Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He wasn’t exactly sure how long he had been standing here, or what strange set of events led him here, but there were far worse places to wake up with little explanation.

The sky beyond the glass dome held a brilliant cheeriness, speckled with puffy white clouds. The sun gleamed off of the bronze beams and shone on the plants to his either side: exotic shrubs and trees, fanciful flowers from far-off lands with strange scents to them, all among a most pleasant humidity that very much appealed to a woodsy forest-dweller like himself. The very floor beneath his feet was of tiled marble, carved with delicate patterns that both conjured images of the Gods, and yet looked nothing like the garish whiteness of Anor Londo. The path stretched on shortly forward and ballooned into a wide, circular plaza before closing once more into a short upwards staircase, upon the landing of which being a large, ornate telescope accompanied by a decorated bronze chair.

All in all, it was a very nice place, which was reason enough for concern. He and very nice places didn't much agree with each other.

“I must say… you are taking this very well.”

The voice came from behind, weary and commanding. He straightened and spun to find a tall man, a grey-haired man, in fine, flowy robes and a trimmed beard. Aged, but quite so old and wrinkly, though — more like the personification of a finely-aged wine. Not too bad to look at. Exactly the kind of person you’d expect to own something as overly decadent as this.

The man’s eyes wrinkled with his rich smile, and he extended a hand. “Jeremiah of Zena, yes?”

“Jeremiah of nothing,” he corrected, and shook the man’s hand. “And whose extremely attractive presence am I in today, good sir?”

The man’s smile didn’t vanish, but his nose wrinkled for the briefest moment. A shame, I was only half-jesting. “You can call me Aldia,” he said. “And I think we have a lot in common.”

“Oh, I do, too.” That had to be the oddest name he’d heard in a while.

“Splendid. Let us have a seat and talk business, shall we?”

He directed Jeremiah’s attention behind him, where there now sat a small table and two chairs where he was fairly sure there was only flat ground before. “Are you a tea-lover, Jeremiah of nothing?”

He squinted. Jeremiah was hardly a harmless man himself, but the amount of red flags here was frankly ridiculous. “...Coffee, actually.”

His hands were quite suddenly holding a cup of black coffee and a plate beneath it. He liked his coffee the best without any additives, yes, but right now he was liking to think that Aldia only gave him black coffee because it was the safest option, and not because he knew all of his coffee preferences. As Jeremiah mulled this over Aldia gently shouldered past him and seated himself. Jeremiah joined him with all the eagerness of a pig being led to slaughter.

“Now, I am sure you have many questions.” Aldia sipped his tea while staring at him with those colorless eyes of his. His tea was extremely aromatic, because apparently he did nothing in half-measure. Another similarity between them.

“I do,” he said slowly, pointedly not drinking his coffee. “Such as, where am I? And… why?”

Aldia’s crow-footed smile melted into something more of a smirk. “Two fine questions. You are in the land of Drangleic. Or, at least, its mirage. There isn’t much to be found beyond my observatory, I’m afraid. That would be a waste of vital energy.”

...Right. Lots to unpack there. He tried to stare back at him with the same intensity. “I haven’t heard of such a place.”

“Drangleic is not really in the cards of your time, so to say.”

Time. ‘Your’ time.

I’m suffering from the mother of all fever dreams right now. That is the only explanation.

His cackle came out more like a nervous giggle, and he nearly spilled his coffee. Perhaps he should… play along? See what happens? “So you come back in time and pluck me specifically from my time, and trap me for a parlay in your… mindscape, for the lack of a better term.”

Aldia nodded. “That would be the layman’s descriptor. As a fellow man of science, I would be happy to share some secrets of my own with you, if you so desire. Though, this of course heavily depends on your reaction to my  proposition.

“Which I suppose would be the ‘why’ behind my being here.”

“I think you will find it most agreeable, actually. You see, we want exactly the same thing… you just don’t know what that is.”

Jeremiah squinted and leaned back in his chair, burning questions on the tip of his tongue. He brought the scalding coffee to his lips, and sipped. It actually tasted pretty damn good. It wasn’t good unless it hurt. “Go on.”

“History knows you, Jeremiah, as the so-called ‘Xanthous King’.”

“So that name stuck, it looks like.”

“A maniacal pyromancer who lead a cult of so-called ‘Xanthous Scholars’, the purpose of which being to obtain and study forbidden sorceries, hexes, pyromancies, even miracles… knowledge of all kinds which the old gods of Lordran would have lamented fallen into the wrong hands. But alas, you are captured at the height of your power, doomed to Hollow within the confines of the Painted World of Ariamis.”

Jeremiah blanked a moment. Hollow? “You… keheheh, you must be mistaken. I’m not Undead.”

“Your upper back,” Aldia said wryly. “How do you think I brought you here?”

“Uh…”

His mouth dried as he slipped a hand beneath his ragged shirt, and settled on the patch of flesh right over his left shoulder blade. And surely enough, his finger traced the signature patch of circular, tender skin. It was hard to quip around the lump in his throat. “I… thought that was a normal tumor.”

That earned a genuine laugh from Aldia, even if it was a cruel one. “Ah. You haven’t died before, I understand. You’re going to have to get used to that.”

Meanwhile, Jeremiah was silently panicking. His memory was scattered. Leading up to… now… he couldn’t remember a gods-damned thing. A walk in the forest beyond his hideout, following the instructions for some letter from some nosey, crusty old Astoran noble. Was he stuck in the throat by an arrow mid-journey? Did he carry on for days or weeks after that latest memory, only to die in some other way?

Was he stabbed in the back?

Probably.

He lowered his head into his hands and moaned.

Aldia and his crow’s feet looked upon Jeremiah dispassionately. “If you were not Undead, I would have nothing to want from you,” he said. “It is because of your curse that you have such a great chance of deposing the Gods, usurping the Lord of Sunlight, preventing the First Sin. If the Gods cannot do away with you for good, what can they do?”

He looked at Aldia through his fingers. “So, find some way to avoid rotting in the Painted World, then.”

Aldia smirked once more. “There we go.” He extended a large hand across the table. Jeremiah watched it like it would bite. “What say you? Combine our powers, two of the greatest scientists of our times, to create a better future for all of man? With my help, the clutches of the Painted World will nary grace you.”

Jeremiah thought in silence.

It… wasn’t that far of a leap. Aldia was offering to help with Jeremiah’s goal, to usurp the Lord of Sunlight and create a world without gods or masters. Surely Aldia held his own ulterior motive — what couldn’t he gain from literally changing his present to his own whims, with Jeremiah as his puppet? But, perhaps with just the right finnangling, Jeremiah could cheat him right back. Which was probably a very stupid and irrational notion, but he didn’t get to where he was by being very rational, did he?

He shook Aldia’s hand, but gripped instead of letting go. This time, his brown-eyed stare was fierce. “We are in this together, do you understand?”

Aldia’s smile hardly even twitched. “Of course, partner.”

The instant Jeremiah blinked next, the world had all fallen away.

Muster your scholars. Prepare for an assault. Await further instruction, honorable Xanthous King.

...Okay, sure.

There was only one way for sure to see where exactly this rabbithole led.

Crickets chirped and branches snapped as he pushed further and further, through the painfully dry air and the pain of creaking, ashen bones, guided only by intermittent moonlight and a distinct mental map of the hillside.

There.

The fortress was cold, quiet, unlit. Its bricks were shoddy and its fortifications, antiquated at best. The trees had conquered it long ago, and its boxy, jutting design seemed to be decomposing right into the earth of the mountain. It was perfectly unassuming, and for nearly the past two decades, it had been home.

Jeremiah shambled down the trodden dirt path before punching right past the illusory wall in place.

“Who goes the—” A gasp. “ Xanthous King?”

“Oh, shut up,” he mumbled, and pressed past the lone guard on duty. He felt like he hadn’t drank in weeks. “Get me water,” he rasped, “Right now. And—And get Heysel.”

“Y-y-yes, sir!”

The people came from their bunks one by one, squalid sorcerer and banished pyromancer and excommunicated heretic alike, gathered in the dirt-filled foyer to watch the return of their leader. Diverse though they were, they all wore the same yellow symbols, from unassuming bandannas to garish xanthous robes. Their murmurs were fearful, frantic, and excited all at once. How else would one react to the return of a king?

He took the flask of water offered and downed it immediately, splashing the rest on his face and throwing it to the ground without so much as a thanks. Hands came to catch his form as he shambled forward, but with strength unbefitting his bony, hollowed form, he shoved them all away. “Don’t,” he growled. “Heysel!”

Down the stairs she came, with shimmering eyes “U-Uncle? Uncle!” Then she ran down to him, and gripped him in a tight hug. “I thought you were…”

Jeremiah didn’t care at all about public displays of affection, and hugged her right back. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “Are you okay?”

“D-Don’t be sorry. I’m fine,” she said with a laugh. The warmth of her tears seeped into his sleeve. “I think… Yes… it looks like you’re undead. You look very…”

“Dead.”

“Yes… I can — I can give you some Humanity. We can fix you right up.”

“Y...yess… I could do with that. Thank you.”

The stars twinkled in what patches the cloud-burdened sky would allow, watching the reunion through the decrepit old ceiling of their hideout. The sharp blue glow of the watchful moon was blotted out entirely. At least for today, Jeremiah could rest once more.

“We’re glad you’re back.”

“Good… heh. I have some changes to implement around here.”

“...Like?”

“I’ll tell you soon.”

Chapter Text

The sensation of Humanity entering the body, through the palms, through the veins and back out through the arteries, filling his very being, was horrible. It was like his insides were churned to snow, like he was covered in open wounds and each one was rent raw with a mint-scented cheese grater. Horrible analogies aside? Jeremiah was freezing.

“This is awful,” he rasped.

Heysel’s hand felt hot like fire entangled with his own. He could only wonder how hot actual fire felt moments after a large dose of Humanity. “Come, Uncle,” she said. “The bonfire’s just a few steps further forward.”

“I’m eyeless, not blind.”

“You — You can see without eyes?”

Jeremiah would have blinked in surprise, had he not just a pair of empty, hollow eye sockets. Apparently eyelessness was a feature among hollows. “Yes… Odd. I’ll study this later.”

