Chapter 45:

House Call

Dark souls is owned by From Software.

"Talking"

"Thoughts"

"Powerful Beings"

"Whatever the Daughters of Chaos speak"

/+/+/+/+/

In any other circumstance, Nito supposed that the various colors and expressions Gwyndolin's face underwent could be seen as funny. He was very much like his father in that regard.

By the time Gwyndolin composed himself, the rest of the room had grown deathly quiet. His face a stone mask, Gwyndolin rose to his full height, striding for his father's fake tomb.

It was then that the bubble burst.

Voices clamored over each other—Havel and Ornstein calling for order, Garret's band of humans shouting out, the Daughters of Chaos hissing amongst themselves in their mother's tongue.

The Gravelord rose silently, walking towards Gwyndolin. Still, the Daughters of Chaos noticed his exit. Thankfully, they were discrete, Queleia scampering over and whispering, "Let me go with you."

But Nito stopped her with a raised hand. "I think not," he replied. "You two are still friends, I imagine?" At her nod, he said, "Well, I'm sorry to say that he doesn't need a friend right now."

Her orange eyes narrowed, glowing similar to the lava flowing through her monstrous lower half. "What does he need?"

"Someone to drag him out of the shadow of his family." Queleia deflated a bit at his declaration but said no more, Quelaan (and wasn't that still a shock) pulling her back to the others. Nito nodded, continuing on his way.

The lone god of Anor Londo hadn't even bothered to erect a fog wall. Nito did so after crossing the threshold to the empty mausoleum—no doubt Gwyndolin would get loud and wouldn't appreciate more of his dirty laundry being aired for all to witness.

He found the god in front of his father's empty tomb. He was hunched over, breathing heavily, hands curled into claws, the snakes that made up his lower body hissing and twitching erratically.

Nito stopped just a few feet behind him, waiting.

Eventually, the god growled, "I never thought a human could be so…so…" he trailed off into a wordless snarl.

"Infuriating?" Nito supplied.

"Irreverent!" Gwyndolin roared, whirling around. "He knows that the Sun is an illusion, he most likely knows why I created it!" He didn't, not entirely until Nito told him, but Gwyndolin didn't need to know that just yet. "And then he goes and shouts it out for the whole world to know!"

"In that case," Nito hummed, "Why not tell everyone before now?"

"Because he wants to see me fall! Wants to watch as Anor Londo burns around me!" Gwyndolin hissed.

Nito sent him a flat look, "Really? Or did you push him by making remarks over Priscilla, knowing that he wished to free her from the painting?"

"What does that matter?!"

The Lord of the Dead grunted, "He did fail in that endeavor." Gwyndolin scoffed, "And," Nito glared at the god, "he appears to have lost an ally in the process."

Gwyndolin stilled. "…Ah…"

"Yes," Nito drawled, "'Ah'." The god fidgeted in place, his snakes lying flat on the ground, "He's rather critical of your father, you know." Gwyndolin jerked his head up. "He understands Gwyn and his motives but believes that he could have done things differently. Treated you differently."

Gwyndolin sneered, "I don't need his pity!"

"Sympathy," Nito corrected him. "And I believe that would be better than your current antagonism. Need I remind you that every human here is aware of what awaits them in the Kiln, and Garret—who's known from the beginning—still desires to go there and relight the Flame?"

Gwnydolin's glare had lessened to a small frown, but the Gravelord had no doubt that his eyes were still blazing with fury beneath his mask. "But that is neither here nor there," he continued. "We must focus on the matter of the fake Sun beaming down upon us." And all at once, Gwyndolin's fury returned (of all the things of his father's to inherit, it had to be his temper).

"There is no 'matter' to focus on! The Sun shines down on Anor Londo; it always has, and always will!"

"Just like your father would always rule over the city?" Nito stepped closer, "Like your fellow gods—both your elder siblings—would always call it home?" Gwyndolin faltered—be it the reminder of his cowardly peers, his traitorous siblings, or some combination thereof.

