In the end, they never made it to the Coastal Cave.
It wasn't that he refused to help Boc—Boc simply couldn't bring himself to go. The little fellow was so terrified he insisted he needed time to "mentally prepare," as if having the Tarnished at his side somehow made the cave more frightening.
He truly couldn't understand it. With him there, what exactly was Boc afraid of?
Still, there was no point forcing someone whose knees were already knocking. So he told Boc to calm down first and meet him later at the Coastal Cave. After all, the soldiers around the ruins and the bridge were already wiped out; Boc wouldn't be in any danger on the road.
Besides… he wasn't anyone's babysitter.
He had an entire mountain of things waiting for him.
That night, riding his beloved Torrent, he returned to the Church of Elleh at last.
But within the ruined chapel, Ranni was nowhere to be seen.
"Maybe I'm a little early."
He glanced up at the Erdtree—its glow hadn't yet deepened into full night, and that only confirmed his guess.
"Fine. I'll wait at the Site of Grace."
Even though he'd spent an uncountable amount of time with Ranni across countless cycles, the thought of seeing her again still made his chest lift with a quiet, stupid excitement.
Was this what people meant by absence makes the heart grow fonder?
"…You're that Tarnished from earlier, aren't you?"
From the shadowed corner behind him, Kale—the nomadic merchant—suddenly spoke.
"A witch came by before. She paid me to pass along a message. If I saw you again, I was to tell you not to leave. She'll come at night."
"Oh." He nodded. "Thanks."
"It's nothing. Just business."
He'd seen this routine more times than he could count, but even so—Ranni really was adorably clumsy. She'd gone out of her way to warn Kale, just to make sure he didn't wander off.
She could've simply caught up to him.
Instead, she insisted on choosing a place like this to meet.
The corner of his mouth lifted as his gaze drifted to the broken walls.
Maybe only here could she sit above him, looking down the way she liked.
As an aside, Kale belonged to the nomadic merchants—people, like the Tarnished, who did not live beneath the Erdtree's blessing.
But there was a difference.
A Tarnished had once been blessed, and then had that blessing stripped away.
The nomadic merchants had never been favored at all—not once, not in ancient times, not now.
And because of that, they were forced into a life of wandering, traveling from place to place like roots that could never take hold.
It also meant that after the Elden Ring was shattered, the nomadic merchants did not descend into bloodlust and madness.
They weren't like Godrick's men—who attacked outsiders on sight, without reason, without restraint.
Time crept forward, second by second, and the night grew heavier.
Kale had long since fallen asleep in the corner, and even the nearby campfire had gone out. Only the Site of Grace remained, its gentle light the sole warmth in the ruined church.
At some point, a thin white mist began to spread across the grass, drifting in and wrapping the chapel like a veil.
A chill climbed up his spine.
No need to guess.
Ranni's here.
"…First meeting, Tarnished. I am the witch Renna."
A voice like winter spoke softly at his ear—cold, dignified, carrying quiet authority.
He turned toward it.
A girl in white sat perched atop a broken wall, looking down at him with her left eye alone. Every movement of hers was refined, composed—yet her skin was a deep, unnatural blue, and she possessed four arms.
To her right hovered a strange spirit-shape—no doubt her true form, lingering beside the doll she wore like a mask.
Even with all that eerie strangeness, he couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face.
"…Tarnished. Why are you smiling?"
"N-no reason," he said quickly. "I just… felt like smiling. Don't mind it."
But of course, that wasn't what he was thinking.
My Ranni. Long time no see. Still as cute as ever.
She was so small—if she stood up, she'd be a head shorter than him—yet she insisted on sitting in a lofty spot to project her "witchly dignity."
That habit hadn't changed even after nearly a thousand years together in the Age of Stars, across endless repeating cycles.
And her name was clearly Ranni, yet she still chose to hide behind the name of her teacher—the Snow Witch.
"…I heard tell of a Tarnished who rides a spectral steed," she continued, voice steady. "It took me some time to track you down… so it appears it was you after all. That spectral steed—Torrent. You can summon him, yes?"
"Yes." He nodded.
To prove it, he whistled, and Torrent answered immediately.
Upon seeing her, the steed let out a single neigh—almost like a greeting, as if he, too, recognized her presence.
"…Mm."
For some reason, Ranni only gave a faint hum. She studied Torrent in silence for a long moment, then shifted her gaze to the Tarnished himself.
"…Tarnished. You seem… stained with the power of the Dark Moon."
The trace was faint—nearly dispersed, and buried beneath the aura of a Great Rune's power—but to her, who carried the Dark Moon's law, it was unmistakable.
"Uh…" He froze for half a heartbeat, then scratched at the side of his helm. "Probably your imagination?"
His mind flashed to the absurd number of Dark Moon Greatswords in his pack—more than a hundred, stacked like firewood.
If she sensed something, it wasn't strange. But it was strange that she'd noticed it this clearly; in the previous cycles, this had never happened.
Maybe it was lingering residue from that earlier fight at Smoldering Church—when he'd cut down Anastasia and the Dark Moon's power had stirred in the aftermath.
"…Perhaps it is a misperception," Ranni said at last, letting it go with a calm flick of her tone. "In any case, since you can summon Torrent, there is something I must give you—entrusted to me by Torrent's former master."
She reached into her robes and placed two items into his hands.
A Spirit Calling Bell.
And the Lone Wolf Ashes.
His face twisted with complicated emotion as he stared at them—then, reflexively, remembered the mountain of identical bells and identical ashes already filling his pack.
At this point, he was less "Tarnished" and more "professional bell-ringer."
Next time he met someone, he might as well hold two bells and just start shaking them nonstop. With this many ashes, something was bound to show up.
"…What?" Ranni's single eye narrowed slightly. "Do you not want them?"
"N-no. I want them. Very much."
He hurriedly stuffed both items into his pack.
His wife had given them to him—how could he possibly refuse?
Even if they piled up into a literal mountain, he'd still keep every last one.
Still… she really was the same old Ranni.
She'd come to check on him and help, yet she insisted it was merely a delivery from Torrent's former master.
And Torrent's former master was supposedly the Snow Witch Renna—someone who, by all logic, should have nothing to do with him at all.
Adorable. So stubborn. So proud.
"What kind of look is that?" Ranni asked sharply. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
For a split second, she forgot she was a demigod and shifted a little to the side, as if trying to escape his gaze without making it obvious.
What was wrong with this Tarnished?
"Ahem." He cleared his throat. "You just reminded me of… someone I used to travel with."
"…Hm?"
Ranni tilted her head, briefly wearing a dazed, almost childish confusion—then in the next blink, the dignified witch returned, composed and cool.
"…Enough. I have delivered the items. Their use is now yours, as your will dictates."
"Tarnished. I have disturbed you long enough. I think we shall not meet again. Go on—taste the Lands Between…"
Her body dissolved into drifting points of light, fading into the thin mist like a dream returning to fog—the same sudden vanishing act Melina always performed.
Even now, he still didn't understand the mechanics behind that kind of magic.
But he watched her anyway, eyes steady, until she was almost gone.
Only then did he speak.
"Don't worry. We'll meet again."
"?"
Ranni paused, faint surprise flickering through her remaining glow. Then her spirit-form turned slightly toward him, and she smiled—small, quiet, almost tender.
"…Is that so? Then I will look forward to it."
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