Chapter Text
The ash worms come from below.
No one knows much more than that. They are creatures of mystery. Some say they are kin to the sand worms of the Smoldering Lake, although they spit rock rather than lightning. Certainly they look much like their Carthus counterparts: thick and long as a tree is tall, armored in stony plates, heads formed of four segments that open like petals to expose rings and rings of teeth. Others say they are a new type of creature entirely, spawned in dark by Dark.
What Irithyll’s hunters know for certain is that they cause gaping sinkholes and kill people and animals if given the chance.
They are also very good to eat.
And tonight’s prey is ready to fall.
It erupted from the ground late in the evening, showering the frosty plain outside Irithyll with rubble. The hunters have been harrying it with magic for hours to wear it down. Now, as the end of the hunt approaches, they have set a ring of silver torches around their quarry to light their way, and between each torch, a harpoon.
Gwyndolin of Irithyll has fought alongside his warriors all night. Now, for them, he will finish this.
He is clad in the blue-and-silver Darkmoon uniform, catalyst in hand, cheeks numb with the wind, white headdress streaming behind him. He is flying across the frozen grass astride a boreal wolf the size of a small horse. The wolf’s name is Madoc, and Yorshka - thoughtful, brilliant Yorshka - tamed him to act as Gwyndolin’s legs in battle.
Madoc weaves in and out between the harpoons, each one manned by one of Gwyndolin’s knights, carrying him closer to the worm. Faces flash past him in a blur; voices mingle as they urge him on. Rhythmic explosions split the night as the harpoon guns fire. Gwyndolin sees a dozen spears, six on each side, arc overhead and bury themselves in the worm’s rocky scales. The attached ropes creak and strain to pin the creature down. They will not hold for long. They do not need to.
Madoc bears Gwyndolin along the worm’s side. He strafes it with a volley of purple stars from his catalyst: one last assault before the finishing blow. Gwyndolin knows he has lingered too long when he sees the worm coil up for a strike, but he does not care. He keeps his catalyst raised, launching his stars until the moment the worm’s tail, solid as an oak, sweeps towards him. Madoc swerves to avoid it. Gwyndolin loses his hold on the wolf’s fur and tumbles to the ground.
The breath whooshes from his lungs. He looks up, wheezing and curiously calm, and watches the worm’s jagged tail drive down at him.
Then Sirris is beside him in a burst of blue light, throwing up a magical barrier with one hand and pushing Gwyndolin out of the way with the other. Gwyndolin has just enough time to roll aside. Sirris, too, throws herself away as the barrier shatters under the worm’s impact. The creature strikes the ground with a force that jars Gwyndolin’s bones. Then Madoc is licking his face and nudging him up onto his back, and they are flying once more.
Gwyndolin lifts both hands from Madoc’s fur and leans back, back, back towards the slivered moon he makes with his knights. He draws an invisible bowstring and looses a single luminous arrow.
The metal rain begins. Gwyndolin is dimly aware that his people are roaring their encouragement as hundreds of golden arrows pour down.
The worm thrashes and then crashes to the ground with such a quake that bystanders lose their footing.
Amidst all this, Gwyndolin sees Dunstan’s dark form dart between the arrows, straight into the worm’s toothy mouth. His claymore flashes and drives up through the creature’s head.
The beast shudders and goes still.
Gwyndolin falls back into himself in a rush. His chest is heaving, his side pulsing angrily where he fell, and he is so alive.
(He even forgot for a moment that in his dreams, he wanders once more the barren wasteland at the end of the world. He has not done that since before he decided to end Fire. Now the ash dreams have returned to him.)
He lifts his catalyst high and joins his people in shouting to the black, starless sky. Madoc howls along with them. Tonight, they are victorious.
Gwyndolin’s knees buckle as he slips from Madoc’s back into the grass. The wolf whines and licks him until he gets to his feet again. Gwyndolin ruffles his shaggy fur and allows him to wander off and claim his share of the kill.
Soon the hunters will swarm over the worm, beginning the long process of slicing through its armor with diamond-edged blades. Then they will carve the meat into pieces small enough to load into wagons and take home to Irithyll. It will feed the populace for many months if it is well-distributed. Even knowing this, however, Gwyndolin does not linger near the fallen creature to watch. He has no stomach for this part of the hunt.
