* The Half-breed Princess *

--..–…–..--

Ciaran swung the wooden sword against Artorias’ own, holding the mock weapon as though it were a dagger or a tracer of sorts. Sweat plagued her forehead, and her entire body ached from the constant lifting and spinning and stretching she had partaken in over the course of her morning. “Keep holding thy sword like so, and thou will end up helpless beneath a dragon’s claw, my friend,” Artorias exclaimed, quickly rounding his own sword as he broke away Ciaran’s defences, and lightly poked her in the upper abdomen. She sighed, frustrated, and dropped her sword. “It just doesn’t feel natural, Artorias!” she let out, feeling the warm teasing of tears prickling at her eyes as she fell to her knees and clutched tightly at the green grass below. “I’m never going to master this ridiculous, wooden blade.”

Artorias let out a hearty chuckle as he allowed himself to fall to his knees beside his friend, and placed a warm hand upon her open shoulder; Ciaran had opted on wearing a flowy, azure blouse that displayed her feminine collarbone and pale skin, paired with dark braies and tall boots. She smiled at her foolish show of frustration, and gently dropped her head against Artorias’ shoulder, which was covered in a darker shade of thin, blue material; neither of the two knights-in-training wished to sweat profusely during their morning training in the Darkroot Basin, which led to the two of them wearing thin, and, sometimes exposing cloth. The rest of their fellow, knightly candidates swung their wooden swords effortlessly at one another, letting out fake cries and victorious shouts as their partners pretended to fall to their deaths.

“What hast thou breathing so heavily? We’ve only just begun,” Artorias spoke plainly, well-aware of the reaction he would drive out of his dear friend—who was far too determined and short-tempered to simply ignore such a remark. Ciaran pulled back from Artorias, before grinning maliciously and quickly drawing her wooden sword to his throat, as though it were a far shorter—sharper—blade. “Yet, look at you,” she began low, with an almost teasing lilt, “defenceless—helpless in my grasp… I’d say I successfully drew thy weaker side out, Sir Artorias.”

But he only laughed, eyes widened, as he looked into Ciaran’s own, wrapping his hand around the young woman and holding her against his chest. “Look who’s trapped now, Little Bee,” he whispered, before another hearty laugh spilled from his lips. Ciaran groaned as her friend tousled with her blonde locks, running his dainty fingers through in a rather aggressive manner. “But,” he huffed out with an exaggerated sigh, dropping his chin atop her head, “I must commend thee for the valiant attempt. It isn’t easy being so fragile and small.” Ciaran attempted to swat Artorias’ hands away, but he only chuckled once more, whispering playful insults against her locks.

The sound of hurried footsteps quickly became apparent in the near distance, but both Artorias and Ciaran ignored the noise as the blonde finally succeeded in swatting her friend’s hand away, and looked up into his cerulean gaze. “I want to apologise for my behaviour a few days ago,” she said softly, searching his eyes for any trace of a potential counter to her intentions. “What do you mean?” he whispered, smoothing his index finger through her silky strands as she remained pressed against his chest; she sighed, allowing herself to relax in his arms as she internally cursed herself at the discomfort she most definitely caused the man that fateful evening by the pond. Ciaran shifted uncomfortably against Artorias, before finding the courage to speak a proper response to her friend. “I mused on about–” she stopped herself. “I told you that–” she stopped, once more. Artorias stared down at the petite woman in his arms, who was clearly struggling to speak what her heart wished to project unto him; and so, he pressed a warm, gentle kiss to her forehead to show that he was patient, and would wait until she felt only comfort in his arms.

Ciaran froze—all frantic and finicky movements, had ceased. Her eyes widened, and she sucked in her bottom lip, holding back pleas, curses, cries—yearning, yet nothing actually slipped past her lips. She was in complete disbelief and disarray, and all she could do was stare helplessly up at Artorias with parted lips. “Ciaran?” he asked softly, loosening his grip slightly as his friend’s baffled expression worried him to some extent. “What is it? What do you mean to apologise for?” Without thinking, Ciaran ripped herself from Artorias’ caring grasp, stumbling forward against the grass before hastily reaching for her wooden sword and rising to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she let out, breathing heavily as though he had taken her very breath away. “I should get back to training. Our examinations are on the horizon, and I do not wish to fail what I have worked towards my entire life.”

