Long ago, when embers were still flame,
And the accursed fate of the Undead, was but a raging newborn,
The Lord of Cinders found great purpose in his Four Knights,
All who bore lives of their own, at a fateful point in time,
And the fall of Lordran, Land of Lords, was all but a child’s nightmarish fable.
Four knights, four separate lives,
Bound by fate and desire,
A tale which traverses between Past and Present,
Love and Hate,
Light and Dark,
And the birth of the legends of Lordran, whose twisted fates are forever bound
To a cycle of twisted destiny;
The fate of the Chosen Undead.
Four Knights of Gwyn
--..–…–..--
The incandescence of the sun shone bright on this particular morning, as townsfolk from all over the lands of Lordran gathered for the knightings of Gwyn’s four royal guards. Laughter, applause, and roaring cheers filled the fresh, summer air of Anor Londo–though, a select few individuals remained exempt from the celebrations. In a horizontal line, stood a tall and lanky crimson-haired man, whose hair ethereally flowed far past his spine—and beside him, an even taller man, who bore long, black hair, that remained tugged loosely in a ponytail behind him. He peered down to his right through warm, cerulean eyes, where a petite, blonde woman stood stiffly—kindly catching the man’s gaze; her radiant locks were tied back in a long and straight, single braid. Finally, a grossly-large giant stood on the far left, beside the red-haired man, bearing a helmet that reflected the sun’s piercing rays onto the grandiose, golden structures that were donned throughout the capital. These four individuals were dressed in silky, ashen cloth—though, a little warm for all their likings—and dark, wool gloves that covered the vast array of blisters and scars they had all gathered over the course of their training. Matching in colour, they wore high boots in which their darker-ashen trousers remained tucked snugly inside, and golden belts derived from a rare subspecies of snake reached tightly around their waists—teetering on the edge of discomfort.
These four were not smiling. They were not cheering, nor laughing, nor applauding. Instead, they stood—straight backs and lifted chins, as they awaited their king: Lord Gwyn of Cinders; a man who brought upon an Age of Fire, birthing humanity and its single consequence, the eternal curse of the Undead. With a new age, came new threats—new monsters, new ideals, and new lands to traverse and unravel. This ceremony marked a new chapter for the world, and specifically for Lordran, the Land of Lords. Whether or not the inhabitants of the new world lacked knowledge and fear, remained unbeknownst to Lord Gwyn—though one, clear goal had lodged itself in his mind from the day he challenged the ancient dragons: to bring a new rule unto Lordran, until the Fire was to fade.
An irate horn sounded in the ears of the vast crowd outside of Anor Londo’s main castle gates, garnering the attention of many as the grand, double-doors that lied ahead began to slide open at an agonisingly-slow pace—as though the audience were meant to be left on their toes, in wait for their appraised lord. The four individuals who were to be knighted shortly, each hastily took to one knee and bowed their heads as the final few inches of the doors creaked open.
The ethereal stature of the man whom the doors had revealed, blinded many; his snow-white beard reached far down his frontside, meeting near his pelvis to form a ‘V’ in shape, and his crisp, golden crown looked as though the ragged tips pointed up towards the heavens themselves—trapping even sunlight in its reflection, as a blackhole would. His loose, dark robes seemed rather unbefitting for royalty, though Gwyn was not one to bear his title by physical means; he much preferred the power that had been bestowed unto him by what was to be assumed by the very gods themselves, and with the same hand that had tossed a mighty lightning bolt at the last of the ancient dragons, he raised his palm to the sun above—where the embers of a flame slowly began to burn to life, amidst his open palm.
“Today, we are gathered to commend and celebrate the knighting of these four, brave warriors,” Gwyn announced, gazing ahead at his people—humanity, though doomed to an eternal cycle of undeath—yet he grinned, the slight cracks of sheer joy barely visible beneath his thick beard. “Long and hard didst they fight for each of these royal and appraised positions,” his voice carried far, ringing clear and true in every individual ear that was present in Anor Londo. “It proved no easy feat to rule out these four, willful souls, for not once did the drives of my candidates falter—yet the strength that resided in not only each swing of their sharp blades, but their hearts, radiated brighter than the others who once fought alongside them,” Gwyn continued, his eyes sifting about the crowd before finishing his speech with, “and for that, we will honour them under Lordran’s youthful sun, by commencing the knighting process—which shall be graced by my eldest daughter, Princess Gwynevere.”
