Actions

Work Header

The Crucible for Silver

Summary:

One of the two knights known as the Wings of the Storm. After his banishment, he attracted the notice of the Grace-Given Lord
and later, having slain a hundred traitors as the Lord's hand, Oleg earned the hero's honor of Erdtree Burial.

 

When Miquella left for his Haligtree, the Grace Given Lord was named Steward of Leyndell. Nearly half a century has passed since. The Demigod Alliance strains. The Steward's Council of minders grow resentful of their Empyrean's absence. And Miquella himself seems to have abandoned the Capital in pursuit of his own ambitions. Morgott sees the coming war, and he is determined not to leave the Erdtree and Leyndell defenseless. But to do so, he will have to become King. And to become King, he will enlist a Banished Knight to bear a Lord's sins.

Notes:

This fic has been a long time coming! And it is probably the last Elden Ring Long Fic I have in me! (Lest the DLC offers more inspiration).

The plot of this fic is meant to contain a lot of headcanons I have about Morgott's life between his escape from the Shunning Grounds and him becoming King of Leyndell. Because there is little information in canon about Morgott's rise, most of this fic is simply speculation- much of it I am certain is apocryphal. That being said, I have made an effort to keep events canon-compliant or canon-plausible. To the best of my knowledge.

Since this story is about a fresh(er)-from-the-shunning-Grounds Morgott, He may be a small bit different from how I usually write him. He is still a grumpy old man- but he is now a bloodlusted, slightly-less-old man with a lot to prove and a lot of deep-seated trauma. Since Oleg basically has 2 sentences of lore, he's almost an entirely fabricated character. Quite a few ER characters make small appearances in this fic. They are all listed after the tag [Minor Characters Following:] I do not want to trick anyone into reading a fic of their fav where they only appear for a handful of chapters. (I love Mohg very much. But he only shows up 2x)

It is nice to write a good ol fashioned Morgott romance again! Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Sellsword

Chapter Text

The walls were covered in art. Not with carefully constructed murals of stained glass nor with regal portraits rendered in oils. It was only a tavern, after all, and a provincial one at that. The exhibit arrayed the rustic insights of imagination unfettered by nobler sensibilities. Scraps of parchment were tacked everywhere. Wooden carvings- reliefs and sculptures- crowded shelves beside the pots and copper mugs. The drawings depicted not the majesty of the Erdtree- they had not been made to honor any particular thing with reverence. They exuded the airs of old folklore. The awe of myth.

“In all my travels, I have never seen any beasts of this kind,” Engvall marveled at Oleg’s shoulder.

Oleg’s eyes, made watery with drink, scanned the macabre gallery.

A lion with a man’s face snarled. Eager it was to leap from the confines of the page. It’s charcoal-smeared hide was ragged and tangled.

A creature like a ram charged with curling, twisted horns. Its burly paws were clenched into fists and powerful legs stamped the paper earth with cloven hooves.

A shrieking ape crouched on the outline of a crumbling wall. Tattered wings cloaked its form like smoke. Dagger fangs dripped red ink.

Each monster had fiery eyes. Embers fished out of a hearth and cast into wraiths of shadow.

“Omen,” the barkeep answered their unasked question. His declaration was punctuated with the satisfying thunk of a bitter pint being set before Oleg. The banished knight took up the stein with an appreciative grunt, and he ignored Engvall’s disapproving glare.

Oleg had heard of Omen. The Curseborn. A couple of his old mates that had taken up Stormveil’s charge had told him that the castellan kept a couple of Omen chained within the walls. Supposedly they were nearly four meters tall but practically demure since the Lord had sawed off all their horns.

…Beasts begot from Graceborn parents.

“Sightings?” Oleg implored gruffly. He nodded towards the motley sketches and fetishes.

“Aye,” the barkeep said. Then at Engvall’s raised brow he grinned and amended, “They won’t be troubling you none. After the Shattering a horde of the monsters crawled up from the city’s bowels. The Will’s Retribution, they called it. Marika’s Plague. But that was decades ago, now. Tis a rare sight to see Omen in the light of day anywhere but in a Capital outpost.”

“Good,” Oleg replied. “It’ll cost you extra if one of these beasties waylay us.”

Engvall elbowed him in the ribs, and he almost choked on his beer. But the barkeep only smiled.

“If you meet an Omen in the wilds, young man, I pray for your soul’s safe journey to the roots.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------

It used to bother him, his fall from grace. His tabard he had been forced to give up for the stateless kit of the banished knight when the head of his viscount rolled from the executioner’s block. He’d felt filthy trading service for runes- whoring out his blade for a draught and a warm supper. But time stretched itself threadbare and eroded Oleg’s honor with it.

Now he thought nothing of his present task, the one charged to him by the jovial barkeep with the affinity for interesting art.

A brigand gang, the man had sworn, occasionally came down the mountain roads. The recounted tale had been well-trod ground for men of Oleg and Engvall’s profession. As it went, an armed guild was fleecing the village. The peaceable locals had been willing to part with a pig, a goat, a barrel of ale, foodstuffs, et cetera to avoid harassment and bloodshed. But showing their bellies for so long had emboldened the marauders. Now the village folk needed fangs to bear and claws to sharpen… before the extortionists began demanding a share of their wives and daughters.

Oleg and Engvall camped the road far from the village’s periphery. For two weeks they waited, rationing tack and snaring Plateau springhares. Engvall caught sight of them first- a squad of five seated on four horses. Their faces masked and their tabards an unfamiliar black and bronze. Too shabby to be a proper patrol, but certainly outfitted enough to appear organized.

Engvall parted from Oleg at night’s approach. He took to the high ground- there were plenty of places to squat in the foothills of the craggy mountains- bow in hand. Oleg stalked within the lower ground. Until he was concealed in the brush, chafing in leathers, waiting for his targets to nod off. He cursed their cheery mood and prayed for them to sleep.

But just as one of the men stood up, clapping a compatriot on the shoulder and murmuring drowsy goodnights, a horse was slaughtered.

A bolt of gold slammed into the beast’s sternum and buckled it. The crack of bone and the animal’s scream of agony smothered the impotent alarm of its masters. Oleg blinked in shock. Golden motes blinded him with the brand of afterimages even as they faded. As they showered the horse’s corpse with a harmless drizzle of sparks.

Holy magic.

Leyndell soldiers weren’t, famously, an affable sort. At best, the Capital patrol would claim the glory for their own and the score would be as good as gone. At worst, he’d find an unexpected camaraderie with his targets as they all bled out together beside gilt boots. Leyndell’s rank and file weren’t exactly discriminate.

As the doomed quintet unsheathed their blades, another horse was felled. Oleg saw the incantation- molded into the shape of a dagger- for a moment before it, too, burst fatally in the animal’s skull. The men circled around one another. With their escape thwarted, they had no choice but to fight or surrender. Oleg’s palms sweated in his gloves.

Engvall… what do you make of this?

A part of Oleg hoped his friend had turned and fled- had spared himself the headache.

The wood was still. It held its breath and Oleg was inclined to do the same. The surrounding dark was devoid of the symptoms of an overeager patrol: the stomp of clumsy greaves, the rasp of swords being drawn, and the click of notching crossbows. Instead, a low growl exhumed from the trees. A territorial exhale. A wry, ugly giggle lodged itself in Oleg’s throat. Was the Capital employing Rune Bears nowadays?

A flash of steel winked in the firelight. The remaining horses squealed, yanked on their tethers as their mouths frothed. In a heartbeat, one of their masters was cleaved in half. Ribs crushed, organs reduced to a black smear of viscera. Shocked, another man wiped gore from his lips and eyelids. Then he was brutalized on the backswing. His spine cracked like dried driftwood struck against a far sturdier trunk.

The third fled, tripped through the fire. Its embers scattered like panicked fireflies. And through the cacophony, Oleg crouched, frozen, and tried to make sense of the slaughter:

A cleaver as long as he was clutched in a furry paw. A jagged crown set upon a silver mane. A tail thicker than his own chest swung, its end capped with a vicious clump of ruddy stingers.

That tail swept over Oleg’s head. Close enough he felt the brush of fur against his leather helm. The runner was gored upon its brambled end, and he collapsed to the dirt wetly gasping his last.

The fourth pleaded. He dropped on padded knees in the corona of dying cinders. The fifth cursed, shouted. He hacked once at the creature’s tail in retaliation. They both died without mercy.

There, in the center of the carnage, the beast hunched. The tail swayed sinuously behind it. Its chest rattled with unspent growls. On two legs it walked, and by Oleg’s estimation it had maybe two meters of height on him. In the sharp stillness, he saw at last the shaggy head’s crown and the massive tail’s stingers were actually clusters of horns. That its ragged hide was rather a torn cloak draped across impossibly broad shoulders.

“Reveal thyself, Sellsword.”

The beast straightened, and the meager light of the dashed, sputtering fire unveiled a brutish conglomeration of man and animal. Alluring for his strangeness- because Oleg was now certain he beheld one of the legendary Omen. Only his voice was richly beautiful. Despite its wary snarl and breathy pant of exertion, Oleg could easily imagine such a voice reciting poetry at court.

“Do not squander my mercy with obstinance,” the Omen snapped. “Explain thy presence. Name thy master.”

Oleg stood, hands raised in surrender. His sword he kicked forward into the open. It was a blade for slitting men’s throats. Not suitable for dueling monsters with. A patch of the Omen’s tail was slick with gleaming blood. The singular blow the bandits had managed to land had broken his skin. Oleg’s thoughts leapt to Engvall- frantic with hope and dread- as the Omen scanned him swiftly, discerning. But the beast planted his cleaver into the earth, knelt, and began to turn the mangled corpses over with one wide hand.

“I have no affiliation with this lot, I assure you,” Oleg insisted around the lump in his esophagus. Around the constricting hand of fear.

“If thou claimest no banner, then thy master is runes,” the Omen scoffed, unimpressed. “These men were thy prey?”

Oleg saw no need to lie, “Indeed, I was called to rid a village of their scourge. Extortion was their crime. Fools, they might have lived to keep collecting their spoils if one hadn’t slapped the barkeep’s wife.”

The Omen stared at him with one narrowed, ember eye. It glowed gold, rich with the veins of the Greater Will’s Grace. But surely that wasn’t so. Oleg had been assured Curseborn were exempt from the Erdtree’s blessings. His other eye was occluded by a drooping brow burdened with the heavy knots of cut horns.

“The village?” The low, rumbled inquiry was a disguised command. As unyielding a vice as his own hands.

Yet Oleg faltered. His tongue was thick in his mouth. And the hairs on the Omen’s tail bristled.

“Thou thinkest me a threat to them?”

His tone was laced with poison. But it wasn’t the milk of offense nor anger. His voice quieted, and the authoritative timbre flattened. Oleg recognized it, though: resignation in the face of judgment. Engvall adopted the same tone often. Banished knights were frequently characterized as honorless, stateless marauders- desperate to fill their crimson palms with currency. When in reality many had simply lost their banners to a conqueror’s ambition.

Oleg answered, “Follow this road north, and you’ll find it within two days’ walk.”

“Hmmph.” The Omen grumbled under his breath. “...Gelmir foothills… naturally.”

He desecrated his prey. He ripped chainmail as though it were no more substantial than parchment. The plating was mauled by careless fingers. But he pried a crest from its owner and held it to the meager light of the campfire. Oleg peered past hairy forearms. The fire’s last sparks threw stark shadows, but he made out the image of a serpent coiled around-

The Omen closed his fist, growling. The other four crests he claimed with renewed agitation. Oleg retreated lest he be sprayed with flung blood. The tail lashed, telegraphed the Omen’s anger. Oleg, seeking a way out of the ravaged, massacred camp, cleared his throat with a dry cough.

“I suppose the reward is yours, then. Seems only fair.”

Oleg was not particularly surprised- nor disappointed- when the Omen tossed one of the serpent crests to him. A large, bloodied fingerprint stained the dull silver. Scraps of ripped cloth stuck to its back.

“I have no want for runes, banished sellsword.” the Omen hissed.

Oleg understood perfectly that this favor was an insult. He just nodded graciously. Pride wasn’t going to rent him a bed nor fill his stomach. A small smile tugged at his lips. “All the same-"

“I came seeking blood and knowledge. In both I am sated.”

“Fortuitous that we should both earn that which we sought.”

To that, the Omen merely grunted. Without warning he bolted into the dark. The forest shuddered in his wake, and Oleg marveled at the startling swiftness of a creature so large.

“Farewell,” he muttered to the sentinel forest.

He wondered if such a man bore a name, and if he might meet him again. He wasn’t certain he wanted to.

Chapter 2: Invitation

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Morgott lingered before the mirror. He was already late. He could afford to steal for himself a meager handful of minutes. The time he should have used to plan his speech before the Council. Instead, his mind and tongue were in knots. They always were when he was made to don the Veil.

It was only an illusion. But it thoroughly fooled even his own senses. He looked upon a true scion of the Golden Lineage; he wore its face. He carded his fingers through gray-touched golden hair and did not graze a single bony protrusion. The scars of his centuries in squalor were disguised as striking badges earned in battles abroad. They were pinkish brands of his bravery rather than the unsightly blemishes of a bloodlusted beast. So perfect was the mask, Morgott could almost believe the lie himself. Indeed, a barbarian's arrow had made the nick in his ear- not the claw of a starving Omen he’d driven from his fetid territory. Of course, a dagger had plucked his right eye from his skull during a grand conquest. He had not lost it when the Queen Eternal’s physicians had attempted to excise the horns on his brow when he was a feeble bairn.

His gaze dropped to his robes. He had clad himself in heraldry that was reminiscent of his Lord Father. The lion of the golden lineage roared over his heart. The weight of a blue cape replaced the mass of his hidden tail- though the minor wound there pricked as a phantom ache. He was every centimeter the Golden Prince, the heir to Godwyn’s brilliance.

But then he smelled the sweat of the day upon him. The aftertaste of blood. His bestial musk- the Veil’s magic could not conceal that. Nor could it alter the curse in his blood. It boiled still from the violence of his excursion. It feasted upon his ceaseless anger and found satisfaction in the death he had wrought in the night. What a wretched feeling in such a gorgeous body. Morgott passed his hand over his mouth. The bluntness of human teeth was a strange salve. He at last parted ways with the alluring vision of his reflection.

He stalked down the Palace’s open halls. The Erdtree’s light dogged him all the way to the Council chamber. It made the servants that bowed in his path into black silhouettes. They were as shades subservient to another illusion.

“My Lord,” the ever-murmured chorus. The title felt like a stigma sometimes.

Fortunately, he did not have to endure reverence for long. Golden knights noticed his approach and opened the heavy doors to the inner Palace with stoic effort. He and his Council eyed one another as he entered the room well past the time he had been meant to arrive. Though he was not the only missing member. Of the nine chairs that surrounded the huge table, three were empty. Morgott’s own, and that of his tempestuous nephew accounted for two absences. If anything brought the Steward of Leyndell a sense of petty comfort, it was knowing that his minders often could not decide which scion of the blessed Lineage was more detestable: himself or Godrick.

What surprised Morgott, though, was the Pastor Olivier’s truancy. The elderly patron of the Order’s church was never one to shirk duty. Morgott supposed the man’s illness had worsened. Whatever the reason, the remaining six of Leyndell’s Council leapt to begin the meeting without offering an excuse on Olivier’s behalf.

Each of the Council’s seven- excluding Godrick- had been chosen by Lord Miquella before his departure for Elphael to tutor Morgott in the ways of governance. As Marika’s son- however cursed- the Empyrean had declared Morgott entitled to education and safeguarding. Though Morgott was not so enchanted by Miquella’s generosity as to assume that it was pure familial affection that spurred the decision. Keeping Morgott close also ensured the Great Rune embedded into his accursed flesh remained close at hand.

Perfumer Arteya and General Helian sat upright with rigid discipline in their seats. Their graying heads tilted towards one another a fraction. The head of the Perfumer’s healing guild and Leyndell’s aging warrior were as thick as thieves. As acerbic as bitter herbs and as cold as sharpened steel. It was logical in Morgott’s mind. As ages ago the first Omenkillers had been drafted from the genius of Perfumer and military minds. Justiciar Tolbren made up the formidable third of their trio. Leyndell’s Councilor of Customs and Culture was well steeped in the blood of the Capital’s history. Thus, despite his foppish manners and penchant for decadence, he could just as readily cut a man to the bone. He was more vicious, even, than the General.

The other half of the Council was not nearly as intimidating. Lady Imopea tried and failed to command as stern a presence. She preened indignantly in her seat, smothered in fine silks and jewels. She and the Justiciar had been recruited to groom Morgott into a man of high society. With Tolbren lecturing him about Leyndell’s culture and history whilst Imopea guided him in the ways of diplomacy. Particularly with the Carian royal family.

Lady Phelia and Viscount Iren comprised the last of the Council. The driest of the lot and the most wilted. Both imparted to Morgott the wisdom of governance’s minutiae. Transport and trade. Infrastructure and law. An intelligent pair, but hardly the scholarly might to rival those of Raya Lucarian make. As boring as they were bored, they did not perk at Morgott’s entrance. Rather they dropped a few more petals between them.

Every face was dour. Soured, pinched, or glistening with a sheen of sweat. A single article lay upon the massive table. A frilly scroll of dyed parchment.

“Engaged at the stables were you, my Lord?” Lord Iren offered a wane smile. Phelia, his companion, shot him a piercing glance that went unnoticed by all save Morgott. It wasn’t a greeting so much as a jab. His scent was obvious to those with dulled senses, then. Morgott inclined his head.

“Indeed,” he said gruffly. “I was so drawn by the beauty of the countryside I could not resist a morning ride. Forgive my tardiness, 'twas not mine intention to keep ye.”

He plucked out his fangs with graciousness. Wielded the manners that had been painstakingly instilled in him during the past forty years. They all knew what he was, and still they imagined his skin too thin to bear their barbs. As they marinated in his reply, he looked at the tiny badge in his hand.

“Lo, what should I find stalking my lands?” He tossed the badge onto the table. The blood on it had dried. But a rusty smear blemished the scroll as it struck the paper. A handful of the Council could not help their curiosity. They craned to see the symbol emblazoned on the metal. “Serpents.”

“Didst a ride or a hunt occupy thy morning?” Tolbren caviled. His fingers tapped at the polished tabletop. As if he wished to conjure a sword to hold.

Morgott let the bloodied badge speak for him. The woman to Tolbren’s right- Imopea- leaned across the table to snatch up the pin. The immaculate golden knot of her hair and her subdued wrinkles made her the youngest amongst them.

Morgott hummed noncommittally. “They came from Gelmir to pillage the Altus’s peoples.”

Lady Impoea squinted at the badge before passing it to Tolbren. The Councilor of Customs and Culture scowled and placed it before Lord Helian. Then he wiped intangible debris from his fingertips onto his robe’s sleeves.

“Not this again,” Lady Artyea groused under her breath. Though she did little to conceal her disdain.

“I was challenged to produce proof of Gelmir’s meddling-”

It was Phelia- typically so demure- that cut in impatiently, “Bandits and vagabonds in the mountains is not proof, Morgott. Those hills are vast and inhabited by the spurned and the Graceless.”

“Perhaps,” Morgott’s lip curled. “But Mount Gelmir is unsettled no longer.”

“Hmph,” Helian snorted. “Thy bleeding heart is as extravagant as thy vendetta against Lord Rykard. Perhaps when brigands next assail the realm, the Steward will see fit to send a proper patrol rather than his Omen companion?”

Morgott’s fingers dug into the table’s surface. Even his blunted nails left subtle scores in the wood. “Do not be coy, General.”

“Indeed. Thou wouldst claim this signet implicates Lord Rykard.” Helian continued blandly. “Prithee dash mine ignorance, Morgott. Rykard’s court claims the sigils of Caria and of his blade. Neither resembles a serpent’s iconography.”

Through gritted teeth, Morgott hissed, “Thou’rt determined to make his excuses for him.”

“Thou’rt determined to see in him an enemy!” Lady Impoea cried.

“This,” Helian grumbled dismissively over Morgott’s aborted objection. “-is not proof of a plot. ‘Tis proof of thine obsessive, distrusting nature, O’ Lord. Whatever cause thou hast in hating the Carian Lord I command thee lay it to rest. We shall not abide such ravings when thou attendest his wedding.”

“No.”

It wasn’t an objection, but an expression of disbelief. His glower fixated on the blemished message laid upon the table. Presented for him though he had not given it any attention.

“Yes,” Imopea insisted. “A year hence, a ceremony will be held in honor of the Lord Ryakrd and Lady Tanith.”

Morgott snatched up the scroll. He skimmed the prose on the blue parchment and gleaned that Imopea and Helian had spoken true. Rykard and his consort’s signatures and seals doomed the page. Still, Morgott boiled. He slammed the scroll back onto the table- making Imopea flinch. A hideous laugh bubbled in his throat.

“I shan’t entertain an elaborate Carian jest.”

The Lady Phelia rolled her eyes, “A wedding is a celebration, not a jest.”

Morgott bristled at the condescension. “Then thou’rt blind to the insult. His consort is a foreigner. She hath no love for the Order nor the Erdtree. No loyalty nor ties.”

“The Lord Rykard is a Carian, not-"

“Lord Rykard is a Demigod! He is not a petty Lordling playing at politics!”

Oh, how they gaped. Blinked in the futile effort to ignore a silent joke. By the Erdtree, that was what they thought of him. His Veil was a construction of sticks and twine placed upon a hound’s head. The least of all of Marika’s children risen far above what he should have been. Morgott growled, undeterred. He jabbed a finger at the map carved into the table’s surface.

“Sneer as ye are wont,” he snarled. “Whilst ye make excuses, the Carian traitors annex more land beneath their banners. Radahn charms the Sellians. Limgrave is surrounded, then. Caelid to the East and Liurnia to the northwest. With Godefroy expected to defend it. Now we share a border with Rykard’s holdings. Should he turn the aggressor, who will aid the city? Limgrave? Fie! Perhaps the prodigies to the North will finally bless their beloved city with their presence.”

Again, he was met with ridiculous silence. They stared unseeing past Morgott’s rigid shoulders. They sparred with the swords of their own thumbs. Most had already chosen to ignore him. All except Helian, who planted his elbows upon the table and met Morgott’s glare with one of equal ferocity.

“Every Demigod swore an oath of peace, Steward. Save for thy-” Helian’s throat caught. He choked elegantly on the final word as Morgott’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists. There was Miquella’s enchantments at work- preventing the members of the Council from revealing any of Morgott’s unsavory secrets. The War Councilor finally grit out “Save for him. For decades the accord hath been kept faithfully. Why this yearning for bloodshed, Lord?”

“Behold! A Councilor of War that yearns to see none until the blade is already held to his throat! The Queen Eternal and her consort took this land by its throat. Ye wouldst see their fist unfurled. Every finger broken so a Stargazer may sit the throne!”

His condemnation was answered with reticence. Aside from Helian who bit out, “Does the reason of a Lord or the reason of thy blood compel thee to such ruinous whims?”

Whims?” Morgott shivered. Without the Veil he would be bristling, the fur of his tail and hackles standing on end. So disguised, he felt instead a cold and slimy itch beneath his skin. “Mine experience is that of centuries.” Each day of his life a squalid battle for survival. Everyone had wanted him dead in the Shunning Grounds- because then he could be eaten. “I could not afford to let threats wander to my home.”

“So, Steward. Should we abandon Leyndell and its walls to begin a war with the Carians?”

“Aye.”

Helian chuckled. Mirthless and dark. Morgott could practically see the bitter curse that remained ensnared by Miquella’s magical splinter- the one that stayed all of their tongues.

“Thou wert not raised up to be a warmonger.”

“I swore to defend Order and the Erdtree. Dost Thou think me dishonest?”

“Foolhardy,” the Perfumer Arteya piped. “But not dishonest, my Lord.”

Morgott could only breathe- could only try to douse his fire and lessen the strain of his swelling frustration on the fragile seams of his illusory form. They were all decided. They were all old. Mortal and comfortable. The decades of peace so precious and darling they could not fathom its absence. Miquella had vanished from Leyndell nearly forty years ago. There began and ended their concerns. His minders’ knees were too arthritic to ascend to Leyndell’s parapets to witness the storm gathering.

Demigods were glacial creatures, emulating their Eternal Goddess. The Carians were slowly, slowly moving to conquer. Even if it took them another hundred years. Morgott was the only one that saw it.

“Leyndell shall attend Lord Rykard’s wedding. Its Steward shall impart to his brother and newfound sister a blessing and a gift from the Capital.” Tolbren sighed. His proclamation loosed on a weary exhale. Nods of agreement passed around the seated Council. Morgott clenched his jaw.

“Very well.”

His blood was revolted at his submission. However curated and controlled his speech, argument was not his forte. Battle was. There had been stretches in the Shunning Grounds where he had gone years without uttering a single word. Now his throat often ached from the exertion of language. He yearned to flex his claws- though he had been made to file them. He wanted to score his missives into the hides of his Council as scars.

His aggression was terrible. He bowed his head in farewell and retreated. The Palace did not want for chapels- dim and secluded- for Morgott to spend an evening praying his angry soul into solace again.

Notes:

Morgott's beef with Rykard is amusing to me. I've imagined it to be borne of accurate prescience but also Morgott's single-minded hatred of anything straying outside of Order's confines. Like, Morgott's suspicions will prove largely correct, but I truly can't blame his Council for not being as paranoid as him.

Chapter 3: Assessment

Notes:

Warning for animal death.

The swapping of Morgott and Margit's names is intentional in the final scene. I am experimenting with how Margit/Morgott compartmentalizes himself in his two roles.

Chapter Text

The village lacked for entertainment. Thus, Oleg found his evenings occupied by the tavern and its gallery of Omen artworks. He scrutinized each, wondering which of the renderings had been inspired by the being he’d met in the forest a week prior. But each face was too bestial. Jowls drooled and saber fangs flashed, and snouts wrinkled into ferocious snarls. None of them captured the menace and majesty of his strange crown of horns. Some, at least, had the sinewy tail.

“You are obsessed,” Engvall accused.

“Perhaps.” The singular word was jostled by mild inebriation. Oleg was a few pints deep. He figured a drink- or more- might shift his perspective on the drawings. That he might at last cobble together the Omen he’d met from smeared lines and discordant pieces.

Engvall scoffed. He hadn’t seen what Oleg had. The campfire’s obliteration and the bursts of holy magic had weakened his vision. His sole option had been to remain in his perch and hennishly peck at what snatches of conversation he could- which had been remarkably little. He didn’t understand Oleg’s fascination. “You know, some folks swear the Steward keeps tame Omen. Makes pets of them.”

He was teasing.

When Oleg retold his fateful encounter with the Omen, his tipsy audience guffawed at his imitation of the beast’s speech. Each man and woman swore vociferously no Omen possessed the wit to maintain a conversation beyond a few grunted words. Let alone in the posh dialect of the nobility.
They’re all feral, Omen. An off-duty guard had sneered in rusting heirloom armor. Just dogs with troll strength. Good story, though.

Even Engvall- who had been present- had begun to convince himself that the entire debacle was… improbable. Not even the snake badge swayed anyone, though it had been embossed with a ruddy fingerprint several times larger than a regular man’s.

In Oleg’s consternated silence, Engvall pressed, “Maybe ol’ Morgott gave your friend a proper education before setting him loose on the mountainside. All the Demigods have gone a bit wacky. I suppose the Lordly sorts find humor in such things.”

“Come off it, Engvall.”

Engvall offered an apologetic shrug, which Oleg silently accepted without resentment. He was unsure why the universally cavalier regard for the Omen bothered him so much. Everyone’s disbelief smarted, sure, but it wasn’t the cause for his discomfort. He was a banished knight. His hide wasn’t so fragile a few dulled barbs would set him brooding.

“I’m going to take a walk,” Oleg announced. His head was beginning to swim between his aimless thoughts and the scents of ale, pipe weed, and sweat sitting soggy in his lungs.

A part of him hoped that Engvall would invite himself along. His partner merely nodded his acknowledgement. Oleg reminded himself that they would be leaving this patch of the country soon anyway, and stamped down his disappointment before it could show. He and Engvall would have plenty of time to share just between the two of them soon enough.

When a banished knight couldn’t find a cause to swear to, they were resigned to a nomadic lifestyle. People with problems rejoiced when silver-clad knights traipsed into their towns. But runes never stretched as far as Oleg hoped. And once the work dried up, so too did the peoples’ tolerances.

Oleg understood; the glamor of the mysterious banished blade could never outlast its sordid reputation.

Evening swooped upon Oleg predatorily as he stepped outside. The setting sun blazed into his eyes and ignited a headache. The mugginess resuscitated every foul odor imaginable: urine, sheep’s dung, the dual reek of the butcher and the tannery colliding in the middle of the square. Oleg’s boots led him from muddied cobblestone to grass. He ambled across a green-gold pasture until he found the road that cut through the nearby forest. A waist-high wall barred the trees from the man-made scar in the land. Yet roots and tenacious verdants split and tumbled and chipped the topmost stones. Oleg settled on the crumbling wall. If he gazed down the hill, he could see the expanse of the Plateau stretch out beneath him in a twilight-risen haze to the gray barrier of Leyndell’s gargantuan walls. Gelmir loomed at his back, a creature all maw and teeth. He would be glad to leave its shadow.

The lingering humidity gathered sweat in Oleg’s armor and across his brow. Even though he’d carried his helm in his arms during his sojourn. A banished knight was enjoined to wear his kit eternally: a duty Oleg shirked with increasing frequency. A duty he yet abided by more often than not. He was a banished knight, and that title came with expectations. Better to be a member of the dishonored order than not a knight at all. Which meant he wore the armor. Even when his head pounded and there was no one around to perform bannerless mystique for.

He considered where he and Engvall might go. North, probably. It was a cycle. They’d hit the edge of the Plateau- hug the border where the Giants’ Mountaintops sprouted roots- then skirt the Capital on their way southward. One great big looping pilgrimage. Ceaseless and thankless. Sometimes he missed the Weeping Peninsula. But, well… the place was getting worse every year.

A branch cracked beneath unseen weight, and suddenly the scent of blood and musky earth was upon him.

“Sellsword.”

The disdain in that lonesome word was a salve. The anticipation of death was released from the cage of Oleg’s ribs as an ashen hand twice the breadth of his own planted itself upon the wall beside him. Fine white hairs dusted the knobbed knuckles and thickened into a light spray of fur at the exposed wrist.

The Omen growled lowly, “I sense thy bounty was wasted fattening a brewer’s purse.”

“Harsh,” Oleg protested. “But not inaccurate.”

The Omen stepped over the wall to stand beside Oleg where he sat.

Oleg could see him clearly in the gold of twilight. It was a kinder light, and Oleg was reminded of the blatant inaccuracies of the tavern gallery. Those visions would have one convinced Omen were beasts with the veneer of human form pasted over animal shapes. The Omen was a man. A big man- horned and tailed. But a man. The white of his wavy hair caught the sunlight in gilt threads. Framed his bumpy profile majestically.

It strained the breadth of Oleg’s imagination to picture a collar around the Omen’s throat. He recognized then the source of his vague upset of late. Omen straddled the boundary between man and beast. But myth and doctrine occluded the dual nature of their souls, leaving only room for the animal. But the bearing of the man before him was anything but.

The Omen was straightforward: “Hunting, art thou?”

Oleg crossed his arms, “Unfortunately, no.” He was aware that he was alone. Practically defenseless in the presence of such a skilled warrior. His eyes explored the Omen’s form with benign interest. Most of it was hidden behind the ragged cloak of fraying hides. What he could see of his body was covered densely muscled and thick with hair and scars. No, Oleg supposed if his acquaintance desired to kill him, he would have a slim chance of surviving the attempt. He laid an offering upon the subsequent pause, “I did not expect to ever meet you again. What brings you this way, Beastie?”

The massive tail flicked- a shockingly graceful gesture for the size of the limb and its ponderous adornment of horns. “I am waiting, Sellsword, for my quarry.”

He pointed with one gnarled finger down the hill.

Oleg had not given the cluster of trotting riders any mind. They were yet kilometers away- minnows schooling briskly in a current of grasses. But they didn’t bear the gold regalia of a Leyndell patrol. Thus, Oleg hadn’t concerned himself. He couldn’t even hear the horses’ hoofbeats. If the riders peered up the hill, it was doubtful they’d notice neither knight or Omen. He sucked on the inside of his cheek. He counted more than a dozen mounts in the swarming cloud of riders. Not an overwhelming number. He favored the Omen. Immensely.

“For what cause?” He asked casually.

“For my cause.”

“Come now,” Oleg smiled. “You know I have to ask what your cause entails.”

“Wilt thou judge me righteously, Banished Knight?”

“I am charged only by curiosity,” Oleg said peaceably. “Keep your secrets if you wish. It changes naught for me.”

“Aye?”

The Omen loosened. He leaned against the low wall. His frown lifted into a wry smirk. And it lessened the severity of the lines of his face. He ran his hand over the flat of his cleaver. There was script upon the blade that Oleg could not read. Arranged in the configuration of magic. Oleg could nearly pity the Omen’s oblivious prey.

Oleg nodded. “Aye.”

“They ride hither to destroy thy refuge. The blood of the village folk they will claim in payment for their brothers’ lives. So when they come to pillage again, none will dare raise a sword in defense.”

All this the Omen said nonchalantly. He had greeted Oleg with more malice. The knight, on the other hand, felt his mouth go dry. The Omen, he knew, might be lying. He pulped the consideration beneath his heel. What did it matter? If he was being fed falsehoods, would he even be able to extract the truth?

“Good of you, then, to defend the village,” he said instead.

The Omen sniffed. As if he had anticipated a more thorough interrogation. He added, unprompted, “Gelmir serpents. I will dig out the nest and crack every rotten egg.” And with venom still slick on his tongue, he turned to Oleg. The curtain of his hair was tangled around his horns. Beaded with burrs. The beard upon his cheeks looked startlingly soft. His golden eye gleamed, excited.

“Fight with me.”

Oleg blurted, “Why?”

A thread of agitation cinched the Omen’s expression- hooded his eye and curled his lip into a dreadful scowl. When he answered, his voice rumbled from a deep wellspring rich with hatred: “Because I ask it of thee.”

Oleg, sincerely taken aback, nodded, conciliatory. “I suppose I am surprised you hold me in high enough regard to invite me to spill blood with you.”

“Do not mistake me,” the Omen sneered. “I hold thee in no esteem. Should thy blade run crimson, should thy hand be merciless and skillful, my regard thou shalt be granted.”

For no discernable reason, Oleg was stricken to find he was rather desperate for the Omen’s approval. As if the man’s estimation would ignite in him some cold cinder of honor. More than the weight of runes in his palm, he wanted that elusive warmth.

“Am I being tested?” he asked lightly.

The Omen, ever humorless, replied, “Aye, Sellsword.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------

The woods surrounding the road weren’t oppressively thick. But Beastie had slipped into the shade and practically vanished. His brown cloak melded with the trunks of the trees. His horns- when Oleg caught a glimpse of them- looked like stag’s antlers or moss-draped tree limbs depending on the angle. There was a gravity to his presence, even if he was unseen. The ward of instinct signaled for Oleg’s stomach to pen warnings in writhing twists. The ashes of his ancestors moaned: Oleg, a predator hunteth thee.

Not me, thank the blessed Queen.

He could hear the hooves of the horses now. Thunder rolling on a cloudless evening. Again, he wondered if he should be more cautious of his companion. He is Omen. He was a stranger, foremost, and all too invested in the group of snake-bonded bandits. All too easily the Omen might have conscripted him to snuff the lives of hapless innocents. But, well. He’d always been a knight. It was in his blood to have his morals dictated to him. By oath or by runes.

He only regretted that he’d sobered up enough to really feel his headache when the first horse galloped past.

The second followed as he stupidly blinked.

Oleg’s swords unsheathed with a sharp hiss. They were his fangs. But rather than venom, a tempest was housed in the unassuming steel. His first arcing swing flattened brush and saplings to crumple the third gelding’s legs with a summoned storm. It lost its footing, bellowed, and collapsed upon the road- mangling its rider beneath it. Its flailing limbs tripped exactly one sequential steed. That rider was spilled across the path like a soggy sack of grain. They slid with the scrape of leather, skin, and chain upon the stone. The first two riders halted at the horse’s agonized squeal. And now the limp body of their fellow lay before their own mounts’ stomping hooves.

The trap was sprung. A barricade was made of suffering horse meat. As both animals struggled to stand with wild eyes before submitting to the reality of their fractured legs. Thus, the group was split into uneven halves. Closest to Oleg were the two initial riders and the unseated fourth. Another ten stalled on the other side of the felled steeds. Quite a lot of shouting ensued. Crossbows clicked crisply, swords were drawn, and boots and greaves hit the road as riders dismounted with furious haste. The animals tossed their heads. They heeded the simmering death they had traipsed into. Their masters did not.

Weightless didn’t quite describe the way Oleg experienced battle. His armor was heavy, and he felt every kilogram of his dual swords. Each blow he dealt reverberated up steel and bone. It was the winds that buoyed him. He was the reef within the tide that ships were disemboweled upon. The cyclone was the shrike, and he was merely the spike its prey was impaled with. He moved with the squall. The riders snapped like trees with dry, twiggy trunks. They were hewn. They were uprooted.

Oleg split the first man’s belly, spilled his entrails across the mossy ground. And the woman standing beside him he pierced through the throat. The winds painted him with their blood.

A crossbow bolt clinked harmlessly off of a pauldron- plinking, dejected, to the earth, imparting no worse than a bruise. Oleg swept his swords in a wide arc, and the storm that enclosed him took up the next volley of bolts and cast them into the underbrush.

By then, though, the Omen had emerged. The cries of alarm rose to proper screams. Several horses bolted- with or without their rider. Two conjured daggers, expertly thrown, unsaddled two unfortunate snakes- spines severed. The Omen’s tail lashed without any consideration for his dance partner. No matter. Oleg leapt, sailed over the horns with the gales at his back. His blades slammed down onto another pillager’s skull. Their helm was split in twain. Along with their brains.

It was a slaughter. Oleg had been told there was no fiercer pairing between all sentient creatures than that of Lord Godfrey’s fabled Crucible Knights and their Misbegotten pals. He was strangely giddy with the idea that he had discovered an even more appalling combination.

Half of the riders were slain in minutes. The rest made to flee or surrender- vastly underestimating the Omen’s sense of mercy. His cleaver was indiscriminate. Oleg followed his lead.

The final man galloped down the path in the direction he’d come. He cursed and spat, long knife in hand. Face crimson with the blood of his comrades. Oleg cut the horse's legs out from under it. And the Omen caught the man by his throat when he was inevitably thrown. Little hands beat against the unrelenting fist. The Omen exhaled; the sound emitted was derisive, growling. Oleg waited for the Omen to snap his neck. Instead, he tossed the man to the ground none too gently and snarled: “Walk.”

“Beastie-"

The Omen roared, affronted. His eye was wild- hungry, almost. Not angry but…

“-you’re going? Just like that?”

He answered through gritted teeth, “I have what I came here for.”

Meaning the last snake, it seemed. Oleg wasn’t certain what to make of that. Would the Omen eat him? Did that disturb him?

He asked, “What of my assessment, since you’re in such a hurry?”

The Omen didn’t oblige him. He’d already turned away. Crossbow bolts nailed panels of the torn cloak to his legs and back. The blood he beaded was a strange color. Gold and black and veined with glittering gemstones of color.

Oleg followed him. Stepped over the corpses they’d made. Bronze snake badges reflected twilight’s glow. The last man standing whimpered, his wordless pleas the ambiance to Oleg’s one-sided conversation.

“At least let me pull those pins out of you.”

The Omen’s cleaver dripped sticky garnet. “Tell me the name of thy brother-in-arms. The second knight of thine order.”

It was Oleg’s turn to clam up. The Omen sniffed. “I am keen to observe his prowess… and discipline.”

Oleg was too taken aback to feel offended at the subtle slight. Finally, finally, he felt he feared the Omen a little.

“If we’re going to be friends,” Oleg said. “-I'd like to know why you’re watching us.”

Oleg wasted a lot of time waiting for the creature to explain himself. He trailed after the Omen and his captive like a rangy, silver wolf after a Rune Bear and his kill. He took the hint eventually. Stopped as the Omen pushed the snake deeper into the forest. Oleg convinced himself he didn’t want to witness what came next.

It was dark by the time he reached the village again. Engvall was sick with worry as Oleg trudged up the hill baptized in the evidence of conflict. Oleg told him everything. And perhaps he even began to believe the bit about the Omen when he saw the grisly, impromptu grave left in the middle of the road.

—————————————————————

Margit was not a kind captor. There was nothing within him for sympathy to feed upon. He was too wizened. Too ancient. His accursed blood evaporated it all.

The bearer of the serpent charm had been broken of his resolve. When he asked for food, Margit ignored him. When he begged for water, Margit shoved his face into marshy, dew-wet grass and encouraged him to lap his fill. When he tried to escape, Margit pulverized a hand with his own fist. The fool was lucky he needed his legs. Otherwise, Margit would have taken them instead.

The journey had only lasted five days. Yet the man mewled and wept for all his paltry suffering. It was not Morgott’s want to generalize Graceborn, but by the Erdtree they were a soft people. Pampered and exalted in Grace’s gentle glow.

Marauder and Omen loitered within the shadow of Leyndell’s outer walls. A kilometer from the nearest gate, a Capital patrol found them.

“Heel, Omen,” General Helian barked.

Tolbren fidgeted on his horse a ways behind. The Councilor of War and the Councilor of Culture and Customs were rather bonded. After all, Leyndell’s traditions had been nursed with blood, scaffolded upon bone and heralded in the screams of all God and her First Elden Lord had conquered.

They must have seen Margit approaching from the parapet. Which suited him fine. He could stand in Leyndell’s periphery in his born shape, having been granted amnesty by the Steward’s decree and the bitten tongues of his Council. That did not make him a welcome sight. As evidenced by the half-dozen knights that twitched even more anxiously than Tolbren. The Councilors’ escort.

Margit was a stray tom. A broken bird dangled in his jaws, and his masters glared at him with exasperated exhaustion.

“Grant this one a cell and a quarter hour with an inquisitor,” Morgott said. “There is evil intent upon his heart.”

Hearing this, the prisoner loosed a howling, wordless keen. Morgott was unflinching. He saw it in his Councilors’ expressions: they believed him depraved.

Helian and Tolbren dismounted, faces grim. Morgott’s pulse boiled in warning. But he was, ultimately, powerless. Justiciar Tolbren’s lips moved mutedly, and Morgott was compelled to disarm himself. The metal of his cleaver turned to electric ice. It seared his palms and shot pangs of agony up his arm to his heart.

As he dropped his weapon, hissing, Helian slit the Gelmir snake’s throat with one fluid slash of his blade.

Morgott buckled, overwhelmed by the malediction. He clutched his hands to his torso, so that he would not be tempted to crush Helian’s chest as the man approached his kneeling form.

“Pastor Olivier is dead,” he spat viciously. Low enough his voice barely tickled the shell of Margit’s misshapen ear. “He begged for thee, but thou wert vanished. By Marika’s hammer, wert thou chasing rats in the foothills all this time?”

The pain of the malediction faded. Through panting breaths, Morgott watched the grass of the Plateau darken with the stain of traitor’s blood. Suddenly it mattered not. He had no defense against the grief that suddenly grasped him about the throat.

Olivier was dead.

The Steward needed to bury his priest.

Chapter 4: Portent

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The eulogy was delivered by a Finger Reader. The wizened woman croaked with reverent fervor.

“-And the Eternal Queen disentangled us from the knot of disorder. Our souls were threaded not onto fate’s linear strand, but upon a golden ring. Fashioned after the vassal of God, so that we may taste the bounty of eternity. May we be tempered in her forge, formed by her hammer, with every incarnation of our spirit! This is not Olivier’s end. Marika’s Order promises renewal in Grace and reward in service. Rejoice! Our father, our friend, has died and will live again!”

Death in the Lands Between was an oft contradictory experience. As the Order taught, souls of the deceased journeyed to the roots. They traveled up the xylem and were fated rebirth in the gilded boughs. A comforting doctrine to the Graceborn that left funerals with a sense of hope. Mourning was coupled with celebration. With soft smiles and happy remembrances. That the Elden Ring was shattered did not dash their optimistic views in this regard.

This did not reflect Morgott’s experiences. Death was suffering’s hound- a painful permanence. For the Curseborn, there was no reincarnation. There was no guidance to the roots. The soul was transformed into a wraith. Spirits shut out of the Erdtree’s light went mad and haunted those that could sense them. Graceborn did not fear death, but despaired at the agony dying might bring. Omen were frightened of death, but were numb to the prospect of dying. Of starving. Of bleeding out. Of wasting away from disease.

So Morgott stared into his goblet without really seeing. He and his reflection met one another’s harrowed gazes in the blood-red wine. Their eyes rimmed with the puffy threat of tears.

How quaint his grief. How palatable and fair. The son of Godfrey had a sensitive soul. Olivier had been a great man. But it was not his memory that drowned in Morgott’s cup. He thought of the Omen. Born with meconium in their lungs and choked by sewage during their last moments. Always.

So terrifying, death. Even when it was just.

Olivier’s body had been laid upon a slab of stone at the chapel’s front. A man of his influence would not be entombed in a wax-sealed mausoleum nor in a stone coffin on a golden-grassed knoll. He had earned an Erdtree burial. He would rest in a catacomb, in hallowed ground guarded by watchdogs and imps. His faithful soul would be welcomed by the Erdtree.

Morgott sidled up to the body. Olivier had presided over many funerals. He had led the prayers and recited the scripture. He had been shepherd and teacher and friend. He had tutored Morgott in the Order’s magic- had counseled him on how to wield it virtuously despite his curse. He had taught the litanies to tame his foul blood. Olivier had seen in Morgott what Lord Miquella had seen. That something in his soul bore the brand of divine nobility. Now he was gone. The glass of wine in Morgott’s hand beckoned. He swallowed around a dry tongue, but did not drink. Across the chapel, Councilor Iren giggled and shouted, so deep was he in his cups. So hideously jovial.

Morgott had asked to give Olivier his final rights. Each member of the Council had denied him- all save Godrick. But perhaps that was because Godrick didn’t know he was accursed and spurned. In the end, Morgott was made to understand that his devotion did not make him fit to preach. The Order had allowed him enough concessions- he had been granted enough Grace. A man of the cloth did not deserve to have his soul shepherded by the voice and hands of an Omen.

They were correct, of course…

The murmured condolences- the songbird chattering of happy recollection- faded from Morgott’s awareness. He felt himself melt like the candles that adorned the altar. The substance of him spent for this meager vigil.

By all that is just, thou shouldst wear chains. Yet thou’rt a Shardbearer. Thou’rt a ward of our kind and generous Empyrean. The Greater Will hath use for thee. Thou’rt not forsaken.

Olivier’s voice eked from dead lips. The ghost of him wreathed itself around Morgott’s heart. Not a wraith, thank the Erdtree. Morgott closed his eye; he was in the dusty confines of an empty chapel. Candles, spiders, and pigeons witnessed their meeting. He had not known whether it was possible for Grace to spare any mercy for him, but the pastor Olivier had taken his warped hand all the same. Morgott knelt in memory, and he knelt in the present. His head bowed in respect.

Thou wert made on the scaffold of man. Order and Grace may shine upon those bones of thy soul. Thou’rt Marika’s child yet. If the Elden Ring findeth purchase in thee, then service and redemption is thy path forward.

So often they’d spoken in the dark after Morgott’s emergence from Below, because the light of day had stung his eye for months after. So often Olivier had brought him clean water and meat. Bread with rich butter. Pastries heavy with sugar. And he had not recoiled in disgust when Morgott growled, when he overindulged to illness, when he stained his hands and chin, when malaise bid him not eat at all. Olivier had understood the ails of Morgott’s being better than anyone.

Humility is the hammer that would shape thine unmalleable spirit into a worthy vessel, Omen. Let duty be thy crucible. Righteous penance thy forge. Bestial wants shall rule thee no more. Put thy faith in the Order.

He had- all his long life he had. He would continue to trust in its doctrines. Nothing remained for him if he did not.

“Ah, the stories Morgott must have! They were grand mates.”

The voice scratched the shell of Morgott’s ear languidly. A warning he did not heed.

“Your Grace!”

Too sudden, too harshly, something slapped down around his hunched shoulders.

The weight around his neck. Heated iron that would leach its warmth to the dank sewer fog. The chafe. The rustle of chains. Morgott blinked, and he found himself in a hazy rendering of a dark, wet, reeking tunnel. The air was so thick it stuck in his lungs like tar; he was suffocating in it. His throat was parched and the only water left to drink was contaminated with refuse and corpses.

Morgott’s hand fled to his neck. He found not a shackle, but fragile, fleshy hands. He wrenched them away so fiercely the bones creaked in his grip. The mirage of the Shunning Grounds dissolved into the glittering, somber finery of a Leyndell funeral. His body remembered where it was, and he sucked in a clean, gorgeous breath with a sharp, ugly gasp.

“My Lord!”

The nearly-shrieked address echoed in the chapel. Timid, feeble Phelia had drawn every eye to him and to the man he grasped with vicious temerity. It was shivering Iren- whose pulse raced erratic in a fragile wrist. Morgott released him.

“Forgive me. I was… overcome.”

Eyes cast away from him. With one tiny misstep he was no longer charming in his melancholy. He was ferocious, the unpredictable exile from the Badlands.

Invisible hair bristled between his shoulder blades. He prickled at the phantom sensation. For he smelled the taint of rot within the perfumes of incense and wine. He heard distant screams hidden in the mourners’ conversations. The squalid finality of life was sequestered into low whispers. His throat itched, and his fingers twitched as he denied them their desire to clasp around his neck. To ensure that he wore no collar save the stiff fabric of his robes.

His gorge rose. His anger. In one inconsequential moment the portcullis of his mind faltered. He was besieged with memory and resentment.

He gummed blood and meat into a paste before feeding it to his brother. Mohg sweated with a fever, but he had been chained to a cell for daring to emerge into the Erdtree’s light. Months had passed- the boy had been forgotten. If Morgott did not feed him like this, he would die.

He was limp on moss-slick stone. The air was so cold, but his body was warmed by the thin coat of his blood that he wore. It pooled into black-violet bruises. Mohg brought a rain-soaked cloth to his mouth, and Morgott suckled on it, whimpering. Red bloomed on the canvas of his eyelid. And his pain abated somewhat. Mohg’s magic was at work. Nursing on the sodden cloth, he possessed not the strength to demand Mohg keep his blasphemous magic away from him.

There was Olivier on the slab. Maggots in his gaping sockets and his meat stinking of decay. Morgott shuddered, and the corpse was serene. Pale, lifeless, but peacefully dead.

“I… I must pray,” he declared in the barest of whispers.

Already he heard Tolbren murmur his excuses for the Steward.

“Olivier meant a great deal to him… Pious indeed.”

Still, his Council followed him when he retreated. As persistent as the wraiths that plagued his dreams. Their scoldings lashed at his back. They left no wounds but marred his pride.

“What happened, Morgott?”

“Thou must mind thine hands, Son of Godfrey.”

“...Unbecoming…”

All the while Iren hiccupped with a full goblet in his shaking hand. “Do forgive me, Morgott,” he gurgled. “Twas not my intent to startle you.”

Morgott ignored them. He rubbed his tired eye with his knuckles. He swallowed down mounting bitterness even as it stuck to his teeth. But Iren pushed past his peers. “Ah, do not be cross with me, my Lord. Please! Though-” he snorted into his glass, quaffing. “You should have seen how you jumped. As twitchy as a springhare in an eagle’s shadow! Only you are no springhare, my Lord. You are as brutish as-”

The slap reverberated in the vaulted ceiling. It became a clanging, bouncing clarion heralding Iren’s agonized keen. It was a fugue of chaos. The slap, the crack, the groan, the alarmed cries of the other Councilors. Morgott’s blood flared from rage’s sparks. The sight of Iren’s ruined jaw did little to soothe him.

He was a creature of the Shunning Grounds. A fight did not cease until the other submitted. Though Iren squirmed on his back like an overturned turtle. He clutched at his shattered jaw, eyes wild and wet in his skull.

Tolbren drew his sword. He snarled, “I shall take that hand! May Graced lips never be made to touch its like again!”

Meaningless words. Hot air molded into barbs that could no more pierce Morgott’s hide than a breeze could, thanks to Miquella’s commandment.

Morgott glared at his trembling hand. The animal in him bayed, threatened. He wanted to tear them all apart. He grasped his wrist, grit his teeth. He had betrayed Miquella in one thoughtless, selfish, weak instant.

“Y-you cannot harm us! You cannot place your hands upon us!” Lady Phelia howled. She wailed with more anguish than the man with the smashed face.

The bonds of the Council’s covenant had never been reciprocal. The cowering nobles had been cursed to do him no harm. But Miquella had never forced upon him such an oath. Morgott had been trusted, and he had proven himself utterly deficient.

It was Lady Arteya- calm and quiet as a practiced healer must be- that silenced Phelia’s whimpering with a stern hand on her shoulder. She drew the quivering woman away from Iren and pried the Councilor’s hand from his injury. He drooled on her, his mouth become a useless flap of flesh.

Arteya’s hand glowed with the gentle gold of holy incantation. Her palm hovered over Iren’s face, and he writhed a bit less. But the Head Perfumer was an herbalist- a surgeon- not a weaver of miracles. Morgott had not been permitted to learn the art of healing via the Erdtree. Thus there was no way for him to amend his misdeed.

Even if he could channel the Erdtree’s healing magic, it would surely be corrupted when refracted through his curse.

Lady Arteya produced a thin vial from her clothes. The powder within was an ashen gray hue. A sedative. Morgott was quite familiar with its like. But the Head Perfumer smeared the substance onto Iren’s lolling tongue and beneath his puffing nose. She barked, “Someone send for an Order healer, Erdtree preserve me!”

“Miquella will know of this,” Tolbren declared. “His wrath… Defiler of a sacred death-!” Jumbled from shock, he turned on his heel to face Imopea. “Go! Write to Lord Miquella. He must be made aware!”

“Why await Lord Miquella’s decree?” Helian spat. Spittle stained the silver blade he brandished, mirroring his fellow Councilor. But then his face flushed, for his tongue refused him. His hand wavered, as if his sword suddenly weighed too much for him to bear. The betrayal of his will answered his question for him. The Empyrean’s charm was absolute.

As though he had been dragged from the brink of suffocation, General Helian gasped. His reddened face a painted mask of impotent anger.

He had been assigned to Morgott’s Council when he’d still had hair to lose. Queen Marika’s Age seemed as eternal as she. Yet her people inched towards the precipice of elderly age. So long had these nobles been lashed to Morgott. Oh, they had sworn their oaths, smiling, when their true Lord bid them. When Miquella cupped their faces and held their hands and kissed their eyes and promised he would return before erelong. More than forty years had passed since then.

“How much more of this shall we be made to endure, Steward?” Tolbren accused. As if Morgott kept Miquella away and made the years stretch into stagnant decades.

Ever the diplomat, Imopea interjected, pleaded. “Douse thy blood, Morgott. Is the day not miserable enough?”

The other Councilors stared at him, expectant. All except Iren who slumbered fitfully, hands curled into fists and his jaw lopsided on its eviscerated hinge. They all peered past the illusion. The Steward’s shape was something he could don and doff like his ragged cloak. Their glistening, disbelieving eyes beheld him as he was. An abomination crawled up from the rotten depths. A curse placed upon them by Miquella’s misguided mercy. If it was within their power, they would have seen him dead. Skewered and bled and dumped below the streets where the other imprisoned Omen could welcome him- or dispose of him.

He wondered if they saw in his expression their disdain and hatred reflected back to them. If they knew just how desperately he was holding back. They were craven puff-chests grown slovenly upon an Age’s fragility. They stirred the pool of prosperity with languid fingers and felt their contribution to Leyndell’s governance sufficient. They respected him none. They saw him as an animal, and an animal he was.

A spider on a windowsill hath bared its little fangs to me, though they were too feeble to pierce my skin. Even the least of the Order’s creatures desire to live, Margit. Survival is no sin.

Olivier’s gentle wisdom was a knife in Morgott’s back. Those words he had uttered when the pair had been cloistered in prayer. When Morgott had wept for the Grace of the Order and for his own wretched life. For the love of his twin and the guilt for the hundreds of lives yet consigned to the gaol beneath their bended knees.

Indeed, survival was not a sin. And Morgott’s duty was to Leyndell, to the Order, and to the Erdtree. Not to any singular fool cowering in his shadow.

“The decision is Miquella’s,” Morgott hissed. “Until he commandeth otherwise, I am the Steward of Leyndell.”

The Councilor of War sneered, “Aye. Until he commandeth otherwise.”

In the cinders of that threat a flame more ruinous than Omen’s blood was ignited in the Steward’s accursed spirit. That of ambition.

Notes:

Thank you so much Shittyname123 for helping beta the chapter!

The ball is beginning to roll on this plot. But I am still interested in revisiting Olivier a bit more after this chapter, since he's still a bit mysterious. I kinda wonder what sort of impression people get from him based on Morgott's memories here.

TBH i based his characterization off of personal experiences in the church. He is a man that I do think was sincere in his kindness to Morgott, but his adherence to Order warped his good intentions into subtler harm. Olivier's goodness actually began to cement Morgott's infatuation with Order and beliefs of his innate 'wrongness'. (such as when he says Morgott's soul is something to be improved with faith yet remains unmalleable- unchanging. Thus, there is little hope for him)

Chapter 5: Shardbearer

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The campfire made monsters of the trees. The ever-shifting loci of light turned branches into claws and horns. Swaying lichens became scraggly pelts. The twisted fissures and grooves of bark were hearty veins in wooden muscle and sinew.

But, lo- this one had an eye.

The winking spot of silver was no star, unless stars were the size of large coins and had taken to cavorting four meters off the ground. Oleg met the unwavering shine warily. Sometimes- he had learned from experience- it was enough to show a predator that you knew he was watching. Animals preferred stealth and surprise. But he was also aware that more than animals and men prowled the forests of the Lands Between. That beastly visages could belie human intelligence.

So, he spoke to his silent, staring visitor.

“I would not suggest making a meal of me, Ser. If you’ve a craving for unappetizing meat cramped into an armored shell, I would point you in the direction of Liurnia’s crustaceans. Though…,” he tilted his head in mock contemplation. “I was meant to meet a man of royalty here some hours ago. If he is wandering these woods, I would not begrudge you taking your fill. He has kept me waiting, and I confess I’m a bit sore about it. Terribly rude. I could have done anything else today.”

Oleg’s bravado dimmed as the shining eye stared unblinking, set in an amorphous shadow. Something swayed ponderously in the dark- heavy like a club.

“Didst thou offer thy companion to a rune bear, jester? My Lord sent for two knights.”

Honestly, Oleg had not anticipated an answer. That the other’s voice was richly acerbic- that each word was perfectly annunciated and eloquent- was more shocking than it should have been. Struck dumb, he had to gather himself, processing his shattered expectations.

After a too-long hesitation, he laughed. “He lives despite my carelessness with his life. Hullo Beastie. It has been a while.”

A low growl eked its way through the trees. An almost gentle sound of malice. Weeks of distance had no more endeared the Omen to his nickname. That suited Oleg fine. Getting a rise out of him was half of the charm.

“Your Lord…,” Oleg continued, calling to the shrouded tree line. “You are the Steward’s man after all?”

In response, the silver pupil bobbed.

Engvall would be delighted to know his hypothesis had been correct: the Omen was a servant of Lord Morgott the Grace Given. Oleg, however, was taken by a sudden, subtle disappointment. The truth made him mundane. He wasn't cloaked in fable and legend. He was one more monster pledged to a Lord’s banner, leashed by the sigils of nobility. It was Oleg’s own fault for romanticizing the notion that one could wander the world without a master dogging his heels.

Oleg’s knee bounced. The silver of his armor had become gilt in the firelight. “Engvall has rejected your Lord’s invitation.”

Flame caught on a flash of fang as the Omen’s lip curled. That steely eye narrowed. “Doth cowardice or faithlessness keep him, that he would refuse the summons of Leyndell’s Lord?”

“Disparage me all you like,” Oleg lifted his chin, aware too late that the gesture bared his throat. “But I won’t tolerate an unkind word said of my other half.”

“Oh? Oathbreakers and fiends Banished Knights be. Thine other half is no exception.”

Oleg was adamant. “You are wrong. The conquered do not have to commit any crimes to be dishonored and displaced.”

He left it at that. Engvall’s story was not his to disclose.

“I see.”

Oleg dispelled the sudden tension with a crooked smile. “Be glad that only I answered your Lord’s invitation. Engvall lacks a treacherous spirit. I earned my banishment through merit.”

But the Omen’s face communicated that perhaps he’d have preferred Engvall by that token. It was unfortunate for Leyndell’s Lord that the other Wing of the Storm was both principled and paranoid.

He’d warned Oleg when he’d caught him with the missive. His hand he’d put on the nape of his neck to make sure their eyes met. Greenish hazel and deep, star-flecked brown. They’d relocated to the northern agrarian towns after the battle in Gelmir’s foothills. They’d both wondered how they’d been tracked- and by the Grace Given no less.

"Do not go, Oleg. If this really is the Demigod’s script and not some trap-"

“-Then I’ll be handsomely compensated.”

“This stinks to the Erdtree’s boughs! The Capital does not lack soldiers and sworn knights. This is a dishonorable conscript, Oleg. He wants a bloodied sword and a fool’s head to place the blame upon.”

Oleg looked at the Omen’s scowl. He began to think his companion had been correct.

“I have need of a man idle and bannerless to bear a necessary evil. I have need of a man of skilled arm and sharp wit to see the task through. Treason is the will of the Lord. For Leyndell’s nobility hath grown complacent and wretched. The city is stagnant, and if naught is done, its walls shall be breached, and the throne defiled.”

The Omen’s voice was chipped flint. It struck against Oleg’s ribs with the stony rigidity of conviction. As if he wanted to burn Oleg’s insides. He did not hold his colossal cleaver, yet his hand clenched around an invisible hilt. The Omen was alight with a fervor to protect. And Oleg found he was not unmoved by the sentiment. Or perhaps it was simply that he liked the Omen, despite all. Still, the once-knight nudged ashes with a polished boot.

“That illuminates little. I hope you understand. I am one man. If the Steward needs his city saved, then surely, he is better suited? Shardbearer, veteran of the Badlands, blood of the First Elden Lord and the Goddess to boot. My accolades by comparison aren’t so impressive.”

“Thou’rt refusing the summons?”

Oleg’s face pinched as he grinned wryly. “Rather, I am questioning its wisdom.”

“Canst thou kill, Banished Knight?”

Oleg’s eyes dropped to his gauntlets. “Aye.”

“Then thou wilt do.”

He stepped closer and permitted flickering flame to illuminate his form in shadow and light in equal measure. Pale hair framed a stern, lined face. An eye of rich gold glinted in dark sclera. His tail swayed behind him. Knobby with muscle and ruddy, spiraling horns.

“Give me thy hand,” the Omen murmured. He extended his own carefully. Revealed a palm weathered, gray, and scarred. “Words shall not suffice for this. But if the touch of an accursed Omen is too burdensome then-" his tone quieted. Flattened. “Then we need not discuss anything further.”

Oleg did not hesitate. However, that seemed to give him pause all the same. His fingers twitched as Oleg’s made contact. His skin had a feverish warmth, but lacked the pallor and perspiration associated with illness. Slowly that larger hand engulfed Oleg’s. Caged it with bars made from furred knuckles and thick tendons and bones. If the Omen squeezed, his hand would be crushed- compressed into mineral.

Instead, the Omen pressed- gently- Oleg’s hand to his chest.

The Omen had to bend to allow it. Such that his rumbling exhales stirred Oleg’s hair. Tentatively, the knight splayed his fingers- trapped though they were between the Omen’s palm and chest. The hair under the pads of his fingers felt like fur. Beneath that was a chiming throb that traveled up Oleg’s arm to pound in his own rib cage. The Omen’s pulse sought to supplant his own.

The Omen’s voice issued in a heated whisper. Soft for its stern utterance. “I bid thee know it. In the echoes of my heart, there is a litany beyond even my reckoning. Realize the deception, and despair if thou must.”

A note rang in Oleg’s mind. An orchestral cue. A chant. A tide of drums and jaunty flute. Music borne not of instruments- none that existed in Oleg’s memory. They sang in coils of golden thread, burst in sparks behind his eyes. He did not understand what dwelled in the Omen’s heart, and yet he did. He fell to his knees without directing his body to do so. He blinked tears from his eyes. The Omen stared down at him, mercilessly. By the Erdtree, the Grace that gleamed abundantly in that iris.

He had led Oleg to a font of power and forced him to witness its fathomlessness. There was something of the fabric of the world stitched into his being. A splinter of God pierced into his organs. Oleg buckled in its radiance.

Then it retreated. It was called back. It sank into the abyssal depths that must exist in an accursed body. And Oleg was left with his nails dug into gray skin and white fur.

“Speak,” the Omen ordered. His hold on Oleg did not relent. His hand was clamped to the Omen’s heart.

“I dare not name it.”

“What dost thou fear?”

Oleg laughed, wheezed. “Appearing foolish, my Lord. Because I swear I felt the Divine. Beastie… are you a Shardbearer?”

He snarled at the address. He threw Oleg’s hand away. “Aye.”

“Then I am in the presence of a Demigod.”

“Perhaps I killed a Demigod and pillaged its holy artifact.”

Oleg shook his head. This was a test. He was certain of that, despite his reeling. “No. No. I do not believe that.”

He managed to kneel properly, to quell his shivering. To brush against Grace manifested had not drained him of his vitality nor harmed him. But it had stamped a claim upon his soul. It promised nothing. Not commendation nor salvation nor love. There was not one iota of him that would refuse it. Oleg took one of his swords and stabbed it into the rocky soil.

“I am yours,” he swore. To his harrowed reflection in the silver blade, to his newfound Lord.

When the Omen did not respond, he glanced up. The Omen’s eye fixated upon his. A glare so composed of embers could yet be so cold. Oleg bit his cheek. In his addled eagerness he had pledged to the messenger.

“Very well. When I come to thee as this-,” that gorgeous voice muttered past thin, dry lips. “I am Margit.”

Oleg nodded. His mind processed the words competently. Though, his eyes wandered about Margit’s form: the irregularly sprouting horns that congregated on the right side of his head, the heavy coating of white hair visible just beneath an exposed collarbone. His unfocused gaze snagged on the lone amber eye and stilled at last. Margit’s chin tilted up, and he looked down his nose at Oleg. Tolerating with simmering pride the banished knight’s appraisal.

“Aye. Margit,” Oleg rasped.

“And should I come to thee bearing this visage-”

As he spoke, Margit brought a delicate-seeming diadem to his head. Bowing slightly in a way that reminded Oleg of anointment. His form shimmered, changed. And in few scarce seconds, a strange man had taken his place. Blonde, golden-eyed, and dressed in drab linen rags.

And from thin, dry lips he concluded, “Thou shalt call me Morgott.”

“Morgott…”

“Aye.”

He could have swooned. So, he’d been capering, blood-soaked, with Leyndell’s Lord. “Why come to me in a Graceless shape-?”

“Because, Sellsword. Bannerless Wretch. The Graceless shape is mine. Understandest thou whom beseeches thee. A scion of the Golden Lineage, however decrepit the branch, commandeth thy fealty.”

The Omen’s voice was no less fierce coming from human lips.

“What would you have me do?”

Notes:

Shock of all shocks, Oleg is let in on the secret at the outset. Why Morgott would give up the game so readily will be revealed next chapter >:3

I also semi-apologize for the creep in chapter numbers. There are simply too many characters to delve into and too much plot. It will 100% be under 40 chapters, however. i will hold myself to that.

Chapter 6: Perfumer

Notes:

I hope the formatting for this chapter makes sense! The story flip flops between formative memories Morgott has involving his Councilor and the present-day scenes. The parts with Miquella and the bath all happened shortly after Morgott fled the Shunning Grounds.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The woman’s name was Arteya. She was a healer. An incantation seal clinked delicately on her belt against an array of corked and empty bottles. She wore the apron and white garb of a healer- such styles still the fashion of the profession after all these centuries. But she was also a scholar to rival Raya Lucaria’s lot. She had declared as much in her smug introduction.

She put on her gloves slowly. Morgott had trouble naming the intent- the emotion- behind the action. Her body held not an inkling of trepidation. She was not infirm. Morgott was sure he knew what illness smelled like, and she carried only the scents of soil and nose-searing cleanliness. Herbal freshness akin to the sweetness of the Altus pastures. So why did this woman tarry?

Morgott looked past her to the huddle of people on the opposite side of the tent. Aprons and masks hid their forms from him. They brimmed with the fear the older woman lacked.

His suspicions were confirmed when she laid her hands upon him without seeking his permission. Her fingers dug over his hip and tail. They trailed up his lower back and brushed his elbow. The probing was not cruel, but it did not serve to benefit him in any way. It was a performance. An act meant to enthrall her audience of fellows and students. It was meant to make them gasp and squirm as parasites leapt from his skin. It was meant to draw shivers of admiration as she bore the rattle and creak of his bonds every time he moved in response.

Morgott understood well the unspoken tells of the body.

This woman said, I am brave. I am vital, necessary, important. Because I can touch the Omen and ye will not.

“Where is my brother?”

His voice, disused and tired, managed a croaky rasp. But even the Healer flinched, and he allowed himself some satisfaction from that.

Mohg had been obliging when the people of the gilded, walled city had come to them with flashing swords and spears. He had been compliant when the names of Miquella and Malenia and their own Queen Mother had been invoked. Same as Morgott. But as little courtesy as Omen were owed, Mohg was always offered less. The curse had entirely stripped him of humanity as far as anyone was concerned. No matter how meek his behavior.

“Shall I send for-” a peer started timidly.

“No.”

Despite the age evident in her lined face, the woman moved with precise grace. Morgott had not known he’d been cut until his body told him in the language of pain. It was a small sting, for the cut was shallow, not enough to evoke a terrible reaction from him.

Still, he winced. He kept his teeth from baring; he suppressed a growl. But his fur all along his spine and tail went erect with displeasure of its own accord. Now the audience was truly harrowed. For the blood of the Omen was the carrier of its curse. And the line on his hand oozed freely with it.

She tilted his hand, molded his fingers and palm into a pitcher. All the while the audience shuddered with awe as she did so without smearing her spotless gloves with his curse. Morgott toyed with the idea of twitching just so. He’d never stain the skin of a Leyndell noble. But he had an unbecoming desire to sacrifice something for this indignity.

But the retribution for his pettiness would have cost him more than an incinerated glove.

Morgott was directed to hold his finger over an open bottle. His blood dripped from the tip of his claw into the glass vessel. As his curse was gathered for some unfathomable purpose, a page darted into the tent. He panted, and crisp parchment crinkled in his too-firm grip.

The Healer doffed her gloves before taking the parchment from the young man. He bowed as she groused, “What is this?”

“T-the-”

Morgott averted his gaze as the page glanced in his direction.

Lady Arteya broke the parchment’s seal and read the message herself. Her scowl deepened. Morgott’s hand itched for the cut. The bottle was nearly full.

With a weary sigh, the Healer dismissed the page. “Prepare the wagon carriage,” she called out. Dry, sardonic. “The Lord wishes to see his brother.”

The aforementioned carriage was in fact an immense, wheeled box of steel. Windowless and dark. Morgott’s hand had not been bandaged, and he occupied himself with licking the wound until the bleeding stopped. When that sparse distraction was spent, he simply stared forward and felt cool iron leach his warmth. On the bare floor of slatted planks and nails, every bump and jostle sent pangs in his hip bones. He could discern the minute incline of ascension. He was blind and deaf to all other stimuli.

Until the discomfort of movement tapered to an unnerving stillness. Until the door to his mobile cell opened, and he was made to flinch away from daylight.

No, not daylight.

It was the Erdtree, the foundation and terminus of Grace. The dwelling of its progenitor. Its brilliance stung Morgott’s eye, spawned fetal tears. He didn’t notice the scores of knights that flanked the carriage’s exit. The crossbows loaded with bolts. The swords drawn from their scabbards.

“Come, Omen. The Lord Miq-”

“I am here, Head Perfumer,” a new voice proclaimed.

Morgott’s wet eye adjusted. And he beheld the brother he had never met. The one he had not cared to meet. Because Godwyn was dead and Mohg had been torn from his side.

Morgott had collected the surface’s whispers as covetously as adrift Erdleaves. Over the centuries he’d accumulated enough to construct a passable history of the world he’d been barred from knowing. The approaching boy was not-quite Carian stock- a son of Marika and her second husband, Radagon. Though he looked almost exactly as Godwyn had in childhood. Waist length hair of spun gold was braided away from his face. He was a sylvan child with thin arms and cherubic cheeks. Utterly disarming in appearance. Yet the escort of knights bowed in reverence. Because Morgott also knew that Miquella was no bairn.

He was cursed. Same as his Empyrean twin. Same as Morgott and his twin. Yet here Miquella stood, presumed heir to the most magnificent country in the Lands Between. And here crouched Morgott, heir only to squalor and scorn.

Miquella scanned his half-brother, his easy smile contrasted the sharp, raptor’s intelligence in his gaze. There was a pulse in Morgott’s chest- a thrumming cadence divorced entirely from his heartbeat. A sickeningly divine chime that reached across the searing Erdlight and met something equally intangible in the other Demigod. Morgott stiffened in the shadowed threshold of the carriage. Readied himself for the bite of whips and worse.

“Thy Rune ringeth a handsome song, Brother,” the Empyrean said kindly.

“My Lord-" the Head Perfumer balked.

“Each Demigod was granted a Great Rune, Arteya. Without exception.” Then to Morgott he ordered, gently and sweetly, “Walk with me.”

Morgott had been afflicted with boyhood himself the last time he’d been welcome in Leyndell’s hallowed streets. But he still recognized the path to the Throne. His Lord Father’s seat. Then Radagon’s. Morgott masked his aching eye with a hand. To block out the light… and to ease himself into the melding of present and memory. The march of the knights nearly smothered Miquella’s voice when he spoke:

“I wish to propose an alliance. Though I understand thou hast little reason to place faith in me. I would see my brothers safe in the Capital’s walls. Bound merely by the chain of a common and noble goal.”

Morgott swallowed thickly. “Mohg?”

“He is our brother too, is he not?”

Another beaming smile had him retreating behind his hand again. He was not fit for such glory. Not adapted.

“Aye,” he said reluctantly. Because his head throbbed, and he was uncertain what path his refusal would lead him down. Miquella was a fox in a rabbit’s mold. He would not have allowed two shards of the Elden Ring to traipse back into the Altus wilderness unchecked. Morgott was aware of the bristling platoon behind him- of the swords at his back.

“Most excellent!”

Miquella reached out, as if to shake his hand. Beckoned with a twitch of his fingers. Morgott numbly reached forward-

“The Omen is infested,” Arteya shouted. She spoke with an urgency in her warning that had Morgott pulling away rather than Miquella.

His tail curled around his legs. Even he could see the fleas crawling through his dense silver-gray fur. Jittering specks leapt onto the stone floor. A wave of phantom itching prickled his scalp and spine. His fur stood on end.

The Lord’s hand remained extended. Inviting. Morgott fisted the frayed edges of his cloak to keep himself from scratching. His blood was proof of his lineage- as was the song that hummed inaudible in the narrow space between himself and his half-brother. But he was a creature that brought vermin to the home of divine vessels made flesh. Filthy. Cursed.

“That can be easily remedied, Lady,” Miquella said tersely. His hand fell limply to his side at last.

Past the Empyrean’s shoulder, the throne of his father sat empty save for the Erdtree’s shedding. Tiny petals skittered across the carved wood and settled in Morgott’s hair.

All his life he’d yearned to see it again. His birthright, once, for however short of time it had been. Now, he banished that childish dream. He was too misshapen. He was too unclean. His skin crawled from more than the biting of fleas.

“Welcome home, brother mine,” Miquella murmured.

—------------------------------------------------

“Thou’rt to play the brigand,” Morgott said. “‘Tis a role not dissimilar to sellsword. I have high hopes for thee.”

The horse snorted into Oleg’s cloak. Morgott had chosen it from a Leyndell line that had been originally bred for Omen hunts. For its proximity to Margit did not alarm it in the slightest.

“I don't need any reminders, Beastie.”

Morgott did not rise to the provocation of the address. It was just as well the sellsword would perish shortly. He had no desire to defend his pride against a man he had condemned to death.

The armored carriage was an ambulatory tomb. A diminutive cousin to the wandering mausoleums. Twenty horses lashed together might have been able to pull such a behemoth. So instead, trolls were used. Noble creatures, they had fought for the Erdtree’s honor with Lord Godfrey on the flame-infested Mountaintops of the Giants. In the ensuing peace, they served the Order in humbler strata.

The carriage trundled north. Groaned over wet cobbles and scored furrows in the grass. The rain-softened ground and the undeveloped road would delay their journey. The belly of the iron beast was filled with invaluable herbs and supplies- and the swallowed fangs of the men and women conscripted to protect the cargo. The trolls were reliable, but they were slow. This caravan was yet two weeks out from the Capital at its current pace.

“Make haste, then.”

Morgott bore witness. It was the least he could do. His fur was methodically soaked by a drizzly mist that dared leave the Lakes to moisten the Plateau above it. He did not bother with prayer. Not for this. He would not pretend to the Greater Will that he was sorry. There was a reason he had coerced a banished knight for the act. An Omen’s pleading would not absolve the sort of man that found himself a dishonored, purposeless sellsword.

The knight’s- Oleg’s- steed was shrouded in black. The musky tatters of curtains obscured rider and horse alike.

This road to the Dectus lift was infamously perilous. Gelmir’s foothills granted refuge to brigands and bandits who could descend upon a singular carriage without warning or effort. It was much safer to take the flat and paved road from the Capital gates to the Lift. But Healer Arteya’s guild operated a laboratory in a nearby crumbling ruin. Miranda blooms could not be farmed within the Capital’s bounds, after all. The plains, watered with Liurnian showers- made for an ideal place to grow various herbs and medicinal plants. The guild could experiment with Arteria cultivation in a more natural environment. Head Perfumer Arteya could numb the nerves of her Omenkillers- could castrate their warm hearts- far from Leyndell’s ears and eyes. Since Rollo had taken up his cleavers, such initiations were completed in those ruins. Not because there was shame in it, but because holy transformations were undertaken in seclusion.

The trolls continued their numb march, oblivious to the swift figure racing across the hilly plain to intercept them. Morgott settled in the shaded tree line, but he could not make himself relax. One of the carriage’s attendants called out in alarm. The wind snatched his voice and threw the jumbled, muted syllables at Morgott’s muddied feet. Reminded him that he had not just damned a banished knight to die.

At this immense distance, the Leyndell knight was a gilt scarab. Oleg and the horse, in their billowing capes, bore a striking resemblance to a hunting crow. The beetle drew his sword. The corvid already brandished his, the empty scabbard bounced against the horse’s flank. The knight thrust his blade to the ashen sky, and sparks licked down the steel as though it had been fashioned from a dragon’s tooth. The bandit’s cowl whipped around Oleg’s face and shoulders. The grass behind him was flattened by more than the pounding of hooves. A silvery cyclone wreathed his sword. And Morgott indulged in a quiet grunt of interest.

Then both knights unleashed lightning and wind at the other.

Thunder reverberated up the hill when the gray gust met golden lightning. For a moment, the clouds themselves shook and a proper rain pelted the road. As if the land itself had been fooled, had mistaken the manipulation of man for nature’s beckoning.

The lightning struck earth and pocked it. Loose clods showered the flank of the black horse. The Leyndell knight was thrown, uprooted. Thunder drowned the sound of their collapse onto the cobbles. It disguised the hideous crunch of their breastplate- their bones and organs- being crushed beneath the carriage’s wheel.

A second guard nocked an arrow on their bow. But the horse and its bandit were too quick. A flash of silver and rippling silk saw a troll’s heel sliced. The tendon curled; the muscles cramped. A tidy spray of blood burst from its withered corpus down the horse’s side. The troll fell forward, roaring its agony, adding its voice to the pantomimed storm.

The loosed arrow missed its mark, and the knight’s inaccuracy earned them their demise. Another tempestuous gust knocked the knight to the ground- clear of the wheels. As the carriage rolled to a lethargic stop, the Leyndell knight was skewered. Oleg paused to slit their throat for good measure as the carriage door opened.

A score of guards emerged. Like Siofra’s monstrous ants come to sniff the pheromones of their fallen comrades. The dreary shroud of clouds made dull their gilded armaments. Shields, swords, and crossbows were bared. And the banished knight watched them gather.

A stunning portrait it would have made, a figure of Death on his dread steed stared down the bristling guard impassively. As though it had been dragged from Morgott’s own nightmares. Leyndell’s unassuming doom. The troll’s wail tapered to an enduring whine. Pain was too familiar for it to tolerate its own cries.

Thus, Morgott considered his options. His cleaver was heavy on his lap. The pad of his thumb idly traced the engraved malediction. If the banished knight faltered, would it benefit him more to come to his aid or to let him fall? Was it wisest to ensure his mission was seen to its conclusion or smothered in its proverbial crib?

He was ruminating, still, when the black rider met the Capital's forces. Oleg revealed a second sword from the amorphous cloak, and all around him the Plateau’s sodden grasses were sheared by ferocious gales. The bright ring of clashing steel crackled up the hill and down Morgott’s spine. He gripped the hilt of his cleaver until the bones of his knuckles creaked. He set his other palm against the weapon’s wicked tip. He made a notch for every death he counted.

Two for the guards that had perished first. Another for the page that fumbled his crossbow and found his collar smashed by a hefty swipe. Another for the soldier disarmed by a summoned gale and run through. Another for the knight trampled beneath the horse. And so on and so on until Morgott’s hand trembled. Until his tendons burned with mounting pains and his skin tingled from the heat of his blood. Until, impossibly, there was no more Leyndell man or woman left alive.

Morgott stood as Oleg dismounted and vanished inside the fortress of the carriage. The drizzle had become proper rain. Morgott’s hair stuck to his horns and neck and face. He raised a brow as a burst of flame belched from the yawning maw of the carriage. As embers of residue were extinguished in the grass. Then the graveyard quiet was pierced with a screaming fury.

“Unhand me, gnave!”

Oleg and Head Perfumer Arteya tumbled from the carriage. A dagger gleaming with an oily coat of poison was clutched in her hand. Oleg had ensnared both of her wrists to keep her from plunging the blade into his flesh. They turned in their one-sided struggle, macabre dancers. Until Oleg pried the dagger from Arteya’s hands and stabbed it into her side. The leathers of her apron were meager protection. Shrieking, she shoved against Oleg’s chest. He released her, and she fell into the grass.

Oleg nodded at Margit as he approached. “There you are. The Perfumer captured, all others dead.”

“The knife was poisoned. Thou hast killed her anyway,” Morgott growled.

“Ah, damn it.”

Lady Arteya’s eyes were mead-hued moons. Crimson bloomed on the white of her uniform. She paled in Morgott’s shadow. Quivering lips formed the uncertain shapes of syllables, but only whimpers eked past the weight of her tongue.

“There will be time enough to do what I must,” Morgott assured his sellsword. His eye never left Arteya’s. “The Lady was never meant to survive this day.”

Leyndell’s Head Perfumer wept. Great, watery eyes alighted upon his bloodied hand. In her despair speech found coherency. “Miquella! Lord Miquella! Did we not warn you? Why did you abandon us to this demon?”

Indeed, Morgott knew his Council had beseeched their true Lord. He had not impeded the attempt. But weeks had passed. Miquella’s silence was a message of its own. Morgott was already incurious about what occupied Miquella in his favored city in the north. Margit cared even less.

“Sellsword-”

“Please, be merciful. Were you not treated with more Grace than you were entitled to?”

Morgott found a measure of mercy. He knelt, and grasped Arteya’s jaw with his clean, unblemished hand. He would not paint her- defile her- with the smears of his curse. He ignored the Perfumer's question, and looked to his knight.

“Dost thou see this here?”

Morgott found it challenging to point at something so small with fingers as blunt and as large as his. The banished knight leaned close, brushing auburn hair from his forehead as he did so. He squinted to peer into the woman’s mouth- jaw pressed open in Morgott’s uncompromising grip. The knight did not swoon at the captive’s tears. His expression afforded no sympathy as drool and incoherent, moaned pleading rolled from her mouth.

“That silvery splinter?”

“Aye, that.”

Morgott’s hand left the woman’s mouth and settled loosely around the throat instead. He asked, “What is my name?”

“M-Mar-”

“Prithee, my true name.”

But she could not. The tears fell harder, because she knew she could not. There was no harm, no punishment for the attempt. The act of speaking the name ‘Morgott’ was simply an impossibility.

“What is this?” Oleg inquired with genuine curiosity- untainted with judgment or disgust.

“‘Tis a needle made from the fibers of one of Lord Miquella’s creations. Each member of Leyndell’s court that knows I am Omen hath had their tongues bewitched by the Empyrean himself. So that none may betray the one that he named Steward in his stead.”

“How many-?”

 

“Five, now.”

The Altus Plateau was famous for its picturesque fields. For its shaded forests resplendent in the ever-twilight that occurred in the Erdtree’s proximity. The Healer Arteya’s carriage was half-swallowed in a sea of grass. Another bloated corpse amongst several other broken and overturned carriages. The literal bodies of her guards could be seen by the indents they made in the foliage. There was static in Morgott’s fur as if the vestiges of lightning within the cold rain tried to culminate into a proper storm. Or perhaps it was merely the rusty scent of blood that made the hair on his nape stand on end.

Lady Arteya was fading. The fear and scorn in her eyes dulled to a listless, distant stare. Her irises were a muggy, humid dusk. The sorrowful end of a Graceborn life. Her breath puffed softly against Morgott’s wrist. Blood soaked her garb and the ground. She shivered, as though her corpus meant to gently shake her soul loose.

“I will haunt you, Omen,” she hissed as her lids drooped.

“Thou wilt not,” Morgott asserted in a grumbled whisper. “Thou’rt destined for the roots and rebirth.”

“I will become a wraith instead. I would see you torn apart, first.”

“A fine waste of thy Grace.”

Then she was gone. Her eyes rolled in their sockets and her jaw became limp in his palm. Gingerly, he plucked out Miquella’s splinter. It was a delicate thing in Oleg’s leaden silence.

“What did she do?”

“Hmm?”

In truth, this was the question he had been waiting for. So many people in this Land could be convinced of the necessity of depravity so long as a lovely excuse could be spun and laid at their feet. There were reasons Morgott had been bound in excrement and darkness as a child on the orders of his Goddess mother. There were reasons his Empyrean brother had tolerated, even welcomed, his presence beneath the Erdtree’s boughs. There always had to be a reason.

“Nothing, knight.”

“Nothing?”

“In comparison to ours, her soul is surely sublime. She was a great healer. Her loss is a devastation.”

Oleg blinked at him. His dirt-smudged face was expectedly shocked. But he offered no protest, thus Morgott pressed onward. It would be unwise to linger.

“Thy payment is threefold,” Morgott said. “The first is duty.”

“Only a man of my profession would conceive of more work as a reward.”

Morgott sniffed, “All who bear these splinters I condemn to death. For the sake of the Capital and the Erdtree. Understand me, Knight. ‘Tis not for my sake that they shall die.”

Oleg’s jaw set. He nodded, “The second part, then?”

“Runes, of course. Compensation as thou preferest.”

“Aye, and the third?”

Morgott held out the silver splinter. “Do not squirm,” he commanded.

Amber brows knit over his squinted eyes. “I… don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter?”

“No. I would make thee my confidant, Sellsword,” Morgott vowed. “Or I shall count thee among thy dead.”

—------------------------------------------------

The Lady Arteya scrubbed Morgott down to stripped nerves. The gritty powders she massaged into his sore-pitted, scratched skin seeped into his viscera as though to marinate him in little pains. His hide was salted with caustic compounds, and he felt the parasites on him flee the singeing odors.

“You are novel, I will admit.”

The gloves she wore stopped just below her shoulder. The pretense of her gloating bravery had disappeared. The whole of her body was guarded with leather; only her flinty eyes remained exposed. Still, she was the sole person courageous enough to lay gloved hands upon him.

They were alone, now, in an ostentatious bathhouse. The grime of him sluiced onto the tiled floor in filthy splashes. He watched it dribble into a grated drain. As he prickled with more than chemical irritation, he wondered how much of it would spill into the Shunning Grounds. It would be drunk, because dirt and flea corpses and soap and burning powder would be better to drink than sewage. It would be used to clean wounds. To bathe a bairn.

“Your ghastly twin even more so.”

Morgott shifted in the basin. Water sloshed over its rim and splatted obscenely upon the tile. Arteya’s blunt nails dug into the fur of his arm. “Do not move, I said.” Each word spat in a venomous staccato. So that the command was chiseled into his mind. Of course, Morgott had not forgotten. There was no use explaining that to her.

“I shall delight in studying you both when Miquella comes to his senses. Our Lord is good and wise, but his naive compassion, I suspect, is a symptom of his affliction. He mourns for Godwyn, yearns for a brotherly surrogate. He will not find one in you. He will realize it in time.”

Morgott saw no reason to doubt her.

Perfumer Arteya drew away. Her gloves she exchanged for a clean set- chucking the soiled pair into a smoldering brazier. From her belt she unsheathed a dagger.

“Did you know him, Omen, Godwyn the Golden?”

The blade glinted in the fire. Morgott did not acknowledge the question. His thoughts were with Mohg.

“Come now, speak. Or did the sewers sap all of your shallow wit?”

The Lady grabbed greedy handfuls of his hair and began to hack at the strands. Shearing it away to the scalp in some places. She was careful with the blade. A surgeon would be envious of her precision and haste. Morgott’s mats fell in gray hanks. Then more. The knife scraped against the ridges of his horns. And the sound pinned his breath to his ribs despite the lack of true sensation. Tepid air swilled in his lungs as Arteya took more and more. More than was needed- more than she was owed. Silver hairs floated forlornly in the cloudy bath water. She nicked his scalp. Thick blood beaded in one languid, sweltering drop.

“It’s a start,” she said blandly. “Let the vermin find purchase now.”

She circled the basin one more time. As Morgott sat stiffly in his sloughed-off filth.

“Hmm,” she marveled. “The Queen's blood serves you well. You nearly appear human.”

“Nearly,” Morgott agreed in a muted rasp.

The Head Perfumer chuckled, and the tone rang in Morgott’s ears.

—------------------------------------------------

The Steward of Leyndell- in a beast’s form- smashed the Perfumer’s skull. He squeezed it to pulp, and threw the body behind one of the carriage’s wheels.