Promptly he sat at the bonfire, and extended an open palm. The flames jumped to lick at him, sucking from his form all the suffocating cold, and with it, the black sprite of Humanity. And just like that, his flesh was warm, his heart beating, his eyes present. Jeremiah exhaled shakily as he opened his eyes, and looked back upon his de-corpsified self.

Heysel frowned. “How do you feel..?”

“...I feel fine,” he said. “As if I never died at all.”

He took her hand and pulled himself to his feet. “Though, you realize that we both just played into the hand of the Gods when doing this.”

She looked uncertain. “How so..?”

“That’s the thing with these bonfires. The Undead Curse — a true curse, yea, but also a tool of Gwyn to have humans giving him as much Humanity as possible. And thus, there is even less Humanity among all his human subjects. He is trying to turn us into them.”

“That is dastardly.”

“That is Gwyn,” he said. He looked down at his clenched fists. It still didn’t feel real, being dead and alive again. Maybe this was all still a dream.

Heysel sighed, offering a wan smile. This wasn't exactly anything new to hear from him. “Let us have some breakfast, Uncle. It has been a long night for both of us.”

“I can agree with that sentiment. It’s as if I haven’t eaten in weeks. Haa haa haa.”

Jeremiah recounted the dream to Heysel over the meal. The parts he could remember, at least: Aldia and his crow’s feet, the beautiful observatory, the coffee… the uncanny knowledge of times yet to pass. Other scholars lingered nearby, amongst themselves, but even a fool could realize that they were only also trying to listen in on the tale of the Xanthous King’s brush with death. This fortress’ meager cafeteria was hardly ever so crowded, after all, with its crumbling ceiling, its mossy, vine-laced walls, its rotten wooden tables, its awful resident cook. Not to mention the recent shortage in rations. Most scholars who went to town to purchase supplies didn’t seem to come back often of late.

Heysel and her hazel eyes seemed in between states of absolute mortification while simultaneously aglow with excitement beyond belief. “Time travel is real, then? Uncle?”

“Apparently so,” Jeremiah said in between sips of that ever-so-precious coffee. “Unless I truly did just hallucinate all of it — which isn’t off the table, to be clear. Real or imagined, this ‘Aldia’ fellow promised to help. So… I suppose we will know soon whether he is real or not.”

Heysel nodded slowly. She had hardly touched her own food. Horrible as the meals were in Jeremiah’s humble opinion, he suspected she only suggested breakfast in the first place in order to convince him to eat, not that he needed much convincing in the first place. Still, looking at her now as the sun slowly rose over these dark woods, she looked far gaunter, far more tired than she usually did. As much as the prospect of working with an extradimensional being in order to overthrow the gods was exciting to him, sometimes you just have to put that sort of thing on hold.

He cast a fierce Xanthous glare at every scholar who dared to try and eavesdrop, the kind with the threat of a first-degree burn to back it up. The message was sent, and slowly the room began to empty.

Heysel looked particularly downtrodden now as the room filed out.

“How did I die, anyways? I have no memory of it.”

She sighed. “No one knows. We never found your body. You went out into the woods, told no one where you went… you were gone for weeks.”

So it was logical to make the assumption that he’d died, then. Though, that still didn’t rule out the possibility of conspiracy. Still, his own death was the least of his worries. 

“Are you okay, Heyselnut?”

“I would prefer, for the record, if you stopped calling me that.”

“Whatever you say. Just — are you okay?”

She shrugged with a sigh, and the chair creaked as she leaned back into it. “I don’t know. You’re the one who died between us, Uncle, so—”

Jeremiah scoffed. “I can die as often as I want. All I’m saying is, you did a fine job in my place when it looked like I wasn’t going to come back. You deserve a rest.”

“Maybe I do. But I’m more upset with… I don’t know.” She looked off to the side. “I’m… glad you’re back. ...But this is unsettling, isn’t it?”

“What isn’t unsettling about this?”

She smiled mirthlessly. “I just feel as if… you’re going to do something terrible to these scholars, these women and men who banded together around you. If a full-on assault against the gods is truly what you desire, then I’m not sure how exactly the Xanthous Scholars will survive.”

Jeremiah smirked. “I’m sure Aldia would not want a direct assault. That would be suicide for anyone.”

“No. I mean that the vast majority of these people have never fought a day in their lives. They came to us because we accepted them where society failed them. They trust you, Uncle. I just want you to be worthy of that trust.”

Jeremiah frowned, hands clasped together. There was something demeaning in being lectured by your own niece, adult now though she was. 

“I raised you, you know. Put everything on the line for you.”

She bristled. “Yes, and?”

“And I like how you treat authority. You’ve got one hell of a spine. I’ll take your suggestion into consideration, and… scope out who amongst our number actually wants to fight.”

Heysel visibly relaxed. “Thank you, Uncle. You’ll be a fine leader yet.”

“Oh, I’m no leader. These morons merely deluded themselves into thinking I am.”

The rest of the fallen fortress was labyrinthine. Constructed during the Dragon War though it was, this fortress was designed not to defend against dragons, but against men — humans, vagabonds whose homes were burnt to the ground in the war, who came together and resorted to banditry. But then the godfolk retreated to Anor Londo, the hearth of the Light Soul, and all the lands surrounding it were effectively relinquished to humanity. The fortress itself was left to be devoured by the black northern woods. Such was the state that Jeremiah had found it in years ago, starving nearly to death and freezing in the snow, with a young Heysel comatose in his arms. Indeed, life here was far from easy, where the trees were suffocating, the winters harsh, and any semblance of civilization days of travel away.

It was after an incident in a northern Catarinan village where rumors began to spread about the Xanthous King, a man in yellow with a penchant for forbidden pyromancies, and thus where all the heretics began to crawl right out of the woodwork. 

Some recognized Jeremiah’s yellow garb, or even his face based off of bounty sketches. On more than one occasion, a heretical wannabe actually tracked down his fortress through use of an illegally modified version of the miracle “Unveil” — each of those times the miracle had been reengineered independently, which at least spoke of the ingenuity of these creeps. Once Heysel began to go on outings of her own their number truly began to bolster, contrary to Jeremiah’s pleas to her.

And on more than one occasion, a seemingly promising heretic was proved a spy or an infiltrator.

Jeremiah took great joy in dealing with such traitors himself.

The bottom line: Jeremiah, more often than not, absolutely despised his Xanthous Scholars. It was a harsh take, but it was an honest one.

“Xanthous King,” came the round of greetings as Jeremiah entered the ruined foyer, its floor covered in copious ash and dust, such was the horrible fortress they all hid in. The xanthous-clad crowd here was much larger than usual, with scholars from all throughout the structure having come to witness their King revived. Jeremiah was surprised to see some certain faces; there were many who refused to leave their quarters at all in favor of desecrating sorceries and miracles and pyromancies alike. While he didn’t quite understand the obsession of some with perverting spells just for the sake of it, he also couldn’t help but admire their tenacity.

“Hello all,” he said simply. “Alright. I’m sure you rumor-monkeys have already spread all there is to know about the dream I had, of a man named Aldia and a potential plot to overthrow the gods and prevent an awful, awful future.” 

Immediately chatter erupted among the scholars. He clapped his hands together, and the noise sputtered out. “Personally? I am all for this opportunity. I would relish a chance to watch Lord Gwyn’s head roll. Raze Anor Londo to the ground. I’ve even in the works a special pyromancy which can set fire to marble. But the time of the gods’ reckoning is far away, and while I’ve time to prepare, I need to know who among all of you I can trust.”

Nearly every single hand raised. Jeremiah cackled and shook his head. “Oh, you poor, young bastards. All so eager to please. I will reiterate once more: Of those who decide to join me on my crusade, I can guarantee that quite a lot of you will probably die. Horrible, violent deaths, even.”

Several hands lowered.

“And I promise I will not punish those who choose not to participate.”

Several more hands fell. That still left a good three dozen or so.

Jeremiah smirked. “Good. You’re all talented fellows. I think between us who are brave enough to take this stand, we have something — oh, by Gwyn’s hallowed left tit.”

The crowd parted to expose the particularly short girl, stretching to raise her hand. She looked silly in her oversized hat.

“How old are you?”

She straightened. “Eightteen!”

“You look ten.”

Her face fell. “Thirteen…”

Heysel exited the cafeteria, just in time for Jeremiah to whirl around on her. “Did you let her in?”

Heysel merely squinted at her. “That would be Beatrice. Her parents threw her out into the woods, and I offered—”

“No. I do not want to hear this.” He lowered to a whisper, “I mean do you think she is right for our kind of life?”

She raised a brow. “Well, she’s gotten along fine enough without you even taking notice, hasn’t she? She’s been here for months. And besides that: we’re a haven for all those who society has failed, for all those looking for a home with people just like them. The girl’s a fine sorcerer, as well.”

Jeremiah didn’t miss the thirteen-year-old puffing up her chest in pride.

“Alright, alright,” he said. He glared at the girl until her confidence seemed once again sapped. “But you are not going to participate in this extremely dangerous mission. What are you thinking?”

“Uncle, please, let’s focus.”

He sighed. “Right. The rest of you who are of age, I recommend you attune yourselves with some combat spells. Sorceries are not recommended to be relied upon — you all know how clerics love their Magic Barriers. Otherwise? Select those spells which you find most appealing.”

Someone raised their hand. 

“Yes yes, you in the front.”

The scholar asked, “Do we have a plan of attack at all?”

“That remains to be seen. Remember that I’m relying on contact with the dream demon on this one. It is by Aldia’s hand that this movement is guided. And with no communication from him, our plan cannot move forward. Not yet.”

The murmurs once again roused throughout the group, though this time Jeremiah found that he didn’t particularly care to stop them. Because it was insane, wasn’t it? All this time he had been more or less a small-time criminal, and now he was on the verge of instilling a new world order? Jeremiah was of course at least a little mad already, but he found he couldn’t fault these scholars for being skeptical.

Nor could he fault Heysel, who was now casting him a very strange look.

