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Just like with all the magic of his own creation, Morgott won’t know if he’s constructed the spell effectively until he tests it.
Unlike most of his spellwork, the only test that can be carried out will be its singular use — if he succeeds, he will never have need of it again. If he fails…
If he fails, it won’t matter anymore.
The uncertainty is far sharper for the fact that he has no one to double-check his work. Even if he was still speaking to Mohg, his twin’s own spellwork is a far different breed.
Perhaps with his new master — his new mother, he’d said, to which Morgott can still only scoff — he would have some input on this particular incantation, but Morgott would not ask him regardless. This is not Mohg’s purview — he’d be aghast at the nature of it.
Nor could Morgott ask Godfrey, even if his father was still present to ask.
Just like Mohg, Godfrey would never approve of this.
Still, it must be done.
Despite himself, Morgott’s hands tremble as he lays out the implements for the spell. One long branch from the Erdtree, wrapped delicately in cloth. A curved dagger, forged by a Misbegotten blacksmith already sworn to secrecy by some magic far greater than Morgott’s own.
He unwraps the shroud around the length of wood. Severed from the tree, it looks almost mundane, almost like any other tree branch, wide and knotted at one end, tapering to nearly a point along its uneven curve.
Almost, but not quite — faint gold glimmers beneath the gnarled whorls of bark, illuminating the darkened passageways of the Shunning Grounds.
Morgott hates to despoil it, but he knows nothing else will suit. Nothing less than this golden expression of the Greater Will could contain the Omen curse.
Still, he hesitates a long time, before he cracks it open.
Gently, ever so gently. Parting the bark, barely splitting the golden wood beneath. Creating a channel, a space.
Then, the difficult part.
Even in his desperation to have it done, to be free of this, part of him resists.
The knife feels heavy in his hand.
He hesitates. Hesitates.
Holy magic blooms golden within his veins as he casts the spell. Too late to change his mind now—
Morgott cuts deep, and lets his cursed blood spill onto the Erdtree’s golden wood. It glows, so bright it swallows the shifting colors of the Omen curse, so bright it blots out Morgott’s vision.
So bright it absolves him.
He wakes, sticky with his own blood. The bark of the Erdtree’s branch has healed over as if there was never a wound, never an intrusion. When his hand wraps around it, the curl of the branch seems fitted perfectly to his palm.
Maybe he’s imagining it, but Morgott feels a little lighter, somewhere inside.