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The bells toll. The Unkindled rise.
It would be as in the times before, the last vestiges of flame calling out to the cursed undead. They were none left to answer. None fit to carry its fire. Only ash.
Worthless, broken souls, unfit for cinder…
One straggled forth from those untended graves. A knight in life, or something of the sort, long since forgotten by the world. The Shrine Handmaid described him once. A solemn creature with solemn eyes, so pale an ancestor might have called Irithyll home. The stink of the grave clung to him yet still.
The Ashen One. The last of their champions, all the flame could summon.
He knelt before her, patient and nearly gentle when he took her hand. The plates of his armor too cool to touch as he swore fealty. To the Flame. To her.
The Keeper could not find the heart to offer correction. Their fates were too entwined to argue such petty semantics. And so it would be. Ash would seek ember.
Let it be her champion to find it.
_______
He found her a beautiful creature. A reaction inspired, no doubt, by their parallel conditions. The Fire Keeper, a manifestation of flame, all that he could never truly have. The Ashen One knelt before her, offering the souls of those lost. They would serve this agency, aid him in returning the Lords.
It no longer hurt as it once did. He had long since learned to focus on her voice instead. Smooth and melodic, calming…
It brought peace to his fractured being.
After a time, he brought gifts. Small trinkets from his travels. She had laughed once, begged to know his intent (though not displeased with his offering; she had trailed her fingers along a ring set with stones for the entirety of the following day). His answer was simple. He found so many rings and yet had so few fingers. There were so many gems and yet they would not look half so fine strung up amidst his own hair.
His Lady would smile. A beautiful thing, radiantly bright in this otherwise grim place.
Reason enough to keep fighting.
______
He settled beside her one evening, half reclined on the Shrine steps. Staring, no doubt, towards the Lords thrones. Still, she could not feel tension in his frame, none of the typical reservation. The Ashen one was in uncustomarily high spirits. The gentle scent of wine colored the air, lightly sweet, a deep note in contrast to the smoke.
He pressed the chalice against the back of her knuckles. She had no use for such things, warming as the prospect was. His find was a rare one and yet he deigned to share. She took it from him with a grateful tip of her head. The air felt warm. Strange for one so far from the Flame.
“Do you know,” the Ashen one began, his voice pleasant and light, “the knights of Carim dedicate an entire career to a single maid?”
She favored him with an indulgent smile, “Does thee consider us such, Ashen one?”
There were times, rare as they might be, where she wished for her eyes. It was a treacherous thought, blasphemy, even as it lingered near the edges of her consciousness. To see the champion of flame would not be a wretched thing. Certainly not when he was in such rare spirits, “It would not be an unpleasant fate, Lady.”
She felt a warmth chase through her, “Ashen one, thy hath deceived thyself. I serve thee as I serve the Flame.”
He laughed then, a strange sound amidst the charred landscape of their world. It echoed amidst the cavernous shrine. She felt the eyes of others upon them, no doubt attempting to gauge its origin. His fingers, still clothed in plate, brushed hers, gently retrieving his cup from her now limp grasp, “I suppose I must play the maid, then.”
“Thy mistakes my meaning…”
He was smiling. She could feel it, warm as it washed over her chilled skin, “Perhaps it is so. But I could be content with such a life. Shall we see a compromise?”
“If I cannot dissuade thee.”
The Keeper could not, would not. He was a light of his own agency, evening if the Lords flame did not burn within his flesh. Her champion brought the chalice to his lips, his eyes sweeping over her. Warm, “Let me be thine protector, and let thee watch over me in turn.”
_____
Her champion seemed a broken thing at times. His smiles came so rarely now, reserved only for her. The solemness of a knight, he had teased once. Mayhaps it was simply the times. There were few reasons left to smile.
He buried Yoel when the time came.
He mourned Anri, beautiful and brave.
He could not save Loretta. Nor Hawkwood, nor Siegmeyer.
Those he touched turned to ash all the same. Broke or dying like the rest of their world.
He sat at her feet now, like a man seeking absolution. Whispering to himself in the Shrine’s half light, so low she struggled to catch the words.
“Is it worth it, Lady? Can the cost yet be measured…”
She stroked fingers through his dark hair, the length still matted with sweat and blood. The Unkindled’s eternal kin. There was blasphemy in his words, his thoughts, yet she lacked the heart to argue. It was a fragile thing, their world. Their hope…
Her champion would find his strength anew. He was yet ember, far from ash.
____
His shoulders slumped as he finally crossed the threshold. New armor now bloodstained, reeking of ash and death. His hand kept straying to a singular item. The small pouch on his belt. It brought no comfort, only a singular sort of madness.
The Shrine no longer felt as home. He had walked in that darkness, another world or an uncertain future. A dark mirror of the Shrine as it was now. Full of shadows and death; they waited near the corners of his eyes even still. The old handmaiden had cackled from her eternal perch, whispering vague prophecies…
The Fire Keeper had abandoned her post. Not led below as she ought when the Fire burned out but entombed, buried and forgotten. The maiden had laughed again. The bells had never tolled, the Unkindled never summoned. What need had they of a Keeper?
