Chapter Text
Red, within the cavernous depths. Red light upon stone, as if the air itself glows, casting its dim illumination upon massive pillars flanking a structure’s carved facade. And in between, a drop down five stories at least, past a platform on which the light of grace faintly glimmers, far down to where a channel is cut from the floor and scarlet water stagnates and stinks.
But as Pyrrha’s downward gaze drifts away from the architecture and the rot, she comes to look upon her own feet – and the empty air beneath them. She startles, lifting one golden boot, but there is nowhere to place it down again, not even a one inch lip on the stone wall at her back, and so she stands awkwardly upon one foot as worry grows across her face.
“Be not afraid,” a soft voice comes from behind, and Pyrrha strains to look without moving the rest of her body. A woman stands at her side now, tall and adorned with iridescent butterfly wings, dressed all in white and violet and with a third eye tattooed in matching colors upon her forehead. “This is but a dream, and no harm can come to you here.”
Slowly, carefully, Pyrrha lowers her foot again and stands comfortably upon nothing once more. The winged woman walks out on the air in front of her, just a few steps, then turns back and offers one hand with a smile. “My name is Trina. Take my hand, and walk with me.”
What else can she do? Pyrrha takes the offered hand and lets herself be led forward and down over invisible stairs, as Trina’s soft voice somehow fills the expansive hall around.
“Have you heard the legends of the scarlet rot?” Before Pyrrha can answer that she is familiar with the disease – it’s all over Caelid – but that she’s never heard of any legends, Trina continues as if she already knows her response. “It is an old affliction, older than even the Erdtree itself, and long ago, great lords worshiped here in service to the rot.”
A pale purple mist sweeps over the ground far below, and in its wake figures appear along the sides of the canal: humanoid, but so densely covered in fungal growths that no flesh beneath can be seen. At the front of the crowd, upon the stairs leading up to the great edifice beyond, three figures stand with towering crowns of fungus atop their heads, leading the rest in a droning chant as all slowly sway in unison.
“Their Goddess of Rot spread pestilence across all the land, and the worshipers thought it good. They believed in a cycle of decay and rebirth… and how were they to know that the promised rebirth was but a lie to lure them in? Through their sacrifices, the Goddess of Rot grew stronger, and manifested a vassal beast.”
Trina flutters her wings, and in a dizzying rush the perspective changes, zooming forward and down in a fraction of a second until Pyrrha finds herself standing in the temple doorway. The torches to either side cast their flickering light inside to reveal a massive scorpion, its carapace the same mottled beige as the mushrooms outside, with a stinger streaked in scarlet and orange that seems to glow from within.
“Thus Rot reigned over the ancient Lands Between, until another power chose to challenge it: the Primeval Current, known today as the source of glintstone, and the mother of falling stars.”
A haze of lavender obscures Pyrrha’s vision entirely now, and when it clears, she and Trina stand upon the surface world once more, knee deep in a fetid swamp beneath the night sky. The stars above drift lazily through the firmament, forming streams and eddies that visibly turn even in just a minute’s watching.
“The god of flowing stars sought to expand its domain to flowing waters, and would cleanse this land and claim it. Though it lacked the strength to send a vassal beast, it produced a fairy–”
With these words, a brilliant mote of indigo light pops into existence ahead of the pair, as Trina paints her tale upon the dreaming realm. Next to it, a man walks out of a violet cloud and kneels in the mud.
“–who bestowed a flowing sword upon a blind swordsman. Blinded first by the rot, and second by thoughts of revenge against that force of nature itself, the swordsman took up his cause as the stars’ champion.”
The fairy-light blinks out, and the swordsman’s clothing is replaced with a set in matching blue. He steps through a series of elegant stances with his curved blade, almost more of a dance than a fighting technique, then stops as a young girl wanders out of the mists – a girl missing an arm, but carrying a blade with the one she has.
Streaks of light cross the sky, one after another, and in the distance a falling star strikes the earth and throws up a glittering spray of water. Trina’s lavender mist swirls once more, and then Pyrrha is at the crater site in daytime, watching as the swordsman whittles a solid chunk of glintstone into a rough but workable prosthetic arm.