“Alright,” he said with the clap of his hands. “Everyone go and relax. Gather your strength. Do whatever it is you do. And remember, a bright future awaits us!”

Some half-hearted cheers followed him down the corridor as he spun on the ball of his foot and took off, down the steps and towards his quarters. Heysel followed close behind.

“I think that went pretty well, do you not?” He asked.

She sent him a withering look. “About as well as it could have been. No one still has any idea what’s going on.”

“Oh, thinks are like that, sometimes. Sometimes you have to be a little bit mad in order to take that plunge. And oh, is it an exciting time to go mad...”

“Uncle, you don’t even know what you’re dealing with.”

“Yes, yes, I know.”

In the privacy of his darkened quarters, chilly and far-separated at the deepest level of the fortress, Jeremiah paced back and forth. His fire-scarred hands rubbed together, sparks dancing along his fingertips. 

“Maybe… no… how did he…”

His mumbles were nothing new. He was a habitual self-talker, though now that part of himself seemed perhaps far more literal. Because, what if that dream simply was a dream? What if it was truly impossible to overthrow the gods, and what if Jeremiah and his human ilk were doomed forever to dwell in the flame-cast shadows of those born of the Light Soul?

Then he would have to go back on all he’d said this morning. And that would be embarrassing.

At any rate… it was only a matter of time before he was contacted once more, right? Aldia had promised that Jeremiah wouldn’t be to deal with this alone.

Jeremiah suddenly spun, watching in something approaching horror but not quite getting there as something tentacle-like burrowed up from the brick flooring of his basemental laboratory.

The Bed’s roots were burrowing this far from the lava-spewing ruins of Izalith, now, were they? Damn it all.

Wordlessly he opened his palm and blasted an onslaught of broiling flame on the encroaching root.

From the flames the voice came, gargling and wavering, Calm yourself. It is only me.

Immediately the fire surge ended, and Jeremiah frowned. Surely enough, the root was totally unsinged, though ominously-glowing cracks radiated from its exit hole. “Hello again, Aldia,” he said. “Also, what.”

I have completed preparations on my end, said the innocuous knot of wood. I now only rely on your action, Xanthous King.

“Ah yes. What action, might I ask? Since you were so concerned with appearing mysterious, you apparently forgot to fill me in.”

Oh, dear Jeremiah. Had I something to say, I would have said it. To reiterate: I have primed everything on my end for your action, and will finally relay your instructions.

“Then will you cease the fanfare and tell me?”

That’s the spirit. Now begins the liberation of those Hollows whom the gods have forsaken. 

Travel to Astora, to start, and free the Undead of the Eastern Undead Asylum, and from there, recruit as many undead as you can. Bolster your numbers. Spread your manifesto. From there, wreak your havoc against those who would stand in your way. Like moths to a flame, there will be many humans eager to follow you, to seize this world for their own…

It seemed simple enough, if not for the minor unignorable fact that Aldia was asking Jeremiah to go out and wreak havoc for apparently no payoff.

Go forth, Jeremiah, the root said, and once your numbers are great and your cause has the required momentum, I shall contact you again.

“And if I have any questions of guidance.”

Of course. And then the root sucked back into the earth, leaving the Xanthous King staring only at the circular hole from whence it came.

“...I may have gotten in over my head a little bit.”

Chapter Text

As the principalities of Lordran went, Astora was an oddball. Straddling a great transcontinental mountain range which separated east from west, the human land stretched laterally from wide windswept western grasslands to wide and windswept eastern dunes, barring the barren grey crags separating the two. In fact, wideness and windsweppedness aside, about the only thing uniting the whole of the place was the copious sunny weather that it all relished in. The perfect geographical embodiment of a naïve cleric eager to kiss Gwyn’s soot-covered boot. It was enough to make one sick, if not ridden with melanoma and mosquito bites.

And yet the Astorans persisted, proudly constructing some of the greatest metropolises and godly monuments outside of Anor Londo that the world had seen. Even here, nestled among the golden sands of the Astoran outback, the far-flung Eastern Undead Asylum stood tall and proud, its ivory limestone façade brilliant against the deep blue sky. Its beauty was awfully ironic, considering the atrocity it represented.

“Uncle. We are ready.”

Jeremiah blinked. Taking one final survey of the surroundings, he sank back behind the crest of the dune and regarded his niece. “Already?”

Heysel smiled. “It isn’t hard to convince anyone to have you locked up in an asylum these days. The people here are so paranoid, our scholars merely need act confused and disoriented, and be mistaken for Hollows. In mere minutes, our implants will be ready to break out.”

“Aha. Good scholars they are! I only wish I could’ve gone in myself. Now, before someone gets too intent on interrogation in there, I think we ought to position ourselves more properly, wouldn’t you say?”

“Before we waste any more time explaining ourselves outright?”

“Aldia needs to hear our plan, too. He’s listening somewhere out there.”

“...Right.” Heysel nodded slowly. “Well then. Lead the way, Uncle.”

“With pleasure.”

Against the sun-baked desert sands, for once Jeremiah and Heysel’s xanthous coverings proved a fine camouflage, even in broad daylight. They had no issue sprinting the way down the slope of the dune and towards the distant wall of the Asylum. In Jeremiah’s periphery, other scholars approached from the opposite direction, initially hesitant but emboldened by the sight of their Xanthous King taking charge.

Spineless weaklings.

By now the approaching scholars were more than obvious to the defenders in the Asylum. The silver glint of Astora knights atop their limestone wall was clearly visible — crossbowmen alerted each other, and lifted their weapons at the wave of the rapier of some unseen captain. These warriors were the finest around; Astora spared no expense in their Asylum wardens. Jeremiah found it awfully amusing, since as far as he understood the Undead Curse was spread through close proximity, and thus the wardens were dangerously exposed to it. But then, something else was going to get them far before they had any chance to be revived at some far-flung bonfire.

The entire building shook from within, as the implants sprang their trap in a massive fiery explosion. He and Heysel nearly lost balance as the ground shifted beneath them. The crossbowmen were more than distracted enough to ignore them for the moment. The perfect opportunity.

When he was in range, Jeremiah clutched the pyromancy flame in his fist and aimed right at the unfortunate cluster of knights far ahead. Then he snapped.

The ensuing explosion shook him down to the core. Delicious.

Heysel slowed to a stop behind him as they finally approached the sun-baked wall, squinting at the now-flaming corpses, and parts of corpses, which were strewn all about the sand. “Their deaths… were they painless?”

Allowing the warmth of the stone wall to seep in through his palm, he cast his niece a strange look. “Not what I would be worried about right now,” he said, “but yes. Thouse who were not immediately vaporized would have descended into shock from the pressure blast. Wouldn’t’ve felt a thing.”

Heysel winced, “‘Tis our trade, I suppose...”

The flame in his palm combusted and the wall exploded inwards, knocking down a fair number of knights on the other side, while about a dozen others looked on in terror.

Jeremiah saw an opportunity. “Behold! I am—!”

Everyone before him cowered as another explosion sounded, the far wall of the courtyard exploding in and injuring another good dozen. Jeremiah could merely grimace as the other Xanthous Scholars poured in, and battled with the knights. Having the advantage of surprise, the thin, never-lifted-a-day scholars made short work of the terrified knights, whose short-ranged swords and shields were no match for the onslaught of spells cast their way. Only when the ones left raised their hands in surrender did Jeremiah wave them off.

“Tie them up,” he said as he approached, observing his prisoners dispassionately. “Who among you is your captain? Or are they already dead?”

A younger knight babbled, “Upstairs! Her office is in the tow--gah!” He winced as his companion smacked him in the back of the head.

Jeremiah smirked and nodded at the rest of his scholars, who by now seemed extremely invigorated by both their success and lack of casualties among them. The Xanthous King wondered, if one of them died, whether the rest of them would fall apart. He pointed at them, “Very well. Half of you, enter the depths of the Asylum and free every Undead you can. The rest of you — keep a close eye on our collateral.”

Jeremiah took only a brief moment to relish in the uncertain looks in his captives’ eyes before nodding at Heysel, and taking off up the upwards staircase, and up, ostensibly, to the bell tower high above. Because it just seemed like an Astoran thing to do, to have the most prestigious of this lot take up the highest, most sunlit residence in the entire building.

By now word had very much gotten around about the Xanthous incursion, so those warriors who Jeremiah and Heysel encountered on their way up were far more prepared than before. Even so, against the Scholars’ two most infamous members, few stood any chance in stopping them. Jeremiah dispatched some with a quick, well-placed Combustion spell right amidst their vital organs, killing them instantly (and painlessly, as he assured Heysel). When that began to drain him, and his focus became more frazzled, he began to resort to a personal favorite weapon of his: a beautifully-crafted notched whip, of Jeremiah’s own making. 

It proved not nearly so painless for the victims whose necks it found itself stabbing into. But one could only do so much, and in spite of his niece’s misgivings, Jeremiah only shared in her ethical concerns so long as it didn’t inconvenience him.

Heysel held her own as well through the onslaught, and though her uncle led the charge, her well-placed Soul Darts caused enough damage to victims for Jeremiah to almost always get an upper hand. Though when one situation came far too close to comfort, Heysel reacted violently, sticking her crude pick right in the eye of her assailant.

She gasped in shock as the knight clutched the impaled weapon and screamed. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorryI’mso—!”

Jeremiah swiftly seized the knight’s head and twisted, and with a sickening snap, the screaming died.

“I…” Heysel swallowed as she watched the body slump to the floor. When Jeremiah offered her her bloodied pick, she took it back numbly.

For his part, Jeremiah was sympathetic. “Not used to this sort of thing?”

She merely shook her head. “I… I hesitated. I shouldn’t have hesitated.”

“Hesitation is natural. I know I hesitated, my first murder. But if you care about making a painless death, then you must learn to overcome it. And besides… they wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Heysel swallowed, her face hardening. “We are not murderers. We’re liberators.”

Jeremiah merely smiled.

That knight had been the final obstacle before the captain’s quarters, just as the bell began to ring far overhead, the roar of brass on brass tickling Jeremiah’s insides. When they reached the wooden door, the Scholars nodded at each other before Heysel kicked it open.

