Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: We Don’t Need Words!

            Tiche, daughter of the dreaded Alecto, Ringleader of the Black Knife Assassins, was stumped.  This hadn’t been a familiar feeling to her during her long and adventurous life—the feeling of being stuck in a rut, particularly confused about one thing or another.  Certainly, the work of assassination was not brainless, and even with the immaculate blueprints laid for each hit by the Black Knives’ cunning matriarch, Tiche was used to thinking on her feet.  Scheming for the sake of her own survival was just part of the lifestyle.  Think fast or die stupid.

            Or, Tiche thought sourly, get trapped for eternity in a damned Evergaol.

            The seasoned assassin had been less than wholeheartedly appreciative when she had “returned” to “life.”  After all, that god-forsaken tarnished was to blame for waltzing into her mother’s perpetual prison, slaying her in cold blood, and to add insult to injury, stealing Tiche’s cremated ashes from the pouch at Alecto’s hip. 

            The Lands Between were full of warriors and always had been.  Assassins were not exactly known for being the most honorable among those, to be perfectly fair.  But in equal fairness, Tiche had never in her life (or afterlife) seen anything so deplorably irreverent as someone casually plucking the ashes of a deceased child off her mother’s corpse.

            This tarnished, Tiche’s internal grumbling continued, has got to be the most dishonorable, morally bankrupt, culturally insensitive psychopath to ever walk the planet.

            This was the typical train of thought she found herself riding when her consciousness, usually dormant in peaceful, almost-death, was forcefully jerked back into the real world for another gruesome round of direct combat.  That tiny, softly-chiming bell would pierce through her deep eternal slumber like the world’s loudest alarm clock, and before she knew it, Tiche would be slung into the fray against some frighteningly powerful demigod, knight, dragon, or—God help—another fucking skeleton in a canoe.  She would appear begrudgingly, fight efficiently, as that was the only way she’d ever known how, and after a brief period of respite alongside that strange tarnished man, return to her silent solitude, always feeling somehow, for some reason, a little reluctant. 

            The fear of death.  She reminded herself.  No matter how many times I return to it, it’s still death.  That reluctance means that my human instincts are still working—that’s all. 

            She felt it again, then, after the protracted fight with Rennala, Witch of the Full Moon, was finally over.  Tiche let her sharp-toed boots click to the ground, catching her breath at last, and prepared herself for the return to nothingness.

            “Thank you,” came a soft voice between ragged breaths.  He was hoarse and soaked with blood—had those creatures not been illusory, after all?—no, but even still, as his knees shook and his weapon fell to the floor, that strange man found the time and energy to turn toward Tiche, bow his head, and thank her. 

            This was generally when she would disappear.  She took it as her cue—he didn’t need her assistance anymore.  This time, though, Tiche was given pause by the circumstances.  All she could do is watch as the tarnished warrior who had summoned her stepped to Rennala’s side, barehanded and with his helmet opened, and helped her to sit up.  In spite of the ferocious battle the two had just waged, they spoke amicably, if a little nonsensically.  Tiche could tell that the queen wasn’t all there, but regardless, the tarnished was humoring her with well-timed nods and interjections of understanding.  At last, he stooped and picked up what she had dropped: some kind of large, amber egg.  He gently handed it to the witch queen, and she took it tenderly in her arms like a child, and they spoke no more. 

            “You hate to see it,” he murmured, perhaps to himself, rejoining Tiche in her place under the shadowy eaves of the library shelving, “what power does to caring people.”

            Tiche, intrigued by his unexpectedly profound quip, tilted her head.

            “Oh, hello.”  The tarnished smiled.  “So you can hear me.”

            The assassin scolded herself for reacting at all and resolved not to do that again.  She wasn’t sure if she could even speak in this form.  Oddly enough, her weapons couldn’t touch the man who summoned her—she’d tried that almost immediately upon her first summoning, hoping at least to try avenging her mother.  But no, she couldn’t interact with him physically at all, much less kill him.  After that, she’d neglected to try so much as talking aloud in his presence, which seemed fine with him before that day, as he hadn’t tried speaking to her, either.

            It wasn’t the custom of an assassin to let her voice be heard, anyway.  In fact, Tiche reflected on the harshest training she ever had to undergo, which cultivated that very skill of hers at a young age.  Her mother had tied her to the hitching post outside of their small home on the capital outskirts and, for two days straight, tormented her with unexpected physical violence at random intervals.  The assaults ranged from light smacks across her exposed knuckles to fierce blows into her kidneys from behind, and at some points even drew blood as her mother delivered quick swipes to her arms and legs with the duller knives from the kitchen—meant to cause pain, not to injure. 

            Silence.  Tiche fumed, thinking back on it.  That was all her mother had asked of her, and then it would stop.  She never thought of Alecto as a cruel parent.  She never thought of her as a parent at all, frankly.  From the time she was old enough to wield a knife, Tiche and her mother were coconspirators; a leader and a subordinate.  The torture didn’t even register with Tiche as abusive—it was educational.  At the end of those two days, when her mother flogged her shoulders, or pulled at her hair, or stepped on her toes, or even touched the orange-tinged fire poker to her empty, cramping stomach, Tiche found that she could grind her teeth together and fix her eyes somewhere past the horizon, and she could be silent. 

            So, needless to say, the feeling was a bit novel to her when she felt the urge to open her mouth and reply to the tarnished.  It was like learning that same, painful lesson all over again.  She kept her mouth shut, though, and turned her head away from him. 

            “That’s okay.” He relented, still somewhat winded, and despite his victory against Rennala, sounding slightly defeated by her scorn.  “You can go back, now, if you want.  Thank you again, Black Knife Tiche.”

            How stupidly decorous, she rolled her eyes, he might as well call me ‘Serial Murderer Tiche.’  ‘Domestic Terrorist Tiche.’  ‘Accessory to Violent Revolution, Tiche.’  Have some tact, for God’s sake.

            But once again, as Tiche was just beginning to ready herself to vanish, the onset of unignorable reluctance grabbed her.  She looked across the room at Rennala, entranced by the strange egg in her arms.  Motherhood.  She looked down at her tarnished host, now sitting with his back against a stone column, as he pulled off stringy chunks of cured meat to feed himself.  Self-preservation.  She looked down at her own dubiously corporeal body, clad in the same armor in which she’d died.  Violence.

            I can’t go on like this, she realized very suddenly.  It wasn’t a thought that had struck her before, and she was shocked by the immediacy and potency of the thought once it finally arrived.  I don’t want to be a spirit ash forever.  I don’t deserve to return to the Erdtree.  I don’t deserve a hero’s burial.  But I don’t deserve this personal hell, either.  Something’s got to change.

            “Hungry?”  The words broke her trance, and she was glad for the hood obscuring her face as she looked down at the tarnished.  He smiled kindly up at her, a piece of meat skewered on the end of the small carving knife he used for crafting and cooking.  “I don’t know if spirits can eat,” he admitted, “but even if you can’t, you’re welcome to pretend, if it makes you feel better.  Got plenty to go around.”

            Pretend?  Tiche wrinkled her nose.  You think I want to pretend to eat that disgusting piece of uncooked meat?  Why would I do that?

            As if he could read her mind, the tarnished shrugged, taking the piece of food back and eating it himself.  “Never mind,” he mumbled with his mouth full, “that was dumb, sorry.”

            He took to admiring the great rune that Rennala had granted to him upon her admission of defeat.  This one radiated a different kind of power than the rest.  That was another thing that had taken Tiche off guard about this man—when she’d met him, he already had two great runes.  This was his third.  As one of the few other mortals who’d actually slain a demigod in her lifetime, Tiche understood very well what an accomplishment it was to claim those runes, and it made her wonder all the more how this man came to know such strength.

            “I just had a crazy idea,” he said slowly, looking back and forth between the blue-tinged great rune and Tiche, “but it probably won’t work.  So I’m not gonna tell you about it, because I don’t want to get your hopes up.  Okay?”  His crooked, beaming smile just begged for a reply, and it took every ounce of Tiche’s hard earned discipline to deny him that. 

            At long last, burdened by considerations of her own existence and the mysterious inclinations of her new partner, Tiche let herself succumb once more to nothingness, and to dust she did return.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: It Doesn’t Hurt to be Slashed by Love!

            And then all at once, it was light, sound, heat, and discomfort. 

            Tiche shot up, and in a moment of vulnerability before her well-trained reflexes could take over, she let out a shockingly feminine gasp.  There was sunlight coming through the door and it was colorful and warm.  There was stone underneath her body that was cold and smooth.  Her armor was stiff and heavy.  A cacophony of noises rushed through one ear and out the other: birds chirped, cicadas cried, wind hissed through the grass, and her heart—her heart—

            It was beating, like a drum, in her chest.

            “No way,” came a familiar voice, “no way in hell that worked.”

            Tiche came slowly to the realization that she was not alone.  Even slower arrived the realization that she was in very close proximity to another person, and that person was holding her hand.  The second this registered, she jerked away and fumbled for one of her knives.  Its crooked blade hung on its unwieldly sheathe, and she flailed uselessly under the weight of her cape, which for some reason felt like a great idiotic tarp thrown over her back like a fishing net. 

            “Easy, easy!” 

            She paused, panting, and got a hold of herself.

            Sitting a few feet away was, of course, the same tarnished.  He’d made a very wise move in scooting backward across the stone floor the second Tiche had started, and now he was making direct eye contact with her under her hood.  He wasn’t in battle this time.  There was no great enemy facing them down, and if that wasn’t clear enough, his helmet and gauntlets were sitting on the floor next to him.  Next to him—where?  Tiche surveyed her surroundings.

            Small, immaculately clean and prettily designed.  Circular?  A coffin in the middle of the room, ominous.  And, of course, a pair of doors thrown wide open, the same way that damned tarnished left every door he came across.

            He’d never make it as an assassin, Tiche jeered in her head.

            “Anybody in there?”  He waved, still sporting that soft, goofy smile.  “Sorry if I interrupted your nap, Ma’am.  It’s just…”  He cocked his head to the side, searching for words.  “…I’ve got a lot of spirit ashes, you see, but none of them have ever spoken to me before.  N-Not that you have, either, but…  But you acknowledged me, at least!”         

            How starved for interaction must this guy be? Tiche wondered. Or, well, maybe that’s just normal.  I suppose I’m not exactly a paragon of social intelligence.

            “So with Rennala’s rune of rebirth, I figured, ‘hey, maybe I can give your ashes the same treatment as these remembrances I’ve earned.’  So I took you to a walking mausoleum, sacrificed your ashes, let the great rune’s power bless you, and…”  The tarnished gestured toward the assassin with open palms.  She looked down at herself, her armor having regained its grayish-black luster, and her body regaining all its corporeal mass.  She felt sluggish.  She felt hot.  Being a spirit was perpetual weightlessness and transient chills.  It was everything you’d expect being a ghost to be, naturally. The tarnished kept talking in spite of her unresponsiveness.  “I hope I’m not overstepping, here.  If you really want to stay dead, I don’t mind killing you again, so...”

            The goddamned nerve!  Tiche nearly scoffed aloud.  Did he really just revive me from death against my will and threaten to immediately kill me again?

            “…Hey,” he squinted his eyes, “say something.”

            Tiche did not do that.

            “You mute?”  He frowned.  “Deaf, maybe?  Oh!  Well…”  He pulled out one of the many crafting notebooks in his luggage and fished for a quill, rummaged around for a stone of land octopus ink, and…

            “Tarnished,” Tiche’s flat voice came out just above a whisper, “I can hear you.”

            She winced to hear the sound of herself speaking.  It just came unnaturally to her.  Even among the other Black Knife Assassins, speech was overrated; it was amazing how much trained professionals could communicate through nonverbal cues, especially when tense situations demanded quick, silent coordination.  Because she took pride in that particular brand of efficiency, and because even outside of jobs it was not necessary for her to speak, Tiche came to despise her own voice.  Which, suffice it to say, was not remedied in the slightest when the tarnished said:

            ”Oh, my God, your voice is adorable.”

            “Is not.” Tiche shot back immediately.  Quietly.  Was he speaking loudly?  No, Tiche realized, her own voice was just too quiet. 

            “You’re, like, seven feet tall and stronger than most private standing armies!” The tarnished giggled boyishly. “And you sound like a kitten!”

            “I’ll not endure this,” Tiche fumed, “and I’ll not entertain your company any longer!”

            “Huh?”  The tarnished blinked across the floor at her.  “Why not?”

            “Why not?”  Tiche gawked.  “Why, because you’ve proven time and time again that you hold no respect for life, and your conception of honor is hideously inverted!  I’d rather be locked in an Evergaol than spend another second in your stinking pocket!”

            “Did they smell?”  The tarnished faltered.  “Oh, I’m super sorry about that, I didn’t know you were actually awake inside those ashes, or I would’ve…  Aw, man, I hope you weren’t watching every time I—”

            “—Regardless!”  Tiche stamped her feet, growing impatient.  “You’re the opposite of the kind of man I’d care to associate with!”

            “You’re saying I’m not your type?”  The tarnished suddenly grew red in the face.  “Wait, wait, aren’t you getting the wrong idea?  I just figured we could be, like partners—er, not that kind of partner—well, I mean, unless you want to be that kind of partners, but I was…  Oh, I thought we could just start as friends, maybe?”

            “Wuh-wuh-wuh—”  Tiche felt her cheeks fill with blood for the first time in immeasurably long.  Not just because she’d been a spirit with no circulatory system—no, even before that, the listless existence of an assassin didn’t exactly present many blush-inducing scenarios.  “—What are you talking about?”

            “I wanna team up with you.” The tarnished said at last, his expression softening into something a little more earnest.

            “…Why?”  Tiche grumbled.  “On what grounds?”

            “Because, this world is so full of awesome people, but…”  He droned off.  “…Well, they all either want to kill me or run away from me immediately, it seems like.”

            “I would like to do both of those things,” Tiche deadpanned, “in that order.”

            “Nuh-uh,” The tarnish turned his nose up at her.

            “Wha—” Tiche frowned.  “Yes, I would!”

            “No, you would not.”

            “I’m telling you, I would so!”

            “Would not!” 

            “Would—oh, you are such a child!” She puffed out her cheeks—not that the tarnished could see her doing it.  But then again, he didn’t have to, given her absolutely unrestrained tone of voice.  “Why are you so certain that I don’t despise you with every fiber of my being, wish you were dead, and curse you to a long and arduous return to the Erdtree?”

            “’Cause you’re still here.” He said quietly, his smile returning.  It was not a teasing, mean-spirited smile.  It was not a proud smile, either.  It was a soft and inviting smile, the likes of which Black Knife Tiche had never seen before in her life.  It caused something unfamiliar and bubbly to turn over inside the pit of her stomach.  It made the painful burning behind her cheeks turn pleasantly warm. 

            “Tiche.” she sighed, removing her hand from her dagger’s hilt and standing at last.  “My name is Tiche, daughter of Alecto, of the Black Knife Assassins.”

            “I know that much.” The tarnished let his smile widen as he stood as well.  He stuck out his hand unabashedly; he had to look up to meet the shadowed gaze of the assassin.  “My name’s Dandelion.  You can call me Dandy, if you want.  It’s nice to meet you properly, Black Knife Tiche, Ma’am.”

            “Ma—”  Tiche stammered, then groaned, taking his hand.  The two warriors shook.  “…It’s bad form to call an assassin by her profession, Dandelion.  Tiche is sufficient.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.”  Dandelion had already turned around and pulled out his map.  “Now, let’s see…  Next site of grace is…”

            “I-I’m not…”  Tiche mumbled.  “…I can’t be that much older than you, s-so ‘ma’am’ is a little…”

            “Hmm?”  The tarnished raised his head again.  “Sorry, I kinda zoned out.”

            “Nothing!”  Tiche hissed.  “Let’s just get on with this, already!”

            And so an unlikely pair set out on their unexpected journey.  Except, it wasn’t unexpected in the slightest, since the tarnished named Dandelion had already conquered half the Lands Between in advance of their meeting.  And it also wasn’t the most unlikely pair in the world, despite appearances, because the world is being slowly consumed by death, chaos, and apathy, and so any interaction that doesn’t end with one or both parties swinging for the other’s jugular, and where one person actually humors another’s polite conversation long enough to formulate a sane response, is nothing short of a tear-jerking, beautiful friendship.

            Or maybe—although our darling Tiche couldn’t possibly have imagined it at the time—something even sweeter…?

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Back in the Saddle!

            He did something that Tiche had never seen someone do before.  She’d had plenty of assassination and infiltration partners before, sometimes dozens at once.  Never before had she seen this particular tactic.

            “Why do you insist on doing that, repeatedly?”  Tiche huffed, increasing her gait to walk beside Dandelion.

            “Do what, Ma’am?”  Tiche’s ears burned when he called her that.  “Would you rather take the lead?”

            “No, you imbecile, I don’t know where we’re going!”  She fumed.  “I don’t care to follow you for now, but I’m perturbed by your habit of turning to look at me at random intervals.”

            “Huh?”  Dandelion cocked his head.  “Like, when I check on you every once and awhile?”

            “It’s unnerving,” Tiche fidgeted, “I am unaccustomed to it.”

            “You’re my partner,” the young man wagged his finger, “of course I’m gonna look out for you.  You’re watching my back, too, right?”

            “Your back is directly in front of me.  I don’t have a choice!”  The assassin realized in immediate hindsight that her defensive tone wasn’t doing her any favors.  “I just don’t understand.  Are you concerned by my pace?  Are you still of the suspicion that I plan to stab you in the back?”

            “Oh, shit!”  Dandelion smacked himself in the head.  “I didn’t even think about that!  Well, now you said it, that’s probably not your plan, right?”  He chuckled nervously.

            “I cannot believe you.” Tiche marveled.  “How has a man like you gathered three great runes already?”

            “How are you a world-renowned assassin if you don’t watch your partner’s back?”  He shot back.  “That’s, like, basic cooperation!”

            “Everyone has a duty to look out for his or her own self,” Tiche said firmly, “because ultimately, no one else is responsible for a life but its owner.  If you aren’t at least competent enough to watch your own backside, you aren’t prepared to be part of a team at all.  That’s the bottom line.”

            “Ain’t that just an excuse?”  Dandelion stared at the ground as he spoke quietly.

            “What?”

            “I bet people die all the time in your line of work.”  He furrowed his brow.  “And I bet you pay your brief respects, and then you move on.  I bet you don’t lose a wink of sleep over it, do you?”

            “I—we—”  Tiche chewed the inside of her cheek.  “…Professionals can’t afford such luxuries.”

            “So that’s how you excuse it, right?”  Dandelion looked back up at her, and though her hood still covered her face, he seemed to be staring right through Tiche.  “Everyone’s life is in their own hands?  Everyone should be able to look out for themselves before they even think about forming a team?  What good is a partner, then, if you can’t trust them with anything?  What’s the point in being a team if you can just handle yourself?”

            “I don’t know!”  Tiche spat, suddenly very angry, and doubly so, as she couldn’t understand what had riled her ire in the first place.  “I don’t know, because…  I never thought about it. That’s it.  I’ve always done things this way, and I never had to think twice about it, because everything always worked out.”

            “Until it didn’t,” Dandelion muttered.

            “…That’s…”  Tiche closed in on herself, going quiet.

            “Sorry,” the young man sighed, “I guess I’m not getting us off on the right foot, am I?  I’ll stop checking up on you, if you want.”

            “No!”  Tiche was confused by her own response.  “No, that’s…  It’s fine.”

            “You sure?”  Dandelion smiled weakly at her.  “I mean, you’re the professional, after all.  I don’t mind trying things your way.”

            “I don’t know.”  Tiche admitted feebly.  “I feel like we might be from two different worlds, Dandelion.  You continue to astonish me with your patience for my stubbornness.”

            “See, that’s the thing,” Dandelion chuckled, “I can be as patient as you please, so long as you let me joke around and poke holes in your shell.”

            “Shell?  What shell?”  Tiche scoffed.  “More nonsense, I presume.”

            “See?  That’s what I’m talking about.  I like that about you.”  He elbowed Tiche’s side and picked up his pace again; she hadn’t realized he’d slowed down for her.  She had no idea what he meant by that, but she didn’t get a chance to ask, either. The assassin watched as her fellow explorer drew his map from his satchel again, wordlessly marking the end of that conversation. 

            I could slit his throat where he stands, Tiche thought simply, and you know what?  The confusion I feel when I realize that I won’t do just that…  May be the realest thing I have ever felt in my life.

            The young woman brought her hands to her churning stomach.  At the very least, she could recognize anxiety when she experienced it.  The larger and more concerning question was why she was feeling anxious in the first place.

            “You good?”  Dandelion was, frustratingly, looking back at her again.  “Oh, need to hit the woods?  I’ve got paper.”  He patted his stomach and started searching around his back.

            “Oh, for—”  Tiche groaned.  “—You have zero delicacy, did you know that?  And no, I do not need to relieve myself, nor will I ever need to raise your awareness for such an occasion!”

            “Oh, alright,” Dandelion shrugged, “well, paper’s in the top compartment of my pack whenever you need it.  Ah.”  He stopped suddenly.

            Tiche, who was fussing to herself and staring at her feet all the while, bumped directly into him.  He wasn’t as small as she’d at first estimated when she’d been a spirit.  The rush of combat kept her in the air most of the time, and more importantly, it was her preferred fighting style to keep some distance between herself and anyone else on the battlefield.  Still, Nox women stood taller than average, and so she found her chin knocking quite painfully into the crown of Dandelion’s skull.

            “Imbecile!”  She cursed.  “Don’t stop so suddenly!”

            “My bad,” the young man rubbed the sore spot on his head, “it’s just…”  He pointed ahead.  The ground sloped down into a craggy, marshy field below—Tiche knew well the distinct landscape of Liurnia.  Dandelion put his hands on his hips.  “Well, I’ve already found several sites of lost grace here in Liurnia, and I would typically just warp between them.”

            “You’d what?”  Tiche wrinkled her brow.

            “I think all Tarnished can do it.”  He shrugged.  “But you’re not tarnished, are you?  Well, I guess we’re going on foot, then.”

            “You mean, our plan is to walk across the entire swamp of Liurnia on foot?”  Tiche gaped, exasperated.  “Have you no sense of urgency?  Or self-respect, for that matter?”

            “What do you suggest?”  Dandelion chuckled.  “I guess we could try stealing one of the giant coffin carriages with the giants pulling them…  Or, whoa!  What if we rode around on a walking mausoleum!?”  He glowed with excitement.

            “Don’t you even have a horse?”  Tiche demanded.

            “Oh, I do.”  He replied.  “That’s my main mode of transportation.”

            “So…”

            “So?”  Dandelion raised his eyebrows.  “You’re going to ride on the back of my horse?  With me?”

            “I—That—It—We—” Tiche blubbered.

            “Sure, I’ll call Torrent and we can get on our way.”  He nodded a little smugly.  He raised his hand to his lips and pressed his fingers together.  As he blew out hard, his breath warbled uniquely around the golden ring he was wearing, and a distinctive whistle rang through the misty morning air.  Tiche watched in mild awe as a whirlwind of blue spirit sparks twinkled into view, cleaved together in a mass of dazzling light, and manifested in a matter of seconds into a large, long-haired steed.  The horse-like beast had pointed horns protruding from its shaggy mane, and a number of cloth satchels were secured to its haunches for storage.  It was quite tall, and although she’d been at first doubtful, Tiche realized at the sight of its powerful muscles and wide frame that this beast would have no trouble hauling two riders.  That said, of course, there was the obvious, fundamental problem that Tiche was not going to share a horse with this man under any circumstances, ever.

            Or, at least, that’s the resolution she clung to for about two minutes.

            “I had no idea there were…”  She gripped her jagged knife with both hands, panting hard, butt planted firmly in the muddy water of the Liurnian swamp.  “…Wuh-What was that?”

            “That?”  Dandelion stooped over and used the water to rinse gobs of grayish crustacean gore from the blade of his large sword.  “You mean the crab?”

            “It was gigantic!”

            “I thought you said you’ve been to Liurnia before?”  He tilted his head.  “Those’re all over the place.  Pretty tame, too, compared to the crawfish and the land octopi.”

            “I-I’m used to moving covertly and quickly under the moon.”  Tiche made a point of ignoring the helping hand offered to her, heaving herself up off the ground alone and miserably wiping the grime off the backside of her armor.  “The paths we took through these lands were never so haphazardly planned so as to lead us into these—these monstrosities!”

            “They’re everywhere,” Dandelion deadpanned.

            “What do you do about them?”  She crossed her arms.  “Surely you can’t afford to engage every one you come across, if they are as ubiquitous as you say.”

            “I ride past them on my horse, obviously.”  He looked at her seriously.  “Are you totally sure you don’t want to—”

            “No,” Tiche cut him off, “let us call the horse.”

            “Not allergic, after all?”  Dandelion teased.

            “I said no such thing.”  She sighed.  “I simply find the idea of sharing a mount…  Troublesome.  It stands in opposition to my dignity.”

            “Well, that sounds like a weakness of your dignity, and not of my horse.”  The tarnished said casually, recalling Torrent to his side.  He effortlessly stepped into the stirrup and took his place on the horse’s back, then shifted himself to the front of the well-worn saddle.  “You’re an assassin, right?  Doesn’t efficiency overrule any objections your dignity might raise?”

            “That’s…”  …Exactly what my partners would have said, Tiche thought, defeated. 

            “…I just don’t understand,” Dandelion laughed softly, “what you’re so afraid of.”

