Chapter 34: A Maiden's Feelings

When did Melina…

When did she first meet Lance?

When did he…

...

When did his existence mean something to her?

When was he more than a means to an end?

More than a tool?

A solution?

A change from her monotonous life?

She hates feeling this way; despises it with her entirety. She wants to feel empathy, sympathy, feel anything at all.

She wants to reciprocate Lance's feelings for her; she wants to smile and mean it.

She wants to be human…

But she cannot.

The ability to feel anything left her long ago.

She has wandered these lands for millennia, seen so much unfold and wither away before her amber-golden eye. She stood from afar, watching this world change, alone, so very alone.

Trapped, unguided, and timeless, a fate worse than death.

She cannot live without the Erdtree's grace; she cannot leave its light. She will never walk upon beautiful forest trails, tread sandy beaches bordering crystal waters, traverse through crowded streets of encompassing cities with someone by her side.

She will never talk out loud; none can even hear her voice.

She will never hold someone's hand; they will never feel her touch.

She can never smile; nobody will ever return it.

She can never shed tears; not one is capable of wiping it from her face.

She is alone; an existence with no sense of self. She has, and always has had only one goal ever since she regained herself:

Return to the Erdtree.

Why is she like this? Why can she not feel anything?

Why has she seen so much beauty, but she cannot partake in it?

Why has she seen so much evil, but she cannot prevent it?

Why is her love for this world… the desire to be apart of it… so one-sided?

Why has mother abandoned her? Why have her memories left her? Why is there not one in this world who misses her?

Why is she alone?

She has watched wars, tragedies, and atrocities come to pass.

She watched heartbreak, hatred, and greed consume this land.

She witnessed the battle of the cleanrot and redmane knights upon Caelid's eastern dunes; the violent clash between Malenia and Radahn, with an indifferent expression. She saw the fall of the Carian Nobles and the slaughter of the Cuckoo knights, with an eye dead of emotion. She watched Godrick commit depraved atrocity of the Erdtree's sacred rites of burial, grafting himself into an abomination. And she turned away from it.

She watched a kingdom fall to ruin in light of The Shattering, and there was nothing she could do. She could save not one life, could not change one thread of fate. Her destiny is to fade into obscurity; helpless to save even herself.

Such is the designs of this twisted reality.

So, when she first found Lance, how would one such as her think of him?

The answer was disturbingly simple:

She thought little of him.

He was a Tarnished, yes. But he was merely another face out of millions to her. Another life she can do nothing to better or to worsen, to save or to kill; to love or to hate. He was but another blade of grass along this endless road she treads.

So, when did she first meet Lance?

When did his existence mean something to her?

When she watched him walk away from that lone breach on the hilltop, she noticed he carried the light of the Erdtree with him.

Was it then?

No, it was not.

She followed him, because he would allow her to leave the realm of the breaches. With the light, it was possible. He was merely a means to an end.

So, then, when was it?

She tried to speak to him, while they walked through the forest. But he could not hear her. He was different, special, but he was like all the others after all.

He cannot hear her voice.

He cannot feel her touch.

He cannot return her smile.

He cannot wipe tears from her face.

He is like all the others.

She planned then that he would merely be a passing experience, a chance to get away from the breaches, if only a moment. She thought of him as a break away from the constant gold, a time to catch her breath.

Nothing more.

When he was captured, and she was forced to follow him, she followed begrudgingly. It seems her chance to see the world away from the breaches was short lived.

If she saw a breach as they travelled, she would have left Lance behind, she knew it.

She would leave this means to an end behind. She can do nothing to help him after all.

She would save him, if she could.

But she can do nothing but watch; so why should she stay with a sinking vessel?

Even so, somewhere deep down, she wanted him to live. She wanted someone to come and rescue him.

But no such rescue came.

While he suffered down in that cellar, while she watched, sitting beside him; she had to stay by this boy who suffered, who cried out in pain and was beaten unconscious time and time again to shut him up.

She felt something at that time; one could call it pity.

She felt pity toward this boy, but nothing else.

Like reading of a character in a story, or hearing of a tragedy by word of mouth, she was troubled by the brutality of the soldiers, but the boy meant little to her. She was merely a spectator of this tragedy; merely watched with an emotionless face as the boy began to slowly wither away.

