The meeting place, befitting of his friend's temperament and beliefs, was all but certainly going to be obnoxiously bright and cheerful, with a disgustingly radiant sun in the sky heating his skin to uncomfortable levels in place of the soothing gray clouds that he had known for years. Still, Yhorm would travel there; it wasn't often that Yhorm was contacted by letter to meet with his stout friend from Catarina, and the timing can't have been a coincidence. A request for an important talk with an old friend, and in the days of the dying Flame?
The Giant Lord shook his head in exasperation as he mulled over the most likely possibility; the people of nearby kingdoms were letting their paranoia and fear of his heritage drive them to making him a sacrifice for the Flame, and insisted on his jovial friend being the messenger. Still, he couldn't bring himself to muster any lasting resentment for Siegward nor those very kingdoms; not after becoming as familiar with the workings of the world as he had.
He emerged from the tunnel leading to the surface and glanced over at the immense cathedral rising above the earth - an artifact of the very first Age of Fire, or so he'd been told - before focusing on cresting the hill Siegward had asked to meet him on. Sure enough, even on such a warm day, the knight of Catarina rested atop the hill, facing the direction of the setting sun and nursing a tiny barrel filled with that odd liquid of his creation.
He must have been ignoring the Giant for dramatic effect - that melodramatic oaf - as he only turned towards the source of Yhorm's booming footfalls when the Giant lord himself was well in sight of the hilltop. "Yhorm, old friend! Come, have a seat."
Looking helplessly at the patch of grass Siegward had patted - within a human arm's reach of the oblivious friend - he instead opted for setting himself down on the incline, ensuring that he was as close to his friend as he would dare. Finally, he addressed the knight of Catarina, who patiently stared as his friend readied himself. "Siegward."
Despite the offhand, even cold way he had addressed his closest companion, the man in question erupted with deep laughter. "Ah, as witty and flowing with your speech as ever, my friend! How have you..." He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought, before starting and setting down his drink as quickly as possible whilst reaching for his rucksack. "Oh, I'm so sorry, would you like a drink? I probably should've started with that, how rude of me.."
Yhorm opened his mouth to politely reject, but Siegward had already fished out the necessary implements for cooking a new batch of his self-proclaimed "Estus Soup", or 'food' as Yhorm put it; it was difficult to appreciate Human cooking when you had no need for such forms of sustenance. Instead, he sat and let his friend get started with cooking before staring out into the distance. "What do you want, Siegward? You know what the current state of the world implies about this meeting."
It was a testament to his character that Siegward's actions froze for only a moment, and in response to a question that would have other men reeling in shock. "Erm, yes, about that..."
The Giant lord sighed. "Look, I know what you are here for, old friend. You can tell them that I need to put some affairs in order in the Capital before I-"
Now the knight was on his feet, waving his arms in what was only a comical fashion due to the bulk of his armor. "Whoa whoa whoa! Yhorm, I would never ask such a thing of you, nor would I let others seek to remove you from power!" His helmet tilted towards the floor, and he began playing with his fingers. "Although, that is related to what I came here for."
Now Yhorm was curious; if it wasn't to do with honoring their oaths to the Sun - well, one honoring his oaths and having the other half-heartedly acknowledge them - then what could the stout fellow be doing here? Coming all this way to the remnants of Anor Londo; surely...?
"You see, the First Flame is dying- wait, you already knew that, what am I saying? I should've- oh, I'll just start over." Siegward took a deep breath, seemingly trying to puff out his chest to appear more heroic, and locked gazes with his friend. "We are both warriors of heroic deeds, who seek to protect all under the Sun's brilliant care. And with the Fire fading, I..." He was sheepish now, folding his arms behind his back and- was he kicking up dust? "I felt that I should fully honor my duties and do what must be done."
Yhorm shot upwards, eliciting cries from Siegward. "Friend, please mind the soup! It's very difficult to-"
He, however, was impartial about the knight's cooking endeavors, and appeared to be fully incensed after catching onto his rather obvious implications. "To the Abyss with your soup! What are you thinking?! You can't link the Flame, your soul isn't strong enough! You'd burn to a crisp in moments, and all for a shallow sacrifice that wouldn't even appear as useful as a true Linking!"
