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They were cold as frost, those dark days lost. What worth, truly, had memory?
To the Lord of Leyndell, his childhood was worthless. Those days were associated with the dankness of dungeons and musty cobwebs.
Perhaps his father- Lord Godfrey, he reminded himself, as nobody in would ever wish to call him son- had visited. Perhaps that was how he had learnt speech, as had Mohg.
Though Mohg would always slink away, he supposed- clever Mohg, always so afraid of the light- and must have learned through eavesdropping. In hindsight, this may have been the beginning of his brother’s treachery- but brother he remained, nonetheless, and he was all Morgott had.
All save a solemn vow, which was entirely his own. The second thing he had learned, after language, was of Order. Godfrey had spoken of the virtues of Gold; of the Erdtree and the Greater Will. It was goodness itself, the Lord had reasoned, that decreed his sons be sealed away. And so he had done, and Morgott was trained not to begrudge him for it.
This goodness was all he aspired to- a proverbial light at the end of quite a literal tunnel, so every one of those dark days, he sought to learn more and throw off his shackles. It wasn’t a journey Mohg chose to take along with him, and sometimes, tiring of no reward for his efforts, he envied his brother that choice.
On came the shattering, and a chance to rise at last. With no one to defend Leyndell, he had risen to the surface. His gift of grace was not in recognition of worth, but something of an act of desperation from whomsoever had granted it- an armour, of sorts, to be donned by the only defender willing to hold out on siege.
It was the runts of the Golden lineage who struck first- his nephews, after a fashion. They found that the gates were not undefended as they had thought. He threw them from Leyndell, their lord Godefroy chained in an evergaol, and his runt Godrick sent fleeing like the mosquito he was.
He did not know the source of his strength, not even now. Was the Erdtree the source of his grace, he wondered- surely not, for it had rejected him and he was accursed.
There was something in common with himself and the Crucible Knights, or he wouldn’t have felt the pain from his cursed blood subside in their presence. He doubted they would ever follow him after their original lord, Godfrey, had been hounded from the capital unless they felt something similar while with him.
Radahn came next, and the hopes of nearly all were lost. General of Marika’s armies and gaoler of the Stars themselves, nothing short of an Empyrean or a God in full would dare stand against him, it was said.
Morgott did, and had his city broken for it. His armies were assailed, his walls blown to ruins, his citizens purged in fire- and yet, he had one advantage. ‘Great’ Radahn, seeing as he had attacked so recklessly, was not privy to all the information.
He had not known that an Omen would stand in his way. And so Morgott had ambushed him, striking from the shadows, while the Crucible Knights emerged along with his Night’s Cavalry.
Though Morgott’s bones were broken for his efforts, and though his back was hunched nigh on forever through gravitational sorcery, he had responded in kind with golden light. A storm of swords, innumerable in count and each as luminous as the last, had impaled the Red Lion general where he had fallen to the ground, while Leyndell’s defenders threw his Redmanes into retreat.
It was the first ever time Radahn’s armies had fallen back.
“Get thee gone from my gate, thou slave to ambition!” Morgott had roared through heaving lungs, and he had never forgiven nor forgotten Radahn’s answering look before he acquiesced and left.
By day, it caused a relentless pacing. By night, it stole sleep. Radahn’s appraisal was not a gaze of spite, but one of respect. One that promised he would return again for more.
Thankfully, Radahn never did. That accursed Malenia inflicted some cataclysm on him. It was nearly a relief, but Morgott did not allow himself to feel it for the principle of the thing. At least Radahn had managed to strike some blow in kind, and Leyndell was not invaded by the Knights of the Haligtree for whatever reason. The sleepless nights did not, however, leave.
Leyndell had held, and Morgott had sworn he would hold it for as long as the Erdtree remained shut. It was goodness in itself, he reasoned; logic and truth. That is what he had been taught, and what all meagre scraps of knowledge that had been thrown his way had said.
The Tarnished warriors of Godfrey returned, and he had thought his vigil was at last complete. Surely, the Erdtree would consider one of these scions of Lord Godfrey for leadership- but it did not. The thorns barred the way within, and it seemed they would do so eternally.
Morgott had sworn himself to his duty, and there was naught he had left. The grace within him- or perhaps something else- whispered to him to water the ground with the blood of champions, so that the Erdtree could drink it dry to further spread its blessing.
So he gathered his night’s cavalry, and set them off. He embraced that aspect of the primordial crucible which gave him strength, parted spirit from flesh, and sent the hands of the Fell Omen with them.
