to learn more of their journey. how we might preserve the star they love as we do what we set out to do. or perhaps a hint toward which Ascian shards they faced, and where we might find them. would it not be cruel to deprive them of their place in this world? to deprive the star a soul that would keep it?
This is not a conversation that requires an answer at this point in time. I would encourage you to consider the thought, nonetheless. I do not think it a cruelty, but I am not a shard of you. Why are you so hesitant to have a simple conversation, hero?
Am I often in the habit of saying that which I do not mean?
how can you look at them, know them, after everything, and still see broken pieces to be reclaimed as a matter of convenience? i will not pretend the shard does not call to me. i feel their pull even now, soul deep. but i have already seen, felt, what happens when a shard gives themself to their source. it was not healing to be made more whole. i do not feel fuller for robbing the First of Ardbert's soul. Cylva. Lamitt. Renda-Rae. Nyelbert. Branden. Seto. more besides whose names i will never know. they will cycle anew and Ardbert will not be with them. because of me.
you want me to show you my teeth? then do not assume i see rejoining as anything less than a cruelty. 'tis murder. and a shame that you lack the perspective to see that.
What is to prevent you from visiting in this future you are so vehement about creating? The shards are not nearly as inaccessible as they once were. You do not rob the shard of anything any more than someone moving from one house to another robs their former home of them.
You belong to yourself, not to the masses.
[ he's not responding to the rest of that, he's not starting a fight, but boy he's in a bad mood now. ]
that is not what it feels like. not to me. that which was cut from me has had lifetimes now to grow into something new. it is akin to grafting a whole tree onto the oak from which it was originally cut. i would be changed, but i would not be this reflection's Azem. i would be some in-between thing.
i belong to myself. and Ardbert to himself, 'til he didn't. this reflection of my soul is no different.
And your nature is not to grow, to change in accordance with experiences? It is instead to stay stagnant? What does it matter if you would not be this reflection's Azem? Is not a point of aught we attempt to do to make a world in which Azem is not necessary?
[ abruptly, he feels very ridiculous. he had thought of this nebulous future as one where the duty and burden hydaelyn had left to aepymetes' shards would be lessened, after this great wrong was corrected. no convocation for either of them. emet-selch would have his duties in the aetherial sea when needed and viktor would visit when it suited him, with emet-selch joining intermittently when duty allowed. they would solve idle problems. viktor would take him to his favorite places, and emet-selch would gratefully endure being kissed at each one.
the last time he'd felt this off-kilter was - well. that's probably not a train of thought he wants to see continue to the station. ]
I cannot even begin to explain how little I wish to debate this. Talk to the shard, or do not. It is no matter to me.
no. we will talk this through. Aepymetes may've preferred to swan off in a tizzy and fail at tending to whatever nonsense he thought best, but i will not leave things unsaid. i am afraid. i am afraid of a million different things. i fear rejoining against my will. that we might snap together, that it will hurt the way it did when Dalamud fell. i fear Aepymetes's Sight. what if the weave is all i can see again? how long might it take me to get it under control? i fear how adding another thread might again affect my aether, my magic, my lilies, my body. i fear that in rejoining, i might rob some other soul here of a love that might've spanned lifetimes. i fear i might be changed too much. that i may become someone that those i love do not recognize.
[ typing. deleting. typing. deleting. ]
i fear that when you look at me, that you will ever wish that i am more than i am. i ache, wondering whether i am not enough.
your picture of existence is bigger, fuller, older than mine. different perspectives of the same thing. neither is wrong, only different. for you, this feels a simple conversation. it is not simple for me. i do not wish to stagnate, Hades. i only wish to feel safe and sufficient in my body. i will talk to this shard if i can. 'twas ever a part of traversing reflections. if they are tired, if they wish to return, i will consider it. 'twould put my heart at ease if you would be there with me when i do it. because i am terrified. [ ... ] and i need someone to tell me that it is okay to be selfish. to not pick usefulness to the star over my own wants.
It is not a discussion. It is your choice, and I do not mean to or intend to influence it past making the suggestion that you might be better served if you speak to the fragment.
A little fear is healthy, keeping one from making unreasonable choices. But there are steps to even the theoretical pursuit of obtaining this shard, and they need not be performed in quick succession.
What if you were rejoined and found the thread stabilized those parts you worry most about? What if the shard wants to stay, and that ends the conversation before it can even begin? There are countless what-ifs to consider, but all of them are abstract until you have the initial conversation.
that i would connect with my reflection here was never in doubt. what do you suppose is the risk of us merging accidentally? it may be best to put off reaching for my shard until we've gained stable access to the Sea and assessed whether the Ascians here are still a risk.
[ ... ]
i apologize for snapping as i did. i did not realize how deeply i would be affected, thinking you were asking me to rejoin. not an excuse. merely an explanation.
I think there is little risk in a...we shall call it a technical sense. Were we to rejoin several at once I would have concerns. Because of their size and scale, we had to be cautious about rejoining the shards. A single soul - a sliver of a soul - is much less difficult.
[ he does not respond to the rest because he does not know how. instead, he gives up on searching on foot and looks, properly. identifies splotches of color one after another, not isolated, tending to their duties but surrounded by other souls. an instant to step through one wall to the next, and his question is answered, but not how he had anticipated. today is just a day full of petty irritations.
to the shard's grave then. he is careful stepping through the flood of flowers, nudging the ground and flowers aside with a bit of aether to make room for his boots, neatly smoothing soil and flowers back into place once he's moved on.
he doesn't know why he bothered to come here. it is just a grave.
bones and dirt, not answers. not direction. he stretches his awareness until he reaches the aetherial sea shattered, fragmented thing that it is, and sighs. the shard lies within reach, if he tried. if viktor tried.
crouching, he thumbs dirt off where it has gathered in the grooves of the stone, and with the sweep of his fingers across the face shifts the stone to amaurotine stone, instead. ]
Maybe you'll be less trouble. Probably not.
[ the faintest flicker of a wry smile to the grave, and emet-selch vanishes through another portal. ]
[ stew, more like. on the argument, on the intent, on his own uneven footing and hurt feelings.
blessedly released from the lordling's attentions when matters of dinner party plans become more pressing, viktor takes to wandering the estate grounds. he permits himself time to sulk, but loses interest in the process after half a bell, when it leaves him feeling no better, no more settled on their argument.
distraction comes eventually though, with the gold glint of his echo luring him to someone in need. at the heart of the grounds stands a greenhouse, somewhat pitiful, but impressively full of friendly, singing birds. Viktor assumes the meager green growth is due to knowledge lost, the young caretakers no longer aware of how best to tend plants that had once thrived in their lands.
it is here that he finds Alice, and more importantly, the injured jay whose wing she is desperately trying to tend. Viktor heals the damage with nary a thought, and in so doing, makes a friend and learns the first interesting detail about this reflection.
he allows his echo to carry him this way and that. doing chores, he thinks wryly, as he finds one person after another in need of simple assistance. after three bells, he's made five friends, wandered most of the estate's inner grounds, and, he thinks, learned a great deal about what they face here.
his final act, as the sun sinks, is to present a gift to their annoyed-and-annoying little lordling, then takes his leave again, seeking solitude among the few flowers he knows before finally retrieving his tomestone again. looking at the messages fouls his mood anew, but he forces the feeling small and fires off the first message in bells. ]
alright. the chores are done. our little lordling has granted you fine quarters while we are here. and is most thankful for the gift of exotic dyes from your homeland. he believes you a wealthy textile merchant and sorcerer. all past offenses are forgiven and forgotten. that said, i do not think it best to make an ally of him, and not merely because he's tried to grope me three times. the people in his employ hold no love for him or his family. even the guards murmur unrest loud enough for me to hear. as an aside, be cautious of any food we are served while eating with him, if not for fear of poison, then certainly spit.
since winter settled here, bartering and credit are king. no use for the old currency. the people here lack for basic supplies. staple foods, medicines, dyes, many textiles. it seems they've also all but lost their knowledge of healing magics within the last two generations. and for all they lack, they've got a terrible fondness for gossip. seems your social standing is tied at least in part to your ability to rattle off who's probably had a bonk with the captain of the guard. a hot topic among noble and commoner alike. i've written down a list of names and left it in your quarters, in case you find you need it.
they've represented much of their recent history on wool tapestries. every blanket and wall hanging in this place bears a story. such things are given to commemorate important events, and to receive one as a gift is a sign of great love and respect from the giver. at any rate, it seems one of our Ascians was a woman who called herself The Arbiter. an advisor, "possessed by a demon" who was felled by my shard and her allies at their last stand. no sign of said "demon" since. 'least, not represented in their tapestry work.