Artorias, too, rose, yet he did not pick up his sword. “Is everything all right, my friend? I didn’t hurt thou, did I?” he asked hurriedly, watching as Ciaran turned her back to him and began walking off into the array of bushes that surrounded them at every corner. “I need a moment,” she began, tapping the dulled edge of her wooden sword against the bark of trees and the thick leaves of bushes. “I won’t be long, but please, do not wait for me. I will meet thou back at the barracks.” Ciaran ground her teeth together as she feared the man’s response, and she soon caved and looked over her shoulder. He was still standing there, unarmed, watching her with a puzzled and somewhat saddened look on his face, as though he were facing immense guilt for actions and consequences unbeknownst to him. Ciaran quickly averted her eyes back to the trees and bushes ahead—a viable option for a means of escape for a bit—and she continued on before Artorias spoke up.

“Smough is baking his complementary potatoes this evening, and I would hate for thou to miss out on such a grand feast!”

Ciaran only pouted softly to herself at the sound of his sweet and innocent voice, and she shouted back an “I won’t,” in response, before disappearing completely out of sight; Artorias was left standing, dazed, as his wooden sword lay lonely at his feet. He sighed, before kneeling down to pick up the mock weapon, when he noticed the small and delicately-wrapped lilac that hugged the hilt of the blade snuggly. He smiled, gently smoothing his thumb over the green stem, before holding the weapon proudly in his hand; Ciaran’s flustered face immediately seeped into his mind as he pictured her finding out that he had taken quick notice of her little gift, and assumed it to be the reason she abruptly disappeared in the first place.

“A sneaky gesture, Little Bee,” he mused, holding the wooden sword against his chest as he closed his eyes and grinned. She was truly his dearest friend—for how could someone turn an inanimate object into something so special, if not for Ciaran? She was spectacular, and he could not stop praising the young woman in his head as he felt his own heart beating against the wood of the sword.

--..–…–..--

Ciaran swung her wooden blade against the ageing bark of a tall, oak tree, splitting the wood as she let out a pained cry; she couldn’t shake the image of Artorias displaying such tender love towards her, yet not in the way she had ever hoped for. Though a kiss for many signified lust and hunger, this one clearly meant tender love and brotherly care, and she loathed herself for even believing for a moment that it could have proved otherwise. Releasing a far more frustrated cry, Ciaran drove the wooden tip of her blade flat against a large rock, only this time, the weapon split straight down the middle—nearly reaching the hilt where her bare hand resided. She quickly dropped the damaged wood to the ground, before another cry erupted into the air; only this time, it was not from her lips. Immediately, Ciaran halted her breaths for a moment, until she could determine the direction wherein the cries originated from.

There.

Another pained plea, as the words, “Mother!” echoed hauntingly in the near distance, and Ciaran wasted no time in darting over rocks, through thick bushes, and under trees, as her lightning-fast feet allowed for her to manoeuvre swiftly around an area, unseen by many; the perfect assassin. It did not take long for Ciaran to lay her eyes upon the baffling scene of a young girl bearing a long and thick dragon tail, who could have been no older than ten years of age. There she stood, pearl-white and shining tail between her legs, as she clutched a silver scythe—far too large for her current size—for dear life. Long and silky white locks draped down both her front and back sides, adorning her pristine cloth that matched perfectly in colour. “Mother!” she cried out again, her beryl eyes darting in all directions as she seemingly scanned for her mother, in the depths of the Darkroot Basin.

