#Estrangement of Lords

[the-tropes-are-hungry]

The Cat's Mother (1/3)

Did someone say mommy issues? Congrats, Narinder, you lose!

CW: Stillbirth, death by burning. [Next]

His mother protected him.

Her litter was cursed. Dead kit, after dead kit, after dead kit. Six dead daughters and one all-black son who came out half the size of the corpses and barely breathing. In their matriarchal colony, he was a travesty.

He let out a single mewl, his first and meant-to-be-last breath.

His mother’s nurse, her sister, took the ill omen for what it was and placed him in the water to drown him. Better to let seven kittens go back to the River Eater together than the incomplete six. Grief would cleanse the poisoned womb. Next time, there would be daughters.

Mother disagreed and took him from the water. She protected him. She held him and groomed him and gave him his first taste of life while his sisters lay cold in a basket and hers lay dying on the floor.

They left the colony before his eyes (only two, Heket teased) opened.

Mother was a warrior. Her fur was the colour of bright sand under the spotless blue sky, her coat thin but sleek over lean muscle that let her twist and strike like lightning. She killed every member the colony sent after them asking her to return, breaking the Wrath Bringer’s prohibition on striking messengers. For this, they became strays, and he wore the blood of mother’s victims as if she’d pulled off their skins and wrapped him in them.

He should not have been a warrior. Every omen, card, tea leaf, entrail, and star said his claws should have folded against sand, never-mind stone. His teeth should have rotted out of his skull. His ears should have been filled with pus. The hatred of seven dead kinswomen should have doomed him to a feeble, terrified existence. The River Eater should have supped on his blood and spat out his deformed bones.

Instead, where mother was the wind, he was her shadow. Where her eye went, his darts followed. Where her sword struck, his claws sank. When she showed her fangs, his already held flesh. There was little she could teach with blade or chain or claw that he could not master, and she loved him for it.

“My little lord,” she praised, purring deep in her chest over every kill, every triumph, every show of power. She loved his midnight dark pelt, grooming him to an oil-slick shine and taking every opportunity to procure the oils and waxes to give him the texture of smoke to go with his flawless grace.

They stayed nowhere, and lived richly (as bandits, Shamura complained). If Mother said they would eat from the Thunder Mother’s table, then they would scale the temple walls and gorge themselves on honeyed meat and rich wine and fill their bags with trinkets and tributes. If she decided the Tortoise Keeper’s tax men demanded too much, they would make a game of slowly cutting around their shelled heads to peel off the shell—only to realize, delighted (and to Kallamar’s horror), that the entire brain came out when they pulled.

Mother adored him, and made his life a paradise. He bathed in her favour, supped on her devotion, and grew tall atop the pillar she raised for him. Six prized daughters had died to bring her one son; therefore, the omens must be wrong and the gods who peddled them equally blind. Their peoples’ colonies did not need another queen, they needed a Lord of Lords to rule them, and she named him appropriately.

“Narinder--!”

It was the last thing she said before she died.

They were, in the end, only bandits in the eyes of the Green-Eyed Queen. Thieves, stealing both from her altars, and her divinity.

Mother had begun to gain uncanny power. He hadn’t notice it, or else he had not been old enough to understand it. The way people whispered of a gold sphynx; a flash of light on the road that became a rain of copper darts and sharp stone; how travellers at midnight could avoid her wrath by offering a pot of lamp oil, or a clever riddle. Whispers, rumors, and—sure enough: prayers.

Prayer, faith, devotion, love. Four names for the same energy, the same power that the Green-Eyed Queen wanted back from them. Theirs was a land of gods and demigods where the love of the many empowered the few. While his mother was never kind to their victims, she never struck the young or their mothers either. She left the elders alone in their beds. She was, in some small corners, to a very lucky few, a grace. A blessing.

So, the Green-Eyed Queen sent her hunters.

A fortnight later, his mother was in chains with nails driven through her wrists and ankles, locked in an iron cage his claws and knives could never break through. He tracked them for three days, twelve years old and trembling with hunger, rage, and terror. All he needed was one chance to spy the key among the knights and hunters. Just a moment’s distraction to get through the lock and cast off the chains and hide her, protect her, feed her fledgling divinity the way she had been trying to spark the same in him.

They dragged her deep into the forest, built a great bonfire to their queen, and hurled his mother’s cage into it.

He fought better than he should have. He killed more than any other twelve-year-old could have hoped for: at least two. In his furor he didn’t see the other figures strike the camp to flank him, he just saw the cage. He just heard Mother screaming, and burning, and dying.

The iron was glowing red when he threw himself at it, but the spider caught him in three strong arms while the fourth kept swinging their weapon. His throat tore with every emotion made sound. He forgot to fight the spider, he needed Mother and he fought for her with hisses, snarls, and yowls.

“It is enough,” said the spider.

He’d dropped Mother’s sword. He’d run out of darts. He unsheathed his claws on all four paws and screamed, shrieked, wailed at the creature holding him. He lashed out in a flurry swipes and kicks and they, understandably, slammed him into the ground.

“Shamura!”

“At ease—he is frightened.”

They pinned him there and no matter how much he clawed and kicked and fought their flesh never wept blood. The spines of their carapace were thick, snaring his claws and tearing two of them out. Their armor was like nothing he had ever seen, liquid black and gold links that flowed like water under his claws. He fought until his throat was bloody, and his arms went feeble, and his eyes were blinded by sweat and tears and smoke. He fought until three horrible days without sleep or food or peace fogged his mind and yet he could still see. He could see his life running thin, the thread of it spun of something almost different but now fraying from abuse.

He saw the moment where Shamura weighed his flesh against the hunger of their brother and soldiers. He understood that if he did not tip those scales in his favor, they would eat him, and at least his flesh would go to better use than the smouldering char of his mother.

He could not die here. He could not let the Green-Eyed Queen take his mother and then be devoured in turn.

He sheathed his claws. He let his arms fall. The spider eased their weight on him until he could roll to his side and see the smoking cage atop its doused embers. He curled up tight as he had been in the womb, and lay there.

He let out a single mewl, his next but never-to-be-last breath, and wept.

Two thousand years later on a hazy bonfire dawn, Narinder will kneel in a circle of gray stone and let the memories come for him. He will remember disciples, and siblings, and priests, and knights. He will remember temple halls and celebrations. He will remember camaraderie and wine and soldiers and conquest. He will remember his mother’s purr and her gentle claws grooming behind his ears. He will remember six dead sisters and understand, for the first time, how his mother’s life was a tragedy and that he had never wept for her, only for himself.

But on that day, in the distant past, on a battlefield swiftly stripped of gold and armor and weapons, with the corpses left to lay in the grass, Narinder limped with Kallamar’s help to his mother’s cage. The squid merely touched the cool iron with a word and it corroded away, letting him inside with a nervous word that anything of value had been taken from her already by her captors.

All he wanted was one more moment with her, if the charred husk flung against the bottom of the cage was anything of her at all. He wanted to make a promise. He wanted her to know he would do it, as he knelt beside her and placed both hands on the corpse.

“I will kill the Green-Eyed Queen,” he whispered, his voice still raw and wet from screaming. “When I am done there will be no more queens.”

When he saw the glint of red he knew she heard him. The corpse was just a corpse, so even his young hands could reach into the charred meat and pry out the sharp edges of a dead womb.

Theirs was a world where faith and prayer could change fate. The cycle of devotion from a mother to her son crafted a crown with a single red eye. The memory of six dead daughters crystalized with intent to preserve one perfect son.

He put on the crown and went back to Shamura.

His mother protected him. Always.

[Next]

I have the Cat's Mother, the Worm's Mother, and the Lamb's Mother all written. Trying to get a full fic to work but at least this "prologue" bit is done. If I actually reach the plot I'll post this to AO3 with its actual title.

[art-from-within]

Alright -- it's perfectly fine if you can't.

... Morgott hugging Mohg. 😔

There's... Two ideas. The first being tears of sorrow.

Morgott's just fought Radahn... And Miquella... And Mohg's body has been restored. However abscent of soul.

Morgott can only hold his brother, cradling his head in his arms as he weeps.

... Tears of joy...

At some point, Mohg's discarded soul caught onto Morgott as he traversed the Land of Shadow. And, reunited once more, Mohg's soul is able to find it's way back.

And Morgott can only weep; not in sorrow, but in joy.

... Perhaps... Mohg is holding Morgott's hand.

Either or... Leaning toward joy. For obvious reasons. 😔

And like I said: It is entirely up to you!

“Brother…?”

“Brother.”

[kibutsulove]

prisoner ozai art

What the energybending + divorce combo does to a man

[silvokrent]

Where We Choose to Kneel

The mother of truth craves wounds. But not all wounds bleed. [Takes place in the aftermath of the Shattering, prior to Miquella's enchantment.]

Esgar was late.

Not that Varré was particularly inconvenienced by it. Once more, he adjusted his stance, reclining a little into the masonry. The ashlar was cool and damp—a consequence of the perpetual fog. Even now, it hung in the air like an opaque shroud, instantiated by the vague outlines of foliage.

