[ Whatever he'd expected from the mouth of Solus zos Galvus, from Emet-Selch, from his Hades, it hadn't been this. Viktor stares, brows lifted and lips parted slightly, nothing to say at all in response; fighting a flood of heat to his face, frankly, with a faint and crooked smile -- a whole lot of moon-eyed fluster that Emet-Selch won't even see, because he turns and disappears with a familiar flap of fingers before Viktor can do anything to stop him.
Alone again, Viktor picks through the remains of his breakfast. Then, to the adjoined quarters, to wash up properly. Though he has much to do, he still wastes a few minutes staring at his body in the room's single, floor length mirror, at the circles and splotches of red, of purple and blue, that dot his neck, his chest, his thighs. How ravenous Hades had been, how diligent in claiming what was his. And stars, how Viktor had loved it - how hungry he is for more, even with the gloom of uncertainty still settled over him. Just for a few seconds, he brushes against the possibility of someday playing such games with Hades set into the shape of the former Emperor. A levin shock of embarrassment has him shoving that feeling down and rushing hastily through dressing, then taming his unusually wild curls.
He means to set off for the grave after that, but out in the hall he encounters one of the castle staff nervous about the state of his lord's tapestry room. Once Viktor's done seeing to a task that is little more than cleaning hanging rugs and before he can make a proper escape from the grounds, he finds himself in the main hall, where he catches the land's little lord striking a servant when his lunch is too hot for his liking.
So, with unexpected new purpose, Viktor is delayed again. He does not mind so much.
Clara is her name. A funny girl, quick to pick up that Viktor won't mind a crude joke, who might've seemed more steady were she not preoccupied with the blood oozing from her face. Once Viktor's mended the gash on her cheek, healed away the imprint of the lordling's ring beneath her eye, he insists she takes him down to the greenhouse gardens for a stroll. And there, once the two of them are joined by Alice from the day before, Viktor conveniently sits down beside a fascinating little shrub, dotted by red berries, nearly invisible amidst the other ornamental plants.
Sat on the lip of a flagstone wall, he relates a bit of old gossip his mother used to tell while mixing potions and poultices and (most importantly) tea blends for local ladies in their little kitchen in Horizon: a friend of a friend, prone to strange injuries, an unfortunate broken arm, and a husband left to make his own tea each day while she recovered; a husband who grew steadily, mysteriously, messilly more ill, until he eventually succumbed to what chirurgeons could only figure was some sort of flu.
Hushed but no less animated, Viktor informs the two of them that it was not until the widow's arm was wholly healed that she found the true cause of her husband's demise -- he'd been brewing tea with the leaves of a plant not so unlike this one right here, easily mistaken for the shrub that produced his favorite blend. A tragedy, certainly. But on the bright side, once the tainted tea leaves were finally tossed out, the young lady never suffered so much as an unusual bruise again.
He smiles, sunshine bright, as he tells them both to have care around the plants in the lordling's garden, and pats Clara's hand before parting. Trouble may have passed him in the halls, but he does not think she will quite remember his name, his face. As promised.
The grave is not terribly far from town, but enough of a trek to be annoying with the chill. For a blessing, the path up the steep hill has been swept clear, in spite of fresh fallen snow. Odd, considering the grave's age, but he needn't wonder about it long. At the crest of the hill, surrounded by snow, blanketed by familiar flowers a shade darker than Hydaelyn's blue, is a single, simple stone grave. And an elf, a wizened warrior by the look of her, clad in leathers, sword at her hip, and a curtain of gray hair.
Viktor thinks immediately, unavoidably, of Haurchefant's grave and of Francel. An expected squeeze of pain follows, but it does not stop Viktor's approach. The old elf does not turn to look until he is nearly beside her. She spares him a glance and then a longer, lingering look, expression unchanging despite her otherwise obvious surprise.
"Someone's defaced her grave," says the old elf warrior in a tone that should be inscrutable, but Viktor knows, somehow, it carries a dark, molten magma anger.
"L-let me see, then." He does not wait for her approval, and that in and of itself, seems to earn it, seems to cool some of that fire. Two careful steps forward, deftly avoiding flowers, and he needn't even lay a hand upon the grave to guess at what's changed. A smile settles on his features.
A second later, the elf confirms it, "The stone."
"Aye," Viktor lights fingers upon the Amaurotine rock, half expecting to feel some spark arcing between himself and his reflection. But no. There is nothing, and it's strange, but not. She is gone, and only her flowers remain. In place of connection to his own soul, Viktor finds warmth, impossible fondness for the sentimental old fool currently stalking about on the other side of the valley. "Nothing's de-defaced. 'Tis a gift from a f-friend. Her monument will stand for ages beyond you or I."
"Are you speaking true?" The old elf's eyes narrow, hawkish. "Your people are long-lived."
