Chapter Text
Perhaps the shifting of the snows was a reflection of time itself. They spread and danced with the wind, each snowflake and fractal unique, just as the future was ever-shifting with every moment irreplaceable.
Morgott had wondered at such things, once. How was it that every single snowflake was, in some small way, distinguishable from every other one, and yet would seem indistinct to the untrained eye?
It had taken him until the present for him to truly understand why. It had only been three weeks since the College of the Imperial Truth in Leyndell had come up with microstate formalism under his own guidance, and they were making leaps and bounds ever since.
There were so many possible ways in which a snowflake could form that two ever being the same was vanishingly unlikely- and yet, from a distance, they would remain at first glance the same, as they were composed of the same matter.
What Morgott could not understand was the faint feeling of sorrow he felt at this, at a childhood wonder being ‘taken’. Every question that was answered yielded another, to be answered in its own time and continue the cycle- such was the work of the Collegiate and the Brotherhood of the Golden Eyes, both under his purview as decreed by the Emperor.
Though he was grateful to his lord for allowing him a part in this writing of history itself, and allowing him to partake of the unravelling of the mysteries of the world, he could not help but feel a certain loss of innocence.
Stilettos of a frozen stillicide- pah!
It would not do to ponder such matters philosophically. The Golden Order preached scientific principles only and did not allow for such distanced indulgences. The Emperor had promised enlightenment under his rule, and this meant the acquisition of knowledge. His scholars were making unprecedented leaps every day and Morgott was proud of them.
Perhaps part of him felt a distant pang at every tree that was cut down to fuel the Emperor’s forges or indeed to craft the very parchment the scholars wrote on. Perhaps he felt a little wounded just as the Earth must at every ruthlessly-mined ore which the Emperor wrought into weaponry for the coming crusade. He could not allow himself to feel guilty over such matters, as they were a necessary evil.
If the Golden Order was to prevail and if the Lands Between were to go from shattered to prosperous, such things were inalienable sacrifices. At some point in the future, they could grow their own forests to recompense the ones lost. As the Emperor’s power grew, the more he would grant grace to his subjects for them to manifest weaponry, with no need for ore. And if his lord was willing to make this temporary sacrifice of the world’s superficial beauty for the betterment of all, why could not Morgott, in keeping with their shared vision?
“Your serenity, Knight Decipi hath returned. ‘Tis his belief he hath caught sight of a sending-gate, as His Luminance had predicted.” said Crucible Knight Indoctus, unfurling wings as a salute to the grace-given monarch.
“Then ‘twould behoove me to substantiate the veracity of his observations, ere I call our Lord.” Morgott replied, drawing himself from his reverie. There were so many breakthroughs, so many inventions every day, that he often found himself caught up in them.
In many ways, the King of Leyndell had truly found his place as a teacher and guide. The Emperor had been ever so slightly surprised, seeing him spending most of his time in the collegiate, encouraging and sprouting new ideas, but instead of disappointment at his right hand not engaging in more kingly matters, he had bestowed him with a smile and tacit approval. Not that Morgott would deserve chastisement; every moment he spent outside the premises’ walls was to further the arrival of the Golden Order’s Crusade.
He put into use one of the abilities the Emperor had blessed him with, a simple incantation to recall what might normally flood his memory. Going over the fundamentals of the present operation, he remembered why he allowed himself to fall into a reverie to begin with.
It had all begun with that prisoner, Varré, arrested by his Night’s cavalry in Liurnia. Wearing suspicious, bloodstained clothing would under normal circumstances hardly be offence enough, but the Emperor had decreed that none of these matters were to be taken lightly.
Varré had fought with a solidified rose bouquet that stung as badly as any blade with its thorns, but blessed by the Emperor, his cavalry had merely shrugged off all their wounds and had him taken to the capital, finding with him a blood-soaked medallion.
The blood that stained it, however, was distinct- and it had been a shock to realise that the way it was darker than typical crimson, congealed and solidified was reminiscent of his own curse. And so, the Emperor had taken a personal interest.
