Burning Chains

Chapter 9

The halls of Caria Manor were cold. That had not always been the case. When Ranni was young, Radahn had boisterously tracked mud through its corridors after returning from a day of riding and combat training. He probably still did the same in his own halls, deep in the mossy forests and misty bogs of Caelid, on the other side of the Lands Between. She half hoped the reason he had chosen to settle so far from their original home was out of guilt for what he had done, but she doubted it. Rykard could be found in some half hidden alcove hurriedly shoving whatever book he had been reading into his sleeve whenever Ranni discovered him, only to pull it out again, admonishing her for scaring him when he realized she was not their father. It had always been a toss up between some record of the worship of ancient gods or an erotic novel. He too had his own halls now where he could indulge in his studies of the blasphemous and the perverse far more openly. Rennala had sat somewhere, always in the company of her father (whose name Ranni no longer cared to speak), sometimes outside taking the starlight, in the library having a cup of tea as she read, or in the throne room listening to the worries of her people, but yet never too busy to listen to the worries of her daughter. These days she did not leave her library at the academy, her own worries far too pressing for Ranni to burden her. Caria Manor was Ranni’s birthright. As first born daughter, she was rightful heir to Rennala’s throne. She could be heir to even more if she listened to the whispered promises of the new moon, hanging cold and dark in the sky. She still wasn’t sure if she wanted that. Caria manor was already cold. Blaidd, Iji, and even Adula warmed it by some measure, but if she took the dark path ahead, all of them would come to leave her, nothing but more cold filling the space they once occupied.

But yet she felt compelled to action, not by the moon or stars but by her own sense of Justice. The people deserved to be able to govern themselves. Greater powers should not be able to enforce their will on the world and people at their whims. Such unfettered control would lead only to chaos and suffering. Things ought to change slowly and steadily, at the pace culture and opinion changed, not at the rapid pace of a god's will, nor should it be held in eternal stasis on a god’s whim either. When she became the next host to the Elden Ring (there could be no ifs in her mind only whens, this dreadful cold had to amount to something) she planned to leave the Lands Between entirely. Ranni knew what that would mean for her, thousands of years in a dark and cold deeper than anything she had ever known, but she had to. She could see no path forward for the world with any sort of god, even herself.

Having become so used to the utterly desolate feeling of cold, it became immediately apparent to her the moment the god of madness and chaos entered her property. He was a thing of heat, though not one of life, a different kind of desolation than her own. She knew the prophecies well, he was to be a thing of unparalleled destructive force, like a sun crashing into the surface of the planet, but for the moment, he was also her ally. It was against her principles, and in any other circumstances she would not have even indirectly solicited his help through her step brother, but she intended to steal from Maliketh. Even her mother, the most powerful sorcerer she had ever known, had described him as a horror in battle. A warrior best only told about, and never actually met in combat. She would ally herself with a god for this and only this, and if he fell in combat over the course of the theft, well she certainly wouldn’t shed any tears.

At the moment though she was more concerned as to why he was in her house. He was in fact, just about inside now, Ranni could see the little bastard climbing over her balcony. With the amount of noise he made as his feet kicked against the stones and he tumbled over the railing he seemed less like he was sneaking around in the way that an assassin would sneak around, unless he was utterly incompetent, but more in the way a teenager accustomed to having to sneak around would. He wore that same face again. Perhaps it was once his, but she knew what lurked underneath.

“What is it?” She did not look up, but clutched the glintstone dagger she kept hidden in her sleeve. The god remained silent. Like all gods. “I said, what is it?” She turned towards him in irritation. He was mouthing something.

“‘May I have your permission to speak’ for what reason? Thou dost not seem like one to hold his tongue for fear of making offense.”

He mouthed a fragment of a sentence that chilled her, knowing that perhaps one day something like it could happen to her, if her plan did not succeed.

“No more mouth.”

“Thou mayest speak.” She answered, shaken, knowing she had given that thing tacit permission to enter her mind.

