Work Text:
❅
When he steps into the chapel, it is of no surprise to be greeted by the smell of smoke and the sight of writhing flames across the floor, up the walls.
Paintings, piled high against the walls, now burn, a conflagrating reflection of the now-ignited painted world.
The flames do not lick up his clothes, for what need would they have of such? He is flame, however small, however unkindled. Besides, he is Embered, and vestigial remnants of such flicker off of him.
Thus, the flame does not bother him much as he makes his way over to a ladder, and climbs up into an attic. It is nothing grand, and a rather small space. It is dimly lit, only by a beam of fulgid, cool light that seeps in from the circular stained glass window on the far end of the room, a miasma of coruscating floral patterns, and the flames that dance across the floor.
Strangely enough, the flames do not flicker up the pale hair of a girl seated high atop an artist's stool, nor her dress, seemingly daring not to inch any closer. Before her stands a towering canvas of impressive size, a blank slate, save for the crimson that seeps down the edges.
He approaches, his boots making a satisfying clack on the wooden floors, and the girl turns in her seat to face him, serpentine eyes blinking down at him in curiosity. It has been, admittedly, some time since his last visit, and although he doesn't have much of an idea of how time passes here in the painted world differently than outside, he figures it has been a similar length.
Silently, he reaches into his pocket and gently holds out an ordinary-looking, dirty scrap of rag; but it is anything but, and the way the girl's eyes light up is a telltale sign that she knows it too.
She takes the dirtied scraps into her delicate hands, paint-stained fingertips darkened by the blood.
"My thanks, Ashen One." Her eyes are aglow with hope, a flicker of excitement, and relief.
"With this will I paint a world." She looks back up at him, eyes gentle and inquiring. "Please tell me thy name. I would name this painting after thee."
The Ashen One blinks in surprise at that; he had not expected such a response to receiving the pigment she had sought after for so long. He is touched by it; in a world so darkened and cruel, kind words, and further kind actions were nearly naught but a nearly a mere tale.
But he finds he cannot give the girl the answer she seeks, only that which she will use to paint her picture, her world. And so he tells her he has no name. She smiles at this, feet swaying gently beneath the hem of her dress.
"I see." She begins, pivoting in her seat and reaching for her tools. She possesses a sundry of paints, from dark tones to light pastels. "We are much alike, in such a regard." She picks up a paintbrush. "I will name this painting 'Ash'. And a very gentle place it shall be. A home."
It is like something in her mind shuts her off from anything else but her paints, her duty, and it is suddenly as if he is not standing there at all. Somewhat awkwardly, he bids her farewell, and does not hold it against her when she does not so much as glance in his direction. He descends back down the ladder, deciding to drop down a few rungs, landing with a faint thud that travels up his body from his boots.
He takes a seat at the nearby bonfire, an ember in flames, and sighs. It is a heavy sound, the sigh of a man who has traveled to the world's end and come back to tell the tale. But to whom would I tell it to? No one remains.
No one except the Painter, an enigma in her own, and the ones who once called the frigid world their home.
A cough - nasally, awful sound - rings through the ambient crackling, and he looks to where several Corvians are nestled together, huddling and shivering. They take refuge, it seems, in the Chapel, the very Chapel in which the root of all their anguish and rage had made her lair; but whatever emotion they feel towards the fell Sister doesn't seem to outweigh the prospect of a warm place to shield away from the cold winds, and the rot of the town below. Perhaps they find comfort in being so close to one they consider to be their goddess.
There are not many of them, perhaps only a few dozen. Many are covered in gruesome blisters, looking even more hideous than usual. Their bony, thin bodies are charred, whatever wisps of coarse hair that had covered their bodies burned away. And yet, they live. Barely, but even the tiniest flicker of breath is enough to tend to a flame of a life.
They are revolting to look at, he thinks grimly. It is nothing against them; it is simply a fact, one greatly heightened by the fact that they had been stuck in an unwelcome abeyance for so long.
Those who have survived blink owlishly up at him as he makes his way over to the church doors, their milky stares nearly as burning as the flames that lick across the stone floors. They are like corporeal spirits, half-dead; stuck between something like living, and something like rotted death. He can feel the reverence in their eyes, their heads tilted up towards him as if he is the sun, and yet he does not feel like he is a god. He does not feel like anything other than what he simply is: a man, or at least the smoldering shell of one, his soul seeking naught but cinder to ignite what remains in the ashes.
But the only thing he seeks at the moment are the front doors, which stand wide open, despite the fierce conditions outside.
