and accepted Kirk’s death, only to discover the Darkstalker’s new form of abuse on the best warrior he’d ever had… all in less than 24 hours to boot. Needless to say, they were speechless, their grip on their weapon almost non-existent at the sight of their former companion, now reduced to a presque-hollow thrall…

Víbekka, on the other hand, was furious; in all her years as a Gravelord Servant, this was the first kill that’d managed to elude her. Even if the circumstances by which this man was still standing on his two feet were totally outside her control, she couldn’t help but feel this’d been her mistake somehow. Perhaps if she’d destroyed his remains, burnt him to ashes, leaving nothing worth rescuing…

“Kirk,” the rebel spoke again, taking a step forward, “you don’t have to—“

“Stop pitying me,” the Knight of Thorns cut them off, his voice oddly monotone, like he’d lost the ability to show any kind of emotion. “After our defeat in Sen’s fortress, my carcass was sent to the Abyss; Kaathe brought it back to life, then used all his might to send us here…” He pointed to himself, then to the few knights that stood behind him, which didn’t seem much happier to be here. “The old worm’s gone mad, my love… Perhaps you were right all along, and perhaps… perhaps, I was too blinded by my devotion to the Darkstalker to see truth in your warning…”

“Kirk—”

“But none of that matters now,” he continued, cutting them off. “You were very clear to me; du magst mich nicht, hm…? So even if I chose to use this second chance in my favour… I’ve nothing, no one to return to—”

“Oohh, no, no, no!” The rebel approached him, their stride furious yet pained. “Don’t act like you were not an absolute piece of cock to me, you son of a—“

“Oh, I was terrible to you alright,” he interrupted. “I would apologize to you... I most sincerely ask for your pardon, my dear, and hope that you will find it in you to forgive me one day,” he spoke, his expression still empty and detached in spite of his words… Perhaps the entire process had truly left him unable to make complex facial expressions, after all. “And I’m sorry, truly, for everything... not only for the things I said to you yesterday—”

“You realize that barely changes anything, right…?”

“I am very much aware it doesn’t change a damn thing,” he replied. “And I am still going to kill you, once and for all. It’s all I can really do to earn a very much deserved rest."

And with that, the Knight of Thorns unsheathed his barbed sword... and the battle commenced. The tension—oh, the unbearable tension, it reached its peak as the clash of steel echoed through the grand chamber; in mere seconds, it all became a chaotic dance, blades meeting in a frenzy of strikes and parries, as Kirk and his Darkwraiths fought against Oswald, the rebel, Víbekka, and Lautrec.

“Where are Ornstein and Smough…? What did you do?!” The knight of Carim finally asked, meeting each strike aimed at him with great precision.

“The same force that brought us here,” one of the Darkwraiths began, trying to break past his defences. “It pulverized those two into nothingness…!"

“What does that even mean…?!”

“Surely you didn’t think the rebel was the only one who could walk in-and-out of the abyss, right…?” That same soldier replied. “There are methods…!”

'Methods’…? What did he mean by that…? The Darkwraith's words hung in the air, shrouded in mystery and intrigue… but apparetly, he was too eager to explain himself...

“Ancient rituals, forbidden arts…” The soldier continued, his tone bordering the obsessive. "Kaathe, our dark lord, has delved deep into the secrets of the Abyss, harnessing its power to bend the very fabric of reality… Those two were consumed by its darkness, claimed by the primordial Abyss… And we were brought here—"

He’d heard enough. Before the Darkwraith could elaborate any further, Lautrec swiftly silenced him with a deadly strike of his shotel, severing his head from his shoulders. "Enough of your cryptic ramblings,” he said… but those words had shaken him to the core, as much as he tried to deny it.

And unbeknownst to him, they didn’t go unheard by the rebel, either.

Yet, the battle raged on around him. Each movement echoed through the chamber, as they fought with a united determination against Kirk and his Darkwraiths: Oswald's rapier darted with precision; the rebel's scimitar danced through the air; Víbekka's greatsword swung with brutal force…

The knight of Thorns, however… he fought with a detached focus, his movements calculated and precise, but lacking any real intention behind them. He was like a killing machine, with no human thought behind that empty gaze; a man trapped in his own fate, forced to carry out a purpose he no longer believed in…

Pitiful but admittedly, very efficient.

But his opponents—his former companion, the pardoner, the Gravelord Servant and that loathsome knight—were most definitely a force to be reckoned with, and as the battle raged on, Kirk's strikes grew wild and desperate, his movements betraying the cracks in his resolve. Sensing an opportunity, the rebel lunged forward, their scimitar aiming for their former companion's exposed side... But as the blade made contact, Kirk managed to slightly shift his position, just enough to lessen the impact, taking only a glancing blow...

Nevertheless, he staggered back, his grip on his weapon faltering for a moment. His eyes, no longer empty, flickered with the faintest hint of recognition, uncertainty clouding his features… He was exposed; he would be killed again, before being brought back to life against his will…

The impotence was enough to make him want to burst into tears. He wondered if he still could.

It was in that moment of vulnerability that Oswald seized his chance: with a swift and precise strike, he got between Kirk and the rebel and plunged his rapier into his chest, his weapon finding its mark with deadly accuracy. A pained gasp escaped from the captain's lips, a look of disbelief etched on his face as he clutched at the wound…

“You will be seen again, I assume…?” The rebel asked, their eyes locked with his, betraying the sadness behind their gaze.

“Such... is my fate…” He managed to breath out.

“Then,” they began, walking towards his fallen form, their stride determined, as they unsheathed their parrying dagger and directed the blade at his neck. “I’ll kill you as many times as it takes…”

And with one swift motion, the rebel brought down their weapon, severing Kirk's head from his body. Oh, gods, they couldn’t believe they’d actually done it… They simply stood there, their chest heaving as the weight of their actions began to settle.

This would only be the first time of many.

The remaining Darkwraiths, witnessing their captain's second fall, hesitated for a brief moment, their resolve waning; until Kirk was brought back, there wasn’t much they could do. And so, it was in this moment of realization that the tide of the battle shifted; with newfound determination, the team fought back with renewed ferocity, overwhelming the soldiers, driving them back one by one...

And finally, the chamber fell quiet. The only sounds lingering were heavy breaths and the clatter of weapons dropped in defeat.

What an eerie tranquility…

...Yet so quickly broken.

“Let’s press forward,” the rebel spoke, walking over the bloody corpses of their fallen brethren, like none of that affected them anymore. “We need to get our hands on the Lordvessel and protect that shit with our fucking lives, now that we know Kaathe has found a way to go in and out of the fucking Abyss… Fucking copycat—“

“‘Jou, are you alright…?” Lautrec interjected, sensing the detachment in their voice.

“Lautrec, darling, handsome, sweetheart, baby…” They began, their voice extremely frustrated, despite the excessive use of petnames. “Do you know why I made you go through Sen’s Fortress to reach Anor Londo, instead of traveling through the Abyss…?”

“Drastic change of topic,” he conceded. “But no, I have no clue. Please, enlighten me.”

“Ths is the city of the gods, Lautrec. Whatever is going on in here,” they spoke, signalling to their entire surroundings, waving their arms frantically, “keeps the Abyss out by default. But dearest Kaathe, somehow, has found a way to breach it; man quite literally threw Kirk, and a few soldiers to boot, into the depths of the Abyss and landed them right here! Here, in fucking Anor Londo! We, my friend, are in GREAT danger.”

Everyone’s eyes widened as the gravity of the situation sunk in; Anor Londo, the city of sunlight, inhabited by deities and protected by their limitless power, the one place untouched by darkness, was now within the Darkstalker’s reach as well.

“Somehow… In such a hort period of time,” they continued, "he’s managed to achieve much more than I could in hundreds of years…” They sighed, their eyes opening again in realization as they paced around the room. "He might’ve studied me... Kaathe, I mean. This is why he was so eager to recruit me as a Darkwraith despite—“

“So that he could learn from thee,” Oswald cut them off, “and start making preparations for this moment…”

“Connard… Fucking ver…!” The knight of Carim grunted under his nose.

“You remember how much effort it took me just to move Oswald—a single person— from the base of the Fortress to the top,” the rebel spoke once more. “Meanwhile, Kaathe is able to throw entire squads into the Abyss, and bring them to Anor-motherfucking-Londo, no less…!”

“It appears that Kaathe possesses knowledge and power beyond our comprehension,” Oswald mused. “But how couldst he—“

“I barely understand any of what you three are saying. I suppose I lack too much context,” Víbekka chimed in. “But could it be, Darkwraith, that Kaathe is somehow channeling the power of your Four Kings to be able to do all this…?”

“That… is a reasonable possibility,” they admitted.

“Whatever the case may be,” Lautrec interjected once again, “we must reach the Lordvessel and secure it... before he is revived.”

With a jerk of his head, he pointed at Kirk’s lifeless, headless form, still lying on the ground, still very much dead… For the time being, that is.

Gods, what a shitty fucking way to start the day.

Chapter Text

“Ye hast journey’d far, and overcome much. Come hither…"

This was the warm welcome that Gwynevere, daughter of Gwyn and Queen of Sunlight, gave the four warriors the moment they stepped into her chambers, where the Lordvessel was technically being kept. The sight of the deity was a much welcome relief: the Darkwraiths had indeed disposed of Ornstein and Smough, but with their limited knowledge of the city, knew not where to look for the Lordvessel. Gwynevere's radiant beauty provided a stark contrast to the darkness that seemed to follow the team everywhere they went…

…and yet…

“Since the day Father his form did obscureth, I have awaited someone like ye,” she continued, summoning the goddamned relic into her hands. “I bequeath the Lordvessel to thee.”

“…Oh? Just like that…?"

Of course. She spoke to them as if they were merely another group of Chosen Undead, tricked by one of the Primordial Serpents to link the First Flame.

“She’s giving the Lordvessel to us far too quickly,” the rebel whispered, watching the two men as they spoke to ‘Gwynevere’, from a safe distance. “It’s almost like she’s—”

“…programmed to give it to whomever gets here first,” Víbekka added. “Yes. I thought so too.”

“Do you think she could be another one of those illusions Lautrec mentioned…?”

She remained silent for a moment, watching as the knight of Carim, who stood right in front of the deity, produced a twinkling titanite charm and held it in front of the Lordvessel. This small gem was another relic in itself, capable of turning physical objects into light and store them inside its glow, making them far easier to carry.

Hm… Convenient.

“It’s highly likely,” the Gravelord Servant spoke, finally adressing the Darkwraith’s question, “that this is a copy of Gwynevere, meant to seduce anyone who comes here… to convince them to use the Lordvessel to link the Fire.”

“Seduce, huh…?” They mused. "Well, uh… Given those… attributes…"

“Rather exaggerated, if you ask me. But who am I to judge…?" Víbekka smirked. "Whatever the case…”

As she spoke those words, she unsheathed one of the many daggers she was carrying—she was practically a walking arsenal of weapons—, fidgeting with the handle as she eyed the deity carefully, finding an opening…

“There is only one way to find out,” she concluded.

Of course. She was in the business of killing deities, after all…

And thus, the Gravelord Servant swiftly threw the knife at Gwynevere, aiming for her chest, piercing right through her… And not to their surprise, the image of the Queen of Sunlight shattered like glass, dissipating into thin air.

“Well, that settles it,” the Darkwraith remarked dryly.

The room fell into an eerie silence as the two men stood in disbelief, staring at the empty space where the illusion once was, before turning to look at Víbekka and the rebel...

“I… must commend thee for thy sharp observation, ye two,” Oswald spoke, trying to hide his embarassment. “It appears that, um, the fair Gwynevere was nothing more than a mere phantasm…”

Lautrec let out a sigh. “So much for expecting a warm welcome,” he muttered, with a disappointed look on his face.

Men.

"Whatever the case,” Víbekka spoke again, walking to the other end of the room to retrieve the dagger, “we have the Lordvessel at last. What now, Darkwraith?”

“We should get back to the other side of the wall before Kaathe sends more units—“

But before they could finish their answer, the ground beneath them began to shake violently; in a matter of seconds, the once grand chambers of Gwynevere began to crumble, giving way to a wave darkness and decay…

This presence…

“Already...?!” Lautrec exclaimed.

“No,” the rebel replied. “This isn’t the Darkwraith’s doing… This is a different energy… Could be—“

“…that bastard Gwyndolin,” Víbekka chimed in. “Of course…"

The lesser deity didn’t like having his illusions detroyed, and Gwynevere’s was one his favourites, apparently… Not out of any sentimentalism, of course, since chances were he and his elder sister never really saw eye to eye; to him, this image he’d created of her was an asset, a prop created to manipulate potential Chosen Undead into linking the Fire, over and over again…

...And now it was gone, destroyed by heretics.

“Ye that tarnished the Godmother's image,” Gwyndolin’s androgynous voice echoed across the entire cathedral. “Thy transgression shall not go unpunished...“

As his voice reverberated through the crumbling room, the ground continued to tremble beneath their feet; shadows danced and swirled around them, an eerie darkness enveloping the grand chamber... His intentions were clear: it didn’t matter if they’d saved the city—for now, at least; they’d taken the Lordvessel for reasons unrelated to the Firelink cycle and exposed the illusion of Gwynevere.

That was their cue to get the fuck outta there.

Without wasting another moment, the four warriors made a hasty retreat, running out of the decaying chamber and back into the grand hallway of the cathedral. Their footsteps echoed through the empty space as they raced against time, desperate to get out of before this darkness fully devoured them…

But everything became far more discouraging the moment they burst through the massive doors of the cathedral, only to find the entire city had been engulfed in this illusory darkness…

…except the darkness was not the illusion, but the reality that Gwyndolin had tried to conceal behind the unnatural blinding sunlight that had greeted them on that morning. Just like that, the once glorious city of Anor Londo had been reduced to a black mass, caught in the grips of darkness.

“What is this…?” Víbekka asked, trying her best to keep pace with the others.

Lautrec and Oswald were in disbelief as well, horrorized by this revelation, glancing at the distorting architecture and the writhing shadows that seemed to consume everything in their path… but the rebel simply giggled.

“Liars…!” They said. “All of them… This is why you don’t trust the gods.”

None of them understood what they meant by that, but in spite their mocking tone, there was a certain somberness to their voice, one that revealed a certain disillusion… as ironic as that may sound, in reference to a deity who had tried to conceal this all-consuming darkness behind, you guessed it, an illusion.

If the gods couldn’t even protect their own city, how could they protect themselves—let alone everyone else—from the threat of the Abyss…? Even if this darkness wasn’t of Abyssal nature, it was still enough to notice just how powerless the these false deities were.

“Let’s just get out of here,” the rebel concluded. “This is making me wanna vomit…"

It wasn’t long until they reached the keep at the start of the city—despite the drastic change in lighting, it was still a straight line from the cathedral to the entrance. Much to their surprise, the place was laden with batwing demons, who seemed just as surprised about the darkness as they were. The Darkwraith rebel unsheathed their scimitar, expecting a fight… but quickly realized, as they locked eyes with one of the creatures, that they were actually… thankful?

Of course; they’d defied Gwyndolin, one of the deities that had enslaved them and forced them into servitude. Fortunately for the team, the demons were willing to return the favour, by helping them escape the city.

And so, with their leathery wings, they flew them to the other side of the wall; the city of lies was now nothing more than a silhouette against the darkened sky, a fading memory of grandeur and glory. No one back in the settlement would ever believe them if they told them what they’d seen on this day…

Then again, perhaps it was better not to scare them with the truth.

The batwing demons landed them safely at the base of the fortress, then made a hasty retreat, not giving the warriors the chance to thank them for their help. They too were in a rush to fix things, it seemed… whatever things they needed to fix.

“Phew. Well, at least they were kind enough to drop us outside the Fortress…” Lautrec said, his voice tinted with sarcasm. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to make the entire walk from the top to the entrance… Gods, I’m exhausted...”

“Well, I hope you’re able to make the walk from the Fortress to the settlement,” the rebel replied.

“Couldn’t you just—“

“I’m not taking you all through the Abyss, ’Trec,” they cut him off. “Because one: I don’t think I can take three people with me without losing focus, and two, knowing what I know now, I’m not risking another encounter with my former buddies, while I’m traveling."

“Hm. Well, I had to ask,” he added.

“Víbekka, must thee return to Nito…?” Oswald turned to the Gravelord Servant. “We have room for thee in our refuge, if thou desirest to—“

“I don’t think I can face my Lord, after leaving with no explanation whatsoever,” she was quick to reply. “I’ll return to him once this is over… or I won’t return at all.”

“Girl, if this is not over, you won’t have anywhere to return to,” the rebel chimed in.

“Very encouraging…”

“It is what it is, I’m sorry to say,” they conceded. “For now… can we please return to the Undead Settlement and rest for a bit…? It’s not even the afternoon, and I’m already drained…”

Oswald simply nodded in agreement, with a hint of worry in his eyes. The Darkwraith, he thought, could never seem to catch a break; each day was a new world-shattering event, a discovery that shook them to the core… He pitied them, truly.

If only he could do more for them, take their mind off things… If only they’d allowed it.

With that, they made their way back to the settlement, their fatigue evident in each step.

Chapter Text

The weary group finally reached the rundown building that’d so quickly become their refuge. The four warriors of very different backgrounds slowly settled in, exhausted—both physically and emotionally—from their trip to Anor Londo: Lautrec collapsed onto a worn-outchair, visibly drained; Oswald gathered some firewood and tended to the weak fire at the hearth, his graceful movements contrasting with the exhaustion etched on his face; Víbekka leaned against the wall, her eyes fixed on the dancing flames, lost in her own thoughts…

…and the rebel… They’d barely opened their mouth on the way back to the settlement. They silently took a seat on the floor—like they always did— beside the small fireplace, not paying attention to anything or anyone else, as if tring to disappear in plain view. Nevertheless, needless to say, the pardoner took notice of their silence—because of course he did—and frowned. Carefully, he dusted his hands off and sat down next to them, his dark robes pooling around him.

“Anjou," he spoke softly, using their true name despite their objections, his voice barely above a whisper. "I knowest that the events in Anor Londo have shaken thee deeply. If thou desirest—“

“I wonder if you simply stop feeling once you become one of those things,” they cut him off, their eyes fixated on the fire, unblinking, unmoving.”

“Those… things…?” He repeated. “What art thou referring to…?”

“When the Abyss begat from the Primeaval Human swallowed all of Oolacile,” they explained, wincing at the memory, “its inhabitants became something indescribable, something far worse than the average hollow…”

“W-well, why art thou asking that, now…?”

“Because we might need to get used to the idea that we will become one of those things, should we lose,” they replied, finally meeting his gaze with a sudden jerk of their head. “And, considering all we’ve learnt today, things are looking pretty grim—“

“Shut the fuck up, ‘Jou!” Lautrec interjected, turning to meet the rebel’s gaze. “Don’t you ever say that again! Don’t you fucking dare!”

The pardoner glanced from the rebel to Lautrec, surprise etching his features; he had never seen such raw emotion from the normally composed and stoic Lautrec of Carim… But, as it turned out, he was terrified, terrified of losing everything again, of becoming one of the creatures his companion had just described...

“What is it, then?! Are you fucking saying that we got the Lordvessel for nothing…? That this is all a lost cause?!” He continued. “Or are you simply giving up because you can’t stand what’s become of your fucking ex…?”

“That’s enough, Lautrec,” Víbekka chimed in, her voice firm. “We will fight til the very end, but we need to get ready for the worst if we—“

“You too, now?!” He cut her off, rising from his chair, walking towards her. “Why do you entertain the idea so much?!”

“Because I can't imagine that defeating Kaathe in his own territory is going to be easy,” she replied. “I’m not saying we don’t have any chances, but I—“

“Oh, no, no, you totally should, because we do not have any chances, Víbby,” they spoke once more. “If your theory about Kaathe somehow channeling the power of the Four Kings of New Londo is correct, we’re royally fucked—”

"Enough of this defeatist talk, you three!” He interrupted their exchange, his voice ressonating with authority as his gaze shifted between them. "We may be faced with great challenges, but we must not lose hope. We still have the Lordvessel—“

“You don’t get it, right…?” The rebel got back on their feet facing Oswald. “The power of the Lordvessel will only help us—will help you three specifically, as a matter fact—navigate New Londo without succumbing to the Abyss…” They took a step closer, their bloodshot red eyes fixed on the pardoner’s. “And in the very, very unlikely possibility that we manage to defeat Kaathe, it will take us right here. But that’s all it can do for us…!”

There was truth in their statement… A bitter truth to swallow…

His expression softened as he listened to their words, the weight of their realization sinking in; the logic behind them was undeniable, as much as he dreaded to think about it.

