The Man Who Would Be King

by TheSleepingKnight

Summary:

A former servant of the Haligtree awakens to find he's been called back to life to continue the war of the Shattering- but Marika's design must be flawed, for he possesses a most unsuitable trait for a would-be Elden Lord:

A kind heart.

Chapter 1: From the Grave To Your Cradle

Summary:

Wake up and smell the autumn of the Lands Between, Cathal.

When Cathal wakes up, his first thought is that wherever he’s chosen to sleep smells terrible. Honestly, truly terrible: the skin of the earth riddled with the stench of wriggling worms and rotting leaves and little shards of fouler things he’s sure he doesn’t want to linger on. Why had he chosen this spot, again? Normally his nose leads him to a somewhat fairer resting ground. His second thought is that he can barely move. Cathal tries to roll over and adjust because his back is so sore from helping Aria carry rations up the hills, and finds that he can’t. Specifically, he can’t because there’s a rather solid object impeding him from completing the motion. He tries the other way and finds the same. His hands go out and find walls, wooden and rough, bind him into laying flat on his back. Cathal’s third thought (he is a bit slow to stir his mind, early in the morning, so forgive him this fault in quick assertions) is that despite the fact that he had perfectly functioning vision a few hours ago, he cannot see but for the darkness.

And he’s certain his eyes are wide open.

His thoughts at once accelerate with desperate alarm.

Fortunately, whoever put him in this trap was foolish enough to leave him with his sword, and ghostflame (which burns cold instead of hot, and does not catch to wood unless he wills it, which is two strokes of luck) quickly blazes to life across the metal, allowing him to see the thin walls of wood that keep him captive. The shape is rather distinctive, long sides and thin tops.

Someone's put him in a grave.

For a few moments, he’s baffled. What would compel an enemy to do this instead of just stabbing him in his sleep? Briefly he considers it being a truly awful prank and promptly dismisses it, while the Cleanrots had a morbid sense of humor, this was far too cruel and far too time consuming, Finlay would never allow— wait. Wait a minute. He didn't go to sleep. He was fighting Redmane soldiers, one of them had taken a shot at the Captain, he saw a purple surge of lightning, and— Cathal remembers falling. His feet being swept clear off of the ground and sailing past fields of grass, flung like a javelin by gravitational magic. The world all a blur of red and green and brown and abruptly becoming white-hot pain as he landed.

It’s just nothing, after that. A blackness even more complete then the one he awoke to. One he fears to linger on, lest it return.

He lets the flame die. Cathal’s not sure if magical flames are as hungry for air as ones created by mundane means are, but he'd rather not take the chance. Not when he needs all the air he has left to start making a way out. He begins to kick against his container, praying that he has the strength for it (he's not sure to who. He's long since abandoned any worship.) By some miracle, he does, but then he realizes a flaw in his strategy, as the dirt begins pouring in—

Before the flood of earth reaches his nose and he takes a desperate gasp, he has one last thought.

Did I wake just to die?

---

Cathal’s spitting out enough dirt to bury a forest in and the taste still refuses to leave his mouth. He’s currently using what little remains of his shattered helmet to scoop water from the nearby river and boil it over a meager makeshift fire he’s constructed out of the remnants of…his grave.

His grave.

If that hadn’t been enough proof, the first thing he’d noticed when he crawled out of the deathtrap had been the faint glimmering of Grace in the air, leading him to a damned Church of Marika. Within its crumbling walls had been something only one particular species could see.

Tarnished.

The thought makes his throat feel like it’s full of earth all over again. Cathal has yet to lay hands on the golden kindling, and has no plans to unless he’s truly desperate. As far as he can tell, he’s not injured in any way, despite his rather clumsy escape. He still has his sword and his seal, a scale tightly bound by a ribbon to his wrist, but his armor is, well…

He shivers as another breeze comes from uphill. His chestplate is just gone, and the chainmail underneath hadn’t fared much better, leaving him with a few scattered plates around his legs and feet. His helmet is a pot and a poor one at that, barely enough to hold a cupful of water. Speaking of, it’s begun to steam. He removes it from the fire and waits for it to cool, looking at the river and wishing he could just take the chance and drink, but he’s seen Limgrave (because that’s where he is, the biting wind and almost downtrodden landscape all too familiar) before and more specifically what kind of wildlife Limgrave has, so he’s not going to risk drinking from it and swallowing Land Octopus droppings. Or worse.

Cathal waits a few more minutes and then finally takes possibly the worst drink in his life and lords above, does that help. His throat still aches and everything still smells and tastes like dirt but at least he feels like he can breathe without more earth coming up. All he has to do now is… make his way back through enemy territory. Godrick’s soldiers had been no threat the last time he’d encountered them, but… still. Fate favors the foolish, after all.

After some deliberation, Cathal chooses to head south, away from Caelid. While it rankles, not immediately moving to the last known location, in his current state, arrows could prove particularly fatal. The forests would provide cover and possibly supplies, if he got lucky with fresh corpses. And if not… He still had his sword. If he did happen to run into any of Godrick’s little soldiers, he’s fairly sure he could take them in a straight fight. Assuming his new status hasn’t—

Cathal very abruptly goes deathly still even as his eyes stretch to the point where the air begins to sting. The biggest bear he’s ever seen in his life is casually stripping down a tree’s bark a few paces away. He gives it a wide berth, making his way towards the ruins he’d spotted earlier. What would cause such a thing? Unless he’d been buried so long that bears had simply evolved to be a size comparable to caravans (a thought that has him feeling the weight of the earth above him all over again, what if what if what if he’s like that old knight in the stories, who falls asleep in an enchanted forest only to wake up and find an age has passed), what devilry would produce such a dramatic growth? Had Godrick become even more of a craven monster following his embarrassing defeat at Lady Malenia’s hands and begun experimenting on the wildlife as well as the population?

Honestly, Cathal muses darkly as he darts through the trees, we should have just killed him. I’m sure Lady Malenia would have, if we hadn’t gotten another lead on Lord…Miquella. Damn the stars. Another reason to move swiftly. He really hopes he can find a friendly villager or even just a current calendar somewhere, something to tell him how long he’s been under. Literally.

Cathal attempts to cough up more dirt but at this point his throat is so raw that any more attempts might bleed, and the last thing he needs is an infection (can the dead that yet live fall prey to mortal illness? His body is so familiar and yet he feels like a stranger inside it.) Cathal once again considers just trying to make the mad dash across the open fields, but years of training keeps him on his current path. The trees begin to cluster in more thickly, and he tastes damp wood on the fog that swamps him, leaving him once more chilled to the bone. His rag of a shirt and barely stable shorts do nothing to prevent him from feeling all of nature’s delightful touches, and Cathal longs for the warmth of his team. Aria would relentlessly make fun of him, he’s sure. All the teasings about his non-existent love life would arise once more, demanding some story about how his attempts at wooing had resulted in his state of dress. Yes, and then… Mikhael would flush like a blooming rose and swiftly march for clothes. Ah, Mikhael! Nineteen was so young for a Cleanrot (although Mikhale often pointed out that Cathal was only a senior by a scant six years) Captain Finlay would soon march over, bark a laugh, and ask what the finest scout and assassin of the Haligtree had been doing all but stark-naked in the forests.

Cathal is so caught up in his imaginings that it takes him a moment to recognize the sound that rumbles through the weeping woods of Limgrave— a wolf’s howl. But far too close, and far too…high? Cathal’s eyes snap to the skyline, and there, perched upon the peak of a crumbling bit of architecture is a man.

But no! Not a man, for his head, nearly the size of a cannonball in total, is a proud mane belonging to a fearsome face, scarred and weathered and as animalistic as only an animal’s head could be. Gleaming armor clashes with pitted fur, a gargantuan blade contrasts with inlaid gold; a beastly contradiction crouched amongst the leaves of golden trees.

Cathal takes a step back out of shock and the ground beneath his feet betrays him, something collapses and snaps, and immediately the head swivels, locking onto Cathal. Even from here, Cathal can see the gleam of startling intelligence in midnight blue eyes. For a terrifying moment, Cathal sees both human understanding and beastial hunger within the creature’s gaze, and has no idea what’s going to happen next.

But then the wolf-man reaches back to grab his sword, and Cathal readies himself for a fight against— wait, no, crunching of leaves and the pattern of leather against air behind him— Cathal steps to the side and the club crunches against the stones. It’s wielded by a demi-human, dressed…not much better than him, honestly, and eyes wild with rage. He retreats further against another strike, holding out a hand.

“Wait!” he rushes out, “I seek no quarrel, I am merely passing through!” The words appear to not register, as the clumsy onslaught continues, the blows easily avoided. Behind his current attacker, more demihumans are gathering, all of them staring at Cathal with undisguised fury. What has he done to warrant such treatment? “Please, I don’t wish to harm you, stop—” The others are closing in, he needs to defuse or engage, now— The next swing comes, and he makes his choice, smacking the flat of his blade against the small head of his attacker, following up with a swift kick to get distance as he assesses. He could try for non-lethal, but with the wolf-man above still an unknown, and the fact that he has no bloody idea where the nearest settlement of demihumans was (from what he recalled, Limgrave was a decidedly unsafe place for anyone who didn’t fit into the Order’s idea of purity) and as such, leaving them injured in the wilderness would be nothing more than a long and cruel death sentence.

Cathal cleaves through the club and throat of the first, and carries the momentum into a sliding stab that takes the second right through her heart, deep enough that he has to kick her corpse off of his blade. As for the third, he’ll—

Do nothing, because the wolf-man had joined the fray, and the word impaled doesn’t really do justice to what Cathal witnesses. The blade lands point first upon the poor remaining demihuman and all but cleaves it in twain as bone crunches sickeningly before the strike; the mass of steel it carries is the width of a damn tree.

Blood splatters. Leaves resettle. Bodies slide. The quiet song of the forest resumes. Man and beast stare each other down. Cathal’s sure the attack is coming. The wolf-man raises his blade, letting it rest across an armored shoulder, appraising Cathal. When the blade moves, he’ll—

“Marika’s tits, I’m freezing just looking at you. Here.” A carpet of furs nearly knock Cathal to the ground, and he’s caught so off guard by both the speech and generosity that it momentarily robs him of speech. Beneath the man’s artificial furs is a shockingly ornate set of armor, lovingly crafted and cared for, gleaming silver in the growing dawn. “Good on you for trying to talk ‘em down,” the wolf-man continues, oblivious to Cathal’s shock, “but it’s no use. Only demihumans I’ve seen around these parts that even bother to speak are somewhere near the Weeping Peninsula.” Blaidd sighs. “Treat someone like an animal for long enough and they become one, I suppose.” A mournful pause. “Feel free to wear that for a bit. I’m used to much colder weather, and trust me, those furs’ll have ya feeling warm in minutes.”

“Thank you.” The cloak is oversized for him, but all the same, it’s so dense that near immediately, any chill is banished. “I— thank you.” Inwardly, he chastises himself for making assumptions. A servant of the Haligtree should know better.

“You know, you Tarnished all have a peculiar look in your eye,” the man murmurs, appraising Cathal with something resembling pity, “when you’re fresh out of the grave.” Cathal laughs more out of social habit than mirth.

“Is that obvious, then?”

“Aside from the dirt and general dumbstruck expression? Fraid so. You all smell like… well. No need to get into specifics.” The wolfman snorts and raises a clawed hand to scratch his neck. “Stars, my mistress would box my ears with how rude I’ve been. Name’s Blaidd. Hunter and swordsman, at your service.”

“Cathal…and I suppose I’m not really sure what I am now.” Cathal says, bowing as much as he can while wrapped in Blaidd’s furs. “I loathe to ask more of you, Master Blaidd, with what generosity you have already shown me, but…might I inquire whence I have awoken? Before my…” Cathal’s voice fails him, the fact of his death still too absurd and yet too harrowingly real to speak of so candidly, “departure, the war of the Shattering was well underway. Maleina had just begun her march through Caelid.” Blaidd’s eyes widen in disbelief.

“Radagon’s balls, lad. That was nearly five years ago.”

No, Cathal thinks. No, that can’t be right. Even his life could not be this cruel. Five years. Five years being a corpse. Having missed— oh god. Were any of his squadrons still alive? Had Lord Miquella been found? What of the war? Had a new Elden— no, if he is Tarnished, then…

“I see.” He says, and Cathal’s voice sounds like a stranger’s to his own ears. Blaidd shifts, crossing his arms and turning his gaze towards the dense canopy.

“Say… I’m on the hunt for a man named Darriwil. He’s a traitor, and in need of a fitting end to his tale. But he’s not in these woods, far as I can tell, and night’ll be falling soon. I know of a safe place to camp for the evening, and there’s a merchant I’m friendly with nearby. You might be able to get a better set of clothes, provided you’ve got the runes.”

“I…would be in your debt, Master Blaidd.” Cathal bows once more. “If by morning you find my company has not grown tiresome, I would be honored to help you in your hunt, as repayment for your kindness.”

“Let’s be off then— and please, while I appreciate it, no more of this master nonsense. Makes me sound like a gnarled old badger with shit and wood in his teeth.”

Cathal’s following laugh is the first genuine one since he crawled out of his grave.

---

Their journey towards this supposed safe haven is mostly uneventful. Cathal can’t help but wonder if he’s being led into a trap, but he suspects any servant of Godrick (or worse, Morgott) would…well, seem fairer and feel fouler. Blaidd clearly has some other agenda besides his hunt; even with what little time Cathal has spent in the man-wolf’s company, his prowess and capability in both tracking and killing are clear. He did not require Cathal’s help whatsoever, so begs the question: why ask for it? Cathal can’t guess. He would have to trust to nothing but hope that goodness remains in the hearts of man, as he did once so long ago.

Rabid demihumans and the odd skeletal remains of Those Who Live in Death litter the paths before them, but they’re easily dispatched by Cathal’s blade, little golden flecks flying to their new master. As much as Cathal dislikes the process on both an ethical and physical level there’s nothing he can do about it, Tarnished claimed Runes from the dead as inherent nature. It is their unasked for birthright— no. Deathright, perhaps. Tis’ why they’re so feared and scorned by all who live under the brighted boughs of the Erdtree. While it is true that any living creature could gain strength from the little flecks of divinity, the amount you’d need to see any noticeable increase in strength was so high, you had better chances of being granted a lordship than acquiring the necessary materials. Tarnished, through some devilry of Marika, needed far less to start escaping the bounds of humanity. The few he’d encountered during the Shattering had been frighteningly powerful, capable of matching blows with legends. Worse still, the Tarnished were notoriously resilient, their bodies able to endure nearly all forms of punishment without succumbing to a second death. Only the total destruction of the head or heart would suffice. Anything less, and they would simply endure beyond all belief, fighting with wounds that should have killed them, pulling arrows from their throat and smiling like feral imps.

And now Cathal is among their number.

Even if the Haligtree welcomes him back (and they will, they will, they said he would always have a place there, they promised—) he can already imagine the suspicion and fear from all, seeing a dead man walking. Marika touched him, raised him, he’s no longer one of us, the whispers would surely spread like a seeping poison. Would he be asked to leave, or worse, asked to fulfill his new purpose, and fight for a vacant throne on his former liege’s behalf?

