Prologue: The End

Once, there was a cherished prince, born to a great kingdom, built upon the ruins of countless such kingdoms by the old Hero-King, Gundyr—whose name and tale resonated throughout the kingdom until its final days, despite the majority of his lineage fading into obscurity.

Lothric.

A sacred place, one that would eventually serve as a bastion for those that still basked in the radiance of the sun, adhering to the old words that were passed down from knights to squires, from priests to their flock, from parent to child, since time immeasurable:

"One day, even the brightest of flames wither and fade, until there is nothing left but an all-consuming darkness."

Yes, the Darkness would come, as it had for countless kingdoms in the past. It was inevitable. But just as before, when the fires of the First Flame are threatened, one worthy soul would travel to its decrepit chamber and take the mantle of Lord of Cinder for himself. The young Prince—or, as many within the castle's halls would refer to him as, King—Lothric may have been born sickly and crippled, but within him lay the soul of a Lord, who would burn as brilliantly as that of his ancestors.

Only, in the end, this wasn't what happened.

When the throne of Lothric finally became his, the prince made his choice as the time of sacrificing dawned…and rejected his destiny, decimating what little hope the Pillars of Rule had scraped together after the quiet disappearance of the Monarchs.

The worship of the sun was outlawed, and mention of the Firelinking ritual became heresy. A mighty war erupted between the Angelic Faith, holy warriors and clerics who would preserve the ancient ritual at all cost, and the knights that swore to uphold their newly appointed king's decree.

Cut off from the outside world within the highest room of his castle and surrounded by the kingdom's fiercest knights, the Prince who would Link the Fire waited, content to watch as the embers faded, the world darkened, and the the Curse of Undeath ravaged the humans who once flocked to him for guidance.

Thus began, the Age of Dark.

But unlike before, no Chosen Undead ever appeared to offer themselves to the waning flames and breath new life to the world.

That is, until the unkindled—nameless, undead that failed to appease the Flames and were reduced to mere ashes—began to rise from their own graves; tasked with bringing the little lord to his senses and restoring fire to the world when the Lords of Ages long past refused to do so a second time…

But this is not their story. For theirs had long since come and gone—as insignificant as they themselves were to the cold and miserable world.

No, this is the story of just one unkindled, who through strength, perseverance, and dauntlessness, overcame impossible odds and now stands where the souls of both gods and men have been sacrificed time and time again…

….

The world was well and truly dead.

Before, one could at least pretend that the world around them had yet to fall to the Abyss for the sake of their sanity; they would tell themselves that the Curse wouldn't last too long, that whatever horrors they were experiencing were only temporary, that this Age of Dark would end exactly like the ones that came before it: prematurely and without much casualties—especially since they alreadyhad a Lord that was simply waiting to take the throne…

Now? Well, one only needed to look around to see for themselves, and if the pitch-black skies or the trees composed entirely of still-living Hollows wasn't enough proof, well…

Say a reasonably sane and lucid undead—assuming a person like that still existed—were to journey far into the north until their feet bled, they would eventually reach a seemingly ordinary shrine, decrepit from the lack of care over the years eroding whatever awe it once held. Here, the converging kingdoms of Ages past could be seen beyond its steep cliffsides, warped and smashed indiscriminately into one another—one of the many consequences of time itself being unwound for too long.

Such a sight could easily break the most resilient of skeptics, but then, sights like these were common in this current, hellish Age.

What wasn't common was the sounds.

If their curiosity overcame their dread, they would make their way past the cemetery on the outskirts, where the graves of both the unkindled and the old Lords of Cinder lay, decimated by their previous occupants, and ascend the crumbling steps littered with the drained corpses of those that fought for an end to fire.

It's at the summit, where the bodies of a faithful knightess and a tyrant could be found, that, if one were to listen, the clashing of blades could be heard—the last song that this decaying world would know.

…..

Two stood among the sea of blackened blades: one, a thing even lower than an undead, who had willingly marched a path leading to damnation, and the other, a seven foot the anger of the First Flame made manifest, channeling the strength of champions from Ages past to stop any who wished to delay the inevitable once more.

The coiled greatsword, still alight with the waning embers of the First Flame itself, crashed down upon the Unkindled's battered shield—now a hunk of misshaped metal rather than the sturdy shield that aided him through the majority of his journey.

Nevertheless, the shield held the beast of a sword back and earned another enormous scorched marking. His knees on the verge of giving in, the Unkindled took his advantage and attempted to stab his blade within the enraged creature exposed front.

