morgottbathwater

[morgottbathwater]

✶ Freezing Night

SFW. Suicide and child abuse. Tarnished Aeka's origin. Word count — ~769

The Roige Reda family had gathered in their cramped dining hall, tying their kitchen and low set cedar chabudai. The head of the family, the patriarch, was seated on the floor among his blood kin. Despite his aging body and tender joints, he sat with crossed legs and arms; unmoving, only his chest puffing with each deep breath. On his right, his wife, youthful in contrast to her mate. Across from her sat her twins, two boys joking with glee; despite the jovial chattering, their banter dissipated like smoke in the gloomy air. They had gathered as a family at the request of their youngest adoptee, which the patriarch had granted.

As the room's door slid open, a thin figure stepped through the darkness. Her skin illuminated by the faint cinder of a lantern. She bore a long tunic, stained from days long of work. Her hair was ungroomed and dripping down her forehead, stray strands of hair stuck to her damp face. She closed the door with her heel, at the displeasure of her mother clicking her teeth with furrowed brows. The girl stepped forth, the carpet soiled with traces of her muddy feet. 

“Greetings, my family,” she turned her gaze to her father, the samurai who never taught her to duel, though granted her the privilege to tend to his katana. “You have my gratitude, father, for allowing us to converge as true family.”

“Ichabod, why do you call upon us?” he questioned without debate.

“I wished to see my kin once more, assembled in the room we briefly meet in at noon, we’re hardly entertained,” she turned her head to the table, locking eyes with one of the twins. “You agree, right?” 

“I’m uncertain,” her brother answered with a mumble, jaw pushing against his palm.

“Ichabod, cease your inanity,” her father demanded. “You may leave,” he sighed, waving his hand and letting his sons stand.

“Sit down.”

Blank stares shifted to Ichabod, standing boldly before them. A subtle hint of a grin was seen, despite that, her gaze remained hollow. 

“You impudent child, how dare you speak of my sons–” her mother snapped, as she attempted to stand, her husband grabbed hold of her arm. She shot a glare and seated once more, begrudgingly with gritted teeth.

“I want to leave my thanks to my family before I continue my journey, you have taught me much. Sowing seeds, rinsing our dishes, sewing my brother's torn clothes and sharpening fathers blade,” she moved her hand from behind her, revealing her father’s wakizashi. The blade was as reflective as a still lake, carefully tended to and sharpened like a needle. 

“Ichabod–” her father began. 

“Thank you, my mother, for guiding me to become what you are not. You are but an uncouth, undignified woman. You are, truly, no better than the sheep we eat.”

She turned, pointing the short blade to her siblings, “and you bunch, you are forlorn and devoid of burden. You, both, are destined to fall, and you may thank your mother. My sole regret before my departure is I didn’t snuff you at nightfall years ago, so thank your father.”

Ichabod grabbed her blade, both of her hands wrapped tightly around the handle, the tip of the blade pointing towards her toes. With trembling wrists, she looked at her father. 

“Father,” she declared. “Your home will carry the bane of my curse till the day its wood rot.”

Her white gown bore a deep red hue as the blade of the sword twisted within. Her abdomen spilled buckets of blood onto the bald spots of the floor lacking tatami mats. Blood dripped down her thighs, down her leg, through the crevices of the house. She howled, neck twisted downwards as she watched her stomach consume the blade through her black hair. Her family watched, no one intervened. An audience watching a show unfold before them, their youngest killing herself in their very home, a sight they’ll never blot out. As Ichabod tumbled to the floor, uneven breaths, blade still lodged in her guts; they watched. They talked, they ate, they slept. 

Until her body had been labeled an obstacle, her father demanded her sons carry her outside. “Doesn’t matter where you put her, as long as she’s off the property.” So they did, leaving in a creek, no less than a kilometer walk from their residence. “Leave the wakizashi.” He said. 

Although nature reclaimed Ichabod once more, her presence remained in the Roige Reda home. Not long after, the patriarch informed the family of their move north. Ichabod, graceless, rotting Tarnished, was left behind.

[morgottbathwater]

✶ Family Portrait

SFW. A bit canon divergent. "Ansbach attempts to strike a conversation with his new compatriot, but he just can't get a good read on her." Word count — 676

The rancid amalgamation of dried blood and damp soil pestered Aeka’s nostrils, although she stayed within the Dynasty for a considerable time after her knighting; she couldn’t rid her mind of the putrid odor. Her swollen eyelids ground against her dry eyes with each blink. Before her, a ravaging fire, yet skillfully maintained; she lost herself in the cinder. Briefly her thoughts escaped through the grasps of her fingers.

“Aeka,” a gentle voice snapped her back into consciousness. “You are a Reedlander, correct?”

“Did your rat of an accomplice mention something?”

Ansbach remained silent, he looked remorseful for his comment. He doesn’t harbor sinister intentions, or so Aeka rationalized to remain on jovial terms.

“I was,” her response was blunt, though Aeka didn’t speak in lies nor fools. 

Despite her obstinate and defiant nature, she was frank. Aeka didn’t pick sides, she worked on her own volition, for all Ansbach knew; she could abandon her post and be gone by sunrise. Ansbach prodded at the fire, embers gleamed as the sticks made space for each other. He stalled, uncertain how to continue.

“You are Tarnished, are you not?” queried Aeka.

“No, I am not.”

“Do tell, why does the Palace humour Tarnished?”

“I am not our anointer, I am merely a knight serving Lord Mohg.”

“Then what is your companion’s purpose, to lead us astray, away from the Erdtree?”

“I cannot tell you, he took the duty upon himself. Neither Mohg nor I had any involvement, I’m here to protect my Lord.”

Aeka glanced at Ansbach, though they were seated far apart, she caught his heavy sigh punctuating his sentence. Ansbach spoke with high regard, not dubbed responsibility. Sight still latched onto Ansbach, she saw the opportunity to selfishly encroach. 

“What is Lord Mohg to you?”

Ansbach’s head turned, “Pardon?”

“Your Lord has fallen, and he fell many moons ago. It’s clear you are not bound by duty anymore. What is your purpose here?”

“I wait for his return; I do not need to fight for him, not yet. The time will come, Aeka.”

“You’re not a young man, so set your sights elsewhere,” she huffed.

She leaned forward to cup her head on her palms, resting it as she interrogated her senior. Ansbach gave her a lighthearted chuckle at her comment, for once, she didn’t mind. 

“I fear that is my predicament, my calves ache when I move, and my scythe doesn’t swing as high as it used to. I would be of no use for another Lord.”

“Yet you serve a purpose here, among the rubble of what once was?”

“I’m inclined to believe so.”

Aeka offered half a shrug, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the sentimentality of Ansbach’s tie to Mohg, though she couldn’t condemn the honor Ansbach had sworn when he was a younger man. Despite the trials, and losses, he was tethered to the Mohgwyn Dynasty; to his own volition. 

