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Chapter Text

Grief...

A few shy letters away from 'greed'.

A greed to... be with my fellows. To quarrel and undertake adversity blade-in-blade against impossible foes.

One would assume avarice is selfish... and yet an outside look yields no such introversion.

But only after I came to further know myself did I ascertain...

That such a will to be in the presence of my peers is borne out of... greed.

I despised myself for it. I could not believe it.

That mine person could twist such a benign concept into one bent for self-contentment.

A greed to revel in their mere presence, fleeting as it may be, and to please the starved bowels in my heart that yearn for such cursory attachment.

Yet I ask myself... am I feeling such gluttony for attachment because of our inherent nature as social animals?

Or is it, in truth, looking beyond such an innocuous and natural veil and seeking a much deeper end goal?

To have some kind of... happy ending, amidst this grief?

...

The Doomed city of Farum Azula hangs in the sky, surrounding a perpetual storm. Hour by hour, it tears it further asunder.

The architecture looks as old as time, whatever little buildings that yet remain, particularly that... Bestial Colosseum at its heart. It stands tall, with rows of arches on pillars lining the walls and an immense cupola. Atop the monumental ensemble lies a lantern. It reminds me a lot of the Erdtree Sanctuary in Leyndell.

It's inhabitants look as old and decrepit. They're all bone and scraps of flesh, animated by what I can only guess is sheer will. Had I not been wiser, I would've mistaken them for dogs or wolves. Then again, they are "beast men". Their sole links to modernity are their five-digit hands. And that fact is quite proudly displayed in their aptly-named cinquedeas. Even the crag-scaled four-winged dragons have such advanced manual complexions, though they're... quite uncivilized.

Or so they appear... If the venerable tales of the Roundtable Hold's Warspear and Lansseax are to be believed.

But those tales... do they truly hold any meaningful water? Or are they elaborate fabulations to entice the average commoner to commune with the dragons?

No matter. They don't display any meaningful humanity for me to care.

Speaking of dragons...

The character jumps between floating debris and up onto a flat ruin. There, the sight of a dragon laying dead halted his tracks. Its gold-scaled wings were immobile slumped over its body, and its tail was hanging off the edge. Its long neck rest twisted over a pool of blood, with the beast's left cranium caved in and jaw unhinged. One can only guess it was a one-sided brawl, showed as he looks down at his boot and sees a reddened fang. Lifting his gaze up, he sees the fang's journey in bloody splatters paces away.

His gaze then locks onto the rotund fellow standing stout beside the draconic corpse. A rotund, familiar jar-fellow.

"Ah," — The jar spoke. — "I see you've finally made it here yourself."

"I'm quite surprised to see you here, Alexander." — The other replied, kicking away the fang as he walked closer. — "I take it you did this dragon in?"

"You would be correct, Vilmos! Heh heh!" — Alexander chuckled, crossing his arms boldly. — "But it was no easy feat. And seeing all the other dragons soaring through the skies only innervates me!"

"Heh, I can imagine..." — Vilmos walks closer, standing beside the jar and placing his hand on his hip. — "The last thing I imagined from this place was for it to be so full of these otherwise mythical beasts..."

"Indeed, my good sir!" — Alexander tilts forward slightly. — "And this city... it all hangs in the air, slowly crumbling. What an incredible place we find ourselves in."

"And veritably," — The jar shifts towards his flesh brethren, shrugging a shoulder. — "You're a force to be reckoned with, eh?"

Vilmos quirks a brow.

"I doubt there's a single soul who could've handled that giant, other than you. It was practically a god..." — Alexander affirms.

"It was likely their fallen god's final whimper." — Vilmos scratched his cheek. — "Though the God's flames in the Forge may not perish, they will only continue to wane until there's naught but ash left to burn."

"What a dreadful existence, that giant's. Being cursed to tend to a dying flame for eternity." — Alexander bows slightly. — "That, and to carry the entire legacy of his fallen race with him forever."

"It's not like he had a choice. His kind was butchered in that war. What else could he have done to keep existing if not abide by his conqueror's designs?" — Vilmos shrugs. — "History's written by the victors, as they say. And so, too, do the victors write the loser's terms of prolonged existence." — He crosses his arms.

"Wise words, good sir. And such is the truth of our warriordom. Only a veritable fool would stoop themselves to the same level as the people who they felled!" — Alexander proclaimed. — "And us, warrior jars, have been bequeathed the gift of inheriting our foes' strength, in a rather literal fashion at that."

"But while I have the strength of many a warrior inside me, from easy pickings to great warriors from the Shattering, I still doubt there's another soul out there who could've felled that giant." — He turned towards Vilmos, arms still crossed. — "Of course I count myself, the great Alexander, among the many."

"Which means," — He halted. — "I've but one thing to ask of you."

I shift towards Alexander myself, my capes dramatically whipping in the stormy winds, awaiting his question

"Would you kindly undertake my ordeal?" — Alexander asked.

I raise my brows, very much... dazed by Alexander's sudden request.

"Alexander, I-I..." — I take a step back. — "Do you wish... for me to fight you?"

"Yes, my good sir!" — Alexander confirmed.

"But why, Alexander?" — I spread an arm in emphatic gesticulation. — "You still have the capital in sight... There are many a warriors left for you to face still."

I felt calm, yet I could hardly keep track of what I was saying. It's as if I was finding a haphazard way to cope with what I just said.

"I unleashed the Rune of Death from their shadowy shackles, and the impassable thorns were burnt to ashes. Do you not wish to quarrel with the very God of this world? Queen Marika herself?" — I huffed out a chuckle, stretching out a pointing hand to the West.

"Ah, my good sir, I..." — Alexander sputtered, following with a sigh.

Alexander then moved, walking towards the other end of the platform and away from the storm's eye. I cast a brief glance towards it before following beside him.

"I understand why you say such, good sir."

"We've quarreled together many times now," — He stops before the platform's end. —"haven't we?"

"General Radahn, the last Giant..." — He placed his gravelly fists where hips would be. — "...we've been through highs in the Mountaintops, and through lows in the dreadful bogs of Liurnia and the Caelid Wilds!"

"Indeed... And I also vividly recall the countless times I had to whack you out of pits." — I let out a coy smile. 

"Heh heh heh," — He chuckled as he turned towards me, his proud stance not faltering. — "that is true indeed!"

"With something nice 'n' big, was it?" — I teased, bumping his arm with my elbow.

The two shared a collective guffaw.

Their laughs reverbed throughout the storm, taking away the place of the heavy howls with much needed reprieve.

"Heh heh heh!- Yes indeed, good sir!- Pff- Yes, indeed!" — Alexander replied, speaking through lingering ha-ha's.

"Did it... happen to hurt?" — I lift an obvious sarcastic brow.

"Oh, you jest, but I saw my life flashing before my innards in Liurnia!" — Alexander placed his hands where hips would be. 

...

A collective silence.

I had to punch out two Black Knives to get those melted mushrooms.

I thought of roasting some in a bonfire but it didn't work.

...

"Ah, true..." — Alexander looked away.

"Well, at least you got out of there..." — I huffed out a chortle, a corner of my lips lifting into a queer smile. — "I even whacked you from the other end."

"Indeed!" — He placed a hand on the rim of his jar, where I left the aforementioned dent. — "And I'm quite certain if I got bogged down in the Giant's peak, you'd have to fling a fire pot at me just so I would thaw!"

"You jest, but that would have been far easier, Alexander." — I rolled my eyes, kicking a pebble.

"Speaking of... Do you remember still,"— He broke the tension, shifting towards me again. — "what I did during our clash against the giant?"

"I was going to ask you..." — I stroked my chin. — "I remember the giant using a splint... and I recall cutting the braid tied around it and the giant collapsing to a knee."

"Indeed, my good sir! It was a fine display of wits from your part, crippling the giant to even out the height difference!" — Alexander crossed his arms again.

"Heh heh!" — I scratch my cheek, waving a hand dismissively. — "Don't mention it..."

"And you do not recall seeing that braid again, do you?"

"Actually, I don't recall seeing the braid nor you." — I tilt my head. — "Where did you go?"

"Heh, well," — He extended his hand. — "let's just say..."

Small sparks spewed from his palm, until a full conflagration roared out as he suddenly clenched it into a fist. I felt the waft of hot hair brush on my skin, and I took an instinctive step back.

"...I inherited his power!" — Alexander exclaimed, self-evident pride in his voice.

"Marika's tits!" — I blurt out.

"To be truthful, my good sir," — His flame then fizzled out before his arms crossed again. — "while I do wish to carry on with this journey, the path of champions must be trod alone. And before we part ways, I wish to undertake this ordeal. I've been longing to fight a warrior as accomplished as you."

For a moment, I had a faint thought. 

'What if this was his last battle, and he is too prideful to recognize that he cannot brave the path ahead?'

His jar was cracked, and though he did temper himself in Mount Gelmir, he himself said it was not be enough to temper himself back together.

I disregarded that thought. That was not the Alexander I know. The Alexander I knew was a warrior. He would not back down from a challenge, even if he was in tatters and hanging by a thread. Drats, he even inherited part of the Fire Giant's power. And that big sop was one of the toughest challenges I've braved.

No...

Alexander was a warrior.

A warrior until the bitter end.

"Verily then, Alexander!" — I present my Troll Knight Sword, taking a mighty stamp forward and gripping the hilt with hilt with force. — "I accept your ordeal!"

"Then let us begin!" — Alexander unfolded his arms.

"I," — He thrust a fist into the sky. — "am the great jar warrior, Iron Fist Alexander!"

"Lend me your strength," — He exclaimed. — "O warriors within!"

A fiery whirlwind enveloped him, burning the shrubs around him to ash and melting the brick tiles he set foot on.

"Let us become one champion, TOGETHER!" 

...

The battle went by in a blur.

I recall both of us letting out our mighty bellows, my colossal sword slamming onto his clay, and his gravelly fist into my plate.

I despise myself for saying this, but...

...he felt fragile.

His jar was cracked. I could not turn a blind eye to it.

What went wrong? Did he misjudge his tempering at Gelmir or the Giant's Forge? Did he temper himself at the Forge?

Was he weak?

Was he weak?

...

Alexander tumbled onto his back, his arms slumping at his side.

"As I suspected..." — He let out a pained huff. — "...victory... was impossible."

"Alexander!"

Vilmos rushed to Alexander's side, dropping to his knees and planting his palms on the ground.

"Alexander!" — He spoke through weary huffs. — "Are you with me still?!"

"Heh..." — Alexander propped himself up to look at the knight better. — "It was a marvelous battle. My thanks."

The jar then fell back onto the ground, his legs going limp.

Cascades of gravel poured out from his waning limbs, and a pool of blood grew under him. 

"But I can't help but wonder..." — He rest both his hands on top of his body. — "Was your heart in it at all?"

"It was, Alexander! — I leaned forward. — "I've never doubted you! Not once have I ever doubted you!"

"Well," — He plucked a shard from the his jar's ornate belt. — "I always knew you were the stuff of champions. And this vessel... was found lacking."

The stench of iron brushed on my nostrils, and trails of red ran down from the cracks in Alexander's body. Though his life signs flickered, we yet remained whole.

"But I am glad I fell by your blade, good sir." — He groaned. — "I always knew you were destined to be a great warrior."

"So I implore you..." — He opened his closed hand in front of me, displaying a shard mingled with fleshy fibers. — "...take what I bequeath... from inside me."

I looked at the shard for a long moment.

Hesitantly, I plucked the shard from his hand.

As I held it in my cupped gauntlets, I sunk, gazing deep into it with wide, glassy eyes.

"All vessels," — Alexander flickered. — "are destined to one day break."

My eyes immediately darting towards him again.

"And though you're no jar, Vilmos, you shall too, one day, break..!"

"But regardless of which path you may take... take it to your grave!"

Alexander slowly lifted a fading fist into the howling sky.

"As I... am content..!"

"For I lived a warrior... to my last! "

"Hahahaha!"

* CRACK *

The last thing I heard was Alexander's pot cracking, and then being awash with a flood of his blood and innards.

My Carian plate was blood-logged. My hair was dripping blood too. 

It'll soon become crusty, and hard to wash.

I slowly lifted my heavy eyes up at where Alexander once lied, and amidst the indifferent flesh, I spot a pulsating bulb. Quickly, I crawl over to it.

Taking it into my hand, I see it is no indifferent flesh. It is an organ, with bulbs, blood vessels and connecting fibers. It had a vague structure of a heart, the bulbs pulsating rhythmically.

This must be...

"Alexander..." — I muttered, sinking back onto the heels of my boots.

Shard of Alexander

An ornate shard of the fallen jar warrior, Iron Fist Alexander.

The clay is mingled with the indifferent flesh of numerous warriors, among them the hair strands of a red-haired champion.

A keepsake from a great warrior, and a dear friend.

Chapter Text

"Kill me, please."

Who says that to a person one trusts?

Mayhaps she did not. I would not hold it against her if that were true.

But why?

Why?! Why would one say that?!

A "kindness"?! 

For the faintest moment, I felt a shudder, an urge to humor her inane plea. 

Not out of a willingness to compromise to her request, but rather out of a cloying hatred for her words.

She spoke true. I had done a lot for her.

But I stood still for a moment.

I held the thought. The one in my sword arm. And I listened.

As much as I did not wish to.

"I know that I fear nothing... But this..." — She sunk deeper, her hands clenching and her faint tone hushing further. — "Free me, brave Tarnished... Free me from this accursed frame."

I gave her a wide-eyed stare, and I froze at the obstinate absurdity of her words.

After a solid moment of silence, I then loosened, looking away and deflating with a sigh as I place a hand on my hip. I shake my head, and I then rub my eyes.

"Do you seriously expect me to obey your request, Ry- I'm s- Zorayas?"

"Vilmos, you don't quite understand, I-" — She sputtered.

"Zorayas," — I begrudgingly interrupt her. — "I heard you loud and clear. Too loudly and clearly, in fact."

Zorayas craned her head up at me, brows cinched together and an open frown on her parted lips. She seemed expectant of what I was going to say next, so I obliged

"In fact, I wish I had gouged out my ears first so I wouldn't have to hear that string of words." — My face tensed further, my eyes narrowing. 

"How is this so different from the other requests Lady Tanith has made?" — Zorayas leaned forward. — "I'm in my human form, Vilmos, am I not? What difference does it make?"

"If you truly wish to be penurious about it, then I would not do such a thing anyway because you're not part of my own kind. Only in part." — I lift a brow.

Before she has a chance to react, I blow out a sigh, planting a palm on my face and dragging it down until it falls back at my side.

Perhaps that wasn't the wisest choice of words.

I shake my head.

"Stand up. I want to take you somewhere" — I presented a hand to her.

Zorayas stared at my outstretched digits for a long moment, then at me, then back again.

Gulping, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve before placing her hand into mine and heaving herself up.

"Where... do you wish to take me?" — She gingerly asked, clasping her hands together.

"Just come. You'll find out when you arrive." — I placed my free hand on her shoulder.

As she felt my touch, she winced her back straight again, leveling out our heights.

"Very well, Vilmos." — Zorayas nodded.

I recall we then left the turret and made our way out of the manor... but not much else.

I took one step outside and felt Gelmir's torrid dragon breath promptly slap me across the face. By that point, having crossed most of the decrepit Manor grounds, it was more of an annoyance than a proper dissuasion. 

What felt more like one was the horrid, stinking bog of sweat I was mired in.

As we carefully weaved through the flames of the Mount and made our way to the Manor, I was always looking over my shoulder. I don't remember if it was to gauge her reaction to me slaying her...

...

...no. 

I couldn't remember if it was to gauge her reaction at my gruesome combat or to catch any strange looks she might've been giving off. 

I felt every inch of my blasted garments stick to me.  I was wearing layers upon layers but I still felt like it was seeping through the fabric.

Things only worsened from here on as I stepped inside a fetid, corpse-ridden temple.

Instinctually, I undid my step, beaten back by the miasma of death and crushing weight of the air, as if I were inhaling stillwater.

Zorayas didn't seem very bothered, which admittedly fueled my frustration as my nostrils were assaulted by an almost... acrid... penetrating sensation.

Still, I was a "Brave Tarnished", in her eyes.

I'm going to go in there again.

I wasn't going to be bested by some paltry-

"GUGH!- Ghk!- URK" — My breaths turn exasperated as I take another step inside the temple, covering my mouth with my forearm. — "Curses!"

"Are you alright, Vilmos?" — Zorayas asked, gingerly stepping closer to me.

"I-I'm fine, Ry- Zorayas... I'm- (cough) -fine..." — I straighten my back, putting on my brave face.

"You look pallid as a corpse, Vilmos." — She affirms.

"Think of it as me... honoring the culture of this temple..."

I pretend to not hear the wailing in my stomach and the squelching under my boots to pay attention to the slithering and footsteps just around the corner. 

The man-serpent continues its unassuming march, back arched and dragging its arms along its flanks, circular red shield on the left and a blackened curved sword on the right.

Its gait is iffy, reeling from side-to-side with gaunt muscles, barely holding themselves up to the disproportionate snake body. A sinister perpetual smile is etched on its jaws, agape with its forked tongue lolling out. Its forceful breathing is underlined by a subtle hiss as its chest rises and falls.

Vilmos and Zorayas both press up against the wall as they wait for the man-serpent to turn the corner. The knight grasps their oversized sword's hilt with both hands as they lower and arch forward, priming for a lunge.

His eyes thin as the steps grow closer and closer.

Tmp...

...Tmp...

...Tmp...

...

...Tmp...

Vilmos pats the air to Zorayas. 

"O-" — She lowers to a crouch.

[This one seems oddly... decrepit. Its steps are uneven.]

As the man-serpent stumbled forwards, unveiling itself, Vilmos was caught off-guard by a massive, gorged bulb eclipsing his view.

"HAAAHH!"

Without a second of hesitation, he brought his sword flat down upon the man-serpent.

A loud wham resounded as the heavy blade flattened the large egg-like structure onto the stone floor. Jets of sickly beige fluid mired with snake blood shot out from below upon impact.

The serpent's limbs sputtered momentarily before slumping onto the mat, lifeless.

"Was this bugger using an egg for a helmet?!" — I huff, swiping the blade to the side to remove some of the egg's viscera. 

"It seems to be the case." — Zorayas comments. — "The choice lies in the belief abstaining from sight will hone their intelligence enough to cast magic."

"Hm, makes sense... All the great sorcerers I know conceal their eyes, so it's not too unfounded." — I reply as I wipe away some splatters off my plate. — "But that matters not now."

As the cat was out of the bag, Vilmos saw fit for him to face the remaining foes head-on. As he dashed out of cover, he immediately sighted two man-serpents. Scanning the vicinity, no other foes were visible. Two man-serpents... Mere scraps.

One of the snakes ran towards Vilmos, their body shooting upwards, extending to its full length before lunging down towards him, fangs bare and jaw unhinged.

Instead of dodging, the knight instead took a mighty stamp forward, winding up his sword arm far and long before slamming it forth, bifurcating the snake's head into the red tapestry. 

Without a moment to spare, the other man-serpent stretched themself for another lunge, identically to their fallen kin.

"Tch, idiot!" — Vilmos scoffed as he assumed his stance, sword pointed up at the ready.

Then, the man-serpent dove head first into Vilmos, mouth wide open to swallow him whole.

[There you go, you pathetic-]

The serpent's committal was convincing, but they managed to coil around itself, giving a small pirouette before barrelling their head like a flail straight into Vilmos.

"Vilmos!" — Zorayas exclaimed as she saw the incoming attack 

[Smart!] — Vilmos' eyes flashed as he spotted the maneuver.

Though it was not quickly enough for a hasty retaliation, he blocked the attack with his sword's wide blade. The impact was harsh, making him stagger a few steps, but also dazing the man-serpent.

[NOW!]

As a final coup de gracé, Vilmos dashed into the serpent, running them through with a final jab to the chest.

They contorted for a brief moment, hissing, head flailing wildly and hands bashing on the back of his armor, but then quickly fell limp. Their long neck slumped over his shoulder and their hands dropped their weapons.

Vilmos then laid the snake on the ground and withdrew his bloodied sword.

"Excellent work, Vilmos!" — She clapped, giving me a purse, delighted grin. — "I had no doubts about your skill, but I am content to see it in person."

"T-Thank you, Zorayas..." — I looked away, wiping blood off my cheek with a gloved hand.

"But come on, now." — I beckoned. — "We're almost out of here."

We circled around the flight of stairs and made our way down a hall. At the end, we were then met with a foggy barrier, with a twin imp statue beside it. I reach into one of my satchels and retrieve a Stonesword Key to plunge it into the remaining slot. With the barrier cleared, we descended a flight of stairs into a dark room, at least 4 stories tall, acting as a sort of jail. Large cells hung from the ceiling with chains, and individual cages piled at the bottom, decayed inmates still inside. 

The air wasn't any more pleasant. It was heavy, feeling like I was stepping inside my parents' tool shed, and it wasn't any more alleviated by how open the space was. 

"Zorayas, I hate to be asking you this..." — I mutter, looking down at the fall from our cage to the other below.

"Hmmm?" — She inched closer, carefully watching her foot. — "What is it?"

"...Do you think you can transform into a serpent?" — I point down.

"I believe so... Just avert your eyes. Please." — She requested, distancing herself slightly.