And when it came to the brink?

When a soldier finally decided to push the beating too far?

When Lance's runes began to slow to a bone chilling halt?

She could do nothing but give a small prayer to the Greater Will, on his behalf.

"Live." She prayed. "Fight and live. Live to fight another day."

Please.

Was it then? Did she meet Lance then?

No. She did not.

She witnessed Lance reawaken from the brink of death, killing the soldier with their own sword, but she did not meet him.

She merely had a thought:

I can use him.

He carries the light, he can fight; he's just what Melina needed. He can be more than a break from the monotony. He can be more than a means to an end.

She will not let him die yet.

The commotion most definitely alerted the garrison outside, Roard's men would storm the cellar soon. Melina had to act fast.

She left Lance's light, rocketing out of the cellar into the cold night air. From there, she considered her options, feeling her form slowly fade away.

A sensation as if holding one's breath, a feeling that the body is failing in a never-ending cold; that is the feeling of leaving the light.

She acted fast.

She spotted a breach in the darkness, north of the village. She could have run then… but she decided against it. She instead turned her attention south, and quickly spotted something flammable.

She used one of the incantations she knows; successfully letting Lance escape.

She dragged him back to the breach on that lone hill, where she first saw him; a place that was certainly safe...

Was it then? Did she truly meet him then? When they were standing face to face for the first time?

No. She did not.

She was relived that he could see her, relived that she was able to bring him there through the roots.

She was relieved to hear him, though she does not know what changed.

She introduced herself, apologized for her prior actions that he knew nothing of, and offered an accord.

But she thought little of him still.

She did not trust him; she would not disclose her secrets to him.

He was more than a means to an end to her; he was more of a tool.

One that should could sharpen.

One that she could use.

As to how to sharpen it, she had an idea.

She is no maiden, but she has witnessed how the maidens of the two fingers strengthened their Tarnished; she learned of their techniques, because they use the breaches to do so. She had watched, from mere inches away, how the process worked.

The maidens were the Tarnished's direct link to the Erdtree, as ordained by the two fingers that serve the creator of the Erdtree. They would use the breaches to establish the link, and extend their hand, connecting the Tarnished to the roots through them with direct contact.

Melina was no maiden, but she believed she could perform the ritual too; her very being is connected to the Erdtree after all.

She decided that she could strengthen Lance herself, have him all to herself, have him depend on her…

Use him as a tool to break through the barrier around Altus; he would be her tool.

The path to such an outcome immediately became arduous, as Melina came to discover more about Lance.

He was more than a young Tarnished, more than a lone child with the light of the Erdtree. He had memories, locked tightly away, of what seemed to be the unseen future.

Such conveniency, within her grasp.

She just needed to unlock it.

Yet Lance's spell proved stubborn; far too complex for a simple fix. It frustrated her dearly, but she kept such grievances away from Lance, she did not want him to distrust her.

Time went on; their time together went on.

She had to drag this child along, impatiently waiting for him to strengthen. Her one purpose in life; her one meaning in a meaningless world… it was being held up by a sniveling brat. He was her solution, but he was slow to act.

It would be an understatement to say she grew cross with his indecisiveness, she grew tired of his dithering.

She had to keep up her act time and time again; pretend she was fine, for his sake. She had to stand over his sleeping form every night, watching him as he wasted her time with a conceited look on his face.

He had no sense of urgency, no drive to press on.

His frail resolve could shatter from the slightest hiccup; he is not made for this world.

Were it not for her, he would have died already. If she did not instruct him when to dodge, how to fight, and when to retreat, he would have been slain long ago.

He is not fit for this harsh reality.

She could not think about it enough: He's not ready, and he never will be.

This tool, this means to an end; he was unfit from the start. She had not yet truly met him, but a seed of doubt began to grow in her mind at that time:

He is against her.

She could hear his thoughts, could see parts of his memories. But that spell, such a complex spell could only be self-administered; layered on as if Lance was trying to patch up holes in his head; tightly concealing something that hides inside.

Such a spell is a culmination that Lance is hiding something from Melina, and Melina knows she needs it.

It is memories of the future, of what this world will become if they embark on this journey. Such a convenient solution is being withheld from her; withheld by a boy that drags his feet, hesitates his actions...

