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The Passage to the Depths is dark and vast. Steep rocks lined the walls of the chasm, not a speck of light in sight. The tarnished tries not to waver, tries not to let fear consume her body. If she dies down here, it will be permanent. Slaying Maliketh the Black Blade had made sure of that. Beside her, Miquella squeezes her hand reassuringly, sensing her growing tension. A pang of irritation pulses through her temple.
“You are strong.” He breathes out, in that same soothingly warm voice he always pulls on his ‘followers’. (They were more like victims, if you ask her. Not that anyone really cared about her opinion in the first place.) It sickens her the way it slightly slowed her quickening heartbeat. How he knew she was nervous was beyond her; he had no heart to empathize with her strife. She huffs, pulling him forward down the chasm.
“You don't need to tell me that. I beat you, didn’t I?” Miquella stumbles behind her as she tugs him down the steep path, not used to his new, smaller size. To traverse the expansive land of the Erd Tree’s shadow, Miquella had shrunk his body to sit on the back of her steed, Torrent. His constant fluctuations in body size made him clumsy at best and dead weight at worst. She felt like she was guarding a helpless damsel rather than a newly ascended god. Part of her felt like he was acting this way on purpose, to lull her into a false sense of superiority and strength. To make her think she was in control, ever the wolf in sheep's clothing.
“You seem…upset. Know that there is nothing here, or anywhere for that matter, that you haven't fought and won against.”
Her grip tightens around his hand. “I don't think you even remember what it feels like to be upset.” The cavern opens up into a large cave, and great stone coffins and cliffs fill the open space. That same familiar purple mist hangs in the air, lowering the visibility like a thick fog. Sleep pulls at the tarnished, even up here at the top of the fissure; it felt like a heavy blanket covering her mind, leaving her dazed. It would only get worse the further they went down. She pulls a cloth mask over her nose and mouth. She didn't particularly feel like passing out with him right beside her, thank you.
“It’s best I stay this way, you know. I don't need to feel. I don't need her. I am not human, I am a god, your god.” Miquella's eyes bore into the back of her skull; she can feel his gaze, hot and centered. She doesn't look back.
“Last time I checked, we walked through that gate together. I am as much your god as you are mine, and besides, I told you. The only way this…partnership is going to work is if you regain your empathy. I won't be wed to a sociopath.”
“You won't like me with my heart intact. I’m much too…needy. It would be much simpler if we kept things the way they are now.”
“Yeah, well. I already don't like you.” She mutters under her breath, not going unheard by the god, by the way he lets out a soft hum. She can imagine he was tilting his head in the same way he did when he didn't understand something. Without his heart, his comprehension of emotion had dwindled significantly; gone was the kind, ever-understanding Empereyan Miquella, and left in his wake was a literal shell of his former self. “St Trina is going to help us. She asked me to save you, and I’m not one to go back on my word.”
“...Don’t say I didn't warn you.” She had only ever heard stories of the kindness Miquella portrayed during his eternal youth. She had been convinced he was a good person before she stepped into the shadow of the Erd Tree. Goosebumps line the back of her neck at his words. If Miquella notices, he doesn't say anything. If he were saying this now, even with his disconnect of empathy, she didn't want to imagine what he was really like before he had cast St Trina away. Well…she would cross that bridge when she came to it. Anything had to be better than the monster she was currently holding by the hand.
As they make their way down, the fissure is eerily quiet. She had cleared out most of the enemies the first time she had ventured into the depths, looking for the mysterious St Trina. Miquella had definitely put her somewhere no one would stumble across her unless they had been outwardly searching for her. Her heart ached for the Saint, trapped all alone at the bottom of a pit, betrayed by the one she had loved. The tarnished supposed she had no room to feel such guilt; however, seeing what she had done to her beloved maiden, Melina.
Finally, the duo reaches the edge of the fissure. A giant cavern leading down to darkness stares back at her. There was no bottom in sight. She hesitates. They would have to jump like she had last time, but last time, she couldn't die, not truly anyway. She hadn't realized how often she had used Queen Marika’s sealing of the rune of death as a crutch until it was gone. She shakes her head, trying to get rid of her anxiety; now was hardly the time to show such weakness. She swallows, nervously leaning over the edge. Just as she takes a step forward, Miquella pulls her back away from the ledge.
“Allow me,” he says softly, pulling his hand out of her grasp. He leans down, wrapping one arm under her knees and the other around her back, under her arms. He lifts her with an ease befitting of a god. “Wrap your arms around my neck.” He commands, walking towards the edge of the coffin.
