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silvokrent · 5 months ago

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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.

#elden ring #elden ring fic #elden ring thought dump #morgott the omen king #mohg lord of blood #white mask varre #pureblood knight ansbach #my posts #i speak #as always my fics are available on AO3 (including this one)#stress writing to cope with The Horrors™#onion headline: estranged brothers proceed to bicker within seconds of being reunited

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99corentine · 26 days ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Elden Ring (Video Game) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Morgott the Omen King | Margit the Fell Omen/Tarnished, Morgott the Omen King | Margit the Fell Omen/Original Character(s) Characters: Morgott the Omen King | Margit the Fell Omen, Tarnished (Elden Ring), Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Enemies to Friends, Then back to maybe-enemies again, Named Tarnished (Elden Ring), Male Tarnished (Elden Ring), Tarnished with an increasing crush on the Fell Omen, Fix-It of Sorts, Touch-Starved, Angst and Feels, Bathing/Washing, Margit lets Tarnished touch the wings, Also Margit: why did I do this Series: Part 2 of Little Flame Summary:

He turns back around and scowls at the water, or more accurately at himself. The grime he can feel is transient, as is this body. He shouldn’t be here bathing at all, when he could be doing more useful things with his time. The whole thing is an exercise in indulgence, and he should know better.

But still the cool water, the breeze between his horns, the scent of flowers and grasses… and someone who maybe, maybe does not find his crooked shape so repulsive. Maybe. Maybe.

There is the slosh of someone kneeling down. “If this is a no silence instead of a yes silence you need only say. Or gesture,” Tarnished intones from behind him, gently.

Margit says nothing. He is weak. But it has been a tough day and a long exposure to poison, and later he will blame that for this foolishness.

The Tarnished has achieved too much, and Margit has let him get too close.

I’m feeling enthused, so I wrote another one!

I sort of want to get to the smut already, but Morgott is about as slow-burn as characters get, so it’s a while off yet. In the meantime he gets a bath, because let’s be honest he needs one.

#elden ring fic #morgott x tarnished #morgott/tarnished #morgott the grace given #margit the fell omen

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reverieparacosm · 1 year ago

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May I request Yandere! Varré x GN! Tarnished general headcanons, thank you!

Yandere!Varré x GN!Tarnished general headcanons

Yandere!Varré (Elden Ring) x GN!Tarnished

Warnings: this text contains themes of emotional manipulation, jealousy, possessivenes, sadism, surveillance, stalking, and potential harm

Note: I am 100% sure that Varré is in a relationship with Mogh. Mogh should finally stop being creepy with his half-brother Miquella and get together with his true servant, Varré. (Edit: I played the dlc... I'm sorry Mogh. I take it back)

Varré is deeply devoted to you and would go to great lengths to ensure that you never feel lonely

He constantly seeks your company and showers you with affection and attention, making sure you are always surrounded by his presence

Due to his intense love for you, Varré believes that the best way to protect you and keep you close is by having you join the Mohgwyn Dynasty. He sees it as a way to solidify your bond and ensure your safety

"Our love of Lord Mohg will forever bind us together, in a dynasty of eternal love."

As a former war surgeon, Varré possesses extensive knowledge about medicine and healing

After battles, he takes great care in cleaning your wounds, applying the necessary treatments, and ensuring that you are not hurt or in pain. His skills and expertise make him incredibly efficient at nursing you back to health

Varré has strong reservations about the Roundtable and its potential dangers. He believes that it poses a threat to your safety and well-being, and as such, he becomes determined to convince you to leave it. He will employ various methods, ranging from persuasion to manipulation, in an effort to ensure your departure

"You have the sweetest screams."

Varré exhibits sadistic tendencies in his yandere nature

While he deeply cares for you, he also finds pleasure in exerting control and dominance over you, often through means of pain or psychological manipulation. This sadistic side of his personality can manifest during intimate moments or when he deems it necessary to discipline or protect you

He definitely has a Blood Kink

Varré watches you diligently to ensure your safety at all times. He keeps a close eye on your activities and surroundings, always vigilant for any potential threats or dangers that might come your way

"Our love will bloom like a rose in full bloom, my sweet lambkin."

Varré has a deep fascination with roses and sees them as a symbol of his love for you

He frequently presents you with bouquets or single roses, carefully chosen and arranged

Varré is intensely possessive and becomes easily jealous when you interact with others

Whether it's a friendly conversation or a casual encounter, he perceives any attention you give to someone else as a threat to his connection with you

He loves to humiliate you

"You are but a pawn, to be used to serve my own selfish needs. You are nothing to me but a tool to further my own goals. So, shut up and do my bidding."