She had been wrong about Miquella’s pity. His compassion had always been genuine.

She had overestimated herself. And underestimated him.

He recited no eulogy. She would not have wanted it. Bereft of guilt, he began the long walk back to Leyndell. Oleg trod alongside, holding his jaw and wincing.

Notes:

This is one of my favorite chapters of the whole fic so far. Morgott's isn't entirely honest with himself about his motivations, and I hope that comes through with these side-by-side moments in the chapter. The man is at his breaking point.

Chapter 7: Seventh

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Shattering of the Elden Ring had seen many dread things exhumed. Like worms chased to the surface by heavy rain, the Order’s mass grave of secrets had been laid bare. Each parcel of the wounded Vessel became another shovel of soil moved.

Morgott had been one of them. Mohg, another. Two grimy, shivering drops in the sewer’s torrential exodus. The swelling, overflowing flood of refuse.

Most of the people hadn’t known, then, about the prison beneath their feet. That Leyndell’s nobility commanded the fatal shearing of the common Curseborn whilst their own bairns were sequestered Below. Only the Perfumers and their knights had been allowed to mete out justice and mercy in accordance with the Order’s will.

If anyone ever cared to ask, Morgott would have blamed Mohg. He would have accused his brother of dragging him to the surface despite his righteous pleas. In truth, he remembered so little of those first days. His mind had not been capable of rendering anything beyond smeared impressions.

Screams. The static of lightning. The blinding corona of the Erdtree’s Grace. Pain. Fear.

Joy.

Morgott knew in his abyssal soul that it was just as likely that he had drawn Mohg to the surface. That he had invited their sin.

The first tactile memories of his release had been of blood and gorging. Of sun-warmed grass beneath his cracked and calloused feet. He and Mohg had instantly made a den out of a cave far from Leyndell’s boundaries. They had returned to the familiarity of subterranean darkness. At least this time, it had been their choice. There had been food and water and safety; there hadn’t been chains.

They had forsaken their meager treasures to the sewers in their haste: the books warped and stained by foul water, the quilted rags that had been their clothes, their scavenged weapons, their whittled trinkets. Morgott had carried into the day with him one measly article. It had been clamped in his fist during the initial flight from the Capital. But when he had laid in his lair at night, he unfurled his cramped hand, and watched the fragment of his broken fetter spark gold. The incantations inscribed in it had deadened significantly. The discomfort it projected onto him had been bearable. He had cradled it in the lightless cave. It had been comforting, sickening, and familiar.

There were precious few things Morgott could claim as his own. His title was loaned from Lord Miquella. His life, merely an allowance by God herself. The evanescence of his being trickled down to the most banal of objects. His palatial quarters were an amalgamation of extraneous furnishings. Fine pieces, compiled entirely without his input. They were luxuries he could do without easily if he were not a ruling noble and thus required to live as one. Even his weapon wasn’t his own. The cleaver could be taken from him if the spell etched upon it was spoken aloud.

Morgott owned six things. And one of them was the nauseating shard of his shackle.

The chunk he kept in an urn for years before Mohg discovered it.

It had been the impetus of their most recent- and final- argument. To Morgott, the fragment was a reminder of his fortune. Marika had freed him. So that he might serve the realm. Mohg had slapped it from his hand. Had called him a fool. Had grabbed his arms with an ugly urgency and bid him recall who had discarded them both in the first place. Had asked him: “Will you truly pledge yourself to such a cause?

The shackle remained in the urn. Mohg had fled Leyndell, and hadn’t spoken to his brother since. It had been decades.

The second of Morgott’s possessions had, admittedly, been stolen. He had pillaged it from the empty wing of Leyndell’s royal palace. The past half-century had seen a slow but steady migration of the Lineage’s echelon. The court condensed inward- like the sky’s myriad of stars- after the death of Godwyn and the disappearance of Marika and her consort. As a glacier receded over earth, the nobles closest to God melted away from that particular wing and left relics.

The one Morgott had seized had been abandoned- same as everything else. But it still hadn’t been his to take as Miquella’s Curseborn ward. It hadn’t been his right to stand in once-hallowed rooms. Thus, he considered the trinket stolen. It was a fetish carved into the likeness of an Omen bairn.

A layer of dust had filled every flaw, groove, and nick. Leaving the linen swaddling cloth grayed- as well as the child’s complexion. Its placid face was overwhelmed with horns. Twisted bone erupted from its tiny body. It was a rather exaggerated caricature, as if the carver had not really seen an Omen infant before. Horns of that number and quality would have been impossible. But he’d noticed the tail, then. The misshapen lump the size of the bairn’s body, capped with rose-like spirals surrounding a ruddy, forked horn.

He should have destroyed it.

Instead, he’d traced a thumb over the miniscule fetish. He had made similar charms for grieving Omen. The custom was a pantomime of comfort offered to Graceborn mothers and fathers, and the tradition- as all expressions of grief did- had found its way Below. He had never wondered if one had been made to resemble him.

Surely it hadn’t been Godfrey’s. The First Elden Lord had been divested of his Grace and sent to far-off lands before Omen were named as such and cast into the Shunning Grounds.

Surely it hadn’t been Godwyn’s. He had been a babe when his elder brothers were exiled.

Surely it hadn’t been Queen Marika’s. Surely…

Who then? Who had made it? Who had kept it? Who had left it in a room to be consumed by neglect?

Morgott would never receive answers to such questions. So he satisfied himself by snatching the bairn. It sat in his urn. Beside the shackle. Those two treasures reminded him that he was beyond salvage, that he had been mourned despite that truth.

The next three of Morgott’s possessions were gifts. From his mother. From his brother. And from his oblivious people.

From Queen Marika he’d received an order. A boon, a curse. He had been sleeping beneath the open sky, covered in blood, full of meat, and dressed in fur, sores, and scars. He had heard her voice and felt her touch. His mother, who had not acknowledged him for more than five hundred years, placed Grace upon his eyes like stones. Had pierced his heart with divinity. Had combed blessed gold into his fur and ragged hair. Had made him a Shardbearer with his twin.

When tales of a ferocious pair of Omen stalking the Altus had eventually earned the Capital’s attention, that Rune had earned Lord Miquella’s goodwill. Morgott and Mohg had been prisoners again, for a time. Their cells had been plush, their meals sublime. But they waited for the day their Empyrean kin would bore of keeping them and simply rescue the Runes from their blood. It had been a shock when Miquella instead granted them both Veils. Had given them the key to true freedom.

Morgott’s fourth possession was the illusion of humanity with which to house his Grace. The mask with which he could bear a noble title. He had spent days trapped by his reflection and the discordance between the deep-seated curse in his soul and the enchantment upon his flesh. He had quailed at the echoes of Lord Godfrey in his visage. He had wandered in a life long lost to circumstance- one where he had been born as a golden Lord.

Mohg had hated his Veil. But Morgott always carried his. Just as he did his Rune.

The final gift- his fifth possession- had been given when Miquella named him Steward of Leyndell. The Order’s artificers, with gentle smiles and sorrowful eyes, had presented their new Lord with torches. The metalwork had been exquisite. Gold veins warmed the spiraled steel. A tendril root of the Erdtree itself had been set into the handles. Holy magic whispered in soft reverberations. And the Steward had been told that its illumination would reveal illusions and banish shadows for assassins to hide in. Thick tears had marked the face of the artificer, and he’d told Morgott that its glow would shield him from Godwyn’s fate.

He had not wanted the torch. It evoked the tiny bairn that had once been his brother. It evoked his corpse. It reminded Morgott that, however gingerly, he was to follow in the footsteps of Godwyn, Godfrey, and Marika. Because he was a scion of the Golden Lineage. The people did not know him, but they loved him. He was an unwitting bastion for their hopes.

Morgott was not certain he could love them in kind. But he could try. For Leyndell and the Erdtree. All but one torch had been relinquished to the Tree Sentinels. His was displayed in his quarters unlit. The light of the Erdtree was humbling enough.

The last of his possessions had been his own invention. A name. With it, he’d made a wedge to pry apart his discordant halves: the Graceborn Demigod and the fell Omen. All of his Grace he could perfectly preserve in the Steward. All of his wretchedness could crystalize in Margit. Margit- a new title for the beast of sin’s burdens. Meanwhile Morgott was reinvented. Margit was molded from the Shunning Grounds. Morgott had been taken by Lord Godfrey as a bairn to the Badlands. Margit was a servant of Leyndell. Morgott was a beloved child returned by Marika’s restored Grace.

The shackle, the fetish, the Rune, the Veil, the torch, and the lie. For fifty years Morgott and Margit had shared this collection.

Now, Morgott’s seventh possession sat across from him. If an Omen could claim a man as Graceborn nobles took servants or slaves. No other creature had been made to swear to him before. Not directly. He’d set before all others Leyndell or the Erdtree or the Order or Miquella, instead. Eclipsed himself with a worthier icon.

Morgott spent a good deal of the carriage ride appraising his new asset. In the gold of twilight, Oleg’s hair was the color of fox fur. His eyes of Grace-touched hazel did little to dispel the vulpine illusion. Nor did the slight point of his ears or the silver- like whiskers- in his week-old beard.

In the rare instances Oleg looked at his liege lord, he stared through him. He saw him as his Council did: a creature disguised. Morgott supposed he should have made an effort to keep his aliases separate. He could not bear the recognition. But he supposed that was why he had been honest with his knight. The truth would also keep the man resentful. Morgott would watch hatred mount in him as he was forced to do a monster’s bidding. Then, when the bloody deed was done, it would be easy for Morgott to-

“Will you kill me, Lord, when I have slain your enemies for you?”

The sellsword’s voice was issued as a throaty rasp. As if it had been made to crawl from hibernation in his throat.

He was resilient, if anything, Morgott assessed. When the Lord had been Margit, the banished knight had shown no fear. They’d traveled together to the Dectus Lift, where, in an intricate and wicked deception, the Steward of Leyndell shed Margit’s form. Everything had been accomplished a day ahead of schedule, so that when the royal carriage arrived to bear Lord Morgott homeward, its escort would not suspect that the Demigod had not, in fact, been trawling the Plateau plotting murder rather than briefly visiting Stormveil to recruit himself a new guard. The knight had gone moodily silent, then. His swagger slaughtered the moment Margit was Veiled.

“You said that all who-" Oleg’s jaw worried on nothing, chewed words that could never be spoken. It hardly looked like magic at all; he seemed to have lost his train of thought. “That all would die,” he concluded vaguely. “I am among them. Those that truly know.”

“No. I will not,” Morgott replied.

He could not guarantee it, of course.

Oleg turned toward the carriage window. With one finger he parted the gauzy drapes and watched the Capital pass them by. The journey was laborious and winding from the gates to the palace, as the horses needed to avoid Leyndell’s many, many stairs.

The Erdtree’s brilliance set Oleg’s hair aflame.

A shower of sunflower petals slanted across the window like featherlight rain. The royal carriage had been recognized. The people- Morgott’s people- tossed them forth so that the carriage appeared to shed Grace itself. His name… they chanted it. So many smiling faces slipped by in indistinct flashes.

“Close that curtain,” Morgott hissed. “The fewer that know thy face, the better.”

Oleg sat back. The carriage’s interior was dimmed once more. But upon the accented backdrop of polished gold, Morgott was ensnared by his own reflection. The ghost of the Veil’s deception. He absorbed the waves of his straw-blonde hair. The depths of his Lordly scowl. The hardness that the realm had been told came from adversity in the Badlands rather than from imprisonment in a fetid sewer.

The face that would become King.

“Listen well, Sellsword,” Morgott said softly. He watched his voice pass from fair lips. “Thou must be learned in my court's ways. In their habits and strengths and flaws if thou’rt to kill them.”

Notes:

The torch I refer to is a real item in the game. The sentry's torch. It's item description reads: Torch Given to protectors of the Erdtree. Its flames are bestowed with a special incantation which allows the bearer to see assassins cloaked in veils. Furnished on behalf of the Erdtree and the Grace-Given Lord such that a Night of Black Knives will never come again.

I just find that very interesting! And heartbreaking for a Veiled!Morgott. It was given to him to protect him- and it could just as well betray him.

Chapter 8: Poison

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Black was still a funerary color in Leyndell, but it was falling out of style. Black reminded people of deathblight- those mysterious growths that had begun to crop up around the Altus and beyond. That organism which could do more than kill. People instead wore browns and golds- whatever hues reminded them of the Erdtree and the solace within its incorruptible roots- when mourning.

Morgott had dressed himself appropriately. He was adorned in drab tones reminiscent of dark wood. His sleeves and collar were embroidered with tangled roots and gilded leaves.

He was a stunning creature, Oleg decided, even in this pantomimed grief.

Leyndell’s Lord had a face that begged to be carved into marble. The somber statues that stood sentinel over the Capital were surely envious of the Morgott’s regal condescension. Certainly, they beheld his expression- equal parts morose and stern- and prayed the living would not see fit to memorialize his visage. For it would outdo them all.

He had the appearance of a man in early middle age. The lines at his eyes and mouth were severe. His permanent scowl convinced Oleg- who, truthfully, required no further convincing- that the Steward was not to be trifled with. His beauty was a rugged, warrior’s beauty. Oleg had been a child when Godwyn was slain so many aimless decades ago, but he’d seen portraits of the fair Demigod. And in comparison, the jewel of the Golden Lineage- the champion of the Dragon War- appeared sylvan.

Morgott’s shoulders were broad. His chest, deep. He did not cloak himself in the wealth of his station. A simple, tarnished ring advertised his identity as the Steward. His hair- though the brilliant gold shade passed to nearly all of Marika’s line- was shorn at his shoulders. It fell in thick waves, tucked behind one ear as he bent over a book. Like Margit, his right eye was closed, the brow slightly sagged. Though he read often, he appeared, sometimes, to strain with it. Likely on account of only having the one good eye.

Oleg’s jaw itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch. It was all phantom sensation, anyway. Weeks ago, when Margit had implanted Miquella’s splinter in his tongue, his fingers had left bruises along his knight’s jaw. His grip had been fierce despite Oleg’s compliance. The Omen had been mistrusting, as if he’d anticipated mutiny at any moment. Oleg hadn’t understood why. Not until he’d considered the roles Margit had cast them in. When Omen mingled with Graceborn, they were kept in bondage. They were slaves, beasts of burden. But Oleg had been made to swear to such a creature- to lower himself.

In any case, the bruises were long healed. Margit had vanished at the Dectus Lift and been scarce since. Oleg had been left with Lord Morgott, who was even more distant. He paid well, at least. Enough to stave off any of Oleg’s burgeoning regrets.

“Morgott.”

Obligingly the Lord sat up, blinking at the newcomer. Oleg bowed- as he had been instructed to- in acknowledgement of the woman in the doorway. She wore a mourning dress. The bodice was burnished gold, while the skirt and large, drooping sleeves were a plain black. A gauzy veil concealed her face, but she pulled it away as she remembered there was no need to wear it. The Head Perfumer’s funeral had concluded hours before.

Oleg studied her features. The woman had a highborn face. She was not terribly old, but she was aged by an unfortunate expression of self-seriousness. Prominent cheekbones sharpened an already steely face. She had blonde hair braided to her waist and eyes hued a murky, cool gray. The Grace in her irises was akin to sunlight streaming through ashen Limgrave clouds.

Lady Imopea, Oleg’s memory provided. The diplomat.

By Morgott’s telling, she claimed direct descendance from Godfrey himself. A pedigree she had no means of proving.

One would think my father sired a fifth of our population. Oleg recalled Morgott’s humorless criticism. If yellow hair is all that is needed to claim the Golden Lineage.

Oleg caught himself smiling, and he hoped the helm would conceal his mirth lest the Lady ask after it. Her eyes did flit to him, widening as she realized he was not merely a decorative suit of armor.

“A banished knight, Morgott?”

Just as quickly, the Lady’s gaze fled, and Oleg knew her consideration of him had utterly evaporated. He might as well have been soulless meat in a sterling casing. A woefully inedible sausage. Despite the dual swords sheathed at his hip, the noblewoman was comfortable speaking about him as though he were as sentient as a tasteless bit of furniture.

“Such knights hath been retainers of Stormveil for a generation, now,” Morgott replied blandly.

The Lady Imopea physically choked down a sneer. Though it showed on her face like skin on milk all the same. “Must Leyndell’s Steward follow Stormveil’s example?”

“Thou’rt ungenerous, Councilor. This man is not the first of his order to declare his blade for the Erdtree and the Capital. Though I confess, Godrick doth swear by their loyalty and prowess.

“Godrick,” Imopea managed to wheeze through a thin-lipped grimace. “Of course.”

The Steward was artful with deception. He had woven for Oleg excuses for his belonging without telling a single lie. Of course, Oleg had been explicitly ordered to profess origin from Stormveil should he be cornered and questioned. But the knight was impressed by his Lord’s bitter wit.

“Fret not, Imopea. He shall get on with the Dragon Cultists in our guard. Aye, Ser?” He looked to Oleg for confirmation with a wry twitch of his upper lip. His condescension was as devastating as it was Lordly.

As Oleg debated whether or not he was meant to actually affirm Morgott’s deadpan jest, Councilor Imopea sighed, aggrieved. “My fellows are not so patient as I. Nor are they so forgiving. Do be mindful, Steward, that two of our number hath passed in so short a time. And Arteya’s death was… so unexpected and vile…”

“Hmm.”

It was apparent that Oleg’s presence dammed the flow of conversation. He pressed his tongue against his teeth in sympathy as he watched the Lady’s words dissolve into empty breath. There had been weight to her warning beyond the surface-level scolding about poorly executed jokes. Like delicate frost over a silt-shrouded lake. But she was prevented from speaking plainly. Morgott spared her not, refused to offer her so much as bonemeal let alone the whole article. He stonewalled her. Oleg might have pitied her. Except he knew one day he’d be her death, and he couldn’t afford to nurture such sentiments.

“Come,” Imopea said at last. “Arteya is at peace, but alas, we must toil. The Council entire desireth a candidate for her succession.”

“What remains to be discussed? An elder of the Guild shall receive that honor.”

“I shall not abide this cruel humor, my Lord! Thou knowest… tis not so simple.”

Morgott rose, and the flickering fireplace cast forth his shadow like a ward. He towered over both Lady and knight. To Oleg, it belied belief that such a man would need a guard of mundane, mortal stock. Despite the deliberate slowness with which the Demigod had risen, Councilor Imopea took a cautionary step back. Her hands flew to her bosom, and her handsome face paled a fraction. As if she expected to be struck.

“Indeed,” Morgott intoned to the petrified woman. “'Tis why I shall leave ye to wring ye hands without mine interference.”

He strode to the study’s exit, brushing past the woman in a sweep of brown cloth. Oleg marched stoically in his wake. Before Morgott could escape entirely, Imopea found her voice. She marshaled her dropped jaw and bulging eyes.

“What?”

Morgott paused, framed by the archway and holy Erdlight. He possessed every bit the Omen’s cold gravity in the guise of a golden-haired Demigod.

“Choose well in mine absence. I have full faith in ye wisdom.” His voice rumbled with the timbre of sincerity. “When the appointed Perfumer is elevated by Lord Miquella’s decree, I shall relinquish to them all duties and titles. Until them, however-" he bowed graciously. “I shall see to the Guild myself.”

Oleg mimicked him. He was Morgott’s polite, sterling shade. The Lady’s bewilderment was ceaseless. She was a gaping, gawking ghost in her black attire. But when they were half-way down the corridor, she managed to feebly shout:

“At least dress the damned oathbreaker in Leyndell kit, Grace Given!”

—----------------------------------------------

Oleg was not made to wear the armor of a knight of Leyndell.

But he didn’t mind standing out in the Grace Given’s gilt retinue. He was a single, sore spot of silver that might as well have been rust on an otherwise unblemished blade. Oleg’s mind was rather stuck upon death, instead. He had just attended the funeral of a woman he had murdered, sure. But there was something about the glorious Capital that brought death to the forefront of his mind.

From Leyndell’s upper echelon, he could see how much of the lower tiers were dedicated to the dead. There were entire neighborhoods of graveyards. Those narrow barely-streets tread by mourners and those too destitute to live elsewhere. It was all so strangely decadent to Oleg. He was a man of the Order, he figured. He didn’t pray much, but to profess disbelief against an Eternal Queen was pure foolishness on several counts. Regardless, in Oleg’s experience, the Rune of Death might as well have been splintered and forged into every armament. And thus, any patch of soil made for a swell place to rest. The roots of the Erdtree extended to all reaches of the Lands Between. The spectacle of entombment seemed to be a spot of pride for Leyndell. Despite the fact that so many of them perished cozy and ancient in their wealth.

Oleg’s eyes flitted to the swords of the knights that marched with him. They slid, greasy, to Morgott’s hands. The Lord’s shape did nothing to soften them. Oleg pictured the Omen’s paw. The sinewy, scarred fist that could throw a horse and wield a cleaver as tall as he was. It was jarring to see the commoners orbiting his escort, that corona of reverence. With such pained expressions stretching taut their faces, it was as if they believed a delicate touch from those calamitous hands would cure their every ill.

Oleg was gripped with the sudden certainty that he was going to die within these walls. That after decades in exile, he would finally earn a permanent address in the Capital's dead districts.

He hadn’t even been allowed to tell Engvall farewell.

Morgott came to a verdant building. Flowers filled the sills and balconies. Threaded themselves around the columns of the upper floor. Vines climbed the brick as if to exalt the Erdtree personally. Herbs drooped on the threshold. Smoke curled betwixt the leaves. And the house felt as though it were a living, breathing creature. A few burners belched stronger plumes of incense upon the retinue’s greaves. Upon the shoulders of the people that wilted in the building’s doorways and windows.

The retinue made a wall with their armored bodies and shields. They separated the adoring citizenry from the ragged invalids peering from the shadows. The Lord of Leyndell was pinned in with the sick and destitute. The apothecary’s visitors were just as awed.

Oleg was not surprised that this bothered Morgott none. He did not fidget in discomfort as other nobles did- as if sharing space with Perfumers’ patients turned the very air to caustic poison. But neither was he simpering in compassion. The people in bandages- covered in sores, with ruby lips- gazed upon their prodigal monarch as if he was the second coming of Godwyn. As if a word uttered from his dispassionate lips would heal the world thrice over. Morgott didn’t even appear to notice them.

His singular eye swept unseeing across their beseeching faces to bore into Oleg.

“Ser, bringest thou the offerings inside.”

That was all Morgott said before he vanished into the herbalists’ House. Oleg kept his grumbling to himself as he went to the horse-drawn wagon- the sole vehicle of the procession- to unload two chests from its belly. Carefully, he carried each to the House’s entrance, though the second made him strain for its weight. That finished, he came to stand just behind and to the right of his Lord. He realized distantly that he had been the only knight in the retinue invited to join Morgott indoors.

Green, dappled light stained the aprons of the Perfumers. They filtered from the distillery, laboratory, and infirmary wings in a steady trickle. Drawn to the Demigod’s presence. Some sank to their knees. Others bent their heads. One man with trembling, skeletal hands reached for the Lord’s own. Morgott snatched it away, his eye a searing ember behind the soot of his mourner’s veil.

It was the first time he seemed to acknowledge anyone beyond the palace’s bounds. A hostile ripple marred his veneer of Lordly indifference. But it passed swiftly. His brow smoothed and his eye dulled from fiery cinder to mote of Grace.

“Away, man!” A stocky, matronly voice issued from an appropriately stocky, matronly vessel. Her gloved hands were discolored with powdery residues. Thus, she was considerate when she shooed the beggar away.

“You grace us with your presence, Lord. You are a dear sight in our sorrows. Forgive us if we show you more tears than smiles. Matron Arteya’s death rests heavy upon us all.” The woman’s voice warbled, and the dike of her emotions cracked upon speaking her fellow's name. “If a cruel fate could befall a woman as good as she, then what hope do any of us have?”

Morgott hummed in his throat, and Oleg found himself waiting in perverse anticipation of what he would say. The Steward replied, “Ye pain is shared in me. When I forsook Lord Godfrey at Marika’s beckoning, she was among the first of Leyndell’s people to greet me. Her noble hospitality shall remain with me for all my days. Find solace in the certainty that her soul travels through the Erdtree to rebirth.”

Gods, Oleg was sure he’d never know the Lord’s true feelings about the woman he’d killed. Or perhaps he was being sincere- which tickled the knight with an inkling of dread. The sort of person that could kill people they loved… Oleg had known such a person before. Memory encroached; he pushed it away.

“Aye, my Lord. Her loss is our misfortune. Ah, forgive me, Steward-" the Perfumer bowed again. Perhaps to hide her losing battle with her tears. “You bring us light, and I darken it with grief.”

Morgott inclined his head. He was the stoic sort. Unmoved by sadness nor apologies. Plainly, he asked, “The apothecaries of thy Guild lost more than its Matron, I am told?”

“Aye. She had gone to replenish the stores from the ruins. Foul, Graceless brutes took the deliveries, too. I confess in shame, your Grace. Our stock dwindles, and few of us have the wit and courage to make the journey our Lady died taking.”

“If that is so…”

Morgott gestured to the two chests Oleg had carried in. The smaller of the two Oleg opened at his wordless order. Instantly, a floral scent suffused the banished knight in the remembrance of blood. Herbs and flowers, both semi-fresh and dried, lined the chest. Powders packaged in paper and bundles tied in twine. Their colors had somberly faded from the beauty each plant had sported in life.

“From the royal stores.” Morgott lied through his teeth, but the humility in his tone was hardly false. Perhaps some of the medicines had been pilfered from the palace’s store, but most had been the salvaged- stolen cargo of Lady Arteya’s coach- hidden in some alcove only Margit- or maybe Morgott- knew about.

The Perfumer’s hand cupped her heart as though it might escape from her chest. Muttered praise swept through the guild and its adepts.

“Erdtree preserve you, Lord,” the matron whispered. And the Grace in her eyes was drowned in brimming tears.

So, the Steward cleared his throat and motioned for the next trunk to be opened. Oleg did so. And while the secret herbs hadn't been so secretive to him, he balked at the second chest’s contents: more coin than he’d beheld in all of his life. The Perfumers, however, received this unveiling with some consternation.

“Mistake me not. ‘Tis no gift, but rather payment.” Morgott could not have looked less at ease if he tried. He continued in the thunderous roil authority, “Lady Arteya was my Councilor for decades. She possessed a healer’s heart and a warrior’s intuition. I know she studied poisons in ye laboratories.”

The matron flushed, shuddered.

The Steward lifted his chin and lowered his voice, “Use the herbs as thou seest fit. The runes ought to fund the Guild’s research into poisons, their formulation, and their creation. Arteya was a meticulous woman. I am certain her past findings are well-documented.”

Now the Perfumer found her nerve, “Erdtree preserve us. We are herbalists. Healers for those that cannot receive a blessing!”

“I know what ye art,” Morgott snapped. “Weapon smiths ye be. Bloodletters ye fashion for our Capital’s soured veins. What I command thee do is make a salve for a different wound.”

What could the matron do but acquiesce? She nodded. The Order censured the use of fire, but not poisons.

In the midst of that laden silence, a door burst open. A young, harrowed Perfumer fled from the piercing yet distant screams of a woman. Their arms were cradled over their chest, and their eyes were wet, glass kaleidoscopes of panic. Blood wet their sleeves, tinged their apron. But its color was shocking, wrong. It was bright like gold and inky like oil and reflected gleamed almost chromatically. The alchemist was blind to the royal audience. Dazed, they murmured, “I need help, Matron.”

“By the broken Ring!”

The verbal curse was as good as a lash against the backs of Oleg’s knees. The matron shouldered past the stricken herbalist and dashed towards the sounds of misery. The brush of the older woman’s robes sheared the bloodied Perfumer’s final cords of stability. They collapsed and did not put out their arms to catch themself. Oleg started forward. Morgott was faster.

If only the scene could be captured in oils. It was perverse and graceful and ominous. The Lord’s immense body- swathed in the clothes of mourning- caught the swooning healer. One great hand encircled their waist. The other caught their elbow so that they did not spill what was clasped to their chest upon the ground. The dark veil made the Steward’s face bleak and featureless, while the Perfumer’s eyes fluttered, waifish. They were so much smaller than he, the Demigod nearly stooped to one knee to be at their level. Thus, he loomed over them and the bloodied bundle they carried. Covered in gore as they were- with the assembled Perfumers gaping in horror in the floral, incense-hazy background- Morgott was both a spirit of comforting death and a grim collector of wraiths.

“Your Grace,” the Perfumer gasped in warning. “The blood! The child is cursed.”

Perhaps Morgott was meant to flinch away. But he stared hollowly at the bloodstained baby in their arms. He whispered in a voice thick as gravel, “I see.”

Oleg approached, sweat at the corners of his mouth and his hand on the hilt of his sword. The breathlessness of all present promised Oleg a horror beyond reckoning. But when he peered at the bundle, he saw a large, fat infant. Swaddled in the gore of his birth. Wisps of white hair curled around little horns the color of bone.

Lord Morgott’s hand relinquished the herbalist’s elbow and snatched at Oleg’s wrist. The one attached to the hand currently palming his pommel. The bones of his hand creaked for his liege lord’s grasp. As if they were genuinely considering breaking.

An aproned man hurriedly joined them. He took the recovering Perfumer by their armpits and relieved his Lord of the burden of them. He said:

“Bold as you are, Son of Godfrey, I will not abide your holy hands being marred with curseblood. The shame of it… We would be overcome!”

Morgott retreated from the bairn as it at last began to cry. Oleg, viciously leashed, was forced to follow. The moment his mind brushed the blatant irony, it was trapped in an intangible vice. As though the silver splinter in his tongue so yearned to pierce his brain through his palate.

Morgott did not give any acknowledgement. Because despite the man’s proclamation, the Steward of Leyndell had not been careful. The brown wool of his robes hid most of the stains. But his palms and fingertips were dingy with faint smears. Oleg suspected that when then Lord relinquished his own wrist, he would find a strange, chromatic smudge on his gauntlet.

“May the Erdtree bless this House,” the Steward declared dryly. “Bless the hands of the gentle healer-" the child screamed louder at his benediction. As if howling in protest with its curse. Oleg saw the shock of the assemblage peel away into dread and disgust. Resentful that the Omen had deigned to be born in their Lord’s presence. Embarrassed that it wailed over his words. Morgott’s throat bobbed, “-whose fingers bestoweth wisdom, grace, and protection.”

“Our prayers go with you, Lord.”

The soft answer swept through the impromptu congregation.

They departed, Lord and knight. They crossed the house’s threshold and were welcomed back to the street roaring with life and warmed by adoration. The barricading retinue resumed a marching formation. Oleg and Morgott both inhaled deeply that bloodlessly scented air.

“What will happen to the bairn?” Oleg murmured.

Morgott’s answer was cold and blunt.

“It will die in the kindness of the Erdtree’s light.”

Notes:

If this fic had parts, This would mark the beginning of Part II

The next portion of this fic has a much slower pace with longer chapters. Here is where my large cast starts to get to know one another. And I also want to explore a pre-Shattering era Leyndell! Updates may be a little slower because of that. I want to make sure everyone gets their 'screentime' while also making Morgott and Oleg's bonding feel earned and organic. I don't want anyone to get left behind! It is also a challenge to balance Morgott's knowledge with history and events and characters with Oleg's. It might seem odd that Morgott speaks rather reverently of Arteya here considering chapter 6. But just keep in mind that Morgott's mind is conflicted and complex and Oleg isn't privy to any of that yet.

Chapter 9: Legends

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“The Steward contracted Capital herbalists as poison-mongers.”

Miquella’s splinter didn’t so much as brush against his consciousness.

“Lord Morgott has commissioned the creation of poisons with Capital funds.”

“Indeed.”

Oleg flinched. When he heard the Steward’s voice, he felt as though he’d been stabbed from behind. And with his back to his liege, Oleg could perfectly picture the bristling form of Margit.

He turned and beheld instead the shape of the golden Demigod.

“Thou’rt testing it,” he observed. His eye was a gilt dagger in a bruised setting. Sleepless and severe. “Should it be thy desire to reveal to the Council mine intent with the Perfumer’s Guild, rest assured that they are already aware.”

Of course, Oleg was mortified. “That isn’t my aim,” he insisted, low and sincere. “But the spell is curious. I want to know its limitations-”

Morgott crossed the room in three brisk strides. Oleg choked on his excuses as the Steward caught his knight’s jaw in an unrelenting grip. Yet there was only exhaustion in his bearing. Wary rather than furious.

“For thee I would remedy thy curiosity should the temptation prove too much. Thy tongue is a privilege, Knight. Thou dost not require it to wield thy swords.”

Oleg considered how fragile he was in a Demigod’s hands. He was practically half the Steward’s size. The care with which he was restrained belied a well-practiced gentleness. Morgott knew he could break him and was taking great pains not to. It was just as well. The deep rumble of his growled warning could have melted all the ice from the Mountaintops. It required all of the knight’s focus not to let his knees go to jelly.

“Apologies, my Lord,” he managed.

This was the closest Morgott had ever been to him since their carriage ride through the city. The dull blonde of his hair was streaked with silver. It flashed in his beard- which was now coarse and trimmed short. His hair was shorn at the shoulders- unusual for one of noble blood. And without a braid to keep it tied back, it framed his stately, permanent scowl. His eye blazed in dark sclera. It was Grace undiluted, Oleg thought, because he had never seen another person with such an intensely gilt iris. There were filaments of ember and xanthous sparks. It was the Omen’s eye set into a face too mundane to suit it.

“Neither the splinter nor I are to be tried,” Morgott hissed.

Oleg was released, and he thawed from the shock of the Lord’s proximity. His cheek tingled where his fingers had dug in. He resisted the searing urge to touch the spot. Like a trembling, stricken child or an overcome maiden.

It could only be natural to find a Demigod beautiful. Wouldn’t it be stranger to think the Queen’s son ugly?

“Consider myself thoroughly chastised,” he blurted. “It will not happen again.”

The Lord of Leyndell did not care for that answer, but it did not anger him nearly as much as it should have. Oleg was grateful he didn’t earn another threat for the infraction. He could only fathom that most people Morgott snarled at shivered out of their own skins. Yet here he stood, too stupid to be properly intimidated. He felt his blush worsen, and that, of all things, quelled Morgott.

“Break thy fast and don thine armor, Knight. Then join me in the library.”

—————————————————————

“Hail, Banished Knight!”

Oleg recognized not the voice, but he heeded it regardless. Morgott was the only being who was owed obeisance, but in a city of holy splendor, Oleg was a man of abysmal social standing. To ingratiate himself with Leyndell’s court, he needed to occupy his appropriate strata.

He had been waylaid in a terraced garden in the higher levels of the palace. In the late summer morning, the air was fragrant and abuzz with pollinating insects. A large marble fountain gurgled amidst the flowerbeds and topiaries. A stone lion roared into the muzzle of his inert adversary: a rearing Ancient Dragon. A stylized gold-wrought rendition of the Bolt of Gransax was speared between the two foes into a basin of water. Gransax itself sagged lifelessly only a few dozen meters away. Beneath the fountain dragon’s wings, there was a bench upon which a figure sat. Dressed in robes that boasted immense wealth by their vibrant colors and embellishments.

“Come hither,” the man ordered. Imperious and urgent.

Oleg did as he was told, became an armored automaton. He offered a shallow salute once he crossed into the dragon’s shadow. The man snarled.

“I am no mere noble, Fool! A knight ought to kneel before a Lord.”

Queen Marika was eternal. Thus, her children were never meant to be heirs to anything. The Goddess begat the centerpieces to legends innumerable. The Golden Lineage, The Carian Ascendants, and the Prodigal Twins. All necessary- each a vital organ of the Greater Will’s empire.

But then Godwyn had fallen in love and made a farce of the bloodline. He made his mother a grandmother, a great grandmother, and a great great grandmother- each generation less resplendent than the last.

Oleg had grown up with the stories. The tales of Godwyn the Golden’s children had always been colored with dull rose. They had been planted into his consciousness with morals of love and abundance. But two generations later, the wonder had been sapped from the act of divine procreation. Trees were long lived. The Golden Lineage was whispered to be diluted. It was just as well, then, that more than half of those windswept, twisted branches had had the decency to vanish. To Farum Azula, it was said. A notion that had always fascinated Oleg, considering many banished knights ended up at those crumbling fringes themselves. As it stood, a handful of descendants littered the Lands Between. There were two in the Weeping Peninsula currently lunging for one another’s throat. Perhaps a frail daughter with a decent estate in Caelid. A more stalwart son carving out a home in the barren Mountaintops. Oleg was most familiar with Godefroy, ruler of Stormveil, and his decrepit son. Godrick. Ward of Leyndell.

Indeed, the tapering whimper of Godwyn’s line was all the more tragic by a particular consideration. Did those remaining wish they could follow their kin into timeless obscurity? The question bubbled in Oleg’s mind as he beheld the youngest of Marika’s line. He had pale spiders for hands- which clutched the handle of a walking stick with the will and temerity of a swordsman- and lank, straw hair already shot through with gray. At one hundred and fifty years old, he looked rather like an ancestor of Godfrey’s rather than the last of his descendants. Seated, he was shorter than Oleg by half a head. Yet he glared up at the knight with milky eyes abundant in Grace. He remained incorrigibly hardened when he bent to cough into a handkerchief. After his narrow shoulders ceased quaking with his lungs, he smiled wryly. His teeth were stained pink.

He was ethereally handsome, as all Demigods should be. Delicate as Altus blooms. Oleg regretted instantly believing Godrick decrepit. Anyone that would think this man wretched had never seen him in the flesh.

“Aye, Ser. A Demigod doth address thee. Hath my father grown so lax with ye discipline? Kneel!”

Oleg sank to the obligatory knee.

“Thou hailest from Stormveil, aye?”

“Aye, Lord.”

It was the fib that Lord Morgott had been spreading: that he had gone to Stormveil to select a guard on Lord Godrick’s recommendation. Of course, Morgott hadn’t left the Plateau during his journey. He hadn’t taken an escort. He had instead orchestrated the murder of the Head Perfumer.

The frailty of the alibi was acutely felt in Oleg’s clenched fist. The silver helm could only obscure so much as Godrick stared down his hooked nose at him.

“How fares the castle’s Lord?”

Stormveil was awash with banished knights. Soldiers clad in green and orange were not lacking in the south’s famed castle. But the reclusive Demigod enlisted scores of the Oathless Order. The land there, it was said, inhabited the storm and made it free. The castle, it was said, nurtured dark myths. If Godwyn was lionized in the lore of Oleg’s youth, then Lord Godefroy was made into a shrouded villain.

He was a savvy craven that made a plaything of his meager divinity. Godefroy kept monsters in the cavernous chasms beneath Stormveil’s foundations. Godefroy preferred banished knights because they could be discarded deviously without fuss. Oleg had heard preposterous rumors from his old friends. That horns had somehow been attached to a lion’s crown. That knights vanished all the time, their screams never ringing long in the night. Fanciful ghost stories, Oleg believed. Godefroy was easy to pick on because he was a recluse- easy to resent because he lacked in comparison to his grandsire.

Still, Lord Godrick’s expectant, honeyed gaze made frigid Oleg’s spine. His mind was numbed by its chill, and he found weaving a suitable lie to be a gargantuan task. He had no honesty to offer, so he had to consider what Lord Godrick desired to hear.

“I fear I did not know him well.” Oleg began with as wholesome a truth as he could muster. “He is well-occupied but hale. A more industrious Lord-”

Godrick held up his hand. Rings braced twiggy fingers. Blue veins webbed like cracks in porcelain down his palm and wrist.

“I do not beg for empty praise, Knight,” he scoffed. Oleg sweat in his armor. “I receive little correspondence that hath not been read and reshaped firstly by the fair Council. Though they grit their teeth and name me amongst their number, they scrounge more use from mine ignorance than my wisdom. I am allowed only whispers of what transpires southward. So, I ask thee twice: how fares the Lord of Stormveil?”

“I-” Oleg gathered himself. “All is well in Limgrave.”

Lord Godrick leaned back. The slackening of his scrutiny was a tangible weight off of Oleg’s back. Despite the glovewort sheen to his hair and complexion, there was a clinging shade of youth in Godrick’s profile.

“I blame thee not for accepting Lord Morgott’s offer to abandon Stormveil. I left Godefroy to make Leyndell my home. ‘Twas an honor to grow in the halls of my forebears. ‘Twas an honor to have known Godwyn before…”

His defensive pride was eroded by a passing breeze. The golden tassels that hung from the hem of his shawl stirred as banners. Melancholy touched him gently at the shoulders.

“I am… sorry, My Lord,” Oleg offered throatily. Godwyn’s demise always sparked in him a thrill of dread. Like a black storm gathering on the sea when the shore was far behind him. It was as though he’d woken up one day to find a hole punched out of the sky where the moon had once been. The death of a Demigod had not directly affected Oleg’s life- not really. It was a calamity that dwelled in his subconscious and reminded him that the world was not quite right- that it was wounded. But to the people of Leyndell, to the wizened man before him shining with a faint divinity, Godwyn had been family.

“Ah, Godwyn. Ancestor mine, thy loss was all of ours,” Godrick sighed. “My home hath become a cage. The people murmur that my back should have borne the black knives.” Despite everything, he did not sound entirely resentful. “How fortunate for the Capital, that Lord Morgott was called from Godfrey’s side. He was tarnished and he was gilt again. Bah, trinkets we both be for the true Lord. Vessels for his precious Runes.”

He croaked his disdain. But if Oleg was meant to reply, he was not allowed the chance. Godrick marched forth, plowing over his last musing as if to conceal it in churning soil.

“I thank thee, Knight, for thine indulgence. I am heartened to see a piece of that place after so long apart from it.”

Kneeling still, Oleg was at a loss. The servant's heart in him demanded he find a way to comfort the Lord. But he was utterly unequipped to soothe the aches of godly seedlings. Somehow, with somber and startling sincerity, he said, “I regret I could not give you more.”

“‘Tis more than mine uncle granted me, Knight. Days he festered in Stormveil and will speak to me naught about it,” Godrick growled, then flicked his wrist. “As thou wert, Knight.”

Oleg stood at the dismissal. He bowed, stepping expertly through the motions of courtesy while his mind reeled. In scant minutes he had met a Demigod, lied to him, and grieved with him. Before he retreated, Godrick ensnared Oleg’s stare.

“Beware, Knight. Mine Uncle is a hard Lord. Tempered in exile, he was, as thou wert. He will indulge thee none. Serve him well, Banished Knight. Thou’rt pledged to Great Godfrey’s son.”

—————————————————————

Oleg was not scolded for his tardiness. In fact, he was barely acknowledged. Morgott’s fingers rose from the table to gesture inscrutably, but his eye was fixated upon the page before him. Ancient instincts steered Oleg to stand at the adjacent wall. So that he guarded the entrance nearest his Lord. He imagined Morgott meant to finish a passage before speaking to him. However, minutes passed. Pages turned dryly, rasping like locust wings. The parchment-scented air swallowed up sounds and amplified them: the creak of Oleg’s armor and Morgott’s breath and the distant steps of the hall’s other slipper-footed patrons. Eventually Oleg stopped waiting for conversation to begin.

He supposed he deserved it for upsetting his liege not an hour before. For making a game of curiosity out of a Demigod’s machinations. But then he supposed it was equally fair for him to be irritated. He was made furniture again. Mindless and silent- empty armor with an unnecessary pulse. His discipline flagged and his mind wandered.

He watched Lord Morgott. Because otherwise all that moved in the library were dust motes floating in sunbeams and the winking glow of a singular, flameless lantern upon Morgott’s desk. He watched the tenderness of the man’s hands. The way his hair brushed his shoulders or was loosed from behind his ear when he tilted his head just so. The flash of pale lashes when he blinked. The sharpness of his jaw and the line of his throat. A medallion of green amber sat upon his sternum.

Lower, Oleg’s eyes trailed. They escaped down Morgott’s sleeves and fell upon the objects of his undivided interest. Thick tomes with cracked spines were stacked beside his elbow. The paper bound to the discolored leather was marred with age. They were histories, Oleg gathered, by the lengthy and dry titles that were embossed across each cover.

The Establishment of the First Church of Marika in the Domain of the Fell

The Conquests of Godfrey, First Elden Lord, in the Age of Order

More books were piled, bearing symbols and script Oleg had never encountered before in all his life. From these delicate tomes Morgott read. He treated the books as though they were particularly precious.

However, his expression steadily contorted into that of a scowl. He mouthed unheard syllables- the part of his lips so slight as to hold words against his teeth without masticating them.

The pages flipped less, and Morgott’s eye flicked more fervently. His gloved hand hovered. Tapped upon the wood a mirthless rhythm. Oleg wondered idly if the gloves he wore were also illusory. If they were, why would he bother with the pantomime of care? Did the residue of the books’ age coat ashen fingertips?

“Art thou literate?”

Morgott had spent the last ten minutes staring at the drawn velvet curtains of the opposite window. The Lord’s hands were clasped together- not devotionally prayerful but frustrated. Oleg hadn’t entirely expected such a question.

“Aye,” he replied. On the heels of that answer trod a memory, melancholic for its goodness. Oleg, yet willowy with youth, hand-in-hand with a dark-haired boy. His muscles sore from the day of training and his eyelids drooping. His companion read to him as he laid his head upon satin pillows. Sugar from pilfered pastries dusted his lips. He drowsily watched the other boy’s mouth. Crystalline honey-sugars sparkled upon his lips, too. Oleg stumbled out of the past as deftly as he’d entered it. “I was taught as a squire.”

“Wert thou tutored with texts as ancient as Queen Marika’s reign?”

“I cannot say that I was.”

Morgott plucked the tome from the table. It sagged, geriatric, across his palms and seemed to groan in relief as he placed it before the empty seat opposite him. Then, with gloved hand, he motioned for Oleg to sit.

“Lord,” Oleg said. Polite but pointed. A rapier’s tip held delicately against the sternum. “By my oath, my blades are yours to command. But if your command is for me to play the jester, then I must refuse.”

The Lord stiffened upon Oleg’s rebuff. But the agitation was brittle. The steel of the man alloyed with the unsuitable elements of shame. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “No, Ser. The… deficiency… is mine.”

Oleg absorbed Morgott’s muttered admittance. Disbelief was his first instinct. Marika’s son, illiterate? No, he’d been watching the man read for an hour, now.

Still, Oleg possessed enough wisdom to bind his tongue. The Grace Given Lord- the Demigod Prodigal, the Omen fiend- had presented to the knight a vein swollen and rich. He wouldn’t betray him by plunging a clumsy dagger of inquiry into the raw flesh.

Oleg removed his helm so that his sight would be unobstructed. He set it upon the table and lowered himself into the available seat.

“I require another set of eyes,” Morgott rumbled.

Oleg grinned. “Aren't you glad you didn’t cut out my tongue, then?”

“Perhaps I regret it all the more.”

Morgott rubbed at his puffy eye. Silken-gloved fingers smeared the reddened lid to bare wetness. As if attempting to grind out dusty grit.

Oleg then painstakingly grazed over the field sewn from history’s recounting. Queen Marika’s speech was documented in golden ink. In his halting voice, Oleg trawled over a lengthy description of a battle between Lord Godfrey’s forces, trolls, and giants. But Morgott only absorbed the information with placid indifference until Oleg reached the narration of the battle’s end.

“The Fell’s Flame made a taunt of its eternity. No dousing- be it water or of magical means- extinguished its cinders. The heat of that palatial sin sent men swooning to their deaths. But the Queen blazed with her own fury. A curse she placed upon Fell God’s faithful. To guard the sin of unending flame with their life enslaved.”

“Hmm.”

“My Lord?”

Morgott’s chest swelled with a thoughtful breath. “Searchest thou the name ‘Rold’.”

Rold, he knew, to be the designation of the second the Lands Between’s grand lifts. The Lift of Rold was the gate between Leyndell and the Mountaintops. After much fumbling- with Morgott turning the pages for his gauntlet-wearing reader- Oleg found the word nestled into war’s spoils.

The frigid land was gifted to Lord Godfrey’s allies. It was theirs to settle. If they did not mind the cold and the corpses. Those peoples were granted access eternal to the Rold Lift.

“Read the passage entire,” Morgott bid.

Oleg did, though his attention was inevitably split. The text was as dense and dry as brick, and he did stumble inelegantly over patches. He would anticipate a sneer or some other sign of disregard. But Morgott was never looking in his direction.

The sliver of gold in black sclera was hazy. Morgott’s mind was elsewhere. Perhaps drifting within the portraits of history the books painted. Stalking the blood-drenched sites of Lord Godfrey’s and Queen Marika’s conquests with a near-wistfulness. However refined and sanitized the visage of Leyndell’s Steward, he was the child of true warriors.

Lord Morgott had grown up beside his banished father in the Badlands. He had been made Tarnished with the Elden Lord. He had come back- been granted his Grace again- when Godwyn was killed. Or so the legend declared. Oleg had been raised on the story. It only just occurred to him that the tale was likely false.

After the Shattering a horde of the monsters crawled up from the city’s bowels.

Oleg meandered to the memory of the newborn. The one gray and fat and riddled with horns cradled in the bloodied arm of the Perfumer.

It will die in the kindness of the Erdtree’s light.

“Oleg…?”

His name was a soft prompt.

“Oh, er… forgive me,” his knight coughed. “I lost my place-"

But Morgott hushed him with a gesture just as suddenly. That discerning glare rolled off of him- a stone was lifted from Oleg’s breastplate. Morgott titled his ear towards the door. “Rise and be silent.”

Oleg donned the silver helm. Seconds after Morgott’s abrupt order, Oleg heard the approaching footsteps. Heavy for their agitation. He hardly had time to adopt a knightly post before the doorway was filled with General Helian’s bulk.

“Thou thinkest thyself clever.” Helian seethed even as he bowed.

The first thing Oleg had noticed about the Councilor was his shining, bald head. As if he had- resenting the chaotic nature of hair- shaved it all. His clothing was just as trim. Fashion in court favored robes of floor-sweeping length and large sleeves. The General’s clothing was crisp, spotlessly clean, and form-fitted with doublet and trousers to show off a well-tuned frame. At a glance Oleg sensed he was old but strong. The kind of fellow that may not start a tavern brawl but could very well finish it.

The proof of his Grace manifested in an uncommon heterochromia- where the one eye was stained with a puddly blotch of gold while the other was plain and black in the iris.

“My wit I owe to my dutiful Council. Ye tutelage hath served me well.”

Oleg thought he saw a vein pop in the bald man’s forehead. He might have believed Morgott’s comment playful, if he hadn’t delivered it so sardonically- if the General didn’t seem ready to explode.

“First, thou mockest Imopea by bringing a-" The General’s eyes flitted to Oleg, and he reddened. “-a banished knight to the palace! Then-"

“The Perfumers, aye,” Morgott interjected.

“The Guild is not thine to command!”

“I am the Steward. I had every right.”

“Poisons!” the General blurted at last. The spear of the word pierced through Morgott’s stony evasion.

Helian was taller than Oleg. But even seated, Lord Morgott looked down his nose at the Councilor. Imperious but declawed, he replied, “Arteya was a gifted healer. A pox upon any who would deny it. But her knowledge was gathered practically. In understanding harm, she perfected her art.”

Helian denied nothing. His sunken cheeks puffed with his indignant breaths.

“Arteya was no stranger to me. She would not have wished for ye to abandon her work,” Morgott pressed.

“Ah, so sentiment guides thee.”

He sneered, “Did sentiment guide the Perfumer?’

“Thou dost intend to see such weapons used!”

“Aye. Against any that would see Leyndell destroyed.”

Arguments bulged behind Helian’s eyes and thinned his lips. He did not rehash them. Likely, Oleg was certain, due to his presence. Morgott was not blind to Helian’s voiceless protests, either.

“If preparation is so offensive to thee, might we dismantle Leyndell’s walls and cast their ballistae into the sea? If thou hast seen the folly in thy logic, I would discuss other matters with thee. General, thou’rt a scholar of war.” Morgott boldly sidestepped Helian’s rage. He did not allow the other man a moment to cut in. He was polite in his condescension. Not too far a cry from the quiet viciousness of Margit, Oleg thought. It was a very gentlemanly evisceration. “Surely thou canst recall the histories of Lord Godfrey’s conquests.”

“No, my Lord. I refuse. The Lands Between are not the Badlands. Thy Father’s conquering spirit must leave thee, as it did him.”

Morgott bristled, “Conquest is not my desire, General. Now, I would speak with thee about the Lift of Rold-”

“No, Morgott!” Helian jabbed a furious finger at the floor.

Like a kennel master scolding a cur.

Oleg could feel the stormfront of Morgott’s rising anger- truer than the snide aggravation he’d displayed thus far. Helian sensed it too. He flushed pale. “No more talk of war, I beg thee. I’ve lost two dear friends in too short a time. I cannot bear thy bloodlust.”

Morgott sniffed. Audibly swallowed. He drummed at the table with idle fingers. “I have been reading-”

“Oh?”

It was a little noise. Scornfully barked. It was accompanied by a heedless smirk in Oleg’s direction. Knowing and brimming with a silent jest. Too brief to be a proper smirk, but Oleg snagged on its barbs all the same.

In one hideous sound, the argument was won. The point granted to General Helian. Morgott leaned back in his chair, steely and unreadable.

He said, “Then begone, Councilor, and waste not my morning.”

Victory in hand, the General turned on his heel and left.

Oleg imagined thrusting a blade through his throat with immense satisfaction.

Notes:

I know this chapter is very mish-mash! But these moments I feel are important. They are also laden with many of my personal head canons.

1) I believe that Morgott had a hard time with reading in the past (not at all by the game's canon). Not because he can't read, but because he had such little practice in the Shunning Grounds. I doubt there was much for him to read/write there. He's slow at it and it frustrates him for quite a while. Hence why he asks Oleg to help.

2) Godrick's direct relation to the Golden Lineage has always seemed vague. He is Godfrey's descendant, and a lot of us assume he's a direct son or a distant relation to Godwyn. I am being indulgent here, hinting that Godwyn's line comes from Fortissax. Most of his descendants are draconic, and they left to live in Farum Azula with their kin. This is purely speculative. The game lore leads me to believe that there were more Demigods than we meet pre-War. I like to think at least some of these were Godrick's forgettable relatives.

3) Godrick himself! If it isn't obvious, he has not begun his Grafting yet. I will touch more on his deal in later chapters. But I've always sort of imagined him as someone that hardly anyone took seriously- not because I dislike him, but because the warrior-obsessed society saw him as a weak link to the Golden Lineage. He was probably unwell by Demigod standards in health. And, like the Omen twins, looked down on him for how he was born. I do like to think of pre-War Godrick as snarky and head-strong and smarter than everyone thinks of him. In the early chapters I said that Godrick was often missing from meetings. I hope it is clear now: he is purposefully excluded through no fault of his own.

Also, I love the think that Oleg- a fairly regular guy in the twilight of Marika's Age- would be very starstruck by any Demigod. Of course he thinks Godrick is kinda pretty.

4) I just believe there was more than one Rold Medallion. And that I feel Morgott should have been the one to hold it- not something randomly found by Melina. Morgott surely knew about the cardinal sin, and he would have done anything to prevent it.

Sorry for the essay! And thank you for reading!

Chapter 10: Purpose

Notes:

I've realized the game has a place called Leyndell Outskirts near Morgott and Mohgs divine tower/the forbidden lands. However, in this chapter I'm referring to the Outer Moat area / the land between the outer and inner walls of the city.

The Minor Erdtree mentioned is one in game. It is not guarded by a Tree Spirit nor an Avatar, but by an Omen with Fia's mist and some other mobs. I've always found that interesting : 3

Lastly, I've HC that bloodflame is something innate to all Omen. Mohg is just exceptionally powerful with it because he embraced his curse and the Formless Mother. Morgott uses bloodflame attacks in his second phase. So that's why I feel that way. Morgott was not surprised by the bloodflame he has. He had simply realized how dire that condition is with the added context of Order doctrine.

Chapter Text

A scion of the Erdtree grew near the Capital’s outer moat. It was attended by a court of golden-leafed trees strewn about its rooted ankles- and its Avatar cavalier. The giant was embedded into the trunk. Caged to its ward by tendrils and rooted by a robe of flowering vines. The dormancy of the Avatar suited Leyndell fine. It allowed the faithful to pray at the Tree’s base without fear of rebuke. It was a portent of peace.

Morgott knelt before it. To remember. To grieve. To repent.

No chapel in Leyndell was fool enough to permit Margit. But Olivier had promised him that walls could neither trap Grace nor barricade against it. A worn patch of earth was just as worthy a place of worship as the most ostentatious church.

I am envious, Morgott had once said to the pastor in this very spot. It was important to discuss his faults. It would cleanse his soul, however marginally. -of Malenia.

Thou findest her struggles a gentler burden than thine own? Olivier’s astute observation. His benign accusation.

Morgott lost himself to memory

She is cursed, Morgott had explained. The people shrank from her, but they also admired her devotion. Her body was marked by Rot’s ravages, but no one was baying for the mutilation of her flesh nor the condemnation of her spirit. Yet Grace she receiveth in abundance.

Thy soul is tainted by disorder. The Crucible hath formed thee apart from the Greater Will’s Order. This is not so for thy half-sister.

Of course, Morgott had known this. Even if the laws and their proofs hadn't been taught to him precisely. It had been selfish of him to wonder. To seek commiseration. To doubt the fairness of his unequal standing. But he had thought these things, and thus he had been required to answer for them. Because his mother’s children had welcomed him into the Capital and allowed him to live as a Lord. Their mercy tormented him. It made him want

’Tis fair to grieve that, Olivier had amended. Thou didst not choose the manner of thy soul’s rebirth. Yet thou must bear the consequence all the same. There is no exception. Thou’rt courageous, strong, and intelligent, Margit. Alas, this will never cleave the lordly man from the base beast.

Truly? Morgott had murmured. ’Tis impossible?

The pastor had taken a slender knife from his robes. So handsome was the blade and so tender his hold that Morgott had seen no threat in it. It had been curved, a fang of gold. Margit had fished rats’ teeth out of his flesh that were fiercer than that engraved knife.

Olivier had beckoned for his hand. Morgott had offered it willingly. He’d hardly felt the bite of steel. Just a prick on his longest finger. Then a greasy pearl of blood had welled from the cut. The gleam of the knife had been dulled by a sheen of gold-black-crimson.

The bead had swelled. Larger and larger. The sensation had been painless. He had been spilling his blood for centuries. The Shunning Grounds had greedily drank of it- painted its labyrinthine tunnels with it. The Capital's refuse slurried with the substance. It had bought his territory and been the cost of his meals. It had been powerful in the squalid depths. In the light, it was a curse. And the pastor’s fingers were dangerously close.

He had held his breath until Olivier relinquished him- just as the gathered blood spilled down Morgott’s fingertip. It had dripped harmlessly to the earth. A shiny stain upon the green.

Watch, the pastor had commanded placidly.

Where Morgott’s blood had fallen, a violet wilted. The fragile petals singed.

“Fire,” Morgott had gasped. Horrified.

The Erdtree’s enemy. No weapon was more reviled by the Order.

It had been devastating, that realization. He had been an imbecile for not understanding sooner that he was not merely cursed but born to the Cardinal Sin.

It was not his fault, Olivier had asserted when all others seemed to believe the opposite. But it had been impressed upon Morgott that his blamelessness was not purity. That the Erdtree’s tolerance should never be taken for granted.

Thus Morgott prayed. Counted his blessings, his debts. He rarely apologized with sincerity, but the Erdtree was burdened with hearing his pleas for forgiveness. It might never afford him true absolution. But comfort it gave unceasingly. Perhaps it would assure him that everything he did and everything he was would have some purpose.

It was his succor in Miquella’s silence.

Elphael was a young city, and difficult to reach. The Council had written to their Empyrean no less than thrice. To inform him of Olivier and Arteya’s deaths. And to condemn their Steward for assaulting them. In his infinite wisdom, Miquella had not constructed a teleporting Gate to his city. Thus, correspondence was an arduous undertaking. The frigid northern lands were perilous, but traversable. Enough time had passed for the Lord to have delivered his decision about his Council’s replacements and his Omen brother’s judgement.

The fireplace in Morgott’s quarters harbored the ashes of Miquella’s only returned letter. Beneath the glow of the sentry torch, its message had read:

Might I humbly suggest some celestial dew? Be careful, brother mine. I have complete faith in thee.

The meaning of that paltry letter eluded him even here, in the Erdtree’s discerning light. Was it warning or permission? Which did he most hope it was?

He was alerted to the sound of hoofbeats. He half-rose from his crouch. His arms stiff from having been clasped over his head. An obsidian horse trotted down the path. Scraps of shroud clung to its tack. The torn fabric fluttered like blackbirds strung on gallows.

Morgott’s hands clenched into fists. An Omenkiller’s steed. He had strayed far from the inner walls without his cleaver, but the blade’s malediction made it a useless weapon against the Guild, anyway. The hilt of a conjured sword was made solid in his fist. His tail lashed, it ached from being held still for weeks in the Steward’s shape. He stood to meet the horse and its rider; his pulse danced to the beat of a lifelong rage.

The sword burst into harmless light. The fire of his blood was quenched with a weary sigh. Until he felt only its embers in his trembling fingers. It was difficult to recant the want for bloodshed once it had been sparked. So, he crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the banished knight Oleg bring the black horse to an amble.

“Margit,” he inclined his head beneath the hood of a nondescript cloak. He was audacious enough to beam as he dismounted, adding, “Hullo Beastie.”

The address stung more than it should have. Like a fly and left an itching welt.

“What is thy business?” he demanded.

“Not business, but a grievance. I am feeling rather neglected.”

“Seek, then, the attention of thy Lord.”

“I seek instead the company of a friend.”

“We are not companions.”

“Then perhaps we should be.” Oleg smiled. Grotesquely fearless. “Let us not be strangers, Margit.”

The hairs on Morgott’s nape bristled. His conscripted knight’s levity was too akin to mockery. He spoke like his Council did, like every drunken imbecile that thought himself brave for pouring sour beer on an Omen’s horns or feet or tail did. Yet Oleg’s jests were never so malicious. He was always part of the joke.

Morgott surveyed the hills. Leyndell’s outskirts were half of Leyndell’s beauty. Monuments butted up against parks lovingly tended for noblemen’s hunts. Mills made use of the briny streams, and meaderies set out their hives amongst the wildflowers. The outskirts were populated, but the land was more wilderness than city. An Omen would never be wholly welcome within Leyndell’s bounds, but Margit’s reception here was markedly less hostile. Leyndell’s tame Omen was an oddity. A feral animal to be given as wide a berth.

In response to Oleg’s suggestion, Morgott muttered, “Scorned thou wilt be to seek an Omen’s company.”

“I do not mind.”

“I warn thee not for thy benefit, but thy Lord’s.”

Because nothing would rouse leeriness in the Council quicker than the sight of Morgott’s banished knight strolling across golden-green knolls in Margit’s shadow.

“Forgive me,” Oleg replied. He scrounged for a bit of abashed humility amongst his deflated swagger. “I saw you pass through the city gates. I got it into my head that we might… speak more candidly alone.”

Margit pressed his lips to his teeth to halt a grimace. The comings and goings of Margit the Omen always devolved into minor spectacles. Though the Steward vouched for Margit’s character- though he wore the pendant of amber that proved Leyndell’s favor- he was mobbed by wary guards and spiteful commonfolk. It was a precipitous humiliation, and Oleg had witnessed it. The stain of Margit bled into Morgott’s Lordship for all who knew the two were truly one. The Banished Knight would be no exception.

“Thou wert far from the palace,” he remarked coldly.

But Oleg apparently did not resent Morgott’s beasthood enough not to feel a smidge of shame as he confessed, “I saw you from a tavern window on the thoroughfare. Everyone stirred up when you passed- bunch of raucous crows. I could not help but notice you.”

Disdain snagged on Morgott’s embarrassment. And from Margit’s mouth issued the commandment of a Lord: “Drunkenness is unbecoming of a knight of the Steward! What use art thou to the Capital with thy meager wits addled and sodden?”

“I am not drunk, Margit, and how I am meant to spend my few free hours was not dictated to me.”

“Thou’rt a knight always, Sellsword. There are means to keep thee occupied if thou’rt listless.”

“Very well,” Oleg crossed his arms. His slipping grin was replaced with a mild scowl. “That brings us exactly to what I meant to speak with you about.”

“How fortuitous.”

Oleg brashly stepped over the thorns of Morgott’s dismissal. “If the Lord thinks I am idle, then I would gladly be put to work.”

“Thine eagerness is noted,” Morgott drawled. “But ‘tis too soon to hunt thy quarry. Suspicion will fall upon thee. Lord Morgott would bid thee practice the virtue of patience.”

“How long-?“

“Years, Sellsword. If it is to be done properly.”

Sweat dulled Oleg’s red hair to deep brown and plastered it to his face. The Grace in his eyes sparkled. Like stones laid in a clear, mossy pool. A smudge of melancholy touched his brow, wrinkled it.

Lord Morgott only ever saw Oleg in the kit of the Banished Knight. The man’s helm and dutiful silence obscured him from the court of Leyndell, but it had also made him an enigma to Morgott himself. He was the hidden dagger in the Steward’s boot. The phial of aromatic up his sleeve. Here, divested of the mask of his silver armor, Oleg was searingly tangible. Just as he had been in the carriage ride to the palace weeks prior. Margit’s admonitions had blunted Oleg’s gregarious mood. Nothing Morgott had said had been dishonest or needless. The Omen had still been met with an earnest smile, and he had doused it with scorn.

Morgott said, “Thou’rt unsatisfied.” He approached Oleg’s quiet discomfort with some tact.

“Ah,” a tinge of pink blotched the man’s cheeks. The blue-green of his eyes shone all the brighter for it. “I have just realized that I have never been apart from Ser Engvall for so long. It is… difficult to fathom being separated from him for years more.”

“Thou answered the Steward’s summons. Thy fellow did not.”

Oleg grunted his acknowledgement. A wordless noise that betrayed what lowly Knight was in no position to freely convey.

“Take heart, for thy boredom shall be remedied. The Council and the Steward hath come to an… agreement regarding the Erdtree’s safeguarding.”

Margit’s jaw was tense. He’d been grinding his teeth for the better part of the day as he forcibly tugged some cooperation out of his Council. Their distrust of him had hardened them against him. The negotiations had been tortuous.

Omen blood embodied the Cardinal Sin, and thus it was Morgott’s duty to curtail it. He was aware of two potential sources- two temptations. One sequestered Below, deeper than even most Omen tread. The other was guarded by Marika’s curse. An unending flame that could scourge anything.

The first, Morgott had already sealed. The last thing he and his twin had cooperated to accomplish. The second would remain a threat until the Rold Lift could be controlled entirely.

“Oh?”

“There will be a festival. A ball. A waste of time and resources.”

“The General’s idea?”

“No. ‘Twas the Steward’s.”

Oleg raised an inquisitive brow, which compelled Morgott to explain:

“However costly a party may be, war would be costlier. However much Lord Godfrey’s former bannermen will be loath to part with his heirloom, they will be more inclined to acquiesce with a glass of wine in their hands and all the swords of Leyndell at their backs.”

General Helian and Justiciar Tolbren’s lessons on politics had been taken to heart. However much Morgott would have just preferred the alternative of force. Wounds and pain were somehow easier to bear than the agony of excess. There had been little cause for celebration ever since the Elden Ring had shattered. But Morgott had never attended a party he hadn’t gotten violently ill at.

But time was of the essence. As his attendant in the library, Oleg was already privy to much of Morgott’s aims. What he didn’t know- what his Council refused to acknowledge- was that the Gelmir serpent band was seeking Medallions of their own. He had tracked two thefts already. More he anticipated by the time of the ball.

Guilt had drawn Morgott to seek his favored chapel after all. It was guilt that cycled him through the memories of Father Olivier’s goodness as if to rub his bumpy nose in his ingratitude.

He spat out the truth, eyes turned toward the Minor Erdtree, “A ball will provide cover for… another untimely death. It is to take place in early winter before the snows arrive.”

Oleg made a noise that did not sound at all displeased. “That is months away,” he noted. In the cautious cadence of a stone beginning to roll down a shallow slope. Ponderous and unwieldy but picking up courage as it went.

“Aye.”

“In the meantime, might I be permitted to write to Ser Engvall?”

Morgott glared. At the timid curl of Oleg’s ruddy lips and the smile that threatened to sprout. At the hopeful flash in his clever eyes. At the gold that was set ablaze in his mussed hair. It wasn’t quite long enough to braid, and, clean shaven, he seemed younger than his years. Boyish. Or perhaps Morgott was simply that old.

He groused, “Impossible and foolish.”

Oleg started forward, hands splayed beseechingly. “Then read all our correspondence. I cannot write any betrayal no more than I can speak it-” So he had been testing the splinter more. Morgott sniffed his disapproval. “-But you should vet my words, regardless. This close to autumn he shouldn’t be too far north. We followed a very predictable route….”

The stone of Oleg’s voice was properly tumbling. Dirt kicked up in its desperate wake. He had wanted for nothing, his stoic knight. But he begged for ink and parchment and a man to speak to so fervently.

“‘Tis the Steward’s decision,” Morgott cut him off with finality. He made no promise. He would refuse to.

“Then…” Oleg wavered. His disappointment was a visible weight upon him.

“Hmm?”

“Might I ask you one more thing?”

Morgott nodded.

“Tell me my purpose, Margit.”

“Thou’rt sworn to the Grace Given Lord.”

“And you,” he interjected. “Please tell me why the Council must die.”

The sun was sinking now. The distant, ant-like specks of people meandered back to the safety of homes and buildings. The inner gates would remain open throughout the night, but clusters of people retreated to the Capital’s heart. The Minor Erdtree’s trunk began to eclipse the sun of evening. It trapped the outskirts in an amber cast.

“What dost thou know of Godwyn the Golden’s Death?” Morgott asked. So softly he nearly didn’t hear himself.

“Very little, in truth.”

“Then thou knowest as much as anyone,” he replied acerbically. “‘Twas murder. Not mindless barbarity but meticulous. The weapon was Death itself.”

Oleg visibly twitched. The Rune of Death was nothing so mundane as the killing of a body. Death had not been the fate of the Demigods. It had been forcibly excised from the Order. Even then, Godwyn’s Death had been hideously incomplete. But Morgott could not reveal as much to the sellsword. He continued:

“The band that slew him were Numen,” Morgott sneered. A wandering, pitiful anger bounced in the coils of his guts. He had barely known his younger brother. And the indignity he felt for him was weak but persistent. He could only ever imagine the babe on Godfrey’s knee. Not the handsome and capable man he had died as. Oleg did not interject, he absorbed the dread of truth quietly. “Their motives and leader hath not been discovered. Godwyn’s Death was not folly. The whole of the Lands Between is imperiled, Oleg. The Order and the Erdtree are under attack. I cannot wait for Miquella’s return. Nor for Queen Marika’s. I must protect what I can. ‘Tis my purpose. Given to me by the Eternal Queen herself.”

Because he was an Omen elevated. An Omen gifted a holy missive. He could not squander his Great Rune remaining idle. Cramping in the narrow cell of court politics.

His Knight was pensive. Perhaps he had nothing to say to Morgott’s revelation. Perhaps Miquella’s splinter prevented him from speaking at all. After an agonizing minute, the black horse snorted, and Oleg came to himself again. Dragged back from the unseen mire of his thoughts.

He said, “Thank you for entertaining my company this evening, Margit. This was a better use of my time than staring at the murky bottom of a beer.”

He even winked. In the fire of twilight he looked like he belonged in the wilds. A fae spirit on a dark steed or a transfigured fox eager to trick a man out of some primal vestige of the soul. Morgott swore he felt a bit of himself pinch within his misbegotten heart. Something remolded or taken or even granted back by the unassuming but gracious grin that Oleg sported. Morgott reminded himself that the man was merely a lonely, rosy drunk. An honorless hound. A glittering dagger that would be disposed of and forgotten once he was King.

There, his heart flinched again.

One more thing to pray for.

Chapter 11: Homecoming

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Oleg had been raised in the encompassing light of Order. He was loyal to it, because it was undeniable. His God was his Queen, and her laws were doctrine. For Oleg, spirituality was straightforward and dictated. An oath of service not unlike that of knighthood. He was a bit taken aback, then, by the breadth of Leyndell’s devotion.

There were schools dedicated to the study of faith. An endeavor the sorcerers of Raya Lucaria might have naively deemed ironic. Oleg had spent more than a few mornings watching students sit beneath trees with books tucked under their arms. Seals clinking at their belts. The calculus of erudition embodied in the movements of their hands.

Oleg found himself drawn to the potential of a formal education. After all, such abilities weren’t necessarily innate. And he had been taught to wield storms.

In the library, he sought books about the Golden Order’s fundaments: the Laws of Regression and Causality. Lord Morgott had raised a brow at his request to peruse the prayerbooks. But ultimately, he had allowed it. Now, when Morgott came to the royal archives to read, Oleg was permitted books of his own.

The language in them was difficult to parse. Laws were written not as rules to obey but philosophical dissertations about how one might go making sense of the natural world. It was beyond him. He was a simple man. Morgott said as much. But when Oleg asked for his Lord to explain it to him, he closed off, grimacing.

“I am not thy shepherd,” he grunted.

Oleg supposed lions made for poor shepherds, even if they were the blood of God. Or perhaps it was Oleg himself that was inadequate- beneath Morgott’s effort.

“Oleg, I grant thee leave,” Morgott murmured suddenly. He did not lift his eye from the text before him. “This day is thine own.”

He was unnaturally subdued. Exhausted, though the sun had only just begun to rise. The sclera of his eye was dark, but the lid surrounding it was pink and puffy. The eternal bruise was properly gray.

He amended, “I ask one thing, Knight. Indulge not thy vice. Refrain from drink.”

Oleg bowed, because he felt his face flush. “Aye, my Lord.”

With the same searingly disaffected tone he typically reserved for his Council, he said, “If it is thy desire to understand the fundamentals of the Golden Order, might thou attendest a service?”

Drinking sounded more fun.

Something in his bearing obviously betrayed him, because Morgott sighed, “‘Tis not a punishment, Oleg.”

Oleg smiled despite himself, “I didn't think it was, my Lord.”

—--------------------------------------------------

Morgott had failed to mention that it was a holiday. What little resentment Oleg felt about being ordered to church was abandoned.

He wore a beige shirt and teal vest. His hair was too short to properly braid, so he tied it back with a green silk ribbon. Flyaway hairs tickled his ears. As he walked, he rubbed his jaw. Perhaps he should have shaved. His stubble was infuriatingly prickly.

It was early enough that the churches’ services had not begun, but the thoroughfare was constricted with industrious hawkers. Pots of porridge with onion steamed over stone-encased fires. The costlier option- sold across the street- contained Liurnian prawns and crab. Nuts were roasted elsewhere and dusted with sugar. An enormous stall was teeming with lumps of yeasty dough. This was kneaded into elongated, ridged shapes before being dropped into a cauldron of hot oil. The dough puffed as its outside was fried to a delicious crisp. The cooked pastries were then stuffed with various jams: plum, rowa berry, currant. ‘Omen Horns’ a sign advertised. Oleg moved on.

He bought for his breakfast a hot broth to sip. It had been made with cabbage, parsnip, onion, and sheep’s bones. Mild and satisfyingly textured with soft vegetables and marrow. He meandered towards the square at the thoroughfare’s end- into the territory of the craftsmen. Wool farmers guarded their merchandise- though most idly knitted in the morning calm. Whittlers carved ram’s horns. Artists set out small paintings and drawings for perusal.

Oleg went first to a carver. Knots of wood were strung up on braided cord. Blessed by the Grace Given Himself! a hand-made placard boasted. Oleg suppressed a disbelieving snort, but he inspected the trinkets regardless. Drawn in by curiosity despite his doubt.

“Omen wards!” The seller prompted when Oleg hefted one in his palm. Much of the gold set into the grooves of the bark was painted on. “Grown in the catacombs themselves. Grace is within that wood, Sir. Grace enough to bring fortune and repel Curseborn beasts!”

“The catacombs,” Oleg echoed. His tone was flatter than he’d intended it to be. “Sounds illegal.”

The carver winked at him. The man’s grin was a gentle dismissal. If he didn’t intend to play along, he needed to occupy himself elsewhere. It was just as well.

The nearby artists were glad to garner Oleg’s attention. They saw his clothes and believed him wealthy enough to consider a frivolous purchase for his non-existent mantle. He disappointed them, choosing to follow muted giggles down a narrower street instead. There was art here, too. Art that captured Oleg’s interest thoroughly.

He wondered if looking at such graven images was blasphemy. For the golden-haired man depicted in the sequestered gallery was certainly Lord Morgott. Except he had doffed his Lordly vestments and instead wore what Oleg assumed to be Badlands fashions. In one, a lion pelt became a cowl. In another, a loin cloth left little to the imagination. Most of the renderings bared a chest broad and densely haired. Sometimes, Morgott brandished a massive axe. Sometimes his knuckles were bloodied. It was all very titillating. But what Oleg enjoyed most was picturing Morgott’s reaction to these whimsical icons; he would be disapproving, of course. With a deeply-lined frown and a burgeoning sneer. Perhaps he would blush- mottled and half-hidden by the fall of his wavy hair.

It was only until one of the artists snagged his gaze expectantly that Oleg’s face warmed. He argued with himself.

Who are you kidding? Go on and buy one.

And do what with it?

The same as all the other fools here. Ogle it!

What would it matter? It isn’t the true man, anyway.

The artist was skilled, certainly. But an appreciative understanding of the Grace Given Lord had not guided their hand. They hadn’t smudged charcoal beneath a bruised eye. The art erased his Lordly bearing to substitute a barbarism that was profoundly lacking the proud ferocity Oleg had experienced for himself.

They did not know who he really was.

“Sir?”

The artist prompted again, and Oleg shook his head apologetically. He left the alley hot under his collar. And with his ears ringing, he almost missed the peal of the churches' bells. There were countless places of worship in the city. The Capital was designed to nurture the soul from birth to death. But the festival had congregated around a particularly fancy one. Not as grand as the Erdtree Sanctuary, but damn near close.

Tributaries of people joined the steady stream of faithful. An empty stage erected in the main square parted the current like a boulder in a river. Oleg shuffled inside the church with the throng. The pews were filled quickly, but Oleg was happy to idle in the back. He leaned against the wall, not caring whether dust or wax smudged his finery.

Leyndell was the City Without Night. It was never dark when the Erdtree glowed so incandescently. The black curtains were drawn, basking the chapel and congregation with golden warmth.

The doors of the church could not close. Still, more people pressed forth. A choir settled them with hymns. The music of the Golden Order did not accommodate lyrics. Words were for prayers. Songs were as meticulously constructed as their laws. Each chord orchestrated to be resonating, flawless, and bracing. There was no drum to keep beat- no one so much as tapped a foot. Yet the notes lilted and shifted with synchronicity. Like wind blowing through the Erdtree’s boughs. In ripples, people quieted. Oleg was likewise enraptured.

He perked, however, when the pastor appeared, trailing after the chorus's final, chiming chord like ash to a bell. Oleg recognized the man instantly. He felt naked without the anonymity of his silver armor. Even with an entire congregation separating him from the Justiciar.

“Pastor Olivier typically gave this sermon,” Tolbren smiled. “May ye forgive me for assuming his responsibility, this celebration.”

Oleg was familiar enough with the dead man’s name: his targets discussed him often enough. Grief touched dozens of people about the shoulders and brows. Made them sag with sadness. Oleg was relieved he hadn’t been sworn to murder this beloved man of the faith.

“May we begin with remembrance. As law and history are hewn into the Erdtree, may we keep both in our spirits. Pastor Olivier was friend and father to many. Though he dwelleth in the roots, ‘tis no strange thing to mourn.”

Tolbren stood before a shut curtain. It was made of finer material than Leyndell’s blackout drapes. Oleg’s attention wandered to the ripples in the shining fabric. The Councilor’s saccharine words sat stagnant in his ear- breeding flies.

“When the Pastor took ill, he commissioned one final work. A work of glory, majesty, and pure love. For Olivier was a keeper of Order and a man of tremendous love- for our city and Lord. May we rejoice in this remembrance.”

The curtain parted, and Oleg beheld a familiar glare. The heavy brow, the dug-in scowl, the golden chops threaded silver. The iris of pure Grace. The distant skyline of Leyndell was his mantle- the arched branches of the Erdtree a halo. Flowing robes of white and gold granted him ephemeral volume. Gave him silken roots in the embroidered cobbles. A brown mourner’s veil was tangled in his blonde locks. As if it had been cast off by an unseen wind.

The gathered did not share in Oleg’s stunned surprise. They erupted with joyful adoration.

“Fury! Damnation! And love’s plunging blade!” Justiciar Tolbren shouted, excited by the electrified congregation. “Recall ye the legend Pastor Olivier immortalized for us. Lord Morgott, made tender by the Eternal Queen’s sorrow, mourned his lost brother all the long pilgrimage homeward. He veiled his face, so that his first sight with Graced eye would be the beauty of his birthplace! Alas!” The Councilor was driven to a fervent passion. Oleg stared at the apocryphal tapestry. This story was a lie. And yet Tolbren recounted it with exultation “-Morgott passed through Leyndell’s gates and found a city besieged! By monsters and fiends! Desecrators of Grace had emerged from Below!”

The Morgott made of thread held a massive, curved sword. The blade was pointed downward, and Oleg’s gaze followed its sinuous shape.

Into a gray chest pelted with white fur.

The visage of Margit was more accurate than the tavern drawings he’d studied all those weeks ago. But they had been more dignified. Brown blood oozed where Morgott stabbed Margit. Bereft of the fiery gold and human crimson and beautiful, chromatic shine Omen blood possessed. Streaks of it stained his gaping maw- which was lined with far too many crooked fangs and spewed a jet of red flame. His silver hair was a wild, filthy mane. He was burdened with more horns than the genuine Margit, especially along his shoulders and tail.

“As Queen Marika the Eternal cursed and enslaved the last living Giant, Lord Morgott- for he was undoubtedly a Lord- cursed the Fell Omen Margit and took him as his leal beast. Habilitated the feral mongrel into a creature loyal to the Golden Order!”

People jeered through the cheering, and Oleg was nauseous.

“The Grace Given and the Graceless Omen. May we heed from their tale the importance of our Grace.”

Tolbren’s booming voice was a claw behind Oleg’s eyes. Grace. It was given to all freely. Upon birth every living thing was lovingly brushed with the mark of the divine. Aye, the whole of the congregation had been granted a most precious gift.

“The gravest of all of God’s curses is to have Grace hewn from the soul. The First Elden Lord’s Grace was severed by Queen Marika’s decree with the promise that it would be renewed to him and his peoples’ descendants. It is an adversity Lord Morgott surpassed. Even those divested of Grace can be its stewards again.”

Did Oleg imagine the splinter in the mask of his reverence? The leveling of his tone and the curl of his lip? Did the splinter quell his disdain, so that he could spit venom towards Margit whilst praising his palatable counterpart? Oleg was unsure how to reconcile it- until the Justiciar continued.

“However! The curse of the Omen is threefold: Form, Spirit, and Blood- all tainted. The Queen did not revoke the Grace of the Curseborn, thus it cannot be returned. The kindhearted among ye shall be tempted to pity. Compassion for the Curseborn is wasteful. I shall tell ye why.”

The sway of the crowd betrayed to Oleg that this sermon was indulgent. Justiciar Tolbren’s fiery eyes confirmed it. The morning groaned over Oleg’s head- a rotted beam chewed by termites and overburdened. The anti-Omen wards. The cut pastry horns oozing jammy blood. The gorgeous tapestry of Margit being dominated and tamed.

In his meager education, Oleg believed that the Laws of Regression and Causality revealed the interconnectedness of all things. The convergence of life towards Order. To him, the oneness described had sounded lovely. Everyone could belong.

Morgott had sent him here to learn, and learn he did.

“Disorder of Form: the first and most obvious,” Tolbren preached. “The human body is imbued with that of the animal. ‘Tis melded with bestial parts. ‘Tis the unholy brand of an era before Order.”

Oleg had rarely contemplated the Age before Order. If people spoke of it, it was granted the same consideration as myth. How else could modern people conceive of a nightmarish era where humanity was a mash of traits and there had existed no singular ideal. Had there once existed a world where Margit could be no more remarkable than anyone shuddering in this church?

“The second is the Circumventing Spirit. The Greater Will, through the Erdtree, has mastery over death. All those touched by its Grace are beckoned to the roots for eventual rebirth. The Graceless are forsaken. Yet the Curseborn commune with the spurned. Those wraiths lend power to the Circumventing Spirit, and thus interfere with the Order’s doctrine of Death.”

Oleg did not fear death. He’d come close to it on countless occasions, and he had delivered it in staggering numbers. He had always been soothed by the eternity of his soul even if ‘Oleg’ the man would vanish. Lady Arteya, who had wept in pain at his feet, was currently cradled in Grace’s embrace. If Margit died… would he really roam in agony forever?

“The third and most egregious is the Vessel of Sin- Omen blood. Order’s first commandment is the admonishment of fire. Lo, the Eternal Queen and the First Elden Lord drove the Fell-worshiping Giants to extinction, and thus removed the fangs of their ruinous flame. She vanquished the Gloam-eyed Queen and her God-burning Black flame. Fire is the enemy of the Erdtree, thus fire is the Cardinal Sin. Omen blood burns… Omen are to be shunned or destroyed.”

Oleg left.

He bore the disapproving frowns of the faithful as he shouldered his way to the exit. His clothes were wrinkled and sweat made sticky his brow when he emerged beneath the Erdtree’s light. Even then, he wished he could be without it for one moment. Just one.

An instant without Grace. What would it feel like?

Oleg’s fingers tingled; he balled them into fists at his side. He hadn’t recalled an Order’s service ever being so vitriolic.

Was it more vitriolic than before, or is the cotton finally out of your ears? He challenged himself. You’ve never cared for a Curseborn until now.

Oleg was distracted by flashes of color and applause. Players now scuttled upon the stage in the square. Most of them wore ragged, moth-eaten pelts. Cosmetics derived from ash made their hands and faces gray. Headdresses and bracers laden with carved, lightweight driftwood made them appear as though horns sprouted from their arms and heads. Masks with painted eyes- devoid of gold- obscured their own. Another player opposite them was tall and broad. A gauzy veil covered his face.

He swung a prop sword, and chromatic ribbons spilled from pantomimed wounds. The audience clapped as dyed linen ‘blood’ flew across their upturned faces. Children squealed as the Omen players milked their death throes for laughs.

“Thou thinkest thyself a man?” the veiled actor snarled at the final Omen player. He brandished his wooden blade and the ‘Omen’ whimpered.

The veiled player cast off his heavy brown robe to reveal his practically exposed body. He was certainly… muscular. He presented his oiled bulk to the Omen and the audience before he cast off the veil. His face was especially handsome- eyes and cheekbones tinted with gold that made his profile ethereally bright.

“A true man stands before thee!”

The audience tittered their delight. Swooned and chuckled at the borderline salacious retelling of Morgott’s legend. The actor’s attempts at the Steward’s speech were stilted and woefully lacking. But fine art was not what the audience had gathered to see.

“Thou’rt a worm in comparison, Creature!” ‘Morgott’ crowed. He posed for the crowd as the Omen sniveled.

“Aye! A worm! A worm!”

“Fret not, Fiend. Bear this leash, and be raised to a hound! Aye, a hound loyal- if stinking-” this sneered as an aside to the audience. “-for the Order!”

‘Morgott’ removed his rope belt and looped it around ‘Margit’s’ throat loosely. As he thanked the merciful Lord for the gift of servitude, ‘Morgott’ placed a boot upon the kneeling Omen’s backside. Such mirth. The crowd roared.

The morning had been most educational. Oleg’s newfound wisdom was aching and smoldering.

He’d had enough.

—--------------------------------------------------

Morgott sat alone in a terrace garden. It was square, barely larger than a modest chapel. Choked with shrubs and lilies. Their fragrance was sweet in the way only florals could be. Cool like crushed mint in the back of the throat.

By the pale, periwinkle petals, Oleg knew them to be Trina’s lilies. He’d never seen so many. When the flowers began to wilt, they could be made into the most powerful soporific known to the Lands Between. A draught that few could afford but was sought after all the same.

One flower, the color of a bruise, lay in the Lord’s lap. It was limp as he twirled the stem in his fingers. His good eye was distant.

“What business, Knight?” He asked. Quiet and acerbic. “I granted thee leave.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

Oleg itched. There was fire under his skin and lightning at his fingertips. He’d been broiling every step from the thoroughfare to the palace. Steam lifted from him, that evaporating anger. All the furious words he’d carried slipped through his fingers.

Morgott was dressed resplendently. In pure whites trimmed with gold. Silver chain- polished to pearl- gleamed between the folds of silk. He was celestial and warbound all at once. It was as though he’d leapt from the tapestry the Justiciar had unveiled. The likeness was immaculate. Purposeful.

“I…I thought you might want a report…” Oleg was utterly disarmed.

“I require nothing from thee,” the Lord’s terse reply. “Was I unclear? This day is thine. Yet thou wouldst squander it dogging my heels.”

“You know what they celebrate below?”

“My homecoming,” Morgott growled. Though it was drowsily muted. “As the people wish to remember it. I have preparations to make, Sellsword, and thou’rt wasting my time.”

A half-dozen plucked lilies were scattered about Morgott’s feet. Every flower crumpled or chewed.

The smell of crushed petals was nauseating. Everything was instantly sickening. From the broth Oleg had sipped to the jam-stuffed horns he’d smelled- the jest of mutilation. He was suddenly so tired.

“Justiciar Tolbren hates Margit. They all do.”

He blurted it, though his splinter twinged. His words were seamlessly sifted into a finer substance, but his intent remained intact. It was a relief to have the tarry discomfort be excised from him. To have it erupt as magma. The pressure had been mounting since he’d left the chapel.

Lord Morgott was unreactive. Unmoved by Oleg’s outburst, and- judging by the neutral scowl of his expression- he was unsurprised. His fingers rubbed at the lily’s stem in his lap.

“Margit scorns pity, Knight. Thine is no exception.”

He rose from the stone bench. Smoothed the fabric to uncrease the embroidered sigil of the Erdtree upon his chest. He crossed the terrace, barefooted. The train of his robes was nearly bridal. The dark veil he pulled over his eye. The brilliance of Grace gilt his breeze-tousled hair. All that was missing was a sword. And an Omen to plunge it into.

“How can you stand it?”

The question slipped past Oleg’s teeth. The choking manifestation of his sizzling anger. The splinter was twinging its warnings. Preparing to gag him. But it hadn’t rescued him from this misstep.

