Fic update! A Silver Cast Mirror | E | Male!Tarnished x Varre (x mimic tear) | ch 7 of 7
"And just what tasks do we have left to complete?" The Tarnished asked, speeding up to walk by Varré's side. He flashed his teeth in a grin and stared at the empty expanse of the bridge in front of him. "Here I thought that we might finally have a moment's rest at our home."
While his tone was light, he felt as if he might rip out his other eye if Varré wanted them to do much more. He had already been thrashed by a demigod and gutted by a silver copy of himself. The last thing he needed was for Varré to send him off to get run through again, there was only so much his poor body could take.
"I thought I might see if the nobles still retained their skill in battle." Varré stopped near the edge of the broken bridge. "Who better to test their blades against than my dear hound?"
"You're hysterical." The Tarnished leaned against a crumbling pillar and raised a brow, hoping to encourage Varré to tell him what he actually had planned.
"Relax, lover, I have little interest in putting you in harm's way." Varré's golden eyes were obscured beneath the darkness of his mask, but the Tarnished could just barely see the way they rolled. "I think you'll find my plans most agreeable."
"And they are…?"
Varré moved in close and brought a gloved hand to the Tarnished's neck, thumb trailing along his jaw. "You said it best yourself, it's imperative we test just how leashed the mimic tear is."
The Tarnished's breath caught in his throat as he felt Varré's lips press against his pulse point, realization dawning on him. "Are you certain about this?" He asked after a moment passed and he regained the smallest amount of composure. While he didn't mind their proximity to Mohg, he just didn't trust that it was safe to be so vulnerable with the mimic tear.
"Has a summoned spirit ever turned blade against its master?" Varré asked in turn. "There's no reason to believe this tear would be any different."
SFW. Canon typical violence. Varré and his first encounter with the Lord he's come to serve. Platonic or romantic.
Word count — 497
His bloodied chest had gone cold, and it reeked of iron and betrayal. No, it wasn't; his comrade had simply followed protocol. Even allies face the lethal judgment of the Miséricorde, regardless of whether you're a commander or a fellow War Surgeon. The dagger had missed vital organs, his comrade had not confirmed the kill, and Varré was left to bleed. He had gotten too ambitious, too diligent; the knight, in turn for execution, wasn't fully incapacitated. With his last breath, he had pierced Varré's soft stomach. Without armor, he was left vulnerable.
His miscalculation had cost him his life, waiting to take his last breath as he reflected on the misery before him. Heaps of lifeless bodies he will soon join, another corpse to be forgotten.
As he fluttered between consciousness and slumber, he twitched awake at the tune of metal chattering. With weary eyelids, he turned to face him, an Omen.
“Rise, carrier of death, your end is not yet nigh,” he arose from the pool of blood spilled by War Surgeons. Healers become hangmen, abandoning their rejuvenating arts.
Varré didn't speak, he couldn't nor wished to. He merely observed the Omen, blood running down his calloused, coal forehead. Intimidating, yet eloquent and soft-spoken.
“Join me, become my blood-sworn knight, and I will salvage the brittle life left behind your eyes.”
The Omen stepped forward, looming over the fallen man. His shimmering, bedazzled spear towered over both of them, casting a shadow across Varré’s breathless body.
“Live an honorable life, a warrior of the Mohgwyn Dynasty. Or perish among the lives you’ve stolen. Die, you too, in obscurity,” the Omen continued, his voice was raspy but spoke with confidence.
He continued, “say, will you choose life and community, or a certain, lonesome death?”
With little contemplation, Varré reached his trembling hand towards the Omen, an attempt to communicate. His breaths grew scarce, his thoughts became muddled too. Anything but this, for his life cannot end on the battlefield he was tethered to.
“Very well, you have your wits with you,” the Omen answered, drawing a slit spilling red rain. It dripped down Varré’s head, down through the holes in his mask, spreading across his short stubble.
“Consume the blood I've spilled, for it will be the bond that ties us together.”
Varré looked up at the strange sight, a rain of blood manifested from nothingness. Regardless, he will heed the Omen’s call and escape the battlefield he detests. Mouth ajar, he let himself consume the blood. It tasted sweet, unlike human blood. Like the nectar of fruit or berries grown from fertilized soil.
The Omen scooped up the bloodstained War Surgeon, his limbs had gone limp, and his neck failed to keep his head perked. His cold body had regained some heat, warmth prickling at his skin, twitching as his fingers regained function.
“War Surgeon, what is your name?”
“Varré,” he whispered.
“Abandon your title, for you will be remembered as my White Mask, serving the Mohgwyn Dynasty.”
Finished my Varre garage kit!!! It was a lot of fun to paint and put together. I’ve never painted minis or a GK before so this was a really fun learning process. I’ve added some progress photos under the cut!
