Even in his absence the fireplace burned on, and that made her realize how things would go. She'd still need to step forward one movement at a time, regardless of whether he was around. Her flame was fed by her, and accordingly it would blaze or dim.

Tonight, it felt a pale fire.

Before she could continue on, trying at the new path of a spirit tuner, she had to reflect. To sit and reflect.

Of all things else, she didn't want to reflect on it.

In the midst of this terrifying, blackened sea - her expatriation, the status of the Lands Between and the awful fate that befell her men - Roderika was once swept up, just miserably awaiting the sea-monster that would emerge to devour her at last.

She was caught in an inescapable tidal wave that overcame her, a wave of fear that finally washed her up in a shack on the way to the castle. Just a hundred steps more and she would have joined her men.

She was so absolutely mad with fear and guilt and sorrow and despair that she couldn't even find it in her to think. Think and consider what she had internally begged for in her grief.

Please… I want to, but I can't will myself to step any further… can't you bring me to him? Bring me to them? I won't fight it like they did… I won't scream or thrash.

If you make me a chrysalid, then we can be together. I know my meager arms and legs must not be of great use for the spider's purposes, but can't you find a place for them?

I only want to be with them… we've been together since I left my home across the sea. Don't part us. I've got nothing else anymore.

How could I even go on? It's scary, you know… scary to be alone.

In a stupor of heartbreak, she'd even been so stricken that she had let some of her traumatized ramblings loose on the knight. Knight Arthur, wrapped fully in iron and eyes burning through his helm's slit with conviction.

Embarrassing, almost, when she looked back on it. Their first meeting and she was so out of her mind that she did not even think to introduce herself.

He, evidently, hadn't been scared away. Scared away from sitting by her for a long, special moment and doing what she had never expected. He was a brave one. The maiden was roused from the stupor by his hand on her shoulder and his voice in her ear.

In that moment which felt so long ago, she looked up at the knight in armor and truly saw a savior.

Thinking about how close she sat to a castle of misery unparalleled, how willing she was to just give up and die torturously… he'd rescued her without a doubt when he triumphed over Godrick the beast-Lord and all of his men.

How could one man do that? What… force of nature does it take to clear an entire castle and its demigod ruler?

Did we ever have any chance?

It was almost a joke, the most distressing kind, that her paltry force had ever considered victory a possibility rather than a wisp guiding them off the path. Perhaps this was the path, and they were always meant for the gruesome end that they'd met. How, then, did Arthur's path not lead to the same dead end as theirs? She was glad, so glad that it didn't, but he was just one man…

When the knight - her knight - had led her through the aftermath of his assault on the castle, the full scale of Godrick's forces was made painfully clear. The corpses left in his crusade's wake were… abundant. So many.

They were far too numerous to count, and the lowest estimate still would be impossible to overcome with such a small band of fighters as hers.

We would never have gotten past the courtyard… even with iron determination and armor as solid as his. We were… lambs to the slaughter.

Limbs walking themselves straight into his wicked grasp.

An inkling of this idea was always there, but the epiphany only came in full when Arthur wasn't around to speak his wonderful words. They'd made this experience's terror and pain manageable, but she was without them now.

As much as she knew he had to continue his fight for the throne, it was… unpleasant to think by her lonesome.

The throne… she'd almost forgotten about the greater scheme of all this. It is so easy to forget the destination for the journey, though the reverse is equally true. Yes, the entire purpose for being called to the Lands Between in the first place - to take the mantle of Elden Lord.

If anybody would, if anybody should, it's him. Arthur. He must become Elden Lord. He must carry his ideals into Lordship and bring goodness to these lands.

…

Become Elden Lord…

He would be Her… consort. Queen Marika.

She goes still with realization. A subtle, creeping amalgam of dread and panic sets in.

Wait…

… but we…

… … … kissed. Beneath the stars. Those are like… promises, aren't they?

If not, they should be.

We promised ourselves to one another, with words and without.

He couldn't ever break that… could he? Not even for the crown of Elden Lord.

Even if we're so new to each other.

We've shown each other everything. He abandoned his armor, the suit that he wore out of fear, and I found mine, wrought of strength.

Doesn't love win out over glory? Over law?

I want…

Roderika stared down at her gloved hands.

… no. His quest will bring life back to these dying, cruel lands if it's seen through… that's what matters.

In fragile resolve, she clenched her fists.

He's Tarnished, just like myself… only he's got a genuine chance at taking the throne.

How could I ever stand in the way of that for my petty feelings?

He's destined for far higher purposes than to… hold my hand and lay beside me.

If I could overcome the guilt from my men's fates, then… I can overcome this. When the time arrives… this pain won't crush me.

I'll stand by him… and support him all of the way.

I'll be brave.

Brave as he's shown me.

Even with a repetition of 'I have to be brave', Roderika couldn't fight down that sick feeling in her chest.

Enraptured still by the fireplace of the living quarters, in every other flicker of orange there were flashes of her journey. The way they'd all packed onto the ship - Roderika's first time ever leaving the nation - and how she'd gotten seasick from the unfamiliar environment. The experience of her men suffering through ill-treated wounds (as their supply of medical essentials was woefully inadequate) and cracking morale. Those nights she'd lose hope herself - quite often - and be reassured to varying effect by an iron gauntlet chilling her shoulder, crusted over with blood.

The sight of her stalwart men bloodied and broken down, dragged away to become one with the spider. When you're one with the spider, you become a chrysalid.

The awful, awful sound of them urging her with their last shreds of instinct to run away, run as far as she can, anywhere.

In that shack she mulled over her own cowardice, her despicable craven nature, wishing that she could join them. If only she were brave… but she was a milksop.

