A scream echoed within the stonework of the sewers.
It woke Morgott fully. With a stuttered gasp, he leaned on his arm to focus his hearing, for the noise seemed to erupt all around him with no clear source.
It was not unusual for a scream to wake him, for a roar of pain to reach through the pipes and strangle his heart to silence. The Subterranean Shunning Grounds were no stranger to such wails of grief. But he had recognized the tone, the familiarity of it making him freeze.
Another moment or two, and he heard it once more. A voice he knew, as one would know since birth. Of pain and humiliation, just outside of his door.
An Omen was used to such things, even one who was still young as he, in his fifteen years of age. But it had been quite some time since he had heard that terrified note in his own brother's voice.
He made to leave his simple cot on the floor, the ragged yet still soft cloth that served as his bedding wrinkling from his motions. One would have to peer closely to see the emblem of the Erdtree within its threads, but it had been much worn out from his turnings, from his horns tearing at the fabric without his intention. His bare feet made contact with the stone once more, the floor of his room a rare dryness compared to the rest of the underground.
Careful to move his tail, to not have it smack against the wall, to not have it render the crates full of preciously saved rations to ruins, Morgott marched for his door, and opened it inward. The hinges creaked as he did so, the oak of the door covered in thick moss.
His brother half-laid on the ground, one hand over his face, and keening a high note that was slowly thinning into near inaudibility.
"Mohg?" he called out. He quickly knelt beside his twin, but kept his hands clear. "Thou has been gone for so long. What has happened?"
None who are cursed such as they can hide their deformities. The horns that plagued Morgott's own body was in full array on his brother's face, blackened and curled like tarred bone. Morgott's own horns grew outward from the right side of his face, deepening his brow. It reached up until it became a hardened knot, impossible to ever untangle, to ever break.
But Mohg's horns stretched out and around his skull, framing it as if it were a cursed halo, or a crown that writhed when it was gilded by firelight. Such horns, even if there had been an attempt, could not have been excised without marring Mohg's face beyond repair. It would have surely killed him, and drowned him in his own blood as his ruptured horns would drip upon him, leaving this Omen child with nothing but a painful end.
But as Morgott looked closer, he saw how his brother placed his palm over his left eye. His other was wide open, spilling tears that could not stop flowing. His eye was bright, nearly tinged yellow, and such a ghastly glow was not something Morgott had ever seen before. It was not the light of the Golden Order, even with the similar shade.
But there was blood too, and an old fear surged within Morgott once more.
"It…it has grown…" his brother rasped out. He pulled back his hand by a fraction, and one horn of his had deviated from its course. Instead of curving outwards from his cheeks to form against his skull, it had turned inward. It had snaked its way towards his eye and –
Morgott could not help but flinch once he realized. "No…" His hands tightened into fists, and he didn't care that another horn protrusion on his palm dug into his skin. It did not compare to Mohg's suffering. "Come inside then, we can inform the surgeons in Leyndell to-"
"No!" Mohg hissed, then covered his eye once again. Morgott could see the dried blood all over his brother's hand, how it nearly blended with his skin. "Nothing must be done! Don't you understand anything at all?!"
The viciousness of his speech was so strong, it made Morgott step back. In that motion, he revealed a weakness, one that made his brother grin without mirth. The blood had also dripped into his mouth, staining his sharp teeth with crimson.
"No… Why would you know? All you do is stay just out of the surface's reach and..." But then another soft whine of pain, and Mohg bent forward, nearly collapsing from not only his injury, but what must have been a great climb from such a long distance.
His brother had always favored the deep recesses of the earth, searching for ways to burrow further.
Taking a deep breath, Morgott tried once more to get closer. "Thou came back home for a reason still. Take my hand… Thy bed has been left undisturbed."
He extended his hand as he said so, making no move to snatch at his brother's arm, or force him to follow along. Even though the temptation was there, inviting Morgott to entertain such thoughts should his brother refuse help, just as he refused so much else.
But Mohg must have been in too much pain to remember pride, and took his brother's hand with his own that shook. Morgott carefully pulled him to his feet, placing Mohg's arm around his shoulders to help him walk the few feet to his room.
"Please… do not… let them… ruin…" Mohg's speech was fractured, spoken in whispers. The blood that fell across Morgott's skin, the blood of his brother's eye, felt so searing. "Do not…let them…near…"
Despite his misgivings, Morgott nodded. He then placed Mohg in the opposite corner of the room, where the candle had been snuffed out for many months. "I promise."
