"Ashen One, what does thou see in this argent world?"
The girl kicks her feet back and forth, anticipating his answer. Although her smile is shrouded by the long locks of her hair, her voice perfectly conveys her joyous curiosity. "Is it suited to thy desires?"
He nods. She frowns. From this, he realizes that she wants more from him than a meager sign of affirmation.
A smile appears on his face, concealed beneath the ragged mask he wears. There certainly is a lot he would like to profess regarding this land shrouded in white. Yes, he holds a dear love for this painted domain, for it is everything he had imagined it would be. Comfort brought through desolation, a den of tranquility that shrouds hostile iniquity and, best of all, snow stretching out for as far as the eye can see. It is neither heaven nor hell, paradise nor pandaemonium. It is only a world meant to serve as a home for someone. Anyone. Even him.
A world painted by an Aria. A world he used to only dream of through the bedtime stories he had heard from his father long, long ago. Would that be something the girl might enjoy listening to? He opens his mouth, hoping to regale her with the stories he had fallen in love with as a child so that she may understand his unbridled affection.
But no words are spoken. He realizes his sentiments on this painted realm belong to the life he had left behind. To the name that he had left behind in the face of his death. Now, as the Ashen One, as the Unkindled, those feelings no longer have a place in his heart. Therefore, he does not deserve to speak of them, even for the girl who so dearly wishes to listen.
He turns to leave. The painting girl's frown disappears. She watches him descend from the ladder with a crestfallen gaze. "I am not a fool, Ashen One," she whispers out of ear's reach, "I can feel the warmth in thy heart. It is as strong as the flames thou'st shown to me."
Though she is left discontent, she waves goodbye nonetheless, even when out of sight.
The Ashen One opens his eyes.
Embers trickle down from the burning tapestry hung atop the walls. They smolder in the fires flickering between the cracks trailing across the ground. Odd. Much time had already passed since this chapel had been set ablaze by Father Ariandel, blinded by his desperation to revive Friede. Was there no one here to put it out? Or is it that no one in this world wishes to?
Does that include the girl who patiently waits for him here?
He sits at the bonfire, placing down the heavy Zweihander held in his left and the hefty Claymore held in his right. There is already enough guilt weighing down on his heart in the form of the petrified blood stashed in his armor. The blood tinted black by the dark soul. He looks at his hands, which still tremble from the ferocity of the slave knight's fury. Even now, he swears that he can still feel the grip of the abyssal darkness encroaching upon his back, of the lightning which promised to grant him a swift end should he make one misstep.
This will not do. The girl will become frightened should he appear before her in this manner. Right now is the only chance he has to calm himself.
Yes, before the warmth of the bonfire, he shall close his eyes and reminisce of happier moments. It is a ritual that the Fire Keeper had taught him in hopes of granting him some form of solace during his fated duty.
She is a good starting point. His thoughts turn to her and the comfort she provides during his darkest times. He thinks of her oath to him, how they swore to quell the fire forevermore as their private affair. Warmth fills the emptiness within his chest as images of the Fire Keeper's smile flash in his mind's eye. Soon enough, he starts to think of the other smiles he had encountered throughout his journey. Though not all of them remain to this day, they live on in his memories. His fondness towards every one of them will not disappear as quickly as they themselves had.
"Hand it over. That thing, your dark soul."
It is not working. The fear outweighs the bliss. Calm down, calm down, just forget about it, only think of the—
No, that isn't right. He cannot ignore the fear as if it had never existed, for such an act would be selfish. He simply needs to view it from another perspective.
Slave Knight Gael was not an enemy. He never was an enemy. He was a man whose dedication and loyalty led him to seek a darkness that he could not contain, one with a power that corrupted his soul to the point of no return. He needed the grace of death, and there was no one who could deliver it to him, save for the champion who came to him in his time of need.
A champion of ash. And a friend.
There. All is tranquil. The Ashen One opens his eyes and looks down at his hands to see that they no longer tremble. He chuckles. Yes, this is how it should be. After all, Gael was the one who brought him here in the first place, the one who led this ashen corpse into the very world he sought after in life. There is no longer any reason for him to fear his departed friend.
It is time. To the attic he must go, where the girl waits for the blood she requires.
He stands from his seat, leaving his weapons near the bonfire, and makes his way towards the ladder leading up. One hand grips the first rung, one foot perks atop the bottom. The ascent is slow, for he did not want to startle her.
