Crimson Passion
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Ciaran sunk her fingernails into the calloused skin that accompanied the manly hand holding her own down, palms sweaty, and sheets clutched and entwined between numbed digits; cries to carry on, to stop, to speed up, to slow down—every sound that escaped Ciaran’s throat was depicted as nothing more but yearnings to continue in the knight’s ears, as derived from the grunts and praises that were whispered breathily against her ear. It felt as though electricity ran rampant through her every vein, as Ornstein had described how he once felt for another; and still did, by the countless nights the two of them spent bonding over helpless fantasies of love and lust and emotions they never wanted to experience with another individual, ever again.
A muffled mewl burst out against the strong hand that hastily and sloppily slapped against her mouth, and a low, “Not too loud,” was whispered against her lobe. Ciaran nodded as sweat poured down her forehead, and she felt her muscles relax as she told herself, repeatedly, that this felt good. And, if she thought hard enough, it did. But that was only when the hazy image of Artorias’ face popped into her head, as her petite frame moved up and down the ruffled sheets of her bed—one that she had always envisioned her and the Wolf Knight would have shared one night. And suddenly, the heat that had mixed itself with burning cries of pain, concocted itself into a buzz of intricately sporadic and profound waves of heavenly pleasure. She found her tongue lapping at the Silver Knight’s naked digits, to which he chuckled with a breathy, “Naughty girl,” and gladly sunk his middle and index finger far past the slickness of her parted lips.
Artorias would have taken his time with me, Ciaran thought to herself as she found herself choking slightly on the man’s intruding fingers. He would have asked if I was faring all right every few minutes, she imagined, as her and the knight’s hips moved in tandem with one another as her legs remained wrapped tightly around his glistening waist. His lips would have felt so soft against mine, she felt herself chuckle lightly, as the groaning and grunting Silver Knight slowly removed his fingers from her throat, before wasting no time in bringing a new intruder down to her mouth and kissing sloppily at her lips—which had instinctively begun to shut. He smelled of strong tobacco, a smell in which Ciaran was not exactly fond of; but the light scent of pine and blueberries graciously filled her protesting nostrils, the scent of the Wolf. And so, she sighed, taking in the delectably intoxicating smell, as her hands clenched tighter and tighter at the pristine-white sheets, until she could have sworn they tore from the erratic and violent thrusts the two of them shared.
But when Ciaran’s frame was bouncing up and down the sheets of the narrow bed, no longer, the burning pain quickly made itself apparent as her thighs clenched uncomfortably against the man’s waist in an unintended and subconscious show of protection against her own body. Confused, the Lord’s Blade opened her eyes, to which she was met with the dim and orange lighting of the candles she had lit around her small quarters, and the face of the Silver Knight, whose face was practically entirely shrouded in shadow. “Speak my name,” he grunted low, his rasp and baritone shoving Ciaran into a state of slight disgust and horror—for she did not remember the name of this knight, nor did she wish to. Chuckling sweetly, she slowly moved a hand to his face and smoothed her thumb over the damp and overgrown stubble that stretched across the man’s cheeks; with a forced smirk, she sucked in her bottom lip and looked down to his pursed lips, before whispering the word, “Daddy,” into the still air that sat between the two of them.
The Silver Knight’s eyes widened at Ciaran’s response, and for a brief moment, the blonde assassin feared she had rightfully blown her cover-up with such a poor attempt at avoiding the man’s simple question. But he wasted no more time, as he let out a guttural groan and immediately brought his face down against the warm and glistening crevice of her neck; there, he whispered a string of pet names and praises that Ciaran didn’t quite catch, for she was far too busy imagining the nibbles and sucking at her skin to have been from the lips of her dear Artorias; and when she opened her eyes once more, the weight of his body slowly pulled up and away from the side of her neck, and he looked down into her hazed gaze, to which she realised it was no longer the knight she was certain she never even bothered to learn the name of, and instead, Artorias’ kind grin and burning gaze was now staring down into her own. Ciaran immediately smiled at the heavenly sight that now resided above her; the Wolf Knight’s grin widened as he noticed Ciaran’s own, and slowly, he brought a soft hand to her chin, tilting her head upwards so that he was able to press a gentle kiss to her nose. Artorias’ sharp and dark brows had been tilted downwards as he stared down helplessly at his lover, mouthing the words, “I love you,” as he smoothed the pads of his fingers back and forth across her chin. His long and dark, unkempt locks resonated beautifully in her dimly-lit quarters; he looked like a feral wolf who had decided to take its time feasting on its supple prey. Ciaran mewled as she felt the gentle press of two fingers prodding against the slick warmth of her clit, and the assassin couldn’t contain her cries of glorified pleasure as she latched onto Artorias’ wrists, holding on for dear life as she rode out the deep and slow thrusts, accompanied by the loving rubs of his fingers that matched his hip’s controlled and meaningful dance.