Gods above, why him? Why a man who cursed the Erdtree and the soil it sprouted from. What possible design could a Goddess he despised have for him?

And what hope did he have to fight it?

Ignorant to his turbulent thoughts, Blaidd takes him to a winding path worn into the side of a cliff by centuries of the infamous wind that howls through Limgrave, their path marked by rows of weathered stone graves. Wolves linger amongst them, and at first Cathal tenses, but they seem remarkably docile, a few drift towards Blaidd and he gives them a solemn nod which they return— one even comes close enough to them that Cathal could have reached out and brushed his hand against her fur, like he used to with the trained hounds of the Albanuric archers. He already misses Wynn and Sirrella along with their mounts, Gruff and Firs; great fluffy mounds of love and fangs that they were.

Adorning the weary coffins are small offerings of runes doubtlessly left by the bereft, and to his great shame, they drift to him as well. He feels like a hideous monster, crawling out of the darkness to feast off of pain and death.

(But perhaps that was always his fate. His family dined like lords upon life.)

“If you would not begrudge my curiosity, Blaidd, what act did this Darriwil commit to earn him such disdain?” Cathal finds himself asking, more out of desire to escape his own dark musings than true concern for the motives of the wolfman. He hasn’t known him long, but Blaidd seems a just sort.

“Ah, was wonderin’ when you’d ask. Darriwil belonged to a sect of Carian knights— one that I myself know quite well. The Bloodhounds of Caria, sworn to defend the Carian royal family, ever their loyal shadows and guard dogs.” Blaidd glances back, and the teeth of his grimace make it a truly frightening expression. “Darriwil broke his oaths of loyalty and took a hefty sum in exchange for the capture of another Carian knight, Sir Bols. The Cuckoo's have him in their tender mercies now. I pray he’s dead. The filth at Raya Lucaria love to experiment on live subjects.” The last word trails from plain Common into near unintelligible snarling, a low bass of fury. “For that alone I would have him dead. His oathbreaking is simply another chain around his neck. One I intend to see him hang by.”

“And he shall, Blaidd.” Cathal assures, his mind conjuring an image of Aria or Mikhael betrayed and sold by another Cleanrot for profit, and his heart tells him that it will not weaken before Darriwil. The Haligtree had been on friendly terms with the Carians before the Shattering and well recalls the stories that had been shared between his team and the few Carian knights that had remained— a quiet, joint effort between kingdoms to save the persecuted from the weight of the Erdtree’s intolerance. Flocks of Albenurics and Misbegotten came to a location hidden deep within a mountain, where they were given the choice to stay within the lands they’d called their home, or make the perilous journey far north to Elphael. As such, tales had reached his ears of the causal depravities that lurked behind the locked doors of the Academy of Sorceries. Glintstones buried within flesh to see how long it would take one to crystalize entirely, magic being made to twist poor servants into foul shapes on a whim, their screams recorded as idle curiosities. He shivers. “You are just, and I have beheld you; your sword is swift and your eyes keen. He cannot evade such a hunter for long.”

“Especially now that his hunters number two.” Cathal reflects a fierce smile back at Blaidd, and dares to hope that perhaps he has found a true friend, here at the start of his second life. He’s tempted for a moment to offer the truth of his past, for surely, if Blaidd is motivated by loyalty towards another Carian knight he must be friendly with the house of Caria, if not a knight himself… but Cathal hesitates. Secrets shared leads swiftly to suffering, as his instructor said. And how right she had been. No, he will keep his former life close to his chest.

Dead men tell no tales, after all.

The land begins to flatten out as they reach the apex of the cliff, and a great stone bridge comes into view, leading further south, judging by the position of the sun. Carefully, they slink past a lone guard who’s rather absorbed in trying to kill a rather overgrown fly, and walk up a stone path leading them north until a sight becomes visible in the distance, and Blaidd promptly curses. After taking a few moments to strain his eyes, Cathal understands why. It’s a collection of myriad soldiers and sellswords, flanked by workers who looked long since emancipated and were bordering on skeletal, trailing a cart. All of that isn’t the true cause of distress— it’s the two trolls, their backs bleeding horrifically as the iron spikes driven through their hollow chests forced them to bear the weight of an ornate cart, dragging it with every labored step towards the castle in the distance.

“Aw, shit. They’re going across the same bridge we are. Best be ready for a fight, lad.”

“Is it not better to simply take another route?” Cathal suggests, pointing at a path that slopes back town towards a small bog before shooting back up into rough but climbable looking cliffs, scattered ruins dotting it’s landscape. “I confess that the sight of the water does not fill one with confidence, but…”

“There’s a dragon nesting in that bog below. I’d rather not. My cloak is hard enough to repair, let alone replace..”

“...I see,” Cathal murmurs, glancing at the scale bound tightly to his left wrist. While he knows the dragon-tongue, and is fairly sure he could talk down the noble creature, Blaidd is both his guide and benefactor, and his cloak truly did deserve its own due consideration. Cathal’s almost starting to get warm. “Still, so long as we keep to ourselves—”

“The last time I crossed this bridge, I nearly lost an eye when I tried to introduce myself.” Blaidd interrupts curtly, the scar on his face seeming a touch more prominent.

“They’ll attack us on sight?” Cathal asks, bewildered. “We are for all the world just travelers, not even adorned with any insignia. Limgrave still holds to the laws of hospitality, does it not?” Blaidd remorsefully shakes his head.

“Ever since Malenia came through, Godrick’s law is that if you have a weapon, you’re either to swear fealty or be struck down on the spot. Common folk have to stay in their homes and pray soldiers don’t come knocking for Grafting materials. He leaves other Tarnished he’s caught strung up on crucifixes as a reminder not to complain about his policies.” Blaidd’s expression turns ugly. “Nothing short of a beheading will kill them, and he knows it. They scream for days until they learn there’s no point in it anymore.”

Once more, Cathal furiously wishes Lady Maleina had just killed the demigod. He doesn’t understand, he never has, how people can suffer like this and still claim that the laws of Marika’s kingdom are good. Is this not proof that the Golden Order’s edicts are as flawed as the very soil their Erdtree sprouts from? How can one be worthy of a crown through blood alone, when the only value of it seems to be how much one can spill? A thought arises about his own lieges, but that’s different— Lord Miquella was more councilor than king, advising and often relegating many aspects of the kingdom to trusted stewards, and Lady Malenia hardly did anything to do with statecraft beyond issues of security and the status of their army. And besides, the Haligtree had been founded on the idea that all were welcome, not just the perfection that the damned god of Leyndell craved. His lords were demigods alike, direct children of Marika herself, and yet both had treated even one as pitful as Cathal with nothing but respect and kindness, more than he had ever deserved.

The fury that rises in his chest chases away any concerns about death. He’s fought the soldiers of Godrick before. They will not be a problem.

“You should reclaim your furs, then.” Cathal says lightly, shrugging off Blaidd’s thick cloak and handing it back to the wolfman. “I feel as if I shall be warm enough soon.” Blaidd darkly laughs as he returns the cloak to his own shoulders. They approach the bridge and thus the carriage attempting to cross it, and true to his companion’s words, a soldier quickly steps forward, greatshield and spear stamping authoritatively.

“Halt!” Cries the voice from within the helmet. “You approach the great Stormgate. What business have you here? It is forbidden for weapons to be carried in Limgrave for those who are not within our Lord’s service. Pledge yourselves at once or lay down your arms.”

“Please, kind sirs,” Cathal pleads, although his pleading is perhaps less convincing then it could be, “we are just weary travelers, looking for a place to rest. We only carry weapons to defend ourselves. Neither of us carry any ill plot nor purpose towards your liege. Will you not let us pass in peace, in accordance with the laws of hospitality laid down by Queen Marika, so long ago?”

“The Queen is gone.” States the soldier, adjusting his grip upon his weather-stained spear, “And her laws have gone with her. We serve only one Lord, and he demands obedience to his decrees. Now, swear service or surrender.”

Cathal sighs.

“I will do neither.” He promises.

And then he moves.

Before the soldier can do much then startle, Cathal is already upon him, his sword sliding cleanly between leather, sinew and muscle in a clean draw from his hip— a practiced opening from his childhood that leaves the soldier drowning on dry land; his own blood betrays him. Before his body so much as hits the ground, Cathal is bearing down on the rest, the soldiers at the cart had turned at the commotion. A swift stab through a gap in the visor of the armor, keep momentum, twist the blade, pull out and into a slash that the third only just barely blocks with his sword. Let his left hand go, the dragonscale grows warm on his arm, and a mere touch to the armor sends arcs of crimson lightning surging through the man’s body. He falls, and the fetid stench of cooked flesh follows him down.

Three down, five to go. In the edges of his awareness, Blaidd is carving through the soldiers that had been foolish enough to try and rally their horses, his blade makes quick work of their beasts of burden. A pang of sympathy alights as he sees the animals slain with riders alike, but there’s no time for that now, a spearman rushes in. Cathal cleanly sidesteps the stab and lashes out with his blade. Haft is hewn, a hand reaches out to snatch the severed tip and drive it deep into the eye of its former wielder, push the bleeding body into the next man to disrupt his charge, cleave. Cathal’s blade transforms once more, alighting in ghostflame. Armor might turn aside steel, but it does little to protect from magic, and ghostflame is a terribly hungry thing. The blade comes down, a pale blue arc of death, the flames leap to a warm body and burn it cold. It happens terrifyingly quickly, and paradoxical frost kisses the bridge where the body falls.

Down to one.

Cathal locks eyes with the final man, the sounds of violence quieting behind him as Blaidd finishes— rather messily, judging by the sounds of flesh tearing. His goodly companion may be more animal than he appears… an unintentional pun he has no desire to repeat aloud. Blaidd has pointedly not offered an explanation for his nature and Cathal is not so crass to ask him. He has been kind, and that alone is enough.

The lone soldier hesitates. Cathal raises an eyebrow at him. The man steels himself, and charges with his knife.

Cathal sighs, and meets him.

The man dies.

“Well!” Blaidd sighs explosively, lumbering up to join Cathal as he stares at the body. “That was a fine bit of light exercise, ay? Shame about the horses, but once I start swinging, it’s rather difficult for me to stop.”

“The disadvantage of having a blade the size of a young tree, hm?” Cathal muses, looking at the carnage they had wrought. The bridge is soaked with red and other fluids more disgusting than blood; he pities whoever stumbles upon the ghastly sight next. The two trolls have stopped pulling their cart, resting upon their knees. They stare, eyes hollow, at the blood. Cathal wishes he had time to free them, but— “We should be moving. The gate over there would be manned, and they’ve no doubt just witnessed our battle. How far is your friend now?”

“Assuming he’s still camped in that shitty church, barely a few paces. Come, we can lose them in the trees. They tend to not pursue very far for fear of being found missing from their posts.” True to his word, the few soldiers that came to lap at their heels pull away as Cathal and Blaidd vanish into the forests, the trees not quite as thick as the misty woods they’d come from but enough to hide them from easy view. Cathal spares one last look at the two giants and promises himself that once he has found his footing in the world, he will not abandon another to suffer under the yolk of Godrick the Grafted.

It isn’t long before the church Blaidd had mentioned becomes visible. In truth, calling it a church feels dishonest, it’s more of a crumbling allusion to a building then anything else, with only a scant few pillars remaining and a bare suggestion of a roof. But sure enough, the glow of a small campfire can be seen within, and before long, Cathal can spy the typical mount of a Nomadic Merchant grazing the grass with her master tending the flames, his egg-yolk-yellow eyes almost alight.

“Well if it isn’t Blaidd, my good friend.” The merchant muses, accent making Cathal recall days spent in his youth in the markets, hearing the most delightful thing of all to a child— new sounds. “And here I thought I would have a tranquil evening to myself.”

“Well, someone has to keep you from becoming a shut-in, Kalé. If you don’t use your voice every so often, you’ll forget how to use it. How then will you swindle everyone from here to Leyndell?” Kalé laughs along with the wolfman, thankfully. Blaidd claps a gauntleted hand on Cathal’s shoulder, and Cathal cannot help but be intensely aware of how mere minutes ago, those very fingers had crushed necks like hardtack. “My friend here is in dire need of some clothes, as you can see. Sadly, whatever he was wearing didn’t survive the trip back to the land of the living!” Cathal does his best to give an apologetic smile, but he’s not sure he manages it. Fortunately, Kalé doesn’t seem repulsed.

“Ahh, Tarnished, are we? And not even after my throat! I already like you, master…”

“Cathal,” he says, bowing low, “pleased to meet you, Master Kalé.”

“Why, Blaidd, he’s even well-mannered. Wherever did you find a fellow so unlike you?” Kalé muses whilst retrieving several saddlebags.

“Oi, I’m plenty well-mannered. I didn’t even put my foot up your ass— as you well deserved, I might add— the first time we met.”

“And for that, I’m ever grateful. I’ve seen you wash your feet, and the fact they even fit in those boots is doubtless some Carian sorcery.”

“Piss off, ya bloody busybody! I swear, you humans and your oh-so-superior toes, like they don’t break at the smallest bump and can’t even be used for—” Blaidd’s no-doubt fascinating tirade upon the poor design and frailty of the human foot is interrupted by Kalé lifting up a shirt triumphantly.

“Here we are, Master Cathal. Picked this up from a fellow trader a week ago, and it’s in fine condition. White cotton weave, quite comfortable as an undershirt. I believe I have a fine set of trousers as well… Ah-ha! A fresh set, courtesy of a fellow tarnished. Odd fellow, but excellent haggler. If you wish to wash yourself off, there’s a shallow pool just a stone’s throw from here, just over that hill. Give me a moment and I shall procure some boots that fit you…ah, blast it all, why do I never remember to re-sort everything into their proper bags after haggling…”

Cathal accepts the new garments and makes for this supposed pond, finding it swiftly. A brief application of flame (whilst his talents lie elsewhere, he’ll always be grateful for this fire incantation. In the miserable journey he’d taken, this spell had kept him alive through thunderstorms and frozen nights) means that the small body of water steams, and after a few moments of hesitation, he gets in. There’s not much he can do about the fact that it’s barely enough to submerge himself in if he lays down, nor the muddy bed beneath the pool, but in truth, he cares little for either inconvenience. Already, his rebirth feels more complete. More fire means he dries swiftly, and puts on the new clothes, carefully laid out upon a nearby rock. The white tunic has more of a plunging neckline then he’d prefer in Limgrave’s blustery territory, but it’s about the only thing he can muster the energy to bemoan. He takes a moment to look at his reflection as he re-ties his hair, grateful he’d chosen a metallic piece instead of something more perishable.

He looks about the same, he supposes. His dark hair is wilder and more worn than last he’d gazed upon his reflection, but there is no sinister trace of gold within the silvery irises that stare back from the water.

It’s still him.

Cathal returns to the church, a new man twice over, and finds a collection of items carefully laid out in rows before Kalé.