[ Each and every one of the souls he remembered exist on this shard, still, though in a drastically different state than when he left them. The difference in time between the shards, maybe, as of yet unstabilized. One, he cannot, and that he thinks is by design.
How, exactly, Pashtarot - not even whole, managed to both locate the spellwork and implement it is something he will puzzle over when he retires for the evening. For now, he spends no small amount of time on wild goose chases. A touch of Pashtarot's magic, here and there, like he could not help himself but leave little breadcrumbs in what he did, or he simply did not know enough to hide his tracks adequately.
In either case, after running back and forth far more than he'd like to admit, he locates the sliver of the man and is not entirely surprised to see one of the other youths leaving. Convenient, he supposes, that the ability to stay invisible is not one that the shards of Asicans either possess or know how to counter. He moves silently through Pashtarot's dingy little house, noting the lifted books from one, if not many of the facilities the Ascians utilized in the past. He'll have to clean that mess up and prevent this from occurring again.
Some of the more dangerous tomes he simply picks up and carries with him once the other man creaks his way down the steps to make tea, grumbling all the while. When he's satisfied himself with making certain the most dangerous pieces are removed from the playing field, Emet-Selch vanishes and reappears down the road, idly trailing the student? Employee? Minion? Until she reaches her home, where a woman in the yard lifts her hand in greeting at her, sweeping her into a hug.
Emet-Selch's footsteps pause, stomach twisting. Eliminating Ascians is one thing and Viktor is quite proficient. Killing children is... well. He does not look forward to the ethical discussion that might occur if it proves necessary. A nightmare to consider - children, taught by someone who was simply making best guesswork at magics beyond his comprehension, playing at a position he once held. A different sort of dangerous than those fully aware, awake.
He'll keep this to himself, then. The last thing Viktor needs is to fret about what will happen if he must eliminate them, if releasing them from tempering and Emet-Selch acting as Solus do not work.
As if to spite him, his tomestone pings cheerfully with an alert and with a discontent breath exhaled he slips into the shadows once again and reappears in the quarters they have been given. The books are spelled to invisibility save for him and Viktor and he promptly returns to himself, stripping down to take advantage of the bathtub rather than make any efforts to mix and mingle and further than he must with their hosts. A miserable place, but the bathtubs put even the one he has in his quarters to shame, all neat stonework and piped-in hot water. ]
It would be a trifle to wear a guard for a bit and ensure he has a lamentable accident, you know.
[ He may yet do it anyway. It isn't as if Viktor would know it was him, and he's quite practiced at making death look like a simple mishap. When everything is so dire, it is remarkably easy to slip in an accidental death or two.
Sinking as low as he can go in the bath while still maintaining the ability to breathe, he mulls over the situation. Healing magics can be taught, but not quickly, not easily. Those best versed would, ironically, be the asicans living on this shard, unaware of the full extent of their abilities. They would have a framework to operate off of. Better still would be supplies, though there's no easy way to ensure that they go to where they need to and aren't poached to be resold. To say nothing of how they would explain possessing such items. Tedious, all of it is so tedious. ]
The scattered settlements were as I expected - middling, struggling. I've yet to see anything meaningful from our host in terms of support or assistance.
Your blankets would also explain the frankly jarring quantity of sheep farmers out there. One could not walk down a road without throwing a stone and hitting at least six different sheep fields and you could smell the barns from a malm away.
if you are not beaten to the punch. 'tis a most dysfunctional situation we've found ourselves in.
[ ... ]
surely there are factions plotting this or that. mayhap there is one worth cultivating, rather than taking matters into our own hands.
[ what should be a warm and welcome escape from the frigid air outside is not quite warm enough to dispel the chill from one's bones. it is no wonder the plants struggle here. viktor wanders the walls of the garden, checking for gaps and drafts he can smudge away with a thumb. ]
a great deal of mutton to be found in the kitchens, too. and all of it reserved for his lordship. a dearth of proper seasonings, though. dreadful. i've taught the lass in charge of the gardens how to raise her peppers so they fruit reliably. this place may come to remember paprika, yet.
[ these lands had once been hot and dry, run through with dozens of rivers and streams. not so unlike Thanalan - if Thanalan had received the brunt of Dalamud's destruction, rather than Coerthas. only the oldest servants remember those days, and even then their memories are dim. painful to think about.
when he is sure no one is around, viktor spends a touch of his own aether to quickly transplant a struggling sapling he is fairly certain is an olive tree to a plot where it might grow better, shifting the soil content to accommodate its new home. ]
[ though he still feels cross when his tomestone pings again unexpectedly, viktor cannot help the faint smile that appears on his face upon reading the message. ]
among the scullery maids, yes. i quite liked the bounce of it. like something out of Ishgard - popping over to Lady Hortense's for lunchtime tea and a bonk. and 'twas second only to "touring one's root cellar" which was, i must tell you, a terribly confusing conversation. as we were literally touring the root cellar when it was being discussed. which does in fact have a concealed passageway, as an aside. i didn't have the opportunity to venture through it. sensed it, only.
i hope you've found something more exciting than pastures in your wandering?
[ He'd taken a shard's hands for the sin of touching; Emet-Selch cannot stop rolling that potential in his mind as he thinks about the little lordling groping at that which is not his. To take his hands would be nothing. At least then he'd learn not to touch what is not his, and if he didn't, well. The problem solved itself. ]
The lack of Ascians, I'd wager. To be clear - I do not mean to insinuate we did not cause trouble where it suited. But shepherding and ensuring the longevity of those on relevant shards was as much a part of duty as aught else.
[ Admittedly, just to keep the rejoining easier to manage, to make certain that there was still a world to rejoin, but the point still stands. The tomestone is set aside for the time being while he washes, lingering in the hot water longer than is necessary, loathe to get out into the chill air of the borrowed rooms. Less than eager to put back on the name and face of someone he is no longer, no matter how necessary it may be. ]
The easiest option, I think, would be for us to finalize our business here and leave for a spell. On our return - laden with useful items imported from far away, we would have less questions to answer about the acquisition of those goods.
A root cellar and concealed passageway within the palace? Were there any other locations?
My first inclination would be to assume that it was a convenience - often, those in power who do not wish to see the help will install them in their buildings. Breakfast would arrive without ever having to see or give much thought to those who made and delivered it. He seems the sort.
I would have an easier time exploring the root cellars than you would, if we are so inclined.
[ He has not been inclined to teach Viktor invisibility. The last thing he needs is for Viktor to grasp the concept so well he can hide himself from Emet-Selch. ]
does that mean you have turned up nothing regarding your former colleagues? mayhap the realm's fallen heroes managed a blade of light, though i saw nothing in any of the tapestries indicating as much. a tavern visit may be worth it, in that case. to hear how adventurers tell the tale.
