A Marika fanfic, that doesn’t have to do with Godfrey/Marika? Who would had thought I was capable of doing that. But, seriously, I hope you all enjoy that. I think the Tarnished/Marika would be cute together, honestly. I wrote this instead of sleeping. Oops.
Marika woke not to the feeling of fire-laced shackles that burned through flesh and spirit, drawing back to the dark black-gray world she had known for an age unending, but to streamers of gold floating through arched windows spanning from floor up the wall. Gilded in gold, the iron bands shaped diamonds and circles and a thousand other shapes to paint scenes. Some were the sights of nameless heroes only she had known, battling against beasts bristled in steel-gray feathers sharp as blades; most were sweeter scenes, still: of flowering meadows beneath star-lit skies, heaving seas that lifted veils of sea-spray before a dawning sun. They glinted and shone in ripples, coming to life with every passing of a cloud, and splattered to the floor until the red carpet vined in emerald green and purple flowers winked as if alive with spring. The air was warm, but gentle, and her arms were not shackled but laid beneath a fluffed pillow darkened with spit. There was not lancing spears of fire in her veins that felt as if they melted away bone and sizzled blood to fading. There was no dreams that were true, of her children fighting and dying, of her beloved Godfrey crumbling so close to her Marika could nearly touch the weathered lines upon his face.
Pushing herself up from where she laid, Marika glanced about the room, an prickling edge settling through her veins for just a moment. It was always like this in truth, that fear that this was all a dream, an illusion conjured by the Greater Will, a punishment for her crimes. But she touched the feather-bundled mattress, sweeping large and wide, hidden beneath a wooden canopy chiseled with an emblazoned sun. Vines of pale white silk trailed up the lion-rearing pillars, clouding the world behind rippling silver. She brushed a hand over it, felt the softness against the pads of her fingers, and allowed a breath to leave her. Relief danced in her heart, lifting it only slightly. But it was enough. Marika would take what little reprieve she was offered. The fine silk, the soft beds, the rows of gowns and armaments things she was given that she truly did not deserve. They were shades to what she once held, the mantle of the world upon her golden brow, but after everything this was a greater gift.
She could still hear Ranni’s words true, the fond smile on her step-daughter’s lips. You will live, but one day you will die, Marika. That is all I can now offer you. You will get the rest you earned, Mother. One day. Tomorrow, today, in a hundred years. But you will get it, I promise you.
Marika only hoped it was sooner rather than later.
Brushing up the silken shades, Marika made her away through the room upon bare feet. The marble floor was icy cold, the soft carpet steadily warming from the sun. It nearly jolted her when she passed through on than onto the other, as if marching through summer and winter all at once. Quickly she hopped across the black-white titled floor with their icy fingers, and scrambled for her black robe laying upon a chair nestled near a wide marble table, the legs curved in elegantly. Above a massive painting claimed a good portion of the wall, armored in a gilded golden frame and depicting Marika, laying upon one of the many couches in the estate, a book in hand. It was finely crafted, showing the truth rather than a lie. Her skin was paler than snow, weary lines marking around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, laughing lines that did not laugh for an age. A touch of scars peaked over her arm, the loose white gown sagging just a little to hint of what laid beneath, a bouquet of stretch marks from years of child birthing. Heat touched her cheeks faintly, and her finger ghosted over her side. A small pouch of a stomach lingered still, where her stretch marks still clamored over. She hated them, all in all. But she found the ones in the painting beautiful. As if it was just another piece of the painting, a scene of quiet rather than some triumph of a thousand years ago. A peace she feared, a peace she yearned. When had it been since she last read a book? Years it seemed. When the Tarnished had commissioned for the large library, Marika had slipped in more often then not to find a small alcove to read, or rest in the great garden of the estate, enjoying the sun, enjoying the quiet.
Marika shook her head, feeling her heat on her cheeks growing, and cursed herself for acting like some love-sick girl of spring. She was a goddess grown, a warrior of battles from ages passed. She did not love the Tarnished, but his dedication to her comfort was seemingly unheard of. It reminded her, in truth, of her lord Godfrey. Perhaps he had taught the Tarnished more than just the ways of arms.