            With that, he offered her his hand.  She wanted badly to mount the horse without his help, but he was sitting between her and the saddle horn, so there was nothing else to grab onto.  Swallowing her pride, Tiche clasped her steel-gloved hand around his forearm, planted a foot in the stirrup, and with an inexpert swing of her leg over Torrent’s wide torso, found her place behind Dandelion.  It was a snug fit; the saddle was clearly made for one rider, but even bareback, the rear saddlebag forced them into close proximity. 

            This is fine.  Tiche reassured herself, puffing out her cheeks and quelling the heat in the tips of her ears.  As if to hammer the point home, she shifted herself wantonly in the saddle, jostling her partner around in the process until she was comfortable and disregarding his comfort entirely.  Satisfied, Tiche braced her hands on the saddlebag behind her and sighed.  This much…  Is completely fine!  What am I, a schoolgirl?  Proximity to another person is trivial even in mundane circumstances.  This is a forfeiture of my own comfort for efficacy of travel, and I’ve made much worse sacrifices before.  That’s right!  This is nothing!

            “Hold onto me.”  Dandelion instructed her.

            “Excuse me?”  Tiche recoiled.

            “Sorry,” he clarified, “if you lean forward in the saddle and put your arms around me, you’ll be a lot more balanced, and the ride will be a lot smoother.”

            “I will be perfectly fine like this, thank you.”

            “You’re gonna fall,” he warned.

            “Do you think I’ve never ridden a horse before?”  She scoffed.  “You should just be grateful I am letting you steer, you imbecile.”

            “You really like that word, huh?”  Dandelion smiled over his shoulder at her.  “Alright, don’t say I didn’t tell you so.”

            Torrent was fast.

            If there’s one thing Tiche was confident in, it was her balance.  An assassin’s sense of her body’s own range of motion and physical presence had to be almost impossibly keen.  Fighting with a dagger was an especially dangerous dance, one that she’d put years and years of practice into.  Her confidence in the art of staying upright and steady was very firm.  And in this particular case, very misplaced.

            “Eep!”  Tiche immediately bit down on her tongue, half on accident due to the sudden jolt of speed, and half to quell the girlish scream that she knew was about to escape her, as Torren’s hooves dug into the murky bog underfoot and bolted northward. 

            If she was thankful for anything, it was that Dandelion kept his concentration on riding.  He didn’t look back at her.  He didn’t laugh at her.  He didn’t react at all.  Tiche didn’t know what she would have done if her new partner had, for instance, teased her about it.  No, when she immediately scooted further forward, resting her whole body against his hunched back, and wrapped her hands under his arms to hold onto his chest, Dandelion simply let it happen. 

            Tiche scowled, glad for the dozenth time that day that her face was obscured in all its red, petty embarrassment. 

Chapter Text

The Enemy of my Enemy is My Soulmate!

"Easy. He's done."

Dandelion spoke firmly and sidestepped right into range of the deadly flurry of dagger swipes Tiche had been preparing. Taken off guard, the assassin dug her steel-plated heels into the ancient stone of the Erdtree's throne platform, and with not a millisecond to spare, stopped her knives from gouging into her new partner's back. Dandelion stood motionless, his arms spread in such a way that prevented Tiche from encroaching any further on their target.

"What are you doing?" She hissed. "He could be summoning up the gumption for a second wind!"

"He's not," the tarnished announced, "look."

Morgott the Omen, self-declared Last of All Kings, lie helpless and emaciated on the ground, swaddled in his threadbare cloak and crawling weakly toward Dandelion. Tiche could see his bones clearly under the graying skin of his lanky hands as his fingers clutched weakly at the young man's boot. He sputtered aloud, his magnanimity lost along with his weapon, but his spirit still smoldering.

"Tarnished, thou'rt but a fool. The Erdtree wards off all who deign approach." He coughed, looking up through sunken, yellow eyes at Dandelion, whose silhouetted form stood between the defeated Omen and his beloved Erdtree. "We are... we are all forsaken. None may claim the title… of Elden Lord."

"…Is that true?" The tarnished murmured, furrowing his brow. "Do you really think I've come all this way for nothing?"

"Your deeds shall be met with failure…" Morgott growled, letting his ragged, battered head hang down to the ground. "…Just as I."

Dandelion stared down at the pathetic remains of the Omen King for a long minute, waiting for more dissuasive words to come spitting from his crooked maw, but they never did. Eventually Morgott's atrophied hand relinquished its grip on his boot, and their enemy moved no more. Tiche watched Dandelion move his foot away at long last, but he continued to stand and stare. His gaze shifted slowly from the scrawny corpse at his feet to the mighty, golden tree that towered behind him, and then back again.

She had learned during their infiltration of Raya Lucaria that Dandelion was not a dogmatic follower of the Golden Order, and that he much preferred the logical machinations of a sorcerer's work over the faith-oriented ways of a cleric. That is, Tiche noted, on the rare occasions that he wasn't just dumbly swinging some oversized sword around. He didn't bless their meals. He didn't pray for healing in battle. He didn't carry a rosary, prayer bead, poppet, or any other kind of incanting talisman.

Needless to say, then, the assassin found herself surprised yet again by her partner's unpredictable whims. A golden seed—the same kind he'd used for sculpting new flasks for magical tears—Dandelion fished one out of his knapsack and, for the first time since Tiche had met him, kneeled in prayer. She didn't know quite what to do, but found herself awkwardly dipping her head as well while he spoke inaudible words into the seed cupped between his hands. When he was done, the young man clumsily folded Morgott's withered arms over his chest and clasped the seed in his bony hands.

Then Dandelion stood and started walking.

"…Rambling," Tiche muttered.

"Hm?" The tarnished paused, turning to face her. His expression drooped lower than she'd ever seen it, even after the direst of battles. It struck her that he'd yet to heal his wounds with a flask of crimson tears, one of the few benefits of his being tarnished. He threw a forearm up to his face as a drop of blood slid from his injured head into his eye, but succeeded only in smearing his face with oily red. His bleary eyes stared through Tiche. "What—Um, I… Did you say something?"

"I said that he was just rambling." Tiche stepped to his side, unable to bear his gaze upon her any longer. "Pay no heed to the blithering of a sore loser, Tarnished. The only victory left to him now is your forfeit in the face of the struggle to come. I should hope you know better than to grant him that."

"…You…" Dandelion squinted. "…Did you just give me a pep talk?"

"Oh, for goodness…"

"Are you rooting for me?" His tired countenance warped into a smile of relief. "Who'd of thought I'd have a Black Knife Assassin cheering me on? What a day. What a day!" He laughed hoarsely, drawing then his gilded flask of wondrous physick and taking a hearty swig.

Oh, God. Tiche was struck with the realization. He used all of his flasks during that fight. Fair enough—that Omen King was as brutal as he was hideous. Perhaps I should have stayed closer to the fray and helped to divert his attention? Then, maybe… She caught herself, frowning at her own lost train of thought. Wait, wait, why do I care how many flasks this imbecile chugs? Or how badly he's injured, for that matter?

Dandelion was a tarnished, which meant that he would miraculously rebirth himself at a nearby sight of grace—invisible to Tiche—if he ever met his untimely demise. It had happened before, and she knew better than to be startled by it, no matter how unnatural it seemed. But that was beside the point, Tiche reassured herself. Even if he did die permanently, she had no proper affiliation with him. She'd just find someone else to travel with.

Speaking of which, she watched from the shade as her tarnished companion took counsel with a mysterious one-eyed woman. She'd appeared before the pair before, never for long, and always to deliver somewhat cryptic messages and requests about the nature of Dandelion's quest for the throne. Tiche didn't know quite what to think about this figure—Melina, she called herself—but her demeanor and motivations were equal parts mysterious and convenient, so it paid to leave a robust guard up around her. The assassin's hands rested firmly on her daggers as she stood by.

When Melina finally dissipated into spirit ash and twinkled away into the horizon, Dandelion seemed to have regathered his wits and his typical demeanor.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he bowed to Tiche, "forgot to say that back there."

"I told you not to keep doing that." She scolded him. "Calling me 'ma'am' and thanking me for fighting with you; it is wholly unnecessary. My own survival is at stake along with yours, now. Every battle we enter is for both of our sakes, so you owe me no gratitude."

"I'm still grateful, of course. Every stab you took at him was one I didn't have to." Then Dandelion shook his head. "But I wasn't thanking you for fighting with me—I know better by now."

"Then…"

"Thanks for that stuff about not giving up." He beamed. "Kinda feels like the whole world is out to get me sometimes. Even you, maybe. But for a second there it really felt like I had somebody else on my side, for once, and… Thanks, Ma'am. It means a lot."

"S-Stop!" Tiche reddened, tugging her hood down lower over her face.

"Thanking you? No way!" The tarnished chuckled.

"Calling me 'ma'am!' How many times do I have to tell you this, Imbecile?"

"Oh, yeah?" Dandelion leaned forward. He craned his neck up, trying to get a view of Tiche's face under her hood, but she twirled away self-consciously with all the nimble speed with which she wielded her daggers. He chased her in circles, fishing for just a glimpse. "What about me, then, huh? Didn't I tell you to call me Dandelion? Or better yet, Dandy?"

"I do!" She protested weakly.

"You've never once called me anything other than "tarnished," or "imbecile," or "tarnished imbecile!'"

"I…" Tiche faltered. "…I call you by your name in my mind."

"In your mind," Dandelion repeated.

"Yes," she doubled down, "I simply don't have enough to say to you, so you've never heard me use your name before."

"You think about me a lot, then?" He pressed, grinning.

"That—I—You—" The assassin found herself sputtering again. How did this happen every single time they conversed, without fail? "…We're partners." She murmured, feeling strangely vulnerable under the warmth of his smile. "…It simply can't be helped, that one should think about the other."

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way." The tarnished let his teasing grin soften, and he elbowed her in the arm. "I figured I was the only one. C'mon, Tiche, we're heading North."

Thus began the trek toward the Mountaintop of the Giants. The terrain of Leyndell was treacherous: steep inclines and gnarled Erdtree roots made some paths nearly impassable, while crumbling architecture and posted soldiers made others even less desirable. In any case, Dandelion made the executive decision not to call Torrent within the walls of the city, and so far that choice had seemed wise. Tiche hung back as he dispatched a small flock of guardsmen, then joined him on a tremendous wooden elevator, the likes of which she'd never seen before.

"If what Melina says is true, we'll have our work cut out for us in the mountains." Dandelion explained, leaning back against the meticulously carved railing of the lift. Tiche was a bit relieved to hear him preface that statement with the caveat about Melina's trustworthiness. At the very least, he didn't seem to be blindly following her every word. "I say we activate the lift this afternoon and turn back immediately."

"Why?" Tiche wondered. "It seems like your goal has suddenly gotten much clearer—why turn back now?"

"I don't mean permanently," he corrected her, "just for a little bit. In the first place, neither of us are prepared for overnight camping in snowy conditions. This guy I know, Kalé, might be able to hook us up with some fur liners for our armor and bedrolls. I also want to check on some old contacts from Limgrave, just in case anything major happens and we're out of contact for a while."

"Limgrave?" Tiche scoffed. "You plan to go all the way back to Limgrave?"

"Sure," Dandelion shrugged, "I was planning to go back soon anyway, and I feel way less stressed about it, too, now that I know the Erdtree isn't opening for anyone. I don't have to worry about any of the shady characters at the Roundtable stealing a march on me anymore."

"Do…" Tiche asked, grimacing. "…Do we have to trudge all the way back through Liurnia?"

"Not the same way, no." The tarnished chuckled. "There's lots I haven't shown you yet! Have you ever heard of the Church of Vows?"

"I can't say that I have."

"How about the Carian Study Hall?"

"Not familiar, no."

"Jarburg?"

"Jar-burg?" Tiche wrinkled her brow imperceptibly.

"Oh, man!" He pumped his fists. "You're, like, a total tourist! I can't wait to show you all the best spots on our way back. Ah—" The young warrior froze as the elevator reached its destination and the two stepped out of the landing. A beautiful bridge, a true masterwork of masonry, was laid out before them; it led forth into a range of mountains so immense that their tops could not be seen through the clouds. The light of the Erdtree shed its incandescence across the whole of the landscape, tinging the whole gray world with flecks of muted gold.

"…It's beautiful," Tiche whispered. Perhaps it was the cold, thin air, but it felt like her every breath, even her heartbeat, echoed loudly between herself and Dandelion.

"You think so, too?" He murmured back. "I love places like this. Makes you remember what you're fighting for, y'know?"

Tiche didn't reply to that. No, she didn't know. What was she fighting for? What had she ever been fighting for? Those questions tried their hardest to swirl around uncomfortably in her mind, breaking her well-practiced concentration as they so often did in down, quiet moments like these. But this time, something stopped them from manifesting, and Tiche found herself experiencing something almost recognizable as tranquility for the first time in… How long…?

"Look, look, those deer…" Dandelion placed a hand on her shoulder and pointed into the woods across the canyon. "…Oh, wow! See that hawk? That's awesome…"

The assassin looked with her eyes, but all of her other expertly-trained senses were occupied by the weight and warmth of his hand through her thin scale mail. The two had only been traveling together for, what, a week? Tiche's perception of time passing had changed in the company of this tarnished, and so had her perceptions of nearly everything else, by extension. Personal space was one of those things. It wasn't a concept Tiche had contemplated before. She didn't have any notion of personal space, per se. It was more that she'd been drilled into keeping a sphere of absolute control and awareness over everything within arm's reach, and her own body just happened to fall into that bubble.

So when Dandelion rested his hand so easily on her, and as a result, her face became hot, Tiche decided not to register it as a threat to her freedom of movement or an attempt on her life, for once. It was clear by then that the young man at her side was not going to do her any intentional harm. She manually rewired something in her brain, then, that overrode her mind's longstanding predisposition to treat all foreign touch as hostile. Such a framework would no longer suffice, and Tiche prided herself on being mature enough to recognize that.

And then she immediately realized that, despite Dandelion's lack of a threat to her, she still felt really, really embarrassed for some inexplicable reason, and in light of that novel, powerful feeling, ended up smacking his hand off of her anyway, leading to the exact same conclusion as if she'd never changed her way of thinking at all.

Ah, God, Goddess, whoever—Tiche lamented internally, when I said something had to change, this was absolutely not what I meant…!

Chapter Text

The Right Way to Fall!

A painful gust of wind rattled the steel scales on Tiche's armor and another heavy shudder passed through her. She panted, sucking in air very slowly and deeply, trying to measure each breath in an effort to stay the onset of shock. The muscles in her arm screamed yet again as she made another attempt to jerk it away.

"Would you cut that out?" Dandelion spat, visibly frustrated.

Tiche couldn't unclench her teeth to respond. Her escape attempt was futile, and so the onslaught continued. The tarnished was brandishing wide strips of what used to be a common soldier's tabard and winding the hefty cloth around her arm. He'd already finished patching the open wound in the fleeting moments she'd spent in a daze right after it happened. Her left gauntlet had been discarded and a tight compress was holding her elbow at a sharp angle. By then he'd moved on to fashioning a sling.

"…Wait." Tiche finally steadied her chattering teeth enough to utter a single word.

"No, I will not wait," Dandelion denied her fiercely, "you've got an open fracture here that could screw up your arm forever. We can't let that heal back wrong, or—"
"Head…" She groaned, leaning forward. "I… My head… I hit my…"

"Your…" The young man paused. "…Oh, shit."

At the worst possible moment, the two wounded adventurers heard the nearby chatter of another patrol of vulgar militiamen. The sudden, violent snowstorm had the singular benefit of obscuring their forms and scents from the hordes of wild enemies that filled the mountains. Unfortunately, that benefit didn't nearly balance out the cutting wind that burned with cold against any exposed skin, nor the piling snow that had made the already sheer boulders and cliffs utterly untraversable. Dandelion cursed more frantically, tying off his sloppy restraint around Tiche's shoulder and pulling her torso into his lap.

"I'm gonna take your hood off," he said quietly, "so please don't be mad at me."

"You…" Tiche's sight blurred and wobbled. She found herself looking up into a snowy gray sky, blotted out by the form of the bright-eyed tarnished she'd come to know. "…You imbecile." Her uninjured, unrestrained arm reached up as if trying to extinguish a candle. It wasn't intentional on her part, but she didn't fight the sudden impulse. Dandelion pinched his lips into a hard line and took her extended hand in his own.
"I'm sorry." He apologized, but Tiche couldn't figure out what for. Then he opened his mouth and said something that Tiche had never heard before in her life, from anyone. It was such an unfamiliar sentiment to her that, had she been any more lucid, she might have taken it as a joke, or perhaps a challenge to her strength. But in this moment of weakness, she found herself clinging to the words like a stuffed toy. Every one of the walls she'd spent so long fortifying in her heart suddenly seemed like the slumping ramparts of a wet sandcastle, and Dandelion's reassurance was a graceful seagull soaring lazily right on over.

"I've got you," he said, bending at the hip to embrace her around the shoulders, "don't be afraid. I'm right here."

Instilled with a warm sense of relief she'd never known before, Tiche succumbed to her wounds and to the cold, and she passed into a deep unconsciousness not unlike her ash-entombed slumber.

Time passed. The Black Knife Assassin dreamed.

Her reflection in a puddle, looking down. Where? Dark, full of stars. Familiar. the fog-draped ceiling within the walls of the underground city, Tiche didn't feel out of place. Not comfortable, no, but not like an alien, either. Her prodigious height and perpetually-lowered cloak were easily accepted by the Nox, and although she and the other Numen women of the Black Knives hailed from some far off land that Tiche had never seen, she often suspected that the Nox were her long-lost cousins, somehow.

All the puddles of water in Nokron were very clear. She spent a lot of time here between assassination missions with the other Black Knives, and although she had never called any particular place her 'home,' in small moments like these, she could have pretended this was home. If she wanted to, she could have.

The cool, crystal water had traveled far, far below the soil, flowed over stunning waterfalls, and trickled through monoliths and towering bluffs of dark stone to arrive in the puddle at Tiche's feet. She knelt. Put her hands into the water. She watched it cloud over, soiled. Swirling clouds of dark scarlet burst from her fingers as someone else's blood seeped from the wrinkles in her knuckles, under her fingernails, out from the shallow channels of her fingerprints as she soaked her bare hands.

Bare hands?

Tiche looked down at herself. She was smaller; a child again. Long before the Night of Black Knives, before The Shattering, before her death, and long, long before her resurrection by that tarnished…

The smell hit her. What? Tiche recoiled, but there was nothing she could do to escape that stench—it was coming from her. The front of her breastplate, her gauntlets, even the fringe of her hood exuded a dank, tinny scent that had always been there, but that had never bothered her before. She bent lower, scrubbing at the backs of her palms, digging into the webs of her fingers. She sank her arms into the puddle to the elbows, squeezing the crimson dye that weighed down the sleeves of her undertunic. The water swam with tendrils of nauseating color and scent. The smell grew more pungent, encroached closer on her person. She began to suspect that it was coming from inside her.

Tiche curled into herself, burying her face in her soaked hands and splashing her face over and over. At last she swept her ever-present hood off of her head, sucked in a deep breath, and plunged her face down into the water. It tasted sour; it reminded her of sipping water directly from a cast-iron well-bucket, but she endured, letting it fill her mouth and rinse her tongue. It didn't look like water anymore. She clenched her eyes shut and scrubbed hard at her neck. The water spilled down her front, splashed onto her legs, and sent drops of wine-red and black scattering across the pristine stone underneath.

"Hey," came a weightless voice from above her, "what're you doing?"

Tiche scurried backward with a start, cowering away from the speaker. There he stood, towering over her on the other side of the puddle. It was Dandelion. He smiled softly as he looked down at the young Tiche, unperturbed by the mire of blood she'd made out of the once-pristine puddle, or by her own bloodstained state of disarray. She stared with wide eyes up at her unexpected visitor.

"You're not gonna get anything done like that." he chuckled. "Here." He knelt down and extended his hand, offering her a bluish-white bar of handmade soap. Tiche had seen it before, once when he'd cleaned his armor after a close call with some poison-spewing beasts in the Liurnian lake. But, wait, that… Hadn't happened yet…?

Tiche's mind skipped. She wasn't a child anymore, of course. She hadn't been back to Nokron in ages. She'd long since grown accustomed to the smell of blood—at least, she was pretty sure she had. So why…?

…Birdsong. Crashing waves.

And the buzzing of insects. Tiche's eyes fluttered open. White sunlight fell on her face, scaring the blurriness from her vision and warming her numb cheek where it laid on a pillow. She was not cold anymore. A doorway stood across from her resting place, and she could see outside into the most colorful field she'd ever seen in her life. Countless varieties of wildflowers grew in well-groomed rows, and a troupe of pollen-laden bees skipped from petal to petal, hard at work.

The bewildered assassin felt a throbbing pain through her whole body as she slowly rose, bracing herself against the rickety wooden cot in which she'd awakened. She went to rub her eyes, but her arm was immobile, pinned to her chest by a snug sling.

Ah, that's… Tiche blinked, looking down at herself. Flecks of her own blood had dried and curdled into a rusty brown color on her armor and through the cloth of her cast. Her face felt itchy, doubtless covered in crusted-over blood from the head wound she'd sustained. …That's right. I was hurt, and he…

She remembered it well enough. The narrow ridge leading up to the Mountaintop of Giants had been incredibly dangerous, halting their progress on Torrent almost immediately. Moving more slowly, Tiche and Dandelion had reduced themselves to easy prey for the stalking vulgar militia that had bombarded them with smoke grenades and sprung on them from hidden places in the trees and rocks. On flat, familiar ground, those soldiers would have barely been an obstacle. However, the terrain precluded Tiche from using her characteristic, acrobatic fighting style. She'd stubbornly refused Dandelion's offer to line her armor with rabbit fur, meaning that her steel mail had been more of an icebox than any proper protective layer. Operating at minimum combat efficiency and blinded by the snowstorm, she'd taken a tumble off a tall boulder and gone crashing into a rocky, icy embankment below.

"Oh!" A cheerful voice pulled Tiche from her brooding, and the form of a child entered the room. She blinked again, and then twice more. A child? No, that wasn't right. Some sort of strange elf? Its spindly feet pattered loudly against the wooden floor as the creature ambled energetically into the one-room house and paused at the foot of Tiche's cot. It had, as far as she could tell, no head. "Good morning, coz! Glad you're finally awake! How's the ol' noggin feeling? Cracked you a good one, huh?"

"Who are you?" The woman squinted, wondering if she was hallucinating. "Where am I? Where is Dandelion?" Her eyes flitted around, searching for her knives.

"Easy, coz, no need to get yourself riled up." The creature's little voice was sparkling as it pitter-pattered over to Tiche's side. It had long, slender arms with grubby hands that she instinctively shrank away from as it unabashedly flung itself up onto the mattress beside her. "Say, are you really an assassin? That's awesome!"

"Are you a… Jar?" Tiche frowned.

"Oh, well, sure." The little clay pot had no face, and therefore no visible expressions, but its excited jittering told more than enough about its disposition. "We're all jars, here in—well," the voice emanating from inside the jar became hushed, "you can't tell anyone about this, okay? Here in Jarburg. It's a secret town just for us jars!"

Tiche's head spun. Perhaps she'd actually received some pretty egregious brain damage during her accident? The whole thing felt very vivid to her, though, and it wasn't like she had anything other than her senses left to trust.

"Okay, Little Jar." She cleared her throat, leaning in to match her host's lowered voice. "Are you in charge here?"

"In charge?" The jar laughed. "I dunno, coz, do I look in charge to you?"

"You look like a jar to me," Tiche deadpanned.

"You look exactly like an assassin ought to." It continued, unfazed. "Dandy said you were. And you look like one. But are you, really?"

"Who's asking?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Oh, you are!" The little pot giggled. "Only a super-secret assassin would say a cool line like that. Oh, that's brilliant, coz!"

"Where's my partner?" Tiche demanded, still a little curious, but tiring quickly of her ceramic host's enthusiasm. "And how long have I been out?"

"Just a day, coz, don't you worry." The jar sprung back off the bed and waddled over to a short cupboard in the corner. "Probably starving, though! I got you all kinds of—"

"Dandelion." She growled. "Where is he?"

"Oh! Uh…" The little jar made a gulping noise. Did it even have a throat with which to swallow like that…? Tiche wondered. "…He said he was headed to the church to make some good medicine for you."

"How long has he been gone?"

"Left early this morning, a couple of hours ago, I reckon. It's not too awfully far away, but Old Pastor Miriel does like to take his time, so it may be late before he's back." Tiche watched as the jar's hands folded meekly in front of itself. "He told me to make sure you stayed in bed, coz, so that's what I'm gonna do. Now, d'you want some herba porridge?"

The assassin nodded, watching wordlessly as her host maneuvered around the hut, preparing a crude oatmeal from cut grains and dried, shredded herba leaves. The furniture was clearly not made to accommodate its small, round body and freakishly long limbs, but the jar—whom Tiche had come to assume was a child—effortlessly glided through the motions of preparing the meal. Its movement reminded her for the world of a baby monkey, or perhaps a drunken martial artist whose muscle memory still precluded him from clumsiness even in the clutches of intoxication.

The little Jar-Bairn handed Tiche the porridge in a bowl that looked more like a washbasin, and supplied her with a crude spoon fashioned from wood. However, her hunger was fierce, and she didn't even spare a second digging into it. After all, her host had prepared it right before her eyes, so she was as certain as she could be that it wasn't poisoned. While it was not necessarily tasty, Tiche was well aware of the restorative properties native to herba leaves, and she graciously filled her stomach with that in mind. Now fully alert, her wounds began to ache fiercely, and she found herself sinking back into the thin, straw-stuffed mattress with a full stomach. Sleep called eagerly to her.

