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Masquerade

Summary:

Scattered events in the Lands Between, about different characters, with different tones and connected by the theme of the "mask"

. In a foreign land (Rykard/Tanith)
. In a draconic church (Vyke/Lansseax)
. In a golden room (Malenia&Godwyn - Malenia/Miquella)
. In a garden (Malenia/Miquella)
. In a tower (Ranni/Tarnished - Ranni&Miquella)
. In a dream (Millicent&***** - Millicent&Tarnished)

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: In a foreign land

Chapter Text

*

 

In a red tent, torches lit around the perimeter of the room, while a multitude of servants prepare to set the noble table.
The demigod sits on a fine carpet and greedily embraces each companion, while they pamper him with empty promises, scratch his clothes with long painted nails, rub his body with open palms, smile at him with malice, as if ready to pay homage to his insatiable thirst.
He loves this place, because it is so distant from that deviant culture, from divine graces, from that blonde whore and from his filthy father.
He loves this place, because it offers him a glimpse of realities, which he did not even believe possible.
He loves this place, because it intoxicates him. He lets his clothes be torn off him, he embraces that foreign culture, he lets himself be embraced by that multitude of arms, reddened by the heat of the fire. He knows he is worthy, that these women seek him, for what he has become.
 

Demigod.

 
It is a title that nauseates him, but that he has learned to use to his advantage.
 
It is a title that seems to enchant this foreign land, that glues these young women to him, who furiously rub themselves against him, on his arms, on his legs, on his belly. They sprinkle him with their liquids, hungry as snakes, ready to grab their prey.
Ready to poison him.
Rykard enjoys everything, he feels overwhelmed, blinded by the whirling beauty, by the acrid taste. He squanders his prestige, while one of his naked companions rubs against him, seized by hysterical shivers. Another one fills his cup with wine, yet another runs her tongue over his shoulders, his ears, his lips.
Oh. He wants it all.
He wants more.
 
And his companions promise him that they can still offer him much more, that this is only the beginning and the first of those pulsating mouths, tears out his seminal fluid and lets him go with a violent tug.
But Rykard still has too much to give, he is still too thirsty. He grins, as he gulps down the cup of wine.
 
Then, the dancers file into the tent in order; their purple-red dresses set the room ablaze with new fire. They wear golden bells on their ankles, metal belts, from which coins hang and their faces, entirely hidden, by a regal white mask and a veil covering their hair. The air is filled with incense and the foreign music hypnotizes the demigod's ears.
 
The arms of the courtesans, now, encircle him, barely touching him, as if even the orgiastic rite were an integral part of the dance, which is about to begin.
 
Now the dancers are his new delight.
And they claim to be it. They let themselves be admired, in their choreography. They shake their bellies, hypnotically, they touch each other with their fingers, they embrace, then they let themselves go and allow him exasperated glances at their intimacies, without offering him anything in fact.
And then, there is her.
Rykard notices her, as soon as she moves forward, compared to the other dancers. She holds the incense burner and lets it rotate around her, from the chain. She gets enveloped in smoke, she uses it for her choreography. Each of her movements is considered, mediated by grace, elegance, purity.
Her dance, more than being the union of lust, appears to him as a free art, intrigued by degradation, but iron in its morals.
The two look at each other, the demigod is certain of it. He feels her rigid eyes on his skin. Unlike the others, they do not convey any kind of hesitation.
The dancer does not touch her body, does not allow him any voyeuristic glance. As she advances towards him, with her slow movements, she prostrates slightly before him, then withdraws, returns to the others, confused in the ecstatic atmosphere of fire.
 
Rykard stands up and his companions allow him to, although, perhaps, surprised by his sudden change of attitude. He advances, naked, right in front of her.
And again, he does not see her crack. In her eyes there isn’t even a miserable hint of hesitation.
He smiles at her and signals the other dancers to move away, to make room for this magnificent woman, who seems devoid of any scruples; then he also stops the music.
There is no need for words, in that unexplored place. There could not even be a verbal confrontation, because they barely understand each other.
What matters is the body, with its own language, its gestures, which hint at the most instinctive and palpable of desires.
Rykard brings his index finger close to the woman's mask, then lifts it and lets it fall to the ground. His lips bend in a satisfying smile, revealing her face.
 
He finds her magnificent: sharp eyes, firm lips, yet a look ready to be lulled by passion, on a slightly bronzed face, which emphasizes features far from the progeny of the Golden Order. A few black locks escape from her veil.
She is a woman uncontaminated by repression, who looks at him in full, who does not hesitate to approach him, even in his nudity, which she barely touches his chest.
It is a contact that burns him and incites him to touch her hand that holds the censer, to induce her to leave it.
 
The music starts again, at his signal. This time it seems slower, the drumbeats are thin, the flutes soft, the strings pluck as if recreating a lullaby.
Rykard walks around her, comes up behind her back and the dancer lets him touch her, or rather, leads his arms. She teaches him to dance with her to the rhythm of growing ecstasy.
And those fingers slide lower, between the folds of the fabric, while their bodies heat up.
 

"My lord"

 
She murmurs in one breath, in his ear. Perhaps it is the only thing she can say, in her forbidden language. But it is enough, to incite him to continue.
She is simply different. Because she accepts him, without greed. Because she wants him, without asking for anything in return. And his fingers rub her between her legs, ever more fervently, between dance steps, which become more and more agitated.
He feels her getting moist, as he allows her to taste that pleasure that is corroding him from the inside. Her breath becomes thinner and more broken, the music more anxious, desperate, in a crescendo of insatiable desire.
And that red dress leaves him space, to prolong their sudden dance, as they both find themselves on their knees, on the carpet, with their legs apart.
The dancer clings to his neck, to his hair, while he continues to caress her. He will grant her every pleasure she feels the need for, he murmurs against her neck, as he rubs her with greater conviction. Maybe she doesn't understand him, but her voice is a clear signal of consent.
And the peak is reached as soon as their bodies caress each other slightly, before rubbing furiously.
They both moan, crazily, as they push each other, as they seek each other, like two prisoners, who have endured thirst for too long. Under the eyes of those spectators, perhaps more deviant than them.
Rykard finds himself lying down, as he watches the magnificent dancer's back, undulating against his groin, satisfied by the same pleasure as him, sitting on him, legs spread. He holds her hips, with no intention of binding her.
They will both be free.
He will show her an alternative way, to what they both know.
And in the meantime, she continues to call him, with the name she has now given him.
 

My lord.

 
She gasps.
 

My lord.

 
And she reaches orgasm, feeling him fill her groin, overwhelmed by frenzy, blessed by his presence.
They remain anchored to each other, before she lies down on his chest, caresses his face and calls him again.
Rykard catches his breath, touching her hand and kissing it.
 
She’s a magnificent exotic flower, without any hesitation, curious about life and all it can offer.
 
Only She can be his true companion.
 

Chapter 2: in a draconic church

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text


*

 
The walls of Leyndell have collapsed for the first time.
It is on the devastated city that the queen's firstborn declares the end of a war, in the most miserable of ways.
Now they are allies of their enemies: a pitiful solution, that the Roundtable Hold cannot accept as definitive.
He cannot say he is surprised, he has never trusted the Golden Order enough, to believe that it was capable of managing such a conflict and indeed, the golden prince seems to him perhaps the most incompetent of all.
The crowd praises him, because he has demonstrated his value as a commander, he was able to eliminate the Calamity of Leyndell, Gransax.
This is said of him, while the capital is still on its knees, the losses are innumerable, among soldiers and civilians and this damn ... demigod opens the doors to them, these slimy animals of questionable intellect.
 
