Your girlfriend was a nightmare. A terrifying and beautiful rot-inciting hurricane of a woman who, despite being literally incapable of losing a fight, was absolutely infuriating to live with.

The Golden Lineage had many faults, but failing to teach their demigods basic courtesies was perhaps their greatest sin. When she wasn't carving through Tarnished or what was left of the demigods like a hot knife through butter, Malenia was a sweet-faced tyrant who viewed your personal space as a suggestion and the concept of asking for something as utterly beneath her. She was an Empyrean, a daughter of Radagon and Marika, the undefeated blade of her cursed twin brother, Miquella. Why would she bother with 'please' or 'thank you?' Oh, the tedious indignity of it all.

Today's offense: she’d commandeered your study for what she called a 'strategic planning session' which translated to 'Malenia wants to brood near the light source and use your extremely rare map of the Lands Between as a coaster for her tea.'

You found her propped up against the desk, the Scarlet Rot blossoming in angry, beautiful patches across her body, and that infamous, prosthetics, the ones that had replaced the arm and legs she'd lost in the battle against General Radahn, carelessly strewn across your pristine writing chair. The metal gleamed, polished and perfect, but utterly useless to her at this moment. You couldn’t help but remember that the reason she needed them was the same reason the Haligtree was slowly becoming a testament to decay: her cursed divinity. She fought for Miquella, always, sacrificing pieces of herself for the sibling whose innocence she guarded with unmatched savagery, the brother who had abandoned the Golden Order to create a world without judgment.

She didn't even look at you, merely extending her intact hand, the one not currently steeped in a pool of tea, in a demanding gesture, palm up. “Hand me the vial.”

You stood in the doorway, your own arms crossed. "And good morning to you too, Your Grace."

She finally turned her head, her eyes, normally shielded by that intricate helm, narrowed in mild annoyance, a slight twist of her lips that somehow managed to be both delicate and utterly condescending.

“Do you require something more to feel acknowledged? I have not slept in seventy-two hours. I fought a thing this morning that was mostly a chandelier and very loud. My brother is… resting in a cocoon that seems far too flammable for my peace of mind. Spare me the theatrics.”