The Fragance of Roses - SerpentofLolth (2024)

Chapter 1: The Rose Church

Chapter Text

Banks of leaden clouds covered the sky and the sun's rays passed through them like spears of light, which rested among the blades of grass. The air was filled with electricity, as if to announce the arrival of a storm, which weighed on the Lands Between like a not entirely favorable premonition, like a baleful omen that would lead to the fall of some lightning on the arid ground, making handfuls of fulgurbloom to blossom, which would have made the meadows a vibrant yellow. I climbed the hillock, the structure of the hero's tomb towering over the entire panorama, together with the immense statue placed on top, as if to claim reverence for anyone who would lay eyes on it, anyone who dared to challenge the traps present in it, which guaranteed a safe rest to the bones placed in the various sarcophagi. The wind started blowing and swayed the long cloak around my shoulders, the hood covering my hair as my gaze sought the White Face, but his presence had been claimed elsewhere, his absence was so obvious that made the air breathable, as his essence of death often created a sort of viscous odor that crept into the nostrils of anyone who dared to approach him: he embodied a sort of danger despite the sugary tone of his voice, despite his calm ways; the mask he wore concealed not only his face, but the obscurity that was hidden inside him; only the golden eyes emerged, so vacant that often one had the impression of being able to fall into them. What was hidden in them? It was like playing hide and seek with him: I wanted to delve into his depths, but I feared the abyss of darkness. What if it caught me?

I sighed as I approached the rocks, sitting on one of them, then turned around and my gaze moved to the half-destroyed church of Elleh surrounded by the ruins of the floating city of Farum Azula, then on the statue of Rosus pointing to the catacomb just ahead and, finally, the Stormveil Castle on the background, which rose above the headland with its tall towers and banners flapping in the wind, yet now bare of its lord: his blood still stained the blade of my axe, making patches of rust that glittered in the glare of the sun.What the heck am I doing here?the question echoed in my mind as I looked up at the sky, almost hoping to get another important tip from a man who was better to leave behind. What had really brought me there, to seek the White Face? Gideon Ofnir had enlightened me about the other owners of Great Runes, yet I had wanted to prolong my stay in Limgrave, deciding to join that creature with ragged clothes, stained with fresh blood. Was I there out of simple curiosity to understand that being? Or was I drawn to the very darkness that lived in him? I had to admit that the White Face knew how to be a magnet that, strangely, drew me to him.

I inhaled the humid air, imbued with the presence of the rain, then slowly exhaled, as if to erase any thoughts I had formulated about Varré, about the words he had spoken during our brief encounters. What did he know about that world? He seemed to know the Roundtable Hold and the Two Fingers. Could he have been there in the distant past, a few centuries before the Grace decided to awaken me too? Why did my mind lead me to ask such questions about this man? What could I ever know of his story? Also, he didn't seem to me like someone inclined to want to reveal important fragments of his past: he would never show a fragile side, well hidden under the mask.Maybe it's better to go to Liurnia rather than stay here and wait for his return.Would he ever come back? I doubted it, but everything was possible with Varré.

The moment I turned around, I noticed a message left among the rocks. I arched an eyebrow, then leaned forward, unrolling the very fine parchment, the elegant handwriting standing out on the white, lightly bloodstained cloth, the signature of the White Face standing out over the entire message. The Rose Church... Was where he had gone? Was he looking for other Tarnished? As Roderika had mentioned to me, he had convinced her too to go to Godrick, to face him for achieving a Great Rune; it was evident that it was a way to test us, but for what? I put the message into the bag at my waist, then stood up and stretched my legs.Should I go?It was a clear invitation to me…I licked my lips as I turned to admire the scenery behind me, the sun sinking beyond the horizon, partly hiding behind the high towers of Stormveil Castle, the rays dyeing the clouds a vivid crimson, which seemed on the point of bleeding.

I gripped my axe in one hand, then summoned Torrent, which appeared within seconds, and set off for my next destination, deciding to take the path behind Stormveil. I could have used the Grace inside the castle to go to Liurna, but I wanted to travel, I wanted to feel human, I wanted to get back what I had lost at the exact moment I became a Tarnished, who had joined Godfrey during the Long March. The wind that fluttered my cloak behind me, making it look like the wing of a huge bird, the sun setting beyond the horizon, the clouds trying to suppress it with their advance, the electricity that increased and felt in the breeze as the golden leaves of the Erdtree fell restlessly, ending up among the blades of grass. Everything about the landscape was changing at that moment as day gave way to night.

I took the path, overtaking the wolves, circling the castle: its imposing bulk bordering the slopes of the ravine. The wind increased in intensity, giving me the impression that it would soon drag me towards the void together with my steed, which didn't stop its run. I stared ahead, lightning that dropped past the zenith in a burst of light, filling the air with the smell of smoke for a brief moment, then I saw a golden swirl that indicated the presence of a Grace. I stopped Torrent as soon as we approached that floating shape, which light gave you security soon as you admired it. What was it if not the shelter for us, the Tarnished? What was it but what incite us, showing the way? A detail that the White Face had pointed out to me at our first meeting, when our paths had crossed and seemed to want to intertwine again. Was I really heading to Liurnia for him? No, I had to go to Raya Lucaria, challenge Rennala and get another Great Rune. I leaped off my steed and sat down in front of that languid glow, the meadow grass welcoming me as I closed my eyes for a few seconds, letting the wind caress my face, the hooting of an owl letting me know that I wasn't totally alone. After all, the dangers in the Lands Between were many and had different forms. Meanwhile, I had my axe gripped in both hands as the night descended in hues of purple and cobalt blue, then turned to rain.

I got up and walked over to the ravine, looking at the graves set into the cliff face of the gorge. I took a deep breath, then threw myself down, landing on the tombstone and trying not to slip on the surface made slippery by the rain, then I lowered myself to the one below, repeating the passage several times, before summoning Torrent and landing on the muddy ground. I stroked its mane. «A daring descent, don't you think? All this because they destroyed the bridge that connected Limgrave to Liurnia.» It moved its head, almost as if to nod at me, then there was a slow snort. «Come on, my friend. The night is long and we have already wasted too much time.»He is waiting for me...

I decided not to follow the main path as I saw several marionettes patrolling the area, some stationed on the ruins that had fallen from the sky, others suspended from what looked like huge balloons. I arched an eyebrow as I noticed the number of their arms and the weapons they used, understanding their dangerousness.

I didn't know exactly where the Rose Church was, but I certainly wouldn't have found someone who could give me some information about it. The only clue I had was the name, so maybe there would be some roses around the structure, right? I sighed as I walked towards the edge of the lake, my attention was drawn by giant crayfish with blue carapace speckled with green, which stood motionless, watchful, and gloomed. I gulped hard as I led Torrent into a trot, thinking that increasing speed might frighten the beasts, might make them attack me. However, I longed to put as much distance between me and them as possible. Meanwhile, the fog began to lift and cover the turf as well as the surface of the water, the canopy of the trees swaying in the night breeze, the salty smell that enveloped my nostrils. The shoreline ended near an old destroyed temple, the tiny waves crashing on the sand, the darkness was a suffocating sensation and that pushed me to make a decision: cross the lake or go back to the main road? My hand followed Torrent's neck, fingers tasting the softness of the fur, the hope of having some advice from the animal, who waited patiently. «The Rose Church,» I whispered, then fished Varré's message from my bag, which I read by the light of the lantern I wore tied to my waist.How had I not noticed that detail?I almost screamed as that thought echoed in my mind, when I noticed the drawing of the structure below, in a corner of the scroll: the lake that surrounded it, near the mainland, behind which loomed the tall tower of an astrologer. I put the message down, then looked at the water, then at the clouds crossed by bolts of blue light, before the roar of thunder occur.

Perhaps it would have been wise to find shelter instead of heading there, but I immediately preferred to set off, the light of the lantern trying to disperse the darkness.What the heck am I doing?

It had taken me an hour before I found a new site of Grace. The enemies with the bells had given me such a nuisance that I had to kill them: I had left a conspicuous trail of corpses behind me, but it was the only way to be able to travel safely during the night, and I also ran the risk of getting lost among all those shrubs, as well as being struck by the restless and furious spirits that these creatures evoked. I sat on the site of Grace as the cold gripped me, the rain soaking my hood and cloak, wetting my hair as tiny droplets trickled down my cheeks.

I noticed that before me, on a promontory, loomed the enormous Academy of Raya Lucaria. I admired it for a few minutes as I sat in the lake water, my arms crossed over my chest. I should have headed there, faced my fate as a Tarnsihed, and tried to make sense of a land that was collapsing on itself as the Elden Ring was destroyed and Marika disappeared from sight. Why had such a feat been given to us? I didn't remember much of what I had been before dying like a Tarnished, I only had brief reminiscences, like the Long March and the reassuring presence of Godfrey... I lowered my head, trying not to get lost in such reflections, to ponder too much on a past that had been buried with my remains, before Grace resurrected me, before the Two Fingers and the Greater Will gave me such a task. «Damn it!» I thundered as I looked up at the sky, the rain falling on my face, the wind howling like a moaning soul. Where was I but in a land of broken promises? The ruins of the suburbs of the Academy, which protruded from the water, were proof of human selfishness, of the tragedy that had involved everyone, of the nihilism of the Gods, and of the ambition of the demigods who had preferred to wage war. Why should the Tarnished ones set things right, when centuries ago they'd been exiled from these lands by Marika herself?

I jumped up, a flutter of dark blue cloth as I summoned Torrent. I grabbed the reins in a firm grip, my axe at my back, the rain was like the bars of a vast prison while the clouds were a suffocating and tearing lid. I shivered in the cold as I urged my steed forward, hooves digging into the mud and water, muffling his advance. Lightning struck a few steps from us and a fulgurbloom blossomed in its bright yellow, which seemed to glow in the dark: a miniature sun trying to illuminate the whole world. I smiled at that thought before looking before me, passing a mass of ruins of Farum Azula, past some Albinaurics, who looked dumbfounded at the passage of a phantom steed and a female warrior, who had preferred not to attack them despite their appearance and their unfortunate birth. I didn't have time for them!

Torrent veered to the right, then leaped between two more Albinaurics, hooves throwing up a handful of splashes. I couldn't see ahead of me, the fog had started covering the whole panorama and the rain was melting the landscape into a huge liquid blur. However, I felt the earth under my mount's hooves, so I decided to dismount, raising my lantern and illuminating the collapsed sides of a building. I noticed some bloodroses emerging from the ground, completely covered by a vast pool of blood, the intense smell of that reddish sap that imprinted itself in my nose, the world that swirled for a few seconds as I inhaled the marasmus it emanated, together with that emitted from what appeared to be a mass of lumps of rotten flesh, which covered the ground and branched out around what was left of the building and its interior. It was like looking at the innards of an animal that had been dead for some time.

My hands immediately reached for my axe, which I closed in a firm grip as I advanced with a calm step. There didn't seem to be a trace of Varré, but a corpse had been abandoned in the midst of the flowers and was clutching a worn recipe book in his hands. I took it from him without too much ceremony, trying to read the faded letters it reported on what remained of the cover, made entirely of now-worn leather. I put it in my bag, then the bloodroses rustled in the north wind and seemed to sing a dirge, then I heard a noise of fabric, which made me turn abruptly before something penetrated my shoulder. The pain exploded in a cold wave, which overwhelmed me and red spots began to dance before my eyes.I can't die tonight!My brain screamed as my gaze focused on the hooded figure, his richly embroidered robes. Where did that creature come from? Where was Varré? Was this enemy a further test of the White Face? I gritted my teeth as the creature clung to what made me think of a mass of bloody flesh. «So, do you want to fight or do you want to stand there and stare at me?» I asked him in a cry, as I felt my blood envelop my entire arm, soaking into the fabric of my shirt, enveloping the chain mail I wore under my armor. What he had hurled at me, which looked like a very long-bladed dagger, had managed to penetrate my armor and pierce my flesh, as well as my muscle: moving my arm was such tremendous agony that it left me without breath.

My enemy had a long rapier in his hands and it consisted of two crossing blades. He raised it above his head before advancing towards me in a lunge which I parried with the handle of my long axe, then backed away, but the church entrance was behind me, preventing me from moving freely. What the heck was going on? What kind of trouble was I in? Meanwhile, a hand rested on my injured shoulder and more pain overwhelmed me, leaving me gasping. Who had approached me, coming up behind me, then stretched out their arm and red roses appeared before my gaze while the veil brushed against my cheek.

«She's with me,» Varré said in an authoritative tone.

The individual took a few steps back, then a sort of portal formed under his feet, disappearing into that crimson mass.

«You finally came…» he left the sentence hanging, which seemed to float between us, full of its multiple meanings.

«What do you want?»

His fingers pressed hard against my shoulder. «Just talk to you and dress your wound.» He entered my field of view, stopping in front of me, then reached out and, with a quick tug, pulled out the long dagger the individual had thrown at me. I screamed in sharp agony, then I bent over myself as I tried to breathe, to find some control and composure. Meanwhile, Varré dropped the weapon in the blood that brushed our ankles. «Follow me,» he said as soon as I straightened up, as soon as I found stillness.

He came out of the church and turned to look at me. I was still there, motionless in the rain, staring at his white mask. What was I supposed to do? Should I have accepted his invitation? The pain throbbed and the blood showed no sign of stopping.You traveled all night to meet him, are you seriously asking yourself these questions, you filthy idiot?I nodded to myself as I noticed how he held out his hand. I grabbed it as I approached him, his fingers, wrapped in heavy bloody gloves, tightened around mine in a firm grip.

«Don't be afraid of me, I don't want to eat you, my lambkin.»

Chapter 2: The White Face

Chapter Text

The storm had hit Liurnia and the raindrops fell incessantly, soaking his worn-out clothes. He stayed there, still and motionless, the night rested on his shoulders in a suffocating weight, hiding any danger that lurked in the darkness. He had heard those bells, the restless scream of the spirits, the cry of the wind which had begun to whip the canopies of the trees and shrubs, which trembled at the passage of the Tramontane, while lightning crossed the clouds in blue lights and then struck the ground without giving a moment of pause to the entire region. Meanwhile, his golden eyes were on the woman, on the long axe that she gripped in both hands, appearing somewhat doubtful whether she would follow him or not. If she had come this far, it meant that she had read his message, it meant that she had agreed to meet him, it meant that she was ready to listen to his proposal. But even if she wasn't, what choice did he have but to direct her to the Supreme Luminary Mohg? He held out his hand, the umpteenth invitation that he offered her while he waited patiently, without giving her any hurry, without showing the woman his nervousness because, at that precise moment, Varré was feeling cold and the frost had penetrated to the bones. Did she have any idea what it meant to stand there motionless, waiting for the passage of the Tarnished? After all, what was he if not the Good Shepherd who spread the word of his lord, so that his dynasty could become powerful, welcoming every lost sheep like the one he had before him? The Two Fingers had already done too much damage with their senile and sore words, now it was the turn of someone else to rise above them, to snatch the fate of the Tarnished from their clutches: blood called blood.

He snapped his tongue against the palate when he tightened his fingers around those of the woman, who had approached, who had accepted his invitation, and who looked at him astonished, almost as if she was struggling to understand the reason for her presence there, in the Rose Church, where the scent of ichor hovered around them like the most inviting of perfumes.

«Don't be afraid of me, I don't want to eat you, my lambkin.» His words still floated around them as the rain poured down, drenching them both.

Varré turned around and started walking, dragging behind the Tarnished, who remained silent the entire way. She was behind him, head bowed, shoulders slightly hunched: if it wasn't fear what she was feeling, it meant it was shame, but for what? Was so disgusting for her to be in his presence? Or was it just a sensation he had in observing her? He stopped in front of the entrance of a cave, then released his grip on her hand and removed that intricate network of twigs that he had perfectly woven to create a sort of door and protection for what was his shelter, even if momentary. He saw the woman cross the threshold, the lantern at her waist illuminating the darkness, cutting through it like a blade of light, seeing it part as she passed, venturing deeper. There was a small step, which she went down without too much trouble, followed by him urging her to go on, passing a narrow passage, which turned slightly to the right and then opened at the bottom of the cave. Varré grabbed her hand again and guided her to the center of the area, where there were the remains of old bonfires and a pile of fresh wood that the surgeon had chopped that morning. Using the flame from her lantern, he lit the fire and it crackled brightly, dispersing the dark and creating a pleasant warmth. Nearby was a mat that served as a bed, he pointed to it and she sat without a sound, staring at the flames that drew shadows on her face, half hidden by her soaking hood.

«You don't talk much, huh?»

She turned to him, showing him a serious as well as austere expression. «Dress my wound and tell me why you wanted to see me.»

He couldn't help but laugh as he knelt before her. «You get straight to the point, I like it.» He brought his hand to the clip that held the cloak in place, unhooked and removed it from her shoulders, freeing her also from the hood, revealing her features: she had long dark purple hair with red shades that she wore tied in a braid, while some tresses, spilling out of her clips, framed her countenance, who had harmonious features; the eyes had two different colors: one was of a garish vermilion tint, but the other was of an unnatural, milky blue, a sign that she couldn't see from it, and they were lined with long eyelashes that looked like black lace. He stared at her for a long time as he reached out and touched the reddish burn scars that stood out on part of her cheek and created jagged twiddles around her eye. She stopped him grabbing his wrist in a strong grasp, glaring at him. He immediately raised both hands, in apology. «Anyway, you still haven't told me your name.»

«D...»

«D is for?»

The warrior took a deep breath as she pulled his hands away, starting to remove the cuirass of the armor, which she then laid down beside her. «Desdemona.» She began to take off her chainmail as well, then the long crimson shirt, leaving only the thin gauze breastband.

Varré's gaze moved to the wound on her shoulder, which was bleeding profusely. He gripped her arm, scrutinizing it carefully: it was a slightly jagged hole. He dug a finger into it and she gritted her teeth due to the pain, which was a rush that shot through her entire body, leaving her breathless. «I love your composure.»

«Don't play with fire, Varré.»

He laughed, amused by her threat. «Oh, my little lambkin, I just want to help you.»

«Then do it before I stick a kukri right down your throat. I traveled all night to come to you, soaking myself to the marrow of my bones. Don't make me regret this choice.»

The White Face raised an eyebrow, well hidden under the mask as the smile on his lips widened. The Tarnished couldn't see his expressions that were somewhere between delight and fury: two things he didn't know he could feel at the same time. «Lie on your side and let me work.»

Desdemona obeyed, brushing her long braid aside then leaned her head on her arm. Varré moved behind her and opened the bag he was carrying at his side and removed a small bottle of alcohol from it, which he poured on the wound to disinfect it. She tensed every muscle and let out a moan as she stared at the dancing flames, which magnified their shadows on the humid walls. Meanwhile, the surgeon gave her some reddish boluses. «Eat them, they'll stop the bleeding.» Then, using cotton, he tried to stop the hemorrhage, pressing hard on the laceration, giving her several jolts of dolor. She had gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, relying on him even though she didn't know him, even though she ignored his purposes. She wasn't in poor health, but evidently, that wound prevented her from fighting and she couldn't go around the Lands Between without being able to lift her axe to defend herself. The White Face had known that soon as she had tried to face that Sanguine Noble, by the posture she had adopted, by her grasp on the shaft of her axe. It was true, it was pouring, but he had observed her well before intervening and saving her from a horrendous death. She should have thanked him and not act arrogantly. He had always been nice to her!

«Did you have a hearing with the Two Fingers?» he asked and she lifted her head, looking at him intently, then dropped it back against her arm.

«Yes» she replied.

«How did they look to you?»