The flame possessed armor nimbly leaped back to avoid the attack, thrusting its weapon forward to close the distance between them once more.

The unkindled threw himself to the hot sand, just barely evading the attack before slashing at the Incarnation's legs, his Titanite-laced blade easily cutting past the ancient armor that encased it.

And so, they continued in this way: the Incarnation of Fire furiously slashing his weapon like a maddened berserker touched by the Abyss, while the unkindled tried his best to avoid and block his attacks. He fell many times—several of which attributed to being caught off guard by the creature's tendency to switch to a completely different fighting style-from an aggressive swordmaster, to a nimble pyromancer, to even a caster of all thingsthat rained a hail of Soul Arrows towards his fleeing form-just as he was beginning to get used to the previous. The rest however, were due to pure pragmatism; sacrificing his life to create openings and counter-attacking when he was no longer being targeted was as viable a strategy as charging in with a giant hammer or axe as far as he was concerned.

But even he knew his long-held strategy would not serve him for long. There was only so much resurrecting he could handle before the stress broke his body. When that happened…well, he had taken a long look at the coiled blade's former resting place before the battle started-he had little doubts that his corpse would be used for kindling should he fall here-like so many others.

The dark sun that had suddenly dominated the skies was the only witness to this gruesome dance; the angry, red streak flooding down from its edge as if its blood had rained upon the land, leaving nothing but a dark, gaping void in its wake.

To those scant few that had survived to witness it, the horror of watching the accursed Darksign eclipsing the sun was proof enough that the reign of the now forgotten gods had come to an end, and that darkness would soon envelop all that the eye could see…and yet, there were some who viewed this event not with dread, but with anticipation; to them, this was a beginning, a chance to undo the shackles placed upon them by the tyrannical divines and truly, finally, begin to live for the first time since the Age of Ancients.

Finally, after some time, the Unkindled stared at the kneeling seven foot colossus preparing to deal the finishing blow…

Before finding himself crashing into the ground, a pile of ruined blades breaking his fall.

The Unkindled wheezed in pain, tearing his gaze away from the broken pieces of his helmet on the ground towards his rising opponent, now surrounded by the familiar burning aura common to all that carried the cinders of Lords within them.

Slowly, the Unkindled dragged himself from the ground. His entire body ached, screaming in protest with every movement. For most, this would have been the point where they let go: Out of Estus, ready to collapse, and with no weapon-what else was there left to do other than close his eyes and let the despair take him into the utter bliss of Hollowing?

And yet, no part of his mind considered that option. True, he was weaponless and exhausted; the gauntlet of enemies he had fought through to get here could easily be described as raw agony-even with Sirris's help.

But…

Before him were several usable weapons, scorched and worn as they were, and he was still able to stand, if only barely. He had wounded his opponent enough that it had called upon the powers of the Fire-which meant that while it became much, much more formidable, it was also growing desperate.

That alone was more than enough reason for him to keep fighting until his own body stopped him.

It would be simple to confuse this act for one of self-sacrifice, and one would be forgiven for thinking so. But this Unkindled had a far simpler reason for doing what he did, far and away from the typical justifications any sane undead would use when pushing themselves this much while at the brink:

His goal was quite literally within his view, and there was something blocking him from it.

Nothing more, nothing less.

He clutched the last embers in his trembling hands, the pitiful thing radiating a dull warmth in the otherwise dark, cold void. Power surged within him like a seething anger as he took the essence within himself—the small flicker of the First Flame abating his pain, if only for a moment—for they deemed him a worthy host, little different from a Lord or the amalgamation before him.

His legs no longer feeling like steel, the Unkindled seized the weapon beside him-a terribly unbalanced and misshapen blade (a saber, if he had to guess), especially when compared to his trusty, humble broadsword-and charged.

As if meeting the Unkindled's wordless challenge, the Incarnation hurled a golden flash into the skies, causing bolts of lightning—no, not lightning, he quickly realized as a bolt narrowly missed him, radiating a blazing heat far stronger than any lightning Miracle he had ever weathered. One of the nameless-

The Unkindled quickly killed the thought, throwing himself to the ground to avoid the sweeping slash before retaliating with a rising slash . The brittle blade barely fazed his opponent, who knocked it aside with his free hand before beginning to sweep his weapon upwards in an attempt to launch the undead into the air- sending up ashes and juts of flames with its swing.

