#elden ring fanfic

[odysseusdraws]

Rennala got the dog in the divorce.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 10

MASTERLIST

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Summary: Messmer is stressed, and when he unravels, he becomes frustrated.

A/N: This chapter is labelled a spicy chapter 🌶️Warnings for this chapter: male masturbation

A03 link

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Chapter 10: Undoing

"Leave me."

His personal knights, and his staff hurry out at once the tornado has made its way into his chambers, a mess of red that has consumed him body and soul.

He doesn't look back to know he's alone, he hears the many footsteps leave at once, shutting the door so that he feels some level of peace wash over him.

He would hate for his men to see him like this; wracked with shame and on the path to losing it.

Messmer likes to think he's a relatively calm man, and it takes a lot to piss him off. That thing pissing him off though was running amok and battling his men, reading his books. He allowed it, allowed her despite this entire time for some absurd unknown reason.

It didn't help that he still couldn't get out of his head the way you felt.

Your soft skin, the way you felt in his arms, the memory flashed so vividly that he thought he was truly losing it. How had this Tarnished do it-- he wonders. Perhaps it was a curse to torture him forever. It could be one of the many ways.

His insides tighten, and he's half-leant against the pillars of his darkened chambers, trying to distract himself even with his cock still hard and it's not going away. No matter what he thought, there was nothing he do to distract himself.

Curse her. He thinks, wracking a hand through his wild red locks, a sheen of sweat on his forehead makes him feel as if he's just drunk the strongest alcohol and it has lit a pyre in his gut.

The heat is too intense, the serpent calls within, and he's ripping at his clothing to be rid of the confinement, discarding his helm with a thud as he throws the red mantle off him. The cooler air hits the exposed areas of his skin. Still, it is not enough. 

He can't even close his eyes without you taking a part of his mind, the way you looked up at him when he caught you, that you knew this was all just as embarrassing as how he felt inside.

It's not the only memory that comes to mind, there are many others. When you're wearing red, his colours. When you kept your promise and returned to him on the verge of death, even when you're half bleeding all over the place and you're trying to find a way to vex him.

How could he explain himself if you accidentally found out about the tent forming between his legs.

He is half human after all, but all this had still been new to him. He had his urges, but he had quelled them before they could fester. Sometimes, he gave in, but the regret hit him hard soon after. It was never about him, never what he wished for. He was a soldier and soldiers never thought for themselves.

He was somewhat disgusted in himself for feeling this way, like some carnal beast, thinking thoughts that were so mixed that it muddled his head.

He hated her, oh, he hated the way she flounced around his Keep, grinning with blood in her teeth and breaking any bone in her body for the thrill of it, but Messmer had never felt so thrilled and enticed ever in his entire existence to witness this.

The Tarnished was merely an acquaintance, not his enemy nor a friend - not that he had many of those. Could he call upon her to be his friend? 

He had witnessed first-hand the way you were blessed by his mother's golden grace, and you had not fallen to Miquella's ways. Friend or foe, you were a distraction.

Messmer slumped in defeat, closing his eye as all distractions failed, he had come to realise one thing, the thing that his mind had been trying to deny whilst his body yearned for more.

It is the greatest of defeats he feels when his hands wound their way down his stomach, across his strong thighs and finding purchase on his hardened length.

He winces immediately, trying to ease the sensitivity by rubbing himself through his loincloth It doesn't do enough to help ease it, as the guilt hits him.

Stress consumes him to think he was so foolish to have feelings like these. He curses himself, foolish and immature, yet his hand finds a way inside, holding his length as he gives long strokes.

He almost collapses to the ground at the sharp sensations, biting his bottom lip as he tries to keep his noises at bay. He runs a finger over his tip, already leaking with precum as he smears it, helping to intensify the sensitivity. 

His precum helps his hand guide along his length, urging him to continue, harder, faster strokes have him quivering and whimpering.

His eye remains shut, but it reveals the filthiest of fantasies that have him half feverish and insane.

In them all, all he sees is you.

Your face, the way you look up at him, the way he imagines what you would look like naked, drenched in sweat, in blood, beneath him or on top. His hand doesn't tire it's spurned on by what he sees, his stomach begins to twist from the upcoming release.

