Chapter Text
”Come now, touch mine withered arm, and travel to the realm of shadow.”
”I will not be far behind, good friend.”
Liar.
Crimson flame roared between the cracks that snaked across the battlegrounds. A heat that broiled tender skin beneath armor as broken fingers clutched at the hilt of a rotten blade. Its ethereal glow dimmed amidst the red of the Impaler’s flame.
Through that warped air, a figure tall and languid approached. Unphased as the warrior before them raised their blade before a quaking arm.
“Exhaustion is an insidious killer, Tarnished.” A taunting whisper whipped the flames closer as their opponent stepped, bare-footed, from the shadows. “Does thou seek retribution for thine broken keepsake? If so, then a fool you must be to approach once more with naught but thy… glowing toy.”
Prick.
”Don’t give rise to him! He hopes to incite your anger as a blind attack.” Miquella pleaded in their ear, his ring aglow on his chosen warrior’s off hand.
The young lord’s pleas fell upon deaf ears, so far as the warrior would claim. The flame that sought to consume them was very, very, loud afterall. Almost loud enough to drown out the whine of a considerably annoying young god.
They lunged forward, rotten blade slung back to meet its arc in time with the golden discs that flew forward from their clenched off hand. Thank the gods the spell still worked, even with Marika left to collect dust in the Erdtree.
As it would turn out, thanking a goddess one may or may not have smashed to pieces was not a wise decision when attempting to utilize said goddesses' incantations. Especially when fighting said goddesses’ alleged son. For the rings of light bounced away from the foe before them with a simple swipe of his blade. His face lined in an affronted sneer.
They swung their blade, too late, as Messmer lunged forward in retaliation. A dull pressure met them at the sternum, their nerves fried beyond the ability to clock the sensation as pain as their feet left the ground. Their body dangled from the Impaler’s blade as the metal turned white-hot to smolder at their bloodied flesh.
“Thou’rt a pitied creature,” Messmer, despite his soft-spoken tone, allowed his voice to rise above the roar of the flames around them, “I shall think your charitable possessor glad to be rid of such a lurid champion.”
”Do not be hasty! Give me but a moment, and I will heal you-” Miquella started again, incessant in their ear.
“F-fuck you.” The Tarnished spat a wad of blood and saliva, their grin bloodied as they watched it land against Messmer’s gaunt cheekbone.
“So ‘tis not only light you lack, but manners in turn, very well.” With a great sweep of his arm he swung them from his blade, as one might cast aside a broken doll.
They landed hard against the stone, cushioned naught by the fire that burned with voracious hunger across their gut.
“I shall grant thee this and this alone, wretched hand of all that is shadow.” His foot pressed down against their gouged flesh to push through bone and smoldered organs. Slitted, yellow, eyes alight with contempt. “Thou’rt but a lizard before a serpent. Destined, it seems, to be crushed underfoot. Remember well this mercy of mine own doing.”
He stamped down once more, and their vision failed them. Light snuffed out, as a candle wick pinched between fate’s own fingers.
—-◖❂◗—-
Dearest Ranni, I’m sorry.
The once-Elden-Lord was shrouded in darkness, but she did not fear it. For it was the chill of her love’s embrace. Eternal night, deigned ever to be so by her dearest at the height of their success. A bitter fruit for their labor. Stained wine-dark by all the blood she had spilt in the name of service, of love.
Yes, it was not the great emptiness around her that caused the once-lord to grow morose. Rather, it was her own incompetence.
She had been careless in facing Messmer. Despite all of Miquella’s endless nagging, she had allowed herself to grow restive. Emboldened by arrogance, and no small amount of irritation towards the ilk of her queen. She longed for home, to be rid of this endless questing for a god all thought well-gone from this realm.
Yet, despite her better judgment. Despite the nature of the Lands Between. Nymeria was a trusting sort. Too hopeful for her own good and far, far, too foolish to ever learn her lesson. She had thought herself beyond this blind faith after Fia, or Rogier, or Diallos, or perhaps after Sir Gideon.
Honestly, how had she ever trusted anyone in that damnable hall? It was almost comical, but if she were to laugh she feared she’d only cry.
So she waited, humor and sorrow held back in equal measure, for some shred of moonlight to return to her. The stars would be a sight for sore eyes, after all that time in the lands of shadow. Their sweet, icy, kiss upon her skin was a touch she yearned to feel again. Yet no yearning could compare to that which she felt for her dearest Ranni. Last of all that bore worth to the word of trust and compassion.
The memory of infatuation appeased her for some time. Yet the waiting would not cease.
When would it cease?