He gave a silent prayer to the Erdtree, to spare his brother's life. For were there not other Omen it could take its wrath on instead?
The last Morgott had seen of Mohg, it had been nearly half a year, perhaps even more.
His brother did not sleep well, if one could even call it sleep. The horn had lodged so well within his face that it must have torn not only his eye, but his muscles, shredding bone and cartilage in its wake. Whether it had done this slowly to his brother, or in a quick fashion, he could not say. All he knew was that Mohg suffered – and continued to suffer.
It was typically an impossible task to acquire clean water within the sewers, but Morgott had some cleverly stored within a hidden alcove, to avoid theft. He took the water barrel, dipping cloth in it so that he could drape it around his brother's wound. Blood kept seeping onto the blankets, onto Mohg's chin, onto Morgott's very own hands.
The best he could do was wipe away what he could and listen intently to his brother's pain.
Half a year Mohg had been gone. Had he suffered all this time?
Time passed. Morgott went through several candlesticks, unsure of leaving themselves in the dark, even if most would not dare attack them. They were far from the rats, and the imps had learned to keep away instead of playing their tricks on them. The other Omens had always acted as their protectors, but Morgott had once heard how such loyalties can always be altered. So he kept the door locked, he kept their food and water hidden, and by his side, he clutched a large cane of oak, more used to its weight.
Their room that served as their home was small, but enough to fit them both since childhood, with a spread of blankets on opposite sides, serving as their beds. There was also gathering of crates and boxes that held food and drink, with one side of the wall stacked with books. Such old tomes were given to Morgott to further his own education, for even though he was shunned, he mustn't neglect his studies. But his brother's side of the room was scarce of such things, instead filled with pots – and quite a number of them. For Mohg had always favored play over 'the stuffy words of parchment,' as he would say.
In his own so-called bed, Mohg still wore his rags, the same as when he left. But Morgott noted the blood, as if it had been fully drenched in a river of it. Certainly from his injury, and yet, the stain of it suggested so much more, and so much older.
Questions hovered on his tongue, but he couldn't ask them. Mohg still clutched his eye, his breathing shallow, his screams now quieted. He continued to sit by his brother's bedside, his large tail softly brushing the floor.
Either he would watch his brother claw his way to life, or he would die. Morgott, in either future, would simply sit here and wait.
Maybe that was all a Fell prince could do.
Three days passed, and Morgott once again heard a scream in his sleep.
It was different this time, for it was more of a low wail, one that tried to keep itself quiet to little success. Morgott had rarely left the room except to retrieve more provisions, and he slept close by, moving his own bundle of blankets to be near his brother. Yet even as Mohg had been in constant pain, this sound was different.
Morgott raised his head. He saw Mohg already sitting up, but no longer clutching at his face. Instead, he tore at his threadbare shirt, trying to upend it over his head, and struggling.
"Mohg, what is-?" Morgott started to ask before he saw Mohg's back pulsed. How, at his bare shoulder blades, blood was freshly flowing once more.
The wing stumps that he had since birth were a deep red. It made Morgott wonder if the bone from such things had pierced through the skin. Mohg finally wrenched his shirt free, then placed his hands on the floor, scrabbling at the stone.
"Are…are my wings…" He swallowed, took another shuddering breath, then faced Morgott. The horn lodged in his eye was so plain, stained red. But his remaining eye seemed to shine with a maddening fervor that Morgott could not recognize. "Do I have them?"
The question was so unexpected that all manner of speech left Morgott's throat. But that only served to anger Mohg, who with sudden reflexes that belied the pain he must have still felt, crawled forward, claws upturning the dirt that coated the floor.
"Do I have them?! Do I have my wings?!"
The block of silence finally left Morgott, but just after he controlled the panic that had suddenly welled inside his chest. "No," he said in an even tone. "Thou has not had them since the surgeons cut them from thine back."
For it was known that young Omen would most certainly die if their horns are removed, but that did not apply to their wings.
Mohg stared, a snarl on his pain-filled face. He smashed his fist into the ground with fury, did it again, and again, and again, until Morgott reached out take hold of his arm.
"Thou must sleep," he said, his voice a calm parallel to his brother's physical anger. "Go to sleep."
"They were supposed to grow!" Mohg shouted, but he didn't resist the hold, as he didn't resist being put back to bed, a blanket now over his bloodied back. "They were…"
But he had soon fallen deep into sleep, from exhaustion, from misery. His shouts must have brought him nothing but fatigue, until all he could do was curl into a ball within the crimson sheets.