"Verily." — I cover my eyes.

I hear scintillating behind me, accompanied by a bright light.

[Ah, so that's how she does it.]

The transformation finished with the swish of a cloak and the clinking of chains.

Zorayas then approached Vilmos again, hands clasped together meekly.

"What is it you need, Vilmos?"

"I need you to hold on to the cage" — I tap my foot's heel on it. — "and to stretch yourself enough so I can safely drop onto the cage below." — I point to it.

"Very well, Vilmos." — She nodded.

Zorayas turned around at the edge of the cage and arched forward. Slowly, she grabbed on to an edge strut and eased herself down, putting feet after feet through the bars like they were a ladder.

Once she had a firm grip on the side of the cage, she bit down on the cage, putting her fangs through the gaps until secure. Once she didn't feel her head budge, she let her hands and feet go of the cage and stretched out her body as much as she could. By the end of it, she was easily as tall as a Troll.

Her tail was feeling around the air, trying to seek out the cage. From my point of view, she was, indeed, still a few paces off from the cage, but he could make the safe jump now.

"I cah'c hin' 'he cadge." — She babbled, looking up at him.

"It's okay still, Zorayas. I can make the jump now." — I crouched down to pat her on the snout. — "Thank you."

"Ahwaysh, 'hi'osh'" — She replied, letting her body compress back to its normal length.

"Hoh' on-o 'y ca'e, an' I wihh 'e' you 'own." — She tapped her cloak's chain.

"You want me to hold onto your cape so you'll lower me like an elevator, is that it?"

"Hn-hn"

"Verily. Tell me if I'm hurting you or anything."

I laid my Troll Knight sword on top of the cage, and what followed was me very unceremoniously clambering down her body, confusion mixed with worry at how I could be hurting her.

I was clinging to her in between inches of descent like a sloth to a tree branch, all the while casting brief glances at the fall that awaited my misstep.

After around two minutes, I was hanging on to the end of her tail.

"Zorayas! I can't drop onto it," — My breathing was exasperated, my eyes shifting rapidly from Zorayas, to the cage, and back. — "I'm gonna have to swing a little!"

"Hurry, you're hea'y!" — Zorayas spoke, her flimsy arms waddling to and from.

I kicked my legs forward and back with feet together in a quick succession.

I carefully watched the swings grow wider and wider.

Wider...

...Wider..!

I bucked my legs harder.

"'i'hosh! I' hurshs!"

Just..!

A little more..!

[NOW!]

Just before the apogee of the final forward swing, I tossed myself.

"WAAAAAaAaAaAA-"

"-Ough!" — I grunt as I dive onto the cage, rolling to hamper the impact.

As I landed on it, the cage buckled, swaying to and from and kicking up a cloud of dust. I remain crouched, knuckles paling as I hold on for dear life until the cage's movements die down. 

"Heh! Made it!" — I huffed a sigh of relief, a pleased grin tugging at my lips.

"Ry- Zorayas!" — I stand up and look back up at the snake lady. — "My sword!" 

Never thought today's schedule included me treating her like an over-glorified swing.

...

"Mom! Mo-om! Look! Hehehehe!" — A wee little me spoke out to my mother, his tiny legs kicking back and forth as he rode the swing. The tree branch it was tied to was shifting slightly, but stood strong still.

"Vilmos!" — She exclaimed, a vexed frown on her face. — "Just what do you think you're doing?!"

"Look how far I'm goi-"

I buckled as the swing suddenly stopped on one side, followed by the other.

A slap.

...

I heave the weighty doors open with a grunt.

"Whew!" — I sigh, picking up my sword again. — "This looks, err... familiar."

"It is indeed." — Zorayas confirmed. — "I recognize these scents. We are in the entrance of the Manor."

I look to my left, then to my right. I notice the golden light of the grace amidst the deep red of the torches, and it clicks.

"Excellent. Let us move, then." — I give a tender smile, patting Rya on the shoulder.

After a flight of stairs and an entryway, we finally leave the Volcano Manor, graced by burning piles of corpses and stakes displaying strung-up victims contrasting against a remarkably blue sky. 

Fresh..? Air?

Wind, at least.

"Rya, hold onto my sword for a little, please." — I hold up the sword by the handle, point down.

"Very well." — She nodded. Nudging the sleeves of her overcoat over her palms, she heaved the sword into her arms.

I tugged on one of my right gauntlets' fingers and removed it from my hand, placing it on my shoulder. This is the first time in days that my hand had a chance to breathe. Not for long, though.

I put my hand up to my mouth and blew into the golden ring on my finger, producing a high-pitched whistle.

In an instant, the spirit steed Torrent materialized in front of me from a glowing blue haze. As he beheld my visage, he lowered his head and raised his tail.

"Hey there, Torrent..." — I scratch his mane, disheveling his bangs. — "Did you miss me?"

Torrent let out a low, guttural bubble, pleased with the ministrations.

"Is this your steed, Vilmos? Can you simply call him forth whenever you desire?" — Zorayas tilted her head.

Torrent's ears pointed towards the other voice, shifting his head slightly and giving a taut stare at the source.

"Indeed he is." — I nod. — "Though, I didn't raise him from a foal. He was given to me by a dear travelling companion of mine."

"Ah, I see..." — She tapped her chin. — "I take it they are no longer accompanying you?"

For a moment, I stop petting Torrent, and my contented smile dulls as I gaze at nothing.

My lips part and my breath hitches, but no words come out.

I look away as my head sinks, sighing and pursing my lips.

This was all I had left from her, wasn't it?

The horse... the ring...

...

Torrent whinnies and pushes against my hand, demanding redoubled head rubs. I'm startled by his sudden insistence, shackling myself back to the earth as I remembered I had a question to answer.

"Nh- No, Zorayas," — I gulp, resuming scratching Torrent's mane. — "she is not."

"Ah, a shame." — She smiled gently, clasping her hands together. — "I hope their travels are going well, wherever they may be."

Without taking my hand off Torrent's head, I reached into a satchel with another and retrieved a pouch of dried Rowa fruits. I let go of him and put a few on my exposed palm before presented it before the equine. After probing it with his flaring nostrils, he dug in. 

I pat his neck again.

"I do too."

I inhale deeply, and then let out an equally profound sigh.

"Come on,"— I put my gauntlet back on and took the sword back from Zorayas. — "we have a lot of ground to cover."

I put the heavy sword in in a scabbard over Torrent's croup, fastening the straps around the hilt to secure it. Then, I put a foot through one stirrup and hopped up onto the saddle, deftly throwing my other leg up and around to catch the remaining one.

As I look back at Zorayas, I pat the vacant space between me and the supplies slung over Torrent's rump, withdrawing my foot from the stirrup in offering.

"Is it fine by you?" — Zorayas's spoke, shy.

"By all means, go ahead," — I nodded. — "lest you wish to walk all this by foot."

"I will take Torrent, with you." — She smiled.

Pulling her robe up, she put a foot through the stirrup and she climbed on, clambering her leg over to the other side with difficulty.

"Do you need a hand?" — I looked over my shoulder at her.

"Allow me-"

She writhed.

"Hng!"

"-there." — She huffed, her struggle ending.

Zorayas then looked up at me and gave me a radiant beam.

"I am fine, Vilmos. Thank you."

A pure, delighted one, from ear-to-ear.

Seeing her smile so innocently made me smile, even if I was hiding it like the proud stoic I am.

How could I take it away from this world?

"Well now, put your arms around my waist." — I grab the reins — "I do not wish you falling off and getting maimed." —

"V-Very well." — Zorayas nodded.

I lifted my arms to let her wrap hers around my torso. Her hands were... noticeably hesitant.

"Zorayas, if you really are not at ease, we can go on foot." — I scratch Torrent's withers.

"Oh, it is fine, Vilmos... I have simply never ridden a horse before." — She explained.

"And if this is not fine, you can hold on to my mantle." — I pat the aforementioned mantle twice. — "I suggested you hold on to me because it is safer for you and I."

"Truly Vilmos, it's- it's fine." — She reinforced.

"If you say so."  — I bow forward to give Torrent a good rub on his mane. — "I will have Torrent trot slower for your sake."

"Thank you. You are very kind..." — She chuckles.

"Now then..." — I stand straight.

"Git!" — I whip the reins.

Spectral Steed Whistle

A finely-crafted golden ring, emblazoned with two hooves, fashioned into a finger whistle.

When sounded, it will summon forth Torrent, the spirit steed.

A remnant of an accord.

Chapter Text

I remember quarrelling against the Veiled Monarch...

Several times, for that matter.

Once, at the entrance to the Grafted's castle...

...twice... outside Leyndell, at the old battleground...

...thrice, at the entrance to the Erdtree.

Persistent, that wretched git was.

Blithering about how I was a graceless Tarnished, and how he would whiff out the "flame of ambition". 

In the end, he was the fool. I did not slay half the royal family to have my deeds met with failure as he so proudly enounced. 

However... I cannot help but feel a certain respect for him, despite how bent he was on slaying me.

Vilmos and Zorayas were slowly riding under a passage beneath a rock bridge, with a massive chasm to our right, leading into an old battleground. It, too, was permeated with lingering piles of burning corpses, crucified trolls and knights, and vermin-infested animated remains. The howls of the wind echoed as they brushed through the rock, which made the ambience even more sinister. Torrent's ears were flicking to and fro, and his head was held high. His tail was rapidly swishing from side-to-side, possibly due to the flies infesting the corpses or agitation.

Betting on the latter, I was trying my best to reassure him, making my movements subtle and withheld, and rubbing his mane and head. 

"Have you ever visited Leyndell in person, Zorayas?" — I asked, giving her a brief glance.

"No." — She shook her head.

"Mm," — I hum. — "I take it you've lived in the Manor your whole life, then?"

"Yes." — She nods. — "That does not mean I have not been around, however, being the Manor's trusted scout."

"In your days of-" — I adjust myself in my seat. — "ugh -err... scouting... were there any warriors who were initially approving of your invitation, but later came to regret their decision?"

"That has nary been a worry. Lord Rykard and his Manor are sworn enemies of the Erdtree, and his blasphemous deeds are no secret to anyone." — She rest her head on my back. — "So all who accept our gracious invitations know quite well what they do, and they know better than to admonish their positions."

"But there have been exceptions, no?" — I quirk a brow.

"The few who are worthy enough are fed to the Serpent as sacrifices. The remainder are affixed to these posts as standing monuments to what shall be done to those who oppose the Manor's wishes." — She lifts her head and points at a crucified Troll. — "Preferably living too, so they are picked clean by the crows."

"That is..." — I blink. — "...disturbing."

The two move through a gap in a wooden palisade, with knights and footsoldiers mounded at its foot. Ahead, standing spears and swords are thrust into the ground as vague headstones, and the corpses diminish as they approach the burnt husk of the Minor Erdtree. 

"W... What is this?" — Zorayas asks.

"This is a Minor Erdtree." — I reply, pulling Torrent's reins to a stop. — "Or what's left of one."

"I always thought this was but a mountain." — She craned her head up at the top of the trunk.

"Trust me" — A chuckle forces itself out my nostrils. — "when I say I was none the wiser when I crossed this area for the first time."

"However, let us simply say..." — I trail off.

My eyelids narrow.

"...I only came to know such a fact after an unsolicited visit."

...

"VILMOS!" — Melina yelled out at me.

I was still stumbling about, panicking to put out the yellow flames caught on my cape.

"Wha-?"

I felt the beast's tail slam into my stomach, launching me a good ten or twenty meters.

"-WOAAAAAAAAAaAaAaAA-!"

I crashed into a pile of armor and corpses, barely clinging to my oversized Iron Greatsword. Meekly, I push myself up, but I collapse back down as I felt a stinging pain in my stomach.

"Ghk-!" — My face furrows as I curl up.

I cough repeatedly, each bout spewing more blood splatters. I give a haggard look at my stained glove, and then at the approaching Ulcerated Tree Spirit.

It was as a massive, serpentine being of both bark and pulsating red flesh and pustules. Limbs sprout all over, with a beard of roots, and a back lined with various branches and sprouts evoking what little "Tree" it has in its name. Its two five-clawed arms dragged itself through the ashen dirt, with its long trail drumming against the ground in-between its slow heaves. 

"Vilmos! Get up! It's going to kill you!" — She yells.

"Damn..!" — I slam the ground, frustrated.

The Tree Spirit gargled as it extended a claw to grab me.

"VILMOS!" — Melina screeched as she hopped off of Torrent, drawing her curved blade. 

"MELINA, NO-!" — I yell.

Before I realized it, the Tree Spirit had swatted her away with its tail.

"OUGH-!" — She grunted as she tumbled through the ground.

"MELINAAAAA!"

Hastily, I heaved up my sword and slashed the beast's wrist.

It let out a short yelp, but it was unabated, bringing me closer to its massive gaping jaw.

[CursescursescursescursesCURSES!] — I whip my legs about as I writhe in its crushing grasp.

It then tossed me inside.

Melina, heaving herself up, only saw the beast's closed jaw as it lowered its claw.

"No..! No!" — She muttered, brushing her hair off her face.

...

"...and I stared death in the face right there." — I look over my shoulder at Zorayas.

"Oh, goodness..." — Her eyes opened widely. — "But you did get out safely, did you not?"

"I did... but it was not an easy feat. I could feel the blasted Tree Spirit's tongue and throat churning, trying to push me into its bowels." — I feel a chill. — "It was a most grizzly situation! Heheh..!"

"In my daze, I recalled my side arm," — I pat the longsword on my left hip. — "and I thought to stab the roof of its maw so it would open momentarily."

"Could you have not used your greatsword?" — She tilts her head.

"I did, Zorayas," — I huff, readjusting myself in my seat. — "but I first needed enough space to move it."

...

Its tongue is pushing me around, I can hardly get a solid footing!

I then drew my longsword with my left hand, and I thrust it upward with what might I had. I felt my ears burst as it vocalized pain right on me. It dazed me, but not enough to ignore light shining through its open jaws.

"RRAAAAAAAAHHHH!!"

Grasping my greatsword with both hands, I threw it over my head, stabbing the skull with a loud squelch and crack. The beast let out a violent roar of pain, and the last thing I heard was the hiccups of its agony before blood drowned my ears. But I did not quit.

Stomping against the beast's tongue, I twisted and shifted the greatsword's blade in the bristling wound, a cascade of blood pouring over me as the dogged Spirit writhed and squirmed. 

"RAAAAARGH!! DIIIEEEEEE!" — I roared.

I then grabbed the longsword again and repeatedly thrust it into the beast's jaw. I then lost my footing as it began thrashing its head around wildly, while I myself dangled by the greatsword's hilt.

"MELINAAAAA! A HAND!" — I yelled myself, hoping she would hear. — "STAB ITS HEAD! STAB ITS HEAAAAAAAD!"

I yelled myself hoarse fighting against the mind-numbing screeching of the beast.

I then felt weightless for a moment.

"Huh?-"

As if gravity had been pulled from under my f-

"WOAWHAAAAAAAAAA-"

The serpentine Spirit flung its head at breakneck speeds onto the ground, trying to crush me.

A muffled thud as I was pressed flat.

...

"The damned thing thought it was an excellent idea to try and kill me by repeatedly bashing its head on the ground!"

"Goodness..!" — Zorayas put a hand over her mouth. — "Did you walk away with many broken bones?"

"Well..." — I put a hand over my torso, where the Tree Spirit had slammed its tail into.

...

The ulcer-filled tree serpent was raving mad, thrashing its multiple limbs and bashing its head on whatever it could find, in a vain try at removing Vilmos from its jaws.

Melina was hanging on to the serpent's branches, slowly ascending up its back in-between violent bouts of movement. 

"Vilmos, hold strong! I'm almost- Wo-WoAH! -there!" — She yelled out to Vilmos, using her blade as a makeshift climbing utensil. 

The Spirit was frenzied, clawing at itself in a vain attempt at catching Melina. In a last ditch, it crawled towards the Minor Erdtree's husk and slammed its head on it.

"Hng-! Curses!" — She grunted, still hanging on.

After the brutal impact, its tongue lolled out, and a whole downpour of blood streamed from its slack jaws. Its posture was weakening, barely able to lift its head past its shoulders, and its arms were buckling. In this apparent break of movement, Melina stabbed her way up to its neck.

"Persistent bastard!" — She swatted away a writhing hand. — "O-Oh—!" 

The spirit shot its head up and then bashed its back against the bark. Melina's expert acrobatics allowed her to jump around, holding on to by a gory arm just below the jaw.

"Drats!" — She huffed.

In a quick succession, she clambered up their body, up its neck and ended at its head.

"MELINA- Urk! -HELP!" — I flickered, my voice reduced to a rasp.

"I'm almost there!" — She replied.

At the top, Melina could see Vilmos' greatsword sticking out almost in full out of the Spirit's skull. She straddled a branch as the beast's head flailed more.

"I'm... almost there-! Gah!" — She staggered as she lost the grip on the branch. — "I'm almost there!"

The gigantic serpent let out another bellow, and she was left dazed holding her head. 

"I'm going deaf at this rate!" — She winced, shooing out a lock of hair from her face.

She continued stabbing her way up the frenetic beast until she was practically at its 'reins', standing up atop its head while gripping one of its horn-branches. 

"Now you shall meet Death, foul beast!" — She flipped the grip on her Blade of Calling as a flame of black and red ensnared it.

Melina then thrust it into the Tree Spirit's skull, and the flames of Death quickly consumed its body from the inside out as it let out a final, ear-bursting howl into the sky.

The Spirit's arms slacked, and its fleshy weals and tumours cease pulsing with life. Faint yellow cinders flickered and a gargle escaped its throat, before the bloodied beast crashed onto the ground, jaw unhinged and head disfigured. Its tail was the last to tumble, slumping over a root of the Minor Erdtree. 

Melina slid down the beast as it died, and she then rushed to its head after it collapsed.

"VILMOS!" — She yelled, sheathing her blood-covered dagger uncaring.

At its head, she blew the whistle, calling forth Torrent.

"Torrent! Help me heave its- Hng!-" — She tugged at her black cloak, tossing it aside exasperated. — "Help me heave its mouth open!"

Melina moved to the creature's snout, pulling the bottom open jaw with all the strength she yet had.

"Come... ON!" — Her face furrowed in effort. — "Gah!-" — She slipped onto the dirt.

Torrent whinnies before pacing over to Melina's side. It then bit the beast's jaw before trying to pull it, their forelegs straining. His teeth clacked shut as it lost the grip, and he bucked back a few paces, startled.

"Drats!" — Melina wiped the sweat off her brow with a backhand before pushing herself back onto her feet.

She then walked up to Torrent and rummaged through the pouches and bags.

"Rope... rope... rope..!" — She huffed, desperate. — "Rope!"

Melina quickly unfurled the bundle of rope before grabbing the rein and tying a knot around it.

[This ought to work...]

She then ran back up to the Spirit's jaw and tied another knot around a "tooth". She tugged on it, seeing if it's secure, before going back to Torrent's side. Clicking her tongue, she beckoned the horse forth.

"Come, Torrent, forward!"

...

"My goodness..!" — She stared at me with abject shock. — "...to fell such a humongous beast in one strike!"

"Indeed..."

...

"Torrent, that's good! That's good!" — She walked back up to the horse and undid the rope on the rein. She crouched over the jaw and quickly undid the knot before tossing it behind her.

"G-Goodness..! Vilmos!" — She covered her lips with a tremulous hand. 

Vilmos was lying stomach up, head on its side, on a pool of viscera. He was blanketed head-to-toe in the beast's blood, but also his own.

Tugging her hair behind her ear, she lowered her head close to his parted lips.

She could hear faint, raspy breaths.

[Okay, he is alive...]

She withdrew herself, sitting back on the heels of her boots and planting a palm over her chest.

She clenched her eye shut, and then heaved a deep sigh, her back arching.

"Goodness..."

She gulped and lifted her head, taking a better look at him.

His jaw and teeth were stained crimson, and bloody tears ran down his cheeks and nose. His ears were also bleeding, and she could see a small refraction of light on the flooded ear canal. The rest of his body was difficult to assess, and her only tells were a twisted knee and stained armor.

"Do you hear me still, Vilmos?" 

Vilmos gargled, and then coughed out a splotch of blood.

He inhaled deeply, but he was interrupted by another coughing fit, and his back and face winced in agony.

"Vilmos..!" — She laid a hand on him. — "Do not make haste. Let me help you."

She pushed herself to her boots' soles before taking her hands into his armpits and dragging him away from the patch of red. She then crouched beside him and, with redoubled care, eased him back down.

[He is barely alive...] — She sighed, brows tightening.

"I'll tend to you... my companion..."

...

"The last thing I felt before I passed out in full was Torrent gnawing on my toes." — I shake my foot. — "She didn't seem too bothered by it, but I was just a step above the grave so it mattered little to me too."

"Perhaps Torrent was beckoning you to health too." — Zorayas gave a ginger smile and tilted her head, patting the steed.

"Heh... Mayhaps." — I chuckle, squeezing Torrent's ribs with my calves. — "But let us move. I've spoken for long enough already."

Upon feeling the squeeze, the steed resumed its slow trot with a whiny.

"You tell such thrilling tales, I frankly would not mind listening to them over an afternoon." — She smiled.

"Nonsense." — I looked away.

