The Awakening of Lothric

"Curses are the strangest things," Caricius muses, swirling toddy in his goblet. "From what my grandfather told me, Lothric stood the most vibrant kingdom on the trade route — known for its courts and jesters that enchanted the wayfares. It was a sight to behold, he often recounted."

I remember his grandfather, the old chap. He was a priest as well, quite polished in his skill. If it weren't for his untimely death, I would have bid my son seek his counsel in this matter. Perchance, things might have taken a different turn. But alas. Alas, indeed.

Leaning against the bar counter, Caricius' words draw in his young apprentice, Leon. It's rare for the priest to speak so openly, the toddy lowering his usual defenses. Leon seems to sense something amiss—Caricius' discomfort is palpable, a dark secret pressing at the edges of his consciousness.

In his haze, Caricius laughs dryly, “‘Twas the curse of the king, it was!” he yells, “The undead, mighty vicious king! Stabbed by the betrayal of his jester, flamed by the folly of his kingdom, scorned by the infidelity of his lover. A man pushed to the brink, quietly simmering, simmering, simmering—”

Caricius erupts into a laugh. It seems the learned priest has lost his wits; that's sure to unsettle the young lad.

“Master…” Leon sighs softly, extending his hand towards the glass of toddy.

"Careful, child!" Caricius snatches the glass away. “‘Tis the cup that keeps me tethered! Be cautious."

Head bowed, the apprentice acknowledges his place, a subordinate in this cryptic exchange. Caricius conjures an image of his grandfather, another tippler I met in my day. If he possesses even a fraction of his grandfather's acumen, this old habit pales in comparison. “What ails Lothric, master? Why does it —”

"Feel like death itself? Why do its gates stay shut, a foul odor repelling all who approach? Why does darkness cling to it? Have you not heard, young one? 'Tis the king's curse."

“What be this curse?”

“It was a curse that will soon become the undoing of the world. The kingdoms unravelling into a multitude of strings that will never be woven together again; life, death, and time all becoming consequences with no reason. We all are to die, dear Leon! We all are to split and twist and demolish with no consequence! We are doomed — doomed to chaos!”

“Master, please,” Leon begs, falling to his knees and holding his master’s feet to his head, “I beg ye, tell me what plagues us!”

Caricius sets down the cup heavily on the counter, the barkeep startled at the thud of the glass. The priest’s eyes now gleam with newfound clarity. There they are, the stars in his eyes, the keen edge of wisdom.

“It was almost a century before today, the blessed son ruled Lothric. He was told to have powers that could create and destroy to nothingness — suiting for a man that sat on the throne of the most formidable kingdom,” he pauses, “Press my calves, child, don’t sit idle!”

Leon shuffles to the ground, his hands expertly massaging his master’s feet. Poor child, little does he know.

“The king's loyalty to his realm was unwavering, his devotion to his queen unmatched. In his court performed a jester – known for his wits and charms, entrancing hundreds in his kingdom. Called Milo, this jester concealed overwhelming ambition and avarice behind his exterior, secretly plotting and scheming against his king. There was not a dearth of enemies for Lothric : for wealth and joy oft draws eyes from the cruel kind, searching for a loose brick to invade the kingdom.”

The priest paused, signalling the barkeep to refill his cup. The dread of the curse seems to have worn on Caricius' mind. No amount of toddy could keep him tethered to sanity; his senses ever whisper of his impending doom.

“Milo’s charms enchanted the queen, Ellora. They began meeting alone, and slowly whispers of their relationship spread like wildfire in the kingdom, but before it could reach the king’s ears, Milo had already unearthed the kingdom’s most guarded secrets, capable of bringing it to its knees.”

“Before the King could act on his actions, Lothric was attacked. It was not long before every house turned to ashes, every field barren, every human a pile of bones. As the king laid dying, he cursed:

In shadows deep, a curse shall be spun,

Lothric bound to where life's undone.

The jester in death shall tread,

Keeper of the land of the undead.

Caricius gulps down the toddy, laughter escaping as his head tips back. He pulls Leon to his feet, "The curse is spreading, dear child! The ground we walk upon shall reek of death, the water we drink turn to poison. We are doomed!"

That may be the most likely fate, but not if I have any say in it. Not if I can rouse Milo to his senses and overturn the curse.

******

As Caricius and Leon exchanged words in a dimly lit bar, miles away in Lothric, Milo concluded his haunting performance. The kingdom's undead, trapped between life and death, sought solace in his dwindling wit, their only reprieve in a world gone dark.

Under an eternal shroud of night, Lothric had transformed. The king’s curse took away life from every atom of the land, trapping every soul between life and death. Lothric was now a necropolis, infested with death and darkness. Once a vibrant kingdom, it now harbored only one living soul: Milo, its reluctant caretaker. I've watched the poor jester wrestle with his guilt, lamenting the fate of Lothric for decades upon decades. His actions were indeed misguided and foolish, but the king's response was beyond anyone's reckoning, not even anticipated by his own kin.

