#friend: blaidd | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

celladore · 2 years

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Why is it always wolf?

Warning: super long, rather steamy Blaidd fic ahead. After fighting Radahn with his newfound Tarnished companion, Blaidd learns how to be vulnerable, and finds confidence in a more intimate setting than he's used to.

Once the streaking white light of the meteor faded, and the thunder-like echoes of the great impact flew away across the beaches and into the sea, and the dust from the festival finally settled, the night was almost still. All that remained of the clamor of battle was the clinking and clattering of loose pauldrons, rusted helmets, and other refuse of war rolling down the hill and tumbling into each other. Thousands of the ancient armaments had been thrown loose by the mighty foe who had just been slain, as the festival had taken place amongst the debris of an ancient war. There, on the Wailing Dunes, all that remained of that old war was a veritable mountain of broken spears and swords, empty cuirasses, rotted banners, and the countless bones of the soldiers who met their end so long ago. The final veteran of that war had met his own end at the festival, and now the dunes were filled with a mournful silence.

Under the faint blue glow of the moon and gentle, golden rays shimmering down from the distant Erdtree, two warriors strode alone atop the tallest mound of cold metal and bone, stepping mindfully through broken halberds and shattered shields, and somber unseeing skulls. One was very tall, and clad in steel, with a hefty gray cloak on his back, hanging straight down in the still air. He propped his heavy greatsword on his shoulder as he walked. It was a huge weapon, its wide blade easily six feet in length, much too large for most men to wield, yet this was not merely a man. Blaidd was a half-wolf, with the form and mind of a man, but the likeness of a beast, with dark gray fur and black claws, and two pale fangs jutting up from his jaw over his skinny muzzle. He bore many scars upon his body; the most obvious one carved its way up his left cheek and over his eye, leaving it weaker than the right. The long gray mane that swept behind his head was shaggy, and matted and singed in some places. To his right walked a man, one of the Tarnished, robed in dark blue cloth, almost gray, with black gauntlets and greaves, and a hood about his face. Celwyn had the look of a younger man, though his soul was old and weary. Stubble dotted his straight jaw, and the wavy amber locks atop his head were shorn to but a few inches. His icy blue eyes, almost silver, were often squinted, and his brow was often furrowed, and with a scarf pulled over his nose he liked to project an image of masculine apathy and gloom, but now he let the silent breeze cool his face, and his eyes were relaxed, tired yet content. A slender gold sword hung from his hip, and he leaned on a silver staff set with a blue stone as he walked. The man had muscle, but a thin frame, and stood at a middling height, but he felt very small next to the wolf, who towered over him by three or four feet.

Even though Blaidd was quite lithe, his tall frame was made much larger by the massive cloak about his shoulders, made of faded blue cloth and the gray pelt of some beast, clasped over his breastplate with a metal brooch. The cloak was so vast that it almost entirely concealed Blaidd’s arms, and made him look nearly twice his size. The image of Blaidd, with his gnarled furry face, heavy, battle-worn armor, impressively huge cloak, and even more impressive sword, had been quite intimidating to the smaller Celwyn the first few times they met, and even now, although to a much lesser degree. The mage had met many more foes than friends in the Lands Between, and had been prepared to fight when he first came across the shadowy figure howling in the Mistwood, but they quickly found camaraderie with each other when they got to talking. Celwyn could be gruff and curt, especially to strangers, but Blaidd had found a way to soften him up. The half-wolf was well spoken, and unceasingly courteous and honest, charming even, and oddly trusting for someone that bore so many scars of combat about his body. Their companionship had strengthened somewhat when they fought together against the bloodhound knight in Limgrave, but now that they had slain the great general of the Wailing Dunes together, they walked side by side like two old friends.

Celwyn glanced over his shoulder where the meteor had fallen and saw a pale, eerie glow emanating far off to the east. He raised his eyebrows a bit. “What do you reckon that was?”

Blaidd turned his head back for a look and saw the gray light. “Before I came to Caelid I spoke with Iji. He told me to go to the festival grounds, and that if General Radahn were defeated, the stars would resume their course. Might even have something to do with Nokron.”

Celwyn whistled. “That thing was bloody big. You think it punched its way all the way down there?” He looked back again. “Hm. You know, it does look like it fell towards the well in Mistwood. Certainly worth a look.”

“I agree,” Blaidd sighed, “but certainly not tonight. Big bastard wore me out.” Blaidd shook his head, and recalled the towering fell general, riding his sickly corpse of a steed. The wretched man had barely been alive himself, rife with scarlet rot, and feasting on the remains of his fallen adversaries. “What a sick way to fight, eh?”

“Personally, I found that to be a rather exciting festival. More interesting than most I’ve seen.” The mage turned towards his companion, and his smile flattened out slightly. Blaidd’s strides seemed labored, and upon closer inspection Celwyn noticed some blood soaked into the fur on his face, his good side, nonetheless. “I’d say we’ve earned a bit of rest tonight.”

The pair continued down the piles of scraps until they came to a small strip of beach yet unspoiled by the sprawling rubble. There sprouted a small pillar of golden light, a remnant of Grace. The slender light was held mysteriously aloft, like so many others across the country, and served as a small vestige of hope, and a place for tired warriors to take some respite. Celwyn put his staff on the ground and lied down in the light, rolling his hood up like a pillow behind his head. Blaidd let his sword drop into the sand, its weight driving it nearly a foot beneath the surface. He let himself down carefully and took a knee, head drooping, arms crossed over his thigh. They both let out a sigh and breathed deeply, basking in the light like weary travelers at a campfire.

Celwyn crossed his ankles, and laced his fingers behind his head. “You know, you shouldn’t toss your sword down like that, especially not in sand. You’ll ruin your blade.” He turned towards the knight and saw him across the light kneeling, shoulders heavy. “And lie down, won’t you? You don’t have to be so stoic all the time. Relax a bit. There’s nothing out here.”

Blaidd huffed, smirked, and rolled his eyes. “Two things, Tarnished: I’ve got enough sand in this cloak as is, and not all of us can just slink around in our robes, riding away on our little magic horses away from the giant guy with the giant swords. Some of us actually get hit, and still have to keep fighting.” He patted at a dent in his armor.

Celwyn let out a sharp laugh. “Slink around. Alright. You’re simply a larger target.”

“Look at you! You don’t even wear armor.”

“Do too! What do you call this?” Celwyn reached a hand out towards the half-wolf and clicked his clawed metal fingers together with an obnoxious metallic scrape.

“Oh, please. You just wear those because you think they look pretty. And you know, now that I think of it, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that pretty little sword of yours leave its scabbard.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t you go around telling me how to take care of my sword. My blade’s ruined anyways, chipped to pieces. Wasn’t expecting the big bastard to start hurling meteors at us. I had to improvise.”

“Yeah, that was a new one. I guess it makes a bit more sense now, the meteors and all that, I mean.” Celwyn closed his eyes and faced the sky, breathing in the chilly air. Before long he glanced at Blaidd again, still kneeling. “I told you lie down. At least sit or something. Come on, relax. You’re stressing me out.”

Blaidd grunted. “I told you this cloak’s a pain. And besides, I took more than my fair share of shrapnel back there. My armor feels a bit locked up. I don’t think I could sit down if I wanted to. Seems as though something smashed into my breastplate,” he said, indicating a large crater near the bottom of the plate, and the mangled faulds that covered his hip. “Armor saved my hip, but it still hurts more than I care to admit.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Pauldron got hit pretty hard, too. Shoulder’s stiff.”

