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[ He utilized the same rationale while on the road, on one of the many roads of conquest, if he's being honest, but they are not on one, they are relatively safe, relatively secure. Now, he likes his little creature comforts as much as Hythlodaeus did back in the day, when Emet-Selch hadn't understood but had supported his lengthy bathing endeavors and desire to go eat at places that grew their food rather than creating it. ]
What?
[ The question jars him so badly he pauses in his careful study of the curl, the itch in his hands to reach out and twirl it around his finger idly. Of course. He just uses soap. Maddening. More maddening- he thinks this is how his ex-wife felt, sitting him down and explaining the use of every single bottle. This, for skin, this for hair, this for nails, a dozen little maintenance needs, all for the perception of others. He understood once explained of course - no different than the different materials and trims to present a perception to the masses, to those they engaged with daily.
Viktor does not have the same needs, and Emet-Selch does not either, but for better or worse he's gotten used to the little comforts. ]
At risk of derailing if you are attempting an actual bath in its full completion, there are other items we use besides - [ Viktor leans, adjusts, and clasp the bottle like he thinks Emet-Selch will abscond with it. ] - soap.
As to the matter of your letters - if you struggle so, we can add that to our morning instruction. 'Tis no different than any other skillset or ability; practice is key.
[ That's not the point, he's willfully ignoring the point with each thud of the bottle against his chest, plucking it away when it's finally offered but frowning at the green bottle being kept from him. ]
Because you are insatiably curious about even the most inconsequential facts of someone's life. [ The observation is not delivered as condemnation or criticism, there is warm, low admiration as he holds the bottle, leaned back against the water-warmed stone to look at Viktor properly where he's settled. ] Because you care about these little inconsequential moments more than any person on this shard or the next. But she is long since passed on, reborn, with a new name, a new life, and the likelihood of our paths ever crossing in any meaningful way is negligible.
[ The wine bottle is settled on the lip and he reaches outward to try and grasp the bottle, but does not fight if Viktor does not allow him it. ]
What?
[ The question jars him so badly he pauses in his careful study of the curl, the itch in his hands to reach out and twirl it around his finger idly. Of course. He just uses soap. Maddening. More maddening- he thinks this is how his ex-wife felt, sitting him down and explaining the use of every single bottle. This, for skin, this for hair, this for nails, a dozen little maintenance needs, all for the perception of others. He understood once explained of course - no different than the different materials and trims to present a perception to the masses, to those they engaged with daily.
Viktor does not have the same needs, and Emet-Selch does not either, but for better or worse he's gotten used to the little comforts. ]
At risk of derailing if you are attempting an actual bath in its full completion, there are other items we use besides - [ Viktor leans, adjusts, and clasp the bottle like he thinks Emet-Selch will abscond with it. ] - soap.
As to the matter of your letters - if you struggle so, we can add that to our morning instruction. 'Tis no different than any other skillset or ability; practice is key.
[ That's not the point, he's willfully ignoring the point with each thud of the bottle against his chest, plucking it away when it's finally offered but frowning at the green bottle being kept from him. ]
Because you are insatiably curious about even the most inconsequential facts of someone's life. [ The observation is not delivered as condemnation or criticism, there is warm, low admiration as he holds the bottle, leaned back against the water-warmed stone to look at Viktor properly where he's settled. ] Because you care about these little inconsequential moments more than any person on this shard or the next. But she is long since passed on, reborn, with a new name, a new life, and the likelihood of our paths ever crossing in any meaningful way is negligible.
[ The wine bottle is settled on the lip and he reaches outward to try and grasp the bottle, but does not fight if Viktor does not allow him it. ]
I would r-rather you read to me.
[ True enough, but beside the point and murmured as such, quiet, off-handed, while Emet-Selch goes on. Though he is, beyond a doubt, a peerless warrior, he is not so deft with his words, and he knows it. Battles, Viktor can win. Debates, not so much. Still, this matters. Ordinarily, one of Emet-Selch's other little dangled threads might've caught him, carried him off, leaving the larger topic to sit unresolved - Emet-Selch made the victor by default - but he does not permit that to happen this time. ]
Aht! [ He juts a finger forward, scolding. Then a second, and a third, as he makes his points. ] Only half right. And near a th-third wrong.
[ Though he does not let the green bottle go, he does allow Emet-Selch to grasp it. Viktor looses one hand, and as he so often does, uses it to help coax his words from his lungs, weaving sound into meaning with a flapping hand and wiggled fingers. ]
I ask, and you think of her, aye? You h-hear her a little, do you not? Perhaps not exact, but the voice that memory serves you. Close enough. [ He touches fingers to his thumb as he speaks, staring at his hand like it's helping him remember what he wishes to say. ] Each bottle, a purpose. Each soap slightly different from the others. The tink and clink of half-used bottles. Color cast by light through glass. The smell of all her tinctures, in sum, left on clothes and skin and- [ A pause, he's getting away from himself. Focus. ] What she said, it mattered to her, and then... it made sense and it mattered to you. Enough that you changed.
[ Grown tired of the cold clinging to his damp skin, Viktor shifts, sinking lower into the water as he unfolds one leg and lets it rest over Emet-Selch's thigh. The other, moved slightly to the side. ]
She is gone. Her soul cycled anew. But, here in this moment, you recall, and the she that she was and the you that you were are real. Remembered. Carried. That is why I ask. And because I want to know the name of the woman willful enough to change your mind. And because...
[ He leans a little closer, eyes on the foggy water now, unwilling to meet Emet-Selch's eye. ]
In the future. Five years, ten, maybe m-more, when we are done and the star is healed and we have friends visiting us at our little s-spring home in... Hm- in Thavnair, let's say. Maybe one happens to need use our facilities and they spy our absurd collection of little bottles and they- they decide to tease me for it. [ Another break, considering, one eye squinted shut. ] In which case it must be Alisaie or Estinien — then I will have a story to tell them, about the woman who changed your mind and then mine, as well. And she will be real again in that moment, too.
[ Viktor hazards tipping his mismatched eyes back up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze and then offers up the green bottle. ]
Here is your soap. Which is definitely not just soap, but the sequel to soap. Soap, p-part two.
[ True enough, but beside the point and murmured as such, quiet, off-handed, while Emet-Selch goes on. Though he is, beyond a doubt, a peerless warrior, he is not so deft with his words, and he knows it. Battles, Viktor can win. Debates, not so much. Still, this matters. Ordinarily, one of Emet-Selch's other little dangled threads might've caught him, carried him off, leaving the larger topic to sit unresolved - Emet-Selch made the victor by default - but he does not permit that to happen this time. ]
Aht! [ He juts a finger forward, scolding. Then a second, and a third, as he makes his points. ] Only half right. And near a th-third wrong.
[ Though he does not let the green bottle go, he does allow Emet-Selch to grasp it. Viktor looses one hand, and as he so often does, uses it to help coax his words from his lungs, weaving sound into meaning with a flapping hand and wiggled fingers. ]
I ask, and you think of her, aye? You h-hear her a little, do you not? Perhaps not exact, but the voice that memory serves you. Close enough. [ He touches fingers to his thumb as he speaks, staring at his hand like it's helping him remember what he wishes to say. ] Each bottle, a purpose. Each soap slightly different from the others. The tink and clink of half-used bottles. Color cast by light through glass. The smell of all her tinctures, in sum, left on clothes and skin and- [ A pause, he's getting away from himself. Focus. ] What she said, it mattered to her, and then... it made sense and it mattered to you. Enough that you changed.
[ Grown tired of the cold clinging to his damp skin, Viktor shifts, sinking lower into the water as he unfolds one leg and lets it rest over Emet-Selch's thigh. The other, moved slightly to the side. ]
She is gone. Her soul cycled anew. But, here in this moment, you recall, and the she that she was and the you that you were are real. Remembered. Carried. That is why I ask. And because I want to know the name of the woman willful enough to change your mind. And because...
[ He leans a little closer, eyes on the foggy water now, unwilling to meet Emet-Selch's eye. ]
In the future. Five years, ten, maybe m-more, when we are done and the star is healed and we have friends visiting us at our little s-spring home in... Hm- in Thavnair, let's say. Maybe one happens to need use our facilities and they spy our absurd collection of little bottles and they- they decide to tease me for it. [ Another break, considering, one eye squinted shut. ] In which case it must be Alisaie or Estinien — then I will have a story to tell them, about the woman who changed your mind and then mine, as well. And she will be real again in that moment, too.
[ Viktor hazards tipping his mismatched eyes back up to meet Emet-Selch's gaze and then offers up the green bottle. ]
Here is your soap. Which is definitely not just soap, but the sequel to soap. Soap, p-part two.
[ He files that information into place along with Viktor's other requests - ones he doesn't outright address in the moment, but actively tries to enact when and where it is within his power. Long since used to reading from parchment or tomestone while public speaking, the thought doesn't bother him- the avoidance of the idea of studying does, to an extent, but he can push the subject at another time. ]
Only a third.
[ He does recall.
He'd rather he didn't. The difficulty of memory is not one easily solved; they identified and used crystals to store knowledge, but that did not solve the issue of one's own memory failing. Countless new memories overwriting old ones, the most treasured washed away under the weight of those atop. He could store as much as possible within crystals, but it was only a temporary solution.
Foolish, to be irritated at a woman long since dead, and insult to injury to know she is not really the problem. The problem is an intangible one that can't be solved with time, money, magic. ]
Lucilia.
[ He will not make this a fight, or a discussion, or some sort of attempt at a lesson on why their lives are like a candle, just a flicker of time before the next life replaces them. Wilful ignorance about the point Viktor is making is not the course of action. That, he supposes, is progress. Just like sitting here naked in the middle of a bath with company is progress of a sort. Just like the desire to touch and be touched by someone else is progress.
Gently, he fits his fingers around the line of Viktor's ankle, skimming fingers over the thin layer of skin and then further up, and makes an idle path back and forth from knee to ankle. Or, it would be idle were it not for how focused he seems on the motion, dragging his thumb along Viktor's calf to trace muscle, swirling a glancing touch over the bit of knee bared by the water. ]
Thavnair, is it? Awfully warm there. To say nothing of the dragon, with whom I think you must needs confirm my welcome.
[ The bottle ends up in his hand, but he cannot say victory is his clean and simple. Regretfully he tugs the hand tracing Viktor's leg back so he can thumb down the nozzle once, twice, and then after a considering look at Viktor's curls, a third time. Rosemary and something faintly floral are immediately evident, even if the floral notes are overwhelmed by the former. Gingerly, he rises up until he can get his knees beneath himself and reaches out to start working it through Viktor's curls carefully from roots to end, smoothing unruly curls back when they fall into his eyes. While he mislikes the cold in general, so much time in Garlemald means he bears the chill with minimal complaint, far more focused on the task at hand.