All the while, Morgott had had his suspicions, and hoped against hope that it wasn’t Mohg. He had always thought that his brother was going to one day find a trap even he couldn’t wriggle out of, and the sorcery of blood reeked of his handiwork.
Mohg had always been skilled with blood, had he not? He had used such skills to heal Morgott’s wounds in the past, and Morgott had simply assumed it a benign skill. Heretical as Mohg could be, he was still Morgott’s brother. For all these years, Morgott had believed him dead- slain by Radahn or Malenia, perhaps, during the shattering. Perhaps that was indeed the case.
He had engaged himself ever more vigorously at the collegiate, and threw himself into preparations for the great crusade, not paying the interrogation of Varré much mind as it would be inappropriate. The Emperor was overseeing the matter personally, and he had abolished the usage of torture masks- the one matter Morgott had been harshly chastised for. That stood as a credit, more than anything else, to his Lord’s mercy.
He had nursed this belief, at least, until curiosity got the better of him and he attempted a visit. What he had seen rocked him to his very core.
The prisoner had become a thing less than human, unable to form words, unable to see. He did not react, he did not perceive. No blemish marked his skin, and Morgott could not possibly tell what had happened to him. Varré had- by some artifice- been reduced to a husk, a living corpse.
The next day, the Emperor had called for him and told of the meddling of an outer god. There was a plot involving the Empyrean Miquella, and a god-blessed dynast known as the ‘Luminary’ who sought to establish rule.
He had wondered at how the Emperor could have gained all this information from that- shell. The very next day, he received news that Varré had died, apparently having simply forgotten how to breathe.
Surely, the Emperor’s light could not have done this, he reasoned. Yes, that was obvious. His lord’s presence was rejuvenating, and Morgott always felt energised in his presence, did he not?
The Emperor would not be so cruel, never so crude as to do such a thing- indeed, he had never even demonstrated the ability. His rule was based on trust. It was.
From this clear thread of reason, Varré’s sudden loss of faculties must have been the work of an Outer God- perhaps the one he served, discarding its tool before it could reveal too much. That an entity should possess such power and use it so frivolously made Morgott wish to blanch.
It dragged at his pride, sometimes, that he served the Emperor and not himself- but the Emperor was noble in that his ultimate aim was the eradication of such outside influence. For that, Leyndell’s King was proud to work for the former tarnished.
They came upon Knight Decipi, who greeted him with the same salute. For a moment, Morgott thought to return it before recalling that there was no need. Such station and the respect afforded with it still took some time to get used to after a life of being shunned.
Even his new robes of white-gold felt somewhat- uncomfortable, or perhaps simply unsuitable after all this time, though they weren’t at all embroidered as per his request. He felt the golden armour bestowed by the Emperor equally unnecessary, though concerns of practicality and the pride of having the Emperor’s seal upon it had persuaded him to put it into use.
“Thou dost well for thyself, sir Knight. ‘Tis indeed a sending-gate thou hast found. Felicitations are in order if we survive this day.” Morgott praised, and Knight Decipi bowed. Despite his kingship for many years, all his decrees and congratulations were never given in person- except now.
Trying not to think too much of spattered blood near the gate, Morgott furrowed his brow and called for his lord. It was an incantation ascribed to the Saint Goldmask, if he recalled correctly, to infuse one’s will into the skies themselves and convey intent across the very winds.
The snow of the consecrated field melted before his feet, and for a scarce moment, it seemed as if the hailcrowned skies themselves parted to reveal a golden dawn. A storm of light, and the third Elden Lord was with them.
“Hail, mine Emperor.” said Morgott and the Crucible Knights, and bowed before the God of Light and Lightning.
“Rise, King Morgott. Thou’rt impressive in thy dedication, as ever. With thee as the pillar to uphold our Golden Order, there can be no limit to what we may accomplish.” his Lord said, golden eyes gazing at him kindly, and the King felt as if a new sun had to burst to life within his chest.
“Thou’rt too generous, my lord.” he replied, rising and unsheathing his sword. “With any luck, this shall prove an easily-resolved matter, and one that doth stand as little more than a detour from thy golden crusade.”