[ nevermind the fact that he's heard they brew liquors from lichen, and that sound so positively vile he cannot wait to try some.
with a host of small adjustments made to the castle greenhouse, and the glass dome growing too dark to do anything else effectively, viktor bundles himself back up and ventures out into the night, making for his room once more before his royal pest can seek him out. ]
aye, i've no complaints with that plan. 'twould be nice to help the folk more, but i fear what getting embroiled here would do were we called urgently to return to the First.
the air coming in smelled too earthy. and damp and old and not near as cold as the rest of the palace air. i think it goes deeper, not into the castle. aside from that, the lord's library has a host of interesting tapestries dating back centuries. they are hung in somewhat strange places. perhaps local custom, but concealing shelves, or hung so low they skirt the floors. i do wonder whether more secrets hide behind them.
'twould be interesting to see where the passage goes, at least. but i am cold, and would like to warm myself first.
I would caution you against attempting to solve all of this shard's issues. Some are beyond our time and ability to handle and you are correct that the First might require us more.
As to the smell - you believe it lies beneath the castle? And that the hidden walkways might lead a path down?
[ he's going to be very irritated if it would have been useful to teach viktor invisibility. the next bit, he types. deletes. they are still on unsteady ground. ]
Were the air clearer between us, I might have suggested the timing could have aligned so that we could have shared a bath. As it is, I find myself uncertain if the insinuation would be welcome.
very ominous of you. [ but he had promised deference here. stormy feelings aside, he does not doubt that Emet-Selch will handle this with care, far more deftly than Viktor would. if he needs a sword for this matter, he will let Viktor know. ]
no. i agree. [ ... ] mayhap i will regret my cruelty. i certainly feel some guilt over it, but i am loathe to make myself indispensable to another shard right now. they've their own heroes. and i am content to teach what gardening and healing i can, for now.
aye. to be specific. i wonder whether the path to the Sea the lordling lays claim over isn't right under his nose.
[ viktor reads the last message twice when it comes through, but does not respond. leaves it unanswered as he climbs the stairs to their split quarters. there, he wastes a few more seconds quibbling, but it does not take him long to realize what he wants.
still in his traveling garb, he raps his knuckles against their shared door. ]
If you'd still have me, I would be amenable to a soak. [ A pause, his forehead touching the door. ] Would you wash my hair?
[ He is not responsible, but would still allow this sliver of himself to linger, out of...what, guilt? Duty? Emet-Selch cannot quite blame him; it was not a surprise that once again, this shard had carved out a place as a hero. ]
They are useful skills, especially given their situation.
[ What else is he to say? He's made the offer and half-thinks that there's no way he will be taken up on it. Viktor has people to see. Chores to do. Emet-Selch has suggested the unthinkable casually enough the mention nearly started a fight. Now, he's suggested something else that is entirely different and unthinkable, and there's no response. Foolish. He ought to have known.
Weary down to his bones slouches into the warmth of the water and stretches out, toes barely grazing the stone edge of the tub. If he thought the floors at the Crystarium would hold, he would create and install something half as large. And then, a knock. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes to the ceiling, fully intent on ignoring it until he hears Viktor's voice and abruptly the half-hearted offer is no longer a failed attempt and he must contend with seeing the offer through. It will not be, he thinks, such a hardship, even if the idea of going from countless layers between them to exactly none makes his stomach hot and tight in a way that isn't quite discomfort. Folding both arms on the stone lip and propping his chin atop them, he calls, ]
Only if you make haste before the bath loses most of its heat. If you've a preference on bathing supplies, you ought to bring those, as well.
[ The drain he tugs clean to start emptying the cooling, used water, and the bronze spigot creaks as it's turned back on with a nudge to spit steaming water to replenish what he's draining.
Then, he sits, feeling horrifically bare, and after a beat of hesitation and feeling ridiculous for nudging enough salts into the water to obscure the contents at least a little. ]
[ though he's been bidden to be quick, Viktor does not rush. he climbs out of his boots, unwinds his lengthy scarf and drapes it over the vanity after stealing a glance at his reflection -- wind blown hair, face flush from the cold, a smudge of dirt he wipes off his cheek.
his quarters are less impressive than the ones granted to Emet-Selch. too reluctant, for myriad reasons, to put a name to what they are - partners? consorts? lovers? it is at once deeper than all of those things and still too indefinite to name precisely. the lordling, eager to stake a claim, had assumed viktor the steward, the merchant's valet, and granted the adjoining servant's quarters. which are fine with viktor. if Emet-Selch wants to share a bed, after, well. he will decide whether or not to cross that bridge when he arrives at it.
right now, his heart is thundering, so loud as to be frankly unnecessary. this is not the first man he's seen naked. not the first person he's bathed with. there is no reason for his skin to prickle as he gathers up his few soaps, his robe and pajamas. after another second wasted thinking, he also scoops up the bottle of wine he'd received as thanks for his part in delivering the merchant's dyes -- green and purple and red dyes he'd just happened to have in his pack.
only once his arms are full does he finally return to the door separating them. a steeling breath, and then he passes through. slow, as though he needs to give Emet-Selch more time to change his mind and send him away.
his quarters are warm for the steam already filling the room, a welcome relief. and there he is, unmissable, on the other side from the door. submerged in cloudy, fragrant water, steam wafting around him. his neck is beautiful, bare shoulders moreso. the sight catches viktor's breath and holds it high in his throat. ]
Oh. You are you. [ he allows himself to sound surprised, but hides his relief as best he can. he could admit to himself that the sight of Hades back in that old form had felt...strange. he had prepared himself to be revolted, angry, even frightened. that he had felt none of those things upon looking at him had been the only certain thing he'd allowed himself to feel.
he sorts through his possessions, trying to force his lungs to work. leaves his robes and pajamas on the room's table, rather than Emet-Selch's bed - not ready to think himself welcome there, quite yet. then, with nowhere else to waste time, he finally approaches the impressively large stone tub, sets his soaps and the unopened bottle of wine on the nearby shelf, within reach and kneels, deliberately slow.
viktor undoes two of the toggles holding his robes closed, then lets his fingers drop to toy with the surface of the water. he steals the quickest glance down, but sees nothing for the fog of salts. ]
I've a few c-clasps that need undoing. [ he angles himself, showing off buckles he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. softly, over the heavy thud of his heartbeat rattling in his ears, he asks, ] Would you?
[ The tub has been emptied mostly and filled again by the time Viktor deigns to open the adjoining door, so long that Emet-Selch wonders if he's thought better of it. He would understand if so. As convenient as it is to have two different rooms for storing items, Emet-Selch mislikes the misinterpretation. Mislikes even more the fact that he wants to vehemently defend something as fledgling as what they have.
Something in him squirms, pleased that Viktor does not sound disappointed to find him himself. It was not so difficult to wear Solus again. Maybe he would feel less...this if he hadn't found putting that persona on so easy, or the gulch between them so small. ]
I am myself. 'Tis a trifle to make the change as needed.
[ But he would prefer to be himself, here and now. Especially for something as intimate as a bath, as shedding literal layers down to skin. At least already being in the bath makes the process a touch easier; he needn't feel ridiculous about undressing.
The wine is given a brief, appraising glance before Emet-Selch turns a steady gaze on Viktor and looks, intentional, deliberate. Marks the undoing of a few toggles on his robes and how close Viktor lingers, and finds that his earlier irritation has not necessarily waned but neither does it do anything to cool the heat curling in his stomach. At least his hands are dry; it doesn't take effort to reach out and start thumbing them open bit by bit. ]
Of course, your hands haven't warmed enough to manage the rest of the buckles.