In hand. ]
Do not rinse this right away. Sit. Soak. [ Viktor's hair is countless times shorter than hers had been, and so it is not overly difficult to finish quickly, grimacing as his knees protest. Settled again in his spot, he tugs Viktor's leg back into place. Belatedly, not quite hesitant but not a declaration, foggier as he strains for the memory. ] Hers smelled of mint. Imported in frankly absurd quantities. Dried in a room I orchestrated to be next to my office.
[ Because it covered countless smells he would rather not have smelled by someone walking past. He does not point this out. ]
Only a third.
[ He does recall.
He'd rather he didn't. The difficulty of memory is not one easily solved; they identified and used crystals to store knowledge, but that did not solve the issue of one's own memory failing. Countless new memories overwriting old ones, the most treasured washed away under the weight of those atop. He could store as much as possible within crystals, but it was only a temporary solution.
Foolish, to be irritated at a woman long since dead, and insult to injury to know she is not really the problem. The problem is an intangible one that can't be solved with time, money, magic. ]
Lucilia.
[ He will not make this a fight, or a discussion, or some sort of attempt at a lesson on why their lives are like a candle, just a flicker of time before the next life replaces them. Wilful ignorance about the point Viktor is making is not the course of action. That, he supposes, is progress. Just like sitting here naked in the middle of a bath with company is progress of a sort. Just like the desire to touch and be touched by someone else is progress.
Gently, he fits his fingers around the line of Viktor's ankle, skimming fingers over the thin layer of skin and then further up, and makes an idle path back and forth from knee to ankle. Or, it would be idle were it not for how focused he seems on the motion, dragging his thumb along Viktor's calf to trace muscle, swirling a glancing touch over the bit of knee bared by the water. ]
Thavnair, is it? Awfully warm there. To say nothing of the dragon, with whom I think you must needs confirm my welcome.
[ The bottle ends up in his hand, but he cannot say victory is his clean and simple. Regretfully he tugs the hand tracing Viktor's leg back so he can thumb down the nozzle once, twice, and then after a considering look at Viktor's curls, a third time. Rosemary and something faintly floral are immediately evident, even if the floral notes are overwhelmed by the former. Gingerly, he rises up until he can get his knees beneath himself and reaches out to start working it through Viktor's curls carefully from roots to end, smoothing unruly curls back when they fall into his eyes. While he mislikes the cold in general, so much time in Garlemald means he bears the chill with minimal complaint, far more focused on the task at hand.
In hand. ]
Do not rinse this right away. Sit. Soak. [ Viktor's hair is countless times shorter than hers had been, and so it is not overly difficult to finish quickly, grimacing as his knees protest. Settled again in his spot, he tugs Viktor's leg back into place. Belatedly, not quite hesitant but not a declaration, foggier as he strains for the memory. ] Hers smelled of mint. Imported in frankly absurd quantities. Dried in a room I orchestrated to be next to my office.
[ Because it covered countless smells he would rather not have smelled by someone walking past. He does not point this out. ]
I can do both. [ Cheekily sniped, with a pursed smile and a bounce of his brows. As though multitasking is the problem.
He illustrates, none the less. Looses his hand from where it lingers at Emet-Selch's crown and slides a cracker onto his tongue, watching all the while with his mismatched eyes. Easy, this way, to take in the thoughtful scowl, the hint of discomfort. Not so easy to stop himself from wondering over what exactly spins 'round and 'round in that busy head of his. Emet-Selch is all uncertainty, and Viktor lacks adequate reassurance. Short of having their mettle tested upon the field of battle - which is coming, he knows, at a dreadful, relentless pace - he has nothing but a promise, but his words. And broken, jagged things they are, are they any good at all?
No great reassurance, certainly. No comfort. Emet-Selch would defy the natural order to save him, and all he can serve up in return, it seems, is doubt and worry. So he lets his gaze fall, attention moving to the flavor of the snack he's sampled as he adds, faintly- ] And Del would not need bribery.
[ This morsel is earthier than the last. Rich and nutty under the savory flavor of cured meat. There are mushrooms in this one, he realizes. Morels, probably. Maybe chanterelles. The sort of thing foraged instead of farm grown, expensive outside the regions where it is found. A seasonal rarity. Decadent. He grabs another of the same assembly and looks it over. ]
'Tis... nice, to be let in. The veil, I mean. When it is lifted, it is not t-too much. I... appreciate that you- that you allow me to ask questions after seeing what I saw.
[ As he stumbles over his words, he selects a pickled bit of vegetable, too, examining the color, considering it a moment before adding it to the cracker and popping the whole assembly into his mouth. That, too, is unusually good. ]
You could tell me about your fancy cheeses, instead. That seems an easier t-topic.
He illustrates, none the less. Looses his hand from where it lingers at Emet-Selch's crown and slides a cracker onto his tongue, watching all the while with his mismatched eyes. Easy, this way, to take in the thoughtful scowl, the hint of discomfort. Not so easy to stop himself from wondering over what exactly spins 'round and 'round in that busy head of his. Emet-Selch is all uncertainty, and Viktor lacks adequate reassurance. Short of having their mettle tested upon the field of battle - which is coming, he knows, at a dreadful, relentless pace - he has nothing but a promise, but his words. And broken, jagged things they are, are they any good at all?
No great reassurance, certainly. No comfort. Emet-Selch would defy the natural order to save him, and all he can serve up in return, it seems, is doubt and worry. So he lets his gaze fall, attention moving to the flavor of the snack he's sampled as he adds, faintly- ] And Del would not need bribery.
[ This morsel is earthier than the last. Rich and nutty under the savory flavor of cured meat. There are mushrooms in this one, he realizes. Morels, probably. Maybe chanterelles. The sort of thing foraged instead of farm grown, expensive outside the regions where it is found. A seasonal rarity. Decadent. He grabs another of the same assembly and looks it over. ]
'Tis... nice, to be let in. The veil, I mean. When it is lifted, it is not t-too much. I... appreciate that you- that you allow me to ask questions after seeing what I saw.
[ As he stumbles over his words, he selects a pickled bit of vegetable, too, examining the color, considering it a moment before adding it to the cracker and popping the whole assembly into his mouth. That, too, is unusually good. ]
You could tell me about your fancy cheeses, instead. That seems an easier t-topic.
[ The offering of a subject change is a relief. He does not want to beat a subject into the ground long past the point being made, but neither does he wish to be too nonchalant about something dire. As ever, a middle ground must be found; he is lucky Viktor makes it easy.
At least now he can turn his attention to eating now that he's assembled his series of platters, giving plenty of choice when it comes to what to eat first. Viktor, thankfully, is not a picky child unwilling to take the potion to heal their scraped knee. There are no complaints about the vegetables tasting off - he has one, it tastes like a cucumber ought to. ]
In the wake of the Sundering, we only encountered disasters or the remnants of disaster. With our creation magics twisted, most...conveniences we were used to were long since obliterated or fallen to ruin.
[ But not here, not now. Lacking creation magics, the vast majority of the damage came from falling to despair itself, and instead of endless horrors, the only thing he feels is the incredulity of stepping out into rolling fields, a farm mostly undisturbed by the nightmare outside.
After a moment of consideration, he cleans his hands with a handkerchief and then lifts an arm, snapping sharp in the quiet around them and the scene falls into place like a curtain falling. He is not so foolish to take Viktor there and risk him, especially not after this but to add the illusion atop where they sit on the hill is a thoughtless bit of magic. Farmland and a little home nestled in the center, animals roaming about. The fence, fixed. ]
You would never know all that has happened to look at it. I hope that gives you some measure of peace when you think of those who asked us to leave them behind.
At least now he can turn his attention to eating now that he's assembled his series of platters, giving plenty of choice when it comes to what to eat first. Viktor, thankfully, is not a picky child unwilling to take the potion to heal their scraped knee. There are no complaints about the vegetables tasting off - he has one, it tastes like a cucumber ought to. ]
In the wake of the Sundering, we only encountered disasters or the remnants of disaster. With our creation magics twisted, most...conveniences we were used to were long since obliterated or fallen to ruin.
[ But not here, not now. Lacking creation magics, the vast majority of the damage came from falling to despair itself, and instead of endless horrors, the only thing he feels is the incredulity of stepping out into rolling fields, a farm mostly undisturbed by the nightmare outside.
After a moment of consideration, he cleans his hands with a handkerchief and then lifts an arm, snapping sharp in the quiet around them and the scene falls into place like a curtain falling. He is not so foolish to take Viktor there and risk him, especially not after this but to add the illusion atop where they sit on the hill is a thoughtless bit of magic. Farmland and a little home nestled in the center, animals roaming about. The fence, fixed. ]
You would never know all that has happened to look at it. I hope that gives you some measure of peace when you think of those who asked us to leave them behind.
Aye, a third. I am not a c-cruel adjucator.
[ The water sloshes as he shrugs. And the smile he offers up in exchange for the name is bright and pleased, unburdened by the weight of the day. The first genuine show of sunlight since they'd arrived on this icy reflection of home. Wildly gratifying, to have earned his answer. He can admit as much to himself.
Even better, to be touched, explored by calloused fingers. All that scholar's focus devoted to the study of skin and muscle, intoxicating. Emet-Selch's hand skirts up his leg, fingertips finding each slope and curve of sinew, glancing off his thigh as they pass up and over his knee, and Viktor does not bother to stop himself from shivering. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the motion, each pass kindling for the fire Viktor is increasingly disinterested in keeping banked low.
Oh, to know all the little details. All the people who have mattered to Hades. But. More pressing is this: to be the sole focus of all that ages old, heavy attention, to be such a distraction that a man who has seen all life has to offer cannot even pretend he wants to keep his hands to himself. Viktor relishes being as precious, as interesting, as the books and reports and odds and ends Emet-Selch is ever poring over, and tries not to pout too plainly when the study session comes to an end.
He opens one eye when Emet-Selch rises, spies the jagged outline of mottled flesh interrupting otherwise flawless skin, and decides it is his turn to learn. With his own hands now free, he does not hesitate to press greedy fingers to skin. Admiring his own handiwork, he thinks wryly, tracing the outline enjoying the warmth of the body beneath his palms. He resists pressing his mouth to skin as well, but only just. ]
Our spring home. [ He repeats, breathing in herbs and flowers. Familiar. It reminds him of his own clothes, his blankets, the inside of his pack. ] Where we will spend a few weeks when it is still miserably cold across Eorzea. Big, open windows, and a v-view of the sea. A little garden and a workshop for all your projects. Mm. [ His fingertips wander to trace the slope of Emet-Selch's waist, not grasping, just mapping his form. ] As for Vrtra, I think you underestimate how readily the people, even dragons, will forgive one who has d-done right by them.
