Chapter Text
Morgott lifted the Erdtree’s Favor in his hand, inspecting his work with a critical eye. The cord was broken, so he set about making a new one with tender vines from the tree above Godwyn’s grave, weaving the fibers together before stringing the talisman on it. Some finishing touches and the application of some gleaming sap for durability would see the work complete. The entire process had been far more delicate than he was accustomed to, but he had no intention of commissioning one of the smiths to do it. It was a gift to his wife, and it seemed fitting that he mended what was broken with his own hands.
Finding the time to work on the personal project had been difficult over the past few days. Morgott’s subjects took up increasing increments of his time as the subject of returning to Leyndell grew in importance, as everyone including himself took no joy in being displaced. Almost every moment not filled with the matters of kingship was spent with Rowa as she regained her strength, and he found it even harder to leave her side now that she was awake and all things between them were laid bare. He finally managed to carve out a small sliver of time to himself, to repair the broken talisman.
Satisfied with his work, Morgott tucked the talisman away. The last refinements would have to wait; he had spent more time than he meant to on the endeavor already, and he desired to return to Rowa. A new zeal had seized him now that their bond had changed. She had seen him in his faults and wrongdoings and had loved him enough to give up that which her existence had rested upon. Every veil was torn away before her, and just as she had from the beginning, she saw not the cursed wretch he had thought himself to be, so he could not help but desire to be near to her, to allow himself to simply be.
The camp was bustling with life, the smaller space revealing more than the lonely stretches of Leyndell. As Morgott arrived, many eyes fell on him, though he was slowly becoming used to the attention. He was looked upon more with curiosity and attentiveness than fear now, a change brought about in part by Rowa, who had now been out among the people. It seemed that the ease with which she interacted with him assuaged their lingering apprehensions, and regardless of whether it had been intentional, he was grateful.
He found her in her tent, engrossed in the Carian history book, and as he ducked through she turned a smile on him, a sight that filled him with more vigor than any Rune. She had been thoroughly cleansed and washed by the perfumers, her skin almost aglow with a healthy, clean pallor. Her hair was combed free of any snarls, tied into a loose braid and cascading like a trail of ink over simple commoner’s clothing. Around her neck hung a small bag borrowed from a perfumer that contained the crimson-gold seed he had gifted her, but she looked no different from the people of Leyndell, save for her eyes. Like Marika, she retained a depth to her gaze, an innate vastness. Though she no longer held the anchor of the world, the knowledge remained, gleaned from a wellspring that few ever saw.
“I was beginning to wonder where you had gone off to,” she said. “Is anything amiss?”
“Nay.” Morgott felt his own lips curling up. It was still a foreign feeling to smile, but not an unpleasant one. “I merely sought a small measure of solitude to work on thy promised gift.”
Rowa’s face brightened even more. “What progress have you made?”
“Much.” Morgott’s chest filled with a warm, glowing feeling at the anticipation on her face. “‘Twill not be long, if I am allowed the time to finish it in the coming days.”
“Of course.” Rowa’s smile turned a little wry. She had sat present at several proceedings, which were some of her first insights into ruling. “I suppose I should have expected court business to be time-consuming.”
“We stand in extraordinary circumstances, so fear not. When all is resolved, matters shall become less pressing.”
“I hope so.” Rowa shut the history book, gently putting it aside and rising from her bedding shakily. Morgott extended a hand that she accepted, letting him steady her. “I wish to walk. Will you go with me?”
“As thou dost wish it.” Morgott gladly acquiesced to her desire, which had become a daily occurrence once she had enough strength.
Rowa stepped forward, wrapping her arm around his for support. She walked with a slight limp, the cause of which was likely the injury from Gideon’s cruel hold. Beneath healing incantations and the strength of Runes, it had vanished, but her physical limitations had presented themselves in her simplicity. Even so, she insisted on walking with a reassurance that there was no pain.
They exited the tent together, crossing the camp at a sedate pace. Rowa greeted those they encountered kindly, something she had taken to after running into Wilfred, who had seemed afraid of her at first. After she spoke to him with many gentle assurances that their unfortunate first encounter would not be repeated, they had parted ways on better terms.
The pair strode into the woods around the encampment, a comfortable quiet settling over them as the bustle faded behind them. Morgott moved as slowly as he could to accommodate Rowa’s careful, uneven pace, not wishing for her to overexert herself.
