Chapter Text
This is it; the final step of his journey.
The ruined remains of Marika lie at his feet, the Elden Beast defeated and now coiled up in her cracked abdomen in the form of the Elden Ring. Tentatively, he places her head back onto her body.
The Elden Ring thrums with an ancient power awaiting his command, his order for a New Age.
He should be elated. He's done the impossible by making it this far as a lowly tarnished and now he has the power to rewrite the rules of reality.
Yet he can't help but think of all the friends he's lost along the way: Blaidd, Ansbach, Thioller, Rogier, Roderika and Hewg, all gone.
The Lands Between are naught but a desolate shell of its former glory, filled with ash and piles of dead. Bitterness fills his senses as he mourns the state of the world and the blood he's spilled to get here.
Many of those he felled were not for honor or glory but selfish gain. They were an obstacle, and his blade a tool to cull them. After all, the path to victory is built on a mountain of corpses.
Truly, there was no joy in many of those triumphs.
In fact, he felt a tinge of guilt for all the death and devastation wrought by his hand.
Just as he believed his path righteous, so too did they. The only difference was that they just happened to be on the losing side.
Strangely, as he recalls those he's vanquished, the first name that comes to mind is Messmer: one of many misguided souls that fell victim to Marika's schemes.
The guidance of grace leading him to the Impaler had been especially compelling — magnetic even.
However, upon entering the demigod's dark chambers, it was not the zealous commander that led the most brutal crusade to date that he encountered…but a weary husk of a man that fought him purely out of obligation.
Their entire fight, Messmer appeared almost bored. Every swing of his spear, every monotone threat, seemed rehearsed like he was simply going through the motions of a play he'd performed countless times.
He was just another pawn discarded by Marika and had lost the fervor he once had long ago.
It was a shame he never realized her abandonment until his final breath or, perhaps, he did not want to face the truth for fear all his life, all his devotion, and all the blood on his hands was for nothing.
For what greater shame is there than to realize the sole endeavor of one's life was meaningless?
The revelation would've broken him as it had done to all his remaining soldiers who desecrated the statues of Marika in retaliation for their grief and laid prostrate in the ruins of her chapels, begging for her embrace, their words carrying on the wind into bloodied skies and cineritious clouds like a horde of crows in flight.
Their god had long since forsaken them. Or perhaps, through the thick layer of soot and smoke, their prayers simply never reached her. Thinking this must be it, they waited for the meager sun to shine through the smog and grant them glimpses of faraway gold in the hopes that this time their pleas would reach the ears of the Eternal Queen.
Still, their prayers went unanswered and their grief became disbelief, then fury. They cried out their anger like a hound stricken by its master and gnashed their teeth with curses until their throats were raw and smashed the stoney-faced likeness of their once beloved god into pieces until their hands were bruised and as red as the sky.
His heart aches as he recalls the demigod's final words: “Mother…Marika…A curse upon thee.”
If things had been different would Messmer still have chosen the path he had? Did he even truly believe in his Crusade or did his loyalty to a mother and god who would never love him outweigh his morality?
The Tarnished shakes his head at his childish notions. Why should he care about what happened to a demigod whom he had no connection with?
The ache persists, burrowing deeper like a tick beneath the skin as a fleeting thought crosses his mind: he wishes he could undo the suffering caused by Marika and the Shattering.
Suddenly, the Elden Ring flashes a brilliant gold and it's with great horror that he finds the floor beginning to crumble around him.
Shadowy tendrils erupt from the hollow body of Marika and wrap around his arms, pulling him closer. He thrashes as he tries to break free but the tendrils are too strong and his blood runs cold as he watches his arms disappearing into the dark void of Marika's abdomen.
The space around him grows smaller still, pieces of the floor falling into the bottomless pit until he's left stranded on a small platform. The ground beneath him shakes and he squeezes his eyes shut as it gives way.
In the same instance, the tendrils yank him forward until his whole body is pulled within the crumpled form of Marika.
He's falling.
The air is ice cold around him and pitch black as he plummets for what seems like an eternity.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Slowly, the abyss around him grows warmer and the faint light of gold illuminates his surroundings until it's blinding.
He lands within what appears to be a vast ocean of pure gold but when he is submerged in its depths he finds it does not feel wet.
It feels no different from air yet the consistency is of water as invisible waves and currents force him deeper still.
Curious, he takes a breath and is pleased that he can still breathe comfortably in the substance. A small consultation in whatever mess he's landed himself in.