«The Golden Order certainly seems to have fallen very low.»
Vyke can only share Alberich's opinion, who is certainly not renowned for his analytical skills. He sneers, irritated by the obligation imposed from above on the entire Roundtable: to welcome another of their ruthless invaders, as a sign of non-belligerence and not in any place, but in the first church established for their worship.
There was no shortage of protests but, since the Queen did not show particular hostility to the idea, Godwyn the Golden took advantage of it, to continue with his own peace project.
 
As if they hadn't already done enough. The mere mercy shown, in not having exterminated them all, after their defeat, should have been enough. Instead, the noble commander of the army, now even speaks of friendship with an ancient dragon.
Pathetic.
Leyndell is doomed, if it remains in the hands of these court jesters for long and a cursory glance at the first draconic church of Leyndell is enough to demonstrate their incongruity. Cloaked in undeserved splendor: light irradiates the environment from every side, the banners of the new cult, embroidered in gold, are fixed on the series of columns, the side chapels welcome effigies of ancient dragons and the presbytery, artfully crafted, is dedicated to the altar, for the ceremonies with the draconic rites.
At this point, one wonders how much it is worth remaining under the command of the Order. Perhaps Alberich is right: all this is an unbearable waste of time.
But the trumpets announce the arrival of the Golden Prince and the Tarnished warriors, as ordered, stand at attention, on the sides of the central nave.
 
The church door is forced open by the guards, barely scraping on the marble.
It is always a singular experience, to be able to observe even just one member of the royal family. Their presence alone is enough to feel the weight of their nature and since the Golden Prince has been able to demonstrate his value, even if his methods are far from those of his father, the feeling of oppression, in looking at him directly, is even more suffocating.
And in fact the members of the Roundtable cannot help but bow in deference. Even Alberich.
But Godwyn the Golden is not the only one to make his triumphant entrance and to keep him company is not what Vyke expected to see.
There is no dragon.
The prince offers his arm to the slender figure of a woman or at least, what seems like one. Following them, a patrol of Leyndell soldiers, equipped with armor bearing the draconic crest.
 
Whoever she is, she is not human.
Pale skin, two curved horns on her head, so intensely white that it seems alabaster, and her face hidden by a silver veil, from which long pale locks protrude. She is barefoot, her toenails, like small claws, barely touch the ground. She wears a long dress of fine workmanship, decorated with the typical motifs of the Erdtree, almost as if to emphasize her necessary alliance to the Order.
 
Yet she demonstrates a noble temperament. She advances, as if aware of having every right and command over everyone in the church. Even over Godwyn, who in fact, rather than leading her, limits to accompanying her.
 
He smiles affably, proudly shows her the result of his work. He brushes her thin fingers, which rest on his forearm.
 

"Noble Lansseax"

 
He calls her.
«Everything you see here is yours, if it is capable of arousing your interest.
The church is dedicated to you and your people. And after this, my lady, there will be many more.»
She’s one of the ancient dragons…
 
But Vyke cannot convince himself, not even when he glimpses her long white tail, which slightly protrudes from the skirt of the long dress.
Alberich tries to hold back a hysterical laugh, but this time, Vyke doesn’t indulge it, he remains marble. Perhaps it is the surprise that paralyzes him, he did not believe this race was capable not only of reasoning, but even to imitate them.
Or that they had hierarchies.
Or that they could be like this—
 
«They are our faithful warriors of the Roundtable Hold, distant descendants of my father's lineage.
And as they have known how to assert themselves on the battlefield, so, I am sure, they will know how to guarantee you protection.»
The dragoness in her peculiar humanoid form walks in front of each Tarnished, now leaving Godwyn's forearm, to move completely autonomously and he reveals to her their names, following praise for their deeds, which Vyke cannot be sure how sincere they are.
The veiled creature seems to become even more regal, in bowing her head slightly, declaring herself happy to make their acquaintance.
But more than a simple introduction, stuffed with pleasantries, it seems like an examination, as if she is looking for something.
Or someone.
Is she trying to recruit one of them, for real? Perhaps she still fears for her safety, much more than the Golden Prince would dare to declare.
Ridiculous.
Who would ever accept being in the service of a dragon?
«I wonder if the draconic cult is enough to desecrate the Order.» It is not clear whether Alberich is hissing it more to himself than to Vyke, but for some inexplicable reason, the comment annoys him. He would cut out his tongue, right now, if he could.
And the dragoness advances, her thin hands are clasped on her belly, she looks towards them. She is now so close, that he can glimpse the features of her face, hidden by the veil.
The prince is right behind her, he has just the time to introduce her to the disturbed wizard of the heretic sorceries, that he prostrates himself before her with emphasis, without  any comment.
The Noble Lansseax simply nods, as in the other cases, and declares herself honored to make his acquaintance. Then, she walks in front of Vyke.
 
«The most promising of the members of the Roundtable, my lady.» That’s how he gets introduced  and for once the Tarnished cannot deny that he feels truly honored. «His skill and courage are a credit to the entire capital. He fought bravely during the siege, and all of Leyndell is indebted to him.»
It is instinctive that he goes to his knees, head down, and realizes too late how he has chosen to act.
There is something strange about her. Perhaps it is this unusual sensation that has convinced Marika’s firstborn to make a pact with the ancient dragons.
 

«Please, there is no need to show such reverence.»

 
But he remains on his knees, his gaze fixed on the marble floor. Of all the voices he expected hearing, this is perhaps the one he least imagined could belong to such a creature.
Her tone was nothing but a caress, capable of making his skin numb and the inexplicable desire to want to hear it again touches his mind in secret.
 

«Stand up, Sir Vyke.»

 
And this time he obeys, as if his name, spoken by her, has made him feel bound to her will. He raises his gaze, however with difficulty and that sense of awe does not diminish, especially when he looks at her face still hidden by the silk. It is this, perhaps, that troubles him in particular.
He fears to see her face, because she is hesitant to reveal herself.
 
But the dragoness, as if having understood his discomfort, brings her hands to the base of her horns, on which are knotted the white ribbons, which hold the veil, and carefully unties them.
 
And Vyke trembles.
 
Two eyes of a vivid red seem to scrutinize him to the very core, while the milky face, of a bewitching harmony, smiles at him affably.
«Tell me, Sir Vyke.» she addresses him again, unexpectedly taking his hand and caressing it gently. «Would you like to be part of the draconic cult?»

Notes:

I like to think that the roundtable hold existed even before the shattering and maybe the tarnished (alive at that time lol) were like warriors at the royal family service.
Also I had so much fun at writing about Vyke complaining Godwyn's choices XD

And Lansseax... I only have good words for her.

