Tags: size difference, scent kink, blood kink, anal sex, multiple orgasm, egg laying, mpreg, hurt/comfort, angst, romance, touch starvation, body worship, selectively mute! tarnished, top! messmer, insecurity, topping from the bottom, Messmer POV, possessive behavior, miscommunication, resolved sexual tension, fluff, face fucking, family
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
chapter 3
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“Thou art welcome to join me.” He speaks quietly, brightening when he feels Eyrie’s presence behind him, lingering in the doorway of his prayer room, where he sits upon his knees before the statue of his mother, hands clasped together, and face bowed reverently.
He has been praying for his brood’s health, as well as his consort’s. Their stomach had swelled overnight since he’d last lain with them, but for one reason or another, the symptoms seem to be lingering far longer than their first bout of pregnancy. It has been two days now since they’ve been forced to wear nothing but robes, their usual clothes and armor woefully ill-fitting around their expanding form.
Truly, they should be laying in the nest, but each time he has sequestered himself into his prayer room, they have felt the need to check on him. He has been praying for hours now, he supposes that it was about time that he returned to their side. It isn’t the first time that he’s offered for them to come to his side and pray, but each time his consort has decided to remain at the doorway, as if frightened upon intruding on sacred ground.
A baseless fear. He is sure that with some convincing they will readily join him in these sessions. He so desperately wants them to bask in the warm glow of his mother, for her to accept them into her embrace, as she once did for him, so, long ago.
His shoulders dip as old memories surface.
“Oh, mother…” He sighs, his love for her unending.
How he wishes her bloody war in the Lands Between will end, and she at last will return. He often dreams of the occasion: of her stoic, androgynous face, softening when her golden eyes lay upon him once more and she sees how obedient of a son he has been—how fiercely he has fought in her name, and how he has dutifully waited for her return all this time.
He stands to his feet, muscles stiff, and raises his face to gaze upon the statue of her, breathing deeply, before letting out a long sigh and turning around.
Eyrie remains in the doorway, leaning against it, their arms folded over one another, and their gaze, too, is set upon the statue, and while their expression is placid, he cannot help but notice that their jaw is clenched tightly, and their purple eyes seem dark—the darkest he’s ever seen them.
“What is it, my beloved?” He asks at once, quickly walking over to them and placing his hand on the curve of their stomach. “Doth something ail thee? Perhaps it is time for another meal. Come, let me tend to thee.”
They linger, even as he nudges them gently, eyes still upon the statue, but they relent after a few moments, and allow him to lift them into his arms. He carries them to the nest, laying them down gently, pressing his forehead to their belly, briefly, before straightening so he can go retrieve a platter of food and flagon of water.
He deeply enjoys feeding them. Their hunger is lively, and they eat every piece of dried meat and fruit he holds to their lips, chewing eagerly, but it is as the platter is cleared at last that Eyrie sits up suddenly, their face looking pale, and they cup a hand over their mouth tightly as they struggle to get up.
He picks them up, rushing to the washroom, but the jostling only upsets them more and they turn their face to the side and upend their meal upon the cobbled floor messily, sweat now covering their entire body.
The mess could wait, he finishes bringing them to the washroom and divests them of their robe before setting them on the stone steps of the tub. He brushes hair out of their face, cupping their cheek, and with a snap of his fingers the tub starts to fill with steaming water.
“I will prepare something for thee to help with the nausea.” He tells them, and only when they nod weakly, does he leave their side.
He calls for his guardsmen, and they slip into his chambers and take care of cleaning while he goes about gathering a mortar, pestle, and a few jars of dried herbs he keeps in a wooden chest. He has no knowledge of healing incantations of any sort, but his mother had imparted her ways of natural healing from her time in the Shaman Village.
He prepares an herbal tea, of a kind, muddling dried leaves vigorously into the mortar, adding more and more as needed with the help of his serpents, before pouring the earthy powder into a flagon and filling it with hot water, and the nectar of a fruit. He stirs it, then allows it to sit for several minutes, before he banishes his men from his chambers and he goes back to the washroom.