There behind her desk the Elite Knight stood, fully armored and having taken time to affix her blue Astoran tabard in the mirror, for some reason. Jeremiah arched an eyebrow before the captain noticed Heysel’s reflection behind her, turned, and lunged with rapier outstretched.

“Knaves! Taste the wrath of Astoran steel!”

Heysel parried her backhand before picking her right in the gut, and sending her reeling back to the floor.

Jeremiah held back a laugh. “I thought you didn’t want to cause any pain.”

“We need her alive, right? No rule of mine prohibits a good beating.”

“You’re a strange girl.”

“She deserves it for what she’s done here.”

The captain snarled as she clutched her bloody wound, though the effect of it was somewhat lost behind her visor. “What I have done? What I have done is try to save Astora from the Undead that blight it! Follow the will of Lloyd! And if you think I will go back on my vows, you filthy mongrels...”

Above their heads, the bell still chimed. “Save your words,” Jeremiah said. He squinted up at the ceiling. The belfry must be above. “The bell. Is it..?”

“Yes! Aha! The bell!” The captain found the strength to roll on her side, as to stare at Jeremiah more directly. “Its sound shall carry far and wide. To the next bell tower, and the next, until all of Astora knows what you’ve done here! There will be nowhere you can run, nowhere you can hide. The Way of White will find you, Lloyd’s knights will find you, and we will imprison you someplace you can never escape.”

He stroked his stubbled chin. “Is there no manner through which you can send more… specific messages, through this bell? Or does its ringing always just mean that an attack has occurred?”

“I— The bell is only rung in an event of grave danger! If it is rung, that means there has been an attack!”

“Then how will anyone know who attacked you here? Or shall I simply kill you all, just to make sure the word doesn’t get out?” He smirked, and clenched his smoking fist.

The captain seemed to shrink at that. “Uh, perhaps we can make an arrangement?”

Oh. He liked someone who bit back, but they always seemed to soften at the threat of death. How utterly disappointing. “Fine. Then I will let you live for now… soiled though your honor may now be. On one condition.

“Tell everyone what happened here. Tell Prince Ricard. Tell all who ask. Scream to the heavens that it was the Xanthous King who came to this place, and liberated you of all your Undead. Tell them that the Xanthous Scholars shall be the haven for all the Occult, for all Humanity and Undead and disenfranchised Godfolk, who long to see that which is obscured by flame. And tell them that if they do not submit, that they will be next.”

“...I—”
“And if you do not? I will find you. I promise.”

Beat.

Heysel, as she was wont to do, was looking at him very strangely.

Jeremiah cracked his whip right above the poor captain’s face. “Understand, ‘knave’?”

“Yes! Yes! I understand! Gods!”

There was something extremely satisfying in watching a defeated opponent squirm, even if it wasn’t particularly hard to get them to that state.

“Very well. Now don’t you forget.” And at that he nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned to leave the bleeding captain to reflect on the situation she was in.

Heysel followed hurriedly after. It was a pattern of theirs, he mused. Jeremiah would do something rash and then leave for his action to speak for itself — whatever it may say — and then his admittedly more sensible niece would follow and try to make him think about what he’d just done. It happened most recently back north at their hidden castle in the woods, when he first arranged for this “outing” to take place. Heysel would usually say something like, “Are you sure you have this under control, Uncle?”

Like she said just now.

“Please, Heysel. Do point out all of the gaping holes in my plan.”

Heysel huffed. “Was that it? Did we hunt down the captain of this place to yell at her to spread a message? How are we supposed to gain the manpower we need for… well, this? ”

“That would be Aldia’s job. He told me what to do, and I did it, and now it’s out of our hands. If he wanted more done, he should have asked for more.”

“I— Right, of course, Aldia.” She sighed. “How do we know this won’t remain an Astoran issue, and that the news will spread to all of Lordran?”

“Aldia.”

“How are we to know that this news will inspire further Undead uprisings? Or that this will bolster our numbers specifically?”

“Aldia.”

“Are you just going to answer ‘Aldia’ to my every question?”

“Aldi--Yes.”

Heysel groaned and seized Jeremiah by the shoulders. “Uncle. I know you know I don’t like this . All of this is out of our hands. If something terrible happens to us — or, Gods, to you — I don’t know what we can do. Please, please take this seriously.”

They were about a story off of the ground, the sandy courtyard clearly visible below. The two watched as the barely-coherent Undead stumbled out into the open, shading their faces from the garish sunlight. They shouted taunts and insults at those of their former captors who remained, now tied and on their knees, and tearfully thanked and cajoled with those Scholars who led them out. And still they shambled, bodies rickety from countless years of imprisonment.

“Look at them,” said Heysel quietly. “What are we to do with them all? Is this the kind of army we are raising?”

Jeremiah shrugged. “Well, nothing is unsalvageable.”

Down the stairs he went before loudly kicking open a door, the clatter causing all heads to turn to him. After a beat one of his scholars began to cheer, and once the various Undead seemed to realize that this very much normal-looking man was actually their savior, they joined in.

One scholar leapt atop a fallen pillar and cried, “Friends! Behold, Xanthous King Jeremiah!”

Jeremiah cleared his throat and spoke in his most kingly voice. “Well, you are all free to go. To your homes, to your friends, your families. If you so desire.”

One undead shambled forward and fell to his knees, trembling. “My Lord! I am unworthy of your kindness!”

“Ah, to be clear, I’m not actually a king. Much less yours.”

“But dear Xanthous King! So many of us Undead, we have no place to return to. For it was our friends and families who betrayed us, who gave us to Lloyd’s undead hunters in our hours of need. It was our villages who shackled us and burned us at pyres, or shipped us to these vile Asylums. Where can we go? You have already done so much, but who can help us now?”

Jeremiah observed the wrinkled faces of these poor, battered Undead. Tired, forlorn, and longing. He looked upon the shackled wardens, who eyed him with suspicion and hate. He looked upon his fellow Xanthous Scholars, who looked upon him for his next order. He looked back upon Heysel, who seemed totally nonplussed.

He stroked his chin, and pretended to hesitate.

“Very well,” he said at last. “If you all so desire… We have many open slots, if you desire to become a Xanthous Scholar. To those without families of their own, we shall be your family. To those who desire the downfall of the brutal regime of the Gods, we welcome you to take the charge with us. If such things appeal to you..?”

The Undead began babbling and begging.

“Oh, fine, you have convinced me,” he said. “I shall take you all in! No Undead shall go unliberated!”

The cheers once again resounded, and when he looked once again upon Heysel, he at least noted the look of tired approval in her eye.

“You will treat these people right, Uncle?” She asked.

“Come on. I know how to lead an army. I’ve gotten us this far, have I not, Heysel?”

The throngs of Undead and Scholars were marched out of the remains of the Asylum and into the golden sands beyond, leaving the survivors of the assault tied up until help arrived.

If all went well, then this was a job which would do itself. All he had to do, when it came to it, was continue building his infamy.

Though why Aldia ordered that he attack the Eastern Undead Asylum of all places, one of the most remote hellholes in all of Astora, still eluded him.

The mood was festive that night. To state the obvious.

The bonfire stretched high into the starlit sky, and the travelers crowded around it, basking in its warmth against the unforgiving desert chill. Scholars sifted through the crowds of shriveled undead, clothing those who went without and donating Humanity to those unfortunate enough to have teetered on the verge of Hollowing for so long. The kindness was perfect, the flame gentle enough to lull one to sleep, and all almost enough to make Jeremiah forget about that vital ulterior motive.

He emerged from his tent and seated himself on the dirt beside his niece, who looked at him like he might explode at any moment.

“No luck?” She asked, arching her brow.

“Aldia eludes me yet,” he said. “Apparently this first major victory isn’t enough of a draw for him to contact me again… perhaps we ought to maraud around some more.”

Heysel seemed eager to draw her uncle’s thought away from this ‘Aldia’, whom no one but he has ever seen or heard. Not that Jeremiah could blame her. He liked to think he wasn’t quite so insensitive as he seemed at times. “Well… why not focus on the now?”

The crowd of freedfolk around the bonfire was dense to the point of suffocating. Many kept shooting peeks at him when they thought he wasn’t looking. Wasn’t it ironic, how willing these people were to trade an old lord for a new one?

Jeremiah killed the retort before it could sneak past his lips. Instead he said, “What part of ‘now’ do you see here?”

Heysel smiled in that way she did before she tried to press her worldview onto him.  “Well, Uncle, I see people helping others. I see blooming camaraderies, and older bonds strengthened by this new shared experience — spearheaded by you. Whether you like it or not, you are a force of good in this world. But not in the way you think.”

Perhaps he had raised her too sheltered. Perhaps the wrong kinds of scholars settled themselves in his home, and implanted in his niece’s mind such naïve thoughts. Jeremiah knew he himself was never a fan of stories where all went right, where the hero won their true love, where the dragon lay slain and where the Gods won the day. Heysel should know better — she did know better. So why was she lying to herself?

Heysel’s smile died, as if she could see the disdain plain on his face. “Is it really so poisonous, to try and enjoy the little things?”

“Please. I enjoy the little things just fine.” Jeremiah snapped his fingers rapidly, catching the attention of the nearest scholar — a woman who for some reason insisted on wearing some inane witch’s hat to this desert trek. “You,” he said, “A mug of rum! If we have any left after tonight.”

Heysel was looking very tired. “I think we packed a barrel of ale...”

“Two mugs of ale then!” he said. “Someday, Heysel, you will learn to drown your sorrows like any sensible scholar — the three delights of drugs, sex, or world domination. Or in my case, all three.”

She snorted. “You are a horrible influence.”

“You are very right about me though, Heyselnut. I am a very horrible person.”

“Stop. Just — take back all of what you said.”

“The nickname, you mean?”

“Especially that.”

The woman returned with two full mugs, and immediately something struck Jeremiah as off. Heysel murmured a thank-you as she accepted her mug, but the Xanthous King took his with a fierce stare.

The witch shifted uncomfortably. “Uh… is there anything I can help you with, Xanthous King?”

“That pendant. Take it off.”

