Night of the Darkeater
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“Sir Artorias, may we rest for a moment upon those flowers?” Princess Filianore asked softly, timid in her movements as she turned to look at her newly-appointed knight’s intimidating height. “I know Father ordered you to escort my sister and I back to Anor Londo in a ‘hasty manner’ as I overheard—which, I swear, I couldn’t help it—but my father’s voice is rather loud, and the sun shines so brilliantly on this field…” Her Lady added sweetly, clutching loosely at the fluffy hem of her pearl-white dress, which fell just below her ankles; her soft, brown eyes complemented the thick and somewhat wavy locks that matched in colour, to which flowed all the way down her spine. Filianore’s sister, Princess Yorshka, stood a step behind her older sister—clutching at Filianore’s forearm as she, too, looked back at Knight Artorias; he looked off past the two princesses and at the grand field of lilacs, whites, and baby blues. And he nodded.
“For but a moment, Your Highness,” the Wolf Knight replied softly, watching as the two, younger daughters of Lord Gwyn giggled amongst themselves and ran off into the vast, colourful field. Filianore had reached seventeen years of age eight days before the knighting ceremony, and pouted when her father explained that the eldest of his kin would be commencing the honorary titles—yet none dared to mention their true, eldest sibling: Prince Sen of Sunlight.
“You blend into the flowers, Sir Artorias!” Yorshka exclaimed, holding up a newly-blossomed delphinium as she admired the Wolf Knight’s royal blue tassel; it flowed elegantly down his silver armour, providing colour to an otherwise dark and intimidating set. Artorias grinned at Princess Yorshka, before slowly making his way over to the two, young women and sitting amongst them. “Yes, Your Highness,” he started, “that delphinium matches my hood and tassel.”
Yorshka clumsily reached forward—placing the large flower between his exposed ear and dark tufts of hair, as his azure-coloured hood remained lowered unless he deemed it necessary to shroud his true identity in mystery. “Now you’re a flower, Sir Artorias!” Yorshka giggled, slowly pulling her hand away from the knight’s ear as she admired her work; she was nine, entering into her tenth year, come winter. Princess Gwynevere was a quarter of the way through her twenty-fourth year, taking the place of Gwyn’s eldest daughter.
Artorias’ grin remained as he met Yorshka’s stare, though, he was lost for words, this time around—as he had never housed the company of a flower between his ears… Nor had he let anyone, until now—for who was he to refuse a princess’ wish? But a faint and cloudy image of Ciaran slipping a daisy in that same spot, suddenly appeared in his mind, and his grin faltered as he allowed the quaint memory to unwind; they were deep in a forest—presumably the Darkroot Basin—and he was on the verge of rest, as his blonde friend carefully snuck the weed against his thick locks. Had she known he was awake? Or did she not mind, regardless of her realisation? Had he removed the plant from his ear—scolded her for attempting such an odd gesture? But they were close, and they always had been, ever since they had met amidst their Knight training. Maybe he didn’t at all mind.
“Do you not like it?” Yorshka inquired, followed by a concerned lilt in her childish voice. Artorias immediately nodded, placing a gentle hand atop the young princess’ head as he grinned once more. “I adore the sweet gesture, Princess,” he replied, ruffling Yorshka’s silky locks—which, too, were reminiscent of the colour in which an almond would possess. They were beautiful young women, and many of Anor Londo’s knights were envious of Artorias—as was Ciaran, yet her jealousy resided in a far vaster and difficult sense of the emotion.
“Are you going to pick flowers for anyone, Sir Artorias? Mine are for Father,” Yorshka spoke gleefully, looking up at the Wolf Knight through lidded eyes and a large smile as he finished patting her head. “Sister Filianore is picking flowers for someone, as well,” she continued, not allowing Artorias to give an immediate answer—regardless of if he had one, or not. He looked over to Princess Filianore, whose focus was set solely on the cool colours that lay before them; Artorias could just barely see the faintest trace of a sparkling tear that had slowly made its way down her cheek.
“I wish to pick flowers for my dearest brother, Sen,” Filianore spoke, refusing to pull her gaze away from the array of blues, purples, and whites.
“Sen is our older brother, but Father said he ran away from home a long time ago to chase an ambition of his!” Yorshka chimed in—her smile radiant as ever, though Filianore’s mellow lilt proved a different truth from the younger sister’s words. The Wolf Knight’s eyes remained on Filianore as he awaited further words from her lips. “Yes,” she let out softly, “he is with us, no longer.” Filianore then proceeded to look up into Artorias’ cerulean gaze, and she managed the smallest of grins as Yorshka looked up towards the two in genuine happiness and excitement.