Nito sighed, shifting his eyeless gaze to the empty tomb at the end of the room. "All things end, Gwyndolin. Your father never believed that—never wanted to believe it—and out of respect for our friendship I never pushed him on it. But I should have. If I had, perhaps he would have been able to pass it on to your sister—who abandoned this city in an attempt to retain her glory—and you—who so desperately tries to hold on to the crumbling remains of Gwyn's rule." The young god set his jaw, hands curling into fists. Nito just huffed, "Like it or not, Gwyndolin, you are all that's left, and you are most assuredly not your father!"

The de-facto heir to Anor Londo let out a broken whimper, and it occurred to the last living and sane Lord that he'd taken things a bit too far. "You're right, of course," Gwyndolin sighed, falling lower to the floor, "Father told me often enough that I could not hope to match his—or Gywnevere's—glory." His lips were trembling, shudders wracking through his body, "But what choice did I have? I was the only left—I had to rule in their place. But…I couldn't." He hung his head, tears dripping down his face, "I'm just a pathetic, pale imitation of his greatness!" He weakly beat his fist against the marble floor, "A shade coveting his light!"

Nito drummed his fingers along his blade, a touch guilty. He hadn't meant to make him cry. But…perhaps it was best to do this now. After all, Nito's time left on the world was short. They didn't have time to slowly work through the young god's issues.

He got down to a kneel—careful to avoid Gwyndolin's snakes—until he was eyelevel with him. He waited until the god—still sniffling—looked up. Nito sighed, "I will not lie, Gwyndolin, you're not prepared to rule." The god flinched, "Your father never saw the need to teach you—why would he? He never expected to have to abdicate the throne, and none of us would have dreamed Gywnevere would have turned out to be a coward."

The god of the Darkmoon sniffed, "Then what do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to do as your father did in the beginning." Gwyndolin perked up at that. Nito hummed, "I expect you to shore up your strength. To gather allies that you can trust to help you weather this storm. Including," his tone grew sharper, "Garret."

Gwyndolin took a deep breath, "…I suppose there are worse allies than one that can see through time."

"Especially," Nito chuckled, "one that works for the same goals as you."

The god nodded, wiping away the tears flowing down his face. Then, to Nito's pleasant surprise, he took off his golden sun mask, revealing the rest of his wispy silver hair, which hanged limply over his red tinged, green eyes. The god chuckled, "Never in my wildest dreams did I think the Gravelord would be giving me a pep-talk."

"The feeling is mutual," Nito nodded.

Gwyndolin sighed, one of his snakes lifting up so he could rest his chin atop its head. "…Garret's going to end my illusion whether I want him to or not, isn't he?"

"Certainly."

The god narrowed his eyes, "And what will the people—those scant few still living here—think when the Sun goes away, and night overtakes it?"

"It's not as if the Sun will never appear again," Nito gently replied.

"No. But after my…folly…it does not grace Anor Londo near as much as it used to."

"No," the Gravelord agreed, "but is that such a bad thing?" At Gwyndolin's sharp intake of breath, Nito elaborated, "The Lord of Light burned himself to prolong a dying age, and the goddess of Sunlight abandoned her duty and birthright—and the less said about your older brother the better. But you, the Darksun, are still here. Have always been here. The Sun has set—perhaps it's time for the Moon to grace the world with its silver light."

Gwyndolin looked down but didn't outright reject his statement. Progress.

Nito made to speak once more, only to gasp, clutching a hand to his chest. His Lord Soul, it was on Fire. His body was burning, his bones rattling, shifting, perhaps even breaking. He could feel something tug at him, leading down, deep into the earth. Towards the Kiln.

The feeling eventually went away—no, not quite. It was still there, an itch he couldn't scratch, but it was not nearly as strong.

He jolted when he felt a slim hand press against his shoulder. He looked up to see Gwyndolin. The young god looked concerned, but also…anxious. Not necessarily fearful for Nito himself, but—ah…

Nito pressed a palm against his skull, fighting to keep still. "Garret placed the Lordsvessel, didn't he?"