After a few moments, we arrived at a split bridge, with a steep fall separating the two halves. I lean forwards to crane my head down at the drop.

"This is quite the steep drop, isn't it, Vilmos?" — She asked. — "It would be best if we used a rope."

"Nonsense," — I looked over my shoulder at her, rubbing Torrent's mane. — "we'll utilize Torrent."

"T-Torrent?" — She raised her brows and pouted, concerned. — "Would such a fall not be lethal?"

"His horns" — I patted his neck. — "aren't the only things that make him special."

I click my tongue twice.

"Torrent, back up." — I order. — "Back up."

He lowers his head as he reverses his gait a few paces before I squeeze him to halt.

"That's good." — I give him a rub on the mane.

"Now," — I shift to look back at Zorayas. — "Are you good there?"

"Vilmos, this is not a good idea. You're going to kill us three..!" — Her glance shifted rapidly from me to the chasm.

"Zorayas," — I place a hand over hers, making her jump slightly.

"You trust me, do you not?"

"I do, Vilmos, but..."

"Zorayas, I have never given you a reason to believe I'd put you in harm's way out of my own will." — I rub my thumb on the back of her hand. — "Please, be not afear'd." 

She swallows.

"I'm counting on you, Vilmos." — She looks up at me meekly.

"Very well." — I let go of her hand to grab the reins again.

"GIT!" — I whip them.

Torrent gallops forward, uncaring of the oncoming chasm.

"Here comes!"

Just before the end, I tug on the reins.

"Vilmos, caAAAAAAAAAAA-!!" — Zorayas screams.

Torrent leapt high and bold, without so much as hesitation.

We descended further and further, until we were a few meters above the ground.

Then, just before the end, Torrent leapt again, creating a scintillant gloam ripple in the air.

"Huh?" — Zorayas gasps as she hears a sparkle and feels weightless for a moment.

Torrent lands on the bricks below with enviable grace, trotting a few steps before coming to a halt.

"Goodness." — Zorayas  looked at the horse and then at the ground. — "Did he leap in the air?"

He nickered and drooped his ears before doing a self-contented piaffe.

"Good one, Torrent!" — I retrieve a dried Rowa fruit from my pouch and lean forward to feed it to him. With my other hand, I rub his mane.

"I... was not expecting this." — Zorayas commented, heaving a sigh of relief. — "I never thought I'd live to see a horse fly."

"I told you you could trust me." — I chuckle.

The two resume their march at a canter, moving through the road at the Mount's foot. Crucifixions line the ends of the beaten road, stomped out by thousands of hooves and boots all those years ago in the Shattering. Though mostly cleared, armored husks and rusty blades still pepper the dirt, along with the ruined carriages of Abductor Virgins and the beams and struts of siege engines.

The two cross a palisade into a campsite made with a burning pile of Abductors, trolls, and gold-donning husks of Leyndell soldiers at its center. Felicitously dubbed... the 'First Mount Gelmir Campsite', he was told. The weeds here weren't a sickly brown, compared to closer to the Manor. Rather, a dull gold.

After crossing the Campsite, the piles steadily grow fewer and fewer, and the sickly miasma fades dissipates as they reach a wooden rope bridge. Torrent slows down to a walk, and Zorayas' tension heightens, looking at the ground from one side of the horse and from the other.

"Is this bridge safe?" — She blinks.

"Yes." — I confirm.

Torrent puts a first hoof on a board, sparking a creak. Then another hoof, a third, and a fourth. The boards, old as they are, creak and shift slightly, but remain otherwise stable. His ears droop as the footing feels secure enough, and he resumes a more poised two-beat jog. 

I let go of the reins to do some hand stretches. I raise my elbows and press my palms together before pushing them down.

"I am quite nonplussed by- Hng!" — I feel my wrist pop. — "-by how any of these rope bridges yet stand after so many years." — I shake my hands.

"It must be some kind of spell." — She chuckles.

"With how scholars come up with spells for everything and anything, I would not be surprised." — I roll my eyes.

Just before the end of the bridge, we three hear a loud creak.

Torrent stops and immediately perks his head up towards the source, ears pinned and tail down.

"What was that?" — Zorayas' brow tightened.

"Good question." — I look behind me. — "I didn't see the bridge shudder."

I look down at the planks Torrent is on.

"The planks are fine."

What caused that noise?

It could not have been the bridge. It shifted slightly, of course, but it was due to our movement alone.

I click my tongue and squeeze Torrent.

"Come on, Torrent." — I pat his shoulder. — "Clear the bridge. I cannot have you running mad here."

Torrent snorted and then trotted to the other side. I pull the reins to a stop, and Torrent pins his ears back, head still held high.

I look back at the bridge.

It's sound...

I hear another booming crack, but this time I notice it's coming from above. I shoot my eyes up, at one of the burning Erdtree's branches. Zorayas' eyes follow mine, along with Torrent's.

"Oh... Oh my." — My brows raise and my eyes bulge wide open.

"Is that-" — She gulped. — "is that branch moving?" 

One, two, three creaks.

A visible downpour of splinters. Our eyes follow them as they rain down close to the capital up ahead, toppling a few trees.

A roar.

"Marika's tits!" — I spit out, my face's colors draining and my body freezing.

"Vilmos, let us move! Make haste!" — She squeezes me.

"Wait!" — I gulp. — "It's not falling here!"

We then hear a loud boom before a rumbling decrescendo as the humongous, flaming branch collapses.

"It's going to land in Dominula!"  — I stretch out my arm towards the village.

We stare in paralyzed shock as the branch, as large as a whole town, continues descending.

Faint screaming is heard in the distance.

"Goodness..." — Zorayas mutters.

A cacophony of snapping and cracking as the smaller sprouts broke on impact.

Then, a deafening howl as the main branch fell on the Outer Wall and the village, kicking up a kilometer-high cloud of dust and smoke.

The entire file of windmills was flattened, and part of the Outer Wall collapsed along with the branch.

After the dust settled, a massive fire began taking its place. It did not take long for the horizon due north to be replaced with pitch-black smoke, contrasting against the afternoon blue sky.

"I-" — I open my mouth to speak, but only a sputter comes out before I hush anew.

[What?]

[What just happened?]

...

Crimson Seed Talisman

A crimson-colored charm made in the likeness of a seed of the grand Erdtree.

The Erdtree, during the Golden Order's prime, was the standing monument to its perfection and perpetuity. In their abject, self-deluded ignorance, they never once thought the Erdtree would ever bear fruit.

Perfection?

I sometimes do wonder what asinine delusions kept such a flawed Order aloft for so long.

Chapter Text

It was about time the consequences of my actions caught up to me.

In a thunderously grand fashion, at that.

A branch of the Erdtree. The Erdtree. Collapsing.

Dominula was flattened, and the northwestern entrance crumbled.

We had to wait for the fires to die down for at least four moons.

We would have to wait longer if the Erdtree was not yet aflame.

Now I feel as if I'm in the Weeping Peninsula anywhere I go.

Hah hah hah!

Hah...

...

Ahh, blasted ash rains...

I went from happily scrubbing and polishing my armors clean to going raving mad!

...

"Oh, f-" — Zorayas pulled her robe over her mouth as she coughed. — "-Oh, fie. The air is vile. And you told me these were lands of gold-touched herbs."

"We're almost there, Ry- Zorayas. The entrance is nigh, just on the other side of this basin." — In between gallops, I take my hand off the reins to hastily readjust my mouth covering. — "And I couldn't have possibly foreseen such a thing happening!"

We were galloping through the charred plain between the Outer Wall battleground and the Capital Rampart. The dried moat was even further parched, and the weighty miasma of fire and burnt grass clawed at our lungs. Some fires lingered still, but it was relatively safe to cross unlike before. We could barely see the Giant's Mountaintop, with a massive cloud of ash and smoke blocking the view.

For a while, we truly thought we were at a loss. The branch fell squarely over the sole path into Leyndell. But with the branch severed from the main body, it seemed it quickly lost all its luster and life, burning to a charred heap of ashes over a quartet of moons. 

This only begs the question...

...why was Leyndell blanketed in ashes even before I set the Erdtree alight?

It couldn't have been Gransax. I felt those ashes— they did not feel like sediment. Akin to the gravelstones the Ancient Dragons give off. 

And I recall seeing that painting in the Volcano Manor...

Considering Ranni bequeathed a shard of the Rune of Death to Rykard, the one I utilized to repel Maliketh's power...

...Could he have..?

"Ah, we're here." — I pulled the reins, with Torrent's hooves sliding to a stop. — "Zorayas, you first."

Without losing her arms around me, she pulled a leg over before sliding off Torrent's hip, letting go and landing safely on her two feet. I followed suit, bowing forward, throwing a leg over and hopping off the saddle. I withdraw my oversized sword from the scabbard and I pat his chest twice before he disappears in a violet cloud.

"Did he-" — Zorayas waved her hand through the air where Torrent once stood. — "How did he disappear?"

"Even after all this time as his handler," — I shrug. — "my questions are no different than yours."

"Truly, what a confounding creature." — She clasps her hands together. — "But he likes you."

The two walk down the bridge, moving past fallen statues of robed figures that once lined the parapets. After crossing through the dark corridor lined with shelves they arrived at the wooden elevator.

Vilmos stepped on the pressure plate at the center, and dust poured from above as the elevator's gears began winding, slowly heaving the elevator to the next floor.

Amidst the slow, rhythmic clattering of the rusted gears, a bore settles. The elevator's oddly slow this time around.

Clacking and clacking.

More dustfalls.

Zorayas coughed twice.

Vilmos drummed his fingers on his greatsword's hilt.

Zorayas looked left and right, pressing her thumbs together.

"Do these people not know how to illuminate a living space?"  — Zorayas blinked, trying to interrupt the drought.

My mind was completely vacant.

I did not even hear a word.

"...Huh..?"

"Ah, pardon me. I interrupted your musings." — She looked away.

"No need for apologi-" — I coughed. — "-No need for apologies. I was just thinking of nothing."

"So you were thinking of something." — She smirked. — "You vindicate my apology."

"Touché." — I huff out a chuckle.

The elevator slowly eased to a stop. The pressure plate clicked back to its original position with a puff of dust.

The two stepped off the elevator and climbed a short flight of stairs into a kind of prayer room, with rows of pews and an altar, upon which a robed skeleton lied. They walk down the red tapestry and out the exit at the end of the nave, and they're immediately hit with a wave of heat and cinders. 

"It seems the Manor followed us-" — I coughed. — "-here."

"Most unpleasant." — Zorayas adds, covering her mouth with a sleeve.

As we ascend up the stairs and move through the open corridor, the Erdtree Sanctuary comes into view. Despite the bleak sight of the Golden Order's towering monument collapsing all around us, the royal palace still gleams, with the gold of its tiles and the marble of its pillars and arches.

It is framed by the partially collapsed wall, pinned against the backdrop of a burning Erdtree... standing tall amid a mounting sea of ashes.

To the right, the monstrous enormity of Gransax, looming over a section of the capital, remains immobile, himself having become one of the Capital's monuments. His four crag-like wings provide meager shelter from the collapsing tree, and his hushed hand still clutches his titanic spear, fashioned like a lightning bolt.

In the distant haze, the Royal Colosseum stands stout atop a hill, seemingly untouched by the calamity.

We faintly hear the Envoys' golden horns, their echoing melodies accompanying the heralding of a new age or god. Who, I ask... Perhaps it is too soon to tell... but certainly sooner than it was months ago.

"My goodness..." — Zorayas straightened in awe. — "...this is... most wonderful."

"I never thought-" — She closed her eyes and rubbed them. — "-that our sworn foes built something so grand."

"And to see it crumble in such a spectacular fashion..."

"Oh... truly..." — Zorayas smile grew. — "...incredible. A most wondrous sight... their brilliant defeat."

I look at her with raised brows. A staggered laugh escapes me as I look back upon the capital.

"Well, I was certainly not expecting such a reaction..." — I put a hand on my hip.

"Were you expecting surprise from me? If so, I believe you needn't be disappointed." — She tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her lip.

"I am everything but. I was plainly not expecting you-" — I cough. — "-to relish in the sight through such beguiling lenses."

"It is an awe-inspiring sight, truthfully." — She scrubbed an eye. — "But it'd be duplicitous of my part to not find the Erdtree's forlorn state to be gratifying."

"I cannot argue on that front," — I take a step forward, close to the edge of the collapsed Rampart. — "I've despised the Golden Order myself, for as long as I have set foot upon these Lands."

"But there is a tale about the Golden Order," — I look over my shoulder at her. — "that I wish to indulge you in."

Zorayas tilted her head slightly, tapping a foot.

"It is a tale of banishment. Revilement." — I huff, my arms tensing. — "A kind of tale you fear you, yourself, will be a part of."

"But it is also an inspiring tale. One of onerous service and faith... and of redemption." — I turn to her in full, with a face of muted determination.

"Come," — I wave a hand. — "let us sit a while."

Zorayas' head dipped slightly. The reason the two went on this trip was coming back to her, and she felt doubt once more.

After a hushed sigh, she walked up to my side, her step uneasy. She lifts her robes and kneels down on the bed of ash, sitting on the heels of her boots. I follow suit, laying my sword down first before sitting on the ash-laden brick, crossing my legs.

""Morgott"..." — I sniff, then cough. — "...Is this name familiar to you?"

"I'm afraid not." — She wiped her temple. — "But I have heard of a similar name... Margit."

"Then we are on the same page yet." — I follow.

The two of us share a quiet stare up at the burning Erdtree.

I heave a sigh.

"Morgott is Margit's real name. You certainly know him by nicknames such as "the Veiled Monarch", or "Grace-Given"." — I recount, some of my tension departing. — "And to me... "The Last of All Kings"."

"He is the king of Leyndell, is he not?"

"And an omen."

Zorayas shifted her gaze to me, lips pouting and brows raising in surprise.

"Is he?" — She leaned towards me.

I glance at her and give a quiet nod.

"Fie..." — She rests back on her heels. — "I never would've thought..."

"But to be exact... Was. Now he is dead. Felled by my blade." — I pat my Troll Knight Sword.

"But yes," — I cup my hands at my lap. — "Morgott, the acting leader of the Order you fight against, was an omen."

"Would you have imagined the leader of Leyndell's despotic order, one that warded off all who deigned defiance... all who deigned exist beneath Marika's grace... to be ruled by an omen?"

"Morgott... he has a brother. Mohg. Both were cast into the lurch, into Leyndell's sewers. Indifferent from all other omens born in the light of Her realm. Those sewers... I saw them less as sewers, and more like..."

"...mass graves." — I raise my brows in emphatic expression.

"The malodor was worse than a sewer's. It reeked of waste. It reeked of death. It reeked. I was stepping on dung, on urine... giant slugs... maggots, cadavers."

"I wasn't there for long. I collected some trinkets, a spell... some materials."

"But I am a rather meek person... I don't much like getting my hands dirty. So I could never imagine what it would be like to inhabit such a place."

"And yet... Morgott and Mohg... they both did. For almost all their lives, even. They likely witnessed many an omen be dumped into the sewers, much like they once were. But many of them were children. Children riddled with horns coming out of their skin."

"Omen children have their curse's horns excised. Many come to die, as such a procedure was often fatal."

"So imagine my utter shock as I find a whole room... laden with the husks of such omen children. With a sole, adult omen sitting in the middle of it."

"It scars the mind, Zorayas," — I glance at her momentarily. — "And yet... I could not even begin to understand. Just what was going on. For I am but a Tarnished. I was not born with such a curse."

"I could never grasp the pain-" — I cough. — "they underwent."

A momentary silence.

"We move on to the Shattering." — I inhale.

"Marika is fled. And so is the Golden Order's hound. The demigod child Ranni slew her flesh, and along with her she slew Godwyn the Golden and many others..." — I bob my head as I explain. — "...the Night of the Black Knives, a tale I am certain is a tired one."

"And in this despairing cacophony, the seals to the sewers were lifted ... And the two brothers' Great Runes manifested."

"The two brothers fled the sewers, and while Mohg went on to form his own demented dynasty deep below ground, Morgott shrouded his identity, took on an alias, Margit, and seized the throne of Leyndell." 

"And throughout the whole of the Shattering, Leyndell stood tall. Undefeated by the armies of the usurious demigods. The Starscourge's Redmanes failed. The Grafted's failed. Praetor Rykard's was the only one who achieved a meager victory, in a defensive war against Leyndell."

"Morgott, much like Godwyn and Radagon who came before, was a stout defender of the Golden Order. He scornfully dubbed all of his brothers and sisters "traitors"."

"He reviled them, for rather than seeking to mend the Elden Ring, they stood against it, and all sought to build their own orders, their own kingdoms."

I sighed, grabbing a handful of dust.

"Their own paradises, far detached from Marika's imperfect light." — I tilt my palm, letting the ash cascade below.

"I do not hold it against them- Ugh!-" — I cough as some ash blows into my face. — "...Perhaps, indeed, the world was broken. But was it truly perfect before?" — I glance at Zorayas, lifting a brow.

"I, for one, never saw the good in that Order." — I shift my gaze back to the Sanctuary. — "They were tyrants. They laid ruin to all who deigned defiance, to all who dared follow their own designs."

"So in all, Marika reapt what she sowed."

"Chaos, upheaval. Betrayal."

"But mayhaps she knew what she showed. Mayhaps her moniker, The Eternal, was a sign. A sign of the Order's eventual stagnation, and need to shatter its stillness..."

"..."

"...oh, fie, I'm getting sidetracked." — I hold my head, my back sinking in shame. — "Pardon me."

"No need to apologize." — Zorayas chuckled.

"Anywho... yes... Morgott was a stout defender of the Golden Order. Arguably, the most stout of them all." — I continued.

"Morgott... He gave himself for the Order. The Order that despised him, that saw him as less than human. As someone to be cast into the lurch for all of eternity. And yet he still gave it his everything."

"And when he perished by my hand... He did not die as a Veiled Monarch... He did not die as "Margit"..."

"No..."

I gave off a shy, but sincere smile.

"...he died... as Morgott... "The last of all kings"..."

"He died as himself." — I looked at Zorayas, tilting towards her slightly.

"Not as the veil he hid under for all those years." — I shook my head.

"And I think, Zorayas- Hng!" — I grunt as I push myself back onto my feet, dusting my legs and bottom clean of ash. — "-that you should look to him as an example."

"I did not kill you, Zorayas, because I know you and Morgott are kindred spirits, and I know you have much to live for." — I place my hands on my hips.

Zorayas looked at me, head pulling back slightly in surprise at the comparison.

"We can't possibly be, Vilmos..." — She scratched her cheek, her eyes drawn aside.

"Do you think Morgott was happy he was born an omen? A grace-given son of the literal Goddess of this world, yet forced to live such a dreadful and vilified existence?" — I look at her, my brows tight with an accompanying frown.

She gingerly brought her glance back to me.

"He wasn't." — I punctuate.

"But despite having been born that way," — I point a splayed palm to the city. — "he lived. He was not stopped from ruling over this shining city, this shining Order."

"He gave his life to an Order that did not believe in his kind, and he did it in stride." — My tense expression loosens.

I close my eyes and sigh. I then look away from her, back at the ashen Capital.

I rap my middle on my palm repeatedly.

I shut my eyes, and I inhale deeply.

"Not a soul..." — I say before deflating with an equally-deep sigh. — "asks... to be born the way they are. Not a single soul."

"And yet we live."

"I did not ask to be born into this world. With parents as dreadful as mine were, I wish I hadn't." — I huff, clenching a fist for a moment.

"But yet I live." 

"Why would you be any different, Zorayas?" — I look at her from the corner of my eye, raising a brow. — "Why would you be?"

I turn to her and lower to a knee, placing a hand on Zorayas' shoulder.

"Live life as you see fit, Zorayas," — I proclaim. — "the past notwithstanding."

"Live, your birth notwithstanding."

"None of us ask to be born the way we are."

"But we must ask ourselves..."

"Should that define us? Our existence? Our way of life?" — I tilt my head emphatically.

"If you're sullen, look up to Morgott, and the tale I have recounted."

"For even if he was born was a most reviled of spirits..."

I pause.

"No one... dared look down at him." — I shook my head and placed a palm on my chest. — "Not even myself."

"And you, Zorayas," — I prod her chest. — "can be the same."

"Travel far and wide," — I spread my arm. — "and build a kingdom you can be proud of."

"But not as Rya. Build that kingdom... as you, Zorayas." — I smile. — "And let no one stop you. Let nothing stop you, not even the unfortunate circumstances of your birth."

"Live as yourself,"

"and die as yourself,"

"your past notwithstanding."

...

...

The following day, after we parted ways, I decided to visit Zorayas again at the Manor. I trusted she had unfinished business, as much as there was no one left there. 

I looked in the Drawing Room... she wasn't there. I looked in her room... she wasn't there either. I went up the stairs and found naught.

I went down to the Audience Chamber, and Tanith was still feasting on Rykard's husk. No sign of Zorayas.

I went back to the Drawing Room, and on the table where Bernhal sat at, there was a letter. I hurried over to the table and picked it up, then began reading it.

It was written in a clumsy script.

This was hers.

...

Vilmos,

If you're reading this letter, I have departed from the Lands Between, lest luck bequeathed us one last encounter.