On this occasion, they went northward, walking beneath the canopy of golden foliage tinged with crimson. To Morgott, seeing Rowa smile at the gradual changes of the earth was just as enjoyable as walking with her. Though they had spoken during previous outings, they remained in a comfortable silence this time, traveling without aim. He found walks with her calming, letting him sort through the day’s troubles and considerations with her reassuring warmth against his arm.
“May we stop there for a few moments?” Rowa finally broke the stillness, gesturing to a fallen tree close by. “I want to rest, just a little.”
“Certainly,” Morgott murmured as they turned aside. She had asked the same on previous days, though each rest was shorter than the last. “Thou hast but to ask, and I shall bear thee to the encampment easily.”
Rowa smiled her appreciation, which to him seemed warmer than the light of the sun. They sat down, but Rowa did not relinquish her hold on his hand, nor did he want her to. The yearning her touch had first incited was now tempered, the deep longing for love sated with the mending of his wounded heart.
“Morgott?” Rowa asked at last.
“Aye?”
“…What do you suppose will become of me?”
Morgott turned to her in confusion, and found her gaze trained on some indistinct point in the distance, her brow furrowed. “What dost thou speak of?”
Rowa hesitated before answering. “Even before coming to the Lands Between, I only knew the struggle to survive, the call to wage war as a Tarnished. That time is over, but I do not know what will become of me now when there is no more need to fight.”
“I see,” Morgott said, his understanding solidifying. “What dost thou desire?”
“To be at your side, first and foremost.” She looked up at him, speaking with all sincerity though her face flushed. “To love you and aid you as I promised, but I do not know beyond that. I fear that I will not find a place in a more merciful age.”
“Do not fear such a thing. Thou hast yet to live peacefully, and in time thou shalt find what thou wilt make of thyself. Thou’rt of gentler heart than I, and was it not thou who taught me mercy?”
“I suppose,” Rowa murmured, “but I fought for so long here and across the fog that I find it difficult to move beyond such struggles, even though I welcome the age to come. My hands have spilled much blood.”
Morgott looked down at the small, pale hand within his own. It was plain in appearance yet beautiful to him for who it belonged to, a hand that had revived him in body and soul. “But thou hast also given life, for by thy hand, this age is come forth. Though the Crucible abideth in me, ‘tis thou who awakened it, and ‘tis by thy wish for mercy that we are here now, bound to one another. Do not hesitate to leave behind the strife of the Tarnished, for there is much life in thee.”
Seized by an affectionate impulse, Morgott dipped his head, bringing Rowa’s knuckles to his lips. He was not overly familiar with gestures of affection, but after pressing a kiss to her head for the first time, he was compelled to continue with similar acts. He could not help his desire to show her the length of his love, and words alone were not enough, though he had indulged himself sparingly with such gestures. There remained a sliver of hesitance within him, and her as well it seemed, with expressions of what had blossomed between them. Just as they faced the newness of the age to come, so too did they walk the new road of love revealed in full, and it was a gentle path they would follow together.
“Thy hands have blessed me richly,” Morgott said, drawing away with some reluctance, “and so I believe thou wilt bless many more likewise, for there is still much to be healed in the world. The downtrodden shall need to be uplifted.”
Rowa ducked her head slightly in embarrassment, though she did not pull her hand from his. “You are right. I do not wish to leave the ones hated by the Golden Order without aid.”
“Though we began differently, thou dost understand the plight of the outcasts just as much as I. In the same way, thou wilt understand the strife many of them have endured. Do not think that thou’rt unable to be of help.”
“I will help if I am able, for the sake of those that remain here and those I lost across the fog.” Rowa’s embarrassment faded as she briefly went silent, her gaze growing distant. “I could not save the ones that loved me before, but I may yet honor their memories by aiding the outcasts in this land.”
“I hold no doubt that thou wilt bring honor to them,” Morgott said, “for none knoweth thy compassion more so than I.”
Rowa’s smile returned, and with it came a light Morgott had seen before, the flame of ambition now reignited with new purpose, and his heart swelled as her hand closed over the seed hanging around her neck. “Then I will endeavor to leave the ways of the Tarnished behind in completion. I will wage war no more, and make of myself a healer of the brokenness that remains.”