He had wondered what to let the automaton call itself, while viewing a sheaf of papers and economic reports. Leyndell had been the only kingdom kept wealthy, through his statecraft, and his people required all his attention- and so he had rather unimaginatively named the copy ‘Margit’ and set it off.
That idiot Godrick would hardly be enough of an obstacle, so Stormveil would be a sensible destination, he reasoned.
Margit felled champion after champion- it may have been the same champion again and again, but Morgott couldn’t know while buried up to his horns in paperwork- until someone slew it at last.
Briefly, in a dream, he saw a flash of golden light and then nothing. Later, he could not identify when he had seen the dream. He would doubt if he had seen it at all, but the memory of gold remained fresh and vivid, so he must have.
A great foe had come, at last. Morgott busied himself in preparations, sending Margit out again and again. Distantly, he heard of reports of an infiltrator in Raya Lucaria, and of a festival, a celebration of war.
One night, as he strolled (veiled, cloaked and thoroughly hidden, of course) on one of Leyndell’s balconies, contemplating matters of trade and assessing the risks of sending miners into Caelid for gems, he was witness to a cataclysm.
A star, or a thing of the void beyond, as he could not possibly know the nomenclature- such a thing had struck Limgrave, and let loose an explosion of light.
Yet, this light was bluish and purple, and it was not the light he remembered from that evening. The light he had focused on was, again- Golden Light- naught but a tiny mote of it, in the distance to the east.
Yet again, he would have questioned the veracity of having seen this thing, if only it were not so vivid in his memory.
He had pondered it through the night (sleepless, again). At first, he suspected the Lunar Princess- all he knew of that sinister figure of the gloom was that she moved always in the shadows, and that she had things to do with the Stars.
He reasoned, however, that she would not be so unsubtle. He had not seen her at all after the Shattering to begin with.
The truth struck him then, and he felt pity at first. So Radahn was dead. He confirmed his theory the next day, seeing that everything in the sky had moved- a right ascension here, a declination there. The constellations were no longer arrested.
The silence of the skies had become so much a part of the world that he’d considered it normalcy. The death of Radahn was a shock. There was no doubt Malenia had weakened him, in some way- but if he still held the stars in his shackles up until his demise, then his slaying must have been no small feat.
So sobering, he sent for reports from Mt. Gelmir.
There were none to be found. He had lost contact with his outpost there, but distant spies informed him that the endless war with Rykard, that blasphemer, was still being waged.
Morgott would not venture away from Leyndell at this hour, for he was sure that his city would be next if he did. The Golden Light was a haunting thing, and it came ever closer.
He threw himself into training, sealing his cursed blood again, learning to better bear the pain. He forced wearied limbs to move, clawing through a wave of endless fatigue as he threw himself at shadows.
It was well-warranted, for there came a report at last. It was borne by a bird, which twittered endlessly- that Gelmir had fallen silent.
The Lord of Blasphemy was no more.
It was a blessing, almost a blessing. What this distant champion did was all to his favour- the end of Godrick, who had long since had it coming- the fall of Radahn, who was at least warranted as much out of pity- and the death of Rykard, for his endless sea of crimes. Traitors, all.
The Golden Light should have been a blessing. Morgott was afraid of it.
It was so different from his own- far more sudden, far more jarring, and nothing like the soft warmth of grace. This golden light that he saw in his dreams was like the flash left behind by lightning.
It was unlike his own light, through which he manifested weapons- in that it was itself a weapon to slay with. And it had slain demigods.
So he had been marked for death. He did not care.
He was the only one to remain faithful, the shunned one who loved in its despite. He was the last king. Morgott would stand tall, before the end.
His foe- the Tarn- golden lord- came in the fashion he had imagined he would.
Clad in golden armour, wielding a greatsword of the Golden Order. Morgott had seen him throwing down the Erdtree Sentinels and Leyndell Soldiers below.
It was not through sorcery, or skill of arms. The choice weapon of this lord was golden lightning, conjured form his mind, emerging from the heavens to smite any who would stand in his way unto ruin. It was this golden lightning he would face (or was it red? No, no, Golden.)
“Graceless Tarnished.” Morgott had begun- though for whatever reason it had taken an effort of will to call him graceless, or even tarnished.
“What is thy business with these thrones?”
No answer, for it was a rhetorical question. A rather pointless one anyway, as the Golden Lord clearly intended to take them for himself and hold dominion over them.
“Ahh- Godrick the Golden. The twin prodigies, Miquella and Malenia. General Radahn, Praetor Rykard, Lunar Princess Ranni. Wilful traitors, all!” he raised his voice in condemnation, comparing his enemy to them.
