Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucidity as felt in battle was of a decidedly odd kind, insofar as lucidity itself could be categorised. It would drive one to the most maddening things; such things as they would never consider under any normal circumstances, while adhering to any conventional definition of lucidity.

Claiming that she was not lucid under the present circumstances would, however, be a lie- and lies were a matter Malenia had sworn her life against. It had always been her philosophy to try her best to see matters precisely as they were, and she could not, therefore, deny the present as an illusion brought on by the Rot, or otherwise simple madness.

She had given in. She had stopped fighting it, that horrid plunge into the depths, and had taken it to where it would lead in hopes that her curse would grant her strength enough to slay her uninvited guest. She had not lost control, as against Radahn. It was a lucid, willing act, made in hopes of killing the Tarnished warrior.

She had not struggled to rein it in, as she had in Aeonia. She had not made any attempt to wrest it under her control, and had in fact purposely let it flow freely. She had bloomed, and had done so willingly.

How odd that she’d look upon the circumstances with such regret, such self-loathing now, where in the battle it had never mattered. Every stroke of her sword that followed the bloom had been fuelled by the very same deadly intent- all her own- as every stroke that preceded it. Perhaps, some cynical part of her reasoned, she would not even have looked upon her giving in to the rot as an evil, if only she’d won.

Perhaps she’d rationalise it to herself a ‘noble sacrifice’. An act of martyrdom, for the sake of Miquella and his legacy, so long as her adversary had died.

He was cruel for not doing so, and leaving her with the present inconvenience. Cruel, wondrous and, quite frankly, irritating. Nearly all through that battle, she had been expecting victory.

“Your strength… extraordinary.” she offered praise, downed. “The mark… of a true lord.”

Malenia wasn’t yet on her last breaths, as she had not been dealt a mortal wound. Simply put, her prosthetic arm had been struck off with a sort of clinical precision- humiliating in the way that it did not take any of her flesh with it. She was utterly sure she’d been the Tarnished’s superior in skill, and yet…

“If you insist on… ah…  a kind of coup de grâce, it will have to wait, I’m afraid. I daresay I deserve some consideration after you butchered me to quite this extent. The utter mockery this family makes of the concept of hospitality astounds me.”

The words made absolutely no sense. Such a ridiculous man- and how humiliating to be defeated by this fool, of all possible fools.

She’d cut his flesh to ribbons with her Waterfowl dance, thrown him into the air and struck him through. She’d heard him coughing and spitting blood just as surely as he did now. The many lesions that now lined his flesh were her work, and the fact that he was dripping painted in his own blood even more so.

Yet, the fool had kept fighting, drinking a certain thing that smelled of the Erdtree, from a certain flask or chalice. She’d even struck the flask out of his hand at some point, taking a finger or two with it- but it was of no account. The blade in usage changed, as she had figured out by feeling it with her blade in deflecting a subsequent strike, but the Tarnished fought with as much proficiency one-handed as he had done with two. She’d not heard a single cry of pain or harsh exclamation throughout the battle, only a surprisingly soft ‘dear me’ and a few sighing ‘ah’s- as though her opponent were politely surprised.

She was a better swordsman than he; her speed superior, her edge alignment more proficient, her instincts far more honed and her strength making a laughingstock of his. There was too much circular, strafing footwork in that fool’s method of battle, too much deliberation. It did not quite flow.

And yet, there had clearly been some form of artistry behind his bladework. She hadn’t felt the telltale flash of heat, or her hair standing on its end, so it was clear he’d been no sorcerer- but there had clearly been some kind of subtle enchantment at work, or she’d simply not have lost.

Either way, that artistry had been of an unexpected kind. She’d always considered defensive swordsmen like this Tarnished the easiest opponents, and had therefore been flummoxed.

Those strokes must have been masterworks in precision, or they would not all have attacked and defended at the same time. It had taken a work of genius to prompt her to bloom, and then another to overcome her subsequent guise as the Goddess of Rot.

