A storm brews.
I felt wind picking up last night, and didn't think much of it. But now that I'm staring at an approaching tempest on the northern horizon, I'm realizing it's out of the ordinary.
It's been fair weather in Bellard since I arrived. The smoke and scents of death conflicted that statement, but honestly, sunny skies and timid gales were all that I knew; it honestly felt like perfect days to go to the beach. The waters here are dark, and violent; but spending a day on a sandy shoreline in this hot summer climate sounds wonderful.
Anything sounds wonderful right now.
I stand in the courtyard, trying to keep my cool, as an entire army watches me. Nearly 3,000 Morne soldiers, standing in sharp rows and all standing at ease, partially bathed in the sun's rising rays. They barely fit within the castle walls, taking up every space available.
It's early morning, the day of the battle, and I can't be any less excited. We may have a plan; I may have faith. But I learned believing in something only gets someone so far. Alas, we've planned all we can, prepared all we can; prayed all we could.
What happens next is an outcome only God knows.
In the rising wind, sending lone howls through the destroyed battlements and heavy weaponry along Morne's ramparts, everyone has amassed. 3,000 soldiers, a lord, a warden, a wolf, and a Tarnished with his accompanying light that everyone's learned can talk.
Nearly a thousand soldiers and footsoldiers are unaccounted for; Trey has defected to the other side. Irina is no more… and Dalia has failed to show.
Callum is here, though the Albinauric merely watches from the keep, along with the other servants of the castle. Their job is to hide, and secret away any important records and relics through the back door in case Morne falls. They need to preserve the legacy, the stories and tales of a time long before now.
The citizens of Bellard were told to hide; a few soldiers ran out to spread the word before the sun rose. They need to stay out of this, they would only die in vain.
The entire city may become a battlefield once again, and I can see it in all the soldiers' eyes:
They're afraid.
It's not the fear that drives away man's hubris, not the fear that steals the heart and clouds the mind. It's the fear, the acceptance, that they may perish today. It's the internal struggle as one overcomes their carnal desires, all in the name of a greater cause.
It's the fear one can only see in a soldier's eyes: They're ready to die.
As for the warden, Edgar stands atop one of the destroyed trebuchets, planting his silverly greaves atop the dragon-burned and blood-soaked timber. Neil Haight stands a step behind him and to the side, wearing his metal mask and standing as still as a statue. He looks tired; Edgar's eyes carry a fatigue that his anger resists. Everyone has a slump in their shoulders, with wavering heads and groaning legs.
This entire army practically screams "ragged".
As for Blaidd and I, we stand near the trebuchet, off-center from everyone's attention. While few still despite my existence, and Blaidd's presence catches more than a handful of looks, there is a general sense that Morne can use all the help they can get. We're the outsides, both hated for differing reasons, so we won't stand beside the Warden. But we both play major roles in the coming conflict; our attendance here is of the utmost importance.
Such is the state of Castle Morne.
"Friends."
Edgar begins, projecting his voice out to the organized mob. His voice carries remorse and despair, and the building breeze seems to strangulate his words. He's a grieving father, standing before everyone today merely because it's his duty.
"Brothers. Soldiers. All of you. I thank you, for standing before me today."
His grisly beard flexes with each accented word, the halberd he has staked up beside him lets its tassels flow freely in the wind.
"Your bravery, your loyalty. It is more than I can ever ask for, and above anything I'm worthy of. You all stand here today, knowing I'm a failure of a warden, and a failure of a father; and yet you stay. So, I say it again: I thank you for choosing to stand beside me in battle this day."
Silence is his answer; never did I think 3,000 could ever be so quiet. Their spears stagnant along their sides, banners of Morne's crest -That single sword with other blades branching out and wrapping around it like sharp vines- are raised aloft, and left to flap in the gales.
Smoke from the fires in Bellard carry on overhead, choking the upper half of the sunlight and falling like grey fog over everyone's faces.
"I am not long for speeches, and I care little for words. So I will be frank."
He almost snarls.
"Our enemy, those cowards; they far outnumber us. They have the numbers; they have the initiative; they have the advantage."
He raises his voice further; he stands proud.
"But I will tell you what they do not have, even if they dug into one another's chest's."
He slams a closed fist over his breastplate, his eyes fierce and determined. He practically spits the words.
"They don't have the Heart."
A cacophonous noise rings out in the courtyard; I think for a moment we're being attacked. But it's a noise of boots, shafts, and armor. It comes from almost every soldier, and I can feel the very vibrations send a shiver down my spine.
It's a salvo.
