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draconic-ichor · 11 months

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Tarnished Threads, Golden Stitches

Morgott/tarnished fic

Slow burn

Warming: strong language, sexual themes

Summary: Hester is a seamstress living in the capital, life is fairly mundane until one fateful night at a festival…

Feedback appreciated, 18+

This is an entirely new Au! Not abandoning my other ones, was just inspired :3

The mending began months ago, the world was falling back into place. Everything was different now: their King was revealed to be an omen, their ‘god’ a glorified statue, the Golden Order reformed, and the Elden Lord galavanting around the Lands Between. It was a lot to swallow for Leyndell’s people.

But they had the chance to swallow now.

Not every tarnished met a true end on their journey; some survived to see their brother take up the mantle of Elden Lord, and in this new age, grace returned to their darkened eyes. Unlike their brother, however, they were still quite lowly.

Hester was one of these tarnished.

Awoken after the Erdtree already burned overhead, she was scrambling far behind in a world crumbling away… never to receive a rune of her own or see the fabled Round Table. It was not till after the mending that her eyes fell upon the tree in all its golden splendor; and like hundreds of others, she flocked to the capital towards it.

It was all for the best. Even though she was descended from those first few tarnished that followed Godfrey into the mists, fighting didn’t suit her. She knew a little magic, mostly reserved for healing, and couldn’t hold a blade to save her life. Her late awakening was a blessing.

What she did know, however, was mending. Hester was very good with her hands and could not only mend fabrics but had the creativity to create whole new clothing. She could also sew and spin thread. All things the capital had need of now that repairs were in order.

Hester sighed, deep in thought as she worked. She leaned forward, elbows on the worn workbench, staring wistfully out into the capital.

It was a busy morning, the townsfolk preparing for the festival that night, birdsong and fragrant smells filling her senses.

She loved the brightness, gaze drifting higher to the castle, alabaster stone and gilded tiles like a dream high above.

She sighed again.

“Sigh any louder and you’ll attract attention,” came a voice.

Hester jumped, pricking her finger as she did so. She yelped, quickly putting it in her mouth to soothe the sting. She gave a sharp look to the culprit, a man standing on the street below her open window.

“Looks like I already have.” She huffed.

He pulled himself up to the windowsill, a smile plastered over his face. The armor of a guard made him look a size bigger than he truly was, clinking together as he made himself comfortable.

“Don’t you have work to do?” She couldn’t help her lips crack into a smile.

“Doing my rounds now, when I happened upon a maiden. And don’t you have work to do? You have a stall in the market square tonight.” He reminded.

“I know!” Hester flushed, she’d saved for weeks for the fees, such a prime location had its prices.

“Mhm.” He nodded.

“I’m almost finished with my last few, just adding the final touches!” She gestured to the doll before her.

“Ghastly.” He shuttered, looking over her current batch.

“He is our King!” She snapped.

“And he can stay inside his castle.” The guard chuckled, leaning in a bit more to ask, “Do you truly think they will sell?”

“Not everyone holds so little love for their monarch.” Hes informed, “Some of us are loyalists.”

The man snorted, leaning in further still, attempting to steal a kiss. Hester rolled her eyes, hand covering his mouth as she pushed him back out the window.

He chuckled, feet hitting the cobblestones once more, “I’ll catch you one day, Hes.”

“Keep hoping.” She smiled, waving him off as he went back to his duties. She sat back heavily in her seat, eyes falling to the current doll she worked on. She sighed, slowly scanning the rest; all were endearing renditions of their king: with button eyes, little plush horns, and a fluffy tail made from scraps of real fur.

She held the current one closer, thumb softly tracing its small fabric face.

She couldn’t be the only one…

Lanterns filled the streets overhead, each one a different shape or hue, sending the night into a kaleidoscope of swirling color. The smell of spices and sweets filled the air, and the sound of mirth almost drowned out the far off beat of music.

Hester couldn’t get enough.

She put on her best dress and put flowers in her hair for the occasion. Part of her wanted to mingle about the crowd and see every stall for herself, but she had her own stall to run.