Maybe they were right about a tarnished not being able to become Lord and this is the Greater Will’s way of punishing him.
He begins growing drowsy as the gentle movements of the currents push him endlessly downwards, feeling oddly relaxing.
Seeing as he has no idea how to even go about getting out of this place and that there doesn't seem to be any threats down here, there should be no harm in taking a small reprieve. And so he shuts his eyes and drifts off to sleep.
He slumbers for what feels like eons.
Is this his life now?
Existing in an empty void forever?
How tedious!
Just as he's cursing his rotten luck, the air around him shifts and the gold fades into the soft blue of the sky.
Well at least the colors change. He was growing sick of staring at the gold and, this way, it's almost like he's outside again. There's even trees below.
Wait.
Trees?!
Realization hits him full force just like the branches of the trees smacking him square in the face. He ungracefully slides down the canopy and trunk to land bottom first on the ground below.
Thankfully, there is no real pain otherwise he's sure that fall would've killed him.
Out of habit, he rubs his head and picks out the leaves and twigs in his hair when he notices someone peeking at him from behind a bush. He instinctively reaches for his weapons but curses when his hands grasp nothing but empty air instead of the familiar hilts of his swords.
Though, upon closer inspection, he realizes that his hands and body appear to be semi transparent, much like the spirits he's encountered on his journey.
Well that explains the lack of pain from his fall.
There's a rustling in the bushes as the figure withdrawals deeper in the leaves.
Whoever they were, they seemed human and were roughly about the same height as him. Perhaps they could be reasoned with?
“Hello?” He calls out hesitantly and stands up, brushing more dirt off his cloak.
If they weren't hostile maybe he could get directions. Although, this place looked vaguely familiar.
He approaches the bush cautiously when a sputtering burst of flames shoots out from it and he jumps back to avoid the embers.
An adolescent of about fifteen summers leaps out from the bush and he nearly has a heart attack.
Blazing red hair, pale complexion, and the command over flames.
It was–
“Messmer?”
Or a secret child of his? He corrects as he notes the distinct absence of winged serpents and the vibrant green eyes staring back at him.
The boy stiffens and his eyes narrow suspiciously as he ignites, or at least attempts to, a ball of deep red flames in his hand. The flame flickers, writhing erratically before burning his palm. He hisses as he extinguishes the flame.
“Wherefore art thou privy to the name 'Messmer?'” He rubs his burnt hand and eyes him warily.
So it really is him! But why is he so young, or rather, how is he still alive?
This has to be some kind of pre-mortem psychosis. Just a hallucination created in his final moments because there is absolutely no possible explanation aside from time travel and that – that would be preposterous!
Time magics were nothing but the theories of crazed glintstone scholars with so little evidence that not even Raya Lucaria deemed it worthy for further study. Those who pursued it were treated as raving mad men.
Yet here he was, plain as day, standing in front of a very real Messmer from who knows how many years ago.
Said youth was now looking at him intently.
Oh right.
He wasn't supposed to know his name.
Unsure how to respond, he kneels on the ground and raises his hands in a non threatening gesture as he stares at the singed flesh on Messmer's hand.
“You're hurt. Allow me to offer healing.”
He swallows a lump in his throat, he's not sure why he feels the need to help his future adversary but perhaps it's because he pities him and what he becomes in the future.
The Messmer of this time also doesn't seem to have control over his power yet so it's not like he'd be able to seriously harm him either…at least not purposefully.
Messmer lowers his hands, a brief look of surprise overtakes his carefully guarded expression before he schools his face back into a more neutral look.
“What is thy trick? I am no fool,” he retorts but the Tarnished can see the way his eyes soften a bit and his shoulders relax the longer he maintains his passive position.
“No trick, only healing. I ask naught in return but your trust. If you do not wish to offer that either then I only ask that you allow me to leave peacefully,” he inclines his head in a further show of submission and trusts that Messmer won't use it as an opportunity to attack him.
Much to his surprise, Messmer dubiously approaches him, the crunching of the grass beneath his feet coming closer before stopping altogether in front of him. The Tarnished breathes a sigh of relief as Messmer makes no further attempts to incinerate him.
“Very well,” Messmer agrees after a moment and holds out his burnt hand for the Tarnished to see.
The skin is charred black and cracking a bit. He shudders as he imagines the pain Messmer must be in from it.
He cautiously presses his fingers on the back of Messmer's hand to steady it and lifts his other hand, hovering it over the burn as he focuses on channeling his magic.