Desdemona shrugged. «Monstrous in their massive bulk.» He heard her giggle. «I can't tell you exactly what they aroused in me deep down because as they were horrendous creatures, they were also fabulous ones.» Her voice was full of shrewd sarcasm, making her laugh as she toyed with a pebble she'd found near the mat. Now that Varré noticed it, he could tell that her vocalization was low but soft, even if, at times, it rose a few notes, especially when she laughed. He wondered, suddenly, if dimples appeared on her cheeks when she smiled. At this thought, he started chortling too and they both found themselves chuckling together, albeit for different reasons. After a few seconds, the Tarnished found her usual composure, then she coughed covering her mouth with her hand, before bending the arm again and resting her head on it. The words that followed filled the cave and silenced the surgeon, who stalled while pressing the cotton on the wound: by now the bleeding had stopped for several minutes but he needed time to understand what she really thought of the Two Fingers, what she felt in their presence. «I believe they repeated what they told me, that is to slaughter any owners of the fragments of the Elden Ring, to any Tarnished who managed to reach the Roundtable Hold. Apparently, they need us after the demigods fail.»

His golden eyes gleamed as he remained on his knees behind her, stopping his hand which remained suspended in mid air as he gripped the blood-covered cotton. «Well, your reasoning is right. Who knows how many of us died in the feat, but as we know: soon as a candidate dies, another one takes the place. But is it worth dying to please creatures who have no love for us?»

«We live in times in which love is not contemplated, Varré. These lands need someone to repair them.»

The surgeon grabbed her shoulder and turned her towards him slightly so that he could see her straight in the eyes. «What if there really was someone ready to love you, in these wastelands, without making any questions about your past?»

The warrior raised an eyebrow. «Who is that, you?» Her lips curled into an amused smile and, just as she was making fun of him, that dimples appeared, making her look much younger than she really was. Meanwhile, Varré wanted to tear that simper from her mouth.

It was evident that she hadn't believed in love for a very long time, perhaps because of what she had experienced since becoming a Tarnished, from the way she had died before the Grace resurrected her. However, she was ready to embark on this task with the intention of restoring that collapsing world, blindly obeying the Two Fingers, despite her seeing those creatures for what they really were.

«Someone who can give you power and love.»

«What are you trying to sell me, Varré?»

«Luminary Mohg could be the solution for the Lands Between.» His saccharine voice, full of absolute devotion to his lord, echoed in the cave, bouncing off the humid walls, hovering like a summer breeze, capable of melting the chill of that corner of the world, in which both they were hiding.

«He is another of the owners of a Great Rune. Sir Gideon Ofnir had told me about him and his dynasty.» She rolled onto her side again, ignoring what he had just said. «Another fool in mad times.»

The White Face clenched his jaw and dropped the cotton he was gripping between his fingers. He fished for a syringe inside his bag as he slid a hand up her arm. He stuck the needle into a flap of the flesh of her wound and began to flood it with Mohg's blood, which poured through her veins, turning into an invisible fire that began to envelop her whole body. Desdemona cried out as her eyes widened, as she stretched like a violin string, as she arched her neck and stared up at the ceiling of the cave, as the pain turned into a blade that scraped her ribs, that sought her ichorous muscle that did nothing but roar in her ears as it thumped madly against her chest. Desdemona was gasping, drowning in her suffering that had tied a noose around her neck and dragged her towards the abyss, so full of cruor that she felt it invade her mouth and fill her nostrils.

«Maybe you should give him a chance.»

She turned towards him, looking him straight in the eyes, her hand suddenly rising and resting on the mask, trying to take it off but Varrè squeezed her wrist and pushed the injured arm above her head, then slithered on her body, looking at her in those eyes of different colors, full of tears. He used his free hand to wipe them away, then brushed her lips with the sordid smile of his mask. «Don't be afraid, little lambkin. We're both in the same boat and both bound by this dulcet agony.»

He withdrew as he took some gauze from the bag, then he bandaged her shoulder as she continued to cry silently, curling up on the mat.

Chapter 3: Pureblood Knight's Medal

Chapter Text

I jolted awake from a nightmare, out of breath as the entire cave was a blur, flickering in the flames of the bonfire. I realized that I was clutching my cloak, completely dry and still warm, while the wound on my shoulder continued to ache. I reached up and rubbed my neck, trying to release the tension from the bad dream that had haunted my oneiric dimension. Meanwhile, I still felt Varré's words ringing in my ears: the sweet agony I felt connected me with him and that merged us with the Luminary Mohg. I felt the sting of tears against my lids as a wave of silent, seething anger suddenly awoke, turning my cheeks red as the desire to kill him stirred from the numbness that still enveloped me and screamed for vengeance. What had he done to me? What had he turned me into? I still felt the flavor of blood on my tongue, along with the filthy, metallic smell that still hovered around my figure, permeating the environment. I trembled as I clutched my cloak to my chest, while a tear trickled down my cheek, while a cry rose to my mouth but I choked it, plunging my face into the fabric. How could I have trusted the White Face? Why had I been so naïve? What had I said wrong that caused such a reaction from him? I bit my lower lip so hard that a droplet of blood gushed out and turned into a small trickle, sliding down my chin.Why am I wasting time crying?I could have taken my axe and used it against him, I could have decapitated him and displayed his head to his beloved Luminary Mohg. The thought made me smile, almost laugh as I felt a hand on my shoulder, a leather glove squeezing it gently.

I turned towards Varré who was handing me a bowl full of meat and vegetables. I didn't want to take it, I didn't want to eat what he offered me, and I no longer trusted him. Meanwhile, he stared at me with his piercing golden eyes, which peeked out from the slits of his mask.

«Eat it!» he said in his saccharine voice, but he had taken on an authoritative tone. «Unless you want me to feed you, my sweet lambkin.»

«Stop calling me in this way!» I yelled and slapped the bowl, which flew for a short distance across the cave, then collided with the floor, scattering the contents everywhere. I didn't want to accept anything from him, not even a glass of water if he offered it to me. How dare he still stand here in my presence after what happened yesterday? I turned fully towards him, my knees sinking into the mat, my hands suddenly finding themselves around his throat, my fingers drowning in his flesh. A scream erupted from my mouth as I choked him, but he didn't make a sound, his eyes were as cold as winter mornings when the first snow began to fall. How could he be so impassive as I killed him? How could he not feel terror or something?

Just as I was asking myself those questions I felt it: a blade pricking my abdomen. How long would it take him to stick it in me? How long would he last before attacking and killing me? He could have disemboweled me without me noticing it, while I yearned to see his blood cover me entirely, to be worn like the finest silk that existed in the world, the warmest blanket I could find in the immense moors of the Lands Between. I screamed and recoiled as that thought thundered in my head, sliding on the floor, and looking at him in horror. I had never killed for fun or for the sake of it, neither when I had been a human nor now that I was a Tarnished, I had always done it to defend myself. Now, however, it was as if a beastly bloodlust had taken hold of me and I felt it heat up my bloodstream, become a thorn that drove into my brain and did nothing but torture me.

Varré stood up and approached me in a very few seconds. He came down on me with a hard slap, which made my head turn away as my cheek exploded in pain so sordid I almost cried. I had no idea he had such strength, capable of inflicting such intense suffering with a simple smack in the face. «I've always been kind to you, even taking care of your wound, and what do you do? Do you repay me like this?»

«You tricked me into injecting your lord's blood.»

He slapped me on the other cheek. «I have freed you from the influence of the Two Fingers.» His voice was an icy hiss that crawled across my skin, making me shiver.

«I've never asked you such a thing.»

He crouched down in front of me and grabbed my chin in a firm grip, his gaze burning like a blazing ember. «Maybe that's why I chose you: you are a formidable warrior, you managed to defeat Godrick, to obtain a Great Rune. You would make a fine knight for Luminary Mohg indeed.» He took a deep breath, released his grip on my chin, and grabbed my hand, placing something in my palm. «But I can't force you, right? In the meantime, I'll leave you this medal.» He got up and started to walk away, but immediately looked back at me. «I'll give you this too.» The surgeon threw me a parchment that fell on the ground. «I know you want to go to the Academy, but you need a glintstone key to get in. However, if you should change your mind and join my lord's cause, find me and we'll talk it over.»

«Where are you going now?»

He shrugged, then laughed. «To serve my lord.»

The White Face walked out of the cave, leaving me alone with the fire crackling. I drew attention to the medal, plated in gold, red, and black: proof that I was a Mohg's knight. Then I unrolled the parchment, finding that it pointed to the exact location of a glintstone key. I opened wide my eyes, remaining in disbelief in the face of such a revelation. How had Varré managed to get it? Where had he found it? I jumped up as a satisfied smile formed on my lips.Why are you helping me? No, you're only doing it for your own purposes. I rolled up the parchment, then began to dress, putting on my armor and my dark blue cloak, then raised my hood. It was time to resume my journey, to claim another Great Rune. Staying there, pondering what had happened the night before and the bloodlust screaming from the depths of my being did nothing good, especially after Varré had gone away. He was the only one who could answer my questions, but perhaps I didn't want him to reveal anything to me: the answers could have been much worse than my queries.

I left the cave and the sun welcomed me in its warm embrace. There was no sign of last night's storm, there was only the warmth of those golden rays and the fine haze rising from the lake, which shone in silver filaments. I summoned Torrent and began galloping towards the glintstone key.

***

The lake turned into a vivid bright red along with my armor, cloak and steed as that dazzling crimson fountain sprang from the dragon's abdomen under the last blow of my axe. Before collapsing, it tried one last swipe of its tail, its sharp jaws opening wide to release its breath, but the bleeding left no way out. The massive paws buckled under the weight of its body and its head fell limply to the ground, raising a million sprays. I dismounted from Torrent, kneeling in the water, admiring that incarnadine nuance that shone in my irises, which seemed to invoke my name. I plunged my face into it and began to drink in big gulps, feeling the need to swallow down as much as I could, then I jumped up and walked around the beast's corpse, stopping in front of the abdomen, where the showy gash glittered in the sun, together with the ichor. I began to lap it slowly, getting lost in the sweet, metallic taste that danced on the tip of my tongue as I heard a female voice calling me from the depths of my soul. Who was she? What did she want? Didn't she see that I was busy? I clenched my fingers, opened my mouth and the blood poured in a violent cascade, staining my skin, making me completely soaked from head to toe before a laugh escaped my lips. «Oh, my divine Formless Mother…» That whisper, which came from me, made me jump and I whirled around when I heard a rustle. «Who is there?» I yelled, then pricked up my ears but all I heard was the wind, rippling the surface of the water.

I sighed thinking it was a figment of my imagination, then looked at my reflection, almost not recognizing myself as I noticed that my right eye was a very different color. Then I gasped as I noticed a figure to my left. I spun around but there was no one with me there, in the lake, next to the corpse of the dragon: I was alone. My heart skipped a few beats as I pressed my back against the carcass, my axe clutched in both hands, and my eyes trained straight ahead.What the heck is going on?That thought thundered in my mind.What the heck am I doing?Only then I realized that I had stopped there, forgetting about the glintstone key, to drink the blood of the beast I killed. It reminds me of the nightmare I had last night, about her…«But she has no form,» I said aloud, then shook my head, wondering who the Formless Mother was, why I had dreamed her, and what connection she might have had with Mohg. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the flow of my thoughts, trying to think straight, to erase the burning in my shoulder that was throbbing all the time. I shook my head as I began to walk away from the dragon's corpse, towards that small hollow surrounded by a mass of rocks. There were several bodies there which I carefully examined until I found what I was looking for, which I placed in the bag that hung from the belt I wore around my armor.

I walked away from there too, my feet sinking into the water and mud. I didn't want Torrent to see me like this, with the bloodlust still roaring. I inhaled the cold air, then I knelt down and began to rinse my face, I began to remove the blood that covered me, that flooded my nostrils with its sublime scents, that invited me to find a new victim to eviscerate and dance in its innards.It's all my fault, I thought as I admired my reflection, the new color that my right eye had assumed, together with the sclera no longer as white as before.Damn me and damn Varré!Even if he really had freed me from the influence of the Two Fingers, he had made me a slave to something I was struggling to control, as well as understand. I punched my reflection, trying to erase it, not to see that pale imitation. I got up, lowered the hood, and ran a hand through my hair, then I looked around, the calm that was there, at the wind that pushed away the balloons with the four marionettes hanging underneath, whose legs swayed in the void.It's time to go to the Academy.

I summoned Torrent, who appeared within seconds, my hand stroking his neck before grabbing both reins and pushing him to gallop, but I didn't head to Raya Lucaria, I retraced my steps, until the Rose Church appeared at the horizon. I stopped in front of Varré, then leaped off my steed. Maybe those uncomfortable truths were really worth knowing, even if they could be worse than the questions crowding my head, the confusion I was experiencing, the chaos that had slipped under my skin and was messing with my sanity, like the desire to dye the world of the same shade of blood.

«Did you change your mind?» he asked me and his voice rang out in a different tone, almost cheerful.

«Tell me what the medal you gave me is for.» I approached him, stopping a few centimeters away, managing to inhale the smell of blood that impregnated his white gown.

«It serves to have an audience with the Luminary Mohg, but he is currently slumbering with the divinity. So, you have to wait for the right moment.»

«The map you gave me?»

«A Bloody Finger, on his way to Raya Lucaria, gave it to me. I knew how much you cared to reach the Academy so I asked this noble knight of Mohg a favor.»

I moved closer, my gaze into his, the fabric of his gown against my armor. «Are you telling me I'm a Bloody Finger? And what do Bloody Fingers do?» It wasn't the first time I heard that term, Yura had told me about it and he was a hunter of these bloodthirsty Fingers, who were completely insane.

Varré nodded. «Are you here to join Mohg, or to go to Raya Lucaria and do what the Two Fingers ask?»

«The deity Mohg sleeps with who is he? What's his name?» I changed the subject and noticed how his eyes from shining became gloomy and vacant. His anger was awakening but when he raised his hand, instead of hitting me, it touched the reddish scars surrounding my left eye and covering part of my cheek, it went up to my hair, plunging his digits into those rebellious strands that always framed my countenance.

«You will know in due time, my sweet lambkin.»

«Call me by my damned name, Varré.» I grabbed his wrist, squeezing it hard. «Is the Formless Mother?»

I saw him gasp, then he freed himself from my grip in a sharp jerk, then took a step back. «What do you know about her?»

I shrugged. «Nothing, I only dreamed about her and, perhaps, I saw her a little while ago, I think she was with me when I killed the dragon.»

«So you got the glintstone key, you want to go there, don't you? Do you want to do what the Two Fingers desire?»

«What do Bloody Fingers do? Who is the Formless Mother? What is this compelling bloodlust? Believe me, I'm losing my mind!» I felt tears running down my cheeks and I regretted showing this side to that man who, without any regard, had injected me with the blood of his lord. Why had he thought it was right? Why had he chosen me? Meanwhile, I noticed that he had approached again, stopping at a very short distance that our bodies brushed against each other.

Varré grabbed my face with both hands and his eyes sank into mine, almost as if he was able to see my soul, the depths of my being, my mind torn by the urge to kill. «You must assassinate the other Tarnished, you must offer blood to Mohg and the Formless Mother. Only then you will be able to show your love and devotion to both in order to obtain strength and power.» He lifted his mask slightly, letting his lips emerge, which were encircled by a stubble, which tickled me at the exact moment he lowered himself on me: the surgeon was several hands taller than me, but it was also true that I was a very short woman. He kissed my forehead, then adjusted his mask and took a step back. «Wait a moment.» He entered the church and I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by his sudden revelation.

How could I kill others Tarnished? How could I commit such a depraved act just to keep my bloodlust at bay? I cried sinking my face into my hands as the seconds ticked by, as he placed a hand on my head, making me jump. He was handing me a bloodrose, which I took in trembling hands.

«Maybe its smell will help you.» He stroked my cheek again, leaning slightly towards me. «Now go, the Academy of Raya Lucaria is waiting for you.»

Chapter 4: The Good Shepherd

Chapter Text

He saw her gallop off, disappearing beyond the mist that lifted off the lake and hung around the Rose Church like the skeletal arms of a moaning ghost. A sigh rose from his mouth as he brought a hand to his mask, fitting it better on his face. What was driving him to help her? Why, as soon as she whimpered, did he extend his hand lovingly? As soon as she fell asleep last night, he hadn't hesitated to dry her cloak, as well as to contact one of the Bloody Fingers so that she could find a way into Raya Lucaria; he didn't want her to go there, but he couldn't mislead her so blatantly, especially after he sneakily injected Mohg's blood into her wound. He knew it was a matter of time before Desdemona would give in completely, acting for the good of the dynasty who, together with the other knights, would lift it above the Erdtree, Marika herself and her golden offspring. Meanwhile, Varré rubbed his neck, releasing the tension that had gathered above his shoulders, while her eyes, imploring his help, flashed in his mind, together with the arched shape of her full lips, which were so delicate that they looked like cherry blossom petals when they dyed the treetops in vibrant pink, in early spring.Stop thinking about her...His brain thundered but, as soon as he closed his eyes, he found her before him, on her knees, with tears in her eyes, on the verge of her madness as her bloodlust craved fresh flesh. He knew it well because he had tried it first, shortly after Mohg had kidnapped him along with the other surgeons, but he had been the only one able to tame the cursed blood, to become the Good Shepherd for a solemn and magnificent creature like the Luminary. That thought made him smile as the sun enveloped his figure, while the shadows lengthened on the muddy ground and the lake carried small branches, which settled in a small basin.

He moved away from the Rose Church, returning to the cave where he had spent most of the night. The fire was still burning, the flames drawing shadows on the walls while the silence was broken by their crackling. He sat down on the mat, now cold but still soaked with the warrior's sweat and blood. He passed a hand, almost as if to caress the red sap, almost as if he wanted to feel the softness of her skin under the gloves that wrapped both of his hands. Desdemona didn't seem like a delicate flower at first sight, yet she had shown adorable submission when he had slapped her face with those two smacks, or when she had curled up on the mat, crying until she fell asleep. It was just the sweet lambkin that Varré was waiting for and he couldn't wait to break her several times, rotting her good intentions and making her worst side blossom, letting that violent thirst for blood become her only reason for living, that could move her to serve Mohg in the most sublime way she could imagine. He had done it with the other Bloody Fingers, he could have done it with her too. In fact, his yoke had just begun! The smile spread across his lips as he reached up and removed the veil, then the bonnet, and, finally, the mask, placing everything beside him, then inhaled the humid cave air.

What would he have done to smell her blood again? He opened the bag that he always carried with him, hanging from his belt that kept his white gown in place. He fished out some cotton still stained with Desdemona's blood and brought it to his nose, inhaling her dense, sticky smell, feeling it invade his nostrils and stop at the tip of his tongue. What would he have done to have her there and sink his teeth into her epidermis, break a few veins and let that red stream blossom, which he would have collected between his lips? The idea sent him into raptures as he inhaled the very essence of the Tarnished, which caused a tingling at the base of his back and seemed to travel up the entire spine, dwelling on the skull, then descending downwards, past the large nose, the chin wrapped in unkempt beard, Adam's apple, the abdomen, and the navel, stopping at the groin. His hand stopped on his trousers, starting to rub the fly slowly, feeling the nascent erection tingling even more. His tongue flickered over the cotton as if wanting to savor that dulcet crimson ichor, to get lost in the woman's layers, to drown in her scarlet rivers, in those two-tone eyes that were devoid of any form of light. Yet, he had felt the fear, so sublime, so divine, so magnificent that it had flowed down his windpipe like the sweetest honey there was in the world; he had seen it the night before and a few minutes ago, when she had stopped in front of him, at the Rose Church. Her terror suited her marvelously and Varrè was ready to weave it for his little lambkin, place it on her shoulders and push her towards the abyss. This deliberation made him laugh as his hand rubbed harder, furrowing the fabric of his trousers, feeling his penis pressing against the fabric of his underwear, trapped in the leather of his clothing.

Gasps escaped his mouth as his heart pounded against his ribcage, the arousal was a cold current rising from his chest and leaving him breathless. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, intoxicated his senses and carried him to the high vaults of delight, which descended upon him like the great blessing of the Formless Mother. He bit his bottom lip as his fingers dug into the cotton, his tongue flickering again before making a loud snap against his palate. In one quick movement, he undid his laces, pulled down his trousers, and pulled out his co*ck: so long, so thick, so dripping that looked like it was weeping.What are you capable of doing to me, Desdemona?The reflection darted through his mind like a shooting star as his white-gloved hand gripped the long shaft, fingers sliding over the soft skin, thumb pressed against the glans. The rubbing was slow, the stimulation of the glans must have been a sweet torture because he wanted to lose himself in every moment that passed in the cave, in the woman's blood, in the pleasure that slipped under his skin and blossomed into millions of red roses. If he could, he would have f*cked the Tarnished right then, crushing her face under his foot as he planted his co*ck in her ass, pounding her as best he could as he wanted to hear her beg for mercy. But would he be good at showing clemency? The smile grew on his parted lips as the hand began to move more vehemently, as voluptuousness bit his neck, lasciviousness planted itself in the sternum like a stab, while libertine thoughts ran like hungry dogs, invoking the warrior's name.