It was simply the principle of the matter. While Varré had never begrudged the often-stationary nature of his work, he preferred it be productive. Or interesting, at the very least. Waiting held the distinction of being neither.

The undergrowth crackled. Varré jerked his head up, a hand hovering over the handle of his mace.

Only to relax, as a familiar, haunting pitch called from the dark. The ululation of some beast, echoing across the water. A stag, perhaps.

Disappointed, Varré settled back in.

The Rose Church hadn’t been his first choice for a rendezvous spot. It was strategically useful, to be sure. It saw little in the way of traffic, being both the least accessible and the least glamorous of the pilgrimage sites. After all, not many of Marika’s supplicants were keen on wading across a lake, just to pay homage to a rotting building.

Yes, it was very useful for keeping people out. Perhaps a little too useful.

No one had yet to ask for his opinion (nor was he inclined to offer it). But as Varré continued to watch the sickle moon climb higher, he couldn’t help but wonder if they had been a tad myopic in their decision-making. Then again, it was possible he was being unreasonably generous.

Esgar had many commendable traits. Punctuality wasn’t one of them.

The reeds along the shoreline hissed—disturbed, as he initially presumed, by the wind. Varré tilted back his head a fraction to study the crowns of the nearby trees.

They were still.

The brush snapped again, much closer this time. It was faint, and partially muffled by the fog, but he could discern the rhythm of encroaching footsteps.

Speaking of which.

With a grunt, Varré pushed off against the masonry. “Taking the scenic route, were you?”

Esgar did not answer. Varré prepared to call out again—only to immediately stay the impulse.

It was seldom that his comrade traveled anywhere without his bitch-hounds in tow. By now, they would have riled themselves up and started baying.

Their absence spoke to their master’s.

This time, his gloves wrapped around the ornate steel of his mace, and did not lessen their grip.

It was slightly more obvious now, the closer they neared. A discrepancy in the gait, marked by a hitch on the second step, as if their weight was unevenly distributed. The stride was wrong, too. It was longer. Heavier.

The earth shifted as Varré dug in his heels. Weighing his options.

Hiding seemed irrelevant, as he’d already done a fantastic job of broadcasting his presence. (The crumbling church didn’t offer many places he could conceal himself, regardless.) Retreat didn’t strike him as a viable alternative, either, since he had no way of knowing whether or not his pursuer could simply outrun him.

Of course, there was always a third option…

Varré exhaled slowly. He forced the tightness from his shoulders, letting the tension bleed out. In its place was a well-practiced nonchalance. He neatly folded his hands upon each other, his mace set aside.

“It isn’t often people venture this way,” he said, in a passably cordial tone. A silhouette was beginning to take shape in the fog. It wasn’t human. “Come to offer your respects to our long-departed queen? Or to rest from your travels, before you resume?”

“Neither,” he growled. The stranger was closing the distance between them. “War surgeon, I wish to speak with thee.”

Varré wasn’t given much time to ponder the request before he stepped fully into view, and all considerations fled.

He was an Omen.

A strange one, at that. The right half of his face was framed by a complex of gnarled horns, several looped around each other in an interlocking helix. A clubbed tail briefly swept into view; ashen-gray, like the rest of his complexion. It bristled like a morning star.

His attire was somewhat dissonant with his physique, however. The cloak he wore was threadbare and tattered at its edges, the fabric loosely draped across him. A thick cord of rope barely secured the interstice between the two folds. The look was completed by what could be charitably described as a walking stick—a staff fashioned from a repurposed branch, longer than Varré was tall. Dark, asymmetric whorls covered the bark, and the handle was burnished.

In spite of himself, Varré was intrigued. The Omen he typically encountered were polled, their horns shorn or removed in their entirety.

He had only ever met one Omen spared that fate.

The stranger continued to regard him. With, if Varré wasn’t mistaken, an air of impatience.

He could relate.

“Venerable Omen.” He bowed his head, and every self-preservation instinct balked at exposing his neck to a potential foe. “Well met. I did not expect to encounter one of your kind so far west. Liurnia isn’t usually graced by your presence.”

At the mention of grace, his scowl deepened.

Very quickly, Varré steered the conversation forward: “I confess to some surprise. Not many are familiar with the war surgeons.”

At least, not any longer. While his faction, strictly speaking, wasn’t dissolved, there was little need of their duties. The Shattering had precipitated violence on a scale not easily replicated since. But in its aftermath, long centuries of stalemate had seen dwindling conflict—and with it, a vacuum which the war surgeons no longer filled. Apart from the occasional skirmish on the Leyndell-Gelmir border, the world labored on. Stagnating.

The stranger shifted. “I’m well acquainted with the raiment of thy…euthanasic order.”

The admission surprised him, and Varré studied him with renewed interest. Age was always difficult to guess in their kind, not helped, in the least, by their considerable lifespan. It had been said in times long passed that the Omen were conscripted as soldiers, but he had never sought to confirm the rumor. Now, though, he wondered. A veteran, perhaps?

Abruptly, the meaning of his words clicked.

“If it’s my services you’re after,” said Varré coolly, “I’m afraid I must decline. My mercy is reserved for the dying, which you, as it stands, are not. Being Omen is not a terminal affliction.”

The single eye narrowed.

“I did not come here seeking death.” His tail lashed, once, flattening the marsh grass behind him. “The ideologies thou cleavest to are of little concern to me.”

Varré faltered. “Then why seek me at all?”

The stranger inclined his head, his features grim. “I know to whom thy loyalties are pledged. I request an audience with thy lord.”

The utterance chilled him, and Varré stilled.

Knowledge of their dynasty was privy to seldom few. Of his lord, fewer still. It was a necessary precaution, as they had no shortage of enemies that would see their efforts undone—fundamentalists, recusants, Omenkillers. Even the Tarnished that he was sent to recruit had to be carefully vetted. Information was kept in the strictest of confidence.

Varré was briefly tempted to ask how he came by it. A single glance at his austere expression, however, dissuaded him. He would be denied, it told him that much.

It also told him that the stranger would not be easily refused. Nevertheless, Varré did.

He smoothed a hand down the front of his gown—rather deliberately lingering over a bloodstain, long seeped into the material. “My apologies,” he began. “But that simply isn’t possible. All audiences with my lord are through prior invitation. He prefers to be acquainted with his guests before they entreat him.”

An unreadable look passed over his face. “We were acquainted, once.”

Uncertain how to parse that comment, Varré ignored it. “Be that as it may, he has pressing matters to attend. I, Varré, however”—he offered another bow, though his gaze remained fixed upon the Omen—“am at your disposal. Whatever you require, my aid shall suffice.”

The stranger took a step closer. Light from the moon struck the side of his face, carving out the angles in shadows. “I did not travel such distance only to parley with his sycophant. I am of even less proclivity to tolerate hindrance.” 

Varré righted his posture, threading his fingers together. “I’ve reconsidered,” he said slowly. “Perhaps my mercy can be rendered to you after all.”

“Thou art mistaken, to believe me cowed by tacit threats.” He peered down, his lips pulled into a taut line. “I’ve no ill intentions toward thy lord. But ’tis imperative he and I speak.”

Varré likewise considered himself immune to intimidation. All the same, he hesitated. Bluff or not, he wasn’t confident he could actually best an Omen, and he wasn’t eager to find out.

His hand itched for the comfort of heavy steel. Reluctantly, he tamped down the feeling. 

“You misheard me,” he assured, his voice smoothing back into a more pleasant lilt. “However, my answer remains unchanged. You’re welcome to request as many times as you like. But my lord sees none without invitation.”

The stranger grunted. “Then extend me one.”

His audacity was admirable. Foolhardy, but still. “That’s beyond my purview. I’m only a humble messenger.”

Without warning, he took another step closer. Reflexively, Varré mirrored the step back. He held up his hands.

“Hurting me would make a terrible first impression, wouldn’t you agree?”

He stopped.

“Would you be amenable to a compromise?” Varré offered. “Give me your message, and allow me to relay it to him.”

“And have thee slip away under false pretenses?” He snorted. “I think not. Thou wert already tedious to locate once.”

And how the stranger had accomplished that, Varré couldn’t begin to fathom. Esgar’s continued absence, however, pressed upon him with renewed urgency. For the moment, he pushed the concern aside.

“Even if I were to entertain the idea,” he said, not without a hint of disdain, “I fail to see why my lord would receive you. He doesn’t suffer fools, and you’ve done nothing to prove otherwise. You haven’t even given me a name. What makes you think he’ll agree?”

In the gathering darkness, his eye gleamed.

-

“—still three days’ time from Mistwood. They were pinned down on the southern banks of the lake.”

“What accosted them? More soldiers?”

Ansbach glanced down at the report in his hand. “According to Nerijus, it was a dragon.”

The nobles stirred uneasily.

“Wretched beast,” one of them muttered. “I thought their kind had all fled to Caelid.”

“This one didn’t get the missive, it seems.”

“We needed those provisions. Recovering them has to be of the utmost priority.”

“What good will supplies do us if they’ve been incinerated?”