Chapter 3: In a golden room

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

*

 
Malenia sits on her bed and watches him in silence.
She sees him place a golden mask on his face, while he is facing the mirror. He ties it behind his head, letting the laces slide through his long blond locks. He is wearing a long white silk dress, long sleeves, a boat neckline, gold leaves embroidered on the edges of the skirt. A thin belt, decorated with amber, tightens his hips.
Then he turns to her. «Do you think this is going to work?»
Malenia scratches the bandages on her right arm. The tingling on her skin is more annoying than usual. She looks at him unconvinced. If he thinks that half mask can limit his charming powers, he is far from right. In fact, it does nothing but increase the desire to look at him. However, she does not allow herself to say it. «I mean, Mother said so.»
But he does not seem convinced enough either, because he looks at his reflection again and touches his face.
Miquella has only recently discovered his own powers, but he is still unable to limit or control them, so he has hoped to avoid any public celebration as much as possible.
Just looking at him could become dangerous.
But he cannot shy away from this one: the investiture ceremony of the new knights of Leyndell. Queen Marika herself has insisted that he take the opportunity to act as her deputy, as the favorite to succeed her.
Malenia still scrutinizes his dress, worried that it touches the floor of her room and hoping that it is clean enough of any impurities. She should tell him to leave immediately, that in fact, he should not be here at all. If the perfumers find out that he has visited her, before the celebration, they might report it to Radagon or even the Queen and she does not want to experience the consequences.
«Will you dance with them?»
«I will do everything to avoid it, I do not want to risk causing disaster. But if Mother insists, I don’t have much say in the matter.» The twin turns back, tucking a curl behind his ear. «I won’t be gone long, anyway.» He gives her a weak smile. «And I made Tricia promise to call me immediately, if you feel ill.»
«Just enjoy the party for once. Don’t think about me.»
Now he’s the one to smile. «I’d only have fun if you were with me.»
Malenia presses her lips together and stares down, her hand tightening on the bandage, already soaked in blood. If she were selfish, she’d tell him to stay.
If she were superficial, she’d lock him in this damn prison with her.
If she didn’t love him, she’d tear a harmful one-sided kiss out of him.
She simply doesn’t reply, but before Miquella can say anything else, Godwyn knocks lightly on the door, announces himself, and doesn’t hesitate to enter. A sardonic smirk appears promptly on his lips. «I knew you'd be here. If you're ready, we should go. The Queen awaits us.»
Malenia is still sitting, looking at her brothers.
Miquella gives her one last look.
Then she is left alone, the door closed, but not sealed. Yet another period of solitude and isolation awaits her, while the twinges in her wrist suddenly become more intense.
 
 
She knows it well.
She shouldn't have, but for once she has let her desires prevail, over the awareness of being infected and dangerous to anyone.
She knows she has a duty to stay in her room, surrounded by those intense and nauseating aromas, which dampen the processes of rot. She knows she can allow herself to touch as little as possible, that her right hand is crawling with disease, that she almost feels like she could lose pieces of skin, along her path.
But she heard that magnificent music, coming from the great hall, the chaotic voices, teeming with life, the servants moving quickly through the corridors, passing in front of her door.
Lying on her bed she imagined being among them, able to take part in the joyous celebration.
The ceremony of investiture of the knights.
She imagined her mother, distant as always, sitting on the throne, in front of the high staircase of the main hall. Her father, standing, at her side.
Godwyn, in the company of his trusted subordinates, the ladies, exchanges sympathetic smiles and entertains the guests in pleasant conversation.
She tried to restrain her imagination only to these small events, taking pleasure in them, but her mind lingered beyond.
Because the music in ferment was impossible to ignore.
If there is one thing she would have given all of herself for, is to see him dance. In that dress, with that mask, like the distant entity of a fairy tale.
 
Didn't she deserve at least that?
She wouldn't be out for long.
Just long enough to see with her own eyes what was happening.
 
And she couldn't hold back the impulse any longer. She got up, hastily retrieved some new bandages from the drawers and quickly undressed, while the music continued to get frenetic.
The only strategy she thought of adopting, to minimize the risk of infecting, was to cover herself entirely with the oils that perfumers have always used, to try to medicate her, to wrap her body as much as possible with new bandages, to tie her hair. She changed her clothes and, as an additional precaution, she wrapped herself in a thick blanket. Finally, as a makeshift strategy to deceive the perfumers, she piled several pillows under the quilt.
So she opened the door a crack and waited until the corridor was deserted, then she headed quickly towards the central hall.
 
The music weakened, just before Malenia approached the parapet of one of the internal balconies.
The hall is bustling with life, gold drapes, large tables set for meals, where only a few people are still sitting. The room shines with pomp and prestige, the nobility of each guest is unquestionable. There is not one who does not seem able to meet the Queen's expectations.
She is exactly as Malenia imagined her to be, sitting on her throne, marmoreal, ethereal, distant. Her face is also half covered, as if just being able to see her features clearly could be considered blasphemous.
At her side is not Radagon, but Miquella. He waits standing, with his hands clasped on his belly.
Seeing them together, so close, not only underlines their clear resemblance, but radiates a sense of deep fear and respect.
Malenia instinctively searches for her father, among the various guests. She finds him in the western corner of the room. He’s not alone and at first she struggles to recognize his interlocutors. She has seen them no more than a couple of times before and has never interacted directly with them: two of her half-brothers, Ranni and Rykard. The half-sister is the more animated of the two, at the insistence of her father, whom Malenia cannot hear, she pushes him away angrily and walks away.
The other remains upright, while he sips wine, but his gaze is planted elsewhere, as if the dialogue that Radagon is trying to prolong is one-sided.
 
But Malenia finds herself looking at her twin again, when the music stops completely. The Queen remains seated, in her imperturbable silence, while Miquella comes forward and slowly descends the stair.
The insistent sound of a light bell echoes in the large room and most of the guests gather on the sides. Only the future knights of Leyndell remain in the central area, no more than a dozen.
 
Miquella is still so young, yet his immature features are not enough to induce anyone to show him superficial respect.
The soldiers prostrate themselves before him, without hesitation, while three servants approach him. Two of them place a long thin veil on his head, as if to further filter his frame. The other offers him a large golden cup, filled to the brim with water and golden leaves.

Malenia cannot look at his face, but she imagines his expression: a serene smile, a distant gaze, although fixed on his objective.
The knights are called individually, they get up, come in front of him and bow again.
Miquella addresses them with the formula required by the celebration, invites them to swear by the Order, to devote their entire existence to it, to the Queen, to the Greater Will.
 

«It is with immense joy that I name you a knight of Leyndell.»

 
And they put their lips on the golden cup, taking a sip. They become part of a community, that will fight with life for a single and solid moral.
 
She would like to be among them.
On her knees, while she drinks that sacred water, directly from his hands.
While his simple smile is enough to calm the pain of her illness a little.
While she gives him her life.
 

«Malenia.»

 
«I thought I noticed a small red figure, hidden behind the parapet.»
She starts, turning instinctively. She was so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard his footsteps.
Godwyn approaches her and leans on the balustrade with his arms crossed.
They both look downstairs.
«Were you curious?»
Malenia doesn't answer him, not immediately. She simply observes Miquella. «I wish I were there, with them» she confesses then, perhaps also to break the silence.
«Would you like to fight?»
She presses her bandaged arm, while the skin still burns. «More than you can imagine» she tells him, in a low voice. «As absurd as it may seem.»
«I don’t find it absurd, Malenia. You, for one, are already facing a much harder battle than you admit.»
«But I don’t want to live only for my illness…» her voice filters through her lips with difficulty.
The knights rise again for the final blessings, this time from Queen Marika herself, who rises from the throne.
«What would you like to fight for. Leyndell?»
Thinking about it, Malenia wishes she could scream it. She would like to shout that there has been nothing else in her life, except the desire to make him happy, long before the rot began to tear her apart. She presses her bleeding arm harder. Yet another layer of bandages has already begun to rot. She looks at her half-brother, determined.
Her skin burns and her eyes sting. «For Miquella.» The mere idea of ​​being able to do it, comforts her.
If she could do it, her life would have meaning.
Godwyn watches her surprised, but gives her another smile. «And what would you be willing to sacrifice for that?»
Her chest pounds wildly, she feels her face burning, perhaps also because of this nauseating pain.
 