Viktor nods, meeting the elf's pale gaze and holding it as she continues her silent assessment. "And this'll last longer than th-that." A pause. "You know, she likely hates that you drag yourself up here to clear a path so seldom used."
"She is dead. Her opinion hardly matters." But the old soldier's stance relaxes at his words, just a hint of all those leathers being a touch too heavy for her shoulders.
"Terribly rude," Viktor huffs, heatless, and he thinks he hears the elf snicker under her breath. Without further comment or explanation, he plucks a blue flower from the top of the headstone. Right away, he knows something is not right. Despite appearances, the blossom is his hand is just that -- only a flower. He could crush it, he knows, and it would simply bruise and wilt in his fist.
The elf seems to recognize his consternation. "Used to call water, those."
"Water?" Viktor murmurs, amused by how fate could not be satisfied with a simple material exchange. It seems Azem's reflections are ever meant to meet. He wonders whether Hades will be amused.
He channels a bit of his own aether into the bloom as the elf relays a tale that feels all too familiar. She hadn't always been that way, their hero, but one day, she'd changed. Volatile, frightening magic. Because it didn't matter, ultimately. Not when she'd been granted the power to mete out punishment to the demon who plagued their world, put a stop to the spreading permafrost. A gift from the Mother, they'd thought. The magic had lingered for years after her passing, but the flowers seem to spend what remains of it now on simply overcoming the cold.
The elf points out a divot in the snow, a dry stream bed, once sourced by the aether from the hero's garden. Viktor glances at it, wonders how much of him it would take to set the water flowing again, then, as though Emet-Selch can sense when he's brewing up a bad idea, feels a familiar tug at his aether. His attention drifts back toward the lord's fortress.
"Your attention is required elsewhere," observes the elf.
"Aye." Viktor nods, offering out the blue flower, now shimmering with silver light. "For a special occasion, alright?"
The old warrior accepts the bloom with no small amount of reverence. Viktor parts with considerably less - a charming grin and a wave of two fingers. He doesn't meet her eye as he turns to head back down the path, and leaves a hundred questions unasked, unanswered. Better not to know, better not to connect too firmly to this reflection before he's met the soul that waits for him in the Sea.
The sun is down by the time he returns, face flush and fingers stiff from the cold. Viktor tugs off his muddy boots at the door to their quarters -- their quarters -- relieved to see Emet-Selch is himself once more. A hot meal waits, too, and he is half-starved from all his work and walking, but the first order of business is to steal a bit of warmth from Hades. ]
Cold hands. [ He announces, pressing his hands against Emet-Selch's chest, curling his knuckles into the folds of his clothes. ] What did you f-find?
oh my god
Alone again, Viktor picks through the remains of his breakfast. Then, to the adjoined quarters, to wash up properly. Though he has much to do, he still wastes a few minutes staring at his body in the room's single, floor length mirror, at the circles and splotches of red, of purple and blue, that dot his neck, his chest, his thighs. How ravenous Hades had been, how diligent in claiming what was his. And stars, how Viktor had loved it - how hungry he is for more, even with the gloom of uncertainty still settled over him. Just for a few seconds, he brushes against the possibility of someday playing such games with Hades set into the shape of the former Emperor. A levin shock of embarrassment has him shoving that feeling down and rushing hastily through dressing, then taming his unusually wild curls.
He means to set off for the grave after that, but out in the hall he encounters one of the castle staff nervous about the state of his lord's tapestry room. Once Viktor's done seeing to a task that is little more than cleaning hanging rugs and before he can make a proper escape from the grounds, he finds himself in the main hall, where he catches the land's little lord striking a servant when his lunch is too hot for his liking.
So, with unexpected new purpose, Viktor is delayed again. He does not mind so much.
Clara is her name. A funny girl, quick to pick up that Viktor won't mind a crude joke, who might've seemed more steady were she not preoccupied with the blood oozing from her face. Once Viktor's mended the gash on her cheek, healed away the imprint of the lordling's ring beneath her eye, he insists she takes him down to the greenhouse gardens for a stroll. And there, once the two of them are joined by Alice from the day before, Viktor conveniently sits down beside a fascinating little shrub, dotted by red berries, nearly invisible amidst the other ornamental plants.
Sat on the lip of a flagstone wall, he relates a bit of old gossip his mother used to tell while mixing potions and poultices and (most importantly) tea blends for local ladies in their little kitchen in Horizon: a friend of a friend, prone to strange injuries, an unfortunate broken arm, and a husband left to make his own tea each day while she recovered; a husband who grew steadily, mysteriously, messilly more ill, until he eventually succumbed to what chirurgeons could only figure was some sort of flu.