The Tarn- golden lord remained unmoved, and Morgott caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were unnatural and inhuman.
Unblinking and pupil-less, and there was lightning mirrored in them (or had he seen something different, at the time, and was only imagining it now?).
Morgott thought to grasp at straws, to manufacture will and give himself resolve. He focused himself on his hatred and filled his heart with contempt- just as Godfrey had taught him to do, before battle.
“Thy kind are all of a piece. Pillagers, emboldened by the flame of ambition!” he pronounced, revealing his cursed blade.
His foe’s stately brow raised, and there was almost a shift in his jaw, as if to argue the point. Instead, he held his sword in a fool’s guard, and Morgott saw the Golden Order’s sigils on it.
This was forged by his stepfather, the Lord of Leyndell realised distantly- and the blade was in some way a perversion, because the fanatical Radagon had reforged it from a gift given to him by his previous wife.
Did the T- Golden Lord know of this? The possibility that he might not- that he was a fool just as all other champions and not his doom- gave Morgott reason enough to pronounce the last few words.
“Have it writ upon thy meagre grave: felled by King Morgott, last of all Kings!”
From then, they danced, the last King and the new, Morgott pirouetting and delaying his strokes, employing every hint of dynamism in his arsenal and every deception he was capable of.
No battles were duels of honour, so Godfrey’s divestment and Malenia’s defeat of Radahn had taught him, and he fought with all he could muster as hesitation meant defeat.
If only he had known then that this dance was a courtesy allowed to him by the Golden Lord, a manner of humbling.
Lightning hued in gold descended upon the battlefield, forming in glaives and sorcerous shapes (or was it red after all and not golden) in his enemy’s hands. Every time Morgott would raise a spear of grace to throw, his hands were scalded and shocked, and he himself was burned by a storm’s sting.
The ancient weapon of the Dragons was employed in new form (or was it new, after all, and not the same) as the glorious lord avoided every stroke and singularly disenfranchised his ability (or did he).
He was growing desperate, with no sign of exhaustion from his foe (there was, there was!-wasn’t there?). He was brought to unbearable pain by the graceful strokes of that greatsword, clamping down on his own curved blade with a decisive snap, before thrusting in in a strike that only nearly missed the heart (or was it in fact sorcery, and more lightning thrown cruelly at a distance from beleaguered, panicked hands- no, it was surely skill-) and Morgott found that he was at the end of restraint.
He let loose a cry of pure agony as his curse manifested. Befouled blood boiled in his veins, as the once-pure power of the primordial crucible, now tainted, burst forth, and stained the thrones.
Blinking away hot, unwilling tears, he found that the Golden Lord had known of this, and turned away without getting hit (no- he had been surprised by it and scalded by the bloodflame- hadn’t he?).
“The thrones… stained by my curse…” Morgott started, in self-loathing. Such a piece of history, lost to his own loathsome self, his contemptible lack of control.
“Such shame I cannot bear. Thy part in this will not be forgiven!” he shouted to the heavens, and ignored all pain. He would kill this fool or die himself.
Gritting twisted teeth, he sliced his own palm with his cursed blade, letting it writhe with bloodflame once again. It was swept in as tight an arc as he could muster, but to no avail (but he’d caught the Tarnished on the end of it, impaled him and thrown him down- no?).
Nothing he did mattered, as he did not matter. Morgott had never mattered. Not to anybody- not to the Erdtree or even those he had sworn to protect.
Why, then, did he persist? Why did he attempt to catch the Tarnished in a plunging cut, which was turned away so easily by a crossed ox? Why did he persist even then, attempting to sieze control of the bind, when the Golden Lord let go and brought his own blade up from the side, marring his already-marred face forever?
He did not know. He was robbed of all strength, boneless and deprived. The Golden Order Greatsword sliced through his heaving chest, and he flopped on the floor to die. The Last King had fallen, long live the new.
“’Twas foolish of thee, to stand betwixt a throne and its true lord.” his adversary had spoken, in a deep and yet soft voice (had it not been harsh, ragged, panting then? What were these contradictions?)
“Then thou’rt but a fool as well, O Tarnished…” he had spoken, spitting cursed blood. “The Erdtree wards off all who deign approach. We are… we are all forsaken.”
The Lord had laughed then, and it was an odd sound; it was not triumphant, or cruel- instead, it was genuinely amused, as a parent would laugh at a toddler grasping at truth.
“Mayhap thou wast forsaken, Last King- but thou knowest not the nature of that which stands before thee. Thou hast thy shackles, as do all chained by the powers of this land- but my strength cometh from myself alone. The Erdtree shall not deny me, for I shall not allow it. My power is without limit- just as thine might become, shouldst thou cast off thy veil of blindness.”