“I understand thy concerns, Anjou, he murmured, using that name deliberately, placing a hand on their shoulder, “but we mustn't lose hope entirely. We have come this far, and I for one believe in our strength and resilience—”

“What’s up with you calling me by my real name, now…?” They eyed him suspiciously.

“Because thou needest to be reminded of thy true self, now more than ever,” he confidently spoke. “I believe ’tis about time thou reclaimest what the Abyss took from thee—”

“Ohh, no, no, you don’t get to talk about these matters so deliberately, pardoner!” They growled. “Watch your fucking tongue, lest I cut it!”

He frowned, taken aback by their sudden outburst. His hand hesitated on the rebel's shoulder, uncertainty creeping into his expression as he tried to regain his composure. In the background, Víbekka gestured for Lautrec to join her as she walked towards the exit, sensing nothing good would come from watchng those two argue…

They needed some time alone.

The pardoner sighed softly, finally removing their hand from their shoulder. “I apologize if I overstepped my bounds…” He said, his voice laced with genuine concern. "'Twas not my intention to cause thee further distress—“

“Oswald, ever since we set foot in Anor Londo you’ve done nothing but cause me distress,” they cut him off. “Listen, I know you mean well, but you’re trying to understand matters that you could never—“

“Then help me understand!” He interjected, leaning closer. “I mayst not fully comprehend many of thine actions, but I am here to support thee… in whatever way thou deemest fit, of course…"

“Oswald…” Their voice softened, the sharp edges of their anger melting away into a weary sigh.

“Please,” he insisted, gently reaching out and clasping their hand in his own. “Just let me be there for thee. We may not fully understand each other's burdens, but—“

“Talk to the one you call your goddess, pardoner,” they simply said, withdrawing their hand. “Things go much deeper than you realize. Be careful when you scratch the surface, because we all have a dog to exercise.”

The pardoner raised an eyebrow.

“What… is that supposed to mean…?”