Hushed but no less animated, Viktor informs the two of them that it was not until the widow's arm was wholly healed that she found the true cause of her husband's demise -- he'd been brewing tea with the leaves of a plant not so unlike this one right here, easily mistaken for the shrub that produced his favorite blend. A tragedy, certainly. But on the bright side, once the tainted tea leaves were finally tossed out, the young lady never suffered so much as an unusual bruise again.
He smiles, sunshine bright, as he tells them both to have care around the plants in the lordling's garden, and pats Clara's hand before parting. Trouble may have passed him in the halls, but he does not think she will quite remember his name, his face. As promised.
The grave is not terribly far from town, but enough of a trek to be annoying with the chill. For a blessing, the path up the steep hill has been swept clear, in spite of fresh fallen snow. Odd, considering the grave's age, but he needn't wonder about it long. At the crest of the hill, surrounded by snow, blanketed by familiar flowers a shade darker than Hydaelyn's blue, is a single, simple stone grave. And an elf, a wizened warrior by the look of her, clad in leathers, sword at her hip, and a curtain of gray hair.
Viktor thinks immediately, unavoidably, of Haurchefant's grave and of Francel. An expected squeeze of pain follows, but it does not stop Viktor's approach. The old elf does not turn to look until he is nearly beside her. She spares him a glance and then a longer, lingering look, expression unchanging despite her otherwise obvious surprise.
"Someone's defaced her grave," says the old elf warrior in a tone that should be inscrutable, but Viktor knows, somehow, it carries a dark, molten magma anger.
"L-let me see, then." He does not wait for her approval, and that in and of itself, seems to earn it, seems to cool some of that fire. Two careful steps forward, deftly avoiding flowers, and he needn't even lay a hand upon the grave to guess at what's changed. A smile settles on his features.
A second later, the elf confirms it, "The stone."
"Aye," Viktor lights fingers upon the Amaurotine rock, half expecting to feel some spark arcing between himself and his reflection. But no. There is nothing, and it's strange, but not. She is gone, and only her flowers remain. In place of connection to his own soul, Viktor finds warmth, impossible fondness for the sentimental old fool currently stalking about on the other side of the valley. "Nothing's de-defaced. 'Tis a gift from a f-friend. Her monument will stand for ages beyond you or I."
"Are you speaking true?" The old elf's eyes narrow, hawkish. "Your people are long-lived."
Viktor nods, meeting the elf's pale gaze and holding it as she continues her silent assessment. "And this'll last longer than th-that." A pause. "You know, she likely hates that you drag yourself up here to clear a path so seldom used."
"She is dead. Her opinion hardly matters." But the old soldier's stance relaxes at his words, just a hint of all those leathers being a touch too heavy for her shoulders.
"Terribly rude," Viktor huffs, heatless, and he thinks he hears the elf snicker under her breath. Without further comment or explanation, he plucks a blue flower from the top of the headstone. Right away, he knows something is not right. Despite appearances, the blossom is his hand is just that -- only a flower. He could crush it, he knows, and it would simply bruise and wilt in his fist.
The elf seems to recognize his consternation. "Used to call water, those."
"Water?" Viktor murmurs, amused by how fate could not be satisfied with a simple material exchange. It seems Azem's reflections are ever meant to meet. He wonders whether Hades will be amused.
He channels a bit of his own aether into the bloom as the elf relays a tale that feels all too familiar. She hadn't always been that way, their hero, but one day, she'd changed. Volatile, frightening magic. Because it didn't matter, ultimately. Not when she'd been granted the power to mete out punishment to the demon who plagued their world, put a stop to the spreading permafrost. A gift from the Mother, they'd thought. The magic had lingered for years after her passing, but the flowers seem to spend what remains of it now on simply overcoming the cold.
The elf points out a divot in the snow, a dry stream bed, once sourced by the aether from the hero's garden. Viktor glances at it, wonders how much of him it would take to set the water flowing again, then, as though Emet-Selch can sense when he's brewing up a bad idea, feels a familiar tug at his aether. His attention drifts back toward the lord's fortress.
"Your attention is required elsewhere," observes the elf.
"Aye." Viktor nods, offering out the blue flower, now shimmering with silver light. "For a special occasion, alright?"
The old warrior accepts the bloom with no small amount of reverence. Viktor parts with considerably less - a charming grin and a wave of two fingers. He doesn't meet her eye as he turns to head back down the path, and leaves a hundred questions unasked, unanswered. Better not to know, better not to connect too firmly to this reflection before he's met the soul that waits for him in the Sea.
The sun is down by the time he returns, face flush and fingers stiff from the cold. Viktor tugs off his muddy boots at the door to their quarters -- their quarters -- relieved to see Emet-Selch is himself once more. A hot meal waits, too, and he is half-starved from all his work and walking, but the first order of business is to steal a bit of warmth from Hades. ]
Cold hands. [ He announces, pressing his hands against Emet-Selch's chest, curling his knuckles into the folds of his clothes. ] What did you f-find?