Pain itched behind his eyes, a stabbing sensation the warrior could not shake. No, there had been no need for a Keeper. The girl had gone mad, had sought the eyes forbidden those of her kin. She had stared into Darkness. What she had seen he could not say…
But it tore at him. A gnawing curiosity, born in darkness.
This Shine remained yet bathed in flame, not yet extinguished by the long night. His Keeper bowed her head in greeting, the pallor of her skin somehow worse. Ashy in the gold light. “Welcome home, Ashen One. Speak thine heart’s desire.”
Practiced words that hurt more than healed. His hands shook as he reached for the small pouch hanging from his waist. Such a little thing, heavier than it ever might have been. He knelt before her, waiting for her to extend her hand. His Keeper’s lips turned up, a smile, true and radiantly bright. Another gift, no different from the many he had bestowed before.
Such a beautiful creature; still a flame amongst the ashes. The black vestment that covered her eyes had always struck him as strange, the singular flaw marring an otherwise perfect face. He understood now.
Her eyes had been plucked out. Blinding her not to this world but the one beyond. That Darkness…
He placed the eyes in her palm, gently curving her fingers over them. His voice was too soft in the silent air, the crackle of fire nearly drowning out his words, “Allow me to return what was stolen.”
He held her hand. The only force keeping her from casting the wretched things from her. Her expression drew as though in pain. Longing and pain, “Ashen one, these are eyes. A Fire Keeper’s eyes.”
“Thine eyes.”
“A gracious gift, to be certain.” She frowned. The Keeper set a hand upon his shoulder, motioning for him to rise. The air changed between them, nervous. He could feel her distrust, an edge to her voice that had never been present before. “What is thine intent? Ashen one…” she clutched his hand, fingers curling over his wrist. “These have been taken for a reason. So that we might not peer into that darkness. That thin sliver of light that would reveal such betrayal…”
His heart ached, a tearing sensation foreign to him. They were a strange pair, impossible, at odds with their purpose. He wished for so many things. To reassure her, to apologize, to soothe her shaking form. He wished to touch her cheek, to catalogue just how her skin felt. If it was cool; if it was as the porcelain she so resembled. “Why do you fear it, Lady?”
She recoiled as if struck, “Thy speak blasphemy! To see the end of Flame…”
In truth, he could not speak to his faith. The sight of that dark place had shook him, planted the seed of doubt in his mind. In his madness, in darkness, he had seen whispers of an endless cycle. Flame and Darkness. Humanity enslaved to the whim of the fire, sacrificed for it…
So many had died for such a fool thing. Gwyn had sought only to prolong his own power, the age of the Gods. It had consumed him, his heirs, his kingdom, the lives of so many Chosen....
Could he say it was worth it? Even as she stared at him, silently begged him to release her hand.
He felt her touch his face. Not as he had imagined. There was a warmth to her fingers, easing along the planes of his cheek, “This is a betrayal of my purpose. Our purpose.” A betrayal of her flame.
He watched, horrified as she peeled the cloth from her eyes. She turned her head away, obscuring the empty sockets. He could not find the strength to stop her when she removed his fingers from her wrist. Beneath the heavy fabric of her dress he could just discern how her muscles pulled taut, in pain or horror. When she turned back to him it was with pale eyes, a green that suited her more than he could say. Beautiful, finally whole, finally perfect.
Her expression was bitter, “Ashen one, is this what thine desires? A world without flame?”
The words would not come. He looked away, staring towards the Lords thrones, adorned with their ashes. Mad Gods who had thrown their world into ruin, left madness and ember in their path. His throat constricted painfully.
There were so few left sane in their world. The fire took as it gave, claiming life and sanity and hope. He had seen entire civilizations wiped from the world, the populations crushed as they journeyed north. He had walked among ghosts, still haunting their grand cathedrals. The dead kept from dying…
He was a small thing, worthless, as so many had said. Not even fit for cinder. These things were not for him to know, not for him to decide. His throat constricted.
She was worse with eyes, staring sightlessly forward, towards a future they were never meant to see. She clutched his hand, nails biting at the skin of his palm. Leaving crescents of blood, “I see the end.” There was a strangled quality to her voice and she sagged, kneeling beside him. She clutched a hand over her face. “Is this what thy desires?”
He brought his arms around her without thinking, a hand tangling in the intricate weave of her braid. She shook, tucking her face in the curve of his throat. There was darkness there too. Inescapable now. “Ashen one, kill me, and take these eyes away. Before I am drawn into the darkness, seduced by the thin light and the awful betrayal.”
He wished so badly to wipe it all away. Remove the pain from her, erase the wretched curiosity from his mind. For her sake, if nothing else.
It was not a thing to be sated. He tucked his nose against her temple, felt tears prick at his eyes. To defy the flame was to defy their purpose…
...to break the cycle. To turn away from the needless sacrifice, hand power back over to the world of men.“I cannot.”