And that was when the crowd could all but hear the faintest drop of a pin; as though the sun itself did not radiate anywhere close to the sight that next emerged from beyond the grand doors, the young and slender outline of Princess Gwynevere of Sunlight was revealed unto the crowd. A warm grin and half-lidded eyes accompanied the amiable face that dotted upon the townsfolk, to which thick, hazelnut locks nestled themselves in the heavenly crevices that adorned her seraphic figure. The princess was clothed in the purest of white robes, only covering the parts wherein she herself deemed necessary, and was exempt from any footwear, as though the very ground she walked were made of cloud. Though royal in nature, jewellery did not seem to fancy her tastes, save for a golden bracelet she had been gifted by her eldest brother, Prince Sen of Sunlight; but the blatant glare her father bore once he looked down at her wrists for a brief moment, spoke monologues of discontent in her mind, yet her friendly and blissful aura did not once waver.
“It will be my honour to bestow upon these four, radiant warriors, a title befitting of eternal praise, and a life—free of unease and hardship, as well as new beginnings, into a life of knighthood,” Gwynevere spoke loud and clear, gracefully making her way down the famously-wide staircase of Anor Londo’s castle—as though she were floating down the grand steps and an angel had graced her entire being. She first stopped in front of the giant, who looked rather ridiculous as he stood there, dressed in royal cloth bowing his head; but he did not mind what others may have thought of him, for he had earned a title far nobler and respected than any other being who was not an immediate part of the royal Family of Sunlight.
“Sir Gough, the title I bestow upon thee,” Gwynevere slowly revealed the hilt of a long, silver blade from behind the purity of her white cloth, before the length of the sword stole many gasps of awe from the crowd; she carefully lifted it towards Gough’s right shoulder, so that the tip of the blessed blade made gentle contact with his dark and tough skin, “will be presented as ‘Hawkeye Gough.’ I hereby bestow thee into the honourable order of my father, Lord Gwyn of Cinders.” Gwynevere then proceeded to bring the tip of the blade unto Gough’s left shoulder, before smiling proudly as her eyes remained fixated on the giant’s massive, silver helmet; he huffed a satisfied grunt as he lifted his head, being careful as to not blind the princess—to which she chuckled at the trivially-sweet gesture.
Next, she shifted a small step to her left, to which the crimson-haired warrior resided. This man in particular caused the princess to release a shaky breath, before lifting her blade and steadily bringing it down against his right shoulder. “Sir Ornstein, the title I bestow upon thee,” she paused, searching the handsome warrior’s eyes—though his failed to meet hers. Her grin faltered slightly. “Will be presented as ‘Dragonslayer Ornstein.’ I hereby bestow thee into the honourable order of my father, Lord Gwyn of Cinders,” she finished, refusing to stray away from his eyes. Once she had pressed the tip of her blade against his other shoulder, albeit somewhat harsher than the last, his gaze finally lifted—only to reveal her gaze no longer resided upon his. His frown deepened.
The princess chuckled to herself once she reached the man to Ornstein’s right, and she had to look away for but a brief moment as she strained to attempt a concealment of her reddening cheeks. “Sir Artorias, the title I bestow upon thee, will be presented as ‘Wolf Knight Artorias.’ I hereby bestow thee into the honourable order of my father, Lord Gwyn of Cinders,” she spoke, the sound of a larger grin forming resonating clear as day amidst her voice. The cerulean-eyed warrior grinned back in response, causing a few strands of dark-brunette hair to fall in line with his vision—to which Gwynevere failed to hide her own ardent amusement. Artorias softly spoke the words, “Apologies, my lady,” beneath the warmth of his breath, where his grin remained. The princess made quick work of carefully tucking a bundle of loose strands of hair behind one of his ears, before returning her focus to the blade and tapping his other shoulder. In her peripherals, the petite woman who remained bowing beside Artorias, glared upwards at Her Majesty—hastily averting her focus to the stairs before her, once Gwynevere moved to the final warrior.