Gwyndolin nodded, gulping lightly, "A bright, golden light washed over the room seconds after you fell to your knees." Nito looked down—he hadn't even felt himself drop. "It felt…warm. Comforting."

"I'd imagine," Nito groaned, rising to his feet. "He's relighting the First Flame. I don't mean to be cruel, but can you remember your father's presence? His Soul?"

Gwyndolin frowned, but said, "When he chose to grace me with it, it was…soothing." His eyes widened, "It felt like that wave of light—no," he shook his head, "the wave felt better. More powerful, more present, more whole, more…just more."

"The First Flame was much like that," Nito replied. "We'd all received a shred of that warmth—Gwyn and Theus using it much more adept at using that warmth than Quela and I, though."

The Darkmoon scoffed, "The Dark Soul provided warmth?"

"Ha," Nito snorted, "Have you ever felt the Dark Soul?" He didn't wait for the negative response. "Trust me, there is a warmth within its black depths. Deep within, perhaps, but there all the same." Gwyndolin still looked skeptical, so Nito decided to push the topic aside for another time. Or never, considering that he was so close to death.

He let out a huff. He, Gravelord Nito, the Lord of Death and Decay, was going to die. He'd never had a problem imagining it, but now that it was so close…he wasn't afraid of the act, but worried for the world he would leave behind.

He found himself wishing for more time, before instantly discarding the thought. Gwyn had wished for that and look where that led.

He looked down at Gwyndolin, "Shall we rejoin the others?"

The long god of Anor Londo took a deep breath, "I…I need a moment."

"Please," Nito held up his hand, "take all the time you need. Gwyndolin nodded, drawing inward.

/+/+/+/+/

"Everyone, calm DOWN!" Havel shouted, failing to call everyone to order. The Daughters of Chaos, thankfully, were content to whisper at each other in their mother's tongue (Nito, he saw, was slinking away towards Gwyndolin. Good, one less thing to worry about). The humans in the room, however…

"What happened to Solaire?!" Beatrice all but shouted at Tarkus.

The Black Iron knight held up his hands, "Well—He—Uh—"

"Does it have anything to do with that 'fake Sun' thing Garret yelled at Gwyndolin about?" Oscar asked, quieter than Beatrice, but no less intense.

"Maybe—"

"What happened in the painting?" That was Siegmeyer, stepping closer to the knight, who backed up until he was pressed against the wall.

"People," Tarkus's voice gained a desperate edge, "please, can we all just calm down?"

Kirk, surprisingly, agreed, "Maybe back off a bit, guys?" Not that the other three listened.

Havel moved forward—to separate the humans—when a bright bold of lightning soared overhead and crashed against the wall above them. All movement froze. He turned to see Ornstein, the tip of his spear crackling with energy as he stomped the butt of it against the ground.

The Bishop sighed, "Thank you, Ornstein."

The last of Gwyn's knights nodded, his snarling lion helm seeming to grow fiercer as he said, "You, in the black armor, what happened to Solaire?" Havel blinked—he didn't think Ornstein would bother to remember any of the humans', besides Garret's, names. But, upon thinking about it, if any other human were to stand out to him, it'd be the one that had the Sun emblazoned on his armor and shield.

"I'd tell you about Garret and Solaire," Tarkus replied, "if I could get back some of my personal space," he stressed the words at Beatrice, Oscar, and Siegmeyer. The three were still tense, but they did as asked. "Thank you," Tarkus said, dusting off his armor. "Ok, so, Solaire's alive. He decided to stay behind with Priscilla after," his voice dropped into a sneer, "Jeremiah abandoned her."

"Jeremiah?" Ornstein asked.

"A real jerk in garish yellow robes and headgear that is clearly compensating for something." An odd description but based on the way Ornstein was nodding his head, a familiar one.

The Knight of Anor Londo then asked, "Why did Solaire stay?"

"So, Priscilla wouldn't have to be alone—again, Jerimiah's a jerk." Tarkus crossed his arms, "He also said that he needed time to 'think about some things'. Probably about this 'fake sun' business."

Ornstein inclined his head, "You didn't know about the…status of the sun?"