“I don’t know,” they shrugged. “It… sounded much better in my head.”

~~~

As Víbekka and Lautrec stepped outside, away from the echoing conversation between Oswald and the rebel, the tension in the air seemed to dissipate… for a bit, at least. However, the insurmountable task ahead weighed heavily on their shoulders. It begged to be addressed.

“You seem… troubled,” Víbekka spoke, hiding her arms under the puffed-up humanity cloak, shielding herself from the cold. “Talk to me—“

"I am troubled, Víbekka," he admitted, his voice laced with frustration. “So much has happened in these last days… It feels like everything is falling apart.”

“Everything is, indeed, falling apart as we speak…”

“Then how are you so calm about it…?” He leaned in closer, his gaze locked with hers. “By the Lords, it’s like none of this affects you…!”

“I am just as scared as you are, Lautrec,” she said, her words contrasting greatly with her emotionless expression. “By default, nothing wants to die… And I most certainly dread to think what will happen to me—to everyone, if Kaathe gets what he wants."

The Grim Reaper with the stoic demeanor, also grippling with fear despite their lacking reaction.

The Knight of Carim was taken aback by her confession; he’d spent enough time around her to be able to read those dead eyes of hers… somewhat, at least; he could see the emptiness in her gaze, a mask she wore so well, but also the sadness, the desperation within.

Nothing wants to die… not even the Grim Reaper herself.

“Under any other circumstances,” Lautrec spoke, sighing deeply, “I would’ve prayed for this…”

“For this Abyssal, reverse-rapture of sorts…?”

“For anything that would’ve helped me escape Fina’s clutches,” he admitted. “I would not say it out loud, of course—“

“Mm-hm, obviously—“

“—But I wouldn’t have cared too much if I ended turning into one of those things ‘Jou mentioned, living—no, existing in a never-ending Abyss,” he concluded. “But now… I have something to fight for, Víbekka.”

“Care to elaborate…?” She asked, her eyes widening slightly.

“From the moment I decided that my life was my own, I… well,” he paused, trying his best to contain the smile that was starting to form at the corner of his lips. "I’ve been thinking of what I will do with my freedom, when this is all over... I am still terrified of Fina, of course, but if I have to go Hollow, I want to go Hollow a free man.”

He sighed, unable to believe those words had come out of his mouth. He then leaned in even closer, his face only inches away from hers...

“And… I would’ve never found this opportunity if you hadn’t been there to confront me, whatever your intentions where,” he continued. "You’ve shown me that there’s still something worth fighting for in this decaying world… And, if you’ll allow it, I wish to explore this connection further."

A moment of silence between them ensued after that bold declaration, the air thick with unspoken emotions. For the most part, Víbekka maintained her stoic facade... but the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"I am allowing it, Lautrec," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze softened, and for a brief moment, the weight of their journey seemed to fade into the background; she reached out and gently placed her hand on Lautrec's cheek, her touch surprisingly warm against his skin...

…and the knight's heart skipped a beat; he leaned into her touch, savoring the moment, feeling a shiver run down his spine. His eyes never left hers, a mix of vulnerability and determination shining through. "I am grateful," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "that our paths have crossed.”

“As am I...” She whispered back. “And I thought… No, nevermind—“

"No, please," Lautrec said, his voice coaxing and gentle. "Do not hold back on me, please… Speak to me.”

“I intially thought what we had was only going to be—”

“…meaningless sex…?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly."

Lautrec let out a small chuckle, the tension in the air easing ever so slightly. “Well, that’s an assumption I had entertained as well…” He paused for a moment, his gaze locked with hers, before continuing. "But, as it turns out, there is something more between us… Wouldn’t you agree…?”

“I do, knight,” she sighed. “I do. But... I’ll still take the meaningless sex anytime."

A mischievous grin spread across Lautrec’s face as he leaned in even closer, his warm breath caressing her ear…

“Well, then, my lady…” He softly spoke, his voice dripping with playful mischief. “You only need ask."

Chapter Text

Getting to understand this Darkwraith was like an entire excavation; it’d been around a week since he’d started digging, and he no longer knew what he’d expected to find… Maybe he’d only scratched the surface. Maybe he did have a dog to exercise.

Whatever that meant.

Things were looking hopeless; it didn’t matter how much they ran around Lordran, trying to stop the Darkwraiths with little, meaningless acts that, as it turned out, did very little in the grand scale of things—like protecting the Bells of Awakening, or securing the Lordvessel; the Darkstalker and his Darkwraiths would always find a way to persevere. By process of elimination, it was safe to assume that the best course of action was to kill Kaathe... but that was easier said than done.

Anjou of Carim, Anjou of the Abyss, the ‘rebel', knew that very well… but Oswald still wished they weren’t so secretive about certain matters.

He'd been restless; the weight of the world seemed to bear down on his shoulders as he paced around the room, pondering their next move. He glanced at his companion, still seated on the floor near the small fireplace, that same air of weariness surrounding them; just the sight of them made him feel a pang of longing, a terrible blend of so many unspoken feelings that he’d agreed to keep to himself, lest he wanted to distress them even more… And oh, they had many, many reasons to be distressed.

"We cannot let despair consume us,” he spoke, almost out of reflex. “We travelled to Anor Londo, retrieved the Lordvessel and emerged victorious. That must mean something."

“I already told you,” they said, their voice practically toneless. “The Lordvessel will serve us very little—“

“I am not talking about the Lordvessel in itself, my dear,” he cut them off, taking a few steps closer. “I am talking about everything we hath endured so far: the fight for the Second Bell of Awakening, the battle at Sen’s Fortress, everything that hath occurred in Anor Londo; we hath taken down armies, overpowered Kirk many, many times… and that was before Víbekka and Lautrec joined our cause—”

“You’re so confident. Too confident.”

“Perhaps thou shouldst be more confident in thine own abilities—“

“Don’t start…”

“I hath seen what thou art capable of,” he insisted, despite their warnings. “I hath seen the unbeliavable power thou dost possess, the strength and determination within thee.”

“Oswald, you don’t get it, right…?” They got back on their feet and took a step towards the pardoner, defeat in their eyes. “If Kaathe is truly channeling the power of the Four Kings, we are at a great disadvantage. You have no idea what those four are capable of—“

“Thou’rt right, I do not fully comprehend the extent of their power, probably thou’st never mentioned them being a threat up until today,” he cut them off, rising an eyebrow. “How art they so important all of a sudden…?”

“They’ve been lethargic for so long, dormant, kept out of sight and out of mind,” they explained. “Kaathe fears them more than he fears any god or devil. Fortunately for him, they are easily swayed… and the Darkstalker is an excellent manipulator. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s asked for their help; that’s how the Darkwraiths came to be in the first place..."

Some context. As the name hints, New Londo was an extension of Anor Londo, built on the human side of Lordran. Some found it extremely funny to say that it was Gwyn’s vacation villa, built next to the lake near the Firelink Shrine to boot. He sent four powerful figures to watch over the city, to ensure that this privileged, small settlement was just as organized and pristine as the home of the gods itself, hoping that it would inspire the humans to follow the Way of White. The Lord of Sunlight trusted these Four Kings with his life...

Big mistake.

Soon came Kaathe, who saw the innate power within these powerful figures and thought he could use it in his favour; he convinced them to use it, to feed the Abyss that lied deep below the city of New Londo… Long story short, it wasn’t long before they became infatuated by this dark energy and joined forces with Kaathe. That’s how the Darkwraiths came to be; this innate power was none other than the ability to drain life, humanity, from any living thing that has a soul… which eventually evolved into the better known Dark Hand.

The rest of the story is known; Kaathe plans an Abyss breakout—because of course he does—and the gods stop it by flooding the city and killing thousands of innocents in the process. Kinda makes you wonder who’s the real villain here.

The Darkwraiths, howerver, persisted. And so did Kaathe and the abyssal sovereigns.

The Four Kings became something that could no longer be considered human or remotely humanoid; their skin turned blue and dry, like dead tree bark, and their bodies grew and distorted into eldritch abominations, to the point where no one could tell where their actual bodies ended and where the abyssal sequels started. They inhabited the depths of the Abyss, where few dared tread; dormant, unbothered with the surface, they waited for something to wake them from their century-long sleep…

And now, Kaathe had managed to channel their power through unknown means. Likely inspired by his most exotic recruit, the once sworn enemy, then second-in-command, now enemy again—Anjou of Carim, the Darkstalker had found a way to travel through the empty void, move whatever armies and forces he desired, bypassing the gods’ protections… and most horrifyingly, forcing life into a dead vessel.

It was hard not to pity the Knight of Thorns in that predicament... Yet, he was still nothing but an enemy.

“You’ve seen how powerful Kaathe has become in only a week,” the rebel spoke again. “Víbekka’s guess is most likely accurate, so we might as well start digging a ditch to bury ourselves in—"

“Nay!” Oswald declared, his voice resolute. “We shalt not be so easily defeated! We have come too far to give up now—”

“Then what do you suggest, old man?!” Their voice thundered, cutting his off. “That we simply traipse into New Londo and see what happens?! Cause I’ll tell you what’ll happen: if we’re lucky, we’ll all go Hollow and we won’t be in our right minds to notice what’ll become of us when—!”

Without hesitating, Oswald swiftly brought his gloved hand across their face in a sharp, stinging slap that caused the Darkwraith to abruptly halt their yelling.

How dared he…?

"Doth that bring thee back to thine senses?" he growled, his expression stern and unyielding. "I understand thy frustrations, but wallowing in despair shall achieve naught! Thou art sorely mistaken, Anjou!”

With their hand lingering on their own cheek, the rebel could only look at the pardoner in pure disbelief; a tense, uncomfortable silence was begat from that blow, one which none of them dared to break for a while. Oh gods, he felt terrible now…

Oswald took a step back, his expression softening slightly. "Forgive me, my dear…" He said, his voice full of remorse. “I... didst not mean to strike thee, but I sought to shake thee from thy despair—“

“I’ve strangled for less,” they interjected, their crimson eyes still wide open, unblinking, as they stared at him. “Just so you know.”

“I… indeed, I am… well aware of thy capabilities,” Oswald remarked, a tinge of dread in his voice, ”but I assure thee, my intention was not to harm thee physically, but rather to awaken thy spirit from the depths of despair—“

“That’s the only reason you still have humanity on you, handsome,” they cut him off again, their voice a warning.

“Pfft. Save thy threats for Kaathe, darling—”

“You do not listen, do you…?”

“Allow me to ask thee the same question, then,” he insisted. “What dost thou suggest we do...? That we simply do nothing and wait for the world to end? That we sit around and watch while the Darkstalker gets what he wants…? That we turn away while the Abyss consumeth everything?!”

“Point taken, Ozzy!” They replied. “Listen, none of our options are… ideal.”

“Then we must make the best of what we have…”

It was an agument of blind determination against complete surrender and acceptance, one that couldn’t be won by neither parties. Oswald sighed deeply; if the world was truly about to end, no matter what they did…

…then he had to make the best out of what little time he had left.

Taking a step closer, the pardoner's eyes softened as he regarded the rebel; there was a flicker of vulnerability in his gaze, as there always was when the two were alone together. His mind often traveled to the embrace they shared—and the kiss he’d stolen—in Anor Londo, just the night before.

"The world may be crumbling around us, but perhaps... just perhaps, we can still find a sliver of light within the darkness,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "No matter what befalls us... I wish to spend whatever time we have left in each other’s company.”

“I love those who yearn for the impossible,” was their only reply. Another quote from ’Faust’, Act II, Classical Walpurgis Night.

And just about he was about to reach out to touch them, his hand fell back to his side, a flicker of pure disappointment in his eyes… Nay, it was much more than disappointment, it was an indescribable feeling of frustration, sadness, like his own chest couldn’t bear the weight of his own heart; they were both bound by duty, by the weight of their respective roles. It was a cruel twist of fate that brought them together in such trying times…

So, so cruel.

But alas, he’d seemed to fall in love with the Devil on his shoulder, the Mephistopheles of Lordran themselves; the seed had been planted, and it lingered in the depths of his soul, a silent torment that he could not easily cast aside.

Despite everything… it could never be anything other than an unlikely alliance, it seemed.

“Very well,” he spoke again, his voice strained, tensing up his shoulders, trying to maintain any semblance of composure and dignity as he walked away. “Thou’st… made thyself perfectly clear, then…”

“Oswald, you don’t have to be so dramatic about this...” They sighed, very clearly hurt by the circumstances, even if they did a better job at concealing it—mostly thanks to that mask. “I already told you—“

They stopped themselves; there was nothing left to salvage.

The pardoner paused for a moment, his back turned to them, his gloved hand gripping tightly onto the fabric of his own robe; there was a pang of longing in his heart, a voice inside urging him to turn back and allow himself to break down, because oh, he so desperately needed it right now...

But he couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself to be led astray by someone who very clearly didn’t want him back.

“We must remain focused on our task,” he added, not facing them. “I require rest after this exhausting day. I will be in bed if thou needest me... but I suggest thou dost the same thing."

And with that, he simply walked away, leaving the rebel standing in the silence of their shared pain...

That's all that was left; alles unter Schmerzen. All under pain.

Chapter Text

The hours slipped away into the dark of the night. The rebel lay upon the mattress, their mind plagued by… well, everything: anxiety, thoughts, memories that refused to grant them the respite they so desperately craved and needed, and the painful, undesirable feelings, consequence to Oswald’s attempt to bridge the chasm between them. They tossed and turned, the weight of the world upon their shoulders…

Every waking second was suffocating…

Literally, they’d soon notice.

As the night grew darker, they felt a sudden presence behind them; before they could react, a gloved hand covered their mouth, gently but firmly, muffling any startled exclamation that threatened to escape their unmasked lips.

Thank the darkness for their maintained anonymity, despite that unforseen incident.

The touch was unmistakably Oswald’s; that much became obvious as they felt the warmth of his breath against their ear… “Stay quiet and listen to me,” he whispered, the words both commanding and soothing. “We must talk.”

Gods, they dared not turn around and met his gaze...

Their body stiffened, their undead, Abyss-rotted heart pounding, ressonating in their ears... What could the pardoner possibly have to say in this moment, when everything between them had seemingly already fallen apart?

Feeling the tension in their body, Oswald loosened his grip slightly, allowing them to move if they wished. However, he kept his hand close, a subtle reminder of his presence.

“I… wished to apologize for my earlier outburst," he began, his voice soft, with a hint of remorse. "The situation we find ourselves in... it hath been consuming mine thoughts. I acted rashly and let mine own desires cloud my judgment…"

He paused for a moment, his shaky voice betraying his vulnerability, sighing deeply as he tried to find the right words to speak his mind…

"But I cannot deny the truth, no matter how painful it beest," he continued. "There is an undeniable connection between us, one that transcendeth our roles and duties. I... I care for thee, and it torments me to see thee suffer under this weight.” He paused again, his voice wavering slightly. “So, I hast decided, no matter how doomed or impossible our situation may seem… I am thine, my dear.”

Well, that was… unexpected, to say the least; he’d quite literally bared a pieace of his soul and lay it before them. Under any other circumstances…

No. Enough of that. Why did the circumstances have to be different? This was the present; this was all there was, as it was, right in front of them, as clear as daylight…

...Or rather, behind them, bathed in the dark of the night, but the details weren’t important.

“How much can you see right now, Oswald…?” They asked, their voice barely above a whisper.

“Hm?”

“In the dark, I mean,” they clarified. “What is your level of vision…?”

The pardoner took a moment to process the question, the significance of it sinking in. He released them from his grip, allowing his hand to rest in front of them, just comfortably close...

“Impeded,” he replied. “I can barely discern thy shape in the darkness—“

“Swear to me,” they cut them off, “that you can’t see shit right now.”

“I swear to thee,” he spoke firmly. “I can see nothing in this darkness, save for the outline of thy form...”

The former Darkwraith took a deep sigh, choosing to trust in his words; they slowly turned around, their crimson eyes seemingly glowing in the dark as they met his own… That's how he knew they were facing him.

“You better not be lying,” they added. “If I see the slightest hint of recognition in your eyes, I’ll pluck them out and eat them in front of you—”

“That threat is pointless,” he remarked. “Why is it significant whether or not thou choosest to eat mine eyes in front of me? I couldst not see half of thy threat either way.”

“…Good point.”

He couldn't help but chuckle softly, the sound filled with a mix of relief and amusement…

“Now that we have established the limitations of my sight, I believe we can continue our conversation,” he said, allowing himself to shift into a more comfortable position, snuggling slightly closer to them. “I understand if thou dost not wish to entertain my affections. The circumstances we find ourselves in are far from ideal, and the risks are… substantial—”

“That’s putting it lightly...“

"Indeed," Oswald replied, nodding in agreement. "But despite the dangers, I cannot deny the emotions that stir within me. I am willing to face whatever consequences may arise... for the chance of a moment with thee.”

“Ozzy,” they spoke, those crimson eyes, never leaving his. “You are aware of—“

"Aye, the dangers that lie ahead are not lost on me, my dear,” he interjected. "I am fully aware of the complexities of our situation. Our paths are intertwined with darkness and despair, but amidst it all, I want to believe there is a flicker of hope. So, for as long as we are bound to this treacherous journey... let us find solace in each other's presence.”

“You make everything sound so easy…” They conceded, shaking their head.

“Nothing about this is easy, my dear. But it needn’t be so hard either.”

Their unblinking red eyes never left his, watching, searching for any hint of deception, anything out of place that betrayed his true intentions… but they could only see longing, relief, and perhaps a glint of gratitude that the two were able to have this conversation without jumping at each other’s throats. The pardoner held his gaze, as if allowing them to enter inside his very mind if they deemed it necessary.

“I understand thy caution, and I bear no ill will towards thee for it,” he spoke softly. “But I sincerely hope thou dost cometh to trust me enough in this moment to share thy thoughts with me…”

“What else is there to say? I feel like we’ve already told each other everything there is to know—“

“Bold words coming from thee,” he cut them off, unable to contain a sarcastic smirk. “Thou’st kept thy entire identity, and all there is to know about thee, hidden from everyone—”

“Yes, and your inquisitive ass needed only a few days to figure out everything there is to know about Anjou of Carim... So shut up.”

“There is always more to be said, my dear,” he continue, slowly bringing a hand to where—he imagined—their cheek was, hesitating slightly... “May I... touch thee…?”

They didn’t move an inch, but their eyes darted towards his hand, their gaze so intense he could almost feel his skin burning up…

“…you may,” they finally replied. “But try anything funny and—“

“Thou shalt cut it off, I get it,” he said. “No need for so many threats; I won’t overstep thy boundaries, my dear.”

Slowly, he brought his hand forward, his fingers gently grazing against their cheek, tracing the contours of their face. He couldn't see, but he could at last sense the smoothness of their skin, the warmth beneath his touch… His breath hitched at the thought of it.

This was all he could’ve ever hoped for…

With each stroke of his finger, Oswald felt warmth radiating from their skin, a sensation indescribable yet strangely comforting. His touch was gentle, careful not to intrude on their personal boundaries, yet filled with a longing to explore every inch of their face that usually remained hidden beneath the mask…

As his touch lingered, his thumb brushed softly across their lips, feeling the subtle curve and texture; he chuckled slightly at the discovery of their shape, thin, slightly down-turned, sharp… And the temptation to lean in, to feel the warmth of their breath against his skin, was nearly overwhelming.

“Oswald…"

Gods, he could feel his own breath caught in his throat at the sound of his own name, spoken with such vulnerability. He couldn't help but lean in closer, their faces now mere inches apart as the air crackled with anticipation, the unsurmountable boundaries between them narrowing with each passing moment.

“Yes…?” He whispered, his voice barely a whisper in the darkness.

They blinked once, as if meditating their answer…

…and then they slowly moved closer, the old mattress creaking softly beneath them. Words weren’t needed; this contact, their touch, spoke a lot louder. Oswald’s heart skipped a beat at the sudden closeness; his hand, still resting on their cheek, tightened its hold ever so slightly, as if seeking reassurance in their presence… and they simply allowed it.

“I wouldst… take thy lips in mine once more,” he confessed. “But I fear I wouldst make a fool of myself in this impeding darkness—“

So they did it instead; they cupped the pardoner’s face in their bare hands and pulled him in for a gentle, almost hesitant kiss. An electric surge coursed through his body as he tasted the warmth of their mouth, the softness of their lips against his own. It was an illicit, maybe even forbidden moment, but in that instant, nothing else mattered.

He felt complete; the world could end right then and there, and he’d go hollow a happy man.

They broke the kiss, but Oswald's hand remained on their face, his thumb continuing to trace their lips as he held their gaze, unable to stop looking at those crimson eyes he’d come to love so much.

"Thou art a temptation I cannot resist," he whispered, his voice thick with adoration. "And I confess... I do not wish to resist it."

“You’re aware Velka will be furious at you for this, right…?” They teased.

“Is that what stopped thee up to this point…?”

“Among other things, yes."

“Well, I say fuck Velka,” he confidently stated. “And I say we spend the night in each other’s embrace and worry about the consequences later.”

“I say that sounds more than reasonable,” they replied, lazily wrapping an arm around him.

A sense of relief washed over the pardoner as he turned around, allowing himself to be enveloped in their embrace, with his back pressed against their chest… And then he heard them chuckle.

“What dost thou find so amusing, my dear...?” He questioned, his tone tinged with curiosity.

They playfully squeezed his torso ever-so-slightly, burying their face in the crook of his neck as they finally replied, in their teasing, devilish voice…

“…slutty waist."

Chapter Text

“There is but one way to do this,” the rebel Darkwraith explained. “Listen closely, because a single mistake, a single lapse in judgement, could be costly.”

Oswald, Víbekka, Lautrec and the rebel sat around the bonfire at the Firelink Shrine, their last respite before diving into the depths of the Abyss in New Londo. The plan itself was very simple: infiltrate the City, open the seal and kill Kaathe. The execution of said plan, however, was bound to be much more complicated.

The pardoner listened intently, his lavender eyes fixated on them as they spoke; he could feel the weight of the task ahead resting heavily on his shoulders, his mind fixated on the dangerous journey that lay ahead. As they discussed the details of their plan, he couldn’t help but steal glances at the rebel; they were a captivating sight, even in the dim firelight…

The memory of their encounter from the previous night still lingered, sending a shiver down his spine. This fight wasn’t only for the fate of the entire world, for a very much needed, clean Age of Dark; it was also for them, for their freedom, for a chance to live the life they deserved… for a chance for him to be with them without a care in the world.

That was all he truly wished for. It was either this outcome or hollowness for him. No other options.

And the plan was the following…

“Infiltrating the city isn’t hard, it’s getting out of it with our minds intact what worries me the most,” they continued. “Víbekka, that thing you do, to wear someone else’s skin—“

“They need to be dead,” she cut them off. “I physically cannot crawl inside the skin of someone who’s still moving.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” they added. “And thank the gods for that.”

Lautrec blushed, coughed and looked away, in that order.

“The point is,” they continued, "having two of us looking like proper Darkwraiths will make moving through the city a lot easier. Lautrec and Oswald can worry about opening the seal while you and I clear the area—“

“If we only knew what we’re suposed to be looking for,” Lautrec interrupted, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “You do realize neither the veillard nor I have ever been to New Londo, right…?”

“You’ll know when you find it,” they replied. “And once the seal is open, the safer path to the core will be revealed; if we’re coordinated enough, we’ll create a pincer movement and not give 'em a proper chance to fight back."

“And then…?” Oswald asked, his mind already going through the details of the plan. “I dost not suppose the Darkstalker will come out to greet us.”

“Fair assumption,” they conceded. “Man doesn’t expect me to return to New Londo, not after the way I left… and he most certainly doesn’t expect me to return with reinforcements, so the moment he finds out, he will hide in the depths of the Abyss, most likely.”

“Then we shalt follow him into the darkness…” the pardoner declared with conviction. “Until he can hide no longer."

“Can we trust that whatever blessing the Lordvessel is giving us will be enough…?” Lautrec inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Should be… just enough…” They spoke, their voice barely above a whisper.

“W-what do you mean should be?!” The knight exclaimed, rising from his seat. “You mean to say there is no real guarantee that we won’t be swallowed by the Abyss?!”

“There is no real guarantee for anything in this life, Lautrec,” they replied. "The Lordvessel gives you three protection against the dark, but Kaathe has proven to be, … unpredictable, to say the least—"

“But we have faced countless dangers and overcome them,” Oswald interjected once again, his voice calm and authoritative. “We shall place our trust not in the certainty of outcomes, but in the strength of our will—”

“Poetry won’t get us anywhere, old man,” Lautrec cut him off.

“Neither will thy pointless pessimism, knight,” he replied. “We shall face whatever fate awaits us in the shadows.”

Lautrec scoffed one last time at his words before putting his helm back on, clutching the charm that contained the Lordvessel in its glow, making sure he kept it nearby at all times. On it depended that he didn’t lose himself in the depths of the Abyss, when the time came to confront Kaathe…

The thought of it made him want to claw at his own skin from the anxiety…

“Shall we get going then…?” The rebel spoke once more.

“What? Already?” The knight of Carim almost jumped at their question. “Isn’t it a bit too early…?”

“That’s exactly what gives us the advantage,” they remarked., then pointed at the two men: “Oswald, Lautrec, find the seal and open it. Víbekka…” They then looked at the Gravelord Servant, their crimson eyes finding her own. “Follow me and do as I say.”

Under any other circumstances, she would’ve sliced the throat of anyone who dared tell her what to do, but she’d come to respect this Darkwraith; there was still much she didn’t know about them and still didn’t trust them fully, but their help had been invaluable. Death knows what would’ve become of her, had she never encountered them and the others...

...It almost made her little escapade worth the while.

Chapter Text

Alles glaubt der mensch zu haben,
Und besitzt doch nichts…

‘People think they have it all,
but they own nothing...’

The rebel and Víbekka moved swiftly through the shadowy depths of New Londo, dispatching a few unsuspecting guards along the way. The Gravelord Servant wasted no time crawling inside the sin of yet another Darkwraith, the second since she’d escaped the Tomb of the Giants, two too many, if anyone asked her… and if anyone asked the rebel, the sight of it was one of the few things in this world that’d managed to make them sick to their stomach.

It took guts to do such a thing, both literally and figuratively… but it was efficient, nonetheless. If only her pale yellow eyes weren’t so recognizable...

Whatever the case, unless anyone paid too much attention, they were simply two more Darkwraiths walking down the eerie streets of New Londo. As they made their way deeper into the city, trying to not to call any attention to themselves for the time being, they managed to find a vantage point where they could observe Oswald and Lautrec open the seal...

And by the Lords, they hoped those two did their part right...

Meanwhile, the pardoner and the knight worked together seamlessly, their combined strength and determination evident as they fought off any resistance that came their way—ghosts, for the most part…

...and that’s how Lautrec found out, much to his amusement, that Oswald had an innate fear of spirits, phantasms, paranormal entities of all sorts... Gods, the ways he would bully the fuck out of that priest for it, if they survived their quest.

For what was worth, the rebel was right—as they usually were; they said that the two men would know when they’d found the seal, and true to their prediction, the tower that contained the contraption that opened said seal was perfectly recognizable, as soon as they laid their eyes upon it...

“That wasn’t so hard,” Lautrec spoke, stepping inside the tower, running his gauntleted hand over the lever as if to test its resistance.

“Agreed, but let us not assume anything,” the pardoner replied, hastily closing the door behind them. “I will be glad to abandon this ruin at the earliest possible juncture—“

“You’re the best audience those ghosts have had in centuries,” he teased. “I’m sure ‘Jou would’ve enjoyed watching you 'fight’ with them—”

“Those ghosts, Lautrec, are the haunted spirits of thousands upon thousands of innocents who perished under Gwyn’s cruelty,” he was quick to correct the knight. “I strongly suggest thou showest some respect for them.”

“Hm. Whatever.”

Dismissing Oswald’s warning, Lautrec was quick to push the contraption. The seal gradually began to crack under his strength, until it finally gave way, revealing a path leading deeper into the heart of the ruined city, alerting everyone of the presence of the two men…

…but not of Víbekka and the rebel’s.

With the seal broken, the former Darkwraith made a silent gesture to the Gravelord servant and the two started their attack from the inside; their weapons slashed and pierced through their enemies with ruthless efficiency. The clash of metal rang through the abandoned halls as more and more Darkwraiths attempted to defend themselves against the unexpected attack, but they were no match for their combined skill and coordination...

Against all odds, these two made for a flawless team, it seemed. Oswald and Lautrec took advantage of the commotion and rushed in to join them, diving deeper into the city from the outside in, while Víbekka and the rebel attacked from the inside out. A pincer movement by definition.

Draußen dreht sich alles nur im Kreis,
unsere Endlichkeit läuft aus…

‘Everything outside is simply running in circles,
our finitude is running out…’

The rebellion ravaged through the Darkwraiths with vicious determination, leaving a trail of fallen enemies in their wake. The unmistakable scent of blood filled the air as they pushed deeper into the heart of New Londo. This was the crucial moment, the final push towards the end of their quest…

…so it was only natural that the nightmare incarnate would show up right then and there.

Kirk, the knight of Thorns, had been brought back to life against his will once again, his head reattached to the rest of his body by methods only known by Kaathe... Only one thing was certain about whatever procedure he’d used on him; it was cruel, so very cruel, to reduce the best warrior he’d ever had to a mere asset, a thrall, a puppet, who would no longer serve him had he not been deprived of his own free will.

Alles glaubt der mensch zu haben,
Und besitzt doch nichts.

‘People think they have it all,
but they own nothing.’

As Kirk was placed right in front of them, Víbekka felt something she would’ve never believed was even capable of experiencing; for the first time in her entire existence, she regretted a kill. Her weapon was designed to eradicate even that which by definition could not be killed, to bring eternal rest to everything that lived—even the undead. To force someone to exist after that sort of Death, carrying the consequences of Nito’s miasma in their rotting bodies, the open wounds caused by that dreadful blade… no one, not even Kirk deserved that.

It was unnatural. It was against everything she’d been taught, everything she stood for… And yet, as she hesitated, as they all did, Kirk wasted no time in attacking.

As the rebels shook their momentary moment of weakness, they sprang into action, meeting Kirk’s brutal assault head-on. The Knight of Thorns and the small army that accompanied him fought with a furious desperation. Once-Anjou recognized some of them: Kaathe’s elite, driven by their unwavering loyalty, probably unaware of the true state of the man leading them…

…and if they were aware, then either they were just as helpless as he was or absolute monsters. Neither options would’ve surprised them, to be fair.

The clash of weapons echoed through the crumbling ruins, accompanied by occasional grunts and the thudding of footsteps against the stone floor. As they fought, the rebel could see the torment in Kirk's eyes, the flicker of the soul that was desperate to break free from the chains that bound him to Kaathe, desperate to give up, yet unable to stop fighting… There was a moment of vulnerability, a glimmer of recognition, as if he remembered a time when he fought alongside them, not against them… All of it was lost when that fucking worm, just like the Knight of Thorms had so eloquently voiced back in Anor Londo, 'had lost his mind'.

They wondered if he could still talk, if he could still be reasoned with…

With a determined flurry of strikes, they brought him to his knees, disarmed and defeated. His body trembled, probably against his will; his eyes were filled with a mix of anger, frustration, and a touch of gratitude, one that quickly disappeared when he understood that they wouldn’t be so quick to kill him just yet.

“Kirk,” they spoke, their voice carrying a tinge of sadness. “Let’s talk.”

Talk?! His body was battered and broken, his thorny armor stained with blood, his arm still non-existent and his spirit completely and utterly shattered; his trembling eyes darted between the rebel and the rest of the group, the struggle evident on his face despite the—now obvious—inability to make any facial expression whatsoever. He gasped for air, but none of it seemed to reach his rotted lungs… What could he possibly say to them that was remotely significant at a time like this?

And yet, the rebel cautiously knelt before him, their weapon lowered—no longer a threat, but still read to strike if the need arose. The world around them stood still; for just a brief moment, the fight around them was outside them.

“Listen to me,” they said, their voice soft and yet filled with an underlying firmness. “You know how it ends for you. Killing you now would only make things worse, and honestly… I don't want to. You’ve suffered enough, babe. You’ve done enough."

Kirk's eyes widened, disbelief masking the turmoil within him. Mercy was such a foreign concept to him, now moreso than ever in his current state. But they saw him; they recognized the pain he had endured, the torment he had been subjected to, in spite of the tensions between them.

The Knight of Thorns found his voice, a hoarse whisper, barely audible amidst the chaos that surrounded them. “Why would you…” He managed to say, his body seemingly deflating as he mustered the strength to speak. "After all I have done...why spare me?”

"Because I remember who you were, Kirk,” they replied. "I remember the man who fought beside me, who protected me and whom I protected… I’ve decided that I refuse to let that memory be tainted by the circumstances."

Schau mich nur an,
Magst du hier mit mir einfach bleiben…?

‘Just look at me,
Don’t you simply want to stay here with me…?’

“I’m setting you free,” they continued. “I’m ending Kaathe’s plot, for the world, for us. You are not going to stop us. You can’t. Did I make myself clear…?”

“You never stopped being Anjou of the Abyss, right…?” He spoke, kneeling still, unable to stop looking at them. “You were only pretending, all this time…”

There it was: he’d spoken their true name, for the second time since they’d known him… but this time, unlike the first, he’d been very careful not to drop the honorifics. A delicate subject for both of them, but it could no longer be denied; the Abyss hadn’t changed them. He hadn’t changed them, no matter how hard he tried.

The battle had ended around them, for the time being, at least; Oswald, Lautrec and Víbekka had dispatched the small army that accompanied the Knight of Thorns… Now only he remained. There wasn’t much he could do on his own, not in the state he was in...

“Go,” he finally said. “I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to. I should’ve seen that sooner.”

“Thank you, Kirk—“

“Don’t you dare thank me, Anjou,” he cut them off. “Just... go, before I change my mind. Finish what you started and end this madness. Traipse past the threshold…”

“…into the big unknown,” they finished. “Goodbye, Kirk.”

With a final nod, Anjou rose to their feet, leaving Kirk behind as they rejoined their unlikely companions, ready to walk step inside the inverted tower at the very core of New Londo, the big unknown, as they’d previously called it...

Begrenz auf alles, war wir kennen un verstehen,
Weiter können wir nie denken...

‘All is limited to what we know and comprehend,
We can’t think any further...’

Chapter Text

Nichts hat hier Bestand,
es ist doch alles nur geliehen...

‘Nothing exists here,
everything is simply borrowed…'

The unknown dangers that awaited them within the depths of the Abyss, at the very bottom of the inverted tower—or the top, if want to emphasize the fact that it’s an inverted tower—, were formidable. An undescribable mix of emotions swirled deep within Oswald as he watched Anjou walk away from Kirk, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come…

Feeling? No, it was a certainty, but there was no turning back now. The only available option was to keep moving forward.

“Listen to me, all of you,” the rebel spoke firmly, with a tinge of desperation hidden in their voice. “Once we’re at the bottom, focus on yourselves at all times; be aware of your own bodies, or your own presence, otherwise, the Abyss will swallow you—”

“That’s… very ambiguous,” Lautrec muttered, clutching the charm with the Lordvessel. “Can’t you be more specific…?”

“If... you start feeling cold,” they added, "take a deep breath—”

“Wait, which one is it, then?! Focus on ourselves or breath deep?!” The Knight of Carim exclaimed. “That doesn’t clarify anything, ‘Jou!”

“Calm down,” Víbekka chimed in, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes, I assure you. If you start feeling the pull of the Abyss, hold onto something solid.”

“Correct,” Anjou added. "Anything that will anchor you to reality. Do not let go.”

“You two make it sound like we are about to enter a dream plane…”

“Thou shalt find,” Oswald interjected, “it doth feel similar to dreaming. Only… worse.”

That didn’t help much, but it was better than nothing. Lautrec took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, focusing on his own presence, on his physical body, from his fingertips to his very heart; the Abyss would not take him, not while he could still fight...