But not as eagerly as Jar-Bairn.

"Say, coz," the jar pondered aloud, "are you Dandy's girl?"

"His girl?" Tiche curled her lip. "I am his partner, and only temporarily. For convenience's sake."

"Just a fling, then? That's a real shame."

"No!" Tiche hissed. "We are cooperators. Our relationship is strictly professional."

"But he was worried about you, coz." The little jar twiddled its three-fingered hands together. "Reminded me of how he came swooping in to save us from poachers, one time, he did. Same look on his face, 'n everything. What a swell guy. Don't you look up to him?"

"I think he's…" The assassin thought back on their journey so far, starting with his sparing of Rennala and spanning up to his display of respect for Morgott. She felt exasperated by the fact that he'd patched her up and carried her all the way back to this strange jar town in Liurnia when she'd done practically nothing for him. Would she have done the same?

"…He is certainly one of a kind." She finished, embarrassed at the compliment left unspoken.

"You love him," Jar-Bairn drawled knowingly.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, Little Jar!" Tiche chided, feeling her face heat up with anger. Surely, it must have been anger. "…Ah." She realized, then, what she was missing.

"Lookit you, you're blushing all over, coz!" Her host needled her, bouncing around beside her bed. "You love him, you love him!"

"Where is my hood?" She cried, shooting up in bed and shaking the whole tiny abode with her booming voice. "Where'd it go? Where'd you hide it? Ooh, you little…!"

"Ahahah!" Jar-Bairn squealed with joy as Tiche scooped its diminutive form up and, unarmed as she was, did the only thing she could think of, which ended up being to poke at its rotund little pot-belly and pull at its lanky limbs, eliciting nothing from the young jar but further laughter.

Dandelion returned that evening with a weathered book about herbal poultices brought on loan from a nearby church. The sun had just barely gone down when he made it back to Jarburg, and the early night sky was a beautiful blue under the light of the full moon. He grinned at the sight that awaited his return: Tiche was sitting among a gaggle of chattering pots, young and old, drying herbs and fruits beside a small outdoor cooking fire. Jar-Bairn—whom Dandelion could recognize in the firelight by its distinctive carvings and scratches—was posing in comical recreations of what might have been serious, intimidating fighting stances, were they not being performed by a living jar. Her own movement impaired, Tiche would lean forward every so often and place an armored hand on the little jar's leg or lid, shifting its balance or correcting its posture.

"…Poise," she was explaining as Dandelion approached, "is the art of holding oneself steady, like a solid rock. It is reliability made manifest in one's bearing. It is truth exemplified in the body."

"Poise." Jar-Bairn repeated intensely. "Poise is the key."

"Precisely. And in order to master this, one must remain constantly vigilant and completely calm. Panic is the enemy of poise." Tiche wagged her uninjured finger in the air. "That is why the mindset of a warrior is every bit as crucial as her physical aptitude. If I were to let every little incident perturb me, what kind of master assassin would I be, really?"

"Howdy, Tiche." Dandelion greeted her smoothly, plopping himself down on the log bench beside her.

"Ah!" The master assassin was, ironically, perturbed by this particular incident.

"Dandy!" Jar-Bairn broke its stance and sprang into Dandelion's open arms. "Oh, you weren't lying, were you, coz? She really is a true, blue assassin, in the flesh!"

"That's right!" Dandelion nodded, for some reason looking quite proud of himself. "Were you nice to Miss Tiche, Jar-Bairn?"

"I got her to teach me about assassin stuff!"

"This thing is a little nightmare." Tiche grumbled, having regained her composure. She hunched against the impact as Jar-Bairn softly transferred its energetic hug from Dandelion over to her, but did nothing to pry it off. "What exactly inspired you to leave me with her, of all creatures?"

"Her?" Dandelion tilted his head. "Isn't he a boy?"

"I'm a jar," Jar-Bairn reminded them.

"Yes," Tiche frowned, "but are you a boy jar, or a girl jar?"

"I am a warrior jar, like Uncle Alexander!"

The evening passed softly and quietly in Jarburg. Dandelion made efficient use of the little hamlet's clean water and abundant gardens to prepare various folk remedies for lowering Tiche's fever and disinfecting her wounds. When Tiche inquired, he insisted that he had learned them from a magical tortoise wearing a fancy hat, and she could only assume he was joking. He also let her sip from his flask of wondrous physick, embarrassing as it was to drink after him, and it conferred a so-called 'crimsonburst crystal tear' onto her that, while unnoticeable in the moment, was supposed to help her heal more thoroughly.

Tiche, Dandelion, and Jar-Bairn returned to the shack where she'd been resting together. The wounded assassin was, of course, allowed the luxury of the hut's only bed. Dandelion spread his bedroll at her cot's side, and the little jar snuggled into the pit of his stomach like a friendly cat. He sat up for a little while, still restless from his journey.

"Here," the young man murmured, reaching into the knapsack beside him, "your knives. I'm sorry I took them—I didn't want you or the jars to get hurt, so…"

"Loathe as I am to say it, I understand." Tiche sighed, accepting her weapons. She insisted on sleeping in her armor, as she had for the entire time they'd been together, but at the very least she removed her bandoliers and the attached sheathes. "What I don't understand is why you elected to take my hood, too."

He wasn't going to mention it, but Dandelion had thought it funny when he'd returned to find Tiche veiled in a spare bedsheet.

"It doesn't look much like an assassin's cloak," he admitted, "and in fact, it looks a little like you're getting married."

"This is why, isn't it?" She sighed. "You wanted to get a reaction out of me, so you stole my hood—that's exactly why, is it not?"

"I also washed it for you, if you want a slightly better excuse."

"You are insufferable." Tiche rolled over to face the wall. "Honestly, is my face of such keen interest to you?"

"…More than you know." Dandelion told her softly.

"You…" She sucked in a breath and pulled her knees up into her chest, frowning deeply at the unpleasant sensation of blood rushing up to her face. "…Truly, truly insufferable, as I live and breathe."

"Lo-o-ove him," Cooed their little ceramic friend from the safety of Dandelion's arms.

"Give it here." Tiche said gravely. "On this spot, I'll crush that thing into powder."

"Goodnight, Tiche."

"Goodnight, Miss Tiche. Goodnight, coz."

"…Goodnight, Little Jar. And goodnight, Dandelion."

Chapter Text

The Bends.

Tiche's good arm served as a brace against the crooked trunk of an oak tree. She stared down at the ground, at the hollow between the two roots that forked directly under her face. Her eyes bulged.

"You good?" Came the voice of her partner from somewhere nearby, invisible to her through the dense underbrush. Their horseback journey had led them to the small patch of woods on the cliffside that overlooked Liurnia. They'd made a final sprint up the steep incline leading down from Stormhill, but it'd brought them through a particularly stubborn encampment of Carian knights that had pursued them the rest of the way. Fortunately Dandelion had marked one of his beloved sites of grace nearby, and with that endpoint so close at hand, they'd stood their ground and cut down the last of their pursuers.

Except, really, it was all him. Tiche's arm was still captive to its sling.

But there was a more pressing issue at hand than her temporary disability.

"I'm fine." She lied through her teeth. Her teeth. They were chattering. The assassin ripped a handful of leaves off a branch at her shoulder and scoured her dripping chin with them. Her inner monologue screamed at her to get a grip. What was she doing, anyway? She pulled her eyes up and away. Had she really just done that? Had she really just broken away from Dandelion, away from a fight, to… Vomit? She scoffed inwardly at her own breach of character and lowered her eyes again, steeling herself to rejoin her partner.

However, the second she saw her gauntlets, the bile rose in her throat again. It was simply the nature of dagger-fighting to result in red hands; and not in the metaphorical, moral sense. Tiche was more than familiar with the sight of her own forearms painted up to the elbow in someone else's insides. Man, beast, or even demigod—it didn't matter. They all bled, and regardless of any troublesome dreams that might suggest otherwise, their blood washed off all the same. No sweat for a master assassin.

Why, then, did Tiche find herself forcing the contents of her stomach back down at the mere sight of her blood-stained gloves?

"Tiche?" Dandelion's voice could not pierce the dark bubble of thought that was forming around her.

She was a warrior. And so were they, for goodness' sake! It wasn't like she'd just killed a defenseless orphan in cold blood, or something! Not that she couldn't have done that, too. Of course. She was a professional. If the situation demanded it, obviously, even something like… No, but these had been soldiers! And they started it! Not only was it just mundane, straightforward killing, clean and efficient, but it was practically self-defense!

Tiche thought back on the unsavory dream she'd had while unconscious—the one about trying in vain to rid herself of bloodstains. It was close, but not identical, to a real memory she carried with her. One of her first missions as a Black Knife proper had left her similarly soaked in blood from a foreign body, and though it bugged her to admit to herself, the smell and disgusting, oily feel had never completely left her mind. In rare moments of stillness and quiet, just before sleep or when lying in wait for another target, the unnamable emotions that had assailed her way back then found their way out of their sturdy mental partitions to impede her focus. Before every difficult mission or night of restful sleep, these memories had to first be reconquered. It wasn't a problem. It was a mark of maturity, Tiche figured, that she was able to shut off that weakness and continue her gruesome work as if the horror had never struck her in the first place.

So—but—then—

She ran her tongue over the backs of her teeth and tried to pretend the stench wasn't invading her nose so thickly that it started to feel like it was filling her mouth, too.

-Why isn't it working anymore?
Dandelion's form appeared as he used a kukri to hack through some of the foliage, and when he noticed Tiche stooped over and scrubbing manically at her face, he put a comforting hand out toward her.

"Don't!"

Tiche's voice cracked as she lunged away from the tarnished, hunching down on herself and baring her teeth like a beaten animal, though through the shade of her hood he'd never know. Dandelion recoiled at the sound of her voice, which had never soared that high in his presence. He hadn't known Tiche for very long, but in their short time together, he'd recognized just how uniform her behavior tended to be. Her self-control was remarkable, and that meant her reactions were usually very predictable, too. So when that façade of restraint crumbled in an instant, he ended up getting a glimpse of something tumultuous underneath her well-collected surface that had remained hidden up to that point.

"…Don't…" Tiche caught her breath, turning away from him. "…Look at me. G-Go away."

"Are you sick?" Dandelion's eyes flitted to the vomit on the ground. He took a step toward her. "Tiche, is it your injuries? You haven't come down with an infection, have you? This could be serious, we—"

"Do not!" She bristled, retreating even farther away from the tarnished. "I'm fine. I'm fine, understand?"

"You don't look fine." He grumbled. "C'mon, just a little farther. I know a place you can rest up while I handle my business in Limgrave, so…"

"Business in Limgrave?" Tiche snapped. "And you can handle it on your own, can you? If I'm going to be laid up in another bed in another looney township, you might as well go on without me!."

"Tiche, what are you talking about?"

"You don't need me for your errands, do you?" She crossed her good arm over her broken one, keeping her head low. "I mean, it's just Limgrave, for crying out loud. Surely you can handle yourself, so I'll just—"

"What?" Dandelion's voice softened as he realized that the force behind her reckless words was not intended to be offensive, but defensive. "…Tiche, hold on. You're not suggesting you stay here, are you? Let's at least get through Stormveil and onto home turf before we—"

"—Home turf?" The assassin spat. "Whose? It's certainly not my home turf."

"You're hurt, and you might be sick, too. Anywhere is better than a random forest on the side of a cliff!"

"I can very well take care of myself, thank you! I most definitely don't need a tactless, tarnished imbecile pulling me around on a leash!"

"That's not—!" Dandelion groaned. "—Listen, I don't know what's up with you, but can you please just hold on a little bit longer? I promise I've got all sorts of connections here that can help us—help you—get back to—"

"No," Tiche muttered, "I think you've done quite enough."

"Tiche," the young man's voice lowered in disappointment, "was it something I did? Or said? What's the problem, all of a sudden?"

"Did you think I was planning to follow you to the end of the world?" She huffed. "Well, I don't remember you ever paying for the services of a Black Knife Assassin. Or, what, did you think I was following you around because it was fun? Did you think I'm your friend?"

"I'm trying." Dandelion grumbled. "I'm not stupid, Tiche; I know you probably hate my guts. But you've stuck around for this long, so I figured there was a chance. I can't make you be my friend, but I can at least try."

"That's…" Her voice trailed off. The assassin kneaded at the well-worn handle of her dagger, looking down at the ground instead of filling the awkward silence. She felt the tarnished's eyes on her and could tell that, for some reason, he wasn't mad.

Of course he isn't mad. Tiche groaned inwardly. I can't imagine this imbecile raising his voice at me. He's just not that kind of person. What a weak, ineffectual way to…

"Here." Her partner caved, calling Torrent. He wordlessly started unfastening buttons and untying knots across the steed's back, letting several saddlebags drop to the ground and creating a mound of luggage. He took a step away from the pile and began pointing to individual sacks. "There's food and herbs. There's crafting supplies. Here's a bunch of talismans, but don't mess with those, some of them are dangerous—"

"—Dandelion?" Tiche frowned.

"—Socks and underwear in here," he kicked a soft-looking pouch, "and by the way, you smell terrible, so you should really change while I'm gone."

"While you're gone?" She gaped.

"Sure." He shrugged, looking a little deflated as he began collecting small amounts of food and clothing into a personal rucksack. "I'm gonna leave this stuff with you, Tiche. If you want to be my friend, you can watch over it. If you really want to help me out, you could even take it inside the castle for me." Then he sighed. "But, well, I don't wanna hold you down if you really want to leave. You can take what you need from this stuff, if you want to go it alone from here onward. You can take all of it, if you want. Or you can just leave it on the ground and I'll come back for it later, I guess. Either way…"

"…Why?" The assassin felt an almost alien sensation behind her eyes, like a sour, burning kind of feeling. "I mean… No, what's the point of all this…?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "I guess I just… Want you to trust me. If you're really dead-set on keeping me at arm's length, it'd probably be for the best if we just split up here. But if you think there's even a chance we can get along—even if it's strictly as traveling partners—here's a chance for you to think it over."

"I don't understand you." Tiche murmured.

"I'll be back in three days, tops." Dandelion announced, clambering up onto his now-unburdened horse. "If there's any way you can find it in yourself to trust me, please wait for me here at the castle. You don't have to like me, Tiche, but if we're going to keep this up, you have to trust me at least enough to lighten your load when you're sick."

"…I'm not sick." She pouted, watching from lowered eyes as Torrent slowly approached, his rider extending a hand down toward the assassin.

"Thank you, Tiche." Dandelion said softly, mustering up a smile. "For everything so far, thank you. If I've been a burden, I'm sorry. And if we don't see each other again… Farewell, Tiche."

"I…" She looked at the open hand that reached out to shake hers. "…My hands are dirty. They've got blood on them."

Thunk. Tiche was surprised to hear the sound of Dandelion forcefully flinging down his armored glove. Right in front of her face, then, was his bare hand. It, too, was stained lightly with blood in the gaps between the fingers where the glove's stitching was loose. A fine layer of dust covered his whole hand, except at a ring around his wrist where sweat had gathered. He looked down at her unabashedly, unmoving, looking into her covered face expectantly.

"Insufferable." Tiche complained. She jerked the buckle on her gauntlet loose and cast it down to the ground beside his. Without another second of hesitation, she forcefully grabbed his hand, and they shared a long, firm handshake. Tiche was taller than the tarnished, and so it surprised her when her hand almost seemed to fit inside of his. Under the dappled light of the forest canopy, her grayish-tan Numen hand was all but indistinguishable from his, pale as it was, obscured by shadow and compounded dirt from weeks of travel. She spoke at last. "For your cooperation thus far, I thank you. May you find the victory you seek, Dandelion.

When he was gone, disappeared into the castle, Tiche began to collect herself a traveling pack. She had no use for his weapons, armor, or trinkets. She mostly took food and crafting supplies. The underwear gave her pause; his comment about her smell had given rise to some self-conscious sniffing, but all things considered, Tiche decided that she wasn't going to wear that man's underclothes either damn way.

The assassin looked down at the pile of luggage now cluttering the forest floor and huffed. What a waste. He just had to make a whole production out of it, didn't he? That imbecile. She looked at the rear entrance to Stormveil Castle that had swallowed Dandelion. That tunnel was the main footpath between Liurnia and Limgrave, but any experienced traveler knew better than to risk Godrick's ire by marching straight through his castle. Godrick was gone now, of course, but Tiche decided to avoid his castle regardless, in case Dandelion had decided to hang around for a while.

She ended up sticking to the woods and moving clockwise around the enormous hold's rear. A precarious and narrow walkway, unmarked and rarely used, swept around the castle's western ramparts and down into Limgrave proper. This was the path Tiche decided to take, wary all the while of the sunbathing wolves and hawks that lurked along the way.

However, at the end of the path waited an unpleasant surprise. Tiche made a visor with her hand and looked up toward the cloudy sky above Stormhill. The path dropped of steeply below into a rocky canyon, and far above was the crumbling bridge she'd intended to reach. At some point the bypass trail had collapsed, completely disconnecting the northern section from the southern. If she'd been coming from the other direction, she might have been able to drop down from one boulder to another. But without any climbing gear, there was no way Tiche could reach the big bridge leading back into Limgrave.

Feeling lost and defeated, she almost turned around and started back—but an unfamiliar voice caught her attention, and she looked once more up at the bridge.

"…I am imploring you, you must move from here." A haughty, trilling voice came from a man somewhere up above. "It is expressly forbidden to loiter or solicit services on the grounds of Stormveil Castle. As it was under the former, disgraceful ruler, so it stands under the restored power of the new Lady of Limgrave!"

Tiche reversed her path up the hill a ways, desperate for a better angle. She walked back until she could see a pair of figures on the bridge. One was hunched over, clad in dark clothes, and the other was brightly adorned, standing tall and gesticulating wildly.

"No, no, that's simply no excuse!" The man was the only one audible to Tiche; it seemed the target of his ire was speaking quietly in reply, if at all. "'Finger reader,' you say? And have you any licensure for such a profession, Madame?"

As soon as Tiche felt the slightest tinge of relief, she scolded herself. Such feelings were misplaced in this unforgiving wilderness. She shook her head and cast off the thought, then turned to head up the long path back to Liurnia.

"Excuse me!" She froze, her lips tightening into a flat line. "Excuse me, you there!" Tiche turned, looking back up to the bridge. The man in golden robes was waving down at her excitedly. "What impeccable timing! I am in need of some assistance, if you please! Shall I extend the ladder for you?"

As it turned out, a rope ladder had been recently prepared for scenarios exactly like this. After the defeat of Godrick, the new regime in Stormveil had taken a significantly looser approach to security, and a much more welcoming stance on adventurers passing through the area. Well, in some respects.

"Thank goodness you're here." Tiche's 'savior' was a well-dressed man in his middle age, with blonde hair and a beard that was beginning to gray at the edges. He was clutching a pad of paper and a quill, writing up some sort of ledger in a totally illegible script. Beside him was a cloaked figure that Tiche recognized as an old finger-reader crone. Dandelion had ran into a few along his journey so far, and while they weren't exactly useful, they at least had small tidbits to share about whatever area they'd found themselves entering.

"Can I help you?" Tiche growled, mustering up all of her threatening aura. It was purely rhetorical, of course. Now that she was back up on the hill, she wanted to leave as soon as possible.

"Why, I'm so glad you asked!" The man beamed. "Now, I apologize, but I don't think I've ever seen you around here. And I have a very good mind for remembering faces, I'll have you know. I'll be the first to introduce myself: I am Kenneth Haight, servant of the True Order, celebrated repudiator of the false, Lord of Fort Haight, and acting advisor to the great Lady Nepheli of Limgrave. It is truly a pleasure!" He bowed deeply as he bombarded Tiche with that ostentatious introduction.

"…Tiche." Said the assassin. "I'm just passing through."

"From where do you hail, Madame Tiche?"

"I'm—" She cleared her throat. "—Leyndell. I'm from the capital."

"Oh, how exciting! I simply love our marvelous capital. Surely, then, you must be of outstanding class and character. Of course, Limgrave welcomes those of all natures and backgrounds with open arms, but in my personal opinion, we could use more of the refined, urban charm with which Leyndell is simply overflowing! Merely say the word and I, Kenneth Haight, will be the first to enthusiastically offer you any accommodations you may desire, Madame Tiche."

"Th-Thank you." Tiche withered, already extremely weary of this man's performativity.

"Oh, but…" Kenneth stroked his beard. "…I absolutely hate to impose upon you on our first meeting, but I must ask for a very small favor, if you wouldn't mind. This…" He held up the note he'd been scribbling earlier. "…Is a memorandum to Lady Nepheli, regarding the right of this—" Kenneth gestured softly to the finger-reader, "—fine young lady to conduct her business on the castle bridge. Now, I take no issue with it, fundamentally, but we must understand that such decisions fall to Lady Nepheli, and as it stands cannot be assumed as—"

"—Got it." Tiche snatched the piece of paper from the man's hand and breezed past him. "Lady Nepheli, in the castle. Fine, I'll handle it."

"You are as saintly as they come, Madame!" Kenneth called after her. "I knew that I could count on you! You have my thanks, traveler!"

The man and the finger-reader watched as Tiche, still encumbered by her wounded arm, took off at a trot to the front of the castle. The old, staff-waving woman began to speak, and Kenneth bent his ear to listen.

"She waves a flag of death,

An enemy to all that is golden.

The blood on her knife…

Oh, it will never come clean.

But, pity…

What of her soul?"

Kenneth set his jaw and straightened again, tucking his memo pad back into the breast of his decorated coat. He burned the image of that dark, hooded armor into his mind, along with the distinctive shape of the dark dagger at Tiche's hip. Becoming part of Lady Nepheli's cabinet had brought him closer than ever to the old castle, and of course, to all the secrets it held. Only recently had he discovered what lies beneath the throne, in the depths far below.  Pieces had started to come together in his mind, but after that brief, entertaining interaction, were starting to fall apart once more.

"We shall see." Kenneth Haight announced with an air of confidence, the same way he announced everything. He put his hands on his hips and grinned. "Yes, one way or another, I think we shall certainly see about this mysterious Tiche!"

Chapter Text

Limgrave Shuffle!

"So, then, I pick her up and carry her—"

"—Oh, hell!"

"—Right? And I get my butt walloped by a whole parade of vulgar militiamen on the way, but—and—so—y'know, I'm just chugging my crimson tears just as fast as I can—"

"—Brilliant! You tactical genius, you!"

"—Trying to get out of there, of course—"

"—And you're lugging this—this bloody huge—"

"—Oh, for sure, this mountain of a lady slung across my back, like a sack of potatoes—!"

Dandelion couldn't finish his story; he fell backwards off the downed log he was using as a bench, succumbing to a fit of laughter unlike he'd felt in a long time. Across from him, roasting thin strips of rune bear meat on the hulking breadth of his steel greatsword, was Blaidd the Half-Wolf, himself cackling along with the tarnished. Their meager campsite laid low between a pair of hills just close at hand to the Mistwood Ruins.

"But you made it." The giant Empyrean's Shadow bared his toothy maw in a grin. "And then she ditched you in the woods, did she? After all that?"

"Well…" Dandelion sighed, not bothering to sit upright again. He propped his head on his hands and stared at the stars through the gaps in the leaves overhead. "…She seemed like something was really wrong, Blaidd. I don't know, maybe I was just buggin' out. But the way she sounded when I tried to help her really bothered me. It didn't sound like she wanted to talk to anybody, to be honest. So… I just gave her some space."

"Yeah, and all your treasure too, eh? Some parting gift." Blaidd kicked out, knocking his own armored boot against Dandelion's. "Sit up, now, mate, before you starve yourself. Don't want it getting cold."

"Thanks, man." The tarnished sat up and scooped up a piece of meat on the broad blade of his kukri. He'd never tell Blaidd, but he hated rune bear meat. Even for a man used to eating wild rabbit and deer, bear meat was gamey beyond compare and toughened up like a leather belt when barbecued on the flat of a sword, as was the Half-Wolf's standard. Still, there wasn't much to be done that night. There had been a rune bear getting aggressively territorial at the ruins, their usual stomping grounds, and neither man was about to waste that much good meat once it was dead. Perhaps it was his part of his beastlike nature, but the Shadow was always firm about respecting animals, even after killing them.

"…Got this, too." Blaidd fished something out of his rucksack and tossed it to Dandelion. It was a flask. "That ought to help wash it down, since I know you can't stand this stuff."

'Course he knows, Dandelion chuckled at himself, pouring a splash of the liquor into his little tin cup along with some Siofrian well water. Of course, it was pure white rye, and that certainly wasn't going to taste any better than the meat, but it might numb his tongue well enough that it wouldn't matter.

"Now, back to the issue at hand." Blaidd wasn't about to let him go that easily.

"I've told you everything." Dandelion shrugged, knocking his cup together with Blaidd's in a quick toast. "That's all that's happened up to this point, I swear."

"Everything?" The Half-Wolf snorted, rolling his eyes. "Mate, we're just getting started. I still haven't heard a bloody word about what you're actually thinking, eh?"

"Me? Thinking?" Dandelion raised his eyebrows. "Do you know who you're talking to, pal?"

"You think she likes you back?" Blaidd asked simply.

"B-Back?" The tarnished scoffed. "Whoa, let's… Let's reel it in, now, I don't really..."

"Oh, stuff it, mate! She's all you've been talking about!"

"She's just cool!" Dandelion blurted out. "She's a living legend, of course, so that's hard to ignore. But even if she wasn't a Black goddamn Knife, she's still scary strong, graceful, and… And…"

"And, what?" Blaidd narrowed his eyes with a smile.