You gave me much to ponder about after that visit to Leyndell yesterday. And moreso than ever before in your service to the Volcano Manor, among this family of champions, did you display your true colours as you did when you made that speech. You have a steady hand, but an even steadier heart. 

That's why I have decided to go on a journey, to one day carry on my mother's legacy. Of Tanith of the Volcano Manor. You two looked at me not with contempt, but with pride, and compassion. 

That's something I shall carry within me for as long as I breathe. Had you not stirred my heart and spared me the blade, I likely wouldn't be here writing this letter.

I've already tendered my farewell to Mother.

So farewell, my champion.

Thank you, for showing me real kindness, from your heart of hearts.

May you find the paradise you seek, for I will mine own.

I sat down on Bernhal's chair and I leaned back on it. The sudden weight made it creak and bank backwards. The wood legs were exhausted, as were mine of flesh. My mouth parted slightly as it sunk into a frown, accompanying half-lidded eyes staring at the nothing.

The crimson flames in the fire pit crackled, the wood charred a deep black with little left yet to burn.  The eloquent painting of Radahn was all but cast in shadow. The candles were dark, sconces overflown with red wax spilt on varnished wood. The carpet was drawn spruce, without a crease or fold. 

Legato drumming of digits on a cushion-less armrest. Repeated. My other hand just across held on to the letter, unmoving.

A solemn sigh.

And my eyes shut.

Daedicar's Woe

The flayed face of a woman known only as Daedicar. In this depiction, she carries a tender smile.

A mother?

Chapter Text

Another soul I have lost.

Though they weren't butchered, I... cannot help but feel a pang in me still.

I just ask myself... why am I this way?

Why do I cling to such fleeting people in my life?

Is it some fallacy about how much I've poured into fostering kinship?

Is that why I have not yet quit?

Because some day... it might change?

...

How dreadful.

...

A circular rune, inscribed with ancient script, appears in the main room of the Roundtable Hold. A whirl of gold surrounds the rune's central hollow, and a hum precedes me materializing in the middle of the rune. I'm on one knee, with my back bowed and holding a scintillant grace before my face. Once the rune and its light faded, I...

I dithered. In my knelt pose.

I let out a deep sigh as my back sinks further.

Meagerly, I open my eyes again.

"Fie..."

I heave another huff as I plant a palm on my knee and straighten myself to my feet. 

I pace to a nearby chair and pull it back a touch. I carefully laid my large sword on the table before sitting on the wooded seat. It creaks as I rest my back on the chairs', clasping my hands at my lap with the elbows on the armrests. In a shy show of correctness, I uncurled my back, but I still let my head sunken. I bore heavy eyes cloaked by tensed brows, along with a faint, yet entrenched frown tugging down at my lips. I drummed my digits on the arm rest. And drummed... and drummed... I was hardly paying attention to anything. The only sound beleaguering my ears were the crackles and pops of the fires that rage across the Hold.

Even the walls of brick and mortar were in flame. How can stone burn? I know not. This whole place befuddles me to no end. 

But more than that...

What was I doing? Moping seated at the Roundtable? 

I brought a hand up to my face, rubbing my eyes together with index and thumb.

Why am I like this?

She is well.

She is well!

Zorayas did not die! You took her back to the Manor like she asked. She stayed there... and she wrote the letter.

She is well.

She... simply departed on her own.

And yet I wept, as if she were dead. As if the journey she spoke about was some elaborate euphemism...

Is it because I did not bid my farewells?

...

...Truly... I never got many farewells.

I grasped my sword by the hilt and heft it closer to me. I then sunk my eyes close to the edge, inspecting it for kinks and cracks.

My blade always said farewell far more often than I. Whether it be willingly or unwillingly. Foe... or former friend alike. And I am not of the talkative sort either... and when I am, it's in abject futility, for I never lift a hand to make my words strike true. Only when it is far too late. But it is a fate I have resigned myself to quite willingly. One thing is an individual, another is an unswerving pact of armed duty to one's queen.

Blades are simple. They're sharp, and cut without discrimination. Their sole need is sharpening. A whetstone and an abundance of water suffice. 

But an individual? They're complicated. Their needs are few, but their wants many. And wants can turn into needs. What suffices will forever be unbeknownst to me. If I cannot tend to my own needs and wants, how can I expect myself to meet another person's?

I crane my head up at the large mass of grace hovering over the table, illuminating the tall room in an ethereal glow of gold. It waivers infrequently, and smaller specks of grace are let off like cinders in a bonfire.

Many a soul exist. Yet so few fit into one another's niches. Walls exist around our persons. Yet we're doomed without another soul to confide them with... Whether it be one of our selves, or all of our selves. We speak, and we keep quiet. More than beauty... words are in the eyes of the beholder. So are their messages, subliminal or blatant, ill-willed or kind-hearted. 

As much as there is insistence on our words and actions being purely influent on the mind, we can feel words and actions. They affect our bodies.

We feel terror at the sight of an collapsing building. We feel stirred to move, kick our legs to and from to move out of its growing shadow. We elate and feel elated by the prospect of knowledge and accomplishment. We cannot help but smile, whether it be with our lips or our own methods of displaying said smile...

I rub my thumb on the greatsword's glintstone, above its guard. It was still gleaming as when it was first drawn. Polished to a mirror-like finish.

...We feel our cheeks warm and our heart throbs in our chests... by the prospect of another soul's endearment.

But while there can be another soul that fits into this unvarnished niche... would it truly be an existence worth of being? To be one no shallower than an upturned bowl? Truly... I relish in the presence of another person, and their kind words and actions. Yet it's solely with persons that my heart breaks, whether it be by their words... or eventual departure. I gloat over my walls standing tall and stout, leaving me to be with the simple blade. Yet blades are simple. Cold. Not so much as distant. Vacant, entirely.

I adore the winter. For it's in winter I can partake in another person's warmth...

...yet every person I stretched out my hand to... was whisked away. Whether by an unwitting sword in my outstretched hand or by the powers that be.

And I am left with my own meagre warmth, from a tired flame unfit even to drag me onward.

The few that weren't made sure I regret existence.

Yet the many that were made the pain of it worthwhile.

I chase these peaks, yet they're just that.

Peaks.

Momentary acmes amidst a mire of mediocrity and lies of the "It's good enough" kind. Or, worse yet, of the "It's better than nothing" kind.

But what is the point of chasing them if they'll be cut off or followed by a valley of sorrow? One into which I'm plunged without ever knowing if it is even a valley, rather an abyss I may never get out of?

The fleeting highs make the perennial lows worth it, yet those perennial lows make the chase for highs a bootless errand. 

We yearn for a state of bloom, but its permanence would subtract the meaning from it. We despise the state of nadir, yet its brief breaks give us a purpose to seize.

The joys of meeting a kindred spirit make the loneliness of this journey a worthwhile endeavor, yet my thread of life severs their own.

I stand alone atop husks I pile.

Yet I seek more, for I cannot abide alone.

Why?

...

I feel a tap on my left shoulder, and my eyes flutter wide as I look to the source, instinctively freezing my drumming fingers and bouncing heel.

"Ah, sorry, I must've caught you in a moment of muse..." — Roderika smiled, easing her back onto the chair's.

"No need." — I bring my hands up onto the greatsword, clasping them together.

"What brings you here, Vilmos? You seem... crestfallen." — She nudges closer to the edge of her seat, tilting her head.

"That is no untruth." — My heel resumes bobbing up and down.

"Did something happen? Tell me, Vilmos" — She insisted.

"I..."

I knew what was troubling me. It was unlike other instances. I knew what was happening.

I was acquainted with Roderika.

So why do I hesitate?

"...Forget it..." — I look away. — "I'm just in my seasonal rut..."

"You aren't, Vilmos." — She replied. — "I don't need to have esoteric knowledge to know you are unwell. I can tell in your poise. Your face, your body."

"Roderika, it's fine..." — I reinforce. — "...truly, it's nothing."

"Vilmos... it always starts with a "nothing". Why not speak before it grows unfettered?" — She quirked a brow.

"..." — I sigh, my posture sinking deeper.

I can never win against a spirit tuner... She can likely read me like a book.

"Zorayas, she..." — I blinked. — "she departed..." 

"Is she the kindly lady-snake you spoke to us about? The one that invited you to the Volcano Manor?" — She asked, scratching her temple.

"Yes." — I nod.

"Ah... my condolences, Vilmos..." — Her gaze softened as a small frown tugged at her lips. — "...you could've been more forward. Loss is to be expected in one's life, and it's a toil to endure with others. I am sincerely sorry for your loss."

"It was not a loss, Roderika, that is what troubles me." — I drum my fingers on my sword's blade. — "She simply... departed to a distant land. Yet I still feel a pang in me still, as if she truly perished."

"So what? Someone's departure can still cause one pain. Allow me to guess... did you not bid her farewell?" — 

"I..."

I sighed, putting my hands on the rests and pushing myself back straight in the chair.

"...I didn't, Roderika. I simply saw the letter she left for me on a table and it..." — I gulped. — "...it... I wept."

"I remember giving her a felt speech to hopefully rouse her spirits" — I explained, gesticulating alongside. — "and to not think of herself as a lesser person for the circumstances of her birth."

"I s'pose I wanted not to share it with you because I was afear'd I would seem akin to a weak coward... crying over someone merely departed." — I looked away, my heel bouncing more insistently.

"Vilmos, you're no craven like myself. To a point I see why you'd think it's nonsense... to weep over someone that did not die." — She looked away, introspective, before locking back onto me. — "But she was still a part of your life."

"Let me impart you my own tale..." 

I bring my own gaze back to her.

"I was expatriated from my home land. Myself, alongside all my subjects." — She explained, placing her quieted hands on her lap. — "They gifted me a cloak to make the prospect of journey of no return less grim. The crimson one you saw me with when we first met."

"We were met by the forces of Godrick, the former despot of Stormveil." — She rubbed her thumb with another other.

"Those people, who journeyed so far just for my sake, were all whisked away. Like crops in a field. And I did not so much as say farewell to any of them."

"They were all grafted onto the dreadful spider. And I even thought of joining them in their gruesome fate." — She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. — "A lark, I called it..."

She lifted the flap of her noble silk garb and reached into a pocket. From within, she retrieved a bronze brooch, emblazoned with a knot pattern around an indistinct circular center. It was clung to a scrap of gold-embroidered crimson velvet. 

"But then you brought me this memento. This brooch once stained with blood."

She ran her thumb over the spotless surface, scintillating gently under the golden light of the Roundtable's grace. A bittersweet smile tugged at her features.

"And those faint chrysalids... they spoke to me. They spoke words of encouragement. To a milksop craven such as I. Every one of them."

"Every now and again, as I further hone my skills, I find myself simply... looking back upon the brooch." — She lifted her head to gaze up at me anew. — "To see what else they reveal. What other voices speak to me."

"Vilmos, would you rather have something to remember them by?" — She held the brooch to her eye level, displaying it. — "Or to be bereft of anything at all?"

Roderika put the brooch away before letting out a short sigh. 

"I know it's a stark polarity, as your dear friend is still alive, but does a journey not carry with it the uncertainty of not seeing them again anyways?" — She tilted her head.

"I s'pose, Roderika..."

I push out a sigh and palm my head.

"I apologize. Instead of arriving with a decent face, I arrived with sadness instead."

"It's okay, Vilmos." — She smiles gingerly. — "We all go through rough patches. You're having one of your own."

"But is it comforting to see-" — I pull myself up onto my soles with a grunt, pulling at my capes to straighten them out. -"the would-be Elden Lord so despondent?"

"It is, for we then know he's still human." — She stood up herself, giving me a more confident grin.

I heave a deep sigh, my tensed frame easing, before giving Roderika a tender smile of my own. 

"Thank you, Roderika, for lending a caring ear. Thank you kindly."

"Always." — She sunk her head in a small bow. — "I'll be with Hewg now. If you need either of us, we're in the hallway like the usual."

I return a bow of my own.

As she sauntered back to where she came from, I walked up to the fireplace with the statue of Marika beside it. 

Gazing upon her stony visage, I immerse myself in another muse.

A Numen...

A long-lived, underground race of people who built the great cities of Nokron and Nokstella. Creators of Silver Tears, who they fashion into Lords and weapons.

Long-lived, seldom-born... A dreadful recipe for a parent. I'd imagine the occurrence of birth may either be a dreadful mourning... or a time of elation.

They must be awfully haughty people, living so long. They see lesser mortals like us as mere insects. 

No matter. If they can bleed, they can die. And they are no different than I on that respect.

But is she?

I lean against the table and cross my arms, taking a more stern, ponderous expression.

She is always dubbed Marika the Eternal. Not Queen... I refuse to acknowledge her as such. It is not like my word carries any weight, me being a renown-less Tarnished like I am. So I resign myself to such a thought... as a little biscuit for my brain. But she is, to many... the Eternal.

Is it merely a figure of speech, founded on her roots as a long-lived Numen? Some twisted libel under the guise of a title? Or is it a reality?

I am no scholar... but I've dug deep into the history of the demigods and their mother. With Melina alongside to correct or tack more information. Surprisingly documented they are, in those tablets at her Bedchamber. Antiquated certainly... to be written in stone rather than parchment, but they're... solid. Heh.

She gave birth to three, possibly four children that were chosen as Empyreans. An initial glance displays naught wrong in what she did. Yet Empyreans can become Gods. The Two Fingers chose three successors to the throne of Godhood. 

But why?

"Her gift of godhood was a curse, much like the blessed drop of dew she bequeathed to young Miquella."

Enia?

My eye darts to my left, then to my right. I see the wood staff with nondescript bulbs on its tall end.

"Enia?" — I look at her, quirking a brow of surprise. — "How did you..?"

"Heh... did you forget I am a Finger Reader?" — She meekly upturned her withered frown, letting out a small chuckle. — "The way your digits stroked your chin in deep muse... they spoke all I needed to know."

"Ah, I forget." — I sigh.

"Come," — She lowered her head slightly. — "to the Fingers' chamber. We have aplenty to converse. Or, to be exacting... you."

I quickly approach her side and offer a supporting arm. She accepts with a queer smile, and we slowly make our way back to the Two Fingers' chambers.

When we arrived at the short stairs. I lowered myself to a knee, letting her further ease her weight on me as she carefully ascended, two steps per tread at a time. Arriving at the top, I pulled myself back up, offering my arm again. We made our leisure way deeper into the darkened room, up to two chairs facing the unmoving Two Fingers. To the left, a rocking chair. To the right, a plain four-leg wood chair. I guided her to the rocking chair, offering my shoulder as a weight rest as she lowered into the seat. Once she had assented, she deflated with a groaned sigh, laying her staff on her lap. I took a seat on the other chair, hurriedly tidying my hair with my five-pronged comb I call a hand and then shifting my gaze to her.

"Speak, Vilmos." — She muttered. — "Something troubles you, my dear."

"Well, Mama Enia, I... have not seen you in quite a while." — I blinked.

"Have you not seen me or have you not been in the Hold for a while..?" — She softly rocked back and forth.

"I s'pose it might be the latter." — I planted an elbow on an armrest and propped my head up on my hand. — "I have been... wrapping up unfinished business. Plenty of it"

"I can tell. Your face is not so demure any longer..." — She drummed her fingers on her staff — "...more so... despondent."

"Mama Enia, I..." — I sigh, rubbing my temple. — "I do not know if seeking the throne is a worthwhile errand anymore."

"What repudiates you, my dear?" — Enia began. 

"Marika." — I replied blandly.

"Her alone?" — She quirked a hariless brow.

"Marika, verily." — I nodded.

"Mm." — She hummed, nodding slowly. — "I see. I do not wish to impart any dissuasive words... your conviction is well-settled."

"And after all, I am but a crone... serving under the mute guidance of an absent force of order..."

"She cursed us all." — I looked at my free palm and clenched it into a fist. — "To this cruel defeat of a chase to the throne."

"You seem quite well off yourself." — Enia stared up at the Two Fingers. — "Why the sudden shift? The barbs were burnt to cinders. Death is unbound. You've gotten farther than any Tarnished, my dear."

"Enia, I have sacrificed an ungodly part of myself to get where I am."

I blinked, opening my fists slightly.

The gauntlets lacked the luster of when I first put them. The leather is torn at the fingertips and the palms are scuffed and worn.

"I am a husk, devoid of what little life my perished companions brought." 

"Alexander, Zorayas, Gideon, as much as I hate to say it...

"...Melina..."

"Why should I resign to a fate at her side?" — I look at Enia, my brows knit with sad frustration. — "At the side of the person who caused me all this anguish? Who caused everyone all this anguish?"

"Vilmos, my dear..." — She sighed. — "I cannot pretend to understand the pangs you feel... But you are letting them gnaw at your mind too much."

"Because, my dear, I was in this exact position once before... for y ou remind me of someone..."

"Who is it?" — I rest my head on the chair's top-rail, looking up at the Two Fingers.

"Vyke, the Warspear..." — 

"Vyke?" — I turned my head slightly at her.

"Yes... Vyke." — Enia nodded to the rhythm of the rocking.

"How?" — I drummed my fingers on the armrest.

"You and Vyke are kindred souls... far beyond how you share initials." — She readjusted her feet on the rest.

"You're both young buds, prime candidates for lordship... acquiescing your onerous fates, but toiling at them in stride none the less."

She let out a short sigh, blinking a couple.

"I'm from a time... far beyond Vyke... or even Vargram. I've seen many a soul come and go from this hallowed Hold." — She pushed her foot against the ground to make the chair rock more.

"Now, Vargram was a gem indeed. Though his name was so paltry as the pelt he wore in armour, he truly was a grand warrior." — She clasped her hands on her lap, with an arm wrapped around the staff. — "He even wielded the famed Godslayer, a weapon so exalted as a relic by those wretched skinners."

"He bore great ambition, but unlike you and young Vyke, he aspired to be a mere shadow. A servant, rather than a usurper."

"And I recall young Vyke." — She gazed at a corner of the room, a wistful frown on her face.

"A ripe bud, arriving so green at the Roundtable, yet blossoming into a wondrous flower in little time. He claimed two Great Runes in the matter of a few moons."

"He was quite the charmer, much like you..!" —  She covered her mouth as she unsubtly laughed.

"Mama Enia, that is nonsense..." — I looked away, flustered.

"...and young Vyke... He was such a charmer that he even managed to gain the affection of Lansseax, beloved sister of the mightiest boulderstone, Fortissax."

Bugger. So it is true.

"But young Vyke... he, too, went through your predicament. Remember that day you came to the Hold, anguishing over how you had to sacrifice Melina to move onward?"

"He, too, needed kindling. And he, too, felt sullen."

"In a way, Vyke and Fortissax, too, are kindred spirits. They were both faced with the mortality of those they loved the most. And both of their tales were tragedies. Both divested themselves of everything to save their respective fellowships."

"But the means through which they did... is where they diverge."

"Fortissax guards Godwyn's dying dream eternal, in spite of the injurious blight."

"And young Vyke..."

A pause.

A singular drum of four digits.

"He was singed by the Three Fingers, far below the Capital." — Enia huffed.

I turned to her, my bouncing leg hiccupping, for a moment, in surprise.

"In his desire to save his beloved-" — Enia paused as she readjusted herself in the seat. — "-he tarnished himself... and what he had with her."

"The Two Fingers were shaken by this event, and I was the unfortunate bearer of the news to the Roundtable."

"Vyke's return to the Roundtable was one of pity. Vargram, who yet resided here, formally banished him from the Roundtable Hold without so much as a question."

"We knew what he had done."

"He, too, knew what he had done. But despite his singed flesh, he seemed content, for he had fulfilled his wish. However, he was delusional. He fulfilled his wish, yet he did not so much as consider its aftermath."

We share a collective glance at the Two Fingers, who have not budget since we started conversing.

"He had been seared by the Three Fingers, becoming another vessel for the maddening flame."

"The Three Fingers. So reviled by all. Who revile all." 

"And in his bliss, he did not account for his Finger Maiden growing to scorn him for what he did."

I planted my elbows on the armrests to lift myself straight.

"Wh-" — I clear my throat — "-What happened to her?"

"He took her head." — Enia replied bluntly.

"O-Oh..." — My lips part. — "...oh."

"I was disturbed, but no more surprised when I caught wind. The Flame" — She pushed her staff against the floor to rock the chair. — "drove his mind to ruin. One could no longer recognize the determined, stout knight of the Roundtable beneath that imprinted armor." 

"In a blind, frenzied journey through the Giant's mountaintop, he was soon caught by Golden Order zealots, and thus sealed in an evergaol. Since then I never heard from him again."

"Though again, I am but an old servant of the Two Fingers, and I stand firmly against the indifferent visions of cruelty of the Three Fingers and all who are tainted by their flame..."

"...part of me hopes that in his grief for his lost betrothed... for the only time since he inherited the flame of Frenzy..."

Enia paused, her posture sinking slightly.

"...he wept."

"Not tears of madness, but rather tears of sorrow."

"Afore losing what little humanity he had left in his imprisonment."

I blinked twice. I then looked down at at my palms.

"I... was in his position once." — I stammered.

"I had met with who I could only assume was the Three Fingers' prophet."

"Shabriri, was he not?" — Enia asked.

"Yes." — I nod.

"I-I hate to be saying such a thing, but for the faintest moment, I thought, and considered, his dastardly request."