And by the gods, he would fight, for this world, for himself, for his freedom… for a future free of the deities' influence.

As the team made their way towards the inverted tower, each step bringing them closer to depths of the Abyss, a sense of dread, and the aforementioned cold, filled the air. Going down the spiral staircase felt like a free-fall towards death itself… quite literally, as a matter of fact; the deeper they went, the more the space around them seemed to contort before their very eyes, the more they felt like they were walking inside a dream within a dream…

Is es das was du willst? Willst du beim Fallen dich noch zusehen...?

‘Is that what you want? Do you still want to watch yourself as you fall...?’

Unthinkingly, Oswald looked down at his own hands; had he always had ten fingers, five in each hand...? Was there any flesh beneath those black gloves? Were the feet that carried him down the flight stairs his own, or was he experiencing something completely outside of him...? He felt like his mind had been disconnected from the rest of his body, and without a vessel, he could lose himself at any moment. This was what the rebel meant, when they said that they needed to focus on their presence at all times…

If he was already feeling like this, he could only wonder what it would be like once they reached the very bottom. Each moment felt like an eternity, the disorientation and uncertainty making it difficult to discern reality from… whatever that strange feeling was.

“It’s... awfully cold,” Lautrec whispered. “How can you stand it…?”

“Breathe deeply,” Anjou’s voice cut through the growing darkness. “Focus on your steps, sing something to yourself, count your fingers, keep your eyes on Víbekka or Oswald… Ignore the cold and don’t lose yourself, y’hear me…?”

It became obvious: Lautrec had the weakest mind of all of them; they needed to be extra careful not to lose him.

Lautrec nodded, his breath visible in the frigid air; he tried to follow their advice, counting his fingers silently, grounding himself in the physical realm to the best of his ability… The cold still gnawed at him, but he refused to let it consume him.

And before they knew it, they'd reached the end of the stairs…

“Traipse past the threshold, into the big unknown,” Anjou spoke to themself once more.

Whatever that phrase meant, it seemed to hold a great significant for them—and for Kirk too, apparently. With a deep breath, they turned to face the others, the skull that decorated their mask now more visible than ever… or perhaps it was their detached ghost of a memory trying to make out any shapes in the dark, tricking them into thinking they could actually see them clearly in the middle of this black mass somehow.

“We need to jump down,” they spoke. “Follow after me.”

Lautrec’s eyes widened in surprise underneath his helm. “Jump?! Are you mad?!”

“I understand it’s a leap of faith,” they rose their hands, trying to calm him down. “But you need to trust me, Lautrec. I won’t let anything happen to you... To any of you.”

"Jumping down into the Abyss?" Oswald’s heart skipped a beat at the thought; it was, indeed, an act of faith, of surrendering to the unknown... But he had come this far, risking everything to stop Kaathe's plan; he couldn’t falter now.

“Lead the way, if thou wouldst,” the pardoner spoke, taking a step forward. “We shalt meet at the bottom.”

Víbekka and Lautrec directed their attention to Oswald; either he was reckless or he’d already gone mad during the descent. But Anjou knew better: they could see the determination in his eyes, proof that he hadn’t gone hollow just yet, that he trusted them with his life… And so, they simply nodded at him one last time, before taking the freefall plunge.

Mit dem Herzen, nicht dem Kopf, schau dich an; das stoppt den freien Fall...

‘With your heart, not your head, look at yourself; that’s what stops the freefall...’

He watched as the rebel disappeared into the depths of the Abyss, calm and collected, like they’d done that a thousand times—chances were that they did. He took a deep breath, focusing on his own heart, letting go of all rational thought, before he followed suit… And oh, the sensation was overwhelming; time seemed to stand still as his body hurtled through the void, as the darkness threatened to consume him...

...And then, just as abruptly as the fall had begun, he felt the ground beneath his feet, even if there was no real, solid ground at all. He looked around, finding himself in a vast, desolate landscape; the Abyss stretched out before him, a swirling maelstrom of darkness and twisted reality... But he was still standing, still alive.

He felt a cold grip on his shoulder, urging him to turn around…

“Glad you made it,” Anjou of the Abyss spoke, their crimson red eyes smiling at him beneath their mask… Were they still wearing their mask? It was hard to tell. The dark made it imposible to see clearly, but he could still make out his surroundings—with a noticeable lack of detail, all things considered.

The pardoner let out a sigh of relief, clutching their hand in his, as if their touch was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. It wasn’t long until Lautrec and Víbekka joined them; the Gravelord Servant seemed completely unaffected by the complete absence of natural light, but that was sort of expected. She was, after all, a creature of darkness as well. The same, however, coudn’t be said for the Knight, who desperately clung onto Víbekka, terrified of losing himself in the void.

Gods, what a treacherous place this was… if it could be considered a ‘place’ to begin with.

“Keep close,” Anjou softly spoke. “Chances are Kaathe already knows we’re here, so be on your toes—”

“We were already on our toes before... this,” Lautrec breathed under his nose. “Now I doubt we’re on anything at all—”

“Literally,” they cut him off. “There is nothing beneath your feet at the moment. So keep your mind busy.”

Oh, yeah, he was extremely good at keeping his mind busy, occupied. They should’ve started there.

Every single movement, every step forward seemed unreal. Anjou was right all along: this was no natural Abyss. It was so different from the one he and the rebel Darkwraith had to traverse to get to the top of Sen’s Fortress; these shadows weren’t comforting in the slightest, even if the growing feeling of derealization thrat treatened to overcome him was trying to convince him otherwise. Despite the emptiness, the coomplete absence, he couldn’t help but feel like something wanted him dead…

…well, he wasn’t entire wrong about that last bit.

“You are truly astonishing,” said a disembodied voice in the dark. “Would that you knew your place in this world.”

“One thing was for certain,” Anjou replied, speaking to the void, their tone filled with defiance. “My place was never by your side.”

“Wrong, wretch,” replied the voice in a low growl. “One such as yourself could not outrun their true nature. One such as yourself should not be trying to escape the inevitable…”

“Shut it, worm…!”

“But alas, you too wish to resist the course of nature, to blur the past of humankind,” it continued, despite their warnings, “to stand on the very precipice of annihilation for refusing me, the one who could right the wrongs of the past... What foolishness.”

“I do love a villain who is convinced he’s absolutely right,” they smirked. “But when everyone is consumed by the corrupted darkness you’ve created, there’ll be nothing left to save, nothing and no one left to rule over... What will you do then, Darkstalker?"

“Enough!” The voice reverberated through the black void. “We stand at the crossroad. It is finally time to put an end to this futile resistance—”

“Maybe stop hiding like a coward,” they cut him off, “and I’ll show you just how futile this resistance is, leech…!”

Kaathe.

They were talking to Kaathe, and with such bravado to boot. It took guts to talk to a Primordial Serpent like that… either that or they’d already given up and just wanted to cause some spectacle before being obliterated. Compared to him, they were insects, specks of dust in the grand scheme of things.

The darkness before them shifted and contorted, revealing the figure of Kaathe himself, tall and imposing, towering over them; only his head and neck were visible, but that was more than enough to hint at the creature’s enormous size, with dark scales, shimmering like obsidian. His eyes, very similar in colour to Anjou’s, glowed with an eerie red light that seemed to pierce through their very souls… But the most uncanny thing about him was by far that impossibly wide smile—if it could be considered as such—permanently etched on his ugly face, with huge, blocky teeth...

In spite of the fear, a funny thought crossed Oswald’s mind; he too would want the entire world to be bathed in dark if he looked like that.

But jokes aside, Kaathe’s monstrous form and commanding presence were a stark reminder of the power he held and the devastation he sought to bring upon the world… He needed to be stopped at all costs. Failure was not an option for them.

“I had faith in you,” the serpent spoke once more. “I truly did, in spite of your past actions… Faith that you would be reasonable—“

“You destroyed Oolacile, you fucking worm! You destroyed my home!” They yelled. “Everything I ever did, my connection with the Abyss, was all a consequence to your lunacy—“

“Did that occur to you when you chose to join us?” The Darkstalker asked, very much aware how much this question pained them. “No. You had an insatiable hunger for humanity, just like the rest of us, and you sought to satiate it…”

Lautrec’s grip tightened on Víbekka as he watched that exchange take place; he remembered Anjou of Carim, the goofy warrior he met in his homeland, when they were both Knights in the making, a few centuries years ago. Before this strange adventure, he could’ve never imagined they had such a tragic backstory… not that they ever hinted at it when they trained together, anyway.

Ehre, Ruhm und Eigentum verliert sich in der Zeit…

‘Honour, fame and property disappear with time…'

Oswald, on the other hand…

...Gods, he wanted to strangle Kaathe so bad.

“Your actions forced that hunger upon me!” They spoke again. "It was your fucking experiment that—“

“My actions served a greater purpose,” he interjected, growing impatient. “But I do not expect you to understand. You, after all, have outrun your usefulness.”

“Not yet, Kaathe,” they spoke quietly. “Not yet…!”

And with those words, they unsheathed their scimitar, summoning all their strength and charging forward. With haste, the other three followed suit, knowing very well that this could be their last battle as humans with free will.

Chapter Text

Bleibt doch alles nur ein kaum verspürter Hauch. ‘Fühlen'—das könnte helfen,
gleich dem Morgentau nach ganz tief dunkler Nacht, bevor der neue Tag erwacht…

‘Everything remains like a barely felt breath. ‘Feeling’—that could help,
like the morning dew after a deep, dark night, before the new day dawns…’

Kaathe was no ordinary adversary… No, he was unlike any other human or thing they’d ever fought. With most of his body trapped in the depths of he Abyss, he couldn’t rely on his physical form to defend himself from their attacks, but the alternative was much more deadly; he twisted the very shadows around him, creating a kaleidoscope of confusing shapes and illusions, making it impossible for the group to even know where to land their attacks…

Oswald's eyes darted around, trying to keep track of Kaathe's movements amidst the swirling darkness. He tried to focus his mind, scanning the shifting shadows, searching for any sign of his presence… Gods, between the danger of getting lost in the derealization and the Darkstalker’s tricks, it was extremely hard not to lose all hope…

…and things only got worse when he called for help.

As it turned out, Víbekka’s suspicions were correct: he’d managed to find a way to channel the power of the Four Kings, who were now approaching the group, their twisted, Abyss-rotted forms seemingly floating in the void. Once great sovereigns chosen by Gwyn to look after the city of New Londo, they’d been reduced to mere thralls, puppets devoid of free will, their powers now feeding the Primordial Serpent’s.

“Lautrec! Víbekka!” Anjou yelled.

“On it,” the Gravelord Servant simply replied, and with a swift movement, she pivoted towards one of the approaching Kings, stabbing it where its stomach should be; her greatsword pierced and slashed through the hardened matter, inches away from halving its body completely…

Impressive.

“We’ll deal with them,” she spoke, taking advantage of the eerie silence after that showstopping display of power. “You rip that worm’s head off!"

With a quick nod, the rebel grabbed Oswald by the arm, leading him away from the Four Kings and deeper into the Abyss, where the Darkstalker was trying to hide behind his swirling shadows and illusions.

“Do not rely on your eyes,” they whispered, never letting go of him, guiding his every step. “Focus on your surroundings—“

“How am I supposed to focus on my surroundings without mine eyes...?!” He exclaimed, gasping for breath as he ran after them.

“You must be able to sense him! Every living thing, with a soul or otherwise, releases energy!” They replied. “Your eyes deceive you, Ozzy; there’s a whole reality underneath this one, that’s where he moves!”

No. To him that sounded like a whole lot of nothing. Nevertheless, he decided to humour them, trying to calm his racing heart; he closed his eyes, shutting out the illusory chaos surrounding them, honing in on the energy…

Nothing; that felt like a waste of his time. Wherever this hidden reality was, there was no way he could reach it without any previous training; he would need to rely on Anjou to be able to persevere…

…or maybe not.

“What… what is this..?"

With his eyes still closed, he suddenly felt a quick surge of energy coursing through his entire body, similar to that same derealization, that unbearable sensation of detachment that tried to take over him when he entered the inverted tower… But this time, he was in control; it was as if his mind had reached another existential plane, while his body remained in the material world.

To his surprise, when Oswald finally opened his eyes, he could properly see, not exactly in shapes and colours, but in spectres, psychoplastics dancing in the void that revealed the Darkstalker’s exact position… There he was, so close, yet so far, and as he locked eyes with the ethereal form of the Primordial Serpent, he felt his heart skip a beat, knowing he’d somehow succeeded in thinking like a Darkwraith… In that sense, at least.

Without hesitation, the duo lunged forward, their blades slicing the air, though barely grazing Kaathe’s form. Nevertheless, despite the futility or their attack, it was enough to disrupt his concentration, shattering the illusions—some of them at least—, revealing the true nature of the Abyss once more. In the chaos that ensued, Oswald and Anjou found themselves locked in a deadly dance with Kaathe, in a desperate attempt to chip away at his defenses…

Meanwhile, Víbekka and Lautrec fought valiantly against the Four Kings; the Gravelord Servant’s greatsword cleaved through their bodies, relentless against their dark magic… Lautrec could only wish his attacks were as effective, or his psyche as resistant as hers, for that matter; with each successful defensive, his mind seemed to break a little more. Thoughts of losing himself in the depths of this void consumed what little remained of his sanity, his greatest fears popping up in his brain all at once: the constant threat of hollowness, now more present than ever; the wrath of his former goddess, Fina; the seemingly unavoidable ending end of the world…

“Focus, Lautrec!” Víbekka called out, her voice cutting through the chaos.

Oh, he tried, but it felt as if each swing of his shotels had no effect on the monstrous Kings, as if he was fighting against nothing at all. “I… I can’t…!” He managed to croak out between laboured breaths, feeling the weight of despair crushing him. “I can’t see what I’m doing…!”

“No! You can!” Víbekka’s voice boomed in his ear, her presence grounding him for a brief moment. “You can! And for the Love of Death, you fucking will!”

The sound of her voice seemed to cut through the foggy haze surrounding him, if only for a moment; with a deep breath, the Knight pushed these intrusive thoughts aside, focusing on himself, on what he could perceive, and mustered all his remaining strength, charging towards one of the Kings right before it attacked him…

…And his shots rang out, meeting the target this time. The creature's shell cracked and crumbled away, like sandcastles in a storm.

Two down. Two to go.

As expected, Kaathe did not appreciate having the source of his power destroyed before his very own eyes… but two Kings were still plenty to overpower them.

“Fools!” The Darkstalker made himself heard above the chaotic sounds of battle. “Do not try to stop the inevitable—“

His attempt at being even more threatening, however, was cut short as Anjou charged against the Serpent's face, breaking one of his teeth with a swift kick. The impact sent shockwaves through his entire body, momentarily staggering him. Seizing the opportunity, Oswald lunged forward with his rapier, aiming for the exposed flesh.

“Do yourself a favour and stop making a fool of yourself, worm,” the rebel spoke, taking a step back and admiring their handiwork, watching as thick blackened blood leaked from the Darkstalker’s maw. “Can’t take you seriously right about now…”

Their words were flippant, but Oswald could read the terror in their eyes; this cocky façade was but a desperate attempt to get Kaathe to lower his guard, to lose his temper and make him even more vulnerable; the less control he had over his emotions, the weaker he was… The lower were his chances to take advantage of the King’s powers again.

Avoiding the lifedrain waves and dark magicks that the former sovereigns of New Londo cast their way, Víbekka and Lautrec fought together against the last two Abyss-rotted creatures, successfully downing them. What a relief it was, to see them defeated before Lautrec could lose what remained of his mind… though things seemed much more comprehensible, much clearer, now that they were finally dead.

He would survive this, after all. What a blessed day to roam the depths of the Abyss in New Londo.

“No!” Kaathe roared, his voice like thunder, piercing the nebulous space around them; just like that, the Darkstalker had become his very own last line of defence.

Oswald and Anjou exchanged a brief glance, a silent understanding passing between them; things looked much more hopeful, but that lingering dread hadn’t left Anjou’s gaze just yet. They knew they had to act swiftly, before Kaathe could regain his composure and unleash his full power upon them…

“You purposeless poetaster!” Kaathe yelled. “You are nothing without the Abyss, Anjou! You cannot escape what you are! In the end, you—”

“Thou art what thou art,” they cut him off. “Set thy hair in a thousand curlicues, place thy feet in yard-high shoes…” They quoted that same line from Faust Oswald had read to them merely days ago, now more fitting than ever. “Thou shalt remain forever what thou art.”

“What foolishness—?”

“I know what I am, Kaathe. I know I would’ve made the perfect puppet,” they continued. “Had I really agreed with the terms of this Hell I chose to trap myself in, you would’ve succeeded. But alas, my connection with the Abyss wasn’t enough to make me a Darkwraith at heart.”

Oswald listened to their words intently. Gods, they truly were the Mephistopheles of Lordran…

Even with that, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride for the not-so-nameless, rebel Darkwraith standing before him; Anjou of the Abyss, Anjou of Carim, Anjou of Oolacile, had grown stronger; they’d found their path, taken their identity back and refused to let their past define them.

…and by the Lords, he loved them. He loved them so very much.

“Oh, and,” the rebel added, “I hope you understand, I will not allow you a painless death after what you did to Kirk—“

“Kirk,” he cut them off, speaking the Darkwraith captain’s name like he was mere garbage. “What a waste—“

“YOU KEEP HIS NAME OUT OF YOUR DIRTY MOUTH, WORM!” They yelled, in the most menacing tone he’d ever heard out of them. “Who the fuck gives you the right to play with human lives like that?! Who the fuck do you even think you are, you fucking leech?!”

“I am the Primordial Serpent, wretch!” He shouted back in response. “I am the cradle of this world’s existence, its home and its deathbed; I was there before the Age of Fire, and I will be there when it fades—“

“Oh, the Fire will fade alright,” they interjected. “But you won’t be there to see it.”

No further words were needed; the four of them charged towards the Darkstalker, ready to strike the final blow… and sincerely hoping—nay, praying that would truly be the final blow against that cruel Serpent, the very embodiment of their torment and suffering…

And so, with a swift and powerful blow, they brought their weapons down upon him in a combined defensive, severing his head from the long, long neck that stretched down into the void…

And with that, the Abyss fell silent once more.

Alles glaubt der mensch zu haben,
Und besitzt doch nichts…

‘People think they have it all,
but they own nothing...’

Chapter Text

“How art thou feeling, Anjou…?” Oswald spoke softly, placing a hand on the rebel’s shoulder.

“Surprisingly… not hollow…”, they panted, unable to tear their gaze off Kaathe’s severed head. “I truly thought that, with my purpose exhausted, I would simply… Well. All that.”

“I am glad to see that is not the case,” the pardoner chuckled softly, helping them up. “It wouldst appear thy time is not done yet. For what ’tis worth, no longer shalt that Serpent plague this world with his twisted machinations—"

“If only,” they cut him off. “They are Primordial; they always find a way to come back… but he won’t be bothering us for the next... three centuries or so."

“That’s good to hear and all, but could we have this conversation outside…?” Lautrec chimed, gripping Víbekka’s arm tightly, still terrified that the Abyss might claim him just yet.

“Three centuries…” Oswald repeated, ignoring the Knight’s words completely. “A respite, at least—“

“Do not ignore me!” Lautrec snapped. “Seriously, how do we get out of here?”

“Lordvessel,” Anjou spoke, their tired eyes searching Lautrec’s person. “Please, tell me you didn’t lose it—“

“I’m not an idiot, ‘Jou” he replied, unsheathing one of his shotels, revealing he had tied the charm around the handle of the weapon; he knew he couldn’t trust his own senses or his grip on reality while in the depths of the Abyss, so he was smart enough to take precautions.

“Oh,” the rebel blinked at his resourcefulness. “Well thought, ’Trec.”

With that, Lautrec summoned the artifact in his hands; the ashes contained inside the vessel would warp them out of the Abyss, back to the place of origin of the item burnt inside of it. That was, at least, what Anjou had explained to them back in Anor Londo.

“Are you sure this will work…?” Víbekka asked, still unsure on how such a thing was even possible.

“Simply touch the ashes,” was their only reply. “We’ll be out of here in no time.”

The Gravelord Servant hesitated for a moment, but she was ready to take any option that allowed her to get the fuck out of that bottomless pit. The four of them nodded and extended a hand towards the Lordvessel, their fingertips making contact with the dusty ashes. In a matter of seconds, a feeling of weightlessness took over their bodies, watching as a tall, blinding flame, coming from those same cinders, engulfed them in an instant…

…and just like that, they found themselves standing outside the Abyss, solid ground beneath their feet… back in Anor Londo.

“Huh,” Anjou raised an eyebrow. “So this is where those cinders came from. Not sure I wanna know what they were before—“

“Anor Londo, of all places...?!” Lautrec exclaimed. “You’ve got to me kidding me...”

“And still shrouded in darkness, too,” Víbekka added. “Good. As it should be."

“The First Flame must be close to fading,” the rebel added, looking at the sky, trying to find any remnants of the Sun. “If it hasn’t already, that is.”

“Indeed,” Oswald nodded solemnly. “The signs art becoming more evident with each passing moment. One couldst have hoped that Gwyndolin wouldst conjure up another illusion, after the… scene we caused.”

“Maybe he’s out of energy…” Lautrec said.

“Maybe he’s already dead,” the rebel added. “Would be the best case scenario, really.”

“Perhaps. Only time shalt reveal the truth, but for the time being…” His eyes found Anjou’s as he said those words, trying—without much success—to hide the smile that was beginning to tug at the corner of his lips. “We shouldst head back to the other side of the wall. We all have... places to be, after all—”

“Not yet,” they interjected, taking the Lordvessel in their hands. “There is something I need to do first. You three can go on ahead; no need to wait for me.”

Lautrec and Víbekka had no complaints whatsoever; they were rather desperate to leave Anor Londo at the earliest juncture, and so, with a nod, they began to walk away… But not Oswald, no; he wasn’t going to leave their side just yet. “Perhaps... I couldst come with thee.”

“I was hoping you would,” they replied, their crimson red eyes smiling at him. “Come. There is something I want to show you… If you can keep up with me, that is."

Chapter Text

Anjou’s grip tightened on the Lordvessel for a moment, holding it with both hands as they stood over the precipice, on the edge of the rooftop of a tall building. As soon as Lautrec and Víbekka were out of sight, they simply flung the artifact into the void, watching as it disappeared into the shadows. No one truly knew what lied beneath the tall buildings of Anor Londo; for all they knew, another completely different kind of Abyss had claimed the shards of the vessel by now… so long as no one could ever make use of it again.

“There,” they said, a sense of finality in their voice. “No one should be able to find it again.”

Oswald could only watch in silence, his eyes narrowing as he tried to process their actions. “Why didst thou do that…?”

“To sever the ties that bind us to the gods and their machinations,” they replied, their expression calm and resolute. “To break the Firelink cycle… for the time being, at least.”

It was perfectly reasonable, the way they put it; another Age of Fire would probably come in due time, but being rid of the Lordvessel ensured that it wouldn’t be connected to Gwyn and the consequences of his First Sin. In the meantime, humans would make the best out of the soon-to-come Age of Dark.

They deserved as much.

The pardoner took a step closer to Anjou, unable to tear his lavender eyes away from theirs, now much more relaxed after Kaathe’s defeat. His voice was low and filled with curiosity as he asked: “What dost thou plan to do now, Anjou? What path shalt thou tread…?”

“Oh, darling,” they scoffed. “Only fools make long-term plans. I prefer to focus on the moment… and I did tell you that I wanted to show you something…”

Intrigued by those words, Oswald raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the slight blush on his face as he imagined the possibilities. “And… what might that be, pray tell…?”

“Follow me. And do keep up.”

Their tone didn’t help at all. He wondered if it was possible to fall in love with a voice alone.

The pardoner’s heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline fueling his veins as he watched them leap effortlessly to the rooftop of the next building, right in front of them. Keep up? Gods, no, he was too old for this; being able to keep balance and overcome to vertigo was one thing—he did it all the time when he was still living in the Undead Parish—, but parkouring the rooftops of Anor Londo was something else…

…But he’d made it abundantly clear during their time together that he was, indeed, not one to back down from a challenge, especially when it came to someone as captivating as them.

Thus, he took a deep breath, pushing aside his reservations and, with a determined expression, he made a leap of faith, following in their footsteps and ultimately landing right in front of them...

“That wasn’t so hard, was it…?” They teased.

“At this point,” he smirked, a hint of playfulness in his voice, “I am more than accustomed to difficult feats, my dear.”

“Good, good. Let’s keep moving, then. I promise, it’ll be worth your while.”

Oh, and it truly was; the view of the city sprawling beneath them, bathed in the fading twilight, was nothing short of breathtaking. The pair leapt from one building to another, filling the space with the thrill of the chase, the exhilaration of the acrobatics and, of course, the undeaniable tension between them; he felt the wind whip through his long hair, his heart yearning for more as the world seemed to blur around him. He surprised himself with each jump, following after Anjou rather effortlessly despite his initial hesitation and his fear of ending up keeping company to the Lordvessel… yet, amidst the rush of emotions, his focus remained unwavering on the enigmatic figure leading the way.

“Where art thou taking me…?” He asked, his voice all but getting lost in the wind.

“See that tower…?”

Oswald’s eyes followed Anjou’s gaze, and there it was—the tallest building in Anor Londo by far, standing tall and proud against the darkening sky… Were they planning to climb that thing? It certainly seemed like an impossible feat from their current position.

“Aye,” he nodded, his voice laced with incredulity. “I seest it, but... Thour’t not planning to—“

“Oh yes,” they cut him off. “You’re gonna love it.

No choice but to keep going. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint them, after all.

With equal parts trepidation and excitement, Oswald followed their lead, their bodies moving fluidly through the landscape of the City of the Gods; they leaped, twisted, swang from one ledge to another, their motions synchronized as if they were dancing amidst the rooftops… as if this was exactly what they were born to do...

…And perhaps this was the peak of his existence, after all: climbing the tallest tower in Anor Londo after helping a rebel Darkwraith save the world from certain doom… It was all rather symbolic, to say the least.

The air seemed to grow thinner as they neared the tower, a monumental structure that seemed to scrape the heavens themselves. The wind howled around them, testing their balance and agility as they began their ascent, finding footholds and handholds with surprising ease.

“Caitha, Velka and Fina were some sort of a holy trinity, long ago. That was before Velka joined the plot against the gods and Caitha was taken to Carim, of course… You probably know better than I,” Anjou spoke, their breath ragged as they crawled up the tower wall. “This cathedral was built in their honour. It was meant to be much, much taller than this…”

“By the Lords, just how tall is it, then…?”

“300 meters, 330 if you count the tip,” they replied, shifting their position, trying to see the top without compromising their own safety. “So around 1080 feet, if my math doesn’t fail me.”

Oswald's eyes widened in awe as he processed the staggering height of the tower; such a monumental structure, meant to reach even higher into the heavens, now left unfinished… "Truly a marvel," he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. "To think of what could have been... and what was lost."

“Not that they truly deserved it, if you ask me,” they added. “Come on, we can access the inside through here."

The climb grew more treacherous as they reached higher altitudes, the wind threatening to knock them off balance, so that open window through which the interior of the structure could be accessed was a very much appreciated respite. The pardoner followed Anjou through the narrow opening, relieved to feel solid ground beneath his feet once again. The sight of a geometric staircase, creating a broad spiral that spread up to the ceiling—unseen from their position—, welcomed the duo, as if begging to be climbed after decades, maybe even centuries, without a single visitor.

“Such craftsmanship…” He mused.

“Wait till you see the top,” Anjou replied, rushing up the stairs. “Come on, we’re just a few floors from the balcony!”

He quickened his pace, following after them. Gods, the buildup had been amazing so far; the air grew thinner, the sound of their own footsteps echoing in the vest emptiness of the tower as they closed in on their destination…

…And finally, they reached the top floor. Anjou kicked the door open and the pair stepped out onto the grand balcony, taking in the view as it unfolded before them; the breathtaking expanse of Anor Londo stretched out in all directions, frozen in time as it basked in the fading light of the distant twilight. Oswald’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the great wall in the distance, the one that divided Lordran in Anor Londo and the human settlements, now reduced to a mere symbolic barrier that held no significance in the grand scheme of things.

And they’d saved it all… for the time being, that is—approximately three centuries, if Anjou’s words were to be trusted—but it still was enough for Oswald’s heart to swell with pride. That sight of the mosaic of white marble and golden accents that was the city of the Gods, bathed in the ethereal mist of the impending Age of Dark, was one hell of a reward for his efforts…

…And, of course, he couldn’t think of better company.

“I love this breeze,” Anjou spoke, the sound of their words quickly disappearing behind the howling wind that their tampered senses perceived as a mere ‘breeze'.

“Amazing how the strength of this wind eludes thee, my dear…” He replied, his eyes never leaving the mesmerizing view before them. “Still, I admit ’tis a refreshing respite from the stuffy interior of the tower… And by the Lords, I hast never witnessed such… majesty.”

“Majesty,” they repeated, processing how the word applied in their current cotext. “Hm. Fitting."

The pardoner nodded, continuing to gaze out at the city, captivated by its grandeur… “Indeed, my dear. I thank thee for showing me this."

But soon, he’d have something else to gawk at; with a deep breath and a careful hand, the rebel quickly lifted the mask from their face, revealing the features that had been hidden for so long, as fluffy strands of red hair blew out of that deplorable piece of cloth, tousled by the wind as it whipped mercilessly through them. They could not remember the last time they felt this free… and vulnerable.

Oswald didn’t notice at first, his eyes still fixated on the view before him. He glanced quickly at them, sensing movement next to him, but he didn’t quite analyze had just occurred… not until his brain finished processing that image, prompting the pardoner to direct his gaze at them once more, his eyes wide open as he took in their features: their skin was unnaturally pale, almost nearing a blue tone—probably a consequence of Abyssal exposure; their hair was a similar red hue to their eyes, wavy and fluffy, carefully trimmed just slightly above their shoulders; their features were unnaturally sharp: angled jaw and pointy chin, a nose long and equally pointy...

…And they were right when they told him they kind of looked like a raven, back when they first started working together… It was mostly the shape of their nose, he thought.

“You’re right,” they spoke, their thin, black-tinted lips revealed a row of—mostly—perfectly alligned, slightly sharpened teeth—perhaps another consequence of abyssal exposure, since he remembered Kirk’s being very similar. “It’s rather windy.”

Oswald was properly speechless; he couldn’t stop looking at their finally exposed features, marveling at their rather unconventional visage, otherworldly yet surprisingly human for someone who’d spent so much time in absolute darkness. Truly a sight to behold, he thought to himself; ever since he met them, all he wanted was to see the face beneath that mask, but the circumstances—and their own stubbornness—had almost caused him to think there was never a real face behind the skull drawn on that piece of cloth. Now that he got what he wanted, well…

…Saying that the rush of attraction intensified tenfold would be an understatement.

“Aye… It is...” He managed to croak out. “F-forgive me... Thou art… remarkable.”

Anjou teasingly raised an eyebrow at his words, not willing to grace his comment with a reply just yet, which only made things worse for Oswald; his cheeks flushed, realizing just now the weight of those words he’d unthinkingly spoken.

“Ahem…” He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "My apologies if my words have… caused thee any discomfort—“

“You’re adorable, Ozzy,” they cut him off, their sharp lips curling up in a mischievous half-smile… They truly looked like some sort of a literary demon.

...A rather attractive one at that, when you get past the initial shock.

“Well, I… I shalt not protest,” he replied, chuckling softly, “for 'tis a compliment that I shalt gladly accept from thee a second time, Anjou.”

Their smile grew wider at his playful words, and by the gods, he couldn’t stop looking at those lips, the ones he’d kissed less than a day and a half ago, in total darkness; he would give anything to do that again… and of course, the longing reflected in his face didn’t go unnoticed by the rebel; they took a step closer, their presence radiating a tantalizing warmth that seemed to cut through the chilly wind, then reached out and lightly touch his arm… And hell if that did not send a shiver down his spine.

Their touch was tempting indeed; the pull he felt towards them was undeniable, the magnetic attraction that seemed to intensify with every passing moment… Perhaps it’d been there from the start, from the night they’d shown up at the Undead Parish, seeking refuge in the inner Sanctum.

“Ozzy,” they spoke again, their red eyes piercing his own.

“Y-yes, my dear…?” He breathed, his voice a husky whisper, laced with anticipation.

“If I’m giving something away, you’d do well to take it.”

By the Lords, he wished he had their confidence in these matters. Oswald couldn’t help but smirk at their boldness, his eyes gleaming with equal parts amusement at their approach and fear that he might somehow ruin this yet; his hand reached out to gently cup their cheek, his touch feather-light against their blue-ish skin…

“As thou wishest, my love…” He murmured, before finally closing the distance between them, his lips meeting theirs in a chaste kiss as the wind howled around them.

He would worry about the consequences later—he didn’t think his goddess would appreciate her priest feeling this kind of way towards someone like Anjou of the Abyss. Nevertheless, this was what he truly wanted; despite being undead, he’d never felt more alive in his entire life… he was not only existing anymore, he was living, defying his own emotions with heart and mind.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

What followed was rather predictable: Víbekka and Lautrec returned to the Undead Settlement to have a very much needed conversation about their next course of action, now that the Age of Dark was dawning on them. Oswald joined them soon after, while Anjou made a short trip to New Londo to retrieve Kirk’s body, so that they could give him a proper burial at the Firelink Shrine cemetery. The outcome of it all had been rather favourable, but the fight had been difficult indeed. Now all that remained was protecting this frail peace, until some sort of Fire inevitably came to ruin everything...

But it sure as hell would not be on their watch.

Once that was taken care of, Anjou made their way back to the small rundown building in the Undead Settlement, to join Oswald, Lautrec and Víbekka, before the four of them ultimately parted ways… if such a thing had to happen.

Needless to say, all eyes widened in surprise as Anjou kicked the door open, unmasked and unbothered. Yes, Oswald’s too, even if he’d already seen their face, because his mind still hadn’t quite assimilated what was in front of him.

“Now… Now I remember!” Was all Lautrec managed to say. “What the fuck happened to your skin? You were pale, but not this pale—“

“Hello to you too, Lautrec,” they cut him off, smiling sarcastically. “Can we have this conversation later, sweetheart? I just buried a man, for heaven’s sake.”

At these words, Víbekka elbowed Lautrec, prompting him to either think his next words very carefully or keep them to himself. Very cliché, that a Gravelord Servant such as herself would be this sensible about these matters, even if she was more than glad that the Knight of Thorns was dead once and for all.

“Dost thou require some time alone, my dear?” Oswald chimed in, his eyes fixated on Anjou, filled with adoration. “I imagine it must have not been easy."

“The last thing I want is to be alone right now,” they replied as they sat near the fire. “Besides, I think I owe you all an apology.”

“Oh? And... what for?” Lautrec leaned forward in his seat, his brow furrowed.

“For being so ridiculously secretive, of course… and for that very unnecessary wave of pessimism before the final battle—"

“Oh, no, no, thou needn't apologize for any of that, my love,” the pardoner cut them off, raising a hand. "We all have our doubts and fears. 'Tis only natural.”

Lautrec’s head quickly turned to look at Oswald the moment he pronounced the words 'my love'. What the hell had he missed?

Víbekka, although somewhat skeptical, couldn’t help but crack a smile at their strange apology. "Well, at least you finally dropped the mysterious act. Took you long enough, Darkwraith.”

"I suppose it did…” They conceded. “I had my reasons, though.”

“Reasons having to do with mine goddess, I assume…?” Oswald remarked.

“Correct. Forgive me if I’m not keen on discussing my contract with her.”

“Thou art forgiven, Anjou,” he nodded. "We all have our burdens to bear and secrets to keep. 'Tis the nature of our existence—"

"Well, now that we’ve gotten all sentimental and stuff,” the Knight of Carim interjected, "what’s the plan from here on out?”

“Kaathe is dead, the Darkwraiths are gone, so until further notice, there is really nothing left to fight against... for the time being. The best we can do is… I dunno, sit back and watch the dawn of the Age of Dark, I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound very exciting, does it…?” Lautrec spoke once more, folding his arms.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“That we just drink ourselves silly and pretend none of this ever happened,” the knight offered sarcastically. “Couldn’t hurt, right?"