He shook his head, "No. But," he placed his hands on his hips, "it makes sense, I suppose."

"In what way?" Siegmeyer asked—if Ornstein was upset that the Onion Knight spoke above him, he hid it well.

"Solaire," Tarkus said, "was very…somber, in the painting. We talked about a lot of things, but what stuck out to me was when he asked me how I felt about lies. Big ones," he clarified, "not little stuff like telling children where babies come."

"What did you tell him?" Oscar asked, leaning forward.

"That if you have a serious problem with a lie you should seek to remove yourself from the lie and the liars that spread it." Havel could appreciate the bluntness of the statement. If only it hadn't led to their current state of affairs.

Beatrice furrowed her brow, "So…he decided to stay inside a painting?"

"It's actually quite beautiful there," Tarkus replied, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "Once you get used to the cold and ignore the…inhabitants, that is—except for Priscilla, she's nice. There's a simple splendor to the place. Plus, it's eternally night in the painting—from what I've gathered, at least—so he probably wanted to spend some time away from all the lies." Silence followed Tarkus's declaration.

Until Oscar shook his head, "Okay, one thing at a time." He turned to Ornstein, "H-How can the Sun—the eternal source of light hanging above us—be fake?"

An excellent question, Havel thought. He knew Gwyndolin was well-versed in crafting illusions through magic, but to create a fake sun…truly, he'd grown into his powers.

"That's…not for me to discuss," Ornstein replied. It spoke of Oscar's mounting frustrations—with Garret, their situation, perhaps even himself—that he just scoffed, angrily gesturing at the gold-clad demigod.

"Well what the hell does that mean?!"

"It means," Ornstein tightened his grip on his spear, "that I will not discuss it!"

"You're going to have to," Quelaag bluntly cut in. Ornstein directed his snarling visage towards her—her monstrous lower half hissed in response.

Before anything could come of this confrontation, however, a golden light washed over them. Havel was blinded, not only by the light, but by this…warm feeling in his Soul. It reminded him of when Gwyn uplifted him from that pitiful, shambling form ages ago. Gave him the strength to fight against the Dragons.

Then, like a whisper, the light was gone. The warmth it provided fading away, leaving a spine-shuddering chill in its place. Havel turned to Quelana and her sisters. He grimaced; Quelaag and Quelaan were practically green—which created a very gaudy clash of colors with the bright orange lava flowing through their bodies. Queleia and Quelana were faring a little better, but even they looked queasy.

"He's," Havel turned to Ornstein, who looked like Havel felt (better than the Daughters, at least, but not by much), "he's placed the Lordsvessel."

"Are…Are you all okay?" Oscar's asked, catching their attention. Havel—and the others—turned to the humans in the room. They all looked none the worse for wear. More bewildered by everyone else's reactions than the bright wave from seconds ago.

"Ask a stupid question," Kirk scoffed, facing the Daughter of Chaos, tensed and ready to rush forward if Queleia asked for him.

"We're fine," Quelana said.

"Speak for yourself," Quelaag groaned, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her spidery lower half didn't have such an option, its jaw open, mouth glowing. Her sisters gave her a wide berth as Quelaag lurched forward, the creature bending over and spewing lava on the marble floor.

Ornstein eyed the discharge, "…I don't suppose that'll wash out?"

"Probably—urp!" Quelaag shuddered as her lower half convulsed, "…not."

"Of course not," the Knight sighed.

Havel shook his head, nodding at his human companions, "We'd best be off."

"Right…" his fellow demigod inclined his head, "time you finally kill Seath, hm?"

Havel stilled—he'd almost forgotten about that in light of that wave of energy. But a familiar fury quickly spread through his body. "Yes. Far later than it should have been."

Ornstein grunted, "I must head to the palace—see how our other guests are faring."

"Better than these two, I'd imagine." Queleia deadpanned. Quelaan hissed something too low for Havel to hear. "Well I am a Firekeeper. The First Flame lights my soul too, however little of it there is."

Ornstein nodded, gaze lingering on the Daughters of Chaos for a moment. He then turned to Havel, slamming the butt of his spear on the ground. "…Good luck."