Fears his own blade.

Melina truly began to believe that she had not been sent a blessing by the Greater Will, but a curse instead.

She did not truly meet him. She did not truly trust him.

She instead began to resent him, despise him, and become wary of him.

When they were attacked by the Sentinel, when he failed to listen to her instructions and fell of a cliff, failed to act fast and was chased down on the lake; she ran out of ideas. She did not know what to do, and it was her mistake. But she did not persevere when cornered.

She gave up.

"I'm sorry." That was all she had to say.

But Lance did not die.

He survived.

After, he did not resort to giving in, did not break down and cry. A piece of his soft exterior shed away, and hardened scales gleamed beneath. He did not give up, and prepared to persevere.

She did not truly meet him, did not truly know him.

But she had a thought, as they faced Roard a few days later, near the dawn of their 15th day together.

It was when Lance fell to his knees, bleeding and sweating and hacking for breath.

She left Roard, kneeling down to Lance's level.

At that moment, Lance had accepted his fate.

He fought well, and at the end, he wished for Melina to live. He wanted her to run to the breach and leave him behind for good.

But she made a decision at that time, as she kissed him on the forehead, borrowed a portion of his magic, and activated her most costly incantation. He... despite his fears and set-backs; he never did truly give up. He gave his hardest, trying with his might to overcome the challenges that faced him... since that day. Since that day, he became somewhat endearing. He has persevered, so Melina decided to act in kind.

She will not give up on him.

She will trust him; she might just start to meet him.

"We share destinies." She said softly, meaning every word she spoke. "If you will share your power with me; I shall share mine."

Her incantation activated at that time, spilling toward the sky in tendrils of golden light, weaving together into a golden tree. Lance's attributes increased, his fighting spirit reignited; he was filled with fresh vigor.

At that time, Melina did not know what she thought of Lance.

She held no care in her heart for anyone, in those thousands of years of tormenting isolation; never even once.

She saw families die, friends betray friends, entire bloodlines ending in a single night.

She saw grief, sadness, and misery; and she watched on.

She could not see the beauty of the world, could not see the color in the trees. She saw nothing outside of what she needed to see. But as Lance arose, wielding his sword, trusting in her… she felt something.

Something foreign.

Something alien.

Something that cracked the abysmal grey of her monotonous life.

She felt change.

She could not help but crack a smile; a genuine smile, staring into the virtuous eyes of her…

Her…

…

Her friend.

Not a tool, not a solution, not a means to an end.

A friend.

A friend that has his weaknesses, his shortcomings, his flaws. But he has his kindness, his bravery in the face of impossible odds; his selflessness, ready to lay down his life to help others.

How terrible she has been, to a friend.

"It is selfish." She said.

I have been selfish. She thought.

"But I have not given up yet."

I want to be better to you. Not make light of you.

"So, I ask."

So, I beg.

"Do not give up."

Give me a second chance.

Give her the chance to see Lance for what he is. Give her the chance to trust him.

Give her the chance to meet him.

From that point on, she began to try trusting Lance.

She would still have her shortcomings, even as she tried to trust Lance. He decided to travel farther from their goal, decided to escort Kalé, decided to do all he could to save a dying city. He almost immediately started to strain her fledgling trust.

When he embarked on this journey, she began to become silent to him.

When they discovered a disturbing piece of his memories in his mind, she let her true self out in a moment of weakness, snapping at him.

And when he nearly died on that bridge; when she stood defensively over his failing form, fighting back blades and torches and crossbows; she felt what she never thought she could.

She felt tears.

Not ones that burn the skin, but ones that sting the eyes.

She felt anxiety. She felt distress. She felt fear.

She would not accept it if Lance died.

And when Ranni intervened? When she heard what that Snow Witch put in Lance's head?

She felt guilty.

Her outburst in his mind, her selfish desires when they first knew each other's name; her existence known as the Gloam Eyed Queen.

What would he think of her?

Has he begun to get second thoughts?

…

…

…

Would he leave her?

She feared she would be alone again; such a thought frightened her more than she ever thought it could. She began to feel that seed of doubt creep back into her mind. Was he against her after all?

It culminated, until she stood over him, hand outstretched, ready to burn him to ash.