Instead he seeks out his sister on the fringe of the crowd, where the wounded are seated on overturned crates or lying on mats. Dressed in sturdy leathers, her hair bound up in a braid, her spear on her back just in case, Yorshka looks nothing like her former self. Her hands move with surety as she locates each person’s injuries and rings her chime over them. “Be still,” she tells each one. “Thou shalt soon mend.” And then golden light wells beneath her hands, and cuts draw closed and bones knit back together. When she looks up from her last patient and catches Gwyndolin’s eye, she smiles with pride.
Yorshka has grown a great deal in the past year. She spent it under Morgott’s tutelage, learning the fundamentals of combat - not enough, as the Omen King promised, to make a warrior of her, but sufficient for self-defense. Morgott is as demanding of Yorshka as he was of Gwyndolin: her training is difficult, her progress slow. It also proves to her, with every session and every small improvement, that she is capable of more than she knows. That revelation likewise gives her confidence to pursue healing, her true gift, with renewed vigor. Reassured by the knowledge of how to extricate herself from danger if need be, she now acts as a battlefield medic to Irithyll’s hunters in their fights against the ash worms and the dregs of Deep. What she has lost in softness, she has gained in courage. Much as it unsettles Gwyndolin, it does Yorshka good to be out here with him, easing pain wherever she can.
Now she pulls him down onto a barrel she has commandeered as a stool. Her eyes, vivid blue even in the washed-out firelight, burn into Gwyndolin’s.
“Art thou well?” she asks.
“I am but a trifle bruised,” Gwyndolin tells her. He is too full of adrenaline to feel much of the soreness overtaking his side. “I shall stay with thee until thy work is done, if thou wishest.”
Yorshka looks her brother up and down. Her eyes narrow just as Gwyndolin’s do when he assesses a new illusion. “Thou’rt chilled,” she says. “Prithee go home and warm thyself. I shall be along presently. Few are wounded tonight, and none gravely.”
“As thou wilt, my lady.” Gwyndolin holds a fist to his chest in the Darkmoon salute.
The gesture makes Yorshka giggle, but Gwyndolin means it sincerely. This new, practical version of his sister never fails to surprise and delight him. She is no longer the sobbing little girl who fled Ariamis, nor a tyrant’s hostage awaiting her fate. Instead, despite all her hardships, she is becoming a woman of poise and compassion.
Yorshka touches Gwyndolin’s shoulder, then returns to the injured resting on their makeshift stools and pallets. Gwyndolin notes with a touch of satisfaction that none of them are his apprentices - now properly his knights, though he still isn’t used to thinking of them as such. Dunstan is among them, however. He sits on a crate not far away, his tunic pulled up to expose a long scratch down his back. One of the worm’s teeth must have grazed him.
Elisabeth is cleaning the cut. Gwyndolin knows it is her even before she lifts her face from the shadows, because only she could convince Dunstan to sit still and accept treatment. The Unkindled is negligent about his own well-being: a side effect, Gwyndolin supposes, of being immune to true death for so long. After all, cuts and bruises would hardly matter to one assured of resurrection at the nearest bonfire.
Presently, Elisabeth begins to work a healing incantation over Dunstan’s injury. Upon seeing Gwyndolin, Dunstan looks up at him and rolls his eyes in a halfhearted sort of way. They both know he does not truly mind his wife’s ministrations; quite the opposite. It is clear from the way Dunstan rests his head on Elisabeth’s shoulder, a tenderness he would never have exhibited in public a year ago, that he is glad he asked for her hand in marriage.
“Will he live, dear lady?” Gwyndolin asks the former Fire Keeper with mock somberness. Already he can see the edges of Dunstan’s cut drawing together and scabbing over.
Elisabeth kisses the top of her husband’s head. “Perhaps.”
Dunstan tugs a strand of Elisabeth’s fair hair loose from her braid. “I’ve had worse.” Then his gaze meets Gwyndolin’s, and he is suddenly serious. “Might’ve been worse for you too. I saw you fall. If that worm had come down on you, you’d have died.”
