"The fallen leaves tell a story", the voice spoke.
CLANG!
"The Great Elden Ring was shattered"
CLANG!
"In our home, across the fog, the Lands Between."
CLANG! The caravanner was smashing his chains against the stone. Again
"Now, Queen Marika the Eternal is nowhere to be found"
CLANG!
"Stop, please" another voice spoke. The prisoner himself, wrapped in a loose cloth one could hardly call a shirt. The thing was so torn it revealed nearly his entire chest.
"and in the Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden was the first to perish."
CLANG!
The prisoner would cover his ear if his arms weren't locked up, hanging above his head. He hung off the side of the cave wall next to crushed bones and broken gravestones. The luxury of loose chains, like the caravaneers, were for those who obeyed. It was damn uncomfortable.
"Soon, Marika's offspring, demigods all, claimed the shards of the Elden Ring"
His neck hurt worst of all. The big slab of metal they put on his head was too heavy to hold up all day. It covered up one eye, dug into his collarbone, and made all the noise much louder. It was punishment for his last escape. That had been… some time ago.
He tried to speak up once more, but his throat caught. The guards hadn't brought any water.
"The mad taint of their newfound strength triggered the Shattering. A war from which no lord arose. A war leading to abandonment by the Greater Will."
CLANG!
"BASTARD!" the merchant spoke.
"I'm trying to listen!" the prisoner pleaded.
The constant rattling of chains ceased for just a moment.
"Listen to what?" The merchant asked. He could never see what the merchant actually looked like. He caught glimpses of the man when the guards brought their torches, so he only knew the merchant was heavily wreathed in cloth.
"I'm not sure, but it seems important"
Silence. Then, the noise resumed. With a labored tone, the merchant spoke once more. "That helmet really does make you mad eh?", he paused between some words to catch his breath. "If that's what getting caught gets you, I better do the job right the first time", then he actually laughed. He had only been in here with the prisoner for a few days. At least, he assumed it was so. The guards rotated and had different voices; the prisoner had to assume that a single guard wouldn't work through multiple days.
Still, his lack of concern over imprisonment was strange.
CLANG! This time, a small crack sounded after. A stone fell from the cave wall onto the floor.
"Ha ha! Yes! Good. Very good." The prisoner heard scraping noises. Stone against metal.
"That won't work," said the prisoner.
"Hm?"
"Scrape it against the ground. Stone is better at sharpening itself." The sounds changed then. Stone against stone. "Don't bother with the shackles, the chains are your best bet. If you can reach it, try the place where they're anchored."
"Haha! Experienced, are you? Good advice, but not quite what I was thinking."
"Okay". At least the noise would stop. The prisoner listened to the voice once more.
…
"Arise now, ye Tarnished", it said the same grand speech over and over again. The prisoner wasn't quite sure what it intended.
Some time passed before the guards came. Water and rotted grain. The prisoner heard the click of the ironlock, and his uncovered eye struggled to adjust to the light of a torch.
Two guards entered, adorning the same green and red cloth on their chests. One looked more slender than the other. A woman guard. Both carried a blade and shield, yet only the male guard had a torch. Metal clinked and shuffled with every step as they came closer. The prisoner hoped it would be unnecessary to keep guards of chained men in a full suit of armor. At least, unnecessary after he maimed a good four of them.
"Wake, pisspots" one of the guards grunted. The handle of his sword clanged against the door and echoed through the cave. They walked towards the merchant first. The prisoner grew worried. What kind of plan did the merchant have? Surely he wouldn't be so stupid as to attack a fully shielded man with a rock.
The light of the torch always revealed just how much room the merchant was given. The slack of his chains was likely enough to move a good ten feet around his anchors. This let him sleep without his shackles pulling on his arms. Lucky bastard.
The guards set the grain and water on the ground near him. They watched him eat it all, presumably to prevent hoarding. He began to down his water as one of the guards, the one without the torch, walked towards the prisoner.
"Having a good time?" she asked. "Probably don't even remember your name.". The guard began to laugh, but cut it off with a punch to the prisoner's stomach. He cried out in pain as his helmet struck the wall from jerking his head back.
She was right. His name was lost to him. Much more than that, actually, but he kept his mouth shut. It was one thing to enter trouble but to invite it would be stupid in his current position.
The guard nearest to the merchant spoke, turning from him. "How much longer do we keep that one? Dangerous, he is. Can't we just send 'im to the mines?"