“Wha- No way! Let go of me!” She exclaims, moving to clamber out of his hold. Before she can writhe out of his grasp, he takes a step off the large stone coffin, dropping into the abyss. She lets out a yelp, quickly heeding his advice and holding onto him tightly. She buries her face in the crook of his neck. Who did he think he was? He was struggling to jump down a few rocks, and now, he thinks he can just pick her up and jump off a cliff!? Her stomach drops as they plummet down into the depths of the cavern. Her eyes close shut and her body tenses, bracing for the impact. The impact never comes.
A long few seconds pass before the tarnished cracks her eyes open. She’s greeted with the sight of shallow water and purple lilies. Miquella floats just above the ground, a soft golden mist between his body and the water. Slowly, he begins to descend, his feet gracefully landing back on the ground. She’s still for a moment before pushing out of his grasp, tumbling onto the ground, and landing on her arm. She lets out a groan in pain at the particularly harsh landing. Miquella doesn't say anything about the act of aggression. He stares down at her with an unreadable expression. The Tarnished can only seem to handle a few seconds of eye contact with him before growing increasingly uncomfortable. She pushes herself off the ground, her clothes now soaked with the cold water layering the ground. Gods, she hates her life. Without looking back at him, she leads him towards the small cave that housed St Trina. Thankfully, without the Putrescant Knight in the way, the walk was relatively short.
The purple mist is thicker here. Exhaustion ebbs at the edges of her mind; she isn't sure how she managed to stay here so long last time without falling asleep. Perhaps the godly burden she had taken on back in Enir-Ilim is softening her. Shouldn't she be growing stronger? She had never felt so weak.
The cave looked the same as how she had left it, although Thiollier’s body was noticeably absent. She tries to ignore the heavy feeling of grief that has entered her heart at the thought of his untimely death. She never seemed to keep the people around her long. The tarnished shifts her attention to the center of the cave. There, St Trina stands silently still.
The tarnished inhales sharply, rushing up to the saint in panic. “St Trina? Are you ok?” She asks. St Trina does not respond, her eyes closed shut. “Is she dead?” She asks, turning back to Miquella, fear evident in her eyes.
She’s met with a bored expression; he wasn't even trying to hide behind the pretence of care. “She isn't dead.” He says slowly, his eyes gliding down St Trina’s body. “She’s stuck in a deep slumber, however. She is not long for this world.” Her expression falls, looking down on St Trina with a look of hurt that Miquella hadn’t yet seen on the woman. He supposes she cared a great deal for his ex-lover.
“You have to save her! She’s your heart, right? Absorb her back inside yourself, as we did for the rest of your parts.” The tarnished stands up, grabbing Miquella's hand and pulling him towards the slumbering demigod. “Regaining your abandoned pieces was my only stipulation for becoming your consort. She is a part of that stipulation.”
Silence fills the air, and the tension rises. If he refused her, she would have to kill him. There was no way she could, in good faith, rely on somebody who couldn't feel. She had promised Malenia she would find and protect Miquella. She had promised St Trina she would save him from a shackled life without love. She had promised Melina she would become the Elden Lord. She could not let it all end here.
Seconds passed that felt like minutes before Miquella let out a sigh. “I will say this one last time. You are going to regret this.” Without waiting any further, he steps forward, outstretching his hand and resting it on St Trina’s forehead. She backs away from the pair, not wanting to get caught in whatever Miquella was about to do. A warm golden glow envelopes both of them, growing increasingly stronger as the seconds tick by. Warm gold swirls into pastel purple, and the light grows too much to bear. The tarnished looks away from the light, covering her eyes lest she be blinded by its fury.
Eventually, the glow softens, and she opens her eyes. St Trina’s body was gone, and in her place, two bodies had turned to one. Miquella stares down at his open hands, his body finally whole again. He breaths in a shaky breath before looking up at her. His eyes are wide and bewildered, like he isn't sure what exactly he is looking at, before they crinkled in delight.
Now, she had seen him smile before. They were disastrously pristine and very obviously practiced, but it had never been like this before. His lips curled up with joy as he looked down at her with a warmth she hadn't ever seen from him before. He quickly makes his way over towards her, holding out his arms and pulling her into his tight, yet gentle grip.
“Oh my love, my betrothed, thank you.” His head rests on the top of hers, nuzzling his face into her hair. “I feel so good. I had forgotten what this was like.”
She is unable to comprehend the dramatic shift in his personality that has just occurred. She tries to fight against him, tries to yell at him to get away from her, but her protests do not surface. The lull of sleep has gotten too great, and now, with Miquella having taken St Trina back inside of him, he smells strongly of soft lilac and slumber.
“My lovely tarnished. You’ll make such a wonderful consort. Thank you so much for helping me come to my senses. Trina and I will take such good care of you,” He coos, his hand running through her hair. “Relax, sleep. I will handle the rest.” The tarnished’s eyes droop shut, unable to resist the comfort of St Trina’s mist of eternal sleep. She thinks that maybe he had been right. She’s going to regret this.