She blinked, and clutched the iron lump of metal tightly. “Why? This… is my brother’s.”

“ Before I burn you to a crisp, please.”

The witch glared for a moment before giving in with a sigh. She lifted the pendant from around her neck, and the moment she did so, she vanished with a poof. Among the flecks of the shattered illusion stood the exact same woman… except much shorter, and younger.

Heysel blinked. “Beatrice? What are you doing — Uncle!”

Jeremiah was on his feet, yanking the girl by her collar. “You little rat, throwing yourself into mortal danger against my wishes. I can’t count the layers of stupidity you have chosen to wrap yourself in.”

Beatrice bared her teeth, and proceeded to choose what might have been the worst decision in that moment — which was raising her staff and zapping the Xanthous King in the eye with a Soul Dart. Jeremiah roared, and Beatrice broke free, running and hiding out among the crowd.

Heysel grabbed his shoulder before he could chase after her. “Let her go,” she soothed, “She is only a child, right?”

“What are you talking about? She could have died in any number of gruesome ways in our assault, and her killer would never have known they killed a child until it was too late!”

He whirled to face down his niece, only to be met by her self-satisfied smirk.

“So you do care, Uncle.”

“What!? Of course I care. I care if I’m responsible for a child’s death. Is that so difficult to believe of me, truly?”

“Well… you make it so hard, sometimes.”

Jeremiah growled in fury, and resigned himself to nursing his ale for the rest of the night.

Perhaps, he mused, that it was good the child snuck in on such an easy heist.

Why had it been so easy? Had that, too, been the doing of Aldia?

It was difficult to pinpoint exactly where the captain’s life had started to go down the gutter to lead to this, but if she had to choose to a recent happening, she already knew her answer. No one wanted to go to the Eastern Undead Asylum, where one could easily die of heatstroke, dehydration, or catch the Curse themselves. But she was a proud woman who was eager to serve Lord and country, and had the place in top-running shape within a month, even at the behest of the beleaguered, long-stationed sentries. Yes, indeed, she had been on track to become one of Astora’s most respected knights. To think where she could have gone from here!

She now gazed upon the fire-blackened ruins of her dreams, scattered about the courtyard and still splattered with blood stains.

She hardly even reacted as her lieutenant clapped her on the back in sympathy. “There was no way you could have known, Captain. No one can envy your poor fortune. …How’s your wound?”

“Tch. Healing. Still aches.”

“A week’s time is hardly enough to take care of an injury like that, e’en with the help of miracles . You mustn't be so hard on yourself.”

Footsteps sounded from behind. Captain and lieutenant turned to look upon the intruder — a messenger boy. “Captain,” he gasped, “Your message has been received.”

She sighed. It had been… difficult, though still haunted by the threat of death from that yellow-clad invader, the Captain had managed to pen an abbreviated version of his message in her letter. Which… hopefully that was enough. What was she supposed to do, anyways? “Gods, finally. Took long enough for Prince Ricard to get up off his arse.” She narrowed her eyes. “Am I fired?”

The messenger shook his head, just as a long shadow followed him in through the entrance. “No, Captain. He called for, ah… well, I shouldn’t be the one to tell you.”

He turned and the Captain followed his gaze. Staring back at her was a garish pale mask.

She and her lieutenant froze. The pale mask seemed amused at this — or perhaps it was the Captain’s imagination, and that mask’s damned coy smile. Because she had heard the stories they told. She knew that the blade of Gwyn lurked in every shadow, heard every whisper, and was the boogeyman to haunt the dreams of children in the night. And now, she was here. ...Or one of her subordinates. It was difficult to say.

Either way, why was she here?

It couldn’t have been more than a second — Gods, she hoped it was a second — before she remembered herself. She fell to her knee, her lieutenant imitating her after a beat. “My Lord’s Blade,” she whispered, voice remarkably level considering her inner terror. “It is an unspeakable honor. What is your business he— ah...”

The Lord’s Blade didn’t even regard her for more than a second before striding slowly past, her ghastly blue robe billowing in her wake. It was a long moment before the Captain determined that she wasn’t actually here to execute her for her failure. It was a moment longer before she decided it was safe to stand. The Lord’s Blade was simply making her casual way around the courtyard, examining the damage dispassionately.

So apparently she didn’t care much for the prostrating.

“...Lord’s Blade?” She tried.

The Mask turned to face her, as if only just remembering that she was there — no — just now choosing to acknowledge her. “Captain Rose,” she said, smooth as silk. “Correct?”

Ah. Apparently the Lord’s Blade knew her name. There would be time to be mortified about this later, and so the Captain opted to swallow her fear for the moment. “Aye.”

“Thou confronted the instigator of this attack, and he allowed thee to live. Did he declareth his name?”

“Ah… uh, he just called himself the Xanthous King..? As per my letter...” The captain couldn’t take the weight of the porcelain stare. “He — he was dressed in all yellow. He bared his midriff, wielded a thorny whip in one hand, and used his other to conjure pyromancies…”

Something in the demeanor of the woman shifted, and the Captain couldn’t put her finger on it. It may have been the slightest shift in posture, the clench of a relaxed gauntlet into a fist. Somehow, she knew that the Lord’s Blade was smiling.

She looked down at a nearby pile of uncleared rubble, and snagged something from within. She held it before her delicately between two fingers, and the Captain immediately recognized it as a rag from the yellow garb of one of the attackers.

“Then it would seem that he and I art already acquainted.”

Chapter Text

Names were silly things when it came down to it—silly, arbitrary things borne of an obsessive compulsiveness to categorize, divide, simplify.

(Now, the Xanthous King wouldn’t fool himself into thinking that was any grand revelation. But he would beg that one follow him here for a moment.)

And yet so often names were outright lies. The name ‘Jeremiah’ translated roughly into “the lord exalts”, and Jeremiah made no secret of his disdain for Lords. Names were labels, but in the end, labels were mere suggestions.

Now. Now . There were those who took to their names a little less like a hand to a glove, and more like a fragile skull to an oncoming club. There were these folk who were adamant that labels be accurate, and these were the kinds of folk who did the naming, and they insisted upon doing things the hard way just to make it so. “The First Flame”—the first flame, absolutely not, but the Gods would have you believe otherwise. “Gwyn”—the name translated into “white”; brightness, light, good . Gwyn must have named himself. How else could he possibly be so pompous in mere namesake, outside of having manufactured himself? 

And Caitha, Goddess of Tears… Well. If ever there was a name more clublike and skull-oriented.

The walk had been long and fraught with resistance, but the Xanthous King hardly felt the fatigue. Hee squinted in the warm dark, the light of his palm-held flame illuminating so very little. “Now, I have wondered about this for quite some time. Do you call her Caitha? Or..?”

Of course, getting a straight answer like this would be a pointless endeavour. With your interrogatee battered, bloodied, near-dead at your feet, they could say whatever the hell they wanted with nothing more to lose. And yet Jeremiah could only watch with bemusement as the paladin pushed himself to his elbows and rolled onto his back. His eyes were ablaze, but Jeremiah had long mastered the inferno.

“Shhhh, no no no, you are right.” He said. “Save your breath, cleric—you will need it.”

Jeremiah offered a polite opportunity for a retort before shrugging and moving on. Most of these Knights of Caitha were the same, stoically silent at best or hurling insults at worst, much unbefitting a temple priest but maybe a little more befitting of a Carimian. Even at the face of defeat at the hands of a Xanthous invasion, and from beneath their very feet at the deepest stroke of midnight, there seemed nary a quivering, snitching rat among all of them for Jeremiah to take advantage of.

How so perfectly inconvenient.

Self-confident strides carried him down what he presumed to be the final staircase of this labyrinth of a supposedly-innocent temple, and finally to someplace a little more of note. His heart dropped. 

“Ahh… of course.”

The great circular mausoleum was utterly barren, save for the littered signs of a hurry to ensure its being so. There was the humble statue at its center, of course, which seemed to only be here due to its cementedness into the ground itself. A cloaked woman smirked knowingly beneath her hood, decorated head and shoulder in what must have been a dozen stone crows. The gentle moonlight peeking through the grated skylight above lit her white, and Jeremiah couldn’t help but suffer the slightest case of déjà vu. She was of course a statue of none other than Velka, Goddess of Sin, and one of the patron deities of Lordran before the occurrence of some scandal that even Jeremiah himself hadn’t been made privy to.

Jeremiah had long suspected that Velka’s cult had persisted after her worship was banned, nearly a century ago now. Surely enough, his hunch had proven correct tonight—and right underneath the temple of her replacement goddess, no less; indeed, perhaps Velka and Caitha were one in the same. The reception had been less than inviting, of course, but Jeremiah hadn’t expected it to be quite so…

“Prepared,” he whispered. “They knew we were coming, and they prepared.”

Finally some real gods-damned resistance.

Footsteps behind him. Jeremiah turned almost lazily, the warmth in his pyromancy hand broiling to an inferno. Thankfully, it wasn’t yet another poor troupe of warrior-priests to indiscriminately incinerate.

As the leader descended the stairs followed by her own personal battalion of warrior-scholars, her face filled Jeremiah with the slightest comfort, at least. She frowned, and raised a brow. “Uncle. Where is your contingent?”

“We split up,” he said, “But more importantly, look at this.”

Heysel took a moment to frown even more disapprovingly before following her uncle’s sweeping gesture. “...It’s empty.”

“Yes, and it shouldn’t be.”

Heysel blinked tiredly. “So this is the crypt you were so certain we would find. Well done.”

No help from Aldia. Jeremiah had proudly done all this digging himself, after the time traveling enigma had given him this simple direction. But then, Aldia had been extremely quiet anyways. 

Jeremiah growled. “Well, it shouldn’t be empty. There should be artifacts here. Talismans. Statuettes. Weapons.”

“Gold?” Tried a scholar from the back.

“No—well, perhaps. Whatever the case, though, it’s all gone. Where would it go?”

Heysel blinked again, the gravity of the issue seeming to settle in, the progress visible on her face. “...Ah. I see. We were anticipated.”

“Mhmm.”

“So let us leave, uncle, before we fall for this trap any further. Yea?”