«Everything.»

 
«I would sacrifice my entire existence, if it were enough to make him happy.»
I don’t want to be his burden…
Now her half-brother sneers and stops looking at her, which makes her feel not taken seriously. «I mean it» she insists. «I want to get out of that room. I want to fight.»
«Oh, but I believe you, Malenia.» He gives her a softened look. «You speak like a true warrior.»
Now she is embarrassed.
The music starts again, while the guests take their places at the large tables.
«Why do you fight, Godwyn?» Malenia asks, in a low voice.
Miquella sits right next to the Queen, distant from the other guests.
Godwyn doesn’t answer immediately. «That’s a good question.»
«Don’t you know?»
She sees him shrug his shoulders slightly. «There are choices we really can’t make, I guess. I simply followed in my father’s footsteps and Marika’s wishes, but my happiness lies in something else.»
«Like what?»
Godwyn smiles again, before answering her. «Like you. You and Miquella.
«I suppose I could say, I fight for you two.»
If only she could afford it, she would hug him. If only this damned disease didn’t distance her from everything…
And as if to further remind her of her precarious condition, she glimpses a couple of perfumers in the corridor. She jolts.
She must return to her room immediately. They must have noticed her absence. She looks at Godwyn bitterly and he dismisses her with a nod.

So Malenia returns to her isolation, with the desire to see her twin dance, foiled from the start.
 

Notes:

This scene was mostly inspired by a dream I had of the knights' investiture ceremony and how it works. It was also a good way to talk about Malenia's will to fight. I found it a good scene to describe.

I also... well...I like describing Miquella in general.

Chapter 4: In a garden

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text


"The disease will progress, Lord Miquella."
He knew it.
"She could lose all her limbs."
He knew it.
"She could also lose her sight."
 

She could face a fate far worse than death itself.

 
It's easy to lie to yourself when everything still seems under control, clinging to the idea that there’s still plenty of time, another day, to find the solution.
There's time.
There's still time.
 
It was his greatest hope, all he had, as he watched her writhing in bed, in pain, searching for relief, which she couldn't find on her own.
 
But now... what is left?
Only the memories of paltry promises.
 
From the mullioned window of their room, he can observe much of his glorious creation: a new capital, thriving with life, soothed by the golden corolla, now in bloom, though less luminous than it should be. He is believed to be capable of miracles, of infinite mercy. The inhabitants of Elphael already consider him a god, even though he isn't.
But Miquella watches Malenia as she takes off her helmet, places her sword on the ground, and presses her golden fingers to her eyes.
She is alone, as often happens.
And she doesn't want to tell him, even though he already knows.
She doesn't want to tell him that there's not much left to do.
 
She won't even be able to look at him anymore.
 

"You are my light."

 She usually tells him, but now that light is about to go out.

 "You are my hope..."

 
But now he too doubts its existence.
Elphael exists for his sister, but it doesn't seem to be of any use to her...
Malenia usually stays elsewhere, far from their home; she has taken on burdens that Miquella would never have wanted to place on her.
And tomorrow she will leave again.
He won't see her again for a long time; he'll be suffocated again by anxiety, guilt, the loss of her, the need to love her and be loved by her.
He'll touch that empty bed, reminding himself, once again, of how miserable they both are.
He wishes she'd confess it to him personally, without him having to bring it up. He wants to hear her admit that soon, looking at him, there will only be two empty irises.
 
But there's still time.
She still loves him. She will always love him.
 
Even if she can't see him again...
 
But Malenia takes the sword again, inserts it into her prosthesis, and walks away slowly, only to fade in the gardens of their dream.
Meanwhile, doubts consume Miquella from within, silent, insinuating.
He's losing her.
Nothing will ever be the same again.
 
You've failed... you're just incompetent.
You're miserable, like your immature appearance.
 

*

 
Miquella smiles.
It's his duty: because he knows how a single smile can cheer up oppressed hearts, providing that faint illusion that there's no room for anything here, but serenity.
It's his need: because if there's anything that still haunts his memories, it's the face of his venerable mother, frozen in harshness and regret.
Marika smiled, it's true, but he never once remembers seeing her serene.
And even that simple expression of courtesy had disappeared when Miquella revealed he was ready to turn his back on her, without remorse.
Miquella smiles because it helps him lie, even to himself. He has no idea what expression his face would twist, even now, if he allowed himself to be honest.
Perhaps this constant sense of impotence would destroy him, and that would put the entire Haligtree at risk.
Perhaps he would give in to a desperate cry, asking Malenia to forgive him, because his stubbornness is leading nowhere, but to temporary solutions.
 
While she suffers...
 
And he's no longer even capable of opening his heart to her and confessing his anxieties.
They're together, but always for too short a time.
They're together, but he feels increasingly distant from her and is now so terrified of losing her, that he pretends nothing is wrong.
Miquella smiles, even now.
He has organized a party at Elphael, in honor of the indomitable demigoddess and her rotting warriors. It's the best way he can to wish her a safe journey and a speedy return home.
It's the perfect setting to pretend, for a little longer, that Miquella has created a fair kingdom, different from Marika's, a guarantee of a bright future.
A future that depends on them.
Kindness is the only law Miquella demands be respected.
There is no room for nobility, formality, abuse, loneliness, illness...
Marika would probably point him out as a fool, a dreamer, who dared far beyond what was conceivable.
But it doesn't matter.
In his Tree, Miquella is among his people, and they answer his call; they venerate him, that's undeniable, but without the distance that used to exist between the royal family and the inhabitants of Leyndell.
He is among the people, setting the immense table in honor of the departing warriors. He is with them, preparing a dinner worthy of the most sumptuous of celebrations, always confident that it doesn't taste like farewell.
Further tasks can wait until the next day, when Malenia will be far away.
When Miquella will feel, once again, robbed of the best part of himself.
 

Elphael must be the brightest ever.

May it be the brightest light, in the darkness of the night, in the mist of the Consecrated snowfield,
so that his sister can always find her way home.

 
And in honor of this, a tall pyre is lit in the city's central square: which, as evening falls, quickly becomes a favorite place for singing, dancing, and laughter.

 May this light be so intense that you can glimpse it, even in the darkness of your eyes, my beloved Malenia.

 
Miquella joins her as soon as possible, once the remaining preparations are complete. He spots her in the distance, facing the pyre, isolated, as she often does. He approaches her slowly, reluctant to call her and disturb her thoughts.
But his serene smile fades slightly as he sees her already in armor, the helmet covering her head.

May this moment cheer your spirits, even if only a little.

He wishes he could ask her to throw away her sword once and for all, but he knows how much it means to Malenia now.
He approaches her side, silently. He's sure she heard him approaching, but she hasn't turned to him. She seems to be watching the flame as it blazes. Her golden helmet reflects its glow.
Miquella watches her. He smiles at her, with all the sweetness he can muster.
You can still see it, right? The future I promised you so much.
If only he had the strength to ask her...
But now it's undeniable that he's beginning to fear looking at her face, as she stares into space and her magnificent lips say to him:
"No. Time's up, Miquella."
“I keep fighting, because I have nothing else left.”
“But I’ve stopped believing you.”
 
