And now for something completely different ...

"Tales of Dark Souls" was originally planned to end with the Tale of the Nameless King. However, I was recently presented with a new story that picks up right where the last one left off. So, please enjoy this new tale by guest author supermushu!

Many years after the Dragon War, as the First Flame waned once more, a cloaked figure walked the streets of Anor Londo. They were nearly empty by now- a Curse had arisen throughout the world, the gods were silent and the Lord of Sunlight was no more. Even here, within Anor Londo itself, people feared to leave their homes in the outskirts lest they be accosted by wretched hollows who prowled the streets at night. But this one had no fear of such things.

The now-nameless Lord of War moved like a wraith through the outer districts of Anor Londo, guided by the memory of his many followers before him. He ghosted past those few Silver Knights that still stood sentry over the gates to the Royal quarter, noting critically how both their numbers and vigilance had waned through the ages.

He walked among the faded remnants of divine glory, and remembered the atrocities that had built them; the butchering of dragons, suppression of the Dark, the persecution of the pygmies and their isolation in the Ringed City, his sister's forced slumber to seal the Dark Soul, and Gwyn's own sacrifice to the First Flame in a desperate bid to keep his vision alive a little longer.

The warrior scoffed faintly at that last thought; but still, for all he had opposed his father he could respect his decision to burn himself instead of commanding another- by all accounts, that stubbornness had bred true in the both of them. If only the First Lord had shown such character in his other dealings...

By now he had reached the inner city- the great Cathedral dominated the skyline, backlit by the Sun's glow. Idly, he wondered how much effort Gwyn had put into ensuring that his death would not change the lighting of his glorious capital. In any case, his goal lay not in his childhood home. He ducked left into a passageway and down the stairs beyond, easily avoiding the clumsy swings of its giant sentry.

Like most of the former capital, the room had been stripped of most of its valuables, though two new additions had been made; a Bonfire and it's Keeper- a female knight clad in imposing brass armour. The sight reminded him very much of Ornstein, resplendent and proud in his shining golden plate, and served to verify his suspicions.

Not all the gods had fled Anor Londo.

The keeper stirred as he approached the bonfire, but waited until he had slumped beside it to speak. "Well, aren't you a rare visitor? I would offer you welcome, but I sense not the curse of Undeath upon you. Instead I offer a warning- turn back! Lord Gwyn's old keep offers only suffering to the unworthy."

Instead of replying, the warrior rummaged within his cloak, producing a Sunlight medal that gleamed in the flickering light of the Bonfire, and drew an amused snort from the armoured woman. "You sunlight warriors are all the same. Fools, every last one of you". She shifted into a more comfortable position against the wall. "Well, I've said my piece. If you wish to throw your life away, so be it. Just know that this fire cannot save you from your stupidity".

Sensing her dismissal, the cloaked figure rose and left the room, evading the giant's blows with the same ease as he had when entering. A part of him itched to test the might of Anor Londo's defenders as he once had in another life, but he restrained himself.

It would not do to pay his respects by defiling his Father's last wish.


Gwyndolin tracked the figure's progress with breathless apprehension. He had become aware of the intruder within moments of them reaching the royal quarter, but had at first merely thought them another of his contenders for the Chosen Undead. But this one was different.

He moves with surety, as if he already knows the city layout.

He has perfect knowledge of our defences, their strengths and weaknesses

He has not weakened any of the obstacles before him, as if the city is precious.

His size and physicality are beyond any Pygmy or their descendants.

And, as the cloaked figure turned the crank in a way most would not know to exist;

He is coming here. To me.

Despite his best efforts to remain collected, the Dark Sun could not help the volatile mixture of emotions that flared up inside him. He had spent years resigning himself to the fact that there was no chance of this very occurrence, yet here it was anyway- a precious miracle, an answer to the desperate prayers of his darkest hour.

He had not been abandoned after all.

Of course the First Flame would not fully devour the Lord of Sunlight. Why would it consume its greatest protector, its mightiest champion? As ever, his father had been preparing for the worst-case scenario, like any good King would. No doubt the serpent had also been under orders to back up his claim, lest Gwyndolin grow lax in his duty in expectation of his Father's return. Even now his senses were prickling from the aura of his visitor, the fragile peace preceding the flash of lightning and crack of thunder.

