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Gough did not perceive himself as being trapped.
Truly, he did not perceive much of anything, not anymore, not since those humans stuffed his helmet with resin. Perhaps long ago, he could have removed it and scraped it out, saved his failing vision for but a few more years instead of the abrupt ending his eyes gained. Alas, it was so long ago now and his other senses had long since adjusted to compensate for him.
He knew he rested atop the colosseum, listening to Artorias’ neverending slaughter, driven by the Abyss to his base instincts. Surely, he could simply heft himself over the edge and land firmly on his feet, but his time of adventuring was long over. His bow gathered dust beside him, the blessed string still strong but of no more use.
No longer was he a great hawk, shooting down dragons from afar. He was left to rot, a hound with no more hares to hunt. The great Kalameet flew overhead, yet he had no urge nor order to kill the beast.
Yet, he did not perceive himself as a trapped hound. Options may be limited to him, but he was content to continue his carving. The sun continued to shine upon him, warming his skin and Soul alike. Ciaran occasionally made herself known, sitting by him and telling him of how Oolacile continued to rot.
He may not be trapped and neither was Ciaran, but their poor friend was. Artorias so rarely slept, howling like a mad hound, his greatsword cutting down cursed beings day in and day out. The poor man was not granted rest, not ever since he’d returned from that dark place.
Ciaran confided in him, laid beside him on cool nights, whispering how she wished for Artorias to rest. At one time, perhaps Gough would be able to shoot down the kind soul, but no longer. The Hornet herself could never kill her dearest friend, not even were she still at her peak.
Here, in this past Oolacile, they all waited to die. One day, the little assassin would enter her own dreamless sleep. One day, the giant archer would take that step towards death. One day, the wild hound would be put down.
Until that day, Gough continued carving his little pates. He whispered words into them and let them echo within, his own words responding at a gentle rattle. Ciaran’s soft laugh echoed beside him, eternally unable to be caught within a pate. No matter how he asked, she was still evasive, determined to not allow her words to become as trapped as his.
The sun rose and set, warm on his skin and cooling with the nights. The rain washed away dust and dirt alike, the sound echoing on his stuck helmet, ringing in his ears. The growing Abyss would one day reach for him, surely, but today was not that day, neither was tomorrow.
One day, Artorias’ howl rang out again, echoing across the stone. His sword rattled and hit the stones and a voice cried out in pain. A new voice, dragged down into this place, battling the poor hound.
Time and again, the newcomer came back, not truly dying. This must be one of the Undead he had heard tale of - Souls trapped in an unending cycle of undeath, memories of their past lives lost. What a curious, stubborn creature this one was. Artorias was certainly no pushover in life and there was little to believe he would be any kinder now, corrupted as he was.
Eventually, the howling came to a stop and silence cast its long shadow over the colosseum. It was over, then. Artorias was finally granted the chance to rest, once and truly.
Armor rattled softly as the Undead climbed the stairs and Gough’s ears pricked at the sound of his door unlocking. They slowed their pace, breathing heavily behind their helmet. The hinges creaked awfully as the door opened and he shook off the wood shaving from his carving.
“Hello?”
He tilted his head towards them, listening to them. “Hello, little one. Undead, I take it?”
They must’ve nodded for their armor rattled in such a way. “Yes. Who might you be?”
“I am simply Gough. Whatever are you doing in place as this?”
They shuffled, walking closer to him. “I’m helping Princess Dusk. She’s trapped here and I wish to free her.”
Ah, a loyal, gentle soul, then. He nodded in understanding. “She is a gentle soul, indeed. Tell me, did you slay the knight Artorias?”
A moment’s hesitation, armor shuffling as they stepped back from him, closer to the door. “I did. Were you… friends with him?”
Gough’s hands didn’t slow or stop, continuing their steady carving, dusting off the shavings. “Once, but that time is long gone. I fear the friend I once knew is long gone now, however.”
“Ah… I’m sorry to hear it. If it’s any comfort, I tried to not… well I - I tried to make it quick. I hope he can rest easy now.”
He ran his thumb over the face, feeling the odd portions. “I do believe he will. If you have need for anything, ask away. Limited as my wares may be, hopefully something will be of help to you.”
The little Undead did take some of his wares, blowing through the pates and making a soft, delighted sound at Gough’s voice through the wood. They lingered for a while by him, resting and talking with him. He was happy to listen, ears primed for the new voice and new tales.
Eventually, however, they left him, steps loud and uncaring down the stairs. With no danger ahead, they had little care to hide their noises from the Abyss-infected residents of the once lovely Oolacile. What a delightful little guest. If only Gough had something more to offer them, he would’ve been happy to offer it to them.
Strangely, he felt liquid drip down his cheek, snaking under his helmet and dripping down onto his hand. There was no ache in his bones of incoming rain, only the softening of the sun’s unforgiving rays upon his skin. No heavy clouds hung over him, no rain pattered atop his helmet.
In the cool night, Ciaran stepped out onto his tower. “Gough.”
He bowed his head in greeting towards her. “Ciaran. How fares our guest?”
Her hand landed on his bent knee, the leather of her gloves still soft and gentle. “They are well, a curious creature indeed, but kind. They allowed me to take Artorias’ Soul.”
A smile softened his tone. “They sounded kind. I am pleased my judgement was correct after all.”
Ciaran stayed silent for a long moment, her hand lingering on him. The warmth of her own Soul, paired once again with their dear wolf knights’ pulsed gently. Three Souls, blessed by Lord Gwyn, reunited, even in such a crumbling state. ‘Twas a shame the fourth had long left them all, chasing after his Prince.
Gough set his tools down, rubbing his rough hands together slowly. “Tell me of what haunts you, Ciaran.”
Her voice was soft, almost inaudible to his ears. “I think I would quite like to rest.”
The day had come, then. “I would not ask you to stay.”
“I know you wouldn’t, my dear friend. I will lay Artorias’ Soul to rest and find a quiet place for myself.”
He moved his hand slowly, careful as he rested his finger atop her hand. “You have long since earned your peace, Ciaran. There is no greater honor than finding peace within the dying light.”
She placed her hand atop his finger, so much smaller than his own but no less kind and familiar. “I will miss you, Gough. I do hope we find each other once again. You have been an invaluable friend.”
He nodded, hoping he was looking at her. “I believe we will, Ciaran. Go along, I will not ask to keep you here any longer. Rest alongside your wolf.”
Ciaran’s light laugh was the last whisper of her Gough heard. No longer would she come to visit, to check on him and tell him of the wild Artorias running through the infected townsfolk. He was well and truly alone.
Yet, still, he did not feel trapped. He could leave anytime he so pleased.
For now, he would wait for this one Undead, to provide help until they, too, decided to leave him.