On this day, in Leyndell, the capital of the lands in between, a God was slain.
As Connor of the Reid Lands, the Elden Lord, sat upon the newly earned throne, he did as he had always done after a fight, whether it was rune bear or demigod. He guided his breath, slowly letting the echoes of steel, screams and torn flesh fade away. There would be a new battle and the only thing he needed from the past was every misstep and lesson to be extracted. "The painting's done, new parchment," or so his old master would say.
But these echoes were louder, lingering far longer than any clash that had come before. Not against Godrick the Grafted, the depths of Rykard the Blasphemer, the blade of Malenia, the blood magic of Mohg, the first Elden Lord, nor the star bending Radahn did the noise ring this lucidly, like a dream his opened eyes cannot dismiss.
A God was slain this day. The door to the base of the Erdtree opened, Radagon looked him in the eye, raising his hammer. The challenge was clear. Every scar and lesson culminated in that moment. Hammer and sword met, his own heart pounding against the songs of old heroes singing in his ears. Radagon would fall, before that shadow creature, gilded in gold and shadow, granted Connor his final challenge. Blades, their edge refined by dragon's fang, pierced its heart, and then there was only the remains of Marika, the Mother Goddess, before him.
Connor sighed. Perhaps there is no parchment to follow. The throne was taken, the Elden Ring restored, and now he ruled. Ever since returning to the Lands Between, he had dreamed of this moment. The Tarnished avenged, the demigods taken to task, and the power to start a new era. But what would this era be? But his dreams never offered such a revelation; only the goal and the will to reach it.
Nor would they name the cost.
Connor clenched woodwork of his throne. Melina asked for little in return, and yet nothing would fill the void left by her sacrifice. Then his mind, still shaken by the last fight, turned toward Millicent. Surely, she could have been alive, but she chose her own oblivion. Sir Gideon would betray him, Rogier would perish, D would succumb to Ria's tricks. Many were from their own choices, knowing where they would lead them. Like moths to a flame, they drawn, unphased and unconvinced by their own demise to simply stop. Roderika—
Unconsciously, he reached his left hand into his pouch. A thin, metal needle met his fingertips. Slowly, he lifted Miquella's needle, the unalloyed gold, to his sights, the silvery remains of the Erdtree reflecting down its length. Miquella, the one figure in a storm of blades and blood who seemed to seek cures, to seek another path. Part of the answer was found. In the midst of the great towers and halls of Leyndell, that small needle was all he had.
Such a small accomplishment in a world resigned to death.
Connor forced himself to his feet, his steps sounding the first echoes in hours since he took the throne. His blades, the Hand of Malenia and the sword he took with him from the Reid Lands, fell over but he paid them little mind. Turning, Connor glared up the height of the silvered Erdtree. Throughout his entire journey, its presence seemed inescapable. And there he was, its ruler, alone with a sliver of a solution in his hand. Then he looked at the stone platform, empty but for the blood stains scattered upon it, his own and those of his enemies.
Alone. That will not do.
He walked down the path to the queen's empty bedchamber, and stopped to look at the ash covered city. Only then did he hear the first cries. People down below, with nary a guard to scare them off, dug themselves out of the ashes. There was no glance toward him that he noticed. People simply scattered, digging their way out and trying to find some form of shelter.
A ruined capital, an empty court, so many dead in my wake, many, many more suffering, gold burned to silver.
He looked at his blades once more. While Connor was no fool to think he would not need them anymore, he knew his path as a warrior ended with the defeat of Radagon and that creature. The prize he sought held many costs, but above them all were the troubles of his world. Whether this was what he sought, or ambition suckered him into an impossible task, he was Elden Lord. He needed craft, he needed wisdom, and he needed allies.
Quickly, he strapped his blades to his belt, trained motions he had down countless times before.
Let's see who I can save. Let's see if this title is worth a damn.