Slipping the robe about her, tying the sweeping belt behind her, Marika glanced to the side and frowned. A blanket covered a red-velveted lounge chair, a pillow hanging nearly off the side. He slept there again, she thought, her brows furrowing together. It was all bewildering, in truth; the Tarnished seemed to sacrifice more for her more often then not. He saw her food delivered first during breakfast, added novels at her smallest mention, gathered all the flowers that Marika murmured over. When she said it was unseeing for a husband not to rest with his wife, he had looked at her with all the determination of a knight seeking his lady’s favor and curtly said that she needed space for all of this. Space he could happily provide. Mentioning going past the Fog, with that gleeful smile of his! Just like Godfrey, she found. Though Khalisiar seemed to hold a secret that no one but he had known, and he would not be open to sharing it, not unless he got something out of it. It irritated her. He was as stubborn and persistent as a mule in a thunderstorm.
Marika sighed and brushed a lock of golden hair from her face. Khalisiar, the Storm-Lion, First Knight of the Elden Lord. Marika’s new husband. The marriage had been a surprising one, one built more upon political circumstance than anything else. After all, Marika had not meant to live through the battle. She was meant to have died, wilted away like a flower long passed its prime. But the Greater Will had one final jest, to strain her life longer, with all her children and husbands and people dead or scattered. One final punishment no one had the ability to stop, not unless they bore the blade through her heart. The new Elden Lord was ready enough for that, she recalled well enough. Elden Lord Azzarian and her….held a past, a past he still had not forgiven her after all these years. And she did not blame him, not at all.
She wanted to die, too, but now had a husband who was in the mind to keep her alive, regardless of what she may say. Irritating, but the Tarnished were nothing more than resilient against opposition.
Marika found her new husband in the training grounds, a massive open area that held four small crystals bouncing a drift at each directions of the compass. It allowed Khalisiar to summon any enemy they so desire, be it the giant ravens of Caelid or the black slobs slumbering beneath in the Eternal Cities. Marika had the mind to one day take up her hammer again, at least to be rid of her plump stomach. She was not a woman of vanity, but it was still a reminder of what she had given, what had been taken, and sometimes she just wished to forget. Forget everything. But then the memories came up, of the sweet nightly whispers with Godfrey, the laughter filled halls of her children, the ones with Godfrey and the ones with Radagon, and the ones that Radagon had with Rennala. She remembered it true, and longed for it still. That had been when she was happy, what drew her out of the gloom when she banished her love Godfrey. When her planned seemed so far away that it would just be easier to be stricken down when the Greater Will decided, and not her own, her children brought her out of it. That was a more harsher pain than being locked behind the golden-hued bark of the Erdtree, to see all her children, fighting, vanquishing, dying. Marika wanted to believe that some choose to fight if only to save her, to unshackle their mother from the prison they did not know she was locked in. She did not know it was true, but she still wanted to believe. She wanted to believe that she was not as forgotten as she felt when she was held prisoner by the Greater Will. Radagon too had thought the same.
Strange. Once his thoughts were so very domineering, drowning out her own. Thoughts of Rennala, and scheming of Ranni, of the shame of Rykard and the sadness of Radahn. But now…it was her own. No quiet steaming rage of Radagon, no cold anger of the Greater Will. There was only her thoughts, and her only. So quiet, so…lonely.
As a cool morning wind drifted through the wide courtyard, Marika drew her arms around her and stepped out of the shadow of a slender pillar choked in pale ivy. Gooseflesh riddled her skin, melting slowly by the warm touch of daylight. Her eyes fell upon Khalisiar, who sat upon an upturned stone, hunched over. His mane of dark curls fell loose down passed his shoulders, and scars latticed his hairy back like ropes of starlight. Most were faded white from age, some were as long as her forearm, others no bigger than a finger. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built. But as he sat there hunched over, his great axe laid forgotten at his side, he seemed no bigger than a lost child.