Pointedly, Ansbach cleared his throat, and the bickering ceased. He turned to the figure listening close by, seated upon the chamber stairs like a statue hewn from obsidian. “Orders, my lord?”

Mohg tapped a claw upon the ancient stonework. Each hollow click bounced off of its surface. He did not answer right away, but instead tipped back his face to study the false night sky. The proxy stars glittered like crystalline dust, suspended among the stalactites. He beheld the simulacrum a heartbeat longer before lowering his gaze. “Casualties?”

Ansbach consulted the parchment. “No deaths, but nearly half of his company sustained serious wounds. They’ve been forced to make encampment near the cliff face. With so many injured, they dare not risk leaving, lest the dragon continue to harry them.”

Mohg lapsed into temporary silence. Then: “Eleonora has an…understanding of dragons, as I recall.”

Ansbach nodded.

“Send for her at once. Have her depart for Limgrave with a contingent of Pureblood Knights.”

“My lord,” a noble ventured, “will that be enough to slay it? I don’t doubt their skill,” he hastened to add, as their commander wordlessly turned to stare at him. “But I shudder to think of more lives needlessly wasted.”

“If the dragon can be repelled, then killing it won’t be necessary.” The claw stopped, only to then scrape over the surface. It cut a deep line in the stone. “It is not needless. Pray that the day does not come when I deem your life so easily discarded.”

Chastened, the noble bowed his head. “Y-Yes, my lord.”

“We’re done here.” Unceremoniously, he stood, dismissing the group with a flick of his wrist. “Return to your posts. I want an update as soon as Eleonora’s contingent makes contact with Nerijus’.”

None of them protested—not that they ever did; they knew better—and filed out of the mausoleum. Ansbach tidily rolled the parchment and tucked it under his arm with the other scrolls, before turning on his heel.

“Ansbach,” Mohg called after him, “stay a moment.”

His advisor halted, before turning to face him. “How may I be of service?”

The chains on his clasps rattled faintly as Mohg approached. “The new initiates,” he said, as he drew to a stop across from him. “Tell me of their progress.”

Ansbach immediately straightened. “Training goes well,” he said. “They’ve no shortage of pride nor discipline. The fire in their blood will anneal them, I’m certain.”

“Good,” Mohg rumbled. “Very good.”

Ansbach dipped his head. Long white hair spilled from the loose braid over his back. “If it interests you,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “and barring other matters, would you care to watch? I’ll be instructing them on how to wield the helice soon—”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Mohg.

The scrolls rustled as he adjusted them. “…Of course.”

Mohg caught the lapse, and he suppressed a sigh. Of all the accusations he had borne, sentimentality was the very least of them. Regardless… “My presence isn’t needed to ascertain their skill. So long as you impart yours, I will find no fault.”

Ansbach, clearly caught off-guard by the compliment, looked up. “I am obliged, my lord.”

“Think not of it.” He waved it aside. “Is there anything else I should be made aware?”

To Mohg’s surprise, Ansbach hesitated. “Would you object if, going forward, we held our drills on the turf below the palace?”

The brow over his remaining eye rose. “Is something wrong with the courtyard I allocated you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ansbach replied. Unlike his lord, he made no effort to suppress the sigh. “Two of the initiates were—enthusiastic during their spar yesterday, and a section of the floor collapsed.”

Mohg—having grown accustomed to the infrastructure giving out at inconvenient times—merely closed his eye. Slowly, the lid fluttered open, in a look caught somewhere between resignation and exhaustion. “I don’t object. See to it in the meanwhile that the area is kept clear, until I can remove the debris.”

“As you command.” He paused. “Their reflexes will be most impressive, when all is said and done.”

He snorted. “Very droll.”

Ansbach simply folded his arms behind his back. “How go the repairs?”

Mohg grimaced. “Predictably.”

The admission drew his gaze up to the entablature, and the fluted pillars that held it aloft. Grandiose as they were, they still hadn’t escaped the ravages of time. Much of the foundation was marred by gouges and cracks—or, as was the case for one of the arches, missing a column. It was a hazard, and it needed replacing.

Another concession. Like everything as of late.

Repairs, as Mohg had initially believed, didn’t actually meaning fixing things. It meant a constant trade-off between preservation and renovation, and deciding which one took precedence. The original techniques that had built the Eternal Cities were gone, right alongside their creators. They could not be replicated, and thus had to be replaced.

Gutting the dilapidated stone meant substituting it with something inferior. Something lesser. Mohg’s lip curled.

One proposal had involved sending an expedition team upriver—explore the neighboring city, and study its ruins for insight.

It only took one expedition for the idea to be rejected.  

The senseless waste of it all settled over his bones. The decay, the obliteration. An entire people, condemned to the dark for the crime of existing.

The memory of steel around his ankle sent a shudder of revulsion through him. Ruthlessly, Mohg shoved it aside.

If Ansbach noticed, he didn’t comment.

“I’ll find somewhere to store the debris in the meanwhile,” he decided. “The caverns below the palace should have enough room to—”

“My lord?”

They turned in unison.

Varré hovered on the mausoleum threshold, his hands wrung together.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he said, as he slipped into the open chamber. Mohg didn’t need to look past the white porcelain, to picture the face beneath it. “But your presence is required. Rather urgently, I might add.”

“I was under the impression you were meeting Esgar,” said Mohg, as Varré stopped before him. The agitation radiating from him was palpable. “Why have you abandoned your post? Where is he?”

“Tardy, as usual,” Varré muttered under his breath. “But that isn’t the problem. You have a…visitor.”

“You brought an outsider here?” Ansbach drew himself to his full height, his unseen gaze reproachful. “Such folly is beneath you.”

Varré whipped his head around. Mohg rested a hand on Ansbach’s shoulder in silent warning, and his advisor relented. He turned back to Varré.

“What kind of visitor?” he asked.

The weight of the question bowed Varré’s head. The answer was slow to come, and when it did, his words were windblown embers, heedless of the things they ignited as they were carelessly dispersed. “The king of Leyndell.”

Mohg stiffened. The reaction was immediate—visceral—and no amount of self-control could suppress the tension that coiled at the base of his spine. Fear was an unwelcome feeling, and it coated the back of his throat like bile. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it. Blood continued to roar in his ears.

He was distantly aware of Varré still talking: “…have information worth extracting from him. At the very least, I didn’t want to act with haste.”

“Haste,” Ansbach repeated, in a tone that required some effort. “Has the meaning of that word changed since I last heard it?”

Varré sniffed. “Should we waste every opportunity that comes willingly to our doorstep?”

“Clearly, since it now appears that assassins knock.”

“I—” The syllable jarred them out of their argument, and they turned to face him. When Mohg went to speak again, the sounds dammed at the back of his throat, and he let out a frustrated noise. “I will abide no scion of the tree. See him removed from the palace.”

Varré folded his arms. “I don’t think he’ll go willingly. Force may be required.”

“And was it force that coerced you to bring him here?” Ansbach asked.

Varré answered—and pointedly refused to look at Ansbach as he did. “I think it might be worth speaking to him. At the very least, I don’t believe it’s a trap. He asked to be brought here, and he came alone. And unless we choose to escort him out, he has no way of leaving.” He rested a fingertip against the chin of his mask. “The king of Leyndell could make a valuable hostage.”

“A hostage requires negotiations,” Ansbach said, and Mohg could hear the restraint on the implied insult. “It rather undermines the point of secrecy.”

With a forced exhale, Mohg composed himself. “Where is he now, Varré?”

“The lower atrium,” he said. “Shall we—?”

“I’ll receive him.” Mohg’s gaze slid toward the pair. “I want you both present. As soon as we’re finished, get him out of my sight.”

They bowed their heads, and silently fell in step beside Mohg as he exited the chamber. Neither dared intrude upon his thoughts as they boarded the dais. It lurched, groaning under the weight of eons, before the stone lift began to descend.

In truth, Mohg doubted the conversation would yield much, beyond the memories of old injustices. It was only curiosity that spurred him.

The Veiled Monarch. Yet another one of Godwyn’s diluted pedigree, if the rumors were correct. The furtive nature of his reign wasn’t improved by Godrick’s foul exploits, and the inextricable comparisons they invited. It was often assumed that his privacy obscured similar perversions. (Outside of the plateau, at any rate. Mohg doubted Leyndell’s subjects were witless enough to gossip in earshot of his soldiers.)

Strangely, the thought comforted him. That after all this time, even Marika’s blessed golden lineage couldn’t escape whatever curse ran in her veins. The wellspring of golden ichor, poisoned to its depths.

The lift shuddered to a standstill. Mohg disembarked, and rounded the bend in the monolith, following the uneven flagstones that curved its base. A pair of Tarnished bowed as he approached. One looked as if about to call out a greeting, only to catch sight of his expression, and quickly avert their eyes as he passed.

The lower atrium, like every other building, hadn’t been spared from deterioration, though it was arguably the least affected. The gatehouse at its entrance was one of the few structures to still have an intact roof. Immense statues, tablets clutched in their grasps, flanked it on either side. Their ubiquity didn’t help shed the feeling of being assessed by cold, dead eyes as the group passed beneath them.