Varré is a master at manipulating your emotions to keep you deeply attached to him. He knows how to exploit your vulnerabilities and insecurities, using them to his advantage

He deeply values and treasures your body, and he desires for you to perceive yourself with the same admiration that he holds for you

His surroundings turn dull whenever he finds himself longing for your presence

You serve as a source of inspiration for him in a certain sense

He becomes excessively focused on you, desiring to uncover every aspect of your being as if he were delving beneath your surface and merging with you

He might even experience instability and express his affection for you through gestures such as sending love notes, creating artwork depicting you, and including the hearts of his rivals accompanied by a message suggesting they wished to give you their heart, which he facilitated

#varre #elden ring #elden ring varre #oc #white mask varre #elden ring fanart #guidance of grace fic #elden ring fic #elden ring fanfic #varre fanfic #varre x tarnished #varre x reader #white masked varre x reader #white faced varre x reader #white masked varre #white faced varre

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zephyrins · 6 months ago

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Hello, Messmer-lovers, I brought you the update!

Once upon a Sin

Messmer x Tarnished Messmer without Marika’s aid cannot hold the abyssal serpent any longer and has only one option — accept his true form.

Chapter 3 is available on Ao3!

#messmer the impaler #messmer x tarnished #messmer x reader #elden ring fic #elden ring fanfic

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bri-the-nautilus · 1 year ago

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So I was just struck with a random Elden Ring scenario that I think is pretty cool.

In a recent Star Wars comic, there's a scene where Darth Vader, who's under attack and has been temporarily deprived of his cybernetic hands and legs, uses the Force to manifest limbs for long enough to fend off an attempt on his life.

And I was thinking that a really fun scenario for Malenia in an ER fic could have her doing something similar.

Like, she's caught without her prosthetics and she uses a variation on the butterfly clone thing to give herself an arm and legs and just fights like that until the threat has been neutralized. Idk I just think the idea of Malenia's flesh body with glowy butterfly limbs would be sick lmao

#elden ring #malenia blade of miquella #malenia my beloved #elden ring fanfic #elden ring fic

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gastlygallows · 3 days ago

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Promised Tribulation

Chapter: 2/5 (AO3) (Chapter 1 here)

Pairing: White Mask Varré/Reader, White Mask Varré/Finger Maiden

Rating: 🔞

Words: 3,000

Warnings: Graphic depictions of Scarlet Rot/death, Greater Will mindwashing/manipulation, theological crisis

Notes: Pre-canon, canon compliant, I said this would be 2 chapters but I lied (to myself). Being finger maiden is suffering.

Summary: You assist Varré with the rot outbreak and try to convince him to focus on the mainline quest.

You’ve never asked Varré for details about his life before he was a Tarnished.

It was a mutual agreement made all those moons ago when you’d first met in those gloomy halls of the Chapel of Anticipation. Either of you were free to speak of the time before, but the other wasn’t to pry.

You’re sure he had his reasons to insist upon this discretion so quickly, as did you to yield to it, even if you cannot recall anymore.

You prefer it this way. You don’t need to remember your life in that distant land or anything before you were Varré’s finger maiden.

The world will never be as it was before and the best way to let go of the past is to not look back at it.

With the passage of time, however, Varré has chosen to share snippets of his earlier life with you.

When he speaks of his history as a war surgeon–when he focused on treatment rather than mercy killing, back when his patients consisted of jousting competitors and the sick–there is such a passion in his voice.

“...and then, the flailing little thing had the nerve to try to kick the blade out of my hand!”

Varré is laughing with that same passion now, reunited with perhaps the only people left who knew him before The Shattering.

You stand behind him, smiling politely, unable to read the faces of the two war surgeons he’s talking to. They’re only distinguishable from one another by the blood splatters staining their clothes, not unlike stripes on a tiger, but Varré had recognized them immediately and called to them by name.

You think you recognize this story he’s telling–Varré had put down a demi-human that had lost an arm under a fallen boulder. Coming across those in need of “relief” is a regular occurrence, and so sometimes these instances melt together. Not that it matters.

The war surgeon on the left speaks with a thick accent. “I reckon that’s why the Greater Will chose you, after all, Varré the Merciful!”

The one on the right nodded towards you. “And this girl is your maiden, I presume?”

“Ah, yes.” Varré motions for you to step closer, beaming with all the pride of a suitor showing off his betrothed.

You approach the party and nod your head. “Hello.”

Varré introduces you and adds, “I’ll be thrilled to assist with your efforts here, my dear comrades, but I must insist on keeping my maiden with me. I realize that this isn’t standard procedure, but there are maiden snatchers running amok these days. She’s no stranger to my line of work at this point and I assure you she won’t get in the way.”