Silently, she stepped forward, but her steps seemed to ring like beats of thunder in her ears. A hand reached out, halted a hairs-breath from his skin, before her fingers scrapped lightly over a scar than ran from around his right shoulder across the top of his back jaggedly. She saw his freeze up, his muscles bundling tightly beneath his skin, and she snapped her hand back to herself, but she found her voice spoke before she could think of it. “Thee know I could heal them away until they were nothing but shadows.”
Khalisiar said nothing. Only the subtlest shake of his head gave her answer, and she frowned deeply. Usually he would mention how the scars were a reminder of the pain he had endured in the Lands Beyond the Fog, a memory that no one but he would remember. But the silence…was odd. No, more than odd. A tingle of fear gnawed at her chest. Had Marika done something wrong to offend him? She must had, if he acted in such a manner.
She pushed back that fear with a harsh shove. She was Marika, the former Queen of the Lands Between. She would not be pushed aside like some used doll. She had felt that pain before. She would not feel it again.
Marching around stone, man, and great axe, her heart sunk to what she found. His hands were bloodied and tears stained the floor with dark blots. His breaths were coming sharper, and his fingers shook. Marika knelt down before him, unaware what to do. But concern flooded over that uncertainty, and she found herself grasping his hands in hers.
“What happened?” asked Marika softly, her eyes bouncing from hands to face.
Khalisiar bounced a little, but a firm grip kept his hands in her hold. “My lady! I did not know you were awake.” He tried to search for the words. It was a handsome face, with sharp features touched with soft lips. His almond-shaped violet eyes were storms of lightning, usually they danced brightly in lilac amusement. But now, there was no amusement. Only a dark indigo grayed with fear. Streams of sweat rolled from brow and across his eyes, over his cheeks and wide chest. His chest rose maddeningly, and Marika gave a firm squeeze. “I did not mean—”
“Do not start with that, my lord Khalisiar.” She gave him a stern look, one she shared often toward her children and Godfrey when they acted out of line. “What happened?” Blood thickly stained her hands, but she kept them there. Blood did not scare her, but this…this was entirely a foreign front. Radagon should had been here. He would had known what to do. People always rallied around Radagon, warriors and their children alike. Marika knew what to do, but being loved and giving it back was something strange. Godfrey knew how to figure out her signs, though, knew the truth behind her words.
He glanced down, as if ashamed. Sweat-matted locks shrouded his face. Marika sighed, and grasped at the helm of her robe. A soft tear filled the air as gold wreathed over her hands. Stems shivered through the air, bounded across the surface of his massive hands, searching for any open wounds, and mending it as soon as she found it. Without another word, Marika began to clean the blood from his hands, and wrap the shreds of black around him. It would have to make due until they returned back inside. For a moment, she kept her quiet, before gently speaking. “Khalisiar, what happened?”
Her hand slipped beneath his chin, felt the beard tickle her fingers, and she lifted his head up. Tears welled in his eyes, a glaze of sorrow darkening the brightness she came to associate with him. Despair, pain, that was not the words to describe the Storm-Lion. Hope was one of them. Hope and joy. Marika found she did not like sorrow in his bright eyes, those eyes that were like violet petals swimming in a night-shrouded sea.
Khalisiar took a shaking breath, eyelids closing for just a moment, as if savoring her touch. Oddly, her heart flipped a little at the action. “I…was remembering,” he said, quietly. “Of Gideon.”
Marika could see the pain fester in his eyes, like a knotted web of thorns cutting through the flesh. “I see,” she said. Her heart went out to him. It was said that it was Sir Khalisiar who struck down the wizened Tarnished keeper of knowledge, a man who he respected and loved almost like a father. “That was not your fault,” she said gently, brushing a lock from his face. He seemed so…young, as if he did not spend hundreds upon hundreds of years fighting in lands that were torn by war and treachery. Young, as if he did not too stand before the Erdtree, getting closer than any other Tarnished before him. Gideon, thy are a fool. And she was the biggest out of the whole troupe. Another one of her sins, for keeping her plan to herself. Gideon had died, because he thought the struggle of the Tarnished was meant to be eternal. He was more wrong than anything else. She wanted their struggle to come to an end. Just as her desire for rest came in death, their rest ought to have come in life. They earned it, more than her, anyway.