He laid idly then, eyes closed and face peaceful. He tried to convince her she does not need to worry of her past…

But she worries. She worries greatly.

What is she?

Why is Melina the way she is? Fire that burns, magic that kills, knowledge that she cannot remember learning.

And she remembers, long ago, back when she first started to regain her sense of self; she stared at her own reflection.

A quiet corner of Liurnia, where the lake is so shallow one could tread. She stared at her face in the breach's light then, caressing her closed left eye.

That tattoo, like the briars of the giants, like the talons of a dragon…

Like the legs of a centipede.

She cannot force her left eye open; she cannot feel anything when she presses on it.

It is like that side of her face is fake.

Like it is dead.

Like there is nothing sealed beneath that spindly tattoo.

But it bled fire, it burned her soul, simply when she remembered something of the past.

What is it?

What was it that she saw?

…

What is she?

It mortified her.

So, how could Lance not care to know? Why was he not concerned? Frightened? Terrified?

Why did he not hold suspicions about her, like Melina does about him?

She knows not why she raised her hand, knows not why she had her incantation hanging on the tip of her tongue.

She just needed to know why.

"I could kill you." She hissed, wracked by her own torment. "I can."

What is she? What atrocities has she committed? What lies beyond her knowledge of this world; of what she has done?

Is she a murderer? Is she a monster? Did she wage wars in eons past? Slaughtered millions as she burned kingdoms down to ash?

Is she this Gloam Eyed Queen?

…

But Lance did not fear her; he did not resent her.

He did not give in to her threat; he did not share her fear of what she is; of what they are.

He simply creased his eyebrow in his sleep.

This has been eating away at you, hasn't it?

…!

She felt shock. She felt repudiation.

She felt… relieved.

Lance continued, softening his internal voice.

Even if you are her, if you are the Queen of Black Flames, my opinion of you won't change.

She clenched her teeth then, whisking her hand away.

"You are far too gullible. You do not know what I am."

Maybe. He stirs. Maybe you are what Ranni said. It still won't matter. You said you won't give up on me, so I'm sure as hell itself not gonna give up on you, alright?

Melina felt flustered. She felt frustrated.

Why can he not care? How can he be conceited?

Is he a fool?

I may be gullible, He continued. But I choose to trust you. I don't need to know everything. So, choose to put some trust in yourself, alright? You are the most I could ever ask for, and I don't need anything else.

You're my partner, and that'll never change.

…

Lance may never know just how much those words meant to her.

"You promise?"

I promise.

So… where does that leave Melina?

What should she be fearful of; what needs to fuel her worries?

Should she admonish her past self for being so heartless?

Should she leave Lance in the chance that she may be what she fears?

What should she do?

She does not know.

She can leave at any time, go back into the breaches and continue her search for a way through the barrier. Nothing truly keeps her cemented by Lance's side.

She can be more commanding, convince her partner to return to Limgrave. The city of Bellard is destined to fall at this point; it is a waste of time to struggle further.

But something keeps her by Lance's side, and it is not only the promise she made.

It is a feeling…

This feeling… these days they have spent together; they have accumulated until they number the stars in the night sky.

Even now, as she feels searing heat scald her incorporeal skin, the noises of blades cutting deep into flesh, the feeling of her power being used against her will; she feels that she still does not know Lance.

She has not yet met him.

He charges forward, attacking an army of misbegotten and soldiers head on, alone.

He has not increased in power; his skill has not improved.

He has only lost his fear; he is devoid of it.

He fights recklessly, like the first time she saw him fight: tearing a soldier's nose off with his teeth and driving their own blade into their gut.

He fights like a highland warrior; he fights like a resident of the badlands.

He is struck, he is cut, he is broken.

He cleaves, he deflects, he impales.

The army tears him apart; he returns the bloody gesture.

Decapitated heads roll at his feet; his left arm snaps in two.

Bodies burned to black collapse around him; his back is sliced open.

His flaming sword destroys armor and bone; his chain mail falls to pieces.

He stands atop a pile of corpses, roaring as if he were some wild beast.

...

This, this is what Melina wanted.

She wanted Lance to become strong, she wanted him to lose his fear to kill. She once wanted him to fit the machinations and will of this world… so why does this sight pain her so?