“Miquella. Dearest Miquella, my brother… I’m sorry. I finally met my match.” she opined softly, placing every last vestige of her grief into those words. Her brother’s memory was an appropriate last thought to have before she departed the world, and she hoped he could forgive her, even though she would not deserve it.

“Ah, please. Spare me the clichés; I’ve never had a need for them and never will. All this ‘cold steel to the neck’ business began to get on my nerves a long time ago, and I’d be a hypocrite if I paid any heed to it, especially now. That, and I… rather suspect the last thing this arm needs at the moment is hefting an executioner’s stroke to your neck.”

She forced her mind to work and parse the meaning of those words. Her opponent sounded exhausted and almost wheezed- though there were faint undertones of both irritation and a kind of amusement that she detected. ‘Spare me the clichés’, what by Hoarah Loux could that mean? Could it be… ah.

“You… are not going to kill me?” she asked, almost plaintively. “You would rather humiliate me.” she said without awaiting an answer, her voice firmer.

“Goodness, make that sound a little less like you would want me to kill you, if you will. I’ve gotten tired of that sort of thing. And dispense with that ‘letting me live would be a humiliation’ nonsense, please. It would not and I don’t want to hear any more of it, because it’s stupid.”

A thousand things whirred in her mind. “Why, O Tarnished? You have seen what I did to Radahn. You have been witness to what I would have done to you. You are aware of my curse. Why not?”

“Unlike some”, the Tarnished sniffed, and something told her that he’d upturned his nose- “I’ve been raised to follow a few principles of basic decency. A bit of a pity that most of my enemies do rather better at getting themselves killed than I do at giving them chances to live, but I got lucky today. Good thing, too.”

Lucky? He had been maimed, lacerated, assailed in every way- lucky? She could not possibly understand how, despite clearly supporting himself on his sword- an arm hanging loose and slowly limping towards her- how he could continue to make such profound and overly eloquent understatements.

The idiot.

“If you would wish to keep me alive- for whatever frenzy-wrought reason- it is of no account. The Rot writhes within me, and I would rather die than become its vessel. Your choice leaves me naught but doom, and an eternity of pain. Rest well, in the knowledge that-“ she gritted out, but was interrupted.

“Ah, dear, dear, a thousand apologies! Really, who am I to accuse you of being inconsiderate, where I have made such a woeful fool of myself…” said the Tarnished, tones changing instantly. It was completely and utterly incongruous how he had somehow managed to infuse so much genuine concern into those tones. She had heard concern before; she knew how to recognise it from the timbre and the breath. It wasn’t feigned, as she had heard similar tones from Miquella.

Miquella.

The thought brought new pain. It was a mistake to think of him, she realised distantly- as she wallowed in negative emotion, the Rot grew in strength and in its power over her. A stabbing flash of pain permeated her, and she felt as though she were being stabbed by serrated knives, twisting in her flesh.

Against this unimaginable torment, she was forced to release a single, stiff grunt. Almost imperceptible.

The Tarnished spurred into action as though struck by a lightning bolt.

“Severed tendon, my arm will be useless- I’ve been ever so clumsy- I’m afraid a bit of sorcery will need to go into this. In my present state, I can’t carry you alone.” he muttered. He had taken something out, something small from his robes. She’d lost her sight long ago, and could not see what it was.

“Argh- just when it didn’t need to, the Rot got to this as well. Bloody Rot. It must have been terrible to live with it like this- how stupid of me to come barging in, forgive me.” he rambled. Something must have gotten infected, she reasoned.

“You… let go… get away… leave me…” Malenia croaked, the pain growing worse. She lay still as it would have been undignified to writhe, and she’d not let her curse have that victory.

Against the rot, which dulled all things save pain and the eternal decay, Malenia felt a blazing fire come into life before her. She’d never forget fire, after having faced the Flame of the Redmanes in battle. So this was his intent- to torture her. She might as well have expected it.