He's never been this close this quickly, choking on his tears as they leak from his golden eye. Bliss is on the horizon as he quickens in his strokes, biting his lip until he's sure he tastes the bitter copper. He sees her in his fantasy, bare beneath him, moaning as he takes her, and he's closer, so, so close, until he hears the whisper of his name.

"Messmer."

His orgasm comes to him like a punch to the gut he's doubled over, failing to hide his muffled moans as his hand and the ground is covered in his essence. Pearly white drops decorate his skin, the ground is marked in his shame as he collects himself, letting out a shaky moan as he comes down from his high.

He's ashamed of himself in an instant, collecting his breath, reality coming back to him that he remembers where he is. The hand not covered in his cum runs through his sweaty hair, defeat consumes him as he tells himself he will lurk in the darkness of his room for as long as need be, just so he didn't have to see her for some time.

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You don't try to think much about Messmer's abrupt departure, believing that a man as busy as himself is a means to himself. He's part god, so you tell yourself that he has things to deal with that you cannot relate to. He does have an entire Keep to run. 

Finding a nook for you to crawl yourself into, you find yourself there pouring as much into your mind, forgetting about the world around you. The hours pass, darkness swarms around you, and it's only when you yawn, looking up, do you notice how late it is.

The wick of the candle beside you has whittled down, and you need to replace it, however, your hunger gnaws at your stomach, and you think about how late it is. You think about whether Messmer is around if he's gone to bed or not, so you tell yourself perhaps it would be best to try and find him.

Scurrying around the Keep, you find his chambers, only to be surprised to find two of his black knights standing guard outside the doors. You feel intimidated, asking if Messmer is around, only for one to answer you.

"I apologise, Lady Tarnished. His Lord is not seeing anyone at this moment."

"Ah." You say, and you're uncertain what to ask next: is he feeling unwell? Has he fallen ill? "Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's... occupied in seeing an audience."

"Alright. Would he be free for a meal?" You question.

"I'm afraid his Lord has already eaten."

Oh. What were you expecting? And where did this question come from? Your cheeks feel warm from embarrassment, and before you can feel further foolishness from it all, you turn on your heel. "Tell him I bind him goodnight then."

You don't wait for their answer, for you're scurrying towards where you believe are the kitchens, bursting through and alerting the staff that remain there. The chefs give you a careful glance before you ask if there's any leftover food. You're given a simple bowl of brown meats in a broth, and a slice of cheese with some bread, leaving you to take it with you as you scurry like a rat back up towards your chambers. By the time you reach your apartments, your chest feels as if it has a pit inside, and you're feeling rather uneasy.

Still feeling self-conscious, you nibbled at your meal until you could not eat any more. You pull the servant bell, calling upon your handmaidens to pour you a bath and to leave a glass of wine for you to have to quell your nerves. How foolish you feel, believing that this stark confidence and friendliness would be accepted by Messmer. He may have allowed your protection, but to believe he would be kind and amicable back? 

Your skin feels flush and warmed to the bone when you step into your bath, leaning your head back as you try to relax. The wine you eye in your hand is almost empty as you reach towards the bottle they left for you, eyeing it carefully.

The words are strange, but your years of learning to dissect the language allowed you to realise the bottle had come from Leyndell. How it arrived in the Shadow realm was a mystery to you, but you slowly sipped it, thinking about how you could've remembered tasting it.

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A/N: This chapter took so long to write. I've been exhausted from work that I've only been napping! I'm trying to break out of it, but it's been so tiring having no time to myself. Hopefully, things can change.

[space-blue]

News of Marika's betrayal has been a long time coming, but you'd never expected nor wanted to be the carrier of it. How are you supposed to report a graceless intruder, wrecking havoc in Messmer's own keep while carrying multiple great runes of the Elden Ring? 'What bothers thee?' Messmer asks, mimicking your gesture and cupping your cheek.

I said I would write it, so here it is!!! Messmer x gender neutral reader. No Y/N or pronouns but 'you'. Fluff, light angst, reader is not Tarnished but Messmer's partner. You build him a comfy pillow pile and tend the snake wounds in his shoulders. Background lore as well!