“Ah-hah, excellent timing, Master Cathal. I suspected a Tarnished such as yourself would prefer to wear more then thin cloth in such uncertain times, and took the liberty of laying out my stock— while your current clothes I am more then willing to part with free of charge, as a token of friendship to Blaidd, if you wish for more, I am afraid I will insist on payment— at a discount, to encourage future business.”

“How fortunate then,” Cathal muses, “That Godrick’s men insisted upon combat.” Between the runes he’d gathered passively on the way over, plus the bridge, he had around two thousand to his name— hopefully, Kalé was more or less an honest merchant. In his experience, the Nomadic Tribe were fair in their practices. After all, for them, trade was something more akin to religion than business. Not that they were above haggling; in fact, he’d not met one who didn’t delight in it— but they had never been known to cheat a customer.

“Ah, I’d wondered where the blood had come from. Fools. One would think they’d tire of such a craven lord.” Kalé says as Cathal surveys the choices laid before him.

“Most of the idiots who work for him do so out of fear, hunger, or a waylaid sense of duty,” Blaidd grumbles, “and besides, if rumors are true, the damn spider doesn’t emerge from Stormveil now. Too busy jamming limbs onto himself in an attempt to make up for what he lost when Maleina came through and chopped his dick off.” Cathal nearly chokes on his own breath.

He vaguely remembers the day he and the Cleanrots had marched through Stormveil. T’was arguably the fastest siege of the Shattering, and certainly the simplest. When Godrick had refused to let them march through, Cathal had been nearly flabbergasted by the arrogance of the demigod, and then he’d continued to insult his Lady. He remembers Finlay gripping her scythe so tightly he’d heard the metal grind against the gauntlets. Lady Maleina had then flatly ordered them to take the castle, and then stepped back to watch. Within minutes, the Cleanrots had nearly depopulated the population of knights and archers within the battlements, and what remained had wisely fallen back. Godrick himself had tried to enter the fray, but he’d barely lifted his glamorous axe before he’d been torn apart like leaves in a gale by the Lady— fitting, for the supposed Lord of Stormveil, and its ancient art of wind magics. Godrick had then begged forgiveness, begged for his life, and Lady Maleina…

Well, Lady Maleina hadn’t even bothered to listen. She’d simply continued onwards, and after a moment's confusion, they’d followed. Cathal would bet all the runes he had and more that if he were to ask his liege about the conflict, she’d struggle to recall it.

They’d all been desperate to find Lord Miquella, after all.

Perhaps too desperate.

“What would these be priced at, Master Kalé?” Cathal asks, having at last selected a pair of greaves and light armor. Whilst he would have preferred a proper breastplate, chainmail and leather would have to do for now.

“Ah, hauberk sleeves on a gambeson tunic with partial plate gauntlets and greaves. Excellent choice, Master Cathal. I believe that would total to about, say, thirteen hundred runes?”

“And if I were to toss in that bow and a quiver of arrows?”

“Nineteen hundred flat.”

“Perfect.” He accepts the new items and Kalé makes a satisfied chuckle as the runes are transferred accordingly. Normally, a hauberk would require several minutes to dress, but the chains being sewn onto the cloth makes the process as painless as slipping on a new tunic. The bow, after some deliberation (and testing the pull strength— a tad low, but satisfactory for the hunting he’ll doubtlessly have to perform on the long journey before him), is slung across his chest, quiver resting on his right side for easy access. The comfortable weight of armor and weaponry soothes his nerves, and upon finishing his stretches, he bows low.

“My deepest gratitudes, Master Kalé. It is comforting to find not one, but two gentle souls on such a dark day. If you ever have need of a sword arm, mine shall be yours.” Kalé waves him off.

“Please, Master Cathal. Tis’ merely the calling of my people— and besides, in these days I find a drop of generosity goes a long way.” The merchant’s yellow eyes glance at the wolfman, who’s been occupying himself by cleaning his gargantuan blade, the steel pristine once more. “If you will not begrudge me a question, what do you intend to do now, my good fellow?”

“Well, I owe Blaidd a debt for guiding me here, and as such, I am honorbound to assist him in his hunt for Darriwil.” Blaidd looks up at that, his grin appropriately wolfish. “If you would allow us to keep your company, I cannot imagine a better place to camp before darkness falls—"

“By all means,” Kalé murmurs, “Blaidd and I scarcely get chances to speak given our natures, and I would be happy to share a fire with a gentleman such as yourself. You’re a most agreeable fellow, Master Cathal.”

“Please, Master Kalé,” Cathal begs with a smile, “You have clothed me and offered shelter. Cathal is enough.”

“Only if you reciprocate! I shan’t have any lingering notions of politeness with a man I plan to break bread with.”

“Oh, you’re a polite man, are you?” Blaidd chortles. “Cathal, beware! Once the act drops, he’s a right terror. Why, he once tried to sell me a pair of gloves with eels in them—”

“Blaidd, you overgrown carpet, that was thirty years ago—”

“Aye, and my hands still don’t feel the same in cold water—”

They are untimely interrupted by Cathal’s laughter, as he is unable to hold it in.

“My apologies,” he wheezes out, “but truly, Kalé? Eels? However did you even get them within the gloves?”

“Oh, that was more bad fortune than foresight. My pack had broken and fallen into Liurana’s waters, and the hagfish had made themselves home within a great many of my things. Damnable creatures. But no more of that! Let us make camp. If you two would be willing to set up a larger tent I have, I shall begin preparing some fine venison and ale I’ve been saving for a cold night…”

It doesn’t take long between the two of them once their weapons are properly tucked away in a cloth near the fire (little sense in wearing them amongst friends) and the ground is firm enough to receive the stakes well. Their timing is excellent, for as the sun at last begins to sink below the earth the rains seize their chance. The pleasant sounds of pattering against the proofed material and the fire crackling as their stew is heated over a pot makes for a rustic song Cathal’s found he’s almost missed. Kalé and Blaidd are easy to speak with, even with all the unspoken secrets that linger in the air. Such things are swiftly put out of mind, in the face of such warmth.

“Oh, not to press, but you never answered my earlier question, Cathal.” Kalé says as Cathal takes another heavenly bite of stew— in truth, it’s not the best he’s had, but to a dead man’s stomach, it’s positively radiant. “What do you plan, once the traitor knight is dealt with?”

“Well, it seems foolhardy to plan too far ahead, given all that’s uncertain.” Cathal admits. Whilst he’s confident in his skills, it’s the height of arrogance to believe he can defeat an opponent he knows so little of. “But assuming all goes well, once the matter is settled? I believe I shall make for Caelid. I’m curious to see what has become of…” He trails off as Kalé’s face (what little of it is visible above his mask) twists into a blanching grimace, whereas Blaidd merely adopts a flat expression. “Is something the matter, my good fellows?”

“I mean no insult to your skills nor fortitude, Master Cathal, but I would heavily advise going to Caelid as you are.” Kalé says. Blaidd remains disconcertingly quiet. “You risk a second death.”

“Why? Does the war between Lady Maleina and Starscourge Radhan still rage, even five years later?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Kalé asks Blaidd, bafflement clear. Blaidd growls in response, pinching a gloved hand upon his canine nose.

“Thought he’d had enough bad news for one day, Kalé, for fuck’s sake, he got out of his own damned grave less then four hours ago—”

“Tell me what.” Cathal demands, although a part of his mind cannot help but wonder if the rain has grown more intense, for there is an odd depth to the sounds outside their fire—

“Caelid is lost to the Scarlet Rot, Cathal. Maleina damned the entire region to a slow death.” Cathal’s world goes deathly silent. And then, all at once, it explodes, as a trumpet rings through the air as the sounds of heavy footfall at last become distinct.

“LET THE TARNISHED AMONGST YE COME OUT AND FACE A PROPER DEMISE,” booms a deep voice that comes from a Markia-be-damned Erdtree Sentinel, lingering just at the edge of Cathal’s sight, golden armor gleaming in the campfire’s light, “OR LEST ALL THREE OF YE FACE THE WRATH OF THE ORDER.”

Notes:

This fic has been brewing since Elden Ring came out, but it wouldn't exist without the support of my dearest friends Kip, Ceci, and Sath, who have all changed my life for the better. I'd also like to shout out the wonderful worldbuilding in Carian Knight of Cainhurst and Set The Moon on Fire, two chief inspirations for this fic's style as well as many of the headcanons I'll be using for ER's wider world. Please go check those fics out, I cannot recommend either highly enough.

Chapter 2: The Horse and the Hound

Summary:

Cathal faces off against two foes, and learns what's become of his leige.

“What in the everliving fuck is a gods-damned Tree Sentinel doing in Limgrave?” Blaidd hisses as they peak out from behind the few intact pillars at their golden intruder. “Radagon’s brass ballsack, and here I thought this evening couldn’t get worse.” Cathal’s tempted, for a moment, to bring up exactly why they thought their evening had gotten worse— but his own sense of alarm and practicality shove that down.

“It must be the nearby dragon,” whispers Kalé, his voice hoarse with terror, “Godrick has not the strength to slay it, but he desires all creatures of might to graft onto himself. He must have begged Leyndell for assistance.”

“And they actually sent one? Morgott must be getting complacent.”

Erdtree Sentinels. Cathal’s encountered the golden defenders of the city of Leyndell before, during the march of the Cleanrots down from the Forbidden Lands. The most vicious of defenders, surpassed only in viciousness by the stone automatons created to guard larger stretches of land or more sensitive sites that a thinking creature would be tempted to ask questions about. While the majority of Leyndell’s forces hadn’t been much of a match for their army, the Sentinels had been devastating. Their almost absurdly thick armor all but laughing off any spear or spell, wide swings from that monster of a halberd sending soldiers flying into the air, bodies snapping like dry wood. While the polearm was dangerous, however, the true strength of the Erdtree Sentinels laid in their greatshields— the damned things had been forged with an enchantment that absorbed enemy magics, storing them as energy to be turned back upon his foes. The blasts and ensuing shockwaves of holy power had disintegrated a good few men before they’d finally managed to bring the squadron down. Lady Maleina herself had stepped in to deal with any they’d encountered afterwards, despite Captain Finlay’s protests. Lady Maleina had taken the losses of so many personally, and despite how vital it was for her not to overtax her strength, she’d refused to listen to reason and dispatched any Sentinels in their path with prejudice.

Caelid is lost to the Scarlet Rot, Cathal. Maleina damned the entire region.

Gods above, how badly had he failed his liege?

“You two should run,” Cathal breathes out, staring down his foe, who was patiently waiting for him to come to his death. His second death, at least. “He’s after me. Wait until I engage him and you should have enough time to flee.”

“Alas,” Kalé croaks out, “I’m afraid my poor steed cannot hope to match the likes of that beast, and my people’s friendliness to the Tarnished is known. Even if t’was not true, he would slay me for mine heritage alone. No, I am afraid that the only feasible option is to fight alongside you, Cathal.”

“And he’ll take one good look at me, decide I’m an odd-looking Leonine Misbegotten and decide that the world would be a better place with my head removed from my shoulders.” Blaidd snarls. “Also, fuck him. I’m not running.”

“I cannot ask you to fight a battle I have little hope in winning,” Cathal insists. He has too much death on his conscience already. He cannot bear to watch the two men who have shown him such kindness die.

“Good thing you didn’t ask, then, aye?” Cathal looks up into Blaidd’s furry visage and sees only a fierce grin. He finds the same growing on his face.

“Fine.” He breathes, unable to fight the warmth in his chest. “Fine. While their horses are mighty, a few good blows to the back legs will topple him, and even they struggle to rise quickly with their armor. There’s a narrow gap between the helmet and the breastplate you can take advantage of if you get close, as well as a vulnerability in the knee joint if exposed. If you use magic, avoid his shield, it’ll just make him stronger.”

“You’ve fought ‘em before.” Blaidd murmurs, low and even but Cathal can hear the excitement beneath.

“Did I strike you as an upstanding, loyal servant of the Order?” Cathal replies dryly.

“Hah! I’ll not insult ye by saying so.” Blaidd hefts his greatsword. “Let’s kill the bastard, then. Good warm up for Darriwil.”

“I have some skill with a blade,” Kalé murmurs quickly, “but not enough to stand alongside you two, I believe. However, my people have a few tricks of our own. Give me a moment, and I shall lay an enchantment upon you, and begin to harrow our foe from afar when his polearm is turned to me.”

“Right. Thank you, Kalé. If we survive, I’ll be sure to repay you for whatever you use.”

“Your generosity is noted, but not necessary.” Kalé ensures. “There is no debt for survival.”

“Well said, Kalé.” Blaidd’s teeth emerge. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” A thought occurs. “But hold until I have his attention. He may not know you two are here. We might be able to surprise him.”

“I’ll wait until he attacks, and not a moment after.”

“Very well. Good luck.”

Cathal steps out from his cover and draws his blade with a soft hiss of wood and steel. The Erdtree Sentinel shifts, armor clunking as the giant of a man stares down at him.

“So,” his voice rumbles, not as painfully loud as before but still booming, “the little tarnished comes to his end willingly. I compliment you, wretch. You shalt not die a coward.”

“Forgive me, Cathal says, preparing an incantation in his hand even as he settles into a ready position, “for what must be done. I shall take no pleasure in it. I swear that I shall honor you in death.”

“Well,” muses the Erdtree Sentinel, “never before have I met so arrogant yet so polite a tarnished.”

“I speak to your horse, you overgrown gaudy goatfucker.” Cathal hisses out.

The Erdtree sentinel attacks, his horse bursting into motion as his halberd transforms into a golden blur of destruction. Cathal deftly sidesteps the blow and cuts at the legs of the equine, but he scores only a shallow hit as it rushes past. With astonishing speed and control the Sentinel checks his steed and comes back around for another swipe, Cathal takes a gamble and throws himself into the air, clearing the halberd and smacking his blade against the helm of his foe. A strike not meant to harm— that golden armor was damn near impervious to a blade his size, he’d need something larger than Blaidd’s sword to have a chance at getting through— but it knocks the armor about, and forces the man to furiously adjust his helm to regain proper eyesight. Taking advantage of his split second reprieve, Cathal hurls a glob of flame at the horse’s behind, and it shrieks as fire clings to its tail. With an enraged roar, the Sentinel comes about again, shield raised to intercept another spell, halberd held at the ready.

Cathal is forced to focus purely on survival, his opponent has opted for thrusts and attempts at crushing him beneath that mighty discus, the very ground shakes before the sheer weight of it. He cannot afford even a glancing blow, it would surely kill him outright—

A note, clear and piercing, reaches Cathal’s ears, and several follow it until he recognizes the mastery that can only belong to a merchant. Suddenly, his chest fills with a foreign strength, magic ready to be unleashed inside of him.

