Summary

Morgott finds a confusing message in the aftermath of a battle with a tarnished cleric.

Lover Ahead

The tarnished had a wheel around his neck, Morgott noted as the man crawled through the pitted battlefield surrounding Leyndell. He’d fought this one before, he remembered the blindfold. That had particularly irked him the first time they fought, was Margit the Fell so weak an opponent that he could be engaged blindfolded? He had beaten the man’s brains into the cobblestones with perhaps too much zeal for the slight. He still wore that blindfold now, along with that ridiculous cart wheel, as he picked his way through the craters, blissfully unaware of the king’s presence.

Morgott began to spin the thread of an incantation. His fingers moved with practiced surety, weaving golden magic into a veil. This was the magic he was most skilled with. He considered illusion a cheap ignoble art, but fitting for one such as himself. Morgott was already filthy, it would be the height of impudence if he insisted he could not dirty his hands. The spell he wove was an adaptation of an incantation used by assassins. Rather than an ethereal decoy wrought from shadow, he would make an imperfect double woven from gold. Dishonorable though it may be, Morgott had but one life. It had been made abundantly clear to him that he would never be accepted into the Erdtree’s roots. When the day finally came for his soul to leave his body and wander eternally as a wraith, he hoped he would still be offered Erdtree burial. Not to speed a return that would never come, but so that he might at least offer nourishment to the thing he most loved. However, today would not be that day. The tarnished below would once again face a copy woven from gold. Morgott spoke, allowing his voice to echo across the battlefield, “I see thee, little tarnished, smoldering with thy wretched flame of ambition.”

The priest stopped short, pointing at himself before immediately taking “Margit’s” cane to his face. Through his double’s eyes Morgott could see that the Tarnished’s cheeks had reddened. If he was embarrassed, good. Any usurpers of the Elden throne ought to have much better awareness of their surroundings. To the man’s credit, he did not complain of unfairness nor insult “Margit” for his unsightliness as he staggered backwards from the blow. He merely silently removed his simple, two-fingered seal from his belt and began to spin an incantation of his own. The priest brought his arm back, a disk of light forming in the air above his hand and launched it at “Margit”. The discus bounced practically harmlessly off of the construct. Morgott heard the Tarnished sigh in disappointment as “Margit’s” cane once again swung towards his head.

After his disastrous first attempt, the tarnished managed to overcome Morgott’s illusory double on his second try. It seemed he had realized lightning was a better answer than the incantations crafted by the king’s half-brother. After the man brushed the dust from his robes, Morgott watched as he bent down writing a message in glowing script for fellow tarnished to read, before once again continuing on his journey. Curious, Morgott leapt from the battlements of his city. He was careful to veil himself, taking on the guise of one of his city’s knights. The act sent a wave of self-disgust through him. He already desecrated the golden city of Leyndell by acting as king to its unwitting citizens, clothing himself in the guise of one of its knights was yet another blasphemy. Unfortunately it was a necessary one, an ambulatory bush would have attracted too much attention.

Morgot bent down to decipher the text the tarnished had left behind. “Lover ahead.” What on earth was that supposed to mean? The king knew that Tarnished left these sorts of messages to communicate information, or occasionally tell crass jokes, to others of their kind, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the man was trying to communicate. Lover ahead? Did his beloved live within the walls of Leyndell? Perhaps, but then why would he feel the need to declare that to the world? Morgott took a brief look around, there were no corpses lying in any poses that would make his note funny to those with warped senses of humor. Just the ravings of yet another mad man then.

Lover ahead. That one would probably stick in his head for a while. It was always the baffling things that did. His lot was derision and he’d accepted that, misery was quickly forgotten as it was replaced with ever more. Confusion on the other hand was rare. He’d lived a long time, there was very little that confused him anymore. These days whenever anything came up that well and truly baffled him he would find himself turning it over in his mind for days or even months until he came to an eventual understanding. Lover ahead, Lover ahead…

Weeks later, as Morgott himself was struck down by the tarnished and his one eyed maiden, he still hadn’t determined what it could mean. He watched as the man held up his arm, holding back the maiden as she approached with her blade of calling. She looked at him with a question written on her face, but he only stared back silently, shaking his head slightly. She sheathed her blade.

