Archive of Our Own

It’s been a long time, Morgott…

You reach the Elden Throne just in time to see the Omen King’s body dissolve into Gold in the arms of his father. 

What is Gold? you wonder, your thoughts and hands numb as Godfrey stares you down. Is it Grace? Which came first?  

You decide it doesn’t quite matter when Godfrey’s axe cleaves you in two. You wake on the floor beside Marika’s bed, curled up around a dancing beacon of Golden light. The Grace chimes softly, as ever, and grants you peace and healing.

You know it won’t last. It can’t. Grace can be taken away, though you still haven’t quite worked out how, or why, and the thought of its loss makes you sit up, wipe the blood off your armor, and climb the stairs once again.

You die again, and again, but you only have to not die once. Godfrey does not have a Grace to return to. Or is it Hoarah Loux? Is the Warrior the truth of the First Elden Lord, restrained by the Lion on his back?

That part feels important, somehow. You watch the Warrior’s body crumble, and then drift away on the wind, and think of another Loux’s words: May the winds carry you to a higher place.

“At least he died as himself,” you mumble, and collapse next to the mote of Grace glowing before the Throne.

***

You stand at the bottom of the rough steps, and stare at the gap in the thorns. Marika, the granter of all Grace, waits within. You’ll be a Lord, and wield the Elden Ring, but what then? There’s no point in power if you don’t know what to do with it.

So you travel back to the start.

***

Nepheli congratulates you in Stormveil, and gives you a tour of the slowly recovering castle. Her soldiers look stronger, and watch you with bright, curious eyes, as though waking up from a long sleep. She’s reaching out to the Weeping Peninsula, and planning to fortify Castle Morne and extend a hand to the Misbegotten, if they are willing to talk. Not a bad situation, all told. A good example.

Liurnia is more or less the way it has always been; a wild land of water and glintstone, terrorized by Carian puppets, revenants, overgrown wildlife, and Knights of the Cuckoo. Said Knights chase you off, and you spend a few quiet days in Raya Lucaria, keeping an eye on Rennala and combing her library, looking for something that might help the land beneath your feet.

Caelid is, well…Jerren welcomes you, at least. The Redmanes still refuse to leave their posts, despite your assertion that the source of the Rot – or, at least, its goddess – has been removed. It would take a great deal of magic, pain, and time to remove the Rot from the land but…you think it might be possible. Something to consider.

You are very much not welcome on Mount Gelmir. The Volcano Manor is silent, and Rya is gone. You see no reason to stay.

Altus needs its capitol city. You’ll need to fix that when – if – you claim the throne. 

Finally you ride Torrent back to the First Step, and think. You suppose there are a few things that you could do as a Lord. Basic, structural things to try and bring some peace back to the Lands Between. But that’s just the surface of the matter. You think of everything that you’ve fallen over beneath the earth: the sewers, the buried cities, the crumbling ruins swamped in blood.

So you wander through those, as well. You die, and die again, as the Omen of Leyndell loathe outsiders, the Dead have no wants beyond the ends of their weapons, and the worshippers of Blood want it fresh from the source. It’s all vile, hopeless. So many wish for their own deaths, or for the death of the rest of the world.

The Mohgwyn mausoleum, however, has changed.

***

You’ve never met Miquella, and you certainly don’t follow his words and teachings, but you nod and smile at Leda’s words, and touch the withered hand hanging from the cocoon in Mohg’s chamber. 

***

Every breath is dangerous. Winged golems swoop and scream, small in size but as deadly as the birds of Caelid. They’re protecting the graves, you realize, and the monuments dotting the plains are their watchtowers. 

They attack you on sight, because every step you take defiles a grave. The ghostly headstones swamping the earth are simply memories of the latest layer of death.

And yet you find Grace, and feel a faint shiver of Gold in the air.

***

You find the first gold-eyed owl near a monument tucked away at the edge of a grave-strewn forest. You’d learned that stealth is going to at least help keep you alive, so you’d donned the armor of a Black Knife to silence your steps. 

