Chapter Text
You’ve worked your way right up to the very top of the Shadow Keep. You’ve smashed shadows, avoided the living jars as best you could (you still mourned Alexander, who was indeed great) and slain Messmer-wannabes who left you with nasty burns that thankfully, you could heal by sipping from your flask of crimson tears.
And now you sit just outside a set of grand doors, large and ominous, huddled as close to the glowing gold wreathed in flowing sparking mists. It keeps you warm, somewhat, and each time you touch it, life flows into you, the same life that stays you from becoming a permanent resident crouched at death’s door. Somewhere in the Lands Between, the Mending Rune of the Death-Prince had yet to find its way back to the fractured Elden Ring. Perhaps it was for the best. For you were certain you were going to die once you walked through those doors that loomed so close you almost felt them breathing on you.
Even so, no one could blame you for hesitating. You were weary, both in body and spirit. You thought that you could rest. After so many battles, so many acquaintances gone. Friends lost. For a second, gold fractures; you wipe the tears away before they fall and think to yourself that you will always miss Melina, she who was truly your Maiden. Reflexively, you touch your armour, the spot just beneath your clavicle where on a slender unbreakable chain sits a delicate finger whistle made of thin worked gold. You have Torrent, thanks to Melina. He will always be with you, another rare constant companion in a world of terror and wonder.
Impatiently, you sniff hard, willing this sudden attack of sentiment to go away. “Urgh, what is wrong with you?” you mutter, feeling even now your stomach churning in very odd ways that it had only developed days before. A touch of nausea rose at the back of your throat before thankfully subsiding. “Nerves, it has to be nerves.” Before fighting Melania, you had actually almost thrown up. After fighting her, you had. “Elden Lord, you are now the Elden Lord,” you tell yourself firmly, trying your best to ignore the ringing emptiness of those words. Saying something did not make it so. Besides Elden Lord, you had another title: consort. But that was also in name only, mainly because you really had been extraordinarily dim not to recognise the full implications of what it meant to swear fealty to Ranni and help her on her quest. Thankfully, she had been a true queen and recognised your heart was not with her. And now she was far away, amidst the stars and space and darkness, carving her own path.
If she had not been, you might have asked her to deal with this demi-god, the one you had privately (and peevishly) started calling Messed-Up when his soldiers at the encampment beyond the Shadow Keep had turned you to dust for the second time (in your defence, how were you to know that the Fire Golem had that kind of obscenely far-reaching fire power?). Ranni would have turned him into a meat dumpling. But she was not here. And you were. A gentle stirring suffused you then, a strange sensation that almost defied explanation. If you had to explain it, it would be like stardust and rain, that first cool rushing breath of a newborn world. It was the Great Runes you bore inside you, each nestled deeper than bone, flesh and blood. You were the one who had stripped them from their bearers. Now they cleaved to you.
And though you might die a thousand times, you would always return. For a single victory was all that was needed. Therein lay your true power: it was not in your katana, the ominously named Rivers of Blood, nor was it in the lovely fancy armour that Loretta had used to wear (though you would not wear the helm; it felt like a suffocating metal mask) or even in the Scadutree fragments you had collected (they were pretty, shiny and packed a wallop in terms of bolstering your fighting strength and skills). It was simply that you were more stubborn that possibly any creature to walk the Lands Between. Because you did not quit.
Today was not going to be any different. Even if you felt sicker than a dog. Taking a sip from your flask in the hope that it would make you feel better, you sighed, tipped your chin up, drew your shoulders straight and set your hands on the doors. You let them rest there for a moment. A battle, or rather battles, might be unavoidable. But if there were another way, you would take it. Coming face to face with the master of a castle or keep or dungeon usually ended in a bloodbath though. Resigned, you pushed on the doors which slid open with a sinister sigh.
Into the shadows you walked, darkness in various shades all around because there was a little light from outside the doorway and you could make out some forms—some kind of balustrades, you reckoned. Your ears pricked, ready and alert because now you were half-blind. There was only the sound of your steps, the soft sounds of your surprisingly steady breathing.