[loxosceleslolo]

the hardest thing about writing canon-divergent Morgott fic is figuring out how to get him from "HAVE IT WRIT ON THY MEAGRE GRAVE: FELLED BY MORGOTT, THE LAST OF ALL KINGS." to "Fine. Burn my tree. But we're checking on my brother first."

[subzeroparade]

Chapters: 12/12 COMPLETE (part 1 of 2) Fandom: Elden Ring (Shadow of the Erdtree spoilers) Characters: Messmer, Melina, Queen Marika Additional Tags: Messmer and Melina are twins and Marika is going at it single-mom style,  featuring assorted Shadow Realm NPC cameos (Black Knight Huw, Count Ymir, Inquisitor Jori, Rellana, Messmer’s assorted knights); the usual greek tragedy family dynamics, a frankly disproportionate amount of worldbuilding, Hornsent culture pre-crusade (is theocratic apartheid), some shipping as set dressing though not until later chapters

Summary:

Those who have never birthed something from a forge think all fires burn the same. Messmer and Melina know better.

*

Updated every week

[esperhaniwa]

Foolish tarnish refusing aid from a lovely maiden.

[ghostofashina]

Thinking of the Age of Duskborn as a scenario that Godwyn returns as a necromancer. And Those Who Live in Death are his children, and also his weapon. "The dead have long been left to wander; what they need is leadership", as said in the Tibia's Summons. The Prince of Death is now their paternal figure, afterall they are the dusk born, but he is also their leader.

But a soulless leader. And he can't retrieve the soul he lost so long ago. He doesn't even know if his soul still exists somewhere in that world. The only thing, the closest thing he has of his own soul, is his family. But even them are dead.

His mother, as a goddess still, is locked gestating the rune that brought him back. As some sort of hope; hope that he, her golden prince, her favorite child, can mend what is broken and, perhaps, mend himself back together. His father is dead, killed in order for him to be brought back as the Lord of those lands. Morgott is killed, sacrificed himself in order to protect their home. Mohg was stolen, his soul ripped out on purpose — just as his own. Messmer succumbed to his own curse, dying alone so far from home. And, as a necromancer, there is his purpose.

He wants his family back. He wants what made his soul real. He will bring them back. Each one of them. And if Messmer's flames could burn body and soul, the Prince of Death's flames can raise the dead. And, at some point, he needs to cross the veil. And find out why Mohg's soul was stolen. Why Messmer was discarded. And why Miquella is still alive, trying desperately to build his own Age of Compassion. And that relationship, until now so dear, so genuine, becomes sour. And the lovely embrace represented by a statue at the Haligtree is something dangerous now.

He drags Morgott with him, as well as Godfrey, so that he can return them to Mohg and rebuild the family. But it is Messmer, his older brother, he takes to his side: because it was how his Mother always intended. The Golden and the Order. And, as twin princes of a distant land from a different game, he can say "Rise, if would... For that is our curse."

[demigoddessqueens]

MESSMER SMUT

a/n - my first ever fic for Elden Ring 🫣 and it’s smut

MDNI, 18+, SMUT, NSFW

Read here on my ao3

[zephyrins]

I'm so proud of this community

the DLC came out less than two months ago but Messmer/Tarnished is already in 4th place!

[mortuary-reads]

"Giving kindness requires no reward of worth, just as your worth is not diminished by your separation from Grace.”

Embraced in Light

Artwork by @/kem1888 on X

[crow-drawing-their-cards]

had the funniest elden ring x reader idea that could work for like any character really.

dumbass tarnished decides to fuck around with magic they aren't good enough for accidentally chaining/handcuffing themselves to one of the npc/main bosses. now the two have to go on the adventure together because for plot reasons they cant kill each other.

[odysseusdraws]

A prequel to my Malenia comic that I made awhile ago. Considering making a fancomic?

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 13

MASTERLIST

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Summary: An onslaught awaits Messmer, the man who believes he's truly alone.

A/N: Happy December all! November dragged but I'm hoping to get some more out there! Excuse the writing mistakes, I have been on and off with a cold! Written in Messmer's POV - enjoy!~

A03 link

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Chapter 13: Acceptance

One long horn blows in the deadness of the air, and throughout the Keep, everything falls silent. 