“With hope.” the Emperor said, “For hope is the fire that stoketh our order, in the end. Now, my faithful- we march, ever onward to victory.”
So saying the Elden Lord advanced into the sending gate, Morgott and the Crucible Knights following after him.
“By St. Thops!” Knight Decipi exclaimed, when they had finally processed the grotesque vista that had laid assault on their eyes.
Morgott found it rather odd just how quickly the Crucible Knights and the general populace had taken to the recognition of the Imperial Saints. It had been scarce few months since this Thops- an old friend of the Emperor’s- had been canonised, and his name was already seeing usage in oaths.
Saint Goldmask, for instance, should not have become so inextricably linked with the ordinary citizen’s hopes and fears, even if he was the patron Saint of the Golden Order. Such things typically ran the course of centuries before they became ubiquitous- but Morgott supposed that being in the presence of a living God who would not reign at a distance from the people had a galvanising effect.
Such speedy integration would work to their benefit, too, with Radahn set to be canonised in a matter of days as the Saint of War, just in time for the Redmanes to join their lion banners to the Emperor’s Golden Stormhawk for the beginning of their great crusade. He was rather good at justifying such matters to himself so as not to dwell on them.
A great crackle of sound drew him, once again, from his musings, and he found that the Emperor had loosed several bolts of his wrath at the shambling, miserable wretches that filled the place. He must have thought them beyond salvaging- and fundamentally compassionate being as the Emperor was, Morgott trusted his judgment.
“Behold, your serenity” came his golden lord’s voice, and the demigod restrained a blush at the title despite the context and their present circumstance.
It was well-warranted, as the Emperor had raised one of those kneeling, bloodied wretches in a sorcerous grip, golden light coruscating around the faintly quivering figure.
“An… albinauric, my lord.” said Morgott at length, recognition taking some time to come. They had repealed all laws against them just as they had done for Omens and it deserved their consideration as a free being- yet this one seemed utterly miserable, beyond even their aid.
“Wouldst thou assess them to be worth saving?” his lord asked, almost casually, still holding the creature in his grasp. The relic sword had not yet been drawn.
Morgott inspected it for long. It truly was an utter wreck, blood oozing from it, deprived of movement and corrupted by the malice of whatever Outer God ruled this place.
“At present, ‘twould seem beyond mine ability to begin with, lord, though I would not make the error of speaking on thy behalf.” he said, somewhat sadly.
“Then let them have peace.” the Emperor responded. A hundred spears of golden right manifested around the Albinauric, held now with arms to the side as if in a crucifix. Each of those terrible, deadly spears stabbed the poor thing, and within moments nothing was left of it except ash on the winds.
Morgott restrained a blanch. For peace, such total obliteration suggested an image of incongruity, did it not? No, no, it must have been just, he reasoned.
Its soul may have had peace, but the thing had been dealt justice for falling into the sway of an Outer God. Yes. It was given both peace and justice, as the Golden Order preached.
From there, they set to work. There may have been four of them, but a Demigod, a God in full and two Crucible Knights were capable of slaughtering armies between them. The Elden Lord would raise his sacred relic sword and swathe the opening valley in a wave of gold, just as Morgott would plunge a dagger of grace into the ground to summon a storm of swords which impaled their enemies from above.
The Crucible Knights would flourish their blades and call down an explosion in Ordovis’ vortex, which the Emperor had insisted they all learn if they were to be his own custodian guard.
How interesting, that the methods of killing they employed made it all seem far more like heroes standing outnumbered against a horde rather than the genocide it truly was- fully within their right to inflict the kind of carnage they unleashed, simply for their enemies were a blight upon the world.
Morgott drew himself from such thoughts with a snarl, berating himself for heresy. These enemies were clearly tainted by the work of an Outer God. The way they knelt, in worship, was utterly contemptible. There was no place for worship or gods within the Golden Order; only logic, and clear, scientific precision in observation. These contemptible fools deserved to die, for their idiocy-
Perhaps they deserved compassion, for the ruined state. And even so, the Emperor would be justified in killing them, as an offering of peace to their tormented souls.