“The Blind Swordsman and his apprentice descended deep beneath the earth, where they cut down the fungal priests and slew the vassal of Rot. There, they enacted a ritual learned from their starry patron, to bind the essence of the Goddess of Rot into a flowing cycle of fate, anathema to the stagnant domination it had enjoyed.”
Scenes of Trina’s latest words play out before Pyrrha’s eyes, showing the two carving through a horde of rotted followers with spinning slashes of metal and conjured glintblades alike. When it comes time for the great scorpion itself, the one-armed girl conjures translucent wings of blue over her own back, and flits around the temple hall baiting out strikes of the beast’s tail so that the swordsman below can freely counter.
And around the beast’s corpse, the swordsman and maiden chant and pray, circling it as a rapid decay sets in. To outsiders watching from afar, the ritual is incomprehensible, but through a wave of Trina’s hand, the vision skips to the end. The pair walk out of the cloister hall and descend the stairs, coming to rest at the edge of now clear and flowing waters that turn the corner of the canal and disappear in a deep cascade off the nearby cliff.
“Though I played the role of swordsman,” the blind man announces to the cavernous empty space, “I am become now the fairy, and I gift this sword to the flowing waters for deliverance to my successors, forevermore.” He raises the elegantly curved blade over his head, then casts it away into the water, trusting that when it is needed again, it will find its way to a worthy hand.
“I now relinquish this fate and release it, to be woven again and again through the future of these lands, always alongside the fate of Rot. Wherever the scarlet scourge blooms, my current shall rise beneath it, and wash its filth away.”
And with that, the strength leaves the old swordsman’s bones, and he falls to his knees and pitches forward into the same swift waters to be borne away at last.
“Though I played the role of maiden,” the prosthetic-wielder proclaims once he is gone, “I am become now the swordsman, and I shall depart to take my own apprentice. When the knowledge of glintstone and its power is passed on, then too will I relinquish this fate that I have walked, that it may be bound alongside the fate of Rot. Wherever the scarlet scourge blooms, my wings shall rise above it, and disperse its noxious air.”
Her own announcement finished, she spreads her gossamer wings of sorcery and flies up and away, back toward the surface so far above, and toward the people now freed from plague at last who she may teach the ways of the stars.
Pyrrha watches her go, then turns to Trina with a question. “Who were those people? How long ago was all this?”
“History will never know their names. But they existed, and the story they set in motion has played out countless times. There is much to be learned from those later cycles as well.”
Trina conjures up a purple mist, but Pyrrha interjects before a new scene is painted before her. “Wait. You said another god started this. The Primeval Current? Why?”
“The Primeval Current got exactly what it had always wanted from this intervention in the Lands Between.” The view all around returns to the surface, overlooking the shallow lakes as the scaffolding for a brand new Academy of Raya Lucaria is built before their eyes. “The worship of a hundred generations of Liurnians, from that very first maiden and her students to the present day.”
The dream shifts back to place Pyrrha and her guide high above the temple of Rot, watching as its flowing waters turn still and scarlet once more. “But even bound,” Trina says, “the Goddess of Rot drew in new followers, who would help it plot both escape and revenge. No more fungal lords… now, the pests.”
Tall, insectoid creatures appear flanking the canal, hunched over with hard carapaces over their backs. “The word was theirs first,” Trina explains to forestall Pyrrha’s immediate question. “Pest is their name as human is yours, and only over the centuries as they transformed from enemies to legends to children’s tales did the meaning slowly shift, until now anyone unwanted can be called a pest.”
“This was still before the Age of the Erdtree, and the people of Liurnia were not yet Carians or Cuckoos. Then, they were called Nox, and their great city was Nokstella. They worshiped the stars and called fallingstar beasts holy creatures… and through that devotion, the Goddess of Rot struck back at last.”
In a swirl of violet, Pyrrha is transported into a vision of deep space, stars above and below, with her only company Trina and a massive four-legged beast made of meteoric stone walking along a flowing ribbon of teal-blue light. Instinctively one hand goes toward where her spear should be across her back, but in the dream it is not there, and the beast’s wide, terrible pincers and its thorned whip of a tail do not turn her way.