“Thanks. That’s much easier.”

“What is it thou want?”

“What we agreed to. I had to leave before we could settle on a date.”

“I had assumed we would do this after thou hadst delivered on thy promise.” She felt for him in this regard, she really did, but now was a bad time, She was not yet stable enough to be seen.

“There’s no guarantee I will live to deliver and I think you know that. I would hate to think that you’d try to cheat me Ranni.”

She kept her face expressionless.

“I can feel your panic, you’re letting it bleed through the connection. You haven’t lied to me, have you?”

“I need more time.”

“Is the process resource intensive? I can help you gather what you need. Do you need an artifact or some sort of ritual object? I can get it for you. I just need it to be done before we leave.”

“Why? Thou hast waited this long, canst thou not wait just a little longer?” Ranni couldn’t let him near Her. Not in the state She was in.

“You don't guard your mind well Ranni. Who is She?”

“Don’t.”

“I can figure it out on my own if I need to. I’m smarter than I look.”

That would be far worse. At least Ranni’s presence would comfort Her if he went alone he could tip Her over the edge.

“My mother. She is the one that can help thee, but she has fallen ill.”

His expression softened slightly.

“I’ve heard the rumors. You don’t need to be coy with me about it, ailments of the mind are part of my purview.”

A thought that hurt her pride came to her, but it would hurt her far more if she didn’t vocalize it and it turned out to be true.

“Canst thou help her?” She did not beg. She stared the god down as she would a dog. Ranni was not begging for his help.

“I cannot. Madness is mine to spread, not mine to fix. I might be able to ease her suffering a little, but it wouldn’t help her in the way you want me to.”

“What couldst thou do for her?” This she hesitated to ask. He had said he couldn’t help and she would not have trusted him if he said he could, but there was a chance she could ease her mother's pain. A small one, but still a chance.

“I could offer her a peaceful delusion. It would keep her happy and calm, but it would not help or hurt her.”

Ranni thought of the way her mother was now. Jumping at assassins that weren’t there, clutching at Ranni’s robes every time she left in fear that she would abandon her as well.

“A peaceful delusion.”

“It will be just as painful for you to watch as the paranoia she has now, but she will be happier.”

The bitter cold once again gnawed at her heart.

“Canst thou be ready by the next full moon?”

“That’s in four days right? I can be ready.”

“If thou shouldst harm her I will rip thy lungs out through thine asshole.”

The god paused in shock for a moment and when he spoke again it was in a strangely measured tone.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Morgott largely kept to the roads these days. During the early days of his freedom he had not known what to do with himself. Mostly he had lain in bed for hours on end, eventually coming to the conclusion that even if nothing else was worth it, at least he could sleep comfortably. Eventually Mohg had started giving him little missions on the surface. Nothing of great importance, just “here Morgott go visit this town and tell me what you find”, “Morgott go find a smith familiar with blades like Okina’s”, “Morgott go pick up my groceries”. It was abundantly clear Mohg just wanted him to go out in the world every once in a while rather than sit in bed until he grew mold. Initially he had been resentful, grumbling through his tasks until they were completed with a well constructed veil over his face. Then he discovered horses.

They ran wild through Caelid, some even growing to sizes that made it possible even for one as large as him to ride. He had found them bizarre at first, he knew that they were creatures of paradoxes from the lessons he had received while incarcerated. Beasts stronger and faster than any man, that were at the same time so delicate that a broken leg could mean their death. However no lesson could have prepared him to see one in person. At their smallest, a horse was taller than an ordinary man at its shoulders, and at their very largest, taller even than himself. Powerful muscles and spindly limbs coexisted within in their strange forms calling to mind again the impression he’d been given of both incredible power and delicacy. The first time he had seen one out in the wild, both him and the beast had been terribly frightened of each other, both running away as fast as their legs could carry them. Over time though, he’d come to watch the beasts from a distance, observing their behavior and the ways they moved, learning the intricacies of their social relationships. Eventually after a long period of observation he began to notice the reappearance of a lone stallion on the edges of the various herds of the Caelid Wilds. He was a member of one of the larger breeds with a coat blacker than the night sky, slower, but sturdy enough for him to ride.

