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Chapter Text

Malenia sit motionlessly on her princeling throne, in the square at the foot of the Erdtree. On that day she was the only Demigod there, and the location was set to be site of the knighting ceremony of the latest batch of her Cleanrot Knights.

It was known that she would scarcely talk, her vocal cords half-taken by the Scarlet Rot, and yet on that day she stood on her own two feet for the entirety of the ceremony, and called out each and every new Knight's name with the grace befitting of a Princess of the Erdtree.

Last among them was a beautiful woman. Her hair fell down on her shoulders like a cascade of brown leaves, her golden eyes resplendent against the backdrop of the Erdtree, which was shining as strong as ever on that day.

"Tell me your name." The One-Armed Valkyrie had said.

"I was called Richard, but by my own choice I am Finlay. I am a woman, and I seek to be a Knight. Your Knight."

Malenia's eyes, and in truth the top half of her face, had long been taken by the curse, but Finlay looking up could swear she gave the impression of having cocked an eyebrow. Was that curiosity in her liege, or perhaps... disgust? She was accustomed to both, but she had heard that people like her were not unwelcome around the Demigod Miquella, and his sister. The same could regrettably not be said for everywhere else. In many places her condition was considered sickly, and worthy of ridicule.

"Why would anyone call you Richard? You are a woman in truth. And now you shall be my knight. Rise, Finlay. I name you thus: Cleanrot Knight Finlay!"

The woman, who had been kneeling, felt a wave of relief wash over her. Of course she would understand. She would make sure to repay her, no matter the cost.

—

Finlay had long lost the ability to speak, or to see, or to feel the touch of things. Encased in her pale golden armor, she was a writhing mass of flesh loosely in the shape of a human being.

"Grrr..." Is all she managed to say. A low growl, to keep the dogs that had come to feast on the cadavers of her comrades at bay.

"Graahh!!" She swatted them away with her spear. They fled.

She panted, her senses showing her a path to a point of light in the distance. It was a beautiful flower, a blossom of unparalled beauty, and even without eyes or touch or words Finlay immediately knew what— no, who it was. It was her lady Malenia.

She reached the gigantic flower, and started to hack away at it. She could feel her own armor be corroded by the extreme intensity of the Scarlet Rot, melting away and fusing with her flesh. The pain became unbearable, and then stopped completely as her own ability to feel pain melted away. A physician would have pointed out that her nerve endings ceased to be. She kept moving because she had to, because a singular cause compelled her to do so. To reach her Mother.

And so she did. At the center of the flower was a beautiful, naked virgin. She instinctively embraced her, and felt the comfort of her arms weakly wrapping around her.

"Finlay... is that you?"

"Grrrr...."

"Yes. Let's go home."

Finlay was distraught by the state of her master, and if her face would have still been able to, she would have cried. She was taken by a great sadness, and fell down on one knee, praying to Malenia once more. Like many years before. She was her Knight, eternal.

"Let's go home..."

Malenia fell into a deep sleep, and Finlay did what she could to get her home.

Chapter Text

Leyndell is a beautiful city. It shines as bright as the Sun, such that stories of it travel far and wide, beyond the Lands Between. It is variously called thus: the City of Gold, the Sunbeam of the Lands Between, the Golden Land. Of course none of these titles can prepare a traveler from witnessing its radiance in person for the first time. It is a city that transcends the meaning of the word "city", it appears as a single organism, breathing and thriving, under the watchful eye of the impossible weight of the Erdtree.

But at any rate, this isn't a story about Leyndell. Let us cast our eyes downward, under its golden sheen, and under the layers of stone and bricks and dirt and clay. Far beneath, where Omens are cast. There is an ugly mess of underground passageways that constitute the sewers under Leyndell, the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds as they're called, or the World of the Dead.

There are two Demigods in the World of the Dead, and their names are anathema. Their existence is a living contradiction, as they stand against the Golden Order. They are marred by the Hornsent curse, and proof that the spiral people once existed. Marika loved them, of course she loved them, so she could not bring herself to draw a knife to their throat and end them when they were babies.

Marika got splintered in a thousand pieces, but that's another story. The point is, the cracks that exploded when she came undone were the results of a thousand tragedies, and Mohg and Morgott were two of them.

By casting our gaze forward and back in time, from the foundation of Leyndell on the ruins of Noklateo, to its destruction at the end of the Shattering, by mean of a nameless Tarnished, we can pinpoint a moment when everything seemed fine. On the surface. Below, the twins Mohg and Morgott were chained to a wall, kept on the edge of starvation, and made insane. That was neither a life nor a death. It was a non-existence, that was seen as an act of mercy by their captors. There was a man covered in robes, a "Perfumer" Morgott had learnt, that came by every now and then, every now and then, and attempted to bless them, to heal them, to feed them. None of these things worked, and when they did, it was never enough. After a while the Perfumer stopped coming by, and a normal Knight came instead. The food was not food at all, it was some kind of gruel that could have been called soup on the worst of Winter's days, if nothing else would have been available.

At any rate, Mohg was on fire. He caught on fire. Morgott turned his eyes in horror, and saw that his friend and twin brother Mohg was on fire. His eyes were burning, his tongue was burning, his horns were growing at an accelerated rate and curling in every which way. Morgott had learnt all of the Erdtree prayers from the Perfumer, because he had nothing to do, so he yelled them to prevent the flame from spreading to him.

"Brother. It feels so good. Brother, we are not the wrong ones. What is wrong... is Marika."

"Silence, heathen! Do not stain me with these words. We are the spurned ones, but we are subjects of the Erdtree! Do not falter. Do not fall for her voice!"

Morgott had heard it too, of course. He had heard the impossible voice of something that should not exist, by any account did not exist, but that nevertheless was speaking to him.

"I love you", she said. "I accept you. I embrace you. You are the ones worthy of love. Your blood is beautiful."

Morgott's eyes were now crossing over, and he shut them forcefully. He wanted to press his hands against his ears, to run very far away, but he was chained up to a wall next to his brother. His brother was on fire. Mohg was on fire.

"I see it! The Truth!" He would continue to yell, his voice warped into one his brother could not recognize, would not recognize as his own. It is a strange phenomenon indeed, when two twins start to become different people.

Mohg destroyed his shackle, hug himself deeply, and deeply. And the fire disappeared but continued to burn inside of him.

"Do you wish for freedom?" He simply said.

"Go fuck yourself." Morgott has simply replied. "Traitor."

"Okay."

The dark beast started to leave. A few Knights appeared from behind a corner, shouting instructions and attacking them, but they burnt up to a crisp. They burnt up to a crisp, and were left charred on the ground.

"I loved you like a brother."

"I was your brother."

