Tags: Elden Ring, Tarnished OC, Tourma the Unknowable | Tourma the Eclipse, Omen OC, Morgott the Omen King | Margit the Fell Omen, Roderika (Elden Ring), Smithing Master Hewg (Elden Ring), Omenkillers (Elden Ring), Canon-Atypical Pacifism, Found Family, Adoption
Returning to the Roundtable Hold, Tourma introduces the omen foundling to Roderika in hopes of fostering a place it will be safe while they're out and about taking their blade to the very gods.
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Back at the Hold, Roderika was the first they introduced the infant to. It was a strategic choice as much as it was a show of trust. They fully expected Hewg to put on his usual charade of indifference, but Roderika’s proximity to him – both literal and figurative – would almost certainly ease his transition into begrudging grandfather. Despite his griping, the old man had a soft spot somewhere in that craggy heart of his. And considering how he’d been unable to refuse unofficially adopting Roderika after only knowing her a few short days, he’d have no chance against a helpless infant cradled dearly in her arms. He’d have an entire adoptive family he never asked for in no time.
There was also the matter of the Hold’s slowly dwindling population, and the fact that the smith and his prentice spirit tuner were the only two left that Tourma even trusted, not to mention the only two likely to care. It seemed that all the tarnished once gathered there had begun to drift their separate ways; some on paths of their own choosing, but others to bitter, tragic, and unforeseen ends. She should have been well used to that, but their ghosts would likely haunt this place for her for eternity. It seemed even the call of grace had not been strong enough to tether such ambitious or devoted spirits for long. Perhaps it was for the best, in the end, at least for the child. Even sweethearts like Corhyn could carry prejudice, and even with the best of intentions.
The hall where the two sat was filled with the usual tune of Hewg’s hammer accompanied by Roderika’s faint murmuring as each plied their craft. The Tarnished had at times found themself envious of that mundane certainty, of knowing each day and thereafter would be a variation on a theme already known by heart. Alas, they had neither the skill nor the focus for such things. Their talents were often praised – and well rewarded – but they were a soldier’s skills. To take life or safeguard it; that was all their years of experience amounted to. That wasn’t to say they didn’t have their place, but it was a flame destined to self-extinguish again and again. As soon as a war ended, whether in victory or defeat, so did their purpose. For now, however, they had at least that meager guiding light, and they would follow it into the darkest of nights.
“An omen?” Roderika’s voice brought the Tarnished back around from their mind’s idle wandering. There was a hesitance in her voice had them second-guessing their intuition, even as they turned to give her a better look at the child’s face. She hadn’t ever batted an eye at the misbegotten smith, had said even less about it than the man himself. Was one Crucible-touched really so different from the next to a human? Their survival instinct hissed at them from the back of their mind to flee. However, when the young woman reached out an uncertain hand and allowed the babe to wrap its tiny fist around one of her gloved fingers, the smile that blossomed on her lips put their heart at ease.
“You know, they used to tell us stories about omens – faerie tales, really. They were our boogeymen, used to scare children into behaving. There were tales of them crawling out from the sewers to steal away naughty children and eat them, or that they were a punishment for wicked or unfaithful mothers. But...I’d never run afoul of one myself. And not all stories are true. A babe is just a babe, after all. No threat to anyone.
“You mentioned running across the king in the capital, King Morgott. So he’s an omen, too? What sort of king is he?” One of the things Tourma most appreciated about Roderika was her ability to extrapolate many of their responses without them having to say a thing. It allowed them to save their energy for things that did demand clear answers.
“Stubborn, grouchy, old man. Devoted to the Order, even though they despise him, even though Grace abandoned him. Just like- Mm…” They trailed off, biting their tongue. “But he spared us. So, must still be good at heart. Has his reasons…I’m sure.”
“Mm, now doesn’t that sound familiar?” Roderika chuckled.
A slight crescendo in Hewg’s rhythmic hammering did not escape Tourma’s ears.
“Sad, too, I think. All the wisdom and devotion a throne demands, but…” There was a long pause as Tourma tried to translate the core of their thoughts into something concise. Roderika was patient with them, taking time to coo to the baby as it peeked open its eyes and blinked blearily at her. Eventually, Tourma finished with painstaking precision, “I don’t think I could serve a people who truly hated me.”
“Some people are funny like that. They have a calling that just can’t be understood from the outside. It seems senseless, self-destructive even, but they know with all their heart it’s where they belong.”
Though her words bespoke insight, Tourma was unable to find anything funny about the king’s situation. He was little more than a janitor dressed in rags despite his title, tending a gilded throne for a master both absent and uncaring. In devoting himself to someone who would never recognize let alone appreciate him, he had allowed himself to fall into a state of disrepair he would have considered entirely unacceptable for the seat itself. However, they kept those thoughts to themself, for the time being.