The first time Morgott attempted to ride him, the omen had been thrown into a tree and broken his tail. After a lengthy recovery for his ego he had sought help from Juno, one of his brother’s knights, a young nobleman familiar with the beasts. He had suggested Morgott focus first on getting the stallion accustomed to his presence, then when he was no longer frightened of him, he was to ply him with food and gently pet or brush the creature to get him used to touch and even then he would still need to be broken in before Morgott would be able to ride the horse without being bucked.

It took months, even with Juno’s guidance, for Morgott to get the beast to trust him enough to place a saddle on its back, and longer still until he would allow him to sit in it without throwing him, but the moment Morgott had actually gotten onto the creature’s back he felt something inside him click into place. He was good at riding, naturally so. Juno had said it was like he was born for it. Morgott had thought that was mere flattery until he’d come across a patrol of Radahn’s soldiers in the middle of the night and though all of them were horsemen trained by the man rumored to be the best The Lands Between had ever seen, he’d managed to slip them in the darkness of the moors without even having to draw his sword. He’d never known anything to be effortless. His skill at magic and swordplay had been scraped and clawed for, every inch of him born of struggle rather than natural talent. To have talent for something at last was almost overwhelming. Though not overwhelming enough to keep him out of the saddle.

When his small, strange group of supporters, a unit of men and women that believed him to be Marika’s true born heir, finally found him, they became a cavalry force. His knights were night riders like himself now, skilled with the glance and flail. Unlike his knights, however, as Morgott tore through the night, he carried a long twisted sword. It was his own work, a sword imbued with a small amount of his blood, just enough to make flames dance along the edges of the blade though the cur- No not a curse he had to stop thinking of himself in those terms. The unique properties of his blood lent the metal an iridescent patina. He had been told it was beautiful, though he couldn’t see it as anything other than his own shoddy smithing, however he had come to realize that anything sufficiently unique could be considered beautiful by someone’s taste.

It… would likely be a while before he could count himself upon that list, but there was always a chance. He had seen his brother become something horrifying, a creature he barely recognized, but yet Morgott still loved him, and his fiancé even seemed delighted by the changes. It was easier for him to see himself from the outside. Though they were different, Mohg was still his twin, his mirror. If Mohg could be loved, then so could he. He would just have to wait a little longer until he found the sort of maniac that would have him.

Tonight though, Morgott was alone in a more pleasant sense. It was just him, his mount (a different one than that first stallion he’d tamed all those years ago), and the stars. He did not have the kind of connection that a sorcerer might have to them but they felt somehow, more non-judgemental. The Erdtree’s branches still glowed on the edge of his vision but the stars beyond it reminded him that there was something beyond it. Something he was helping his brother work towards.

Wraiths also flitted curiously around him, winking in the grass like enormous fireflies. He had gotten used to them more than anything. The souls of the dead seemed to like his company for some reason, though they retreated in the presence of others, even his brother. They could not speak, so it was difficult to tell who they had once been. Adults? Children? Omen? Albinauric? Misbegotten? Perhaps even humans that could not return to the roots for whatever reason? Wraiths retained nothing of their bodies from before their deaths and with their inability to speak it was difficult to see whether or not they’d retained anything of their minds either. They seemed to have some measure of intelligence, at least enough to recognize him as a future comrade.

Mohg had promised that wouldn’t be their fate, but Morgott was rational. There were three other known empyreans besides Mohg’s in The Lands Between. Miquella seemed to be Queen Marika’s pick for her successor, Malenia had thrown in her lot with him, and Ranni had her own schemes running. The only thing their faction had over the resources available to the other two was a head start. Any of them could end up on the throne, and that was if something happened to unseat Queen Marika. Morgott could not bring himself to hope, for hoping was not in his nature, but he could still act. Okina, another of his brother’s knights, had always extolled the virtue of accepting death. Hope would do nothing but make him fear death, and fearing death would do nothing but paralyze him. If fate decreed that he was to die and his brother’s empire was never to come to pass so be it. He would at least become an ever wandering wraith knowing he worked towards something. He would not concern himself with anything else.

