Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

        Irithyll dungeon is absolutely horrid. The brickwork you walk on is slick with blood and feces and fragments of bone, with the stench to match. Tortured screams and the scurrying of feet and haggard, inhuman breathing emanates from the floors above you. You’ve walked countless active combat zones, drenched with blood and littered with hacked-open corpses, but none of them have ever made you feel the level of revulsion and terror that you are steeped in now.

        It had been a harrowing fight down to the lowest levels of the dungeon. You haven’t found a single human prisoner in this place, just hollows and the occasional malformed abomination. They had all clearly been human at one point, but prolonged imprisonment in this place has long since robbed any trace of that from them.

        The jailers of Irithyll dungeon, by contrast, although clearly in a state of undeath similar to your own, are almost jarringly human. Despite their unearthly floor-length robes and childlike face masks, they scream as men do when your pyromancies consume them in flame, and their ability to perform a hideously unpleasant life-draining spell evidences that they are entirely sound of mind.

        Their weapons are odd, too. Instead of the usual swords or halberds, they favor branding irons.They hadn’t seemed terribly effective… until a jailer had pinned you to the blood and shit-stained floor beneath its hot end. Even through your brigandine cuirass and arming doublet, that burn had still taken far too much magical healing to reverse. You suspect that the irons are intended more for use against the occupants of the dungeon, rather than intruders. The ends are shaped like a circle with an inverted letter Y in the center; the symbol probably has some significance, although you’re clueless as to what it could be.

        You would almost prefer it if the jailers were as unquestionably inhuman as the prisoners. You’d still cut them down without remorse, as you had already done; you know full well that being human does not necessarily preclude one from being a monster. Still, it’s disturbing to think that anyone other than the most insane hollow could endorse this.

        You’re on the very bottom level of this wretched place now. The floor here is strewn with corpses of hollows in various states of decay and dismemberment, plus a few incinerated jailers that you’ve added to the piles. It seems this level is used as a combination sewer and mass grave for the dungeon, in addition to an active prison block. You found a key ring further up, but most of the cells were unlocked; the jailers don’t seem to bother when their hollow prisoners lack the strength to lift the bars anyway. Because of this, it piques your curiosity when you find one that’s still sealed tightly. It takes some struggling against the layers of rust to get it open, but the key finally turns just before you were about to melt away the lock with your Pyromancy Flame.

        You scan the cell. Unusually, the feces in here seems mostly confined to the small wooden toilet off to one side. The chains bolted into the back wall hold no prisoner; in fact, the cell seems completely deserted. Why were they keeping it locked then? You’re about to turn to leave, before—

        “Mmh… back again?”

        You nearly jump out of your armor at the light, feminine voice. With practiced instinct, you reach for the arming sword at your waist, but stop once you identify the speaker. Curled in the right-side corner of the cell, there’s a black, shredded ball of fabric topped with a drooping pointed hat. She’s camouflaged surprisingly well in the murk, and you get the impression that she’s attempting to make herself as small as possible.

        “H-haven’t forgotten me?” she spits out bitterly, her voice hoarse from disuse and shaky from fear. “How sweet. Good to know that a skinny little heretic can still turn heads.” The comment would have made you blush, were it not for the utter malice in her words. The woman cowers even further from you, trembling in her ratty black dress. You don’t dare take another step closer.

        “W-what are you waiting for? Do as you wish. Just… get on with it.”

        She raises her head to look at you, and a face emerges from under the brim of her hat. You can immediately tell she’s Irithyllian, but even so, her skin is almost frighteningly colorless. Her cheeks are gaunt and sunken, but there’s a spark of intelligence in her slate-gray eyes that reveals she hasn’t yet gone hollow. They gleam with a mixture of relief and confusion.

        “Hm? Oh, you're not… not one of them? Who...” She shifts forward slightly in her corner, examining you. Her eyes are drawn magnetically to the Flame flickering in your open palm. “Ahh… a pyromancer?”

        You take a knee in front of her, to which she startles slightly. “Yes. Who are you?”

        She ignores the question, gently shaking her head from side to side in disbelief. “No, no… too surreal. Must be dreaming again.”

        “I certainly didn’t dream of almost getting killed by the jailers to get down here. What do you mean?"

        The emaciated woman uncurls slightly from her ball, somewhat relaxing from her previous tension. You’re relieved that her fear seems to be easing. “Ah... m-my apologies, for mistaking you for one of those leeches.” She shudders again. “Intruders… don’t live long. If I’m not dreaming, you’d best run; get out of here. This is no place for a lady.”

        You bite back a spark of anger at her last comment. Leave without her? Running certainly sounds like a solid plan; the undead jailers won’t stay dead forever, but there’s no way you can just abandon an obviously distressed woman in a place like this. Although you know nothing about her or how she’s found herself in here, the decision is obvious, and you make it without a second thought.

        “I could say the same to you. I’d prefer not to leave you here, if I can help it. I can get you out of here, and save you from those ‘leeches,’ but we’ll have to move quickly.”

        “Save me? But... I am guilty. This prison is for monsters, and I am no exception.” She retreats from you slightly, curling back into her ball.

        Underneath your surprise, you twinge with internal pain. Irithyll dungeon is clearly not a place where criminals are sent to be rehabilitated after being given due process; it seems impossible that anyone could be kept here justly. You glance behind you out at the filth-caked dungeon, then back to her.

        “No one deserves this.”

        She looks away from you, her voice wavering. "I-I would not be so sure of that if I were you, lady pyromancer."

        You release a frustrated exhale and rise to your feet. Briefly, you consider abiding by her wishes and continuing without her, but you just as quickly dash the idea. Whatever she was so afraid of the jailers doing to her, allowing them to do it again is out of the question.

        “If I were to escape with you, do you have somewhere to go home to?”

        “Home…” You’re unprepared for the sudden blossoming of grief across her features. “No. It… it’s just been so long, I…” She sighs deeply. “I don’t know.”

        Unfortunate, but this is just the sort of situation you’ve become acquainted with on your travels. “Well, would you like to come with me? I’ve been offering refuge to humans and the unhollowed at Firelink Shrine, and we’ve got a small community going. I’d expect that you’re innocent of whatever they put you in here for, but as long as you’re not a murderer or something, I’d be happy to have you.”

        She considers your proposal for a moment that drags on surprisingly long. “You would... truly take me? But, I am a wretched spawn of the Abyss, and far from innocent. The Pontiff Sulyvahn… he has sentenced me here for my heresies against the Way of White. Is that really something you can forgive, lady pyromancer?" Her tone suggests that her questioning is rhetorical. "I have no skills; at least, nothing that could be of use to your little community."

        “That’s not why I’m offering refuge to people.”

        It takes her a few seconds to process this. She seems briefly lost in thought, before she glances to the empty chains dangling from the back wall, and you catch a tiny wince from her.

        “...Hm. Then you are certainly no ordinary woman. Very well. Besides, I…” She searches for words momentarily. “...I've grown tired of my imprisonment. I am Karla of Irithyll, and I accept your offer."

        She attempts to stand, only to groan from the exertion.

        “Do you need help?” You offer her the hand that’s not enwreathed in your Pyromancy Flame.

        “No, I-I’ve got it.”

        You can almost hear her bones creaking as she gradually rises to her feet. For a moment, it seems as if she does have it, until she tries to take a step and immediately collapses to her knees. You wordlessly offer your hand again, and although she winces in shame, she accepts it nonetheless. The hand that she places in yours is nearly skeletal.

        Once on her feet, she promptly stumbles again. Clear that this isn’t going to work, you resort to providing her a human crutch, placing one of her arms around your shoulders while sliding one of yours around her waist to hold her upright. It’s not the first time you’ve carried an injured comrade out of a combat zone, and you doubt it’ll be the last.

        "I must apologize for my weakness, lady pyromancer."

        "Don't worry about it."

        For a woman of her size, Karla is frighteningly light. As a mage, you lack the physical strength possessed by most of your fellow warriors, but supporting the majority of her weight still requires a worryingly small amount of effort. It makes the trek back to the surface easier than anticipated, but all the more urgent.

        The exit route takes you to an outdoor walkway that’s been built into a cliff face. Night has long since fallen, and the northern mountain wind is freezing, but you won’t complain about the fresh air after spending hours in the rank dungeon. The walkway provides a spectacular view of Archdragon Peak and its surrounding mountain range, which Karla cranes her neck to get a proper look at. A sudden gust of wind buffets her, and she snatches the brim of her hat to prevent it from being blown away.

        “I… I’m really not dreaming, am I?” She stares wide-eyed at the distant mountains, her tone awed.

        “Not sure why you would be.” You hold her a bit tighter in the chilly air.

        After unlocking the door to the lift, returning to the upper levels of the dungeon doesn’t take long. Even so, you notice Karla has developed a limp that’s been growing in severity, and the weight she exerts on your shoulders has only seemed to increase over time. She’s in clear need of a break right now, but you can’t risk giving the jailers more time to resurrect.

        “Just a little bit further; there’s only one more flight of stairs between us and the exit.”

        “I can manage just fine.”

        The lift exits into what appears to be a breakroom for the jailers. Several unused masks and robes lay discarded on chairs lining the room, and Karla clings particularly tightly to your body as you traverse through the silent audience of empty masks. Ordinarily, you’d be looting the jailers’ personal effects for anything of value, but this time you decline to do so. You get the feeling that Karla wouldn’t appreciate rifling through their ghastly uniforms.

        Cautiously exiting the room, you peek around the next corner and immediately find yourself in the red glow of a jailer’s life-draining spell. You jump back in terror as you feel your body begin to wither.

        “Shit, they’re already resurrecting!” you shoot a whisper to Karla.

        There have to be at least five of them all concentrated in the next hallway. Most of them seem to be preoccupied with putting down an uproar from the cages full of hollows that litter the floor. There’s only one way back to the exit, and it’s the staircase on the other side of that crowd.

        Again, you instinctually go for your arming sword, only for you to find your right hand still supporting Karla by her waist. Your mind races. A single Fire Orb spell won’t be enough to finish even one of them, but that’s all you’ll get before all five rush you with their branding irons, only for you to be caught with no melee capability. You’d have to set Karla down to even stand a chance, and your odds would still be slim to none when outnumbered—

        “Give me a bit of your Flame.”

        You pause, raising a puzzled confused eyebrow at Karla. “You don’t mean—”

        “I do. Share it with me.”

        “That would be highly irresponsible.” Your Pyromancy Flame is a piece of your soul; the thought of offering up a part of yourself like that to a complete stranger causes you to inwardly cringe.

        “I know a pyromancy that can take care of the jailers, but they’ve long since put out my Flame. Give me some of yours.”

        It takes you another moment of consideration before you come to a decision. Your odds still aren’t great, but they’ll be better than they otherwise would be if she can open the combat with a powerful pyromancy. That alone would make the taboo worth it.

        Cautiously, you present her with the orb of fire held in your palm. She clasps your hand without hesitation, extending her fingers into the flame with no regard for her own safety. You’re about to wince at what will undoubtedly give her a lasting burn, when a rush of new sensation overtakes you.

        For the briefest moment, you can feel Karla’s soul touch your own. Your mind registers a pleasant texture, her soul soft yet cool against your own burning warmth. It’s a nervous and fleeting contact, like brushing up against a stranger in a crowded place as you walk by. You involuntarily recoil from the unexpected contact, and she withdraws from you a moment later.

        When you look back at her, Karla is cradling a tiny mote of fire close to her chest. She’s taking deep, measured breaths, the Flame in her hand flickering and pulsating with each inhale. A glance at her face reveals an expression that’s almost on the verge of tears.

        “Ohh... it’s been far too long. You have my thanks for this, lady pyromancer.”

        There isn’t much more time for her to spend appreciating her rekindled power. She lurches toward the corner, and you continue to hold her upright as she prepares to cast her spell. As she reels her arm back, the Flame you’ve given her shifts to an unearthly black. Its fire continues to lick at her palm, but its color has gone deep as pitch, outlined in a ghostly white glow.

