EldenSouls Oneshots

Omen

The views accursed twin princes carry about themselves and what they are.

TW for canonical child abuse and non detailed gore

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Mohg would never cease to confuse him.

The disgusting, spiralling horns that grew along his head, the awful tail that grew at the bottom of his spine and the fur that grew over his skin- a blessing, his brother had called them.

The twins were blessed, and yet they were cast aside and left to rot in the sewers. The grace of the Erdtree had abandoned them, they had been forced away from their father, and their mother had only visited once.

He could think of no crueller joke. Blessed.

Morgott could not remember his mother's facial features well, but the way she carried herself through the Shunning Grounds so regally, and held a stoic and almost stone-like expression, was burned into his memory. He tried to replicate it, promenading as if he were not dressed in nothing but dirty rags and chains and forever trapped in a dark prison, and trying to make his voice sound less like a poor child's and more noble- worthy of a real blessing, rather than a curse.

Not only that, though, he could remember the look of disdain she had when she'd gazed upon her children.

Mohg had been seething, refusing to call her Mother and instead muttering the name Marika with such anger that he was surprised he wasn't witness to Mohg dirtying her regal white robes with her own blood. Morgott was sure that she had looked at them like that out of mourning, wishing that she could bring her sons home to bathe in the golden rays of the Erdtree's light. She had to have done so.

After that, Mohg had retreated to the very depths of the Shunning Grounds, another thing that Morgott didn't understand. His twin had left without anything more than an admittedly heartfelt goodbye. No explanations, no promises of return, nothing.

Left alone, lacking in all company save for the rats.

It gave him plenty of time to think. Think, and yearn.

The Erdtree was quickly becoming the only thing he had left to desire. It's grace, it's light, it's warmth; all a stark contrast to the cold, dark and wet labyrinth of the sewers that he called home. But Mohg was wrong. His horns were no blessing. The golden tree would never accept an omen like him.

A calloused, furry hand lightly traced the spirals of his pale horns. Morgott stared at his reflection in a puddle of filthy water, illuminated only by the tiny candle that he'd been lucky enough to salvage and ignite. His horns twisted and spiralled upwards from his brow like an ornate crown. A painful reminder of the supposed royal blood that he possessed

He would be accepted one day.

Even if he had to change himself to do it.

Clutching an old, rusted dagger in his trembling hands, Morgott lined the weathered blade up to the base of one of the more prominent horns in his crown, breath quickening as the sharp edge settled in one of it's grooves.

The moment that the blade cut into his horn, had he not been screaming in agony then Morgott could've sworn that it was on fire. 



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Morgott would never cease to confuse him.

The regal crown of horns that adorned his skull, the wings that blessed him with flight and the tough, scale-like skin that helped to protect him from the many small injuries one would gain in their home- cursed, he called them.

They did not need the Erdtree's blasphemous light, did not need their father to protect them and did not need Marika's pity. The sewers they had been cast down into only proved to show just how wrong they all were, how wrong they all are.

He couldn't think of a more foolish thought. Cursed.

Mohg didn't care to remember much about Marika, though the way she promenaded about the sewers as they she were too divine to face the consequences of her own actions would forever make his blood boil. How funny it would have been, for the goddess of the Golden Order to be slain in the prison of her own blessed sons; the temptation had been there, held back if only by the thought that Morgott would probably have not forgiven him. What made him even angrier, though, was how enamoured with her Morgott had seemed. Even after her departure, he tried his best to be like her, walk like her, talk like her. It made him furious- towards Marika, the Order, and, somewhat, Morgott himself.

It was after this that he decided he was not going to dwell around the surface any longer. He did not need the light of the Erdtree, nor it's hindering grace or it's pompous Order.

It would be soon enough after his departure, that a soft, calling voice from the very depths would agree with him. 

She had introduced herself as the Formless Mother (she already felt like much more of a mother than his own ever was), and her voice remained a small comfort in place of his brother as he slowly traversed the lowest depths of the Shunning Grounds. Mohg missed Morgott terribly, of course. They'd spent every moment together up until now.

But if he wanted to keep trying to earn the favour of a cruel order that had robbed them of their thrones in the first place, then that was his mistake. 

Mohg watched as one of his horns crept closer and closer to his eye, the now-unfamiliar feeling of anxiety settling in his stomach as he awoke every day, only to find it looked closer. 

The Formless Mother reassured him, her presence like the hand in his that he never got from Marika. He could not remove it, for the pain would make him stronger. She would guide him through it and everything would be okay.

The morning he was awoken by a fiery agony in his eye, he couldn't help but laugh with pure joy.