Make no mistake: though it is ice-cold, antithetical to the very world whose bowels they meet in, this is Her fury. Her impassive face, hewn not from obsidian but vein-streaked marble, does not betray the frigid venom of her words. Yes, this is Her realm, sweltering with flame; but it will be made as winter should She wish it so. And indeed, though this room is wreathed in an endless occult blaze, the Commander’s divine blood cannot help but run cold. A shiver climbs decisively up the nape of his neck, freezing every beading drop of sweat on his skin. Every ounce of defiance in him freezes. Not because of Her great ire, but because of the sharp astuteness of her admonishments - for as incensed as the Witch’s heart might be, She is not so weak as to let such a base thing cloud Her godly judgement, not so desperate as to speak of the hypothetical, of perceived slight or mere rumor. No, every viciously articulated word, every warning She imparts to him is Truth.
But the Commander is confident; in the love he bears for his betrothed, and that which she bears for him in turn. And so he does not falter.
“ You are magnanimous to advise me so, O Lord, though I am but Your lesser. ” He places a hand upon his silver breastplate as if in oath. “ I shan’t neglect Your humbling guidance, and will keep it unneringly in heart and mind both. ”
How could he forget? Even should he try, the Witch’s tongue has sowed it’s miserable little seed of doubt. Though behind Her pale lips lie viper’s fangs that, he is certain, long to sink into his soul, Lord Izalith is not cruel - at least not in this moment. The hesitation She sought to lay upon him blooms in his psyche like briarthorn precisely because it is right. It is true that though the bond he and Miriam have forged throughout the three nights they have spent together in this underworld’s chambers is one of sincere affection, there remains aught he knows he must do. And it is true also, though Oswald is loathe to admit it, that his beloved is not a prize, a gift from his benevolent Lord, but a prisoner of almighty machinations which neither of them can hope to fathom. As quickly as they were bound, so they could be parted, the tender shackles of their matrimony severed without a second thought by their celestial masters.
Oh, how unjust a fate, that they should be mere pawns to aeon-lasting schemes! If only he could take his cherished Miriam away, to a place beyond the reach of the Earth, the reach of the Sun. But there exists no such place, and from their fate no salvation. Still, this thorny dread, this naïve hope, all but proclaim one thing: their love, too, must be just as true. For why else would the thought of sacrificing it fill him with such distress?
Enlightenment slows the Silver Knight’s movements as he rises to his feet. The fear-full serpent in his throat is made to slither back to its black nest; decorum must be maintained, and his pride prompts him to conceal even the barest token of weakness.
“ My Lord commands me to bring Your dear daughter to His domain in sunlit Anor Londo, that we may be wed in the fashion of His subjects. I must beseech You, though I know well it is not my place to do so, not to hold in Your wisest of hearts excessive displeasure with me. ”
The onyx halls click beneath his greaves as he takes a step back, the echo repeating in the throne room just as Izalith’s warnings echo in the Commander’s mind.
“ So my Lord Gwyn has decreed, and I must obey. But I give You my word, O Lord, that no harm shall befall Your most precious daughter, and that all who would dare but speak ill of her will incur my most bitter wrath. ”
For the last time, the Iron Raven bows before the great Lord Witch.
“ I am grateful for the boon of Your audience, and remain forever Your servant. ”