[ Viktor shifts, not quite wanting to lose this contact. Afraid, ridiculously, that if he loses track of Emet-Selch's hands now, all that permeating cold will escape him, as well. It is not that he fears coming undone again - no, he is stitched into place once more. The sun of his soul burns deathly cold into Light even now. What he fears is losing the utter certainty, the inviolate proof of Hades's love.
Viktor repositions Emet-Selch's hand to cup his cheek, shuts his eyes and leans into the contact. ]
I would not complain if- if you decided I s-seemed so weak- [ He musters enough energy for a bit of theatrics, but he needn't. His voice is reedy enough. ] -that you thought it best to feed me your fancy cheeses yourself.
[ He flashes a grin, which serves only to make him look more tired for how much dimmer it is than usual. His strength is steadily returning, though, and his head clear enough to consider what's just transpired. His gaze falls, finally, thoughtful. ] N-not my favorite way to get closer to you. But. 'Tis... nice, this feel of your aether within me. You are- alright? It did not c-cost you much to knit me into place?
[ Were Viktor upright Emet-Selch thinks a stiff wind would blow him over. It has been a long time since he thought that Viktor was weak; he was disabused of that notion very quickly. To see him now, like this - weak is not the word he wants to use but it is accurate.
Uncomfortable. There is no one around to know if he indulges. He'd know, but is indulgence not the point when engaging in any sort of relationship? Is not that not part of the benefit?
Patting once, twice at Viktor's chest, he stretches and grasps for one of the cheeses and knives, starting to cut pieces at the very least. The fruit he'd managed to bring are what he pulls out next, along with the honey, giving Viktor a dubious look. ]
You're going to get crumbs all over yourself if you continue to lie down.
[ He hands Viktor a little cracker with cheese, a blackberry and a drizzle of honey all the same, frowning as if he is not a willing, active participant in making a mess of crumbs. ]
Heavens forfend. [ A little shaky, Viktor rises first to his elbows and then up to sitting properly - still leaning against Emet-Selch as much as he can, greedy - before finally taking the offered morsel between his fingers. ] That the Warrior might - ugh - get a little messy. The s-scandal.
[ An overwrought gasp, fingers of his free hand splayed across his chest, over the heart that now beats again. Already, he looks less like a soul wound back from the Underworld, more like one roused from a nap, eyes tired and hair wild, but the color returned to his face.
He spares a second examining the assembled snack, appreciating the layers of color, the way it seems like the sort of thing that'd be served at a fancy dinner party in Ishgard or Ul'Dah or, he supposes, Garlemald. Viktor has eaten his own weight in hard cheeses and tack many times over. It's a little fun to see travel food reprised into a luxurious single bite. His gaze lifts to Emet-Selch, wondering at how he indulges him, how readily he shares all his comfortable little delights.
On impulse, Viktor dips his pinky into the drizzle of honey, dots the sticky sweet gold onto his tongue as though to sample just that, and then leans in, strains upward, to press his parted lips to Emet-Selch's mouth, sharing sugar, sharing sunlight, sharing breath. ]
Th-thank you. [ He whispers as he draws away, popping the assembled cracker into his mouth. He chews twice, and, as ever, heedless of manners, adds, ] D'you mind- may I ask about what I s-saw, what you thought of, when you let me in?
You needn't worry about a scandal, the worry you ought to have is whether or not I will allow your crumb-laden body into my pristine bed.
[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
[ Sweet and savory, the little treat is far more complex than Viktor expects. His head angles as he considers the flavor, eyes brightening with delight. Oh, they should have little lunches more often. Each sharing foods the other has never had before; Emet-Selch explaining the history and aquisition of every ingredient in fine detail. Something to look forward to, once they've begun to rebuild in earnest. ]
Cruel of you to deny me access to my favorite place!
[ He clucks and pouts exaggeratedly, shaking his head as he licks honey from his fingers.
Viktor does not know. Not in full, at least. Were he to guess, he would miss by malms just how much he is adored, how easily he could wrest near anything he might desire from Emet-Selch. Knowing isn't necessary, though. He would press, either way - wants to be here with him. Will fight for closeness, for their arguments, for the closest thing either of them can possibly have to a normal life.
He reaches forward to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face, tucking them back behind his ear with a triumphant grin, pleased at having ruffled him. ]
Aye, you needn't answer if you do not w-want. [ Viktor leans against him, still seeking warmth. ] You thought of- you tried to s-save someone else, once, aye? When you were young. Who...?
[ He does not watch Viktor lick honey from his fingers, he cannot watch that, and allow his mind to run rampant. Instead, he takes to unpacking cheeses and crackers and bread with militant efficiency, settling items out on plates and platters, slicing cheese into neat chunks, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
I do not recall their name or who they were.