“If that is your wish, Tarnished. Far be it from me to question your whims.” The maiden faded away as the Tarnished approached. She spoke in a voice that itched painfully at the back of Morgott’s head. He felt like he’d heard it before but couldn’t place where. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he knew a voice like it had once said his name. A hand touched Morgott’s face and he shied away. The graceless should not be touched by the graced. The tarnished quickly removed a small clay figure from his pocket and blew into it. “Apologies,” the air hissed from the stone, mimicking the sound of speech.

“Why dost thou stay thy hand, tarnished?” The omen king coughed. He was having a hard time taking in breath now, he knew the life was leaving his body. Did the priest wish to watch him die? If he could still hold his sword within his grip he would have tried to kill him. He would not allow a man who took joy in the death of others desecrate this holy place. The man took out one of the enchanted stubs of fingers tarnished often carried with them. He quickly scrawled something on the ground.

“Offer healing.” He pointed at himself.

“I am dying, Tarnished. I could never heal others in life, thou wilt not be able to compel me to try on my deathbed.” The priest shook his head, pointed at himself again and then at Morgott.

“Offer healing.”

“Mark me, tarnished, had I the strength to heal thee, I would instead drag thee with me to the deepest roots of the Erdtree.” The tarnished made a frustrated expression, before driving his seal into the ground between them. A sigil of the Erdtree spread out underneath them both and Morgott felt his flesh slowly begin to knit back together.

“Seek friendship.”

“If thy wish was to be my friend, thou wouldst have let me die for my beloved instead of prolonging my suffering.” He wept at the thrones he had defiled with his curse. Morgott knew all who sat upon to be willful traitors, but even they were more worthy than he to rule over this city.

“Why is it always sacrifice? Don’t give up!” The tarnished made a gesture of encouragement. Just how stupid was he?

“Sacrifice is the only way one such as me may serve the Erdtree. My curse is an affront to its holiness. Dying to protect it shall be my penance.”

“No ill-omened creature ahead.” The tarnished once again brought his hand to the king's face. “Monarch. Holy.”

“Thou defile thyself by touching me, tarnished. My very existence is blasphemy against the greater will,” Morgott said, but he could not bring himself to pull away. He was still so weak, he could not force the man’s hand away. There was also a shameful, blasphemous part of him deep within that desperately wanted to be touched.

“Holy.” The tarnished looked at him, his eyes still blindfolded, but Morgott could not shake the feeling that he was not just being looked at, but stared into. “Sleep required ahead.” The priest began trying to drag Morgott to the Elden throne. Surely he didn’t intend to have him rest there? Morgott would keel over on the spot if he was party to such blasphemy.

“No, Tarnished, my quarters, please.” He tugged on the man’s robe, shame piercing its needles into his stomach as if he’d swallowed a chestnut shell. He should not touch those blessed by grace, but he could already feel the effects of the spell fading, he needed to ensure he’d asserted his will before his injuries forced him into unconsciousness.

The quarters of the King of Leyndell were simple and unadorned. In the golden age of the golden city, it had belonged to a member of Lord Godfrey’s personal guard. Although Morgott had been pressed into kingship, he did not sleep in the room that had once been Godfrey’s. He was a mere guardian of this place until its true rulers might be restored. The abandoned quarters of a guard were already too great a luxury to be afforded to him. Morgott was too large to fit in the bed that was already here so he’d formed a nest for himself in the corner of the room using scavenged linens. This he had deemed appropriate. An animal, rightly left behind by the golden order, deserved nothing more. The tarnished dragged Morgott over to his makeshift sleeping area and maneuvered him the best he could into the pile. Morgott was sweating now. He knew distantly that it couldn’t be infection. It hadn’t been long enough for disease to set in. He thought he had been ready to die, but as the fever set in he was becoming afraid.

“I don’t understand what is happening to me, please, help.” He felt bile rising in his throat as he gripped the priest’s arm. It was not his place to beg for life. The man handed him a piece of parchment.

“Hark, Tarnished! If you truly walk in faith, you must be prepared to reject all else.” He pointed to a single word. “Reject”, then to Morgott and his sword. “Blood loss and fire therefore suffering.”

“Canst thou not speak plainly?” The tarnished bit his own finger, drawing blood. He pointed to it and then Morgott again. “Blood loss and fire.”