He isn’t asking permission and they clearly aren’t expecting him to.

Varré entered this encampment with established authority.

* * * * *

The screams are deafening up close and they’re hurting your head. Your ears are going to be ringing all night.

Had you not already known the order of operations by now, Varré would have to yell his instructions. The goal today is to minimize the cries of anguish to a low roar.

You stand in a tent holding a woman’s face forward, directing the vision in her one good eye to a hole in the flimsy roof so that her last visage may be that of a sky filled with stars. Her other eye has already burst, the left side of her head engorged with the red fungi growing from her flesh.

Were you not wearing a spare pair of surgeon gloves, you shudder to think of how disgusting it would feel on your skin.

You lower your head and speak to her. “Don’t you think the moon is lovely tonight?”

It’s never certain if they can hear you when they are this close to death and especially not with this much noise. It is negligible.

The important part is that they are distracted while Varré delivers the fatal blow.

With the woman’s neck already swollen, his jabbing it with his dagger only results in a sickening pop.

Blood splashes to the ground below like a waterfall. There’s blood everywhere you step in this tent.

You feel her head going limp, but keep her vision aligned with the sky.

If all souls return to the Erdtree, then one last look at the infinite blue might stave off the despair of being a soul plunged into the darkness of the earth.

You’re terrified of going into the ground.

You won’t have to once Varré becomes Elden Lord.

“M’lady, it’s time for the next one,” a war surgeon speaks to you, pulling you out of your fears.

You release the woman’s head. “Sorry, sorry…”

It’s all so systematic. Two surgeons carry off the fresh corpse towards the bonfire, two more haul a body onto table.

Varré is rubbing his hands together eagerly, watching the squirming patient clasp onto the flimsy ends of the cot.

He begins his line of questioning, which might as well be this poor man’s last rites.

“Tell me, good sir, where does it hurt the most?”

You can hear Varré now, which means that finally your ears have adjusted to the cacophony.

He bends over ever so slightly to hear the patient’s strangled answers.

It’s not hard to imagine, sometimes, that you are Varré’s subject.

That it is your spirit he will free from its mortal shell.

His silky voice, his restrained touch, and the way he works his hands around your slender form when he’s kissing you–

You blink and pull yourself out of that chain of thought, regrouping your attention to the task before you. The man is begging that a final message be delivered to his sister and Varré is making his usual set of false promises.

Come to think of it, he has never told you any tales about the Scarlet Rot in the time before, so prior to Malenia’s battle with Radahn the Lands Between must have truly been free of it.

What a dreadful curse to be inflicted upon the mortals of this realm, a plague of disfigurement akin to the grisly visage of the omens, and for what? The selfish bickering of demigods who care not for the well being of their subjects.

If only you had been born in a world where the whims of deities did not discern the fate of their subjects. If only you could get away from this and there was no need for gods, if only you could escape to some imaginary paradise with Varré and Varré alone.

How your heart longs to simply exist with him.

He nods at you and you tighten your grip on the patient's head.

But you are trapped. Stranded not in this camp of bile and decay but in a web of cosmic indifference. There is but one way out of it and that is for your Tarnished to be the Elden Lord.

The writhing man beneath you, bleeding out from the fresh gash on his neck, might escape this suffering in his next life.

* * * * *

Varré shuts the door to the private chambers afforded to you for the night at the Roundtable, a bucket of water in his free hand. “Alas, we may retire. Good thing we were there to help, hm?”

Standing by the fireplace, you sigh in relief and kick off your bloodied shoes.

Finally, a bed. Although sometimes the rooms here at the hold are a little too spacious for comfort and so you take a long, hard look at every corner lest some misbegotten or feral dog be lying in wait.

“What a sight,” you mumble, taking off your headpiece and observing how tainted it is. It’s hard to tell the fresh blood from the stains. You set it on the foot of the bed and flip your hair, letting the cool air hit the back of your neck.

Varré sets the bucket down by the fire, peels his gloves off, and pets the top of your head, ruffling your hair. “You performed splendidly today, my lambkin.”

You can’t help but beam at his praise.

He reaches behind his head, unfurling the cloth and removing his mask in its entirety. “We should wash off, don’t you think?”

He tosses it by your headpiece and sets to untying his boots. As if the two of you haven’t already made a mess of the floor.

You watch him, thinking how lucky you are that your Tarnished is so dashing.

What a treat it is to see Varré without his mask; as he rises up, you touch his face, holding it with both hands and gliding your thumbs along his cheekbones.

It’s been a while since he last shaved, so the stubble tickles your palms.