Her table was covered in bright bolts of fabric and batches of dolls all lovingly made. Children would scamper up and squeal out at seeing their hero in doll form, or the Elden Lords trusty spectral steed, while their parents pulled runes from their pockets. It was a special occasion after all. A few young maidens would sneakily buy a doll of their dashing Elden Lord, his absence in the capital adding to his mystique.

As the night was marching onwards, she was doing quite well! The glow of success dimmed a bit about her, as her amber eyes fell on a corner of the stall that lay untouched: the dolls of the King. Hester’s stomach twisted a bit.

She moved them to the center of the stall, in a place of easy sight, adjusting their little cloaks and tails to sit just right.

She couldn’t be the only one,

She kept telling herself.

The only one to see the allure of the King.

Her cheeks blushed at the thought, mind drifting back to the infatuated maidens and their excitement with the Elden Lord, or how she kept back a King doll for herself…

She was so ate up with thought she didn’t notice the sounds of revelry died down around her. It was not until the glow of the lanterns were obstructed by a great shadow that her eyes were ripped from the table. Hester looked up, freezing.

A great shape darkened her stall, silhouette monstrous and jagged, with a crown of twisting horns. Hester swallowed, the only movement she could manage, heartbeat in her throat.

It was King Morgott.

An eon seemed to stretch before them, the King like a pillar of stone as he looked over her wares. All the times Hester had caught sight of him, far away on the castle balcony or before a large crowd for an announcement, did him little justice. He was massive, at least thirty-six hands high, not counting the heavy tail that absolutely cleared the street behind him. The bulky cloak he wore about his shoulders exaggerated their broadness. Hers the critical eye of a seamstress, caught all the places the fabric was stressed, holes bore through it completely here or there.

Not fit for a King, surely.

She didn’t have long to wonder, the King’s hand moving forward. Hester gulped, suddenly realizing his single eye was fixed on the little dolls made in his likeness. A hand, bigger than her waist, carefully picked up the closest one, bringing it to his face for inspection. It was clear they were made with the utmost care, and very oddly they were constructed without overemphasis on his more beastial features. They were….flattering even?

His brow knotted, gaze flicking away from the little doll to its maker.

Was she flushed??

Even more curious…

She trembled a bit as his gaze bore into her, staring back into that single orb of brilliant shifting gold. She grew lost in it, yet never shying away. Morgott’s gaze tore away from her, back to the doll in his hand.

Just as silently as he approached, he retreated, straightening to full standing before moving along the street once more. Hester’s heart hammered about her chest as she watched his form drift away, never wavering until the tip of his horned tail disappeared among the recrowding street.

As the music and merriment swelled once more she realized she’d been holding her breath. An almost pained huff rattled from her lungs, eyes still saucers. She blinked, looking down at her table.

A hand clapped over her mouth in shock: there was a doll missing.

Oh gods, did he take it with him??

She thought, worriedly.

She couldn’t keep her mind on the festival, or on bartering her wares any longer. Sweat wet her lower back as she hastily packed up her remaining items, hands shaking as she did so.

Her mind was a storm, a swirling mess of worry and fear.

Did the King think she was mocking him? Oh gods would she be taken away?

As she made her way slowly through the crowded streets, back overburdened, her thoughts darkened.

Was he angry with her? Would…would he throw her in the dungeon?

She stumbled into her room, a glorified closet off the main shop. Dumping the items on the floor haphazardly, Hester began to pull the flowers from her hair, wincing as they yanked at her copper curls. Tears stained her eyes, the small bit of pain just adding to the chorus of negativity that loomed over her.

She fell into her meager bed, curling in on herself protectively. Blinking, her eyes fell on the little doll near her pillow. It regarded her with unblinking button eyes, no malice on its fabric visage.

Scooping it to her chest, the tears finally fell freely, crying freshly into her pillow. Sleep found her fitfully, coming in waves interlaced with stretches of agonizing wakefulness.