“But it did not. Sirris saw to that,” Gwyndolin says patiently. This is not the first time in recent weeks that the Unkindled has expressed such concerns. Gwyndolin thinks this new, almost paternal fretting has something to do with the fact that by next year, Dunstan will be a father.
The Unkindled is not pacified; indeed, he aims his next words at Gwyndolin’s heart: “You’re too careless with your own life. Your sister can’t lose you again.”
Gwyndolin stiffens. So does Elisabeth, the golden glow beneath her fingers faltering a little. “Be not uncharitable, my love,” she says. “Surely Master Gwyndolin is not to blame for his own imprisonment.”
“Of course he ain’t. I’m only saying…I don’t think Yorshka can stand any more hurt.”
“Yorshka knoweth I return to her always,” Gwyndolin says - sharp, but not as sharp as he intended. He cannot fault the Unkindled for trying to keep Yorshka safe.
But again Dunstan does not relent. He folds his arms across his chest, settling in for a long argument. “Is that so? Does she know you refuse to wear anything warm? Does she know about the time I had to carry you home because you got all wet fighting those Deep soul dregs and you were so cold you couldn’t pick yourself up off the street?”
It is true that Gwyndolin goes into battle wearing silks that offer little warmth or protection, but for good reason: those same silks amplify his magic. Dunstan knows this full well.
Indignant now, Gwyndolin crosses his own arms. If Dunstan wants a fight, he shall get it.
“Thou think’st me weak?” he demands.
“I never said that. I went to the bloody kiln with you! Do you think I’d have done that if I thought you were weak?”
“I should hope not.” Gwyndolin does not know why he is letting Dunstan irk him. The Unkindled has - has always had - a way of piercing Gwyndolin’s composure. “Hear this. Upon my birth, the midwife feared I would not live to see my first year. Mine heart would fail me, she thought, or illness take me. Certainly I would not walk. Yet we found a way, my serpents and I, and now here I stand, last of all my family.”
“Not last, if luck is with us,” Dunstan interjects: a peace offering. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me, you know.”
“I will fight beside my people, Unkindled, cold and wet and all. I will not be locked away.”
Dunstan sighs. His set jaw relaxes a bit. “I won’t ever lock you away, Lin. Just listen to me, will you? I know you lost a lot of years to your duty, and now that you’re free, you want to live as much as you can. I understand that, I promise you. But…don’t live so much that you get yourself killed, all right? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
The Unkindled does not say things like this lightly. Now Gwyndolin begins to suspect this is more than a rehearsal for fatherhood, for the inevitable day when Dunstan must take his son or daughter to task for their recklessness. No, something is bothering him. Gwyndolin sees it in his dark eyes, which are unusually unguarded. Elisabeth knows it too; that is plain in the distracted way she smooths Dunstan’s shirt back down. She is listening and sensing with all her being, trying to divine the source of her husband’s unease.
“I see thou’rt troubled,” Gwyndolin says. “Is there aught thou wishest to reveal?”
Hast thou seen once more Fire's ashen desolation, as I have? Hath Elisabeth?
Dunstan huffs out a cloud of mist. “There is. There’s a few things, actually, but…not tonight, eh? We’re all tired.”
“Choose one.” Gwyndolin will not rest without hearing at least one piece of news.
“Well, Greirat found -”
“Stole.” (Greirat does not find anything.)
“Not stole -”
“Intercepted, then.”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
Scoffing, Gwyndolin sits down in the crackling grass by Dunstan’s crate.
“That’s better,” Dunstan says. “I was trying to say that Greirat happened on a messenger bird with a letter for Eira.”
Gwyndolin almost laughs in relief. This is strange news, but not so dire as he thought it might be.
“Eira?” he repeats. “Her name is not known beyond Irithyll’s walls.”
“You’d be surprised how news travels in Lothric. I hardly said a word to anyone while I was hunting Lords of Cinder, but somehow Sirris heard I was ‘gentle of heart.’ Don’t know where she got that idea.”
“She heard rightly, as I know well,” Elisabeth counters, touching Dunstan’s arm.
Dunstan says nothing but rests his hand over hers. “Maybe your knights spread Eira’s story. She’s a hero to them.”