“Dame Ciaran,” the princess started, grinning at the young woman’s own beauty—despite living the harsh life of a royal knight candidate, “the title I bestow upon thee, will be presented as ‘Lord’s Blade Ciaran.’” The female warrior wanted to regurgitate the meal she had eaten hours prior to the ceremony, and ruin the princess’ elegant cloth in front of all her people. Oh, how she would have cherished such an opportunity—for the way in which Her Highness ogled at Artorias made her very blood boil. “I hereby bestow thee into the honourable order of my father, Lord Gwyn of Cinders.” Ciaran’s azure eyes remained on Gwynevere’s lips, and the endless thoughts of potential scenarios that began to rage amidst the abyss of her mind housed only thoughts of Her Majesty and Artorias—together, and the act of those lips upon his, and–
The tip of Gwynevere’s cold blade ripped Ciaran out of her own spiralling chaos, and she sucked in a shaky breath—feeling the intense stare of her closest friend on her, who remained bowing at her side. “Arise knights, and be recognised!” the princess announced, sheathing her blade as The Four Knights of Gwyn slowly took to their feet—and in unison, they turned, facing the crowd and revealing their faces to all of Lordran; and cheers erupted, once more.
--..–…–..--
From afar, a particular young royal stood amidst his own, grandiose prison, staring longingly across the skies at the distant view of Anor Londo. Even the vast distance wherein he resided could not have drowned out the roaring of cheers and howling laughter that arose from the capital that early, fateful morning. With a fatigued sigh, he turned away from the small, barred window, and back towards the quiet, dimly-lit halls of his fortress; a lonely, gargantuan building that his father banished him unto—a fortress, many called it. These empty halls were no place for a prince—even in exile. The young man could all but sulk within the desolate halls that he found himself shrouded in, at the very hands of the Lord of Cinders.
The sun shone far too bright on this dreadful day, and the prince—who had been stripped of his name—fell back against the cold stone of his walls, sliding down until he fell to his legs and let out a shameless cry of longing. Of anger, and of regret. For the exiled, nameless prince desired to be embraced by the love of souls who would surely forget him, in time—for Gwyn’s rule and power over the land was far too great to be combated; even his own blood was not exempt from this, and the image of his dear sister Gwynevere bearing the bracelet he gifted her on her eighteenth year, emanated radiantly in his mind.
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In time, even he would forget his name.
A nameless prince, banished from his home—from the future that promised him the next title of Lordran’s king.
None would eventually remain to honour his legacy… Not even an Undead.
--..–…–..--
The sporadic tips and taps of feet meeting the stone ground of the castle’s dining hall filled the joyful air, and where dances did not dominate in sound, laughter and chatter did. Three long tables of gold and white in tablecloth, adorned the grandiose room in which a royal feast—coordinated by Gwynevere and her younger brother, Gwyndolin—housed many of Lordran’s citizens. Amongst the thousands of faces, was one whose lips housed a bitter frown, matched with a tired gaze as this very man stared down at his unfinished meal.
“Sir Ornstein, if I may bother you for a dance?” the voice of a chipper female spoke, but the newly-appointed knight did not speak a word in return. The hearty chuckle from the older gentleman who sat to Ornstein’s right, quickly became the main cause of the young woman’s sudden embarrassment, and she hastily bowed with a pained grin and a, “My apologies, Sir Ornstein,” before disappearing off into the crowd.
“‘At poor lass won’t be forgettin’ that for a wee while,” he let out, along with the final few wheezes of laughter. “Poor thing.”
Ornstein clicked his tongue. “Not now, Smough. Truly, this is not the most appropriate of times to be feeding off of my discomfort. Go find some other poor sod to bother for the remainder of the night—coming from a friend.”
“A royal friend,” Smough added, which landed him a quick and subtle kick to the ankle from beneath the table. Ornstein’s gaze remained fixated on his uneaten breads and meats, before a large hand slowly came down upon the golden chalice that sat in front of his plate. “At least finish your mead, old friend. Night won’t last forever, y’know.”
“And what truly does?” Ornstein hissed beneath his breath, before he shifted his body around and rose rather hastily from his seat. Smough stared up at his friend, but did not press any further. “I’m in need of a walk,” the knight muttered, before picking up the mead and downing it in mere seconds. Smough, who was a heavier-set man, took his time in getting up from the vastly-stretching bench, calling out after the knight: “Just don’t make a fool ‘a yourself, Lion!”
Ornstein shook his head and bit his lower lip at that title, and his eyes fixated on one of the many exits to the grand hall—quickly slipping away into the night as the celebration raged on. Immediately, he wound up in a narrow hallway, that looked and felt as though it would carry on forever; velvet carpets draped the limestone ground, as hundreds of torches littered the cream walls of the castle. Ornstein found himself placing the occasional hand on the wall, so as to retain proper balance as he stumbled down the lonely corridor in silence. He needed fresh air, and a quiet place to gather his turbulent thoughts.