[ Should he? He had to have been told their name originally; that had to be a part of the process where he was censured and educated on why he had made a foolish decision, but he doesn't recall the name itself. It hadn't been important. The color of their soul had been a muted tawny brown, and that memory stuck with him, useless. ]
There were occasions where those studying for one position or another were expected to create something outside of their baseline capability. One could grow into the ability, one they learned how to manage themselves and their aether. But every so often there would be someone - a student, a member of one of the Words - who pushed too hard without someone there to assist and supplement and they would drain themselves.
[ Emet-Selch plucks a piece of bread free once he's cut enough slices, and begins layering honey, goat cheese, thinly sliced meat and only once it's finished does he hand it thoughtlessly off to Viktor before doing it again for himself. ]
They did, and I was the fool who attempted to grasp their soul, to keep them here long enough to supplement their aether with my own reserves, without knowing how or understanding what I'd done. I was young. Foolish.
[ Very abruptly, the many long months of watching Emet-Selch dodder about his room, tending to this or that, looking everywhere but him, make perfect sense. Not disinterest, not disgust. He's simply flustered. How ridiculous of both of them - that Viktor hadn't seen it sooner, that someone like Emet-Selch could be thrown off kilter by someone like him. The most dignified, collected man Viktor has ever known besotted by a silly adventurer. How delightful.
More surprising, even, than this realization, is the one he has right after. Relief, obligation, discomfort, all the things he usually feels when faced with someone so smitten are absent. And in their place, excitement - the desire to draw out more, to linger in this feeling. An impish grin climbs across Viktor's features, as wide as it is troublesome. Emet-Selch slicing little rounds of bread might as well be the most fascinating activity in the world for how intently Viktor watches him.
He listens, struck by how readily Emet-Selch answers him, too used to probing questions being gently swerved around, turned into lectures. This, though, feels raw, especially for how plainly it is relayed. That wicked smile on his face shrinks by measures, and as Emet-Selch pushes the assembled amuse-bouche into his hand, Viktor reaches out the other to light fingers on his forearm. ]
You were brave. [ He closes his fingers around his sleeve, squeezes lightly. ] 'Twas a bad end, aye, but your intent, your willingness to act- there is nothing f-foolish about wishing to preserve life, no matter what rules or duty tell us. [ He hangs, just a moment, and then his serious expression fades with a soft laugh. ] It p-probably does not mean much coming from me. I doubt you have known a version of me that cared much for laws or regulations.
[ What little he'd come to know of Azem before calling Hades back, subversive behavior seemed to number among his most defining traits. Viktor takes a careful bite of the assembled tidbit, chews twice, and hums his approval, his earlier seriousness swallowed up in sunshine-y joy. Mouth still full, he picks at the salty slice of meat to get a look at everything assembled beneath. ]
[ After making himself another bite he goes about assembling piece after piece with a speed and ease that comes from countless nights entertaining, having tired of incompetence in the kitchen in one way or another, opting to handle the tasks himself. Or, in certain not-infrequently situations, needing to make sure a meal proceeded without any of the poisoning save for the ones he orchestrated. ]
Do not mistake the point of the lesson. [ Emet-Selch lifts his gaze to meet Viktor's, the busy movement of his hands pausing. ] There is a natural order we exist within and are meant to uphold. It is not on us to decide who stays and who remains when they have passed beyond the care of a healer.
[ This cannot, he thinks, turn into some inspirational moment. He had erred gravely, specifically, and his mentor had always been sparing with her praise but blunt with her critique, her instruction, and her expectation. Certain information she would withhold until she had deemed him or his efforts worthy, but anything related to the seat of Emet-Selch, she imparted without hesitation. He had to do the same; the worst would be for Viktor to make the same mistakes. ]
You are much more likely to cause irreparable harm to a soul than to save it. This is not an indictment of your abilities or being whole. The only reason I was able to wrest you back so neatly, so cleanly is because of how inextricably we have wound our souls. Even then - [ There was a chance, but he hadn't allowed himself to consider it. Emet-Selch snaps, and a dozen little side plates appear. Pickled vegetables, candied nuts, honeycomb, a platter of greens for Del. He returns to the arduous task of assembling finger food, remaining steadfast even in the face of the sun as Viktor looks at him, handsome, easily pleased. Like he hadn't almost - ]
Do not give so much of yourself again, and certainly not to a creation.
[ Emet-Selch steals a look over at Viktor, feeling the thousands of years like a physical weight. He's had variations of this snack countless times. Meat and cheese and a bread option are not overly complex, but Viktor's easy pleasure makes him take a more considering bite, makes him taste instead of mechanically chewing and swallowing to eat and be done. It is, unsurprisingly, good when he lets himself taste. ]
[ Almost hypnotising, watching him craft so many little snacks without thought. There is delight to be found in the way his fingers move, deft and certain, over so repetitious and mundane a task. Not complicated magic or alchemy, not Creation, just pleasant little snacks and sandwiches, set out for them both to sample. The sort of thing meant purely for enjoyment. The sort of thing Viktor imagines ordinary people in extraordinary love get up to, because they've got the time to spend on each other.
