She sat in a position that was almost kneeling, except her legs were splayed out beside her at an awkward angle. She was wrapped in a filthy, but intricately-decorated robe. Long ago, it might have been the radiant pure white garb of a maiden – but smoke and ash and the passage of time had darkened it to a nondescript grey, and the skirt was stained with long, dark streaks of old blood.
Her prison was a makeshift cave which had been dug directly into the rock. The narrow opening was carved into a ridge beneath the bonfire and blocked by a sturdy, if rusted, set of metal bars. There were no hinges, handles, or anything that might allow passage in or out.
She gave the impression that she had not moved in a very long time. Her head was bowed and her eyes were shut. She did not make a sound.
The knight sat across from the entrance to her prison, staring.
He wore a peculiar set of golden armor. His helm and pauldrons were favored with gilded steel bands that gave the impression of a crown, and the cuirass was adorned with decorative plates that resembled arms embracing him across his torso. He held a long, sickle-shaped blade, turning it slowly in his lap as he stared unashamedly in her direction.
She kept her head down.
He sat casually, for a knight. He slouched a bit with his back to a broken-down wall, one leg propped up while the other lay on its side. There was something presumptuous, almost disrespectful in his posture – the posture of someone who finds respect entirely less useful than a long, sickle-shaped blade. And he continued to stare.
Perhaps he thought he was intimidating.
"Oh, have you seen that terribly morose lass? The firekeeper. She's stuck keeping that bonfire lit." A voice drifted down lazily from the ridge above her, out of sight. "Sad, really. She's mute and bound to this forsaken place."
At that she started ever so slightly, and seemed to take notice of her surroundings for the first time in a long while. To ignore the golden knight, all she needed to do was avoid meeting his gaze – but hearing others talk about her was more difficult not to notice.
The firekeeper looked around for the source of the sound. She preferred to be forgotten and left alone behind her bars; it made her uncomfortable to think of others giving her more attention than she wanted. She had received enough attention from humans to last a thousand lifetimes.
"They probably cut her tongue out back in her village, so she'd never say any god's name in vain." Her stomach churned as she heard those words, and the memories rushed back in an instant. The savagery of the beatings. The dull crunch of the club striking her legs. And… the knife. It had been polished to a mirror shine before they took it to her, and she could still picture the sunlight gleaming off the blade. That was the last memory she had that wasn't filled to the brim with wordless agony.
It still burned where her tongue should be.
"How do these martyrs keep chugging along? I'd peter out in an instant." The voice faded away with an uncaring chuckle. The sound of it made her suddenly angry. The nerve. She didn't have to turn her head to look at the long stains of blood on her skirt. The brazen nerve, to make mockery of pain they did not understand. For a moment, her rage overflowed, and the firekeeper thought she might scream.
But at even the slightest movement, a debilitating wave of pain came flooding up in response from her crippled lower half. The sting of her severed tongue seared at her throat, and she sank back down in defeat. The moment was gone as soon as it had come, and it was a tear, not a scream, that fell out of her.
When she looked up again, a new figure stood before the bars to her cave. He was clad from head to foot in the nondescript armor of a low-ranking Astoran knight. The visor of his helm was down as he looked at her, waiting. It wasn't the arrogant, leering stare of the golden knight who still sat across the way. Nor did he show the attitude of the uncaring, crestfallen voice she had heard from above. He just looked… expectant.
He held out his hand toward her, presenting something through the bars of her cage. It was a dull green bottle that seemed vaguely familiar. She looked at it uncertainly, but made no move to take it. For a long moment the two of them simply looked at each other in silence.
Finally, as if in answer, the knight brought out his other hand, closed into a fist with the palm held upward. When he opened his fingers, a shimmering black-and-grey sprite floated gently out, hovering gracefully a few inches above his outstretched gauntlet.
The soul of a firekeeper. Of someone just like her. She felt the breath catch painfully in her throat, and suddenly she understood. That would make the bottle… an Estus flask, as the old dark tales had called it.
An emerald flask, from the Keeper's soul.
It was a favorite among the undead, used to store the healing power of the bonfire. A firekeeper could sacrifice a soul like this one to strengthen the flask, and so both items were valuable commodities for undead travellers.
Commodities. Value. They were born from the firekeepers' inner essence, the most intimate expression of their being – but all the world cared about was how it could use them for its own gain. Crippled, mutilated, now forced to profane the very soul of her kin, all for the material benefit of passersby. If she had the strength, she might have once again tried to rage at the injustice of it.
But she didn't have the strength, and she didn't feel rage. The only thing she really felt was tired. That and pain, of course.
She lives to protect the flame…
Body broken, soul beaten, the firekeeper took the flask and got it over with.
When she gave it back to the expectant knight, he held it up and examined it for a brief moment before slotting it back onto his belt. Then he turned and walked away without looking back. He stopped briefly to converse with the gilded knight across the way.
They spoke in low tones, and she could not hear what they were saying. But before he was finished, the gold knight gestured at her with the curved sword and gave a low, menacing laugh. She might have paid attention to him, but it was hard to focus on anything but the aching misery that was her own body.
Perhaps he thought he was intimidating.
…and she dies to protect it further.
He was not.
The bonfire made a comforting sound that was equal parts crackle and low, whirring hum as it burned.
The knight in gold looked around suspiciously, waiting for the right moment when the two of them would be alone.
It made for a nice centerpiece to the old broken-down shrine that lay on the ridge. Any source of light and heat was welcome in a dark and unforgiving world; it served as a sign of respite, health, and indeed hope for many a weary traveller. The bonfires attended by the keepers were especially distinguished, and their flames never died.
Ever so slowly, he eased his blade and its wicked curve out of its scabbard.
Well, not never. That was the thing about fires, they all went out eventually. Some were larger, more powerful, and endured for an age – but none of them lasted forever.
It was simply the way of things. They didn't burn on their own, they needed fuel. Something to use up, break down, and cast aside once it had nothing left to give. And while it was easy to focus on the beautiful flames and the coiled sword they swirled around, it was just as easy not to notice the fuel that lay beneath; it was easy not to realize the point had come and gone where there was nothing left to give.
Her body continued to scream in its endless silent agony, but more than anything else she just felt tired. She watched as the knight slowly stalked across the way to her prison.
And therein lay the dilemma. When they warmed the air and drove the night away, it was hard to imagine ever wanting to do without the flames and their comforting light. But when the great fire had died down to embers that struggled to go on – when the bones of its fuel had been ground into formless ash and everything was utterly spent – the story didn't seem so black and white. Was it really such a good idea to keep a flame going after its time had come and gone? Would it not be better, kinder even, to just let it die in peace?
A moment passed between the two of them as he stood before the bars. There was no fear on her face. She looked straight at him, and the only thing in her eyes was a silent request.
The bonfire's flames flickered…
He obliged.
…and went out.