Morgott sat by him, determined to be nearer this time should his brother wake up violently once again.
And yet, the sight of those bloodied wing stumps made Morgott feel more fear. They were stumps, still, yet he had not mentioned the outcropping of black feathers that seemed to form at the base, as little as they were.
He did not know what that meant at all.
More days passed, if one could say within the Subterranean Shunning Grounds. There was no sky to tell them the passing of time, and the church bells could not make it down through the thick walls built beneath the underground. The most that Morgott could use was an hourglass that stood in a lonely corner, routinely turned to help him keep track of such hours. But he had not always turned one in time, and there were long moments where he had neglected to do so altogether.
Mohg's arrival had completely distorted his sense of time. Perhaps his brother had been bedbound for years instead of just days, but who was to say? None of the other Omens would know, even if he had asked.
But as days (or years, perhaps even centuries?) went by, Morgott remained in his spot, only moving to administer a wet cloth to Mohg's forehead, to clean away the fresh blood once more.
It could have been early morning, or past midnight, but eventually, his brother stirred, giving a great yawn that revealed further rows of sharp canines. Different from Morgott, who kept his human jaw, his flat teeth. One would not have presumed them to be twins on appearances alone.
In their younger childhood, they used to look alike, but Mohg had changed slowly over the years…
His brother sat up, blinking slowly with a normal shine to his eye instead of that maddening glow. Morgott let out a soft exhale, relieved, though unsure as to why.
"How…" Mohg whispered. He looked down at the blankets that were his bed, stained with more of his own blood. "How I am here?"
Morgott blinked, a dull suspicion in his mind finally moving to the surface. "Thou dost not remember." He stated. "I see."
"What?" A thin vein of anger slid through Mohg's tone, but exhaustion still overpowered him. He could hardly raise his voice, and so he once again spoke quietly. "Tell me what happened. I was…supposed to be down in the catacombs. I was trying to-" he stopped, turning away as he stared again at the blankets. "I only remember darkness."
Morgott shifted, cleared his throat. "We are always in darkness here." A pause. "But thou chose to go further."
Mohg cast him a quick glance before going back to glare at the fabric, stained beyond recognition. The symbol of the Erdtree was adrift in a sea of blood, its details lost to it.
"Thou have tried to commit further blasphemy-"
"Be quiet," Mohg hissed. "You know nothing of what I've done."
"I would be more than pleased to be wrong!" Rarely did Morgott yell, but it would be foolish to deny his fear. His raised a hand to his own face, feeling the tree knot of horns, how rough and coarse they were. "Our curse was never meant to be nurtured. Neither our horns, nor mine own tail, nor thine wings. Why wish to make it worse?"
"I will not be shamed!" Mohg had enough strength for one furious roar, a sound loud enough to raise the hair on Morgott's head. "I will not be like you and take a dagger to try to blunt what was given to me. What have you even accomplished? Still cursed, but with stumps to make you look weak!"
Morgott gritted his teeth. His horns had grown unruly over the years, much of it out of his control. It was dangerous to even attempt to cut away what he could. The white markings of bone above his eyes showed his meager attempts, where he had tried to prevent more horns into existence.
"And what did thou accomplish in turn?" he asked quietly. "I find thee at my door, on thy knees and in pain. There was even enough blood to fill up those precious pots." Morgott gestured to said pots placed against the wall, of dirty and cracked ceramic, little playthings of Mohg in his younger years. "How could one be so reckless and be so close to death?"
Mohg's anger was still apparent in his curled fingers, in his snarl, but a blink made such actions lose their impact, if slightly. The silence stretched, before he finally said, "My pots… They are still here?"
He turned to his side, seeing them placed carefully together, with linen at their base to prevent them from tipping over. "Why did you even keep them?"
Morgott was caught off guard by his brother's genuine curiosity. He cleared his throat, his own anger already evaporating. "I recall that they were considered quite important…" Then he allowed himself careful smile. "Dost thou not appreciate it? Thine bloody pots remain here, and unbroken."
"Truly? With all of their blood?" Mohg leaned forward as he asked his question.
"Well… The blood started to coagulate, and the stench became overwhelming…" Morgott shrugged. "I had to drain some. But now a few hold thine very own blood. Fresh, I may add."
It was absolutely an appaling thing to say, macabre in its nature. And yet, Mohg laughed. He laughed uproariously, even as he winced from the pain of doing so. "You were always quite resourceful!"