Lord Morgott sighed. “Begone, Knight. If I see thee before moonrise…”

He didn’t finish his presumed threat. The desire for ferocity had been dulled. He just shook his head, tossed the lily aside, and retreated.

Leaving Oleg to gag on the reek of Trina’s flowers.

Notes:

I do know that Maliketh is the one that technically defeated the Gloam Eyed Queen. But it felt snappier to attribute Marika for the quote.

Anyway! The tapestry is meant to look something like classic depictions of St. George and the Dragon (minus the horse). It was a concept I was thinking of a few months ago when contemplating how the average Leyndell citizen would view Morgott's return and Margit's presence. Also, something something Morgott's duality and how the art also captures his own internal conflict.

Oleg is... kinda figuring out Morgott hates himself, too. ;;

I try to do some bare-minimum research into period-accurate foods and materials. But I don't care if fried dough horns didn't exist back then. The morbidity of the concept stuck with me too fiercely.

Chapter 12: Bathhouse

Chapter Text

Oleg was accustomed to waking before sunrise. But he swore Morgott never slept. When dawn was no more than a sliver of amber promise- marred by stars and outdone by the Erdtree’s brilliance- Oleg would find his Lord dressed and groomed and wakeful. Oftentimes, he would already be pacing his empty wing of the royal palace. If not, he would be sat ramrod at an overburdened desk. His nose centimeters from a book and his fingers tapping away at wood and paper, antsy.

Not much transpired in their scant minutes of true solitude. Conversation, if it was had, was one-sided and terse. Morgott grumbled out orders, and Oleg responded with obligatory acknowledgements. The knight would never describe his Lord as amicable. But as time stretched itself out into a stagnant cycle of days, he felt as though the barbs on Morgott’s tongue were being excised one by one. Quips and complaints of Oleg’s perceived tardiness smoothed out to tolerable silences gently caressed with the rustle of paper and birdsong.

“Good morning, Oleg.”

“My Lord.”

The steward passed a fold of parchment to his knight. It bore no seal, but it would have made no difference if it had. Morgott read all of Oleg and Engvall’s correspondence. As per their agreement. Oleg accepted it numbly. For his name had never sounded like that when formed by his Lord’s lips. Decadently rich and practically welcome.

That was the extent of their interaction. Morgott strode to a window and threw back the curtains. Oleg assumed his usual post by the door. In this transitory, gray moment between night and duty, Oleg could have read Engvall’s letter. Instead, he tucked it into his boot. Even if the Demigod already knew the contents, Oleg would keep the dignity of privacy to read them. He wondered what his Lord was thinking about as he stared at the gilt horizon.

After a few wordless minutes, they both fell into their routine. Leyndell’s Lord marched from his quarters, and Oleg followed meters behind.

Oleg had come to realize that his Lord had little time for himself. Before he was inundated with the Steward’s duties, Morgott did whatever he fancied.

And sometimes he fancied haunting his Council.

The man named Iren was most frightened of him.

Whenever Lord Morgott was in sight, his easy demeanor sloughed off him with a sticky sheen of sweat. This morning, Leyndell’s Steward sipped tea on a terrace. The nearby Councilor trembled so terribly his wine spilled across his knuckles and stained the cuffs of his sleeves. Even though Morgott never so much as glanced in his direction.

Beneath them, the percussion of clashing swords forged discordance into the chorus of Leyndell’s songbirds. Their melodies were punctuated with goaded shouts and laughter. Iren flinched at the sound of steel striking steel.

Conflict was culture. The oneness sought by the Golden Order would be earned with friendship and won with warfare. Many tiered gardens were constructed around ornate training floors. Drooping vines and fragrant blooms crowded the balconies that surrounded the courtyard Helian and Tolbren oft utilized for their practice. It was not unusual for them to spar in the early morning. They were not alone, however. Oleg had to muster all his discipline not to crane and gape at the accompanying pair of Crucible Knights.

Godfrey’s Old Guard in the flesh.

And worse, the aged Councilors were holding their own.

Despite the size advantage he had over his fellow, Helian fought like a dancer on a frozen lake. His footing was immaculate. One might mistake his fluidity for uncertainty… if they were a fool. He wielded a treespear, and he attacked as if each thrust could unravel a person to their basest elements. To cords of arteries and shreds of Grace.

Tolbren, on the other hand, was the reckless one. With a shield strapped to one arm, he withstood blows to push into his opponents’ guard. In a real fight, Oleg was sure the wild swings of his mace would prove debilitating.

Oleg was entranced by the bout. The Crucible Knights’ hefty swings couldn’t be blocked by Tolbren’s shield. But he compensated with fury and mobility. A well-timed roll gave him the opportunity to strike the back of the Knight’s knee, buckling them for a breath. He leaped, shouting, for an overhead strike. The Crucible Knight thwarted Tolbren with an earthshaking stomp that enveloped them in a barrier of gold. Thus, Tolbren was momentarily unbalanced.

Oleg imagined thrusting his sword at the man- halting his movement with a perilous gale. All he’d have to do was break his guard-

The second Knight lunged at Helian with their horned shield. The General had dodged their sword gracefully. But he was uprooted by the charge. The spear seemed a poor match- until the old General sidestepped the Knight and spun the spear over his head to bring the tip to the back of the Knight’s helm. Hardly a deathblow to a helmed opponent, but it was flashy. Easily parryable too.

“Lord Morgott.”

Oleg was dragged away from his study. His Lord retreated from the balcony to meet the newcomer.

It was Godrick, striding into the daylight in a magnificent cocoon of green and orange garb. A shortsword was sheathed upon his leather belt. He possessed a firmer constitution than he had the day Oleg first met him. Perhaps his fierce scowl staved his weakness.

Lady Phelia also dogged the Demigod’s heels. Her tan dress was utterly outdone by Godrick’s opulence. Iren looked as if he wished to sink through the floor with his tea and bread.

“Thou’rt here,” the youngest Demigod remarked cynically.

“Of course,” Morgott answered. “Do I make it habit to refuse thy summons?”

Godrick panted. The exertion of his proud march flagged after him. He dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. Morgott towered over him, but he was fearless.

“I wish to visit Stormveil.”

Lady Phelia was already shaking her head. Her hands tucked against her sides to pluck anxiously at loosened threads. “I would not recommend such an undertaking, Lord. The roads are becoming unsafe…”

“Strange,” Godrick deadpanned. “Morgott made the journey himself mere months ago. Yet here he stands unscathed.”

The Councilor of Trade and Transport purpled with an ugly flush. “Arteya did not return!”

“Nor did her escort,” Morgott added coolly. Oleg clenched his jaw beneath his helm.

He couldn’t quite claim that guilt had taken root in his heart, but it was trying its damnedest to germinate. Oleg had killed a lot of people- for goals noble and ignoble. But he’d rarely stuck around to witness the consequences of that bloodshed. Phelia’s wobbly-lipped frustration was difficult to bear. At least it was directed at the Demigods rather than him.

“Please. My Lord, you are vital-”

Godrick chuckled. Rich and viciously joyful. Phelia was silenced instantly.

“I do not think it a wise endeavor.” Morgott lent the weight of his voice.

“I am not seeking permission.” Godrick sneered, “I am no more a child than Miquella is. I am the descendant of the Dragonfriend. I will see my father.”

Those pale spider hands grasped the balcony rail as though it were the handle to a sword. The Grace in his rheumy eyes was beautiful. This was as much a battle for him as any fought with seals and steel. Morgott tilted his chin a fraction. Godrick bore the agony of his consideration.

“Thou wilt return.” It was not a question.

“Aye, Uncle. Do I not claim Leyndell as my home?”

“Thou wilt be absent from the ball.”

“Bah!” Godrick waved a veined hand dismissively. Morgott pinned a creeping grin to his cheek with teeth.

“Then go. Let no one keep thee.”

Godrick offered no thanks. But Morgott did not appear as though he anticipated any. The limp besieged Godrick’s gait once more as he departed to the palace stable where a carriage would carry him southward. He was barely out of earshot before Phelia moaned:

“This is a mistake.”

“Thou’rt shortsighted,” the Grace Given replied tersely. “Godrick is no fool. Nor am I. Either the Lands Between is upon the brink of ruin or it is as peaceful as the spring of Queen Marika’s Age. To keep Godefroy from his son is to lose Limgrave. To treat Godrick as a prisoner in his own home is to give up his loyalty.”

“V-very well, but these decisions must be made with us all.”

“I chose nothing. Godrick chose for himself.”

Phelia’s teeth worried on her lip before she scuttled into the palace. Iren swiftly followed her.

Morgott sighed. And Oleg found himself echoing him.

The Lord turned to his knight- who expected a sour rebuke. Instead, Morgott bent to whisper in his ear: “Join me in the royal bathhouse when dinner is concluded.”

—---------------------------------------

The Palace bathhouse roared.

The floors were marble and tile. The walls sweat from the humidity. The air itself was heavy, as though it might begin raining at any moment. Indeed, a separate climate flourished here. Steam rolled as languid clouds. It shimmered gold, and spots like Erdleaves danced on every surface.

It was magic that suffused the creeping fog. It passed through a barrier of gold. Oleg paused before it, perplexed. The steam refracted its glow. And Oleg was struck with the foolish notion that the enchanted obstruction guarded a realm holier than a mundane bathhouse.

“Enter.” The Steward’s voice issued from behind the barrier. “Thou’rt permitted.”

Oleg crossed the threshold. Perhaps holy light seared his vision, and perhaps unseen thorns snagged at his limbs through his armor. But two strides delivered him to the Royal baths whole.

Morgott was there, expectant. The stained-glass screens behind him made a backdrop of etched reedmace and white water lily. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his illusory visage was otherwise perfect. Almost uncannily so. The splinter seemed to twinge in warning.

“Fret not, Sellsword,” The Lord said. “Tis a simple ward. It cannot harm. It merely obstructs.”

“Your ward?”

“Aye. These baths are the only place in all of Leyndell I may place such a seal without suspicion. That I might conceal any room with an unbreakable ward doth distress my fair Council.”

It was more than that, however. Oleg had enjoyed the privilege of watching Morgott train in the sparring yards. Morgott could handle the weight of a hammer, the balance of a spear, the finesse of a sword. And with incantations he could arm himself with any weapon he pleased. Oleg had heard the Justiciar’s grumbling. That such magic wasn’t his to wield. A sentiment he could never expound upon thanks to the splinter’s interference. But Oleg understood enough.

“Unbreakable?” Oleg echoed. He removed his helm. “Is it truly?”

“If the clauses determined upon its weaving remain unmet, aye. It standeth as unyielding as Law.”

Oleg indulged in some silent awe. He was no more schooled in Erdtree or Order magic than he had been that day in the library. But Morgott’s use of holy incantations seemed unique to him. A mixture of Carian sorceries sculpted with the light and life of Erdtree magic. He made things of lethal beauty from sheer will.

Morgott slipped behind the screen. Oleg could still see him, but he was made into a gray shadow amongst glass flowers.

“These weeks were to be thine education. Recount to me what thou hast learned.”

The Steward’s silhouette paced. His bearing was humorlessly stiff- shoulders drawn back and hands fussing at his temples. Mid-stride he changed. The shadow of him stretched. Was pulled and warped as though pinched by Godly fingers. His chest broadened. The tail sublimated from the steam and the mantle of horns sprouted.

Margit stood on the other side of the screen. He had exploded from the Steward’s stately form. A growly sigh roiled over the low tidal rasps of running water.

He wasn’t wearing his cloak, Oleg realized with a start. The shape of the Omen’s body was revealed. He was wide in the chest and narrow in the hips. His arms and legs were proportionally longer than a man's. And by the soft outline of his shoulders, chest, and thighs, he was practically pelted.

His silhouette sank into the floor as he stepped into the bath. Until all Oleg could make out was the horned head and the contour of his trapezius.

“Well,” Oleg inhaled. Bloodshed was their aim, and yet he had to brace himself to speak honestly about Leyndell’s rulers. Even at a Demigod’s behest. “Councilor Iren is twitchier than a springhare.“ -Margit snorted at this- “He frequently bemoans a pain in his jaw and neck. He drinks to relieve it, even when the Perfumers Guild would be better suited. He whispers to his fellows his distrust of the Guild when they urge him to seek treatment. He swears they might attempt to poison him. He is… terrified of Lord Morgott.”

“For good reason,” Margit muttered. “What else?”

“The General and the Justiciar, I am loath to admit, are formidable.” And their hatred of Margit was by far the most intense. “Whether or not either man has seen a real battle makes little difference when they train with Crucible Knights.”

“My Lord Father’s former disciples are the least of their tutors. Tolbren and Helian were both students of Godwyn.”

This the Omen spat. Oleg was accosted with dread. The legacy of Godwyn the Golden- however small a piece- he was meant to slay. Could Grace flinch inside of a person?

“Ah!” Oleg smiled, taut. “In any other circumstance, I feel I might have clamored for the chance to cross blades with them.”

“Do not underestimate thyself, Sellsword,” Margit countered flatly. Oleg could not tell if he was being complimented or mocked. “And what of Councilors Phelia and Imopea?”

“Phelia is timider than Iren. I don’t imagine she will be easy to catch alone at a crowded ball. More importantly, Imopea is a diplomat. She is sensible and unobtrusive. Forgive me, but I believe she is rather invaluable to you right now. She is your bridge to several vassal states. I would not take her so soon.”

“So, thou hast a target in mind?”

“Iren.” The immediate answer. “His overindulgence is exploitable.”

Margit hummed, and Oleg was emboldened.

“Poison would be--”

“No.” Margit’s disapproval was immediate and sharp. “I did not commission the Perfumers to aid me in this. Nor is it ideal to lend credence to his ravings.”

“I see.”

“The idea is… not without merit.”

“A soporific, then.”.

Margit made a small noise that signified mild approval. Oleg was already threading the deliberate components of murder onto a cord. No one would bother with a dozing drunk. And unconscious drunks smothered themselves all the time. A soporific also wouldn't pose much danger if the wrong person was dosed…

“The kill must be bloodless,” Margit asserted.

Oleg understood. He could not rend flesh. He could not leave bruises. He voiced his acknowledgement and was met with a stony silence.

“Hast thou any objections?” Margit murmured. “I have bid thee bloody thy blades, Sellsword. But now I command thee take the life of a defenseless man. ‘Twould be a stain upon thine honor. Even for a knight of the bannerless order.”

Oleg was uncomfortable with the realization that he was not, in fact, perturbed by his task. He coughed, cleared his throat, and spoke earnestly:

“Councilor Iren will be lucky to die ignorant of his betrayal. He will go to the roots, same as Lady Arteya.” Oleg watched steam curl around his gleaming greaves. He swore he could feel Engvall’s letter searing an accusatory brand into his calf. “My honor is already tarnished, Margit.”

But did he think less of him for it?

“Indeed,” Margit sniffed. Then, “Wherefore wert thou banished, Knight?”

Oleg had anticipated the question for a while. He had still hoped Margit would remain apathetic about that part of his past.

“If you promise not to mock me.”

“I shall make no promise, and thou wilt tell me all the same.”

“I was young,” Oleg began. He unearthed forty-year-old memories. He thought he had buried them beneath Trina’s lilies and drink. But they came to him at the slightest beckoning. “Barely a man. I was a knight for a Viscount of the Weeping Peninsula.”

Motherless and fatherless overnight. His days were consumed by work. Until he was old enough to hold a sword, and he could begin scraping for the love that had been scoured from him. He’d looked to the Viscount first. The man that owned him could certainly be a father. He trained, he excelled, and he caught another’s eye.

“I became close with the noble’s youngest son,” Oleg paused. Blushed. And blushed harder when Margit made a noise in his throat.

“I see. Didst thy master disapprove?”

Marika’s Golden Age was abundant. Still, there wasn’t much to spare for the youngest scions in some houses. Oleg’s dark-haired boy would be heir to nothing. A pity, because he was amazing. Oleg basked in his fathomless intelligence. The boy knew exactly what should be grown in the Peninsula’s forever-warm soils to be sold north for the winter. He knew the anatomy of ships. The uses for every flower. He told Oleg stories and made him believe them. The Demigods had never felt so real than when they had been woven by his voice.

“Not at all,” Oleg confessed.

Youngest children could do as they liked as long as they weren’t too ambitious. And loving Oleg was hardly an ambition at all.

“One night, the castle was sacked. We were caught unawares. My liege was imperiled. I recall… I ran past the intruders. I left him. I sought his son, my lover, and stayed with him. I think he tried to… tell me, but….”

In one hand he gripped his sword. The other was claimed by his Love. Oleg hadn’t had time to don his armor. He was in his night clothes and leather bracers. And all the while the black-haired boy massaged the bones in his hand. He did not relent even as whooping, triumphant howls thundered up the young noble’s spire. The man planted a kiss upon his fingers, and Oleg was certain he could cut through an entire battalion to ensure his safety.

It was remarkable how much shame the memory brought.

“It had been a coup all along. Orchestrated by him. His family he killed for his own gain. I let it happen. I put my blade through his sister’s heart, when she dared to defend against him.”

A mink she was. Sly and vicious. She’d leapt from a stair, axe in hand. Oleg’s Love was holding his father’s detached head in victory. She’d hit the ground gurgling, ribs crushed and choking. When love steered Oleg, blood was the price. Even now when he slept, he dreamt of her death mask. They’d grown up together.

“The boy did not love thee,” Margit rumbled dryly. Not nearly as disdainful as Oleg would have expected.

“Oh, no,” Oleg protested softly. Relieved, because Margit could have eviscerated him with any other declaration. “He did. Every other man and woman sworn to his father was hanged. I was the only one banished.”

Margit sniffed, “Come, Sellsword.”

His voice did not lean upon Sellsword so reproachfully. But it invoked little comfort. Oleg could rely upon his hands to remain steady. But he could feel the traitorous sting of his eyes. He possessed no wound greater than this, and he had presented its festering to his liege.

Margit was reclined in the waters. The flame of his eye undoused. Flowers floated in the water amongst blots of soap and oils. No Trina’s lilies, thankfully, to make the floral scents nauseating.

Oleg was unsure where to look. Margit was thickly furred across his shoulders and chest. Downy, silvery-white hair dusted muscled abdominals and forearms. Oleg’s fleeting eyes snagged on scars. Where the fur was thin enough to see his skin, it was marred with a myriad of dark, violet marks. Toothsome semicircles and bruise-colored reminders of old wounds. A particularly knotted line scored his right pectoral. There were claw marks at his belly. Animal wounds. Like a seasoned lion.

“Thou hast spoken true,” the handsome beast remarked.

And Oleg’s gaze was banished at last.

“I would not lie to you. I'm not that much of a fool.”

“Indeed,” the Omen said. “Cast aside thy shame. Thou wert used as I use thee now. Banished Knight, treachery and foolishness are thy nature. I knew this when I sought thee.”

It wasn’t absolution, but it was a relief. In its own warped way. Margit would keep him. He would not be discarded by divine hands.

Not yet.

“Thank you, Margit.”

“Hmph.”

Margit pushed himself up from the water to sit at the bath’s edge. His upper arms, Oleg swore, were as big around as his own waist. Rivulets streamed down his body. Proper puddles pooled beneath his sopping tail and thighs. The fur of his chest and stomach were slicked down to silvery mats. The skin of his stomach sagged slightly, but the muscles beneath were prominent and defined.

Margit was applying soap to a bristled brush as Oleg stared at the line of hair that trailed down his torso to a densely furred crotch.

“Let us conclude here, Oleg,” Margit declared abruptly. “All that needs said hath been.”

Stupid, brash courage seized Oleg, brought on by Margit’s acceptance. It made kindling of his tarry misery. He bowed, “Might I ask one final question?”

“...If thou must.”

“Is the Grace Given Lord a fair dancer?”

Margit paused. The mask of his hard face visibly cracked. A tender shoot of mirth pushed up through unyielding stone. The lines around his mouth deepened as his lips quirked into the facsimile of a smile. Small and mildly ironic.

“Our Steward is a dreadful dancer.”

Chapter 13: Curse

Notes:

Forgive the clunky formatting of the letter at the very start. Apparently AO3 does not handle indents well unless you make a skin.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Friend,

With each letter I find myself compoundingly clogged. The words build but have no means of escape. I am overcome by a feeling I struggle to name. Though it has been with me since I was forced from my home. It cannot be grief, can it? Because you live. I have to assume it is truly you writing to me, and not some devious pretender. It cannot be anger, can it? Because you have not wronged me. Forgive me, Oleg, for feeling a sort of loss I am not entitled to. The road is lonely. I did not expect it to be so. You have said the Capital treats you well. But do not resent me for hoping one day you will return to my side again. A one-winged hawk is only so formidable.

With Love,
Engvall

There had been a curse laid upon the ink of that letter. Oleg no longer carried it with him, but every part of him it had grazed felt as though it were corroding. His fingertips numbed. His heart was set aflame. And his eyes… Surely it was no coincidence he kept revisiting that moment. The nettle sting of memory shrouded his vision.

I love you, he’d declared to the gray-soaked sky. Voice thick with the nasal drip of blood. He’d been marinating in a murky puddle. His ichor mixed with the muddy grit of the road. He couldn’t remember how he’d ended up there. He merely recalled the aftermath. Beside him, Engvall had knelt. Not quite so exsanguinated.

Ah… Oleg.

Engvall had a wife he was still pining for. And a child he hoped to one day meet again. There was nothing within him to reciprocate with.

Oleg was haunted in the fringes of the storm that was high society. He had been tossed by its tailwinds since dawn, when the Capital’s worldly guests had arrived with their glittering scarab retinues. Hailstones of shields and ceremonial blades marched alongside the sleet of gowns and robes. The humble courts of Viscounts and Baronesses and Earls gathered as chromatic clouds beneath their banners. A handful came from Limgrave or Liurnia. But most of the invitees hailed from the Plateau or the Mountaintops. The Northmen dressed in washed-out silvers and whites as if they had carried the permanent winter of the slopes with them southward.

The city’s thoroughfare was clogged with carriages. And though the court’s celebration didn’t include them formally, the common people spilled into the streets a sparkling deluge and made a party of their own. The scents of festival food had suffused the morning. Had buried the musk of horses and their waste. Not that many nobles dithered to bask in the jubilation of the common folk. They were ushered inside the palace and dazzled with the opulence earned by divine right and proximity to the Erdtree.

Not a single torch was lit, save for the sentry flames bestowed to the Tree Sentinels. Conjured lights filled filigree lanterns and drifted in the high ceilings like captured stars. Despite the polish on the marble floor, Erdleaves collected in gilt drifts. All of Leyndell was embraced by the life-giving Erdtree.

A statue of Elden Lord Radagon watched their procession to the Erdtree Sanctuary, where Morgott awaited them to play host. Oleg drew up the rear with the other golden knights. He rather felt like a wolf in a pack loping after an oblivious herd.

But perhaps that was only because he was aware of the death he harbored in his armor- that he would deliver in mere hours.

The hunt would have to wait, however, until every Rold Medallion had been relinquished to the Grace Given.

Lord Morgott sat a modest throne in the Erdtree Sanctuary. He wore a billowing robe of ceremonial gold. Icons of the Erdtree were emblazoned on his chest in white. Embroidered Erdleaves and roots twined up the sleeves. They reminded the gathered that they had not come solely to dance and drain Leyndell’s wine cellar. Duty had commanded them foremost. After a lengthy prayer, Councilor Tolbren called up the monarch or patriarch of each noble house. So that they might affirm their loyalty to the Golden Order and relinquish the heirloom given to them by Godfrey.

Each noble approached with a bannerman as well as an heir or servant bearing the medallion. Each bowed, swore their oaths, and deposited the centuries-old key at the low, corpse wax candle-laden altar at Morgott’s feet. Many appeared begrudging. The Kaiden especially, who had flourished in the Mountaintops after settling it with Godfrey’s blessing. Morgott’s expression was dour, but he was not ungracious. Not even to those who could not hide their distaste. Morgott had enough of Godfrey’s presence and Queen Marika’s holiness to entice the cooperation of all.

Their misgivings would be soothed at the ball, anyhow.

The final noble was a Liurnian woman. Dark-haired and blue-eyed- save for the telltale mark of Grace. Her house colors were blue and violet, and she wore them as if she were draped in night. On her banner, a coiled octopus tentacle clutched at glintstone and was pierced by spears. She reached for Lord Morgott’s hand- the sole person of the score to do so. The Lord, shockingly, relented. The Lady brought Morgott’s hand to her lips. It was gentle, reverent. After all, she was swearing fealty to the Capital and not greeting a friend. Her pursed lips graced his ring. Oleg burned with a fierce and sudden envy as Grace-flecked, blue eyes gazed at the Steward through thick lashes. As Morgott pinkened ever so faintly with blush.

The image- devastating and dear- transfigured Oleg from a wolf into a man again. His hunt was abandoned at the ensuing feast. He was overheated and parched. He drank wine with the other knights when it was time for them to eat. He stole away to drink more, after. Cursed by the memory of a wet, bared chest covered in fur and scars- of a sad, mythical warrior in white surrounded by lilies.

He was frustrated with himself. With the doomed cycle of his emotions. He had fallen in love with a Viscount’s spare son and had lost everything for it. He had fallen in love with Engvall and suffered the curse of feelings unrequited. And now…

You are a fool. He reminded himself. Though the message was forced to wade through the quagmire of encroaching inebriation. You are desperate and pathetic and lonely. You would fall for any man that hangs around you long enough.

However searing the condemnation- however burning the drink- it was powerless against the nausea chewing at him as looked towards the eye of revelry’s storm. Past the gilt guard and the bejeweled heads of the envoy guests. To the court of Leyndell and its gleaming, holy Lord.

Margit was a liar. Morgott was an exceedingly fine dancer.

He stood out, of course, because he was a head taller than even the loftiest reveler. A plain diadem sat upon his brow. Its auric tines sprouted from his hair like tree’s branches. Or horns. The ephemeral robe was replaced with a waistcoat and trousers of pale brown and blue. A cloak of gold was still clasped around his shoulders.

If he danced with a partner, he made an effort to not touch them- something no one seemed to resent. Oleg was no less enraptured than the rest of Leyndell’s court during the Saltarello. The wine was bitter on his lips, yet he quaffed it. Morgott had always invoked the image of a proud lion. But his nimble, effortless grace made him into something beyond animal comparison

Morgott was a different person under the Veil- not a stranger, just different. His Omen self was, by all rights, nothing. Somehow less than nothing to the luminary minds of Leyndell. Yet in the shape of the Steward- of Marika’s blonde and beautiful son- he was relaxed. Nearly gregarious. To a point.

Oleg supposed he understood. The armor of a banished knight was the uniform for all who bore the dishonorable distinction. So, though it was meant to attract shame and derision, it could also grant a shield of anonymity. Margit was the true face, and though Margit could claim all the authority afforded a hound, he was burdened with social restrictions that Morgott could shirk. And shirk them he did. He had gotten what he’d wanted out of the ball, and he was celebrating.

Morgott broke away at last when a carole began. Oleg trailed after his Lord, thoughtlessly, as any knight would.

“Halt, Knight.”

Oleg obeyed, because today he was not Morgott’s anything. He was reduced to a common guard- at the whim of every highborn present. His cup was stolen from his hands.

“Don’t s’grace your post,” the stern admonishment. “Have some water, Friend.”

What post?

Even the voice in Oleg’s mind was hazy and slow.

Morgott had dressed him in a kit of Leyndell hue. The Erdtree was stamped into his breastplate. One sword was sheathed at his hip; the steel might have crackled with lightning, but he sensed no storm inside. His ‘post’ was indeed a farce. This was a party. The knights were as much part of the decor as the lanterns or the embossed serving trays. No one else had noticed or cared that wine and beer had accompanied Oleg all night.

Not that Oleg’s prey sounded any less soggy. Councilor Iren wasn’t entirely firm on his feet. He drained the glass he’d taken from Oleg. If his head weren’t elsewhere, Oleg might have laughed at the audacity.

“Lord Morgott-”

“Is going to be sick over the railing,” Iren blurted. “Leave him to it.”

Oleg was stunned into silence. But that hardly dissuaded Iren from bleating further: “You seem alarmed? Don’t be, Good Knight. S’regular for the- the Steward. So much rich food and drink… He didn’t have the luxury in the… the… uh, Badlands. Not that the lilies help. Arteya was going to wean him off of those. Ah… Arteya…”

Oleg was a gilt statue in Iren’s feeble grip as the distant din of retching crawled beneath the drums and flute and fiddle.

“Ah, there he goes spewing. What did I tell you? Stay here, stay here. S’morti…fying enough hearing it. Do not draw attention.”

Muted coughing tapped the balcony doors in a wet staccato just meters away. The vial of soporific tied to the inside of Oleg’s greaves dug into his skin. It was an anchoring pinch in the cognitive mire Iren seemed keen to drag him beneath. Here was his chance to do his duty. A sorry hunt it had been. The hare had curled up right inside his jaws.

Oleg stooped to grab the vial.

“Oh, no, Good Knight!” Iren giggled. “Do not topple!”

Then Morgott marched back inside. Pale and mirthless. The very sight of him spooked Oleg’s hare. Iren’s hand fled Oleg’s arm to clutch his own jaw before he melted back into the crowd. Escaping from the wrong predator.

No matter. Oleg slunk after Iren like a ferret in a warren, only bumping a table once. Or twice. He really shouldn’t have drunk so much.

It probably didn’t help that Oleg’s focus kept snagging on Morgott. On the flash of his cape and the polished diadem. On the handsome scowl that vanished in a blink.

The Lord had been intercepted. The Liurnian woman from before crossed his path and trapped him in conversation. Oleg, however ignorant and inebriated, figured the black-haired, blue-eyed woman to be Carian. Some distant cousin or niece of Rennala. She certainly had the legs; the crown of her head was level with Morgott’s chin. Perhaps she was a sorcerer, or perhaps she was a ruling Lady of some small plot about the sodden lands. But she was also inoffensively unimportant.

After all, if she were so close- by blood- to any of Morgott’s stepsiblings, Oleg doubted he would be smiling at her so.

Oleg made a noise in his throat. Phlegmy with thirst. It was mirrored behind him.

“By the unmoving heavens,” Iren gasped.

The woman took Morgott’s hand. And the Lord- who snatched himself away from every errant touch no matter how benign- allowed it. His hand was a coarse paw in her dainty hold. Huge and hairy and lax with uncertainty. With her free hand, she gestured upwards, where questing vine-like limbs of the Erdtree snaked through open archways and windows without glass.

They exchanged unheard words for several minutes. The flurry of passing dancers prevented Oleg from reading their lips. Lines not born of a frown creased the Lord’s fair visage. Oleg’s heart was in his mouth. Right where his hare was meant to die.

“This is-! That is-!” Iren’s consternation couldn’t properly take form.

Oleg turned, “Is something the matter, Councilor?”

The alcohol leached some of the acidity from his tone. Even if it was terse, the little Councilor was too busy fretting to notice.

“Ah, I… I am uncertain if I can say,” Iren stammered. A strangely candid answer, despite all.

Morgott and the woman integrated themselves into the dance. The revelers gave them ample space. Everyone wanted to watch them. Everyone wanted to dance with him. Eyes lingered on their adjoined hands. Oleg was no exception.

“Perhaps we should both take your advice,” Oleg said dryly. “Might I fetch you some water, Councilor?”

“That is not a knight’s duty…”

“I insist.”

But Iren wasn’t listening to him anymore. He was staring at Morgott, same as half the attendees.

“Oh my.” Iren put his hand to his heart, and Oleg found he agreed with the sentiment.

Morgott and the noblewoman were conjoined. From hand to elbow to shoulder. The woman’s face was bright with elegant delight. Her eyes oft flitted to Morgott’s face, and Oleg recognized her hungry adoration. Because it was gnawing his own entrails.

“He cannot. He mustn’t. Oh!” Iren’s muttering was rising in volume. Beside Oleg, he waved- unsubtly- at the musicians. “Stop!” He wheezed beneath his breath like a prayer. Though he had no prayer of being heard.

The silver vial was in Oleg’s hand. He’d grabbed it without taking his eyes off of the spectacle.

The Basse danse was concluding. The tapering of the musicians signaled its end. And on the final notes, the Carian woman brushed her fingers across the Lord’s cheek. Envy made a meal of Oleg’s heart when his Lord blinked that wide, Grace-gold eye…

“Morgott!”

Oleg and the Steward flinched in tandem as the address soared over the courtiers’ heads. His name was spoken without the respect of his title. He was admonished with one stabbing word. As though he were a child questing for forbidden treats in a red-hot hearth.

The vial of lily powder had fallen from Oleg’s trembling hand. It had to have, because he did not feel it when he made a fist.

Morgott’s smile dimmed. It was eclipsed by a mottled blush and his usual, smoldering stoicism. Excuse me, his lips read as he parted from the Lady. The distance became more than physical. The easy, almost charming demeanor of the Steward collapsed. His eye darted as he made his way back to his seat. It bounced off of a myriad of mirrored surfaces. Armor, goblets, plates, even the damn floor. He did not want to see his reflection, and the entire hall mocked him for it.

Oleg pressed into the throng. Forgetting instantly the forlorn stare of the distant Carian relative boring into Morgott’s back with yearning. Those who had witnessed the interaction whispered to their companions. They tittered their sympathies. They swooned. Oleg knew well the story the Lands Between was told- that Morgott had been banished with Lord Godfrey. He had been raised amongst noble, nomadic barbarians before Grace had bid his return. It was titillating- endearing- to see the social leash be clipped to a handsome bumpkin. As if a dance and a kissed ring were really so salacious. Their reactions would not be so sympathetic if they knew the truth.

Oleg identified the speaker. The Councilor of Culture or whatever had a distinct voice. One he would always remember thanks to his hateful sermon.

“Fool boy,” he groused, more to his cup than anyone else. As if Morgott wasn’t his elder by literal centuries. But as he lowered his goblet, his eyes met Oleg’s. “What do-”

Oleg swayed on his feet. And his pulse’s rhythm peaked with a rush of sensation typically reserved for battle. People squealed as the Justiciar lurched. Wine from his dropped cup splashed upon Oleg’s borrowed greaves. Oleg was so drunk he struggled to string each second together. But his outstretched arm and the Justiciar’s rapidly reddening cheek clued him in.

—------------------------------------------

Oleg was not surprised when he awoke in a cell. It wasn’t a horrible one with shackles and chains and rats. There was a straw bedroll on the ground, a vessel of water, and a bucket in the opposite corner for waste. He was impressed to find that most of the night’s piss had been deposited in the proper receptacle.

Morgott’s presence diminished most of that pride. His embrous eye was cold as he glowered at his knight. The barred door was shut behind him. Oleg hadn’t even heard him enter.

“For what it’s worth,” Oleg coughed. Exhaustion was exhumed with his foul breath. “I am sorry.”

“Not sorrier than I.”

That was the most devastating thing he could have said in response. Worse than any blunt insult. There was only one way Oleg could be redeemed.

“So…Is he-?” Oleg cleared his throat. He was loath to speak freely, even though the dungeon cells were bereft of guards. Of course, stone and iron and a lack of exits made better sentinels than bored swordsmen. But he had supposed a man or two would shadow their beloved Steward.

“Alive, of course.”

Morgott’s sneering answer came as no great shock. Oleg remembered the powder slipping from his fingers. No doubt dozens of feet had trod upon it and dispersed it harmlessly.

“Why?”

Oleg shrugged as he sat up in the straw. “I was… I was in my cups-”

“That I shall discuss with thee in time. Why didst thou strike the Justiciar?”

Oleg bit the inside of his cheek. “You liked her.”

Morgott scoffed. His chest swelled with a deep inhale. He looked at Oleg expectantly, awaiting another answer. A more honest one. But Oleg felt as though he’d spoken the truth. He turned his shoddy memory over, rolled it in his mouth as his cottony tongue moistened dry teeth. He rephrased:

“I despise the way they talk to you. Like you are no wiser than a child.”

The confession hung between them and the reek of sweat and urine.

“I do not resent their education nor their counsel, Sellsword.”

“And yet-”

“I resent their short-sightedness. The Justiciar was right to correct me. I… must not allow others to think such alliances with me are viable.”

And Oleg could only protest: “But you were happy.”

“I was an imbecile above all. Rise.”

Oleg groaned but did as he was bid. His head swam.

“‘Tis within the Justiciar’s right to have thee imprisoned. Or hanged.”

“Ah,” Oleg rubbed his throat. The thought of a noose made him all the thirstier. “Yet you would free me, my Lord.”

“Mistake me not,” Morgott growled. “-Tolbren will have his justice.”

The glint in his eye was wicked. Akin to flame rather than the twinkle of Grace. There was an aura about him. A subtle brilliance at his edges. Oleg had just noticed it.

“‘Tis humiliating to be struck by a drunken wastrel,” he declared. “Such a blow to his esteem didst thou deal him. ‘Twas a simple thing to goad him into desiring a more personal retribution.”

Oleg patted his hair absently. It was a rat’s nest. His overgrown beard prickled his palm. A wary chuckle bubbled in his chest. “What would you have me do, my Lord?“

“Justiciar Tolbren will challenge thee to a duel. Thou wilt slay him there. Grant him the justice he so craves. Or be slain thyself and spare me more trouble.”

With that, the Lord of Leyndell dissolved. He flaked like snow drifting into an aimless wind. Oleg, startled, reached for a sleeve and grasped air. Morgott was gone in seconds. The escort of knights that were stomping towards Oleg’s cell would never know he had been there.

Notes:

I'm sorry if what I say about the dances are complete nonsense. Haha, I'm no expert on the subject.

We have reached the part of the fic where Oleg's arc is 'too gay to live'. The bits about Oleg slapping a councilor are the first pieces I ever wrote for this fic nearly a year ago. It's a scene that has been in my head a while! More action and pining to come!

Chapter 14: Justiciar

Chapter Text

Long ago, in Morgott’s childhood, heretics and blasphemers were clad in serpentine armor and made to fight to a bloody death. He remembered them- the slaves with their helmets and forearms bristling with bronzed snakes. The custom had fallen out of practice when Marika took her second consort. But the yearning for ritual cleansing and punishment had never been purged from Leyndell. Its ire simply shifted from nonbelievers to Omen and Misbegotten.

An escort of golden knights trailed Leyndell’s Lord as he walked the colosseum’s narrow halls. Nostalgia beckoned with greasy hands. At that pen- gated with black-waxed iron and draped with vines- Lord Godfrey had let his twin sons see a horned lion up close. In the Erdleaf-strewn arena, when the crowds had gone and the blood had been scrubbed from the floor, Lord Godfrey had pretended to be that lion. Had chased them, pounced at them. Had been defeated with harmless sparring swords.

Presently, the seats were filling with the Lands Between’s visiting nobles. These people were the descendants of the remnants of Lord Godfrey’s bannerman after most had been divested of Grace and cast out. None had reacted negatively to the duel’s announcement. They sat upon ancient stone in opulent clothes, holding parasols to keep the Erdtree’s light from obstructing their vision.

If they could not have war, they would sate themselves with lethal amusements.

Morgott descended into the colosseum’s bowels where the Justiciar and Oleg would be readying themselves. He gestured for his escort to halt, then he entered Tolbren’s chamber.

“Do not do this, Justiciar.”

“I will not be preached temperance by one as hot-blooded as thee, Morgott.”

He was already in his armor. The gold of authority gleamed in the polished plate. His shield was embossed with the symbol of the Golden Order. It was a paltry relief that he did not wear icons of the Erdtree. Morgott would not have delighted in their desecration.

“Thou hast cause for thine anger,” Morgott made dead his tone. “But thou hast made a spectacle of it. Didst thou truly require this audience?”

“Aye.” The immediate response tread upon Morgott’s heels. “I was humiliated before them, and I will have it amended before them. None will slink back to their houses and decry the substance of Leyndell’s spine. I will not be struck by a lowborn and told to bear it. Wouldst thou?”

“No,” Morgott’s answer was unchanged from the night previous, when he and his Councilor had circled the same indignant questions. Only then, he had been keen to goad Tolbren into this duel. He was uncertain how honest his reply was. Lord Morgott could afford to consider himself untouchable. But there was no one lower born than Margit. And he had to behave accordingly.

“Then the fool knight dies,” Tolbren hissed. “For Iren.”

Morgott’s brow lifted. Tolbren’s golden-brown eyes were cold. They leached the very flame from Morgott until he was tempted to shudder.

“The knight is thine, is he not?” Tolbren asked.

“He is a banished knight.”

Tolbren nodded. His lips were pressed thin, and his typically ruddy face was drained of color. He inspected his mace, thumbed the sharp edges of the flanges. They evoked the knot of the Erdtree’s symbol. To think the weapon delicate would be a fatal mistake.

“No great loss, then. Aye?”

Immutable. Tolbren was as stalwart as the Order he served. He would stand, inflexible, to mercy and sense for the pageantry of dominance. Morgott understood, then, that he hadn’t needed to push his Councilor down this path at all. Because Justiciar Tolbren did not respect him.

The Order was absolute. Thus, Tolbren meant to dominate Morgott in the only way he was allowed to: by killing his knight- his ally- before his eyes.

—----------------------------------------------------

Morgott’s privacy was rarely regarded. Though he heard Head Perfumer Arteya and Justiciar Tolbren arguing outside his door, he flinched as it was thrown open without courtesy nor warning.

“-Dangerous thing to do when he is in this state!”

It was the last he heard of Arteya’s scolding voice before the Councilor of Customs and Culture slammed the door in her face. Tolbren planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the Steward’s quarters- and the Steward himself.

The Veil!” he hissed in displeasure. Accusing and exasperated.

“I cannot,” Morgott stammered. His tail thrashed, and he heard more than felt his horns gouge the wooden furniture. He could not explain why. Plenty of times he’d brought the Veil to his brow- had felt the shiver of his body relent to the transformation. Yet it ultimately failed. It was a fault with himself, he knew. There were times when he could not suppress his curse, and this was one of those times. To Tolbren’s patronizing scowl he repeated, “I cannot.”

“Arteya would have thee sedated,” the Justiciar sniffed. As if that were so terrible an option. “But I will not abide thee having fits and tantrums in perpetuity.”

His tone was impatient, and he pointed to the mess of Morgott’s belongings as he spoke. His finger slashed disapprovingly over shredded sheets and gnawed bed posts. To food half-eaten and vomited into the hearth.

“As the Steward’s servant thou shalt rejoice with thy city. This is a most holy festival. A time of renewal and cleansing. Is the Order not supreme?”

Morgott whimpered. Because Tolbren was correct. He agreed. Yet he was overcome with the memory of terror.

“Have compassion, Tolbren.” The aged rasp admonished in the doorway. Olivier.

“If it is his desire to play the sniveling animal then I shan’t.”

Olivier looked past the sneering Councilor, “Prithee dress thyself, Margit.”

Ears ringing, Morgott sought his cloak in the rubble of his room. The gentle order distracted him from Tolbren’s mounting anger and the onslaught of the past.

Screaming, roaring, the flash of fire in dank tunnels. Senses dulled by the reek of blood and the agonized howls of newborn wraiths.

Morgott’s hands shook as he clutched the tattered cloak to himself. He hid his foul body in the pretense of modesty.

“Wherefore doth he quiver as though any blade in this city would dare nick his whiskers? He would rather sulk and rampage than be gracious for the Queen’s blessing,” Tolbren carried on. But he toed too closely the splinter’s bounds and was discretely silenced.

Olivier took advantage of the temporary gag, “Come, Margit. Let us be swift.”

Tolbren found his voice, “Take'st thou the beast to the sewers, if he pronounceth such kinship with his brethren!”

“Prithee…” Morgott moaned.

He had more than earned it, if that was the Pastor’s intent. The path to his redemption couldn’t have been simpler. Yet he was constantly stumbling over his own unwieldy tail. There was no incantation that could excise his faults. Countless hours of education could not tame his instincts. Forty years he’d been free of the Shunning Grounds. Thirty of those he’d been the Captial’s ward- then Steward. And still he snapped over his plate to the point he was made to eat alone.

Still, he would file down his claws on wood and stone, desecrating the craftsmanship as he marked his territory.

Still, when he was frightened, he would thrash and howl like a snared wolf.

Still, he doffed the Veil and was confronted with scars earned on days such as this.

“The Omen hath killed,” Tolbren accused. “His hands are unclean from more than the curse. Fine people of the Erdtree’s Grace met Death upon those claws! His own dreadful kin as well, I presume! What cause hath he to wallow and weep?”

Olivier sighed, “Join us, Justiciar. ‘Twould do thee good as well.”

—----------------------------------------------------

The Justiciar’s pride would be his downfall.

The Steward sat the chair Lord Godfrey once claimed and ignored the twinges of his illusion-concealed tail. His sympathy for Tolbren evaporated- whatever meager puddle of it had existed.

Oleg entered the arena, resplendent in the polished silver armor of the banished knight and his two swords sheathed at his hips. It would have been too easy to strip the fox of his fangs and tear him to pieces like a bloodhound. But Tolbren was more shackled to the honor of Leyndell’s traditions than its Steward. Anything less than both men at their best would be a farcical weakness disguised as strength.

The audience played their role and jeered at the assigned villain. Oleg was a wandering, disgraced knight. Unruly and ungrateful and deserving of his execution. Some, however, clapped for him. Because even amongst the nobility there was a base admiration for the lowborn that would raise a hand against his betters. That he had done it in the midst of a drunken fit made him all the more likable.

Morgott shifted on his throne, eye narrowed as if he could make an arrow of his prayer and deliver it to the man’s heart.

Tolbren emerged next, like a cicada from the chambers below. Oleg’s gilded foil. As Leyndell’s leadership- and the ball’s organizer- the crowd greeted him more warmly. Oleg was showered with rose petals- the omen of bloodletting and defeat. Whilst Tolbren was graced with a golden flurry of Erdleaves.

A Master of Ceremonies was not invoked to introduce the duelists. This wasn’t a tourney, but a trial. A pastor read aloud Oleg’s charges- his crimes. Final rights would be recited later.

Iren paced behind the Council, muttering his misgivings. By the Erdtree, Morgott wished the fool had choked instead. With that black thought, he solemnly lifted a broad hand.

The mausoleum bell tolled.

Civility, that skittish beast, fled the deafening gong. The two men approached one another, metal hackles raised. When death was the loser’s promised reward, people moved like wary beasts.

Tolbren thrust his mace skyward. Golden lightning crackled in the flange’s empty spaces. The air was heavy, sodden with potential. The sun lent its light to the Erdtree, and Morgott felt as though it would begin to rain any second.

Oleg unsheathed his swords with a rasp. A territorial growl. Lightning licked at his heels. Then, cacophony.

Bursts of heated light imprinted upon Morgott’s vision afterimages. The chromatic, puddly blotches made following Oleg’s mad dash a challenge. The Steward gripped his knees, bit his cheek. The banished knight wasn’t making distance but closing in. With sparks like dragon’s fangs chasing him.

Tolbren adopted a bracing stance. The shield he held just above his chin. His mace-arm thrown back as he awaited Oleg to hurry into the swing.

As it had on the knoll where Arteya died, thunder clapped. The audience gasped. By their stolen breath, Oleg was airborne. A conjured gale kicked up grit and stirred Morgott’s hair.

The next burst of sound shrieked from metal striking metal. Tolbren shouted before the knight and Justiciar staggered apart. Oleg was buffeted by his wind. Tolbren’s shield was dented down the middle. The Golden Order sigil warped.

Even if his arm wasn’t broken, Tolbren’s agony was apparent. His expression was inscrutable beneath his helm. But he had the rigid posture of a threatened turtle. Except that the safety of his shell had been instantly compromised.

The crowd squawked- carrion birds with jeweled plumage, they were. Scavengers waiting for the hunter to pierce their opponent’s thick hide and set the ichor of life free.

Tolbren collected himself; both men bristled at one another.

The next bout was savage. The mace’s lightning enchantment hadn’t faded. And every wild swing traced a golden arc.

Oleg was put on the defensive. He was fleet footed. Lithe and clever despite the bulk of his armor and the immensity of his dual blades. The roosting audience preened and puffed- flinched with each narrow dodge.

Eventually, though, Oleg couldn’t keep up. He was forced to block; he crossed his swords in front of him, and halted a vicious blow before it could land on his chin.

Electricity clawed up the steel. Oleg threw down a singeing blade. With a blast of wind, he unbalanced Tolbren enough to make distance. It was little respite.

Helian chuckled into a goblet of wine. For good reason. The banished knight was floundering.

Tolbren was upon him in seconds. Oleg thrust forth, turning wind into a spear that thwarted the Justiciar’s momentum. He followed it up with a two-handed cut aimed for Tolbren’s ribs. Just in time, Tolbren lifted his shield with a pained bark. An incantation of force blocked the attack.

A momentary impasse. With lightning, Tolbren was formidable in close quarters. Oleg’s speed and power meant nothing if he couldn’t strike the man.

The Justiciar mustered his weapon to call lightning once more. Oleg bolted at him again, wheeling his singular sword over his head.

More thunder beat against Morgott’s pulse. Oleg was a fool to try the same trick twice. Indeed, when he leapt, Tolbren rolled beneath his blade.

The Justiciar spun on his heel, mace aloft to bring golden flanges down upon the knight’s crown. But a gusty cyclone erupted where Oleg’s sword had struck. Harmless… if disorienting…

The very wind was strangled. The lungs of the world stalled, and Morgott’s tongue was dry. Drifting leaves- yellow and scarlet- were grounded once more.

The crimson of blood was brilliant against the pale stone of the colosseum. Against silver and gold armor. Oleg and Tolbren were nearly chest to chest. The visors of their helms were adjoined. Tolbren’s inner elbow caressed the side of Oleg’s head. The mace fell from his hand behind the knight. Once Oleg had lunged into his guard, his overextended reach was his demise. The silver sword was thrust through the Justiciar’s gut.

Tolbren slumped to his knees.

Oleg unsheathed his sword from the man’s stomach and flicked the blade to the side. A thin, red stripe was painted between them. The aged Councilor clutched at his skewered body, wheezing.

Do not allow him to plead mercy.

Morgott set his jaw as Imopea rose from her seat. Hand to her mouth and blonde braid mussed from the storm. Helian’s breathing was wet to Morgott’s ear.

However devastating Tolbren’s wound, if a healer rushed to him, he could be saved. If he begged for mercy and Oleg denied him… he would be torn apart regardless of his victory.

Oleg loomed. Waited. Honor-gilt foolishness. In the graven silence, all that could be heard was shallow, gurgling pants.

Then Justiciar Tolbren, Leyndell’s keeper of history and tradition and joy, crumpled to his side.

Dead.

Morgott sagged on his throne. That unbidden symptom of relief was fortunately akin to shock.

The awestruck attendance sucked in their first audible breaths. Oleg sheathed his swords. The imbecile removed his helm.

He bent, plucked a sunflower from the gritty soil. It was a wizened thing. Drooping and marred with a slash of red across its florets. Crimson caught the daylight as the knight twisted the stem betwixt his fingers.

Then, in the abyssal stillness, Oleg the Banished Knight held up that ugly, dying flower. He presented it- sin-stained and all- to the Grace Given Lord. The Erdtree’s holy light was trapped in the fall of his sweat-damp hair. The red fox in silver stood in the bleak hideousness of murder and declared to all who his blade belonged to. For whom the kill was for.

Morgott closed his eye. The armrests groaned for how tightly he gripped them. And more than the sun’s rays warmed his weathered face.

—----------------------------------------------------

Every ten years, there was a cull.

They had begun in Morgott’s childhood. For what reason, he could only guess. He had supposed it had been in retaliation for some Omen transgression. It was not hard to imagine soldiers of Grace seeking recompense from the accursed.

Now that the populace knew their sewers comprised a gaol for the Curseborn, the task had been mutated into a spectacle. The citizenry could graciously overlook the centuries-old secret if they were granted a feast and a festival every so often.

Miquella had paused the practice- a trespass forgiven by collective grief regarding the dead Prince and vanished Queen. But Miquella had gone. And Tolbren, Councilor of Customs and Culture, had sanctioned the hunt once more. Morgott could only bite with toothless gums. He could not broach the topic without shuddering and whining and weeping. His emotional outbursts were brushed aside with the flippant hand of rationality.

“A spider on a windowsill hath bared its little fangs to me, though they were too feeble to pierce my skin. Even the least of the Order’s creatures desire to live, Margit. Survival is no sin,” Olivier assured his charge in the wake of Tolbren’s accusation.

“I am afraid,” Morgott confessed. The seclusion of the chapel did not quell his terror. Speaking it aloud made him brittle. A cleaver could fall upon his shoulders and he would split in half without resistance.

The Pastor put his hands upon him without warning. Prodded the scar Morgott had shown him in confidence ten years prior. He shrank away.

“But thou hast been raised beyond what thou wert. There is no danger to thee, here.”

“I remember-“

“He is faithless, Olivier. ‘Tis simple.”

The Justiciar spat at Morgott’s back. If Morgott hadn’t heard him pacing… he closed his hands into fists. His blood bid him fight. He would not heed it.

“Don’t be absurd,” Olivier said.

Tolbren stomped forward. He scowled up at Morgott, who was taller than the Justiciar even kneeling.

“Dost thou obey the Order?”

Morgott blinked. Instinct made his every thought dull. He could not hide. He could not retaliate.

Submit.

That never worked on Omenkillers- never earned their compassion nor stayed their blades.

…He should have escaped with Mohg when he had the chance.

Guilt branded his tongue. “I do,” he murmured. He dashed the traitorous, selfish thought.

“Is Leyndell thy city?”

“‘Tis my home.”

“Dost thou wish to honor Lord Miquella and Queen Marika by serving them well?”

“I do.”

“Then thou wouldst do well to forget thy fear, Omen. This is a time of celebration, and thou wilt celebrate. Our history is rich. Our city is glorious. Recall thy fortune and what thou’rt. Is the culture of thy fetid sewer better than that forged by God herself?”

“Tolbren!” Olivier snapped at last. “Remember to whom thou speak’st!”

“Margit? The tamed Omen fiend?” He barked.

Morgott’s heart was constricted by his Rune. It bled upon his sharpened points. He knew who he was. He knew…

He imagined all the cruelties he couldn’t act upon. All the Killers he’d slain. The other Omen he’d dominated. He was strong, but he was wretched. Tolbren was not incorrect.

“I do not presume to know best,” Morgott replied, placating. “I have much to learn.”

Olivier sighed, eyes lifted to the benign statue of Queen Marika. Morgott could not yet make himself look the placid stone in the eye.

“He is not ready, Tolbren.”

“He is. It has been thirty years.”

Then Tolbren stormed from the chapel, leaving Morgott and Olivier in the dark. Morgott made no apology, though he was humiliated for the Pastor.

“He must learn patience,” Olivier huffed.

“He is not wrong.”

“Margit-“

“What use is there in pitying accursed things?” Morgott snarled. It tore itself loose, the condemnation. Foul with blood and bile.

The Pastor was not cowed. “Stay awhile and pray. I will see to the holy day in the Steward’s stead.”

The candles went out eventually. And Morgott was left to the shadows. The curtains he drew tight so he could not feel the passage of time. It was a strange comfort, as he’d spent more of his life than not unaware of the rising and setting of the sun. He fasted, the ache of his stomach nothing compared to winters in the Shunning Grounds. He did not sleep, for the temptation of the nightmare wraiths was kept at bay with prayerful diligence.

Tolbren came to retrieve him eventually. The Shunning Grounds had been barred; the fortunate Omenkillers had emerged from Below. The holiday feast was nigh. Morgott would be expected to make an appearance. Not even the Pastor could rescue him from it.

Morgott acquiesced. The Justiciar grinned as if the vitriol he’d spat at his Steward’s accursed shape had been swept away rather than left to fester in the church. That smile waned when Morgott did not match it. Not even when the Veil at last manifested the Grace Given. Divested of his sorrow, he was led back into the light of the Erdtree, cold and numb.

“I am ready,” the Veiled Steward said to Tolbren. Whisper-soft submission.

Lord Morgott lit the bonfire where the refuse of the culled were burned.

Lord Morgott’s nose stung with the stench of charred flesh as he anointed the returning Omenkillers. They mirrored one another’s distant, exhausted expressions. As Justiciar Tolbren recited prayers and accolades, Morgott placed the mark of the Order upon sneering masks.

Lord Morgott touched his side where the echo of a scar twinged. As scavenged horns were forged upon new cleavers for Omenkiller initiates. Their eyes bright and anxious with youthful determination.

Lord Morgott buried Margit until Tolbren beamed at him during the carriage ride to the palace. He patted his hand. But Morgott had made himself inert and unreachable. The warmth of praise may as well have been cast before a corpse.

“Well done. Thou wert capable after all.”

Morgott’s quarters were still destroyed when he finally retired to them. Naturally, no servants were permitted to tend to the Grace Given. It suited him fine; it was better that way. But he looked upon the broken bed, upon the stinking mixture of ash and sick, upon the tears in the drapes and the ink stains upon the rug, and the agony he had dutifully suppressed drowned him.

He fell asleep with a cheek full of lilies. Curled on the floor in the wreckage of his room.

—----------------------------------------------------

“Kill him.”

Helian recovered first from his shock. He half-rose from his seat, but his limbs had not the strength to bear him. He collapsed upon the chair. Morgott was stricken to see tears on the General’s cheeks.

“Marika damn ye,” he croaked, louder. Morgott did not have to follow his watery gaze to know he was staring at the Justiciar’s corpse. “Cease gawking and kill the bloody fool.”

Morgott was unsure what possessed him, then. He twisted to seize Helian’s arm. Iren and Phelia bleated wordlessly, but the General was unmoved.

“Hold thy tongue,” Morgott hissed. All bared teeth and phlegmy throat. “The knight is victorious. The outcome cannot be altered.”

“Tolbren…” the chocked rebuttal. “-was murdered by that wastrel.”

“I begged him reconsider this duel, and he remained adamant. Besmirch not Leyndell’s honor with another outburst. Not with the Lands Between bearing witness.”

Helian seemed to notice the audience at last. The rabble of the gathered envoys.

“The knight is exonerated,” Morgott said. “And he will be banished from this city. I assure ye.”

It was apparent that the General and the Council were unsated. Morgott relinquished Helian and turned his back to them, lip curling unbidden. They would lecture him about the importance of Order- would decry his every misstep- and they would abandon law and Tolbren’s will to have the knight executed regardless.

Now, Morgott had to decide if rescuing Oleg was worthwhile.

“Well struck!” Morgott cried over the raucousness of the crowd. The pair of knights converging upon Oleg were halted.

With the Steward’s endorsement declared, the colosseum erupted in cheers. He descended into the arena proper, sweat tacky between his shoulders. Those two words had bought Oleg sanctuary for hours at most.

He would have to act quickly to preserve his scheme. And safeguard his knight.

Chapter 15: Kinship

Notes:

In hindsight this is an odd little chapter to have right after a climactic event. I promise the consequences of the duel will build and reveal themselves in time.

Please humbly accept my Banished Knight fluff and Godrick & Morgott Headcanons. Thank you.

Chapter Text

“They wish thee dead, of course.”

“Because I acknowledged you?”

“Because they are grieving.” Margit rubbed his face with a coarse hand. Every movement was so lifelike despite the errant, golden wisps he shed. “Thy victory was righteous, but they would have thee executed to soothe themselves.”

Together, Omen and knight stood in a cave. A statue of Marika gazed over them both. It was little comfort finding an icon of the divine in such a dank, empty place. She was here to keep guard over something.

“‘Tis best if thou’rt difficult to trace for some time,” Margit concluded.

Oleg agreed. He had not anticipated ever leaving that colosseum. Whether or not he defeated Justiciar Tolbren. He’d held the sunflower to his Lord; it was to be his final act before Leyndell claimed its vengeance. A thanks. An apology. A declaration of devotion unmitigated by the splinter in his tongue. He’d thought of Engvall and the good years they’d had together. He’d thought of how vindicated- and miserable- his companion would be when he learned that Morgott the Grace Given had indeed been Oleg’s demise.

Then Morgott had rescued him- mantled over him like a vulture did carrion. Oleg had been swallowed in his shadow. Protected. The mild accolades the Lord declared to the swooning audience became a shield woven by his eloquence.

If thou remain’st in this city by nightfall, if thou’rt found by anyone save Margit, then thou’rt dead.

That had been Morgott’s whispered warning beneath the Erdtree’s canopy. Oleg had been directed to this cave tucked against Leyndell’s outermost wall. A dark grotto hidden by forest-shrouded cliffs. A fresh spring ran through it, and the bitter smell of lingering Miranda pollen was thick in the cool air. Oleg had dashed here surreptitiously with only his armor and swords. Margit had arrived shortly after. He looked as exhausted as Oleg felt.

“Am I forgiven?”

“No.” But Margit lacked his usual fire. “Thy foolishness far outweighs thy prowess. But perhaps I bear as much blame. The duel… I should never have encouraged it.” Then he shook his head, speaking to himself more than Oleg. “Nay, this is the better outcome. Without the duel-”

“I would have been killed regardless.”

“Aye,” Margit rumbled. “And thy splinter discovered.”

“Ah…”

Margit sighed over Oleg’s wounded noise. “I am… loath to lose thee, Knight. Thy service is far from adequate. But ‘tis service thou hast given an Omen nonetheless. Thou’rt a rare kind.”

“Ah…!”

This time, the exclamation was sharp, pleasantly surprised. Margit trampled over the delicately sowed compliment.

“Vulgar arrogance being thy dominant trait. Heedless thing, presenting to me that flower announced to all that thou wert my knight.”

“Is that not how it is done?” Oleg’s face warmed. The original intent of his gesture felt gormless and hollow now that he had escaped impending death. “Does a winning knight not honor the hosting Lord?”

“Aye, Sellsword. In tournaments ‘tis done. Not when a beloved politician lay butchered at thy feet.”

Oleg chuckled to his lap. Margit glared. His mighty tail lashed into the grotto’s pristine pool. Water splashed onto Oleg’s cheek.

“By the Erdtree, I am rubbish at this. Have I ruined everything?”

“That is uncertain.”

“Three of the eight are gone, at least. In spite of my blunders.”

“Eight?” Margit’s grunted inquiry

“Godrick,” Oleg braced himself. “He is part of the Lord’s Council, is he not?”

Margit scoffed, but he dabbed the insult from his lips when he realized the meaning of Oleg’s question.

“He is not thy prey.”

“May I… ask why?”

Margit’s eye narrowed. “For the same reasons my half-brother did not forsake me when I was brought to the Capital.”

Brought. The word stuck out like a thorn. Perhaps Oleg’s expression betrayed that he had been pricked by it.

“The shard of the Elden Ring within me paid the fee for Miquella’s acceptance. Pity hath kept the Blade from my throat ever since.”

Blade he leaned upon. Emphasized. It was no mere sword he referenced but Malenia herself.

More thorns. More deliberate tears in Lord Morgott’s legend. Oleg politely removed his gaze from the exposed, unsightly bits.

“Does pity keep Godrick, then?”

“In a sense. ‘Tis no fault of his that his spirit and flesh are unequally yoked. ‘Tis no fault of his that Godwyn was fruitful. Nor that Godwyn is dead. His weakness is cursed as his own failing. Foolishness. As if frailty of the body could be banished at will. Such belief is an indulgent folly.”

Not pity, then, but kinship. Though Oleg was certain if he pointed out the blatant distinction, Margit would fiercely deny it.

“Or cruelty.” Oleg added instead. Margit grimaced.

“If Morgott is made King, Godrick will be his second. His heir,” Margit clenched his sword hand into a fist as if to grip an invisible hilt. “Marika made him a Shardbearer of all his kin. He shall have a grand purpose.”

“You don’t… plan to have an heir of your own?”

Margit’s tolerance was spent. His eye ignited into an embrous spark. It was not an expression of anger he displayed, but one of devastating condescension. As if he were trying to determine whether Oleg was a poor comedian or genuinely brainless.

“Oleg…” He muttered.

“Aye. Forgive me, Margit. I didn’t mean to pick at the sore.”

“Tis not a sore,” he insisted softly.

Oleg granted them both mercy and moved along: “I am relieved that you will not set me on another Demigod. I doubt my skill and the conviction of my spirit should I be given such a task.”

Margit was silent. The water around his ankles rippled in waves of miniscule gold. “I will not ask it of thee.”

Oleg stirred the pool with his fingers. His disturbance met Margit’s and made a choppy smear of the mirror surface. “Am I still your knight?”

“…Aye, Sellsword. Morgott did not spare thee to cast thee aside. The Lord doth not relieve thee of thine oath. Remain near, until thou’rt called upon.”

As he had in the Leyndell dungeon, Margit dissolved. The motes of him filled the wet cavern with lifeless embers. The cord of bondage was still around Oleg’s heart. And he was pleased.

—--------------------------------------------------

“If I had known thou wouldst sanction a colosseum duel, I would have been sorely dissuaded from leaving.”

Godrick had taken the news of Tolbren’s death on the chin. His carriage had rattled up the thoroughfare in the midst of the Justiciar’s Last Rites. Now the Demigod pair strolled through the palace commons- Morgott swathed in mourning clothes yet again and Godrick gaudy in gold and emeralds. He had brought Limgrave weather with him. Clouds cowled the Erdtree and the wind grasped at their robes. Godrick did not so much as sway. His gait was assured, and he did not lean so heavily on his cane.

“‘Twas a serendipitous addition to the itinerary. Not my doing.”

“I trust thy word. Impromptu bloodshed seemeth a joy beyond thee, Morgott.”

Morgott nearly smiled at the insult. Sometimes his distant nephew sounded too much like Mohg. One day, his sour tongue would earn him the wrong person’s ire. But Morgott didn’t have it in him to take offense.

Godrick hummed, “How did it happen? What killed the fool before the sword pried away his soul?”

“Humiliation. A mere slap from a drunk.”

“Ah, if only I had seen it.”

The palace was crushed between discordant moods. The ball had sated the coming winter restlessness. Then the Councilor’s death had invited it back. Somber flute was harangued by the chill. Tolbren had been as beloved as Arteya and Olivier. He had been part of the Capital’s heart. The bleeding viscera to Olivier’s enlightened soul. He had enforced Order- rewarded and punished. Unlike with Arteya’s Guild, Morgott was unsure if he would ever be competent enough to take Tolbren’s place entirely.

“That’s three dead,” Godrick observed flippantly.

“Death spareth few,” Morgott agreed. “And mortal lives are fragile.”

“I suspect thou saw death aplenty during thine exile.”

“I did.”

And none of it so noble, Morgott thought, as what his young nephew likely envisioned.

“Thou dost not flinch at it. Thou’rt a fair actor, Morgott, but the falseness of thy mourning is apparent.”

Morgott, unthreatened, remarked, “Is it so obvious?”

“I do not judge thee,” Godrick waved dismissively. “Surely thou knowest my feelings are much the same.” The Demigod was set alight by the sunset. He stood ramrod beneath a stone arch and peered down at the sprawling tiers of the city. “Death spareth few, Demigods included. The branch I sprouted from is well pruned. I want to meet it with righteous ardor, someday.”

Morgott recalled the conversation he’d had with Oleg just days prior. He was made to hold his words again and weigh the worth of them. He and Godrick- the combined sham of the Golden Lineage- bonded as Lord and heir.

“I pray the day never cometh,” Morgott confessed with startling sincerity.

Godrick sneered. “Truly?”

“Aye.”

Godrick did not sift kindness from the truth, but he did not scoff, either. He just squinted down the Capital again. Cheeks rosy in the cinders of day.

“The journey did thee some good,” Morgott said. “Thou hast renewed strength already.”

Godrick barked with laughter, “‘Twas not the miracle of Limgrave’s autumnal rains that healed me. Father invented a treatment for mine ills.”

“What.”

Morgott could not help the way his tone fell like a rock from a cliff. And he could not pin the source of the dread that vented into his gut. Godrick had lived a century or more in the eye of Erdtree scholarship. Decades of study had not conceived an incantation nor an aromatic that could do more than alleviate his symptoms. It was poor blood. Like a curse at birth. Magic could not undo every misfortune.

But now Godrick- his barb-tongued and bitter kin- might be cured of his ‘poor blood’. Might be granted a reprieve Leyndell’s aspiring Lord would never receive in kind.

“Thou’rt an open-minded sort?” Godrick grunted. The question was rhetorical, because he unclasped his traveling cloak despite Morgott’s silence. It was an odd dance of modesty for Godrick to pull up and down various layers to expose his leg.

The skin of Godrick’s leg was patchwork. From thigh to ankle, it looked as though threadbare, tattered fabric had been sewn into him- only the fibers were flesh, too. The seams were inflamed pink or tinted faintly gray. Decay halted by the flow of new blood. The muscles too, were warped. As if they had been wrapped strangely upon the bones.

Morgott had never seen anything like it, and yet it reminded him of his own deformity. The invisible fur of his spine prickled.

“What is this?”

“Thou hast a fascination with horticulture, aye? Lord Godefroy called it Grafting. The concept, then, is self-explanatory.”

“This leg is not yours.”

“‘Tis my leg. That is the point of Grafting.”

Morgott was no longer amused. Miquella was a fine craftsman- his work in prosthetics was acclaimed for good reason. Morgott did not possess the wit to explain why the foreign limb melded to Godrick’s hip was so horrific. He could not recall an edict of the Order that would condemn this witchcraft. But anger mounted all the same- thinned his lip and creased his brow. He felt… betrayed.

“Thy body is holy and formed by Grace-“

“My body is weak!” Godrick snapped, cutting Morgott off. “Thou didst not grow into a man in Godwyn’s shadow. Nor didst thou walk with a cane since boyhood, unable to ride dragons with thy forebears, let alone a placid mare. Bone and muscle from a hanged man hath granted me what millennia of divine wisdom could not!”

He let his robe fall, and the wretched leg was concealed. Morgott forced himself to be inert. To cage his wary growls and smooth his hackles.

“I only counsel caution,” he managed dryly. “To mend thyself with discordant pieces… ‘Twould invite a curse upon thee.”

Godrick scowled up at him.

“What dost thou know of curses, Son of Godfrey?”

Then Morgott’s heir stormed away on perfect, misbegotten legs.

—--------------------------------------------------

Oleg had been riding hard for days. The soreness of his limbs and the thirst in his throat were a balm more than a hindrance. The breath of the black horse beneath him plumed like steam, and he felt as if his mount was not an animal but one of the famed automatons of Mount Gelmir.

Weeks had passed since Morgott had banished him from the Capital. Weeks of boredom had made Oleg recklessly idle. If Margit intercepted him, he doubted he’d be allowed a chance to explain himself. The threat of the Omen’s wrath couldn’t reach him, however, when he at last saw a silver-clad figure in the road.

He managed to slow the horse to an amble before he all but fell from the saddle into Engvall’s arms.

Oleg was grinning like a fool as Engvall wrestled his helm from his head. Not that Engvall fared any better. His dark curls were plastered to his face with sweat. And he smiled more warmly than the sun burned.

“It really is you.” He exclaimed.

“You expected a fake?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

They retreated into the forest where Engvall had erected a camp. They shucked their armor and tended the exhausted horse. For the first time in months, Oleg beheld a proper dusk. The Erdtree glowed at his back. But it was far enough behind him he could watch the stars emerge like nocturnal beasts from their dens. Engvall spitted a springhare and set it over the campfire. While the meat cooked, Oleg unveiled his gift: pastries from the Capital. As well as soft cheese and dates. In truth, these foods had come from Margit. But he’d always left far more than Oleg alone could eat.

“Gods,” Engvall groaned into a roll filled with sweet cheese and walnuts. “I would have joined you at the Capital if the Grace Given had offered to pay me in these rather than runes.”

“He would accept that deal happily,” Oleg snorted. Grease from the springhare dripped into the smoldering coals and sizzled.

“I imagine so. A mound of sweet rolls is cheap compensation, I’d wager.”

“I suppose that’s true. But I meant, rather…”

“Mmm?”

Oleg sighed, “I’m a failure of a royal knight. The Grace Given might be relieved to have you instead.”

“It’s his own fault for seeking banished knights. Perhaps he claimed a wolf when a hound would have suited him better.”

Oleg was flattered by the analogy. But Engvall’s face was made taut with a wary frown. He amended: “What is he having you do, Oleg?”

“I cannot say.”

Engvall nodded. He accepted the answer without pressing for more. But then he muttered to the springhare’s clouded, dead eye. “You killed a Councilor in a duel just a week ago.”

“I-” Oleg wished the splinter would do more than gag him. If Miquella was so brilliant, why couldn’t it also weave for him easy lies? “How… Why do you say that?”

“Leyndell has become a place of great interest for me as of late.”

The forest’s shadows suddenly seemed tactile. Like black dungeon walls. Oleg was unsure what exactly stoked his fear. He had already cheated his Lord by meeting Engvall clandestinely. He had taken advantage of his banishment to send and receive letters without Morgott’s permission.

“Why is that?” he asked dryly.

Engvall bit into another sweet roll. Which dispelled some of the tension as sugary glaze flaked onto his nose and beard. “I’m not stalking you, Oleg, if that’s your fear. I’m following another group. A score of them entered the city to attend a royal ball. Most are either dead or hiding in the Capital as far as I can tell, because only a couple came back out. But when I caught up to those few, I heard a red-haired banished knight sent the Justiciar to the roots.”

“I had wondered,” Oleg began, speaking as one might tread over a frozen lake. “-what was keeping you on the Plateau. This time of year, we’d be halfway through Liurnia.”

Engvall accepted Oleg’s diversion with grace. “Your letters would have been enough. But aye. I remain for another reason. I hunt the Gelmir serpents.”

“Those bandits?”

“If a Demigod Lord has taken interest in simple marauders, then…”

“Then what?”

He shook his head. “...They’re the reason I lost you.”

“You haven’t lost me,” Oleg frowned. The tenderness with which Engvall spoke was wounding. At the sight of his proverbial blood, Oleg grew defensive. “It’s unfair, you know. Making me feel like I’ve abandoned you when it’s always been my understanding our… partnership was never meant to be eternal.”

Oleg was ashamed of himself before his tongue finished lashing out. And he was further nailed to that festering sensation by Engvall’s sidelong glance. It wasn’t reproachful or regretful or pitying. Oleg didn’t need to be flayed for the other knight to see his heart.

“He’s a Demigod, Oleg.”

Oleg had to work himself up to an answer with shallow, quick breaths. “I know he… won’t…”

Engvall didn’t push. But the doubt telegraphed by the cinch of his brow was no less searing. Oleg was compelled to explain himself. To proclaim all that he admired in his Lord and the Omen. But to do so would betray him. To suggest that Morgott was anything less than a perfect scion of the God Queen.

“And what of the Omen? How are you and the Steward’s beast getting on?”

Now Oleg couldn’t smother the creeping rash of flush that crept from his throat. “He’s marvelous.”

Engvall’s bemusement warped to disbelief. “Oleg!

“He isn’t a Demigod!”

“He’s Omen!”

“And what is so terrible about that?” Oleg snapped. He was startled by his own aggression. A wolf indeed- his fangs exsanguinated Egnvall of his teasing tone. Large, brown eyes blinked. The fire made the silver at his temples gleam like winter’s first frost.

“Be careful, Oleg.”

Oleg’s glare dropped to the fire. Engvall’s murmured warning was pointless. To fancy a Demigod was predictable, mortal foolishness. To fancy an Omen was to run afoul of the Golden Order itself. Oleg supposed he was fortunate for Miquella’s curse. He wanted to spill to Engvall his rotten soul. He wanted to confess that he had killed two of Leyndell’s Councilors for Lord Morgott and suffered with love for the Grace Given’s wretched, bestial half.

“I will try,” he promised.

Engvall stood. He rubbed his tacky fingers against his trousers and planted himself beside Oleg on the fallen log. “Now,” he said. “I did not invite you out here to berate you.”

Oleg chuckled softly.

“Are you happy in Leyndell?”

“I am.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

“So we shall remain apart yet.”

Oleg swallowed, “I am sworn to the Grace Given. That hasn’t changed.”

A broad had rested between his shoulder blades. Engvall leaned in close, “How do you feel about a hunt, then? For old time’s sake?”

“What shall be our prey?”

“Only a stormhawk’s favorite meal.”

Oleg smirked.

“Serpents.”

Chapter 16: Pray

Chapter Text

Margit went to the grotto often. Usually as the projected shade, because Lord Morgott was too preoccupied with acting out grief. Too busy being crucified by General Helian’s and Diplomat Imopea’s reproachful glares. His every action was scrutinized, so he scarcely left his rooms except to hold court. His every word was thrown back at him like grit into his eye, so he did not speak. It was a rare time where Morgott found it infinitely more freeing to be Margit. And he could only accomplish that with a ghostly half-measure.

He’d wait in the shadowed crags that butted up against Leyndell’s walls. He’d wait for the banished knight to leave. Then he’d bring into the watery cave another delivery. Another offering. Another gift. Fresh tack and food- for the horse as well as the man. All to impress upon his sellsword that he was not to forsake his oath.

After two weeks of the routine, Oleg left him a note:

For how often you’re here I can’t imagine why you wait until I’m not around.

In his conjured shape, Margit had crumpled the note into his fist. His hand flared a golden aura, and the paper looked as though it burned. He willed the incantation to settle. He slotted his theorems into cozy strata. With focus held, his shade appeared as solid as the genuine article. Complete with white-haired knuckles and filed-down claws. Margit dropped the note into the clear spring and watched ink run.

Three days after that, Lord Morgott left the royal palace for the first time in weeks. And somewhere in Leyndell’s crannies, a Demigod vanished, and an Omen materialized. Margit went to the grotto when he knew it would be occupied.

He found it empty.

Fret not, Beastie. I won’t be too long. If you don’t see me for a while, trust that I am being productive. Either that or I’m dead. An outcome I doubt will alarm you much. Be well.

Margit read the second note hollowly. He waited patiently for proper emotion to bubble up. To uncoil itself from his ribs and tell him how to feel. Concern struggled out first on trembling legs. It held his cheek and panted across his lips. Margit thumbed the scribbled 'Be well'.

His murderer-for-hire had fled. He had broken his oath and abandoned Lord Morgott. He regretted not keeping a more careful eye. He regretted…

Margit went to the grotto often, and he waited.

The effigy of Queen Marika looked down upon her scion. Most statues depicted the Eternal Goddess with the same deific pose. Her arms outstretched as if to embrace her gathered worshippers. Her head bowed, chin tucked against her chest or tilted upward to regard the Erdtree. Her stony gaze never quite meeting anyone’s eye. Least of all Morgott’s. To him, she had always seemed as though she were shouldering a great burden. As though his presence exhausted her. Her perfect son was murdered, and all she had left to inherit her splendor were curses and traitors.

It was no easy thing to pray to one’s own mother.

After all, she was not in this cave without purpose. She had not been placed here to hear anyone’s murmured praise or ails. The statue’s eyes were made of amber. And if a shackled Omen was seen by that precious glare, he was made to feel the Order’s wrath.

Margit’s eyes lifted from his clasped hands. He dared a sidelong glance into the dark tunnel at the grotto’s far end. Past errant roots and lazily trickling water. Before he had been transfigured into a Lord, young Morgott had crawled there to writhe in his Queen’s searing stare. He had wondered if the Goddess could see him. He still wondered if she could.

“Eternal Queen,” he sighed. The memory, centuries old, made his bones ache. “My transgressions are many and great.”

The Order was immutable. The Elden Ring was a holy construct not meant to be reforged. It had broken upon the anvil. Shattered. The proof of its inflexibility burned in Morgott’s tainted soul. Yet he tried to carve for himself a path into Order’s circle of Grace.

Who was he meant to obey? The missive of his holy Mother or the stone-hewn law of Order? My children beloved. Make of thyselves that which ye desire. Had those words truly been meant for him? Would Marika have wanted to see her Omen child sit Leyndell’s throne?

“I seek not forgiveness. Thou knowest my sins. Thy Grace, generously granted, devoureth my dark nature. May there be only light when I am through. May I be light.” He licked his lips. “Nay, I pray not for myself. But for one born of Grace. Prithee, return my sellsword safely-”

Footsteps. Clumsy, careless.

Margit rose to his feet. The tattered ends of his cloak were soaked. They wet his ankles with cold water. His summoned light deepened the black of a frayed cloak and hood. It obscured much of the silver of armor beneath. But the arrival’s gauntlet did not so much as flinch toward their sword.

Oleg trotted into the grotto with all the satisfaction of a fox with a pigeon caught in its jaws.

“Margit!”

“Sellsword.”

The knight bowed as he would have to a Lord. The splinter did not deem the action objectionable. His helm he removed, unveiling his expression of delight. Like a feral cat meeting someone that fed it regularly. His red hair was slicked with sweat, and his eyes were bruised and sleepless. He smelled of the road, unwashed. Like a dirty horse and the earthy mineral of the west Plateau. Of iron and blood.

“Hunting, wert thou?” Margit raised his brow.

In response, Oleg untied something from his belt. “An offering. For your cause.”

Oleg threw a purse. Margit caught it. The leather pouch had been substantial in Oleg’s hand. Margit barely felt its weight in his own. The contents clinked like pebbles. It smelled of blood. He emptied the pouch into his palm. Two dozen brass serpents flashed impotent fangs.

Wing of the Storm. Margit had scoffed at the moniker when he’d first considered taking the knight on.

“Thou’rt a stormhawk true,” he remarked. “Killer of serpents.”

Lord Godfrey had regaled his young son with tales of Limgrave’s legendary raptors. They were powerful enough to hunt sheep and carry off lambs and drag men from rocky crags. They also plucked vipers from the rocks they sunned upon and fed them to their chicks. Venom and all.

“Ah, you flatter me,” Oleg grinned.

Margit sniffed. He had not asked the banished knight to do this. He had hardly spoken of the Gelmir brigands since initiating his coup. The flattery was all Oleg’s. Margit stirred the pillaged badges with a finger. He was not…. unmoved.

The badges reminded Margit of an era of his youth. When the Order’s shackle had been new, and he had barely been a man. When Mohg had adjusted to the permanence of their situation and gone to find himself a mate. When Margit had fancied the idea of finding one himself.

Animal courtship was simple if arduous.

Once upon a time, Margit had handed to others of his kind sacks of bones and coins. Great baskets of prey. Once upon a time, it had earned him tentative companionship. Until his skittishness with intimacy spoiled the match, or a handsomer Omen presented an even handsomer dowry. Or until disease took his partner. Or madness or a Killer. After all, Margit was a Demigod, and all other Omen were frailer by comparison. They bled faster, starved quicker.

The bower of bloodied trinkets bestowed upon his wretched soul such intense satisfaction.

“I figured if I could not attend church I would not be idle,” Oleg teased.

“I… well done, Sellsword.”

He may as well have glowed from the stilted praise. He was undimmed as he began to disrobe. The black cloak fell into a heap on the floor. He was more careful with his armor, laying down a dry mat so the metal would not scratch or rust against wet rock. Soon, he was just in sweat-soiled underclothes. Margit averted his eye.

Oleg was handsome enough. But then again, most Graceborn were. For they had been shaped to house holy Grace. What Margit considered attractive was amorphous and ever-shifting. He had no desire to pin it down, because he had no interest in entertaining it. It was modesty he afforded his knight. The Graceborn body was divinely made. It was not his to ogle.

“What is it like for Lord Morgott, having God for a mother?”

“Pardon?”

The question was startling after a long silence. Morgott looked back and caught an eyeful of his knight’s body. Despite the gray in his beard he was not an aged man. He was old enough to remember Godwyn’s passing sixty years ago. Morgott was ten times his elder.

“Mercy… I- forgive me, Margit. It’s only that… whenever I return here, there’s more candles by her statue so I… I thought…”

Oleg floundered, and Morgott’s lip curled. He owed the heedless question no answer. But he was made raw by the coarseness of its innocence. Oleg blushed and blushed. Morgott granted them both mercy.

“I was her son only a short while. There is little worth remembering. Fifty years ago, she named me Child again. But I have not seen her since I was a bairn.”

“Right,” Oleg said cautiously. He unfurled with Morgott’s reciprocation. “You were exiled with the Elden Lord.”

Morgott pinned Oleg’s tone between his blunted fangs. He masticated it and sifted through its sinews searching for the taste of venom. Oleg, he doubted, was clever enough for real treachery. He needed to be commanded to perform it. Morgott found his inquiry genuine, if tinged by doubt. A mild, tarry stain in brilliant crimson blood.

Oleg crouched before the pool’s edge. He used the water as a mirror and set to shaving his beard. His expression pinched in concentration. Red brows cinched over stunning green-gold eyes. Water trickled from his damp hair, the crystalline droplets followed the contours of his muscled arms and chest. Collected in the auburn trail that spanned his stomach and disappeared into his trousers.

“Lord Godfrey was once a champion of the Crucible.” Morgott was bewitched. Speech rolled from his tongue as if of its own accord. “But the Golden Order supplanted its chaos. My father was Marika’s convert. He was blamed when I was born as… as this.”

Oleg and Morgott’s eyes met at that inopportune moment. Oleg with his shaggy beard half-ravaged. And Morgott dissolving into the grotto’s vapors for how light-headed he felt. How sick with recollection and the seedling comfort in speaking to someone that neither hated him nor revered him.

“Lord Godfrey taught me a few Order incantations. He taught me to hold hammers, spears, and swords. Some days I am certain he cared for me enough to love me. I was born Graceless. The Queen Eternal divested him of his Grace. In that way I feel kinship with him.”

Oleg finished shaving. Morgott stared at the far wall, and the scrape of blade against skin scoured his bones.

“My mother didn’t want me, either.”

Morgott flinched.

“Mercy, why did I say that?” Oleg hissed under his breath. His voice pirouetted about the cavern in taunt. He loosed a miserable chuckle. “I thought you might feel better knowing you… but…” The splinter interfered. “Well, I’m a plain fool. Someone pull this foot out of my mouth.”

Morgott said nothing. But he made the grievous mistake of turning back towards the man. He was caught in Oleg’s beseeching gaze. Trapped and exsanguinated. His knight was nearly naked and steeped in the agony of a past tearing itself from the grave. Morgott gestured for him to continue. If he didn’t, Oleg might collapse dead on the spot.

“You see, she had an affair, my mother. With some wastrel. It was obvious when my hair grew in this damning color. It was all I inherited from him.” He ruffled his own locks in emphasis. It had grown substantially since he had entered Lord Morgott’s service. It could easily be braided. “Mother’s husband hated me. She tried pawning me off on my sire. But, you see, he’d gotten himself hanged.”

Morgott raised a pebbly brow. Oleg managed a smile.

“He befriended a family of Misbegotten. He made their master unchain them, and then he slit her throat.”

Morgott’s sensibilities instinctually recoiled before they were eviscerated by Oleg’s wry smirk. As if he were proud of a dead man’s myth. That two Graceborn lost their lives to pay the debts of Graceless people.

“With her options gone, Mother sold me as an indenture. I barely remember any of it. I was just a bairn. I was reminded, of course, how lucky I was. I hated him for a while. For leaving me alone to do something foolish. But I’m no longer an ignorant child. He acted bravely. I suppose it could have been worse. I was raised to be a knight. Aye… it could have been much worse.”

Marika’s eldest son had often wondered why his Goddess hadn’t exiled him with her Lord Husband. He would have been Graceless amongst Graceless, beyond the Lands Between. Untouched by the Erdtree’s light and unable to cause the Order offense. He had wondered why she’d chosen instead to imprison him in Leyndell’s squalid gaol. His Fated Death had never come, no matter how battered he was- how sickened and starved. Had it been torture? Had it been mercy?

“Aye,” he agreed. Unfairly sour. “Thou wert fortunate.”

He recognized that Oleg wasn’t pricking himself and begging for Morgott’s sympathy. He pierced them through not with a stiletto, but with a needle. As if to thread a gossamer bond between them. Morgott could pluck it, bear the sting, and banish it.

The intangible string was warm around his finger. He let it be. But the silence had lingered too long.

“I need to check on the horse.”

Oleg had pulled on a clean tunic. Morgott caught a flash of his reddened face through lank hair as he strode past. Out to the grotto’s exit.

“I’ll be back. Give me an hour or two.”

So it was Morgott’s decision to stay or to go. To let the shade of Leyndell’s Lord hover around his quarters and hope no one noticed. Oleg left, and Margit chose to remain.

He drifted to the statue of Marika but did not finish his prayers. Indeed, his frequent visits had seen fatty wax accumulate at the Goddess's bare feet. Smoky flame had licked at her skirt’s hem. Clumps of fur stuck to damp rocks. White hairs mingled with the yellow wax.

Morgott did not meander far from the grotto’s pools. Because he could sense in the circulating air how deep the cavern went. On the barest stale breeze, like a shallow breath upon his cheek, he could smell it: sewage and rot. He could imagine the grim, rictus smile leering over his shoulder. Come home, it hissed. Abandon this folly. Thou’rt fit only for a fetter, not a mantle.

“Quiet, Elder,” Morgott muttered beneath his breath. Because it was easier to rebuke his thoughts if he imagined them coming from another’s lips.

But perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he’d believed. An alert from his animal body made the hair of his nape stand on end.

It was not Oleg. He barred the name from crossing his lips as he met the enemy’s wicked sneer. Green mist exhumed from the toothless grin as it emerged from the rotten esophagus. The horns melded to its cleavers yearned for accursed blood.

—------------------------------------------------

Oleg returned to the grotto under night’s shroud. With the sun set, the Erdtree’s glow cast black shadows from Leyndell’s walls.

Stabling the horse had taken longer than he’d anticipated. The gelding needed brushed and watered. Then it was a couple kilometers to the nearest Leyndell stable. Oleg couldn’t keep the animal in the cave with him, and he couldn’t hitch it outside to betray his location or be harassed by wolves. Though he was meant to be in hiding, he was still Morgott’s man, and the stable keepers didn’t peer at his face too keenly after he flashed the telltale badge that marked one’s service to Leyndell’s Steward. The ordeal had cost him time- enough to see the sun extinguished once he’d trudged back to the grotto.

The earth sighed from the moist tunnel, as if Oleg traversed the branches of the Lands Between’s lungs. And upon its chill breath, he smelled blood. The ache in his exhausted limbs was immediately banished.

Oleg settled into the instincts of a throat-slitting rogue. He stilled every particle of himself- save for his heart, which seemed desperate to fill the quiet with percussion. A sword he coaxed from its scabbard slick as oil upon water. Tacky film splotched the ground. Clotted with dust and dirt. Margit’s conjured light was out. Instead, pale embers glowed red below. Oleg doused his lantern.

He crept into the cavern proper, squinting in the dark. What Oleg had presumed to be a torch was merely the remains of a smoldering cloak and a half-dozen lit candles around Marika’s statue. Feeble light caressed two crumpled forms. Both were larger than Oleg. But only one was thorny with horns and emitted wheezing, rumbling growls.