[ He does not doubt it will be difficult, presenting the truth of things to the star. But, it will be worth it, to fight for Hades's place in this world they will have made. Perhaps, for a time, that will be his cause - illuminating all the ways in which Hades belongs, both to the people, and to the man, himself.
Emet-Selch settles back into the bath, guiding Viktor's leg where he wants it, and Viktor takes a few seconds to consider the feel of so much soap-that-is-not-soap set in his hair. He lifts a hand, lights fingers on the sticky substance run through his curls, and pulls a dubious face. Though it feels odd, the smell is nice, and he would endure the torment of sitting and waiting again if it meant Emet-Selch might slide fingers through his hair, working through tangles with a surgeon's gentle precision and shaping curls like an artist. ]
Mint. [ He murmurs, sliding a little closer, slow, testing the distance. How close can he press, before they find the new line? ] Crisp, cooling, green. Unignorable. A good scent for c-clearing one's head. Lucilia... had some good ideas. But I have better ones.
[ Like how to spend the next few minutes, waiting for this new fragrant gunk in his hair to set. Viktor tangles damp fingers in Emet-Selch's hair. ]
Kiss me.
[ The water sloshes as he shrugs. And the smile he offers up in exchange for the name is bright and pleased, unburdened by the weight of the day. The first genuine show of sunlight since they'd arrived on this icy reflection of home. Wildly gratifying, to have earned his answer. He can admit as much to himself.
Even better, to be touched, explored by calloused fingers. All that scholar's focus devoted to the study of skin and muscle, intoxicating. Emet-Selch's hand skirts up his leg, fingertips finding each slope and curve of sinew, glancing off his thigh as they pass up and over his knee, and Viktor does not bother to stop himself from shivering. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the motion, each pass kindling for the fire Viktor is increasingly disinterested in keeping banked low.
Oh, to know all the little details. All the people who have mattered to Hades. But. More pressing is this: to be the sole focus of all that ages old, heavy attention, to be such a distraction that a man who has seen all life has to offer cannot even pretend he wants to keep his hands to himself. Viktor relishes being as precious, as interesting, as the books and reports and odds and ends Emet-Selch is ever poring over, and tries not to pout too plainly when the study session comes to an end.
He opens one eye when Emet-Selch rises, spies the jagged outline of mottled flesh interrupting otherwise flawless skin, and decides it is his turn to learn. With his own hands now free, he does not hesitate to press greedy fingers to skin. Admiring his own handiwork, he thinks wryly, tracing the outline enjoying the warmth of the body beneath his palms. He resists pressing his mouth to skin as well, but only just. ]
Our spring home. [ He repeats, breathing in herbs and flowers. Familiar. It reminds him of his own clothes, his blankets, the inside of his pack. ] Where we will spend a few weeks when it is still miserably cold across Eorzea. Big, open windows, and a v-view of the sea. A little garden and a workshop for all your projects. Mm. [ His fingertips wander to trace the slope of Emet-Selch's waist, not grasping, just mapping his form. ] As for Vrtra, I think you underestimate how readily the people, even dragons, will forgive one who has d-done right by them.
[ He does not doubt it will be difficult, presenting the truth of things to the star. But, it will be worth it, to fight for Hades's place in this world they will have made. Perhaps, for a time, that will be his cause - illuminating all the ways in which Hades belongs, both to the people, and to the man, himself.
Emet-Selch settles back into the bath, guiding Viktor's leg where he wants it, and Viktor takes a few seconds to consider the feel of so much soap-that-is-not-soap set in his hair. He lifts a hand, lights fingers on the sticky substance run through his curls, and pulls a dubious face. Though it feels odd, the smell is nice, and he would endure the torment of sitting and waiting again if it meant Emet-Selch might slide fingers through his hair, working through tangles with a surgeon's gentle precision and shaping curls like an artist. ]
Mint. [ He murmurs, sliding a little closer, slow, testing the distance. How close can he press, before they find the new line? ] Crisp, cooling, green. Unignorable. A good scent for c-clearing one's head. Lucilia... had some good ideas. But I have better ones.
[ Like how to spend the next few minutes, waiting for this new fragrant gunk in his hair to set. Viktor tangles damp fingers in Emet-Selch's hair. ]
Kiss me.
[ He wants to point out that maybe, some of Viktor's life would be easier if he were more cruel, if he did not bend so easily to give grace to those who did not deserve it, including himself.
He doesn't, cognizant enough to recognize that is a losing battle. Why would he, when Viktor has reached out and is touching him like he's something precious, tracing the line where mottled flesh sits upon his chest so gently it is almost difficult to imagine those same hands enacting the (somewhat deserved) violence in the first place. Against his will, his skin prickles, goosebumps rising in response to the chill and Viktor's careful exploration. ]
I think that may be true for those who've committed what they might consider less...contentious crimes. For this... [ This is not the conversation they want to have here, now, Emet-Selch thinks. There is too much to go over. There are too many moving parts, too much to consider. They would want punishment. There would be those who would push for a penalty of some kind - he could pay any bill that came due if they assessed what he 'owed' as a monetary cost, easily. They could put him to death, but it would not take, and he has watched this play out too many times not to know what comes next. Those who realized and understood his nature would fall into two groups, maybe three. Ones who deemed him too powerful to exist, and would seek to add limitations, if not outright lock him up in perpetuity. Those who would attempt to shackle his abilities. And worst: those who would disregard the past and focus only on the fact he is, to them, a godlike being. One immune to illness, to death, who has lived countless lifetimes.
The Word of Emet-Selch could be exhausting enough. He did not like to think about what a cult would look like. ]
We shall see, I suppose. No sense borrowing trouble where there is not any yet.
[ If they survive, and if the dragons and those they've left have survived, it would be worthwhile for him to make a visit to Vrtra at the very least. Largely, he'd left the dragons alone out of respect for them, but there were plenty of pies with his fingers in them that had caused them no small bit of hardship. Emet-Selch would understand if the dragons' long memory was not so easily sated with an apology.
Distracted, he nearly misses the shift of Viktor inching closer, the slosh of the water drawing his attention back to the present, focusing on Viktor rather than a thousand malms away, trying to plot and plan. Obedient, Emet-Selch leans in just enough to press a lingering kiss against the inside of Viktor's wrist where his pulse beats beneath thin, soft skin. Another, careful not to jostle Viktor's hand from his damp hair, cheek pressed against Viktor's arm as he obeys the command, looking up at him through the fringe of displaced hair with a little smirk. ]
Would you care to be more specific in your instruction?
He doesn't, cognizant enough to recognize that is a losing battle. Why would he, when Viktor has reached out and is touching him like he's something precious, tracing the line where mottled flesh sits upon his chest so gently it is almost difficult to imagine those same hands enacting the (somewhat deserved) violence in the first place. Against his will, his skin prickles, goosebumps rising in response to the chill and Viktor's careful exploration. ]
I think that may be true for those who've committed what they might consider less...contentious crimes. For this... [ This is not the conversation they want to have here, now, Emet-Selch thinks. There is too much to go over. There are too many moving parts, too much to consider. They would want punishment. There would be those who would push for a penalty of some kind - he could pay any bill that came due if they assessed what he 'owed' as a monetary cost, easily. They could put him to death, but it would not take, and he has watched this play out too many times not to know what comes next. Those who realized and understood his nature would fall into two groups, maybe three. Ones who deemed him too powerful to exist, and would seek to add limitations, if not outright lock him up in perpetuity. Those who would attempt to shackle his abilities. And worst: those who would disregard the past and focus only on the fact he is, to them, a godlike being. One immune to illness, to death, who has lived countless lifetimes.
The Word of Emet-Selch could be exhausting enough. He did not like to think about what a cult would look like. ]
We shall see, I suppose. No sense borrowing trouble where there is not any yet.
[ If they survive, and if the dragons and those they've left have survived, it would be worthwhile for him to make a visit to Vrtra at the very least. Largely, he'd left the dragons alone out of respect for them, but there were plenty of pies with his fingers in them that had caused them no small bit of hardship. Emet-Selch would understand if the dragons' long memory was not so easily sated with an apology.
Distracted, he nearly misses the shift of Viktor inching closer, the slosh of the water drawing his attention back to the present, focusing on Viktor rather than a thousand malms away, trying to plot and plan. Obedient, Emet-Selch leans in just enough to press a lingering kiss against the inside of Viktor's wrist where his pulse beats beneath thin, soft skin. Another, careful not to jostle Viktor's hand from his damp hair, cheek pressed against Viktor's arm as he obeys the command, looking up at him through the fringe of displaced hair with a little smirk. ]
Would you care to be more specific in your instruction?
[ Viktor takes in the change with no small amount of awe. Emet-Selch's quick illusions are nothing new. The man regularly works miracles every day, but Viktor always manages to find a way to glimpse them from unusual angles, ever spotting new things to be impressed by. Here, it's the way the brilliant amethyst of Lakeland vanishes under the curtain of an unfamiliar landscape. He turns this way and that, taking in the scene. Lifts a hand and lights fingers on the threads of spell work settled over them, letting the image ripple like the surface of clear water. ]
It looks- it looks no different than any odd morning.
[ Not at all as Amaurot had seemed, in Emet-Selch's approximation of its Final Days. Nor Thavnair and Gridania upon his return from Elpis. The burning skies have not spread this far, wherever this place is, at least. And as long as these pockets of peace persist, they will have something to rebuild from. ]
I-it does. Give me peace, I mean. Those who insisted on staying, some of our strongest, our bravest. That they yet have fertile soil in which to p-plant their sorrows- they will endure, 'til we can bring them a new song. I am sure.
[ Though he longs to stare at this glimpse of his home, whole and almost happy, a bit longer, he does not. He tears his wisteria gaze away from the idyllic landscape and fixes his attention on Emet-Selch, who did not have the luxury of green meadows left in the wake of his paradise lost. Viktor reaches out, settling his palm over one of Emet-Selch's hands. He can think of nothing more to say, no way to convey the strange melancholy he feels, and so he just squeezes his hand. ]
And evidently, their food stores were yet undisturbed as well? [ A slight smile. ] 'Til you came by, of course. You knew of this place ahead of time, then? You didn't just s-stumble upon it?
[ Idly, Viktor reaches back behind himself, finding a far-too-freakishly-large cluster of grapes right away, and plucks them from the vine with a bit of effort. It is harder than he expects, the plant made stronger for his aether, he supposes. He selects a large grape and - Stars, they really are near as big as plums, and examines it. The thing near sings with magic. Not that that has ever stopped him from eating something. He doesn't quite dig in, yet, though. ]
It looks- it looks no different than any odd morning.
[ Not at all as Amaurot had seemed, in Emet-Selch's approximation of its Final Days. Nor Thavnair and Gridania upon his return from Elpis. The burning skies have not spread this far, wherever this place is, at least. And as long as these pockets of peace persist, they will have something to rebuild from. ]
I-it does. Give me peace, I mean. Those who insisted on staying, some of our strongest, our bravest. That they yet have fertile soil in which to p-plant their sorrows- they will endure, 'til we can bring them a new song. I am sure.