The owl perches on a rock, so quiet and still it might have been carved from stone, save for the soft gold of its eyes, and the pale glow of its white feathers. Horns crown its sharp head, and they’re the soft brown of Omen horns, but on the owl they curl smoothly, naturally, gifts of wisdom and a thing of pride.

You’re struck silent. It’s the first beautiful thing you’ve seen since Miquella’s withered hand dumped you into the middle of this mass grave.

You step forward, and gasp in pain as a sharp branch pokes your hand. The owl shrieks like a banshee, and flies away.

A Curseblade flattens your spine a heartbeat later. You forget the owl for quite some time.

***

You meet another behind a ruined church close to where you’d entered the Shadowlands. It’s as serene and watchful as the first, the glow of its eyes and feathers more obvious in the shadow of the cliffside. You get closer before it reacts, and notice elegant, light brown patterns on its face, complementing the horns, and emphasizing the eyes. 

You spot another owl, equal in size, further along the rock. It’s mottled black and brown, with strange, dark patterns but eyes as gold as its…cousin? Brother?

Somehow, you think it’s brother.

You hesitate. But you’ve learned your lesson since you’ve arrived, and thoroughly scoured the general vicinity. No enemies around. 

“Nothing for you to yell at here,” you murmur, and sit down a few paces away. 

The owl glances at you, and resumes its silent vigil.

***

You realize that there is something rather…off about the animals of the Shadowlands when you stumble over a bearded tortoise behind the Cathedral of Manus Metyr. 

You kill the puppets wandering the marsh, and approach the ancient creature from the side, holding your hands out in peace. And just as you’d suspected, silver hair sprouts from under his shell, on his legs, and on his face and chin.

A circle of elegant horns rests atop his old, wise head. You tilt your head, and if the fading sun his his eyes just right, you see Gold. 

You lay a rough blanket down on a rock beside him, and sit. 

“What are you?” you murmur.

The tortoise just grunts, and shuffles to the side to find a more comfortable spot in the mud. 

***

After the tortoise you find a snow-white hawk with ivory horns and sharp eyes. It shrieks when you get close, but does not move. 

You find a goat with extra horns curling beneath an already impressive set. Veins of Gold run through the proud loops, and silver hair frames an eerily intelligent face. 

You start to look closer at the silent watchers of the Land of Shadow.

***

You’re crouched in the bushes just south of a camp swarming with Messmer’s soldiers when you feel eyes boring into your back. You go for your sword, thinking you’ve been discovered, but it’s just a deer, a buck with a glorious silver coat and a rack of horns so refined and eyes so brilliant that it takes your breath away.

These creatures are sacred, you finally realize, and suddenly you’re not sure if you should be looking at all.

“Shh,” you whisper. 

The deer that is not a deer huffs, and taps the ground with a hoof. He turns to the right, deeper into the underbrush, and you feel an odd sense of loss. 

Then he pauses, and looks back at you. You look beyond him, and see a rough path, shaded and dark, barely large enough to admit you, and then only if you crawl. It’ll get you much further, and might even let you bypass the camp entirely.

“Thank you – “ you begin, looking back to your companion.

The deer is gone.

***

Miquella breaks his Rune, and eyes are opened. You’re struck silent when Leda decides to kill those of imperfect kindness, starting with her erstwhile allies. You nearly crumple on the spot when Sir Ansbach recounts his attempt to free Mohg from Miquella’s enchantment. You’d killed Mohg, after all.

Your path is no longer certain. You sit beside a cross that marks a piece of Miquella’s abandoned flesh, and stare up at the Scadutree. It is a dark mirror of the Erdtree, a vein of gold locked in pained shadow. You’d set the Erdtree aflame simply because you had believed that it was the right thing for the world. You, like Melina, thought that getting inside and repairing the Ring would be for the best.

What if you made things worse?

“What the hell am I doing?” you ask the owl perched on a stump to your right. It blinks at you scornfully, and flies away. 

***

Saint Trina is bleeding, and the sleep she offers has festered. What was once restorative and revelatory now deadens the mind and stops hearts. She rests with the dead and unwanted, because Miquella threw her, his love, away.