Filianore hummed softly, before surprising her sister with a lilac against her nose—which caused Yorshka to giggle and swat her older sister’s hand away in playful protest. “It was unclear as to whether or not it was my brother who fancied dragons, or if it were the godly creatures that fancied him,” Filianore continued, now that Yorshka’s attention had been averted elsewhere. Artorias mindlessly twirled the stem of a flower between his index and middle finger, nodding along to Filianore’s words as the young woman reminisced about her brother. “Father wishes to rid Lordran of its ancient beasts—wherein dragons lay at the precipice of that list.” Filianore’s voice was mellow, and she refused to look the Wolf Knight in the eyes as she willingly revealed a far more vulnerable side of herself. “The art of dragonslaying is a trait that Father wishes for all his knights to grow hastily akin to—to which Sen disagreed with… a fruitless altercation which held no surprise to the family,” she continued, now staring down at the flower in which Artorias rolled between his digits. “And so, Father banished him from the kingdom,” Filianore whispered, allowing her eyes to become shrouded in burning tears. “Sen was stripped of his royal title, his future of becoming Lordran’s next king, and worst of all… his very name.” She caught the tail-end of a light sniffle as she turned from Artorias, hiding her weakened state of mind. “Forgive me,” she muttered, “I shouldn’t even be using his name anymore.”
Yorshka rolled onto her backside as she delicately plucked the pedals from a delphinium, before blowing them up into the air as she chuckled and spoke amongst herself. Artorias smiled as he looked over to the little princess, who resided between himself and Filianore; his full attention was on Filianore, opting to lend an ear for as long as the princess both desired and needed.
“Six years have passed, since then,” Filianore mused. “His love for the ancient dragons was admirable, for I wish I felt as strongly for a soul, as he once did,” she continued softly, as though she were now speaking to herself, and Artorias were merely listening in on her intimate thoughts. “True, palpable love is exceedingly rare to come by, if ever. If thou art one of the lucky few who is blessed with crossing its path, do not let its flame dwindle—for it may never burn again.”
Filianore let out a silent gasp as she looked down to her pale hands; shimmers of bright-purple dust fell slowly down against her soft skin, leaving the gentle surface sparkling and catching the attention of the Wolf Knight. Immediately, Filianore looked up to the darkening, blue sky, to which, this time, her gasp was quite audible; for above the vast, white clouds, the gross and glistening body of a purple dragon flew peacefully amongst the nightly stars. Its gargantuan wings were covered by the sky’s clouds, as their length stretched further than one from below could properly perceive.
“Midir,” Filianore lightly gasped, watching with wide eyes as the ancient dragon circled high above the vast field of flowers the three were seated amongst. “I’ve heard only tales of the ancient Darkeater,” she continued in a soft whisper, following its slow and mesmerising trail. Thousands of specs of shimmering, violet dust littered the skies, reflecting beautifully in a sort of hypnotising manner—to which Princess Yorshka giggled and reached out her hand to allow the dragon’s dust to fall upon her open palms. Upon closer inspection, the dust looked as though it were falling from Midir’s gargantuan wings, bestowing the gift of pure elegance unto the lands of Lordran. Yet, even though Knight Artorias was seated beside the two princesses and witnessing an ancient dragon of alleged myth—unthreatened by its presence—his mind refused to shake the thought of his dear friend Ciaran; where was she, and what was she doing right about now?
The shimmering debris found Artorias to be no exception from its innate show of grandeur, and shrouded his dark locks in a purple shine. Filianore finally pulled her gaze of utter fascination from above, and looked over at her knight, who remained unmoving, yet the glistening of his hair and tassel drew a quick chuckle out of her. “Thy face emits that of an innocent and unsuspecting Mushroom Child,” Filianore stated sweetly, trailing her fingers through the tall, green grass as she gathered her thoughts. “What tales dance amidst thy mind, Wolf?”
Artorias sucked in his bottom lip as he silently cursed himself for lowering his outer walls, if even by a sliver. His eyes met Filianore’s as he answered to her. “This particular night reminds me of a far simpler time, is all, Princess.”
Filianore’s fair grin suddenly sunk into one of devious curiosity, and she immediately allowed the questions to flow haphazardly. “How young were thou whence thy first kiss transpired, Wolf? Surely it was on a warm, summer’s evening like this very one,” she let out with a cheeky smile, chuckling amongst her younger sister as the two sat there, big grins and widened eyes as they awaited the knight’s response.