As much as Jeremiah hated to admit it… Heysel had a point. Things had been brutally easy to this point, and though lives had been spent guarding this empty chamber, Jeremiah didn’t doubt that Earl Arstor would be willing to waste such lives in an effort to capture the Xanthous King himself, and gain all the glory. Trap this was. “Fine,” he said, and lowered his voice. “To the escape route.”

Heysel opened her mouth to reply but Jeremiah wasn’t around to listen, gesturing with the flick of his wrist and pulling her fellow warriors along with him.

“Uncle,” she beseeched as she followed, “We can’t leave your contingent here.”

“They will catch up,” he said. “They know the way out.”

There it was. Heysel was seething again. “Very well,” she said, “I will retrieve them myself.”

She vanished before Jeremiah could tell her that was a poor idea… But then, it wasn’t really in either of their best interests to stop her, was it?

She would catch up. Heysel hasn’t failed him yet.

Uncle Jeremiah was very much a ‘big picture’ sort of person. Heysel had to learn to adapt accordingly. Where he researched behind the scenes and organized the Scholars, it was Heysel who took up his mantle of de facto leader. See, Uncle only got to enjoy the positive aspects of leadership. Heysel often found herself befriending and managing each of the scholars on a personal, face-to-face level. The whole movement would be dead without her, for certain.

(Some tried to call her the Xanthous Princess. Heysel wasn't nearly so uncaring as her uncle was of his false-monarchhood.)

As the Temple's dark, dreary halls wound on—certainly something to cry about—Heysel followed the trail of destruction left by her uncle's contingent. Which was simple enough: the band seemingly had no trouble at all carving their own plunderous path through these fragile clerics of Caitha, whose bloodied corpses Heysel found strewn about to and fro, marred with the burns of soul arts and forbidden chaotic pyromancies. 

She treated the instances delicately, frowning at one poor decapitated corpse as she gingerly stepped over it. There was something else about this entire situation that she didn't like, she realized. It wasn't about her uncle's blind faith in some weird future-spectre, nor was it even the stench of death which she had grown so accustomed to and yet never learned not to despise. No, these new Scholars who Jeremiah recruited from his recent raids were not true scholars, or even necessarily outcasts. They were soldiers loyal to Jeremiah in gratitude for his freeing them, or more importantly, so long as he paid them. And only for that long. 

Uncle's contingent is of these new soldiers. Perhaps there's a reason why he sent them to plunder for themselves.

Something dark inside of her told her to leave them behind—by the Flame, how could she think such a thing?

The escape route must be quite far away now. Heysel's jog slowed as she came upon a great marble mausoleum. Dim sorcerous torches poorly illuminated it all in the midnight drear, though Heysel was able to make out the bluish silhouette of the crying goddess, knelt on her knees in mourning for the suffering of humanity. The heavy patter of rain echoed off each wall and pillar, and Heysel realized that she had followed Jeremiah's contingent all the way to the surface. Several steps more, she imagined, and she would be able to gaze out the temple entrance, over the grand white stairs, and over the Carimian skyline.

It would be a pretty sight, in its own gothic way.

"Help… me… Please..."

Heysel blinked, her senses returning to her. Grip tight upon her pick, she turned and saw among the many corpses a fallen old woman. She must have survived the initial slaughter, somehow. An innocent who hadn’t gotten the memo, perhaps. Or maybe, rather, a cleric. An enemy.

Heysel knelt by her side. "Are you okay?"

The gentlest shimmer told her that the cleric's eyes were upon her, scrutinizing, and for a passing moment Heysel was painfully aware of all the yellow on her. She swallowed.

"You did this," the woman whimpered. She sounded as if about to cry.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Heysel said. This was why Uncle was adamant about finishing the fight properly.

The woman shook her head, miserable. "...What… What does this madness accomplish?"

"...You wouldn't understand."

Fumbling in her pocket for a moment, she retrieved a vial, shimmering a fool's gold even in the dim of night. The woman's eyes lit up in recognition. "A blessing…?"

"Drink it. It will heal you."

"But… why?"

"No more questions."

Heysel stood then, after gently resting the woman back to he floor, and gazes back out into the mausoleum once more. Still empty, still thick with the sound of beating rain.

Maybe uncle was right. Those marauders of his will be better off caught by the militia after what they've done here tonight.

Silently she turned, refusing to look upon the woman, and slowly made her way back the way she came.

When had life become, well… this? When did it become so necessary to cause so much destruction so blindly, all in the name of a greater goal? Well, “greater”—Heysel couldn’t even see where they were headed!  

She made it around the bend, back into the hall, when something grabbed her from behind.

She didn't even get a chance to open her mouth, to cry out in shock, before a gauntleted hand clasped her lips shut. A spindly little blade scraped the skin of her throat, and something told her that that was not a pleasant way to be cut.

Too close to see, in her periphery she caught the pale gleam of porcelain.

The noise of distress died in her throat.

“Thou wilt cooperate?” Came the voice.

Heysel nodded.

The path was practiced, and methodically planned. Of course it was—Jeremiah had been the one to plan it. The rainslaught pattered on the cobbled streets above, flushing down the drains and into the sewers, mercifully cleansing the place of the gods-awful smell which it undoubtedly must otherwise harbor. Looking past the cholera and basilisks, this stench must also be due in no small part to the Earl of Carim and his murderous open-secret.

Anyways. It shouldn’t be an easy path to forget.

The humble campfire smouldered at the center of Heysel’s trusted collection of warriors, who clearly uncomfortably were accompanied by Jeremiah himself—“Left, right, left, right, down,” he mumbled to himself. “What are you still doing in there?”

Weary, concerned eyes blinked slowly at him and his mumblings, weariest and concernedest among them belonging to— hey .

Jeremiah found the strength in him to look pissed. “Beatrice,” he greeted with faux-amicability. 

“My Xanthous King,” she responded sweetly.

Obedient eyes flitted back and forth between the Xanthous King and the child.

What was her game? When he was her age, he was living with bears and starting fires. Couldn’t say that he ever shook the compulsion for the latter, really. “A pleasure for you to cockroach your way back into my operation. My niece saw fit that you accompany us, mm?”

Beatrice smiled like a funny simile. “Yes. Weren’t you aware?”

“I was plenty aware,” he lied. “I’d have half a mind to ground you, but as we can plainly see, your babysitter is absent.”

She huffed, and crossed her arms. “You’re fooling no one. You’re just mad and you’re taking it out on me.”

“Yea, true, actually.”

“And I don’t need to be babysat.”

“Eh. Whatever you say.”

Was it himself that Heysel saw in her? Was it himself that Jeremiah was seeing?

“Well, that’s enough,” he said, and stood up. “We have waited a good five hours. I think we can say with confidence that Heysel is either outright lost, or… well.”

The heaviness of the words hung in the air, and yet his dissociated little heart couldn’t quite conjure the dread that he suspected he should be feeling. He’d believe it when he saw it.

A woman spoke up from among the quiet scholars, potentially one with a proper spine about her. “Ah… are we to return and search for her?”

“No,” Jeremiah said, his locks waving with the shake of his head. “You lot return to base—and keep word of this incident quiet. Heysel and I will return. Follow proper procedure in event of an absent leader, and if I am not back within the month… then presume me dead.”

This caused a panic, and everyone raised their voices.

“What! But Xanthous King!”

“What are we to do!?”

“Are you leaving us?”

Beatrice, meanwhile, sat awfully smug. Something about her rubbed him the wrong way.

“I’m not going,” she said.

Hardly a gods-damned person heard her, but Jeremiah did. Oh, did Jeremiah hear her. He’d have half a mind to smack her upside the chin, hurl her into a sack, and order her thrown into the woods someplace to earn some proper discipline. But, hell. It didn’t do him any good. And as the complaints rose an octave higher, Jeremiah stroked his chin, gaze fixated upon the little sod. 

Perhaps he should try not stomping the roach for a change.

The woods stretched onward and the moon hung high as Jeremiah trekked back to the city, tailed all the while by the little witch. He tried to ignore her little footsteps, he tried to ignore that little last vestige of his sanity which reminded him that child soldiers are strictly outside of your moral code, Jeremiah.

But perhaps here an exception could be made. He was hardly a good follower of codes to start with, after all.

He leered at her over-shoulder and smiled, again, seeing that she had to jog to keep up with his longer strides. “What does my dear niece see in you, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed, “What does she see in you? All I see is a smelly old man who yells a lot and shoots fire. Well I can yell a lot and shoot fire!” And then she zapped Jeremiah on the back of the head with a cute little blue bolt.

The Xanthous King couldn’t even pretend to be upset about that, past the annoying stench of singed hairs. More annoying than anything. “Well, keep the yelling to a minimum, please,” he said. He stepped over a large fallen log, and took considerable joy in watching Beatrice struggle to follow before huffing again and going around. “...Also, I don’t smell.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too!”

“I do not!”

“Do too, times a thousand.”

“Do NOT! I do NOT smell, you WORM!"

Her awful little grin was back again and in full force. “When’s the last time you bathed?”

“It’s been a few days, alright? But I take great pride in my scent, so do not tempt me!”

“Well you smell like dung. Do you take pride in smelling like dung?”

For hell’s sake. Jeremiah scrunched his nose. “That would be the sewers.” It was rather difficult to tell in the murk of night, especially without any such thing as torchlight which would allow the pair to be easily spotted by the now-alerted city guard, but Jeremiah was fairly confident he had correctly retraced his steps regardless. He had a knack for remembering these sorts of things, after all.

He could practically hear Beatrice pale, the stench growing overpowering exponentially as they approached. “I don’t remember it smelling this bad when we all left earlier.”

“Such as it is, little witch. It’s the sewers. Get used to—”

Jeremiah stepped on something, firm yet squishy. He stopped suddenly, holding his arm out to stop Beatrice, before poking the thing with his foot again.

An arm, or a leg. A gift from the Earl of Carim.

The overcast night was so black, there was thankfully little indication of this much to Beatrice, who Jeremiah could tell was speaking while holding her nose shut. “What is it?”

