Chapter Text
“You must kill Miquella.”
The whispered plea still taints his death dream as he finds himself awakened and revived again.
The lavender glow of her dreaming form bathes his form of iron and blood in a calmness the Tarnished has known only in the most quiet of moments which throughout his life have been both scattered and few.
Must he kill Miquella? The request is not one he saw as something out of the question . What is the life of one divinity to another after all? Kindness from any of them is a lie. No matter what golden lace they may draw over the eyes of those fool enough to be enthralled by their power and promises.
However as he further gains his bearings and truly thinks he wonders what is the other path. He thinks of the parts of “Kindly Miquella” he has seen. The fragments that lay about this land of shade discarded out of “necessity and kindness” that he has collected and believes perhaps that the Great Ring is not the only thing that must be made whole again.
He looks upon the beauty that sleeps this being made of compassion and love and sees what she truly dreams for. Hears the true dreaming yearn in her slumbering whispers that he feels even now in this world of awakened violence.
And so The Tarnished one, raises his great sword stained with ichor and blood, sends a silent prayer to the heavens and a promise to the fair Trina and does what he does best.
And so the Tarnished kills.
He slays.
He burns.
He dies…and lives again to fight, to continue on his crusade.
He wonders at times as his blade runs through another beast of these lands in the shadow of the tree, “Will this be worth it?”
He was not the only of his tarnished kin that came to heed the call but he found he was the one who despite the efforts of any foe he faced could not stay dead, wounds that would be mortal to any of his fellows he simply healed, realigned his armor and went back into the fray . Perhaps the grace was responsible he could not know , still the question of reunification sat heavy in him, blunting his strikes making the battles longer than they ought to be.
“What then?” The question slithers into his mind as he slits the throat of another. It stays his hand for a moment and then with force to rival the gales of the great dragons the Tarnished pushes the thought away, slashes the throat of a mongrel that tried to ambush him in his moment of contemplation, and makes his way to the tree.
One thing at a time.
The battle lasts all between an eternity and ten seconds, this version of Radahn does not disappoint. His power is great, his enchantments already strange and foreign given greater potency. Truly he was a lion among men.
But what is a lion to a one who has supped upon the blood of dragons. What is a demigod reborn to one that has lived in the graceless lands?
And so once more the starscourge is brought low by the champion of the festival and in his meager defeat does his lord in waiting rise to his aid.
In wreaths of gilded golden light, does Kindly Miquella descend upon the battle, swelling with both his newly ascended power and the birthright of his lineage that he tried so hard to relinquish.
He bade the Tarnished with honeyed words to surrender so that he and the Lion may set out to begin a new age of compassion, one of kindness. He truly is but a child nary a note of understanding for what he believes he has given away in necessity to begin his new age. He does not understand the tragic loss he has begotten upon himself, no matter this Tarnished one shall rectify it.
And so with iron and enchantment they do battle. It seems they are endless in their struggle until the Starscourge falters a blow perhaps felling the giant or perhaps the soul wishing to finally be put to rest and stop the madness of the godling, the Tarnished does not know and he does not hesitate with a quickness to rival the fastest and foulest of serpents he strikes.
Leaping onto the back of the giant where the godling clings once serene and calm now frightened and desperate. The Tarnished pries him back dodging the glowing arms as they sear and soar about the air in hopes to grasp this, “foul thing” and reaches to his side for a dagger of special quality crafted from parts he found along the way of his journey he rears his hand and slices through the air ramming it into the chest of the golden prince.
A wail of surprise and anger and fear rips itself out of the godlings mouth and before any party can do more the world goes white.