"Shaken by the prospect of her demise, I traveled alone a while."

My brow knitted together, and my lips pursed.

"I could not stand the thought of losing her." — I affirmed with a sigh. — "Be it her purpose or her desire, I could not."

"Kinship is seldom-found here." — I took a deep breath, laying my hands back on my lap. — "She..." 

So many moons had passed, yet it still stung like if it were the last one past.

I sighed.

"...she was among the first souls I truly knew. Beyond those of my past and my mentors." — I clasped my hands together, bowing forward slightly. My brow twitched as the sting felt.

"A traveling companion through less-than-proverbial highs and lows."

"Could I truly be blamed for such a selfish want? To cling onto the memory... and to adjourn her demise?" — I lifted a brow as I cast a haggard glance at Enia. 

"To blame you for such, considering your context, would be foolish, Vilmos." — Enia replied, giving a subtle smile.

"And Vyke's reasoning was much the same as yours, Vilmos." — She spoke, her tone ginger. — "He was willing to burn the whole world for her."

"But Vilmos... I implore you."

"Adjourn your audience with Marika no longer." — She returned the glance.

"Whether it be to stand at her side or overthrow her, make haste."

"Miss Melina would not want you to give up now, would she?"

She gently laid an outstretched withered hand on my pauldron.

"You are strong, my dear." — She leaned forward in her seat. — "And your very presence here is a testament of such."

"I am certain... that everyone you have lost is looking at you... proud of what you have done."

"Though these Lands wish so earnestly to shrive you of it, you possess a golden heart."

"And though it may not seem like it... I can see it."

"You will find purchase within a golden bough of your own. The most brilliant of them all."

"A... bough?" — I lifted a brow.

"Yes, my dear. And you two are sure to bloom into a most elegant of flowers." — She nodded, giving me a reassuring squeeze.

"How much of it is Finger-speak, and how much of it confabulation?"  — I cast a doubting glance.

"Call it, rather... intuition. Heh heh." — She chuckled, nestling further into her robes.

"Now go." — She waved her hand, pulling her hood over her face. — "Let this old crone rest."

"Heh," — I huffed out a chortle. — "will do."

I pat my knees and rise off the seat. Enia prodded the floor with her staff to rock the chair, and I made my way out of the room. As I re-enter the main chamber of the Hold, I catch myself staring up at the floating grace.

A golden bough...

What could she have meant by that? Who is this... golden bough?

To be a bough, they must be important.

And for Enia to be so hush-hush about it... they have to be of great significance.

But perhaps those words were hollow. Vague, empty promises to spur one into action. Truly, it is no different from what I have heard and seen in my life. What is life if not making promises to oneself to spur one into action until you die?

Are we not all led by some vague something waiting for us at the end of the vague roads we walk? To which we can gaze at, upon our arrival, and say we achieved something in life?

I grab the hilt of my Troll Knight Sword and rest it on my shoulder with a grunt.

Existence...

...An endlessly vague meandering through an endlessly vague world of which we know everything about, yet at the same time are in the dark about. When we think we saw everything, reality puts us in a bridle and shatters our vision of it. Some persist and march on, some don't and fall by the wayside, among the countless indifferent pebbles we walk past every day.

But if it is some vague something that will spurn me on... So be it.

We are our own best blades... and we are also our own worst smiths.

I solely pray...

If I ever break, that I can pick myself up again and forge myself anew.

I want this to be a valley.

And I want to see this acme.

And mayhaps one day...

...I can find the plateau.

The Three Fingers 

The envoys of the Frenzied Flame. Their worshippers are marked by hollowed eye sockets, from which the Frenzied Flame manifests.

They are the antipode to the Greater Will's order and Two Fingers.

Reviled by all. Who revile all.

Chapter Text

Caelid is an interesting beast. One I am all too familiar with. So truly, it is humorous to behold an individual's expression as I confide with them. What Caelid used to be.

The bloody red sky that looms over Caelid? It was always here, and it was always a sight to behold.

The giant, ravenous dogs? Always here, and many took them in as pets.

The massive murderous crows? Indeed, though they were significantly more difficult to tame, though I have heard tales of people treating them as they would a regular crow.

The Scarlet Rot? That is the sole inconstant aspect. Before, it was no different from Limgrave.

Now it is marred crimson. Nary a crop can be grown there. The air and water are noxious.

What few souls yet remain here for long burn whatever they can to keep the Scarlet Rot at bay.

How many had to die before such was discovered, I wonder. Hundreds... Thousands, maybe.

Even so, perennial of a solution it was not.

The guidance of Grace beckoned, much unlike the habitual trails pointing to the shining Erdtree, to the rotted wastes abaft its shadow, Caelid. The faint pull of questioning tendered an inviting hand, but lordship could wait. Nobility is a mantle not worn proudly by my ilk. I pressed on, rather, clutching the reins of my steed as we trotted onwards.

Behind us, Fort Gael grew smaller as we kept pushing down the road of brick. Short stone walls, the few that yet stood, framed the road apart from the soiled red ground that scars this land. A few light posts of simple quadrangular make, and of equally minute stature, still burned with their meagre wicks.

The scape surrounding us was strewn with the misshapen roots of the towering Aeonia. Their bark was pallid brown and burdened with large clusters of fungal growths, spewing malodourous spores that challenged the thought of these things yet living. Some bore scarlet buds growing out of sickly yellow stems, some bore vacant stems and buds run aground. The few real trees looked insignificant. Dead husks without as much as a leaf in their haggard and sinister branches. 

To the right, in the shade of Fort Gael, one saw the Waypoint Ruins, mingled with the swamp that constituted the Fort's southern flank. Geysers were bursting forth from that meager bog, and a vague glance would lead one to believe it being a comical miniature of the vast Aeonian swamp.

The air was foul. It did not sting so much, as we were in the open air, but it still stung.

But I do as the Grace guides. If it is beckoning me here, it's for a reason.

Whatever that reason is... is unbeknownst to me.

Climbing up the slight incline, I spotted in the distance a familiar sight, one that unfurled a wry grin on my mouth.

Ekzykes. Or, rather, what was left of him.

His corpse lay immobile on the side of the road, reduced to putrid, swollen black flesh and bones. Laying atop a mire of his own muck and browned blood. His ghastly visage was even more somber, with empty sockets and taut fibers barely holding the hulking skull together, wearing a perpetual death roar. His colossal wings were draped over the rocky outcrop he once huddled against, with barely any flesh clinging between his elongated digits. Rot growths slowly gnawed through his meat, finishing what the Scarlet Rot began when he yet lived. 

The whole abundance of his surroundings possessed a foul miasma. However, the perennial stench of stillwater softened the otherwise revolting assault.

"Still here?" — I nudged a brow at the husk. — "Rotten lizard."

We pressed past the decayed corpse of the dragon, continuing down the road that circled around the Swamp. We passed by a tall inscribed monument, its inscriptions glowing yellow as we passed by. Behind it stretched a root of the Aeonia, utterly overrun with rot growths on its bark. The merchant that took camp under one of its crooks had already departed, with his sole mark being a scorch mark where his campfire once burned.

My gut then prodded me as the uncertainty of our path struck, regardless of the certainty this road was so marked with on the map.

I then pulled on my steed's reins, halting our march.

I buried a hand in a satchel and withdrew a small speck of grace, which grew into a trail leading further down the path. The gut was wrong, for once.  

"Where is this leading me? I had wagered I already purged Sellia..." — I huff, a growing frustration furrowing my brow. — "What do you posit, Torrent?" 

The steed bowed and shook his head from side to side, snorting.

"Always a steed of a few words, aren't you, Torrent?" — I gave him a scratch on the mane, chuckling.

I then clicked my tongue, resuming a canter as we encroached on the gateway to Sellia. It stood imposing with its two humongous towers, squashed between the two similarly massive cliffs. At their base lay a comparatively minute archway, hoisting over it some sort of passageway connecting the two cliffs.

A snapping branch up ahead made Torrent stop. He then shot his head up and pinned his ears on end.

"Oh-!" — I recoiled instantly. — "is something the matter, Torrent?" — I tilt slightly, lifting a brow.

I gazed in the direction he was looking at, and either Torrent or my eyes deceive me... I spotted nothing of interest, rather than a mound of crimson flat-top mushrooms, mounds of fungi...

He pushed out a deep blow, and that was sufficient enough an answer.

"Okay, Torrent, I will overlook your flank..." — I squinted, not prying my gaze from the general direction Torrent is facing. I reached back out to withdraw my Troll Knight Sword from its sheath, and with a huff, I rested it atop my shoulder.

My hands curled reaffirming around the rein and the hilt of the blade.

I looked over my shoulder.

I looked over another.

I saw no one... No dancing shadows, no sore thumbs... merely the blighted landscape. 

Torrent's snort pulled my attention back, and then I saw it.

In the distance, in the middle of the road, stood a red and black phantom. It appeared human, with a short, rather frail build. They were wielding a one-handed sword, and they donned a dress of some kind.

"I see it now, Torrent... Thank you for being a good listener." — I rubbed his mane before throwing a leg over and dismounting. I gave him two pats on his chest before he faded into a violet cloud.

I take a quartet of steps forward before stopping. I puffed out my chest, taking a poised stance with feet firmly planted and my greatsword point-first at my side. 

"Who are you, stranger?!" — I yelled, clenching my free hand.

The stranger remained still, staring me down as I did them.

The otherwise subtle rustling of the wind blowing felt deafening without a response.

"Stranger! Who are you?!" — I insisted.

Once again, no response.

After dragged moments of utter silence staying in place, the unbidden guest began walking towards me.

I buffed out, my brow tensing.

"Well then, so be it!" — I lift my greatsword up onto my shoulder as I take an offensive posture, unsheathing my Carian Knight Longsword with my left hand and stomping a foot in front of me.

My torso lowers a touch, and my knees arch towards the opponent, feet gyrating in place, standing the ground.

The foe's leisure walk turned into a dash. My knuckles whitened as I tightened the grip on the hilts.

I began walking towards them myself, and their appearance became clearer as they approached.

Curved sword.

Shamshir.

Dress. Red dress. Red hair.

Lithe build, likely dexterous and agile.

Shaken by a light gust, but deadly.

"Hahh!"

The stranger huffed as they wound up a slash from my left.

I stuttered, bringing my sword left to parry, but the foe spun, faking the left into a stab right-coming.

I pull my head left instinctively, blocking the stab with my greatblade.

After her failed stab, I slash to my right with my sword too late, her backstepping away from me and my strike.

She raised her blade, gripping the hilt with both hands before an overhead slash. Taking a hasty step back, she whiffs, but she quickly morphed it into another stab straight towards my face.

I twisted my chest and head, narrowly dodging it but feeling a gloaming cut on my right cheek.

"Drats!"

Quickly, I brought my greatsword down with a resounding slam, kicking up a puff of dust right where she used to stand. 

Gaining sight of her again, having dashed left, I raised my foot and my longsword, point facing her for a dash and thrust.

She held her shamshir up to her face, the salient parrying hook framing her eye.

An iris of pure gold, piercing through her unkempt locks.

Tentatively, I jerked forward, slamming my foot down. This made her slash upwards for a deflection.

"Fool..!" — She blew out.

Yet no wind zipped past her.

"...huh?!"

Indeed, my hand remained stilled. Right after her misled defense, I twisted my hand around for a broad slash, which struck true across her abdomen.

"GAH!"

I spun my arm back around, winding a quick left-bearing follow-up, but she caught my sword with the shamshir's hook. She almost made me tumble as she deflected my sword over her right side.

After the deflect, she thrusted her curved blade towards my face. I caught her edge on my cheek again, cutting deeper and sparking a whole stream of blood.

I remembered my greatsword, which I had been holding on to for dear life since the start. With an accompanying grunt, I revolved my body, throwing a weighty slash right towards her legs.

She jumped over it, and the unfulfilled momentum almost whisked my weight away with the sword's. Holding on with one foot still, I revolved the momentum in my favor, putting my weight forwards with a mighty kick.

My boot's sole had its first taste of dress, stomping true on her stomach. She staggered a few feet back, collapsing onto hers.

"Ghk!" — She groaned. — "Damn..!"

Making haste, I wound up a running overhead strike with my greatsword, but before my blade fell, she rolled to my right, whipping up another miserly gust.

"?!" — I huffed, eyes darting towards her.

As I prepared to shoulder-charge her, I felt weightless for a moment. 

"OUGH-" — I yelped as I fell face-first onto the dirt, having been swept off my feet.

Before I could get up myself, I was unwillingly forced onto my feet as she held the blade of her shamshir against my neck, in a chokehold reticent of physical strain, but perilous in sudden movements.

"If you try anything, I shall flip the blade around and slit your throat!" — She threatened in between weary exhales.

The stir of battle was still going, and the threat of a blade's edge was all too weary for me. But for a moment, I let the flow of blood subside, and I abstained from moving, in regretful compliance. My nostrils thinned and my lips parted as exhaustion wringed my lungs dry. 

I took a swig of saliva before trying the diplomatic route.

"For you to be holding me prisoner like such," — I blew a lock of hair off my face. — "you must have something to say?"

"I've naught" — She huffed, weary. — "to tell you, Tarnished."

From the corner of my eye I glimpsed a shawl, bloodstained, yet browned, covering her right shoulder. The pause also gave me a lick of the miasma. An acrid, piercing scent. Mayhaps it is our collective exhaustion. Gushing out from the gaps in our attire, purposefully sown or incidentally torn. Yet it was distinct. Distinctly acrid and weighty, alike that of the Swamp. Unpleasantries continued in the sting over my fine neck flesh, her digits lifting and curling reaffirming around the blade. 

I gusted the insistent lock of hair anew.

"Then why hold me captive?" — My brow knitted together, confusion trumping my frustration.

"You see, Tarnished, I am not here..." — She paused, sighing out tiredness.

While she mouthed off, I discreetly drew my ankle behind hers, gaze locked on what little I could eye from my disadvantage point.

"...I am not here to provide a lecture. I was simply- wAAAA-"

Amid her phrase, I swept her foot and bashed my back against her face, forcing her back onto the dirt and almost taking myself with the maneuver. Quickly turning around, I discarded my greatsword and took her ginger scalp into my hand.

"Ow-ow-ow-owAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!" — She yelled as I lifted her by her hair. Her free hand struggled, pulling back in vain struggle.

Before she could lift her sword arm to cut my knee, I stomped her foot.

"ACK!"

The pang made her unhand the shamshir, which was my cue to lift her to her feet.

Once she was standing, she quickly drew a new weapon— a dagger —from a back belt sheath, and she plunged it right into my unarmored armpit.

"NGHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

The immense pain stunned my body as I staggered opposite of the strike. The instinct was to collapse and cry myself hoarse. In blind desperation, my eyes sought the closest vertical structure. They fell on rocks, fallen bricks... then a nearby root. Hard. Bark. I dashed up to it, and shrieking through the pang in my side, I slammed her face onto the tough bark.

"Ugh!" — She groaned, belated struggle manifesting in hands lifting to her face.

I slammed her face into the bark several times, creating a bloody splotch.

Amidst slams, her limbs fell, limp. A proper distraction it was as I interrupted my assault. She then spun around and pinched the crook of my elbow, making my hand spasm open and setting her free.

She then grabbed my own head before digging her thumbs into my eyes.

"GAAAAHHH!! DRATS!" 

I flailed side to side in an attempt to pry her free, but my struggle proofed bootless as my sole conquest was bloody tears and redoubled pain in my side. Ache. It ached so. Thorn on a literal side and my eyes. I convulsed as I swallowed my yells. My chest burned, the right side unfeeling. Pacing back in a vain try at setting her free. 

Stomping the ground, I swallowed deep of my pain and lunged, rather, into her grasp. I thrusted my sword forward into her, where I wagered her chest would be.

"UGH-!" — She gasped, and I felt her digits unhand my face.

I stumbled, pulling the sword back with an audible slither of flesh. I palmed my face, rubbing index and thumb on my eyelids furrowed shut. I coughed, stifling it after a stabbing reminder. 

My digits splayed, and my eyes opened above a mere line. They shut back again as the shrill of the air pulled some tears. I buckled to my right, planting my sword to impede the fall. 

"Marika's TITS!" — I bowed, my knuckles paling as I clung onto my face for dear life.

I blinked repeatedly, cuirass rising and falling as I caught what little breath I could. All I saw was red. Blur, red. I blinked a handful more. Red. The haze waned. 

"Ghk!" — The foe moaned as they held their chest. My gaze shot right to her, barely above a slit.

I pursed my lips as I corrected myself, and I looked down at her, in spite of my bloodstained face and growing cascade weaving an unwanted duality in my attire. Tear ducts, sclera, bloodied. I snuck part of my mind at my hand. The gloves were mingled with a few red hairs from her scalp. 

I brought it back to her, and my arm fell back to my flank-

"AGH, F-" 

I had pushed my arm against the dagger I forgot about in my frenzy, so firmly lodged on the gambeson and doublet that covered the armpit my cuirass could not. My proud posture fell as quickly as it rose.

I dropped my sword on the ground. Lips pursed, but teeth grinded. Smothering the pain.

...

Lips parted as a ghastly, tremulous sigh left me.

"Goodn-n-ness..." — My chest jerked.

Hushing my breaths, I lifted my right hand, clearing the space to withdraw the weapon. I hesitated my free hand up to its hilt, slowly curling my digits around it.

[Quick. So it pangs leeeEEAA-]

A horrid squelch as I twisted the dagger to dislodge it. Veins bulged on my forehead as I choked myself mute, trying to wrest the dagger free from the torn fabric. My insides were shifting. I felt I was toying with my organs. Ache. Ache. Ache.

Feeling the path clear, I slowly pulled out the blade from its bloody scabbard, my breath hitching between gasps and pained groans.

"Gh-Gh-Ogh-EEEEK!"

My face furrowed in horror as I felt the object leave my body, and I let out a pained wail as I fully removed the dagger.

I keeled over. In kind. I collapsed. Defeated, onto my knees, head falling onto the dirt and my right arm slumping. My left hand still held onto the cascading armpit, and I grudgingly suffocated my own breathing in spite of the mounted exhaustion and pain. Inhaling hurt. Exhaling hurt. Tiredness demanded, pain prevented. I suffered.

I heard a collapse soon after my own, and I meagerly lifted my head up to look.

My foe was on her side, and I could barely see her warped features of hurt through disheveled hair covering her face. She was clutching her chest, the entire dress soiled bloody even more than it already was. Not long after, she stopped writhing, slouching onto her back.

She then faded into red particles, letting out a ghastly whimper. 

"Curses..." — I grunted, laying a palm on my longsword and pressing myself up.

I dragged a foot onto a sole, then with my weight resting on my knee, I pulled another up. Easy, I stood up to my full height again. I cut the air with the blade a handful to clean it of blood before sheathing it, letting my hand withdraw back to staunching the bleeding wound.

I then lumbered back to where I dropped my Troll Knight Sword. My steps were careworn.

My breathing still snagged on the pangs of the gash, and my senses were dull to the blood staining my lips and teeth. 

I lifted my hand to my face infrequently, eyeing for fresh blood, and again and again I could still see the leather glistening.

Drats.

With the greatblade at my feet, I carefully lower onto one knee. I begrudgingly stop stemming the wound and take it up onto my shoulder with my bloodied gauntlet. While I could lift a finger with my right hand, it would simply beg for me to shriek in agony if I dared to. My right side was hardly feeling, but muscles could exert still. Pain was still to be had.

I hobbled up straight anew. I buckled to the right from the weight. I straightened in remedy, pretending I was fine and that the sword was not crushing me.

I turned towards the road ahead. 

Iron...

It tastes like iron.

The knight stumbled for a few more steps. Ignorance of maims proved futile as his colossal sword crashed into the ground beside him. Soon thereafter, he keeled onto his knees, and then collapsed face flat on the brick.

"I hate... the taste... of iron..." — He sputtered.

His eyelids fluttered shut.

...

...

"What did I tell you, Vilmos?!" — She yelled. — "They are minding their business, doing their job, and you're over them as if you're some fly!"

"I didn't do anythin' wrong, mom! I even skipped stones with 'em, they're fine with me!" — I protested.

"Tch-" — She palmed her face, covering the cramp of frustration wrinkling her face. — "Well, no wonder! It's solely because YOU are acting like a poor sop in front of them so they can act nice!"

"Mom, I don't do any of that! I don't walk up to any of 'em with the eyes of a starved pup!"

Furious at my apparent 'lie', she slapped me.

"You don't know what you SPEAK of! You're just a young twerp, of course you're not gonna have the self-awareness!"

She slapped me again. And again.

"Those are SORCERERS, not the layman commoner! Those are PRODIGIES, not SIMPLETONS!"

And again.

"B-But mom-"

And again.

"And if I DARE lay eyes on you interacting with any sort of figure of authority again, I'll take away everything you have!" — She let go of me, throwing me onto my mattress.

"Every single day, I have a new reason to be embarrassed of you!" — She exclaimed, dragging me up to my feet by my arm.

"Now go and work the field! Those crops won't harvest themselves!" — She stood aside, pointing to the door and the hoe propped against the wall.

I sniveled, cupping a cheek with one hand and vainly wiping away tears with another. My chest quaked from hushed sobs and sniffles. A sole thread was keeping me from collapsing into a bawl. I could not so much as say "yes". The next sound to come out of my mouth would be a wail. I could not even move. I felt paralyzed.