“Do you have anyone you care for, Aeka?” asked the older man, though the inquiry was innocuous, something wrung in Aeka’s guts.

A boxy, aged face, worn from combat and extensive labor. Each graying strand tells a story of bloodshed and warfare. His features had blended together into a bloodied stew, though his eyes, the color of brine with a vacant stare. He looked at Aeka with repugnance and rage. She saw him so clearly before her.

“A girl I encountered in Liurnia,” she answered softly. “She begged for help, a thief had stolen something precious. Something in the back of my head told me I should help.”

A tale Ansbach had heard tell of before, a descendant of a powerful family. The serpent girl, bless her heart, was unaware of the role she truthfully played. Ansbach didn’t have the heart to tell Aeka, he begrudgingly chose to pledge ignorance to honor her naivete. God willing the girl escapes the Dynasty to make a name of her own. 

“I’m pleased to hear,” conceded Ansbach as he faced the smoldering fire.

“Why?” she questioned with a snap.

“Everyone needs someone important.”

[morgottbathwater]

Imagine being inexperienced and building your very first covenant with your boyfriend, only for him to leave you for his own duty. And now your followers are cannibalizing you for your power until some nameless undead come.

This one's dedicated to the Chosen Undead with a touch of Artorias in the beginning.

Also, the more I think of it, the more I feel like the reader's just a side quest for him lol. Like you either die a virgin for linking the flame, or become Dark Lord and wife the goddess that you spent half your journey nursing her back to life.

Anyways, sit back and enjoy!

tw: angst, gore, fluff, sort of slight cannibalism, no sex this time,...

Your palace was a radiant and solemn one, built of pale marble that caught the sun in shimmering halos and threw it in brilliant arcs along polished floors. Columns soared high, carved with sigils of old oaths, their details picked out in gold leaf that glowed warmly in the sacred light of countless candles.

Silken banners in deep azure and ivory hung between archways, stirring gently in the perfumed breeze from open, arched windows that framed the endless sky. The air smelled of incense and blooming lilies brought in daily from distant fields, tended carefully by handmaidens in devotion.

The altar dedicated to you was unblemished, immaculate. It was a slab of white stone veined with faint traces of silver that shone with your presence. The great vaults overhead were adorned with murals of ancient gods kneeling in obeisance, their features softened by centuries but still bright in color, as if your very arrival had restored them.

You were new, yes, but so divine, in a way that one can only look up to. The power within you pulsed like a second heart, warm and golden and untested, radiating from your skin in drifting sparks that hovered before sinking into the floor. Even the brittle air seemed to thaw in your presence, motes of frost turning to damp where you passed.

This would be your very first covenant, the beginning of something new.

It was not born of conquest or dominion. There was no talk of tithes, of duty, of fealty. You envisioned something else entirely: sanctuary among the damned, a flick of light in a broken land that had forgotten what it was. You would open your arms even to those who could no longer remember why they wept, or why their hollowed minds flickered like dying candles.

You had no doctrine but compassion. No oaths but forgiveness. Your promise would not be power, but acceptance without condition. Even the corrupted and the cursed would find shelter here, if they would kneel and succumb their hearts to you.

It was madness, perhaps. But it was yours.

Your faithful would be wretches, knights fallen to despair, pilgrims abandoned by their own god, the undead, the hollow. Their blood would stain your steps, their sins would become your inheritance.

But you would not turn them away. For your heart was too vast, its benevolence too stubborn to yield even in the face of a world that mocked such dreams.

A young goddess with ambitions of a better world. That's what you were.

As you sat elegantly on your vast, cushion-laden bed, the sheer curtains cascaded around you like drifting mist. Candles cast warm halos across polished marble, framing you in serene, regal beauty, every fold of your robe flowing like liquid light over the soft expanse beneath you.

The divinity from your presence filled the space with a near-palpable glow, each idle movement casting ripples of golden illumination over the walls, catching on polished brass fixtures, making the pool of holy water in the corner shimmer as if restless.

Compared to mortals, you were immense in stature, not monstrous but grand in the way only the ones from above can be. Your frame was graceful yet formidable, the sheer scale of you more than mortal minds were built to comprehend without awe. Even sitting, your head brushed the low-draped canopy, the folds of your robe spilling over the bed’s edge like a private ocean of woven light.

Basked in your presence, the man before you knelt at the edge of your grand altar-bed, the hush of your sanctum pressing close around you both like the air before prayer.

Artorias lowered his head in solemn deference, one gauntleted hand resting on the battered breastplate that still bore the scars of countless battles. Candlelight caught the silver trim of his armor and the dark wolf sigil on his mantle, throwing restless gleams that rippled across the floor of polished marble.

He was the first to swear himself to your covenant.

Your eyes rested on him with that patient, bottomless mercy you couldn’t turn off even if you tried. This chamber was yours, a place meant for peace, with perfume hanging like a blessing in the air and silken banners rustling faintly overhead, etched with longing prayers. Yet even here, among the gentle hush, the magnitude of your kindness seemed to spill out, wrapping around him.

He had always remained close to you, a constant presence even when duty dragged him to distant battles, always returning to stand at your side.

He was also your first true friend among the gods.

The others offered you praise in honeyed words while measuring how best to wield your benevolence like a sword. They smiled and whispered of alliances, of the power your mercy could buy, never seeing the soul behind the gift.

But Artorias alone, was the one who truly understood you. So new to the divinity your heart lay bare, and so unyielding in your mercy that you would embrace even the irredeemable. The knight never sought to flatter or deceive. Instead, he placed himself between you and harm when he feared your kindness might break you.

Yet here he was, kneeling on one knee, in loyalty to you with his heart naked.

There was something deep and unspoken between you both, borderline intimate and steady as the light shone on you. It was why you chose him as your counselor for this very first covenant. Because you knew no one else would protect its true purpose with the same kind of devotion.

Days gone by, with Artorias at your side, your covenant began to flourish like a sacred garden in bloom. Words spread beyond the polished halls of your palace, out into thick forests, wind-scoured plateaus, and the dark, crumbling keeps where hollowed souls wandered without hope.

They crossed lands of the dead and fog to kneel before your altar, drawn by the promise of salvation they had thought impossible, just to get to you, to earn your grace.

Here, they found refuge.

Because of that, your halls began to be filled with soft voices lifted in prayer, laughter where once there had been only weeping. The scent of incense mingled with the warmth of freshly baked bread offered freely to all. You healed what you could with your gentle power, cleansing festering wounds, soothing minds driven mad by the abyss, drawing hollowed souls back from the brink of nothingness with your touch and your unwavering compassion.