And I know how they talk, Gwyndolin thinks. “But who on earth would send word to her here? She is not of this world.”
“They didn’t send word to her, exactly,” Dunstan goes on, scratching his head as he often does when he is perplexed. “They didn’t use her name. There’s no one else they could mean, though: they said they want a duel with a warrior who uses red lightning.”
The fine hair on the back of Gwyndolin’s neck prickles. That does indeed sound like his dear friend Eira, the only wielder of red lightning Lothric has ever seen.
“Whence came this message?” he asks. The way Greirat gets around, it could be anywhere from the turrets of Lothric Castle to the depths of Irithyll Dungeon.
Dunstan becomes very interested in the crate he is sitting on. “From Archdragon Peak.”
“I know of no such place,” Gwyndolin says, yet deep within him something stirs.
“Most people don’t, I expect. You need a secret gesture to get in; you can’t just walk up the mountain. That’s the point: the people who live there don’t want to be found. They’re all…what’s the word? People who make themselves uncomfortable on purpose.”
“Ascetics?” Elisabeth suggests.
“That’s it. They’re trying to become dragons. I took a look, but I didn’t stay long. The place was full of snake people.”
Gwyndolin arches one brow. “And what, pray, is thine opposition to ‘snake people’?’”
Elisabeth giggles behind her hand. Even Dunstan smiles.
“These weren’t like you,” he says, lighter now. “They reminded me of Sen’s Fortress, and that was more than enough for me.”
“Not for naught was Sen’s Fortress known as the gods’ proving ground,” Gwyndolin says, with a flutter of guilt in his stomach. The trials to which he and Frampt subjected the Undead on their road to Anor Londo were often cruel, and all in the name of deception. “Tell me, where is this land of ascetics?”
Dunstan gestures vaguely westward. “You can see it from Anor Londo. It’s the mountain with the ruins on top.”
There are many mountains with ruins atop their peaks. If one such mountain is visible from Anor Londo, Gwyndolin has taken no particular notice of it, not in all the times he has stood moonlight duty.
Then a realization strikes him, so obvious he wonders why he did not see it upon hearing the name “Archdragon Peak.” His skin begins to tingle with anticipation and something he cannot quite identify, something sobering. Judging from Dunstan’s sudden silence and downcast eyes, the Unkindled feels it too.
“Who issued this challenge?” Gwyndolin asks.
He does not know which answer he hopes for, because if his suspicions are correct, that means Gwynhael has been alive and in sight of Anor Londo for many years, perhaps ever since the Lords’ homelands converged on Lothric. It also means he has not once sought Gwyndolin out. Not even when Sulyvahn and Aldrich staged their coup. The thought makes Gwyndolin’s chest tighten: loss and love and hurt all knotted together.
“It’s not signed,” Dunstan says. Gwyndolin exhales sharply, and Dunstan puts a hand on his shoulder. “But Archdragon Peak is as good a place as any to look for your brother. Maybe Eira should go. She’ll sort this out.”
Gwyndolin is certain Eira can withstand Gwynhael’s might: the Tarnished, as she once said, are born god-hunters. He is less certain he wants to know the truths that might be revealed once the duel is over. There can be only two reasons Gwynhael has not come to Irithyll: something is very wrong with him, or - perhaps worse - he does not want to see his younger brother at all.
Gwyndolin’s ears begin to ring as if he has been struck in the head. Sounds muffle. Only when Dunstan shakes him does he realize he has fallen into the shadows on his heart. He comes back to himself with a little gasp.
“You all right?” Dunstan asks. “You…went away.”
Gwyndolin tries to smile. “Forgive me.”
“I asked if you think Eira will go.”
“Thou knowest her nature: she will go, and eagerly, I daresay.”
“Then give her the message. She’s coming to visit tonight, ain’t she?”
Dunstan holds out a folded parchment. When Gwyndolin takes it, it is rough and hard beneath his fingers, as if reinforced with something stony. He dares not unfold it, for he fears he will recognize Gwynhael’s scrawling handwriting, letters half-formed in haste. Instead he tucks it into his waistband unopened.
“Morgott will mislike this,” he says, to distract himself from his trembling fingers.