It's a simple but effective incantation that was taught to all confessors for times of dire need; one of the few good things they had to offer him.
Messmer watches in awe as he sees the soft golden glow emanating from the Tarnished's incantation and feels the stinging pain in his hand gradually subside.
“There, all done. Feeling better?”
Messmer examines his palm, flexing his fingers as he marvels at the smooth skin where the gruesome burn had just been moments ago.
It looked good as new.
He nods and plops down beside the Tarnished in the grass.
The two sit together in comfortable silence and the Tarnished takes the chance to observe his surroundings.
The land is rich in foliage: flowers sprout everywhere atop the lush grass and a gentle breeze tussles the vibrant green leaves of the treetops. In the distance, he can see the rooftops of a few wooden cottages and hear the hustle and bustle of the village residents milling about.
It's surprisingly serene.
“Thou'rt a spirit, I take it?” Messmer asks, breaking the silence.
“I…” the Tarnished trails off as he ponders the inquiry.
From all appearances, the see through form and absence of pain upon his fall, it would seem so. But if he was only a spirit wouldn't he be in his present time and not wherever this is?
“I'm not sure.”
Messmer hums in understanding and reaches into a leather pouch and pulls out a small oval stone with a hole carved through the center.
“Mother sayeth these stones guide spirits from beyond the veil,” he lifts it up to his eye and squints to look at the Tarnished through the hole.
“Mayhaps t'was the reason thou wert drawn to me?”
Messmer balls his fist around the stone and extends his hand to the Tarnished expectantly. The Tarnished holds out his hand and Messmer drops the stone into his waiting palm.
It feels smooth like a polished river stone and is cool to the touch. He turns it in his palm a few times and watches as the sunlight catches on the surface, revealing the green hue previously obscured by the dark exterior.
It's a pretty stone if nothing else.
Still, there does appear to be more to it as he holds it up to his eye like Messmer had and looks up at the sky.
Something tugs at his core the longer he gazes into the stone and it feels akin to the guidance of grace.
How peculiar.
“It would seem so,” he confirms with a small smile and hands the stone back to Messmer.
The implications are rather concerning though. Could he really be a spirit now? And what purpose would he have to be drawn here of all places?
“Hast thou any recollection of thy life ere this moment?”
“No,” he lies.
Although he doubts anyone would believe him even if he told them the truth.
“None at all?”
“Nothing coherent if that's what you mean. It's all muddled. I only remembered I could heal at all because I saw your injury,” he doubles down on his lie and gives himself a plausible excuse in case he accidentally mentions something he shouldn't know as a self proclaimed amnesiac.
“I see,” Messmer looks down and rips up a handful of grass, watching as the grass blades fall back down when he opens his fist.
“Is it not lonely? To possess no memories,” Messmer clarifies and peers back up at him inquisitively.
The Tarnished shrugs.
“Can you miss what you do not know?”
A numb pain seizes his chest the second the words leave his lips because he knows too well that the answer is yes; yes you can.
Messmer opens his mouth to say something but quickly shuts it as his brows furrow in thought.
“No. I suppose not.”
The conversation lulls back into quietude.
“I was practicing spirit magics ere thy conspicuous arrival,” Messmer jests, the corners of his lips curling into a waggish grin.
The Tarnished huffs.
It's not like he chose to fall out of the sky and land face first into a tree branch.
“Mother cautioned me about the use of this,” he raises the strange stone again, held between his thumb and index fingers.
“Without her presence. Alas her lessons on these practices hath all but ceased upon discovering mine inaptitude.”
He pockets the stone with a bitter frown.
“She sayeth not all shamans inherit the gift of spirit tuning so I sought to prove my worth. If she wilt not teach me I wouldst teacheth myself.”
Messmer turns to him excitedly, a genuine smile on his face.
The Tarnished thinks it's a strange sight compared to the solemn expression plastered on the Messmer of his time.
“And thy presence beest a testament of my skill.”
“Perhaps you ought to work on your fire magic too,” the Tarnished snorts.
Instantly, all the joy fades from Messmer's face.
“I,” Messmer brings his knees up to his chest defensively and wraps his arms around them.
“I thinketh not.”
The Tarnished blinks owlishly.
He didn't expect it to be a touchy subject for the young demigod, especially considering how reliant he becomes on his flame later on.
Unless…
Of course.
The serpentine nature of his flames must remind him of the abyssal serpent wriggling beneath his skin.
