The age of fire has ended, and the deserts of ash that lie in the wake of its snuffed embers stretch as far as the eye can see. The grand architecture of the old world, ruled once by Gods, now lie crumbled and buried underneath the sands of time. The Ashen One, outfitted in Sir Vilhelm's Armor, stands alone amongst these ruins, surrounded only by dust, echoes, and fallen kingdoms, consumed by somber understanding.
Whether awakening Filianore had pulled him forward through time or simply shattered the illusion of the Ringed City mattered not, he had failed... The world had been stretched to its breaking point and not even his attempt to link the first flame could prevent its collapse. Perhaps it had been foolish of him to even try.
The fire-linking curse, the legacy of lords, let it all fade into nothing.
He had been warned, countless times, yet continued his journey regardless, in pursuit of grand purpose.
A sudden shift in the dust stirs him from his thoughts. A corpse, draped in ornate robes and a silver crown crawls towards the knight. "Filianore, help me… please. The red hood has come to eat us… to eat our dark soul." The hollow voice pleads as its skinless hand reaches out in desperation, before falling.
The Ashen One sighs, as his gaze lifts to the direction it crawled from, already aware of the implication. Countless deaths in the pursuit of his sacred duty has granted him a keen instinct, drilled into the very depths of his soul through blood, sweat, and tears. Another battle was on his horizon, even now at the end of time, how long must he continue his struggle?
Mark my words, Ashen One… you remain the accursed.
The words, spoken true even then, still echo through his mind. With a weary sense of resignation, he marches forward, a tight grip held on the hilt of his longsword, not willing to let whatever threat awaits him make the first move. It doesn't take long to find more corpses, dressed in the same clothing as the one previously, all dead and left amongst empty thrones. The pygmy lords; drained completely of their collective dark soul.
"What, still here?"
A voice hauntingly calls out from amidst the corpses.
In an instant the Ashen One is at the ready, shield brought forward toward the unknown threat.
The figure, garbed in a red cloak over the armor of a slave knight slowly rises upward from atop another pygmy corpse, with a gauntleted hand reaching out toward him.
"Hand it over. That thing, your dark soul."
The Ashen One is frozen stiff in shocked recognition of the ghastly entity before him.
"Gael?"
"For my lady's painting," he continues, completely ignoring, or perhaps too far gone to even recognize the question.
But the words spoken are enough to confirm his fears.
"What has become of thee? What has thou done?"
Again, his questions are ignored, as Gael's only response is to throw the drained corpse towards the knight, an attack he is unprepared for as he barely manages to dodge with a quick sideways roll. Gael's steps are heavy as he moves and the knight's observation of them along with his well-defined dexterity is what saves his head from being severed from his body as he hastily brings up his shield to block a devastating strike from the Executioner's Greatsword.
The force of the blow on the shield was enough to force the unkindled a few steps back and into another roll.
An impressive feat, considering he's fought and defeated the likes of Yhorm the Giant; an opponent ten times their size.
"Gael, end this madness, we're allies!"
With no signs of acknowledgement, the slave knight strikes again with a massive overhead swing forcing the unkindled to dodge yet again. Realizing that words won't be enough to cease the conflict, he readies his sword for a counterattack.
The experience gained through unending trials proves its worth as his sword strikes Gael again and again all while narrowly evading the deadly swings of his greatsword. The undead slave knight is fast, almost unbelievably so for someone his size, but the Ashen One has faced many such opponents on his quest and like the others; he will be vanquished.
No matter how much it hurts.
"Haven't I lost enough?" The Ashen One asks, desperation lacing every bit of his tone, as Gael falls to his hand and knees after a particularly damaging swing. "The two of us are all that's left, why must we fight?" he pleads to the undead.
Blood falls from Gael's mouth onto his sword. He appears mesmerized by it.
"Ahh, is this the blood? The blood of the Dark Soul?"
With renewed strength, the slave knight rises, sword at the ready and a newfound power radiating from his body. A sickly red color that brings nothing but painful memories to the unkindled.
"Gael… I see now," the Ashen One mutters in understanding, "Thou hast become a vessel for the fragmented dark soul of man."
His purpose clear, he readies his sword and shield yet again. The two knights face each other, both twisted by their ideals and duties.
And then, the Ashes were two.
"Allow me to free thee from thy burden, my friend, as I would so wish."