Messmer has known of the horn all his existence, for it had rung many times for his arrival. He had been on the other side of a conflict, the conqueror who had come to bring the fall of those. It was a call of his arrival and his enemies' doom. Messmer had once taken pride in hearing the noise, for now, it was one he didn't think he would ever hear come for him, ready to bring his pride down.

It had been the noise that made him stop in his movement, his guards paused too as if they had not been expecting such a noise. There was a heaviness to this acceptance. Now replacing the tyrant was a worn and tired man, ready for it all to be over. His guards, however, moved with urgency, performing a protective circle around their Lord, shields and spears up and ready to strike.

"Lord Messmer, my life is yours. Ask of us what you need, and we shall obey." The captain of the group spoke, for Messmer knew what would come to them if he allowed them to follow through.

"Nay," Messmer answers firmly, "taketh thy men and wend to the west wing. I shalt remaineth here."

"But my Lord!-"

"At once." He does need to ask them again, for they reluctantly obey, moving past as Messmer slinks into the only place he knows he can find solace. The Tarnished is gone, and he thinks you have fled. He does not blame you, he was harsh, it was only fair you had found your way back to Miquella. Perhaps your alliance with him was all just falsehood, for he did not want to believe that all Tarnished were low, deceitful creatures.

Messmer clutches his head, for the pain is immense in thinking that he was a fool for allowing you not only into his Keep but into the closeness of his privacy. If his mother could see him now, being a foolish boy, playing at war, she would've called him weak, forever considering a friendship with a Tarnished.

But his mother was not here, and would not come for him. He knew this, even when he prayed for her arrival. It pained him to believe he was now truly alone in this world, ready to face down whatever was coming through those doors.

He feared it would be Miquella, the golden child and his many apostles, with you in the front, leading the charge. How the thought rattled him so much, he did not feel Eos had wound himself around his master's neck, consoling him with a flicker of his tongue.

They come. We must be ready. Eos whispers, but Messmer is in no mood to fight. Fighting comes with more bloodshed and more death, and he is done with it all. He will accept his defeat if it means he can be done with his cruel world. Would his mother care? There was no knowing as she had used him only as her vessel. Her concern didn't matter, more so, it drifted to what the Tarnished would think.

There is no end to this, boy. He can hear Marika's coldness, the same coldness he felt when she abandoned him. You fight, and fight, until the very end.

Heavy is the duty that lays on his brow, for Messmer sits on the cold throne, awaiting the long-awaited doom. Fos and Eos can sense them, and it feels as if there are hundreds of them, charging like wild beasts through his Keep. He cannot know how many are coming his way. The candles in the large throne room dim, leaving only some light, but Messmer is used to the cold, the dark, and being forgotten.

"O' Tarnished," there is a heavy acceptance of his words, summoning his spear to hand just as the doors shudder and thud with each passing second. They've arrived, and death snarls at him, but Messmer does not back down, even when he wishes to. The sound thuds heavily, growing louder and louder and Messmer can only think to you. "Forgive me."

The thudding clashes with the heavy swing of the doors, and pours in the hellish creatures Messmer had spent his lifetime exterminating.

The Hornsent.

He can count nine or ten of them, pouring through with an assortment of weapons, as Messmer leaps down to great them, a flame so hot as he lands, ten feet of the ground erupts into flame, surrounding those close in heat. 

Messmer picks them off one at a time, moving around them as they come and go, trying at all angles to try and take him down. The Impaler dances around them, striking as he goes, landing the sharp point of his spear through the back of one's throat, landing with a thud as the others swarm. Flame twists around his hand, surging forward as he keeps close, jabbing and slicing, his serpents his scouts from behind.

From your right. Eos hisses as Messmer dodges a strike that could've left him with a nasty dagger lodged in his ribs. His long arms work to his advantage, twisting to grab the attacker around the scruff of his neck, slamming him into the ground with force, his nails digging into its skin to draw blood. Not a second later, his spear was lodged between his eyes, leaving a garbling, miserable heap as its life ends.