It brought you joy to see them reborn in hope, to watch light rekindle in eyes that had once been dull and empty. Every new voice that joined your covenant felt like proof that even in a world cursed to fade, mercy could still take root and grow.

This was what you had wished for all along—a world free from pain and sorrow, where no one was cast aside to hollow alone in the dark. A world where the wind itself seemed gentle enough to soothe wounds, to lift even the heaviest hearts from the pit of despair.

Yet even with all of that, the darkness still found its way into people’s hearts, creeping like a slow poison through cracks you could not seal.

No matter how warm the hearth you built, or how freely you offered your mercy, there were always some who rejected it outright, who looked at your kindness and saw only weakness to exploit.

Among the truly faithful who clung to your promise of salvation, there were always a few who loathed your ideals.

They muttered in hidden corners about your naïveté, spat curses, and even gathered in secret to plot your downfall. Some whispered sedition with honeyed tongues, hoping to fracture your covenant from within. Others took up blades, determined to silence you forever, convinced the world needed something harsher, crueler, more deserving of its ruin.

They called you blind, soft, and delusional. They told each other that the mercy you offer was a lie, that the damned deserved only the Abyss. And in their anger, they sought to drag you down with them, no matter how many you had healed, no matter how wide you opened your arms.

Despite that, you had followers who would kill for you without hesitation. Some of them were enraptured by your unearthly beauty, others wholly devoted to your boundless kindness, worshipping you as the answer to every prayer they’d ever dared to whisper. They would raise blades in your defense, swear blood oaths on the cold marble of your sanctum, eager to purge any threat from your holy ground.

However, it was never enough. The world remained a cruel, twisted place. No matter how many you saved or sheltered, the weight of its suffering seeped in like a rising tide, unstoppable and unrelenting. Hatred was patient. Envy was clever. Violence was never far behind.

That was when Artorias revealed his true purpose.

If blades were raised against you, his own would be faster than any, striking with grim precision. He met betrayal head-on, leaving no room for hesitation or mercy where your safety was concerned. His was a harsh justice, meant to preserve the sanctity of what you were building.

He did what you could not, so you could remain who you were.

He loved you with the grave, unspoken devotion. For all the battles he fought in Gwyn’s service, against horrors that twisted the land and hollowed men’s souls, every victory was ultimately for you.

Even when he was far from your side, lost in the dark places of the world, he held fast to your memory like a dying flame in endless fog. He had sworn, without need of words, that nothing would harm you while breath remained in his body.

He kept watch over your covenant, blue cloak tattered from countless fights, but his posture never wavering. His love so grand, he could read deceit in worshipful smiles, hear violence in whispered prayers. It pained him to see you forgive so freely, to see your mercy offered to those who deserved none.

Yet he would not change you. Your boundless kindness was the last true light in a world sliding into darkness; it was what made you whole, and he would see it protected at any cost. So he chose to become your shield, your blade in the hollow darkness.

But deep within, he feared for you in ways he never dared admit. He knew your compassion could be your ruin, that one day it might ask of you what even he could not prevent.

And for that reason, as much as any other, he loved you beyond any vow he had ever sworn.

The sky outside your palace was vast and free, endless grey drifting into pale gold where the dying sun touched the clouds, but you remained bound to the earth. For centuries you had been confined within these holy walls, your feet never crossing the marble thresholds, your hands never touching the wild grass that grew just beyond your sight.

Your prison was not iron or stone, but the very power that radiated from you—kindness so absolute it terrified the other gods.

They saw in the young goddess not merely mercy, but a force that could unmake their dominion. They feared that if you were free to walk the world, your benevolence would spread like fire through dry fields, turning peasants into rebels and worshippers into heretics who no longer trembled before them.

Your compassion was a threat. It promised humanity a power that did not require fear to sustain itself. The gods could feel it even now, humming in the polished floors of your palace, whispering in the quiet prayers of your followers.

And so they bound you here, gilded your confinement in marble and silk, dressed it as a sanctuary. They called it holy ground, a place for your covenant to flourish. But it was a cage all the same—one built not to honor you, but to keep you contained.

Perhaps that was why they guided him here, the Chosen Undead.

He entered your dim palace of bloodied marble, expecting a monster, a usurper goddess drunk on impossible dreams. But what he found was you...no longer radiant, but hollowed, the embers of your kindness dying slow and cold in the gloom of the chamber.

Artorias was long gone. He had abandoned you. His unshakable vow to protect you was broken by his duty tied to his Lord, the very Lord that had shackled you. Without his presence, without his knights keeping watch, your covenant had splintered and rotted from within.

The day he turned his back to march for Oolacile was the day your love got you killed.

Your followers, once drawn to your gentle promise, had turned on you in desperation and hunger. The heretics among them spoke in fervent tones about transcendence, claiming your flesh held divinity itself. They wrapped their cruelty in faith, convinced that by consuming you, they would rise as something greater, something worthy of the gods' fear.

You had been too kind to see it coming. Too trusting.

They poisoned you with their betrayal. When you welcomed them with open arms, they fell upon you like starving beasts, their whispered prayers turning to snarls as the first bite tore into your divine flesh.

They devoured you alive, feeding on your grace with bloodied teeth, dragging you down from your own sacred altar. Your light dimmed with every mouthful they stole, losing piece by piece until nothing remained but their frenzied hunger and the ruin of what you once were.

You could not run, could not hide. Your fate had been sealed the moment you opened your heart without condition, chained to this very room that had always been a sanctuary. Now it was your prison, the sacred place where you had healed countless souls twisted into the chamber of your own torture.

You lay sprawled upon the once-sacred bed, the silken sheets now fouled and matted with old blood, the air thick with the stench of rotting meat where your own torn flesh had been devoured. Your breath rattled, half-dying, half-alive, your dimming eyes flickering with the last embers of what you had been.

Foggy irises leered upon to see him clearer, the Chosen Undead—outlined in the doorway like a grim herald, clad in the familiar elite armor of Astora. His presence was cold and silent as judgment.

Perhaps he was here to feed on you like the rest had, to taste the divine in your blood and call it salvation. Or perhaps, he had come to finish what the heretics had begun, to end you cleanly in the name of their dying order.

Either way, you did not resist. You only watched him, unblinking, too tired to hate, too broken to hope, the last vestige of your boundless mercy flickering in your gaze even as your body failed you once more.

For a goddess so powerful, you were a fool. Because at the very end, you were all that was kind and forgiving.

The Chosen Undead stepped closer, boots scraping over the blood-stained marble, the glow of his Estus casting a sickly light on the ruined sanctum. He beheld you where you lay slumped upon the defiled altar-bed, the silken drapery torn and soiled as the air heavy with rotting wounds.

You, who had once been so ethereally beautiful that gods and mortals alike dared not meet your gaze, whose very presence had shone like a second sun within these hallowed walls, now lay wasted and still. Your skin was pale, torn in places where starving zealots had bitten deep, eyes sunken and dull.