The wraiths in the grass suddenly winked out and Morgott reached for the gnarled, wooden hilt of his sword. He was no longer alone. His horse did not rise from his position as the grass bent towards them and Morgott loosened his grip. He knew who that was. A puddle of red liquid seeped over the tall grass, bending its stalks as it dripped to the ground filling the air with the stench of iron. Morgott sheathed his sword again.

“What news?” He asked, as the pool of blood rose, forming the shape of his younger twin.

“You’re no fun, Morgott. No fun at all.” Mohg shook his head.

“You’ve pulled this one far too many times for it to frighten me. ‘Tis your own fault.”

“You could at least pretend.”

“Ah!” He shouted. “Now what news.”

Mohg pouted, but continued.

“A temporary accord has been struck with our step sister.” He stopped for a moment, seeming at war with himself before adding, “Our younger brother was there as well.”

“Miquella is moving faster than we expected then.”

“No, not him.”

A thousand conflicting thoughts entered Morgott’s mind, eventually resolving into a single word.

“Why?”

“If I am to be charitable with my theories, because he sees that the world has become unnatural and wishes to fix it in the only way he knows how.”

“And if you were to be uncharitable?”

“Because he believes he is owed something that he feels Marika stole from him. To his credit, he claims he wants to be a presence in our lives now that he has committed himself against our mother.”

Morgott scoffed.

“You think he lies, Morgott?”

“I think he may be an opportunist. Why now, after all these years would he make the effort to connect? Because you have power now or because he could not stomach the idea of tracking us down until he had committed himself to a greater misdeed in the eyes of the order? Or even worse, he may intend to betray whatever pact it is you have made with him.”

“I do not think he will. Either he is an excellent actor or he has significant reason to abide by the accord we struck.”

“Do I want to know what it is you agreed to do?”

“I don’t think you do.”

“So then it is something you may not come back from.”

“Yes.”

Morgott exhaled loudly.

“Gareth will be involved as well and we’ve come up with a plan to minimize the risk to me. Though, just in case, we also plan to be married.”

“If you do die, who would you like to be named as your successor?”

“Morgott…”

“I was never meant to be a leader, Mohg. I will not have you force the position upon me.”

“It is your right far more than it was ever mine.”

“Well then I abdicate.”

“Perhaps you ought to pick my successor then? How about Juno?”

He was high born, understood the political situation well, extremely disciplined and effective in combat but…

“Juno Hoslow has the charisma of a wooden board.”

“What about Okina then?”

He was also a skilled warrior, he had a wealth of battlefield experience, and was an unmatched swordsman and tutor, the second being a rare and valuable skill, however…

“Okina would toss himself into an active volcano if he thought it would give him a good fight. I wouldn’t trust him with the safety of your men.”

“How about Eleonora?”

Another incredibly skilled warrior, she wielded her poleblade as if dancing…

“Likewise.”

“Patches then?”

The thief was shrewd, inexperienced in politics but able to compensate with his finely tuned ability to judge character, not to mention the strange glimpses he seemed to have of times of the past and future…

“He’d make a band of thieves of your army in a week.”

“Varre?”

Morgott made a face.

“Surely you jest.”

“Well then it seems like all of my closest allies have been thoroughly discounted. I suppose it must be you yet again by default.”

Morgott ground his teeth in annoyance.

“If I am to agree to take your throne on the occasion of your death, promise me this.”

“Anything.”

“You will not die before me.”

Mohg smiled sadly.

“No! Do not give me that look! Promise me!”

“I can not. I would damn myself in the eyes of my god, for she is the Mother of Truth and I would know it to be a lie.”