Who was this interloper, striding in as though he owned the place, standing above him and insulting him through the refusal of an honourable deathblow?
“None may claim the title of Elden Lord. Thy deeds shall be met with failure… just as I.” spluttered Morgott, voice like a guttering candle. It was the last of his defiance.
The Lord shook his head. Morgott thought he saw a wreath of gold leaves from the Erdtree on his brow- yet another thing of golden light. Perhaps it was, once again, imagined- but there simply ought to have been a laurel wreath there. It might as well have been written into the logic of the world.
“Thou’rt no failure, noblest of demigods.” he had said, and the words sounded deceptive- nobody, nobody praised a fallen adversary in the Lands Between, let alone an Omen such as he. “Yet, thou mayest indeed become one, if only thou dost allow thy resolve to fade now, at this moment of revelation.”
“Land the deathblow, foul Tarnished”- at last, at last he could say the word- “and spare me aught of further shame.” he sat up and spat, accursed omen blood falling at his foe’s feet.
What he saw next may have been an illusion of the eyes. Perhaps it had never happened at all, and was yet another of his imaginings, as with all things that had to do with the Lord’s golden light.
At that moment, the figure of the champion was lit with gold rays, all tanned skin and black hair with a height that seemed unnatural, and he said, simply-
“I suffer not the unclean to live, but ask me ne'er to slay the pure and the dutiful. If only thou wouldst lift thine eyes to truth, King Morgott, thou shouldst find that there are such things as angels.”
“Lies. Damned lies, and procrastination.” said Morgott, and felt his strength returning. To his shock, golden light had suffused his breast and was knitting shut the lethal wound inflicted just moments ago.
“The bitterness thou hold'st is well-warranted, Last King- but aside from thy misguided service to the Erdtree, thou'st been noble in thy pursuits. In my travels, ne’er did I behold a city of such wealth and splendour as thy Leyndell- and ne’er a foe so singular in dedication to their duty. For this, thou dost deserve a chance at redemption, and mine aid in the path that doth lead to it.”
By all rights, Morgott should have discarded these words, thrown at them all the contempt he could muster. He did not, due to a curious thing- it was simply the first praise he had ever gotten in his life, and he had no experience in what to do.
“Thou’rt undecided, I see- that is as well. I offer thee a twofold choice, noble Morgott- that thou shouldst behold a glimpse of truth and mine own vision, or that I grant thee the most honourable death that I might, within mine ability.”
Death, death first. That was the only choice. He had been a failure to the Erdtree, a complete and utter failure- but that was the coward’s choice, was it not?
This champion had offered redemption. It might have been meant in a twisted way- but could it truly be so? This… Golden Lord could not possibly be the emissary of some foul outer god. That golden light and lightning, so much stronger and purer than his own- it betrayed a certain warmth, something he yearned to touch.
It was the light at the end of the tunnel he had always craved.
“Do what thou seekest, then- suff’ring would be well deserved.” he said, somewhat bitterly, and the world was subsumed by some sorcery.
He saw all that was cold, dark, and dank again, and knew that it was his childhood.
Yet here, the tunnels seemed wider, broader and of better make, and golden light- that same golden light- flooded them.
He saw himself, clad not in rags, but in fine cloth of white and gold. He appeared to be sitting on a throne, holding audience with someone.
So this was a promise of power and wealth, he reasoned, and felt contempt anew. Of course he should have expected nothing else. Base bribery!
This would not work on him. “I care not for such things.” he told himself.
However, on looking anew, he found new details and semantics. His robe, for instance, was not kingly, and despite the fine cloth, it was simple. It was the sort of thing he would have fashioned for himself had he considered himself worthy of such luxuries.
He was not a king, he was a teacher. An elder, imparting knowledge. The audience he held was not precisely that, and rather a conference.
“Lord Morgott, what an ingenious theory! The experimental evidences appear to be in agreement. If you would look at the past year’s earnings compared to this one, it seems as if there is indeed such a ‘circular flow’.”
Belatedly, he recognised the idea as his own, though he had not revealed it to anybody.
“Indeed…” he muttered haltingly. “Raise the wealth of the one and thou wouldst raise the wealth of all. The more the gold in the commoner’s hand, the more be spent, and the more ye have in yon coffers as a whole…”
“Aye, Lord, aye! We have it noted down in your precise words, your grace…”
This seemed a dream. There were no arguments aside from good-natured ones. No petty nonsense and only rationality to be found. The room he was in was making leaps and bounds in understanding of- nearly all things. And he was aiding and abetting the process.