The knight of Catarina wrenched his helmet off, and whether it was Yhorm's comment about the soup or his dismissal of the importance of linking the Flame, had joined the giant in anger. "It would not be shallow! Friend, I could simply gather the souls I need for the Flame to accept me, and then defeat its warden-"
It was all Yhorm could do to keep from smashing his fist against the hill and risk harming Siegward. "You can't! Even if you had the strength to reach the Kiln, do you honestly think that you could vanquish the legion that defends it!? Your armor would only shield you for so long-"
"And I don't care!" Siegward roared, with so much uncharacteristic fury behind it that the Giant lord actually had to stop and think about whether or not he had actually said that. "Friend, our entire lives have been dedicated to helping those in need, even when the odds were stacked against us! If I were to ignore my calling, and let the Flame wither away..." He slumped, all of his energy spent. "I... I am touched by your concern for me, Yhorm, but... I have to do this. Who else will?"
Looking at Siegward, resigned and broken, the answer was obvious. "I can save more time with the strength I already possess."
It was Siegward's turn to be stunned, staring at Yhorm as if he'd suddenly spouted a mass of tentacles and spoken in tongues. "What? But what about the Capital? What about the-"
"I won't" the Giant lord muttered, and it was all the proof the knight would need to know that his rivals and fearful slanderers would never threaten the people under his rule. "I can set out now and reach the Kiln in a few days, beneath the Capital; when I defeat the Undead Legion who linked it before, I will link the Fire and likely sustain it far longer than any human can with my Giant's soul. You - and your compatriots - will have more time to find a way to end this forever."
They remained silent for some time - Siegward musing over his friend's proposal, Yhorm going over the impossible problem of the other Flame - when fierce bubbling sounds snagged their attention. The Giant was the first to speak. "I think it's ready."
The knight of Catarina nodded, although he seemed to be absent. "Yes, yes, I'll just get it." He fished some wooden bowls out of his rucksack, and nearly placed a spoon in each before leaving one with the serving spoon in the pot. Handing one to Yhorm - who took it gingerly in the palm of his hand - Siegward sat back down and raised his bowl in a toast. "To our valor, our swords, and our sworn duties! Long may the Sun shine!" He drank eagerly from the bowl, but neither of them missed the lack of laughter that usually concluded Siegward's toasts.
When they were both finished, Siegward made to speak, stopped, and then tried again before sagging. "Oh, how do I do this? Yhorm, I..." He clearly needed to speak his mind, so Yhorm let him gather his thoughts. "I am both proud and upset for you, in that you have finally embraced your duties to link the Flame. I have no right to stop you, but... but what happens if you are brought back? You know the legends as well as I, after all."
The Giant nodded in affirmation, recalling how the tolling of the mountain bell would signal the final crisis for the First Flame, and resurrect the past Lords of Cinder to save it. "You want to know ensure that I will not abandon my duties. Very well" he stated, reaching into the space between spaces and drawing forth the brilliant blade that had once threatened his rule, shrinking it to fit a pair of Human hands. "This is yours."
Siegward, caught completely off guard, took the weapon with both hands before shaking his head and raising it again. "Varunastra? No no no, I can't take this! Surely I could talk some sense into you if you ever-"
"Siegward" Yhorm began, pausing to ensure that his friend was listening. "Old friend... your duty would be to ensure I return to link the Flame once more. I grant you permission, as your friend, to do whatever is necessary to ensure that it happens."
He stood up from the hillside seat and stepped forward, before remembering his manners and glancing towards Siegward, who looked more sullen than he had ever seen him before. Beating him to the punch, Siegward looked up tearfully at his lifelong companion. "I'm so sorry, Yhorm, I..."
Yhorm dropped onto one knee and brushed Siegward's arm in comfort."I know." He remained there for a moment, and then returned to his full height. "Thank you for the soup, and... thank you for standing with me until the end."
Their goodbyes spoken and bonds honored, Yhorm returned to the stairway leading to his Capital and prepared himself for the journey ahead.
For a whole legion of warriors who had linked the Flame before him, Yhorm would have reasoned that they would be much more of a challenge to deal with.
And yet here he was, handily striking down the surviving watchers of the first group with a flurry of slashes and smashes as he advanced through the Kiln of the First Flame and towards the Flame proper. Even with their proportionately enormous weapons and erratic fighting style, they lacked the knowledge of what was required to fell a Greatwood, and so the damage they inflicted was largely superficial.
Without much need to focus on the battle, Yhorm's thoughts drifted to the city above him and near the surface. The Giant lord's advisors had been gathered into a regency council to guide the city in his absence, and due to the widespread awareness of his absence, its military had been placed on high alert whilst diplomats brought gifts to hazardous nearby kingdoms as some form of placation. After such affairs were arranged, the people of the Capital had hosted a mixed celebration and mourning for Yhorm's coming sacrifice, and his knights assisted him in preparing for the journey itself.