The Bishop snorted, "Could have used that ages ago."

"Havel…"

"Bah," he waved a hand, "go perform your duties. It's about time I finally fulfilled mine."

/+/+/+/+/

Garret rolled his shoulders as reformed out of the Bonfire's mist. He was actually a little worried that he found teleporting to be pleasant. He knew that the First Flame was alive, if not fully sentient. For him to feel good while everyone else, at the very least, felt uncomfortable…he wasn't entirely sure whether it was a good or bad thing.

The tip of a very sharp sword suddenly flashing in front of him, however, was definitely a bad thing.

"Oh," Garret lifted his gaze from the sword to see Elena stepping away, "it's just you."

"Hey!" Garret waved, "Haven't seen you in a while!"

"That was not an accident," she sheathed her blade, returning to her spot on the wall, "I assure you." Garret stayed in place, staring at her. "What?" she growled.

He looked around the empty chamber, "Have you…been here ever since me and the others first got here?"

"This is my Bonfire."

"Not like you're chained to it,"

"True," she shrugged, growing silent.

He crossed his arms, "…You know…you could head down to the palace. It's gotten a lot livelier."

"I'm aware," Elena replied.

"There's a couple Firekeepers down there too."

"Again, I am aware."

Garret sighed, slumping a bit, "I'm trying to encourage you to be more sociable."

"Why?"

"You mean other than the fact that this," he gestured to the empty room, "is depressing?" She huffed. Garret sent her a flat look, "Alright, I'm going to level with you. Gwyndolin's been spiraling since my arrival—don't deny it," he held up a hand when she pushed off the wall, hands curled into fists, "he is, and that's a fact. And I'm mature enough to admit that it's largely—fine, entirely," he amended at her scornful scoff, "my fault. So, I just figured if he saw that the woman whose life he saved was reaping the benefits of my…chaos…he'd feel a bit better about how things are going."

Elena stilled, "Lord Gwyndolin is truly unwell?"

"…Promise not to get mad?" Despite everything, he chuckled at the growl she sent his way. "He's…He's fine, I guess. I mean, we keep pissing each other off, but he's reconnecting with the remaining Daughters of Chaos. Did he ever talk about them?"

"I never asked Lord Gwyndolin to explain his past," Elena replied. In a much softer tone, she added, "I never wanted to…bother him with the memories."

"Well," Garret tilted his head, "maybe you can help him talk about what's been going on since then?" She turned to him, and he could feel her deadpan stare through her bronze helmet. He rolled his eyes, "Or compare notes with Queleia about how much of a dork he is, I don't know." Elena sucked in an angry breath. "Save it," Garret held up his hands, "Just…put it into consideration. Gwyndolin…he needs you; I think."

She grunted, sitting down and staring at the Bonfire, dismissing him with a silent wave. Garret, having done as well as he could expect, went on his way.

/+/+/+/+/

Oscar slumped against the wall as the second (and hopefully last) boar vanished into light. "Where do these things even come from?" he groused.

"A valley to the north," Havel replied, inspecting his hammer. "They're as aggressive out of the armor as they are in it." Oscar hummed, turning to Siegmeyer—hoping that the Onion Knight would say something bombastic to break the tension. But, as he'd been since they entered the Archives, he was silent, holding his blade in a death grip.

Which was fair—his only child was trapped within, after all.

For a brief, brief moment, he was thankful Garret hadn't told him about Lautrec's plan for Ana. He could only imagine how he'd be. And what if he'd attacked Lautrec? Killed the only man that knew how to give Ana her eyes and—

He stopped that thought in its tracks. He couldn't go down that path. Take that first step in justifying Garret's action. Perhaps it was cowardly of him, but he didn't want to.

"The truth of the matter is, we didn't care."

Oscar shuddered, Solaire's parting rant echoing in his mind. He…He hoped that his friend—if the Sun Knight still counted him as such—would find whatever it was he needed and exit the painting. Hopefully before Garret killed himself for all their sakes. He wanted to apologize; to Garret for his subconscious—hell, conscious—hypocrisy, and Solaire, for…for something. For letting him down, at least.