Morgott did not think it was possible for her to become more lovely, but as she found the assurance of a new purpose, she somehow became lovelier still.
Rowa was aware of Godfrey’s presence in the camp, more so through the awed whispers of the knights and townspeople around her than personal encounters. His presence was intermittent, as he came and went as he desired, but she saw him occasionally from afar as she regained her strength. He stood well above most of Leyndell’s people, a large, imposing figure just as much as his son, making it easy for her to pick him out.
The more Rowa saw of Godfrey, the more she felt compelled to speak with him, for as she observed him she became more consciously aware of a change she had undergone. There remained in her some measure of insight that the Elden Ring had granted to her, allowing her to see beyond the physical world, as if a sliver of the soul was laid bare before her. She knew if others approached her or Morgott with great fear or hesitance, regardless of attempts to hide it, and likewise with other states such as joy or sorrow. However, Godfrey’s heart remained hidden from her newfound insight, perhaps by virtue of his sheer strength, and his obscurity along with her desire to address their encounter at the Elden Throne left her searching for a good opportunity to converse with him.
Her chance finally came one pleasant afternoon. Morgott had gone out with some of his men to meet a survey team sent to the southern gate into the city outskirts, leaving her to her own devices until the evening. In that interlude, she sought out the former Elden Lord, and after a little searching she found him at the edge of the encampment.
As Rowa approached the warrior, she was surprised by how mighty he was in appearance alone. She had not realized it before in the throes of battle and bloodlust with great power bolstering her, but now she was only a woman. He could crush her with little effort if he saw fit, but she forced herself forward despite her apprehensions.
“My lord,” she called softly.
Godfrey looked up from the task of sharpening his axe blade, turning his piercing gaze on her. His eyes were filled with the gleam of Morgott’s Grace, but beneath it burned the same flame she had encountered in their duel, the wildfire of a warrior whose true home was far from the realm of crowns and thrones. “Aye, lady?”
Though such a title had been used by Leyndell’s citizenry, it was still unnatural in Rowa’s ears, sounding even more so coming from a living legend. “I was wondering how your health has fared.”
Godfrey faced her fully, and though he had come by cleaner garments at some point, his arms and torso were still largely bare, revealing the skin bound with cords of muscle. “My wounds were not slight, but neither was the healing power my son wielded.”
Rowa nodded, seeing no trace of their fight on his flesh. “I am relieved to hear it.”
“And what of thee?” Godfrey studied her, scrutinizing but without hostility. “Morgott hath told me much of thy healing, but there is no better judge than thyself.”
“I have healed much in body and heart, and it is for that reason I have come to you.” Rowa inclined her head, though she felt small before him. “I wish for you to know that I wholeheartedly regret my actions during our encounter at the Elden Throne. You extended mercy to me for Morgott’s sake, but I did not grant you the same courtesy. Though I seek no excuse, my heart was full of bitterness then, but now I greatly regret it for your sake and Morgott’s.”
Godfrey offered no response for several moments, and his expression granted her no clarity, but finally he said, “I understand thy desire to make amends, but let it be known that there is no need. I returned to this land without expectation of mercy, nor did I desire it. A warrior’s death had already been granted to me once, and I would have gladly welcomed it again.”
Rowa was surprised by his congenial reply, having prepared herself for anything but based on their previous encounter. “Even so, you were honorable in your dealings with me, and I did not extend you the same respect in my anger.”
The focus of Godfrey’s gaze wavered. “I hath seen such anger before, a ferocity not of a warrior seeking victory in battle, but a rage steeped in great bitterness that marks a dark path.”
It dawned on Rowa what he spoke of, and for a moment his obscurity fell away, allowing her a glimpse of a deep melancholy within him, love and grief mingling together.
“‘Tis that same wrath that brought about the conquests I led, the breaking of the Ring, and all the strife thereafter.” For an instant, Godfrey’s face betrayed the feelings Rowa saw within, but it was only a fleeting glimpse. “Never was there a time I knew Marika without it, but now at last she hath begun to free herself from it. ‘Tis my hope thou wilt do the same.”
“I have already sought to relinquish it,” Rowa said. “I had the fortune of seeing what my anger had and would create before it was too late to choose another way. I only wish I had seen it sooner.”
“And yet thou didst see it, which is the reason my son yet liveth.”
“Yes, though I bear many regrets over what was done before then.”