Celwyn frowned at his friend, who stared absently at the floating Grace now, his surly features illuminated by the yellow light. His brow was furrowed and his ears flicked, annoyed. He was still panting softly, attempting to recover. He put his hand on his shoulder and tried rolling it, but it hardly moved at all. Celwyn sat up and faced the wolf. “Hey. Why don’t I take you to the Roundtable Hold?” Blaidd lifted his head and raised his good eyebrow. “There’s a room that’s been… freed up recently, and nobody knows about it, so that ass Gideon won’t harass you about being in the Tarnished’s hold, in the unlikely event he goes sniffing about outside his library. There’s a bed, and a fire. We can find somewhere to hang up that obnoxious cloak of yours, and I’m sure I could even get Hewg to take a look at your sword. What do you say?”

Blaidd smiled. “I don’t really think I can turn you down there, Celwyn, if for the fire alone. I graciously accept your invitation. Although, I have to tell you, I don’t think I’m likely to fit the bed, if it’s made for one of your folk. I’m afraid you’ll have to enjoy that bit all by yourself.”

Celwyn blushed, thankful for the cover of night, and chuckled, shaking his head. He would have never thought Blaidd would be one to make such a suggestive comment, but then again he had never seen Blaidd quite like this. He was usually so serious, and hardly ever joked, even politely, but tonight he had answered the mage’s pestering with cheeky remarks of his own. The battle had worn him out and it seemed as though his capacity for congeniality and putting up with Celwyn’s smart-mouthed commentary had waned. Celwyn rose and took a couple steps towards Blaidd before kneeling. “Take my hand.”

Their greaved hands came together, gentle and firm beside the golden light of Grace, and they seemed to dissolve away into the night.

A golden glow swelled to a small flash in the room, and two figures appeared from the gold mist. Blaidd opened his eyes, and looked up in awe. He found himself in a large octagonal room, made of brick and tile, some ten yards across. There were tall stone archways collumned into four of the walls, plenty high enough for Blaidd to walk through without ducking his head. In the eight corners were eight pedestaled statues, solemn stone figures standing tall and loose, each tenderly grasping with both hands a pale gold blossom sprouting from the top of a stone sapling. In the center of the room stood the eponymous Roundtable, stout and wooden, with a dozen or so ancient greatswords driven into the center at an angle, their pommels pointing out towards the flowers like so many rusted fingers. Above the table drifted a glorious pillar of golden light, held aloft just like the remnant of Grace on the beach, though where that one was a mere filament, this one was an elegant spire, larger than a man, bright enough to illuminate the room, with delicate tendrils of flame-like golden light reaching like roots towards the swords below.

Blaidd’s sense of wonder diminished as he lowered his gaze, and saw the many chairs of the Roundtable, all of them empty and unused. They were strong-looking and elegantly carved, but several of them lay knocked over or broken. A cold and lonely silence fell upon the halls after the pair’s shimmering arrival, and now the only sound was the faint crackle of the hearth and the sparse, distant clangs of a hammer striking an anvil in some other room, not a soul in sight. “Where is everyone?” the knight asked.

Celwyn looked up at the pillar of light aloofly. “There’s not that many of us here. This place isn’t all it’s made out to be.” He began walking around the table and motioned for Blaidd to follow him. “Come. Let’s not wait around for someone to show up and ask why I’m bringing outsiders in here.” They walked together through one of the arches and crossed a large hallway. An old, gnarled blacksmith tapped away at a dagger down the hall and paid them no mind. Celwyn led Blaidd into a spacious bedchamber with a hearth of its own and various pieces of furniture scattered about. There were a couple of chairs, and a handful of trunks and cabinets, and a wooden room divider zigzagging near the fire. A large ornate rug spread out before the hearth, and to one side of it was a bed with a mattress large enough for two people to lie on. “Here we are,” Celwyn announced, turning to face his taller companion, gesturing lazily at the furnishings.

“Not bad at all,” Blaidd responded, unclasping his cloak and searching for a place to hang it. “Nice to have a roof and fire.” Celwyn tossed his cloak and robes on a small table, and leaned his sword and staff against a wall. He pulled out a chair and sighed as he sat down, and started on the buckles on his gauntlets, slipping an armored, clawed finger under one of the straps and tugging. While the mage shed his gauntlets and greaves, Blaidd draped his cloak on the accordion-like room divider, the massive garment reaching the floor on both sides. Celwyn saw the wolf’s tail for the first time. It was rather short, but its fur puffed out and made it fit his tall frame. Blaidd walked to the bed by the hearth and sat down, the sturdy wooden bed frame creaking. He let out a rumbling deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He reached for the buckles under his elbow and found it exceedingly difficult to open them. During the battle he had been forced to defend himself by striking at some of the meteors General Radahn had summoned and thrown at him. His sword was strong, and imbued with powerful magic, but the repeated mighty blows had sent rending shocks through his bones, and now his fingers were numb and clumsy. It was hard to even aim his wrists the way he wanted.

Celwyn removed the last of his armor and stretched back in his chair, pushing his hands on top of his knees and arching his back. He was clothed now in plain trousers and supple leather boots, a thin shirt hanging loosely on his chest. He looked across the room at Blaidd and nearly made a comment about the mattress he was crushing, but stopped when he heard a soft, low growl. Blaidd’s ears were pressed back in irritation as he fiddled with his armor to no avail. He closed his eyes with a sharp breath and flexed his stiff fingers, clenching and unclenching his fist. Ah, poor oaf. Celwyn stood. I reckon he’s earned some help tonight. He picked up his chair and brought it in front of the knight’s knees, setting it down almost between his legs. As he took a seat, Blaidd opened his eyes at him and grimaced still, squeezing one hand with the other. “Here. Let me.” Celwyn held out his hand, and after a pause Blaidd relinquished one arm, offering it to the smaller mage.

“...thanks, mate.” Blaidd relaxed his shoulder and let out a deep breath with his eyes closed as Celwyn started on straps on the inside of his arm. “My bloody fingers are numb. I was considering cutting through these damn straps with my claws. I’m glad you came over when you did, or I’d have had a hell of a time putting these bloody things on again.” He smiled softly. “Thank you, Celwyn.”

Celwyn could feel the half-wolf’s voice reverberating in his own chest, and it made his face go red. He had a strong voice, not quite raspy, with an almost metallic ring to it. A nervous smile forced its way onto Celwyn's face, and he kept his head turned toward Blaidd’s arm to hide it. “Yeah, yeah, you big sap.” He pulled the armor off of Blaidd’s forearm and the long leather glove off of his hand. The half-wolf flexed his bare hand and sighed in relief before offering the next arm over, eager to be free. “It’s no problem. Besides, I hardly had any armor to take off, right?” Blaidd huffed out a quiet laugh, and once both his hands were free he rubbed them together, and grabbed at his forearms, massaging the muscles. Celwyn rose and pushed his chair away, and stood beside the bed. Blaidd crouched down, presenting Celwyn with his right pauldron.

“I thought you looked small in that cloak, but now you look downright tiny. No wonder you’re always slinking around with your magic and tumbling around the battlefield.”

Celwyn let the pauldron fall to the floor and passed in front of the wolf on his way to the next shoulder. He tapped on his weighty breastplate and gave him a stern look. “Keep that up, and you can take this giant thing off yourself. I wasn’t the one slashing at rocks like some troll.” He loosened the straps on the remaining pauldron, but found it wouldn’t come off like its counterpart had. He struggled to pull it loose, but found it had been damaged too much and had become stuck to the knight’s cuirass. “Hm. Okay. We’re gonna have to get this thing off.”