She couldn’t look away, and neither could he. The two were locked in a sort of trance, while sweat glistened on both their pale foreheads, eyes burning with want, and their frames bumping gently up against the other’s, every second breath they shared. That kind grin in which Ciaran cherished oh so much, never once left the Wolf Knight’s lips, and the genuine sounds of pleasure that escaped her lips only urged him on further, until his hips were rutting against her bouncing waist, exempt from any trace of burning discomfort. And it did not take long for Ciaran to reach her climax, which felt so far away and out-of-reach just minutes prior; if it wasn’t for the Wolf Knight’s warm grin and cerulean gaze, she was certain she would have never reached her sought-after release. Sputtering shaky gasps and grunts through parted lips that seemed near-impossible to now close, Ciaran shut her eyes once more—basking in the light buzz that remained between her thighs, until it slowly fizzled out, and she let out one, final sigh of pure relief. But once she opened her eyes again, the groggy face and overgrown facial hair of the Silver Knight had returned to her gaze, and she wasted no time in tapping weakly at his forearm, to which he took his time in removing himself from between the Lord’s Blade’s legs, and shifting his body so that he was now lying flat beside her shaking and panting frame.
“And how was that, Lord’s Blade?” he spoke softly into the still air with a teasing lilt. “Was it everything you’d dreamt it to be?” His voice was somewhat disgusting to Ciaran; she was not a fan of his gruff voice, nor the harsh rasp that accompanied his dirty words.
“Not once have I dreamt of thou,” she replied, sucking in a long gasp of air as she closed her eyes and focused more on her own, laboured breaths. “It felt a lot worse than I’d envisioned in the first half,” she continued, frowning as she felt the Silver Knight’s sweaty palm brush over her own hand, “but it felt a lot better near the end. Certainly do not pride thy heart on this.” He let out a low chuckle at her words, clearly satisfied with the Knight of Gwyn’s answer. “I’ve craved a taste since the moment you were knighted by Lady Gwynevere,” he breathed sickly against her ear, squeezing her smaller hand in his. “A lot of my men do.”
Ciaran furrowed her brows, but the Silver Knight almost certainly couldn’t see, for how dark her room remained. “I’m sure,” she bit back. “A lady’s needs simply remained to-be fulfilled, and thou were the first man who stepped so carelessly into my peripherals. Like I said, do not pride thyself on this supposed feat, for I find thou vile and lower than any creature and Man I’ve encountered during my assassinations.” And with her parting words, Ciaran hastily manoeuvered her slim frame out of her own bed, and reached for the golden tracer that sat on the tiny, wooden table beside her bed. “I would suggest you remove thyself from my quarters, at once.”
The Silver Knight reached for her, but instantly, Ciaran drew her blade on the man, pressing its sharp and golden tip to the exposed throat of the knight. Refusing to speak any more than she deemed worthy, Ciaran narrowed her eyes on the man until he slowly rose from her bed—his naked frame shaking slightly—as he reached for his pristine, silver armour, to which she grit her teeth and rolled her eyes, before throwing her tracer directly beside his body, piercing the limestone wall and an inch of the dark hair on his forearm. Gasping in utter terror and shock, he quickly reached for a different piece of his armour, only for Ciaran to draw her silver tracer—in which a dark, purple liquid seeped out from the tip—and held it steady in her hand as she looked to his other arm. “I suggest you leave at once.”
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Letting out a ragged cry of horror, the Silver Knight stared at Ciaran through widened and glassy eyes, before reaching for the golden door handle and scurrying off into the dimmed halls of the castle, nude. The moment Ciaran gently shut her door, she retreated back to her bed and sprawled out across her ruffled sheets, before releasing a long, pent-up sigh. She truly needed that. But she couldn’t shake the image of her dear Artorias over top of her, grinning, as the two danced sweetly with one another. It was a beautiful fantasy, and she finally had a physical touch to accompany it. Finally. She sighed again; only this time, a tear met with her parted lips.