He pops the second half of the little crostini in his mouth and selects a different, pretty little snack to begin inspecting. When Emet-Selch's hands still, Viktor's brows raise. And he listens, for what else would he do? Even the little condiments snapped into being go ignored, so focused is Viktor on Emet-Selch's words.
Inextricably, he says. And isn't that the truth? Even before their ritual. Before the world ended. Before Viktor was Viktor, and mayhap even before Hades was Hades and Aepymetes, Aepymetes. Bound up, they are, two pieces of a three part set. And Viktor had very nearly removed himself from the chessboard once more.
He sets the cracker between his fingers back down and reaches out, closes slender fingers around Emet-Selch's wrist. ]
Everything ends. I know. Life needs death.
[ Every slaughtered scion at the Waking Sands, Haurchefant, Papalymo, Tesleen, the Exarch, his own flesh and blood mother, others beyond counting - lives cut short, lost in no small part due to his own failings, and yet, he would not call a one of them back, not at the risk of harm deeper than flesh and bone. ]
I have seen too many die in my name not to give death the gravity it is due. 'Tis not my desire to ch-cheapen what others have s-sacrificed, to risk them by upsetting the cycle. I will have a care, Hades. I promise.
[ What he does not say feels obvious to him - that there are times where the laws of both men and nature needs must be challenged, that men like him, men like Hades, do not exist without some measure of rebellion, chaos, for better or worse. He certainly does not say that he would give his life readily and without regret a thousand times over if it'd meant peace, happiness, safety for their star.
He doesn't say it, because it isn't entirely true. Not anymore. There would be regret in cutting his own life short.
Viktor lifts his hand to brush his fingers along the line of Emet-Selch's cheek, up and over his ear, lingering in his hair. ]
I will not readily allow myself to be wrested from this star. From you. I will ever return when you call.
[ Life needs death, and what is Viktor if not life? Regardless of the ties he holds to the Underworld, to death, he is not of death in the same way that Emet-Selch is. He is far more cyclical - death and rebirth, reformed into a new shape with each life, where Emet-Selch has for better worse but mostly worse, stayed very near stagnant until recently.
While he wishes to belabor the point, there is no reason to. To drag multiple reassurances out of him would not make Emet-Selch feel better, nor would it solve the issue at hand because it has been solved. The horse is quite dead, he needn't beat it further. Busying himself with plating the next set of fingerfood, he's very nearly started when Viktor reaches out, winding fingers around his wrist to still him. ]
I shall hold you to that promise.
[ There's an inherent worry that comes with what he attempts to do by linking Viktor; Viktor is unpredictable. This is often not in a bad way; he'd found Aepymetes' unpredictable nature charming, if slightly irritating at times where it conflicted with what Emet-Selch thought needed done in a specific way according to specific rules. Viktor is not about to reverse the process of life and death to suit his needs. If he's being truthful, the worry is not and would never be Viktor but instead Emet-Selch, refusing to accept the death of Viktor if it weren't of old age. The thought sits, uncomfortable, Viktor's gentle touch a slight balm. ]
Eat, instead of gazing at me. I refuse to carry you back to the Crystarium nor do I wish to find out how much bribery your bird would take to assist in the process.
I can do both. [ Cheekily sniped, with a pursed smile and a bounce of his brows. As though multitasking is the problem.
He illustrates, none the less. Looses his hand from where it lingers at Emet-Selch's crown and slides a cracker onto his tongue, watching all the while with his mismatched eyes. Easy, this way, to take in the thoughtful scowl, the hint of discomfort. Not so easy to stop himself from wondering over what exactly spins 'round and 'round in that busy head of his. Emet-Selch is all uncertainty, and Viktor lacks adequate reassurance. Short of having their mettle tested upon the field of battle - which is coming, he knows, at a dreadful, relentless pace - he has nothing but a promise, but his words. And broken, jagged things they are, are they any good at all?
No great reassurance, certainly. No comfort. Emet-Selch would defy the natural order to save him, and all he can serve up in return, it seems, is doubt and worry. So he lets his gaze fall, attention moving to the flavor of the snack he's sampled as he adds, faintly- ] And Del would not need bribery.
[ This morsel is earthier than the last. Rich and nutty under the savory flavor of cured meat. There are mushrooms in this one, he realizes. Morels, probably. Maybe chanterelles. The sort of thing foraged instead of farm grown, expensive outside the regions where it is found. A seasonal rarity. Decadent. He grabs another of the same assembly and looks it over. ]
'Tis... nice, to be let in. The veil, I mean. When it is lifted, it is not t-too much. I... appreciate that you- that you allow me to ask questions after seeing what I saw.