[ Though he longs to stare at this glimpse of his home, whole and almost happy, a bit longer, he does not. He tears his wisteria gaze away from the idyllic landscape and fixes his attention on Emet-Selch, who did not have the luxury of green meadows left in the wake of his paradise lost. Viktor reaches out, settling his palm over one of Emet-Selch's hands. He can think of nothing more to say, no way to convey the strange melancholy he feels, and so he just squeezes his hand. ]
And evidently, their food stores were yet undisturbed as well? [ A slight smile. ] 'Til you came by, of course. You knew of this place ahead of time, then? You didn't just s-stumble upon it?
[ Idly, Viktor reaches back behind himself, finding a far-too-freakishly-large cluster of grapes right away, and plucks them from the vine with a bit of effort. It is harder than he expects, the plant made stronger for his aether, he supposes. He selects a large grape and - Stars, they really are near as big as plums, and examines it. The thing near sings with magic. Not that that has ever stopped him from eating something. He doesn't quite dig in, yet, though. ]
[ With nearly any other magics he would not want to manage large scale illusions so soon after, but this is easy enough. Unlike Amaurot, there is no need for the illusion to remain tactile. Viktor skims his fingers across the magic and Emet-Selch nearly shivers, feeling it like the glancing touch of fingers up his spine. ]
You would never know.
[ He isn't sure if it's better or worse to think about the parts of the world that would have survived - what they could have salvaged, had they only known what would follow so soon after. He had committed what many would consider crimes without hesitation. Had Venat sundered the world with such nonchalance? Had it been easy for her, to look at the wreckage of those who had survived a nightmare few weeks and somehow find a way to make everything even worse? Nauseating to consider.
The illusion vanishes with two fingers pinched together, a tug like removing a tablecloth in one fell swoop, and then from the bottom to the top it melts into a cloud of faintly sparkling aether, vanishing before it hits the ground. Perhaps unsurprisingly, bit of it that alight on Viktor flare briefly before blinking out, whereas it manages to drift idly around Emet-Selch like he's holding an invisible umbrella. ]
It looked as if they took what they could manage in their evacuation, or they had perished outside of the farm.
[ Of course Viktor would pick up on the fact that he'd known to go there. Emet-Selch lifts an eyebrow at the question, waiting for him to ask the question behind his question while he digs fingers into a piece of sourdough and breaks it open, choosing a cheese to spread over it with a tiny, decorative knife before drizzling it in honey, too. ]
I may advise against eating that until we understand exactly what was done to it. 'Tis likely consuming it does not harm you, but with my own dark magic already infused within you there's a chance that 'twould be as if you ate a hot coal.
[ He plucks the grape from Viktor's hand before he can say anything about it, and takes a not-cautious-enough bite, crunching through skin into firm flesh. The scent says grape, as does the taste, but the burn is all Light. Not enough to melt the skin on his tongue, or to properly hurt, more akin to a pepper. ]
Hm. Dubious congratulations, but I believe you created a shard's first spicy grape.
You would never know.
[ He isn't sure if it's better or worse to think about the parts of the world that would have survived - what they could have salvaged, had they only known what would follow so soon after. He had committed what many would consider crimes without hesitation. Had Venat sundered the world with such nonchalance? Had it been easy for her, to look at the wreckage of those who had survived a nightmare few weeks and somehow find a way to make everything even worse? Nauseating to consider.
The illusion vanishes with two fingers pinched together, a tug like removing a tablecloth in one fell swoop, and then from the bottom to the top it melts into a cloud of faintly sparkling aether, vanishing before it hits the ground. Perhaps unsurprisingly, bit of it that alight on Viktor flare briefly before blinking out, whereas it manages to drift idly around Emet-Selch like he's holding an invisible umbrella. ]
It looked as if they took what they could manage in their evacuation, or they had perished outside of the farm.
[ Of course Viktor would pick up on the fact that he'd known to go there. Emet-Selch lifts an eyebrow at the question, waiting for him to ask the question behind his question while he digs fingers into a piece of sourdough and breaks it open, choosing a cheese to spread over it with a tiny, decorative knife before drizzling it in honey, too. ]
I may advise against eating that until we understand exactly what was done to it. 'Tis likely consuming it does not harm you, but with my own dark magic already infused within you there's a chance that 'twould be as if you ate a hot coal.
[ He plucks the grape from Viktor's hand before he can say anything about it, and takes a not-cautious-enough bite, crunching through skin into firm flesh. The scent says grape, as does the taste, but the burn is all Light. Not enough to melt the skin on his tongue, or to properly hurt, more akin to a pepper. ]
Hm. Dubious congratulations, but I believe you created a shard's first spicy grape.
[ Wargames, plots, and plans - how busy that mind, making maps of every potential. Had Aepymetes helped him, once upon a time? Run his fingers along the threads that Viktor is still too frightened to touch, guiding his hand toward the best outcomes? He hasn't a clue, and only wishes he were braver, cleverer, so that he might help in some real way - might relieve Emet-Selch of the constant cranking of gears in his head, if only for a little while.
But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ A brand for a brand. ]
But then, in the end, it seems that he's the one caught needing coaxing out of his own head. Emet-Selch manages it with little more than a brush of lips, a kiss that arcs levin up every nerve in Viktor's body. For a few seconds, he's incandescent He shifts, squirms, breathes a faint huff of laughter. ]
You've trouble enough h-here.
[ Mischief plays across Emet-Selch's features, deliciously, boyishly arrogant, and it might as well be a hurricane the way it hits him. Makes maple seeds of Viktor's insides, unsettled, scattered, and spinning. High in his throat, Viktor's breath catches. His fingers flex in Emet-Selch's hair, thumb easing slow circles against his scalp.
No, he thinks to say. No, do with me what you will. Love me as much as you care to. Use me as you'd like. Except-
Except he needn't pretend to be the people's perfect hero, the servant, the steward. He needn't shrink himself to nothing to please someone else. He needn't fear 'no'.
It still takes him a moment, though. His mind all hot fog, a mess of buzzing bees and embers, little ideas, hot to the touch. He spends those seconds staring, admiring the brilliant firefly gleam of Emet-Selch's eyes, the unbearable bend of his mouth. The gods are lost, if they ever existed at all, but stars, that mouth could coax a real prayer from Viktor's lips. Could make him devoted to something, again.
That's what he wants. To worship. To be worshipped. ]
I want you to... press closer. [ Careful, quiet, he speaks, not wanting to stutter. Viktor slides back until his shoulders meet cool stone. And he thinks it's a wonder the ceaseless pounding of his heart does not send ripples across the surface of the water. ] Touch me. Hand starting on my hip. Explore. Kiss me, slow. In a line, up my arm. To my neck. L-linger there- [ Ludicrous, how his voice threatens to crack as he creeps closer to his want, like he's some spring violet, some too eager boy. Emet-Selch asks so little of him. If he wants instruction, it can at least be clear. He stops, takes a breath, and swallows, wetting a mouth gone impossibly dry, grasping the certainty of his hunger.
Fire flickers in his gaze as he looks, considers. Then, low, firm, he adds, ] Linger, 'til you've left a mark.
[ A brand for a brand. ]
[ From illusory countryside to glimmering star shower, Viktor watches with unmasked delight as heatless flickers of candlelight burst and fade on his curls and shoulders. Bright as the sparks filling the air, he laughs, taking in the sight of one landscape melting into another, and then, of Emet-Selch, untouched by falling starlight of his own make.
Such a far cry from his phantom Amaurot, from the burning purgatory of his illusory Final Days. Not lingering long in despair, not revolted by the comparable calm of Venat's sundered world - finding hope, and bringing it forth. This is far from the first time Viktor has noticed the subtle shift in Emet-Selch, but looking upon him now, surrounded as he is by blinking fireflies of magic, Viktor feels a little like he's swallowed the sun. An impossibly incandescent feeling clinging warmth to his ribs and all beneath them.
Soft, too baldly adoring, he says, ] You are a marvel.
[ Viktor turns his head, scrubs the back of his wrist across his cheeks, like it might rub away some of the shine he feels on them. Emet-Selch plucks the grape from his hand in the meantime, and when he looks up again, it's with a heatless scowl - appalled that he's doing exactly what he told Viktor not to right away. ]
Spicy? [ Heedless of the warning, Viktor selects another grape and stuffs it in his mouth before he can be scolded - shamelessly fast as a dog that's managed to get in the rubbish bin. For his efforts, he's greeted with the faint taste of his lilies - immediately stomach-turning - and he grimaces and spits it out immediately with a loud, blech.
One eye squinted shut, he tries to ignore the lingering tingle of Light. ]
How did you come to- [ He pauses, looks at the cluster of grapes in his hand, considering. ] Hold on. Watch this.
[ Viktor selects another grape, tosses it in his palm to test the weight, and then lobs it, hard and far as he can, toward the ruins below. It's not quite as impressive a throw as it could be, his strength still returning, but it's far enough. The silver-purple sphere arcs high, glittering in the afternoon sun, and Viktor extends his arm, holding his hand like a pistol.
As the too-large grape plummets, Viktor pantomimes firing, coaxing aether as he does, finding thread and unraveling it. The grape unfurls, all silver and sepia aether, a flower turned firework in the air. Viktor cackles, thrilled that his little trick had worked.
He turns his attention back to Emet-Selch, looking satisfied. ] -How did you come to know of that farm. I did not even recognize the l-landscape?
Such a far cry from his phantom Amaurot, from the burning purgatory of his illusory Final Days. Not lingering long in despair, not revolted by the comparable calm of Venat's sundered world - finding hope, and bringing it forth. This is far from the first time Viktor has noticed the subtle shift in Emet-Selch, but looking upon him now, surrounded as he is by blinking fireflies of magic, Viktor feels a little like he's swallowed the sun. An impossibly incandescent feeling clinging warmth to his ribs and all beneath them.
Soft, too baldly adoring, he says, ] You are a marvel.
[ Viktor turns his head, scrubs the back of his wrist across his cheeks, like it might rub away some of the shine he feels on them. Emet-Selch plucks the grape from his hand in the meantime, and when he looks up again, it's with a heatless scowl - appalled that he's doing exactly what he told Viktor not to right away. ]
Spicy? [ Heedless of the warning, Viktor selects another grape and stuffs it in his mouth before he can be scolded - shamelessly fast as a dog that's managed to get in the rubbish bin. For his efforts, he's greeted with the faint taste of his lilies - immediately stomach-turning - and he grimaces and spits it out immediately with a loud, blech.
One eye squinted shut, he tries to ignore the lingering tingle of Light. ]
How did you come to- [ He pauses, looks at the cluster of grapes in his hand, considering. ] Hold on. Watch this.