He relaxes into your touch with a soft breath, closing his eyes.

You aren’t sure if you’ve ever seen him without dark circles, but when was the last time either of you could properly rest?

When he is Elden Lord, you’ll have a long earned rest.

The wordless voice in your head from earlier has returned, dripping into the back of your brain.

Your refuge will be a castle bathed in gold.

Safe from mortal quandaries.

You reach behind Varré’s head with your left hand and feel for his hair band, tugging his locks free.

Establish the Order anew.

You comb your fingers through his hair.

Your bedchamber will be alive with the holiest of consummation.

He grins at you through half lidded eyes. “Lambkin?”

“Hm?” You're lost in staring at him, at your Elden Lord who will raise you both to divinity.

He patiently takes hold of your wrist before you get carried away. “Poor thing. I suppose I have made you wait long enough, hm? But…didn’t you want to talk to me about something?”

“O-Oh.” You blink, pulling yourself back into reality.

Varré curls a finger under your chin and lifts it to get a better look into your golden graced eyes. “Perhaps it is a trick of the fire, but your eyes were glowing so brightly just now.”

“They were?” You’re unsure if this is cause for worry.

“I’m curious about something, dear. Do you remember what color they were before?”

You try to recall some instance of your own reflection from before, but try as you might you can only remember catching your image bouncing off a creek or a vanity in an abandoned home during your travels with Varré.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” you confess, unable to contain your dread any longer. “Varré, I must tell you now. Earlier today, I was warned by The Fingers that you are at risk of losing your ability to see Grace.”

Varré offers a casual half shrug, to your utter bewilderment. “That is to be expected.”

“A-Are you not worried?”

“Eventually, it will happen, just as it has to the other Tarnished.”

Your jaw hangs open. “How…how long have you felt this way?”

He huffs, as if offended you hadn’t seen it before. “Do you jest? Have I ever given you the impression that I’m serious about this?”

You have to sit down.

You sink to the floor, shaking your head in disbelief. “Varré…”

He sits next to you, frowning with a rare semblance of guilt. “Lambkin, love, listen to me.”

Despite your own fear of the Finger’s control, this revelation feels almost like a rejection. For your Tarnished to reject his calling is surely to also reject his maiden, isn’t it?

He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close, lowering his voice. “If we were to succeed, what then? I’m to rule over the Lands Between from a glorified canary cage, singing the praises of the Greater Will, who saw us as nothing more than a last resort to strip Marika and the demigods of their favor? Tarnished and finger maidens–we are many because we are human and our power is nothing compared to theirs. The Greater Will spreads Grace over so many of us because they know most cannot succeed. We are nothing more than a final, desperate gamble.

“Us Tarnished die over and over again because for so long as we are willing to be their pawns, they care not for the suffering they put us through. Keeping us alive is a simple trick, but for whatever reason…you are…”

He glides his hand over your calves affectionately, giving them a squeeze, contemplating your fragility.

His voice softens. “You are still so entirely, painfully mortal. If you die, we will be forever separated. Another trespass of the Greater Will upon my person. That I should have you, only to lose you. You’ve been the only good to come out of this mess.”

You place your hand over his, thinking how small it is by comparison.

His skin is warm, his knuckles slightly scraped.

“Varré, I…If we do not act, I will die in some manner before any other Tarnished claims the title of Elden Lord. Surely you must know this. I’m not fit for surviving like this forever.”

The endless days of walking, cowering behind Varré while he risks his life, staying in a constant state of vigilance; scavenging for food, killing animals for sustenance, sleeping in dilapidated churches and shacks most nights…

Your eyes are beginning to hurt. There’s a lump in your throat.

Now that you’re finally voicing it, making it real, the gravity of your situation is weighing on you full force and you’re on the verge of crying. Were you Tarnished yourself, you’d have a fraction more control over your destiny in that you could choose to pick up a sword yourself.

But you’ve never been strong, this much you’re certain of, and never fit to wield a weapon.

And so your very life is in Varré’s hands. “Lambkin,” he sighs, surely knowing that you’re telling the truth.

You hug him tightly, burying your face against his chest, and let yourself weep.

He holds you, pulling you onto his lap, stroking your hair as if you are some frightened little creature.

“I’m tired,” you whimper. “I’m so tired.”

“Have you not thought about what would come after?” He continues. “We would still be slaves to the Greater Will.”

“The current state of suffering will cease,” you answer stupendously, your shoulders shaking. “We will no longer be vagrants. Peace with our sacrifice of some illusion of sovereignty is better than this, is it not? Varré, surely you know that we are by no means free right now.”