“That cannot be. I sealed it away.”

“Look carefully.” The priest pointed to Morgott’s sword. Its curse-marked patina had faded, rendering it merely dark iron. He touched Morgott’s chest, resting his hand over his heart. “Fire.” He pointed at the parchment again. “Reject therefore sleep required ahead.”

“If I guide thy hand couldst thou seal my accursed blood away once again?” The man shook his head.

“Let there be healing.”

“To allow the curse of my blood to take hold would damn me, not heal me. I beg of thee, please seal it away again.”

“First off healing.” The priest stubbornly scrawled. Morgott felt too weak to argue further, his head falling to the blankets.

As Morgott feverishly slept, the priest tore a strip of cloth from his yellow robes. He pried the seal from the mouth of a holy water pot, soaked the rag, and then gingerly placed it on the king’s forehead, making sure the blessed water wasn’t burning him. As he’d suspected it had no effect on Morgott, he was touched by the gods after all.

Mohg sat across from Morgott, his ostentatious robes of black, red, and gold contrasting the king’s worn hide cloak.

“Dear brother, why do you continue to debase yourself like this?” Mohg touched one of the ragged furs of his cloak. “Are you not a king? You ought to have more pride in yourself, or at least sympathy for your poor citizens.”

“I have no right to luxury.” He slapped Mohg’s hand away. “Neither of us do.”

“You really are our mother’s true born heir.” If Mohg still had lips Morgott knew they would’ve curled in disgust.

“I claim no such thing. There is simply no other among her children who would protect that which she built.”

“Though you of course do not consider whether or not it is worth protecting.”

“It is blasphemy to presume otherwise.” Morgott growled.

“Why must it always be this way when we are given a chance to speak.” There was genuine remorse in Mohg’s eyes. “I disagree with many of your choices and I think there is not a sword that you will not stubbornly throw yourself upon, but I merely wish to see my brother again. Surely you must wish to see me as well?” Morgott was taken aback. He believed the next time he’d see his brother again was when he appeared in Leyndell with a god on his arm and a torch for the Erdtree, he’d never thought he would’ve wished to reconcile. “Forget I have said anything. I doubt you shall remember when you awaken anyway.”

“Mohg, wait!” Morgott awoke, still reaching for his brother’s hand. He was still feverish, but his pain had faded into a dull ache. The feeling of a body recently healed rather than recently injured. He felt safe somehow, for a reason he could not articulate. Then he realized the tarnished had lain on top of him. He slept soundly, as if he didn’t lie with a creature whose very existence was an affront to the order of the world. Morgott and Mohg used to sleep like that when they were children, piled on top of each other for warmth in the cold damp of the sewers. The weight of the other reaffirmed that while they were alone, they were still at least together. After Mohg left him, the closest thing he had felt to that closeness was when he had toppled Radahn during the second siege of Leyndell. The moment when he kneeled, pinning his step-brother to the ground, his cane bearing down on his neck, was the last time he had allowed himself to touch another person.

The king felt tears leaking from his eyes. It was too much. His desire to feel another’s touch raged against his repulsion. He wanted to push the tarnished off of him, to tell him he would be corrupted at the king’s touch but to his disgust he could not force himself to. The only thing he could do was weep quietly as the intense emotions tore through his feverish mind. He felt the tarnished stir. The man looked at him for a moment as he shook himself from sleep, before jumping to his feet in concern.

“Suffering?” He began to cast another healing incantation.

“Stay thy hand. It was nothing but a passing weakness.” Morgott roughly wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Ahh, sadness…” The priest held one of his large hands. “So lonely…”

“Refrain from touching me, my curse…” Morgott did not attempt to pull his hand away.

“Holy.” The tarnished brought the king’s gnarled fingers to his lips. A shuddering breath leaked from Morgott’s mouth as the tarnished softly kissed his knuckles. The man entwined their fingers, pressing his own forearm against the king’s. “Lord.” He kissed the back of Morgott’s wrist, trailing more down to his elbow.

“You speak blasphemy,” Morgott whispered. The tarnished dragged a finger along one of his twisting horns.

“Life, chaos, god.” He crawled onto the king’s chest and placed a hand over his heart. “Fire, blood loss, god.” The man cupped his face. Morgott desperately resisted the urge to lean into his hand. “Order, god, therefore holy.”