«Desdemona,» he gasped as he brought the cotton to his nose and inhaled her blood, as he lost himself in that scent so light, so faint that it would soon vanish, as she had disappeared into the mist, running on her steed.

His moans shot up an octave and seemed to echo through the air, bouncing off the cave walls and falling downwards in an intense cacophony, but his ears were deaf, too drunk on the fragrance to be aware of the din that he was making. He also began to move his pelvis as the rubbing became faster and his glans was covered in lubricating liquids, glistening in the light of the flames. He had also closed his eyes, erasing the cave, annihilating all distractions, remaining in a dark space where he dominated Desdemona, crushing her under his body as he drowned inside her, in her warm crevice, while his face was in the hollow of her neck, teeth on her jugular, sucking in her dulcet warm incarnadine nectar. «I want you, I crave you, I desire you.»

How could he pray a common Tarnished like that? A woman of no noble birth, whose story was lost in the folds of time and even she couldn't remember? Sure, she was a warrior who most likely came from the Badlands, but everyone who followed Godfrey's Long March came from there before splitting up and going their separate ways. Had she done the same too? His grip tightened around his co*ck, the speed increased as his pleasure crowned his skull, tightened around his throat like a noose, robbing him of the breath that condensed in the middle of his chest. Varré opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling of the cave, from which hung thick vegetation and tiny drops of water fell around him. However, he didn't have time to dwell on those details, every fragment of his being wanted nothing more than Desdemona, wanted nothing more than her warm breasts, her languid c*nt, the warmth and the full body of her blood as the scent of her skin glued to his own. The rock seemed to glow and the flames had become incandescent as his moans turned into fine rain. He focused his fingers on the glans, increasing the stimulation, dragging himself towards apotheosis, which danced under his flesh, tightened around his torso, crushed his rib cage and penetrated the heart with millions of splinters.

Varré bit his lower lip so hard that a drop of blood blossomed like a tiny rosebud and then ran down his chin, making space between the hairs of his beard. His Adam's apple rose and fell at a frantic pace like his hand, like the fingers tormenting that red cherry, which wept as he neared org*sm. Her name rolled off his lips in stirring whispers, rising a few notes as his soul yearned for her. Streams of sem*n shot to the floor as he collapsed onto the mat, eyes closing as he gasped for breath, his pleasure expanding in every cell, cradling him gently. He lay back as he still gripped his co*ck between his fingers, then raised his other arm and covered his eyes as a tear trickled down his cheek.How could I die like that for such a woman?A sweet little lambkin that he wanted to hold to his chest while he robbed all her forms of innocence.

Would she be able to find him again once the bloodlust became insatiable, or would she give herself up completely to it, becoming a mad blind murderer? But if that were the case, there would be no amusem*nt for him, as she would be doing most of the work herself. However, Desdemona had shown that she did not want to bow to it, otherwise, why had she come back to ask him for help? She was so convinced in her blind faith in the Two Fingers that she wanted to do the right thing, which was to save the Lands Between. If they had both met when he hung out at Roundtable Hold, he would have supported her beliefs and perhaps even helped each other. But now, the ravings of the Two Fingers did not interest him, indeed it seemed crazy to bend to their will and yearn to become Elden Lord, especially when they had no love and respect for the Tarnished, ready to replace if one of them perished or succumbed to the impossibility of such a feat. Desdemona understood this, so why did she continue? The White Face had found Mohg, he believed in him and in his mission, the only one who could crush the Two Fingers and be able to give order to the world, as well as power and love to those who followed him. He'd explained it to her, they'd talked about it the night before, but she'd dismissed the whole thing as mere madness, fueled by an equally mad creature, putting the Luminary on a par with the delirious Two Fingers. He felt anger reawaken for a brief instant, making the air unbreathable and the flames of the bonfire became so hot that Varré felt perspiration trickling down his cheeks and back.

Don't blame her, she doesn't know how this world works.

He took a deep breath, clearing his mind, letting the fury drain from his body and the tranquility return, fueled by his recently achieved org*sm. After all, getting offended by what she said about the Luminary was pointless, especially if she'd overheard someone railing against Mohg and his dynasty. He stretched, then lowered his arm and stared up at the cave ceiling, admiring the greenery that had found a way to bloom so high up.I have to go get her back, she doesn't have to go to Raya Lucaria. He shook his head, erasing that thought, before a burst of laughter rolled out of his mouth and began to echo throughout the entire cavern. He had to stop to intervene always, constantly helping her. Now it was up to her to choose which path to follow: if she returned to him, she would be part of the dynasty, but if she continued with her mission, serving the Two Fingers, it meant that she was irrecoverable and he had wasted Mohg's precious blood. Still, he had a feeling he would see her again soon, but would she be able to find him?

He snapped his tongue against the palate as soon as he stopped laughing, then stood up from the mat, adjusting his trousers, regaining his demeanor. Then he took the mask, wearing it together with the bonnet and the veil, completely covering his features. He had bet on the warrior and wanted to keep doing it, he had high hopes for her.

I trust you, I know you will find me.

Chapter 5: The Academy of Raya Lucaria

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Angel of Mercy

Chapter Text

He had grabbed her hand in a firm grip, pulling her away from Eleonora and the Sanguine Noble. He had never imagined that Desdemona would use the medal, especially understanding how it worked. As soon as she arrived, her presence had been noticed by the Purple Finger, which was often placed to protect the temple in which Mohg slumbered together with the deity. The way the woman had approached his precious lambkin was quite normal. How long would it take for her to slit the throat of the Tarnished? Desdemona had found a way to stall by throwing the medal at the feet of the Sanguine Noble, who, curious, had asked her that question. A sigh escaped his mouth as he shook his head, wondering if it had been wise to bet on that warrior from the Badlands. He stopped for a moment, looking at her, looking straight into her two-colored eyes, trying to read her soul: a power he didn't have, but often reading people had always been easy for him and she was no less, and yet Desdemona could prove to be a pleasant puzzle to solve, or a rather difficult enigma. Unlike many Tarnished he had met, she was not interested in power, in fact, she was still animated by the good intentions of being able to give a sense to the Lands Between, of being able to balance the various forces and undo the damage done by Marika and the various demigods. «Did you really kill Yura, the Hunter of the Bloody Fingers?» he asked her as they started walking again, passing some Albinaurics with an unusual red color, on their heads they also had small dark horns. They watched but didn't attack, so accustomed to the presence of the White Face and the Knights of the Luminary Mohg.

«Yes,» she replied, lowering her head.

«Excellent!» he exclaimed, giggling. «That could put you in a good position and quickly earn the esteem of the other Bloody Fingers.»

He heard her sigh. «He was fighting one of the Bloody Fingers, he was wearing a mask made of bones. Perhaps, he is the man who gave you the map to find another glintstone key to enter Raya Lucaria.»

«Oh, so you met him.»

They passed the lake of blood and then climbed a steep slope, where some Albinaurics were walking, while others sat on the grass, praying to the Formless Mother. Meanwhile, the barks of some dogs filled the air as they devoured the growths of flesh which covered some rectangular stones in the area or the walls of some ancient structures. Even the call of the huge crows reverberated in the air soaked in the filthy smell of the cruor.

«She made me do it.»

«Did she talk to you?»

«Continuously, feeding my bloodlust, my insane desire to kill…» Her words died in her throat as a sob brushed her lips.

Varré turned to her, seeing a tear streaming down her cheek. Was she really so terrified? He didn't have nice words with which to comfort her, indeed he would have preferred to slap her for having presented herself like that in a place that had to remain secret until Mohg would not have awakened together with the divinity until the dynasty would not have come to life. Meanwhile, the grip around the woman's hand increased but she didn't feel pain, after all her gauntlets protected her from such an ephemeral thing. «That's why you're covered entirely in blood.» He laughed again as they approached a portal.

«I also killed Rennala.»

«It was the sacrifice she craved, the offering for a magnanimous deity like the Formless Mother. Rejoice because she has seen something extraordinary in you, because no one has ever had direct contact with her, except the Luminary Mohg.» In fact, he could not understand such an attitude on the part of that Goddess. Why did she want to communicate with a common Tarnished like Desdemona, why had she named her during a cold night, while he was dreaming?

«Where are we going?» she asked him.

He dragged her into the portal without giving her any explanation, appearing at the foot of a huge ancient structure, made up of various arches, the narrow and small windows looked like blind eyes observing the fake firmament of that place. «These lands are what's left of Nokron.» He raised his hand, pointing to the sky, under which, in some moments, she could see the real ceiling, made of rock. Desdemona watched it carefully, narrowing her eyes, and getting lost behind the false stars. «It's an old spell,» he explained dismissively, before pulling her arm and guiding her towards the building, which stood before them like a slumbering giant, the door wide open looking like a huge mouth ready to devour them. They crossed the threshold, torches lit as they passed, illuminating the dark corridor. Meanwhile, Varré felt her fingers tighten around his hand. What did she fear was going to happen? He didn't look at her, he just went forward and then turned right and then continued straight on. «You need a hot bath and clean clothes,» he said more to himself than to her. «We also need to disinfect your wounds.» Indeed, her blood flowed from one of her cheeks and down her neck, while the other was the gash that Rennala had made with one of her sorceries. Every muscle throbbed with pain, but the agony she felt at her shoulder, where he'd injected her with Mohg's blood, was so sweet and so delicious that she felt cradled by it. She should have known that this form of suffering was a unique and unmistakable way that conjoined her to the Formless Mother.

Turning to the right, Varrè took some stairs which he began to climb rapidly, always dragging her behind him. The torches illuminated the path, while from the small windows, one could see part of the promontory, the rocky walls and the firmament that followed them with its fake stars. The White Face opened a door and pushed the woman inside, then closed it again. With a sulfur wick, he lit some candles, illuminating a fairly spacious room where there was: a queen size bed; a desk in a corner covered with books and parchments; a small table; a wardrobe was against a wall. At the back, there were two large windows, the feeble light barely illuminated what was the place where Varré holed up, where his patients, the Bloody Fingers, often went when they had wounds to heal. «Put your axe against the wall, you won't need it here. Do the same with your kukri.»

Desdemona did as he said as he opened a wardrobe door and took out some clothes, then immediately closed it again. «Follow me!» he told her peremptorily. «Close the door of the room.» She started following him down another corridor, at the end of which there was a huge room filled with various bathtubs. One had been filled with steaming water. He arranged the clothes he had taken on a small table, next to which was a wooden tub with soap in the bottom. Meanwhile, Varré approached her and began to remove her hood and cloak, while she began to remove her armor. Every now and then she let out a gasp, evidently, the new wound on her side was causing her a lot of pain, as well as making her movements somewhat clumsy.

In a short time, she was completely naked, her unbraided hair flowing down her back in sinuous waves. The White Face studied her intently, memorizing every detail of her body, such as the massive scars on her stomach, while another one cut her forearm in half and ran up to her elbow, curling around it. But what caught his attention was an interesting symbol that had been branded into her epidermis. He grabbed her wrist in a firm grip and pulled her towards him, stretching her arm, then twisted it slightly, causing her to moan. «Who did it?» he asked her in his sugary voice, caressing the contours of the burnt and jagged flesh: it was the Two Fingers; an indelible mark with blackened outlines, where the blisters, once burst, had brought out the live flesh and now it emerged in reddish doodles with dark shades.

«I don't remember,» she answered briskly, lowering her head, and escaping his inquisitive eyes.

«Don't you actually remember or don't want to remember?»

Desdemona didn't answer, avoiding looking at him.

A sigh rose from his mouth as he reached out to her face, fingers trailing up her cheek, caressing the scars around her left eye: part of her cheek and the outline of her eye had scars caused by a serious burn. «You've known suffering for a long time, haven't you? Perhaps much more than some people present in this place.»

His words made her head jump up, staring at him in those irises that had the same color as honey, yet they were so cold that she shivered. «You don't know anything about me, Varré.»

«Try to tell me, then.»

She tried to push him away but he pulled her towards him, tugging at her arm that he was gripping with such force that she moaned in pain. He cupped her hips with his free hand, pressing her against his chest, feeling the round, firm shape of her breasts against his breastbone.

«I hate you, Varré.»

«You're not the first one,» he said with a chuckle.

Desdemona growled, hitting his face with both hands, causing him to unbalance and retreat slightly, dragging her too because the surgeon didn't let go of her body. She wrapped her fingers around his mask, ripping it off his face and throwing it into the tub full of water, then she dug her fingers into one of his cheeks, making him moan with pain.

Varré lifted her into his arms, then threw her into the steaming water. She emerged quickly, then retreated towards the bottom, reaching the other edge, without ceasing to stare at him, meanwhile, she had the mask in her arms. «Give it back to me!» he shouted at her, but she didn't move, remaining there, in a corner, scrutinizing him. «You don't want me to move close, because I have no friendly intentions, my little lambkin.»

The woman sighed and tossed the mask towards another bathtub. The White Face emitted a groan as he shook his head, moving towards the object of his possession, which he had worn for so many years and which denoted his belonging to the war surgeons: that mask, together with the veil and bonnet, had protected him from infected blood, from bacteria and from any form of disease that he could have contracted while dressing the wounds of the soldiers, while using his Misericorde on those who had no hope of having their lives saved. What did she know of the agony and the torment he had inhaled on the battlefields? Both had slipped under his skin, elevating him to an angel of mercy, to one who felt compassion for the dying. And his Misericorde was that dagger he wore at his waist, well hidden under his white gown. How long would it take for him to plant it down her throat and end her Tarnished existence? No, she saw the Grace, it would bring her back to life. He shrugged, picking up the mask which, instead of ending up in the tub, ended up on the floor.

He turned towards the warrior, thinking that she had escaped out of the bathtub and, therefore, he was already imagining a sort of chase, but instead, she had remained there, completely naked and relaxed by the hot water, she had even closed her eyes. Was she playing with him? Was it a trap? Varré put on the mask again, then retraced his steps and took the tub with the soap on the bottom, then approached her, who didn't move, remaining still and motionless in that corner, her head slightly bowed back, exposing the neck and the throbbing jugular. He said nothing as he knelt on the ground and removed the gloves, then took the soap, running it between his hands before rubbing her long hair, also pushing her head slightly forward, so he could collect the other strands in his fingers. White foam formed between those purplish threads and a dense fruity smell was released from that bar of soap born from the herbs found in that corner of the world. Varré pushed her head back, exposing her throat again, a finger that gracefully crossed it, feeling her heartbeat: it was as calm as she was at that moment. Perhaps she had become aware that even if she tried to escape, she would end up badly, furthermore, her armor was arranged next to the clean clothes and her weapon was in the surgeon's room. So, what hopes did she have in getting out of that palace? Besides, Eleonora was waiting for nothing but a misstep from Desdemona.

The White Face took the bar of soap between his fingers, rubbing it between his hands before running it along her body. Her breasts were really round and big, as well as firm. He caressed them softly, also rubbing her nipples. She stiffened but said nothing as his fingers trailed lower and lower as he leaned forward, having her head against his thigh. He reached for her little puss*, caressing her pubic hairs, then descended towards her labia, feeling them unfold like petals as his index finger slid between them, finding her cl*tor*s that lifted under that light rubbing, which let a few gasps escape from the woman's mouth. His digit slid inside the throat of that warm ogive, along with his middle and ring fingers as Desdemona arched her back and closed her hands around his arm, while her moans rolled out of her lips. Varré began with a circular movement, making his way between the warm, humid walls of her vulva, then penetrated as far as he could reach, moving in such a precise and intense way that she couldn't help but move her pelvis. He dipped her other hand into her wet hair, his fingers tightened around her strands as he leaned over her, the lips of the mask against hers, seeing how her tongue sought his mouth, longing for a slobbering kiss. How could that fury be tamed? Since when did she have an appetite like that? It was evident that her lust for blood still dwelt in her and this drove her to have a voracious hunger, eager for the contact between their bodies, for the blood that flowed in their veins. He'd felt it himself years ago, before he'd managed to tame Mohg's ichor, returning to be the cold, calculating man he'd always been. His irises had returned to the color he was born with, erasing that smoky red that took possession of other people's eyes when he blessed them, making them become part of the nascent dynasty of his magnanimous Luminary. Would Desdemona be like the other Bloody Fingers, keeping the one eye out of which she saw that reddish tinge, or would she be like him, masterfully controlling the influence of the accursed cruor?

He withdrew his hand and she let out a mournful wail, opening her eyes and meeting the surgeon's cold ones. Beneath his mask, he was smiling, pleased and amused by her, by the state she was in and how it had dominated her. She was staring at him with tearful eyes, an unspoken prayer imprinted on her rosy lips: she yearn for his long fingers inside her, wanted them to dig deep inside her, giving her that dense pleasure that was making her satiated as it crawled over her skin. Varré would have gladly continued, but where was his fun if he didn't torture her properly before? After all, she deserved a good punishment for having reached that place and for having disrespected him. However, he let go of her hair as well as he got up and fetched a white linen towel, in which Desdemona was wrapped once she got out of the bathtub.

She didn't dare say a word and didn't dare look at his face. How did she feel about letting him see what state she was in? Was she ashamed? She was a woman with a certain fierceness and a certain pride, so it was normal that she felt betrayed by herself for craving his attention, for giving herself so easily to those fingers that had explored, even if briefly, the meanders of her vagin*.

«Dry yourself, then wear these clothes.»

She did as he commanded, wearing linen trousers like the long-sleeved shirt, which hid most of her soft forms. She also buttoned up the tabard, which had a few seams along the sides. Everything fit her too large but she didn't care, at least now she had clean clothes. She should have thanked him since he was lending his garments.

Varré grabbed her hand again and led her into his room, making her sit on the edge of the bed, then he took some clean bandages, alcohol, a needle, and thread for sewing the gash to her hip and sat down next to her. «So, let's get this new wound dressed.» He had put on his gloves again, the white one was perpetually stained with blood, unlike the leather one, which pushed her clothes aside, leaving the wound to emerge. «Who did it?» he asked, disinfecting her laceration.

Desdemona tensed as she bite her bottom lip, feeling the alcohol seep into her tissues, then took a long breath and looked up at him. «Rennala.»

«She's dead now, at least.» He took the needle and started stitching her wound.

«Yes, as the Formless Mother wished.» She lowered her head, watching how Varré's hands moved masterfully. Who knows how many times he had done it, who knows how many lives he had saved when he had been a war surgeon.

«But who did this wound that made you lose your left eye?» He raised a hand and stroked the reddish scars that stood out on her pale face.

Desdemona squeezed his wrist in a firm grip, her fingers digging into the leather of his glove. «I don't want to remember and I don't want to share my past with you. So, please, stop asking me all these questions.» She let his wrist go and looked away, preferring to ignore the White Face, who lowered his arm and sighed desolately.

«As you like, my little lambkin.» He took a cotton ball and pressed it to the wound on her cheek, stopping the small bleeding. «I just wanted to get to know you.»

«Do you call Eleonora lambkin too or do you avoid this pet name with her? I guess the first time you tried to call her lambkin, you had her blade pointing at your throat, right?» She turned back to him, looking at him defiantly. A simper had formed on her rosy lips, even taking the liberty of joking with him.

Varré chuckled before cleaning the wound she had on her cheek, the one that bloomed when she used the Pureblood Knight's Medal. «Touché!» He stood up and walked over to the desk, taking a small bronze mirror of a circular shape, then returned to her and handed it to her. «You're just one of us now.»