With such a compliment, Morgott had not expected. But the sight of his brother laughing and in good cheer…it made him smile. What a ludicrous thing to find such cheer in.
They had no more words. Their fights with each other had always been quick.
Another day or two, and Mohg remained. Morgott would not complain.
He also did not pry into the whereabouts of his brother's absence. There were suspicions, all of them seated on the edge of his tongue before he thought better of it. The long months he'd endured alone had stretched on within the darkness, rendering him hollow until he heard Mohg's cry. For all he had known during that time, his brother may as well have died underground, still bound by the shackles that kept them to the earth.
But those who held their shackles had not been near for so very long, and Mohg was alive, if still bloody. He was here, and perhaps, he would be here to stay.
Morgott took great care to wrap the linen around Mohg's back when he had woken up one morning, tightening a knot to keep it in place. "This should be good now."
"Any tighter on these bandages and you may have well-broken my ribs," Mohg complained.
A small tsk of the tongue. "Always spinning such lies and deceits."
This was followed by a rough chuckle, but no barbs of anger or impatience. Mohg let his brother finish his task with no further complaint.
Morgott had caught sight of those wing stumps, the bone threatening to seep through. The linen was the best he could do to hide such things away.
"If thou move anymore, the wounds will reopen once again." He sat back, wiping the blood from his hands on a heavily stained cloth. "I assume that would be unwanted."
A pause. Mohg slowly shifted on the blankets, wrapping the thread-bare rags that served as his shirt around his shoulders. "Perhaps so."
That note in his brother's voice caught him, but again he let such matters go for now. "Sleep some more then. I will fetch fresh water for your wounds soon."
"Ack, I am fatigued by constant sleep. I may as well be dead." The word left Mohg's mouth so easily and with little care, while Morgott had to assess its meaning with some unease. "I would hope that is not all you did while I was away, just sleep and rest in this room with the candles to keep you company."
Morgott pressed his lips together firmly before speaking. "I see no need to repeat what thou must already know."
From his narrowed eye, Mohg did. "Still practicing your so-called repentance?"
"It is necessary for ones such as us. The Golden Order dictates-"
"Enough with the lecture. Or I truly will go back to sleep again just to escape this."
"Thou have asked, and I have merely answered. To become incensed over such a matter is childish."
"Ah, of course," Mohg held on the word with a rasp. "The old insults once again! Have you missed flinging such dirt at me all this time?"
Morgott sighed. "Thou are the one with thy childhood pots."
A stutter. It was rare to see Mohg flail like this, but he did. If he had lips that weren't overtaken by fangs, Morgott could only imagine how much his brother would pout at him now.
"At the most, I have tried to make something out of our meager existence! Instead of wallowing in prayers to the very Erdtree that rejected us! Or practicing golden incantations uselessly!" In his anger, he grabbed one such pot (that was luckily not filled), holding it in both claws. "Even when we were children, you abhorred my games."
"Thy games never made any sense! There was never any rhyme or reason to it!"
"Oh, well, thou have never truly listened then." At his impression, Mohg shook his head, the disgust in his voice so clear in his grunt. "I have been so long away that I have forgotten how it is to talk with you. Your proper speech sickens me! Why speak like those that have trapped us here to slowly die?!"
Morgott could not say much to that, the words pricking him deeply, more than what his own sharp horns could do.
His brother laughed, darkly, with no humor to it at all. "Such words are from those who have never loved us."
"No," Morgott said so suddenly. He clenched his fists, then moved to stand up. His bare feet marched along the stones, rustled the blankets of his own makeshift bed. "That's not true."
"How could it not be? Are you sick with your own delusions now?" More laughter, which was even more cruel. A laughter that stung both brothers instead of merely one.
"There are those who care for us." Morgott looked to his side of the room, with the books, mildew already ruining the pages, their bindings all but broken. "Father has visited again."
He heard nothing from Mohg, not even breathing. He turned, finding the shock on his brother's face, as well as something else, a brief thing that left as quickly as it appeared. So dearly did Morgott wish to have not caused that brief expression of despair, no matter how fleeting it was.
"He came by, months ago," he continued, answering the unspoken question. "To continue our training and help refill our rations… I did not know what to say regarding thine disappearance, except… how I believed thou would come back."
Mohg clutched the pot, and for a moment, Morgott feared he would throw it. It would not be an uncommon action, for that was the pot's main purpose, after all.
"But he did not wait for me," Mohg concluded.
