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ngc7009 · 18 days ago

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A loving touch, chapter 2

Characters: Messmer the Impaler, F!Tarnished (mute)

Summary: In his mind, he still remembered loving touches, unconditional affection, and gentle hands that held no hidden threat. But oh, Greater Will, how long ago it was.

Ao3 | Ficbook

The air was filled with the clashing of weapons, the hissing and crackling of flames. The scent of scorching metal rushed into nostrils and mouth, stinging the eyes and searing the throat, making every new attempt to breathe painfully difficult — but neither opponent intended to stop. Messmer spun his weapon in hand and lunged forward once more: a thousand golden and fiery-red sparks erupted as his spear struck the Inseparable Sword, flying in all directions, blinding and disorienting. But the Tarnished held her ground, only her boots scraped slightly against the stone floor. She pushed off, swiftly sliding to the side to evade his next attack, swung her blade — and missed. Messmer had already retreated before the heavy sword crashed to the ground with a thunderous roar, splitting the stone in two.

This went on for an eternity. He attacked — she parried. She struck — he evaded. They whirled together in a deadly dance, each movement precise and utterly flawless. Skillfully maneuvering through the whirlwinds of fire summoned by Messmer and the slashing streams of golden light emitted by the Tarnished’s weapon, the two-headed serpent launched one swift lunge after another, aiming straight for the girl's wrist.

But the next lunge proved decisive. Just a fraction of a moment, one missed move — and The Impaler's spear struck firmly against the sword's hilt, knocking the weapon from the Tarnished’s grasp. The serpent seized the hesitation, sweeping her legs out from under her and forcing the already defeated Tarnished to collapse face-down onto the ground. Messmer leveled his spear at her, stopping directly before her wide, pale, staring eyes. In a quiet voice, barely breathless, he said:

"Yet another win for me, Freya. The final victory art mine, it seemeth.”

The Tarnished pouted angrily, instantly giving her face such a childishly offended expression that Messmer couldn't help but chuckled. Immediately, as an apology, he pulled his spear aside and bent down to offer her a hand — but she deliberately rejected it, rising on her own and began primly brushing the dust off her long skirt. Messmer coughed into his fist to hide another chuckle. He simply couldn't help himself. The sight was just too amusing...

After some time, however, the Tarnished cooled down and, setting her weapon on the rack, even condescended to move with Messmer over to a bench to rest. In truth, neither of them had planned to engage in such an intense sparring session, let alone keep score — it had simply spiraled on its own after the Tarnished had asked him to train her. Yet, as the duel progressed, both became so engrossed that they stopped holding back, even out of courtesy, prompting the other warriors present on the training ground at the time to wisely decide to leave. Watching from the sidelines had been fascinating, but no one particularly wanted to get caught in someone’s reckless strike or accidentally scorched by Messmer’s flames. But now, with both combatants calmed, the arena slowly began to fill once more with people, the clashing of weapons, and the explosive crackle of spells. A typical scene, just like any other morning.

Watching as the warriors gradually returned to their training, Messmer absentmindedly tapped his fingers on the helmet resting beside him on the bench, mentally replaying his duel with the Tarnished. To be honest, she was no less skilled or strong than his closest warriors — a thought involuntarily crept into his mind that she might have undergone the same military training once given to the esteemed knights of Leyndell Castle. Her fighting style and battlefield demeanor were far too familiar… Though, he could be mistaken.

After all, that was so long ago.

“Thou art a valiant warrior, Freya. A little more practice and perhaps one day thou shalt best me in combat,” he said encouragingly, turning to face the Tarnished. She merely shrugged skeptically, pressing her lips to a water flask; she didn’t believe him, though he was perfectly serious. But before Messmer could offer a reply, the Tarnished set the flask aside and, her face suddenly alight with enthusiasm, directed several gestures at him — which, for some reason, he couldn't understand. Either she had made them too quickly, or it was high time he resumed studying the sign language...

"Forgive my lack of comprehension. Might thou repeat once more?” he asked, feeling awkward. Tarnished scratched her head, clearly thinking about how to rephrase it.

Your combat skills are amazing. Who trained you?

Messmer hadn't expected such a simple question to stir unease within him. Yet, when her smooth, precise gestures finally revealed their meaning, his heart stumbled against some unseen barrier and paused for a fleeting moment, while numbness gripped his body down to the tips of his fingers. Taking his time to respond, he turned his head toward the clashing swords and colliding shields, staring through the smoke and glint of steel at something distant — not at the fighting warriors, but at a vision hidden beyond the edge of the present moment. Sensing his turmoil, the serpents grew restless, hissing and pressing closer, shifting their full weight onto his long-suffering back. Messmer exhaled, and with lips barely moving, confessed:

"'Twas... my Mother. Marika the Eternal."

Judging by the Tarnished’s lack of surprise, she had already anticipated his answer — yet it still made her thoughtful. The silence that followed, perfectly timed, helped Messmer gather his thoughts and push back the anxiety that had seized him after Marika’s name was mentioned, leaving behind only a familiar, aching longing — the melancholy companion of bygone years, now so habitual it had almost become dear. Messmer didn’t avoid it. On the contrary, this longing for his mother and for the Lands Between was the one thing that still kept him sane, reminding him why he continued to live. Despite everything, the hope within him had not yet faded — the hope of once again hearing that beloved voice calling weary soldiers home, feeling the warmth of gentle palms against his cheeks, seeing golden eyes shining with pride, and reading in them the longed-for words: "I missed thee"... But for now, it remained only a dream.