In near desperation, Nymeria thought to call for Miquella. He had intended to heal her, yet still she lay there. Trapped in a starless darkness. It was a great nothingness not unlike that which returned her to the smoldering embers of grace. However, the darkness that she experienced before being born anew had never dared to last this long before. Nor had it froze upon her skin with such a bitter chill. Renewal of a grace had been warm. Warm as gentle sunlight upon the grass.
With Death unbound, were she destined to wake at all?
A horrid thought, yet one underlied with something like… relief? After all, this great unrest had possessed her body with purpose far longer than anticipated. Like most Tarnished, she’d risen without clear purpose. Emboldened only by the far ambition of becoming Elden Lord. In that bygone moment, when she had woken to find the Lands Between accursed and bloodied beyond recognition, she had held no tangible ambition. Her memory dulled and aimless as she wandered.
Before the great Shattering that would upset the balance of the Golden Order, Nymeria could recall a distaste for heedless exploration. She had been of the church long ago, a spy devout not to Marika- but to Godfrey. Her lord-kin in all but direct relation. Unlike many of her ilk, her lust for battle was dulled from birth. An apathy she could not escape nor forsake. And so, she had vowed to uphold his golden lineage from the shadows. A theology taken by whispered incants and hidden blades.
In the lull of destined death, Nymeria could admit the bitter irony of the betrayals she had endured. For had she not been the one to wield stolen trust’s harsh edge against her own lord? When she had come upon the remnants of his golden lineage and put them each to the sword. Had that not been a betrayal most vile? In Godfrey’s final moments he had praised her strength, but what good was strength when it had turned her against all she had once held in reverence?
The questions weighed endlessly upon her mind. Were Ranni to appear, she knew in her heart that guilt would be assuaged. If only for a brief time. For Ranni seemed to bear a kinship between them that ran deeper than any blood could. It was a tentative trust, yet a boundless leniency of shared sin. A mutual understanding of abandonment in the search of greater purpose. An admiration for one another that no matter the violation, each was ruled by their own mind and nothing more. They alone had put their back upon the Golden Order and succeeded. It was a feat no other could claim, nor would Nymeria ever allow them to.
Her loyalty lay with Ranni and Ranni alone. For who else had offered clarity in her unrest? Who else had repaid her kindness in kind?
Who else would love a Tarnished?
A kinslayer?
There was no one else. Nymeria proclaimed unto her own mind. Even in the din of looming death, she willed herself not to forget. To hold steadfast onto her loyalty. All in a naive hope that she could at least take that much with her. So that even as she left the lands of light and shadow, the last of all Elden Lords would not be doomed to bitter memory. The people would remember, among all the blood and betrayal, that their Lord had remained loyal to the Goddess of the Moon until her last breath.
In the dawning of the Age of Stars, the last of all Lord’s perished. Doomed to naught but shadow and flame.
—-◖❂◗—-
When Nymeria breathed again, the phantom of smoke lingered in her lungs.
She woke in a fit of coughs, hands clutched at her abdomen as it burned with a fire worthy of the giants. It was a battle to breathe, even as a spasm sent her from her perch and knocked the last of the stale air from her lungs. The hard embrace of cold stone far too familiar to the chamber floor Messmer had pasted with her organs. A sweat broke out across her body at the memory of the chamber he had engulfed in flames. A confounding sensation against the ice that melted against her neck.
“Nym!” A far-away voice sounded out beyond the ragged racket of her lungs.
Gentle hands gripped her shoulders, a weak clutch.
Nymeria shunted out an arm to break from the pathetic attack. Half-tempted to call upon Borealis's Mist and make use of the endless hacking her body seemed content to continue. She could hear the erratic tempo of her heart as it hammered, alert and mercifully full of life.
At last, she had returned to the grace she had found just before Messmer. Which meant-
She was still trapped in the Land of Shadow. She was not safe, not yet.
She lashed out again and struck something thin yet solid. The impact numbed her forearm in a dim ache as panic deafened her to the scrape of wood across stone. The sensation felt off, as though there was a disconnect between what she had expected to hear and feel versus what she actually did. Still, she swung again- confident that the alterations she had made to Maliketh’s armor would not falter.
Like a cornered animal, she cleared the space around her of threats with blind strikes. A pain struck true through her right eye to keep it clamped shut, while the other felt cold and stuck at the lashes. As though she had spent too long outside and were now in a struggle to pry them apart. Somewhere before her, something thick and soft met her fist to elicit a winded groan.
Dim surprise struck her as the texture ran along her knuckles. The fact that she could feel it at all meant she was not wearing her gauntlets. A shiver ran through her as she drew her hands back close to her chest, and felt the distinctive texture of spun cloth.