Ciaran all but gasped, something she had never once let slip as an assassin, as the large and shadowing figure of a Great Feline slowly stalked behind the young girl, hidden in a cluster of bushes; she knew the child stood not a chance against the viscous predator, and immediately, she darted to the right. She planned to flank the great beast, as she bore no weapons at this time, except for the power of her mind and swift and silent feet. “Mother!” the girl continued, crying pools of tears as she huffed in and out, shifting her hands’ positioning so she was more-or-less hugging the scythe, now, rather than holding it as a weapon. Ciaran snuck behind tree-to-tree, until she reached the array of bushes the Great Feline resided amidst; she sucked in her lower lip, not once daring to allow even the slightest breath release, as she clutched a rock the size of her palm in her left hand, while her other bore a sharp stick—a makeshift dagger, of sorts. Ciaran felt as though she had become a raging, merciless flame, with the only means of feeding her fire, protecting this poor child; the young one was odd—something Ciaran could not argue against—but she was alone and scared, and clearly far from home with the small body of a human, and the large tail of a dragon.

The Great Feline hissed low as it moved its gargantuan left paw to inch ever closer to the girl, and that is when Ciaran struck. She lunged forward and immediately dug her sharp nails into its backside to find a proper grip, before manoeuvring her slender frame atop the spine of the beast, and drove the sharp stick into its eye at full force. It roared louder than any creature she had heard, save for the distant and distinct wails of far-away dragons out of sight wherein she had occasionally heard, before it then hissed and shrieked as though its very soul had been set aflame. With one of its eyes oozing thick, white liquid mixed with distinguishable crimson, its sight had been heavily reduced; without a second for breathing room, the Great Feline threw its head back as its long snout now hung high in the air, sniffing around as it quickly became reliant on its smell, rather than its sight. But Ciaran had already accounted for this. Without any hesitation, she bashed the rock against its large nose, before finally hopping off its back and rolling to the ground and immediately wrapping an arm around the young half-breed—swooping her up in her arms. Even though Ciaran was without weapon, she refused to stand idly by as a monstrous creature ripped and teared into an innocent and unsuspecting child; that, and she always loved the heat of battle and the bloodlust that followed. But as much as she wished to finish the beast off, Ciaran quickly decided against it, as she was nearly certain the child would already be scarred from the encounter with the Great Feline and the mysterious assassin.

“You aren’t my mother,” the young one whispered shakily against Ciaran’s chest, hands gripping her azure blouse as her frail hands no longer housed the enormous scythe. “Where is Mother?” Her voice was almost devoid of any emotion, and it became clear that she was in an intensive state of shock. Ciaran frowned as she looked down at the young girl in her arms, still running from the danger that potentially lay behind, but her lips quickly turned upwards into a smile as the girl’s large, verdant eyes met hers and did not once stray away; for the first time in a long while, Ciaran felt as though another being had truly admired and appreciated her, and she could not contain her inner excitement as her smile grew even wider at the thought. After another three or so minutes of sprinting, Ciaran slowed herself down as she approached the large pond in which she and Artorias had spent their evening during the rainfall, but wiped the regret and sadness from her mind, and carefully placed the young girl down amidst the tall, green grass.

“You may call me ‘Ciaran,’ Child. Please, do not be afraid,” the blonde assassin spoke softly, immediately bringing her hands to the girl’s white locks as she gently drew her fingertips through its silk and shine; many leaves and other debris from the depths of the forest had all but caught in her hair, and Ciaran did her best to carefully remove each and every piece, one by one, until she could finally smooth through the child’s thick strands, free of accidental tugs and pulls. “Where is it you’ve come from?” she continued in a sweet voice, doing her utmost to not frighten the young girl any further than she had already been.

“The,” the cross-breed child began in a stammer, “the library.”

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Ciaran’s brows furrowed slightly at her response, unsure of what she had meant by a library; surely she would have seen a half-breed child roaming the lands of Lordran without any attention—which was typically negative and harmful—as would her friends have taken notice. “Which library, if you do not mind my curiosity,” Ciaran replied in almost a whisper of sorts, continuing to grin at the child as she held her tenderly in her arms; she hadn’t noticed it in the heat of battle, but crimson painted her upper chest and chin, as well as the sleeves of her blouse from where she had initially struck the Great Feline.