Eyrie has yet to submerge in the waters. They are so weak that they lay against the stone steps, eyes barely open, as they continue to struggle for breath.
He is at their side, falling to his knees, and he carefully lifts the back of their head and holds the flagon to their lips. Their nose wrinkles at the smell, and they even gag the slightest, but he remains firm.
“It will soothe thy stomach. Thou must drink it in its entirety.” He tells them, and very weakly they sit up a little higher and open their mouth. They’re trying to gulp it down as fast as possible to avoid the taste, but he moves the flagon from their lips, forcing them to take it at a slower pace so they do not choke, or end up vomiting once more.
Flagon emptied, he sets it aside and manually lowers them into the water, uncaring of how his ceremonial cloak becomes soaked in a few spots. Eyrie makes a few distressed sounds, but they settle into resting their face against their folded arms, their body submerged in the water from the neck down.
He lingers near them, laying on his side near the rim of the tub. He uses a single finger to trace the curve of their face, tucking some hair behind their ear. Their earring dangles, the gem’s brilliance hidden away from the steam that clung to its surface. He reaches for his own earring out of habit, tugging it lightly.
“…When I was a child, I did not get along with my serpents.” He finds himself telling them suddenly, and through their haze of sickness, they crack open an eye to regard him, curious. “I was ashamed of them. They were proof of my affliction. I could hardly stand to look upon them. We quarreled, and we quarreled often. They would nip at me in the most annoying manner, and I would threaten to tie them into bows. In retaliation, they would flip my tunic over my head, making me run into things, and I returned the favor by sleeping in a way that smothered them in my sleep, although, as they are a part of my very being, it felt uncomfortable for me as well. It was like having a limb falling asleep and awaking with the terrible feeling of pins and needles.”
Eyrie watches him for a moment, expression odd, before they hide their face in their arms. Their shoulders start to shake, and he is worried that they are about to be sick again.
“Eyrie?” He calls out, nudging their face with one of his serpents, and when they lift their face, he is relieved to see that the tears in the corners of their eyes are accompanied with a lopsided grin.
They weren’t sick—they were laughing at him.
Their purple eyes crease and their breath hitches repeatedly as they continue to laugh very, very quietly, the sound more akin to a series of hiccups, than a true laugh, and while he is mildly embarrassed that they find his old troubles so amusing, he cannot help but think their strange laughter is charming.
“I am glad that thee find so much pleasure in thine Lord’s suffering.” He huffs, adjusting to lay closer to them, his own face now resting in his folded arms a few inches from theirs.
Their condition improves slightly, and he is relieved that they sleep soundly through the night, but when morning comes things take a turn for the worse. Eyrie refuses all the food that he brings to them, just the sight and smell of them enough to upset their stomach.
“Thou must eat something.” He says, growing desperate when they even start to turn their nose at the water he brings. “Just a few sips, that is all I ask.” But still, they refuse to open their mouth.
He gives up, distressed, and paces his chambers, thinking of what he should do.
If there was nothing suitable for their tastes within his Keep, then he would simply have to venture outside of it.
“I will return shortly.” He assures them, pressing his forehead to theirs, before leaving the nest and going to his prayer room. He shuts the door behind him, sealing it, before he drops to his knees, and wills his mother’s spirit to reveal the path to her old home.
It has been quite some time since he ventured to the Shaman Village. It is as breathtaking as he remembers it, the few times that his mother brought him here. He’d lost the courage to come here by himself once she left, but his consort needs him, and he refuses to fail them. The animals avoid him, recognizing a man on a hunt immediately, but a bear with red fur, three times the size it typically should be, doesn’t feel the need to hide itself as he approaches.
Prideful little thing, he tuts, approaching it with his spear readied.
He slaughters it with ease, ramming his spear through its middle, and that’s all it takes for it to grow limp, its roar dying in its throat. He drags the bleeding carcass back with him, his feet always destined to leave a blood trail wherever he goes.
It is a great disrespect to leave such a mess in his prayer room, and he apologizes profusely to his mother as he continues to drag the bear’s carcass into his chambers. He leaves its large form in front of his throne. He’s about to call for his men again, so that they can process the beast and prepare a suitable meal for his consort, but before he can leave again, he hears Eyrie getting out of the nest.