You reach up to wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Do you…wish to die like this? Is the suffering of the world such a spectacle to you that so long as you're getting to have your fun it matters not if all else falls to ruin?”

He elects to not answer your question. “And what of you? Are you truly ready to be locked up in a gilded prison? The Greater Will Is going to demand new demigods. A new dynasty. Are you really prepared to spend decades bearing my children for that purpose?”

You eagerly nod your head.

He scoffs. “Don’t just agree without actually thinking. Have you not thought about any of this and how strange it all is?”

“Which part?” You wipe your eyes and sniffle, doing your best to stop crying but the tears won’t stop.

He takes a breath and gazes to the fire. “Need I remind you of Marika’s predicament? She is alive, perhaps barely, in the Erdtree. She shattered the Ring by own volition. If godhood has been so wonderful for her all these years, why did she wish to die?

“If you were in her position and I was unable to put you out of your misery, imagine the torment. Day in and day out a prisoner of the power that elevated you in the first place. Waiting for either a savior to extend that suffering or an executioner.

“My love, you must realize: as mere humans, the ultimate act of sovereignty is to live as we wish, by our own whims. The gods do not love us, so why should we forgo our fleeting lives for their games?”

You try to imagine Marika’s incarceration in the dark depths of the Erdtree, sinking back into the refuge of Varré’s chest and hiding your face against him.

“Very well,” you concede with a strained voice. “It isn’t as if…I don’t agree with you. I won’t force you, but when the time comes it has to be you who takes my life. I’ve already given it to you, after all.”

He strokes your back consolingly and rests his chin atop your head. How did he contend with it, you wonder, when he first was spurned by Grace?

You want to ask, but you’re waiting on him to say something.

To acknowledge your resignation.

Is he at a loss for words? Or is he having second thoughts?

Images begin to stitch together behind your eyes. It feels like pebbles scratching at your skull, underneath your scalp, and it makes you scratch.

There’s the sound of wind blowing in your ears, even when you clasp your hands over them.

The Greater Will wants to show you something.

If Varré doesn’t wish to become Elden Lord, why should you force him? It isn’t as if his words are without truth.

An eternity with the only one you love (have ever loved? You don’t remember) would be a dream come true, but dreams are not reality; only a fool would be so naive as to think that centuries would not erode your bond in some fashion. Is that why Marika took so many consorts?

You’re trying to argue with it, this voiceless force that spells letters in your head, but it’s no use, for you are but a finger maiden and it is not Varré to whom you belong but the Greater Will.

It is not done using you to convince him.

A promise.

You do not want to see it.

A covenant.

You do not want to see it!

#elden ring #elden ring fanfic #elden ring fic #white mask varre #white faced varre #varre x reader #varre/reader #finger maiden #chapter number is tentative but i think it'll be done in 5 #i really only meant for this to be like a 2 chapter thing but i realized it just kept going so i had to split it and it's still going so

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powerfulscribbles · 6 months ago

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Some art for the 3rd chapter of my Elden Ring g/t story In Need of Aid ! The pose is inspired from a reference pic belonging to @gtzel!

Close up version:

Reference pic (OG post here) under the cut:

#loved drawing the banished knight gauntles #even though taking screenshots for the exterior parts from the game was kinda hard lol #valyssa's armor was nice though #varré is in the scene of course lol #white mask varre x oc #varre x tarnished #white mask varre #oc: valyssa #elden ring fic #elden ring writing #my writing #elden ring #g/t #g/t writing #g/t community #g/t reference #handheld #in need of aid

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loxosceleslolo · 6 months ago

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Call It Magic

my Elden Ring brainrot is so severe that I have yet another AU longfic in the works. This one involves both the Heart Stolen "ending" and the question: "what if Ansbach met us at the First Step instead of Varre?" (this was crossposted to AO3 if you prefer to read there)

“Can you teach me how to do that, Sir Ansbach?”

Sir Ansbach looked up from the book in his hand, the crease between his snowy brows deepening slightly like a furrow in freshly fallen snow. His eyes, sharp as a winter morning, met Folly’s eager gaze.

Folly pointed to the book, her finger trembling slightly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. “That. Readin’. Writin’, too, if you could. Please.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, like water over stones.

“You never learned?”

“Can’t say that book learning was a real priority out there in the Badlands. Not with the sellswords I worked for, neither.” Folly tossed her black hair, obsidian waves catching the light, and squared her shoulders, almost daring Ansbach to say something about her history.

“What makes you interested in reading, if I may ask?” Ansbach's tone was gentle, coaxing.

“It’s magic. It’s magic I can learn, even.”

“How so?” Ansbach leaned forward slightly.