[ As he stumbles over his words, he selects a pickled bit of vegetable, too, examining the color, considering it a moment before adding it to the cracker and popping the whole assembly into his mouth. That, too, is unusually good. ]
You could tell me about your fancy cheeses, instead. That seems an easier t-topic.
[ The offering of a subject change is a relief. He does not want to beat a subject into the ground long past the point being made, but neither does he wish to be too nonchalant about something dire. As ever, a middle ground must be found; he is lucky Viktor makes it easy.
At least now he can turn his attention to eating now that he's assembled his series of platters, giving plenty of choice when it comes to what to eat first. Viktor, thankfully, is not a picky child unwilling to take the potion to heal their scraped knee. There are no complaints about the vegetables tasting off - he has one, it tastes like a cucumber ought to. ]
In the wake of the Sundering, we only encountered disasters or the remnants of disaster. With our creation magics twisted, most...conveniences we were used to were long since obliterated or fallen to ruin.
[ But not here, not now. Lacking creation magics, the vast majority of the damage came from falling to despair itself, and instead of endless horrors, the only thing he feels is the incredulity of stepping out into rolling fields, a farm mostly undisturbed by the nightmare outside.
After a moment of consideration, he cleans his hands with a handkerchief and then lifts an arm, snapping sharp in the quiet around them and the scene falls into place like a curtain falling. He is not so foolish to take Viktor there and risk him, especially not after this but to add the illusion atop where they sit on the hill is a thoughtless bit of magic. Farmland and a little home nestled in the center, animals roaming about. The fence, fixed. ]
You would never know all that has happened to look at it. I hope that gives you some measure of peace when you think of those who asked us to leave them behind.
[ Viktor takes in the change with no small amount of awe. Emet-Selch's quick illusions are nothing new. The man regularly works miracles every day, but Viktor always manages to find a way to glimpse them from unusual angles, ever spotting new things to be impressed by. Here, it's the way the brilliant amethyst of Lakeland vanishes under the curtain of an unfamiliar landscape. He turns this way and that, taking in the scene. Lifts a hand and lights fingers on the threads of spell work settled over them, letting the image ripple like the surface of clear water. ]
It looks- it looks no different than any odd morning.
[ Not at all as Amaurot had seemed, in Emet-Selch's approximation of its Final Days. Nor Thavnair and Gridania upon his return from Elpis. The burning skies have not spread this far, wherever this place is, at least. And as long as these pockets of peace persist, they will have something to rebuild from. ]
I-it does. Give me peace, I mean. Those who insisted on staying, some of our strongest, our bravest. That they yet have fertile soil in which to p-plant their sorrows- they will endure, 'til we can bring them a new song. I am sure.
[ Though he longs to stare at this glimpse of his home, whole and almost happy, a bit longer, he does not. He tears his wisteria gaze away from the idyllic landscape and fixes his attention on Emet-Selch, who did not have the luxury of green meadows left in the wake of his paradise lost. Viktor reaches out, settling his palm over one of Emet-Selch's hands. He can think of nothing more to say, no way to convey the strange melancholy he feels, and so he just squeezes his hand. ]
And evidently, their food stores were yet undisturbed as well? [ A slight smile. ] 'Til you came by, of course. You knew of this place ahead of time, then? You didn't just s-stumble upon it?
[ Idly, Viktor reaches back behind himself, finding a far-too-freakishly-large cluster of grapes right away, and plucks them from the vine with a bit of effort. It is harder than he expects, the plant made stronger for his aether, he supposes. He selects a large grape and - Stars, they really are near as big as plums, and examines it. The thing near sings with magic. Not that that has ever stopped him from eating something. He doesn't quite dig in, yet, though. ]
[ With nearly any other magics he would not want to manage large scale illusions so soon after, but this is easy enough. Unlike Amaurot, there is no need for the illusion to remain tactile. Viktor skims his fingers across the magic and Emet-Selch nearly shivers, feeling it like the glancing touch of fingers up his spine. ]
You would never know.
[ He isn't sure if it's better or worse to think about the parts of the world that would have survived - what they could have salvaged, had they only known what would follow so soon after. He had committed what many would consider crimes without hesitation. Had Venat sundered the world with such nonchalance? Had it been easy for her, to look at the wreckage of those who had survived a nightmare few weeks and somehow find a way to make everything even worse? Nauseating to consider.