“That will not hinder the young Elden Lord, if half the tales be true,” Elisabeth says softly.
The affection in her voice lifts some of the tension, reminding Gwyndolin that no matter what happens, no matter what changes, he always has his first friend’s support. He needs such reminders, even now. He lived in solitude for so long that calling upon companions for aid - having companions at all - still feels strange.
He lets out the stiffness that has been accumulating in his shoulders ever since Dunstan mentioned the letter. “I will speak to Eira when next I see her,” he says. “Now I think perhaps we should bid goodnight. If thou bearest other tidings, Unkindled, they must wait ’til we are rested.”
Dunstan looks back at the rimed grass. “Some of it’s not good.”
Gwyndolin thinks once more of his all-too-familiar ashen visions. “I too have ill news to share.” Perhaps ’tis the same as thine.
“All the more reason to get some sleep, then.” Dunstan stands, cautiously flexing the muscles of his back so as not to aggravate his injury, and slips his arm through Elisabeth’s. “Especially you,” he says to her. “Not sure you should be out here, really.”
“My time is distant yet,” Elisabeth says easily, yet she rests one protective hand on her belly.
“For once I am in accord with thine husband,” Gwyndolin tells her. “Guard thine health. Precious few children were born this past age, in the time of Fire’s dwindling. I will rejoice to welcome the life thou bearest into being.”
Elisabeth looks down, not in shame or modesty but as if to glimpse the new life growing within her. Her eyes shine in the torchlight, and Gwyndolin thinks they may be full of tears. He can imagine how wondrous this is for her. By ancient law, Fire Keepers neither married nor bore children; now Elisabeth is free to do both - and anything else she might want. When she took the First Flame in her small hands, she broke her chains.
“As will I,” she murmurs, “and mine husband also.”
Dunstan scuffs his toes against the ground. “Don’t think I’m suited to fatherhood.”
“Nonsense,” Gwyndolin says. And then, unbalanced by the letter from Archdragon Peak, he goes on before he can stop himself: “Unkindled, should thy child be…different in any way…”
Dunstan’s face softens. “Lin. Don’t worry about that. I’m not going to make your father’s mistakes. Whatever happens, I will love this bairn.”
Gwyndolin knows he has just been given a gift: Dunstan does not often speak of gentle things like love. “Even if…’tis a snake person?”
Dunstan smiles at this, but his voice remains sober. “Even then.”
~~~
Irithyll is nearby, just across the field and the long stone bridge where Dunstan fought one of Sulyvahn’s beasts, yet to Gwyndolin the walk feels much longer than it is. Now that the rush of battle is leaving him, he can feel his side throbbing where he fell on it. His stomach is squirming from the mana draughts he took tonight. They do not agree with him at all, cold and gritty as they are. He imagines ashen estus was much the same, and he does not know how Dunstan could stand it. But he needs them. His magic is more limited now that Fire is gone and Gwyn’s fragmented soul no longer burns within him to give him strength.
He is tempted to unbuckle his leather waistband to ease his stomach, but he does not think he could manage it with his cold, armored fingers. He grimaces and rests a hand on his midsection. He’ll be fortunate if he does not get sick in the bushes by his doorstep. They’re liable to turn bright blue if he does.
By the time he reaches home, he is shivering and stumbling but satisfied with the night’s work. By his strength and that of his people, Irithyll is well-fed. He can rest warm in that knowledge.
He knows even before he enters his sitting room and sees that his hearth and wall sconces are lit - which is not how he left them - that Eira is here. He can sense the interwoven rings to which she is bound: light and life, warm as sunlight, deep as ancient roots.
He squints into the flickering silver dimness. “Eira?”
In answer, the Elden Lord peers around the edge of an armchair. “Lin!”
She gets to her feet with her usual vigor and embraces Gwyndolin, holds him tight even though his armor must be digging into her. She is small and taut in Gwyndolin’s arms, humming with life and smelling of Altus’s piney heights. Gwyndolin returns her embrace with all his strength, sore side and irritated stomach be damned. It is, as always, a miracle to be so close to another person.
“Sweet friend,” he says into her scruffy brown hair. With those words he closes the gap of weeks between them. Now they can pick up exactly where they left off when last they saw each other, as if they were never apart.