“But wouldst thou seek to rise beyond thy regrets?” Godfrey spoke the question as though it was a challenge on the battlefield, and Rowa responded with equal fervor.
“I will rise beyond them,” she said, her apprehensions melting away. “I will remain at Morgott’s side as his wife and consort, no longer merely for the sake of the world, but for the sake of love.”
Godfrey nodded. “Then if thou wilt love him, do it well for the sake of the love I hath never granted to him.”
Again, Rowa glimpsed the same melancholy within him, further igniting her own passion. “Though you have only my words, I will endeavor to honor your wishes.”
“Thou hast already proven thyself thusly,” Godfrey said, “with the relinquishment of all power for his life. I do not doubt thou shalt cherish him.”
Rowa flushed slightly, but so too did she feel a sense of relief. “Thank you, my lord. I am glad of your faith, since Morgott has told me you will soon depart the Lands Between.”
“Aye, I shall depart with Marika.”
“Where to?”
“I know not where yet. Long ago, before the exile, I and Marika vowed that if we survived the coming trials, we would leave the Lands Between together, but ‘twas a bitter vow. Between us, there was little hope of a life beyond the shackles of a god.”
“But here you stand,” Rowa said.
“Indeed, and so there is uncertainty of what is yet to come, but ‘tis Marika’s choice.” Godfrey lifted his head, peering through the foliage at the Erdtree’s brilliance above. “It gladdens me to see the Crucible I pursued reborn, so I do not leave here without sorrow, but I have hope that it will flourish for the betterment of the land.”
“Morgott will see it done.”
Godfrey looked at her once more, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Thou wouldst discount thyself from such an endeavor?”
“The power is his,” Rowa murmured, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious, “as is the Crucible and the Ring. I will no longer be a warrior, but a healer.”
“Battle and bloodlust enthrall many, but thou wouldst depart from such ways?”
Rowa shook her head. “I have had more than enough of such things.”
“Many times hath such words been spoken, but only a few hath remained true to that promise.” Godfrey studied his axe before setting it aside. “However, thou hast already proven thyself true with the sacrifice of power many warriors would covet. Do not think there is no power in thee, for thy strength of will is greater than many I hath known in my time. Those who seek to heal are to be honored, for without them many warriors would fall before their time.”
“I suppose you are right,” Rowa agreed, surprised by his encouragement.
“And there is a power greater still within thee. Thou holdest Morgott’s heart in thy hands.”
Rowa knew Godfrey’s grave warning at once. The Shattering had come about through Marika’s grief, burdening her until it was too much.
“I ask that thou never forget thy power as the one he loveth,” Godfrey said.
“I will not forget,” Rowa promised, “for I have seen how he loves me.”
Godfrey stood, approaching her, and she felt even smaller as he stopped before her. His countenance remained inscrutable, but she glimpsed something within him, something warm like fondness.
“A healer thou may become, but thou hast proven thyself honorable, and a warrior of renown.” Godfrey extended a hand to her. “I am glad to have met thee, Rowa, and I am glad to call thee good-daughter.”
Rowa took his hand unflinchingly. “Likewise, my good-father.”
“My lord and lady, please pardon my intrusion!”
Morgott looked up from the list of Leyndell’s recovery efforts he had been perusing. The haphazard scratching of Rowa’s quill came to a halt beside him as they both eyed the out-of-breath soldier that had appeared at the entrance to his tent.
“What is it?” Morgott asked.
The soldier stepped beyond the tent’s opening, bowing hastily. “A message was received minutes ago from a patrol to the south.” He produced a small piece of parchment bound with twine.
“Who delivered it?” Morgott continued, seeing no seal on the message.
“‘Twas a great bird that dropped the message to us. I did not see it clearly, but some think it was a Stormhawk.”
“A Stormhawk?” Rowa laid aside her quill, her writing practice forgotten. “From Stormveil?”
“So it seems, my lady.”
Morgott held forth a hand. “Let me read this message.”
The guard handed over the parchment, and Morgott unrolled it. Though Rowa could still read little, she leaned in close to see the contents herself. After a few moments she said, “Well, what does it say?”
“The ruler of Stormveil wishes to treat with us. ‘Tis claimed here that they are already within Altus, which no doubt is partly due to my kin’s carelessness with his possessions.”
“Who sent this?”
