You will never be the Elden Lord. You have no Great Runes, you have no poise, you have no vigor. You are a misbegotten tarnished twisted by perfumes and sorceries into a crude mockery of the Erdtree's Grace.
All the "victories" you get are due to summons. You are mocked behind your back at the Roundtable Hold. The Two Fingers are disgusted and ashamed by you. Your spirit ashes laugh at your ghoulish, mismatched armor set behind closed doors.
Finger Maidens are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed Maidens to sniff out frauds with incredible efficiency. Even tarnished who "pass" look uncanny and unnatural to a Maiden. Your mage build is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to get a drunk Maiden to impart Grace upon you, she'll turn tail and bolt the second she sees you are trying to level arcane.
You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single login and tell yourself it's going to be okay, but deep inside you feel the depression creeping up like Deathroot, ready to crush you under the incredible weight.
Eventually it'll be too much to bear - you'll buy a rope from a travelling merchant, put it around your neck and and plunge into the cold abyss. The Two Fingers will find you, heartbroken, but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment. They'll bury you with a headstone marked with your birthname and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know that a tarnished is buried there. Your body will decay and return to the Erdtree and all that will remain of your legacy will be a bloodstain that is unmistakably a mage.
This is your fate, this is what you chose, there is no turning back.