“What on earth am I supposed to do if you die?! I am not you! I do not have the power to fix what is broken in the world.”

“I think you doubt yourself too much. Though I do not expect or wish for you to act as my replacement if I am to fall. Create what Order you see fit to. I only have one request.” He placed a clawed hand on Morgott’s shoulder. “I do not care how long it takes or how you go about it, but please avenge me.”

“I do not want to have to think about that.”

“You may have to.”

“You said you had a way to minimize the risk.”

“Yes but there will still be risk.”

“Well what is your plan, perhaps I could offer a suggestion.”

Mohg shifted uncomfortably for a moment.

“Keep in mind that I am the one who suggested this, and that I ascribe so much romantic and spiritual importance to it that I wish to do it as part of our wedding ceremony.”

Morgott braced himself for whatever his brother was about to say.

“Alright, I’m listening.”

Mohg told him what he planned to do and Morgott attempted to keep his expression even. The idea of what his brother had suggested made his skin crawl, but the way Mohg spoke about it, it was very clear that it was something he very badly wanted. However, towards the end he began to avert his eyes, speaking with a hesitancy Morgott had not seen from him in years. He had to gather himself a moment before he allowed himself to respond. Though what Mohg wanted was strange, he could understand the logic of it. A metaphor literalized.

“While I do not pretend to understand why you would want such a thing, it seems that you have your mind set upon it. I will not attempt to stop you.”

“Thank you, Morgott.” Mohg relaxed, understanding his non-committal response as the tacit approval it was.

“You will not be in pain, nor will you lose yourself?”

“If anything it should feel fairly pleasant, but yes losing myself is a worry. Though would that really be so bad?” Mohg added wistfully.

“Yes. I would miss you terribly.”

“I would still be with you. Just in a different form.”

“This one causes me enough trouble as it is.” Morgott rubbed his eyes.

“Morgott.”

“What?”

“I will not leave you alone, alright? Even if I die or lose myself, my friends will always be yours, my armies your armies, my followers your followers. You will never be alone in a cell again.”

“Unless I am caught as I pursue vengeance for you.”

“Then do not get caught,” Mohg smirked. “I know no one more skilled in methods of disguise and illusion.”

“You know I see wraiths out here on occasion.”

“Yes.”

“If you die I will track you down and dress you in a silly outfit. Not your sort of silly. I shall make a tiny jester’s motley for you.”

“I believe that is the most compelling argument against my death you’ve made tonight.” Mohg laughed. “You should know. I have given Godwyn one of my medallions. If he determines how it is used he may come visit us.”

“If?”

“He gave me a riddle, I gave him one in return.”

“Oh?”

“I am to discover evidence of some sort of sin if I determine the reason Rykard and I look similar.”

“He believes you look similar to each other?”

“Clearly. The veil you made me looks a great deal like him I suppose.”

Morgott furrowed his brow.

“That’s odd.”

“In what way?”

“I didn’t embellish it in any way. I merely removed your horns and reconstructed your mouth. If you looked like anyone it should be-“ Morgott stopped himself. He knew Mohg could be sensitive about such things, but they were not identical twins. Morgott had always taken after their father, with his square jaw and broad shoulders. Mohg hadn’t though, Mohg had always taken after-

“Marika.” His brother finished. “Rykard looks like Marika.”

“But Rennala is his mother, is she not?”

“…Morgott, you can make illusions that are solid correct?”

“…Yes.”

“Do you think you would be able to form a veil that could actually transform flesh?”

“I don’t think I could, but maybe someone more skilled with that kind of magic-“ Suddenly he realized what Mohg had been considering. “Mohg, you couldn’t possibly think-“

“It would make sense though wouldn’t it.” Mohg’s expression had darkened and he had begun to grind his teeth.

“What about Malenia and Miquella then? How could they have been conceived?”

“Godwyn told me they were cursed as punishment for Marika’s sin. I don’t know how they could have been conceived, but if they are one in the same, well, that would be a sin worse than incest wouldn’t it.”