[ Viktor selects another grape, tosses it in his palm to test the weight, and then lobs it, hard and far as he can, toward the ruins below. It's not quite as impressive a throw as it could be, his strength still returning, but it's far enough. The silver-purple sphere arcs high, glittering in the afternoon sun, and Viktor extends his arm, holding his hand like a pistol.
As the too-large grape plummets, Viktor pantomimes firing, coaxing aether as he does, finding thread and unraveling it. The grape unfurls, all silver and sepia aether, a flower turned firework in the air. Viktor cackles, thrilled that his little trick had worked.
He turns his attention back to Emet-Selch, looking satisfied. ] -How did you come to know of that farm. I did not even recognize the l-landscape?
[ He doesn't quite jump at the comment, but his back stiffens a little, shoulders squaring, not expecting the attention, the warmth in Viktor's voice at his observation. A marvel seems like he's slightly overselling it. He hasn't done anything particularly of note, but then he supposes any bit of fanciful magic must be made all the more striking given the fact that Viktor hasn't seen him perform acts like this for the simple pleasure of creating. ]
You, my dear, are biased in the worst way.
[ Try as he might, he cannot quite muster the haughty tone he wishes for, instead finding himself embarrassed in the oddest way at unmerited compliments, even if the giver is effusive with his praise. Blessedly, distraction comes in the form of Viktor eating one of the ridiculously large grapes, spitting it out near as soon as he does. Emet-Selch watches with vague amusement, vanishing the one he had taken a bite from into nothing but a flicker of aether, cleaning his fingers of juice with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket while Viktor does his magic trick.
It is, he thinks, rather impressive. That much fine detail work while an item is moving is no small feat, and Viktor executes it so easily after very nearly dying. To do so is not a large spend of his aether, but there's a part of Emet-Selch he has to swallow down that wants to stop him, a horrible kernel of fear that he has overestimated Viktor's ability to withstand a drain on his power.
A needless worry - the grape unfurls like a flower blooming in impossible colors and Emet-Selch releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when Viktor turns his attention back, all bright laughter and satisfaction at his little trick. ]
I will thank you to keep your little tricks to a minimum until you've had at least a proper night of sleep, ideally two, and a proper meal.
[ As to the question, Emet-Selch fixes himself another little plate of treats, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
What is your theory of how I came to know it?
You, my dear, are biased in the worst way.
[ Try as he might, he cannot quite muster the haughty tone he wishes for, instead finding himself embarrassed in the oddest way at unmerited compliments, even if the giver is effusive with his praise. Blessedly, distraction comes in the form of Viktor eating one of the ridiculously large grapes, spitting it out near as soon as he does. Emet-Selch watches with vague amusement, vanishing the one he had taken a bite from into nothing but a flicker of aether, cleaning his fingers of juice with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket while Viktor does his magic trick.
It is, he thinks, rather impressive. That much fine detail work while an item is moving is no small feat, and Viktor executes it so easily after very nearly dying. To do so is not a large spend of his aether, but there's a part of Emet-Selch he has to swallow down that wants to stop him, a horrible kernel of fear that he has overestimated Viktor's ability to withstand a drain on his power.
A needless worry - the grape unfurls like a flower blooming in impossible colors and Emet-Selch releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when Viktor turns his attention back, all bright laughter and satisfaction at his little trick. ]
I will thank you to keep your little tricks to a minimum until you've had at least a proper night of sleep, ideally two, and a proper meal.
[ As to the question, Emet-Selch fixes himself another little plate of treats, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
What is your theory of how I came to know it?
[ Is he biased or the best judge? Has he not watched, witnessed, felt, across years, across lifetimes, this slow swing from despair and duty to hope? A marvel, a miracle, to see the man who had been Solus zos Galvus become this, not merely a force for good, but a man who allows himself the indulgence of play. Viktor does not argue Emet-Selch's assertion, only answers with a smile, and thinks to himself that the sudden set of his shoulders calls to mind that bird of his, feathers ruffled.
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
A lap full of it, one might say.
[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
[ Emet-Selch tilts his head into the press of Viktor's hand, thinking for a moment the action is not too unlike a dog attempting to incentivize further pets, but he discards that thought just as quickly. Does it matter? Is he not allowed the indulgence here, of all places?
For a long, syrupy slow moment, they simply look at each other. Viktor stares like he sees something worth studying at length, and Emet-Selch finds that he is not so inclined to recoil back from being perceived. A shard dares to look at him with anything other than deferential awe, and instead of irritation, he basks in the warmth like the sun's rays. ]
One of these days, when we are back on the First, I will make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor slides back, gives him a full canvas to work from as he stretches out in the bath and slowly, careful of sloshing water over the edges of the bath, Emet-Selch prowls after him and obeys instruction. He settles on his knees between Viktor's parted thighs, curving a hand around Viktor's wrist to bring his hand close, brushing a cursory kiss over damp knuckles while his other hand plants itself upon Viktor's hip.
A laugh steals from him at the way Viktor's voice goes unsteady with want, but it is not mean, it is low, satisfied. Smug, that he wrests this much of a reaction from the other man at the barest hint of attention, unbearably pleased. He lavishes too much attention on Viktor's hand, perhaps, finally moving onward to brush a kiss where he had earlier against the inside of his wrist. Higher, until he is forced to scoot forward a little gracelessly to continue obeying, kissing slowly along the swell of lean muscle to his shoulder, pressing his face into the curve of Viktor's throat for a moment with a sigh. His other hand strokes up and down his flank gently, making a map of him once again, skimming down to graze the jut of a hip and then up over his belly with enough firm intent he hopes it does not threaten to tickle. Viktor takes an intentional breath, and Emet-Selch pauses to allow him it, caught up in the scent of soap and conditioner and, underneath everything, the familiar scent of him. ]
An impermanent one, regrettably. [ Emet-Selch murmurs, and presses lingering kisses until he reaches roughly where his collar sits. A pause, and then he retreats briefly to eye the graceful line of Viktor's throat, where he can remember the collar of most of his clothing sitting, and then leans in to smear a line of kisses up to the right spot. Gentle at first, and then intent, raising blood up with teeth and tongue until when he leans back to admire his work there is an undeniable mark there, where anyone could see regardless of nearly any shirt Viktor has brought.
There are jackets they wear, of course, which will hide most of his attentions, but they do not wear thick, heavy jackets within the court and something awful and possessive stirs in him to think of those wandering eyes settled upon Viktor, knowing the marks left there are not their own. He repeats the process once satisfied with the sight, the hand at his waist dipping down to the small of his back to adjust him incrementally, fitting his thighs beneath Viktor's so he's tilted back against the wall, boxed in. A haphazard series of flushing bruises dot Viktor's throat by the time he's finally satisfied, pulling back with a smug little tilt to his lips. ]
Nothing but what you ask for, hero. What would you have of me next?
At least.
[ He's eating between his complains, so Emet-Selch leave that alone for the time being, feeling marginally more like himself the more he replenishes his own aether, a little less jarred by the whole experience. He'll remember the chill of Viktor's skin for far too long, but at least the thought is easier to compartmentalize. ]
Two and a half generations.
[ The problem with asking what Viktor thought about the story is that now, he has to figure out how to tell it. The issue with that is the same with any bit of his prior history being revealed, Viktor sees more than Emet-Selch ever intends to lay bare. He'd gotten himself into this by showing any aspect of it, though, the same as when he'd invited Viktor to Amaurot, inviting his own demise. ]
When Garlean war dogs are too old to fight on the frontlines, they are retired. Some go to the houses of those who were responsible for them. For those who do not, Garlemald had a series of contracts to sell the dogs at a discounted rate to farms, or households. Well-trained creatures may not have had a place on the battlefield any longer, but they could ward off bandits and the like.
[ He hadn't spotted any of the dogs on the latest trip, and assumed with the crumbling of Garlemald and the war itself, most of those more obscure trade deals had fallen to the wayside. ]
When a vendor could not pay in coin or jewels, and if they produced something of value, we would accept like payment. Garlemald's weather was far too inhospitable for farms.
[ And so, they traded and reappropriated when the trade was insufficient - or if the material was valuable. Emet-Selch does not think it necessary to elaborate to that extent. When he allowed Solus to pass, so too did he arrange for his belongings to be reappropriated, and the ancient, scarred wardog that looked as old as Emet-Selch felt, had been given to this farm. He had enjoyed their cheese quite a bit, and the farm was far enough away that no one would question why they would have a gift of Garlean favor on their farm. ]
[ He's eating between his complains, so Emet-Selch leave that alone for the time being, feeling marginally more like himself the more he replenishes his own aether, a little less jarred by the whole experience. He'll remember the chill of Viktor's skin for far too long, but at least the thought is easier to compartmentalize. ]
Two and a half generations.
[ The problem with asking what Viktor thought about the story is that now, he has to figure out how to tell it. The issue with that is the same with any bit of his prior history being revealed, Viktor sees more than Emet-Selch ever intends to lay bare. He'd gotten himself into this by showing any aspect of it, though, the same as when he'd invited Viktor to Amaurot, inviting his own demise. ]
When Garlean war dogs are too old to fight on the frontlines, they are retired. Some go to the houses of those who were responsible for them. For those who do not, Garlemald had a series of contracts to sell the dogs at a discounted rate to farms, or households. Well-trained creatures may not have had a place on the battlefield any longer, but they could ward off bandits and the like.
[ He hadn't spotted any of the dogs on the latest trip, and assumed with the crumbling of Garlemald and the war itself, most of those more obscure trade deals had fallen to the wayside. ]
When a vendor could not pay in coin or jewels, and if they produced something of value, we would accept like payment. Garlemald's weather was far too inhospitable for farms.
[ And so, they traded and reappropriated when the trade was insufficient - or if the material was valuable. Emet-Selch does not think it necessary to elaborate to that extent. When he allowed Solus to pass, so too did he arrange for his belongings to be reappropriated, and the ancient, scarred wardog that looked as old as Emet-Selch felt, had been given to this farm. He had enjoyed their cheese quite a bit, and the farm was far enough away that no one would question why they would have a gift of Garlean favor on their farm. ]
Edited 2024-10-26 21:41 (UTC)
One of these days... [ He echoes, watching hungrily as Hades climbs closer, working from wrist to shoulder with devoted focus. Slow, reverent, as instructed, coaxing more heat to already bath-warmed skin. Viktor welcomes him in with an outstretched arm, grasping his waist, fingers tapping an urgent, meandering rhythm. ]
We will find the time. And the means-
[ His muscles twitch, palm at Hades waist squeezing. A sharp hitch of breath, then a softer laugh, as Hades presses fingers to his stomach. It is indeed ticklish, gone too long without touch, made newly sensitive. But he does not let it interrupt their work. Hades has a task to complete, after all, and Viktor laces fingers back into his hair, guiding, encouraging. He smiles. ]
-And a place for you to rob me of sense on every reflection. Oh.
