Chapter Text
Books were safe. Their history was dead, writ in ink in place of blood, and could now live only within one's head. One's head was not so safe; one's heart a danger itself. But if one lived betwixt yellowed, ancient pages, one might spare himself the sort of agony the heart and head were prone to.
Twas a day like any other, in this endless stream of days and weeks and months and years, all lost to histories and questions, questions, questions. One thought it would bear some sort of significance, for all the pain it brought. But the golden Tarnished strolled into Gideon's study as he always did, on this day that bore no significance, and bequeathed ashes unto him.
Gideon stood up straight at once, affronted. “What is this?”
“... I believe this belongs to you.” The Tarnished said no more, only left him to himself, closing the door behind him.
Suddenly the heat of the hearth seared him. The wood creaked beneath his sabatons. The golden flakes of grace danced before his weary, weary eyes. Every bone in his body cried out; every nerve curled up in agony. Sorrow and more sorrow; the death of a friend, the death of a lover. And petrified tears, of an ever-echoing truth; sorrow and more sorrow, sorrow after sorrow, and death. Such death!
This callousness, this cynicism he had bolstered, year after gilded year. And now, it rotted inside him, coiled through his veins and broke out in thorns. O, agony! Fresh within his flesh, lashing through his hardened heart. O, agony!
To forget was to live; amidst a shattered world, yes. This was his protection, and his only protection. What purpose did it serve, to grieve? Such a thing could not be known, no, that was a leech upon the soul, and it must be forgotten. One could bury themselves, in histories, in sorceries, in apathy. One could very well forget.
Only, twas not so easy. Not when something should raise it all to the surface. Forgotten, ah, it wasn't so. Never. It only lived beneath his flesh, beneath the viscera. Buried. Whence it should come alive again and wrench itself forth, gasping for breath…
The ashes… He knew them by scent, by color, the texture betwixt his ancient fingers. He knew - still praying to forget - he knew the gold of her hair, what grace looked like between the strands. He knew the soft of her lips, the heat of her breath against his own. The blue of her eyes, the sea within; reaches known only to him. He knew what it was to hold her, to be chided, to be laughed at by her. He knew that she had loved him.
There was no choice. He must ring the bell. Summon her. Had he any conviction, he would have done well to forget her, and forget that he was human. But all his bitter principles were torn by grief. Wretched thing.
The bell was already in his hand. Time faded, in and out. O, time faded whence one was bereaved. The chime cut through the amber air.
The ashes flew forth, like so much stardust, and brought form to his sweeting. O, sweeting; could he even still call her that? Was there anything left of her?
For her form was permeated by an aura of blue. Gold, gold, O, wherefore art thou, sweet gold? She was silver; silver, just as he.
Gideon stepped forth. “Dolores?” Her name had not graced his tongue in an age. Dolores, Dolly, Lo. My sweeting, my Lo in the hearthlight, gold as lost grace, and lost to me. Words he ought to say, but couldn't. They would not bring her back to him.
There was nothing. Nothing. Not in her flesh, not in her face, not in her eyes. There was not even a fleck of gold! Nothing, nothing to touch, nothing, no laughter, no chiding, nothing to hold, and nothing to love. And yet, here she stood before him. Here she stood, as she had stood a thousand times. How could there be nothing left?
Gideon didn't even want to touch her. He knew she had been touched in this form, time and time again. He knew what had been done to her, of that he could never delude himself. I hope there is nothing left, for your sake. I hope this is a husk, with nothing to know the horrors which have been rendered unto it.
He could not hope for her to endure, not for his own sake. But he knew better than to think she was entirely gone. Some of her had to remain, shut away. Oh, shut away, hide away. I hope you have.
But still, if she lived within… if there were an inkling of her left, mayhaps…
He took up her limp hand. “Dolores?”
Nothing, nothing.
“Lo, please…”
There were eyes that did not see.
“I know thee. I did not forget. Sweeting…”
Eyes that could not recognize.
“Dolores, say something. Tell me… show me…” Something. Laugh, cry… something. “Something.”
His knees buckled, and he fell forth with an ungraceful clatter of armor. He did not know where it came from, this strangling grip of sorrow, ripping the strength from his body. He gasped, panted, sobbed, and forgot who he was.
“ Dolores, ” he clung to her leathers, draped in blue, faded soul. “Say something . Please. Please. I'm so alone… I'm so alone…”
Nothing.
“What have you done to me?” At first a whisper, then his heart ached, and he cried, “ What have you done to me? This pain, this sorrow, in my veins, in my very heart . I wish you had left me, I wish you had kept to yourself. When you were yet living, I wish you had never slipped into my heart. You should have kept to your arrows, and I to my pages. What carnage you have wrought upon my somber silver soul.”
And there came a time where he could not move. He sat against her, his hands wrapped about her leg, his helm pressed to her thigh, rooted to her. “Oh, Lo,” he lamented. “My golden Lo, hast thou been lonesome? I have been. I've waited, and waited, and waited. How long I've stood here… hiding.
“I'm afraid, Lo. It was never supposed to be like this. I lived my life, and I lived it well. What did we do to deserve this?
“But I cannot deny… those undead years with you… ah, they were a blessing. For a time I thought mayhaps it weren't so bad at all, not so long as you were at my side. But that did not last long, sweeting. I know what I am, what I ought to be… but I am tired of suffering. Tis no virtue, not when thou hast only duty to suffer for. There shall be sorrow, and more sorrow. And finally…”
Nothing.
Gideon rose unsteadily to his feet. He wrapped his arms about her, held her steadfast, his head upon her shoulder. “Dolores… I would love thee whence I return to the Erdtree… and love thee…” his voice caught in his throat. “Whence I am born anew. I love thee now… more than my somber silver self should have ever dared to dream. I love thee,” he sobbed. “Limp in my arms… I love thee…”
She did not move, uttered not a word.
Gideon removed his helm and set it upon his desk. Mayhaps it were a fairytale after all. Mayhaps these hopes weren't all for naught. Mayhaps his enduring love was good for something.
He took her up, and kissed her full upon the lips. She did not move, not a trifle; her open eyes did not blink.
“My Dolly,” he whispered unto her flesh. “My folly. Her eyes so fair… and always closed when I kiss her.” He ran his hand through her silver hair. “My folly.”
O, where there had once been living pleasure, living love, there was nothing. Nothing left to hold, nothing left to kiss, nothing left to love. There was nothing. Nothing at all.
But in his breast, freshly torn, an ancient anger began to fester. Well, there was nothing, and there would never be anything ever again. But mayhaps, mayhaps deep down within her doll, there was anything at all. Mayhaps he could make her happy, one last time. He had the means. He could not save her, but revenge was not so sour. It could even be sweet. Never as sweet as she, and never as sweet as life, but sweet nonetheless.
Ah, perhaps their history was not so dead after all…