“The Goddess of Rot took revenge on the Primeval Current in the place it would hurt the most. It seized a fallingstar beast and corrupted it, twisting its form into that of the Rot’s vassal.”
Before her eyes, the bull-like beast twists and screams as it sprouts new legs on either side, as its body flattens and those appendages are elongated into spindly humanoid arms. The pincers at its front are unchanged but behind them grows a new head, skull-like but with the forehead cracked open, and within the cranial cavity nothing but a single massive eye. And behind, the barbed tail too is stretched outward, bubbling and contorting upward into a curve, until the beast’s shape is recognizable once again… as a scorpion.
“Astel, this malformed star was called, this bastard child of the void, as an insult to all things stellar. It was cast down upon the Lands Between, where it destroyed Nokstella and made its way deep below, to lead the pests as a makeshift, surrogate vassal beast.”
Pyrrha’s eyes narrow. “So… what happened, then? If this started an ongoing feud between two alien gods, I think we’d be seeing the effects. Right?”
“Not a feud,” Trina replies, “but one can see the impact today. The ruins of Nokstella still exist, buried beneath Liurnia’s shores, but the Primeval Current has long since pulled back from direct interference, preferring instead to cut its losses with Astel and focus on the growing tradition of glintstone sorcerers who honor it with their practice.”
Trina shrugs carelessly. “The Primeval Current is sensible, calm, measured. One of the less objectionable as far as outer gods go, provided you can deal with the rampaging star-beasts that fall every so often. The Rot, on the other hand… There are three main roles in its opposition, as written in the story of its binding: the Blue Fairy, the Blind Swordsman, and the One-Armed Maiden. Their identities do not matter, only their roles. The roles that must be played out in full, or else the Goddess of Rot becomes free to write a new future.”
Pyrrha frowns, and paces back and forth across the empty void. “It can’t be just a script though, right? A single massive ritual carried out over months or years?”
“There are variations, of course. The Blind Swordsman is not always blind. They are not always a man. They do not always use a sword… occasionally, not even a weapon at all. But they are always an unparalleled combatant at their chosen art, and use an elegant style, and need not rely on their eyes to win a fight.”
A new scene takes shape before Pyrrha’s eyes: the grand cloister once more, with a crowd of pests bowing down… to a human standing atop the temple stairs. “Once, the Blind Swordsman was an orator, who conquered countless dangers with words alone. In that cycle, he turned the pests against their master, and had them bind the Rot anew. The Maiden he trained was a beastman who used the powers of speech he learned to bring about peace and alliance with the sapling Erdtree.”
“A beastman? Like Maliketh?”
“Indeed.” Trina meets Pyrrha’s questioning gaze and gives her a smirk. “You may be familiar with this particular beastman’s son, Serosh, who became living symbol of the alliance between his people and Queen Marika’s newly established regime.”
Pyrrha takes in a sharp breath in realization. “Godfrey’s lion-man,” she murmurs aloud. “He killed him, right in front of me.”
For the first time, Trina appears in less than total control of the dream, and surprise is evident on her face for just an instant before she wipes it away. “In the present day, the Goddess of Rot is reaching out once again,” she declares without any acknowledgement of the words before. “I assume you know of the former demigod Malenia?”
The temple of rot disappears into lavender mist, and new ground spreads from around Trina’s feet, covered in weeping lilies in silver and gold. Some twenty feet away, a monument rises above the flowered field, depicting two young girls kneeling and clutching each other in a tight embrace.
“Malenia the blessed, the Empyrean, the undefeated… cursed since birth with scarlet rot. A preemptive strike not at the Primeval Current, but a different outer god: the Greater Will who claims as servants both your predecessor and yourself. A bold move from the bound goddess below, to assault the reigning Order, and one which must be answered in our time.”
“What do you mean, a different outer god?” Pyrrha asks, her eyes narrowing as she looks between Trina and the half-obscured faces on the statue above. “The Greater Will is just… God, singular.”