        Swinging her body around the corner, she hurls the black orb into the room of jailers just as they silence the last cage of hollows. The projectile splits into three in midair, each one colliding with a separate jailer and punching gaping holes straight through their ribcages. They don’t even scream as they fall. The two remaining jailers raise their irons and begin to charge, until trails of black fire erupt from the corpses and streak in serpentine paths towards them. The darkness doesn't seem to burn, but rather rips their robes and flesh asunder until both crumple in dismembered heaps.

        “Holy shit.” you breathe out in relief, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

        Entering the now-empty hall, Karla sneers at the grisly scene she’s created. You carry her past a jailer that fell near the middle of the area, and she launches a wad of spit directly at its mask.

        “That felt good.”

        You’re preoccupied with examining the jailers’ corpses that have been eviscerated by the spell. Their robes and flesh do not appear to be burned, as your pyromancies would inflict, but instead viciously shredded by the black fire. You’re well aware that dark pyromancies exist, although you’ve never seen one cast before. Every time you’d found a tome of such magic, your old pyromancy trainer had staunchly refused to teach you.

        Karla knows dark pyromancies, then, ones that would get you exiled from any reputable pyromancer circle. Her black Flame, style of dress, and the physical damage to the jailers all abruptly click together in your mind.

        “Oh, you’re a hexer!”

        You barely have time to register her sudden panic. To your shock, she immediately wrenches herself free from your grasp, slipping from your arms and collapsing backwards onto her rear. She hurries to put distance between the two of you, scurrying across the floor into the nearest corner.

        “...Yes. I am.”

        A painfully tense silence falls between the two of you. She’s glaring at you with all her might, while you stand dumbfounded and clueless of your transgression.

        “You can leave me now, if you want. I told you this prison is for monsters.”

        The declaration is even more bewildering to you. “Are you kidding? That was awesome!” Her glare immediately transforms into outright surprise. “You’re clearly a more talented mage than me; it’d be a travesty to let you rot down here.”

        “I would very much beg to differ, but… if you say so. I shouldn’t be complaining about a rescue.”

        As you offer her your hand once again, she hesitates, but soon grasps it firmly. Karla feels less tense in your arms now, her fear giving way to exhaustion.

        The bonfire from which you first warped into the dungeon is right around the next corner. Karla’s weight lifts from your shoulders as you set her down in front of it, and with her is lifted the weight of your stress. This respite won’t last long, as you’ll have much to do once you arrive with her at Firelink Shrine, but you’re both making the most of it. You’re just glad that she finally has a chance to rest that bad ankle she’s been limping on.

        You extend your hand into the bonfire’s flames, and both you and Karla disappear in twin whirls of ash.

Chapter Text

        The warp between bonfires doesn’t give you much time to rest. You’ve been struck with far too many branding irons for your liking over the last few hours, and a heavy exhaustion has settled into your bones. As much as you’d love to doff your armor and bathe away the filth of Irithyll dungeon, ensuring Karla’s health and safety takes priority over your comfort. The moment you reappear in the atrium of Firelink Shrine, you’re already springing into action once again.

        “Before anything else, we should get you some healing magic. That limp isn’t looking good, and I want to minimize the risk of disease spreading.”

        Mm.” Karla acknowledges, although she doesn’t seem happy about it. She doesn’t have any visible wounds, but her severely weakened state still warrants a visit to the Shrine’s resident healing mage. A lengthy imprisonment in a place like that can’t have left one unscathed.

        The whoosh of the bonfire is enough to attract the other residents’ attention, but not enough to pull them away from whatever they were doing beforehand. A few faces peek out of hallways and alcoves, seeing the new arrival, though they quickly retreat back into the Shrine. Eygon, the knight from Carim, is leaning against a hallway entrance nearby; he briefly looks up at you from fiddling with a buckle on his armor, then looks right back down and continues.

        You attempt to help Karla to her feet again, only for her to cry out in pain as the ankle she had previously been limping on twists at an unnatural angle. Her weight collapses into you as she doubles over.

        “Can I get some help here?” you call out, but Eygon has already disappeared down the hallway. None of the other residents bother to peek out again. Just as your shoulders slump in frustration, the Fire Keeper stands from her resting place on the steps, approaching the bonfire to greet you.

        “Welcome home, Ashen One. Who is this?”

        “Firekeeper, meet Karla of Irithyll. She’s injured; I’m gonna need some help getting her to Irina’s room.”

        “Of course; right away.”

        Karla’s eyes track the Fire Keeper’s movements, half-narrowed. “You have a Fire Keeper here.” she observes dryly. She glances back up at you and asks, “Who’s Irina?”

        “A Way of White nun from Carim, and the closest thing we have to a medic. She’s the only one of us that knows healing magic.”

        You catch a slight grimace from her. “Oh. I see.”

        “Is there something wrong with that?”

        “It’s just… I don’t think any Way of White follower would want anything to do with someone like me.”

        Oh, right. Hexer.

        “Eh, I know Irina, and she’s nothing like that. You could say she tends not to judge based on appearances.”

        “Mm.” Karla seems to relax, although she keeps her tight frown.

        After taking a moment to coordinate, the two of you manage to lift Karla with your forearms under her armpits, and the Fire Keeper holding her by the knees. She feels a lot heavier when she’s not on her feet, although with the Fire Keeper’s help, it’s still not much of a struggle.

        Irina’s space occupies the end of a side hallway, which she’s set up as her personal quarters in addition to the Shrine’s makeshift infirmary. Each and every one of the Shrine’s residents have required a visit here at some point, although you’re far more closely acquainted with it than most. The space features a cot in its center and stacks of Irina’s braille spellbooks off to the side, in addition to the usual straw mattress in all of the residents’ sleeping spaces.

        Irina is already standing by the cot, while Eygon now stands watchfully in the corner of her room. “Ashen One? You’ve brought someone with you this time?”

        You and the Firekeeper carefully lower Karla onto the cot. Eygon is quick to voice his displeasure, emphatically holding his hand over the nose of his helmet.

        “Ugh, the stench! Where’d you find this one?”

        It’s difficult to notice after traversing through Irithyll dungeon for so long, but the deathly stench of that place still clings to Karla’s skin and seeps from her clothes. You briefly wonder how long it’s been since she last had the opportunity to bathe. 

        “Although the smell is... objectionable, healing the wounded takes priority. They can bathe once I’ve looked them over.” Irina replies sternly. Eygon emits a displeased hum, but doesn't protest.

        Karla sits up slightly to get a better look at Irina, although she’s cautious, making sure to keep as great of a distance as the narrow cot will allow. The healer’s eyes do not meet hers, nor are they focused on the tome to her side as she runs her hand over its pages. You can see the exact moment that Karla realizes Irina is blind.

        “So you’re the doctor here?”

        Irina is calm, although she moves and speaks with the same urgency that she typically does when you come in covered in open wounds. “Oh, I’m not formally trained in medicine; I just perform healing miracles. And you are?”

        “Uh, Karla of Irithyll. I suppose I’ll be living here now.”

        “Ah. I’m Irina of Carim, and my companion here is Eygon.” She gestures to the tower of black armor in the corner. “Further introductions can wait until I find out what’s wrong with you, though. You don’t seem to be in pain, which is good; are there any immediate concerns I should know about?”

        “Um, no, not that I can think of.”

        You shoot Karla a questioning glance, before interjecting yourself. “She isn’t able to walk on her own. I had to hold her up on our way here, and she was limping pretty heavily. She also might be carrying contagious diseases; we’re coming from Irithyll dungeon, which isn’t exactly the most sanitary environment.”

        Eygon exhales sharply. “Figures.”

        Karla snaps her gaze to you and bristles. Her expression is somewhere between shock and embarrassment, while you’re left wondering why revealing the information was so objectionable. Irina nods, unable to see the hexer's discomfort. She produces a silver chime from her bag, and Karla subtly jolts away from her at the sight, unnoticed by the healer.

        “Do you want me to give you some privacy?” you ask, addressing them both at once. You’d hate to leave Karla’s side, although right now your presence may not be as appreciated as you’d hope.

        “No. I’d much rather you stay.” Karla responds with a hint of desperation. You’re silently thankful for it.

        Irina’s chime rings as she begins the casting, and you feel yourself starting to relax purely on reflex. The jingling of her holy chime is a sound you’ve grown to enjoy. It signifies the relief of pain, her miracles mending the more grievous injuries that you aren’t able to treat in the field. Even when you aren’t the one on the cot, the sound alone is still remarkably soothing.

        It almost stuns you, then, when that same ringing drives Karla into an utter panic. You can see the exact moment her face shifts from nervous apprehension to outright terror. She shoots upright on the cot, before flinging herself off and scrambling a short distance down the hall on her hands and knees. For a person who lacks the strength to support her own weight on two legs, she’s still shockingly mobile.

        You hesitantly pursue for a few steps, but halt when she curls herself into a ball in the hallway, in a position similar to the one you first found her in. She’s looking right at you, but there’s an immense distance in her eyes, as if she’s staring at something a hundred miles behind you.

        “...Karla?”

        Her name seems to bring her back to reality somewhat. She focuses her eyes at you first, then to Irina, who seems somewhat confused as to what's just happened.

        “Keep that blasted ringing magic away from me.”

        Irina is quick to offer reassurance. “This is a basic Detect Injury and Disease divination miracle. You won’t even feel it.”

        Karla doesn’t move. Her whole body is tensed as she continues to stare, boring a hole right through the healer with her eyes.

        “I can use a talisman instead of a chime, if the ringing is what bothers you.”

        She doesn’t relax. “...Okay.”

        Karla accepts your help to stand and walk back over to the cot. She’s still reluctant to reseat herself on it, approaching it as a rabbit might investigate a baited snare.

        Irina reaches into her bag and exchanges the silver chime for an ivory talisman. There’s no ringing this time, but Irina’s rhythmic recital still puts you into a state of relaxation. You have no idea what language the holy scripture is spoken in or what its words mean, but her perfectly maintained meter still comes across clearly. To your relief, it seems to have the same effect on Karla now that the ringing is absent.

        It takes a few minutes for Karla’s distress to slowly bleed out of her. She’s still very much on-guard, although the signs of her agitation are lessening. The exaggerated rise and fall of her chest steadily slows and becomes more shallow as she acclimatizes to the stimulus. It would be a stretch to call her calm, but at least she’s not actively panicking anymore. Irina doesn’t stop reciting the miracle, but as the casting progresses, the worry written on her face becomes increasingly evident. She remains steadfastly focused on her task, even as she’s wincing at whatever the divination reveals. She completes the miracle in short order, but pauses to sigh before revealing her findings.

        “The good news first: you aren’t carrying any contagious diseases, and you have no open wounds or infections. You should be relieved to know that I won’t need to cast any more miracles on you.”

        Immediately after the casting finishes, Karla pulls herself up into a sitting position as quickly as she can manage. Her tension visibly reduces upon hearing the last sentence, but then resurges with her next question. “What’s the bad news?”

        “Well… the reason I won’t need to cast more miracles isn’t because you’re completely healthy. Your physical condition is still far from ideal, but there’s really nothing more I can do for you. My most pressing concern is that you’re worryingly undernourished and emaciated, but magic can’t replace atrophied muscle. You’ll have to recover the old-fashioned way, with protein and exercise.”

        “Mm.” Karla grumbles, a note of resignation in her tone.

        “Although you’re not currently carrying anything, I noticed you’ve developed immunities to a large number of different diseases. You must have fallen ill many times while in… your previous living situation.”

        Karla first winces, but then nods while keeping her eyes on her knees.

        “You have… quite a few malunions; places where a bone wasn’t set after being broken and healed in the wrong position. There’s a particularly severe one in your right ankle, and many in your ribs. Some are relatively new, while others have been there for years. I can’t do anything about those; healing miracles would only cause more bone to grow around the malunions. You would have to see a surgeon to have them corrected.”