[ If his fingers linger against the graceful line of Viktor's throat or drift up a little higher to nudge curls out of the way, well, he does not think Viktor will object, necessarily. When he's finished with the shirt he props his elbow up on the lip and places his chin in his palm, watching, intent unless Viktor tells him not to. There's no disgust to be found, even when he anticipates and searches for it. Burned to cinders by the heat the bath does nothing to stifle.
Reaching for the wine so he does not do something drastically inadvisable like graze a touch over Viktor's trousers, flush with the certainty the touch would be allowed, welcomed, in a way the spoiled princeling's hands would never be, Emet-Selch debates creating glasses. Decides just as quickly as he has the thought not to.
The label is unpeeled with surgical precision, maintaining the brand information and wax stamp, but the cork he thumbs out thoughtlessly, settling the open wine bottle back on the lip for Viktor to taste first once he finishes divesting himself of clothing. ]
Before the bath chills too much. [ a pause as he settles himself into a lazy drape along the lip, chin atop folded arms once again, indulgent. ] Would you prefer I not watch?
[ Emet-Selch touches him, fingers flashing against skin as he undoes the little metal bindings holding Viktor's clothes - his composure - together, and he exhales, low, slow. Heat he'd thought chilled out of him by the cold, by their terse exchange earlier, breathed out as though it might burn if allowed to escape too quickly.
Talk is messy, rife with misunderstandings. Too many words, meaning too many things, too easy to talk around honest feeling. Touch, though - he knows touch, and is all too ready to forget hurt and fear and anger if it means he can be warmed by a body he loves, to feel as though he is more than enough, just as he is, for a man who had once known his own version of paradise.
In another wing of the estate, an unfit princeling makes plans to charm his unusual guest. Here, now, Viktor doesn't think of him at all, stares into firefly eyes, lit brighter than he remembers, and shrugs his robes down off his shoulders, exposing clavicles. ]
I would prefer you watch.
[ Before the bath chills too much - as though between the two of them there wasn't talent enough to heat the water with a thought. A faint smile plays across Viktor's face as he wraps his arms around his torso to hold his robes closed and rises. Unrushed, he turns, showing Emet-Selch his back, and allows his robes to fall a little further, to his elbows, skin of his shoulders prickling to gooseflesh from the cold, but flush with excitement.
Yes. They had argued. Yes, it had left him sullen and Emet-Selch surely irritated, but Viktor will not allow them to linger there. This moment, long, long awaited will not be anything less than joyful. With teasing intent, he wriggles out of his trousers, his stockings, hiding the awkward movement behind flourishes of his coattails, tossing each item over the back of the room's lone armchair with an exaggerated fling of his hand -- an improvised little dance for Emet-Selch's amusement.
Lower drop the robes once he is free of his leggings, gathering at his waist, held in place by one arm. He peels himself out of the hempen undershirt, stretches, because he has seen how many pages of Emet-Selch's sketchbook contain quick drawings of flexing shoulder muscles, and finally turns to face him again.
Here, Viktor pauses to grasp the wine bottle by the neck, and in so doing, allows his robes to drop to the floor. He grins, knowingly, as he lifts the bottle to his lips for a drink - because today, it just so happens, he is wearing smalls. He is, of course, something of a sculpted work, all lean muscle and gentle lines. Freckle dappled skin free of scar and blemish, save a few places where the veins beneath his skin are not veins but green vines, the threat of sprouting flowers ever present. ]
It's bleeding c-cold. [ He complains, this stutter more a shiver, as though he isn't the one holding himself hostage in the icy air right now. The wine is nice, though. Warming. Sweet. He sets the bottle down and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his perfectly ordinary hempen bloomers. This is nothing Emet-Selch has not seen before, but it has been moons since their first and frenzied "lesson" - it feels like a lifetime ago. Like Emet-Selch, like Hades, looks at him with new eyes, seeing for the first time. And so, Viktor gives the moment the time he thinks it is due, slowly hiking down his smalls and stepping out of them once they've hit the floor.
He elects to sit on the edge of the tub, giving Emet-Selch ample time to observe him as he turns, hissing as he slips his legs into water that feels almost too hot when compared to the frigid cold air. He becomes aware, abruptly, of how heavy the beat of his heart is, how shallow his breathing. Viktor lights his fingers on Emet-Selch's hair, forgetting entirely how to be charming or brave. Afraid, for the briefest moment, that Emet-Selch will see him here at a precipice, toes dangling over the cliff's edge, and decide he is not ready - decide he is still angry, still disgusted, repulsed. ]
[ Good, he thinks. He wouldn't want to. Perhaps later that will be a fun subject to play with, the wretched Solus-Emet-Selch and the hero the Warrior of Light, but right now he thinks that subject far too sensitive, like pressing fingers into a purpling bruise, or spreading salt into a wound. Better here and now that they are themselves, as much as they can be.
Viktor makes a show of disrobing and Emet-Selch watches intently, a scene, a play, a skit only meant for his eyes. They are, he thinks, both of them playing a bit of a part, people who know what they are doing in a situation like this. Ridiculous, to have thousands of years of memory at his beck and call and to feel that all of it is insufficient, that he is starting from the first step, attempting to make up for lost time and rusted experience.
There have been countless times he's utilized intimacy - not involving him, necessarily, but orchestrating it between others, to achieve his ends. To avoid a serious discussion and sensitive subject through distractions of the flesh is not healthy, but it is, he thinks useful. Effective. ]
We'll have issues if you decide to make a mess inside my quarters each time you disrobe.
[ Mildly, as he takes the wine Viktor's set back down and carefully tilts a mouthful's worth to taste, thinking at length about the lean muscles of Viktor's shoulders and arms, the narrow line of his waist and how good his hands would look upon all the bare, warm skin within reach. He swallows the wine, realizing only belatedly he hadn't tasted it at all, had been far too distracted watching Viktor sling clothing about willy-nilly. He is, Emet-Selch notes with amusement, wearing smalls. Too cold not to, he supposes, and watches soft cloth make its way down long legs, fully forgetting to breathe until the motion is complete.
He's miscalculated - he's spent too much time studying Viktor, drinking in the sight of him that he hasn't thought about the action, the steps to take to facilitate anything other than ogling him like a youth. Viktor rests fingertips against the crown of his head, settled on the stone that cannot be terribly warm on the outside and Emet-Selch gives into the insane impulse to press his mouth against the malms of bare skin presented to him. Water sloshes as he moves, gliding a hand up Viktor's back to trace the knobs of his spine and he lays a kiss at the swell of a thigh, and another against the faintest imprint where Viktor's smalls had pressed into his skin, lingering. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoys the smell of Viktor despite, or perhaps especially because of a day of tasks, duties. Chores. He wants to wash Viktor's hair. Wants to do what he hadn't allowed himself earlier, to look and touch, and it feels all the more satisfying to do it and know there's someone else here who wants at least half as badly and would never stand a chance.
Emet-Selch tilts his head, resting it upon a folded arm on the lip of the tub once again, the hand attached running lazily up and down Viktor's flank, relaxed despite everything. ]
Did you intend to join at any point, or were you enjoying freezing so much you thought to do it naked?
How long had he feared this thing between them temporary? For moons, after caution gave way to care, even as it slipped into love, he had doubted. He would not, could not pour his heart into this, would not grasp Emet-Selch with the intention of holding him here when there was love for him, rest for him, elsewhere. Would not impose. Would not take up space.
But- Why? Why keep himself small? Why risk everything but his heart, when this is exactly where his heart belongs?
Emet-Selch's lips taste dizzyingly sensitive skin and Viktor drags his fingernails over his scalp, encouraging. Another kiss draws a bright sigh from his lips, louder than it might have been otherwise, breathed with a grin - the servants will have their gossip. Mayhap it will find their lord, even. Gratifying. Enboldening.