But Trina neglects to answer, instead carrying on with her own thought without a pause. “There are countless plots the story can take. But the enemy always opens with an outstretched hand bearing pestilence and curse, and the response begins with the Blue Fairy arriving unbidden to bestow a necessary gift. No matter how the middle goes, it always ends with the Swordsman and the Maiden sealing away the Goddess of Rot together… and then generations pass, and the cycle repeats again.”
“And you’re saying Malenia’s sickness is the start of it? That someone will need to become each of these three roles, these fates, and…”
Pyrrha trails off, and her eye contact with Trina fails as her attention moves downward, to a trickle of blood running out of the dream apparition’s sleeve and down the inside of her forearm. “Trina, you’re bleeding.”
Trina glances down just as the stream of blood reaches her fingertips and begins to drip steadily into a pool on the ground by her side. “I need to go now,” she announces abruptly. “And you need to wake up.”
“Um. Okay? But…” Pyrrha stares into the growing puddle of crimson until Trina sharply turns her back, breaking the steady stream of blood to instead scatter droplets across the metallic flower petals around. “Goodbye then. I love you.”
She claps one hand over her mouth for a second in sudden shame. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
As Trina spreads her wings and launches upward into the haze, two words are called back to her just as the mysterious woman disappears. “You will.”
Pyrrha jolts wide awake, sitting up straight in her bed on reflex alone as her mind races with too much information to process. The quilt, masterfully embroidered with an Erdtree crest, falls away, and beside her the sleeping Lansseax senses the movement and pulls the blanket up over her shoulders again.
At first thought, now that she can approach it all with a conscious mind once again, the whole experience seems absurd. Just a dream, no more… yet it felt so real, and Trina’s words and the visions she showed linger in Pyrrha’s mind, unable to be forgotten.
While under the influence, it had never occurred to her sleeping mind to question the reality of the story she was being told, and now that she’s awake… it can’t be real, that makes no sense for more reasons than one, but from what she knows of the history of the Lands Between? There’s nothing she’s read so far that actually contradicts the possibility. She’s heard of Nokstella, at least, and knows it is long since destroyed.
A glance to the curtains shows faint glimmers of light just beginning to leak through around the edges – it’s early morning, and another busy day of managing the competing needs of a small continent lies ahead. Her beloved Elden Lord can rest another hour, perhaps, but Pyrrha cannot stomach the thought of staying in bed herself.
So she slips out, as quietly as she can, and pads barefoot into another room of the modest house she and Lansseax had commandeered. Not the largest or most ornate, though the trappings of royalty have slowly accumulated – gifts from King Morgott or the knights, mainly, or sent by Radagon as he rebuilds his home in Liurnia – things Pyrrha often has no use for but cannot politely turn away.
She sits at the dining room’s carved hardwood table, by the half not covered in a folded Carian tapestry she has yet to find a space for, and raises two fingers into the air as she softly calls out. “Melina, are you there?”
Her fingers glow faintly with gold, and beside her indigo sparkles coalesce into the familiar hooded form of the Lord’s advisor. “I am always at your side,” Melina says softly. “Even if I was elsewhere a minute before. It is one of the perks of being bodiless.”
Pyrrha smiles, and gestures for Melina to take a seat beside her. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Trina?”
Melina raises one eyebrow. “That’s a name I have not heard in a long time,” she says. “I take it from the fact you’re awake earlier than usual, that you have just had an encounter?”
Pyrrha’s eyes widen. “You’ve heard the name before? You know her?” She looks away, puzzled. “But that would mean…”
“The name Trina, often called Saint Trina,” Melina begins, “refers to a mythical figure that many have reported dreaming about, with broadly consistent descriptions. A woman, taller than average, with the shining golden eyes that would mark her as close to grace, yet without any other sign of gold.”
“And butterfly wings,” Pyrrha adds. “And a third eye on her forehead – not real, just an outline drawn in purple.”
“I am not familiar with any prior sighting of Trina with wings,” Melina says, “but it is to be expected that each encounter is different. Dreams of her were common during my lifetime, but reports stopped a few years into the Shattering and I have heard no more until now. Although, knowing you have seen her, I must ask… is everything alright?”
“What do you mean?”