She fed the grain to the prisoner. Dry and bland. The feel of a dead crop. "No. Till the lord says otherwise. Grafting, remember?"
"Psh" her partner grumbled. "Right." The silence after was filled with coughs from the merchant. The prisoner could remember the first days of thirst, at least. Just enough water to keep the body alive, but not enough to keep it from drying out.
It was time to drink. The woman guard opened the waterskin and brought it up to the prisoners lips. They were cracked and pale, longing for the feel of liquid. Just a few drops hit his tongue before the guard refused it. A chuckle escaped her mouth before she drank the rest of it right in front of him. Rotten bitch.
Then, the prisoner saw it from behind the guard's shoulder. Hardly lit, it was the sight of the merchant convulsing, followed by vomit.
Getting sick from drinking too much water after thirst was common. It had happened to the prisoner. But on the merchant's hands: blood. He coughed and heaved more.
"What the?" the guard nearest him exclaimed.
He yelled, "Poison! Fucking poison!" as he retreated back towards the wall, trailing his chains before he fell.
"NO! " The woman guard threw the waterskin away from her. The prisoner's eyes met hers. She ripped her helmet off and began to shove her hand down her throat.
The male guard rushed towards the merchant, torch in hand. "That can't be! I-"
As the guard pulled the man to his feet, it happened. The merchant backed fully onto the wall, ripping himself from the guards grip. Just as the woman guard started throwing up, the merchant put his leg against the guard's chest and pulled his chains fiercely. The chain caught on the guard's leg, and the merchant kicked him back headfirst. His helmet cracked against the ground as the torch landed in the middle of the chamber.
The light revealed a bloodied chunk of stone in the merchant's hand. Blood continued to leak from his mouth. He likely had cut somewhere near his gums to bleed that much.
The female guard tried to recover, drawing her blade and running towards the merchant. But not before the prisoner kicked into her back with all his might. Her momentum carried her all the way across the room, right into the stone knife of the merchant as it plunged into her eye.
The merchant was smart enough to cover her mouth as she screamed. He set her down gently. Probably to prevent noise, but the prisoner hoped there was some grace to the action. After she passed, he grabbed a set of keys from the male guard's waist. With a click, his chains were undone.
"That was your plan?" the prisoner asked.
"Hell no! My plan was stupid. Had to improvise when I saw the guard turn. Too good a chance."
He walked over to the prisoner, where they stood face to face for the first time. He reached over to the prisoners shackles, but hesitated a moment and pulled back. Moments they stood in silence passed.
The prisoner could see a much more realized appearance from him. Lots of thick red drapery with a strange hat. Pointed and red, with a cotton outer lining. He had seen something similar before, but he wasn't quite sure where. Most of the man's face was covered, just like the prisoners, albeit by cloth rather than iron. Still, those golden eyes stuck out. The eyes of the guards were also gold, yet dimmer than the merchants.
The shackles were undone and the prisoner fell to the ground. Everything ached from being pulled unnaturally for so long. His arms had the worst of it, screaming as they lowered from their upright suspension. He used his newfound freedom to roll his neck around. They exchanged no words as the merchant picked the torch off the ground along with a shield.
Pins and needles spread throughout the merchant's shoulders. His feet groaned after feeling the weight of an entire person after so long.
The prisoner lacked the strength or skill to wield both blade and shield, and seeing as the merchant had already grabbed one, he reached for the sword. It was heavy in a way that felt unfamiliar to the prisoner. For some reason, he'd known blades to be much lighter.
"If you're done eyeing that sword, we should move." The prisoner didn't respond. He only walked over to the corpse of the woman guard, knelt, and whispered.
"I'm sorry," he said, and continued.
The pair left their cell, really just a cavernous hollow with an iron gate, and walked. "I think I remember the way out," the merchant spoke. The prisoner felt his anxiety funnel throughout their entire body. Every small step he took shivered with a hope of quietness. It really had been a long while since he'd felt even sunlight. So, he followed the merchant with an intense excitement.
"Ye dead, who yet live.", the prisoner heard. The voice again. It had been a while. The merchant turned shortly from his lead and eyed the prisoner. He likely was focused on his weak grip on the blade. Without the strength to properly wield it, the prisoner held the blade like a mother would hold a child. Meanwhile, the shield hugged the merchant's chest tightly.
"The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all"
"Almost there", the merchant whispered. They had been walking for the better part of an hour. The halls they passed were mostly the same, with shaved rock and hollowed out spaces with an iron gate. It was beginning to confuse the prisoner why his cell would be so secluded. "It must be hard", he spoke again.
