Surprisingly, he wasn't dead. He could still see the sky above him, a silvery haze beyond the hole he'd fallen through.

He rolled his head to the side to look down at his sword arm, and found that the sword was still gripped in his hand. That comforted him a little. It was a good sword, it had served him well. He was glad it was still with him. He turned his head back, trying to settle it into a marginally more comfortable position, but that didn't seem possible at the moment, so he gave up and remained as he was, draped over the pieces of collapsed ceiling that had fallen with him.

His back was broken, possibly in more than one place, and he was trying not to think the rest of his bones—at least several ribs, breathing was torture and brought blood to his mouth. He focused on enduring it, breath after slow breath, and did not reach for the Estus flasks stowed at his belt. He had failed in his mission, and already he felt his mind slipping from his grasp. He would soon be hollow. No point in prolonging the experience.

Oscar had come to the Asylum on purpose, unlike so many who were brought against their wills. In the past years Astora had followed the lead of other nations in rounding up their known Undead and isolating them there, and Oscar had felt it was a kind of divine justice when the Darksign appeared on his own body. He'd helped in gathering up the Undead—most of them peaceful, some lashing out in terror and despair, some hollowing on the journey, very few treated with human respect. He'd separated a child, surely no more than five, from her family, stepping in to do it himself when one of the soldiers threatened violence on the understandably distraught parents. She'd clung to him desperately-she'd probably been taught that knights were good people and could be trusted.
He had kept his visor down for the rest of the day. Being a knight was all he'd ever been and wanted to be, but the Asylum seemed a dark fate for anyone, especially humans innocent of wrongdoing and in full possession of their faculties. But, then, there were the kingdoms of Balder and Berenike, reduced to empty ruins in the control of the rampant Undead, all humans fled far away or killed. No one wanted their land to become the third Balder. He'd told himself this, and half-convinced himself that he stayed for loyalty, and not because he was too weak to leave. When he fell into a three-day fever and awoke with the knotted darkness across his heart, his resolve shattered, and he felt it was only what he deserved. So here he had come—not without hope, for there was still the prophecy. True, the prophecy which had sent the elite knights of Berenike and Balder into Lordran, never to return, but what other options did he have?

Well, he'd tried. Better than staying to go hollow at home, where he'd put others in danger. This place was perfect. The cell he'd fallen into didn't even have a working door, the cave-in had buried it. All he had to do was wait for the inevitable.

He deserved this.

He looked up at the sky through the slits in his visor.

Out in the Asylum there was uneasy silence. He could hear a distant thumping, probably the footsteps of the demon that had attacked him on the roof. It sounded like it had moved down to his level. Then there was a new sound, a rumble. Perhaps a trap had activated. Sure enough, there was a sharp cry from beyond the wall, and a few moments later, a boulder smashed through the wall.
With the consistent destruction added to the general dilapidation of the place, Oscar was surprised the Asylum functioned as a prison, and wasn't leaking hollows at the seams.

He heard footsteps approaching his room, and then a shape appeared in the makeshift doorway.

