[ She did. In tests upon tests and endless sacrifices, across years, across lifetimes. Viktor tries not to dwell long on the question of whether any of it was necessary. For so long he'd lived by Minfilia's mantra; to think now that everyone lost could have been saved, had their path not hinged on numbing bodies to despair - well, it is a despairing thought in and of itself.
He must content himself with the knowledge that Minfilia would have said, without reservation, that this had been the best path forward. That Ryne and Krile would agree. And because Hades is the one person who could unseat that certainty with a word, he only offers a noncommital hum in response, watches with no small amount of wonder as his invisible hands fashion a wall from nothing. He is a marvel Viktor will never tire of watching.
Perhaps, along the strange mycelia network of choice and consequence that Aepymetes called his weave, there is a bygone path where Emet-Selch held the reins of fate without Zodiark's will guiding his own - a single thread without wave after wave of death and war, where Meteion's song is silenced peacefully.
Or perhaps there is no path upon the weave where some combination of them did not suffer to see this through. Perhaps that is why Aepymetes decided to do what he did.
Just before Viktor can start to ache at the thought, Emet-Selch squeezes his hand, and automatic, he wanders on, leading the way. ]
I- Let's see.
[ His boots squeak against polished stone as he stops.
Aether hangs in the air here more densely than the cobwebs at the mouth of the long hall, thick enough to be what his mother would've called Mist. The sort of thing that drives some viera to frenzy, but merely itches across Viktor's nose. That, alone, is enough indication that they near a well of incredible aetheric power, but that's not, Viktor thinks, what Emet-Selch means.
Viktor shuts his eyes, pulls in a breath, and presses his awareness outward, delving into the cloak-heavy sea of aether around them. It's getting easier, letting magic become as thread, both in the technical sense and... it doesn't terrify him quite so much anymore. Simple enough, sliding metaphorical fingers over criss-crossing lines and letting himself see what they hold.
Here, he can still feel Hydaelyn, lingering like perfume in the air. Would that he could bottle the feeling, a comfort, even if it stings. Viktor exhales softly as he pushes past it, and is right away struck by the levin charge of something rushing to meet him. The Underworld, seeking to connect. Strange, how familiar the embrace feels. ]
'Tis... yes, i-it's- you know, it feels like the horizon does. [ Is that why he is always called to travel? Does Azem bind themself to the star as Emet-Selch does the Underworld? ] But c-cold.
[ His feet start moving again, pursuing that sensation. The further in they walk, the longer he presses outward, the more threads take firmer shape. ] Oi. [ Anchor points waiting for tethering hum and countless souls, bright little snarls of power upon the weave, dot the distance like stars. And Viktor is certain, were he to get a closer look, he would know the shape, the songs of these reflections. And he almost does lean into it, but the pull is too sharp, threatening to rip him away. He tightens his grip on Emet-Selch's hand and opens his eyes before he gleans more than he is ready for. ]
this is so long sobdhshhsh
He must content himself with the knowledge that Minfilia would have said, without reservation, that this had been the best path forward. That Ryne and Krile would agree. And because Hades is the one person who could unseat that certainty with a word, he only offers a noncommital hum in response, watches with no small amount of wonder as his invisible hands fashion a wall from nothing. He is a marvel Viktor will never tire of watching.
Perhaps, along the strange mycelia network of choice and consequence that Aepymetes called his weave, there is a bygone path where Emet-Selch held the reins of fate without Zodiark's will guiding his own - a single thread without wave after wave of death and war, where Meteion's song is silenced peacefully.
Or perhaps there is no path upon the weave where some combination of them did not suffer to see this through. Perhaps that is why Aepymetes decided to do what he did.
Just before Viktor can start to ache at the thought, Emet-Selch squeezes his hand, and automatic, he wanders on, leading the way. ]
I- Let's see.
[ His boots squeak against polished stone as he stops.
Aether hangs in the air here more densely than the cobwebs at the mouth of the long hall, thick enough to be what his mother would've called Mist. The sort of thing that drives some viera to frenzy, but merely itches across Viktor's nose. That, alone, is enough indication that they near a well of incredible aetheric power, but that's not, Viktor thinks, what Emet-Selch means.
Viktor shuts his eyes, pulls in a breath, and presses his awareness outward, delving into the cloak-heavy sea of aether around them. It's getting easier, letting magic become as thread, both in the technical sense and... it doesn't terrify him quite so much anymore. Simple enough, sliding metaphorical fingers over criss-crossing lines and letting himself see what they hold.
Here, he can still feel Hydaelyn, lingering like perfume in the air. Would that he could bottle the feeling, a comfort, even if it stings. Viktor exhales softly as he pushes past it, and is right away struck by the levin charge of something rushing to meet him. The Underworld, seeking to connect. Strange, how familiar the embrace feels. ]
'Tis... yes, i-it's- you know, it feels like the horizon does. [ Is that why he is always called to travel? Does Azem bind themself to the star as Emet-Selch does the Underworld? ] But c-cold.
[ His feet start moving again, pursuing that sensation. The further in they walk, the longer he presses outward, the more threads take firmer shape. ] Oi. [ Anchor points waiting for tethering hum and countless souls, bright little snarls of power upon the weave, dot the distance like stars. And Viktor is certain, were he to get a closer look, he would know the shape, the songs of these reflections. And he almost does lean into it, but the pull is too sharp, threatening to rip him away. He tightens his grip on Emet-Selch's hand and opens his eyes before he gleans more than he is ready for. ]
I c-can feel all of it.