She kept chanting that everything would be fine, she was just overreacting….he wouldn’t act against her…would he? He was the king. No care for a lowly woman like her.

He was the King….

She blinked into the dawn light. Hair a nest of knots from her tossing and turning, a darkness circling her large eyes. She sat up groggily, the sound of birdsong being dampened by a commotion outside her room.

Hester wasn’t the only woman to rent a little space in the shop, the other women making quite the racket in the main area currently.

She sighed, steeling herself to see what excited them so. As soon as she pushed the door open she was met with everyone calling out her name.

“Hes! Hes! There’s a letter for you!”

“A letter?” She blinked, still half asleep.

“It has the royal seal!” They squealed.

She froze, stomach dropping to the floor. The other’s chatter dulled around her as she paced forward, trembling hands taking the letter.

It was made of fine parchment, the golden seal of the King keeping it prominently sealed.

Hester felt like the ground was swallowing her as she broke it open, unfolding the letter to read. Deaf to the other crowding around to read over her shoulder, she focused on the beautiful handwriting.

Her fear was slowly replaced with confusion, bewilderment. Her brows knotted as she read and reread the letter, no…the offer?

“Come on, what does it say!?” A young girl bounced.

“It’s…It’s an offer from the King.” Hester whispered, drowned out by the other’s raising excitement. She swallowed, “They want me to be the King’s personal seamstress…”

She didn’t hear the screams of excitement around her, wandering through them towards the shop window. Her gaze fell on the castle, far away nestled near the base of the great tree.

She couldn’t be the only one…..

Could she?

#new fic #tarnished threads golden stitches #seamstress au #morgott/tarnished #morgott the omen king #tarnished oc #morgott/female tarnished #elden ring fic

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schrodingersdivinity · 1 year

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Stranger Than You Dreamt It — (Tarnished/Morgott) Oneshot Pt.1

(Deeply edited for tacky dialogue and readability. If you read this previously and found it cringey or hard to read, I’ve hopefully fixed it.)

As a Tarnished, she was expected to fight the demi-gods, usurp the thrones throughout the lands between, and pillage, plunder, destroy anything she pleased.

She was called forth from her Banishment from the Badlands, to valiantly fight for Lordship and save the kingdom from its perpetual apocalypse.

Unfortunately for the Greater Will, not many Tarnished make it. Some, don’t even want the throne to begin with.

This particular Tarnished was one of those. At the most, she wanted to help the broken nation recover from the Shattering; and so far the best way to do that was to get behind the best leader the Lands Between has got: King Morgott, The Veiled Monarch.

She had entered into his service after uniting the halves of the Dectus Medallion, then engaging Margit in battle a second time just outside Leyndell’s walls.

After the first few attempts of just getting around him failed— he had a way of disguising himself amongst the harrowed remnants of the broken armies— she resigned to simply go somewhere else until a plan could be formulated.

Of course, this wouldn’t go her way, as Margit started to hunt her down around the Altus Plateau. First it was during her climb up to Mt. Gelmir. He had made it quick and had simply thrown her in front of one of the Abductor Virgins. She hadn’t even known it was him at first, she just found herself flying straight into the lacerating chamber of the machine then woke up at grace. Returning to the scene she saw familiar footprints approaching her much smaller ones, where hers suddenly stopped and his stalked away.

The second time, she was fighting The Wormface by the Minor Erdtree. This time was different, as Margit first helped her defeat the monster. He made quick work of the remnant of its life force before doing the same to hers.

The fight had been a marvel to watch, now that she was not the one on the receiving end of the knotted wood or the golden blades. At first he moved slowly, as if his age was something his body had to obey. Then, you would blink and he would be careening towards his target with petrifying speed.

Nonetheless, he had changed targets once the Wormface was dead, and she woke up at grace once again.

The third time however, didn’t end that way. The third time she was in the Windmill Village, walking slowly through the flowery stakes and laughing women. He had followed her there, and confronted her once she had killed the Godskin Noble.