“Sounds fine to me. I can’t wait to get out of this thing, to tell you the truth. It gets heavier than you could know after lugging it around day after day.”

Celwyn kicked off his boots and climbed up on bed and knelt behind Blaidd, finding a good place to start. “Yes Blaidd, you’re very strong. Such a burden you carry,” he said dryly.

“I really appreciate the help, Celwyn, but someday your luck’s going to run out with that tongue of yours. I’m quite fatigued, and my patience may be wearing thin. Don’t make me do anything… drastic, now,” Blaidd said with mirth.

Celwyn shook his head dismissively as he tugged at the straps. “Okay, Blaidd.” He was encountering some difficulty now, though. His own fingers trembled. His rosy cheeks had only gone hotter, and hearing Blaidd’s deep, powerful breaths from so close, less than a foot away, were making him nervous. They reminded him of the wolf’s size and strength, and made his chest flutter. The resonant breaths, and the rise and fall of his broad, furred shoulders painted an image of strength and masculinity to Celwyn, and it allured him. He couldn’t believe the thoughts running through his head. I should've felt those arms when I had the chance. Damn wolf and his damn muscles, and that damn voice of his. It’s almost like he knows what he’s doing to me. He pushed on and regained some control of his quivering hands, and loosened the plate armor, gently grabbing onto the wolf’s bicep and guiding him to lift up his arm. The contrast of the soft fur over Blaidd’s firm muscle was a delightful sensation, and Celwyn couldn’t help but stroke the fur with his thumb, and squeezed the arm gently before he slid his hand away. He grunted as he hefted the heavy plates up, and Blaidd helped him slide the armor off his left arm, pauldron included.

Celwyn was ready to go back about his business, but before the mage could get up he fell back on his hands and sat as the bed shifted. Blaidd reached down for his shirt with both hands and drew the lightly sweat-stained garment up and over his head, tugging it past his mane and loosing the long light fur to fall down over the back of his neck. He locked his fingers together and stretched upwards, curving his back and letting out a long, satisfied groan. His tail wagged a few times, brushing against Celwyn’s legs. “Bloody hell I’m beat. You know, I’m really glad you fought alongside me tonight, Celwyn. Those other poor souls at the festival didn’t do much besides distracting the general for a bit.” Celwyn stared with big eyes up at the vast wall of furred flesh in front of him, taut muscles spanning across the wolf’s long, broad back, a handful of pale scars marked here and there. Blaidd’s shoulders shifted and rippled the muscles between them bewitchingly. The half-wolf scratched at a spot below his armpit and rested his hands on his knees. In that moment Celwyn wanted nothing more than to embrace his companion and run his hands through the dark fur on his back, feeling the dense strength beneath. He could not remember the last time he had been so close to another man in such an intimate setting, or felt a nervousness this severe that did not precede combat. The fact that Blaidd had so casually stripped off his shirt made it near impossible for Celwyn to hide the emotion on his face. He was close enough to smell the wolf now, especially since he had taken his shirt off, and the scent was enticing. The dark musk of the sweat from the battle was accented with the aroma of earth and steel and leather, and dotted with the slightly vegetal tang of pine.

Gods… why’d I take this damn cheeky cur with me here? I’ll never hear the end of it if I turn into a bumbling fool the moment he bares his chest. Celwyn cleared his throat. “Ah, so we’ve progressed to compliments now? Am I going to have to tell that princess of yours that you’ve sworn your sword to someone else? Good luck trying to find someone else to take care of your smelly hide…”

“A simple ‘thanks’ would have been plenty, mate.” Blaidd rolled his eyes. He just doesn’t stop, does he? Bloody mages, all the same, too much wit than they know what to do with. Celwyn had not budged, and remained seated in the shadow of Blaidd’s huge back. He goes on and on with his rude little jests, yet here he is, doffing my armor like a squire. He acts almost like a young lad picking on the girl he fancies. Or… Blaidd grinned. “‘Swear my sword,’ heh, that’s rich.” He glanced over his shoulder and found a red-faced Celwyn smiling sheepishly, who shrunk a little in his shoulders and turned his eyes away. “Ahh, so you’re a blusher, eh? No hood to hide behind?” Blaidd wheezed and turned forward once more, his shoulders jolting with a giggle. “Alright Tarnished, I’ll hold off on the compliments for now. I had you figured for a nervous sort down deep, but this is… well, in any event, I can’t have you falling apart just yet. You’re not quite done with my armor.”

Celwyn brought his hands up and pressed them to his cheeks, dragging them down as he stared blankly at the wolf’s tail, trying to wipe the look of embarrassment from his face. Fuck, this is getting harder than I expected… Why does he do this to me? I’m starting to look silly. If I don’t pull it together, I’ll never be able to ridicule him again without him bringing this up. He shook his head a bit and took a breath before giving Blaidd a couple of hardy slaps on the back. “Okay, okay, whatever you say, you big dolt. Now stand up, let’s get the rest of this armor off so you can take care of yourself. You’re not a whelp anymore.”

Blaidd stood up, and Celwyn let himself down off the bed. He cleared his throat as he stood in front of the half-wolf, and was reminded again of his size. With the two of them upright, Celwyn barely stood higher than Blaidd’s hips. The wolf crossed his arms and yawned, and the mage began working on the straps on the inside of the thigh. His cheeks burned hotter than ever as his fingers continuously brushed against the heavy legs in front of him, and it was made all the more nerve-wracking by the presence of the half-wolf’s groin, nearly level with Celwyn’s face. It was nigh impossible to ignore the bulge that pushed at his leather pants. The laces at the top were loose, and a trail of light gray fur that spiked up to Blaidd’s navel was visible. Audaciously, the wolf grabbed at his groin and adjusted himself, nonchalantly scratching for a moment before crossing his arms again. Celwyn nearly froze, but tried his best to busy himself, and before long he had piled up Blaidd’s remaining armor beside the foot of the bed.

Blaidd groaned as he sat down once more, the bed frame creaking again beneath his weight. He scratched behind one of his ears, and picked at a patch of dried blood in the fur on his cheek. He hissed as his claw brushed against the fresh wound, still fresh and tender, and trickling blood. He muttered something, and lapped at his lip, keeping the blood from dripping down off his chin.

Celwyn looked at him with disapproval. “Stop that you mongrel.” He loosened the laces on his shirt. He felt ablaze next to the hearth.

“What? It’s natural.”

“It’s bloody filthy and repulsive is what it is. Just wait a moment.” He walked over to his bunched up robes and produced a flask of water and a small scrap of cloth. He wetted the rag and took a drink as he walked back to Blaidd, standing between the wolf’s long outstretched legs, boots planted on the floor and knees standing taller than the mattress. He leaned back on the heels of his hands and craned his neck down, staring intently at the smaller human.

“Not a whelp, eh?”

“Quiet.” Celwyn offered the flask over and Blaidd took a big gulp. He closed his eyes as Celwyn reached up at his injured face, dabbing gently at the fur and loosening pieces of dried blood and sand. Celwyn leaned forward and placed a hand on Blaidd’s shoulder, and heard the sound of a tail wagging against bed sheets, but it ceased abruptly, as if it were suddenly made to stop. Celwyn smiled to himself and stroked his thumb down one of the wolf’s sore muscles before keeping his hand still again and focusing on his task. Along the right side of his muzzle were many small cuts, and a few larger lacerations cut sideways on his cheek, not far below his good eye. Celwyn could not clean the blood away as fast the thick fur could soak it up, but at least he could wipe away the excess, not to mention the dirt and sand. He tossed the dirty rag, almost completely soiled, on the floor, and went to grab a few more things. When he returned he applied a thin poultice, and placed small, sticky bandages across a couple of the largest cuts. “These will hurt when you take them off. Probably going to lose some fur. But they’ll help with the bleeding, and they’ll heal faster.”