Where was Maliketh’s- or rather- her armor?
The scrape of wood creaked through the air with a faint echo. A subtle tell that she was inside, or perhaps underground, in a space that was either large or clear of many objects. There was not time to deliberate on which were more likely, as hurried footsteps filled the room. Followed by a chatter of gasps and shouts indiscernible to her current state of mind.
Another hand reached to grab at her right elbow, and she let out an animalistic screech as the tender nerves beneath her burn scars flared to life. Her free arm snatched out to grab her attacker, her nails brittle as they clawed at the fingers wrapped around her clothed, warped, arm. More hands descended on her free arm, then her legs as she kicked. The final restraint a light arm against her neck as she attempted to bite next.
“Forgive me, child.” A rasped voice murmured at her ear as a corked popped beneath her nose.
A heavy, almost musty, odor crept into the air. It smelled like the forest floor after rain, mixed with the curling smoke of burning kindling. Nymeria recognized the alluring scent of a sleep potion and turned her head to hold her breath. It proved too late, as her attempts to escape the hold on her grew sluggish and the ash-black of her vision dipped into a deep ink.
—-◖❂◗—-
Fire consumed her dreams.
An endless plane of gold and crimson flames pressed in all around Nymeria as she staggered through an endless path that bubbled and boiled like molten metal. Thick, black, robes caught fire over her body, only to burn away and reveal black plate armor that began to melt against her skin. She attempted to remove the set, only to watch as the silver of the fastenings melted away with the metal and flesh of her hands.
Had her lungs not blackened with smoke and flame, she might have found enough air to scream. Yet the fire was dense, and breathing was a luxury unavailable in the blackened smoke of burnt armor and bone as her mortal body melted away into the path beneath her. The pain brought her to her knees as she attempted to cover her eyes. They boiled with a fury that belonged not to Messmer- but another.
”Ah, Tarnished… His voice was not Yura’s, but it was not so different either, “Oh? What’s this? No…. A Tarnished you seem to be, and yet…”
He grew silent in contemplation, patient as his audience burned like kindling, before-
”Yes… yes, I see it now. Thou’rt no stranger to the forge.” He gave an amused chuckle, unable to hide its cruel edge, “Well then, I suppose there is no need for introductions. You know me, although I cannot… recall our meeting. So I shall speak plainly-”
Her eyes were gone, naught but molten tears beneath the melted plate of her forearms as she shielded her face from the flame.
“Heed mine own words as Shabriri, thine brother in Chaos. Remove thine… piteous seal. That gold of the young lord shall melt all the same. Remove thine needle and burn it all… Burn the Erdtree and let Chaos take the world…!”
His voice roared with the fire around them. Only to fade as the image dimmed into an unblinking night sky across a still lake.
—-◖❂◗—-
“Piss off…” Nymeria mumbled into the darkness, an arm slung over her eyes.
“Yikes, someone’s still in a mood.” A deep voice grumbled from somewhere to the left.
“Leave her alone, Doyle,” Another voice, lighter and more silvery than the other, scolded, “You didn’t see how she came back inside.”
“Screeching like a banshee and punching you in the gut?” The first, Doyle, cut in with a dash of sarcasm, “Oh yeah, real sad I missed out on that one. Make sure you put the savage’s breakdown on hold for me next time so I can join in.”
“You’re impossible…”
Savage.
She hadn’t heard that one in a long time. Not in reference to herself, anyways. Humor tainted the thought, it almost reminded her of her days in the church as a Confessor.
Ah, but that was a lifetime away. As dim and distant as a faded star.
The voices continued. They were strangely familiar, and she itched to recall how. The answer was strung before her, as if Nymeria could reach out and pluck the memory in her mind like a harp. Its melody a mockery of her life before the unrest, a taunted reply to the silence of nescience.
There was a dull sort of pain behind her eyes. It did not burn as it had in her dreams, but she felt it all the same. Dull and incessant like a migraine, prodded and irritated by the needle that pierced her right eye and nestled into tender flesh.
Remove thine piteous seal… the gold of the young lord shall melt all the same…
The young lord, it was a strange way to address Miquella. Even for an outer influence such as Shabriri, there were more suited titles. Lord of the Unalloyed came to mind easily, perhaps because Nymeria bore the fruits of that particular title’s labor. Yet Lord of the Haligtree rang just as true. Lord of ‘Continuous and Omnipresent Lectures’ also came to mind, although she was doubtful that she could get that title to take off quite as well as the others had…
Absently, Nymeria rolled the fingers on her left hand. A subtle flex that went on unnoticed by the voices that spoke nearby. The skin of her middle and pointer fingers touched without resistance, as did all the others. Free, and devoid of the armor-
Devoid of the ring. Miquella’s ring.