Dear Marika, no wonder he had such an adverse reaction to the suggestion.
He pushes down his guilt and tries to think of a way to lighten the atmosphere a little.
Although, on one hand, Messmer is only going to continue hurting himself and others until he learns how to wrangle his powers.
“I can teach you!”
He wants to slap himself on the forehead for blurting that out.
Well it was too late now, he's already said it.
“You want to defend yourself and your mother, correct?” the Tarnished insists.
This catches Messmer's attention and he nods reluctantly.
“Then you must learn how to properly wield your power. It's not gonna do you much good if you keep refusing to use it out of fear.”
Messmer tenses, unused to someone being so perceptive.
“Just look at how you burnt yourself. The only thing that's going to accomplish is making you an easier target for your foes to finish off. Watch,” the Tarnished licks his lips nervously and prays being a spirit means the rest of his magic will work without a finger seal.
It's with great relief that he manages to conjure a small sphere of flames and avoid making a fool of himself.
The fire is neatly contained and he demonstrates his control over the flame by expanding and contracting the sphere. Seeing this, Messmer sits up on his knees and scoots closer to get a better look.
“Now you try,” he smiles encouragingly as he extinguishes his spell.
Messmer hesitantly cups his hands in front of him and takes a deep breath. Sparks fly from his fingertips followed by a burst of heat as a roaring flame sphere materializes before him.
The Tarnished jerks his head back to avoid having his eyebrows singed off by the flames and places his hands on either side of the sphere.
“Good,” he praises but watches warily as the fire begins to twist and squirm, flaring brighter and hotter than before.
He imposes his own magic on Messmer's flame, envisioning it as a tarp blanketing the fire and smothering it. As the writhing flames calm and the sphere shrinks to a more manageable size, the Tarnished lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Messmer watches in astonishment as his flame burns steadily and controlled.
“See? Not so scary,” he grins nonchalantly but sweats from the heat and the strain of containing Messmer's erratic magic.
It thumps against his barrier defiantly and he tightens his hold over it until it grows sluggish and stops altogether.
He's filled with nostalgia from the whole situation; It reminds him of when his own mentor began teaching him the basics of spellcasting. Similar to Messmer, he too struggled with flame incantations the most.
“Think you're ready to try on your own?”
They lock eyes and the lingering fear on Messmer's face does not escape his notice.
He's about to tell him they can try another time when Messmer steels himself.
“Yes,” he says with abrupt conviction.
Cautiously, the Tarnished retracts his magic and lowers his hands. He keeps a watchful eye on the flame in case he needs to intervene again.
Luckily, it continues smoldering evenly and Messmer gives him a small but appreciative smile.
“My than–”
“Messmer?” A feminine voice calls nearby.
His flames suddenly blaze in his startlement, licking his fingertips, and he inhales sharply from the pain before extinguishing the fire in a puff of black smoke.
“Tis my mother,” he whispers and grabs the Tarnished's wrist to pull him up.
“Pray, remain at my side. I wish for thee to meet her.”
He wants to tell him no but the pleading look in his eyes gives him pause. So he swallows his apprehension and remains firmly rooted next to him.
“There thou art.”
A young blonde woman draped in black silks emerges from the treeline carrying a glass vial of a shimmering golden liquid.
She scrunches her nose as she smells the smoke left behind by Messmer's flames and immediately looks down at his hands to see his reddened fingertips.
The Tarnished is surprised to see her eyes are not the golden hue they normally are in all the paintings depicting her but, instead, the same vivid green as Messmer's.
Moreover, her complete lack of reaction to his presence stuns both him and Messmer. They share a subtle look of confusion before redirecting their attention back to Marika.
“Hath I not warned thee about practicing thy magic so close to the village?”
She stalks closer to Messmer in a snit and unknowingly grabs the hand he was using to hold the Tarnished's wrist before scrutinizing his burnt fingers.
“Such heedless behavior,” she scolds “Honestly, thou'rt fortunate thine injury is not worse.”
“Mother–”
“Hush, no excuses. Now come,” she tightens her hold and begins leading him towards the village.
The Tarnished covers his mouth to suppress a snicker as the ‘fierce demigod’ is dragged away and chastised by his mother.
Messmer scowls at the Tarnished, clearly not impressed.
However, all humor is lost on him when he realizes that his form is dematerializing and when he blinks he's surrounded by the Sea of Gold again.
Well that's unfortunate.
Darkness clouds his vision as he's suddenly overcome with fatigue and he succumbs to sleep.