She stiffened. Her nails scraped against the metal plates of his armor. The air between them felt suddenly chill as she drew back, staring at him with desperate hurt in her eyes. Green and miserable and green; he could not bear the weight of them. The Keeper shook her head (fighting tears he could now see), bringing a hand up to his cheek. This time, she did not deign to touch him.
The Keeper stood, staring down at him (beyond him, well into the darkness). Her lips turned up in a wan smile. One that never reached her eyes, “As thy desires.”
She had shut him out.
“Farewell, Ashen One. May’st thou thy peace discover.”
He closed his eyes. Behind them, there was only darkness.
____
He continued to bring her gifts all the same. Small tokens, desperately trying to salvage what remained between them.
She remained courteous but never the same. Invariably, the conversation would regress. Fitting, that they should have a cycle of their very own.
His Keeper begged for death. He could never give it.
And so it was. He placed his offering at her feet. Still searching for things not meant for an Unkindled soul.
____
It was fitting this was where it would end. In fire and ash, the world charred beyond the tell of it. He slumped against his blade, body aching, pushed to the point of breaking. Blood tracked lazy rivulets down the planes of his face. His left eye burned, too tired to clear the fluid away.
For the Ashen One there was no satisfaction. Only exhaustion: an eventual end finally reached.
He wished only to sleep now. An eternity to rest.
Flame and cinder licked through his system, the foreign power, ancient and otherworldly, perhaps the last of his strength. He reached out with his consciousness, finding the Keeper across the void. It had been she at the start. It would be her at the end.
In fire or in darkness…
The pale creature manifest by his side, her dark veils in place once more. Still shamed by his damning gift. He inclined his head towards the First Flame, fighting the maddening urge to laugh. Smoke burned in his lungs; a small thing in contrast to her hard look.
His friend, his last friend, stared at him with such resignation, such distaste, “Thy will, Ashen One?”
A fear gripped him, a purely primal reaction to facing mortality. He forced himself to smile, the turn of his lips closer to wincing. He tasted blood. Shaking his head, he pulled his helmet free, the last vestiges of the Wolf. Artorias, who had met a lonely end. His Watchers, driven mad all the same. The Ashen One stared into the Flame, “Let it be thine will, Lady. It cannot be I to choose.”
She flinched, staring at him. Her expression softened so slightly.
His Keeper did not pull away when he took her hands, so small and delicate, “Ask it, and I shall link the fire. I shall preserve this world if it might bring thee peace.”
He feared what awaited in that Flame, an eternity to serve its whims, his soul driven mad and torn. An Unkindled was a poor substitute for a proper Chosen, an echo of what should have been. He would buy a reprieve, temporary. He was frightened. And if she so asked, he would burn, “I will not see you consumed in darkness, Lady. Let me speak as you once had: is this thine desire? A world of flame?”
Her mouth curled. The Keeper glanced away, staring towards the fire. A serene creature were it not for the way her hands shook. Ash swirled about her bare feet, licked at the edges of her gown. He thought her beautiful, the ideal manifestation of ember and humanity.
Her voice was soft, “I cannot say.”
He could not fight his laugh, the sound half mad, “Then we shall remain here a long while yet.”
A poor time for jokes, perhaps. She huffed in response, no doubt searching the darkness, “It is a betrayal to consider such thoughts, Ashen One.”
“Release me then. And I shall link the flame.”
He made to move and her grip tightened, nails biting at his armor. The Keeper shook her fair head, lips pursed so tightly they drained of color. She fought to smile, never quite managing it, “Do not. Thy cannot rekindle that which was lost.” She touched a hand to her chest, “The fire fades. This world slips into darkness...”
“Rebirth, Lady. Let it be rebirth.”
None would link the fire again. The cycle would break. Light and darkness, cast aside in favor of a new world. It would rise from the ashes, years, perhaps centuries hence. She stared forward. Her cheek slick with tears, “I shall gather the flame. In my breast it shall grow dim and then dark.”
The Ashen One nodded, stepping aside to give her room. With a mother’s care she gathered the fire to herself. The world seemed to shudder at the change. Shade licked around the corners. He stood immobile, listening to the gentle sound of her breathing. The only sound left to them. She did not turn as she spoke,
"The first flame quickly fades. Darkness will shortly settle.”
An age of man. A world without fire. Without need of Keepers or Unkindled.
He let out a heavy grunt, exhaustion finally claiming him. The Ashen one sat with his back to the coiled sword, let his eyes draw closed. The journey had ended, their part played. Now only was left to wait. The Keeper settled at his side, her hand finding his own. Her voice was soft, “One day... tiny flames will dance across the darkness. Like embers linked by Lords past."
The Ashen One barely managed his smile, an arm coming around the woman, “Let it be so, Lady.”
A new world would rise from these ashes. Now was only the wait.
As fated, they would meet that darkness together.