He only hoped that they would be able to host another celebration soon.
With the last legionnaire dead, Yhorm rested his machete against his shoulder as he pressed on, taking note of the warped architecture and ashen dunes in between scanning for any further hostiles and inspecting his equipment. Entering a darker region of the underground cavern where the Kiln was located, Yhorm fished out a massive torch - specifically created from a huge tree, cut down and smoothed to fit his grip - to illuminate his surroundings, and quickly re-established the path he needed to take.
Such was his entire life - stumbling through an uncaring world, suffering or making other suffer for an end that no sane man would desire - and as a result Yhorm brushed aside the nagging worries that coiled around his mind and whispered black-dripping words; they would not help him here.
At long last, after at least a day of fighting and wandering through the deep depths of the world, the Giant lord spied a warm, red-orange glow in the distance, the illuminated wall of the cavern partially blocked by half-melted archways and a diminutive, coiled sword. Trudging through the ashen wastes - which truly was deep, as it came halfway up his thighs - Yhorm pulled away some of the ruins to better reach the tiny flame dancing in the Dark, and stopped at its side.
Setting down his machete, Yhorm took a moment to contemplate the possible repercussions of his course. Many legends propounded the notion that ascendant Lords of Cinder were freed from the cycle for their sacrifice, joining the first Lords in an idyllic copy of the living world to feast and laugh and live forever; others claimed they became one with the First Flame, becoming aware of all things in time forever, seeing what lied behind and ahead of their rule.
Yhorm himself did not believe in any of those fool's tales, and yet as he edged his hand closer to the embedded sword, found himself hesitating and granting those stories a new kind of consideration. After all the things he had done - all the things he had let be done - what would await him beyond the guiding light of the Flame? Would anything await beyond the Flame? What if such tales of fitting reward were mere lies to draw in noble heirs, and after linking the Fire the Giant would simply cease to be; or worse, be condemned to the Abyss now that his soul had been offered as kindling?
He never stopped wondering if linking the Flame would be a wise idea, even as he felt his Giant's soul attune to the Flame.
The flames timidly advanced up his outstretched arm - as if the Flame itself was unsure of whether to proceed - and Yhorm's soul responded in kind, slowly reaching out and entwining itself with the warm coils of life and death. It felt unusual; was this what all Lords of Cinder felt before the agony left them mindless husks? The Giant felt an inexplicable urge to pull back, even as he rationalized that it was too late; his course was charted and the vessel carrying him had left dock.
Only something came off as unnatural about how the fire burned within his bosom; Yhorm became aware of his arrival moments before, his standing at the Flame now, and his crouching form in a few moments. Wonder soon joined the sense of unease, leaving him in a state of pure equilibrium... until the unease exploded into panic, his perception of time stretching onward and onward until...
Yhorm found himself turning towards the Capital as the Profaned Flame erupted in newfound life, and only then realized that the feelings of wrongness had nothing to do with his awareness of reality.
He saw the Flame shuddering as unfamiliar energies wracked its form, and citizens of the Capital fleeing from some terrifying force that disintegrated the people's bodies, minds, and souls. The snaking, moaning First Flame soon lashed out, and with an ungodly tear that sent Yhorm staggering, expelled an angry red ember which spun erratically and shot out of the cavern, drawn to the nearest signs of life, and...
"NO! RUN, PLEASE!" But his people could not hear him, and so they donned innocent metal masks and wielded both daggers and branding irons with callous amusement, descending to new levels of depravity involving the torment of reanimated, charred humans who had served him; perhaps they sought to escape the horrors of the wounded- nay, the profaned flame and the horrific stone constructs it spat out.
With a lurch, his visions ended, and Yhorm found himself laying face-up in what felt like a stone coffin. What had...? The Capital. Galvanized by terror, the Giant lord forced the covering slab spinning into the air, slamming his machete's blade into the earth as support to help him get up faster-
-for a vista of his unfamiliar whereabouts. Craning his head forward to face the horizon, he beheld a great stone bell tower, still tolling and causing more coffins to burst open. Turning to the left, he beheld a razed city, with crumbling ruins and hollow silence. To the right, he became aware of other Lords of Cinder emerging into the ashen sunlight; even the undead legion he had felled when he first approached the Flame.
And with that thought, he finally came to terms with what had happened - how the people who trusted him were killed by an unholy fusion of the Flame's power and his people's ancestral hate.
And when the revived Lords of Cinder turned to behold the source of a Giant's emotion-laced roar, it seemed to bear none of their characteristic anger.
