Chapter Text
It was a strange world that the new Elden Lord had brought about, but not one altogether unpleasant.
Were it not for the once golden grace of the half-burned Erdtree borne in the body of the Tarnished who stepped out of it, many would have denied her claim as Elden Lord. But as it stood, and as the sky was filled with an abundance of beautiful stars and two great moons, all would look upon this Tarnished woman and know that she was worthiest of the throne she sat on - and was strong enough to stand against those who opposed her.
But as fearful as many were of the woman who struck down demigods and brought about the new age, that fear was alleviated - or at least, bewildered - by her demeanour.
She smiled warmly when the nobles of Leyndell paid obeisance. She welcomed all to a capital she deemed under her protection.
And that was only the beginning.
The Erdtree's gold seemed to hold a hint of rose, now, like the barest hint of blood, and it was in this grace that the world was bathed when the two moons eve gave way to morn.
The new Elden Lord spoke to all of their new god - there and gone, but always watching, her one ghostly eye matched by the dark moon above. Once chosen by the fingers but since free of them, her power all her own - the demigod Ranni, both princess of Caria and now she who bore godhood.
Marye, new Elden Lord, spoke of her role as Ranni's consort, the greatsword she bore in ceremony, and the world she left for the people who would live in it, not the unfeeling gods who would impose their whims upon them.
But most of all, she spoke of welcome. To all who would live in peace.
A peace which she began with the last true king of the capital, who she spared in grace: Morgott, the veiled king, whom the old order favoured.
And it seemed, now, the new.
-
Those who were privy to the goings on within the palace were, to put it mildly, flummoxed by their new Lord.
She was, for one, a short, lovely, yet unassuming woman, if not for the colour of her eyes, and the strange new grace she seemed to command.
Some claimed to have seen her in the night, staring up at the stars. They said that her eyes shined like starlight, as though she stared into the cold depths and saw something beautiful, smiling and speaking to what looked from afar to be a tiny, white-clad doll.
Soldiers who guarded the roads to Leyndell claimed to have seen her, hurtling forth to the castle gates atop her horned, spectral steed, greet a humble contingent of questionable nature.
Among them was a young woman with yellow hair, dressed all in green end of ignoble posture, who their frightful Elden Lord embraced like a mother greeting her child, chattering like naught was odd about the whole affair.
Still more within the capital observed in her circle a demihuman, seemingly a servant or slave, dressed well for one such as that. He was humble, and bowed low as he ought for the one he called Lord. His behaviour was not in question. Rather, the behaviour of his master, who held his hands and laughed and greeted him like a friend, marking him her royal seamster, seeking for him accommodations far above his station.
But none had the gall to question the orders (or in her case, strongly worded requests) of an Elden Lord. And so a commoner was marked her "daughter", and a demihuman her trusted seamster.
And then there was the matter of the Fell Omen.
-
Many assumed, in the first days after the new Lord's emergence from the ashen Erdtree, that she had dispatched the last of Godfrey's Golden Lineage. Many assumed, and therefore grieved, the rightful heir and king Morgott, his presence known and loved even when his face was veiled.
But days hence, the once Lord of Leyndell made his presence known, and stood beside the Tarnished as either ally or hostage, or both, raising a hand to a cheering crowd.
His was still Grace, though it was not as gold as before. He bowed to the power of the new Elden Lord and the Age of Stars she proclaimed.
And though the King himself received missives expressing faith for he, the rightful ruler, in such a way that brushed against the idea of treason against the new and not entirely welcome Elden Lord - he seemed... Hesitant, to act.
The few who knew of the King's true nature wondered at the complexity of his position.
For often now, the sight of the Fell Omen Margit fighting the Elden Lord in the royal courtyard had become an expected one.
No one could ever accuse the Fell Omen of smiling, or experiencing pleasure. All he did, especially in showing off his great prowess in the battlefield, seemed to be done solely out of a sense of grim duty.
Though the nobles of the capital were disgusted by the sight of him, the soldiers and those who witnessed him in battle had a deep respect for Margit, and some even felt relieved when they discovered he had been spared, despite facing the Tarnished who would become Elden Lord on the battlefield.
It must have been a glorious sight, and those who could do so would hurry to views of the courtyard to watch the closest thing they could get to an unfettered battle between the Fell Omen and the Elden Lord.
And all who witnessed these fights were surprised to hear laughter - even when it only came from one of the two.
After all, nobody had ever seen Margit smile, let alone laugh.
"Thou hast become greedy once more. How many times must thou fall before learning patience?"
The Elden Lord giggled - yes, giggled- from her spot laid flat on the ground, Margit's cane at her throat. Defeated, once more. It seemed that her martial prowess was not quite as pronounced as expected, though perhaps it was another matter when one was dealing death blows, rather than the strikes of a friendly spar.
"I forget myself sometimes, with you. I find myself enjoying our dances just a little too much, I'll admit," said the Elden Lord - Marye, as Margit withdrew his cane and extended a hand. He pulled her to her feet without preamble, and she held on for a moment long enough for surprise to alight in his eyes.
Were it not a blasphemy to ascribe such to their de facto ruler, one might call Marye's bright smile as she withdrew her hand... Flirtation.
Were it not an impossible thing, for one such as her, blessed with new Grace abundant, to look upon a curse born Omen in such a way.
And yet, those who thought of Margit as a hero, and a noble man besides, thought it in the privacy of their own minds.
How intriguing it would be if the most powerful consort of an absent god... Looked with such moon-eyed adoration at the gargantuan Omen when he turned his back.
But that was impossible, of course.
So thought the dozens of soldiers who observed their frequent spars, and other times the two spent together in the capital.