Blaidd rubbed carefully at the small dressings, and looked at Celwyn. “Thanks, but, ah, couldn’t you have made that a little easier? I mean, don’t you know any healing spells?”

Celwyn shrugged. “I don’t really know that many, to be honest. I mostly practice sorcery. I do know one minor incantation, but I don’t know that it would do much for us at this point. Besides, the bandages might keep you from growing some more scars. You’ve enough on the other side of your face.”

Blaidd thought for a moment. “Well, could I see it anyway?”

“Well, sure, if you like.” Celwyn stepped closer between the wolf’s legs and raised his hand up to chest height, and turned his palm upwards, fingers curled limply. The sacred seal with which he practiced incantations had no physical form. Instead, Celwyn’s hand glowed with a warm yellow light as he thought of the incantation. He was interrupted before he could perform it as Blaidd grabbed at his legs, scooping up the mage by his thighs and setting him in his lap, knees on either side of the wolf’s hips. Celwyn gasped and looked up at Blaidd’s eyes, and for the first time noticed that the pale blue eyes had the slightest tinge of violet to them, glowing almost lavender in the firelight. Facing the half-wolf this close would have been unnerving to most, scary even. His great hound-like face and the two sharp fangs protruding from his jaw implied a violent potential. The wide, ugly scar on his left side left a large strip of his cheek without fur, and the mark stretched up past his eye, leaving it with a perpetually dour squint. Many pink scars continued down his throat, and on his right side, beneath his fresh bandages, several tufts of fur still shined wet in the light, soaked scarlet instead of gray. But to Celwyn the scars told not the story of some battered beast, but the tale of a brave knight, a valiant and unendingly loyal companion, a fierce and true friend. A small but warm smile spread across Blaidd’s muzzle as he slid his big hands up, resting one on the human’s rear and another behind his lower back, and he nodded at him. Celwyn closed his eyes and made a fist, and lowered his head to his hand and focused. Blaidd placed his long chin on the human’s head and wrapped his arms around him, fully embracing his smaller companion with tender strength. He’s so strong, but so gentle. And he smells so good. And his fur is so soft, and cool… The light in Celwyn’s palm grew, and surged to a flash. A small golden circle appeared around them like an impossibly thin disk of glass, and golden light glowed brilliantly between the warriors’ chests. It cast tall shadows on the walls and filled the room with scintillating rays as the disk shattered into dust, releasing magic into their hearts.

The pair sighed deeply together, feeling the golden waves of the incantation wash over their bodies. It was like every sore muscle was massaged lightly at the same time. Every ache dulled. Their warm embrace felt deeper and more intimate as the incantation pulsed. The sensations of Blaidd’s fur and his strong hold on Celwyn’s back were made more intense, and Celwyn gasped as he fell forward and returned the embrace, burying his face in the wolf’s chest and grabbing tightly around Blaidd’s back as far as he could reach, running his hands through his thick fur. In turn, Blaidd cradled his companion closer, hugging tightly. Celwyn felt an overwhelming fluttering in his chest and breathed out shakily, his eyes almost tearing up with alleviating comfort. He could not help himself when he ground his hips into the wolf. Blaidd pushed at the small of Celwyn’s back and helped him slowly rock into him. The two swayed there for a moment, holding each other fast as the light faded, and again the warm glow of the fire was left to light the room in hues of orange.

Celwyn grabbed a fistful of fur and tried grinding harder, but the half-wolf growled and grabbed tightly at the human’s hips, his hands closing fully around the circumference of Celwyn’s waist. He pulled Celwyn back and roughly guided his ass to his own member, swelling with passion beneath his pants. He gently bucked his hips as he effortlessly lifted his friend, bringing him down harder and harder, squeezing the mage’s hips as he impulsively snarled. Celwyn’s grasp loosened, and his arms fell limp at his sides. Blaidd stopped suddenly, opening his eyes and raising his ears. Goodness, I’ve frightened the poor sod. I just couldn’t control myself, I haven’t been this close to somebody in so long… I hope he forgives me…

When Blaidd pulled away from his friend he expected to find him petrified, but instead found Celwyn hanging delicately in his arms, eyes closed in bliss, not fear, panting softly, an uncontainable smile stretched across his crimson cheeks. He opened his eyes and peered at the surprised wolf, and lifted his weak arms, gingerly fingering at the fur on his ribs. “Blaidd…”

Blaidd’s cheeks burned under his fur, and he brought a hand to Celwyn’s head, cradling it and pulling it to the side. He dropped his muzzle down to the human’s neck and sniffed at his shirt, breathing in the manly, faintly spicy scent. He let his tongue slink beneath the frayed collar, and lapped tentatively at Celwyn’s chest and neck. Celwyn moaned as Blaidd held the side of his face, and he nestled his head into the heavy palm. Blaidd dragged his tongue up Celwyn’s neck as he nuzzled his friend with his furred cheek, and slid his other hand beneath the thin shirt, drawing his hand up the human’s back. Celwyn gasped at every new touch. Blaidd let a prominent fang scrape against his friend’s jaw as he sniffed at his hair, the mighty breaths sending tremors down Celwyn’s spine. Blaidd hugged Celwyn tightly, gently pressing his head to his chest. Celwyn drank in the dark musk, the smell of sweat and skin and fur filling his lungs and nearly making him lightheaded. Blaidd reached both hands under the mage’s shirt and carefully dragged his claws across his back, etching thin pink lines across his shoulders. Celwyn shuddered and gripped at the half-wolf’s fur as he scratched away, slowly pulling his clawed fingers up and down, all around his back. Blaidd hastily pulled Celwyn’s shirt up, ripping it over his head and discarding it. Once again Blaidd started pushing his hips up. He grabbed a fistful of Celwyn’s hair and pulled his head aside, licking gently at the side of his sensitive neck as he scratched and bucked away. Celwyn groaned as he felt the wolf’s girth swelling below him. The licks, the scratches, the muscles flexing beneath his hands, the fur brushing on his bare skin, the stiffening cock pushing up against him, it was too much. He could not handle so much stimulation. “Blaidd, I-I… I need just a moment, please, I’m sorry…”

Blaidd slowed his rocking, and pulled his mouth away, looking down at the helpless, trembling thing in his hands. “Oh, um, of course, mate.” He lifted Celwyn and set him down gently on the floor in front of him.

Celwyn fell to his back on the rug and covered his face with his arm, and stifled a giggle. He tried to regain his breath, his heart beating faster than it had at the festival. I… I can’t believe what’s happening. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way. I’ve bloody melted right before him.

Blaidd panted, and took a moment to calm down himself. He stretched his legs out a bit, and let his boots rest on the floor on either side of Celwyn’s shoulders. Blaidd cleared his throat and scratched nervously at his ear. “I ah, um, hope I’ve not been too… brazen.”

“Oh, um, no,” Celwyn replied between breaths. “No, not at all.” He breathed deeply, and let out a laugh. “Well, you know, maybe just a little. Just brazen enough, I think.” He propped himself on his elbows and looked at the wolf, who smiled shyly. “You’re fine, is what I mean to say. I’m just, well I’m quite out of breath, to be frank.”

Blaidd adjusted himself and reached down for the flask of water. “I can see that. No worries, mate.” He handed the flask to Celwyn, who gladly took a drink before handing it back. “Thank you, Celwyn. For ah, helping me with my armor. And the bandages, and all that.” He took a few sips, and tried to calm his own nervous breaths.