“Was hoping someone- someone here could watch them. Just until I take the throne.”
“You make it sound so simple. Like you’re going out to market and not taking the fight straight to the gods themselves.”
“I’ve my own calling – as you put it – to tend to.
“If only Fia… Well, ngh-” She stumbled momentarily, having planned only her route and not the exact steps. “Gideon was a father, once. Knows things. Hoped he’d take info for a favor instead of treasures. Grace knows I need more armaments…like gallstones.”
“Gideon? Mm…” The way Roderika pursed her lips conveyed everything she was too polite to say. “He may have some insight, but he’s awfully absorbed in his research. I hardly think you could pry him away.
“Perhaps I could be of some assistance?”
In all honesty, they’d been hoping she would offer. While what they’d said about Gideon had been true enough, Nepheli’s woes were evidence of his overwhelming shortcomings as a caregiver. They didn’t want the baby in that man’s study any more than they wanted it in the Fingers’ audience chamber. And while Roderika probably would have assented just as happily if they had been straightforward with her, they were no good at asking for help, even if they had no qualms admitting when they needed it. This recipe – one of their own numerous curses – made for far more frustration than was really necessary, and it was all they could do to work around it when needed. While they could have easily blamed it on their difficulties articulating, they were rather too honest with themself to shift the blame when the truth was just that they didn’t like making a burden of themself.
“It wouldn’t distract from your work?”
In this case, however, it was not for their own sake, which made it a sight easier.
“I don’t think so. It’s a lot of sitting, focusing, meditating. It’s an art of patience. Besides, if Hewg’s hammering doesn’t bother me, I doubt the little one will.”
Tourma sighed with relief.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. Immensely. Really, you’ve no idea what this means to me. A weight’s off my shoulders.” The more they tried to convey it, the more they found themself at a loss for words that could express their gratitude. The fact that they were trying despite that said enough, they hoped.
Roderika smiled and shook her head, golden locks swishing side to side.
“Please. You were kind enough to convince Master Hewg on my behalf when we barely even knew one another. Repaying a kindness in turn is its own joy.”
The Tarnished carefully transferred the child to Roderika’s outstretched arms. It was impossible to deny that the bundle looked far more natural in her embrace than their own, but it didn’t bother them. With their crater-pocked, ashen skin and reptilian eyes, Tourma knew most humans saw them as Crucible-touched as well. Though, putting it that way, perhaps they looked more like the child’s kin after all.
Shaking the pointless speculation from her head, Tourma reached into her pack, pulled out the medallion she had carried with her from the outset of her journey, and tucked it into the folds of the blue cloak swaddled around their charge. The four chips of red amber set into the medallion’s face flashed in the torchlight one last time before disappearing beneath the cloth, as if bidding farewell.
Roderika cocked her head.
“That medallion is a blessing of the Erdtree, isn’t it?”
“More importantly, it’s a prayer for health. May it p-protect them in my stead...should anything prevent my return.” They were not her own words, but they would suffice.
“You know,” Roderika said, rocking the infant gently as it whimpered in its sleep, “when I first met you- Oh, how do I say this without sounding awfully rude? I thought you were frightening.”
Tourma raised an eyebrow, only to be hit with the sudden realization that the privacy she so prized from her helm meant that no expression of hers penetrated the hissing maw of the fanged imp’s repurposed cranium. She gave an indistinct, questioning grunt instead.
“But you’re actually rather sweet, aren’t you?”
“If you say so.” If the helmet erected a barrier to understanding between the world and herself, at least it also kept secret the heat that rose to her cheeks at the complement.
The child wriggled in Roderika’s arms, whining until it found a comfortable spot and settled back into blissful rest.
“It’ll be a bitch when those horns come in. Like teething, but all over.”
“Oh dear.”
“It might make holding them difficult, too.”
“Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Who knows how long that’ll take, anyway? No use in worrying about it just yet.”
Their helm once again did them the favor of hiding a smile that crooked the edge of their lip.
“Speaking of back then…you were so somber, so morbid. I’m glad...could come into your own here. Whatever this place is, it’s haven.”
“Truly. The Hold really does welcome all kinds.” For half a blink, the spirit tuner’s smile faltered, revealing a troubled grimace just beneath the surface. “For better or worse.”
As they both fell silent, the steady clink of Hewg’s hammer kept the Tarnished grounded, leashing their mind before it even had a chance to wander.
“Well. Let’s see if we can’t get the old man on board, too,” they said only somewhat haltingly, cocking their head over their shoulder towards the source of the sound. “They can bond over whining and grumbling. Then we can give the sprout a bath.”