At this point the figure had reached the illusion that covers the tomb's entrance, and seemed to be examining the statue bearing his likeness. Gwyndolin wondered why he had kept the covering on even here where there were no observers, but quickly silenced his wandering thoughts. Even if he had survived, it was unlikely that Gwyn had emerged unscathed from the flame. It was almost certain that he would be diminished for some time from the loss of his power.

No matter. Gwyndolin would carry out his will as was his duty, and the Age of Fire would once again flourish with the Lord of Sunlight at its head. As if in response to his thoughts, the shape he could discern through the fog gate was shedding its cloak, and though the resulting silhouette did not exactly match his memories, it bore the shape of a familiar crown.

By now, Gwyndolin was clutching his scepter in a white-knuckled grip, and the serpents that comprised his lower half writhed beneath him. His mind was a mad whirl of emotions, responses, and last-second calculation; fear of being judged unworthy warring with irrational anger at his solitude.

Then the figure stepped fully into the hallway, and after a moment of stunned disbelief Gwyndolin finally managed to coalesce the storm of his feelings into a single, scarlet-edged splinter of emotion.


The detail of the statue said a lot about the one who now ruled Anor Londo, thought the warrior. Most such illusions were simple things, copying the surrounding brickwork in order to minimise the complexity and cost of the required magic. This, however, was a perfect recreation of his father's image, right down to the last bristle of his enormous beard. Perhaps there were fewer lines than had truly creased the First Lord's face, but then again, his father would never want to look anything other than regal.

That the caster would spend time crafting such loving detail into their fiction spoke of a deep loyalty to or perhaps adoration of the old King. He searched his memory, but he could not remember anyone both skilled and loyal enough to be responsible for what he saw before him.

In that case, it was either a new addition to Gwyn's court, or the work of a servant- a supremely talented human, perhaps. Though he doubted such a person could have maintained an illusion of this verisimilitude, time had taught him never to underestimate the Pygmy's brood.

Regardless of their exact identity, he could clearly sense the strength of the soul before him, though his impressions were conflicted- vacillating between that of a still moonlit lake and a stormy sky. No doubt whoever it was could feel something similar from him; he was no longer attempting to suppress his presence. Without further ado, he marched through the fog and entered his father's tomb.

What he saw was not what he expected.

The figure before him clearly bore the marks of royalty -the crown, the sceptre, the robes- all made from the finest material, and strongly enchanted at that. Even if he could not feel their power, the shape of the helm alone all but screamed of Gwyn's involvement.

In his absence, he could indeed see his father moulding himself another heir, a 'perfect' replacement. But one look below the waistline of the petite figure before him gave him pause, for instead of legs there was a collection of serpents- a sure sign of draconic ancestry. Would his father really have accepted such a being as his own?

Of course he would, he realised. What was a little thing such as 'principle' to the First Lord? He had seen the results of Gwyn's ambition with his own eyes. Even as the figure was beginning to take in his own form, he noted the newfound resemblance in their illusory magic- not a miracle after all. Sorcery.

His own sister's handmaid- Shira, he remembered, had been a creation of the Paledrake. He certainly would not put it past Gwyn to commission Seath in order to provide him with a similar servant.

His mind raced, piecing together a picture from what he had observed. This child had likely been told they were Gwyn's own -perhaps they were, who knew how Seath's creations shared kinship- and abandoned to serve their purpose, to prop up Anor Londo as part of some grand scheme to preserve the Flame. They would have been conditioned from birth, as he himself had been, raised to find joy only in fulfilling their purpose and with every measure of independence stripped away from them, carved from his being by a blade called Duty.

In that moment, Gwyn's eldest son nearly turned and left in disgust. He thought that he had seen the worst of his father's manipulations; as it turned out, the old man had been busy finding new depths to sink to during his exile. But the godling before him, chained by the pretty lies that had once ensnared him...

That child deserved not his scorn, nor would they appreciate his pity. The truth, then, thought the warrior as he raised his hands in surrender.

It was the greatest gift he could now offer.


It was not his father.

It was not his father.

For what seemed to be an eternity, Gwyndolin could only chase that thought as it tore through his mind like a hurricane. For the first time in ages he had let his control slip, managed to hope again, only for that hope to be thrown in his face. He should have known better, he supposed, than to think that anything about his situation would improve- and this was his reward. A moment of such crushing disappointment it encroached on the sublime.