Why?

You find no golden-eyed creatures here, yet simple animals ring the mouth of her sunken tomb in silent slumber. 

They feel like a procession of mourners, like an extended hand. 

*** 

You kill your way into Messmer’s castle, and find his Specimen Hall. You drift through the reading rooms like a ghost and try not to look up at the fossilized carcass of a creature that looks entirely too much like Torrent. 

A holy being hangs at the very top of the room, arms outstretched in a painful mockery of Marika’s idols. He’s as tall as Radahn, and there’s no tail to be seen, but his head is crowned with horns, his hair is silver beneath the filth, and there’s a familiar, pained strength in his emaciated body…You’d mistaken him for Morgott the Grace Given at first glance.

They could have been kin, and you can’t help but wonder why.

***

You find Ansbach, Freyja, and Miquella’s plan for Mohg’s remains. You slip out of the castle the second you can. You need to rage, or perhaps cry over the hope you’d lost, and the mistakes you’ve made. This is your fault, after all. Miquella would not have a vessel for Radahn’s soul if not for you, and you need to get away from the empty eye sockets staring at you from the walls, and the dead god hanging from the ceiling.

You curl around a Grace deep in the forest and try to focus on its song. 

Godfrey is dead. All of Marika's children, save Miquella and Messmer, are dead. As far as you know, there are no more Lords waiting to pick up your sword, should you fall. There is no plan, no path for the world, and you are a gormless wanderer who got good at killing.

Would it be best to allow Miquella to revive Radahn, who would surely be a worthy Lord? Mohg’s followers have stolen Tarnished blood at his command. Does his corpse deserve consideration? Wouldn’t the return of such a soul as Radahn’s be worth such a cost?

Ansbach’s words cut like knives. It is a desecration. You can barely comprehend the horror of it, of Mohg’s enchantment, of the spiraling causes and effects of pain and desperation piled on top of each other. But you also know why Miquella had done it. Wouldn’t a world without suffering be worth the cost? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?

Your eyes start to sting. If it was just you, your body, mind, and soul, you would offer it all up without complaint. You’d give Miquella whatever he asked of you. But you can’t help but wonder what a god who traded one brother’s soul for another would be like.

And Miquella had discarded his heart, and his love. You still have yours – you hope – and you are barely clinging to your purpose. Would Miquella lose his? Would his Age truly be one of compassion?

You need to think. You need to sleep. You need your thoughts to stop hurting, just for a moment.

You take a diluted draft of Trina’s nectar, and shut your eyes.

***

Tarnished...thou art but a fool…

…

…You’re standing before the Throne, but you’re nowhere near Leyndell. Instead, the Throne is nearly swallowed up by brilliant green and gold vines, and blossoming with crisp leaves and flowers. In fact, everything is green, and you struggle to move through the tangle of life. It’s as if the Greater Will had scooped up the Throne and dropped it in the middle of an ancient forest. You can make out vague stone structures hidden in the shadows, carved with strange, twisting runes. 

You’re not alone. The forest crackles and hums with life. Birds call to each other overhead, and predator and prey alike dart in and out of the shadows. Leaves crunch, twigs snap, and heavy footsteps approach from behind you. You shut your eyes, and sink to your knees before the empty throne.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice breaking. 

The footsteps draw closer, their gait uneven, and accompanied by the tap- thud of a wooden staff.

Your visitor pauses a breath behind you, and clears His throat. You bow your head, and prepare for the end.

...

…A blast of hot breath hits your face, and you jerk awake. There’s a heavy weight on your chest, and you’re surrounded by glowing eyes. You squint, and as your eyes adjust to the dark, you make out the shapes of countless creatures, great and small. 

A scream freezes in your throat. Furred and scaled limbs lurch, feathers rustle, and the light of the Grace reveals bared fangs and unsheathed claws. The eyes draw closer, and a flare of Gold reveals white wings, silvered fur, and curling horns.

The weight on your chest is a silver deer large enough to support a fully armored knight. His horns seem to reach for the canopy of the forest itself. His single gold eye glares unblinkingly.