He will take up space. He will grasp, intending to hold. He will leave a mark on Emet-Selch's life. ]
You- you could do with a few more messes in your life, I th-think. Smaller ones. Simpler ones.
[ Viktor moves his hand to the dip at the base of his throat, then lower, pressing gently to ease him back. ] I should make you try and pull me in, f-frankly. [ But he doesn't. Slides off the edge of the tub, slow, so that the steaming water does not splash as it is displaced. Into Emet-Selch's space, straddling one of his legs. He shuts his eyes, welcoming the indulgence as his hand slips down, throat to chest, chest to- something unexpected.
The mark he's left on Emet-Selch's life.
Viktor opens his eyes and stares down at his fingertips, skirting the glossy edges of scarred skin. Though his lips part, his breath catches, and he thinks to pull away - as though touching the healed wound might hurt one or both of them - but he stops himself. He doesn't want to. ]
Hades. [ Soft, little more than a whisper, his ears twitch and then ease back. Where he expects guilt, shame, all the unwelcome feelings that come with remembering what had brought them to that point, he finds relief, curiosity, and a strange, gilded sort of fire coming to life in his chest. ] This- this is...
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[ ... ] you mean that, aye?
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Am I often in the habit of saying that which I do not mean?
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i will not pretend the shard does not call to me. i feel their pull even now, soul deep. but i have already seen, felt, what happens when a shard gives themself to their source. it was not healing to be made more whole. i do not feel fuller for robbing the First of Ardbert's soul.
Cylva. Lamitt. Renda-Rae. Nyelbert. Branden. Seto. more besides whose names i will never know. they will cycle anew and Ardbert will not be with them. because of me.
you want me to show you my teeth? then do not assume i see rejoining as anything less than a cruelty. 'tis murder. and a shame that you lack the perspective to see that.
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You belong to yourself, not to the masses.
[ he's not responding to the rest of that, he's not starting a fight, but boy he's in a bad mood now. ]
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that is not what it feels like. not to me. that which was cut from me has had lifetimes now to grow into something new. it is akin to grafting a whole tree onto the oak from which it was originally cut. i would be changed, but i would not be this reflection's Azem. i would be some in-between thing.
i belong to myself. and Ardbert to himself, 'til he didn't. this reflection of my soul is no different.
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And your nature is not to grow, to change in accordance with experiences? It is instead to stay stagnant? What does it matter if you would not be this reflection's Azem? Is not a point of aught we attempt to do to make a world in which Azem is not necessary?
[ abruptly, he feels very ridiculous. he had thought of this nebulous future as one where the duty and burden hydaelyn had left to aepymetes' shards would be lessened, after this great wrong was corrected. no convocation for either of them. emet-selch would have his duties in the aetherial sea when needed and viktor would visit when it suited him, with emet-selch joining intermittently when duty allowed. they would solve idle problems.
viktor would take him to his favorite places, and emet-selch would gratefully endure being kissed at each one.the last time he'd felt this off-kilter was - well. that's probably not a train of thought he wants to see continue to the station. ]
I cannot even begin to explain how little I wish to debate this. Talk to the shard, or do not. It is no matter to me.
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i am afraid. i am afraid of a million different things.
i fear rejoining against my will. that we might snap together, that it will hurt the way it did when Dalamud fell.
i fear Aepymetes's Sight. what if the weave is all i can see again? how long might it take me to get it under control?
i fear how adding another thread might again affect my aether, my magic, my lilies, my body.
i fear that in rejoining, i might rob some other soul here of a love that might've spanned lifetimes.
i fear i might be changed too much. that i may become someone that those i love do not recognize.
[ typing. deleting. typing. deleting. ]
i fear that when you look at me, that you will ever wish that i am more than i am.
i ache, wondering whether i am not enough.
your picture of existence is bigger, fuller, older than mine. different perspectives of the same thing. neither is wrong, only different.
for you, this feels a simple conversation. it is not simple for me.
i do not wish to stagnate, Hades. i only wish to feel safe and sufficient in my body.
i will talk to this shard if i can. 'twas ever a part of traversing reflections. if they are tired, if they wish to return, i will consider it.
'twould put my heart at ease if you would be there with me when i do it. because i am terrified. [ ... ] and i need someone to tell me that it is okay to be selfish. to not pick usefulness to the star over my own wants.
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A little fear is healthy, keeping one from making unreasonable choices. But there are steps to even the theoretical pursuit of obtaining this shard, and they need not be performed in quick succession.
What if you were rejoined and found the thread stabilized those parts you worry most about? What if the shard wants to stay, and that ends the conversation before it can even begin? There are countless what-ifs to consider, but all of them are abstract until you have the initial conversation.
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[ ... ]
i apologize for snapping as i did.
i did not realize how deeply i would be affected, thinking you were asking me to rejoin.
not an excuse. merely an explanation.
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I think there is little risk in a...we shall call it a technical sense. Were we to rejoin several at once I would have concerns. Because of their size and scale, we had to be cautious about rejoining the shards. A single soul - a sliver of a soul - is much less difficult.
[ he does not respond to the rest because he does not know how. instead, he gives up on searching on foot and looks, properly. identifies splotches of color one after another, not isolated, tending to their duties but surrounded by other souls. an instant to step through one wall to the next, and his question is answered, but not how he had anticipated. today is just a day full of petty irritations.
to the shard's grave then. he is careful stepping through the flood of flowers, nudging the ground and flowers aside with a bit of aether to make room for his boots, neatly smoothing soil and flowers back into place once he's moved on.
he doesn't know why he bothered to come here. it is just a grave.
bones and dirt, not answers. not direction. he stretches his awareness until he reaches the aetherial sea shattered, fragmented thing that it is, and sighs. the shard lies within reach, if he tried. if viktor tried.
crouching, he thumbs dirt off where it has gathered in the grooves of the stone, and with the sweep of his fingers across the face shifts the stone to amaurotine stone, instead. ]
Maybe you'll be less trouble. Probably not.
[ the faintest flicker of a wry smile to the grave, and emet-selch vanishes through another portal. ]
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[ stew, more like. on the argument, on the intent, on his own uneven footing and hurt feelings.
blessedly released from the lordling's attentions when matters of dinner party plans become more pressing, viktor takes to wandering the estate grounds. he permits himself time to sulk, but loses interest in the process after half a bell, when it leaves him feeling no better, no more settled on their argument.
distraction comes eventually though, with the gold glint of his echo luring him to someone in need. at the heart of the grounds stands a greenhouse, somewhat pitiful, but impressively full of friendly, singing birds. Viktor assumes the meager green growth is due to knowledge lost, the young caretakers no longer aware of how best to tend plants that had once thrived in their lands.
it is here that he finds Alice, and more importantly, the injured jay whose wing she is desperately trying to tend. Viktor heals the damage with nary a thought, and in so doing, makes a friend and learns the first interesting detail about this reflection.
he allows his echo to carry him this way and that. doing chores, he thinks wryly, as he finds one person after another in need of simple assistance. after three bells, he's made five friends, wandered most of the estate's inner grounds, and, he thinks, learned a great deal about what they face here.
his final act, as the sun sinks, is to present a gift to their annoyed-and-annoying little lordling, then takes his leave again, seeking solitude among the few flowers he knows before finally retrieving his tomestone again. looking at the messages fouls his mood anew, but he forces the feeling small and fires off the first message in bells. ]
alright. the chores are done.
our little lordling has granted you fine quarters while we are here. and is most thankful for the gift of exotic dyes from your homeland. he believes you a wealthy textile merchant and sorcerer. all past offenses are forgiven and forgotten.
