The nameless Tarnished withdrew his blade, then gazed upon the countless wounds that marred his flesh. Though they burned with searing pain, time would heal them in due course. Yet, all was truly at an end.

The blow was fatal. The Demigod Radahn—or at least, what remained of his being—was the first to fall. He collapsed with a thunderous crash, like a steadfast mountain range laid low upon a vast plain. Next fell Miquella. The newborn God, so fragile, tumbled from Radahn's back as lightly as a leaf falls from a tree, his golden locks fluttering, adorning the scene with a touch of sanctity.

But alas, those locks would soon wither, decaying with the life of the fledgling new God. After a moment, Miquella strove to stand, trudging wearily toward the Tarnished, compelling him to draw his sword once more. But it ended there, for the Tarnished felt his hand grow heavy, and his heart swell with a feeling too intense to name. How could this be? The Nameless Tarnished reeled in agony. He pondered.

Could this be the absolute might of a God?

"Tarnished, dost thou comprehend the yearning… the desire to save all? Canst thou grasp the thirst, the duty to enact justice, to right all that hath been wronged… dost thou truly understand? That is the purpose of mine own quest. To attain the power Mother once held, to use it to cast off her flawed Golden Order. Still, in the end, I ne'er meant to reject her ideal: That this entire realm should be ruled by one, the one that is right and just."

Suddenly, Miquella lunged forward. Though his arms were long, they could not fully embrace the imposing form of the nameless Tarnished. And the warrior did tremble, as the unexpected warmth began clouding his mind.

"I once thought I would be that one. But I am not. E'en when I proclaim myself holy, deep within here—this place—" Miquella touched his left chest, a bitter smile upon the God, "I still harbor hatred for those who were once loyal to Mother. The pain doth not fade easily, but I trust I can endure."

"Until thee, Tarnished."

"The chosen one, thou art the last barrier hindering our future's course. The longer thou dost stand in mine own way, the deeper mine own resentment grows. Tarnished, who art thou, to surmount e'en the mightiest of mountains and the depths of the sea?"

"Why, Tarnished? I… loathe thee. Utterly. So then, be it…"

Miquella's words made the warrior's hand move uncontrollably. A strike, or a swift slash. Blood trickled down like a waterfall, turning the earth into a crimson sea; the waves' flows gentle and light. Nameless Tarnished trembled as he gazed down at Miquella, who now, with his four arms, helped the Tarnished grip the sword's hilt. The blade's tip gently pierced the flesh, silent in its passage.

"… finish me. It is over, Trina, mine other half, Tarnished; it is over. I, and mine Promised Consort Radahn are defeated, wretchedly so. What cruel… fate, after all mine efforts, that the final blight would be the one who started it all—"

Miquella's head bowed low. Tears streamed down his once-flawless visage. What once shone with golden radiance now grew brittle, his hair turning to silver ere it crumbled into naught but drifting dust.

"Where… did I falter, Tarnished? Can this world become a gentle place, robbed o-of... a God? Speak to me, Radahn, Malenia… Tarnished, oh give me thine answer… I could no longer… see the golden… light…"

"… please…"

The winds from the North blew, soft as ever, offering final solace to a soul lost in its way.