"Fina."
What is "fateful beauty"? The woman who descended the stairs stood outside of time or perhaps in all times. To Velka, she was ancient and wrinkled but with burning eyes; to her lusty champion Lautrec, a maiden in the flower of youth; to young Jacquelyn, the first person her own age she had ever seen. The goddess wore unassuming robes of silk that shifted color with the light, gold to silver to bronze to gray. When her hair wasn't white with age, it was a golden-brown that fell about her shoulders in elegant curls.
"I didn't think you had the courage to face me!" Velka crowed. "You've spent how many years hiding behind your knight, droning endlessly about our prophecy coming to pass?"
"You speak the truth," the second goddess said, leaving footprints of different sizes in the ash as she approached. "But when one is summoned by a hero fated to have died long ago, such things lose their meaning."
"Look around you. Fate is quite easily enforced. Even the false fate of the Chosen Undead. If you value your life at all, you'll march right back up those sealed stairs before he Links the Flame. He's no Gwyn, but you're no me, either."
Fina nodded and gave a knowing smile.
"There are few who could survive being trapped within the Kiln when it is first lit. Your powers are great indeed. But the dreams of fate you give are mere lies. The smallest glimmer can illuminate the darkness you cast."
Velka's eyes went wide, and she turned to lunge at Jacquelyn. Lautrec was one step ahead and slashed at her. The body of ash and soot exploded into a murder of crows and beat past him, buffeting him with their wings as they passed. Any bird that the knight cut down only split into two more, and the witch-goddess reformed a distance behind him, unharmed.
"Allow me to show you how to use a knife, traitor."
Ciaran's tracers flashed as she rushed forward in a flurry of motion, gently moving her daughter out of the way as she rose from the ash. With a flourish, she swept the blades up Velka's torso, then back down the shoulders to sever the tendons. Such an attack had little effect on the body of dust, but the Raven was forced to retreat to escape the continuing flurry. As she stepped back, the ash crunched and the air whistled. Her next step moved only half her body as Artorias' flying somersault cleanly bisected her.
"Ciaran, get the Captain! We need his lightning!" the knight barked as he spun to cut the halves of the witch again in half.
Again, the black soot burst away in the shape of crows.
"The Four Knights?" they crooned. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, you know."
Each of the four clouds of writhing crows constructed a body of ash, and Velka spoke in four-part harmony with herself.
"Throw all you have at me! All of Gwyn's might couldn't end my life!"
Now, Sif rushed through, hacking cleanly through the duplicates. As the bodies fell, they grew new legs, and new bodies grew from the legs that remained standing. Eight Velkas smirked and applauded sarcastically.
"I see," Ornstein rumbled. "Had I known I would have become so mighty, I would have slain Smough before we left Anor Londo. You've shown me something something interesting, traitor. But you have cast your last illusion. Prepare yourself!"
Despite his words, the Lion bolted forward without hesitation. He caught two of the witch's bodies on the end of his spear and raised it high, black lightning arcing from the base of the shaft to the dark sky above. The doppelgangers exploded with the roaring thunder, but the soot yet still drifted down from the blade to reform into a single Velka that hung suggestively over the side of the weapon.
"Even this is no use…" Ornstein growled as he swept his spear to wrench her free.
"Perhaps mine accursed power will finally findeth purpose, then," Priscilla said as she stood beside him.
She vanished, but her footprints were unmistakable in the endless ash. One of the Velkas simply sprayed her with soot, leaving her coughing and quite visible. As the copy reached for her, a massive ball of soul power curved around and vaporized it. As the others closed in, a volley of crude spears drove holes through several of them. Gwyndolin sidewinded across the ash alongside Gough, trying to look nonchalant.
"Misunderstand not. What sort of ruler would I be if I allow my subject to be harmed in front of mineself?"
Now, three Velkas remained, the soot from the fallen taking the form of crows and seating upon the shoulders of those remaining.
"Is that all the gods can muster? You can no more harm me than you can the earth or the sea. Vainglorious fools that you are, you've done nothing to stop the Chosen Undead. Can you feel it? He enters the firebox now."
Now that he was aware, Artorias' keen ears couldn't miss the sound of a fog gate giving way.
"Honeybee, get Quelaag next!"
Yet as the forces of Anor Londo struggled against the Raven-Haired Witch, the fog rippled again.
"Consider my debt repaid," Lautrec sneered as he walked up alongside Artorias.
The Kiln's innermost chamber was barren, save the last remnants of the melted pillars, which were little more than piles of misshapen stone strewn about the floor. In the center of the chamber stood the first Lord of Cinder alone. Where the former Lord of Sunlight had once towered above all but the mightiest of giants, his body had dwindled to the size of his Knights. His regal robes were black with soot, and his wild hair and beard dripped with white ash. Upon his head rested a melted crown, and gripped furiously in his hand was a sword burning black.
Before Lex could take in the sight, the decrepit old god lunged forward and swept at him. He rolled under the attack and struck back. The Lord moaned like a feral hollow as the blade tore at his side and swung wildly. Lex again rolled under the attack, taking a few steps back. Suddenly, the fog began to shift.
He looked away for only a moment, and the burning sword cut into his own torso. He cringed and quickly rolled away, ducking behind one of the smelted pillars.
"What just happened? Where's my Estus Flask?"
He watched with quirked eyebrows as an elite knight passed through the fog.