Your visitors close in. A bearded tortoise glares at you, his powerful jaws inches from your head. A hawk screeches angrily, and stabs his beak at Messmer’s castle. An owl breaks from the crowd and perches on top of your pack, fixing you with a scornful stare. The deer lurches to his feet and stamps angrily on your bedroll, and then plants a hoof onto your chest, pinning you with terrifying strength. 

The deer’s eye is horrifyingly familiar, now.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, again.

The creature snorts, his breath misting in the air. He steps off of you and stamps the ground in frustration. The tortoise somehow slides under your upper back and shoves. You stumble to your feet, and the crowd parts. 

The castle looms ahead.

You snatch up your pack, and try to maneuver away, just to see, but you’re rebuffed every time, and bodily shoved back down the road.

“All right, all right,” you mutter. 

The deer snorts, and smacks your armored shoulder with his horns. 

“I just needed a little light,” you say, and start walking.

***

You find the hornsent’s torn body on the flagstones outside the Shadow Keep. A chill runs through you as you recall the change in Leda. She knows that Sir Ansbach was sworn to Mohg long before Miquella charmed him…You run for the Specimen Storehouse, and pray you’re not too late.

You follow the sounds of violence into a reading room on the fourth floor, and find Lady Leda and Sir Ansbach dueling in the wreckage of display cases and forbidden knowledge. Apparently she had chosen to follow her doubts about his allegiance to their logical conclusion. She calls on you for aid. Ansbach doesn’t break his focus for a second, clearly expecting nothing from you.

You shake your head, and point your sword at Leda’s heart.

Ansbach calls you a fool. You both walk away alive, but Leda will be in your way in the end.

***

Messmer is tired. He drags himself from his throne, and pronounces your fate with the air of one who has granted death thousands of times, and would condemn thousands more after you. And yet, he seems surprised to see you.

“Mother…wouldst thou truly Lordship sanction…in one so bereft of light…” the Impaler whispers. 

You’ve wondered the same thing, many times. Why had you been brought back? You had only Grace to guide you, and you had grown strong, but you, a Lord?

You fall before Messmer’s flame. You burn.

You burn again, and again, until you see through the dance of Messmer’s spear, and he is forced to show his true face. You realize that he’s as trapped as the rest of Marika’s children, perhaps even moreso, and you want to scream at him, to drag him to the Lands Between and show him what her favor had wrought. 

But it’s love that holds him here, a son’s love and duty, twisted into a weapon. You might as well have tried to coax Morgott away from the Erdtree.

You fall, you die, and die again, but each time, you learn. 

In the end, Messmer calls out for his mother, and curses you. Or was it Marika he cursed? Did he realize, in the end, that he’d been abandoned?

You cannot tell, for his throat was choked with ash and blood.

***

You slink down into the depths of the keep, jumping at shadows and praying that any animals that have moved into the half-ruined halls are normal.

Beneath the Specimen Hall, you find a clinic crawling with misshapen lumps of flesh that shriek and flail in mindless pain, seeking long-dead Perfumers. They are Jars, you realize, but created from living beings instead of the honored dead. 

There’s a rasping cry in the broken rafters, and a horned hawk lights on your shoulder. You tear your gaze away from the failed mercy, and lift up your hand to him, a name burning in the back of your throat. But you can’t quite get it out, not here.

He hops onto your fist, shrieks out a hunting call, and leads you further into the dark.

***

You run through the Rauh ruins with a gold-eyed deer, and think that you could stay here, if it wasn’t choked with things that hated you. 

There are more crowned creatures than you’ve ever seen before. You find four gold-eyed owls in a ring beneath a stone arch dripping with moss, accompanied by their black-speckled brothers. Multi-horned rams roam in herds, and every tortoise you see has a magnificent beard. You’re sure there are more hiding from you, and from the burnt souls stumbling over cracked stone, tracing runes lost to time.

A Saint with the face of a woman and the body of a centipede waits inside a temple swimming with the scarlet rot. She attacks without a word, no hint of hesitation in the savage dance of her flowering blade. You rot, and wake beside a Grace, staring at the leaves overhead.