“I am tainted by the influence of gods outside of the order, not made holy.”

“You don’t have the right? Scarlet rot, warrior?” It took Morgott a moment to decipher who the tarnished was talking about.

“That is different.”

“Scarlet rot, god, holy? Moon, god, holy? Sleep, god, holy?” The tarnished stopped writing for a moment, his hand twitched around the finger he wrote with. “Death, monarch, holy?”

“I will not see thee implicate my brother in blasphemy with thy pen. Godwyn was the closest among the demigods to a true heir of the order.”

“Dragon friendship.” Morgott understood what the man was getting at. Dragon worship was not initially part of the golden order, but Marika had enfolded it in, on behalf of Godwyn, her beloved son. Nothing had ever been rewritten on behalf of Mohg or Morgott…

“Stay thy hand. Thou knowest nothing of what thou speakest. I- I am unsightly, my mere presence in this city is a stain upon the order I serve.”

“I don’t believe it… Beautiful…” The tarnished lowered his head, kissing the filed down stumps of horns on his brow. Morgott felt the weight of the man straddling his chest, the touch of his lips on his face. He was getting hotter, warming now with more than just fever.

“Tarnished don’t…” He turned his head away. He couldn’t, he didn’t deserve it.

“First off, stay calm. Look carefully.” The tarnished sat up, brushing aside a few strands of Morgott’s white hair. He ran his hands along the sides of the king’s muscular neck, tracing the sinew down to Morgott’s collar bone. His fingers slid down to the broad expanse of Morgott’s chest. The omen’s breath hitched as the priest ran his thumb over over one of his nipples. He didn’t linger, curling his fingers around each and every horn that sprouted from his body. The Tarnished caressed each of his ribs as he descended, reaching Morgott’s stomach. The king’s muscles fluttered under his hands. He moved down to his hips, feeling the sharp bones through his skin. The man ignored Morgott’s cock, already hard. Instead, he ran his fingers through the fur of Morgott’s tail. Morgott felt pleasure arc through him like lightning and his back arched as he came.

“Didn’t expect seed.” The cleric smiled teasingly.

“I’m sorry please forgive me, I didn’t mean-“ Morgott was cut off as the tarnished swallowed down his cock. He slowly pulled back off, sucking all the way. As he came away from the king’s dick, he opened his mouth. He had no tongue, just a stump where someone had clearly severed it. However, Morgott could tell that wasn’t what the man wanted to show him. It was more likely his intent was to show him the mouthful of spend he’d cleaned from the king’s dick. He closed his mouth smiling at the king. “Wait, tarnished do not-“ The tarnished swallowed.

“Beautiful…” the man kissed his thigh. Morgott bit his hand to prevent a moan from escaping. He had allowed this to go too far. Pleasure ran like lightning through his unaccustomed, undeserving body. He knew it was wrong, but he desperately wanted to feel more.

“Try fingers but hole?”

“Thou shouldst not. I am tainted. Thy hands should not touch even my skin, let alone the part of me that is most unclean.”

“Are you ready?” The tarnished put a comforting hand on Morgott’s knee and the king felt his resolve break into pieces.

“Yes. I-I want it.” His self hatred still burned within him, but his need to be touched and held burned even stronger. It was blasphemy, he knew it was blasphemy, yet he wanted it so badly it brought tears to his eyes. The tarnished noticed he was crying and quickly pulled away.

“Suffering?”

“It is not by thy hand I suffer. It is because of my own weakness.”

“Time for detour.” The cleric shifted himself until their faces were level. He lowered himself until he was inches away from Morgott and then stopped, his lips parted slightly. It was clear he wanted Morgott to meet him the rest of the way. Hesitantly, he reached up to touch the back of the tarnished’s head. The man’s hair was shaved close to his scalp, spiky under Morgott’s fingers. He raised his head, meeting the priest’s lips. Warmth bloomed inside his chest as they kissed. Morgott found himself slowly relaxing. It was the fever, that was all. He wasn’t in his right mind, that was why he was enjoying this so much. Slowly, he began to move as well, gaining confidence as he kissed back. The tarnished grinned into his mouth as he did. His hands wandered to Morgott’s chest and he began to knead the king’s aching muscles, sore from the fever. Morgott sighed in contentment. The tarnished pulled back for a moment, feeling along the base of one of the horns that sprouted from Morgott’s head. The king leaned into his hand, allowing himself to actually enjoy the touch.