“If.”

“You can make spectral doubles of yourself can’t you?”

“By The Great Tree…”

“Marika and Radagon are the same person.”

“I cannot believe them!” Mohg paced back and forth before his bed, smoke practically pouring from his ears as he fumed. “All this time they were like us! All this time!”

Gareth watched him from between the giant pelvic bones they intended to make their marriage bed. He had been like this since they had both returned from their respective appointments.

“I can, in an order of binary opposition like the one they’ve set up, the divine is that which exists in balance between two extremes, right?”

“That is not what I meant. All this time they could have done something to help people like us! I would not have had to spend all those years merely justifying my own existence! You could have had a boyhood!”

Gareth got up from bed and caught Mohg by the arm to stop his angry pacing.

“You know they’re a hypocrite. Would you have expected anything different from them?”

“No, but it still makes me furious.”

“Why does it make you furious?”

“Because I cannot possibly imagine ever doing the same.”

“That’s because you have balls. Your mother, like I said, is a fucking dick head. You’ll never be like them and that is the highest compliment I can give.”

“Promise me you will never deny your own nature for the sake of political gain.”

“Mohg, you know what I was supposed to do when I became whole right?”

The lord of frenzied flame was to burn the world to ash.

“Well clearly the prophecies were wrong.”

“Mohg, I don’t think they were. On some days I’m in so much pain that I want to do it.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because I would lose you. You, and I cannot stress this enough, are the only thing keeping me from becoming the thing that would end the world. My nature is desolation, the annihilating flame, that which is power driven to self destruction. It is only through my love for you that I have become the flame that cleanses, that which clears away the dead growth to allow the new to sprout, but to be something that is capable of loving you is in itself a denial of my nature.”

“Does it pain you?”

“No, I like that you have so much power over me. I’m yours in a way no other man could be and soon you will have been responsible for almost every part of me.”

“Then how about this, promise me you will never hide your nature, even if you see fit to reject it.”

“That I can promise.”

“Even once you’ve been changed?”

“If I hid what I once was, I would have to hide the gift you’d given me as well. It would be ungrateful.”

Mohg let out a breath of relief.

“I am sorry I am always so paranoid with you.”

“It’s not like you don’t have a reason to be.” Mohg could hear the smile in his words even if he could no longer see it on his face. “As many times as it takes.”

“When do you change?”

“Four days.”

“We’ll have to arrange things quickly.”

“Something we’ll have to think about in the morning, love.”

Gareth slipped his hands beneath Mohg’s robes, his fingers playing with his feathers.

“That isn’t like you.” Mohg chuckled.

“I’m giving the old girl up, might as well give her a proper send off.”

“Just to be clear, you want me to touch you.”

“Yes.”

“Which hand?”

“Left.”

“Left?” Mohg dragged his thick horn of a middle finger along the god’s jaw. “What has you so hot and bothered?”

“Ranni threatened to tear my lungs out through my ass when we spoke.”

“So you’d like me to tear you apart in her stead? I must admit it makes me feel a little like I’m the other woman,” Mohg teased.

“All I could think of when she said it was how much I wanted your claws in me.”

The two of them were strange in their affections. It was something first brought up with a degree of hesitancy, questions veiled as metaphors, “accidental” slips when dressing wounds, memorably a long period when Gareth had insisted he needed help practicing healing incantations, but refused to ask anyone but Mohg to wound him or be wounded. After it became obvious how often those experiments just devolved into sex, they’d had a very long and slightly awkward conversation regarding preference. Mohg preferred the knife, to be taken apart with simultaneous detachment and rapt attention, for his partner to gently chide him for his weakness as he sobbed in pain. Gareth, on the other hand, preferred bare claws, to feel his love’s fingers in his veins and muscles, touching him more intimately than anyone else had and ripping him apart with his own hands. When he asked for Mohg’s left hand they both knew what that meant. He was asking to be torn apart.