"…And she gave me a chance." Dandelion threw his hands up in frustration. "And I don't know, maybe I fumbled it, and it's over now. Maybe that was the end of it. But usually when a stranger kills your mom and pulls you into a fight with all kinds of crazy monsters and demigods, you don't go tagging along with them on a little cross-country romp, do you?"

"Well, I dunno," the Shadow chuckled, "Lady Ranni took a chance on you, too. Maybe you just do that to people. To the ladies?"

"I think your lady sees me more like a pet, respectfully."

"Oi, and how d'you figure she sees me, huh?"

The two men found themselves laughing again. They topped off each other's drink before resuming the conversation; Dandelion poured water from a wineskin and Blaidd poured liquor from the flask.

"Remind me when I leave for Stormveil," the tarnished scrunched up his nose after another pungent gulp of over-pure alcohol, "they've got a cellar for malting barley there—I'll bring you some real ale, and we can drink like human beings for once."

"Do I look like a human being to you? I'd have to drink your weight in ale just to get half this buzzed! And besides, I don't want to think about how much that Haight prick would charge you for a barrel. Not gonna be turning out any pockets for cheap swill like this, and that's just perfect for me."

"Least you call it what it is."

"Right. No…" Blaidd shook his head, wagging a finger at Dandelion. "…No, you're not changing the subject again. Back to this woman."

***

Elsewhere, night had fallen on Stormveil Castle, and Black Knife Tiche was still experiencing a bit of culture shock.

"Thorns?" She grumbled to herself, using a long, serrated hatchet to hack away at the shriveled, black vines creeping into the roughly-patched hole in the castle wall. "Who brought a gigantic rosebush into battle, anyway? Honestly…" The assassin wiped sweat off her brow, throwing another bundle of cleared thorns into the wheelbarrow below. Apparently it was to be used as firewood, and that's why she couldn't simply toss it outside and off the cliff. What a pain.

"Oh, my goodness!" Came a voice ringing from below. "You're making remarkable progress—truly remarkable! That's more than enough, my word!" Kenneth Haight waved his hands to get Tiche's attention. As if it was physically possible to ignore him when he was crooning like that. "Please, do come down and take a rest! I can't possibly ask a guest to break her back for us like this!"

"…I'll finish this hole," she announced dryly, turning back to face her work.

"No, but I insist!" Kenneth called. "You're clearly in no shape for menial labor. If you truly are itching to help us—and, with Queen Marika as my witness, you've done far more than enough already—but if you really, really feel up to it—"

"Just tell me." Tiche sighed, sliding nimbly down the ladder to tower directly over Kenneth. "What's next? Go on."

"It's really no big thing, I assure you, so if you'd rather take a rest now, you're absolutely welcome—"

"I'm waiting."

"—Right!" Kenneth shrunk away as Tiche's bristling figure inched closer to him, exuding impatience. "Well, see, after Lady Nepheli retook the castle, one of our most esteemed guests found a small, displaced population of living jars living in an inner rampart. Are you familiar with these creatures?"

"Yes. Regrettably, very familiar."

"Wonderful!" The man clapped his hands together. "They are quite fragile and awfully shy, and so a very gentle touch is needed when approaching them for diplomacy. I might remark, frankly, that you seem perfectly suited for such a task."

"Me?" Tiche laughed sardonically. "You think I have a gentle touch for diplomacy? With fragile creatures?"

"Well," Kenneth steepled his hands, "perhaps I'm wrong. You know yourself best, of course. Perhaps I'm overstepping; if so, I deeply apologize. It's just, I've come to hold you in high esteem since we met earlier today, and I feel quite confident that you… Oh, but if you truly think my trust is misplaced, then…"

Tiche flinched at the word 'trust.' The bona fide ultimatum Dandelion had left her with—that really boiled down to 'trust,' in the end, didn't it?

"…Whatever." The assassin sighed. "I'll try talking to them. Just tell me where to go."

"A saint. A saint!" Kenneth applauded. "I knew I made the right choice, inviting you here! Madame Tiche, Lady Nepheli and I are already graciously indebted to you. Please, if you'd join us tonight as we take dinner in the main hall—"

"—Fine. Yes. The jars." Tiche cut him off, sticking her arm out to silence the man. "How do I get to the jars?"

***

"I've only ever seen her face, like, once." Dandelion sighed.

"And?" Blaidd raised his long-haired brow.

"…Whatever, that's a bad example." The tarnished swallowed hard.

"Oh, for crying out loud! You're crushing on her like a little kid, mate."

"Maybe I am!" The young man shot up in his wooden seat. Yes, his face was certainly red, but only half of it was from embarrassment. He hiccupped, and it felt like the liquor on his breath would burn the hairs in his nose. "M-Maybe I'm a little bit in love, okay?"

"Atta boy!" Blaidd gave a growling laugh. "Life's too bloody short to lie to yourself about this stuff. A man's gotta fight these battles head on!"

"You—You're sounding like Alexander, now."

"That's a compliment, if I've ever heard one. Where's he at, nowadays?"

"Heard he was…" Dandelion shook his head, staring off into space. "Making his way to Mount Gelmir, maybe? Who knows what for. Couldn't drag me there."

"Gelmir, eh?" Blaidd nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe he's after Rykard? You've made one hell of a name slaying demigods lately. Maybe the ol' warrior jar wants a piece of that pie."

"Whadda—" Dandelion took another long swig. "—What do you know about him?"

"About Rykard? Oh, loads. He's a certain somebody's brother, you know." The Half-Wolf unrolled his map and began pointing with his long, hooked claw. "He's holed up in Volcano Manor, here. You can see it clear as day from the Carians' Place. I made it inside, once, way back before the Shattering."

"You did?" Dandelion's dilated eyes sparkled. "What for?"

"A mission for Lady Ranni. What else?" Blaidd chuckled. "I brought the Praetor a relic—a bloody horrific thing. A claw for challenging the holder of the Rune of Death."

"No way."

"On my life. Ranni trusted that old snake, once. Haven't heard her mention him in ages, though, so I can't say how she'd feel."

"How she'd feel?" Dandelion wrinkled his brow. "About what?"

"About you marching in there," Blaidd mimed the action with two clawed fingers, "and sticking a sword in her fool brother, like he's right begging for."

"You think I should kill Rykard?" The tarnished suddenly shot up in his seat, sobered by the sheer weight of this turn of the conversation. "But I'm already so close! What for?"

"Well, in the first place, he does have a Great Rune." Blaidd reminded him. "And if you're already sick of those—he's not going anywhere, you know. If you take the throne, he'll still be cooking up schemes in that evil volcano. The more time you give him, the dirtier he'll play, I'd count on it."

"Gah…" Dandelion winced. "That's a good point."

"But even setting all that grand stuff aside." Blaidd leaned in and lowered his voice. "That relic I brought—it's carved with traces of Destined Death. In the right hands, that's a weapon you can't afford to ignore."

"In the right hands…?"

"You know what I mean." The Half-Wolf nodded gravely. "If Rykard keeps it, who knows who he'll come after? Could be you. Could be Lady Ranni. That's a bloody liability if I've ever heard one."

"Shit."

"But, just think, then, if you got it," Blaidd looked directly into Dandelion's eyes, then, "and you gave it to someone who—Oh, I don't know—someone who'd wielded it before… Someone who actually brought down a demigod with the Rune of Death, like no one else ever has…?"

The tarnished frowned for a moment, confused, until it finally dawned on him. He raised his hands to cradle his head for a while, and both men sat unspeaking beside the low smoldering embers that used to be their fire. It was utterly, deeply dark outside by then. When the silence did not lift, Blaidd stood and emptied the remaining water from the leather bladder onto the coals, extinguishing them in a puff of steam. He planted a massive hand on Dandelion's back.

"Don't think yourself to death, mate."

"I know. Sorry."

"Gets cold here at night, you know. Bring a blanket?"

"Left them all with her."

"Aye, I figured as much." The Half-Wolf bent and draped a heavy wool quilt from his pack over the shoulders of the tarnished and patted his shoulder. "Well, I'm off to bed. You're not going to find a magic answer just sitting here fretting about it; you should hit the hay, too."

"I know." Dandelion repeated, smiling derisively. "I already decided what I'm gonna do about Rykard, actually."

"Oh, yeah?" Blaidd snorted. "That's more like you. What's the long face for, then?"

"It's bittersweet." The young man sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "I kinda… I think I really wanted her, Blaidd. Now it just feels like I actually need her, and that's a drag."

***

"To Dandelion the Warrior. Slayer of demigods, defender of order, and future Elden Lord!" Lady Nepheli Loux of Limgrave hoisted a great stein of ale above the table, and it was joined in the air by four others.

"To his good health!" Kenneth Haight toasted, looking quite pleased with himself. "May he enjoy the loveliest of Limgrave's days and rest easy through her nights. May his travels be fascinating, and his battles boring!"

"To his strength!" Knight Bernahl, in from the Warmaster's shack, hollered as he lifted his already almost-empty mug. "May he never grow weary of carrying two great swords—one for laying low his foes, and the other, his woman!"

"To his mind." Sorceress Sellen, a rare face to see at Stormveil, had made the trip for the special occasion of Tiche's visit. Rumors had a peculiar way of finding their way to her, no matter where she ended up. "His foes, low, his woman, sweetly—sure, may the poor boy lay anything but his own plans, and may he never hit his head too hard, for goodness' sake."

"To his wealth!" Sneered Gostoc, the gatekeeper. "That's all! Here, here!"

Tiche watched, exasperated, as everyone in the whole wide world seemed to sing the praises of the tarnished she'd just clawed her way away from. Ostensibly, they were doing it for her sake, which was the embarrassing part. Tiche had been conservative with her words, as she always was, but perhaps that'd backfired. What little information she'd given the good people of Stormveil seemed to have left them under the impression that they were much closer than they factually were.

"They really like you." A meek voice came from beside her. A lowered face was picking at the lavish meal to Tiche's right; a very small man was hunched in his chair, apparently hiding from the spotlight just as she was.

"Hmph." Tiche shrugged. On further inspection, he wasn't quite a man—a demi-human? His wiry frame looked more like an animal's than a human, but his mild speech was perfectly intelligent. She spoke sarcastically. "What about you? Have you met Dandelion the Great?"

"Have I?" The assassin couldn't see his face very well, but she could tell when his short, snout-like mouth turned up in a smile. "Certainly, I have. Master Dandelion has been very kind to me. It's thanks to him that I got my job, here, as Stormveil's seamster. I owe him my life."

"…Great." Tiche grumbled, wishing she hadn't asked.

Wonderful, she stewed angrily in her mind, just what I needed. Another heart-melting testimony to how selflessly caring he is—the tarnished whose face I practically just spat in.

"Lady Nepheli, our guest of honor has been breaking her back in our service!" Kenneth Haight declared suddenly, splaying his hand out toward Tiche. "She has sorted books in the study, collected candle stumps for melting, fed the Stormhawks, cleared thorns from the walls, led the stray living jars to their designated refuge—"

"—And she made the cream for the cake we've got for dessert." Nepheli Loux tacked on, pleased. "Yes, I don't believe we've never hosted such an industrious guest."

"Except Dandelion." Bernahl laughed. "I daresay he's still the undefeated champion of housecleaning, after getting rid of that big pest, Godrick!"

"Why?"

The quiet voice emanating from Tiche was enough to silence the whole table's good-natured laughter. Every eye in the hall was turned toward her as she braced her gloved hands on the table. The other residents and guests were dressed for the occasion: Bernahl had removed his outer plate mail and was wearing only his tunic, Sellen's stone mask was sitting on the table beside her, and even Kenneth had doffed his fancy gloves for mealtime. Only Tiche remained in her full armor, ready to do battle at any time. She strongly suspected that the Warmaster and the Sorceress had been invited for the sole reason of putting her down if she tried anything dirty.

Yet, in spite of it all, their expressions were calm. Gentle. Unafraid of her.

"Why?" Tiche repeated. "Are you all going to sit there and pretend that you don't know who I am? What I've done?"

"'Surely, they can't be that stupid…' Is what you're thinking," Nepheli Loux nodded sagely, "is it not?"

"Frankly, yes." The assassin placed a hand on her knife. "If this is an elaborate scheme to lower my guard, I'm sorry to inform you that it isn't working."

"See?" Kenneth turned, smiling, toward Nepheli. "I told you, Milady."

"What?" Tiche seethed, addressing the ruler of the castle. "What is he talking about?"

"Kenneth, my advisor, has merely performed the duty I've assigned him." Nepheli said slowly. "When I first heard that a Black Knife Assassin was afoot in Stormveil, it goes without saying that I was fully prepared to take aggressive countermeasures against any plots on my life."

"…But alas, here we are." Kenneth gestured toward the finely-laid table. "Madame Tiche, I have busied you all day long with mind-numbing chores and meaningless drivel—and all the while, presented ample opportunities for you to pose a threat to Lady Nepheli. Rest assured, both of us have been well on our guard since your arrival. We aren't, ah—" He cleared his throat. "—that stupid, to be crude."

"And?" Tiche spat. "You think one day of menial chores is enough to prove I'm harmless? I'm a professional. I could suffer through a year's worth of this mindless grind if a mission required it of me."

"It's your openness about the whole affair that sold me." Kenneth explained. "Listen at you, talking about this like it has nothing to do with you."

"Because—"

"—Because it doesn't." He laughed. "You didn't come here to assassinate anyone, did you?"

"…No." Tiche admitted sorely.

"I knew it. There isn't an assassin so clumsy with her emotions in all the land."

"H-Hey."

"But, really." Nepheli Loux reigned the conversation back in. "Our little surveillance experiment was only half the reason we've been so welcoming. Here, the other half, left with us earlier today." She drew a letter from a small serving table beside her seat at the head of the dining room and smoothly slid it across the board to Tiche. "Perhaps you'll feel like raising a toast yourself, once you've had a look."

Tiche unfolded the paper. It was a letter. The handwriting was crude.

Dear Nepheli & Kenneth,

I'm leaving this letter with you in case you receive a visit from my very special acquaintance, Tiche. I think you will. She is formerly of the Black Knife Assassins. However, we have been traveling together as a pair, and I can say with full confidence that she's a woman of character. I have shown my own weakness to her from every angle. She has helped me during the most difficult battles of my life. I have seen her respect for enemies, allies, and even animals. I have seen her play with children. The last time she set foot in this castle, it was to slay Godwyn the Golden. This time, it will be to seek refuge. I truly believe she is not the heartless assassin from the Night of Black Knives. She is someone I would like you to take very good care of for me, as a personal favor.

I trust her with my life.

Yours truly,

Dandelion

Tiche folded the envelope closed and sat quietly. The other diners looked on, expectant, as she looked down at the piece of paper in her hands. Then quickly, unceremoniously, she raised those same hands and… Lowered her hood.

"Fine, then." Tiche mumbled, crimson to the crown of her head with the most explosive blush she'd ever experienced. She quickly, but not unnoticeably, rubbed her forearm across her eyes. "Since you all insist on being so irrationally welcoming, I suppose... I-I'll stay."

Chapter Text

I’m Just a Killer for Your Love!

            Nepheli Loux let out a long sigh and started once more over the charts.  In the center of her study’s wide desk was a large map of the southern Lands Between, fastidiously marked-up and updated by hand in recent days as conditions to sluggishly, stubbornly, improve.  It was three steps forward and two steps back, but it was still progress.  Columns and rows of named conscripts both accounted for and not.  Detailed reports on mines, farms, churches and wells and their status as of Godrick’s defeat.  Were they overrun with rioting demi-humans?  Were the soldiers gone mad there?  Had toxic wildlife encroached yet?  If any of these things were true–how long, approximately, until they were back under control of the Lord’s throne?

            “Careful now, you’ll end up like Gideon.”

            Nepheli straightened up impulsively to find Dandelion, Stormveil’s tarnished savior, approaching from the corridor.  He gave a wave, stopping in the threshold to set down a burlap sack just out of the way.

            “Welcome back,” she nodded in his direction, “and thank you for the warning.  I’m not sure glasses would compliment my image, not to mention a hunchback.  What’ve you brought?”

            “Armor crests.”  Dandelion fished one out of the sack.  It was an embossed brass plate about the size of his head and slightly thicker than a coin.  On it was, of course, the Beast and Tree seal of the Golden lineage.  “Kenneth said you were planning on reissuing them when you instated the new guard.”

            “He told you that?”  Nepheli smiled sardonically.  “He must know my plans better than I do.  Very well, leave them there.  It’s a good idea.  Is he still awake, this late?”

            “He was when I got back about ten minutes ago.  So was that damn gatekeeper, who let me in.  And Boc, who helped me take these crests off the armor.  And Bernahl, who relieved me of the heaping pile of swords I collected…”

            “...Well, I suppose no one can say we aren’t industrious here at Stormveil.”  The Lady of the castle seemed relieved.  “I’m glad everyone is working hard, given all you’ve done–we can’t afford to squander the opportunity you’ve given us, here.”  She paused.  “Did you happen to see Sellen on your way in?”

            “If she was here, she was well-hidden.”

            “Curious.”

            “Speaking of which.” The young man continued with a knowing expression.  “I’ll be back in touch with Jerren the Witch Hunter soon.  There’s a lot of stout folks left with their wits in Caelid.  You’d be surprised.  Doesn’t look like Radahn is getting a successor anytime soon, so Jerren is trying to set up arrangements for some of his old guard regiment to find work elsewhere.  Let me know your decision soon, and I’ll have Blaidd send word to him.”

            “I can’t thank you enough.”  Nepheli gave a shallow bow of her head.  “Will the Half-Wolf be joining us, then?”

            “Not tonight, he took off already.”

            “Well, that’s one inconvenience out of the way.”  She laughed.  “Pardon my manners, but I’d hate to find a bed big enough for him on short notice.  Compared to your giant jar friend, he’s a lot less convenient to put up for a night!”

            “Not to mention his appetite.  I don’t blame you!”  Dandelion laughed too.  “‘Course, looks to me like nobody’s sleeping around here.  All hands on deck, all the time, huh?”

            “I think your new friend has lit a fire under us all.”  Nepheli’s smile softened. 

            “That’s funny,” the man jerked his thumb toward the hall, “because I’m pretty sure she’s the only person in the whole castle who’s fast asleep.”

            “I suppose she really isn’t much to be afraid of, then, after all.  I was taking a real chance on your word, Dandelion.”

            “I know.  I owe you one.”

            “No, I’m quite certain we’re all still firmly in your debt.”  Nepheli waved away the notion.  “In any case, what’s your relation to her?  If you don’t mind my asking.”

            “She’s my partner.  I can’t say how far she plans on following me, but I hope to keep her around as long as I can.”

            “Your partner?”  She raised her eyebrows.

            “Yeah,” Dandelion looked away, “we’re, like…  Y’know…”

            “I don’t,” Nepheli snickered, “I really have no idea, actually.”

            “I wish I could tell you more, but I really don’t even know her that well.”  The young man sighed.  “But!”  He stuck his finger in the air.  “I’m working on it.  I am working on it!”

            “I’ll be rooting for you,” the Lady of Limgrave bowed lightly again, “and once more, thank you for all your help.  Stay as long as you like, of course.”

            Dandelion found his way back to the barracks, which in spite of the castle’s disrepair were comfortably sparse.  On one of the many cots was lying Tiche, whose sleeping form was so akin to a corpse that the tarnished had nearly missed her when he’d first arrived.  It was late, so much so that the moon was already tracking back down the sky, and after hearing Kenneth describe all the monotonous, silly chores he’d put her up to, it was no wonder Tiche was tired.  As promised, three days had elapsed since Dandelion and the assassin had parted ways.  He found himself bubbly with glee that, although there hadn’t been a promise, Tiche was still here.

            And she had her hood off.

            Don’t be a creep, now, Dandy.  The tarnished chastised himself after looking for a second too long.  He carried his bedroll to a cot not directly adjacent to hers, confident that a one-cot space between them was probably, maybe okay.  After setting up his bed, he doffed his armor and took a seat.  He pulled a small, loosely-bound book from his pack and stared down at a blank page for a moment.  His eyes flitted back up to Tiche.  No, back down to the page.  He thought about his day and the beautiful terrain he’d ridden through.  Then he looked back up at Tiche.  No, no.  What about the feeling of nostalgia he’d gotten while eating lunch on that crumbling wall…?  He snuck another glance at Tiche. 

            Then he stopped messing around and just looked at her like he really, really wanted to.

            She was sleeping in her armor, of course, but it looked like it’d been cleaned and maybe even repaired.  Perhaps Boc’s work.  Her hands were crossed on her chest, very much like a dead body lying in a coffin, especially with the way she was totally flat and still on her back.  Her face was in plain sight for the first time since her accident.  Her skin was the color of tree bark in winter, touched just slightly at the cheeks and forehead with the rosy glow of life.  Even in sleep, her lips pulled taut into a resting scowl, but Dandelion thought it fit her–if only because he could usually see that same scowl barely peeking out from under the shadow of her hood.  She had long eyelashes, black at their roots that grayed to nearly white at the end.  Her wavy hair was much the same, chopped inexpertly off at her shoulder and tangled around itself, neglected almost perpetually beneath her cowl. 

            “That is quite enough.”

            Dandelion leapt backward, startled by the sudden sound of Tiche’s voice.  She slowly swiveled and sat up to look down at him.

            “Are you done?”  She fumed.  “Are you satisfied yet?”

            “You scared the piss outta me!”  The tarnished chuckled nervously, clutching his chest.  “I thought you were–how long have you been awake?”

            “The whole time, imbecile.”  Tiche pouted.  “I thought if I ignored you for long enough, maybe you would wisen up and back off.  Perhaps you need a less subtle lesson?”  She stood to tower over him and began slowly cracking her knuckles.

            “No–I was–that was just–uh…”  Dandelion scooted across the floor in a panic.  “Listen, Tiche, don’t be mad!  I wasn’t really even–”

            “--What’s this?”  The assassin halted, stooping down to pick up something he’d dropped.  It was the little leather book.  She sneered, flipping through the pages to skim it.  “I see now.  Documenting my weaknesses?  Devising a plot to kill me?  Or worse…?  I should have…”  She paused to read the contents of the small volume.

Green, green.

Tell me tales of lands I’ve never seen.

I’ll open up and swallow them down

To frolic through them evermore

And live them in a dream.

Blue, blue!

Show me all the faces I once knew.

Set every one of them before me

And remind me if I forget:

“You can’t take them with you!”

            “Ah…  Um…”  Tiche faltered, flipping to another, more recent page.

Mist above the lake

Like her, I cannot reach it

Fades as I draw near

***

Great walls of old stone

Time and weather slowly gnaw

at you, as at her.

***

Death, unrelenting

Share with me your dearest daughter

Assassin of love

so fair?

in black?

***

            “Th-This is…”  Tiche was already flipping to another page, too enthralled in the words scrawled in ugly handwriting to realize how fantastically red her face had grown.  “What are…?”

            Before she could even finish speaking, the breath was knocked from her lungs as Dandelion bowled the both of them over in a flying tackle.

            “That’s not mine!”  He howled, desperately grasping for the book as Tiche clasped it tightly to her chest.  “It’s–I’m holding it for a friend!”

            “Let go of me!”  Tiche growled, desperately trying to shove Dandelion away while keeping a hold of his book.  “This is yours!  Confess!  Confess!”

            “I just–I picked it up off a dead soldier!”  The tarnished dug in deeper, wrenching his arms around Tiche’s shoulders as they fumbled around on the floor.  “Er, uh, it’s from the Carian Library, those are just–”

            “Liar!”  Tiche managed to use his weight against him as he tried to pin her down.  She was no expert in grappling, but her size advantage was more than enough to secure the win in a light scuffle like this.  She carefully passed the booklet into one hand and, rolling Dandelion onto his back in a surprisingly agile twist, pinned him with her knee between his legs and her free hand trapping his wrists.  Victorious, the assassin stared him down from above.  “Admit it!  Admit you wrote these!”

            “Why do you care?”  Dandelion hissed, his voice wavering.

            “Admit it!”  Tiche drew nearer, forcing more of her weight onto him.  “Confess!”

            “Th-They’re–”  The young man swallowed, looking away.  His voice softened.  “--F-For my mom…?”

            “Liar!”  Tiche pressed.

            “Sh-Shuddup!”  Dandelion overheated, his face boiling red from the exertion and embarrassment.  Then, however, in the depths of his darkest hour, a realization struck him.  He opened his eyes wide, set his jaw, and stared hard back up at Tiche.  “So what?  So what if they are mine, huh?  So what if I’ve been writing cute little poems about some cute little assassin, huh?”

            Tiche realized at last how extremely close together their faces had been, and how firmly their eyes had been in contact for the past several seconds.  All the small, embarrassing slights she’d felt against her confidence since she’d been resurrected seemed to compound into one.  Rather, every embarrassing moment together so far had built up a certain tolerance inside of Tiche, and then in a single instant that wall of resistance was blown away by a tidal wave of strange, mushy, gooey feelings boiling over from an extremely deep cauldron of suppressed something buried within her. 

            “I-I’m…”  She stammered, then opened her mouth and spoke quietly.  “...I’m not cute.  And I’m not little.”

            “D-Didn’t say I was talking about you.”  Dandelion scoffed weakly, having regained just enough composure to bluff a little longer.  “But even if I was, what do you care, huh?  They’re just stupid poems I write sometimes.  When I’m bored.”

            “Are they true?”  Tiche asked and immediately regretted it.  “Er, I mean…”

            “They’re just me rambling, I don’t know.”  Dandelion shied away again for a second, but finally put some strength into his arms.  “H-Hey, come on, get off of me and gimme my book back, you jerk!”