My mother wasn't pleased.

"I said-" — She exclaimed, grabbing the hoe. — "go work the FIELD!"

Next thing I felt was the wooden staff hitting my face. She then forced my hands around the staff and pulled me outside by my shirt.

She threw the door open and then myself outside.

"And don't come back until you have plowed the WHOLE field!"

"If you don't like it, a sham, then! You shouldn't have been a BRAT!"

She shut the door.

I swallowed my cries and meagerly stood up.

I wiped my tears on a sleeve and then I dusted my clothes, 'cleaning' my hands on the ends of my breeches.

I licked my dry lips, and I tasted it.

I pressed my fingertips on my lips, and I saw them tinged red.

Truly...

...I hate the taste of iron.

...

...

My eyes snapped open.

It was the faint blackness of night.

It must be a full moon to be so bright out.

The chill of it... Nary a hint. Rather, drenched pits. This blanket was heavy. And it prickled my bare chest flesh.

Breathing felt suffocating, quite.

I felt around my chest area.

Dressing.

Feeling closer to my right flank, it was quite rough. A pang made itself known as I pressed a digit a touch too hard. Indeed. Bloodied dressing.

I groaned out a sigh, brows knitting as I shifted in my seat. I nudged my rump against the crook of the chair to straighten myself.

Back corrected, the exasperated tension of post-sopor bleeds and my shoulders ease. My hands crawl up from my lap and pull the blanket down, letting my body have some much needed air. Without full commitment, however, as I retreated my hands back to my lap.

Patting it, I felt metal. Metal, cloth... Verily, the lower half of my harness was still on. Likely still soiled with blood, however... That will surely be a pain to clean. 

Giving a short glance to my right, I could tell I was on a kind of porch. Wood. Rickety, splintered wood. Missing floorboards, missing roof planks... The pillars holding up the roof seemed gnawed on. Looking down at my seat, I saw the remainder of my harness, neatly folded and piled beside a foot of the chair. Propped up against the wall were both my weapons.

It must've been some wandering merchant... sparing some heart to give me a meager roof. A roof is better than no roof, so I was grateful still.

My mind then brought my attention to the wafts of hot hair washing over my face.

Another one.

Then another. And another.

It smelt of dead creatures. And decay. Marika's tits, this is fetid!

This must be breathing. What the-

I look to my left and see a giant dog.

Mouth agape, buffing onto my face.

Saliva driveled from its row of razor-sharp teeth lining its large jaw. Its tongue drooped from between its bottom canines, pushing and pulling to the rhythm of its breathing. Its blackened snout thinned a couple as it smelled me.

Its haggard sockets cradled two fist-sized eyeballs. They were hazed, irises deprived of so much as color. 

The dog possessed a wealthy fleece of soiled gray fur, covering its snout and chops, as well as its disproportionate body and limbs. It was politely sitting down, back straightened, fore and hind paws planted in a row. I could barely perceive rows of metal briars past the eclipsing head, which surely made up its collar.

First instinct? Running.

Second, wiser thought? Remaining still.

Alas I could not hide my fear, and I was simply trading wide stares with the huge canine. My guess was as good as anyone's as to if the canine wanted to maw my head off or was simply curious. Out of nowhere, it closed its jaws and licked my face with its tongue. I remained unmoved, simply wincing at the rancid slobber it left on my face. I struggled my hand free from the blanket and wiped my face, cleaning my digits afterwards on the blanket itself.

The dog then turned its head, retracting its tongue into its mouth in alert. I heard footsteps on wood coming towards me, and I craned my own head at the source. A red robed figure with a salient pointed hood. Their hands were a cadaverous white, taut and covered in moles. Their face was much the same, sagged and aged with two large blemishes covering their wizened cheeks. Their eyes were indiscernible, hazed over much like the dog's.

"Who- Hng! -are you?" — I ask, squinting my eyes.

"Pardon me for the haphazard dwelling," — They bowed their head, their voice elderly and raspy. — "Caelid does not offer much in the way. I am Gowry, Sage Gowry. At least, in my day."

"And who may you be?"  — He rubbed his palms together.

"Vilmos." — I stretched my hand for a shake. — "Pleasure to make your acquaintance..."

He took my hand into his own and shook it with vigor. 

"A pleasure, a pleasure indeed to make your acquaintance." — He smiled.

"Where are we?" — I asked, withdrawing my hand into the blanket.

"We are at my humble abode, just outside Sellia." — He nodded. — "I'd seen you collapsed outside the Gateway, atop a pool of your own blood. And so I tended to your maims." 

"Thank you." — I blinked as I brought my eyes back to the giant dog, who was staring at Gowry.

"Is this dog yours?"

"Not entirely. 'Tis merely a stray that was guarding the shack even before I came here." — The sage explained, turning to the canine as well.

Did this dog have an owner..? And was it waiting for them all this time?"

A tug.

Drats...

"I see." — I sighed.

"Does he have a name?" — I asked, idly drumming my fingers on my lap.

"I named him Marlowe." — Gowry revealed. — "He has a habit of wandering off to the hill by the lake and staying there a while, so I thought it fitting."

"I... see." — Drats. — "Well, it goes without saying, but how long have I been out for?"

"Almost two days." — He nodded.

"Two days?" — My drumming halted and I stared at him, dumbfounded. — "And is it not nighttime? What are you doing yet awake?"

"Marlowe woke me. He must've seen you stir." — He bobbed his head towards the aforementioned. — "I only really had to keep tabs on you on the first night."

"Very well..." — I deflated, bobbing my foot up and down.

"You must be parched. Do you wish to eat?" — Gowry offered.

"I am fine, thank you..." — I shook my head. — "Do you at least have water?"

"Of course. Give me just a moment..."

As Gowry went to fetch water, I pushed away the blanket and stood up from the chair. I could not feel the stabbing pain anymore, but a light ardor remained. I felt my face. Sewing on my cheek... where the stranger left those cuts. 

Then, I stretched.

"Nghhhhh-!" — My feet stood on their toes. — "-ghHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAugh..."

I tottered as my arms fell back to my sides.

Marlowe began panting as he saw me bellowing. His tail brushed the dirt as it swayed from side to side. I chuckled at the sight of his excitement, and I leaned forward to squeeze his nose.

Gowry returned shortly thereafter, holding a dark brown waterskin, roughly as tall as his lower arm was long.

"Here. It's half empty, but it should suffice." — Gowry gave a faint smile.

"Thank you. It's more than enough." — I took it into my hands and poured it down my gullet.

I tilted it and tilted it...

...until it sagged, empty.

I shook it several times, hoping more drops would pour out. Like a drunkard, I peered into the hole, scouring for more. Sadly, I ended up with a drop in my eye, which made me recoil violently.

"My, you certainly were parched." — He joked.

"When," — I rubbed my eye. — "this part of the continent offers nothing in terms of food, I have to make up for it somehow."

"We do have our own specialties. They're simply... eccentric, compared to the rest." — He shrugged.

"I am an Academy bairn. That should tell you enough." — I sighed.

"Ah, I understand..." — He nodded, scratching his cheek with a pinky.

"If you do not mind my inquiry, would you be so kind as to help me put my armor on?" — I pointed to my harness.

"Of course." — He smiled gingerly.

...

After a few minutes of dressing up, I put my gauntlets on, finalizing the attire. I wriggled myself snug into the armor, twisting my shoulders, my torso. With a short huff, I looked to Gowry and gave him a polite bow.

"Thank you for your hospitality, but I must take my leave."

"Oh, Vilmos, before you go-!" — He took a step forward. — "I recall now."

"Hm?" — I curled a brow.

"Truth be told, I had been anticipating the arrival of a strapping Tarnished for quite some time," — He clasped his hands together. — "One such as yourself, so boldly galloping through Caelid atop your steed."

"Why?" — I tilted my head in confusion.

"To be frank with you, there is something I did not tell you." — He looked away, tugging on the collar of his robe.

"Go on..." — I bowed my head slightly, expectant.

"I found a broken needle in one of your satchels, and while you slumbered, I repaired it." — He continued.

I was stunned, and I recoiled and shook my head back in disbelief. My eyes thinned to barely above slits.

"What needle?" — I mouthed barely above a rasp, brow knitted, further assenting the disbelief on my face.

"This once-broken thing." — He displayed the needle, holding it between index and thumb.

I pulled my eyes down to his hand.

"Well, thank you," — Without a second thought, I snatched it from his hand, my brow tensing further. — "but I would be much thankful if you do not touch my belongings again."

"O-Oh, pardon me, Mister Vilmos! I did not mean to pry..!" — He shook his hands disarmingly, taking back a step as tension filled my posture. — "B-But that needle, it..."

I gave the needle a proper look after the unknowing glimpse.

The needle was hefty for its litheness. Befouled red with blood, indifferent from when I first grabbed it. The sharp, straight end prodded my glove's leather creased, with its several opposing barbs betraying the thought of removal. The mid-length, where it had snapped, now consisted of a continuous knotted pattern, flowing seamlessly into the twists and coils of the larger end.

A proper reparation, dign of the craftsman's approval.

I then sized him up.

I hated people putting their hands through my belongings.

The scars remain.

I sighed, begrudgingly letting some tension exit my frame as I let go of my fist.

"You can ease up." — I rolled my eyes, rapping my fingertips together. — "You nursed me to health... I can spare you this infraction."

"Now speak."

"T-Thank you..." — Gowry heaved a shaky sigh of his own, nodding self-affirmingly.

"There's-" — He held his chest, gulping. — "-there's a girl... her name is Millicent. She is afflicted with the Scarlet Rot, much like these lands."

"And this needle," — He pointed at the needle. — "this needle of unalloyed gold, made by an artisan of life, will help her with her blight."

"Who is she to you?" — I placed my hands on my hips, my head cambering in interrogation.

"She is... my daughter." — Gowry unveiled, glancing at me.

My finger tapping suddenly stopped, and my lips parted in hushed shock.

"That needle is the only one capable of forestalling her sickness." — Gowry lamented, posture drooping. — "After all, it was the needle's purpose originally."

"As much as I would have wished to help her myself, I'm an old sop... Someone of great vigor, far beyond my own, held on to the needle." — He shook his head. — "I could not hope to defeat them myself."

I could not find the words to reply. I-I was about to snuff this father's lights out. For helping his daughter.

Could I truly harbor such hatred for him for merely wanting the best for his next of kin?

Guilt befell me. 

"How is she? Millicent?"  — My brow slanted.

"She commands only one arm," — He replied. — "and the sickness has eaten away at her memory. As much as I claim myself her father... she does not remember."

"Not that I would scorn her for it..." — He sighed, leaning his back against the wall. — "As I've grown older, I've accustomed myself to the fact the only way I can help the younger generation is to be forgotten." 

"But I've also grown wise to how she has great potential. She has the stuff to be a grand warrior." — He looked up at me, a faint smile tugging at his wizened lips.

"Where is she now?" — I sighed. 

"She is atop this cliff, past Sellia." — He gestured towards the gateway. — "There is a church, overrun with witless pests who are worshipping her, or rather her sickness, as some kind of god."

So close by? And what is he doing here?

Well, those pests he speaks of, if they are the ones I am thinking of, are quite perilous... They would make short work of him.

And for them to be in such reverie over this Millicent girl... They would defend her at all costs.

"I will deliver her the needle." — I nod, reaching for my Troll Knight Sword's hilt.

I heaved the greatsword from the wall up onto my shoulder, tilting slightly from the sudden weight.

"Do you find it peculiar?" — Gowry tapped his digits together. — "That I would be so concerned for her?"

"That's a silly question. You are her father, are you not?" — My lips pursed inquisitively.

"I'm only her father in passing." — Gowry scratched the back of his hand. — "I found her as a mere fledgling, in the swamp of Aeonia. Now she barely remembers me, past my outward appearance. As do I for her."

I cast my glance down, approaching Marlowe and giving him a stroke on the snout. Delighted, his tongue lolled out, and I saw his tail thumping against the ground.

"I do not find it peculiar." — I brought my gaze back to him.

I switched my ministrations to Marlowe's chin, which he accepted in kind as he leaned into my scritches.

"I'd do the same. For my children. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren, if I ever get to that point." — My lips drew into a morose smile. — "I nurtured them. I made them grow. It is obvious."

"You shared moments with them. You dedicated time, effort and heart to them. S'long as you have borne no ill will... you are in your right."

"Well, I cannot argue with such logic..." — Gowry looked down and away. — "You seem wise for your age, Vilmos."

"It is wisdom unwanted." — I reply blanky.

I sighed.

"From a life most untimely."

I let go of Marlowe and stepped off the porch. 

"I shall heal your daughter." — I look back up at him. — "And I will bring her ba-"

"Please, don't." — He shook his hand. — "She has her fate to tend to. I mustn't impede her, nor get in the way."

I drew a brow up, confused by his sudden rejection. I then shook my head, discarding the thought.

"If you say so, Gowry." — I turned towards him. — "I merely pray you do not mope over her departure. Your ungiven farewells are a wish that is yours and yours alone."

"I had no intention of such." — He shook his head. — "She must undertake the journey regardless."

Acknowledging his words with a silent nod, I turned away from Gowry. I paced down the incline back to the brick road, all the while Marlowe was tracking me, panting. As I gained more distance, he clenched his jaws shut and whined. This... this made me stop in my tracks. I wagered I was hearing something else, but turning back I saw it was, indeed, Marlowe. 

A chuckle escaped me as I felt a phantom tug pulling me by my heart back to him. My approach served only as elation for the giant canine, as I was hearing his tail violently thump against the ground repeatedly. He was keeping a straight snout, but he was barely holding himself back. Lest he bites my face off, I planted my greatsword on the ground to let my hands free. I gave him some reassuring chop rubs, which made him shut his eyes in wry bliss.

"He seems to like you." — The sage commented, smiling himself.

"A sham I already have my hands full." — I gave the sage a brief glance.

"Well," — I let go of Marlowe, truly. — "I must get going now."

"Have a safe journey." — Gowry bid.

I returned to the road, in earnest, and blew on my whistle, calling Torrent forth. As soon as he leapt forth from the glowing violet cloud, I deftly put a foot through a stirrup and hopped onto the saddle. I grabbed the reins and whipped them, making Torrent gallop forth.

Gowry watched on as my silhouette shrunk further and further, until I crossed the entrance to Sellia and was consumed by the mist. Marlowe was watching too, and he kept whining.

...

I ought to come back for that dog, someday.

...

Crossing the second gateway, I arrived at the mist-veiled town of Sellia. Unlike last time I visited, more ruins were strewn as the roots of the Aeonia continued growing unfettered. The road we treaded was plastered with bricks and pustules, and rubble piled high at its ends, against the foundations of the dwellings. Only the four towers stood tall, unscathed, gleaming cyan as their braziers burned with flames of glintstone.

I squeezed Torrent's ribs with my calves to make him slow to a halt.

I was certain I had cleared the place, but I could never be too certain. More so than rot, this place was festering with specters. Mage specters, which is worse yet. A lapse of awareness and I get a pebble of glintstone square on my scalp.

I clicked my tongue, making Torrent proceed at a walk. His drooped ears served to put my own person at ease, but care is never oversufficient. As we erred closer to the main junction of the misty town, my shoulders stiffed further, along with my grip on my greatsword.

I tugged on the reins slightly, making Torrent stop. My eyes were narrow, darting left and right as I looked for any disturbances in the mist. 

I stood on the stirrups and bowed forward, throwing a glance over to the left stairway. 

Then another to the right stairway.

I sat back down.

"Mmm..." — My lips thinned, suspicious.

I clicked my tongue again, resuming the walk. My eyes were still cautious, but having crossed half the town at this rate, what little fear I had steadily faded, and my posture sagged in relief. 

Arriving at the stairway leading to the exit, I dismounted Torrent. I took his reins into hand and stood atop a tread, waiting for him to follow.

"Come on, Torrent, time for some exercise." — I shook the reins.

Torrent pawed the floor and lowered his head, pinning his ears back. 

"Come on..."

He snorted.

I rolled my eyes and buried my hand in my leather pouch, retrieving some Rowa raisins. Torrent only spoke true... stairs are dreadful. But I was not climbing the cliff on foot and only one of us was easily coerced.

"Fine..." — I presented the dried Rowa in front of his snout. After sniffing it, he ate the handful of raisins in an equal number of bites. He snorted, smelling my hand for more, and licked my glove's palm and digits.

Once he was pleased and withdrew to his own space, I brought my hand to his forehead, giving him a nice scritch.

"We have already burned through half the bag." — I sighed. — "If I knew you would be such a moper this voyage, I would have made another one."

Torrent's throat purred, his tail lifting at the pets.

"Come on, now." — I insisted, wiping my glove on the soiled half of my tabard.

I stayed close by his side as we both climbed the stairs. His head bobbed up and down rhythmically to his hooves clacking on the stone tiles.

After a minute and some more raisin persuasion, we arrived at the top of the platform overlooking the town. Giving him a reassuring rub on his mane, I mounted him once more, whipping the reins for a gallop up the beaten road snaking up the cliff.

The climb up the cliff was short as Imps of stone are tall. A distracted glance later and we had already crested it, with the Church just a straight, uninterrupted streak up ahead, past the graveyard.

I dismounted Torrent, vanishing him.

I then drew my longsword and flipped it to face the pommel to the starry sky. I then bowed my head, closing my eyes and bringing the hilt up to my face.

The sword's large blue gem let off a faint glow and hum as flickers of blue were conjured in the air before it.

I finished lifting the sword a head over my own, casting an ethereal shard of starlight over me.

I withdrew the sword back into my scabbard before treading slowly ahead. I was running my eyes through the ground, pruning the dirt for any remaining animated husks. Their bones still lingered, strewn across the path half-buried, but they were not shuddering or budging.

My foot bumped into a skull, startling me into a reaffirmed grip on my greatsword. Bowing my head towards my feet, I stared at the skull for a solid moment.

...

I then kicked the skull a handful of feet away, the jaw coming off.

Resuming my wary walk through the graveyard, I lifted my eyes up to some of the gravestones. Some stood taller than I, possibly belonging to war heroes from the Battle of Aeonia... some were short, unremarkable as the faded etchings on their stony surface. Whatever flowers were offered have already long wilted, leaving only remembrances of iron and metal. Swords, helms, brooches.

It must be pleasant...

...to have your own burial.

The cemetery reached its end, and my starlight faded into nothingness. The moon still provided a tender gleam, sufficient to see my shadow. Lifting my gaze up at the heavens, the moon was scintillating a wee blue, hung over a waning mountain of clouds. A palm's length away, a streak of wisps and stars lengthened, in an ample arch from one end of the sky to another. The Erdtree with its towering flames, was secondary in the face of such splendor.

Majestic. It was nothing short thereof.

...

Oh, right... the girl.

I wrest my eyes from the skies to the ruined church ahead.

The bell tower and frontage stood tall, stained with dark streaks of foliage overgrown on its mortar. But as with other churches of the same make, little else seemed to remain, save for the lateral aisles' walls. As per my notes, I set this one apart by how it has no visible belfry atop the tower. Either the tower is partially missing or fully intact. Does that make it a bell tower still? Or merely a tower? No one rings the bells anyhow.

The pests that were guarding the front door were reduced to husks, their disemboweled skeletons overgrown with Scarlet Rot. Born of Rot, decaying into Rot. They would not shoulder any other fate, I reckon. Sickly prawns... pestilent mockeries of humans, fashioning seashells as crowns. We fashion rocks into crowns, but these simple-minded beings, with their gnashing mandibles and carapaces... I shuddered at the thought of their visage.

And to think they would kneel afore Gowry's daughter, praising her and the sickness as deities, all while she writhes in pain...

...revolting.

I approached the half-open doors of the Church and rested my greatsword against the wall. I then planted my palms on its planks, grunting under my breath as the mounted dust stirred and they heaved open with a strident, decrescendo creak of its hinges. Once the gap widened enough to fit my shoulders through, I let go, taking my greatsword onto my shoulder anew.

Little interior was left— a handful of windows, the towering statue of Marika, and pointed arches atop piers along where the nave would be. A waning orange glow illuminated the brick, laying beside a wall on the right aisle, on the ground. It seemed like a spent campfire, meager as it was. Beside the campfire, sitting with their back against the wall, was a person. A human, unlike the pests Gowry warned me of. The darkness made it difficult to correctly assess, but their drooped head suggested they were sound asleep.

"Hahh... Hng..."

My assumption was quickly struck as I heard a pained moan leave them, as well as their figure curling.

[A feminine voice... that's her.]

Tension bled from me as I made my approach. I could not lug my large sword another way, but I let my pace lax, to signal my passivity. 

My paces then halted as she shuddered and looked at me. Immediately, she patted the ground beside her and grabbed a sword, pushing herself against the wall to her feet. 

"S-Stand back! STAND BACK!" — She exclaimed as she stepped away from me.

Once she stood, my eyes snapped open.

Curved sword, a hook... a shamshir.

Knee-length dress. A reddened dress. A missing arm.

A head of red hair.

...Eyes..!

Eyes of gold!

Without a second thought, I drew my longsword. Assuming an offensive stance, I stamped my left foot and arched my knees and back.