        You don’t want to think about what could have possibly broken her bones in a locked cell, nor the prospect of her being cut open. Karla seems to share your sentiment. “No thanks; I’d rather keep the limp.”

        Irina gives a small hum of understanding before continuing. “Although none of your injuries are open or infected, there is a lot of scar tissue—”

        “I know.” Karla interjects, and you notice a slight shiver run through her. “You don’t need to remind me.”

        Irina’s expression is immediately regretful. “Oh… I suppose pointing that out wasn’t strictly necessary to your health. My apologies.”

        She reaches out a sympathetic hand to Karla’s shoulder, but quickly withdraws when the witch recoils from the touch as if she was struck. The regret on her face only deepens.

        “Hm… While I cannot heal this with miracles, I may still be able to offer some small aid.”

        Irina reaches into her drooping sleeve and produces a glittering blue gemstone, finely cut and polished into the shape of a teardrop. It’s bordered by a black metal frame, and as she hands it to Karla, you can see a circular band affixed to the other side.

        “This is a tear from the goddess Caitha. Wear it on your finger at all times, and it will bolster your constitution while you recover.”

        Karla examines the ring closely, turning it over between her fingers. “It has a Detect Life infusion, paired with… looks like an Increase Resistance effect.” She slips the magic ring on, her former hesitancy forgotten. Its wide band is loose around her bony fingers, but she keeps a tight hold on it. “Thank you.”

        You help Karla up from the cot, but as you’re about to exit the infirmary with her in your arms, Eygon turns his expressionless helmet to you and scoffs. “Got some nerve, bringing a hexer into our midst.”

        You can feel Karla freeze solid against you. Her arm goes stiff around your waist, clutching you even tighter, and she leans her head ever so slightly into your shoulder. You turn and give the Carim knight the most withering glare you can muster. “If there’s any problem with the company I keep, Eygon, then it’s you. ”

        Karla noticeably relaxes once the two of you have left Irina’s room.

        “So, what do you want to do now?”

        She looks away from you, momentarily lost in thought. The ordinary question seems to surprise her, as if she’s unfamiliar with its basic concepts.

        “Eat, and then bathe.”

        Given her circumstances, it’s a perfectly reasonable decision. Fortunately, the first of her requests is not far away. “Alright. Most of our food is supplied by Greirat of the Undead Settlement. He’s set up at the end of the hall and to the left.”

        With your assistance, Karla acquires a few slices of dried bread and strips of salt-cured meat from Greirat’s stores. While he typically charges for his goods, food is a basic and necessary enough resource for him to distribute it freely to the Shrine. Karla’s meal is undoubtedly stolen, though this doesn’t bother you; the farmers that produced it have long since gone hollow and have little use for it now.

        You set her down with her food by an alcove off the atrium, which you've set up as your personal sleeping quarters. As much as you’d like to sit and eat with her, there are other things that still need doing; the next order of business is to sort out that awful stench.

        You had acquired a wooden tub and a store of soap for the Shrine some time ago, after you were no longer willing to put up with the other residents’ incessant stinkiness. At times like these, you’re glad to be a pyromancer, as one of its many advantages is that you’re never obligated to take a cold bath. By submerging your Pyromancy Flame under the water, you’re able to gradually heat the bath until it’s a relaxing temperature. Bubbles of steam run up your arm from where you hold your Flame, as it continues to burn completely underwater just as vibrantly as it always does.

        The slow warming of the water gives you plenty of time to think. Pyromancy Flames clearly can’t be extinguished by any mundane means. What would it take to truly put one out, so thoroughly that it ceases to be a part of the pyromancer? It’s a piece of your soul; what would losing it even be like?

        With the bath prepared, you return to your sleeping alcove to find Karla finished with her food. “It’s ready; right over there.” You gesture down the side hall that leads to the bathing area. “I can wash your clothes for you while you’re bathing, if you’d like.”

        “I can— Hm…” She instinctively protests, but catches herself and pauses to reconsider. “...That would be convenient, actually.” she admits, looking a bit sheepish.

        “Here, I’ll give you a spare set of my clothes for when you get out.” You begin rooting through the small dresser next to your mattress, not catching Karla’s look of discomfort. Embarrassment twinges at you as you pull out a bra and underwear for her, but you quickly force it down.

        “Um, not to impose, but do you have anything with full sleeves?”

        “...Sure.” You exchange the shirt you were pulling out for a long-sleeved one, deciding not to pry into why she might request such a thing.

        With the stack of clothes in one hand and Karla supported with the other, you walk with her to the Shrine’s bathing area and her down on the wooden changing bench next to the tub. A solitary worry comes to your mind, and you stand there awkwardly for a moment.

        “You don’t… need my help with this, do you?”

        Her cheeks are tinted with embarrassment. “No. I can manage on my own.” Her words carry more assuredness this time, and you know she means it for real. Thank the Flame for that. If you had to undress and bathe Karla yourself, the shame would have never let either of you live that down.

        “Alright, good. Just toss your clothes out of the room and I’ll pick them up.” You turn to exit the bathing area, but Karla’s words stop you short.

        “You don’t have to help me, you know.”

        You turn around and lean against the entryway, giving her a look of confusion. “What, and just leave you injured and starving in the atrium?”

        She examines the stone floor with great interest, refusing to make eye contact with you. “...Yes.”

        A hissing breath escapes between your teeth, less of a groan and more of a pained sigh. “Well of course I’m not gonna do that. I’m well aware that I don’t have to help you . I didn’t have to carry you out of Irithyll dungeon, either. I did it because I wanted to. You deserve that much, at least.”

        After you exit, it takes Karla an unexpectedly long time to undress. Several minutes later, she tosses a large wad of black fabric around the corner, in which you find her dress, trousers, and shoes wrapped up. Her pointed hat is notably absent; it seems she wants to keep it to herself. There are no undergarments in the bundle either, which you do your best not to think about.

        Thankfully, the wash basin takes significantly less time to fill than the bathtub. Karla’s primary article of clothing for you to wash is her witch’s robe, an ankle-length black dress that ties closed in the front. It’s in a horrendous state of disrepair, the fabric worn thin and littered with tears. In some places, it even appears eaten away by insects or small rodents. You half-expect it to disintegrate upon making contact with the water; it’s going to need a lot more than just a washing before it’s suitable to wear again. It’s just as odorous as she herself was, and you expect it to take quite a bit of time to get the large garment fully clean.

        You allow yourself a bit of absentmindedness while soaking the dress in the soapy water. As they usually do, your thoughts drift around to where you might go exploring tomorrow or which of your pyromancy techniques could use a bit more practice, but Karla’s arrival lingers at the forefront of your mind. There are so many questions, and you’re ravenous to know more about her. How long was she in that dungeon for? What was her life like before?

        Before Karla, the most recent arrival to the Shrine was Cornyx of the Great Swamp. You had been ecstatic to meet a fellow pyromancer, and he soon became both your educator and close friend. Even so, you hadn’t been nearly this interested in him. He was a pyromancy teacher from a pyromancy school; it was pretty simple.

        It doesn’t really matter right now, you suppose. What’s most important is Karla’s wellbeing; the answers to these questions can come in time. This is her home now, and you don’t suspect she’ll be leaving anytime soon. The thought feels warm in your chest, for some reason.

        Time passes quickly while you’re distracted. Soon, you estimate that the dress is done soaking and needs to be rinsed. Yet when you look back down at your soapy hands in the saturated fabric, you almost jump back in shock.

        The water in the wash basin is red. While still dark and murky from the filth, the former brown has unquestionably transformed into a sickening crimson. It’s the same color that you’ve seen rivers or lakes turn in the aftermath of a particularly gruesome battle. You lift the dress from the tub, examining the offending article of clothing with newfound horror. It’s not entirely clean, but any more time in the sanguine water would only dirty it further. While still dark, its former warm shade has become noticeably cooler, closer to a true black than a deep brown. You hadn’t noticed any stains on it before; it seems as if the garment’s dark color had concealed them.

        Or maybe it was stained so thoroughly that its entire color became uniform again. That’s certainly not a pleasant thought. You dump out the deep red water onto the grass outside, and refill the wash basin before proceeding with Karla’s trousers and shoes. Each of them produce a similar result.

        This might be part of an answer, but it just raises even more questions.

        When you return the clothes to Karla, horror holds your tongue, and you do not mention the event to her.

Chapter Text

        Over the next few days, Karla adjusts poorly to the communal living of Firelink Shrine.

        For someone who’s spent the last who-knows-how-long in a tiny dungeon cell, it’s surprising how much she chooses to hide away in her cramped sleeping alcove. Even when you find her venturing out into the larger Shrine, she’s typically stealthing around in a side hallway or clinging to a wall in the main atrium. You’ve practically never seen her exit the Shrine to explore the cemetery surrounding it; the one time you had, she had been returning from the outhouse immediately outside the rear entrance, and had hurried to get back inside as quickly as her weakened legs would allow. At least she’s regained enough strength to make it there without your assistance.

        Socialization is another struggle for her. Since you first arrived with her, she hasn’t spoken to Irina again, nor any other member of the Shrine aside from yourself. You seem to be the only person she’s the slightest bit comfortable around, while the rest she almost compulsively avoids. Despite her fears of rejection over being a hexer, most of the residents seem to simply not care enough to make a stink about it. Thanks to you and Cornyx, they’re already familiar enough with practitioners of distasteful magic. Mercifully, even Eygon manages to hold his tongue, although the lack of hostility doesn’t seem to ease her fear.

        It makes sense, you suppose. Given the circumstances, you can’t really blame Karla for being asocial. You have no idea how long she’d been imprisoned for, and during that time, her only human interaction would have been with Irithyll dungeon’s jailers. Speculating on what those interactions might have been like only succeeds in making you sick.

        Karla’s physical recovery is another of your frequent worries. Although she no longer needs your support to traverse the Shrine, she’s still far from mobile, moving at a frail pace and using a hexing staff as a walking stick to alleviate the gnawing pain in her ankle. If there’s been any reduction in her emaciation, it hasn’t been significant enough for you to notice, despite the availability of food.

        A thought occurs to you: when was the last time you’ve seen Karla eat? It’s common to walk by the other residents of Firelink Shrine during meals; Cornyx has a habit of catching crows and picking at the raw meat with his bare hands, Greirat wolfs down whatever he can steal, Eygon often hunts for both himself and Irina… you can’t remember ever seeing Karla during a meal since that first day you brought her here.

        Yeah, that’s pretty worrying.  

        By the next day, you’ve formulated a plan. Instead of leaving on your adventures shortly after dawn as you usually do, you remain in the Shrine until the early afternoon. For the entire morning, you keep a careful eye on Karla, finding excuses to eat, read, and train within line of sight of her. If she does go for a meal, you’re sure to know about it.

        As the morning drags on, and she does not once attempt to visit Greirat, your worry only grows heavier in your stomach. Even by the time you’re preparing a sandwich for your own lunch, she still hasn’t eaten yet today. With your food in hand, you decide that now is the time to confront her about it.

        “So, I noticed you skipped breakfast this morning.”

        “Oh, I’m fine.” Karla responds hastily. “I simply wasn’t hungry.”

        You respond by taking another bite out of your sandwich. Her eyes follow the motion of your hand up to your mouth, observantly watching you eat. “Want some?” you offer through a mouthful of bread and pork, holding out half of it to her.

        She raises a hand as if to take it from you, but then it falls, along with her expression. “No, thank you. I’m still not particularly hungry.”

        You frown, unconvinced, and Karla picks up on it immediately. “I’ve gone without food for far longer periods of time, Ashen One. I’ll be fine.”

        Your frown persists as you take another bite. “You don’t have to settle for just being ‘fine,’ y’know.” She responds only with a slight grumble, not bothering to articulate a protest.