Then it happened, as you had been expecting. Light appeared, fire on the wicks of candles, a flurry of flames blinking into existence on your left. It was a distraction, but still you looked. ‘Fire,’ you thought, unsurprised. After all, the demi-god whose keep this was had put the Hornsent to the sword and flame.
“Mongrel intruder.”
Messmer. His was a voice of steel and ice, smooth, sharp and biting all at once. Imperious too, as the voice of a god or demi-god tended to be, after a lifetime of being grovelled to, and waited on hand and foot, and being in control of thousands of lives held in the palm of a divine hand.
“Arf arf,” you barked with as much sourness as could be mustered. Sensing movement, you whipped your head back. And stared a huge crimson winged serpent dead in its emerald eye. Which twitched before widening. The snake blinked. “What? Don’t speak mongrel?” Somehow, your tongue had decided that it was a good idea to show the one they called The Impaler as much impudence as possible. Inwardly, you winced. You were so going to pay for this later.
“Thou’rt Tarnished, it seemeth. A rather stupid one at that.”
“I’ve been called worse.” You shrugged. “Maidenless, lowly, maidenless, graceless, emboldened by the flame of ambition—have I mentioned maidenless?”
The snake withdrew elegantly and also in a way that made it clear that your very proximity was an insult to it. The words that followed after proved that you weren’t, despite admittedly being rather emotional the past week, being overly sensitive. “Mother, wouldst thou truly Lordship sanction, in one so bereft of light?”
Maybe if you had not been feeling quite so sensitive, you would have held your silence. Being treated with so much disdain simply because of what you were was the norm. But now you fairly bristled. “For your information, coming from one so bereft of light,” you mimicked, “there is a site of Grace just beyond those doors. Or can’t you see it, Lord of the Shadow Keep?” You could do disdainful too, you could do it like the best of them.
“Liar.” The voice was not so cool now, ragged with edges, rolling over you like a great wave. There was the smell of smoke, and it was not from the candles. The great room felt somewhat warmer and as you tracked the serpent as it retreated, the remaining candles came to life and you saw him for the first time. A half-god seated on his shadowy throne, high on some kind of dais, framed by heavy drapes that flowed from an impossibly ceiling. They should have made him look smaller. They did not. Curiously, they simultaneously drew attention to a great statue whose likeness they veiled in shadow that the firelight could not penetrate.
You dipped your head, in seeming apology. The smile that followed was all teeth. Blaidd had told you before that you did have a wolfish grin that unsettled even him. “If the Lord of the Shadow Keep would oblige, I could show you—”
“Enough.”
The air shivered. Heck, you shivered, though you did a fine job hiding it. The shadows loomed and firelight danced violently, as if about to tear themselves free of the wicks sustaining them. And Messmer rose from his throne to the harsh chorus of crimson robes and metal armour that told you the latter was bloody solid and heavy. Yet he moved like it weighed nothing. “Thou lying mongrel Tarnished.” He grated the words out with enough force that you could quite well guess that he might have been imagining doing the same to your throat. “There is no Grace to be found here that thou seest, no lie thou mayst tell that would be believed. Thine impudence has only gifted thee a slower, more agonising demise.”
Closer he came and now you perceived him clearly. That great, wicked spear that was probably longer than you were tall and which probably weighed more than you did. But your eyes really widened when you saw the snakes, one winding itself near his legs, the other poised just above his head, their red bodies seeming to weave in and out of the red robes—that was when the realisation hit home and despite your best efforts, your jaw dropped. The snakes were not Messmer’s pets; they were Messmer, or at least a part of him. Had he grafted them onto himself? But no. They were alive and moving, tongues flicking, eyes bright and watching. This was no madness like Godrick’s. This was...natural, at least in this demi-god’s context. Marika had birthed yet another cursed child.
All these thoughts stormed through you but not a sound escaped. Still, it made no difference. Messmer’s golden eye looked right through you and he saw what you were thinking and knew the word “monster” must have crossed your mind. Even from where you stood, you saw his jaw harden, the cynicism etched into it. For a moment, those proud broad shoulders seemed to dip. How disheartening it must be for a half-god to realise that even a lowly Tarnished found him shocking to behold.