"Are you sure you wish to remain a slave?" Mohg had said, the fire burning in his eyes. The fire was burning in his eyes.

"These chains connect me to my Mother. You go and find your own, if that fits you. Now leave my sight, you revolting Omen."

The twins were separate people now. They went to different places, and took different titles, and lead different lives, and died far apart.

Chapter Text

Leda stumbled through the dark town. It was a dark night, as the Moon was hidden, and so the only illumination would come from the few houses were somebody was still not asleep. The town seemed without beginning or end, in the way that unknown cities do, and Leda turned two, three, four corners without improving her sense of where she was.

She was spent. Her last mercenary work had turned particularly violent, and she had received a grievous wound on her stomach. Part of her armor had been badly deformed by contact with a giant hammer, too. Of the paltry sum she had won, most of it was going to cover repairs, for her and the rest. She considered her body a cold asset, like an armor, or a weapon.

She sighed, and kept looking for a blacksmith. If she could bring herself upon the right doorstep, then even if she would have collapsed, she could have been found in the morning. This was her hope. But the shops looked all the same to her, their signs obscured by shadow and made illegible. She just picked one and hoped for the best.

She sat down, and hugged her sword. This was not the ornate sword of the Captain of the Needle Knights, that she would have earned many years later, but rather it was a crude piece of metal attached to an ugly piece of wood, that she had taken from a dead body off the road. It looked awful, but it was the best sword she had found so far. It was lightweight, and able to support her slender and precise movements. These gave her the advantage against most of her opponents, who preferred heavy melee weapons. To an extent it was psychological, Leda thought, as if a bigger weapon could have guaranteed their victory in battle. But they always fell to her quicker and elegant swordplay, which focused on ligaments and other soft spots of the human body.

Leda felt dirty. Her hair was messy, and overgrown, and fell on her face. It was matted like a dog, as she had been thrown in the mud during her last fight. It had not poured in a bit, nor did she chance upon a river or lake, so she was still covered in the gunk. She severely disliked this, as being clean was one of her utmost priorities. She couldn't stand being stained, it made her feel as if a corruption was going to seep in her very soul, and kill her. It made her skin crawl. It felt revolting.

... Some noise caught her attention. She looked through her hair, and saw that a building down the road had a lantern still going.

She... did not belong to that world, of normal people having normal experiences and growing old together. She felt more like a dog, or a wild beast. Her role was to find someone worth submitting to, and dedicate herself to them for the rest of her life. This was the best way of life, her Instructor had taught her. How could a measly, normal existence compare, when at the end it would have not amounted to anything? Life was meant to be spent striving, to better oneself, to better the world. To dedicate oneself to a cause that mattered.

Only, it had been 5 years since she had left her Instructor to live on her own, and she had failed to find a good master. Everyone was far too human, and preoccupied with far too unimportant matters. Nobody was trying to improve the entire world. Nobody was providing a good, structural solution to society's problems. Everyone was adoring this or that god, or this or that crown, or thought that improvement was impossible and giving up before trying. It felt revolting.

... She found herself walking toward the light, unsure of the reason why. Her sword felt heavy, and she wanted to abandon it, but she kept it behind her scraping the floor of the lonely street.

Inside, through a glass of poor quality that was almost completely opaque, she could see the deformed vision of three women. It was impossible to tell how old they were, but Leda was almost sure that they were working alone with some needles, crocheting a kind of garment. They were preparing for the coming Winter, perhaps. The noise was from them telling each other old stories.

The house was cold, and looked dark with the exception of the lantern, but in a way Leda felt a sense of warmth envelop her.

She was... an orphan. She had never known this sort of thing. She once had a sort of family with her childhood friends, Bruford and Marina, but it was one of circumstance and they never truly liked each other. Leda wondered where his brother and sister were at that moment.

She pulled herself away from the window, scared of how the vision made her feel. A great sense of loneliness besieged her, and she tried to concentrate on being as cold as steel, a sharp sword without feelings, in order to attempt to protect herself. It didn't work terribly well, and she could feel her eyes begin to water.

Leda carried on alone on that dark road, and left the town behind.

Chapter Text

It was the end of days, to some.

The Storm Lord had fallen, and Godfrey's path of conquest had continued unstoppable ever since. The Erdtree had spurned the Stormhawk, and now its subjects were marked for annihilation. In hindsight this merely continued the pattern with the Hornsent, and the remaining army lamented that their Lord should have predicted this outcome. Some had suggested fleeing to the South, outside the Lands Between, but this was seen as dishonorable. Even then, some of them left, and it is unknown what happened to them. Without the Guidance of Grace, perhaps they became enveloped by the Sea of Fog, and sunk to their death.

Among the remaining Resistance was a troll much bigger than average, who for his strength and courage had naturally assumed the role of leader. His name was Hildebad, and only the guardian golem stationed outside Castle Morne could tower over him. The Misbegotten and humans alike crowded around him, as his large frame provided a sense of security against the coming, crushing, overwhelming pressure of Godfrey, the First and at the time only Elden Lord.

Half of the Resistance fought on the Weeping Bridge. These were the oldest and the most valorous of warriors, who fought to buy time for the rest, to seal the defensive wall behind them. The Resistance was desperate, to close that wall without a door. It was understood that the veterans did a death march, and the bridge was later called the Bridge of Sacrifice. Countless Storm Lord loyalists got strung up on it, and got eaten by carrion birds over the following days. The birds grew fat with the amount of bodies they had to eat.

"Do you surrender?" Godfrey had boomed, from the other side of the wall. He had repeated that question many times at different points of the military campaign, as he took no pleasure in conquering these armies so far below him. The Storm Lord had been his last worthy opponent, and he would soon lose the light in his eyes. He was just following Marika's orders, to formally conquer the territories that once belonged to him, and bring them once more under her rule. To crush the Stormhawk and make it fall out of the sky.

There was no response, and to everyone's horror, a loud banging sound soon followed. Then another. The sound of a giant man single-handedly bringing down a castle wall with his axe.

Everyone fell silent, hearing the banging continue. Ten times. Twenty times. Thirty times. The wall was growing misshapen and looked on the point of bursting. Hildebad was reminded of the strength of his ancestors, the Fire Giants, and faltered. He ordered the resistance to fall down further inside the castle proper, and hoped to a long lost god that the guardian golem could at least stall Godfrey for time.

In the end the siege of Castle Morne lasted a few months, and the country of the Storm Lord was removed from the maps. The Misbegotten were enslaved, and Hildebald, who fought to the last, was killed and thrown in the sea. A massive tombstone was erected to remember him.

---

Many years later, as the Tarnished Godfrey was departing to the South, outside the Lands Between, a sour smile appeared on his face as he watched Castle Morne steadily disappear between the waves of the Outer Sea.