Morgott added gently, "He waited for as long as he could."
A shake of his brother's head. "He came… and then left once again." Mohg looked to the floor, and his one remaining eye seemed so dull then. "To mother… to Godwyn…"
"Yes," Morgott agreed. There was no denying it. "He is on a campaign. An urgent one, so he could not continue to stay. He said it would be long before he could see us again."
Mohg scoffed. "A true pity."
But Morgott knew in the way his brother held himself, in the gritting of his teeth. Their father, in all their lives, had perhaps been the only one who was truly kind to them. And now, he was gone.
"You should have just told him I died then."
"No, for I did not believe it."
"Well, clearly he did!" Mohg snapped. But just as quickly, he quieted down again, hunched over his pot that he gripped so tightly, it must have been in pain. Morgott hoped that he would not see more blood seep through those bandages.
He did not know much else to say. He could not even provide words of comfort, of reassurance that their father would soon return. For his father had not been able to promise that himself.
Instead, he returned to his place beside his brother, sitting on the floor, just a few inches from the spread bedding. He had to maneuver his tail carefully, for it had grown, seeping out from his robes to lug around like a giant weight. He tried not to imagine the sneer his brother would have, if he were not currently devoured by gloom.
"Do…" Morgott halted, pressed his lips together, then started again. "Do you…" he paused, to let the word settle on his tongue with more ease. "…even remember your wings?"
His brother raised his head. He expected a comment on his speech… on his lack of sudden properness. But Mohg simply scratched a claw over the pot's surface, tracing the curve as if it meant something to him.
"We were toddlers," Morgott continued. "Father said…your wings barely held any feathers at all."
It was not a full change of topic, but it was enough. Instead of misery, it was anger that filled his brother's eye, frustration that made him hiss.
"But they were mine," Mohg said quietly. So quiet it sounded like a growl. "They were mine, and they took it from me. I will have them back again."
Even then, Morgott still could not ask him; he could not ask just why did he believe he could grow back what had been severed? What did he find deep beneath their feet, down through the underground tunnels?
Perhaps he feared the answer too much.
He stayed silent for a while and watched the candlelight dance among the walls. Mohg's breathing was shallow, lost in his own dark thoughts. What dreams of flight he must have, and how Morgott could not deny that sometimes, such dreams came to him as well.
"What did…you imagine your wings to be?" he asked, earnestly, and with less stumble over his chosen speech.
"Grand," Mohg answered. His gaze was still far-off. "The wings of a true god. Divine. For that is what we should be."
"You mean the signs of the Crucible." It was not unheard of. Those small, knotted charms that the Misbegotten would carry on their persons told of such a belief, in conflict with the Golden Order. "A sign of more primitive times."
A short, but still hollow laugh. "You say such a thing because you refuse to embrace it. If we must be spurned because of how we are born, then I will take all that I was given. I will grow my horns, and I will grow my wings. With that, I will finally be free." His brother hunched even further in on himself. "And the Greater Will can sod off."
In another time, Morgott might have reprimanded such blasphemy. But in this room, with the memory of his brother's warm blood on his hands, he could not. There was no pride in him for what he was born with, his horns a monstrous growth of tangles and barbs, and his tail an awful weight, seeming to shackle him further to the earth than the magic-made ones ever could. How Mohg could see such things as blessings, he did not think he would ever understand.
But he could understand being spiteful, if just a fraction or so.
"To have such wings to fly, I admit, sounds…quite tempting."
His brother raised his head, though he stayed quite curved over his pot. "Tempted? You?"
Morgott shrugged. "Wings would at least allow us a bit of movement in these tunnels. Why, I could fly up to those imps on the wall and shove them off." He crossed his arms, smiling a bit. "I could mimic the dragons that roam the sky, like Godwyn's. I already have such horns and tail for it. I suspect not even Godwyn could tell the difference between me and Fortisaxx."
It was a meager attempt at humor. Something that not even the other Fell Omen would snicker at, though they didn't laugh much at anything…
But it was not the laughter of those Fell Omen that he sought. And when he heard the chuckle across from him, looked to see the smirk on Mohg's face, the shaking of his shoulders, he then truly felt that pride.
"A dragon! Even I could not be so ambitious!" Still, Mohg continued to laugh, even as his laughter later devolved into a wheezing of breath. "And yet… I can only begin to imagine what mother would say to such a thing…"
Somehow, the comment made Morgott laugh, soft and low as it was. It had been unexpected, as well as painful. Their mother had rarely been seen, for she would never set foot in the sewers, would never come to visit like their father would. In all their years, they had never received a single word from her.