He wanted to rage, to cry, to lash out at the world that had failed him again, but was brought up short by the sudden emergence of curiosity into his battered psyche, as if emerging into the eye of the storm.

If the stranger was not his father, who was he?

Clawing together a passable semblance of calm, Gwyndolin refocused his attention on the visitor. As he had previously surmised, the stranger stood tall, taller than any Pygmy or human, and sported a tremendous mane of ash-grey hair not too dissimilar to that of... that of the old Lord, on top of which sat a hauntingly familiar crown of dulled metal. In fact, the more Gwyndolin saw the more his disquiet grew, for nearly every aspect of the stranger was thus, from the dragonscale armour to the simple golden bracers; close enough to pull on the faded memories of a better time, yet so distinctly other as to prevent immersion in them.

Worse was the aura the man exuded; steadfast and warm, it was unmistakably the power of Sunlight, though it did not radiate from him as it once had from its true master. Instead, it remained constrained within him, flaring now and again like bolts of lightning through a clear sky.

Gwyndolin was well educated; in preparation to serve his part in the preservation of Fire he had read all the recorded Annals of history, and not once was there mention of such a deity in them. The power of Sunlight was exclusive to Gwyn and his family- not even his soul fragments granted such strength. One would have to share in his very blood-

Wait.

A deity, removed from the annals. A close resemblance to the Great Lord. The strength of Sunlight, held by the unworthy. An interloper, seeking to claim that which had been denied them in the past.

Gwyndolin knew well who stood before him now, oh yes. After all, many of the undead who reached his city were of the Sunlight covenant. Gwyndolin had allowed them passage, for they served his cause with great faith and courage. Those few whom he had overheard at the bonfire often referenced the man who now invaded the tomb. They had looked at him and seen a God.

Gwyndolin saw a Thug.

A Murderer.

Betrayer.

The Darkmoon God prepared to do his duty.


The transition was nearly instant.

One moment, the god in front of him was staring at him with something approaching horror, drinking in the sight of him with anguish etched into what he could see of their face; the next, it had hardened into an impassive mask, and the force of their intent pressed against him like the looming shadow of death.

So, thought the warrior. He had been recognised after all. The manner of recognition was telling; this protector had been trained well after his exile, and as always his father had done an excellent job impressing upon them the nature of the enemy. He opened his mouth, hoping that he could head off the coming violence, but even his lightning fast reactions proved to be too slow.

"Mark the words of mineself, Gwyndolin; let the atonement for thy felonies commence!"

Even as the words were spoken he felt a rush of power, more potent by far than any other he had ever witnessed, and reality bent to its master's whim; the corridor ahead of him extended a hundredfold in a shower of golden light, the coffin at its end vanishing into the distance.

This was no mere illusion, the warrior realised; he had experienced a similar power when had handled the Dragon Queen's scale all those ages ago. Somehow, Gwyndolin was blurring the boundaries between reality and fiction, overwriting the rules of the world. No wonder Gwyn had coveted such power.

If only it was not being used against him.

The golden gleam of a miracle caught his attention, and he watched as Gwyndolin appeared further down the hallway, well beyond the striking range of any weapon. Their sceptre gleamed with baleful energy, and a careless wave sent forth a cluster of soul arrows at him, twisting like snakes down the corridor. This time, however, he was ready, and he danced through the barrage in a series of swift motions that belied his large frame.

Even as he did so, however, Gwyndolin was preparing their next attack; a churning mass of soul energy larger than a human torso. In such a confined space, dodging this was all but impossible, as was all but the best defence. But he had not earned his title as the God of War for nothing. A simple motion saw his trusted swordspear appear in his grip, and he braced the flat of it against the oncoming attack like a shield, before pushing the energy wave off course when it impacted the surface of his weapon, giving him the space to step in front of it and out of danger.

Gwyndolin paused at that; either surprised at his masterful deflection or planning his next move, he did not know. In either case, it was an opportunity he could not afford to miss- should their battle continue he stood little chance of victory without fighting to kill, given his limited movement and Gwyndolin's magic. Once again, he stowed his weapon and raised his empty hands, speaking quickly before Gwynodlin could think to attack again.