            “Fine!”  Tiche spat, releasing the tarnished and scrambling away at last.  “I don’t know anything about poetry, but you…  You should…  You have to keep that stuff in, you hear me!”  She fumed.  “You can’t just go spilling out weird emotions and things, and saying all kinds of pretty stuff about nature, and–and…”  Her lip trembled.  “...You’re gonna give somebody the wrong idea, you know!”

            “Th-That’s why I keep it a secret!”  Dandelion grumbled meekly, snatching his book up off the ground.  “I gotta do something with all this crap!”  He poked himself in the chest.  “If you weren’t so nosey, this wouldn’t be a problem!”

            “What do you mean you have to do something with it?”  Tiche scowled.  “Just…  Just ignore it!”

            “Ignore what, my feelings?  Sor-ry!”  He was starting to get angry in a way she hadn’t seen before.  He continued in a mocking tone.  “Not everybody can be a superhuman assassin who doesn’t care about anything, ever!  Some of us actually have to deal with our emotions instead of letting them bleed to death in the black pit of our souls!  Or, what, do you just not have any emotions at all?”

            “I do!”  Tiche shot back instantly, too loudly.  Embarrassed again, she shrank back and lowered her voice. “I do have…  Feelings and stuff.  I just don’t have time to…  to…”

            She droned off, and a silence followed.  Dandelion was staring at her from under a deeply furrowed brow, and his mouth was chiseled into a hard frown.  He said nothing, just held her trembling gaze as she tried to articulate herself.  But, of course, she couldn’t.  After all, she’d never tried.

            “...Is it that weird?”  The tarnished finally let his expression soften, and the heat finally fell from his face in every place except his cheeks, where it remained in earnest. “The poetry stuff, I mean.  I meant to keep it from you, of course, but…”
            “I don’t know.”  Tiche shrugged, no longer able to meet his eyes.  “I don’t know anything about poetry, so…  Perhaps you’ll find s-someone else who can appreciate them, one day.”

            “I don’t want…” Dandelion stopped himself.  “Er.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” he sighed, “but…  You should try it sometime.”

            “You mean…”  Tiche tilted her head.  “You think I should try writing poetry?”

            “You said it yourself, didn’t you?”  Dandelion shrugged.  “You have feelings, too, of course.  You’re just as much of a person as I am, so you might as well try and deal with it as best as you can.”

            “...Do you really believe that?”

            “Believe what?”

            “That I’m…”  Tiche looked down at her steel gauntlets, dimly reflecting the torchlight in the worn pads of their fingers.  She looked up at Dandelion and found him relaxed again, this time looking back at her with the same serene kindness as always.  It began to register for the first time as a different kind of compassion than that he always showed to nature and other travelers.  Perhaps his poems had afforded her a glimpse just a little deeper, giving her the little nudge she needed to finally understand: it was fondness.  He wasn’t enamored.  Or infatuated.  Tiche felt like she was lightyears away from even figuring out what the word “love” could possibly mean, but she at least knew it wasn’t being beamed at her through Dandelion’s eyes.

            He just liked her, that was all.  But that alone was new, strange, and wonderful enough to force into motion something inside of Tiche that was old, stuck, and very, very hard to move.  She swallowed, wondering if it was just her, or if the light of the torches was really starting to get brighter in that small barracks room. 

            “You imbecile.”  She murmured at last, heaving herself back up onto her cot.  “I know nothing about poetry, but I at least know that drivel would never pass for art in the capital.”

            “Hey!”  Dandelion shot to his feet, stancing up to fight again, but his eyes were bright and his smile was wide.  “You take that back!  I write from my soul, and that’s as artistic as it gets, alright?”

            “Sure, sure.”  Tiche rolled over, hiding her face from him.  “I’m sure all the lovely scholars in Raya Lucaria would love to hear you driveling on about some…  Strange, frightening assassin character.”

            “Hey, now.”  Dandelion slid into his own cot, taking one last look at her before lying down.  “You can shit on my metaphors, my descriptions, my rhythm, or whatever, but…  You’d better not pick on my subject, alright?  I mean it!” 

            “Shut up.”

            “You shuddup.”  He paused.  “G’night, Tiche.”

            “Goodnight, Dandelion.”

Chapter Text

The Night, and the Dream, Were Long.

"A word, hitwoman?”

            Tiche shot up in the narrow barrack bunk and immediately knocked her forehead into the one overhead.  It wasn’t on account of her height, for once.  These cots really were so tightly packed that the peasant militia under Godrick might as well have been jammed into little coffins together.  Grimacing, the assassin fumbled for her knife.  It took her pitifully long to find, and by the time she had a proper grip on the weapon and was braced against the wall, ready for a fight, she knew she could have been killed ten different ways already.

            “Who’s there?”  She called out in the direction of the voice she’d heard.  It had sounded female. “Lady Nepheli?  Sellen?”

            A volley of blue spirit dust whirled in from the corridor, along the way brushing past the sconces and lighting each torch with a ghostly silver flame.  The blue sparks amalgamated in the center of the room, coalesced into the shape of a cloaked figure, and then solidified.  Tiche narrowed her eyes.

            “A pleasure to finally meet thee, Black Knife.”  The figure looked out at Tiche from under the brim of an enormous gray hat.  “We have communicated in the past, by proxy.  It seems the stars, once again in motion, have aligned to bring our paths together once more.  I am the witch Ranni.”

            “You’re…”  Tiche gulped.  “…The client of our most infamous work.”

            “Indeed.”  Ranni the witch nodded, but Tiche couldn’t sense even the slightest movement of her facial expression.  “And now, all these many years later, I have information suggesting that thou’ve become the companion of—”

            “—Partner.”  Tiche corrected bluntly.

            “—Information suggesting thou’rt the partner of Dandelion, a tarnished warrior whose attention I, too, have been vying to—”

            “—I’m not interested in his a-attention,” Tiche interrupted again.

            “Art thou quite done?”  Ranni frowned—yes, there it was.  Under that big hat, Tiche could see the faint outline of a real face, rather than the stoic, eerily flat expression that had been confusing her.  The witch’s actual countenance seemed to hover as a spirit just slightly distended from the physical body before Tiche.  “…As I was saying, it seems that for one reason or another, we both find ourselves…  in collaboration with Dandelion, the tarnished in search of the Elden Ring.  Is that thine understanding of the circumstances, as well?”

            “Are you…”  Tiche frowned, passing her knife warily from one hand to the other.  “…Are you threatening me?”

            “Thre—”  Ranni sighed.  “—How did thou get that from such a basic question?  I simply want to know what thine intentions are with my accomplice.”

            “Why does it matter to you?”  The assassin hunched her shoulders.

            “Why’rt thou being so damned defensive?”  Ranni groaned.  “Between his obtuse complicity and thine aggressive obstinance, I cannot fathom how anything gets done.”

            “Is this a dream?”  Tiche rubbed her eyes.  “This is all very strange to me, admittedly.  I have never seen torches glow that color, or anyone as small as yourself—especially not with f-four arms…  Are you really here, and real, or…?”

            “No, I take it back.”  Ranni clicked her tongue.  “Thou’rt perhaps a better match for each other than I initially thought.”

            “What do you want from me, Witch?”  Asked Tiche.

            “Reassurance that thou will not squander my opportunity to seize the Elden Throne.”

            “Your opportunity?”  She recoiled.  “What, are you planning to steal it from him?”

            “Of course not.  He’ll give it to me willingly, as my consort.” Ranni explained astutely.  “Our betrothal will mark the beginning of a new age.”

            “B-B-B-Be—”  Tiche felt as red as a flask of crimson tears.  “—He hasn’t even mentioned you before, much less told me anything about being betrothed to…!”

            “Oh?”  Ranni sneered.  “Perhaps he doesn’t trust thee?”

            “That’s…”  The assassin frowned.  …Perfectly reasonable, is what that is…

            “Well, if this is the first thou’ve heard of my connection to thine partner, then I suppose he is keeping our secret safe enough.”  The witch folded her lower pair of arms.  Both her real and her doll eyes shut sagely.  “Fine, then.  I suppose he knows what he’s doing.  But I’ll keep an eye on thee, rest assured.  I shan’t have my plans squandered by a petty cutthroat.”

            “I’m not…  Petty.”

            “Farewell, Black Knife Tiche.  For now.” 

            “Wait—!”  Tiche cried out, leaping to her feet.  She’d just been practically interrogated by the Lunar Princess, but she hardly had a second to ask any questions of her own.  That conversation just left her feeling even more confused than she had already, but…

            Ranni’s smug expression was the last part of herself to fade into the whirlwind of blue dust.  The torch sconces quickly smoldered out as if suddenly deprived of fuel, and Tiche found herself standing alone in a completely dark room.  She impulsively checked the bunks behind her.  Fortunately, two beds away from her own, a Dandelion-shaped lump still lie snoring.  Winded by that exasperating encounter, Tiche set out into the hall for a drink of water. 

            All of Stormveil finally seemed to be sleeping.  The assassin realized it felt almost nostalgic to be creeping through the empty halls of a dark, quiet castle once again.  A serving cart had been placed at the end of their hall with a bucket of water and a platter of buttery biscuits; Tiche had nothing of an appetite, but she was certainly thirsty.  She hastily ladled some water straight to her lips and drank.

            “Agh!”  A cough stuck in her throat after the first gulp of lukewarm water.  She spat out the second mouthful instantly, her tongue revolting against the acrid flavor.  “W-What…?” 

            Tiche looked with wide eyes down at the silver ladle, which was still filled halfway with inky blackness.  She’d ignored it as a trick of the shadows at first, but as she poured the dregs back into the bucket, the liquid was clearly dark through-and-through.  Horrified, she flung the ladle away from herself and began to desperately wipe at her chin and mouth.  Her gauntlets came away smeared with oily red-blackness.  She retreated with shaking legs away from the cart and toward one of the dim portholes in the castle wall, which let the moonlight shine weakly upon her. 

            “Blood on steel.”  Came a voice from somewhere nearby.

            Tiche couldn’t bring herself to look away from her sullied hands, much less to search for the source of the voice.  She cowered, taking refuge in that small sliver of midnight effulgence.  A tall, stalking shadow slinked toward her.

            “Familiar, is it not?”  The voice prodded her for an answer.  “Brings you back?”

            “What do you want?”  Tiche brought herself to utter through clenched teeth.

            “Of course it doesn’t bring you back.”  The voice scoffed.  “You’ve never left, have you?  You haven’t changed a bit.  Wonderful.  That’s wonderful, Tiche.”

            “Don’t—”  Tiche stared straight into the cobblestones making up the floor below her feet.  Her eyes bored a hole into the crevices between the rocks.  “—It doesn’t matter.  Changing, leaving…  I don’t care.  I don’t care!”

            “Yes…”  The voice sounded viciously pleased to hear this.  “Yes, good!  You remember well: care is a weakness.  Very good, Tiche.”

            Care is a weakness.  An old saying returned to Tiche in a blur.  Care is a weakness.  Even caring for oneself is a burden too heavy for the mind of a true assassin.  Do not care for yourself.  You have no ‘self.’  You are nothing but a ‘knife.’

            “The blood on your hands, the blood on your weapon…”  The shadow extended a gloved hand from the shadows to rest on Tiche’s downturned cheek; she felt powerless to shy away, like an old forgotten authority had suddenly reassumed control over her.  “…It is no different than the blood inside your veins, your heart.  Let them run as one, as we did long, long ago…”

            “…Alecto…”  Tiche breathed, looking into the shadowy face staring back at her from the shadows.  “…Mother.”

            “Your feelings already begin to betray you, my child.”  The cold, rasping voice of Alecto, ringleader of the Black Knife Assassins, coaxed a shiver out of Tiche.  “Kill them within you.  Do not allow the soft rot of sentimentality to destroy you from the inside, as it inevitably will.”

            “Mother…”  Tiche swallowed, her throat still burning with dry heat.  “…I will try.  I have no other choice, now.  I will try, but…” 

            “Silence!”  The elder assassin’s steely fingers suddenly closed around her daughter’s shoulder.  “I never knew you to be such an insolent child.  I am not asking you to try.”

            “Y-Yes, Mother.”  Tiche felt tears brimming along her eyes.  “I’m sorry, Mother.  I promise I’ll stop caring.  I promise I won’t feel anymore, so—”

            “You’re sorry?  You promise?”  Suddenly Alecto closed the remaining distance, gliding out from the all-enveloping shadows outside the light of the window and pinning the younger assassin to the wall with inhuman strength.  Before Tiche could speak again, she felt the sharp chill of a blade pressed lightly against her neck.  Never in her life had she been on this end of one: a Black Knife, in all its crooked, evil glory, poised to slit her throat.  Alecto’s face was cloaked, leaving only her furious scowl peeking out.  “Your words beget weakness, child.  An assassin should use her breath only for breathing.  If you’re going to waste it, then…” 

            “Mother, please…!”  Tiche yelped, feeling the steel bite into her skin. “Please, don’t…!”

            “Foolish little knife,” Alecto crooned, “still wagging your tongue…”  

            Tiche panicked, feeling lightheaded as the blade encroached slowly on her airway, turning even small breaths into a labor of searing pain.

            “Well, there are always more loyal little blades in our fold, waiting patiently, silently, to fill your place…”  The leader of the Black Knives sighed.  “Go on, then, Tiche.  Die for me again.”

            “N-N—"

            “Tiche.  Tiche!”

            “No, Mother!  No!”

            “Tiche, it’s me!  Hey!” 

            “No, no!”

            “Tiche!”

            Dandelion desperately pried Tiche’s gauntleted hands away from her own neck.  The woman was curled tightly into the fetal position, and when her hands were clear, Dandelion could see that the high, protective collar of her scaled steel breastplate had ridden up and was digging directly into her neck.  Relief washed over him as her hands finally stopped struggling to throttle herself and her eyes fluttered halfway open.  Soaked with sweat, cheeks damp with tears, and in a wordless daze, Tiche began clumsily trying to pry her armor away from her throat. 

            “Here, Tiche…” The tarnished murmured, sitting down at her side.  He reached around her back, under her cloak, and helped undo the leather straps of her breastplate.  It finally came loose, and Tiche let out an exhausted sigh as the armor piece clattered to the floor.  “…There, now…  You okay?”

            “I’m…  I…”  Her eyes swam quick circles around the room as if searching for someone or something.  “…Dandy?”

            “I’m here,” he nodded gently, leaving his arms around her shoulders, “you were having some kinda nightmare, right?  It’s okay.  You’re awake now, see?  You’re safe.”

            “I’m awake…”  She reassured him, or more likely herself.  “I-I’m awake, yes, I’m…”

            “Here, arms…”  Dandelion patted her sides and she lifted her arms.  He was a little bit glad that her sudden bewilderment was making her very docile, for once.  She caught on quickly, and the two carefully removed Tiche’s heavy pauldrons from her shoulders and the leather vambraces from under her gauntlets.  At last, Dandelion helped the assassin remove her gloves, slick with sweat and stuck to her fingers, leaving her less dressed than he’d ever seen her.

            Which wasn’t saying a lot, since she was still wearing a hefty wool undershirt with a high turtleneck and long sleeves. 

            “Good grief, no wonder you were having bad dreams.”  Dandelion sighed.  “You’re burning up!  Don’t you have anything lighter you can wear?”

            “…Sorry.”  Tiche bowed her head, sinking into herself again.

            “What?”  The young man blinked.  “D-Did you just apologize to me?  You’ve never apologized to me before.  Hey…”  He let his shoulders droop, inching closer to Tiche’s side.  “…Are you really okay, Tiche?  Do you wanna, like, talk about it, or…?”

            “N-No!”  The assassin’s face was pale, but a little color returned to her cheeks as she scooted away, undoing all of Dandelion’s work to draw nearer.  “No, it was just a silly…  It was just a dream.  That’s all.  I’m fine.”

            “You’re not acting like you’re fine.” 

            “What makes you so sure?”  She hissed.

            “This,” he said.  His hand tightened.  She felt it.  Tiche looked down, finding their hands clasped together—or, rather, hers was very obviously clasped around his. 

            “Er…!”  She hastily jerked away.

            “…And because, well…”  The young man, sounding a little disappointed, reached over and grabbed something from his bag.  It was the book of poetry.  “What can I say?  I guess I pay a lot of attention to how you act…  And stuff.  I can tell something’s bothering you, Tiche.”

            “That’s…”  She let the harsh rebuttal die in the back of her dry throat.  “…That’s none of your concern.  I can handle myself, thank you.”

            “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”  Dandelion shrugged.  “But you shouldn’t let it get this bad, either.  I’m your partner, y’know?”  He bumped his shoulder together with hers, smiling softly all the while.  He reached back over and got out the wineskin of well water, took a deep swig, and then passed it to Tiche.  She wordlessly took it and drank.  And drank.  And she kept drinking until it was all gone.  Watching her with amusement, Dandelion asked, “feeling better?”

            “…Much.”  Tiche admitted, wiping her face with her bare hands, inwardly delighted at the clear, cool water she found in the process.  Her expression warped into a troubled grimace.  “I’m ashamed you’ve seen me like this.”

            “I’m glad.”  Dandelion grinned.  “I was beginning to think you really had no feelings at all.  I’m not glad you’re feeling down, but I’m glad to see you’re feeling something, at least.”

            “What an inconsiderate thing to say.”  Tiche puffed out her cheeks.

            “Would you like me to tell you a story?”  The tarnished finally scooted away, sitting on the bed connected to the head of Tiche’s bunk. “It’ll help you fall asleep—I can tell really boring stories, y’know.”

            “How long will you continue to insult my pride?”  She huffed, laying back down on her bedroll.  The crown of her head brushed against his leg where he sat beside her pillow, but she didn’t move to remedy this point of contact.  In fact, when she nestled herself deeper into bed, getting comfortable once again, she somehow still neglected to remove her head from his side.  Closing her eyes and blushing lightly, Tiche murmured:  “…Well, go on.  Do as you like.”

            “Right.”  Dandelion smiled.  “Well, where should I start, then?  Are you comfortable?  Need any more water?  Bathroom?”

            “Get on with it.” She said shortly.

            “You’ve got something in your hair.”

            “Where?”

            “I’ll get it.”  He plucked at a stray tuft of hair from her bangs.  Then he did it again, this time just above her ear.  Tiche’s eyelashes fluttered as he delicately began to work his fingers through the messy curls of her hair.  She didn’t ask if he got the something out of her hair; she didn’t open her eyes or move away, either.  He began speaking again in a low, measured voice, and Tiche felt her breathing slow down to fall into the rhythm of his gentle, dancing fingertips through her tangled locks. 

            “This is a story I remember from my past.  I don’t remember much, but I remember this legend, passed down through generations, known by everyone in the faraway land from where I hail.  It’s a story about a gray land kept alight with a smoldering flame.  This land is very far from here, and this story takes place a very, very long time ago.  The land was once called Lordran, and it had a well-loved, powerful king named Lord Gwyn.  Everything and everyone in the land was…  and…  so…”

            The howling winds of Stormhill buffeted the walls of the castle.  The light of the moon fell twinkling upon the old bricks of the mighty keep.  Not a soul in Limgrave was stirring, save for two sleepless travelers in Stormveil.  Dandelion’s story warbled on, dragging, full of needless exposition, perversions of fact, and plenty of fantastical spectacles misremembered in full detail.  Tiche lived ethereally in the gap between waking and sleeping.  Her heart slowed.  Her breathing shallowed.  Warmth suffused her entire being, stemming from the crown of her head, where a calloused, clumsy hand lazily played with her hair in the most genuine, tender expression of physical comfort Tiche had ever experienced.  In her final moments of consciousness, before allowing herself to retreat into her deepest sleep in ages, the assassin felt that same hand begin to move.

            It traveled softly, slowly down alongside her face.  Tiche knew, then.  It was early, and yet she already knew.  The part of herself that used to rule her entire life was the same part of herself that would have sprung out of bed and opposed this violently.  That part of herself would have been mortally frightened of this kind of touch.  It was still there.  It was very much still alive and screaming at her.

            But that was all it could do.  A part of Tiche that had been buried long ago was allowed at the reigns for once, and it muzzled that part of her that wanted to jerk away from his touch.  She lied still and felt the warmth of his hand glide ever so slowly down to her cheek, where it rested as lightly as a feather.  The old wooden bunks creaked behind Tiche’s head; he was moving, bending down…  She felt him breathing, hot on her eyelashes…

            Peck.  It was ever so short.  Dandelion touched his lips to Tiche’s brow and spoke a silent ‘goodnight’ to her under his breath.  As he stood and returned to his own bed, the chill of the night returned, all too familiar to Tiche; but it was too late.  She was already asleep once more, and deeply.  The warmth of compassion had already ferried the assassin’s spirit somewhere far away, where the darkness could not reach her.  Not tonight.

Chapter Text

It's Okay to Be a Little Shellfish!

            “I spy with my little eye something that starts with C.”

            “You already chose a crab.”

            “It’s not a crab.  Try again.”

            Dandelion eased Torrent across the shallow part of the Liurnian lake, making sure to avoid the occasional dips in the uneven terrain so as to keep his feet somewhat dry.  Behind him was Tiche, who at this low, steady speed could safely prop her arms up on his shoulders and look out over his head while he hunched down over the reins. 

            “What color is it?”

            “Uh, black.” 

            “Cuckoo Knight?”  Tiche scrunched up her face.  She’d taken her hood down for the time being, but had every intention of donning it once they’d dismounted.  More specifically, once he could see her face again.

            “They’re kind of brownish-green, aren’t they?”  Dandelion hummed.  “Nope, that’s not it.”

            “The letter C.”  Tiche repeated.  She pointed to the sunken footpath, blackened with dead moss and detritus, leading up to Raya Lucaria.  “Cobblestone?” 

            “Nope, colder.  It’s alive.”

            “Something alive?  And it isn’t a crab?”  She sighed.  “Fine.  I surrender this round.”

            “Aw, come on.”

            “Three guesses is plenty.  Tell me what it is.”

            “Fine, since you’re gonna be a bad sport about it.”  Dandelion pointed toward one of the large trees nearby, which had long, dangling branches that dragged across the water with each passing breeze.  Atop its canopy was a cluster of dark, noisy birds.  “It was the crows!”

            “Crows?”  Tiche frowned.  “I thought those were ravens.”

            “What’s the difference?” 

            “I don’t know.”  She eased more of her weight down onto Dandelion, squashing him down a bit in frustration.  “That should not count as my loss!  Your choice was clearly…”
            “Bad sport!  Tiche is a bad sport!”  Dandelion called out.  From her place behind him, the assassin could see that ingratiating grin climbing up the sides of his face.  “Alright, fine.  Your turn, then.”

            “Well…  Something that starts with the letter S.”

            “You gotta say it.”  Dandelion wagged his finger.  “Say the rhyme.”

            “I am not saying that.”

            “Well, then I guess the game is over.”  He shrugged.

            “No, wait.” 

            “Yeah?”

            “I…”  She groaned.  “…I spy with my little eye—is that a house?”

            “You screwed up.  You’re supposed to—”

            “No,”  Tiche shook Dandelion’s shoulders, sitting up straight again for a better look, “see, off to the right, is that a house?  An intact house, in the middle of this lake?”

            “That place?”  The tarnished pointed to the rickety shack.  “Yeah, that’s something like a house.  Intact is a strong word, but…  that’s our first stop.”

            Torrent’s galloping slowed to a trot as the two warriors approached the rickety-looking structure.  It was made of wood and built up from a tall foundation of rock, but the extreme humidity of Liurnia had crept through the dark stain of the planks and given it the impression of extreme age.  There was no telling how long it’d stood there, but considering the state of ruin that the Academy Gate Town was in, it couldn’t have been all that old. 

            “Here?”  Tiche narrowed her eyes, alert as they drew nearer to the strange building.  Her hands went to her scabbard.  “Who’s the target here?  What kind of threat level are we anticipating?”

            “The target?”  Dandelion looked back at Tiche with a grin on his face.

            “I have learned that I do not like that look.” She said flatly.

            “Well, I won’t tell you to let down your guard.”  The young man shrugged.  “I don’t exactly know what kinda shape this guy’s in.  It’s been a while since we last talked.”

            “So you’re saying that you also have no idea what we are walking into?”

            “Just keep cool.”  Dandelion hoisted himself up and out of the saddle and splashed to the marshy ground.  Tiche followed close behind him, inwardly begrudging his nonchalance.  He made no attempt to mask his footfalls, his helmet was wide open, his sword was still sheathed on his back instead of at his side, and he’d even left the flask of wondrous physick behind.  He’d started keeping it in an immediately accessible pouch on his main pack after discovering that, unlike the flask of crimson tears, the wondrous physick could heal Tiche’s wounds, too.  Before she could even think to stop him, Dandelion’s voice echoed through the valley: “Hey, Big B!  Anybody home?”

            “You—!”  Tiche gritted her teeth, sticking closer to his side and readying her dagger.  He stuck out a balled-up fist, approached the door, and paused. 

            “Huh.”  Before he could even knock, Dandelion noticed a thin, wooden sign hanging from the rotten door.  The sign showed none of the rest of the house’s age and wear; it could have been made yesterday.  This was made most obvious by the writing on the sign, which was burnt into the wood in a nearly illegible scrawl.  The tarnished read aloud, slowly, as he struggled to make out each letter individually.  “Open for business- r-run?  Oh, ring for…  Service.  Alrighty, then.”

            “A business?”  Tiche glanced over the collapsing shack again.  “This is a place of business?”

            “Let’s not pretend this is the shadiest place either of us has done business.” 

            “…Fair enough.  What kind of establishment is it?”