“Trina is… not worshiped, exactly, but something approaching it, mainly by the sick or the marginalized. Those who more than anything else need sleep, and rest, and recovery, and peace. She–”
“I’m fine,” Pyrrha interrupts. “But the things she was talking about were not rest and peace. Why would she be so different for me? And how does she get into people’s dreams to begin with?”
Melina raises one cautioning finger. “You misunderstand,” she says. “Saint Trina is not a real person. She is a legend. The way I have always understood it is that the idea of Trina spreads when people dream of her and tell others of their dream. The concept of a protector or guide enters others’ minds, and later their dreams may conjure her image too.”
Pyrrha frowns, her eyes narrowing as she thinks through those words. “But… I’d never heard of her before,” she says finally. “Never knew the name or the look, until she appeared and introduced herself to me.”
“Then that is strange, and I know nothing more to explain it.” Melina tugs the edges of her cloak a little tighter across her shoulders, and a brief flurry of indigo sparkles rise from her and shine in the air. “You are certain the legend of Trina was unknown to you entirely? You did not even overhear a conversation between strangers in passing?”
“I…” Pyrrha lets out a breath. “I can’t be certain, not of every last word I’ve heard in these lands. But consciously, at least, I knew nothing. And I didn’t expect you to know this woman I dreamed about either, I just… It felt so real, and there’s so much magic I don’t know yet, that I had to ask.”
“And as Finger Maiden, questions are what I am here for,” Melina reassures her with a soft smile. “I suppose I cannot rule out the possibility, but let me put it this way: if there were a sorcery that allowed one to step into another’s dreams, I have never heard of it. It would be unique, and new, and outside any school of magic that I know of.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”Pyrrha reaches across the corner of the table to take Melina’s hand. “Your insights have been very valuable, and I cannot thank you enough for staying by the two of us–” She nods her head in the direction of the bedroom. “–for all this time. I should get ready for the day soon, but it was good to talk.”
“Likewise.” Melina stands, but does not yet fade into sparkles and disappear.
“Until later, then. Maybe I’ll stop by the library at some point, if I get a chance, and we can both learn more together.”
“I missed you earlier,” Lansseax says, sitting next to Pyrrha on a low stone wall, in a secluded courtyard in lower Leyndell.
Pyrrha makes a face. “We were apart for what, two hours?” She stands briefly to look for the sun, but does not quite find it over the edge of the rooftops all around. “If that?”
At this, Lansseax only pouts and replies, “About that, yes. And in that time, I missed my wife.”
Pyrrha throws an arm around her as she laughs. “Fair enough,” she admits.
“I mean it! Ancient dragons have many gifts. Fire breath, impenetrable scales, fancy red lightning magic… but emotional stability?” Lansseax scoffs. “Never known any of us to have that.”
She stretches and gazes up at the clear blue sky, then rests back upon her wife's shoulder. “So what have you been up to today?”
Pyrrha shrugs. “Had a weird dream, couldn't get back to sleep. Didn't want to wake you so I just got up and talked to Melina for a little bit. Interesting stuff, and that made me want to check out the library, but of course I couldn't find much on ancient Liurnian history before it was time for my meeting with one of Morgott's people.”
“A meeting?” Lansseax's eyes narrow. “Which meeting was this again? Was I supposed to be there?”
“Don't worry, this one was just me. I've been trying to get people on board with my plan to modernize the Lands Between a little – I mean, there's all this stuff that I know works from back home, but it hasn't been invented here. It's going to be difficult, of course, but I am hoping to raise the general standard of living a bit.”
“How so?”
“Well, we're starting small. Right now I'd be satisfied if we got a steam engine up and running. A simple thing, but it is the foundation of basically all automation, and electricity, and everything that makes Remnant the society it is today. My ideas were either this, gunpowder, or large sailing ships with compasses and navigation by the stars – and I'd rather not invent gunpowder. Restocking my own rifle ammo isn't worth unleashing a new generation of weapons technology on the world.”
Lansseax frowns. “Yeah, best not. But what's wrong with the ships?”