Mohg briefly entertained the thought of summoning his trident. Not that he was anticipating a fight, he mused, as he crossed the gatehouse threshold. But he wasn’t about to allow some wretched man—another stunted bough of the tree—to be in his presence, and think that an Omen was only fit to stand beneath him—

He stepped into the atrium.

And his lungs hitched on a breath that was no longer there.

Morgott lifted his head in silent regard.

“Brother,” he said.

Out of his periphery, Varré and Ansbach turned sharply.

Shock rendered him speechless. For lack of anything constructive to do, Mohg found himself reluctantly drinking in his appearance. The calm, unwavering demeanor was unchanged, although the now-mirrored symmetry of their blindness took him aback. Disturbingly, the horns above his left eye were gone.

He took a step closer—and proximity caused his Great Rune to resonate in the presence of the other Shardbearer. He could feel it calling to the anchor. Like a second heartbeat, drumming a savage rhythm against his ribs.

By the set of his jaw, Morgott felt it the same.

“What deference is owed to the Lord of Leyndell?” Mohg finally asked, when he had recovered enough to do so.

Morgott’s tail swept behind him. “No more than is owed to the Lord of Blood.”

More than sound or sight, a sense of displaced air told him that Varré had crept closer. “My lord?”

He didn’t answer.

Varré hesitated. And then, in a quieter voice: “Mi domine? Quid haberes nos facere?”

“Eum abducemus?” Ansbach offered, his stare not wavering from their guest.

Morgott inclined his head—with wary interest, not comprehension. He didn’t inquire, although his hands gripped the wooden staff more firmly.

The urge to agree was tempting, and Mohg nearly did, the words already half-formed. His claws flexed.

He hadn’t forgotten their last conversation.

But damning pragmatism wouldn���t let him. He couldn’t just—dismiss him, as if countless years didn’t span the gap preceding where he now stood. Mohg remembered well his brother’s many traits—and that rash compulsions weren’t among them. Nor was he inclined to do things in half-measures. He wouldn’t have gone through the effort of finding him were it not important.

Varré hadn’t misspoken—the king of Leyndell would have valuable information.

And Mohg didn’t have the luxury of ignorance.

Pragmatism won, and he pushed the spiteful urge aside. “Omnia bene est,” he answered. “Id sinam. Linquite.”

He didn’t want an audience for the conversation about to follow.

Doubt was etched into every line of his posture, although Ansbach did not contest the dismissal. He bowed low. “Sicut mandas. Ero foras, si me requiras.”

The dark robes fluttered behind him as he left. Varré lingered, just long enough to add, “Etiam ego,” before he followed after Ansbach.

Morgott watched them go. It was subtle, but Mohg didn’t miss the way his shoulders dropped, before his attention shifted back to him. While his expression remained guarded, it wasn’t hostile.

“Thou seem’st hale,” he said, after a moment.

“You don’t,” Mohg replied. “Why are you garbed as a vagabond?”

His nostrils flared, and a moment later he forcibly closed his eye. When it reopened, his brow was furrowed with obvious restraint. It was such a familiar gesture that Mohg fought against the reflex to apologize for whatever childhood misdeed had prompted it.

“Discretion while traveling aside? Humility.” Morgott leaned a little into his staff. Though upon closer inspection, he didn’t appear to be relying on it for support. “Vainglory is not a prerequisite in my service to the tree.”

“Perhaps it ought, if you wish to avoid comparisons to a beggar.”

Morgott’s eye trawled over him.

“I can imagine worse alternatives,” he said.

Mohg could feel what little patience he had beginning to fray. “I’m not required to oblige guests, be they lord or kin,” he said, his teeth snapping around the words. The heavy stoles rippled as he stepped off to the side. “If you’ve come here simply to disparage me, then you’re welcome to leave.”

He waited.

To his disappointment—and relief—Morgott remained. His staff clacked upon the tiles as he approached, reducing some of the distance between them. He was careful, Mohg realized, to not venture too near. To stay outside of striking range.

“Forgive me,” he sighed. “A fortnight’s travel, accosted by the elements, hath done little to better my disposition.”

Nothing ever did, although Mohg bit back the words before he could utter them. The admission, however, seemed bereft of insincerity.

“Quite the distance to travel,” he agreed, inspecting the tips of his claws. “I can only imagine your discomfort after being borne here by palanquin.”

His stormy expression darkened.

Mohg arched a brow. “No?” he asked. “By horse, then?”

“What steed dost thou think can carry me?”

He already knew, but he pressed anyway: “Surely the king of Leyndell did not deign to walk all the way to Liurnia?”

Morgott’s silence answered for him.

“Disgraceful,” Mohg drawled, not bothering to hide the emphasis on the word. “That you would tolerate such insolence from your subjects. Not even an entourage to escort you through the wilds?”

“I don’t require such profligacy.”

“Afraid your men will see something they won’t like?” he asked.

Morgott’s eye darted off to the side. His tail swept closer, coiling loosely around his heels.

“Subterfuge has ever been your repertoire,” Mohg said, unable to keep the note of contempt out of his voice. His brother’s gaze snapped back to him as Mohg began to move, in a slow, gliding circle. He didn’t turn his head to follow him, although his eye tracked his movements. “That would explain why your kingdom believes that a man sits the throne.”

His shoulders hunched. “The throne is not mine to take.”

“Is that right?” His steps slowed. “Does it belong to a Tarnished, then? One of the innumerable you’ve culled in recent years?”

Morgott glared. “Thou hast outgrown the need for simple questions.”

He snorted, and resumed his pace. “I thought as much.”

For a long moment, Morgott didn’t speak. Before Mohg could prompt him, he let out a ragged noise.

“There was a time, once,” he murmured, “when I walked amongst them.”

The words rooted Mohg to the spot. He turned his head to face him, not daring to believe what he’d heard.

“As you are?” he asked, the question scarcely above a whisper.

To his disappointment, Morgott shook his head. “No. ’Twas after the Shattering, when the capital was engulfed by chaos. Almost all of the other demigods had abandoned the city by then.” The vestige of a darker emotion passed over his countenance, before fading into something more impartial. “Leyndell was on the precipice of consuming itself. Little wonder I was undetected when I entered the palace. Had I been, I wouldn’t have chanced upon it at all.”

“Upon what?” Mohg snapped.

“A guise.”

Try as he might, Mohg couldn’t feign a lack of interest. He jerked his head in a vague gesture to continue.

“I knew not what manner of enchantment lieth upon it,” he admitted. “I thought it only a mere veil, at first. Until the gossamer passed over mine eyes, and in my reflection, it rendered a stranger.” His gaze was distant. “I cannot begin to fathom why she kept such a thing.”

She? The meaning dawned on him. The words were painting a picture in his head, and certainly not the picture his brother had intended. “You mean to tell me that you ransacked her chambers?”

Morgott flinched.

The customary scowl returned a second later—but not before Mohg caught the flicker of guilt. “No. I did not fossick through her belongings,” he said harshly. “I was searching for documents. Records. Something to avail me guidance in restoring order of the city. The veil was…serendipitous. It enabled me the means to govern more directly. Losing it…”

His speech dimmed. “Losing it hath exacted certain costs.”

Mohg considered what he said, before, gradually, his attention shifted upward. Toward the bony nodes above his eye, their cross sections laid bare.

From excision.

His fingers curled into his palm. Cautiously, Mohg reached forward, and extended a hand toward his face. Morgott stiffened, but didn’t recoil as he lifted a claw tip, and traced it over the shorn edge.

“Was this the price you paid?” he asked.

Morgott let out an unsteady exhale. It ghosted over his wrist. “No. That was my doing.”

Mohg stilled. “You mutilated yourself,” he said. It wasn’t intended as an accusation, but it came out as such. “Why?”

“Because it would have blinded me.” The strain in his voice became more pronounced. “I watched their trajectory, as the horns spiraled inward. I knew what would happen, should I choose not to intervene.” His eye closed. “I remembered what it did to thee.”

Mohg said nothing.

“I knew the risks,” Morgott continued, “and deemed them worthwhile, if it meant preempting what would follow. ’Twas better than repeating the same mistake.”

He ripped his hand away.

“Mistake?” he spat.

Rage that had once laid dormant now roared in his chest.

“Yes.” Morgott wasn’t disconcerted by the sudden outburst, having weathered them before in their youth. Though the creases around his face deepened. “Should I have gouged the eye out instead? Let it fester into a sepsis which I had not the means to treat?”

Mohg bristled. “You think I should have done as you did?”

“I think thou didst as thou always hast.” Morgott leveled his stare to meet him. “Whatever pleaseth thee.”

The only thing that would have pleased him then was slamming his fist into his brother’s teeth.

“What good would it have done me?” Mohg asked. “What need did we have for sight in that lightless pit? Let it claim my eye, if it meant keeping my dignity. My pride. I would have that, if nothing else.”

“Thou mistakest conceit for pride,” Morgott said. “And ’tis misplaced. Should we lament every tumor that must be resected? Mourn every canker?”