Folly leaned over Ansbach’s shoulder, close enough that the warmth of her breath ghosted across his cheek. She traced a letter with her fingertip, the touch reverent. The scent of ink and vellum clung to him, an intoxicating mixture that made her heart beat a little faster, like a caged bird. “You draw these symbols…”

She traced another word, her finger dancing across the page. “…and you can convey your thoughts across any distance. Across years, or centuries even, if the book holds up. It’s as close to real magic as anything, I reckon.” Her voice was hushed, filled with awe at the power contained in those simple marks.

Ansbach smiled, the expression transforming his stern features. Bright, genuine smiles from him were a rare and precious thing, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Was that the only reason?” His eyes twinkled with knowing amusement.

Folly’s cheeks burned, a rosy hue spreading across her face like wildfire. Of course it wasn’t. She’d take any excuse to be close to the older man, to bask in his presence like a sunflower turning towards the Erdtree. Not that she would admit it.

“If I’m going to be the Elden Ring’s steward until our Divinity and Luminary awaken, I should know how to read and write, shouldn’t I? I’d much rather do it myself than trust a scribe.” The words came out in a rush, a thin veil over her true motivations.

“Fair enough.” Ansbach gently closed the book, the soft thud resonating in the quiet air. He set it on his bedroll with careful reverence, then picked up a stick, its rough texture a stark contrast to the smooth pages of the book. “We’ll begin with learning the letters.”

Folly picked up a stick herself, mimicking Ansbach’s posture. She traced the marks he made, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Like this?”

He laughed, full and hearty, the sound warming Folly from the inside out. “You’re as quick a study with that stick as you are with a blade, dear Folly!”

Dear Folly.

Those two words set Folly’s skin ablaze, as if she’d been touched by the sun itself. They left her feeling as if an entire swarm of butterflies had taken up residence in her stomach, their wings beating in time with her racing heart.

Words were magic, indeed. And in that moment with the warmth of Ansbach’s praise enveloping her, Folly felt as if she had discovered the most powerful spell of all.

#elden ring #elden ring posting #elden ring fanfic #elden ring fic #tarnished oc #tarnished x sir ansbach #sir ansbach #reading lessons #i wrote something fluff-adjacent somehow #my writing #one shot #my fanfiction #fanfiction

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 6 months ago

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Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 1

MASTERLIST

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Summary: Tasked to hunt the demigod Messmer by order of the followers of Miquella the Kind, your purpose strays from theirs, creating a destiny you plan on executing.

A/N: I've only just started playing the DLC, but this will diverge from it and keep to a different story. One of dual pain, hardships and connection.

Your build is based on the samurai, with a nagakiba as your weapon.

Outfit: Skeletal Mask, Confessor Armor, Preceptor Gloves & Legs

A03 link

Chapter 1: Consumed

It started with a simple task:

In the name of Miquella the Kind, find and destroy Messmer the Impaler.

A task so simple that even you believed that it could be given to one of his devoted followers. It had been Leda, the Needle Knight, standing vigilant in front of Miquella's cocoon state in Mohgwyn Palace, who had tasked you with stepping through the veil to the Realm of Shadow. She spoke of the great destiny that led you here, guided by faith. Though vague in her directions and quest, you obliged, thinking not much about what you had to do.

Like the plague, it began with the whispering of his name.

It was the mutterings of those you vanquished - his soldiers - donned in grey and onyx - spoke his name like a curse not to be spoken. The encampments were scattered across the lands, a fire that burnt hotter than any flame you had seen before. His was brighter, bolder, harsher, casting hate and cinders to those in its path.

You witnessed it in those who survived the crusades. It was seen in those who stumbled from crushed and burnt buildings, still smoldering as they moaned and wandered. It had been utter torment to give them mercy, for it should've been given first-hand by the tyrant himself.

What was Messmer if not a monster? If Miquella had any chance of dealing with him, how could you handle him? It did not matter what you thought; being Tarnished meant your thoughts were long forgotten and ignored. You were restless and weary from travelling, staying up as you stared into the golden hues of sites of Graces littered across the lands, thinking of what you must do.

The Shadow Keep was an ashen yet mighty stronghold, and it didn't take much to get through its walls.

When you first caught a glimpse of the portrait that stood high and mighty in the main plaza the man himself, it had been broken and left with part of his face not visible. Torn down from the aeons, you couldn't help but notice the faint outlines of red hair that could be seen where it had been razed. It had only left you in greater agitation, grumbling to yourself that you had to deal with another redhead.

"This fucking family."