Desdemona grabbed it and looked closely at her reflection, then she raised a hand and touched that blood-red symbol that had formed on her cheek. She touched it, surprised to find how smooth her skin felt under her fingertips. In fact, it looked more like a tattoo than a wound. When she handed the mirror to Varrè, she noticed that he had removed the mask, then he leaned over her and she touched the same symbol that he, on the other hand, had on his forehead. «What's this?» she asked him.

«It's a trident, it's Mohg's symbol. It was formed at the exact moment you used the medal. Deep down, the Formless Mother longs for a wound.» He touched her shoulder, the exact spot where the gash was, his nails digging into the fabric to give her a rush of pain so sweet, so soaked, so intense that she moaned, biting her bottom lip as her eyes were in his own. Varré sat down next to her and slipped off his white glove, letting her see one of his digits, which continued to bleed like the warrior's shoulder: a wound that would never heal. «I often inject blood into the Tarnished's fingers, which is why Mohg's knights are called Bloody Fingers. He did it with me some time ago, when I decided to support his cause, becoming his Good Shepherd, looking for Tarnished tired of following the Two Fingers and working for them, or Tarnished looking for love and strength.» He also pulled off his veil and bonnet, letting his brown hair emerge, then he pulled off the other glove as well. He grabbed her face in a gentle grip, thumbs caressing her cheeks as he lost himself in her eyes, so dull, so devoid of warmth just as his own were. «I liked you from the first moment I saw you, as soon as you came out of that damned catacomb of an equally damned hero.» He was serious, there was no smile creasing the corners of his mouth. Also, he was being direct, not using too many words and getting straight to the point; deep down he knew that to approach her he had to use that method and also avoid tones too sugarily.

«Even we two are damned in this mad world.»

«Holy words!»

Varré took a long breath, then placed his lips on those of the woman. Both opened them, then his tongue crossed the threshold, going in search of Desdemona's, who immediately began to dance together with his. His hands descended along her shoulders, then went in search of the buttons of the tabard, quickly pulling it off. His digits were on her shirt, touching the shape of her breasts, nipples peeping under the fabric; he pulled one, making her gasp into his mouth. He smiled as he lost himself in her essence, savoring her with that slow, calm kiss as she held him close, embracing him, leaving him somewhat astonished by the sudden gesture. Varré stopped, his hands caressing her back, losing himself in the sweetness of that moment, in the warmth of Desdemona's body, in the pulse that beat against his breastbone. She was calm and this left him surprised since she had been ravaged by the bloodlust a few minutes before, but also happy, yet it wasn't what he longed for. He bit his tongue, letting his blood invade her oral cavity, letting that atavistic hunger come to life in such a bestial and violent form that it seemed to burn her as she drank the ichor of the White Face: a full-bodied and dulcet wine to which she couldn't help, allowing the sticky red substance to intoxicate her senses.

Varré dragged her to him as he rested his back against the keyboard of the bed. The mirror fell on the floor with a thud along with the mask and gloves, but neither of them cared as he bit her tongue too because he too wanted to feel his own bloodlust, desired to remember how animalistic it was, as well as wanting to burn in the name of Mohg, but above all of that voracious woman, who had turned the kiss into a frenetic dance. Meanwhile, he pulled away from her lips to remove her shirt, then it was the turn of her breastband, letting emerge the two bosoms with a round shape and a rather satisfactory size for his hands. He caught one nipple between his teeth, squeezing it with some force, making her scream before starting to suck on it with some vehemence, lifting and lowering it with his tongue, while the other was titillated between forefinger and thumb. Meanwhile, shivers ran down her spine as she gasped ceaselessly, letting her thirst awaken the arousal she'd felt in Raya Lucaria; the same was for Varré too, feeling the same desire that he had savored when he had inhaled the woman's blood in the cave at Liurnia, imprinted on the cotton with which he had dabbed the wound on her shoulder.

He turned her around so that her back was pressed against his chest. He undid the waistband of her trousers, then pulled them down along with her underwear, revealing a small tuft of pubic hair. His left hand ran towards her puss*, caressing it languidly before reaching for her cl*tor*s, which rose under his fingertips and began to rub gently. Desdemona moved her legs, squeezing them before moving her pelvis, meeting those drops of pleasure that Varré was giving her. She had leaned her head against his shoulder, her hair falling in so many waves, her eyes half closed and her lips parted, while her cheeks were tinged with a slight blush. The surgeon's right hand was on her breast, toying with her nipple, slowly torturing her, letting her become clay in his hands so he could mold her the way he wished. Meanwhile, he felt his penis become turgid and press against the warrior's back.

His fingers drowned in the throat of her puss*, spreading the walls of her flesh, letting her juices envelop him as the thumb continued to caress her cl*t. Desdemona tensed her back as he bit into her neck, letting the marks of his teeth bloom like roses, turning bright red in the flame of candles. Her blood trickled down his tongue, sending him into raptures, feeling his co*ck grow harder and harder as his desire for her became a need like the oxygen filling the lungs. He wanted to sink into her seas, discover her shores, taste her soul: he wanted to slip under her skin and wrap around her heart, before crushing it with an immense tenderness that she should only feel immense love for him, only for him.

He grabbed her chin and pulled her head up, the tongue licking her ichor before snapping against the roof of his mouth, making a noise so loud it sounded like a bone breaking. «Do you long for me?» he whispered in her ear. «Do you want me?» Desdemona didn't answer, too lost in the pleasure, too eager for the delight she was feeling. Meanwhile, he released his grip and pressed his cheek against hers. «I'm burning for you.» He stopped, pulled his fingers out, and brought them to his mouth, savoring her liquids, getting lost in the aroma of her vagin*, which glued to his palate.

«Please go on,» she gasped, turning to him, and kissing his cheek, then her mouth trailed down his jaw, his scruffy stubble tickling her nose, then dived into his neck, inhaling his scent. «Please, Varré.» She bit into him and the surgeon taut like a lute string, arching his back as his blood blossomed, finding fertile ground in her mouth.

«Beseech me as a God, maybe I'll have mercy.» He moaned as he felt her suck, his skin gripping between her teeth. He plunged his hand into her hair, he wrapped those strands around the fingers before pulling them with such force that she screamed. He pushed her to the ground before he was on top of her, wrapping an arm around her throat and lifting her, then pressed her back against his chest, his hard co*ck rubbing against her buttocks. He stroked her tuft of pubic hair again, then he stroked her cl*t, making her shiver. «So?»

«Please, I'm begging you!» she said through tears.

He let her go and she fell on her knees before turning to face him, pressing her face against his erection, then licked it above his trousers. She undid the belts of his gown, then he easily removed as she pulled down his pants, allowing the turgid phallus to blossom into its immense grandeur. His glans began to kiss her mouth as the surgeon sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't wait for him to tell her what to do: Desdemona gripped his co*ck in one hand as she opened her mouth wide, letting it rest on her tongue before starting to suck it deeply, her head rising and falling, while Varré's precum danced on her taste buds.

She craved him and wanted him inside her.

Chapter 7: Addiction

Chapter Text

His taste filled my entire mouth and was dancing on my taste buds as I sucked on his phallus. I felt his fingers dip into my hair as his gasps filled the room. What drove me to be so domesticated in the hands of that hideous man? Why did I always feel so vulnerable in his presence, as soon as my gaze met his cold eyes? What influence did he use to bend me to his will? I didn't think it was the blood and its simple nature, which awakened an appetite that would never be satisfied, but something intrinsic to his person, like a will-o'-the-wisp that had come to life as soon as I had met him, emerging from the grave of that hero in Limgrave.

Varré had appeared to my eyes as an ethereal presence in his worn white gown, with that porous mask behind which his golden eyes appeared, as sparkling as they were cold, as well as sharp. In fact, his gaze was a blade that pierced your heart, leaving you gasping, snatching your breath from your throat, reducing you to a bloody pulp: it seemed as if he was capable of revealing your every secret with those two irises, which often burned in the center of your forehead like two miniature suns... Cold suns of a distant and unknown planet. I shivered at the thought as his fingers drowned in the strands, his hands pushing my head towards his penis, which filled my mouth. I inhaled and exhaled through my nose as I dug my nails into the surgeon's legs. He let out a gasp before leaping to his feet and I felt the tip of his glans pressing against my uvula. I looked up at him, who was staring at me intently as he reached down an arm, mouth parted and gasping breath rolling out of his lips.

He began to move his pelvis, sliding his co*ck down my throat as he clung to me, twisting the strands of hair around his fingers. He was literally f*cking my mouth and I let him do it without fighting, intoxicated by the scent of his penis, by his eyes that plunged into mine, by the pleasure he was feeling and that seemed to make him burn deep inside.

Saliva slipped from my lips in whitish filaments as he increased the pace, moving his pelvis with a certain vehemence, while my cheeks were slapped by his phallus, which slipped on my tongue and seemed ready to slide straight down my throat. Meanwhile, I closed my eyes and dug my nails into his buttocks, feeling his moans rise a few octaves before he gave my head a violent jolt, banging it. What if I had bitten him? Was it really worth tasting his anger? I threw that thought into oblivion because, in the depths of my being, I really wanted to be there and in that pose, that is sitting on my knees and with him violating my oral cavity. The thick flavor of his precum had enveloped my tongue, had caressed my cheeks, had tightened around my uvula, gently inebriating me, while I waited for nothing but his sperm as the most absolute and total form of blessing.

However, he brutally pushed me away, knocking me to the floor. He was right on top of me, crawling over my body. His mouth sought mine in a frantic kiss, so soaked in blood as our tongues danced restlessly. My hands raced to undo the dark brown tabard, which he slipped off with a quick movement as our lips continued to be connected. Varré also unbuttoned his ice-grey shirt, which he balled up and tossed into a corner. My hands ran along his back, caressing the sign of some scars while he drew a path of kisses along my neck, the hardness of the teeth imprinted in the flesh, following the sinuosity of a vein, which exploded under his elongated canines and filled his mouth in crimson drops, which he lapped with a certain craze. What was blood to those blessed with Mohg's cursed one? It was like the sweetest honey that existed in the world but it was also a burning hunger, which awakened a powerful destructive fire at the core of one's being: it was like being reborn and dying a thousand times, it was merging with the Formless Mother, it was singing hymns to her essence and declare psalms to the deaf and crazy ears of an eccentric personality like the person Varré called Luminary. Although I didn't want to bend over to all of that, I couldn't help it, to hear the blood calling me, invoking my name and I felt it in that gossamer of arteries and capillaries that moved under the epidermis of the White Face.

His unkempt stubble tickled my neck as he lifted himself, staring straight into my eyes. He bit his bottom lip, ichor dripping into its sheen and landing on my tongue. I shuddered as the atavistic hunger answered with a roar from the core of my bones. I stood up, grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him greedily, while he buried his teeth in his cheek, determined to feed me, and I lost myself in his blood, ready to crawl under his skin and envelop me around his veins. I gasped into his mouth as he held me against him, his fingers running down my back, stroking my hair. He grabbed his penis in his free hand and, patting me on the shoulder, invited me to sit astride him, feeling it slip inside me. The walls of my vagin* parted as he passed, a gasp escaped my mouth and I tilted my head back: his penis was so huge, so wet, so sharp.

I buried my face in the hollow of his neck, inhaling the smell of his skin that crept into my nostrils as I began to move my pelvis along with his. He held me close, almost looking like a different man to the one just before, how he had pushed his phallus down my throat, how he had tortured me on the bed, driving me crazy with how he had touched me. Now I was panting with him, my chest against his, my pleasure merging with his. It was like a song, a hymn to delight that manifested itself in voluptuousness, in ecstasy, in the pure exaltation of the senses, and that movement was as sweet as the flavor of blood that danced on our taste buds and was so hot that it warmed our entrails.

We were two rivers in flood, moving in unison. I kissed his neck, leaving conspicuous hickeys in a deep dark purple they looked like a handful of hydrangeas. I scratched his back as lust bit more and more, craving all that pleasure that began to burn our flesh. The White Face pushed me down under him, placing my back against the floor. I lifted my legs and placed them against his shoulders as he squeezed my hips. His eyes were half closed, drops of sweat beaded his forehead looking like a handful of opaque pearls, his mouth was open and his breathing was panting.

The movement of his pelvis became faster, more vehement, his thrusts were bestial as he leaned forward, allowing himself to be enveloped in my embrace. My thighs pressed against his sides and crossed against his back, his mouth on mine in another voracious kiss: it was as if one wanted to devour the other. Teeth drowning in flesh and blood exploding in red spray, filling our oral cavities, cradling us in its sweetness: an addiction neither of us could escape. Varré raised his head and I arched my back, wishing to merge with him, to create a single body in that explosion of pleasure, in that primordial appetite that dwelt in both of us, in that savage gesture of tenderness in a world deprived of logic and love. Weren't we two people lost in a universe on the verge of collapse? He kissed my eyes and cheeks as well as the tip of my nose, a hand that raced over my head as he increased the speeds of his thrusts as he drowned in my salty seas, my burning juices.

His name rolled off my lips as I arched my head, as I closed my eyes, as lust pressed me to the surgeon. I heard him chuckle as he dived forward, resting his cheek against mine, moving frantically and I moved with him in that carnal dance.

«You're only mine,» he whispered in my ear.

«Yes,» I replied as if he had asked me a question and sought that certainty. Or maybe I was looking for it? As Tarnished and highly despised by the inhabitants of the Lands Between, it was only natural that we sought a sense of belonging as well as affection. Was that what prompted me to reply? Was that sexual intercourse the manifestation of my hunger for love? Was Varré right? I embraced him tighter, my head leaning against the floor, him on top of me panting, both lost in pleasure.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling of that room. It was illuminated by a brilliant white light, then slowly crumbled as it was about to fly away: I felt the lust blast, I felt the ecstasy invade me like a warm current, I felt the pleasure place the crown on my head; the org*sm reached was warm and sublime, it was a languid embrace that lets me float for a few minutes. I closed my eyes, erasing that vision, leaving only me and the apotheosis to exist. Meanwhile, Varrè continued to move inside me, his co*ck that had become more turgid than before, looking like a blade digging inside me while his thrusts went slightly out of sync. A guttural moan rose from his mouth as a hot stream came out of his dick: he came inside me with three more thrusts before stopping and collapsing on top of me. We remained in that pose for a few seconds, which then became minutes: an eternity that lasted very little, while one clasped the other, cradled by the peak of pleasure, by the voluptuousness that receded like the tide, leaving us dazzled and completely deprived of strength. I would freeze time as the warmth of his body melted into mine, like our bodies. I still had my eyes closed and the scent of his skin continued to invade my nostrils: why should I have broken that spell? However, I felt him move, letting me know that the sand was flowing again in the hourglass.

He stood up slowly, then took me in his arms and laid me on the bed. He lay down next to me, then pulled the covers up, before hugging me. Meanwhile, I felt his seed run down my thighs. «It's time to get some rest, isn't it, Desdemona?»

I leaned my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. «What will happen tomorrow?»

«That will depend on you whether you want to stay or not, whether you want to be one of us.» He ran a hand through my hair. «Now try to sleep.»

Chapter 8: The Lambkin

Chapter Text

The sun never rose in Nokron, there was only perpetual darkness, lit by the fake stars of an equally artificial firmament: an ancient spell said to have been created by the Nox. Yet, life was present in those verdant moors, which lay below the slopes of the Lands Between, at the center of their fulcrum. Herbs, shrubs and animals were not rare and some grew in a healthy way, drinking the waters of the Siofra river. Could we say the same thing where Mohg's domain was raised? The barking of the dogs and the cackling of the gigantic ravens, the swamp of blood and the Albinaurics that had taken on a reddish complexion and horns had sprouted on their heads, weren't they a sign of the Formless Mother's presence? Were they not harbingers of her unhealthy power? Or at least how this affected some of the fauna and inhabitants of that place. The White Face didn't care for those details, unlike many, he had managed to tame Mohg's blood and the influence of the Formless Mother, he had managed to keep his wits, even when the world was crumbling around him, when the uncertainties of the Landsw Between shattered in the awareness that the Two Fingers didn't care about who became Elden Lord: it was important to restore the Golden Order, to return things to the way they were before the Shattering. He was just a war surgeon, who possessed vast knowledge of medicinal herbs and the use of daggers, he knew how to kill a person without them noticing, and he knew how to dye the world the same color as blood.

Varré stretched as Desdemona's breath tickled his neck. She still lay asleep, curled up in a fetal position against him. He got up without waking her, moving imperceptibly, merging with the shadows that had filled the bedroom: the candles had long since blown out, only the melted resin and the sweet smell of beeswax remained. He blinked as he turned to her, looking at the shape of her body wrapped in the blankets, her head resting on the bed, her hair was like a million strands woven with darkness and amethyst. He wanted to kiss her cheek and run a hand through her soft locks, but he risked waking her up. He shrugged before gathering his clothes and starting to dress, covering his face with his white mask, then wrapped the scarf around his neck. He grabbed the handle of the door, but he turned to her one last time, staring at her for a few seconds, before exiting the room and taking some stairs that took him to a long corridor. The flames from the torches dispelled the darkness but cast deep shadows on the floor and magnified his as he advanced noiselessly into the kitchen. The smell of food invaded the whole room as the pot boiled over the fire. He stopped a few feet away from the woman that was cooking, who glared at him. Varré ignored her, taking two bowls in his hands and bringing them close to her.

Footsteps caught his attention, making him turn his head and look toward the door. Eleonora appeared on the threshold wearing her armour, her cloak resembling the wing of a dragon, her hair framing her face with harmonious features, and her deep blue eyes were two wells of spring water... Yet she was a murderer in cold blood. She too approached the woman, taking a bowl, but then brought her gaze to the surgeon. «How is your lambkin?» she asked him.

«She's still sleeping.»

«I expect you to break her completely, to subjugate her as you have done to us.» She caught his arm in a firm grip, feeling the iron of her armor pressing his fabric. «I don't want you to play with her, cuddle her or f*ck her, I want you to destroy her. She must support our cause and blindly obey Mohg. If you fail, plant your Misericorde in the middle of her heart.»

Varré freed himself from her grip with a jerk. «Do you want to teach me how to do my job, Eleonora?»

«I noticed how you looked at her yesterday and how quickly you intervened to save her.»

«I would have done the same to you or any other Bloody Finger if you were in the same situation.»

Her laughter was a sheer mockery that the White Face felt a flush of anger. «I highly doubt it.»

Varré preferred not to retort, deeming quite useless arguing with her, who had underlined an attitude of his that he hadn't been able to clearly disguise, demonstrating something he didn't know he had let emerge. What, really, had appeared from his gaze and his voice that had led Eleonora to want to remind him what were his job and his purpose within the Mohg dynasty? She was giving him her back when he had come to help Desdemona, she had only turned toward him when she had lowered her weapon. Did she know what happened between him and the warrior last night? He didn't believe she was spying on them, it was something she would never do. However, she was a very good observer, almost able to read people's souls. What had she glimpsed in him? Surely something that he himself ignored. He sighed as he watched as the woman, whose job was to cook them breakfast, lunch and dinner, pour the soup into his two bowls, as well as Eleonora's.

«The bread has just been taken out of the oven, bring it to your lambkin, she might like it and understand that in this place there are not only horrible beasts but people like her,» she said trying to emulate a cordial tone, but it was veiled by a biting sarcasm while an amused smile pursed her red lips.

«It's a great idea, you know?» He went to the bread pantry, took two loaves, then arranged the two bowls and the bread on a tray, then also took out two slices of honey cake. «See you around, my dear.» He was about to leave but she stopped him again, calling him by his name.

«You never brought me breakfast in bed. There were just kicks in the shins and blood in my mouth.»

Varré remained motionless, frozen in that pose, his face turning towards her, looking at her coldly. «Watch your talk, my dear. I could make you spit more blood if I wanted, without even having to touch you.»

«Is that a threat? You no longer scare me.»

«Only fools stop being afraid.»

He walked out of the kitchen at a leisurely pace, holding the tray tightly in his hands. He heard the shouting coming both from the common room and from the vast dining room, where were the long laid tables, where the Bloody Fingers ate their breakfast. He could have joined them and eaten as much as Mohg offered, where the smell of roast beef and salted herring filled the air, where samovars kept teapots warm and overflowing fried eggs made people's mouths water, like the trays full of croquettes accompanied by rose jam and desserts of various shapes. However, he preferred to go to his lambkin, giving her a share of what Mohg bestowed on his dynasty, his Bloody Fingers, and his surgeons.