"Huh?", the prisoner mumbled.
"It must be hard to want to leave this place so bad. With no memories." His tone of voice changed. There was something somber in it that had appeared.
"Anyone would want to escape." The farther they got, the less they both believed anyone else was patrolling the caves. It must have been late at night.
"Sure, but after failing so many times?" he asked. "It makes me wonder what fuels your desire for freedom."
How to respond, the prisoner wondered. He tried again to recall what he was missing. The source of his longing, which had always evaded him, must have been great. He closed his eyes for a moment and delved into his mind. It was something he had tried many times during his imprisonment, but to no avail. Concepts floated around like sea bound debris. Vague outlines of places he used to live; people he used to know seemed just out of reach. A thick and endless fog of memories that he was stranded in.
"Shit", the merchant swore.
"What" they had come across an intersection of hallways. The shuffle of metal sounded through the other hallways. The beat of iron boots on stone told the prisoner that they were moving fast. They only had a few moments before they closed in.
The merchant wasted no time, turning and squeezing his shield as he ran back the way they came. The prisoner turned as well, dropping his sword as he stumbled from his own pain. His knees made contact with the ground and throbbed with pain. He cried out, and in response the guards ran faster.
The prisoner stared at the stone floor as he felt his body pulling itself back up. A firm and callused pair of hands, the merchants, wrapped itself around his body.
"We're not dying…" he groaned, "—in a place like this, let's go!"
Something about those words struck the prisoner. It was like a singular heartbeat that pulsed throughout his entire body. As he was dragged along by the merchant, it felt like for just a moment, some of the fog had pulled away.
He saw his best friend, half eaten.
Strewn about an endless wasteland of destroyed buildings were faces that felt familiar to him. Like a song you could hum, but couldn't quite remember the words. Some were crushed by debris, some by teeth. All were drenched in blood and their own innards. Strangely, it didn't make his stomach churn the way he thought it should have. The feelings present in his heart were ones of pain, but not disgust. Was this a sight he was used to? In unison, despite missing enough flesh to be dead, they all reached towards him.
They whispered a name. It was his name. Why else would it feel so at home within him? If he could still remember his name after all this time…
He planted his feet firmly on the ground. The merchant felt this strength and released the prisoner from his aid.
"Good, let's keep going! I remember somewhere we can hide" the merchant spoke and ran forward. The prisoner continued to stand.
"Hoarah Loux, chieftain of the badlands", the voice spoke. The prisoner had something he needed to do urgently. It felt so close! Whatever was causing his fear, his sense of urgency, was thundering in his mind. "The ever brilliant Goldmask!"
"What the hell are you doing!" the merchant yelled. He had taken the time to run back.
"I remember," the prisoner spoke. He stood with determined eyes gazing off into nothingness. It seemed to send shivers down the merchant's spine.
"Come man!," and he was genuinely surprised. "If they catch us we'll be grafted!" and he pulled on the prisoner's sleeve.
"Fia, the Deathbed companion. The Loathsome Dung-Eater!"
The prisoner stared into the merchant's eyes.
"And Sir Gideon-Ofnir, the All-Knowing." the prisoner spoke. A flash of light sparked across the hallway towards the sound of the guards. It didn't seem to be noticed by the merchant. The prisoner walked towards the light.
"You've gone mad…" the merchant whispered, but the prisoner couldn't hear. He turned, hugging his shield once more and fled the other direction. "Good luck, poor fool." He vanished into the darkness, alongside the torchlight. It was pitch black, but somehow the prisoner could still see.
And one other, whom grace would once again bless, but the words didn't speak to him this time. It was like they were embedded in his mind.
He came upon the sword again. Torch light approached. They likely couldn't see him. He had the advantage. His fingers wrapped around the hilt. It was familiar in a way he couldn't have expected. He must have been something of a fighter. He prepared a stance he couldn't name.
They were almost upon him.
A tarnished of no renown,
Breathe.
"Armin…Arlert"
Heartbeat pounded in his ears. His legs twitched. Just a little closer, he thought. Every moment painted the guards in torchlight. Two in front, one in the back. Same guards, same orders, same fate. All he had was a weapon he could barely hold. But those with nothing thrived in the shadows.
Now! He charged forward, sword on his back. Armin appeared in the torchlight. They reached for their weapons—too late. The guards stumbled as he wove between the front two, breath ragged. A cold pain appeared in his lungs. The last one already had a mace raised. It came down hard towards Armins back.