Eira draws back to assess his face. “Lin, you’re frozen!” she scolds in her mother-bear way.
“I come from the hunt.”
“I missed it?” Her face falls. She glances over her shoulder at the jagged bronze spear leaning against the fireplace. “But I brought my lightning.”
“Next time thou may’st join us, perhaps. We cannot know for certain when the worms will rise. This one emerged sooner than we judged.”
Unbidden comes the thought of the letter tucked into Gwyndolin’s waistband. Even so, thy weapon may yet see use.
“You won, though?” Eira asks.
“We did, and soundly.”
“Good.” Eira says this with fierce joy, the same with which she cheered for Gwyndolin the first time he cast Comet Azur. “Now you can get warm. I’ll put your kettle on. At least you’re not all wet this time.”
Gwyndolin laughs softly. On one of Eira’s earlier visits, Gwyndolin came home soaked to the bone from a battle with the dregs of Deep - soul sprites not unlike humanity but angrier, long-repressed, and full of stagnant water. Eira all but pushed him upstairs to change clothes while she rummaged in his cupboards in search of both tea and kettle. Siegward, amused by Eira’s eagerness and not at all offended she had usurped his position as de facto cook, made no attempt to stop her. Tonight, Siegward is helping to butcher the ash worm and will not be back for hours, so the tea-making once again falls to Eira.
Gwyndolin knows he should do it himself: Eira is his guest, after all. He also knows better than to argue with her.
“Let me fuss,” she says, sensing his thoughts. “You’re exhausted and I’m not.”
She is right, of course: Gwyndolin is very tired and very cold.
“I suspect ’twas thou who lit my fire also,” he says. “I know well thou’rt a pyromancer.”
Eira shrugs. “Not really, not like Dunstan. I just do a bit of flame magic here and there.”
She is being modest: although she favors lightning, her “bit of flame magic” struck a decisive blow against Aldrich.
Before Gwyndolin can argue, Eira turns him gently towards the stairs. “Go on.”
“When wilt thou permit me to show thee proper hospitality?” Gwyndolin asks over his shoulder, without any real indignance. Eira just laughs.
Upstairs in the quiet of his bedchamber, by the light of Yorshka’s flowers, Gwyndolin removes his Darkmoon armor piece by piece. After cleaning the dust from both plate and mail, he wraps them in oilcloth and tucks them away in their storage chest. His sweat-soaked shirt, leggings, and headdress he leaves to be washed later. It is a long process, and a strange one. Gwyndolin has never gotten used to wearing this uniform, whether on moonlight duty or in battle. When he takes it off, he feels as if he is undressing someone else. Surely it is cannot be Dark Sun Gwyndolin, with his retiring nature and fragile body, standing here attired as company captain. It cannot be Dark Sun Gwyndolin who led his people against the ash worm tonight with a courage Gwyn never recognized in him.
It cannot be, because Dark Sun Gwyndolin is dead. It was Lin who wore the armor and led the hunt and put out the First Flame.
And he is Lin.
Sometimes he still struggles to believe that.
As he washes the grime of battle from his face, he decides that is to be expected. After all, he has only been Lin for a few years: a blink of an eye compared to the long, long ages he spent as Anor Londo’s steward. He needs time to grow into his new, true self.
He slips on his dressing gown and folds his favorite shawl, embroidered with gold lilies, about his shoulders. Then he makes his way back downstairs, still marveling that his skin - his own! - smells of sweat rather than perfumed silk.
Eira is bent over the hearth when Gwyndolin reaches the sitting room. The kettle she has hung on the fire is whistling. As she takes the pot from its hook and lifts the lid, the sharp scent of mint wafts into the room.
Gwyndolin sinks onto the sofa and curls into a ball beneath his shawl. He takes a deep, grateful breath of the steam from the kettle and feels the mint begin to soothe his stomach. The fire’s heat soaks into his limbs, warming his fingers and toes for the first time since the hunt began. His eyelids begin to grow heavy.
Never mind propriety; he has no desire to stop Eira from looking after him. On the contrary, he is very glad he gave her a key to his house.