The illusion vanishes with two fingers pinched together, a tug like removing a tablecloth in one fell swoop, and then from the bottom to the top it melts into a cloud of faintly sparkling aether, vanishing before it hits the ground. Perhaps unsurprisingly, bit of it that alight on Viktor flare briefly before blinking out, whereas it manages to drift idly around Emet-Selch like he's holding an invisible umbrella. ]
It looked as if they took what they could manage in their evacuation, or they had perished outside of the farm.
[ Of course Viktor would pick up on the fact that he'd known to go there. Emet-Selch lifts an eyebrow at the question, waiting for him to ask the question behind his question while he digs fingers into a piece of sourdough and breaks it open, choosing a cheese to spread over it with a tiny, decorative knife before drizzling it in honey, too. ]
I may advise against eating that until we understand exactly what was done to it. 'Tis likely consuming it does not harm you, but with my own dark magic already infused within you there's a chance that 'twould be as if you ate a hot coal.
[ He plucks the grape from Viktor's hand before he can say anything about it, and takes a not-cautious-enough bite, crunching through skin into firm flesh. The scent says grape, as does the taste, but the burn is all Light. Not enough to melt the skin on his tongue, or to properly hurt, more akin to a pepper. ]
Hm. Dubious congratulations, but I believe you created a shard's first spicy grape.
[ From illusory countryside to glimmering star shower, Viktor watches with unmasked delight as heatless flickers of candlelight burst and fade on his curls and shoulders. Bright as the sparks filling the air, he laughs, taking in the sight of one landscape melting into another, and then, of Emet-Selch, untouched by falling starlight of his own make.
Such a far cry from his phantom Amaurot, from the burning purgatory of his illusory Final Days. Not lingering long in despair, not revolted by the comparable calm of Venat's sundered world - finding hope, and bringing it forth. This is far from the first time Viktor has noticed the subtle shift in Emet-Selch, but looking upon him now, surrounded as he is by blinking fireflies of magic, Viktor feels a little like he's swallowed the sun. An impossibly incandescent feeling clinging warmth to his ribs and all beneath them.
Soft, too baldly adoring, he says, ] You are a marvel.
[ Viktor turns his head, scrubs the back of his wrist across his cheeks, like it might rub away some of the shine he feels on them. Emet-Selch plucks the grape from his hand in the meantime, and when he looks up again, it's with a heatless scowl - appalled that he's doing exactly what he told Viktor not to right away. ]
Spicy? [ Heedless of the warning, Viktor selects another grape and stuffs it in his mouth before he can be scolded - shamelessly fast as a dog that's managed to get in the rubbish bin. For his efforts, he's greeted with the faint taste of his lilies - immediately stomach-turning - and he grimaces and spits it out immediately with a loud, blech.
One eye squinted shut, he tries to ignore the lingering tingle of Light. ]
How did you come to- [ He pauses, looks at the cluster of grapes in his hand, considering. ] Hold on. Watch this.
[ Viktor selects another grape, tosses it in his palm to test the weight, and then lobs it, hard and far as he can, toward the ruins below. It's not quite as impressive a throw as it could be, his strength still returning, but it's far enough. The silver-purple sphere arcs high, glittering in the afternoon sun, and Viktor extends his arm, holding his hand like a pistol.
As the too-large grape plummets, Viktor pantomimes firing, coaxing aether as he does, finding thread and unraveling it. The grape unfurls, all silver and sepia aether, a flower turned firework in the air. Viktor cackles, thrilled that his little trick had worked.
He turns his attention back to Emet-Selch, looking satisfied. ] -How did you come to know of that farm. I did not even recognize the l-landscape?
[ He doesn't quite jump at the comment, but his back stiffens a little, shoulders squaring, not expecting the attention, the warmth in Viktor's voice at his observation. A marvel seems like he's slightly overselling it. He hasn't done anything particularly of note, but then he supposes any bit of fanciful magic must be made all the more striking given the fact that Viktor hasn't seen him perform acts like this for the simple pleasure of creating. ]
You, my dear, are biased in the worst way.
[ Try as he might, he cannot quite muster the haughty tone he wishes for, instead finding himself embarrassed in the oddest way at unmerited compliments, even if the giver is effusive with his praise. Blessedly, distraction comes in the form of Viktor eating one of the ridiculously large grapes, spitting it out near as soon as he does. Emet-Selch watches with vague amusement, vanishing the one he had taken a bite from into nothing but a flicker of aether, cleaning his fingers of juice with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket while Viktor does his magic trick.
It is, he thinks, rather impressive. That much fine detail work while an item is moving is no small feat, and Viktor executes it so easily after very nearly dying. To do so is not a large spend of his aether, but there's a part of Emet-Selch he has to swallow down that wants to stop him, a horrible kernel of fear that he has overestimated Viktor's ability to withstand a drain on his power.