“Kenneth Haight, on behalf of the Lady of Stormveil.” Morgott considered the flowing script before him. “If the first interactions are peaceful, I see no reason to refuse a meeting. I will go.”
“Then I will, as well,” Rowa decided.
Morgott glanced her way, suddenly struck with the desire to keep her far from anything that could bring harm, even something as simple as a meeting between leaders. It was an irrational thought, but he was continuously discovering that his love for her did away with much of his logic. His inward apprehensions must have showed themselves, or at least enough for her to recognize his feelings as she fixed him with a hard look.
“Surely you don’t intend to go without me.”
Abashed, Morgott murmured, “Canst thou fault me for desiring thy safety?”
Rowa softened. “No, but I am to be at your side in this coming age, not secreted away.”
Morgott sighed. The mere implication of hiding her was heinous; he had already spent his life concealed, but there were no veils anymore. As much as a part of him wanted to keep her safe from all peril, it was a selfish notion. To deny the world her compassion would be a great wrongdoing. “Thou speakest truly. We shall go together, then.”
“Shall we send word that the Crucible King and his Elden Lord have agreed?” the guard asked.
“She is not merely Elden Lord.” Morgott felt Rowa’s surprised gaze on him, but he continued. “She is a queen.”
The guard bobbed in a small bow. “Of course, forgive me.”
“Send word that we have agreed, and we shall discuss a meeting place thereafter.” As the guard left, Morgott turned to Rowa, who had suddenly become interested in her writing again. Though she was hunched over her parchment, the flush on her face was still visible.
“A queen…” she murmured. “Truly?”
“Aye.” Morgott’s small surge of pride was replaced by hesitance. “Art thou displeased?”
“No. I am merely…unused to it.”
“‘Tis my hope that thou wilt become accustomed in time, for thou’rt nothing less in mine eyes.”
Rowa huffed, though she was smiling. “And you are nothing less than a king in mine.”
The plans were made and the meeting was arranged. Two days later, Morgott and Rowa traveled together to the outskirts within Leyndell’s first wall, where the ash was thin. Morgott’s faint apprehensions over the meeting had diminished through congenial correspondence, and became even less so when he felt the foreign souls come into his perception. As promised, there were only a few who came for the meeting, a small group from a larger contingent that remained at a distance. Likewise, he and Rowa were only accompanied by a few soldiers.
Rowa’s hand found his as they walked, a warm and gentle anchor amidst a flurry of considerations about the meeting only minutes away. A furtive glance toward her revealed no apprehension, her countenance placid. She did not hold the frighteningly powerful image of queenship Marika had possessed, though she was not lacking in her simpler appearance. She was the forerunner of the age to come, where gods would no longer bring terror to hearts, and her simplicity reflected the vision he would work to see realized, beginning with this first meeting.
Upon sighting Stormveil’s envoys, Morgott was surprised by the Lady of Stormveil. She stood at the head of her small contingent, a woman younger than he anticipated with a steely countenance, her eyes glittering like black jetstones against the deep brown of her skin. She was not dressed in the elegant trappings he had envisioned, her garb rivaling his own primitive clothing, a mismatched outfit of cloth, leather, and cord. But despite her appearance, she was undoubtedly the leader of the group, standing tall and with confidence.
Beside him, Rowa let out a strangled gasp. “Nepheli?”
“What?” Morgott looked down at her, but she did not notice his confusion even as he halted. She continued forward, her gaze trained on the distant figures down the remains of the old road.
“Nepheli!” She called out louder, and this time the young woman heard. Her face furrowed in confusion for a moment before sighting them, then shock washed away the proud countenance of a leader, and her lips formed an unmistakable name.
“Rowa!”
Rowa’s hand left Morgott’s as she broke out into a run. Alarmed, Morgott lurched forward, ready to pursue until he saw the woman from Stormveil—Nepheli—begin running as well, detaching from her group with her arms outstretched and a wide smile on her face. Such joy was difficult to feign, and so he did not try to stop Rowa.
The two women closed the distance between them quickly, and when they met, they crumpled into a heap on the ash-strewn grass, locked in a fierce embrace. Morgott approached them slowly, finding tears streaming down Rowa’s face and Nepheli appearing not far from the same.
“I wondered what had become of you many times,” Rowa gasped out.
“And I wondered the same of you,” Nepheli replied, her voice strong even through such emotion.