"They are spineless. They are selfish, and there is no greater fool than they."
Another salvo.
"They live like rats, fight like snails, and they think they have the upper hand?"
Another salvo, mixed with cheers.
"They hide from a real challenge! They cower away from a fair fight! They desire Morne, but they believe we will merely hand it to them!"
Another salvo, the cheers grow in number.
"These misbegotten believe themselves warranted, when it was they who betrayed the hero of Morne!"
The salvo gives way to cheers; Melina wavers at my side.
"These misbegotten, who were rebels to the first Elden Lord, and who were traitors to the second. Do they believe such transgressions ever fade!? They seek vengeance, but do they not deserve their own comeuppance!?"
I don't know what any of that means, but the soldiers roar.
The hero of Morne…
The creator of that grafted blade, right?
Yes, a sword made of the many blades of a lost clan, created by a blacksmith and artisan millennia ago.
Do you know who they were?
No, it was from a time far before mine.
The roars and cheers down; Edgar looks satisfied. His eyes look almost dead, but he grins.
"We are the hero's inheritors; we stand here today to protect his legacy."
He thrusts a single finger, pointing northward toward the Erdtree; toward the enemy.
"They desire to take everyone we love, everything we care for, and leave nothing in return... Morne! What is your answer!?"
The roars of approval echo about us, like we were in a packed stadium.
Blaidd snickers to himself next to me. I tilt my head his way.
"Know anything about this hero?"
Blaidd nods, watching the soldiers like how a bounty hunter would to a crowd of vagrants. Indifferent in professions, but they all speak the same language.
"Aye. A lone man that battled the armies of Leyndell, and Godfrey himself, on this peninsula long ago." I can barely her him. "Nearly fought him to a standstill, though the battle supposedly tilted in Godfrey's favor toward the end."
"How so?"
Blaidd shakes his long head.
"Records of that time are scarce, things like names and descriptions are speculative at best. But they do say the Hero of Morne was a royal seamster. He's attributed to the creation of grafting, and they say he bent a knee when the battle came to a close."
He shrugs.
"It's old history now, hardly something to worry about. It was a time before the Rune of Death was bound, so it's hardly a possibly that this hero still lives."
Blaidd seems to notice something.
"Oi, the warden's looking this way."
I turn my head; Edgar's staring right at me.
It's not a hateful expression, but it's hardly friendly. He takes my gaze as a que, and he turns back to his army, raising his voice to quell the shouts.
"The enemy may attack at any moment, we must be ready."
The shouts die down, and just like that, 3,000 people are dead silent again.
"If we all die, then it will not be for a foolish plan. We will all have our part to play."
He looks my way again.
"Tarnished Lance."
Everyone's eyes single out on me… I never wanted to avert my gaze so badly before.
So, I look to Edgar.
He motions me toward him…
My first step is far from stable.
Like getting up for an audition, leaving my mind reeling.
The heck is going on?
I have a guess…
But?
In the time I have known you, I know you will be adverse. So, I will not say.
I clamber up atop the trebuchet base, walking awkwardly to stand beside Edgar. I think for a moment that I misinterpreted him; maybe I was supposed to join the crowd or something. I'd hate to be pretentious, and I'd die in embarrassment if he kicks me off now.
But he clamps a metal hand over my shoulder, drawing his head close.
"Apologies Lance, but please, tell them your plan."
He mutters; his eyes say something more.
I feel my heart sink seeing it.
Give them faith. His eyes say. Convince them.
He carries that same look as well; he's prepared to die. No matter what he says to his men, no matter how high their spirits soar, they can all feel it. It took them everything to repel the enemy thus far, and Morne has only weakened since. Everyone standing in front of me; the tired warden and silent lord standing beside me, they all know:
Victory may be impossible.
Defeat may be the only outcome.
They will die fighting, but they will die.
They will not win, not unless a miracle happens.
He wishes you to help incite them.
…
I hate public speaking. Holy crap, I hate it with a passion. I can be outspoken, can shout things if I want. But as I turn to this army that stands before me, my throat locks up.
If I walk off now, the embarrassment will actually kill me. If I stutter or freeze, I'd wish someone to just slit my throat to get it over with. It's worse since I didn't prepare anything; I don't even know what to say.
That. That right there.
What?
You are making light of the situation.
No, I'm pretty sure I'm about to have a heart attack.
But it is not because of the coming battle, it is for another reason.
Yeah, but that's only because I'm not taking this seriously.
No. Do not tell yourself that. You are quick to loathe yourself, you always have been. Despite your thoughts, you are capable. Despite the weakness you think you have, look at all that you have done.