Sparks cast as it slammed against the flat of Armin's blade. The angle of his wrist caused pain to shoot up his arm. He ignored it. He couldn't stop. It felt like each muscle was being ripped apart with each step. Slipping back into the darkness, he followed the strand of golden light. It led him forward. Then left. The right. Then right again.
On the last turn, his right leg gave out and scraped against the ground. His skin tore and burned as the air kissed it. He pushed that pain to the back of his mind and continued on his path. Armin ran with a stumble, hoping to avoid any other guards. He would be caught with his injury. The line continued forward. And forward. Straight again. He was almost there. He was sure of it.
He was moments away, practically throwing himself closer. Inch by inch. Almost there. Stabbing in his lungs. Almost. Forward. Legs shaking. Forward. Just a bit mo—
Down.
He stopped his momentum, tripping and sliding across the stone. He clawed at the ground to slow his fall. It wasn't enough. Armin flew right off the cliffside. The blade disappeared into the abyss. As he felt the ground cease from under him, he reached out and dug his nails into anything they could hold.
Stoned shaved his fingernails as he just barely found a hold in the cliff. He let out a desperate yelp.
His breath staggered. Every inhale a sharper cold pain. There was never enough air, like trying to catch leaves.
The golden strand lit the edge of the cliff, and followed straight down. It wasn't bright enough to reveal how deep it was. Armin's head spun. Did he make the wrong choice?. The darkness of the cave seemed to collapse towards him. Had he completely forsaken the merchant for no good reason? Thousands of worries collided and scattered in his mind.
And this damn helmet. The chasm seemed to pull on his head even more. It was nearly too much effort to keep himself upright. The urge to relax every muscle in his body crept into his mind like rot.
Was he going to die? Did the light betray him? His fingers trembled. He couldn't hold on for much longer. He saw a semblance of light approaching. It was too hard to make out completely. Sweat invaded his eyes.
More footsteps. Around ten probably. The sting of failure set in as his stomach sank. It bit at his eyes and tears began to flow
He couldn't pull himself up. Every ounce of strength was too busy keeping him raised.
It would end here. He hadn't heard the sword hit the ground. It was either far too deep for him to imagine, or there was water waiting at the bottom. Both meant death.
They were upon him now. A cool iron grasped his arm. He was pulled up with a force that nearly ripped his arm out of its socket. He was face to face with one of the guar—
Those eyes.
It was him. From the cell. He recovered already.
"You—"Armin tried to croak. The guard responded with a fist of metal. The impact knocked his helmet, spinning the world and warming his skin with blood.
"Shes dead!" he yelled. His anger burst through his teeth. They were grit so tight they could crack. The guard spun and forced Armin to the ground. He lied there in pain.
Through the breath and blood, he could see that he was completely surrounded. They all lit torches, completely lighting the area. His eyes looked back towards the guard, who had fully taken his helmet off. He was blonde. Worn face with a patched beard. Probably a scar where it couldn't grow.
He threw something that jingled on the floor towards him. Keys?
Keys. Armin clutched them in his hand. There were a few, but only one could fit in that strange hole on the collar. It functioned like two half plates that pressed together. After turning the key, Armin pushed the front plate forward, and let the helmet fall to the ground.
The air welcomed him back, blessing his lungs with more breath. Something about the world came back into view as his other eye was freed. He stared at the ground, shoulder length hair dropping into his perspective.
"Why?"Armin muttered. The guard's eyes were piercing at him. An endless silence sat between the crowd. It didn't seem like they knew what his plan was either. Until he ripped a short sword from another guard's hip.
"Bant…are you sure?" one of the crowd asked.
"SHUT UP!" and he threw his own mace to Armin's self. It rolled to his knees. "You killed her", his voice groaned and cracked with grief. "You were supposed to die. But we kept you. All for some damned grafting." The guard known as Bant unsheathed his blade.
"Get. Up"
A swirl of golden light surrounded the two. The crowd seemed unbothered. Armin locked his eyes to the stream of light as it tracked the outline of a path. It went around Bant and towards the cliff he had almost died falling off of.
His two choices. Jump, or Fight.
"I SAID GET UP!" and he lunged at Armin with a lunge of his sword.
An endless fatigue washed over him. He couldn't move in time. He chose neither, it seemed. He couldn't.
The sword pierced his shoulder. He let out a moan, too tired to exclaim any louder.