His thoughts drift to his first fight with the Tarnished, how she fought as his mind flashes what could've been, seeing her crumpled body beneath him, her blood on his hands. Focus! Eos says as he narrowly avoids a hit, getting the back of his thigh, blood sizzling as he hisses from the pain, turning to face the small figure. The flimsy sword is not enough, Messmer blocks another hit, knocking it from hand and landing his spear into the attacker's belly. Entrails spill and the smell is intense as he flicks his spear out, leaving the insolent creature to be sliced in half.

Messmer leaps into the air and releases a dozen strikes, blood hisses when wounds are opened to his enemies, and the smell of smoke and cinder burns in his nostrils, but he has come to be one with his flames. They don't hurt him, nor do they feel frightened of them. There is an acceptance to his curse, one he is bound to that he does not wish anyone to suffer.

He thinks to the Tarnished once again, how she had told him the sad reality that Marika would not come to find him, nor would she return to these wretched lands. It burnt in the back of his mind, smouldering and aching to be put out, but his isolation had given him the chance to dwell in his suffering. And now, he had pushed away his only ally, to die in his Keep, murdered similarly to his brother, Godwyn, let not even his mother would know or care to hear of his end.

Messmer thinks to the serpent within him: would he unleash it? It would rid him of these insolent creatures, but he knew it would cost him dearly. No longer would his flesh be his, but tied to the serpent, his mind a wrangled mess. He would be consumed entirely, his mind chewed away until he would forget his name, his purpose, his duty.

You.

He's caught off guard, a yelp leaving him as he's struck in the back, the pain sears as he fights them off like a pack of dogs, picking at him to leave nothing left. He grows tired from their constant attacks, and there seems to not be an end to their numbers. He thinks it's the end, that he will be the revenge they needed all these years. Your face flashes in his mind as he flies backwards, hitting the back of the altar of his mother, cuts to his body he didn't spot.

His mind is hazy as he watches his attackers circle him. No sound comes from outside, and he thinks if he's the only person alive. Did the men die for nothing? All for a cause in believing in him all this time?

"I will not suffer." He grits his teeth as the time has come for him to decide. Only, there is one option he can use. His claw-like fingers reach for his eye slowly, only now, when he does it, he thinks not of his mother, but of his Tarnished.

There is a thunk that brings his attention away from his eye, the garbling, choking noises of one of the attackers grasping at its throat, a dagger lodged through the back of its neck. It falls, and all eyes including his, turn to the figure running through the heavy mist and fog, the cinders and ash, charging through.

Messmer thinks it's another one of them until he recognises the armour, the heavy Nagakiba wielded, slicing through another's chest as the redhead watches on. He's too frozen to realise that the Tarnished is fighting with him, not against him, and his mind screams in relief. She came back. She came back for him.

It doesn't take much for him to join back into the fight, the smaller figure crouches as he fights to avoid her fighting styles, slicing and dancing through the attackers whilst she hacks and dodges. The room has grown so hot that it feels as if it will melt all inside. Like a hundred candles, Messmer feels he stands strong with the Tarnished by his side.

He barely has time to register you've been hit at one point, helping you out as he spears the hornsent from behind, flinging his body away to the nearest corner as he uses his larger body to block another attack meant for the Tarnished, hearing her roll back to give her time to heal.

It would be told in tales, a demigod and Tarnished, fighting alongside one another. How ironic it would be if his mother knew of this, and witnessed him fight alongside a creature he thought was bereft of light.

The few of the Hornsent left are taken easily now he has another to fight with him, their bodies lie around them in a grand heap the old Messmer would be proud of. Now, he is the survivor of a siege, an assassination attempt that could've cost him. His body yearns for sleep, but he is too focused on knowing all is well, turning his head as he tries to show the smallest of smiles your way in thanks.

It's only when time slows, Messmer's face crumples as he watches as the Tarnished begins to sway, knees begin to buckle, and she falls gracelessly to the floor.

It was the urge that drew him towards you, for nothing could stop him from approaching you, running as fast as he could and not resisting drawing your body towards him, to make sure you were fine.

It's only when he realises what has happened: the last attacker had the knife, which had sliced at your jugular just as you hit back. 

The redhead inspects you, his fears have come true. You had quickly become a bloodied mess, not far from the many times he had seen you before, but rather than it being you training with his soldiers or your first fight, you had been the husk of yourself. 