As the Edtree Sentinel turns to see from where the music had emerged, Blaidd chooses that moment to strike, his greatsword taking the two hind legs of the steed. It collapses, and takes the Erdtree Sentinel with it as he furiously curses about a number of things about Cathal’s mother. Cathal ignores this and tries to go for a clean cut to the neck, but the armored giant manages to raise his weapon arm to block the blow. Blaidd has more success, merely smashing down upon the helm itself, putting a notable dent in the headpiece. The Erdtree sentinel opts to let loose a pained roar, and the shield that he lays upon glows—

Cathal throws himself back as a burst of holy magic erupts from the ground, and the Sentinel himself has been launched skyward, managing to right himself as he lands heavily upon his feet.

“No,” he growls, readying his Halberd and backing up until both Blaidd and Cathal are within his field of vision, “words exist for the suffering I shalt inflict upon you miserable abominations. You think that filthy wretch Godrick is to be feared? He hath not one tenth of mine creativity. That horse—“

“Oh, shut the fuck up!” Blaidd roars, flying towards the man sword first, and the Erdtree Sentinel hefts his shield, and the two weapons scream as they clash. Their opponent goes for a thrust, but even he can only move such a weapon so quickly, and Blaidd is able to twist out of the way, but he can’t avoid the shield bash, and then only a desperate block that lifts the wolfman clean off his feat prevents him from being cut in half by the following strike. Fire scores a hit across the Sentinel’s side, but it had not been Cathal but Kalé, pulling his bow across his instrument once more, little orbs of flame coalescing and launching themselves towards the golden man.

“You dare?! You dare—“ Cathal takes his moment to leap upon the Erdtree Sentinel's back, dragonscale gleaming with magic as he clutches one hand upon the sculpted top of his enemy’s helm, wrenching it to one side as he sends all the wrath he can muster pouring down into the metal shell in a torrent of crimson lightning. His foe howls with pain, but Cathal is not done, his sword arm rises up and then thrusts down at the exposed neck of the Sentinel. A blur of gold intercepts him as a gauntlet clutches his blade, preventing him from burying it in sinew; the Erdtree Sentinel had dropped his halberd to hold back Cathal’s blade even as he endures the lightning. Blaidd does not miss this opportunity, he comes about again with blade blurring in speed. But in an astonishing display of endurance and fortitude, the golden defender somehow manages to ward off Blaidd with his shield alone even as he pushes back against Cathal’s blade and tries to buck him off, Cathal snarls and redoubles his efforts. He can feel Kalé’s enchantment of power waning, he cannot keep up the incantation for much longer—

But then another note plays, and fire once again bursts across the chest of the armor, expertly shot by Kalé to avoid Cathal’s own limbs as he clings to their foe, between the fire and Blaidd’s furiously continued assault, it’s just enough for the Sentinel’s concentration to slip.

Cathal’s blade sinks into the man’s neck with a wet thunk. Abruptly, his struggles cease as gargled choking rings in the air. Cathal pushes as deep as he can, twists, and then leaps off of the sentinel's back. The golden defender lands with a solid thud, his blood already soaking the grass. Cathal rips off the man’s helm.

He looks…normal. Choppy brown hair, blue eyes touched with Grace. Squarish face. He’s drowning on dry land, coughing up globs of blood, feebly twitching his hands.

…Cathal has nothing but scorn for the Golden Order.

But he swore to never be like them.

“Blaidd?” He asks. The wolfman is already there, still breathing hard. “If you would end it.”

Blaid hefts his sword and ends it.

---

An unexpected upside to Cathal’s newfound status as a Tarnished: Rune transmutation had become second nature. The art of “storing” such items as inscribed Runes was something Cathal had long since given up on mastering, but it hadn’t even taken a touch for the armor and weapons of the Erdtree Sentinel to make the conversion, resting in some phantasmal form alongside his more generic runes. He’s sure that particular gift will come in handy in his future.

Gods above, his future.

“Caelid.” He says, and both Blaidd and Kalé freeze in their motions of cleaning up their camp from the chaos. “Tell me what happened.”

“…T’was a horrid battle.” Blaidd spoke at last, his tone more somber than Cathal had heard. “Maleina’s campaign through Caelid had been met with fierce resistance, and if surviving description is any indication, she’d taken the loss of her men rather personally. She and General Radhan met upon the Aeonian Fields, and they fought for three days and three nights before at last their stalemate broke. Maleina’s long-dormant Scarlet Rot bloomed in a terrible flower, and blighted the entire region. It’s scarcely recognizable now. The once verdant fields are strange and deadly blooms. The clean air is choking the festering sickness. All manner of man and creatures are twisted into monstrosities.”

Did…

”Did she perish?” Cathal asks, his throat choked with his own failure.

“No. Reports say that a single Cleanrot carried the fallen demigod out of the battlefield and to safety, despite the Rot infesting her limbs. The Long March of the Last Cleanrot is a legend, now.”

Finlay, Cathal thinks. Finlay would never leave her love’s side. No matter the cost.

“What of Radhan?”

“Oh, he’s alive, not that the poor bastard wants to be. The Scarlet Rot’s not enough to kill him, but it’s eaten his mind. He now prowls the edges of the wasteland of his kingdom, killing all who approach. An attempt to lay their lord to rest by the Redmanes has begun to occur every year since. None have been successful.”

That’s…

Not exactly the worst possible scenario, but it’s damn close. Unless—

“Did… Lord Miquella emerge after the battle’s conclusion?” Blaidd shakes his wolfish head.

“No. Still missing. If he’d been in Caelid, he’s either Rotted or dead by now.”

”I see.” Cathal says, in lieu of saying anything else. His head feels as if it’s had his brains ripped out and stuffed with cotton. What to do? What to do? There seems to be little point in returning to Caelid now. No, he should make for the Haligtree, fast. Ascertain the situation, receive new orders. But such a journey might take him months, even if he could somehow avoid any complications. It must be undertaken, regardless, but…

A new fear has taken hold of him. If Lord Miquella had not been returned, then will he even find a Haligtree when he returns? Has everything he loved turned to ash while he slept peacefully in his grave?

Cathal does not know if he has the strength to find a new home for a third time.

“Fuck it,” Blaidd mutters, shocking Cathal out of his dark thoughts. “My blood’s up and I reckon none of us are going to sleep for hours. I picked up what I thought might be Darwill’s scent earlier, before we crossed the bridge. I plan to go scout it out. You’re welcome to join me, if you wish.” Cathal does not think it wise to return to a place where they had killed a dozen of Godrick’s men with a garrison nearby, but he’s not in the mood to be wise.

They leave Kalé to clean up camp and save what can be saved from their thoroughly burnt stew. The two hunters walk in morose, scarred silence as they stalk through the night, giving the ruins a wide berth and creeping across the bridge— the giants and the caravan they were pulling are gone, and not a single man has been re-appointed to replace the fallen. The rain had done its best, but near-black splotches of dried blood remains.

Cathal and Blaidd trudge through the cold and wet, man following beastman over the hills and through the woods. The irony would be hilarious, if all the world didn’t feel so sorrowful. He can barely feel the chill of the wind and rain through the dark haze that has settled over his mind. “I had planned to tell you.” Blaidd mutters, and Cathal almost loses the confession in the downpour. “Just…not yet. I thought you could use food and drink and a safe night of sleep before learning about what happened to your liege.” Cathal almost stops walking.

“When did I tell you I serve a liege, Blaidd?”

“Oh, you didn’t. But you were one of Maleina’s, or my nose is as broken as that crappy church. Only reason anyone would want to go to Caelid is if they didn’t know about Caelid, and ergo, you died before the Aeonian Bloom. So you were either one of Godricks, which you evidently are not, one of Radhan’s, which…you could be, I suppose, but you asked about him after Maleina. So, I reckon you served her, aye?” Cathal scoffs, feeling ten years younger, a fool stumbling in the dark.

“And here I thought I’d been so careful.”

“Word of advice, mate. You wear your heart on your face.”

“So I’ve been told.” Cathal sighs. “Does my former allegiance change anything?”

“No. I’ve no enmity towards the Haligtree. Maleina’s sins rest on her shoulders. Not yours.”

An instinct to defend his liege rises, but he squashes it. He still cannot entirely grapple with the reality that she’d chosen to unleash that which she’d dedicated her entire life to containing, and knows that until he witnesses Caelid for himself, he has no right to speak of it.

“Thank you,” he whispers. Blaidd does not answer.

So they continue on in silence until they reach their destination.

---

“Darrwil’s hiding in an Evergaol?” Cathal wonders, as Blaidd sniffs the air with canine intent. “I can’t imagine entering one willingly.” 

“It’s not a bad idea, if you’re willing to risk lunacy from sheer, unmitigated boredom. As much as I think that the Academy is full of nutters, these little devices are a work of fucking genius. I can’t understand half of the theory myself, but time don’t pass right inside these things. An age could go by and you’d still be a spry young man. Something about stars warping time along with space, from what my— my associates have told me.”

“Friendly with a sorcerer, hmm?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Blaidd mutters darkly. “Regardless, this makes things easier. He can’t run— the area affected is terribly small. He might have a key on him, but the entry and exit golems require a few seconds to charge up, so there’s no chance of him giving us the slip by warping out.” Blaidd unhooks his sword from his back as he pulls a stonesword key from his pouch, and Cathal draws his own blade from its sheath. “Ready, lad?”

“Ready, Blaidd.”

Cathal has ventured into Evergaols before, and it’s never been a pleasant experience. As soon as that key slots into that magic-wrought stone, the world begins to slip from under him. Reality rolls and ripples and distends, like an image on the ocean, the water indelibly changes all that it touches. The midnight sky, bright with moonlight and golden radiance, fades to a black, starless sky. The only light that exists is now the one that emanates from the stone itself. All goes quiet; only the breath of the two hunters can now be heard.

The hunters, and the hunted.

Darrawil’s armor is rust-colored and matted with dirt, his body hanging low as if a string held him up by the base of his spine. His sword and claws are clenched tightly in his hands, the armor groaning around their hilts. From within the black depths of his helm, nothing emerges.

“Darriwil.” Blaidd intones, voice forgetting his humanity as his throat returns to it’s bestial roots, a bass thrum of anger. “Did you think you could escape justice by rotting in a cell?”

“Justice.” Darwill’s voice by contrast is a hairy whisper, a string pulled so tight it dances along the knife-edge of snapping. “What justice have you ever known, Blaidd? Did you find it, as you hunted me? Does it sprout in some hidden garden-bed where the shoes of the mighty do not trod upon it, lest it pierce their shoes? No. There is no justice. You are compelled to slay me out of an antiquated sense of loyalty to a dying dynasty. Nothing more.”

Blaidd’s teeth gnash together in a furious snarl.

“And you, stranger,” Darrwil turns his helm a fraction to address Cathal, still speaking in that airy, taught tone, “what reason have you to see me dead? Has this dog tricked you into wearing his own leash? Or has some reward for my head emerged, since my flight from Liurnia?”

“If there has, I do not know it. And I now serve no lord. I face you for the bonds of friendship, both mine and Blaidd. Words will not dissuade me, Bloodhound.”

Darrwil lunges, blurring with speed. In an instant he’s upon the pair, who dive to either side.

And so it begins.

Darrwil goes for Blaidd first, motivated by either hatred or belief that the wolfman is the more dangerous of the two— perhaps both. Cathal does not waste the chance, ghostflame bursts to life across his sword as he draws a long cut across Darwill’s side. The armor protects his flesh from steel but not spell, he screams high and clear as the burning cold kisses his skin. A swipe of the claws nearly takes Cathal’s foot off, he falls into a series of ripostes and parries as the sword comes at bizzare angles. Darwill is fast as the wind and clearly has yet to forget his skill, but—

Cathal deflects a downward blow, shifting his weight as the blade slides off his adjusted guard instead of stopping it, and only a clumsy parry of Darrwil’s own with the claws saves the Bloodhound from another burning blow.

Blaidd has not been idle, he has leapt into the air and nearly succeeds in impaling Darwill, another blurring burst of movement carries their quarry to safety.

Now it is Blaidd and Cathal who lunge, coming at the disgraced knight from two sides, and it becomes evident he’d not cultivated the particular skill of fighting two opponents at once. They begin to score more hits across his armor, his movements begin to slow, his retaliations lack power. Stamina is not one of Darrwil’s gifts, it would seem. The bloodhound knows this, and in a daring act of desperation, leaps atop Blaidd. The wolfman drops a single hand from his sword to defend his face from Darwill’s claws, but the knight continues, bashing his helm into Blaidd’s unprotected head and then plants two feet upon an armored chest, propelling himself back into the air and twisting to face a Cathal who has rushed to assist Blaidd, and now it is too late to dodge the sword that’s racing toward his head.

“CATHAL!” Blaidd roars, trying to reach them but he knows he’s not fast enough—

But Cathal has noticed something, in this duel. Much like his own, Darwill’s sword is a curved blade, although far larger in size, and only one side holds an edge.

So in a move of superb control, he takes a hand off his sword and reaches up and simply pushes Darwill’s sword away from his face, and plants his own right above Darwill’s heart.

The Bloodhound’s blade smashes into the dirt as his own weight pushes Cathal’s sword through his armor and into his chest.

All goes still.

“May you find peace in whatever life you shall have next,” Cathal murmurs, and then wrenches the blade out of Darwill’ heart in a great gout of blood. He’s then shocked when Blaidd’s armored hands clasp his shoulders, the wolfman frantically scanning Cathal’s body.

“Are you alright?! For a moment there—“

“I assure you Blaidd, I am fine—“

“You have to be the canniest man i’ve ever known, that little stunt there just about put my balls in my throat—“

“Blaidd please, enough about your balls.”

“Heh. Well, if you’re well enough to insult a man’s privates I guess you’re fine.” Blaidd glares down at Darrwil’ corpse, already beginning to dust as the Evergaol fulfills one of it’s many functions and disposes of the prisoner's remains. “And good riddance, ya sorry bastard. For Bols.”

Cathal and Blaidd return to the true world and find the rain has ceased, and now golden leaves flitter through the air, gently blessing all that they pass by.

“Well!” Blaidd explosively sighs. “Had to work for it, but it’s done. Thanks for your help, mate.”

“Of course. Although I feel bad about drenching all this blood on Kalé’s clothes. I’ll have to buy more soap.”

“Oh no, no need. Follow, there should be a Site of Grace just down the hill, from what I remember. Jerren— a friend who’s also tarnished— found out that however those little things work, they clean your clothes as well as heal your wounds. You’ll never have to wash anything again.”

“Truly? How convenient.” True to Blaidd’s words, there’s another gently pulsing bit of divinity resting at the foot of the hill. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out and makes contact with the Grace. At once, a wave of pure relief washes over Cathal, all the sores and bruises from battle vanishing as energy seeps into his limbs, punishing all discomfort. In an instant, his armor appears as if it had been newly made, every form of stain and grime vanishing. “Well,” he murmurs, turning over his hands in amazement, “that will be most useful.” He turns to face Blaidd, already feeling a familiar sensation emerging in his chest, an old tightness of heart and throat.

“I suspect this is goodbye, is it not?” Blaidd scratches at his ears.

“Fraid so, lad. I have other business to attend to, and I’m sworn to secrecy for…most of it, actually.” Cathal nods, trying not to feel as if he was a child again, watching his friends leave to go back to their homes, where food and comfort awaited them. “Do you still plan to go to Caelid?”