Why is this moment of flashing blades and spilling blood, this time of a Tarnished taking on an army; why does it send fear deep into her heart?

…

She hates to see Lance like this; it is not who he is. It is not what he wanted to become.

That gentle boy, who faces an enemy only when he must, who fought for the sake of others and rarely for himself; this is not him.

…

She does not know who he is.

She has never known.

Part of it is because of his locked memories and his mysterious ability. But the other part is her own ignorance. She did not need to know who he was; she only needed him to get her to the Erdtree.

But this feeling…

This foreign feeling…

She feels she wants to get to know him.

She wants to truly meet him.

Melina pushes against the searing heat of the Rune of Death, against the heavy chains that sap her abilities away. She braves the storm, drawing to Lance step after struggling step.

She will stop him; she will save him.

She may never have real emotions; she may feel like a fake existence for the rest of her days.

She may never get to know anyone; she may only ever have her own interests settle into her heart…

But it does not mean she will never try otherwise.

I feel hot.

A type of heat that doesn't burn or sting, but rather pesters and infuriates.

The heat comes from my chest, and it travels through me like venom in my veins.

My movements don't feel my own; my thoughts have ceased to exist.

I feel a burning hatred, Vexing me to no end. It rides on the coattails of the heat, pooling out from within the cracked spell in my mind; the dying black snakes over my memories.

Like the juice of the fruit of damnation; the words of a vile serpent. It spills into my mind: a drink of wrath.

I'm drunk on that wrath, that searing liquid that fuels the hatred, feeds the discontent. Sends me over the edge, until all I see is red.

I tore into the enemy, swinging my flaming sword about like a madman. I swung not to defend myself, but to attack; attack anything I could see.

They rend me, they cut into me.

I'm thrown; I stand with a new broken bone.

Two misbegotten come for me, and I take a cleaver to the leg. Both are dead not a moment later.

More come for me, they die.

I leap, grabbing the dangling foot of a flying misbegotten archer. My weight throws it off; it chuffs and growls, before it dies. My blade pierces into its abdomen; that triangular tip ruptures out between its collarbone and shoulder blade.

We fall; I use its body like a hammer; leveling a misbegotten warrior as I land. My sword comes out in a golden flash; I cut deep into another misbegotten drawing in behind me, gutting it like knife to a sack of flour.

More come, more die. A large one with an axe comes; I leap over its wide yet low swing. I bury my sword into its head, and that is where the greatsword stays.

I fail to dislodge it; I tumble as the big corpse collapses backwards.

I take a clawed foot to the chest; my hands find the closest weapon they can.

My fingers graze over a handle, and I grip it.

A straight sword in my hand; a straight sword into the throat of the misbegotten standing atop me. It doesn't die, but it falters and loses its head when I find a second straight sword.

I raise to a knee, wielding two swords, bathed in blood, surrounded by corpses, gritting my teeth.

I roar.

A misbegotten comes, I take its arm and leg simultaneously.

Another comes, I deflect the downward swing with one sword and piercing its chest with the other.

I finish it off by slitting its throat, the tip biting into the vertebrae.

An arrow bites into the chainmail on my back, but it doesn't pierce.

It's nothing compared to a crossbow bolt.

I spin about face, throwing my right sword like a tomahawk. It hits the misbegotten archer awkwardly, but the creature falls from the sky; it falls prey to my remaining blade.

The hatred, the wrath.

A soldier and a misbegotten come; I take the soldier's sword with his amputated hand still attached. I parry and riposte simultaneously, attack twice at once.

When one sword breaks, I grab another.

When one enemy falls; I look for another.

The faces of misbegotten, cut down.

The faces of soldiers, slain.

The face of Melina-

I'm struck.

...

It wasn't by a blade or a fist, by a foot or an arrow. It was a weak attack, could barely be considered painful.

But it stings.

A pain that isn't muddled by adrenaline.

A crisp sensation.

And with it, I falter.

My left eye loses its amber hue, returning to its normal navy blue. My flaming greatsword, still embedded in that large misbegotten's head, sputters out, losing its potency.

The anger in my mind persists, but shock mixes into the space.

Like two sides in my mind, conflicting as they mix together.

For a moment… just a second… I saw…

"…Melina?"