I've failed, time and time again. It sickens me.
I'm standing here because I wanted to feel important; it's revolting to me.
Irina is dead because of me. The Limgrave Horde is here because of me. Agheel is here because of me.
I'm not worthy to stand up here.
Lance, you are quick to blame yourself. You think that you are not afraid because you are not taking this seriously.
I'm not.
That is not what I believe.
Oh yeah? Then what do you believe?
I believe that you are afraid to speak, because you have faith.
…
You do not fear the battle to come, because you believe victory is possible. You have time to think about speaking in front of others, because you know Morne is not yet out of time.
Just a few hours ago, you wanted us to leave.
That was then, and this is now. The situation has changed. Like you, I have faith, faith that Morne can achieve victory.
…
Share it with them, share that faith you hold where even you cannot see. Open your mouth, and say what you believe.
3,000 men, against an untold number. A dragon, so large it can blot out the sky. An approaching storm, and bravery mixed with fear in everyone's eyes.
I turn to face them, swallowing. My heart is beating out of my chest; I never was good with words.
"I once heard a tale." I shout, my voice echoing off the high castle walls back toward me. "A tale so grand, that it could even be called legendary."
Their attention's on me; they listen intently. Hate is directed my way, alongside distrust and malice. But there is something else I never expected to see, as these soldiers watch a mere kid stand before them, holding fast even when he looks ready to run away.
I see hope.
"There was a small force, consisting of a mere 300 men." My words start off choppy, as if I was droning the story on. "Against an invading army, numbering in the hundreds of thousands. The army's king claimed he could take a kingdom within a day; claimed his archers could blot out the very sun with their arrows. He did not fear anything, and when he saw a mere 300 men bar his way, he laughed."
But as I continue, my words become more fluid. I find my footing, the shaking in my legs cease. My heart is gripped, but not by fear. It's gripped by conviction.
"But for two days and two nights, on a narrow coastal path, these 300 men… These mere, 300 men; they fought. They did not just fight for their country, they did not just fight for their ideals, or their legacy; they fought for their friends, for their families. They fought for their wives, their sons, their daughters. Their brothers, their sisters, their worrying lovers. They fought with everything on the line, and so they fought like dragons."
I grit my teeth, closing my hands into fists.
"They were outnumbered almost 100 to 1, and yet, for two days and two nights… every hour, every minute, every blood-soaked second, they fought. They halted the invading king and his legions in their tracks, for two days and two nights, stacking the bodies high enough to create the very walls they hid behind when the arrows that blotted out the sun came. They slayed any and all that tried to opposed them, halted any and all that would hope to overtake them. And when the king sent his best soldiers, the elitest of the elite; those 300 men laid them low."
I almost smile, remembering the rest of the story. It applies almost too well here.
"After two days and two nights, they were defeated, and yet, it was not because they were bested. One of their own betrayed them, allured by the riches and appetizing promises the invading king gave him. He told the army of a path to get around those 300 men, and he consigned all his former comrades to their deaths. They were attacked from both sides, fought to the very last man… and they were defeated."
I fall silent, taking in a deep breath.
"But not before word of the 300's actions were told in every ear, heard on every street, and written in every manuscript. Not before their story would be told to every child, in every school, about the monumental odds they overcame. Their bravery, their dignity, even in the face of the most impossible of odds; it gave their allies time, all too valuable time. The kingdom those 300 men protected -their wives and sons and daughters- they amassed an army, instigating their allies and neighbors and acquaintances to war. They gave battle to the invading army, and repelled that cowardly king back to the twisted country he came from."
I stare everyone down.
"On this day, we will not be those 300; we will not sacrifice ourselves this day. We will be more."
The noise almost makes me jump, as boots and spear endcaps slam into the ground in unison, and as closed fists strike against hardened chests like the drums of an army.
A salvo.
Thump.
…
Holy crap.
I regain my steam.
"We will not just hold off the enemy; we will defeat them!"
Thump.
"We will not just let the Godrick soldiers scamper back home; we will destroy them!"
Thump.
"We will not just make the misbegotten pay; we will make them regret this day!"
Thump thump.
Two salvos, like the heartbeat of some sleeping behemoth. Call it mob mentality, call it peer pressure; call it whatever you want. Whatever it is… this feeling… It makes me want to answer their call, makes me want to heighten it further. Makes me want to drive them to see only red, and I feel that same fire grow in me. It is a strange feeling, and with it, my fears melt away.
"We will not let our traitor walk free; we will murder him!"
Thump thump.
"We will not let their leader run home; we will burn him!"