"I did not come here to fight, brother".


Gwyndolin was having second thoughts. Though every fiber of his being screamed at him to annihilate the traitor in front of him, the result of their last exchange had served to temper his aggression.

It was unlikely that he would be able to defeat this false god head to head- after all, his father had failed in this very situation, and he held no illusions as to their comparative strength. So too had much of his martial training come from the Four Knights, and he had many times marveled at their Captain's blinding speed and precision- that was, after all, why he had set the Dragonslayer to guarding Gwynevere. Taking what he knew of Ornstein's prowess and applying it to a power comparable to Gwyn… It was for good reason that none had thought to change the sentence of the traitor from exile to execution. As it was, the majority of his offensive spells had been repelled with minimal effort, and he doubted that he would get the time to weave a stronger working whilst under attack.

Better by far, then, to conserve his energy and keep the traitor talking. The more time he had to prepare for their next clash, the better.

And so, Gwyndolin lowered his sceptre, returning the hall to its usual proportions even as he began designing a powerful binding spell to take its place. Though he did not relax from his stance, the exile took it as a sign of peace, the tension draining from his body.

"I understand that my presence may be unwelcome", he said softly. "Did our father tell you of me?"

"I know enough, traitor" hissed Gwyndolin. "Rather, tell me why thou wouldst trespass on this sacred ground, when the penalty for such is death!"

At this, his enemy had the temerity to look surprised, though he quickly responded. "Our father, Lord Gwyn, is dead. It is my duty as his son and former heir to-"

This was too much for Gwyndolin. "Thou art nothing!" he spat, trembling with fury. "Nothing but a traitor, a heretic, a blasphemer. If thou wouldst wish to perform thy duty, die and have the world be rid of thy filth! Leave now, and never return, lest I perform it for thee".

This time, a flicker of emotion darkened the traitor's face, as though a cloud had passed before the sun. "Be careful in what you say, brother. All that you are -Indeed, all of this-" he gestured around the hall they were standing in "is because I did my duty, and did it well".

Intellectually, Gwyndolin knew he was right. The many empty pedestals and churches throughout the city stood as testament to the truth of those words, as did the scarcity of Archdragons. However, he was too angry to care. "The God who performed his duty is dead" he proclaimed "thou art not more than a restless shade, a pretender aping his mien". His fingers twitched- the binding was almost ready. Or it would have been, had the next words from the traitor's mouth not entirely thrown his concentration.

"I agree".


It was clear to the warrior that his response had wrong-footed Gwyndolin from how his grip on his catalyst weakened, and he wasted no time in pressing his advantage.

"Well,I mostly agree. My deific status has long since been rescinded, and I am no longer the man I once was". He took a step closer to Gwyndolin. "But I believe that you have misread my motivation. It was never just duty, to me- I did what I did because I loved my father, because I believed in his vision. I may not do so now, but I am still my father's son".

Then, he sank to a kneeling position in front of the shocked Gwyndolin, raising his arm in a pleading gesture.

"And I humbly request the right to pay my respects at his grave."


This was getting out of hand.

By now, Gwyndolin had been forced through so many rapid shifts of emotion that all he could muster was a kind of numb shock at the exile's latest proclamation. He tried to dredge up some of the burning anger he had felt not moments ago - tried to give himself the resolve to execute an enemy as was his duty - but every time the stark reality of the situation crushed what sparks of vengeful intent he could ignite within his heart.

Being the God of Illusion did not afford Gwyndolin the luxury of self-deception; as its master, he could unravel the paltry attempts of others with ease. And yet, no matter how much he focused his senses, he found neither the contradictions indicating a lie nor the mercurial signs of madness within his target.

The Exile was telling the truth. At the very least, he fully believed in what he had said.

Well, if Gwyndolin himself was uncertain, he nevertheless had plentiful wisdom to draw upon. What would his father do? On the one hand, a pre-emptive strike was now much more viable than it had been, and the figure before him had been exiled upon pain of death. On the other…

Gwyndolin had been raised on tales of the Dragon War, from Gwynevere, from the Four Knights, even from Bishop Havel on occasion. All had emphasised the honour and valour displayed by the Gods, the principles which had elevated them above the beasts they faced. It was a grave sin to strike an unarmed man, doubly so when he announced his peaceful intentions, and above all else his father had been a man of principle.