Celwyn smiled, taken with this shyer side of the wolf he had never seen. “Why, of course, Blaidd. You just, looked so helpless, fumbling with your straps. It was my pleasure, really.” He glanced over at one the strong legs planted beside him. His boots went only to his ankle, but there were thick leather gaiters that covered the joint and ran almost to his knees, laces laddering up each side. “Guess I missed these, eh?” Celwyn sat up and lifted one of Blaidd’s heavy legs and placed it between his own. He brought both his hands up and untied the knots, and began loosening the cords, working slowly down the many eyelets.

“Oh, ah, you don’t have to, really. But, if you don’t mind, I suppose…” The thought of someone else taking his boots off made his chest flutter a bit, and he leaned back on his hands. It seemed an oddly intimate act to him, treatment he certainly had not been expecting at the start of the night, but he could hardly refuse. He was beginning to find the boots stifling, and the gaiters were holding his fur down too tight, and he did not want Celwyn to stop touching him. Every touch was careful and considerate, gentle, maybe even affectionate. Blaidd watched as the mage tugged at the laces near his ankle, and he motioned for the wolf to raise his leg. He lifted it, and with some effort Celwyn pulled the boot off, and slid the loosened gaiters down off the wolf. Blaidd’s paw was freed, and he rested it on the rug, nestling it against Celwyn’s thigh. Blaidd did not like the restricting sensation of his claws catching on more traditional socks, so the ones he wore were essentially thick, woolen sleeves that came down from his calves and ended over his soles, leaving his pads exposed. Celwyn squeezed at the plushy garment and slid his hand over the top of the wolf’s strong paw, letting his fingers drift down past the hem and onto the exposed fur, running his fingers over Blaidd’s toes. He brought the next leg in front of him, and picked at the laces. Celwyn removed the rest of Blaidd’s leathers and laid them together with his other things. Free of his restricting legguards, Blaidd stretched out his legs and paws. He splayed out his toes and let the cool air run through them, and rested his heavy paws in Celwyn’s lap. “Celwyn, could you ah, would you mind…”

“Would I mind what?” Celwyn’s smirked, and his nervousness was renewed by the heat radiating off the huge paws in his lap, and their weight, and the warm musk that wafted up, smelling of leather and fur and paw pads.

“Taking these off for me, too?” He pushed his pads onto Celwyn’s bare chest and rubbed his black socks together. “They leave my fur feeling all crooked when they’ve been on too long.”

Celwyn scratched his head. “Well, fair enough, I guess.” His cheeks flushed as the wolf pushed his paws onto his chest, grabbing with his toes and barely letting his claws poke in. He dropped a socked paw to Celwyn’s hand and pushed and rubbed at it, eager to be stripped. Celwyn reached up and slipped his fingers underneath the dark sleeve. He slid it down, letting the soft fabric bunch up in his hands as he scratched his fingertips down the muscled leg. He pulled the other sock off likewise, and let Blaidd’s paws rest in his lap once more. He grabbed at the furred ankles and pushed his hands up his shins, ruffling the flattened fur, and scratched at his calves on the way down. Blaidd threw his head back and whined. His tail wagged as Celwyn scratched at his itchy skin and fixed his unkempt fur.

Celwyn reveled as he massaged Blaidd’s legs, smiling up at the contented wolf. Up and down he ran his hands, relieving the compressed fur on his legs and ankles. It teased him how Blaidd’s paws pushed and flexed with pleasure, the warm pads and soft fur caressing his thighs and pressing down on his bulge, which had not stopped throbbing since he started untying the wolf’s laces.

Blaidd’s body was bare now, save for the supple leather trousers that stretched past his knees, and it was hard for him not to feel vulnerable. Rarely did the wolf ever let his guard down, but with each careful stroke from the mage, who kneaded now at the wolf’s aching soles, a soothing sense of calm washed over him. His shoulders sagged. Celwyn rubbed knots outs from his soles, and pushed delicately yet deliberately at his pads and toes, squeezing the tender flesh. Each time he gripped at the large paws, waves of pleasure seemed to slowly roll up Blaidd’s body. Blaidd cooed and hummed and rumbled, his eyes closed in ecstasy. His toes stretched and flexed in the mage’s small hands, playfully grabbing back.

Blaidd did not understand how such simple, small motions could put his whole body at ease. They began to put his mind at ease as well, though some thoughts still floated around. There’s not even been a new moon since I met Celwyn, yet here he is, touching me as no other friend has. He peered down at the mage, who stared at the paws in his hands with adoration, and took a moment to really observe the human. Never before today had he seen the mage without his hood, and now he sat before the wolf, at his paws, half naked. He admired the human’s tired locks of hair, and his eyes, softened from their usual sullen disposition. Under his hood, and his grim and sardonic facade, he seemed now a precious thing to Blaidd. The wolf leaned forward, arms crossed on his legs, and watched. Celwyn looked up and smiled sweetly, his shy eyes still darting away. Blaidd raised a leg and pressed his wide paw pads into Celwyn’s shoulder, stroking at his cheek with a toe. Celwyn chuckled, and nuzzled back into the paw before returning his eyes to Blaidd. He is a rather handsome thing, isn’t he? For a mage, at least. And he’s got his hands all over an old hound like me? He scratched at the old scar on his cheek. He looked at me the same way most do when I met him at the ruins, like some beast, but I do suppose we’ve grown rather close since then. Closer than I’ve felt to any of the Tarnished. Closer than I’ve felt to most people for a long time, save for Ranni and Iji. Blaidd raised his paw to Celwyn’s chin and wiggled his toes against it. Celwyn grinned and closed his eyes, and Blaidd smiled.

Daring, Celwyn lifted the paw higher, and pushed his face into it, planting a kiss on the pads and rubbing it still. He could not help himself. The warm smell had been teasing him since the Blaidd’s paws had come into his lap, and he wanted to feel the soft pads with his lips. Blaidd watched in surprise as Celwyn caressed his paw with his face and lightly kissed it all over. He felt tiny cool gusts on his pads and toes, and brought his other paw to Celwyn’s face, eliciting a faint whimper. Blaidd smirked and stifled a laugh, simply letting out a satisfied hm. He pushed gently at his friend, sliding his soles over his mouth and nose and brow. He even likes my smell. His cock pulsed, and it delighted him to know that Celwyn relished in everything he had to offer. He rubbed at himself, and looked lustfully at the slowly writhing figure before him. I’m likely to kill the poor thing with this, eh? If he doesn’t bloody faint when I take it out. He frowned as he pondered the impracticality of what he craved.

Celwyn peeked at Blaidd after several moments lost in bliss, and found the wolf looking glumly, staring off at the corner of the rug. He set the heavy paws down in his lap. “Is something wrong?”

Blaidd seemed to come to his senses, and smiled mischievously. “It’s nothing. Come here.” Effortlessly he swept Celwyn back into his lap, and the mage smiled back, stroking at the wolf’s muscled belly. Blaidd leaned down and sniffed at Celwyn. “You smell.”

“You smell.”

Blaidd laughed. “Fair enough, though I must say, I haven’t met many humans that appreciate their noses as much as they should.”

“Well… what can I say. I just like the way you smell. I like a lot about you, to be quite sincere. Despite my coarse words.”

“You don’t say?” Blaidd replied, and he grabbed at Celwyn’s hips, grinding up into him. The mage whined softly, and grabbed at the large bulge, stroking it. Blaidd growled softly as he pushed the human down onto himself, but slowed down to a halt. “I’m inclined to believe you, but… I think maybe it’s time for us to get some rest. I’ll still be here with you in the morning, Celwyn.”

