Maidenless No Longer (Elden Ring)

“Graceless Tarnished…”
 
She’s happy that he called upon her for this fight. The way had been easy enough to prepare, even in the scant amount of time it had taken him to journey through the Royal Capital. All she’d really needed to do was secure the Rold Lift Medallion after all. As a result, she was more than ready for him, when he’d come calling.
 
As they step onto the platform together and Morgott’s voice echoes out from the shadows leading up the stairs to the Erdtree, Melina’s hand tightens around her Blade of Calling. How long had it been, since she had the chance to fight with it? And now here she is, side by side with her Tarnished. Melina would have liked to smile at the thought… but it’s hard.
 
“What is thy business with these thrones?”
 
As the Omen King steps down the stairs, the bottom of his staff ringing against the ground with every step he takes, Melina likes to think she hears something she can commiserate with in Morgott’s voice. Something akin to irritation… exasperation, really. Because… as excited as she is to fight at her Tarnished’s side, as appreciative as she is that he’s called her into battle, Melina can admit… she wishes he wouldn’t be quite so ridiculous.
 
Next to her, her chosen champion… has once again foregone all armor and wields naught but a pair of hook claw once more. She KNOWS he has plenty of other ways of fighting. She knows he has armor that would make even a demigod jealous, that he has weapons that sing with power crafted into them by what must truly be the greatest blacksmiths of the age.
 
And yet… and yet, he foregoes them all, having stripped down this time even before they stepped out here together. Her Tarnished was intent on being a damned fool, all the way to the end. And Melina can see in Morgott’s eyes that he has not forgotten the humiliation dealt to him as Margit. She sees in the Omen King’s gaze how… incensed he is by the casual disrespect.
 
Still, he does his level best not to show it. Even going so far as to change the subject, his eyes instead flickering to the ghostly thrones arrayed before the more real throne of Elden Lord.
 
“Hmm… Godrick the Golden. The twin prodigies, Miquella and Malenia. General Radahn. Praetor Rykard. Lunar Princess Ranni…”
 
Each name is a different inflection, but every single one is said with a sneer, his lip curling up further and further as he walks forward to stand beside the throne of the Elden Lord and slams his staff into the ground.
 
“Willful traitors, all.”
 
Three of them are dead by her Tarnished’s hands. Two are still in the wind. And one… well, Melina tries her best not to think about that, though the tips of her ears pink up anyways against her preference. Meanwhile, her Tarnished stands beside her, silent and stoic as ever, letting Morgott talk. She wonders, at times, what’s going through his head. Her Tarnished, she means. She has some idea of what’s going through Morgott’s head… and even if she didn’t, the Omen King was always so happy to spell it out for his opponents.
 
“Thy kind are all of a piece.”
 
As he speaks, the tip of his walking stick hits the ground and stays there, even after he releases it, switching his grip and picking it up as one might hold a sword, instead.
 
“Pillagers. Emboldened by the flames of your ambitions.”
 
For indeed, that is exactly what it truly is. Squeezing down with unassuming strength, the veneer of rotted wood blazes hot for a moment, before shattering. Beneath it is revealed the Cursed Sword. A warped blade of shifting hues, made of the accused blood that Morgott recanted and sealed away long ago. It was a powerful weapon, for all that it was also little more than another mark of his ultimate shame.
 
Yes, Morgott’s story was a sad one, by all measures. Melina knew it, though she wasn’t sure how many others did. His tale was… pitiable. The son of Godfrey the First Elden Lord and Queen Marika the Eternal. An esteemed beginning, one would think. But… born a graceless Omen, he never had a fair chance in life. Normally, an Omen baby, curseborn and misbegotten as they were, would have each and every one of their horns excised. Most of the time, this proved fatal.
 
However, when an Omen was born to royalty, they did not have their horns removed. Morgott, specifically, did not have his horns removed. Instead, he’d been tossed into the sewers beneath Leyndell, locked away underground, a dirty filthy secret kept away from the eyes of the masses. He would have likely remained there, imprisoned for all eternity, unbeknownst to anyone… if not for the Night of the Black Knives.
 
Godwyn’s death and everything that had come after had given Morgott an opportunity he would not have otherwise had. The Omen had risen up from the sewers, taking charge of the panicked armies in the Royal Capital. In the absence of both Marika and Radagon, yes, he had named himself King… but even Melina could privately admit that he might have been the only one to deserve it.