The Shadow Keep was a maze itself, with winding corridors of endless shadows and abyss. You trekked through many floors, handing fire knights as you passed until you made it to the one thing you were both loathed and pleased to see. The golden hue that encased the site of Grace in front of you told you one of many things; death loomed just in front of you. And from the site, laid the heavy doors, your path awaiting.

You camped for as long as needed, contemplating why you had decided to do all this for a demigod you did not care so much for. Miquella and the majority of Marika's children schemed, plotted and hated one another, what would one Tarnished solve?

Feeling a sense of acceptance to it all, you stood, heaving the heavy doors open as you were swallowed into nothingness.

The room was large enough, that you could only sense from how far you walked through, with no sight of Messmer anywhere. It was only when you saw the soft glimmering of embers begin to grow in size that you realised candles were being lit on their own. You marveled, before a voice cut through the stillness of the room.

"Mongrel intruder."

It stung to be spoken to like that, only did you feel your chest clench, your hand instinctively going to your scabbard, gripping it and holding your position, ready to strike if attacked first. No noise nor attack came, and when you looked around your surroundings, clearer to see through, you turned to meet the gaze of a serpentine, staring curiously back at you.

"Thou'rt... Tarnished, it seemth," the voice seemed surprised, though there was a toll of tiredness to the richness of his voice. It reverberated through the throne room and your hammering chest. "Mother, wouldst thou truly Lordship sanction," the snake pulled back from you, retreating away as you caught sight of who it was going back to, "in one so bereft of light?"

From the shadows, a throne stood, and with it, the man you were looking for.

He was larger than you imagined, slowly rising from his seat as he staggered towards you. His long arms swayed as did the two winged serpents attached to him, wrapped around him like vines. Everything to him was red, his hair, clothing and snakes, deadly and intense. "Yet... My purpose standeth unchanged." His voice was a soft timbre, albeit twisted with spite.

From his hands, came a swarm of flames, smouldering and blazing just as they did all before. You could see your hanging body through them, a vision of chaos and destruction that awaited if you did not do anything. But he loomed over you even from a height, raising his flaming hand like a trophy to behold, his other hand gripping the daunting spear with ease. "Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death." The fire burnt in his golden eye, raging as fierce as him, full of hatred for something like you. Impure, stripped from grace, "in the embrace of Messmer's flame."

You weren't given much of a chance to pull forth your nagakiba, for Messmer had lunged high into the air, embued in flames as he spear in hand, slamming down into the ground. You had a few seconds to roll out of the way, as when he landed, flame and spears burst forth, nearly catching you by the cloth of your armour. Ash and cinders burnt into your nostrils, with no time to retreat as his spear reached towards you with such speed that it didn't seem possible.

You rolled again to avoid his swift movements, getting caught in the final jab that caught you in the thigh. You hissed, blood sizzling, your grieves soaked with blood and fraying with burnt ashes. You took some more jabs at you, one to your side and the shoulder as you tried to stay as close in range as possible, attempting to swipe at him before he could stab back at you. He immediately took a more defensive stance and avoided your cut. You sheathed your blade, waiting for him to lunge before you leapt forth, unsheathing your blade and landing a blow he could not avoid. It seemed impressive in the seconds, a hiss drawing from his lips, eye burning furiously down towards you when his spear thrust in a flurry, giving you no time to revel in your small victory.

The heat that rolled off him had left no air to fill your lungs, leaving you panting and struggling. It had caused him to believe he had the upper hand, advancing towards you ready to strike when you rolled further back from him. When you were far back enough, you pulled forth from your pocket the grease you had found many times in your travels. The freezing grease burnt through your gloves as you applied it to your blade, shining in contrast to the barrel of flames being thrown towards you.

You rolled but you got caught again, crying out aloud as Messmer charged towards you, hand out as if ready to grab you. With enough time, you swung your blade down, catching him by the exposed flesh of his thigh and moving out of the way before he could grab you.

With his back towards you, you swung again, hitting him against his armour and once more to get him to move away from you. You could hear the snakes hissing in pain with him, making you wonder if they shared his pain.

Messmer pulled back, fire against ice, leaping to the air as he in time when he landed, you landed a heavier blow. The sound that came from him was garbled, stopping to look down at his arm as he jumped backwards. It had been just a win to stagger him backwards, knocking him to his knees, his spear thudding by his side. The grease had gotten him so good that it left him bleeding, but his pride had not been broken, only strengthened.

"I will not suffer," he gasped, wisps of red hair floating through his serpentine helm. "A lord devoid of light." When he stood, it was slow, painfully slow. But something had awoken in him. He may have been part God, but he was still part man, a broken man at that, tired from the throws of his mother's war. Behind his throne, stood a statue of a woman, clutching to her chest a babe swaddled in cloth. "O mother, forgive me." There was a strain in his voice, defeat heavy that laid on his shoulders.