Fingertips dug into his palm, until Mohg felt them break skin.

“It may be your voice,” he said, “but those are her words pouring out of your mouth.”

A hairline crack formed in the bark under Morgott’s hand.

“Say it.” His steps were soundless as he advanced. “Whose fault is it we languished in that cesspool? Whose fault that we endured years of privation? Whose fault that you saw no alternative than to maim yourself?”

His brother’s face hardened. Like the stone beneath him—rigid, senesced. Trodden upon.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Say the name of the woman who left us down there to die!”

“We did not.”

The answer, barely more than a dull rasp, caused Mohg to lose some of his momentum.

“We didn’t perish,” Morgott reiterated, more firmly. But there was a quality to his voice that felt lacking. Misplaced. “But had our existence not been hidden, we would have.”

“You can’t possibly be so naïve to think we were put there for our safety. Those tunnels weren’t made to keep our executioners out. They were made to keep us in.”

“They kept us alive. Beyond the reach of anyone that could harm us. Thou art here to complain because of it.”

“At least I don’t cower behind a lie.”

Morgott’s eye widened, and his tail lashed.

Mohg could feel his anger escaping him in hot, heavy pants, in time with the rise and fall of his chest. He made no effort to stop them. “It rejects us.” The words slid through his teeth, steeped in cold acrimony. “The city, the order, her. All of it. Where is the value in fealty after all rewards are forfeit?”

“Thou art mistaken,” Morgott growled, “to think I labor under such delusions.”

The tattered fringe of his cloak trailed at his heels, as he turned away, and paced across the courtyard. He came to a stop on the edge of the peristyle, his unoccupied hand braced against a column.

“I don’t deny that we are forsaken. How could we not be? Grace was withheld from us the moment we were conceived. We were born accursed. Who amongst my subjects would suffer an Omen as their king?”

He glanced over his shoulder. In the shadows of his face, the golden eye burned.

“But by birthright, Leyndell is mine. And I will pile high a mountain of corpses ere I let a usurper take it from me.”

Morgott turned to face him. “Surely thou, even in thy abattoir, canst understand that.”

“Far better a slaughterhouse,” Mohg rumbled darkly, “than a gilded cage.”

Apart from the abrasive rasp of his tail sweeping over the stone, the atrium was silent.

Until Morgott broke it: “’Twas also thine, once.”

Mohg watched through a narrowed eye as Morgott rejoined him. Still careful, of course, to maintain a certain amount of space. An unspoken boundary.

“The city,” he clarified, when Mohg didn’t react. “Thou hast claim to it as well.”

Mohg sneered. “Is that why you bothered to come looking for me? To ensure I wasn’t intent on stealing your birthright?”

The accusation didn’t rile him further, as Mohg had wanted. Indeed, it looked as if Morgott was visibly reining in his temper.

“Hardly. My reasons for seeking thee out aren’t so ulterior in motive.” The unwavering stare was belied by a hint of uncertainty, flickering at its edges. “But since the subject hath been broached, I see no reason not to pursue it.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Thou couldst return with me,” he said.

The simmering rage evaporated, replaced by a yawning chasm that threatened to swallow him. Mohg took a step back, as if doing so could dispel the feeling of being trapped behind teeth. “Why?”

“Traditionally, inheritance is primogeniture. In our case, however, ’tis shared equally.” Morgott cleared his throat. “I don’t expect thee to assume the responsibilities of lordship. Or—”

“No,” Mohg cut him off. “Why are you offering? Out of some misguided sense of propriety?” He folded his arms. “Or is this your pathetic attempt at reconciliation?”

Morgott winced. “…Perhaps some of both.”

“You haven’t done much to convince me.”

“And thou wert the embodiment of hospitality.”

The desire to argue was loosening its grip, and Mohg clung to it with renewed desperation. Hostility was familiar; at least he knew what to do with that. The grim sincerity on his brother’s face, so at odds with his habitual derision—that he didn’t know what to do with.

But he wanted it gone.

“Leave,” Mohg said suddenly.

Morgott blinked. “What dost thou—”

“You’ve made it clear that being here offends you. So let me alleviate your conscience.” The fabric hissed as his robes dragged behind him. He took a step closer, ambivalence shed from him like the Erdtree’s dying leaves. “Get out of my sight, and don’t come back.”

Whatever Morgott’s first reaction to the dismissal had been, it was quickly displaced. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he lifted his chin. “No.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

“And yet mine answer is unchanged.”

Mohg let out a low growl. “Must I remove you?”

“I invite thee to try.”

Neither of them stirred.

“I did not spend all these years searching for thee,” said Morgott, in a low tone, “to be so easily dismissed.” Of all the things Mohg had expected, it wasn’t for him to crouch, and lay his staff upon the floor. When he rose, his hands were splayed. “Thou’st made it clear that I’m to blame for every hardship thou suffered. So let me rectify it.”

He kicked the staff away, and stepped forward. His hands dropped. “Hit me, and be done with it.”

For a single, fleeting moment, Mohg very nearly did. He could all but feel the motes of fire dancing along his claws, his hands awash in their heat. Ribbons of red light trailing at his fingertips. The invocation upon his tongue.

But the longer he stared at his brother—tired, careworn, resigned—the more distant that feeling became. More pointless. Attacking him would do nothing to the person that he actually wanted to hurt. And for all that Morgott espoused her ideologies, Mohg wasn’t blind.

There was an impression around his ankle, too.  

Mohg swallowed back the urge, and the incantation with it.

“Why did you refuse to come with me, when I left?” he asked.

Morgott hadn’t anticipated that question, because his face went blank.

“There weren’t any sentries that night. You saw how easy it was.” Mohg could still hear the metallic snap of his shackle, incandescent from the bloody flame. Feel the surge of renewed vigor as the confinement lifted. For the first time in his miserable existence, he’d felt alive. “We could have left together.”

More than anything, he still remembered Morgott wrenching away from him, half-shouting, half-pleading, to get away. Self-recrimination was the hammer, and duty the molten steel, that had been beaten into the shape of his chains. No gaoler, however, had fastened them around his neck. Morgott had done that himself, willingly, long ago in those merciless pits. An act of penance. As if his entire reign hadn’t already been one long expression of it.

Sometimes, Mohg wondered if the endless futility didn’t assuage his guilt. Or if denial was an easier lie to swallow.

He almost didn’t expect him to answer, for how long the silence dragged on. In a way, it didn’t matter. His brother had never needed a veil to obscure himself, with how easily he had learned to guard his thoughts. The trick, Mohg had learned, was to listen for the things that went unspoken. The things that Morgott could no longer bring himself to name.

He waited.

Until Morgott swallowed, thickly. Almost too softly to be heard, he said, “Leyndell is my home.”

Mohg sighed, the last dregs of his anger spent. He went to retrieve the staff. “Then we have an understanding.”

His fingers wrapped around it. There was a strange energy running below the surface, Mohg realized, although he couldn’t identify what it was. It pulsed beneath the wood.

He returned, and held out the staff in wordless offering. Their eyes met.

“You can’t ask me to come with you,” Mohg said, “any more than I can ask you to stay.”

Mohg couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen grief upon his face. It was faint, but unmistakable.

And it was gone before he had the chance to assess it; an impression in the sand, swept away by unremitting tides. Morgott reached out, and accepted the staff. “No,” he murmured. “I suppose not.”

He leaned into it, his free hand tucked in the folds of his cloak.

Which left them…there. Painfully aware of each other.

Vulnerability was just as foreign as it was intrusive, and Mohg suddenly found himself unable to meet his gaze. He tipped back his head to avoid it. As ever, the glow from the false night sky was calming, and Mohg could feel some of the tension leave him.

“What was it that brought you here?” he asked. “I can’t imagine you were content to leave the Erdtree unguarded.”

Likewise, Morgott had turned his attention upward, and he appeared to be studying the stars. He let out a quiet, mirthless sound that might have been laughter, once, if not made rusty from disuse. “What maketh thee believe it is?”

Leyndell didn’t have its reputation as an impenetrable fortress for nothing. Still, Mohg wondered.

“As to thy question…” Morgott flicked his tail. An idle gesture, if Mohg ever believed him capable of such a thing. “How dispersed are thy scouts?”

Tonight was determined to keep wrong-footing him. “What?”

“Do thy activities extend across the continent? Or are they more localized?” he continued. The insouciance was at odds with the nature of his inquiry. “The war surgeon already confirmeth thy presence in Liurnia.”

It was too specific to be anything innocuous, but Mohg couldn’t discern his motives. He folded his arms behind his back. Thinking.

“It’s selective,” Mohg said. His reply was delayed, as he measured the repercussions of sharing that information. Deciding there were none, he continued: “Limgrave receives most of our attention. Liurnia and Caelid, to lesser extents.” He was careful to omit Altus. “There are a handful of places we avoid—the Barrows, Aeonia, Stormveil. I’m sure you can gather why.”

Morgott nodded, almost to himself. “Dost thou ever survey the coasts?”