Celwyn looked at the wolf and frowned slightly. “Well, what do we do about this?” He grabbed at the great bulge beneath him, and ran his fingers up its length, nearly the size of his forearm.

Blaidd chuckled and stared down at the mage seductively. “Well, clearly you’re no stranger to staffs, but I don’t know if you’re quite ready to handle one like this. It gets bigger, you know. It’d be a pitiful way to go after such a victory tonight, eh?”

Celwyn’s spine tingled again as the wolf’s deep voice rumbled in his chest. He wanted to challenge Blaidd, but the longer he thought, the more he reluctantly agreed. He noticed once more the fresh bandages on Blaidd’s face, and now felt his own fatigued body. He did not want this night to end with Blaidd nursing him back to health, or the wolf falling into a coma. He pouted, and stroked longingly at the wolf’s length. “Rest… would be nice, I suppose.”

“Alright then. Come on.” Blaidd sat the mage on the bed, and stood up. He walked across the room and grabbed up his cloak, then laid it down on the floor several feet from the fire. It made a great pad upon the rug, and Blaidd lied down upon it, motioning for Celwyn to join him. When he did, the wolf wrapped both his arms around him, and cupped his body up to Celwyn’s back. The mage cooed, and Blaidd’s tail thumped on the rug contently. “Thank you, Celwyn. For everything.”

Celwyn smiled and pushed back into Blaidd’s arms. Between the wolf and the cloak he was almost entirely enveloped in fur, and he had never felt more comfortable. Still, a passion burned inside him, and it was impossible to ignore Blaidd'signore Blaidd's bulge. He pressed his rear into it as he cuddled into the wolf, and moved his hips around slowly.

Before long, Blaidd could not ignore the repetitive motion. He put his muzzle up to the mage’s cheek and licked at it, and whispered in his ear, “let’s get you to bed, eh?” He slipped his hands into Celwyn’s pants and began sliding them down, licking at the mage’s neck. He gyrated into the mage as he slowly removed both Celwyn’s pants and his own. Blaidd pushed Celwyn to his back and lifted the human’s legs, sitting behind them. He let his member lay against the mage’s soft rump and pulled off his socks. Celwyn was putty. Feeling the warmth and heft of Blaidd’s bare cock on his skin was enough to make him pant. Blaidd grabbed at both the human’s ankles and held the legs together as he pushed forward, nearly folding him half. Blaidd reached between Celwyn’s thighs and grabbed his cock, pulling it out from between his legs. Celwyn gasped. The wolf began slowly stroking its length, and soon after started lapping at the vulnerable soles in front of him. Celwyn whined, and panted, and gripped tightly at the vast cloak underneath him, his knuckles turning pale. Blaidd started slow, but gradually intensified his pace, and continued licking at Celwyn’s bare soles, dragging his taste buds over the sensitive skin, his tongue feeling around under Celwyn’s toes and up the sides of his ankles. Celwyn was overwhelmed, and before he knew what was happening, the tension he had felt all night finally broke. He convulsed, and a moan escaped him, and he painted his legs with his seed. He whined and thrashed as the wolf continued stroking away, his hand now slick. After a moment, Blaidd relinquished, and let the mage’s legs fall back down.

Celwyn’s heart throbbed in his ears. Everything past Blaidd seemed faint and fuzzy. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. “I’m, I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s been a while–” Before he could catch his breath, he felt a strong hand on his chest, and Blaidd’s lips touched down into his own. There was strength behind the kiss, but Blaidd was gentle. The tip of his tongue barely came out to meet Celwyn’s, and he tenderly kissed at Celwyn’s lips and cheeks. Celwyn wanted to push back into the kiss, but he felt weak, and lied there, and wanted anything the wolf would give him. Blaidd planted a kiss on his forehead and pulled away, and Celwyn longed for him to come back, but when he opened his eyes and saw Blaidd’s own eyes twinkling in the firelight and looking at him softly, he could ask for no more. Blaidd rose and fetched Celwyn’s cloak, and found a shirt to clean up Celwyn’s mess with. He carefully pulled Celwyn back into an embrace, and settled them down comfortably in the cloak.

Blaidd pulled Celwyn’s cloak over himself. It was much too small and must have looked absurd draped over his large body, but it was better than nothing, and kept him warm enough along with the fire and Celwyn in front of him. He stared half-lidded at the crackling hearth, and felt a deep sense of ease in his chest. He took long breaths, and his chest felt heavy. He slowly caressed his hand over Celwyn’s chest and belly. The mage made a happy noise, and murmured, “good… goodnight, Blaidd,” and quickly drifted off.

Blaidd waited there, stroking at Celwyn’s body until he heard his breaths go soft and rhythmic. He laid his hand on Celwyn’s. Blaidd closed his eyes and nestled his chin into Celwyn’s head, and hummed happily and quietly, and whispered, “goodnight, my Celwyn.”

#fanfic #elden ring #m/m #m/m smut #m/m fanfic #fantasy #gaming #blaidd the half wolf #blaidd x tarnished #gay #wolf #tension #relationship #friends

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sanctumofeld · 1 year

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The Price of Freedom

I subjected @spellbladerogier to this, now I'm subjecting all of you to the pain of Wolfgang's 'True Ending'.

Read more for length:

Wolfgang does not know he is the son of two gods: Mekauros, God of Whispers, Secrets, Creatures of the Night, and Spiders; Yris, Goddess of Rivers, Rain, Medicine, and Dance. He does not know he is an Empyrean. The first time he goes to take the Elden Ring, under a promise he made to a young lady in desperation, he walks beside the first Elden Lord. He does not tell him of the oath, does not strain his already heavy shoulders with questions, but fights beside him…

He must sacrifice the girl, the young lady, at the pinnacle of flame, and is held back only by the Lord he followed. The one he loved. They go to defeat death, then an old friend, and then – His son, driven to madness over the ash they unleashed upon the capital. Over the great, golden tree that is roaring with great, devouring flames. In the end, they both perish, and it is only Wolfgang… He ushers in an Age of Dusk, in remembrance of his lover.

But no – no, this is not how the story ends!

He will not let it end here. He takes the rings, enacts the Law of Regression.

The clock turns back.

Reverses.

Start again.

Over and over.

The journey changes, the ending shaped each time by his choices, but they are always wrong. Not enough. For the bright and vibrant, aggrieved spellblade; for the mistress of the golden son, lying in her own deathbed; for the General with his lion’s red mane and the stars at his behest; the man who would never be allowed to be anything but a boy and the sister who adored him enough to rot away; the mother of the moon, last Queen of her name; the serpent family but more doting and loving than any other.

The dreaming, moon-adoring doll, the half-wolf who loved her; two brothers forever separated by the tale their house told in blood. The Warrior Jar so bombastic, his enthusiasm unquenchable, spreading then to a vibrant lad, so much smaller and fragile. The sorceress and her hunter, her guile and his honor, their intelligence and stubbornness matched.

The blacksmith at his post, abandoned by all, shackled by a duty no heart should bear. The spirit tuner who stayed by his side, golden haired, and timid, save for the souls in her care. The old man, devoted to his books, scouring for every scrap of knowledge and wisdom that could be seen and heard. The merchant, sitting by his fire, always ready to share his meager belongings as if they were not all he had. The old finger reader, steadfast in her belief, but knowing – and telling – him to follow his own path.

The maiden who handed him a golden ring, who turned his runes to strength, who would turn her own body to ash in offering, because she believed him worthy.