Margit was sodden. A wet animal smell permeated the cave. His fur stuck to his skin in silver mats. Without the bulk of his cloak and the volume of his fur he seemed smaller.

“What did this?” Oleg demanded. Fear was a whetstone to his voice.

Margit didn’t- or couldn’t- answer. But Oleg noticed the Perfumer’s apron on the broken- decidedly dead- body beside them. He saw the water-slicked cleaver thick and misshapen with unwieldy horns, curling and sharp.

Omenkiller.

“Mercy-" the knight gasped. Margit was an amorphous heap of muscle and fur. He was drenched and feverish, and Oleg was uncertain if he touched blood. “Where are you wounded?”

“Poison. Powder.”

The weightlessness of Margit’s voice- the featherlight brush of his resignation- set off a tingling in Oleg’s extremities. Margit had been stripped of his haughty disdain, of his endemic, growling command. He was on the edge of sleep’s precipice. The knight feared if he tumbled down into that abyss, he’d never crawl out again.

“Stay awake, Beastie,” Oleg ordered. Though he was not a man suited to command. His words trembled like cornered prey. His hand fled to Margit’s cheek. As if to slap it. To use pain’s sting to keep him present. But he couldn’t do it. Margit’s skin was hot- moreso than Oleg remembered. Almost blistering. Sweat made his ashen skin gleam. His whiskers- his beard- was soft like the pelt of a lynx. “Keep that eye open for me.”

Oleg’s thumb swiped beneath Margit’s half-lidded eye. The tips of his fingers sensed the thrum of holy magic. That golden iris, he swore, shone brighter than usual. There was something at work in Margit’s flesh. He hoped it would be enough.

There were incantations to halt poisons. Simple ones that Academy pupils mastered within their first year. There were salves and tinctures in the Perfumers’ Houses that accomplished the same effect. Oleg possessed neither, and poison was invulnerable to steel.

The splash of approaching footsteps carried over Margit’s rattling breathing. They stalked up from the opposite tunnel- the one that led deeper underground. The one so rank Oleg hadn’t dared traverse it very far.

Two figures emerged, and in the stark flame of the torch one carried, Oleg briefly mistook them for Omen. For they were huge, and horns twisted from grayed faces. He realized his mistake when his eye snagged on their bristling weapons. The serrated edges dripped blood. Bottles clinked merrily along their belted aprons. Their horned faces were masks.

Oleg had never seen Omenkillers up close.

They are only people. He reminded himself as a chill set his hairs on end.

But there was something distinctly inhuman about the way they stared at him. Grace-gold eyes hazy with a sheen like chemical cataract. The banished knight had heard that the Perfumers that hunted Omen often took droughts that dulled their emotions.

Their smirking masks tilted as the pair’s attention flitted between Oleg and Margit and the crumpled Omenkiller in the water. The torchless one hefted a cleaver and gestured at Margit.

“Is it dead?” They rasped. So dispassionately that Oleg shuddered.

Margit was alert, and his shoulder trembled with effort beneath Oleg’s palm. He was not so naive as to think his Omen Lord afraid. Fury was writ in scorch marks within his blazing eye. But his body was too enfeebled to catch flame. Oleg squeezed Margit’s shoulder and stood.

“If you’ve an antidote, I’ll be taking it.”

The Omenkillers did not respond. But their refusal was clear enough.

Very well. If that was how it was going to be.

Oleg raised his sword.

Chapter 17: Knight

Notes:

This will likely be the last update before the DLC release. I still don't anticipate a long wait, however. I've written ahead, but editing takes a lot of time. And I can't use my afternoons to edit if I'm playing Elden Ring!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

He was being prodded. At his jaw, his throat, his wrist. His awareness anchored to those sensations first. Then pain, second. And though the two weren’t necessarily linked, instinct bid him behave as though they were.

Morgott growled- or he tried to. The sound that eked from him was a mortifying whimper. His stinging eye peeled open.

He had survived worse than an amateurish poisoning. He had suffered worse torment and greater indignity. Thus, Oleg’s startled noise of relief felt rather patronizing. As was the urgent press of a waterskin to his lips. The clean scent of water was all too enticing, however. He let it spill past his teeth. It trickled down his throat, and he imagined his body absorbing it as roots did rain.

The Rune within him flared. Its holy spark was a welcome comfort. It had rarely awakened; rarely had there been cause. It was persistence. Endurance. The mark of the stalwart sentinel. It was everything he needed to be. And it had helped to burn away the poison. But it had not worked alone.

Oleg pushed more water at him. Morgott snatched the skin before he could start feeding it to him again. This time, a proper growl tore itself from his aching chest. The knight was not cowed.

“Margit…”

“What is it?” he spat. His pride was so battered, this was the only way he could mend it.

“How are you feeling?”

He sniffed. The sound caustic with derision. He did not know how he felt. “I will live.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Morgott ignored Oleg- the only viable answer to such disrespect. His vision sharpened, and the grotto came into focus. The dead accompanied them. Face down in the pool, the meconium of their righteous hatred swilled in unbreathing lungs. The smirking masks were crooked and cracked. Their removal utterly disarmed their effect. Graceborn and Omen blood mingled in the water and made it murky.

Morgott had slain Omenkillers.

Survival is not a sin.

He had never seen one dead by uncursed hands.

“Beastie.”

The hand was at his face again. Calloused palm cupped against his weathered cheek. He leaned away from it. The offending touch pursued.

Graceborn did not reach for Margit’s face but to harm it. To knot their fingers into his hair and pull. To slide steel beneath his chin. To strike a humiliating slap across his mouth. He was too big, too old, and too strong to be manhandled anymore. But the Omenkiller had managed it just fine when the poison sapped his vigor from his limbs.

He had been beaten and spat upon. For being the Omen brazen enough to trod upon the streets Queen Marika once walked. The compounds that dulled their fear hadn’t lessened their fervent ire. Morgott was glad that Oleg hadn’t been around to witness how sheer his dignity could be. His memories of the Shunning Grounds pursued him always, a slavering pack of hounds. Omenkillers knew how to make their quarry weak with fear. Morgott was ashamed that he was not immune to their tactics. The wrong action- the right words- could force him to relive what time should have buried.

He wanted to flee Oleg’s fondling, but there was nowhere else for him to go.

“I should not have left you.”

“A worthless regret,” Morgott sneered. Oleg’s fingertips trailed magma over his face. “The fault is mine for being caught unawares. Thou’rt sworn to steal life, Sellsword, not preserve mine.”

“Then who would pay me if I let you die?”

More patronizing teasing. At last, Morgott found the coordination to grab Oleg’s wrist. To pry it away from his blazing flesh. The knight’s expression was frightfully hungry- starved. And his bare hand was the apparatus with which he fed. Morgott was uncertain what hollow specter plagued his knight, but it was cloying and terrible. Looking into his eyes, Morgott knew that whether he was the Lord upon the throne or the beast leashed by chains, Banished Knight Oleg would have plucked a wilting sunflower and held it out to him. Would have declared to all his loyalty no matter the face Morgott wore.

He was made raw by that revelation. The man was depraved.

“Remove thy hand,” he barked.

But he had thrown it aside before Oleg could comply. The sound he loosed as he made to sit up was disgraceful. The water beneath him may as well have been tar. The poison had damaged him, and neither the antidote nor his Rune could heal it. His arms could hardly hoist him upright, and Oleg grimaced down at him.

“Please be honest with me. How are you feeling?”

Morgott sighed. “As if I would be dead were I any less fortunate.” Oleg glanced at him quizzically. “Thou… thou gavest me an antidote, didst thou not?”

“I did.” Oleg blinked, and Morgott did his best to ignore the tinge of pink in the white of the man’s eyes. “It was all I could do.”

Worry choked him. Morgott could turn over his knight’s every word and not find a marring spot of obligation. It was all he could do, and he had been scoured by the understanding that Margit might have perished despite that. Miquella’s splinter prevented Oleg from acting against his liege, but it could not compel him to speak like this, to act like this. To be like this.

Oleg had saved him because he had wanted to.

“...Were the Killers sent to you?”

“No. I should think not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye, Sellsword. ‘Twas no malice in the act.”

Oleg snorted. It was grotesquely disdainful. Hateful. “No malice my arse. They carried severed horns.”

“They did not seek me,” Morgott snapped. “I happened to cross their path.” Oleg opened his mouth to argue, and Morgott snarled. He jabbed a finger towards the rank tunnel guarded by the effigy of Marika. “Look’st thou the dark descent, there! Omen nest within subterranean lairs, thus there the Killers hunt. I did not consider-”

Morgott was wracked by a dry cough. Claws raked down his ribs and he tasted blood. “I did not think…” Another rattling bout interrupted his second attempt. His joints throbbed; his gums were inflamed. He felt as if he were flaking off his very bones.

Oleg left him to hack and tremble. A stern scowl made bleak his expression.

“...When I asked the Guild to continue Arteya’s work, I did not think they would test the formula on Omen.”

“Will they be punished?” Oleg’s flat intonation made Morgott’s nape prickle.

“They are dead.”

“I mean the Perfumer’s Guild.”

“The Order doth not sanction the safeguarding of the Curseborn past the birth of noble bairns.”

“Then will the Grace Given have me hanged?” Oleg challenged. “For safeguarding an Omen’s life at the cost of three Graceborn?”

“No, Oleg. Now forget thine anger at once.”

“I cannot. I… refuse.”

Standing was even more taxing. The agony beneath Morgott’s skin spread down to his legs. His knees felt brittle, and his muscles twinged as though knives were stabbing into his flesh. What was this poison that it had to be so tortuous?

“I command it of thee,” Morgott insisted. Merely speaking was draining him. His stomach was scorched as though coals had been stuffed down his throat. Another cough brought forth bile. “I need a healer.”

“An Order magician-”

“-Will not accept an Omen patient. Not even on the Steward’s order.”

The horror in Oleg’s stare was difficult to face. “Can you heal yourself? You’re an Order magician too.”

Morgott hissed. “I was never taught. I cannot be taught. Thou’rt wasting my time, Oleg. Miranda blooms grow in these soils. The Guild hath a House nearby-”

“You would seek aid from the people that nearly killed you?”

“I have no choice!” Fire may as well have belched from his maw for how hideously it burned. “I do not fear them. I do not hate them. Thy pity is a hinderance. It helps me naught!”

Finally, finally, Oleg was brought to heel. Morgott had only been forced to plead and bare his tender neck. The knight gave a shallow nod and said nothing more. There wasn’t much he could do to help a beast of Margit’s size, but he did not leave his side. He was tasked with holding Margit’s amber medallion- his royal collar- and to be his voice if he deteriorated to the point of being unable to speak. Never had Morgott seen him more disciplined than the kilometer trek to the small alchemist’s shack in the shadow of the Capital’s walls.

Perfumers were already gathering like otters at the House’s threshold long before Oleg and his Omen invalid passed through the gated fence. Patches of Miranda sprouts made the air smell like fetid meat. Morgott had to bite down the urge to vomit.

“What business?”

A tall, elder man strode forward. His apron was stained with spores and his face was creased like old leather. Beside Morgott, Oleg’s discipline was visibly drowned by a seething hate.

“Oleg-“ Morgott began, but Oleg had already surged forth.

The Perfumers met his warrior’s approach with apprehension. Their mistake for showing weakness in the face of his anger.

“Who do you-“

The sound of shattering glass silenced the one who spoke out. The crowd flinched away from the piddling spray of poison that was freed from its nearly-empty vessel. It harmlessly dusted the cobbles meters from the nearest alchemist. The point was made, but Oleg was not finished.

With the medallion of green amber clenched in his first, he strode over the broken aromatic bottle. Shards of glass crunched underfoot as he thrust the amber into a Perfumer’s face.

“Treat him,” he snarled. “He is Morgott’s and you will treat him.”

The lean of his speech was subtle. The splinter had commandeered his tongue, and with a deft slice had rescued the Steward’s secrets.

“Aye,” the accosted Perfumer rasped. “We know Margit.”

“I’ll administer it myself if I must.”

“T-there won’t be any need for that, Ser.”

Perfumers guided Morgott to a stable and had him sit in the straw. He was happy to oblige. Then, distantly, he watched Oleg speak with the elder at the House’s door. His hands were claws, his teeth flashed. Morgott had never seen him angry. Not like this. A shallow basin of water and some rags were hurriedly presented to Oleg. The slight Perfumer gestured to the knight’s bloodstained hands. Oleg snapped at her and marched, unrelenting, to Morgott’s stall.

Fury and grief twisted up his handsome features. Made him wild and wretched. He collapsed to his knees by Morgott’s side, and he clasped one of the Omen’s big hands in both of his own.

“Mind thyself,” Morgott reprimanded him. He did not have the energy to deal with his pawn anymore. “The little Perfumer speaketh true. Thou shouldst cleanse thy skin of the curse.”

“Beastie…”

But he paused. Morgott shifted in the straw. Now that he was resting, the pain naturally abated.

“I am angry,” Oleg whispered. “And I do not understand why you are not.”

Morgott breathed. Oleg’s lips were centimeters from the back of his monstrous hand. Where dried, brown blood crusted under his fingernails and matted the hair on his knuckles. He was aware, then, of a fear that he could not place. It was not for himself, but a filament tangled around the knight’s fingers.

“Be silent, Sellsword. And begone. The Council will collect me before long. Thou must not be here when they come.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

Oleg’s speech was more terrifying than anything these alchemists could do to him. He was naked, bleeding from a dozen shallow scrapes. He was barely holding together. But it was his knight’s voice that made him shudder.

“I am thy Commander,” he hissed. “Thou’rt in more peril than I. Go.

Oleg relinquished his hand. He stood on stiff legs. “Very well.”

He shouldered past the Perfumers filtering in, their arms laden with mortars, herbs, and bottles. The alchemists murmured at his aggression. Glared at the back of his auburn head. And when they set themselves to Morgott’s ills, they hardly addressed him. Their hands were protected with gloves and their averted eyes were glassy.

Morgott’s hand curled around the phantom of Oleg’s gift. He had dropped it in the grotto, his bower of snake’s scales.

If only the Omenkillers had cut out his heart, instead.

Notes:

Was Morgott right about the Omenkiller's motives or wasn't he? Was this a grand conspiracy for revenge, or really just an unfortunate consequence of his shortsightedness + the inherent cruelty of Leyndell society?

Chapter 18: Diplomat

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Woe be to beasts that were accused of harboring the Crucible. Stags with misshapen antlers, birds that molted into piebald plumage, kittens born with extra toes upon a paw. Ever since the Omen plague had surged across the Altus, its people persecuted these animals to keep the curse from taking root.

Of course, it was superstition. Even beneath the governance of the Golden Order, life could exhibit strange- harmless- variance. But Crucible-touched or not, it was best for such creatures to hide from the notice of Graceborn.

When Margit saw a genuinely accursed beast, his heart stammered.

A fox heavy with horns from nape to tail slunk across the path. Despite the burden of its curse, it moved gracefully. But of course, it had possessed horns all its life. It did not know it was wretched. It did not yearn for the Grace it had been denied.

It did not know that it was wrong.

Margit was moved. By pity and bitter envy. Accursed beasts had to be slaughtered; everything an Omen begat would be cursed, too. The fox would be hunted, and its body destroyed. And death would bring it no sanctuary.

As Margit was mired in these thoughts, he was alerted to a squealing bark. Just meters away, the fox thrashed in a snare. Blood coated its teeth as it struggled to free itself.

He could release it. His eye drifted to a saw laying in the grass.

Or he could save it.

The fox’s coat was laden with blood, drying to a sticky, foul-scented brown. The crimson lesions of the cut horns oozed. In Margit’s hands, the fox whimpered and writhed. Drooled.

It would not hunt again. It would not run. The saw had cut to the quick of the soul. The fox might survive the blood loss, but not this wound to its animal dignity.

The light of the Erdtree shone upon a well. Mossy brick crawled with carrion flies. Withered vines coiled around it. Nature gripped at the stone, but gold filled its seams.

His fox was forsaken with its horns. His fox was destroyed without them. His blade had not merely cut flesh but had severed the beast’s paws from its beloved earth.

Numb, Margit stood.

He dropped the beast into the well and it did not hit water.

Somewhere, a baby cried.

There were some things that were best kept out of sight.

———————————————-

“What were you doing down there?”

Morgott stirred. He was jolted from sleep, though he swore the scent of blood was cloying in his nose. Something about his dream had primed his instincts for danger. His ruff and tail prickled, the fur rising in alarm.

By the tarp that allowed Margit’s stable privacy, Lady Imopea flinched. The indignation of her question dissolved. The Council had believed him tame for so long. Now they could not decide if he was an underling to admonish or a feral wolf prone to snapping.

Morgott was silent- by instinct more than deliberate choice. Animals fared poorly when they complied with Graceborn interrogations. Instead, he simply inhabited his body. Mercy, pain bloomed again, nurtured by consciousness. It was not spreading; it was not eating away at his organs. Still, he shivered with bone-deep aches. He managed to sit up, however, with only a grunt to betray him.

“By the merciful Queen, Margit. I do not understand it. We can only protect you so much from your own foolishness.” Imopea didn’t raise her voice even as she cursed at him. “What were you doing down there?”

“Praying. Seeking solitude.”

“Be honest with me. Please.”

He said nothing.

Imopea drew in a cautious breath and lowered her voice. “I know you hate us. I know that you try not to. I see that your faith is earnest, and the limitations of your curse torment you. I have watched you excel, and I have watched you falter… I have felt you place the blame for your failures upon our shoulders.”

Morgott’s blood was catching fire. His veins smoldered. He coughed, and his eye stung as if smoke billowed into his face. The curse awoke, invoked by the Councilwoman.

He had once believed Imopea to be the kindest of the Councilors- apart from his Pastor. It took him years to realize that the warmth of her words had been a facade. She constructed conversations as delicately as any Leyndell sculptor shaped stone. Morgott came to understand what it meant to be a diplomat. A politician.

Imopea had always praised him in those early days when his grasp on how to behave human had been threadbare. But there had frequently been moments, glimpses, when the curse expressed itself and Imopea had to face that her Demigod Lord was no equal to Godwyn nor Miquella.

When Morgott had at last been granted the title of Grace Given, she had taken him to Limgrave and Caelid for a year. In castle Redmane, the handsome steward had been exercised as Margit came into his rut.

Morgott remembered his horror. That nauseating anguish. He’d wept his terror before the woman that had accompanied him for months, and she’d abandoned him. Had him locked in the castle dungeon, face aghast with disgust. She, who had supped with him and laughed with him and danced with him as a friend.

Naked, filthy, and without daylight, he’d shivered in chains and chafed upon fetters. Ogled by the Redmanes that had never seen such a creature in season before. He’d come out of the rut starved and feeble and positively sick with shame.

Imopea had devoted her days to covering for Leyndell’s Lord as his pet Omen cried in shackles beneath their feet. A compassionate deed he selfishly could not be grateful for. Because she never touched him again after that. Nor did she smile at him without a pretty, polished guard. She even dropped the formality of her speech around Margit, as if the art of archaic grammar was too much effort for an Omen.

“I accept my failures,” he retorted. The lie came to him easily, “I was in my season. Thou know’st how I… pass those days.”

Gods he burned. Even when he knew it was artificial, the dissolution of Imopea’s patience was agonizing. Her eyes widened and her mouth twisted. The Steward was ever more eroded by Margit.

“The sewers,” he concluded. “-provideth me solace.”

“...I see,” Imopea shifted on her feet. Her hand went to the sheet’s edge to anchor herself to her exit. “Are you…?”

“No, Councilor. ‘Tis finished.”

“Ah, well. Good.”

However undignified the lie, it was an effective one. Morgott’s ruts had been unpredictable all his life. But even if he’d never experienced his season in early winter, Imopea would not call him on it. It was a topic too distasteful to linger upon.

“The fault is mine.” Morgott leant on false humility as one might press a finger to a wound. “I could have bid Lord Morgott to alert the Guild of my condition. But it came upon me so quickly-“

“Yes, Margit. That’s enough.”

“Imopea.”

Imopea glared at a space in the straw beside him. Morgott cleared his throat, and still she averted her eye. It was at that moment that Oleg’s accusations sank hooks into tender flesh. Curled into his empty chest to make a den of it.

He said, “Morgott did not charge the Guild to test Arteya’s poisons on Omen.”

“He did not have to,” Impoea replied stiffly. “It was his folly to demand weapons of war to be made in a time of peace. The mettle of a blade can only be tested in battle. If the Steward’s poison can fell Omen, then it will kill any man without question.”

It was a sound justification, not far from Morgott’s own initial suspicions. Yet the doubt seeded by Oleg’s outburst was not dislodged by logic. The flame in his guts set its oily fur ablaze.

“Morgott will go to the poison makers on the morrow and ask who compelled them to hunt Omen with Arteya’s concoctions,” Morgott spat. “Tell me now what their answer will be.”

The mask of the diplomat fractured. A flash of fear was overcome by resignation. “General Helian.”

“Ah,” he rasped. The creature of inculpation was scorched to blackened bones. It consumed his fury, and what he felt foremost was pain.

Imopea held the back of her hand to her lips. “You must understand, Margit. He did not mean to hurt you.”

“No. But I suppose the Curseborn below make fine effigies of my likeness.”

“You must forgive him. Tolbren’s death has made him heedless. And munitions of war are his business-”

“Then where is he now, the Steward’s heedless General?”

Imopea lifted her chin. Her gaze slid to him at last. “He is holding court in Morgott’s absence.”

“No, he is not!” Morgott snarled. “All matters can be delayed until Morgott returns.”

“You have no authority over the General. Urgent matters are at hand, and they cannot wait.”

“What urgent matters?” Morgott enunciated each word with a clack of his teeth. Fangs bared, Imopea was bled of her haughtiness. She backed up, and the tarp covered her shoulders like a shroud.

“Remain here and rest. That is what is best.”

“Tell me at once!”

“The Lord’s beast you may be, but you are not the Lord.”

She was matter-of-fact. She granted Margit the consideration an Omen was owed. She did not sneer down at him in malicious triumph. Morgott was hot with anger all the same. Anger he was not entitled to.

“Should Lord Morgott return to the palace, he may see for himself,” Imopea concluded.

He was suddenly all too aware of his nakedness. He was not embarrassed to be bare before a noble woman of Leyndell. But if he had left his cloak in the grotto-

“Well, I’ll be off. My prayers shall be with you, for a swift recovery.”

Morgott found his voice: “Do not waste them.”

Imopea frowned at his audacity- well-wishes for his sort were a coveted commodity- and hastily retreated. From the enclosure of his makeshift shelter, Morgott listened to horses stamp off, towing a carriage.

Growling at his spiking aches, Morgott staggered to his feet. He had cast off his cloak when the poison had seeped into the furs in heady spores. But his Veil was sewn into the hides. He considered conjuring a shade of the Grace Given to go to the palace in his stead. But his head swam from the exertion of merely leaving the stable.

“Margit!”

“Sellsword?”

He squinted in the brilliance of day. The aproned Perfumers gave him a wide berth, figuring if the Omen was well enough to stand, he was well enough to do it unassisted. Only one lean figure came right at him. Lank red hair stuck to Oleg’s forehead and neck. He was sunbaked and sweaty. He held not a blade but horse’s reins in his fist.

“You’re up!” he exclaimed.

“Thou’rt here…” Morgott rumbled in answer.

“I only just got back.” Oleg had the decency to sound apologetic for his perceived disobedience. He gestured to a cart behind him- little more than a board bolted to wheels. Oleg appeared more exhausted than the horse pulling it. “I went to clear out the grotto before, well…”

“Thou needn’t say anything more.”

Morgott could hardly keep cross when the cart bore his cloak. Upon the cart’s slats, it looked like a neglected bear pelt. The scent of it ignited a coughing fit. He spat phlegm onto the ground. Oleg winced.

Morgott pointed towards the city gate flanked by sentinel statues. Their vigilance surveyed the tops of trees. “To the Capital, Sellsword.”

“I think you ought to give yourself more time to rest.”

Morgott slid his hands into the mass of his cloak. The chill of the damp garment was not unpleasant against his feverish skin. After a minute of groping, he brushed the shape of his Veil. The enchanted artifact was undamaged. Relief sprouted barbs on Morgott’s tongue.

“Alas, thy sympathies are useless to me,” he hissed. “Do as I command, as though my voice were the Steward’s own.”

Oleg bowed, grim-faced. Then he turned the horse and cart to depart from the Perfumer campus. Morgott trailed after, privately glad that the diminutive Graceborn’s pace was merciful on his cramping legs. The path they tread cut through a meager patch of forest. But Morgott was soothed by an animal sense of safety. The Shunning Grounds had scarred him in so many ways; sometimes he was calmer not seeing the sky.

“Councilor Imopea alluded to a matter at court. Hast thou any knowledge of what she meant?”

“No. How could I? I’ve kept out from underfoot as you’ve asked.”

He was blunt, but Morgott possessed enough grace- or lacked the energy- to resent it.

“Thou didst well to bring me the cloak.”

It was tepid praise, however earnest. But Oleg did not react to it. His gaze was distant over the long wedge of his nose.

“I might have an idea, though.” The knight unclipped a satchel from his belt. It smelled of metal and blood and moisture. The serpent medallions. Somehow, seeing them again was reassuring. “I meant to tell you before- I thought I’d have the time.”

“Out with it.” Trepidation grasped Morgott’s insides with an unrelenting fist. His discomfort doubled.

“There may be serpents in Leyndell.”

It was a possibility Morgott had considered. Except that he’d only ever found the sect operating at the Plateau’s fringes.

Oleg continued, “During the hunt, I met a man that claimed he tracked a group to Leyndell’s gates when the Rold Ball began. He was uncertain of their goals.”

The knight’s words were kindling for Morgott’s inflamed curse. He burned righteously, but impotently. Oleg should have told him this immediately rather than pick at emotional scabs. The mindless fool. But even his frustration was toothless. It gummed at his lungs until he coughed and wheezed.

“Beastie.”

Morgott waved his hand to ward off Oleg’s apologies. He couldn’t stomach them. “I have long suspected the aims of those Graceless, belly-crawling fiends,” he spat. “If thou speakest true, Sellsword, then I was right to be wary of them and their master. We must hasten to the palace. My Council shall tend the city in my stead? Fie! I am the first of the Golden Lineage. I am the Order’s humiliation. That is why I must go, Oleg. I will not shame it further by baring my throat to that feeble, impotent-“

His voice scraped against his throat, and when he hacked in consequence, a jumble of his organs seemed keen to leap up his esophagus and escape.

Oleg’s hand was at the small of his back. Palm flat where the tail met his spine.

“You are truly that determined?” He murmured.

Morgott swallowed, “‘Tis my duty. This… is what we have killed for.”

Those fingers clenched into his fur. Kneaded his spine with knuckles. “Then bring me with you.”

“Sellsword-"

Then the other hand was laid upon his forearm. The tanned bronze his complexion stark against white fur and gray hide.

“I am not leaving you.”

A heartening, devastating sentiment. One that Morgott had not the strength to refuse.

———————————————-

There was fire in his muscles, and every step stirred the embers. He was prodded with iron pokers that had been set in a banked hearth. Their glowing red ends a torment upon his flesh. Morgott could only imagine what he looked like. The Veil’s incantations were ingenious but not limitless. He knew his false blonde hair was sticking to the mask of his pale forehead. There was a slight limp to his gait. The Steward of Leyndell was just a touch off. As if he’d crossed the width of the Outskirts in a dead sprint or spent the early hours drinking. Leyndell did not lack reflective surfaces. If he cast his eyes downward, he would be able to see his disheveled reflection in the floor. Instead, he stared ahead at Oleg’s back. At the knight’s golden cape and the hand knuckling the pommel of his sword.

The Erdtree sanctuary was fortunately empty save for the four Councilors and the pair of men seeking audience. Their wolf fur capes suggested that they were people of the north. One possessed a Kaiden dismounter, but the other, elder figure didn’t appear to be his kin. He had more in common with the Grace Given- as his face was wan and unpleasantly sweaty. That defensive, furious, gray-eyed glare confirmed all of Morgott’s fears.

Oleg was a gilt speck in the edges of Morgott’s vision as he sat the vacant throne. Imopea, Helian, Iren, and Phelia occupied smaller, more suitable seats on either side of him. With half of the Council’s chairs sitting empty, did Leyndell seem weak? Ineffectual? Aimless anger boiling his blood, Morgott fantasized about throwing those disused seats over the wall to see them break to splinters upon searock.

He made neither excuse nor apology for his tardiness. He ignored his Council’s startled expressions. He noisily cleared his throat. The chair was torture on his lower spine. He spoke to the older noble first, addressing him as a representative of the house entire.

“House Weischal. Thou wert summoned some weeks ago. Whether incompetence or defiance kept ye, I suspect I know what drove thee to this Sanctuary.”

He paused, gave the man time to respond as he recovered his breath. Weischal’s wariness was abandoned for self-righteous rage. Morgott received the answer to his rhetorical query.

“My ancestors fought alongside Great Godfrey a millennia ago. My people battled the flames of the Fell-worshippers and were bestowed that treasure so we could make the land ours! By the Elden Lord it was given!”

“I am his blood. His firstborn,” Morgott replied.

“Are you?”

Morgott narrowed his eye. It was a rare treat to have someone doubt his heritage to his face. His Councilors doubted his wisdom and character and loyalty. But they had never once claimed he was anything but a child of the Golden Lineage.

If he were in a charismatic mood, he might tilt his profile in the Erdtree’s light and bid the jester tell him which of his features hadn’t come from Lord Godfrey. It would go over better, however, if a gallery of courtiers were present to chuckle at his wit. If he were in a more striking mood, he might present to House Weischal his Great Rune. Force him to buckle in the presence of pure, fractured divinity.

In lieu of charming theatrics, he snapped, “The Medallion was stolen, was it not?”

House Weischal swallowed. So Morgott glanced at the Kaiden guard.

“Aye,” the sellsword said gruffly. Remembering himself, he bowed. “Cutthroats followed the traveling parties across the Capital bridge. It is believed they searched the Forbidden Lands to find a Medallion of their own so that they could use the Rold Lift without invoking Capital permissions.”

Morgott sneered at the elder. “Thou think’st me a feeble pretender? A clan of Giantsbane thwarted by mere brigands.” House Weischal had the decency to flush in bald abashment. Morgott scoffed viciously, and his lungs seized. He bit back the coughing fit, and his voice issued hoarsely, “Proud thou’rt of thy history and heritage. Tell me, Weischal, wherefore thine ancestors warred with Fire Giants.”

“To extinguish the Fell Flame.”

“Ah, but the flame still smoldereth, does it not?”

At last, the elder was stricken. He said softly, “That is why I came here, Lord. My daughter fell defending the hold. One- they held a knife to my grandson’s throat…”

Morgott was unmoved.

“My Lord-"

He was dead to the beseeching address beside him. He exhaled.

“Thou defied me. Thus, the Lands Between are imperiled.”

House Weischal raised his hands desperately. “I bring, too, a message of hope! The murderous thieves have not yet ascended to the Mountaintops. Perhaps they await more of their own. Perhaps they are leery of the Black Kindred despite the Keystone!”

It was meager consolation. Morgott had suffered the Ball to avoid a battle, and now Leyndell would be consigned to fight regardless.

He ached from suppressing the twinges. From submerging himself in his pain so that it couldn’t bubble to his surface and betray him with winces and twitches. It was exhausting. It was relief- release- to incline his chin just so.

Oleg strode forward. An automaton imbued with life at the Grace Given Lord’s nod. Weischal choked as he recognized the golden noose for what it was.

“Lord Morgott-!” The futile cry was loosed.

The man’s hand went to his sword, the fierceness of his sneer dissolved to almost blank eyed bewilderment. The Kaiden guard deferred to the Demigod and did not interfere. Weischal wasn’t fast enough to intercept the Banished Knight’s blade. His heart was pierced through. Morgott watched him die with bestial satisfaction. It was a balm to the hatred in his blood. He sighed, contented, as blood collected to make a dark mirror upon the marble.

Notes:

Two weeks post DLC! woo! I'm nowhere near finished but some of the fervor has cooled enough to return to writing.

This is regrettably the most oddly paced chapter in this fic so far. It feels like an odd one to return to. A lot of it is set dressing for the next 4-chapter arc. But! I'm excited for whats coming next!

Chapter 19: Respite

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

War.

The word was clinging to everyone’s lips by sundown. It spread up and down the shining streets like a serpent. Every virgin ear was a warren filled with ignorant prey.

Morgott had been swept from the Erdtree Sanctuary before the body of the northern noble could be disposed of. The carrion crows that comprised his Council mobbed him from his throne.

The first battle of Morgott’s little war would take place without witnesses. So that the Steward could be pleaded with and berated before the swords were drawn.

Oleg had been left to wipe the blood from his blade as the other knights of the court swooned and gasped. As the Demigod of the Badlands shattered their peace in the twilight of its years. Oleg’s last sight of Morgott had consisted of an exhausted scowl. A heavy blink. And bared teeth. Fierce and determined and pained.

Helian had stared Oleg in the eye right after. He had lingered beneath the Sanctuary's entryway. Shrewd, bestial, black eyes had examined him for merely a moment- before he had departed to chase worthier prey in the Steward.

But Oleg had known he needed to disappear.

The kit of the Leyndell knight he abandoned in the barracks. In a dark cloak, with silver swords sheathed at his back, he fled to the gates.

Perhaps the miasmic plague of war clung to him. He spread it through the streets, carried it upon the hem of his cloak. He certainly felt like a figure of death as he claimed his black steed and rode out to the rolling hills beyond the outer moat.

The horse he tied to a wizened tree. It grazed upon the dry autumn grasses. Oleg planted himself upon a fallen log. The grotto entrance was not far away, even if it was out of sight. He’d have to retrieve his silver armor eventually. But he had no other place to stow it. Not unless he simply left. And… he couldn’t do that.

Morning became late afternoon. Oleg slaked his thirst in the nearby stream. But he could do nothing for his hunger. It was fortunate, then, that the nausea of worry made the idea of eating unpalatable.

Behind him, the horse snorted amicably. Oleg whipped around- water dripping from his chin- to behold Margit. Frowning, as always, but looking hale.

“Thou wert wise to come here,” he grunted by way of greeting.

“Margit?”

“Aye.”

“But Morgott-"

“Is resting within the Capital.”

“Is he?”

Margit offered his hand. Its appearance was undoubtedly strange. There was a glow at the edges. Almost the same way the sunset would soon make the leaves of the trees smolder. It was not blatantly obvious. Margit turned his hand over. A couple of wispy embers shed from his skin. They fizzled to cinders long before they alighted upon the grass. The shadow he cast was also off. As was the color of his fur. A muted, creamy hue had been draped over him.

Oleg reached out. His fingers passed through Margit’s. There was a soupy heat. As if he’d touched an open wound. He snatched his hand away, anticipating the stain of blood. There was only an electric thrum that brushed his skin and then was spent.

“What is this, Margit?”

“‘Tis an incantation.”

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. You’re here, but you aren’t?”

Margit eyed him- weighed the sincerity of his curiosity.

“Carian spellcraft was the inspiration. I could summon weapons long before I studied the art. The structures of sorceries are crystalline, and it brought my conjuring to heel for more cunning shades.” Margit held out his hand as though to receive an unseen object- palm upward. A sword was instead manifested from nothing. He grasped the golden hilt. “My sculpts became more complex until I could render mine own face with merely a thought. I sought to turn my summoned visage into a puppet of my will.”

Oleg scrutinized the puppet again. It was nearly impossible to tell his form was false, save for the slight aura around his figure.

“You are incredible,” he scoffed.

Beneath the cloak, Margit’s shoulders tensed. “It cannot do half of what I desire. ‘Tis nothing more than a mouthpiece.”

“Well, what else must it do?”

“Anything,” he grumbled. “The incantation could fight in the stead of my flesh. I could sit the throne without sullying it with my curse. I could be Margit and Morgott simultaneously. None would be any the wiser.”

He trailed off, then. The frustration burned out to melancholy before he caged his own voice behind a clenched jaw. Oleg still recognized his bitterness. The incantation was an axe after all. Intricate in its craftsmanship. A masterpiece of design. But it was an axe, nonetheless, meant to cleave apart two halves of the same whole.

Oleg was inexplicably nervous. “Are you really present? Is this your spirit that I speak to, or a construct?”

“I am here, Knight. The Grace Given Lord resteth in his chambers. Sleep doth tend his ills, and when he awakens, war shall be discussed.”

“Gods, the poison,” Oleg hissed. “Is it- are you…?”

The splinter choked his concern.

Margit blinked. “I am fine. As is he. ‘Tis a meager boon. I cannot yet inhabit the flesh and the puppet simultaneously. With the pretense of sleep, I can be…”

“Where you are needed?”

Margit sniffed, his exhale tapering to a sigh. “-Where I wish to be. I have forced down Leyndell’s throat the taste of war. I will bear the responsibility and the consequences. But first… some selfish respite.”

Cold winds spilled down from the Mountaintops. They belched gray skies just as Gelmir did ash. If winter wasn’t upon them already, then it was very well gathering for its siege. The golden grasses were browning. The forests had become dormant graveyards for twisted, wooden skeletons.

Margit had adapted, too.

Oleg hadn’t noticed until then. That the fur on his arms and legs had grown dense. That his stark clavicles- dusted with hair- were now white with fur. That the pelt of his chest had lengthened enough to curl. Even his whiskers encroached upon his chin. Silvery stubble speckled his cheeks. Oleg wondered if Margit shaved.

“It isn’t selfish. Better a few hours here than ten minutes in that shaken wasp’s nest,” Oleg commiserated

“‘Tis preferable. Aye.”

Margit sat beside Oleg at the bank of the stream and gazed outward. The wind tugged at his fur, and he shed gold like dander. His hands splayed in the dewy grass, fingers digging into the earth. A distant honking overhead revealed a flock of geese skimming beneath the clouds. Many migrant birds spent the winter in the Weeping Peninsula, where the Lands Between was warmest. Some would not settle for that balmy country. They would continue further south, beyond the fog and sea. Sheep herds grazed in their great coats of wool. Springhares scampered to fill their hordes. Sprawling farmlands were sown with radish, fennel, and cabbage.

Gusts of fallen leaves battered Margit’s back. They were trapped in his cloak and pelt. Littered in his hair. The Erdtree was incandescent despite the gloomy weather. It bathed the landscape in its radiance and made art of the land going dormant.

Oleg watched him as the Omen watched the land. His land.

A faint glow caught Oleg’s attention. He glanced downward, where his palm braced against the grass. Margit’s hand had eclipsed his with a few fingers. Oleg’s corporeal body passed through Margit’s. And where magic and flesh intersected, the perfect puppet was disrupted. Margit’s hand gleamed the same hue as his holy arsenal. Oleg wondered if Margit felt it- the same odd heat he did.

“Oleg.”

He flinched and slid his hand away. The golden disruption settled into a broad, gray paw again. Margit wasn’t looking his way, however. Oleg swallowed, and his throat bobbed.

“Might I speak with thee? About matters that will neither interest nor concern thee?”

Oleg reclined entirely. He propped up his head with his hands behind his nape. Of course he could listen. But the request was uncharacteristic of his Omen liege.

“You may do whatever you like, Beastie. I didn’t think you held my wisdom in such esteem.”

“‘Tis not thy counsel I desire. Whether Omen or Lord this voice goeth unheard by the Council of Leyndell. I think aloud because thou wilt listen.”

“I- well of course. I want to listen.”

Margit did not relax as Oleg did. His spine was ramrod- a blade plunged into frosty ground. His tail flicked where it wrapped around his knees. An errant swish of gold would betray him with every movement.

“The yields are decreasing. Year to year, there is little change. ‘Twas beneath the notice of my Council. I have studied the harvest records of the Capital for the past century. The decline began nearly sixty years ago.”

“I am sure it is no coincidence,” Oleg remarked bleakly. “Is that not when-”

Margit shook his head, “Queen Marika’s Golden Age languishes.” His lip curled, “I present my findings to the Council, and they name me Doomsayer. There is excess in the stores, I am reminded. So much excess that incantations are required to preserve the city’s food! But will that remain true fifty years hence? A century?”

Passion stirred the shade. Margit’s tail flicked and his hands gesticulated: grasping, clenching, slicing. Forging his words with righteous anger.

“Will it last when war cometh carrying Carian banners?” He pointed an ashen finger towards Gelmir. “Rykard will not breach Leyndell’s walls. Instead, he will raze the fields during his march eastward. He will pillage the Plateau and slaughter its peoples. ‘Tis simpler to starve a city than exsanguinate it. I have seen depravity, Banished Knight. I understand what is necessary to break a proud people. Rykard will destroy and then offer mercy. That is how the war will be lost.”

Margit was painting a vivid picture. Oleg imagined smoke rising off the horizon. Leyndell’s gates choked with the ash-covered bodies of desperate refugees, and the Altus fields seeded with corpses. The golden Capital devoured from the inside out by its own foaming, starving maw and the rot of disease.

“You… seem certain this will happen.”

“Better to assume its certainty than be caught unawares. I did not ask to be this nation’s keeper. But I will not leave its land to die. Traitors shan’t desecrate the Erdtree. If I must be the fist around the Order’s heart keeping rhythm, then so be it.”

Hundreds of years ago, the Golden Order had defeated the surrounding lands and grafted them onto itself into a glorious empire. It had not experienced war- real war- since.

Oleg bit his cheek, “It is my luck that I would be born in such an Age.”

“I sought to prevent this conflict. I sought the Rold Medallions. I killed dozens of serpents. My council derided me all the while. Now we march north, regardless of my caution and in spite of their carelessness. It shall be the same with Rykard and his Carian lot. My wisdom will go ignored, because they would rather despise me than heed me.”

“Despise you? Impending unpleasantness aside, what cause do they have? The sharpest thing about you is your tongue. If you don’t mind me saying. There are crueler men the world over with more devoted peers.”

“Thou knowest why,” Margit hissed.

“Perhaps,” Oleg murmured. Then, suddenly, “What happened to Iren?”

Oleg asked the question knowing he would not receive an answer-

“The Steward struck him in anger. He was not unscathed by the act.”

Margit spoke as though his words were an icy knife pressed to Oleg’s throat. Or perhaps he was handing the blade to his knight and baring his own. He was very frank with Oleg always. His honesty was not a virtuous sort. It was confession- only instead of absolution he anticipated resentment.

“I imagine the Steward had cause.”

“I did not,” the feeble rebuttal. The shroud of duality was removed so that blame could be his mantle.

Oleg thought of the homecoming tapestry. Of Morgott pinning Margit beneath a golden sword. How careful the man’s rage. How temperate his strength. Everyone made him out to be a monster- including himself.

“I do not believe it, Margit. You want me to think of the Council as your and Morgott’s victims. I refuse.”

“I do not care what thou believest. The disgraceful action hath set our course regardless,” Margit huffed.

Oleg had come upon the precipice of Margit’s tolerance. It was time to back away from its ledge. To allow them both some respite.

“Might we change the subject, then?”

Margit said nothing.

“Do you like to garden?”

“What ploy is this, Sellsword?”

“There’s no ulterior motive. I’m only curious.”

Margit snorted, and his breath plumed. Consternation gave way to contemplation. The sliver of his gold Iris sparked in black sclera. Teeth worried over his lip. His pebbly brow smoothed as much as it was able.

“I like flowers. Same as any man.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Margit scanned the wilted hillside, as if searching for invisible blooms. Musing weighed his silence. Until at last he decided: “I cannot choose.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The Omen sighed, “Sunflowers are appealing. They grow about the Erdtree and adopt its holy essence. The hue of Erdleaf blossoms is captivating. The flowering Rowa bush promiseth summer berries. Herba and cave moss hath staunched many of my wounds. Bloodroses are striking. I am rich in choice already, Sellsword, but I must consider them all. The tiny flowers of the nettle. The phlox and thistle and ragwort that paint the Plateau into an earthbound sunrise. What of cowslip or bluebells or bird’s-foot-trefoil? When I-”

He cut himself off. A hand rubbed idly at his throat.

“There was no beauty… where I was raised up.” The warmth in his tone was doused. Tepid water splashed onto embers. His voice came out thin as smoke. “Perhaps one day I will tire of this splendor. Until then… I cannot choose.”

“In the Weeping Peninsula, there are orchids. Have you ever seen them before?”

“Hmm.”

“They were my favorite for a while. They are so unique and oddly shaped. They set their roots into trees and bloom without soil. They seem almost… animal.”

“They sound strange indeed.”

Margit’s voice was flat, but he was participating. Oleg was emboldened.

“Then I liked Trina’s lilies. For exactly the reason you think.” The ground was frigid beneath him. He smiled wryly, “When the habit became too costly, I switched to drink.”

“A banished knight through and through,” Margit replied. “Always in search of a master.”

Oleg plucked out the stinger before the venom could seep too deeply. “I think I like sunflowers best, now.”

Margit audibly scoffed. “An obvious choice, but no less fair for it.”

Oleg wasn’t sure why he exposed himself like this. Why he offered up so many tender parts for the Omen to taunt and nip at.

But no. He knew why. He knew…

“Will you go north? To war?”

“Aye, Knight. I must. Leyndell doth not want for knights. But few soldiers are conscripted in peacetime. Helian, however, conceived of a clever way to amend that oversight.” He inhaled. He was weary. “Omen possess brutish strength and can suffer the wintry cold.”

“Beastie-"

That fiery eye was piercing. He glared down at Oleg. “A knight of Leyndell thou’rt. Thou shalt fight for thy city as well.” His voice was marred with a growl. As though claws were raking down his throat. “Thou knowest what I would ask of thee.”

Oleg nodded. “I do.”

He expected Margit to vanish, then. To dissipate and return to a restful slumber in his veiled body. He did not. And together, they watched the shrouded sunset set the fields aflame.

Notes:

Sometimes the best chapters to write are the ones where they just sit and talk.

I know I'm not alone in HC-ing Morgott as being a man in love with nature. I think he's understandably bitter towards people, but he seems to be the sort of spiritual person that would cherish their every day in the beauty of the world. I love that for him.

I also know I'm not the only one that imagines him with a thick winter coat! Ugh!!

Chapter 20: Collar

Notes:

Another flashback heavy chapter! I hope it's not too confusing! The use of Margit denotes the present and the use of Morgott denotes the past!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The stable had been long emptied of horses. A different breed of war beast squatted in the snow-dusted straw. It was a grotesque blessing that their blood was hot. That many of them were pelted. Winter in the lands northeast of the Capital was harsh. And most of the Omen conscripted in the city’s war were clad in the rags they had emerged from the sewers wearing.

Margit watched them dispassionately from his own nest in the dilapidated stable. The Omen huddled in familiar pods- squeezed themselves into the stalls. Perhaps because they felt so much like cells from Below. They groomed one another’s fur and feathers. They braided hair and whispered gentle comforts. A woman with claw-like horns spiraling up her arms wept for her children, whom she had been separated from. A young man with cloven hooves for feet trembled, frightened of everything. He shuddered in a ball, because the world was now too vast and too overwhelming. Another coughed noisily every few minutes to spit up blood. Another moaned that they did not want to die. Margit turned away from them and curled his tail around his knees.

They did not welcome him. His accent was too strange, and his scent was tainted by that of the Graceborn. Incenses and herbs and the lightness of gold clung to him- just as they did the Killers. Margit knew that he disturbed the Omen. That suited him fine. He wasn’t particularly eager to fumble his way through Shunning Grounds etiquette after half a century removed from the society. He didn’t want to be reminded how apart he was. From both the Curseborn and the Graceborn.

Once Lord Morgott had been granted General Helian’s support, the war preparations had progressed rapidly. There had been no other option if Leyndell’s forces were to secure the Lift of Rold before the Serpents escaped north. Days ago, these Omen had been collected from the Shunning Grounds. The choice had been controversial at first, but the people had been soothed knowing Curseborn would die in the stead of their sons and daughters.

The barn was thick with the reek of fetid blood. Many of the surfaced Omen bore the angry crimson sores of excised horns.

The rest of the small army camped beyond the barn. Horses knickered and the wind howled. Campfires bore aloft the scents of food. It would be the last warm meal the soldiers and knights might taste before reaching the Lift. The Omen would not be given anything save scraps. Pages had trotted by with wheelbarrows of vegetable peels and fruit pits. With the filthy carcasses of game animals. The meat gnawed from the bones by Graceborn teeth. Margit’s belly rumbled, and he was distantly embarrassed. He did not eat; his share was claimed by another Omen.

Soldiers moved industriously through the stable, as if they expected a gray hand to snatch them from their course at any moment. A donkey-drawn cart brought first the new shackles. The original ones had been necessarily removed by pastors. A second cart followed closely behind carrying arms inscribed with maledictions.

Margit’s own cleaver was laid before his feet already. And even in the cold northlands, the Erdtree lent him weapons of golden light.

The horses were bolder than the soldiers. Flitting eyes found Margit. Glossy irises pooled with fear. The Steward’s beast was jeered within Leyndell’s walls. If he strayed from the palace, he was mobbed by citizens and soldiers alike. Now, though, in the flimsy barn, with the meters-long blade centimeters from his hand, they remembered their terror. Legend cast Margit as the villain in Morgott’s tale of heroism. He had been defeated, humiliated. But he had still battled the Son of Godfrey and lived. Margit was legendary in his own right.

“Get on with it,” Margit snarled, soft but no less crass. His order did nothing to salvage the soldiers’ courage.

“…He’s the Steward’s, isn’t he?” One woman whispered to her companion. They weren’t going to shackle him. Cowards. But Margit could hardly resent not being chained with the rest-

“I will collar him.”

Margit snorted; his exhale plumed. Murmurs of appreciation wreathed him as their owners retreated to the encampment. General Helian always smelled like metal. Like polish and leathers. The bouquet of a warrior without the necessary, earned sweat. He smelled like the sort of man Elden Lord Godfrey would have sneered at even at his most genial.

“Margit,” the Councilor grunted.

Nothing more needed said. Margit unwound. His joints popped and his lungs expanded to take in frigid air. He knelt in icy straw and brushed his hair from his neck with a hand.

——————————————---------

The General could communicate much without using spoken language as a crutch. So, when he led Morgott past the ravaged doors, the Steward knew Helian was issuing a threat.

It was a marvel Lord Miquella was ever able to return to his own bed every night when the entrance to his chambers was bulwarked with heavy, wooden doors as tall as Morgott. Made heavier by the inlaid gold and gemstones. It was a miracle, Morgott mused, seeing as the doors had survived the onslaught of a furious Omen.

The artistry of the intricate relief was scoured with claw marks. Splintered by the beating of fists. The doors bowed slightly, wilted from the devastation dealt to them. Yet they had not fallen.

A mercy for Mohg more than it had been for Miquella. A mercy threadbare and delicate.

“Bind me Below.” Morgott had sworn to Mohg that he would never go back to the Shunning Grounds. Another promise he would break, all too easily, for Mohg’s sake. “Spare him.”

General Helian gave his Omen ward a glance. Pointed and poisonous. He might consider if Morgott argued his side better. An impossibility. The evidence of Mohg’s brutality surrounded them. But Morgott knew what Helian wanted.

Morgott knew how to submit.

However proud his spirit and vicious his blood, one did not survive a city’s scorn without learning how to appeal to its tender hearts and tickle its cruel fancies.

A scrawny bairn might earn a scrap by showing his emaciated belly and mewling.

A bold child might lessen the agony of coming discipline by falling limp and bearing his throat.

A man might lure Graceborn swords away from his infirm littermate by becoming their plaything for an hour or so. By being pliant and willing to perform humiliation.

Morgott rarely had to pretend at shame. He didn’t now, with his blank eye fixated on Helian’s boot. With his left cheek pressed to the floor. With his tail a dead weight attached to his curled spine. Prostrating with his mind empty of prayers.

There was blood on the floor. Cloying and stale. Clots of it stuck to Morgott’s whiskers. It smelled of Mohg.

“Harm me if thou must,” Morgott beseeched the shining boot. The polished leather was a murky mirror. He despised what he saw in that dim reflection. He hated that powerless creature.

But men like the General- men raised to fight in wars that never manifested, with lusts for conflict unsated- loved such displays. Helian needed this- tiny man that he was. He needed a creature of strength to cower before him.

The tip of Helian’s boot lifted. Applied the barest pressure to Morgott’s nose. Painless, but searing all the same. For both men. It was the most Helian could do to him.

“Stand, Omen,” Helian barked.

Morgott obeyed, and he was led to the dungeons.

——————————————---------

The fetter locked around Margit’s throat with a scraping rasp of iron. It tugged at the hair on his nape. Its flint had been struck against his spine, and an icy flame ignited in his gut. For no Omen was ever granted a gift that was not inscribed with a malediction.

This one made Margit’s hackles quiver as the incantation settled into his bones. As if his very skeleton had been forced into a castle’s foundation. The hand of the holy magic around his throat was too familiar. Its fingers needled the kindest of bruises into his flesh as he snorted disbelievingly. The threat of them was threaded in gilt pulses. As if the eternal promise wasn’t already carved into his skin.

He knew all too well that grip could become choking.

Unbidden, Margit’s thumb traced over the shackle’s front. Rebuke jolted through his fingers- numbed them more than the frigid air ever could. He could not show Helian his fear.

“Ah, Margit,” the General sighed. “Thy Lord hath betrayed thee.”

Margit breathed. The fetter was not painful. Though it had been designed to keep him bound to the Shunning Grounds, he only felt a discomforting heaviness to his body.

Helian continued, unimpeded by Margit’s seething silence. “I did believe mine eyes had deceived me at first. ‘Twas unfathomable that the Grace Given Lord would keep such an artifact in his chambers. An Omen shackle. That of his accursed servant and adversary, no less!” Callous mirth suffused his tone. “Wherefore did he keep it, Margit?”

Margit considered killing the man, then. His blood chanted for retribution. He could snap the General’s neck and cast the body before one of the other Omen. Would anyone be the wiser? But then he’d have the ire of an army- as well as the fetter- set squarely upon his neck. Experience counseled him that harm done to the esteemed Graceborn General would see all Omen brutalized regardless of blame.

“I believe he understood-,” Helian prattled. “-that there is no purpose for the accursed without their bonds. Thou wert not entitled to thy freedom. Thou knowest thy place as much as he.”

Margit shivered, “His reasons are his own.”

“Aye,” Helian sniffed. “Lord Morgott’s wisdom is ruled by his deficiencies. In every aspect.”

Margit straightened where he sat and let his immensity speak. “Mind thy tongue.” He hissed. Such disrespect would have justified agonizing discipline. For Margit was the lowest of lowborns, and the General adjacent to a Demigod.

“Indeed.”

Helian’s eyes glittered with a stormy mania. His irises, black and gold like a scarab’s carapace, sparked. The grin upon his severe face was worn. Like a garment popping its seams. Like a scab peeling from taut skin to reveal a festering wound. It was vile.

“Thou thinkest me untested,” he murmured. Margit watched, wary. He trusted Lord Miquella’s ensnaring enchantment. He hated not knowing what the Councilor meant to do. “Lord Godfrey sacrificed when he made the pact with Regent Serosh. Blood he paid. Blood I paid to my Lord Miquella. I love him, Omen. Gods, I love him. Though he left us. I forgive him. But thou…”

Helian made an effort to reign himself in. He failed. And his madness manifested the sheen of tears. “Why couldn’t the Grace Given at least pretend to mourn? Arteya and Tolbren were my dearest companions. Tolbren was not just Leyndell’s heart, he was mine. That Perfumer was as sharp as her roses. Their lives were their gift to Morgott. To thee. Not one tear couldst thou spare them?”

And he was waiting for Margit to fall into old patterns. The General wanted to douse his grief in the Omen’s shame. Margit showed him his teeth instead.

——————————————---------

Less than fifteen years on the surface.

Morgott hugged his arms to himself. He could suppress his infantile shaking by scratching his arms and ribs. Until the skin beneath his blunt nails was raw.

All the richness of the world- its warmth and abundance- would be replaced with squalor and terror. Soon lean bones and moss would comprise his meals. Dirty brick and rotted canvas would comprise his shelter. The Erdtree’s radiance would be barred from him again. His newfound bulk would return to that of the starving wretch in a season.

Recant! Every hair on his misshapen body pleaded. Leave Mohg to his fate. Thou wouldst discard thy life for his blunder? His faithless blasphemies?

When Mohg was in one of his morbid moods, he would joke that whatever wraith brought the curse to the wombs of expectant mothers had tripped and spilled far too much on himself and left Morgott with only a dusting.

It mattered not in the Grace of the Golden Order. He was as ruined as his twin. But people- people treated them differently. Helian would not have brought Mohg to the scene of Morgott’s rampage. He would not have dared ask him to grovel in his twin’s blood.

He would take Mohg’s punishment. Because If he did not, he was certain his twin would be killed.

Knights crowded the dungeon’s entryway. They readied their swords as the flame of torches cast Morgott’s shadow over them. There were ten in total. At his most frail, ten Graceborn would have suffered greatly in a sincere battle with Mohg the Omen. And Mohg the Omen was far from frail, now. Tinctures of Trina’s lilies had subdued Mohg enough to allow him to be dragged to a cell and chained. Helian had recounted this to Morgott triumphantly.

Mohg would be awake, now. Awake and ruinously angry.

General Helian smirked as he held up a soothing hand. But the guards did not relent. Morgott’s eyesight and hearing were keen despite his deformities. The dimly lit tunnel behind them was eerily quiet.

“Miquella is with the Omen,” a swordsman said.

“What?”

Though the man blocking his way was armored in the kit of a Leyndell knight, General Helian shoved him into the wall as though he were no more substantial than a waifish child. The knight’s sword clattered down the steps, and Helian raced it to the bottom. The assembled guards exchanged wary glances- eyes glittering in their helms.

Morgott’s spine itched, for his tail wanted nothing more than to lash. But he was surrounded by ten- nine- bristling blades. What choice did he have but to cling to docility and follow the General into the depths?

Though the General had sprinted ahead, he was easy to find. Torches were sparingly lit, but a practical phalanx of summoned, yellow orbs glowed before a massive cell. A lattice gate of steel shuttered the mouth of the cavernous gaol.

Miquella knelt before the cell, adorned in his sleeping clothes. His golden hair unbrushed for the morning. Morgott grasped for Mohg’s scent. His brother was a dark knot of feathers and horns in the cell. Mohg did not stir at their approach. Miquella, however, turned to greet them.

“Morgott? What is the matter?”

Helian bowed to his Empyrean Lord, uncaring or oblivious to how Miquella’s glare had cut through him as though he were made of smoke. “‘Tis Morgott’s wish to take Mohg’s punishment in his stead. Whatever that may be.”

It was plain to his half-brother and the honored General how devastating Morgott’s fear was. He was pathetic, powerless. Miquella’s honeyed gaze was anything but. Grace-gilt eyes acknowledged Morgott for but a heartbeat before they alighted, searing, upon the General.

“A ludicrous notion,” the Empyrean said to him.

“I will… Prithee…”

Morgott stepped forth and was stopped by the point of steel pressing beneath his ribs. A good thrust would pierce vital organs. But it would not kill him fast enough to rescue Miquella- if his intent were anything so terrible.

A low snarl roiled from the cell. Claws scraped across stone. Miquella leapt to his feet.

“Stow thy blade. Put it away. Morgott cannot take Mohg’s penance because he oweth none!”

“Preposterous!” The General’s voice climbed precipitously. Alarm scarred his exclamation. “The beast made to kill thee in thy sleep!”

Morgott’s blood welled. A hot bead of it gathered like dew where Helian’s sword barely pricked his hide. Immediately it seeped into his fur, and Morgott imagined the silvery white stained with the hideous colors of his affliction.

“I was there, Helian,” Miquella replied. Flat. Morgott’s animal knowledge of tone whispered to him fell warnings. “Didst thou not hear me? Away, I said!”

The sword clattered to the ground. The thorn was violently removed from Morgott’s side. To his horror, a soft note of a growl slipped through his clenched teeth. However, it was Helian that threw himself to his knees between Morgott and Miquella.

“Prithee, my Lord,” The General hissed. Nearly mewled, for his vicious bravado had been banished. “They are accursed. They are not hounds that can be reared better, that can be trained from their wretchedness. I beg thee, heed this counsel.”

“I am cursed, too.”

“Not as they are.”

Morgott noticed at last that the gate to Mohg’s cell was unlocked. The runic seal had been reduced to gold filament. And even that was rapidly dissipating.

“I shall forgive thee, for I am not without prejudices of mine own,” Miquella declared coldly. “I sought to alleviate Mohg’s nightmares without concern for his permission. I presumed that I knew better, and instead of helping, I frightened him.”

Mohg’s lone eye glinted as he opened his lid a sliver to peer at the Empyrean.

Miquella concluded: “The fault is mine. And mine alone.”

The General scoffed. The sharp noise ricocheted like an arrowhead. But he had not the courage nor strength to verbally object. Miquella stepped towards him, and his discerning scowl betrayed that he was no mere child.

“Thou gavest Mohg his wound?”

“I defended thee, Lord.”

Morgott’s nape pricked at the plea in Helian’s tone. Because it was earnest and fair. Miquella was Marika’s holy son. An Empyrean of the Golden Lineage. Mohg was the Lineage’s shame. He had bared his animal weapons against a True Demigod. Helian had done no wrong.

But he would not say a word in his defense. For Mohg and for his own frayed pride.

“He is my ward. My brother.”

“Malenia-”

Miquella’s brows cinched. Helian’s invocation of the Blade was swiftly silenced. He sighed, instead: “It shall not happen again.”

“No,” Miquella smiled. “I shall ensure that it doth not.”

Unable to contain himself, Morgott went for the gaol gate. He pushed inside, tail thrashing into stone. The amber sliver of Mohg’s eye opened fully. Even in the shadows, Morgott could read his twin’s dire expression. Morgott chuffed. Mohg did not return it.

He unfurled, however. Pounced upon his brother as if to embrace him. His talons gripped his shoulder and arm enough to bleed him.

“Weak,” Mohg accused in his whisper of a voice.

Weak indeed. Mohg spurned the splendor of Gold, but he had sated himself with its generous larder for years. He offered his prayers to blasphemous God. And he was strong. Miquella and Helian spoke tersely just beyond the steel gate. Oblivious to the struggle meters from them.

“Beg no Graceborn for my life.”

“Thou wouldst have done the same,” Morgott retorted, matching Mohg’s quiet volume.

The scent of holy magic was trapped in Mohg’s plumage. Miquella had healed him of Helian’s stab. Now, Mohg chuffed.

“I would have slit his throat with my claws. I would have wraiths rend his body to bone and viscera. I would have devoured him before he could demand humiliation from me/.”

Morgott’s breath hitched; he awaited rebuke from the Lord and the General. Instead, Mohg’s wet teeth were kissed to Morgott’s left ear.

“Before the city is yours-”

“-Mohg.”

“-you will have to do it. You will have to kill.”

“The city is not mine,” Morgott hissed. But Mohg only purred.

He was relinquished at last. Practically pushed away into the gate again. He stung where Mohg had grasped him, and he rubbed at his arm.

“Steward! An Omen?” Helian barked. “That is a poor jest, my Lord!”

Morgott looked out the lattice gate. Helian was glaring at him. Fury and disbelief made his eyes abyssal. It was hate. Soul-deep. A resentment of the Omen curse with roots as entangled and thick as Morgott’s own. Morgott broke eye contact first. Before his blood could be set aflame.

——————————————---------

With the Omen bound and armed and fed, they were driven from their meager shelter. Omenkillers and Perfumers astride black steeds corralled the shivering beasts to the head of the encampment. The march would begin soon. The camp was being fortified. Though most of its inhabitants would leave for war, those that remained would stand guard for the Capital.

Helian palmed a key. It was looped around his neck on a fine chain.

“Pray for my success, Omen,” Helian smiled wanly. “If I am lost, that shackle shall never be parted from thee.”

He tucked the key inside his shirt.

“I must prepare myself,” the General gestured to the doors of the barn. “And ‘tis time thou joined thy wretched kin.”

Again, Margit thought to simply kill the man himself and be done with it.

A pair of Omenkillers flanked the doors. They stared with their unfeeling grins. He was cowed. The fur all down his back raised as he trudged past them. As Helian called another cold farewell to his back.

“Good hunting, Margit,”

Upon exiting the barn, Margit beheld an execution platform. He blinked against the dim sunlight as he emerged, and he saw a flash of vulpine red. Beside the bloodstained block, a body dressed in silver armor slumped. And a head resplendent with amber hair tumbled grotesquely to the ground.

Notes:

Hurray!!! The first Mohg cameo!! Lmao I missed him.

Morgott you dummy the General's figured you out.

Returning to this chapter was a blast with the DLC revelations. SPOILERS: The scene with Miquella and Mohg's misunderstanding was written a long while ago. It hits a little differently now. Now, I don't mean to imply at all that Miquella had untoward intentions with Mohg here. He was just trying to do a 'kind' thing and fumbled the ball hard. But it still feels like foreshadowing. I also think the DLC makes it more apparent why Miquella would allow people so hostile to Mohg and Morgott be part of Leyndell's Council. It feels in character for him.

Chapter 21: General

Notes:

This chapter gets pretty intense in the violence department. Particularly with Omen that are dehumanized.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Oleg had never heard anything so terrible before. Screams. Pleading, wordless and animal. But not animal enough. A knight needed to be pitiless against those he intended to kill. But Oleg had never had the heart for torture.

Surely that was what this was. Torture.

Please, no!. The cry was punctuated by a grinding, wet crack. Like bones being ripped from their sockets.

And the blood. Was there a surface free of it? Steaming, chromatic splashes dripped into a grotesque polish. Teeth and sclera shone white upon faces veiled in gore.

A hand was at the back of his head the second he attempted to divert his stare.

“I command thee look.”

But the order was issued in a whisper. Oleg barely heard it over the echoing shrieks. He knew what the memory of pain sounded like. How it wavered in the tone like a beast awaiting the lash.

He had never seen so many Omen before. In fact, Margit was the only one he’d ever met up close. Until now. More than a dozen were strewn about the gritty floor of Leyndell’s Colosseum. The arena hadn’t seen so much violence in centuries, and the stands were empty of an audience. Save for the Grace Given and Oleg.

Oleg was confronted with the bitter truth that Margit was not exceptional among his kind. The blood of Marika had not made him more tender- had not shaped his features into a simulacrum of a Graceborn. All of the Omen were so horrifically human.

He thought of the gallery he’d studied those months ago. He thought about how nearly every face had been made bestial. Snouted and slit-pupiled. If any of the artists had truly known an Omen, then they had lied with ink and paint and charcoal. They had omitted their personhood on purpose.

Severed horns were collected in a pile. What oozed from their sawed-off ends was vital. Like the heart crushed in a fist.

“This is evil,” Oleg muttered.

“No, Knight.” Morgott’s voice was no louder. “This is lawful malice.”

At the sizzling end of Morgott’s sentence, the General rounded an altar. His size betrayed him amongst the Perfumers. For he was safeguarded in so many leather layers that only his black eyes showed. The flecked ore of Grace was dimmed in the shadow of his hood.

Tacky blood coated his boots. His shins. His arms to his elbows. He held a wire saw in his gloved hands like a whip or garrote. Bottles, gleaming with silver contents, clinked at his hip. But even with the air so laden with lily powder that Oleg was brought to the precipice of spewing, Helian was never far from a Killer.

He patrolled the putrid hospital. Stepped primly over chains as thick around as his leg. He would pause before a shackled Omen. He would regard them silently. If they regarded him back with an iota of defiance, he motioned for another horn to be taken.

“Why?” Oleg rasped.

Morgott had dressed him as a servant. Hooded and clean-shaven, he didn’t much resemble the knight from the duel anymore. They had come together to assess the newest of Leyndell’s soldiers. Margit had recruited most of them. They had pledged for Leyndell willingly.

This was how they were repaid.

“Because they are mine,” Morgott answered bleakly.

Three Perfumers and an Omenkiller restrained the hapless conscript. Even though they were already bound and drugged. Their howls unmoored Oleg. Faith, discipline, and duty were abandoned.

He laid his hands upon his Lord, fisted handfuls of silken clothes. He was disguised as a lowly page, but even if he wore the regalia of knighthood, this act was wretchedly distasteful. More so in the eyes of Order than the lawful malice underfoot.

“Do something!” Oleg shocked himself. “How can you just watch? They swore for you! Please! Do something!”

But he remembered immediately that it was not a holy scion he was beseeching. Morgott’s hands shook. He had more in common with the tortured than the torturers. His authority was a delicate mask. One that was beginning to flake like brittle clay. Oleg’s demand was righteous and selfish simultaneously.

“I’ll go-"

“No.” Morgott’s hand gripped Oleg’s shoulder.

“Lord Morgott.” Helian’s voice was airy. Conversational. He bowed in his ponderous uniform. In a puddle of blood. “Is something the matter?”

—————————————---------

The black cowl wrapped around Oleg’s head kept the wind’s roar out of his ears. The black cowl adorning his horse likely did little to warm it. The billowing fabric obscured their forms, while also serving as a marker for the other riders. The fog of the land was worsened by the snow. A storm of white and silver was penetrated with charcoal lances of spindly trees. Like Deathblight. Beneath their ragged vestments, the cavalry could have passed for Those Who Live in Death.

The Omen marched in front. Many still bleeding from the raw stumps of their shorn horns. Sandwiched between the bristling Leyndell army and the hostile country, they were driven forward. There was no escape. No safety. Their bodies would shield the soldiers from the first onslaught.

Oleg craned to see Margit. He scanned the procession of cloaked riders and golden knights for a flash of ruddy horn. For a cleaver clasped in a furry fist.

General Helian had issued his challenge. Had written it with the blood of Omenkind. But even if he hadn’t, Margit would have marched north regardless. The man possessed a bloodlust deceptively concealed. He wanted to crush serpent spines and hold the recovered Rold Medallion in his own palm.

”He will try to hurt you,” Oleg had cautioned. Margit hadn’t needed the warning, of course. But words from the heart were often redundant and trite. If he hadn’t said them, he would be ill for his callousness.

He will try.” Margit’s snorted reply.

Oleg wanted to be beside him. But this was no honorless brawl in the wilds. This army had been prayed over. There would be rites for the future dead. And because it was blessed, the Omen trudged apart from the Graceborn.

Ahead, an Omen roared. As if cued by Oleg’s somber reflection. He was chilled as that agonized howl was ripped apart by the frigid gales. It didn’t sound like Margit. But then again, he’d never heard Margit scream.

The captains bellowed their orders, rallying the Graceborn soldiers. In the distance, Oleg mapped out a pass through the steep cliffs. It was guarded by a dilapidated gate. The gate itself was long lost to time. But the watchtowers remained. Half of them, anyway. Wooden platforms had been erected around the brick- a viny scaffold. An ideal and obvious spot for an ambush. A few more Omen flailed against arrows they had no defense against.

A horn blared at Oleg’s ear. The shouts of command increased in volume and alarm. Dark shapes were darting out from the drifts. Camouflaged in grays and blacks. There was not an overwhelming number. But sparks ignited at the ends of their glintstone scepters. Those not dashing forth to slit throats lobbed fire in magma arcs to the middle of the battalion.

Oleg cut down a sorcerer as his horse galloped past. Smoke and fog choked his senses. But he was certain of Leyndell’s victory already. There were simply too many Order faithful. And while fire spooked Order faithful, it was ineffectual in the snowy foothills.

To Margit.

Oleg spurred the horse forward, trampling an unfortunate serpent in his wake. An arrow pinged off of his hip. Oleg bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood. It had not injured him, but it would leave an ugly mark. He couldn’t dwell on that pain, however, because his horse was shot next. The arrowhead was embedded next to Oleg’s knee. The horse kept its footing as Oleg murmured praise.

Oleg dodged blooming bursts of orange and red. Molten shrapnel clung to the armor and gloves of his peers. He was searching for the guidance of gold. In the frontmost corner of battle, he saw brilliant glisters of holy magic. As if the Erdtree itself had begun to sprout in the bloodshed.

Lead me to him. He prayed. He begged.

Indeed, there he was, magnificent and terrible. The red blood of Graceborn stained the horns of his tail and his cleaver. More was splashed onto the stirred snow. The armor and flesh of Margit’s foes were rent by incanted blades. Those left alive had begun to flee. Leyndell’s small battalion outclassed the bandits in size and arms. The Omen conscripts, shorn and emaciated, were yet stalwart and formidable.

To Oleg’s left, an Omen conscript barreled into a crumbling watchtower. The disused construct of icy rock and flimsy scaffold buckled at the impact. The archers atop it cried out. But the dozen arrow shafts in the Omen’s body did nothing to repel them. The tower lilted. Groaned. And began its languid collapse. Right over Oleg’s head.

Oleg’s horse lurched to an awkward gallop, impeded by the shin-deep powder. But when the first heavy stones dropped beside it, creating geysers of frost, the horse spooked. It had been bred to tolerate Omen, but this war it would not abide. It had the decency to toss Oleg clear before it bolted into the fog. Oleg didn’t see where it escaped to, because he was half-buried in ice when the watchtower collapsed mere meters from him.

Leyndell’s forces were already pushing forth by the time Oleg freed himself. The serpents, now divested of their one advantage, retreated. The dead and the wounded were abandoned. Oleg squinted and picked out Margit’s hunched bulk in the distance. Stalking after his quarry.

But as Oleg got to his feet, another steed charged out of the mist. The rider bore a spear, and his left hand held aloft a seal.

Olg was strangled by the wind. His shout of warning was shoved back down his throat. He took off at a fawn-like, stumbling sprint after the rider.

Thank the Erdtree, Margit turned in time. He loosed a bestial roar that gave even the Omenkiller mount pause. The serpents were forgotten as General Helian took all of Margit’s focus. Oleg sensed a trick. Helian met Margit’s seething rage with an uncharacteristic serenity. The Omen cleaver glowed golden, and Margit flung it away, hissing. He pounced, then, without hesitation. Helian dropped his seal-arm.

Gold fulgurated through the haze. Margit’s momentum was entirely halted. He was brought to his knees, his shoulders strained. He was fighting some invisible force. Against which he ultimately lost. His face was pressed to the ground, limbs held askew. Helian dismounted.

Oleg was near enough to hear Helian’s laughter. But then, it was too late for Helian.

The gale Oleg summoned was born of a desperate strength. The old Councilor was blown entirely off of his feet. A clumsy, gilt scarab, he tumbled down an icy slope and vanished in a veil of powder. The gold that surrounded Margit dissipated. But that incantation, whatever it had been, had severed the creature from his fierceness.

“Oleg.”

The banished knight was divested of his heart. Margit’s gasped call pried apart his armor- his ribs. His entrails spilled into the cold. Perhaps that was why he shivered. Why the hair on his nape prickled.

“Beastie.”

The word was a plume on his breath. It twined with the cloud of his name over their heads. Coiled and writhed.

How could he reconcile the bald relief on Margit’s face? His eye was wide. All of his Grace distilled into a thin ring.

“Thou’rt alive.”

“Well don’t sound too glad, Margit. I might believe you like me.”

A fetter was locked around the Omen’s throat. Holy gold flared in runic etchings in the iron. Every Omen had been collared; he should not have been surprised to see Margit receive the same treatment. Arrow shafts peppered his shoulders. Blood from a slash in his thigh steamed as it dripped upon snow. Oleg’s heart was a caged animal. It bayed for recompense.

Margit pushed himself up by his forearms. “The General hath the key-”

Oleg was suddenly blinded. He seized, anticipating harm. The incantation glowed beneath his boots and warmed the permafrost. It was Margit that barked in pain.

Unseen bonds were tugging him through to the ground. Ice rimed his mouth and nostrils as he panted. His limbs and tail were flattened, splayed. Through the tears in his ragged cloak, his muscles twinged. Impotent. Beneath lank, white hair, the iron collar shone with the symbol of the Erdtree. The fur along his tail and nape bristled. But Margit was otherwise immobile.

“Margit-”

Oleg had little time to process the crunching, rapid approach amidst the cacophony of chiming magic, Margit’s exerted grunts, and the nearby cries of war.

He rose from his knees in time to deflect the spear thrust towards the back of his neck. It glanced off of the handle of his sword and punched instead into his upper arm. His armor protected him from the worst of it. But the jab was enough to disrupt his already precarious balance.

A swift kick buckled Oleg’s knee. The elbow thrown into the side of his head planted him firmly into the ice. His vision was obscured. With clumsy hands, he pawed off his helm. Snow caked his lashes; he turned in time to see General Helian poised over Margit’s body. With both hands he gripped his Treespear’s shaft. To thrust it into Margit’s skull.

“No!” Oleg screamed. The panic in his pulse was ejected in one unbidden word.

It was too late. Margit would die a meter before his eyes and frost-numbed fingers. Oleg’s every movement was blundering. He rose from tar. From a pit of serpents chained by fangs and venom.

Helian’s spear never pierced its mark. He held it overhead. He and Margit’s sighs mingled in great, gray clouds. They stared at one another, both equally powerless. Wreathed in pitiless gold.

Oleg hefted his sword. Leyndell’s General stepped away from Margit. The spear he viciously thrust into the frozen earth. He drew a dagger from his hip.

“‘Twas too much to hope…” he said, breathless and miserable. Fire flared in the distance- stained red the gray landscape- as Helian removed his own helm. His bald head was ruddy. Underlit, his dark eyes became obsidian flint in deep sockets.

“Whatever you’ve done to him,” Oleg spat. “You will stop.”

“Banished Knight. With what hath the creature purchased thy loyalty? Runes? Titles? Faithless wretch. Thou’rt paying for the Curseborn’s throne for naught.” Helian tilted his chin at Margit. The Omen was a sodden lump of fur. Though he bared his fangs, he was toothless where he lay. Agony made soft his eye. “Every life thou takest draweth thee nearer to thine own demise. Bringest thou the monster prey. When there is no more blood to spill… he will drink thine.”

The cold at last breached Oleg’s interior. His very spirit shuddered. When he had first been trapped in the opulent carriage with the Grace Given Lord, he had thought much the same. Neither Morgott nor Margit had given him cause to doubt his initial suspicions. Yet he had forgotten them.

“Let me kill him,” Helian rasped. “I shall rescue Leyndell. Lord Miquella shall grant thee the honor thou wert denied. Be compelled by the accursed fiend no longer.”

Oleg’s eyes stung. He raised one sword- pointed it at Helian’s heart. The other he freed from its scabbard. The Forbidden Lands did not want for wind.

“My Marika’s Grace.” A tear tracked down Helian’s sallow cheeks. Born of scorn- not pity. He brought his own dagger to his lips. “Degenerate fool. Thou lovest him. Truly.”

“Helian-” Margit snarled.

But it was already done.

Arteya must have taught him such surgery. For it was fast. Blood stained his teeth, dribbled with foamy drool down his chin.

General Helian spat out his tongue.

—————————————---------

“The boy seemeth squeamish,” The General chuckled as he righted himself.

Boy?

He was referring to Oleg, of course. The page’s attire and lack of beard and his diminutive stature next to Morgott completed the illusion of guileless youth. As did Morgott’s reassuring hand at his shoulder.

“Gather thy wits,” Helian scolded good-naturedly. “Thou clutchest at the Grace Given, Scion of the First Elden Lord, not thy mother and her skirts.”

Oleg’s hands dropped numbly to his sides, but Morgott’s lingered. “Have mercy, General. ‘Tis a grisly sight to behold even when warned. But that courtesy he was denied. As was I.”

Morgott descended the Colosseum steps but did not enter the arena. He loomed a couple of meters over Helian. Oleg did not follow. It was far too easy to play the role of the naive, gobsmacked page from a distance.

“I confess,” Helian began with saccharine civility. “-that I did not think it necessary. The preparation of Leyndell’s forces is my responsibility. Dost thou object?”

Morgott growled, an unnatural sound in such a fair form, “Aye. Such careless curse-letting. Thou knowest as well as I the consequence of horn-shearing.”

“I do not lust for accursed blood,” Helian replied coolly. “We shall take care not to kill the monsters.”

“Leyndell marcheth north in mere days. Wouldst thou bid thy strongest warriors meet their foes with fingers broken by thine hands?”

“‘Tis a precaution, my Lord. Their malice for Grace-touched life maketh them dangerous. They shall kill, aye. But I will ensure they kill only our enemy.”

Helian’s every argument was delivered calmly, logically. It made Oleg seethe with hatred. If only because he might have been swayed by such speech less than a year ago. Each word was a weapon, carefully crafted to be gilt and delicate. So that when they were heard, they made mince of the decent mind.

“These Omen were born to noble families, and by the Queen’s decree their horns were not to be cut. What is done cannot be undone. But ye art finished. They are sworn to me through Margit, just as thou’rt sworn to me through Miquella. They are mine. I say… I say thou’rt finished.”

Morgott wasn’t quite so collected as Helian. His cadence was wavering, his tone bleak. Even more of his edges had gone hazy. Oleg rubbed an eye to make sure his vision wasn’t the thing distorted. But no. The Steward was eroding. Oleg’s heart dropped into his stomach when he noticed a phantom twitch of an invisible tail.

“Who shaved Margit’s brow, if he is noble-born?”

Morgott’s hand slashed the air before him. A gesture of pure fury. “I will argue this no more, General. My decision is my edict. For thine obstinance, for thy betrayal of their oath, I make this decree: Any Omen that wieldeth a sword for Leyndell hath earned its reprieve. The Graceless may yet serve Order, freed from the Shunning Grounds.”

Helian smiled. Broad, taut. If he were paper, he would have torn. “No.”

“General-“

“I indulged thee this once, Lord,” Helian snapped. His defiance bared itself for all the writhing Curseborn and the staring Perfumers. “When the serpents are banished from the north, no Omen shall serve in my army evermore. The Order’s blade will not be wielded by the accursed. A mercy for Tolbren, that he went to the roots before he could witness this farce!”

Helian was unfathomably lucky that he stood before Morgott and not Margit. Though, if he pushed the Steward any further…

Morgott’s head dipped. He looked at his hands and the indistinctness of his fingers. They clenched into fists.

“Do not forget thyself, General,” Morgott rumbled. “Lording over the Curseborn doth not make thee their Lord.”

He turned on his heel, and Oleg was treated to his liege’s flushed, anguished expression. His hair, perhaps, was a shade grayer than it had been. His complexion less warm. The Veil was indeed slipping. Oleg bowed as he passed, then followed behind, shielding the distortion of his tail.

“Wilt thou send Margit to the cause?” Helian called to Morgott’s back.

The Lord whipped around at the top of the steps, alight with renewed anger. He sneered down to the bloody threat below:

“Aye. He is the truest beast Leyndell hath.”

—————————————---------

It was a trap. It had always been so. Obvious and avoidable, for it was too desperate and hateful to be subtle. Margit and Oleg had waltzed into it anyway. Because they had underestimated the lengths the untested General would go.

Helian was a sterner man than Oleg had given him credit for. After one gargled shout, he recovered from his self-mutilation. He thumped his right fist over his heart. And as the Order seal melded to his gauntlet caressed him in the glow of Erdtree healing, he tossed the Erdsteel dagger- still crimson with blood- so that he grasped it by the curved blade.

Oleg’s swing was hasty. Panicked. The snowdrift before him burst as a gale barreled through it to reach Helian. Gold glinted amidst the powder. The knife found its mark.

Margit seized as he tried to buck off of the ground. Every tendon strained to no avail. With the dagger sunk to the hilt just above his left clavicle. The roar he loosed was short. Shocked.

But Helian had missed where it mattered. The curse-laden cords in Margit’s throat remained unsevered. His heart was not impaled. Helian’s one chance had been thwarted. Now, Banished Knight Oleg stood between the lauded Councilor and his Omen liege.

General Helian fought desperately. His gamble here in the craggy wilderness would cost his life if he did not. Oleg was no more composed. If he was defeated in Helian’s gauntlet, a Demigod would die for his weakness. But it was more than that. Helian’s final words had found their mark. Anything less than total victory would render that truth to bonemeal and ash.

Blustering winds tore at Oleg’s breath- blinded him. But those same winds were Oleg’s familiars. Like an old Stormhawk that remembered its heritage and thus would never be tame.

Helian’s spear had reach. It tore through the veil of snow a lethal stinger. Oleg barely had time to react even with the winds’ hissed warnings. Helian would be hard-pressed to pierce the armor of a banished knight, but with Oleg’s helm lying useless somewhere, he didn’t have to.

The battle lacked the elegance of Tolbren’s duel or even the heartlessness of Arteya’s assassination. Only the dormant trees bore witness. The Golden Order’s pastors could not gilt this violence into a thing of beauty. Oleg hated Helian too much. He hated them all, but Helian was the boldest of them. The most depraved.

However fervent and mad, Helian’s wit was not dulled. Half-concealed in the storm, he kept himself as near to Oleg’s back as possible. Where his armor was pregnable. Oleg had just enough time to block the spear with his sword. His blade locked in the winged guard at the spear’s tip. Oleg forced the spear downward before thrusting with his second blade. It was a narrow miss- the edge skid off Helian’s plated forearm. The General leapt back and-

-and ascended. Borne aloft by magnificent wings. They were the same hue as Margit’s magic. Holy.

Helian swooped, seeking to gore Oleg upon the Treespear.

Oleg answered with an upward slice.

The spear grazed Oleg’s ear, tearing it. Helian, however, lost the exchange. He fell, supine. His wings abandoned him, dissolved into firefly motes as he was grounded. He wheezed, gaped.

“How dare you!” Oleg’s voice was commandeered by his rage. Blood stained his throat and jaw, but he felt no pain. Helian’s transgressions were too many to count, so Oleg simply bellowed again: “How dare you!”

Helian marshaled his lungs. He drew in one breath, so deep his chest and neck seemed to expand to an impossible size. Fire spewed past his lips. Summoned from an incanted organ. Another Aspect of the Crucible.

Oleg kicked him in the face.

The incantation was halted immediately so the General could hack blood into the ice. Oleg stabbed his sword through Helian’s hand. Tendons cut, bones cracked, and the General released the spear wailing. Oleg knelt. Pushed his sword into the ravaged hand.

“Come, General. You must fight.” He closed Helian’s fingers around the spear shaft. The sclera of his eyes were inflamed and pink. Oleg cooed venomously. “You turned on your fellow man, so I must take precautions. But you must fight, still, for the glory of God. Grab the damn spear!”

Oleg’s eyes slid to the seal in Helian’s other gauntlet as he panted. He retreated slowly, allowing meters of churned snow to separate them.

“Stand, General.”

Helian gripped his weapon with both hands, groaning and growling incomprehensibly. Humiliated and in agony. Oleg readied the winds at his back.

An incantation of Erdtree healing enveloped the General. Oleg scoffed, then the storm thrust him forward. Made him the weapon of its arm. The General was run through.

Threads of the Erdtree’s magic clung to Helian. They meant to sew up his devastated flesh futilely around the sword in his gut. His eyes bulged. His suffering dulled for a moment only for him to feel it fully seconds later. His hands scrabbled at the sword, his stitched-together hand now useless to him. Oleg let go of the blade. He brought the second one to Helian’s throat, using his other hand to cup the nape of his neck.

“I do love him,” Oleg whispered. His anger bloomed into roses. “And he will be King.”

He cut Helian’s throat and held him as he bled. Savored his despair as it grew vapid and vacant. Squeezed his neck and clawed his skin as he gingerly let his body down to its resting place.

There was blood everywhere. It was sticky on Oleg’s gauntlets. He felt its heat splattered across his face. It hid in the black of his cloak. Ruby droplets decorated his armor. Collected in the grooves of the embellishments. Medals symbolizing his madness. His love.

Oleg relieved Helian’s corpse of its key. The animal of hate, now sated, was retreating in its den. The man that remained was flighty with worry and shivering with pride. A Demigod had commanded him to kill Arteya and Tolbren, thus their deaths had been righteous. But at last, the sight of the corpse beneath him was exhilarating. He was happy the General was dead. He hoped his soul would wander for a time before it was granted solace.

He followed the sounds of battle northward. The ward that had imprisoned Margit no longer marked the ground. Indeed, he stumbled past an immense impression in the snow. Smears of chromatic blood steamed in wisps. Margit had gone.

Oleg limped on.

Notes:

Wire saws are a much more recent invention. But the imagery of it is intense i had to include it in that flashback. Also, imagining Oleg trying to kick someone with those flat as fuck BK greaves is funnier than it should be

In the DLC, this isn't how miquella's charms work, but specifically he used something like the bewitching branch for the Council in this fic. It can be physically removed. But, you know, who's gonna cut out their own tongue lol.

Chapter 22: Scar

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Oleg didn’t find Margit until after the battle’s conclusion hours later. He had claimed a patch of sunlight. A spot of warmth in the gloom of mid-afternoon. He was sitting, and Oleg sighted first his bare back. Gray skin stretched over sinewy muscle. Silver-white hair grew from between his shoulders to the base of his heavy tail. The fur was tinged pink in places. As Oleg drew nearer, Margit’s shoulders shuddered. Arrows were stuck in him like animal quills. The hilt of Helian’s Erdsteel dagger emerged above his collarbone.

The crown of horns rose as Margit lifted his head. But he did not look behind him.

“Begone, Knight,” he growled. “Mingle with thine own kind.”

Oleg scoffed. “What kind would be my own?”

Margit didn’t reply- unless he meant to convey something when he fiercely tugged a great arrow shaft from his side. He loosed naught but the faintest of groans.

“Shall I send for a healer?” Oleg offered.

“Begone,” Margit insisted more tersely. “Wouldst thou force me to ask thee thrice?”

It had not escaped Oleg’s notice that Margit was apart from the other Omen. There was camaraderie amongst them. Wounds were tended with rags and tongue. A muffled keening carried over the birdsong as a mourner was smothered with comforting proximity. Food was shared and cleavers were cleaned.

“Would you like to join your fellows?” he ventured.

Margit’s tail lifted a meter and thumped into the snow. “No.”

“You are being stubborn.”

This time the tail lifted two meters before dropping. The top layer of frost fell in a cold mist over Oleg’s face where the tail had kicked it up. “What boon would my company grant them? What solace could they grant me?”

Oleg did not know what to say to that. Margit did not allow him time to contemplate it.

“The Rold Medallion is won. Captain Kristoff shall bear it to Leyndell.”

Ah, so he wasn’t too eager to chase Oleg off.

Oleg hummed his acknowledgement. He’d forgotten about that damned artifact. At least Margit had secured that victory after everything. Of course, he knew Margit would have preferred to carry it himself. But that was a duty no one would grant an Omen. Not even the Steward’s.

“The Councilor?” Margit prompted.

Oleg procured the iron ring. The metal was stained with the rust of oxidized blood. Margit’s nose flared; his chest filled with a frigid inhale. He reached out. Gray fingers and furred knuckles twitched for the key. Then withdrew.

“Prithee…” he exhaled. The word nearly lost in its undertow. “I cannot… remove it myself.”

