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The bonfire glowed softly, dying embers in the darkness. The undead traveler had stopped for the night. The embrace of the flames was a boon beyond all others. The gentle warmth caressed the mishmash of armors he had adorned himself with. Though it was no proud work, the protection he had pilfered from corpses had help him retain his form and sanity. A breastplate removed from the body of a cleric in an old tomb. Weighty stone gauntlets, with traces of moss he had not been able to remove. Leggings of leather with inlaid silver rings. A helmet that once belonged to a knight of Berenike. It could not keep him alive. Nothing he knew of could. Not now, not ever. But still, it offered comfort and protection from unnecessary pain. That's about all he could hope for anymore. To stave off the pain. It wasn't everything to him, but just about.
There was a clatter of metal. Soft, but distinct, in the dark. His eyes could not adjust past the flames and he began to worry. Death approached. He could feel it. The sting of an icy dagger between ribs, the burning sensation of rotting poison seeping into an open wound, the blinding agony of lightning hurled by a crazed warrior of the sun. He was going to die. He began to sweat, panting softly as he stood to draw the side sword at his hip, a rock-solid relic from the kingdom of Balder. He had no faith in his skill. He expected death. Worse, if death came here, would he drift? Would the danger still be here when the faint joke that he could only loosely call life returned to him? It became not a question of 'will I die' and one of 'how many times will I die?' Tears had just begun to stream down his cheeks when the flames reflected off a brilliant set of armor.
It belonged to an elite knight of Astora. He recognized the crest upon the undershirt, a sigil meant to ward against flames. At the knight's hip, a straight sword and in the hand a shield with the crest of a dragon upon it. The knight waved. "Hail, traveler." Not hollow. Not something worse, either.
He nearly collapsed in relief, dropping to a sitting position. "You had me worried. I half expected some horrid Darkwraith to skulk out of the wood." He tilted the Berenike helmet down, to cover his bleary eyes. The voice of the knight of Astora was that of a woman. Perhaps this was not uncommon in Astora. After all, he had never made the journey himself. How was he to know?
"Scared of boogeymen, are we? No, you have nothing to fear from me." She drew out an emerald flask from within her satchel and submerged it in the flames, removing it to savor the liquid fire that was estus. "We're in the same boat, you and I." She nodded to the flask at his side.
"Undead, then"
She inspected the golden liquid fire within the emerald flask. "These flames are fading."
He nodded. "They are."
She removed the leather glove from her right hand before reaching between the fabrics in her armor. Close to her heart, she retrieved a feeble sprite, blacker than the darkest night, only visible by means of the soft white glow around its darkness.
"... you shouldn't squander something so precious." He gripped his estus flask, very much ready to take advantage of the woman's kindness.
She made a soft noise, something like a laugh, before she turned over her hand and allowed the sprite to drift down into the flames.
The sight of humanity burning imparts something on the observer that is difficult to convey. It was not his first time witnessing a bonfire's kindling, but the sensation was the same nonetheless. He thought of the death of his mother, the slow and painful descent the illness had caused her. He cried when he first saw her truly ill and he cried at the funeral. The sensation that burning humanity caused was the in-between. It was the knot around the bottom of the throat, not quite the heart, that daily sadness of tragedy brought, not the sharp pains. It was acceptance of the loss. It was not impartial. It always felt personal, as if the sprite had once been a sibling or a lover, but left unrecognizable. It was the gnawing depression from loss crystallized and as it burned away, when the last remnants had been lost to the flames, the warmth of the fire washed away the pain.
The man took his estus flask and gently scooped the warmth from the bonfire. He looked down into his emerald vessel, the liquid flames within thicker and more potent. "You didn't have to do that."
The woman sipped from her flask before refilling it. "I believe that you should always help those in need. If you only choose actions that benefit yourself, then you'll only have yourself. I'd say that two can stave off hollowing together better than one can alone. At least, I'd like to think that."
"... If you're asking me to join you-"
"I'm not. Don't worry. I've had a curved blade pierce my back more than once. I understand that trust is a weakness that most cannot afford." She tapped the hilt of her straight sword. "But I still believe that you must try. If not in big ways, then in small ones. If an action will not hurt you, but will help another, then it should be done."
"That is more optimism than was ever held by me in life."
She made that soft, pleasant noise again. Close to a laugh, but still not quite. "I suppose I am overly optimistic. I once viewed this curse as a blessing... short lived as that thought was."
"How long did it last? The optimism, I mean."
She grew silent. "I'd rather not say. Memories of home, even the good ones, make me quite somber these days."
"Do you miss Astora?"
"I can't miss a place I've never been to." She chuckled.
"But the armor...?"
"Acquired, as I presume yours is. It's served me well. Much nicer than anything I ever wore in Zena."
That gave him pause. He'd never been to Zena. In fact, he didn't know a thing about it. He almost wish she'd say Carim, if just so he'd know that she was untrustworthy. "Zena?"
"It's a strange place... your boots are from Zena, actually. I supposed you pried them off of a doomed merchant somewhere... Silver is the metal of an explorer, you know. Fitting for travelers such as we."
"I did not know that..." He eyed her gear. A full matching set of armor, a blessed blade, a sturdy shield. He felt unsafe before her.
She eyed him in return. A sword of balder. Strange stone gloves. Varied armor with their owns strengths and weaknesses. He looked strange, but she knew well from Zena that the strange ones can be the most dangerous.
Their gaze met across the flames.
The night grew darker and both began to doubt their choices. Neither spoke. They could remain quiet and trust the company of the other.
However, both of them thought of the alternative. The option that might guarantee safety.
The first to close their eyes for the night put themselves at considerable risk. To do so was to place an enormous amount of trust in the other.
Trust was rarely rewarded in Lordran.