“Archives…” the half-breed spoke slowly and timidly, clutching at Ciaran’s azure cloth. The assassin’s eyes widened as images of Seath the Scaleless splayed out amidst her mind. “The Duke’s Archives,” Ciaran mused in disbelief, realising what this child potentially was. “May I know your name, Child?” she continued, drawing the backside of her fingers against the young girl’s pale and soft cheeks.

“Priscilla.”

Ciaran hummed sweetly. “That is a gorgeous name.” Her smile remained. “Priscilla,” she repeated back to herself, taking note of how innocently the girl looked up into her eyes; Ciaran couldn’t help herself as fantasies that included herself and Artorias began to slowly settle tenderly amidst her thoughts. Ones where Artorias would hold her tighter than ever before—pressing tender kisses to her lips as a young child of their own remained in Ciaran’s arms, tugging at her blouse as the young one let out jovial laughter at the love that the two knights found themselves shrouded amidst. Artorias would then move his loving touch from her lips, elsewhere… Places that resided far below her chin… her collarbone… her chest… until Ciaran would ask him sweetly for more. What would he have named her? Him? He would lull their child to sleep with that mellow voice of his, and whisper mindless affirmations and bawdy purrs of later acts to follow against Ciaran’s ears. She would giggle like a young teen and show no display of restraint as she would give her entire being to that man. Her man.

Ciaran sighed. “I will deliver you home safely, Priscilla.” She felt herself frowning, once more. “Your family surely misses you greatly.”

Priscilla pouted at Ciaran’s words, and she rubbed her nose against her blouse. “But it’s so warm here,” she began in a far more confident and louder voice. “And it’s so cold… over there…” she finished, shying away once Ciaran parted her lips in response to ask, “What is over there?” Priscilla shifted uncomfortably in her arms, and the warm, white fur that the child donned caused Ciaran to wonder where it was she lived that housed temperatures of such cold calibre. Priscilla’s smooth tail, which housed not a single scale, writhed against Ciaran’s lap for a few moments. “Cool winds, snow up to my knees, and scary creatures that Mother says are there to protect me… but they terrify me,” Priscilla exclaimed against Ciaran’s fine cloth, breathing shakily as intense waves of imagery flooded the young girl’s mind. “Why can’t I live with Mother and Father in the library?” she asked softly, as though she were speaking to none other than herself. “I’ve never seen Father, but Mother tells me it is for my own good. I want to see him. I want to live out here where it is warm and friendly, with people like you.”

Ciaran had to fight her emotions, so as to not let any tears spill from her eyes as she listened to Priscilla’s pained pleas. Afraid her voice would crack, Ciaran whispered, “What are your mother and father’s names?”

“Velka. That’s Mother,” Priscilla replied, and she stopped shaking at the mere mention of her mother’s name. “And Father?” Ciaran pressed on, holding the child even tighter in her arms as she awaited the next response. “Mother doesn’t like to speak of Father, but he is a dragon. She told me he had ‘stripped himself of his scales,’ whatever she means by that, and devotes his life to experimentation,” Priscilla continued softly, to which Ciaran finally took notice of the small, white horns that sat on both sides of her forehead; she was beautiful, yet so clearly abandoned by the world, and most of all, her father. Ciaran thought back to the few times she had visited the library with Artorias, Ornstein, and Gough, and the single time they saw the sinister shape of a gigantic dragon residing in the upper level of the Archives. He had been reading a book—albeit rather small for his large hands—and displayed many signs of human intellect and capability, which had been quite the sight to behold for the four friends. Gwyn had also spoken of this creature—this odd dragon—and called him “Seath the Scaleless.” According to the Lord of Cinder, he had abandoned his own to aid Gwyn in his plan to fight the Ancient Dragons, but for reasons unbeknownst to everyone except for the Lord of Cinder, and the dragon himself. But that would mean that Priscilla is a result of Seath’s vile and sinful experiments, and her mother… was the other missing piece, Ciaran thought to herself, and she felt as though she were about to regurgitate her breakfast at the awful imagery that seeped into her mind as she determined the possibilities for Priscilla’s birth. That poor child. She was born into the world in such a cruel way. Ciaran smoothed the back of her hand over Priscilla’s forehead, gently brushing the pads of her fingers against the unique, baby horns that resided at the edges, and she grinned. “You are so beautiful, Priscilla. I’m sure your mother loves you dearly,” she whispered, before the sound of bullfrogs suddenly filled the air, spooking the young child as she let out a yelp.