that said, i do not think it best to make an ally of him, and not merely because he's tried to grope me three times. the people in his employ hold no love for him or his family. even the guards murmur unrest loud enough for me to hear.
as an aside, be cautious of any food we are served while eating with him, if not for fear of poison, then certainly spit.
since winter settled here, bartering and credit are king. no use for the old currency. the people here lack for basic supplies. staple foods, medicines, dyes, many textiles. it seems they've also all but lost their knowledge of healing magics within the last two generations.
and for all they lack, they've got a terrible fondness for gossip. seems your social standing is tied at least in part to your ability to rattle off who's probably had a bonk with the captain of the guard. a hot topic among noble and commoner alike. i've written down a list of names and left it in your quarters, in case you find you need it.
they've represented much of their recent history on wool tapestries. every blanket and wall hanging in this place bears a story. such things are given to commemorate important events, and to receive one as a gift is a sign of great love and respect from the giver.
at any rate, it seems one of our Ascians was a woman who called herself The Arbiter. an advisor, "possessed by a demon" who was felled by my shard and her allies at their last stand. no sign of said "demon" since. 'least, not represented in their tapestry work.
if you've need of me, i'll be in the aviary.
1/2
How, exactly, Pashtarot - not even whole, managed to both locate the spellwork and implement it is something he will puzzle over when he retires for the evening. For now, he spends no small amount of time on wild goose chases. A touch of Pashtarot's magic, here and there, like he could not help himself but leave little breadcrumbs in what he did, or he simply did not know enough to hide his tracks adequately.
In either case, after running back and forth far more than he'd like to admit, he locates the sliver of the man and is not entirely surprised to see one of the other youths leaving. Convenient, he supposes, that the ability to stay invisible is not one that the shards of Asicans either possess or know how to counter. He moves silently through Pashtarot's dingy little house, noting the lifted books from one, if not many of the facilities the Ascians utilized in the past. He'll have to clean that mess up and prevent this from occurring again.
Some of the more dangerous tomes he simply picks up and carries with him once the other man creaks his way down the steps to make tea, grumbling all the while. When he's satisfied himself with making certain the most dangerous pieces are removed from the playing field, Emet-Selch vanishes and reappears down the road, idly trailing the student? Employee? Minion? Until she reaches her home, where a woman in the yard lifts her hand in greeting at her, sweeping her into a hug.
Emet-Selch's footsteps pause, stomach twisting. Eliminating Ascians is one thing and Viktor is quite proficient. Killing children is... well. He does not look forward to the ethical discussion that might occur if it proves necessary. A nightmare to consider - children, taught by someone who was simply making best guesswork at magics beyond his comprehension, playing at a position he once held. A different sort of dangerous than those fully aware, awake.
He'll keep this to himself, then. The last thing Viktor needs is to fret about what will happen if he must eliminate them, if releasing them from tempering and Emet-Selch acting as Solus do not work.
As if to spite him, his tomestone pings cheerfully with an alert and with a discontent breath exhaled he slips into the shadows once again and reappears in the quarters they have been given. The books are spelled to invisibility save for him and Viktor and he promptly returns to himself, stripping down to take advantage of the bathtub rather than make any efforts to mix and mingle and further than he must with their hosts. A miserable place, but the bathtubs put even the one he has in his quarters to shame, all neat stonework and piped-in hot water. ]
It would be a trifle to wear a guard for a bit and ensure he has a lamentable accident, you know.
[ He may yet do it anyway. It isn't as if Viktor would know it was him, and he's quite practiced at making death look like a simple mishap. When everything is so dire, it is remarkably easy to slip in an accidental death or two.
Sinking as low as he can go in the bath while still maintaining the ability to breathe, he mulls over the situation. Healing magics can be taught, but not quickly, not easily. Those best versed would, ironically, be the asicans living on this shard, unaware of the full extent of their abilities. They would have a framework to operate off of. Better still would be supplies, though there's no easy way to ensure that they go to where they need to and aren't poached to be resold. To say nothing of how they would explain possessing such items. Tedious, all of it is so tedious. ]
The scattered settlements were as I expected - middling, struggling. I've yet to see anything meaningful from our host in terms of support or assistance.
Your blankets would also explain the frankly jarring quantity of sheep farmers out there. One could not walk down a road without throwing a stone and hitting at least six different sheep fields and you could smell the barns from a malm away.
2/2
1/2
[ ... ]
surely there are factions plotting this or that. mayhap there is one worth cultivating, rather than taking matters into our own hands.
[ what should be a warm and welcome escape from the frigid air outside is not quite warm enough to dispel the chill from one's bones. it is no wonder the plants struggle here. viktor wanders the walls of the garden, checking for gaps and drafts he can smudge away with a thumb. ]
a great deal of mutton to be found in the kitchens, too. and all of it reserved for his lordship. a dearth of proper seasonings, though. dreadful.
i've taught the lass in charge of the gardens how to raise her peppers so they fruit reliably. this place may come to remember paprika, yet.
[ these lands had once been hot and dry, run through with dozens of rivers and streams. not so unlike Thanalan - if Thanalan had received the brunt of Dalamud's destruction, rather than Coerthas. only the oldest servants remember those days, and even then their memories are dim. painful to think about.
when he is sure no one is around, viktor spends a touch of his own aether to quickly transplant a struggling sapling he is fairly certain is an olive tree to a plot where it might grow better, shifting the soil content to accommodate its new home. ]
2/2
among the scullery maids, yes. i quite liked the bounce of it. like something out of Ishgard - popping over to Lady Hortense's for lunchtime tea and a bonk.
and 'twas second only to "touring one's root cellar" which was, i must tell you, a terribly confusing conversation. as we were literally touring the root cellar when it was being discussed.
which does in fact have a concealed passageway, as an aside. i didn't have the opportunity to venture through it. sensed it, only.
i hope you've found something more exciting than pastures in your wandering?
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The lack of Ascians, I'd wager. To be clear - I do not mean to insinuate we did not cause trouble where it suited. But shepherding and ensuring the longevity of those on relevant shards was as much a part of duty as aught else.
[ Admittedly, just to keep the rejoining easier to manage, to make certain that there was still a world to rejoin, but the point still stands. The tomestone is set aside for the time being while he washes, lingering in the hot water longer than is necessary, loathe to get out into the chill air of the borrowed rooms. Less than eager to put back on the name and face of someone he is no longer, no matter how necessary it may be. ]
The easiest option, I think, would be for us to finalize our business here and leave for a spell. On our return - laden with useful items imported from far away, we would have less questions to answer about the acquisition of those goods.
A root cellar and concealed passageway within the palace? Were there any other locations?
My first inclination would be to assume that it was a convenience - often, those in power who do not wish to see the help will install them in their buildings. Breakfast would arrive without ever having to see or give much thought to those who made and delivered it. He seems the sort.
I would have an easier time exploring the root cellars than you would, if we are so inclined.
[ He has not been inclined to teach Viktor invisibility. The last thing he needs is for Viktor to grasp the concept so well he can hide himself from Emet-Selch. ]
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a tavern visit may be worth it, in that case. to hear how adventurers tell the tale.
[ nevermind the fact that he's heard they brew liquors from lichen, and that sound so positively vile he cannot wait to try some.
with a host of small adjustments made to the castle greenhouse, and the glass dome growing too dark to do anything else effectively, viktor bundles himself back up and ventures out into the night, making for his room once more before his royal pest can seek him out. ]
aye, i've no complaints with that plan. 'twould be nice to help the folk more, but i fear what getting embroiled here would do were we called urgently to return to the First.
the air coming in smelled too earthy. and damp and old and not near as cold as the rest of the palace air. i think it goes deeper, not into the castle. aside from that, the lord's library has a host of interesting tapestries dating back centuries. they are hung in somewhat strange places. perhaps local custom, but concealing shelves, or hung so low they skirt the floors. i do wonder whether more secrets hide behind them.