Fighting that one didn’t interest Margit apparently. Neither did the obviously crazed women, which plucked some nerve within the Tarnished, and she rounded on him verbally this time.

“You have no other interests besides killing Tarnished, have you? Say, helping these poor villagers for instance? Helping the rest of Leyndells army on Mt. Gelmir? You accuse me of having no respect for these lands, but I’m beginning to think you don't either— and you enjoy killing as much as you think I do.”

Instead of just lobbing her head off, or nailing her to one of the flowered stakes, he rebuked her heated words with his own. What followed was a long battle of words, instead of swords.

He admonished her that he indeed was able to do both things at once: do his best to assist the people of the Lands Between and hunt down tarnished, which fell into that category. Tarnished more often than not felt entitled to whatever they found, whether that be in the woods or a village home.

The Tarnished had known to some degree that this was the case, but the picture Margit was painting of her and her fellow tarnished was worse than she had thought. Few distinguished threats from simply citizens, and no amount of cowering helped. In fact, some tarnished would come riding through Limgrave or The Consecrated Snowfields and stab at passing travelers, who were obviously unarmed and not a threat. This is why the Majority of the Altus Plateaus citizenship was hidden inside sealed buildings, and society functioned inside tunnels and underground networks.

Margit had given the Tarnished something she had desperately needed: insight. As a Tarnished, she was more or less cut off from the workings of state and civilization in The Lands Between. She was an outsider, and an unwelcome one as well.

Margit had ferociously educated her on what was really happening in Leyndell. It wasn’t a ruin like everything else, and was being held together despite the ongoing apocalypse. Despite the demigods sieging the Capitols walls, tarnished and champions slinking in or fighting around them, the city had stood tall. There was still trade, new births, art, and life happening in the Capitols delicate ecosystem, sealed off by the walls themselves and their vigilant guards— Margit among them.

Mockingly, he asked her if she would like to help. If she wanted to defend the lands against its threats, and gallantly keep its citizens out of harms way. If she wanted to give up the ambition of lordship, lose her guidance of grace, and take on a new mission.

It surprised him then, when she eagerly accepted his sarcastic calling, insisting that that is what she thought the tarnished were called to do. She didn't want lordship if it meant tearing down the last remnants of civilization.

She stood there silent and awkward as Margit stared her down, analyzing every micro-expression that crossed her face. When he found no hint at cunning or treachery, he merely grunted and started to walk away.

When she stayed there staring at his receding form, at a loss for what to do now, he impatiently looked back and called for her to follow. Quickly she scrambled over the rugged terrain, and had to fight to keep pace with his long strides all the way back to Leyndell.

Of course, the process had not come easily. Hardly. It took her the upwards of two years before she was allowed inside the capitol walls, and Margit had almost become cynically cruel in his tests towards the tarnished. It didn't seem possible that he could be convinced of her sincerity. Still she kept on, as the work he was putting her to did seem a great deal more effective than anything she could do on her own.

After some time though, he had given up the tests, and instead just watched her closely. The vigilance turned slowly from paranoid to teaching, though the distinguishment was hard to place.

Presently, she was now a new recruit amongst the Nights Cavalry. Torrent had stayed with her happily, despite her having lost her grace. He stayed her loyal companion and steed. She patrolled during the daytime, along the usual routes the other Knights did, cruising across the lands between 10x the speed the larger steeds could easily. She checked for new Tarnished encampments, minding their progress to ensure they never came too close.

She had left the Dectus medallion with Margit, and instead traveled through the old mines entrance, patrolling through there as well. She hadn’t realized how much she had taken traveling by grace for granted, but the slower pace at which she lived life was grounding and calming in a way.

She saw Margit rarely, which at first was a blessing but then slowly became a nuisance. He was her commander, but when she had comments or reports to make he was irritatingly evasive.

A few months after her initiation, she sought him out once again. She found him in the Second Church of Marika, looking rather morose.

"Found you! You know for someone who's keeping vigil for Tarnished trying to enter the Capitol, you aren't very easy to find." She remarked as she rewarded Torrent with some rowa berries. She dismissed him, and approached her commander.