Frigid air seeps into the burning building. The permeating heat on his backside and the cold air stinging his face is a stark contrast, and he shivers.
Outside, the snow falls at an unforgiving pace, wind cruel and sharp. The air is just as wicked, burning his nostrils as he breathes, and underneath it, he can smell something smokey. He wonders if there is ash within the falling flakes, disguised as false snow; a deceit, and yet intrinsic to the small world's natural currents.
The world is burning away, but it is not quite an ill catastrophe, after all.
He thinks back to the old Corvian Settler's words, when he'd approached after he'd slain Sister Friede, and brought an end to her grasp on the rotting world.
Looking up, the old bird had rasped, "I can hear the crackling from here. The sound of my home, the painting of Ariandel, burning away…"
The words had made him falter for a moment; surely he had done as the bird-man had asked, and surely he had done right in stopping whatever desperate fantasy Sister Friede had built for herself, at the detriment of every resident in the painting. But the bird-man had simply sighed, or some rather awful noise that vaguely resembled it.
"When the world rots, we set it afire. For the sake of the next world." He'd turned to crane his neck slowly towards him. "It's the one thing we do right, unlike those fools on the outside."
The fools on the outside. The ones who'd contributed to the vicious cycle of re-igniting the Fire, a dying flame, kept lit only by those desperate to follow in the old Lord Gwyn's footsteps. He'd shook his head at the words, casting his eyes to the snow-and-ash filled skies, ever cloudy. Sister Friede herself was simply a testament to a dying faith, he thinks.
Afraid, something echoes.
"Will you die?" He'd asked. The olden Settler had understood his unspoken meaning: Will all of you die? Have I doomed you to die?
"Nothing is meant to last forever. That's the issue with the fools outside, they think they can prolong an age that has already long since died. Many of us have already perished from this sickening rot that afflicts this world, and many will burn away with the flames that now grace it. But not all of us will meet our ends, and those who survive will find comfort in our Lady's painting."
He'd then produced a Titanite Slab, and slipped it over to him. "Take it. I've no need of it."
He'd pocketed the smithing material with a hushed gratitude, and stayed for a while in the silence, broken only by the sound of the wind and the distant, growing crackle. It takes him back to now, that distant crackle now nearly an ambient roar, a symbol of decay, and yet rebirth.
In the sky, embers have begun to join the fray of snow and ash. He lifts his head to it, and lets the cold air fill his lungs. He closes his eyes and simply stands there a while.
❅
When he returns back into the warmth of the Chapel, he finds himself standing before the Painter once again.
She is at work, wholly in tune, and with a flick of her wrist, she adds to her creation, an easy, methodical action for her. It is like breathing, She'd told him once after he'd watched her paint on a small canvas to pass time, in awe of her rapt skill. One simply is born with the knowledge of how to do so.
It is not hard to believe her. He can see it in her eyes, the way she creates anything.
Only the sound of the flames is present, the Painter herself silent. However, this time, she spares a brief glance at him as he attempts - and fails - to discreetly peer over her shoulder at the painting.
He sees the hint of trees, but oddly enough, the painting is hazy when he tries to find meaning in its depths. The Painter pauses, then sets her paintbrush down. She reaches up to tuck a stray hair that has fallen into her face back, uncaring of the paint that stains her fingers.
Something seems sorrowful about her countenance, and he wonders what has gone wrong. Was the blood not enough?
He does not have to wonder long as she speaks, almost wistfully. "I wonder when Uncle Gael intends his return."
The words make him freeze.
He only hopes she does not notice the tense change in his stance, and he is thankful his helm obscures the majority of his face. He had not exactly been looking forward to this, however inevitable he knew it to be. She continues, and the guilt swimming in his gut begins to churn darkly. "I hope the new painting will be to him a gentle home." She simply sighs. "He will return, I am certain of it. He has never left me. He won't start now."
The Ashen One cannot possibly hope to bear this any longer, and presses his lip together uncomfortably. He is near squirming where he stands, and his discomfort must be so strong that the Painter squints at him. "Ashen One, are you alright?"
He weighs his actions for a moment. She will be devastated, he knows. She is a gentle thing, perhaps too much so for her own good. But she is also strong, he reminds himself.
Wordlessly, he reaches into his pocket, hesitant, and cups the small flame churning in its depths. "Miss," he begins tentatively. Her ochre eyes fall completely on him, he has garnered her full attention, and he braces himself for what comes next. "I…" he trails off, and pulls the flame out of his pocket, holding his palm out. It is a greyed flame, something that resembles a Humanity sprite within it. As the Painter's eyes fall upon it, her falls almost immediately, anguish plain in her features. Her eyes are fierce as they search, as of searching for something, and they eventually flicker back over to him.