«Shall we take a seat?» he asks, gently encircling her left hand.
Malenia nods slightly and lets him lead her.
Miquella has arranged a more distant spot for the two of them. His sister prefers it this way; she doesn’t want a night of celebration to turn into a disaster, due to her contagious illness, but not too far away from the view of the guests.
 
It’s important that their people remember who is allowing them to live in peace.
 
The twins take their seats, and with them, everyone else. The festive atmosphere spreads undisturbed: wine and food are passed around, chatter, jokes, laughter, and shouts.
The rotting warriors receive due praise, their deeds are extolled, sometimes peppered with harmless lies.
A song is dedicated to Malenia, in honor of her victory at Stormveil Castle.
«A toast to our Lady!» announces one of the warriors, rising to her feet and raising her cup of wine.
Her companions are the first to imitate her; then, everyone else.
Miquella fills his sister's glass to the brim.
 
But it's impossible to guess what Malenia is looking at; the visor of her helmet completely covers her eyes.
Her head is tilted slightly forward, her lips seemingly expressionless.
 
She's concerned.
 
Her golden fingers, resting on the table, a short distance from the chalice, remain still. Then, they move toward it, hesitantly.
And Miquella can't help but feel overwhelmed by bitterness, because he gets another certainty:
She can't see clearly anymore, but she hopes he doesn't notice.
With a light and seemingly casual gesture, he leads her hand to her cup and invites her to cup it. He feels her flinch slightly, before turning her head to him.
And Miquella immediately smiles at her again, this time to instill in her all the confidence he can muster. He also takes his glass, raises it toward her, and invites her to do the same, and Malenia complies.
Finally, her lips curl in a reassured expression.
«To Our Lady!» is exclaimed, while the twins can't help but look at each other, their cups touching.
Metal and glass clink in unison, the pyre crackles on the fresh wood, and joy fills the air; but everything around them fades as they draw closer, their lips about to touch.
And while their glasses are joined in the hope of a rosy and decisive future, they exchange a light kiss. And Miquella closes his eyes, forgetting, for that fleeting moment, how fragile it all is.
How close he feels to losing it.
 

No one in the square seems surprised.
Because Miquella's Haligtree relies on Love.
 
*

 
Night has fallen, the celebrations have ended, the pyre has been extinguished. Now the silence of sleep reigns over the Haligtree.
 
But she doesn't sleep.
Miquella tried to grant her a peaceful rest, led her to their room, where they took off their clothes, but Malenia showed no desire for any further intimacy.
So he invited her to just sleep, but she couldn't. She waited until he was asleep, then slipped out of their room and spent some time outdoors, in their fairytale garden, rich with their iconography.
Miquella soon noticed her absence and looked for her, knowing where she could have went.
 
She always does it when a thought haunts her.
She searches for happy memories, spent in Leyndell, during their adolescence, when the war was but a distant thought.
He finds her standing there, in her nightgown, her left hand sliding across the marble of their statue, but she doesn't look at it. Her fingers trace Miquella's entire form, carved in stone, lingering over the features of his face, touching his hair, once much shorter, his forehead, his profile, his lips. They trace every inch of it, as if touch were trying to memorize them.
And Miquella feels his eyes water, because he can imagine the reason for her gesture.
«Malenia.»
She stiffens before turning around.
Her eyes were closed.
She opened them instinctively as she turned toward him: the whites of her eyes are livid, the veins thickened, her effort clearly trying to clear her sight.
 
How much longer does she intend to hide it from him?
 
But Miquella pretends not to be bothered, reformulates his usual smile, and approaches her. «Why settle for a statue, when the one it represents is waiting for nothing but your caresses?» he asks her with a hint of mischief, hoping that this will be enough to cheer her up a little, but Malenia simply lowers her head and closes her eyes again.
«Can't you sleep?» he asks her, coming closer, his hands outstretched toward her.
«I just needed some air.»
«Then, let's stay outside» he says in one breath, his voice faint, his fingers intertwined with hers. «Let's stay here tonight.»
Malenia instinctively follows him, when Miquella leads her to one of the garden benches and sits down.
«I have something for you» he reveals softly, pulling a roll of damp gauze from his pocket, heavy with the scent of lilies, which she instantly recognizes.
«Miquella, I already treated myself a few hours ago, don't worry.»
«Close your eyes» he tells her instead.
They look at each other briefly, because his sister feels the need to squint again. But in this fleeting exchange of glances, there has been an understanding between them.
They both know what's happening to her, how much more they're about to lose.
 

Blindness will also separate them.
 

An uncontrolled tear escapes her, crimson and thick, which Miquella quickly wipes away with his thumb. He lifts her chin and smiles, nostalgically this time. «Everything will be okay» he murmurs, «I just ask you to trust me, for a little while longer.»
«I never stopped, nor will I ever stop» she replies, softly, and it's enough to soothe him from his anxieties.
«Close your eyes.»
And she does so, her forehead relaxing, her lips loosening, her eyelids remaining closed, allowing her faint vision to rest.
Miquella gently wraps the damp gauze around her head, covering her eyes. The scent of lily pollen is intense, so much so, that he too feels its soothing effect. Immediately afterward, he gently massages her eyelids, clockwise, then takes her hands and squeezes them gently.
«Everything will be okay» he promises her again, but he's not sure how sincere he is. Then, he places her left hand on his face.
 
You can still look at me...
You can still love me...
You can still feel attracted to me, as I am to you.
 
He hopes she senses his feelings, even though he can't express them right now, and she, as if to confirm it, begins to slide her fingers over his face. She brushes his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his lips, and it's here that she lingers, seeming to enjoy their softness and remember them by touch as much as possible.
«I'm still here, Malenia...» he says in one breath, moving closer to her face, not allowing himself to move away from her touch. «I'm still yours, I will always be.»
 

Love me, like you always have...
 I will never stop doing the same.

 
And this time it's she who seeks him out, clasping his face with both hands, drawing him closer, and kissing him desperately.
Now it's her mouth that wants to imprint him in its memory, and he lets her do it, instantly reciprocating her gesture.
«Take everything you desire» he urges her, his voice betraying both ecstasy and regret. «Nothing's changed» he gasps, finding himself stretched out on the bench with his legs slightly apart.

«Nothing's changed...»

he reiterates, feeling the cold fingers of the prosthesis slide up his legs and lift his robe to his waist, while Malenia kisses his inner thigh.

 

Notes:

I suppose that in this chapter there's two possible masks we can point out: Miquella's smile, that hide his true feelings and the bandages that he puts on Malenia's eyes at the end to give her relief and that underline her gradual blindness.

The chapter is written and translated by me and google and revised by my dear betareader <3

I ask sorry for my absence... but this period wasn't easy at all and didn't let me breathe XD
In exchange, the whole collection is finished! So i will post the last two chapters these days!
I won't spoil anything about it, hoping you will like them!

That said, I hope this chapter was enjoyable, I feel a bit rusty, but I still love these two pretty much T^T
see you in the next chapter!

Chapter 5: In a tower

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

«Ranni…»
 

How much time has passed since then…
 
It was snowing.
It was still winter.
She remembers his soft frame, among the snowflakes, his face partially hidden from view by a long white cloak. The moon was not visible, yet she could feel it.
She remembers his voice, firm, but suffocated by regret. She believed she would never see him again, not after what she had chosen to do.
 