Chapter Text

There, outside the Lands Between, beyond the Sea of Fog, were lands untouched by Gold. Godfrey had conquered them and bent them to his will, and built Churches to Marika there. It was an ironic endeavor, to spread the faith as a Tarnished, someone that strangers would often point to as a spurned one, devoid of blessing.

Godfrey knew, of course, that they would be called back. If not in that life, in the next. The tale of the fated return was passed down the generations, and the dignity of the Tarnished was left unchallenged for many centuries, at least publicly, even as they mixed with the naturally devoid of grace and lost their fangs as warriors. Always was there, hanging over the head of their descendants, that one day they would be called to fight once more.

Thiollier briefly considered this, as he saw the floor and ceiling swap places. He was being violently thrown around the floor of his shop, as it were, by a man he had sold a faulty elixir to. The man had come to him out of desperation, fully knowing of his infamy as an apothecary, because no other physician or magician had been able to cure his wife's malady. She had become bedridden after prickling her finger on a rose, her arm turning a sickly purple color.

Thiollier had correctly identified the poison, found the offending rose and took it out of the garden for safekeeping. He had extracted from it another drop of nectar, and watched as it being mixed with human blood turned it the same sickly color. It was a marvelous thing, and within the recesses of his mind Thiollier was able to follow the calculus of the constituent parts of the substance mixing together into something new. It never ceased to amaze him, the complexity of poison-making.

At any rate, his talent scarcely extended to substances meant to heal others, instead of harming them. He had warned the husband of this, and the latter had reassured him that it was better to try anything than to give up, but the wife had suddenly gotten worse, and passed in the night. Apparently the poison had been made more potent, instead of being purified.

Thiollier crashed into a thick wooden table, knocking over a great number of glass vials and bronze pots. They thundered on the floor with a "crash!" and a "bang!".

The man, Thiollier, who was at this time not yet wearing his silver mask because he had yet not known St. Trina, looked up. His silver hair partially obscured his vision, and he wanted to close his eyes and make the world go away. He believed himself to be stupid, and weak, and craven. He just wanted to give up, and hope that the angered widower would bash his head open and put him to rest forever.

"The fangs of a warrior..." The phrase resounded in his mind. He opened his eyes again, just in time to watch the man close in on him. The motion appeared to him slow, and he was able to see the muscles, bones, and ligaments of his body contract and spasm forward, fully intent on harming him.

A base instinct overtook him, perhaps a sense of self-preservation. He ducked out of the way, grabbed a silver knife from the floor, and severed the tendons of the attacker. The human-shaped lump of flesh, as it appeared to Thiollier, fell on the floor making some kind of sound. It felt impossibly far away and silent to him. He quickly got on top of him, and severed many important veins, to induct blood loss and lack of oxygen to the brain.

That much seemed to suffice to turn the man into a cadaver.

He sighed with relief.

He stood up and took stock of the damage. His shop was turned upside down. Repairs would have costed a small fortune, so perhaps it was time to abandon it and move to a different town. Not to mention, he would have been charged with murder, and he did not look forward to death by hanging, which was the custom in those lands. He sighed, and left through a small and unassuming wooden door.

---

That man, Thiollier, was now walking in a port city many days of travel from where he originally practiced. A priest was proselytizing from an improvised wooden stage, that had been assembled from nearby crates loaned from a fisherman. He recounted the tarnishing of Godfrey and his army, and how each and every one of the listeners, who had Tarnished blood in them, would one day be called to fight again in the Lands Between.

Thiollier hoped it could at least wait until his natural death, and that perhaps he would be spared from such a bother.

Chapter Text

There was a solemn procession, there in the roots of the Erdtree.

It was the heart of the Empire, and very, very few were permitted to witness it. Even less were permitted to walk there.

The center of the procession was a small group of 8 knights clad in resplendent golden armor. Their faces were hidden by thick helmets, that gave them a supernatural appearance. They were holding an ornate sarcophagus, containing the body of Godwyn. They were his personal guard, and shortly thereafter they would choose to follow him into death.

Leading the procession was the Ancient Dragon, Fortissax. He was wearing his human form, and his face was obscured by a mourning veil. Nobody had heard him speak since the Night of Black Knives. The nobles of Leyndell were worried for the worst possible outcome, that he would have lashed out against the Capital, but so far he seemed too distraught to do, or say anything. He moved like an automaton, leading the funeral procession. His dark tattered robe fluttered behind him, like a pair of folded wings.

Beside him, was the Queen. The Queen Eternal did not possess any funereal clothing. She was wearing her usual disguise, that of a God, and holding her head up high. She witnessed the roots of her Erdtree, that the troupe was approaching slowly. Her eyes were unbearably golden, and red from crying.

In the back were the Demigods, led by King Consort Radagon. Behind him was Radahn, who was wearing a simple dark toga, jewelry, and a simplified version of his lion helmet that cupped his red hair into his characteristic mane. At his side was Rykard, whose gaze was permanently fixed on his feet, and who was dressed in a black and gold variation of his usual clothes. These were large, and one could spot his dry bones push against his old skin underneath them. His physique was a far cry from the much more statuesque build of his brother beside him, or that of his father before them, who was covered in the old scars of the Liurnian Wars.

Ranni's body had yet not been found, together with several other Demigods of lesser importance. The search was still on, and every resource in the Empire was being used to find her.

Queen Marika had been secretly crying for days unending. Fortissax and Miquella were with her, the former as Godwyn's frater and the latter for his usual compulsion to make every issue his own; one could not bear the loneliness, and the other to see someone else suffering. Marika stood very still in their embrace, as she felt on the point of breaking, like a very fragile vase, or jar.

—

That sarcophagus was set a few meters away from the greatest roots, that heart of hearts, the very center of the Empire, and there sleeping peacefully was the first golden child. Queen Marika broke down once again at the sight, and had to be kept at a distance by her husband. It was Radahn and Fortissax who hoisted the dead thing into the air, and put it to rest into the roots.

The Erdtree accepted his lost son, and grew tender tendrils around him. Godwyn's head fell down, his long hair flowing lifelessly in the sourceless wind of the Underworld.

He opened his eyes.

He opened his eyes, and stared at Radahn; his terrible, gray, lifeless eyes. He made a death rattle, and exhaled. Perhaps he was trying to say something.

His body was known to do that. He had exhaled and spasmed for days, and no amount of healing seemed to be able to either push him back into true life, nor finally into true death.

The Queen Eternal had been consulted, and her response had been to bury him with the strongest blessings in the Erdtree, and pray that it could expunge the malady. To finally end the suffering of his undying son.

But upon peering a semblance of life before her, Marika had screamed, and could not perform the burial. Radagon was hugging her, and keeping her at a distance, gently running a hand over her hair.

