The meaning of the Flame was life. Gwyndolin worked hard to keep the Flame alive and kindled, so that life would flourish.

So that his father's legacy would flourish.

So that he could earn the respect and love he yearned for.

He always thought that maybe, though his better judgement knew well, Gwyn would come back, see the hard work of his black sheep of a son and maybe...just maybe... acknowledge him. It was him he was feeling the utmost pride for.

He was a little selfish. He saw his chance. As much as he adored his siblings, with them gone from Anor Londo, he had no competition. No one to eclipse his achievements by simply existing. Even if his family would never see his work and appreciate it in full, the remaining subjects would and they would worship him as well.

No Gwynevere and her political brilliance, her unmatched, ethereal beauty. No Gwyneth and his spoils of war, strength even more daunting than his father's. The only sun that could ever shine and never be outshined was his own. Anyone who would try to take away his status would be punished severely.

Despite their polarity, he and his father were more alike out of any of the children. The capacity to lead entire kingdoms and the capacity to walk the path of a tyrant. He didn't have beauty or brute strength, but he had a mind of a genius. He was born a mastermind. Knowledge gave anyone more power thought possible and knowledge made anyone dangerous.

In Gwyndolin's case, he liked to think that he rose above his sister and his brother and with his little glimmering sun, blinded everyone with his overwhelming brilliance. All those hours spent studying every philosophy and history text concerning the Flame, of memorizing massive tomes of Soul sorceries, of sneaking into his father's study to read every political theorem known to Lordran, all of it was worth it.

He made his own place where it was decided he wouldn't have one at all and he'd be damned if someone dare say he didn't deserve everything that came with it and more.

The subjects of the old regime could say he was a sullen, brooding goddess all they liked. A forgotten child who had no definite destiny. Who were they subordinate to?

Gwyndolin.

Not Gwynevere.

Not Gwyneth.

Not Gwyn.

Not even Seath or Velka.

Him.

And only him.

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and did so with passion and pride. He became a god of his own volition. Did he desire worship? No. He desired validation, even though it never came from where he wanted it to come from. The Knightess was wonderful and even Yorshka gave him an ego boost when the job got too much to handle, but if it wasn't his father, it wasn't the same.

There was even a point in time where he was called a usurper. Coming out of the shadows after centuries and suddenly taking over when the opportunity presented itself.

The waiting game was over.

At the time, he would have sent a Crystal Soul Spear into anyone who thought they could take the throne from the rightful heir.

He was desperate.

He was many things: scared out of his mind, doubtful, hesitant, but his desperation to change his life was right there. He couldn't let someone else have his chance. Not after they'd been snatched from him so many times before.

He had never needed anything more badly in his life than the title of Lord of Anor Londo. He would gladly send every Chosen Undead into the Kiln and smile, knowing they had become ashes, Lords of Cinder, all for him. They believed in the Flame's benevolence. They believed in his cause. They believed in him - sometimes so much that they would join his Darkmoon Covenant, acting as agents of his movement, and persuading others to dedicate their life to keep sacrificing themselves to continue on a legacy that had absolutely no other use and nothing to do with them. They had pride in knowing they would carry on his father's legacy. They wanted to carry it on.

This passion too, was fed to the Flame. After all, it had gotten harder and harder to keep it raging through the eons.

He wouldn't lie to himself and say he didn't get desperate when the Flame got hungrier. He sent out masses of Undead to collect Humanity from the Abyss itself to throw in hordes to it. He put hundreds of lives in phantom danger for something that was spiralling out of his control. They'd be reborn at a bonfire and do the same exact thing until they succeeded and their Lord Gwyndolin got what he wanted. It didn't matter. If they lost to will to go on and Hollowed, they were unfit for the mission from the beginning. They were expendable. There would be another Undead, unknowingly taking its place.

He would get his respect, no matter what the cost.

He would even sacrifice himself, if there was no one left.

Xxxxxxxx

It was at this point that Gwyndolin realized that he had very much become a monster. Now that the seeds of doubt were planted by Lothric, they were easily thriving in a mind that experienced too much loss all at once.

He had no more blood family for they were long passed. His intuition told him so. Ornstein didn't come back either, so he didn't even have a knight by his side. Smough was a fine guardian despite his grotesque disposition, but Gwyndolin grew up closer to Ornstein, so he cared more about him.

He had a kingdom no more, the once divine residence now a playground for heretics and their offshoots.

He was no longer a Lord of Anor Londo. He was no longer even a Heir of Fire. His sun was forcefully eclipsed and pushed back into the dark by the very thing that was supposed to keep it in the forefront.

All he had was Yorshka and himself.

He was just Gwyndolin now. All the status he had to hold onto was his title as the Dark Sun. A title he had given to himself no more than a couple of moments ago. Out of bitterness, but undertoned with something akin to relief.

He was a fallen Lord, born into the shadows, to be a shadow, and to remain one.

He'd always be in his father's shadow and the shadow of his siblings.

The sorcerer found himself stripped of pride, dignity, and strangely, burden.

Looking up at the brothers, who had been content with simply staring at him and the many facial expressions he showed through his mental life timeline review, he saw two moons. Two shadows that were content with being in the dark. The light and the Flame wasn't their destiny and they knew that, they didn't fight what was meant to happen. Only fight what desired to change the inevitable outcome.

Being stripped of his life of before, perhaps this was the world's way of telling Gwyndolin that he had the chance to live and prosper in a life that he should have accepted from the start.

Perhaps, he needed to experience the psychological pains of the Flame to realize that it was truly unsustainable and uncontrollable. That he wasn't meant for the job of Lord.

He could see the brothers had been here for a while, they were quite comfortable in the ruins. They enjoyed being... unimportant. Unknown to the world. Disinterested with the world. They...were the dark that every man, including himself, had been raised to fear.

Was he really so different from them?