“I will separate thy treacherous tongue from thine throat whilst thou watch’st. Thy howling shalt decorate these walls.”
Now that was not a nice image. None of the other demi-gods had threatened to torture you. And when they realised you had actually been a threat, they had always tried to kill you as quickly as possible. Nausea rose again; valiantly, you pushed it down. “Or, instead of wasting your efforts,” you said, privately deciding that you would fall on your own sword before letting him get his very large and very clawed hands on your tongue, “perhaps you could just let me out the backdoor. All I want is to get through to the other side.”
“Vile Tarnished—”
“Lovely, another one to add to the list,” you muttered under your breath. “Name-calling aside, perhaps we could discuss this. I mean no harm—”
“Thou slew’st the soldiers in the encampment—”
“It was self defense! I tried to ride past them—”
“Thou hast spilled blood and taken lives to arrive here, has thou not?”
You winced. “They aren’t permanently dead. Besides, I did try to sneak past as many as possible,” you added weakly.
Messmer looked down the length of his very high, very refined nose at you. Against his pale skin, his hair was a second flame. “Then it behoves me to inform thee that thou art exceptionally terrible at both riding and sneaking.”
You gaped at him.
“Tis a great mystery and a tragedy, terrible and riddled with shame, that one such as thyself art in possession of thus many Great Runes.”
He could sense them. He might even be able to see them. The shock turned you cold, as cold as the ice that Borealis had spilled in your wake while you hacked at his legs and wings.
“Elden Lord or not, my purpose standeth unchanged.”
Somewhere, somehow, you did notice that all his armour, from his helm to his greaves, were decorated with snake-like patterns and actual snakes. But it was the blazing shadow that boiled over in his hand only to turn to crimson fire that held all your attention. You knew it was going to burn, maybe even worse than the flames of the Fire Giant and Golem.
“Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death...” The ball of flame fountained into an inferno that rained down sizzling embers which sounded like a hundred hissing snakes.
“But I’m not,” you said quietly, knowing that he would hear you even from here. But hearing was not the same as listening.
“...in the embrace of Messmer’s flame.” There was a cruel finality wrapped around that statement, hard as the line of his mouth, the expression on his face.
“Not all your half-siblings were opposed to having a discussion, even if it was with the likes of me.” There was a quiver that you could not quite suppress, the slightest sliver that escaped self-control. Mostly because sentiment, coupled with a powerful wave of nausea, had returned to assault you once more. But you would be damned first before you showed more weakness.
With a hungry whisper, your blade made its entrance in the room and Messmer’s eyes narrowed upon seeing its bloody gleam. You did not bother downing the mixed physick because firstly, you did not want to be caught mid-drink when Messmer charged. Secondly, you honestly did not see the point. You were going to give it your all but victory, you sensed, would not be immediate. This round would be about watching and learning. First times were always like that.
He came in like a meteor. Flashes of Radahn blazed in your memory even as you threw yourself to the side, rolling to your feet. There was no chance to strike back before you were dodging again to avoid a flurry of strikes. Instead of you, the spear gouged stone, breaking the solid stone tiles. Wreaths of smoke exploded; swathes of flame seared both sight and flesh as Messmer attacked you with fire. In this, he reminded you somewhat of Mohg. The heat and ash made it hard to breathe but this time, you were really struggling. Not all your unclear vision was due to the demi-god’s attempts to burn and cut you in half.
Terrific. You hung on grimly, watching Messmer as he leaped into the air once again, a spiral of fire encircling him like a third snake ready to pounce on your head. Whatever sickness it was that had been plaguing you had now firmly sunk its teeth in and would not let go. For a second, the room swam and you reeled on the heels of your feet. The air roared as in a rush, the airborne demi-god came at you. It was hard to tell exactly what you did. You went left when you should have stepped back. Then your ears were ringing, there was a dreadful pain in your side and if it had not been for the armour, your ribs would have been smashed like paper.