A needless worry - the grape unfurls like a flower blooming in impossible colors and Emet-Selch releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when Viktor turns his attention back, all bright laughter and satisfaction at his little trick. ]
I will thank you to keep your little tricks to a minimum until you've had at least a proper night of sleep, ideally two, and a proper meal.
[ As to the question, Emet-Selch fixes himself another little plate of treats, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
[ Is he biased or the best judge? Has he not watched, witnessed, felt, across years, across lifetimes, this slow swing from despair and duty to hope? A marvel, a miracle, to see the man who had been Solus zos Galvus become this, not merely a force for good, but a man who allows himself the indulgence of play. Viktor does not argue Emet-Selch's assertion, only answers with a smile, and thinks to himself that the sudden set of his shoulders calls to mind that bird of his, feathers ruffled.
Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
[ He's eating between his complains, so Emet-Selch leave that alone for the time being, feeling marginally more like himself the more he replenishes his own aether, a little less jarred by the whole experience. He'll remember the chill of Viktor's skin for far too long, but at least the thought is easier to compartmentalize. ]
Two and a half generations.
[ The problem with asking what Viktor thought about the story is that now, he has to figure out how to tell it. The issue with that is the same with any bit of his prior history being revealed, Viktor sees more than Emet-Selch ever intends to lay bare. He'd gotten himself into this by showing any aspect of it, though, the same as when he'd invited Viktor to Amaurot, inviting his own demise. ]
When Garlean war dogs are too old to fight on the frontlines, they are retired. Some go to the houses of those who were responsible for them. For those who do not, Garlemald had a series of contracts to sell the dogs at a discounted rate to farms, or households. Well-trained creatures may not have had a place on the battlefield any longer, but they could ward off bandits and the like.
[ He hadn't spotted any of the dogs on the latest trip, and assumed with the crumbling of Garlemald and the war itself, most of those more obscure trade deals had fallen to the wayside. ]
When a vendor could not pay in coin or jewels, and if they produced something of value, we would accept like payment. Garlemald's weather was far too inhospitable for farms.
[ And so, they traded and reappropriated when the trade was insufficient - or if the material was valuable. Emet-Selch does not think it necessary to elaborate to that extent. When he allowed Solus to pass, so too did he arrange for his belongings to be reappropriated, and the ancient, scarred wardog that looked as old as Emet-Selch felt, had been given to this farm. He had enjoyed their cheese quite a bit, and the farm was far enough away that no one would question why they would have a gift of Garlean favor on their farm. ]
A kind endeavor. Both for the d-dogs and the families who received them.
[ There is a well in him still, of sadness, of anger, of hurt and fear, so deep as to be near impossible to plumb, so cold near the bottom it threatens to freeze his blood. But he is not the hot-headed boy who'd left behind Vilja to be Viktor all those years ago. He is not the green adventurer, all too ready to take up arms and meet violence with violence. He knows now that nothing is simple. Black and white, Good and Evil are not the clean cut concepts of fairy tales and folk stories. There is nuance to every situation, every tale.
Nuance makes it no easier to digest the horrors and harm he has witnessed. In some ways, it makes it worse. All he can do is face the waves of grief, of old anger, as they come, and embrace whatever is left after. Here, a glimpse of good, of order, of balance from a man who'd made a nation with the intent of tearing down the entire world. Silence settles over Viktor, a still, heavy, thinking quiet.
There was a time when Viktor could not look at the man sat beside him without seeing blood. Countless lives lost in his name, by his hand. Ruins of families, of whole nations, piled before him. Nuance had, of course, complicated that very simple vision. He could not overlook the madnesses of loss, of tempering, of too much time and an altered memory. Faced with the loss of his own loved ones, has he not brought half a world to another near ruined star? Tasked countless people with holding hope for what must feel to many a pointless endeavor?
And look at who is here beside him, shoring up walls, banking fires, building roads instead of ruin. Forgiveness had not come easily, but it had come. Looking at Hades now, Viktor does not see blood, hate, hurt. He does not see Solus zos Galvus, not anymore.
A strange smile settles across his features, dim, foggy, nearly wistful. It is an odd look, he knows, and unmistakably unusual. He could blame it on lingering weakness, but that would, he thinks, do both of them a disservice. As a rule, he has been careful not to bring up those parts of Emet-Selch's past, but they are right there in front of the both of them now. So, he reaches out, slides fingers over Emet-Selch's palm and squeezes, tight as he can. ]
It- it means the world to me that you've chosen kinder endeavors here. On the First. For our people.
[ Emet-Selch's voice is emotionless, flat, but there's an edge to it he can't quite dull. This, he thinks, is the difficulty with attempting to contextualize the past. Viktor has asked. He will answer. But he does not want grace extended when he is not deserving of it.