Yhorm truly came to appreciate the calming influence of silence.
Whenever it deigned to grace him with its presence - which was a truly rare occasion indeed, as the Handmaidens always found something new to chuckle and slice at - the reclusive lord found that all of his regrets and blade-grip swords of self-loathing were cast away, replaced with serenity and phantasms of the people who once called him their ruler. Smiling, eating and nodding, they listened as he apologized for atrocities no one could foresee, and certainly did not blame him for what he meant as a final gift to those who trusted him dearly.
They were certainly more welcome company than the true remnants of his people, who lined the walls of his throne room and screamed silent when they weren't simply unmoving, caught in tangled messes of death.
However, despite the disgust and shame that permeated the room and infected his mind, Yhorm would not leave; it was a fitting punishment for his crime, whether he had intended for disaster or not, and it was the only act of defiance he could take against the ungrateful dogs who tolled the bell of Firelink Shrine and implored for him to do his duty once more. His duty! He had let another convince him to do his duty once, and look at what that had amounted to!
He would remain there, on his gilded throne in the Profaned Capital, waiting for the end of time to silence the impertinent nagging for another sacrifice, and the multitude of shrieking people of many walks and places of life who appeared whenever he seriously considered atoning for his sins once more.
His mind was wandering again; how many times had that happened in the last few days, compared to the week before? Perhaps he was losing his mind the same way those of the Profaned Capital gibbered and chortled and sizzled the flesh of their victims. Sometimes he considered joining them in their heinous debauchery, in an escape from the dreary, woeful tides of fate and life that broke him down to his base instincts of despair and rage. Alas, he could not; firstly, partaking in their madness may cost him his self-awareness - for he did not understand the nature of their ailing minds - and that would deny him his revenge against the begging curs who shallowly praised him in the hopes of turning him into a sacrificial lion once more.
The other, and far more pressing concern, was that it had been some time since the silence had arrived - and it had yet to leave.
Resolving to seek out the meaning of this aberration in his existence himself, Yhorm glanced up at the great fire-pit beyond his throne room - where a few Handmaidens would stand around and utter nonsensical platitudes to the long-calmed profanity seated within - and immediately halted his advance.
The Handmaidens lay dead in various places around the Profaned Flame, and in the throne room itself were two individuals.
The first appeared at first to wear simple cloth and a leather hat, though upon closer inspection the robes which masked their form also masked the scorched plate armor above it. The cloth framed their young, plump face, chuckling with sinister mirth as they waved branding irons, revealing their trepidation as they held their twin daggers tight to their body and glanced at their companion.
The second walked calmly forward, never breaking eye-contact with the reclusive lord, and raised an ornate sword with unusual hilt design. "Yhorm... old friend."
Yhorm's eyes narrowed, and his grip reflexively tightened on the grip of his great machete, Anguvardal.
With the lack of a verbal response, Siegward seemed to falter for a moment - as if still struggling to come to terms with what had to be done - and continued. "I, Siegward of the knights of Catarina, have come to uphold my promise!" The Unkindled One faltered and even took a step backward when Yhorm lifted himself from his throne, even as Siegward marched forward without pause. "Let the Sun shine upon this Lord of Cinder, and long may It shine!"
His oaths given voice, Siegward roared and charged forward, even as Yhorm moved away from his throne and brought Anguvardal up above him, leaving it hanging in the air before bringing it down with the force of a small building, sending the knight of Catarina flying and obliterating the tiling caught in the impact. Rolling back onto his feet and assuming an on-guard stance, Yhorm pressed the attack and swung wildly; just above the din of the chaos, the reclusive lord could have sworn he heard a tumultuous howling, as if-
-as if the very sky itself was becoming feral.
Too late to move away, Yhorm whipped around to face the opposite direction and braced himself for the oncoming blow, as the Unkindled brought his other weapon, Fragarach, downwards in a slamming attack. The wind summoned by the blade answered to its command, and cut into Yhorm's flesh with such force that even with his foresight, he stumbled backwards and careened into the wall of his throne room; it had been too long since the days he established his benevolent nature, and had forgotten what it meant to be struck by the Storm Rulers.
Forcing himself to his feet, he struck out at a column to his left, using the smokescreen formed from the sudden down-pour of ash and dust to charge forward and grab the Unkindled One, smashing them against the ground and readying a coup de grâce. However, even if they had failed to reach for their golden flask in time and drained it of its contents, another blow - this time from Varunastra - crashed into his rear and flung him forwards, smashing head first into his throne and disorienting him. This has gone on long enough. Refusing to let them drag him to his second sacrifice - and perhaps to give them a reason to expedite their current task - Yhorm called upon the power he despised and burst into flame, tongues lashing out from fresh cracks in his skin and wreathing Anguvardal's length.