“No,” Cathal answers honestly. “I don’t truly know what I shall do next. I suppose I must figure that part out myself. I’m not sure the world still has a place for me.”

“The world does not give us our places in it, Cathal. We have to make them ourselves.” Blaidd says, solemnly. “But, should you ever find yourself in Liurnia and encounter a blacksmithing troll with a most reflective helm— tell him you’re a friend of Blaidd, and he’ll be sure to treat you right.”

“We are friends, then?” Cathal cannot help but ask, his hope as plain as the moon’s face. Blaidd just chuckles.

“Lad, we killed men together. Of course we’re friends.” He extends a hand, and Cathal returns the shake as solidly as he can.

“Thank you, Blaidd. For everything.”

“Thank you, Cathal. Give my regards to Kalé, yeah?”

“Of course. Farewell, Blaidd, fair Hunter and friend.”

Blaidd smiles, and then turns to lumber off into the night. Cathal waits until he can no longer hear the thud of the wolfman’s boot, and allows himself to feel the sorrow that has taken hold of him.

Cathal has always hated being alone.

He should return to Kalé but he knows that is only a temporary solution at best, the merchant may be kind but surely he will not want Cathal’s company forever, and it would be the height of rudeness to demand that his new acquaintance allow him to follow in his footsteps, wherever he may go.

Does Cathal make for the Haligtree? For Caelid? (For home, a tiny part of him wonders, but no. No. He will never go back to that place. Never.) What is he to do, with this second life that has already taken so much from him? Become a painter? Tend to a farm? He has no skill that does not relate to battle or survival. His life had not allowed him to cultivate any other. Nor does he wish to find another lord to swear fealty to, not until he knows more of the status of the Haligtree. He sits down, staring at the Site of Grace with more than a little hatred. It was the calling of the Tarnished to seek the shattered parts of the Elden Ring, but conceding to Marika’s will feels like a betrayal of every principle he has. And regardless, he does not want a throne.

He just wants a home.

A whisper of magic in the air. A faint hint of fire and ash. He snaps his head up to see a figure emerge out of an ethereal blue mist. A woman, cloaked in plain traveling clothes.

“Greetings.” comes a voice, soft and fair, from within the shadows of the hood. She flairs her cloak and rests gently upon the ground next to him, pulling back her cowl, and Cathal’s breath stops.

She is beautiful. Her hair, a red so pale it near pink frames a face he shall remember till the day he dies again. Her one eye is a tawny gold, the other closed, a marking of sorts drawn over the skin.

“I am Melina,” she murmurs, meeting his gaze with a solemn determination. “I offer you an accord.”

Notes:

Melina! At last! We can now get this trage- er, very happy story rolling!

Hope that the shorter fight with Darrwil is alright- I couldn't justify having it be longer when only a short while ago, Blaidd and Cathal managed to take down a far stronger foe in the Edtree Sentinel. Heck, in the game, you can literally let Blaidd just solo Darrwil. It takes like a minute, but he'll get the job done. As for the bit where he chose to hide in there, I thought it was a good compromise-- not every Evergaol prisoner will be like that, but having him be there willingly made more sense, as I can't imagine Godrick not either recruiting or killing Darrwil if he knew about him. The bit about time-warping effects will be relevant later, as well.

Speaking of the Erdtree Sentinel , while I think my explanation is a solid one for why the heck the he'ss hanging out there, it IS funny to imagine he's just noticed a lot of tarnished pop up in this area and settles down for some bullying. Erdtree Sentinels are dedicated haters.

And don't worry, Blaidd and Kalé are definitely going to appear again! It's just time to get some plot kicked off.

Chapter 3: Maiden by Gracelight

Summary:

Melina makes herself known to Cathal, and offers the bereft Tarnished the strength he is owed.

“Do you start all your conversations this way?” The words slip out of Cathal’s mouth before he can seize them and return them to their proper place within his mind. He ducks his head, embarrassed, but before he can offer some inadequate apology, the strange woman speaks.

”No.” Melina’s tone is solemn, her face somewhere between tranquil and morose. His childish retort had either gravely offended her or not even mattered at all, t’would seem. She tilts her head to one side, the expression as quizzical as a cat, before asking, “Do you not wish to know what I offer?” Cathal raises an eyebrow in turn.

”I can’t help but wonder,” He begins slowly, “what must clearly be a sorceress or spirit of great strength could want from me, of all the sorrowful creatures that roam this patch of earth. I was warned long ago to be weary of those who come upon travelers by the wayside of the road.” At last her expression breaks, the hint of a smile poisoned by bitter truth.

“There are many things,” she intones, “and you are right to be wary. But I only ask for that which is equal in value to what I offer. I am no great sorceress, Cathal. And despite what mine sudden appearance might suggest, it is more a clever trick of light than true boundless movement.” Melina pauses for a moment before continuing. “I long to return to my home, but the way is barred to me. As I am, I cannot hope to reach the Atlas Plateau. That is the accord I ask of you: that you would assist me in reaching the foot of the Erdtree, in far away Leyndell.” Despite himself, Cathal sucks in a breath through his teeth.

”That is no small favor, my lady Melina,” He admits. “Even if I was a captain of the royal guard, Leyndell has closed it’s walls to all by decree of the Veiled Monarch. T’would take an army to breach the very walls that withstood all but one in the Ancient Wars.”

“True,” she murmurs, staring into the Site of Grace with a singular eye, and there is no doubt in Cathal’s mind that she can see it— “but that which halt an army will fail to even notice two, and the years have long since created many ways into the city, for those with the will and strength to brave them.”

“I can tell you now, my lady, that I have not the strength to defend you or even myself, should we draw the ire of the Erdtree’s defenders.” This time, the smile is coy, her eyes catch the gleam of the divinity and seem to pool for a moment.

“But what if you did?” She offered, and Cathal braces himself for the trap. “You are called back from Death to claim the Elden Ring, but through misfortune or malice, your Finger Maiden has not come to deliver guidance. Without the strength of Runes, you would surely perish ere long, tis true. But I can play the role of your Maiden. You barely slew the Erdtree Sentinel with the aid of two other warriors, yes? With enough runes, even a triad of such foes would not be a match for you.”

“And who are you,” Cathal asks, slowly, fighting the instinct to lay his hand upon his sword, “that can offer such a thing, if not a Finger Maiden yourself?”

Melina hesitates again, breaking their deadlock of stares to gaze at the gentle rain of leaves, dancing in the ever present wind that erodes the spirit of all who tread across grim Limgrave.

“We both harbor secrets, Cathal.” She says, after a long wait. “It is the nature of all living beings when presented with a riddle to solve it. But some secrets we are sworn to keep, for others or ourselves. I am deathly curious about you, and I am sure you wish to know more of me. But I will not tempt nor force answers from you, and I ask that you do the same. In this hour of doubt, I shall say only this: I am not an ally of the Erdtree nor of any other faction that would lay claim to this land. I,” she stumbles for a moment, just a barest catch of breath, “I am alone, utterly, save my steed. Mine only wish is to return home, and ascertain what it is my mother wanted for me. I swear this by the stars themselves and all that I hold dear.”

Cathal frowns, staring at her. He cannot detect any lie in her manner or her words— and certainly, this is no offer too sweet to be true, Leyndell was about the last place he wished to be— but all the same, that kind of power just being offered to him is…

“Why me?” Cathal settles upon, and her gaze is drawn back to him. “Surely there must be others who are stronger or more capable than I within these lands. Ones who could offer higher chances of success.”

“Perhaps,” Melina admits, “But I have seen many Tarnished come and go, Cathal. And out of all of them, I have only seen one offer peace before drawing his blade to defend himself.”

“You’ve been watching me since the forest?” Cathal asks, baffled and alarmed he had utterly failed to notice her. She nods, the barest hint of a flush entering her face.

“I was…curious. And I observe all of your kind who pass through, to see if one might seem…trustworthy enough to be given such a strength. Marika has not chosen the Tarnished for their hearts, tis clear. Only the strength of their sword-arm. I do not see the wisdom in this, but if I am to have a companion I would prefer one who values the lives of all. Not just those like his.”

That, more than anything, convinces him that this isn’t a trick.

“Well,” he muses, “I suppose I can live with the indignity for such a worthy cause. All the same, while I do wish to help you I must stress— I cannot promise you that I can do as you wish. I shall try as valiantly as I may, for in truth my own destination lies beyond the capital of these lands, but I know my own limits all too well.”

“Then take my hand,” Melina says, reaching out from within her cloak, stopping just a few scant meters away from him, her palms small and slim and marked with terrible scars that peak out from just beyond her cuffs, “and surpass them.”

Cathal hesitates for just a moment, and then reaches back.

It is difficult to explain what happens next. He is at once intensely aware of the Runes within him, gleaming with untapped power. Melina, a presence foreign but pulsing with a strength that is not wholly dissimilar, reaches within and touches these Runes, unshackling them from their held form.

“Share them with me,” she murmurs. “Your thoughts. Your ambitions. The principles which you hold dear.”

And when he does, the runes dissipate into him more thoroughly than before, their very essence seeping into his skin, his bones, his soul, and…

He actually doesn’t feel different at all. Perhaps a tad more refreshed, but unlike Kale’s enchantments from earlier, his limbs don’t surge with sudden power, nor does his mind open up to spells hitherto unknown. He feels just as he did a moment ago.

But he is certain it has worked.

Cathal lets go of a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Melina offers one more smile, this one true and clear, and it is surely the lingering warmth of Runes that fills his chest at the sight. “Did I not promise you I could bestow such a blessing?” She teases, relenting to show him a hint of humanity once more, and he lets loose a shaky laugh.

“Well,” he smiles back, “I suppose seeing is believing.”

---

“Wherever did you find him?” Cathal asks in awe, adjusting in the saddle as Torrent pounds across the plains, swifter than the winds themselves. The steed, some strange cross of horse and goat that Melina had unmasked shortly after they’d solidified their pact, bears both of them with ease as he trots across the ground with nary a complaint. Despite his oddities, he’s a magnificent mount, with even the makeshift saddle somehow oddly comfortable.

“He was a gift from mine sister,” Melina says, her gaze skyward. “I fear I shall not see her for some time, unless fate has other plans in store.” Cathal resolves to change the subject. Melina’s family seems steeped in tragedy.

He can relate.

“Tell me,” he asks, trying to spot the bridge they needed to cross once more, “I have been…absent from the Lands Between for some time. Nearly five years, by a friend’s reckoning. What major events have occurred in that time?”

“I suppose that might depend on one’s definition of major events,” Melina responds, speaking cautiously, “but by my measure, there has only been three upheavals since. The Rotting of Caelid, the Battle for Altus, and the Sealing of the Highways.”

“I know of the first.” Cathal says, trying his best to not linger upon it. With every step, he moves further from Caelid. He has no need to think of it for a long while, now. “Tell me of the others.”

“After Malenia’s march across Morgott’s territory, Rykard seized his chance, sensing his half-brother’s weakened hold. The ensuing conflict was…dreadful. Rykard had amassed a great many war machines within his caldera, and the land paid the price— I believe it is said that there are more ballista bolts and craters within the outer walls of Leyndell than men, now. Rykard pushed Morgott’s forces all the way to the gates before they were routed by the Valiant Gargoyles and the Fell Omen himself, and a trail of blood was carved all the way into the caldera of Mount Gelmir. With scores of both armies dead, the two demigods have mostly kept to their own borders, although rumor says that a platoon of Leyndell soldiers have occupied all entrances to the volcano. T’was the last proper campaign we’ve seen in the Shattering Wars. Shortly after, a royal decree from Morgott bade the Bellum Highway shut, and the great gates of Leyndell closed, with no passage allowed in or out of the city. It has been an uneasy stalemate ever since.”

Damn. With the Bellum Highway closed, they’d have to find some other way to ascend the cliffs to the Altus Plateau. Still, Leyndell’s sheer numbers having been reduced would help them with sneaking through any gaps in the defenses of the capital. While Cathal still had some lingering doubts about Melina’s intentions, he couldn’t picture any loyal servant of Morgott actually offering assistance to a Tarnished. The Veiled Monarch had made his opinion on such matters quite clear.

“No word from the other players, then?”

“No. Raya Lucaria has remained shut, although I imagine they are not idle within those walls. Princess Ranni and the Carians have not been seen for some time, nor have the twin prodigies since Maleina’s return to the Haligtree, as Miquella remains missing. Godrick remains reclusive, and Radhan is incapacitated by the Rot. Mogh has not been seen since even before the Shattering began. Everyone is holding their breath and waiting to see which Shardbearer shall act first.”

Hm. Not…the worst playing field to be put upon, for the moment. No active combat zones outside of a few border skirmishes would make traveling far easier, although any major fiefdoms would still be on high alert. Fortunately, Cathal’s more than familiar with the art of moving unseen, and there’s no fortress in existence without weaknesses a clever soldier cannot exploit.

He can only hope his companion’s reticence demeanor extends to her footfall.

As Torrent draws closer to the bridge, the horse suddenly slows, huffing agitatedly. Cathal frowns. Why would he…

Quickly, he tugs the reins, bringing the mount to a complete stop.

There, only a few yards away upon the stone platform, nearly invisible against the darkness, is a rider clothed in black. From head to toe, every inch of his scored armor had nary a splash of color— not even his glaive. The warrior’s helm gave no hint to any allegiance, but Cathal cannot find the optimism within him to believe that the stranger is friendly. Behind him, one of Melina’s hands grasps his shoulder, her breath tickles his ear.

“That,” she hisses in clear alarm, “is a member of the Night Cavalry. A group of knights hand-picked by the Fell Omen to slaughter your kind. They travel only by night, ruthlessly hunting Tarnished wherever they may go. I did not expect one to find us so soon.”

“I killed quite a few of Godrick’s men on that very bridge earlier today,” Cathal mumbles back, feeling oddly sheepish. “Word must spread fast.”

“We should withdraw,” Melina murmurs, “tis possible he has not yet been alerted to our pres—”

Even as she says the words, the knight’s helm snaps to their position, and his cloaked horse lets loose an unearthly shriek as it gallops towards them. Cathal swears and flicks the reins once more, Torrent takes off like an arrow at last released from its bow. The thundering of hooves soon fills the air, as Cathal blindly guides his new companions into the hills of Limgrave.

“You may wish to flee,” Cathal urges Melina, as he guides Torrent through a cluster of trees. “I will not blame you.”

“I shall not start our partnership with such a brazen display of faithlessness, Cathal.” Melina retorts. “And besides,” she continues, and the familiar sound of a blade leaving its sheathe reaches his ears, “I am not helpless.” In a move he more feels than sees, Melina manages to swing her legs around until she’s riding in the opposite position, facing their pursuer. A brilliant golden glow touches the periphery of Cathal’s world, and he risks a glance back. The Night Cavalry is forced to swerve his steed away from the arc of holy energy, and Cathal takes the opportunity to guide Torrent back onto the road, drawing his own blade.

“For someone who claims not to be an ally of the Etrdtree, your choice of incantations is curious.”

