Fire Keeper Soul (Anastacia of Astora):

Soul of the Ash Maiden, Fire Keeper of Firelink Shrine.

A Fire Keeper's soul is a draw for humanity, and held within their bosoms, below just a thin layer of skin, are swarms of humanity that writhe and squirm. Was the Ash Maiden locked in this dark prison for some transgression, or by her own will?


Anastacia lived.

Against all her wishes, the magic that bound her to the bonfire kept her breathing, her heart beating. The humanity within her pulsated, constantly trying to burst out of her, yet held in place by the calcified bonds of the rites that encircled her soul.

Yet even as she lived, she ceased to exist. The sun never rose, never set. Dust settled on her bloodstained robes. She became part of the shrine, simply another piece of the scenery. Every undead that came by, hoping to ring the bells, would see her, attempt to engage and speak with her, with no reaction.

Even if Anastacia wanted to, she couldn't react. She had no tongue to speak with.

She was just another eternally transient being.

The Astoran royal family handed their third daughter to the Way of White with the belief that she would be treated as a princess deserved. That she would be pampered, educated further, given the secrets of the House.

They…were not wrong.

She was treated like an honored guest for the first week. Given free access to the House's scriptures and teachings. She learned of miracles of healing, of protection, of divine augury, of the power of alchemy. She was taught the powers of the gods.

Then they took her.

Dragged her, kicking and screaming, to their altar, before tying her down. They did not defile her body.

No, they defiled her soul.

As Allfather Lloyd himself watched on, they burned their secrets into her body, immersing her in humanity. The purest feelings of humanity manifested in her. Pure pain, pure misery, anger so great that she tore her metal chains in half, before pure despair wracked her body.

After weeks of channeling humanity, her soul, bloated and deformed, crystallized.

A near-impenetrable shell of calcified mass kept the humanity tamed, her alive, and the ploy to resurrect the fading lands of Lordran alive.

The clerics could have put her down.

Could have reveled in turning a weakling human into a near-immortal.

They could have thrown her into the Painted World, to join the first.

Could have left her to die.

No.

That would have been far too kind of them.

They tied her life to the ashes of kindled champions of ages past, tore her soul out. They paraded around the 'first human firekeeper', toyed with the 'Saviour of Lordran', left her in a state of perpetual agony, as her body struggled to die yet her soul forced it to persist.

That is what the holy knights and their legions crusaded for.

This was what awaited the so-called 'holy crusaders' at the end of their long march.

The sweetest lie man ever knew.


Oscar didn't feel himself collapse. He didn't hear the sound of his weapons clattering to the floor. He didn't hear the Chosen Undead walking down the stairs.

Ana.

"Ana." He repeated to himself. "Ana. Anastacia of Astora."

This is what we sent her to. This is what we celebrated.

He laughed a dry laugh, feeling his vision pulsate as a gloved hand came into view.

"Yes, my charming friend? Wha-what do you n-need?" He stuttered, his voice cracking a bit.

It was a charm of some sort. A silvery charm, with a snake-like copper strand twisted around it that dangled in front of his eyes, before being gently pressed into his hand.

He removed his hand, turning the charm in his palm.

"I know this. The-the charms that Father Lloyd used to h-hunt the Undead when the c-curse first spread." Oscar felt himself begin to dryly cough. "It stems the flow from the flask. M-my flask." He felt the flask pressed into his hand. As his vision stabilized for a moment, he examined the fla-

Was Estus always such a bright yellow?

The Chosen Undead's hand was warm as they poured out all the fluid within. Oscar felt his hand suddenly jerk up towards their neck, before in a flash, they gripped his forearm and nearly crushed it.

"Oh, do forgive me. I appear to be spasming slightly." Oscar's voice warbled as his hand relaxed. The Chosen Undead simply nodded, before they gently draped a hand over his shoulder as they held the flask up to his eyes.

Swirling within the flask, he saw streaks of white. As he looked closer, he felt a voice pierce his thoughts.

"Brother?"

Wha-

I-

Bu-

"Look closer."

And Oscar saw truth.

But when the Allfather began his hunts, did not we too celebrate?

We laughed, celebrated, toasted the death of the signbearers.

Till we too, became accursed.

Oscar stumbled forward, fumbling at the straps of his armor as memories from Anastacia's firekeeper soul from many cycles past tore at his mind.

Two bells.

Firekeeper.

Depravity.

But if I can- His chestplate fell off, revealing his body.

He tapped the bars of Ana's cell one more time, and placed a hand on the pulsing sign on his shoulder.

The tendrils of darkness that sprung from the mark on his shoulder slowly tilted forward, facing toward his sister.

"Brother. Brother?

Stay away." Her voice echoed through his head, her screams tearing at his skull.

"It hurt so much-You left me-This is your fault-" Her wailing overlapped his own screams, echoing within his mind.

"Sister!" He screamed out loud, and Anastacia jolted, and her eyes gazed into his Darksign.

As his humanity poured out of his body and was absorbed by her soul, Anastacia saw.


Lucian was gone.

After months of locking himself within the library and praying to his goddess, the eldest of the Astoran princes left in the night.

All he had left was a simple note.

'I have found truth.'

Ricard? He was off on his adventures, prancing about Lordran.

Oscar put down the note, wiped the tears from his eyes, and rested his head on his bed.

Brother... without you, I am all that remains.

What will I do without you to guide me?

The last remaining Astoran prince placed his beloved brother's note onto his nightstand, slowly rolling off his four-poster bed, and opening the window.

The youngest prince of the sun-worshipping land of Astora gazed upon the moon, almost purple in color.

The moon Lucian loved.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to stop as he saw the gates of the great walls of Lordran open.

Lucian... I... I know it's you.

I can feel you.

And so Oscar became the hope of the royal family. After being second best for so many years, he was finally given attention. After Anastacia was gifted to Thorolund, Oscar took his new purpose in life very seriously.

He worked tirelessly, learning from masters of the blade. His technique was second only to his father's, and he developed a personal bond with his blade, gifted to him by Lucian, with Anastacia's blessing.

Yet he was overconfident, overconfident in himself.

Naiveté was his downfall.

"Death, rebirth, pilgrimage..." Anastacia gasped, thousands of voices screaming for a tongueless vessel as the Chosen Undead held her hand, draining her humanity gently so Oscar's memories wouldn't overwhelm her.

The poor woman... I promised you long ago that you would be free from your shackles.

"E-eyes. Eyes. EYES!" Anastacia screamed, and the Chosen Undead's eyes narrowed. "The eye!"

Oscar's Darksign bled red, and as Anastacia began to convulse, the Chosen Undead forced her hand away from Oscar, the knight immediately waking from his trance.

"Wha-I-you-" He slurred, slowly returning to reality as Anastacia dragged her body across her cell. He turned to the cell, reaching between the bars to clasp Anastacia's hands.

"Ana..." He whispered before the kindling maiden dragged herself forward to hug her brother.

For the first time in years upon years, Anastacia saw.