What remained of your divinity dimmed weakly, more memory than flame, casting no warmth, offering no comfort. All that grandeur, all that impossible, gentle power was reduced to this: a dying corpse whose kindness had been carved from her piece by piece.

But the Chosen Undead didn’t turn away. Instead, he stood there, still beneath the silvery crest of his helm, watching you with an unreadable steadiness that could silence anything. He was neither here for your flesh nor your end.

If anything, he had come seeking your covenant itself. Too tempted by the promise of salvation whispered by many, and the warmth and grace that had spread through the land like a rumor of dawn.

No tale could satisfy him. No secondhand prayer could replace knowing you truly. That was why he had crossed blighted valleys and hollowed citadels, pushing through every horror, determined to see you with his very own eyes.

And now, even seeing you collapsed like this, your divinity leeched away by betrayal and idiocy, your golden light flickering like a dying ember in the dark, he didn’t even back once. He didn’t mind at all.

If anything, he had not come for the grandeur or the untouched perfection of a goddess on high. He had come for you. Even when you’re beyond broken and fading, the hope and love were still there.

He could feel it because when he returned your gaze, he saw nothing but the same kindness that was once given to so many.

And so the Chosen Undead, battered from his endless journey, burdened with every death he had endured, lowered himself onto one knee before you. The moonlight flickered across his dented, soot-stained armor, only intensified the moment more when he reached out, steady despite the weight of what he carried.

He took your larger, delicate hand, the one that hung limp and bloodied over the edge of the bed, into his gauntleted grasp with utmost gentleness. Even boney and torn, it was sacred to him.

Slowly, with ritual solemnity, he lifted it to the mouth of his helm and pressed a kiss against your bruised skin. It was the same gesture of utter respect the faithful had once made when they pledged themselves to you, back when your healing light filled the entire hall.

And in that moment, though your breath rasped and your divinity lay in tatters, the old covenant lived again between you.

The Chosen Undead was a strange follower.

Never had you seen him flinch at the sight of you, dirty and smelly. Where others had turned away in fear or disgust, he stayed without a single complaint.

He even took it upon himself to care for you in those dark hours. His movements were steady and unhurried when he cleaned your wounds, fingers surprisingly gentle despite the strength that had felled countless foes. He lifted your frail hand to change the soiled bandages, wiped your fevered brow with warm towels, and made sure you take nourishment even when you turned your head in exhaustion.

On the days he was gone, he wandered the dying world with a single purpose. It’s to find anything that might restore even a scrap of your warmth. He braved crypts, catacombs filled with death, forests twisted by curses, and long-forgotten shrines in search of healing salves, old priestly remedies, anything that promised to ease your suffering.

But they did little for a goddess who had been bled almost to death.

That was when his desperation took hold.

He turned to other means—darker, bloodier. No longer did he seek abandoned cures in dungeons. He began to hunt instead, tracking down every one of your faithless followers who had feasted on you, who had dared to defile your covenant with their betrayal.

He cornered them in the dark corners of the world, beneath hanging roots and broken spires, and cut them down without mercy. He split their chests with his sword and wrenched free their still-warm hearts.

The satisfaction he felt from avenging you was unlike anything else. Each time his blade found one of your betrayers, each time their blood washed over his armor, he felt something in him loosen, some deep, ugly satisfaction that they paid for what they had done to you.

But the Chosen Undead knew, he knew deeply that this wasn’t what you would have wanted. It ran against everything you’d once stood for, everything your covenant had promised. Mercy, forgiveness, sanctuary even for the damned.

So he kept that dark pleasure buried deep inside, locked behind the cold steel of his will, and let none of it show when he returned to you.

He brought the hearts back anyway. Laid them on the cold marble floor at the foot of your bed like offerings to an altar long defiled. Then he crushed them one by one in his gauntlets, grinding them until the blood ran slick between his fingers. He worked them into a thick, red, liquid nourishment, pouring it carefully into an old goblet that trembled with the heat of his rage and hope alike.

He brought it to you, but you were so weak you couldn’t even blink those glassy and unfocused eyes, let alone lift a goblet.

So he did what you could not.

He brought the goblet to his lips first, tasting the coppery, metallic flood of blood, letting it coat his tongue, as if he were consecrating it with his own resolve. Then he climbed onto the massive bed where you lay. The size difference was uneasy—your divine frame, even in its wasted state, dwarfed him, but he didn’t hesitate.

He did his best to gather your tangled hair in one hand, brushing it aside so he could see your beautiful face. Then he lowered himself, pressing his blood-wet mouth to yours with slow, deliberate care.

It was clumsy, desperate, the kiss strained by the uneven size between you, but he didn’t care. He held you steady, sharing the blood with you mouth to mouth, determined to feed you in the only way left to him, no matter how monstrous it had become.

He kept repeating the same grim routine day after day, caring for you with unwavering determination, and under his steady, relentless watch, you slowly began to heal and return to life.

Slowly. Excruciatingly slow.

Your wounds started to close closed, puckered scars started to fade into healthier flesh. The deathly pallor of your skin warmed by degrees, first to grey-pink, then to something almost luminous again.

Your breath deepened. Your cracked lips softened. Your heavy eyelids fluttered, dragging themselves open more often. The dullness in your gaze cleared bit by bit until your eyes shone in the dark once more, faint as candlelight but undeniable.

Every sign of life from you was guarded like treasure. He would watch your chest rise and fall, counting every breath as a victory. He’d hold your cooling, battered hand in both of his, knuckles white with determination.

You still couldn’t form words, your voice a prisoner of frailty, but your eyes spoke for you each time they met his, blinking with overflowing gratitude, and perhaps affection.

The Chosen Undead was a shy one, if anything. When your strength finally allowed you the smallest movement, the first thing you did on your bed was lift your trembling hand, just enough to touch the side of his steel helm, or rather, where his cheek would be beneath it.

That simple, almost tender gesture, intimate in its quiet sincerity, struck him harder than any blow. He froze entirely, breath caught behind the visor, as if the weight of being truly seen and accepted by the goddess he had worshipped and bled for, was more than he knew how to bear.

His stunned stillness drew the faintest curl to your cracked, moist lips a soft smile despite your weakness. You had seen all manner of mortals in your long years: zealots who groveled in terror, faithful who chanted your name like a spell, traitors who smiled as they chewed on your flesh.

But none had ever been as strange as him.

He did not treat you like an untouchable goddess to be feared or worshipped from afar. Instead, in his awkward silences and clumsy tenderness, he treated you as if you were simply a girl. So fragile, so mortal, and so in need of care. It was disarming, so unexpected that it stirred something warm and wondering in your hollowed chest.