Thump thump.
"We will be more!"
Thump thump.
I fish the scroll Ranni gave me out of the satchel at my side, adjusting my blue shirt for a scarf so it hangs lower down on my neck.
"This is the key to our victory." I hold it aloft. "You all are the key to our victory. The warden is the key, that wolfman and I are the key. Lord Haight is the key, and the spirit that glows beside me is the key."
I send it home.
"We, are the key to our victory!"
Thump thump thump.
Two salvos, then a third.
"We will fight like dragons, we will fight like kings. We will fight like gods. Everyone, each and every one of you, give your all!"
Thump thump thump.
I look back toward Edgar. Drawing my voice down. Not for fear, but for respect.
"Do not let what Irina loved be destroyed, desecrated, ran underfoot by those who mocked her name. Castle Morne will not end this day. It will not be forgotten."
Thump thump thump.
Three salvos, like distant thunder that drives even the most dangerous of beasts away.
"I will handle the dragon. Blaidd will handle the Bloodhound Knight. Our paths may not cross on the battlefield, but… may your bravery bear fruit. The warden will lead you; he will guide you to your enemy. Give him your strength, and he will give you your victory. May we fight like the 300. May we fight with everything on the line. Soldiers…"
I don't want to be pretentious; I don't want to assume. If I did…
"…Brothers. Fight. Fight and live. Live to fight another day."
Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump.
The salvos come, and come, and come. Over and over like a raging heartbeat. It echoes along the walls, resists the coming storm, and matches to my own heartbeat.
With it, comes a chant.
Nothing legible, nothing one could discern as any recognizable word.
A simple noise, a simple chant.
They cheered for the warden, because they respect him. They wished to applaud his bravery.
But for me… they want to share in my conviction.
They don't see me as a power higher than them, they think of me as what I am. A boy, a young lad. A kid who merely wields a sword and talks to spirits, might as well be the weakest here; I know for a fact all of them could easily beat me in arm wrestling.
So for they, when their weakest stands before them, inciting them to war, how do they answer?
"Hoh, hoh, hoh, hoh!"
Their voices; 3,000 voices.
In beat with their stomps, following the tune of their fists against their chests.
Their weapons raising and lowering, glittering in the light of the morning sun that begins to rise above the eastern ramparts.
"Hoh! Hoh! Hoh! Hoh! HOH!"
A month ago, I was a kid holed up in my room. I had little friends, no future, no importance to speak of. If I were suddenly sent here, I'd definitely wet my pants.
But here, now, with war and death on the horizon, I raise a closed fist up high, bellowing the loudest I've ever before.
How far I've come.
"BROTHERS! SOLDIERS! MORNE! TO BATTLE!"
It didn't take much longer for the enemy to come.
Mere minutes after I finished my little speech, I find myself standing outside Morne's walls, facing the city of Bellard.
The city, for the first time, is something of a ghost town. Even when the enemy did retreat in past days, there were stragglers wandering the streets. They are gone as well now, holing up in their homes, waiting for the inevitable. It'd be safer if they were all within Morne's walls, but if the enemy attacked when such a move was taking place, it would be chaos.
Besides that, there's not an enemy in sight.
There's always the chance they changed their minds after discovering Blaidd and I watching them last night, but I assume the misbegotten aren't too keen on waiting. They'll come today; something tells me that.
As for us, Morne's forces stands as a wall, with Edgar, Blaidd, and I at the front. Blaidd left for a while after I finished shouting at the soldiers; as to where, I haven't got a clue. Whatever the case, he's back, and he sticks to me like glue now.
And as for me, I'm wearing new attire.
I got replacement chain mail, with minor shoulder pads made of leather. The pads are not for defense; gambesons and heck, even crappy plate armor would protect me better.
They're more to help fasten the new surcoat I wear.
A fabric covering that embodies Morne; a black and white tunic that carries on to reach my knees. The same wear everyone else here has. It's a little strange, with the color below the belt being entirely black with a slight golden embroidery on the edges, opting the white color to be apart of a second layer beneath. It sets me apart from the soldiers, sets me apart from Edgar… but I'm overjoyed to wear it.
"This is for you. Our seamster finished it just last night." Drew said, when he handed the surcoat over.
I just received the new chain mail, and I was messing with the leather shoulder pads when he presented it to me. I was confused at first, and the soldier grinned at that.
"You're one of us for now. Can't have us mistaking you for an enemy in the heat of battle, eh?"
It's what a surcoat's main purpose serves; letting allies tell each other apart when recognizing faces becomes a luxury. Attack anything that's not black and white, and you're golden.