You didn't know what he would do next except destroy you further in body and soul, but when he paused to reach towards his face, did you realise what he was doing. His eye was not real, a seal to keep something within him away. Unleashing it would would not stop anything, and draw further misery for you to deal with.

Don't let him do this. A voice in your mind was frantic, screaming at you to do something as you watched his hand draw closer and closer to his eye. Your panic rose like a wildfire in your chest before you could even realise what the words you were saying were.

"I yield." Your adrenaline was fading fast, panic pumping swiftly in your veins. You needed to say it louder, louder for him to hear before it was too late. "I yield." This time, there was a trace of defeat laced in your screams. "I YIELD!"

It had been enough to pause the Impaler from his actions, his seeing-eye peering back at you with as much surprise as you did for him. Neither of you spoke, the sounds of your heavy breathing danced along the large room. You realised in that moment from the way he was glaring at you that it wasn't that he didn't hear you, but that he wanted you to repeat it. You crumpled, your shoulders slumped, and your voice had a soft timbre. "Messmer... I yield." To further keep to your word, you threw your katana backwards from you, holding emphasis on your words if he ever did believe them.

He didn't answer you at first, and his eerie gaze had left you feeling more ill at ease than intimidated. Hatred, fascination, intrigue? It was hard to decipher what he was thinking.

"Thee wisheth to surrend'r when thee hath raised thy blade at me?" His words startled you out of your thoughts, his voice a hiss of venom and mocking you. Your peripheral caught his two serpents, intertwining around their master like a shield, hissing lowly into the dimly lit room in warning.

"It was hard to explain myself when you were already lunging at me!" It was a pathetic reason, and Messmer knew it as much, still as if ready to rip his eye out if you didn't give a good enough answer. Tarnished like yourself were never given the time of day for a reason. The blade was always swung first before you could ask questions, nor for a reason to side with them. A lonely life, even surrounded by others like yourself, you knew it wouldn't matter to the kin of Gods if you sided with them.

"Thou art not the first tarnished to enter mine own halls, nor the lasteth," Messmer uttered, the grip on his spear was daunting as you stared both down. "Wand'ring through mine own keep, wishing for mercy and boons? Bid me, which foul being hath sent thee here?"

This was your only chance to explain yourself, and even still, you could end just the same as his enemies, spiked up for all the world to see of his terrors. "I've come to warn you. Miquella is up to something-- his followers told me to come here, to hunt you. I know nothing of what he's doing or needs, but it involves killing you."

It was at that moment that you truly sounded foolish, not knowing what Leda had tasked you with. Why did she need Messmer dead if she could not task herself or another to do it? And why did it involve Miquella?

The air around Messmer grew in confidence, and he looked all the more like a God painted in crimson. "So he sends a decoy to distract me whilst he plots?" His lips twist into a small smirk, though he looks still bored by it all. You can hear your own breathing as Messmer moves towards you calculatingly slow, his intimidating body twisted from his curse.

His voice was a mere whisper at his next words:

"Tell mine own broth'r and his devotees I shall has't their heads or I shall has't their loyalty. "

You were too taken aback by the presence of him so close to you now, concentrating on his words that you didn't notice the presence behind you fast approaching. Something smacked you in the back of your head so hard that your world spun. Your helm nearly fell from your head, but you had no time to react to it when the ground was meeting you.

Quick to the ground, you fell to a knee, trying to pull out a dagger on the person behind you, before another pair of arms grabbed you, twisting your wrist back as a scream so vicious left your broken body. Your dagger was knocked from your hand, landing inches from the demigod's feet. Messmer simply watched as his fire knights seized you, dragging you up as you writhed and struggled.

This was it, the end of your attempts and to be an enemy not just to Messmer but to Miquella for betraying him and Leda. Death had seemed to be the only you wished to welcome in these moments rather than face their wrath.

"Add her to the gaols," he spoke, spinning on his heel as he slowly walked away from you, "perhaps our guest shall wisheth for some blessings."

And so, you screamed for him, screamed for all the anguish, the misery and pain of being tarnished, lightless. The weight of something once again smacked you against your head, this time a straight blow to the side. You groaned, darkness dotting your vision as the last thing you saw was the sight of crimson, as deadly and beautiful as his flames.

A/N:

I realised I can't write fight scenes to save my life.

#messmer the impaler x reader #messmer #elden ring messmer #messmer x reader #messmer the impaler #elden ring fic #itstheendofthegoddamnworld writes #tarnished! reader #elden ring #messmer the impaler fic

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