He was sat upon his throne, though calling it such made his shoulders hunch. A throne was a seat he was supposed to fill, yet he always felt too scrawny and thin for it. Still, they looked at him with hopeful eyes, for he was descendent of their Lord Creator. With the passing of their lord, he was their sole salvation; his blood would help The Tree Mother bloom once again, yet all he wanted to do was crawl back inside his cocoon. Harry will always be the scared kid that his father once took a blade to.
Tom Riddle was blessed with grace, the Outer God saw it fit to bless him so that he might carry their will. 'Restore the Golden Order' they whispered to him, deep into his dreams, their voices eldritch-like, their appearance forgotten, chased away by the morning light. He didn't know any alternative, and he didn't want to. What calling is higher than that of a god. Thus, Tom marched, feet trudging through the faded warrior path trodden by his ancestors.
He helped whoever beseeched him, his path was long and his legacy non-existent. Grace guided him in spite of his namelessness, and for that, he wanted to leave his mark before ascending the Golden Throne. Let the people know who their new lord would be. The world was desolate, the war had wrecked it and the ones left were struggling to rebuild. Lords lost their domains and were left to battle omen-infested beings, creatures with horns reminiscent of the primordial times. Of darker times.
He helped who he could, fighting for his soon-to-be subjects' respect, gratitude, and loyalty. Some battles were simply too big for him, and those he retreated from, with the promise that he would come back once he was king, that the Golden Order would be established again soon, and that all will thrive under Tom Riddle's rule.
Tom followed the trail of golden grace, steadily getting stronger, and crueler. Where he once cringed at the sight of gore his blades cut out, now he just looks at it dispassionately, sometimes pulling out eyes and hearts. Sometimes eating those for the sake of power. His destiny pushed him to seek more, his ideology was shaped into 'there is only power and those too weak to seek it'. There was no shame in any act committed for power. The people wanted a strong lord and to that end, they were determined to forgive his every sin, and accept any whom the throne recognises as mighty, be that a noble or a man-eating nameless tarnished.
This throne was not the one he was promised. The Outer Gods promised him a Golden Throne, a seat from where he would survey his lands, yet the seat in front of him was not Golden. It was made of wood and adorned with sharpened roses. The roses were red and their thorns dripped fresh blood. The Gods warned him of a fake throne and of a fake Lord. Tom gazed at his surroundings, eyes curiously taking in his surroundings. This beautiful land too would be his.
He was on the highest branch of the Cursed Tree, yet standing where he was, watching the light peer through brilliant reddish leaves, admiring them as they colored the reflected light red. There was an odd tingling in his chest, it took him a moment to identify it. The Tree felt more like home than the Blessed Tree did. It filled him with aching nostalgia, The Tree was welcoming him as if he was a long-lost child.
Tom was still spellbound by the view when he heard rustling behind him. He startled and turned, blade raised. The creature cowered before it spoke, voice trembling. "Dost thee seeketh audience with the Lord?" the creature mistook his quiet assessing for assent and continued its pathetic whimpering, "thee cameth at a most unfortunate time f'r the lord is resting, but I can guide thee to a room to wait"
Without waiting for a reply, the creature -presumed a servant- turned and led Tom deeper into the fort from which the Tree bloomed. There was something pulling at him, something staying his blade from striking the creature dead, for what else does one do with horned beings but kill them. The Outer God dictates that any being born with horns in their body must have the horns cut off, for they were omen-born, and if the act kills them then so be it. Yet, Tom followed the creature silent, betraying his beliefs by leaving it alive.
There were more omen-born inside the fort, most of them idling around the fort cleaning the walls that seemed painted red. Tom didn't bother with subtlety as he gazed at the walls, noting the way the roots of the tree seemed to run throughout the walls, pulsing crimson liquid mimicking human veins. He was led to a well-furnished room, the light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, lightening it up and showcasing the green hues of the plants in it alongside its elegant decor. The most impressive piece was a hung painting, a portrait of a young man with blonde hair cascading past his shoulder and pale features befitting royalty. Was he the lord the creature spoke of?
He was so lost in the portrait, he didn't notice the entrance of another. Though this time he fought his instincts to keep his blade sheathed. Before him stands a replica of the man in the portrait, though he lacked blonde hair. The lord looked tired, paler, and weaker. "ah," the young man exclaimed, voice soft and barely audible, "mine servants must have led thee here by mistake, thine blade speaketh of an arduous journey, maybe even a holy one". The lord, for the young man had the air of one, walked elegantly to the couch and sat, his eyes locked with Hyungjin's then, pensive. He looked unsurprised by Tom's presence as if it was an everyday occurrence.