Eira pours them both steaming mugs of tea. She puts Gwyndolin’s on the table beside the couch, then settles back in her armchair.
“It’s much quieter than the last time I was here,” she remarks with a playful smile. “You remember the Aldrich Plague?”
Gwyndolin gives a dramatic groan and immediately regrets it when the motion jars his stomach. He takes a sip of his fragrant tea, willing himself to breathe deep and easy.
“I shall never forget it,” he says.
“I don’t think that was the final exam your prentices were expecting!”
“My poor birds. I did not intend to frighten them so.”
Originally, Gwyndolin planned for each of his apprentices to face an illusion of Aldrich, faster and armed with more magic than the real devourer he and Eira fought together: a test of nerve as much as skill. It was no different from the silver knights he conjured to defend Anor Londo - save that he wove his phantom Aldrich from darkness, not light. And darkness is a slippery medium. Spontaneous. Prone to absorbing emotions.
Gwyndolin really should have known better.
The upshot of all this was that he lost control of his illusion, and his single Aldrich became many. Soon there were great black worms all over Irithyll, coming up through drains and fountains and any source of water they could find. Some had snake tendrils; others puppeteered a shadowy, half-swallowed image of Gwyndolin himself - an attribute he very much did not give them. All of them rained sorcery down on the city.
And Eira, who had come for a visit, walked straight into a crisis.
Gwyndolin still remembers the explanation he offered her, breathy with alarm: “When an illusion is invested with particularly strong memories or emotions, it may on rare occasions acquire the ability to sustain itself and, er…become autonomous. The rest, I believe” - a somewhat hysterical laugh - “is evident.”
True to form, Eira leapt into battle, just as she did on the day she saved Gwyndolin’s life. His apprentices, too, matched the Aldriches spell for spell and arrow for arrow. After that, there was no doubt as to their readiness for knighthood.
Their saving grace was that the Aldriches were not very durable, although they did at one time attempt to merge. No one is certain what would have happened had they succeeded.
Eira grins to herself. “That was the best day I’d had in a long time.”
“I…might describe it somewhat differently.”
“Did you see the one that came up right underneath my feet? Got a good look at his teeth.”
Gwyndolin shudders so hard his teaspoon rattles inside his mug. “I did not, and I am glad of it!”
He will never understand Eira’s cavalier attitude towards things most people would find horrifying. Dunstan exhibits much the same nonchalance. It must come with being undead.
“Threw a fireball right into his mouth,” Eira says, her smile now overtly satisfied.
“I cannot condone thy recklessness, but I bless thy spirit.”
And now Gwyndolin must call upon it once more.
He can feel the letter pressing against him from a pocket of his nightdress, not allowing him to forget its presence. He must confront it. He will not have peace until he does: he cannot abide uncertainty, particularly not when it touches so near to his heart.
He takes a long drink and waits for his stomach to settle before he speaks.
“I fear thou wilt think me terribly rude for what I say next,” he begins cautiously. “I have no right to impose, not when thou’rt my guest, and so recently arrived.”
Eira leans forward, mug clasped in both hands. “What’s the matter?”
Gwyndolin takes the letter from his pocket and holds it out to her. “This came for thee.”
Her brows knit together. “For me?” She unfolds the parchment and peers at it. “This handwriting’s not easy to read. It’s…shaky.”
Gwyndolin says nothing. He will not look at it. He is not ready to see.
“‘To the warrior who wieldeth red lightning,’” Eira reads, slow but clear. “‘I would witness thy strange gift for myself. If thou art stout of heart and arm, come test thyself against me. I await thee beneath the great bell at Archdragon Peak.’”
Gwyndolin’s hand closes on a fistful of his nightrobe. It would be just like Gwynhael to challenge a warrior with a unique ability, especially a variant of the lightning he himself prizes - or prized. For all Gwyndolin knows, his brother left his lightning in Anor Londo.
Eira looks up at Gwyndolin. “This is an invitation to a duel,” she says. Her eyes are gleaming. She is not in the least frightened or threatened. Then her lips part in realization, and Gwyndolin knows the name “Archdragon Peak” has caught her attention just as it did his. “Didn’t you tell me your brother the war god went to live with the dragons?”