“And what is thou doing away from the festivities, I wonder?” the angelic lilt of a very familiar voice echoed down the narrow hall from behind, and the knight immediately froze in his tracks at his hasty realisation. “The women were all but fawning over you in there. It was quite the sight to behold from afar, Lion.”
Ornstein dropped his head, allowing crimson hair to fall messily down his face—though, he refused to face his princess in such a sorry state. “And I continue to miss your dark hair, if I may say,” Gwynevere added, before placing a friendly hand on the knight’s left shoulder. “Day and night, my very thoughts are plagued with memories of him,” Ornstein whispered—cursing himself at the faintest hint of tears that began welling up within his eyes. “He should’ve been here, Your Highness. It isn’t fair.”
Gwynevere released a soft huff of breath, before taking a position at Ornstein’s side. “Many instances in this world aren’t fair, Lion, but nevertheless, we continue moving forward with our lives. But, I agree,” she whispered back, “He should’ve been here.” The Princess of Sunlight released her hand from his shoulder, and began walking forward in slow and calculated motions. “Long may the sun shine on my dearest brother. He truly was the bravest in all of Lordran,” she continued, more-or-less musing to herself—though Ornstein could hear her, loud and clear. “The purest of souls, did he carry. I trust and believe he is somewhere out there, in the vast reaches of this accursed land, beginning his new life—away from the family he secretly loathed… And,” Gwynevere paused, bringing the back of her hand to her eyes to wipe away a single tear that had managed to escape her. “I cannot blame him.”
Ornstein lifted his head. “Well,” his dark eyes narrowed on Gwynevere’s slender frame, but he was not angry with her—no, he was angry with himself. “I do.”
--..–…–..--
Inside the great hall, the festivities showed no end in sight, and one woman in-particular refused to cease her erratic dancing. Men and women alike cheered her on, as did her own thoughts and laughter. At some point in the night, her hair had found a way to loosen itself from the tight and neat braid in which she had borne for her knighting ceremony, but no longer did she care—for in this moment, she felt nothing but bliss flowing through her veins.
“Ciaran!” a voice called, but the blonde could not hear over the banter that enveloped her frantic movements. She linked arms with men of her age, men older, and even a few women—as she danced around in circles with the townsfolk. Sweat trickled down the knight’s forehead as she dropped her head in a spiral of joyful laughter, barely able to keep her eyes open as she quickly swayed unto the next individual to continue her dancing.
“We need to talk.”
Immediately she opened her eyes, and was met with a cerulean pair looking down into her own. Ciaran wanted to scream—to tell her dear friend no, for he had wounded her fragile heart one too many times in the many years they had known each other. But the way in which Artorias held her—how his strong hands pressed gently against her waist, and how his heaving chest now bound itself to hers—had her gazing mindlessly up into his tense stare. “Ciaran,” he breathed out, careful as to not gather the audible attention of others, “wouldst thou follow me?” The weight of his gaze, and the cloying lilt of his voice held Ciaran in a gentle chokehold—one which she did not wish to break free of, just yet. So instead, she remained there, swaying back and forth at a much slower pace than she did with the others; but she had to break away from the eye contact, for if she continued to stare any longer, the wound in her heart would have violently ripped open before she could have even taken her next breath.
“Honour me with this dance, Artorias. Only then, will I willingly follow,” Ciaran whispered, drowning in the intoxicating feeling of their bodies brushing against one another, with every rock and sway they took. The inviting warmth of the Wolf Knight’s breath upon her glistening forehead distracted her very ability to interpret his response, and she swung her arms around his upper back, basking in the comfort and familiar scent of her dearest friend. “Of this, are you certain?” he spoke low against her forehead, as his captivating blue gaze scoured the room for anyone of note who might have been watching; all he saw was the tail-end of the crimson-haired knight disappearing into a corridor. “Yes,” Ciaran let out, as though a starved kitten had mewled in response, “please.”
Artorias hummed a note of gentle acknowledgement against Ciaran’s forehead, before allowing his previously-cautious steps to fall into rhythm with hers. The sweet chimes of the lute that played in the distance came to an end shortly after, and Artorias was the first to break away from their contact. Ciaran felt as though that same blade her friend had lodged into her heart all those years ago, had suddenly twisted and tore an even larger gap—yet it still refused to allow itself to be removed. Artorias quickly grabbed hold of one of Ciaran’s tiny hands and directed her out and away from the lively crowd, until the only face in sight was of his dear friend’s.