At this seemingly innocent question, Pyrrha leans forward and rests her face in her hands. “It seems so straightforward, doesn't it? Build a big boat and sail out until you find another land. But you need navigation. I don't know if the stars work the same as they do back home. I haven't seen them move, and apparently that's because of General Radahn? I don't even know if this world is round! Does it even have a north and south geomagnetic pole to align your compass to? There's all these little things that you never think of until you try to do something and suddenly you realize you're missing something critical.”
“And I'm afraid I don't know many answers either,” Lansseax says. “Having not really been around humans most of my life. This leadership stuff is hard.”
“Tell me about it.” Pyrrha rolls her eyes. “The job I trained for was to be a hired fighter protecting towns from mindless monsters, not…” She purses her lips and gives a helpless shrug. “Not becoming a religious leader for a new world I still barely know.”
Lansseax opens her mouth to respond, but hesitates as she sees a Leyndell knight hurriedly approaching. She gestures to draw Pyrrha's attention that way as well, and when it becomes clear the knight is indeed coming for the two of them, both stand to receive their visitor.
“Your Lordship, Your Grace,” the knight begins with a small bow, “King Morgott sends word: a visitor has come to Leyndell and your presence is requested at the throne courtyard at your convenience.”
“Understood,” Elden Lord Lansseax tells her loyal subject. “Thank you for the message.” She looks to her wife, and gestures forward. “Shall we go at once?”
Pyrrha lets her feet give the answer, leading the way out of the courtyard. Once on the main road again, it is a short walk to the bottom of the elevator that will take them both to the upper reaches of the city.
“As I was saying,” Lansseax begins abruptly. “Leadership is hard. Before I was Elden Lord, if I had a problem, I would either A, fry the problem with lightning, or B, ignore the problem and take a nap. And then I didn't have a problem anymore! But this latest thing…” She sighs and shakes her head. “Why is politics like this?”
Pyrrha laughs and gives her wife a sympathetic smile. “Oh no, what is it this time?”
“So there's this guy named Kenneth Haight who's got a fort down in Limgrave, and ever since you put Godrick out of his misery, he's been intent on finding a new local Lord for the region. He can't find a candidate, and no amount of lightning or napping is going to solve that problem.”
“Maybe if he wants something done right, he could do it himself? Especially if he's already got a fort. And is respectable enough to come and ask you instead of just becoming a warlord and not caring what anyone else thinks.”
“I tried that,” Lansseax mopes as she steps off the elevator platform at the top. “He says he's not worthy. I almost told him ‘well neither am I but I'm still doing my best as Elden Lord’ but I wasn't sure how well he'd take that.”
“It would be funny to see his face after that,” Pyrrha admits, “but maybe not the best plan. If he's still in Leyndell, maybe we should talk to him together sometime, see if we can convince him to take one for the team and accept the job. Unless there really is someone more worthy?”
“Oh, probably, but I don't know them. I doubt my brother or his boyfriend want to deal with Limgrave either.”
The pair walk together up the final set of stairs, and their former conversation is put on hold as they arrive at the Elden Throne. A truly uncomfortable chair, in the Third Elden Lord's words, but there's nothing in the job description that says she has to actually sit on it. In front of the throne, the open courtyard is empty save for two: the King of Leyndell himself, and a tall warrior in gleaming golden armor, accented by a thick plume of red at the back of the helmet.
Both bow at the Queen and Lord's approach, and then the visitor takes a few steps forward for an introduction. “Greetings, Your Lordship. Greetings, Your Grace. My name is Finlay, captain of the Cleanrot Knights.”
“A diplomatic visit,” Morgott adds, “even if not officially. She has made the long trek from the Haligtree alone and wished to speak with the Queen at once. I thought it wise to oblige.”
“Of course,” Pyrrha says with a nod, silently remaking her initial perceptions of the visitor, as from the knight's voice alone she had not realized Finlay was a woman. “So what brings a Cleanrot Knight all the way to Leyndell, so far from home?”
“I have come on behalf of my lady Malenia,” comes the answer at once. “…Who did not send me, nor likely even knows I am here.”
“Something we can help with?” Lansseax prompts.
“I hope so… or else I will truly appear a fool.” Despite the shining armor and fearsome scythe at her back, Finlay is visibly nervous. “You may think this odd, I know, but bear with me. I am here… because recently I have been having strange dreams.”