#caediis

Tail perking at the sound of his brother's voice, Morgott turned at Mohg's approach.

He had seen the glow of gold from up above, though did not know it's source, thus he was left with curiosity to what the source of light was.

Whatever it was, it always made him feel good.

And just now, seeing the little gold leaf in his brother's hand, Morgott could not help but smile.

"It's beautiful," the little omen said aloud, inching closer and inspecting the little leaf... Even if it was covered in the grime of their dark, dank home, it nevertheless had a certain allure.

Suddenly, Morgott had an idea. Turning away from his brother, the omen lad rummaged through the trove of assorted "goodies" from the above world that had made it's way down below. And after a moment, he returned with a lantern.

"Put it in here!" He said, opening the little glass door.

Light was a precious thing in the world of darkness where they lived. And their supply of candles was running low.

I love that you use the word process here, since it really was this sort of gradual journey for Radagon while he was imprisoned. Trying to create a timeline for the game is an exercise in futility since the presented lore is so obfuscated that it can be easily misinterpreted and the fact that sometimes lore can even conflict with itself.

But it’s always been my personal view that the amount of time that stretched from the Elden Ring’s shattering and to present day in the game would have been centuries, close to a thousand years. Long enough for two direct assaults were launched on Leyndell, for Rykard and Leyndell to go at war, for the rest of the demigods to fight and all the other events.

Initially Radagon was resentful, especially towards Marika. Even being the most ardent defender of the Golden Order, even having tried to launch his own designs to stop Marika and her plans especially with a Tarnished uprising, he was imprisoned with her all for the bitter fact that they shared a body. He had to face this injustice due to circumstances beyond his control, he was forced into this due to the reckless and thoughtless actions of his other half.

It’s no small leap for me to believe that his resentment bled towards the Greater Will, as how could he not be angry towards his own jailer who decides to punish him alongside the guilty. But it’s very telling how much he was in opposition to Marika and her plan that he would still go out of his way to create and maintain that seal. How much of his own strength requires to maintain it or if it’s a one and done thing is another point of speculation, but I personally like to believe that he’s still holding it himself to this day as that is how strong his beliefs are – beliefs that the Golden Order is the right way and should not change and that Marika and the Tarnished or any other interloper shouldn’t be allowed to have their way.

And although Marika and Radagon are both gods at this point, omniscience doesn’t seem to be a trait gods seem to possess, so everything that happened in the outside world once the seal went up were beyond his knowledge. So when he finally leaves the Erdtree and sees what’s become of Leyndell, learns of what’s happened to his own children and what’s happened to the world, he’s utterly broken. This is when he stops believing and loses all faith in the Greater Will. Since what’s the point?

“Partner? Who, the girl? Or that cute little Finger with the bright green eyes?”

Alberich feigns a childlike confusion at the Blood Lord’s question, a finger tapping his cheek as he replies. Oh, he knows good and well who the Omen speaks of — the Finger, of course, assigned to keep him in check during his time on the fringes of the Dynasty’s flock. But he wants to hear Mohg say it — hear what the man meant to him (if he even meant anything at all).

Mohg confuses him, after all. And Alberich does not like being confused. And so, his pale fingertips pick and poke at the surface of Mohg’s morality, digging up grubs and roots that offer him hints about the basics of his bloody biome. Carefully, teasingly, and all too consistently, Alberich scratches at that surface of mud…

He replies, as always, in winding riddles: “Didn’t realise he was meant to be a partner. Didn’t like him like that, anyway. Oh, he ran for a while, but so do most rabbits, eh? Besides, I think his pretty noble’s garb looks better on me, don’t you?”

Alberich gives a quick twirl at that, the regal golds and blacks that are characteristic of the Dynasty’s tailors dancing around his form. Indeed, the cloak he wears right now is not his. Or, well, wasn’t a moment ago. But there’s nobody left to miss it now, is there?

Finders keepers.

Alongside his brother, he ran.

He ran as fast as his feet could carry him.

And he held on to his brother's hand, as tight as he could.

He knew they were being pursued. The men with their horn-adorned cleavers, and their wicked masks bearing evil smirks.

They would come to commit a culling of those down below. Faces that Morgott came to be familiar with were gone. He and Mohg had been witness to these cullings. And they had managed to evade their masked executioners.

But as time went on, they two had grown bigger. Thus making it a challenge to hide from the pursuing threat.

No matter the time spent in their putrid prison. No matter how they memorized the corridors and pipes and passageways of the Shunning-Grounds, their pestilent abode remained as labyrenthian as ever.

He held onto his brother's hand. Until he found himself being pushed into an opening of a pipe around the corner. Small enough for Morgott to fit.

And that's when he realized that only he could fit.

"Brother, what art--?"

His question was cut off when he heard the encrouching footsteps. And he realized then that Mohg was about to leave him. To distract his pursuers. And Morgott was overcome by this sudden, choking fear.

He held onto his brother's hand. Uttering a barely audible "please, don't."

But just like that, he had lost his hold. And he could only recoil into the shadows, and watch as Mohg vanished, out of sight, followed by the masked men in close pursuit.

@caediis: ❝ have you come to scrape the mistakes of golden light ? ❞

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬. ‘𝐓𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡 would decree the youth. Accursed born. Wretched beings. Fit not to draw breath for what they portend and thus the rise of those who would hunt their kind. Put them to the sword as though they were no better than feral dogs. For such malfeasance that they embody, there can be no other way.

Save, mayhap, to look elsewhere. To hide the shame of their existence. Toss squalling children as refuse to the depths. Spill black ink across the pages and rip them all away while pretending the jarring leap from one chapter to the next is purposeful. Radagon might cut himself along those frayed edges of what tattered pieces remain along the spine were the memories his to hold. In his heart are there treasured moments of the eldest son, golden and most beloved. The only son, as how Marika and so many others might act. Though there’d been nine months and the short handful of days after when there’d been two others.

Memories he does not carry, for he’d been excised and forced to his own corner of the realm by then. Marika shares so very little with him these days, but in this she’d made her confession. Bound and connected enough he’d felt the missing pieces in their heart that he’d managed to pull this one truth from her.

Missing children to missing pages, he was incapable of understanding what had been torn away ‘til the revelations had been made known. Years after the fact and what can he do, but mourn for what’s lost. Graves with tiny bodies that he’ll never know, along with all that’s he’s been made to bury. Why then, could he not do better and leave it all alone?

Cloaked and with hood pulled up, he’d descended beneath the earth. ‘Tis strange that there could be a place within Leyndell where golden light would fail to touch. But of course, where else might they toss aside their shame? He’d no hope of finding aught for the vastness of this space. Yet in his mood, might he believe the cruelty of the divine were he not wholly aware that to think so would be blasphemy.

Then again, was not coming here at all blasphemy in itself?

He wears no crown. His hair is red and his form would be so wholly unfamiliar. He is Radagon and he has no claim to this one. And still, he can ill deny the way his heart aches. For he is the part of Marika that is meant to feel this and that is his own curse.

Naught of what he discerns is familiar as he peers about, beholding architecture bearing only the barest echo of civilizations of eld. Though what he notes above all else is the pervading scent of blood, the coppery tang of it nigh saturating every breath though he sees no clear source from whence it came. However it is that he’s arrived to this place someone has deigned to place him upon a stone bench. ‘Tis fortunate indeed he’s not susceptible to the foibles of a mortal body in which such hard surfaces would leave aches to joints and muscles. Though still there is a lingering lethargy to his movements, the veil of sleep still clinging to his awareness.