You were on your side, half-curled up, looking at death approaching in the tall form of Marika’s son, she whom you had freed—in some form—from the prison of the burning Erdtree. Your body was definitely not on your side. Still, you somehow rose to your feet, clutching your blade as though it were a lifeline.
Messmer raised his spear, mouth twisted in a cold sneer, ready to strike as his snakes looked on.
Darkness swam in. Was this some kind of spell?
Your sword clattered unheard to the floor. You did not feel it when your knees hit the ground. But the hot rush of bile that came flooding up your throat, that you most definitely felt.
Then, you puked. And puked. And puked.
In front of Messmer. Who for some reason, you realised while trying to stop your guts from escaping into the world through your mouth, had yet to put you out of your misery and humiliation.
When you were done, you ripped a piece of silk from beneath one of the pauldrons and wiped your face and mouth as clean as could be managed. Still trembling from the violent heaving, you looked up and once again, saw a huge red snake staring you in the face. Only it did not stop at your face. This time, it extended itself, moving lower, though it remained an arm’s length away. To your surprise, the second snake joined it, the one that usually remained nearer to Messmer’s shoulder. In the light of the flames, because it was so close, you could make out the fine sprinkling of black and deep crimson dots on the top of this one’s head.
Both snakes were now staring at your belly, tongues furiously flicking back and forth. And while you found this extremely unnerving and very, very weird, plainly put, your priority was to distance yourself from the ejected contents of your stomach. So onto your feet you got once again and sidestepping, managed to move just enough before the tip of Messmer’s spear found itself beneath your chin, resting against the curve of your throat.
“So you’re going to kill me now. You might have done so earlier and saved me all the trouble.”
He frowned, coming closer, the sharp tip of the spear pressing in. “Thou art not just without sense but also a heart.”
Your eyes bulged. This was the conqueror they called the Impaler and you had seen his handiwork too. This was the man...demi-god...person who was lecturing you about having a heart?
“Or art thou cavalier with all life, not just thine own but the lives of those who presumably ought to be nearest and dearest to thee?”
You had no idea why he was saying this, though you understood perfectly well what he was on about. “I am not careless with the lives of others. I came to this fight alone when I did not have to. Others would have joined had I asked.” Maybe that was slightly exaggerating. But one angry Hornsent brimming with vengefulness could have fought like two or three warriors.
“So only those with skill matter to thee? The life of this child has but begun and already thou hast gravely endangered it...” Fine lips flattened into silence and suddenly it occurred to you that Messmer was angry. Quite rather angry, in fact.
Your alarm almost matched your confusion. “Child? Are you speaking of Miquella?” Melania’s twin had most definitely passed this way and apparently, Messmer had no trouble letting his fellow demi-god through. “My understanding is that he looks like one but is not. In fact, he’s the reason why I’m here—”
The tip of the spear pricked your skin and you gasped softly.
“I speak,” Messmer growled, suddenly towering over you, much too close indeed, “of the child you carry.”
Very stupidly, your mind went to your bag, the one you had innocuously dropped just before entering the hall, the one that was seemingly bottomless and which would always reappear at the site of Grace along with you should you perish in a fight. “I’m not carrying any child,” you insisted, pointing at the bag. “Does that look like it would fit a kid? Besides, I’m not into kidnapping.”
Messmer, you realised, had perfect eyebrows. In fact, apart from those, Messmer had perfect almost everything, save for that scarred shut eye that seemed to be a trademark of most of those born with divine blood. But back to Messmer’s eyebrows, because for a second, they had shot up before he wrestled them back down with admirable speed. “Thou dost not know,” he said so softly it might have qualified as a murmur.
“Does not know what?” If you could have, you would have plunked your hands on your hips. But since there was a weapon at your throat, you refrained.
Cold metal stopped threatening to split your skin. But the spear still remained in place. “Tarnished, thou art with child.”
“I am not.” The reply was swift, borne on the wings of your absolute certainty. “I mean, I’ve not been feeling well and sure, I might need to see Boc to get this armour adjusted if I keep suffering from bloat, but I am not pregnant.”