Something was inserted into her bosom decisively, and she could not restrain her shout of pain, as it had been unexpected. Flame. That fire she had felt burned within her now. She imagined her body as a battleground, flame against rot, and herself in the middle, being eaten up- but what was this?

The Rot… receded. Unexpectedly, it receded. It was still painful and horrible, but- flame she could bear. Flame burned her, hurt her, but it did not bend her will to its own purposes. It was not part of her. If flame tamed her rot, then her will could tame what pain it might bring.

She bit her tongue, recalling her strength. Her remaining flesh hand clawed in the dirt. She felt for the object at her breast, and her hand caressed the unmistakable surface of unalloyed gold.

“Miquella” she spoke aloud, reminded again of her brother, and the memory did not herald pain, as she’d expected. This was one of Miquella’s needles.

As she touched it, though, the needle itself began to change. The few cracks and flaws on its side vanished, and it became the most flawless thing.

It had gone from being one of Miquella’s needles to the needle. The finest one, the one he’d made in especial for her.

She was no mage, and had no means of understanding the transformation. She was not prepared to believe it, yet clear evidence stood before her. The rot had halted- while still present, it no longer writhed.

She heard a sigh of relief from somewhere ahead of her.

“Well, thankfully that wasn’t a complete disaster.” the Tarnished said brightly. “Forgive me if this stings, but I’m afraid it’s… necessary…” came the halting words, before he limped over to her. She felt more fire, and heard the sound of a rune arc being crushed.

She felt suddenly healthier than she had in years. The constant decay did not drag at her mind. The pain remained, of course it did, but the strain on her will to combat it reduced. Even the terrible burning sensation of the sorcerous fire within her lessened.

It took some time, after which her panting lessened, to realise what the thing was- and she found herself filled with new rage as she knew exactly what the Tarnished had bestowed to her.

The great rune of that bastard, Radahn. That bastard who had proved entirely too difficult to kill. She’d fought a calamitous war over it and failed to get it for Miquella, and now this… this utter moron…

Malenia forced rationality upon herself before the Rot took hold again. It was not cruelty or humiliation, or she’d have detected the lies in his voice. Her skill at pattern recognition was unrivalled. He did not actively attempt to make a fool of her, but somehow did so nonetheless.

If only the pompous-sounding idiot knew what this casual gift of Radahn’s great rune meant. She wanted to scream in agony. For him to so simply grant it- hand it over, and when she was vulnerable, too- how utterly stupid. It made her feel completely worthless.

Perhaps it was true, after all. Perhaps her life had no meaning. She certainly wasn’t acquitting herself very well, with her nigh-childish reactions to somebody who seemed to be trying to do her a genuine kindness. It was best, in such cases, to sigh and focus on other things before the Rot took advantage of her mental state.

She found that she could stand, and tried raising herself to her feet. Even her prosthetics trembled with the effort, and she cursed herself inwardly. In some small, cruel way, she was glad for the debilitating injuries she had inflicted on her obviously limping and heaving foe, as at least both of them looked pathetic instead of her alone- but that was arrogance speaking, and she dismissed it. Besides, the Tarnished had maintained a kind of eloquence through it all, which she was decidedly failing at, and had shown grace to a downed opponent.

“Ah, ah, ah, it appears I have wholly forgotten something. Please, give me a moment.” came his voice, and she decided to comply.

Her rotted flesh felt a faint breeze, and then a powerful wind, which had brought something that flapped along with it.

“I really have nothing else, so I’m afraid my cloak will have to do, for the time.” he said ruefully, almost apologetically.

Cloak? For what? She had no need of- ah.

She’d somehow completely forgotten herself. Feeling a sudden, inexplicable urge to annoy the Tarnished, she ignored the proffered garment, and tried wobbling forwards.