It took somebody special, now dear to her heart, to bring the realization that bravery is not in kneeling before a terrifying fate…

… but in standing and defying it.

She still felt so unequal in their relationship. It was odd, too, referring to it as such. By bookish definition it was a relationship, but… the obvious connotations were still a bit much. Arthur had done so much for her just in stopping to speak with her, but how do you repay somebody for saving you from handing yourself up on a silver platter to a grafting Lord? For staying with you afterward?

Well, you do the best you can, of course. That was what she resolved… but how much could a mere girl like her do for him? He was… everything. What could she give him that he didn't have, or anybody else couldn't?

The knight had claimed that she'd changed him during that night in Fia's room, made him a new man, but surely it wasn't as much as he'd changed her. Oh, but perhaps she hadn't really changed; maybe she'd just found what she'd always had, like he suggested. Either way…

I owe him a great deal.

… contrary to what he might insist.

So long as the chance remained to repay him for all he'd done, or try, she could be happy. If he would be brought to smile sincerely like he did under the stars, then wouldn't it be worth it? When she'd looked up at him, carried safe in his arms, it was like a heaven opened up around his head. Hundreds of stars.

For the first time that day, as she sat before the fireplace, a smile graced Roderika's face.

No matter what, she wasn't alone. Sure, her men were gone… but Arthur had unknowingly taken up the torch left burning in their absence. It burned with their bones and their spirits. He'd taken it in his hand when he touched her shoulder and reassured her, made her feel that - for the first time in a long time - the next morning might shine brighter. The next night may not be so dark.

That was his dream for the world, he'd confided in her… part of his dream, anyway. He would bleed himself to the last ounce for a world where suffering of this scale would not come to pass.

She wished she had that conviction… that strength of character.

Maybe no girls would be sent off and expected to die like she was. If she truly saw grace, she might find it easier to come to terms with the ordeal, but she never did. Not once did Erdtree gold bless her eyes, nor did it light her way.

She was a Tarnished (ex-)royal without grace, and without martial experience. He was a Tarnished knight (at heart) of great caliber without a Finger Maiden… ostensibly. One bereft of strength, the other cut off from augmenting it, both seeming to have been forsaken by fate from the very start.

She should be hopeless about it, but… no. Grace, or its absence, felt a trivial thing compared to the sheer happiness their… relationship had brought. Being honest with herself, she felt a strength there… in the deepest recesses of herself, expanding outwards.

Thumbing over the brooch, washed of its bloody remnants but endowed still with spirits, she felt little wistfulness anymore. The keepsake from her men spent the bulk of its time on her bedside table, not in her hands. During the occasions when she did hold it, determination surged within her. She would never join them… she would honor them.

Giving up would only serve to spit on the graves they hadn't even been allowed.

It would be a rejection of everything that had carried her this far - the blood of her men and of Knight Arthur.

When Arthur had staggered into the Hold half-dead and taken off his helm at her request, the blood marking his face brought a resolve to act that was entirely foreign. Even unwittingly, even with his insistence that he was no worse for wear, he could inspire that drive in her. That was before they even traded names.

It was much the same when he had exposed his soul and dream to her, only to try and retract it in a return of self-awareness. Laying his dream in the palm of her hand for her to know and judge… what a frightening act. What kind of person would decline to acknowledge and understand such vulnerability?

Besides what he had directly stated, glimpses and vignettes of his struggles were visible in just the way he conducted himself. He walked like something between a dashing, gallant young knight and a grizzled war veteran who'd lost an arm to cannon-fire. It suited his spirit, which seemed to her like a shifting blend of determined optimism and resigned duty, with resolve powering them equally.

Arthur's knightly essence seemed to linger in the Hold's air, and though it had no physical figure of its own, it persisted valiant in his stead. Perhaps, in the meantime, they weren't so parted as she thought. Hewg had begun instructing her on spirit tuning, so she was not without interaction, but it was a rather slow process for her.

Besides… she only felt lonely in a different way.

Not tonight.

Going about her tutelage and her day in general, the maiden still felt a warmth in her heart and bones whenever the remembrance of his hand on her shoulder returned. The fire never would be snuffed, and she was glad.

Wandering knights like him need love the most, it could be said. For support and for purpose… for meaning. They need a cause to champion… banners to raise. When I'm needed, when he returns, I'll be his… maiden. His Lady. I did it before, when he was sopping with blood from battle and stumbling about. I won't flee from it now.

Even if I can't turn runes into strength, I'll let it be known that he can lean on me.

No matter what… I could never bring myself to do anything other than welcome him with open arms.

Another day in the Hold had come and gone… the road to a spirit tuner would be a strange and somewhat-long one, if her first day at it was any indication. The smithing master still seemed a bit uneasy about teaching her, but not unwilling. He'd shared what seemed a wealth of knowledge on the art of spirit tuning, perhaps more than she might recall at the moment, and surely they would work on refining it tomorrow. … and tomorrow's tomorrow, and so on.

For now, though, the living quarters were silent as night fell everywhere. It was still impossible to tell the precise time of day, given the lack of windows (and the Hold's very nature), but if she was tired enough to sleep it must have been night-time.

As she set herself into the bed and brought the white-silk sheets across her form, Roderika swore that Arthur's arms enveloped her once more. His one hand took a sizable lock of her blonde hair into its fingers and cherished it; his other was interlocking its own fingers with hers. If she'd inch only a few measurements forward, she could kiss him again and he would reciprocate with that tenderness she could associate exclusively with him.

Alas, it was nothing but the shadow, flickering, cast by a pale fire that burned through the night.