Gwyndolin smiles without warmth. “Precisely.”
“Then if he did send this letter, he told us where he is. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“It may be.”
“May be?”
Gwyndolin stares into his mug. His stomach clenches again, and this time it has nothing to do with the mana draughts he drank tonight. “I know not if my brother wisheth to see me. Why would he not seek me out - not once in all these years? ’Tis widely known that Irithyll is the seat of the moon.”
“Oh, Lin.” Eira puts her hand on Gwyndolin’s knee. “Maybe he doesn’t know you’re alive. Maybe he thinks you don’t want to see him. Maybe something is keeping him away from you. Don’t you want to go with me and see for yourself?”
Gwyndolin pulls his legs up to his chest. “I fear to see.”
“Then I’ll go alone. If there’s even a chance I could bring your brother back to you, I’m glad to do it. I know you love him.”
Gwyndolin closes his eyes. He knew convincing Eira would be the easy part. What comes after may be much more difficult.
“I am ashamed to ask this of thee,” he says. “I only ever send thee into danger.”
“Just like when we met, eh?”
It is, in a way: Eira is once again embarking on on a dangerous quest to a world not her own, against Morgott’s wishes, for Gwyndolin’s sake. Always there are cycles.
“I’ll have to tell Morgott and Miquella, and Morgott will say no,” she goes on. "I’ll ignore him. Maybe I can convince him to come with me. He might like to see your world’s dragons.” She squeezes Gwyndolin’s arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll come ‘round right in the end. It did last time.”
For proof of this, she looks down at the unadorned silver rings she and Gwyndolin are both wearing. Gwyndolin gave them to Eira, Morgott, and Miquella the day after his first glorious ball, and later to Dunstan and Yorshka. They function like homeward bones, transporting the wearer directly to Irithyll or Leyndell. Gwyndolin and his companions can now visit each other at any time, from any place, even when they are far from the doorway that connects their worlds. The rings are thus a symbol of how intertwined their lives have become, and how much things have changed for the better.
And yet, the ash dreams are a stark reminder that this peace may not last.
“Eira,” Gwyndolin begins, “I must tell thee, I have once more seen -”
At that moment the door opens and Yorshka comes in with a gust of wintry air.
“Eira!” she cries.
She drops her spear in the entryway, dances across the room, and flings herself into the Elden Lord’s arms. Eira catches her with a soft grunt, her armchair sliding backwards a few inches, and pulls her close.
“Hello, love,” she chuckles. “You’re excited tonight, aren’t you?”
“It pleaseth me to heal our hunters,” Yorshka says with no small amount of dignity.
Gwyndolin feels himself warming from the inside out as he watches Yorshka wrap her arms around Eira. The two were fast friends from the moment they met, and since then Eira has become Yorshka’s mentor and inspiration. She often assists Morgott in training Yorshka to protect herself. Yorshka always comes home brimming with stories of how strong her two instructors are. How proud she must be to present herself to her surrogate sister tonight, clad in battle leathers and flushed with cold.
“Did you keep safe?” Eira asks, feigning sternness - ironic, given that she pays no heed to her own safety.
Yorshka nods. “I came not near unto the worm. I -”
What happens next is so swift and subtle that Gwyndolin only notices it because he is so attuned to his sister’s mannerisms: Yorshka stiffens in Eira’s arms. Her eyes glaze, as if she is looking at something both in the room and far beyond it. She draws one tiny, sharp breath.
Then she is smiling again and pretending she has simply lost her train of thought.
“I did not join the battle,” she finishes. Her voice is light, yet she comes to sit by Gwyndolin and rests her head on his shoulder. He can feel even through her sturdy clothes that she is trembling.
“Dearest one?” he prompts.
Yorshka does not respond. Gwyndolin knows then that he was not the only one to receive troubling news tonight.
He meets Eira’s eyes and sees she knows this too.
He decides to call a council. Tomorrow he will gather Yorshka, Dunstan, and Elisabeth together, and they will lay bare the tidings they have heard and visions they have seen. By now Gwyndolin knows better than to ignore such things.
He drains the last of his tea and tries to will the knots from his stomach. He isn’t sure he’s ready for another adventure.