He opened the door holding the tray in one hand, then placed it on the small table. He took the new candles from the desk and started lighting them, lighting the room as best he could. He approached the still-sleeping woman, sat down on the edge of the bed and grabbed her shoulder, shaking her gently. Desdemona widened her eyes and looked at him, then she stretched.

«What time is it?» she asked.

«It's daytime in the outside world and it should be eight in the morning,» he answered. «I brought breakfast. Believe me, it's much better than the one I made you the other day in the cave. There's dessert too.»

«Really?»

«If you don't believe me, come and see.» He pointed to the table.

Desdemona leaned towards him, her blanket slipping off her body, exposing her soft firm breasts. She pulled off his mask, revealing his face, the unkempt beard, the heavy dark circles framing his golden eyes, the long white eyelashes, and the sharp cheeks. However, she ran a finger over his lips before caressing his jowl, moving up to his temple, then digging her fingers into his hair, working their way down the ponytail. She parted her lips before kissing him gently, dipping her tongue into his mouth, and running towards Varré's, who wrapped her shoulders in an embrace, drawing her to him. Could he have already tamed her? He didn't believe it was possible, not with a simple sexual intercourse. However, he had seen her eyes and the healthy one had returned to its original color, a sign that she had managed to control the influence of Mohg's blood, just like him, like Eleonora and a few other chosen ones.

She pulled back, breaking the kiss as she pushed the covers aside and stood up, walking over to the table. «I'm ravenously hungry,» she admitted as she broke the bread and dipped it into the meat-and-vegetable soup.

«I see it,» he said before taking the shirt that was lying on the floor and draping it around her shoulders. He sat down opposite her, savoring what that silent cook had carefully prepared. Both were eating heartily, getting lost in the flavors that the various dishes held within them. He remembered having eaten something so good only at the Roundtable Hold, when he still believed he could make a difference and give a future to the Lands Between, when proximity to the great heroes fueled his confidence before seeing them fall one after the other, overwhelmed by terror and the awareness that nothing could match the power of a demigod. Yet the woman before him had ended the lives of Godrick and Rennala, taking their Great Runes. What if she was destined to become Elden Lord? Was she a true danger to Mohg? It was better to break her as Eleonora said, to subjugate her to the point that she would only obey the will of the Luminary.

«What plans do you have today, Varré? How are you going to break my will? Maybe by fracturing some bones or playing with my mind?» Desdemona asked suddenly, as she lifted her head from her plate, before stuffing a piece of cake into her mouth. Had she read his mind? She too could read people like Eleonora? Or had she understood that he was thinking of something specific concerning her? After all, she was there, near the temple of his Lord, so it was clear that she had understood that something would be done that day, that she would see her spirit disintegrate and her mouth filled with blood, just to quote Eleonora herself.

Varré left the cutlery against his dish, looking into those two-colored eyes, at the smile present on her rosy lips. Neither Mohg's blood nor what she had lived through it had broken her, on the contrary, she had found herself and a calm that made her serene, because by now she no longer felt that burning craving for blood. How did she always manage to triumph? Was it because of the pain she had already experienced, represented by the scars that covered part of her body? Perhaps precisely because of this that he, like Desdemona and Eleonora, had managed to tame the blessing that Mohg had descended upon him. No one knew his story, no one knew what he had experienced... A sigh escaped his lips as he intertwined his fingers, his gaze on the warrior, observing her carefully, memorizing every single detail that emerged from her delicate features: her small nose, the large eyes bordered by long lashes that looked like black lace, the strange color of the irises, the left one was of a bluish whiteness, denoting the inability of the eyeball to be able to see, the high cheekbones colored by a slight blush, the mouth full and silky. He bit his bottom lip as he desired to savor her like the night before, that he could drown in her floods and drink her nectar from her soft, juicy vulva. «Yes, I have plans for you, but not here, we're too close to the Mohgwyn Dynasty Mausoleum, we might disturb Mohg and the deity he slumbers with.»

«So we're going back to the surface?» she asked before wiping her mouth. «Is there anything to drink?»

How had he forgotten the tea? He was about to get up and go get it for her, but he decided it was time to get her out of that room, it was time to show her to the other Bloody Fingers and the various Sanguine Nobles. «Do you know what? Let's go get a nice steaming cup of black tea.» He walked over to her armor, which he placed on the bed and with a gesture of his head told her to put it on. Desdemona looked at him quizzically and a lopsided smile formed on her lips, hard to believe that she could go back into that armor that kept her safe from everything, even from people like him and those who lurked in Mohg's realm.

She got up from the table and began to dress, first putting on her underwear, then her trousers and shirt, before moving on to her gold-decorated armor, the long blue cloak richly embellished with silver floral motifs. What corpses had she looted? When they first met, she wore the traditional clothing of the tribes of the Badlands. Her weapon was also different: her previous axe was a normal axe, the one, she now had, was the typical axe used by some exile soldiers in Godrick's service. He smiled as he thought about that detail, about the woman in front of him and who didn't mind stealing clothes and weapons from her victims. How desperate was her quest to fortify herself and excellently kill her enemies? She was sublime in murdering, he had noticed it when she had cut down the Tree Sentinel that prowled near the Church of Elleh. As soon as she finished braiding her hair, she walked over to him. «When can I have my weapon back?» she glanced briefly at her axe, neatly placed beside the desk, its blade catching the flames of the candles.

«As soon as you stop being a danger to all of us, including yourself.» He got up and took her hand, then led her out of the bedroom, down the corridor where there were the kitchen, the common room, and the vast dining room. They entered the latter, where Okina was conversing with a Sanguine Noble, while Eleonora was enjoying a slice of lemon cake. She looked up soon as she saw him cross the threshold, a smile blossoming on her lips. Her eyes sparkled as they caught sight of the warrior, watching her intently. In fact, Desdemona's presence silenced who was present in the room, who almost jumped as they saw her, widening their gaze, wondering what she was doing there when she wasn't yet one of them. In fact, the Sanguine Noble shifted his attention to the White Face, who sat at the table, taking the teapot from the samovar and pouring the amber liquid into two porcelain cups, adding some honey and two drops of lemon.

«Don't you introduce us?» Eleonora asked.

«She shouldn't be here,» the Sanguine Noble grumbled in his cavernous voice.

Eleonora gave him an angry look. «Why not? That way she can get an idea of our merry band and the lord we serve. Isn't that so, Varré?»

«Desdemona, I present to you a small part of our merry band. Those pompously dressed, they're Sanguine Nobles, well, one of them even stabbed you in the shoulder. They'd be sort of Bloody Finger generals, dealing directly with Mohg and the Formless Mother, while she's Eleonora, whom you met yesterday and he, the fellow down there, is Okina, from the land of reeds.»

The warrior waved to them before taking a sip of tea.

«Where are you from?» Eleonora asked, getting up and sitting down opposite Desdemona. «You've already tamed Mohg's blood, my compliments.» She clapped her hands, yet her comment was sincere.

«I'm from the Badlands. How have I tamed Mohg's blood?»

«Badlands, huh? There, the barbarians are thirsty for blood. Perhaps this is why the White Face has chosen you. Besides, you are also very pretty.» Eleonora licked her lips as a sly smile appeared on her mouth. «You have the color of your eyes again and you no longer feel that immense bloodlust like before. Right?»

Desdemona nodded.

If the Sanguine Nobles were emissaries of the Formless Mother and the Luminary Mohg, wasn't it that Desdemona had been chosen by the Goddess to become one of them? That thought flashed through Varré's mind as he sipped his tea, savoring the flavor of the honey that embraced the sour one of the lemon. It was obvious that the Formless Mother wanted something from the warrior, that she wanted her to become an active member of the dynasty. Maybe breaking her bones wasn't something truly suitable for this occasion, maybe he should try a different approach, one that would already make her feel like one of them. He snapped his tongue against the palate, interrupting the two women chatting, who immediately turned to him as a smug smile formed on his lips. He looked up at Eleonora, whose eyes shone when they saw his as if she understood that he had something devious in mind to subjugate the warrior. She smiled too, then leaned towards Desdemona, catching her hand in a firm grip, her fingers entwining with hers.

«Since you reached the Mohgwyn Dynasty Mausoleum and slept within these walls, for me you are one of us,» said the woman in a caressing voice.

Desdemona managed to escape her grip as her eyebrows fluttered. «Maybe you're running too fast.»

«You killed Yura, a Bloody Finger hunter, freeing us from his presence. What way have I to thank you except to see you as my ally, as part of Mohg's dynasty?» Eleonora said it convincingly as she got up and walked around the table, stopping a few inches from Desdemona, placing a hand on her shoulder. She left the Pureblood Knight's Medal on the table. «This is yours. Never lose it.» After she said those words, she went away, leaving the dining room.

«Well, she's not entirely wrong,» admitted Varré, turning to the warrior. «Without Yura, we'll be safer.»

Desdemona looked at him with tears in her eyes. She still hadn't forgiven herself for killing him. «But there will be others like him.»

«So? We will kill them too.» Varré brushed a tress behind her ear. «This is a violent world, my lambkin.»

«I know.»

«Of course you do, otherwise you wouldn't have all these scars.» The White Face leaned toward her, his lips an inch from her ear. «Let's get out of here, let's go someplace away from all these eyes and ears. So we could talk without being disturbed, without being seen.» He whispered before standing up and holding out his hand to her, which she hesitantly grabbed, no longer filled with the same confidence as before. When she looked up at him, staring at him with those eyes veiled with tears, she seemed a lamb ready to be immolated, to be slaughtered for all the ills of the world.

Chapter 9: Be my knife

Chapter Text

The world was violent, loveless and cruel, the world was made up of monsters who hid behind beautiful words, behind a saccharine tone of voice and behind a white, lightly bloodstained, mask. What would a man like Varré have done for the Luminary Mohg? What and who was he ready to sacrifice? Of course, he'd already given up his humanity, as he showed no mercy to others, ready to kill the Tarnished who wasn't willing to follow the footsteps of the other Bloody Fingers. But how could one kill one's counterpart while was completely at the mercy of a destructive bloodlust? Were the people I had met that morning, in that immense dining room, really that consumed by this strong desire for cruor? Because Okina and Eleonora gave me the idea of two assassins who killed with a calculating coldness, capable of terrifying their victims only by making their presence felt. They were the very shadow of death, the essence of the Formless Mother, the will of the Lord of Blood. One could but be intimidated in front of those two and feel the hours of one's life decrease as one was in their vicinity: the existence of a Tarnished was transformed into very fine grains, which slipped between the fingers of a cruel Goddess, as the one to which Mohg had bowed, serving her with ardent devotion.

«I'm not that ruthless, my sweet goldfinch,» the deity's voice echoed in my head as a shiver ran up my spine, stealing the breath from my throat. Why had she come back? I had tamed the omen's blood, made an excellent sacrifice to her by slaying Rennala, as well as freeing Mohg's knights from Yura's presence. What did she want now? I saw Varré stop at the very moment that I stopped too, his golden eyes on me, while his face was hidden behind the white mask. Meanwhile, a breeze started blowing, combing the lawn while the sunlight filtered through the treetops, creating a pleasant game of light and shadow. I lowered my head, then shifted my attention to the rowa fruits, before taking a deep breath and returning my attention to the surgeon. «Why here, in Limgrave?» I asked, determined to ignore the deity, as I gripped the shaft of my axe in my right hand, which had been returned to me by the White Face, before leaving Mohg's realm.

«The place doesn't matter, Desdemona, what matters is your presence.» His voice floated in the warm air before the zephyr blew it away. I saw him approach, raise a hand and caress my face, his fingers smoothing the reddish scars of my left eye for the umpteenth time. «Seriously, you don't remember anything about your past, about who deprived you of sight?» His hand ran to my hair, dipping his fingertips into the dark strands as he leaned over me, the lips of the mask on mine as the smell of blood, imprinted in his clothes and essence, filled my nostrils. Still, I endured his touch and that weird kiss before he pushed me against his chest and embraced me. I felt like a lamb in the jaws of a big wolf.

«Tell him the truth, Desdemona,» the Formless Mother whispered in my ear.

I raised my head to him, meeting his empty golden eyes. Did I really have to reveal that thing, which I had discovered when the bloodlust was torturing me? Did I really have to reveal all my cards to him? I sank the fingers of my left hand into the worn fabric of his gown before leaning my forehead against his chest, letting myself be lulled by the scent of the ichor. Perhaps Eleonora was right, perhaps he had chosen me because we barbarians of the Badlands were always bloodthirsty, ready to kill anyone who dared stop us. Godfrey himself was so, to the point that Serosh, his beautiful lion, put at bay this violent aspect, this lust for violence and blood. «I remembered all my past when I killed Yura, when I murdered Rennala, when I danced in their guts.»

He took off his mask, putting it into one of the two belts he wore around his waist, then he grabbed my face in my hands, looking straight into my soul. I felt dragged by the darkness that dwelt in those golden irises, in that obscure abyss that was hidden in them and that seemed to claim me. «My sweet lambkin, you don't know how special you are.» He kissed me and his tongue invaded my mouth. I noticed that he had closed his eyes and I did the same, letting the beast kiss me, losing myself in the warmth of his body and letting myself be cradled by the fragrant effluvium of the ichor, which was glued to his epidermis. One of his hands ran up my back, stopping on my sacrum, pushing me further and further into his chest as I dropped the axe to wrap both arms around his neck. I stood on tiptoe as he bent over me to make our lips meet, to devour each other in that display of sudden longing, which had awakened in both me and the surgeon. Or maybe it was Varré who made it wake up in me, who made me yearn for his touch on my body, even though a few seconds earlier, while he was stroking my cheek, I would have struck him with the shaft of my weapon. I bit his bottom lip and a tiny drop blossomed, falling onto my tongue, making me gasp into his mouth.I hate you, I thought as his lips moved to my neck, moving the fabric of the hood aside, then I felt the hardness of his teeth penetrating my flesh: it was as if the White Face had fangs capable of tearing through skin and come into that gossamer of blood vessels, ready to lap the crimson nectar. He hugged me tightly while he lapped languidly, while he drowned in my fluid, while he longed for that filthy, metallic sweetness that characterized the essence that flowed through my veins. He pulled away, then licked his lips before snapping the tongue against the palate. «The Formless Mother has chosen you, my sweet lambkin, she wants you to join Mohg's dynasty.»

«What are you babbling about?»

«She spoke to you, she manifested herself and she guided you throughout Liurnia and the Academy of Raya Lucaria. It's no coincidence, my darling, she wants you as one of us. I think she has big plans for you.»

I was about to slap him across the face but managed to hold back. I reached down to pick up my axe, ignoring his words as I noticed a fawn that was browsing the grass and looking around warily. I felt just like that animal, only that, in my case, the beast was already devouring me. «So where do we go now?»

«Why are you ignoring me?»

«I don't know what to say, Varré, I don't even know what to think.»Maybe you're just playing with me, maybe you're already breaking my bones to bend me to your will, to mold me into a Bloody Finger.«Let's just say I didn't want anything like that when I came here, in the Lands Between.»

He chuckled. «Isn't embarking on a feat to collect the Great Runes to become Elden Lord a yearning for glory? The Formless Mother will be able to give it to you if you follow her plans.»

«It's not glory that brought me here, Varré, it was the Grace. Also, I'd like to give a sense of this world in ruins, where the Golden Order is now corrupted and Marika is held captive in the Erdtree, as the Two Fingers have revealed to me.»

«I freed you from their influence, my sweet lambkin. You are now free to do as you please.»

«Stop playing with me!» I shouted with all the air in my lungs, unaware of the dangers that lurked in that forest, a few steps away from where one of the ancient Colosseums of the Lands Between stood, now closed and empty of its legendary gladiators. «I am not free at all, now I am subjugated by the Formless Mother. It almost seems as if I have no choice but to follow you, who do nothing but recite the blasphemous psalms of a creature who has no love for beings like us. What strength and form of affection should the Luminary Mohg give us? Would it be self-control to bloodlust and maintain sanity? Or are they a future gift, when his dynasty will have established itself throughout the Lands Between?»

Varré had clenched his jaw and closed his hands into fists. Perhaps he was fed up with all those questions, with my reluctance to follow him. However, he sighed and then turned away, observing the Colosseum in the distance, which stood out against the blue sky in its imposing bulk. «It's normal to have all these doubts, Desdemona, it's normal to think that I'm playing with you, when, instead, I'm trying to show you the intentions of the Formless Mother in the clearest and most serious way possible. Unlike me and some Sanguine Nobles, you hadn't a meeting with Mohg, no chance to speak with him, to hear his vision of conquest and hegemony, his desire to fix this land, devoid of godly guidance and an Elden Lord. However, I ask you to listen to me even though what I say may be absurd for you.» He turned to me, taking my hand in his. «Because I mean it when I say that the Formless Mother has a plan for you, because it's not often someone gets to talk to her, gets a glimpse of her presence, or gets her guidance. I don't know what she saw in you, but whatever it is, she wants you at her service.»

Was he really sincere? I had my doubts, but I decided to listen to him, to give him my attention. At least he hadn't beat me, on the contrary, he had decided the diplomatic route, showing yet another act of kindness, something he had always shown me in our brief encounters, when I went to him to get some advice, when he wandered around the area near the tomb of the hero, a few steps from the Tree Sentinel. I would never have believed that my life would have intertwined with that of the surgeon, instead, it had happened and now I was there, in front of him, listening to him, even if I appeared cynical and quarrelsome in wanting to believe him. «If I didn't want to follow her will, what would happen to me? Would you let me go or would you kill me? Or would you send Eleonora to do it?»

The White Face burst out laughing as if I'd just told a joke so funny he couldn't help himself. «Why are you so incredibly skeptical? Anyway no, I wouldn't send Eleonora, it would be a waste. I would kill you with my Misericorde and I will murder you as many times as you rise from Grace, until it fades away and you draw your last breath permanently.» He moved his hand to my shoulder, his golden eyes gleaming with sadism so dense I felt my insides twist. «It would really be a shame to kill you, Desdemona, because you are a formidable warrior and would make a difference by serving Mohg and the Formless Mother. So stop playing with my patience, stop making everything so damn hard. I don't want to kill or hurt you, so...» He sighed as the grip around my shoulder increased in intensity. Was he really fighting with himself not to attack me? I didn't think a man like Varré could lose his icy self-control, which seemed on the verge of breaking down, meanwhile, he was smiling and showing a row of perfect white teeth. Even when he had hit me in the face in that cave in Liurnia, he had maintained a cold composure, after all, he was only admonishing me, he was only trying to tame a frightened animal. It was different now, as I had full discretion over my actions.

I squeezed the wrist of the hand he had placed on my shoulder, then I looked at him into those baleful eyes, full of cruelty and sadism. «Maybe I'll believe you if you show me your humanity.» I released my grip on him and jerked my shoulder free of his grasp, then took a few steps back and swung my axe quickly, aiming the blade at his throat. «A thing you often forget, my beloved surgeon, is that I too can kill you, I too can break all your bones, I too can make you suffer in the worst possible way. However, I don't want to do any of this, even if annihilating you would mean cleansing this world of a nefarious creature like you.»

«Here is the fair warrior I adore.» The White Face clapped his hands, pleased. «You want to see my humanity, but it will come at a price, Desdemona.»

«Whatever it is, I will pay it, Varré.»

He held out his hand to me as if to seal our agreement and so I did, squeezing that white glove, completely wrapped in blood, which stood out on the rest that covered his garments. «Let's sit in the shadow of the Colosseum, shall we?»

I nodded.