Graceless and spurned by the Erdtree, unloved by the Greater Will, the Omen King had nevertheless STILL charged himself with the duty of becoming its protector. He’d stepped up when no one else would, when his half-siblings fought and squabbled over the Lands Between and done everything in his power to safeguard the very same Erdtree that had shunned and spurned him, all his life.
 
And even now… twas not as if Grace had miraculously come to him. Even now, Morgott was curseborn and misbegotten. And still he stood here, in their way. Admirable, to say the least. But ultimately… foolish.
 
“Have it writ upon thy meagre grave: Felled by King Morgott! Last of all kings!”
 
The air itself rents as Morgott swings his cursed sword. Snarling, the Omen King stalks forward, his intentions quite clear. Finally, the Tarnished moves. Melina moves with him.
 
What else can she do? She was the one who asked her Tarnished to call upon her. She was the one who had wanted to be here for this, the so-called final battle. She’d thought maybe it would take some of the sting away, at least for her personally, if she helped her Tarnished through this challenge, even if the very next thing to happen would be him discovering the way was blocked and he was not to become Elden Lord just yet.
 
Now though… she’s regretting it, just a tad. As they join battle with Morgott, the Omen King swings his Cursed Sword far faster than he ever swung it as a walking stick… and the Tarnished simply sways out of the way, his naked skin no less than a hair’s breadth away from the sword’s sharp edge, but nevertheless far enough not to be hit.
 
Then, he leaps and brings those hook claws of his down upon the Omen King’s flesh. Morgott snarls, and the battle is joined in earnest. In truth, Melina can only do what she can do. The kindling maiden’s Blade of Calling swipes to and fro, as she darts back and forth. Her weapon digs into Morgott’s flesh at times, and at others she misses. She’s not used to missing, but it’s been an awfully long time since she fought anything, to be fair.
 
More than that though, Morgott is an incredibly fearsome opponent. The Omen King has had much longer than her to train his skill with the blade, and even his misbegotten nature has not stopped him from honing himself into a weapon.
 
This is the creature that defended Leyndell against any and all onslaughts, even turning away General Radahn and his armies. This is the creature that named himself the protector of the Royal Capital and the Erdtree DESPITE his hideous and shunned nature. And then, against all odds, backed it up against all would-be challengers.
 
He was never going to be a pushover, so Melina knows she really doesn’t have to beat herself up about finding a challenging match in him. It’s just…
 
For every blow Melina DOES land, the Tarnished lands five more with those hook claws of his. A decidedly less intuitive weapon than her dagger, and yet one might call him a maestro with them. To say nothing of his mastery over himself. If Morgott has indeed honed himself into a weapon, then her chosen champion sets out to show that it was all for naught.
 
Again and again, the Omen King swings. Again and again, the Tarnished dodges every blow. Until finally…
 
“HRRGRAAAH!!!”
 
She’s not prepared for it, and the sudden explosion of curse energy from the Omen throws her back before she can blink. Of course, her Tarnished is as ready as ever, and dodges the accursed bloody flames like he’s dodged everything else Morgott has thrown at him, from that blade of his to the holy attacks he’s so fond of.
 
As Melina winces, pushing herself back to her knees and stumbling to her feet a moment later, Morgott is ranting, practically raving at the Tarnished, who even now is wearing nothing but his loincloth, and yet doesn’t have a scratch on him.
 
“The thrones… stained by my curse! Such shame I cannot bear.”
 
Snarling, raging, Morgott suddenly grows much swifter in his movements. The Omen becomes so fast that Melina can barely keep track of him with her one open eye.
 
“Thy part in this shall not be forgiven!”
 
And yet… and yet, words are but wind. Melina has barely gotten her feet back under her, and Morgott has barely finished his threat, when the Tarnished makes it all moot. Leaping upon the Omen King’s back, tearing those hook claws across Morgott’s head, he shears the horns straight from the twisted, misbegotten curseborn’s skull. And then, he finishes it, stabbing down with both of his hook claws, deep into Morgott’s chest.
 
The Omen stumbles… and his blade falls from nerveless fingers, as he collapses to the ground, the Tarnished, HER Tarnished, riding him down all the way before gracefully tumbling off and coming up to his feet.
 
Morgott hadn’t been able to touch him. Not even once. Under any other circumstances, Melina might have described it as a shameful display by the Omen child of Queen Marika and Lord Godfrey. As it is, the kindling maiden knows better. Her champion is just that good.
 