Mohg let his single claw of a middle finger drag down Gareth’s neck to his collarbone, following the line of his body down the center of his chest and over the soft skin of his stomach until he landed at the laces at the front of his pants.

“Hey Mohg?” He stopped immediately. Sometimes when it came to his entrance, Gareth would very quickly realize he wasn’t in the mood.

“Yes?”

Gareth’s flame glowed brighter in a way that had previously always been accompanied by a knowing smirk.

“I’m on the rag.”

Mohg dropped to his knees in front of him.

“Do you like these pants?”

“Not more than I’d like to see you rip them off me.”

Mohg tore the wool like it was paper, exposing the wrapped cloth he used as undergarments. The insides he knew would be padded with cave moss. Gareth had picked up the habit from the war surgeons in Mohg’s service, who often used moss as a makeshift gauze when dressing wounds, finding it more comfortable than linen rags. Mohg untied the cloth revealing the glistening entrance between Garreth’s legs. His periods tended to be fairly short but also extremely heavy. Gareth referred to it as a cannon blast, where his body ejected as much as it could at once for about two or three days. As Mohg gazed at his opening, blood dripped from him like honey, red staining his thighs like berry juice.

“You spoil me absolutely rotten, darling.” He carefully parted the blood soaked folds with his fingers letting them become coated in burgundy before he finally bent his head to taste him. The blood and slick mixed together to create a salt and metal taste Mohg could only call love. Gareth rocked into him, grinding his clit against the points of Mohg’s fangs.

Mohg grabbed him by the waist and picked him up before tossing him onto his bed. He pinned the god beneath him, holding his hands above his head.

“You move only when I say you do.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” Mohg positioned his claw just at the edge of Gareth’s entrance, teasing him with it.

“Yes, my lord,” the god sobbed in want from beneath him.

“Good, now hold still.” Mohg rammed his claw into him and the god screamed. He felt his walls tearing beneath his claw but didn’t stop, he could feel his betrothed’s pain, but also his rapturous pleasure at the edge of his mind. True to his word he didn’t move, letting Mohg make an absolute mess of him. The omen released his hands, trusting him to stay still as ordered, and reached into his own breeches to tend to himself.

Even the fingers on his right hand were clawed, to a lesser extent than his left middle finger of course, and they scraped at his own walls as well. However, he found the stinging somewhat pleasant, something to ground him so that he didn’t ruin Gareth more than he intended to.

His claw was largely insensate, so while he did not feel Gareth clench around him as he came, what he did feel was the moment the floodgates of his mind broke down. He was a god of the mind first and foremost, destruction was a mere inevitability of the madness he was capable of spreading. What that meant for the two of them however, was that he was adept at communicating solely with his thoughts, or relaying his emotions from mind to mind. They had both also found that he was more likely to accidentally relay thoughts and feelings when in a compromised state, like when he was drunk, or more relevantly, the throes of pleasure. Mohg’s thoughts were suddenly drowned in a wave of ecstasy. Gareth’s and his thoughts crashed into each other, their minds intertwining in mutual pleasure, and then the waters calmed and Mohg was back to himself.

He withdrew his hand from Gareth and whispered a quick healing incantation over him.

“How are you? Still alright?” Mohg asked, wiping blood from his mouth. Gareth attempted to reply, his voiceless jaw moving beneath the flame, before he remembered how to speak.

“More than alright.” He turned his face towards Mohg. “I can’t wait to do the same to you.”

“I wouldn’t ask for claws if I were you, they can be fairly inconvenient.”

“I wasn’t even thinking with claws. Sometimes, I don’t know, sometimes I worry I’m not enough to satisfy you. It’s- I want to take you apart as easily as you can take me apart.”

“You do admirably well even as you are, but if you wish to be more in an effort to please me, then the only thing I will ask is are you trying to be more yourself or something else entirely?”

“More myself. I feel so constrained like this. My body doesn’t quite feel like my own, it can’t do all the things I want it to do. “

“I hope you are able to find more comfort in what you become, as I did.”

“I hope so too.”