More guards began to cry out, "Leave him Bant! Godrick will have your head! It's not worth it. He'll die regardless!"
The light flared and illuminated the entire space they were in.
"Ye dead, who yet live."
You again, Armin thought. He wondered if it had been droning in the back of his mind.
"A tarnished of no renown", and there it was: a small golden flower that fell from the sky. A lone sun in an endless night sky. It withered as if it struggled to reach him. Like every ounce of progress it made, it spent more and more of its life.
It was beautiful.
Then, the flower kissed his skin, absorbing into his cheek. The pain melted from his body. The fatigue, the aching, it all seemed to wash from his muscles and steam off his bones. The memories of his childhood filled his mind. Days of running through the streets, chasing something he had never seen. A magnificent expanse of jeweled tones, never seen creatures, and colorful flora.
The ocean. He remembered how much he read of it. How he longed to see it.
Why then, could he feel the tease of salt on his tongue? The way the water left your hair more unkempt than normal, but in a good way. The feeling of pure sun on your skin, and the shifting of hot sand between your toes.
He had seen it.
He would see it again.
Bant reached to pull the blade from his wound. The fire that burned in his eyes had quelled. It seemed his associates had reasoned with him.
Grafting. Death.
No.
Armin grasped at the handle of Bant's mace, still lying near his knee. He swung forcefully at the guard's hand as it wrapped around the hilt. Fingers cracked as his knuckle bones shattered within. Armin felt the man's hand turn to clay from the blow.
"ARGHHH!" he cried out. He jumped back from the pain, sliding the blade from Armin's shoulder. It didn't sting.
Bant threw his gauntlet off, revealing a swollen purpled hand. Armin stood off the ground and held his mace outward, finally accepting the duel. Two broad arms of metal wrapped around his abdomen, lifting him off the ground. It seemed the guards had decided to step in. They appeared to be crying out something Armin couldn't hear.
"Put him down" He commanded his friends. They hesitated. He stomped at the ground, sparking the ground with his grieves. "I AM A SOLDIER OF GODRICK. I will defeat him myself. For Gridas honor. For our lords honor." Bant flourished his sword, spinning it and pointing it towards Armin's chest.
The guards released Armin as Bant charged at him with a mighty swing. His other arm was braced against his stomach. Armin raised his mace and barely deflected the mace, sidestepping and hoping to trace the perimeter of the circle. He wasn't experienced with such a short weapon, so Bant's sword grazed his arm, slicing it open. Still no pain.
The beam of light warped from the path it traced, into the abyss. Instead, it went towards the guard's right side. The side with the injured hand. Did the light think he could win? He leaped towards the exposed arm of the guard, but Bant had expertly held him off with a swing. The light wavered a moment but remained.
They danced for a small time. Armin tracing and scurrying the outside of the circle, unable to hear the guards' cheers or cries, as he dodged Bant's slashes. Some attempts were successful, some weren't. Armin had amassed a network of cuts on his exposed side.
A tingling sensation bit at his finger tips. Pain. It seemed whatever the flower had done was temporary.
Wait. No pain.
"Cross the fog, to the Lands Between"
He ran towards the golden line, tracing every subtle curve with his path. As expected, Bant swung at Armin, but he didn't dodge, allowing the blade to cut cleanly across his chest. Armin slammed the mace into Bant's already blighted hand. It felt like shoving a rock deep into soil. While he winced, Armin brought the mace hard into Bant's chin, then carried that momentum to strike his cheek, cracking across his face.
Bant fell to the ground.
"To stand before the Elden Ring"
The guards immediately engaged in a rage fueled charge. They didn't want to see another comrade dead. Armin scurried to grab Bant's blade and pressed it gently into his neck. The guards exclaimed and backed off.
The light shimmered and moved back to the cliffside. They were right at the precipice of the chasm. It seemed there was really no other way.
Bant cried and grit his teeth against Armin's stare. He felt his legs buckle from beneath him as he accidentally dug the blade into Bant's neck, slightly. The circle of men cried out. Some pleading. Some cursing. Armin couldn't fully tell. He just held eyes with Bant.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, "...about Grida. It wasn't my idea, but I had a hand." Silence hung between them.
Bant cleared his tears, blood trickling down his neck. "Kill me, and my spirit will tear through the storms themselves to see your fucking head grafted onto my lord."
"Ill see you then."
"And become Elden Lord"
Armin leaped into the abyss. Into Freedom.