"Better then, when certain Tarnished are determined to find me simply to pester."

"I don't pester," She said with a scoff. "I'm here to report from Castle Mourne."

He turned then, from the statue at the forefront of the church to regard her with a look of 'Well?'

"The Misbegotten have vacated the fortress, for better or for worse. The crows and surrounding wildlife have picked clean the corpses, save for the pile that's easily a few stories tall. Though I remember it being taller when I first made my way through there. Who knows, could be gone in about a month."

Margit made no indication he was listening, but he didn't have to. Wandering towards one of the bloodrose bushes, he examined them as she continued talking.

"If we wanted to reclaim the Weeping Peninsula, now would be the time. Though if I remember correctly, the King doesn't like the idea of expanding his territory."

"Correct," He rumbles as he carefully plucks a rosebud from the bush, twirling the tiny bloom between his fingers.

"Well would you like me to keep it relatively empty? Should the King change his mind?"

"No. The king has no desire to follow in the footsteps of the other traitorous demigods. The overextension would jeopardize the Golden Orders security."

"Well, if you're certain..."

Certain he was.

"Tarnished, what is thine opinion on the misbegotten?"

The tarnished had to double check that she heard correctly, that her commander was asking her opinion on something. "Pardon?"

He gave an agitated huff and glanced at her impatiently. "Thoust heard me. Answer."

"Well..." She thought for a minute on the loaded question. She knew that the Misbegotten were named so because of their origin from the crucible. Looking over the omens turned form, the marks of the crucible were as apparent on him as they were on the winged creatures. No doubt her opinion was going to be interpreted towards him, best to choose her words carefully.

"In Castle Mourne they were made slaves, and their masters were confused that they turned on them, saying "They gave good service". I don't think they were wrong to retaliate, even if in such bloody retaliation."

"Even though their masters were born of grace, and them: graceless?"

Mmm. Fuck. Somehow shes in hot water anyways, despite her efforts.

"Well, those in grace shouldn't need or want to enslave the graceless. One of the Golden Orders goals is to assimilate all into itself, isn't it?" Thinking on the words of Muriel, hopefully they wouldn't get her in an even worse spot with the Fell Omen.

"True. yet thou still hasn't answered my question. What is thine opinion?"

She looked up through the broken roof. then down at the rose in her commanders hand.

"I think it would be wonderful to fly. I have no opinion of them, if I am not envious."

Margit scoffs loudly, tossing the rose to her for her to catch. "Then ye haven't the faintest idea what you speak of."

The Tarnished then decided she wasn't in enough trouble, and kept on. "Well I for one would love to have a fluffy tail with spikes on it. You absolutely destroyed me with that thing when we were fighting, but it looks very comforting to hold."

Regarding her with a look of incredulity with a hint of revulsion, for once Margit the Fell Omen was rendered speechless, which she took as an invitation to keep on her 'pestering'.

"And while the horns looks troublesome, they look cool as hell. you know now that I think of it, they kind of look like a crown--"

"Enough! Thy strange enamourment with my features is perplexing but unimportant, keep it to thyself for godsake." Swiftly turning away, Margit trudged through the ruined wall and in an unclear direction.

Of course, the Tarnished followed.

"Is that why you always avoid me? Because you're afraid of me touching your tail? I am always looking at it, and I've definitely considered it before."

"Cease. If thou art so keen on talking and disguising it as a report, thou art permitted to report to the King directly. He won't tolerate thy filler conversation."

"What? Why the King? Do you even have that kind of authority?"

"Indeed. Thou art a Cavalry Knight only in name. I have recruited thou, but that doesn't mean I must keep thine in my ranks. He will have better use of thou, and thou will make littler use of his time. He will have thine assignments and patrols, ye will be his agent."

"Damn, you're really handing me off to the king because I said I was gonna touch your tail?" Her remark was flippant, but with it was a pang of hurt, that the Omen truly didn't want her around.