“Do you know who that is?” you ask a passing squirrel. “Why is she here? She reminds me of…” You trail off. Maybe Miquella’s sister had known her, but you’re not sure if it matters now. You’re headed to stop Miquella, after all, and there’s still more killing ahead.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and draw your sword to face the Saint once more.

To your great surprise, you aren’t alone.

“Apologies, good Tarnished,” Sir Ansbach murmurs as he draws his scythe. “The swamp proved challenging.”

“...sorry,” mumbles Thiollier, his vials of poison clutched tight. “...I was slow…”

“It’s all right,” you say, squashing the tremor in your voice. “Let’s go.”

***

There are no gold-eyed watchers in the spiral Tower, but you feel him, nonetheless. It’s as though you have pierced the earthly veil He’d worn in the Shadowlands, and you feel pieces of him in the power of the Tower’s worshippers.

“Steady,” Ansbach murmurs, when he catches you staring too long at a fully intact tutelary deity with a head twisting with horns. You wonder if he’s as affected as you behind that mask, and let Mohg’s Knight lead you away.

***

You climb higher, and higher, and find Leda and Miquella’s remaining followers. You wonder what the arena was originally used for. The sand suggests ritual combat, but the silent audience is too alike to those who watched the Divine Beast dance. 

“It was never Kindly Miquella, was it?” Leda says, her voice tired. “It was the Erdtree leading you all along.”

You nod. You suppose that she’s right, from a certain point of view. After all, He had become Grace and Gold, part of the divinity permeating this shadowed land. The Erdtree was born from such sacred things, though there was so much left behind. Thrown away. 

And perhaps His mother doesn’t mind if you continue on as you are.

“So that you might ascend to Lordship…”

You can only smile at that.

“I wouldn’t quite go that far,” you say. ‘It’s more of a consequence than a goal.”

Leda’s blade sings with anger. Dryleaf Dane stands at her side, a wall of determination. Moore’s sadness is obvious, even through his verdigris plate. The joy of battle radiates from every swing of Freyja’s sword. 

It’s three against four, two more than you’d been expecting, but you’re not certain that you’re completely alone in your body. You see the arena through the sharp eyes of a hawk, and your arms pulse with the strength of an angry boar. You’re as fast as a deer, and you feel so light on your feet that, for a moment, you feel like you’re flying.

Then it ends. Miquella’s followers lie dead, and Ansbach barely catches you before you fall.

***

The three of you stop to rest before making the climb to the Gate of Divinity. Thiollier prays to Saint Trina one last time, and Ansbach presses a talisman to his forehead. It’s similar to the medal you found in the Leyndell catacombs: the more blood Ansbach spills, the more powerful he will become. You leave your camp as it is. Either you win the day, or you die, after all.

You lead the way onto a field of bones. The Gate of Divinity waits, pulsing with power and setting the sky on fire. You draw your sword, your blood pounding in your head, and think of the Grace of Gold, Marika’s gift to you, and of the silent eyes watching you, guiding you ever since you’d touched Miquella’s withered hand. 

Radahn steps through the gate. He’s a vision, a dream, he’s the idea of war poured into the form of a man. No sign of rot weakens him. His eyes glow gold, and lock on you and your allies. 

This is no Festival. If they fall, they will not come back. Nonetheless, Ansbach steps up to your side, and readies his scythe.

“General Radahn,” he says, his voice courteous. “A pleasure to see you again, after all this time…But those remains do not belong to you.” 

Thiollier palms his vials, and stands trembling at Ansbach’s shoulder.

“Not the finest blade, nor the mightiest armor,” he says, his voice growing stronger with each word. “Will spare your life from the poison of Thiollier.”

“Lord Mohg will have his dignity,” declares Ansbach, and meets Radahn’s first strike with the blindingly fast arc of his scythe. 

Radahn remains silent, expressionless, even when you charge in and bury your claymore in his side. Not that it does much. The demigod pulls it out as if it had been a splinter and tosses it across the killing field.