"What? Is that another player? It's not a phantom. What's going on?"
The Lord of Cinder abandoned his cowering prey and turned to face this new intruder. A mighty overhead slash fell upon the knight like the setting sun. There was an ear-shattering clang, and the ruined king of the gods was thrown back. The knight walked forward slowly, reverently, and ran his Black Knight sword through Gwyn's chest. The Lord jumped back quickly, taking the weapon with him, but the knight casually drew Ricard's rapier and paced after him.
Gwyn charged again, swinging wildly, but his enormous blade bounced off the crest shield like a pinball off a bumper. Unbalanced again, the Lord couldn't react in time for the knight to run the second sword through him. Again, the hollowed god fled, now at the far end of the chamber. The knight at last drew his Astora straight sword. This time, the Lord understood that wild swinging would be no use and instead tried to grab the shield from the knight's arm.
As he gripped the human, the knight changed his stance and twisted his body. Gwyn fell forward and was flung overhead. Before he could process what had happened, the knight whirled about and jabbed the third sword into his chest. The Lord of Cinder howled, and the knight pressed the blade harder. He struggled for one last time, then his arms fell limply to either side.
His left hand dragged through the ash to reach to his cragged forehead. He fumbled clumsily, then at last removed his crown. His souls were already leaking, but now they began to pour out.
"In…heriteth… the Fire… of our world…"
At last, the remainder of Gwyn's souls poured out, and only what remained of his Lord Soul was left, illuminating the darkened chamber more than even the smoldering bonfire at its center. The knight sheathed his three swords and slung his shield on his back before taking the Soul gingerly in one hand.
"It's over, Lex," he said solemnly. "Come on. We've got to help the others."
"What?" the cleric asked, puzzled, as he circled around the melted pillar. "Who are you? How do you know my name? How did Gwyn talk?"
"I see," the knight said. "Even you were forced to dream of your fated death. You were to sacrifice yourself to the Flame."
"Well, I figure that's the easiest way of getting back home," Lex said, shrugging. "I take it you woke up in the Asylum too? You aiming for the Dark Lord ending, then?"
The knight shook his head as he approached.
"Of course not. I am Oscar of Astora. My fate was to die in the Asylum. The guardian demon had broken most of my ribs in our first encounter, and I feared I would never defeat it."
"Oscar? But how? I saw you… I saw you…"
"In your own words, 'shut up and drink your Estus.'"
Before Lex could react, Oscar had shoved the glowing flask into his face. The cleric gagged, choking on the burning liquid as it splashed up his nose and into the back of his throat.
"You're a… dick…" he coughed.
"Back to normal?"
"Yeah."
"Lucky you. I woke up to find myself face-to-face with that murderer. He and his goddess are 'helping.' Velka's tough, though. Doesn't look like anyone was able to inflict any real damage."
Oscar turned his head to the fog gate.
"Any reason that's still up?"
"The designers wanted a stronger ending and cut out the post-endgame. Either you set yourself on Fire or you condemn the world to Darkness. One hell of a surprise in any case. We might actually be stuck in here if we don't want the latter."
"By the Lords…" Oscar grumbled.
"On the plus side, I just realized that swearing like that now invokes me."
"Lex!"
Before Oscar could complain, Quelaag swung down from above. Seeing Oscar, she relaxed.
"I knew you were my favorite for a reason."
She softened.
"Really, thank you."
The knight shook his head.
"Anyone would have done the same. How goes the battle?"
Quelaag crossed her arms.
"It's hard to keep track of the bodies, and she hasn't even used all her tricks yet. She's keeping the pressure up so that no one can make an opportunity for the crossbreed. We don't even know if the Lifehunt will work or if Velka just wants us to think it will."
"A tricky situation."
There was a brief silence.
"Old man Gwyn is finally gone, I see."
Oscar nodded but said nothing.
"Then there is nothing left to do here. Let's hurry back."
"Actually, we might be stuck in here," Lex said quickly. "It's hard to tell how far the mechanics extend at this point. I'm betting on strict rules, though. There's probably a trigger covering the doorway that won't activate if we climb over."
"I don't know the consequences for leaving, but I'll trust in your judgment, consort mine. Hop on."
Lex grabbed her waist and swung himself up onto her back.
"Wait," he said. "How are we going to get Oscar up, what with all the being on fire?"
"I will stay here," the knight said plainly. "I didn't like the sound of leaving the Kiln triggering the end of the world to begin with. This way, at least one person is left to Link the Fire if worst comes to worst."
Lex frowned.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to throw myself in. Anastacia only knows how to write 'cake' and 'party.' What a disgrace it would be for me to leave before she could finish a sentence."
"Fine, fine," Lex grumbled. "Here, take this."
He rummaged through his bag and threw the horrifying, writhing mass of humanity that was Manus' Soul at Oscar. The knight almost dropped it, then almost dropped Gwyn's Soul, at last holding one in either hand.
"So I was thinking that if humanity is used to kindle bonfires and restore our false forms, then why does everyone keep using regular souls to restart the First Flame? I mean, using more fire to restart a fading fire is stupid. That's not how fire works at all! You need to add more fuel."
"Leave it to the prophet to call the last sacrifice of the Lord of Sunlight stupid."
"In the immortal words of Pierce Washington, 'I ain't saying, I'm just saying!' Anyway, I'll catch you later. Quelaag – up, up, and away!"