“Hark and listen,” said Marika, in a voice far gentler than even she thought she was still able to find, “Gideon made his choice. He fought and he died, just as he wished, and he was taken by the Grace of the Erdtree, deep into its roots, just as he wished. He was embraced, after all his years of struggle. If he was here, he would had said that he would had preferred to die by thine hands, hands who fought bravely and honest, who struggled in more ways than even he.” She raised his hands, laid a kissed to the palms. Her heartbeat bounced in her ears. She was finer with actions than words. Marika felt herself a fool for what she said, but it was the truth. She could hear Khalisiar’s breath leave him in a sharp exhale.
“Thy art a good man, my lord Khalisiar, with a goldener heart than the sun’s. Thou hath treated me kindly when thy need not to. Let the All-Knowing Tarnished die not as a shine of sorrow, but a moment of reprieve. He had long fought and learned, and he earned his rest, even if he thought it better for him to eternally struggle.”
Her arms drew about his massive shoulders, fingers twining through the thick locks of his dark hair, and she drew him close. She held him, the first time in a thousand years since she held someone. There was a light scent of woodsmoke and steel about him, a gentle comfort that sang to her, passing through the iron cut of blood. Marika felt small as Khalisiar’s strong arms wrapped around her, drawing her in a firm, almost tightening hug. A shiver racked through her, and she pressed closer. She needed this, needed to be touched. It had been so long, to be gently held like this. It was almost as distant as the sun within the bleakest hours of night. Marika could feel the wet hotness of his tears staining the skin of her neck as he buried his face into her shoulder. But she found she did not care. Her fingers ran lightly through the soft locks, relishing in them.
Without thinking, she drew his face from her neck, and gingerly laid a kiss upon his lips. There was the taste of sweat and tears on them, but they were soft and warm and there. There, unlike Radagon who felt as if she was kissing stiff stone. There, like Godfrey who mangled deep lust with overwhelming lover that left her mind swimming. There, real and living. A shaky breath left her lips as she pressed eagerly against Khalisiar, yearning for the touch, afraid for it to fade away like so many blissful memories when she had been shackled away.
When they pulled away, Marika went for an apology, but Khalisiar reached out for her lips as soon as he caught a single breath. Her words shattered in her mouth, dwindling to a light moan. She found that she was suddenly on his lap, massive hands around her waist, nearly swallowing it all in his grasp. She was so much smaller than him, like when she rested against Godfrey. No, she thought. Khalisiar. It was unfair to him for her to think of the past when she was trying to help him forget it. And perhaps…she needed it too. Needed to forget it all, the pain and suffering, the scars visible and unseen. She wanted to let go, to take care of Khalisiar and be taken care of. She needed it.
A gentle yelp left her lips as Khalisiar lifted her suddenly up, her legs springing around his waist without a thought. Her shock quickly faded away when Khalisiar gave a sheepish, endearing grin. She found that she quite liked his smile. And his kisses. So, she reached out with them, moaning softly as he carried her away. When asked where, he merely said “bathing house” against her lips.
That was fine with her. She would help him clean up, and then she would make sure that the man had eaten first this day. If he was going to be all stiff about her appetite, it was only fair. Allow them both to stubbornly pamper. If it meant they would forget their pains, only for a little while then…Marika thought it would be worth it. If she was going to be cursed with living once more, than she would spite the Elden Ring. Let her live helping someone, maybe even loving them.
No, not love. Not yet, anyway. She did not think she was ready for that. Perhaps, later in the future. But not now. Not when the scars burned so hotly still. But she would return the care Khalisiar so eagerly gave her. She had little to nothing to give—not a crown or a throne, but Marika would give her all.
She simply prayed that it would be enough.