"I ask thee not to hurt my servants, I know what thou seeth in those folks, thou seeth nothing beyond their horns, beyond their birth, thine beliefs demand them be persecuted" his voice remained neutral, yet his eyes were a window to his emotions, a dam of pain and anger that threatens to spill out of the young lord's eyes at any moment. "I know not how thee found our lands, but I ask thee to remain here in peace or depart posthaste. We mean no one harm, within The Tree Mother exists a place for all"
Tom watched as the young lord leaned back in his chair, looking as if his speech has left him winded, his pallor made prominent by how bruised his eyebags were, yet his green eyes remained bright and fixed on Tom. The green eyes were haunting and spellbinding. "Housing omenborn is a sin, your fort has abominations whose horns should've been cut off at their birth" Tom was going to say more, yet a raised hand cut him off.
"Speaketh not of mine people rudely sir" The lord's voice lost some of its softness, taking on an unexpectedly sharp edge. Tom watched the other for a moment before reluctantly nodding. Once again, there was that tingling in his chest. "I am only speaking for your sake lord, clearly you noticed their fickle loyalty? The way the servant led me to you so readily even when he noticed my blade? Does it not bother you?" It did bother Tom greatly, how dare a measly creature repay his lord's reign with suck mercurial loyalty. He'd have them hung, or he'd cut their horns as the Outer Gods dictated. His words seem to have hit something, he noticed how the lord's hands clenched tightly, adopting just the slightest tremble. Still, there was no answer to his queries.
It was clear to Tom that the Lord knew his words were true. The creature earlier never stopped to question his motives, simply led him to the highest person in the fort, as if hoping to be spared in doing so. "Thine words are not without truth, yet I do not fault their decision. Mine servants suffered eons under unfair rule, following the traditions of an order that didst see them as cursed. They are not fighters nor are they monsters, their protection is mine to ensure for I am their lord. Those folk didst not come here to die, and as such it is only natural that they would do their hardest to stay alive, in a place that finally let their horns be."
"Are you a fighter then lord?" The question was met with a smile, it was as if the lord heard a joke he was not privy to. The lord didn't reply, and Tom found his answer in the silence. The lord was not a fighter, he was not built like one, and if one cared to look close enough, they can spot miscolored patches of skin under all the translucent fabric of the lord's sleeves. The other did not cower under the prying gaze, simply sat up straighter. Tom remembered the throne, the blood, and an old tale. Suddenly the lord's face became that much more familiar.
As if aware of Tom's newly recovered information, the lord smiled once again. "It seemeth mine own tale is one of renown?" and Tom took the question for the invitation it is and started talking of the history he knows. "There were myths of your birth, some believe you to be an abomination while others think your beauty would rival that of your parent. The dominant opinion however was that you should never have been born, that your parents' relationship was incestuous and as such the blessed tree would never allow them an offspring"
"Yet, I stand before thee. Mine parents didst not have a relationship, mine father Mohg violated mine bearer Miquella, his own brother. Mohg was omenborn and for that, he cursed the world and sought to create his own dynasty, with his half-brother Miquella as consort. He forced Miquella out of his immortal curse, and as his life was trickling away, Mohg breathed me into existence, using Miquella's blood and bone. Still, Mohg was no god and he was not fated to be one. Mine own existence was guaranteed with Miquella's royal blood, and thus Mohg seeking to live longer would feed me pieces of himself so that when the day came, he would be born out of mine own blood and bones."
The lord took a moment to contemplate his bracelet. "I was rescued by one of Miquella's faithful servants and brought to the tree mother to be hailed as lord, they did need someone of Miquella's blood" The realization dawned on him then. The bloody thorns, the tree veins, and the young pale lord. Miquella's tree was thought a myth, yet here Tom stands, looking at another tree and conversing with another existence thought to be a tall tale. "Why? These servants are using you, the cursed tree would feed on you, its taste for blood vampiric. Surely you are not so attached to these accursed creatures?"
Tom didn't know why he was feeling so upset on behalf of a stranger he just met. Emotions he was unused to nestled deep in his chest, carving themselves a mark inside his chest. "Surely thee feeleth it as well? The tree mother's call, its siren song mournful and all-consuming if one linger on it too long." Tom did, and perhaps that would explain his upset as well. "Still, I am sure the moment I am back within The Blessed Tree's influence, this parasitic interference will cease. Come with me, you are of royal blood. Regardless of how you came to be, you would be revered. I am to be the new Lord, and I would have you as my side as it is your birthright"
Tom barely finished his words, when the image in front of him flickered, the lord's face blurring and distorting until in its place was something else. The eyes were the same green, yet the skin was no longer unblemished, it was stretched around horns. The lord's beauty was replaced with hideousness, and Tom almost felt repulsed. "Mine father was omenborn, I am no different than my servants, except that I control mine appearance. I might not be their true lord, but I have been given a duty and I will bear it for the vision mine own innocent bearer Miquella harbored."
Tom was struck dumb. "This is all wrong!" He cried almost childlike, his voice rising. He needed to get out of this place. He needed to burn it down. The Outer God's grace raged against The Tree Mother's influence, and in his confusion and anger, he raised his blade and pointed at the feeble-looking lord. His anger was all wrong, Tom was much more rational than this, much more meticulous in his executions. He can't give in to his anger like a primal beast, yet it was out of control. "This tree is cursed, it is corrupting the Lands Between, it is a sin and it needs to be burned" He continued his rant, heedless of the lord who has now stood up, appearance back to normal. "All omenborn are wrong, born of sin, born bearing signs of it!"