Even then, there seemed something missing, something suspicious.
He found it almost instantly, on thinking of it-
“Ah, there you are, you chair-sitting oaf!” came a voice from behind him, and an embrace.
“M-Mohg?” he muttered haltingly, as his brother swept in with his overdramatic robes- wrought holly of gold- with a great golden staff in hand.
There was absolutely no way. Mohg was a heretic to the Greater Will- and yet-
“Forgive me as I couldn’t come sooner- ah, wait, what am I doing, asking for forgiveness? This is all well-warranted retribution, o brother who does not visit often enough!”
“If thou wouldst deserve visitation, then I might deign to grant it to thee.” Morgott said coldly. Mohg stopped embracing him and laid his hands on his shoulders.
“Oh, that again? I- I hadn’t known you still held a grudge.” he said. Morgott would say something, but he was far too intrigued to do so.
“Listen, Morgott- you have been the greatest aid I could ever have asked for. Had you not told me that there was love to be found here- that there was so much to aspire to aside from power, if only I saw truth- who knows to what depths I might have fallen.
But now, I have turned aside from that way, with no crimes that can be laid to my hand. And it would not have been possible if you hadn’t drawn my mind out of the cold darkness of those sewers, to the light beyond.”
It was a dream, all a dream. A falsehood- but if only it could be true.
“What dost thou, with the time thou hast at hand?” Morgott asked, and Mohg laughed.
“Showing an interest at last, eh? Me and my scholars investigate the truths of the cosmos, and invent laws to describe it. There are no gods to fear, no divine retribution! See, but the other day, we sank a ship- you must forgive us- to draw a relation between density and the force that-“
There was no war, Morgott realised, as Mohg’s words faded away into the din. No madness. No Outer Gods to fear, for they knew better than that, and the world had grown wise enough to resist their influences.
After that vision faded, he asked the golden one about it.
“Why wouldst thou show me this? ‘Tis an impossibility. I have naught to gain from dreams and falsehoods.”
“Part of it must remain confined to dreaming.” came the reply, “but there are fragments of what thou hast seen that may yet be made a reality.”
“And thou wouldst approach me with the choice to make it so? With the promise that thou wouldst make it so?”
“Aye.” came the reply, simply and unironically.
“Ah, and let me hazard forth a guess- thou wouldst have mine aid in thy quest for Elden Lordship?” he said, with the pinnacle of all the sardonic, acidic tones he was capable of.
The skies lit with gold and lightning rang across them (or was this but another grand imagining- no, no, surely they did).
“Nay.” pronounced the Lord- his Lord- “This quest is mine alone. I ask naught of thee as it pertains to my further journeys and all else I must do. What I suggest to thee shall be a quest undertaken after I claim the Elden Ring” –he spoke with such certainty- “and this shall be a road not walked by myself alone, but by thee as well.”
“After thine ascension? Thou wouldst complete this ‘quest’ of thine as thou wast meant to?”
“There can be no doubt. I have strength and resolve enough. What I ask of thee is what I cannot do alone- the restoration of order. The crusade that shall grant victory over not only the Lands Between but this world as a whole- and finally, the convergence of all unto rationality and truth.”
He would conquer the world, then- but, as it seemed, not for any personal ambition.
As it seemed.
“If I am to work with thee, I would have thy name.”
“Name?” laughed the lord-who-would-be-king. “I go by many names, each as irrelevant as the next. Thou wouldst not be serviced by one. Address me as thou wilt, for more than a person, I seek to make of myself a symbol. I am the canvas upon which thou wouldst paint thine aspirations, o Last of Kings, as would all who would stand with us and our new order.”
Yet another grand lie, perhaps- but it was said with such sincerity that it could not possibly be manufactured.
It was then that he decided he would serve this lord- this being who would not seek power for power’s sake, or for ambition’s sake, but for that of amelioration.
“Who art thou? Thou’rt no tarnished, or no champion to claim a throne.”
“Thou may’st think of me as a tool to uplift thyself, thy people and the rest of the world. Keep thy title, King Morgott- for if thou’rt to serve under me, I must become an Emperor.”
The words seemed chilling. It appeared to the Omen King that they had been held back for quite a while, and he felt a distinct air of satisfaction from his lord- from the Emperor- after he had said them.
“If thou’rt to rise to such a station…”
“I have yet many trials left; I am aware. That is why I must bid thee farewell, for now- of course, ‘Elden Lord’ would be quite the gem in the crown of titles it shall be my burden to bear.”
He departed then, and Morgott was left to ponder.
What was wrong with his memory?