There was no kindness in any of the decisions that were made. They were practical decisions made to make life easier. They were favors, bought and traded. Emet-Selch had enjoyed the dogs far more than people. That it was a kindness to them was incidental, even if he'd enjoyed that more than any particular benefit the people had enjoyed in their pursuit of imports.
But Viktor would see everything in the best possible way, even when he ought not to. At least here and now, Viktor looks - not happy. Not forgiving. He looks oddly melancholy, and for a moment, Emet-Selch feels the most uncomfortable sense of regret. For a moment, he'd wanted to be the kind of person who'd done it out of the kindness of his heart, no matter how ridiculous. He'd wanted to be worthy of the grace Viktor would offer without hesitation, but that was not reality. He was not that man, had never been that man.
[ Viktor answers Emet-Selch's icy wall with a wry but warming grin, the faintest hint of fond exasperation crossing his features - an unusual look on his face, in particular, but not quite so unfamiliar upon the soul of Azem. Emet-Selch will never willingly see himself or the world as Viktor does, but that is not a problem in need of fixing. It is a point where the two of them can meet, can make balance. ]
I do not seek to absolve you. Only look for the good worth preserving. 'Tis worthwhile to try and keep what one can, I think.
[ Fingers hover over the assembled selections, as instructed, and he picks one of the cheeses he hasn't tried before, sliding the snack onto his tongue, and then listing bodily to lean against Emet-Selch, watching the horizon in silence.
Next, he selects another pickle, crunches into it and hums happily. ]
When I am too old to f-fight, you can trade me to a pickle farm.
[ Worse, he thinks, is the fact that Viktor doesn't rise to the easy bait of Emet-Selch's annoyance dangled in front of him, carrot on a string. Everything would be easier if Viktor sunk to the levels Emet-Selch were willing to, but instead, he drags Emet-Selch from the muck every time. ]
There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
[ Freedom has always felt like the greatest gift that might could be given. Once, he had thought it simply part and parcel of his love of wandering. And it is, but it's more than that, too. Freedom to choose, to cut whatever path feels best, to live - he'd wanted that for all else, because it was not something he could claim himself. Not with his soul writ into the braid of time he and Hydaelyn had made, into the Sundering, into the summoning of Zodiark, into the lives of every lingering member of the Convocation.
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?
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Viktor repositions Emet-Selch's hand to cup his cheek, shuts his eyes and leans into the contact. ]
I would not complain if- if you decided I s-seemed so weak- [ He musters enough energy for a bit of theatrics, but he needn't. His voice is reedy enough. ] -that you thought it best to feed me your fancy cheeses yourself.
[ He flashes a grin, which serves only to make him look more tired for how much dimmer it is than usual. His strength is steadily returning, though, and his head clear enough to consider what's just transpired. His gaze falls, finally, thoughtful. ] N-not my favorite way to get closer to you. But. 'Tis... nice, this feel of your aether within me. You are- alright? It did not c-cost you much to knit me into place?
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[ Were Viktor upright Emet-Selch thinks a stiff wind would blow him over. It has been a long time since he thought that Viktor was weak; he was disabused of that notion very quickly. To see him now, like this - weak is not the word he wants to use but it is accurate.
Uncomfortable. There is no one around to know if he indulges. He'd know, but is indulgence not the point when engaging in any sort of relationship? Is not that not part of the benefit?
Patting once, twice at Viktor's chest, he stretches and grasps for one of the cheeses and knives, starting to cut pieces at the very least. The fruit he'd managed to bring are what he pulls out next, along with the honey, giving Viktor a dubious look. ]
You're going to get crumbs all over yourself if you continue to lie down.
[ He hands Viktor a little cracker with cheese, a blackberry and a drizzle of honey all the same, frowning as if he is not a willing, active participant in making a mess of crumbs. ]
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[ An overwrought gasp, fingers of his free hand splayed across his chest, over the heart that now beats again. Already, he looks less like a soul wound back from the Underworld, more like one roused from a nap, eyes tired and hair wild, but the color returned to his face.
He spares a second examining the assembled snack, appreciating the layers of color, the way it seems like the sort of thing that'd be served at a fancy dinner party in Ishgard or Ul'Dah or, he supposes, Garlemald. Viktor has eaten his own weight in hard cheeses and tack many times over. It's a little fun to see travel food reprised into a luxurious single bite. His gaze lifts to Emet-Selch, wondering at how he indulges him, how readily he shares all his comfortable little delights.
On impulse, Viktor dips his pinky into the drizzle of honey, dots the sticky sweet gold onto his tongue as though to sample just that, and then leans in, strains upward, to press his parted lips to Emet-Selch's mouth, sharing sugar, sharing sunlight, sharing breath. ]
Th-thank you. [ He whispers as he draws away, popping the assembled cracker into his mouth. He chews twice, and, as ever, heedless of manners, adds, ] D'you mind- may I ask about what I s-saw, what you thought of, when you let me in?