            “I guess we’re about to find out.”  Dandelion smiled and pulled a cord dangling from a nearby eve.  It was attached to a small, tinkling bell, which sounded out gently as he rattled the string.  A brief silence followed the lingering tintinnabulation, and then…

            “Goddammit, Rya, would you—”

            “Oh, yes!  Right.”

            The door swung open immediately following that short, disjointed exchange. 

            “H-Hello!” 

            Tiche backed up a step, wary as a crooked form appeared in the doorway of the old building.  Dandelion, however, stood firm.  Onto the slab in the entryway stepped a woman—was she very old, perhaps?—wearing an apron over a tunic, and with a head of unkempt blonde hair pulled into a tightly braided bun.  She had large eyes that squinted eerily between the two adventurers, but she had a slim-lipped smile that crept all the way up her rosy cheeks, which were the only visible part of her that wasn’t deathly pale.  She spoke again.

            “Welcome to the Blackguard Tat—er, Trar—uh…”

            “Trattoria.”  Came that booming voice from within once more.

            “Yes, Blackguard Trattoria!”  By the sound of her voice, the woman was actually quite young.  She was clutching bundles of cloth in one hand, and a stack of small plates in the other.  “My name is Rya, and I will be serving you today!”

            “Hey Rya!”  Dandelion beamed back at her.  “Long time no see!  How’s Big Boggart?”

            “Hello again, Master Dandelion.  Sir Boggart is—"

            “Be out’n a second,” The man called from within. 

            Tiche entered a state of stupefied patience, only able to follow her partner and the odd young waitress to the side of the building.  Here they found a bit of new construction: a sizable wooden pergola draped with thin, white cloth had been erected from the far wall of the little shack and was obviously in much better condition than the rest of it.  The wood stain was lighter and the stilts holding it up looked, at the very least, like they wouldn’t kill you with splinters at the slightest touch.  Under this canopy was a cluster of similarly decent-seeming picnic tables.  It was hear that Rya, the waitress, led Dandelion and Tiche. 

            “Oh,” Dandelion nodded approvingly, “love what you’ve done with the place!”  Then he turned and whispered to the assassin with a proud expression.  “I helped Big Boggart build this part.  Whaddya think?”

            “It…”  Tiche nodded slowly.  “It certainly is…  endearing…”

            The two sat down facing each other at a table.  The hunchbacked young woman unfurled the largest bundle in her arms to reveal an off-white tablecloth.  It took her three or four tries to get it right, but with Dandelion’s help she finally got it straight.  Then she laid out plates, silverware, and napkins before her guests.

            “This is a good look for you, Rya.” Dandelion commented.  Tiche wrinkled her brow, realized she was doing it, and forced it to come unwrinkled.  “You finally stop that weird ‘scouting’ business?”

            “Oh, no, I’m still Rya the Scout.”  The soft-spoken woman replied sheepishly.  She kneaded the stained apron that hung over her front.  Given her dramatic slouch, it hung limply from her neck like a giant bib and dangled down uselessly to where it tied at her waist. “This is just something I’m doing on the weekends!  Er, speaking of which…  Have you, ah,  given any more consideration to my offer…?”

            “Dandy!” 

            Before the tarnished could reply, a pair of large hands clapped down onto his shoulders.  Tiche nearly went for her weapon, but a sudden chorus of laughter erupted from both Dandelion and the figure who’d just appeared directly behind him: a large, broad set man in a striking metal mask. 

            “What’s up, Big B?  This place is looking fresh as a daisy!”

            “No thanks t’you!”  The other man clicked his tongue loudly.  “Where’ve you been, ya bugger?  Coulda used the extra hands, y’know!”

            “Oh, just running some errands.”  Dandelion dismissed their demigod-slaying conquests with a wave of his hand.  “How’s business been?”

            “Oh, we’re killin’ it out here.  You wouldn’t believe!”  The man’s beady eyes peered out from under the metal brow of his helmet and finally settled on Tiche.  “Who’s this young lady?”

            “Oh, this is Tiche.” Dandelion introduced her.  “She’s a Black Knife Assassin!”

            “Dandelion!”  Tiche scolded him.

            “What?”  The young man grinned.  “It’s fine!  I trust this guy.  Tiche, meet Blackguard Big Boggart.  We met a while back, during my first trip to Liurnia.  He boils a mean prawn.”

            “Prawn?”  Tiche blinked.  “He’s a shellfish peddler?”

            “I was a shellfish peddler.”  Big Boggart wagged his beefy finger. “Now I’m a chef.  Ere’s me restaurant, see?  Order somethin’, won’t ya?” 

            “Rya,” Dandelion beckoned to the young woman again, “what kind of specials have we got going today?”

            “Um…”  She swallowed audibly.

            “Go on, ‘en.”  The Blackguard elbowed her good-naturedly.  “Good practice for ya, eh?”

            “So, ah, we’ve got…”  She began to count on her fingers.  “The scampi spaghetti…  The shrimp fried rice…  Crab legs…  Crab claws…  Potato, uh…  Er…”

            “…Gnocchi,” Big Boggart added gently, “aye, there ya go!  Nearly had ‘em all that time!”

            “Good grief, where do you even get all the ingredients for that stuff?”  Dandelion seemed impressed.  “Last time I was here you just had the prawn, the crab, and the rice!”

            “Well, t’be honest, the scampi and the shrimp’re just the same damn prawn as always, I just cook’em up differn’t.”  He shrugged.  “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?”

            “Are there even any farms around here…?”  Dandelion leaned back in his chair, sweeping his gaze around the marsh.  “Anyway, I want to try the gnocchi.  Does that have meat in it?  It’s all gotta have prawn in it, right?”

            “The gnocchi is, um, a vegetarian option…”  Rya explained slowly.

            “We’n throw in a bundle ‘a prawn, it ain’t a problem.”  Big Boggart batted his hand.  “One plate ‘a gnocchi, then.  An’ for the lass?”

            “…I’m not very hungry,” Tiche said down to her lap.

            “Oh, quit.”  Dandelion rolled his eyes.  “Just get her some of the fried rice.  Can’t go wrong with that.”

            “Aye, we’ll have that right out.  C’mon, little miss, let’s get crackin’.”  The burly man turned on a heel and, seemingly glowing, set off to make the food.  Rya bowed deeply—a little too deeply for wait staff, maybe—and hurriedly took off after him.

            “Rya is our contact for Volcano Manor,” the tarnished explained once they’d gone away, “and I’m expecting some news from her on that front.  I put Blaidd in touch with her the last time we met, and I think there’s some talks happening again—for the first time in ages, mind you—between Gelmir and the House of Caria.”

            “Hm.”  Tiche gave a curt affirmative grunt and continued listlessly plucking at the metal plackets of her armor.

            “What?”  Dandelion tilted his head.  “Don’t like fried rice?  You’re not watching your weight, are you?  ‘Cause Big Boggart doesn’t really mess around with health food, so—”

            “I just wish you would have told me,” she muttered quietly, “we were going out in public.”

            “Whaddya mean?”  He frowned.  “I mean, you do kinda smell.  Really should have hit the baths back at Stormveil, but I mean, I’m not much better…”

            “That’s not what I mean!”  Tiche hissed, finally looking up to send a scathing glower his way.  “You’re traveling with an infamous, evil assassin!  Don’t you feel threatened?  Don’t you feel humiliated?”

            “Why would I?”  Dandelion rested his elbows on the table and returned her gaze.  He managed to match her sizzling anger with a cool smile.  “You’re not even evil, you’re just an infamous, regular assassin.  Nothing wrong with that.”

            “I killed one of this land’s most beloved demigods.”

            “So what?  That was forever ago, I doubt anyone even remembers!”  He laughed.  “And c’mon, I’ve killed a demigod, too, remember?  So that makes us the same.  We’re equals.  We’re buddies, even!”

            “We aren’t buddies.” Tiche blushed.  “I know you’re doing this on purpose, Dandelion.”

            “Doing what?”

            “I’ve seen you casting spells.  I’ve read your poetry.”  Her face lost none of its redness as she continued with a scowl.  “I know you’re not stupid, so why…?  Why do you keep playing dumb?  Why do you insist on ignoring all the despicable parts of me?”

            “Well, first of all, because you gave me a chance.”  Dandelion finally straightened up and answered seriously.  “Because I’m willing to overlook quite a damn bit if it means I can keep someone strong, wise, and dependable like you on my side.  And that’s not flattery, either.”  He curled his lip.  “You know, it kind of sucks to be a maidenless tarnished around here.  Every time I meet someone powerful or important, they either instantly go for the kill—like, I dunno, Godrick—or they talk down to me.  Try and manipulate me into helping them, that sort of thing.  Like Ranni.”  He paused again to shake his head.  “It’s a tough path forward, no matter how strong I get.  And I thought it was going to be lonely, too, and that there was nothing I could do to fix that.”  The tarnished looked up and into her veiled face again, a his eyes soft.

            “But then I met you, and against every odd, you gave me a chance.  And you keep giving me chances, even when I say stupid stuff, or when you get hurt, or when I introduce you to weirdos that would scare off the average joe in a heartbeat.”  Dandelion scratched his head, and Tiche realized he was averting his face—it was the first time she’d seen that sort of meekness from him, and that made her feel…  Something.  When he continued, it was with a laugh.  “But despite it all, you’re still here, giving me chances over and over again.  So I’ll do the same for you, right?  I don’t care what shady stuff I learn about your past, or what creepy knife fighting tricks you pull out in the next fight.  None of that matters, and I can overlook pretty much anything so long as we can still be buddies.”

            “We are not buddies.”  Tiche murmured, now completely red in the face.  She was having very much trouble managing the shape of her mouth, oddly, as it was suddenly trying to break out of its perpetual frown and into a wiggly, unpracticed smile. 

            “Oh, and the second thing.”  Dandelion wagged his finger.  “You’re not despicable.  You haven’t shown me any despicable parts of yourself.  At least, not yet.  You and I both know what despicable looks like by now.  There’s plenty of it in this freakish abomination of a kingdom, and we know it when we see it.  Sure, a blade for hire isn’t exactly the straight and narrow walk of life, but it’s a long way from despicable.  So c’mon, Tiche—let’s both stop kidding ourselves.”

            “You—”  The assassin sputtered, then sighed.  “—Oh, I take it back.  You really are stupid, Dandy.”

            He grinned widely.  “You said it!  You called me Dandy!”

            “That’s not the first—”  Tiche started to correct him, then remembered that the last time she used that diminutive name was when he had comforted her after her nightmare.  “—Never mind.  I don’t plan on making a habit of it, anyway.”

            “Yeah, yeah.  Look alive, food’s here!”

            Rya returned carrying two sloppily-plated dishes, one for each patron.  The Blackguard followed close behind with two unglazed clay steins full of mostly-flat beer.  Despite the rudimentary nature of the meal, there was something pleasantly homely about it that suddenly made Tiche very aware of her empty stomach.  Perhaps it was because they were outside, in the middle of a swamp?  In any case, something about this meal seemed, in spite of all its shortcomings, even more delicious than the feast at Stormveil had.

            “How’s the chow?”  Big Boggart asked before returning inside. 

            “Splendid, chef!”  Dandelion flashed a thumbs up and a smile.  “You really are the hidden gem of Liurnia!”

            “Hey,” the man shrugged, shaking his head, “wouldn’t’a even started this ‘ole business venture if it weren’t for you, Dandy.  I coulda still been handin’ out grilled prawn on the side of the road in Leyndell, if you hadn’t’a dragged me back ‘ere.  So for that, I owe you, my friend.  Today’s on me, how’s about that?”

            “Cheers, Big B!”  The tarnished laughed brightly and raised his mug in a salute.  “And here’s to your continued success!  And yours as well, Rya!”

            “Thank you, sir,” Rya curtsied.  Big Boggart went back inside after that, leaving the two travelers alone with the waitress.  She cleared her throat quietly and approached the table again, having been standing politely off to the side. 

            “Ready to talk shop?”  Dandelion asked her as she reached into the large pocket on her apron.

            “If you’re quite alright with it, yes,” she replied, producing a large letter from the pocket.  Tiche watched her place it on the table before Dandelion; it had a very large and ornate seal in the middle, and around its edges had been etched with a regal-looking floral pattern.  The hunchbacked girl continued quietly.  “There’s no need for a written reply.  Although I do hate to put you to the trouble of…  Well, but it’s all according to the wishes of milady, so…”

            “Uh-huh…”  Dandelion read slowly, taking gentle care of the letter after wiping his hands clean.  He chewed the corner of his lip as he worked his way down the page, leaving Tiche only to speculate what might be written there. 

            “I’m sorry,” Rya turned suddenly to the assassin and bowed once more, “I haven’t properly introduced myself.  My name is Rya, and I’m a scout of the Recusant Order at Volcano  Mansion.  My allegiance is to Lady Tanith.  If you keep the company of Sir Dandelion, I’m certain you’re a woman of repute, and I extend my humblest salutations.”

            “I-It’s quite alright.”  Tiche replied, overwhelmed by the girl’s politeness.  “I am Tiche… F-Formerly of the Black Knife Assassins.  It’s my pleasure, as well.”

            “Say, Rya.”  Dandelion looked up.  He refolded the letter and nodded slowly.  “Is she invited, too?”

            “Certainly,” the girl nodded.

            “Am I being scouted for the Recusant Order?”  Tiche narrowed her eyes.

            “Not this time, no.” Dandelion shook his head.  “I still have my invitation to the Recusants from the first time I met Rya, though, if you’re interested.  But this is something different, actually.”

            “Something different?”  Tiche frowned.  “For what reason would we be invited to Volcano Manor, if not for that?”

            “Here, give that a read.”  Dandelion slid the letter over to her.  “And then hurry up and eat.  We’ll take off back to Stormveil as soon as you’re done.”

            “Back to Stormveil?”  Tiche fumed.  “But why?”

            “Read.”  Dandelion tapped the letter.

            Tiche eschewed what remained of her already deficient table manners to scarf down the rest of her rice and shrimp.  It had been as delicious as she’d expected, and very filling compared to the normally lean, gamey meats and fresh vegetables they were used to eating.  When both the adventurers had finished eating, they bid a brief farewell to the proprietor and his hired help, then called Torrent once more.

            “We’ll ride through the night.  I’ll try and keep a steady pace,”  Dandelion rearranged their saddlebags again, having received some bundles of prawn and jars of oil for the road, “so you go ahead and try and get some sleep while you can.  It’ll be a quick back-and-forth; no time for another rest at the castle.  Say, are you done yet?”

            “S-Sorry, I’m…”  Tiche ground her teeth, reading as she walked.  It hadn’t been an issue reading Dandelion’s short haiku, but admittedly, reading was not something she had a lot of practice at.  She’d poked fun at the content of his poems earlier, but in reality she had no idea if they were good or not, only that they gave her a weird, squirrelly feeling in her guts.  In the case of this particular letter, calligraphed in sweeping, serifed script and annoyingly verbose, she had hardly made it through the overly-courteous greeting when he interrupted her. 

            “It’s fine.” Dandelion shrugged it off.  “Here, climb on.”

            “Yeah…”  Tiche nodded emptily.  She hiked her knee up and stumbled a bit as her foot missed the stirrup.  Totally engrossed, her eyes squinted as she reached the body of the letter.  “Uh, this…”

            “C’mon, Tiche.  Up you go.”  Dandelion hesitantly put a hand on Tiche’s hip and guided her up onto the saddle with a little push on the rear; if she noticed, she gave no indication of it.  He followed her up and to the reins, and Torrent began to carry them once more through the swampland.  A long silence followed as the assassin braced herself against her partner’s back and continued reading.

            “Hm.”  She patted his shoulder and reached around his front, placing the letter in front of his face.  The tarnished reddened slightly as she murmured directly into his ear from behind:  “What is this word?”

            “Which…”  He narrowed his eyes.  “…That one?  Milieu.  It means, like, uh…  Your background?  Or, maybe, like, your social standing…?  I don’t really know how to explain it.”

            “Mm.”  Tiche leaned back again and continued reading.  More silence ensued.

            “Uh,”  Dandelion cleared his throat, “so, are you almost—”

            “Wait, what?”  Tiche read and reread the last paragraph.

            “Yeah, sounds like you’re finished.”

            “What the hell?”

            “You surprised?”

            “Did I miss something?”  She sputtered.  “Have I misunderstood another word?  Please, tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

            “No, it is.”  Dandelion nodded, grinning.  “Sounds like the folks at Stormveil and Caria Manor were all invited, too.  We’ll probably be going by carriage, if I know Kenneth.”

            “We’re actually going?”  Tiche gasped, dumbfounded.  “Surely this is a trap!  Or a mistake, even!  There’s no possible way this can end well!”

            “Oh, I totally agree.”  The tarnished nodded along.  “But if Rykard is going to make an appearance, we really can’t afford to miss this shot.  Plus—”  He gave another infectious grin that had a quite opposite effect on Tiche.  “—It’ll be fun, don’t you think?”

            “…You…”  The assassin swallowed hard.  “…You’re just looking forward to seeing me in some terrible, inconceivably tacky dress, aren’t you?”

            “Oh, very much so.”

            And so Dandelion and Tiche set off back the way they came, prepared to ride all through the night, bearing some surprising news: that they, along with the nobles of Stormveil, had been invited to Volcano Manor, which was hosting, for the first time since the Shattering, a formal gala.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Trample on Serpents, Part 1

Somewhere far away, in the heart of a volcano, certain arrangements were well underway. Decorations were being hung, every nook and cranny was being swept, all the old furniture was being reupholstered, all the empty pantries restocked, all the torch sconces dusted and polished, all the bones sorted and hidden out of sight, and all the mattresses properly aired out. The hall doors were flung open. All the lights were lit. A great feast was being prepared. At the esteemed and terrifying Volcano Manor, something big was underway, and it most certainly must have been something evil and terrifying.

Patches was absolutely sure of it.

“…A gala, then.” He smacked his lips and massaged his chin dubiously. “As in—I just want to make sure I’m understanding this, okay—a formal ball? A dance? Where we all dress up in frilly, cocky shit and shuffle around acting like friends?”

“I’m surprised you’re taking issue with an opportunity for leisure.” Tanith, lady of the manor, was standing at the head of a long table and ensuring that its dressings were perfectly symmetrical. “Don’t you have a ditch to be crouching in, or something?”

“Aw, come on now.” Patches scowled when she wasn’t looking. “I’m just a little lost. What’s this got to do with the, uh, Recusant business? This is a trap, right? For that Dandelion fella?”

“A trap?” Tanith gave a chuckle that reverberated inside her mask. “This is an honest demonstration of our lord’s generosity and magnanimity, as well as an opportunity to peruse the finest warriors that Lands Between can offer us.”

“Warriors?” Patches watched as Tanith’s enormous Crucible Knight carried an entire wardrobe on his shoulder from one bedroom to another. “I thought we were inviting a bunch of bluebloods and noble types?”

“What is nobility, in this accursed land,” Tanith muttered, “if not power?”

***

Tiche, the Black Knife Assassin, looked serenely out a lofty balcony toward glowering spires of dark volcanic rock, framing the swirling clouds above Mount Gelmir perfectly overhead. She breathed a deep sigh, which drew the laces of her bodice tight against her back and chest. For some reason, that had stopped bothering Tiche altogether at some point early in the night, and the once-annoying sensation had become somehow gratifying. Like a slightly uncomfortable reminder of her unusually ornamental state of dress, which was in itself macrocosmic of some larger, more nebulous change to her entire life. No, she thought, it wasn’t so bad at all. Especially…

…Warmth suddenly spread through her body as the palm of a broad hand gently touched the small of her back.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you, Milady.”

The hand made its way slowly around to her side. An arm took her around her waist, and Tiche leaned into the figure who had appeared behind her.

“Dandy…” She murmured, touching her head to his.

“It’s getting late.” The tarnished replied in a low, breathy voice. “Will you allow me the honor of one final dance, Tiche?”

“I…” She felt herself blush, but turned to him anyway, and wrapped her arms around his neck. “…Oh, Dandelion, of course…”

The musical accompaniment was long gone. It was indeed late; the ball was over, and the night had crept in. None were left to fill the large, magnificent hall with dancing except for the elegantly dressed Tiche and the smartly suited Dandelion, who swept back and forth across the floor in each other’s arms without a care. Even as the servants swept and extinguished the torches, and as darkness filled the previously bright, extravagant ballroom, the two adventurers continued their solitary dance as if in their own exclusive world.

“Dandy.” Tiche lifted her head off of his chest at last, her eyes brimmed with tears. “There’s something… I’ve been wanting to tell you…”

“Tiche…” He swept his thumb across her cheeks, drying her eyes with a kind smile. “…Yes, me too. But not here. Come with me… To the bedroom.”

The assassin followed him breathlessly down the dim hall, where the guest rooms had been prepared. The only sound was the muffled clicking of her heels against the plush carpet underfoot. The room that awaited them had only one large, luxurious bed and a single candle lit upon the sideboard. As they entered the room, Dandelion pulled the door closed behind them and took Tiche’s hands in his own.

“…Do you know what happens now?” He asked her quietly.

“Of course…” Tiche nodded, swallowing hard. “…This is where we… K-Kiss.”

“That’s right. Let’s kiss, Tiche. But first…”

“…First…?”

“…We’re here.” Dandelion’s smile faded. His grip on Tiche’s hands tightened. “Hey, c’mon. We’re here.”

“Wha—huh?” Tiche blinked, shaking her head. “Uh, here? Where? What?”

“Stormveil, remember? C’mon, Tiche, rise and shine!”

The assassin snorted loudly, startling herself. And then she was falling. A startled gasp escaped her, but before she could land, she felt herself caught—in a pair of familiar arms. Her bleary eyes finally cleared, and Tiche found herself staring up into the confused face of Dandelion. He’d caught her in midair, apparently, after she’d fallen off of Torrent’s back.

“You good, Tiche?” He gave a joking smile. “Sleep well?”

“Th-The dance…?” She felt herself blushing as her balance and motor function returned slowly.

“Yeah, we gotta get ready for the dance, so look alive!”

***

“I swear, this used to fit.”

“How many decades ago was that, I do wonder?”

Ranni the Witch found herself lamenting her doll vessel’s lack of facial articulation in moments such as these, when an even more pernicious scowl than usual would be warranted. All she could do was cross her second pair of arms in frustration as she watched the shoulder seams of Blaidd’s old moth-eaten sportcoat rip apart as he ever-so-slightly moved his arms.

“Oh, would you look at that.” Seluvis huffed sardonically. “The provincial mutt hasn’t a single thread of presentable finery to show for himself. Color me surprised.”

“Thou canst remain with the carriage, as a guard.” Ranni sighed, turning back to her own preparations. She was inscribing some new protective runes into the dress clothes she’d be wearing to the gala. Just in case. “Perhaps our host will be gracious enough to allow thou inside for a little while, if only to make an introduction. But then again, maybe not. I never had any luck at anticipating the whims of my brother’s lady, Tanith, and I suspect that has not changed.”

“I’ve made preparations for the Three Sisters to be staffed with additional Cuckoo knights, Milady.” War Counselor Iji announced, peering into the tower from outside. “And the dragon Adula has likewise agreed to cooperate in the defensive measures during your absence.”

“Thank you, Iji.” Ranni nodded. “Perhaps the idle days have made me naïve, but for some reason, I strongly suspect that the towers will not be ambushed during our absence. I have no grounds for believing so, but… Nonetheless, I feel that this invitation is an earnest one. I eagerly await whatever my brother has prepared.”

“It’s bound to be interesting, whatever it is.” Blaidd wrung his claws. “It’d better be—things’ve been boring around here!”

***

“Now around and through—yes, there, you’ve figured it out.”

Kenneth Haight smiled approvingly. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Dandelion the tarnished as they shared a full-length mirror. The younger man was frustratedly refereeing the bloody battle between the skinny end of his tie and the fat one, while Kenneth stood by and offered guidance.

“And…” Dandelion sucked in a breath, checked the final product, and then sighed, defeated. “…Nope, it’s too long again. Of course.”

“Pardon my saying so, but it’s quite interesting what specific sorts of skills you seem to possess, my friend.”

“I was just thinking about that.” Dandelion pursed his lips. “You know, when I arrived here in the Lands Between, I had lost all my memories. But I still had certain skills. I could swing a sword, I could speak the language, I could even do things like mixing potions and fletching arrows. But stuff like this…” He tugged at his tangled-up necktie.

“There is nothing wrong with a man sticking to what he knows. It sounds like you’ve always been a warrior.” Kenneth said thoughtfully. “Lady Nepheli’s knowledge is filled with gaps, too, and I am much obliged to help you both fill them.”

“Still, I don’t really feel like a warrior.” Dandelion admitted. “I mean, I clearly am one. I don’t think anyone could argue against that now. But I don’t feel like that’s what I always was, or necessarily what I was meant to be. It’s just a gut feeling I’ve got.”

“Well, you are young.” Kenneth clapped his hands on Dandelion’s shoulders and smiled warmly. “Young and full of great potential! Perhaps the you of today is destined to be a warrior, but the you of tomorrow is something else entirely. Life is full of surprises.”

“I worry…” The young tarnished swallowed. “...I do worry what Tiche thinks about me. And my past, y’know.”

“Does she really have any room to judge you?”

“She may be an assassin, but she’s no hypocrite. No…” Dandelion sighed, finally getting his tie straight and tightening it to his dress shirt’s collar. “...No, it’s just that there’s something scary and off-putting about not knowing. Like, I’m already slaying gods and stuff, what could possibly be crazier than that? That’s the thing—I don’t know. I may never know. That’s the part that makes me nervous.”