The curse of Lothric was nearing its grim climax. Foretold to afflict within the kingdom only until it claimed a thousand souls, after ninety-six years, it was reaching its macabre quota. Lothric's decay spilled beyond its borders, a virulent wave of disease threatening to consume all in its path. Unaware of this impending doom, Milo sits alone on the cold ground, a solitary violet flower cradled in his hand.

The air is frigid, each breath like a shard of ice. Milo's eyes are welled with tears as he gazes at a violet flower in his hand, feeling an inexplicable kinship. After nearly a century of only facing death, the specimen of life brings him hope. I understand it well. Lothric was my home when it pulsed with life and mirth. It's unfathomable to witness its current state: barren — plagued with death and suffering.

For a moment, his hopeful eyes convey that he feels a warmth, a fleeting bond to life amidst the pervasive death. His tear fell upon the flower's petals, and in that instant, its green stem shimmered with a magical glow.

“Sir Sirus,” he whispers, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief. I smile, touched by the unexpected reverence. Hearing my name spoken after centuries, it feels as though only yesterday I fell in battle, my bravery becoming legend, recounted through generations.

“Dear Milo,” I speak softly, my voice tinged with sorrow and understanding. I gesture at the iris, its delicate petals seeming to echo the fragility of our situation. “Your guilt ensnares us all within this curse, jester. I see the weight you carry."

“I hold us c-captive, my king?” Milo stammers, his hands shaking as the flower trembles in his hand.

“Your guilt. The trepidation that has invaded your heart every second it has beaten for the last ninety-six years. It binds the curse to the land, and it will unleash it into the world.”

The wind whips around us, a chilling reminder of the curse's reach. Milo shivers within his voluminous fur coat, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil and fear.

“Sir, I-” Milo attempts to refute, but I interrupt.

"The king..." I begin, casting my eyes downward, "...cursed the land without any forewarning. Though he bore my blood in his veins while he lived, his mind lacked even a fraction of my wisdom. I feel a deep shame to call him my son, but he lingers as an undead in this very land. Milo, you must understand, all these souls condemned to undeath will remain so, while you persist as the lone living soul in a world of death. You cannot bear the weight of the world alone, jester. Quiet your mind, recognize that the curse lies not with you, but with my son."

"The king lingers here?"

"He uttered his curse as he lay dying, thus binding him to this undead land even after his passing. A poetic justice, perhaps; he remains the first soul captured by this cursed land. His body lies shrouded at the oldest altar of Lothric, the once-red cloth now rendered grey by dust. At times, my heart aches for him. Yet, his fate is a consequence of his own actions."

Milo stands at his place, his eyes fixed at the iris in his hand. “Perhaps, it is justice after all, dear sir,” he whispers.

“What dare you say?” A storm of emotions brews within me, anger and disbelief warring for control. My hand instinctively moves towards my sword, a tangible sign of my rising fury and the threat I perceive.
“The curse — it’s meant to be, is it not? A consequence of his actions.” He justifies, his eyes now locked onto mine.

“And the world suffers for his shortcoming?!” I erupt, my senses now overcome with rage that signal the doom of the world, “Might I remind you, jester, your existence will be trapped in a realm of death for all the years to come, this land becoming an undead hell. You will be the gatekeeper to this hell, Milo, a hell that will never bring you to death.”

"And I’ll succumb to that fate, Sir Sirus!” Milo's voice breaks, raw emotion seeping through, “My guilt consumes me; it was I who brought this doom upon Lothric. My ambition, my betrayal—it all led to this. If only I wasn’t foolish enough to think that the enemy would make me general if I aided in Lothric’s falling. If only I trusted my king enough!" He resigns, falling back to the ground.

"Curses are meant to be broken, Milo,” I beckon his reason. “Let it not reach its completeness," I implore the jester, knowing that my name may be dishonored by this plea, but hoping for redemption if Milo agrees.

“Let the curse infest the lands, dear sir," Milo's voice is resigned, yet there's a glimmer of questionable relief. "Eons have been spent on this Earth, its land overplowed, its water consumed and washed with. It’s time to let nature rest,” sighing as a weariness settles in him, he echoes my previous words, “Let what has been born come to its end, once and for all.”

Milo drops the iris to the ground, and my form dissolves back into mist. Defeated, I drift towards my son’s shrine, his shroud calling out for my touch. As my intangible hand rests upon the red cloth, the gates to Lothric tear open, the waves of death and desolation unleashed.

*****

Back in the dimly lit bar, Caricius and Leon feel a sudden chill. The air grows thick, suffocating. As the curse of Lothric spreads, their world darkens, their breaths growing shallow. Caricius' eyes meet Leon's one last time, swirling with a mix of fear and acceptance.

"The curse," Caricius whispers, his voice barely audible, "It's the end."

And as the curse envelops them, Caricius and Leon feel their heart beat one last time, their souls joining the countless others claimed by Lothric's curse.

In Lothric, Milo remains seated on the cold rock, the violet flower now wilted in his hand. The land around him is now silent, the weight of centuries of sorrow pressing down on him. There’s no life that lives beside him, not even the iris that once bloomed with hope. The curse of Lothric has finally run its course, leaving behind a hell that will forever be marked with betrayal, guilt, and lost redemption.