She had not yet become accustomed to her condition, she struggled to move, to observe that foreign reflection. She felt no pain. She felt nothing.
And yet, in seeing him again, something had moved, like a miserable drop of vital energy, a sudden warmth, which had reminded her that she has still a soul.
 
He was alone.
Which was very strange, especially in that context, in which every stability had been shattered, because of her.
There had been no need for him to reveal to her that he knew everything, because she could read it in his eyes. And perhaps that is why she had closed them, before looking blankly at the palms of those doll’s hands.
«If you have come to take revenge, know that my death would benefit no one.»
 
She remembers the sound of his footsteps. His bare feet, barely caressing the mirror of water, in the center of the glorious Carian hall.
Or maybe she was dreaming. Maybe he never really returned to her, not physically.
 

«Miquella.»

 
The young Empyrean had lowered his head a little, before approaching again, moving in that dangerous threshold between dream and reality. «Too much blood has already been spilled and I would not wish his death even on the most hostile of my opponents.» He had slowly removed the hood from his head, revealing the cascade of blond braids.
He had looked at her, his golden irises seemed to shine, in that bluish night.
 

«I am here to ask you a favor, sister.»

 
 
She feels a creaking sound, her face contorts into a grimace, then she stretches her fingers and legs, but she still doesn’t open her eyes.
It’s common for her to fall asleep suddenly, for no apparent reason.
Her wooden body is increasingly unstable, the dents are increasing. She doesn’t have much time left.
When will this perpetual waiting end?
Blaidd, Iji.
Mother…
But she knows she still has to wait. She can’t go on alone, as much as she prefers it.
She feels nothing inside her, only an emptiness, waiting impatiently to be filled. Only pain, for scattered fragments of multiple emotions, which she has now learned to ignore.
Someone has entered the manor. They have passed unscathed through the magic that protects the entrance from unwanted visitors.
 
 
 
«There’s nothing I can do for you.»
she had replied, that time.
 
She would have liked to tell him much more, to reproach him that everything that was happening, was also because of him. That they had a common goal, that maybe they could face it together.
Because they and only they understood its weight.
But he had been the one to turn his back on her and she had had to act accordingly.
Instead she had added nothing else, except to scrutinize him cynically.
 
«I have contemplated the stars for a long time, Ranni.»
 
Her doll-like body had not trembled, but her soul had.
It was his voice, more than his words, that had troubled her: discouragement, bitterness, disillusionment, and yet a note of affection, a drop of melancholy that has always characterized him. He smiled at her, when he spoke to her, but his eyes were veiled with regret.
 

«And I saw that there is no future for me.»

 
She had pretended to be indifferent. She had shouted in her thoughts that it was none of her business, that she did not care, that her noble cause wanted her detached from her past, from her life as a demigoddess, as an Empyrean, from her own emotions.
But he…
He defeated by fate?
 
There is nothing Miquella cannot do.
That is what she had always thought, not without envy.
 
The faint smile on the Empyrean’s face had not faded, nor had his eyes allowed anything but firmness to filter through. «You will be the one to Ascend, Ranni. As for me, I can only fail.»
«I have not been able to bring Godwyn back, nor to grant him the death he deserves. The Haligtree struggles to grow, it cannot compete with the Erdtree and Malenia—» It was only then that Miquella had stopped looking at her, to look down at the surface of the water and clasp his hands. He hadn’t shared his thoughts, not all the way through, and Ranni hadn’t pushed him to do so.
It wasn’t her business, nor did she care.
 
Miquella looked at her again immediately after, seriously. «Something will happen to me, Ranni. Something I’m unfortunately unaware of and unable to predict… but which could be decisive. I saw a limbo, a cage I can’t escape from.»
«Malenia is more than capable of protecting you.»
«She doesn’t know it.»
«Why…?»
And he was smiling at her again, his gaze full of bitterness. «Look at me, sister.»

 
“My body is what best represents me.”

 

“A failure.
Something that is destined to bring nothing to completion, no matter how hard I try.
I will forever be destined not to sprout.”

 
She had seen his eyes shine. «How could I ever confess to her that everything we have fought for up to now, everything I have asked her to give up, for me, for us, for our dream, will never actually lead to anything?»
 
«That I will never be able to heal her?»
 
For the first time, Ranni had seen him collapse, she had been able to glimpse all his fragility, perhaps she had even felt pity. Neither contempt, nor regret, nor love.
But the respect for each of his sacrifices had never disappeared, nor the admiration for his so altruistic dream, of offering tolerance and peace in such a gangrenous world.
 
 
Another creaking sound, more decisive than the previous one, completely awakens her from her torpor. Iji speaks to her in her mind: «My lady, The Tarnished on Torrent is arriving at the manor.»
«I know it.» she says  «He’s already inside.»
«Blaidd trusts him, I spoke to him myself, he doesn’t seem to have any malicious intentions.»
 
I know. It was fate that he would come here.
 
She sharpens her hearing, without opening her eyes yet. She hears the roar of a battle in the distance.
 
Loretta.
 
 
Miquella had taken a silver bell from his dress pocket, had shaken it slightly and the silhouette of the traitorous Albinaurc had immediately appeared behind him, albeit in the form of a spirit.
«I thought I would never see you again» she had admitted, scornfully to her. «I hope your period of rest has been invigorating.»
«She has never turned her back on your family, Ranni. She has only agreed to pursue an alternative path to slavery. It is for her kind that she fights alongside me, not against you, and as much as she intends to remain at the Haligtree, she has decided to share her will in order to protect you.»
 
 
And now she senses her on her knees, before her opponent. «My lady» she tells her, between thoughts. «Forgive me... I have been defeated.»
Her will unravels.
Everything that must happen is happening.
 
 
«There will come a day, Ranni, when an anonymous Tarnished will come to you, without malice, but also without awareness. You will recognize him, because Torrent will be at his side. He will be the one to help you Ascend, although I believe you already know that.»
The snow had begun to fall more heavily, the fog to condense, as Miquella had come forward again, reaching her, the spirit bell in his hands.
«In honor of our friendship and the hope of creating a better world, I beg you. When you see him, give him this bell. It will be able to support him in the many challenges that await him. It is the last hope I have left, if he is able to find me and free me.»
 
«Why…» she had asked him in one breath, in a thin voice. «Why are you not hindering my plans, Miquella…? If I am the one to Ascend, there will be no room for you.»
And he had strengthened his smile, sincere this time. «If there is no future for me, I wish there is one for Malenia, as long as I can offer it to her.»
Ranni had sneered contemptuously. «You know, little brother» she had called, taking the bell from his hands. «I think I know why you could never Ascend.»
«Oh, really?» his tone was tinged with sarcasm, which had widened her bitter laughter.
«You can’t free yourself from your feelings. Love is a heavy burden, which makes you vulnerable and incomplete. That’s why you can’t help but fail.»
She had seen him close his eyes, then look at her again.
«It’s a burden I’m willing to bear, if it’s enough to make her happy.»
Another sneer, but Ranni hadn’t wanted to say anything else, while that threshold between dream and wakefulness had thickened.
«Farewell, sister. May the future of the Divinity allow you to fulfill your destiny and offer us a bright future. I only hope I can witness it.» he had turned his back on her, covering his head with the hood again and had walked away. His silhouette had become increasingly blurred, among the snowflakes.
 
 
Someone is climbing the stairs with a firm step, but without haste. Now Ranni is awake and awaiting the arrival of the visitor, sitting on her chair, the four wooden hands resting on her belly.
 