        Now for the next step of your plan, and the most nerve-wracking one. You continue chewing in silence, but promptly lose your appetite as your stomach does a flip.

        “If you’re not hungry now, how about joining me for breakfast tomorrow?” You applaud your ability to not trip over your own words.

        “Oh! Um… I suppose it would be impolite to turn down the offer.”

        You raise an eyebrow at her. “Do you want to join me for breakfast tomorrow?”

        She pauses, thinking it over for a moment. “...Yes. I do.”

        You contain your internal fist-pump, even if it feels like your excitement could burst out of your chest. “Alright. I’ll cook something for us and bring it to you tomorrow morning.”

        For the rest of the day, you find yourself barely able to concentrate. Distraction is never a good thing on the battlefield, and you return home early that day after getting caught off-guard one too many times. Your thoughts had been of Karla when a hollow thrall dropped on your head and promptly impaled you with its pickaxe, earning you a one-way trip back to the bonfire. Internally cursing your lapse in attention, you resolve to call it quits until tomorrow morning.

        As an undead, starvation can’t set you back any further than a thrall’s pickaxe can, although keeling over from hunger is still an experience you’d prefer to avoid. While you could have simply agreed to procure food for Karla, you’ve elected to cook something for the both of you. The thought of sharing a meal with her produces a pleasant feeling in your stomach that you can’t quite name.

        You’re restricted by your lack of cooking ability, but you still manage to prepare a dish more intricate than your usual meals. Long before anyone else is up, you hunt down and slay a Crystal Lizard roaming outside Firelink Shrine. After gutting and cleaning the kill, you dice the meat into bite-sized chunks, along with some still-good potatoes that Greirat had recently managed to scavenge. Once chopped, you skewer the pieces on metal rods before roasting them over your Pyromancy Flame. No seasonings are available to you other than basic salt, but you get the feeling that Karla won’t complain.

        Walking to Karla’s alcove with a shish kebab in each hand, you see that she’s hung a curtain of black fabric from the walkway above it. It’s understandable; with Firelink Shrine’s open design, and Karla’s habitual seclusion from the other residents, you can see why she would want a bit more privacy. You transfer a shish kebab to your other hand and pull the curtain aside.

        Karla is engrossed in a scroll of hexes you had given her yesterday, but looks up from it as you appear from behind her curtain. Immediately, you see a sudden jolt of terror pass through her, before she sucks in a heavy gasp and scurries backwards on her hands and knees to the right-side corner of the alcove. She pulls her knees up to her chest and curls herself into a tiny ball, before looking back up at the intruder. The wide-eyed terror in her grimace almost burns you.

        “Ohh… it’s just you.” The tension drains from her face, and she releases the gasp she’s been holding in. “You gave me quite the start. Please knock next time.”

        “Oh. Okay. Sorry.” The guilt in your tone is palpable. “Um… I made us breakfast, like we agreed yesterday. We should eat somewhere else; getting crumbs in your bed will attract vermin.”

        She nods, grabbing her hexing staff and starting to haul herself to her feet. Seeing her struggle, you offer her a hand, and this time she accepts it without protest.

        “My apologies for snapping at you, Ashen One. I startle far too easily; it's my bad.”

        “Hey, I should be the one apologizing.”

        You lead her to a wooden folding table you’ve set up just inside the Shrine’s rear entrance, and she seats herself on the bench across from you. Through the archways, an amazing view of the mountain range to the south of Lothric Castle is visible, and Karla can’t seem to tear her eyes away from it.

        “Sorry if the meat is a little charred; I killed the lizard by throwing lava at it.” You extend one of the shish kebabs to her, and she takes it with a hint of hesitance.

        Karla cautiously takes a meager bite of the topmost chunk of lizard meat, and something warm grows within you as her expression rapidly shifts from apprehension to surprised delight. Before she’s finished chewing, she sinks her teeth into the rest of the piece and smoothly slides it off the skewer, before pulling the entire chunk into her mouth. You can’t help but stare, momentarily mesmerized by the movement of her jaw.

        “Beats prison food.” she replies with her mouth full of meat and her expression full of satisfaction.

        A few minutes of quiet eating pass before you try to strike up a conversation. “So where did you learn hexing? It’s not exactly part of any arcane school’s curriculum.”

        She raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Why do you ask?

        “Because I’d like to get to know you better.”

        “Mm.” She doesn’t seem to appreciate your answer, but accepts it regardless. “From my mother. Hexes are passed down matrilineally.”

        You nod in acknowledgement. “What was your home life like?”

        She almost scowls at you for a moment, and you briefly worry the question may have been a step too far, before her expression softens. “Um… fairly good. My mother is a witch, and my father is a retired knight. As far as I know, they’re still happily married.” She looks away from you, and her tone falls. “It’s been a long time, though.”

        “That’s good to hear, at least.” you say between bites. “I learned most of my pyromancies from Cornyx. I’ve had my Flame since I was raised as an undead, although I have no idea who I originally got it from. I probably had a family at some point, but I can’t remember anything from when I was alive. Side effect of being raised from a pile of ash, I guess.”

        “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

        “Eh, don’t be. Can’t miss what I can’t remember. The Shrine isn’t always the most functional family, but it’s the one I’ve got now.”

        “You seem to have a good master-student relationship with the other pyromancer, at least.”

        “Cornyx? Yeah. He’s very cordial, and has really been a rock for me through some of my rough patches. Although he is a more traditional brand of pyromancer, and he can be pretty set in his ways. It’s frustrating when he arbitrarily deems a spell ‘heretical’ and won’t go over it with me.”

        “Well, heresies are somewhat of a specialty for me…” She pauses to finish swallowing a bit of potato.

        “Oh? Is that an invitation?” You raise your eyebrows and give her a tentative smile.

        She doesn’t return the expression. “What I was going to say was, I can’t exactly blame him.”

        Your voice falls. “Oh.”

        The conversation settles into an awkward silence after that, which neither of you are immediately willing to break. Karla continues digging into her shish kabob, and you’re pleasantly surprised to see the progress she's making; it’s more than you've ever seen her eat before.

        It takes you a bit to work up the nerve before you finally break the silence. “Um… so I know adjusting to life here has been kinda hard for you. If you have any lingering questions about the Shrine, feel free to ask.”

        “I suppose there is one thing…” A hint of anxiety slips into Karla’s tone. “Have you ever had to exile anyone?”

        “Only once. Her name was Yuria, of Londor.”

        “What did she do?”

        You sigh internally at the painful memory. “She tried to force an arranged marriage between me and a knight I had previously fought alongside, Anri of Astora. It was for political reasons, and would have allowed me to become a lord of Londor. I refused many times, but she kept trying to pressure me into it.”

        The early signs of her anxiety dissipate, easing into curiosity. “You gave up a lordship for it? I take it you really didn’t fancy this Anri fellow, then?”

        “He was a competent warrior and excellent friend, but… he was a man.”

        She pauses mid-bite, before the recognition sets in. You think you see her cheeks take on a bit of pinkness as she finishes chewing. “Ah. I see.”

        Although Karla’s health was your first priority in inviting her to this breakfast, it was also part of your plan to use this opportunity to ask her a question. Despite her disheartening comment about Cornyx, you won't be deterred so easily.

        “Um, about what we did to escape the dungeon… Flame really shouldn’t just be given away freely like that. Your Flame is just as much a part of yourself as your arm is, so sharing it with someone else sort of... links you together with them. It’s typically reserved for the formation of a bond between master and apprentice.”

        She nods in understanding. “I get your reasons for being uncomfortable with it. But, I deeply appreciate what you did for me. It’s filled a void that I’ve lived with for so long, and we likely wouldn’t have made it out otherwise.”

        “That’s not exactly what I meant.” You pause, your hand going to the back of your neck. “I guess what I’m asking is, would you be interested in taking me on as an apprentice?”

        Karla pauses mid-bite, her eyes going wide. “Wait, really? You’re truly interested in learning the ways of the Dark?”

        “Totally. I mean, you killed five people with one spell; I don’t think even Cornyx is that good. You make the Dark look pretty impressive.”

        She still seems surprised, but her initial shock fades into a condescending amusement. “The request is charming, but you don’t know what you ask of me. I can tell you aren’t a wicked one; not like I am.”

        “What’s wickedness got to do with it? I just want to get better at fighting. No point in restricting my horizons.”

        “Hm.” Her short chuckle comes off as slightly condescending. “Probably not a wise decision on your part. I should tell you the story of how Wolnir of Carthus fell to the Abyss.”

        Your face is in the middle of falling when she follows up her statement. “...But, I suppose we could work something out. Cornyx won’t mind sharing his student, will he?”

        Your spirits lift at her offer. “Eh, he might have some objections to me learning dark pyromancies, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I know he’s good-natured enough to let it go.”

        “Alright then. Plus… I think it will be nice to play master for once.” She gives a tiny giggle as she finishes the last bite of her shish kebab, and you can’t help but blush.

        You stand from the table, before an idea crosses your mind. “Irina also said you need exercise…”

        “Mmh.” Karla groans in displeasure.

        “Want to take a walk with me around the Shrine grounds?”

        Her expression reverses, the corner of her mouth pulling upwards. “That sounds bearable.”

Chapter Text

        An ear-splitting scream pierces the night at Firelink Shrine.

        You startle awake, shooting up from your straw mattress and nearly banging your head into the jagged rock ceiling of your sleeping alcove. The scream is one you’re uncomfortably familiar with: that of a woman being murdered. You've grown almost accustomed to it on the battlefield, but in the Shrine of all places…

        Any one of your friends could be in life-threatening danger. Any one of the women could be already dead. The thought of any of them coming to harm is almost sickening, but there's only one possibility that threatens to freeze your heart in your chest, one potential casualty so revolting that you can’t bear to entertain the thought.

        It’s that thought that pushes through your panic and drives you to action. You conjure your Pyromancy Flame for illumination, and still in nothing but your bra and underwear, roll to your feet and begin jogging down the staircase to the other residents’ alcoves.

        With the Firekeeper having doused the Shrine's many candles for the night, there’s little illumination here, save for the faint glow of the bonfire's embers in the center of the atrium. It’s pitch-black beyond the reach of your Pyromancy Flame, and you find yourself on edge. Without your arming sword at hand, you ready a Combustion spell for close-quarters defense.

        Cornyx is the first person you find, encountering him before any hidden adversaries. You spot the glow of his own Pyromancy Flame coming up the main hallway from his spot near Andre’s forge, evidently awakened by the scream just as you were. He lets out a heavy breath in relief; even through his old sage’s blindfold, he can still identify the distinctive power of your Flame. You’re silently grateful that his lack of conventional sight conceals your state of undress.

        “Oh good, you’re alright. I was worried that might have been you. Any idea what that was? Are we under attack?”

        “I know just as much as you. Hollows might’ve slipped in.” The Combustion spell sits heavily in your mind, as well as the thought of a particular alcove being empty.

        “Not many people it could’ve been. Let’s check the women’s quarters; where's the Firekeeper?”

        That one’s simple enough; she’s never far from the bonfire she tends. “Firekeeper!?” you call out into the darkness.

        “I am here, Ashen One.” Peeking out from her own alcove, you can just barely spot the gleam of her silver mask in the light of your Pyromancy Flame. “Do you have need of me?”

        “Not right now, but stay on your guard. Watch for any undead.”

        “What about Irina?” Cornyx suggests, worry evident in his tone. “Let's check there next; we can’t lose our only healer.”

        Not who you're most worried for right now, but Irina's wellbeing should be no less pressing. You’re lighter on your feet than Cornyx’s age allows him to be, and so you reach Irina’s infirmary first, jumping down from the path to Andre’s forge rather than bothering with the stairs. As you sprint in, you spot Eygon winding up a strike with his warhammer just in time to dodge out of the way. He recognizes you a moment later, and withdraws just before he would have brought the hammer’s face down on your own.