“Well, look at it this way.” Kenneth nodded sagely. “We seem to agree that the uncertainty of the future is something worth celebrating. By the grace of gold, even the sorriest of souls might live with the hope that tomorrow will outshine today. But in the same regard, we must live with the certainty of the past, and that too is worth celebrating. What is done is done, and cannot be changed. We no longer need to worry what yesterday will bring—it has already brought its successes and failures to us, and all we have left to do is deal with those however we can.”

Dandelion was silent for a moment. On that note, he was thankful he’d subjected himself to being measured for a suit during one of his earlier visits to Stormveil. Poor Boc was already working overtime without having to drum up something extra for him.

“By the way.” Kenneth cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I had been meaning to devise a more tactful way of asking you this, but, in regards to Miss Tiche… Do you mean to—excuse my bluntness—do you mean to take her to bed?”

***

“I’m really… You don’t have to… This is honestly… Ohh…”

Tiche groaned, shrinking in on herself as she looked into the mirror. The length of a cloth measuring tape squeezed lightly around her waist, cinching down over the turtlenecked undergarment that acted as her armor’s base layer.

“Alright, now, shoulders wide,” Nepheli reminded her.

“Thank you, M’lady.” Boc muttered sheepishly, clambering up onto the table to encircle Tiche’s chest with the measuring tape. “If you don’t mind my saying so, it looks like your smock is beginning to come apart around the neck, and under your arms… And around your hips… And…”

“It’s where my armor rubs it.” Tiche explained hotly, “and it’s fine. Smock?”

“This tunic,” Boc tugged lightly at the fabric on her back.

“I didn’t know it was called that,” she murmured. The garment was nearly pitch black, made of thick wool, and reached from just above Tiche’s knees all the way up to the middle of her neck. From an outsider’s perspective, it would appear that the smock had long, thick sleeves, but in actuality, the sleeves were their own, separate garments. The reasoning behind this was simple: when the hands and arms grew soiled with blood, they could be replaced, rather than remaking the whole tunic.

“E-Excuse my asking,” Boc mumbled, “but… Are you wearing something else under this?”

“Obviously!” Tiche fumed. “I wear undergarments, like a normal person!”

“...And what kind of undergarments, exactly, does a normal person wear?” Nepheli cocked a dubious eyebrow.

“That’s…” Tiche grumbled.

“Turn around, Boc.”

“Yes, Milady.”

The assassin fumed silently as Nepheli bade her undress further. Underneath the thick smock was an article certainly meeting the definition of ‘undergarment:’ it was a thin, linen slip, yellowed all over from age and wear, threadbare and clearly repaired many times over where its thin straps hung unevenly about Tiche’s shoulders. Visible through the cobweb-thin article was a span of cloth wrapped tightly around the woman’s chest, more closely resembling a binder than any sort of brassiere. Last but not least, at Nepheli’s behest, Tiche begrudgingly lifted the slip to reveal a pair of high-waisted, loose-legged bloomers.

“Oh, my Gods,” Nepheli stifled a laugh, or tried, and was eventually unsuccessful.

“It’s functional!” Tiche raised her voice.

“Well, I will agree with you there,” the warrior and Lady of Limgrave wagged her finger, “if the intended function is protecting your chastity at all costs.”

“My…!” The color left Tiche’s face.

“Tiche, have you thought ahead at all?” Nepheli straightened up a bit to question her directly. “Have you considered the very real possibility that Dandelion means to use this opportunity to sleep with you?”

“S-Sleep with me.” Tiche repeated, steepling her fingers uncomfortably. “We aren’t even married yet…”

“Boc, we’ve got to have some proper ladies’ lingerie somewhere in these warrens. And if you can’t find anything in the next ten minutes, you’ve got my permission to modify something of mine. In any case, find this woman something appealing to—“ Nepheli cut herself off and leveled her gaze at Tiche once again. “—yet? Did you say ‘yet?’”

***

In a dark, murky grotto, somewhere underneath Liurnia, the corpse of a former noble lay bleeding itself dry onto the soil. Although the heart had already ceased to beat moments ago, a steady trickle of blood escaped from the gnarled wound between the shoulder blades. The corpse slouched forward unnaturally, held upright by two spindly arms.

Varre’s dirty mask echoed his labored breathing back at himself as he pressed his ear to the corpse’s disfigured back. He held the dead body in a gruesome hug, still clutching his dripping dagger in one trembling hand. Eagerly, he listened.

“Then your invitation is secured. Good.”

Although invisible behind his porcelain facade, a grin overtook Varre’s face. The voice of his master called out to him quietly, almost inaudibly, reaching the assassin through the murmu r of the trickling brook of blood.

“Nearly every conceivable threat to the Dynasty shall present itself at this ball. Guards will be lowered. Revelry will confuse reason. This opportunity suits your particular skill set, Varre.”

“Yes, my Lord. Make use of me, I beg of you.”

“Indeed I shall. Attend the ball. Do not lower your guard. Do not revel. Observe and sew the seeds of our glorious new kingdom.”

“Yes, my Lord! I shall serve you humbly, gladly!”

“Very good. The Lord of Blood’s blessing protects and guides you, Varre.”

“Thank you, my Lord!”

Varre felt his connection to his master fade as the final spurts of inky black blood seeped down the noble’s spine and settled at last. He drew a few deep breaths to settle himself and quell his excitement; the birth of his Lord’s Dynasty would soon be at hand!

But still, there was plenty to be done. The perpetually blood-soaked and humbly-adorned Varre shuffled out of the cave and set out to find something suitable to wear.

***

“Can’t I just… Stand guard outside?” Tiche pleaded, a quivering frown fully visible on her face, for once totally uncovered. “Then I can wear my normal armor, and Boc doesn’t have to worry about—“

“Even so.” Nepheli chastised the assassin, biting off another thread and tying it off. Tiche’s old slip had been once again repaired, bleached, and this time hastily modified into two pieces: a petticoat to hang more snugly about her hips, and a crude negligee with some semblance of lace around the low collar. “Even so, he may approach you. I’d bet on it. And if he takes you back to his room…”

“If he up and kisses me out of the blue,” Tiche balled up her fists, “he’s going to find my knife in his back!”

“You seem awful fixated on him kissing you.” Nepheli pursed her lips. “Surely he’s not going to stop there, right? This is all preparation for what comes after that.” She gestured broadly to Tiche’s new underclothes.

“After that?” The assassin’s face once more lost what color it naturally had.

“You do know what comes after that. Please, tell me I don’t have to explain what—“

“I know what sex is!” Tiche howled. No sooner than the words had burst from her lips, Nepheli’s hand had shot out to cover her mouth. Both women looked toward the door, wide-eyed, thinking surely they’d hear Dandelion’s hysterical laughing on the other side.

“Th-They’re outside, loading the carriage,” Nepheli reasoned, “surely they didn’t hear you, Tiche.”

“R-Right.” The assassin scooted away and heaved a sigh of relief. “Do you think they’re… Talking about the same sort of thing? Do you think he’s as anxious as I am?”

“Oh,” Nepheli scoffed, “he’s the one that’s going to be making the first move, isn’t he? I’m sure he’s twice as nervous as you are. Hell, I’d bet the loading is taking so long because he can’t stop pacing the floor!”

***

“Kenneth, I’m freaking out—I don’t know what I’m gonna do!”

“Yes, it seems you’ve got yourself quite the predicament, haven’t you?”

Dandelion pulled at his hair, joining Kenneth on the castle steps overlooking the carriage. Propped up against the side of the ornate traveling coach was a piece of equipment that would baffle any average onlooker: it appeared to be the head of a dragon. In reality, it was the head of a dragon—the very same one Godrick had grafted to his arm in the middle of battle.

“With all due respect, I don’t believe you’re going to manage with both.” Kenneth pressed his lips into a line. “Unfortunately, it looks like you can take either the axe or the dragon.”

“Well the axe has to go, obviously,” Dandelion said resolutely, “because everybody thinks giant axes are awesome, and because it’s a great souvenir from the fight, and because I already promised Alexander I’d let him swing it around for a bit.” He sighed, scratching his chin. “And see, the Grafted Dragon has a narrower appeal, but I think the people who get it are gonna be like, y’know, ‘whoa, what a sick way to fight!’ Right?” His voice lowered comically into a poor impression of Blaidd’s accent.

“Yes, I think you’ve made yourself perfectly clear on why you want to bring them both,” Kenneth patted Dandelion on the back, “but unfortunately your enthusiasm doesn’t make us any more room for cargo.”

“If we could somehow fasten it to the top…”

“I’ll hold it for you,” Gastoc raised his pale hand.

“No.”

“Hell no.”

“Right, didn’t think so.”

***

The first arrival to Volcano Manor was a small company of Redmanes headed by Jerren, the Witch Hunter. The old man did not wait for his standard bearer to announce him before dismounting his carriage; he sauntered up to the castle’s gate himself and rattled the tremendous knocker against the metal plate beneath. A few seconds passed. Then a thunderous clanging of chains heralded the opening of the great doors, and Jerren stepped back. As the thick gates parted, Jerren stood tall at the front of his loose formation.

On the other side of the gate, staring menacingly down at the Witch Hunter and his men, was a pair of Crucible Knights, fully armored and leaning their weight upon their enormous swords. Jerren did not flinch; he stood firm as slinking footsteps pattered across the stone behind him to form a guard at his flanks: two burly, cleaver-brandishing Misbegotten warriors bared their teeth at the Crucible Knights, and a tense gridlock ensued.

“O i !”

The standoff was brought to an end by the sound of clumsy footfalls plodding across the drawbridge. Jerren furrowed his brow and stared past the two bronze-clad knights to see a much smaller, less intimidating figure running toward them.

“Oh, bloody hell!” The bald man smacked a hand to his forehead, stopping between the Crucible Knights to catch his breath. “You know, I’ve heard of being ‘fashionably late,’ right, but there’s no such thing as ‘fashionably early,’ now is there?”

“Where’s Rykard?” Jerren barked.

“’Where’s Rykard,’ he says.” He scoffed back. “What do you mean, ‘where’s Rykard?’ He’s inside, alright? I don’t suppose you brought Radahn along, did you? No? Well, unless he decides to climb up out of his grave and prostrate himself on our welcome mat, you can slow your roll and follow little ol’ Patches. How’s that?”

“Hmph.” Jerren nodded slowly. His thick mustache ruffled as his stoic expression curled into a hearty smile. “Looks like the Manor’s not gone quiet just yet. I like this guy.”

***

“It doesn’t look like… It’s going to fit…” Tiche grimaced.

“It will. Come on.” Nepheli held the dainty sleeves of the party dress still while Tiche stuck her toned arms through. The frills stretched a bit, and the Lady of Stormveil had to pull each sleeve over Tiche’s biceps individually, but it did, in fact, fit splendidly. “See? Boc is the real deal.”

“It’s… Really nothing…” The demi-human blushed. He used his lanky fingers to straighten the shoulder pads in Tiche’s dress and then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

The whole carriage suddenly shook and came to a stop, and as it did, Tiche swallowed hard. The window at the front of the cabin swung inward, revealing Dandelion and Kenneth on the bench at the front. The tarnished stuck his head in with a smile.

“End of the line, everybody. Look alive.” He swept his gaze around the inside of the carriage until he found Tiche, at which point his eyes froze upon her and his expression went limp. “Holy shit. Where’d we pick up this bombshell?”

“Imbecile,” the assassin turned and tucked her reddening face into her shoulder.

Nepheli Loux stepped slowly and gracefully down from the carriage while Boc held the train of her dress aloft behind her. Kenneth had briefed Dandelion on this particular moment during the ride—as their Lord emerged and crossed their path, the two men dipped their heads in a shallow bow. It wasn’t something they’d typically do, but a matter of public decorum, as Dandelion quickly realized. As they bowed, so too did all the assembled guards outside the gates of Volcano Manor. As Nepheli passed, Kenneth took his place behind her shoulder, and they passed inside the castle.

Tiche stuck her head out first. Her heart was pounding. Public infiltration had been the specialty of other, older Black Knives, and never something she’d even been allowed to experience, much less master. Still, if she treated it as a mission…

The assassin tentatively stepped out onto the running board of the carriage, feeling terribly off-balance in her dress shoes. They weren’t tall or narrow heels, at her request, but they also weren’t the cold, streamlined boots she was used to wearing. The guards were watching, but nowhere near as closely as they’d watched Nepheli. That was reassuring. Tiche took a deep breath and unsteadily lowered herself to the ground. She tried to keep her head up like she’d been taught, and like everyone else was doing, but her nerves impeded her coordination, and she felt herself begin to wobble—

“—Milady.”

Her hand, outstretched to steady herself, lighted like the claws of a stormhawk on the steadfast arm of Dandelion, the tarnished. Tiche expected to see his typical dastardly grin looking back up at her and prepared a scathing rebuke to fire back, but she found herself instead at a loss for words. He held h is arm motionless, bearing part of her weight, and let his face droop away from her. Of course, Dandelion wasn’t nearly as practiced at hiding his face as she was, so there was no disguising the blush that had risen all the way up to his ears. The assassin swallowed hard, absolutely relishing the fleeting moment of leverage over him, and a little angry at herself for it. She stepped the rest of the way to the ground, and once she was on level with the tarnished, their arms quite naturally interlinked.

“May I?” Dandelion left space between them and let his hand dangle loosely. “For the sake of propriety, or just appearances, given the occasion, you know—“

“You may,” Tiche replied softly, “for appearances.”

Before the words had finished leaving her mouth, Dandelion sidestepped closer to her. His upper arm tightened around her elbow, bringing her hand right up against his. And, as the last nail in the coffin, he laced his fingers between Tiche’s.

The two began to walk in stride with one another.

“That veil,” Dandelion murmured just loud enough for the nearest onlookers to hear, “looks beautiful on you.”

“The flattery isn’t necessary,” Tiche grumbled back.

“I am trying,” Dandelion’s voice dropped, and the movement of his lips became nearly imperceptible, “to blend in, here.”

“I don’t blend in anywhere.” The assassin pouted.

“Well, that makes two of us.” The tarnished replied crisply. “What a predicament. Maybe we should dance about it?”

“Over my dead body.”

“That doesn’t mean much when we’ve both died before.”

***

“Lady Ranni. What an honor it is to see you.” Tanith bobbed her head in some semblance of a bow. The puppet-witch did not reciprocate the gesture, but...

“The honor is likewise ours. Thou’rt a most courteous host. I expected nothing less from my brother’s esteemed consort.”

“Lady Tanith.” Preceptor Seluvis bowed deeply. He had opted for once to adorn himself with a slightly less obtrusive hat, fortunately, so his bow didn’t pose the usual risk of knocking over candelabras and table dressings. It is worth noting that Ranni had made no such compromises in her dress. The masked man continued: “My lady and I wish to convey our deepest and humblest respect for your continued support of the Praetor and his work in the Volcano Manor, and furthermore for troubling yourself with an invitation to this exquisite—“

And thus the flattery spilled forth and did not cease, utterly occupying Tanith while Ranni scanned the faces in the room. There was, after all, someone she was expecting.

***

“So this is where your work normally finds you stationed?” Nepheli Loux cast her eyes down the long, ornately decorated entrance hall of the manor. “I must say, it makes Stormveil’s current shape look even more dreadful. They certainly keep up with the chores around here.”

“It’s no easy feat.” The knight—and Recusant—Bernahl, for once out of his armor and padded tabard, rested up against the wall beside one of several refreshment tables. He appeared to be serving drinks. He’d made room for his tremendous Zweihander to slouch up against the wall next to him, however, and so gave the appearance that if you reached too quickly or eagerly for a glass of wine that he might take your whole arm off.

“It’s true,” Kenneth Haight patted the wide-set man on the shoulder, “I can’t say I approve of your organization’s modus operandi, but I can at least give credit to your Lord’s sense of aesthetics.”

“Well, fortunately the Recusants won’t have much to do with yourself.” Bernahl grinned. “Still got the Grace in your eyes, I see. As for you, though, Milady…” His gaze turned toward Nepheli.

“I’ll choose not to take that as an immediate challenge,” she tactfully replied, “but should you wish to try and deliver your Recusant sense of justice unto me, you know where I can be found.”

“Well said!” Bernahl softened. “Your confidence is as refreshing as your dress, Lady Nepheli. Spot of wine?”

***

“What’re you doing?” Dandelion admonished Tiche. The assassin was sitting at their designated table, minding her manners and sitting up straight, but deliberately avoiding eye contact (and most other forms of contact) with the other partygoers. The tarnished bent to speak to her privately. “I already made the rounds and greeted everyone I need to. Let’s dance for a bit, huh?”

“Absolutely not.” Tiche scoffed. “This is no place for someone like me. I thought you’d feel the same, but you’re clearly having the time of your life.”

“That’s not true,” Dandelion sighed. “I’d be having a way better time if somebody would get up and indulge me for a minute or two. I’m starting to feel… I dunno. Something feels strangely fitting about all this. It’s hard to explain. Maybe you’ll feel the same, if you’d just—“

“I don’t see a reason why I should dance with you.” She kept her eyes on the floor.

“Perhaps you should look a little harder?”

Dandelion nudged Tiche’s shoe with his own, and she looked up just in time to catch a subtle tilt of his head. She followed his gesturing to… An enormous, armed and armored Crucible Knight with its greathelm turned ever so slightly in their direction. The guard’s bronze-clad fingers drummed tightly against the hilt of a giant sword.

“…Do you think he suspects us of something?” Tiche swallowed.

“If he didn’t before,” Dandelion cleared his throat, “then he certainly does now that he’s seen us whispering sneakily to each other.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry.” The tarnished grinned. Tiche hadn’t realized how close his face had gotten to hers. “If anyone asks, we can just bashfully reveal that I was actually whispering incredibly raunchy flirtations into your ear.”

“What do you mean, flirtations?” Tiche blushed.

“Oh, I dunno, maybe something like—“

***

“That is… Awesome.”

“Exceedingly fine craftsmanship!”

“And just look at the size of it!”

Three men stood with their hips set and their arms crossed, nodding approvingly at the gigantic war axe that lay propped up against the carriage from Stormveil. “Men” is a term used quite loosely, in this case.

“Wish I could’ve been there to take a chunk out of that gray, old poser.” Blaidd the Half-Wolf chuckled. “Heard he pulled a dragon’s head clean off its body and used it like a wizard’s flaming staff. Bloody brutal, by the sound of it.”

“Aye, can’t say I’m not jealous of Dandy and Lady Nepheli for getting their hats in the ring!” Alexander the Warrior Jar clicked his tongue. Tongue? Did he have one? “Ah, but let’s not take for granted our front-row seats for the conquering of Radahn. I learned a powerful lesson that day.”

“You two are outta your minds.” Blackguard Big Boggart guffawed at both of them. “Leave fighting to crazy kids like Dandelion. Besides, who needs a trophy like this? Sure, it’s badass, but it’s damn huge!”

The only one of them who’d even been inside was Big Boggart, and then only to assist with the catering of assorted shellfish. But that was more than enough time to pilfer a sizable supply of wine to share among the forced-to-wait-outside gang. Blaidd was still working on a bottle by himself, and Alexander had done… Something with his glass. It was gone, in any case. Which left the Blackguard with most of a bottle all to himself, and several more on standby.

It was right as Blaidd was about to reach for his second bottle that a loud rattling of hinges and clicking of shoes drew the attention of the three outsiders. In the flickering light of the torches came a hooded figure at a brisk pace. They charged out of the party, down the stone steps, and wordlessly plopped down on the side of the bridge with the rest of them.

“Ah, um…” Alexander was taken off guard by the sudden presence between him and Blaidd. It was a much smaller figure than either of them, sitting politely, yet sternly, cross-legged and cross-armed.

“Oi, now who…” Blaidd hooked one clawed finger at the crown of the figure’s hood and gently tugged it backward.

Uncharacteristically, Tiche did not resist the Half-Wolf’s brazen removal of her veil. She set her narrowed eyes on the flickering campfire at the group’s center. Even in the warm glow of the firelight, the assassin’s normally colorless cheeks were as red as the embers at the flame’s bed. Her lips formed a tight, scowling line, which she broke only to utter three words, accompanied by a glance at the alcohol stash: “Pass me one.”

***

“So.” White Mask Varre rubbed his hands (clean, for once) together. “You’ve been making remarkable progress, for a maidenless tarnished.”

“Yup,” Dandelion nodded.

“When I first saw you in Limgrave, I took you for a lost cause.” The war surgeon waxed nostalgic. “I didn’t suspect you’d make it to Kalé and the church, much less to the heart of Stormveil Castle!”

“Mm, yeah, well.”

“And just look at you now!” Varre cackled. “You’ve bested Godrick… Radahn… Rennala… Even the Omen King, Morgott…” The man’s voice took an almost imperceptible turn for the sour toward the end of his list. Particularly the word “Omen” had a nasty ring coming off his tongue.

“Uh-huh.”

“Eh,” The man in the white mask cleared his throat, “what’s that you’ve got?”

“An instrument of Lady Tanith’s. She was a musician, you know.” Dandelion turned the wooden object around in his hands. “She couldn’t play it herself, apparently, but she and Rykard collected this sort of stuff. This is called a guitar. You play it by holding down the strings up here, and, like, strumming them down… Toward the bottom…” The tarnished’s full attention was occupied with the guitar.

“F-Fascinating. Um, might I ask,” Varre tried to coax his tone back up to his earlier enthusiasm, “if you’re still holding onto that Knight’s Medal that I gave you? It is quite important, and—“

“Oh, that?” Dandelion pooched out his lips in thought. “Uh, I think Tiche is carrying that in one of her pouches. I mean, I’ve still got it.”

“Who?”

“Oh, uh, my traveling partner. Tiche.”

“Your what?” Varre blinked behind his mask. “Did you go and find yourself a maiden?”

“W-Well I dunno if she’s a maiden,” Dandelion blushed lightly, “but in any case, she’s my companion, at least for now. It’ll be safe with her, don’t worry.”

“Wait a minute. Was that the—“ Varre pressed his hand against his forehead. “—Was that who just stormed outside just now, on account of you dragging her onto the dance floor? That was your maiden?”

“Sh-She’ll be fine, the guys are out there.” Dandelion laughed nervously. “...Did everyone see that? Everybody saw that, didn’t they.”

“Well, all that aside, regarding the medal that I—uh.” Varre’s shoulders drooped as Dandelion skirted effortlessly around him and toward a larger throng of guests. “...Right, then. Well, I’d rather go behind his back, anyway.”

***

“I just don’t get it!” Tiche spat, slamming down her earthenware cup, formerly filled with wine. “What does he want from me?”

“Strength!” Alexander declared heartily.

“Sex,” Big Boggart nodded stoically.

“You don’t suppose,” Blaidd spoke gently, refilling her cup, “that he’s really and truly interested in being your friend; your partner?”

“Well, you all are his friends, aren’t you?” Tiche eyed all of them with bleary contempt. “I don’t see him going out of his way to camp out with you, or share a horse, or his fancy flask, or, or…”

“There was this one time.” Alexander cut off her slightly rambling complaint, staring up at the stars. “I thought I was a goner. I’d been practicing my special move down near the Weeping Peninsula, and got myself in a real sticky situation. Really. I got stuck halfway in the ground, and I couldn’t budge an inch.”

“Mm.” Tiche was sitting with her legs tucked into her chest, now, and her face poked out over her arms as she hugged her knees.

“Who comes by but our man, Dandelion. First time I met him.” Alexander laughed wistfully. “I could tell from a mile off what kinda man I was looking at. And sure enough, a couple of swipes with the broad side of his claymore, and I was home free. Nearly split me down the middle, he did. And he’s been covering my lid ever since.”

“That’s…” Tiche interrupted herself with another drink of wine.

“And I don’t s’pose you need reminding,” Big Boggart shook his head, “but he got me out of a real fuckin’ pinch with that rotten Dung Eater, curse his name. Shoulda never set foot in Leyndell, and I won’t make that mistake again. Lucky I even got a second chance to learn better—and that’s on account of him, no lie.”

“...What about you?” Tiche turned to Blaidd, her voice low.

“What can I say?” The Half-Wolf smiled bitterly. “He’s great at what he does. And he’s better than me at what I do. He’s done loads for Lady Ranni and me both, and all without breaking so much of a sweat. And at the end of the day, even if he wasn’t superhuman, he’s a hell of a guy to have around.”

“Sure, sure,” Tiche frowned, “sounds like he’s everybody’s hero. What’s that got to do with me? I still dun—don’t know what he even… What he really…” She trailed off, her words becoming muffled as she buried her face in her cup again.

“Well, have you asked him how he feels?” Alexander sat up a little, which was an amusing thing to watch a jar do.

“Um…” Tiche was having a hard time remembering whether she had or not.

“No, hold on, more importantly.” Blaidd wagged his clawed finger. “How do you feel? You can’t just sit there and wait for him to lay it all out for you, easy as that. How do you figure he’s not bellyaching over the same thing with you? Don’t you think he’s curious about what your intentions are?”

“What does it matter what my intentions are?” Tiche gritted her teeth. “That’s never mattered before, so I don’t see why it should matter now.”

“Things change.”

The atmosphere around the campfire darkened as a cold wind dimmed the light and cast the Blackguard’s face in shadow. He spoke in a low, resolute voice.

“Y’don’t get a say in that. Cryin’ shame, but it’s true—the world keeps turning, and time passes ya by. Change comes to everybody.” He ran a palm across his stubbly beard. “I wasn’t ready when it came to me. Thought I could make the cut as a merc f’rever. Learned the hard way that you can’t say ‘no’ to change. I’d bet we all learned that the hard way.”