~~~

The night grew darker and the fire crackled in the hearth as the four of them sat around a small wooden table, glasses of ale in hand. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the space as they reminisced about their time spent together; the weight of their past burdens seemed to fade away, if only for a moment, in the warmth of their small celebration... if it could be considered as such.

"To the end of an era and the beginning of a new one,” said Oswald, raising his glass. "May the Age of Dark bring us the peace we have fought for.”

“To new beginnings, then,” Anjou echoed, clinking their glass against his. Lautrec and Víbekka, sitting side by side, joined in the toast, leaving aside their usual apathy despite their initical skepticism.

They wondered what it would be like if everyone in Lordran knew they’d just prevented a world-shattering catastrophe, far worse than any Abyssal breakout that’d ever occured before; some would be glad to celebrate alongside them, no doubt, but others would damn them for using the Lordvessel for purposes not related to the linking of the First Flame, thusly ending Gwyn’s age of Fire… and Anjou would be the monster who so carelessly disposed of the relic.

Yes, indeed; perhaps it was better that they kept their heroic deeds a secret from everyone. A clean Age of Dark was enough reward for their efforts.

As the night wore on, the atmosphere grew more relaxed; the conversation shifted to lighter topics, filled with laughter and teasing. Oswald couldn't help but steal glances at Anjou, captivated by them, by those crimson eyes he’d come to adore so much. The very air he breathed was thick with unspoken desires—though chances were the alcohol had lowered his inhibitions—and his heart raced with anticipation everytime he heard them speak. He wanted to treasure this moment, to savor their presence and the connection they had forged amidst the chaos and darkness…

…chaos and darkness indeed. No other words captured their essence so well.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re looking at me like I’m some sort of curiosity, darling…?” They whispered, their eyes not meeting his just yet. “What’s on your mind, pardoner?”

He didn’t reply just yet. Instead, Oswald followed their gaze: they were looking at Lautrec, comfortably leaning against Víbekka; the two seemed to be in their own separate world, unbothered by their presence and Oswald’s, talking to each other without a care in the world. Reflected in Anjou’s eyes was a profound sense of happiness; they’d never seen Lautrec so relaxed, so liberated...

“I’ll never know what happened between those two. Not that it’s any of my business, anyway,” they continued. “I’m glad Lautrec has found what he was looking for, even if he’s found it in a Gravelord Servant, no less. Still, better than a goddess, don’t you think…?”

“Thou’st drunk at least an entire barrel of mead,” Oswald replied, his words slightly slurred by the alcohol. “How art thou capable of such deep thoughts and… well, perfect diction...?”

“High alcohol resistance,” was their only reply. “Don’t ask. Just… tell me what’s on your mind, babe. Share your thoughts with me.”

“My thoughts…” He mused, choosing his words carefully. "Well, those two art a reminder that love can be found in the most unexpected places, regardless of the circumstances,” he pondered, taking a sip of his ale. "It is a curious thing, love… it knoweth no boundaries, no rules. I believe ’tis the most… unconventional connections that bring us the greatest joy.” With that, he glanced back at Anjou, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Wouldst thou not agree, my dear...?”

“Hm.”

“Hm...?” He mimicked them in a playful manner.

“Yes. Hm.”

“And what is that hm supposed to mean, if I mayst ask?”

“It means I kinda like drunk Oswald,” they teased, leaning back on their seat. “You make interesting points… with a more dramatic touch, of course.”

“Thou’rt entertained by my drunken musings, art thou not…?” He chuckled. “I shalt have to remember that for future reference. We shouldst have drunk more often, methinks...”

“Gods, no! I highly doubt we would’ve succeeded if we did. Inebriation and saving the world from certain doom do not mix well—”

“But it doth make for an amusing night...” He cut them off, leaning slightly closer. “Dost thou not agree…?”

“I think you’re absolutely right,” they replied, smirking at his suggestive actions, right before taking the bottle from his hand in a precise, quick movement. “I also think you’ve had enough for the night, old man.”

“Pray, darling, I am not that ancient,” the pardoner willingly relinquished the bottle, a contented sigh escaping him. “But thou’rt right, I shouldst not let the drink get the better of me. ’Tis a… rare occurrence, I assure thee—“

“I’m sure it is—”

“I am but a few decades older than thee, Anjou!” He resumed, clearly still bothered by the old man comment. “And that is only physically! Thou’rt much older than I!”

“By a few centuries, yeah."

“Precisely!” Oswald exclaimed, pointing a finger in their direction. “So, by thy own admission, thou art the ancient one here, not I!”

“You’re still physically older than I, darling."

“’Tis not my fault I became Undead at almost 60 years old,” he huffed. “And yes, perhaps in the realm of the physical I appearest older, but I assure thee, my spirit is as youthful as a newly bloomed rose…!”

“Your vocabulary totally reflects it…” They teased him further.

“My vocabulary, my dear, is a testament my refined and cultured nature,” he replied, feigning offense. “It is a gift to thee, that thou mayst bask in the glory of my eloquence…!”

“Good. Now say that again, slowly. Less slurred."

“Please, I am not that inebri—… Inbria—… Inebria—“ he slurred, in a desperate attempt to nail the word inebriated, until he conformed, frustration evident in his expression and simply said: “Drunk.”

“Good to know,” they replied sarcastically, very much enjoying their interaction.

“Oh, thou art truly relentless, Anjou,” he paused for a moment, leaning back in his seat once more. “Is there anything else I can do to amuse thee further? Perhaps a dance or a juggling act…?”

“I bet I could get you to any of those things and more…”

“Do not doubt it for a second, my dear,” a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes as he leaned in closer once more, his voice dropping to a low, husky tone. “I am at thy mercy.”

“Oswald. Dear.”

“Yes, dear?” He matched their tone, his voice laced with anticipation.

“I know better than to bed a drunk man, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Yet another chuckle escaped his lips; he might’ve been capable of exercising enough self-control—much more than Anjou thought, at least—, but he was not able to hide the flicker of disappointment in his gaze as he processed their words.

“Thou’rt... wise indeed,” he leaned back once more in his seat. “Thy prudence dost not go unnoticed. I would do well to learn from thee—“

“You’d think a priest would be more cautious about these matters,” they cut him off, still relentless in their teasing. “What gives?”

That was a low blow, indeed. Oswald paused yet again, contemplating their words; there was truth in them, a truth he had often found himself grappling with… specially since they’d started travelling together.

“Dost thou truly believe that a priest is immune to the allure of temptation…?” He chose to respond, with a sly grin on his face. “We, too, are but humans, with desires and passions that lie beneath our façade…”

“Well, you did tell me once that you were not as pious as you looked… so that checks out, I guess.”

“Didst I say such a thing to you?”

“You did, yeah.”

“Huh,” he murmured. “Clearly my memory doth not serve me well at this moment, if thou hast a better recollection of my words than I do. Or perhaps... thou art more interested in my sinful inclinations than I initially thought—“

“I am not touching you until you sober up, Ozzy,” they interjected, with a smirk on their face. “Not in that way, at least."

“So thou hast other ways in mind, then...?” He raised an eyebrow, his mischievous smile mirroring theirs. “Do I need to be sober for those as well? Pray, do enlighten me, Anjou.”

The rebel leaned back again, crossing their arms, as if choosing their next words very carefully. Their eyes never left his, savouring the drippling anticipation they were creating for the priest of Velka with their silence alone. Then, they shrugged nonchalantly, before answering his question at last with six words alone...

“We can cuddle, if you want.”

Oswald's eyes widened for a moment, surprised by their response; given the nature of their conversation, he had expected something more provocative or teasing, but their offer caught him off guard. The mischievous glint in his eyes softened, replaced by a flicker of genuine warmth...

"Cuddling," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue. "A simple, intimate act…”

“You’re reading too much between the lines, darling,” they added, then gestured towards Víbekka and Lautrec at the other end of the table, still lost in their own world, unaware of their conversation. “Those two will leave eventually. Whaddaya say, then…?”

“I sayest that I find myself intrigued by the notion, my love. Cuddling it is, then."

Chapter Text

Inevitably, a dark, sunless morning came. Oswald stirred in his bed, slightly groggy from the alcohol; he rubbed his eyes tiredly before sitting up, before quickly deciding his body was not quite ready to function normally again and lying back down on the bed. He did not regret this decision, as soon as he remembered Anjou was still there, by his side, sleeping without a care in the world.

Memories of the previous night flooded his mind: he remembered the small, private celebration; his drunken ramblings—or what little he recalled from them; throwing himself at Anjou like no one’s business and… well, the dreamy cuddle session that followed after Víbekka and Lautrec’s departure. This was the perfect way to conclude their adventure, but he could’ve done without the huge hangover. Still, at that moment, the contentment was far greater than the discomfort.