Rowa pulled back enough to look Nepheli in the face. “I hoped you would find your place in the world, but becoming the Lady of Stormveil is beyond anything I imagined.”
Nepheli laughed, watery but sincere. “What I have done is so very little compared to you. I feared to hope for your success, knowing how many others have fallen along the path.”
“It was not me alone.” Rowa turned to Morgott, smiling through her tears. “Morgott, this is Nepheli, a friend I have not seen since the beginning of my journey.”
“Ah, forgive me, my lord.” Nepheli wiped at her face with the heel of her palm to try and compose herself. “This was not the beginning I envisioned for our meeting.”
“I cannot fault thee for a reunion as joyous as this,” Morgott replied. He could already see much similarity between her and Rowa, which befit the benevolent image he had heard tell of previously. “Though this is unexpected, ‘tis not unwelcome.”
“I had heard tell of the Omen King and his consort through a knight of the Crucible and his ward, though I hesitated to believe their words. But when I heard your declaration of the new age, I knew you were real, and I hoped to find Rowa with you. Now that I am here, if the world you spoke of is what you truly envision, I wish to lighten your burden.”
One look at Rowa and her beaming smile was enough for Morgott, and he extended his hands to the both of them. “Then let us begin, for there is much to be done.”
Ranni watched as Adula’s figure glided above Liurnia, growing closer every moment. Since the death of her flesh, had considered herself above all apprehensions, for she had driven the Black Knife through her own body, but now she felt it crawling through her soul once more. In all her plans, she had never truly considered the possibility of Radagon’s presence, much less that he would be alive, but each stroke of Adula’s wings in the air brought the new reality closer. Radagon was alive, and he was coming to her.
Her solace was found in companionship. Blaidd stood beside her, unbound from his service as a Shadow, the only bond remaining on him one of brotherhood and love. “Ranni, are you sure of this?” he asked, watching Adula’s approach as carefully as she.
“Aye.” Ranni’s grip tightened on the silver vessel in her hands as Adula’s shadow passed over the grass in front of them. “I did not shrink from anything that came before, and I shall not begin doing so now.”
Adula wheeled in the sky, circling downward to slow her descent. She alighted upon the ground with serpentine grace, lowering herself so her passenger could dismount. Red flashed amidst the glinting blue scales as Radagon easily lowered himself from Adula’s back, and then he stood before them, whole in his flesh.
“Ranni,” he said, bearing just as much devastating emotion as when they met before. “Blaidd.”
Blaidd said nothing, but Ranni replied, “Father.”
Radagon’s gaze drifted to the building behind them, and a fresh wave of dismay added new fractures to his formerly austere façade. “Is this…is this all that is left?”
Ranni did not look at the crumbling husk. She had already spent enough time ruminating on its former grandeur, and the vows made between a Carian Queen and a mere warrior within its walls. “This place, like many others, didst suffer from the warfare, but the miracle remaineth true even so.”
Radagon took notice of the silver phial in her grasp, a shuddering breath leaving him. “Thou wouldst truly grant me such a blessing?”
“If thou’rt true in thy repentance. But first, thou must tell me why.” The demand rang through the old church, heavy with an age’s worth of unanswered questions. “Why didst thou leave us?”
Radagon was silent for so long that it seemed he would give no answer, but he finally said, “This form thou dost inhabit, ‘tis in Renna’s likeness, is it not?”
Were Ranni able to frown, she would have. “Aye, ‘tis true.”
“Then thou must know at least a little of the tribulations that bid her depart these lands.”
Ranni glanced at her four-armed vessel, a strange design rendered intentionally. “She spake little of her former woes, but I learned enough. Her soul was rent asunder, residing both within her and another self, who remaineth unknown to me.”
“She cleaved her soul with the first of the Black Knives, to free herself from godhood,” Radagon said. “And after a time, Marika sought to do the same.”
A feeling of unease coiled within the place where Ranni’s bodily heart had resided.
“She divested herself of the Greater Will’s hold, and relinquished it to another.” Radagon’s shoulders fell, as if the recollection weighed him down. “She gave it to me.”
The unease blossomed into full dismay as Ranni was suddenly confronted by every time she had seen her father after his departure from Caria. Something about him had never sat right with her, though what she had supposed was her own anger was now brought to a new, different light.