[ Viktor lets his head loll back, shuts his eyes as Emet-Selch's teeth graze the point where his pulse roars. ]
G-good. Like that. [ He whispers, dragging fingers through his hair, the movement insistent, and not quite gentle. A match for the sweet prickle of bruising skin.
An impermanent mark, perhaps, but hadn't Hades staked his claim more than a year ago? He may not have had a direct hand in filling Viktor with Light, may not have cultivated the flowers that now sprout from his skin, but it was he who made them permanent. Dark brought to bear against Light, preserving his soul, pressing it to right shape, the way he now presses lilies between the pages of his books. Claimed and kept. And now, while they are here, all who care to look will see what Viktor knows, feels: that he belongs to Emet-Selch, is his, has always been.
A soft hum of pleasure hikes to a wanting whine when Hades pulls him up and into his lap. Heedless of the mess they might make, Viktor wraps his legs around Hades's waist. Water sloshes up and over the sides of the tub, splattering on the stone floor, and Viktor chuckles again, low and pleased. Another bruise, and another — always above and beyond with Hades. Ever eager.
Viktor does not open his eyes until Hades had pulled away, squeezing hair and hip in protest, but even then it takes him a moment, breath shallow and face flushed. He embraces the high, hot, heady feeling that arcs up from the dip between his thighs to every nerve in his body. The roar of his pulse somehow grows fiercer when he opens his eyes, realizes that he's surrounded. ]
Closer. [ He breathes, almost pleading. ] Press against me. I want to f-feel how I excite you.
[ Dimly, he's always been aware of how much taller, broader, bigger Hades is, but sat in his lap, with nothing separating slick skin save soapy water, the difference is newly intoxicating. Made near unbearable, knowing that Hades intends not to fight, to wrestle for control, but to obey.
Viktor licks his lips, stealing composure between thundering thumps of his heartbeat. He stares, lips parted, wisteria eyes fixed with hungry, animal focus. ]
You are fond of my hands, aren't you?
[ Voice dark, sweet and slow as pomegranate molasses, Viktor puts to words what he has known for quite some time. Proof glimpsed in sketchbook pages, in the fall of Hades's gaze when Viktor works Creation, in how his attention lingers on knuckles, on palms, on wrists. ]
And I do l-love that gorgeous mouth.
[ Viktor lifts a hand, not quite touching fingertips to the soft swell of Hades's lower lip. Wanting to indulge, but holding himself back. Wanting, more, for Hades to indulge, himself. He waits, one second, two, listening to the rhythm of their matched breaths, realizing that Hades truly does intend to make him ask, to coax his want, always so hidden away as to nearly go forgotten, from him. Water beads at his wrist, falls in a fat drop, and the sound as it hits the bath beneath feels almost deafening. ]
Lick them. Kiss them. Sh-show me- show me how much you like them.
We will find the time. And the means-
[ His muscles twitch, palm at Hades waist squeezing. A sharp hitch of breath, then a softer laugh, as Hades presses fingers to his stomach. It is indeed ticklish, gone too long without touch, made newly sensitive. But he does not let it interrupt their work. Hades has a task to complete, after all, and Viktor laces fingers back into his hair, guiding, encouraging. He smiles. ]
-And a place for you to rob me of sense on every reflection. Oh.
[ Viktor lets his head loll back, shuts his eyes as Emet-Selch's teeth graze the point where his pulse roars. ]
G-good. Like that. [ He whispers, dragging fingers through his hair, the movement insistent, and not quite gentle. A match for the sweet prickle of bruising skin.
An impermanent mark, perhaps, but hadn't Hades staked his claim more than a year ago? He may not have had a direct hand in filling Viktor with Light, may not have cultivated the flowers that now sprout from his skin, but it was he who made them permanent. Dark brought to bear against Light, preserving his soul, pressing it to right shape, the way he now presses lilies between the pages of his books. Claimed and kept. And now, while they are here, all who care to look will see what Viktor knows, feels: that he belongs to Emet-Selch, is his, has always been.
A soft hum of pleasure hikes to a wanting whine when Hades pulls him up and into his lap. Heedless of the mess they might make, Viktor wraps his legs around Hades's waist. Water sloshes up and over the sides of the tub, splattering on the stone floor, and Viktor chuckles again, low and pleased. Another bruise, and another — always above and beyond with Hades. Ever eager.
Viktor does not open his eyes until Hades had pulled away, squeezing hair and hip in protest, but even then it takes him a moment, breath shallow and face flushed. He embraces the high, hot, heady feeling that arcs up from the dip between his thighs to every nerve in his body. The roar of his pulse somehow grows fiercer when he opens his eyes, realizes that he's surrounded. ]
Closer. [ He breathes, almost pleading. ] Press against me. I want to f-feel how I excite you.
[ Dimly, he's always been aware of how much taller, broader, bigger Hades is, but sat in his lap, with nothing separating slick skin save soapy water, the difference is newly intoxicating. Made near unbearable, knowing that Hades intends not to fight, to wrestle for control, but to obey.
Viktor licks his lips, stealing composure between thundering thumps of his heartbeat. He stares, lips parted, wisteria eyes fixed with hungry, animal focus. ]
You are fond of my hands, aren't you?
[ Voice dark, sweet and slow as pomegranate molasses, Viktor puts to words what he has known for quite some time. Proof glimpsed in sketchbook pages, in the fall of Hades's gaze when Viktor works Creation, in how his attention lingers on knuckles, on palms, on wrists. ]
And I do l-love that gorgeous mouth.
[ Viktor lifts a hand, not quite touching fingertips to the soft swell of Hades's lower lip. Wanting to indulge, but holding himself back. Wanting, more, for Hades to indulge, himself. He waits, one second, two, listening to the rhythm of their matched breaths, realizing that Hades truly does intend to make him ask, to coax his want, always so hidden away as to nearly go forgotten, from him. Water beads at his wrist, falls in a fat drop, and the sound as it hits the bath beneath feels almost deafening. ]
Lick them. Kiss them. Sh-show me- show me how much you like them.
[ They are prohibited from creating creatures with souls, to say nothing of how functionally difficult such a task would be. He thinks he could. His unintentional act of creating Hythlodaeus- shade or not - was a bit of creation that had sprouted a little too much, a little too far. Maybe his heart hadn't been truly in it, or the guilt had been too strong, though, because Hythlodaeus had been insubstantial compared to the rest of the city, smoke and mirrors; Emet-Selch tried, tries not to think of that, too, as another on the list of his many failures.
Why it was not allowed doesn't matter; in this moment Emet-Selch is painfully aware he could not hope to adequately recreate this: the way Viktor's breath hitches, the exact curve of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the exact warmth of his skin. All of it would be inadequate, no matter how precisely he tried to recreate.
Viktor's hand works through his hair, firm and insistent, and Emet-Selch swallows against the visualization of Viktor winding it around his hand, tugging him firmly where he'd like Emet-Selch to go. Water sloshes and Emet-Selch pauses an instant before reminding himself they're not somewhere that he has to care about the mess they make, necessarily. There's no wooden floorboards of a loft to leak through, threatening to ruin books. There's nothing but cold stone beneath the warmth of the bath.
Viktor requests; Emet-Selch obeys. He brackets Viktor in against the wall of the bath, dares to press as much of himself against the other man as he is able, and thinks ridiculously of wishing to consume him, to keep him safe the same way Zodiark had their people for millennia.
Perhaps the most frustrating part is that his body does not wish to cooperate fully even here; he's hard, has been partially hard since Viktor first stepped in the room and began disrobing, since potentiality became reality. He doesn't expect the unpleasant addition of nerves, though, the flicker of guilt at distraction, at not being able to fulfill Viktor's simple ask. The sensation of bare, wet skin against equally bare, wet skin is not, could not be unpleasant, and he savors it, pressing a hand against the spot between Viktor's shoulderblades to prevent him from scraping his back when Emet-Selch hefts him and adjusts the both of them more comfortably. ]
Is it so obvious?
[ Mortification isn't quite the right word, but there's the faintest hint of embarrassment at being so painfully transparent. He is fond of Viktor's hands, terribly so, but he'd hoped that would be something he'd keep to himself, foolishly. Now, Viktor's given word to the sensation, made it more real and Emet-Selch does not deny the observation.
Worse, better, he doesn't know, is the fact that Viktor gives instructions after the long, stretched out moment of silence between them. A dog, he thinks, and then amends the thought. A worshiper, at an altar. Neither thought does anything to quell the heat pooling in his belly; instead, he finds it acts as breath to a fledgling flame, coaxing it hotter.
With the same attention he'd spent lavishing on Viktor's throat, Emet-Selch takes the outstretched hand with an almost courtly gesture and presses a kiss against his palm, lingering. Another to each fingertip, chasing soapy droplets with his tongue, not overly minding the faintly salty bath tinged sour with soaps and shampoo. Feeling only faintly ridiculous, he presses his face into the outstretched hand, another kiss against the palm and then laves his tongue across index and middle finger, thinking again about consumption, about winding, weaving Viktor into himself so inextricably no one could hope to part them. He licks water droplets from his fingers and then sucks, eyes sliding shut, the hand not grasping Viktor's wrist plotting an idle path up his belly, sweeping up over his chest to graze a thumb against a nipple, nipping at the fingers lightly on the withdraw to catch a breath, to look at Viktor again. ]
I could do naught but watch them while you work and be remarkably close to content.
Why it was not allowed doesn't matter; in this moment Emet-Selch is painfully aware he could not hope to adequately recreate this: the way Viktor's breath hitches, the exact curve of his smile, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the exact warmth of his skin. All of it would be inadequate, no matter how precisely he tried to recreate.
Viktor's hand works through his hair, firm and insistent, and Emet-Selch swallows against the visualization of Viktor winding it around his hand, tugging him firmly where he'd like Emet-Selch to go. Water sloshes and Emet-Selch pauses an instant before reminding himself they're not somewhere that he has to care about the mess they make, necessarily. There's no wooden floorboards of a loft to leak through, threatening to ruin books. There's nothing but cold stone beneath the warmth of the bath.
Viktor requests; Emet-Selch obeys. He brackets Viktor in against the wall of the bath, dares to press as much of himself against the other man as he is able, and thinks ridiculously of wishing to consume him, to keep him safe the same way Zodiark had their people for millennia.
Perhaps the most frustrating part is that his body does not wish to cooperate fully even here; he's hard, has been partially hard since Viktor first stepped in the room and began disrobing, since potentiality became reality. He doesn't expect the unpleasant addition of nerves, though, the flicker of guilt at distraction, at not being able to fulfill Viktor's simple ask. The sensation of bare, wet skin against equally bare, wet skin is not, could not be unpleasant, and he savors it, pressing a hand against the spot between Viktor's shoulderblades to prevent him from scraping his back when Emet-Selch hefts him and adjusts the both of them more comfortably. ]
Is it so obvious?