Despite the throbbing headache and the queasiness in his stomach, he couldn't help but feel like he was experiencing the very definition of heaven, being able to lie down next to them; the night they had shared was intimate, tender, a very well-deserved moment of respite after the chaos. Carefully, so as not to disturb them, Oswald reached out to gently brush a strand of fiery red hair away from their face, his touch feather-light as his fingertips traced the sharp contours of their cheek.

“Gods, how I adore thee…” He whispered to himself, trying his best to resist the urge to wrap his arms around their body once more...

Oh, but he couldn’t possibly deny himself of that, even if he was risking waking them up from their very much needed slumber; he simply had to touch them, to feel their body against his own… And so, he carefully snuggled closer to the former Darkwraith, resting his face against he crook of their neck. He inhaled deeply, taking in their scent—subtle notes of earth and fire, mingled with the faint fragrance of alcohol from the night’s festivities. Inevitably, Anjou slowly opened their eyes, finding themself in a rather comfortable position in spite of the unexpected embrance.

“Good morning to you too, darling,” they spoke, their voice barely above a whisper. “I’m surprised you didn’t die in your sleep...”

“There is still time,” he chuckled softly, his breath tickling their skin. “This… hangover is a formidable adversary indeed. ’Tis worth it, though, to wake up to thy presence.”

“Such a gentleman,” they teased. “An amazing contrast from last night…”

“Yes, I believe I shouldst apologize for my behaviour back then,” he added, nuzzling closer to them. “That was not exactly the epitome of composure and grace.”

“It was quite funny, though. Consider me properly charmed by your drunk self.”

“I assure thee, I am equally charming when sober,” he paused, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tilted his head to met their gaze. “Perhaps even more so...”

“I don’t doubt that for a second, babe.”

By the Lords, they brought out both the best and the worst in him; he couldn’t help but chuckle at their respone, his heart swelling with affection every time those crimson red eyes locked with his own. He pressed a gentle kiss against the tip of their sharp, pointy nose, before pulling away slight, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at them.

“Thou’rt a dangerous creature, Anjou,” he murmured. “Thou makest me forget myself.”

“Hm. And I thought I was tired of the label 'dangerous'…”

“Ah, but ’tis a different kind of danger thou possesseth, my sweet,” he smirked, his lavender eyes filled with nothing but adoration. “I am but a helpless victim in thy presence.”

“You’re so dramatic…”

“The audacity,” he replied, feigning offense. “I am a theatrical man by nature, my darling… and thou’rt not exactly helping my case. I simply cannot resist thee…"

With that, he leaned down, capturing their blackened lips in a soft, lingering kiss, savouring the taste and the warmth that spread through his body… until he inevitably had to break the kiss and lie back down, lest his terrible headache caused him to pass out.

And of course, Anjou found that extremely funny.

“Thy laughter doth not bode well for my current state, my love,” the pardoner complained, even if he couldn’t help but chuckle as his own predicament, his head throbbing slightly from the motion. “Though I suppose I deserve this jest at my expense...”

“By the Abyss, had we ended up fucking last night, you probably wouldn’t have woken up at all—“

“Language!” He cut them off, eyes widening at their statement. “But gods, am I glad thou didst put me in my place, darling. I wouldst have been… ill-prepared for such a passionate encounter, I fear..."

“At least you’re consequential... Good to know.”

With that, they quickly sat up and stretched their arms, their back and shoulders cracking and popping at the motion—almost to a worrying extent—, but otherwise completely unaffected by the insane amounts of alcohol they drunk last night, much to Oswald’s amazement. The priest of Velka watched them with equal parts awe and concern as they got out of bed and moved effortless towards the door.

“I sincerely hope thou’rt not planning to leave me just yet…” He spoke.

“You’re stuck with me now, Ozzy,” they chuckled, turning to meet their gaze. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just gonna pay a short visit to our chicken friends downstairs, steal a few eggs from them… and pray that they don’t get too mad at me for that.”

It was hilarious to see genuine worry in their face as they spoke that last line, as if the silkies downstairs disliking Anjou was something they could never recover from. Oswald couldn’t help but shake his head in amusement, before he finally asked the million-coin question:

“Eggs...? Why?”

“Protein. Good for hangovers,” they concisely replied. “I’ll make us something quick to nibble on. You get some more sleep, okay? You need it.”

“Oh… Thou art too kind,” he added, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Very well, I shall take thy advice. But do return to me soon, my darling. I shall be awaiting thy triumphant return with the spoils of the coop."

With a teasing chuckle, Anjou left the room, and with a sigh, Oswald settled back into the bed. As he lay there, his mind began to drift, thoughts of their shared history filling his every waking moment; their first encounter at the Undead Parish, the lost battle for the First Bell, their divergence and subsequential convergence, the battle at Blighttown for the Second Bell of Awakening, the uncovering of their true identity, the encounter with Lautrec of Carim and Gravelord Servant Víbekka... then everything that came after that.

It had all been worth it in the end, all worth it, for an Age of Dark spent next to this abyssal creature he’d come to love so much. The pardoner closed his eyes, as he let himself be consumed by some much needed extra sleep… for around a couple hours or so. He did not feel any more refreshed nor rejuvenated when he got tired of the comfortable embrace of the bed and chose to face the new day instead.

Rising from the bed, he made his way to the main area of the small house, the smell of freshly cooked eggs filling the air; he felt himself smile at the sight of Anjou, bustling about in the small room… then it quickly faded, as he noticed the chicken, also bustling about.

“Good morrow… all of you,” he greeted, eyes wide open. “I assume thou werest not victorious from thy chicken conquest…?”

“I tried to distract them, then they distracted me,” they admitted, their expression reflecting equal parts exhaustion and amusement, as they placed the dishes on the table. “Good news is we all got what we wanted: I got the eggs, they get a taste of perceived freedom.”

Oswald couldn’t help but chuckle at the chaotic turn of events, taking a seat at the table. “A fair trade, indeed… Hard to believe thou werest victorious against Kaathe, when thou’st been so easily overpowered by poultry—“

“Oh-hoho, eating their unborn spawn will be my revenge, priest,” they cut him off in the most theatrical voice they could manage. They would’ve made for a rather convincing villain, had their beliefs aligned with Kaathe’s…

Thank the gods that was not the case.

Still, he simply raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he picked up the fork. “Well, devil, I suppose I shall have to partake in this revenge as well, for I cannot let thee face the wrath of the chickens alone...”

“Thou’rt a hero at heart.”

“Do not speak to me like that ever again,” he jokingly replied, completely caught off-guard by their perfect impression of him, pointing the fork at them with eyes wide-open. “Gods, thou scarest me to death.”

They teasingly rolled their eyes at his reply. Hugs and kisses aside, they noticed how whatever connection existed between the two of them had been forged through their unique and very unlikely friendship; despite being two completely different individuals on the outside, their ideals, thoughts and—now more obvious then ever, their sense of humour were very much alike; they shared laughter, banter, moments of vulnerability and a series of experiences that they’d come to cherish like a precious gift.

And so, as they had breakfast together, they reached the conclusion that they couldn't imagine existing without that goddamn priest at this point… Even if he was technically devoted to the deity that’d made things equally easier and much, much more difficult for them.

Sooner of later, the truth would need to come out…

…Perhaps sooner than anticipated.

“What art thou thinking of, my dear…?” He asked, breaking the serene silence, noting the sudden emptiness in their expression.

He deserved to know it. Better they told him the truth than Velka.

“Do gods laugh?” They replied unexpectedly, placing their fork back in their plate. “Whaddaya think…?"

Oswald leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look on his face as he pondered on that odd, very out-of-nowhere question. “Hm. What a strange thing to ask...”

“According to a few notes on ‘Faust’,” they began, because of course the subject of that goddamn book was bound to resurface at some point, “humour in itself, funny scenarios, anything laughable whatsoever are fails in logic…”

“…whilst gods are beings of pure logic,” he continued, "therefore incapable of perceiving concepts such as humour, making them unable of finding anything funny. But that dost not necessarily mean they cannot laugh, dost thou not think?”

“Why else would a god laugh, then?” They insisted. “Nothing good happens in Lordran that would make any god happy anymore… unless they’re laughing at something or someone, which takes us back to that argument in ‘Faust’…”

“What art thou implying, love?” He finally asked, resting his arms on the table. “Is something troubling thee…?”

“It’s... nothing, babe. You’re perfectly fine—“

“Well, art thou perfectly fine as well?” He cut them off. “I can sense something is amiss, my dear. Please, do not hide from me…”

“I was just… thinking of Velka,” they sighed. “And well, of my contract with her too, through which, I suspect, she’s been laughing at me... now more than ever that I’m with you, I suppose—"

“My love, if thou dost not desire to discuss the specifics of this contract—“

“No, I want to do this,” they interjected, reaching our to take their hand in his. “I mean, I don’t want to, but as her priest, you should know what this is all about… Even if it gets me in trouble.”

He looked at them with worry in his eyes, squeezing their hand gently. 'Fuck Velka’, thus had he so carelessly said out loud the night before their battle against the Abyss, when he’d chosen to accept his own feelings for the rebel and worry about the consequences later. Well, later had finally become now, and he was very sure about his feelings for Anjou… But he knew not what eluded him.

“I am listening,” he said.

“I’ve explained this before, but the reason why no one could remember what I looked like after I joined the Darkwraiths and decided to cover my face was—“

“—because of thy deal with Velka,” he finished. “I remember that.”

“There is more to it,” they spoke again, trying their best to maintain eye contact. “What happened in Oolacile changed me; instead of killing me or turning me into some sort of warped creature, the Abyss was kind enough to share its power with me... and I decided to use it to fight Kaathe’s attempts at causing more outbreaks.”

“Fighting fire with fire…” Oswald mused. “Clever."

“Exactly. However, it was demanding… extremely demanding,” they continued. “My hunger for humanity was near impossible to quench; my connection with the Abyss, my powers, my very own body were unsustainable. So, eventually, I had no choice but to join the best hunters of humanity in Lordran... which coincidentally, were led by my arch-nemesis.”

“Surely there were other methods to obtain humanity—“

“None as efficient as taking it from other people, I assure you,” they cut him off, their stare suddenly turning dead serious as they spoke this bitter truth. “Trust me; I tried. I had exhausted every option I could think of up to that point. None were enough to keep me alive. I had to join them, whether I liked it or not… and as you can imagine, explaining everyone that their local Abyss-fighting hero needed to join the bad guy was... something I wanted to avoid.”

“Hence thy contract with the goddess…”

“Correct,” they nodded. “My request was simple: for as long as I fancied myself a Darkwraith, for as long as I needed them, no one would remember what I looked like beneath the mask; the details of my existence would be a distant memory…”

“But André and Lautrec—“

“Yes, they remembered me, they remembered knowing me,” they interjected, "because I’d already left New Londo when I encountered them again. I was technically still a Darkwraith in name, but my mission had changed once more… So the deal was starting to weaken.”

Oswald nodded slowly, finally beginning to understand the complexity of their contract with the goddess and why they despised talking about it. In the end, their own actions were forced upon them; he could only imagine the shame, the self-disgust they felt when they realized they had no choice but to join the very beings he’d promised to eradicate.

However, one question, the greatest of them all, remained:

“I am afraid to ask, but…” He began, his voice barely above a whisper. “What didst thou give her in return…?”

“What’s the price to pay for any kind of deal, really?” They smirked, but their eyes reflected nothing but sorrow. “Has ‘Faust’ taught you nothing…?”

“Surely thou didst not—”

“I did, darling,” they sighed once more. “Let us speak plainly: Velka made everyone forget my face, turned me into a distant memory for everyone who knew of my existence, made me into her Dead Angle in all these matters of absolution, punishment and sin… and all I had to do was hand over my soul to her.”

A very uncomfortable silence ensued, created by the severity of that revelation, in spite of the sarcasm dripping from their voice. Oswald’s eyes widened in disbelief: either they were extremely brave or abhorrently foolish to do such a thing…

In his eyes, needless to say, it was the latter.

“Oh, I know that face,” they spoke once more, pointing a finger at them. “And before you try to make me feel bad for making that choice, I’ll tell you something: that deal is one of the few reasons the Darkwraiths did not kill me on sight when I joined them. Only Kaathe remembered who I truly was… and Kirk, to an extent, but the fact that the others were unable to recall how I slaughtered many of their brethren is what kept me alive for so long… until I could finally fix things.

“But giving thy soul away just like that—“

“Many living things don’t have souls and they are perfectly fine,” they interrupted.

“Name one, Anjou,” he leaned forward, his tone becoming almost incriminating. “Name a single entity that can exist without a soul. Pray, enlighten me.”

“Me,” they smirked sarcastically, seemingly unaffected by the shift in his voice. “Sure, things like cold, heat, hunger, thirst, or many, many little pleasures of being alive and other effects—traits which I’ve conveniently tried to pass off as Abyssal sequelae—are lost on me, replaced by pure exhaustion and a lingering feeling of impending doom gripping my non-beating heart, even when I’ve nothing to worry about…! But other than that—“

“To be bereft of a soul is to be devoid of one’s very essence, Anjou! The core of one’s being, for heaven’s sake!” His eyes narrowed, his patience wearing thin. “’Tis not a state to be taken lightly! Art thou insane?!”

“Perhaps you’re right. But I’m still here despite everything, aren’t I? And let me remind you, Ozzy, that had I not agreed to this contract, we’d be swimming in Kaathe’s Abyss right now!” They confidently replied. “I needed to survive, but for that, I needed the Darkwraiths, and for that I needed to be conveniently forgotten first. Only then would I be able to destroy them from within… even if it took longer than I anticipated.”

“Thou’rt saying thou dost not regret thy choice…?”

“Not. One. Bit,” they almost bared their teeth as they said those words loud and clear. “I don’t expect you to understand, Oswald; I wasn’t looking for your approval or compassion when I decided to explain you all this… I mean, some level of understanding would’ve been great, but I suppose the importance of this act eludes the likes of you, hm?”

They could almost hear him wince after that last line was spoken, even if he was nothing but dead silence at their reply. They already knew this was going to be a difficult conversation, but perhaps old habits, old beliefs truly die hard, if they die at all. Anjou took another deep breath, before continuing with their explanation...

"Just know,” they began, "that when Oolacile was detroyed, every single step I took was aimed towards getting my revenge on Darkstalker-motherfucking-Kaathe: exploring my connection with the Abyss, becoming a knight of Carim, halting every single outbreak attempt…” A brief pause followed, in which they tried to collect themself as their mind showed them glimpses of every single experience that’d led to this moment, very much against their will. "Now, I’m finally free of this burden: the worm is dead, the Darkwraiths are no more and the very air we breathe will soon be filled with endless amounts fo humanity for me to feed on. For all this, I’d say my soul is a very small price to pay, and I really, really couldn’t care less about your opinion on this matter.”

“If that beest the case, then why art thou telling me all this...?” The pardoner asked with desperation in his voice, his fingers intertwined, shaking slightly.

“Because you follow the deity with whom I’ve struck this deal, so in a way, you’re indirectly affected by that which connects me to her… as much as it pains me.”

Oswald sighed heavily, his gaze falling to the ground in a desperate attempt to conceal his expression of equal parts shock and anger… The more he tried to deny the truth in their words—the undeniable meaning behind their actions—the more he realized that they were right in their judgement; what was a single soul in the grand scale of things? The only reason it hurt so much, he realized, was because he knew his goddess could be as cruel as she was said to be compassionate… But he’d never imagined, not in a thousand years, that she could be this cruel, knowing what he knew as a pardoner of the Goddess of Sin.

Much like they’d previously suggested earlier, Velka was laughing at them.

And yet, while he was indirectly affected by this, he had no say in the matter. And gods, that hurt.

“Thou hast entrusted me with this knowledge so that I may comprehend the weight of our connection, the intricacies of our paths intertwining…” He paused, taking a moment to compose himself. “I appreciate thy honesty, even if it is a... bitter pill to swallow...”

They raised an eyebrow, as if expecting him to say anything else after that whole lot of nothing… very much aware of what could possibly come next.”

And the chicken sauntering around the room while those two were having that heated conversation was also a real mood breaker.

"Anjou, I... must admit that I am conflicted,” he continued, his voice heavy with resignation. "On one hand, I understand thy reasons for making such a pact, for seeking revenge against Kaathe and the Darkwraiths. But on the other… By the Lords, I cannot help but feel the weight of thy decision, thy sacrifice, the loss of thy very essence—“

“What fucking essence?! I am fine, Oswald!” They cut him off, rising from their chair in frustration. “So what if a few things are lost on me? Be honest, rat: would you have guessed that I lack a soul had I never told you?”

“No. Thou art right, Anjou," he conceded, his voice still cold and emotionless. "I would not have guessed it. But that does not change the fact that thou hast made a tremendous mistake, one that affects thy very being—“

“Enough. Cut the crap, Ozzy. We both know why you are saying all this… So why don’t you go ahead and be honest with me? You’d think I’d deserve that much after telling you the truth, hm?” There was only surrender and acceptance in their words. They too knew what was written in Velka’s sacred book, how it was all one big practical joke.

The pardoner looked at them, his gaze piercing and intense as he too rose from his seat. This conversation had done nothing to ease the throbbing pain in his head; if anything, he felt like he wanted to die, both for the physical pain and the heartache behind the words he was about to say:

“Velka's Book of the Guilty, chapter 672, clause 36, section B: ‘hollows, devils, unredeemable sinners, the heartless and the souless have no place in this world... and must be eradicated, by the goddess’ decree.'”

“There it is,” they gave him a defeated smirk. “That’s a good little priest, right there."

Chapter Text

“There it is,” they said, giving the pardoner a defeated smirk. “There’s Velka’s good little priest—“

"Thou dost find amusement in my pain, dost thou not?” Oswald’s eyes narrowed, his voice growing colder and more menacing. “Listen to me: I may serve Velka, but that dost not mean I am blind to these complexities; I question, I challenge, and I seekest understanding. But I cannot deny the truth of the Book, nor the burden it places upon me—“

“Ugh, of course you can’t—“

"And do not think for a moment that thy mockery absolveth thee of thy grave lapse in judgement, Anjou!” He cut them off, taking a step forward. “Thou art not as invincible as thou dost believe thyself to be; the consequences of thine actions may yet catch up to thee!”

“Woah!” They could only stare at him, eyes open wide as their reflection turned to pure digust at his words. "Woah, okay! So after everything we’ve gone through, you’d throw me away just like that?! Just because your goddess decided to be an absolute bitch to me?!”

"Thou hath chosen this path, Anjou," he reminded them coldly. “’Twas thy choice to offer thy soul in exchange for perceived protection. Thou’st made a deal with Velka, and thou art bound by it."

“Gods, it’s like I’m talking to a wall—“

"And yet, thou dost persist in engaging with this wall!" Oswald replied, his voice filled with a mix of frustration and resignation. "Perhaps it is best if we end this conversation here, if thou thinkest so little of me!”

“No, yeah, for sure. You’ve just given me reasons—plenty of ‘em—to think very little of you right about now,” they replied, their voice completely devoid of emotion at this point. “I suppose I expected something… else from you. Serves me right.”

’Serves me right'? ‘Plenty of reasons to think very little of you’? Gods, what was he doing? This was not what he wanted!

Hearing those words escape their blue lips felt like a dagger piercing his chest, a pain so sharp, matching the cruelty of the Goddess of Sin. His own anger gave way to a tinge of regret as he observed the numbness in their expression, the emptiness in their tone… He was being too harsh with them, unnecessarily so… And yet...

For someone who’d damned his own goddess out loud less than three days ago, it felt so out-of-character to let her teachings cloud his judgement now. Then again, Anjou turning out to be the stereotypical target of a pardoner of Velka had shaken him to the core. After all, according to the Book of the Guilty, the souless had no place in this world.

But what happens when someone without a soul quite literally saves the world from certain doom…? What then? What does that make of Anjou?

The silence that ensued was unbearable, and just as Oswald’s expression began to soften, his eyes filling with sorrow and understanding, Anjou’s apathetic façade was starting to crack.

“Say something, goddamit!” They shouted, snapping the priest out of his inner turmoil.

“Gods above, I fear I am at a loss for words, Anjou…!” He spoke, his voice was above a whisper, dripping with anxiety. “I… I am sorry—“

“You know what?” They cut him off, taking a step back. “Fuck this. I really should’ve known better than to—“

“Wait! For heaven’s sake, I care deeply for thee, Anjou! More than I am willing to admit,” he stopped them, reaching out to grab their wrist, preventing them from walking away just yet. “Believe me, I do not wish to throw thee away, and I do not wish to lose thee…”

“…But...?” They raised an eyebrow.