“Why is it always destruction?” The cleric rubbed the filed down stubs of horns above his eyes.

“I would’ve lost my eyes otherwise.” He winced as the tarnished passed his thumb over one of the still exposed nerve endings.

“Apologies.” The tarnished blew into his clay effigie again.

“And what of thee? Was thy tongue removed of thine own accord?” The man sat up.

“Visions of Erdtree and fire. Liar.” He mimed cutting off his tongue. “But no liar ahead.”

“Thine eyes as well?” The man shook his head. He attempted to remove his blindfold but the canvas held no matter how hard he strained.

“Order incantation.” He smiled ruefully. “Praise the grace. Visions of something.”

“So thou wouldst hasten the burning of the tree, for what purpose? Revenge against the order? Vindication for thy prophecies?”

“Offer healing. Fire and then seed. Seed and then tree. Ruin and then life. Order and death, in short rot, fire and then healing.” Morgott furrowed his brow.

“So then thy proposal is a controlled burn.” He shook his head.

“Slashing and fire.”

“As one would cycle fields.”

Morgott had studied all manner of horticulture in his efforts to keep the Erdtree alive. What the tarnished was proposing was similar to the way many maintained their fields. A field was used and then left fallow, allowed to become overgrown with shrubs and trees, and then the vegetation was cut and burned, so that its ashes would fertilize the next year’s crops. Then, when nothing else could grow there, the cycle would be allowed to repeat. The forest would reclaim it for some time and then it would again be burned.

The tarnished nodded.

“Thou art a fool. To nurture an Erdtree is a difficult task, far beyond most, far beyond even a prodigy like Miquella. What hope hast thou, a mortal, of accomplishing such a feat.”

“Lord.” The man pointed to Morgott “Faith and research.”

“I am not my mother. A tree like hers could never be grown by my hand.”

“Rot but fortitude.” The tarnished pointed to the branches of the Erdtree visible from Morgott’s small window. Its golden leaves fell intermittently, but still the tree stood, as it had for thousands of years under Morgott’s care. “Likely skill. Pair.” He held Morgott’s hand.

“I am still ill, tarnished. My mind has clearly been addled with fever. Wouldst thou allow me to make a decision once my mind is clear?” The priest nodded.

“Hope friendship ahead, but no friendship ahead, resignation.”

“Before my mind clears and I realize what a terrible mistake this was, wouldst thou…”

“Fingers but hole?”

“I would ask for more than fingers if thou art willing.” Morgott covered his face in embarrassment. The tarnished removed an oil pot from his pack and began to coat his fingers.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, this time I am certain.” The tarnished nodded in response. He began working the oil into the king’s hole and then carefully slipped a finger inside. It felt strange, but not in a way that was displeasing to him. If anything it wasn’t enough. “Thou may add another. I am hardier than- than a human. Thou shalt not injure me.” It was rare that he was willing to admit any instance where he could outperform those blessed by grace, however, meekness would not grant him what he wanted. The tarnished added a second finger. Now Morgott was beginning to feel a stretch, but he wanted even more.

He sat up, grabbing the priest’s wrist. “That’s enough. Just get it over with, please.” The man patted Morgott’s hand affectionately, before quickly pulling his robes over his head. Morgott could see that he was hard, he likely had been since their “detour”, as he had called it. The man was large, for a human. His length may have been intimidating to one of the graced, but not to one of the accursed. The tarnished lined himself up and pushed inside. Morgott hissed at the sudden stretch and the tarnished stopped. The king wrapped his legs around him. “Keep going.” The man gently stroked his thigh before he started again. He moved slowly, allowing Morgott to adjust while periodically changing angles until the king felt a jolt of pleasure arc through him. “Ah, Tarnished!”

“Here?” He thrusted again at the same angle and Morgott gripped the blankets.