“Oh, please, you know one mustn’t…” he huffed, before limping ahead of her and stubbornly trying to wrap the cloak around her waist. He was quite clearly blushing all through it; she’d discerned it by his words and how he tried his utmost not to touch her skin. Eventually, he gave up trying to do the task with his eyes closed, and she felt a faint breeze surround herself again, followed by an answering wind that secured it around her with an odd sort of convenience.

He wielded control over winds, of some measure. She mused, a question to ponder later.

She reached down for her prosthetic hand, feeling the gentle caress of a soft flower beside it. She paused a while, stroking it with her flesh hand, as if to ask it what in the world was going on.

“If I am to abide in your company, I would have your name.” she demanded simply, calculating where to go from there. Calling him ‘Tarnished’ within her thoughts had begun to get irritating, and she wished to assess whether or not he’d lie.

“I suppose you might as well. Alagos of the west winds, at your service... agh. Sorry.” She deduced that he had attempted a complicated kind of bow, and had strained some muscle, injured as he was. She still found it odd how he- how Alagos- insisted on tending to her before himself.

She did not recognise the name. It must have come from lands across the fog, or it might have entered into etymology only after her sleep began. She still did not know how long it had been since Aeonia, having lost all sense of time.

“I would suggest you tend to yourself, Lord Alagos.” she suggested stiffly. “You do not seem much better off than I am.”

She tried not to sound very petty about it and failed utterly. Thankfully, Alagos pretended not to care- or perhaps it was that he truly did not.

“Well, I would blame a rather ill-advised little altercation for that, but it is true, after a fashion. I must congratulate you on the stroke to the fingers; nothing short of pure genius.” he said with a certain amount of admiration, which continued to flummox her. Instead of pondering what manner of creature would congratulate an enemy who tried to maim them, she focused on affixing her prosthetic to her shoulder.

It ignited little sparks of pain, as always. The Rot within her always resisted the touch of unalloyed gold. She tried to walk forward, testing herself, but the phantom pains and the shock of the matter still left her wobbling. In time, she touched the wall and kept herself from falling.

She heard some limping beside her, and felt the kind of warmth she would associate with her father’s golden light. She had felt this spell many, many times before- the Law of Regression. Radagon had been ever so fond of it, and ever so desperate to teach it to Miquella.

A sigh escaped her, and she continued feeling along the walls, gripping them for support. There was some manner of fussing going on behind her, so she assumed Alagos was pottering about- likely in search of that flask she’d felled.

“Come now, there’s no need for that. Let me assist you.” he muttered, and she felt the pressure of a hand at her side. Part of her was tempted to refuse him, but he had offered nothing but kindness thus far, against all odds and for apparently no reason. Besides, if there was truly an ulterior motive behind this kindness, it would be better if she ingratiated herself to him and found out.

She swallowed her pride, and allowed herself to lean on him. There was a bit of a jerk, as the wounded Tarnished tried his best not to stumble with the weight of a demigod against him. He truly was very small, Malenia found- eventually dismissing this incongruous estimate and measuring his height with respect to what she would expect of other humans, such as her Lordsworn.

He was in fact tall, compared to the rest of his ilk. She tried very subtly to gauge his appearance by leaning somewhat more harshly on his shoulder- to a small grunt, but no complaint- and found that he was not, in fact, very well-built as she’d been expecting. Tall, and thin- woefully thin. There must have been some kind of wiry strength to his limbs.

She grasped at something, and felt a hand. The other, supporting the small of her back, was for whatever reason attempting to be as gentle as possible about propping her up and keeping her balance. Both appeared to have five fingers.

“You… mended your hands?” she blurted out, too tired to restrain her surprise.

“Rather a complex spell, but one that is worth the price, as I have found. A component of time- if added subtly in to the Law of Regression with the aid of an Ancient Dragon Smithing Stone, might allow one to simply remove wounds as though they had never been inflicted.” he chuckled. “Sadly, the broken ribs, the stabbed abdomen, and the various other injuries you’ve dealt me are rather beyond my capacity to wish away. I don’t think I’ll enjoy the recovery very much.” he said, shaking his head, and it surprised Malenia that there was no hint of blame in the words.