The sadistic realist in them prevailed. Of course, there was always a ‘but’ in matters like these.

“…But,” he admitted with a deep sigh, “at times like this, I cannot deny the teachings of Velka. I made an oath, Anjou; I am bound by my duty to uphold the laws of sin and punishment, and if thou art truly without a soul, then our paths are destined to diverge, lest things end... tragically between us. I cannot ignore the consequences of such a union—“

“You can’t be serious—!”

But by the time they’d finished saying those words, the pardoner had released their wrist, his gaze filled with pain and resignation. "I wish it were not so. I understand if thou dost find this unfair, but some rules even I cannot break... even for love."

Gods, why did he say that whole lot of bullshit?! He did not want any of this!

Anjou’s eyes were wide open, their impossibly red irises almost shining amidst the comforting dark, their expression so tense it looked like they could snap at any second…

…But instead, another wave of numbness took over; after a deep sigh, their face became empty, unreadable, devoid of emotion once again. Perhaps something else the Abyss had taught them, to hide their most intense emotions and keep them to themself, lest they cause them to be perceived as weak… or, perhaps, this too was another consequence of being souless.

“Then there is nothing left to discuss, I assume?” They spoke, impossibly composed, like they didn’t just have the worst kind of conversation two people in love with each other could possibly have…

…And it broke him, seeing how they could simply put on that mask of indifference, while he was struggling not to get on his knees and implore them to ignore everything he’d just said; he desperately wanted to be able to take back his words, to hold them close and tell them that none of it mattered… But he knew he couldn't, not without betraying the teachings of his cruel goddess.

"No, Anjou," he finally replied, his voice heavy with sorrow. "There is... nothing more to be said."

It took the souless rebel a moment to process those words, giving only a nod and a short hum in response before… turning away, walking away, leaving behind the one person they had grown to care for so deeply... too deeply, it seemed, and for what…?

“Waste of time,” they mumbled to themself, a string of words that did not go unnoticed by the pardoner...

…But he simply stood there, feeling nothing but pure devastation and all-consuming regret as he watched them leave the building. They’d made up their mind so easily…

They’d made up their mind, so damn easily…

It took him several long minutes to regain his composure enough to gather the remnants of his scattered thoughts and emotions. The subsequential silence was deafening; it echoed in his ears like a cold emptiness that matched the void within him. By the gods, what had he done…?

This wasn’t how things were supposed to end up; he hadn't expected to fall for someone like Anjou, someone who defied everything he stood for, someone without a goddamned soul, for heaven’s sake! But he damn right did, and all that left for him was to rationalize this mess somehow...

No. No more dwelling on what could have been; if a souless entity could move on so quickly, he was not going to be any less.

And yet, after the horribly uneventful afternoon that followed—save for herding the chicken back inside the basement—was done, sleep dared elude him; the night, just like the day, was draped in a comforting, cold and gentle darkness that seemed to mirror the turmoil in his heart. Climbing back into bed felt awful, the cold sheets beneath him, the emptiness of it all…

His mind raced with thoughts of what could have been, of the possibilities that had slipped through his fingers. He yearned for Anjou's presence, for the warmth of their touch and the sound of their voice, but all he was left with was the cold silence of an empty building…

…not so silent, though, as he suddenly heard the main door being kicked open. For a fraction of a second, he was ecstatic, thinking Anjou had returned to him despite everything, but the angry voice that echoed through the entire building was one that made his eyes roll to the back of his head in pure frustration.

“I know you’re there, vieillard!” Lautrec of Carim’s shouted from the entrance. “Show your face!”

The pardoner let out an exasperated groan at his words; that surprise visit was not what he needed right now. Nevertheless, he quickly composed himself and reluctantly got out of bed, before making his way to the main room.

“Must thou always make such a grand entrance, knight…?” He spoke, his tone dripping with exhaustion at the man’s antics. “What bringst thee hither, at this ungodly—“

But before he could finish that question, as soon as he was within reach, Lautrec took a step forward and punched Oswald in the face with all his might; the blow landed square on his jaw, sending the elder man stumbling backwards in shock. He clutched his throbbing cheek, his eyes wide with anger... This was the second time this fucking rat showed up at his doorstep like that.

“What in the name of Velka’s wrath was that for?!” He exclaimed.

“'Velka’s wrath'? How accurate,” Lautrec remarked, the anger never leaving his face despite his sarcastic tone. “You really have no idea why I’m here, connard? You’re either an imbecile or just about as self-absorbed as I imagined…!"

"Watch thy tongue, Lautrec,” his eyes narrowed at the insult, his anger bubbling to the surface. "I have no patience for thy insolence. Now, tell me the purpose of this unexpected visit, so I can be rid of your presence as swiftly as possible—“

“My presence here is merely a warning to you, priest,” he cut him off, pointing one finger at Oswald’s face. “I’ve seen what the gods do to their subjects; they all become victims in one way or another, with no exception. If you choose to follow your duties as that goddamned deity’s pardoner, then that is your choice... But bring your duties to Anjou and I will personally make sure you suffer.”

"Thou knowest not the first thing about Anjou or our relationship—“

“Oh, no, no, I think I'd know my best friend, viellard!” He cut him off. "I know that idiot better than you ever will; I know what they are, what they lack,” he retorted, his voice low and dangerous, “and I know that makes them a potential victim to the likes of you... just as I was once."

"Thou speakest as if thou art the savior of Anjou," he spat, his tone incriminating, laced with venom. "But I assure thee, knight, they need no saving from thee nor from anyone. I have no intentions of causing them harm—“

“You better not,” he interjected once more. “I will personally bring you to Víbekka and have her torture you for eternity if you do—“

"Enough!" Oswald's voice thundered through the room, his anger finally reaching its boiling point. "Thou art in no position to make such threats! I care for Anjou deeply in spite of their nature, and I would sooner die than bring them any harm! Now, leave this place before I lose what little patience I have left for thee…”d

However, instead of acting accordingly and removing himself from that ruin of a house, the knight of Carim simply remained there, standing in front of the pardoner, unbothered by his threats; he eyed him carefully, his expression softening ever-so-slightly, yet still very much unreadable.

“You know what makes me want to strangle you to an indefinite number of deaths, despite your somewhat-reassuring words…?” Lautrec spoke, his voice surprisingly smooth in spite of his prevous tone. “I can’t trust you clerics anymore; at first glance, you all seem to be exactly what anyone could want or need…”

He paused, sighing deeply, analyzing his own mind as he tried to find a way to word his thoughts in the least offending way possible…"

“…But in reality? You’re all scum,” he continued,” rotted gasbags, pretentious connards who will turn their back at those who need you the most at the slightest inconvenience…! You will deny your deities when it suits you, but then you will come back crawling, ready to kiss their feet when faced with real danger,” he retorted, taking a step forward. “Now, look at me in the eye and tell me that is not exactly what happened between you and Anjou. I dare you.”

Gods, that truly hit where it hurt.

Oswald's eyes narrowed at Lautrec’s words, a barely imperceptible glint of pure pain flashing amidst the anger in his gaze. He had no choice but to do as the knight asked of him, to look him in the eye with all the resolve he could manage and defend himself to the best of his ability…

"Thou presumest much, Lautrec," he spoke, his voice low, shaky, filled with suppressed emotion. "Thy words are harsh and unjust. I have dedicated my life to serving Velka, made sacrifices and faced hardships that thou couldst not even fathom, and yet thou standest there, casting thy accusations, knowing only so much… But thou knowest nothing; thou knowest not the weight of mine own burden; thou knowest not the pain of finding out that the being thou’st come to love most is precisely that which thou sworest to destroy…! So, if thou hast nothing else of importance to say, then I suggest thou leavest this place and never darken my doorstep again…!”

“Wallow in your own bitterness, old man. You’re good at it,” he said. “Your words mean nothing to me now. I simply rest my case here, with this warning: you and your goddess stay away from Anjou. Understand?”

“Didst they send thee here to tell me this…?” Oswald asked, voicing his biggest worry. “Do they... worry that I might go after them...?"

“They begged me not to come here and put you in your place, vieillard,” he replied, his tone menacing, as if trying to fancy himself an unstoppable threat. “If you must know, all they did was tell us of their deal with Velka, merely to clear the air about that. They did not say a thing about why we found them so far from here or why they’d left your side, but I know enough about the Triad to draw my own conclusions—”

“Well, draw thy conclusions as thou wilt, Lautrec,” he cut them off, almost at the verge of tears at this point, “but know this: even if my sacred duty as a pardoner is to eradicate the hollow, the heartless and the souless, even if I can no longer bring myself to be close to them, I could never harm Anjou. The world might be a better place with them in it—“

“Might?! By the lords, how can you be so misguided?! Where was your goddess—or mine, for that matter—when the Abyss threatened to consume everything?!” The knight shouted in frustration. “I’ll tell you where: they remained hidden, like the powerless cowards they are! But we, Oswald? We were in the frontlines! And that was only possible because of that goddamned souless wretch we call Anjou. Do you not get it?!”

“Thou’rt only telling me that which I already know! What is there to get?!”

“As an unspoken iron rule of thumb, if one should choose between a tyrannical deity who does nothing to help those in need and a souless being with a history of saving the world from certain abyssal doom…” He paused, taking a deep breath as he tried to regain his composure. “Well, I’m neither smart not guiltless... but I know which one I’d trust first.”

Gods be damned if he wasn’t speaking the blasphemies that lingered in the back of the pardoner’s mind.

Oswald remained silent, no longer able to defend himself after that argument; this was not the Lautrec he remembered, the one who would’ve died for Fina without a second thought. He’d changed, evolved, found his own place in this world, while he…

Gods, who was he? Who was Oswald of Carim if not one of Velka’s chosen, her skeleton key?

Oswald stared at the knight, eyes widened and his anger momentarily replaced by sorrow and self-doubt as his mind grappled with the weight of his words. “Perhaps thou art right, Lautrec…” He conceded. “Perhaps thou art right.”

He thought he’d never see the day where that poor excuse for a knight of Carim— once an unredeemable sinner, now a somewhat-honourable warrior—would give him the talk of his life. The mistake wasn’t Anjou’s for giving Velka their soul in exchange for a very much needed erasure of identity, a chance at survival and protection against their foes, while they planned their destruction from within; it was his for not getting his damn priorities straight.

He had lost his way, but he'd been showed the folly of his faith, the limitations of the one he once called his goddess. Perhaps he always knew, and he simply needed Lautrec to punch him in the face once more to assimilate that information. That unexpected visit, as much as it pained him to admit it, had saved him from his own despair.

The priest took a deep breath, his voice filled with regret: “I... hast failed them. Anjou, I mean. And by extension, I hast failed myself as well. But I shan’t make the same mistake: I will find a way to be by their side, to support them, even if it means going against the very principles I once held dear.” He looked at him, determination burning in his eyes in spite of the sorrow. "I will fight with them, for them, for us. And if Velka cannot accept that, then so be it—“

“Gods be damned, you are in love with that fool, vieillard,” he cut them off, taking a step back. “Why, then, why did you sabotage yourself like this?"

Chapter Text

Many creatures are without a soul in Lordran, and all of them have one thing in common—aside from the obvious lack of a soul: they do not make for enjoyable company.

Take the Hollows, for instance: unfortunate beings who could not bear the weight of the Undead Curse and its most obvious symptom: the inhability to truly die. At some point, they ended up losing all their humanity, losing their own selves in the process. With no purpose, nothing keeping them alive in spite of their inhability to perish, their souls would dissolve into their own carcasses, rendering them unable to perceive, to experience certain effects, leaving only a cold hand gripping tightly at their heart, filling them with the need to ease the pain through attacking everything in sight.

To put it plainly, people without a soul become immune to heat and cold, pain and pleasure, thirst and hunger. There’s an empty hole where their hearts should be, from which an unavoidable sense of impending doom, exhaustion and a need to wreak havoc erupt. This is why the demons of Izalith can survive walking through entire lakes of lava, but will attack everything in sight; why the hydras lurking in the Darkroot can spend eternities beneath freezing waters without the need to feed, but will often get the urge to poke their heads out and destroy the landscape for no reason; why Velka’s crow sirens will walk around the frozen Painted World of Ariamis, naked and unbothered, but will pluck the eyes out of any intruders in fear they might destroy their perceived tranquility…

...This is why Anjou of the Abyss could not feel the freezing cold, the unforgiving wind or become inebriated by alcohol, but felt an indescribable fear of things going wrong at every turn; their thoughts were plagued by the constant fear and anxiety that came from their self-imposed purpose, even if they were excellent at hiding their vulnerability—and quite powerful to boot.

They had plenty of reasons to dig a hole to bury themselves in, but they never stopped fighting. Quoting Lautrec of Carim, ‘they were there to stop the spread of the Abyss at every outbreak, while the gods remained hidden, unbothered, unaffected'. That alone made them different from every other souless creature that walked the gods-forsaken lands of Lordran.

Velka, the Goddess of Sin, demanded that her pardoners destroyed all souless creatures they came across, but found it funny, for some reason, to take the soul of possibly the only one who could defeat the Darkstalker. “And what for?", Oswald asked himself, but no answer came to him. Was Anjou's soul of special interest for Velka? Was the goddess simply being cruel when she named her price?

One thing was clear: the priest resolved to defy his deity's command; he would go against the will of the Goddess of Sin and challenge the very foundations of his faith. He only wished he didn’t need that goddamned knight Lautrec to help him see why this was a necessary course of action. Perhaps that was how he too refused his goddess; perhaps Víbekka had done the same for him, confronted him with the bitter reality that the gods do not care about—nor for—their subjects… and he simply repeated the procedure with him.

History often repeats itself, after all. That seems to be a constant in Lordran.

But the cycle had been broken: darkness had won over the flames, humans had won over the Lords. He too, Oswald thought, needed to win against his goddess.

And he owed one hell of an apology to Anjou as well.

He wondered where they’d gone; Lautrec failed to specify where exactly he and Víbekka had come across the former Darkwraith, and considering he’d come all the way to his refuge to warn him not to get close to Anjou ever again, he didn’t imagine he’d divulge their whereabouts if he asked.

He probably deserved this. He couldn't shake off the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him; he had pushed Anjou away, driven them to leave, all in an attempt to protect them from his sacred duty, from the wrath of Velka... But in doing so, he had hurt them deeply. Probably.

He needed to search for them. He had to find them.

He did not anticipate, however, days turning into weeks, weeks turning into months... Keeping faith in their connection was not as easy when the blue-skinned rebel was nowhere to be found. Perhaps they’d already left Lordran, hoping to forget about the man who’d broken what little remained of their heart…

…Or perhaps, they were waiting for the right moment to allow themselves to be perceived once again. In an eccentric turn of events, it was the silkies at the basement of the refuge who found Anjou.

It was late at night—or perhaps it wasn’t even that late; the constant darkness of this New Age often messed with Oswald's perception of time. As he lay in his bed, he heard the excited clucking of the chicken coming from the basement… an unusual occurrence indeed, since those birds hadn’t had a single reason to be excited since Anjou disappeared.

"Odd,” he thought.

He got out of bed and descended the stairs cautiously, unsure of what he would find… and there, nestled among the fluffy chicken, sitting crossed-legged on the floor, smiling gently as the birds pecked at their hands, was the elusive, souless Anjou of Carim. Oswald's heart skipped a beat as he simply stood there, taking in the sight before him; they looked so serene, so at peace… in spite of everything. Nevertheless, their presence brought a flood of of emotions rushing through him—relief, longing, and above all, an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Very, very overwhelming, in fact.

Anjou only took notice of their unexpected audience as they heard the floor creak under Oswald’s steps, when he finally mustered the courage to approach them; there was a flicker of surprise in their gaze, which was quickly replaced by something unexplainable, probably very similar to what the priest was experiencing at that moment.

“They missed thee,” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, almost imperceptible amidst the clucking of the chicken. “No one understood them like thou didst.”

“I’m sure they think so now,” they replied, their tone incriminating, “but I wonder if that is what they truly felt when I walked away from here.”

Oswald winced at the sound of their voice, at the accusation that lay behind their words. “I am sure they never meant to push thee away—“

“Oh, I’m quite sure they did,” they cut him off. “Creatures like them don’t really know what they want, unless a bigger, greater force is constantly guiding them at every turn—”

“They have a mind of their own,” he interjected, his brow furrowing and his voice taking a sharper edge. “They art not slaves... Not anymore, at least. And I’m sure they wish nothing more than to be with thee.”

“And what did it take for them to reach that conclusion…?”

“The weight of thy absence, many sleepless nights… and a blow in the face from a certain knight of Carim,” he confessed, sighing heavily. “Just to make sure, we art not talking about the chicken anymore, are we…?”

“You tell me.”

“No, we art… most certainly not talking about the chicken, then,” he repeated, as if he hoped that saying the highest amount of words could make him sound more convincing. “We art talking about us, now.”

“It would appear so,” they added. “I suppose I’ll have to talk to Lautrec after this..."

“May I sit with thee...?”

“You don’t have to ask me. You own this place. Do as you please."

So cold.

Even still, Oswald carefully approached Anjou, cautiously avoiding the chicken; he sat on the floor, right beside them, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, his body painfully tense. For a moment, he let the silence hung in the air as he gathered his thoughts… and failed miserably.

“I… I dost not know where to begin,” he admitted. “There is so much I wish to say to thee, so much I need to apologize for—“

“Oswald—"

“Please,” he held up a hand, his voice firm, yet filled with vulnerability. “Please, let me speak. I hast carried this guilt for far too long. Just… allow me.”

Anjou took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall as they held one of the fluffy silkies in their arms. Their gaze found Oswald’s, sending cold ripples down the pardoner's spine…

Despite how desperate he was to tell them everything, organizing his thoughts was not easy at that moment.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry as he began to speak, his voice trembling slightly. "When we first met, I was... captivated by thee.Thou werest there when the Earth was quaking, when everyone seemed to go their separate ways; thou werest by my side at every moment, and never didst thou let me out of thy sight. True, thou mayst be souless, but..."

“…But…?

Once again, of course, there was always a ‘but’ in matters like these.

“…But… I was a fool, my dear. I was so consumed by my duty, my allegiance to Velka, that I failedst to see what was right in front of me,” his voice wavered, as if he was desperately trying to hold back his tears. "I pushed thee away, treated thee coldly, as if thou werest just another souless wretch—“

“I am, by definition, a souless wretch, Oswald” they cut him off, raising an eyebrow. “You’re just not a very open-minded man."

“Thou’rt souless, but thou most certainly art not a wretch, my darling,” he remarked. “Thou'rt nothing like other souless beings I hast encountered, and I shouldst have recognized that sooner, instead of allowing my own prejudice to cloud my judgment.”

“You think…?”

“Aye, I do think,” he nodded, his eyes filled with regret. “And I am embarrassed to admit this, but... I dost not learn from my own mistakes, it seemest; this hast been the second time we part ways for my inhability to comprehend that thou’rt so much more than meets the eye.”

“Then you do understand why I’m terrified this might be a constant between us, correct?” They raised an eyebrow, petting the chicken in their arms almost obsessively.

And his heart sunk at their words, the weight of their more-than-justified suspicion pressing upon him like a heavy, heavy burden. Either they didn’t learn from their mistakes either, or they were just as desperate as he was to be together again… whatever together meant for the two of them. Oswald finally gathered the courage to reach out, gently placing his hand on their arm…

“I understand, my love,” he said, “I understand thy fear, and I want thee to know that I am willing to grow, to be a better man for thee, to cast away the shadows of doubt and ignorance that plague our past… I want to cherish thy soul—“

“Oswald—“

“or lack of thereof,” he quickly corrected himself. “Forgive me once more. I might... need to change my repertoire for thee...”

His little slip was met with a low chuckle from the former Darkwraith, which offered an encouraging prospect—or at least he perceived it as such; it was a rare and beautiful sound, hearing their weak laughter, a relief to see that they didn’t seem entirely closed off to the possibility of forgiveness. His heart was already soaring at the possibilities; he reached out once more, gently placing his hand on top of theirs—the one that was petting the chicken—before gently grabbing it and bringing it to his cheek.

“Do not leave me again,” he spoke once more, his pleading eyes fixated on theirs. “I beg of thee…"

“Gods, don’t look at me like that—“

“Like what? Like a man who has realized the depth of his feelings for thee? Like a man who is willing to fight for thee, even if it means defying the very gods themselves?” He held their gaze, his expression vulnerable yet determined, voice tinged with equal parts apprehension and hope. "I cannot promise thee a future without complications, my love, but I can promise thee that I will be by thy side every step of the way. So, please... Stay with me, if thou wouldst—”

“Alright,” they cut him off.

