Light shines brightest in the darkest of places.
Perhaps it was foolish of you to seek the sun – your sun – in Anor Londo. But no matter. You didn't find what you were looking for, perhaps, but you did find hope. Renewed vigour. An affirmation of belief.
Hope is a fleeting thing, of course. And you've held on to it for so long already.
You never doubted yourself. Not until Izalith. You couldn't afford to doubt yourself. To lose purpose, to lose faith, was to go hollow.
Some things proved false. Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight. Surely a figure worthy of admiration, of respect, of devotion.
Not devotion.
He does not watch over you. Anor Londo imbued you with hope, but not in Gwyn. A great warrior, a great Lord he was, worthy of praise, but not devotion. Not anymore.
The firstborn, then. The nameless heir of sunlight, said to watch still over his holy warriors. Even at his shattered altar you could not feel his presence.
And the sun. You saw it in Anor Londo, but it wasn't… it wasn't all there. Oh, it looked like the sun you remember from your youth, but it didn't feel like the sun. The stones of Anor Londo did not sparkle under its gaze, nor shimmer from the heat.
The sun was fading, you thought. It strengthened your resolve. You would find your own sun. A new sun.
You came to doubt Gwyn, his child, the sun itself.
If no gods would watch over the warriors of sunlight, you would do it for them. Someone had to.
And you never doubted yourself.
Not until you saw chaos.
Izalith is lit not by gold, but by fiery red. The sun warms; chaos burns. The sun illuminates; chaos seethes.
If this is to be the new sun, you thought, you want nothing of it.
But what else is there? The sun above is fading, unable to warm Anor Londo and hardly piercing the shroud of Blighttown. Perhaps light may yet be found within the Tomb of the Giants?
You know the answer. It is a dark place.
Necessity outweighs want. Want had nothing to do with it. Chaos was not the sun you desired, but it might be the only sun left. You claimed that ring of Izalith from the demon it spawned and set forth into the bowels of the world.
Chaos was no sun at all, you found. It twisted everything it touched. The malformed remnants of dragons, the surviving citizens of the city (and you mean surviving in the loosest sense of the word), even the Witches who birthed it. Chaos is not a tool with which to build a new world. It is a force of nature.
And yet you still compared it to the sun.
Is the sun not a force of nature, not to be tamed, not to be controlled?
Should it too not be left alone?
Perhaps that was Gwyn's folly, to claim the sun.
You dispelled such thoughts and pressed on.
And then you found it.
Your own sun.
Something you could tame.
Something you could control.
It beckoned to you. It soothed you. It told you that your efforts were not in vain. That your doubts were but a trial. That, if only you claimed it, you could build a new world. A brighter world. A happier world.
A world with you at its centre.
It's what you want, isn't it?
To be worshipped. To be loved. Maybe it's just the way you are. To want, as all men want.
You removed your helm and claimed the sun.
Solaire.
That was your voice, telling him your name.
It tried to remind him who he was.
What he stood for.
What he wanted.
His endless ambition.
His will to achieve it.
All undone by a cruel mockery.
Won't be keeping any particular update schedule, this is just more to experiment (and procrastinate), but if I write something, I may as well upload it.