'twould be interesting to see where the passage goes, at least. but i am cold, and would like to warm myself first.
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I would caution you against attempting to solve all of this shard's issues. Some are beyond our time and ability to handle and you are correct that the First might require us more.
As to the smell - you believe it lies beneath the castle? And that the hidden walkways might lead a path down?
[ he's going to be very irritated if it would have been useful to teach viktor invisibility. the next bit, he types. deletes. they are still on unsteady ground. ]
Were the air clearer between us, I might have suggested the timing could have aligned so that we could have shared a bath. As it is, I find myself uncertain if the insinuation would be welcome.
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no. i agree.
[ ... ]
mayhap i will regret my cruelty. i certainly feel some guilt over it, but i am loathe to make myself indispensable to another shard right now. they've their own heroes. and i am content to teach what gardening and healing i can, for now.
aye. to be specific. i wonder whether the path to the Sea the lordling lays claim over isn't right under his nose.
[ viktor reads the last message twice when it comes through, but does not respond. leaves it unanswered as he climbs the stairs to their split quarters. there, he wastes a few more seconds quibbling, but it does not take him long to realize what he wants.
still in his traveling garb, he raps his knuckles against their shared door. ]
If you'd still have me, I would be amenable to a soak. [ A pause, his forehead touching the door. ] Would you wash my hair?
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They are useful skills, especially given their situation.
[ What else is he to say? He's made the offer and half-thinks that there's no way he will be taken up on it. Viktor has people to see. Chores to do. Emet-Selch has suggested the unthinkable casually enough the mention nearly started a fight. Now, he's suggested something else that is entirely different and unthinkable, and there's no response. Foolish. He ought to have known.
Weary down to his bones slouches into the warmth of the water and stretches out, toes barely grazing the stone edge of the tub. If he thought the floors at the Crystarium would hold, he would create and install something half as large. And then, a knock. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes to the ceiling, fully intent on ignoring it until he hears Viktor's voice and abruptly the half-hearted offer is no longer a failed attempt and he must contend with seeing the offer through. It will not be, he thinks, such a hardship, even if the idea of going from countless layers between them to exactly none makes his stomach hot and tight in a way that isn't quite discomfort. Folding both arms on the stone lip and propping his chin atop them, he calls, ]
Only if you make haste before the bath loses most of its heat. If you've a preference on bathing supplies, you ought to bring those, as well.
[ The drain he tugs clean to start emptying the cooling, used water, and the bronze spigot creaks as it's turned back on with a nudge to spit steaming water to replenish what he's draining.
Then, he sits, feeling horrifically bare, and after a beat of hesitation and feeling ridiculous for nudging enough salts into the water to obscure the contents at least a little. ]
no subject
his quarters are less impressive than the ones granted to Emet-Selch. too reluctant, for myriad reasons, to put a name to what they are - partners? consorts? lovers? it is at once deeper than all of those things and still too indefinite to name precisely. the lordling, eager to stake a claim, had assumed viktor the steward, the merchant's valet, and granted the adjoining servant's quarters. which are fine with viktor. if Emet-Selch wants to share a bed, after, well. he will decide whether or not to cross that bridge when he arrives at it.
right now, his heart is thundering, so loud as to be frankly unnecessary. this is not the first man he's seen naked. not the first person he's bathed with. there is no reason for his skin to prickle as he gathers up his few soaps, his robe and pajamas. after another second wasted thinking, he also scoops up the bottle of wine he'd received as thanks for his part in delivering the merchant's dyes -- green and purple and red dyes he'd just happened to have in his pack.
only once his arms are full does he finally return to the door separating them. a steeling breath, and then he passes through. slow, as though he needs to give Emet-Selch more time to change his mind and send him away.
his quarters are warm for the steam already filling the room, a welcome relief. and there he is, unmissable, on the other side from the door. submerged in cloudy, fragrant water, steam wafting around him. his neck is beautiful, bare shoulders moreso. the sight catches viktor's breath and holds it high in his throat. ]
Oh. You are you. [ he allows himself to sound surprised, but hides his relief as best he can. he could admit to himself that the sight of Hades back in that old form had felt...strange. he had prepared himself to be revolted, angry, even frightened. that he had felt none of those things upon looking at him had been the only certain thing he'd allowed himself to feel.
he sorts through his possessions, trying to force his lungs to work. leaves his robes and pajamas on the room's table, rather than Emet-Selch's bed - not ready to think himself welcome there, quite yet. then, with nowhere else to waste time, he finally approaches the impressively large stone tub, sets his soaps and the unopened bottle of wine on the nearby shelf, within reach and kneels, deliberately slow.
viktor undoes two of the toggles holding his robes closed, then lets his fingers drop to toy with the surface of the water. he steals the quickest glance down, but sees nothing for the fog of salts. ]
I've a few c-clasps that need undoing. [ he angles himself, showing off buckles he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. softly, over the heavy thud of his heartbeat rattling in his ears, he asks, ] Would you?
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Something in him squirms, pleased that Viktor does not sound disappointed to find him himself. It was not so difficult to wear Solus again. Maybe he would feel less...this if he hadn't found putting that persona on so easy, or the gulch between them so small. ]
I am myself. 'Tis a trifle to make the change as needed.
[ But he would prefer to be himself, here and now. Especially for something as intimate as a bath, as shedding literal layers down to skin. At least already being in the bath makes the process a touch easier; he needn't feel ridiculous about undressing.
The wine is given a brief, appraising glance before Emet-Selch turns a steady gaze on Viktor and looks, intentional, deliberate. Marks the undoing of a few toggles on his robes and how close Viktor lingers, and finds that his earlier irritation has not necessarily waned but neither does it do anything to cool the heat curling in his stomach. At least his hands are dry; it doesn't take effort to reach out and start thumbing them open bit by bit. ]
Of course, your hands haven't warmed enough to manage the rest of the buckles.
[ If his fingers linger against the graceful line of Viktor's throat or drift up a little higher to nudge curls out of the way, well, he does not think Viktor will object, necessarily. When he's finished with the shirt he props his elbow up on the lip and places his chin in his palm, watching, intent unless Viktor tells him not to. There's no disgust to be found, even when he anticipates and searches for it. Burned to cinders by the heat the bath does nothing to stifle.
Reaching for the wine so he does not do something drastically inadvisable like graze a touch over Viktor's trousers, flush with the certainty the touch would be allowed, welcomed, in a way the spoiled princeling's hands would never be, Emet-Selch debates creating glasses. Decides just as quickly as he has the thought not to.
The label is unpeeled with surgical precision, maintaining the brand information and wax stamp, but the cork he thumbs out thoughtlessly, settling the open wine bottle back on the lip for Viktor to taste first once he finishes divesting himself of clothing. ]
Before the bath chills too much. [ a pause as he settles himself into a lazy drape along the lip, chin atop folded arms once again, indulgent. ] Would you prefer I not watch?
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[ Emet-Selch touches him, fingers flashing against skin as he undoes the little metal bindings holding Viktor's clothes - his composure - together, and he exhales, low, slow. Heat he'd thought chilled out of him by the cold, by their terse exchange earlier, breathed out as though it might burn if allowed to escape too quickly.
Talk is messy, rife with misunderstandings. Too many words, meaning too many things, too easy to talk around honest feeling. Touch, though - he knows touch, and is all too ready to forget hurt and fear and anger if it means he can be warmed by a body he loves, to feel as though he is more than enough, just as he is, for a man who had once known his own version of paradise.