His line of questioning was becoming more pointed—toward what, Mohg wasn’t certain, although an idea was starting to take form. “Routinely. It’s how we intercept Tarnished, before they traipse their way to the Hold.”

“They’re recruited by thee?”

“Would you prefer I send them your way?”

Morgott scowled.

“I thought so.”

Morgott redirected his stare to a different patch of cavernous sky—the facsimile of a nebula, coalesced in clouds of red dust. Like the alpenglow of a distant summit, suspended below the earth rather than above it.

“You despise the Tarnished.” It wasn’t a question. “What interest could you possibly have in them?”

“Not them,” Morgott corrected him. “Merely one.”

He lowered his head, and turned to look at Mohg.

“Their exodus is compelled by lost grace. All of the Tarnished were adjured to return—including the first. I had hoped,” said Morgott, haltingly, “that in all thy doings, thou mightst have whereabouts of our father.”

He wasn’t sure why Morgott was so determined to make him exhume every complicated emotion he had ever buried. But he was beginning to tire of it.

Mohg pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, I haven’t seen him.”

That was clearly the answer he had expected. Nevertheless, Morgott sighed.

“I had thought…” He frowned. “Surely, if any of them were to arise…”

The throne is not mine to take.

The snippet of conversation from earlier resurfaced.

“You wish to see him restored to the throne,” said Mohg. “Don’t you?”

Morgott looked as if he were debating whether or not to respond. When he finally did, it wasn’t what Mohg had expected. “I wish to see him.”

His lip curled, almost reflexively, and Mohg jerked his head back up toward the ceiling. He could see Morgott out of the corner of his eye, furrowing his brow.

It was almost deafeningly loud amidst the quiet: “Dost thou repudiate him, too?”

There had been a time when Mohg already knew his answer.

Perhaps, once, he had paced the length of the Shunning Grounds like a caged animal. Lashing out at anything that dared approach. Consumed by inexhaustible rage as he clung to their father’s parting words, his promise to one day return from exile, and come back for them. Only to never see him again.

Perhaps, once, he had knelt in a ring of flickering candles. His brow anointed with blood, the ground before him smeared in dark crimson, as he had beseeched his new mother. Cried out until his voice was hoarse. Had asked his patron what more could be done—what more he could give—to erase the pain. Only to be chided. Scars, she told him, could not be erased.

Perhaps, once, he had scanned the horizon. Had convinced himself that he wasn’t looking for the silhouette of a lion, astride the shoulders of a man.

Perhaps, once, if had he been asked the same of his brother, his answer would have been no different.

Mohg closed his eye. “No,” he sighed, and the effort left him feeling drained, “I do not.” He opened it again, taking in the stars and their bright, otherworldly glow. “Should one of my scouts find evidence of his arrival, I’ll investigate. I will ensure no harm comes to him, insofar as I am able.”

The relief in Morgott’s face was replaced by confusion. “‘As thou art able’?”

“It isn’t just scarlet rot that inhibits our movements. Inducting the Tarnished does nothing to ward off those that would hunt them.” The frown he wore was identical to his brother’s—vexed by things beyond his control. “I’ve lost scouts to Godrick’s hunting parties. To riders, as well.”

Morgott’s reply was uneasy. “…What manner of riders?”

“Knights, of some kind.” He recalled the description from Ansbach’s latest report. “Wearing black armor, and carried by horses that don shrouds. They patrol most of the major roads.”

“They are called the Night’s Cavalry,” said Morgott, suddenly. “And they serve me.”

Mohg tore his gaze from the sky. “They serve you?”

Shame was as much a permanent fixture as his white hair. Yet Mohg couldn’t ever recall seeing it directed at him. “They are spirits, rejected by the tree, bound into my service through oath. I granted them new purpose when they died.” Unmistakably, he winced. “As a contingency measure…against the Tarnished.”

At a loss for words, Mohg could only give a noncommittal, “Ah.”

They stared at each other.

“I did not think they—that thy ranks would be—” He cut himself off with a frustrated noise and shook his head, before his shoulders dropped, settling into acquiescence. “What reparations can I make to thee, for my transgressions?”

It was such an absurd notion that Mohg actually thought he had misheard. But, no, he knew he hadn’t. His horns had taken his eye, not his ears.

Having the king of Leyndell in his debt would be useful, Mohg thought, in a voice that suspiciously resembled Varré's. It could be extorted—leveraged—to incredible effect.

Almost as soon as the thought entered his mind, it was discarded. Debt was no longer a prize worth coveting. It complicates things, Ansbach would have told him. And Mohg couldn’t have this—whatever this tentative truce between him and his brother actually was—if it was predicated on transactions.

“None, that I wouldn’t then need to reciprocate.” Mohg shrugged, broad shoulders shifting under the black garment. “My servants have killed a number of Leyndell soldiers. Of course,” he added, “I hadn’t realized at the time they were yours.”

He extended a hand.

“Consider the ledger balanced?”

Morgott eyed the appendage, letting it hang between them—before, finally, stepping forward. Their hands clasped.

“We’ve an accord,” he murmured.

His palm was warm and calloused. Leathery, even. Years’ worth of self-neglect, no doubt. It startled Mohg how achingly familiar the touch felt.

Mohg almost regretted letting go.

He wondered, as Morgott watched his hand return to his side, if he didn’t feel the same.

“My cavalry only rideth between dusk and dawn,” Morgott said. “So long as thy scouts avoid the roads betwixt then, they will be safe.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

Morgott opened his mouth again, only to close it. His tail swept behind him, and without warning, he brushed past Mohg and made his way toward the gatehouse.

“I’ve overstayed my welcome, unannounced as it was,” he said, rather abruptly. “Where is thy war surgeon? Lurking somewhere nearby, I assume? Let me find him, and I’ll see myself out.”

He only made it eight steps before Mohg capitulated.

“Morgott,” he called after him. “Wait.”

His brother glanced over his shoulder, his look of puzzlement morphing into confusion as Mohg caught up, and pressed the medal into his hand. “Take this.”

Morgott lifted the crest to eye-level. It was the color of rusted iron, emblazoned with a trident in its center. “What is it?”

“My aegis,” he said, ignoring the startled look he received. “There are enchantments upon it. Should you need to reach me, it will bring you here.”

Morgott thumbed over the intricate design. A nacreous sheen rippled across its surface—the only evidence of latent spellwork. “I’ve naught to give thee in return.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I have my own methods for going as I wish.”

Morgott’s brows shot up. No doubt the aloof drawl had sparked recognition—the same one that, in their adolescence, had threatened to turn his hair prematurely gray; a foreboding sound, of amusement at the expense of his brother’s peace of mind. A moment passed, and Morgott let out an exasperated snort. It was almost fond. “I don’t want to know.”

“No,” he agreed, and his face split into a jagged grin, “you rather don’t.”

Mohg might have missed the brief, furtive smile, if he hadn’t been looking for it.

[astro-nomaly]

Dragons Rising idea-

Lord Garmadon comes back, and he’s all determined to be such a good dad to Lloyd, but Lloyd at this point wants less than nothing to do with him: he’s done giving out second and third and fifth chances for this guy, and he has visions to deal with and friends to find and now his OWN kids to take care of. And Sora and Arin would offer two sides of the argument: Sora representing the idea of not forgiving Garmadon and cutting him out of Lloyd’s life like she did with her own parents, citing him as irredeemable and far too toxic. Arin representing the idea of forgiving Garmadon, as he would do anything to be with his own parents again, and he thinks Lloyd should give the guy another chance.

And finally Wyldfyre being the idea that maybe Lloyd doesn’t have to do either. Garmadon can still be in Lloyd’s life without being his parent or being at the center of it. He doesn’t have to forgive Garmadon, but he doesn’t have to eternally hate him either. He’s allowed to just get over him and start a new relationship.

I just think that Lloyd’s new kids representing his own turmoil with his father would be a neat idea and also good closure on Lloyd’s Garmadon angst. He’s been hung up on his dad for so long and I think he deserves to move on on his own terms - not because Garmadon disappears or dies or sacrifices himself or they absolutely need him so Lloyd is forced to get along. No stakes, just Lloyd and Garmadon and their fucked up relationship

[pigeons-with-jello]

Malevolent is such a fun fandom becsuse after seeing a certain amount of users you can guess about half the people who reblogged a post based on which characters its about and thats what society was built on

[heterophobiclanwangji]

my favorite bingqiu fic idea i’ll never get around to writing is a no transmigration au where shen yuan was born as shen jiu’s older twin brother who died at the qiu estate, but shen jiu somehow managed to capture his soul so some of shen jiu’s rocky cultivation is that he’s trying to further his own cultivation while also preserving/repairing shen yuan’s soul. shen yuan finally reforms when shen jiu and liu qingge are in the spirit caves before sha hualing’s invasion, so he would be 15/16 at the same time that binghe is 15. so he’s shen jiu’s older brother AND his twin AND much younger than he is AND insists on calling binghe his luo-shixiong to shen jiu’s increasing dismay

[torchwood-99]

Theoden's Favourite

Going off the books, I'd say Theoden's kids are ranked accordingly;

Eomer

Merry

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Eowyn

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-

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Theodred (kid dies and he says nothing about it)

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-

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Idis, the daughter cut from the first draft.