        “Oh, it’s just you. What the bloody hell’s going on?”

        “No idea. Possible hollow attack. Everyone alright here?” You glance to Irina, standing behind Eygon in the far corner. She appears completely unharmed, if somewhat alarmed.

        “I’m quite alright, Ashen One.” she replies groggily, still rubbing the sleep from her sightless eyes.

        “I’ve got things covered here. Wouldn’t be a very good knight if I let my maiden come to harm, would I?” Eygon comments, returning his warhammer to rest on his shoulder. “Speaking of which... If I were you, I’d be more concerned about that raggedy witch of yours. ”

        Finally.

        Your body feels weightless as you sprint as fast as your legs will carry you to Karla’s sleeping alcove. The curtain is still draped over its entrance, blocking your view. You immediately pull it aside and nearly panic when at first glance, the alcove appears to be empty. As you look closer, however, Karla’s huddled form becomes visible far back within it. She’s pulled all the way into a corner, knees pulled up to her chest just as when you first found her.

        Karla looks like shit , nearly as bad as she did when you carried her out of Irithyll dungeon. The collar of her robe is drenched — does she sleep in that thing? — and her ashy skin is sickly with cold sweat. The glow of your Pyromancy Flame highlights two shiny trails running down her cheeks, her eyes glassy and terrified. No physical wounds are visible, but the possibility of injury has quickly become the least of your worries.

        The stare she’s giving you is haunting. You hadn’t even known human eyes could go that wide. You quickly come to the chilling realization that Karla is looking at you the same way she looked at Irina when she rang her chime: not at you, but straight through you as if you weren’t even there.

        “Karla, what’s going on? Are you alright?”

        She doesn’t acknowledge the statement at all. You hesitantly extend an arm into the alcove, to which she only averts her empty gaze and draws back even further.

        Time slows to a crawl as you await any sort of response from her. The Shrine is nearly silent at this hour, and you hear it crystal-clearly each time she draws a heaving breath or shudders with another sob. It takes minutes before she looks up at you again, and her expression of horror shifts to one of confusion.

        “A-ashen One?”

        “Yes? I’m right here.”

        She reaches out and fervently clutches your outstretched hand. Your heart skips a beat.

        “I’m not…” she sniffs, “Not in the dungeon?”

        “No. You’re in Firelink Shrine. I’m here; you’re safe now.”

        “T-the jailers…” She shudders again.

        “They’re gone. You don’t ever have to see them again.”

        She tugs hard on your hand, and you first stumble, then fall to your knees as she embraces your arm like a lifeline. Her temple rests against your bicep, and more tears fall from her eyes as she squeezes them shut. With her deathgrip on your arm, she slowly eases back into reality, her breathing becoming more even and less panicked while the distance in her eyes fades away.

        Gradually, she eases away from you, leaning back against the far wall with a relieved sigh. Your first instinct is to crawl into the alcove with her, although you quickly reconsider with embarrassment.

        Karla looks up at you again, not through you this time, seeing you as you really are. You think you spot a slight reddening in her cheeks as she catches sight of your disrobed form, but her face quickly disappears beneath the fabric of her sleeve as she wipes away her tears.

        “I-I’m feeling better now, Ashen One.” Her voice is still shaky. “I… appreciate your concern. I’m deeply sorry for waking you all up; you can all return to bed now.”

        You remain right where you are. “Karla… what happened?”

        “N-nothing. It was just a nightmare. No reason to concern yourself.” 

        “If it concerns the health of the Shrine’s residents, then it concerns me. I'm worried about you. When something’s wrong, you’re free to speak up.”

        On hearing your worry, her face screws up with something like remorse. “Please, don't be . I’ve been through far worse than just some dreams, Ashen One.”

        You look her over again, her eyes still glassy and downcast, face wet with tear tracks. She’s still trembling slightly, and your gaze tracks the way her chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Some part of you longs to steady those trembles.

        “That doesn’t make your struggles now any less important. Could you at least tell me what your nightmare was about? We could talk about it, if you—”

        “I said leave! I do not wish to discuss this further w-with you.” she snaps suddenly, her voice faltering near the end. “Give the others my apologies, but p-please just go back to bed and forget about this. I promise I won’t let it happen again.”

        You fail to see how that’s a promise she could possibly keep, but her tone allows for no argument.

        “Breakfast tomorrow morning, then?”

        “...I would like that. Now leave .” she demands again, then follows it with a desperate little, “Please.” You can’t bring yourself to argue with that.

        “Alright. I’ll be here if you need me.”

        Turning your back to Karla and walking away from her feels fundamentally wrong in some way. There’s another sniffle from behind you as you reach the stairs, and it’s nearly enough to stop you in your tracks.

        Occasionally among your fellow warriors, you’ve heard tavern stories of men and women who had gone into battle so many times that the fighting seeped into their heads, to the point where they were never quite able to get it all out. They would forget where they were, swinging their swords at enemies that no one else could see, their minds still locked in combat even as their bodies were safe and sheltered. In the kind of company you keep, it’s impossible to avoid hearing of it, even if you’ve never witnessed it yourself.

        You have nightmares too, usually featuring scenarios in which you’re consumed by storms of fire and blades. Some of them bear a resemblance to your past experiences, but when those experiences are so plentiful, it tends to all blend together. It’s not all that uncommon for you to wake up grasping at a phantom sword stabbed through your gut, or jolt out of bed just as you would have been decapitated. It’s a phenomenon you’ve mostly gotten used to.

        But when you think of Karla experiencing something like that, it hurts in a different way, deeper than the agony of wounds or the fear of a mortal strike. Her entire life was a nightmare before you met her; you suppose it makes sense she’d continue to have them after that.

        You numbly drift back up the stairs to the atrium, and find Cornyx and the Firekeeper still waiting for you around the bonfire. “Everyone alright down there?” the old man questions as he senses the warmth of your Flame from the doorway.

        “We’re fine. False alarm.” After a brief pause, and knowing he’ll want further explanation, you add, “Karla just had a nightmare.”

        “I see.” his face twists in annoyance. “How rude of her, waking everyone up in a panic like that and then hiding away in her quarters. I hope for all of our sakes that this doesn’t become a pattern. I should have a word with her in the morning.”

        Before he can turn to leave, you catch his arm in a vice grip. “You’d better not make this any harder on her than it already is.”

        He turns to face you with a look of surprised indignation. “Well, alright then.” he says, before pulling his arm free and returning to his own quarters. You do the same shortly after.

        Returning to your straw mattress, you do not sleep again before the orange light of dawn streams into the Shrine.

Chapter Text

        Since you began your daily ritual of breakfasts together, Karla has become noticeably more vivacious in her daily activities. She’s moving around more regularly now, exploring the Shrine grounds with less of her weight carried by her hexing staff. She’s even making conversation with the others somewhat; you spot her trading a few words with Cornyx one morning, and to your surprise, they don’t even seem to be unpleasant ones. Although she definitely has a long way to go, it warms your heart to see her come out of her shell a bit more each day.

        And of course, it isn’t long before she begins teaching you the dark pyromancies that Cornyx had so long denied you.

        Karla leans against an archway of the Shrine amphitheater, in which you slew Iudex Gundyr so long ago. It had taken days of cajoling to pry her away from the confines of Firelink Shrine, but as it turns out, the Cemetery of Ash makes for a surprisingly good training ground. The open spaces are convenient for demonstrating more powerful spells, and the numerous hollows are useful for target practice.

        “The most basic dark pyromancy is Black Fireball. The technique is similar to a regular Fireball, but fueled from your humanity rather than your soul. Allow me to demonstrate.”

        Karla's Flame goes black, before swelling into a writhing mass that coalesces in the shape of an orb. The black fire licks at the long sleeve of her witch’s robe, tearing at the fabric where it meets her wrist. She hurls the projectile upwards at an angle, allowing it to arc towards a distant hollow. The orb of black fire impacts a grave about a foot up and to the right of its intended target, exploding the weathered headstone into a shower of pebbles.

        “Heh, we’ll see if you have a sharper aim than I do.” she muses. “Remember, unlike how you’d fuel a pyromancy from your soul, hexes are instead fueled by your humanity. Your deepest, most sinful emotions; shame, envy, wrath, and such, are all aspects of being human. When one goes hollow, this is what they lose. Feeding these emotions will draw out the Dark within you. For this spell, think about the most humiliated you’ve ever been in your life.”

        You nod, and close your eyes.

        “Feel the shame burning you. Focus on that burning. Be consumed by it until you can’t feel anything else.”

        You open your mouth to speak, but Karla interrupts you. “You don’t have to tell me. Just focus.”

        You nod again appreciatively, and your face scrunches in concentration and pain.

        “Now, picture whoever or whatever made you feel this way. Allow yourself to hate them. Capture the desire to destroy their being, to bring them low as they brought you.”

        You’re clenching your jaw hard enough for it to hurt. You nod again.

        “Now, strike them down.”

        Rage blends with the anguish as a smoky purple-blackness swirls around your palm. You can feel the dark presence overtake your Pyromancy Flame, your pain made manifest, needing nothing more than some outlet, an entry point into the world to seek and burn and destroy—

        But then you catch sight of Karla’s face, softly shaded beneath the brim of her witch’s hat in the midday sun, and all the pain evaporates. It would seem that a certain level of gauntness is her natural state, but her cheeks have still filled out nicely since her arrival at the Shrine. There’s something about the gentle curve of her jawline that magnetically draws your attention; makes you want to observe it.

        Your Flame reverts back to its usual orange, the Dark failing to coalesce.

        “Hm. Well, these things take time and practice. I didn’t get it on my first try either. In the future, try to avoid any distractions.” She cracks a knowing smirk from beneath the brim of her hat, and you feel your face heat.

        “I didn’t enjoy that. It’s not a fun memory.”

        “The ones that fuel hexes never are.” she replies with a hint of sorrow, reassuming her relaxed position against the archway. “Again.”

        It takes a few more tries to successfully conjure the black flame. The memory weighs on you, until you feel you’ve wrung every bit of humiliation you possibly could from it. You’ve almost gotten used to the way it makes your breathing shallow and chest tighten with each recollection.

        It’s with great stress that you finally get a projectile into the air. The misery is crushing now, and you can’t get past how weak you are, how pathetic you must be to have let this happen to you. The feeling only turns to despair as the throw goes wide, tearing up the ground well short of the hollow you were targeting.

        “I…” You draw in a shaky breath, trying to still the trembling in your chest. “I dunno if I can keep doing this.”

        “Well, I did warn you. Do you see now why this is a wicked art?” Karla says, and you can’t offer a response. “Do you wish to continue, or shall we adjourn for the time being?”

        As miserable as you feel right now, allowing yourself to fail would be even worse. “...No. I want to learn this.”

        “Very well then.” she acknowledges flatly. “That intensity of emotion you feel is required to produce the hex. For this to work, you must accept your pain and then channel it. The Dark is naturally easier to tap into for those already burdened by great suffering.”

        “Like you?”

        She gives you a ferocious glare. “Just try it again.”

        You try to summon up the same humiliation, but once again you’re distracted. What past horrors does Karla draw on for her hexes? You think back to her state when you found her in Irithyll dungeon, and again in her alcove after her nightmare, huddled in a ball, trembling and sobbing. You remember her robe staining the wash basin red like a battlefield. What do you know about what really happened to her?

        You think back to the jailers, with their sickening masks and branding irons and life-draining spells. You can imagine it clear as day, them prying open the rusty lock on her cell and drawing out that same scream from her nightmare, over and over. Just the thought is nauseating, sending a jolt of terror and hate through your gut. Her scream echoes in your head, and everything is a blur of rage and fear and love and the overwhelming, single-minded need to make this stop.

        Chilling flames lick at your palm. There’s a throw, and the audible crunch of an impact. In the distance, a hollow bursts into chunks of meat and bone.