But principle did not mean a lack of pragmatism, a part of his mind whispered. Gwyn had taken every opportunity to gain an advantage. The Exile in front of him could prove to be a useful asset even if indirectly. After all, was it not his covenant that produced so many outstanding warriors?

"You are now ruler of Anor Londo"

It was as if the memory of those words strengthened his resolve in a cast of molten steel. Gwyndolin was King now, and Gwyn would not want his son to act as a blind puppet, eternally maintaining the status quo. If Fire was to be saved, he would have to make that salvation come to pass himself- and he had been granted the authority to do so.

Drawing himself up, Gwyndolin faced his exiled brother with new confidence, and spoke firmly. "Thy exile was on pain of death, but I will not punish filial loyalty. However, think not that this is a pardon. Thou art still banished, and shall not return once thy remembrance is done. Unless of course, thou wouldst swear thy vows anew?"

His brother betrayed a flash of confusion at that, before it faded into visible amusement. "You would offer me that chance, despite my betrayal?" he raised his head and fixed Gwyndolin with a piercing look. "Why take the risk, when you know what I have done?".

"I would ask a similar question of thee" retorted Gwyndolin. "Why allow thy followers to seek Gwyn's Throne, even though thou hast abandoned the Flame for the dragons?". His brother's gaze intensified at that, though it softened after a moment as he read something in Gwyndolin's expression.

"You misunderstand me once again, little brother" he murmured. "I never opposed the flame". He straightened to his full height and spoke again, this time in a tone as imperious as Gwyndolin's own, and this time Gwyndolin saw a shadow of the old War God before him.

"To be a Warrior of Sunlight is to face the truth, and choose.

Give off Darkness, or the light, warrior; but choose.

Link the Flame or Bring the Night, warrior; but choose!"

"All I ever wanted from my father was the right to choose, to judge for myself what cause I was fighting for," his brother said with audible frustration. "Still he never trusted me, and tried to wield me as an unthinking weapon. I lived that life as best I could- but when its pillars came tumbling down, I did not stand and watch them fall".

In his eyes Gwyndolin saw sorrow, but also an odd kind of serenity.

"Instead I turned, and walked away".

So his brother had not been malicious, merely weak. This boded ill for his plans; Gwyndolin knew well that an ally was only as strong as their dedication to the cause- after all, had he not seen his father abandoned by all those who should have stood with him? Including -and here an echo of his previous rage flared within him- the very man before him.

On the other hand, whilst his loyalty to the cause was questionable, that did not prevent him from his assistance being assured by other means. Both Ornstein and the Sunlight Warriors showed a strong sense of honour, rarely breaking their word if given unless it violated their vaunted morality. He could be dealt with in a manner similar to his student; given an important but low-priority task, one which he could agree to wholeheartedly that nevertheless supported Gwyndolin's plans. As for the aspects more unpalatable to him… well, he need not be exposed to anything that would cause his commitment to waver. Gwyndolin's divine status most certainly allowed him that luxury.

In any case, the first step was to ensure that his first impressions were favourable ones, and there was little mischief he could cause with the judgement of the Moon upon him.

"Very well. Approach the tomb of the Great Lord, and pay your respects."


Something had changed again, the warrior realised. Where before the sole constant of Gwyndolin's demeanor had been the intensity of his emotion, now he projected a commanding aura that was the equal of his father's. He had hoped that he would have more of an opportunity to explain himself, but it would be detrimental to push his luck at this point.

Maintaining his peaceful mien, the warrior approached the coffin at the end of the corridor. Unlike the rest of the tomb or palace, there was little ostentation here; only a large slab of pure white stone, kept immaculately clean. The warrior placed his hand on it and tried to think of something to say. How to express the totality of his feelings? Once, he would have broken down at the sight in front of him. More recently, he would have flown into a rage; but it was hard to stay angry when he reflected on the relative ignominy of the situation.

In the end, who came to mourn at the "Great Lord's" tomb? Not his knights, not his allies, not his worshippers. Just two children, abandoned by their father. There wasn't even a body, not really. He didn't think whatever rested in the Kiln deserved that acknowledgement.

In truth, the reason he was still here was for Gwyndolin. His father had made his choices- and left this poor child to deal with the consequences. At the very least, he deserved one more chance.