You found yourself curious about him in a way you hadn’t expected. Did he have someone he had once loved so fiercely that he learned to care with such devotion? Had he tended wounds, soothed fears, given comfort in the dark, just as he did for you now?

Before you knew it, you were already missing his presence on the days he wasn’t there, those long hours when he was forced to chase the grim purpose that had first brought him on his journey. With him here, the silence felt heavier, the shadows colder, your thoughts lonelier.

Yet he never let you feel truly abandoned. He always returned, kneeling at your bedside, offering the same quiet care that had nursed you back from the brink. He cleaned your wounds, shared his meager warmth, fed you the lifeblood he stole for you, coaxing light back into your eyes bit by fragile bit.

On those rare, gentle days when the world seemed to slow its march and grant you a moment of boredom, he would return to you with hands full of trinkets and strange artifacts you’d never seen before.

Rust-edged rings inscribed with lost blessings, tiny vials of faded perfume sealed for centuries, and lockets that clicked open to reveal portraits of nameless lovers long dead. He laid them before you like offerings, just to watch your eyes light up with wonder at each discovery.

For him, your dawning happiness, the faintest return of your glow, was all the motivation he seemed to need.

So when you said his name for the first time, the name that had long been buried when they locked him away in the Northern Undead Asylum—it was in a voice so gentle, so heartbreakingly tender, that for a moment he finally understood why the sky was blue at all.

It was as if the world made sense in that single breath.

In that quiet, fragile moment, he realized fully what had been true for longer than he dared admit. His heart had long been claimed by yours.

He had been alone for so long, weighed down by his own duty and the cold certainty of his purpose, that he had nearly forgotten what love even was. But here, basked in your gentle gaze and soft-spoken grace, he felt loved.

Time went by, you were fully healed now. Though your glow was still fragile, it was enough to let you rise from that ruined bed on steady legs, silk pooling around your feet once more, head held high with slow, regal grace.

Your voice had returned too, soft but clear, carrying the same gentle authority that had once soothed the weeping and calmed the furious.

And your unearthly, impossible beauty, was wholly restored. Skin unblemished, hair falling in shimmering waves, eyes luminous as dawn breaking over the darkened land. You were a goddess once more, radiant even in your weakness, terrible in your kindness.

Before you even realized it, the Chosen Undead had somewhere else he needed to be. Duty tugged at him with a force he could no longer ignore. The Fire was fading faster than ever, and he had lingered at your side for too long already.

When he finally spoke to you of leaving, he told you only that he had to go. He left out the grim truth of his purpose, left unspoken the question of whether he would ever truly return.

You were curious, and there was a soft gloom in your eyes that made his heart clench. But you didn’t pry, regal even in your quiet sorrow, and when he finished, you raised your hand to bless him for the journey ahead.

Gentle were your words, warm as candlelight in the cold. You told him you’d be waiting, should he ever find his way back to you.

And as he turned to leave, his armor creaking with every step, he felt the weight of that promise press into his chest like a brand, an ache that would not fade.

When he was gone, your world dimmed. The silence pressed heavily on you, no longer the peaceful hush of sanctuary but the cold echo of absence. You missed his warmth more than you dared admit, the steady weight of his presence at your bedside, the quiet care in his rough hands.

You missed the unspoken comfort of his company, the way he’d fumble for words and avert his gaze with that almost endearing shyness, as if a goddess might see too much if he looked too long.

For the first time in what felt like forever, your kindness allowed you to be a little selfish. You found yourself wishing that he had stayed.

So you kept waiting, and waiting. For what felt like forever, you remained in that vast, quiet hall, watching the door he had once passed through and hoping to see his silhouette return.

Outside, the world itself seemed to share in your vigil. The skies dulled to a lifeless grey, the light lost its warmth, its brilliance. Birds no longer sang in the eaves of your palace, their calls fallen silent as though even they had given up hope. Everything felt hushed, suspended, a world holding its breath for something that refused to come.

Then, on one of those countless mornings blurred by waiting, you woke to find only darkness pressing in from every corner of your once-bright chamber. The grand windows that should have caught dawn’s pale glow revealed nothing but blackness beyond, thick and absolute.

Your own light, soft and flickering, was the only thing that let you see at all—a lonely glow that seemed too fragile against the heavy gloom. You sat there in the hush, your breath slow and tight in your chest, and for the first time in centuries, you wondered if the unthinkable had happened.

If the First Flame had finally died.

All that filled your mind was his return. And now, for the first time in centuries, you were no longer shackled by Gwyn’s will, no longer bound in golden chains to serve a fearful god’s design

When at last the enormous doors of your palace creaked open, the sound echoing like a funeral bell through the dark, your heart beat faster. He stepped inside as the eternal darkness clung to him, pooling around his feet, trailing behind him with every weary stride. It billowed from him like smoke from a dying fire, a heavy, smothering presence that seemed to swallow what little light your room still held.

And so, he had returned to you, not as the faithful devotee who once prayed, but as a loyal husband, forged in darkness and bound by something far stronger than duty.

He remembered the moment he turned his back on the First Flame, leaving behind its sputtering, dying promise only to be crowned a Lord of the Dark, forever destined to tend its quiet, devouring expanse. The memory weighed heavily on him even now, that single choice that ended an age. But he made it with you held close in his heart.

And somewhere in that long, lonely walk into blackness, it hit him with crushing clarity, of how much he loved you. He was no hero, no saint. He was a fool, yes, but he was a fool for you.

The Chosen Undead then sank slowly onto one knee. His head bowed beneath the weight of a thousand silent battles, gauntleted hand lifted in solemnity, silently asking you to accept him as a husband, who would walk with you through the long, endless night ahead.

For a moment, you blinked. So this was what he wanted, a world without fire, a mark for the ending of an endless cycle, ruled by the shadow, a gentle kingdom where no flame could ever rise again, where souls would find solace not in hope but in the quiet certainty of a night without end.

And you accepted it fully, with a benevolent smile. If he allowed it, you would be the kindness and love the Age of Dark needed, the beacon of light to his world.

Your lord lifted his head, just slightly, surprised by the gentle press of your delicate hand against his own. The tension in his shoulders eased as he felt that fragile warmth, something sacred blooming between calloused palm and ethereal skin. His gaze softened into something unrecognizably yearning, as though he had never let himself hope until now.

Then, with slow, reverent care, he brought your hand to his lips and kissed it, the gesture sealing a vow no words could hold, even as the encroaching darkness coiled and thickened, shaping itself into a shadowy ring that settled upon your finger like a blessing, binding you both in its quiet, endless embrace. The world had never been ready for its new age. And so was he with you by his side, a young goddess with a heart so mellow it melted fate.

[morgottbathwater]

[morgottbathwater]

♡ — Varré and his Tarnished partner

source | render by alphagravy used and cropped with permission

SFW. OOC. Relationship HCs with Varré as an anointed Tarnished.