It is not the first time she has seen him. The first time was in Limgrave, on a cloudless night, near the church of Elleh but as then, even now he appears before her with his face covered by a black mask.
She does not speak first, she waits in silence for the nameless visitor to come forward and address her first.
 
«There will come a day, Ranni, when an anonymous Tarnished will come to you, devoid of malice, but also of awareness.»
 
The Tarnished still calls her Renna and she, at this point, reveals herself to him, without any filter. He wants to be at her service, he tells her, during this crazy hunt for the Demigods and for Queen Marika.
«Bow down, Tarnished and reveal your face» and he obeys, kneeling before her. He removes the masked helmet from his head, revealing a clumsy mop of brown hair, his face soiled by dirt, his breath short, still tired from the adrenaline of the battle just won, but the determination in his eyes full of Grace.
 
And so you are...
Her doll-like face shows no reaction, but her soul smiles, perhaps out of irony, perhaps out of impatience, perhaps out of fear, of what awaits her from now on.
Her brothers are now to be considered dead, the two twins have disappeared, Leyndell is in disarray and her dear mother is now barely aware of being alive.
She closes her eyes, before her gaze she still sees that slender figure, wrapped in the white hood, blurred by the snow. She still hears his voice, she feels inexplicable nostalgia and bitterness for it.
Miquella…
 
She opens them again, offers her palm to the Tarnished. «I accept you into my service, from now on we will make this journey together.»
 

Goodbye, Miquella. Our paths were not meant to intertwine.
I will move forward… and trace the Age of Stars.

Notes:

This is one of the chapters I care about the most.
I always felt a strong connection between Miquella and Ranni, the bell, the carian spells/weapons he copied for the halightree and her knowing of torrent and waiting for whoever was at its side.
This always made me believe that the two siblings had much more to tell than what has been told. And yes, of the possible connection between carians and Miquella, i always felt it was between them, two "mages" even if of opposites sides that can never get along, cause of their goals.

In conclusion I always had a heavy headcanon of Ranni and Miquella having a specific connection, and Miquella could even had "bewitched" her (not in the dlc sense, but just as he was in the base game) to learn her spells/carians spells, while she tried hard not to fall for her feelings for him.
In the end they could never really get along, with their different paths and then we all know Ranni literally killed Godwyn so...

Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter as much as i did, while writing it!

Chapter 6: In a dream

Chapter Text

She is dreaming.
Again.
She can understand it instantly now.
It is always the same dream: a field of pale lilies, on the verge of withering, a sky overshadowed by a thick blanket of fog, the rays of a light source, so distant and confused, that they are barely perceptible.
She finds herself lying on her side, while the petals of those unusual flowers caress her face.
She should feel distressed, because her body refuses to move, but instead she is serene. That incorporeal place makes her feel safe, in a way that never happens to her, when she is awake.
 
It is always the same dream.
And yet, this time, there is something different.
Usually she feels a lullaby lightly caressing her ears, as if to comfort her. An echo of memories she has never experienced appears, but which she feels the need for. Or she hears soft words, the aftermath of sentences that she forgets every time she wakes up, but that give her a feeling of well-being.
Then there is that figure in the distance. The first time this peculiar vision appeared, it was just a miserable, blurry figure, too far away for her, to distinguish from the horizon.
And again, that voice that seems to call her, but she can't be sure.
The figure has gotten closer and closer, in the sequence of dreams and brighter and brighter, but Millicent has never been able to reach it. She has remained helpless, on her left side, with the muted desire to reach it, stretched out in the field of lilies.
 
Even now, as always, she is lying on her side, but her head is not resting on the dying flowers.
She feels warmth.
She can't move; her body is paralyzed, because of the vision, but she is sure that her head is resting on the thighs of that figure.
It has finally managed to reach her and she doesn't understand why, yet she is deeply grateful for it.
The unknown hand caresses her cheekbone, then her hair, with such delicacy that it stirs something forgotten in her: the desire for affection, the need for support, the fear of loneliness, of illness, of death. She finds herself sobbing. If she still had her right hand, she would squeeze that thigh that supports her, as if wanting to hold back the unknown figure.
This one, as if it has perceived her desire, caresses her hair again and invites her to calm her tears.
It murmurs to her that everything is fine.
That she is not alone. Not anymore.
That it will give her as much comfort as possible.
 
«What are you?» she asks.
«Is it really that important to you, to know?» A soft, youthful, warm voice; it seems like the guardian of unspeakable secrets and those fingers grant her another caress.
«Are you a spirit?»
«Something very similar to it.»
Millicent squeezes her eyelids, no longer crying. Her heartbeat is quiet, her breathing slow and deliberate, while that sweet voice intones in a low voice the usual lullaby she is used to hearing, in these visions.
She doesn’t know with what logic she asks, but she feels an archaic need: «Are you my mother?»
 
And the spirit laughs, making her feel silly, but it is a light, crystalline laugh, perhaps even surprised. «What makes you think that?»
Millicent looks forward, toward the soft horizon dotted with lilies, shakes her head slightly, on the luminous thighs of the figure. «I don’t know, but this warmth, this affection… I’ve always imagined a mother could be like that. Maybe that’s what I want to believe.»
The unknown hand continues to caress her face, lingering in particular on the scars of rot. If this had happened on other occasions, Millicent would have pulled away suddenly, would have sensed the danger of being touched, the fear of infecting, even if the disease seems to have stopped its progress.
 
But this is only a dream.
So she can also freely indulge in the fantasy of having such a loving mother.
 

«What if I really were?»

 
Millicent trembles, her imaginary hand gripping the spirit's thigh again, this time with fury. «Then I should be angry with you.»
She can't be sure, but she has felt the being go slightly numb and as if afraid of having offended its sensibilities, she explains herself immediately after: «I was told that she abandoned me, when I was born. I have never seen her and I know very little about her.»
And that hand touches her again, granting her new comfort. «Who told you that?» its voice is a constant caress that seems impossible to lie to or hide even the most trivial of secrets.
«The one who raised me. I suppose I can call him father. I lived with him, until recently. With him and my sisters.»
«Do you have sisters?»
«I think... I think I do.» she is surprised at not being able to formulate a simple affirmative answer. It is as if the mysterious company leads her to reveal doubts she did not even know she had.
«Why are you not with them?»
She hesitates to answer. A part of her, the most uncertain, believes that she was wrong to leave. Maybe it would have been better to stay in Caelid. She owes everything to Gowry, after all.
 
What does she owe to her mother?
If she exists.
If she’s alive.
She’s not even clear about what she’s looking for. It’s an archaic force that moves her, far beyond reason, a primal need, the search for answers.
 
«Even though she abandoned me, I can’t hate her.»
The gentle fingers stop again, before touching her hair again.
«I can’t blame her. My illness is something to stay away from, as much as possible. Maybe she left me, to save her life.»
 
A fragile sigh.

«You look so much like her.»