Oscar wondered if he were still human enough for the Hollows to attack. Probably so. Lovely. Having a Hollow wander in and start whaling on his already broken body to make his passing more painful was just about what he should have expected in this place. He wondered if he had the strength to remove his helmet and make it easier for them to kill him. Or...
They weren't attacking. They were standing upright, one hand resting on the wall beside them, looking towards him with what he thought was an intelligent look, almost one of recognition. They were dressed in worn, but sturdy clothes, a short furred capelet around their shoulders. Another moment and he recognized them.
"Oh, you... you're no Hollow. Thank goodness."
It was the Undead he'd thrown a key to from the roof. They had seemed more awake than the others.
They came closer and knelt beside him, and he saw strings of dark hair escaping from a torn hood. Their appearance was so decayed that he couldn't begin to guess at age or gender, but their eyes were human. Grey. The color of rain.
"I wish to ask something of you."
They nodded, and he told them of the saying, and the ringing of the bells. They listened carefully, head cocked to one side. He felt some hope.
It was growing harder to breathe. He spaced his words carefully, focusing on remaining lucid for a few more moments, even as the world started to swim. Dark spaces blurred his vision.
"One more thing... Here, take this..."
The Undead looked curiously at the flasks and tried one. They appeared not to have had experience with Estus flasks before; their eyes widened as light streamed from their body, healing their wounds. They stood up a little straighter and examined the flasks with appreciation.
"An undead favorite," Oscar chuckled, then coughed, wincing. A bit of blood spattered from his visor onto his surcoat. The Undead turned towards him, then held out one of the filled flasks.
"No, I... I told you, I'm finished." The Undead frowned in confusion. "It's no use, I'll only go Hollow. Keep it. H.. Here. This will... let you out."
He unhooked the gate key which he'd never had the chance to use from his belt and held it towards them. They slapped his hand down and poked him with the flask.
"What... Please, don't waste it on me... I told you..." They were trying to take his helmet off. "Just take the key! Leave this place..." he was interrupted by blood filling his throat, and stopped to cough it up. The Undead got the buckle of his helmet undone and gently lifted it from his head, the visor dripping. Oscar's head fell back against the rubble and he struggled to breathe. The Undead hovered above him, eyes fixed on his face. Slowly they set the helmet down to the side and slid a hand behind his head, supporting it. Oscar lifted the key again and they blocked him with the Estus flask. Oscar sighed.
"If I take it... will you take the key...?"
The Undead nodded.
"Alright."
They sat down beside him and tried to lift him gently to a sitting position. He did give them credit for trying. But the edges of bones he hadn't even realized were broken rubbed together as soon as they moved him and he gave a sharp cry, then clamped his teeth together to keep from doing it again. The Undead got an arm solidly around his shoulders and remained as still as possible. Oscar was gasping from pain, and the Undead waited for him to catch his breath before tilting the flask to his mouth.
Oscar, who had been in a near-faint, became aware that his body was wrapped in light. He blinked, clearing his sight. The Undead gave him another flask. He'd only agreed to one but wasn't in much of a position to argue, so he took it. This time he could feel it, the bracing, tingling warmth of the flame racing through his body and soothing away his wounds. He could feel his legs again. He tentatively adjusted his position on the rubble—yes, he could move. He was still in pain, but he wasn't dying anymore.
The Undead sighed, in relief he thought, resting a hand on his chest. It must have been unpleasant to watch his writhing. But Oscar was a little surprised—and a little touched—to think that in the depths of the Asylum, amidst so much darkness and death, this Undead, barely clinging to their sanity, cared enough about life to pity someone else's suffering.
"Thank you," said Oscar. "You have a kind heart. But you haven't saved me. You should go now. I wouldn't want to harm you after—I lose myself."
The Undead patted his chest and didn't move.
Oscar discovered that he was healed enough to feel emotions other than an overwhelming sense of doom. He was definitely feeling irritation.
"You're being foolish. Take the key, we made an agreement."
The Undead picked up the key and buttoned it safely into a belt bag. Then they stood—pulling Oscar up with them, one arm still wrapped around him. Oscar grunted, more in surprise than pain, though there was certainly both.
"What—what are you doing."
The Undead started walking, supporting Oscar and dragging him along.
"...No. Don't try to take me with you. Please. You'll only endanger yourself!" Another two steps. "Do you want to watch me go hollow? Leave me alone, where I can't do any damage! I don't want to harm you!"
The Undead paused—but it was only to grab Oscar's arm, which had been flopping against their back, and pull it around their shoulders; then, better balanced, they continued on. Oscar groaned.
"I appreciate what you're trying to do, but please, leave me."
No response. Of course. Oscar was beginning to think they were mute.

