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And nobody really mentions quite how rare affection amongst the undead is. Likely because so many look like they’ve been five months in the grave already, and certainly her noble face was desiccated at their first meeting, more ghoul than human. But his voice held a smile when he turned to her, the rays of too-bright sun glinting off his helmet. His name is Solaire.
Leaving him, she repeats it like a prayer, though her chapped lips have long since grown unfamiliar with holy rites his name fits in her mouth as though her tongue was made to say it. Solaire . Solaire. Solaire.
He told her to call out to him for help and so she does. Against the Bell Gargoyles his strong hand wraps around her wrist to stop her falling from a rooftop; at her back he saves her from ambush from a second monster. With his help, she rings the first bell.
And the seedbed where friendship grows has long laid barren for many undead, but after lying empty for all her time in prison it stirs again in her heart. Something sprouts, new and tender. Fondness. Warmth.
Sunlight.
Solaire is searching for his own sun. And she is…she is ringing bells. Without a quest to focus on, you risk going hollow. Crouching by the fire at Firelink Shrine, a blessed break with Solaire who sits beside her, his face turned to the sun, his warm hand on her back, she ponders.
She is following orders from others, entire being focused on not going hollow. With each step forward, each bell rung, each barricade in her way surmounted, she feels a little more humanity return to her. Her skin is soft now, her hair no longer the straw-spun texture of the grave. But what happens when she rings the next bell? Will she run out of objectives and go hollow?
Would it be better to look for something open-ended? Her own sun? She doesn’t think Solaire will ever go hollow.
And there are no great stories of allegiance between undead but whenever she finds someone in trouble she wonders what Solaire would do and know he would help them and so she does the same. Humanity is more than a single soul; it is action.
He helps her again on her way to the second bell. A horrifying gaping dragon falls to their combined strength. He pats her on the back after and shakes her hand, pressing a medal into her palm.
In the days that follow she catches herself flexing the hand that touched his reflexively, lost in thought in the brief rests between the fighting and the monsters and the running through hostile caves and strange, dark fortresses.
And there are no great love stories among the undead but in Anor Londo he says, You really are fond of chatting with me, aren't you? If I didn't know better, I'd think you had feelings for me! And laughs when she looks away, a blush staining her cheeks. Yearning was an emotion relegated to a time before the undead prison she’d been consigned to; an emotion more suited to a life she barely remembered except in an occasional flash of memories whenever she died.
Memories of bright dresses and galas and prayer in beautiful cathedrals and gossip at endless garden parties under a forever bright sun. Memories of a time before an endless fight for life, when it was accepted the flame would never fade and violence was an alien concept.
Even the sun was different now. Perhaps she had just never noticed it before. Something about it feels like a cheap replica in the wake of his bright spirit.
She wanted to tell him, I think I lived here, once. Or somewhere like here. I think I remember dancing at wonderful balls. Did you ever attend one? Did we dance together in another life? But she can only say yes or no. Words are never enough. She makes do with sitting by him, enjoying the warmth of his presence.
He comes to her aid against the knight and the executioner. She manages to cut down Ornstein, slicing through his golden armour, but then Smough drinks in his essence, growing more powerful and it’s Solaire who takes the blow from that big hammer, leaving before her and now the fight is one of vicious vengeance and Smough falls to her fury and
And he would have loved to meet her. The princess of the sun. She kneels for Solaire. She takes on a new quest for Solaire.
Link the fires. Find the serpent. There was a young cleric back at the Firelink Shrine who’s gone missing; she finds Reah in a great tomb, tricked by a lowlife named Patches, and has to save her from her own companions. Firelink Shrine may not be a safe place for a maiden. Laurent killed the Firekeeper; she herself was attacked by the warrior who usually stared crestfallen into the fire. And besides, Reah does not want to face Petrus again. She gives Reah the name of a place she thinks is safe, and returns there to see if she’s made it alright and finds Solaire there too.
I'm glad to see you alive.You have done well, indeed you have. You've a strong arm, strong faith, and most importantly, a strong heart. I am in awe, really.
There is no way to say she did it for him. Whenever they meet, her vocabulary is reduced to yes and no. Her tongue stopped like the Firekeeper’s, as though it might blaspheme.
And what is joy to the undead but a useless weight? But she feels it in becoming just as he is, a soldier for the sun. A knight, just as he is. His knight, she thinks and cannot say.
She finds him in Lost Izalith, worn down by the dark world. He doesn’t seem to notice her when she takes her place beside him. He is mumbling to himself in this place of madness and doom. Was it all a lie? Have I done this all, for nothing? Oh, my dear sun... What now, what should I do...? ...My sun, my dear, dear sun...
She cannot make sense of his words. There is no choice but to continue on, though she leaves him one of the sun-bright medals he has given her. She cannot say let me be your sun , though she desperately wishes to. The undead are solitary by nature, though he has called her a companion. Each in their own worlds, their own sense of purgatory. If you lose yourself, you risk going hollow and attacking all around you. To protect others, you travel alone. To protect your sense of self, you must walk alone. Each life a separate bonfire, cupped in the hands like a flame that might be blown out by strong words or breeze. Each undead their own Firekeeper. She stokes her own flame with the next objective and turns back for him once she’s reaped the soul of the bed of chaos.
To go hollow; to lose all sight of self. Perhaps it is inevitable. She hears his muttering before she sees him. I’ve done it…I…am the sun!
When Solaire turns on her, eyes unseeing and madness gripping his noble heart, his sword flashing, she draws her own blade. She runs fire grease over it, lighting it bright as any star. He charges in.
And weeping is bitterly common to the undead, but she fights through tears and memories, each heavy blow a strike to her own heart she cries his name, Solaire! Solaire! Is it so easy to kill her? She wonders why it is not easy to die at his hands, why she fights on through the thunder of his arm and the lightning of his spear.
When he falls, she kneels by his side. My sun is setting… it’s dark, he says, voice echoing. So dark.
She lays her head on his chest and lifts his hand to rest it on her cheek, and the residual heat from his armour is the first warmth she’s felt outside the bonfires in this strange suspended death.
And what is grief to the undead, but the bitter taste in every breath? Something they know better than their own reflection, own pulse? The familiar sigh you hear before realising it’s your own. Joy is but a visitor; Grief makes their bodies its home.
When she can move, she crouches beside his body as though still passing time next to him at Firelink Shrine. His barrel chest that she once idly dreamt of being cradled against is desiccated in death. She flexes the hand that once touched his, remembering his touch. There can be no looking back once she goes. To grieve too long and get lost is to become hollow. To dream of a life outside this endless death is to become hollow. To wish for more is to become hollow. She will stand and she will put on his too-large armour and she will conquer Gwyn and this endless dim twilight of a world in the name of a man who searched for a true sun.
She will grasp the sun in his gauntlets.
And undead lives are largely meaningless and easily taken. But this one will live on, carved into the world by the jagged edges of a broken heart.