How can he be worthy when they are all gone?

Or… is this all he is worthy of? The cold stone of their graves?

This is not what he chose.

Over and over.

In another life, he finds his hands enshrouded in great paws, with a head of horns brushing his cheeks and jaws. He loathes the scars, the furrows left in his face, but caresses his ivory crown of jagged spires. His shame. And yet, Wolfgang loves him all the more for them. Is this a betrayal of his Lord? No, he has not seen him, nor met him, in this life. He carries the weight of hundreds, now thousands, and he will not fail again –

But fail he does.

And those hands leave him once again.

Through every life he is hunted, by the friends he couldn’t save, the two lovers he abandoned. Their voices follow him through the Mistwood, over the rivers, into the canyons. Sometimes, they whisper in entreating tones, and other times they roar, they hiss and coil. He can feel Serosh’s talons around his throat, Godfrey’s fingers in his hair, Morgott’s nails trailing over his ribs. Roderika’s palm in his, Hewg’s scales brushing his knuckles, Rogier’s warmth pressed to his flank. Diallos’s head in his lap, Blaidd’s shoulders upon his chest, Alexander’s stone and earth hewn grip on his wrist –

They were beside him, assuring him, and then tearing him apart. He cannot remember if he killed them or not – divining out some answer from their blood – no, no, he would never! Had… never… The roots that ensnared Rogier tighten in his lungs, rooting deep in the marrow between his limbs. Or… were they the lives in which they clung to him? Their weight, their breaths, their souls embrace him. Suffocating him. Roderika looks at him strangely now. He hasn’t found it yet, hasn’t discerned what it is, what stops the world, and allows it to twist on without –

He kills. And he kills. He touches Roderika’s hands with the same that murdered her husband – Kale – now nothing more than a bell he hands to the Twin Husks. Was this Melina’s fate? She regards him with weariness as well. The descent, the call, he can feel the flicker better than he can see it. Fire. A burning, grasping, hungry flame that writhes and yet whispers in hushed tones. Perhaps… That is the key?

He knows the descent. He assured Melina once, long ago, that he would never make it again. He broke the vow that day. But he will not the one he made to her:

“To the foot of the Erdtree.”

To the foot of the hell where they buried Kale’s people, where their song summoned something twisted and ancient, curled up in the darkness, but never lost to it. They should have known. He hits the bottom, the rubble whirling around his ankles, and his hands reach for the clasps of his gauntlets. Further, up along his breastplate, leaving a stream of armor from the drop to the mouth of the door.

The cardinal sin flays his arms, his chest, and something deep, deep in the darkened depths of his soul screams. He awakens with the fire, Frenzied and stinging, emblazed on his body. The world burns.

Melina keeps her promise.

But her eyes are different, milky and dusk laden, dripping over his face. His fingers twitch.

One more.

One last time.

The flame is snuffed, his fractured body mended, the runes abandoning him – whisking back to their bearers.

He knows he must wear a different face for this. The Black Knife armor serves its purpose, of an assassin, of a thief in the night. He will be the villain of this play. And all the while, in the form of an Exile, he will give the players their lines, and move the pieces across the board. They don’t know it’s him, none of them do, their memories sealed by time and the passage of ages. Not till the very end, when the outcast in a maroon shawl, hiding his face becomes the dark armored killer before their eyes. But he has what he needs, every rune that could mend: Death, Order, Curse, Moonlight, and then, and only then, is his born.

At the foot of the Erdtree.

He brings them all together, letting them carve their way into his flesh, rippling through his muscles.

But Freedom does not come without sacrifice.

“Is something wrong, my love?” Rogier blinked. He had… What had he been saying?

“Don’t!” His throat still ached with the force of it, pushing out between bloodied teeth, sticking to his tongue. Strange, the last time he’d said that with such vehemence had been when D had left him. Rogier swallowed away the word, the implication, the weight that plummeted into his stomach.

“No, no, nothing. I just…” What could he say?

“Feel like you’ve forgotten something?” Rogier blinked again, taken aback, but his lover didn’t seem the least bit surprised.

“How did you know?” Diallos gave a shrug, though there was something somber to the motion, to the lilt of his smooth lips.

“I… well, to be honest, I’ve been feeling that way too lately, but… I can never place what it is I’ve forgotten.”

Diallos and Rogier owned a florist and dress shop on the east side of Leyendell, across from Kale’s store that sold general goods for adventurers from boluses to arrows, and darts and healing potions, supplied by the ever resourceful and adept Blaidd. He made good money, what with his wife, Roderika – now carrying their fifth child! – being a spirit tuner, and her adoptive father being the best carpenter in all the Lands Between.

Blaidd married the Lunar Princess just four years ago, and they were expecting their fourth child, just behind the triplets. The eldest was just like his father, always ready for a bout but sweet-tempered to a fault, while the daughters were as vibrantly crimson haired as their mother and just as mischievous to their Grandfather Iji.

The wedding had been quite the spectacle, with Pastor Miriel overseeing the proceedings, and the entire Carian royal family in attendance, along with a few… special guests. Radahn had sung for his little sister, a touching ballad that was equal parts a roasting and a tune of adoration. Ranni had cried laughing and then just cried, before being embraced by her brother. He had assured her that every child would have their own stalwart steeds straight from his stables when they were old enough to ride. Rykard, although wheelchair bound, had made the journey from Mount Gelmir with a massive retinue, and was quoted as having been “quite thankful”, that his sister was finally going to give him nieces and nephews to dote upon, as equally as she had young Rya, his eldest daughter. Blaidd’s entire body had puffed at the implication, and Lady Ranni was struck enough to flush herself.

He had, of course, given his own gifts in splendorous fabrics and baby clothes.

Queen Rennala had apparently given him playful chastisement for his choice of words, but did admit she looked forward to more grandchildren.

King Morgott the Graceful had arrived shortly after the proceedings had begun, making a silent entrance, but formally apologized for being late to the bride and groom. The nobility had been giving him awful headaches, but he had said he wasn’t missing it for the world. He gave an enchanted cloak, embroidered with lace from Limgrave, and a few children’s toys from the makers of Leyendell. Amongst the more unusual guests were found Miquella and Malenia, the former of which had gifted gowns tailored for Ranni made by his own hand, and a music box with the most splendid, charming tune. Malenia had, of course, gifted a blade to Blaidd, and assured him that his pups could study under her when they were ready. That, of course, sent General Radahn into a fit. Any child of Carian blood would be studying the sword under him! It turned into a boasting competition which continued well into the evening.

Further down the road, an explosion burst forth from a brightly colored fireplace, spouting a myriad of powders and dust into the air in a cacophony of colors. The blast was so powerful, it actually dislodged his feet from the road. Everyone rushed from their shops, observing the commotion, but more than a few turned back to their homes or businesses, and shook their heads. Lady Sellen had been experimenting again. Her husband, Jerren, standing on the front stoop, groaned and rushed inside to roar: “at least take it onto the porch, woman!” And there went another shouting match.

Their second born, a four-year-old girl named Capella, walked out, and looked both ways. Rogier doubled over, clasping Diallos’s shoulder, who also broke into a fit of laughter. Her usually dark hair was blown around her head like a sunflower, bearing more colors than any rainbow he’d ever witnessed, and her entire front was splattered much the same. He walked over with his husband, patting it down for her, covering their hands in the colorful powder. Sirius, their son of six years, finally appeared, but was no worse for wear. In fact, he was dressed well in linen shorts and shirt, with his leather satchel bag thrown over his shoulder. He patted his sister, who still looked rather frazzled. Jerren finally came out to collect his daughter, shaking his head, and thanked them.