It was Miquella who stepped up and followed through in her stead. He had prepared himself for the occasion, and was trained in the Fundamentalist doctrine. Fortissax had asked for an older Golden Order variant, but Marika had denied his wish. The Empire was far beyond those ancient times. The dragon had said nothing, and accepted.

—

Miquella sang a song so beautiful, so ethereal, that everyone there was moved to tears. His voice resounded in the giant open field of the Deeproot Depths, making each plant in the valley below flutter and grow resplendent with new light. Those on the point of withering came back to life; and those which had buds still on the point of blooming exploded with new color, such that on their way back the procession was met by a beautiful flowering field, amidst the ruins of the nameless Eternal City.

And thus it came to pass, that Godwyn the Golden died, and his princeling crown was passed to his son, and the son of his son, and so on.

Chapter Text

The world had gone through so much. A sphere of water, the rise of the landmasses, the rise of civilization, the rise of the Elden Ring. The battle for claiming it, the end of the beginning. The conjuring of the Night, the seduction and the betrayal, the eternity of battle that followed. The return of the Tarnished, and yet another fight to claim the golden artifact at the center of it all.

Roderika had a confused sense of some of this happening. Her connection to the spirits often splintered her sense of self, sending it forward or back in time beyond the fog, and she received stories from all kind of the departed. Some were in languages she did not understand, but she followed along by focusing on the sound of the words. The air grew cold around them, and their whispers rolled in it like gusts of wind.

Some of them had stuck around. This phenomenon would normally be called a "curse", but she did not mind. If anything she appreciated the company. She did not think much of herself, so to have somebody talk to her, multiple times, felt pleasant.

Her new friends were now telling her all the same thing: "Leave!"

Yes, the air had become a little hard to breathe. She coughed, as somewhere else in the Rountdtable Hold a wooden beam creaked and then collapsed. There was a tremor, and then it quieted down.

"Leave!"

She opened her eyes, and saw the fire beginning to engulf the corridor where she had set up shop. She could have left at any moment, but her master was stuck. He was a creature in the approximate shape of a human, but with a long tail, an oversized head, and scales and horns. He was like a devil of folklore, except Roderika knew his heart to be of gold. He cussed and swore like a sailor, but underneath it all he was a simple person, wishing to dedicate the rest of his life to his craft. He probably felt his end was close, and would not bother to leave the Roundtable Hold. That, and the poisonous air seemed to have had an effect on his mind, such that he could not recognize that the chain that had bound him there for countless years was finally broken.

Roderika sighed. She too didn't have much that made her life worth living, beyond that safe haven that had accepted her. She leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes again. She did not know if she would have opened them again.

She felt a noise and a tremor above her, perhaps something falling, and then everything went dark. At that time, there was no guidance of grace to bring her back.

"This is it, then."

—

She felt a cold wind blow from the North. She instinctively shielded her face with her scarf, before she realized she had a body, was standing, and was somewhere she did not recognize.

She was on some kind of mountain, enveloped by a freezing mist. Her hands were blue, and light passed through them undisturbed. Of course she recognized her state as a spirit.

A cacophony of "Hello" and "Welcome" greeted her from behind. These were her friends, and they were finally able to touch each other. She got covered in a group hug, and the sensation, if dulled by death, made her feel more alive than she had ever known before.

Master Hewg was at a distance, the hammer still in hand, and waved with a smile. She had never seen him smile so earnestly.

"Ahhh, if this is a dream, I hope I'll never wake up."

Chapter Text

Endure.

There is something of the Golden Order in the sight of those fixed upon this crux.

Time unchanging, time that has stopped, time that won't move at all.

Old house. House on fire. Three fingers on fire.

The pain, the exquisite pain, the threshold of pain before a mind blanks out.

Nanaya: Endure.

Come over to this side.

• Shabriri. The Great Deceiver.
• A mind left wandering. Body stuck in place. The pain. The exquisite pain.

"Ngyaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

Blessing. Dearly beloved. Nanaya.

Nanaya. Nanaya. Nanananaya.

Dearly beloved.

Endure. (Nanaya.)

Coming undone. The threshold between "being human" and "being other".

Information: Ten dead disciples.

Their head cut off. The hot metal shoved in their necks. A prayer of purification.

The fire. Sacred fire. But no, this one fire was forbidden.

Hypocrisy. Inability to perceive the truth. It is all the same.

The truth behind the Crucible. The beginning of all. The cause behind the cause behind the cause.

Thoughts repeating.

Thoughts unending.

Endure.

(Nanaya.) Endure. (Nanaya.)

(Stage direction: Nanaya, exit life.)

(The audience cheers.)

(The Protagonist arrives.)

—

The Tarnished of no renown walked into the most expansive room of the lot, and noticed that it smelt of burnt hay. On the floor were giant fingerprints still smoldering with a sickly orange color. It sighed, and took a yellow ball of moss from a pouch on their belt, and bit into it. Its rapidly wavering mind refocused once more on the grim spectacle before it, once again able to clearly delineate between the different objects there, that were starting to look as if part of a great continuum. Like the details of an oil painting, perfectly matching each other and creating a sense of unity together.

No, the floor was below, the walls were to the sides, and the ceiling was above. The Tarnished was at the entrance of the room, and that other thing, that horrible man skewered alive, was on the other side. They were not the same, there was a line separating them. They were on separate sides of it.

Release Midra from his suffering, it has been long enough.

"I don't recall asking for your advice, old man."

It walked slowly and cautiously toward the tortured, and upon doing so he lowered his eyes on it, and exhaled horribly.

"I told you to stay far away!"

Midra launched himself upon the Tarnished, and was swiftly cut down. Folk tales of it variously called it the Slayer, That Which Cuts Lives, the Third Elden Lord. Though it had yet not claim that crown.

—

The pain. Pain unending. End of pain.

Clear mean of escape. Suicide. Ask for help.

Endure. (Nanaya.)

No. No no no. No no no no no no no no.

Enough.

I have had... more than enough.

Chapter Text

It was dark at night, and the light filtering through the giant, stained windows of the Grand Library was silver and cold. The candles had gone out, and the countless reborn sorcerers, who had followed Rennala into her pursuit of reincarnation were fast asleep.

The Moon outside was waning, ever waning, as it had been for centuries. Then suddenly, it dimmed still. It turned to a dark blue, and black. The Grand Library was bathed in darkness.

Rennala, that thing which bore still the name of Rennala, did not look up, though she was to an extent awake. Her eyes remained fixed upon her treasure, the mean by which she could attempt rebirth at all. A soft golden light emitting from it reflected in her eyes, which had long since faded to a dull gray.