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Not even an hour later, Ciaran was wedged between two large rocks as she stared at the lanky and clearly-starved frame of an older gentleman, who was kneeling by a riverside as he held out his dirtied hands with open palms, waiting for a fish to foolishly jump into his grasp. The Lord’s Blade clutched her tracers in both hands, while her laboured breaths warmed her cheeks as her face remained hidden away behind her Porcelain Mask—the final piece of her armour set, in which her friend Gough had carved for her to don once they had been knighted. The tiny slits that allowed her vision, were narrowed in on the old man, who let out a pained cry as his stomach rumbled, and he cursed everything in his view as his impatience blatantly grew. Ciaran would have perhaps felt a sliver of pity for this man, if not for the fact that tonight, he was her target of assassination. Lord Gwyn had bestowed this abrupt request upon her just moments after she had left her quarters, and though she was tired and riddled with sweat, she accepted the mission with a kind smile and an eager gaze. Without any explanation for this immediate extermination, Ciaran ventured out into the woods that sat to the castle’s North-East side, and waited for the perfect moment to strike; for it mattered not what the reason behind an assassination was, but the appraisal and fulfilment of her royal duty that came afterwards.
Sneering, Ciaran inched forward, forward, forward—until the man let out one more frustrated cry at his incapability to capture food, before she lunged towards him and drove both tracers through his chest, lifting him up off the ground as his blood spilled out in vast clumps against the dirt below. Wheezing and groaning, the man kicked his legs helplessly as Ciaran kept the man elevated for a few more seconds, before dropping him and ripping the tracers out of his backside—purposely missing his spine—and she kicked him over so as to force her victim to look her in the eyes before she took his very life.
“Please!” he exclaimed, voice dry—a clear indication that he was parched—flailing his arms around like a madman, to which Ciaran drove her golden tracer into one of the palms of his hands to halt his erratic movements; and it worked, for the man let out a blood-curdling cry as even more crimson painted the dirt below. “I have a family! I stole ‘at piece ‘a bread so we could eat tonight! Please, Miss! Don’t do this! They won’t survive without their father!” But Ciaran wasted no time as she sunk her silver tracer into the man’s heaving chest, twisting the cool blade so as to draw out as much blood as possible, before slowly unsheathing the blade from his chest with a sickly pop.
Crimson painted Ciaran’s face as though the very mask she donned were used not to hide her true identity, but rather, to act as a blank canvas. The wheezing of the man had immediately ceased once she had driven her silver tracer into his chest, to which his skin turned an unseemly shade of grey, and his veins, a dark purple; once she knew he was deceased, she removed and dropped the Porcelain Mask—dirtying it further as her bloodied hands grabbed at its edges, and she plopped down beside the man’s still body. She released a sigh as she, too, dropped her silver tracer beside her, and looked up to the starry night sky as the calming sound of the river filled her ears. The night wherein the Darkeater Midir flew high above the clouds remained deep-rooted in her memory, and the horrific sayings that followed from Prince Gwyndolin’s lips. Artorias was her dearest friend—no, soul, and she couldn’t bear the thought of another being honoured with holding it for the rest of his days. For the rest of eternity.
For a girl who enjoyed spilling the blood of her targets, Ciaran did not grin cheekily as she allowed the kill to play back, fresh in her mind; instead, she remained seated beside the corpse, staring up at the millions of stars that shone brightly amidst the dark violet. Where is Artorias, she thought to herself, what is he doing at this moment? Is he saving lives, while I’m taking them?
Ciaran failed to notice as she asked herself an array of unanswered questions, but she had brought her knees against her chest and hugged them—tight—as tears began to run down her pale cheeks. The warming image of Artorias had instilled a strong sense of emotion in her, and before long, she was sobbing beneath Lordran’s starry sky. She had gone to extreme lengths for her dear friend, and had not realised the dark reality of some of the acts in which she pursued, simply to chase after a taste of what could have been. Immediately, she bit her bottom lip, tasting the sweet sting and wave of iron as she ran her lip over the slick skin, and cursed herself for her selfish and arrogant actions, all with the dear thought of the Wolf Knight amiss her mind. Whether she wished to admit it or not, she was obsessed with him. Lovesick. Stuck dreaming about her odds. The nightly fantasies. Everything she had done, had been housed behind the face of the one she loved most.