“Ciaran, Lady Gwynevere has asked me to engage in a plentiful favour; they are her direct orders—not Lord Gwyn’s, nor Sir Gwyndolin’s,” Artorias started, now that the two of them were tucked away on a hidden balcony of Anor Londo’s castle, to which many did not know existed; sneaking past the two Silver Knights had posed no issue for the two, as it was not their first experience in wandering about the castle grounds in secret. “This may be difficult to hear, but–”
Ciaran shoved a finger against Artorias’ chest, biting back an intense wave of anger as tears threatened to spill from her azure eyes. “What you’ve said has already proven difficult to comprehend. Do I truly wish to know what it is Princess Gwynevere has shared with you?” the blonde interrupted, searching her friend’s eyes; she yearned for traces of understanding and regret, yet she found nothing but determination and what seemed to be a hint of sadness—directed towards her.
“The Princess has asked me to Oolacile,” the Wolf Knight continued, ignoring Ciaran’s abrupt interference as his voice remained low. “Their own princess is in trouble, and Lordran holds a rather strong alliance with them. King Dusk has requested one of Lord Gwyn’s knights to aid in rescuing his daughter,” he finished, resting his elbows on the thick, limestone bar of the balcony as he gazed up towards the dark, night sky.
“And what happened to Princess Dusk, if I may ask?” Ciaran spoke blandly, taking note of the awkward gap between the two of them as she stood—following in looking up at the bright stars above. Artorias huffed out a shaky breath, which caused Ciaran to look to her side and up at her friend, accompanied by her own furrowed brows and bated breath.
“Not long after Princess Dusk was reported missing, a chasm was found in Oolacile that leads down into the Abyss,” Artorias continued, crossing a hand over his other as he allowed his upper body to fall limp against the balcony’s thick railing. “None of their knights rage anywhere close to what ours are capable of—and I don’t mean Lord Gwyn’s pretentious little Silver Knights,” he finished, huffing out an exasperated scoff, which earned a light chuckle from Ciaran. “So, Princess Gwynevere wishes to offer up her most beloved knight, is what I’m gathering from all this? And, the Abyss? There must be something sinister transpiring in that town… a chasm to that darkness does not simply appear without immense reason, Artorias,” she spoke, somewhat deadpan in her voice, though her intent hissed loud and clear in Artorias’ ears. “There is a single fault in that statement, but otherwise, yes, you are correct in your judgement,” he replied, finally looking down at his friend.
A rather strong gust of wind tousled with the Wolf Knight’s dark locks, further messing with his loosely-tied ponytail—which once more aided in obstructing his vision—and he muttered a curse beneath his breath at nature’s supposed grudge against him; but to his side, Ciaran was displaying her utmost attempt at concealing a raging fit of laughter at his “new” look. “Surely you aren’t this dull-witted,” she blurted out, before quickly placing a hand to Artorias’ pale cheeks and brushing many unkempt strands behind his ears. “Her Majesty adores thou—which is probably why she trusts you to return home, safe and unscathed. Unless…” Immediately, Ciaran began to trail off, and an all-too-familiar sadness had managed to seep into her voice. “She wishes to accompany you?”
Artorias’ eyes softened as he looked down at the young woman; how sublime she looked beneath the twinkling stars, and how, even though many had died by her hand—and would most certainly continue to do so—she was practically the epitome of elegance. But he turned away from her touch—her kind gesture, and looked down at the sparkling, blue water that resided below the castle.
“I leave in a month’s time,” Artorias spoke, ignoring the few, wild strands that still remained.
Ciaran looked away from the Wolf Knight and sucked in her bottom lip. She nodded.
“I also do not wish for thou to miss any more of the celebration,” he added, averting his gaze to the stars, once more. “Besides, they all really loved your dancing.”
“I think my feet have grown tired,” Ciaran mumbled, dropping her head as she stared mindlessly at her legs. “I’m going to remain out here for a bit longer, if thou wishes to return to the festivities.”
Artorias hummed in acknowledgement. “Have a good night, dear friend.”
She nodded, though the two now faced opposite directions. “You, as well.”
And with that, Artorias disappeared from the darkness of the night—but from one of the many windows that adorned the castle’s exterior, Gwyndolin, Prince of the Dark Sun, stood stiff as a tree—observing the female knight, as he bore a brazen grin.