Alexander and Blaidd nodded slowly, solemnly, in agreement. Tiche’s breath caught in her throat.

“But.” Big Boggart sighed. “It ain’t all bad. It ain’t all good, neither—don’t get me wrong, now. But change ain’t all bad. And sometimes, if you’re real lucky, you get a chance to hold yer head up and decide whether it’s gonna be a change for the worse, or a change for the better.” He paused, meeting Tiche’s eyes in the moonlight. “And change, li’l lady, is upon you. I reckon it’s time to make somethin’ out of it.”

“He’s right.” Alexander murmured. “Of course, we’re all men, here. Can’t speak to the goings-on in a woman’s heart, no, but…”

“Not all of us.” Blaidd spoke up. His eyes pierced keenly into the deep darkness of the boulders beside the castle entrance. Alexander and Big Boggart searched hopelessly for what he was referring to, but Tiche’s eyes found the spot instantly. The Half-Wolf nodded. “You noticed too, didn’t you?”

“It seems I’ve been spotted.” A woman’s voice, cool and quiet, issued forth from the shadows. “Apologies. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I, too, found myself uninvited to this party, and yet intrigued by its attendees.”

“Awfully talkative all of a sudden.” Alexander rose to his stubby feet. “Show yourself!”

“As you wish.”

Tiche watched as cautiously as her intoxication would permit as the woman stepped nimbly down from the craggy rocks and into the light of the campfire, joining Tiche and the men in their tight circle. The dim firelight caught her golden eyes and unkempt hair—it was strikingly red. Even this, however, seemed mundane in comparison to the brilliant brass sheen of her right arm: a prosthetic.

“Once again,” the woman curtsied, “I’m sorry for my discourtesy. May I join you?”

***

Inside, things were mostly quieting down. ‘Mostly,’ but not completely. The commotion at the dining table had hushed almost at once, and the musical accompaniment for the dancers had ceased just as suddenly. Even the small talk and milling about of the general guest populace had lowered to a murmur. All eyes and ears were turned toward the grand hearth at the center of the room. Or, more correctly, at the figure seated on a humble servant’s step stool in front of that hearth.

A kind of music never before heard by the ball’s attendees was ringing out clear and true from the foreign instrument in the hands of Dandelion the tarnished. He was singing, too, but quietly, as if he was unsure of himself. The song had started out as a predictably rhythmic little ditty, not too far out of place from the swinging ballroom accompaniment that the guests had enjoyed dancing to. But as the other instruments faded away and all the energy in the room came to focus on him, Dandelion found himself moving his fingers in ways even he didn’t consciously understand.

Way down low on the neck, then back up in a single blink of an eye, bending strings into one another and sliding his fingers gracefully up and down the uneven frets—it came to him as if it was second nature. Or perhaps even his first nature. And just as effortlessly, although with less confidence, came forth lyrics from his trembling lips.

“ If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung
Would you hear my voice come through the music?
Would you hold it near as it were your own?

“It's a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken
Perhaps they're better left unsung
I don't know, don't really care
Let there be songs to fill the air!”

The music rippled through Volcano Manor and all of Mount Gelmir, straight to its heart. It touched the Man-Serpent guards, who found their flexible necks inexplicably wobbling along. It touched the suffering Albinaurics, quelling their perpetual writhing as they turned their bloated, deaf heads to feel the vibrations fill the dank dungeon walls . It touched someone, something, deep, deep below the castle, whose huge, hulking mouth split into a bloody grin.

The majority of the crowd in the ballroom was simply entertained, though. Jerren the Witch Hunter hoisted his glass high in a toast, which others readily joined. Varre scowled again, retreating back to his own room to recollect himself. Nepheli Loux found herself clapping softly along to the rhythm, and Kenneth Haight eagerly followed her example. The witch Ranni let her gaze drift across the room from under the wide brim of her hat. Her single eye found its way to the stairs, where another one-eyed woman leaned against the bannister, looking back at her. She and Melina swapped a loaded nod.

***

“Oh, for crying—“ Patches the Untethered smacked his forehead and clawed his hands down his face. “ This is where all the booze went, then? You lot better cough up some runes in a hurry, if you know what’s good for you!”

“It’s not fair!” Tiche was standing, now, and gesticulating wildly before her captivated audience. Tears were rolling down her face, which was threatening to cramp up on account of all the sudden emotion it was being forced to reveal. “My feelings aren’t—the—I--there’s nothing I can even—!”

“Hey, we didn’t take it.” Blaidd assured Patches, stepping away from the theatrics.

“Well then who the bloody hell did?” The man ground the butt of his spear into the dirt.

“There, we caught him already.” The Half-Wolf jerked his head toward the carriage. “Look, he’s tied up and everything—we did your job for you, so we took a little cut for ourselves. That’s fair, right?”

Patches looked toward the carriage. There was some spindly peasant man bound and gagged like a hog, dangling from a rope around his abdomen and swinging from the high lantern perch jutting out from the carriage’s front.

“That’s…” Patches sighed, then looked back at the group of heavily armed and not sober warriors squatting around the campfire. “...Oh, what’s it matter? Pour me up, gals and gents, I want in on this.”

“Does he know who I am?” Tiche bawled. “What I’ve done?”

“He doesn’t seem to know those things about himself.” The other woman had yet to introduce herself. In spite of this, she was immediately welcome—no doubt on account of the alcohol. She wasn’t quite sure how it turned out this way: one of the infamous Black Knife Assassins, slayer of Godwin the Golden, was slumped over and whining about relationship issues beside her. And the woman found, for some reason, that she’d draped her prosthetic arm around this poor, sad assassin.

“What a night, eh?” Big Boggart turned his cup straight up to suck down the last, pulpy drops of the Manor’s cheapest wine.

“It isn’t over yet!” Alexander chuckled.

“That’s right.” Came Tiche’s small voice. Her head shot up, nearly smashing into the other woman’s nose, had her reflexes been anything but impeccable. “That’s right! The night isn’t over yet! I could—he might—we can—!”

“Now, now,” Blaidd reached out a hand to placate her rising emotions, but Tiche grabbed the outstretched arm and pulled herself unsteadily to her feet.

“Yes, now!” She balled up her fists. “Pour me one more! I’m doing this! I’m really gonna do it!”

“ Is this going to be ugly ?” Patches asked Blaidd. “Or is this going to be as hilarious as I hope it is?”

“I don’t know who you are,” Blaidd sighed, “but I think it’s gonna be both of those at the same time.”

***

Lady Tanith approached Dandelion as another song wound down to a close. Finally the collective conscious had drifted away from his playing, and as the music became background noise once more, the Lady of the Manor found her opportunity to strike.

“Sir Dandelion,” she received his bow kindly.

“Just Dandelion is fine, Milady!” He was grinning all over. “What’s up?”

“I wish to inform you that the Lord of the Manor has heard your playing. He was quite fond of this style of music during our time abroad, and he’s yet to find anyone in the land who can play it with your skill. He humbly requests your presence in his chamber at your convenience.”

“He— Rykard— in his—at my…?” Dandelion floundered, eyes wide.

“Please, take your time and enjoy the refreshments, continue socializing as you have been.” Tanith said, though the look on her face told him he’d better not do that. “My Lord has no other audiences scheduled tonight, so there is no hurry.”

“Uh, right.” Dandelion gulped. “R-Right! Well, I’d probably, um… Yes! I will get right on that! Thank you, Milady!”

Where’s Tiche? His mind screamed immediately once Tanith had turned away again. Where’s Tiche? I pulled her out on the floor, she got embarrassed, she stormed out, so she should be—

Right as he was thinking that.

Slam!

The side door flew forcefully open, and as if on cue, none other than the woman in question appeared on the scene. Her veil had been discarded. Her cup was still half full. Her stance was wide and her eyes were even wider. She licked her lips as her dilated pupils swept back and forth hungrily across the ballroom.

Tiche, daughter of the dreaded Alecto, Ringleader of the Black Knife Assassins, was terrifically sloshed.

“Tiche!” Dandelion called out, making off toward her at a brisk almost-jog. He was vaguely cognizant of her drunkenness, but blissfully unaware of just how serious it really was.

“D-Dandy!” She pointed straight at him, calling out as if she couldn’t believe the man she was searching for was actually there. For better or for worse, it was when she called his name—his nickname— that Dandelion caught on.

“Oh,” he breathed a sigh of relief, clapping his hands on her shoulders, “thank God you’re here, Tiche!”

“Dandy.” She repeated. And didn’t say anything else, despite the fiercely resolute look on her face.

“Yes, hi,” the tarnished smiled feebly, “are you okay, Tiche? Feeling alright? I hope so, because, uh, I don’t really know how to break this to you…”

“Dandy…” Her voice lowered and her hands closed around the sleeves of Dandelion’s jacket. Then she did something he never expected: she pulled him in close…

***

“Did they just kiss?”

“Kiss? They kissed?”

Alexander and Patches shoved each other for a better look inside the cracked side door.

“You big clay oaf, you’re too fat! Where the hell even are your eyes?”
“It doesn’t matter, I can’t see a thing for your bald head!”

“They didn’t kiss, as far as I can tell.” Blaidd sighed.

“I concur.” Said the other woman.

“But, Marika’s tits, he’s—“ Big Boggart’s jaw dropped. As if to punctuate the whole scene with an exclamation point, Dandelion bent down, stretched out his arms, and scooped the Black Knife Assassin up like a groom might handle his bride.

“...I know a back way into the guest’s quarters,” Patches announced slyly, “so if anyone wants a better view of what’s about to happen…”

“I think we oughta draw the line somewhere, mate.” Blaidd stepped back.

“Suit yourself.” Patches scoffed, then whispered to himself as he slunk away: “At the very worst, I’ll have some blackmail material.”

Inside the ballroom, these events did not go unnoticed.

“Mmm.” Ranni the Witch ground her doll-body’s teeth into the fabric of one of the manor’s embroidered napkins.

“Patience, Milady,” Seluvis chewed his lip behind his mask, “this may be just the opportunity I need to serve you best.”

Dandelion, with Tiche in his arms, swept through the ballroom and into the rearmost halls in a flash. Along the way, he nearly bumped into a recognizable face. It was the Sorceress Sellen making her way back to the ballroom from the restroom. At least, that was her original intent. She took a few more steps toward the main hall before stopping, turning, and watching with piqued interest as the Tarnished and his partner went sailing through the labyrinthine mansion.

And, to make matters worse, two other onlookers just so happened to notice their rapid flight from the party. The first was, of course, White Mask Varre. He had just finished communing with his master (at the expense of a poor, unpopular partygoer whose absence would not be immediately missed) and stuck his head out his bedroom door, only to be greeted by the whirlwind left in Dandelion’s wake.

The second was, in no uncertain terms, a noble of the Godskin persuasion.

And so it was that a rather large congregation began to form at various distances from a central point, that point being the door to Dandelion’s designated bedchamber.

No one wanted to be the first move, but, growing impatient and having arguably the least immediately rotten intentions, it was actually Patches who began the frontal assault. Except it wasn’t a frontal assault at all—he had ingeniously worked his way into a secret passage running through the walls, and braced himself at any instant to escape through a wardrobe into a different wing of the guest quarters.

Varre, too, had stealth in mind. His hand worried the ornate handle of his piercing dagger as he approached in the shadows of an unlit back corridor. He was light on his feet and excellent at using the various furniture as cover, so he went unnoticed by…

Preceptor Seluvis, who was not taking the stealthy route by any means. He wasted no time in marching up to the door and beginning to arrange various crystals and artifacts in the interest of scrying into and unlocking the room himself.

But he wasn’t the only magically-inclined individual making ground on the closed room. Behind Varre, unknown even to him, was a powerful sorceress keeping up an Unseen Form spell. This not only muffled her movement, but rendered her mostly invisible, as she caught up to the war surgeon. Sellen had pulled off harder infiltrations.

Last, but not nearly the least, lumbering slowly down the same path Seluvis had taken, was the hulking Godskin Noble. His rotten teeth gnashed as he breathed out reeking breaths, following the unmissable scent of Black Knife—after all, what better instrument could there be for piercing the skin of the gods?

Three pathways met at an intersection. From the left, Seluvis and the Godskin Noble. From the right, Varre and Sellen. As the malevolent infiltrators drew nearer, their ears all pricked toward the sound of rushed footsteps: the third path, the one leading straight from the ballroom to the guest chambers, far too obvious a path for anyone plotting something nefarious.

The first to hit the scene was none other than Jerren the Witch Hunter, whose enchanted dagger hummed with magical heat. He was sorely missing his Flamberge, but unfazed by the parlor tricks of a trifling mage, he effortlessly dispelled the weak magic Sellen had used to disguise herself.

“Well, well.” The older man huffed, readying his blade. “Can’t say I expected things to end here, like this.”

“They won’t.” Sellen sneered.

“I… Have to agree with you, there.” Another voice rang out. Behind Jerren—Varre had successfully slipped by. Caught between two opponents, Jerren bared his teeth and thought his luck had run out, but…

“Well, now, should we not make this an even match?” A trilling voice.

Varre spun on a heel. When had he…? It was none other than Kenneth Haight, Erdsteel Dagger in hand, skidding to a halt at the meeting of the hallways. He cocked his head toward Varre, who now himself felt caught between two dangerous foes.

“He’s gotta be this way, right?” Alexander’s booming voice rang down the hallway.

“Ah, hell.” Blaidd clicked his tongue. “Look, it’s Seluvis making himself into a creep again.” He, Alexander, Big Boggart, and the mysterious wom a n they’d dragged along all stumbled into the intersection of hallways.

“Oi, pervert!” Big Boggart called out at the preceptor . “How ‘bout a li’l privacy for the newlyweds, huh?”

“Wait.” The redheaded woman’s cool voice suddenly gained an edge. “There’s a bigger problem.”

“Whaddya—oh, holy shit!” The Blackguard nearly fell over where he stood.

“Just our luck.” Blaidd grunted, dropping into an attacking stance.

It was fortunate they’d stayed outside—everyone else was making do with only the weapons they’d been able to fit in their pockets. The Half-Wolf and the redhead spearheaded the pack of warriors with their swords, while Alexander covered their flanks with his rocky fists. Big Boggart was satisfied to grab Seluvis by the back of his cloak and hang back.

Across from them was the formidably sized Godskin Noble. And so a standoff was initiated, and the air in the hall turned to ice as all the combatants stared each other down. All was silent for a long few seconds, each warrior waiting for another to make the first move. It seemed like that moment might have gone on forever, until…

“Wait, what the bloody hell?”

None other than Patches the Untethered burst out of the bedroom and looked around, flabbergasted, at the carnage about to unfold just outside.

He groaned. “There’s nobody in here!”

***

“Atta girl.”

“Sh-Shuddup.”

“Easy, easy.”

“Oh, oogh.”

The Black Knife Tiche and Dandelion the tarnished were alone once more. The assassin reclined in the floor, propping herself up on one arm and dangling her head, quite pitifully, over the latrine. Dandelion crouched right behind her with one hand gently rubbing her back; he held a jar full of water in his other hand, and had been periodically trying to offer her small sips, which she continued to decline. The two had boxed themselves in the privy, and at last it was quiet.

Except for the sound of Tiche retching.

“This is the…” She gritted her teeth. “...The second time you’ve seen me like this.”

“Yeah.” Dandelion stared into space and respectfully away from her. “That’s okay.”

“I hate it.” Tiche spat, then did it again, to no avail either time. “I hate it when you… I hate that you… I don’t want you to see me like…”

“Shh.”

“You shh!” The young woman tried again in vain to vomit. When nothing but saliva dripped from her trembling mouth, she crooked her head toward Dandelion. Her gaze was full of the same bitter chill with which she’d been staring down the darkness of the privy pot.

“Tiche?” Dandelion blinked, leaning closer. “Hey, you’re gonna be alright, okay? So…”

“Whadda you know?” She slurred. “Whadda—what do you even care?”

“ Where is this coming from?” The tarnished sighed. “You’re drunk as hell, aren’t you?”

“Whatever.” The woman bent her elbow and stuffed her sweat-and-drool covered face in it. “You don’t… Don’t get it. Don’t care.”

“Hey.” Dandelion moved his hand from her shoulder to the top of her head and leaving it there, just a gentle weight upon her. “I know I’ve got my share of problems. You can criticize me all day—Hell, you’ve done it before. But I don’t think it’s fair to say I don’t care. I take issue with that.”

“That’s it.” Tiche grumbled. “ That’s the problem. You do care. About everybody.”

“Huh?”

“The jar, the wolf, the prawn guy, the seamster…” Tiche rattled them off one-by-one. “...It’s like they all see you the exact same way I do. Because you’re the same to—to every last one of ‘em. You’re a hero. Doesn’t matter who needs you. Doesn’t… Don’t even think about… You don’t care about m-me, not anymore than them.”

“Tiche…”

“And!” She lifted her head up at last. Tiche swiveled with all her usual lithe quickness, but without the precision—her arms clumsily shot out and grabbed Dandelion’s suit lapels as she stared a hole in his chest. “…And…The women, the others… You care for them, don’t you? The witch, Ranni? What about her? Don’t you care for her?”

“Well, care for her isn’t exactly…” Dandelion placed his hands on Tiche’s arms in an attempt to get her attention, but her mind was set.

“What about that Melina lady, who’s always followin’ you around? Or Lady Nepheli, who’s always talking about how g-great you are, and how much she lo- loves having you around, or that—that Rya woman, what about her, huh? W-What’s her deal?”

“Tiche.” Dandelion’s hands followed her dress’s sleeves to her shoulders, then crept up the sides of her neck and found themselves at her jaw. He took her face and cradled it in his hands, lifting it gently to align with his own.

A moment of clarity. Tiche’s head stopped spinning; perhaps it was for the sudden lack of alcohol filling her now-empty stomach, or maybe it was finally sitting back down away from the noise and pressure of society. Maybe it was the way Dandelion, the source of her second life and the anchor of all semblance of stability she’d ever known, was now looking deeply, meaningfully, into her eyes.

“Tell me, Tiche.” He murmured, sliding his thumbs across her cheeks. It’d become such a familiar gesture. When had that happened? His voice was collected. It stilled her shuddering. It was soft. “What’s really bothering you?”

“You—I’m…. Scared.” She hiccuped. Her lip quivered as she babbled. “I—I dunno, I’m scared they… That you…”

“...Do you know?” His hands did not stop moving. In the same fluid motion as he’d dried her tears, Dandelion swept the tips of his fingers up the sides of Tiche’s face, catching strands of hair as they went and looping her bangs over her head, her stray locks behind her small, pointed ears. Then he let his hands glide naturally back down her face, framing it for a moment as he simply looked at her. He slowly swiped the base of his palm across her wet lips. He spoke again, somehow even quieter, which was possible only on account of the now-tiny distance between the two. “Do you know, Tiche, how I feel about you?”

“I…” She shivered, tucking her legs closer to his where they reclined together on the floor. She put her hands atop hers where they rested on her face. “...I want to…”

“Then.” Dandelion whispered. The words reached Tiche on a warm breath that mingled with her own and twisted together in a whorl of heat in the sliver of space between their parted mouths. She heard him as plainly as if he’d shouted: “May I please show you, Milady, just exactly how I feel?”

It was as Tiche’s mouth was forming the words. Or perhaps she was shaping a crude pucker, and simply trying to figure out how to hold her tongue, just in case… But no, a sound. It intruded all at once upon her bleary consciousness and tore her gaze by instinct toward the door. A pounding, then light and noise. A solitary world had been infringed upon, and the moment was all but lost.

“Well, how unbecoming.” The scowl of Lady Tanith bore down upon Tiche, who gazed wide-eyed back up at her, and at Dandelion, whose eyes remained on the Black Knife Assassin.

“Sorry, old buddy.” The Recusant Bernahl frowned at her side. “Can’t let you fool around with your lady friend all evening. Important appointments can’t afford to wait.”

“Dandelion.” Tanith’s expression was heavy. “Praetor Rykard will see you now.”

“No,” Tiche blinked, dumbfounded, “N-No, wait!”

Smo-ooch.

The assassin’s mind went blank. Not drunk. Not scared. No longer any of those pesky nuisances that’d been emptying her skull all night. A whole new, even more powerful numbness rocketed through her nervous system and all throughout her brain. A pair of strong, sure hands forcefully gripped her wrists. A broad chest pressed against her own. A mop of hair tangled with hers. And in the same instant, a long, wet, loud kiss fell like an anvil upon the Black Knife Tiche’s unsuspecting face. In raging spite of her intoxication, she would never forget the moment for the rest of her life: right on the corner of her mouth, at the crease where her upper lip met her lower, as her face was turned to face Tanith of Volcano Manor.

“What?” Tiche murmured. “Dandelion, what?”

“Right. Sorry. We’ll get back to that later.”

His mode had switched. The warmth was gone. His face was stony. Two crucible knights emerged to take him by the arms, and Bernahl stood between him and Tanith.

“Dandy!” Tiche cried out, trying to stand, but finding herself robbed of both strength and balance by the combination of alcohol and exhaustion.

“I’ll see you again.” He muttered.

“Are you sure about that?” Tanith goaded him as the guards began to carry the tarnished away.

“Yes.” His voice had a way of cutting through things. Sometimes it was Tiche’s heart. This time it was the electrified air of a manor turned on its head. He looked over his shoulder and locked his burning eyes with Tiche’s. “I’ll see you again. Soon.”

It was all too much for the poor assassin. She slumped forward against the pot, grunting with effort as she tried to coax her legs into moving, but to no avail. The night caught up to Tiche as swiftly as when she had died, all those years ago, and the assassin’s consciousness left her.

Chapter Text

End of the Volcano Manor Arc: Boc and Rya help Tiche sneak through the bowels of the manor, eventually reaching Rykard's chamber. Dandelion is suspended in a cage, and despite how bleak things look, he is calmly explaining to Rykard that the Praetor is making a mistake. Tiche enters, and as Rykard's serpent tries to attack her, Dandelion uses a rune arc to channel the power of Radahn's great rune. This gives him immense strength, which he uses to instantly break free from his cage, revealing he could have done so at any time. Having been told about the Serpent Hunter weapon by Rya, Tiche throws it to Dandy just in time for him to save them both. He easily defeats Rykard, leaving the two totally, unrecognizably drenched in his monstrous blood. Rather than a heartfelt reunion, the stress of the fight and the amount of blood sends Tiche into a nervous breakdown.

This would have set up the next arc, which would center on Mohg. Tiche has to confront some deep-rooted trauma around blood and violence that she compartmentalized during her time as an assassin. Even when Tiche was little, her mother made her fight and kill for the right to survive. The episode at Rykard's manor as well as when she was hurt in the mountains are the only experiences in Tiche's life where someone else selflessly took responsibility for her life and well-being, and these experiences give her mind the chance to process her ruthless upbringing and deplorable past.

This would have been the part where Mohg, through Varre, kidnaps Tiche using whatever teleportation magic the Pureblood Knight medal uses. One reason I had trouble proceeding with this fic is that the additional context of the DLC recontextualizes Mohg's motivation. He's still a weird lord of blood, obviously, but the meddling of Miquella really detracts from the single-minded blood-obsessed cultist character I had for Mohg in my mind. I wanted to make him an ostentatious sadist who preys on the vulnerabilities of those with trauma around blood, like Varre (who was a surgeon) and Tiche. I never decided exactly how I wanted this to work out. First of all, while I think it's interesting for Tiche to feel guilt about her past, it's ultimately not anything for her to be ashamed of. Violence is an innate part of the worldbuilding in Elden Ring, and the narrative does not shy around using murder as a means to a greater end. There is no nonviolent solution to the problem Dandelion is trying to solve, and I would have liked to have him demonstrate this to Tiche in a tasteful way. Not sure I could have pulled it off.

After that, it's really up in the air. When I first started this piece, I wanted to explore the notion of Tiche becoming a Tarnished alongside Dandelion, or becoming his maiden. However, I feel like I don't really understand that part of the lore well enough to start extrapolating relationships around it. With that said, here's a laundry list of plot points I wanted to hit:

-Tiche becoming Tarnished and gaining the ability to respawn with Dandy
-Tiche getting the Blasphemous Claw from the Manor and incorporating it into her weapon
-An ensuing confrontation with Maliketh where the protag finally gets to answer the question, "Why covet destined death?"
-Tiche coming to terms with her remaining spiritual/religious connection to the Erdtree as Melina burns it
-A mini-arc resolving Ranni and Blaidd's questline in a more wholesome way
-Dandy Conferring the power of the Elden Ring to Ranni by abdicating the throne completely, rather than becoming her consort. She fucks off into space as per usual

I had no plans on handling the Haligtree or Shadow of the Erdtree. I love that gameplay content and its lore, but there's so much to unpack without immediate relevance to Dandy and Tiche's relationship, which I still feel is the core of this story.

I'd want Dandy and Tiche to become official around the end of the Mohg arc. I'm not a fan of love triangles, so while Tiche would harbor insecurities about Melina and Ranni up until they're out of the picture, I never wanted there to be any sort of love rivalry. I really wanted to eventually write smut of these characters, and I may still! time will tell.

The story would have ended with a long chapter of ceremonies. Dandelion confers his new Godhood to Ranni, who frees the land from the Greater Will's influence. Kenneth Haight and Nepheli have a proper knighting ceremony not only for Dandelion, but for Blaidd and Alexander as well. Finally, Turtle Pope would have hosted a wedding! I think one big knot I would need to untie throughout the story is how many of the NPCs would likely blame Tiche for the Night of Black Knives. This wedding (and Miriel's accompanying sermon - "All things can be conjoined" etc etc) would crystallize the world's acceptance of Tiche as an individual and a force of good.