"Stay back!" — She reinforced through pained huffs, pointing her shamshir at me. — "I've seen you before... and I know you're here to finish the job..!" 

"I may wield only one arm, but I will gut you still!" — She bowed her head and glared at me, gritting her teeth.

"Has that so-called "Rot" affected your vision too? Or do you simply not see you command two arms and I four?" — My brow knitted together, slowly pacing to the side while maintaining my distance.

"I could say a fair few about your own vision... has that fetid armpit of yours healed yet?" — She barked, thrusting her sword in emphasis.

"Better than your arm..." — I scoffed.

"It rotted off, you cretin!" — She took a step forward, visibly tightening her grip on her weapon.

"I don't know who set you up for this, but if it's who I think it is, then tell that pest to die and leave me be!"

I blinked in subtle confusion.

"Why do you not end them yourself? You are quite nonchalant about facing me." — I cocked my head towards the exit, tensing a brow.

"I would if- Gah!" — A sting of pain took her, and she stumbled onto her knees. She dropped her sword and held her stump, the bite of it furrowing her features.

Instinctively, I took a step forward to hamper her fall, but I pulled myself back in remedy.

"I would... if I was not being eaten from the inside out..." — She drew her eyes up at me, her features twisted with anger and pain at once.

"My flesh is writhing..."

She lifted a foot up, and she pressed her hand against the knee to heave her weight up to a stand. She then straightened her back, staring intensely at me while she held her hand tight around her arm's stump.

"Writhing- Ghk! -with Scarlet... Rot..."  — She punctuated, breathing heavy from the ache.

"Had I not been afflicted... Hng..!" — A grunt of pain escaped her as she crouched to grab her shamshir. — "...I would've butchered that pest already." 

"You seem quite affectionate. Did this "pest" treat you that well?" — I snorted.

After grabbing the sword, she thrusted it into the ground for support while she hobbled back up.

"A lying- Ghk! -heap of dung..." — She swallowed, tottering back to an offensive posture with her shamshir at eye-level. — "that's what he is."

"Who are you, really? All I know is you invaded me and we ensured destruction mutual." — I take a ginger step forward, brow furrowing in frustrated interrogation. — "You owe me that much."

"I owe you naught, Tarnished..." — She leered. — "Remember?"

"A sage at the cliff's foot..." — I reinforced, curling my hands around my weapons. — "He said a one-armed woman lay atop this cliff, in this very church..."

Her breath hitched.

"Afflicted with Scarlet Rot, much like you describe." — I continued, rubbing my thumb on the hilt of my blade as uncertainty dared to draw my tongue in a knot.

But I was much too deep.

"Millicent, are you not?"

She froze, mouth parting as if to blurt out muted shock.

Her teeth clicked shut as anger further furrowed her brow.

"Who is that sage..?" — She asked, her knuckles paling around her sword's hilt. — "This sage you speak of?"

"Gowry. An old coot. Red, stained robes." — I lower my sword arm a mere touch.

My eyes thinned.

"Does that ring a bell?" — I gulped.

"The name... I feel I've heard it once before..." — Her own eyes thinned, lifting her stump to scratch a ghastly itch. — "...But I hardly remember much... much else..."

"...Hahh..."

For a brief moment she reeled, her sword falling back down before herself.

Curled on the ground she wailed. Her digits strained around the bloodied sleeve wrapped in a knot. Her boots dragged on the dirt, swaying back and forth as the pain rang deep. Her dress was soiled red. Unlike her hair, no. Red, alike blood.

I was watching a person suffer before my very sight and all I could do was stare. Describing her with words— no, nothings —evoking tragic beauty... beauty in such a twisted moment. I was frozen. Frozen while the cure lies just a satchel's buckle away. Yet I could not allow myself. I was mislead, my belongings were tampered with, I was stabbed and almost bled out, I-

"Curses!"

I gasped, maddened.

I held my head. Tried to. Holding my sword in hand, I could only press my hilt against it to hold it. I eyed away. I eyed her. And away again.

I could not. She was suffering, she was in pain. The bastard sage lied to me— Wh- What? What if this needle is just an implement to kill her? End her suffering? How many of his words were real and how many were false?

My sword arm fell back at my side.

"What are you standing there for..?!" — She yelled, lifting her head.

I was startled as I heard the sudden cry, and I brought my focus back to her.

"If you're going to stand there, then kill me!" — She grit her teeth.

"This wretched sickness... it's not something you can mend with tears... It's a curse... To trifle with it is to die in vain..!"

I looked at her, mouth parted open and brows drawn slanted.

I cast an glance down at my satchel. And then at her.

All of them perished. All of them. My direct involvement led them to their untimely demise. I feel selfish, proclaiming such. Yet they were strapping people. Of immeasurable potential. They lived more than me. They led better lives than me. Better existences. Knew better people.

They... were better people.

Why should she be the same? She is suffering. But she should suffer alone. I am not to blame for her ill fate. I do not wish to be the one to blame.

Not again...

...but yet if she dies... It will be because I was here. And I watched her die while I stood idle.

I sheathed my blade and buried my hand in the satchel. I carefully withdrew the needle, holding it in my palm and gazing at it.

My frown sunk deeper, defeated.

What rotten luck.

To be responsible either way.

Pursing my lips, I swallowed my pride and walked up to her.

Meagerly, she lifted her head to behold me. It thumped back down right after, and with her sole arm she brushed aside the hair over her neck. Offering herself for a decapitation unobstructed.

"Go ahead... Finish the job." — She rasped, giving me a half-lidded glare.

My hand balled into a fist.

"...drats..." — I muttered under my breath, eyeing away.

I then lowered onto a knee, and bumped my closed fist on her chest.

"Take it."

"Huh..?!" — She glimpsed my hand, eyes drawn wide at the sudden incursion.

"Take. It. I know not what that sage is to you— father, adopted father, nothing —but he told me this needle is the sole remedy for your curse." — I affirmed, my brows knitting. — "Stab your flesh with it."

She was hesitant. Her digits stammered as they reached for my own.

"You wish for me... to stab myself..? With the needle?" — She glanced up at me. Her face was uncertain, I could not discern parted-lip shock or disbelief.

But with our faces' distance shortened to a mere two palms, I could discern scarred, welted flesh blanketing her right cheek, sickly pale unlike the remainder of her pristine, supple face. Her ample eyes were a radiant gold. Filled with Grace, unlike mine.

"I would rather trust the sage's blind advice than to let you wilt and die," — I reinforce. — "while I stand idle, unmoving."

The exchange was succinct, my hand unfurling and her hand catching the needle.

She stared at the needle for a long moment, trading occasional glances at me.

Her hand then furled around it.

"Very well..." — She sighed. — "I will trust you... this once."

"I would rather do so than continue suffering... like this..."

"Just do me a kindness and avert your eyes, please."

"Verily." — I nod.

I shifted my head away, remaining knelt before her. I heard a faint puncturing of flesh, and an accompanying hiss of ache.

A sigh of relief, and followed my a subtle one of my own.

"Well... that was easier than I expected..." — She spoke again, assuredly calmer than prior.

"But why... do..."

I then heard her the shifting of fabric, as if she rolled over.

Hearing this, I tossed my glance back to her. She had fainted and rolled onto her back. A sudden throb in my chest took me, and I threw my greatsword on the ground before crouching over her and approaching my ear to her mouth.

An exhale.

An inhale.

An exhale.

An inhale.

Breathing...

...she is breathing.

"Oh, Marika's tits..." — I pulled myself away and collapsed onto my own back, holding my cuirass where my heart would be under.

[For the faintest instant, I thought it was, indeed, imbued with a spell that would make her die instantly...]

[...Marika's tits...] — I palmed my face.

[...I need a break.]

I dragged myself back to my feet, and I heaved out a deep sigh while still clinging onto my chest.

I looked down at my feet, and I sized Millicent up. She slept rather soundly where she lay, but one can never trust these Wilds. As much as we did, indeed, get off on two wrong feet, I cannot leave her alone. If those scars on her face truly are from the Rot, then I cannot trust the Kindred will remain at bay. They will not take kindly to my presence.

...

Goodness... how pitiable.

Are these Kindred I conjured in my mind a mere excuse? An excuse to place myself in the certitude of another soul... knowing all which went misguided in my past?

There is no certainty if she will wake from her slumber. She holds no trust in me. Justifiably so. If she does wake, there is no certainty she will be amicable. She was ill. Last much longer she certainly would not. Even if the sage spoke true, she will not simply... forgive and forget. As wouldn't I. As never have I. 

Yet... I pleaded none, yet Gowry spared me as if I did.

Such blind trust... Blind, misguided trust, in who one only saw lying in a mire of his own blood. Is it, truly? Trust? Trust, or merely a guise for pity?

I felt compelled to visit this church and aid her... out of pity. I cannot hide it. Yet it all departed when I beheld who she truly was. The person who almost killed me. Well, another in this growing pile. Yet like a fool, I still chose to help her. To spare her from the clutches of death.

Did pity linger or grow again in me? Seeing her in such an unfortunate state? Such agony? Or is it elaborate egotism in the guise of pity, all actions done so I and I alone feel content with the outcome of the situation? All done so I can have a modicum of joy because I am incapable of deriving it from anything else if not the know of having someone in these wretched Lands that is not doomed? 

I palmed my face. I stretched my flesh as digits dragged down to my chin, groaning out a sigh. I stared at the nothing for a muse, rapping leather fingertips together. And I then brought it back to Millicent.

Nary once have I needed a reason... to abide together. This flame is unfit. Tired, unkindled. If another, alive, will deliver me from cinders... mayhaps it is not so terrible an idea. Yet I cannot help but yet feel I am being wrapped up in mineself.

I picked up my greatsword and laid it flat on the brick, close to the light. I undid the belts and buckles on my scabbarded longsword and laid it atop the oversized one, bundling the straps around the hilt.

Easy part was done... all that was left was Millicent. Approaching her, I lowered back into a knee, grabbing her under her armpits. With redoubled care, I pulled and pulled, slow and slow so as to not stir her awake. In my blind reverse march, I bumped into the wall, which caused a rather unsubtle jerk and stop. Haphazardly, I stepped aside and pulled her back up, carefully laying it against the wall. I withdrew my hands and ogled her to see if she had awoken.

Breathing...

...no subtle smirks or any of the like...

And relief eased aching, tensed shoulders— My frame, rather. It had been washed away, even if only for a while.

I then paced back to where she had first collapsed and took the shamshir in hand. Walking back to her, I carefully placed it near her good hand, a mere digit's length away so she could hurriedly arm herself. I then sat down beside her left, crossing my legs and arms over my chest.

She was at arm's length. Close enough to closer observe her and her health, yet distant enough to not appear as a filthy scrote. 

A lithe build. Missing an arm... tied a sleeve into a knot over the stump. A disheveled head of hair a deep ginger, much akin to that I have seen of the Fire Giant, of Radahn. For the first time, I am beholding her bereft of deep, pained furrows. Rather... a tender countenance, much unlike the weals and mars that tarnish her features. Her half-parted lips sung the lull of sopor. Breathing hushed, but not rasped. Quiet... tranquil.

Her dress was stained all over. She was a mere spirit last we met, yet she seemed more soiled than then. She bore a beige scarf over a rather cultivated taupe dress, ending in garnished sleeve-rims and hem. I could see two fingers of her gloves poking from her pocket. Reddish... dark-brown leather. Much like her knee-boots. Is she royalty and am I simply too daft to acknowledge it? Her attire is markedly opulent.

Or mayhaps I am too parsimonious. That, or I have grown so weary of the Academy's opulence that shy displays of wealth of other cultures seem grand.

But she...

...It is a veritable shame she lost so much at the hands of her curse. But I pray the needle works, and that her suffering abates. Even if not for my self-conceited want for a singular soul I find to not have an untimely fate...

...for herself, at least.

... 

Pray tell, O Eternal...

...will she be the same?

Unalloyed Gold Needle

A needle of eloquent make, fashioned from unalloyed gold. Purportedly, it was made by the empyrean Miquella, as an implement to ward off the Scarlet Rot. 

It was once snapped, held by Commander O'Neil, but it has been repaired by Sage Gowry.

Who is she...

...this Millicent..?

Chapter Text

Night.

A long night without shut-eye stretched its starry tapestry long ahead. A quiet and undisturbed trail, sat beside a meager flame. We were reciprocal, in how I nourished it bright and it blinded me awake.

I watched over Millicent, who still remained undisturbed and strangely unmoving. She breathed still, which betrayed her otherwise cadaverous limpness. Torrent lay along with us, hooves curled under him, in the likeness of a bread loaf, and head resting on my crossed legs.

Only the pops and crackles, its odor's faint sting, and the mild orange hue of the fire kept me company. Accompanying were its embers, which danced with whimsy in the tenuous breeze of night.

I was hunched over my lap, and in my bare hands I held an arm-long twig. I pressed my knuckles down and my thumb-tips up to snap it in half, afore tossing it into the blaze. A momentary glint as the flames ate deep of its sustenance, sated for another indefinite 'while'.

The past two days I slumbered were bliss.

I did not stir, I did not wake. I slumbered alone. In utter darkness... quiet, silence. Was it my injury, shriving me of mind while I teetered on the forbidden Shadow's door? My body waving the proverbial white flag as my injuries sapped me of my 'ichor'?

Not that it would have made a difference. That wretched Numen would not allow it.

I picked another twig from the bundle I piled.

Death rendered fickle.

Relief divested, purpose stolen and fashioned into a tool for despots.

My brow twitched and I snapped the twig, right as the final word rang through my mind.

Despots. Throughout my whole existence. Slave drivers, the whole lot.

I am a cog. Alike before. Allayed into a falsehood of spontaneity while in truth, I turn in the clockwork, one so profoundly schemed down to its last tooth by Marika. Now, rather than paying indebted servitude to a queen lost of mind, I instead dance in her palm, atop which our entire world lies. Very much hopeful she is for me, as she refuses to cast me out into the abyss and let me rest. But gratuitously does she whisk away everyone else, deserving or otherwise.

I toss the split halves of the twig into the flame, quivering as it engulfed them. The crackles intensified in staccato, and more cinders let themselves off to flicker into naught.  

In a way, our existence is akin to that of these fickle embers. Brief. Ephemeral. Lest we drift to where we can kindle our own conflagration, we fade as hastily as we are let off. Yet I feel as an ember unfit to kindle yet sentenced to roam. I find other embers such as myself, and when we lay and a flame seems to come to, it is hastily snuffed out, and I am left to wander again.

Alone. Until another ember finds me anew and the cycle is wound up again.

I took a pair of crooked twigs in hands. With one holding the stems, I slowly broke my way down with the other, snapping off chip by chip and tossing them to the flame.

For as long as I have drawn breath, I have been a cog. I have not had volition. Solely... the illusion I am met with now. Is it attainable? This "volition"? Or is it merely a vestige of infantile fantasies, borne from my lack of ken and tact at how the real world would work?

That... and my subsequent imprisonment to this toil of an existence... Lurching in the fringes, doing as the guidance of grace ordains while finishing what the vapid, vain demigods never did.

My sole conquest was not even slaying the Praetor, or the Starscourge... the Veiled Monarch, the Grafted, what have you.

It was finally obtaining the ken of being wonted. The tact to being indifferent from the average. Rather than a miserly pair of hands toiling in a field.

Throwing the last few bits of the twigs into the fire, I heaved my head off the hunch and leaned back on the stone wall. My shoulders eased, and my eyes drew half-lidded. My chest swelled as I drew air in deeply, absent-minded to the acrid smoke, and deflated with the push of a deep sigh. It dragged my lips into a morose frown. Destitute, at the sobering reality I woke up to.

Indebted to a stranger. Met with the ailing daughter of said stranger. Said daughter is the same person who almost slew me a mere two moons ago. And now I feel guilt. Guilt at having saved her from her illness.

I know not if this is guilt. Could it be? It makes no sense.

Is it guilt, at the thought I placed her in my debt? I am no auditor. Not once have I forced another to repay me for whatever I may have done to them. Yet I feel guilty. If I did not save her, she would have died. Why do I feel guilt?

I glanced at her, sighing out of my nose.

Is it because... I crossed paths with her? And the inescapable reality of my thread of life severing hers looms over me? Or is it shame, in a guise of guilt, at how I tendered my helping hand to a person that wants me dead? 

Well...

...does she, truly, want me dead?

Or was it her disease muddling her judgment?

Methinks it is the latter. After all, she was in immense agony. I, too, would be cursing anyone speaking to me if I was suffering alike her. Mayhaps, she will see the value in my action... and proffer a gentler face. Not that I would demand such from her. We were at one another's throats. Had she not been ill, we would have been twice. 

...

...Forget, forget. It is a selfish muse. 

She spoke true. She did not owe me anything, and she does not owe me anything. That would, truly, make me guilty. For her to live and die as she sees fit is more than enough. Not for me. For her... I hope, at least. 

For her to regret this chance at life would make me quite the cretin, would it not..? We would be kindred, at least. Both shorn of fate, willed into life anew against their desires. Though, I hope it is not the case. I hope she is content, to an extent. If not content, shrived of suffering at the least.

I suppose I will simply have to wait and see. If she wishes to abide alone, that is fine by me. She has displayed no signs of appreciating my presence either. I will still have Torrent. We have fought together for... quite some time, after all.

You have never let me down, have you, Torrent?

I laced my digits together with the locks of his ashen white bangs and combed them, feeling each strand run through the valleys between my fingers. Each time my hand would return to comb another tuft, I'd give him a few short scratches on his forehead, afore pulling it back. After a few short grooms, I twined my fingers into his hair just under his drooped ears and rubbed his forehead with circular motions. 

Torrent's body shifted slightly, and he sighed out a prolonged nicker. I had heard a slight brush through dirt, and looking in its direction I saw his tail had flicked.

I do wonder, sometimes. If Torrent knows and feels it.

My ailing heart and soul.

I know horses do sense how one feels. But can he look beyond my outward veil? Can be behold that truth which lies within? He is a spirit steed. I am certain that means far more than merely being able to skip on air or be summoned forth from a golden ring.

I... I hope he does not. I do not wish to humor the thought my poison can be felt by him... and that it affects him.

People can raise veils and lull people into false senses of kinship and leniency. Animals do not. I do not wish... to betray the sole individual who carries himself solely as he displays himself. With no ulterior motives or facades.

Perhaps I am the fool... confiding my emotions to someone who cannot understand or reciprocate. But is it? Is it so foolish an act when the people I confide them with all perish?

I wish...

...I wish I could confide without fear. The fear it will all be for naught.

The time... Wasted. The words spent.

Trust broken.

My hand on Torrent's forehead stops, and I buff out a subtle sigh from my nose.

Safety... lost.

Am I simply a child, unable to overcome simple losses? Whatever will I do when I grow old? By then, many will have perished. Yet I am hardly into my purported prime and I already suffer profoundly with losing people I know only in passing.

Sweet Zorayas, she...

...she is alive... yet my heart still sank when I read that letter as if she was not.

I have met so many kind people. Kind people, hearty and trustworthy. People who cherished me, as I did them. People who would live and die for me, as I would do for them as well.

Is it so childish a desire to have a kinship that is not marred by death? 

Lives are ephemeral... I am no stranger to such knowledge. We're... we are all hanging by a thread. A thread so fickle a singular wrong move is enough to break it. But I have had my fill of loss. Everyone I know... plucked. Unrequited farewells, farewells never even said. Vain sacrifices and delusional struggles. I know not if even my acquaintances in the Hold will endure. Master Hewg hardly recalls me. Enia is bound to the place. And Roderika will stay with Hewg until the Roundtable's bitter end. 

But I cannot hold it against Roderika. Master Hewg smithed these weapons, and they have yet to fail me. He rekindled the talent she holds so dear, and seeing her smile after only seeing her so solemn made me content.

Nor could I hold it against Enia either. It has always been her onerous duty to serve the Fingers, in spite of their senility. I am merely another faceless Tarnished driven by ambition to seize Lordship and mend the fractures of the Lands. Another speck in the mounting pile she has certainly seen in her long-lived existence. Vyke was a contender himself, and I well know how that tale played out. Who is to say I will be any different? Certainly not her, and I would not expect such from her. 

And Master Hewg...

...

I lifted my hand off Torrent, and I crossed my arms, the weight of consciousness dragging my head lower, and my eyelids further shut. A gust of wind blew in, sweeping dust off the brick and mortar of the floor.

These people mean the world to me, yet none last. I want to hope it is just my folly in how I cannot value the few acquaintances I yet have. I kindle these flames in vain. I collect fuel for naught. What little flames I huddle to are waning. 

I do not want these flames to wane... But all the same those few flames are fading for no fault besides my own.

I do not know what I will do. Alone, in the dark. I am an ember... I am no bonfire, no beacon. The flame I came from has long since extinguished. I have nowhere to go, and nowhere to return to. 

I threw a glance at Millicent, who yet slumbered. 

It is a perpetually antithetical mind state. I yearn to kindle, despite having naught to torch with. I wish not to lose a soul, yet the few I have I push away. I never hope for their demise, but I do naught to earn their affection and be there while they are still alive.

I run from people, knowing they are all I have.

What pain... Could I be any more of a fool?

Yearning companionship, knowing the heartbreak it brings... and avoiding said heartbreak through sheer solitude? Why?