Swarms of flies assailed them, conjured by faceless foes in bloody armour and white masks, but it was all futile, as the Emperor’s light protected them for their string, just as Morgott threw golden daggers precisely into the white masks’ throats.
Giant crows dotted the surface of the lake of blood below, but they did not engage them. The Emperor and his Golden Order stood for pragmatism and enlightenment, and it was therefore through pragmatism that the crows were dealt with.
The Emperor called Elden Stars into being, and hurled them at the monsters. Morgott followed the legendary incantation with thrown spears of light. The ghastly crows were either skewered through or lured into falling off a cliff.
At last, they came upon foes who charged at them instead of simply being assailed and slain. There were three of them and they were clad in cultish finery, though the garb was no less bloodstained than all the others’ had been.
Immediately, the Crucible Knights walked forward to duel two of them, while Morgott himself charged at the third. A deadly sweep of his cursed blade- blessed blade, he reminded himself, it was no longer considered a curse- and his foe was disarmed, with a plunging cut stabbing through his face a moment after.
The Emperor, however, had leaped into the sky like Radagon of old, and struck a fourth, fleeing enemy with a bolt of lightning. It had not been lethal, as their foe was writhing in pain, struck to the ground. Morgott aided the Crucible Knights in finishing their duels before rushing forward, seeing the Emperor ahead of him by a step.
“Must… must warn Luminary Mohg…” the downed noble muttered under his breath, seeking to raise himself by sheer force of will, before the sacred relic blade took his head.
“A Sanguine Noble.” the Emperor said with an ironclad clarity, and Morgott could not even spare thought to how he might have possibly known that, stunned as he was.
His blade jittered in his grasp, and he found himself unable to form words. It was an effort to remain calm before the Emperor, even though he very well knew how those all-seeing eyes could clearly divine his thoughts.
“So ‘tis indeed thy brother who doth stand as lord of this place. ‘Tis thy brother who hath stolen the Empyrean Miquella, and hath betrayed thee and the Golden Order to an Outer God.”
He said nothing, unable to analyse the Emperor’s tones. They may have been cold, or cruel, or kind, or understanding. Most likely, they were simply flat and heavy with the weight of judgment.
So this was what had become of Mohg.
“The sting of betrayal is a terrible one to bear, and how unfortunate that thou shouldst be the recipient of it, for all thou hast done.” his lord was saying, but Morgott for once did not listen with rapt attention.
Stupid Mohg, graceless Mohg. So utterly desperate for love that he had been driven into the arms of the beyond.
The Emperor was saying something, something that sounded compassionate and soothing- but yet again, it could have been another test. Tears dropping from eyes that no longer had the will to fight them, Morgott looked down into the soil, at odds with himself.
He couldn’t- he couldn’t kill Mohg!
Mohg was his own brother. An absent brother, a heretic brother, perhaps, but still, the only family Morgott had left.
“King Morgott, hearken to me!” the Emperor roared, and for a moment, clouds seemed to materialise in even these false skies. He knew he was supposed to fill his heart with hate, to craft his contempt into a shield and remain absolute and objective in his service to the Golden Order, but he simply could not.
He had claimed to cast off all attachments to the world and devote himself to the Golden path, just as the Emperor had done, but it was apparently a lie.
He could stand to the side and do nothing as the Emperor had slain his own father, Hoarah Loux, with a veritable storm spewing onto the warrior from his fingertips, but he could not allow him to touch Mohg.
Mohg, who had comforted him in the long dark of the sewers. Mohg, with whom he had sealed the flame of frenzy.
His brother was not beyond saving. He knew it.
“Forgive me, mine Emperor. If thou dost ask me to stand ‘gainst him, I will fail thee. Ask of me anything, anything but this.”
He bowed his head in shame. For a moment, he almost expected the Emperor’s sacred sword to descend on it.
Instead, he received compassion- or what seemed like compassion.