In another wing of the estate, an unfit princeling makes plans to charm his unusual guest. Here, now, Viktor doesn't think of him at all, stares into firefly eyes, lit brighter than he remembers, and shrugs his robes down off his shoulders, exposing clavicles. ]
I would prefer you watch.
[ Before the bath chills too much - as though between the two of them there wasn't talent enough to heat the water with a thought. A faint smile plays across Viktor's face as he wraps his arms around his torso to hold his robes closed and rises. Unrushed, he turns, showing Emet-Selch his back, and allows his robes to fall a little further, to his elbows, skin of his shoulders prickling to gooseflesh from the cold, but flush with excitement.
Yes. They had argued. Yes, it had left him sullen and Emet-Selch surely irritated, but Viktor will not allow them to linger there. This moment, long, long awaited will not be anything less than joyful. With teasing intent, he wriggles out of his trousers, his stockings, hiding the awkward movement behind flourishes of his coattails, tossing each item over the back of the room's lone armchair with an exaggerated fling of his hand -- an improvised little dance for Emet-Selch's amusement.
Lower drop the robes once he is free of his leggings, gathering at his waist, held in place by one arm. He peels himself out of the hempen undershirt, stretches, because he has seen how many pages of Emet-Selch's sketchbook contain quick drawings of flexing shoulder muscles, and finally turns to face him again.
Here, Viktor pauses to grasp the wine bottle by the neck, and in so doing, allows his robes to drop to the floor. He grins, knowingly, as he lifts the bottle to his lips for a drink - because today, it just so happens, he is wearing smalls. He is, of course, something of a sculpted work, all lean muscle and gentle lines. Freckle dappled skin free of scar and blemish, save a few places where the veins beneath his skin are not veins but green vines, the threat of sprouting flowers ever present. ]
It's bleeding c-cold. [ He complains, this stutter more a shiver, as though he isn't the one holding himself hostage in the icy air right now. The wine is nice, though. Warming. Sweet. He sets the bottle down and hooks a thumb into the waistband of his perfectly ordinary hempen bloomers. This is nothing Emet-Selch has not seen before, but it has been moons since their first and frenzied "lesson" - it feels like a lifetime ago. Like Emet-Selch, like Hades, looks at him with new eyes, seeing for the first time. And so, Viktor gives the moment the time he thinks it is due, slowly hiking down his smalls and stepping out of them once they've hit the floor.
He elects to sit on the edge of the tub, giving Emet-Selch ample time to observe him as he turns, hissing as he slips his legs into water that feels almost too hot when compared to the frigid cold air. He becomes aware, abruptly, of how heavy the beat of his heart is, how shallow his breathing. Viktor lights his fingers on Emet-Selch's hair, forgetting entirely how to be charming or brave. Afraid, for the briefest moment, that Emet-Selch will see him here at a precipice, toes dangling over the cliff's edge, and decide he is not ready - decide he is still angry, still disgusted, repulsed. ]
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Viktor makes a show of disrobing and Emet-Selch watches intently, a scene, a play, a skit only meant for his eyes. They are, he thinks, both of them playing a bit of a part, people who know what they are doing in a situation like this. Ridiculous, to have thousands of years of memory at his beck and call and to feel that all of it is insufficient, that he is starting from the first step, attempting to make up for lost time and rusted experience.
There have been countless times he's utilized intimacy - not involving him, necessarily, but orchestrating it between others, to achieve his ends. To avoid a serious discussion and sensitive subject through distractions of the flesh is not healthy, but it is, he thinks useful. Effective. ]
We'll have issues if you decide to make a mess inside my quarters each time you disrobe.
[ Mildly, as he takes the wine Viktor's set back down and carefully tilts a mouthful's worth to taste, thinking at length about the lean muscles of Viktor's shoulders and arms, the narrow line of his waist and how good his hands would look upon all the bare, warm skin within reach. He swallows the wine, realizing only belatedly he hadn't tasted it at all, had been far too distracted watching Viktor sling clothing about willy-nilly. He is, Emet-Selch notes with amusement, wearing smalls. Too cold not to, he supposes, and watches soft cloth make its way down long legs, fully forgetting to breathe until the motion is complete.
He's miscalculated - he's spent too much time studying Viktor, drinking in the sight of him that he hasn't thought about the action, the steps to take to facilitate anything other than ogling him like a youth. Viktor rests fingertips against the crown of his head, settled on the stone that cannot be terribly warm on the outside and Emet-Selch gives into the insane impulse to press his mouth against the malms of bare skin presented to him. Water sloshes as he moves, gliding a hand up Viktor's back to trace the knobs of his spine and he lays a kiss at the swell of a thigh, and another against the faintest imprint where Viktor's smalls had pressed into his skin, lingering. He'd forgotten just how much he enjoys the smell of Viktor despite, or perhaps especially because of a day of tasks, duties. Chores. He wants to wash Viktor's hair. Wants to do what he hadn't allowed himself earlier, to look and touch, and it feels all the more satisfying to do it and know there's someone else here who wants at least half as badly and would never stand a chance.
Emet-Selch tilts his head, resting it upon a folded arm on the lip of the tub once again, the hand attached running lazily up and down Viktor's flank, relaxed despite everything. ]
Did you intend to join at any point, or were you enjoying freezing so much you thought to do it naked?
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[ Slow, tentative.
How long had he feared this thing between them temporary? For moons, after caution gave way to care, even as it slipped into love, he had doubted. He would not, could not pour his heart into this, would not grasp Emet-Selch with the intention of holding him here when there was love for him, rest for him, elsewhere. Would not impose. Would not take up space.
But- Why? Why keep himself small? Why risk everything but his heart, when this is exactly where his heart belongs?
Emet-Selch's lips taste dizzyingly sensitive skin and Viktor drags his fingernails over his scalp, encouraging. Another kiss draws a bright sigh from his lips, louder than it might have been otherwise, breathed with a grin - the servants will have their gossip. Mayhap it will find their lord, even. Gratifying. Enboldening.
He will take up space. He will grasp, intending to hold. He will leave a mark on Emet-Selch's life. ]
You- you could do with a few more messes in your life, I th-think. Smaller ones. Simpler ones.
[ Viktor moves his hand to the dip at the base of his throat, then lower, pressing gently to ease him back. ] I should make you try and pull me in, f-frankly. [ But he doesn't. Slides off the edge of the tub, slow, so that the steaming water does not splash as it is displaced. Into Emet-Selch's space, straddling one of his legs. He shuts his eyes, welcoming the indulgence as his hand slips down, throat to chest, chest to- something unexpected.
The mark he's left on Emet-Selch's life.
Viktor opens his eyes and stares down at his fingertips, skirting the glossy edges of scarred skin. Though his lips part, his breath catches, and he thinks to pull away - as though touching the healed wound might hurt one or both of them - but he stops himself. He doesn't want to. ]
Hades. [ Soft, little more than a whisper, his ears twitch and then ease back. Where he expects guilt, shame, all the unwelcome feelings that come with remembering what had brought them to that point, he finds relief, curiosity, and a strange, gilded sort of fire coming to life in his chest. ] This- this is...
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sorry. this tag is fadsjld absolutely insane.
EATS IT EATS IT
adventures in i do not have an icon for this
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grgfgfgk i gotta renew my sub surprise peepaw
peepaw icon kinda appropriate at least shsjshs
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that should read to *NOT allow fuck
LMAO I knew what you meant at least sob
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oh my god
EATS IT
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your bf just wants to turn himself into a quantum computer emet-selch nbd
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lmao for some reason it replied as a whole new top level??
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forgot the rest of the caps UGHHH
this is so long sobdhshhsh
FOOD FOR ME THO also sorry viktor you're dating a dick
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