Work Text:
The Promise
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The Tomb of the Dark Moon possessed a strange charm, one that only the passage of centuries could grant.
Ornstein knew the ritual by heart. Every time his lord requested an audience, the path was the same.
Upon crossing the statue of his former lord, now turned into an illusory door, the Dragonslayer clenched his jaw. Not only because of the nostalgia that pierced him like a silent lance, but also because of the thick scent of incense accumulated over centuries and the dampness that emanated from the cold flagstones beneath his steps.
The air there was always heavy.
Upon reaching the ceremonial veil at the end of the hall, his body acted before his mind. Ornstein knelt almost by reflex, stopping at exactly the same point as always.
He had repeated that gesture for centuries.
Wait.
It had been a long time since he had seen the face of his lord, the Dark Moon, Gwyndolin. Ornstein preferred not to think too much about it. He had grown accustomed to receiving orders from a distance: through a fog gate or from the shadows of the chamber.
Today, however, his lord was present.
He knew it by the faint sound that broke the silence of the room.
The soft whisper of scales sliding over stone.
Gwyndolin took longer than usual to speak.
—You already know.
Ornstein kept his gaze fixed on the floor.
—The Chosen one passed the trial.
—I know.
He felt the exact moment his own illusion, bound to a fragment of his soul, disappeared.
—She also defeated Smough.
—I know.
A brief silence spread through the hall.
—She is human, —Gwyndolin said at last—. Undead. Small.
Ornstein did not respond.
—She procrastinates… She has spent weeks in Lordran without making any progress.
Gwyndolin hesitated a moment over what came next, but had no choice but to continue.
—She eats moss, Ornstein. Moss from the ground.
Silence reigned again, thick as the incense.
—She needs guidance… Your guidance.
Ornstein processed that as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been thrown down his back. He was grateful, as so many times before, for wearing his helmet; otherwise, his lord would have clearly seen the expression of absolute disgust reflected on his face.
—My lord is asking me to shepherd a human?
—I am asking you to protect the prophecy. The prophecy is currently the priority.
Ornstein remained still.
Stoic. Unmovable.
Inwardly, however, he was weathering the most silent crisis of the past centuries.
At what point had he fallen so low?
Ornstein, the legendary Dragonslayer… now reduced to herding the undead so they could fulfill their sole purpose: becoming kindling for the First Flame.
What would come next?
Using his lance as a toothpick to clean the teeth of giants?
Gwyndolin broke the uncomfortable silence with a sigh. Not just any sigh. A tired one.
At that hesitation, Ornstein could not help but raise his head slightly. He needed to confirm that this was not another of the many illusions that inhabited the cathedral. It had been centuries since he had witnessed a crack in a god’s composure.
He was stunned.
—Dragonslayer…
Gwyndolin finally spoke.
—I know you have served for centuries at my father’s side and at my family’s. After his sacrifice, your duty has been to watch over my safety and wellbeing. I have always been grateful for your service.
Ornstein bowed his head again.
—My lord, I am only fulfilling my purpose.
—I know.
The Dark Moon placed a pale hand upon the lion knight’s helmet.
Ornstein was thrown off by that gesture from his lord, lost his breath for an instant, but recovered a few seconds later.
—My Golden Lion, —Gwyndolin continued in a soft voice—. Allow me to propose a deal. Help me fulfill my prophecy… and I, personally, will consider your service to Anor Londo and its legacy concluded.
Ornstein choked on his own saliva.
His lord… was offering him freedom.
—Are you granting me my freedom, my lord?
—Correct, Dragonslayer.
—But… what does that mean?
—It means you will be free to leave, if you so wish.
—If I so wish?
Those words escaped almost as a whisper.
The idea of ceasing to serve the crown of Anor Londo… of being free… was overwhelming.
—However, my prophecy must be fulfilled. You must guide that undead. You must ensure the First Flame is preserved. Only then will I keep my word.
Ornstein bowed his head once more.
—Your wishes are my orders, my lord.
—Good. So be it.
Without another word, the Dark Moon withdrew toward the fog gate, leaving the Dragonslayer alone in the chamber.
Ornstein remained still for several seconds.
The conclusion of his service.
Freedom.
The word felt strange even to himself.
But the price was clear.
He had to find that undead.
Guide her.
And make sure that, when the moment came… she burned for the First Flame.
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The Little Plague
Ornstein descended the stairs toward the cathedral with his usual stride: heavy, precise, unhurried. His armor resonated with each step, as it had for centuries. He crossed the illusory wall into the hall that had witnessed his supposed defeat, avoiding looking at the statues of his former masters —especially that empty space that never failed to give him goosebumps— and was able to breathe naturally once he crossed the threshold of the gate and took in the vast entrance hall of the cathedral.