They had walked out of the door by now, and she allowed herself to be lead outside into the corridor. Step by step, she was recovering her balance, regaining her mastery over the Rot that plagued her. Another breeze blew her way, and she felt a curtain of something on her chest.

Hair. It was soft.

Incongruous, in some way, with a face that was surely scarred- she’d seen to that very thoroughly herself- and palms that felt rough to the point that there may have been more scar tissue on them than actual skin.

“I must ask again, Lord Alagos- what prompted you to come here? We owe each other naught but enmity, yet what you have done has been at odds with the simple matter that we were fighting to the death.”

“Not Lord, just Alagos. And no, you haven’t asked me once.” he huffed in a kind of self-satisfied way. “Perhaps that would have been more prudent instead of spewing haughty words and trying to slaughter me- but what’s done is done. Goodness knows I’ve been guilty of recklessness myself, at times.” he chuckled, wryly. This tarnished must have been very fond of chuckles, wry or otherwise.

“Well?” she prompted, as he stopped, and tried to get her to sit down with a superfluous amount of care.

“It is not a question of what as much as it is one of whom.” Alagos stated, with something that might have been a frown. “As for whom, it was- a… friend, of sorts. A good friend.” he said, already rather soft voice descending into a near-whisper.

‘Friend’, that was a lie. Whoever this was had surely been more than friend. More than that, she detected the sorrow in the words- and it had been difficult, as he’d masked it well for a mortal’s standards.

“It must be a very great friend, for whom you would come so far and risk death.” she said solemnly, a simple statement of fact.

“Ah? Yes, indeed, she was ‘very great’, though I suppose tragedy befell us in that she could have been greater still. She gave to me something I had… shall we say something I had never asked for nor expected. She had given it freely. It had been my desire to watch her grow, to teach her, to see her flourish and eventually surpass myself.” he said, almost fondly.

Malenia’s heart caught in her throat.

The words bore an eerie similarity to what she had overheard her old master say about her to Miquella. He had truly loved her as his own, that legendary saint of blades- that blind swordsman, who had given her wings. In some ways, she had been more his daughter than Radagon’s.

“Yet I am to assume that was not to be?” she asked, and found that her own voice was soft. She did not know why she was letting herself be manipulated by her emotions, but it was nonetheless a struggle to not choke on the words. “This journey of yours… it’s a death-oath.”

Alagos sighed, and there was so much fondness hidden there, along with some kind of wistfulness. “I should not like to think of it quite that way, for I know she would not.” he said, in firmer tones than Malenia had expected. “She would have seen it as a completion, I think, of what she set out to do. She was on this quest, you see- a quest to meet you, and to restore to you a ‘dignity’, a ‘sense of self’. Alas, she could not make it all the way, and I failed to protect her or teach her enough in time.”

“What would this friend of yours owe me? I… cannot think of anyone who would care, save perhaps my brother, Miquella.”

“I do not know, and have never known.” Alagos said, but the tones were not defeatist. “What I do know was that it was her last will before she… left…us, and for the sake of what she means to me, I will see it done.”

Fascinating.

“Is it in any way your intent to… find a method of, of…” she could not even say it. It had been a part of her so very long. Without the Rot, she feared, there might be no Malenia.

“Forgive me, for we’re somewhat pressed for time. A moment, if you would please.” he said, with his habitual courtesy, and she felt the warmth of golden light.

Don’t tell me- argh.

Of course he’d vanished. It had been just like Radagon to pull this trick when confronted with questions he did not wish to answer. The bastard.

She cursed him a few times to her heart’s content, before mulling over the day’s events. She had lost her first duel. She’d had her world shattered.

There was also this stupid, incongruous, impossible little feeling that things might be getting better soon. It felt oddly like hope. She grit her teeth and tried to forget about it.