Messmer stared back at you, his face unchanged. “Art thou a virgin?”
“Ah...” Something akin to a blush might have touched your cheeks. “That’s private but fine, I’ll answer: no.”
“Hast thou taken a lover at least three moons ago before showing thy foolish self at my keep?”
You stared at him. You had actually. But the encounter, for all its sweet painful poignancy, had been so brief. “It was just once.” Those were the words which spilled from careless lips after you remembered to breathe.
“One encounter will more than suffice,” Messmer said rather loftily, like a knowledgeable physician to an ignorant patient. “Thou art indeed stripped of not just Grace but common sense.”
“Hey!” Your irritated outrage lasted all of one second. For the revelation that you were having a baby smothered everything else. You looked down—somehow the spear was not there anymore—your hands were already on your belly, fingertips brushing against cold metal. Beneath that, encased in the vulnerable flesh of your body, life was growing. A life that the man you had loved once and still yearned for had given you.
Getting pregnant was the worst thing that could happen. It would get in the way of everything that still needed to be accomplished. Melina had spoken of births that continued and you agreed that it was a wonderful thing that life still renewed itself this way, so long as you were not a part of it. A child of your own was at worst a burden and at best an absurd notion. Until now.
Utterly unaware of your surroundings, you spread your hands softly over your stomach. And smiled. It was only to yourself, a slight curve of the lips that spoke of everything you could not say or begin to think to say.
But you were not alone. Messmer was there. And when you smiled, your hands cradling your belly, something struck inside him so powerfully, a sensation that could not be mastered. Only a fool turned away from an enemy, even one seemingly subdued. You were the Elden Lord, brimming with the power of Great Runes, claiming to be able to see the Grace of Gold that he was blinded to. Against all training and instinct, the demi-god turned, his eye settling on the statue of his mother and the child she carried: him. He had stared at it a thousand times and a thousand times more, so great was his love for her, so powerful was the bitterness that had its festering roots in the love she withheld from him. A love that she had once freely given. He had been loved. Once.
And this child inside you, this tiny life... it too was loved.
Messmer was no fool. When he had purged this realm of the Hornsent, thousands upon thousands had died. Families had died. Children too. He had done it, though it made him so ashamed that no mirrors adorned the Keep, at the rooms he inhabited. In darkness he brooded; rarely would the sun see him. Somewhere inside, he knew how far he had fallen for what he had once believed in. His exile here was a just reward. Ironically, he was the great shame and tragedy of his mother’s house, fallen so far that any good deed he had ever wrought in the Lands Between must surely now be forgotten. A monster in every sense of the word.
With a start, Messmer turned, realising that your gaze now rested upon him. You were frightened, though at most you looked wary. One hand was clenched by your side; the other rested over where the child was.
“If I asked you again, would you let me pass?”
“Still concerned with thine mission, whatever it may be, Tarnished One? Art thou uncaring for the child in thy womb?”
Your lip curled. “There are things that must be done, mysteries that need unravelling.”
“Thou art a terrible mother.”
You actually stamped your foot. “Give me a break! I’ve been a mother for all of five minutes at the most. You weren’t born a great general brandishing that spear fresh out of the birthing chamber, were you?”
No, he had not. The maids had not screamed at the sight of him; they had chosen to bite their tongues as he and the winged serpents shrieked his entry into the world. His mother though had held him. She had shown he was to be cherished. So why did she change? And where was she now, if this impertinent scrap of a woman who had the gall to challenge him was here?
For all his fire, Messmer kept his heart cold, had learned to stop feeling or at least, to show he did. His men respected him; the servants knew he would look after that which was his own. All of them knew they were trapped in the Shadow Realm, never to go home to see the Erdtree in all its bright glory. It was what it was and he had learned to make that enough. But now here you were and though not a blow had you struck, yet something inside him was moving, surely as the sun did over the sky in another place that had become so far away.
