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Welsknight can sing, that's not a secret, but it is always a surprise to find out exactly how well.
He has a pretty voice,
Those who have heard can agree.
His voice booms in the silence,
Those who have heard have come to find.
He has a sad voice,
Those who have heard come to realize.
Wels don't sing a lot,
It's a sad realization.
Unprompted at least
He has sung for shenanigans
He sat at other Hermits' sides, while they sang and played and danced. His voice blending perfectly with everyone else.
Wels sings,
He sings while playing
He sings distractedly while doing mundane tasks
He sings laughing, surrounded by his family
but there was always a sadness to it.
Those who know find it easy to recognize.
The Kingdomcraft crew already knew that Wels sometimes just goes away, to the middle of nowhere, hoping to not be found.
No one ever forgets their first time finding Wels surrounded by fire singing his lungs out.
There's a grief that can't be spoken
His silver armor red in the blaze light.
There's a pain goes on and on
His face streaked with tear tracks
Empty chairs at empty tables
Alone surrounded by fire
Now my friends are dead and gone
He sounds so sad
When asked about it, he just says it’s an old thing, tradition. Tradition from where? Wels’ past is a mystery and if it depends on him, it will stay like that.
Here they talked of revolution
In Hermitcraft this habit didn't change
Here it was they lit the flame
One day you find the knight singing surrounded by fire,
Here they sang about tomorrow
In the next he is happy, laughing, building, like nothing happened.
And tomorrow never came
He doesn't talk about it.
…
Wels walks alone
From the table in the corner
Through rivers, plains and mountains.
They could see a world reborn
Looking for the place to do his most sacred ritual. He sighs looking over his shoulders, heavy steel boots stop clanking in their poor attempt of following him.
And they rose with voices ringing.
"What do you want Hels? I am not in the mood for dumb traps today." He says with anger, netherite sword in hands, ready to fight if needed.
And I can hear them now!
"I am not here to fight today." The warped voice of himself speaks through the defective clone.
The very words that they had sung
"As if I would believe you, all you want is destruction." The original knight scoffs.
Became their last communion
The wrong knight snarls with rage."I am a Wels' knight too!"
On this lonely barricade
"THIS ISN'T YOUR NAME! I AM WELSKNIGHT. You are nothing more than just a pathetic copy of a man." He snarls back, sword pointing enraged at the other man.
At dawn
"I have all your memories Welsknight, both of us know this isn't your name too." Hels says threateningly.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
"They were my friends too, you know? You are not the only one grieving here." The dark clad knight whispers, but in the silence of the cliff, Wels is more than able to hear it.
That I live and you are gone
"I am the last of the Knights of Wels, I have to carry the legacy alone." Wels put his sword down, voice defeated.
There's a grief that can't be spoken
Wels go back to walking, wordless, Hels follow him, both of them know this ritual like the weight of their armor.
There's a pain goes on and on
"Here?"
"Here."
Phantom faces at the window
"I brought wheat blocks and empty iron armors." Hels offers his white flag.
Wels looks at him, flint and steel in hands "Did you engrave the-"
Hels interrupt "Obviously I engraved the armors, what do you think of me- do not respond to that question. "
Wels snorts loudly
Phantom shadows on the floor
Like a well oiled machine the two knights position the fake armored bodies on the ground.
"Do you want to…?" Wels offers an olive branch in the shape of a flint steel to his counterpart.
Empty chairs at empty tables
"Let's do it together…" Hels looks at Wels eyes... "I can't sing, not with the glitch in my voice." His deep unnatural voice is filled with sadness, yearning for a joy that doesn't belong to him anymore.
Where my friends will meet no more
Wels’ eyes widen, he can’t imagine a life without singing.
“Here.” He puts the flint steel in the other knight's hand. “You can clap.”
He says resolutely. “Not all Wels’ knights were able to sing, you remember?”
Oh my friends, my friends
“Yea, I do.” Hels says smiling, fire cracking in his hands, igniting the fake wheat bodies.
Don't ask me what your sacrifice was for
The two knights make music surrounded by fire.
Empty chairs at empty tables
The two last Wels’ knights
Where my friends will sing no more
Not alone anymore.