[ For the briefest of moments, Viktor is both himself and everything else, a seamless portion of the greater weave. How terrified he'd ever been of the prospect, of the looming threat he'd always felt, that he might fade into all around him. But it is lovely, in that blink, to feel no fear or hurt, to sense all the ways he is part of all around him, to know, intimately, the whole of the weave. He is embraced. He is pulled apart. Welcomed into it all without urgency.
There is a snag.
Just as the last of himself starts to slip, it catches. Tries to get away, but can't. Curled on something offered, a gift he cannot - would not ever - refuse, no matter how badly it burns. Not with heat, he realizes, waking up enough to recall that there is a difference, but cold, impossibly cutting. Though the weave beckons him, calling him to be everything and nothing, the last scraps of Viktor wind themselves around that familiar knife's edge, slow, coiling, consuming what's been given. Ice becomes fuel, becomes flame, becomes Light, as Viktor accepts an offered anchor, and all the prickling, painful nourishment that comes with it - drinks like a man parched.
Excruciating seconds of stillness tick by, Viktor motionless, a cold and empty shell in Emet-Selch's arms. By impossibly slow measures, he warms, the glimmer of him glowing as it is fed. His senses return. Before he can move, before he can breathe, he can hear, he can feel, he can think. Time has meaning, again - how long has he been out? He gains a sense of his body - did Emet-Selch take him somewhere else? Why is it so loud? A din of worry, scraps of terror and panic, underlain beneath the ever steady sound of Emet-Selch's voice.
Stop fussing, he wants to say, but can't until he draws breath. And so, he does that next. Then movement. Viktor opens one eye, just a crack, and is surprised to find himself surrounded by green. Green and nothing else, save Emet-Selch.
There, he realizes, the storm of fear not a crowd. The veil between them has been lifted, and the cacophony is that one busy, busy mind, worrying over him. Viktor lifts his hand, fighting pins and needles, the press his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. He is so much warmer than his aether; full of life. Slow, shaking, Viktor shifts to press against the trunk of Emet-Selch's body, hungry for warmth. ]
I a-apologize. [ He says, and without the veil, the rest spills through.
No use apologizing when such things will happen again. But you are sorry, aren't you? Sorry for hurting, for disappointing, disappearing, doubting. Distracted by a future not yet won. Fool. Useless. Was that death? Or more than death? Is it dying to join the weave? Not so bad. Perhaps you can grasp the feeling again, but- Would he have mourned us? Would he have fallen? No. No. No. Too much work to do. Useless thoughts. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. We are here and made whole by - familiar, like the Dark that dimmed our incandescence when Light broke - our love.
Viktor shuts his eyes again as tears gather in his lashes. The gratitude he feels is near overwhelming, second only to the sense of being knit up wholly in the make of Hades, aether married, tangled, no veil between them, and yet still allowed to be himself. A glint of gold set against dark indigo. Surrounded, safe.
His throat is dry. How does he even begin to convey these feelings? He hasn't the words, and so, he simply says, ] Are they p-pretty, at least? My grapes?
no subject
There is a snag.
Just as the last of himself starts to slip, it catches. Tries to get away, but can't. Curled on something offered, a gift he cannot - would not ever - refuse, no matter how badly it burns. Not with heat, he realizes, waking up enough to recall that there is a difference, but cold, impossibly cutting. Though the weave beckons him, calling him to be everything and nothing, the last scraps of Viktor wind themselves around that familiar knife's edge, slow, coiling, consuming what's been given. Ice becomes fuel, becomes flame, becomes Light, as Viktor accepts an offered anchor, and all the prickling, painful nourishment that comes with it - drinks like a man parched.
Excruciating seconds of stillness tick by, Viktor motionless, a cold and empty shell in Emet-Selch's arms. By impossibly slow measures, he warms, the glimmer of him glowing as it is fed. His senses return. Before he can move, before he can breathe, he can hear, he can feel, he can think. Time has meaning, again - how long has he been out? He gains a sense of his body - did Emet-Selch take him somewhere else? Why is it so loud? A din of worry, scraps of terror and panic, underlain beneath the ever steady sound of Emet-Selch's voice.
Stop fussing, he wants to say, but can't until he draws breath. And so, he does that next. Then movement. Viktor opens one eye, just a crack, and is surprised to find himself surrounded by green. Green and nothing else, save Emet-Selch.
There, he realizes, the storm of fear not a crowd. The veil between them has been lifted, and the cacophony is that one busy, busy mind, worrying over him. Viktor lifts his hand, fighting pins and needles, the press his palm to Emet-Selch's cheek. He is so much warmer than his aether; full of life. Slow, shaking, Viktor shifts to press against the trunk of Emet-Selch's body, hungry for warmth. ]
I a-apologize. [ He says, and without the veil, the rest spills through.
Viktor shuts his eyes again as tears gather in his lashes. The gratitude he feels is near overwhelming, second only to the sense of being knit up wholly in the make of Hades, aether married, tangled, no veil between them, and yet still allowed to be himself. A glint of gold set against dark indigo. Surrounded, safe.
His throat is dry. How does he even begin to convey these feelings? He hasn't the words, and so, he simply says, ] Are they p-pretty, at least? My grapes?