[g00seg1raffe]

Can i share something that happened to me last year

I'm minding my own business and this guy who I kind of know but wouldn't really consider myself friends with (trauma bonded on a school trip last year and haven't spoken since) comes up to me like hey, what are you doing? And I say: world-building the ancient history of Lord of the Rings. And then I proceed to tell him all about the various genocides of the first age, with a side note on Maedhros' Quenya name, which literally means 'the hot redhead who's third in line for the throne', with his mother name meaning 'hot damn', his father name meaning 'third of the king's name' and his nickname meaning 'redhead'. Then I explain that loads of elves get nicknames, like Gil-Galad and other people who I can't remember.

And he goes cool, can I have an elvish nickname? And I say sure, what do you want it to mean?

And he goes: big daddy

and I don't know what's more embarrassing: a) he thought that, b) he asked that, or c) I could translate that off the top of my head.

[didsomeonesayventus]

listen I know diamant’s retainers are his emotional support silly guy and girl but I think alfred gets the honor of being the emotional support silly boyfriend when they finally get over being estranged childhood friends

[cowboysmp3]

maya fey suffered more than jesus for real

[the-tropes-are-hungry]

5 - The Worm Laughs

So, you know that bit in the previous chapter that was literally about not using a crown if you aren’t at your personal peak?

Yeah…

count the memes I dare you

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Wrow. Wrow! WROW—! WROWROWROW— WROOOOOOOOW!!!!

FLYING WAS SO MUCH BETTER THAN DIGGING!!!

Heart pounding, feet kicking, his claws grabbed the branches and flung him at the sky. Mouth open, bird in sights—

And the CRUNCH!!

His landings were never (Wrow!) good. But bouncing into the forest (Wrowwro!) floor never phased him either, the snap-snarl-shine (Wroro—!) of his crown ricocheting him from tree to (Wowoworr!!) tree was almost more fun than the flying that started it!

“Ehe—eheeh! Heheha!”

He came to a rolling, tumbling stop, flopping over tree roots and kicking his feet as his tail stretched long and his spine gave a loud pop!. He swiped away the feathers caught between his dripping teeth on a furry wrist.

The worm was used to the smell of himself, but knew better than to let the blood dry and get itchy and sticky on his fur. He crunched the fragile bird with his big teeth, pulling the pulp further into his gullet where the small teeth could grind and grind and grind, the vibration making his head tickle as he rolled off the root and scampered under brush and leaf and over rock and stump.

Good summer sunshine, hot summer wind, best summer weather. Summer better than winter, which was short and dark and full of sleeping. Winter less fun than spring, with the fresh shoots and sweet roots and plenty of little eggs and tiny critters. Spring nicer than fall, despite the sweet fruit and the nesting leaves and the fat fish and the sleepy hares and burrowing toads.

Summer. Summer the best of all. And this was the worm’s sixth summer.

He lifted his head and sniffed through the heat, something new on his pallet that he didn’t like. Sour, like bad blood left in the sun, hurt like thorns in the throat. Bad, but the same direction as water. Fresh water by the sound, sweet and crisp, good for washing and splashing and fish. Thin summer fish still better than no fish at all. Something silent beyond the water. Not enough noise in that direction. Same way as the smell. Odd. Wrong. Bad.

But different. Different meant new and interesting and fun and for eating.

And if it was not for eating, then there was the crown, and the crown made things fun fun.

Nice feathers the worm tucked into leaves, broad and cut with his claws to fold into layers, tougher than normal leaves, and not the best for eating. He’d seen woven leaves on other worms (fought them too). He’d seen pretty things on other walking beasts (fought them too). These feathers were nice, so he wrapped them in the leaves, and slipped the leaves in his belt (not fought this, made this), and took off running through the forest, up the tree, across the branches, and leaped!

“Wroworow!!”

He knew the right path through the branches, flashing through the canopy and counting shards of blue summer sky as he went. Eighty-four, eighty-three, eighty-two, eighty-one! He counted down from a hundred. Last year he had counted down from twenty, but this year he would count down from a hundred.

The ants had taught him counting when he burrowed into their hill for winter. They had tried to eat him, but he had eaten them instead until they walled him away. So, he ate their food, and slept in their hill, and in the spring they had told him they would not try to eat him if he did not try to eat them and that they liked his crown and wanted to know what he liked too. And he had almost said food, but he had seen the paper in the ant’s hands, and he had not smelled a smell like the marks on the paper (paper is just wood with the tasty bits washed out, not good for eating).

The ants had taught him counting, and wording, and in return he had not eaten the ants. Instead, he had eaten the other ants that tried coming into the hill when he was learning counting. He had eaten fifteen and a half other-ants before they ran away.

Then his ants had given him something white and wispy and more than food and better than counting and it tickled more than the hardest bones and sweeter than the ripest fruit. And it had closed his wounds, and dulled his pain, and cleared his sleep, and sated, for once, his hunger.

He liked spending winter with the ants. He got to sleep in the warm and the dark and grow more arms and more fur and eat more other-ants if they woke him up. He got to counting and wording and making, like his belt and his purse, and the little metal clasps on the belt and the purse that only his ants could make.

He liked the ants.

He liked flying too.

Across the branch, dash the length, claws dug deep, arms flung wide—“Wroweeee!!”

Into the bright sunlight and above the sparkling water and the grey river rocks and through the waterfall mists and under the ugly oak’s nose? Ugly oak??

Nose???

The worm landed on his head in the water and trumpeted alarm, claws flexing in the cold as he spun his body down, touched his toes to the rocks, and sprung back up.

The water was fast, the falls right behind him (safe falls, had fallen many times, easy squishy rocks for crown to bounce off) as he bobbed like a clump of leaves under the mammoth snout of a wooden beast resting over his river. The nose was dripping with moss and ferns, attached to a face broad as a hill and sprouted with an oak tree, a massive oak tree, a mountain of an oak tree that went back and up and high too far for the worm to see all the way to the top. The canopy stretched too far, not too far for the horizon but too far for a tree.

The face of the tree was marked with a gold halo around its brow, pulsing with light like the sun if the sun was sterile and blinding and bad.

The water carried him over the falls, and the sleeping oak did not see him. He flopped like floatsam on the rocks below, curling himself up and kicking through the white rapids, for once not enjoying the bubbles tickling his belly or fizzing at his mouth.

He only got a few strokes away from the falls when he had to kick hard and dive.

There was a new rock in the river, attached to the ugly oak. Not a foot, more a toe, a boulder of swollen burl that blocked his river and sent the water screaming at a sharp bend and carried him with it. He slammed his back into it with a gurgle, toes curled to keep his claws from nicking the bark as the water pulled him along.

The sweet water was bitter and gross where it touched the ugly oak, and two more harsh diversions later the worm had enough and kicked his way to shore, retching at the unholy ichor bleeding into his river.

“Worm?”

“Oh, Worm!!”

Voices and the pleasure of devotion pulled him into the tree line, and a moment later he was looking up at Caterpillar and Dave, who looked exactly like Caterpillar but was called Dave. They were both worms like him.

He pointed back at the river. “The fuck?”

“Real bad,” said Dave.

“Champion Oak,” said Caterpillar. “Seven-toed Oak.”

“Trees don’t have toes,” the worm said. Trees also didn’t show up in one day, or one night, and become bigger than mountains. “Do they?”

“Oak does,” Caterpillar said. “Can we eat it?”

“Tastes bad,” he said, and let his tongue unroll from his gullet, wiping the aftertaste of ichor off on his fur.

“Oh well,” sighed Caterpillar.

“Guess we’ll die,” agreed Dave.

“What? No.” That was stupid. The worm was dumb but he was not stupid. “Oak got here. We can get oak to go away.”

They laughed at him, but they also wept that aroma he couldn’t smell and filled him with the flavor he couldn’t taste. His bones felt stronger and fur thicker and claws sharper.

“We? No way,” said Caterpillar.

“Me then,” the worm decided. And the feeling got stronger, the devotion seeped into his teeth. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll do it?” Dave asked, pushing the fur out of their blue eyes.

“I’ll do it,” the worm decided.

Dave’s eyes went pearly white, and the vibration that built in their gullet rocked them so hard they made a purr the other worms hadn’t heard before. Listening to it, leaning into it, feeding from it, felt so good.

“Okay, you do it,” Dave said. “Get a name first.”

“Why?”

“Gotta tell the Queen after, right?”

This was so complicated. He could have just eaten Dave but Dave smelled too sweet for eating.

“Ant Queen calls me latchkey.” Because it was a thing in ant tunnels made of metal that click-clacked, and he liked the click-clack, even if his ants didn’t like if he click-clacked the clickity-clack when they weren’t with him to clackity-click it after.

“Lackshee?” Slurred Dave, because Dave was stupid.

“Leshky,” tried Caterpillar, who was dumb.

“Close enough,” decided Leshy, who didn’t know why anyone would tell his ant queen anything after he got rid of the ugly oak ruining his river.