Your body, too weak to move, was moved to be allowed for him to cradle you, your eyes never leaving his face. Messmer was haunted that you were still so aware of everything: from the way your eyes were fixated on him despite growing slightly unfocused, you were being pulled in and out of a state of consciousness, fighting as you always did. It is what he admired about you, always a fighter, even when death came for you constantly. 

You were dying, he knew that just from looking at you, hearing the way your breaths were rattled, your throat shredded, coated so thickly in blood that it was difficult to see the colour of your skin underneath. Still, the blood flowed freely, and with some attempt to keep it closed, he knew there was no other way to stop the bleeding. It was some miracle that was keeping you awake. 

He looks to search you, pulling your flask and finding nothing more than the emptiness inside. No, this cannot be happening. 

Still, your stubbornness prevented your end, but it didn't stop you from trying to talk to him. Messmer could merely watch as you tried to contort your throat to speak, garbled, choked words came from your throat. Each syllable was a struggle, for you tried over and over, choking down on the blood building in your mouth, rising as you spat some out, dribbling down your chin.

Messmer could feel your hands on him, aware you were trying in any way to get out to him something. If speaking was stopping you, you still had feeble attempts to use your weakening body. Messmer adjusted you in his arms, pulling you closer, taking in your vulnerability, your desperation. He did not stop once to pull you away, cradling you close to his chest. His serpents licked the air by your head, they were both aware of your imminent passing, whispering in communication to one another and him, voicing their concerns. Messmer will not tell you what they say, for the fear stings his heart. Regardless, he shares the same sentiment his serpents do.

Your attempts to communicate with him do not stop. It takes some attempts for him to read your chapped lips, the garbled words were difficult to hear when you choked on your blood, but it hit him. There were two words you were repeating, begging for him to hear, two words that warmed his chest that he accepted. Forgive me. 

Messmer's chest tightened so that it felt as if he was going to suffocate. There were feelings he had not felt before that clouded his mind, ones he felt that confused him greatly.

You gained his attention once again when you tugged on his red cape. "Mess-mer-- I'm-"

"Hush now, I'm here." He spoke softly, similarly to comforting a dying animal. He ignored the warm liquid that poured through his fingers when he cradled you by the back of your neck, your life slipping quicker than he realised. What could he say to you? Messmer had been molded to witness the hardships of death, war and grief. It had molded him to be the very image of his mother's regime, and yet, he was frozen in what to say to the dying. All the emotions he felt, he could not speak, so he did his best to show rather than tell.

The largeness of the room felt so noiseless, that Messmer felt as if he could be insane. Even if he called for help, he knew his soldiers would not be there to hear. His soldiers fought to protect him in his Keep, and he was left as the one to protect you. 

It was a slow realisation for Messmer.

You had come back for him.

You returned to him when he thought he would die alone.

Unlike his mother, you, a lonely Tarnished, swore to him allegiance, a sign of trust he didn't think possible.

And here you were, dying in his arms when it should've been him.

He knew you'd come back, but part of him thought what if this was the day it wouldn't work? That his mother's grace would leave your body, and you'd be left to nothingness. He knew he had hope: he witnessed it after all, but part of him prayed to whoever would listen to him that all would be alright.

He felt clumsy in the way he held you, not experienced in showing comfort or consolation to another. From what he could remember, his mother gave him her version of love; muted and cold, so he was sure he wouldn't do the same with you.

Your noises grew quieter, small hiccups erupted from your mouth, and more blood seemed to be coughed up, but your eyes were watching his every move. Maybe Messmer thought you'd like a quick death, to be out of your misery so you wouldn't suffer, but deep down, he didn't think he could pluck the courage to kill you.

Those days of wishing you dead had finally come to taunt him, for now staring down on your face, made him realise he was not ready to let you go.

"I'm here," he whispered, his long fingers gingerly finding comfort in stroking your hair out of your eyes, the smell of the oils you bathed in hit his nose alongside the smell of blood that tinged the air. Death loomed, and yet, he did not stall in giving you the words you wanted to hear. "Mine own brave Tarnished."