If there was something of Rennala left, it had been tucked away deep, deep into her mind. The pain had been too great, and the Rune had provided much comfort with its gentle, pulsating warmth, at the expense of her clarity of mind. She had spent countless days and nights cradling it like a child, until she stopped talking or moving much on her own at all. She had then been sealed in that place, like a tomb.

—

The imposing doors of the library creaked open, and there against the pale light of the outside, stood the silhouette of a mysterious witch. She had a great cloak of heavy wolf fur, and a tall hat with a wide brim. Around her, the air freezed and delicate snowflakes formed, dancing in the air for few, precious moments before flickering out of existence.

The witch spoke no words, for no words could reach her Mother. She merely closed the distance between them, her steps resounding in the Grand Library. This place had once been one of the most impressive institutions in the Lands Between, a gathering unparalleled of books and scrolls on the mysteries of the body and mind, of the fate guided by the stars. Ancient glyphs of Farum Azula and the Nox decorated the walls, a reminder of the ancient past of the Lands Between, and as the family stories went, of the Carian bloodline.

Ranni took off her heavy clothes and slumped into a chair, at a certain distance from her mother. Rennala did not turn, nor look to her. Perhaps a doll did not register as a human being to her, or her mind was solely filled with the calculus of the magic of reincarnation.

"You are in terrible conditions, mother." She sighed, as much as her body could imitate the act of exhaling air. She wondered why she even bothered talking to her.

She stood up, and kicked a book on the ground. It flew in the distance unceremoniously, and disappeared in the darkness.

She stood before her mom, and placed one hand on hers.

"If there is something of you still in there. If you can... hear me. It is me, your daughter, Ranni."

She sighed again. That body could not shed any tears. That body could not feel the cold in Rennala's hands. The Queen's blood had slowed down to a crawl, as if she was in a deep sleep, and she had trouble to remain warm.

"I miss you. I'm doing my best to look after Blaidd. Rykard is... doing well, though I fear he still needs to train his body in the case a confrontation breaks out."

She lowered her head on Rennala's hand, and cupped it so that she would pet her hair. Rennala let her hand be moved, but did not react. She would never again gently caress her daughter, a fact not lost on one of the most intelligent sorcerers in the Lands Between.

"Radahn is... doing well, too. We don't... see each other, as much." Her voice would have been broken with tears, but her body would not allow her to. Her doll body could not cry.

"I am... doing my best, okay mom? We are all doing so well. And I miss you. I miss you so, so much."

"Is this thy wish, my sweetling, to be born anew?"

Rennala's voice was but a whisper in the air. Ranni's looked at her, and said nothing. The semblance of a conversation moved her.

"Heh. Yeah."

She felt a renewed fire compel her, and stood up. "I am going to become a God, and remove that damned Ring from the Lands Between, once and for all. Nobody will ever have to suffer because of it again. I am going to be the last. I am going to make myself the last."

Ranni stood tall, and resolute. She put on her dark cloak again; and her wide, gray hat. Then she left.

There were no parting words, because what had needed to be said had been said. And thus the coming Dark Queen disappeared, and the Moon once again returned to its perpetually waning state.

Chapter Text

That man strode alone through the dark halls of Caria Manor. Its cold, stone arches had become his second home, as he had climbed to one of the most prestigious ranks in the Kingdom. He had become the personal preceptor of the Lunar Princess, Ranni.

... Granted, he fully knew his apprentice split her attention between him, and that secretive cold bitch called Renna. Sometimes the Princess paid so little attention to his classes, that it felt like their relationship was necessary to keep up appearances, while her mind wandered elsewhere: to the cold, forbidden mountains of the North, where she could learn about the Dark Moon.

Seluvis had to admit, that as much as he had crafted himself into an impressive sorcerer of great skill and knowledge, he could not teach the young Ranni the first thing about that obscure, secretive subject. Nobody at the Academy could, save for its governor, Rennala, that apparently had secretly told her daughter to seek the Snow Witch elsewhere. He had learned of this through illicit means. Seluvis wondered just what kind of relationship ran between the two witches. Of Renna it was known that she lived secluded from everyone, there alone on the Mountaintops, and that she was a heretic witch spurned by the academy. She had more in common with those winter-worshipping lowlives, the Zamor, that any of the intelligent sorcerers of Raya Lucaria... and yet the highest authority Rennala deferred to her for tutorship about the Dark Moon. All clues pointed toward her being another Carian Princess, that perhaps had resisted the ascension of her family to royalty. It was also not lost on him that the three ancient towers behind the Manor were named in ancient documents as the "Three Sisters", and while he had occupied that of the missing Rellana, lost to the Land of Shadow, and Ranni inherited the one used by Rennala, the third one remained sealed to everyone. He had attempted to call it "Renna's Rise" in passing when addressing the Queen, to gauge her reaction, and her miffed face was a strong indicator that he was on the right path.

He put those thoughts out of his mind, and passed a small door to get to his chamber. He waved his hands, and conjured a spell of Starlight in the air. His command of that simple sorcery was such that he could regulate its intensity, from a blinding light to something as dim as a candle, which was his current choice.

His bedroom was horrible, a mess of books and scrolls. He knew more or less where everything of value was stored, and considered the seeming lack of order a good thing in the case somebody would have searched it. He conducted several illegal operations, the worst of which was the production of unwilling human puppets. He waved his hands again, and moved several piles from on top of his bed, freeing it for himself. He took off his annoying coat and mask, and threw them in the corner. He let himself fall on the bed, cursing how hard and cold it felt, how cold and hard everything felt in the Manor. He let the Starlight run out, and did not renew it, as sleep reached him.

—

He opened his eyes in the middle of the night, the bright brilliance of the Full Moon penetrating through the window.

"I have got to get better curtains..."

He got to his feet, and again was met by the cold and uninviting stone floor. He sighed and put on his boots, and hit coat again. He refused to put on the silly hat when nobody was watching, especially that suffocating iron mask that Radagon had ordered. This was his own secret rebellion. No mask past midnight when nobody could see him wander around the Manor.

—

He wondered through the dark halls, holding himself for warmth, and made his way to the latrine. He passed a few servants, and they nodded to each other with a knowing look, neither pointing out his lack of proper clothes. As with everything, there were rules before the Crown, and rules behind it. Scarcely any of the Albinauric retinue liked Radagon, anyway; they fully knew how their lack of Grace was seen in the larger Erdtree Empire, and the Lord's own Sun-like gaze was a stark reminder of this. It was apparent that the Queen Eternal had personally favored him, as his blessing was one of exceeding strength.

"And yet you could not win a single war, huh, golden boy?" He chuckled to himself, while holding his dick. It was an old thing, shriveled with age and because of the cold. Seluvis had some trouble getting it in his hands, to direct the stream.

"So it goes."

