#messmer reader

Notice: This is just a (potential) snippet of my Messmer/Reader Fic! For now, please enjoy this lack-of-context short!

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The colosseum is crowded as usual, all anticipating the bloody fight that is to come. Gladiators prepare themselves, putting on their gloves and greaves. All fight to be seen, to be heard, to be championed.

For Messmer, it is one in which he can witness the ambitions and fighting prowess of all who dare to display it in front of the people of the Erdtree. There is no greater honor.

He sits above in the pulvinar, studying the gladiators who stand near the blocked entry into the fighting area. Some are familiar faces, others new and jittery. There will be much competition this time, and more blood will be spilled.

“I do not understand the meaning behind these fights,” Godwyn, who sits next to him, sighs as he rests his chin on his palm. “We live in peace, yet the people seem to favor bloodshed more than anything.”

“It is a battle of glory,” Messmer responds, tossing a look at his brother. “Thou should hold pride for these men.”

“I would rather focus on the noble ladies that wait outside the colosseum for their fathers and brothers,” the golden man only mutters, to which Messmer ignores. “Thou’rt not a man of brute violence either, lord brother. Participating in these spectacles will not curry favor with our mother.”

“I am not doing this to impre–”

“Oh, it’s starting.”

The gates are pulled open, and in stomps the first gladiator. He is a champion in the arena, his helmet still not washed from the blood of his victims. He pounds at his chest, roaring for the next opponent to enter the arena. The crowd cheers and chants for the next contender to come out. Messmer tilts his head forward, his red braid falling over his shoulder as the gates open again. When he sees who it is, he immediately leans forward with one wide eye. Godwyn raises an eyebrow before he laughs. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Jeffrey, you are to be brought to the name of justice!”

Your voice bounces off the walls of the arena, and the said gladiator only stares as you enter in, in your rusty apprentice armor and dull blade. The only thing standing out from your appearance is your shiny new helmet, which you must have bought recently as it lacks any scratches. The crowd boos at you, throwing food and shouting for you to get out.

“I am here–oof!” you get knocked to the ground when a whole cabbage smacks your helm. “What is this hostility,” you cry out in shock as you grip your helm. “I am here to arrest this man!”

“Get outta here!” the audience roars in anger. “This is no place for a knight!”

The gladiator roars, and before you can get back on your feet he runs towards you, smashing his whole body against yours with full force. The air escapes your lungs as you are sent flying off, meeting the wall with a loud crack. The audience cheers and the gladiator lifts his arms to bask it all in.

You groan and wheeze in pain with no doubt some of your ribs broken. You left your flask in the saddlebag with your horse, and now you will have to fight with your bones rattling inside you.

Godwyn stops laughing and starts to look concerned over your current situation. “Lord brother.”

Messmer knows what he is thinking and grabs his spear and gets up. He peers down at you, watching you get to your feet. The uneven steps and limping form tells him you won’t survive the next attack.

However, he waits.

The gladiator notices you, and cracks his neck as he waits for you to approach him. You don’t do as he predicts, choosing instead to just stand there. He growls, and starts jogging before he makes a full dash at you. Just as he puts forward his arm, ready to slam into you again, you disappear from his field of vision. You roll to the side just in time, making him fly past you and into the wall. The audience roars, half in glee, half in shock at the scene. You make a hurried run over to your sword, wincing at each step sending a stab at pain to your ribs. The gladiator removes himself from the broken wall, glaring at your limping figure before he cracks his knuckle and takes his axe out from behind. He starts rushing at you, and you look back before quickly getting to your knees and grabbing your sword. However, you won’t make it in time. You quickly turn, ready to strike your sword–!

Flames distort your vision as the gladiator is pushed back by it, and a red cape eases your eyes. You stare in surprise as Messmer stands before you, his spear in hand pointing at the frightened man. The arena instantly silences.

“Sir Messmer?” You call out, your lips curving into a grin of relief. “What are you–”

“The fight is over,” Messmer declares, his smooth voice as loud as the silence. “Guards, arrest this man.”

Instantly guards embroidered in silver and gold trudge into the arena and grab the gladiator.

Murmurs arise in the crowd, slowly forming into protests. However, with one glare from the demigod all shushes back into silence. He turns to you, his irritated gaze brushing over you. He starts to say something, but it is lost in the blurry reality that has set upon you. Darkness follows and you faint away.

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You awaken inside an empty infirmary, on a bed that is softer than any bed you have laid upon. A small stinging pain stabs at your ribs again and you hiss.

“Thou’rt awake.”

You blink and see Messmer standing next to the window, spear in his crossed arms. “Sir Messmer! What art thou doing here?”

He expels the heavy sigh at your energetic voice. At least you’re well enough to be shouting. He signals the perfumers to leave before approaching your bed. “I should be asking thee the same question. Thou shouldst have gone to the knights to have the man arrested.”

“I–how did you know I was here to arrest the man?”

“Thou spokest of it, didst thou not?”

“...oh! I did,” you laugh weakly and attempt to sit up. “Yes, that man was on a bounty list. I figured had I gone after him myself I would be a step closer to knighthood. Then, I can serve under you!”

Messmer furrows his eyebrows, the deep lines creasing between them as he attempts to make sense of your words. “Thou’rt not serving under me.”

Your smile instantly drops. “But–but you said I can if I prove myself!”

“I said I will teach thee, not take thee under mine commands.”

Your shoulders droop, but you cling onto his words. “So you will still teach me?”

“That is what I just said.”

You beam, instantly forgetting the disappointment. “I will take all of your lessons to heart, Sir Messmer.”

The demigod’s gaze softens and he places his spear against the wall before sitting down on the rather small chair. You listen to the roaring cries outside, and turn to the demigod who takes a rowa fruit from the table next to your bed. “Sir, are you not going to watch the game?”

“No,” Messmer pops it into his mouth. “I am not a man of brute violence.”

“Jokes are meant to be funny, sir.”

“...”

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