“She never supposed I would find love amidst the Carians, and neither did I,” Radagon continued. “But find it I did, here at this very place. Even so, Marika called me to her side in the course of time, so she would have that which opposed her close at hand. I had no say in these matters.”
“Am I to simply believe this?” Ranni’s question was unthinking, instinctual after a long sojourn in a world with few she could trust.
“The remnants of my imprisonment are yet upon me.” Radagon raised a hand to his dextral eye. “Behold.”
Ranni stepped closer, looking past his physical eye to what was beneath. Within the shining depths lay a faded mark, a scar that had once been a seal, bearing the jagged, crisscrossing lines of the Greater Will’s sigil. “So I see,” she murmured.
Radagon dropped his hand, more pain surfacing. “To leave thee was an agony beyond compare. Not for a single moment did I desire to remain apart from thee, thy brothers, or thy mother, for I was but a pawn.”
The liquid inside the phial trembled slightly in Ranni’s grasp, and she whispered, “I see it clearly now.”
“That is more than I could have asked, but if thou wilt grant me absolution, then I shall accept it.”
Despite Radagon’s relief, she was not put at ease, and she found herself speaking from her heart before her mind had realized it. “Truthfully, I am not without mine own sins. Much hath come to pass that I never intended nor envisioned.” She looked toward Liurnia’s Divine Tower rising high in the distance, where she had shed her corporeal flesh. “For my soul to remain here, another had to be sacrificed and killed, a soul for a soul. But Godwyn was never meant to die.”
The realization of her admission passed like a shadow over Radagon’s face, but he offered no reply.
“The Numen betrayed me, and acted of their own accord out of vengeance. They slew indiscriminately, when I needed but one soul of a lowlier scion of gold. The breaking of the Ring and all things thereafter…’twas never in my mind that the Lands Between should suffer as it has.”
“The Ring would have been broken, regardless of thy intentions, for such notions were in Marika’s mind long before I was called to her,” Radagon said gravely, “but I understand thy regrets, just as I understand thy desire to be free of the fate thrust upon thee at thy birth.”
Ranni did not answer for fear of what emotion might burst forth instead of words. She had never imagined she would find her father’s love at the end of the dark path she had walked, but it was now presented to her freely, and it was beginning to eat away at the bitterness that had long lay within her heart. Barely able to look at him, she held forth the phial to him.
Radagon took hold of the phial, but he did not take it from her, his fingers lingering atop hers. “Daughter,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers, “shall we both partake of the miracle?”
Ranni’s voice caught, but she finally forced herself to speak, no matter how tremulous she sounded. “Aye.”
She removed the stopper, and Radagon lifted the phial high, the liquid silver within catching the brilliance of crimson-gold. He poured it over her head first, and though her false body could not feel, she felt the touch of it upon her soul as silver ran in rivulets down her form, a cleansing rush that lifted weights she had not known were there.
Radagon poured the rest of the dew out over his head, the silver running down his hair and face, an antithesis to the gold he had once embodied. He let out a great breath, and the phial slipped from his hand as he sank to his knees, hanging his head.
Silence followed, for though Ranni wished to speak, she could not bring the words forth at once. She eventually knelt to put herself level with Radagon again, foregoing all pretenses of strength and dignity, speaking to him in a tremulous murmur as a great many emotions swept through her soul. “Father, soon I will depart this land, and go onwards to the Dark Moon as I hath long desired. Mother shall accompany me alongside Blaidd and Iji…and thou, if thou dost wish it.”
Radagon raised his head, the silver still running down his face like tears. He smiled at her, but there was a sadness in it that told her his answer before he even spoke. “Though I greatly desire to go with thee, I cannot.”
The amount of disappointment Ranni felt was unexpected. “If it is for Mother’s sake thou dost not accept, then surely we shall—”
“Nay,” Radagon interrupted gently, “though ‘tis my fervent hope that her mind shall heal in time. Rather, I cannot depart for the sake of Malenia and Miquella.”
Ranni tried to keep the barb of bitterness from her answer. “‘Tis been a long while since any hath seen or heard of either, so long that I would deem such an endeavor fruitless.”
“But I cannot depart in peace without knowing in fullness what became of them. Two of my children are lost to me, and I shall not lose two more, if I am able. I love them just as much as I love thou and thy brothers.” Radagon took one of her hands, startling her. “Please, set aside thy enmity in this absolution. Theirs was a cursed existence from the beginning, for they were not born of any love between Marika and I, but forced from the Greater Will’s ire. And yet, they are my children still. I cannot help but love them.”