But it serves another purpose as well, and the satisfaction I saw in Drew's eyes told me I was worthy of it.
Wearing this, I now represent Morne. I show my loyalty, my conviction; my belief in the cause. I wear it with pride, even when I still have lingering thoughts I shouldn't deserve something like this. I never thought I could hold a simple piece of fabric with such high regard.
It's not just a shirt; it's a symbol.
They didn't make one for Blaidd, which is understandable. It would be silly if they did though; he just arrived, and he's towering to boot. Still, he stands here all the same, looking like he's vying to start.
"Tarnished Lance."
I slightly start at Edgar's voice; he doesn't look at me, simply facing ahead with his halberd in hand. He has a helmet I've never seen before tucked under his free arm; he holds the thing like how Roard did it; like a professional player holding a basketball.
"I may never be capable of forgiving you, for Irina's death."
His remorse had begun to fade in his eyes, as he put himself into the adequate mindset for what is to come. Now, he looks like how I first met him, a stone-cold face, matched with dangerous and determined eyes.
"But I thank you, for all that you have done for us."
I say nothing, he continues.
"Morne may not have survived, had you not arrived. You have done great deeds on our behalf, and you have yet to ask anything in return. If we survive this, then I ask you look to us for anything you need."
"I don't need anything. Your thanks are enough."
Edgar grunts.
"No, I insist. It would take weight off my conscience. Wherever your path as a Tarnished takes you, keep in mind we will always take you in. I'm sure Lord Haight carries the same sentiment."
I feel something warm in my chest.
"By the by." He says, looking about me. "Where has your spirit friend gone?"
People are able to hear her voice.
I don't know if it was gradual, or if something triggered the change. But mere hours before, when Blaidd and I entered that room that smells of Rowa Berries, Melina started talking away.
Many questions were raised, some were answered with her being able to speak.
Edgar raised an excellent question, asking why Melina had begun to start talking now.
She doesn't know the reason, I sure don't.
Trying to explain that she's growing something of a body because I'm getting stronger sounded like a mouthful to try and explain, so Melina simply told him:
"I did not feel the need to."
Whether it's because she's a spirit or not, Edgar didn't look satisfied with that answer. But he relented, listening to the plan Melina told everyone with a stern gaze. All the while, he would occasionally glance my way, as if hoping to learn something from me. But if I did give anything away, it wasn't anything useful to him.
For some reason, Edgar took quite an interest in Melina after that.
"Don't know." I finally say, looking about. "She could be anywhere nearby. Might be trying to sneak a peek on the enemy."
Nothing of the sort; I have seen nothing.
So, you were looking then.
…Yes. I was.
Edgar looks somewhat surprised at that.
"She can go that far then?" He looks me over. "You do realize the advantages that lie with that, yes?"
I nod.
"Yeah, though it's more limited than you probably think."
...
...
...
Silence passes between us for a few minutes… I speak up.
"What will you do? After all this?" I ask.
Might as well talk about the future; it calms my heart, at least.
Edgar thinks on that in the howling wind; his eyes cast skyward, to the storm that encroaches on Bellard's outer walls.
"Well, should my lord accept it, I wish to go on a journey. If my life serves any remaining purpose, then I hope to put it to good use. I will find the bastards that took my daughter from me, and I will make them pay."
I look down at the seal in my left hand, bound around my wrist on that thin chain.
His daughter…
Edgar seems to catch onto my gaze.
"Keep it. I am sure she would've wanted you to."
I thumb one of the metallic sides of that forlorn "V" shape, feeling a stinging sensation in my heart.
She really is gone.
"Are you sure?"
"My daughter rarely took kindly to strangers. She used to hide in the keep whatever we had visitors."
Nostalgia clings to the edges of his words, but he quickly tears them away.
"If she gave it to you, then I will respect her decision."
It hits me now, as I avert my gaze away from that seal. Irina and Edgar never spoke face-to-face while I was here. She stood over his corpse, and he read her letter; but they never got to talk again. The last he saw his daughter's face, was when he originally sent her away, secreted her out of the castle so that she may escape. His last memory of her, was her crying, tearing his heart in two, before that door to the secret entrance closed in front of him, severing him from ever seeing his daughter again.
For more reasons than one, that hurts me to think about.
"I hope you give her killers a taste of hell."
Edgar breaks his gaze on the storm, almost falling into a small smile.
"That, we agree on."
Our conversation falls flat, as the sound of distant howls and furling of banners become the only thing I hear.
After this, where will we go?
…I'd guess back to Limgrave. There's nowhere else to go.