        “Interesting. That one was particularly explosive; I could feel the hatred tinging it.” Her soft smirk returns. “The emotion you draw from determines the character of the hex. Once you’ve mastered humiliation, you’ll be able to move onto other aspects of the Dark such as envy, or lust for power, or desire to protect the ones you love. For today, just keep practicing this one. If you wish to continue these lessons, you might soon be as wicked of a heretic as me.”

        “Um… I don’t think it was humiliation I used for that spell.”

        “Oh?”

        “I’m not totally sure how to describe it. The feelings were… complex.” You cast another glance up and down her form. “You mentioned a desire to protect the ones you love?”

        Her eyes narrow. “Who?”

        “...You.”

        Her smile has vanished, replaced by something almost fearful. “I see.”

        She’s silent for a long moment, her gaze falling onto anything but you, before she seems to remember she has a lesson to finish. “...Perhaps it would be for the best if we didn’t keep attempting that spell. If humiliation isn’t working, we should try a different approach.”

        Karla screws her eyes shut and concentrates for a moment, before sighing almost mournfully. Again her Flame goes black, although this time she gently lifts it into the air rather than hurling it. Five tiny orbs of Dark materialize in an arch behind her, swirling around her head like lost spirits. Two points of light twinkle within each one, and as you examine them, you could swear one stares back at you. Karla gestures with an outstretched finger at a distant hollow, and the orbs drift through the air towards their target, tracking its movements even as it shambles away. The hollow crumples to the ground with a hole through its chest as soon as the first orb makes contact, but the others still swarm its corpse, piercing it and then whirling around to pierce it again as they gradually fade into nothingness.

        “Homing spells are certainly harder to miss with.” she comments offhandedly, her face sullen. “That hex is drawn from loneliness. The Dark seeks to connect with its target, and yet it never can, making brief contact and then fleeing over and over, until it sputters out.”

        Despite the impressive spell, you find yourself more focused on observing its caster. The shift of her muscles under taut skin and black cloth again captures your rapt attention. Her spindly fingers dextrously manipulate the orb of Dark in her palm; you notice her first two nails are chewed short, even as the rest are unkempt. The black fire has left her robe even more distressed than it was previously, exposing her slender forearm—as well as a strange mark along it.

        The mark is straight where it disappears beneath her torn sleeve, before splitting into a fork just before her wrist. It’s twisted and swollen above the rest of her flesh, the pink irritation clashing with the ashen tones of her skin. It looks disturbingly like she’s taken a precise cut-out of someone else’s arm, and grafted it onto her own. It occurs to you that maybe she has. There’s a vague awareness that you’ve seen that shape somewhere before, but you fail to recall where or when.

        Karla catches where your eyes are focused, before she quickly clasps a hand over her wrist and tugs her sleeve down to cover it. What follows is seconds of intense, uncomfortable eye contact, her stare equally mortified and accusatory.

        “...Is there something on your arm?”

        “Well I think that’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” she snaps at you. “If you would be so kind, please do not inquire about it again.”

        Without further notice, she turns back toward the Shrine. “That’s all I have to teach you today. If you wish, we will continue this lesson tomorrow, Ashen One.”

        Before you can even tell her to wait, she’s already hurrying away. As you watch her climb the stairs out of the graveyard, her limp seems more severe than when you’d walked outside with her this morning.

        Guilt bites in immediately. Did you do something wrong? What could’ve provoked her? Something about that mark on her arm; the shape of it was so familiar. Where have you seen it before? It was almost like a letter Y, but upside down—

        Your stomach sinks like a stone.

        Oh. That’s what it was.

        You reenter Firelink Shrine feeling as if you’ve terribly transgressed, and you do not seek out Karla again the next day.

Chapter Text

        There are a few different reasons for why you’re seeking out Karla today.

        First and foremost is the ancient pyromancy tome you currently have under your arm. It had been the subject of a heated argument between you and Cornyx this morning, and now you’re putting some distance between you and him as an act of petty frustration.

        “Quelana’s pyromancies are for women” my ass. While Cornyx is dependable as a friend, he’s considerably less so as an educator. The old fool wouldn’t know arcane power if it fell into his lap, even literally so, in this case.

        Your other primary reason for visiting Karla is the surprise you’ve prepared for her, and the makeshift canvas talisman tucked away in your back pocket. Irina had been more than happy to teach you one of her healing miracles, but having to painstakingly memorize all its lines of scripture in a language you can’t understand makes you pity anyone who can call themselves a cleric. However, as long as Karla appreciates it, it’ll have been more than worth it.

        As soon as Karla lifts the curtain over her alcove, you present the confounding tome to her. “Cornyx refused to teach me this. He said I needed to learn it from a witch.”

        She takes it from you, parsing its singed cover with a curious eye. “Hm, alright. Not exactly my field of expertise, but I will unravel it as best I can.” She gestures an invitation to enter, and you take a seat beside her in the alcove, prepared to delve into the tome’s arcane content from over her shoulder.

        “Sorry for bothering you with this. I don’t know why Cornyx was so insistent. I checked the pages for any sort of magical infusion that would prevent a man from reading it, but it’s completely mundane. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to.”

        She examines the inside of the front cover, pausing to focus on a tiny scribble in the bottom corner. “Hm… I recognize this signature. Oh, this tome was penned by Quelana herself! That might explain Cornyx’s reluctance.”

        “Yeah, that’s what he told me. I get that it’s ancient, but I still don’t understand why he’d deny himself the chance to learn some of the very first pyromancies ever cast by humans.”

        She sighs, but her knowing smile suggests no exasperation. “You likely already picked up on this, but the origins of the different magical arts has led to preconceived notions of them being inherently masculine or feminine. Starting with the Witch of Izalith and then later Quelana, pyromancy was created first and foremost by women, and thus some see female pyromancers as emulating the art’s originators more closely.” She briefly grins in amusement. “Perhaps Cornyx felt that learning Quelana’s spells would be emasculating.”

        “That would explain why he refused my suggestion to wear the Reversal Ring while reading it.” The laugh that Karla responds with warms you from within.

        Your earlier frustration has been supplanted by curiosity. “So what kind of magic would be considered manly?”

        “As you might expect, soul sorceries have a more masculine reputation. Seath the Paledrake fathered the soul arts to compensate for his lack of dragon breath, and as such, sorcery schools tend to be rather patriarchal institutions. The field is still heavily male-dominated.”

        The information lines up with your observations in the field. You’ve certainly faced far more master sorcerers than master sorceresses in battle. “You said hexes are passed down matrilineally; I take it it’s similar?”

        “Yes. Although Manus was the father of the Dark, the matrilineal tradition began with his four daughters. The hat in particular—” she tips hers, “—is the mark of one who follows this tradition.”

        “Wait… you’re a Daughter of Manus!?”

        “Well, not directly. More like great-great-great-I don’t know how many greats-granddaughter. Still, the magic is in our very blood. It is my mother's curse, the first thing she ever gave to me.”

        “That’s so cool!”

        Karla balks. “ Cool? My lineage is one of the most accursed in existence. We were spawned from a terrible sin, and that sin has been passed down from mother to mother until me. Our blood is tainted with the foulest darkness ever seen in Lordran, and we have reveled in it for generations. How is that cool? ”

        “Why wouldn’t it be? Manus gifted your ancestor with a chunk of his Dark Soul, much more than the tiny sliver the rest of us have. It’s like you’re part magic itself! I admire your family’s commitment to the study of that power.”

        “Power is only admirable when divorced from context. If that power comes at the expense of your morality, or your wellbeing, or your freedom, I think you’d agree there’s little to admire in that.” She gestures to you with the book’s open pages. “Now, I believe you requested we learn about pyromancies, not my family history.”

        “You really think learning hexes requires the sacrifice of those things?”

        She groans. “Is this truly relevant to your edification?”

        “Absolutely.”

        “...Hm . Fine, since it’s clear where your interests lie.” She snaps the pyromancy tome shut and sets it aside. “While sacrifice may not be the right word for it, hexing certainly takes its toll in other ways. This magic has a way of… catching up with you. There was a reason I was reluctant to teach it to you, and I still have my misgivings about it.”

        “And those would be?”

        “Well for one, you’re not my daughter. I know it makes no difference, but on some level, it still feels somewhat improper to violate that tradition. But, that’s not the primary reason.

        “Witchcraft is… more base than other forms of magic, such as soul sorcery. Sorcery comes from an intellectual understanding and mastery over one’s own soul, while my hexes are irrational and chaotic, drawn only from raw emotion. Sorcery is an enlightened pursuit of knowledge; hexing is a degenerative reveling in the muck of humanity. I feel some guilt over leading you down my mother’s dark path.”

        Your lip pulls up in distaste. “Oh, please don’t tell me that that has anything to do with them being matrilineal.”

        Her eyes are distant. “...I’m really not sure anymore.”

        “Y’know, a lot of people also look down on pyromancy as base and chaotic. Pyromancers are typically shunned rather than imprisoned, though; that’s why the biggest pyromancy school is set up in a swamp far away from society. Did Izalith’s daughters draw as much scorn as you did for daring to practice magic as women?”

        “I think it’s more likely that they drew scorn for unleashing demons upon the world.” Karla distances herself from you, shifting to the middle of the alcove. “However, that scorn you mention is another of my misgivings. There are truths hidden in the Dark that mankind would rather shut away forever, and this has long been used as justification for acts of extreme violence against those like us. Irithyll dungeon is hardly the worst of it; the Abyss Watchers favored crucifixion. I’ve grown rather fond of you, so I’d prefer not to see you go hollow locked away in a cell or nailed to a cross.”

        “It seems like other people are what’s dangerous, not hexes.”

        “It doesn’t matter much when the end result is the same, does it? Either way, it was my own study of hexes that brought my imprisonment upon me. I would hate to bring a similar fate upon you.”

        “I’m an adult. I know the risks. If I wasn’t confident that dealing with the prejudice was worth it, then I wouldn’t have asked to be your apprentice. If anyone has a problem with that, they can talk to my Flame.”

        Karla emits a short laugh, cynical and cheerless. “It’s funny; as a child, I had a very similar attitude. I’d rage and shout empty threats at anyone who dared insult me over the hat, even got into a few fights over it. Now… I find it increasingly difficult to disagree with them.”

        “Is that why you’re so fond of deprecating yourself?”

        Karla narrows her eyes at you. “I was imprisoned for a reason. I told you as much when you carried me out of the dungeon. ‘I am no exception,’ remember?” Her next sentence is muttered, and you barely catch it under her breath. “Still can’t fathom why you even let me out in the first place.”

        You reel back. “Karla…”

        You don’t deserve this, you want to shout at her. How do I show you you don't deserve this? How can I make you see in yourself the same things I see in you?

        “Imagine if I was in that position. If I was the heretic, and you rescued me from the dungeon. Would you tell me I’m the one at fault for getting myself locked up? Would I be the one to blame for my own suffering?”

        That gets her attention. She gives a shameful wince, if only for a moment.

        “I don’t—” she stops herself short. “You’re not like me. I wouldn’t ever want to see you in that dungeon.”

        “How am I different?”

        She has to briefly pause in thought. “...You’re kind. You give endlessly without any expectation of reciprocity, despite how undeserving I am. You may be… simple, perhaps, but I find your single-minded dedication just as endearing as it is frustrating.”

        “And you’re not kind?”

        She scoffs. “Kindness doesn’t befit a hexer. Cruelty is inherent to the magic, wallowing in our own suffering to inflict it on others. You’ve done it yourself; you know what it feels like.”

        “Well then… maybe you should be a bit more kind to yourself? Gods know you’ve had enough cruelty in your life.”

        She places a hand over her forearm. “I… will not argue with that.”

        An awkward silence falls between you. You wait for her to further protest, but she seems no longer inclined to continue the argument.

        “Now, shall we get back to a more relevant topic?” she lifts the pyromancy tome to you.

