Closure
His consort staggered, falling to one knee. Miquella's grip tightened on his chosen champion's neck, the whispered healing incantation wasn't working.
He'd lost sight of the Tarnished as they'd ducked beneath Radahn's blades as he moved to sweep their head clean off their shoulders. It was then Radahn had begun to fall. The incantation refused to work.
"Why are you fighting me, dearest brother?" Miquella breathed into Radahn's ear. The time for honourable duelling was long past. What was this folly he'd neglected to cull from his champion's being upon his divine resurrection? Accept the incantation, regain your strength. Radahn rose to his feet once more, his entire being shaking. Miquella could sense the quivering in his champion's worn muscles, his ragged breaths were more than just a sign of mere exhaustion. Why did he resist his aid?
Radahn raised his sword once more as the Tarnished reappeared in his sight and moved to crush them. A single swipe. As easily done as what had befallen the decrepit blood knight, shattering the old man and his scythe in a single blow. Miquella raising his hand to assist. A divine light spilling through his fingers like the light from the divine gate beyond.
The Tarnished faced the oncoming strike and then with shield raised they swatted the blade aside. Radahn fell, toppling forward like an avalanche. Miquella felt the thought reverberate through Radahn's mind. 'Carian Retaliation. Mother-' The Tarnished cuts the thought short as they thrust their blade through Radahn's head. Sight, sound, mind was in all it's aspects are reduced, muffled. Radahn lands face first in the ashes of the divine gate. Despite clinging on as tightly as he can Miquella is thrown free, his borrowed strength failing him. He had not the strength to even raise his head as nearby he hears Radahn's breathing stabilise, an unusual calm before it begins to slow. The sound eventually being drowned out by the wind.
There's a brief quiet before being broken by the footfalls of the Tarnished. Calling on what strength he has left, he pushes his soft small hands into the ash and brings himself to look into the face of his vanquisher. In their being he could sense the scavenged runes of the Elden Ring.
"Tarnished. Have thee no love for this world? To deny them; the deprived, the outcasts, the sick of succour? To deny them my ascension, my age of compassion?" his voice cracked as he grabbed the hems of his tunic, bunching it and squeezing it. The gold embroidery was fading now, fraying. Try as he might he could not compel any tears to fall from his face. The Tarnished did not rise to his words. If even an ounce of strength remained in him he would have raged then. Frothing and mad. He would have made them understand, that they no longer deserved his mercy. He gasped and his breathing hitched. Why couldn't he cry?
"What did I do wrong? I gave up everything, everything," Miquella hissed. Again the Tarnished refused to speak. Of course, they could not imagine the depths of devotion his people had for him, their love. Even when they faltered and he had to remind them. The stalwart knights of his Haligtree, who revered him to the last even as they drunk from their ruptured crystal tear concoctions and threw themselves into the enemy front lines. Even his dearest sister as she had been ferried from Caelid by Knight Finlay in the aftermath of Aeonia had dreamt of her doubts, fears, and mistakes. That what she had done had been beyond forgiveness. In her deep slumber through the guise of Saint Trina he had pardoned her of all of it. Made her forget. Trina's last act for him before he had cast her away into the deep fissure. Despite what had befallen Caelid they would still welcome his ascension. The rotting who could not endure their suffering by the scarlet rot would be granted a deep peaceful slumber, the Redmanes would cease their futile struggle and join with the remaining Cleanrots. They would embrace each other as comrades and friends. Why could the Tarnished not see that? Understand?
He moved to stand but his very being had begun to fray. His skin flaking away to join the congealed ash and grasping limbs. 'Not so unlike the Albinaurics' he thought. A docile serving race. It was in their nature to help. It was only fitting that they deserved a home. A home they would find at his Haligtree or failing that, the grand blood palace of Mohg. Maybe they had felt they had been led astray or lost their way but their destination had always been predestined by him. It's how his distant brother Mohg had first learned of his generosity and kindness. That yes, even the cursed Omens were not exempt. All would be welcomed under the boughs of his Haligtree. Mohg had been more than smitten, more than helpful in Miquella's plans to ascend. He would not let Mohg's kindness be in vain, allowing him to care for the now empty cocoon in hope that Miquella would one day rise from it. He would allow him to keep that hope, that love.
His extremities were fading now. Soon nothing would remain of him but still he could not bring himself to weep or rage or even care. The Tarnished waited with him. Miquella exhales dust.
"If I had asked. Would you have become my consort?"
What do you say:
Say Yes
It takes a moment for the words to sink in then the wind whistling through the divine gate grows colder. 'Ah. Mocking me. It's not enough that I've lost'. If the Tarnished had just bowed like the rest then all would've known his kindness. He could see his mother looking down on him through just another of her chosen warriors. The same empty stare, the sharp appraisal of his worth behind her eyes. Empty words of praise of his invented miracles, incantations, even his Haligtree. A forever child's paltry imitation of real power, of real godhood. Amounting to nothing but another sacrifice. What strength he had mustered finally falters and Miquella sinks. The ground is cold. How many had he held as they took their last breath? His warmth soothing them as they faded. Strangely he cannot recall why he had even done so now, what the point had been. Death is cold regardless. He's consumed by an emptiness, a feeling he can't understand. Something said in a language he thinks he once spoke. Something achingly familiar but out of reach. No arms cradle him as he passes.
What do you say:
Say No
Something inside Miquella screams, and he's beset by a yearning he didn't know he had. No one had ever denied him anything. Even Mother though she had changed over time and learned to keep him at a distance.
He looks up at the Tarnished and among the many great runes contained within their being he realises he missed one. His own, broken and meagre as it was. No enchantment lay on them nor could he compel them, not anymore.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks then but there's no answer, "The torment, the despair. It had to end. You understand, don't you?". Still there is no answer. The skin around his eyes crawls, quivers but there are no tears and deep down a part of him now understands why. He understands but having cast aside his heart, his love he knows he cannot fully comprehend it.
Then a single thought pierces the fog. Compassion. This was a mercy.
The understanding numbs him to the pain. He pulls his knees up to his chest. It's too hot, too cold, feeling too much of what remains and the nothingness eating away at him. The Tarnished waits with him as he fades and though he cannot feel what he should, the knowledge that this is the Tarnished showing kindness is enough.
"I'm sorry"