Revulsion toward the Greater Will overpowered Ranni’s bitterness. Radagon had been the puppet she feared to become herself. “…I understand.”
“I am assured of thy path, but Malenia and Miquella are lost to me. I must find them.”
Ranni glanced at their hands, and for a brief moment she was overcome with a yearning for her true body, that she might feel his touch once more. “If that is thy wish, then go. I cannot fault such a desire.”
Radagon squeezed her hand. “Forgive me.”
“I will, in time.”
Radagon looked at her with such tenderness that it was agonizing. “That is far more than I deserve. Thou hast my gratitude, and my love.”
Ranni was certain there would have been tears on her face if she could weep, but they fell unseen within her soul. “Whatever thou dost find at the end of thy path, know that I shall not shut the way to thee, if thou wouldst seek to depart from this land.”
“One day,” Radagon assured her. He stood slowly, helping her stand as well. “One day we shall meet again in the gardens of thy sacred Moon.”
As Ranni beheld the father she had known in her childhood, the icy princess who had overseen the changing of the world faded, and she became his daughter once more. She threw her false arms around Radagon in a fierce embrace he did not hesitate to return. And so father and daughter held each other, finally free.
Nepheli walked through the mold-encrusted tunnels of Leyndell’s sewers, and even the worst of Stormveil’s crumbling underbelly had not been so vile in her eyes. The air was stale and thick with the stench of rot, an odor that grew stronger as her boots stirred the stagnant, watery miasma underfoot. The tunnels were foul in form and principle, a prison for the unloved, and it was made fouler still for what she had come to find.
She came upon the twisted form, a broken body misshapen in armor equally warped by great force. It had lain there unnaturally long, a remnant of the stagnation from the previous age. She said, “Are you so great a coward that you flee even from Destined Death?”
Slowly, slowly, the misshapen thing lifted its head, though it hung askew at a grotesque angle. Eyes alight with pale flame fixed on Nepheli, an unearthly groan echoing through the abandoned corridors.
“Rowa said she had slain you, but I wondered otherwise. There was always some foul trick with you.” Nepheli regarded Gideon with contempt. “So it does not surprise me that my men found you down here, clinging to life through some sorcery.”
Gideon’s mouth opened, one word rattling from straining vocal cords. “Daughter…”
Nepheli shook her head. “I am no one’s daughter. You said so yourself the day you cast me out. I thought I was lost, done for, but now I have risen beyond any need of you. You’ve felt the changing of the world, haven’t you? There is no outer god, no Order clinging to power. The Lord and Lady of the Crucible have overthrown the stagnation.”
A broken hand reached out in her direction. “Mercy…!”
“Mercy?” Nepheli stepped forward, stopping just short of the bent, grasping fingers. “You ask for mercy, the same mercy you gave to the massacred Albinaurics? The mercy you gave to Rowa as you tried to force her into becoming an instrument of your destruction? The mercy you gave me, who you called daughter?”
A quiet followed her indignant proclamation, filled only by the labored breathing from Gideon’s struggling lungs. In that interval, Nepheli stooped, peering hard into the eyes gazing at her beseechingly.
“I see it now,” she muttered, her disgust increasing. “I see the spark of chaotic fire. How could you?”
Gideon tried to answer, but his body could form nothing but groans.
Nepheli straightened, keeping herself just out of reach of the weak hand trying to reach her. After a pensive silence, she said, “This age was founded on mercy, so I will give it to you. I will not kill you.”
Something like a gasp of relief wheezed from Gideon’s mouth, but it faltered when Nepheli continued.
“However, this place will be your tomb nonetheless. Soon, Leyndell’s ashes will be poured into these tunnels to bury their cursed existence and the vile god that lurks below. I expect you’ll be buried with them.”
“Plea-se!” Gideon’s desperate plea softened Nepheli’s stony countenance, but only for a moment.
“I wish you had proven yourself worthy of Lordship. I wish you had been the father I once thought you to be.” Nepheli shook her head. “Break your spells and die the death you were meant to before you suffer more. Goodbye, Gideon.”
She turned away and left him there, ignoring the cries behind her until she could hear them no more.