"Those who aren't ken to fire cannot paint a world. Those absorbed by fire, must not paint a world." Her voice rings out from the top. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten, Mother... I can hear the fire crackle..."
She smiles from ear to ear with each echo of the champion's armor clanking against the metal rungs. When he reaches the top, she gestures for him to come closer. "Ashen One," the girl calls out in a comforting tone, "thy presence brings me joy. Shall I paint thee a gift to celebrate our reunion?"
It is an absurd offer, she knows this, and she is not offended when he declines. Unfortunately, that is all she can offer to the man standing before her.
She locks eyes with him, staring into the gilded glow of his marigold irises. It doesn't take long for her to notice the way they shudder. "Dear Ashen One," she raises a hand to his face, "Something ails thee."
He shakes his head to dissuade her concern, though the both of them knew that he was lying.
Lifting his hand to grasp hers, he gently pulls it away and entrusts to her the blood left behind by her Uncle. She examines it closely, awestruck by the abyssal hue. There is immense power embedded within, a power sure to provide her that which is necessary for her new world.
The girl is overjoyed, so much so that she cannot stop herself from hugging him. "My thanks, Ashen One. With this will I paint a world, one to replace ours when the end comes."
He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth exuding from both her hug and her smile. As he pulls away from her, she clasps his arm. "Please tell me thy name. I would name this painting after thee."
She would name the painting… after him?
Her earnest desire drags up the memories he had long sworn to never recall again. They surge into his mind, flooding over him, breaking free from the cage that encased his soul. He sees it, that giant canvas looming over his father, the brush dripping with silver paint held tenderly in his fingers. He watches as the man slaves away, burdened with the task of creating a prison for those rejected by the Gods.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be a home. A cold, dark, and very gentle place, an aria of peace that could provide succor for those abandoned by the fire.
The memory of his father begins to blur. No, that isn't it. He's remembering what it was like to cry while watching his father's work become reduced to an infernal hell. He's remembering the anguish he felt while listening to his father's agonizing wails. He's remembering the bitter disgust he felt when the Gods treated that world as a dreg heap meant to contain the filth of their perfect world.
Finally, he recalls the vow he made over his father's corpse. The vow he failed to fulfill during his lifetime.
His vow to reclaim the Painted World of Ariamis, and overwrite its sorrow with hope.
Tears trickle down his cheeks.
"Ashen One?" The girl uses her thumb to brush away the trails, "Have I upset thee?"
He shakes his head in disagreement and reaches for her hand again, squeezing it while keeping it close. Maybe this girl is the key to fulfilling the promise he could never keep. Maybe this is the exact moment his whole life had been leading to. She is a trustworthy girl, one whose soul is pure. She can paint the world that his father had always dreamed of creating.
Perhaps it is selfish for him to choose this as the answer to the sorrow that befell his father. He hesitates, and the girl perceives this without fail. Once more, she wipes the tears from his eyes. "Please. This painting shall embody thine efforts, thy wishes. I promise that it shall befit thy name."
"... Thank you."
Using his other hand, he pulls down the rag concealing him. The girl sees his face for the very first time and is astounded. "My name," he rasps, "you wish to know it?" Still rendered speechless by his visage, she wordlessly nods.
"Arialin."
The painter's eyes widen in shock. She mutters the name under her breath and smiles.
"I see… yes, of course."
This time, she is the one to shed tears, though she neither cries out of sorrow nor out of pity. "Though I would rather not have the burden of such a name placed upon my shoulders," she sarcastically notes, "I will paint a world of that name. Twill be a cold, dark, and very gentle place. And one day, it will make someone a goodly home."
The girl waves goodbye to him. Arialin matches her smile with one of his own as they part.
He descends the ladder once more. Now, with nothing left to do for this domain, Arialin steels himself in preparation for the fate ahead of him. It is time to fulfill his duty as the champion of ash.
Alone, the painter faces her canvas. "Arialin, Arialin," she whispers his name over and over, "Arialin, Arialin." A single stroke of blood is drawn upon the white void laid out before her. "A world painted by an Aria," she hums with glee.
A quiet inferno cleanses the rotten snow as she composes a new aria.
I'm very proud of my work here, and I hope that it shows. This idea has been tucked away in my mind for literal years, and it's so gratifying to have it out there for others to enjoy.
Thank you for reading! Allow me to shill the bestest fanfiction discord server, the Fanfiction Treehouse! Come join us by using /9XG3U7a!