        “Actually, speaking of kindness, I, um… I wanted to do something kind for you today.”

        “Oh?”

        “The pyromancy tome isn’t the only thing I wanted to show you. I know you like to keep your distance from Irina, but I got her to teach me a healing miracle.” Karla eyes you cautiously, as if you might turn a blade on her at any moment. “And after I saw your arm a few days ago…”

        You extract the canvas talisman from your pocket. As soon as she realizes where you’re going with this, her face immediately twists from hesitance to exasperation. From the pain in her eyes, you immediately feel as if you've misstepped.

        “...I realized what must have happened. So I was hoping I could maybe do something about that scar?”

        She’s clutching her forearm again when she answers. “No, it’s… it’s fine, Ashen One. You shouldn’t have wasted so much time memorizing that miracle for me.”

        “It’s not a waste if it would help you.”

        “Then you truly did waste your efforts. I am not interested in your help, or your pity.” she snaps. “My disfigurements are my own. It doesn't behoove you to go digging in open wounds.”

        You can't help but wince. “Look… if you wish to keep the scar, that's your business. But if it really is a disfigurement to you, please let me help you. I want you to be safe and healthy and—”

        She pushes Quelana's pyromancy tome back into your arms. "Leave. I am not interested in speaking of this right now.”

        You fall silent immediately. “R-right. Sorry.”

        The walk of shame away from Karla’s alcove is a familiar one by this point. Regret bites into you as you climb the stairs to the atrium. Shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have pried, shouldn’t have made it worse. You wonder how many more times Karla will shove you away just as you get close; if you're doomed to forever be separated at arms' length. If that's what she wants, you care for her too much to turn her down, you suppose.

        With nothing else to do today, you sink back into your own alcove and crack open Quelana's tome to glean what you can on your own.

Chapter Text

        You’re jolted awake by another piercing scream that echoes throughout Firelink Shrine.

        It’s the third one this month. By now, all the residents are well aware of its meaning: Karla had another nightmare. It’s bothersome, but nothing can be done about it; best to just ignore it and get back to sleep as well as you’re able.

        For a minute, you consider ignoring it as well. After reflexively bolting upright, you lower yourself back down, allowing your head to fall back against your straw-filled mattress. You nearly allow your eyes to close again, until the image of Karla from the first of these incidents returns to you; drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, without a clue where she was or what was happening. The thought is enough to lift you from your bed, dress you, and carry your bare feet over the freezing flagstones to Karla’s alcove.

        You give a hesitant knock on the stonework, awaiting her permission to enter. After your awkward spat yesterday, you may not be the face she wants to see right now, although you can't think of any other she might prefer.

        It’s a relief when she pulls the curtain aside. Tear tracks are visible down her cheeks in the light of your Pyromancy Flame.

        “Hey...”

        “It’s quite late, Ashen One. I’m fine—” She’s interrupted by a sniffle. “You can return to bed.”

        “I’d prefer to make sure you’re alright. Can I come in?”

        You’re bracing for another swift rejection, but to your relief, she eventually responds with a quick nod. You cast a Warmth spell for illumination and take a seat next to her, although to your dismay, she promptly shifts to the other side of the alcove. Her knees are curled up to her chest in that same protective position you’ve seen so many times before.

        A long moment passes before she speaks, punctuated by occasional sniffles as she collects herself. “I’m… sorry. About yesterday. You were just trying to help me, and I was… needlessly cruel to you.” She refuses to meet your eyes.

        “Alright. Um, thank you.” The response feels inadequate, but you don’t have much experience accepting apologies.

        “You were right about what you said. I could never dream of assigning blame to you, if you had been through everything I have.”

        “That’s a relief, at least. Can you apply that to yourself?”

        She winces in what looks like pain. “...I don’t know. Something still bothers me about it. I just don’t get why. Why would Sulyvahn lock me up if I’m not a threat to civilized society? There would be no reason to imprison witches if they posed no danger.”

        Indignant anger sparks within you. Whoever made her feel this way, you’d relish the chance to incinerate them with your pyromancies. "Sulyvahn put you in that dungeon because he is a corrupt tyrant hungering for power with no moral compass. Witches are a politically expedient scapegoat, not a threat to his people. Please, don't tear yourself apart with shame for events you had no control over."

        Her gaze drops to her lap, and you can almost see something break within her. "I know. That makes sense, it's just..." She's struggling to speak between ragged, labored breaths.

        "That's so fucking unfair." Her voice breaks on the last syllable, coming out at just above a whisper. More tears pool in her eyes, and you briefly wonder if you’ve made some mistake, before the distraught witch scoots over to you on her knees and promptly collapses against your chest.

        Your stomach leaps, but you force it back down when she begins to shake with silent sobs. You wrap your arms around her to support her weight, wincing as she momentarily flinches at the gentle touch. You don’t dare move your hands from their current position, no matter how badly you want to run them along her back or stroke her raven hair.

        "You're right. It is. It doesn't mean you're weak, or wretched, or any other of the awful things you say about yourself. We can’t control the actions of others; their evil is on them, not you.”

        Her eyes squeeze shut, and your shirt begins to dampen beneath her face. "Ohh gods… why me? Why the fuck do I have to suffer!? They imprisoned, and tortured me for… why!? "

        A fragment of an anguished wail that she had been suppressing finally slips out. The choked sound is enough to rend your heart in two. More soon follow as she breaks down in your arms, and you hold each other closer than you ever have before.

        For a long while, you simply cradle Karla to your chest, allowing her to empty her misery onto you. While she had previously been holding back the worst of her sobs, she’s now full-on wailing into your shoulder. Although you’re already planning what to say when she finishes, you do not attempt to quiet her tears. She needs to release her pent-up anguish unimpeded. She would still be suffering just as badly even if she was hiding it better; releasing her sorrows in your arms is greatly preferable to letting them fester in her mind.

        You patiently wait for several minutes, until she has withdrawn herself from the embrace and begun to dry her tears on her sleeve before you speak. She seats herself next to you, in the spot she'd shied away from initially. Her leaning against your shoulder is a pleasant surprise.

        “So… do you want to talk about it?”

        You’ve long since stopped bothering to ask Karla this question, as you figured you already knew what her answer would be. In the past, she’s been cagey at best about her time in Irithyll dungeon, and at worst outright hostile. Because of this, her response catches you by surprise.

        “Yes. I think I’m ready.”

        With her tears expended, she's able to articulate her thoughts more clearly. “It’s… fuck… It’s such an injustice. How do you make peace with that? How do you accept that your life was ruined over fucking nothing? ”

        “...I don’t know.” you’re forced to admit. The words are bitter on your tongue, like an admission of defeat. “But, do you think your life is truly ruined? You’re free now, and you have a community to belong to.”

        And you have me, you want to add, but refrain.

        Her distress doesn’t ease. “No, you don’t get it. When I got out of the dungeon, I thought I would just go back to a semi-normal life and everything would be fine again. That was the plan. I tried so… so hard to make that happen.” She’s out of tears to cry, but still chokes down a dry sob.

        “But it doesn’t work like that. I’m so broken down now, that…” She moves her fingers back and forth in an interlocking pattern. “...the pieces won’t go back together. I can’t ever be who I used to be, when things were okay. There was a stupid, naive, reckless girl who went into that dungeon, and she's never coming back out.”

        From a hand in her lap, she shakily uncurls her fingers and produces her Pyromancy Flame, the one you first gave her in Irithyll dungeon.

        “It’s like… look at my Flame. I had one before, from my mother; it burned black like my dark pyromancies. When I was sentenced, one of the Irithyll knights rang his chime, and… he used a miracle to take it away from me. Literally ripped out that piece of my soul. You gave me a bit of yours, but it’s different. I can never get the old one back.”

        She turns her face into your shoulder, her voice breaking again. “That’s what this is like. I can never go back to being a whole person again, and it’s so fucking unfair!”

        It chills you when you realize you’ve never met that woman who went into the dungeon. You’ve never known a Karla that’s been physically and mentally healthy, one who doesn’t bolt at the sound of a chime or wake up screaming all too often. You try to imagine what she might have been like when she was younger, untouched by so much crushing horror, only to be struck by the realization of just how little you have to go on. A tremendous sense of loss worms its way deep into your chest, a cold longing for something you’ve never had at all.

        It doesn’t matter. Karla is who she is right now, cuddled up next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. This is the Karla you’ve always known, and this is the Karla who is important in the here and now. It’s this Karla who’s brightened your life and captured your affection, not whoever she may have been long ago.

        “All of our experiences affect us. Who we are is in a constant state of flux, both for better and for worse. None of us can go back to how we were before… but we always still have the opportunity to change for the better.”

        Gently, you take her hand holding her Flame, sliding your own around it. “Look at your Flame now. It’s different, but that doesn’t make it any worse or lesser. It started off weak, but now it’s getting stronger again. Look how much bigger it is than when it was first rekindled.”

        For a moment, she's transfixed by the dancing flame in her palm. The warm light flickers and waves in silence, fuelled by nothing but the strength of her soul. 

        She winces again, and her eyes fall from the beautiful fire she holds. “It still hurts so much.”

        “I know.” You clasp your hand around hers, and her Flame is absorbed back into her body. You give her palm a reassuring squeeze, and your heart flutters when she returns the gesture. “But even if you’re not okay now, I trust that you can still get there. You’re a strong person. It won’t be the same, but you can still have a life worth living.”

        Karla leans into your shoulder, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Her face is very still, like she’s putting a great deal of effort into keeping it that way.

        “Huh. You really think so?”

        You nod. “Yeah. It’ll probably take more time before you can fully believe it, but… I’ll be here to remind you.”

        She looks almost as if she’s about to cry again, but she breathes in slow and deep, and a contented smile comes to her lips rather than sobs.

        “I think I can live with that.”

        You feel as if you could cry as well.

        Karla blinks a few times, before stretching her arms back and letting out an exhausted yawn. “Can we discuss this more tomorrow? A lot of things have been bothering me lately; I think it would be nice to get them all out. But right now, I need sleep.”

        “Mm, sounds good to me.” In your haste to aid Karla, you’d nearly forgotten your own exhaustion. Her yawn spreads infectiously to you.

        An idea strikes you, one that gets you slightly red in the face. “Do you want me to stay for tonight?”

        You surprise yourself with your own willingness to ask the question. It takes Karla a long moment to answer, and when she does, more embarrassment is written across her face. “...I would appreciate it, if it’s not a bother.”

        Sharing a bed with Karla is the furthest thing from a bother you could possibly imagine. “Alright then.”

        You savor one last glance at her face before settling into her alcove for the night. You opt to sleep on your side and press yourself up against the back wall, minimizing the amount of her space that you’re taking up. She did ask for you to be here, but you still wouldn’t want to encroach.

        “G’night.”

        You almost jump when you feel a weight softly lean against you, and an arm wrapped in black throws itself over your chest. Karla pulls you away from the wall slightly, and you graciously scoot back into her embrace. You’re hyper-aware of every sensation; the gentle rhythm of her breath brushing the back of your neck, the way her arm protectively drapes over you, the softness of her breasts pressing into your back. You can’t remember ever feeling this relaxed in your life. Tentatively, you enclose your hand over hers, and almost melt into the mattress when a pleased sigh graces your ears.

        Karla remains perfectly still and serene during her sleep for the remainder of the night, not once disturbing you or the other residents.

Chapter Text

        You awaken the next morning to the sound of knuckles rapping against stone. Karla is already sitting up in bed next to you, reading more from Quelana’s pyromancy tome. Evidently, she didn’t feel the need to expel you from her alcove once she woke up. You’re surprised, but nonetheless grateful.

        An uncomfortably bright light strikes your face as the curtain is pulled aside by someone other than Karla. Although she turns suddenly, she doesn’t panic, to your relief. Her body obscures your view, but you easily identify the visitor as Cornyx by his gentle, slightly elderly voice.