[ Mortification isn't quite the right word, but there's the faintest hint of embarrassment at being so painfully transparent. He is fond of Viktor's hands, terribly so, but he'd hoped that would be something he'd keep to himself, foolishly. Now, Viktor's given word to the sensation, made it more real and Emet-Selch does not deny the observation.
Worse, better, he doesn't know, is the fact that Viktor gives instructions after the long, stretched out moment of silence between them. A dog, he thinks, and then amends the thought. A worshiper, at an altar. Neither thought does anything to quell the heat pooling in his belly; instead, he finds it acts as breath to a fledgling flame, coaxing it hotter.
With the same attention he'd spent lavishing on Viktor's throat, Emet-Selch takes the outstretched hand with an almost courtly gesture and presses a kiss against his palm, lingering. Another to each fingertip, chasing soapy droplets with his tongue, not overly minding the faintly salty bath tinged sour with soaps and shampoo. Feeling only faintly ridiculous, he presses his face into the outstretched hand, another kiss against the palm and then laves his tongue across index and middle finger, thinking again about consumption, about winding, weaving Viktor into himself so inextricably no one could hope to part them. He licks water droplets from his fingers and then sucks, eyes sliding shut, the hand not grasping Viktor's wrist plotting an idle path up his belly, sweeping up over his chest to graze a thumb against a nipple, nipping at the fingers lightly on the withdraw to catch a breath, to look at Viktor again. ]
I could do naught but watch them while you work and be remarkably close to content.
A kind endeavor. Both for the d-dogs and the families who received them.
[ There is a well in him still, of sadness, of anger, of hurt and fear, so deep as to be near impossible to plumb, so cold near the bottom it threatens to freeze his blood. But he is not the hot-headed boy who'd left behind Vilja to be Viktor all those years ago. He is not the green adventurer, all too ready to take up arms and meet violence with violence. He knows now that nothing is simple. Black and white, Good and Evil are not the clean cut concepts of fairy tales and folk stories. There is nuance to every situation, every tale.
Nuance makes it no easier to digest the horrors and harm he has witnessed. In some ways, it makes it worse. All he can do is face the waves of grief, of old anger, as they come, and embrace whatever is left after. Here, a glimpse of good, of order, of balance from a man who'd made a nation with the intent of tearing down the entire world. Silence settles over Viktor, a still, heavy, thinking quiet.
There was a time when Viktor could not look at the man sat beside him without seeing blood. Countless lives lost in his name, by his hand. Ruins of families, of whole nations, piled before him. Nuance had, of course, complicated that very simple vision. He could not overlook the madnesses of loss, of tempering, of too much time and an altered memory. Faced with the loss of his own loved ones, has he not brought half a world to another near ruined star? Tasked countless people with holding hope for what must feel to many a pointless endeavor?
And look at who is here beside him, shoring up walls, banking fires, building roads instead of ruin. Forgiveness had not come easily, but it had come. Looking at Hades now, Viktor does not see blood, hate, hurt. He does not see Solus zos Galvus, not anymore.
A strange smile settles across his features, dim, foggy, nearly wistful. It is an odd look, he knows, and unmistakably unusual. He could blame it on lingering weakness, but that would, he thinks, do both of them a disservice. As a rule, he has been careful not to bring up those parts of Emet-Selch's past, but they are right there in front of the both of them now. So, he reaches out, slides fingers over Emet-Selch's palm and squeezes, tight as he can. ]
It- it means the world to me that you've chosen kinder endeavors here. On the First. For our people.
[ There is a well in him still, of sadness, of anger, of hurt and fear, so deep as to be near impossible to plumb, so cold near the bottom it threatens to freeze his blood. But he is not the hot-headed boy who'd left behind Vilja to be Viktor all those years ago. He is not the green adventurer, all too ready to take up arms and meet violence with violence. He knows now that nothing is simple. Black and white, Good and Evil are not the clean cut concepts of fairy tales and folk stories. There is nuance to every situation, every tale.
Nuance makes it no easier to digest the horrors and harm he has witnessed. In some ways, it makes it worse. All he can do is face the waves of grief, of old anger, as they come, and embrace whatever is left after. Here, a glimpse of good, of order, of balance from a man who'd made a nation with the intent of tearing down the entire world. Silence settles over Viktor, a still, heavy, thinking quiet.
There was a time when Viktor could not look at the man sat beside him without seeing blood. Countless lives lost in his name, by his hand. Ruins of families, of whole nations, piled before him. Nuance had, of course, complicated that very simple vision. He could not overlook the madnesses of loss, of tempering, of too much time and an altered memory. Faced with the loss of his own loved ones, has he not brought half a world to another near ruined star? Tasked countless people with holding hope for what must feel to many a pointless endeavor?
And look at who is here beside him, shoring up walls, banking fires, building roads instead of ruin. Forgiveness had not come easily, but it had come. Looking at Hades now, Viktor does not see blood, hate, hurt. He does not see Solus zos Galvus, not anymore.
A strange smile settles across his features, dim, foggy, nearly wistful. It is an odd look, he knows, and unmistakably unusual. He could blame it on lingering weakness, but that would, he thinks, do both of them a disservice. As a rule, he has been careful not to bring up those parts of Emet-Selch's past, but they are right there in front of the both of them now. So, he reaches out, slides fingers over Emet-Selch's palm and squeezes, tight as he can. ]
It- it means the world to me that you've chosen kinder endeavors here. On the First. For our people.
An unintentional side-effect.
[ Emet-Selch's voice is emotionless, flat, but there's an edge to it he can't quite dull. This, he thinks, is the difficulty with attempting to contextualize the past. Viktor has asked. He will answer. But he does not want grace extended when he is not deserving of it.
There was no kindness in any of the decisions that were made. They were practical decisions made to make life easier. They were favors, bought and traded. Emet-Selch had enjoyed the dogs far more than people. That it was a kindness to them was incidental, even if he'd enjoyed that more than any particular benefit the people had enjoyed in their pursuit of imports.
But Viktor would see everything in the best possible way, even when he ought not to. At least here and now, Viktor looks - not happy. Not forgiving. He looks oddly melancholy, and for a moment, Emet-Selch feels the most uncomfortable sense of regret. For a moment, he'd wanted to be the kind of person who'd done it out of the kindness of his heart, no matter how ridiculous. He'd wanted to be worthy of the grace Viktor would offer without hesitation, but that was not reality. He was not that man, had never been that man.
Viktor, irritatingly, made him want to try. ]
Finish eating instead of complimenting.
[ Emet-Selch's voice is emotionless, flat, but there's an edge to it he can't quite dull. This, he thinks, is the difficulty with attempting to contextualize the past. Viktor has asked. He will answer. But he does not want grace extended when he is not deserving of it.
There was no kindness in any of the decisions that were made. They were practical decisions made to make life easier. They were favors, bought and traded. Emet-Selch had enjoyed the dogs far more than people. That it was a kindness to them was incidental, even if he'd enjoyed that more than any particular benefit the people had enjoyed in their pursuit of imports.
But Viktor would see everything in the best possible way, even when he ought not to. At least here and now, Viktor looks - not happy. Not forgiving. He looks oddly melancholy, and for a moment, Emet-Selch feels the most uncomfortable sense of regret. For a moment, he'd wanted to be the kind of person who'd done it out of the kindness of his heart, no matter how ridiculous. He'd wanted to be worthy of the grace Viktor would offer without hesitation, but that was not reality. He was not that man, had never been that man.
Viktor, irritatingly, made him want to try. ]
Finish eating instead of complimenting.
[ Water whispers protest as Hades moves. Closer, closer, skin meeting skin, and Viktor feels a little ridiculous for thinking of nothing so romantic as puzzle pieces or the sun spilling light over its much loved earth, but of a dislocated shoulder slotted neatly back into place. A feeling of sharply aching rightness.
He welcomes Hades with an open palm. The hand not grasped slips back to flatten over vertebrae, fingers pressing firm enough to mold clay as they slide down the shape of him, finding the exit scar carved into his back. Surrounded by Hades, his body, his smell, his aether, there is still this: a signature. His signature, his soul - as it is now, not some older, better model - writ across skin, across blood and organ, bone and marrow. A through and through, staking claim, not so entirely different from the 'gGg' embroidered into so many of the little things Emet-Selch has made him over these last moons - a secret for just the two of them, you are mine, mine, mine.
Viktor sighs as he studies, bright, hungry sound, lets fingernails scrape shallow lines into pale flesh as Hades adjusts them both once more. Stars, pressed this close even the barrier between them feels gossamer thin. Like he could look through and glimpse, grasp every thought, every feeling. Like he could dig fingers into the soil of Hades's soul to set roots, to fill the fissures time and torment have left in him with flowers, to build a home and make the both of them more whole.
It's a frightening feeling, but for the first time, he refuses to let it go. ]
Mayhap I have only noticed because I cannot keep my eyes off of you. [ Murmured, soft, sensing the twinge of embarrassment.
Viktor watches, transfixed, as Hades pays each finger a reverence that he would not allow from anyone else, and has to stop himself from miming the motion when Emet-Selch's mouth closes around his fingertips. Small blessings that the bath has already left his skin flushed, because as that tongue curls around each finger, he can feel a newer, hungrier heat creeping up, making every shallow, panted breath hot.
Hades swipes a hand over his chest, catches a nipple as his teeth graze fingertips, and a quiet moan slips past Viktor's lips. From worshiped idol to Emet-Selch's needy creature in mere seconds. Embarrassing. He laughs, again. Likes that he feels safe, exhaling some measure of that still building heat. ]
I suppose I can accept close to con-t-tent.
[ His flushed and flustered features bend into a cocky grin. Viktor leans in, draping his other arm over Hades's shoulder, meaning to press in for a kiss but stopping short. First, he indulges in a bit of simple softness, brushing the bridges of their noses together, and then abruptly he angles his head. Presses his mouth to the sharp corner of Hades's jaw. He makes his way up from there, leaving a line of kisses from cheek to ear, murmuring in-between each one. ]
'Twould by my pleasure to put them to work for you, however you might need.
[ Viktor catches Hades's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling before he tips his chin up and whispers, ] I hope, someday, you will permit me to make a proper mess of you.
He welcomes Hades with an open palm. The hand not grasped slips back to flatten over vertebrae, fingers pressing firm enough to mold clay as they slide down the shape of him, finding the exit scar carved into his back. Surrounded by Hades, his body, his smell, his aether, there is still this: a signature. His signature, his soul - as it is now, not some older, better model - writ across skin, across blood and organ, bone and marrow. A through and through, staking claim, not so entirely different from the 'gGg' embroidered into so many of the little things Emet-Selch has made him over these last moons - a secret for just the two of them, you are mine, mine, mine.