“Tell Sir Kale I’ll be needing a new stove. Again.” He gave a nod to Sirius. “Be home before ten, aye?”

“Aye, father.” The lad scurried into the street in time to catch a gaggle of other boys, shouting and carrying armfuls of food, towards the Roundtable Hold. Rogier paused, turning to watch them, and smiled.

“Reminiscing, my love?” Rogier gave a low nod, linking his arm with Diallos.

“Yes, I suppose I am.” The Roundtable was no longer necessary in their age of peace, yet Gideon Ofnir maintained his vigil as its leader. However, these days, he worked more on training new incanters and sorcerers, archiving their great works, and acting as a sort of librarian. Some days though, just some, he indulged the local children with legends, using his magics to let the children fling themselves into mock bouts with legendary foes of old. Turned out, the old bastard was actually very good with young ones, and an even better storyteller. It was quite the spectacle he'd heard, though he’d not managed to catch a showing himself.

Rogier turned his head, spying –

A flame, dancing on the edge of a cauldron. What?

Melina waved back to him, his own hand in mid-air. Her light, odd locks bounced as she strode, wavering in the breeze. She’d be going to the Roundtable Hold too then, reading her books in some cloister, laughing as Sir Gideon did his tricks and dazzled the children. Had she been taking lessons from him too?

“Excuse us!” Diallos cut under a load of stones, hoisted by a great Omen in thick, cotton britches, and a red wool sweater. He gave a gruff snort, shaking his head, and continued on his way towards the opposite end of town.

“Poor man, do you think he needs some help?” Diallos shook his head.

“I think he’d be more annoyed if we made him stop to put it down. Having carried a few heavy loads myself, I’m usually not in the mood to set it aside before its reached its destination.” Rogier gave a laugh then a nod. Besides, he didn’t seem to be having too much trouble with it and made it safe and sound to the outer embankment from what he could see. Were they still repairing that wall? It felt like it had been damaged for ages.

Wait – Still?

The world tunneled, then twisted, sloping into a series of gold and grey, a murky image of a shadow dragging across the buildings. His heels and feet slid at the same time, to the side rather than forward, an itching building into his ankles that erupted up into his knees. He could feel it, twisting. Writhing. Straight towards the center of his chest. But it was the darkness, the jagged splinter of stone that wasn’t stone, the skeleton and the body that jutted forth from his memory. Or was it a dream? What was –

“Rogier?” He shook his head.

“Yes, my love?” He just managed to bite back the quiver in his voice.

“Juno will be coming to dinner. He’s been gone so long, having had to guard that caravan from the north, but he’ll be back this evening! He sent word ahead. Apparently, the merchants gave him a bottle of spirits for his services, a special vintage from the Land of Reeds.” Diallos spoke in such warm tones, guiding his steps on a road he couldn’t have walked more than… ten? No, a thousand times. It must have been. “I’m told it would go well with a side of fish. What say you? I’m sure Lord – I mean, Sir Loux,” Rogier was fairly certain he wouldn’t like being called ‘sir’ either, or that ‘Loux’ was necessarily his last name in that sense, “is still open for business.”

“Yes, yes, quite right. I’ll go pick something up.” Diallos beamed at him, leaving his side at the crossroads, the imprint of his hand on Rogier’s sleeve in… red.

“The tale of House Hoslow is told in blood.” When had he first heard those words?

Rogier made the journey towards the entrance of the city, strides heavier, lighter, treading beneath a shadow, and then not. He was certain it was just the glare of the sun, the speckles behind his eyes, but the brim of his hat was too wide for such nonsense. His fingers, stained in blue and white and black, gripped tight to his forearm over the residual warmth Diallos had left through his sleeve.

Merri? Hadn’t Merri mentioned something about the Land of Reeds? Yes, she’d wanted to go, make a boat, and sail but –

Why hadn’t she? She wasn’t a young woman to be trapped, harnessed by either the wind or sea, but… She remained, still, in the Lands Between. He’d seen her, more than once, bothering her father, asking him about the world beyond. And yet, she had not gone to see it herself. Rogier caught her, sinking her toes in the dirt, squeezing them between the grains, biting her lip, and staring at the horizon. Why was she frozen?

Lord Godfrey, the first Elden Lord, had taken up his old moniker: Hoarah Loux. He lived by the sea, in a quiet, one room shack, nestled in a cloister of trees. It was said that King Morgott visited him often, no doubt asking advice on how best to rule the city, but… There were other stories, of something else shifting in the shadows to visit him. Someone else. But they were never seen. Always gone by daylight. No one bothered to figure out who it was, if it was indeed anyone. In their age of peace, there was no reason to spread cruel gossip of treason or coup d’etat.

The beast regent, Serosh, was his only companion these days, never straying from his side or the mantle of his shoulders. Rogier approached slowly along the beach, following the rocks down. He could see his back, the muscles roving as he reached deep into the surf, dragging a net up into his massive arms.

“M – “No, he was a Lord no longer. And yet, even as he turned his head, water glistening off his heavy, scarred brow, and over his wild silver hair, he thought he could see the glint just above his eyes of a band of silver and gold.

“Hoarah Loux! I come seeking salmon!” He did not smile, exactly, but there was the ghost of a smirk on his features. He dragged himself up from the shallows, hauling in his catch behind him, before swinging it over one great shoulder.

“Thou art in luck then, young spellblade!” Rogier hopped down a set of deep rooted rocks, dancing on the balls of his feet all the way to the shack, where the great Serosh laid out in the sun on a series of raised scaffolding. Godfrey bent down, reaching inside the mound of fish, and flicked his wrist to send one over to the lion. He caught it in his mouth without even opening his eyes, his great maw crunching down on all the little bones, swallowing the morsel whole. Rogier doubted that was much more than a small snack.

“I think two shall be more than enough.” He gave a small smile, one he had made time and time again, though for Lord Godfrey… Had he given more? The question comes, in the moments it takes for Hoarah Loux to select the fish he seeks.

“Shouldn’t you be… in the capital?” Not crouching upon its outskirts? Rogier gave a sheepish cough.

"My days there are done." He didn’t even hesitate in his motions, loading in the salmon with massive, scarred hands.

"So... why are you here?" Godfrey paused, raising his head, and turned towards the sea.

"I am waiting."

For whom? And yet, Rogier dared not ask, because his heart was in his throat.

Because he knew –

He was waiting for them too.

0-0-0

In other words:

Wolfgang lives through many, multiple lives till he goes mad, and does the Frenzied Flame thing. He is killed by Melina, but not before he hits the restart button. Again.

Afterwards, in this version, he collects every mending rune from every possible ending, even some I think aren't seen (maybe one from Rykard, or Mohg, or whoever else), which gives birth to his Rune. However, Wolfgang, through either guilt or grief, decides to give everyone a happy ending... but himself. As long as he stays away, no one will remember the hundreds, thousands of shitty past lives before, and they can just live in this happy utopia, worshipping their own gods, free and peaceful.

This, of course, comes with its own issues, but only because this means that everyone is doomed to stay in the Lands Between forever. Wolfgang, in the meantime, is journeying around the world, freeing people, helping others, and mending the land torn asunder by the Shattering and all that came before.

For characters who weren't mentioned: Marika, Radagon, D, Gurranq, Heysel, Atreus, Seluvis, Varre, Alexander, Jar-Bairn and Fia... I mean, depending, they got their own 'happy ending', but weren't mentioned. Lots of people already and I was losing steam because my throat hurts.

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