It was easy to do. (<- recommended song)

He just went around the Oak first, because it was big, and he counted all the toes, which were more than seven of, and he counted the branches when he got bored on the long flight back to his ants. And his ants were very scared because something very heavy and big with bad roots had destroyed half their outer compounds and was very close to their main entrance and this was bad for some reason although Leshy had counted and they still forty-seven other entrances.

“It’s summer,” he said. “Gimmie metal.”

His ants didn’t want to give him metal, they didn’t like giving metal to anyone, not even him, not even for pretty feathers or woven leaves or when he ate one of them.

“Hmm. Need metal,” he said, disappointed that his ants still tasted like normal ants, pulpy without crunchy and sour instead of sweet. He looked up at his ants’ queen. “What you want for metal?”

“You’d have to get it yourself, Green Crown.”

“Leshy,” he corrected, forgetting to really chew that last leg and hacking it back up for his teeth again. “Where’s metal?”

Ant Queen shook her head. “Far too deep for us to tunnel with this current crisis over our heads!”

Leshy stopped eating the ant leg, stared at his ant queen, and realized she was stupid.

“Okay.”

He put his claws into the floor and dug. He went right through (wrow!) the ceiling of the main ventilation shaft and crown-bounced his way down several meters before finding purchase and tunnelling again. He listened to Mother this time until he reached Warehouse 7-N, because 7-N was too big to bother going around and there was only harvested chitin and glass stored there so it was fine.

He dug until he found stone, startling Mother. She helped him sniff out his ants’ tunnel, and here he used his sharpened claws and strengthened teeth to dig rock instead of dirt. The crown was warm on his head, and made the grinding rumble in his head like a little song he could sing while chewing. He decided that as long as it was still summer when he was finished then this would work.

He brought the stone that tasted different and more like metal back to his ant queen, and told her: “Make metal, I gotta get rid of the Oak.”

Stunned, they asked how he would do it and he told them, so they made the ore into metal. They formed the metal into nails like his, to make it easier. One hundred nails, so he could count them.

One of his ants was dumb and thought he wanted to tie metal nails to his nails, and he said no, but they said why not? And he said:

“Don’t care. Do what you want. Are you done? Gimmie.”

His ants’ eyes were full of white, and Leshy could hear more than he’d ever heard in his life, from the pupae in the nursery two levels down to the ant queen pacing in her chamber above him. He wanted to shed his skin and get bigger, stronger, wormier.

“Come back safe,” his ants prayed. A lot of them. In the converted warehouse 2-H. He breathed in all the air and felt all the feelings and now he would get bigger, he just didn’t know how.

It was still summer when he left his ants.

The Ugly Oak was right over their hill.

Best way to kill a tree was to eat the roots, but these roots were bad, so blegh. Second best was this way, when the air was hot and humid, the best for foraging, but dangerous for flying.

Leshy flew anyway.

Trees don’t care about worms. Big trees don’t care about nails either.

Turns out, they do care about little green crowns worn by little green worms who stick little black nails into their bark. And he had one hundred nails, so he put them in a lot of branches, three and four and sometimes more, bashed in with a rock.

The ugly oak was too big to feel the nails; it was the bashing that woke them up.

[W-H-O-D-A-R-E-S-?]

Leshy didn’t say shit. He was a pile of leaves, among the leaves, being a leaf. Stupid worm on a dumb oak, a dumb oak who was too bloated-huge-gross-big to feel one worm who weighed as much as a worm carrying sixty-four iron nails.

It was getting dark. This was good. A bit of night time dark, but more of the bad time for flying dark.

The wind was blowing. It was blowing more and more, tearing off the Ugly Oak’s leaves, making the smaller branches sway, and forming a crack in their old boughs that Leshy found and drove a line of nails from the dry bark down to the bitter flesh.

[C-U-R-S-E-S-O-F-T-H-E-G-R-E-E-N-E-Y-E-D-Q-U-E-E-N-U-P-O-N-T-H-E-E-W-O-R-M-!-!-!]

“Uh-oh.”

This was hard to do. Now the branches kept moving, and sometimes breaking, and the acorns popped open with hornets and spiders and squirrels and mice and centipedes. Leshy would have eaten a few of them but he was too busy running, scratching, climbing, flying away from all that.

The wind was scattered, left, up, away, in, around. The sky was getting louder, the first spits of summer rain flying cold in his face.

Every jump he put his weight into a nail, driving them in. Didn’t matter where: dead wood, living, any, just wood or leaf or litter. He jumped seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three times, counting and ducking, dodging and driving, and decided he had too much metal.

Crossing the Ugly Oak’s halo was the dumbest thing his stupid worm self ever did. He’d thought he was on the back of the canopy, not the face, and when he jumped—

[T-H-E-I-F-O-F-D-I-V-I-N-I-T-Y-!-!-!]

His crown went hot cold hot hot cold. He screamed, claws splitting to the quick as his bones wracked and his fur tore and he fell thirty, forty, fifty feet.

No ricochet, just smashed bones and torn skin and fear, real fear, horrible bad awful scary fear.

But he broke his body on the ugly oak’s ugly ass fucking nose, and had to laugh at that.

He rolled his bleeding body over, all his inner fruits and bones mucked up as a meal for a baby worm on the ground somewhere, and grinned with his blue blood leaking past his teeth.

He wiggled his broken claws.

“Hi.”

The Ugly Oak’s two eyes were massive as moonpools, glowing yellow like twin suns if the sun had a twin that was ugly as a worm’s ass and pulsed like an overweight pupa.

But the best way to kill a tree was eat its roots.

“Bye.”

Second best was fire. From the sky.

Lots of sky-fire in summer.

The sky broke. Lightning forked hot and delicious toward tidbits of iron sitting in dry summer wood. Lightning riddled patterns in flesh and sand, hence why ants live underground, and where ants get glass. Ants are stupid but they’d not dumb.

Lightning ate iron, traveled through wooden flesh, and found more iron.

Mother’s bounty drove the sky mad and caught the Ugly Oak in its jaws. The ants saw it happen from their observation deck. Caterpillar and Dave had already told Snuff and Sniff and Snarl and Jake. The hornets witnessed everything.

[D-E-V-I-L-!-!]

Leshy laughed on his back on the Ugly Oak’s nose. He clicked his broken claws and gnashed his bloody teeth. He watched the piss-yellow eyes of the Seven-Toed Oak roll and burst in its big ugly head, smoke venting from its screaming mouth as its oldest boughs sheered off.

Flames roared up from its heartwood core. The sap sang pop! Pop! Hiss! And filled the air with sweet. The bitter ichor burned green and purple and white.

[D-D-E-A-M-O-N-!-!]

“Leshy,” the worm corrected.

When their dying face tilted, he rolled off their ugly nose, landed in his river, and floated away.

[Next] <- When it's done. (May 31st)

So mad about the end of last chapter because I was like “this is an incredible moment to introduce Leshy” but then I remembered I haven’t given them Heket. >:(

[thorarms]

Thinking more about that powerful rich werewolves and scavenger vampires post and how it would slap so hard as a werewolf loki / vampire thor au

[oysterie]

tumblr white/not white pole results are so scary always 😭

[bronzebtch]

headcanon: accession to lady of runestone — during her rite of accession, a ceremony coronating her officially as lady of runestone, a week after her father's burial sometime in 101AC, her husband wasn't there. rightfully, as lord consort, he would have to be. though considering the circumstances within that time*, the court did not take it as an offence, though it is still something that was very damning to da3mon's reputation across the vale. rhea, however, gave no comments.

[shiredded]

Happy father's day!

This poll is about estranged fathers. If you are not estranged, congrats! You all get to share one answer.

Good lord! This sure did go. I'll answer some confusion as best I can.

This is a poll about estranged fathers. I'm interested in the timelines of people who don't talk to their dads.

Because I am interested in estranged fathers, I basically categorized everyone who is NOT estranged into one answer. If you have spoken within the last few hours or weeks: congratulations! You are within normal relationship parameters.

If it's been more than a month, something odd may be going on, especially if your culture normally observes father's day. After a year, it's definitely not normal.

If you want to be more specific within that month, make a poll, it's fine! No need to get mad, go hug your dad!

The results (aside from the volume holy shit) are pretty much what i expected: the vast majority of people are not estranged. Within that, some love their dad, some do not. But I don't personally care how recent contact was if it was within the last month.

I'm not trying to make a commentary about how fathers are all awful and everyone should reject them. I'm not an authority on dads either.

I am not "everyone" and I am not "tumblr"

I'm literally just a guy.

There's no goal here to try to fill every slot evenly, nor a message that you should.

Not every poll is all inclusive, and not every poll is about you.

For those who it is about, I see you. Father's day is weird for us, especially when surrounded by people who like their dads. We are rare in the grand scheme of things, and that's a good thing. But estrangement is about loneliness, either ours or his.

It's raw for some of us, an old scar for others, and for me: a turning point in life where everything started to get better. A year becomes two, a decade another, and someone who consumed your life becomes a part of the past so distant you stop remembering it so well.

We may not have dads, but we have each other.