I don't see her; I see her aura floating inches away from my blood-soaked face. She is as she always has been, but I hear something.

Her voice, coming quietly, carried by the wind. So quietly that her voice in my mind threatens to overpower it…

But it is there.

"You… idiot."

She slapped me.

How-

"Move." I growl.

No.

I go to walk through her, continue my revenge.

But I'm stopped at my first step, as two frail arms grab me, arresting me in place.

I would fight it, but it sends shivers down my spine.

An unseen Melina hugs me.

My mind falls into a state of disarray.

How is she doing that? What changed?

I need to kill them all. They all need to pay.

Have I done something wrong?

You need to pay.

Have I gone too far?

I need to kill more.

I need to grow stronger; it's the only way we can get back to our original b-

WHO'S THERE!?

!

In a flash, that hatred is gone.

In a moment, the strength I had and the numbness to my pain left me.

Without another word, something retreats back into the shell of the spell in my mind, leaving me broken and bleeding.

The pain of my grievous wounds, the fatigue weighing down my body; it falls on me all at once.

I collapse to my knees, losing grip on my swords. They clatter to the bloodied cobblestone, losing their luster in pooling crimson.

My left arm is broken and swelling, multiple bones in my body are fractured. A nasty cut on my back, one that digs deep in my neck, missing everything important by a millimeter. Wounds covering every inch of me, bruises and screaming muscles coating me like a cocoon of dull pain. My left face burned black from Melina's power, my hand that clasped Irina's seal torched red and ebony.

My head feels like it's about to spilt open, and my heart feels like it's somehow covered in 2nd-degree burns.

I feel terrible.

I… I…

You idiot.

Melina sniffles, overcome with stress.

What came over you?

I… I just…

Irina…

Irina.

Irina.

She is gone.

It hits, it bites hard.

I feel weak, oh so weak.

I was too late.

But…

I lose nearly all my strength, leaning into those invisible arms. They struggle to hold my weight, but Melina holds strong.

I am sorry. I was unable to help this time.

You always try so hard; you mean your best intentions.

But I am sorry. This world is a cruel one, and I dragged you into it.

No… you…

I'm about to black out.

I...

The pain comes in waves, splashing agonizingly over every wound like jagged rocks in the ocean. My nerves are overburdened; my head is a mess. The heat is gone, and I'm left feeling cold.

23 dead misbegotten around me, 8 dead soldiers twitching at my feet.

The blood is thick, the contorted limbs and spilled guts and amputated heads clogging the gutters, the weapons and burned corpses and exposed bones jut out of the carnage like reeds in a crimson swamp.

All the misbegotten are dead, nearly 10 soldiers remain.

Unlike the crazed abominations with cleavers and bows and axes, the soldiers saw what became of their comrades, and fear struck their hearts. They saw a Tarnished boy, with the spear of their dead knight strapped on his back, wielding a flaming golden sword, cutting down any that drew near him like a reaper in the fields.

His face contorted in rage and joy mixing together, while tears leaked down his face.

Like he was possessed by a devil, like he was something outside realm of reason.

I was something they couldn't comprehend, so they backed away, unsure if they should attack or flee.

Trey is gone, the man with silver skin is gone…

Irina is gone, her ashes dry and disturbed.

She is truly gone, forever.

I know it, I just do.

Something about that fire, that yellow and red and orange frenzying flame; I had a feeling I knew what it was.

When the hyperactive fire spilled out of her eyes, devouring both; it devoured both her halves too.

Her mind and soul are gone, eaten, taken, by something one would be driven to madness by trying to comprehend.

I know deep down, through the forming cracks in my spell, that Irina will never live again.

It weighs heavily on my shoulders, makes the tears continue to flow, partially washing the blood on my face away. Melina's embrace provides solace, the sadness in her voice strikes me with grief.

It all comes falling down.

I let out a mortified cry, letting the wailing tune carry over the morning light. It announces to the city, to the peninsula, to the world as a whole. To the knights, to the soldiers, to her father:

Irina is no more.

The lands have lost a gentle soul, for reasons that infuriate to understand.

I was supposed to protect her, supposed to save her. I was supposed to be her anchor in this trying time for her people, and I failed.

I'm broken, emotionally, physically, and mentally.