Seluvis's heart all but stopped as Radagon, Lord of Caria, Champion of the Queen Eternal, King Consort to Queen Rennala of the House of the Full Moon, put himself to his side. He likewise took out his cock, and started to relieve himself. Seluvis cursed the light of the Full Moon for letting him see how endowed he was.

"Ah, Sire, I did not expect to see you here at this hour."

Radagon said nothing, until he had finished. He gestured for them to walk away from the latrine, and wander back into the halls of the Manor.

"Did you forget your mask, Seluvis? You know it is important."

"Well, your Majesty, it is deep into the night and I scarcely found some use for it when it does not provide its intended effect. Surely you agree that a symbol holds power when it is witnessed, yes?"

Radagon was bare-chested, and Seluvis could feel the warmth emanating from him. He did not seem bothered by the cold in the slightest, and Seluvis even wondered if he was aware that this was an issue for those with lesser or no blessing from the Erdtree. Yes, surely he was, for he was a brilliant student of the Academy, so this had to be a show of strength... right?

"I did not ask for your opinion. Do not let yourself be found lacking again. You are not nearly as special as you think you are, and extremely replaceable."

Seluvis wanted to protest, but he knew it in his bones, that he could not say a single word in the face of his overwhelming authority. He stood tall and solid as the cliff of the Lift of Dectus, separating Liurnia and the Altus Plateau. It would have been as if talking back to the authority of Queen Marika herself, and demean it. A sheer impossibility.

Seluvis tried to not let his emotions show on his face, fortunately something for which he had extensively trained himself, and merely bowed with an empty apology. It was also not lost on him that through sheer misfortune, the Lord had probably heard him make fun of him in the latrine. He closed his eyes and cursed the fate of the stars.

They parted ways, with Seluvis returning to the lower quarters and Radagon to the chamber of the Queen. Or well, this is how it looked. Seluvis had sent an illusory body with his appearance walking down the hall, and made himself invisible. A simple trick he had learned from his days in Sellia.

He felt his heartbeat quicken, as he followed Radagon beyond where he could have reasonably had an excuse for being. If he had been found out, he would have likely been removed from his position, or worse.

The Sun walked precise and resolute. His every step was calculated, and without any excessive movement. He disappeared behind one corner, and Seluvis heard a door close. The door to the most important room in the entire Kingdom.

He passed a few unsuspecting Knights, and pressed his ear to the wooden frame, reinforced with iron.

"Hello darling."

"Welcome back..."

His eyes went wide, as he heard a new feminine voice in the chamber. One was of Rennala, undoubtedly, but the other he had never heard before.

"Should we resume from where we had left, my Queen?"

"Yes. On the floor, put your hands behind you. Slut."

Seluvis listened and listened, his old dick growing slightly bigger, as what appeared to be a couple inside engaged in some sexual activities. It appears that Rennala pretended to be a strict teacher, and the other her loyal subject, and student.

But the invisibility spell was waning, and he heard the Knights ready themselves for the changing of the guard, and he knew better than to push his luck further. Reluctantly, he left and hurried back to his own chamber.

In the loneliness of that dark chamber, he relieved himself of his pent-up excitement.

The mystery remained in his mind, of the identity of the woman inside the chamber with Rennala.

He looked to the mask that Radagon had ordered the Preceptors to wear, with that silly golden thread sewing the mouth shut, and chuckled to himself.

These were strange times he lived in.

Chapter Text

The sky turned to red with fire. A cascade of flame came crashing down on the body of a Tarnished.

It felt as if putting a hand over a fire, and then accidentally stumbling into it with the entirety of one's body.

"H-H-H-HGRRAAAHHH!!!"

That thing screamed, that weapon in the shape of a human being. Its armor was made of mismatched pieces, stolen from corpses along the way. Its coat was made from the sail of a boat, held together with a worn piece of rope. The leather bits resisted fire, but the cloth burned away and the metal became incandescent. A terrible stench of burnt flesh emanated from underneath, as the Tarnished grunted and panted through the pain.

"AGHEEL!" It shouted. The beast, which was soaring high in the sky, hit the ground in front of the warrior. It looked upon the Tarnished with the eyes of a ravenous beast; a creature devoid of intelligence, but endowed with instincts and strength enough to hunt down and devour most things in its way. That was surely the strongest creature in Limgrave after the Shardbearer, Godrick of the Golden Lineage.

There had been other dragons, but they had long since been hunted into extinction by the cultists of Dragon Communion. The second to last drake in Limgrave had recently been hunted by Godrick's forces and presented to him as a sacrifice for his grim arts of grafting. The story went that he wanted to fuse with one, to reach greater height in his pursuit of strength. Always remained the faraway dream of claiming the Capital, Leyndell. It would remain as such, because he lacked strength.

Strength.

The Tarnished stood motionless, then started walking with intent toward Agheel, that was reading another terrible attack. From inside its lungs a new fire was beginning to burn. The Tarnished broke into a full sprint, getting just in front of its maw as it created a miniature explosion. It slid under its massive head, then got back readily on its feet.

The sky was obscured by the vast, dark body of the monster. It could feel it pulsating with warmth, the light in the air being distorted by the sheer heat of its proximity. To either side were enormous talons not unlike those of a hawk, with nails sharp and massive as the swords of giants. The Tarnished's own straight sword paled in comparison, but a fang is a fang, and it was not going to lose in a test of strength.

Strength.

It swallowed its spit, and continued to run to the other side, that of the tail. There on its underside it spotted a part of the flesh that seemed more tender. It grinned, drool escaping its delirious mouth.

"GRHRHHHH!!"

It buried its fang there, and continued to run until it was outside of its frame. It opened a great wound on the monster's body, that recoiled and screamed.

How it screamed, that wounded beast. Two of them there were, a dragon and another locked in a fight to the death.

The Tarnished grunted, and sprinted again. It knew that to leave an opening to the monster would be fatal, and the only way to destroy something greater than itself was a continuous onslaught of attacks.

The dragon, Agheel, turned on itself violently to attempt to destroy it with a tail swipe. The Tarnished rolled on the ground, feeling a strong wind pull away the air around it. The trunk of meat that constituted the beast's tail had just swung in the air with impressive strength.

It got back on its feet, and faced the dragon's maw head on once again. It attempted to snap forward with its teeth, but the warrior dodged to the left, and having locked eyes with the terrifying creature at a very short distance, plunged its sword into the near eye socket of the beast.

"GRAHAHAHAH!!!" It laughed, as if possessed. The beast recoiled and fell on its back. The Tarnished readily jumped on its chest and started to plunge its venomous fangs into the thing time and again. Blood spattered left and right, at an incredible temperature, and greatly injuring the Tarnished in turn, but it could not feel any pain at that moment. Great was the thrill of the hunt!