You will not stay here?
I can't see her light; she could be anywhere a hundred yards away from me. Maybe she's on the rooftops of the nearby houses, still watching for the enemy.
Maybe she's further down the street.
Maybe, just maybe, she's sitting on the edge of Morne's northern ramparts, watching this small army from above. Her burn-scarred hands planted lightly atop the cold stone, slender legs dangling off the edge. Her disillusioned gaze keeping an eye on me, spindly tattoo practically glowing in her soft face's shadow, as the sun rises above the eastern horizon.
I won't. In the time we've been together, we never stayed in the same place for long. I feel like we're something akin to Kalé: Wanderers in these lands.
The Erdtree is dead ahead at this angle, so far away that the atmosphere and rolling black clouds threaten to obscure it from my eyes. But it glows in the morning sun, taking on a view as if it were the moon in its surrounding darkness.
That direction, toward that tree; north is my destination.
We've gone on this side quest for long enough; I've yet to forget our promise. I guess the only way forward is Godrick's Castle. I still hold my reservations taking on that place alone…
But I know if I have you, I can pull it off.
I can't feel her emotions or hear her own thoughts, but I sense a small smile spread across her face, as she watches me from above like a guardian angel.
Then, after we succeed here; I look forward to our travels together.
Likewise.
Blaidd sniffs the air beside me; he unintentionally licks his chaps. I find it a strange gesture, and it makes me wonder just how much part-wolf is he.
Not that I'd ask.
Maybe he is a wolf first, and simply walks like and speaks like a man, second. Or maybe it's a third thing: He's simply an entity in and of himself, holding no genetic ties to anything else in this world.
A whole colony of Blaidd's would be an alarming sight, after all.
"Smell something?" I unintentionally ask.
One of his ears flicks; his deep violet eyes peering into the city ahead with suspicion.
"Aye. The winds speak of the battle to come; can already smell that misbegotten stench crawling over from here."
He looks down at me, one of his metal hands clasping onto his sword's handle.
"The time draws close, are you ready?"
"… Any helpful tips?"
Blaidd cocks an eyebrow, drawing his sword up and over his shoulder, resting it on the area above his collar bone.
"Tips?"
"Pointers? Uh…"
What word isn't modern?
…
I give up.
"Anything you could teach me?"
Blaidd looks almost confused.
"Right now? Hardly the time, mate."
I draw my own sword, copying his movements. If he smells the enemy approaching, then the time when I need to use this couldn't be any closer.
"As in, like… Any words of wisdom?"
Recognition flashes in Balidd's otherwise manic eyes, he slightly iterates his words.
"Ah, I see."
He considers me, his eyes finding their way to my sword.
"How long has it been since you first picked up the blade?"
"Excuse me?"
"When was the first time you held a sword, desiring it to save your life?"
…
I was a fencer for six years; I started it in middle school. You could say I was good at it, but my life was never in jeopardy.
The first time I held a weapon with the intent to kill…
A shadow clings to my face.
I've done worse since, far worse. Slitting throats, splitting skulls; chopping off limbs, even decapitating a few. Killing soldiers in their sleep, disemboweling that large misbegotten in the sewers… driving a straightsword into Roard's eye.
But the first time, wasting away in that cellar; the first time I picked up a sword to save my life, was when I stabbed that soldier in the gut, driving it deep enough to send it and bodily fluids out the other side.
I shiver.
"A month?" I say. "Give or take?"
Blaidd looks surprised to hear that, but he immediately controls his disposition.
"And? How did your first experience fare?"
"… Not good."
I already feel sick enough; talking about this just feels like another nail in the coffin.
Blaidd considers his words.
"Not that I've seen you fight that often, mate, but I couldn't help but notice you have a tic."
"A tic?"
"You hesitate, and you hold your blade as if you expect it to kill you. Whether you intend to or not; you tend to fall behind when it matters most."
…
The heck is he talking about? I've killed more things than I can count with my fingers and toes combined; I even held the record amongst the soldiers when we decided to start counting yesterday. I've practically danced with my sword, spinning it about and working in tandem with it to lay my opponents low.
"I don't seem to have a problem."
Blaidd points a bladed finger at my face.
"Aye, see here, that's the problem with tics; you need someone else to point it out for you."
His finger drags up to point at my greatsword.
"May not realize it yourself, but you're afraid of your own sword."
"Shouldn't I?" I counter. "It's a sharp weapon. It can harm me if I'm not careful."
"A mindset like that will hold you back."
"So what, I just need to get better?"
Train more? Get good? All that stuff?
Blaidd shakes his head.