The soldiers slowly start to approach me, looking to finish the job.

Melina sees them coming, frowning.

I have yet to cease my cries, yet to see the coming danger. This world will not give me the chance to grieve, not give me the chance to hate myself.

I will die soon; it's inevitable.

The soldiers will slay me, as Trey ordered.

I am in no shape to fight.

I stoop my head, tears fogging everything I see. I can hear their approaching footsteps…

Lance. Listen to me.

Melina's aura draws closer, her hug tightening.

We need to go.

No.

No, please, don't.

Would this be what Irina wants? Do you believe she wants you to die here?

...

I fight her grip, to no avail.

HOW WOULD YOU KNOW!? WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND!?

She holds nothing in her heart for these people; she said so herself. She wouldn't give a damn if everyone on this peninsula burned a gruesome death. What does she know about how they feel?

What they know?

What they want?

She is slow to answer, the soldiers take another conjoined step, crossing into the carnage with splashing steps.

…

Nothing. I know nothing.

Then-

She cuts me off.

I know nothing about you. About Irina. About Kalé or Edgar or Roard.

She grips tightens even further… I feel her shaking.

I know nothing about anybody, and I never cared to.

She loosens her grip; the hands become air as soon as they let go.

But I want to. I want to dearly.

Why start now…

She doesn't answer. I can never know what she's thinking, how she perceives the world, or why she does what she does. She always leaves me in the dark, and she continues to now.

Torrent.

The satchel hanging by my side, holding on by a decimated piece of leather; it stirs.

The top flips open, and the ring lifts up and out from its pocket like magic.

No, not magic. Melina carries it, slipping it over my bare middle finger on my right hand.

Help him.

The floating rune sweeps down, and a crisp whistle calls out from within the ring's hollow interior, as if someone blew into the hole.

Particles of light conjoin from thin air, followed by a sudden gust of wind. From nothing, a beast of ancient and ancestral origins trots into reality.

Torrent snorts.

He's a horse, with a shaggy mane and two long horns jutting out of his head. His back already adorned with a saddle and tied-down equipment, his coat a solemn gray with lighter spots in a sparse polka dot pattern.

Torrent looks down at me, nudging my head with his snout.

He's real, a real body. That big nose is even a little damp.

Unlike Kalé dopey horse, Torrent carries a vague form of intelligence and reliability in his eyes, like some sort of smart dog.

He seems to know me too, because he nuzzles me, as if this was the first time in forever that we're meeting.

He snorts again, tapping his hoof impatiently in the blood. He gives the approaching soldiers a wary eye, positioning himself like he wanted to protect me.

Without hesitating, Melina continues, flying up by my side.

Prince of death, stay your growing blade. Shadow of Marika, hide your sacred rune. Return the grace of thee, under the light of the Erdtree. Heal.

Bones mend themselves; inflammation dies down. My wounds partially stitch up, the burns on my face and hand lessen. The fatigue partially burns away, and my bruises are gone completely.

Sorry, but I must borrow this.

I feel a chilling sensation flow through me, like a percentage of my power was taken away. It makes me feel tired, more than I already was.

Roard, arise.

…

Melina hasn't given up.

A second figure joins us, the ground next to me lighting up like a white neon sign. From the ring of glowing power, particles of ghastly alabaster form and congeal, until a knight with partisan and greatshield rises from a kneeling position.

His frogmouth helm is on, its plume waving in the partial wind.

Roard returns to the Lands Between yet again, pale white and glowing like he was an angel.

The soldiers physically take a step back, voices of shock running rampant between the ten of them.

Their captain has arisen, before their very eyes.

But Roard, giving the place around him a curious look, doesn't welcome his soldiers with a smile; he turns about face, glancing all over until he finds me.

He looks down.

"Well, would you look at that? Aren't you just a sight for sore eyes?"

A flood of conflicting emotions pass through me.

"I-… I-…"

I struggle to stand to my feet, still wincing from the deeper cuts and broken bones.

"How?" Is all I get out.

"Captn'?" One of the soldiers utters, giving Roard an incredulous face. "T-That you?"

Roard gives the soldier a sideways glance, barking a quick laugh.

"Well, Dalon, is that you?"

He looks at the others, locking his greatshield into place on his back.