Desperation began to set in as the Unkindled thoughtlessly pulled within himself, willing the corrupted fire within to flicker to his sword hand. A stream of blackfire erupted from his burning hand, and for a moment, the Unkindled mentally berated himself; he wasn't up against the vast, frost-armed soldiers of the Boreal Valley's army, he was up against the First Flame itself, channeling some great, likely divine, warrior from the long faded past to meet him.

And yet, despite the improbability of it, the attack did have an effect.

The Incarnation reacted to the flames. Not by slashing them away with one mighty swing, no, it backpedaled away from them. It seems not even dying and becoming eternally enveloped in the warmth of the First Flame was enough to quell the primal fear of the Abyss-or maybe, this was a consequence of becoming one with the Fire Itself?

The Unkindled hardly dwelled on it, setting his sights on the longsword buried just out of his reach. Despite being burnt and blackened, it looked to be one of the sturdier weapons within the kiln, reducing the risk of it breaking when he most needed it.

The sounds of heavy footfalls behind him indicated that his small window of opportunity was quickly fading.

Just as he reached for the hilt, the sounds of the Incarnation's sword igniting reached the Unkindled ears, and he quickly reengaged his opponent.

The armor launched itself towards the Unkindled, who hastily brought up what was left of his shield to avoid being run through. It did not stop there, as the flaming blade continued to pound at the dented shield, until eventually it broke through it, leaving the unkindled with half a pierced shield and a damaged arm—which would have been rendered useless, were it not for his nearly breaking equipment and power of the embers within him.

He grit his teeth to keep himself from crying out in agony, focusing his pain into his pyromancy; manifesting a large gout of fire that could have melted armor with ease.

Unfortunately, the Incarnation had seemingly conquered his fear of the Abyss, and the Unkindled found himself being lifted off the ground almost effortlessly. Knowing that struggling was next to useless, the unkindled took his chance: channeling the blackened fire within him into the arm that was currently crushing his face.

The Incarnation's arm violently combusted, freeing the Unkindled from its grasp and causing it to fall to one knee.

Freeing the weapon from the sands, the Unkindled raised it above his head with trembling hands, ready to deal the final blow before he felt the coiled sword burning through his stomach

Rather than panic, indignation coursed through the Unkindled, and the grip on the weapon tightened as he brought the blade down.

"just…die already!"

The embers that ignited the Incarnation began to fade, as it collapsed into itself; little more than ashes itself with one final, agonizing cry—although the irony of their similarity would not hit the Unkindled just yet.

He turned away from the remains, although his victory was short-lived, for his embers too had begun to fade away—the longsword, now feeling as if it was a greatsword to his exhausted body, was the only thing keeping him from falling over. He could feel the pain, both from his wounds and having resurrected so much in such a short time, racking his body; his vision became a haze, a burning sensation raced down his left shoulder to his fingertips, and he felt too heavy to stay standing.

He tried to take off his armor-it was slowly him down, and besides, he wouldn't be needing it anymore….

But he was tired. So very tired...and the bonfire seemed so far away…If he could will his body to move just a little more, he could rekindle the First Flame and…

and…

The Unkindled hardly felt the sand hitting his face as his body forcibly shut down and his consciousness faded go black.

And so, the world ended again.

It didn't end in a roaring inferno, mindlessly burning everything in its path as those that sought the comfort of Darkness anticipated, nor did it end in an eternal night filled with decay and the ringing screams of abominations like the ones who fled towards the glow of the Flames feared, despite how close it actually got…

This time, the world had ended in a silence that no one saw coming. Nothing of it remained, only an ever-present silence.

…..

"Hearest thou my voice…?"

…

…...

A/N I've rewritten this over and over to the point of near-insanity, but at last, I dragged it out into the open.

I make zero promises on quality or where this is gonna go (Well, I KNOW where I want to take this, but well, stories are fickle things at the end of the day, aren't they?), except that I'll kick my perfectionist habit to the curb and give y'all something that's completed and interesting, if nothing else.

Anyways, I'm sure you've noticed, but in case you haven't: this isn't the Lothric you know. My version of Lothric is a mixture of the one seen in-game, the alpha builds, and ideas from deep within my brain. Ditto, for Re: Zero's setting, though in that one's case, I'm not straying far from canon, well, not yet anyways.

Anyways, if your fine with all of this, I'll see you when I see you (with an actual first chapter)