It was difficult to even recall her face, for she had banished them to the sewers not long after they were born.
With all that and more, Morgott laughed and laughed.
"What would our radiant mother say?" he repeated. "Her cursed children, shame of the Golden Lineage… now flying with the dragons! We might as well fly up to the boughs of the Erdtree!"
Mohg slapped his knee, his pot now held in just one hand. His deep laughter echoed among the stones around him. "Can the Erdtree truly reject us if we make our home within it? We could make a nest fitting for a prince."
"Ah, if we do, you will need to build your own. I will make mine own nest." He paused, cleared his throat again. "My own nest. And it will be grand indeed."
"Not as grand as mine!" Mohg straightened up, as if he were trying to spread his wings just then. "I'll make a nest that's more impressive. For a king! I will-" He flinched. "Agh."
Morgott already realized. "The wounds, is it?"
"Yes…they have opened again."
He shook his head, moved to shift behind his brother and fix such blunders once more. And yet he smiled as he did so. "Foolish… One would think you were meaning to open them on purpose."
"You didn't wrap these linens correctly!" Mohg countered.
"I couldn't do it more tightly because you kept fussing about…"
Yet even so, he couldn't dim the smile from his lips, couldn't stop chuckling at their previous jokes. There was pain still, from what they knew, but it was dull pain. Long accepted. No use to dwell on it. The shackles that wrapped around their beings and kept them chained, invisible but ever-present, were as well-known as memories that refused to fade.
Yet, as long as his brother was here, such memories could be bearable. They had to be.
So as he wrapped the linens again, he asked, "Are you satisfied by your venture then?"
Mohg turned his head over his shoulder, his face hidden away by thorns that have grown so unruly. "Satisfied?"
"Perhaps…that is not the correct term." Morgott tightened a knot, sighed at the blood again on his hands, but at least it was minimal, easily washed away. "I do not know how long it will be until we may see Father once more, but he told me this… That we are better united than separated." He pressed his lips together. "And I agree. There are so many uncertainties in this world, and I don't want to lose you if I can help it. I fear of whatever lurks beneath us, or anywhere…"
Mohg was quiet, but there was the smallest, almost imperceptible nod from him. "Well…now how can I refuse such an offer?"
Morgott dared to hope. "So you will stay?"
If anyone besides a Fell saw Mohg then, they would have thought he snarled, looking demonic in nature. But Morgott only saw his brother's smile.
"An older brother must care for his youngest, of course!"
"…Has your venture also deprived you of your senses? We are twins."
"Yes, but I was born some minutes before you! Father told me so."
"Oh, when Father says so, of course…"
But even so, he felt relief then. All it took was a familiar face to feel some comfort, after all.
And yet one day, or night, or afternoon, in however time passed for them, Mohg had left again.
Before he did so, their time together had been peaceful – as much as one could find peace in such a place. They left their single room, they recounted old stories of their father, and even made their secret ways that led up to the surface – but only for a certain distance. The shackles that bound their beings always pulled at their feet with a subtle weight. Any ladder that led up to a blue sky were suddenly much too difficult to climb.
Yet, for some time, both Morgott and Mohg could see the golden branches of the Erdtree through an open grate up high, its light shining down with the sun.
"Perhaps that upper bough is where we could make our nests," Morgott had joked, happy to hear his twin laugh along to it.
"I will need my own for my grand palace of a nest. Sorry, brother, but you will need to find your very own."
It had felt easy once again, and yet, Morgott must have missed the longing in his brother's remaining eye. Perhaps Mohg had stared up at that golden bough a moment too long. Perhaps his laughter had been strained.
Because now he was gone.
The bed was askew, a pot or two tilted on their sides, with not even a note to his whereabouts.
Morgott fixed up the sheets, righted the pots, and sat on the floor, waiting. For nothing. For everything.
His brother had always fancied their shame, as if it were their blessing.
"Thou art nothing but a fool," he said to the ground, clenching his fists, tears leaving his eyes.
Those who bear the aspects of the Crucible were once considered divine; of tails, of horns, and of wings that stretched high.
But now, they were simply nothing but a curse. The Lands Between had no need for ones such as them. The Lands Between would not care if they died, forgotten in these sewers, until the shackles that bound them was truly set loose.
Why could his brother not realize that all they had was each other?
A fool indeed.