That seemed to bring a little bit of life back for a fraction into your eyes, already losing the vitality they once had. You continued to hold him, despite losing the strength in your grip, and your raspy exhales grew quieter and quieter.

Messmer watched you give a final breathy exhale, before your body went still, rigid. He waited for your body to turn into the golden ashes he saw the first time, but the seconds passed with nothing happening. He leant over you, feeling the vulnerability he once did so long ago as a child, begging for his mother's return. His serpents moved around him slowly, sharing their master's emotions, wrapping through your hair as he pulled you even closer.

"Prithee," he choked, his voice coming out hoarse, "prithee returneth to me."

It had been that that brought him peace, for he felt your body feel lighter in his arms, dissipating into the fine, golden dust. He watched your features as they vanished, telling himself if you didn't come back, he would do all in his power to remember your features.

Two long bellowings of a horn reverberated through the walls, the end of the siege.

Messmer did not move at first, his heart hammered as he could still feel you in his arms, now nothing more than the fine powder he felt on his fingertips. Something told him, no, called to him, telling him to come outside the room. He slowly and sluggishly moved, standing as he walked with some haste towards the entrance.

He didn't think he would see anything, nothing that was out of the ordinary, but only when he heard the smallest whisperings of his name, did he watch in silent awe, witnessing what he believed was the answer that had heard his pleadings.

From nothingness, appeared a golden, luminous remnant of Grace. A breathy gasp left him as he watched, golden roots spread across the floor as if they had been rooted there this entire time that he had noticed. He had more questions he wished to ask but was left unanswered when something else appeared like a fog disappearing. A lying figure emerged from the same golden dust, forming an armoured figure, one he could recognise from the beginning. The figure looked to be asleep, but Messmer did nothing but stare. 

It was only after what felt like a lifetime did the figure bolted upright, gasping at her throat as she desperately breathed in the air that had been missing from her lungs. She choked and wheezed, rasping life back into her she had been blessed to relive. Messmer thought that she had not even noticed him standing there until the Tarnished had finally turned to look up at him, a silence that had filled the air.

Even with the helmet covering your face, he knew that your features must've been matching his, for he had been the one to hesitantly move towards you, his eye still holding onto the site of grace, its golden roots dimly glowing in front of him.

"This," he could not find his words, for the right ones were stuck in his throat, "this is not some dream?"

"No," you finally answer him, your hand passing through the roots to show him, particles of golden dust pass through your fingers but do not show any indication of passing onto you. "This is your mother's grace, Messmer."

Indeed it was, he marvelled, for who was he when he was a mere cursed demigod, afflicted with the pain of a serpent within, and you, a Tarnished, were set for something far greater than him in his entire existence. A Tarnished he decided he would pour all into keeping close.

-

A/N: I hope this didn't feel rushed. I'm hoping to finally start the romance side of Messmer/Tarnished. It's taken him so long to realise his feelings and Tarnished too. Now, all they need to do is accept they like one another and give little smooches.

[spectrumos]

Like the Tarnished, my ambition is also a curse.

[fiddlesqueak-fables]

Honestly this line took me the fuck out

[flameclipseth]

GOLDENFLAME MASTERLIST — Godwyn/Messmer Fanfictions.

From first to last published, a list of my works about them just for record.

An affair from which gold arouse. [ONESHOT] — Mature. — 10,354 Words.

For you alone I'll be weak. [ONESHOT] — Gen. — 1,321 Words.

Nothing awakens flesh like want. [ONESHOT] — Explicit. — 1,898 Words.

We both hold it, the cause and the curse. [ONESHOT] — Mature. — 3,431 Words.

In the warmth of thy sins. [ONESHOT] — Explicit. — 2,628 Words.

The siren's whisper. [ONESHOT] — Explicit. — 5,279 Words.

A Vow of Gold and Flames. [SERIES] PART ONE: The Sun and his Shadow. — Explicit. — 9,147 Words. PART TWO: The Seduction and the Betrayal. — Mature. — 8,754 Words. PART THREE: A Crown for a King. — Explicit. — 12,793 Words. PART FOUR: A God and a Lord. — Explicit. — 18,610 Words.

Will make another post for the future works I'll be posting.