After that moment of silent contemplation, the warrior addressed his brother. "Three gifts, then, shall I present before I leave". He pulled a ring off his finger; it was an old, scratched band of bronze, all markings worn away by time. "First, this ring, granted to me when I was named Knight-Captain of the Dragonslayers. I never had the chance to return it to my father; now I return it to you".

Next, he materialised a scroll, still rippling with golden power. "Second, this scroll detailing the art of manifesting the Sunlight Blade. Take it and know that none of my followers will ever wield it against its rightful master". He laid it gently atop the coffin, a final acknowledgement of his status, and felt an invisible weight lift as though he had exchanged a final farewell with what remained of Gwyn.

As he turned from the coffin, his brother stirred. "Three gifts hast thou presented to me, and I am not one to leave a service rendered without reward". He inclined his head toward him. "I would reinstate thee as a god of Anor Londo, and grant thee a means to reclaim thy honour".

The warrior gave a moment's consideration to the proposal, and found himself unsure of the intention behind it. Was this an honest offer, or a means to subordinate him once again? Probably the former, he thought. As he was, there was little he could offer; his Warriors already provided subjects for Gwyndolin's plans, wherever they were, and Anor Londo would never accept peace with the Dragons.

It was ironic, he reflected, that he could not bring himself to care about the offer. Once - early in his exile, before Archdragon Peak, he would have grasped at it desperately. He'd sought to make a mark on the world separate from his father, travelling the lands and eventually being worshipped under myriad names. He'd sought back then to earn a divinity greater than that of the Old Lord, more permanent. How foolish he had been- but, he thought with a touch of melancholy, not foolish enough.

Burning with resentment, he'd entirely abandoned Lordran and never looked back, sure that there was nothing left for him- yet here was his brother, ready to forgive him. A finer King by far than his father. Certainly finer than he would have been, had he stayed. Inwardly he lamented that he had not even thought to check on his home before now. What might he, Gwynevere and Gwyndolin have accomplished together? Could they have fixed what Gwyn had broken?

Instead, he had stayed in exile, sure in his self-righteousness, and now the time of Gods was past, far too late for them to resurrect it. He could only shake his head at his folly.

"No?". Gwyndolin had noticed his movement. "Thou wouldst refuse my offer?". There was a note of menace there, buried amidst the shock, and the warrior immediately set out to address it.

"'Tis not that I refuse it, but rather I am unqualified to receive it. I gave up all claim to that responsibility when I abandoned it, and if my travels have shown me anything it is that I am yet unworthy of the title".

"But if you wish for a replacement-" he shot Gwyndolin a small smile "-my recommendation would be Ornstein. There is no more valiant or more deserving Knight in all of Lordran". Ornstein would not have sunk into childish self-pity, he was sure. The Lion Knight would have kept close contact with his siblings even if it meant proximity to Gwyn, would have maintained the bonds he himself had thrown away and used them to keep Lordran alive. Gwynevere's absence, Filianore's slumber- he would never have let those sins occur.

If Gwyndolin was affected by his response, or saw his inner turmoil he gave no sign of it. His emotions remained hidden behind the golden crown and his own supernatural self-control. Still, there was an air of finality suffusing the atmosphere, and the warrior could tell that his welcome was running out.

His safest option was to leave without saying anything- but how could he think of such things now that his brother was before him? Had he not just lamented the consequences of his inaction? One way or another, he owed it to Gwyndolin to at least lay his cards on the table.

Steeling himself, he finally spoke up. "I cannot accept your offer, but I still have one gift left to give- if you would wish it, I will give you the truth Lord Gwyn once denied to both of us. You may serve his cause as you see fit, but I would not have you do so blindly."

He pushed all of his feelings into his next words, willing Gwyndolin to understand the depth of emotion behind them. "What you are need not be what I was- an automaton, set to work in service of a lie. For that is the nature of the Age of Fire; the light it sheds was never meant to illuminate, only to blind. I know that this goes against everything my father taught you, but with the full story you can step out of his shadow, and be better than him". He hesitated, and added on with a soft smile, "Your actions have already shown you to be better than me". His piece said, he waited in uncomfortable silence.

His brother's response was not long in coming.