“Of course.”

Oleg politely stepped over Margit’s spilling embarrassment. He did not acknowledge it. In turn, Margit leaned forward onto the thick pelts of his forearms. His face was concealed by his left elbow as that hand reached up to lift his mane away from his neck.

Already the skin around the collar was chafing violet. Even a few pink scabs speckled the barrier between his white ruff and his bare hide. Holy gold seeped in the pits of the iron. Malicious ore. Oleg placed the flat medallion over the embossed symbol of Order.

The muscles in Margit’s neck tensed as the clasp of the collar was undone. As the shackle slid into the wet snow like a stiff, weighty corpse. Its hinge that of a gaping, toothless maw. Margit panted, as if Oleg had actually pried a predator’s jaw from his throat. Beneath Oleg’s fingers- hidden by the shackle- was a scar. A ropey, raised mark that encircled the whole of the Omen’s ashen neck. Pale and pinkish, it was too old to have been carved by Helian’s bid at humiliation. Mindlessly, his thumb traced a portion of the mark. Margit’s breath stilled. His pulse rose.

Oleg touched the evidence of a hideous history upon Margit’s body. He had always known the yarn about Morgott’s sojourn with Godfrey had been used to knit a threadbare shroud to occlude the truth. Here was the proof.

“Am I not monstrous?” Margit muttered.

“Why? Because of a scar?”

“No,” Margit sneered. “I am glad Councilor Helian is dead. I was gratified when Tolbren was made thy blade’s sheath. My cause is just. Ambition doth not drive my hand but duty and wisdom! Yet I rejoice in this violence. It feeds within me a howling hunger… Why?”

The realization seemed to bring Margit more hurt than the injuries that peppered his body. His breath issued forth in foggy plumes. Oleg laid his palm flat over the old scar. Margit felt particularly feverish.

“Because you are angry.”

Margit absorbed his knight’s response as the snow around him was colored with smears of near-gold ichor. He rasped after a prolonged minute, “Then I must do more to overcome my accursed nature.”

Oleg swallowed. He looked to the other Omen convened in the clearing. “Shall I free them?”

“No,” Margit grunted. “General Helian commissioned that key for my degradation alone. ‘Twould not work for them. Lord Morgott shall see to them once they are returned to Leyndell.”

With Helian dead, it was possible the Omen soldiers would receive some compensation. At least, Oleg didn’t imagine the surviving Council members would protest it too fiercely.

“Only three remain.” He changed the subject.

“Aye. Though the worst of them now curse us from the roots. Helian was cunning. He will have prepared the rest for thee…” Margit sighed forlornly. Exhaustion sapped the last of his obstinance. “Before the march… Helian had a banished knight executed. The poor fool was red of hair. He wanted me to witness the indignity. He wanted to frighten me. Perhaps… perhaps he even believed he had slain thee.”

Margit’s shock on the battlefield was ruinous upon reflection. He had faced the General thinking- on some level- that his knight was potentially dead.

“Were… you frightened?”

Margit’s face was bearded by an exhale. “Thou’rt known to them. If the Council cannot harm me, they will hunt thee in my stead.”

“I will be careful,” Oleg continued. His face flushed. “You should do the same.”

“Such wisdom.”

“You mock me. But you could have died. Then where would we be, eh? You should learn a healing incantation.”

“Madness.”

“I’m serious, Margit. We could practice your shade incantation instead.”

Margit ignored him. He returned to plucking the quills of fletched bone from his hide. Blood beaded at the corner of his mouth. Blood made slick his fingers.

He could not have heard Oleg’s confession hissed to Helian’s death mask. But he had surely heard the General’s proclamation.

Thou lovest him. Truly.

Perhaps that was why Margit snapped at him. His banished knight had been transfigured into one more embarrassment.

Oleg dropped his helm to the ground. “Let me see about that dagger-"

Teeth flashing, Margit pinched the dagger’s hilt and ripped it from his chest. Blood streamed from the furious laceration. The white fur of his belly became matted with shimmering hues. The tainted blade was flung carelessly into the wilderness.

“Margit!” Oleg lurched forward. The Omen shoved him back with his tail.

“Thou hast done well, Knight.” Margit would not meet his eye. “Lord Morgott would wish thee to have thy rest. Unsullied by accursed blood.”

Margit brought a hand to the wound. Dark blood oozed between his fingers.

Oleg promised, face warmed: “I’ll be back, Beastie.”

Damn the Demigod’s pride.

He marched into the camp. The harrowed healers and Perfumers in the infirmary had little patience for entitled knights. But weary as they were from the business of mending, they hardly wheezed a complaint when Oleg grabbed the least-soiled linens and a fresh carafe of infused water. The stuff Perfumers used to clean lacerations before incantations sealed them.

When he returned to Margit, the man had made a neat pile of bloodied arrows beside his wilting form. His ember eye glared at Oleg’s approach.

“Wasteful,” he growled.

“I do not care.”

Despite his offense, he was compliant as Oleg dabbed the deep wound with the diluted tincture. The rag was quickly fouled with blood. But the Omen’s hackles twitched less and less. He laved his shoulders and arms with his own tongue.

“It’s better, yes?” Oleg asked. He rubbed fresh snow into the rag to rinse it. The effort was mildly successful.

“Enough,” Margit grumbled. “I am not a helpless bairn.” Then he laid down his head and closed his eye. Chin and lips buried in snow.

Oleg did not cease. He wiped matted clots. He scrubbed filth from furry ankles. Though Margit was enormous, the Perfumers’ water relieved enough of the pain. He began to softly snore.

Do you understand all that I would do for you? Killing is the least of it.

Margit slept restlessly. He shifted every few minutes as if his skeleton were trying to escape the prison of his flesh. His lungs were full of tiny groans- which seemed to expel some of his pain. Sweat and blood and snowmelt collected at the ends of his hair and froze into ice drops. He was cloaked in diamonds and pinkish quartz veined with fiery gold.

He was beautiful.

—————————————————————

Margit was already awake when Oleg roused himself. The sky was so greasy with clouds he could not discern the time. He assumed it was dawn for simplicity’s sake. His cheek rested upon fur.

Margit’s tail. It was curled around him. Shielding him from the worst of the chill. His body shuddered regardless as it shook off the exertion of battle and the deathly peace of sleep.

“Fool,” Margit hissed at his slightest movement. As if he’d waited hours to sling the insult across his face. But whatever Oleg’s infraction, he did not name it. He was emptied immediately of scorn. Beside his foot lay the shackle. A fresh dust of powder nearly concealed it.

“Takest thou the shackle and follow.”

The Omen rose, and a veritable avalanche was dumped into Oleg’s hair. He was further buried when Margit shook the remainder from his tail and haunches. Oleg donned his helm and stood. Unquestioningly, he gathered the cold iron into his arms. His gauntlets kept the rough metal from digging into his flesh.

Behind them, camp was only just stirring. Ice crunched like bones as the first of Leyndell’s forces rose to prepare for the homeward march. The Omen were so separated from the camp no one noticed a knight and Margit drift away.

They walked silently for an hour. The snow was thinner as the ground became rockier. Oleg heard the distant hissing of the tides. The trees grew craggier. The brush dwindled to twiggy clumps. Earth suddenly vanished. Devoured in fog. They stood upon a cliff top. Below, the sea bayed to be fed.

“Thou hast surmised, Knight, that I am no prodigal son. I did not follow Lord Godfrey into exile.”

Oleg shifted the weight of the immense iron in his hands. “I suppose I figured.”

A rattling sigh answered him. Unspoken confessions made leaden the air. Oleg’s lungs were more burdensome than the collar he carried.

“Then understand that the fetter thou holdest is not Helian’s invention. Nor is the enchantment melded to it. I bore its like for centuries. He merely reforged it from a fragment of the original. The one that was destroyed when the Elden Ring was shattered.”

Oleg nodded shallowly, though Margit could not have seen it. “Aye.” Nothing remained to be said. Margit would not have wanted his knight’s pity.

“I am a monster. I am not despised without reason.” The wind buffeted Margit’s coat just as it tugged at Oleg’s sodden black cloak. “I am a Demigod, and I cannot break mine own bonds. I am a Demigod, and the pain of carrying my shackle to this precipice would have ruined me. Oleg…” Margit visibly swallowed. His tail swayed. “Cast the damned thing into the water.”

“As you wish-"

-my Lord.

The splinter in his tongue halted the address.

He dropped the heavy shackle over the cliff’s edge. It was swallowed by the sea’s churning maw. Icy, misty spittle flecked the cliff face. The tide writhed. Margit put a hand to his face. He was still so stained with blood.

Notes:

A pleasantly short chapter after the monsters the last two were. I definitely see this as the ultimate turning point for them, even if it doesn't seem so dramatic. Morgott has to grapple with himself and the knowledge that he feared for Oleg's life. IDk its just such a huge moment for him to leave this giant gap in his wall. Letting Oleg know about his origins. Letting his knight fuss over him. It's just so incredibly soft. Even if he's also acting like a brat at the same time. (understandably so)

Chapter 23: Shedding

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The first thing Morgott noticed about Lady Tanith was her eyes. He had only met her a handful of times over the decades. A Demigod’s foreign concubine was not welcome in Leyndell’s Alliance. But Morgott was certain her eyes had not been so golden the last he’d seen them.

The Erdtree’s roots did not extend throughout the whole world. There were Graceless lands beyond the seas waiting to be seeded. But divinity and Grace were transmissible. Contagious. The Carian siblings had been born to mere champions- long-lived in Marika’s rule, but not holy. When Radagon wed the Eternal Queen, his children were made Demigods. Now here was Tanith- a Graceless dancer- bestowed Gold and more by an exchange of vows.

Morgott burned with envy as she took his hand. As she smiled at him, beautiful, with those honeyed eyes. Even though she was so tiny she only captured a few of his fingers.

“We are so happy to see you again,” she beamed.

Beside her, Rykard laughed. A genuinely merry sound accompanied by a hearty clap against Morgott’s shoulder. Leyndell’s Lord exhaled through his nose- his compromise of a snarl.

“Do not lie to him, my Dear. Let us be courteous, yes, but not false!”

Morgott said nothing. He brushed Rykard’s arm from his shoulder- the Veil was finicky about prolonged contact- and he glared.

“Then ye needn’t have wasted my time.” He kept his voice low, but the Volcano Manor’s great hall was determined to ensure that all present missed not even the softest murmur.

Rykard blinked. The gold irises resplendent in black sclera. “It was a jest, Morgott.”

A revelation which mattered little to the bitter Grace Given.

After securing the Forbidden Lands, the Capital had required time to recover. To breathe in relief as winter raged onward. The lean months had passed unremarkably. The dreary season allowed everyone to nobly forget the city’s woes and focus upon their own. Iren and Phelia were occupied with the unique adversity of winter. Trade always slowed when snow clogged the roads. And keeping runes and goods flowing in and out of the gates was their specialty. Morgott let them serve the Capital without interference. It was Imopea he had bothered in preparation for the wedding.

Accounting for travel and the Lord’s hospitality, we may be Gelmir guests for a month or more.

Without the steel of the Council’s spine, Imopea had abandoned much of her command. When the marital invitation had been bestowed upon Leyndell’s rulers, she had insisted upon Morgott’s attendance. But she had sat in that chilled, dim chamber, surrounded by empty seats, looking for all the world as though she wished to travel to Volcano Manor to cast herself into its caldera. Her every utterance an agony of obligation.

If thou hast chosen a gift, permit me to appraise it. It must be appropriate.

Thou cannot bring that many knights, my Lord. This is a celebration not an invasion.

Wilt thou be certain thou shan’t, erm, come into thy season again?

Morgott’s face had warmed. He couldn’t be certain, because he’d lied about its arrival in the early winter. But his flush had granted Imopea enough courage to put forth her brazen scheme:

If thou art so reticent to leave Leyndell, might I volunteer the Council to go in thy stead?

A compelling offer. A year ago he would have lunged for it gladly. But Morgott could admit he had trapped himself. Too many Councilors were dead. Those alive were waking from their blissful obliviousness. Imopea circled him and he circled her. She knew she was prey. Helian’s demise had awoken that instinct in her.

So when the Altus began to thaw and relinquish its pantomime of death upon the land, Morgott had joined the celebration party. It was the Council, instead, he had ordered to remain in the city.

His reasons for going despite his seething distaste were threefold. And they were revealed to the banished knight that accompanied him in the carriage through winding, steep mountain paths.

The first of his reasons was simple enough: he would not allow Leyndell to appear weak before the Carian Lord. As much as the Council would be loath to admit it, Lord Morgott the Grace Given was the fulcrum of the city’s strength.

“Ah,” Rykard banished the stony silence in the present. “It’s good to see the years haven’t changed you.”

“Another joke?”

“No.” The Lord of Gelmir bowed. “Welcome to our home.”

What a home it was. Neither pleasing gold nor attractive Carian blue, the Manor was rich in crimson hues. The Lord and his beloved dwelled in an ember. An impression only worsened by the obscene number of candles licking at the deep corners.

Morgott shunted himself to the side so Godrick could declare his hellos. Rykard and Tanith both marveled at the young Demigod’s improved health- which made Morgott all the dourer. Carian banners vastly outnumbered sigils of the Erdtree. The Lord of Leyndell would have been less insulted if they were omitted altogether.

The Leyndell party had arrived a bit early. Carriages bearing the crests of lesser nobility camped outside the Manor’s grounds. Some of the guests idled at the hall’s edges to watch royalty mingle. Some of them had been present for Morgott’s Rold Ball. But it would be some days yet before every invitee successfully traversed the vast continent- particularly Radahn and his Sellians.

When Godrick and his guard shuffled off in search of dinner, Rykard and Tanith ensnared Morgott once more. “I’m afraid all we can offer for entertainment is a walk about the estate,” Rykard apologized. “We did not want to excite you too terribly too early.”

“A meal and a bath are all I require,” Morgott replied tersely.

“Ignore my Lord,” Tanith said. “Please, join us.”

———————————————————

The thorns were at Morgott’s back. He descended the stairs, exited the Erdtree’s gouge, and felt prickling at his nape. His incongruous body was trying to bristle, but the stalwart Veil suppressed all that was inhuman. Muted arguments traipsed upon his heels.

Let the Demigods question and postulate. The answer was clear enough to Morgott. The Erdtree’s inner sanctum would not yield to six Shardbearers.

But perhaps it might have permitted five, if an Omen did not stand amongst them- however disguised. Morgott knew that the Erdtree would not welcome him in death, yet he was foolish enough to hope each time the Alliance convened that he might be allowed entry in life.

Morgott loomed beside the Elden Throne. He liked to believe that it was the very same Lord Godfrey had sat upon all those centuries ago. Things in Leyndell were created to be lasting. He touched it gingerly.

He was not granted solace for more than a minute. It had been thirty years since he’d emerged from the Shunning Grounds, but the sound of someone approaching from behind was still threatening.

“Giving up already?”

“The outcome is unchanging,” he managed- his voice rasped from disuse. He clenched his jaw to keep his lip from curling into a snarl. “-whether I am present or not.”

The Demigods gathered every few years to attack the thorns. They had tried cleavers and blades. Corroding Perfumer tinctures. Severing incantations, then dispelling ones. Carian glintblades and the compelling force of gravity. Rykard had even taken a torch to the thorns in his frustration. An act that had cut the assembly short by weeks after Morgott threw him down the steps in his fury. The flame had not marred a single centimeter of bark. But it was the principle of the matter.

“That is an awfully defeatist attitude for a man reared at Lord Godfrey’s side.”

“I was not taught to waste my strength in futility.”

“The Eternal Queen beckoned you back, Badlands Prince. Your mother is vanished and your brother is murdered. Why are you here, if not to try?”

Rykard put his hand upon the Throne- slapped his palm upon the armrest, unthinking. The noise Morgott loosed was distinctly animal.

“For what cause dost thou needle me?”

“Do not resent me for it,” the Carian Lord said, more bemused by the outburst than concerned. “Surely you understand our curiosity.”

“Princess Ranni might assess me herself if she offered our Alliance more than excuses.”

It was an unkind thing to say. But not untrue. Ranni’s seat remained vacant, though her name was pledged to the cause. Morgott had never met her. Miquella claimed that she had not left the Lakes since Godwyn was killed; she was protecting Queen Rennala.

The Carian siblings found him just as anomalous. Just as suspicious.

Nonetheless, Morgott’s barbed accusation deflated Rykard.

“Ah,” he sighed. “I confess, however much I tease you, I do not know what I would do if we managed to tear away those thorns. Surely, we cannot all become Elden Lord.”

“‘Tis unlikely.”

He’d thought much the same. And he was sure his cleverer siblings had considered the exclusivity of the title as well. The Alliance held because there existed no reason for them not to be amicable.

“You won’t believe me,” Rykard pursed his lips. “But I have no interest in Lordship.”

“Thou’rt astute. I do doubt thee.”

“You will have fewer contenders from the Carian line than you think. Your bid is threatened by your own kin.”

“My bid?”

“For Elden Lord.”

Morgott scoffed. Frowned. It was insidious enough for him to co-rule the Capital, cursed as he was. His deception was already heinous. To be Elden Lord… to inherit the role of his father. It was unthinkable. But he would not divulge to Rykard the truth: that he was not- and never would be- worthy of the mantle.

“Why did you come back, if not to try?” Rykard pressed breezily. Without scorn nor judgment. “You are not without ambition. Your eye-" he tried to meet it, then. “Have you ever stared in the eyes of a hungry animal? A starving one?”

Morgott had. Hundreds of times. And he had only ever seen rage and terror and desperation.

“I desire to do what is right,” Morgott answered. Blunt and frigid.

“Perhaps it won’t even matter. Perhaps the thorns will never yield. Your mother and my father may never reveal themselves… We may be left to the mercy of the Gods.”

“I pray thou’rt mistaken.”

“Forgive me. It is your role to be the pessimist, is it not?”

The rest of the Alliance were descending to the dais of the Throne. Radahn’s immense shoulders visibly relaxed as he exhaled.

“Thank the Erdtree,” he called. “They haven’t killed one another.”

The Demigods chuckled at the joke. At the very least they smiled. All save Morgott. Who gazed past them to the shimmer of the golden thorns. Wanting.

———————————————————

“Our sincerest condolences, of course.”

“Hmmm?”

“Your Council?”

Morgott made an acknowledging noise in his throat. He no longer possessed the wit to play at mourning.

Rykard continued, “The gossip came with some of the houses you hosted earlier this winter. Your Pastor called back to the roots. Your alchemist slain by bandits. Your Justiciar humiliated in a duel. All in a year.”

“I was their pupil for nearly fifty years,” Morgott nodded. “Their wisdom is immortalized in me.”

It did not escape his notice that Rykard had not mention General Helian. It was possible he did not know. But the news would reach his ear as early as dawn. From a Leyndell servant or Godrick himself. Secrets were contagious, and parties made them all the more virulent.

Morgott succumbed to resignation. “General Helian, too, hath passed. He and his battalion pursued traitor thieves into the Forbidden Lands. He safeguarded the Capital but gave his life.”

It was Rykard’s turn to grunt inscrutably.

Tanith said, “He surrendered his life for the Erdtree. For the Order.”

Morgott did not imagine the edge to her observation. “‘Twas the Erdtree that gave him his life to lose.”

In one exchange Morgott’s conviction was emboldened. The second reason he’d come to Volcano Manor was to investigate Rykard’s connection to the Gelmir serpents. A Golden Order faithful his sire might be, but Morgott was certain the Carian held no love for it in his bosom. It was evident in his taste for fire. In his discarding of Order symbols and traditions. Morgott aimed to prove he was after the Flame of Ruin in the Mountaintops.

Morgott and his hosts ambled along a narrow alure. The front face of Rykard’s home looked like a modern noble’s manor. But it sprawled as any castle did. The bailey ward was vibrant below. Servants moved supplies and foodstuffs in carts. Scrambling to accommodate the coming revelers. The roofs and spires of the settlement were steeply capped. The buildings wore quaint hats.

There was a meager chapel for the Golden Order adherents in the ward. But beyond the castle, in the burgeoning town, a larger church presided over the shoppes and homes. Candles clustered around the doors, making it appear to have a maw of flame. Morgott supposed that was where his stepbrother was to be wed. Not in the piddling acquiescence to the Golden Faith.

Morgott was soothed by the Minor Erdtree’s boughs overhead. It grew a few kilometers away from the Manor. He already saw himself spending his days basking beneath its radiance.

“Leyndell has experienced much loss this year,” Rykard said. “Your Council must be chafing with all that new blood.”

Morgott exhaled through his nose. “The Council was Miquella’s creation. He has yet to make new appointments in his absence.”

Rykard grinned, bared his teeth. “Perhaps you can ask him about it when he arrives.”

Morgott smoothed the front of his robes. They were wrinkled from the days of traveling. He wished he’d forsaken his hosts for a meal and a bath. “I have asked him already. If he desired to name successors to the Council, he would have done so. It was never meant to last indefinitely.”

He spoke as honestly as he dared. It was not his aim to disparage Miquella, but to shift Rykard’s perception of Leyndell’s Lord. The Capital’s power was consolidating to Morgott. It was not fractured or weak. This was the third and final reason he had decided to attend the wedding. More than the bloodshed he had orchestrated, this was the lynchpin in his scheme. He had to convince Lord Miquella that he was ready to take control from the Council. He had to dissuade him from filling those chairs. If he could do this, then his coup might be completed unopposed.

“Well, now, Son of Godfrey. You have truly come into your own.”

Rykard’s tepid praise nettled Morgott for the rest of the walk. The moment they returned to the great hall, Morgott tersely thanked them to seek the arrivals’ banquet.

“My Lord!”

The address was surreptitiously quiet, but no less urgent for it. Morgott stalled at the base of the stairs within the hall. Laughter drifted downward, as did the tempting scents of food. He swallowed down his growl before he turned to greet the gold-clad knight that had intercepted him. He straightened from his bow, the knight, and Morgott was not surprised to meet sparkling, blueish-hazel eyes with his own.

“Ser?”

Oleg simply gestured. Morgott followed the point of his finger, and his indignation gave way to mortification. The Veil was a miraculous invention. But sometimes his curse was stronger than the enchantment.

Silver-white hairs skated along the immaculately polished floors. Stirred by the swishing of gowns and robes. Nonetheless, if one chose to scrutinize the sudden appearance of fur, a faint trail would lead their squinted gaze to Lord Morgott’s feet.

His hosts would have to forgive him for retiring early.

The tower keep was located on the opposite end of Rykard’s fortress. A helpful servant escorted Morgott and Oleg through the castle. As they crossed a mural walkway, Morgott was afforded a remarkable view of Mount Gelmir’s caldera. Gulls and crows mobbed an eagle for its supper. Evening made the water gold. Fishermen rowed their netted catch to the shore. The water looked pleasant despite the snow still melting off of the upper slopes.

It was beautiful and vibrant, and it was a shame Rykard had laid claim to it all.

A strong gust puffed through the mural windows. Another burst of shed was loosed from his disguised form like dandelion down. He cursed the volcano’s warmth all the way to the keep.

His temporary chambers were smaller than those in his palatial home. It was, perhaps, the sole thing he didn’t resent about this visit. He sent the servant away, blunt but not ungracious. Then he set upon his traveling trunk. The heavy door opened a sliver just as he fished out his brush. Oleg slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Knight,” Morgott rumbled. Exasperated and relieved in equal measure.

“I made sure no one was around,” Oleg retorted. He removed his Leyndell knight helm and set it on the desk’s chair.

He was too familiar with Morgott. He had always been obstinately undisciplined in that regard. But now more than ever, Morgott was loath to snap the reins. His honor-stained sellsword was the nearest thing he had to an ally in this forsaken castle. Removed from routine and familiar grounds, Morgott’s Omen nature writhed in the Lord’s hide.

Thou lovest him. Truly.

He paused as memory wounded him. Of all of Helian’s humiliations, that vicious accusation was the hardest to forget.

“Are you alright, Morgott?” Oleg’s hand was centimeters from his shoulder, hovering. The demeanor of the dutiful knight had dissolved. The gentle-handed nightmare in the grotto had returned- the caring creature that had slept beside him in the Forbidden Lands. Oleg was suddenly tender, and Morgott was defenseless against such a monster.

Oleg grasped for the brush. Morgott relinquished it. But his pulse threw itself against his ribs. As if he had handed Oleg a dagger instead. He removed his Veil, set it upon the mess of the trunk. When Oleg motioned for him to sit upon the bed, he obeyed.

He had not brought his cloak with him to Mount Gelmir. He had not anticipated ever removing the Veil and its illusory garments, save for sleeping and bathing. Now he regretted the decision. Only in Oleg’s presence had nakedness begun to feel immodest.

“Where should I start?” Oleg asked as he removed his own cumbersome armor. He left the greaves and leggings on, making a mockery of the uniform.

“Tail.”

The fur down Morgott’s spine stood erect as Oleg sat beside him and pulled the appendage onto his lap. Morgott possessed the power to tear it away from those tugging hands. He did not, choosing instead to glare at the banked fireplace. His heart was riotous.

The lingering contact was unnatural. Egregious. He let himself be distracted by the passage of the soft-bristled brush over his accursed limb. It scratched the subtle itch that the shed always inflicted. Even if it was only in his mind, he felt lighter.

Every few seconds, Oleg paused to gather fur from the bristles. Gray balls accumulated at their feet. Fodder for the dormant fire. When Oleg brushed too near the tail’s base, the horn-burdened end flicked against the bed.

“Is that unpleasant?” Oleg broke the merciful silence.

Morgott opened his eye. He hadn’t realized he’d closed it. “No,” he rasped. On the contrary, it was marvelous. He’d been a child the last time Graceborn hands had groomed him so.

“Is this… unpleasant for thee?”

Another tuft of fur joined the mass on the floor. “Of course not.”

Morgott’s tail gave another contented thump. “I am grateful. The climate here hath worsened the shedding.”

“For what it is worth, I doubt anyone noticed.”

Morgott hummed. Perhaps the embers in the fireplace were in his throat instead. Perhaps he swallowed them, and they smoldered in his gut.

Oleg’s fingers scratched at the base of a little, curling horn. The stalled growl in Morgott’s chest made to transform into a different sound altogether. He smothered it. Fed it to the coals.

He sighed, “I will have to be groomed each day. ‘Twill mat and fall in clumps otherwise. I… apologize.”

Oleg’s hand trailed up to the small of his back. The fire in Morgott’s stomach climbed to his lungs.

“There’s no need to be sorry, Beastie. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Very well.”

Morgott closed his eye as the brush was set to his back. For the first time in weeks, he was at ease.

Notes:

It was very difficult to imagine what Volcano Manor would be like before the God-Devouring Serpent was housed in the volcano. I have imagined it as a caldera with a settlement around it. A vibrant and normal place that isnt full of tortured prisoners and iron virgins.

I have also inflicted upon you more of my baseless headcanons. While the removal of the Rune of Death probably accounts for why some people seemingly live for hundreds of years (Tanith, Crucible knights, Rennala, etc etc) I have my own baseless, indulgent belief that proximity to the Demigods can also impart longevity. Mohg's accursed blood can make his followers live long. Being essentially the paramour to a Demigod can do the same.

Also, IDK, i really like the idea that Morgott was the one with a chip on his shoulder when it came to the other Demigods. It makes sense, he's on edge because he expects Graceborn- especially ones so important as his siblings- to despise him if they knew the truth of him. He has been so mistreated he expects it. However, the Demigods at this point in history as super cool with Morgott. He's just chronically grumpy.

Chapter 24: Tourney

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The wedding festivities began in earnest three days into Morgott’s stay. A flat field in front of the Manor became host to a temporary list. Risen stands of wooden benches rimmed an rectangular patch of earth scrubbed bare of grass.

Morgott had missed much of the jousting. His early morning hours had been spent languishing in Oleg’s hands. As he was brushed to near-rawness to ensure not a tuft of fur would fall to betray him. His skin still itched, hot, in his guise. Oleg had handled his burden with the utmost care, but Morgott felt as though the knight had plunged his hands into a Perfumer’s irritant aromatic before touching him.

“There’s going to be a tourney,” Oleg piped at Morgott’s side.

“I am aware.”

“I’m considering entering.”

“No, thou’rt not.”

Morgott could hear Oleg’s smirk, and he suppressed a sound of agitation. It was a jest in the poorest taste. There would be nobles in the audience that had watched Oleg run a Councilor through. Morgott couldn’t afford to add Oleg being recognized to his already considerable list of risks.

By the time Morgott had claimed a seat beside his royal family, the tourney was under way. A golden knight of Leyndell opposed one of Radahn’s Redmanes. Helms removed, they bowed to their Lords. Morgott recognized young Kristoff. A promising young warrior- however besotted with Godwyn’s Draconic cult. The Redmane was a beautiful woman with crimson ribbons entwined in her tight braid. A favor of a needlework cream lily hung from her belt. Morgott exhaled through his nose. He had no right to be annoyed with Miquella’s frivolity, but he was anyway.

“Good morning, Morgott,” Rykard had to lean around Radahn’s bulk to greet his stepbrother. “Rising late again, are we?”

Morgott’s animal soul did not like having his siblings' attention upon him. Most of them had grown up together. He was easy to tease, Godfrey’s exile, because he was not one of them. His half-siblings knew that better than the rest. Miquella met his eye, and Morgott forced himself to hold his stare. To beat back the instinct to submit. If he was going to take Lord Miquella’s city, he needed to be brave enough to withstand him.

Miquella and Malenia had arrived the day previous. The topic of dead Councilors had merely been grazed, its thorns yet lethally sharp. Morgott supposed his terse, skittish reactions could be blamed upon grief. He had abandoned his Council in Leyndell to keep them from Miquella’s ear. But at times he felt as if his young brother could scent treachery on him.

Rykard continued, goaded by Radahn’s jovial snort. “I had thought the hibernating season was over. Perhaps I should have delayed the nuptials another few weeks.”

Tanith smiled, “We’ve lured him out from under the Erdtree. Allow him the debauchery of a late morning, my Lord.”

It was Radahn’s turn to get a blow in. His poorly dammed laughter close to bursting: “Our brother? Sleep? Behold the bruises under his Grace Given eyes. He is vigilant against your debauchery.”

The Carian’s quieted. Each looking at Morgott expectantly. Eager to be lashed by his bitter tongue. Alas, he was ensnared by Miquella’s curious expression.

Yellow flashes of lightning rescued Morgott at last. The Redmane and Kristoff danced with sizzling steel. Morgott’s tardiness was forgotten. He forced himself to relax.

The Redmane and the Leyndell knight were an even match. Godrick swayed with the feints and jabbed bony fists with the swings. His verbal favor bounced between the two knights, depending upon who appeared to be winning at any given moment. When Kristoff narrowly snatched his victory, the young Demigod leapt from his seat in triumph. Morgott was privately glad that he hadn’t been present to spectate Councilor Tolbren’s execution.

Next, a Carian knight faced one of Miquella’s noble Haligtree knights. The elite guard of the Royal Family bested her opponent. While the prowess of the spellblade was impressive, Morgott could not help but ponder Princess Ranni’s absence. Neither of her full brothers had mentioned her omission. So Morgott chose to put it out of his mind. At this rate, he’d never meet his stepsister.

As more pairs dueled bloodlessly, clouds gathered over the list. The distant gleam of the far-off Erdtree was dimmed, but its Minor offspring lit the land as if the sun were unshrouded. A cleanrot knight strode forth. Her opponent, a knight of Stormveil, hurriedly forfeited.

Malenia’s prized knight took the insult on the chin. But her sworn Lord sat ramrod, her mouth pulled taut in a grimace. Her red hair was styled to conceal her Rot-ravaged eyes. Morgott noticed that one of the golden butterfly hairpins in her locks had been fastened as a favor to the knight’s crimson scarf.

There was some fuss. In the end, Rykard called forth one of his own knights to preserve the cleanrot’s honor. He was handedly defeated; he limped away from the list uninfected.

Morgott was tired of spectacle. He had not slept a wink since he’d stepped off of the royal carriage. He sagged a bit in his chair as Rykard stood to address his guests. He graciously congratulated the tourney victors. Promised them a place of honor at the wedding banquet and a sum of runes. But as the participants cleared out of the list, Rykard raised his hands. He wasn’t finished.

“I must confess, I crave some exercise myself. Why must our knights have all the fun at my own wedding?”

Polite chuckles and anticipatory sounds eked from the attendees. They would get to see a Demigod spar. Morgott’s stomach dropped out. He’d managed not to make himself ill with days of rich food, but it churned in his gut as Rykard’s gaze swept past Malenia and Radahn.

“Morgott?”

“Rykard.”

“What do you say? Why don’t we at last test the power of the Erdtree against the might of the stars?”

The audience cheered its approval. Morgott scowled, and did not move from his seat. He had sparred with his sibling Demigods for years. He’d always been beaten. He did not wholly know how to fight in the Lord’s shape. He was too brutish. Too animal. Margit could weave himself around glintblades and comet shards. But was the Steward as fleet-footed? As agile and graceful?

It would be rude to refuse a Lord on his wedding- as a privileged guest in his home.

Morgott dug deep and excised some of that caustic wit Rykard had wanted earlier: “I would rather not bear the wrath of thy Lady wife, shouldst thou be bruised the day before ye vows are exchanged.”

But Tanith shouted gleefully back, “Bruise him, Grace Given. He is sturdy enough to bear it.”

Morgott frowned as the wedding guests tittered. Rykard’s hand was ever extended in invitation.

—————————————-

In the bowl of Morgott’s cupped palm sat one of his creations. A small bird formed from holy incantation. Semi-opaque and buttery gold. It was an amalgam. Pieced together from the avian glimpses he had scavenged through sewer grates in his youth. It called like an owl and had the wings of a vulture. It was the size of a sparrow and behaved like a crow. An Omen construct.

Dinner was going late. The sun had set but the scents of meat going cold and sugary desserts tacking up were thick in the night air. Morgott was exhausted. He never could sleep when the Demigod Alliance quartered in his city. It was old Shunning Grounds habits robbing him of his peace. He could not bear the scent of rivals in his territory.

Miquella and Radahn’s laughter burst from the dining room. The chime of a bell and a raucous, brassy bleat. Morgott loitered on the terrace, far enough away their conversation became indistinct. Malenia had gone for a bath. Godrick and Rykard were probably still gorging themselves-

“Remarkable.”

Morgott startled; Rykard’s approach was disguised by the scents and sounds of the tapering meal. The golden bird in the Steward’s palm took wing. It swooped around the men’s heads, squawking its unnatural cries, before flying down to a roof below. There, it preened.

Rykard practically leaned over the balustrade to observe the construct. Morgott wasn’t sure why he didn’t dispel the bird.

“Is it a puppet?” The Carian Lord asked.

“…No.”

“But it is autonomous.”

“‘Tis mimicking behaviors I have witnessed true birds do. That is all.”

Rykard scoffed. “You are infuriating, Morgott. Albinaurics, marionettes, puppets, silver tears. The Academy has been obsessed with these artifacts of false life for an Age. I am no exception, though my interest lies in the machine. It is always fascinating to watch you. Bluntstone that you are, I can’t tell if you’re messing with me- if you truly aren’t aware of how unique your talent is.”

Was this praise? Morgott held it away at arm’s length. He couldn’t trust a man like Rykard any closer.

“I make fleeting, useful objects. There is no elegance to it.”

“Your technique brings glintblade sorceries to mind.”

“‘Tis not Carian spellcraft.”

Rykard smirked. “Gods, no. But let us not pretend they are not dissimilar.”

The Prince hefted his staff. With a thrust like a serpent’s strike, the glintstone at its end sprouted a slender blue blade. The tip of which pointed at Morgott’s gut- though a meter separated him from the weapon.

“The Primeval Current is ore, and glintstone is its slag. A seasoned blacksmith can manipulate the composition of steel to make a stronger blade. Glintstone, too, has that lattice structure. Only we sorcerers forge with our will rather than a hammer.” The glintblade vanished, and Rykard straightened. “I see the particles align. I guide them to the staunchest orientation. A weapon to rival steel made in a mere moment.”

Rykard’s explanation was not condescending, but rather enthusiastic. It reminded Morgott of Mohg when he’d had a particularly good hunt. Or when he’d mastered some new facet of his despicable gifts. If Morgott’s tail were not suppressed in layers of concealing illusions, it might have waved.

“I… see.”

“Come now, Morgott. This is where you tell me how you make your pretty constructs. I am trying to engage with you. Brother to brother.”

That flustered the Steward. “I am unsure.”

He’d performed magic like this ever since he was a child. Rote and thoughtless. Making pathetic trinkets and games of the Erdtree’s generously gifted substance.

“It comes naturally to you, then. I suppose it would for Marika’s son.”

“Hmm.”

“Perhaps you are a smith as I am, but for a different material. Shall we see?”

Rykard motioned for a nearby Carian Knight to relinquish to him his sword. He presented it to Morgott, blade lying flat on his palms.

“Could you make this?”

Morgott did not respond, but he did gingerly take the sword from Rykard. He examined its details, admired the craftsmanship. More than its appearance, he committed its weight to memory. Its length and balance. Then, in his left hand, he called forth a replica hewn in gold. The exact same size and shape. Concentrating, he banished the summoned weapon and recreated it at a larger scale. Until it was a weapon fit for a Demigod’s use.

Rykard seemed delighted. He inspected Morgott’s recreation, leaning far too close to the glowing incantation.

He said, “You do not think about it at all? It just comes to you?”

Morgott let the conjured Carian weapon dissolve beneath Rykard’s nose. He returned to him the true sword.

“Perhaps,” Morgott replied. “‘Tis always been fluid to me. As though I form clay to make a vessel with my memory. Then light fills it. It weareth mine intent like a hide.”

Rykard hummed- a sound of genuine interest.

“Who taught you? Godfrey I assumed to be too besotted with getting blood on a blade to dabble with the Order’s arts. And Queen Marika, well. You were a child when you went into exile, weren’t you?”

Morgott tried to remember those ancient days with clarity. He’d had tutors. Crucible knights had once taught him the foundations of Erdtree magic.

The shackle was gone, and a Great Rune hummed in his breast. He possessed more power than he had any right to. The halls of scholarship barred their doors to Margit. And Miquella’s appointed Council denied Morgott entry. His talent was as untamed as his blood.

“Aye, Godfrey honed my skill as much as he was able.”

“That would explain your proclivity for weaponry.”

Rykard was being jovial again. Morgott’s insides twisted. If Marika had seen fit to mold him, he could have been more than a base conjuror.

Rykard licked his lips, “Were you glad to come here? To Leyndell?”

“Of course,” Morgott rasped.

“It was not difficult to leave him? Your father?”

“Ah…”

He hesitated too long, but his antsy stepbrother picked up the dropped thread. “Forgive me, Morgott. But… sometimes I cannot help but think about how we have been…” He gripped his stave so fiercely the wood groaned. He sighed. “Marika made us orphans.”

Morgott knew better than to dignify him with a response, but anger overruled him. “Thy mother and father live! As do mine own!”

Rykard shook his head. “They live, and yet we have lost them anyway.”

It was infuriating that Morgott understood. It was horrifying that Rykard was more right about Morgott’s circumstances than he realized. He hadn’t formally met either of his parents in over five hundred years. But Rykard didn’t understand that without Queen Marika’s patience and benevolence, Morgott would not merely be orphaned, but forsaken entirely.

The Steward of Leyndell swallowed. “I think I will retire,” he declared. He lied.

For he lay awake in the pitch blackness of his chambers, cursing the Lord of Gelmir and his wretched, serpent’s tongue.

————————————————-

“Well?”

By the Erdtree, he hated Rykard’s smile. The beckoning of his hand, as if Morgott were a suitor to be led into a dance. This was all a bit of fun to him. A lark. He did not know how hot Morgott’s blood ran. How ruinously it coursed. If Morgott crossed blades with this flippant traitor, they would both be undone.

Morgott clenched his offhand- as if to keep a sword from materializing. He was rescued by a clap of thunder. The dreary skies howled at last. The rain was merely a languid drizzle in truth. But the thunder was enough to send many in the audience fleeing from the benches.

“Perhaps another time,” Morgott said stiffly.

The field was abandoned to the rain as the wedding party retreated into the Manor. Vibrant, silken morsels, they were swallowed down a throat of raw red. Mirthful all the while as the first fat drops of precipitation fell.

Morgott let them strike, frigid, upon his lips. He was in no rush to join the revelers wherever they cavorted next. He recalled Tolbren’s sharp admonition, the Liurnian Lady’s hand grasping him. He didn’t belong with them.

Not everyone ran to the Manor’s refuge. Stable hands led away the jouster’s steeds. Some Liurnian youths, unbothered by damp weather, conversed beneath a tree. A woman threw a hood over a graying braid and lit a pipe to smoke. Kristoff and his Redmane opponent shook hands again. Kristoff looked as though he was hoping for lightning. The sounds of a storm were like hymns to his sort.

“Morgott.”

“Knight.”

He should go inside, before the rain soaked his illusory form and made him stink of wet fur. Restless for a reason he could not place, he began to walk towards the Minor Erdtree. Footsteps plodded behind him with the telltale rasp of armor plates shifting. Duty compelled Oleg to shadow his liege.

“Thou needn’t follow,” he assured his pawn.

Oleg retorted, “Would you prefer to be alone, my Lord?”

The sellsword idled in pilfered armor he had no right to. As masked as he. He had wanted to be alone just moments ago.

“No.”

The boots he wore were illusory. Bare feet touched the ground with the thinnest layer of magic between them. He could feel the topsoil softening in the rain. The Tree was incandescent against the weeping sky.

Morgott’s heart was already lightened. He forgot what it was he meant to pray for. He still made to kneel in one of the many alcoves built around the trunk. Oleg stopped him with a clumsy hand so that he could lay his cape upon the muddy stones. Morgott wanted to tell his knight a bit of grime on his pants was the cheapest cost of his faith. But he was too preoccupied with guilt.

So, he sat with a mind both empty and cluttered. He gave rote thanks and offered hollow apologies for the lies he’d had to weave to simplybe in his stepbrother's home. Oleg shook out his cape when he stood again.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying,” Oleg said. “But I was really hoping I’d get to see you wallop another Demigod.”

Morgott scoffed. “Thou wouldst have been disappointed”

Oleg echoed his disdainful noise. “My Lord is being humble. I’ve-”

“Thou hast seen Margit fight.”

“Ah, well. I suppose so,” Oleg removed his helm. Wrapped it in the cape he had just finished thrashing dirt out of. He set both upon the ground. “Might I see how the Steward handles a blade?”

“Oleg…”

“I must confess, my Lord, I think I need a bit of exercise myself.”

Morgott bit his tongue. Navigating the infuriating humor of his relatives had deafened him to sincerity. Oleg was not teasing. The hand at the pommel of his sword was an invitation.

Morgott glanced around, as though he were a bairn again resting at a gutter grate. Waiting for either the spears of Leyndell knights to drive him back into the shadows or for a bigger Omen to chase him from a coveted perch. The rain had picked up, and the rocky hill presiding the Tree was empty. He was not sure why he was suddenly wary of being seen. Oleg’s suggestion was not unlawful, if egregiously familiar. The phantom of his tail lashed.

Indeed, he felt like he was going to burst out of his own skin on this forsaken peak. Like he was one wrong move from wiping clean his disguise.

He huffed. He beckoned to his left hand the hilt of a sword- the mimicry of the Carian knight’s blade. “Very well, Oleg. If thou’rt so eager.”

They began tentatively. Less like swordsmen and more like kittens learning their limits by swatting. Morgott’s sheer size advantage over Oleg hindered their flow. But they adapted. After a quarter hour, their steps had left furrows in the sodden ground before the Tree’s trunk. Flaking golden motes mingled with the cool sprinkling of rain.

The grass under their boots was slick. Blonde hair stuck to Morgott’s forehead and the corners of his mouth. The water that dripped into his eye stung vaguely like sweat.

He thought it would be hard to fetter his strength. He thought that once Oleg’s sword struck his own, his despicable curse would bay in rage for bloodshed. Like it had in front of Rykard, before the staring eyes of his family.

It did require concentration, but it was no burden. He didn’t shatter Oleg’s arms when he blocked a blow. If his summoned weapon came anywhere near the body of his knight, it dissolved. Likewise, if Oleg’s storm engulfed Morgott, it was docile.

Morgott held so much in his shivering, cupped hands. Mindful not to crush it all in his fists. How strange it was to be handled so gently in kind.

Oleg lost his footing on the wet terrain. An errant step garnered no traction, and he crumpled into a heap at the Minor Erdtree’s base. Smashed to the ground by Morgott’s overhead strike.

Oleg looked up at him, face flushed from exertion and joy. His red hair had darkened to auburn brown in its sodden state. It brought out the blue and green in his eyes. Mud smeared his greaves and elbows.

He laughed.

He laughed so hard he had to gasp for breath, and it was then Morgott realized he’d been holding his. Clumsy brute. His mind admonished him in an amalgam voice of every person he’d ever humiliated with his deficiencies. Accursed thing.

“Mercy, are you going to help me up?”

It was no way for a knight to speak to his Lord. But sometimes Morgott felt less like a Lord, and Oleg felt like more than a knight. Morgott reached down with a fair, false hand. He hauled Oleg upright without effort.

“Thank you.” Oleg wheezed. The grin he wore did not sag nor fade. He was fine. “I could go another round.”

Morgott’s blood sang at that. It wasn’t the roiling tune of fury, but that his curse answered at all was frightening. What was this thrilling pulse? This heady lightness that craved not violence but for the heat of another in his hands all the same?

“We have strayed long enough.”

The reek of wet fur stuck in Morgott’s nose.

Notes:

This is certainly a filler chapter if ever there was one. But it was a perfect way to get into Morgott's head. His loneliness and his otherness. How he perpetuates it unintentionally by being distrustful of his family. How that distrust isn't entirely his fault because he's traumatized and frightened of people seeing what he's 'really like'. His Demigod sibs aren't even being mean to him. He's just perceiving it that way.

I hope it's apparent by now that Morgott's constant fretting about his curse is all in his head. He has been conditioned to be scared of any strong feelings... like love. He has been conditioned to see his anger as something vile and dangerous. He's emotionally constipated because he can't work out any emotion without blaming his curse.

I also love this wedding arc for all the cameos. Everyone say high to Finlay and Freyja : 3

Chapter 25: Wedding

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

It was the day of Lady Tanith and Lord Rykard’s wedding.

Oleg would never confess that he found the match fascinating- lest he invoke the ire of his master. A plain, mortal woman had captured the heart of a Demigod Lord. He reddened as he remembered the previous night. When, face flushed from drink, Tanith had performed for her guests a dance from her homeland. The look on Lord Rykard’s face had been downright ravenous.

It was difficult not to be envious of such attraction. Particularly when the object of his own was heavy against his legs. Margit was agitated as Oleg thoroughly groomed him of loose hair. His tail’s horned tip kept bouncing in Oleg’s lap. More than once it knocked the air from his lungs.

When Margit was brushed to satisfaction, he rose to don his Veil. The blonde of Morgott’s hair was especially lustrous and soft. He inspected his appearance- but only for a minute- before turning away from the mirror. Oleg had to wipe fur from his trousers.

Lord Morgott would attend the wedding ceremony without his knight. Oleg had much more dangerous plans for the day. From his trunk, the Grace Given procured a torch. The one with the spiraled handle Oleg had only ever seen unlit in his Lord’s chambers. Morgott presented it to him.

“This is the greatest tool at thy disposal,” he said. “The flame dispelleth illusions. A staple of Carian trickery. I have high hopes thou wilt reveal Rykard’s treachery with it.”

Oleg grasped the torch. He should have had more questions, but there was really nothing to ask. He knew what would become of him if he was captured. He knew what he needed to do to prevent discovery. He wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to be searching for, but neither did Morgott.

“I can begin in his chambers,” Oleg said.

Morgott’s eye flickered for a moment. His brow sagged slightly. “Aye… I suspect our host’s servants will be occupied with the ceremony.”

That was the hope, anyway. Oleg nodded. There wasn’t anything more to say.

Their departure, however, was impeded by a knock at the door.

“Morgott?”

It wasn’t a voice Oleg recognized. It was throaty- almost strained- and raspy. Oleg was confused, but Morgott frayed before his eyes. Rosy lips parted; his breath was stalled as if by a spell. Then he lurched for the door and opened it. The snarl that fled him immediately after was inhuman. A great bulk of a man filled the doorway. If not for his peculiar style of dress and mane of graying blonde curls, Oleg might have mistaken him for Radahn. Morgott was herded back inside the room, and Oleg lunged for his sword.

“Begone!” the Steward snapped. Almost desperate. “Leave my sight at once!”

“You asked that I not enter Leyndell. Behold, I have not broken any commandment.”

“I believe I made myself clear the last we spoke,” Morgott hissed. “I have no desire to meet with thee, heretic.”

“I am deaf to your edicts, Lord. I am not the servant you wish me to be.”

Oleg cleared his throat. He was without armor, but not unarmed. He gripped the scabbard and hilt of one of his blades. A silver one with a storm inside. Morgott wanted this impudent man to leave. If he would not respect the Steward, perhaps he would find steel more convincing.

The newcomer laughed. He closed the door behind him, imprisoning all three men in the bedroom.

“Take your hand from your sword, Little Knight,” the man sneered. “Lest I make a smear of you in front of your master.”

With the threat issued, Oleg was less inclined to do as he was bid. The man grinned, toothsome. Thin lips stretched taut over too-sharp teeth. In the heady stalemate, it was Morgott that growled:

“Stand down, Knight. I can handle his fool myself.”

The longer Oleg looked into the stranger’s face the more he was untethered by its wrongness. He did not understand it. The hostility was all Morgott’s. But Oleg was loath to trust the other man’s geniality.

The stranger extended a hand to Morgott, “Shall I keep you company today?”

Morgott groused. “Thou wert not invited.”

“I have Miquella’s blessing.”

“He indulgeth thee much.”

“He knows I love weddings.”

Morgott was unflinchingly stiff. And Oleg was certain he was too busy beating down the nature of his other half to fend off the man’s encroaching hands. His bearded cheeks were taken captive by slender fingers and manicured claws. He did not flinch or protest as the man planted a kiss upon his brow.

“How odd,” he purred. “I rather enjoy how that feels.”

Morgott scoffed. Wordlessly, he followed the man out. Abandoning his reeling knight to his duty.

—--------------------------------------

Oleg had killed people with less trepidation than he felt now in the halls of Volcano Manor. Life had been simpler when he’d traded life for runes. Now he was meant to rip Rykard’s secrets from his keep. If he was caught, it wasn’t merely his own life at stake. He’d forgone the armor of a Leyndell knight for servants’ garb. But the torch Morgott had given him was obviously an artifact of Leyndell. The Grace Given’s specifically.

Finding Lord Rykard’s private wing wasn’t a challenge. Most of the house’s servants were occupied with aweing their Lord’s guests- just as Morgott had predicted. They were tidying the grounds and the great hall. They were in the kitchens or emptying chamber pots. And those not tasked with making sure the wedding ran smoothly were attending the nuptials.

A few guards sat at a table beside the wing’s entrance. Oleg shielded the golden torch with his body as he shuffled through. One man grunted a greeting at him but made no move to stop him. Didn’t even probe for an excuse. Oleg wasn’t foolish enough to think himself in the clear. Even lazy blades could be shrewd. They would seek him out if they felt he was idling where he shouldn’t. He needed to be fast.

A pair of servants rushed by with bedsheets laden in their arms. They dashed through an open doorway to a swell of jubilant voices. Oleg peered inside and sighed when he saw the immense bed. Alas, the Lord’s most private chamber was swarmed with chattering servants. They were changing the linens and stoking the fireplace. Threading folksy blessings into the decor. Ensuring the marital bed of their master was spotless. A nice gesture- but Oleg doubted the Carian Prince and his Lady had been chaste enough in their courtship for any of it to matter.

With the original scheme already thwarted, Oleg had to resign himself to searching elsewhere. Luckily, the door of the next room was negligently cracked, revealing the tempting glow of a lit hearth. He slipped inside and stuck the torch into the fireplace. It immediately caught flame. Held aloft, the light it cast became threaded with the gold of incantation. A twilight hue suffused the red of the chamber.

He initially believed the place to be a dining room. However, the table that bisected it was hardly fit to eat off of. Metal shavings and flakes of glintstone threw the torch’s light as blue and silver specks across every surface. Steel mechanisms, lousy with cogs, smeared grease across the fine wood.

Oleg sifted through the refuse. There were chains with iron weights, a serene and feminine mask, and crude carvings of snakes scattered amongst the miscellaneous machinery. Most impressively, there were staves modified with iron grips like the glintstone miners of Liurnia. He could only assume Rykard used these to shape his bizarre machines.

But as interesting as the apparent workshop was, none of it tied Rykard to the Gelmir bandits.

Oleg listened for the servants next door. Their gossip and laughter could still be heard, and he deduced he had at least a few more minutes to lurk before suspicions mounted. He could scurry to an adjoining room and-

By the fireplace, a patch of wall shuddered. Like the air rising off of the ground in the peak of a Weeping Peninsula summer. Oleg edged closer, torch brandished before him. The nearer the flame flickered, the more the wall became undone. Like water thrown over a fresh painting. He thrust the torch into the mirage, and it dissipated entirely.

Oleg had let his hair grow too long. Sweat was making it stick to his neck. There was no other option but to see where the tunnel led.

The crawlspace was wide enough for him to walk through, but it would have been a tight fit for a man of Morgott’s stature. He glanced behind him to see that the illusory wall had reestablished itself. At least he wouldn't be immediately followed-

Something crunched underfoot. Oleg smothered his sound of alarm until it resembled a sizzling hiss. He kicked papery white film from his shoe. Cobwebs were singed on the torch, and their tiny embers burned pinpricks into the shed snakeskin he had trod upon.

He reclaimed his nerve. The shed was milky and dry. Old. Whatever had left this vestige was gone. Though it was huge for a snake, the animal that had made it would not be large enough to cause Oleg serious trouble…

Unless it was venomous.

It was just like Lord Rykard to have a serpent loose in the house’s walls. Alas, Oleg pressed onwards. The passage delved ever downward. He stepped over another shed or two as he descended.

Fortunately, a pit of serpents didn’t await him at the stairs’ terminus. He was deposited into a dark room- though that darkness was banished as he set the torch into a sconce. Cool stone comprised the walls. He was in the Manor’s foundations. The lair- Oleg had no other name for it- extended beyond the space he stood in. Additional entries and exits were barricaded with barred iron doors. The torchlight didn’t reach far into their interiors.

But there was plenty to investigate before he could allow himself to worry about what lurked beyond.

Desks, a table, and haphazard chairs crowded the floor around a support beam. Vacant serpent snail shells were tipped onto their sides in a pile of straw. Oleg supposed that explained the sheds. He did not want to think about the shackles that lay between the shells. The layer of dust upon many of the surfaces might have lulled him into believing the area was unused. However, an empty goblet sat atop a table smelling of stale spirits. Oleg had to marshal for his heart some courage lest it leapt out of his mouth and escaped.

Upon one of the tables sat another pile of snake sheds. They lay atop a faded crimson banner. There was a symbol embroidered in gold he did not recognize. It consisted of a large ring with a sword running through its center. Stitched to the left of the sword was a symbol of fire. On the right, another ring of spiraled gold. Almost like snakes twined together. Oleg puzzled over the banner. A rusted brown spearhead also bore the sigil. As well as a broken piece of headstone. These old artifacts were surely of some importance. But why? He could only guess.

His attention inevitably wandered to an object he more readily understood. It was a map of the Land’s Between, cobbled together from smaller charts so that the entire continent could span the height of the wall. The parchment curled from moisture damage. While the portions hewn into leather were pocked with tiny holes. Oleg had rarely seen a complete depiction of his world. He admired it for a moment, trailed his fingers over the bleeding ink of his birthplace in the southernmost tip of the Peninsula. Then he traced the migration path he and Engvall had traveled reliably for years. Decades, even.

His finger found a feather pin staked in the northern Altus. After a moment’s recollection he realized it was the village of Dominula. A thriving settlement about a day’s ride from the Capital’s outer walls. He and Engvall had even taken jobs there before. There were more pins. Most clustered around Gelmir’s foothills.

He wondered if the tiny, provincial village he’d met Margit outside of was one of the marked places. His eyes flicked to Leyndell. Then further up to the country of the Forbidden Lands. There was a gaping hole in the map where the Lift of Rold should be.

Someone had taken a knife to the thin leather. Had hacked that portion of the map out. Oleg dared to touch the frayed edges. There was one errant slash through the painted gold of the Erdtree’s image. Through Leyndell’s heart.

There was nothing here he could bring before his Lord. He couldn’t steal this tattered map. And even if he could, what did it prove? Oleg stepped back, and his heel kicked the hilt of a dagger. It slid across the floor, coming to a halt only when it bumped against something beneath the desk. Oleg bent to examine the blade. Its tip was chipped. Beside it- the thing that had stopped its momentum- was a badge. Discarded and forgotten with the dagger that had been used to tear it out of the map.

Oleg had seen a dozen crests of its like before. He’d given Margit an entire satchel of them months ago. It was a badge of the Gelmir Serpent. And stuck to its back was a scrap of leather etched with the Lift of Rold.

Oleg clutched the thing in his fist and forced himself to breathe. He could take this. It was winsome proof- hopefully enough to satisfy Morgott. Someone- and who else would it be but Rykard- had staged the Serpents in the Forbidden Lands.

Noise stabbed ice into Oleg’s spine.

The creak of an iron chain, and the softest moan. Oleg trapped his every nerve and impulse until his chest ached. He was rewarded with another utterance: a groaning sob. Muted and hideously repressed, fearful. Glacially, Oleg took the torch from the sconce. He crept to one of the iron doors. Every sound he made felt amplified.

The torchlight grazed a thin, white arm. A gaunt face with wiry hair. A body suspended in a metal cage. A living being hunched into an unnatural position. Eventually Oleg recognized the Albinauric for what he was. Sunken eyes glittered wetly in their sockets. An exhale wheezed from a slack jaw.

“By the-"

Oleg’s gasped curse was cut off by the prisoner’s shriek. He managed to keep hold of the torch with trembling hands. When the Albinauric paused to suck in a rattling breath, he cried:

“I’m not going to hurt you! Please-"

Another scream sent Oleg reeling. He realized now the caged man was not merely in anguish.

He was an alarm.

Torchlight swallowed up the dark the way he’d come, bobbing as its bearers thundered down the passage. Before the Albinauric could bellow again, Oleg heard the rasp of swords being drawn. In the guise of a servant, he had only a knife tucked into his belt. And the torch.

He leapt to another iron door. And the squeal of rusted hinges carried over the raucous cries of the Albinauric. Without the burden of armor, Oleg was fast. But the torch would always give him away as long as it stayed lit. Flame splashed traitorous light upon the passage before and behind him. Footsteps pursued angrily.

Oleg fled blindly, praying he would not run headlong into a dead end. Perhaps he was favored by fortune or the Golden Divine. He darted up a set of stairs and kicked open a wooden door. Splinters rained into his hair, and the smell of rotted wood stuck his nose. He was in a tower- an apse. Yet another place of worship concealed in the castle. Only this one had been abandoned to neglect. More stairs spiraled upward. Driven thoughtlessly, he followed them.

The guards weren’t far behind. The obstacle of the door had allowed them time to catch up. Halfway up the apse’s spire, an arcade ushered in the volcano’s ambiance. Window arches- without glass- as tall as a man made his flight all the more treacherous. If he slipped on the mossy stone, he might tumble out of the apse into the caldera, or over the banister on his right to the tower’s base floor.

Where could he go?

Engvall wasn’t here to rescue him from a scrape. And Morgott…

Magma cut off Oleg’s escape. It welled from the rock impossibly. Heat singed the leather of his shoe; it was no illusion. He stumbled back and hands were upon him. Grappling with the torch. The culminating fires of the magma and the torches transfigured the apse into a stark landscape of shadow and eye-searing light.

“Is he a spy or a sneakthief?” A guard shouted. He held a staff aloft. The glintstone within gleamed.

The man fighting with Oleg, the one meant to answer, could not. He was struggling to overpower him.

Oleg pivoted, as if to launch himself into a tempest. The smaller man was not prepared. He was lifted off of his feet and dropped directly into the conjured magma pool. He shrieked- the sorcerer cursed. And Oleg whipped around to swing the torch into the spellcaster's skull.

The third, lagging blade finally caught up as his compatriots howled. He bellowed a foul curse. Oleg brandished the torch as he would his sword.

The narrow stairwell prevented either man from doing much more than thrust. And in that regard, against an armored opponent, Oleg’s was the weaker weapon. The tip of the guard’s sword nipped his arm. Then his thigh. He was herded back, hissing spittle. Blood darkened his disguise.

He was grabbed from behind. Knotted wood was forced under his chin; the sorcerer he’d struck had recovered. He was choking upon the staff leveraged against his throat.

“Gut him!” the sorcerer spat venomously over Oleg’s shoulder.

His fellow scoffed, “And deprive Lord Rykard of his fun?”

“He’s had fun enough this week-"

Oleg relinquished the torch. He was stronger than both men, but not if he doggedly clutched the ineffectual weapon. He braced both hands against the staff and pried it away from his neck. Then he drove the sorcerer back into a wall. A bewildered wheeze puffed wetly against the back of Oleg’s neck. He ducked underneath his captor’s arms.

He drew his dagger. The sorcerer, stunned witless, was cut from ear to ear in a blink. Blink he did, with round, golden eyes and a gaping mouth.

“H-hey!”

Oleg whirled and threw the dagger into the eye of the final guard. Guided by wind and the thrill of near-death. The man gurgled. Listed. And collapsed over the edge of one of the arches.

Oleg barked his own wordless cry of alarm. The bastard had picked up his discarded torch- fool probably thought he’d deprived Oleg of his sole weapon. Oleg lunged for the dying man, but it was too late. He tumbled from the arcade into the caldera below. The Sentry’s torch was still grasped in his hands.

It was gone.

If the Greater Will was kind, it would sink to the bottom of the lake. If the Greater Will was just, then…

Oleg gathered himself. Shuddering as the scalded man whimpered his last and succumbed to his injuries. The magma itself had dissipated- vanished with the death of the caster.

Oleg heaved the other two bodies out of the apse, let them be swallowed by the lake. There was nothing to be done for the blood.

The serpent badge was all the more burdensome in his pocket.

—--------------------------------------

Oleg had washed the blood from his hands. Picked it out from beneath his fingernails until his extremities were ruddy and numb. He had bandaged his shallow wounds. They still burned from the spirits he’d poured over them.

He’d succeeded and failed in spectacular measure. Now the most frightening part of his mission was before him; he had to confess it all to Morgott. Hours had passed since they’d parted ways. The vows had concluded a while ago. In the armor of a Leyndell knight, Oleg scanned the revelers for a frown and white hair.

He found his Lord and the stranger out on a terrace. Lord Rykard’s banners flapped in a brisk breeze. Pennant flags pointed urgently at the caldera below. At the town that had been built around its pristine waters and rocky shores. The fiery sunset was reflected on the surface. Steam rose from an immense smithy and occluded the emerging stars.

Morgott and the man sat on a carved bench. A pew dragged from a church and made into furniture. The big man stared out- the unusualness of his face was much more evident in profile. He might not have been a man at all, but a gaunt-faced lion transfigured into one for how his jaw seemed to jut forward. Morgott was wilted under his arm. His head rested upon the other man’s collar. It was evident he was unconscious.

“Be still,” the lion-man murmured. He did not glance in Oleg’s direction, but the knight was certain the command was for him. “He has not slept for days.”

Oleg obeyed. If only because he was unnerved. The man’s refined bearing exceeded that of a mere noble. His form was a threadbare cloak. It was a fetter that groaned from the effort of restraining such a creature. He was not human, Oleg was certain. If he smiled too brightly, his face would split and reveal something dreadfully alluring.

“What are you?”

The man hummed through his ribs- through clenched teeth. “I would show you, Knight. And you would despair. I dare not for his sake.”

Idle fingers carded through Morgott’s hair. Tucked the loose waves behind one ear to reveal a face almost serene in rest. Of course the Lord’s brow wouldn’t relax even in sleep. But the severity of his permanent scowl was lessened. In the gentle glow of twilight, he seemed a young man. And his companion all the more ravenous.

“He is fond of you. Morgott has never defended one of your kind from me.”

“What, exactly, is my kind?”

The stranger chuckled. It was a gravelly thrum deep in his ample chest. Oleg felt like prey beneath his single-eyed gaze. But he sensed no threat to Morgott.

Oleg licked his lips. “Who are you to him?”

“This man is my heart,” he replied with such tenderness Oleg ached. “Thus, I desire to see him cared for. I will not live, Little Thing, if he is forsaken.”

Oleg had just killed several people, and it was this declaration of devotion that devastated him. He was not entitled to any part of Morgott. But how ruinous to realize he coveted a heart that belonged to another.

The leonine man’s golden eye twinkled. It was the same ember hue as Morgott’s. Set in black sclera.

“You are fond him as well.” The stranger purred. It was not a question.

More than fond, Oleg wanted to confess. But cowardice and a rare moment of sound judgment seized him. Instead, he said, “I would never forsake him.”

The creature’s fingernails were thick and sharp like claws. He rubbed a thumb over Morgott’s cheek. “I would that you spoke true.”

“I swear it.” Oleg would not suffer the indignity of having his loyalty doubted. His love dismissed.

“Would you?”

“Upon my life.”

The stranger issued his soft, abyssal laugh. “Brave, Little Thing. Make a pact with me if you are so bold. Swear to me that your affections are enduring. Swear to me in blood.”

”Mohg.” Leyndell’s Lord murmured into the man’s shirt. It might have been an exhalation- a noise of waking. It just as well could have been the man’s name. “Leave him.”

“I wouldn’t Morgott. Not to one of yours.”

“Do not speak falsehoods to me.”

Morgott pushed off of the other man’s chest. With neither haste nor vehemence. He blinked sleep’s echoes away and glared at Oleg with a marginally less puffy eye.

“Didst thou give this fool thy blood?”

“N-no.”

“Didst thou take his?”

“No, my Lord.”

Morgott stood. His hair was disheveled, but he was still lustrous and fair. The facade of peace sleep had afforded him eroded. He said to the other man tersely, “Find Miquella and begone.”

“I shall, but I owe this beloved thing of yours an answer.” The stranger bowed to Oleg. He smelled strongly of incense and acrid metals. “You asked who I am. Dear, favored thing. I am… the Lord of Blood.”

Then he sank into the stone. Oleg leapt back for blood lapped at his boots. There was the source of the stench. The man disappeared into the puddle, grinning. And then the blood drained with him. Until the ground was spotlessly dried.

Oleg might have shivered, if not for Morgott’s exasperated snort.

Notes:

Sorry everyone. We missed the ceremony to watch Oleg fail at his job again.

This chapter was much more difficult to write than I thought it would be. I much prefer dialogue and character interactions to silent action pieces like this. But it was all worth it to make a Veiled!Mohg cameo. Morgott caught in 4K still can't say he likes his brother. The real reason they're estranged is because Morgott reflexively laughs every time Mohg calls himself 'Lord of Blood'.

Chapter 26: Serpent

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Coal and steam harvested from the dormant volcano allowed the Carian Lord to spoil his guests with food aplenty and machines of amusement days after the ceremony’s conclusion. Morgott was all the sourer for it.

Oleg’s discovery had not emboldened his Lord. Morgott paced like a caged animal. Sat in shaded corners where fewer eyes could land upon him. Oleg was unsure if he was anxious about the situation or frightened of what he would do if prodded. All of Oleg’s proof had amounted to a discarded badge and his word. Morgott had faith in him- in the description of the torn map and the ancient sigil of sin and the large snake’s shed. But it was not enough for a sovereign to act upon. Not without reproach.

But Morgott was a man accustomed to reproach. It was a small wonder he hadn’t clawed out someone’s throat, yet.

It was obvious that Morgott had not slept- apart from those meager minutes he’d reclined in the Blood Lord’s lap. The bags beneath his eyes were as gray as Margit’s hide. When Oleg brushed him morning and night, he hardly spoke. Even though his clothes were illusory, it was as though they sensed his exhaustion and made themselves drab to accommodate.

Oleg watched with worry when Malenia approached Morgott. Her dress was the color of thick cream, the skirt billowing behind her like ethereal wings. A stark contrast to the fabric that occluded her unsevered limbs and throat as snugly as wrapped bandages. She wore gloves trimmed with gold. A circlet with a short veil covered most of the scars around her eyes. Her illness was concealed, so that she could celebrate.

She extended her hand to Morgott. He accepted it, to Oleg’s shock. And to his relief. Perhaps Morgott did not feel he could deny the request of Miquella’s sister. But even if he frowned, he did not wear an angry scowl. The floor emptied to allow them space.

Rykard’s hospitality was taking its toll.

For all his resentment, the Grace Given rarely turned down food and drink. That is, he could easily spurn a verbal offer. But at such a generous banquet- with the table laden for all to take from freely- Morgott consumed an egregious amount of food.

His dance with Malenia concluded. He managed a pallid, tense smile despite his sister’s blindness. He brought her prosthetic hand to his sweat-dewed forehead in lieu of a gentlemanly kiss. For Malenia preferred that lips not touch her person.

Then, Morgott marched off. The back of his hand pressed to his mouth. The silver-threaded gold of his hair damp at his forehead.

Oleg did what he could not at the Rold ball.

It was nigh impossible for Morgott to find a discreet place to be sick. But he found as good a spot as any in the vine-choked gardens at the Manor’s front. An unfortunate shrub was burdened with his acrid refuse.

Morgott coughed and spat into the soil. “Knight. I need not thine attention.”

“I am sorry.”

The apology was for more than this. For more than he could take the blame for. He hated seeing Morgott miserable. Every time the Steward let down his guard, he was assaulted anew by more discomfort.

Morgott shook his head, “The fault is mine. I cave to excess too readily.”

Oleg whispered, “The wedding is over. You’ve done your part. Why not go home?”

“I have not done my part. Not yet,” Morgott hissed. His face twisted with bestial anger. The splinter twinged in Oleg’s jaw. He looked so much like Margit. With teeth bared and spittle on his chin and his eye aflame. He wiped his mouth on his hand and stood. At the same time, a friendly voice called out:

“Finally getting into the spirit of things, Grace Given?”

Morgott startled, mortified. But he smoothed his features into a mask of haughty irritation. His typical countenance since his hosts had exchanged vows. Rykard wore the colors of his Carian house. Though the chain of carnelian and rubies at his clavicles seemed more like gems of fire than glintstone.

Morgott did not apologize for vomiting into the gardens- even though he had obviously been caught. Rykard didn’t seem to mind.

“Come now,” the Lord of Gelmir laughed. “It happens to the best of us. Do not be dour.”

Morgott replied gruffly, “What business, Rykard.”

Rykard’s grin dipped a fraction. “What business indeed. Might I speak with you in confidence? We haven’t had a moment alone for more than a week! I must thank you for your generous gift, and more.”

Oleg was almost certain Morgott would reject him. Instead, as gleeful as a catacomb skeleton, he acquiesced. Rykard led Morgott and Oleg through the Manor to his personal wing. There, Morgott was herded into a cozy study. A blazing fireplace warmed a desk laden with papers and inkwells. Two large, velvet chairs faced one another in the room’s center. Rykard offered Morgott one before sitting opposite him.

“Your guard-”

“-Shall go where I go,” Morgott asserted helpfully. Rykard merely shrugged, leaving Oleg to suffer his misgivings gnawing at his stomach.

Oleg shut the door behind them and took up his post beside Morgott’s seat. He noticed the Steward was shivering with rage the second before he fished out something small from his robes. It was the serpent badge that he thrust forth- as if to throw it into Rykard’s face.

“Spare me the banalities, Traitor! Wherefore was this badge in thy possession? Snake I believed thee, but ‘tis thy nature unveiled. My father’s people thou hast slaughtered with puppetted hands. My people thou hast robbed!”

Oleg held his breath, for Morgott’s barely restrained roar had soured the very air. Rykard was positively taken aback. He blinked- a disarming expression on a man so storied.

What?

“I have long suspected thee,” Morgott snarled. “Thou told me once thou had no want for Lordship. Instead, thou wouldst burn it all? I find in thy keep the symbols of sin and the desire to use them! Against the Erdtree!”

Rykard recovered. His visage petrified to steel. “Well… I must thank you for being forthright. It was you- or someone beneath you, more like- that killed my men in my own home?”

Oleg swallowed beneath his helm. Of course he had told Morgott about the altercation. But nothing could be done about concealing the bodies. They had both assumed they would go undiscovered until after the festivities, claimed by the caldera’s depths. Rykard did not allow Morgott a chance to confirm or deny the accusation:

“I assumed you were at fault, Brother, because we found this beside one of their bodies on the shore.”

Oleg had not noticed it before, but there leaned an instrument of gold against the hearth. An unlit torch with a long, spiraled handle. Oleg wanted to gut himself on the spot. Morgott’s indignation paled. It was bled from him fatally as Rykard grabbed it.

He turned the torch over in his hands in admiration. “Such a marvelous thing. A torch that reveals what is meant to be hidden. A gift made especially for the Grace Given Lord of Leyndell, so that he may be protected from any dire plot against his life. You brought it here? You spit upon my invitations of brotherhood again and again, but this is the final insult.”

“Am I meant to be ashamed?” Morgott found his voice and it was vicious. “Two of thy men dead to dozens of mine own. I have proof of thy heresy. I am owed justice, not thee!”

Rykard just hummed to himself. A dismissive, uncaring noise. Then he chucked the torch into the fireplace. Sparks showered over the rug, danced in the bitter silence between the two Demigods. They extinguished themselves upon the cold floor while the flames in the hearth cavorted. Their merriment threw strange shadows. But… no…

Oleg’s eyes widened. The opposite wall became the canvas for their painted silhouettes. His and Lord Rykard's settled back into familiar shapes. Morgott’s twisted- writhed in the flame’s flickering. Horns sprouted from the dark profile.

Rykard’s barked, jubilant laugh banished the tense quiet. Morgott did not even flinch. His actual appearance remained unaltered. But doggedly, he refused to look at his traitorous shadow. But by his grim frown, Oleg was certain he knew what it betrayed.

Curseborn!” Rykard chuckled. “Ah, I should have guessed!”

Oleg’s palms sweat. He waited for orders- that was all he was good for. But Morgott said nothing. He was statuesque in that velvet chair. Even his ember eye was unblinking.

Rykard prattled on, as though oblivious to Morgott’s torment, “Though, to grant myself some credit, I’ve suspected for years. Remember when you visited Radahn’s castle? Remember when your Omen pet bleated in heat in his dungeons? When he told me that outlandish tale, it struck me as odd that Leyndell’s Steward had vanished during those days... Was that you making my brother’s keep reek?”

Oleg clenched his teeth. If only to cage his outraged tongue. He was conscious of the sound of his own breathing as Morgott remained resolutely mute. Rykard basked in his own vulgar brilliance for a moment longer, scanning Morgott for any further cracks.

“You know, Radahn is probably at the stables. I think I could tear him away from Leonard long enough to confirm-"

“Aye,” Morgott relented. “Twas I.”

Rykard leaned forward in his seat with feline satisfaction. He rubbed his jaw indulgently. “Queen Marika of the Golden Order herself begat an Omen. I had wondered why she would banish her eldest son to the Badlands. Why your name was never accounted for in all of the Golden Lineage’s history. She was ashamed of you.”

Morgott held Rykard’s stare. Even when his stepbrother’s words punctured through his stony indifference. His eye softened a fraction, his brow twitched. His knuckles were white where they clutched at the chair’s arms. Were the ashen bruises beneath his eyes spreading? Was the gold on his hair leaching to silver?

“But- ah. No.” Rykard’s smile withered. His delight was drained. “You were not sent with Godfrey were you, Curseborn? You were beneath us all those years. Forsaken by your own mother… Queen Rennala ails. At times I speak to her, and she does not hear me. My name only ever half-remembered. I do not know how I would endure if my own mother rejected me of her own volition.”

“I tire of being mocked, Serpent,” Morgott rasped.

“No, no,” Rykard sagged into his chair. His beard disguised the set of his mouth. But his golden eyes were hooded, sober. “Forgive me, Morgott. I look at you and see the Order incarnate. Now I realize you are its pawn.”

At last Morgott bristled. There was an echo of his true self in his hunched posture. As if he might lunge at Rykard’s throat- with his teeth.

“What is this farce? That thou wouldst delight in mine accursed nature divulged and then heap upon me this false sympathy? Thinkest me a wretch, but do not mistake me for a fool.”

Rykard did not answer right away. His golden gaze lingered instead on Oleg.

“So. Your man already knows,” His handsome Demigods’ eyes smoldered darkly. “What Order-sworn knight would glare at me so, instead of despairing at the sight of the Omen deceiver revealed?”

That this sneering, regal Lord would challenge his devotion- would use him in a bid to humiliate Morgott further- snapped the final restraint on Oleg’s inhibitions. Shock was bowled over by heedless fury.

He drew his sword. It was fluid, quick, thoughtless. He lurched forth, the golden fire to his right and Morgott’s seat to his left. The empty space between the two Lords was filled with the shining blade. Flame undulated along the flat of it. Rykard smiled. Lines bloomed around his eyes. The tip of the sword was level with his heart. Though it was nowhere near the mark. Oleg had no fangs to bear, so he did this.

“Knight-“ Morgott- Margit- began.

The splinter in Oleg’s jaw jabbed at his thoughts until they bled discordantly. Even clever Miquella’s magic had not accounted for the occasion where the Steward appeared both Omen and man simultaneously to the senses. He wasn’t sure what was pounding more- his pulse or his skull.

“Lower thy sword, Knight.”

“Aye, do as he says,” Rykard chased the coattails of Morgott’s harried order. “Your loyalty is to be admired, Ser.

He did not relent a centimeter. “You will not harm him.”

“I have no intention of-"

“Not with your words, either.” Oleg’s voice trembled. Through the surge of brazen courage, he recognized that he was barking orders at a Demigod. The son of Second Elden Lord Radagon. A fly may as well shake its spindly fist at the heel of a boot. But Oleg loved Morgott too much to submit. “You will mind how you speak to my Lord. His horns do not diminish who he is.”

“In the eyes of his beloved Order they do.”

Oleg strode forward and Morgott’s great paw snatched his wrist. If he glanced at that hand, whose would he see? The Steward’s or the Omen’s?

“Knight,” he pleaded. “Thou’rt adamant I am thy Lord, so heed me. Sheath thy blade.”

How bitterly did obedience sting. It felt like betrayal, though he did as Morgott asked. The sword was stowed with a sharp snkt, and Oleg’s hand trembled in fury all the while. He stepped back to stand beside Morgott’s chair. Rykard relaxed upon the plush seat almost as if he expected it to bite him.

“I understand the deception,” the Carian Lord said. “I shan’t pretend that I do not. What I cannot fathom is your loyalty to the Golden Order. Unless you are coerced.”

Morgott went rigid. “I am not coerced.”

“Truly? Will you be gaoled again if you doubt, Morgott? How will you be punished should you stray?”

“Thou presumest much and heap more insult upon me to insist my faith is disingenuous. Thou, raised with all the Erdtree’s blessings and the acceptance of the Eternal Queen, cannot comprehend what it is to have neither. The Order owed me naught. Yet everything I have, everything I am, was granted to me by it.”

“Firstly, Marika was about as much a mother to me as she was to you, I’d imagine. Secondly-” Rykard puffed his cheeks in thought. Even Oleg recognized the searing expression of pity. “-I see you, Morgott. You are the lowest creature, and you fear being brought lower. Have you considered you might instead be elevated without the heel of the Order at your back?”

Morgott hissed, “I will not stray, Snake.”

“There is no honor in being loyal to your subjugators,” Rykard sighed.

“Do you maintain that sentiment for the Albinaurics?” Oleg spat. Venom was a whetstone to his voice. Morgott raised two fingers on his armrest. Either a gesture to silence his knight or a preparatory pose to catch him in case he drew on Lord Rykard again.

Rykard flashed Morgott a terse, little smirk. “Tiresome boy, your knight. Albinaurics are artificial. They are machines. And I demand from them neither love nor loyalty. Unlike yourself, Brother, and the other naturalborn peoples the Queen denied Grace. Why should that be a God’s decision? What gave her the right to your Grace? To my father? To my sister’s fate?”

“Thou’rt a petulant child, Rykard. Thou, Demigod and Graceborn Prince, art dissatisfied with thy lot?”

“I am dissatisfied with being its pawn. For that is what I am. I, however, have the ability to change that.”

“By thieving the Giant’s Flame?”

“Only to dispel the damnable thorns! We possess the shattered Elden Ring. It is our charge to repair it. Why not reforge this fickle structure? So that horned babes need not perish in sewers and Princesses might be bound to their own will?”

Morgott exhaled dryly. “Impossible.”

“I am starting to believe it might be as well,” Rykard matched Morgott’s tone. Too lifeless to be despairing. Exhausted. “I am inviting you, Omen son of Marika, to try with me.”

Morgott shot to his feet. Teeth bared into actual fangs. The illusion was slipping. There was fur on the knuckles of the hand he jabbed in Rykard’s direction. “Blasphemy!”

“Come now, Morgott be sensible.” Rykard remained seated, but he threw up his hands in exasperation. “What do you think Miquella and Malenia are doing in their Haligtree? Why do you imagine Ranni spurns our Alliance? We have spoken of stagnation before. We both recognize it. The Golden Order will not remedy it, I swear. It is the cause.”

Morgott shook his head. Oleg kept his hand from the sword pommel. He was unsure what he would do if Morgott launched himself at the opposing Lord. The shadow of the Steward lashed a horned tail. The velvet chair was tossed into a wall and the wooden back splintered.

“You still refuse?” Rykard observed coolly.

“I rebuke thee!”

“Very well,” Rykard steepled his fingers. “Let us be brief, then, before someone asks after the commotion you just made. Firstly, because I am a generous host, I hereby proclaim the band of Gelmir serpents disbanded. They’re too much trouble for the both of us. Secondly, you will not speak a word of this conversation to anyone. Not to Radahn, not to Godrick, and especially not to our mutual half-siblings. I’m sure it is an attractive fantasy, Morgott, imagining Malenia cutting me down in my blasphemous home in front of my blasphemous wife-presuming she knows the truth about you already. However, I assure you, it will be no easy victory. Alas, should wisdom abandon you, should folly be your course, then rest assured that the Steward of Leyndell’s unfortunate shame will be revealed to all. You adore the Golden Order so wholly, then you may experience its kindly embrace, Curseborn.”

All this he said quickly. Clipped and efficient in a way that made Oleg apoplectic. Morgott’s thin composure was melting into a puddle. And more of his Lordly disguise with it. He blinked at his graying hands. At the white hair on their backs.

“I curse thee, Rykard,” he spat. He sounded as unraveled as he looked.

“I assume you agree to those terms?”

Morgott stormed from the room, breath loud and snarling. The knob was ripped clean from the finely carved wood, and the Lord of Gelmir actually chuckled a bit.

“Goodness,” he said to Oleg with sudden amicability. One word betrayed that his bravado had been just that. “Knight, if you love your Lord, and I know that you do, make sure he does nothing rash.”

Oleg struggled to bear Rykard’s full attention. Alone with him, he had a chance to strike. The Lord wore no armor, and his neck was bare. One thrust with the storm would silence him forever. It was tantalizing. And beyond foolish. Even if he bested a Demigod, Leyndell and Morgott would be condemned for the murder. It didn’t help that there was a tainted kindness in Rykard’s frown. Regret made soft black-rimmed gold eyes.

Oleg bowed, “I will.”

Notes:

I've been looking forward to posting this chapter since I started outlining this fic. I've always imagined that Morgott's beef with Rykard began as something entirely one-sided. With Morgott being distrustful and cruel and distant because of his understandable traumas. And, wouldn't it makes sense that someone that schemed with Ranni would be clever enough to figure Morgott's secret out? Yes, Rykard isn't the Lord of Blasphemy yet, but what if Morgott's initial hatred of Rykard was born from this: a moment where Rykard found him out, mocked him, and then offered him a mercy he could not accept. This was Rykard's first true blashphemy in Morgott's eyes. And probably part of the reason he marched on Gelmir so fervently. He was tempted and insulted- and he knows what Rykard would do the the Erdtree.

Lastly, yes, i know Albinauric's aren't literally macines, but its meant to emphasize how Rykard sees them as artificial creations beholden to their 'creators'. Oleg is the only person in that room that cares about that poor man.

Chapter 27: Curseborn

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Morgott fled like a hunted animal. He was furtive and swift on his long legs, and he outpaced Oleg in his cumbersome Leyndell armor. It hardly mattered. There were only two places the Grace Given would feel safe, and the Minor Erdtree was too exposed to soothe his bestial sensibilities.

Oleg was out of breath when he came to the guests’ wing. Morgott’s door was shut, but in his haste to escape he had not locked it.

“I am entering, my Lord.”

An announcement for appearance’s sake. He did not allow Morgott room to refuse. He slid inside and locked the door behind him. An apology for his necessary trespass.

Morgott’s back faced Oleg. But their gazes met, briefly, in a mirror’s glass. Morgott’s eye quickly averted. His pride sloughed off. Oleg watched it puddle into muck around his ankles. He barely recognized the man. His armor had cracked, and every thorny word the knight had ever heard said about the Steward- the Omen- jammed itself into the nicks. Someone had seen him- had pitied him- and he was on the precipice of unraveling.

“My Lord,” Oleg cleared his throat.

“Thou wouldst call me that still?”

“Of course. I am sworn to you.”

The Omen growled in disgust.

“I can call you Beastie, instead.”

A miracle that the splinter permitted it.

Morgott reached up, knotted his thick fingers into fine golden hair. He cast aside the Veil as fiercely as he could- as if it had singed his fingertips. It skidded on the floor. And having been forsaken, it forsook its Lord. Margit materialized from a gilt mirage. Flyaway white hair settled around his scowl. Oleg realized the cruelty in his jest far too late.

Margit was regal in his coarseness. Beautiful. The Omen curse was more than an affliction of the flesh. It was a corruption of the soul. Yet Oleg struggled to understand what made this man’s heart fouler than any other.

“Aye,” Margit conceded on a broken exhale.

“I apologize. I shouldn’t have-"

“All will soon know me as thou hast known me from the start. As a base beast. Rykard will see to it.”

Oleg crossed the room. Dropped the golden sword of the Leyndell knight upon the rug. The helm he discarded no more gently. Then his gauntlets. Stripping himself of his duty until he was more Margit’s friend than Morgott’s servant. He stepped over Margit’s limp tail. The Omen bowed his head.

“You don’t think he’ll keep his word?”

Margit sighed, rasping. “His silence will earn him no advantage. He may save his soldiers. His effort and runes. Mere words will see Leyndell devoured to its bones.”

Oleg desired greatly to argue. To assure Margit that he was beloved... But he was not. He was the monster of legend. Kin to imprisoned creatures Belowground. Oleg wanted to say the city would not cast him aside. But he could not do it in good faith.

He understood Margit’s despair. And he was furious. His Omen liege shuddered at his reflection. Was overcome again with the revelation that his hopes were fraying before his eyes.

“Was I born simply to be cast aside? This hatred inside me. This rage and this fear. It cannot be all that I am destined for. I heard the Queen Eternal’s words! I am a Shardbearer! I was bid to become a Lord with all of my kin. Am I cursed instead to become only her ruin and shame? Prithee, would that I was made a sacrifice instead.”

The confession deflated him entirely. He stared- cold, lethargic- at his reflection. Scanned his face as if in search of a worthy mark or patch that wasn’t mired in an abominable curse. He did not find it- Oleg figured- because he closed his moistened eye to trap a tear before it could fall. It tracked down his face regardless. Trembling hands hovered at his cheeks. He wanted to hide behind them but could not quite succumb to the impulse.

“I must... Lord Miquella should know what I have made of the Queen’s Capital. The depths mine ambition drove me. Oh Erdtree, may the Blade cut my throat before she claspeth a fetter to me.”

“I won’t allow it, Margit. Any of it. You will not give yourself up to Miquella, and Malenia will not harm you. Rykard can spill your secrets, or he can spill his intestines on my sword.”

“Oleg,” Margit cautioned. He turned from the mirror. Looked Oleg in the face. His own was mottled purple with flush. “Thou wouldst be a martyr for a monster. Skilled thou’rt, Banished Knight, but a Demigod’s equal thou’rt not.”

Oleg grabbed for Margit’s forearms; he jerked away. He pleaded, still, “Rykard needs you scared. You are closer to Miquella and Malenia than he is. He knows you were right about him- his plans. But he can’t strike at you without invoking them, too.”

“For now,” Margit snapped. “Will it hold true when Morgott taketh Leyndell from Fair Miquella?”

Well, Oleg could not be sure one way or another. “I may be a fool but trust me on this: do not act rashly.”

Margit wheezed. “My curse… My blood...”

“Here, sit.”

Oleg gestured to the bed and was more than a little astonished when Margit collapsed upon it. It sagged for his weight, and Margit sagged too. Disheveled white hair hung in his face. That golden eye smoldered around its pinkened lid. His hands clutched at his naked form, blunt claws scoring dark violet marks into his skin. A fine shower of shed drifted around his feet. His winter coat was blowing out, but he still had a luxurious pelt about his stomach and chest. And beneath the fur there were scars. So many scars.

None of them earned at venerable Godfrey’s side, but in a mire of shit beneath the Golden Order’s heel. Margit could blame his curse all he wished, but Oleg doubted he’d be half as wise or temperate or witty or caring in Margit’s circumstances. Margit was more of a politician than he’d ever admit to, but at least he cared for his city.

The Omen snarled his discontentment.

“Wherefore dost thou look upon me, so? As if I am…” he choked on the final word. “Desirable!

The tarry bubble of his anger burst. He blushed dull violet and pink. So rarely did Margit allow himself to feel embarrassed- not contrite, but shy. He was exposed in one barked utterance.

Oleg’s own face warmed, “Why do you think?”

“No,” he protested. “No, thou’rt a banished knight. Thy want is for duty. I tricked thee into the service of an Omen. I enslaved thee so thou couldst win me a Lord’s throne! Thy life is forfeit… Thou’rt to die and take my shame with thee to the roots. Helian spoke true. Oleg, thou dost not lov-”

Oleg silenced him. Not with a rebuke, not with a blow. His method was far more twisted.

Love had been Margit's last word. His teeth had caught his lip to pronounce the soft, sizzling sound of its terminus. Instead, Oleg had taken his lips hostage. Margit, it turned out, was more fang than plush lip. He was coarse, textured like an ancient tree’s bark. The lumps of his nose were hard and osseous. His chin was stubbled, unshaven. A searing contrast to the silky feel of the fur of his beard. Margit tasted of good wine and smelled of all the perfumes he’d doused himself with to disguise the fact that his natural musk was earthen and faintly animal. And when Oleg relinquished him, the knight found he already craved more.

