Work Text:
The full moon laid her silvery cape over the rooftops, competing with the ever-golden light that held Leyendell in its embrace. How beautiful, Marika thought unwillingly. She let the faint light caress her skin as she took the great hammer in her hand.
It had become loud, lately, the Tree in the corner of her eye. Its light was impossible to escape. No matter how far to the coast she went, how deep into the earth she buried herself, a ray always found its way through. Some nights she lay awake, eyes closed, and wondered if it would cease if she was blind. Perhaps no light was violating the minds of those who could not see. But she knew she could never be one of them.
She opened the door. Leyendell stood before her, breathing softly in the quiet night. From here she could see it all: the glimmering rooftops, the gateways and the alleys, her subjects, her battlefield, her glory. Why this night? Why not? It was as good as any. She stared at the city with empty eyes, looking inward rather than outward. Guards were circling around in silence, no bird was singing in the distance. Marika tried to open her mouth to breathe, but could not. What would Rennala say? Hast Thou heard a dying bird? For she is silent at the moment of death.
The ache in her body had become stronger. She dragged the hammer on the ground, leaving marks on the stone, until she let Radagon carry it. His arms were strong; she could give him that. The dress fell down to his hips. A little bit of elegance was necessary, after all. A little bit of elegance at the end of times.
Perhaps Radagon had always been a distraction, a contradiction she had found in herself. He was, still. Good and pure, his shoulders were free of sin. He had yet to become what he hated. The Erdtree rustled its leaves above as he ascended the stairs towards the door that led to the very heart of it.
Marika opened the door, and Radagon stepped in.
The roots welcomed him, longing for his embrace. Their tender touch awoke an old memory. How strange it was to still feel Rennala on his skin. Marika sometimes wished the memory was on her skin instead, along with the heavy weight that remained of her first Lord. She looked at Radagon's hands and felt detached from her body; his body. In moments like this she knew she was losing her mind. She could not become Radagon, yet he already was her.
She closed her eyes and held on to the hammer as if it was the only thing connecting her to this world. Everything else seemed fragile.
She was not the same woman who had left Godfrey with nothing, stripped of grace, his honor, his family. And she was not the same man who had left the star-eyed Rennala in her room, black hair covering her bare, pale back like a Nokron's waterfall. Rennala had never cried. Her regal face had shown only a faint trace of grief, and the only thing that could have betrayed her ever-calm demeanor was her voice. She had kept quiet. And so had Radagon. He had been afraid that Marika's voice would creep through.
Maybe Rennala had known all along. She was a wise woman, much wiser than Marika. Perhaps their love had existed in a mutual lie.
How pathetic. That to be loved she had to have become someone else. And yet, she wanted to believe that when Radagon had rested his head on Rennala's shoulder for the last time, Marika had felt that lovely warmth on her own skin, not on Radagon's. It was hers. That warmth, the closeness of someone she had loved outside of any obligations, it was safe in her body, in her body that ached.
Not that she needed it anymore.
She descended into the Tree, until a mass of golden light swallowed her. The Elden Ring shone violently in front of her. The beauty of it made her sick.
When Marika had been younger, she had wanted to create, to build something that would fill the family-shaped void inside her. Now she had come to the conclusion that she was much better at destroying. It was as if she could see something in the blazing light of the Ring: the shape of Godfrey, a sight that made her turn her gaze away only for it to rest upon the shadows dancing on the walls, each one taking the form of her children, abandoned by their mother, let to rot and fight for their glory. She had once feared for them. She had been certain they would be the end of her.
Her children. Her children who would have been better off dying in her womb. And yet, against her will, she still loved them.
They were all crying her name. She did not answer. They raised their hands towards her, smearing her ankles with blood and rot. This was Motherhood. She could as well shout into the void herself, cry and beg the greater forces to release her, but it would be useless. She was becoming nothing at all.
The cycle would continue, it would continue as long as she would allow; her children would inherit the burden of the throne, walking on the brink of madness, their bloodline cursed with disease. Her wounds would remain eternally open, bleeding out to nourish the Land that had never been hers, a Land she had tarnished.
And while she was bleeding out, Radagon was getting stronger. She could feel how his desire differed from her, how her thoughts fractured. They shared the same body, but did they share the same mind? Quiet, solitary nights like this filled her with paranoia. Was Radagon but a yet another tool of Greater Will to control her? Had they occupied the last corner of her that was still hers: her mind+
She could not kill Radagon. This knowledge was as certain as the Order itself. He was like a parasite that had already taken over a great part of her, and she could have lived with that if only her Consort Eternal had remained as she had intended. His body made her notice the failures in her own body. She was an old vessel; he had just begun.
Radagon's legs kept her standing. She could no longer trace where she ended and where he began. As they breathed in unison, the hammer trembled in their hands. For a moment Marika imagined how her children had felt laying on these arms; arms that for a brief moment had been the whole world to them.
The Elden Ring in front of her. The great hammer on her hand. The world about to shatter.
It was about time for Radagon to prove himself.