“Art these truly tales to be sharing amongst Lord Gwyn’s virtuous daughters? Mmm, thou may be depleted of luck, Princess,” Artorias replied with the tiniest of grins, shifting against the grass as he pulled a leg up to his chest, wrapping his arms around the limb. “Perhaps one day, these tales will be shared unto thee. But, for now, they are strictly fond memories from my days of training for knighthood.”
Both Yorshka and Filianore groaned a share of disapproval at their knight’s response, and the younger princess swatted playfully at Artorias’ knee as she rolled back over onto her backside. Filianore smiled brightly as she chuckled, softly shaking her head and joining Yorshka against the cool comfort of the grass. “Thine secrets shall be revealed one day, Wolf.” Filianore took time in gracefully lifting her arms up towards her head, allowing them to splay out amongst her long, chestnut locks that rested against the green ground. “But I don’t mind waiting.”
Artorias remained seated as he looked down at the two princesses with warmth and content in his eyes, before gazing back up at the heavenly sight of Midir’s violet shine. Silly, Artorias thought, how is it that each time I witness something so beautiful, I reminisce over Ciaran?
He chuckled.
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Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Anor Londo has only ever been graced by, and known beauty, as an absolute,” Gwyndolin spoke slowly, hands behind his back as the dark hallway—luminated only by the full moon’s presence—looked and felt as though it extended onward for an eternity. Ciaran walked in line with the prince, chin tilted upwards as she bestowed her utmost focus and attention upon the young man to her left; she was afraid even the wrong intake of breath would annoy the prince, so she opted on breathing solely through the tiny gap that set between her lips. The Dark Sun Gwyndolin bore long, stark-white robes that reflected the young man’s probity and purity; his skin was almost completely matched in colour, as he rarely left the grand halls of Anor Londo beneath the sun. Thin and silky, ashen hair draped along his shoulders, where a pale and prominent collarbone resided for all to catch a burning glimpse. Prince Gwyndolin was as breathtakingly-beautiful as his many sisters, for femininity favoured him, as far back as when he was but a child; many had mistaken his very gender, and sometimes, he cared not to correct them—for a young man of his calibre did not spend his worries on such trivial assumptions amongst those presumed beneath him.
Grandiose, and somewhat haunting statues of Lord Gwyn stood tall on both sides of the hallway—beside each and every window, which was every few strides. “Darkeater Midir has been grounds for children’s bedtime tales for mere centuries now, yet the ancient beast flies high above this accursed Land of Lords on this very night. I find it to be rather precarious and stodgy,” Gwyndolin finished, refusing to look up at the large windows to his right; but Ciaran could not satiate her curiosity until she had seen the ancient dragon for herself.
“Your precious friend Artorias is a rather plausible example of the elegance that stalks this golden land, my dear Ciaran,” the Prince of the Dark Sun continued with a boorish lilt, looking at the Lord’s Blade through a stern side-eye.
“How do you mean, Your Majesty?”
Gwyndolin let out a hearty chuckle at Ciaran’s blatant possessiveness over the Wolf Knight, and he graced the young woman’s shoulder with his pale and boney hand—grinning as he stared straight into her very soul through his own, golden eyes. “Knight Artorias is beloved and cherished amongst many in this land, is he not, dear one?” Gwyndolin refused to remove his gaze from Ciaran until she satiated his own curiosity, and relieved him with an answer.
She frowned. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, but Artorias treads this path with the exemption of ill-will, nor anything of malevolent calibre.”
Gwyndolin hummed a pleasant note of disagreement, finally looking back towards the ever-lasting hallway before them; a sneaky form of magic wherein the prince learned at a far younger age. “The Wolf is but another vigorous example of the innate and repulsive beauty that plagues my home,” his voice bellowed, echoing off the dark and lonely halls of the Darkmoon Tomb. “My very own sister has fallen for his distasteful charm, and her foolish show of stupor will act as a parasite until her clouded mind is cleansed of impure thoughts of the Wolf. He is loved by all, feared by evil’s rawest existence, and yet,” Gwyndolin snapped his fingers, and suddenly, the hallway no longer felt as though it stretched on forever. He donned that same, devilish smirk once more, and mindlessly swept the backside of his hand across Ciaran’s soft cheek so as to remove some rogue locks from her face. “The man lacks critical awareness when emotions rage into the portrait… And exemption does not grace your sweet soul, does it, Ciaran?”