They approach him, half hunched, gripping their stomach, looking close to passing out.
“It is unwise to be moving about so freely.” He gently warns them, about to move to their side and guide them back to the nest, but Eyrie shakily grabs a dagger from off a table and moves towards the bear’s carcass with purpose.
He thinks he sees them lick their lips.
To his great shock, Eyrie walks past him and falls atop the beast, straddling it, and they raise the hand with the dagger high into the air before sinking the blade into the bear’s chest, using all their strength to pull it in a straight line. Blood sprays out and stains their face and hands, and he stands there frozen, as they then sink their left hand into its innards and pulls out its massive heart.
They drop the dagger and wield the heart between both of their hands, before bringing it to their face and opening their mouth, not even hesitating as they sink their blunt teeth into the organ. A deeply satisfied moan leaves their lips, and they chew around another greedy bite, blood gushing into their mouth and spilling down their chin.
“Oh…” He breathes lightly, struck by their beauty. He slips to one knee and brings his face to theirs, licking some of the blood stained around their mouth. “Is it too thine liking?”
They shiver as they take another bite, nodding.
He is relieved.
Eyrie finishes the heart, then wields the dagger once more to shred off pieces of meat, uncaring of the tougher, gamier parts, or even some of the fur they eat by accident. Full, they toss the dagger aside and slump against him.
He lifts them off the bear, rubbing his nose against their hair, before bringing them back to the nest and laying beside them until they fall asleep. Once they are taken care of, he has his men return and take the rest of the bear away. They eye it with trepidation, but he dares any of them to be so forward as to make any kind of remark about his beloved’s needs. Wisely, his men say not a word as they drag the hulking carcass out of his chambers, a few of them lingering to mop up the blood trail, before leaving as well.
When he sleeps that night, he is plagued by nightmares.
He dreams of endless void, of red eyes, and of a massive jaw opening and sealing shut around him.
He wakes up, startled and gasping for breath, looking around the nest for Eyrie, and sees that they have awoken too, and were hunched on all fours, their forehead against the sheets as they gripped their belly and clenched their eyes shut in pain.
“Eyrie…” He calls out, worried, and crawls over to them, setting a hand on their back. “So, it is time, at last. Shall I bring thee to the tub?”
They shake their head profusely.
Weakly, they roll onto their back, thighs spread wide, and their robes slip from their shoulders, gathering around their hips. The red silk looked ominously like a pool of blood around them. The imagery of that, along with the last vestiges of his nightmare, strikes fear deeply into his heart.
He tries his best to make them comfortable. He props up their back and hips with a mountain of pillows, and brings a bowl of water and a cloth, so that he can wipe the sweat from their trembling form. He brings their flask, as well, helping them take a few desperate gulps from it.
They push it away, grunting, and their head falls back against a pillow as a new layer of sweat forms at their brow. They are noisy with their efforts—it the most sound he’s ever heard them make, but unfortunately each sound that spills from their lips is more disheartening than the last. They sounded like their very being was being split apart, or that their skin was being flayed off the bone while they were fully and terribly conscious for every second of it.
He wrings out the cloth in his massive hands and dips it into the cool water before gently patting their face and chest.
They call out his name weakly.
“I am here.” He assures them.
Their thighs start to shake violently. Their back arches and their eyes shut tightly, their teeth sinking into their bottom lip so hard that it breaks the skin and blood pours down and traces their chin. It isn’t just blood spilling from their mouth—from between their thighs, joining the large amount of sweat staining the sheets, a few rivulets of blood stain their brown skin.
There hadn’t been any blood the last time.
His heart cracks in two, plummeting into his stomach, and he holds them with shaky hands, trying to make them drink more of their flask, but they push it away, entirely too focused on continuing to push.
With a horrible gasp, Eyrie’s body finally relaxes, and they slump against the pillows, eyes falling shut. Nestled between their thighs is a singular egg, larger than the three that sat a few feet away, and the color of the shell was ominous. It was completely and utterly black, the surface of it not even catching the meagre candlelight.