The giants and the silver knight, positioned by him with the same meticulous care as always, stood at attention without him having to ask.
—At ease. Dismissed.
He gave the order without needing to raise his voice.
The illusions vanished in silence, and Ornstein was left alone, holding his lance in one hand, with the posture of someone who has spent so long waiting that he can no longer tell the difference between waiting and simply existing.
He knew the undead was wandering through Anor Londo. He had seen her that morning running across the upper esplanade. At some point she would pass through the cathedral. It was only a matter of time, and Ornstein had spent centuries being an expert at waiting.
As was to be expected, the creature did not take long to appear.
First came the noise: quick, irregular footsteps. Then the unmistakable sound of someone rolling across a stone floor. And then, all at once, silence.
The aforementioned appeared at the far end of the entrance hall running, leaping with the recklessness of someone who has never read a warning sign in her life, and stopped dead in her tracks beneath the gate’s threshold upon noticing that the giants were gone along with their constant threat.
At the far end, a giant golden figure stood out like the ember of a lost soul in a darkened room.
She pulled out a pair of binoculars. She focused them.
And then a cry echoed through the entire cathedral.
—AH!
She jumped backward, only to disappear rolling behind the nearest pillar with the apparent hope that he had not seen her.
From her hiding spot, she peeked out. She confirmed the figure was still motionless. She advanced a few steps, rolled toward the next pillar, and peeked out again.
The knight observed the entire process with a patience that had taken centuries to develop and that was now being tested in ways he had not anticipated. He rubbed the bridge of his helmet as though it were an extension of his own face, with the purpose of releasing the tension.
It did not work.
Eventually, the undead closed the distance and planted herself in front of him. Perhaps not considering that at any point had not been the best idea. She simply arrived, looked up at him from somewhere around his chest, and stared at him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
The difference in size was, objectively, absurd.
—I had already defeated you!
The undead pointed at him brazenly, visibly stunned.
He did not respond immediately. He turned his head to look at her with the slowness of someone who is in no hurry, for time had long since ceased to mean anything. He clenched his jaw and spoke for the first time.
—What a disappointment.
The words reverberated with an echo that the empty hall took care to prolong longer than necessary.
—Lordran has spent centuries waiting for a Chosen… and they send this?
The girl’s expression traveled from stunned to indignant in approximately half a second. She puffed out her cheeks.
—Hey!! I rang BOTH bells!!
She showed him with her fingers the corresponding number, as if that were the definitive proof.
Ornstein did not respond to that. Neither was relevant.
—Listen. —The word landed like an order, without preamble—. You are an undead who made it this far. You have a purpose. You will link the First Flame. Without delay.
The girl blinked.
—…I beg your pardon?
—I will not repeat myself.
—It’s just… —she frowned, processing—. What if I don’t want to?
Silence.
Ornstein turned his head toward her considerably faster than usual. Not because the question deserved an immediate answer — but because in centuries, no one had had the audacity to respond, let alone contradict an instruction of his.
—…What?
—What if I don’t want to? —she repeated, with the same calm of someone explaining something obvious—. Are you going to force me?
The silence that followed was of a different kind. Shorter. Tenser.
—It is not optional.
—Is that a no?
The muscle in Ornstein’s jaw tensed. He opened his mouth to continue, but the impertinent one interrupted him, looking at him with completely genuine curiosity, as if she had just noticed something important.
—Hey… how on earth can you see with that thing on your head?
—… —Ornstein was left speechless at the absurd, ignorant, foolish question.
The undead continued:
—That thing, the helmet, —she repeated, pointing at it—. Where are your eyes supposed to be? There are no little holes, let alone openings. Unless you see through the mouth of that monster, I simply don’t understand it.
She began making exaggerated movements, trying to figure out the enigma on her own.
The silence that followed was the longest of the afternoon.
Ornstein could not take it anymore.
He turned on his heel in a single motion, clean and final, as though the conversation had been closed by decree. The red feather swept through the air behind him. He climbed the stairs without hurrying, for hurrying would have implied that something here deserved his urgency.
Step by step.
Heavy.
Dignified.
With what little tolerance he had left.
“The deal never mentioned that the aforementioned undead would be insufferable,” he thought as he made his way back into the hall of statues.
The girl simply watched him leave, not without adding one last remark.
—They were valid questions! —she shouted at his back—. Both of them were valid questions!
She was left alone in the enormous cathedral, surrounded by columns and the echo of her own voice. She looked around, then toward where the bitter knight had disappeared, and crossed her arms with the quiet satisfaction of someone who felt that the conversation had, in general terms, gone quite well.
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