“Yes! Right there!” He’d never felt anything like it before. Even when he’d taken himself in hand in moments of solitary weakness, he had never felt so good. He had always felt empty afterwards, one need was fulfilled but a hole still gaped inside of his chest that he didn’t understand how to fill. Morgott was sweaty and unpleasantly hot, his skin and fur still sticky from his earlier release, but he still felt leagues better than when he was comfortable and alone. Even though he’d come already Morgott felt a second release building. He felt the tarnished tap on his leg, trying to get his attention. The man scrawled a message with shaking hands.

“Seed ahead. Turn back.” Morgott released him and he came onto the floor. The man immediately turned his attention back to the king. He quickly wrapped his hand around Morgott’s cock and pumped. The king felt his release pulled out of him and then collapsed exhausted into the blankets.

He saw the tarnished begin to gather up the linens that they had soiled during their coupling. The king would have helped, he did his own washing, he refused to allow any servants to attend him, but he was to tired from sex and illness. Still those words rattled around in his skull, “lover ahead”.

“Tarnished, I saw the message thou left where we clashed outside the city gates.” The tips of the priest’s ears turned red. “What didst thou mean by it?” He dropped the bundle of sheets he’d gathered to pull out another strangely shaped effigy and a bar of soap. He carefully scrubbed the remaining spend from Margit’s body before blowing into it.

“My beloved.” He brushed the sweat soaked hair from Morgott’s face and gently kissed his forehead. Morgott closed his eyes as he felt the tarnished’s hand leave his face. Oh, so that’s what he’d meant.

When Morgott woke again, he was still warmer than usual, but he didn’t feel the aches associated with fever. If anything he felt better somehow. The constant fatigue he felt had lessened, his skin had flushed to a more healthy gray than his usual pallor, even the beat of his heart had become slower and more steady. He rose, and found he had the energy to stand without hunching over. Morgott couldn’t account for it at all. If anything he should be exhausted, both from sex and from his body’s rejection of his blood. His blood! It clicked suddenly. The tarnished had insisted that his blood needed to remain unsealed for him to heal properly. Perhaps he should have realized sealing away a large portion of his own blood would have some negative implications on his health.

The Tarnished stretched awake inside the nest of blankets. He regarded Morgott, now standing straight rather than slouching, his crown of horns nearly touching the ceiling. Even clothed in rags the omen king was undeniably regal. He retrieved a prattling pate from his things, the easiest one to remember thanks to its sculpted ears.

“You’re beautiful.” The voice that emitted from the clay figure was full of more sincerity than Morgott had ever heard. He had never been called beautiful. Should never be called beautiful, a voice cruelly corrected. The weight of what they had done together the previous night sunk in. He had not just touched but laid with one of those blessed by grace. It felt as if his chest was caving in with shame. He was no better than an animal allowing his base desires to rule over him like that! Morgott began to curl into a ball on the floor. He shouldn’t have allowed such a disgrace to happen, he shouldn’t have- Morgott felt arms wrap around his head and the tarnished pulled him close to his chest stroking his hair.

“You’re beautiful.” Even though the tarnished committed blasphemy by saying so, even though Morgott committed blasphemy by allowing the man to hold him and comfort him, the Erdtree still died at the same pace. No matter how much Morgott worshiped and bled for it, no matter how much he sinned against it, the tree still died just as slowly as it always had. He had weakened himself for the tree, tended it day and night, but all he had done was prolong its suffering and his own. Blood flame burned within him yet again, but he was not immolated, he was healed. Perhaps it was time for flames to take his beloved Erdtree as well.

“I will release the seals upon the gates.” Morgott mumbled into the tarnished’s arm. “Thou must promise to give me time to evacuate and ensure that a new tree will sprout from its ashes.” The priest nodded. “Then I grant thee the authority to act under the banner of King Morgott, last king of the age of gold.”

“Lover?” Morgott stared at the word as if it would attack him.

“Thy wish is to act as consort?” The tarnished nodded, kissing the demigod’s hand.

“Lover.” It was no longer a question. A consort could be a position assigned merely due to politics or birth, one Morgott was more comfortable with. As much as he loathed to admit it he was politically important, he could understand if someone sought out his hand merely for political purposes. This tarnished’s insistence on the word “lover” was far more concerning. Lover came with far more emotional attachment. It implied, well, actual love rather than political convenience. Lover was blasphemous for one such as himself.

“To burn the Erdtree is a cardinal sin.” Morgott allowed himself to relax into the man’s touch. “I supposed we shall be damned anyway.”