It exposed the beast's lungs, and guts, and heart. Agheel yet trashed, desperately trying to get back on its feet. But it would never do that again.

The Tarnished raised its sword high into the air, the Sun shining on its blade and blinding the other good eye of Agheel, before plunging it with finality in the beast's heart, killing it for good.

—

The scene had gathered quite an audience.  On this and that shore of the Lake were the Knights of Godrick, some of which ran back to the Castle to tell their Lord of the incredible news, of a Tarnished alone taking down the dragon Agheel. Elsewhere in the distance was the errant knight Yura, who laughed to himself and silently bowed to the display of strength.

That thing, the Tarnished, was on the point of death. It had received countless hits, and been thrown around and half-crushed to death, and half-burned to death. Most of its belongings were reduced to ashes, and its old sword was chipped and almost completely unusable. But a fang is a fang.

It fell asleep in the half-emptied chest of the monster, amidst the viscera and near the pierced heart. It felt warm, and comforting.

Chapter Text

"Do not lie to me, Varré."

The dark beast spoke with a gravely voice, and the beaten up and tied man looked up at him from the stone floor. To his side where the impressive columns of the Mohgwyn Dynasty, ever burning with the bloodflame of the Mother of Truth. Or so the story went, and Varré did not care much for it.

Mohg was a giant thing, with long curled horns and fur and sharp teeth. If Varré had not known him to be an omen, he could have easily thought it was some manner of wild beast, his body the perfect shape to rip and tear soft flesh. Varré felt a side of him wishing that his body had been born into such a fine weapon, instead of a pale, weak thing he had needed to train into one.

"I can see it, in your eyes. You are not kind. If you could, you would have me bleed to death on the floor before you, and cut me open like in one of your surgeries. Is that true, war surgeon Varré?"

That man smiled.

"Well, you found me out. Am I that obvious?"

"Double the amount you think you are secretive, and half the amount you should be." Said Ansbach with an amused voice, standing to the side of the towering Omen. Behind them still was a giant cocoon, not unlike that of a caterpillar, that apparently held the corpse of Miquella, son of Marika. Or so the story went, and Varré did not care much for it. He cared for blood.

"As I said, do not lie to me Varré. I do not mind if you wish to attack me; I like to see the pursuit of bloodshed, of course. But be honest with me, if nobody else. Do you enjoy the act of killing?"

"Lie and you're off with your head, by the way." Said Ansbach, still with an amused voice. He closed in and tilted his scythe to the other hand.

Varré sighed, then a dark smile appeared on his face.

"... Yes. More than anything, more than I enjoy breathing, or eating, or having sex. I like to hold someone close and look at the light leave their eyes. All the better if they did not expect it. It is the only time that I feel truly, fucking alive."

The old Omen's lips curled into a smile in turn, his beast-like fangs becoming more apparent.

"I thank you for your honesty. Release him, Ansbach."

The old man cut the ropes holding the other captive, and helped him back on his feet.

"If you enjoy killing so much, you are a good candidate. Join us. I will show you the spectacle of a lifetime, this I promise."

Varré chuckled.

"Well, a blessing upon the Formless Mother."

—

So this is it then.

My body lies in ruins, as I struggle to writhe and crawl, like a worm. I do not care to make a fool of myself.

Luminary Mohg, will help me. He will know what to do.

Ah, who am I kidding. I am dying. I am dying, and I have long since reneged the Two Fingers; before that still the Guidance of Grace escaped my grasp. Without that blessing, there is no coming back from death.

This is it then.

I grab onto the stone of this old palace and push myself forward. If I am to die, let it be facing up, such that I might see the brilliance at the top.

Under this false night sky, the only star I need is you... Mohg.

My Mohg. My King. Long life the Mohgwyn...

—

The Tarnished noticed that the defeated Varré still drew breath. It walked up to him, who was laying on the floor like a worm, and firmly planted its sword in his cranium. The man did a strange noise, a gurgle of blood escaping his punctured throat, and became still. He passed from person into object, a deceased corpse. Another body for the mountain of corpses, atop which was that thing that meant to become Third Elden Lord. If that thing was to be King, it would have been on a throne of flesh and blood and bone, reigning over a graveyard. It did not make allies, it used a sword to make people into corpses.

It removed the sword, cleaned it against its dirty cloak, then put it again in its sheath. It looked through Varré's personal effects, hoping to find something of value. Its hands were ravenous, and grabbed and teared away with little respect to the dead thing. Not that Varré had been different, and it was fitting for him to be desecrated as such, after all the pain he had inflicted on countless other Tarnished. Yura had told it about his exploits. The Tarnished did not care much for morality, as long as it got to bare its fangs against a worthy enemy. At the very least, it liked the strength that Varré had shown in his last moments.

It threw away its distasteful mace, shaped after a bouquet of flowers. It threw away its clothes, because they were light and provided little in the way of defense. It wanted strong and reliable metal plates, but these were hard to come by. Even when it did own a piece of armor as such, it quickly got worn out from the countless battles, and would quickly need to be replaced.

It looked for a second at the white mask, holding it in its hands, then threw it off the cliff. It was of little importance to it, and left a sour taste in its mouth. Bad memories, of when it had just come back from the dead, and its body still felt cold and wouldn't listen to its commands. Varré had been there, all too eager to insult it while it still had to find a good armor, a good weapon, and wake up completely. It had tried to bare its fangs against him, but it had been beaten back into submission. At that time the masked man had broken its arm and left it to bleed on its own. Bad memories, bad memories.

On the corpse were a few runes, that rustled with a metallic sound, like jewelry. The Tarnished put them in a pouch connected to the back of its belt, an oversized leather and metal thing it had stolen from a mercenary of Kaiden, a much bigger warrior, that didn't fit it quite right and hung to one side.

"Don't... come back." The thing said, and set the remains on fire with an incantation of the Giants. It rarely spoke the language of humans, it did not feel the need for it.

"You... won't be missed."

Chapter Text

Shane, first of the Haights held back his tears. Before him was the body of his Storm Lord, that had been defeated and partially broken into pieces, and left to his followers. As was the custom his remains would lie in state for a Moon, and Perfumers from the Capital would help to keep the body from decomposition, to allow the rulers of the various smaller countries to make the journey and pay their respects. At the same time, they would be given the choice to swear loyalty to Queen Marika, or reject her. It was understood that at the end of the mourning period all of those that would not have sworn would have been considered enemies of the Erdtree Empire.