The Lord’s Blade’s entire body stiffened as Gwyndolin’s hand made contact with her skin, and she sighed, once more looking out at the shimmering lilac that graced the skies. “How do you mean?” she asked softly, her voice rather shaky and timid as she felt as though Gwyndolin were peering into her very heart… And keeping her composure proved harder and harder, the more the Dark Sun spoke.
“You love the Wolf.”
Ciaran laughed a bitter chuckle, looking away from the tall-reaching windows and down to her pristine, black boots; since the knighting ceremony, Lord Gwyn had bestowed unique outfits unto his four, newly-appointed knights. Ciaran donned a loose-fitting, azure blouse—as well as a waistcloth, matching in colour—and tall boots, as black as soot from a raging fire. A pair of gloves made of the same colour and material to that of her boots were also bestowed upon her, yet she only wore them outside of Anor Londo’s grand and vast walls, for she wished to maintain a piece of her former self—a part of her, which perished after her knighting; and it seemed as though her other three friends lost a part of themselves along with it. Especially her dear Artorias.
“If to ‘love’ means that I cherish the man with every deep-rooted fibre of my being, placing him above all else in this Land of Lords—even Lord Gwyn himself, bless His Majesty—then yes,” Ciaran began, “I do love him.”
Gwyndolin, too, chuckled. “I thought as much, my dear Ciaran. Thou art truly a naked tome,” he replied without a breath. “It is certainly endearing, as much as it is dangerous. Do not let others read too far into thy text, for a weakness revealed of a royal knight is common ground for exploitation—especially from those who envy thy standing in this land. Do you understand, my Lord’s Blade?” Gwyndolin leaned in close as he stared directly into Ciaran’s azure eyes. “I will not tolerate premature and improper liaison. Venereal desires and acts will only result in unsought consequences, and a loss of mine and my family’s respect. But that will be all.” The Prince of the Dark Sun once more bore a devious grin as he turned tail and made for the opposite end of the vast hall, leaving Ciaran in the lonely darkness of the night.
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Ornstein failed to allow his gaze to falter upon the freakishly-large fortress that stood before him, beneath the rich twilight of Anor Londo’s outer walls. The Dragonslayer held no recollection of the towering, stone building—yet he felt drawn to its cool solitude, all-the-same. Ornstein drew in a long breath of the summer’s late-evening air, before narrowing his piercing gaze upon the uninviting stature that had seemingly slipped under Lordran’s noses for many years, judging by the deteriorating state of the fortress; it looked as though its upkeep had not existed in the first place, rendering a sort of prison-feel to its stature. Sucking in his chest and straightening his shoulders and back, he took a set of daring steps towards the large, iron-barred gate that blocked entry to the building, and wrapped his hands—that were hidden beneath shiny, golden gauntlets—against the sturdy bars. “Is there a soul home?!” Ornstein called out into the cold darkness that washed over him as he foolishly stuck his head between the iron. “Hello?” All that answered back, was a small, chilling breeze that emanated from inside the fortress; and Ornstein was determined to further explore—especially on a night of pure freedom, as his comrades were all off on their own mysterious endeavours.
The Dragonslayer removed himself from the large gate, standing back to scale the rest of the entrance, so as to find another means of entering the fortress; his vision had been teetering on the cusp of clear and blurred, and the calculated movement of his legs felt as though they grew more and more unpredictable in such a short period of time—a blatant effect of the mead he had carelessly downed from earlier. Ornstein gently placed his concealed hands against the cream stone of the fortress, tilting his neck back to catch a better glimpse of the latter half of a skinny, wooden ladder that hung high above the ground; someone had broken off the bottom piece of the device, but with an exasperated grunt and a literal leap of faith, Ornstein conjured all his might into a single jump off the ground—catching the very bottom step of the ladder as he now hung, vulnerably, in the air. Immediately, he huffed in one last ounce of strength, manoeuvring not only his own body weight, but the hefty, golden-Lion armour in which he donned. And the attempt proved successful, as Ornstein’s feet were finally against solid ground, once more; and he climbed the long, wooden ladder—threatening to snap at any point, due to the immense weight it now held—until he eventually reached its end, which led him upon a tiny, square hole in the wall, acting as a window of sorts; he instantly rolled in through the makeshift window, landing flat on his face as he slowly lifted his head to a view of the room spinning. Rather dazed and confused, Ornstein pressed both his hands against the ground as he pushed his body up from the stone-cold ground, taking in the dimly-lit room that was filled with grandiose, shimmering statues of Silver Knights. There was a single, large pressure plate that sat in the middle of the moderately-large room, and the distant hissing and rattling of snakes—though, Ornstein chose to write the eerie and unsettling noises off as his own drunken state of mind.
