PREMISE: what it says on the tin. i wholeheartedly believe that the placement of rollo's spirit ashes at the base of morgandmohg's divine tower was meant to imply they killed him. of course i couldn't keep from utilizing Thee Hornsent Poem as part of this piece, given my constant slamming together of the divine beast and morgott as entities. excuse the experimental format. unsure if this is an alternate universe where the brothers actually escape, or if they would have been caught eventually. either way you'll notice a passing mention of thera, so she's still there, making this not entirely canon. my indecision is why this remains unfinished.
O horn deck'd beast, from higher sphere deliver'd,
Morgott knelt atop the Divine Tower. Mohg trembled in his arms; admittedly stronger than he, but still young, blind, and fearful. Their shared breath was white in the autumn air of the plateau. Closer to the heavens than the earth. Stones shook with the return ascent of an elevator, and the clamoring of voices and weaponry signaled inevitable doom. The Two Fingers shielded Morgott and his brother from the encroaching threat, but not of their own will. He swore he could hear them agonizing over his presence.
take root inside of the Tower's sculpted keepers,
and perch'd within, we beg of thee:
rise.
He kissed tears from the scales of Mohg's cheeks; the wandering horn that threatened his eye; the slope of his aquiline nose. Morgott hushed him, held his face, and promised to return. He stood, and Mohg collapsed at the gentle retreat, curling in on himself. His wings mantled. There was no point in closing his eyes, but it made him feel more like a void -- an amorphous husk. He tugged the hood of his robe over his head and yet again made himself small.
Dance and cavort,
cleanse all that thou wilt
It began to rain. Droplets slid smoothly from feathers and fur, horns and hide. The stinking poison of a butcher rose from the lift before being drowned in petrichor. Dust turned to mud as it clung to bare, calloused feet, and Morgott moved with the wind at his back. If he was to die -- and he surely was, this time -- he would not go easily. Spears and swords of steel would do fine. Not a cleaver lined with trophies torn from the heads of children.
Cruelty, woe,
and those who plague the Tower...
Leyndell did not send its gold-clad knights to do this work. They did not send the chaotic-honorable Crucible devout. No – slaying the accursed was the job of the depraved and the lowly. The fringes of society turned in on itself. There was always a smaller, weaker prey to be swallowed.
A stone mask appeared from between the Fingers' webbing. It bore horns and pointed teeth; it mocked Morgott, his twin, and all those like him. Bile rose in his throat. His stomach twisted and burned with terrific anger.
... channel thy choler,
into the most resplendent of dances.
He let out a war bellow. All that emanated from him was rage. In that moment, Morgott cared not for the watching Fingers, nor the Erdtree, nor his shivering brother. All he knew then was that his nails were still sharp; his teeth, not yet blunted; his blood, not yet tamed. He dashed towards the butcher with the grace of lightning and the mad roar of thunder. He lunged for eyes with his nails, a throat with his teeth.
A sword swing sent Morgott stumbling, but it did not upturn him. He regained his balance and spring forward, swiping at a vial of poison tied loosely to a belt. The glass shattered and spilled its toxins -- desecrating a holy site. He laughed at the irony. He wondered if Fingers could be made ill. In the haze of his hatred, he hoped his spilled blood and the poison would mix to seep into their flesh and they would know true suffering, as he had. He hoped they would grow horns.
The butcher and its Omen mark danced about each other for moments uncounted. Folktales would say it took forty days and forty nights, and the wind and rain did not cease howling for the entirety of their battle. Morgott would tell his future wife it only lasted a few minutes. Mohg would recount hours slipping by beneath a wall of flesh, with nothing but a tattered robe to cover him, and a whispering of which he could not pinpoint the source.
Omen were known for their brute strength, and their killers were manufactured to match it. But what Morgott had was endurance. His whole life was running, chasing, fleeing. The butcher's swords were heavy with stolen horns. Morgott's body had developed with his set in mind. One party was intoxicated, and sent as an employee. The other ran on pure spite. The club-like end of Morgott's tail slammed into his assailant's stomach, and this time, it was the one to fumble backwards, onto its ass. Behind him, he heard the reluctant drawing of blades.
He clucked his tongue defiantly, spitting his oil slick blood to the side. The approaching footsoldiers slowed their advance, apprehensive. Even among the lowborn, Orderly men feared uncleanliness to the point of irrationality.
The butcher raised one of its accursed swords. Morgott crushed its abdomen with his foot and it grunted, dropping its arm. Silver greaves and nervous shouts drew nearer. He wrenched off its mask and gazed upon the face of the man that was meant to take him down. The expression was emptily serene. It may has well have been another mask, and Morgott wanted to tear that one off, too. Arrows and thrown daggers stuck in his thickened skin, still avoidant, but his catch knew what would become of it -- none of the cowardly soldiers could delay anything. Perhaps this one foresaw its eventual reverence in Leyndell, for its ingenuity and courage in the face of the greatest evil -- disorder. Perhaps that final thought brought it peace.
Morgott pulled a knife from his back. With the screams of the soldiers swirling in the heady gale, he kneeled forward, and sunk it into the bulge of the Grand Omenkiller's throat.
My song will I sing,
in service to thee:
Though he was not yet an adult, when Morgott arose, he stood two heads above the tallest silver guardsman. The crew looked from him, to the corpse of their leader, to each other, and back.
They fled to the elevator.
Morgott heaved the body over the ledge and watched it fall, unceremoniously, to the bridge below. This would be his final gift for the people of the capital: a memorial to the vile creatures that took the plateau and its Tower captive. He deflated. With the corpse gone, his fervor waned. He turned to the fingers, watched them shudder -- twitching their alien language to no reader, cursing him again and again -- and recalled his twin.
[refrain]
Mohg unfurled like an afternoon shadow. His wings instinctively shook water from themselves and his fangs chattered. He couldn't recall ever being this wet. Before he could do anything else to get his bearings, Morgott snatched him into a deep embrace, soaking him further. He groaned before returning the gesture.
"Where to now?" He desperately wanted something solid over his head.
Morgott was silent. His grasp was unyielding.
"I said --"
"Down, and to the north. The mountains."
"I'm already cold."
No response.
Mohg ran his hands down Morgott's back and shoulders, feeling the fresh topography from the battle. He pressed a finger into an hole made by an arrow and smelled the result. He tried -- and subsequently failed -- to conceal his excitement.
"You're bleeding, beloved."
"Well?" Morgott asked. An infinitesimal smile twitched at his lips. "Are you going to fix it?"
Mohg clacked his fangs and warbled with joy.
---
On the lift down, their moods had lightened, but Mohg seemed restless. Morgott brushed his tail against his arm. It was part of a private language of theirs, meaning: 'it's safe to speak'.
"A woman was talking to me, up there."
"Women seem to like you."
Mohg flushed. "Not like that. She sounded old, anyways. Like Lady Tia. She was saying a poem about beasts with horns and I thought: maybe she's talking about me?"
Morgott was familiar with intangible 'people' speaking to him. It typically occured in his dreams, or immediately upon awakening. It was always brief. His brother, however, seemed to experience it daily, and at any time.
"There's plenty of beasts with horns around here," he muttered.
"Yes, yes, I know. But she mentioned a tower! She said something about the Tower we were on." Mohg huffed, sending spittle flying through the air. "I'm not lying."
"I know you aren't."