"Like I said, it's a mindset. It's not something you can train overnight."
He looks back toward the city ahead.
"Nothing can be done about it now, but I will say this; your words of wisdom, from me. Don't think of your sword as a weapon; think of it as if it were somehow apart of you. An extension of your will; an ally to your cause. You don't fear your own arm, because you trust it. It may hit you, but only if you will it so. Your sword is apart of your arm when you wield it, so think of it as your arm; able to be bent to your will. Trust it, and it will never harm you."
I'm not putting my trust into a hunk of sharpened metal. If I go letting it loose, it'll just cut me. Or worse.
I'd rather control it.
"… I'll think about it."
Blaidd's ears perk up.
"Set aside thinking about it right now, we have company."
I follow Blaidd's gaze... and I see what will be considered the start of "The Battle of Bellard."
In the center of the city, dead ahead on the center street, rain begins to fall. It comes as a single drop at first, landing alone amongst cracked stone and splintered wood. But it's followed by others.
More and more, as the rain falls down; the large fountain disappears. Not like a spell, it simply falls into the ground. A massive structure of overlapping bowls and a plethora of internal pipes, cracking and crumbling, until it all gets swallowed up by the cavernous sewers below, followed by swathes of interlocking bricks, parts of houses, and-
A winged talon erupts out of the ground, like a black hand reaching toward the heavens.
It comes crashing down, digging deep into the street like a massive hook.
Dust rises from the hole, heat rises from the hole; Agheel rises.
The dragon crawls out onto the main street, like a colossal bat leaving a cave in slow motion. Serpentine neck levitating that angular head off the ground, tail lashing about like a cat ready to pounce.
Agheel hisses looking about… his reptilian eyes land on me and solely me.
He roars.
The misbegotten explode out from below, behind, and to the sides of him, like some massive ant colony that was just disturbed. They crawl up the houses, flood the streets, take to the sky like a cloud of angry hornets.
They move like a half-baked hive-mind, like a mob that holds a similar idea.
They come in the thousands, Limgrave soldiers amongst them, but it's not what I stare at.
I stare at my destination, in that northern direction. I stare at Agheel, and at who rides on his back. I thought I saw him there before, but now I know for a fact that he wasn't a trick of the eyes.
Riding Agheel like an oversized steed, standing idly amongst the black spines that line the dragon's back; that large soldier looks to me; I swear I can see a smile on his face. He carries two blades upon his back: One is a normal greatsword… the other is a massive blade, with other smaller blades grafted onto it.
The treasured Sword of Morne.
The enemy has arrived.
Edgar takes in a deep breath beside me; he mutters something to himself. So quietly that my rampaging heartbeat and the distant chuffing and cries of the misbegotten nearly drown it out.
But, I hear it.
"May we meet soon, Irina."
His eyes set, and he bellows.
"MORNE! … AT ARMS!"
The soldier behind me animate to life; they begin to chant. Their salvos echo off the houses, the castle walls, the cliff faces of the Weeping Peninsula's plateau. They reach the approaching horde, they reach the ears of Bellard's hiding residents. They reach the shrouded ears of the oracles, atop the ramparts of Leyndell.
All can hear it; they can feel it's dying tune.
The heartbeat of Castle Morne.
"Tarnished Lance, if you will."
I wedge my sword into a crack in the ground, leaving it there. The scroll Ranni gave me is unfurled before my eyes…
It's words.
That same runic chicken scratch, seemingly Nordic in nature. Etched onto the parchment in obsidian black ink; I puzzle over it.
Melina. How do I use this?
Her light dives off Morne's ramparts, floating down to hover beside my head.
An incantation. I would have guessed.
I've been hearing about these incantation a lot lately, but how do I use it?
If you recall, you have already used an incantation before.
Wait, really?
Yes.
An incantation is similar to borrowing power; the opposite of sorceries. Incantations use special phrases to incite a link between the caster and the source of that power; seals are used to establish that link.
In your words, think of it as a blessing.
So, when I…
Yes. When Irina died, you borrowed my power.
I know not how such phrases came to you, or what they signified. But they established a link to me, and I felt a size of my power drain.
Simple words hold such power?
Suddenly, these black words look like they're made of gold.
Why doesn't everyone use them?
It is not just the phrases, but the caster's will, their belief, that applies.
You must believe you can use the power, believe that your words hold meaning. It cannot be faked; it must be genuine.
You must have faith that your phrases will be answered, faith that you are worthy of such power.
My mind clicks, and I feel a strange sensation.
In other words, it's a prayer.