Varré is not present emotionally, often coming across as callous or overly curt. Regardless, his soft tone, murmurs and soothing reassurance of his faithfulness to his partner keeps them fixed by his side.

He may seem possessive, often having to ensure his partner's loyalty to the Mohgwyn Dynasty. Sometimes, one could assume his oath to Mohg takes priority over his partner's wants and needs, but he's steadfast in roping his partner into the secrecies of the Dynasty. He values their contribution to the Dynasty, and he trusts his partner's loyalty to Mohg.

Love language . . .

Quality time and physical touch is key to his relationship. Names are often replaced with pet-names or nicknames, accompanied by unexpected grabs or caressing.

PDA . . .

Touch accompanied by teasing compliments is to be expected, he's physical and offers to lend his affection through massage and provocation. He enjoys bothering his partner, knowing they'll remain devoted regardless. He's not openly affectionate, he prefers keeping their relationship in secret.

Affirmation . . .

He's very preoccupied in his duties, so time spent with him is sparse and cherished. He tries to make the best of the time you spend together. He dutifully wears his mask around his fellow devotees, but he graces his partner with his smile when no one else is around. It's special, intimate, a gift he doesn't bestow many.

"Ah, my lambkin, how it pleases me to see you by my side. Despite your many trials, you're as loyal as a shepherd's hound."

[morgottbathwater]

Can't you treat me better? ♡

SFW. AO3. Canon typical violence, referenced abuse and neglect, and implied sh. Mohg is struggling to accept Morgott's inertia.

Word count — 638

A/N: I shared this fic with other people and they liked it, with their encouragement I'm sharing this here and on AO3. It's a bit rough around the edges.

────────────────────────────────────────────

The unseemly tranquillity of the Shunning-Grounds was broken by intermittent pleas of prisoners, begging for grace and absolution. Gross sobs punctuated their prayers of surrendering their treacherous faith to the Erdtree, only for their cries to be disciplined till they cease. The twins enjoyed a moment of calm, though the brick walls of the sewers held onto the winter’s cold, they were granted warmed water. Morgott wasn’t enjoying his meal, but he could disregard the taste in exchange of warmth. Mohg listened to the distant holler, now mixed with his brother’s chewing, with the droplets splashing onto the wet floor. 

The ambiance smothered him.

“Brother,” Mohg began, watchful eyes examining a distant pebble. “What is your cause?” 

“Prithee, elaborate,” his brother inquired, throat aching as he swallowed a piece of dry bread.

“Your compliance, your submission, the courtesy you show. Have you no honor?”

“Courtesy to whom?”

“To Father, to the knights who hound us, to the very reason we’re shackled,” Mohg scowled, impatience brewing within. He clamped his hands to fists, fine nails digging holes in his palms. “You truly are cut from the same blood stained cloth.”

“Doth not taketh of Father in vain, for he didst saveth us; grant Father esteem for protecting thee and I.”

“Father buried us in disgrace, to him, we may be bereft of life. He would be none the wiser,” he snarled as he gave his brother a leering look. His chest deflated before it could inflate, each word was spoken with more malice than the last.

Morgott observed his shorter twin. His scalp has traces of dried blood, settled around the bases of his horns. His forearms trembled as he clasped his fists further, his gaze was devoid of emotion; yet he seemed as if he would erupt any given moment. 

“You are a disappointment,” Mohg blurted, he maintained contact with his brother as he continued. “Since the day we were bairns, you have been a mishap. Fooled to believe Mother and Father will grant us grace. You will be omitted from their memory, as will I.”

In a burst, Mohg felt the loose rope around his neck being torn, pressuring his neck. He looked attentively as his mellow brother roused to ire. The rising hostility drove the brother’s further, each crueler with every gash.

Morgott held his brother against the floor, hands grasping wrists and knees pressing against his thighs. He was immobilized; he didn't hope to harm his brother.

“Thou art heedless of our privilege!” 

“Existence is a birthright, and nobility is not!”

Twisting and turning, using every stressed fibre of muscle within his limbs, Mohg gained control. He bore claws into his brother as he collapsed onto him, he was bound underneath Mohg’s weight; stationary and lame. Morgott noted Mohg’s expression, or lack thereof. Despite his volatile upheaval, his sight was blank. His cloudy eyes were fully absent, his ferocious affect was wholly feral.

“Don’t touch me,” Mohg threatened. 

Morgott’s lungs stressed as his wind-pipe compressed, he felt familiar claws tearing skin once more.

“Why is it that Father only favours you? Why are you spared of the consequences when I am not? It isn’t just!” He sniveled, hands becoming slack. “Your aversion and preference, I shoulder our burden.”

Supporting himself with his hand pressing against Morgott’s strained chest, he wandered off without a word. Morgott’s back had become cold as laid motionless on the wet floor, his gaze tied to the ceiling, his growing horns ached as his brother had pushed them to the floor. He was dazed.

────────────────────────────────────────────

Wandering aimlessly in the dark, he had finally spotted Mohg in the corner, legs pressed against his chest and aching wings hugging him. Morgott’s lantern illuminated stains of spritzed blood on the floor. 

“Forgive me, brother,” Mohg murmured. “I don’t know why I’ve become like this.”

[morgottbathwater]

Marauder

SFW. AO3. Eye trauma. Radahn is plagued with sleep paralysis, he's visited by a familiar face he cannot quite recognize.

Word count — 421

Darkness veiled Radahn as the back of his head pressed against the velvety cushion, he waged war against heavy eyelids and lethargy. Scarlet locks pasted to his cheeks like veins, fatigue triumphed as Radahn drifted asleep. Since Miquella resurrected him, he had been plagued by lassitude; despite his vicious endurance, he was no longer the man he once was, a lost soul inhabiting a pillaged vessel.

As Radahn succumbed to slumber, his rest abruptly ceased; his eyes shot open, he was not in his bedchamber, someplace foreign and ill-lit. His limbs were sluggish, he was unable to gesture or even grimace—Radahn was immobilized. Only his eyes served his command as his gaze darted aimlessly, although there was nothing to be seen. Then, a faint rustle in the far distance, the mistimed jingle of metal chattering was deafening, and the sound agonized him as it closed in.

A grotesque silhouette was faintly illuminated as it neared, he watched meekly as sharp nails dug into his chest, puncturing his damp skin. The ghoulish shape was seated on top of him, palms demanding against his ribcage and bony knees pinning his thighs. Coiled horns had gouged the figure's left eye, the other beady, amber eye gaze deep into him. An Omen, the dull hue of charcoal and louring attributes of its kin. This Omen, however, was quaint.

“Dear brother,” he addressed, voice soft as a whisper. “You bear something which isn't yours.”