"Why?" Is all she says, and a thousand meanings lie within such a simple word.
"He was… gone." He settles on after a moment or two. "And… I think he knew that too. He went mad in his search. But even to the end, he never gave up on you." He pauses. "He was a good man. I know he knew that he fought for a righteous cause. Even at the end, he thought of you. And I- I'm sorry." He chokes over his words briefly, the guilt too much.
The Painter, for a few, long moments, remains silent, gaze faraway. As she paints a new world, she is lost entirely in another.
The sorrow in her eyes remains, but the raw anguish seems to have faded, for now. She smiles softly, something sad about it.
"... Thank you. I know this was the only way it would've ended. I just… I just wish it did not have to be so." Her head hangs, and her sorrow makes him want to bundle her in his arms and hug her sorrows away, to comfort her. He reaches out and places a hesitant, gentle hand on her small shoulder, and she looks up at him with a small smile. "Thou gave him the best end he could have met. His mind could have spoiled away, and his body along with it. But you… you have honor. He knows this, I am sure. So I thank thee."
He squeezes her shoulder and lets his hand fall. Her eyes are now on the flame nestled within his other hand, and he does not even have to wait for her to ask before he offers them to her.
With a revered gentleness, she cups with flame in her palms, and closes her eyes as she brings them close to her face. She whispers something under her breath, and he does not pry into whatever words she speaks; they are a farewell, he knows, but it is something for only Gael to hear.
She basks in the odd chilliness of the flames a minute more, then reaches out and hands them back to him. He looks up in surprise, a question he knows is plastered on his face. The Painter answers his silent question.
"I insist that thou keep it. I am more than certain that thou are fit to do so. Besides, you will find more use for it than I, for I have no need of keeping his Soul to remember his very being." Her fingers ghost across the surface of her painting, as if it is fragile porcelain. "It is through this painting that he shall live on," Her voice is a whisper, ever-so gentle.
"Perhaps," the Painter adds, head tilted thoughtfully, "Perhaps it shall make thee a goodly home as well."
At that, the Ashen One looks up, not expecting such.
"You mean… I might enter the painting and live there?" He stares, and the Painter simply nods with a gentle smile. "I do not see why not. After all, it will be a home for those who have not one of their own, for those lost or scorned by the cruel world outside. Thou'st has come to the end of the journey, no? Thou may rest, now."
He considers her words with interest, yet uncertainty. Making a home within the painting himself had not exactly crossed his mind, and he finds himself abashed by his lack of thought in that direction.
A cold, dark, and very gentle place.
He is unable to stop himself from asking, "Will it be lonely?"
She gives him an odd look, almost challenging. "Do you wish to be lonely?"
He finds himself shaking his head. He has been on his own for a long time, and has found it to be an unpleasant experience. He'd never enjoyed being alone in the first place, frequently visiting the peaceful Firelink Shrine, conversing with the gentle Firekeeper and making bonds with the various people he'd convinced to join him there.
He was never good on his own.
It made him something of an outcast to the introvert nature of his fellow Unkindled, finding it better to be on their own in a harsh world with few friendly faces, but he was glad for it. He misses some of them greatly, but he does not regret it despite whatever pangs burn into his heart.
And so he answers back in earnest. "No."
The Painter nods understandingly. "Then thou will not be alone. Cold and dark as it may be, it will be just as gentle, and kindly. Thou will find friends if it is friends that thou seekest."
The Painter folds her hands in her lap, swinging her legs back and forth languidly.
"I hope my Mother is proud of me." She sighs, as if more to the air than the Ashen One.
He flashes her a smile. "She is." He declares with certainty, and it makes the Painter's smile widen.
"I shall continue to fulfill my duties. I need time to finish my work." She begins to turn in her seat once more, turning her head to look down over her shoulder. "Take no offense, Ashen One, but I must be alone awhile. Will thou'st do me a favour and provide whatever comfort thou'st can to the forlorn below? They need it now more than ever. And I know that thou art a fitting choice for such."
The Ashen One dips his upper body in a bow to her. "Of course." As he gets up to begin walking away once more, he appends, "Thank you."
He doesn't need to elaborate for her to understand.
As he descends down into the Chapel, he muses things over.
He was not quite forlorn, but he was lost, he thinks. For what use is ash once a fireplace no longer exists at all?
He shakes his head. Maybe he was no longer of any use, but maybe he did not need to be.
As the scent of ash and smoke fills his lungs, he thinks of a home.