You choke on bone dust, and wonder if he remembers when you killed him in Caelid. 

It takes time, but Radahn stumbles. Thiollier’s poison grinds down his endurance, and Ansbach bleeds him for a thousand slices, large and small. You take up a greatsword and hack and slash when you get an opening. 

He falls to one knee, hand locked tight around his sword. You dart forward, and raise your blade for a killing blow, only to scream in agony when the sky starts to bleed light. 

A figure emerges from the Gate of Divinity, a young man dripping with power and beauty: Miquella, here to give life to an Age of Compassion.

The new god lays gentle hands on his consort’s back, and fills him with golden light and strength. He looks at you, and his eyes say that you need not fight him, that he truly does want only the best for you, for everyone, and – 

You barely get your sword up in time as Radahn crashes into you from above. You are unhurt, but you find yourself locked in Radahn’s arms, and leaving the ground. Distantly, you hear your friends furiously attacking, trying to free you, but a pair of warm, gentle hands cup your face, and threads of peaceful gold twist around your heart.

“Come with me,” Miquella whispers against your cheek. “I promise you a thousand year voyage guided by compassion…”

He lets you fall, and you nearly cry out at the loss, but then Ansbach hauls you out of the way of a blast of holy fire, and your head is back in the fight.

It’s a trial of attrition once again. Radahn is even faster than before, and he channels Miquella’s power at every possible opportunity. Thiollier is surprisingly nimble, but he struggles to land doses of his poison on the demigod’s body. Ansbach’s scythe is almost too quick to follow, and he manages to evade most of Radahn’s blows, but Miquella’s Light disorients as much as it burns. He falls, and only a timely block from your blade saves him. As for you, you are knocked sprawling, and roll blindly away from the thunderous roar of Radahn’s swords. 

Too late. Enormous arms close around your waist. 

Time slows, and you are lifted carefully, gently, into Miquella’s arms.

“Lord of the old order…”  

Gold eyes swallow you.

“Let us go together…”

A scream builds inside you as tender lips touch your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your mouth. He’s warm, and soft, and even the light scrape of his teeth on your lips is gentle, and you haven’t felt this safe in so long. All the fight drains out of you. The scream in your mind fades to a whimper, and then to a whisper.

The cords around your heart twist, pull, and — 

— There’s a hand on your right shoulder. It’s heavy, and large enough to cradle your head. The palm is rough from centuries of battle, and the fingers are long and storm-grey. Another hand rests on your left shoulder, just as large and strong, as black as a raven’s wing. Black horns curl around the wrist and fingers, but seem to cause its owner no pain. Both hands squeeze tight when pain cracks through you like lightning, and your world explodes with light.

No, the hands mean nothing…everything is gold, gold forged into fire. It grows brighter, and brighter, until it sears your eyes. The right hand hauls you back against rough, scarred skin, and grips tight. A low growl emanates from your left side, and the horned hand settles on your waist, shielding you. 

Two…of them, you think wildly, barely stringing thoughts together as Miquella’s power burns bright. They hold you tight, keep you upright when your legs fail you. You flail as your eyes burn and your skin melts, because it’s too much. Your heart is screaming. You can’t even move. How can you fight that?

And then, you’re moving again. There’s a hand resting on the small of your back, and an arm under your thighs.

You’re being carried. You — 

— scream and scream, and drive your knife into Radahn’s shoulder. He drops you, and you have enough time to register the stunned look on Miquella’s face before Ansbach leaps out of nowhere and slashes the backs of Radahn’s ankles wide open.

The demigod roars, and falls to his knees, his tendons severed. You find your sword, and drive it through Radahn’s chest, tears streaming down your face. 

God and Consort die together, impaled on your blade.

Epilogue

You’d never have found your way to Marika’s home on your own. Your dreams fill with shattered ceramic jars, rusted metal blades, and the festering reek of infected wounds. Grace nudges you towards a statue tucked away in the Shadow Keep, and something compels you to lift your hands and beg forgiveness. 

The wall creaks, and you stumble through the revealed doorway.