Radahn laid spiritless, unable to even mumble. He only stared at the figure atop.

“I've lent you this for too long, but my patience is overdue. I'm indebted to your concord, supposing I would not expect less of a general led astray,” he murmured. He cupped Radahn's fine cheek, his calloused thumb exploring the nooks of his marred skin.

“I entrusted you with my vision. Now, I fear I must retrieve what is mine.”

The roaming thumb pressed into Radahn's eye-socket, agony struck him as sharp as the nail. His voice was only a gargle within, all he could do was to endure. As another digit entered his skull, Radahn's consciousness blackened. 

He awakened once more, air filled his lungs to the brim as he coughed till his chest ached, at least regaining his breath. His ears rang, apprehensively he touched his swollen eyelid. His eye bulged, still intact. Opening his left eye, then closing his right, he saw nothingness.

He closed his left eye to open the other; he saw the ornate ceiling of his bedchamber. His mind was truly split.

[morgottbathwater]

I'm on a Mohg spree, I have some ideas I wanna write

Mohg & Radahn post-SOTE

Ansbach & Mohg, ship adjacent

Varré romance headcanons maybe

I dont knowwww

[morgottbathwater]

Can't you treat me better? ♡

SFW. AO3. Canon typical violence, referenced abuse and neglect, and implied sh. Mohg is struggling to accept Morgott's inertia.

Word count — 638

A/N: I shared this fic with other people and they liked it, with their encouragement I'm sharing this here and on AO3. It's a bit rough around the edges.

────────────────────────────────────────────

The unseemly tranquillity of the Shunning-Grounds was broken by intermittent pleas of prisoners, begging for grace and absolution. Gross sobs punctuated their prayers of surrendering their treacherous faith to the Erdtree, only for their cries to be disciplined till they cease. The twins enjoyed a moment of calm, though the brick walls of the sewers held onto the winter’s cold, they were granted warmed water. Morgott wasn’t enjoying his meal, but he could disregard the taste in exchange of warmth. Mohg listened to the distant holler, now mixed with his brother’s chewing, with the droplets splashing onto the wet floor. 

The ambiance smothered him.

“Brother,” Mohg began, watchful eyes examining a distant pebble. “What is your cause?” 

“Prithee, elaborate,” his brother inquired, throat aching as he swallowed a piece of dry bread.

“Your compliance, your submission, the courtesy you show. Have you no honor?”

“Courtesy to whom?”

“To Father, to the knights who hound us, to the very reason we’re shackled,” Mohg scowled, impatience brewing within. He clamped his hands to fists, fine nails digging holes in his palms. “You truly are cut from the same blood stained cloth.”

“Doth not taketh of Father in vain, for he didst saveth us; grant Father esteem for protecting thee and I.”

“Father buried us in disgrace, to him, we may be bereft of life. He would be none the wiser,” he snarled as he gave his brother a leering look. His chest deflated before it could inflate, each word was spoken with more malice than the last.

Morgott observed his shorter twin. His scalp has traces of dried blood, settled around the bases of his horns. His forearms trembled as he clasped his fists further, his gaze was devoid of emotion; yet he seemed as if he would erupt any given moment. 

“You are a disappointment,” Mohg blurted, he maintained contact with his brother as he continued. “Since the day we were bairns, you have been a mishap. Fooled to believe Mother and Father will grant us grace. You will be omitted from their memory, as will I.”

In a burst, Mohg felt the loose rope around his neck being torn, pressuring his neck. He looked attentively as his mellow brother roused to ire. The rising hostility drove the brother’s further, each crueler with every gash.

Morgott held his brother against the floor, hands grasping wrists and knees pressing against his thighs. He was immobilized; he didn't hope to harm his brother.

“Thou art heedless of our privilege!” 

“Existence is a birthright, and nobility is not!”

Twisting and turning, using every stressed fibre of muscle within his limbs, Mohg gained control. He bore claws into his brother as he collapsed onto him, he was bound underneath Mohg’s weight; stationary and lame. Morgott noted Mohg’s expression, or lack thereof. Despite his volatile upheaval, his sight was blank. His cloudy eyes were fully absent, his ferocious affect was wholly feral.

“Don’t touch me,” Mohg threatened. 

Morgott’s lungs stressed as his wind-pipe compressed, he felt familiar claws tearing skin once more.

“Why is it that Father only favours you? Why are you spared of the consequences when I am not? It isn’t just!” He sniveled, hands becoming slack. “Your aversion and preference, I shoulder our burden.”

Supporting himself with his hand pressing against Morgott’s strained chest, he wandered off without a word. Morgott’s back had become cold as laid motionless on the wet floor, his gaze tied to the ceiling, his growing horns ached as his brother had pushed them to the floor. He was dazed.

────────────────────────────────────────────

Wandering aimlessly in the dark, he had finally spotted Mohg in the corner, legs pressed against his chest and aching wings hugging him. Morgott’s lantern illuminated stains of spritzed blood on the floor. 

“Forgive me, brother,” Mohg murmured. “I don’t know why I’ve become like this.”

[morgottbathwater]

Non omnis moriar: I shall not all die ♡

SFW. Eye Trauma, first person POV. OC drabble, a Perfumer meets an unfortunate fate during the war.

Word count — 352

Betwixt sunset and twilight, surrounded by fiery arrows and howls of men; I found myself intercepted by a densely armored knight. His golden helm adorned with hoary feathers, as lithe as a soaring hawk despite the stout brass, he had caught me ill-equipped. My back was turned against my assailant, I couldn't hear him approach through my hefty headgear and the chaos around us. The tall figure towered over me, terror struck as I turned my head to face him. My blood ran cold, I took what I assumed would be my last breath and thought of my mother, for I had wished for her comfort during my last moments alive.

The knight got hold of me, tugging at my uniform with violence. All I could do was stare, my body succumbed to my terror. If he noticed my pathetic compliance perhaps he would’ve left me as I was an unfit foe. The following moment became a haze; firstly the stillness, then came the deafening chime, then the pinching hurt. My right eye was set ablaze, or so I thought, my head pulsated at the most gentle gust. Bright lights flickered before me, as the chimes fell quiet I heard my holler, my throat ached as I laid on the ground. My body contorted into unknown shapes as I howled. Haphazardly I poked my digit into my right eye, only to be met with a barren hole. My remaining eye darted to my attacker, an orb pinched between his thumb and finger, claws prickling holes as juice seeped down his fingers.

The back of my head slammed against the ground, I felt as if I was being choked, air didn’t fill my lungs anymore. Further into the distance I saw a figure, an immense figure wielding a golden spear, fighting alongside men. My sight turned blurry as wetness bled into my remaining eye, my abdomen cramped as bile leaked through my dry mouth. The remote trumpets grew into a thudding beat, slowly, my sight faded.