Roaring a fresh challenge, Yhorm barreled forward and demolished what remained of the throne room, tearing columns from their supports and lobbing what didn't crumble away immediately at his assailants, sundering the floor and making it increasingly less viable ground to engage them on. Despite the complete terror such an image would have infused in men without the flames, Siegward and the Unkindled simply evaded his assault and - as he turned to face them once more - called upon the storm once more.
The wind tore into his armor, his flesh, and his very soul; with no strength left to stand, Yhorm collapsed to his knees, Anguvardal dropped and forgotten at his side. The two Undead approached him, the Unkindled wincing with sympathy at Yhorm's moaning and struggling to use his now-crippled dominant arm, whilst Siegward took a sip from his own flask and left the Unkindled to her own devices in order to speak with Yhorm in what privacy they could find.
Siegward removed his helmet and held it at his hip whilst supporting Varunastra on his shoulder. "Old friend, I know you still exist in that head of yours" he began, his mouth falling into a flatter, grim line when the reclusive lord in question proved the knight's theory and locked gazes with him. "And so I hope to appeal to your sense of duty-"
Yhorm's growl quickly silenced that particular train of thought, and Siegward collected himself. "Friend... the Flame is dying again, and-"
"Then let it die" Yhorm muttered, his voice akin to stone grinding together after centuries of disuse. "All it did was spur the Profaned Flame on so it wouldn't jeopardize other lands before burning out. I have no reason to help anyone now."
For the first time in a long time - both literally and figuratively - the reclusive lord witnessed Siegward being left speechless by his response, and opened his mouth repeatedly to retort before closing it again. Finally, his wits seemed to return to him, and he pressed on as if he hadn't suffered a major setback; a major element of his character that had prevented Yhorm from driving him away and remaining alone. "Yhorm... would you rather live with your failures, or die for something meaningful?"
The giant scoffed. "What could possibly be more meaningful than the short-term cop-out of Linking the Flame?"
"Saving it from its final death."
Every thought in Yhorm's mind stopped at once. It was... Wasn't being sustained by the souls of great lords? But that meant... they weren't enough any more. To keep it alive, it required an increasingly larger amount of souls per Linking, which meant that they must have reached the point where they needed more souls than it could take in at once.
It was starving, and there was absolutely nothing anyone could do; except, perhaps, recycle the souls of the most powerful Lords of Cinder.
A lengthy battle took place in Yhorm's minds; spite all who had wronged him and let the Fire fade, or do what he intrinsically believed was right and save it. He turned to the piles of corpses that had once trusted him, and found them all pointing straight at Siegward, who looked around in confusion; the course was clear.
"Siegward... thank you, for..."
The knight of Catarina put a hand to his friend's lips, and in spite of their situation smiled. "There is nothing to thank or apologize to me for, Yhorm. Do you need us to wait with you as you heal?"
The Giant lord shook his head. "No, not enough... time. I won't make you." And with what little strength remained in his opposite arm, he wrested Varunastra from Siegward's grip - with delicate care, as always - and shoved it upwards into his mouth and through his brain.
So remember how I said Quelaag's chapter approached 4,000 words? Yeah, well Yhorm's chapter surpassed that. By another 500 words. 4,564 word total, to be exact.
The fun part about writing this - asides from the fact that his fight and theme are cool as hell - is that about halfway through I read the description for Yhorm's soul and kind of got reminded that the Profaned Flame existed before Yhorm linked the First Flame. After the awkward head-wrapping-around ensued, I tried to figure out how to restructure the chapter to fit in that lore, only to decide on a few vague references; I really didn't want to do it again, and I don't think I could have, since I felt a little fatigued trying to power through the end of this chapter.
But in any case, here we are! Halfway through the Lords of Cinder, and then I'll get back to random choices + requests from readers. Also, if any of you think there's something off about my writing, notice that I forgot some reference or character trait there, or just want to ask a question, feel free to review or send me a message directly, and I'll get to it.
Finally, before I take off, I realise that some bosses that I've previously written for may require a rewrite after some lore was messed with post-Dark Souls 3 (including a god or two). With that in mind, would you guys object to my going back and editing previous chapters as I deem it necessary? I've thought of it before, but reckoned I should put the idea before you guys before rushing into stupid decisions.
Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you've enjoyed the latest edition in this series!