Margit was on the brink of being undone. This act wounded him more than any needle Rykard or his Council could jab beneath his skin. Oleg figured that if he had somehow stabbed Margit with a sword instead, the Omen would have been more inclined to forgive him that indignity.

Why?

Oleg felt guilty, “You just admitted that you intend to kill me. What, exactly, did I stand to lose?”

With that ridiculous proclamation, they were both disarmed.

The heel of Margit’s hand rubbed at his jaw and cheek- ever so conscious not to touch his dewed lips- as he avoided Oleg’s eyes. His iris was but a shred of gold. It flicked in its deep, black setting. His chest swelled with a slow breath. Oleg matched him, and felt as though the whole of his insides might spill out with the exhale.

“I will not kill you, Oleg. Thou’rt a sorcerous fox. I am not pierced by a splinter but run through. I could not raise a hand to thee… Outwitted am I- bought with serpents’ heads and a wilted sunflower and a shackle tossed into oblivion.”

His confession was an admonishment. Fury at himself. Oleg’s heart was no less settled hearing that it would be spared. Because it sounded so terribly like his affections were reciprocated.

“Faithless, brash, drunken sellsword,” Margit accused next. He spat the words, but they lacked fire. Smothered by his wet sigh. Oleg brushed his rictus hand, and he did not recoil. “Wherefore must thy kindness be true? Margit hath not possessed an ally since his brother was…” He shook his head sharply as though he’d suddenly tasted something bitter. “Morgott’s allies would abandon him if they knew the truth of this blood.”

“Because I am enchanted by you.”

“Nonsense.”

“Must you deny it out of hand?” Oleg’s bewildered laugh was weak.

Margit was stricken for a moment. Before an ember of anger ignited him again. His hand stalled over his throat. At the ancient scar that encircled his own neck. “I must. Thou wilt destroy me otherwise, Graceborn Knight.”

Oleg kissed him again. Lord, Demigod, Omen, and liege. Titles as insubstantial as ash for mere seconds. The Omen was fire. His ichor decanted from ethereal sources. His lips were warm. Timorous, dry, cracked and salted with the meager wetting of tears.

He murmured into Oleg’s breath: “Morgott's Council is negligent, but they are correct about my nature. I am wretched. A brute. I cannot love thee. I cannot-”

“Don’t,” Oleg begged. Mouthed the whisper against his master’s teeth. “Do not lend your voice to their cruelty.”

Margit thrummed beneath Oleg’s palm- as the knight’s fingers embedded themselves into fur. It was a churning half-growl. A chuff of anguish. His heartbeat metered out a rapacious rhythm. How rapidly, then, did Margit’s awestruck expression collapse into frustrated confusion.

“As opposed to thy cruelty, Banished Knight?”

“My cruelty?”

“Thou tauntest me like this, offering me love I must refuse.”

Oleg leaned back to hold the Omen’s face. To behold his Grace-dense eye drowned in tears of yearning.

“Then do not refuse it. At least, not right now.”

Oleg dared not delude himself into thinking this could be anything. If the curse didn’t keep them apart, then Morgott’s Lordship would. Oleg was used to lending his heart. It hardly hurt at all to do it now. For this magnificent man that had been so foolishly forsaken. Engvall's warning be damned.

“Alright,” Margit said. Fatally delicate. “Alright.”

Notes:

27 chapters deep and we made it to the love confession at last!!! WOOOOOOOO

KISSING WOOOOOOO

Chapter 28: Revealed

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Morgott awoke in his usual manner: with a sharp, startled inhale and an alien chill in his lungs. With his ears ringing from wrathful echoes. The wraiths here had a different feel to them. Unique grudges spurred them. They were born from novel torment.

What was remarkable this morning, however, was the warm weight upon his back. There was a foot wedged between his buttock and tail. Moist lips breathed against his shoulder blade. It required all of his restraint not to buck Oleg off on instinct.

He had acquiesced to Oleg just one night. In a moment of weakness, he had succumbed to sin. The knight, in his misguided kindness, had given an accursed Omen a taste of wonder he did not deserve. Though he was not the first to commit such folly.

Queen Marika had freed Morgott from his prison, and he had sworn he’d never want for more. Then Miquella had granted him power, and he had sworn he’d never want for more. Here was Oleg with the temptation of love. Of course Morgott desired it. Why had they all offered him such gifts knowing he was too weak-willed to refuse them?

At least he’d possessed some restraint. The carnality of the night had not progressed beyond laced fingers and kisses. Beyond the intimacy of their chests pressed together so their hearts could match pace. But it had been ruinous to finally admit that Oleg’s absurdity- his frightening demeanor- had been his lusts. His love. For an Omen and a deceiver. For him.

Fingers quested in Morgott’s tangled hair. Scratched at the base of a horn. Morgott snorted his surprise.

“Forgive me,” Oleg murmured into his nape.

“‘Tis fine.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Hmm.”

The scratching resumed. “Good morning, Margit.”

Sitting up displaced Oleg, but it had to be done. Otherwise, he’d be trapped there forever in the gaol of kindly caresses. Silver-white shed coated the dark blanket.

“Seems like you slept well,” Oleg observed, pleased. The front of his undershirt was also dusted with hair.

“As well as I could hope.”

“How are you feeling, then?”

Morgott rubbed at his bruised eye. “Morning dawneth, and we are not dead. I am gladdened, and I dread.”

“It’s a start.”

Such a banal sentiment. And somehow it was a balm to his hideous spirit. He forced himself to look his knight in the face. He owed the man that much. A sunbeam escaped the confines of the curtains and transfigured Oleg into the handsome fox. Red of hair and with eyes that were precious blue-green vessels for Grace. Auburn locks now fell past his clavicle. It was easier to see the barest threads of gray in his hair.

Oleg was attractive. Morgott supposed he had to make peace with that truth, now.

He recalled the wedding ceremony he’d been obligated to endure whilst Oleg had risked his life for his cause:

The church made hazy with the abundance of crimson candles. The bride in a crimson gown that invoked the image of a dancer instead of a consort. The groom clad in heavy Carian robes dyed dark. The brilliance of dawn had not been able to penetrate the smoke. The Lord and his Lady had been shielded by a tall stone altar.

Necklaces of snake fangs had encircled their throats. Upon the teeth both had pierced a finger, and then a spot just beneath the throat. With blood dewing upon their tiny punctures, they had declared undying loyalty for one another. The Golden Order was not invoked once, and Morgott had been glad that the law of Queen Marika had not been recited just to be mocked. For a bowl of flame had been placed between the pair. A ball of iron had glowed red within.

Rykard had drawn a line of blood upon Tanith’s brow. Then he’d knelt for her to do the same. And as they’d kissed to seal their vows, they’d pressed their bleeding fingers to the ball. The smell of cauterization had made Morgott sick.

It was every bit as blasphemous as he’d assumed it would be. And it had been tender and true. The earnestness had made it worse. Just as Lord Rykard’s pity for Marika’s Curseborn son had been all the more terrible for its honesty.

Morgott’s indignant seething had bloomed into envy.

Bestial wants shall rule thee no more.

Perhaps it was base to be jealous of Rykard’s love. Of a foreign dancer and a Carian traitor. In the end, he hadn’t been strong enough.

“Forgive me,” he breathed. To Pastor Olivier’s memory and to the Knight straddling his knee.

Oleg massaged the muscle of Morgott’s calf, and it was marvelous. “None of that, Margit. I do not regret a thing.” His smile faltered. “And if you regret it, I’m not owed an apology.”

Morgott allowed himself two slow, careful exhales. Perhaps he had been seduced by Rykard’s degeneracy after all.

“I do not regret it, Oleg.”

“Hmm,” Oleg hummed. “May I ask, then… who the Lord of Blood is?”

“If ‘tis thy wish to spoil the morning, aye.”

“The other day,” Oleg blushed. “-he called you his heart.”

Morgott huffed. Annoyed and embarrassed. Mohg was so free with his words in the most humiliating way. Morgott was glad he had not heard the proclamation himself. In Mohg’s voice, it might have actually stung.

“Before he was the Lord of Blood, he was a member of Leyndell’s court,” Morgott lied. “There was no one within the Capital’s walls I trusted more. Not even for Lord Miquella did I hold such regard. When I was named Steward, he left court to pursue unsavory ambitions.”

“Sanguine ones, I reckon.”

Morgott snorted. “Blasphemous ones. Whatever he claimed me to be, heed him not. Thou discovered me in weakness. My… bond with him… is not yet severed.”

Oleg was heinously bashful. “But was he-”

Morgott understood.

“A paramour? By the Erdtree, no!”

They both flinched as someone pounded on the door. Morgott’s tail bristled, and Oleg took a fistful of the erect fur as though to anchor them both. A second knock followed the first agitatedly.

“Morgott, you have five seconds to get decent.”

Of course, the demon would come calling the moment Morgott was forced to acknowledge him.

The way Mohg’s voice leaned on decent- Morgott wanted to sink his teeth into his nape and shake. Forgetting for a moment that his teeth were too blunt and his twin’s hide too thick to make the discipline meaningful. He scrambled for his Veil.

Fortunately, Oleg had locked the door the night previous, and even Mohg knew better than to smash his way in.

“Thou’rt here, still,” Morgott observed icily after inviting Mohg in.

His brother’s Veiled form lifted a silver brow. It was then Morgott realized his folly. Mohg always brought out the fool in him.

“Gracious,” Mohg purred. “He really is dear to you.”

Oleg had thrown on clothes and was lighting the fireplace with unsteady hands, playing poorly the role of a mere servant. Of course, white fur was dense in his ruddy hair. And there was nothing he could do to conceal how much Morgott clung to his scent. Or how deeply he flushed as Mohg’s attention focused on him. Morgott stepped between them.

“I have no patience for thee, today,” Morgott snapped. “What business?”

Mohg’s Veiled visage was barely human. But his face was astoundingly expressive in its frame of cascading, silver-blonde waves. His broad smile collapsed into concern.

“Miquella wishes to speak with you privately.”

“Thou’rt here to fetch me?”

“No.” The fireplace tinder finally caught. Light kissed Mohg’s disguised face. “I am here to take you away.”

Morgott was unmoored. While he’d been weeping and hiding, Lord Rykard had doomed him after all.

“What dost thou know?” he rasped.

“Not much, in truth,” Mohg sighed. “But I have noticed, Morgott, how you avoid your dear brother. Your Lord.”

This was impossible to bear. The Veil had deprived Mohg of his osseous edges. Even his taunts were softened.

Mohg whispered, “Come with me. You need not face him.”

Morgott would not succumb to weakness twice in one day.

“I shan’t discard my duty. I do not fear Miquella.”

“Perhaps you should, when your authority and safety hinges entirely upon his word.”

“Wert thou not the man that urged me to accept leadership in Leyndell?”

“I urged you to take! Not simper at his heels for scraps!”

“Thou knowest naught, Mohg. Begone!”

Mohg snarled. “Imbecile!” He stormed away, his accusation he punctuated by slamming the door. Morgott stood in the acrid bite of his thunder.

Oleg piped, “My Lord-"

“I will hear not a word from thee, Knight. I am going.”

————————————————

The scent of tea saturated Miquella’s chambers, masking all other smells. By sight, his room was not much different than Morgott’s. The furnishings were the same nauseating shade of red. The fireplace was unlit and bereft of cinders. Instead, the curtains were opened, inviting in Gelmir’s gray dawn. A stool kept post beside the Demigod-sized bed. Various outfits and regalia were tossed over the backs of chairs and stuffed haphazardly into the traveler’s chest. Some of Malenia’s gold accessories sat in a plain bowl, gleaming in a cleansing solution.

“Good morning, Morgott,” Miquella greeted him cheerfully. His legs dangled in a chair slightly too tall for him.

Morgott bowed stiffly. Another figure shared the tea with Lord Miquella. She was not his twin, but she was diminutive like the ever-young Demigod. Her hair was gold going to ash, and she would not meet Morgott’s eye. He had seen the woman before, smoking a pipe in a cold drizzle. Erdtree, he had been blind.

“Imopea.”

Shock divested Morgott of his manners. He felt as trapped as he had been in the Shunning Grounds.

Miquella crossed his ankles over one another. “The Councilor took great pains to meet with me.”

“Aye,” Morgott rasped. “She was to remain in the Capital. ‘Twas the arrangement between myself and the Council.”

He was floundering. Spouting nonsense to pin some preemptive blame upon the woman. He knew it would not stick. Imopea still looked frightened and abashed.

“Calm thyself, Brother,” Miquella said. And perhaps Morgott’s pulse did loosen a few beats. Miquella motioned for Morgott to take an unoccupied chair. He did not sit; his legs were unbending. “Thou as well, Imopea. Fault lieth within myself for abstaining from this matter for far too long.”

“The matter of the Council?” Morgott asked. Miquella nodded, and the Steward’s aggravation redoubled.

“This past year hath been… eventful,” Miquella observed. Light and gentle, but Morgott prickled in perceived judgment. “Four of the Council hath returned to the roots.”

“Aye,” Morgott agreed frigidly. “Each death hath been recounted to thee. Each letter inked by the hand of my Council without mine input. What more remaineth to be revealed, Lady Imopea, by betraying my trust and abandoning thy duty?”

Miquella spoke for her, courageous in the face of Morgott’s condemnation. “She claimeth unjust treatment that the splinter prevented the Council from penning.”

“Unjust?” Imopea squeaked at last. She puffed up like an adder. But her next accusation was issued with a strained whisper. In Miquella’s presence, the charm was somewhat lifted. “He is killing us! One by one. Iren was beaten-”

“I have paid my penance and beg no innocence to that misdeed!” Morgott snapped.

But Imopea carried on, half-muzzled. Tea sloshing over shaking hands. “Thy knight goaded Tolbren into the duel. Thou defended and safeguarded the Justiciar’s murderer!”

“The duel was Tolbren’s own inspiration-”

“Perfumer Arteya was slain on the road the same span of days thou wert supposedly traveling to collect this Banished Knight of thine.”

Morgott was trembling himself, now. With rage unspent at his own foolishness. “An unfortunate coincidence. The road to the ruins is perilous.”

“Admit it! You foul thing!” Lady Imopea shrieked. Her cup tumbled to the floor and shattered. Her formal speech was forgotten. “You were never in Stormveil! Helian wrote to Godefroy!”

“Prithee-” Miquella’s voice could hardly cut through the brewing hysteria.

“And poor Helian! You slaughtered him in the Forbidden Lands! You silenced him because he knew! He warned me, in the ways he could.”

“How could I have killed the man if I were not there, Imopea?” Morgott snarled.

“You know very well what I mean, Margit.”

“That is enough!” Miquella’s hands were balled into fists in his lap. His cheeks were pink. The Lady’s charm was remitted; the Councilwoman choked on her words.

“Protect us, Lord Miquella. Protect us from the Steward’s Omen,” she begged in a whimper. Tears spilled, as if the splinter had robbed her of her fierceness as well.

Morgott ran his hands through his hair. He brushed no horns, and yet he felt monstrous. His mask was paper thin- no protection against the Demigod that had created it. His bones were ponderous. His visage hideous. Miquella saw through him. Every word Imopea spoke was the truth. She had outwitted him utterly. And he was furious.

“Be truthful with me, Morgott,” Miquella demanded. Quiet and earnest and almost pleading. “I must understand this.”

Morgott, blunt and guileless and despicable, spat a truth as honest as he could manage.

“I desire to rule without a Council. For decades I have been a dutiful servant and a humble pupil. But fifty years hence, mine every consideration is sneered at- my wisdom derided! I did not brandish a blade at any member of my Council, but I find little cause to mourn and appoint more obstacles in their stead! Tolbren perished in a duel against my knight, aye. ‘Twas his bid to humiliate me by striking my loyal man down. Must I pity the Justiciar for falling instead? Helian perished in an avoidable battle. Had he heeded my warnings, Leyndell would not have been infiltrated by seekers of Giantsflame!”

Miquella appeared stricken, his honeyed eyes wide. But a cherubic serenity touched his small frown regardless.

Imopea sobbed, “Faithless!”

Morgott growled. “Grace Given is my moniker because I was born bereft of it. But faithless I am not! Thou sequestered thyself here to damn me?” He whirled on Miquella. “Then damn me, Lord Brother! Whose word dost thou lend the most weight? Thy follower true, or thine accursed beast of a ward?”

“Thou art not damned, Morgott,” Miquella muttered, taken aback.

Morgott was not soothed. His blood was too hot. His curse too inflamed.

“Then am I to rule Leyndell or not?”

“We must assess if thou’rt ready-”

“Lord Miquella,” Morgott hissed. “Would an age ever come where a Council of Graceborn nobles would declare me fit for a throne?”

Tender Miquella balked. “Imopea, leave us.”

The woman’s hands shook around her cup. Tremorous, she murmured, “He is killing us, my Lord. Prithee…”

“Imopea…”

She fled at Miquella’s scolding address. An inhuman sound of agony eked through her teeth as she did. Tapering weeping lingered between the Demigod brothers long after she’d removed herself.

Miquella gazed out the window. The sun had risen a sliver and was sparking fire across the caldera. He said, “I was aware how difficult it would be for them to accept thee. ‘Twas the reason I charmed them. I had hoped, in time, that they would learn to care for thee. Thou wert a good student, Morgott, but not they. I regret my part in this.”

Morgott wrung his hands. Pale, false hands dusted with golden hair. He had anticipated flagellation, not commiseration. He did not feel as though he deserved it. His Council had indeed been cursed, after all. Unfairly doomed to either reject the Golden Order in loving an Omen or die.

“I confess,” he replied. “I loved them little, apart from Olivier.”

“Did they mistreat thee?”

Morgott rubbed his jaw. The Steward’s short chops were coarse against his fingers. Feverish Omen blood flushed his cheeks. If it could control his tongue, it would have betrayed him. It still tasted bitter to admit, “Helian spited me. He set the Perfumers upon the Shunning Grounds when I took command of the Guild. He enlisted Omen in his army and shaved their horns. In the northlands, he severed his own tongue and wounded me with a dagger. He locked a fetter around my throat. I did not kill him, Miquella. Would that I had.”

Miquella bit his lip. His eyelids pinkened in the gold of dawn. Morgott turned away in shame. There was plenty more he could divulge, but his Lord Brother was injured enough.

“I am sorry,” Miquella gasped.

“I will not rule Leyndell with a Council,” Morgott pressed. “Remove me from the Capital if thou seest fit. But I beg that thou dost not.”

He did not want to be parted from the Erdtree. He, unworthy as he was, was fulfilled in its light. He did not want to become like Mohg- a vagabond of a man with fragile purpose.

“Thou needn’t go anywhere else,” Miquella wiped his eye. “Elphael commandeth mine attention. I cannot return to Leyndell.”

“I… see.”

Miquella looked at him. Blotchy-faced for his frustration and guilt. It suddenly felt strange to speak of this. Miquella seemed so much like a child overwhelmed. Morgott suspected, not for the first time, that Leyndell had been abandoned by Marika’s beloved scion.

“‘Twas always my hope that thou wouldst succeed thy Council. ‘Twas the reason I did not make new appointments. I have been absent from the royal court for too many years to choose suitable successors. ‘Tis not my duty, in good conscience, but thine. Yet, to dissolve the Council entirely. Doth it not seem rash?” The young Lord said, “Bear with it a while longer, prithee. Let me think on this matter.”

“Very well.” Morgott muttered. Silence stretched on, punctuated by Miquella’s soft sniffles. “Forgive me, my Lord. I must burden thee again this morning.”

“Hmm?” Miquella gathered himself.

“‘I… realized the aims of the bandit clan that Leyndell fought in the northlands.” Morgott swallowed. “‘Twas their want to burn away the Erdtree’s thorns with the Fell Flame. On the orders of our generous host, Lord Rykard.”

Morgott presented the serpent badge and the scrap of map to bewildered Miquella.

“Forgive me,” Morgott wheezed again. “I discovered the plot at great cost. The Carian Prince hath uncovered my true nature. I say again, remove me if thou must from the Capital. I understand my secret is a threat to its dignity.”

“Rykard?”

“Search my heart, I do not lie.”

Miquella held the badge in his lap. He traced the etched surface curiously. “Fret not. Rykard shall trouble thee naught.”

“I-”

Miqueall smiled wearily.

“Trust me, Morgott. Prithee.”

Notes:

I started writing this fic way before SOTE came out. And I finished it not too long ago. I'm glad I did before I got to this scene! Before, I had pictured Miquella as an adult in a child's form. A suave politician that was well-meaning but aware of the effect he had on people.

Miquella to me now is definitely more of an overwhelmed kid with too much weighing on his shoulders. This is such a small scene with him, but it is so significant. He entrusted Leyndell to Morgott. He entrusted Morgott to his Council. And suddenly, at this party, he had to hold the fate of so many people in his hands. He's more willing to take Morgott at his word because he KNOWS the Council was prejudiced and his kind heart was so hopeful they would change with just a small magical nudge.

Like, this scene it 100% made up fanfic nonsense. but what if a moment like this was one small part of the catalyst that made miquella into the character we know in SOTE. Leyndell is on the precipice of unraveling, his brother might be a murderer- he might be in danger! And he has the sole power to set things right. He feels responsible.

Thank you for reading my Miquella rant!

Also, it's pretty poorly explained here, but Mohg is kinda around because he IS buds with Miquella vaguely. It's just a HC. It goes on throughout the Shattering era until, well, infamous stuff happens.

Chapter 29: Hand

Chapter Text

Without the backbone of Arteya, Helian, and Tolbren, the feebler half of the Council let Morgott do as he willed. He expanded the farmlands- harvested felled forests for timber- and endorsed the development of ore mines. He conducted his census which might one day be used to conscript soldiers for the army. He permitted Godrick to leave on another holiday to keep peace with the southern country. Even if Phelia, Imopea, and Iren weren’t yet dead, they possessed about as much fight between them as a corpse. To Oleg, it didn’t seem to matter that Miquella had safeguarded their lives. They had ceded the city’s soul to Morgott. It was defeat for them.

Lord Rykard’s Leyndell guests had returned to the Capital sooner than anticipated. Much to the delight of the citizenry. They had chased down their Steward’s carriage, tossing golden petals at the wheels, like they had when he’d first brought Oleg to the city. It was as if he were the groom freshly wed and not his stepbrother.

Oleg had not ridden with Morgott, however. That honor was given to Lady Imopea. The banished knight resented her for that and more. If only he’d known, then, that the lonely journey home would be an apt portent for the coming weeks.

Morgott rarely spoke to him. Oleg felt like a ghost in the palace rather than the Steward’s personal knight. He trailed Morgott from duty to duty. He guarded his chambers and occupied his hours reliving that feverish, coarse kiss. He didn’t burden Morgott with his heartsickness. The Lord had a city to rule whilst suffering his own soul-deep dread. It was selfish, Oleg told himself, to want more when all Morgott had promised was one singular night.

Then the letter came.

The figure of the Grace Given was disheveled. Hair ungroomed and damp at his forehead. The bags beneath his eyes- those reliable topographies- were darker. Swollen so that the lids of his good eye were tinged pinkish.

Gelmir and its wedded Lord were practically months behind them. A golden country away. Lord Morgott, a few measly paces from his throne, stared ahead as if doggedly ignoring a dagger at his back.

Oleg was familiar with that expression. Engvall had worn a similar grim mask for years as though it were fashionable. When one became a Banished Knight, looking forward was agony. But glancing back was tortuous. The knife one feared might actually be there, waiting to bury itself into their eye.

During their final night as Rykard’s guests, Morgott had confessed to Oleg Imopea’s betrayal. Miquella had not retaliated against them. But that did not mean he never would. That was how Morgott behaved, at least. He worked until he collapsed or was allowed the indulgence of Lily powder. Duty was his penance, and he willfully ground himself down to bluntness. Migraines plagued him as he read by meager candlelight. He limped from lack of exercise and an abundance of skipped meals.

Omen and Banished Knights weren’t supposed to grasp beyond their means. There was servitude, or there was death. Lord Morgott’s Stewardship had only ever been another form of servitude. Now he was waiting for someone- anyone- to punish him.

“My Lord?”

Morgott was backlit by the glow of the Erdtree. The vellum in his hands had been mistreated. Clenched in a fist and then smoothed out over and over.

“‘Tis written in Miquella’s hand,” he muttered. The birds beyond the gallery arch sang merrily as if in taunt. “I must meet with the Council. Await me in my chambers.”

Oleg watched the Grace Given depart, first. His pulse didn’t let up in the hour of silence he spent pacing his Lord’s unlit quarters. His swords clanking forlornly against his greaves. It leapt to a more rapacious tempo when Morgott burst in. A flurry of brown robes and golden hair.

For the first time in weeks, they were secluded. All of Oleg’s insides could spill out.

“Morgott?”

The Grace Given hardly needed prompting.

“The remainder of Leyndell’s Council hath been summoned to the Haligtree. Imopea, Iren, and Phelia will join their Lord in the north. Godrick is free to do as he pleases.”

“And Rykard?”

Morgott scoffed, “I am assured Rykard hath sworn to Miquella never to speak of my nature again. The memory itself may as well have been cleaved from his mind.” The last sentence he recited. It had probably come from the letter verbatim.

Morgott collapsed in a chair. His eye was occluded by his thick fingers rubbing at his brow. Thin lips scowled beneath golden-haired knuckles. His hair was mussed; the humidity had taken its toll, but Oleg suspected it hadn’t been brushed in a while.

“That is… good news?” Morgott’s wilted posture made Oleg’s declaration eke out as a question.

“Aye,” he murmured. And he sounded so defeated Oleg dreaded his subsequent question.

“What about you, my Lord?”

“…Miquella hath faith that I can rule the Capital as its King.”

“That is perfect.” So why did Morgott seem so miserable? Oleg smiled to supplement his lack of joy. “You’ve done it. The throne is yours.”

Morgott continued to frown. “Once the three Councilors reach Ordina safely, Miquella will return to coronate me personally. He will legitimize my reign… But the Councilors must survive the journey.”

Oleg inched nearer. He had not touched Morgott nor Margit since leaving the Volcano Manor, but now he dared lay a hand against his shoulder. His Lord flinched.

“That seems simple enough. This is everything you’ve wanted.”

In a fraction of the time and half the bloodshed you thought would be required.

But he couldn’t say that part aloud. So instead, he squeezed the firmness of muscle beneath maybe-illusory clothes and asked, “What is the matter?”

Morgott lowered his hand- gazed up at Oleg with a bruised, sleepless eye. “I do not know,” he whispered earnestly.

His listless discomfort was catching. Oleg found in the glossy mirror of Morgott’s gold iris the realization that his service would soon be unnecessary. Miquella had rescued the remainder of the Council from his blade.

“Ah, still agonizing over my pending execution, are you?”

Morgott swatted his hand away, exasperated. He matched the jest, “I have the ‘til summer to ponder thy fate. And did I not swear thou wouldst face no persecution from me?”

Still, he did not smirk in his dry, wry manner. He was plagued by his phantom worry.

“Come.” Oleg captured his hand, pried it from the chair’s arm. He could not have lifted Morgott from his seat even if he applied all of his strength. But Morgott was already half-rising as though obligated to humor him. He was bold to handle his Lord like this. Bold to address him like this. But his familiarity was derived not from disrespect, but love. That Morgott responded so cooperatively meant he understood. “I want to celebrate your victory.”

“I am not in a celebratory mood.”

“Then just be with me,” Oleg insisted softly. “Be with me and take your mind off of your ails for an hour.”

He half-expected Morgott to dismiss the suggestion. But he engulfed Oleg’s hand in his and gave a shallow nod.

“Aye,” he rasped. “I must quell my blood.”

He relinquished Oleg’s hand to pace the room. He checked the black curtains and mumbled cloudy wards upon the windows anyway.

“I have neglected thy company, but I have not been idle. Behold.”

Golden light suffused the room. Burned it from the inside as though Grace itself had been conceived in the dim chamber. It swirled in errant motes for a few seconds before Morgott marshaled it into order. The sparks compiled into a grand shape. An elegant design. Suddenly, Oleg shared the Lord’s quarters both with the future King and Margit the Omen.

He had never seen Lord and shade stand side by side before. Morgott began to circle it, and Margit mimicked his movements. Both of their eyes flicked to Oleg, absorbing his reaction. Morgott’s lips twitched into a small, coy smile. Margit didn’t shed magic as Morgott’s other shades had.

“By the Erdtree,” Oleg whistled. “You’ve improved.”

“Improved,” Morgott sniffed. “‘Tis perfected.”

He removed his Veil with a flourish. The form of the Lord melted away into the gray visage of Margit. He was clearly proud, and Oleg could subsist on its radiance forever. The shade wore no cloak, but it and Margit were otherwise entirely identical. From the texture of their fur to the shine of their horns.

“Perfected?” Oleg echoed. He stepped forth and Margit parted from his specter.

The shade scowled at him passively. Tracked his movements like a distrusting cat. It held no weapon, but Oleg was not foolish enough to assume it to be helpless.

“Can it conjure as you can?”

Margit’s hand made the subtlest of gestures and the shade indeed materialized a golden blade in its own grip. Oleg was giddy.

His hand went to the pommel of his right sword. “May I?”

Margit smirked, accepting the challenge.

The shade’s imperious glare reminded Oleg of the night he’d met Margit. Thunder reverberated in its chest the moment Oleg drew his sword.

He swung, and the shade of Margit blocked the attack. Golden cinders spilled harmlessly across the fine furniture when their blades crossed. Embrous eye narrowed, it thwarted every thrust and blow. Riposting with dagger and sword. It was hardly a duel. But after numerous unsuccessful attempts, Oleg’s arms were aching. Margit was enormous, after all, and his might was great. Sparring with even this facsimile of him was like trying to cleave stone.

As Oleg sheathed his sword, he shook out his arm.

“Satisfied?” The true Margit asked.

“Not quite.”

He raised a brow. “‘Tis unusual for thee to doubt me so.”

Oleg beamed as he reached for the shade. He was certain he saw the fur at its shoulders rise a fraction. “May I?”

This time, the double nodded.

Oleg grabbed for the false Margit’s hand. He was awed. The palm was calloused. The knuckles furred. Warmth pooled in the cup of its hand, and Oleg slid his fingers into it.

It was remarkably lifelike. The disdain in the shade’s sneer lessened and the eye softened. The swell of its breaths became gentler. Meanwhile, Oleg’s heart raced. His questing hand could not discern the difference between the Margit he’d kissed and his construct.

The pliant shade allowed Oleg to take its wrist. He pressed his thumb into the skin and felt for a pulse. There was something there, he swore. Or perhaps it was a convincing echo of his own.

His greedy fingers trawled ever upward. Traipsed along furred forearms and mapped firm muscles. Oleg had only ever explored Margit briefly. Each time, he had been spurred by a sense of peril. Now, in the lamplight of Lord Morgott’s quarters, he was enraptured. The shade was solid, flawlessly so. And it was also beautiful.

When his hands could reach no higher, he splayed his palms at the shade’s chest. His fingers sank into a lustrous spring coat. Heat radiated from its torso. He leaned against the false Margit’s stomach. Was buoyed by slow, rumbling breaths and the plushness of fur against his nose and cheek.

The shade had a faint scent. A muted cologne of soap and earthy musk and the sharp tang of holy magic. And-

There. Indeed, a shudder of a heartbeat thumped in Oleg’s ear.

His hands had fallen to the shade’s waist. His fingers devoured the shape of its hips.

“Oleg-" Margit gasped just as the shade snarled: “Enough!”

Gray hands shackled Oleg’s wrists and pried him away from the shade. It was the construct itself that had snatched him.

“I-" Oleg startled.

The shade shoved him away. Using a fraction of its strength so that Oleg only stumbled back a step or two. The false Margit then adopted a tense, neutral posture. Unsure of itself like a hound receiving conflicting orders.

Margit- the real Margit- sagged against the wall. His tail tucked between his legs and bristled into a twitching brush. His expression was one of agony and a deep red-violet blush darkened his face and throat. When Oleg’s gaze snagged his, he looked away. Stared at the floor like a prey animal accepting the final caress of a hunter’s jaws.

“Oh, by all the wretched Gods. You could feel that.”

Margit cleared his throat, “I must inhabit the construct to ensure its rigidity. In consequence… Aye…”

“Forgive me,” he begged to Margit’s averted eye. “I was not thinking. I didn’t…”

“Quiet,” he hissed. “I had ample opportunity to stop thee.”

Oleg supposed that was true, but he felt no less responsible for the shame staining Margit’s handsome face. The tail eventually slackened, but he still hunched into the confines of his cloak. Shielded himself with the modesty his double wasn’t afforded.

“I overstepped,” Oleg insisted. “I took more than what I ought.”

Margit’s composure trickled back, skittish and frayed. Face yet bright with blush, his eye flitted between the shade and Oleg. “Thou’rt terrible indeed, Knight. A stolen embrace is the least of thy depravity. Who art thou, to look upon my marred avatar so tenderly? Who art thou to seek his heart?”

“I’m no one special, Beastie. You know that.”

Margit sighed.

“Come.”

Oleg did not hesitate. He was dusted with the motes of the shade’s dissolving apparition. Margit’s coarse hand cupped his chin. His fingers clutched at his jaw. His grasp was firm- a steel fetter could not have bound Oleg better. But it was almost timorous in its restraint. If he squeezed just so, Oleg might collapse- like a burned-out tree’s husk.

“Thou hast done me good service, Knight. I promised not to discard thy life,” He licked his lips. Oleg was certain his pulse was jabbing staccato notes into Margit’s fingertips. “‘Twas selfishness that guided the impulse. ‘Tis selfishness that stayeth my hand. Understandest thou, Oleg. Indecency is the source of my mercy. Not justice nor goodness.”

“That is so many words, Margit, to say that you are fond of me.”

Margit was pricked for a moment. But Oleg had extracted a thorn rather than push one in.

“The boy that banished thee was a fool. His wastefulness is my boon.”

Oleg was made lightheaded. His breath caught, for it was held captive by the possessive growl in Margit’s voice. It was ruinous- heady- to he told in so many words that he was wanted. He had wilted into Margit’s embrace, felled by yearning.

Margit whispered in warm, inaudible exhales.

“What?” Oleg asked.

Margit shushed him. Their lips brushed as he mouthed his prayer. Their noses grazed one another. Twisted horns ghosted over Oleg’s crown and cheek. And it wasn’t until the knight tasted the bitter sparks of magic- experienced the piercing twinge on his tongue- that he understood that Margit recited not a litany of worship, but an incantation.

“Margit-"

“Prithee, my true name.” The rumble of the Omen’s voice was enveloping.

“Fine… Morgott.”

And their lips touched again, tormented by those two syllables. Margit's brow butted against Oleg’s, and it was sharp and uneven like a river’s stony bottom. “This form hath not known its name in so long,” he sighed. “I could forget….”

His tail curled around Oleg’s legs. A coiled horn nicked the backs of his knees. The splinter was gone, or at least, its spell was rendered inert. Oleg had believed the charm to be an innocuous sentinel. But his head swam, and his vision became spotty as the mental restraints were at last removed.

Oleg swooned, and Margit- Morgott supported him.

“Morgott,” he said again. Murmured into his chest.

“I demanded thy life, and thou gave it to me unquestioning. Now I give thee mine,” Morgott said. “I entrust it to thee, my secret. My shame. If thou’rt to remain at my side… I would have thee uncompelled.”

Oleg blinked away his dizziness. He processed what Morgott was saying. A difficult task when his heartbeat was a war drum against his own. Mightier than the shade’s- an undertow to be drowned in.

“You want me to stay?”

“Thou wieldest two blades better than most manage one. Be not my swords, but my hands. The left Hand for the Fell Omen. The right Hand for King Morgott. I would claim them both for myself.”

A startled laugh bubbled in Oleg’s throat. Even as his eyes misted. He had long ago learned not to hope for a future. He was running from the past headlong to a fatal chasm. Even if he survived Lord Morgott’s calling, he had anticipated leaving the Capital shunned. His usefulness depleted, he would be forgotten by its magnificent Lord and his beautiful beast.

His stammering voice protested: “I cannot. I’m nothing. I’m… just a Banished Knight.”

“And I an accursed Omen. Wouldst thou deny my rule?”

“No.”

“Then by what right can I deny thee? Thou’rt a rare kind. Mine enemies will be many and great-"

“I will face them with you, Morgott.”

His vow, uttered. His oath, recited. His Lord’s name he savored. What did he care for the Order’s condemnation? Oleg realized at once the peril of sin, but it was too late for him. It was discovery, scraping and stinging and incredible. If everyone knew how wonderful it felt, why would they ever stop?

Chapter 30: *Worship*

Notes:

WHEW 30 chapters deep and we finally get to the smut chapter!

If smut isn't your thing, go ahead and skip this chapter! There's nothing plot relevant in here.
Warnings for Transformation kink, light bondage, inhuman genitalia, and a vague reference to Morgott's past that implies sexual assault.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Morgott carded his fingers through his hair- through the wavy pelt on his chest. The oils on his fingertips smelled of citrus and sage. Of incense with the faintest floral hint. And when that was done, he brushed every burr and mat from his tail. Until the gray fur shone with luster. Until his fingers shook with anticipation.

Presentation was everything. He’d been preening for hours. Coaxing his bestial pelt to a semblance of order. He frowned at his reflection. The fur was too shaggy. It was still early spring in Leyndell. The snows had only just disappeared. Despite all the hair he’d burned in Volcano Manor, there was plenty more to shed.

Most of the Steward’s wardrobe was as illusory as his form. But Morgott possessed exquisite robes and fine capes tailored to the man’s shape regardless. He cast off his cloak and pawed through his Lordly visage’s effects. He found an eye-catching garment of blue. It was so odiously ostentatious he would never impose it upon his court. It might have been a gift from Rykard decades old. It was egregious. Preposterous.

He put it on.

It strained. His Omen body was not much larger than the Steward’s. But it was misshapen. His shoulders were too large. His chest too broad. Seams popped as he fumbled with the buttons.

In the end, he wasn’t sure why he’d bothered. The stretched fabric gaped between the buttons. White fur sprouted from the holes and overwhelmed the low collar. It was uncomfortably tight around his hips- the bulk of his tail greedily consumed all the spare room. The cuffs came up centimeters short. The blue color was a favorite of his. It brought out the gold in his eye. And the gray of his skin.

He looked ridiculous.

He turned away from the mirror before worse thoughts could surface. He splayed a hand over his chest and felt his heart pound.

He’d thought he’d had his fill of sex. Intimacy. It was a pastime for lovers. For spouses and even Graceborn strangers. Omen passed the curse to each of their offspring, so they were forbidden from tainting Graceborn bloodlines. Morgott had gladly sworn to be celibate for Pastor Olivier when he’d accepted the mantle of Steward. It had been an easy oath to make and to keep.

In the desecration of the Shunning Grounds, he had taken many partners. Never to sire young but for pleasure. For companionship. To sate his animal rut. Over the centuries, he had laid with dozens of Omen. And each time, his body had relaxed. He had unfurled as the tingling of orgasm abated. His muscles had sighed with his lungs, and something in his soul had ached. His heartbeat would echo in the hollow abyss that manifested between his ribs.

The feeling would persist as Morgott sequestered himself. As he’d groomed slick and seed and blood from his fur. As he’d washed the scent of his unnamed partner from his skin. As an unknown yearning crawled throughout his insides like frost. He’d taste salt on his lips when the emptiness seemed too much like pain.

Morgott didn’t like sex.

But he didn’t desire it any less.

Bestial wants shall compel me no more.

Olivier had died and taken the potency of the prayer to his grave.

Morgott glimpsed into the mirror again. To the creature nearly bursting out of a Lord’s pilfered clothes. Oleg would hold his face and name him ‘beautiful’. He would be horrifically earnest. Beneath the fool knight's stare, Morgott would know he was wanted.

But this body had experienced too much. It had been mated a hundred times. Practically, apathetically, and cruelly. Sometimes even lovingly. It had been scratched, bitten, bruised. He had traded it in the Shunning Grounds for food. It had been offered in appeasement.

Oleg didn’t deserve this body. This ragged thing no one would be grateful to have unless there were no other option.

Fortunately, there was another option.

———————————————-

Oleg knew something was amiss when he received Morgott’s message. Morgott was a slow writer, thus his penmanship was immaculate. But the words on the summons had been scarred with haste. The letters stooped and were crushed together. He strode to the King’s chambers, unadorned but not unarmed. He heeded the urgency of the note, taking only the time required to strap a blade to his hip.

He knocked on the bedroom door brusquely. “Lord Morgott?”

“...Enter.”

Oleg slipped inside. “All well?” His hand went to the pommel of his sword.

But then he saw his Lord sitting upon his armchair in the Steward’s shape. Barefooted and hair mindfully groomed. Draped not in the rainments of a Lord, but in rich layers of silk. He was thoroughly encased. Buttoned to the throat. Sheafs of fabric concealed him from wrist to chin to ankle. Billowing bounds of shining material. All of it worn to be removed. All of it a curtain obscuring his holy light.

The Steward reddened. “There is naught amiss. Didst thou not receive mine invitation?”

“Of course I did.” Oleg released his sword to rub at his throat. The Lord’s delicate clothes somehow both occluded him entirely whilst accentuating the shape of his chest. And all the sculpted muscles therein. “I only found it… odd.”

“Odd?”

Oleg supposed they were in competition to see how crimson their faces could become.

“Since when have I ever needed an invitation to keep you company, Morgott? I’m here, with you, each day. By the Erdtree,” Oleg smiled at the absurdness of it all. “I believed you were in danger.”

Morgott’s mouth twitched in a failed attempt at a scowl. “...Aye,” he confessed. “I was not dishonest in my summons. I… do seek thy company in another capacity.”

Oleg blinked. His jaw slackened. The stunning, impractical garment Morgott wore had been his initial clue. The Lord’s intense blush and the vagaries of his words left little to the imagination. Yet he dared not speak aloud his suspicions. Even as the first sparks made to kindle his lusts. He was in danger of catching fire too quickly.

Morgott lifted his chin, damning his obtuse knight once and for all: “Name thy desires, and they shall become mine. Do what thou wilt with this form. I offer it to thee, loyal Knight. Thou hast my heart already, thou shalt have the rest.”

So he was-

Surely not-

But Oleg was not deaf. Nor was he a complete fool when it came to such exploits. Lord Morgott had the bearing of a young man in yearning. Oleg had encountered many of them in his travels. Men both courageous and timorous that doused themselves with perfumes and the most sumptuous clothes in their possession in an effort to bed a Banished Knight. As if Oleg had ever needed to be so thoroughly sold on the idea of a night not spent utterly alone. But he was woefully silent- awestruck- for too long.

“Unless,” Morgott whispered breathlessly. Mortified. “I have overestimated the breadth of thine affections and the tolerance of them. Should that be so-”

Oleg blurted: “It isn’t so!”

He lurched forward. Suddenly less graceful in clothes than he was in silver armor. He unbuckled his belt and was relieved of the weight of worry and weapons. All the while Morgott’s eye followed his hands, as if they were serpents poised to bite.

“It isn’t so,” he repeated, standing an arm’s length from Morgott. The man was so rigid, his eye so avoidant. “But if your offer is earnest, then be honest with me. Do you want this?”

That ignited some of his ferocity. He held Oleg’s gaze at last. “Fool,” he spat, though his voice sounded brittle. “Is it my humiliation thou seekest? Do not doubt my sincerity! Shall I be more plain, obstinate creature? I am not blind to thy lusts stoically suffered. Thou hast made thyself tinder to mine own. So let us not leave one another dissatisfied!”

His indignant lashing only drew Oleg closer. The Lord’s legs fell open so that his knight could slot himself between them. Morgott’s hands were still fisted in the silks at his clavicle. His brow shimmered with the slightest dew of perspiration. His scowl made severe the lines about his mouth and eyes. Oleg took his Lord’s chin in his hands, thumb pads tauntingly near his lips.

“You do not even know how maddeningly handsome you are when you speak to me that way,” he murmured before capturing Morgott’s lips with his own. “Do you remember when you held my face and threatened to tear my tongue out?”

Morgott’s brow rose. “Perverse,” he grumbled petulantly.

If Morgott had one weakness, it was a kiss granted fervently. He was panting already against Oleg’s lips, and he did not resist as Oleg pried his hands away from his clothes. As he brought them to his own hips and bid him take hold. Morgott’s fingers dug into his waist- his buttocks.

Oleg chuckled, “Maddeningly handsome and terribly overdressed.”

“Thou dost not approve?” Morgott stammered inelegantly.

“I want to marvel at you, my Lord, not your wardrobe.”

He tore away panels of silk. Opened the gossamer robe with one vicious tug. His carelessness popped a button or two, and Morgott loosed an unbidden, winded gasp- more surprised than offended. The Lord’s body was bared to Oleg- a startling expanse of golden-blonde body hair, a champion’s physique, and the tantalizingly natural sag of age at his stomach. He laid his palm over the teasing trail of hair there. Morgott’s hands clutched him tighter.

“Thou’rt… truly rapacious.”

“You offered it all,” Oleg reminded him. “Do not blame me for admiring it all.”

He raked his hands down Morgott’s chest. Reverently palmed the contour of muscle. Beneath the Steward’s dense hair, dark nipples perked. They hardened further with every swipe of Oleg’s thumb. Ripening to a succulent plushness until he could no longer resist. Morgott snorted at his first exploratory flick- his typical stoic exasperation. But a second, deliberate tweak betrayed his unraveling. A shuddering sigh heaved from his chest, sweetened with the tenderest of groans.

The pebbled nipple was as big around as Oleg’s thumb at its most swollen. Warm and practically buzzing with Morgott’s pulse. With that fat key, Oleg could tune Morgott’s breath- his heartbeat- like an instrument. His deft and enthusiastic fingers plucked from Morgott’s lungs the tentative notes of euphoria.

The nipple was darkening, yet. The skin around it deepening to a violet-bruise shade as Oleg pinched it with force. Morgott wheezed beneath him- tossed his head back, clenching his jaw. And Oleg fretted for a second that he had hurt his Lord.

But no. It wasn’t merely Morgott’s nipple that had gone a shade of gray-violet. His chest was mottling. The coarse golden hairs were threading with silver. Entranced, Oleg kneaded his knuckles against Morgott’s sensitive pectorals. He felt beneath the texture of the man a velvet softness.

It wasn’t like peeking through a curtain- parting heavy folds of velvet just as Morgott parted his legs. The illusion was more sophisticated than that. It was layered. And Oleg was buffing those layers away. Like the Sentry’s torch had revealed in Rykard’s study, but without the indignity and despair.

Oleg treated Morgott’s nipple to the adoration of his mouth. The Lord could so easily dismiss his knight’s words. If he thought his voice was cruel, he was not prepared for the worship of his tongue and teeth. The searing graze of incisors. Beneath the pads of Oleg’s fingertips fur sprouted.

He shoved his knee against Morgott’s inner thigh. He had to strive to reach the base of Morgott’s throat, but he peppered desperate kisses across it. Morgott was leaning so far back, he had to brace himself. His hand gripped the chair’s arm. Hair dusted his graying knuckles.

“Gods,” Oleg hissed. His cock was already straining.

He wasn’t alone in his predicament. Morgott’s stiff heat brushed his hip and thigh. A veritable tent pole pulled taut the robe’s fabric. Propping himself upon Morgott’s broad shoulders, Oleg pressed his hips flush to Morgott’s. Delighting in the dire throb of Morgott’s shaft against his stomach. Omen blood was hot, and that was no less true when it pooled in the Lord’s erection. He ground down upon Morgott with a roll of his hips. He was anointed by fire.

Morgott’s moan was low and rich. It bubbled from a wellspring most nourishing and precious. Oleg, rapacious indeed, ground again on Morgott’s cock. His own, pinned between his stomach and Morgott’s enveloping warmth, grew firmer.

“Ah-” Oleg felt as though he could feel his Lord’s cock growing. Not just harder but longer. And he wondered vaguely what sort of transformation was happening between those bestial thighs.

Another errant whine eked through Morgott’s gritted teeth, past a burgeoning fang and a black-gummed snarl. More of his blonde hair had gone white. The pelt on his stomach was even denser. Morgott was too preoccupied with rutting Oleg against his clothed erection to know just how rapidly he was losing himself. He was squirming with every roll of their hips.

Oleg marveled at the stain on Morgott’s clothes. The pungent and enticing odor of arousal. The silvers and blues of the silk were marred with a dampness that went beyond what was typical when one’s cock was so welcomely provoked. From his hips to his inner thighs, Morgott was wet.

“Did you…?”

“No,” Morgott rasped, eyes closed.

So, Oleg scrambled to pull down his Lord’s trousers- an ill-fated feat when the man was seated. He had to settle for simply prying Morgott’s cock free. It didn’t require much coaxing. Oleg’s fingers tugged once at the shaft before it sprung against that silver-haired stomach. Oleg could almost laugh; it was as beautiful and fair a prick befitting a holy scion. Girthy and tantalizingly red. The head shone wetly from its precipitous emission. Even more was already beading at the tip.

Oleg wriggled out of his own confines. Let his trousers pool unceremoniously around his ankles. Morgott had placed his hand demurely over his eyes, had blindfolded himself with rictus fingers. It was just as well. Hopefully the Demigod wouldn’t notice just how underwhelming the mortal man’s prick was by comparison.

Morgott was so big Oleg’s fingers barely met as he grasped the rigid shaft. He required both hands to lash his cock against Morgott’s with a fetter of fingers. It would be easier with Morgott doing all the work. But Oleg liked his Lord’s hands where they were: one gripped Oleg’s hip tight enough to bruise and the other draped over his own flushed face.

Oleg squeezed their cocks together, made his hands into a makeshift cunt they could share. His thumbs he pushed against tender flesh. He swore he could feel the roar of Morgott’s blood… And something else. Morgott’s cock was strange to the touch. Almost rough beneath his palms and tingling with more than the pulse of Omen blood.

“Oleg…” Morgott hissed.

“Do not be shy,” Oleg reprimanded. “It is not like you. You are a king that has wrested your crown from doubters and traitors. You are the tested son of unmatched warriors.”

His hands moved with the cadence of his words. He could not be certain what was more bewitching: the need to praise his Lord and lover or the moans such words coaxed from him. Morgott’s cock wept generously. Morgott’s hips flinched up into Oleg’s grip.

“W-who would dare n-name you unworthy?” Oleg’s suave facade was breaking. Despite the slick vice of his fingers, Morgott’s cock massaged his with such devastating friction. He grunted, “You are a master swordsman. A s-scholar of the Erdtree. Mercy!

The hand over Morgott’s face fell away. His brow sagged with the emergence of horned buttons. White whiskers grew on his cheeks- his jaw- and were dampened with perspiration. His golden eye opened, glowing in sable sclera. Realization suddenly stark on his coarse features.

“You are beautiful!” Oleg chanted. “You are beautiful, Morgott.”

“O-Oleg! The Veil!”

It was ruinous to hear him stutter. To behold the fragile limits of his imposing voice. Exsanguinated of grace and innate anger, it was delicious. And it spelled the doom of Morgott’s composure.

Morgott’s hips snapped sharply. The sound he loosed was of pure shock. Oleg let go of Morgott’s cock, and it bounced against his stomach. Silver-haired balls were lost to a silver thatch of fur. There was a violent tear of fabric, an abrupt, pained grunt. Morgott turned to lift his hips off of the seat, allowing Oleg an unwitting view of his transformation. The tail surged forth- seeming to burst from the Steward’s buttocks and appear from thin air simultaneously. As the magic concealing its immense form shattered, it thrashed in the prison of Morgott’s clothes and destroyed them. Fur exploded up his now-exposed back. A white trail blazed up to broadening shoulders that, too, ruined the seams of his finery. The tail lashed, lengthened and thickened and bloomed with its spiraled horns. And Morgott’s white hair erupted with unruly, osseous growths. The ravaged incantation ceased seizing its Omen ward, and Morgott slumped, horns and all, into his chair.

He sat there panting. His eye was so wide the obsidian ring of his sclera encircled the whole of his iris. The Veil was properly askew upon his pebbled brow. There was nothing of the Steward left. Not even his clothes had survived. Oleg’s erection was urgently hard.

Morgott inhaled slowly, and his clothes groaned their complaints. His pink blush darkened to a stormy violet. His eye fell- plummeted- to his cock.

Oh, Gods,!”

The anticipatory shock on Morgott’s face- that which had been so uncharacteristically charming- crumpled into all-too-familiar shame.

Because his cock-

His cock!

-was unlike anything Oleg had ever seen.

He understood, now, why the Veil had struggled to hold its form. Between Morgott’s thighs dripped a furious, chimeric organ.

It was ruddy-violet in color, a more brilliant hue than Morgott’s face. The head tapered more than a man’s cock. And its base was wider. Stranger yet, the underside was pebbled with barbs. Shaped almost like rose thorns, but not nearly so sharp. At the base, a few even picked at Morgott’s swollen flesh. At the pinkish lips of a slit from which the cock emerged. Here was the clever secret to Margit’s modesty- a sheath. Fur had concealed the seam. However, it parted for his engorged erection. Lubricant made it glisten. Made wet the pelt on his inner thighs.

Morgott placed his hands before it.

“I-I shouldn’t have shouted like that,” Oleg stammered.

“I should not have deceived thee,” Morgott protested in an agonized whisper.

“What is the deception? You invited me to take my pleasure as I saw fit-"

“-With the Steward!”

Oleg swallowed, “If it is your want to end things here then I won’t complain. But…” Perhaps it wasn’t fair of him to do so, but he angled his hips. Displayed his erection for Morgott’s hooded stare. The head rubbed against his stomach and milky dew trailed down his shaft. Glancing at Morgott’s cock- upon the puffy lips of its sheath- made his own throb. He concluded breathily, “I would like nothing more than to continue. I want the Fell Omen in pleasure.”

Morgott clenched, and the sopping sheath drooled more pearlescent slick. The barbs flared, grasping at nothing. So exposed, he could not bravely conceal the tells of his lusts.

“I… Very well,” he grit out.

“To the bed, then,” Oleg ordered. “And remove those silks.”

Morgott obeyed, and Oleg was forced to avert his eye. The sight of his Lord dripping even more slick onto the rug as he disrobed was too much to bear. Oleg gathered the discarded fabric and joined Morgott where he sat on the mattress- legs spread to accommodate his cock.

“May I have your hand?” Oleg asked.

Morgott gave it, but he glared as Oleg wound the silk about his wrist.

“So this is thy desire?” He asked. Tremorous, indignant. “To bind me?”

Oleg paused; his knuckles skimmed Morgott’s wrist. In his pulse there was an echo- that of the imprisoned. That of the man ensured he was an animal that needed collared.

Oleg met Morgott’s eye. He pinned it there with a smoldering lance.

“I am going to worship you. I will not abide your protests. Nor your accusations of falseness. I am binding your hands so that you will not throw mine aside to escape my adoration.”

Of course, the posts of the bed and knotted silk made for poor bonds. The Omen Lord could free himself, Oleg was certain, whenever he wished. But it was a game worth indulging in. Whenever control was wrested from Morgott, it was to humiliate him. To hurt him. To assure him of his lesser status despite his heritage. Morgott was placing himself in Oleg’s hands, and Oleg aimed to show him he could be trusted with the whole of him.

The lethal end of Morgott’s tail thumped against the bed. The frame creaked, but its pleas were ignored. Both of Morgott’s wrists were tied to the posts. His hands clamped and unclamped into idle fists. He scoffed as Oleg planted a kiss at the edge of his frown.

Oleg settled between the peaks of gray knees. Morgott, proud creature, sneered in defiance. Oleg stroked the inside of a thigh. Morgott’s lips parted- the scowl so quickly fled. The tail stilled. The Lord was frozen in the thrilling agony of anticipation.

Oleg pet the sodden fur of his groin. Swept tacky strands away from the inflamed seam. The puffy, pink edges stretched around Morgott’s shaft. Oleg ran his thumb just along the inside of those lips, and Morgott practically barked. His heel skidded across the sheets, and Oleg, finger pressed against slick heat, admired the tense muscles of his legs. None of the men he’d ever been with had Morgott’s musculature. The weight of his horns and tail- the burden of his curse- had affected how his body built itself upon his great bones. Nonetheless there was ruinous and handsome strength in those limbs.

Slick trailed down Oleg’s wrist as he stroked his Lord’s sex. He charted his beloved. Mapped which places drew gasps. Which made him shiver as though ice had touched his blazing skin. Morgott’s restraints groaned as he trembled. But soon Oleg couldn’t hear the pop of overburdened threads. Morgott moaned as Oleg’s fingers plunged into his sheath. The knight’s finger pads prodded something hot and bulbous.

Morgott’s knees reflexively drew in, and Oleg was trapped in their vice. His own stiff prick grazed fur and remembered its critical lusts. Or perhaps it was merely love that made his stomach drop out. He contemplated at last the shard of divinity splayed before him- that taut icon of bestial features overwhelming the visage of a perfect warrior prince. Oleg was an honorless knight with honorless vows and this magnificent being had torn away the tapestry of myth and trusted him utterly with the truth.

Morgott exhaled, broken and subdued. The black sclera of his eye glistened. His hazy golden iris was a blessing.

Hand coated in Morgott’s arousal, Oleg took his own cock in his hand and stroked himself. Morgott instead was treated to Oleg’s mouth.

The Lord threw his head back, and his horns scraped against the headboard. Finely carved wood was marred with fresh scars. His throat was bared. Gray-violet and warm. Oleg wished that he had been born with animal teeth. So he could pierce that gorgeous neck with a mark all his own.

The bottlebrush tail flicked against Oleg’s back, pushing him forward. Drool and more stained his cheeks and chin as he suckled the underside of his Lord’s Omen cock. He followed his veins, bloody boughs of an indecent tree. He skirted pebbly barbs and kissed the weeping head.

The silk bonds outlasted the restraint of Morgott’s stoicism. He whimpered. Then grunted to conceal his traitorous noise. But it was too late. He had betrayed himself. The golden seal was broken, and Oleg readily drew from him more sounds. The only coherent word amongst them was his name pleadingly issued.

Oleg took the whole of Morgott’s head into his mouth. Hollowed his cheeks to suckle the tapered end. Heat flooded the back of his throat.

Morgott cried out, bucked his hips. His cock freed itself from Oleg’s lips. Abrasive barbs bashed against Oleg’s mouth. His lip gushed blood from the sting. That was swiftly forgotten, however, when the wood of the bed posts cracked. A thunderclap of an exclamation.

Morgott’s cock somehow swelled even larger. A moan- so terrible Oleg went weak- ripped itself from Morgott’s throat. Raw and raucous and agonized. His sheath quivered around an emerging, crimson mass.

The knot popped free- Morgott’s cock bounced against his stomach- and the future King of Leyndell was undone.

Oleg’s ribs were bruised against seizing knees. Morgott sprayed thick cum on the posts, headboard, and wall. Surely the Golden Order would despair to see its Omen scion so virile. Trapped before this forbidden altar, Oleg was tremendously blessed.

Morgott flashed his teeth. Spittle made his dark gums shine. His every halting breath and tiny growl heralded a visible quake. An upheaval of his beautiful body. His legs parted, and Oleg was unshackled. But he remained pinned by Morgott’s heavy-lidded stare.

“Mercy.” Oleg’s cock twitched against his palm. “I thought the bed would break.”

But his Lord did not respond. The shame that had so burdened him before was gone. The real curse upon the Lord was dispelled.

“W-well,” Oleg’s voice was about as fragile as the bed’s posts. He was so hard he ached. His shaft was a blushing rod in his grip. “All well, my King?”

His King rumbled, “I am unsated.”

Oh.

Morgott lifted one leg so that his calf rested upon Oleg’s shoulder. It was a conspicuous weight. Oleg’s back twinged. He didn’t care. Morgott’s tail curled against his spine, further propping his rear. His densely furred buttocks were presented to his Banished Knight.

 

Morgott rasped, “Thou’rt similarly unsated.”

“But you-”

“Do not play the fool now, Knight. Thou knowest what I ask.”

The Fell’s Lordly sneer may as well have been a whip between his shoulders.

Banished Knight Oleg mounted Lord Morgott the Grace Given.

————————————

Morgott waited for the familiar sensation to come. Any second, his pleasure would collapse into pain. Loneliness. He soaped his fur and washed away the strongly scented oils and filth. Scrubbed and scratched until all evidence of his coupling was scoured from him. Until all that remained was the tenacious nest of flies in his gut. The wonderful tingling that had germinated in his loins and crept upwards, leaving his mind light.

He had allowed Oleg to use the wash basin first. It had seemed the most practical course of action. The most kind. So that when it was Morgott’s turn to clean himself, his knight could slip away unobserved. He wasn’t sure why he anticipated such action from Oleg, only that it was how his couplings had concluded in the Shunning Grounds. Why would it be different now? He and Oleg had given and received what they’d desired from one another. What cause had the man to linger?

Morgott dabbed a dry cloth to his damp fur. He sponged the water from it so it would not trail where he walked. But he could still feel Oleg’s sorcerous hands upon him. They’d seemed to carve him out of stone… into a figure almost beautiful.

The water in the basin was murky, but he found his reflection. He admired it, the shape of his jaw. The brilliance of his eye. The strength coiled in his shoulders. He had inherited his father’s features. They were not… entirely unhandsome. Fouled by inhuman traits as they were.

Morgott kept waiting for misery to take root. For regret and guilt.

Properly dried, he stepped from behind the screen-

“What took you so long, Beastie?”

Oleg’s smile was a fist to Morgott’s insides. The whirring insects within him frenzied.

His knight wore a borrowed wrap around his legs. He reclined on the bed; he hadn’t even removed the soiled sheets. His eyes sparkled in invitation, despite the way his split lip swelled like a rosy plum. As though it were a joy to simply look upon his Lord. Morgott’s mind was swarmed with a dozen questions- each more asinine than the last.

“...Apologies,” he muttered instead, which wasn’t any better.

Oleg laughed gently. Morgott didn’t even have it in him to bristle. His knight patted the empty space beside him- a considerable expanse on such a large bed.

“Join me?”

Sorcerous indeed, the fox had placed another spell on him. He slid into the bed obligingly. And when Oleg pressed himself to Morgott’s chest, he embraced him as if it were something he’d done a thousand times before.

It was natural.

“I am glad thou stayed,” he confessed.

Oleg replied, “I am not going anywhere, my Love.”

Notes:

I LOVE THEM SO MUUUUCHHHHHHH

Chapter 31: Thorns

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Thou’rt banished no more. I would have thee wear gold, not those debasing trappings.”

Morgott flicked a dismissive hand at Oleg’s silver kit. He was Veiled, lounging in a plush seat beside the window. Rain was rolling in from the sea. But the Erdtree’s radiance made certain the dawn was as glorious as ever.

Oleg brushed out his hair in front of Morgott’s vanity. It was long enough it spilled out from beneath his helm an auburn mane when he attended to his duties. It was a daily struggle deciding whether to style it up or leave it loose. His beard was in need of a trim, too. But that was another dilemma. For it was apparent that Morgott quite liked it.

Their mornings were intimately entangled. Even if they did not spend the night together in the same royal bed. There was no need for Oleg to stalk the Councilors, so instead he squandered the mornings breaking fast and grooming in Morgott’s chambers. Though they were just as likely to bicker.

“If I had known you were going to become so critical of my choice in armor, I never would have accepted your proposal.”

Oleg smiled into the glass. But Morgott’s reflection didn’t mirror his amusement. Morgott gripped the arm of his chair and frowned.

“Thou art my hand. I am thy King. ‘Tis my choice, Knight, how thou’rt presented.”

“Aye, I am yours,” Oleg conceded. “But I am no Leyndell knight.”

“Verily, thou art. Thou hast been since thou swore to me. Thou hast worn the kit before.”

“As a disguise, Morgott.”

“Speak plainly, then, thine objection.”

“I…” Oleg studied his own face as if the truth would be writ across his cheeks. It was bereft, of course, of any great wisdom, so instead his mind wandered to the cathedral’s tapestry. The one depicting Morgott and Margit’s battle for Leyndell. The symbolic slaying of the beast allowed for the Veiled Steward to rise. But Margit hadn’t been killed; he’d been hidden. “I have been this for so long. I do not know how to be anything else.”

“I am not asking thee to be anything but thyself,” Morgott huffed. “I am asking thee to dress thyself as is appropriate.”

Oleg set down the comb. He turned to Morgott. With the Lord sitting, they were almost eye-to-eye. Morgott rested his chin in his hand. His expression of mild condescension smoothed as Oleg drew nearer.

“I want them to know,” Oleg said. “-that I am worthy enough to be your hand even as a silver castoff.”

“Thou wilt not be trusted.”

“I disagree. Besides, the only trust I require is yours.”

“Oleg…”

The knight leaned to Morgott’s ear. “Beastie?”

He delighted in saying it to the Steward’s fair illusion. Morgott snorted in exasperation and gently pushed Oleg away.

“We may argue this later-"

“Oh? We were arguing, my Lord?”

Morgott grumbled, “-far too familiar...”

Oleg collected his helm, grinning good-naturedly. Morgott cleared his throat.

“Oleg, I do not press the matter because I wish to conceal thee. Nor do I believe a Banished Knight is unfit to be at my side. But thou’rt not a dishonorable man. Thou… shouldst not be branded as such.”

And Oleg wished Morgott could discard the Veil and be adored in his true shape.

“I understand,” Oleg conceded. Perhaps he would consider new armor, if it brought Morgott solace. “I should be off, nonetheless.”

“Hmm.”

Oleg was expected at the wall. Leyndell’s Omen conscripts had been living within the wilderness of the outer moat for a season- ever since the conclusion of the battle in the Forbidden Lands. The Capital would not house them, no matter Morgott’s insistence. The Council and noble families derided Morgott for his tolerance in the wake of Helian’s death. Perfumers, then, had been appointed to the Omens’ care and acclimation in the moat. Oleg checked on them often. His misgivings regarding the Guild were another of his and Morgott’s points of friction.

“How were they, the last thou met with them?” Morgott asked.

Their shorn horns still wept blood. They were sick and forlorn. Perfumers expressed confusion at their continued grief and anger. Should they not be grateful for their freedom? Why couldn’t they be more like Margit? None of them knew Margit, if they thought him docile and joyful in his servitude.

“They are getting by,” Oleg shrugged.

“It will take them years to settle,” Morgott murmured.

“They are better every week.”

It wasn’t strictly the truth. The Omens’ progress was not consistent. But it was an honest assessment overall. Morgott could not bear to be near them, which was why he tolerated Oleg’s imposition upon the Guild. And Oleg was glad to tell Morgott anything that convinced him he hadn’t utterly damned the Omen by exposing them to Helian’s brutality.

Oleg bowed, intending to take his leave-

“Halt.”

Morgott rose from his chair. His expression severe. Lordly. When he grasped Oleg’s chin it was tender. As ginger a caress as that broad paw could manage. Lord Morgott bent to kiss him, and Oleg eagerly stretched to meet his lips.

“Alas, Oleg,” he sighed against his jaw. “Thou art no mere knight. Thou art to be more than a concealed lover. Thou must know the whole of it, the troubles thou’rt to inherit with me.”

“There’s more?

“I do not jest, Oleg.”

“Forgive me.”

Morgott’s thumb swiped under his eye. Despite his stony scowl, Oleg recognized the gesture was loving.

“I would speak with thee at the Sanctuary when thou’rt finished with the Guild. There is something of great import I must reveal to thee.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

They kissed once more in farewell, a delicate brush of their lips. Oleg exited, helm tucked under his arm. Morgott’s palatial wing was bereft of guards and knights. It was necessary to maintain the Lord’s anonymity, should Margit make a surprise appearance in the Lord’s chambers. But Oleg’s eye snagged on the swish of fabric down the hall.

He thought to call out, then dismissed his worry. It was likely a servant come to open the black drapes or ferrying breakfast from one side of the palace to the other.

Oleg donned his helm. He had a long walk to the gates ahead of him.

—————————————————

Twilight was descending upon the Lands Between when Oleg finally marched into the Sanctuary. The meeting with the Guild had gone longer than he’d anticipated. The elder Perfumers never lacked for complaints regarding their wards. But a young apprentice had been teaching one of the Omen patients how to make a poultice for their aching horns. Another Omen had asked Oleg about the plants of the garden- many of whom she’d never seen in her forty years of life. When one of the Omen spoke to him, Oleg was willing to listen for hours.

The Erdtree Sanctuary was empty, however. Court had concluded for the day. Oleg braced himself for the scolding he was bound to receive in private. Not that he dreaded it much. Sometimes a good lecture got Morgott in a more excitable mood.

Oleg blushed beneath his helm. Morgott was probably having his evening meal. He would return when he was finished. Oleg leaned against a pillar and yearned for some wine himself.

Soon after, he heard another’s approach from the entrance. The figure that emerged from the shadows was too slight to be Morgott. Too small and feminine.

“Greetings, Banished Knight,” Imopea called. Her voice echoed in the high ceiling. It entwined around the encroaching boughs, serpentine. She strode in casually. Phelia and Iren avoided Morgott as much as possible. Imopea, nowadays, was always sequestered in prayer. She wore a black dress of mourning. The light of the Tree illuminated the golden embroidery of her gown. “What business?”

“The Grace Given asked that I await him here,” Oleg replied after bowing. He remembered his manners in haste. He was not yet the King’s hand, truly. Until Lord Miquella crowned Morgott, Oleg was merely a knight to Leyndell’s nobility.

Imopea circled him to linger beside the Council’s thrones. Her graying blonde hair was pinned in a braided coil atop her head. Exposing a tense, slender throat.

“Oleg, is it?” She asked. Her smile creased her lovely face.

“…Aye.”

“Forgive me the assumption. There are, after all, only so many Banished Knights that are dear to the Steward. And just one with hair so fiery a shade.”

Oleg was pretty sure he was the sole Banished Knight in Morgott’s confidence- regardless of hair color.

Imopea sighed amicably- apologetically, “The Steward is diligent to a fault. Another matter hath captured his attention. However, I am aware of what he wished to speak with thee about. Come. I will show thee.”

Lady Imopea was a willowy woman. The crown of her head came to Oleg’s nose. She extended her hand- an invitation to follow more than a request for his own. He could almost forget she had stowed away to the Volcano Manor to expose Morgott to Lord Miquella.

“I would prefer to speak with Lord Morgott.”

Imopea dropped her hand. “I care not what thou preferest. Come.”

Oleg had never known the diplomat to be so barbed. Perhaps there was a blade sheathed within her after all. The steel of her command bled his memory. Out of his mind tumbled Morgott’s warning, uttered a season and a half ago in the frigid northlands.

Thou’rt known to them.

But the Council’s meekest had not threatened him all through the winter and the early days of spring. Lady Imopea was not frail, but she was aged. Whatever blood she claimed from Godfrey, it had only preserved her youth superficially. More than that, she was alone. Unless she hid a poisoned dagger under her skirt, she was also unarmed.

He expected her to sneer at him for his reticence. But she didn’t insult him. Her cheeks were even tinged pink, as if she were privately embarrassed at her outburst.

“Apologies, Lady Imopea. But I must defer to my Lord.”

“If thou’rt certain.”

Imopea abandoned him to the barren Sanctuary whilst she ascended the steps to the Erdtree.

Another hour oozed into oblivion. The shadows wavered with the shifting of the sun, but they did not dare encroach beneath the Erdtree’s watch. The sky changed colors. The horizon dimmed. And Morgott was nowhere to be seen.

He glared at the steps leading upward. Imopea had not come back down. His nape prickled, but his resolve was spent. Hand on the pommel of a blade, he approached the Erdtree. The climb did leave him a bit breathless. Imopea, at least, had the temerity to appear pleasantly surprised to greet him.

She ushered Oleg past the empty Elden Throne. Oleg couldn’t place why the sight of it struck him. He hadn’t anticipated finding Lord Radagon tarrying at the top of the stair. Erdleaves filled the seat of God’s consort. The Elden Ring had shattered in his childhood. But he’d been raised regardless to believe the Elden Lord and his Eternal Queen were with him. To mete out justice or vengeance, mercy or punishment. The Golden Order was an unbreakable web whose strands twined around Graceborn fingers and hearts.

But the Elden Throne was empty.

“Doth Lord Morgott imagine sitting there, I wonder?” Imopea asked airily. “He never did get on with his Demigod kin. He hath little love for us, his Council. Perhaps he pretendeth he could rule as a true Lord one day.”

Oleg frowned. “…There is already an Elden Lord.”

“Come,” the Lady said.

She trudged to the Erdtree, and Oleg trailed behind. He told himself he wasn’t wary of the aging woman. But he glanced over his shoulder more than once at the way they’d come. Hoping for Morgott to rise to the Throne dais and rescue him from his own foolishness.

There was a gash in the Erdtree. A slit of a wound that seemed to lead straight to the Tree’s heart. An ancient injury. For it was sutured with stone pillars. The wood had grown back over the supports somewhat. A melding of man’s architecture with the impeccable divine. Yet another set of steps ascended to the Tree’s inner chamber. Imopea did not place a slippered foot upon the bottommost stair. There was a weight to Oleg’s spirit that told him it was not a place for him. A harsh reprimand from his faithful upbringing.

“Yon chamber was sacred to Queen Marika and her husband consorts,” the diplomat explained softly.

“That,” Oleg groused. “-is what Morgott wanted me to see?”

“Look again, Oleg. Thou wouldst never set eye upon the Erdtree’s heart.”

With a quiet scoff, he obeyed. He beheld a golden seal woven into the wood. Prickly briars edged the path and morphed into a holy barrier that spanned the width and height of the gash.

“I see an unremarkable seal, Councilor.”

“Do not pride thyself in thine ignorance. That seal did not exist until after Prince Godwyn’s Death, and pieces of the Elden Ring were bestowed to Marika’s descendants. Every few years the Shardbearers gather to attempt to repair the Elden Ring. The means of mending, however, lieth beyond the thorns. Since their discovery, no Shardbearer hath breached the barrier.”

Oleg squinted against the glow of gold. He could make out the interlocking pattern of the thorns. It was indeed a seal infinitely more abrasive than that of Morgott’s invention.

Imopea continued, “We are abandoned by every measure. We are without an Elden Lord. Queen Marika is distant. All we have is the Golden Order. ‘Tis our only salvation. That… is the secret Morgott wished to burden thee with.”

Oleg stood stiffly. He was a small man, unlearned in the faith and Order he had sworn fealty to all his life. Morgott had tried to warn him. That Marika’s Age was floundering. He had not truly considered what that entailed.

“You are lying,” he blurted on impulse.

Imopea shook her head, “Lord Morgott would tell thee he would see the Elden Ring mended and Marika’s Age restored. But he is too proud to do what he must. The Erdtree will never permit him, nor his Rune.”

“Why not?”

“Because....” Imopea stared at him, with honey-sweet golden eyes. “Thou knowest why, Oleg.”

Stirring leaves skittered dryly across the stone. They drifted around the Throne’s base as if they, too, yearned.

“He is Omen,” Oleg replied baldly. It was bitter to profess even without the censure of the splinter. But it was rewarding to watch Imopea’s eyes widen a fraction. “You think that makes him unfit.”

It was the diplomat that was forced to grapple with her words. The charm upon her tongue meant she could not corroborate Oleg’s honesty.

“Thou speakest heresy and remainest loyal in thy service.”

It was not a question, but an accusation.

“You have known him far longer than I. If it is beyond your imagination to understand why I would care for him, then I doubt I could explain it to you.”

Imopea balked. “The Order is clear-” She was subtly silenced by the charm.

“He has a Shard of the shattered Ring. He is endorsed by his Lord Brother.”

“Lord Miquella suffereth an abundance of love. ‘Tis why we adore him. ‘Tis why his kindness is oft taken advantage of.” Imopea was furious now. Shaking and pink-faced.

“Imopea. I will not be dissuaded.”

“I suppose not,” she murmured. “A fine place thou hast carved thyself, Monster. What a cozy shelter in Margit’s side. Sickening.

Oleg swallowed. His voice shivered as much as hers. “So, you have seen us?”

“Often enough.”

“Lord Morgott will not take a consort. I am glad to provide for him companionship.”

He lifted his chin. But Imopea laughed. Her highborn manners dissolved to ash and mingled with the falling leaves.

“I would expect no less from thee. Thou’rt a rotten soul. Grace is wasted upon thee.”

Oleg looked over his shoulder again. This time, there was someone at the top of the steps. Councilor Iren craned around the Elden Throne. Horned heads rose behind him, sprouted from the stairs a fetid crop.

Omenkillers.

How long had they been loitering around the Sanctuary? Waiting for him to take Imopea’s bait?

Oleg reached for his weapons-

“Cut us down, and Morgott is forsaken.”

He froze at Imopea’s hissed threat. Morgott’s coronation and innocence hung on the promise that Iren, Imopea, and Phelia would be unharmed.

He chuckled darkly. When he unsheathed both swords, Imopea still flinched. She stumbled back a step or two, hand at her breast. Oleg threw the blades aside.

“Not a difficult choice,” he smirked.

He was trapped. Between golden thorns and horn-melded cleavers.

“If Morgott is to be King, so be it,” Imopea spat. “But thy blood shall be the final cost for his crown, murderer.”

Notes:

You may be wondering why Oleg didn't do the sensible thing and leave? 1) Drama. 2) He would have been snagged anyway. That posse really was waiting for him outside the Sanctuary so no matter what he did he was doomed. The convo with Imopea was Oleg's last chance to renounce Morgott in her eyes. But he did not, so now he's fucked.

Chapter 32: Sewer

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Godrick whimpered as Morgott twisted his leg- inspecting it- with a firm, gloved hand. The reek of fetid flesh had already chased Order healers from the room. But Morgott had smelled worse. His nose hardly wrinkled.

“Prithee, Uncle!” Godrick gasped.

But Morgott found himself bereft of pity. “Wert thou not warned? A curse thou hast brought upon thyself!” Flies circled the room, buzzing in Morgott’s ears. He swatted them away viciously. “Behold now the price of thine hubris. It must be amputated. Miquella shall-"

“No!” Sweat made Godrick all the more pallid. He was fierce despite his agony. Petulant. “I will not wear a metal limb.”

“What course remaineth for thee? Thou concealed the malady too long.”

Morgott suspected the grafted limb had been going bad since the Carian snake’s wedding. Too many careless indulgences- too many hours straining the flesh with games and dances- had taken their toll. Or perhaps he was simply giving the vile sorcery too much credit, and the leg had been destined to decay from the outset.

“Then take it! Cleave it from me!” Godrick bared his teeth, and Morgott had to chain his anxious animal soul lest he retaliate. The young Demigod’s gums were starkly red against bloodless, thin lips. “I will return to Stormveil, and Lord Godefroy shall graft a more suitable replacement.”

“Fool. Thou wilt accept the prosthetic or nothing at all! I should not have tolerated even the one desecrated corpse-”

He choked on his gravel growl. Too much of the hot-blooded Omen was seeping through. But it wasn’t merely self-restraint that silenced him. His eye trailed down the festering limb, following the branching embroidery of inflamed blood vessels and rotten seams. It was a patchwork of flesh. Gray and startlingly crimson- but also of various natural tones. Strips of bulging muscle were sloppily molded around bone. The monstrosity culminated in a grotesque foot. There were too many toes- and each was blackening like fruit left on the vine.

“How many graves hast thou pillaged, Godrick?” he asked.

“Not one tomb was disturbed,” Godrick sneered. “Lord Godefroy has begun to mentor me in the art. The material is gathered from the gallows. From thieves and blasphemers and oath-breaking knights-”

Morgott grabbed Godrick by his throat.

“Thou art a disgrace to thy Rune!” He snarled. And his tongue’s barbs cut him as well. “A pity it was granted to one so faithless!”

How could he not despair with Godrick’s widened eyes boring fearfully into his? With the hideous reminder that Queen Marika’s Shards were claimed by monsters and curses and traitors all? Even Miquella, who had turned away from the Erdtree- from Leyndell.

The Erdtree!

The light of it had deceived him. It was twilight and he hadn’t noticed. A physician had intercepted him before the evening meal to appraise him of Godrick’s illness. Concern had driven him to his nephew’s bedside. But anger is what had shackled him there for hours as he’d watched Perfumers and Order healers attempt to make sense of the problem. All the while, Oleg had been waiting for him within the Sanctuary.

Morgott relinquished Godrick. Bruises blossomed across his pale throat. His nephew shrank against his pillows even as Leyndell’s Lord stepped away from the sickbed. Billowing plumes of incense swirled at his aggrieved exhale. The sclera of Godrick’s eyes were pink.

“I have wasted enough time,” Morgott declared scornfully. “The limb will be taken before the malady infects thy body entire. Should any body be defiled for thy profane desires, thou wilt know the wrath of Godfrey’s exiled Prince.”

“...Aye, Lord Morgott. As thou wishest.”

——----------------------------------

The Sanctuary had once been a place for scholarship before it became a throne room. Lovingly tended chalices had been built around the once-temple to catch the Erdtree’s falling dew. Now, though, more leaves fell than blessings.

Evening slipped beneath the Erdtree like a thief. Long shadows it granted to the branches coiled around the columns- to the Council’s thrones. The black smear from Morgott’s seat touched his bare feet. The Erdtree Sanctuary was empty.

Indignance was Morgott’s instinctual reaction. This had been important, and his knight had disobeyed. But he leashed that brewing sensation quickly enough. It was throttled with annoyance at himself. He was the tardy one. His nephew’s rotten limb had kept him from his appointment.

“Sir Oleg?” He called anyway. Softly, furtively.

He received no answer.

Sighing, he stared down at the polished floor. The exhausted Steward glared back at him. Oleg would forgive him his lateness. It was his nature. Morgott would make it up to him.

But first, he needed to pray.

It was a long ascent to the Erdtree’s trunk- to the vacant Elden Throne. It allowed Morgott time to forget his animosity towards Godrick. The man was swiftly becoming an unfit heir to the future King. But he would have Oleg instead for a Hand. A consort.

He skirted the throne Lord Godfrey had once sat. He averted his covetous eye, and he knelt in the pooling radiance of Grace’s font.

“Safeguard the Grace of my beloved knight,” he begged quietly. “His loyalty to me is my loyalty to thee. Do not forsake him for his love of an accursed thing.”

It was a regular prayer of his, but one he did not typically offer in view of the thorns.

“If the banished knight hath sinned, let me bear the price… I thank thee for ripening his soul so that I might know him in this final life-"

Leyndell’s meager twilight set aflame a pool of silver amongst the scattered leaves. Morgott’s prayer tapered into smoke. He approached the gleam warily, slowly. As if the discarded swords might rear up and swipe at him. He brushed the golden detritus from Oleg’s twin blades. Held them in his hands. They were little more than knives in his grasp.

Betwixt the Throne and the Erdtree’s thorns, the swords had been left for him. Oleg was as doomed as his Lord’s ambitions.

The sunbaked, windswept stone retained few odors beyond the petrichor of leaf litter. But he snagged an unmistakable scent at the Erdtree’s base. Leather and fabric forever infused with the stink of the sewers and fetid blood. The whiff of perfumes both caustic and floral. Morgott growled. Phantom fur rose on his hackles.

——————————————-

The Guild was cooperative with their Lord. Even if he did storm into Leyndell’s apothecary with a lion’s aggression.

The Omenkillers!” he’d barked at the Perfumers. “They have taken my knight!

The aproned alchemists had shrunk against the walls- cowered behind incense urns. He’d felt like a man bursting out of his own skin, and he’d wondered just who the Perfumers had seen: the outraged Demigod Lord or the maddened Fell Omen.

He blood boiled even now, searing whatever gift of Grace he had been bestowed sixty years ago. The curse was ripe, nurtured by fear and hate. Morgott became Margit in a secluded alley, unseen. There was no point in maintaining the farce of the Steward for this.

According to the Perfumers, Imopea had requested the aid of the Guild in capturing a companion of Margit. Sir Oleg was conspiring with the Fell Omen to destroy the Grace Given. She had convinced the Guild the Banished Knight was a traitor.

Margit pried a grate off of the street. Though the diameter of the cover was longer across than a man, Margit’s bestial strength made short work of it. He threw it aside, where it smashed into a carriage, crushing it. Its cargo- wine barrels- bled their contents on the street. A pair of knights brazenly rushed forth to confront him. A third blew into a horn to rouse reinforcements. Margit threw all three aside with one bludgeoning swipe of his tail. They crumpled into the spilled wine. He did not linger to see if they stood again.

He was deaf to the pleas of the citizenry. The Omen they derided as Morgott’s beaten slave was revolting. They remembered their terror of him.

“Fetch the Steward!” The cries rang out. “The beast has gone mad!”

He had decried the Perfumers as fools when they’d relayed Imopea’s plot to him. He had thought them addled to believe such blatant falsehoods. But as he was screamed at in the narrow Leyndell street, he understood. A rock struck his spine, the blow was cushioned by his ragged cloak. An arrow grazed his forearm. It was simple for them all to think a Banished Knight and an Omen would hate their royal Lord. It was easy for them to accept the depravity of the Graceless and dishonored.

Margit dropped into the sewers. The outraged caterwauling was muted by distance and the dull drone of a running current. Filthy water drenched Margit up to his thighs when he landed. The reek of refuse hardly made his eyes water. Even after sixty years, it almost smelled like home.

From his perch- slimy with algae and waste- Margit surveyed the labyrinth of scaffolds and pipes. The sewers spanned the whole of the city- even the outer moat. If Oleg had indeed been brought here…

If he followed that tarry thought, he would imperil himself with paralyzing despair. But centuries spent fleeing from smirking Killer shadows had taught Margit well. They had predictable haunts. Omen who survived their hunts enough learned the pathing of their patrols. The Omenkillers had territory in the Shunning Grounds. If Imopea accompanied them, that was the one place she would feel secure.

In the heart of Leyndell, there was a small square. A little chapel guarded a dry well. The Steward had once questioned the placement of a well beside a channel of wastewater. His Council had been loath to reveal the well’s true purpose.

It was a safe entrance for Graceborn tourists to the Shunning Grounds. The Omenkillers had transformed the sturdy, stone-built chambers there to suit their aims. Morgott had only seen the place once, but he remembered the way. He knew the subterranean maze of his life-long prison better than he knew the streets he ruled.

He leapt over a black abyss- over the lair of crustaceans that flowed in from the sea as larva and grew too immense and ornery to ever find clean water again- and alighted, surefooted, onto a pipe. The old metal groaned. He gripped with his toes- used his tail for balance. Removed from the Erdtree’s light, the never-quite-dormant creature of the Shunning Grounds commandeered his limbs.

Dusky eyes trailed him in the gloom. Omen eyes and vermin eyes. His kind scraped their horns against iron and stone as he dashed through established territories. Fangs flashed from meager dens. Wilting bairns mewled against a thin parent in a parasite-ridden nest. But no feral Omen challenged him. It would have been their death to bar his way.

He bounded along dangerous paths he’d traveled hundreds of times since childhood. The journey was easier on his body than in the past. Queen Marika’s mercy had been good to him. Fine beds and finer meals had granted him unprecedented vigor.

He arrived at a bridge of wooden slats. Pipes roaring with water disguised his tread. Across the bridge was a door- guarded by two Killer sentinels. Morgott’s fur bristled. He shook dingy water from his shoulders and tail. Then he chuffed a warning sound to the Omenkillers. One of the masked hunters shuffled warily- fidgeted with their weapon. The other was unflinchingly stiff. No doubt stunted by the numbing of Killer draughts.

“Margit,” the livelier one called.

The sewers masked many odious scents. But Margit could just taste blood and polished steel. The faintest, phantom whiff of Oleg. Margit stalked forward, only to be halted when his left Hand’s scream issued forth from behind the door.

“What business?” the Killer demanded. Barked like a wary hound. “What unsavory cause has drawn you here?”

“I serve the Steward of Leyndell, same as ye,” Margit said. “I have come to collect the Banished Knight on his behalf.”

“Begone, Omen. We heed the orders of Councilor Imopea, not a Graceless slave.”

He heard Oleg again. A wraith’s injured shriek.

Morgott bared his teeth, “Whatever his crime, this is no justice befitting a Graceborn knight. He will be taken to the Grace-Given. I will not be made to command ye a third time.”

The Omenkillers were unrelenting. They brandished their cleavers. Fiddled with their bottles. The Killer that had spoken before spat, “And I will not yield-”

Morgott set upon them before they could ready their caustics. The horned masks protected their throats, the aprons defended them from goring horns and claws. The cleavers were cruel and lethal. But Morgott was a Demigod- a Shardbearer. More than that, he was Omen. His brutality could match theirs. And he would not be caught unawares by their poison again.

It was satisfying to break their arms. To snap legs and shatter knees with a lash of his tail. His conjured hammer collapsed one’s chest. A golden-hewn blade skewered the other’s heart.

The dungeon door was opened. Morgott leapt back before an arc of flammable powder blinded his eye. He responded by throwing a dagger into the fool’s skull. They collapsed in the doorway. Morgott waited for more Killers to emerge.

Instead, it was Imopea’s wavering address that limped through the passage.

“Margit?”

Margit roared. His curse was roused, fed by the allure of blood and the indulgence of power. Spittle dripped down his chin. Foamed at the corners of his mouth. He had to stoop to enter the room. He was trembling so fiercely he nearly fell to his hands and knees when he forced his way inside. His tail slammed into the wall and chipped the bricks.

He was heaving. Morgott was burning up inside of him. Displaced by the Fell Omen. His every oath to Pastor Olivier was going to ash. He was becoming a creature that could stand within this gaol without falling utterly apart. The chamber stank of old blood- accursed blood. Shackles lined the adjacent walls while the implements of horn shearing hung upon the farthest one, rusting and worn. This was where Omen trophies were collected.

But no Omen cowered in chains this day. The holy ritual of accursed bloodletting was desecrated instead with the blood of a Graceborn.

Oleg was tied to a rickety chair. It leaned almost perilously on the uneven floor. Divested of his armor, he wore the taint of the sewers and ravaged underclothes. As if he had been literally dragged through the sewers. His hair was a lank curtain about his face. So much of his skin was marred with either bruises or weeping cuts. Councilors Iren and Imopea stood on either side of their prisoner. Red-cheeked, Iren’s fingers clutched at his jaw. Impoea held a chain in her pale-knuckled fists. It was no small wonder what she had been using it for.

“Hullo Beastie,” Oleg murmured to the obscene silence.

Raw, agonized humanity slipped back into Morgott’s bestial husk. The sound he loosed was akin to a whine. He had given Oleg his heart indeed. Because the sight of him bound and battered was lethal. His one ally- his singular love- was near fading before his very eyes. To think a year ago, this vision would have practically been welcome. Now he wished he could die in the man’s stead. He would make himself an eternal wraith, but at least the pieces of him worth anything would survive in his knight.