"And Gran, Tellin… Pilor too? Isn't this just a grand reunion."

He doesn't say anything else, leaving the soldiers shocked as he turns back to me.

"You know, boss, you look a mess. Were you really just crying?"

He doesn't give me a chance to answer. He looks at Melina's aura next.

"Hey half-eye, what's the big deal? Thought Inept Jester here was the only one who can summon me."

It's all happening so fast, it feels like I'm missing something important. I can't place it, and I'm left speechless.

I apologize. But it was an emergency.

Roard considers the corpses around us, looking at Torrent too, who gives the spirit knight a questioning look.

"So I see. Well, it's not like I have anything better to do." He grabs me, hoisting me up atop Torrent. "You know, being in absolute darkness and all. Still, looks like you did a number on these guys, boss. Guess you're not so inept after all."

I'm called boss now?

Wait… that's not what I should be worrying about.

"Roard." I breathe. "How are you-"

Roard growls.

"Wait..."

He studies something.

"Are you serious!? You did all this, but didn't even bothering to use my spear?"

Huh?

His partisan is on my back, it's edge devoid of any blood. He jabs a finger at my chest atop Torrent, I feel something that almost feels like metal knock on my sternum.

"You trying to insult me?"

"I-… I don't know how to use a spear." I try.

Roard barks laughter.

"You serious!?"

The soldiers left utterly bewildered, I follow a likewise sentiment. Torrent and Melina feel impatient, but Roard sounds giddy. He might just be happy to see the world again.

"Then I'll give you the crash course."

Crash course? That's quite a modern saying. And what's more, he's talking different from how he usually sounds. Where did he learn all these words?

He doesn't care, and seems to find my perplexed face as an incentive.

"Just hold your front hand loose and thrust with your back hand." He whisks an open hand about, like it's really that simple. "Just point and poke. Easy, right?"

Roard, this is serious.

"And I'm being serious." He says to the rune. "Just want the kid to understand how great spears are."

Cover our retreat, please. Lance needs to flee for now. He is in no condition to fight.

Roard glances back at the soldiers, before he unlatches his greatshield, taking up a stance with his spear ready.

"Yes ma'am. Pretty sure I can do that."

Then, I leave it to you. Torrent, if you will.

I still can't keep up, but I try to shout thank you to Roard. Yet, I fail to, the words get caught up in my throat.

Everyone's doing this, to keep me alive.

I find it sour if I say anything.

Torrent takes off toward Castle Morne, taking me along with him. I've never ridden a horse before, so I just hold on tight, fighting back tears.

Roard watches me go, grinning to himself. Compared to when he first met me, this carnage around him paints a picture of just how much I've changed. I'm his key to seeing his family again, and I 'm showing promise to be able to play the part as that key.

He just needs to keep my sorry behind alive, and I'll handle the rest.

Still, before Roard came to here, he saw something strange go on in my mind; he saw the darkness around him move.

He felt another presence too, a foreboding one.

The presence left as quickly as it arrived, retreating back into the darkness from which it came. But still… it gave him the creeps.

He's not alone in that darkness.

He probably should've said something, but he let his mouth run, as he usually does.

Oh well. He thinks to himself. Can always tell them next time.

"Captain, why?"

Roard turns his attention back to the soldiers; his men. He knew most of them here, and he doesn't have the full story of why they're all here in Bellard. But it doesn't matter anymore.

It's out of his control.

"Sorry boys." He says, readying his spear. "But I wag my tail for a new lord now."

Godrick was a weasel; anyone could see that. Roard followed him because Godrick had aspirations, plans to retake the capital. If he succeeded, Roard could've been reunited with his family again. But Godrick began to fester in his castle, no longer having grand desires that he would act upon. He was content with just playing house.

He was a sinking ship, who plans to drag everyone else down with him.

Trying to appease dragons, trying to convince all he is of the golden lineage. Fearful of his fellow demigods, fearful of his ancestry, fearful of his own weak body. A senile man, barely a demigod.

By comparison, this rising power in the land…

Roard is taking a gamble, and engages.

He charges ahead, taking on the ten soldiers on his own.

Runes find me soon after, as I make my way toward Morne, at a speed one could only naturally experience in this world by riding atop an airborne dragon.