Marika kept silent. Long, dreadful, oppressive silence, affecting each of her waiting children differently. Some were driven to furious despair, lashing out at every statue of the goddess erected across the Shadow Realm — except one, the sole statue standing in the throne room, untouched. Others were overwhelmed by a suffocating sense of hopelessness, fearing they would perish in this foreign land without ever hearing Her call. Of course, Messmer did everything he could to uphold the morale of his soldiers. But even he was powerless before those who had already broken.

He was pulled from his somber thoughts by a light touch on his shoulder — the Tarnished had gently tapped her fingers against it. Messmer turned once more to face her and immediately met her pale-gray eyes, in which curiosity shone openly, barely veiled by feigned restraint. She pressed her palms together and gently swayed them — the gesture familiar: she wanted to ask something more. Messmer nodded, signaling that he was ready to listen, and for a moment watched as she hesitantly bent her fingers against one another, as if unsure whether to continue. And yet…

Your mother, Queen Marika. What is she like?

The clatter of weapons grew quieter. Many had already left the training ground; some rested on the opposite side, speaking softly to one another, while others busied themselves polishing their blades, the rustle of paper and occasional tap of tools filling the air. Messmer leaned back, carefully resting against the wall, making sure not to discomfort his serpents — and turned his gaze upward, toward the sky where vast shadowy veils swayed silently. A thin, gloomy shroud, draped over these lands.

"She shines… like a guiding star in a clear night sky. As warm as the honeyed embrace of a sunlit summer's eve. She bestows care and tenderness that surpasses mortal dreams, yet can shatter countless hearts with but the mere flutter of her lashes. She is a tempestuous embodiment of nature's fury — one might rend realms asunder to behold her righteous vengeance. For even the ruin wrought by her hand be a form of grace. Better to feel the searing embrace of her fire than languish in the eternal void of naught.."

His eyelashes fluttered before lowering, casting long shadows across his cheekbones. There was still so much he wanted to say, but Messmer didn't dare continue. After all, there wasn't a single word that could fully capture the essence of that woman — yet if he let himself go, he wouldn't stop speaking until at least tomorrow morning. Surely the Tarnished's curiosity wasn't *that* insatiable. Was it?

And what is she like behind closed doors? When she isn’t playing the role of goddess and ruler. What is she…

Tarnished hesitated slightly before the final sign

truly like?

“Truly…”

Messmer repeated the word, drawing it out slowly and thoughtfully, as if tasting it. Freya waited calmly for his reply, gently stroking the serpents curled in her lap — but the longer Messmer remained silent, the more restless she became. It was enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye to see just how deeply she longed for an answer. And where had such interest come from…?

When he spoke again, he heard something unfamiliar in his own voice. Something caught between a smile, a tremor, and a surge of panic, ready to engulf him like a long-dormant memory suddenly awakened, vivid and aching.

“For as long as my memory doth endure, she wielded mastery o'er her emotions, concealing their depths with artful guise. Her smile, a fleeting glimmer, tempered in restraint. Her wrath, as chilling as the deep abyss… Yet, in the solemn seclusion of her chamber, her gaze did transform and her shoulders, held high with honor, did bow. Thus did there arise the visage of her long concealed; tender, afflicted, on the brink of shattering. She was… fragile. Yes. This be the true Marika. A visage of frailty amidst this realm, the most delicate of beings to grace our earth...

Before Messmer could continue — or fall silent once more for long, drawn-out minutes — Freya gently tugged at the edge of his cloak. The memories still pulled him deep, but he surfaced from them, as if snatched from a sticky abyss by a faint, flickering light.

We can stop and return to this conversation later. If you wish.

Messmer furrowed his brow, not understanding why she had suddenly changed her mind. But as he took a breath, he suddenly realized that his heart had been silent all this time — his chest filled with unbearable pain, undoubtedly mirrored at once upon his face. She must have noticed it earlier… How perceptive of her.

“Verily, 'tis so, yet... my heart doth waver ere I wish to tread upon this discourse again. Apologies…”

He gasped again, sharply, trying to ease the aching pain pulling from within. Then he felt a touch on his palm — warm, gentle, healing — pushing the shadows of the past away and reminding him that he was not alone. That even if he felt abandoned, fragile, torn apart by contradictions, barely balancing between resignation and despair, he could still feel the ground beneath his feet. That someone still dared to reach out to him, no matter what…

Messmer lowered his gaze and saw how tightly Tarnished's small hand gripped his own. And with the other hand, she slowly traced words in the air — words that carved themselves deep into his soul:

Then I will wait.

Messmer closed his golden eye.

And nodded.

#elden ring #messmer the impaler #tarnished #queen marika #shadow of the erdtree #marika the eternal #elden ring fic #messmer x tarnished #touch starved #mute character #canon x oc #marika #messmer

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