“Sellsword,” he rasped in reply.

“Look upon what you have allied yourself with,” Iren hissed into Oleg’s ear.

“I… look upon him… plenty.”

Imopea showed her own blunt, white teeth. “He is an animal. Filthy with more than the stain of the curse! The mercy of the Steward cannot conceal this. Here is the truth of him, Oleg. Look! Behold how naturally he weareth refuse. Behold how naturally the behavior of the beast cometh to him. This is who thou wouldst betray our Erdtree to?”

Indeed, sewage coated Morgott’s legs. It crusted the fur of his belly and tail. He could smell it in his beard and hair. His hands were crimson with Graceborn blood. The shivering humanity inside him ached in the Omen cage it had been born within.

Oleg smiled. His teeth were pink. “The General… tried that angle already. Apologies… but it didn’t work then...”

Imopea scowled. Her grip tightened around the chain as though she might whip him with it again. Instead, a tortured snarl ripped through her clenched jaw. A tear spilled down her dirty cheek. She turned to Morgott.

“Take him and go.”

Her command was boneless, limp. She dropped the chain. Rust stained her palms, and she clasped them together. Her tall boots were caked in grime and worse. Spat-up blood speckled her skirt. The light of the torches made Margit’s shadow engulf her.

She said, “Thou art a creature of rage. Surely thou understandest. Depravity rules each soul that is brought to the brink. Anger is the curse thou placed upon my heart. But I have come to my senses. P-prithee. The knight can be made whole again.”

“Thou…!” He growled. But speech eluded him. He was indeed a creature of terrible fury. It welled within him, fed by the bestial curse. He had been stitched together with angry, frightful parts. His noble conquerors' heritage was sullied. The shards of him that were a royal Prince understood Imopea indeed. For he had seen her companions and peers slain and had stalled her chance for justice. But the greater part of him- the horned man with the damned soul- did not care. Miquella had rescued her, and she had not been satisfied. “Ye will not be forgiven.”

“I do not require thy forgiveness, Omen. But thou dost need us alive.”

He thought he might kill her anyway. He balled his hands into fists. His nails dig into his palms.

Imopea’s words had woven a dark shroud. The hazy distraction claimed his senses. When he saw the knife glint in the torchlight, it was too late.

Oleg’s stomach was made a bloody ruin. With a trembling arm Iren stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. Four times he plunged the knife in soft organs unguarded by bone. And on the last strike, he twisted the blade. The stake was left in Oleg’s gut, the hilt slick with blood. Oleg cried out, then. Mouth agape and eyes filmy with agony.

Morgott could not hear him. Time was condensed to Oleg’s shuddering breath. Each puffed pant lasted years. And all the while, Morgott roared.

“Iren!”

Imopea’s shrieked cry cut through the tapering wheeze of Morgott’s screaming.

“We are dead already,” Iren croaked. His crooked mouth quirked in miserable triumph. “There is no negotiating with beasts.”

——————————————-

Wet and cold, Oleg stared.

First, at the hilt planted into his stomach. At the blood spreading dark stains on his clothes. Crimson rosettes were overtaken by black pools. He was pouring out of himself. Into his lap and down his legs.

Then the wailing drew his attention. It was hideously painful to lift his head. Somehow it made his abdomen clench, and he was lacerated all over again.

Morgott.

His warning- if he’d spoken it at all- was pathetically feeble. Swallowed up by the veil falling over Oleg’s eyes. It wasn’t enough to rescue Councilors Iren and Imopea.

The Fell’s claws were filed and blunt. But his fists were hammers. A blow from his paw could crack a rune bear’s ribcage. Imopea was thrown into the wall like a straw-stuffed doll. She fell to the floor a shattered heap. Dead by the time Morgott seized Iren and popped his head from his shoulders like the shrimp-mongers prepared their wares in Oleg’s homeland. His body was cast into the sewage like Imopea’s. The chamber became eerily silent.

Oleg opened his mouth, but no words formed. The pain was crawling ever upwards. It was in his lungs, his mind. He sagged; the chair tipped over. But he was too numb to know if he ever hit the sludge-streaked stone or was instead rescued from it.

The man looming over him had an amorphous face. Sometimes he was a round-cheeked, freckled noble. The boy that had been his first everything. Sometimes he was dark-eyed Engvall. The man that had always stared through Oleg to pine for a long-departed past.

Those visions smeared with every sluggish blink. He was as much pigment as they, leaching out into the lukewarm puddles in the wheel-pitted road. He was jostled, and the soothing drift of dying was undone. Serrated thorns tugged at him, and he sobbed.

Despite the gentleness of the hands that moved him, he hurt. That quiet scene at the bloodied crossroads was dispelled. Darkness encroached, as did flickering torchlight. Instead of mud, he lay in sewage. The man that leaned over him now was coarse and gray and inhuman. Pebbly with growths and crowned with heedless horns. White-haired and white-furred and blessed with so much Grace his golden eye was molten. He was so, so beautiful.

“I love you,” he said to the beast.

Morgott shook. Which in turn, set Oleg groaning again.

“Do not…” the Lord began then choked. His shivering pricked Oleg’s overwrought flesh. His sighs were as iron around his throat. “Thou wouldst proclaim such a thing and then leave me?”

Smile, Oleg shouted at his unresponsive body. Hold onto him!

But he could do neither. Breathing alone was a monumental effort. He was dissolving into the wastewater. “S’not my choice,” he rasped.

He had to spend the next minute recovering, gulping down air to nourish ruined organs. Morgott was rimed with gold. An aurora of dust rose off of his bloodied face and drifted elsewhere.

Where does it lead?

An ancient, voiceless call beckoned him.

“No. No, Sellsword. Grace-touched thou art and yet thou swore to serve an Omen. Selfish, he is. Covetous and wretched. The roots would have thee, and the Erdtree would part us forever. I could not meet thee there, in the boughs. I could not find thee after in whatever flesh thy soul would call its vessel.” Morgott’s coarse thumb passed beneath Oleg’s eye. “Forgive me, Blessed Erdtree. I have so little, and I am ravenous.”

Oleg screamed as the knife was torn from his body. It hardly sounded as such. Everything was failing him utterly. Morgott keened murmured pleas. A tide of gold was summoned by his voice. It poured into Oleg’s wounds- his mouth. He writhed as he was pinned to cold stone. The buoyant light- the summons of Grace- was persistent. It made to pry him from the undertow he was drowning in.

I must stay. He impressed upon the miasma of Grace. The pain was numbing, but in its wake he felt terrible exhaustion. The intensity of Morgott’s iris was going hazy again. Buried in unshed tears.

Who will care for him otherwise?

Notes:

That's 5/6 down : )

Chapter 33: Fated

Chapter Text

Oleg awoke overheated. Bundled in thick pelts. Sweat dewed on his chest. His neck. His stomach ached. It was a very unpleasant way to come back to himself.

Then the pelts shifted. His swaddling unfurled, and he realized it was not a bed his body was curled against. Morgott’s thumb stroked his shoulder. He was engulfed by the gentle lull of the Omen’s heartbeat. He was cocooned by muscle and white fur. Morgott was no longer coated in the filth of the sewers, but the stink of it remained in Oleg’s nose.

His fingers grasped a fistful of fur. And it was Morgott’s responding rumble that cemented Oleg to his body.

“Forgive me,” his Beastie whispered. Dire and strained.

“S’alright,” Oleg slurred. His tongue, it seemed, was still warming up to the concept of being alive.

“I stole thee from thy rest.”

“Come on,” Oleg murmured. “I did not want to die… Did not want to leave you.”

Morgott’s chest swelled with a shuddering, wet aspiration. It was a fetter for his tears, it sounded. Oleg smiled softly against him. Fur tickled his lips.

“‘M proud of you. Learned an Erdtree incantation...”

“‘Twas not enough. I bore thee to a chapel-"

“Morgott-"

“-Margit was turned away, but not thee. But when the Steward returned, thou wert whole enough. I took thee, then.”

“Beastie-"

“They would not keep thee. A cursed companion to Margit thou surely wert-"

He was spiraling in his guilt. Oleg pushed against his chest to sit up. The sky was bright- but when was it not? They were within the city; Morgott was wedged into a dark corner between two buildings. The scent of corpse wax struck Oleg, stale and a bit acrid. Fatty and faintly rotted.

Oleg shakily reached for Morgott’s face. To hold it. To bolster his shallow breath. His fingers grazed the Omen’s taut throat instead. Grazed the scar beneath his hair.

“I love you.”

Morgott’s arms tightened a fraction. He was derailed. “I… love thee, foolish Knight.”

Oleg had been stripped of his underclothes- the ones Imopea had graciously let him wear whilst she’d beaten him with the chain. It seemed the Pastor of the chapel had been kind enough to dress him in coarse linens. Even if they would not abide a friend of Fell Margit for long. He could only presume the Order healers had stitched his insides back together properly. There was a phantom ache in his gut. But nothing like the agony it had been. He splayed his hand over his stomach. Beneath his shirt. If there were scars, he didn’t feel them.

“I killed them,” Morgott was spurred to confess.

But of course. Oleg could remember that much.

“I am grateful.”

Morgott scoffed. Even in his grief- even hunched in this indignant hiding place- he found the strength for disdain. “I have ruined it all for my rage. My curse.”

“They goaded you.”

“It matters not. I will not be king, nor thee my hand. I gave Miquella my oath.” Exhaustion poisoned him utterly. “Imopea and Iren hath lost their lives, but they are victorious. Because of their sacrifice, I shan’t take the throne.”

It was grotesque and unfair, that a handful of meager, mortal lives would prove to be a Demigod’s fatal stumbling block. That the royal stock of the Eternal Queen and her consorts were born swaddled in the banner of divine right whilst Morgott was forced to cup his hands and hope his family would be benevolent enough to cast him their scraps. Oleg had grown up singing songs of war and conquest with his fellow squires. It was grotesque and unfair that Morgott would be damned a monster for raising his hand at all when his mother and father had sown their Order in blood-drenched fields.

Oleg had just crawled back from death’s tenacious embrace. But even he yearned for a sword in his hand and a traitor’s throat to cleave. He sat up straighter. Shifted until his back was pressed against Morgott’s chest. Great, gray fingers curled around his thigh and hip. Held him in place.

“I could… tell Lord Miquella they gave you no other option.”

Morgott sighed, and Oleg felt the agony of that breath. “He would search thine heart, and see the ignoble truth hewn into it. He would know the whole of the plot. Then we both would suffer his fury.”

“Is he truly so terrifying?”

Oleg could not see Morgott’s face. He was forced to stare forward, at the wax-sealed mausoleums that flanked their hiding place. A stray dog sniffed at the alley’s entrance before it bolted away. Spurned by the scent of a creature much larger and fiercer than itself. It was so quiet. Oleg supposed dawn hadn’t broken.

“Thou… shouldst leave. Findest thou thy brother in arms and live."

“Morgott. Do not banish me.”

“‘Twould be a kindness.”

“No, it would not. Not without you.”

Folded neatly within Oleg’s protestation was an invitation of his own. He was not quite brave enough to ask outright. His leaden words tread water for a few heartbeats before they sank in the depths of Morgott’s silence.

“My curse hath overruled my royal blood. I was entitled to naught but squalor and hunger. I was born an animal. I was meant to die an animal. My fate was altered when the Elden Ring shattered. But one demise was merely traded for another. Oleg, should I abandon my duty, my city and the Erdtree… I would be forsaken. Hunted so the Great Rune could be cleaved from my spirit. Thou needest not be so sorrowfully chained.”

Oleg recalled his brief audience with the Erdtree- the weight to his soul when he’d looked upon the golden barrier and realized the present Age was destined to wither. Morgott would preside over it, aware that he could do nothing to restore the Order. “Are the only options available to us exile or execution? You will not come away with me?”

“I will not,” Morgott growled. “I will die nothing less than a Lord. If that is the fate granted me by Miquella.”

“I would prefer,” Oleg swallowed. He yearned for water. “-That you lived as a Lord.”

“I as well-“

Oleg grabbed the hand clasped about his waist. He squeezed his wrist. Oleg was not going to give up. Morgott knew that.

“What has become of the Councilors’ bodies?”

“There will not be bodies to claim,” Morgott said thickly. “The Shunning Grounds… are not wasteful.”

“Then confess nothing. Do nothing.” Strength seeped back into Oleg’s limbs. He could sit up on his own, now. He did, for it felt strange to suggest something so cruel whilst cradled in his Beastie’s warmth. “The bodies are lost, and no one need know what happened to them.”

“The Perfumers Guild will know,” Morgott argued.

“Aye. But not Miquella.”

“Poor fool,” Morgott rasped. “Thou thinkest me stronger than I am. My brother and sister are Empyreans. And I, an accursed wretch. I could lie to Lord Miquella, aye. But he will anticipate my Council’s arrival at the Haligtree. ‘Tis inevitable.”

Oleg found his boldness. The man that had earned his banishment had been tempered by decades of exile. If Morgott had not the will to abandon his city, then Oleg couldn’t abandon him. He couldn’t slink back to Engvall after a year apart. He couldn’t live the rest of his years with palms stained by noble blood- Demigod blood- for naught. The wound to his heart would be fatal.

“You want to be a Lord, Morgott.”

“...I do.” He admitted it on a brittle exhale. Miserable and defeated.

“Then be a Lord. Be a King. Crown yourself.”

“Preposterous,” Morgott hissed. But the word was masticated. Crushed in his jaw because it had been uttered thoughtlessly. A shiver set into his fingers. The brisk onset of anxious anticipation. “Thou speakest blasphemy.”

“Do I?” Oleg was lightheaded. “You are a Demigod. This was your scheme from the very beginning. Let us see it through. Come what may.”

“Only a fool would offer me such counsel. But I suppose I am glad thou art not a wiser man.”

Oleg’s hand had a bloodless pallor to it. He may as well have never been stabbed, but his body had not quite forgotten what had been done to it. His fingers were weak as they carded through the ragged tatters of Morgott’s cloak. They climbed up the fibers until they found a pocket sewn near the Omen’s breast. He pried out the diadem he knew he’d find within.

For its size, the Veil was featherlight. The lace upon the pale gold was ephemeral. As if it had been woven from moths’ silk. And the tiny jewels in the band were instead scales from the insects’ wings. The thing itself may as well have been an illusion. It felt as substantial as mist.

Oleg stood on unsteady legs. He placed the Veil gingerly over Morgott’s brow. The gossamer diadem became as vapor. The gray, haggard form of the Omen wavered. It was compressed and blessed with gold until the visage of the Steward materialized. Oleg had seen both faces enough to marvel at how little Morgott’s features changed between Omen and man.

Oleg’s breaths deepened. He was firmly rooted in his body now, as he held his Lord’s lined face.

———————

The arduous walk to the palace and a change of clothes had practically erased the last twinging reminders of Oleg’s injuries. The Order healers had sponged the worst of the sewer’s foulness from his body whilst his spirit had slumbered. But he made use of the wash basin in the knights’ barracks. He traced his hands over his unscarred stomach as Lord Morgott was accosted by knights outside.

Margit the Fell is rampaging!” they cried. “Defend us.

Fear not.” The Steward replied blandly to every frightened man and woman. “The Omen will pay penance for his trespass.

It was such that by the time Oleg emerged, dressed in a gray tunic and hair tamed by the brush, Morgott appeared to be the more exhausted one between them.

“When did you eat last?”

“I have no appetite.”

“Well, I am famished.”

With that, Morgott had no choice but to watch Oleg request a meal far too large for himself as they passed the kitchens. A ludicrous portion of bread, cheese, and lamb was pledged to the Steward’s quarters within the hour. Morgott said nothing, but he frowned knowingly. Shaking his head at Oleg’s grin, disgusted by his unsubtle scheme.

The Steward’s quarters were blissfully silent. The heavy thunk of the door closing loomed in an inaudible echo. Morgott froze on the rug. As if the stillness were a curse inflicted upon him. Then slowly, slowly, he scanned his room: the bed and the small desk, the black curtains and the shelves dense with vellum and leather and stone and paper. He stiffly turned, and he stared up at the empty sconce over the door. Where the sentry’s torch had once hung like an omen of portent.

“Morgott. Sit.”

Oleg’s blunt demand- despite its gentle delivery- snapped the Lord from his reverie. Severe lines framed a dignified scowl.

“A monster I have created, indeed, that thou wouldst command thy Lord. Mere hours ago thou wert destined for the roots. Would that I possessed thy courage.”

“Oh?” Oleg laughed. “It’s courage, now? I could have sworn you thought it foolishness.”

“Rest assured, ‘tis both.”

But he lowered himself into an immense chair. It was there the weight of Margit’s revenge bludgeoned him into the cushions. He rubbed at his brow as if searching for the knobs of his shorn horns. Touched his nose hunting for osseous bumps. But when he was finished scrutinizing his fair features, he declared:

“Thou’rt hale enough for impudence, so make thyself useful. Bring me paper and ink.”

Oleg did not budge. “Whatever for?”

“Imopea was a fine diplomat. She won me friends from the Caelid Wilds to Liurnia. Alas, with her death, I must now put in the effort to keep her alliances.” He sighed, tepidly. “A stag hunt in the autumn should be bearable enough… Oleg, the ink and paper.”

Oleg instead captured Morgott’s hand. He passed his thumb over hairy knuckles. Morgott prattled on absently despite his knight’s tender defiance.

“I desire a survey of the northern roadways. The Dectus is our southern sentinel, but have we any barriers to halt a march from Gelmir? Hmm, Iren reported that the Heartwood Bridge hath been in need of repair for many years.”

“Morgott,” Oleg said. “That is enough.”

“Iren and Imopea’s duties now fall to me. They cannot be ignored.”

“They may fall to you tomorrow.”

Morgott’s eye narrowed to a molten sliver. He laid his hand over Oleg’s- the one massaging his knuckles- so that he was trapped between his Lord’s great paws.

“Allow me this respite, Oleg,” he begged softly. “Thou wert the man stabbed, but I feel a wound within me all the same. ‘Tis festering. It claims thou art dead to me, still. If I do not distract myself thou wilt become a ghost entirely. Or a wraith, more like. I can barely keep the fetter on my curse. Assure me I did not taint thy soul with it”

Oleg reached without thinking to take the Veil from Morgott’s brow. The visage shivered for but a moment before Morgott snatched his wrist in a grip that nearly bruised.

“Leave it be,” he whispered mournfully as he relinquished his knight.

Oleg conjured a smile from somewhere. “Let us plan a garden. One for us. If you must busy yourself.”

“I will not indulge worthless frivolities. Leyndell doth not lack for gardens. The people bemoan my absence. They weep over Margit’s wrath. Rumor gathers venom quickly!”

Oleg left Morgott’s side. He paced before his Lord’s many bookshelves. Some of his collection had been outright pilfered from the royal libraries. Most were manuscripts commissioned by scribes and Order ascetics. Others were akin to incomplete journals scribbled in the Lord’s own hand.

“We should fill it with wildflowers.” Oleg trailed his fingers across creased leather spines. “It is as you said. Leyndell boasts a hundred vegetable gardens. A hundred plots for apothecaries.”

“Oleg, prithee.”

“This city is beautiful, but perhaps our spot will have all the majesty of an Altus hillside.”

He winked over his shoulder. Scrubbed away Morgott’s obstinate frown with a glance. His Lord leaned forward in his seat, lips faintly pursed.

“Some heathers would look marvelous beside a patch of Altus blooms. Do you agree?”

Morgott scoffed. “I do not. They may tolerate the same soils, but they blossom in different seasons.”

He was on his feet at once, striding to his desk to gather loose vellum and his quill.

The phantom garden occupied their evening. They sprawled upon the floor, mapping out their pointless project. Morgott sketched as Oleg read aloud passages about the Altus’s flora. They paused only to receive Oleg’s meal from a kitchen courier. Morgott ate his share without complaint. Doodling complicated blossoms in the margins of his notes as he chewed crusty bread and dried meat.

He was a stunning creature in thought. With the furrows of his brow deep but devoid of anger. The fall of his hair so beautifully framing his face. He was within himself as he mumbled about soil conditions and the practicalities of cost. As he sketched loose layouts. As he dripped colored wax on the paper to represent the flowers.

This may never come to be.

Oleg kept the thought to himself. Though he was certain Morgott was thinking similarly as he delicately licked his ink-stained fingertips. They could plant their artificial glade, and never see it bloom. They may both be dead in a few months’ time. Their bodies made fodder for Bloodroses before the heathers outlasted the Altus blooms. Oleg threaded his fingers with Morgott’s.

“Can we build this?” He asked. His mouth was dry.

Morgott, oblivious, replied, “Perhaps. Alas, I have a coronation to plan.”

Chapter 34: Complete

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Steward was sprawled on the bed. If his clothes weren’t part of the enchantment, a royal tailor would have wept. For they were crushed and wrinkled by their wearer’s carelessness.

Oleg bent to kiss his forehead- his preemptive apology for what had to be done. The Lord of Leyndell did not stir. His breath smelled of Trina’s lilies. Silvery lavender pollen dusted thin lips and fingertips. His lids were puffy and bruised despite the flower’s gentle embrace. Nowadays, it was the only way he could get any rest.

It was better this way, Oleg supposed. For once, Morgott could sleep through the bloodshed.

Look upon what you have allied yourself with.

Iren’s snide command slithered between Oleg’s ears. The memory of Morgott, slavering and Omen and filthy transposed itself upon the image of the sleeping Prince. All rippling inhuman anatomy and animal growling.

With what hath the creature purchased thy loyalty? Runes? Titles? Faithless wretch. Thou’rt paying for the Curseborn’s throne for naught.

He remembered Morgott, horrified in the gory colosseum. Mocked and threatened by the General via the wails of a dozen brutalized soldiers. He remembered Margit forced prone in the snow. Chained by holy magic that had bound him belowground for most of his life.

The Erdtree will never permit him, nor his Rune.

Imopea’s hissed condemnation before the golden thorns of the Erdtree brushed the shell of his ear. And he recalled the feeling of Morgott’s Great Rune in the forest a year prior. How Morgott heaped more responsibility upon his own shoulders without faltering.

Then Rykard’s feline drawl eked forth: She was ashamed of you.

Oleg had not believed his heart would ever ache for a Demigod. The Night of Black Knives had been a wound to all, but the grief he’d experienced for it had been distant. More an empathetic twinge- a worry for the stability of the ground underfoot- than real compassion. The divine royals were beyond the reach of earnest connection. He took Morgott’s limp hand. Even disguised, he was feverish to the touch. The Steward was the faithful son of the Eternal Queen. He was an accursed wretch- an eternally spurned soul. He was simply a man denied dignity for far too long.

“For your cause, my Love.”

Oleg took for himself a bottle of wine from the table. He downed the entire thing in one harried drink.

News had come from the southernmost gate. Lady Phelia was fleeing the city.

—-------------------------------

Oleg’s black horse had been bred for temperament and strength. He pushed the beast to its limits as he raced across the picturesque road cutting through the Outer Moat.

If Councilor Phelia were cleverer, she would have smuggled herself out. She would have bypassed the gates entirely. If she were braver, she would have traversed the Shunning Grounds and used its clandestine tunnels to escape the Capital’s bounds. She would have disguised herself as a young page and departed with a trusted Leyndell knight.

Instead, Lady Phelia had gone to the far eastern gate and begged entry into the Forbidden Lands. Alone and hysterical, she was refused by the discerning guards. She was unprepared for the arduous journey to the Lift of Rold. A well-bred noblewoman with only a coat to wear and no experienced escort was doomed to die in the frigid slopes.

Lord Morgott was made aware, of course, of Phelia’s bizarre demands. Her inexplicable madness was explained away by the convenient scapegoat of grief. Councilors Imopea and Iren’s startling disappearance had surely dealt a blow to her as it had all of Leyndell.

She will try to contact Miquella, Morgott had observed. Barring that, she will attempt to flee the Capital altogether.

What should be done?

Oleg had asked the question needlessly. He had known what Morgott’s proposed course of action would be.

… The scheme will fail if she is successful. Should my Hand be forced, silence her.

As Morgott had deduced, Phelia had flushed like a pheasant from the city’s streets. The Knight Captain of the wall had kindly notified the Steward’s knight of Phelia’s concerning behavior. Of her flight from Leyndell without escort for no rational reason. Chivalrous Oleg would fly forth to bring her home.

Unfortunately, there was a great wilderness to traverse- dangerous for a noble-blooded woman to endure on her own.

I have been in your service for a year, now, Oleg had remarked to his somber Lord. But I feel I hardly know the Councilor of trade.

She is a fine woman. Her timidity doth not affect her faith nor her competence.

Was she cruel to you, Morgott?

It matters not. If thou seekest a crime in need of retribution, there is but one of consequence. Lady Phelia will do what she must to undermine my rule. In that, she is a traitor.

Once the outer wall was a mere smear on the horizon, Oleg abandoned the road. The Councilwoman had more than an hour’s head start on Oleg. But he suspected Phelia would not stray from the safer paths. The memory of Arteya’s demise would hopefully be a powerful motivator to keep her on the predictable route.

Most of the land beyond Leyndell was tamed farmland or wild prairie. Pocked with patches of forest. There were plenty of settlement towns at the southern edge of the Altus Plateau- patchwork places of civilization that sprouted up around the Dectus Lift and the roads leading to it. If Phelia made it to such a town, she was as good as spared. If she managed to take the Lift down to the city of Bellum, then she’d never be found again. She wouldn’t be the first mark Oleg and Engvall had lost to those streets.

Green-gold grasses whipped against the horse’s shanks. Oleg could only pray he didn’t run his mount over a rabbit warren.

Evening stretched the shadows of the trees. Phelia had chosen a late hour to make her flight. Oleg pondered whether it was poor foresight or ingenious planning. If she reached Dectus by nightfall, then she’d be doubly secure. However, it also meant fewer travelers would be near to safeguard her with their presence.

Oleg’s steed galloped at the fringe of a wood. Cut through the wilderness the paved roads demurely toed around. And when the trees were behind him, Oleg sighted a lone rider. Of course, kilometers away, he could not be certain he’d happened upon his quarry. Alas, Phelia had only ever known luxury and peace and power. The rider’s tack flashed molten gold in the sunlight. Their traveler’s cloak was fine- hardly besmirched by dust nor the elements.

When the rider at last heard the approaching thunder of pursuit, they spurred their own horse into a gallop. But the pampered, unseasoned steed was not accustomed to such speeds. Oleg’s horse had been bred to chase down Omen- to bear riders with wicked, lacerated cleavers. And since Oleg went without his distinctive armor, it could run even faster. He gained ground on the traveler.

The plain of the Altus became a blur. The cloth over his mouth was moistened by his panting breath. His vision narrowed- all he saw was the road and the shanks of the chestnut horse in front of him. As if by sheer will he could rip the ground away between them like a rug and suddenly be beside her. If the chase was prolonged, aid could come to Phelia. Oleg had dressed himself in the guise of a highwayman for a reason: fewer fingers would be pointed in Morgott’s direction if he was seen. But, if he was caught out, people would be quicker to rally to a lady’s defense against a brigand than a Banished Knight.

His quarry glanced back at him. For a heartbeat, Oleg met her bewildered eyes: gold-smudged green. Her ropey braid was unraveling in the stringent wind. But it was the bow of her frown that assured Oleg he had found the right woman. Watery eyes widened, and she cowered into the neck of her animal.

Oleg drew his sword. He had forsaken his armor, but not his blade. The storm came readily to the Banished Knight.

The summoned tempest was not strong enough to dismount Phelia or injure the horse. But it spooked the dappled beast regardless. It bucked, and Phelia was thrown upon the road. Her palms were scraped bloody as she tried- and failed- to catch herself. She moaned on the ground. So winded her pleas for help gurgled in her throat.

Oleg pulled up on his reigns; the steed tossed his head but obediently slowed. Phelia curled in on herself pathetically as he barreled past. He rounded before her own startled mare, blocking the path southward for good measure. A cloud of dust obscured the road northwards.

“Lady Phelia-”

Lightning struck Oleg in the chest. Pain- fire- lanced down his arms and spine. Radiated from his collarbone. He fell back, slid from his saddle. Though he possessed enough wit to angle himself so that his skull didn’t crack upon the stone first, his breath was still squeezed from his lungs. Hissing, he pawed at his breast. He feebly grasped an arrow’s shaft. It was as though his heart throbbed around its steel head.

In reality, the arrow had struck nowhere vital. He sat up, groaning. His antsy horse made for a decent shield, allowing him to peer through the thinning fog of grit. Indeed, another rider was approaching fast. Silver armor was set aflame by the sunset. Their bow was nocked again.

A Banished Knight. Oleg could laugh.

He stood; his left arm throbbed in protest. The second arrow buzzed past his ear. He managed to keep from flinching, but it inflicted upon him a terrible urgency. There was no time to see where his sword had fallen. He drew its twin in his right hand. Phelia crawled on the road, coughing piteously.

Her voice hadn’t quite returned to her, but she croaked, “Please! Please help!”

“Stop!” the Banished Knight shouted.

His third arrow was deflected by a conjured cyclone. With Phelia and Oleg at its eye, all was eerily quiet. The hoofbeats of the pursuing knight’s steed were smothered by howling gales. Oleg rolled Phelia onto her back with his boot. If he were a better man, her tearful mewling would have softened his heart.

“I-I never,” she blubbered, helplessly keening. “M-meant him h-harm. I n-never…I want to l-live!”

Oleg bloodied his blade, and the storm died. It sighed its last with Phelia’s lungs. Pinkened sclera made brilliant the hues of her irises. Just like that, Leyndell’s Council was functionally no more.

Oleg readied himself for the Banished Knight. He was almost grateful for the distraction of conflict. But the knight had already slowed his horse to a walk. The fight in him had been severed with the end of Phelia’s life.

“May the sap be bitter for you, friend,” he said. His steed came to a halt just before Phelia’s body, and he dismounted.

Oleg was suddenly parched. Each of his limbs were heavy. There was a halberd at the knight’s back. The bow was still clutched in his hands.

“Is that all,” Oleg countered warily. “Have you no desire for vengeance?”

His heart felt as though it were ramming itself against the arrow embedded in his chest as the other man said, “I considered it, Oleg. But damn me, I cannot raise a hand against you.”

“Engvall.” Oleg stumbled forward.

Engvall raised a warding hand.

“No nearer,” he spat. Then, after a few burdened breaths. “I share the blame. I was meant to meet her beyond the city walls. She claimed it would be less suspicious. We just narrowly missed one another. If I had caught up to her sooner…”

“I might be dead instead,” Oleg quipped. He attempted a smile. Unsuccessfully. “...How long have you been in Leyndell?”

“Not long.” the terse reply.

Oleg tucked the cloth mask under his chin. “You are angry with me.”

“I am…” Engvall didn’t finish his sentence. “I feel for her. This is a wretched end you gave her.”

“You have no idea who this woman is-!”

“She was a Councilor of Leyndell, and I was tasked with bringing her safely to Bellum!”

“My orders come from Lord Morgott the Grace Given.”

“To slay her?” Engvall cried. “What was her crime? She was a noble of the most holy ring!”

“She was a traitor.”

“A traitor like the man you felled in that duel? Grief has rippled from the Capital all year. Were you the cause, each time? Lord Morgott sentenced his Council to die?”

“You do not understand!” Perhaps if he were allowed hours to explain, he could impress upon Engvall the necessity of his task. Instead, Oleg inelegantly blurted, “War will come to the Lands Between someday. This is my duty, to ensure that Leyndell can stand ready when it arrives.”

The wind interjected. Rasping against Engvall’s abrasive silence.

“So, he has made you a killer,” Engvall murmured at last.

“We are sellswords. For a fair fee we brought death to any who-"

“We killed brigands, Oleg! Murderers and thieves!”

“This death is no less just than those we delivered together. For runes.” Oleg was divested of his furious strength. For a moment he was a young man again, the bloodied hand of his first love clapped on his shoulder. Together they stared at the woman- their sister- laying lifeless at their feet. Her soul cleaved by Oleg’s blade. “Let us not pretend that our profession was born of a mutual interest in justice.”

“Be that as it may,” Engvall conceded with a low growl. “I know you, Oleg. Better than most, and certainly better than your Demigod master. He claimed a wolf, but he has tamed you. And you, giddy fool, let it happen because you are so… so…”

“Easily seduced.”

Engvall sighed over Phelia’s body. His indignity briefly forgotten. “I only recall our last meeting. You were not shy about your interest in the Grace Given and his Omen.”

That had been an age ago, it seemed. The memory of his last meeting with Engvall forced Oleg to traverse the months that had followed it. In reverse he witnessed ill-fated affection bloom into love. It had begun, Morgott had admitted, in Leyndell’s coliseum. When Oleg had presented to him the favor of the wilted sunflower.

Oleg’s face warmed. They had lain with one another. They had saved one another. How could he begin to explain to Engvall what had grown from the flower’s seed?

“If I must be something, I will be this,” he declared.

It was better than feeling like a wraith still living. Needed but undesirable. Regarded as little more than an extension of a blade- a tool to be used then discarded. Tended just enough for him to establish roots before being ripped up and cast aside again. Even if he was forever stained by blood for the effort.

“I will be this, because I love him, and he loves me.”

He did not elaborate upon which of Leyndell’s protectors was his paramour. It did not matter, really. Whether the Demigod or the Omen, both were scandalous possibilities. But even without the charm of the splinter, he would not confess to Engvall the truth of both men.

Engvall scowled. His eyes were shining black beneath the visor of his helm. But then he removed it balefully. Amber returned to his glare and tempered it. Dark curls stuck to his forehead, pasted there by sweat.

“I cannot deny it,” he said. “I find it hard to believe. You are dear to me, Oleg. I could not bear to see you hurt- not even at a Demigod’s hands. But I suppose I knew this was coming. The Lord and his beast bid you look forward, and you beheld something pleasing on that horizon. Alas, I cannot join you there. The past has too firm a grasp on me.”

Engvall grabbed the arrow pierced into Oleg’s shoulder. Oleg winced as his former companion snapped the shaft off near the head.

“Engvall-” he wheezed. Though he had gladly entered into Lord Morgott’s service, he had eagerly awaited the day he could return to Engvall again. Now he could feel the long goodbye welling up between them. Fed by the ache in Oleg’s wound and his heart. “I do love you.”

But that utterance meant something different now. They bore the same shape as the words he’d muttered laying in that murky puddle all those years ago. But the meaning within them wasn’t so visceral and vital. It was the decades spent in one another’s company transfigured into a rosy embrace.

Engvall smiled softly. “I will go south. This nomadic life no longer suits me. I doubt I will return to the Altus for a while.”

It was an offer. The same skittish, hopeful musing he’d posed to Morgott a week ago. Oleg shook his head. “I wish you well, Engvall. Truly.”

Engvall’s frown did not ease up. “And I you, Oleg. Truly.”

Oleg bent to strip Phelia’s corpse of its valuables: golden rings and a hair adornment- a purse swollen with runes. Engvall mounted his horse as Oleg offered the coin to him.

“For your troubles?”

Engvall scoffed. “I do mean it, Oleg. I’m through with this life. I will make my own way.”

“Write to me, then, when you have settled. My Lord will permit it. I… have so much I want to tell you.”

“I’d be glad to read about it.”

Engvall was riding southward by the time Oleg had nudged Phelia off the road into a thatch of dense grass. He was a gleaming star low on the horizon by the time Oleg spurred his own steed northward. Towards Leyndell.

Towards home.

Notes:

I've always pictured Phelia's end to be quick and anticlimactic. Of all the Councilor's she was the most inoffensive. And I wanted to highlight the righteous anger Oleg feels on Morgott's behalf with the bewildered horror someone on the outside of the conflict would feel witnessing it. Like obviously the Council is intentionally hard to mourn because we know Morgott's history with them. But he is still a powerful man executing people without recourse- a habit of his that extends into the era of the Tarnished. Morgott is our protagonist, but he isnt' a good person (and we love him for it), and Engvall has deduced that Oleg has become his tool. Which is right and wrong. Morgott's love is genuine, but he has set oleg upon this trajectory.

Chapter 35: Imposter

Notes:

Finishing up this fic was my NaNoWriMo project! I am happy to report the first draft of all remaining chapters is complete! I hope to finish posting this fic by the New Year!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Phelia’s death summoned forth the miasma of rumor. Morgott could inoculate himself against the plague of whispers by remaining in the royal palace. But eventually he was driven from the solitude of his home- a coronation needed planning.

He knew how it appeared. The last of his Council was buried mere weeks after Imopea and Iren were symbolically laid to rest. It was too much death in too short a span. Reeling minds could ponder startling questions and aptly conceive of conspiracies.

And it was, of course, the presence of Margit that made the people suspicious. Resentful. Imopea’s lie to the Perfumer’s Guild had only bolstered the citizens’ distrust. Margit had something to do with the Councilors’ disappearances. Surely, he’d had something to do with Phelia’s slaying as well. It wasn’t so much that the common folk had loved Phelia, but that they loathed the Omen.

Morgott sweat as he was fitted for his crown. It was destined to be a bauble that would see little use after his coronation. But there was a proper order to becoming King. There were expectations Morgott could not afford to shirk for the sake of appearances. He was already straining his credibility by refusing to invite his kin. The excuses he’d given held, backed as they were by the iron of his inherent authority. But if he objected to a new crown, a new set of robes, the blessings, the feasts, the balls- all the menial bits of ritual everyone pretended to care about- perhaps people would notice how threadbare his claim was.

Deft fingers brushed his forehead, and he flinched.

“Ah, my sincerest apologies my Lord,” the smith spouted, automatic. He did not know what he’d done, and he was apologizing anyway.

Morgott loosed a slow exhale through his nose. “Resume.”

But it was at the forefront of his mind, always. As measurements were taken. As hands touched his hair. As apprentices crowded around to observe their master, Morgott waited for a horn to be discovered. For his Omen nature to reveal itself, as if to rescue them all from the unraveling plot before it got underway.

But it was over soon enough. The smith prattled for an hour about the design, unbothered by Morgott’s perspiring forehead and his apparent lack of interest. Much to the artisan’s disappointment, the future King’s crown would be modeled after Godfrey’s. Blunt and undeniable.

As soon as the smith took his leave, students in tow, Morgott went to the nearest basin to wash his face. He was followed, however. Hands went to his forearm. Warm plate and leather was pleasant on his comparatively feverish skin. He had chafed under the smith’s prodding; the last thing he wanted was surprise contact. But having an Omen nose was good for something. Oleg’s presence was immediately soothing.

“You are overburdened, my Lord,” he observed kindly. Addressing him reverently despite the egregious familiarity of his hands.

Morgott grunted in the affirmative. There was no use denying it.

“I suppose a respite is out of the question?”

Morgott made another wordless noise that Oleg instantly deciphered.

“Then let us do an easy task, next.”

“There are no simple tasks,” Morgott protested. Not for the first time he cursed himself for doing away with the Council. If he had known this labor awaited him at the terminus, he might never have grasped for such lofty ambitions. Leyndell had never had a King- always a God and a Lord. The novelty was unexpectedly complicated.

“We can get the feast sorted.”

“We will make do with what we have. ‘Tis too late to acquire anything beyond the Altus.”

“Lamb, pheasant, and fowl should be plentiful. We aren’t wanting for venison or boar in the forests. The salmon will be migrating towards the Peninsula from the north soon. That will impress. Anything except bear would be grand. Oh, Erdtree. Can we have honey cake?” Oleg’s benignly pragmatic tone morphed into near-begging, as if the coronation feast was suddenly for the two of them alone. Morgott would have preferred it that way.

“I do not wish to discuss the meal.”

Meals, really. Morgott's entrails were churning just thinking about them. He dabbed his face dry with a cloth.

Oleg was not merciful, “Flowers, then. Decor.”

“The Erdtree is enough.”

“My Lord,” Oleg sighed quietly. “I am trying to carve out some time alone with you in this ruckus. Must you fight me at every suggestion?"

Morgott grit his teeth, face warm. “Very well.”

——————————————

The favored florist of the palace was, in fact, not a florist at all. Near the Erdtree Sanctuary, an order of monks tended blooms even the Perfumers struggled to cultivate. It was said their craft was taught by the Erdtree itself. And when they died the roots would take its secrets back.

Morgott knew the truth of the legends. The Erdtree and its saplings were colonized with all manner of protectors. Avatars, spirits, and the spore-puppetted corpses of the Guardians.

But the monks in the abbey were alive. To Lord Morgott they readily pledged hundreds of golden sunflowers. Those most potent and luminous, grown in the Erdtree’s aura.

Groves of them, meters tall, covered the abbey grounds. With blooms larger and heavier than a man’s head. At least when they were harvested for the coronation, the seeds could be ground down for holy oil, later. And the petals dried for medicinal teas.

“They are beautiful.”

Morgott glanced down. A fraction of the flowers was taller than he, but most loomed over the Banished Knight.

“They are obvious,” Morgott retorted.

“But they are your favorite.”

“They are a symbol of the Capital's proximity to Grace. They will cost the crown a fair sum of runes.”

The son of Queen Marika could commandeer whatever he wished, flowers least of all. But it was about propriety. Snubbing the order of Guardians of a generous donation would do as much to tarnish his reputation as being Omen would. Almost.

“It only matters if you like them, my Lord.”

Morgott sniffed, the sole piece of his quiet laugh that escaped his chest. “Aye, I do favor them.”

He supposed that was correct. He only said it because he knew it would please his knight. But there was truth in it, ringing in the companionable silence. These barely tame children of the Erdtree- he did love them.

“Shall we go?” Oleg whispered. Gentle as a lamb even in the kit of the dishonorable Banished Knight. An invitation, the sweetest of promises. Gone from the palace and the prying eyes of court, Morgott felt he could accept.

“Soon,” he replied, turning one word into an oath. “The Perfumer House is nearby. There is something I must retrieve.”

It was unusual for the Grace Given to walk the streets unaccompanied. But his stride was long, and the dual swords of his singular guard kept the rabble at bay. They shouted their adorations. Prayers. Giving him a wide berth as though he were as liable to curse them as bless them.

But he did not have to endure their attention for long. The itch of phantom horns and fur vanished the moment he crossed the threshold of the Perfumer House. The herbal scents and sharply pungent concoctions masked the smell of the street beyond. And he could pretend it had all disappeared behind a verdant curtain of leaves.

“…My Lord?”

The cautious greeting eked forth. There she was, the matron. The one he had bribed to develop Arteya’s poisons. Her exuberance was withered. She was bent. Always half-bowing as if her Steward were a wary animal to appease.

But he could not blame her. The last he’d come to her house of healing, he’d been ready to tear the building from the foundations and throw it to the Deeproots.

An oppressive hush settled in the lungs of every Perfumer. Lips sealed behind cloth masks, anticipating a roar that would steal their breaths from them. Morgott wasn’t prepared for the flash of mortification that seared down his spine. He clasped his hands before him.

“Lilies, Perfumer,” he ordered softly.

That set them scurrying. The lead Perfumer shepherded him up the stairs. To a lounge that distinguished patients from customers. Oleg made to follow, and Morgott thought to shoo him back to the entrance. Even if Oleg was perfectly aware of the substance he sought. It was not proper. He was… ashamed.

“You will not be kept waiting, my Lord,” the Perfumer declared. Wavering and weak.

Morgott sighed. With that dismissal, he and Oleg were alone. In the immaculate room that smelled faintly of incense and denser smoke. He meandered to one of the open windows. Sounds of revelry were seeping into the calm. He looked out for them, if only to distract himself from the sensation that he was unfit for a coronation. Unfit for flowers. For a crown. For a man that loved him.

Out the window, he espied a stage of players.

The apothecary window offered a stingy view. A peek through an eye half closed. More than half the stage- a rickety platform of wood crushed between two walls- was blocked by the alley’s buildings. As if they too were craning for a glimpse. While the actors projected well, their voices still drifted to Morgott demurely. Muted and furtive.

It was a performance he’d seen dozens of times. It was a uniquely strange experience to watch himself dominate himself. Whether the actors were putting on a bawdy comedy or a somber reenactment, Morgott witnessed the effigy to Margit be humiliated by pantomimed wounds.

The embroidered sword at the breast of a leonine monster. The prop sword pointed to the heart of a sniveling actor. Alas, Morgott could not conjure a golden dagger and plunge it into his chest. The Omen curse would not be excised from the son of Queen Marika with the weapon of a pious Prince.

This avatar of Margit wore a mask. A snarling lion’s maw bared white-painted fangs. A wild mane made from the pelt of a white wolf cloaked the actor’s back. Eyes rimmed red and bulging stared unblinking- horrified and horrible- at the avatar of the Grace Given. A limp sock stuffed with wool and chaff dragged on the ground, attached by a belt to the actor’s waist. A boneless, ugly tail.

The Steward’s actor was not presented as a caricature of a Badlands warrior. He wore a golden wig threaded with gilt leaves and brown robes sloppily stitched with simple, pale decorations. Not even comedy players would risk besmirching the symbols of the Erdtree and its God. The actor strode forth, but did not draw a weapon on ‘Margit’. Grinning exuberantly, he scratched ‘Margit’ behind the rounded leonine ears of his mask. And ‘Margit’ thumped a bare foot upon the stage happily. Like a dog.

“Art thou in need of exercise, my Sweet?”

The sound ‘Margit’ made in answer charred Morgott’s insides. He was sublimating to caustic smoke in the confines of his clothes.

The loose leash of rope was untied from ‘Margit’s’ neck as the audience chuckled.

“Begone!” ‘Morgott’ waved his ward away. “I’ve another funeral to see to. I cannot be expected to mind thee always!”

The crowd squealed and jeered as ‘Margit’ leapt from the stage into their midst. Growling like a beast. Playful condemnations and curses went unheard by ‘Morgott’. Who glared at the leash with intense curiosity before attaching it to himself. Tugging experimentally. The rouge on his cheeks mimicked blush.

The folly of mercy was put on display. The taming of Margit by the light of the Golden Order betrayed to be a farce. The taint of an accursed soul was more immutable than Order. Margit had not been reformed, only muzzled. And the negligent Grace Given had underestimated the depravity of his Omen.

But of course, Margit was the Grace Given. And his depravity was Morgott’s too.

His Perfumer’s cowered in his shadow. He had fed his city’s nobility to the roots to claim their power. He had laid with a Graceborn man in defiance of his oath to the Erdtree.

A dozen iron shackles could not fetter the terror that was his blood.

‘Margit’ had bounded upon the stage again and was dragging his ‘Lord’ about by the leash with much hilarity.

“My Lord.”

Oleg’s voice was a knife in the ribs. A stab might have hurt less. The future King flinched, and for a pathetic moment he worried Oleg might have been watching the play, too. But his knight was dutifully standing at the far door. And beside him, a Perfumer bent so low her forehead could have scraped the floor. Avoiding eye contact out of respect- or fear. As if he might lunge for her throat at the sight of her face. In the cupped bowl of her hands was a plain wooden box. Painted a dull lavender to announce the contents within. Silvery powder in slender vials.

Morgott took it and offered no thanks.

Laughter snagged on his wrists, his throat, as it drifted up from the alley. He needed his draught to numb his senses. A concoction to keep the Shunning Grounds beast from taking hold of too many thoughts. Too many limbs.

It wasn’t the first time Morgott wondered if there could be a more permanent solution. But he had never been courageous enough to seek it out. The Order was absolute, but the Eternal Queen had bestowed to him a shard of the shattered divinity. He was her blood.

“Wretched thing!” His mimic wailed to the glee and disapproval of his audience.

And the rebuke was ringing in his ears as he and Oleg departed from the apothecary.

Notes:

The old man's guilt and self-loathing are coming to a bit of a head. Uh oh.

Chapter 36: Brother

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The moon and the Erdtree banished true night from the wilderness of the outer moat. Morgott’s silver fur didn’t absorb a speck of golden warmth. He paced about the Minor Erdtree’s trunk. Martens and squirrels chattered resentfully, for his tail lashed at their homes in smaller trees. Those attendants to a scion most holy.

His unease set Oleg on edge. He hesitated upon the shaded path feeling like an ashen spirit in his silver armor. Ahead, Morgott growled every so often. His horns gouged territorial marks in wood.

This was the third consecutive night Morgott had come to prowl the moat. But it was Oleg’s first. Naturally, his Lord hadn’t invited him along- Oleg had followed him of his own volition. In secret, no less. If he weren’t so blatantly aggrieved, Oleg would have been glad to see Morgott sans the Veil. His Lord had scarcely gone without the disguise for weeks. As magically ignorant as he was, Oleg often wondered if wearing such a sophisticated illusion felt like being cramped into an ill-fitting boot. It was apparent Morgott was stressed. That was why Oleg had trudged out to the outer moat in the morning’s wee hours. To help.

Oleg had been free with his speech for so long he wasn’t sure which alias to greet. He didn’t need to choose, in the end. Either his smell in the breeze or the noise of his tread alerted his Lord. Morgott whirled to face him, a burgeoning roar like thunder in his chest.

“Oleg!” His name was shredded against bared teeth. It was cast at his feet, bloodied. “What business?”

“Only to know yours.”

“This… doth not concern thee.”

“You ought not to keep secrets from your Hand.”

Morgott hissed at his obstinance- a startlingly animal sound even for him. That, Oleg supposed, more than his reasoning, cooled Morgott. He simmered in his agitation rather than broil in it. He stalked forth to loom over Oleg, lip curled, “I suppose thou wilt see for thyself, meddlesome knight.”

A shadow glided over the silvery grasses. Though warped by the hilly landscape, Oleg could make out the shape of wings. His breath stalled with his heartbeat. He may as well have been born a mouse the way his body seized with instinctual fright. It was said that Ancient Dragons still patronized Leyndell regularly. In service to Lord Morgott, he had not yet laid eyes upon one. But the prey animal in his soul sincerely felt he was about to meet his first- and last.

Morgott exhaled through his nose and grumbled, “At last.”

A great, dark shape circled overhead against the backdrop of golden leaves and pale stars. Like an immense buzzard. Morgott glared up at the arrival, eye narrowed. His hair whipped about his horns as they descended. The beats of their wings were deafening. The gales they produced tugged at Oleg’s limbs. Tore at Morgott’s ragged cloak. The visitor dropped the last handful of meters. Clawed toes sank into soil before being swallowed up by the hem of a sable robe. Teeth flashed in the moonlight.

Oleg’s hand inched toward his weapon, and Morgott’s voice- coarse and hot against his ear- admonished, “Keep thy blade sheathed.”

“This is a friend?”

“Do not stray from my side. He is not to be provoked.”

Even in the Altus’s luminous night, it was difficult for Oleg to make sense of the man. He had read- and heard- tales of Dragons in human shape. While the stranger was horned and fanged and of stony complexion, he did not quite fit the description. His horns, for one, were not neatly symmetrical, but an impossible crown of enmeshed obsidian ridges. Practically a mane. Oleg bit back a noise of sympathy when he noticed one of the twisted growths had intruded into his left eye socket. While his jaw was somewhat elongated to accommodate a mouth of exposed teeth, it was hardly the muzzle Dragons boasted. The stranger’s wings rustled as he shook them out. A couple of feathers as long as Oleg’s torso fell to the ground.

To this stunning creature Morgott spat, “What kept thee?”

“It is a long journey from Siofra, even on the wing. You are fortunate I made the effort at all.”

Oleg recognized the voice instantly. Soft and rasped, like warm sand rubbed against one’s cheek. Every enunciation pointed and deliberate, as if to weave the words between his fangs without piercing them.

Here was the leonine stranger from Volcano Manor.

“So, this is you,” Oleg inclined his head- polite but not deferential.

A featherlight chuckle hissed from the man. But it was Morgott he addressed: “Who is this creature, Morgott, that stands beside you unflinching? Ah! Or is it still Margit to him?”

His Lord grimaced, “Morgott is fine.”

“Well, well. If this knight is so familiar with you we should be properly introduced.” The weighty crown of the Lord of Blood tilted expectantly in Morgott’s direction.

“Ye art acquainted already.”

“This little thing reeks of your scent, and you cannot tell me his name?”

Morgott’s molars audibly ground together. Then he declared blandly, “He is my knight. His name is Oleg.” Oleg bowed as his Lord’s hand gestured lazily to their visitor. “Oleg, this is Mohg.”

Grace Given,” Mohg sneered. “You are ungenerous as always. That man is no mere knight. And I am more than Mohg.”

The fur on Morgott’s nape was beginning to rise against the collar of his cloak. He cleared his throat: “Lord Mohg, I am Lord Morgott’s Hand and his companion.”

Oleg’s face burned as Mohg throatily chuffed. Morgott’s tail was bottlebrush, and his eye fixated on Mohg doggedly. Because, though Oleg had spoken out of turn, he had not revealed anything that Mohg hadn’t already suspected. The Blood Lord purred, “Now, I would like a proper introduction. Tell your tiny Graceborn lover who I am.”

“I- This is entirely unnecessary.”

“I flew across this accursed continent at your behest. Indulge me.”

“Oleg…” Morgott started. Battle raged between every panting false start. As if his tongue were physically wrestling his voice out of his throat. “This man is my brother-"

“His twin!” The Omen interjected. Though he lacked lips, Oleg was certain he smiled. For his tone dripped mirth. “Though he does not wish it to be so.”

Morgott’s tail twitched. His scowl had deepened, making ashen trenches upon his face. He was rigid- fur standing on end as if he were in a field of fulgurblooms. As though he’d been lethally wounded and was trying so desperately not to show how much blood he was spilling.

Not that Oleg was any steadier. If he held a sword, it would have slipped through his fingers. Perhaps he was turning to skeletal slime in his armor. If the straps loosened at all, he would leak out into the grass. Despite the staggering blow, his mind clung to the memory of Morgott dozing in Mohg’s lap after Rykard’s wedding ceremony. More than anything, he felt foolish for his jealousy. Brothers!

“Aye, Mohg. Thou’rt my disloyal kin. Art thou satisfied with my humiliation?” Morgott demanded.

The Lord of Blood might have tsked. But the noise was crackly and harsh. “Recall that you summoned me, O’ Steward of Leyndell. If your shame is so great, then I can only fathom what drove you to do so.”

Morgott raised his heavy brow. His eye flitted to Oleg lingering beside his tail. He swallowed the words he could not afford to mince.

“Seal my blood.”

Oleg wasn’t sure he’d heard his Lord properly. The inquisitive clack of Lord Mohg’s jaw betrayed his confusion was shared between them. The warmth Mohg had exuded at Morgott’s expense was snuffed. There was only the mild chill of the wind.

Even Morgott shivered. Then his agitation redoubled. “Art thou not the Vassal of thy hideous God? Remove this curse from me.”

“No.”

“Thou wilt not?”

“I will not.”

An owl screeched in the nearby woods. Wolves howled kilometers away. But Morgott and Mohg were deaf to those voices. They were blind to all else, too. Oleg was used to being invisible before the Demigods. He had drawn his sword on Rykard readily. His fingers went numb at the thought of coming to Morgott’s defense against his dreadful twin.

“Thou takest pride in the mire of thy veins. But thou dost indeed despise me to deny me outright!”

“I would you had a bit more pride in yourself. Miquella tells me you are to be crowned at spring’s end. Yet you bid me come to fret over fur and horns. You remain a ridiculous creature. Diminished from the fierce man I once knew.”

“Insult me should it please thee. If thine opinion of me were tarnished forever… I care not. Seal my blood!”

“If it were within my power I would do it!” Mohg roared. “I would deglove your soul! I would alter your blood and hate us both! If it brought you peace… I would take your curse away. Because I would rather lose my brother than watch you be destroyed by the Graceborn you grovel to!”

“‘Tis not their retribution I fear! I fear for them! My thoughts are cruel and unbecoming- I beseech thee not for my vanity. Exile this wretched beast from my mind, I beg!”

“Beg as you are wont. My answer is unchanged,” Mohg’s searing golden eye squinted in disgust. A gnarled hand flicked before Morgott’s nose dismissively. But his fingers curled into a fist that he planted upon his hip. “Such undoing is beyond my ken. Nor is it the desire of the Mother to see Omen blessings excised. You know as well as I, our nature is more than a bloodborne affliction. If I made an attempt, Morgott, I could kill you.”

Morgott panted. His eye was a doused ember. Wet and drowning in black sclera. “Try,” he commanded.

Mohg scoffed. His wings flapped once, buffeting Oleg with wind. Then, those sable curtains seemed to engulf him- cut him off from the Erdtree’s radiance.

“Oleg, Banished Knight,” he drawled. “You have been gifted the knowledge of my brother’s true name. You assured me that you would not forsake him. Yet here he stands, pleading for the chance to be as fair and fragile as you. Your dear Lord is Omen. Do you wish he were something other?”

“No.” The seal was broken with his utterance. Oleg was no longer paralyzed by mortal awe. With faintly shaking fingers he removed his helm. “No, Morgott. I love you as you are-"

“Alas,” Morgott snarled. “-thy love cannot safeguard a kingdom! It cannot quell the parts of me that tear at the King I must be!”

Oleg captured Morgott’s hand- the tips of his fingers, really. For a moment he believed Morgott would wrench himself from his hold. But he did not. Oleg murmured, “I did not know you felt this way.”

But perhaps he did. Whenever Morgott had been furious or distressed, he had sourced the blame in his blood.

“Thou didst see the truth of it, Knight,” Morgott confessed. “I am angry. Always.”

“You are afraid,” Mohg interjected. “Diluting your blood will not cure you of that.”

Morgott had not the strength to bristle. To push back at Mohg’s tenderly brutal assessment. He turned over his hand so that Oleg could slide his ironclad mitt into that coarse palm.

“You will not be alone.” Oleg repeated his oath. The responsibility required of a monarch and the torment of the curse- Oleg could speak to neither. But his loyalties were unyielding. His love inerrant. “The throne is yours. You earned it.”

Mohg sniffed, “If you think yourself unfit then recuse your claim. There are other ways a Curseborn might seek Lordship.”

Morgott said, “There is no one else.”

Lord Mohg chuckled smugly. His molten eye flicked to Oleg. The knight felt unclean- as though he could perceive every bloodstain he’d washed away.

“And whose fault is that, Brother?” Mohg titled his head as Morgott seethed in thin-lipped rage. “Oh, fret not. I am proud of you, if no one else is.”

“Miquella-“

“Is none the wiser, poor thing. And should he and his Blade discover just how you realized your ambitions...” He waved his hand flippantly, then reached for Morgott’s face. Morgott leaned away from the contact. “You may submit to our precious half-siblings. I will not.”

Morgott mumbled, “Do not speak as if we are allies.”

“Aye, but we are twins.”

“…Thou wilt not do it."

“I will not. Is that all?”

Morgott could not escape Mohg’s encroaching fingers. Vicious claws gently caressed his whiskered cheek, and he growled. Oleg jumped at the sound. Morgott reclaimed his hand from his knight.

“That is all!” The future King spat.

“I will take a few sheep. The mutton of the Altus is its only saving grace. I am owed that, I think. For this waste.”

Morgott voiced no objection. Nor did he offer a farewell. The man that slept so peacefully in the Lord of Blood’s presence- the man that tolerated his familiar kiss- was gone.

“Farewell, Oleg,” Mohg said. “I wish you good fortune. My twin is a difficult man to love.”

“I disagree.” Oleg bowed.

Mohg loosed a tiny, bemused grunt. His wings unfurled and eclipsed the moon. Draped the altar of the Minor Erdtree in shadow. He was aloft in three wingbeats, coasting down the slope of the hill to gather wind beneath his feathered membranes.

Morgott glared skyward until Mohg’s form crested the outer wall and vanished from sight. To the stars, he grumbled, “Would that thou had remained in the city.”

“…My apologies,” Oleg whispered.

Morgott scoffed. His neck was all tight cords. Oleg found the words that had abandoned him in Mohg’s leering presence.

“He is right, your Lord Brother. Changing yourself will not make you a better or worse King.”

Morgott sighed. Defeated. “Thou dost not grasp it, yet… I will not be this city’s undoing.”

Notes:

Bro I can't stop putting Mohg in my fics he's so fun.

Chapter 37: Sealed

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

After Lord Mohg had departed to take for himself Altus sheep, Morgott had sent Oleg back to the city alone. His penance demanded by his beloved Lord. Like a fool, Oleg had obeyed.

A week had passed. Morgott had not returned to the palace since. People were fretting. None of the warbling pastors or hand-wringing nobles could hold a candle to that of the Lord’s secret Hand, however. Oleg wasted the days patrolling and cursing himself. He’d allowed himself to be chased off in Morgott’s distress. He should have put up more of a fight. Even though it would have only served to make Morgott angrier.

Oleg’s appetite had dwindled. Concern was a living thing, and it made a den in his stomach. Digging into his entrails and gnawing at his ribs. Breakfast, in consequence, consisted of bread scraps and the barest drizzle of honey. Even then, the creature inside of him kicked resentfully. It did not enjoy having to share its home with those few mouthfuls. Love always had a way of making Oleg ill.

To combat his nausea, he went to his and Morgott’s garden. The one they had begun to build together. The one that might never be completed once Lord Miquella understood he’d been betrayed. The project was in its infancy. Morgott was too preoccupied with his coronation to devote many hours to it. Half-finished frames for beds were crowded by urns of carted-in soils. Oleg peered into one, greeting the fragile green shoots of wildflowers and weeds that were beginning to take root. The dirt would be poured into the beds in due time. Then seeds purchased from the Perfumers and other herbalists would be planted. After the coronation, if Miquella was indeed kind.

Oleg straightened and meandered further into the garden. He skirted around a transplanted hedge-

-and there he was. Morgott. Sitting on a stone bench and surveying the bones of his labor. His hands entwined in his lap- his lips parted slightly. The startled scuff of Oleg’s stumble roused his attention. With bleary eye, Morgott shifted to greet him.

“At last.”

His tone was disdainful- typical of a Lord kept waiting. But it was a veneer scoured away by his subsequent exhale. Oleg had seen Morgott wounded enough to know when he was in agony.

“What happened?”

Oleg threw himself onto his knees. Though he was seated, Oleg had to reach up to take Morgott’s balled up fist into his own hands. His Lord was trembling. Oleg scanned him with flighty eyes. Apart from a pinkish tinge to his eyelid, nary a hair was out of place. If he was injured, it was well-concealed. Except that he shed golden sparks like Erdleaves with every uncomfortable shiver.

“I… have need of thee,” he whispered. “Where my true body is.”

“Morgott-"

“Thou… must act swiftly. The incantation doth share in my pain. I may lose my grasp on it.”

Oleg’s breath picked up, matching the pace of Morgott’s shallow, nasal panting. “Tell me where you are, my Love.”

“The Shunning Grounds,” Morgott confessed shamefully. “I will have to lead thee.”

—----------------------------------------

There were several instances when Oleg feared he would lose Morgott- his incantation- in the sewers. He would lay against the wall with closed eye- smudging grime on his cheek. Or he would bend over to retch noisily at his feet. Nothing would come forth, but the sound was horrible. There was a bloodless pallor to his complexion. Dark bruising beneath his eyes. Golden motes trailed them into the Capital’s bowels.

When Imopea and Iren had brought Oleg to these tunnels with the Omenkiller escort, they had not traveled far. The sewers had been merely that: a bleak, foul, and cramped repository for waste. But the construct of the Steward beckoned Oleg deeper. Shadows shifted. Narrow tunnels growled and sighed. Bones gathered in tidy drifts. The smell of fetid meat leered over the putrid reek of stagnant sewage. Omen were everywhere. Watching the golden Lord and his knight trawl through their territory. Oleg could not see them in the dank labyrinth. He was not naive enough to assume they were alone.

Morgott’s shade was deteriorating when they came to an iron cage. It was suspended with thick chains over a shaft, and water cascaded down its walls. A sort of cistern. Oleg peered into the obscured pool below as Morgott puffed into his ear. His hair was plastered to his face with sweat.

“Takest thou the lift. I am below,” Morgott grunted before he dissolved into a shower of errant wisps.

The roar of falling water could not quite drown Oleg’s pounding heart as the cage bore him creakily to the cistern’s bottom. To the flooded floor dimly lit.

His Lord was naked in the center. All of his hair and fur was stained ghastly pinkish-brown. Oleg bolted. He did not mind how tacky clots smeared across his legs. How the scent of iron and rust overwhelmed his senses. He leapt over the limp tail. It was a relief to see Morgott’s face above water. However bloodied it was.

Oleg nearly collapsed over his chest. The feeble rise and fall of his breast were accompanied by crimson bubbles collecting at the corners of his mouth. Oleg tried to pillow Morgott’s head into his lap. He tugged on the twisted growths, his hair. Morgott stirred. He mustered the strength for a stuttering inhale and opened his eye.

“Veil, Oleg,” he groused.

The sodden lump of the cloak lay at the edge of the chamber.

“Have mercy, Morgott. You need a healer. What happened?”

Lifeless fingers curled loosely around a hiltless sword. His ashen palm was hideously sliced. As if Morgott had been forced to wield the unfinished weapon. Oleg had never seen an instrument so foreboding and wicked. It was thin, jagged, and crystalline. As if it had not been forged but simply hewn from an impossible vein of ore. Its chromatic surface shone with violet, red, and green hues. The colors yet whorled as if the substance of the blade hadn’t settled. Indeed, it steamed where it touched water. Both molten and coagulated.

It was as long as Morgott was tall. The stab wound in Morgott’s gut was rimed with the same hues. With flaky deposits of the mineral. The torn skin was a furious, swollen red-violet. He bled freely.

Morgott glared at the weapon listlessly. He rasped, “I sealed my blood.”

“Oh, Morgott…”

“‘Twas for naught.”

Oleg shook his head. He was glad Morgott could see neither it nor the despair warping his frown. He said, “No, I… You are unchanged.”

Morgott absorbed this information. With a trembling hand laid over his gut wound, he breathed. Slowly but shallowly. His chest barely moved between inhale and exhale. As if he had been so diminished he didn’t fill up the whole of his body. His glazed eye stared at the burden of his tail. His expression overall that of defeat.

“Accursed I remain.”

The Great Rune blazed against Oleg’s fingertips as he cradled his beloved’s crown. It burned as brilliantly as his blood. Straining to keep him tethered.

“I do not understand,” Oleg protested. The Lord of Blood had said the ritual would kill his twin. “Why have you done this?”

“Thou hast placed a curse upon me,” Morgott choked. “I have been seeded with a desire to live! Thou hast made me selfish, Knight. The Erdtree’s light is nourishing but my bestial soul is convinced I am yet incomplete. I want.”

Every word, every movement was threaded with agony. He was a flayed effigy with a lethargic yellow eye. The lines around his mouth blackened with drying blood. His beard was crusted to his jaw. Blood oozed between his fingers as he held his gaping abdomen.

“I wish to rule… without hatred. For the people I must lead. For myself… The ire of my curse is consuming.”

“It is not your blood that makes you angry.” But Oleg didn’t know how to convince him of that. How to impress upon him that centuries of harm earned by the mere fact of his birth would make anyone wrathful.

“I need to be worthy…” he answered. “Of all that I want.”

“You can’t be worthy of anything if you’re dead,” Oleg snapped. The venom in his spittle served to sting more than the terror in his heart. To that, Morgott simply grunted in a manner which signified his disagreement. The little noise made Oleg apoplectic. It all vanished when he saw the welling of tears in the Lord’s eye. Fat, oily, chromatic. Golden grease tracked down his face and he wept the very blood he had sought to purge.

“Oh Gods.” Oleg found himself suddenly defanged.

Morgott would not apologize. Not even now, close to death. But Oleg had already forgiven him.

“It is immutable. I cannot change it when I cannot convince myself to change. There is nothing to be done.”

Oleg half-heard Morgott’s raving defeat. Hope abandoned him as thoroughly as his blood. He said, “You know that I love you regardless.” A desperate bandage applied to the perceived hurt. “You will be King regardless.”

Pain claimed Morgott. His jaw went taut and his stained teeth clenched. More gemstone tears blazed down his cheek. Oleg wiped them away and singed his fingertips.

“Do not touch it,” Morgott pleaded, hoarse.

“It is alright.” Omen blood was hot. Oleg felt as though he were standing too near a roaring hearth. Unpleasant warmth kissed his skin. But it was not harmful. It was not malicious. “We have to get you out of here.”

He couldn’t be carried. Nor dragged. Oleg was but one man, and Morgott was enormous. He gazed upwards to the shaft of light seeping in from a crack dozens of meters up. He retraced the long path Morgott’s shade had escorted him down. Heat tracked across Oleg’s cheeks. It was not Omen blood.

“You could have picked a better place to do this,” he admonished with a fragile, misty smile.

“Hmm.”

Oleg stoppered his tears at once. If he allowed grief to creep into his heart, it would paralyze him. If that happened, there would be no one left to save Morgott. Gently, he set Morgott’s head upon the flooded floor. As he stood, he announced himself.

“I am going to get the Veil.”

Because he was going to have to bring others down here: healers and Perfumers. Perhaps some sturdy knights if Leyndell’s Lord truly had no strength to walk. If Oleg led this hypothetical band to the form of Margit, he did not doubt Morgott would be left to perish, and Oleg would be hung from a gallows soon afterward. It took him several minutes to paw through the heavy, soaked panels of Morgott’s cloak. Thankfully, it was there. He rushed back with it in hand.

The Veil vanished the broken Omen. The Steward shakily sat up amongst the gore- the illusion conjuring a wrap around his lower half for modesty. The hiltless blade of blood he gripped in both hands. Gloved hands. To hide how ravaged his palms were.

“Can you manage an incantation? Erdtree healing? Nothing too fancy, Beastie, just something to wean the pain and keep you awake.”

Oleg’s voice was growing thick. It was the grotto all over again. But now he was even more powerless to help. Morgott’s own withered will would have to keep him alive until Oleg could resurface and seek help.

The glow of gold danced across the soiled water. As though hundreds of runes lurked just beneath the surface. Tender tendrils of holy magic quested at Morgott’s injury. It shrank marginally, but Morgott’s wheezing lessened.

Fear clung to the back of Oleg’s throat. “It may take me an hour to muster healers.” Supplies too. Morgott would need fresh water to wash himself and the hole in his gut. To drink. “Promise me… Promise me you will be here when I return.”

The Steward shuddered like a tree in a storm. “I promise, Sellsword.”

—----------------------------------------

Oleg could scarcely stand himself by the end of it. There was sewage in his shoes, his pants. It dried at the ends of his hair. He’d unwittingly painted smears of filth across his cheeks and lips. Blood saturated his sleeves. He could taste it from when he’d stolen his kiss. The fragrances of the Perfumers’ herbs mingled with the reek of blood and waste rather than banish it.

The incantations of the healers set alight the fog of Perfumers’ incense. Morgott’s body was mended. Holy magic caressed his face- carded through lank silvery-gold locks. It appeared as though Grace was calling him away. Even after his flesh was healed, Morgott swayed on his feet. His breath was labored. Dozens of loving hands were placed upon the Steward of Leyndell. He shivered at their touch. Because If they felt fur beneath his false clothes, their pleas for antecedence on his behalf would transform into terrified rebukes.

He was weakened. And Oleg could not rescue him. He was but a silver castoff slathered in shit.

Oleg bathed in the pristine waters of the grotto. Far from the searing gaze of the stone effigy of Marika. There was going to be a procession, he was told. To celebrate Lord Morgott’s victory.

“What victory?” Oleg murmured to a nearby Perfumer groggily. But she only looked at him oddly. He had no chance to ask Morgott, as he was trapped within the clinging cloister of healers.

Hours later, Morgott was borne on a palanquin through the city gates. Horns blared to draw out the people from their homes and businesses. Oleg trudged alongside the procession- clean but too worn to keep stride. The Grace Given was whole. The dutiful faith and adoration of his people had revived him. But the faraway, perturbed expression on his face…

If Oleg did not drink, he would weep.

“Hark!” Morgott rasped. “Dread not the wrath of the Fell Omen. His blood is sealed! I hold it in my hands!”

They cheered for him. The healers and the knights. The nobles in their rich robes and the commonfolk in their plain tunics. Their voices climbed as he raised the wicked blade aloft. Their love pierced their Lord through, but it was not enough to bolster him.

“Hail the Grace Given!” Leyndell cried in a thousand discordant voices.

The Grace Given’s glare was transfixed by the arc of his curse manifest. He sighed, and something vital abandoned him with his exhalation.

Notes:

Only five chapters remaining. There is a part of me that fears the ending of this fic is going to feel a little abrupt. However, it's already gone on longer than I'd imagined it would! Adding anything else would simply be padding. I hope it has been enjoyable nonetheless!

I am fond of the tragedy of this situation. Oleg just isn't the person that can get through to Morgott that he's fine as he is. Because everything else in the world tells Morgott he is not. Morgott blames his faults on an innate 'badness' to his being. I'm sure he won't totally lean into apathy and cruelty now that he has 'proven' to himself he cannot be 'fixed'! Morgott going on to perpetuate his own harm, by claiming he went to battle with Margit a second time and won ;;

Chapter 38: Blessing

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Olivier would have been proud of him.

The Pastor scarcely crossed Morgott’s mind anymore. It was a shame to his memory, to willfully forget his lessons in temperance and goodness. Morgott had squandered them all for a throne. Pastor Olivier would have been devastated by the man his pupil had become. But the act of forsaking his curse... He would have been proud of that.

Still, this weakness was a greater humiliation than the Omen curse, Morgott felt. He stared into the basin he meant to vomit in, and beheld the good the sealing ritual had done for him in the polished pearl bottom. His complexion had a bloodless pallor to it. But everything else remained.

His nausea passed, but he may as well have been chained to the basin. He wished he knew where he’d scrounged up the strength to walk out of the sewers, because it was utterly gone from him now. As if the fire in his blood had indeed been fuel, and he’d used up the dregs to escape the subterranean depths. Limping back to his bed- his veritable prison for the past month- seemed impossible. His chest tightened at the prospect. The last thing he wanted was for Oleg to find him curled on the floor again, wracked with spasms.

His coronation was tomorrow. And he couldn’t take five steps without his body collapsing beneath its own hideous weight.

There was no time for regrets. An urgent cough supplanted his need to be sick. Morgott gripped the edge of the table as he hacked into the basin. His trembling distorted the water’s surface. His repugnant reflection was made into a shivering smear of gray shades.

He smelled blood. He waited for warm crimson droplets to fall from his lips. To stain his knuckles or the clean water beneath him. His animal instincts were sluggish of late, but his nape prickled. Someone was coming.

The door was thrown open. So viciously the wood cracked. Morgott flinched but managed to stay upright. His indignation was slain by terror. Margit could not be discovered in the Lord’s chambers.

Brutal hands were upon him in an instant. His legs buckled; a feeble kick toppled the basin and its stand. The bowl chipped but did not shatter, and its contents seeped into the rug. Morgott was thrown atop his bed. He could do little more than pant, bewildered.

“I warned you!” Mohg roared.

Morgott had known it was his twin even before he’d spoken. His brother was a black shadow that smothered the room itself. Even with his wings stowed away in his veins he filled the space, forcing Morgott into a suffocated corner.

“Your blood!” Mohg cried, agonized. “Your blessings!”

“Do not mourn them on my behalf.”

“I mourn you!”

Morgott leaned away from Mohg’s reaching hands. But he was in no condition to fight nor flee. He felt brittle- tender- beneath Mohg’s fingers. A brisk inhale betrayed his fear: that Mohg would make good on his threat.

Morgott had chased after his brother all those weeks ago. After he’d sent Oleg away from the Minor Erdtree. He had not been willing to accept Mohg’s dismissal. Bent over fresh meat, Mohg had been even less willing to humor him. The debate had concluded with Morgott pinned to the earth. Shackled by bloodstained talons.

What have you become without my counsel? Pursue this further and I will rescue you from yourself. You would be freer as my prisoner than a loathed Lord of Leyndell!

In the present, Mohg’s hands fell away. His eye discovered the ore of Morgott’s blood stored upon the mantle.

“You remain Omen,” Mohg seethed. He squeezed a drop of satisfaction from the observation. “You destroyed yourself for nothing.”

“How didst thou come to know…?”

“You invoked the Mother of Truth to sully your blood. How could I, her Vassal, not know eventually?”

“The ritual was done to honor the Erdtree. Thy God had no part in it.”

“Blood is her realm, and you trespassed in your faithlessness.”

“So ‘tis her will that I am-“

“Weak? No, Morgott. The fault is yours alone. The error was yours. I did not lie when I said the sacrilege was beyond my talent. Reverence- or lack thereof- had naught to do with it.”

The argument unwound them both. Not because they found solace in one another, but because they could not maintain their wrath towards the other.

“Prithee,” Morgott muttered. “Tell me I will not be ruined forever.”

Mohg traced a claw gingerly along the untidy, chromatic blade. “You should recover. But you will never be the same as you were.”

“I understand.”

“There is a price,” Mohg insisted brusquely. “-to hide away the necessary parts of oneself.”

“I understand,” Morgott growled.

“I do not believe you do.”

“Wherefore art thou here?” Morgott sighed. “Thy grief is noted but it changes naught.”

Mohg straightened. Visibly swallowed down whatever irritation was stuck in his throat. “I am here to ensure that Miquella does not kill you.”

Morgott blinked. Had to make a conscious effort not to shrink into the quilts. “What?”

“Fool. You have made it all too easy for him.”

As if the encounter had been awkwardly choreographed from the start, Miquella’s small frame did its best to fill the Omen-sized doorway. It was enough of a shock that Morgott primarily felt mortified that the door had been ajar all that time. Not a hair was out of place on his luminous half-brother’s golden crown. But his cheeks were a bit flushed. Mohg had raced him here for the chance to assail Morgott first, it seemed.

“Prithee, Mohg,” Miquella protested. Frayed breathlessness fringed his plea. “I have no such intention.”

The dread stewing in Morgott’s gut was a familiar companion. It had gripped his shoulder with piercing talons when he’d been a starving wretch of the Shunning Grounds and a larger Omen had come to bully a meal out of him. Or when the heavy clang of horn-melded cleavers had become thunder lowing up the sewer pipes. It was uncertainty and powerlessness clasped hand in hand. His sole relief was that Oleg was not present.

To Morgott’s stony silence, Miquella declared, “I extend to thee my congratulations, Morgott. Thou wilt be crowned on the morrow, yes? A pity I shan’t make it. Though, as I understand it, I am unwelcome.”

The young Lord’s voice lacked the cold steel of rebuke; his hands wrung, and his tone quavered as though he had a terrible lump in his throat. But Morgott was stricken all the same.

“‘Tis impossible to name oneself King in secret, Brother.” Miquella’s attempt at levity plummeted like an unfledged hatchling pushed from the nest. And with downcast eyes- as though to inspect the mangled thing at his feet- Miquella said, “They are dead, aren’t they.”

“They are.”

Miquella swayed. But he did not break. “, I confess, the cruelty of thine exile hath tempered thy heart to a hardness I cannot fathom. But wouldst thou earnestly swear to me their safety only to harm them anyway?”

“My oath was earnest,” Morgott replied.

“And yet…”

Morgott’s eye alighted upon his excised blood. “‘Twould have wounded them to bow to an Omen Lord. So, they chose instead to die.”

“Prithee, speak plainly.”

“Again they circumvented thy charm and injured me through another!” Morgott snapped. Angry with himself and his loss of control more than Miquella’s needling. “That I am thy Curseborn ward doth not require me to suffer their hatred as others are sacrificed in my stead.”

Miquella leaned against the bed- not tall enough to simply sit upon it. “I had convinced myself as much,” he confessed. “...Thou’rt no more monster than I. No more accursed despite the Order’s condemnation of thee. I am unsurprised that events transpired this way. Thus, I blame myself for what occurred.”

The jagged ore on the mantle sliced Morgott’s restraint and candor slipped free: “I had a part in it.”

Miquella deflated, “I know thou didst.”

But that was as much honesty as either man could endure. As if they’d both realized that more than six men and women would be betrayed in the times ahead. And that assigning proper blame would do nothing to spare the world of what was coming.

Miquella continued, “But ‘tis my earnest belief that thou art the best suited to lead Leyndell in Marika’s absence. I shan’t be the one to crown thee, but I would offer my blessing and ask of thee one final favor.”

Morgott nodded shallowly.

The Empyrean clasped his hands together. “The Haligtree will receive them, the Omen. Common and noble. When my work in Elphael is finished, wilt thou send them to me?”

Doubt was Morgott’s instinctual impulse. The Shunning Grounds were Queen Marika’s divine judgment. The shearing of lowborn infants was her law. It was a condemnation so ancient it was writ into the very soul of the world: the Golden Order. Morgott could command the shackles be removed from every Omen the moment he was crowned, and he would be derided as an addled heretic. A soft fool. Saws would still be taken to newborn skulls. Tails and wings would be butchered. Nobles would cast their swaddled babies down the nearest grate. And of the infants relinquished to the Haligtree, who would ensure their survival through the perilous mountains? Across the foggy, deathly cold Snowfield stalked by rune bears and wolves?

Lord Miquella, beloved as he was, could not Lord over the Lands Between in his concealed city-state. Marika was God- her Order absolute. If Miquella thought he could abolish Curseborn enslavement and bestow personhood to Albinaurics from the base of his lesser Tree, then he would be sorely disappointed. The mantle of Lordship could have been his, but he’d rejected it. He could not undermine the Golden Order through Morgott whenever he wished.

“That I will grant,” Morgott conceded cautiously. “But mistake me not for a vassal of the Haligtree.”

“I appeal instead to thine own compassion,” Miquella murmured. “Thou knowest the horror of their lot better than anyone. Thou hast the key to Rold. I ask that thou dost not impede the exodus. The Graceless will come to Leyndell eventually. Allow them through. I beg.”

Morgott, distinctly aware he could not refuse- and painfully certain of a part of him that did not want to- said, “I shall. When thy work in Elphael is finished.”

“This promise I would hold thee to. As I made Rykard swear to keep thy secret. Thou wilt uphold thine oath or be compelled.”

Morgott’s spine chilled. It should have occurred to him that Rykard’s silence had been imposed by a charm. Miquella’s brows cinched over pale golden eyes. Mohg and Morgott’s irises had always carried the taint of fire. But the Empyrean’s were delicately radiant like sunlight breaking through clouds. His expression was thoughtful, and it terrified Morgott- even Mohg snarled.

Perhaps Mohg was imagining the same fate Morgott was: a splinter planted into his tongue. A sliver of gold-infused wood fashioned into a dreadful fetter- one that would spur him to forsake his values, his faith. He would be trapped as his Council had been.

“It will not come to that,” Morgott rasped. And he was faintly soothed as Mohg sidled beside him.

“Good,” Miquella said. Curt but genuine. “Shall we, Mohg?”

Morgott recoiled instinctively. Mohg had made himself a bulwark between himself and Miquella but was now acting upon some unspoken understanding. His twin’s brief allyship dissolved at Miquella’s invitation. Morgott scowled as Mohg captured his clammy hand.

“It is the way of your people to abhor weakness,” Mohg hissed. “Lest you desire to be carried to your own coronation, accept the strength we lend you.”

Now it was Miquella who inched nearer. “We will heal what we are able. That is all.”

Morgott had received Mohg’s healing before- in the sewers, shrouded from the Erdtree. The flame in his blood had been stoked into an inferno. The curse had been set ablaze in his capillaries. It had hurt in every instance, but the humiliation of accepting the blessings of an imposter God had been the most painful part. He was rejected by the Erdtree but supposedly adored by a being that presided over his suffering.

Morgott begged, “Do not return it to me, Mohg, my blood.”

His twin tsked- breath whistled through clacking teeth. He merely grabbed Morgott’s arm. Morgott strained to tug it away- the entire limb ached for the effort- in futility. His brother’s spur hovered over his pallid flesh.

Miquella cautioned, “Mohg! Forget thine anger. Be gentle with your twin.”

“He does not deserve it,” Mohg complained. Nonetheless, he marked Morgott’s arm carefully. Morgott watched, eye narrowed and tail bristled. It was rare for him to feel like prey. Flanked by two men who- in this moment- could undo him with no recourse.

The cut Mohg made beaded languidly. Morgott’s blood still possessed a sheen of oily color, but it was diluted. Dark red was the most prominent hue of his ichor. He braced himself for the wick of blood to be set alight. There was no ignition. Rather, the frigid sensation inside him was siphoned out. Drawn up from his core to his shoulder to his arm to the cut above his wrist. Mohg took something invisible from his body- some taint in his blood. Perhaps little barbs nicked his bones and abraded his flesh. But it went to Mohg readily- deposited in black droplets into his cupped hand. Morgott became exhausted. As if battle he hadn’t known he’d been fighting had come to a tapered, anticlimactic conclusion.

Miquella’s contribution, then, was ambrosia. The hollowness of Mohg’s gift was filled with buttressing gold. Morgott was an injured vessel, and Miquella was repairing the cracks. His muscles shivered as though to shake off a winter frost. A warmth he hadn’t realized he was missing returned.

When Miquella and Mohg withdrew, Morgott felt like a person again. He stood without trembling. He gripped the post of the bed, and he possessed enough might to make the wood groan. His tail swayed behind him, and the mass of it didn’t tug on his spine as if to tear itself from his body.

He was harassed by a myriad of emotions. Wariness, relief, agitation, confusion, and shame each took a hearty pinch of fur and loose skin and scruffed him. There was nothing he could do but cling to the post, feel the full brunt of his weight on his feet, and refuse to look at either of his brothers.

“Ingrate,” Mohg grunted to his haunches. “You always forget the use of your tongue when it comes time to express your gratitude.”

A silence was framed by Mohg’s nails tapping the adjacent post. A space where Morgott was meant to present an abashed ‘thank you’. He did not, thus Miquella padded forth.

“Morgott.”

“Hmm.”

“I expect we shall not see one another for a very long while.”

Morgott relinquished the post at last. He glanced down, scowling, at the Empyrean. In Mohg’s shadow, he practically glowed. “Thou wilt not attend the next gathering of the Alliance?”

Miquella smiled softly, “I do not believe there will be another.”

Morgott had to reach deep into the viscera of the sentence to find the skeleton of an accusation there. As King, Morgott would be the host of his Demigod kin. He found he did not wish to be.

“…No,” he whispered. “There will be no more.”

“Then I will remain in Elphael. Farewell, Morgott. Leyndell thou holdest in thy capable hands.”

He turned to go, pulling a hood up over his golden locks. He was smothered in a drab brown cloak. From any angle he could have been an ordinary child. Morgott realized, then, that Miquella and Mohg had come in secret. It would have been nothing for Mohg to bear Miquella over the walls on his wings. With another bitter pang, he realized that Mohg and Miquella had grown remarkably close while he’d tended to Leyndell alone.

“I am grateful, Miquella. Mohg,” he relented.

Miquella bounced on his heels then left the room. Mohg lingered. Spine ramrod so that he loomed over Morgott.

“Did you do it for the boy?”

Morgott said nothing. Which Mohg took as the affirmative that it was.

“But not at his behest,” Mohg hissed. It was not a question.

Morgott answered regardless, because words were the only shield he could conjure for Oleg. “No. He did not ask for this.” Then, he pleaded, “Stay away from him.”

Mohg embraced Morgott in farewell. Even with his vigor restored, Morgott could not have beaten Mohg off of him. He didn’t desire to, anyway. His traitorous arms encircled his twin in kind.

Mohg purred, "I am proud of you."

 

Oleg arrived shortly after the Demigod pair departed. Morgott had donned the Veil. The chipped basin was warming in his palms. He was thumbing the crack in the gilt surface when his Hand knocked.

“My Lord?”

Morgott permitted him in.

Oleg’s grin sloughed from his cheeks. He’d had a pallor about him, too, the past few weeks. It was not illness that plagued him, but stress. And the sight of Morgott Veiled and ambulatory was perhaps too much for him to bear.

“You are standing! Walking!”

Morgott was embarrassed by Oleg’s exuberance. Then that mortification doubled as Oleg slumped against the wall, hand clamped over his reddening eyes. Morgott could not recall if Oleg had ever cried in his presence. He caught him just as his legs gave out. It was a miracle that Morgott could hold his knight upright.

“I had thought-” Oleg warbled, voice muffled by Morgott’s body. “-you might never…”

Morgott splayed his hand across Oleg’s back. He could feel weeks of carefully concealed grief be freed by every shake of his shoulders.

“All will be well,” Morgott promised. And it was no empty platitude. He found he believed it as Oleg joyfully wept.

——————————-

The tapestry depicting the Grace Given’s celebrated arrival had been moved to the Erdtree Sanctuary. The graven image of the gleaming, armor-clad Prince of the Badlands glared at the crown of the Steward’s head. Morgott had not requested that it preside over his coronation. Certainly, it had been the work of the overeager Pastor tasked with receiving and consecrating the vows of the Capital’s new King. But it was impossible for Morgott not to hear in the omnipresent murmuration of wraiths the snickering of Leyndell’s snuffed Council as he entered his throne room for the ceremony. When he knelt to be anointed with sap, he was sure- from the perspective of the witnesses- that the Exile Prince’s golden weapon was pointed at Morgott’s bowed head rather than Margit’s breast.

The sap was particularly tacky- like resin. The Erdtree was so stingy with its ichor that Pastors had taken to diluting it with sunflower oils or honey for their purposes. But King Morgott was granted a pure blessing. One befitting a scion of the Eternal Queen. He was privately grateful, even if he understood the Erdtree resented his soul too much to earnestly favor him.

Leyndell had only ever known a God and a Lord. Morgott had not wanted to mimic the rituals of Carian coronations. So, he had looked to the Eternal Queen’s second wedding- when Radagon had ceded his title as King to become Elden Lord.

Was there anything more sacred than the joining of a God and a Lord? Morgott’s coronation, then, would be a marriage. His life dutifully offered to the Erdtree and the city that huddled against its trunk. If it did not desire his accursed soul, it would have his life. His body. His mind. Everything else.

The commissioned crown was set on his brow. As heavy as his shackle had been, but far easier to bear. As weighty as the shorn horns on his brow. It, however, inspired in him pride rather than shame.

A cloak was settled over his shoulders. It shrouded even his immensity. It was an article of brown wool embroidered with an intricate depiction of the Erdtree’s roots and budded saplings. A symbolic burial, it was. A swearing of his entire being to the wellspring of Grace. His every action and declaration, now, would be to honor it. He was detritus. A nourishing decomposition. This oath would be eternal. Thus, in a way, he was dead already.

All this he affirmed aloud. To the Pastor who suppressed an anxious smile. It discomforted the man to force the blood of his God to pledge to the Golden Order and its Tree through him. As if the potency of Morgott’s softly uttered words would physically tear through him.

