The stone was cold beneath your bare body. Soft white linens had been laid down for you, accompanied by plush pillows that cushioned your mortal frame. Still, it was not enough. You felt the smooth bricks press into your upper back as Radahn held you fast against the ground. His rotten breath fanned your face in warm puffs. You knew the smell better than you knew anything else—a bloated body in the Limgrave sun, a walking corpse along the roads of Liurnia, the entirety of Caelid. Droplets of saliva dotted your cheeks as his mouth drew closer to yours.
You turned your head and opened your eyes. Pale pools of gold stared back. He sat beside you with his four slender hands in his lap. Golden locks tickled your arm and brushed your cheek. His cheeks held a flush that looked painted on rather than settled under the skin.
He smiled. You felt your blood chill. “Be gentle with the Tarnished,” said his tender voice. How could something so unnerving sound so sweet? You squirmed under Radahn, trying to flee from Miquella. The general grunted and obliged you, but not gently. His mountainous body covered yours, shielding you from Miquella's enigmatic gaze and embracing you in a foreign closeness. The Tarnished were warriors, great and small, mighty and lean, stealthy and boisterous—they had no room for affections greater. That was the scholarly opinion (for what meager lot it counted for).
(In truth, the Tarnished held great deals of affection. To be Tarnished was to be shared; you knew it well. A golden finger furled for your newly-awakened brethren to beckon you in aid, a call to arms from the sapphire rings of the hunter to give your lost, bloodied kind a proper death, the messages in the stones in a language known only to those led by the grace—there was no more primal form of love.)
You flinched as Radahn’s face drew closer and shut your eyes. A wet flesh prodded your lips, and you felt your stomach lurch. The flesh slipped past your taut lips and into your mouth. You gagged and bit down, but Radahn cared not. He explored the dark, damp cavern of your mouth, grazing your teeth and gums and tongue. He even had the audacity to reach your throat. You groaned in discomfort and opened your eyes—
To find Miquella looking back at you.
“Forgive him, please,” implored the ascent demigod. “He’s forgotten what flesh feels like. Allow him this for just a moment.” You shook your head. Miquella's chest twitched with a soft breath. “Very well. Brother, release.”
Radahn's tongue slipped from your mouth, and his warmth from your body. He retreated to Miquella's side, leaving you on the floor. You took solace, even if your freedom was brief. Brief freedom was not a stranger to the Tarnished. Many could never afford to spare even a moment to rest about the graces.
Yet here you sat in luxury, in safety. It was tentative safety, but as the old musing went: beggars shan’t be choosers.