“Get on my shoulders.” Something in his tone shut her up, and this time his hubris didn’t take that as a victory.

He walked over it, and then another, and then several more, until his feet reached solid cobble, indicative of the sewers proper. So this was a different sewer exit entirely. Go figure.

The smell receded as Jeremiah carried them both further into the tunnels, and the most morbid aspect of himself couldn’t help but wonder if Heysel was among them.

(What did it matter? He wouldn’t know until morning, anyway.)

Beatrice wisely didn’t pry.

Dawn brought with it the ceasing of the rains, though suffice it to say the garish white of the newly lightened cloud cover did little to alleviate that characteristic macabreness of the place. Jeremiah certainly didn’t expect as much, though it was rather interesting seeing how the newcomer Beatrice, who so far was only familiar with the Caithan temple and the sprawling sewers, thought about it.

Though, in these rudimentary dark rags, Jeremiah and Beatrice fit right in with the poor rabble. The Xanthous King always appreciated an espionage which demanded the least work possible.

The streets were hardly filling with their first morning peasants when Beatrice’s big mouth opened. “So… I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh, that never bodes well.” He continued walking. The child kept up. Strong girl. “About how we are going to free my niece from the Earl’s clutches, I’m guessing?”

“Well… if she’s there, right?”

Jeremiah tutted, even though the possibility was definitely there. “Now, what does that kind of pessimism accomplish, exactly?”

Beatrice rolled her eyes. “Well. How’re you going to do it? Where do I go? What do I get to blast?”

“Do you want a real answer?”

“Kind of?”

“I don’t like plans very much. The structuredness, the order. It doesn’t, how you say… agree with me so much.”

“...But… won’t it help? What if I get hurt?”

Jeremiah barked in laughter, enough for several heads to turn towards him. Crowded city streets were fun places to be. “That’s my niece talking. Now you care about your own safety?”

“But don’t you care about mine?”

“Meh. More than I would like to, in truth. Remember, little witch, I’d prefer you hidden far up north until you came of age. But we can’t have it all, can’t we?” And then he pushed forward.

The Bastille was ahead, a dark, looming threat on the populus. A hundred feet in the air and however many more beneath the ground, the Earl treasured his torture palace, a place for prisoners, enemies, and playthings alike. Carim was a dark city, and simply being here reminded Jeremiah of the kinds of things he fought for.

“...I hope they treat her fair.”

The words escaped his lips unconsciously as he stood at the edge of the moat, as near to the bastille as he could stand without rousing too much suspicion. And, frustratingly, Beatrice’s unflinching stare was the most uncomfortable thing about this situation. Here he was dressed in shitty, dingy rags to conceal his allegiance and identity, and the most pathetic part of it all was that some child was about to lord over him emotionally.

What did that mean? Why did he care?

Caring was exhausting. Why did he bother?

“You care about heerrr,” Beatrice singsonged.

“Ahaha. Funny, she teased me about that too, but about you. Not that I actually care about you. You absolute roach.”

Beatrice cackled, and Jeremiah idly considered that she would sound like a proper woods witch, gnarled and creaky, when she was all grown.

“Enough of this,” he said. “We move at sundown. As it is, the morning is far too old.” Then he squinted. “When’s the last you ate?”

Beatrice blinked, like she hadn’t considered it. “Uhh, day before yesterday?”

“By Gwyn’s sodden left tit. Fine, let us find you some food.”

Spending a day in Carim usually wasn’t great for anyone’s health, mental or physical. But Jeremiah was world-wise, and Beatrice, well, she still had plenty of spirit left in her. And the odds of some prostitute being murdered before their eyes were low. So long as they stuck to the city center, where Carim showed its best face to any outsiders, the experience would prove a safe enough one. Where innkeepers eagerly fed weary Caithan pilgrims, where armored women and men patrolled the streets and did away with what little criminal rabble dared show their face before the swathes of rich and influential nobles, whose blessings (and business) the dear Earl Arstor cared so dearly about. Jeremiah could be even safe enough to bare his Xanthous colors if he wished, he was certain. ...Still, best not tempt things. Especially when he had to babysit like this.

It had been quite a while since Heysel had been thirteen, he realized, when Beatrice began acting… older than he expected. How she took others’ needs into consideration before her own, how she looked upon the other city children with pity. She shared her meager meal with a street rat—that is, a poor boy in rags hiding behind the soup kitchen—and Jeremiah was as impressed as he was upset that his copper had gone to waste.

He used to be better. He used to be like this.

All in all… not a terrible day. But not one filling Jeremiah with much joy, either.

Evening came quicker than expected with the help of a quick nap on the street side — “I’m not that tired,” he complained to Beatrice, and something about that exchange made him feel even more sour, if such a thing were possible. What mattered most, though was that the plot of retrieving Heysel was now once more afoot… and the more hours they spent ‘enjoying’ this putrid city, the higher chance there was that something terrible would happen.

But surely they wouldn’t go that far. Not if this truly was a trap to lull Jeremiah in.

“Which it almost certainly is.”

Beatrice’s stare upon him was the impressed sort, Jeremiah felt. “You’re gonna spring the trap?”

“Between that and letting my niece rot, does it look like I have a choice? Besides. I’ll be fine.”

“How do you know?”

“Why do you ask so many useless questions?”

Beatrice frowned. “Because I wanna”

“And that’s why I’ll never fail. I always get what I want.”

Beatrice seemed genuinely stunned at that, though mercifully she didn’t do as Heysel would and continue to prod. She seemed eager to be swept up in Jeremiah’s confidence, even.

Well, she could nary be blamed for that. Jeremiah’s confidence had nary led him astray, after all.

And how a cockroach thrives when left unsquashed. Jeremiah watched as the girl operated near-totally independently of him, casting expert illusory spells over herself as she followed Jeremiah in his infiltration. Where the hell could a little girl possibly learn such tricks? Apart from Heysel, of course.

He smiled at her through the Carimian helmet, purloined off a poor man who was now unceremoniously stuffed inside a wine barrel. It’d been Beatrice who’d so helpfully distracted the sod. Jeremiah had ensured that she missed the ensuing violence, though given her proclivities, he didn't doubt that she was witness to the murder, anyway. “You miss her, too. My niece.”

Beatrice, having taken the form of someone else entirely—at eye level, fascinating—frowned. “Well—she’s your niece.”

“Mm. Methinks we both would gain quite a bit from freeing her.”

Beatrice didn’t answer.

“Hey… you,” someone rasped. “I would appreciate some water.”

The voice was so striking, Jeremiah nearly stumbled. He had been searching this putrid labyrinth for nearly an hour with Beatrice in tow, and to be here now felt almost unreal. But then, he had quite a short attention span to begin with.

It took all he had to not snap his head in the prisoner’s direction, but he already knew that he’d found what they’d come for. Quite rapidly, too, it seemed that Heysel had realized who was in the guard’s suit.

They regarded each other in silence a moment, before Jeremiah nodded. Right—best to keep the sounds of happy reunion for after the escape.

“Hi,” Beatrice said, smile in her voice, ruining everything.

Heysel took an extra moment to recognize the one who had accompanied Jeremiah while he sighed. A smile crossed her face for merely a moment before it fell. “Wait.”

“Wait what?” Jeremiah whispered. He fumbled with his keyring—which blasted one was it? 

“No,” she whispered, pleadingly. “Uncle. You have to leave. Take her, and leave. ”

Sounds about right. Jeremiah glared at Beatrice, who merely shrugged, “Because this is an ambush?”

“It’s too late, uncle. You have to leave, now.”

“I came this far after a whole day of searching. A whole day! I may as well get what I came here for.”

Heysel hissed. “We’re being watched!”

With a click, the cell door swiveled open, and Jeremiah gestured with a dramatic flair. “Can you walk?”

“Yes,” Heysel huffed, standing with a start and storming out of her cell. She pointedly made for Beatrice’s disguised form, who utterly failed to hide her elation at Heysel’s freeing, wrapping her arms around the woman. Heysel sighed and welcomed the embrace. “You got here while working with my uncle…”

Beatrice beamed. “Yup.”

“He’s lucky to have you.”

Ah. That was directed at him, too. He was growing quickly weary of all this baggage that everyone apparently had towards him.

Heysel continued. “They took my things, and I was roughed up a bit, but they didn’t touch me otherwise. I didn’t tell them anything, either.”

“Which all but confirms—”

“That I’m bait. Yes. Since you’ve already endangered us all, can we go?”

“Doubtful, according to you. But why don’t we try?”

Heysel scowled, but already they were on the move.

The halls in this plasted place were so damn creepy. Skeletons filled some cells; in others, fresh corpses. The torches were blue with sorcery and really quite stung stung the eyes, though this also entailed fewer guardsmen necessary to maintain the light. That said… where the hell were all the guardsmen, anyways?

“You remember your way out, yes, Uncle?” Heysel whispered.

Jeremiah said nothing. 

“Great,” she sighed.

Surely he couldn’t be that lost. He’d—he’d climbed onto the roof initially and made his way down, so—so the exit was, had been, left, right, and then—no. “Who the hell put this wall here?”

There was a wall blocking their path.

“Illusory magic,” Heysel whispered, and ran a hand across its surface. “And damn well-cast, as well. Feels almost solid.”

“Is that Artor’s plan? Is he trying to starve us?” Jeremiah asked incredulously. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. Was ‘exhilaration’ the right term for what he was feeling, here?

A light, almost fragile tap came upon Jeremiah’s shoulder. Slowly, he turned. Beatrice looked quite a bit paler than usual.

“Creepy lady nearby.”

And slowly, Jeremiah turned the other direction. And so it was.

She stood utterly alone some half-dozen cell blocks down. Silhouetted in the blue of the torchlight, Jeremiah found it near-impossible to make her out. Her robes swayed a bit in the light draft, or maybe she was just shifting her weight, like in how a cat shifted its haunches when about to pounce.

Déjà vu.

“Heysel. Follow the draft.” Surely there must be an exit, a window, something.

The previous ire had boiled away for the moment. “You’ll be fine, uncle?”

“She’s after me. What matters is that you will be fine.”