Ciaran chuckled, and looked to the calm pond and the morning sun that reflected on its gentle ripples. A small waterfall lay just beyond an array of bushes to their left, to which Ciaran looked down at her stained cloth and at Priscilla’s own; the elegant, white fur had contracted some marks of dirt and pricks of leaves. Ciaran tapped the pad of her index finger against the child’s nose and hummed. “How about we go bathe in that waterfall over there? Our clothes could certainly benefit from a good soak.”

Priscilla’s green eyes widened, and the entirety of her face lit up with pure joy. “Really? We can stand beneath the warm water? Together? I’ve only ever bathed in ice-water,” she exclaimed, her tail now slithering around Ciaran’s lap as she giggled lightly. Ciaran let out her own chuckle as she pressed her forehead down against Priscilla’s own. “Of course we can. The water is quite relaxing, too,” she replied, and the two of them laughed happily in unison as Ciaran lifted the girl in the air. Priscilla’s large tail certainly added some weight to her otherwise light and petite frame, but the assassin didn’t mind one bit; if anything Ciaran grinned at the outrageous sight that now stood before her: a young child held happily in the arms of another, accompanied by a massive dragon tail hanging limply between her legs. It was rather odd, as it was adorable.

It did not take long for Ciaran to reach the waterfall—the one in where she had spent many of her own bathing sessions dreaming of her and Artorias standing beneath its soothing warmth, embracing one another as they bathed together after a long and hard-fought battle—and she made sure to carefully remove the fragile material of Priscilla’s gown, before removing her own blouse, braies, and undergarments.

“Are you ready?” Ciaran asked with a smile, as she held the child against her bare chest. Priscilla nodded with a toothy grin, and so, the two disappeared behind the lively falls of the Darkroot Basin.

--..–…–..--

About a half hour had passed since, and Ciaran remained holding Priscilla as she thoroughly washed her white locks, and carefully scrubbed down the child’s petite frame with her gentle hands. Priscilla had opened up a whole lot to Ciaran, and the young woman could not stop smiling once she thought about the hasty progress she had made with the girl.

“What about you, Miss Ciaran?”

The blonde assassin hummed in response, carefully running her hand through Priscilla’s silky locks as the warmth of the water trickled down against her skull. “What of me, Child?”

“Are you a mother?”

Ciaran finished drawing her fingers through her hair, before retreating them to her chest and clutching at her own blonde strands. She smiled. “I’m afraid not,” she began, gazing down longingly at the young girl standing before her. “But I wish it so.” Once again, she could not shake thoughts of Artorias holding her dearly beneath the falls, tenderly kissing at her neck as a child of their own stood between them, hugging both their legs as the three stood happier than ever in a bathing of pure love. Gods, she wished it so.

“I think you’d make a beautiful mother,” Priscilla replied, taking Ciaran by surprise when she latched on to her leg. “Mine would really agree,” the child added softly. Ciaran brought both her hands down to hug the young girl, as the slick of her hands trailed against the smooth and damp surface of Priscilla’s backside, complementing each surface nicely. “Would she, now?” the assassin said sweetly. Priscilla hummed in response.

But their sweet, little moment was cut short when the sound of hasty rustling in nearby bushes immediately yanked Ciaran back to her knightly instincts, and she wasted no time in moving Priscilla behind her slim frame, narrowing her brows as she watched the rushing water for something, or someone, to appear. But her scowl turned to shock as soon as the outline of a tall and slender male slowly walked beneath the running water.