He stares at it, unnerved.
He lifts the egg into his hands, its shell covered in his lover’s blood, yet it is cold to the touch. It wasn’t stillborn—he can feel life thrumming within it.
Perhaps it would be better if he felt nothing.
Had the Abyssal Serpent passed on to his brood? Would his child become yet another vessel for its wicked self? A prisoner?
As he spirals into self-loathing, Eyrie makes a weak sound, and they reach out for him with their shaky, blood-stained hand.
They do not want their flask—they want to hold the egg.
Begrudgingly, he sets the black egg into their awaiting arms. They embrace it, a little startled at how cold it is, but they simply grab some of their robe and swaddle it, resting their face affectionately against it.
He cannot bring himself to offer the same kindness to the egg. He is more concerned with the amount of blood his consort lost in the process of laying it and how weak they seemed now. He moves them carefully to the clean part of the nest, then leaves to freshen the water in the bowl, and returns to their side to wipe their body. He cleans the egg as well, at their request, before taking it from their arms and putting it next to the rest, although part of him is tempted to lay it a little further away, in hopes that his terrible affliction does not spread to the others by merely being in the vicinity.
Despite his best efforts, his worries bleed through every part of him as the days go along. Eyrie recovers well enough, but it takes longer for them to regain their full strength—just another terrible omen he’s noticed ever since the egg was laid.
They are well enough to walk around once more, and when they wake up in the middle of the night and find his spot beside them empty, they go and investigate and find him ruminating on his balcony, his expression crest fallen.
Eyrie moves to stand at his side, their hand curling around his forearm, and they tug a little, wanting his attention, but he cannot bear to look at them.
He lowers his face, eye closing.
“I am malformed and afflicted.” He confesses to them bitterly. “I fear that our brood is cursed to follow suit. Perhaps, it would have been kinder for them, if I had never lain with thee…”
The hand on his arm stills.
Then it begins to shake.
He turns towards his Tarnished, concerned, and he is shocked to see their handsome face twisted with fury. Never has he seen them so incensed. It is enough to make even his breathing come to a halt.
Eyrie takes him by the hand and leads him forcefully from the balcony and back towards the nest, where they guide him to sit next to them by the eggs. They don’t let his hand go permanently; they flip it over to write across his palm.
“Perfect.” They spell out hastily, finger shaking with their ire. “Precious. Beloved.” And they lean forward to kiss his palm, before moving over to the eggs and wrapping their arms around all four of them.
They are staring at him expectantly.
Swallowing hard, he moves so that he can rest around the eggs.
They slip their small hand into his, squeezing lightly, eyes still very much upon him.
For some reason, or another, he feels that he can believe those words, if it is them saying it.
No matter what reveals itself from the black egg, he swears that he will treat it kindly. He will not have it hidden away, and he refuses to do it harm, even if the Abyssal Serpent requires that to be held back. There is surely another way to ward off its influence, other than removing parts of themselves. He thinks of his mother, plucking out his eye, and realizes that he does not have the willpower to do such a thing.
He cannot bear the thought of his brood feeling as lonely and as misshapen as he has for the entirety of his existence.
It is enough to bring tears to his eye, and noticing his weeping, Eyrie squeezes his hand.
As days pass, the yearning for the eggs to at last hatch becomes neigh unbearable. The need rivals the desire he has for his mother to return, to see his kin and to give her blessings to them. His mind, as of late, has been riddled with memories of the past.
He knows nothing of the Lands Between, but his beloved consort can provide him with the answers that he seeks.
After praying one afternoon, he returns to the main chamber with the throne and nest and finds Eyrie up to something—they were seated on the floor, their shield held up with one hand, the insignia facing towards them, and their right hand is moving carefully across the surface, doing something he can’t see until he draws nearer.
There are a few glass jars with paints and oil, and a brush sits between their fingers. Noticing him approaching, Eyrie smiles, and they turn their shield towards him. The yellow scorpion had been erased, and now in its place is a pair of red serpents with black wings.