With one swipe of his spear, he knocked your weapon far across the room. Next, he unhitched the flasks at your side, disregarding your furious glare. “Thou art guilty of the following. Thou hast invaded my Keep, thou slewest my men, I have bested thee in battle.” He returned the spear to your chin, tipping it up further, if only to make you crane your neck at an uncomfortable angle, because Messmer, demi-god, lord and warrior that he was, could be petty that way. “Thou art my prisoner, Tarnished. Mine to do with as I see fit.”
You turned a shade of pale he had not seen for a long time. “Are you going to torture me?”
He could be cruel. Now was one of those rare times he chose not to be. “Nay, ‘tis not my way.” A wicked dark voice whispered that it was not true, that he was what he was and nothing would change it. But his snakes, Escaus and Themis, were gently winding themselves about him, their smooth cool bodies a reassuring weight. They were calm, strangely so. Perhaps this was the right thing to do after all. “I have questions and thou hast answers. At my good pleasure wilt thou remain here to satisfy my curiosity.”
“I can’t do that! I have to find Miquella because he is definitely up to something. I mean, did you not question him? Or he just very nicely asked you to let him through and you said yes?”
Actually, the latter was eerily accurate. Miquella had indeed asked. And he had indeed said yes. Ordinarily though, he would not have. And had it not been for the chaos caused by your arrival, he would have already been pondering why he had done so.
“I am not asking thee, Tarnished,” he replied with cool disdain. “ ‘Tis a courtesy that I give to even inform thee of thy fate.”
You did not look grateful. That was understandable. “And for how long am I to stay here?”
“Until thy child is birthed.”
Your mouth fell open again. You had, Messmer noticed, rather nice lips in a fetching shade, considering that you wore no cosmetics. “You want my baby.”
The accusation was not shouted; it came out a whisper, muted by horror and fear. Once more, your hands covered your belly and Messmer knew you were about to do something foolish, though you held yourself still.
“Rid thyself of such a foolish notion. I have no want for mongrel offspring. The child, when it is born, shalt be sent to whomever thou deem’st a fit guardian for it.”
Understanding dawned. “And then we will fight?”
“And then wilt thou die.”
Your eyes never left him, not until his Fire Knights came to take you away. As a courtesy, you were allowed your modest bag and whatever clothing you kept in it. He sent word for a senior maid to see to your needs and bring you your meals. Guards of course were set outside the room allotted to you, just to make sure you did not cause trouble.
For a while, he held your flasks, examining them, feeling the soft pulse of magic they emanated, admired their exquisite patterns. He was just thinking of where to keep them when the sound of running footsteps invaded his ears, bringing with it a tightening feeling of exasperation in his chest. Not an hour gone by and already his guards had complaints about you.
“My Lord!” It was Ortner, one of his most senior Fire Knights. To say he looked anxious was an understatement. “The Tarnished...”
Wearily, Messmer rose to his feet, mentally ticking off a list of what misdeeds you might have committed. You had assaulted his knights. You had destroyed the room in a bid to find an exit, or better yet, make one. He did not think you would assault the maid.
“...has escaped!”
That surprised him. So much so he stood stock-still. “Escaped?” he repeated, when it became Ortner was not going to elaborate.
“She is gone, my Lord. She simply vanished.”
A twitch was beginning to develop somewhere between his brows. Messmer refused to pinch it. “ ‘Tis a spell of invisibility. Nay, a Mimic spell. ‘Tis not possible that she left, not with the doors barred and guards in place.” He had no doubt his men would remain at their posts, even to the death.
“Salza himself came to check the chamber. She is not there. My Lord.”
Ortner must be very worried, for his neck and the necks of his men. The fact that every sentence had a “my Lord” was evidence of that.
“She canst not have disappeared into thin air. She was escorted to the Tower of the Prisoner, was she not?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“ “Tis one of the tallest towers in this Keep and apart from the door, there is but a single window—” No sooner had the words left his lips than Messmer’s jaw dropped. No, you would not. Surely you would not. Then he was running, far outpacing Ortner who was sprinting after him because yes, yes, you would. By all the Gods fair and foul that ever existed you, Elden Lord, expectant mother and person with a void-like deficit of good sense, would climb out the window in a bid to escape him.