A faint whisper of my mothers voice, “Remus, you’re unsuited for Leyndell. I beg of you, reconsider.”

[morgottbathwater]

I need to write more drabbles </3

[morgottbathwater]

I have an AO3 for all my drabbles and various works if anyone is interested, @ omenfailure

[morgottbathwater]

Galgespil ♡

SFW. Canon typical violence. Varré and his first encounter with the Lord he's come to serve. Platonic or romantic.

Word count — 497

His bloodied chest had gone cold, and it reeked of iron and betrayal. No, it wasn't; his comrade had simply followed protocol. Even allies face the lethal judgment of the Miséricorde, regardless of whether you're a commander or a fellow War Surgeon. The dagger had missed vital organs, his comrade had not confirmed the kill, and Varré was left to bleed. He had gotten too ambitious, too diligent; the knight, in turn for execution, wasn't fully incapacitated. With his last breath, he had pierced Varré's soft stomach. Without armor, he was left vulnerable.

His miscalculation had cost him his life, waiting to take his last breath as he reflected on the misery before him. Heaps of lifeless bodies he will soon join, another corpse to be forgotten.

As he fluttered between consciousness and slumber, he twitched awake at the tune of metal chattering. With weary eyelids, he turned to face him, an Omen.

“Rise, carrier of death, your end is not yet nigh,” he arose from the pool of blood spilled by War Surgeons. Healers become hangmen, abandoning their rejuvenating arts.

Varré didn't speak, he couldn't nor wished to. He merely observed the Omen, blood running down his calloused, coal forehead. Intimidating, yet eloquent and soft-spoken.

“Join me, become my blood-sworn knight, and I will salvage the brittle life left behind your eyes.”

The Omen stepped forward, looming over the fallen man. His shimmering, bedazzled spear towered over both of them, casting a shadow across Varré’s breathless body.

“Live an honorable life, a warrior of the Mohgwyn Dynasty. Or perish among the lives you’ve stolen. Die, you too, in obscurity,” the Omen continued, his voice was raspy but spoke with confidence.

He continued, “say, will you choose life and community, or a certain, lonesome death?”

With little contemplation, Varré reached his trembling hand towards the Omen, an attempt to communicate. His breaths grew scarce, his thoughts became muddled too. Anything but this, for his life cannot end on the battlefield he was tethered to.

“Very well, you have your wits with you,” the Omen answered, drawing a slit spilling red rain. It dripped down Varré’s head, down through the holes in his mask, spreading across his short stubble.

“Consume the blood I've spilled, for it will be the bond that ties us together.”

Varré looked up at the strange sight, a rain of blood manifested from nothingness. Regardless, he will heed the Omen’s call and escape the battlefield he detests. Mouth ajar, he let himself consume the blood. It tasted sweet, unlike human blood. Like the nectar of fruit or berries grown from fertilized soil.

The Omen scooped up the bloodstained War Surgeon, his limbs had gone limp, and his neck failed to keep his head perked. His cold body had regained some heat, warmth prickling at his skin, twitching as his fingers regained function.

“War Surgeon, what is your name?”

“Varré,” he whispered.

“Abandon your title, for you will be remembered as my White Mask, serving the Mohgwyn Dynasty.”

[morgottbathwater]

A Fleeting Memory ♡

SFW. OC/Morgott. Remus' last days with Morgott, cradled by the Erdtree he despised. A bit old.

Word count — 360

"Morgott," He spoke with strain, clouded gaze feasting upon the golden leaves. He grasped onto a handful of the King's tail, "the apple of my eye." His prince consort was nested in his lap, horned tail propping up his aching body. His wispy maroon hair ran down his naked back like withering nerves.

"I fear my end is nigh. My legs struggle to carry my weight when I can count my ribs through thinning skin."

"Remus," he began, uncertain how to continue.

"I do not fear death, I have conquered my disquietude long ago. But I can't pass on with ease knowing I've abandoned you behind."

Morgott lightly petted the mutt, careful not to weigh his hand upon him. He could pick him up with ease singlehandedly, especially now when his taste for food had dwindled and his feet had begun to swell.

"Thee shalt liveth on, in memory and art. The right of mine mattress may beest empty, but I trust thee to protect mine own from nightmares."

"I'm forever grateful."

The Omen traced Remus' sharp cheekbone, sculpted by his hallowed cheek, no longer plump and flushed as before. He felt as if every morning, a new fold and wrinkle had formed.

"I may harbor venom of the Erdtree, but I can't ignore its deceiving beauty. I understand why you stood loyal to such wonders, but I wished you hadn't let it trick you into self-loathing."

He turned his head to look up at Morgott, a golden leaf nesting in his white locks. His vision was greying and unfocused, but he knew there was a small grin on Morgott's lips. He smiled as he continued,

"Your work deserves the utmost praise, of love. I'm in debt of the undeserving patience you graced me."

"Remus, rest thy voice, thou art straining thyself. Thy body lost the strength it once had."

The prince rubbed his face against the fuzzy tail, and with playful disregard,

he asked. "Morgott?"

"Yes?"

"Forever, I love you." His stomach turned and a freezing chill formed, yet his heart beat warmly.

With a choke, he promised, "I love thee, not death nor illness may tear us apart."

[morgottbathwater]

Kingly Impostor ♡

SFW. OC/Canon. Remus' first encounter with Morgott after he lost his right eye during the defense of Leyndell.

Word count — ~ 138

"A commoner could have trailed the foul scent of a cowardly King, from the ravaged peninsula of Limgrave, to the roots of the Erdtree itself,"

The young warrior spat, stepping onto the royal grounds housing the entrance of the very Erdtree herself.

"You do not befit the crown, a King hiding from his war."

Blood had dried by Morgott's swollen brow ridge, scars oozing at the cleaved stump of his remaining horn. The throne stood empty behind his back. It had remained untouched since the day Godwyn last sat before his siblings. The rightful king of Leyndell hadn't laid a hand upon it ever since he inherited the crown.

"Thou art bold, preaching b'fore thy King. Who darest speaketh to me with such obstinate discourtesy?"

"I am Remus, Mistwood Perfumer. I will not be a vassal of a charlatan Omen."

[morgottbathwater]

Would yooooooooooouuuuuu... Be up for a Miquella/Mohg/Radahn thing? 🤔

Nods nods, I'd love to give them a try. I think it'd be a tad bit longer than my usual fics cause their relationship to one another is so intricate and complex, imo.

But I'd love to spread the Miq/Mohg/Radahn love, soo underrated

[morgottbathwater]

I'm thinking of taking short fic or hc requests, I also do canon/reader, etc.

I'm more familiar with writing

Omen twins

Pureblood knights

Miquella & St. Trina

But I'm willing to write for anyone else, not Messmer though soz