#sobsssssss

Made by the hands of the Fell Omen himself.

From the craftsmenship, a lot of love and dedication went into this bairn.

from leave an object in my ask [accepting!!]

It’s the horns that give the subject away.

A gnarled mess atop the bairn’s little head, twined and tangled around each other, with one unmistakably stabbing harshly into its tiny eye. The doll is swaddled in blacks and golds, small and soft feathers protruding from its back in the likeness of wings, its remaining eye shut peacefully in sleep.

The Blood Lord’s breath catches, chest tight and throat tighter, a wave of nostalgia crashing down upon him with force enough to crack his spine on the sands of time below. Who… made this? It couldn’t have been— no, no. But he so clearly remembers these dolls — or at least, dolls like these — from his and Morgott’s childhood.

Morgott…

Morgott always kept his favourite one, didn’t he?

Yes, yes, he remembers now: a doll fashioned in Morgott’s likeness, gifted to the elder twin as a child. Something Mohg always envied, being the less loved of the two already-hated children, and having never received one of his own. He remembers how Morgott always clutched that little doll, took care of it like his own child, yet still let little Mohg keep hold of it whenever the two brothers were apart — little Mohg, alone, and clutching that very special bairn.

He always wanted one of his own. And now…

…

He didn’t realise he was holding the tiny thing so tightly against his heart ‘til a horn pokes his palm with a sting, and reality of the Now kicks dust off the books of Then.