She thinks it was maybe the seeping stench of the crypt that first drew her closer, ever closer, to the object of her affections. The moment her boots hit the bone-dust and the deceased peered straight into the core of her soul, she lost resolve to carry along the righteous path of the Way of White. The Chosen Undead felt as if her eyes had never been more open.
The path through the Catacombs was perilous, but it hardened her. Scrambling behind the coat tails of necromancers and smashing through the solid bone of the once living. It weaved into her imagination the delight in things dead. The never-ending, winding pathways ripe with lost existence and teeming with decay. She thinks it ironic that by the time she found His remains, her body was pounding with life.
It was all accidental. She had looked into the gleam of the Titanite Demon and saw her worn face looking back. It was a mad dash to the open coffin, where she barely managed to grasp a fiber from cloth of life before it floated away on tepid air. It was suffocating; stuffy and hot like being wrapped in the still-hot ashes of a brilliant flame. There was a jarring that made its way right to her heart as the vessel got whisked away by... something. Even to this day, she is not sure what manner of creature brought her to salvation.
But, oh, what salvation it was.
She dragged her heavy body out of the coffin and into the puddle that awaited her. The water was clear and fresh against the granules of white that smothered the ground. Whether it was sand or ash or dust, she did not know. She focused on the silence ringing through the cavern and the wetness that was seeping in between her toes.
Strafing the grand stalagmite that was the center piece of the den, she fell upon a magnificence sarcophagus. As she crept closer, she could feel the arms of influence tying round her heart, her soul, her very purpose of living. She was lost from then on.
It seems to her that He engaged her with His eyes. Not His actual eyes, of course, for of those He had none. But the eyes of His soul: a wondrous soul, pure and full of dark potential.
His voice, a mere whisper in the cove of her mind, inviting and embracing.
She cannot count the amount of times she has tried to scramble up the lip of the coffin, an attempt to get closer to Him, violent with desire and need.
To touch His decaying bones. To lay a hand, nay, a finger even, upon His primordial skull... This would be true salvation!
But she fulfills her duty. The Eyes of Death have long been overflowing in her pockets. The Gravelord Sword is but an extension of her own arm. There is no remorse when she crosses the fissure between worlds and rips life from another in the name of her dear Master.
She has sat for hours memorizing the flow of His essence, the tiny shifts in His slumber.
She was close to Him.
But now, when all has been done, she is closer than ever before.
His soul feels warm in her hand, soft against her cheek, where she rubs it occasionally with guiltless pleasure. Deep inside of the Tomb of Giants, with the Gravelord Sword in hand, she has killed the Father of the Dead.
There was pain, inevitably. There was pain in dancing around Him, cutting His soul away one slice at a time, but there was bliss as well. They were close. They were oh so close. As His body faded and materialized into His soul, she laid a hand on His skull and her body racked with a sob with joy.
She keeps Him in her pocket now, where the Eyes of Death, now useless, once dwelt.
Their bond is deeper than ever.