They walked the short distance to what Havel had called the proper entrance. Like he'd told them, there was a large wooden elevator opposite them. Along with a Bonfire just before it.

Oscar lit the Bonfire, or he tried to, at least. He arched a brow, arm outstretched, as the embers at the Bonfire's base just barely glowed.

The others walked up beside him, Kirk asking, "What's the hold-up?"

Oscar opened his mouth to reply, only for the Bonfire to finally light. And shove them all backwards in an explosion of heat.

"My word!" Siegmeyer bellowed, just barely keeping on his feet. Oscar would have fallen on his back—as Beatrice, Kirk, and Tarkus had—had Havel not held out a hand to steady him.

Beatrice huffed, standing up and unruffling her hat, "What was that?"

Havel growled, "One of Seath's tricks, no doubt." Oscar's heart plummeted—could Seath do that? Garret hadn't mentioned it, but it could have been one of those frustratingly rare moments where his foresight failed him.

"I…I don't think so," Siegmeyer hesitantly replied. "I think…does anyone else recall the times Garret would allude to the Flame being alive?"

"…Once or twice," Oscar said with a gulp.

"Wait," Tarkus spoke up, "Bonfires are living things?"

"Not the Bonfire, the Flame," Siegmeyer said. "At least…I think that's how Garret talked about it—the First Flame and such."

Oscar grew silent, thinking back on how Garret spoke of Bonfires and the Flame. But his mind just ended up drawn to the knowledge that Garret was planning to kill himself for the good of the world. Burn for eternity. Or…not? Lord Gwyn no doubt thought his sacrifice would last forever. Would Garret be different? He hadn't said—at least, he thought Garret hadn't said—or perhaps—

"We didn't care," Solaire's voice echoed in his head.

Oscar sighed, shoulders slumping.

"Hey guys!"

Oscar blinked, turning to see Garret jogging up to them. "Expected you all to be a bit further along."

"Those pigs gave us more trouble than they were worth," Kirk replied.

"Really?" Garret arched a brow, turning to Havel, "I'd have thought, you know, with that giant hammer and all…"

"They proved surprisingly adept at using their tusks to keep me at bay," the Bishop replied.

"Surprisingly sharp tusks too," Tarkus added, gesturing the large, silver gash on his shield.

"Yeesh," Garret frowned, "We should probably fix that. I've got some repair powder…somewhere in here…" he trailed off, reaching elbow-deep into his satchel.

"Garret," Beatrice spoke up, bringing the sorcerer's actions to a halt, "How…How are you?" Garret looked up at her, making her look down with a slight blush, "I mean…you, uh, vanished before we could really talk about—"

"Nope!" Garret shouted, startling all of them as he gestured at her with a frown. "None of that!"

"Wha—"

"I…appreciate the sentiment," Garret said, adopting a neutral tone, "but we've got a lot on our plates and we can't let ourselves be distracted by our…issues."

"But Solaire—"

"Is safe," Garret cut her off once more. "Which is more than I can say for Sieglinde—and Dusk." Siegmeyer sucked in a sharp breath, clenching his fists so hard that Oscar was afraid he would warp his armor. "To say nothing of the fact that Seath's long overstayed his right to live."

"Agreed," Havel declared, bringing their attention to him, "we can have our heart-to-hearts at a later, less tumultuous time. We have important tasks to accomplish."

Garret nodded, "I couldn't agree more!" and dropped down in front of the Bonfire, kindling it and beckoning Tarkus forward.

Oscar moved closer to Beatrice; whose lips were pulled into a pensive frown. He cleared his throat, "Are you okay?"

The witch shrugged. "Sort of. I'm just…reevaluating my actions and assumptions."

"Likewise."

She smirked mirthlessly at him, "C'mon, let's follow Garret's lead and…let all this crush our souls at a later date."

Oscar sent her what he hoped was a much more confident smile, "No problem."

/+/+/+/+/

A/N: Not much to say…Be sure to leave a review. Later.