Praying to a higher being, in hopes of a blessing.
The parallels are almost too alike.
And I'm capable of doing something like that? I don't think I'll be able to.
It may be because of your upbringing, but your faith is high. Far too high. You are already capable of believing in power that you cannot easily see.
By comparison, believing in tangible power like this will be a simple affair for you.
I look over the words.
Recite them? Believe in them?
Believe in power; believe they are power.
This feels wrong; it feels wrong to me. I'll be essentially praying to another god…
It's for the good of these people.
I might not easily forget my thoughts about this, but if it means I can save everyone here, then I'll take the knowing sin.
I open my mouth, reciting the words; believing everything I speak.
"We beseech of the Erdtree, grant us thy golden grace."
Irina's seal in my hand begins to glow; I don't stop.
"Bestow unto us power in thy name, to purge our enemies from thy face."
Edgar recognizes my words; he goes wide-eyed. It has been far too long since he's heard them; he began to think only the golden knights of Leyndell knew it.
He may have memorized the words himself, but he could never establish the link.
He didn't hold the belief he actually could.
"Cast them down, unto their bitterness and woe, so they may never again see thy radiant glow."
But I feel it, somewhere in my own soul; I feel power welling up. Like pressure building in my chest, flooding into my left arm; gathering quickly into that "V" shaped seal unendingly.
I raise my arm skyward, hand glowing like the Erdtree itself. It's brilliant light washes over the soldiers of Morne, stealing their attention… and their fear… away.
For a moment, just a second, they feel like gods.
"Golden Vow."
The light erupts from the seal; the link I established flashes into corporeal space. Designs of an ancient sigil envelops my hand, expanding out like a picture in a golden firework.
Particles of grace; the lifeblood of the Erdtree; it falls like snow, sprinkling over the 3,000 soldiers of Castle Morne.
Melina watches it happen; she's never seen this particular incantation used before. She watches as the runes in everyone, every single one of them; their runes burn to life.
Their glows heighten, their activity increases.
Muscles tighten, bones harden; headspaces become clear and concise.
Like everyone was in their prime; like they all felt the love of the Erdtree once more.
The horde is upon them, but they do not falter. Their death may soon arrive, but they no longer feel alone. They carry the Erdtree's blessing; my blessing; with them. They have all partaken in the vow, and they feel ready to take on hell itself.
Edgar cocks a smile, a real smile, as he raises her halberd aloft. He gazes up at the lightshow, as it fades out, it's power lingering in everyone.
"A Golden Vow. Where did you acquire such an incantation?"
He looks like he's brand new; I feel like I could run a marathon and beat Mike Tyson in a boxing match right after.
"Trade secret."
He looks joyous, like a kid on Christmas. For once, maybe just once; he accepts my dodgy answer.
"Then, I take this blessing gladly with blind eyes."
"I'll take care of the dragon."
I say, stashing the scroll back into my satchel. I pluck my sword out of the ground, leveraging it over my shoulder.
"Blaidd will handle the Bloodhound Knight."
Edgar nods.
"Leave the army to us. We will fight, like the 300 of your story. I will promise you that."
"Then, I leave it to you."
Blaidd and I disappear from the scene, entering into the darkening alleyways as the rain reaches Edgar.
Our purposes lie elsewhere.
Neither of us see the lone knight that follows us from Morne's front gate; our minds are already preoccupied.
The thought crosses Edgar mind, if he'll ever see that Tarnished boy and the wolf-man ever again. He has a feeling Blaidd will disappear once he finds his prey, but the boy… taking on a dragon…
Edgar whisks his adverse thoughts away.
He is the remaining figure of Castle Morne; Trey has defected and Dalia has disappeared.
It is up to him to lead this army to their deaths; he takes it in stride.
He dons his banished knight's helmet, feeling all the more at home in it's cold interior. Any who wear such a helmet are considered traitorous, wayward; cast aside and forgotten.
Banished.
But he takes pride in this armor; in what it signifies.
He takes pride in his past, in his choices before coming to this castle, under Godrick's decree. Such a background as his; avenging Irina will be poetic justice. Thus, he must not die here. He will not; there are heads that need to roll first.
It has been a time since he's fought in such unfavorable odds; he might just feel hints of nostalgia.
He slams his halberd's endcap onto the ground; violent winds curl up and along its staff. This rain, these gusts; the storm winds that revolve around him, ready to tear his foes into pieces.
He feels right at home.
"MORNE! … SHOW NO MERCY!"
A combined shout answers him.
"SHOW NO FEAR!"
Another shout.
"MORNE! … ADVANCE!"