He is delighted and picks up the shield at once to further inspect it.
“Thine artistry is impressive.” He remarks, smiling too, now. He almost forgets why he approached them in the first place. He returns the shield to them, and takes a seat on the ground beside them, his serpents sniffing curiously at the paints. “I was hoping to ask thee a favor.”
Eyrie perks up, setting their shield aside so it can dry and gives him their full focus.
“It is about thine travels in the Lands Between,” He begins, and their jaw immediately clenches, “I was hoping thou wouldst enlighten me on the progression of my mother’s crusade.”
All happiness leaves their face.
They now look at him somberly.
They turn to the side and grab their satchel, pulling out not just their paper and charcoal, but a thick, leather journal, one that is filled to the brim with notes, letters, and additional maps.
“What do you know of the Lands Between?” They write first, holding the paper towards him.
“All that I know is that it is the place my mother left to in order to establish her order.” He answers.
His reply only makes their expression darker. Eyrie thinks for a long while, and when they start to write, they do not stop until after several minutes, before handing over the paper to him.
“Marika, after obtaining divinity, came to the Lands Between, and started what is known as the ‘Golden Order’. She took on a husband, the first Elden Lord, Godfrey, a Tarnished, and decimated the lands of the ones who originally inhabited it, followers of what is known as the ‘Crucible’. They remind me of the Hornsent of the Shadow Lands, although I do not know the full significance of their similarities.” They explain in one paragraph, and his eye quickly moves on to the next set, his mind already dizzy from the wealth of information they were providing.
“Those of the Crucible were slain, their practices belittled, and the Giants, and other groups were soon to follow in her subjugation. Once all manner of lifeforms had been brought under her control, and she had sealed away Death itself, she started her lineage of demi-god children.” He reads, then freezes.
Children? His mother had started a new family in the Lands Between?
“At the height of the Golden Order’s power, Marika cast her husband aside, banishing him to wander, and in his absence, she took on another lord, a man known as Radagon, and she bore more children. One of them, a witch, who studied under the moon, stole a fragment of Death, and used it to orchestrate an assassination on her eldest brother, Marika’s golden child, and most beloved, Godwyn.”
He almost drops the paper, because his emotions are overwhelming him and causing his hands to shake.
It was a surprise to hear that his mother had more children, although ultimately, any Lord, or God, would of course want to spread their seed as far as they could. No, what shocks him is the fact that although he has poured his soul out for her endlessly, it was not him that had been recorded as her ‘most’ beloved.
“In her grief, she shattered the Elden Ring, the very thing that held the Lands Between and the Golden Order together, and a terrible war arose afterwards, aptly dubbed ‘The Shattering’, a war in which her remaining demi-god children fought against one another for the Great Runes needed to take her place. As punishment for her transgression, Marika was imprisoned by the Greater Will within the Erdtree, the symbol of her lineage.”
“…She is there now, to this day?” He asks.
Eyrie nods, then takes the paper from him and writes more.
“I slayed her children, as was necessary on my path to Elden Lord, and within me I carry the amalgamation of their shattered Great Runes. With no other demi-gods left to stand in my way, I approached the Erdtree, but found the entrance to it guarded by impenetrable thorns. I burned the Erdtree, at the cost of my maiden, and after besting her former Lord, Godfrey, and then her remaining Lord, Radagon, I challenged the Greater Will’s vassal. With the battle won, I at last found Marika, imprisoned, her body inert. I doubt that her soul remains in that crumbling vessel still.”
He is at a great loss.
He sets the papers aside and stands up, heart hammering in his chest, and his stomach twisting into knots.
After all these years, he learns that everything he has done has all been for nothing, because his mother would not be returning.
He brings a shaky hand to conceal his face.
“…If it is the Greater Will that prevents my mother from returning, than I shall put it, and its entire wretched order to the spear. I will have revenge for this transgression, and I will see to it that my mother is freed, at last, and that she returns and takes her rightful place as God Mother.” He says with vitriol, spear coming to life with flame.
He goes to his throne, picking up his helmet and slipping it on.