The lord looked at him almost saddened. "Thine rage is understandable, yet it is misplaced. It is the Outer God who is a parasite. They sent the Erdtree, or what thee calleth The Blessed Tree to our world. They fed on the Tree Mother and placed their own Order. Mine servants are blessed by their Tree Mother, thee seeth signs of their faith as ones of heresy and thee condemn them to lives in the sewers."
Tom, warring with his inner self, pushes on letting the god's grace steer his blade as he attacked the lord. Green eyes simply gazed at him melancholically as he deflected the blade, horns sprouting from his arm and acting as shield. "Mine name is Harry, blood of Miquella, and I pity thee Warrior, for thine tragic fate and thine tale which is guaranteed to end in false death"
Harry faced the warrior, lamenting their endless cycle. He stopped keeping count when they went over fifty. Tom, for the warrior told him his name once, the few times Tom didn't choose to fight him. The times when Tom demonstrated his rational and logical side were becoming few and far between. Every time he died and came back, fighting seemed to be all Tom was capable of doing. The Erdtree seems to take a bit of him each time, still Harry could do nothing but fight, chained as he was to the tree, his options were limited. He could not leave his servants to die.
The repeated fights took from him as well, Harry's attacks were growing predictable, his power diminishing. At this rate, there was only one possible outcome. Still, if he is going to die, then it will be on his terms.
Tom watched the lord step back, his jaw set in determination. The lord raised his arm high, blood freely flowing from the tip of his fingers, wisps of it flowing towards Tom and binding his arms to his sides. His blade clattered to the ground, and his breathing picked up. There was something sad about the way the lord was looking at him. Tom was locked in place as the lord approached, feeling distressed the more steps the lord took in his direction. He was so enraged at himself, how could he be so weak, so pathetic! Pale arms settled on his shoulder, and then there was blood in his mouth, lips pressed against his.
Harry watched Tom's shoulders relax against his hands, which was a relief as he could not keep his blood flowing out anymore. There was so much he wanted to say, yet he had run out of time. His blood can not flow forever, his immortality is half-assed. He was fated to be a god, yet he was not one just yet. His vision was dimming, all he could see clearly was Tom's face, lightening up in understanding, in recognition, he only hoped that this time would be last.
Tom was left clutching Harry's body as it went cold. The lord did something, and his head was suffering from it. A lifetime of memories was shoved into his mind. His death, something he feared incomprehensibly, was replaying in his mind, time and time again. Yet, in his newly recovered memories, no one was inflicting his death but his own blade. Tom loathed how unbalanced he felt. He always took pride in his rationality, his surety in every one of his actions, his beliefs regardless of their morality. He knew himself. This was all just a horrible illusion, some kind of spell placed upon him by the dead lord.
Still, he knew. Tom knew himself, that fact he would never doubt. Thus, he could not doubt the memories as being anything but his. His recently recovered memories came with a feeling he rarely ever grasped. His first meetings with the lord. The conversations and the laughter. He rejoiced that he could feel joy and receive love, only for the coldness held in his arms to remind him of despair.
He understood now. Why his death was self-orchestrated. His hands didn't tremble as he took his blade to his neck. With remembering came determination, a grim set to his jaws. Tom would always be afraid of death, yet he knew he will be reborn. And right now, the pain of losing someone like Harry was too much to bear. Tom was coldness and indifference, yet meeting Harry all those times broke that. He forgets with every resurrection, yet every time he remembers, it's like some seal breaks inside of him, letting his feelings bleed out. Staining his insides with caring he'd rather rip out.
Tom took his blade to his neck. He remembered how it hurt every time he did this, still, this is better than living without Harry. He would die and he would come back, and surely this time he will remember. There was naivety in his belief that he would remember, perhaps a blatant disregard for the sacrifice of his beloved. Still, there was not much to do but hope.
He gathered the corpse close, embracing it as he made to slice his neck.
His blade would not pierce his skin, stayed by a mysterious force.
Tom felt his hand burn the longer he held the weapon and so he let it go. He knew what was happening, yet refused to accept it. He sat on the ground, staring at Harry's lifeless face. He can't have succeeded, it makes no sense, one cannot simply disregard the rules of nature. But he knew, Harry was the lord of another Tree, and his will was that of the tree itself, if he willed him immortal then it will be done.
Tom Riddle cried then, sobbing like a child as he held the body close. There was so much that he just got back, memories of strolls around the fort, of Harry smiling up at him, kissing him, playing with his hair, and telling him stories. Anguish tore at him and foreign influence stayed his blade, and there was not much to do but sob and clutch the body close.
The fallen leaves tell a story,
of how a warrior became Golden Lord,
In our home across the fog the lands between,
Our seed will look back upon us and recall,
The age of the omenborn
The corpse taken for consort and the burning of the blessed tree.