“Heh…”
 
And yet, Morgott lingers still, even in defeat. The Tarnished turns to him, looking down at him silently. Melina bites her lower lip, half-tempted to intervene… but remains quiet.
 
“Tarnished… thou’rt but a fool. The Erdtree wards off all who deign approach.”
 
Morgott looks shriveled, as he lays there with his cloak torn to shreds around his misshapen body.
 
“We are… we are all forsaken. None may claim the title of Elden Lord.”
 
Eyes blazing with a certain satisfaction and vindication, the dying Omen glares up at his killer and sneers one last time.
 
“Thy deeds shall be met with failure, just as mine were.”
 
Still, Melina doesn’t speak. As Morgott falls silent, the Tarnished gives no reaction. Still nearly naked, he steps past Morgott’s body, and walks up the stairs to the entrance to the Erdtree. Already knowing what he will fine there, Melina waits back at the Site of Lost Grace, kneeling and fiddling with her cloak, squirming a bit as she anticipates his return. He does come and sit with her, after but a moment… but damn what a moment it is. It feels like an eternity, before she can speak the words she has been practicing for so long.
 
“Old friend. Allow us a moment to converse.”
 
He doesn’t smile at her, merely tilts his head in her direction to show he’s listening. Melina’s heart hurts, but she swiftly quells such feelings. Did she not say the last time was the LAST time? This was the start of a new accord… and it would be best if they were honest about what they were to each other now. A pair of travelers on the same path, fighting for the same goal. Nothing more than that.
 
“You were unable to enter the Erdtree, no? Prevented by the mantle of barbs.”
 
He nods quietly, as quiet as he ever is, and finally deigns to look at her. She’s not sure she likes what she sees in those eyes. Mostly because she can’t quite decipher it. All she knows is, he’s not as warm as he usually is with her. Still, she must say what she is here to say.
 
“The thorns are impenetrable. A husk of the Erdtree’s being; that spurns all that exists without. Unfortunately, the only way to stand before the Elden Ring and become the Elden Lord… is to pass the thorns.”
 
Here it is, the moment of truth.
 
“My purpose serves to aid in that very act.”
 
She should tell him everything. Be honest with him. But… she is too cowardly. So instead, all that comes out is…
 
“As such, I’d like you to undertake a new journey with me. To the flame of ruin, far above the clouds, upon the snow mountaintops of the giants. There, I can set the Erdtree aflame and guide you down the path to becoming Elden Lord.”
 
And set herself aflame in the process, she leaves off, unable to say it. She is a coward, in the end. Ready to die, for that is her duty and purpose, but unwilling to explain the truth of the matter to the only man she has ever… ever loved. Swallowing down her feelings is growing harder and harder, but Melina does it all the same. Or at least, she tries.
 
She can’t quite keep the quiver out of her fingertips, when she takes the Rold Medallion out of her cloak and hands it over to him. And she can’t quite discount the feel of his fingers on hers as he takes it from her, wordless as ever. She wishes he would say something in this moment. But that is not her Tarnished’s way. His way is one of action. His path is one forged by virtuous strength and overwhelming might.
 
But then, if not speak… she wishes he would reach out and touch her. Comfort her. Kiss her. She wishes all these things… and at the same time, knows they CANNOT happen. As such, before her lingering can be mistaken as an invitation, Melina stands up and steps back, feeling the phantom touch of his fingers on her own.
 
He looks up, still in the process of putting the Rold Medallion away in his bags, but she is already gone, dematerializing right then and there. She will be his shadow for a time longer, for as long it takes him to reach their ultimate destination, and her true purpose is unveiled. At the very least, she will die a happy woman, ensuring that her Tarnished, her chosen champion, has the path opened for him to become Elden Lord.
 
All that’s left now, is for him to go to the Mountaintop of Giants. All that’s left now is to reach the Forge. As her Tarnished rises from the Site of Lost Grace and puts his armor back on, Melina feels a pang of satisfaction and sorrow mixed together, even as she watches him leave the throne room behind and begin making his way back through Leyndell.
 
She expects him to head north, and then east. After all, the path through the Royal Capital is clear, is it not? But then… why does he go deeper into Leyndell? Why does he descend into the sewers? Melina’s brow furrows, as her Tarnished makes his way into the Subterranean Shunning Grounds.
 
What IS this? What is he doing?

-x-X-x-

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