“We cannot choose the circumstances of our birth. Only how we grow from them.”

Yes, Cathal thinks. He and Melina are going to get along just fine. He pulls on the reins, and Torrent almost skids across the wet mud, his control immaculate as the mount performs a near perfect turn to charge back at their pursuer. The knight readies his halberd, both hands grasped, armament held high, ready to cleave through horse and rider in one.

“Trust in Torrent,” Melina murmurs. “He’ll know what to do.”

As they close in, Cathal’s nerves strain, screaming at him to abort, Torrent is about to be cut—

But then Torrent leaps, and Cathal’s heart sinks as he realizes it’s not enough, this beautiful creature is about to lose a leg—

And something wonderful happens as Torrent almost playfully flexes his hooves and leaps upon thin air once more, carrying himself and his two riders clear of the halberd, and giving Cathal a perfect shot as he brings his blade, now burning with ghostflame down upon the Night Cavalry. Melina does not miss the opportunity either, with a flick of her wrist her blade alights with holy power once more and she drags it across the armor of the knight, scoring a resounding blow against it, armor failing to prevent the magic from traveling to batter the insides of it’s wearer.

In that strange dance of combat, all participants turn to the music only they hear, some strange mix of fate and free will dedicating that they bring their mounts around, staring at each other across the road. Tarnished and Tarnished-hunter dismount, nearly at the same time. Melina stays utop Torrent, and Cathal does not blame her— while clearly she has skill with her knife, armorless against a halberd on foot with only that would be an exceedingly risky decision.

Besides, Cathal’s curious to see if Maiden-granted strength is all he’s heard it to be.

Blessedly, his foe is silent as they approach. He’s heard enough pompous speeches from Erdtree bootlickers to last a lifetime. Once some invisible boundary has been crossed, cautious footsteps erupt into lunges, and the halberd once again sails through the air in an opening thrust. Cathal side steps, and finds that now that he’s not fearing for two of his companions, the strike seems almost slow, as if the wielder had chosen a weapon too heavy to properly swing. The knight tries to cut him as he pulls his weapon back, but Cathal ducks under and weaves away from the edge-side, flicking his sword out. A series of blocks and blows commence, the Night Cavalry trying to force Cathal back into the polearm’s optimal range but Cathal doesn’t allow it, harrowing him with a blistering series of attacks, his blade blurring with the speed. While his opponent is heavily armored enough to take some of the blows on his gauntlets, forcing Cathal to start fighting more defensively, the knight is forced to take a hand off of his weapon to do it. So when another retaliatory thrust comes his way, Cathal switches to a one handed grip himself, grabbing hold of the Night Cavalry's polearm and slipping his blade through an opening at the inner elbow, piercing through leather, sinew, and bone. The arm goes limp and a desperate punch is avoided, the Night Cavalry switches to his non-dominant hand and tries for a wild swing, but

Cathal spins out of range and then buries his blade in the man’s visor.

The Night Cavalry collapses to his knees.

Cathal relieves him of his head.

Runes as the body stills. His horse approaches, mournful. Cathal doesn’t have the heart for words, so simply rejoins Torrent and Melina.

“Well fought,” the maiden offers. “I would have joined, but I…” she pauses, and her conterance falls dark.

“It is no trouble, lady Melina.” Cathal assures. “You have already done enough to aid me. Shall we continue back to camp?”

“Yes. I am not eager to find what other servants might lurk in these deep woods.”

---

By the time they make it back to the church, Kalé has already left, a brisk note informing Cathal that he thought it wise to move on before questions arose about the death of the Sentinel— he’d be traveling to the Weeping Peninsula, where he’d heard rumors of a revolt at Castle Morne. Any monarch’s fall creates an influx of business, and Kale’s eager to capitalize.

“My friend has moved southward,” Cathal reports to Melina, who’s been staring at the Site of Grace with a morose eye, “but I cannot think of anywhere better to camp that we could reach without sacrificing the night entire.”

“This is a Church of Marika,” Melina murmurs, her tone indecipherable. “Echoes linger here. Spoken words that still dwell within what stone remains.”

“Who’s words?” Cathal asks, beginning to regret his decision to wait to purchase a bedroll from Kale. But needs must, and he’s slept on the hard ground many a night before.

“Marika’s own.” Melina responds, a soft touch ghosting across what little decoration remained in the architecture. “She was here.”

“The goddess herself, in this insignificant corner of her empire? Hard to imagine her making the trip.”

“Her arm was once long. And many fingers remain.”

Cathal shivers, but it’s nothing to do with the cold. “I confess, I cannot help but wonder what Marika’s design is, raising me as a Tarnished. I made no secret of my dislike for her Order in my life.”

“Marika has always been fond of twisting enemies into allies. It was…difficult, to refuse her.”

“You speak as if you knew her.” Cathal murmurs, trepidation lingering within his heart.

“I do not believe anyone truly knows her. She is a most elusive queen. But I am well learned in the history of the Erdtree, and her ability to compel others into service is documented across time.”

“True. Well, I don’t believe there’s much more to do, besides rest. I—“

“I shall take the first watch. You fought harder than I. You need the rest.” The logic is sound, but Cathal cannot quite bring himself to sleep in front of this strange woman so easily, even with all the proofs she has offered. Even as she folds herself into a small bundle of cloak and cloth, Torrent kneeling down as so to give her a warm body to rest beside, he stays awake long into the night.

Cathal watches the stars, and wonders if his friends are staring back down at him from the heavens.

Notes:

SHADOW OF THE ERDTREE RELEASE DATE LETS GO LETS GOOOOOOOO

Also, sorry for taking so long with this chapter! Trying to get the descriptions just right is a lot of work. Thanks to everyone for reading, and hopefully the next one won't be too far behind, as we're now getting this story really started!

Chapter 4: Tears of the Peninsula

Summary:

It's the beginning of Cathal's journey with Melina, but they're forced to take a detour in the face of foes both familiar and strange.

Cathal wakes to birdsong, and it is not the graceful chirps of doves that gather in the boughs of the Haligtree. Its harsh crows, distant seagulls, the rustle of grass… of which barely any grew within Elphael proper. A few moments of confusion, terror, and then memory.

Dead man walking.

He hopes Melina is asleep. What rain that falls upon his face is a private affair. After a moment of weakness he allows himself, he rises, doing his best to pretend his back isn’t a solid collection of knots and aches with bricks lodged between his spine and hip. Ah, roughing it. Can he call it nostalgic, when to him the events of five years past is only yesterday?

A gentle ringing of bells alerts him, he’s on his feet with his sword hand resting upon his blade as Melina steps into visibility, her face as morosely neutral as ever.

“Good morning, Cathal.” She murmurs, hints of sleep in her throat. “Forgive me for leaving you unattended for a moment, I had to feed Torrent some berries. He insisted.” Torrent trots in after her, and while the horse-goat could not speak, there was a distinctly satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“Better for our mount to be well fed. Regardless, I sleep lightly.” Cathal promises, relaxing as he stares at the sky. Just after dawn, by his reckoning. Good, he’d hate to lose daylight. “We should…probably discuss our route. I don’t suppose you—“

Melina wordlessly reaches into one of the pouches on Torrent’s saddle and pulls out a map.

“Ah, excellent.” Cathal walks over as she holds it up for the both of them to examine. “How up to date is this?”

“I cannot say for sure, but it’s proven reliable enough. The only thing of note that I know to be inaccurate is that large portions of the Bellum Highway have fallen into disrepair.” Melina responds, and Cathal groans.

“Damn Lucarians. Won’t touch anything that they can’t use magic for. That’ll add at least a week, maybe more, depending on how out of the way we need to go to find a safer route, since last I recall, those flooded woods had a number of ghastly things crawling around.”

“Indeed, but in truth, it’s Stormveil that I anticipate being more of a problem to our progress.” Melina murmurs, and Cathal’s brows furrow at the thought.

“Why? Godrick’s forces aren’t anything to fear, and while taking the castle might be beyond our means, there should be ample opportunity to slip through—“

“It’s not Godrick’s men that concern me. There is a reason I wished to flee from the Night Cavalry.” Melina’s lip purses. “With both his and the death of the Erdtree Sentinel, we may find it wise to take a minor detour to throw off the scent.”

“Of?” Cathal stresses. Melina hesitates for a moment, single eye meeting his two before glancing away guiltily.

“I believe I mentioned last night that I have… observed the Tarnished who pass through Limgrave as of late. For those who still seek the Elden Ring, Godrick is a tempting target. He is weak by comparison to his remaining relations, his forces unorganized and largely depleted…and as such, Leyndell has kept a close eye on Stormveil.”

“Speak plainly, Lady Melina.” Cathal insists, feeling his hackles rise. The normally stoic woman looks genuinely nervous, and when considering her relative lack of fear engaging in combat with the Night Cavalry, that speaks volumes of whatever it is she knows.

“…I have seen The Fell Omen strike down your kind not even a fortnight ago, just beyond the garrison that guards the castle.”

Cathal’s breath catches for a moment.

Margit the Fell. Morgott’s personal executioner. An Omen of devastating power and might, fanatically loyal to his liege. The one who hunted down and killed any would-be challengers to the throne. The one who’s apparently barely a few miles away.

Margit is going to be hunting him.

“We need to move,” Cathal finds himself saying. “If Margit himself is in the area, he’ll have doubtlessly heard about all the noise I’ve made in the last day. He could be on his way here right now. We need to get out of sight. We…” He can’t. He can’t go to Caelid. He’s not strong enough. He’s—

“The Weeping Peninsula is in a state of upheaval, is it not? The only Order stronghold there is Castle Morne, and it maintains a light garrison due to the inaccessibility of its coastline. We should go there, lose any would-be pursuers scent in the chaos. And the more Runes you gather before we make an attempt at passing through Stormveil, the better.” Melina says, already mounting Torrent.

“Is that not in the opposite direction?” Cathal asks, taking her hand as he pulls himself up.

“Yes, which means they won’t expect it. I am in no great hurry, Cathal. We might waste a few days, but better to waste time than to waste your life by facing Margit’s wrath.”

“Point taken,” Cathal says as he flicks the reins, and they’re off. Torrent is all too eager to demonstrate his unique skill once more to avoid the bridge, simply hopping down rock and air alike to circumvent what would otherwise be an impossible route for a horse. It’s…rough, to say the least, but he’s endured worse, so it’s irrelevant. He keeps an eye out for the dragon Blaidd had mentioned, but he sees no sign of it. Only shattered, burnt trees and fresh corpses bobbing in the quagmire. The Sentinel had…likely done his job, before trying to kill him, then. Sorrow rests deeply in Cathal’s heart. He has a deep respect for dragons, and to kill one even in self defense is a great tragedy— the thought that its corpse is to doubtlessly be defiled by Godrick is sickening. Cathal glances down at the scale tied tightly to his left wrist before he forces himself to focus. It's not the time to mourn.

“How long should we detour before we deem it safe to continue towards our original destination?” Goals have always helped him push away memories he does not wish to linger upon.

“Margit is tenacious, but he is not without his limits. Being out of sight for perhaps three days at least should be enough for him to give up the pursuit in favor of easier prey. And should be enough for you to gather a decent amount of Runes.”

“I feel compelled to tell you that I am not going to be slaughtering man and animal alike to gain power, Lady Melina.” He hears Melina scoff from behind him, and trusts Torrent enough to turn to see her tawny eye, giving him a most unimpressed look.

”I assure you, Cathal. There is no lack of horror or injustice to find in The Lands Between. I am certain that you will find foes deserving of your blade ere long.”

Cathal can’t help but weakly chuckle at that, the sound without mirth.

She isn’t wrong.

They continue onwards, rising up out of the quagmire and down a familiar dirt path, near where Cathal parted ways with Blaidd. He hopes the wolf-man is fairing well, already his coarse humor is missed. His current companion seems rather stoic… not that Cathal himself is exactly a jester. The road dips down betwixt a narrow gap in the hills, and—

“Ah. Hold on!”

The bridge ahead is manned, because of course it is. A few soldiers are already moving forwards, no doubt to either demand their fealty or their supplies, given their surcoats belonging to Godrick’s hodgepodge army. What’s of more immediate concern to Cathal is the miniature version of a ballista that’s aimed square at them, he urges Torrent to one side as he sees the mechanism jolt, and a massive bolt whistles overhead— and then roars as fire erupts behind them.

How delightful.

Fortunately, while the siege engine poses a threat, the rest of the garrison seem to be about as competent as your average Godrick foot soldiers— that is to say, barely. It’s easy enough to simply rush past them, knocking away the stray spear that threatened to graze Torrent’s stride and vaulting straight over a few heads (Cathal doesn’t care what he needs to do to find whatever breed this creature is, he won’t be able to go back to a regular horse after this), until he’s upon the ballista. He leaps from Torrent’s saddle and straight onto the poor soldier manning it, killing him swiftly with a vicious stab, and then forces the machine to adjust it’s aim as far down as he can make it go… aiming the explosive bolt at the small cluster of soldiers who are all now shouting with alarm.

Cathal grins and releases the winch.

The bridge is scored slightly as the men are either killed outright or flung over the sides by the force.

“...I am beginning to see your history more clearly,” Melina murmurs as she trots back over on Torrent, staring at the destruction he’d wrought. “You were no mere footsoldier of the Haligtree, were you?”

“Already poking at my secrets, Lady Melina?” Cathal asks, gently sliding back down onto the saddle as she affixes him with a glare.

“Please, Cathal. Do not continue to bore me with etiquette. Call me by my name, and nothing more. This journey will be twice as long if I will have to endure undeserving titles for its duration.”

“If you insist. And if you wish for an answer…Melina, then, I will happily trade you a bit of history for your own.” Cathal flicks the reins, and they begin to trot along, deeper into the Peninsula.

“Hm. I might accept such a bargain, but only if I retain the right to refuse questions. There are things I would rather not speak of where attentive ears might be hidden.”

“That is hardly a solution,” Cathal retorts, “We might as well just refuse every question asked of us and be talking in circles from here to Leyndell.”

“True.” Melina sighs. “Tis’ hard to trust in the best of times, and these days, wariness oft proves the wiser choice. I suppose I shall simply have to cling to what hope I have that I might know you better, ere our company ends.” Cathal feels something rising on his lips but it dies as they round a bend in the land, and his eyes behold a tragedy. Torrent slows to a trot, as if sensing his shock and sorrow. “Cathal? What is…oh.”

There are bodies laid out upon the side of the road that stretches across in a macabre recreation of the path itself. Men and women and Misbegotten alike are piled on top of each other, some corpses still fresh, others bloated in death and pecked by carrion birds. His gaze lingers on a blonde girl who couldn’t have been much older than Melina herself, hands clasped in a prayer that went unanswered. He continues down the line, spotting some soldiers wearing Godrick’s colors, but others garbed in simple steel, unadorned by any insignia. As for the nonhumans, they nearly double the amount of their presumed foes, all but having fallen on top of them, feathers and teeth brown with dried viscera. It’s a trail of bodies, carrying through an underpass and beyond his sight.