If before Gwyndolin's emotions had flared like the First Flame, his brother's words had compressed them to slivers of Primordial Crystal- sharp and hard, but oddly still, detached from his conscious thoughts. He looked into them as he had once stared at those in the Duke's archives, admiring the images reflected on their facets, and the patterns of light that glimmered in their depths.

The 'Truth'.

Whatever it was, it was clearly his brother's trump card. He had spoken his lines with great intensity, as if certain that Gwyndolin's agreement would lead to a positive outcome. No doubt he viewed it as some dark secret that Gwyn had hidden during the Dragon War- there was little else he could be referring to.

"The light it sheds was never meant to illuminate, only to blind".

The insinuation was clear to Gwyndolin; according to 'the truth', Gwyn had engineered the whole Age with an ulterior motive, and used his status to cover up his acts. In light of his brother's own exile -and, he dimly remembered some ramblings from Seath- that motive had something to do with his dealings with the Dragons. He wondered how bad the 'truth' was, if he deigned to hear his brother out.

He could almost picture his horrified face reflected in the crystals, his brother gesticulating as he laid out the whole sordid tale.

He looked into another crystal, and saw himself, face twisted in rage, cursing his brother as he was impaled upon a swordspear.

Another; Him in front of a group of Dragons, sceptre raised and teeth gritted as he made a proclamation and Anor Londo burned behind him-

Another; Him collapsed upon an arctic plane, wracked with anguish, tears flowing as a scythe was raised before him-

Again and again he looked, and always he saw suffering- pain, loss, and sorrow. Somehow he knew that all of this shared a cause; he had listened to his brother.

Being the God of Illusion did not afford Gwyndolin the luxury of self-deception. He had always known that he was not privy to the entirety of his father's plans or secrets. From there, it was only a short jump to acknowledge that some of what he did not know may have been truly unforgivable- the crystals only inflamed his suspicions of such. If he wanted to be sure, he would have to hear his brother out but it seemed his 'truth' was real. Could the Age he had devoted his life to serving really have been a mistake?

Yet every time he entertained the notion a question arose; did it matter?

The crystals shifted, and he saw new images.

A royal dinner in Anor Londo, full of contentment and cheer, a warm smile on Gwynevere's face as she listened to his story and the Four Knights laughing from their positions down the tables-

A visit to Astora, the legions of pilgrims bowing down as Gwyn declared his daughter's new position before them, the grand cathedrals bursting with joyous worshippers and a younger Gwyndolin bursting with pride as he was acknowledged as divinity-

An undead, set down by the imps and struck dumb by awe as he watched the sun shine over Anor Londo for the first time-

The happiness he remembered was real. The glory and advancement of the Age was real. Did it matter that its origins were mired in sin if so many had lived their lives in bliss because of it?

Did the fact that his sun was an illusion make its warmth any less comforting?

With the visions of his Age before him -its past and its potential future- the answer was easy to come to.

All the Last God of Lordran did was pronounce his judgement.


"No."

Having seen his words inspire both rage and denial in Gwyndolin, it was nevertheless the warrior's turn to be stunned by the response. "No? You would remain ignorant?" He could hardly comprehend the thought. Here he was, offering the truth- only the truth, with no judgement or conditions- and his brother was unwilling to even listen?

"I would" stated Gwyndolin, and the warrior had never seen a clearer resemblance to his father than in that moment. "I care not what Gwyn did, what seeming transgressions he committed. I am his son, his sole loyal heir, and I will fight for the prosperity he granted us". A corner of his mouth quirked up infinitesimally. "Surely thou wouldst respect my choice?"

There was no response to that. The stubbornness, the blindness, the wilful ignorance- the warrior knew these feelings. They were all too familiar to him. Now, he recognised the man as well; one whose faith would never be broken, who never doubted and would never succumb-

The resemblance had not been to their father after all. How cruel this world was, making him look into an old mirror like that!

It seemed he had accomplished all he could; he turned and walked back down the length of the corridor, though he could not help but to turn back at its end to have one last exchange with his brother.

"Blessing of the moon upon your journey, brother".

"May the same be true of you, brother. Long may the sun shine".

And though those words were so often heard as messages of salvation, in the end neither one was saved; neither the one looking at his past with sorrow, nor the one scornful of his potential future.

At the very end, all they could do was lament what they had become.