The two clash in a shower of sparks, the greatsword quickly proving to be too much for the smaller straight sword as the unkindled is forced into a backstep before pulling his shield up to block a quick follow-up attack, though what once was a decent strategy is proven much too ineffective against the slave knight's new sickening strength as the Ashen One's shield is almost torn completely from his grasp by the sheer power of the swing. He's forced into another roll before he's cleaved in two and makes the decision to unequip the shield, placing it firmly onto his back, in favor of a stronger two-handed sword approach.
The two rush each other yet again in an almost majestic display of skill and power, the smaller unkindled dancing around his opponent's much stronger attacks with grace and counterattacking with precision whenever possible.
The tide is turned when the slave knight reveals a new trick; a crossbow previously kept hidden is drawn with frightening speed and unleashes a wave of deadly arrows toward the now defenseless unkindled. He attempts to dodge but is struck directly in the chest and screams in pain as they pierce through his armor and into his flesh.
It takes only a moment for Gael to make use of the opportunity and deliver another swing of his greatsword. The strike that would have ended the fight instantaneously is dodged with mere millimeters to spare as the unkindled yet again is able to maneuver away from the blade, even while injured.
Annoyed at the arrows for almost causing his end, and with adrenaline running through his veins, he uses his sword to snap off the arrow staves in one swing, before swiftly taking a sip of his estus flask: healing his wounds and allowing him to rush once more into close quarters combat.
As the battle of attrition continues the battlefield surrounding the two knights takes a dramatic turn as lightening strikes all around them, in conjunction with the slave knight's attacks, creating even more deadly hazard for the unkindled.
Just as he is able to dodge another flash of electricity, Gael screams in pain as the crimson souls of the countless others he's consumed erupts from his body and flies toward the stunned Ashen One.
"Oh gods… Gael," he mutters, horrified, before frantically sidestepping and rolling out of the way of the deadly attack. It is all he is able to do before Gael launches himself into the sky for an airborne strike with his sword. With his stamina still low the unkindled is only just able to bring up his sword in a desperate gamble to block the attack. It succeeds, if only barely, as he is launched backward dozens of feet and lands harshly on his back in the dust.
For a fraction of a moment, he considers staying down before a voice echoes in his head yet again.
Rise, brother, for that is our curse.
With a skillful back roll, he dodges what would have been a finishing blow from the slave knight.
It takes all his skill and experience in dexterity to dodge the excess of attacks that the slave knight is raining down, but he continuously manages to do so all while registering his own chip damage to the larger foe.
The duel continues for what feels like hours in the mind of the unkindled before he finally manages to deliver the final strike. With it, Gael the Slave Knight falls again to his knees and reaches outward toward the unkindled in desperation, before finally succumbing to his wounds and falling, then vanishing into nothing.
"I pray that thou forgive me, Gael, for I may not myself," the Ashen One mutters, barely able to stand, before his knees give out. He falls forward just as he receives the Soul of Slave Knight Gael and Blood of the Dark Soul, then blacks out.
…
He awakens later to the smell of ash and thick smoke burning his lungs, alongside a familiar warmth: that of fire. The unkindled rises and recognizes his surroundings instantly; the church inside the Painted World of Ariandel, and it is in flames.
Aware of only one remaining resident inside, he quickly hurries up the ladder to the attic, intending to rescue the gentle painter from the viscous flames.
He finds her there in the same position as always, sitting on her stool and painting on her giant canvas without a care, despite the situation.
"We must leave, my lady, follow me," the Ashen One says, as he reaches for the young woman.
She makes no move to follow his order, "…Ashen One, thy gift of flame has taken root, and Uncle Gael will soon bring the pigment. Pigment coloured like the dark soul of man."
The unkindled stops in his tracks at her words, knowing full well that the man would never return.
"…He is gone, my lady."
The woman stops in her painting only for a moment, before resuming.
"My knight has fallen, I see," her voice hitches as she speaks, "Then perhaps the dark soul is lost."
The Ashen One considers this before remembering what he received upon victory, the Blood of the Dark Soul, tucked away into his bottomless box. "Thou speaks of this?"
She looks away from the painting for the first time, in shock. "How does thou have this?"
The Ashen One bows his head in shame. "In truth, I defeated Gael in the ruins of the outside world, the dark soul had corrupted his mind"
The woman resumes her painting but does not respond.
"My shame is unequal, my lady, yet I still beg for thy forgiveness."
"Raise thy head, Ashen One. Thou hast no reason to suffer in shame. Uncle Gael sought the blood of the dark soul as a pigment for my painting, he would be glad to know that thou carried on his dream."
The woman pauses for a moment, lost in thought. "In truth, perhaps this was always his plan. This blood thou brought me is fresh and perfect for painting, he consumed the dried blood and made it his own for this purpose, I assume," she says, with clear melancholy dripping from her voice.
