@foxiams: ❛ no one heard our screams for a long time. ❜
‘𝐓𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫. And yet it’d been enough. From it had come the spark of brilliance. A glow of starlight between his hands, beating with familiar vitality. Fed from the divinity of his veins and the breath from his lungs. From that single moment had all else sprung. Life that propagates and grow beyond his control. Too fast, too much. The form it takes is wrong. What might once have been a blessed being is now a malformed creature. The furl of rotten wings, the bent of a misshapen tail, all born from he. There is a parable to be had here, in the hubris of a being that may be part divine yet still not a god in whole.
You are mine. He tells the creature and casts it out into the wild. Allows it life and freedom. The first of many crafted for but a singular purpose. For Marika may have her designs and so too will he have his. A counter and an answer to her scheming.
In the end, it’d not been enough. The Elden Ring shattered, himself imprisoned. Centuries upon centuries of unfettered decay that eats at the very lands. He emerges from the Erdtree to a new age and would weep for all that has been lost. His fist had closed around a hammer and it’d not been enough.
So he leaves, departs from a capitol in flames. Thinking so very little of the starlight he’d once weaved between his hands ‘til one day it falls upon him. A spark from a spark from a spark, still beating with the same trace of amber. More than amber mayhap, there is something that is crimson within those eyes, something that is primordial. Her kind, that’d once wandered these lands with a purpose unfulfilled, with naught to sink her fangs in. It must ache to walk with a void such as that within one’s heart.
None had heard mine as well, he wants to say. None save but one. And it’d done so little for him in the end. “Thou art fit enough to seize thine own destiny in thy hands, without the need of help from what cruel gods may exist. If aught at all, 'tis a mercy for the gods that slumber upon these lands to remain deaf to thy pleas, for they are a greedy and malicious sort who would bring naught but more suffering to thine existence.” Is it better to have a god that is indifferent or one who wishes only ill? ‘Tis the same in the end, is it not? Thus would these creations of his be deserving of pity, had he sympathy enough to spare. ‘Tis her misfortune then that what became of his heart, of the part of himself that might care for her plight, had all but withered and become loam for tree reduced to ash.
But… mayhap there is a trace after all. For he reaches within himself, plucked from between his ribs. And from that mote does he forge a weapon. A wicked curve of a blade that he places in her hands. “Shouldst thou find thyself desperate enough to scream, then bear this against thine enemies instead. ‘Tis all the blessing I am able.”