“Oh,” his eyes widened in surprise, his heart skipping a beat. “'Alright'…? Just like that...?”

“I already told you once, darling: I conform easily. Watching you beg and wallow in the dirt like a bison is fun and all,” they teased, “but it’s getting repetitive..."

“Very well, then allow me to replace my incessant begging with a promise,” he moved closer to them, taking both their hands in his in a loving manner. “A promise that I shalt cherish thee, protect thee and never let thee feel the weight of solitude again."

“That’s much, much better, Ozzy,” they smirked, leaning slightly closer. “Good job.”

And of course, Ozzy couldn't help but grin, relieved and overjoyed at their response. He finally allowed himself to lean in closer, capturing their blue lips in a gentle, yet passionate kiss… and gods, it all felt like so right, like he was finally recovering a part of himself he thought he’d lost forever: the taste of their lips, the warmth of their embrace… By the Lords, and to think he’d almost wished it all away!

He deepened the kiss, his desire for them pouring into every movement, every breath; their lips moved together in a dance of desire, their tongues intertwining in a sensual rhythm as Oswald’s hands caressed the sides of their face, his touch soft yet filled with longing… Such was the closeness between them that the silkie chicken resting on Anjou’s lap scurried away, in fear of getting crushed by the much larger lovebirds.

They reluctantly broke the kiss after a few seconds, their foreheads resting against each other as they allowed themselves to catch their breath…

“I fear,” he started, whispering in his ear,” that I might need thy guidance for whatever cometh next, my dear."

Chapter Text

What little remained visible of the moon cast a soft glow through the small windows of the rundown building. Anjou could do naught but stare at the never-ending, cold and gentle black mass that was the sky, the result of their fight against the Abyss, the fruits of their sacrifice… And, subconsequentially, Oswald could do naught but stare at them.

“Something on thy mind, my sweet…?” He spoke, breaking the thick silence.

“Always,” they replied, not looking away from the sky. “I was just wondering how long this Age of Dark will last for… We might have won, but that doesn’t make me any less paranoid.”

Of course. That blood clot in their heart was yet another consequence of them existing without a soul.

Even if this Age of Dark brought the peace and tranquility they’d been chasing for so long, they would always have something to worry about; no matter how uneventful things around them turned out to be, they would always remain alert in case something unexpected occured that would force them to take their scimitar and fight. Hardly a desirable state of mind to exist in...

But they were here at last, with him… and all the former priest of Velka could do now was accept their reality and offer them whatever support he could. And so, Oswald moved closer to them, wrapping an arm around their waist, resting his chin on their head in a loving manner. “I understand thy concerns, my love… But fear not,” he spoke, pressing a soft kiss to their temple, his voice filled with reassurance. “We have each other; we shalt face whatever challenges this darkness might bring.”

“You make it sound so easy…”

“As long as we remain together,” he continued, “I know it wilt be. We have already overcome so much, my love. All we can do now is wait and enjoy… this.”

Anjou let out a soft chuckle as Oswald's arms wrapped around them, pressing their back against his chest, his grip tight yet filled with nothing but adoration. Gods, they made them feel so small against him—aside from the fact that he stood at around 6’3”. In any other circumstances, they would’ve despised the very obvious height difference—at least 5 inches or so—and the vulnerability that came with it, but with him… it felt different; it felt right. And by the gods, did they love feeling his body against their own.

He nuzzled his face into the crook of their neck, inhaling their scent, still unable to believe they were right there in his arms—"right where they belonged”, he thought—, relishing in the warmth that radiated between them… Mostly his own, given his lover's affliction, but they still fit together so perfectly. His hands trailed down their sides, his touch gentle yet demanding as he pressed soft kisses along the curve of their neck. His touch was nothing short of intoxicating, despite the obvious lack of practice...

But that was expected; he was, after all, a goddamned priest.

Anjou let out a sigh as they turned in his embrace, lifting their head to meet his eyes as they gripped the flaps of his pristine back linen shirt, pulling him in… and he simply allowed himself to be pulled closer, relishing in the sensation of their bodies pressed flush against each other. The former priest’s gaze was filled with desire, but also a touch of uncertainty, even if it was barely noticeable; he looked at them as if he held the answers to all his questions…

In a way, truth be told, they did.

“Tell me, my dear…” Oswald’s breath ghosted over their face as his hands settled on their hips. “Tell me what to do, I beg of thee—“

“I thought we had already stablished that begging is extremely boring, darling,” they cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. “Come now… You can do better than that…"

They made him forget himself… and by the Lords, he absolutely adored that about them.

A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as his gaze focused deeper into their crimson red eyes. With a slow, deliberate motion, he captured their finger in his mouth, sucking on it lightly, never breaking eye contact… and apparently, that was all it took for Anjou to lower their guard and drop that smug façade; a purple-ish blush came to their cheeks as they watched him, eagerly swirling his tongue around his index finger, before releasing it with a soft pop.

“Oh,” was all they could say. “Oh, wow…”

Their expression, right then and there, would forever remain engraved in his mind. Oswald chuckled softly as he leaned in closer, his voice a low whisper against their lips. “Is that all thou'st to say, my love? I expected a bit more… eloquence from thee…” As he spoke, his hand slid up their side, fingers brushing lightly against their bare skin under their shirt. “Perhaps I shouldst try to get a more appropriate response from thee…”

“Oh? I thought you needed my help…?”

“I do require thy assistance, darling…” he replied, tilting his head slightly, his lips hovering just inches from theirs. “To be frank… I hast no idea what I am doing—“

“You’ve never… done this…?” They interrupted, their eyes widening at the implication.

“By the Lords, yes I have, of course I have! But it hast been far too long…” His voice dropped even lower as he confessed, taking a step back. “T'was before I became a priest, so… My experience in matters of the flesh is, well… limited.”

“Hm. Drunk Oswald didn’t seem as insecure—”

“Well, that is because drunk Oswald hath the audacity to throw caution to the wind,” he cut them off, his cheeks flushing slightly as he realized what they were referring to. “I am… glad thou didst stop me back then… Lords, I wouldst have probably made a fool of myself—“

“Highly doubt it, babe,” they interjected. “You’re perfect…”

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard by their loving words; he could feel his own heart skip a few beats, a warm, affectionate smile gracing his lips as they took his hands in theirs. Gods be damned, he’d never wanted anyone in his life so bad…

“Thou’rt far too kind, my love…” He spoke, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer again, filled with genuine affection. “Perfection is a lofty goal, one that I cannot attain, I fear… But I am grateful for thy patience, nonetheless.”

“'My patience'…?” They repeated, chuckling softly. “You’re so incredibly dramatic, Ozzy—"

“Drama doth come naturally to me… as thou hast surely noticed by now. I am but a mere actor on this grand stage we call existence,” he leaned in, his voice lowering to a husky tone as he brought their intertwined hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to Anjou's knuckles. “And I shalt do my utmost keep thee entertained, my love.”

“You’re already doing a very good job, babe…” The former Darkwraith raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I swear I could eat you right up…”

“Couldst I convince thee to come back to bed first…?” Oswald purred, trailing his fingers lightly along their jawline, slowly leaning in to capture their lips in a quick kiss, before speaking once more... “Then... we may talk about the feast that awaits thee…"

Gods, his every word sent a shiver down their spine… They were immune to many things, but his voice was most decidedly not one of them. “Well, in that case, consider me properly convinced,” they playfully replied, before pulling off their best impression of him, for no real reason. “Do what thou wilt, my love—”

“Gods above and below!" Oswald teased them back, mimicking their voice and and gesture in response.“I thought I told you not to copy the way I talk, babe!"

“What the—“

Revenge, sweet revenge.

Before they could think of a comeback, Oswald guided them towards the bed with a gentle push, their body sinking into the soft sheets as he swiftly moved on top of them. A mischievous smirk tugged at his lips as he hovered above them, his hands roaming their toned body, tracing the curves and contours with a feather-light touch…

“Enough teasing for the night, you bad, bad little love… Thou art at my mercy now,” he whispered, his voice dripping with equal parts seduction and authority. “But fear not; I shalt treat thee with the utmost care and devotion...”

“I don’t doubt that you will, babe…”

That was all the confirmation he needed. Oswald’s smirk grew wider as he leaned down to capture their lips in a searing kiss, his hands exploring their body with a firm yet gentle touch; he took his time, savouring every moment, every breathless gasp, leaving a trail of kisses along their neck, before slowly, tentatively removing their shirt…

And then...

Oh.

“Well, well…” He smirked, leaning back to take a good look at their naked torso. "I didst not expect…this."

“Too much…?” They matched his expression, amused by his reaction.

“Perhaps… but it doth not make thee any less desirable in mine eyes...”

Tattoos. Hundreds, thousands of them, even; tendrils of black ink, some thin, some thick, scattered all over their torso, shoulders, arms… He'd never had a chance to catch a glimpse of those—then again, this was, after all, his first time seeing them shirtless. This web of tattoos adorning their body was a surprise—a beautiful one at that—, and he found himself captivated by it, in spite of what his initial reaction might have suggested...

“Thy body is a canvas, my love…” he murmured, his fingers tracing the delicate tendrils of ink. “A tapestry of darkness… I am honoured to be privy to such a sight.”

“Oh? And here I thought you’d change your mind as soon as you saw them…” They teased.

“Nonense!” Was his only reply, before leaning down and pressing a series of gentle kisses along the exposed skin, his lips following the path of the tattoos, as if playing homage to each one. “Thy ink only adds to the allure that captivates me so…"

“Mhm…” Anjou teasingly aknowledged. "Your tastes are rather... unconventional for a priest, you know that?"

“Ah, unconventional indeed...” He chuckled, his lips still lingering against them as he continued to trace the tattoos with open-open mouthed kisses, savouring the taste and texture of their skin… “But isn't that what makes it all the more exciting, my dear…?”

“You’re just kinky as fuck."

He simply chuckled, and with that, he kept going, worshipping every single one of the black tendrils painted on their pale body… Then, for a short moment, he frowned, bothered by the fact that there still was too much clothing between them, preventing him from enjoying this to the fullest—right before removing his own shirt and pressing his body against theirs once again, relishing in the feeling of his naked skin against theirs.

“Mmmh… Much better…” He spoke again.

“Pfft, you’re obsessive—“

“Obsessive, thou sayest?” Oswald raised his head to look at them, his voice taking a playful, mock-offended tone. “Well, then, perhaps I shouldst indulge in my obsessions fully, show thee just how obsessed I am with thee...” With that, he began trailing his fingers along their sides, his touch light and teasing, while his kisses ventured lower. “I shall worship every inch of thee, my dear, until thou art begging me to let thee go…”

“Now, why would I ever do that…?”

“Mmmh… Great minds thinketh alike, it seems."

Anjou simply arched their back, inviting him to continue his exploration. His fingers deftly unfastened the remaining articles of clothing that still clung to their bodies, taking his time, relishing in the anticipation… and when they were finally bare before him, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace, Oswald’s lips descended upon their inner thigh, his tongue dancing over their skin.

Though technically unable to experience physical pleasure due to their lack of a soul, his willingness to do anything in his power to bring them to the edge and back was much, much more satisfying to experience than anything that came close to it; it was not his—suprisingly skilled—tongue dancing over their skin that made them squirm, but his adoration, his devotion, the way his fingers sank in the soft flesh of their thighs… and the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head when he moved slightly higher, his lips and tongue working in perfect harmony.

The tingle wasn’t exactly the same… no; it was better. And he knew that.

With every moan and gasp that escaped their lips, Oswald grew more determined to push them further, to make them lose themselves in the ecstasy; he teased and tormented, alternating between languid strokes and rapid flicks, his focus solely on their pleasure… “In this moment…” He whispered against the sensitive skin of their inner thigh, his eyes finding theirs for a brief moment… “Thou’rt mine…"

“All yours, handsome…” They smirked, their head tilting back, sinking further into the soft pillow beneath them. “All yours…”

“Mine to please, to worship…” He continued, slowly propping himself up, positioning himself between their spread legs. “Mine to ravish…”

“Gods above and below…!” They gasped, a shiver running down their spine at the sight of him, kneeling in front of them. “Don’t say it like that, rat…! You’re making me fold…!”

Oswald's gaze locked with theirs, chuckling at their reaction; gods, he loved knowing he had this kind of effect of them, as that was exactly the same way he felt everytime they opened that pretty mouth of theirs. He slowly moved forward, allowing them to feel his length pressing against their thigh, eliciting yet another hissed gasp from them… Which only excited him further.

“What is the matter, my love…?” He teasingly asked. “Look at thee… Thou werest so confident a few minutes ago—”

“And you said you had no idea what you were doing,” they interjected, “which is clearly not the case…!”

“I didst not, I assure thee…! And I still do not, so… thou’rt either unnecessarily blandishing me or—"

“I’m also amazed at just how functional you are... For an old man, that is,” they added, matching his teasing tone, raising an eyebrow. "You're in perfect working condition still—"

“Shutting thy mouth would’ve been easier, darling,” he chuckled, leaning in closer. “And thou shalt find that I possess many more surprises yet to be discovered…”

“Surprise me, then, you pretty thing…"

Oh, he would surprise them alright…

With that, he fixed his position once again, his hands squeezing their thighs for balance; with a deep breath and a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered them, inch by inch, savouring the feeling of their warmth enveloping him…

Well. There goes his vow of chastity.

“By the Lords…! Gods have mercy on me…!” He gasped breathlessly, his eyes rolling to the back of his head once more.

“Can you stop being a whole priest for ten minutes, baby…?” They spoke in a shaky voice, their hands trailing up his chest, urging him to keep going in spite of their teasing words. “We’ve had enough religious paraphernalia for a lifetime, don’t you think…?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, even through the overwhelming sensation that seemed to take control of his body and threatened to make him lose his own mind... “Old habits die hard, my love…” He breathed, his voice laced with true, unadultered desire. “And... just to be clear, I shalt need much, much more than only ten minutes to do all the things I plan to do to thee…”

“I might just hold you to that…"

“Then hold me, my sweet…” He whispered, his hips moving in a tentative, delicious rhythm. “Hold me tight…"

Chapter Text

Oswald was absolutely right: he needed much, much more than ten minutes to show them just how much he craved them, just how far his obsession with them went. None of them counted the long, long hours they’d spent seeking solace and comfort in each other’s bodies, but judging by the grey-ish purple hues of the sky, it was safe to assume they’d been at it until morning.

A remarkable feat, to say the least. The two lay entwined, their bodies glistening with sweat, basking in the afterglow of their passionate encounter. The former pardoner’s fingers traced light patterns along their tattooed skin, his touch gentle and tender, his eyes never leaving their peaceful expression.

“Thou’rt an intoxicating presence, my dear…” He murmured, his husky voice filled with reverence, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss on their shoulder. “Mayst I ask about the… meaning of the black tendrils on thy body…?” He added, gently kneading their waist, where some of the unusual tattoos were.

“Make a guess, babe,” they simply replied, not moving an inch. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he pondered his response, wrapping his arms around their naked body once more. “Hmm… A symbol of the Abyss, mayhaps?” He mused.

“Correct,” they breathed. “An impulsive choice, to imprint on my body that which eventually became a burden... But it felt like a good idea back then.”

“Well, art they not too a reminder of the strength thou’st found within, despite the trials and tribulations…?” His fingers continued their gentle caress along their skin, his touch delicate and inquisitive. “Besides… They were a good idea, methinks; thou wearest them well.”

“Pfft. Flatterer…”

“Learn to take a compliment, for heaven’s sake.”

“Never.”

“Oh? What happened to the Anjou from a few hours ago…?” Oswald chuckled softly, still exploring their tattooed skin. “Thou werest taking my praises so well before—“

“Oh, I did take your praises really well… Among other things...” they teasingly cut him off, with a mischievous smile.

Oh, no, they didn’t just say that.

The former pardoner’s cheeks flushed at their shameless comment, a rare bashful expression adorning his pale face as he leaned back to look at them, with equal parts amusement and mild scandal in his lavender eyes. “Well, thou werest most certainly not making such comments before—“

“Of course not,” they interjected once more, turning their head to meet his gaze. “I cannot speak with my mouth full, now can I…?”

“The audacity, Anjou—!”

“You’re laughing, babe,” they teased him further, turning their back at him once more, their body still tangled in the linen sheets. “You don’t have the right to act like that now after the way you behaved earlier…”

“Gods, thou’rt a handful, my dear…” He chuckled, unable to contain his amusement at their playful banter. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against their ear as he wrapped his arms around their waist. “Thou knowest not what thou’rt unleashing with thy relentless teasing…”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it when I tease you,” Anjou replied once more, nestling closer to him. “You’re incredibly easy to fluster, darling…"

“Thou’rt… correct, to my chagrin. My mind oft trails back to that one night,” he began, “in which thou didst test the limits of my curiosity. We werest bathed in dark, the both of us; thou werest unmasked, but I couldst not see thee… I still remember how thy sharp fingernails trailed down my neck back then...”

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you…?”

“More than I cared to admit… In fact, I loved that,” his lips brushed against their ear, his voice dropping to a low husky timbre. "I cannot deny the thrill it stirred within me, my dear. Thy touch, so tantalizingly wicked and yet so divine… And there I was, completely lost, unable to perceive my surroundings, with nothing to distract me from that delicious feeling...” He nipped at their earlobe, his fingers tracing teasing patterns along their skin. “Completely at thy mercy…"

“You’re getting off just thinking of it, aren’t you…?” They spoke in a soft voice, pressing their back against their chest, as if seeking his warmth. "I never expected… well, this kind of reaction when I did that… Won’t deny I love seeing you like this, though.”

His breath hitched at the motion, a shiver coursing through his body as he felt their toned body pressing against his. Oh, how he craved them; how he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his existence lying down next to Anjou in that old bed, holding them as physically close as possible... His hands roamed their frame, tracing the contours of their curves with reverence and longing; they’d uncovered a side of him that he never thought would see the light of day again…

A remarkable feat, indeed. His own personal devil had become the very object of his desire.

“Oswald…” They spoke once again, still facing away from him.

“Yes, my love?” He responded, his voice a gentle caress against the nape of their neck.

“What am I... to you…?”

Gods, he could sense the uncertainty in their voice as they asked that painful, painful question; it sent shivers down his spine, cold ripples that shook him to the core and made him want to hold them even closer. Oswald’s fingers stilled for a moment, feeling his heart skip more than one beat; truth be told, he had pondered this question countless times, uncertain of how to put his feelings into words… But things had changed considerably since the two started working together to halt the spread of the Abyss—oh, the thought of it seemed so distant…

He knew that he couldn’t keep these emotions to himself any longer. His answer was very clear.

“Thou’rt my sanctuary, Anjou,” he whispered. “In spite of thy nature, thou’rt the beacon of light that guides me... The epitome of beauty, both inside and out—“

“Okay, that last part was slightly embellished, don’t you think…?” They cut them off, chuckling at the melodramatic reply.

“Not in mine eyes, no,” he replied, gently turning them to face him, his eyes locked with theirs. “Thou’rt my everything, my love… and I am eternally grateful to have thee by my side—”

“Oswald…” They interjected once more, speaking his name with a devotion even he could not fathom.

“Yes…?” His heart skipped a beat at the sudden interruption.

“I… I love you,” they murmured, gazing deep into their eyes. “All jokes aside, all teasing and drama aside… I love you, so very much…”

They paused for a moment, blinking at their own words, at the fact that they were able to speak them in spite of their relentless fear of things going wrong, in spite of the obvious whole in their heart… They took a few seconds to collect themself, taking a deep breath before facing the former pardoner once more...

"Gods above and below, I was terrified of saying this,” they admitted. “But there’s no point in keeping it to myself anymore so… well, there you have it—“

“And I love thee, Anjou,” he confessed, his voice trembling with genuine emotion. "I love thee with a depth that words can scarcely describe, more than thou couldst ever comprehend.”

With that, he leaned in, his lips gently pressing against theirs in a tender, passionate kiss; the world around them daded into insignificance once again as they melted into each other’s embrace. Anjou responded eagerly, their hands finding their way into Oswald’s hair, tugging gently as they deepened the kiss even further; the taste of each other was intoxicating, a heady mix of sweetness and passion, and neither of them could get enough of it…

…And as they finally broke apart, Oswald’s eyes met theirs once more, tracing a thumb along their perfectly sharp jawline, his touch gentle and feather-light, yet electrifying at the same time.

“Thour’t mine, Anjou,” he whispered, his voice husky with need. “And I am completely thine. Whatever happens next, whatever becomes of this world… I shalt remain by the side. Say the word, and I shalt stand with thee until the endtimes…”

“That is all I want, babe,” they replied, their voice laced with a tenderness even they themself couldn’t believe. “I wouldn’t have it any other way."