“I will be leaving for the Lands Between at once.” He tells them, and Eyrie’s eyes widen, their mouth falling open with horror, and they quickly scramble to their feet, approaching him, but he shakes off their touch, moving towards the double doors of his chambers. “Thou art to remain here and protect the eggs. I will not return until I have her.”
But Eyrie disregards his words, and they swiftly cut in front of him, their arms spread out wide to prevent him from leaving.
“Step aside.” He demands hotly, tapping the handle of his spear against the ground. “Or would even my beloved keep me from my sworn oath? My fate?”
Eyrie’s eyes flicker wildly across his face.
Slowly, they lower to their feet, maintaining eye contact as they slip to both of their knees, before folding in half in a deep bow, their forehead pressed to the floor.
“Please.” They say, voice wavering.
He ignores them, stepping around them and exiting through the double doors without sparing a glance behind him. He gathers momentum as he descends each floor, his fury building up, soon to burst, and even when his elite knights approach to ask if they may be of service to him, he waves them off, brusquely ordering them to put all of their attention into protecting his chambers in his absence.
He clears the last set of stairs, walking through a stone hallway before stepping out to the water laden arena at the front gates of the Shadow Keep. He steps past the main gates and onto the courtyard, the tall grass brushing against his legs.
He takes a deep breath and raises his face to look at the heavens. The skies seemed darker than before, and the wind is picking up as if a great storm is soon to roll in. There is a tension in the air that grows second by second, the hair on the back of his neck raising as if anticipating a sudden lightning strike.
A great gale blows through the main gate and flips his cloak all around him, blinding him for a moment. When the wind settles, and he lifts his face, he is no longer alone.
Eyrie stands a few yards across from where he remains, dressed in their usual clothes, but without any of their armor. Or their shield or sword. He isn’t sure how it is they somehow spirited themselves here—all he knows is that they are here, and their face is a mask of absolute misery, their eyes soaked with tears that refuse to cease falling, and their lips set into a furious line; nostrils flaring as they inhaled sharply.
As pitiful as they look, there is a burning determination in their gaze.
They will not be dismissed so easily this time around.
When he takes a step forward, they bring both of their hands to their stomach, as if reaching inward, and to his shock he sees a black flame beginning to ripple from their core, and their hands disappear inside themselves, gripping something tightly, before pulling it out. In each of their hands are a matching pair of great swords, easily taller than them, and weighing a fair amount, but their arms wield each sword confidently.
They hold their arms out to the sides, swords extended out, and slowly bring them over their head, clapping the blades together, and the wind picks up suddenly, as one blade is engulfed in black flame, and the other is struck by lightning, its length now covered in crackling electricity.
Eyrie lowers their right blade and points the end of it towards him.
He takes a step back, faltering.
He’s never seen such a fire before. Something about its dark color unnerves a deep, integral part of him, but not as much as the realization that he will not be leaving unless he raises his hand against his beloved.
He doesn’t understand. He feels like he is being split apart from the middle, torn between his oath, and his love.
“What is the meaning of this?” He asks, voice shaky. “Return to the Keep at once—I refuse to lay a hand upon thee.”
Their blade remains pointed at him.
“This is my most sacred of oaths. I cannot divest myself of it, not now, when I have been informed that mother—”
Lightning strikes the spot next to him, singing some of his cloak, and he jumps.
The time for talk has long since passed.
He’d ignored their most desperate of pleas, and now they are returning the favor.
“…So be it.” He says, tightening his grip on his spear.
All he needed to do was incapacitate them, then hand their unconscious form over to one of his knights before he continued his journey.
He has fought Eyrie, many, many times, and has defeated them all but once.
But they do not fight like he remembers.
They do not fight like anyone he has ever encountered.
It is like they are favored by the very wind itself, the way they dance around each of his attacks and spin to gather momentum before brandishing both blades at him, which he barely manages to avoid. They have forgone all defenses and focus entirely on attacking. He hasn’t been able to rear for a single attack. Each time he catches his breath, and raises his spear, they set off into another barrage, twirling in a whirlwind of blades that he struggles to brace against. His feet are being steadily pushed back from the force of their blows.