"All the same. Report to him at dusk every fortnight, meet him within his sanctum and do not be tardy. This is what thou wanted, no? To regularly report, without the task of tracking me down." He said dismissively.

"Yeah, I suppose." Trying to pass the disappointment in her voice as airy nonchalance, the Tarnished wondered why or how she had grown fond of bothering the old omen.

Mounting Torrent, the Tarnished requested dismissal. When it was granted, she hastily left the church and tried to self soothe her bruised heart in the wake of such clear rejection.

~~~

When dusk of the next fortnight approached, the Tarnished approached the entrance to the Golden Order sanctum. This was one of the few places where the King would receive people, and only with his most trusted servants.

The tarnished appreciated King Morgotts trust in Margits judgement, as the tarnished herself had never proved herself to anyone besides the Fell Omen.

Checking her reflection in a nearby gilded door, the tarnished did her best to calm her fraying nerves. She approached the door and paused, wondering if she should simply wait or knock.

One of the flanking guards stationed by the door struck the floor with the pommel of his halberd, permitting the door to open independently.

Through the aisle, between the pews was a simple altar. Nothing in here was gaudy or gilded like most of the city. In fact, very little precious metal was set into the room. Everything was well crafted, but besides that it was a simple church.

At the end of the mossy carpet, was a figure who she assumed to be the King. Stepping into the sanctum, the Tarnished took to one knee as soon as the door closed behind her, waiting for the cue to rise.

"Approach, Tarnished."

She rose and approached the king, standing upright and at attention. "Your Majesty, I come with information from the Siofra River, below Limgrave."

Even though she herself was a little over 6' tall, he was still a head and a half taller. This wasn't very surprising, as most denizens of the lands between had become strange elongated versions of themselves from the constant cycle of undeath. The Veiled Monarch however, didn't appear emaciated at all.

She couldn't see his face directly, but in her peripheral she was able to glean details. White hair, pallid complexion, white hair wound in complicated braids, and a curmudgeonly frown that reminded her of her previous superior.

"Very well then, thou will report to me, then we will dwell here and pray for however long I will. Thou may follow my example or stay behind in thy choice of the pews behind me. When I am finished I will give ye thine assignment."

"You pray about my assignment?" She said perplexed, before she could stop herself. She may have been inducted 2 years ago, but monarchial courtesy wasn't a thing familiar to her and she forgot it quickly when confronted with the possibility that one of the demigods really did have the ability to commune with the greater will.

For a beat of silence, the two just stared at each-other. The Tarnished didn't even know what to say to try and save herself. She only hoped that the King would write her off as a witless tarnished, and that her disrespect was like that of a mule to a lion.

"No." The King heaved a deep sigh, and brought his hand up from where it was clasped behind his back to pinch the bridge of his nose. "No, I don't pray after thy duties tarnished, I simply use this time for myself while also accepting reports from my generals. If I were to take them all at the same time, I would never move from the war room." He explains this slowly, with an air of exhaustion, as if she were a child to whom he had explained this concept to them a multitude of times.

The Tarnished pauses this time, double checking her words for any insubordination or obtuse commentary that may have snuck in while she wasn't looking. "I see, my apologies. My wits aren't as keen as one might think."

The monarch huffed a dry laugh, as if to say: "Clearly."

The evening progressed as he said, and the two surprisingly lulled into a quiet peace with the others presence. he then gave her her assignment, and she was off. While she was still hurt and disappointed that Margit had handed her off to someone else to deal with, he was right. The King had better use for the Tarnished talents for infiltration and exploration, and had the authority to permit more than simply the usual "kill this" "go here" assignments.

Still, the Tarnished could almost say she missed the omen. You might even catch her saying she did if you got her drunk enough. But alas, there was nothing to be done.

#I wrote the tarnished with adhd #not on purpose it just happened #margit #morgott #eldenring #elden ring #elden ring margit #elden ring morgott #morgott the omen king #morgott/tarnished #margit the fell omen #tarnished #elden ring tarnished #fanfic #fanfiction #oneshot

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