A mortal lifetime ago, Morgott had been smuggled into Leyndell. A thin, wretched set of twins had been presented to their beautiful, powerful siblings. There had been no battle for Leyndell’s soul. No triumphant return heralded by the horns of oracles. But Miquella and his viziers claimed there had been, and so the people believed it. They adopted the myth and convinced themselves it was as tangible as memory.

This coronation would be much the same. The Lands Between’s gathered nobility would remember the feasts and the dancing and the admirable piousness of their King. They would forget how he excised from the vows the pledging of his blood and soul to the Erdtree. They would not note that he promised instead his sword and flesh. His fury and his love. The necessary components of a protector. A knight.

“No thing shall be held nearer to my heart,” he said to the Erdtree’s Pastor avatar. His eye rose from the floor. A flighty bird it searched for a suitable perch: the Pastor, the tapestry, the winding roots that coiled about the Sanctuary. It landed upon a silver knight, standing reverently to the side amongst a number of his golden peers. Erdleaves snagged in the crevices of his plate. His handsome eyes were hooded by his visor. “I would be sealed to thee with this oath: I am thine eternally. Thy Lord and servant, returned by Grace-”

He stumbled inexplicably. His pulse roared in his ears. But the merciful Pastor stepped in gracefully.

“It is ordained by the Order of Queen Marika the Eternal. Thou art conjoined to the Erdtree, O’ King. Rise, Morgott! Grace Given Son, Grace Given Lord. Greet thy people in the light of thy Beloved.”

Notes:

I suppose that concludes Miquella's part of the story in this! This scene was a tough one to develop. Because it seemed unrealistic for Miquella to be ignorant of Morgott's plans after being conditioned by Imopea's earlier cry for help. If anything, SOTE helped me figure this one out. Miquella is still in an impossible situation: he needs to focus on the Haligtree and his own ascension. He feels he is to blame for what Morgott did. One more failure is added to his internal records, pushing him ever more desperately towards his ultimate fate. And despite all that he's done, Miquella still genuinely feels Morgott is the best ruler possible for Leyndell and can't act against him. 1) He won't invoke Mohg's anger. 2) He's a Demigod obsessed with doing Marika's plan but 'better'. Only a royal of her bloodline can rule. 3) He feels he owes Morgott out of guilt. Still not realizing Morgott is pitiable but also a mean, ambitious fucker.

Chapter 39: *Traitors*

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

They don’t start shifting until Oleg draws his sword. Like animals hunkered in grass made suddenly assured that what stalked them had not been fooled by their camouflage. But the kneeling men and women could not flee with their legs bound. They were cursed to be acutely aware of the fangs bearing down on their napes.

Oleg did not pity them, though they were being condemned for speaking the truth.

The Grace Given attended every execution. He meted the sentence, and his Hand delivered it. He treated the occasion with the solemnity it merited. He was stone-faced and scowling. Not merciful but not reveling in his victory either. Though Oleg knew, privately, that his Lord took great satisfaction in seeing his detractors silenced.

The King walked with a heavy tread. A stave of knotted wood tapped its calamitous portent. He needed the support less as the years passed by, but the aid lent him a severity he’d grown to appreciate. The damned traitors flinched as though it struck their own brittle bones rather than the leaf-strewn ground.

There would be no opportunity to recant. Murderers could be afforded more leniency and compassion. But the maiming of Lord Morgott’s reputation was necessarily unforgivable. So they knelt there: a noble merchant of smithing stones, his two apprentices- his eldest children- and a servant of the family. The King had elected to spare the wife and youngest child. After all, smithing stones were invaluable to the Capital’s armies, and it was preferable not to throttle the enterprise entirely. Additionally, the third child was yet a bairn, and she was dependent upon her mother. These four, though, had traveled to their mines in the Gelmir foothills and returned with more than materials.

The Grace Given has the Fell’s face, don’t you think?

Saying it once or twice in close company was no sin. But voices raised in resentment could not be permitted to shout. The crown's distrust of Gelmir strained industry in the foothills. Checkpoints and tolls choked the northeastern-bound roads, eating into profits. Lord Morgott was greedy, some complained. Paranoid. Spiteful. Omen. Oleg supposed he understood how people could become brazen enough to spew such accusations. He also supposed it was their necks to risk.

“Last rites, Pastor,” Lord Morgott grunted dispassionately.

The Pastor issued blessings in dire monotone, an occasional spark of gold flickered at his fingertips. A proper burial was assured, because the King’s anger did not beget cruelty. One of the teenaged sons started to quietly weep. Oleg thought it a waste to snuff a life so green, but Morgott was not a man of half-measures. He was through with cutting tongues and hoping for the best.

Oleg cleaved the head of the sobbing boy first. The witnesses might interpret it as a final punishment for his weakness, but it was, in truth, a mercy. Let him fear no more. He was destined for the roots.

They were all crying in the end. As Oleg tallied four more to his invisible ledger: the lives of traitors ended in the name of the Grace Given King. It was a larger list than he would have anticipated accumulating in a mere decade. He wished the city’s upstarts would figure out soon that Morgott was firmly rooted into his power, and he would not be ousted.

Royalty were better loved when their brutality was directed elsewhere. Few people wept for the Storm King or the Giants or the Gloam Eyed Queen- those slaughtered foes of Marika and the First Elden Lord. The legends that had rendered those old enemies to corpse wax were celebrated. People did not sing for a King that killed his own. But it could not be helped. Morgott’s rule was young. The nobility that favored Miquella and the vanished Second Elden Lord were no longer content to tolerate Godfrey’s mysterious Prince. They were chafing raw. It was just as well the tumors of rumor were excised.

Blood seeped into the crevices between paving stones. But hundreds of others had bled on that platform over the centuries already. It was practically consecrated ground. Holy for the amount of death it had witnessed.

Oleg wiped his blade on an oiled cloth to clean it and to reapply a coating of sunflower oil and root resin to the edge. Morgott stepped over the slumped corpse of the merchant- stave stabbing into spilled blood- to watch where the sea met the horizon. Twilight was setting fire to the coast, and the ships traveling southward to Limgrave ports were made into charred, blackened husks.

“Oleg,” Morgott murmured, leaden. The address was shackled in iron and abandoned to the tide below. There was nothing dark in that singular word. But Oleg was instantly aware of the sweat on his nape and brow.

“My Lord,” he replied, with equal weight. Accepting the invitation. As if he would have any desire to refuse it.

—--------------------------------------------

As the Lord’s Hand, Oleg was little more than a blade in peacetime. Morgott liked governing, and he’d tried to impart his knowledge onto his knight. Some of it had taken. But Oleg was as inept at statecraft as he was Erdtree scholarship. Fortunately, in a decade, there arose no cause for him to be more than a blade.

Leyndell was a city ancient and elegantly organic. Like a colony of ants nesting in the roots of a tree. Morgott was not reconstructing his kingdom from the ground up. He made his decrees and enforced them at swordpoint when the complacent bellyached. Otherwise, the Hand and the King occupied their days hosting and attending innumerable balls. The nobility of the Lands Between hoped to reestablish bonds with the Capital now that Miquella had ceded the throne to his brother.

Oleg did not mind being a placeholder to bar those Morgott could not trust from seeking loftier positions in court. Rather, he enjoyed the benefits of his exalted station.

“Might Margit join us?”

Morgott snorted, disdainful. Though the corner of his mouth hazarded a smile. “Thou’rt as grasping as the fools that would slander me.”

“You are harsh!” Oleg made to scowl but laughed instead. “Protest all you like, my Lord. You enjoy the game of it, too.”

Morgott was not armed with another retort. He removed his Veil and set it aside with his staff. Sometimes he and Oleg replicated their first tryst- where Morgott endured the agony of adoration until he exploded from the Graceful disguise. Until the glamour was overwhelmed by the beauty of the curse. However, this was not what Oleg had in mind for today.

“Games? If thou wert prey, a wolf would take thee in his jaws, and thou wouldst call it sporting.”

Incantations were scarcely silent. The grander they were, the louder their conjuring. But Oleg was sporting. He ignored the crescendoing chime. The prickling at his neck as decades of honed instincts tried to alert him to what was at his back.

“Am I prey, my Lord?”

“Indeed,” the utterance coiled around his ear and traced his throat like a caress. It was Morgott’s voice, embodying a gentle roll of thunder. Most of the threat was stripped out of it- leaving just enough to raise Oleg’s pulse.

Morgott himself stood before the bed. Hands clasped before him and tail swaying behind. He stepped forward, and the creature behind Oleg snatched up the knight’s arm. Grabbed his waist with the other paw. Pinned Oleg in place so that he was ensnared between the King and his mirror image. Morgott- his flesh and blood Morgott- glared down at him with his embrous eye. With his body restrained against another immensity breathing down his tender neck, Oleg did feel like a terribly devourable thing.

The King forced Oleg’s chin up with a knuckle. He gripped his jaw and turned it this way and that. Appraising. Oleg licked his dry lips. The gloss of his saliva cool as Morgott sniffed centimeters from his face.

“Prepare him,” he told his other self before sauntering back a few paces. He half-reclined on his bed, legs open. His big, coarse fingers were already rubbing at the concealed seam of his groin. Languid- granting Oleg fleeting views of its pink inner walls. Oleg could forgive the laziness- it was arduous work inhabiting two bodies at once. Especially when the other was yanking Oleg’s trousers down.

It was impossible to tell that the Omen holding him captive was a construct of Morgott’s design. He’d only improved his craft over the years. The fingers, then, that probed Oleg’s backside felt just like his lover’s. Because they were his lover’s. Scarred and warm. Thick and blunt. Margit opened him up. It was a boon that the shade was malleable enough not to require lubricant when he penetrated his knight.

Morgott watched the debauched display with hazy contentment. Thin lips slightly parted and cheeks dusted with violet blush. His throat mottled with the same hue. A couple of fingers inside of him was more than enough to get Oleg hard. But Morgott’s indolent masturbation helped, too.

The curling fur of Morgott’s inner thighs glistened with slick. As his arousal mounted, and his cup overbrimmed. The dew was on his hands- his fingers. He plunged a forked pair into his swelling slit to coax out his cock. It was flushed from the confines of modesty. Already inflamed and red-violet. Stiffening in Morgott’s loose fist. He shuddered, and it was shared with his double. Margit’s cock brushed against Oleg’s backside.

Morgott’s expression sharpened as the awareness split between his vessels spilled more consciousness back into him. His heavy brow cocked. His question was presented with a look when he could not trust his tongue. As lust unraveled a bit of him here and there. Oleg, nodded, dangling in Margit’s one-armed hold and plugged up to the second knuckle.

“Come.” Morgott beckoned his other self. Ever Kingly with his prick erect against his stomach.

Oleg groaned as Margit’s fingers retreated. Morgott sneered, “Ah, my prey is the one starved.”

With his soft observation, Oleg was thrown onto the bed. Centimeters from Morgott’s densely furred and inflamed sheath. His own cock was pinned between himself and the bed. He had barely pushed himself up when Margit grasped both legs. Thus, Oleg bowed to his King, resting on his forearms as Margit held his backside up- legs spread at an obscene degree. Then there was Margit’s searing rod again, leaning against his inner thigh.

Morgott merely hummed at Oleg’s anticipatory gasp. Feigning contemptuous disinterest. He could choose to be merciless. Their game had been created without a win condition, but the King so loved to win regardless. Flanked on either side by Morgott’s relaxed legs, Oleg could only stare forward.

Thousands of years ago, poets had likened maiden’s parts to flowers and men’s parts to swords. And artists- so satisfied with themselves- had not revisited the imagery since. Morgott’s cock was hardly a blade, despite the flexing barbs. He was instead a pitcher of the tropical peninsula. A flower as ruinous as it was gorgeous. Tantalizing with his nectar-filled chalice and virile stamen.

With two fingers, Morgott toyed with the lips of his sheath. Slick dripped onto his claws and fur. Onto the sheets. Margit nudged Oleg forward, encouraging him to take his fill.

With his nose pressed against the base of Morgott’s cock and everything below it utterly engulfed by Omen anatomy, Oleg could only imagine Morgott’s expression. Morgott was a big man- Oleg could feel every ragged breath, every minute shudder. In Morgott, a ripple in a puddle was akin to a tremor in the earth. Oleg doubted that half-playful haughtiness had survived even one minute of his suckling mouth.

Once Oleg’s tongue started servicing Morgott’s shaft, the King of Leyndell moaned. That was as rapturous as being fondled in the knight’s opinion. The voice of a man lost in lust was its own reward. If only he could bottle up the noise and let it warmly condensate on his neck whenever he wanted. But Morgott’s was without comparison. He was authority, power, strength and divinity. And his wanton sounds were holiness itself. A thunder that the Storm itself surely envied.

But then Morgott remembered that he was meant to be ruthless. He snapped his fingers over Oleg’s prone form. Margit’s grip tightened a fraction. Then his thumbs were massaging tortuous circles into Oleg’s thighs. His buttocks. The coarseness of his hands meandering towards Oleg’s cock but somehow unable to locate the blushing pole.

Oleg whined into Morgott’s sopping fur. He was rewarded by a light hiss- an aspiration strained through clenched teeth. An admonition from Margit and Morgott simultaneously to keep his tongue working. What could Oleg do but obey?

This time, it was Margit that groaned. By the noises eking from him, it was impossible to know whether Morgott was inhabiting Margit more or less. But this was the spirit of their contest: Margit and Morgott both felt Oleg’s mouth on their cocks. The aim was to see how long he could last with the pleasure imposed on two bodies funneling into one mind.

Morgott was not to be outdone. Those wandering hands at last found their mark. Oleg’s testicles were hot even in Margit’s palm. Taut and delicate and aflame. It was ideal that Oleg’s face was smashed into wet heat and fur. The curse he might have loosed would have offended his Lord’s sensibilities.

Oleg was trembling now. Every taunting touch from Margit struck flint over the tinder of his body. But he never caught. Not quite. He wouldn’t be allowed to. Morgott had his fist around his own shaft. Pulling it down to present the crimson head to Oleg. Oleg, with his limbs so worn his arms had given out. Margit spread his legs again.

Margit- the conjured vessel- had a heartbeat but no blood. Likewise, he was not the damp font Morgott was. Thankfully, a being of light- however realistic- did not make nor need lubricant. Taking Margit’s cock was easier than taking Morgott’s. Its form never quite held rigid. while it stretched Oleg- filled him to capacity. It did not sting with usual the pains of entry. The barbs were not so pronounced. There was no resistance.

If Oleg was boneless before then he was a puddle now. A limp, smoldering thing laying in the sheets. Morgott was not unaffected. His exhalation was a snort through his nose. A labored whimper coasting over the harshness of it. Because it was not his hand he felt on his prick, but Oleg’s tight arse. Twofold.

The tip of his cock spurt. Just a few drops. The knot was pushing against the swollen lips of his sheath already.

“Oleg…” he moaned.

It was as good as an order. Even if it wavered like a plea. Oleg raised himself up on his forearms and swallowed down as much of Morgott’s cock as he was able.

The bark Morgott loosed was undignified. It was a cry, high and sharp and tainted with the delicious sweetness of a sob poorly contained.

There had been plenty of times when this had been enough for Morgott to finish. But they’d practiced for years. The King collected himself. Floating in bliss, he began to thrust. Morgott first, rocking his hips shallowly into Oleg’s mouth. Careful and slow.

Then Margit followed suit. Much more enthusiastically.

Of course, Morgott never lasted too long. But neither did Oleg after getting doused at both ends.

—--------------------------------------------

Margit was barred from the Capital’s streets. A precaution to inoculate Morgott against any rumor that would unfavorably link him to Margit. But he, Margit, could still be found on occasion. Lounging in the King’s own quarters. Asleep in his bed, nicking the craftsmanship with his unruly horns. Perfumed oils wasted on his fur and fine wools tangled in his limbs. With the King’s Hand idly rubbing his clavicle.

But Lord Morgott was a self-sufficient scion of the Badlands- the seed of the First Elden Lord. He required little of his servants; they were a rare sight in his wing of the palace. Thus, with impregnable black curtains drawn across the windows, no one would ever know that the King of Leyndell was occasionally an accursed thing.

Morgott shifted, his waking heralded by a faintly pained grunt. He always slept on his left side, as it possessed fewer horns to lay upon. His tail shivered as he stretched. Oleg watched his prominent vertebrae press against the taut hide of his back. Like a creature imprisoned in a gray canvas sack.

He ate less as the years went on. It was not deprivation, he’d spat, humiliated, to Oleg’s voiced concerns. Oleg did believe him- he had no other choice. He figured it was a consequence of the sealed blood manifested. Morgott was undoubtedly weaker than he had been a decade ago, before the ritual. Sometimes when he slept without the Veil after wearing it so long, he awoke with an aching spine.

Oleg set his calloused hands to the knots in his King’s back. Morgott’s subsequent exhale was a rumbling, contented purr. His tail thumped against the sheets in appreciation. The white hair of his nape stood on end.

“Good morning, my Love,” Oleg murmured into that ruff.

Morgott purred louder in answer.

Alas, Morgott was not one for reveling in doing nothing. He relished Oleg’s massaging for a few minutes before he rose, groaning softly, to wash and dress. He reached for his cane- his blood sealed again in Erdwood- to limp to the wash basin. There was a perfect opportunity for Oleg to quip about their tryst contributing to Morgott’s stiffness. He let it pass him by. Today, Morgott would sincerely need his staff because his body resented its exsanguination, not because of the previous night’s activities. There was nothing to jest about.

“A proper bath is in order,” Morgott declared from behind the screen that shielded the wash basin.

“Agreed. Before the day begins?”

“Aye.”

Morgott donned his Veil again, once he’d scrubbed his thighs and face. Oleg scrounged for more casual wear than his armor in the King’s wardrobe. It was well-stocked with garments his size.

They emerged from Morgott’s wing side by side. If anyone thought it odd Sir Oleg and the King cohabitated, they were wise enough to keep quiet. There was no telling if circulating rumors of an affair bore the same punishment as speculating about Fell Margit’s scandalous alias.

Morgott and Oleg were intercepted before they could enter the baths, however. A winded knight Captain carried with him a dire report- relayed mouth-to-ear from the western mountains to the Capital gates. When he delivered his message, panting, Morgott sagged against his cane.

“The Erdtree of Gelmir… he has burned it- Rykard…” Morgott muttered in appalled, disbelieving fragments.

For Oleg, Right Hand of the Grace Given Lord, that was the moment the Shattering War began.

Notes:

I wish I had something more profound to say at the end of this chapter! I hope no one was too invested in seeing how Morgott rules as King. I wanted to write him getting fucked some more.

I suppose I can say that, judging by Morgott personality in general and Oleg's ashes item description, I do think a great deal of the '100 traitors slain' by Oleg really just consisted of people who spoke out against Morgott for any reason. I do not think Oleg's role in Morgott's court was necessarily an honorable one. Morgott took his power and cemented it by killing dissenters. But frankly I adore that angle for him. He fought hard for his recognition and throne- (Waternoose Monster's Inc voice) 'he'd kill infinity teenagers before he let this monarchy die'

Chapter 40: Shattering

Notes:

Here it is! The infamous over-long ending Hilly-Ho chapter. Except that there's a proper ending after this.

I just really wanted to explore what Oleg and Morgott experienced in the Shattering War, as well as wrap up a few more of the little side-character arcs.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

There were mornings on the mountain when the fog and smoke were so thick that Oleg could convince himself he was the last person living in the entire world. Despite the cool mist against his cheek, the fumes in his lungs burned. He’d developed a cough his first week on the slopes, and it wasn’t improving any. It tickled his throat mischievously. Daring him to make himself conspicuous in the muggy haze.

His nape prickled as the clamor of the rousing Leyndell encampment ambled up the road. Soft at first but quickly gathering momentum. Bellowed orders were not mustering the soldiers, but rather beckoning ghosts from their graves. Every noise was dampened by the murk and reverberated off of the mountainside. They seemed far beyond Oleg’s reach.

Oleg and Morgott visited the front every so often. The King liked having his hands in the business of war. Unsqueamish as he was, he could grip it by the throat even as it leaked all its foul juices onto him. But it also improved morale for the Grace Given to meet his courageous subjects, to remind them that the months spent on an unforgiving cliff face far from their families was appreciated. Celebrated.

The invasion had been easy at the outset. Leyndell had surged up from the lowlands without resistance. Rykard was established in his mountain, but he lacked a sincere Carian army. Leyndell’s advanced cautiously but steadily. Until now.

The front had stymied. Then retreated. Then retreated again. Thus, when the Capital envoy trundled up the treacherous Gelmir slope, it was not the golden King that emerged from the black carriage, but the Fell Omen and his Handler. It was bleakly amusing when the generals sputtered their excuses to Sir Oleg, only for Margit to demonstrate why, exactly, he was the King’s Commander.

Despite the relative quiet, Margit managed to sneak up on him.

“Alas, incompetence ‘tis not our enemy of late,” he growled.

Oleg startled, nearly tripping over Margit’s tail. The gray-furred limb had coiled around his legs. He hadn’t even noticed it.

“Judging by your tone, that isn’t a particularly welcome revelation.”

“Rykard is proving to be a formidable adversary.”

The tail flicked as Margit sneered his stepbrother’s name. He held no room in his heart for begrudging respect. He hated Rykard utterly. Oleg sympathized. The Erdtree’s offspring being put to the torch had inspired in him the same dread Godwyn’s murder had. That the reservoir of the world’s Grace could be so cruelly harmed for the sake of harming was unfathomable. Even then, he would always despise the man that had mocked Morgott’s vulnerability. Who had seen his secret revealed and had smiled all the more broadly for it.

This campaign was justice delayed. Stalled vindication. Morgott had been correct about Rykard’s blasphemous intent, and now he had the power and resolve to see the Prince pay for his crime. However, the costs for delivering retribution were mounting.

“Lord Godfrey would name it cowardice,” Margit continued venomously. “Sending machines to wage war against men. Alas, propriety is of no concern to our foe. Unless we discover a weakness within his abominations…”

Margit was too proud to admit aloud the possibility of defeat.

“Lightning brings them down faster,” Oleg reminded him.

“So sayeth the cultists,” Margit rumbled disdainfully.

“Forgive me for saying so, but I think it might benefit you to grant them your ear-”

Oleg was yanked off of his feet. He was clutched to Margit’s musty cloak. To his warm, pelted chest. He heard, then, over his surprised yelp, the sound of steel slicing into a body. A noxious stench overwhelmed the sulfuric stink of the volcano. As Margit stumbled clumsily from the vantage point into a sequestered alcove of rock, a blade half the length of his body retracted into the mist. Recalled by the leash of a chain. Bloodless. But Oleg knew better.

Oleg wriggled out of Margit’s grasp. A feat when the Omen’s hands were rigid with shock and Oleg had to maneuver in armor. Margit’s breath came in rattling rasps. Terrifyingly loud to Oleg’s ears. He worried that the ambush would find them- until screaming pushed through the gloom from the direction of camp.

Margit was an incantation. A vessel of magic Morgott’s consciousness could occupy. He could not be wounded like a thing of flesh and blood. He did not bleed; but he was in agony. His golden eye bulged. That horrible wheezing slipped through his parted lips.

It was just the two of them. Surrounded by fog barely touched by the rising sun. In the distance there was cacophony. The clink of winding chains and the heavy thunk of immense blades falling. The scrape of metal upon stone. The squelch of eviscerating flesh. The howls that loosed from the lips of Leyndell’s warriors.

“Thou must run, Oleg.”

Oleg flinched at Margit’s feeble voice. He had almost lost himself in that hellish choir. The notes coaxing out a ruinous fear in him.

“I cannot go with thee,” Margit explained laboriously.

“I understand,” Oleg replied levelly. Even though every instinct rioted with despair. He was a knight, not a soldier. And Margit had all but admitted he planned to die on the mountainside. That Morgott was safe at the Capital did little to ameliorate the horror of leaving Margit.

Morgott’s Hand and his wretched Omen beast kissed. Trembling with the pain of uncertainty. Then, too soon, Margit’s paw was shoving Oleg away.

“Go,” he begged.

He could hear Margit behind him as he darted down the path. Great, thundering footsteps trailed him through the ravaged splinters that half of the encampment had already been reduced to. Past the Lyendell corpses that littered the wreckage like cicada brood that had witnessed the end of a generation.

Oleg ran, and he accumulated people. His flight encouraged hopeless men and women to do likewise. Oleg’s pulse was in his ears, and he couldn’t tell how far away Rykard’s machines were. The road was red and tacky until suddenly it wasn’t. Until suddenly the murk gave way to the taunting brilliance of a beautiful day. Until Oleg looked behind him and noticed Margit was not with him. People poured from the pass as Leyndell hastily gave up more ground to the unrelenting pursuit of an enemy that could not be bled.

Oleg thought he heard an Omen’s roar somewhere in the devastation.

Morgott had never died in the body of Margit before. It was said the King was found fainted in the palace and could not be woken for several days after. And that when awareness returned to him at last, he had rejected food and aid. He’d only asked after his Hand. Of course, Morgott himself would not corroborate any of this. But Oleg believed it. How could he not, when he was snatched into his Lord’s arms the second he set foot within the city bounds?

By contrast, it was solely by Oleg’s intercession that his fellow deserters were not hanged at the gates.

The war on Mount Gelmir would drag on for many years. King Morgott recruited priests and priestesses of the Ancient Dragon Cult. He commissioned cannons that could blast apart Rykard’s Abductors.

None of it made a difference.

 

—-----------------------------

Oleg panted at the top of the eryie’s steps. The musky atmosphere, tainted with dander and droppings, inflamed an ache in his lungs. Gelmir was several years behind him, yet every time he had a coughing fit, he tasted acrid smoke. He leaned against the tower’s wall to hack dryly into his fist. The Stormhawk on the opposite side of the room shifted on its perch reproachfully. Annoyed by the sudden, obnoxious presence, but too well-trained to flee.

“Sorry, old boy,” he croaked after recovering. Though exhaustion sat heavy in his chest like a stone. Each year, there was a little more gray in his hair. Perhaps he was the old boy. The hawk’s agitated glare seemed to agree.

Leyndell’s eyrie wasn’t actually a roost for avian nests. It was a narrow tower under the postmaster’s jurisdiction. The Crown monitored its business, nonetheless. Because in the modern age, there were few people who sent letters via Stormhawk. And Morgott wanted to have his eye upon anything written to Godrick by his Limgrave kin first.

But Oleg recognized this bird. The gold of his eyes was rimmed with sunset hues. The underside of his tail had a duller shadow of orange to the feathers. He was Engvall’s. Despite the earlier offense caused, he leaned into Oleg’s stroking finger appreciatively, churring. Thus, compensated for his work, the hawk allowed him to retrieve the tightly rolled scroll secured to his leg.

It was not the cheerful correspondence he had anticipated. The words were scratched with an urgency that bit at the paper itself. Two lines bleated a harrowed invitation for Oleg to meet his former brother-in-arms at some Dectus tavern. Engvall had made good on his word- he hadn’t returned to the Altus since Phelia’s death. But judging by his scrawl, what had driven him northward was not the desire for a social visit.

With King Morgott’s blessing, Oleg departed for the city of Dectus. Just two days after receiving Engvall’s hawk, Oleg sat across from him in the room of a quaint, nondescript inn. A tiny, rickety table shouldered the weight of generous mugs of ale. Cowered between the two men that planted their elbows upon it.

Despite the dire omen threatened in the summons, there had been time aplenty for catching up. Engvall’s eyes, bruised by sleeplessness, had sparked as Oleg was welcomed by the proprietress. Oleg had only caught a glimpse of his disquietude before it sloughed off to make way for a genuine grin. The world wouldn’t fall in on itself whilst the pair had supper together.

“Mercy your hair is long,” Engvall observed as Oleg settled into his chair again. The evidence of their meal he had set on the floor because the table absolutely could not accommodate the empty plates. “I swear you haven’t cut it since you swore to your Lord.”

“I have cut it,” Oleg protested meekly. The silver-streaked auburn strands fell past his chest.

“I know the royals prefer the style- ah!” Engvall's jab was cut off by a conspiratorial gasp.

“Aye, Engvall. The King is fond of it.”

The second wing of the storm chuckled at his own cleverness. “It'll be pooling in your lap soon enough!”

Oleg blamed the warmth blooming across his cheeks on the drink. Morgott kept his own hair shoulder-length- forgoing the braids that had all but become a symbol of Queen Marika’s lineage- out of humility. He did, however, indulge Oleg’s vanity. When Leyndell’s King idly groomed his hair with his fingers, Oleg felt like a Prince himself.

He asked, “How are you keeping?”

Oleg hadn’t set foot in Limgrave since before he’d sworn as Morgott’s knight. But he’d been kept abreast of current events by both Engvall and Morgott’s contacts- inherited through Imopea. The war in the far south had been consistently brutal. Godwyn’s scattered kin finally had sufficient excuse to exchange blows with one another. As did Radahn, who was quick to quash any conflict that crossed his borders.

Engvall hadn’t been snatched up as fodder for any of the crusading factions. He’d found an estate long forgotten in the Weeping Peninsula- a husk hollowed out by a battle unremembered. The people there, bereft of a viscount, had accepted him. Oleg did wonder on occasion if the castle Engvall had unwittingly acquired had once been Oleg’s home. The one he’d been banished from. But he never dwelled on that thought enough to make asking feel necessary.

“Perfectly fine,” Engvall replied. Which was an enormous relief. “The war crawled northward and did not pause to glance over its shoulder. We’ve dug in. It will be some time before anyone attempts to oust us, if ever.”

Oleg frowned in realization. “But to travel this far… You had to have crossed the front- a front!”

Engvall’s expression was exsanguinated of its joy. His cheer evaporated. “Godefroy has brokered a treaty with his brother and a cousin, I believe. The war in Limgrave is practically ended.”

“That is fantastic news,” Oleg exclaimed. But by Engvall’s immediate scowl he knew he’d spoken too soon.

“They will march on Leyndell.”

Oleg guffawed even as dread twisted in his guts. “Have mercy, surely not!”

Engvall shrugged, unconvincingly noncommittal. “They believe they have just cause. Godefroy calls your King an entitled bastard of Godfrey. They believe they are owed Leyndell’s throne as the trueborn heirs of the Eternal Queen and the First Elden Lord. They claim Morgott has been holding Godefroy’s son and his Great Rune hostage.”

Oleg’s emergent instinct was to consider handing Godrick over to his father. If all the man wanted was his heir returned. But there was no doubt that Morgott would dismiss the idea out of hand. Because if Godefroy did siege Leyndell, Godrick would become a hostage.

So, because he lacked a proper rebuttal, Oleg said, “But it is still winter.”

“Liurnian ground will be frozen for weeks yet. It is an excellent plan, really. When they reach the Altus, it will be spring.”

Oleg imagined the vast farmlands of the Plateau. Tilled fields freshly sowed as an army bore down on them.

“...That is assuming,” Engvall exhaled. “-that Bellum allows them use of the lift.”

Bellum was an independent city, and one of the largest in Liurnia. With Raya Lucaria locked down by the Cuckoos- with the Carian Princes abroad and the Princess in self-exile- it was left to its own devices. Thus, Oleg could not say for certain whether Bellum would resist Godefroy or permit him to face whatever fate awaited him above.

“They might,” Oleg confessed. The specter of Morgott growled at his shoulder. He would not have revealed that vulnerability so readily.

Engvall sighed. Held his head in his hands. There were threads of silver in his hair. “It is a force Oleg. More men and monsters than I’ve seen amassed in all my life.”

“Truly?”

He nodded. “I had to skirt past the march on the road to Bellum. The Lakes have brought them to a near standstill, but they will be gathered below sooner than you think.”

Engvall gestured in the direction of Bellum- somewhere over his shoulder and beneath their feet. Oleg stared at that vague spot on the tavern floor, chewing his lip. As if a battalion of trolls and Stormhawks were hiding beneath the floorboards.

“They are going to siege Leyndell,” Oleg whispered. As if speaking aloud their secret would discourage the army from doing so.

“They are going to siege Leyndell,” Engvall agreed. Just as softly.

There was a chance that Morgott was already aware of the coming invasion. Despite the squabbling of the Demigods, Morgott was favored across the lands by virtue of being Marika’s handsome prodigal son and the King of the Capital. Spies and loyalists had surely sent word. But then, why was Oleg only hearing of this now?

Oleg wrangled a smile onto his face, “Thank you, Engvall.”

“I am glad you made it. I was worried you would not get my letter. Or that you would not want to meet me. I cannot stay here long. I have to return home, or I fear I will get caught between Bellum and Godefroy.”

“You’ll stay for the night at least?”

“Of course. I hope you will keep me company. I very well cannot recommend you leave at this hour.”

Oleg snorted, “We can share the bed. Like the old days.”

“Only if your King does not take offense!”

Engvall had the decency not to offer a chance to escape with him. Oleg would not have been tempted, but he was grateful all the same that his friend had not called his loyalty- his love- into question.

 

—-----------------------------

The miasma had come up from the sewers. Or so it was claimed. It could not have come from the dead they buried, the Pastors insisted. The mausoleums were sealed with wax and the ground blessed by the Erdtree’s roots!

The nobility and the Killers of the Guild were baying for a cull. As if more decaying bodies in the sewers would stave off the rampant plague. The wraiths were screaming louder than ever. Raking vengeful claws behind Morgott’s eyes until he wanted to weep for the lack of silence. The Omen Below were dying too. Slower than the Graceborn of Leyndell, but just as painfully. There was nothing to be done for anyone, Graceborn or otherwise.

Poisons were contaminants. Particles the Erdtree’s magic could cleanse. Diseases were living things, Morgott was told. They were animals that denned in the body’s cavities. Killing them to spare the host was beyond the skill of the vast majority of the Order’s magicians. Even then, a healer had to understand the affliction before they could combat it, same as any duelist.

Morgott remembered when the jaws of infection had dragged him to the brink of death. Mohg had used fire to cleanse the tainted flesh. It was a power inherent to bloodflame- one Morgott no longer possessed. But even if he had, sorcerous fire was forbidden by the Order. No matter its capacity to heal.

As it was, every herbalist house- every chapel- was stuffed to the rafters with the sick. The reek of incense stalked the streets, slinking felines. Bellies pressed to the cobbles as if it was the herbal smoke that stealthily brought the malady to the home. Flameless lanterns were set outside each building that housed a diseased person. Melting the snow in neat little circles around them. Their pallid light- diffused through the haze- turned Leyndell streets into frightful, ethereal corridors.

Morgott walked them, occasionally. In a projected vessel that bore no risk of catching ill. He was just as much an illusion as Leyndell’s lingering fog. He bore witness to it all: the buboes and rashes. The eyes sealed shut by discharge and the foaming vomit. The wasting and the helpless, gurgling groans. The smell.

The worst part was that Morgott had seen it all before. The horrors of the Shunning Grounds had welled up from the sewer grates and spilled across the streets. Pooling in the lower districts and draining upwards with the desperate crawl of the citizenry. The starvation, the sores. The creeping rot while one was still living. Morgott was unmoved as he strode through overcrowded wards with his harried Perfumers. His people saw in his detached frigidity stoic strength.

Miquella’s kindness would have served them better. All he could do for them was be unyielding.

Now he paced in the palace war room. Behind the chairs of his generals and captains and head Perfumers. Feeling like a predator in a room of puffed-up hares for how they all shrank from his voice.

Five years ago Godefroy had challenged Morgott’s rule. The fighting was intermittent at best. Godefroy’s forces were also at the mercy of the Altus winter. Once expelled from the Outer Moat, the entire army aimlessly patrolled the outer walls and fields. Stifling trade and commandeering farms. There was no need to dull their blades when pestilence and hunger would see the city devastated by spring. The invasion had largely retreated to the city of Dectus to pillage it in the cold season, leaving a fraction of its original might around the walls.

While Morgott received support from the loyal peoples of the Mountaintops, their meager aid could not heal the city. They could not replicate the rich yields of the Plateau’s farmland. The Outer Moat grew what crops it could where conflict had not salted the earth. Every few weeks there were pilgrimages northward. Morgott did not begrudge their flight, but he held every knight, every soldier, every physician to their oaths. The city would not fall for their cowardice.

“Rats,” Morgott spat. “Graceless corpses! I care not! Let the vessels of the plague keep company with their foul kindred! Fling them over the walls! Plant severed fingers in their stores! Smear bile upon their tents!”

Morgott was wise not to suggest using the bodies of the citizenry, though they outnumbered the Omen dead by far. These puny people before him would have balked at the idea. As if the deceased weren’t already being desecrated- dumped into overcrowded catacombs when they weren’t abandoned to rot in the street for days.

“T-that is most unclean!” someone stammered.

A terrifying spark of anger tried to catch within Morgott. But it sputtered into a feeble smolder. It wasn’t his sealed blood that rescued the dissenter from his wrath, however, but agony. Exhaustion and fear.

Unclean!” Morgott roared. “Spare me thy grief for thine hands unblemished! I would make this curse into our weapon! If our arms are too fatigued to brandish a sword then let us spit in Godefroy’s eye! Otherwise open the gates and let him be entombed with us!”

Sufficiently cowed by the King’s rancor, a scheme was hatched to spread the disease to the besieging army. Hands were wrung over the safety of Dectus. Over the stolen farmland the parasitic invaders were sustaining themselves with- and the enslaved Altus people working it. Morgott’s hands, however, were balled into fists. And Leyndell’s military bent to the rigidity of his will.

With Omenkillers sent to retrieve corpses from the sewers, Morgott strode to his wing of the palace. A dim fog of incense curled beneath the door to his quarters. Pale wisps fled before him. He was ranting to himself as he burst into his chambers.

“If only I could command the walls to move! I would have them coil about the Erdtree and leave this useless city to those pillagers!”

He could imagine it, the immense walls slithering up the gilded streets. Serpentine and uncaring. The ungrateful Capital reduced to rubble by their undulations. They would make a brace about the one thing worthy of rescue.

The stillness in the bed shifted.

“You do not mean that, Morgott.“ The croaked admonition gently issued.

Morgott laid a finger against Oleg’s cheek. With his blood sealed, he didn’t burn quite so fiercely as his knight’s fever.

“Don’t…” Oleg gasped.

“I shall catch naught from thee,” Morgott asserted for the hundredth time. Between the obsessive blessings bestowed by the city’s Pastors and his robust, divine blood, he doubted there remained in him any foothold for the plague. If it had indeed come from the sewers, he’d probably been ill with it in his youth anyway.

Oleg’s frown was disbelieving. But he had not the strength to turn from Morgott’s touch. He coughed so violently his entire frame trembled. Spittle drifted a virulent mist in a slanted shaft of sunlight. Morgott did not care. Oleg’s eyelids pinkened. His pallid cheeks faintly flushed. He inhaled as though the air was composed of sharpened steel.

“Hurts…” his knight muttered apologetically.

It was his lungs, the healers had said. The Perfumers and the Erdtree scholars. The sickness was attacking old scars he’d acquired from breathing volcanic ash on Gelmir. It was Morgott’s fault. Of course it was.

Perhaps the whingeing nobles had been right at the outset- their jabbing fingers deducing the proper source of blame. All his effort. All his care. And the Greater Will had sent a sewer-borne pestilence to remind him-

“Morgott, please…”

“Forgive me,” he begged.

“Whatever… for?”

“These tears,” Morgott hissed. “My weakness.”

“Not weak…”

But he was. Because he did not have it in him to argue. Not with that fragile smile Oleg offered. Because his spirit could be gliding to the roots, and his body would waste its last precious breaths giving Morgott assurances.

“Should eat,” Oleg scolded in Morgott’s silence. Tormenting his ravaged lungs more.

“I have,” Morgott lied.

He hardly felt the hunger pangs anymore. The instinct to hunt was dulled- trapped in the prison of his staff. The reek of the miasma staved the desire to eat. As did the wailing of wraiths making his skull pound for days on end. If his hide was flayed, he was certain compact, coiled knots would be discovered wrapped around his skeleton.

“Not enough,” Oleg accused.

Morgott huffed, “I have fared worse.”

He wasn’t sure why he was forcing Oleg to expend his reserves needling him. Oleg was the one thing in the city worth safekeeping. The only man that didn’t quail at the orders Morgott gave him. But because he was so invaluable, Morgott had asked too much. Oleg had been in the thick of it and had been ensnared by the plague.

“Me too,” Oleg lied through his chattering teeth. Eyelids drooping as if he might fall asleep again.

“Stay,” Morgott pleaded. “I will send for a meal. Prithee... I cannot do this alone.”

Because the future was dark and the light of Grace was so painfully distant. Because there were times the tiny, mortal life shivering on the bed anchored him more than his faith. Though he lived each moment directly beneath the boughs of the Erdtree, he was aware a vital piece of him would be unmoored by the loss of his knight.

“‘M not finished yet, Love,” Oleg promised.

 

—-----------------------------

Arteya, Tolbren, Helian, Imopea, Iren, and Phelia were long dead, but Morgott was still bound to the nominal seventh member of his dissolved Council.

The King sat across from his nephew. Numb to the realization that what he’d once recognized as familial affection had soured years ago. He could not resent Godrick for not storming the battlefield. He was no warrior, and Morgott could not ask a son to take up arms against his father. He hated instead that Godrick assumed no role at all.

“Thine absence was noted at the hospital,” Morgott said frigidly. It was not his desire to scold a man with hair as gray as his own, but if Godrick wanted to pout like a child he would be treated accordingly. “Thou hast shamed me before the Erdtree scholars.”

Godrick cupped his pointed chin in a spidery hand, “I am no healer.”

“Queen Marika is a healer. Thou’rt not the descendent of Godfrey alone.”

“Thou entreatest me to apply myself like a lowborn indenture!” Godrick bit back. “Thou art the Queen’s own bairn. Towards what aim dost thou direct thy gifts? Does the battlefield not beckon thee, Uncle, away from the comforts of the palace?”

The vice of Morgott’s fingers tightened around the head of his staff. As if it were a skull he could crush like the Badlands exile he was meant to be. But Godrick could not know, of course, that Morgott had killed more than any man he sent to war. That he had won Leyndell innumerable victories- as Margit.

Perhaps he might have entrusted his secret to Godrick. If his nephew hadn’t revealed himself to be a flagitious wastrel.

“Thou hast not seen my hand at work,” Morgott rebutted evenly.

“No, I suppose not.”

The youngest Demigod sneered. Plainly hoping to get a rise out of his King. His confident smirk wetly smeared across the back of Morgott’s hand as he was struck. Despite everything, Godrick was made of sterner stuff than Iren. He clutched his cheek, but he was spared any broken bones. A roseate blotch bloomed on his face, but that was the extent of the damage done. His wide-eyed bewilderment shuttered instantly. His jaw clenched as he rubbed the injury.

Of course, the insult to Morgott’s honor and competence was grievous enough to warrant the slap. But that had not been the singular cause. Godrick hardly reacted as Morgott leaned over to hike up his robes.

“Thou’rt rank with putrefaction,” he hissed as he laid eye on the grafted leg. In truth, it wasn’t so rotted- Morgott had known his nephew had abandoned his prosthetic because his footsteps were not heralded by the creak of metal.

Godrick said nothing, foolishly inviting Morgott’s wrath to gain momentum.

“Despicable! Between the plague and the war, thou wert spoiled for choice! The Erdtree scholars scramble to bury our dead and thou seest only a feast for thy depravity! Thou wert so certain none would notice a limb or two absent from the war-dead, hmm?”

He loomed, the light of the Erdtree granted him an umbra dreadful enough to swallow up his cowering kin.

“Thou art a Shardbearer of Leyndell! The forces of the Capital fight for the dignity of the Erdtree and the Golden Lineage! Yet thou refuse to be of any use to this city! Thou’rt a pillager as much as thy father-”

“Thou name'st me Shardbearer yet horde the glory for thyself!” Godrick snapped at last. “Aye! I am the Lord my father’s army rallies for!”

Morgott growled, “Dost thou align, then, with the invaders? With those that starved us in winter and trapped us with the miasma? Godefroy’s wont is for the throne and the throne alone! Well? What sayest thee? Doth Godefroy the Grafted Wretch have thine allegiance?”

He could imagine, then, yanking Godrick by his scruff and throwing him over the balustrade. Watching his frail body break upon the hungry ocean’s teeth as it lapped at the western walls. If his nephew agreed, Morgott would gut him with a conjured dagger on the spot. He would claim another Great Rune for himself. And who would condemn him for it?

Godrick bowed his head, “No, Uncle. I do not.”

 

—-----------------------------

Morgott roused slowly. Limbs shifting gingerly as if they were liable to break off at the joints. Every sequential breath deepened as though his body was easing him out of hibernation.

He was recovering from his third death in two months. Perhaps his fifth since he’d conscripted Margit into the conflict. Morgott’s soul and body were safe, but that did not mean there wasn’t a cost to inhabiting a dying vessel.

As Oleg fetched a pitcher of water, he mused that Morgott was an apt avatar for Leyndell. It was spring again, the seventh anniversary of the siege’s beginning. The plague had burned itself out of Leyndell, having found fresh hosts in Godefroy’s army. Dectus- with reinforcements coming down from Leyndell encampments on Mount Gelmir- had managed to spurn the invasion from the Lift City. Godefroy and his ilk had been turned out to the Altus wilds.

Farmland had been poisoned. Forests had been razed. But the army’s spite had fizzled out in a year. Like a starving bear emerging from its winter den, they were throwing themselves at the Capital walls again. Their last hope was, seemingly, within the honeypot of Leyndell. Alas, there was woefully little for them. And Morgott was not going to let them loot a share regardless.

Morgott was certain that this would be the final assault. That was why he was pushing himself, Oleg felt. If he won the war personally, then Godefroy would have no choice but to die or flee.

“Knight?” Morgott addressed him dispassionately as he took from Oleg the pitcher and drank. He’d died a force of Leyndell’s might, and he still inhabited that role in the dark seclusion of his bedchambers.

“The battle is ongoing,” Oleg answered. “The walls have not been breached. You were… asleep for two days.”

Morgott grunted. The sound morphed into a noise of exertion as he rolled over. With trembling hand, he reached for his staff. He used it to leverage himself to stand. He was haggard. His hair was lank and lusterless. His skin had taken on an ashen pallor. The illusion was struggling to maintain itself in Morgott’s state. Thus, only Oleg was allowed to attend to the King during his narcoleptic episodes.

Morgott snorted through his nose, then raised his hand. From the air, golden filaments manifested. They began to weave themselves into a hulking shape. Misbegotten and accursed and beautiful. Margit materializing outshone the enchanted candelabra at the bedside. In the brilliance of his remaking, King Morgott was all the more threadbare and ghastly.

Oleg slapped his knuckles. Such a strike would never be enough to harm a Demigod Lord, but Morgott lost his concentration. Margit dissolved before he could be fully realized. Morgott snarled; it rasped weakly in his throat.

“A meal first,” Oleg ordered. “Perhaps a bath.”

And ideally several days of rest. But that was not Morgott’s way. He ran himself as ragged as his cloak- until he was so thoroughly exhausted only the sweetness of lilies could give him any succor.

“Margit requires neither.”

Oleg grasped the hand he’d rapped. “Have faith in your city, my Love. The war will not be lost in one more day.”

But only a few hours later, Oleg was marching along the Outer Wall rampart in Margit’s shadow. Leyndell’s archers shrank at his approach. Flinched from his flicking tail.

“Commander,” a few murmured anxiously.

“Fell,” a few muttered resentfully.

“Sir Oleg,” a few others said, bypassing having to address Margit altogether.

It was rumored Margit used the blood of Leyndell’s foes as tender to purchase Grace from the Erdtree. Most snickered at the notion, but few could deny that the Fell Omen was a boon to the holy Capital. The business with Imopea and Iren’s disappearances had been forgotten as the decades passed. They did not love him, but Margit had assured Oleg often enough that his Hand’s faith was nourishing enough.

This fourth incarnation of Margit was as unsteady as its creator. He swayed as he surveyed the field. Oleg held onto his forearm, the illicit touch disguised by Margit’s cloak.

Emaciated trolls beat upon the weathered gate. Archers clad in green and orange tried to eliminate their Leyndell counterparts. The walls were too high for their marksmanship to mean much. Far behind them, in the flat plain, the real battle was closing in. That was where Margit had died two days ago, somewhere in the scorched front of Dragon lightning and steel.

Margit went to the edge of the rampart. His cloak billowed in the winds drawn forth by the artificial storm brewing below. Cries of alarm wafted up from the gathered invaders. A bolt whipped past Morgott’s cheek. He did not blink.

“Begone,” he growled.

Leyndell’s soldiers obeyed at once. All except Oleg.

“You will not jump from this wall,” he scolded. “It is too much even for you.”

But Margit merely tsked. He raised a clenched fist over his head. Gold infested the cloudy sky- mimicked the Erdtree’s blooming spores. Godefroy’s men shuffled back, but the trolls had their orders. They assaulted the gate with abandon.

The sky filled with shimmering stars as a sword materialized in Morgott’s fist. When he slammed it into the crenellation, hundreds of blades of its like rained down. They sank into yielding flesh or shattered upon shields. The skulls of the trolls were pierced. The soldiers were impaled. The stairs leading to the gate were stained with crimson rivulets. Dozens lay dead when the last sword dissolved. Those that survived- whole or otherwise- were not keen to approach the gate.

Margit dared them to attempt it anyway.

It was hardly necessary. News was brought to the wall not two hours later: Captain Kristoff had mortally wounded Godefroy the Grafted and taken him prisoner.

A few months later Godefroy’s armies surrendered. A green tide peeled itself from the Capital walls and slunk across the scoured plain. While the city feasted and celebrated, King Morgott negotiated with Dectus and Bellum to allow the armies’ retreat. Then an evergaol was constructed for Godefroy. At the end of it all, no one had noticed that Godrick had vanished with his inheritance over the horizon.

 

—-----------------------------

“Fool,” Morgott spat. All of his venom instantly decanted in one word.

The chapel door shut behind him with a condemning clang. Oleg remained seated, facing away from the entrance. Morgott paced behind him as he polished his sword. It had been cleansed of its accumulated viscera and now shone so brilliantly his own lined scowl glared back at him. He was furious too. At Morgott.

His King’s rage did not mount at his obstinate silence. But it did simmer, heat filling the chapel’s vaulted ceiling.

“Thou art my Hand!” Morgott exclaimed. “By my decree or not, thine gestures are mine. The blood on thine hands is doth mark thy King!”

“They defied your mandate.” Oleg defended himself evenly.

“Indeed. But their defiance of me did not warrant their deaths.”

Oleg turned, then, to his Veiled King. And beholding his visage, Oleg realized he was the angrier one between them. “The Omens’ horns were shorn. They were placed into their care! You said-!”

“I need no reminder from thee,” Morgott retorted. “-of mine own words.”

“Then help me understand, my Lord, where I erred.”

“Thou wouldst incite mutiny amongst my generals. Whatever my desire for the Omen, their masters are Graceborn. Should they believe an Omen to be a threat to their own, they will do what they must. I cannot mind them as a father would.”

Oleg remembered Helian torturing Morgott’s first conscripts, and the horror in his Lord’s eyes upon confronting it- the memory of pain piercing through the Veil’s illusion. Oleg was further outraged. At Morgott. At himself, inexplicably.

“So they will continue to mutilate the Omen without recourse.”

“Aye, Oleg.”

“You cannot gift them to your generals to abuse!” Oleg declared, indignant.

“Then in the sewers they remain, Oleg! That is the choice I must make for them!”

But there was a third, obvious option. Liberation. From the shunning of the Order. From the battlefields that so greedily drank of their cursed ichor. He dared not suggest it, because he knew that Morgott had considered it himself already. Even the King could not carve out peace for his kind. The Shattering had denied the Graceborn any succor, thus nothing remained for the Graceless but squalor and bloodshed.

Morgott was a good King. Fierce and loyal. As the Omens’ masters had disregarded their Lord’s mercy, Morgott similarly would not dance outside the paradigms of the Golden Order. Queen Marika had imprisoned the Curseborn herself. Freedom as a soldier was the best Morgott could offer. Oleg mourned that, but he could not hold it against his Beloved.

“I am tired of this,” he simply said. Because it was the truth.

Without an iota of regret, Morgott murmured, “Thou thinkest me cruel.”

“War is cruel.”

Morgott lowered himself to sit beside him. “It shall not be this way for always. One day Gelmir will be conquered and Radahn will be defeated. One day Limgrave will rebuild, and so shall we. The Order shall destroy its enemies. When the war is won we…”

He trailed off. Oleg glanced up at him. At the uncertainty that made his handsome face ashen.

“I love you, Morgott,” Oleg said. Because it was the truth.

Morgott exhaled, his shoulders relaxed. “I love thee, Oleg.”

 

—-----------------------------

The Lord of Leyndell rarely left the bounds of his city. Even then, he never strayed from the Altus. It was his Hand that was burdened with the tedium of distant warfare. Thankfully- or unfortunately, according to most - the Lord leashed the Fell to Oleg’s side.

Bellum was a port city without a sea. But Margit’s nose was wrinkled as if he could scent pungent fish and algae anyway. The truth of it, however, was that he disdained the city he had been forced to take responsibility for. After the Siege of Leyndell, he’d made Bellum a vassal city of Leyndell. A choice that safeguarded the Dectus Lift from further incursions but strained the Capital’s resources all the more. Morgott always looked at the city as though he blamed it personally for this slight.

Today, however, Dectus itself hadn’t drawn his ire. It was the fault of the Redmanes that had marched north from Raya Lucaria. Who, adorned in the iconography of Lord Morgott’s exalted father, had come to probe the defenses of the trueborn King. Radahn wasn’t among them, Oleg had been assured. Because the skirmish beyond Bellum would have had a very different outcome otherwise.

Why? Oleg had asked as he’d trudged alongside Margit and a wary battalion of Leyndell soldiers to Liurnia.

Listlessness: Morgott’s blunt reply. Godefroy’s defeat hath quelled the war in the south. Radahn hath tasted true war, now. Peace shall not sate him.

The Redmanes had been driven off, but Margit and Oleg sat in the field hospital, refusing to acknowledge the certainty that defeat would embolden Radahn to try his hand at conquering. And though not the blood of Queen Marika, he was a Demigod stepchild. There was more power in his toe than Godefroy possessed in the whole of his twisted body.

Oleg had been subjected to a meager fragment of it.

He flexed his arm testingly. The muscles twinged and squirmed beneath his skin. As if Margit and the Order healers had run out of flesh to rebuild his limb with and made due with lake leeches. His fingers trembled as though they remembered being pulped against the cleaver of rock-encrusted steel. His skin felt as though it would burst at invisible seams.

“Cease,” Margit grumbled. It was the fifth time he’d commanded his knight to stop toying with the healed arm.

Oleg understood his frustration, of course. But it was difficult to keep still. It was seared into his mind, the duel. He’d met the Knight Captain of the Redmanes in battle. But the might of the Storm had been lacking when pitted against a master of gravity sorcery. He could see it when he closed his eyes: his mangled arm. Not even cut from his body, but crushed into a jam of viscera and bone chips.

Perhaps when Oleg was retired his retelling of the ordeal would include some cunning feint that had secured his victory. But honestly, Margit had rescued him. The King’s leal Omen had crouched over Oleg’s body and used his sculptor’s mind to reshape his arm from its ragged scraps. It had been enough. Barely.

“It feels frail,” Oleg said softly. He moved the arm again and Margit snatched it- gently. Just below the wrist. Again Oleg’s fingers twitched. Like minnows before the jaws of a pike.

“Aye,” Margit simply agreed. “Erdtree healing is not limitless. Thou shouldst regain thy strength in time.”

“It would be a Redmane to ruin me.”

“Thou crossed blades with Captain Ogha, Radahn’s favored knight.”

“Am I not Lord Morgott’s favored knight?” Oleg scoffed. “I would hope for better from myself.”

“That thou survived at all is a testament to thy prowess.”

“You are coddling me.”

“Thou’rt too harsh with thyself.” Then, darkly, “Would that his blood were clotted in my fur.”

Because if Margit hadn’t set to saving Oleg’s savaged limb immediately, it would have been lost.

Oleg stared at his ensnared arm and imagined the labor set before him: the training, the exercises, the sparring. All so he could put more eager Redmanes to the sword. It was either that or remain at the palace and actually try to be the Hand of the King. He realized that the Lands Between had been at war for decades. Almost fifty years, he reckoned. Almost half of his life.

“Have mercy, Margit,” Oleg sighed. “I think I am getting old.”

And he blinked, his beloved. Stunned as though the weight of the years were at last dropped around his shoulders. Only his eye moved, roving over Oleg’s face. He knew what he saw: wrinkles and a fair bit of gray in his hair. A man over a century old and not getting any younger.

Margit whispered, “Marry me, Oleg.”

“I-“ Oleg chuckled. “Well of course, my Lord. But I figured we already were.”

 

—-----------------------------

Their marriage was not a public affair. For political reasons. For personal reasons. It was scandalous enough that the King’s Hand was so outrageously cordial with Margit the Fell. After half a century of war, the Capital would do itself in if their revered and pious King declared his intent to claim a man like Oleg for a consort. Oleg the Banished Knight. Oleg the Omenfriend. Oleg the elder that scarcely had a purpose now that his feeble arm had become a liability on the battlefield.

It was fine with Oleg. He felt secure as Morgott’s chosen consort. His King was a Demigod Lord, eternal and unrelenting. He would not be pressured to take another mate in Oleg’s lifetime.

Besides, this way, they could wed one another without the Veil separating them.

It was ironic how their wedding shirked as many traditions as Rykard and Tanith’s had. There was no Pastor to recite the vows. There was no chapel with an image of Marika to safeguard the sanctity of the ceremony. There was no effigy of flame to snuff out with a fan of gilded Erdleaves. No guests, no feasts, no entertainment. But they had a vial of golden sunflower oil, brown cloaks, and rings.

It was a balmy autumn day, and leaves fell like the offerings of Morgott’s admirers. In the shade of the facade of a heroes’ grave- a monument to the Shattering War- Morgott braided Oleg’s hair. Only today would Oleg agree to it. Marriage was about compromise, after all. Morgott’s hair was too short to braid, so Oleg just combed it. Then he brushed his tail.

When the sun was at its zenith, eclipsed by the canopy of the Erdtree, Morgott and Oleg exchanged vows in a clearing. The cloaks embroidered with the Erdtree’s roots were draped over Oleg’s green robes and Morgott’s blue and gold ones. Oleg smiled even as he tripped over his words. Because when he gazed at his King- his husband- it appeared as though his twisting horns were part of the Erdtree’s boughs. And maybe he had to stare at those horns, because if he met Morgott’s beautiful eye at all, he’d start crying. The oaths themselves were unremarkable, because nothing said in the rigor of ritual hadn’t been spoken already in action and intent for all the years they’d loved one another.

Alas, a few tears slipped free regardless when they anointed one another with the oil. The shallow bowl of the Rune Arc was painted onto their brows. The shape settled nicely between the horn sprouted high on Morgott’s forehead and the pebbly growths over his eyes.

Then, at last, came the rings. Oleg had commissioned his from the smith that had made the King’s crown. The design was nondescript so as to not betray them. A gift, Oleg had lied, for his Lord’s birthday. Though no one in the Capital actually knew the date of his birth, Morgott included. He revealed the silver band almost shyly. It was engraved in a style originating from the Weeping Peninsula. Sailors and fishermen of the far south used flags depicting caricatures of the wind to communicate with nearby ships. Upon the ring Oleg slid onto Morgott’s finger was the sigil that heralded a coming storm.

Morgott’s ring to Oleg, too, was simple. Almost amateurish. Though the shine of gold hid well its superficial flaws. As the Omen Lord mirrored Oleg’s bashfulness, Oleg understood at once Morgott had made the ring himself. He had to have. Because there was a gemstone set into it. A blood-red ruby seeded with impossible colors. Oleg titled his hand so that the jewel caught the light. Verdant streaks shimmered into sapphire threads. Violet sparkled amongst flecks of gold.

“Morgott-” Oleg gasped. Breaking the cadence of the ceremony.

His Lord blanched, “Art thou… I did not intend any offense.”

“It’s magnificent,” he protested. “But swear to me you did not harm yourself to make it!”

“I swear.”

Because what was one more oath to add to the rest?

The final step included a Golden Seed. Such a rarity was not a typical fixture in Leyndell weddings. But Morgott was a royal, and it was important to him. They folded the Golden Seed into the soil. Oleg’s shaky, ruined hand was engulfed by Morgott’s great paw. It was bliss to be encased so, by cool dirt rich with promise and the overwarm palm of his husband. The silver wedding band gleamed on his hairy finger.

This was an incantation. Because there was magic in vows and promises. Because oaths were not solely constructs with which to bind people, but the very nature of the world. Queen Marika had removed Death from the Elden Ring to make her Age one prosperous and full of life. In consequence, her descendents were nigh immortal. To become family with them was to receive the blessing of longevity from the Erdtree.

Neither man needed a formal ceremony to prove their devotion. But Morgott needed it to beg the Erdtree. To swindle it.

They kissed beneath a shower of golden leaves. On their knees in dark earth, their bribe to the Erdtree incubating before them. It was not Morgott’s fault, then, that the memory of their wedding was touched with melancholy.

Because he was Omen, necessarily denied the Erdtree’s gifts by the curse upon his soul.

And every kiss from thereon would- in part- be a kiss farewell.

Notes:

A sad but I believe in-character aspect of Morgott is him struggling to care about individuals overall, but willing to move mountains for a singular person (Oleg in this case). Morgott 'compromises' for the greater good- except where Gelmir is concerned. That was personal. But yeah! Morgott wanting to hang the deserters that came with Oleg despite telling Oleg to flee himself. Morgott wanting to fling infected dead at the invading army but knowing it wouldn't be popular (and therefore having to sacrifice the dignity of Omen even more). Morgott ultimately not caring about the shearing of Omen. He has grown to be jaded and complacent, because he does not feel he can protect Leyndell otherwise. You get me? Like by becoming King he has tragically locked himself into moral stagnancy to maintain his position and protect Leyndell/the Erdtree.

Chapter 41: Consort

Notes:

We're finishing out this fic before New Years! Happy holidays everyone! Thank you all so much for reading this monster of a fic. The longest I've done yet. It's been a real treasure.

Chapter Text

Morgott was old. Hard, long years had left their permanent marks. Barely eight hundred years of age, he was decrepit before the image of his holy mother. He was frail in the shadow of his champion father- so he would have to assume. If he trusted the honesty of the sculptures that captured their likenesses.

But he did not feel it, acutely. Beneath the wrinkles and blemishes and sagging skin, he was sturdy. The divine blood in his veins inoculated him against time’s erosion. The excision of Death had been his boon. Even in the Shunning Grounds. Unless this accursed war took him, he would live to see the rise and fall of countless generations.

Alone.

It was something he could not help but contemplate as he watched his knight spoon honey into his tea.

The skin of Oleg’s hand was so taut Morgott could see every twinge of his tendons. The tremors in his fingers were seismic. Oleg dropped his utensil. A small smile pinched the corners of his mouth, and his face erupted with the emergence of wrinkles. Elderly age pounced on him in his bemusement. The knight hadn’t wielded a blade in over a decade. His weakened arms couldn’t bear the weight of his greatswords anymore. It seemed even the Erdtree could only mend the mortal form so often. Oleg’s duel with Captain Ogha, his campaign in Gelmir, his fever during the siege. Those burdens piled upon him at the age of one hundred and thirty.

“Unclench your jaw. You’ll crack a tooth.”

Oleg’s voice was still strong, despite all. Morgott did as he was bid with a faintly aggravated grunt. But Oleg’s admonition was more than a petty gripe. It was an invitation to speak. One Morgott was reluctant to accept.

Tea sloshed about the rim of Oleg’s cup as he stirred it. The shaking of his hand made his movements erratic and choppy.

“Will you swear to me?” The retired knight prompted, ignoring Morgott’s obstinate silence.

Morgott crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted to look elsewhere- to hide his tightening expression- but there was no refuge in his quarters. No safety from the coming lance.

“That depends entirely upon what thou wilt ask of me.”

Oleg smirked. “Do not make the next one wait.”

“Speak plainly.”

Oleg finished sweetening the tea. But he seemed in no particular hurry to pick up the cup. It would be too much effort to coordinate his uncooperative hands and his speech simultaneously.

“There will be more after me. Men and women who will be taken by you. Who will be loyal to you… Who will love you-"

“Oleg-“

Morgott’s protestation died with a growl. He couldn’t trust himself to be articulate.

The King’s Hand continued, “Do not fight them. Do not forsake them on behalf of my memory. Do not dismiss them in obeisance to the Order.”

Oleg met Morgott’s unfocused, flighty stare. They were mirrored, now. A cataract made hazy Oleg’s right hazel-green eye.

“Promise me you will be happy when I am gone.”

Morgott swallowed, “I am uncertain that I can.”

Oleg extended a spotted, thin hand. Morgott claimed it, unthinking. With a gentleness that had come with years of practice, Morgott squeezed it in comfort.

“Try, at least. With effort, Beastie. Promise me.”

“Aye. I promise.”

Satisfied, Oleg leaned back. It took him entirely too long to take a cautious sip of his tea. His wedding band glinted in the light filtering in through a window. The gemstone of Morgott’s crystallized blood tarnished the simple golden ring. What a fool Morgott had been, taunting the Erdtree with such a bauble. It was no wonder the ceremony hadn’t granted Oleg the prolonged life of a consort.

“I want to go to our garden today,” Oleg said.

Leyndell’s gardens had largely fallen to neglect as the war limped on. The Capital couldn’t afford to preen and be vain. Not when its people were threatened with starvation and the herbalists needed their ingredients to ward off disease. But his and Oleg’s garden had been planted with wildflowers. It thrived unattended, and Oleg harvested petals and leaves for his teas.

Morgott rose and offered his arm. Oleg used its leverage to stand; he hardly weighed a thing.

“Do you need brushed today?”

“No, my Love."

“Excellent. Then you can read to me.”

“Of course.”

——————————--

———————

———-

———————

——————————--

 

Oleg did not live to see the war’s end.

Chapter 42: The Furnace for Gold

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The watchdogs kept out looters and vagrants. Forked knives were carved into the clenching fists of imps before they were released into the gray halls of the catacombs. The skeletons crumpled in the corners- their shed ash feeding gloveworts and violets- were not necessarily the disturbed remains of Shattering heroes, but rather interlopers granted their due recompense. But if anyone braved the catacomb guardians and survived them, they would have discovered a massive Omen slumped over the tomb of a Banished Knight.

The roots that quested for souls throughout the chamber had practically glowed when Oleg’s body had been laid to rest. Now, more than a century later, the fingers of the Erdtree seemed withdrawn. A coating of sap encased the knotted wood. Had dripped onto the caskets of the other war-dead, cementing them shut. Perhaps the torches of ghostflame washed all color from the roots. Morgott’s conjured golden light could not infuse any warmth into the chamber.

A lone, opulent coffin occupied the room’s center. Morgott swiped away the grit that had accumulated in the grooves of the placard that proclaimed the identity of the corpse within: Sir Oleg, Right Hand of the Grace-Given King. Cinders paled his fingertips.

Hullo, Beastie.

In the solitude of the grave- in the silence of death- Morgott heard his thoughts beyond himself. It was memory that whispered to him so sweetly. Oleg would not traipse out from behind a pillar looking utterly satisfied with himself- as if his growing old had been naught but an elaborate jest.

Morgott replied, regardless. “Sellsword.”

The immortality of the Demigods had preserved Morgott’s mind. He was rapidly approaching one thousand years of age, but he remembered everything. The Shunning Grounds. The hatred of his long-dead Council. Every terrible day of the Shattering War.

And Oleg. Especially Oleg.

He could recall the man he had been with Oleg. The Steward- then King- young in his power. Foolhardy and deficient for his servile fear of the Council Miquella had shackled him with. He recognized he had changed. He felt the person he was now would be a stranger to Oleg, should he rise from the coffin inexplicably whole. Morgott had not succumbed to faithlessness and madness as his kin had. But in consequence, he’d had to bury the vulnerable parts Oleg had nurtured.

He could not apologize to the sealed, armor-clad bones. Because, truthfully, he was not sorry. But he did murmur, cheek pressed to the cold coffin lid: “I am glad thou didst not live to see what hath become of the world.”

Oleg’s likeness had been hewn from marble. A glittery silver-blue mineral Morgott had purchased from Laskyar. At such expense the great-grandchildren of Leyndell’s deceased runemasters still winced. Not even ghostflame could dull it. He’d been sculpted into the shape of the stalwart knight. The immortalized face of the man in late middle-age glared over Morgott’s head as though he’d sighted an enemy lurking in the shadows. One sword held before him as though he were about to consecrate the ground himself. His hair flowed down to his waist like wind given form.

Bitterness welled up in Morgott’s chest before black tidings spilled from him like bile.

“Malenia and Radahn destroyed themselves. But loath were they to merely damn one another. The Rot hath consumed Caelid. Radahn’s knights burn the land to halt its spread until the disease taketh them, too.”

He should never have allowed Malenia passage through the forbidden lands. Radahn had laid siege against Leyndell, thus he had been more inclined to humor Malenia’s request. An army of Haligtree soldiers and Cleanrot knights had marched, docile, through the Capital’s gates. Eight years later, only a handful returned. Morgott could have killed Malenia, then. He could have ripped her from Sir Finlay’s arms and taken her Great Rune. Alas, he had not known the extent of the annihilation wrought upon Caelid. He had not been sufficiently outraged.

“Limgrave is a blood-soaked waste. The noble houses tear one another to pieces scrabbling for the Golden Lineage’s scraps. Yet Godrick doth delight in ruling the land. He is a monster. The Stormhawk shall be supplanted by the carrion crow as the symbol of Stormveil.”

He should never have allowed Godrick to flee Leyndell. He should have snatched him up by his scrawny scruff and thrown him into the same gaol as his putrid father. Perhaps then, allies worth having would have risen to prominence in the southern country. Instead, his nephew was a festering blight upon the land. Godrick hadn’t been excised quickly enough.

“Rykard doth hide upon Gelmir. I dare not hope he hath perished, for his Recusants- the Gelmir Serpents reborn- trawl the Lands Between either killing Tarnished or seducing them to his cause. A dreadful cause beyond my ken. No spy of Leyndell which ascendeth that peak ever returns.”

There was magma inside of Morgott. Like Gelmir, he was liable to erupt. Despite his efforts, thousands of his own men and women had been forsaken to the mountain. For naught. He spat his guilty condemnations before the dead, but he could imagine Oleg’s patronizingly kind smile.

“I have lost Mohg completely.”

It was painful to speak his twin’s name aloud. Because anger sparked in his gut and set his blood aflame. But coward that he was, he could not admit the whole of it. The worst of his failures, the tragedy thrust upon Miquella that he had done nothing to prevent.

“I am powerless. I confess to thee, Oleg: if I stand against Mohg and his profane ambitions, he will destroy me. The Erdtree must be my sole concern.”

A dainty brush of sensation graced his fingers. As though littler ones were trying to slot themselves between them. It was instead a moth drawn by the heat of his blood. A subterranean species that licked rancid flesh and nibbled grave violets. Morgott and Mohg had dined upon the insects in their youth. Morgott exhaled, and the moth fled on silver wing.

“The thorns remain. The world is broken. I can only be its King.”

The Omen King. Hidden from his people. Alone, because so few could be trusted with the whole of his being. No one could be allowed near enough to pry his heart from its cage and bear it tenderly. Morgott was not ready. Neither were his Graceborn subjects.

They will never be ready.

Oleg’s sardonic observation after Morgott’s coronation had been gilt. It accumulated golden grit and was fossilized. The wound of the truth was engraved into scripture.

The people would never be ready to receive Omen. Because the Order was immutable and unrelenting. Because Omen were cursed and a threat to that Order.

And it was only here in the chill stillness of the tomb- in the presence of his once-husband’s soulless bones- that he could admit to himself that the realization devastated him. It was a despair he would necessarily doff when the Erdtree shone upon him again. But in the dark, his golden eye welled.

“I did try to keep my oath, Oleg.”

Like the statue of Queen Marika at the mouth of the sewer tunnel, the effigy of the Banished Knight would not meet his eye.

“…There was a woman.” His words were leaden. Like a moth whose wings were savaged by rainfall. "Thou wouldst not have approved. She was a Perfumer. She was…”

Courageous. Pragmatic. Clever. Unflinching.

Morgott may as well have swallowed a Perfumer’s caustic. He could not recount her qualities without losing his nerve, so he did not.

“She and Margit crossed paths upon the battlefield often. She met Morgott once but knew instantly that Margit and the King were one in the same. I thought I would have to purchase her silence with her life. Alas, Oleg. I was charmed before I could condemn her.”

Morgott’s sigh stirred dust. “‘Twas a brief affair. There was a battle on the Bellum Highway.” Liurnian forces attempted to stall the Dectus Lift. They had learned of Malenia’s southward march and hoped to wrest the Lift from Morgott’s control before the Blade reached the Lakes. “Half the city burned. She is still there. Her bones made into the foundations of whatever they rebuilt.”

He had been hers for a fraction of the time he had been Oleg’s. But that wasn’t the reason he sagged against his grave and not hers. Her body was never found. Such was war.

“Do not pity me, my Love. I cleave to the Golden Order as thou didst not. ‘Tis my shield, and I am its unyielding guardian…” He fished in his cloak for a thin chain. A wedding band had been threaded upon it. He yanked it, breaking the links against his neck. “The Lands Between resteth upon a precipice. Though I am King, I must not besmirch what I love with the stain of me.”

His mouth was as dry as any artifact in the catacomb. His band was silver, plain. A contrast to Oleg’s gilt one. Spirals resembling wind had been engraved upon the metal. Morgott traced it with his eye.

“I have shorn the horns of my conscripts. I have not released the Omen to the Haligtree, for it is dying without its Lord. There is no home for them. I have permitted the hunting of my kind. I find I cannot refuse them, the Graceborn. I… I cannot care as thou didst.”

For once, he felt weak for his decisions. The Gelmir campaign had strangled Leyndell of resources and men. Morgott’s Captains and Generals wouldn’t accept intact Omen. It had been an easy thing to overlook. And the Shunning Grounds hunts had bolstered the people- had given them something to celebrate as the world was unraveled by conflict. Thousands of Graceborn were being slaughtered each year. A handful of Omen was hardly a sacrifice. It wasn’t regret he felt, necessarily. Nor shame. But Oleg’s disapproval settled on him like a cowl.

Morgott cleared his throat. His voice broke all the same, “I beseech thee. Do not pity me. Seek someone worthy of thee in the next life. I will safeguard the Erdtree evermore. Thou wilt be reborn.”

He placed the ring and its broken chain upon the coffin. The confession did not lighten Morgott’s soul. But confession had not lessened his burdens since before Pastor Olivier’s death. Regardless he’d shown his husband the truth of himself for the last time. He could leave the man he used to be with the one that had loved him the most.

A Lord of the Shattering emerged from the tomb. He nurtured no pity for himself. Nor anyone else.

“Farewell, Oleg. I did love thee.”

———————---------------------

Another languid century passed. But it brushed against Morgott. If it was a stream, he was standing on the bank with his toes dipped into the frigid water. But even then, the current was sluggish. Dammed by millions of fallen Erdleaves.

He hadn’t changed much. But neither had the world. The Shattering’s final battle had been fought two hundred years ago, yet Morgott was not willing to concede the war was concluded. It had simply gone dormant. It occupied his mind always as the Capital slowly mended itself.

The only other Demigod that hadn’t gone completely to ground was Godrick. And in a way, Morgott was grateful.

The sealing of his blood had soothed his bestial temperament. But he had marinated in war for too many years. New anger nested in the void of his once-rampant curse. Like an animal taking over the abandoned den of something fiercer. Morgott ruled his city with relative peace. But Margit required exercise now and again.

Morgott and Godrick were not allies. Morgott had imprisoned the youngest Shardbearer’s father. Godrick had forsaken propriety and duty for the sake of his ambitions. But Godrick was a hunter of Tarnished. And he did not wholly resent the occasional intercession of his Uncle’s leal beast to assist in the cull.

Godrick never had to call upon him. Reports of ships landing on the continents’ shores would reach the Capital, and then Margit would be skulking on the ramparts soon after. In fact, they did not speak if they could help it.

Morgott- in the guise of Margit- was present to witness Godrick’s acquisition of a particularly appalling corpse. Godrick’s most loyal soldiers and knights were abroad in Limgrave. The castle itself was not conducive to maintaining morale and safeguarding loyalty; exiles and Banished Knights were employed at Stormveil. An ignoble charge for ignoble people. Silver knights dragged the juvenile dragon to the gate. Morgott looked askance, tail lashing. He pitied them all the same. They probably served their wretched Lord to be close to the storm. Thus, they squandered their days carting desecrated bodies about. Tainting their honor all the more for it.

Godrick chuckled heartily at the sight of the dragon. He circled the corpse like a carrion bird himself. Flexing his many hands- questing ticks eager for a blood meal.

Morgott faced the Erdtree to pray. With Margit in a state of meditation, he could consciously control his flesh body in Leyndell. Should someone trespass upon the bridge, Margit would take hold of much of Morgott’s consciousness again.

Within a day, he was summoned. The Tarnished that approached Stormveil next was unremarkable. She was dressed in the dull leathers of any Tarnished wastrel of no renown. Brown hair was braided into a practical plait. The mask pulled up over her face was not the rag of a bandit, but of a delver of catacombs. Indeed, even in the strident wind, she smelled of tomb dirt and the acerbic spark of holy magic. Her cool blue eyes were also sharp- she was not of the fresh-faced, hopeful stock he was typically unleashed upon. She’d spent some years in the Lands Between, snatched up by the Deathroot weeders before ambition at last seized her treacherous soul.

This woman was to be commended for her service to the Golden Order. Alas, she issued to Margit a challenge, baring her dual knives like claws. The sole commendation she would receive was a brutal severance from her guidance. She should have stayed in those tombs blessing risen bones.

He leapt from the rampart, drank in her bewildered expression. All the corrupted death she’d surely witnessed, and he was still the most monstrous thing she’d encountered. He delighted in it. He resented it. He was a Shardbearer, even if this conjured body did not possess it. But to the woman, he was only a beast.

Their first bout concluded swiftly. Margit had more strength in one finger than the reanimated skeletons she was accustomed to dueling. Her body was crushed by the cudgel of his stave before she could swing her blades. Their next dozen encounters ended similarly.

The construct of Margit possessed more stamina than Morgott’s true body. But it was not as powerful. The fragility of the Tarnished was compensated by their continued resurrection. However, most Tarnished only needed to be broken once or twice to understand the futility of their plight. A rare few, nonetheless, could not be dissuaded from pursuing their vile ambitions.

The plunderer of the dead got the better of Margit eventually. Her serrated daggers sliced open his heel, and he dropped to a knee. The Tarnished woman wasted no time plunging her knives into his neck. In Leyndell, Lord Morgott clapped a hand to his throat, gasping. But Margit dissolved into golden motes. Banished for a spell.

If Godrick did not do his part, then the Night’s Cavalry would prowl Limgrave and Liurnia to root out the upstart. Morgott’s pride was wounded more than anything. Tarnished had bested him before, but Stormveil itself was just as effective a deterrent against pillager hopefuls. The grotesque, hostile labyrinth would spit out that little Tarnished before she ever reached Godrick.

But when Margit came next to the castle, the gatekeeper, Gostoc, appraised him of troubling news. Lord Godrick was dead. A Tarnished had fled with his Great Rune.

———————---------------------

Life in Leyndell followed a predictable rhythm. Radahn was a mindless husk, but he kept the stars suspended. Sometimes Morgott swore he felt that gravity in his city. The crop yields never recovered. But that was fine, because births in Leyndell- in the whole of the Lands Between- had plummeted. The consequences of the Night of Black Knives were now acutely apparent. Deathblight was spreading. Old age rarely claimed people anymore. Instead, they withered away into a sort of undeath. Until their bones weren’t sturdy enough to anchor their souls.

Morgott was glad Oleg had been taken when it was his time. Morgott did not visit the tomb as often as he once had. But Order magicians did sweep through the catacombs of Leyndell to ward away the encroach of Undeath.

“Your Grace.”

Sir Erryn’s address tore Morgott from his concentration with lacerating claws. Before him were scrolls of correspondence from the noble families of Liurnia. With the Carian family fractured, relations had warmed to the point the Altus and the Lakes had become tolerant neighbors again. At least Morgott did not flinch. Though the Captain of the Tree Sentinels so embraced Draconic worship it seemed to affect his speech. The man could not speak below a roar.

“Sir,” he acknowledged coolly. The knight had his attention, but he did not glance up from his work.

Captain Erryn bowed. Despite the fierceness of his armor, beneath his helm he was as mundane a man as any. Especially in the presence of a Demigod. He may have been devout to the Dragon Cult, but he had not been tempted by the ruinous allure of Dragon Communion.

“There is a Tarnished at the outer wall,” he declared.

Morgott lifted his head, frowning. “Thou wouldst not bother me with this unless there was more.”

“She desires an audience with you, Grace Given.”

Morgott snorted. “She and all her kind that would tear my Rune from my breast. Thine orders were clear, Captain. No Tarnished is to enter the city. Not even should it ask politely.

Erryn was not cowed by venom nor fire. “Allegedly, she slew the Lord of Blasphemy.”

“Preposterous.”

“She has compelling proof.”

“To a fool, perhaps.” Morgott’s lip curled disdainfully. The bestial sneer wasn’t quite so intimidating on the fair King’s face. That was likely the reason Sir Erryn wasn’t discouraged.

“I saw it with my own eyes, Your Grace.”

Morgott closed his tome with a weighty snap. “Where is the Tarnished, then. If thou hast abandoned thy post?”

“She is apprehended beyond the city, my Lord. I knew I would have to come to you myself. You would not have believed my words from the mouth of a lesser courier.”

“That,” Morgott sighed. “-I cannot deny.”

Against his better judgment, he agreed to humor the doomed creature. Sir Erryn went to the outer gate to retrieve his retinue, giving Leyndell’s court time to gather. The Erdtree Sanctuary filled with Leyndell’s most resplendent carrion feasters. Whispered rumors had drawn them to court as though they’d scented fetid meat. All that was missing was the carcass-to-be. They waited for their King to make the kill. Or perhaps it was merely Morgott himself that was overeager to spill Graceless blood.

As Sir Erryn had promised, the Tarnished was escorted by more knights than was warranted. In the gilt, pristine order of the Capital, she stuck out a rancid bit of filth. Drab and small. She carried a cumbersome, leather wrapped object in her arms. Her traveling garb and dark hair were matted with ash. She was a vagrant without a home or refuge. She smelled of the road and unwashed skin, even across the Sanctuary. From her unassuming appearance to her permanently downcast eyes, Morgott was assured of her carefully choreographed act. She was desperate not to offend- not out of cowardice or respect, but because she coveted his trust.

“Little Tarnished,” he drawled. His keen interest in her motives he disguised with disaffected boredom.

A Leyndell Knight encouraged her to kneel. Complacent and demure, she did.

“King Morgott, I am-”

“I care not what thou art called, little Tarnished. Thy kind are unwelcome. That thou greetest me on bended knee changes naught.”

But while he did not know her name, he realized he did know her. Though she stared doggedly at the polished floor, he recognized her voice- the styling of her hair. Those exact leather garments. When he had seen this woman last, Godrick had perished shortly after.

If she was no liar- and Tarnished were wont to lie- then she was at least a Shardbearer twice over. Morgott rose from his throne, malice in his heart. Entirely human malice, untainted by bestial rage.

“Quickly,” he barked. “What is thy business with me, that thou wouldst so readily forfeit thy life?”

“I wish to make an accord.”

The woman’s deft hands were aware her position was precarious. They freed her offering from its leather bindings, and Morgott’s eye watered. The reek he had attributed to the Tarnished herself slithered- a foul miasma- about the Sanctuary. It was so hideous that Morgott thought the branches of the Erdtree might recede to escape it. The King had smelled many a charred corpse- he had dwelled in a rank sewer. This was nearly worse.

She had brought him a blade. A sword he had seen in the distant past, but not in this corrupted state. Tacky tendrils of rotten flesh clung to the steel. Forked tongues or blood vessels gone foul. Mucous or saliva or some other unholy secretion stained the leather’s underside and added its own malodorous bouquet to the scents filling up the chamber.

Morgott approached. War and fire had crowded out the memory of the man that had once tried desperately to be his brother. Against his better judgment, satisfaction consumed a fraction of his ire and lent a lightness to his limbs.

“Praetor Rykard?”

“Dead.”

“By thy hand?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her chin. Their eyes met. Animal wariness flashed in her foggy blue irises. And Morgott was transported to a silent carriage ride with a wary, handsome fox. A Head Perfumer’s blood on his hands, and a splinter freshly planted into his tongue.

Will you kill me, Lord, when I have slain your enemies for you?

Morgott had admired the fox’s fangs but deemed him treacherous all the same.

The softness of his reminiscing eked into the present. Stuck to Morgott’s ribs and threatened to smother his iron heart. Perhaps that was why he accepted her into his service. Whatever excuse he recited to himself later- that she would be amusing to break, that she would be useful in weakening his rivals- he could not deny, ultimately, how his Banished Knight had affected his decision.

———————---------------------

The Erdtree burned. Shortly after the Shardbearer Tarnished swore fealty to it. Centuries of duty were made into a pointless, agonizing wound. It hadn’t been the Tarnished’s fault.

He’d loved her too much to make the proper choices. In a way, he’d traded away the Erdtree for her life. Even decades later, fur heavy with cloying ash in the ruins of Leyndell, the thought branded him with acrid guilt.

Time enough had passed- half a century at least- for the excavation of Leyndell to begin. Nature had been kind enough to unveil most of the gates in the meantime. Thousands of laborers worked fastidiously to unearth the former Capital, but this was Morgott’s project- his penance. For a year he’d winnowed away dusk and dawn unblocking the door to a singular catacomb.

He laid his ravaged palms against the stone. The cinders were cold, and the door was frigid. But Morgott’s unsealed blood kept the chill from his skin. He pushed the door open. His Omen strength was required, for neglect and crusted ash had sealed it against the apocalypse.

The tomb was unchanged. Untouched by the scorching death of a God above it. Unaffected by the rebirth of the new Elden Lord. Perhaps a greater number of wraiths hissed in the stale corners. But Morgott had to turn back to make sure the Plateau remained devastated, and that he had not slipped three hundred years into the past.

Even the imps and watchdogs regarded him with curiosity. They crept from the shadows, shuddering and shedding dust. Their territory had not been trespassed upon in so long. But an Age could pass and they would remember the face of Margit the Fell. They deferred to him, their master. The King of Leyndell who was King no longer.

Morgott, breath tight in his lungs, followed a path he, too, could never forget. A pair of doors marked with a sigil of the Erdtree was all that stood between him and a fragment of his buried history. These doors yielded to him eagerly. His clothes were tugged by welcoming breezes that beckoned him forward. Yet it was with some trepidation that Morgott approached Oleg’s grave.

The statue of the King’s Hand gazed out, as pristine as the day he’d been carved. But perhaps a bit of his severity had eroded. At least, his expression did not feel so reproachful to Morgott.

Regardless, Morgott apologized, “I have not visited thee in quite some time. Forgive me that.”

The wraithlike specter of guilt and grief did not taunt him with Oleg’s voice. Morgott spoke to the ancient bones anyway.

“I wished to free thee from me. I convinced myself ‘twas a mercy to thy spirit, rather than a selfish cruelty inflicted upon myself and the memory of thee.”

He did not kneel at the coffin. The housing for his husband’s body had paled under a snowfall of ash. The roots that threaded themselves throughout the chamber were whole. But a white dusting of the calamity had drifted here somehow- the injury to the Erdtree was evident everywhere. Morgott gingerly wiped his hand over the coffin’s lid. His fingers snagged on a bit of chain. His breath was squeezed from his chest. He plucked at the chain, and his old ring revealed itself.

“Much hath happened,” he murmured, despite feeling like his lungs were being wrung out. “Marika is dead. Her Age hath ended. Most of the Demigods have fallen.”

Like the catacomb itself, Morgott’s wedding band had survived the end of Marika’s Age. The razing of the Erdtree. It was as though he’d thoughtlessly left it there just yesterday. With a nail, he dug out detritus from the engravings.

“Mohg and I have forgiven one another,” he managed to smile. “‘Twas an arduous labor for us both. He is my brother, and I am his. Despite what we have done to one another.”

Though rubbed free of grit, the ring needed polished. Morgott dangled it at eye level. As it twirled languidly on its chain, Morgott could peer through it to stare at Oleg’s stone face. Had the corner of his mouth always been slightly upturned? A faint smirk coloring the stoicism expected of the honorable war-dead?

“…I am wed. My wife, she recovered all the pieces of me I cast aside when I lost thee. I am glad to have use of them again.” There was more to the story. So much more to be said. But his eyes were stinging, and he felt as though a boulder sat on his ribs. He managed, “Thou wouldst approve of her.”

His Little Tarnished was not as clever as Oleg. Nor as unflinchingly loyal. But they were alike in the ways that mattered. In their dogged determination to see in Morgott what he had been willfully blind to- the best and worst parts of him.

“Forgive me, Oleg, for losing sight of my promise all those years.”

Morgott had lived a long while. The way things were going, he would live a while yet. Not eternally, as Marika had been meant to. But long enough to see generations rise and fall, to see Leyndell restored and the Erdtree in bloom.

His fingers closed over the ancient wedding band. Furred knuckles engulfed the cool silver and warmed it.

“But I am not alone.”

Notes:

Well, more than a year in the making, we've reached the end. I hope you all will forgive me for tying this fic in to Gilded Apotheosis at the last moment. The original story was going to end with chapter 41 and the first scene of this chapter melded together. Perhaps some people might have preferred that intense melancholy. But I read that proto-chapter too many times with tears in my eyes to just end it there.

It was honestly really fun to revisit GA and kind of rewrite Morgott and Cyrielle (the Tarnished's) first meeting but from Morgott's perspective. I started writing that first ER fic out of pure indulgence, and now, two years later, I feel like I actually finally understand why Morgott took her on lol.

Because I tied this in to the GA series, I feel I should add that 1) when I wrote GA I did honestly forget where Oleg's spirit ashes were found, and implied he was in Auriza Hero's Grave. I chose to keep that mistake 'canon' haha. Besides, it makes sense here that Morgott would bury Oleg close. 2) In the final scene of the fic, I use 'eyes' plural when writing Morgott. This is not a mistake! That scene takes place after Hematotaxic Sin, Pathogenic Soul, and, well. IYKYK.

I think I've rambled enough!! Thank you so so much to everyone that stuck out this fic! Or to those that simply gave it a chance! Writing for this fandom is always an intense delight. I'm proud of this work! I'm proud to have given an obscure ship some spotlight! I'm proud to have finished up a sort of Morgott backstory fic! Now, well, I've got a few more stories to finish! THank you all!