Beatrice protested, “How do you know?”, but was pulled away by Heysel not a moment after opening her mouth. The little cockroach had better help Jeremiah’s poor limping niece, because he was about to be occupied.

A moment later, they were apparently alone.

Hmm. Nope. That definitely is not exhilaration that I am feeling.

...For Izalith’s sake. “How long do you plan to stand there? I am beginning to think Artor’s plan is to starve us all to death.”

No response.

Jeremiah raised an open hand. “Then kindly turn around and walk the other way, please.” 

No response.

It hadn’t been as if he’d expected her to follow his order. But still, Jeremiah couldn’t help his disappointment. And he couldn’t help his anxiety, either. He’d managed to off a good two dozen fully-armored knights not even a full twenty-four hours prior, when he ravaged the temple of “Caitha”. But then, they’d all been charging at him in hordes. This woman was just kind of… staring.

Staring.

“Stop that, already!” He raised his palm, and loosed a broiling jet of flame.

The figure ducked beneath the blast and dashed right towards him, and the moment Jeremiah recognized the pale mask, he saw all he needed to see.

Ahh. Lord’s Blade. That explained it. Jeremiah took great pride in never being afraid without good rea—

Lord Gwyn’s lap dog was upon him in less than a second, and Jeremiah hardly even had time to clumsily fumble for his whip before a firm kick to the chest sent him sprawling on his back. He was forced to roll, breath not even having returned, as the Lord’s Blade leapt atop where he’d been a second ago.

No words. Only blood. And his pounding heart was full of it.

He was on his feet, and forced to forgo his favorite whip for his purloined straight sword. Still, he was smiling. He was right! “It was you, wasn’t it? You who killed me that first time, in the woods outside my home! You who—”

She swiped at him. Her golden arc was gorgeous and ethereal, but Jeremiah knew the stories. He’d dodged seconds before he heard the thwip of what must be that wretched, invisible silver blade. “Let! Me! Finish!” 

The invigoration stuttered but came through. He was out of breath and his chest ached and damn it, FOCUS! YOU’RE FIGHTING FOR YOUR LIFE AGAIN! KILL HER! KILL HER!

He bared his teeth. “You dare attack my family?” he snarled, blasting a broiling plume of fire in the Lord’s Blade’s direction, only for her to dance right out of the way. She kicked off of the wall and circled onto the ceiling and then was on the other wall, and what the hell was this woman!?

The mask jolted forward and nipped at Jeremiah’s arm with the point of her tracer—he wasn’t sure which one. He threw his sword at her—she deflected it and it sparked against the cobbled wall. He tried to strike her with his whip, though the attack proved pathetic at such close range, and dark conditions. He might as well be punching her.

So he did just that. She sheathed her golden blade in his stomach, and caught his fist. Then, with crushing force, she broke his hand.

Jeremiah screamed, pressing his free palm against her chest and letting loose everything he had. The very earth shook and sharp knives dug into his eardrums, and he was blind, and hobbling away pathetically in the opposite direction. His whip—he’d dropped it somewhere, and the bloody Lord’s Blade had yanked her blade free of his gut at the same time, too. Porcelain mask or no, she was just as blind as he, she had to be, and damn him if he wasn't going to take advantage of that. 

His fingertips rapped against bricks and rusty iron bars while he hobbled towards the cool draft, the copious blood all over him offering better direction than could be asked for. He still couldn’t see anything, and little mumbles escaped past his lips. “Oh Heysel… Oh Heysel, please tell me you made it out… made it out… Oh Heysel…”

He grunted as his head collided against an unexpected wall, and a rush of blood escaped from his stinging nose. He fell to his knees right there, and tasting iron, started to breathe through his mouth.

He leaned his forehead against the wall, and shivered.

Come on, Jeremiah. Come on, Xanthous King. Don’t tell me you’re giving up. Don’t tell me you’re resigning yourself. Not now. Not this early.

Slow, deathly footsteps sounded from behind, above the ringing of his ears. Jeremiah swiveled his head, wincing at the dizziness that followed, and strained to identify the Lord’s Blade’s silhouette.

There she was again. Her robes were in tatters, the frayed edges still aglow with embers. And her smouldering braid, slung over-shoulder, too. 

Jeremiah grinned. “Did it hurt?”

She tilted her head. “Yes. Quite a bit.” Her voice was lilted and smooth like ice.

So the lap dog can speak. Jeremiah hazarded bringing a hand up to hold his bloody nose. The Lord’s Blade didn’t strike. He took that as a good sign. “...You are strong, you know that? Would you perhaps be willing to negotiate?”

No response, but again, no more stabbing either. She wasn’t here to kill him—she had to know better, now. She had to know that he was Undead.

He said, “If you lock me up, you will… never get any answers from me. Do you understand that? I know… things… Things I am certain the Great Lord is itching to know himself…”

The Lord’s Blade tilted her head, popping a vertebra or two. “Anything thou canst tell the Great Lord, thou canst tell me.”

Jeremiah chuckled, unintentionally spitting blood all over the place, but what was a drop in the bucket at this point? “Be… Believe it or not, Lord’s Blade. But this meeting between us was foretold.”

A total bluff. Aldia so far has been the opposite of helpful if anything.

“A poor foretelling it must be,” she purred, “for thee to be so easily cornered.”

“Admittedly, there have been some… miscalculations… on my part. Perhaps chief among them allowing a child to accompany me on this dangerous mission.”

“The child will be unharmed, as with thy niece,” the Lord’s Blade said, and Jeremiah found himself oddly appeased at her quick response. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised.“Now what kind of foretelling is this, where such miscalculations are allowed to be made?”

“Well… heh. Be prepared to disbelieve.” There was perhaps the slightest hesitation surfacing in there, the tiniest mote of maybe I shouldn’t do this, the consideration that in doing this I might put everything on the line.

The Mask tilted her head. “Disbelief or madness, Xanthous King, I have heard it all. Pray thee speak.”

Jeremiah was quiet for a moment, and allowed his slowly-adjusting eyes to dwell from the mask to the cobbled ground, darkened and dusty and stained with what must be years’ worth of torture and gore. This place… it reeks with death. With the gases of rotten flesh, wafting up though the grates below. With… flammable, flammable matter.

No wonder his explosion had been so powerful earlier.

He didn’t even risk a witty quip before clutching his fist, and igniting the whole place once again.

Through the flames the Lord’s Blade charged, and the two were on fire as Jeremiah was pinned to the cobble below. Her horrid pale mask stared beckoning into his soul. She looked like a demon.

She raised her cruel, golden sword, with visceral intent.

She doesn’t need my hands to jail me.

Jeremiah clutched the bristles of her silver tracer, wincing as his opposite limb was hacked off. The Lord’s Blade realized too late what Jeremiah had done, and as she lifted from his body, the whole bastille ablaze around them, he thought he saw in her eyes a sting of sour indignance.

Was that all he was to her?

The white faded to black, and it embraced him.

“Ahh. Xanthous King Jeremiah. Leader of the infamous Xanthous Scholars, drinker of black coffee. How goes things, in your deep, forgotten past?”

"...Alright, I think." Jeremiah dared to crack his eyes open. He had all of his hands. He had all of his blood. The stone beneath his arse wasn’t on fire nor filthy with death. "Where were you?"

The sky was bright and blue and the sun glared past intermittent clouds. Above him stood Aldia, handsome, bearded, smiling—or smirking, maybe. Jeremiah was a little too frazzled to differentiate between the two at the moment. He sipped his tea, and Jeremiah grunted as he stood.

Back at Aldia’s dream observatory.

He didn’t falter one bit under Jeremiah’s scrutinizing glare, and between him and the Lord’s Blade the Xanthous King was frankly beginning to feel a little inadequate. “Your question is a most fair one, my friend.”

“Don’t coddle me, spectre. I want an answer.”

Aldia shook his head, the wrinkles around his eyes mocking him. “Xanthous King, you will find that there are some things that you must simply trust. You have trusted me thus far, and what have you suffered for it?”

Quite suddenly Aldia was behind him. Jeremiah successfully resisted flinching. “Allow me to speak frankly,” he said, “and in a manner which you will best understand,” Aldia said, and his smile fell. “There are indeed machinations at work, my machinations, the mere knowledge of which at your level capable of diverting our course in a manner which neither you nor I could even conceive. You are a blind sailor, Xanthous King, and must trust in your captain.”

“Forgive me for my understandable mistrust, then,” Jeremiah murmured. Heysel was right. Aldia was an asshole. “Now that the Lord’s Blade is on my tail, we might start to meet actual resistance.”

“The pets of Gwyn are of little consequence, Xanthous King.” He wasn’t even looking at him!

Jeremiah leapt to his feet, balling his fists. “You saw how close she was to capturing me, to ending all of this!”

“She came close, perhaps,” Aldia said, “or perhaps she was nowhere near.”

“Which is it, then? Give me something.”

“Just keep in mind what I told you. Are you currently locked up in the Painted World, Xanthous King?”

Well, no, but… Bloody hell. Of course it was fine. He couldn’t well complain to Aldia that he’d gotten a good scare. He was the Xanthous King. The Xanthous King was immune to that.

Aldia chuckled like he could read Jeremiah’s mind, which he damned well had better not be able to do. “We get along for good reason, dear Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah sucked in a slow breath. Focus. “So… stay my course.”

“I know that is a hard command to accept.”

“And what if my course strays from what you desire?”

He cracked a smile. “It will not come to that.”

Heysel was waiting for him when the bonfire sputtered to life, the long-traveled ashes of an Undead culminating once more, filled with life by the grace of the Flame. Jeremiah rolled to his knees, coughing and sputtering. Wordlessly she offered her uncle a cold sprite of Humanity, and he absorbed it into himself. Only then did his human features return to him, and he could breathe easily once more.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Heysel,” He said. “This is my fault.”

Heysel sighed. “At least you acknowledge as much, Uncle… Come here.” She pulled him into a hug, and Jeremiah allowed himself a moment to be surprised before accepting her warmth.

“How’s, ah… how’s the child?”

She smiled smugly. “She’s fine.”

He didn’t bring up Aldia. Wouldn’t do much good to do so, anyways.