“There is naught to forgive, my right hand. ‘Twould mark me as a hypocrite to condemn thee where I have wavered in the past myself. I told thee of my relation with thy half-sister, Ranni. She had ensnared me in a time where I knew less within her web, ‘twas that we were betrothed. Her betrayal shook me to my core, and I beheld the world with much the same shock as thou dost now.” the Emperor said, laying one of those tanned, curiously unblemished hands upon his shoulder.
Morgott leaned into the touch, almost involuntarily.
“He can still be saved, my lord. I say this not out of love, but out of what I know of him. ‘Twould benefit us to have Mohg at our side. He is a great master of the healing arts, if the need cometh to us, is capable of an ocean of love, is as wary of the threat of frenzy as thee-“
The Emperor embraced him, which shut him up. It was a curious embrace, as he had never truly received one before. He felt in part comforted, as warmth and light suffused him, healing aches and pains- yet the way the Emperor’s hand had come to rest upon his nape instead of the waist felt in some way controlling.
Blast these thoughts! he said to himself at once. His Lord was nothing but kind. It was his own cynicism that sought always to paint a dissident picture.
“When Ranni betrayed me, it served as a great lesson. Had she not revealed her true colours, thou wouldst ne’er have beheld the being thou dost appraise now.” the Emperor said, and Morgott listened with lessening hope.
“Thou must understand that not all we observe is what at first it seems to be- not until we cast off our chains and become truly unshackled, as thou must in time. ‘Twas Ranni’s betrayal that allowed me to cast off my shackles, Morgott. What shall press thee to cast away thine own?”
“Not this, lord. Prithee, not this.”
He knew it to be a teaching moment, but he could not care. He couldn’t kill Mohg.
The Elden Lord released a great, heaving sigh, and stepped away from him, golden eyes once more cold and without the twinkle they had seemed to possess only momentarily before.
“Thou must comprehend, Morgott, that once one is fallen unto darkness, forever in darkness doth one remain. Redemption is only possible so long as it is craved by the self-aware - and the victims of the Outer Gods resteth convinced of the rightness in their acts. There is a chance that the Mohg thou hadst known is no more, and that little of him doth remain, replaced instead with the essence of an Outer God and vile in its propensity for evil.”
“Mine Emperor, prithee, let reason prevail. If thou’rt concerned about setting a matter of precedent, let us set one of kindness. With myself at thy side, ‘twould not be unreasonable for one such as he- possessed of a fair store of wits as I knew him- to repent his ways and join us. Help me save him, lord.”
The Emperor seemed to contemplate his words with the depth of thought only gods are capable of. Morgott did not kneel, tempting though it was, for he knew his lord would immediately dismiss the suggestion as one prompted by emotion as he did.
“In recognition for thy deeds in service to the Golden Order, and for the staunch support thou hast lended me, I shall grant thee leave to attempt what thou mayest. Thou hast, however, only one attempt. Return with thy brother repentant or deceased, or return not at all. Know that a great deal of personal fondness for thee goeth into this chance, fondness that ‘twould behoove me to dispense with. ‘Tis the fact that I cannot which moveth me to grant thy wish.”
One chance, that was all he had. He had better make good use of it.
“Thou’rt mercy incarnate, mine Emperor.” Morgott said, and bowed. He felt a small smidgen of hope as he turned towards the palatial sanctum, only to discover that the Emperor and the Crucible Knights were not following him, instead watching his every step.
“Lord? Wouldst thou not-“
“Nay.” the Emperor pronounced, void-black hair blowing in the cold wind. “I have granted thee leave, but thou must make this attempt alone. I would not have granted it to thee had I intended to resolve the problem off mine own merit. ‘Tis a chance for thee to right a wrong, Morgott, and to cast off thy shackles. Forth now, King of Leyndell, and prove thy loyalty to the Golden Order.”
“As thou hadst wished it, lord.” he said, and continued to walk down the hill, some of that burgeoning hope lost.
Nearing the sanctum, he could not help the thought- what if he was not meant to prove his loyalty to the Golden Order? What if, by that pronouncement, his lord had meant for Morgott to prove his personal loyalty to him?