I bring my stare to the greatsword, laid against the wall. Its large glintstone dimly scintillated with the glow of the flames.

Trusting the warmth of my frigid blade rather than of an affable soul? Its abject simplicity is ever alluring, but it is no way to live. I know what it is to be seen. To be cherished. I came to know what these things were... better saying... And now that I have seen them for the first time, I do not want to let go.

I do not want to fall into the abyss again.

Not anymore...

...

A meagre head lift, resting back into the mortar of the wall. I drew my eyes open at the moon. Sopor mounted in my growing bags, prickling the supple sight-flesh.

As I took in a deep inhale for a sigh, a sting rose to meet my measure, square on my flank. I bent forward and lowered my hands to hold my still-aching wound. A throaty grunt escaped me as I swallowed the ache, and a sigh shuddered out in hiccups. 

"Marika's..." — I mouthed voiceless. 

With redoubled slowness, I rest my back against the wall anew, and in a shy try at easing my mind I mingled my hands with Torrent's ashen locks of hair and combed them. I felt the strands brushing through the valleys amid my digits, their hushed grinding against the fine skin as I ran their length... an indelicate putter as the bangs fell back on his big head. 

...

I do not wish to fall back into the abyss. Of fear, solitude. Of having naught but my blade to rely on. Yet all the same, the thought of human interaction forever frightens me. I cannot hold an exchange. I cannot kindle a bond.

What pain.

To love, having none of my own.

To hate, harboring no such heart for it.

To despise the greater whole, being a cog in its endless clockwork.

To be an ember, unfit even to kindle.

Why must I be so obverse..? So confounding? Is this what being entails?

What horrid pain. 

...

Chapter Text

The last two days I slumbered were bliss.

I did not stir, I did not wake. I slumbered. In utter darkness. Quiet, silence.

To be quite frank, I had not a clue as to why I did not opt to rest at Gowry's hovel. Truthfully, I would not trust the sod, but I would have at least avoided this... displeasing waking night.

A senseless sense. Of good will, justice. A tactless tact to see her to her safety and good health.

As if she had not had her blade against my neck flesh.

To be truthful, I cannot let go of my hope.

Much in the same way I cannot let go of this path to the throne.

It is not one I can follow a fork on. All which I follow, taking what I think is one far from it, lead back to the main road. As if a malformed tree, its boughs growing into itself. And unfortunately, I cannot stop. A stride taken is a stride impossible to take back. 

I am powerless.

Not powerless to prevail, but powerless to change this port of call.

But mayhaps... one of such forks is nary a false idol. 

Mayhaps...

The question still lingers.

Pity, or selfishness?

Did pity linger in mine person? Seeing her in such an unfortunate state? Such agony? What part of me spurred me to spare Millicent her fate? She attempted to put me to the sword. She was ill, terribly ill. And such is the fate we give to those closest to us when they are suffering. 

Death.

A fate... Perhaps it is the wrong word. A mercy, rather. Suffering, surviving, all of it is not living. We deem it unacceptable. Yet here I lay. Beside a soul who was suffering, whom I delivered from suffering and unto life. Presumably.

Pity? Or is it elaborate egotism in the guise of pity?

All of this, done so I, and I alone feel content with the outcome of the situation? Done without so much as heed for what she desired? She proffered her neck for a beheading. She was certain of what she wanted. She cast doubt on my words, the implement I held— the supposed key to ending her suffering without ending her life. 

Was it, truly, all done so I, alone, can have a modicum of joy because I am incapable of deriving it from anything else if not the know of having someone to trust in these wretched Lands that is not doomed? Joy? At her expense? At the expense of delaying the inevitable?

My head sank as my eyelids caught more and more water of the ever-lulling ocean of sopor.

Why am I pressing on? What will I get out of staying awake watching over her? If anything, it shall only usher an even worse view of my person than she already does. Who in Grace watches a person sleep if not scrotes?

Ugh. 

My eyes drifted further and further, closing more and more...

Just a brief... nap...

...

"Mmm..." — A hum.

My eyes stammered open, blinking a few times. I did not mishear that. That was a hum. My eyes shot to my left.

Millicent was shifting, her shut eyes wincing as she raised herself from deep sleep. My eyes blinked a handful, and I rubbed them. Refreshed, a wide glance was cast. No, my eyes did not deceive me. She is alive, she is waking. 

No, no, that is enough. More than enough. Feign weariness, afore it is too late. Well... featherlight, lest I actually succumb. My head sank anew. Hopefully in time.

Millicent lifted her head and her face flinched. Her shoulder lifted along, for an absent hand, yet she quickly realized herself and brought her other arm to completion, rubbing her neck firmly.

A sigh, and her face eased.

"Curses..." — Under her breath she muttered, hand falling back to her lap. Her eyes rest on her shoulder, raised for a better look. A mere hollow sleeve, a missing, familiar weight. Yet, all the same, a present naught. It is still there, even if only a mere phantom.

Her other hand met her stump. It felt the fabric tied around it, squeezing it between her thumb and index. It was rough, yet not damp. The black drapes of night leave much to be seen, yet what little she does appears not a deep red. Rather, a rusty brown. Undesired, certainly— it is no elegant sight on such a dress —yet it is a far better addition to the palette than the piercing crimson. I had kept eye on it myself, and it was a relief not seeing the stains grow.

Lips drew for a figure-draining sigh, tension gently oozing out of her. But that trickle of easiness let up as soon as she noticed my slumbering figure. Thankfully, I had 'fallen asleep' before her notice. I could see her, but only vaguely— through a veil of lashes disguising eyes open just above slits.

Marika's tits, what must she be thinking?

She held her movement for a moment, for what I can only ascertain was a sizing up. The rap of a boot's heel on dirt, dragging back, and then a rustle of fabric as she straightened her back against the wall. And for an imperceptible moment, a grit of metal. The commotion was enough to stir Torrent awake and his weighty head off my lap. His snout flared as air rushed out of him, his gaze fixing on Millicent. My equine companion's alertness wrung me dry of my own 'sopor', and I heft myself off its clutches. Torrent shifted and bucked his head as he grunted back onto his hooves, met by instinctual recoiling of my frame to allow space.

Torrent's head lifted high and turned to me, almost expectant. The commotion had certainly stirred him to action. Alas, time to go it was not, so I splayed a waving palm at him, in denial. He shook his head slightly and simply stood in place, a few paces away. Perhaps to sleep? I could not guess. But I was certain of the gnawing knot in my throat in the absence of words.

I pinched the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, scouring what little rheums Lucidity could not wash away. I knew not whether to acknowledge she had awakened or to continue playing the part of a freshly-woken sod, focusing on my companion instead of her. As I held still, a prod on my left shoulder decided for me. I took my hand off my face and turned to her, half-lidded still.

"Were you awake this whole time?" — Millicent asked, with a markedly absent hostility in her austere, yet relaxed features. — "You didn't have to."

I felt stunned. What is this nonsense? I was certain she could see it in my face, eying her up and down with shy wrinkles of confusion betwixt my brows. In her living hand she clasped the blade of the shamshir with a manchette sheathing the sharp edge, as to not cut herself. Closest to me, the hilt's pommel, blunt and harmless. A bridge to close the distance? But silence is no response. For now, at least.

As I opened my mouth to speak I hiccuped. Do I let the cat out of the bag or do I keep the walls up? 

My teeth clicked shut as I huffed out a short sigh, looking away in reluctance. A blabbering fool I would be if I were to keep that silly narrative up.

"I was worried." — I gingerly brought my eyes back, letting some tension bleed. Propping my hands on the ground, I straightened myself against the wall.  — "Your sudden rest jarred horridly in my mind."

"Ah, my apologies." — She pulled back to her seating, laying the shamshir on her lap. — "I fainted before I could even say a word."

"No need to apologize." — I shake my head. — "How is it? Your illness?"

"Well, the needle didn't grow my arm back," — She joked, looking down at her stump as she held it. — "but apart from that, everything is as you said. The scarlet rot has ceased to writhe."

"I can scarcely believe it myself, but I can move as I please." — She brought her gaze to me anew, brow shyly lifted, intent.

"And your mind? How is it?" — The phrase riled my mind as soon as it left me. — "I-I do not mean to say you are unwell. I simply recall the old Sage telling me your Scarlet Rot affected the mind as well."

""The sickness has eaten through her memory", he told me."

"Hm." — In muse, she looked down and her lips pursed. — "I can't give you a straight answer... I just woke up and my mind is fuzzy."

"But," — She stopped to meet my eye, a subtle tug upward on the corner of her mouth. — "I am certain something has changed. The nightmares have abated... I had my first sound sleep in ages, almost."

I could scarcely hide my own relief. I was hoping it was not true. But I would be a rancid liar if I was not hoping it was true. She is alive. She is alive. The faint smile on my own face felt sour. My mind, rather, felt sour. But the sourness of opening a door was secondary. I could not hide it. She is alive. It had worked. 

"I am glad... I am glad."

I surmise an unconscious sleep is the warrior's recourse for tranquility. But... I cannot remain so tranquil. Not when the topic of whatever happened before this encounter is not dealt with.

"Afore you slept..." — My brow tensed. — "...some... unkindly words were traded..."

"Ah, I recall." — She wasted no time picking up my words as she nodded slowly, rubbing her neck idly. — "Forgive me for my... hostility."

Oh.

"Nonsense." — I waved my hand dismissing. — "I pray you forgive mine too. I was rather callous. Disdainful, too, to your illness." 

"We had not even introduced ourselves." — She huffed. — "Strangers, we yet were."

"Millicent."

The tranquildom returned to her features, as if a flowing river carried away the hostility, and over it a certain hand extended - a bridge.

Again, it was difficult to hide my surprise. I stared at her hand for a long moment. My chest once more felt strangled with my self-inflicted inaction, yet I still knew not whether to bridge the gap too or cast doubt. Warranted it was — we nighly cussed one another out, and we did not kill one another solely due to her illness.

But though I may be unable to see it now, a warrior most fine, she is. And while it is yet difficult to believe... A kind face, too. One needed, most welcome.

Let the qualm go, just as she did.

I met her hand.

"Vilmos."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"A pleasure, too." — Though the smile remained ever-queer, the firmness in her hand so betraying of her litheness left an imprint of intentness in my mind.

After we pulled away, Millicent reached into her pocket and retrieved a small object. Catching a small glint, gold appeared to be the material. That or some metal.

"Truly, I could never repay you for your actions..." — She stared at the object in her hand, turning it a handful.

"But I want you to have this. By way of thanks." — She placed it in my gloved palm. — "A token, though it is."

"Hm," — I carefully looked at the small object, tilting a flat face to the flickering light of the flame. The engraved lozenge shape was unmistakable. — "...an heirloom?"

"Indeed." — She nodded. — "If memory serves me right... it depicts a scene of Malenia, the Severed, pledging her sword to the Blind Swordsman."

"If I'm not mistaken, it was the Swordsman's technique, likened to flowing water, that allowed her to fight the rot she was born into." — She described.

"Wings of unparalleled strength..." — She trailed off, staring at the flickering campfire.

I soon echo her, fixing my eyes on the campfire as my hands, cradling the heirloom yet, laid on my lap.

The Blind Swordsman... It was a tale I had heard before. Garbed in blue, his style of fighting was akin to flowing water.

Still waters turn foul...

...and stagnation leads to decay.

Warriors remain adrift.

A gentle wind ghosted through my left face with an undue chill. The fire flickered and trembled, the undulant glow hypnotic like the dance of cinders. The moon still hung high, but the time had passed imperceptibly. The weeds, sickly pallid-green, sprouting from between the cracks in the brick waved at the wind's behest. Subtle whispers of rustling leaves sang from the leaved trees just outside. I could barely see their shadow dancing over the dim sky.

Stillness. The land was hushed. And for a faint moment, it was as if all that was yet living were these three souls in the church. Solitude, but not quite. Is it, if it is shared with another?

A crow's call beckoned my eyes up.

The Blind Swordsman's is a tale I carry deep within me, so profoundly foundational to how I carry on. Onerous is the path trod with unwanting, that from which there is no deliverance. A relief brings meaning to the presence of its absence, but what of its present absence, with no foreseeable presence? Such is the throne. Such is... my existence. Yet to trod a path, even unwanting, is an abject lack of inaction. I remain adrift. Carrying with me the fickle cinders of hope of a new tomorrow. Yet the cinders are fickle. And cinder is not fit to melt one's perception. Not one so deeply buried in the frost of the unmoving tale the world so tries to weave. 

And yet the Blind Swordsman's tale remains, despite it all. Ironic, how the principle of a warriors' terseness is that which is most unmoving.

"As the legend goes," — I recalled. — "the Blind Swordsman was bestowed a flowing sword by a fairy, Marika knows how long ago."

"And with his technique, he sealed away the god of Rot itself." — My gaze fell upon the flames anew as I continued recounting the legend.

"I may be mistaken, but" — I looked down at the heirloom, spinning it in my hand. — "I believe its essence may be sealed away somewhere below this land."

I felt her eyes on me. It is solely what I believe, but I should clarify... I have observed it, but I may be interpreting it wrong...

"It is mere word of mouth," — I returned her look. — "but I have heard the "divine essence" of an outer god" — My hands continued fidgeting with the token. — "yet resides in the Lake of Rot, below one of the ancient cities. The witless pests that worship you were plentiful there. Mentions of disgrace, of abandonment, of prayers left on deaf ears. Arms held out in praise amid this colossal cloister..."

"There... An implement, crafted from the sealed god's relic. A great scorpion's stinger... Garbs, of the old lords who praised the sealed god, and towering fungal growths serving as their crowns..."

Sensing I was getting too invested in my own tale, I shrugged.

"...But I would not like to go back there. I had to be dragged out, as my body was giving out." — I fiddled with the collar of my mantle, fidgeting around the back of my neck. 

"What else did you see there..?" — Millicent asked.

Well... This was precisely what I did not want to be asked. But for her to have an heirloom depicting the Blade of Miquella, to be found in Caelid, to have those pests worship her... I suppose it was mine own fault. We traded a glance before I stumbled back into the topic, hands let go of my necklace to be clasped anew over my folded legs. A long blink. A stare focusing on the flames. A short sigh.

"It was far from a pleasant place." — I looked at her from the corner of my eye. — "The Swamp is unpleasant on its own but the Lake was even viler. It was an immense thing, waist-high waters flooding in from... somewhere. Trudging through the place, I left panging with weals and welts gloaming through my ankles and legs."

"Welts... similar to the ones on your right face."  — I pointed at my own. — "On the topic, how is it? Is it festering? Or is it merely sore?"

"It's certainly an unpleasant sensation..." — Her hand ghosted over the marks, each errant touch recoiling her. — "It's still warm. Elastic, almost. I doubt it'll return to normal. But it's stable."

I shuddered at the reminiscing. Identical to what I felt. Horrid.

"My apologies. I have naught on my person to aid you with." — I looked at her, half-solemn.

"Neither of us was expecting this encounter. I couldn't hold it against you." — Millicent replied as she tucked a lock of disheveled hair behind her ear.

"I can't say my experiences here on the surface are much better. Not by any measure."

I turned my face to hers. The acridness of the Swamp had faded from her person, supplanted by a more earthy, vaguely metallic scent. I had scarcely noticed, but her whole dress from collar to hem was stained.

"Festering, the whole of my body..." — She idly ran her hand through the flat of her blade. — "I despised it. Every day, another vexing welt to dress."

As much as the blood was dry, I have seen drier. That lost arm is not recent.

Yet for a moment I felt a light patter on my gauntlet. Is it beginning to rain?

"Forgive my prying." — I held the back of my gauntlet, hesitant. — "How long ago did you lose your arm?" —

"Oh, that." — Her brow lifted slightly as she then looked down at the tied-up sleeve. — "I amputated it not long ago. At most, some... six or seven nights ago. But I'd been trying to staunch the rot for far longer."

"By the end, my arm was... a writhing mound of flesh and muscle, scarcely recognizable."

"I am sorry," — I huffed, softening. — "I cannot fathom the pain of losing a precious limb. Let alone going through such... horrid sensations."

Another, and another. I am not imagining things. No matter, her words are more important.

Millicent held her sleeve for a long moment after my words. 

"It wasn't as horrible as one might imagine." — She looked at me for a brief moment. — "The scarlet rot, in a twisted sense, was a blessing. Every passing day, my arm felt more and more numb, until all I felt was a mere weight on my side.

A solemn, half-lidded stare was brought back to her missing arm. A shallow sigh then left her.

"Most painful was bearing the pain thereafter. Forfeiting my body to this wretched curse, yet such forfeiting doing nothing to stop it."

"But you," — An ever-so-subtle smile wormed its way into her face. — "You showed me another way. For that, I thank you. I only pang at being unable to repay you."

"Mar not your mind at such," — I gave her one of my own, equal measures sheepish. — "it is balm enough, your gratitude."

Millicent lifted her gaze up at the sky, holding her hand out. Her face winced slightly.

"Is it raining?" — I was not imagining things. She concurred.

"Seems so." — I nodded.

The rustling of leaves and hum of the wind were soon supplanted by a growing percussion of rain. The fire was now a singular source of light, the moonlight long gone. It was time to go. Rain in this part of the continent lasts for days. I unfolded my legs to stand back up, propping on the wall for support. I dusted my azure capes, my trousers, tabard.

Just as I was about to kneel down to pick my weapons back up, I had noticed her expression had given way to tranquilness as she remained firmly rooted.

"Millicent?" — I asked. — "Are you not going to take shelter?"

"No." — Her eyes shut, face turned towards the sky. — "I've dealt with enough unpleasantries in these past days..."

"I need this rain." — Millicent's eyes met mine.

The misting grew close to a deluge, yet kept a modest distance from a torrent pelting one's flesh. It did not take long for droplets to fall from disheveling locks of hair. The cold sept through the metal, the fabric layers, the flesh. The fire steadily diminished, along with its glow. As she stood in comforting quietitude among the thrum of rain, I made my own call. I walked up to my humble companion, retrieving a thick, deep-blue cloak from one of his saddle-bags.

"Come on." — I clicked my tongue as I rubbed his mane. The haze of gloam then precluded his fading, returning to the whistle anew.

Fastening the cloak together with a pin, I then took a seat back beside Millicent. I crossed my legs and retreated into the seclusion of my cloak, my armour. Hands clasped at my lap and head leaned back on the stone brick, I eased into my own tranquildom, gently closing my eyes. It had been long since I had liberally basked in rain. Free of worry, to simply feel the pitter-patter on my armour, the misting on whatever face I allowed the world to eye.

It was a sweet reminiscal, of times now past. Where the sole unique concern was attending lectures on time. The thrum... the sweet thrumming, whom kept me in thrall. Daily, if not, then weekly without fail. In times, it was a singular comfort in nights. In times, it was the solacing percussion to weary studying, training. In times, an annoyance, a cause for head aches. And yet, despite it all, it was that murmur on the window, that bitter cold, that tragedy... It was that rain, its wintry embrace that backed joy. I could not care for its biting cold. It was an embrace enough. It contented me.

It was no return. A ghast, though it is. Looking to the skies has long since been tainted, ever since that fateful battle. Once, it was me, but then it was my own home. Held captive. Onerous service to a one turned unwanted for a second. Had we not been foes? Why were we, then, so blindly accepting their ways?

Had the Order not taken her? Erika? Why am I, then, using two of their implements?

Yet, I was a retainer, much like my mentor. Our Queen's word was ours. What a fool I was, believing things to change. The more they do, the more they remain the same. And so they did, simply under a finely-painted guise of glintstone. One... I yet wear. But it was not always that way. For years, it had not been. Servitude unindentured - indebted, rather. It was a home, a roof I was not afraid to be under, a sternness I happily obliged to. How could she? I could not believe it. None of us could. The time spent, the lives given, lost at the drop of a hat. The sights, the exhaustion, the scars, the fear, the pain...

I heft out a deep, figure-draining sigh. It was absurd. The whole of it. I could scarcely believe it myself. What could I ever do? To mend the past, the cracks, the faults? On this... sanctioned existence?

I pray she leaves by dawn. The sooner I can forget about her, to wash these moments - No... my hands - in this rainfall, the better. I cannot believe I allowed myself this sickly indulgence. She will end up no different from the others, if not worse, what with how she is not wholly able. But at least she will not be taken by the Rot. It would be a horrid way to go.

I gave the waning flames a gaze, drawn-out alike its doom amid the rain. The cinders stubbornly cling to the bark, the fibers. But drop by drop, they fade. Cracks speak out voiceless amid a cacophony of nature, of a weeping sky. The shadows grew feeble, and soon, mere star-like specks remained. The blanket of night had settled at once, rainy fangs sinking deep. Yet... its bite felt as though an afterthought, ephemeral. It was night like any other. The laden aroma of humid earth accompanied my drawn-out breaths, undertoned by the fainting burn of lit wood. Flame clings stubbornly, in the earth, the air, the eyes, even when the pile of branches had long ceased.

Alas, I sunk into myself, eyelids gently closing. Night... another night. The cold as its perennial aide. It is a constant... an assurance - comfort.

Tomorrow, day... another day. I trust... we shall not meet again...

Shamshir

A curved sword with a thin, long blade, boasting a jutting hook to deftly parry attackers, just as quickly as it can itself slice.

Two hands... would be of preference to make it effective... Not that I would know.