He had not realised it in the moment, but the fall from the window to the floor was far more intense in height than Ornstein initially assumed, and a stinging ache began to make itself painstakingly apparent as he made his way past the lifeless and haunting Silver Knight statues, and into the darkness of the next room.
The Fortress felt like a prison—and maybe it was—but for who? And why?
Many disturbing noises sounded in the near distance; the crashing of cement objects against the stone walls, chains rattling, frantic shuffling, and the slicing of blades against complete, thin air. Ornstein held himself, as though he were another, hugging his chest for reassurance and warmth, and began making his way through the odd and dark corridors; many were filled with hidden traps, and some were filled with nothing at all. There was the frightening occurrence of a random chest in some of the rooms, but Ornstein knew better than to go around opening chests to which he held no knowledge of; one of Lordran’s most well-known fables, was that of the Mimic. He dared not test that tale.
Heading into the next, abyssal corridor, a massive boulder came crashing down the stone stairwell in which he was about to head up towards, and the Dragonslayer utilised his most trustworthy instinct—his lightning-fast reaction to danger—as he rolled out of the way and back into the prior room, until the boulder was all but out of sight, and a mere crashing and banging in the lower distance. Whoever lived here, wished not for visitors of any sort. Without a second thought of hesitation, however, Ornstein suddenly dashed up that same stairwell, biting down on his lower lip as he repeatedly told himself a boulder would surely take a few more seconds to wind up… And with that, he lunged at the first sight of light, plummeting down onto his chest as he reached the top of the death trap. Luckily, his gold-plated armour broke his harsh fall. Ornstein lifted his head as the room spun for a few moments, before realising he had not made it out of the deathly fortress, but instead, made it to what he assumed was near the top.
Once the Dragonslayer managed to lift his added weight off the stone-cold floor, his dark eyes immediately darted to the left, back-corner of the room, to which a narrow doorway stood. Once more, he bolted towards the darkness without any trace of fear nor regret, and ran up the final stairwell of the fortress; at the top of this next incline, the grace of moonlight kissed his face, as he practically flew out of the narrow pathway and into the elegant darkness of the night. Releasing a long and exasperated sigh, Ornstein looked up to the violet skies, to which he stood confused for a moment, until the bellowing roar of what could only have been assumed to be a dragon, filled the stagnant air. Immediately, the knight grabbed at his waist where his lightning spear resided, ready to stand his guard in case the gargantuan creature decided to focus his gaze on something other than the clouds; the purple shimmers of dust that had been slowly falling down in the air, began to cover Ornstein’s crimson locks in tints of violet shine, yet he did not seem to notice his new, glistening look.
With his attention solely focused on the Darkeater Midir, to which the Dragonslayer presumed only legend of until now, he failed to notice the shiny, golden crown that hung low on one of the top of the fortress’ many iron-railbars. Ornstein cautiously made his way over to the edge of the building, refusing to allow any other odd phenomena to rule back his attention; the crown was made up of long and jagged tips, yet its shine resembled that of a crown he had only ever seen worn by two souls… The face of the man he loathed above all, and the one who he loved more than anything in this world, flowed into his head as he stared down, longingly, at the blatantly-abandoned crown.
His face suddenly went cold, and the cumbersome weight of the Lion armour that he donned, felt as though he were all but naked—standing there, under the intoxication of the full moon and magical air, which housed millions of dancing particles of dragon dust. Ornstein finally released his iron grip on the cool length of his golden spear, and took a step back from the intrusion of long-forgotten memories from his past; the Dragonslayer could not determine whether it were his own tears that plagued his pale cheeks, or if it had begun to downpour upon the fortress, but the state of shock and remembrance that he found himself trapped amidst, sent waves of chills down his spine and a rasp to his throat.
But the burning wrath of coarse skin that slowly wrapped around Ornstein’s slim frame, ripped him out of the anger and despair he had found himself spiralling towards, before he let out a blood-curdling cry at the constricting pressure his chest suddenly underwent. Low, rumbling laughter erupted from behind him, and once Ornstein finally gathered the strength to crane his neck to the side, he was met with a colossal, silver helmet, and armour of the same calibre, that quickly alluded to a single realisation: he had been picked up by an Iron Golem, who was surely the main defender of the fortress he had rudely entered upon, uninvited. And now, he was indebted to the consequence.