I didn't know what the price he was talking about was, perhaps it meant my death, or my bending to the will of the Formless Mother and of the Lord of Blood. However, I was curious to hear his story, to see what had changed him, what had prompted him to abandon the Roundtable Hold and put aside the feat of the Two Fingers. What had he experienced during his existence, both before and after he became a Tarnished, when he, too, came to the Lands Between? Perhaps he had always been a sad*stic son of a bitch, perhaps he had always been a skilled manipulator, capable of drawing people into his schemes, making them do terrible things without feeling remorse. Meanwhile, he guided me towards the Colosseum, still holding my hand, the wind swinging my cloak and the long scarf enveloped around his neck. The air was as warm as the sun's rays, which rested on the green grass, on the corollas of small flowers that emerged from the ground and drank in the brightness of that hot and dazzling star. The Lands Between had an intrinsic beauty that was not always appreciated. Caelid, too, though it was subjugated by the scarlet rot, exhibited a unique peculiarity, which couldn't find anywhere else. Before beating Godrick, I had gone as far as those arid and red areas of Caelid, exploring some ravines, admiring the Swamp of Aeonia, studying the large crows and gargantuan dogs, whose jaws had tried to close around my adorable Torrent.

«May I ask why you don't believe me?» Varrè asked me suddenly, breaking the brief silence that had fallen between us.

I shrugged. «I wasn't born to be special. I'm like everyone else.»

«Very humble of you but that's not true at all. You took two Great Runes, it's not a thing many Tarnished have been able to do.»

«Many prefer to pursue their own purposes and therefore do not apply to become Elden Lords.»

Shadows crossed his face before he lowered his gaze. «I've seen them fall one by one, trying to face these living legends. Some of these Tarnished were valiant champions from the place they came, but they didn't succeed, Desdemona. They have seen their Grace fade away, then their life has been snatched as easily as cutting the stem of a flower.»

«Is it the death of these noble warriors that prompted you to abandon the Roundtable Hold?»

He laughed as he looked up, admiring the large and majestic door of the Colosseum, but he turned to the stone porches, where we sat, enjoying the cool shade. «Noble warriors, huh? As I told you, the Roundtable Hold is the home of puff-chests and has-beens. Great heroes had died an age ago, they too failed before us.» He still held my hand but looked ahead, the big bridge rising in the distance, showing the signs of time. «You are the only one, Desdemona, the only one who has been successful.»

«Have you tried to get a Great Rune?»

«Yes, and I have lost the Grace and the desire to serve the Two Fingers.»

I turned all the way to him, placing a hand on his cheek, seeing how he shifted his attention to me. «Tell me everything, Varré, show me how human you were.»

The White Face kissed my forehead, before staring back straight ahead, his gaze becoming distant, like his past. His voice began to float around the entire clearing, lacking the sugary tone, letting me hear his soft, yet grim accent as he let his heart bleed again, reopening old wounds.

Chapter 10: Human Nature

Chapter Text

A dense silence invaded Limgrave, only the singing of birds and cicadas could be heard, and the wind blew gently, combing the green lawn. His gaze was focused on the half-destroyed bridge, yet Varré was elsewhere with his mind, which went back several centuries that weighed on his shoulders like an unbearable boulder. He licked his lips as his hand ran to his own mask, which he had tucked into one of the belts that held the white gown in place. However, his fingers stopped on the rough surface, feeling the hard and solid texture of that element that belonged to his past, when he was a simple war surgeon. The same could also be said of the clothes he wore, which were so worn out that they seemed to emphasize the time that had passed, of the carelessness that had attested to his life as he had always had to look after his patients. His tongue snapped against his palate before he took a deep breath, feeling his old wounds open, seeing the blood ooze again, letting him know that what he'd always seen as scars were nothing more than festering gashes, so the pus mingled with his ichor, making him feel that miasmatic stench for the first time, aware that what had happened in his life when he served his country and when arrived there, in the Lands Between, had never fully recovered.

The White Face was a creature haunted by memories that, like parasites, devoured his mind, eating him from within. He had tried to eradicate them from his brain, to bury them under rose-adorned graves, under boulders no colossus could move. But they returned to the surface, ascending the putrid pool of memory and emerging in worn bones and cracked skulls, from whose empty eye sockets the worms could be seen, raising their standards of rot and grime, a sign that his soul was wholly corrupted by the choices he had made. He released his grip on the mask and looked at his hands, wrapped in two gloves of different colors: one was brown leather, the other of white cloth, but they were both soaked in blood, as were his clothes, as was his own mask. Wasn't that a sign of his undeniable membership in the Mohg dynasty? The truth was that Varré was already wallowing in ichor before the arrival of the Lord of Blood, even before Mohg kidnapped him and brought him to his realm, illustrating his grandiose plan. He almost laughed as he dug inside himself, as he saw the deep, dark well that had become his spirit. He licked his lips as he felt the warrior's gaze upon him, who did not rush him but who, patiently, waited for him to show her how human he was still. Acts of kindness were evidently not enough for Desdemona. However, he would have done anything to bring her to the side of his beloved Luminary, to make her follow the plans of the supreme Formless Mother. He would have reopened his wounds to make her understand, just as Eleonora had said, that whoever was part of the Mohgwyn was not a monster; it was just another way to give a sense of this ruined world, without having to follow the Fingers, without having to die for beings who didn't care what happened to the Tarnished on duty. The mere thought of those disgusting creatures, enclosed in that room adorned with gold drapes, sickened him, leading him to wonder how he could have trusted them blindly, when his Finger Maiden had led him to the Roundtable Hold, when she had made him have an audience with what represented the Greater Will.

He closed his eyes for a moment, sinking into that void, into that dark hole, falling into his chasm, looking for fragments of his humanity. At that moment, the past lit up like a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing before his eyes, before enlarging and recreating a panorama well known to him, a scene that caused him a momentary twitch of horror, because the war, which had invaded his country, had always destroyed him to the core of his filthy soul. He had the Misericorde clasped in one hand and was sliding it down the throat of a soldier lying on the stretcher: the blade disappeared in the flesh and blood slowly, while the man tensed his muscles, the pain expressed by an open mouth in the shape of an O, while the breath died in his throat. The umpteenth execution of a dying man, who would find no cure in that tent because there was none for his condition: he was already doomed when they had delivered him into the hands of the White Face, he had only given him a gift in the exact moment that killed him. «I was following the 12th Infantry of my country's army. I always traveled in a wagon, together with the other surgeons.» His voice sounded soft at the time, yet there was a grim tone to it. He placed his hands on his thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers. «I didn't fight with them, I was only present in the camp, in the tent designated as an infirmary, where I took care of the wounded and the dying.» He found it hard to pronounce those words, to bring out his soul, to show her his scars.You are my knife, Desdemona. It was she now who was breaking his bones, tearing him apart, stabbing him slowly, stealing the breath from his lungs. How dare she be so cruel? But hadn't he been first, when he'd injected Mohg's blood into her shoulder, just before he bandaged her wound? Varré deserved that treatment that she had him undergo! And now, strangely, he felt the taste of blood invade his mouth as the images of the various battles came to life in his mind, blossoming like millions of spider lilies, from the bright red corolla. His eyes widened and he turned to his torturer, staring into those two-colored eyes: one was a vivid amaranth, the other a milky blue.Will you be merciful to me?«Since I was a child I studied anatomy, taking note of the exact place where each organ, bone and muscle was located, as well as reading essays on medicine, updating as I grew, fueling my dreams of becoming a man of science. I was the bastard son of a noblewoman who, to get rid of me, gave me to friars loyal to the Fingers and Queen Marika. However, they allowed me to follow the path I desired, even though they had wanted me to become a confessor.» He chuckled as he looked straight into her face, noticing a sweet smile that had bloomed on her inviting lips, which were so soft and velvety that they resembled the petals of roses.

«You would have been an excellent confessor.»

«Really?» he asked, arching an eyebrow.

«You would have been infallible.» The smile widened on her mouth, then she patted his shoulder lightly.

«Oh!» Varré exclaimed surprised, before laughing and Desdemona joined him too. «You're right, I would have been perfect as a confessor.»

«See how we can get along on, at least, one thing?»

It was he who patted her on the shoulder this time, shaking his head slightly as he continued to laugh. Perhaps his life would have been different if he had chosen that path, if he had satisfied the friars, without listening to his true vocation, to his thirst for knowledge and science. Perhaps, if he were indeed a confessor, he would have followed the Two Fingers blindly, perhaps yearning to become Elden Lord, following their scheme down to the smallest detail. Also, if he had gone that route, he would never have met Mohg and there would have been another White Face in his place. In the meantime, he squeezed her hand. «Obviously I didn't want to become a war surgeon, but rather operate privately, giving my services as a doctor to some wealthy man. However, to practice the profession of surgeon, it was easier for me to enter the army, offering the soldiers my knowledge. So, when the war broke out, devastating much of my country's countryside and the big cities on the edge of the border, near the great rivers, I found myself in that tent, completely covered in blood and entrails, trying to save the lives of those who could still fight and eliminating those who were already one foot in the grave. Every day was the same as the previous one, the white tent, in which I worked together with my colleagues, had also turned crimson, while the screams and moans merged into a horrific cacophony, which still follows me in my nightmares, making me relive those moments of pure frantic horror.» He took a deep breath as he slipped away from her gaze, lowering his head. «There was not a moment of peace in that tent. Men arrived mutilated and eviscerated. Soldiers arrived already dead, who were placed in coffins and taken to their homes if they still had one. Heroes arrived with no desire to live, wrapped in their bloody drapes, with ruined armor and with injuries in various parts of their bodies. War wears out your mind and spirit, war consumes you while you're still alive, stripping your skin or delivering you to the swords of the enemy, who burned the bodies of our men, who sent us their heads by hurling them with catapults... Cruelty is in every human and it emerges in moments of conflict and survival. There is no love or goodness, only pain and brutality.»

Desdemona's grip on his hand tightened as a tear slid down his cheek. He didn't want her to see him like that, wallowing in that abyss of flesh and viscera, of offal and bone, in that ditch he had dug himself, where he had thrown those fragments of his past, which came back in a new terrifying form, which took the name of agonies. He intertwined his fingers with those of the woman, aware that the warmth of her body kept him there, firm on that plane of reality, free from the massacres of the war.Stupid Varré, even the Lands Between is in a perpetual war, here too you do nothing but perpetrate carnages, only this time you inflict them with your own hands.He choked back the laughter that was rising up his throat and was about to bloom on his mouth. He looked up, staring back at the bridge, the quietude that was felt in that Colosseum now empty, devoid of its gladiators, its spectators shouting in the heat of the moment, in which a man's life was decided by their whims. It was built to amuse Godfrey, who couldn't stay too far from violence and gore, just like the woman who sat next to him, who boasted of ambition to make sense of this world, which was on the point of collapsing on itself, of crumpling under the weight of Marika's choices, who had decided to curse every single Tarnished, of the Greater Will that had gone away when the demigods had failed, also falling under the choices made by their benevolent mother.

«The war lasted for several years, which slowly corroded us, as we drowned in mud, rain and blood. However, everything has an end, just like people's lives. The enemy overwhelmed us with his cavalry. Stallions crushed the wounded and the dying under their hooves, torches set fire to cloth, gauze and doctors who collapsed to the ground, while cries rose to a starless firmament. In fact, they attacked us at night, showing no mercy, without taking any prisoners.» He closed his eyes again and felt another tear roll down his face. «I managed to escape from the tent together with some surgeons, climbing a hillock. We held our daggers tightly in our hands, but what could we do against those who fought with swords and spears? I still feel the blade piercing my stomach, coming out of my back: the iron shone in the moonlight, in the eyes of the knight who stopped my run, making me feel ashamed of myself for not having fought for my country and for having preferred to run away. I fell to the ground as he withdrew the blade of his Claymore and the blood poured out relentlessly, opening in a huge scarlet stain under my back as I found myself praying to the moon with the blood pouring from my lips. My body was thrown into a pit with that of others, while the ravens feasted on our flesh when the sun rose the next day.» His voice trailed off as his breath, along with his words. How could he continue? How could she dig so deep, looking for something that maybe didn't exist?

Desdemona placed a hand on his cheek, making him turn his head towards her. She kissed his cheek, drinking one of his tears, then she pulled him into a warm embrace. Varré sank his face into her chest, feeling the cold of her armor, while those salty droplets came out without him being able to stop them, while his eyes were wide open and observed that enormous mass grave, where his remains had been abandoned; he watched his corpse lying in blood, illuminated by the opalescent light of the moon.

«I believe a few centuries after this war was over, Grace woke me up and I set off right from that point, emerging from the ground made muddy by torrential rain. I remember screaming and crying, thinking that what had happened to me might have been the forging of a greater destiny.» He laughed as he clung to Desdemona as he needed to feel real and alive, not to give his memories a chance to devour him. «Perhaps I longed to become a true hero, perhaps I truly believed I could give a sense to this land by becoming Elden Lord... However, I set off to reach the Lands Between, crossing the heavy fog with my Finger Maiden.»

«You killed her, didn't you?»

Her voice was like a sharp blade, which made him jump as he realized that he didn't even remember what face that young girl had, who had picked him up from the ground, giving him shelter and letting him know why the Grace had chosen him and what it was his feat. «Yes, to show my allegiance to Mohg.»

«What was her name?»

«I don't remember.»

«What did she look like?»

«I have no idea.»

Desdemona broke the embrace and took his face in her hands. «Tell me the truth: you've always been like that, a manipulative and calculating bastard.» She released her grip and got up, taking a few steps under the porch of the Colosseum, looking straight ahead, while the axe was clutched in one hand, the blade gleaming in the sunlight. «Did you really do this for Mohg? Did he seriously ask for such a thing?»

The White Face nodded. «He doesn't want us to have any connection to the Two Fingers. After all, his power frees us from their influence.»

«The girl's life was the right price to pay, wasn't it, Varré?»

«I didn't ask you to do any of this, I made your task much easier, unlike others.»

It was at that moment that she realized that all the Bloody Fingers killed their Finger Maidens. She turned to him and showed a look filled with gruesome disgust. «Why would you make my job easier? Is it because I'm maidenless?»

«I could have asked you for the blood of any Maiden you might have found in the Lands Between, but I know that thing would have horrified you, so I preferred to gloss over that detail. After all, you showed me your worth by slaying Godrick and obtaining a Great Rune. Then, in all honesty, I let bloodlust make you swear loyalty to Mohg, but apparently, that wasn't enough.»

«You, the Bloody Fingers and the Sanguine Nobles are a bunch of monsters.»

«No, it's a standard practice. You are a knight and as such you must swear commitment to your lord. Isn't there such a thing among you wildlings of Badlands?» Varré got up in a quick movement and lunged at the warrior, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her against the stone wall of the porch, looking at her with cold eyes. «You said you were willing to pay the price, Desdemona. My life hasn't been all roses. I've been abused, I've done horrendous things in war, I've had to learn the art of manipulation and deception to survive, because even if you're a war surgeon, you have to fight your own kind to get respect, to get a shred of power inside that damned tent, with the generals coming to ask you how their men are without them looking you in the face. Do you realize this? The mask protected us against blood and bacteria, but made us ghosts among the dead, devoid of any identity.» He backed away a few steps. «The world is a cruel and difficult place. Especially here, in the Lands Between, where our life, as Tarnished, is worth nothing.»

Desdemona took a deep breath. «What happened when you left the Roundtable Hold? Not only did you kill her, you also disappoint her.»

The White Face shrugged. «I joined Godrick, grafting pieces he took from the Tarnished. The Grafted Scion, you found at Stormveil Castle, was my last present to that filthy coward. Then Mohg kidnapped me, carried me into his realm, informing me of his plan.» And even here, in this passage where he explained how he offered his services to one of Marika's heirs, that she understood how he knew the presence of the Grafted Scion and where the first owner of a Great Rune took refuge. Varré smiled as she froze at him, struggling to understand how such a man had ended up in Stormveil Castle, how he could have given away his knowledge of the human body to a filthy monster like Godrick. However, he had done it to survive!

The warrior lowered her head as she leaned her back against the wall, the thoughts were darting through her head, pondering the surgeon's words. «I asked you to tell me all this.»

«Yes,» he replied. «This is all my human nature, expressed in a few words.»

«Yeah...» she said as she lowered her axe, keeping him from looking into her eyes. «What is the price I have to pay for hearing about your life, for seeing humanity in your eyes?» She'd seen him cry, she'd felt his pain crawl over her skin and fill her lungs.

«Your past, tell me everything, then you'll pay.» He approached her again and grabbed her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. «Let's sit down again, let's try to maintain a friendly tone. I won't judge you, Desdemona, so I ask you to do the same with me after all I've told you.» He kissed her forehead, then both sat on the floor, him facing her, in the cool shade of the porch as the zephyr blew softly.

«You will, Varré, you will judge me...» A tear trickled down her cheek. She took a deep breath as her eyes locked with the surgeon's ones.

Chapter 11: Rebirth in Blood

Chapter Text

«As you well know, I was born in the Badlands, in one of the various tribes that formed those wastelands, partly desert and partly wrapped in a thick layer of ice. Life, in such a place, is difficult and hostile, moreover, the various tribes do not always get along with each other, causing bloody massacres that can neutralize a whole clan. It was during a horrendous night that my family was exterminated by another tribe: my mother managed to save me, making me escape with my father's stallion. I was only sixteen years old.» Talking about the past caused me a deep pain that felt like I was digging into my chest with both my bare hands, cracking my sternum to bring out a heart that was completely broken in various places. As Varré had bled when he had told me about his past, so was I. Wasn't that the price to pay for what I had heard? Still, I wondered what the surgeon might want to take from me when I finished telling my story. Would he kill me because he shared details of his life with me, or he would push me to follow the Formless Mother? I bit my lower lip as I felt the sting of my tears behind my lids, which veiled my gaze, making the White Face's countenance flicker like the landscape behind him. I had my back against the wall, the axe by my side and he in front of me, obstructing any escape. Still, there was no way to flee from the past, right? And Varré knew it, letting me look into that huge ditch that he had dug for himself and his memories. I took a deep breath, then closed my eyes and felt tears slide down my cheeks. «I ran away into the darkness of the night, unable to see anything in the suffocating nighttime, in the pain that the sudden loss had aroused in me. I cried without restraint, looking back only a few times, seeing the fire in the distance, aware that my tribe no longer existed. The only thing I knew was that I had to leave the Badlands and follow my mother's directions, but above all, I had to run like the wind because our enemies must not know that I had managed to escape.»

Images from my past darted through the darkness of my mind like shooting stars, making me see the huge flames stretch towards the firmament, towards the icy moon and silver stars. No divinity ran to the rescue, no god descended from the throne to have mercy on my family or my people. Blood stained the wastelands of the Badlands, where cruelty was the order of the day, where survival was the only way of life people had known since childhood. I opened my eyes and returned to reality, to Limgrave and the shadow of the porch of the Colosseum. «I escaped from the Badlands, reaching the neighboring countries, without ever stopping except for a few months, doing some work for the local lords or for some merchants. Often it was a matter of killing some dangerous beast that had gotten too close to the villages, other times it was acting as a bodyguard for the merchant who moved from city to city, where the external roads were populated by various bandits. Being a barbarian had its advantages and disadvantages, in fact, they often treated me like a dog, often they dared to abuse me, and often they beat me until I fell to the ground senseless. However, I managed to survive for a year, until I decided to leave for the Lands Between. My mother often spoke to me of Godfrey, who had once been one of us, the chieftain of the Loux. Thus, I was ready to meet him and, perhaps, enter his service.» I laughed thinking how naïve I had been at the time, that I thought a hero like Godfrey would put an orphaned girl under his wing just because, like him, I was from the Badlands. Meanwhile, Varré listened without stopping me, staring at me with his deep golden eyes. I had regained all these memories thanks to Mohg's blood and my encounter with the Formless Mother. I had forgotten everything about the Lands Between, as they appeared before Marika made her damn choices, cursing our kindred. «I reached Leyndell, the immense and beautiful gold-roofed capital, where the body of Gransax stood out in the distance with its imposing bulk, attracting the attention of travelers and merchants.»

«So you're not descended from the Tarnished who, after leaving these moors, found homes elsewhere?»

I shook my head. «I lived the Great March, I am one of the original Tarnished. A detail I'd forgotten, as I'd forgotten these lands and how beautiful they were before everything fell apart.»