“I am beginning to believe,” Cathal says slowly, trying to not let the stench turn his stomach, “that perhaps Kale downplayed the severity of the unrest here.”

“To my knowledge, the only fiefdom here was that of Castle Morne.” Melina utters, voice tight. “This is a land flush with growth and as such, twas populated by those who are better suited to surviving outside of walls. But in the early years of Marika’s rule, a tragedy played out its final part here. A murder most foul was committed within the walls of Leyndell itself. The newlywed bride, Lady Morna, loved by all, renowned for her beauty and grace. She was to marry Lord Cristo, but another suitor who’s name is lost to history was madly jealous, and slew her in her wedding bed. Lord Cristo, taken by grief and rage, chased him throughout all the lands between until at last he smote him down here. Hollowed out by his revenge, Lord Cristo then turned his attention to those who still hid from the gaze of Marika here, and soon had a population of chattel slaves he could put to work constructing his castle, as his scores of men kept them in line. He kept a vigil here for the rest of his days, looking out at the sea, weeping endlessly.”

“That is a horrid tale, Melina.” Cathal says, raising hand to his mouth to try and block the pungent smell of death as they rode past. He is not unfamiliar with the Misbegotten’s plight (a name, he knows, that was given to them by those who hated and persecuted them, but he had never found the courage at the Haligtree to ask the question of their proper name; such an inquiry from a human would be the height of rudeness, he had no right to it. But all the same, he longs to use a word that will not sully them by its uttering.)

“A horrid tale for a horrid sight. But one might take some measure of hope in seeing that the Misbegotten of the Weeping Peninsula at last found the strength to make a bid for their freedom, even if the cost was great.” The enigmatic woman sighs. “Should we all be so brave, to challenge death willingly in the name of what is just.”

Cathal finds he has nothing more to say to that.

A lie. He is all but bursting with outrage at the notion that they should have to die for the right to exist at all, that they lived lives in balance with nature before Man had come and forced them into a hierarchy determined by a being so far removed from this splinter of creation that it did not even know of flesh or fruit or fear.

But these thoughts are to be kept guarded. Melina clearly has no allegiance to the Order— or at least, it does not stay her blade from those who would impede her path, but loyalty to a kingdom and loyalty to an Outer God is a very different thing, and Cathal has found blades at his throat for a careless remark before.

So they ride on in silence. Eventually, they leave the corpses behind them, and the world seems as if it is at peace as they ride through the sloping hills and forests of the southernmost reach of the Lands Between. They have left the morning behind in their flight, and now the midday sun falls, and with it comes the rains for which this territory is named, a light drizzle that swiftly turns into a heavy downpour that soaks all of them to the bone. Torrent huffs his displeasure at his riders, and Cathal has a feeling he will be making a profuse apology as soon as they dismount.

“We should seek shelter from the storm in the trees,” Murmurs Melina, at last breaking their quiet spell. “It will only get worse, and neither of us can afford illness— nor for Torrent to lose his footing and injure his leg.”

“Agreed,” Cathal says, guiding Torrent to the right towards a cluster of ash and oaks, hoping that at least some of the foliage is thick enough to provide at least partial relief. Then, to his surprise, as they venture further into the small forest, he spies a small cabin. It’s two stories, primarily made of stone and wood with a few storage barrels lying beside the door, and a thoroughly extinguished cooking pot next to the doorstep. Cathal hesitates for a moment, and then urges Torrent forwards.

“Cathal, do you think it wise to approach a local for assistance? Most in these days have good reasons to be wary of armed travelers.” Melina questions, and Cathal’s answer is to shrug.

“We can always rough it if need be. But there is little harm in asking, is there not? If we were bandits, we would hardly knock.”

A brisk tap of his knuckles upon wood meant to alert the owners instead opens the door with a soft creak. After a few moments of hesitation, they enter, Torrent barely fitting through the frame behind them. It’s a quaint place, a modest hearth and chimney in the right hand corner, walls adorned with cabinets and dowry chests, a spinning wheel and desk cluttered with spools of thread taking up one entire corner, and a small dining table in the center, with three chairs. On the wall closest to the door, a small bed, unmade.

“Hello?” Cathal calls. “Forgive us for intruding, but we hoped…” He trails off as it becomes abundantly clear that no one is home. A brisk check of the tiny second floor, containing only a few more storage shelves, singular desk and larger bed, confirms this. He draws his finger along one of the surfaces and he does not find any layers of dust. Cathal frowns and sniffs the air. If there is food stored here, it has not yet soured, so it cannot have been terribly long since other people inhabited this place… “Well, if they arrive while we are here, we shall simply have to beg for their forgiveness. But in the meantime, I am more than glad to be out of the rain.”

“As am I,” Melina says, pulling down her hood and running a hand through her pink curls in a motion that has Cathal transfixed for a moment before he comes to his senses and goes to dry off Torrent.

Fortunately, it’s not hard to find a large piece of cloth within one of the storage chests, and begins to give the poor creature some comfort as he whispers his most sincere apologies for making him trot in the rain. Torrent’s coat smells like no other mount Cathal’s had— instead of the earthen, almost root-like smell of more natural horses or the wet musty scent of wolves, Torrent smells like a morning spring; dewdrops on leaves and a faint breeze coming in from the sea.

When that task is done, Cathal turns to the modest hearth. It hasn’t felt the touch of fire in some time, clearly, but it’s simple enough to find a chest containing some chopped woods nearby and use just a touch of magic to have crimson flame lick and then steadily eat at the wood, slowly filling the room with much needed warmth. He puts his hands out and gives a sigh of contentment as his chilled bones start to thaw.

“I’ve always found it interesting,” Melina’s voice coming from only inches behind him very nearly makes Cathal jump in shock. The maiden can move swiftly with nary a sound, it seems. He hadn’t even realized she’d come down the stairs, “How most magic-summoned flame will still behave like ordinary fire, should the wielder leave it to its own devices. It clearly does not need tinder nor air to burn, but it will take them nonetheless. One must wonder if it is merely the result of the caster’s own knowledge of how fire should work, and the spell following suit, or if all magically made creations yearn to mimic that which they are shaped in the image of.”

“I could not tell you,” Cathal says, looking down at his dragonscale and watching a few licks of flame roll between his fingers. “My experience with magic has always been more practical than anything else. We never had much time for theory.”

“Who was your teacher, Cathal?” Melina asks, taking one of the chairs, adjusting her cloak to cover her form. Melina did that often, Cathal noticed. As if she disliked being seen as anything more than a phantom.

“Her name was Thyeadesax. I met her in the woods, one evening, when I could no longer tolerate the silence of my house. I had stumbled upon a small wolf pup caught in a trap, and I felt for the creature. It took me a good hour, but at last I managed to set it free, and it ran off into the darkness where its mother had been waiting, no doubt watching me to see if I meant it harm. Thyea’s voice emerging from that same veil of shadows nearly scared me to death. I admit I made a noise not unlike a screeching crow.” Cathal can’t help but chuckle at the memory, the amusement on his soon to be mentor’s face a fond sight. “She asked why I would go to so much effort to spare the little thing when I could have killed it for an easy meal. And I told her that while it is no sin to hunt for food when one is hungry, what good would killing do when mercy is a skill more of the world could learn to use? She liked that answer, and took me on as her apprentice. Taught me the ways of dragon incantations, flame and lightning.”

And other secrets more precious still, but those are not to be told. Not while so much of Melina remains unknown.

“And you? Where did your instruction in the Sacred Arts come from?” Sacred, of course, being a misnomer. Melina’s eye flickers up to his, and again his attention is captivated by the way her soft, red bordering on pink hair frames her solemn face. That strange marking over her other eye, almost like the talons of a bird…

“I was instructed by my father.” Melina murmurs. “He was a strict teacher. I am afraid I did not learn terribly well, before he became preoccupied with…other matters.” Minutely, her shoulders fall as the weight of memories settle invisibly upon her small frame. “And now I will never have the chance to learn from him again.”

“I see.” Cathal says, walking over to the table and pulling out a chair, unslinging his bow and quiver to set them upon the table before taking his own seat. “I…suppose we have that in common, you and I.” Cathal tries to offer a smile, but it comes out lopsided and melancholy. “I only knew my father for a few short years before he left.” He scarcely remembers his father’s face anymore. There’s a few lingering embers of the anger he’d felt at being left behind, but in the end, they are easily scattered. He cannot blame his father for wanting to get away.

He’d run from her too, in the end.

“What about your mother?” Cathal finds himself asking, and then curses himself silently. “... if you wish to share. I should not have—”

“I had more time with my mother. Now I wish I had none at all.” Melina states, flatly. “The one consolation left to me is that I will not have to see her again, should my path be clear.”

“Look at us,” Cathal huffs a small bit of bitter laughter. “Two pairs of orphans.”

“You do not consider yourself your mother’s son?”

“I am nobody’s son.” Cathal replies. “Are you someone’s daughter?”

Melina holds his stare for a long while before turning away.

“We should get some sleep. We will likely not be able to rest in beds again until we reach our destination. I shall take the upstairs.” Without another word, she retreats up to the loft. Cathal sighs, and Torrent gives a sympathetic huff and a lick of Cathal’s cheek. He chuckles as he gives Torrent a quick pat, and makes a mental note to find some berries or other such food for the beast of burden to eat. Without much else to do, Cathal goes over to the bed and decides that it smells clean enough to risk sleeping in. Compared to the hard, uneven ground, even this tiny mattress feels as if it were a luxury, and he falls asleep to the siren song of raindrops upon the rooftop.

…until something outside of his senses prompts him to wake. Cathal rises from the bed and picks his sword up from where he’d laid it against the nearby floor, an instinct he cannot name insisting that he’ll need it. Torrent continues to sleep peacefully next to the fire, his great frame slowly falling and rising. The rain has stopped as a new night has fallen. It's deathly quiet. So quiet that his tiny breath almost seems as if it were a grave transgression. But perhaps just…on the edge of his hearing…there is someone whispering something. The words are indecipherable, almost dreamlike in their cadence, but are uttered furiously and at great speed.

Cathal should investigate. He needs to know what that sound is. If there are people nearby who need help. He reaches for the door, his hand resting upon the handle when something stops him. There had been a flash of light from one of the slightly ajar windows. A hint of what almost looked like flame.

“...hello?” Cathal quietly asks into the night.

The faint whispering abruptly stops.

And then a hellish light begins to erupt from outside as a cacophony of noise erupts, what must have been at least twenty voices crying out in that same awful tongue that Cathal cannot understand, but the sound of it is like hot embers drifting into his ears, planting sparks to buzz like bees within his skull. He gives a yell at the unexpected pain and Torrent’s up, suddenly whinnying in clear alarm. Only a split second later, Melina descends, as Cathal begins to clutch at his head, the pain growing more intense by the second.

“Cathal! What is…” Melina stops dead at the light that is pouring in from the window and her fair face goes pale with terror. “No. Not so soon. It could not have already spread so far.”

“What are you…” Cathal begins, but the chanting outside reaches a new crescendo, and it’s undecipherable agony. He has to struggle to keep his sword from slipping out of his hand. The door begins to shudder and buckle as what must be many hands start to pound on it, a drumbeat underscoring a dreadful song.

“The Frenzied.” Melina utters, drawing her knife. “We are surrounded.”

The wooden frame of the door cracks.

 

 

Notes:

Apologies for the long delay! Life and the DLC dropped, so as you can imagine, I've been rather busy. I've yet to properly finish it, but I've already got plans changing to reflect the new revelations I've discovered down the line. In the meantime, enjoy this cliffhanger!

Chapter 5: Lighting Pyres

Summary:

Cathal and Melina try to survive the Frenzied, and stumble their way into the beginnings of a revolt.

“Cathal, listen to me.” Melina urges, even as the door cracks again, wood breaking under the strain of maddened hands. “You must not hesitate, understand? Do not look into their eyes. Do not listen to their voices. Just slay them. I swear to you, it is a mercy to slay them.”

Cathal hisses, trying to work his mouth and tongue to respond, trying ask why, but those voices, those horrible voices, they’re searing into his brain like scalding irons fresh from the hearth, voices howling like wolves, speaking not with words but with something more personal, thoughts not his own roaring inside his head terrordespairragepainlonginggrieftormentagonysufferingTERRORDESPAIRPAINLONGINGGRIEFTORMENTAGONYSUFFERING

a soothing, light touch upon his face.

It washes away the maddening heat that scorches the inside of his skull as water washes away dirt and grime, leaving only desperate relief. Cathal gasps for air, unaware he’d stopped breathing. A faint golden glow emits from Melina’s hand as she pulls it back, fear and grim determination alight in her eye. “Are you with me?”

“Yes.” Cathal draws his blade, as he shakes his head. He’s rattled, badly, but already regaining strength. Another sharp crack from the door, Torrent whinnies and huffs, coming to Melina’s side in an almost protective manner. “What in the name of— no, not important. We cannot let ourselves become trapped in here. If they set it ablaze, will Torrent be harmed?”

“He is partially spirit in nature, but mundane means can still hurt him.” Melina draws her wickedly sharp knife. “If struck fatally, we will both be unmade.”

“Then… When they break the door, be ready. How many?” Cathal begins to prepare up a very particular incantation of his, the dragonscale in his hand growing hot to the touch.

“At least eight, possibly more. Remember, stare not into their eyes for long. My enchantment may not be sufficient to protect you. What are you planning?” The door cracks, bent partially inward.

“Clearing a path.”

The door falls, an axe finally having cleaved it from the frame, it collapses into a misshapen ruin. Cathal at last sees the gathering of truly malnourished looking men and women, clothes ruined, skin grey with death. Some affliction lent an unholy light to their mouths and eyes, which Cathal wrenches his gaze away from as he at last finishes the mental incantations.

It is spellwork of his own design, crafted with the supervision of his instructor. It had been intended to give him a fighting chance against a platoon of heavily armored opponents, those whom his usual repertoire would prove insufficient. It worked by first distorting the air in front of the target, turning it noxious and foul. This is the most intricate part of the spell, and what gives it a lengthier casting time. Once done, however, it only takes the barest spark—

An ear-ringing, earth shattering explosion follows as crimson fire races through the air and promptly detonates in the cluster of possessed men and women. Five are incinerated outright, and the ones at the fringes are staggered, easy prey for Cathal and Melina.

It’s not a spell he uses often, and for good reason. While it has great power, the price is a lack of control. Cathal can somewhat direct the trail of gases, but by their very nature they expand, and it’s all too easy to have others get caught at the edges of the blast.

“Is that all of them?” Cathal asks, a little out of breath. The pain still lingers despite Melina’s healing touch, a warm sting inside his skull, behind his eyes.

“I believe so.” Melina puffs, her breath misting slightly in the chilly night air, Torrent trotting behind her.

“What in the hells was that?” He mutters, glancing at some of the more intact corpses. Greying flesh is already beginning to sag as the death throes cease, not that they had much to hang off of. Their limbs are so thin that Cathal struggles to reconcile the memory of them smashing in the door. What strength they had possessed must had come from that burning light…

“They were afflicted with the Frenzied Flame.” Melina’s voice is startlingly harsh, a raven’s grave croak splitting the night. “Are you not familiar with the devilry?”