Once you get over the shock of seeing two Tree Sentinels, you realize that you haven’t felt Grace this strong since you left the Lands Between. 

There’s an Erdtree here, somewhere. 

You half expect the gold-eyed watchers to line the path, like an honor guard, but only the wind accompanies you up the mountain. 

You see no spots of Grace, but a sapling waits in the middle of a broken village, alive with pale golden light. You tremble as you step into its glow, and the bruises you’d earned fighting the Sentinels vanish. You sit cross-legged beside the golden sapling, and wait.

You feel him in the air, first, and then slow, steady footfalls circle the edges of your awareness. Golden threads of Grace gather about you, blending seamlessly with the gentle light of the nascent Erdtree. They weave a towering being that casts no shadow, and needs no staff to stand tall. 

“Why are you still here, Tarnished?” he rumbles.

“Why are you?” you ask, and lay your sword in the flowers beneath the tree.

Morgott reaches out, and lays a hand on the sapling.

“You cast aside the shadows veiling the Tower,” he says. “The way between the Land of Shadow and the Lands Between is clear, should one find the way.” His face softens slightly, and you notice that the scarring obscuring his right eye has softened and receded. His horns continue to grow, but you suspect that they no longer pain him. “The roots are small, but strong. They will grow, and one day, they will reach beyond the Land of Shadow.”

Morgott leans on his staff, and fixes his gaze upon you. 

“You slew me in the Lands Between, Tarnished,” he finishes. “Yet it seems that the Erdtree is not done with me. My place is here, where Death and Life will converge, but you have not unchained Death, Tarnished,” he says, an edge in his voice. “You have not done your part.”

“Maliketh – “

“Insufficient,” he snaps. “The Ring is shattered. The last child of Marika is no more. The Erdtree requires – “

“How would you know?” you snap, and get to your feet. “You guarded it for centuries, even knowing that no-one could get in. You hounded me at every turn. You killed me…I don’t know… dozens of times? You stayed in Leyndell while the Lands Between rotted!”

Morgott nodded, stunning you into silence.

“I saw no solution,” he said grimly. “That did not involve the total destruction of the Erdtree…but…” He gazed at the small, but strong, sapling, and then turned away to face the strange life of the Land of Shadow. “Death is a change, Tarnished. I doubt the Erdtree will be the same, when you make your choice. But it will continue. As will I…”

Your heart skips as his voice begins to fade.

“The…the animals!” you call out. “How – “

Morgott’s face twists, and for a moment, you’re not sure what you’re looking at. Then you realize that it’s a smirk.

“The legacy of the Omen, ” he drawls, and bats at you with his tail, to your utter shock. “As I said, my place is here, now that I am dead…” Morgott shrugs. “The Erdtree was born from the primordial current of life itself. That current is especially strong here.”

He tapped you with his tail, and started to walk into the night.

“Wait!” you call out. “I…You saved me… so many times …and I…” 

“Do thy part, Tarnished,” Morgott said, without turning. “That will be thanks enough.”

***

Radagon goes down quickly. You’ve learned from your time in the Land of Shadow, and compared to Radahn joined with Miquella, his attacks barely sting. 

The sudden appearance of a creature glowing with the power of the cosmos is more of a challenge, but you stand your ground. You will not break, not now.

The Elden Beast collapses into starlight, and then into blinding Gold. Your vision clears, and Marika waits before you, a cracked shell of a goddess. The broken shards of reality glow inside Her, barely contained.

You gather up your Great Runes, kneel before Her, and remember.

You press your hand to the ground. You feel the heart of the Erdtree, the life within, waiting for the flames to make room for new growth. And so you reach out, and put Marika back together. There are still gaps, cracks, but something tells you that they ought to be there. The Ring can change, if it must. You just need to protect its home.

Power flows into your blood the moment you slot your last Great Rune in place. The Erdtree ripples, shifts, and the flames roar high and hot. 

You emerge unharmed. The Lands Between stretch out before you. And in the distance, hidden behind the glare of the summer sun, is the Tower. 

You will leave it be, for now. It is safe. After all, it has a guardian of its own.