If they had fought him like this, from the very beginning, he is not confident that he would have ever bested them.
The places where their twin great swords grazed him illicit a sort of pain he has never felt before. It was like a part of him had been eroded—chipped away like gold paint on the ceiling of a burning temple.
He drops his defensive stance and makes to attack, rushing behind Eyrie to knock the butt of his spear against their neck, but the wind sweeps them off their feet, carrying them up in a gale, and lightning flashes, gathering at their blades, before they descend upon him and swing both blades across his front, the force enough to knock him not only to his feet, but out of the courtyard and back into the arena, his back sliding against the water, before he slumps, body trembling as lightning works through it and his armor.
He looks down at his chest—they hadn’t attacked him directly, using the force of wind to make it feel as if he’d been cut.
He falls back against the water, panting hard.
He stares up at the gloomy sky, utterly defeated.
At last, he understands what the point had been with all of this:
If he could not defeat Eyrie, who has faced a multitude of demi-gods, and the Greater Will’s vassal, what hope did he himself have of saving his mother from its clutches?
He would sooner end up dead, or imprisoned.
Marika never had any intention of ever returning, that was evident in her new family, her new lineage. Everything he has done, he has done in her name, has done out of his love and devotion for her, and it has left him hated, and alone—all for naught, it seemed.
His eye waters, his lip trembling.
“Oh, mother…” He whispers, just speaking the word enough to rend his heart in two once more.
He brings both of his hands up to his face.
Eyrie had been holding back the truth about his mother to spare his feelings, this entire time, and in thanks, he had cast them aside so cruelly.
What had he been thinking, abandoning his joy, all to appease one who had thrown him away long ago?
When he thinks of ‘home’ and when he is happiest, his mind does not conjure up the hazy memories he has with his mother in the Shaman Village. He thinks instead of his Shadow Keep, thinks of Eyrie’s wry smile, the warmth in their beautiful eyes, and the softness in which they always treated him with.
He thinks of his eggs, bundled together, waiting for him.
His breath hitches, and tears spill from his eye, tracing his cheek before joining the water around him.
There are footsteps in the water.
There is a sound like something dissolving into thin air, before the water nearest him splashes, before settling.
A warm hand settles on his chest, right over his heart.
His crying only becomes louder; more undignified.
He cries an eternity’s worth of tears, and he does so in an ugly, humiliating fashion, his entire being shaking with the force of his weeping. He drops his hands from his face, turning to the side to regard Eyrie.
They were sitting cross legged beside him, their hand still over his heart, and they are weeping too, in that strange, quiet way of theirs.
“Eyrie.” He calls out in a desperate whisper, but they do not turn to look at him. “Mother’s fate hath long since been sealed. My fate, however, still rests within my hands, and I will not make the grave sin of abandoning what I hold closest twice. My fate, whatever it may be, lays on the path with thee at my side. I understand this now. Forgive my wandering, traitorous heart. It belongs to thee, as it will for eternity. My nearest and dearest. My sun and stars—my beloved consort.”
Eyrie’s eyes shut, their dark lashes twitching sporadically, as they suck in a sharp gasp, shoulders trembling. They turn towards him suddenly, wrapping their arms around his neck, burying their face into his chest plate. Although it hurts, he raises an arm and slips it around their waist, pulling them closer.
Once he has the strength to stand once more, he picks them up, and somberly makes his way back up the Shadow Keep, his men eyeing the two of them warily. Noticing one of his elite knights, he curls a finger, and she approaches at once, dropping to one knee.
“Inform all that the war is over.” He tells her, “And that the oath bequeathed to thee is null. Let all who wish to leave do so. They will bear no punishment, or dishonor. May they find purpose elsewhere.”
His lady knight is frozen, for a time, but his words reach her eventually, and she rises to her feet, nodding with a respectful curtsy, before at once walking off to spread the word.
He does not have the heart or spirit to watch as the entirety of his Keep surely absconds, now no longer obligated to deal with his demands, or his mother’s bloody war.
Even if they all leave, he will not be alone.