“I’ve heard the stories. I hadn’t put much stock in them.” Cathal wipes sweat from his brow. “I’d thought it had been sealed long ago on the orders of Queen Marika.”

“Such a thing cannot be forever held by walls and spells. Even by a god. Wherever despair and torment ferment into madness, the Frenzied Flame will reach out with crooked fingers, twisting men and women into foul shapes.”

Upon the words leaving her mouth, Cathal spies a tiny yellow light flickering through the trees. His sword is out of its sheath once more, and he puts his back to a tree, signaling Melina with his head. Wordlessly, she takes up position against another tree, knife at the ready.

The shuffling of soft paws becomes audible, something that almost sounds like a hiss…

From the bushes and shrubbery, a truly huge rat emerges, and Cathal’s gut clenches. Damn thing easily surpasses even the largest dogs Cathal has known, it would not compare unfavorably with the Dire wolves of the Albuneric archers.

But that’s not the real reason for his fear.

No.

The reason for his fear is the plain fact that the giant rat is very clearly dead.

Flesh stripped from large parts of its body, grisly red fur giving way to yellowed bone underneath, the awful stench of something that has begun to decompose permeating from its diseased form. Much like the villagers, its eye sockets carry flames of an unholy hue, sickly yellow rained with blood red. A blaze that whispers out, less like proper licks of fire and more like tendrils, seeking…

Cathal holds for a moment and then moves, thrusting his curved sword right through the thing’s brain in one move, then channeling a surge of ghostflame. The thing squeals, twitches, and thankfully— dies. Rancid fluids dribble out from the wound, very nearly causing him to retch. But there is no time for that, for vile lights burn in the darkness, and whispers howl at the edges of Cathal’s senses.

It is Melina who strikes first, knife trailing a blast of holy light that cleaves an infected man in twain, his head is swiftly destroyed for good measure. Cathal makes quick work of the other giant rats encircling them and moves to ensure that Melina’s flank is protected, as she nimbly bobs, weaves, and cuts down the various Frenzied who try to attack her.

It’s interesting, watching Melina fight. She’s been trained with a knife, and clearly well enough to defend herself, but he does not see the basic brutality of a soldier in her form, nor the back-alley daring and flair of a Colosseum duelist. There is a hint of acrobatic influence in her movements, the way her feet glide across the grass, her body twisting and careening with fluid grace around every clumsy blow. Cathal’s best guess, given that and her exceedingly fair countenance… Melina must be some kind of nobility. Taking her little vanishing tricks and holy incantations into account, perhaps some now-forbidden union between a lord of Leyndell and a scholar of Raya Lucaria? An unrecognized child, trying to make it to what should have always been her home…

The last infected falls, and at last a steady quiet returns to the disrupted stillness of the night. Cathal takes more stock of the village they have fought their way into.

It is…in a word, ruined. Decrepit houses slump into their foundations, entire sections of roofing or even walls having collapsed into rotting piles of splinters and debris. A church once of Marika’s, her form thoroughly defaced and destroyed, blood splattered across the stones and grass.

And in the center, a roaring pyre, surrounded by men and women locked in poses of agony, clutching at their eyes. Crucified on the pillar is a figure who has already been burned to blacked bones, no skin nor muscle left on the body. And yet somehow, Cathal knows he had been smiling as he was put to the fire. The bonfire pours from between the gaping eyeholes of the skull, flickering shadows making the rictus grin even more macabre.

Cathal’s eyes sting as if his face was inches away, he does his best to blink out what must be some stray ash.

“Put it out.” Cathal turns to look at Melina, her face pinched in a nameless pain. “Put it out. Please. I would do it myself, but…” Melina looks down at her hands, frustration clear in her eye.

Cathal nods, and concentrates upon his sword. Ghostflame alights, and he moves forward, gently touching it to the first body, and then the next, and then the next, until all of them are alight with the blue-white fires.

The ghostflame consumes the bodies, their very bones churned and eaten to further fuel the arctic burning. It travels up into the pyre, and there's a moment where the yellow fires seem to flare in response, as if they sensed a competitor— but they are quickly overtaken. Cathal continues until there’s nothing left but frosted grass, and then at last dispels the blade’s enchantment, and the fires slowly flicker away. Even the horrid smell of burnt flesh has been chased out, replaced with a kind of wintry smell, fresh snowfall and pine needles.

“Your sword.” Melina says, after a moment. “I have never known a soldier of the Haligtree to wield magic like yours.” Cathal hesitates, unsure if he should divulge further…but after these particular horrors, he can’t help but long for the sound of something other than violence.

“Most of us who had the talent were taught holy magics, yes. And a great many of our arsenals were enchanted or forged with power for those of us who did not. But you must know that a large number of the ranks of the Haligtree and Cleanrot Knights are— were—“ Cathal stumbles for a moment, remembering that it is after all, entirely possible that all of his friends are dead. He continues after a moment, unable to meet Melina’s pitying gaze. “Were made up of Leyndell citizens who had pledged themselves to Lord Miquella or Lady Malenia before the Haligtree had even been established in the north. More came to fill our ranks later, of course, and were ran through the same training. But for those of us who had already received instruction in the martial and magical arts, exceptions were made. Still tested and refined to be certain that we were up to par, of course, but that is simply good sense.”

“So you possessed the power to summon ghostflame even before you entered Malenia’s service?”

“I myself cannot call it.” Cathal clarifies (or lies, depending on how much he believes himself, because there are some days where he attempts to call forth lighting, and for a moment he can sense a familiar chill) “that is due to the blade’s own unique make.” He gestures with his sword, and Melina’s eyes lock to it.

“I have seen its various components in other weaponry,” she says slowly, approaching to study it even closer. “But never combined in so elegant a form.” Upon hearing the words, warmth floods his chest. Cathal tries very hard to not be a prideful man, as he has known prideful men, and found the lot of them utterly aggravating. But he cannot help but be proud of his blade. It is his best work by far.

“It is a shorter variation of the greatswords of my father’s homeland.” He explains, gesturing to the curved blade. “When fighting beasts, a blade capable of hewing limbs in twain is necessary, but I strove to maintain the ability to manipulate it quickly, for more human adversaries. Hence the guard.” A full hilt with a stylish knuckle-guard, bands of metal wrapping gracefully around the grip. “Protects from most of the various ways of injuring the dueling hand. As for the magical properties…” Cathal taps at the cross section of the hilt, where the blade met the guard. “My teacher inlaid one of the bones of a Death Rite bird into the guard. Only a touch of raw magical energy, and the fires of death come to burn once more.”

“A Death Rite…” Melina’s good eye opens slightly. “To slay one of the ancient carrion cleaners is no easy feat.”

“She was an accomplished warrior and mage.” Cathal sighs. “I miss her wisdom dearly.”

Melina looks as if she wishes to say more, but does not, opting to gently stroke Torrent’s back.

“…we should move on.” Cathal decides, a tired melancholy filling him, tightening his throat. “We have made an awful lot of noise, and I do not believe it would be wise to linger.”

“It would not.” Melina agrees.

The pair mount their steed and move on from the ruined village, trying their best not to look back.

---

They wander for a while through the night. Melina provides light for them in the form of a tiny illuminating orb to make sure they don’t become terribly lost, even if both of them were intimately aware that to any close enough to spot the glow through the dark foliage, the light would be a beacon. The pair carries on for a good way through the rain, trying to search for any kind of suitable shelter to rest in, when at last—

“Stop! Stop!”

Cathal blinks and checks Torrent, rubbing at his eyes. Before him stands a pair of demihumans, each one holding a spear, both aimed at him. “Turn away! Turn away!” The one on the left barked, crimson eyes gleaming in the darkness. “You are unwelcome here!”

“My apologies,” Cathal murmurs, bowing his head slightly. “I shall be on my way. Good day. Or rather, good evening, I suppose.” The two seem to look rather confused at that response, and nudge each other.

“Hey. Ishtin. What did the Queen say we were supposed to do for people who listened?”

“Uh.” Said the other, scratching at his head. “I dunno. She just said to sound the alarm and attack if anyone tried to force their way through.”

“Typically,” Cathal says, unable to help himself from speaking up, “If someone does not wish to pass the area you are guarding, it’s best to just let them go on their way, as there is no need for conflict.”

“Silence, human!” Ishtin snaps, before turning to his friend. “Grond, go fetch one of tha chiefs and tell’em we got two humans who are talking to us, ask if we should kill em or not.”

“I really can just be on my way.” Cathal insists. “Violence is unnecessary."

“What if you go tell other humans that we’re here?” Ishtin questions as Grond lumbers off into the darkness. “Come back burning and slashing and hurting?”

“I…don’t exactly have anyone to tell. I’m not allied nor a servant of anyone remotely within the region. I am no threat to you and whatever gathering exists here. I am simply trying to locate shelter for the night for me and my companion.” Cathal replies, nodding back at Melina. “Please, kind sirs. Let us go in peace.”

“Ser?” Ishtin’s red eyes squint. “No human ‘er called me ser ‘fore. What’s that mean?”

“It…is simply a way of displaying respect to whom you speak.” Cathal explains, deciding to forgo the various linguistic and courtly implications. No need to make this more complicated then it has to be. As a result of their oppression, most demihumans are only taught just enough of the common tongue to understand orders. It’s a horrifically subtle tool of oppression. How are you to ask questions, if no one has even taught you the words to voice them?

“You…respect? Me?” Ishtin mutters, confusion clear as day before his heart hardens. “No. No. This. This is one of those tricks. Where th’act all nice ‘fore they push you down the stairs and laugh.”

Cathal’s heart clenches. It is likely that this gathering is one of escapees from the rebellion at Castle Morte, fresh from the horrors of servitude under the Golden Order. Little wonder they are suspicious of him, after all they’ve known.

“You are another living being.” Cathal says, as gently as he can. “Who has done no great evil insofar as I know, nor are you allied with any enemies of mine. So yes, I respect you as another soul. I am very sorry that you have been subject to those who do not treat all people with the same dignity they deserve.”

“Well said, Tarnished.” Out of the shadows comes a new shape, far larger— a chieftain. It’s painfully rare to find demihumans who have been able to survive to young adulthood, and so they’re an uncommon sight. They’re hunted viciously by poachers and perfumers for their fangs. “I am Bibliograun, head-chieftan of this tribe."

“A pleasure to meet you, Sir Bibliograun.” Cathal replies, bowing on his horse slightly. “I am—” The chieftain holds up a clawed hand.

“I know what you have claimed. But we have been lied to so many times that it is difficult to tell when humans are being honest. So we must defer to the wisdom of our Queen, Ghelhilka. You will be brought before her in an audience, where your fate will be decided.”

“...very well.” Cathal says, spotting the demihuman scouts that are mobilizing to surround him, sighing. It’s rarely easy, doing the right thing. Always worth it, but never easy. “Take us to your queen, then.” “Cathal.” Melina hisses. “Have you gone mad?”

“Peace, Melina.” Cathal whispers back. “Is my nature not why you chose me?”

“There is a difference between trying to ask for peace on the side of the road and pleading for it while surrounded by foes.”

“They are not our foes yet.” Cathal murmurs, as he sets Torrent to gently trod along as Bibliograun turns and lumbers into the dark woods, clearly meaning for him to follow. “Let us try and ensure they do not become so.”

Bibliograun leads them through the foliage to a small set of overgrown ruins, where both demihuman and misbegotten are gathered, fires cooking various meats, sorting piles of berries into different burlap sacks. All eyes stare as they pass, confusion and apprehension clear.

“Queen Ghelhilka,” Bibliograun calls ahead, bowing low before the tallest demihuman that Cathal’s ever seen, a thin cloak and chainmail around her shoulders, a glintstone staff and crown gleaming in the torchlight. “I have brought you the humans.”

“Ahhh,” Says Ghelhika, leaning down to peer at Cathal and Melina. “You, boy. Words you offered to my scout with sweet honey. For what purpose?” Cathal gingerly dismounts despite Melina’s hissed warning, takes a step forward, and leans into a formal bow.

“Queen Ghelhika,” Cathal begins, “My name is Cathal, and I am— was, a servant of the Haligtree, if that title is known to you. It is the core of my oaths that I treat all beings with the respect and dignity they deserve, to be a force for peace and not for war. In the words of Lord Miquella, all are welcome beneath the silver boughs, be they willing to accept others as we accept them.” Queen Ghelhika gives Cathal a shrewd glance, her expression unreadable.

“The Haligtree… yes, I have heard of that place. I sought it out of it for my tribe some many moons ago, but all rumor says that the way has been barred since the Rotting of Caelid.” Cathal’s heart sinks once again. How disastrous had the confrontation gone, that it was deemed necessary to shutter the gates?

“It is a way to return to mine home that I seek— and until then, I consider my oaths still binding. And even if they were not, I know what it is to be hated because of the circumstances of your birth, and I would never inflict it upon another. I am no threat to you or your people, Queen Ghelhilka.” The demi-human is silent for a few moments before laughing in a high-pitched, near hyena-laugh, clear and high.

“Honeyed words indeed! And I can taste no poison beneath them. But we have trusted blindly before, and will never make that mistake again. I wish to believe you, Sir Cathal of the Haligtree, but I must request something of you before I can extend that luxury.”

“Ask it,” Cathal says, “and I shall see if I can grant it.”

“To the south,” Queen Ghelhilka intones, “there is a keep by the name of Castle Morne. Recently, my people helped the enslaved Hritika to cast off their chains and cast their masters down. While it was largely successful, there remains a garrison within the castle that keeps a score of them prisoner, and they have proved too skilled and too entrenched for even our best warriors to root out. Assist my people in removing the knights, and I shall declare you a friend to us and our kind.”

Cathal hesitates for a moment, and dips his head a mite further. “If I may… ask a question, oh great Queen?”

Amusement colors her response: “You may.”

“If I might be able to convince the knights to surrender and leave the keep, will you accept that?”

“Do you shy away from killing your own, human?”

“No.” Cathal raises his head to meet her deep black eyes. “But there is a trail of bodies that stretches alongside the roads. I feel as if there has been enough killing in this place to last lifetimes.”

“Hm. It may be so.” Queen Ghelhilka sighs. “If they will leave willingly, I will consider it done. But I do not believe it shall be so. In these godless days, killing seems to be all anyone knows.”

Notes:

Well. That took a lot longer then I thought it would. In my defense, a lot has happened to me in the last few months. Here's the next update. Hopefully I can start putting out chapters a bit more frequently that things have somewhat settled down.

Notes:

This fic has been brewing since Elden Ring came out, but it wouldn't exist without the support of my dearest friends Kip, Ceci, and Sath, who have all changed my life for the better. I'd also like to shout out the wonderful worldbuilding in Carian Knight of Cainhurst and Set The Moon on Fire, two chief inspirations for this fic's style as well as many of the headcanons I'll be using for ER's wider world. Please go check those fics out, I cannot recommend either highly enough.