The shadow of a large fish jumping out of the water and disappearing straight back into its calm wake, ripped Ciaran from her lovesick gaze and addled thoughts as she stared down at the dark water in shock. Then, another followed. And another. And before she knew it, hundreds of fish were hopping in and out of the water—all of different shapes and sizes—and Ciaran found it impossible to look away from the magnificent sight that nature brought about for her that evening. Although Lordran housed some of the world’s most feared monstrosities known to humankind, it was also home to some of the most breathtaking sights the Lord’s Blade found herself before. She couldn’t help but smile as tears continued to stream down the numbness of her cheeks as she watched the fish flying in and out of the dark water, and soon after, laughter erupted from the young woman; for in that moment, she was a little girl again, exploring the beauties this world had to offer, before she became exposed to its darker side and the bloody truths that lay behind it all.
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The choked whines that escaped Filianore’s throat seemed as though they were in utter vain as she weakly pounded at the thick roots and vines that hugged her slim frame snuggly. She didn’t know who exactly to call out for, but she knew that if someone heard her, they’d surely come to her rescue? Right? The more the young princess thought about her predicament, the more she began to panic, until her laboured breaths became erratic and she found herself wheezing and panting for proper air.
“Somebody! Please!”
Filianore could only bash her fists against the thick enrapturement of the odd and wicked tree-creature for so long, until she was fatigued and her hands were red and bruised. She cursed herself for how foolish she had acted—an impulsive decision in the heat of the moment, of her anger towards her father, her brother, as she ran away from the safe confines of Anor Londo to seek after Knight Artorias and Knight Ornstein. Is this it? she thought with a frown. Will I ever see Father, or my brother and sisters again? Sir Artorias? Sen?
Filianore dropped her head, allowing her curly, hazelnut locks to fall in front of her face as tears now ran down the smooth bridge of her nose, before pooling at her nostrils until they fell to the grassy ground below. She had wound up in the Darkroot Basin, a place she had only ventured out into with a knight or her father by her side; she couldn’t stop cursing her foolish behaviour, and the tighter the dark-green roots grew around her torso, shoulders, and legs, the more desperate she became to see the ones she loved. She wished she had spent more time with Sen before he was banished from their kingdom, and Knight Artorias, who had been appointed as her knight. She wished she had remained close with Brother Gwyndolin, even though he had grown rather bitter at the end of his youth, and her father, who had sacrificed the remainder of his free-time and days to keep the flame alight, as opposed to spending time with her; with his very kin.
But the howls of what she assumed was a wolf, sounded in the nearby distance, until Filianore could have sworn her eyes had deceived her, in a final cry for help. There, running towards her—through thick bushes and beneath and over fallen branches—was Knight Artorias, and beside him, a young, Grey Wolf. Wasting no time—not even to ask what had happened in the first place, Artorias got to work on cutting the princess down from the large and lanky tree-creature’s wicked grasp, being careful as to not accidentally cut Her Majesty in the process. The Wolf Knight sheathed his silver dagger the moment Filianore fell to her knees against the grass below, and that was when the wolf pup lunged at the monster, and sunk her fangs deep into its roots. Immediately, Filianore clutched own neck once she was grounded, coughing violently as she gasped for large influxes of air, before Artorias gently grabbed at her waist and hoisted her up in his arms, letting out a sharp whistle once she was safely in his steady hold, to which the Grey Wolf let out a viscous bark and left the now-twisted-and-mangled creature to suffer in the very spot where it had initially grabbed and latched onto Filianore, and the wolf pup found herself at Artorias’ side, once more.
The Wolf Knight did not ask the princess what happened nor why, and instead, held her tightly in his arms as he ran as fast as he could out of the thickness of the woods, with his pup obediently at his side. Filianore tried to speak—tried to ask what had happened to Artorias’ lip, that bled rather heavily, yet she failed to let out even a squeak; it was as though not enough air had seeped back into her lungs to deem her capable of producing sound speech, and she quickly opted on dropping her head against the Wolf Knight’s silver-plated chest, and closed her eyes as sleep began to consume her.