"A slave knight to the end… Uncle Gael," she whispers, with a single tear dropping down her pale cheek.
The unkindled raises his head in gratitude, not fulling believing in the woman's words, yet finds comfort in them none the less. "My dearest thanks, my lady."
"Thou art the one to be deserving of gratitude, sir knight, with this pigment I will paint a new world. One that would make Uncle Gael proud."
She turns her head to face the unkindled once again. "Thou truly hast my gratitude, Ashen One. Reveal to me thy name and I would name this painting after thee."
The Ashen One takes a moment to consider this, before responding, "I have no name, it was a part of myself that was lost in pursuit of my purpose; to rekindle the first flame and prolong the age of fire," he thinks back to the world of dust and echoes outside. "…and now even that has been taken from me."
The painting woman looks upon the unkindled fondly, "Thou truly art a foolish knight, Ashen One."
"There is none more foolish than I, my lady."
"We are very much alike, in that sense." She appears thoughtful, as if debating with herself, before seemingly concluding. "Then I will name this painting Ash. Twill be a cold, dark, and very gentle place."
She faces the unkindled once again, "And perhaps it will make thee a goodly home, Ashen One."
He appears surprised, before shaking his head. "My purpose is lost, my lady, along with my name, and soon I shall hollow. A gentle place would have no use for the likes of me… "
"Foolish knight," she whispers, before raising her voice, "If it is purpose, thou seeks, then thou shalt find it here." She points towards the painting, now finished with the added pigment.
"…Dost thou truly believe so?" he quietly asks.
She smiles, her voice full of warmth. "Indeed, Ashen One, for a painting born from the dream of thy Uncle Gael shall always have a place for the likes of thee, an honorable knight who is truly kind."
The unkindled, swept up in emotion at the painting woman's kindness responds with a slight bow. Tears forming beneath his helmet, how long has it been since he's been shown such kindness? How many deaths has he suffered since?"
You'll face death, and it won't be pretty. Enough death to leave you broken, time after time.
"Too many…" he whispers, "Thou hast my eternal gratitude, my lady."
"As thou hast mine, sir knight," she responds.
"Wouldst thou be joining me?" he asks, hopeful.
She shakes her head, to his dismay. "My purpose has been fulfilled, sir knight. The end of my journey lies here, amongst the flames."
The Ashen One can only nod, respecting her resolve; and knowing that he'd feel the same in her place.
"But I shall always watch over thee, just as Uncle Gael shall; thou art the realization of our dream after all," she finishes with a gentle smile.
He bows yet again, truly grateful. "Thou hast shown me a thousand acts of kindness, and I shall never forget thee."
'Even if my mind dost truly hollow.'
"I would hope not, sir knight." She sticks her tongue out playfully.
The fire from the bottom floor rages on and the floorboards of the attic grow painfully hot, catching embers and releasing plumes of smoke.
"Time is running out it would seem," the painter gently reminds.
"Indeed…" he responds awkwardly, unable, or unwilling, to say goodbye.
Noticing his hesitation, the painter stands from her stool for the first time, grabs the knight's hand and leads him to the painting. "Discover thy purpose, sir knight, promise me."
The Ashen One, shaken, can only stare at her features, before finding his resolve and turning towards the large painting. "Thou hast my word, my lady."
He takes a moment to soak in every detail of the artwork, before reaching his hand out towards it…
Until a hand as dark as the wretched abyss, with a menacing purple glow reaches back…
And pulls him inward.
"May the flames guide thee, Ashen One."
The world is a blur, colors, shapes and sound suffocating him in every direction, his mind is dulled, and he cannot think straight.
'What is this...' he wonders.
Slowly his vision begins to focus.
'Where am I?'
In time, feeling returns to his body, as he feels the earth beneath his feet. He lifts a gauntlet-ed hand toward the eye line of his helmet, attempting to block the blinding light.
The sound of a bustling city hits him all at once, and his ears ring from the feedback.
He shakes his head to clear it, and finally opens his eyes fully. He takes in the scenery, yet still fails to comprehend it.
'Is this…'
All around him are people, alive, and some with animal-like features. A bustling kingdom surrounds him, full of life.
'The painted world?'
A/N: Alright guys new story, seemed like a fun idea and I've been wanting to get back into this whole writing thing. Not sure why there hasn't really been many crossovers between these two series, the whole awakening after death thing seemed like a fun connection. Hope you enjoyed it, expect more to come!
Edit: Reformatted the chapter a bit, will probably come back to write some new additions later on.