 
It’s a soft revelation full of nostalgia, maybe even regret.
«To whom?» Millicent barely manages to turn her face upwards, to be able to frame the spirit, partially. It is blurry, surrounded by an aura of light, it is impossible to make out its features, but she glimpses its long wavy hair, its thin lips, smiling at her.
«The one who owned the needle that was given to you.»
That strange gold needle. «I... I'm sorry, I didn't know it belonged to someone.»
The figure shakes its head slightly, without stopping to smile at her. «She would have preferred it this way too.»
Silence, in which Millicent simply rests on its thighs. Then, she feels she owes it an honest answer. «I left to get to know myself better. And my mother.»
«I can only hope you find what you are looking for.»
«But you... who are you? Why are you here?»
Perhaps, deep down, she would really like this peculiar dream to give her concrete answers, for that shape to finally reveal to her that yes, she has met her mother.
And it is her.
That is why it is here, to comfort her.
And maybe even to implicitly apologize, for leaving, for abandoning her.
But the spirit does not grant her foolish wish. «I followed the needle, thinking I would find her.» It lowers its head slightly, but does not stop stroking her hair, and yet Millicent feels the disappointment poisoning her heart.
 
So... it is here, just by mistake.
 
«I'm sorry» she says. She feels guilty for something she has never had control over, nor can truly understand.
But the spirit shakes its head again. «Oh, Millicent. There is no greater joy for me, than to have known you.» and in its voice she perceives real emotion, which moves her.
How do you know my name? She wants to ask to it, but she stays silent, while her eyes fill with new tears, as if something she did not know she had lost, has just been given back to her.
«If only I had known...» it says in a whisper.
Known what?
She swallows. It is all so new. What she feels is a wonderful sensation, but it upsets her.
She is not alone.
But only in a silly dream, which she cannot define how much of it is real.
She would like to admit that she wants to stay here forever, in its company.
She is not alone…
The spirit moves her hair away from her forehead, kisses it gently.
Don't leave me.
A sob escapes her.
«Forgive me… I wish I could do so much more.»
 

«Millicent»

 
Hug me, hold me.
I need your warmth.

«You are not alone, my child.»

 
New hot tears stream down her face.

 «I will show you the way home.»

 
 
«Millicent!»


She slightly opens her eyes, stunned by the torpor of sleep. The friendly face of her traveling companion barely shakes her shoulders. He looks at her worriedly, calling her once again.
Only now does Millicent notice that her cheeks are wet, that she is breathing hard. She must have been crying. She raises herself on her left elbow, and is quickly helped to sit up.
«Are you okay?»
She nods half-heartedly and the Tarnished leans in front of her. «Sorry to wake you up suddenly, but I thought you were feeling ill.»
«No, don’t worry… it’s okay.» Her head is spinning and she still has trouble distinguishing between sleep and wakefulness. She reveals it to him, spontaneously. She trusts him, he saved her from the scarlet rot, without asking for anything in return, and since then, they have begun to travel together.
Both have an unclear vision of their journey, as well as their destination. «I had that dream again.»
«About the field of lilies?»
«And there was that figure again.»
«Why were you crying? I thought it would make you feel better.»
Millicent focuses on the embers of the campfire, now consumed. «I can’t remember…» she admits. «But I’m pretty sure I spoke to it.»
The Tarnished takes his notebook out of his pouch and flips through the pages. It’s his way of remembering and studying the world, he told her: writing down everything that interests him or that he discovers a history of or a use for. It helps him not to forget. «I found some scrolls about sleep magic some time ago. They talked about a certain woman who filtered into the dreams of mages, to give them her blessing or something. Do you think that might be your case?»
«A woman?»
«Yes. They called her
 

«Saint Trina.»

 
Millicent closes her eyes, searches her memory for the confused image of her dreams. She barely manages to do it, it’s no more than a miserable sensation, but it calms her. She remembers the light, the fog, its smile, long wavy locks. She opens them again. «I think I called it ‘mother’, but I’m not sure if it is. I don’t even know if it’s a woman.» she looks at her traveling companion. «Do you know if there’s a way to remember a dream better?»
He shrugs. «Not yet.» he gets up. «But on the other hand, I found something that could be very useful to you.»
Millicent looks at him questioningly.
«Follow me, my friend. I’ve already cleared the area. There shouldn’t be any further danger.»
 
He leads her towards the castle closest to them. They had already glimpsed it from above, during the day before and had chosen it as their next stop, where they could find possible shelter. Not the most comfortable environment: given the stagnant swamp that surrounds the entire perimeter of the walls.
But, still better than Caelid.
«The castle of the Marais» explains the Tarnished, as he helps her climb over the walls. It’s in far worse shape than she expected: the swamp has invaded the entire inner courtyard and the stench of putrefaction forces her to cover her nose and mouth. She knows this smell… rot. «What happened here?»
«From what I know, the lord of the castle, in poor health, has dedicated his existence to the goddess of scarlet rot. And the result, well… is what you see here.»
«Madness.»
«He didn’t seem like he was okay in his mind, that’s for sure.»
Millicent climbs over a rotting wall, avoiding the carcasses floating in the sludge. «Have you met him?»
«Oh, yes. I would have liked to have a word with him, but he attacked me with the pure intent of killing me. I fear his reasoning was gone long ago.»
«I would have liked to help you…»
The Tarnished continues to lead her, showing her the best way to avoid the swamp as much as possible. «Don’t worry. It was nothing I couldn’t handle on my own.» He climbs the stairs, leads her to the innermost wall of the castle, then to the living quarters.
They go up a freight elevator.
A corridor follows, crowded with marble statues, which intensify the nauseating sense of abandonment and death, which pervades the place.
Millicent doesn’t ask questions, although surprised by the singularity of the environment. She observes the still faces of the sculptures, notes their fine workmanship, their various sizes. Perhaps they represent the inhabitants of the castle, now gone.
The Tarnished simply leads her forward, beyond the corridor.
 
Thus, they arrive in a large room, carpeted in red: two large tables on either side of the entrance, sadly set for no guests, banners hanging from the ceiling, bearing the emblems of the house.
And then a large table placed in front.
And a wall, strewn with steel prostheses.
The Tarnished stops his walk and looks at her with satisfaction. «I thought you could try them on and see which one you like best. There are so many, I couldn't choose.»
 
But Millicent continues to advance, on the long red carpet. Something else demands her attention. She trembles, while she feels her heart beating furiously. She stares forward, eyes wide open.
 
There is a portrait, in this room. A glorious portrait, framed in gold: long, carmine-red hair, a dress of cloth, partly covered by the white fur of a cloak, a three-quarter face, half covered by a singular winged golden helmet, on which are engraved arabesque patterns.
She sees her lips, firm, regal.
 
And the golden prosthesis on her right arm, clearly visible.
She stops a few meters from the painting, while her heartbeat does not slow.

 
«Malenia, the Goddess of Scarlet Rot.»

She is so enraptured by that painted face, that the voice of the Tarnished makes her jump.
Her traveling companion comes to her side. «The cause of the destruction of Caelid.»
 
She remembers Gowry's face, sometimes so indecipherable, that it frightens her. His ecstatic look, when she asked him where she came from, why she was born sick, why she was abandoned.
When, between so many half-sentences, so many codified words, he spoke to her of her mother, as if he knew her: «A fearless swordswoman, with incredible skills.»
 
She can't breathe, because she feels that archaic sensation again, tingling in her belly, in her chest, in her mind. She feels a sense of incurable nostalgia.
A faint fragment of memory, perhaps just a distant echo, of something she has experienced.
She sees red curls.
She feels the warmth of her chest.
A heatless arm, holding her.
 
And that face portrayed, half covered by the helmet, gives her the illogical sense of wanting to know her.
She wants to see her.

 
“Mom…”

Notes:

Translation made by me and google and revised by my beta-reader

 

n.a.
- About the general collection: as said it will be focused on different episodes that the game/lore/descriptions inspired me and related to some of the pairs I really like of this game.