Panic spotted her vision as she opened her good eye, startled by the strong candlelight overhead as yellow light blinked between the black spots in her sight. So sudden was the reaction, that her right eye spasmed to open on instinct. Only to be clamped shut and covered with her hands as though it were still alight with flame.
The movement pulled at the tender skin of her right arm up and over the adjoining shoulder to burn along her back. They were old burns, yet they stung with fresh verve.
A pained moan escaped her at the sensation. Her good eye blurred as it reacted to the sharp sting of its twin.
“Nym- Nymeria!” The silvery voice neared in the wake of the exclamation, “That’s enough, you need to lie still…”
Fine, red, hair swung into view as a shadowed face loomed overhead.
Millicent. Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight.
No. No, Millicent’s hair was darker, thicker too. More of a scarlet than this red was. Red as a descriptor was inaccurate here. In the yellowed light, it was more of a ginger…
The figure shifted so that it no longer loomed over her like a cat above a cradle. As the figure moved to sit on the side of the… bed? Nymeria could see it was a young woman. A finger maiden perhaps? Though she had never seen a finger maiden don a Confessor’s robes before.
“Who-?” Nymeria attempted to sit up, only to wince as her gut burned at the movement.
“You’re injured, dumbass.” A strong hand pushed her back against the bed without warning.
“Doyle!” The ginger maiden hissed at his tact.
Doyle, as the young maiden called him, was revealed in the candlelight to be a man of average height. He was dressed in a Confessors robe, like the maiden, but with the tunic open to reveal a faint glint of a discolored silver chestplate. The knowledge that the man wore armor beneath his robes helped explain his bulky appearance, although the thickness of his neck implied much of his stature was owed to raw strength as well.
“Doyle…” Nymeria tested the name against a dry tongue, it sounded more familiar than it felt.
The two gave her a strange look, and she could not help but wonder if she had committed an unspoken offense in repeating his name. Perhaps they were of the culture where only those of close relations could refer to one another so casually?
And yet, they wore Confessor armor. A guild, and lifestyle, that Nymeria was intimately familiar with. She felt her brow pinch upward as she tried to reason with her sleep-addled mind. This was why she did not deal with effect pots and potions. It was hard enough to wrestle with her shoddy memory, nevermind the extra resistance that came with magical effects targeted against the mind.
“Pardon me,” Nymeria decided to settle on the practical approach and shifted to sit up a little against the pillows beneath her, wary of another sudden movement from either, “I apologize for any offense, is there a preferable way I might address you both?”
Doyle frowned and crossed his arms to regard her as if she had turned into a land octopus. His brow furrowed as if he were attempting to ascertain whether or not her statement was made in a jest. At last, he seemed to relax slightly and glanced away to gaze upon a fireplace Nymeria had yet to notice near the foot of the bed.
“Just Doyle is fine,” He muttered, “Better than what you usually call me anyhow…”
He trailed off and Nymeria could not help but raise her brow at the sentiment. This man spoke as though they were familiar. Odder still, she could not help but suspect that he was right in assuming so. Almost as if it were instinct alone that drove her to take the two’s intent at face value for what it was. A genuine concern.
“Nym,” It was a great feat to not startle as the young woman took her hand, her eyes a yellowed-green like the first leaves to turn against a coming chill, “Clergyman Ochre wanted me to ask- and I’m sorry but- do you… do you know my name?”
The young lady held fast to the eye contact between them as she awaited Nymeria’s answer. Again, an unnameable impulse rose against the core of her being to return the girl’s gesture. Even as suspicion for the loss of her ring boiled up in an urge to accuse the both of them as thieves. She surveyed her for a while longer, before she spoke at last.
“No,” Nymeria told her honestly, and felt how the young woman’s hold on her hand twinged, “Although, I feel as though I am supposed to. I apologize, that must seem rather strange.”
For a moment, the young woman looked as though she were going to be ill, before the untold emotion was swallowed. Her grip went from Nymeria’s hand as she absently smoothed the covers. Her face was a mask for a moment, before she gave a gentle smile.
“That’s alright, I can tell you again if you’d like.” Nymeria gave a nod and she continued, “My name is Laria, I’m- we’re fr- companions of sorts. You’re a Confessor of the First Church, just like us.”
“I see, then,” Nymeria rolled her fingers again, as if to assure herself of her hand’s bareness, “If you do not mind, I wish to know this most deeply- what news is there of the Elden Lord?”