Down another corridor, they found a bonfire. The Undead laid him down beside it, then slumped down on the opposite side of the fire to rest.
"Please kill me," said Oscar, peevishly. Being dragged around hadn't helped the pain level, though he was feeling steadily better, which also annoyed him. If he went hollow right next to the bonfire that made it an unsafe place.
The Undead stretched, set the emptied flasks in the fire to refill and handed him one of the still-filled ones.
"You've been listening to what I'm saying and you still want to heal me?"
"Mm."
"Okay, fine, if it'll make you happy. I don't understand why you're doing this."
Then again, why had he bothered to free someone who was nearly hollow? He'd commiserated with them—he knew many Undead who weren't even close to hollowing were locked away to rot here, not because they were a danger to society but because of fear that they would eventually become one. But he'd just thrown them the key, they had let themselves out. Obviously they thought they could handle it. But he knew, he knew he was going, and they wouldn't listen to him...
He was feeling slightly better actually? A bit? He thought about it. He felt more angry than anything else, really.
He drank from the flask and felt a rush of heat soothe away more of his wounds. He could probably stand on his own now. Which was inconvenient, as he was trying to die.
"What are your plans now?" he asked. The half-hollow looked at him across the fire and shrugged.
"I believe there's a way out through that door over there." Maybe he could get rid of them before he went hollow.
The Undead looked at the heavy doorway and frowned.
"That is, if..." Oscar listened to the constant sounds of heavy, heavy footsteps. They were much louder, and they seemed to be coming from that direction. "Ah. Is that where the demon's taken to walking?"
They nodded. They'd seen it. Oscar sighed.
"Well. Perhaps we can wait for it to go away." It was unlikely, but perhaps not impossible. If they waited long enough.
He closed his eyes.
A few moments passed, then he heard the Undead take a deep breath and stand. He watched them collect the filled flasks and settle their sword, a curved scimitar, in their right hand and a battered leather shield in their left.
"...You're going to fight it." They started for the arch. What advice could he give him? Don't get smashed like I did? "...It's very big." They glanced back at him, then turned and went through the door they'd come in by. He appreciated them not flinging the main doors open and antagonizing the demon while he was still lying right there on the floor. Perhaps they were hoping to find another entrance on the second level.
Oscar listened to the rhythmic pound of its steps, falling into a kind of trance. When it stopped moving he felt a sudden spike of fear.
Then he heard it roar in pain. The Undead had found a way down.
For a moment he allowed himself to hope that they would succeed where he had failed; it sounded like they'd managed to surprise it. But then he heard a deafening crash which sent tremors through the stone beneath his head and up into his jaw. The hammer. With a sickened, sinking feeling he remembered how hard it hit.
It hit again, then again. One saving grace was that the demon was rather stupid, and its blows were not skillfully aimed. But considering their reach, they didn't need to be; the sweep covered half the ground in front of the creature.
A sharp scream reached him. There were a few more seconds of thrashing around, then the demon quieted, and resumed its steady pacing.
Oscar waited. After a while the bonfire flared and the Undead reappeared, breathing hard, eyes wide with remembered pain.
"Sorry," said Oscar.
They looked at him and their expression hardened. They took their weapons and stood.
Oscar watched them return through the same door with a slight sense of awe. They'd just been outright killed and it had barely phased them.
Again, the demon roared in pain and began beating with the hammer. It took a little bit longer for the Undead to reappear this time. They rested for a few brief minutes, then went back. And a third time they reappeared at the bonfire.
He was impressed by their unwavering determination—their ability to push through, unlike so many Undead who hollowed rapidly, feeling nothing but the pain of life, the fear of death, and the heat of flame barring release from either one in a useless and unknowable cycle. This one wouldn't let the pain and despair rule them, they shook it off and kept fighting.
They reappeared again. This time they took a longer rest, and he thought he saw defeat in their eyes, but when they returned through the door yet again he decided that it was desperation. How long would they keep this up against such an enemy?
They reappeared, and for the fifth time they took a brief rest and returned through the same door. They were unrelenting.
Oscar lay, feeling the crash of the hammer throb through his recently mended bones, and waited for the Undead to reappear at the fire. For a few minutes, they did not. They were learning how to avoid the demon's attacks. It had already been weakened, they must be close to defeating it.
Suddenly he made his decision, one that he hadn't realized he'd been debating. If these were his last moments he might as well spend them honorably instead of lying in a heap on the floor waiting for the darkness to come. He pushed himself up on his elbows, hissing as his back cramped, then rolled himself over and shifted up onto his feet. He could stand. Why, exactly, had his brilliant self refused more estus? He'd had an idea that his physical state at death would make a difference as to how strong a hollow he became, but he didn't know that for sure. He set off through the door the Undead had taken, moving as quickly as he could force himself to. Up the stairs. More stairs, and he heard sounds of fighting from the courtyard, now below him. He walked past the bodies of several hollows and to an open archway hanging in space above the courtyard.
There was a flash of movement below as the Undead rolled away from the demon, which stepped backwards, looking around for them. It was directly under the archway.
Oscar realized he wouldn't get another chance like this and forced himself over the edge before he could think about what a horrible, horrible decision this was. He dropped straight down and drove the point of his sword into the demon's back with all the force of his fall. It stiffened and bellowed, and even as he frantically tried to free his sword it collapsed under him, flinging him facedown on the pavement. The force of the blow stunned him for a few seconds. When he recovered he scrambled up to his knees, looking around, trying to see where the hammer would fall from next.
It was lying on the ground in the far corner. He looked over at the motionless body of the demon, sprawled on the floor. The Undead sprinted around their tail and pulled him up to his feet. He clasped their shoulders.
"You did it," he said, still half-expecting the dead demon to get a second wind and jump up again. They shook their head, grinning with the rush of victory, and threw their arms around him. His armor chinked lightly. He returned the hug with a startled wheeze, a little surprised at how tightly they clung to each other. They were alive. He felt he could laugh, maybe cry, maybe a little of both. He tried to calm himself. It was over now, thanks to the nameless Undead, and the door was right there.
They shifted their position to support him and pulled him towards the door. He let his arm rest across their shoulders.