“Artorias,” Ciaran breathed out, allowing Priscilla to retreat back to the assassin’s side and clutch tightly to her leg. “How are thou,” she began, “no. Why are thou here? I thought you’d returned to the barracks for supper,” she stated, continuing to hold Priscilla, even though there was no threat. Artorias looked just as shocked as his friend, yet his eyes did not waver; he remained staring into Ciaran’s azure gaze, and he stepped closer until he could reach for her forearm. Gently, he held it, and moved his lips to her earlobe as he whispered, “Who is this young one?” She did not know how to reply to her friend; she wanted her feelings for him to turn to anger and frustration—an eternal unforgiveness, but she could not bring herself to resent even a sliver of the man. And so, she replied.

“This lovely girl here is Priscilla. She’s lost her way, and is rather far from home.”

Artorias eased a brow at Ciaran’s answer, before the blonde narrowed hers—an indication that something wasn’t right. Immediately, he caught on, and nodded as he looked down to the child. “It is an honour to meet thou, Miss Priscilla,” Artorias began in a gentle voice, slowly reaching for her tiny hand and grinning, to which the child returned the smile and allowed him to take hold of her hand; he pressed a soft kiss to its backside, before bowing his head and introducing himself. “My name is Artorias, and I am a dear friend to Ciaran.” Priscilla nodded, still clutching to the young woman’s slick and shiny leg. Artorias’ hair had dampened significantly, due to the rushing water that the three stood behind, and his dark-blue dress shirt had seemingly darkened in colour so-much-so, that it now appeared akin to a shade of black.

“I somehow knew thou wouldst return here,” Artorias said softly.

Ciaran sucked in a sharp breath, before looking down to his wet blouse—which now snuggly hugged his slender, yet brawny frame as though he were a divine deity sent down from the clouded Heavens above. She knew she was staring, and so, she attempted to bring herself back to reality as she replied to her friend.

“It is one of the only places I deem ‘safe’ outside of Anor Londo.”

Priscilla suddenly let go of Ciaran’s leg, and walked between the two young adults. “Anor Londo?” she asked softly. “My mother has spoken of that place. She told me it’s where she spent most of her time before she had me.”

Ciaran’s eyes only softened and grew glassy at the child’s words, while Artorias’ face remained friendly towards the young girl, but behind his cerulean gaze, lay a haze of eerie assumptions and questions as to Priscilla’s upbringing, and the role her parents played in Anor Londo’s hierarchy.

“Anor Londo is the land we watch over,” Ciaran replied, bringing a hand to Priscilla’s head as she patted it softly. “We serve the royal family, the Family of Sunlight.” Artorias hummed in agreement, before kneeling down to meet Priscilla’s eyes—for he was far taller than his friend. “Yes,” he began slowly, “we protect everything in that land, and those that are connected to its golden shine. Which includes you, Little One.” He had taken immediate notice of the girl’s dragon-like tail and horns the moment he stepped foot behind the waterfall, but did not react negatively, for he knew better than to judge another being solely based on their appearance. Priscilla grabbed at her tail, which stood upwards in joy. “Really?” she asked. “You two are knights? And are here to protect me?”

Ciaran chuckled. “Well, we are training to become knights, but yes, we are rather skilled in the art of combat and protection.” She looked down at Artorias, who remained kneeling before the young girl. He was grinning—a genuine smile—as the two conversed lightly, atop the white noise of the calming downfall of the waterfall that sat behind them. The interaction between Priscilla and Artorias looked as though it flowed so naturally, and Ciaran could not contain the butterflies that fluttered about wildly in her lower abdomen; not only was he great with children, but his acceptance of others shone brilliantly, on top of his dashing looks when damp.

“Come,” Artorias let out as he reached for Priscilla’s tiny hand, once more. “Let’s get you dried and fed. Thou art surely starving.”

Ciaran ran her hands over her slick frame once more, making sure she had cleansed herself of all debris from the forest and her bloody encounter with the Great Feline, before catching Artorias’ eyes. He did not view Ciaran’s nude frame as an object of any sort, but instead, saw only his dear friend, and an opportunity to help her in a new mission that seemed to have suddenly arisen. The two knights-to-be trusted one another to the utmost extent, and felt more comfortable around each other than the other did around their own self. It was a simple fact, yet the two acknowledged and embraced it with loving arms. And so, he smiled, before looking back down towards the child.

“Do you like potatoes, Miss Priscilla?”