His eyes sparkled with curiosity but also with interest. He had opened his mouth as if to say something, but quickly closed it as a smile blossomed on his lips. What was he thinking about? What was his mind calculating at that moment? Meanwhile, he grabbed my hand in his, entwining his fingers with mine. «So, you're an ancient Tarnished... Why has Grace awakened you just now?»

I shrugged. «I have no idea, Varré.»

«Please, go on.»

I sighed, diving back into my memories, which bloomed like tulips under a sun veiled with suffering. After all, anyone's life couldn't be just a bed of roses, tragedies happened and they forged us, making our rind harder. «I set off for the stairs leading to the royal palace, so determined to meet Godfrey, but two Crucible knights barred my way with their imposing bulk and weapons extended towards me. I remember one of them wearing a helmet decorated with horns as her long spear. When I told them what I wanted to do, Ordovis burst out laughing. Yes, that was the name of one of the Crucible Knights, the other was Siluria, who instead remained serious, staring at me from behind her helmet, without uttering a word. I remember I insisted for several long minutes until he pushed me away, knocking me to the floor. I didn't even try to attack them because it meant getting killed, then the palace and the city were guarded by various infantrymen and knights in golden armor. Disconsolate, I left, determined to find an inn to spend the night. The next day, I was ready to leave Lyendell, but I was harassed by a merchant in a shady alley. I was about to kill him with my axe when Siluria intervened, stopping me immediately and grabbing my wrist. She dragged me away, taking me to the quarters intended for the Crucible Knights. She took off her helmet, letting me see her beautiful face while her hair was so black it looked like threads woven with the night sky. She told me that she had remained impressed by my courage in facing two Crucible Knights, to the point of insisting for half an hour to be allowed to pass, to the point of using colorful language without fear of being arrested or killed. We made a deal that if I learned to fight like one of them, she would make me meet the Elden Lord, but it had to be three years' training.»

«You succeded?»

«No, but she was a good teacher and she also arranged for me to join Godfrey's army as a Leyndell knight. This allowed me to meet the Elden Lord, as it was he who named me as such, placing his sword on my shoulders, under the watchful and enchanted gaze of Marika.»

«Have you met her too?» he asked amazed, covering his mouth with both hands.

«Yes, but only for brief occasions. She never spoke to me.»

«Is she as beautiful as the statues that portray her?»

«She's much more beautiful than them.»

«Go on.»

«At the time I was twenty years old, so the Elden Lord, knowing my story, decided to put me under his protective wing, also teaching me how to fight. He often made me duel with his son Godwyn.» My voice died in my throat as these memories sparked in my mind before turning into thorns that drove into my brain. How could I have forgotten all this? My life there, in the capital, in the service of the royal family… Why had everything faded away? Was it death that had caused my amnesia? Would Godfrey remember me if I met him or had he forgotten me too? I had been by his side all my life. «I fought beside my lord even in the battle against the giants, even on the Long March when Marika tore the Grace from us, even in the Badlands when we returned there, to that place that was our home.» I reached up and touched the reddish scars surrounding my left eye. «Do you want to know who and what caused these marks on me, well, it was Hoarah Loux, it was Godfrey when, instead of obeying his orders, I slaughtered the tribe that had killed my family. Now there, in Badlands, like a new tribe made of Tarnished, he wanted alliances with the local chiefs, while I only wanted revenge, I wanted the blood of those who had killed my family, I wanted their deaths as I danced with their guts. Driven by an immense thirst for blood, I left with my platoon, killing anyone I found in those walls, without making any distinction between men, women and children. I impaled their heads on the walls as a warning to their allies, then burned alive the various leaders together with their families, seeing their bodies burn slowly, getting intoxicated by their cries, while I was completely covered in blood, which had become my second skin.» I shifted my gaze not to see his face, not to see that amused and triumphant smile on his lips. I took a deep breath to try to calm my heartbeat as the scenes of that heinous massacre flashed before my eyes. I had been beastly, cruel and monstrous. «Godfrey beat me until I spat blood, then plunged my face into the brazier, burning part of my face, causing me to lose my left eye.»

Varré leaned towards me and touched my face, caressing the burned area: the jagged, hard scars surrounding my left eye. «What did you do then?»

«I stayed by his side until I died. I got killed by other Tarnished, who had once been part of the Long March and who had found shelter under Godfrey's banner and then sought their lives elsewhere. To help my lord, I sacrificed myself for him. They tortured me for days, cutting off part of my arm and branding me with the Two Fingers symbol. The confessors would then be born from them.» I escaped from his touch, lowering my head. «They hanged me and then threw me into a mass grave, along with my men.»

«We had the same burial, huh?»

«This is my story in a nutshell.»

«You killed for Godfrey to the end, making his crimes yours. The only thing you did as a free woman was take revenge, giving justice to your family. Oh, Desdemona, you fill your mouth with honorable words to hide the fact that you are a hideous bloodthirsty killer, perhaps worse than the Bloody Fingers.»

«Stop that! I will never be equal to or worse than them.»

He grabbed my head in his hands. «The Formless Mother has seen really well inside you, reading how burning is the bloodlust inside your organism, nurtured since childhood to the point that you served the First Elden Lord. She chose you for all of this, Desdemona. She came to me during a cold night, naming you as her next knight, but evidently, she wants more than that for you. Since your communion with Mohg's Blood, she has never stopped talking to you.»

«Leave me Varré.»

«Leave you? Have you forgotten that now you have to pay? You wanted to listen to my past and now you have to pay your token.»

I was breathing heavily as my heart pounded in my chest. How long would it take for me to overpower and kill him? And how long would it take him to do the same thing to me? The axe was at my side and the kukri were on the belt of my armor. I didn't have daggers with me, as I never needed them. What did he have with him besides the Misericorde and his bouquet? How skilled was he with poisons? «Tell me the price,» I said, looking into those triumphant eyes, the smile widening, showing his elongated canines. «I'll pay for it as I promised.»

«The only time you were free in your life was when you slaughtered that tribe. What's more, you've also been punished for desiring justice and disengaging from the orders of a big head. Therefore, if you still yearn for your autonomy and make your own choices, all you need is to accept the gift I have offered you and to listen to the Formless Mother. She has a plan for you and it can only bring you to greatness.»

«Listening to her and following her plan will just be following another awful big head.»

«No, Desdemona, she is a deity, she is above all things. She chose you and she wants you, so why not follow her? Maybe that will set you free.»

I lowered my head, not knowing what to do. I had promised him that I would pay the price and I should have expected that it would be this, which is to bend to the will of Mohg and of the deity who had given her power to the omen.

«He's not lying to you, Desdemona.» The voice of the Formless Mother filled my ears as I felt her at my side. «As unusual as it is, Varré has always been sincere with you, even now, when he looks at you with pleading eyes. How did you manage to break through his heart of stone?»

I jumped hearing those words as I looked hard, also grabbing the face of the surgeon in my hands, looking at the shape of his eyes, their color, the light they gave off together with the heavy dark circles that bordered them. Was he really staring at me pleadingly? I saw triumph in those irises that shone like two miniature suns. «I promised…» I said, feeling the words die in my throat.

«Yeah.»

I leaned my forehead against his as I felt the sting of my tears behind my lids. «I will pay the price, I will do what you want, I will fight for Mohg.»

Varré embraced me while he ran a hand through my hair, dipping his fingers in it. «The Luminary, the deity he slumbers with, and the Formless Mother will be delighted to welcome you into the dynasty. They will give you all their love.»

I buried my face in his chest, bursting into tears. He had torn my skin and broken my bones, he had transformed me into another tool for his lord to get what he desired.

Chapter 12: Pomme de Sang

Chapter Text

To have succeeded in bending her to his will and making her accept her destiny as a member of the Mohg dynasty made him strangely happy, as well as proud of himself. The intuition to manipulate her using a different stratagem had been really useful, as well as satisfying as it had shown him the bloodthirsty side of the warrior, who had tried to eradicate it in this new life as Tarnished, hiding it in the depths of her being. Now there was nothing left but to introduce her to the other Bloody Fingers and the Sanguine Nobles; she was no longer a danger to anyone, not even herself. Varré stopped suddenly, turning towards her, who raised her gaze, bringing it to him. There was no happiness on her face, on the contrary, she had accepted the thing with resignation, understanding how he had maneuvered her, but the surgeon didn't care, he only cared about thickening the ranks and giving his precious and beloved Luminary the blood he needed to awaken Miquella. He stroked her burned cheek, where those reddish scars gleamed on her pale skin. How could Godfrey disfigure her like that, ruining her beauty? And yet, those marks, which showed her deep pain because the lord she had served had punished her in that brutal way, made her beyond extraordinary. Maybe it was true, he'd fallen in love with her as soon as she'd emerged from the damned hero's grave, maybe he was losing his mind over her, maybe he just wanted her for himself.

He cupped her face in both hands, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as he lingered on the amaranth color of the one eye from which she could see. How could there be so much suffering in her? How could she be so ancient? He leaned his forehead against hers and half-closed his eyes as they stood by the teleporter that would take them to the apartments of the other Bloody Fingers, the surgeons, and the Sanguine Nobles. The scent of her skin saturated his nostrils as the calm of that moment rested on their shoulders. They were alone at that juncture, away from the inquisitive gazes of Mohg's knights, where he could show a fragment of his tenderness, where he could lose himself in the warmth of her body. In fact, Varré pushed her against his chest, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She was about to open her mouth to say something but he stopped her by kissing her lips, his tongue crossing the threshold and meeting that of the warrior, dancing together with hers. She stood on her toes as she wrapped her arms around his neck as her lips moved along his jaw, down his neck. Now the White Face remembered that he had not yet put on the mask, the veil and the bonnet, now he remembered that he had returned there with a heart full of joy at having completed the mission. He tightened his grip on her, pressing her closer against his sternum, as if he wanted her to enter him, to lock her inside his ribcage, to keep her there safe from any harm. But who would ever protect her against him?

Desdemona bit his neck, his blood blooming into tiny crimson droplets which she licked with meticulous care. Varré moved away from her and took her chin between forefinger and thumb, looking at her with a smile on his lips. «Wait until we're in my room.»

«Don't you like the here and now?»

«It's a bit busy this road since we're staying near the portal.»

«Oh!» she exclaimed before squeezing Varré's hand in a firm grip and then setting off towards the teleporter that would take them to their destination. «What will they say when they know I'm one of them?» She turned to stare at him as he clutched her axe in one hand since she'd thrown it on the ground when she'd wrapped his neck with both arms. «Why am I here? It all seems wrong to me.»

«Stop with all these doubts. She, the Formless Mother, wanted you here. The reason is still mysterious but we will find out, believe me.»

«Don't you want me?»

«Are you seriously asking me this?»

She nodded, giving Varré the impression of a frightened little girl shrugging her shoulders, making herself smaller and smaller. Where was the proud warrior who had fought alongside Godfrey? Where was that formidable Tarnished who had presented herself there, in the vicinity of Mohg's Mausoleum, ready to face anyone who stood in her way, unafraid of Eleonora and the Sanguine Nobles? She had lost her certainties, starting a path that she didn't know where it would lead her. Everything Desdemona had built up to that point had literally shattered. How could he blame her? Indeed, he hugged her again, still holding her axe in his right hand.

«Of course I want you, otherwise I wouldn't have revealed my past to you, otherwise we wouldn't have made that deal.»

«Are you sincere?»

«What reason would I have to lie to you right now?»

«You're right, sorry.»

He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose and her lips, then gave her the axe. «Let's go on.» He invited her, pointing to the portal. «I'm really glad you've become one of us,» he told her before crossing the gap, before finding themselves on that promontory overlooking the void, where huge columns rose up towards a black sky, created by the magic of the Nox. Meanwhile, the warrior helped him put on the bonnet, the mask and the veil. Varré smoothed the red trident that stood out on her cheek, creating a strong contrast with her pale skin. He led her to the entrance of the structure, then to the huge dining room, where the other Bloody Fingers, along with the Sanguine Nobles and other members of the dynasty were having dinner. The smell of roasting meat had invaded the room, and the entire corridor. They stopped eating and chatting when they saw him crossing the room with the woman, who attracted Eleonora's attention, who stood up, signaling them both to come closer. Had she reserved two seats for them? In fact, she had one free next to her and another in front of her. Did she know of their arrival? Desdemona let go of his grip and went to sit next to the warrior, who immediately put some meat on her plate and filled her goblet with red wine.

However, Eleonora remained standing, banging her fork against her glass, attracting the attention of all present, who fixed their eyes on one of the deadliest Bloody Fingers Mohg had in his service. «A new knight has been added to our Luminary's dynasty, ready to give blood both to our lord and to the deity with whom he sleeps.» Her gaze rested on the warrior, inviting her to get up and, without blinking, Desdemona stood up, showing her disfigured face to the entire audience, who took note of her features, of the trident that shone on her right cheek, of the armor she wore, of the unusual color of her irises. Eleonora grabbed her shoulder in a firm grip, shifting her attention to the woman, admiring her with a smug smile on her lips. Varré wondered if she had recognized in the barbarian of the Badlands her value. But how was that possible if the two hadn't fought together? «The Formless Mother longs for a wound.» Her words floated in the air, as if they were nothing more than a presage, while everyone present remained silent. They had a strong respect for this baleful woman, who wore an armor as crimson as her two blades. «I want you to show her the utmost regard. Basically, she defeated two Great Runes wielders. What Tarnished has ever succeeded if not her?» Eleonora patted her on the shoulder, before raising her glass of wine and toasting in honor of Mohg, the Formless Mother and the new acquisition of the nascent dynasty.

Varré jerked to his feet as soon as the goblet fell to the floor with a dull thud from Desdemona's trembling hand, who bent her neck back as every single muscle stiffened. Shaking with a tremor, the woman straightened her spine and her eyes had turned completely black, while vermilion streaks had formed around them, looking like scars that marked her skin and her eyelids. The surgeon stared at her as everyone in the room rose, their attention focused on the woman as a loud growl was emitted from her lips, which slowly parted. The White Face tried to call her while Eleonora grabbed her shoulder again, but Desdemona pushed her away with little gentleness, while she got on the table and looked around her.

«She's got at least two Great Runes, and what do you do instead? Do you think that eating and toasting can make the gods benevolent?» Her voice had changed as well as the baleful aura that enveloped her body.

«Everyone kneel down, this is the Formless Mother speaking to us!» thundered Varré to the crowd that was thronging. Was it possible that he was the only one who recognized her? He prostrated followed by Eleonora and both kept their heads bowed. The others also followed his instructions, even if rather hesitant.

«How do you think you can see the dynasty rise up without sacrificing yourself? Without giving glory and power to your lord? How are you going to give him your services if you are not ready to face the dangers of these lands, to challenge Marika herself and her heirs? Only she, at the moment, has succeeded, but how could she alone defeat a legendary creature like Radahn or the Veiled King of Leyndell? Look at yourself, who think the strength and power are due to you, without you doing anything to earn it, unlike her.»

«But we...» one of the Bloody Fingers began to say.

The Formless Mother kicked a cup, which flew a short distance before hitting the floor. «I don't want to hear justifications of any kind, they don't interest me. The plan has changed since this woman joined our dynasty.» She took a deep breath as Varré's eyes shone, knowing that he had been right because that deity truly had something in store for both the warrior of the Badlands and for all of them. «Both Mohg and Miquella need the Great Runes as well as the Elden Ring, so I expect you to do your part, too.» She looked around her, catching her gaze on some of the diners, who had knelt around the table on which she stood. «In this expedition against the heirs of Marika and Marika herself, I name Okina and Eleonora, as well as Varré as a plausible strategist, as well as the one who will take care of their wounds. After all, that's what Desdemona wants too. You're leaving the next day and I don't want to hear any complaints.» As soon as she finished pronouncing those words, she closed her eyes and the warrior passed out on the table.

The White Face grabbed her in his arms, hoisted her up, then walked out of the dining room. Eleonora joined him. «What does it mean?» she asked him, before barring his way.

«It means we have to fight against the demigods, helping Desdemona.»

Eleonora shook her head. «This is clear. I intend to understand why she chose this warrior as an intermediary between us and her.»

Varré shrugged. «I don't know and I can't figure it out.»

The woman nodded. «Anyway, you did a good job getting her over to our side.» She patted him on the shoulder before returning to the dining room.

The surgeon went into his room, closed the door behind him, then placed Desdemona on the bed. He lay down beside her, running a hand along her braid. «Why are you so special to her?» But did this topic really matter? She had chosen her because she had known death and suffering, because she had fought with Godfrey, because she had craved the blood of those who had exterminated her tribe. What was Desdemona but a cloud of pain like himself? Still, she had a certain purity as well as that light that Varré lacked.Maybe it's just smoke and mirrors, he thought as he reflected on her radiance, or maybe only he saw it as that warrior had literally sunk under his skin and mixed with the flow of his blood. He took off his mask, the bonnet and the veil, then kissed her forehead before going to lock the door and set everything down on the small table in the corner, then lay down beside her again, closing his eyes, letting Desdemona's breath cradled him like the warmth of her body.

***

He awoke from the sleep he'd fallen into when he heard movements around him. He stretched as he yawned, then blinked aware that someone had lit the candles. He sat up in the middle of the bed, looking at the warrior standing by the windows, admiring the landscape that lay ahead. Nokron's eternal night made the lake of blood so bright that it shone like a ruby and she seemed enchanted by it. Varré approached her, encircling her waist with both arms, resting his chin on her head. She couldn't hear the barking of the dogs or the ungainly song of the giant crows, they were too high up to listen to them or smell the miasmatic stench of the lake below. There was only the silence that seemed to have settled over everything like a heavy shroud.

«She entered my body and she spoke through me,» Desdemona said, breaking free from his grip and walking back to the bed, sitting down on the edge. «I didn't like the thing very much, but she gave me her strength.»

«I think she wants you as an intermediary between us and her.»

«Why me?»

Varré approached her, sitting down beside her, caressing her cheek. «Because unlike us, you want nothing from her: neither her strength nor her power.»

«Doesn't that seem like a trivial answer to you?»

«Perhaps it is for us because we are still human, but can be the same thing for a God?»

She shrugged, not knowing what to think. He had his eyes in hers, so bright they looked like two stars. Varré gripped her face in both hands, caressing her cheek languidly before kissing her lips. His tongue invaded her mouth and went in search of hers, which met it delicately: there was no frenzy dictated by the blood, there was only a calm slowness, in which he lost himself in her warmth, in the scent of her epidermis, in the very essence of her soul, infused by the sanguine power of the Formless Mother. Why was Desdemona the key to starting their dynasty? Of them all, she was the one who had gained two Great Runes, meeting the challenges of that land without faltering, following her path. The White Face bit her bottom lip, releasing a drop of crimson, which he drank with such a voracious appetite that it burned to the center of his chest.

He grabbed Desdemona's shoulders and pushed her onto her bed, pinning her to the mattress as he looked at her with eyes that sparkled with ancient sadism, yet were rimmed with a disarming sweetness. How could his mania for control and his lust for blood coexist with a feeling so unknown to a man like Varré, who dived towards her, kissing her again? Desdemona wrapped her thighs around his hips, crossing her legs behind his back, gripping him in an almost crushing clasp, as she went towards the delirium of that kiss, the frenzy dictated by the blood, the lust for ichor that arose in her too, prompting her to bite his tongue, to drink that dense cruor that came from the surgeon she'd come to love. The White Face didn't hit her this time, he let her do what she desired, allowing her to sink her teeth into that long appendage, he allowed her to drink his scarlet liquid, to savor it as if it were a fine wine in which to lose her senses. He licked her cheek as he offered the woman his own neck. He felt her fingers work their way through the fabric of his gray shirt, leaving flaps of flesh emerging which she grabbed between her fangs, sinking her teeth into the dermis, into the blood vessels that exploded in her mouth, pouring its contents into her throat, inebriating her senses, yearning for the surgeon in his total nakedness, in that gossamer of veins, arteries and capillaries.