Shane was a tall man with long blonde hair, carefully braided and scented. The family he had elevated onto nobility through conquest and might held a coat of arms with a beautiful golden stallion, running against a background of three hills that represented the East of Limgrave, that he had been granted. His knighting sword had been gifted to him by the Storm Lord himself, and bore the inscription "Strength through loyalty." His were the territories closest to Stormveil Castle, and he took great pride in sometimes referring to himself as the right hand of his King.

Shane, first of the Haights had seen the body of his King, and the provisional Castle-Lord of Stormveil had asked him the same question as everyone before him, and that he would ask to everyone that would follow.

"Do you accept Queen Marika as your god and ruler?"

He had slept terribly since the day of the duel, when Godfrey, the Elden Lord, had triumphed. His winning roar resounded in all of Limgrave, shaking the earth and the skies.

Shane's mother and wife had urged him to accept the terms, to maintain their territories and prestige. It had been promised that everyone who would bow to the Crown would not be left any worse for it, and would only stand to gain in the form of rich blessings of Grace.

He wavered, unsure of what to do. His good friend Hildebad, the troll Champion of many battles on the Mountaintops of the Giants, had confided in secret to him that he intended to join the burgeoning rebellion. Shane had reprimanded him, noting that the duel had been honorable and the terms were clear. Even then, the troll could not accept the death of his King, and could only see the rest of his life as one spent fighting in his name, even if it would have resulted in loss, even if it had resulted in death.

Death. Queen Marika did offer life unending, but Shane didn't find the prospect enticing. He was a humble warrior that had ascended to a small throne, he was content with living his life like his ancestors before him, and pass down his knowledge to the following generations. Secretly, he did not think it was right for him to have known the name and face of his descendant six generations removed, a baby called Kenneth. No man should have to live this long, he thought. Perhaps Kenneth would have different ideas.

The Castle-Lord, evidently annoyed, repeated the question, stressing each word.

Shane looked to the body of his King, thought back to Hildebad, and his wife and mother. He at once obtained a complete knowledge of being a simple link in a long, long chain of causes and consequences.

It was a windy day that day, and the Stormhawks still flew under the gray, heavy rain clouds of Stormveil. As long as life continued, it was going to be okay.

"I accept."

Chapter Text

I should have died a long time ago.

By any account, I did. Nary a soul remembers Melina, the Finger Maiden; that is to say Melina, the Black Knife. I gave up everything to follow my mother into war, because it was the right to do, because a parent rules over their children, a queen rules over her subjects, a god rules over her faithful. And so when she asked me to kill myself, to set the Erdtree afire, I said goodbye to my comrades. To Elleh and Irith, the few other girls who ever knew me, that ever called me by my true name. I said goodbye to them and killed myself.

The rest of history... I do not remember. Leyndell was covered in ashes... it looked beautiful, as if snow had came down from the Mountaintops of the Giants. We never get snow on the Altus Plateau. How could we? It is always warm, protected by our Holy Tree.

And yet I woke up. I woke up, a long time after, and saw a different world. Godwyn had died, Ranni was missing, Messmer had been sealed away. I traveled back to Leyndell, and saw the corpse of a giant Ancient Dragon. I felt as if suspended between dream and reality.

And yet, one point of clarity remained. I found you, beast. You are a descendant of Godfrey, called back to win the throne with strength. I find you scary... in truth. But Torrent chose you, so there can be no mistake. And so I offered you an accord.

—

Now I put you to sleep, that you may be spared the sight of my spiritual flesh burning once more. The steps come easily, I remember this. The words, the correct stance to summon the Flame.

Burn, O Erdtree, open the path to a new future. Whatever it may be, life continues.

In the end, it will be worthwhile.

Chapter Text

"The Lady is waiting for you."

Finlay swallowed their spit, and began to walk. To her side were two elder Cleanrot Knights, who already had lost the capability of expressing themselves with human speech. They staggered, as if in pain, but it was known that their mind was sound, and they could feel all of it without receding into a safe corner in the back of their head, to spare them the misery. They were being eaten alive by the Scarlet Rot, because that was what it meant to be a loyal guard to Malenia of Leyndell, the One-Armed Valkyrie.

They got to the edge of their master's chamber, which was open, then gently pushed Finlay inside. It was a rough but caring shove, to give her the strength she would have needed to endure this.

The inside of the room was a chiaroscuro painting, with the edges bathed in darkness and a circular hole in the domed ceiling illuminating Malenia with the divine light of the Erdtree.

She nodded to Finlay, as if to acknowledge her presence. She rarely talked, as doing so greatly hurt her damaged vocal cords, so the wing of the palace dedicated to her was mostly silent. Rumors had it that the Cleanrot Knights could communicate intent to each other without speaking, through their shared connection to Malenia.

Finlay was apprehensive of finding out the truth.

She gestured to the armor Finlay was wearing.

"O-Oh, right."

It was removed, and left neatly on the floor against the wall, there in the darkness. She felt dirty about leaving her bloodstained and foul-smelling effects anywhere in Malenia's chamber, but she understood it was a part of the ritual.

She exposed her bandaged skin, covered in rashes and wounds. It was red and purple all over, with fungi pushing out from under the severed muscles like thread to patch her up. The conversion was already noticeable, and Finlay would sometimes incredulously brush her hands against her new companions, and rejoice at feeling her touch ripple inside herself through their roots.

Malenia beckoned her closer still. She could feel her mycelial half be called back to its Mother, but her human half also wished to embrace her. She was ethereally beautiful, like a statue of antiquity.

Finlay said nothing, and knelt on the floor in front of Malenia. She took her head in her hands, and gently embraced her.

Every cell in Finlay's body felt alive, and shifting inside of her. Rearraging themselves, leaving room for something new, shedding everything that she was before to become as her Mother desired her to be.

And then there was the pain. Brushing against the infinite pleasure was the burning pain of a body coming undone, being destroyed, dying. Her own sense of identity melted away, as she lost sight of where "Finlay" ended and "Malenia" began.

"It doesn't... hurt." Malenia had whispered to her. And as surely it became the truth, the pain remained but her mind would no longer perceive it as such. It was a hot and cold sensation, a soft and heavy feeling, a vibration in her head. Finlay would forget for the rest of the ritual what the word "Pain" meant.

"But if it does..." Her Mother said. "Tell me, and I will stop. We have Miquella's Needles at the ready for you."

"GRGRGRGRGR..." Finlay had gurgled. There was no need for words anymore. She could not speak words anymore. Now they were the same, and it made her infinitely happy.

The pair of Cleanrot Knights came back into the room, and encased that thing into her armor again, and for the final time. She would never take it off again, as it would become her shell, like that of a bug.

She could feel the Cleanrots touching her from their own point of view, and from her own, fusing together. It was strange, but so relieving. She would never feel alone again. She would never feel spurned again. She could merely serve Malenia without thinking for the rest of her life, and it would have been enough.

It would have been enough.