        “Um, Karla, I’d like to discuss your tutelage of—”

        You sit up to greet him, only to pause in confusion as he abruptly freezes mid-sentence. Cornyx, not wearing his usual blindfold, appears struck by a sudden facial paralysis. Your just-woken-up mind lags behind his own, and it takes you an embarrassingly long moment to put together the pieces of where you are, and who you are currently sharing a bed with.

        As soon as the connection is made, your face flushes a shameful red. A jumbled ‘It’s not what it looks like’ races to the tip of your tongue, but Cornyx is already retreating before you have the chance.

        “My apologies! Another time, then!” He drops the curtain back over the shared alcove and hurriedly strolls away.

        Karla slowly turns to you. You briefly fear she’ll berate you, yet as your eyes lock, you can see she’s already cracking up with laughter. She breaks out into a delighted cackle, which you follow with a more nervous one.

        “Well that’s one way to come out.”

        You’re stammering. “But, it’s not like— We didn’t—”

        “Oh? Would you prefer if we had?” She raises her eyebrows at you. You don’t offer a response, choosing instead to bury your face in your hands, hiding your redness.

        Breakfast passes as it usually does. Greirat scored a small container of smoked sausages on his last expedition to the Undead Settlement, so you each dig into bowls of porridge with bits of the sausage mixed in. You’ve had better, but you’ve also certainly had a lot worse, and Karla’s company elevates the eating experience tenfold.

        “So last night, you said you wanted to get out some things that have been bothering you. Are you ready now?”

        She suddenly grows very tense. “...Yes. I at least feel like I owe you some kind of explanation for everything I’ve put you through.”

        “You don’t owe me anything. Is this something you want to talk about? We don’t have to—”

        “N-no, no, it’s fine. I’m tired of stewing in my thoughts for so long, and I think it might help to articulate them.”

        You nod in understanding, waiting for her to continue.

        “I…” She considers her words carefully. “I can’t go back to when I was fine because even though I’m out of the dungeon, it’s like some part of my mind still thinks I’m in there. For so long, all I could think about was survival, and now I can’t stop thinking like that.”

        “How so?”

        “My life is ruled by fear. A chime ringing scared me as if it were a mortal threat. You’re the only person I can talk to without being crippled by dread. I’m terrified of open spaces now; I need my back to a wall or else it feels like someone is about to come up behind me. It feels like there’s danger waiting to jump out at me in every shadow and corner.”

        You want to embrace her, but the pain that wells in your chest is followed by a bubbling anger. “What did they do to you?”

        She gives a short, humorless laugh. “That’s the big question, isn’t it? You want to know the specifics. You need your morbid curiosity sated.”

        Guilt stings in immediately. “I didn’t mean—”

        “Eh. I did say I was going to open up to you. Talking about things like this is supposed to help, right? That’s how this works?”

        “I… I’m not sure. I don’t think you should disclose anything that makes you too uncomfortable. If you never want to tell me at all, I’m fine with not knowing.”

        A long, quiet moment passes as she considers that possibility, before she makes her decision with a slow nod.

        “This… isn’t pleasant to think about. It’s less that I can remember what they did to me, and more what I can infer from the scars on my body, or common themes in my nightmares. My memories are so indistinct, it's like everything's blended together into one long haze of pain and loneliness.

        “...I know there was a lot of torture. Those branding irons? They’re not intended for use on intruders. T-there were… crude implements. Broken bones. Denial of food, compliance through starvation. Insults, degradation, u-um… other humiliations.

        “But honestly, none of that was the worst of it. For the most part, they did nothing." Her tone is bitter and spiteful. “The nothing was the real torture. Aside from their visits, it was just an absolute, constant, insufferable separation from everything. My life was nothing but staring at cold blank walls, all day every day, for years. It's… it's indescribable. Going that long with nothing to do, nothing to experience… it’s an absence so heavy, and so suffocating, that your mind starts to fracture under it. Not all at once; it’s like… I was unraveling, little by little. Now I’m all torn and threadbare.” She idly tugs at a loose thread in her witch’s robe.

        "It felt like I was going insane. I started hallucinating; whispers and shadowy figures until I couldn’t tell what was real. The nightmares were constant. It felt like there wasn't even a world outside the cell anymore, just nothing but me in a little box, forever. I…" Her eyes fall from you in shame. "T-there were times I begged for the jailers to torture me, just so I wouldn’t be alone.

        "I tried to kill myself several times." she admits, fingers white-knuckled on her bowl. "The manacles weren't sharp enough to cut my wrists. I always passed out before the chains could strangle me. I knew it wouldn't matter, and I'd just come back as an undead, but I f-figured…" Your eyes follow the bob of her throat as she swallows heavily. "Maybe if I hollowed, I wouldn't have to think about it anymore."

        Without thinking, you take one of her hands in your own, squeezing it tightly. "Well I'm glad you didn't."

        "S-sometimes, I'm not so sure if I am." She returns the squeeze and smiles morosely. "Meeting you has been nice, though.

        “Needless to say, all this has left me with some… lasting negative effects.” She keeps fidgeting with the frayed thread. “I'm surprised by how terrible my sense of distance is now. Everything too far away just looks flat, like the set of a play. It causes me to miss with spells when I know I really shouldn’t. I think my eyes just aren’t used to seeing anything further than ten feet away from me.

        “The nightmares haven't stopped either. I get them almost every night. They don’t usually make me scream. It’s another way I haven’t switched back. When I was in that cell…” She pauses for a deep breath. “Every dream I had in that cell, I was still in the cell, in the dream. I couldn’t even escape it in sleep. The worst part was, it didn’t take long before I could never tell whether or not I was dreaming. It was terrifying.”

        She folds her arms over her chest like she's cold. “Even now, all my dreams are still in that cell. Even though I’m out, I still spend so much time in there. Part of me feels like I never truly escaped at all.” She glances up at you. “Remember that first night I screamed, and I told you off like a total asshole?”

        “Karla, you’re not—”

        She gives a dismissive wave. “I can call it what it was. I was scared and hurting and wasn't ready to admit either of those things, to you or myself.

        “That night, I woke up from a nightmare, and I... I was back in the dungeon again. It felt so real; I thought I w-was…” She swallows heavily, her stare vacant. “I thought I never escaped at all. I thought your rescue was what I had dreamed. I thought I was still in there, a-and the jailers were coming to hurt me again, and that’s when I screamed.”

        “Would it help if I stayed with you more often, like last night?”

        She blinks in surprise. “Um… maybe. I'd certainly be willing to try.”

        More nights with Karla certainly isn’t a prospect you’d mind. If she’s going to wake up screaming, you’d much rather be the first thing she sees when the nightmare ends.

        "I had no idea how much you were struggling. I wanted to help you so much, but every time I tried, you pushed me away."

        She looks away in shame. "I… I didn't want to admit it to myself just as much as I didn't want to admit it to you. I wanted so badly to just be fine, and have things go back to normal. I guess you were a reminder of how much I couldn’t.”

        “Was I being annoying? I could give you more space, if you need.”

        “N-no, no, that’s not it. I want to be close to you. Our breakfasts and magic lessons are the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time. And I don’t think you could keep your eyes off me if you tried. It’s just—” The words get caught in her throat. “Trying so hard to be fine, and then seeing you, how much you cared for me, how much you pitied me…” She can't meet your eyes. “If I'm being pitied, it means I'm pitiful.”

        “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re far from pitiful. You’re the strongest mage I know, of any discipline. Torture couldn’t take that away from you.”

        “They certainly tried.” she produces her Flame, a distinct orange instead of black. “But I suppose, for all the punishment they could inflict, I’m still just as wicked of a witch as always.”

        “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

        It’s not quite a laugh, but her exhale is more amused than it is mournful.

        “I’ve tried to rebuild my life, but I also have to rebuild who I am. It's taken a… mental shift, to think of myself as a victim of torture. I am irrevocably a victim now, no matter how much I pretend otherwise." She spits the word out like it’s rotten.

        “Some people call themselves 'survivors' instead.”

        She scoffs. “Doesn’t matter what I call it. I still got tortured. I still lost years of my life to that tiny fucking box. I didn't ‘survive’ it out of some inner strength, I just existed through it. I couldn’t do anything else. I didn’t even want to survive it; I tried not to.”

        "Do you want to survive now?"

        She looks up at you, studying your face very carefully. “...Most of the time, yes.”

        Your eyes lock with hers. “Good. Let’s try to keep it that way.”

        She glances away quickly, her attention returning to her bowl of porridge. The heavy silence between you is punctuated only by the clattering of wooden utensils.

        “The guilt hasn’t gone away.” she says abruptly. “I’ve always sort of, um… felt like I deserved it, I guess? Or maybe not deserved—like it was my fault. For the longest time, I figured that what happened was a natural result of me practicing hexing. You say it wasn’t, and I get that, but it’s more difficult to change how it feels. When the whole world tells you you're rotten… I guess it's easy to start believing it.”

        “I get it too. You don’t have to justify yourself.”

        She nods in appreciation before she continues. “The jailers… they weren’t fans of my profession. As you can obviously tell.” Her hand moves to cover her forearm, above the mark you know is there. “Hurting me didn’t get them anything. They just found it fun, and thought I deserved it. I suppose, being around them for so long, their attitude eventually rubbed off on me.

        “I can barely even remember most of it now. It’s all so indistinct, until something throws me back there, and then it’s like I never left. Someone opens the curtain without knocking, and suddenly their face is a jailer's mask. A chime rings, and they’re about to snuff out my Flame. I don’t know if it'll ever get better, or if some part of me will always stay trapped in that dungeon.”

        “I know it's different for me, and I've never been tortured, but I have been fighting since I crawled out of my own grave. In my experience, the fight never goes away, but you do get better at dealing with it.”

        Karla is silent for a long moment. “For the first time, I'm starting to believe that.”

        To your surprise, she begins undoing the leather bindings tightly woven around her right sleeve. “The marks they left won't go away either.” She slides the fabric up to her elbow, revealing her burned flesh. “I'm terrified of what the others would say, if they saw. I've never known others to look favorably on the disfigured. Aside from you, I suppose.”

        “If anyone says shit about your scars, I'll be happy to escort them out, permanently. I’d rather have you here than anyone who'd be disgusted by you. Yuria's banishment would be the least of it.”

        “I don't doubt you would.” She cracks a smile that fades as quickly as it starts. “Doesn't help much if I'm the one disgusted by me.”

        “I… I don't think it's anything to be ashamed of. Bodies are just bodies, and we can’t choose the one we get. I certainly didn’t choose any of my scars. A burn mark can’t make you any less valuable or worthy of care.”

        “And yet you still offered to heal it away. Was that for my comfort, or your own?”

        Your stomach knots at the implication. “There's very little that could make me uncomfortable with seeing your body.”

        “I certainly hope that's true.” she sighs. “I won't lie, not being scarred would make me a hell of a lot more comfortable. My skin feels so tight it's hard to move, and I dearly miss the comeliness of my youth. But, I don’t think that's a reality I can achieve. My disfigurements are a part of me now, whether I like it or not.”

        It's not as if you aren't still comely, you think better of saying.

        She rolls her wrist in circles, flexing each of her fingers one by one. “I've found I'm more able to move if I keep the scars compressed and stretch them out regularly. I just wish I had some kind of salve to keep them from drying out.”

        “I'm no apothecary, but I might be able to mix some Estus into a balm.”

        “I think I'd like that.” she says, sliding her sleeve back up and reapplying the leather compression straps.

        “When I return, then.” You stand from the table, clearing your empty bowl. “I’m afraid it’s time for me to depart. I’ll bring back what I can from the castle. Still a whole army between me and the throne.”

        “I can always count on you, my lady pyromancer.”

        Donning your gambeson and brigandine is as easy as breathing. No matter how many gruesome deaths today might bring, holding onto your humanity feels a little easier with a friendly face waiting at home.