He managed to twist to the side after applying strong pressure to the left side of his body and legs. Desdemona stood astride him, tearing off his white gown and opening his brown tabard with a kukri, whose blade also tore through his gray shirt, climbing up to Adam's apple, leaning against it. Varré laughed as he gripped her hips, his eyes immersed in the warrior's, expecting her to go all the way, but she bent over him, licking his throat, before opening a small gash with her blade, making him flinch. Her lips were on his wound, sucking the blood that came from it, feeling the surgeon gasp under her body as she moved her pelvis, awakening the long shaft hidden in his trousers.

«You're a little devil,» the White Face whispered to her, hearing her giggle.

Desdemona lifted her head, her mouth covered in blood as an amused smile played on her lips. She leaned towards Varré, then bit her tongue and dripped her blood into his oral cavity, allowing him to drink as much as she was offering him. He closed his eyes, savoring the sweet taste of that red nectar, losing himself in her intense flavor, feeling that ravenous hunger rumble at the core of his being and awakening in all its full splendor. He opened his eyes and sat up, his hands starting to peel away the first layers of her armor, tearing away her tunic and breastband, which the surgeon tossed to the ground. He took one of her nipples into his mouth, starting to suck on it with some vehemence, almost expecting milk to come out of it, while with his fingers he began to titillate the other. The woman totally abandoned herself in those first drops of pleasure, moaning from time to time, while she pressed Varré's face against her breasts, while she encircled his shoulders with her arms.

The White Face would devour her, consuming her piece by piece, turning her into his sustenance, his total addiction from which he could no longer escape. How could he have yielded to a woman like Desdemona, who had no noble birth? She was a barbarian of the Badlands, yet she had had an illustrious past because she had fought alongside Godfrey until the end of her days, as well as having known ancient heroes. Why had the Grace decided to awaken her now? Her destiny had been written in blood like his, yet she, in addition to fulfilling the will of the Two Fingers, could also fulfill that of the Formless Mother, could go as far as no one had ever gone, giving life to that dynasty that Mohg had longed for so much, leading to its birth, giving strength to the God with whom the Luminary slumbered. Varré raised his gaze, planting his eyes in those of the woman, admiring the beauty of her face, inhaling the suave perfume that surrounded her figure, wrapped in the metallic and sweetish scent of blood. He could no longer imagine a life without her by his side, but the same was true for the others, for the Formless Mother, who had decided to have her by her side because she was the only one who conquered two Great Runes and had an audience with The Fingers. Varré kissed her lips again before moving her sideways, taking off her greaves and leather trousers, before removing her underwear, bringing his eyes to her puss*, the shape it had. He licked his lips, so eager to caress and lick it, so eager to drown his face in those two labia as he felt his fully erect co*ck pressing against his trousers.

Desdemona had spread her thighs wide, letting her orchid blossom, while she rested her forearms on the mattress, inviting Varré to savor it. He didn't wait and buried his face between her legs, his tongue caressing her cl*tor*s, lowering and lifting it with such slowness that Desdemona let out a few gasps as she bowed her head. How could she resist such delight? How could one not accept that blessing, given by a cruel man like the surgeon, who stuck a finger into her warm hole? She arched her back while her breath seemed to stop in her throat, while Varré also slid his middle finger, feeling the walls of her vagin* open slowly, before thrusting with a certain ardor. The warrior squeezed the sheets in her hands as she moved her pelvis together with his hand, while she lost herself in pure ecstasy, while her gasps rose a few octaves. She had half-closed her eyes and her cheeks had turned red, a simmering fire had inflamed her core as she collapsed on the bed, her gaze nailed on the ceiling. He loved having her at the mercy of his attentions, adored seeing her so vulnerable as she melted into his soft touches, as his licks became vehement and furious, as he released lust from its cage, giving it to her, who was calling his name, calling him in a dulcet whisper.

Varré removed his fingers, then bit her vagin*. He heard her scream, then began to drink her blood which ended up straight down his throat, dancing on his tongue, enveloping his taste buds, while it mixed with her ambrosial juices, which also ran down her thighs. He was so ravenous that he couldn't stop himself, as he lost himself in the flavor of her, as he continued to lick her with a certain impetus that he couldn't stop, as he sank his teeth, as he craved that reddish sap. There could be no softness or delicacy in his touches, there could only be that insatiable appetite, that animal greed that made him violent, yet he wanted to give her tenderness in his own way as he paused, finding a composure as he licked his lips, wiping them of her blood.

«Get on your knees and then turn around.»

Desdemona kissed his mouth, then she did as he asked. Varré unbuttoned his trousers, then pulled down his underwear. His co*ck blossomed like a long rose that pressed against one of the woman's buttocks, before grabbing it in one hand and guiding it towards the anus, penetrating her without too much softness, feeling the walls of her hole open to his passage before closing again around it. He heard her scream as she doubled over, as she gripped the sheets in her hands again, before turning and staring at him. Tears had blurred her eyes and began to flow down her cheeks as he began to move, thrusting with a certain rhythm and a certain vehemence, letting the pleasure pour through him like electricity and fill every single pore. He squeezed her hips while she struggled to free herself, crawling on the bed and screaming: the more she cried, the more he became aroused as he felt the walls of that hole reach their limit, while he penetrated her with such zeal that he couldn't stop. His nails dug into her silky skin as he grabbed both of her arms, pulling them behind her back, increasing his thrusts that became bestial. Desdemona was no longer screaming but she had closed her eyes, her head lolling, her teeth biting her bottom lip until it bled and stained the sheets with tiny crimson dots.

Suddenly, the White Face stopped, stepping out of her ass, then wiped his co*ck. The woman collapsed onto the sheets, crying quietly. He stripped completely naked then crept up on top of her, kissing her back, then pulled her braid apart, searching for her neck. «You drive me crazy,» he whispered in her ear as he moved to the side, then he grabbed her arm. «Get up, I want you on me.» She complied, sitting astride his legs, sliding his penis into her vagin*. She arched her back since the co*ck was so turgid that looked like a sword that hit the core of her essence, then she relaxed and began to move together with Varrè, who squeezed her hands, then kissed them while his eyes were on hers, admiring their light, admiring their unusual color.

«You drive me crazy too,» she murmured, tears streaking her cheeks.

«I'm sorry, I should have been nicer, I just can't resist you. You bring out the beast in me.» He drank those tears, then kissed her lips gently, dancing with her tongue, savoring Desdemona as if she were nothing but sweet ambrosia: a nectar so sugary it could only be poisonous.

Their pelvises moved in unison in a gentle roll as he moved his mouth up her neck, creating a path of kisses to her breasts, where he buried his face, inhaling the scent of her epidermis, listening to her heartbeat that seemed to echo in his rib cage. What would he do to get Desdemona between his ribs, keep her safe between his bones, where no one could hurt her? His hand trailed up her cheek as he lifted his head, wiping away the tears that continued to stream down her jowls. Was she not liking it or was she still in pain? He cupped her face, pulling her towards him, making her forehead rest against his as his breath merged with hers, their gasps becoming one voice. «You are the fruit of my blood... Ma pomme de sang.»

«You are my madness.»

They kissed again as she increased the movement of her pelvis, making his thrusts frantic. Varré found himself drowning in her with each stroke as he fell back onto the mattress, gripping her hips, while voluptuousness crowned his head, while the lust transformed into unbridled passion, which he felt only for that terrible warrior of the Badlands. He had literally lost his mind for her, as she had lost it for him. He moaned nonstop as he felt the walls of her vagin* open with each thrust, swallowing his massive phallus, which wallowed in her juices. The White Face came in a cry, filling Desdemona with his sperm, which began to drip down his testicl*s. She kept moving, pouring out every last drop of sem*n, until she, too, reached the acme, throwing her head back and screaming his name. She collapsed on top of Varré, kissing him again, before leaning her head against his chest. He put his arms around her shoulders, then kissed her forehead.

Chapter 13: The Elden Lord

Chapter Text

Cold sweat rolled down my temple as blood dripped from a wound that had sprung up on my side. The blade had cut through my armor, penetrating the iron layers of my chain mail, tearing the fabric of the tunic until it found the fibers of my flesh: the pain was excruciating, yet I kept going as my feet sank into the dark water, which captured the reflections of golden logs. I didn't have the time to observe the place where I was, not even to let the brain process that I was exactly inside the Erdtree, in its core, fighting against the one who took the name of Elden Beast, as Varré had loved to point out, which had materialized after I, together with Eleonora and Okina, had managed to kill Radagon. That creature was the last obstacle to overcome in order to grab the Elden Ring and deliver it to Mohg. It had taken me two months to make every single demigod capitulate, taking their rune. Of course, without the help of the people accompanying me and the power of the Formless Mother, I might never have succeeded. I often heard the latter's voice in my head, feeding my bloodlust, making me so violent and cruel that it was impossible for Marika's children to find an escape. However, she had also made Eleonora, Okina, the Sanguine Nobles who accompanied us and Varré himself extremely bloodthirsty, who often did not fight alongside us, preferring to act as a strategist or doctor, treating our wounds; but in case of need, he joined us: his incantations, based on bleeding, were a good remedy against certain enemies, as well as some demigods.

I saw Eleonora lunge at the Elden Beast, dodging one of its attacks, before her weapon penetrated its flesh, creating a gash so deep the ichor began to flow. The blood of that creature was golden like that of the Gods and poured into that black liquid that brushed our feet. I took a deep breath before imitating the woman, raising the axe above my head and creating another gash in the creature's side, which seemed to sway as it wobbled its long neck. I struck it several times before it spun around, skidding along the surface of the water, its weapon gleaming in a golden light. It was magnificent and sublime that it was impossible not to feel strong awe when standing in its presence. Perhaps it was precisely for this reason that the Greater Will had chosen it as its avatar. I shook my head, throwing into oblivion those fragments of history that Enya and Gideon had told me at the Roundtable Hold: the information had been so much that I often got confused about some elements. However, I had returned to that place after the Formless Mother had taken possession of my body, giving me and my companions that mission. I'd returned for information about the various demigods, and I knew that Gideon was the only one who knew their exact location. Also, killing them one by one had made him more talkative like the decrepit old woman who had died when Maliketh had fallen, when the Rune of Death had been released. What had I become in the Roundtable Hold but a spy for Mohg and the Formless Mother? I licked my lips, feeling the taste of blood invade my mouth before I landed another blow of the axe, which made the creature jump before it sank into that dark liquid. It emerged a few feet from Okina and Varré, who froze as it glided across the surface in a sinuous dance, scrutinizing them intently. Then it raised its long sword and hurled beams of golden light at them, which the two men avoided by rolling aside. I saw the surgeon immediately stand up, his long white scarf billowing in the air as he circled the creature, who gave its full attention to the samurai. Meanwhile, the two Sanguine Nobles attacked with blood slashing, creating various lacerations in the Beast's flesh, making it bleed profusely, before it rose into the air, creating two golden rings around their figures, which gradually narrowed.

«What the heck is it doing?» Eleonora asked me.

«I have no idea, but I have a bad feeling.»

The blow was not long in coming, creating a sort of explosion of golden light around the two Sanguine Nobles, who ended up lying lifeless on the ground. Okina had managed to save himself, getting out of those circles quickly. But Varré?

«Let's go!» Eleonora exclaimed, gripping the shaft of the twin blades with some force before launching herself at the Elden Beast.

I didn't wait for her to repeat it a second time, attacking the huge being together, creating cracks in its body. It was practically impossible to be able to describe it, as its interior was almost transparent, being able to see its golden frame, while tiny stars went to form a part of the cosmos itself, kept in a body that, at first, seemed to be made of a material similar to that of nebulae. Yet, it was physical, it could be struck, and ichor oozed from its wounds! Meanwhile, my axe swung at it repeatedly, beating what looked like wings, or were they tentacles? Its neck swayed as it raised its head, sword gripped in one hand before golden flames leaped forth and hurled at my allies.

I stood behind it and continued to hit it together with Eleonora, until it exhaled its last breath, collapsing to the ground and dematerializing in a dust of silver light. I took a deep breath together with my companion, who approached me as the area slowly vanished, returning us to Marika's feet, completely destroyed. Was she still alive? Or was she a simple container of the Elden Ring, which sat in the center of her and gleamed with a vivid golden effulgence? Meanwhile, I realized that besides Eleonora and me, Okina and Varré had also survived. We had set out in large numbers on that campaign and only four of us would return to Mohg.

«Now?» Eleanor asked.

I shrugged. «We should take it and deliver it to Mohg,» I said, referring to the Elden Ring.

«I give you my power,» the Formless Mother told me. «So you can extract it.»

I approached Marika, stopping in front of her. She had her eyes closed and a handful of golden strands flowing down in thin threads of pure gold. I inhaled and exhaled, feeling the Formless Mother's power engulf me completely, then she saturated every fiber of my body, creating a bloody aura around my figure. I reached out with both hands to that ancient relic, a symbol of life and power, then pulled it out with a strong tug, shattering the one who had been the deity of the entire Lands Between. She fell to the ground in a myriad of pieces: her head also disintegrated, making Eleonora giggle behind me, then she patted me on the shoulder. Meanwhile, the power of the Formless Mother continued to envelop my body as I turned to my audience, who stared at me in curiosity but also triumphant: our mission was almost over. «Let's go home,» I said, a smile forming on my lips.

The Formless Mother extended her power over my traveling companions, healing our wounds and teleporting us to the foot of the Mohgwyn Dynasty Mausoleum, in front of an elevator, next to which was a Sanguine Noble. He wore his usual rich gown embellished with silks and embroidery, his hands folded and his dark eyes upon us, before a sigh escaped his lips. «Mohg awoke along with the deity he slumbered with,» he announced before giving me his full attention. «He has given you a hearing, Desdemona, he wants to speak only with you.» He stepped aside, inviting me to get on the elevator.

I looked at my companions, who took a step back while a satisfied smile appeared on Varré's lips, who had taken off his mask, then began to applaud me. Eleonora also joined him; only Okina remained impassive as always. I ducked my head and started for the elevator, but first, the Sanguine Noble wanted me to hand him the axe. Why didn't they still trust me? I sighed before leaving for my destination, at the door of a half-destroyed temple, which belonged to an ancient civilization, whose name had been forgotten. But what place, like Nokron, could be suitable for an omen to initiate his dreams of greatness? What's more, he'd been able to accomplish them thanks to a Tarnished who'd fought with Godfrey and against Godfrey, who was Mohg's father. He hadn't even recognized me when, together with my allies, I killed him, feeling such a dense rage that I cut his head in half. How had he forgotten me after what I'd done for him? He had also blinded my left eye and burned part of my face.

I licked my lips before taking a deep breath, stepping over the threshold of an archway and through the temple, stopping a few steps from a huge omen, who was wearing beautiful and sumptuous black and red clothes. His head was crowned with a crown of black horns, and his single eye was glowing with pure joy as he clutched a huge trident in one hand. Instinctively, I raised my hand to my cheek, recognizing in that weapon his symbol, which had imprinted itself on my flesh the moment I used the medal that Varré had given me. Meanwhile, I noticed that he smiled, showing two rows of sharp teeth. I knelt at his feet, lowered my head in submission, then raised both hands to him, showing and handing him the Elden Ring.

«Desdemona,» he said, pronouncing my name in a shrill yet soft voice, topped off with a gentle as well as solemn tone. «You made possible the birth of my dynasty, despite the various problems you initially caused.» I heard him chuckle. «The Formless Mother chose you for your strength, as well as your intelligence and bloodlust. You were one of the few Tarnished to conquer a Great Rune, as well as challenge the Two Fingers and Marika herself.» I felt his weapon against my shoulder. «I appoint you Regent of my dynasty. You will exercise my power when I am unable to attend hearings, as well as be my advisor.» Hearing those words, my blood froze. What would Varré and Eleonora, who were part of the dynasty before me, have thought? How would the Sanguine Nobles take this news? Meanwhile, Mohg shifted his weapon to my other shoulder, then reached down to pick up the Elden Ring. «Stand up and look!» This time it was an order and I obeyed.

I saw the God who sat in the middle of his shell, who I had discovered was Miquella, Malenia's brother. He was gigantic and completely naked, his long blond hair wrapped around his shoulders; his big blue eyes were devoid of any light or life. He was dead? Or, like his mother, was he just a vessel for the Elden Ring? Mohg inserted it into his chest and it began to glow with a golden light, which enveloped the empyrean in his entirety.

«You can go now.»

I bowed, then turned and walked out of the temple. What would happen from then on? What would my life have been like, besides that of the inhabitants of the Lands Between? Had I made the right choice in supporting Mohg's cause, making him Elden Lord? I sighed as the Sanguine Noble himself, who had greeted me at the elevator, dragged me away from my three allies, carrying me towards the huge building where the Bleeding Fingers and doctors congregated, but we turned towards another path, which gave access to the quarters of the Sanguine Nobles. They washed me and dressed me in new clean garments, then, late in the evening, there was the proclamation of Mohg as Elden Lord and my own as Regent, making known to all what I had become to him who was known as the Lord of Blood.

***

I looked at the landscape below me, where the lake of blood stretched over a large part of the land, where the huge crows wet their black feathers. Further up, there was the temple where Mohg resided with Miquella. Red lights enveloped the entire structure of the mausoleum, while the stars were motionless silver lights above my head. It had been three days since my return, and I had spent much of the time with the new Elden Lord, as well as the Sanguine Nobles, organizing a movement of the troops to the surface, as well as the Elden Lord, who would have wanted to establish his power in Leyndell and from there control the entire Lands Between. How the outside world had been changed by the Formless Mother's power? However, it had to be ascertained, if it resembled what lay below, which had congealed in that small patch of Nokron. How many growths of reddish flesh had emerged and taken over the various buildings? Flesh growths that dogs and crows ate quietly.

I wasn't curious to find out how everything had transformed, the horror the Lands Between could have become: a metamorphosis made possible by me, bowing to the power of the Formless Mother and to the love of a hideous White Face, whose presence was an absence I could not fill; we didn't even sleep together anymore, each in different rooms, each with our own people, although I was allowed to see him during meals and suppers, as the common rooms were the same for knights, doctors and Sanguine Nobles. Even if for two days in a row, I had dined with Mohg, under the dull eyes of Miquella, who did not speak and did not move, remaining seated in the center of that enormous egg, or was it better to call it a cocoon, in which the God had fallen asleep before the omen kidnapped him? I sighed as my gaze wandered beyond the horizon, wondering what would happen to me and what my life as Regent would be like. The Elden Lord had placed a ruby tiara on my head and filled my closet with very feminine black dresses, richly embroidered in gold and red. I still had my trusty axe, though, as well as a new armor.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, I turned abruptly to meet Varré's golden eyes. He was wearing neither mask nor veil, letting me see the stubble bordering his face, along with that amused smile that was often present on his lips.

«Who would have thought you'd be Regent...» He didn't finish his sentence, leaving the words floating in a windless place.

«I don't know why Mohg made such a choice.»

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. «A mystery, isn't it? But, in my opinion, it is due to the fact that you talk to the Formless Mother and what you have done to make his beloved dynasty real.»

I nodded.

«You're not happy, are you?»

I preferred not to answer him, I just smiled. What was I supposed to tell him? That I wasn't entirely sure of the choice I made and that it was too late to cry over spilled milk? After all, how could the course of events be changed if every single Great Rune had been taken? Obviously, Mohg's one wasn't inside the Elden Ring.

Varré drew me to him and embraced me. «Whatever you think is making you moody, don't let our Elden Lord sense it. I wouldn't want him to hurt you.»

I laughed. «Don't worry, we get along pretty well.»

He laughed too before kissing my lips, then his tongue crossed the threshold of my mouth, looking for mine that ran towards his own. I hugged him tightly as I savored Varré himself extremely slowly, losing myself in his essence saturated with the flavor of blood and flowing down my trachea like a tasty wine.Maybe, after all, I did all this for you, I thought as I lost myself in him, as I yearned to strip his clothes off, as I longed to feel him under my skin. I burned for him like a flame that could never deaden and slowly consumed my sanity, causing me to lose shreds of lucidity. «I love you,» I whispered into his ear as his lips moved to my neck.

I felt him stiffen, then relaxed as his tongue left a shiny trail on my skin. «You belong to me,» he replied before sinking his teeth into my throat.