The air outside was cold in his lungs, and his breath smoked against his visor. Half-melted sheets of snow lay on the ground, but the ruins were dotted with flowers. The Undead dragged him up the slope towards the lookout.
As they approached his heart fell. There was no way down that he could see, but this was the right way, wasn't it? Perhaps they would see the path more clearly from the lookout. In any case, it would be a long journey.
But then, as they reached the edge, a huge black bird swept up from under the lookout with a horrible shriek like the sounds of a million nightmares. Oscar gasped and pushed the Undead down, out of the way, just before the massive talons of the bird closed around him and the ground was snatched away. He gave a strangled cry, then, looking down, he saw the Undead grabbing uselessly for him as he was whirled off into the air.
"I'm fine!" he shouted back, hoping he didn't throw up. "This is fine!"
He'd just reappear at the fire if he died, and... perhaps, perhaps he could pull through this time? He was feeling stronger. He just hoped the bird didn't try to eat him first.
It was still flapping along steadily, the Asylum falling into the distance; he'd never before realized just how massive the place was. His Undead companion was a thin black line balanced on the very edge of the lookout. He twisted his head around and saw that they were headed for the mountains. The bird was certainly taking him a long way, he'd thought the nest would be nearby. Then, as they passed over the lowest peaks, he suddenly remembered. Lordran lay here, somewhere, over these mountains that few could cross. Perhaps this was the right way after all? His heart beat fast, now with anticipation rather than fear. Mist curled around them, mountains appeared and disappeared from view. Then, all at once, they were in clear air and descending towards a city of stone built into the side of the mountain.