Viktor sighs as he studies, bright, hungry sound, lets fingernails scrape shallow lines into pale flesh as Hades adjusts them both once more. Stars, pressed this close even the barrier between them feels gossamer thin. Like he could look through and glimpse, grasp every thought, every feeling. Like he could dig fingers into the soil of Hades's soul to set roots, to fill the fissures time and torment have left in him with flowers, to build a home and make the both of them more whole.
It's a frightening feeling, but for the first time, he refuses to let it go. ]
Mayhap I have only noticed because I cannot keep my eyes off of you. [ Murmured, soft, sensing the twinge of embarrassment.
Viktor watches, transfixed, as Hades pays each finger a reverence that he would not allow from anyone else, and has to stop himself from miming the motion when Emet-Selch's mouth closes around his fingertips. Small blessings that the bath has already left his skin flushed, because as that tongue curls around each finger, he can feel a newer, hungrier heat creeping up, making every shallow, panted breath hot.
Hades swipes a hand over his chest, catches a nipple as his teeth graze fingertips, and a quiet moan slips past Viktor's lips. From worshiped idol to Emet-Selch's needy creature in mere seconds. Embarrassing. He laughs, again. Likes that he feels safe, exhaling some measure of that still building heat. ]
I suppose I can accept close to con-t-tent.
[ His flushed and flustered features bend into a cocky grin. Viktor leans in, draping his other arm over Hades's shoulder, meaning to press in for a kiss but stopping short. First, he indulges in a bit of simple softness, brushing the bridges of their noses together, and then abruptly he angles his head. Presses his mouth to the sharp corner of Hades's jaw. He makes his way up from there, leaving a line of kisses from cheek to ear, murmuring in-between each one. ]
'Twould by my pleasure to put them to work for you, however you might need.
[ Viktor catches Hades's earlobe between his teeth, nibbling before he tips his chin up and whispers, ] I hope, someday, you will permit me to make a proper mess of you.
[ Viktor answers Emet-Selch's icy wall with a wry but warming grin, the faintest hint of fond exasperation crossing his features - an unusual look on his face, in particular, but not quite so unfamiliar upon the soul of Azem. Emet-Selch will never willingly see himself or the world as Viktor does, but that is not a problem in need of fixing. It is a point where the two of them can meet, can make balance. ]
I do not seek to absolve you. Only look for the good worth preserving. 'Tis worthwhile to try and keep what one can, I think.
[ Fingers hover over the assembled selections, as instructed, and he picks one of the cheeses he hasn't tried before, sliding the snack onto his tongue, and then listing bodily to lean against Emet-Selch, watching the horizon in silence.
Next, he selects another pickle, crunches into it and hums happily. ]
When I am too old to f-fight, you can trade me to a pickle farm.
I do not seek to absolve you. Only look for the good worth preserving. 'Tis worthwhile to try and keep what one can, I think.
[ Fingers hover over the assembled selections, as instructed, and he picks one of the cheeses he hasn't tried before, sliding the snack onto his tongue, and then listing bodily to lean against Emet-Selch, watching the horizon in silence.
Next, he selects another pickle, crunches into it and hums happily. ]
When I am too old to f-fight, you can trade me to a pickle farm.
[ Worse, he thinks, is the fact that Viktor doesn't rise to the easy bait of Emet-Selch's annoyance dangled in front of him, carrot on a string. Everything would be easier if Viktor sunk to the levels Emet-Selch were willing to, but instead, he drags Emet-Selch from the muck every time. ]
There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
[ Freedom has always felt like the greatest gift that might could be given. Once, he had thought it simply part and parcel of his love of wandering. And it is, but it's more than that, too. Freedom to choose, to cut whatever path feels best, to live - he'd wanted that for all else, because it was not something he could claim himself. Not with his soul writ into the braid of time he and Hydaelyn had made, into the Sundering, into the summoning of Zodiark, into the lives of every lingering member of the Convocation.
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?
[ Briefly, he regrets. Foolish as it is, there is a part of him that thinks this cannot last and he is horrifically torn between two options: end it now before it has the potential to destroy both of them, or let it continue, and know that losing, failing, would shatter him as easily as another sundering.
But is that not the point of what they do? Savoring the small moments, the impossibility of being alive. They do not have time for indulgences, but they must make time. That lesson, at least, he has internalized. They spent so much time in Amaurot thinking they had forever, and then in the wake of everything Emet-Selch could only think about how much time they had wasted, taken for granted. He did not wish to make the same mistake here. ]
Surely you've more important tasks to attend to than watching me.
[ Said, as though the thought of being watched so intently does not act as supplemental kindling to the fire already built in his belly. Emet-Selch hides a smile against Viktor's palm at the noise he manages to wrest from the other man, inordinately pleased, and then tips his head back up in anticipation of the kiss he thinks is imminent only to find Viktor distracted with dropping kisses anywhere but. He cannot truly protest, not when he hadn't realized that his earlobes were so sensitive, a direct line from where Viktor's mouth lingers straight to his half-hard cock, stealing nothing so uncontrolled as a moan from him but there is a sharp, soft intake of breath, the flex of Emet-Selch's hands briefly against Viktor. ]
Oh, I think you've succeeded in that several times over.
[ If Viktor will not close the distance, Emet-Selch will, heedless of the fact it was not a command Viktor had made; he doesn't think Viktor would hold this want against him. Tilting his head, he chases Viktor until he can drop a kiss against his lips, missing the first time and tasting water, conditioner, very nearly snickering as he pulls back before the action can be anything other than a graze. ]
Rinse. There is a perfectly serviceable bed not three yalms away and I would greatly enjoy seeing you spread out upon its sheets.
But is that not the point of what they do? Savoring the small moments, the impossibility of being alive. They do not have time for indulgences, but they must make time. That lesson, at least, he has internalized. They spent so much time in Amaurot thinking they had forever, and then in the wake of everything Emet-Selch could only think about how much time they had wasted, taken for granted. He did not wish to make the same mistake here. ]
Surely you've more important tasks to attend to than watching me.
[ Said, as though the thought of being watched so intently does not act as supplemental kindling to the fire already built in his belly. Emet-Selch hides a smile against Viktor's palm at the noise he manages to wrest from the other man, inordinately pleased, and then tips his head back up in anticipation of the kiss he thinks is imminent only to find Viktor distracted with dropping kisses anywhere but. He cannot truly protest, not when he hadn't realized that his earlobes were so sensitive, a direct line from where Viktor's mouth lingers straight to his half-hard cock, stealing nothing so uncontrolled as a moan from him but there is a sharp, soft intake of breath, the flex of Emet-Selch's hands briefly against Viktor. ]
Oh, I think you've succeeded in that several times over.
[ If Viktor will not close the distance, Emet-Selch will, heedless of the fact it was not a command Viktor had made; he doesn't think Viktor would hold this want against him. Tilting his head, he chases Viktor until he can drop a kiss against his lips, missing the first time and tasting water, conditioner, very nearly snickering as he pulls back before the action can be anything other than a graze. ]
Rinse. There is a perfectly serviceable bed not three yalms away and I would greatly enjoy seeing you spread out upon its sheets.
From time to time I do indulge in what I want, rather than what needs must be done. [ The cheeky grin he puts on is intercepted by a press of lips. The urgency of it sends a burst of warm frisson rushing up Viktor's spine, the clumsiness touching that heat with a sweetness that makes him wriggle his shoulders. Soap and soaking salts are not necessarily pleasant tastes, but they will be filed neatly, forever more, among his favorite things, his most well-savored memories. A mote of bright light in the dark, like dandelions peeking up through cracks in Crystarium streets. ] H-hard to believe, I know.
[ He chases, just an ilm, before he is the one given orders. Viktor stops short of stealing another kiss, derailing their whole conversation again, and does not bother to mask how pleased he is to be directed; smile broad and hungry, as much hot chili in it as as sugar. ]
It is quite cold, you know. You best be prepared to keep me warm.
[ Still lingering in Emet-Selch's space, Viktor reaches back, haphazardly groping for the stone stopper plugging the tub drain. With a rattle, groan, and gurgle, the water level begins to drop. Viktor fumbles next for the faucet without looking, grin still pointed Emet-Selch's way as he turns knobs behind him. Fresh water spills from the tap, and he bends back without waiting for it to warm, ducking his head beneath the stream, gripping his ears with one hand to protect them from water, and wringing conditioner from his hair with the other until the water runs clean.
He sits back up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tub just yet, even as the water level continues to fall. Viktor wastes a few seconds squeezing excess water from his hair, gentle waves springing up into tight curls for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Perhaps there is something to all these silly little bottles after all. Perhaps there is something to a bit of luxury. Perhaps Lucilia was right.
Only once he's girded himself against the cold does he rise, performatively slow, even if he mislikes the cold air. He fetches a towel, hip jutting out at an angle as he dries his ears, then his shoulders and torso and tail, before slinging it around his waist and climbing finally from the tub.
Here, he stops in spite of the chilly air. Turns to watch Emet-Selch with the sort of interest of someone whose paid to see a show, and takes two steps back toward the bed -- their bed. ]
Bring the wine with you?
[ He chases, just an ilm, before he is the one given orders. Viktor stops short of stealing another kiss, derailing their whole conversation again, and does not bother to mask how pleased he is to be directed; smile broad and hungry, as much hot chili in it as as sugar. ]
It is quite cold, you know. You best be prepared to keep me warm.
[ Still lingering in Emet-Selch's space, Viktor reaches back, haphazardly groping for the stone stopper plugging the tub drain. With a rattle, groan, and gurgle, the water level begins to drop. Viktor fumbles next for the faucet without looking, grin still pointed Emet-Selch's way as he turns knobs behind him. Fresh water spills from the tap, and he bends back without waiting for it to warm, ducking his head beneath the stream, gripping his ears with one hand to protect them from water, and wringing conditioner from his hair with the other until the water runs clean.
He sits back up, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tub just yet, even as the water level continues to fall. Viktor wastes a few seconds squeezing excess water from his hair, gentle waves springing up into tight curls for the first time in longer than he can remember.
Perhaps there is something to all these silly little bottles after all. Perhaps there is something to a bit of luxury. Perhaps Lucilia was right.
Only once he's girded himself against the cold does he rise, performatively slow, even if he mislikes the cold air. He fetches a towel, hip jutting out at an angle as he dries his ears, then his shoulders and torso and tail, before slinging it around his waist and climbing finally from the tub.
Here, he stops in spite of the chilly air. Turns to watch Emet-Selch with the sort of interest of someone whose paid to see a show, and takes two steps back toward the bed -- their bed. ]
Bring the wine with you?
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