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[ He will. Emet-Selch is not certain if they both know that he will allow Viktor into his bed in very nearly any state, but Emet-Selch knows this is all performative irritation. He finds himself wondering at how easy it is. It shouldn't be, probably. He shouldn't be able to backslide into old habits made new when they have so much yet left to do but Viktor makes it upsettingly difficult not to.
It is not, he thinks wryly, Viktor's fault. Too easily does he lie the blame down at Viktor's feet, when Emet-Selch is the one bending, breaking, instead of standing firm like he ought to. As if Viktor hears him, there's a rasp of cloth and then Viktor is in front of him, pressing a kiss against his mouth, lingering just long enough for Emet-Selch to taste the sugar on his tongue and start to lean forward for more. Then, he's gone, a heathen in his place, chewing happily.
Emet-Selch swallows against a dry mouth and does his level best to look like he's incomprehensibly old and well-used to this sort of thing because he is and it is, frankly, mortifying that anyone could fluster him in any capacity. He ought to have outgrown that several thousand years ago. Head ducked forward, hair falling into his face as he fixes his own cracker and holds a hand carefully beneath to prevent spills, he pauses before popping it in his mouth. This question he expected, at the very least. An inevitability. ]
You may not like the answers you get. [ Emet-Selch pops the morsel into his mouth, chews, swallows, and doesn't dare think about how the flavor is lessened when not kissed from Viktor's mouth. ] And I may decline to answer. But you may ask.
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Cruel of you to deny me access to my favorite place!
[ He clucks and pouts exaggeratedly, shaking his head as he licks honey from his fingers.
Viktor does not know. Not in full, at least. Were he to guess, he would miss by malms just how much he is adored, how easily he could wrest near anything he might desire from Emet-Selch. Knowing isn't necessary, though. He would press, either way - wants to be here with him. Will fight for closeness, for their arguments, for the closest thing either of them can possibly have to a normal life.
He reaches forward to brush a few loose strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face, tucking them back behind his ear with a triumphant grin, pleased at having ruffled him. ]
Aye, you needn't answer if you do not w-want. [ Viktor leans against him, still seeking warmth. ] You thought of- you tried to s-save someone else, once, aye? When you were young. Who...?
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I do not recall their name or who they were.
[ Should he? He had to have been told their name originally; that had to be a part of the process where he was censured and educated on why he had made a foolish decision, but he doesn't recall the name itself. It hadn't been important. The color of their soul had been a muted tawny brown, and that memory stuck with him, useless. ]
There were occasions where those studying for one position or another were expected to create something outside of their baseline capability. One could grow into the ability, one they learned how to manage themselves and their aether. But every so often there would be someone - a student, a member of one of the Words - who pushed too hard without someone there to assist and supplement and they would drain themselves.
[ Emet-Selch plucks a piece of bread free once he's cut enough slices, and begins layering honey, goat cheese, thinly sliced meat and only once it's finished does he hand it thoughtlessly off to Viktor before doing it again for himself. ]
They did, and I was the fool who attempted to grasp their soul, to keep them here long enough to supplement their aether with my own reserves, without knowing how or understanding what I'd done. I was young. Foolish.
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More surprising, even, than this realization, is the one he has right after. Relief, obligation, discomfort, all the things he usually feels when faced with someone so smitten are absent. And in their place, excitement - the desire to draw out more, to linger in this feeling. An impish grin climbs across Viktor's features, as wide as it is troublesome. Emet-Selch slicing little rounds of bread might as well be the most fascinating activity in the world for how intently Viktor watches him.
He listens, struck by how readily Emet-Selch answers him, too used to probing questions being gently swerved around, turned into lectures. This, though, feels raw, especially for how plainly it is relayed. That wicked smile on his face shrinks by measures, and as Emet-Selch pushes the assembled amuse-bouche into his hand, Viktor reaches out the other to light fingers on his forearm. ]
You were brave. [ He closes his fingers around his sleeve, squeezes lightly. ] 'Twas a bad end, aye, but your intent, your willingness to act- there is nothing f-foolish about wishing to preserve life, no matter what rules or duty tell us. [ He hangs, just a moment, and then his serious expression fades with a soft laugh. ] It p-probably does not mean much coming from me. I doubt you have known a version of me that cared much for laws or regulations.
[ What little he'd come to know of Azem before calling Hades back, subversive behavior seemed to number among his most defining traits. Viktor takes a careful bite of the assembled tidbit, chews twice, and hums his approval, his earlier seriousness swallowed up in sunshine-y joy. Mouth still full, he picks at the salty slice of meat to get a look at everything assembled beneath. ]
This is so good?
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Do not mistake the point of the lesson. [ Emet-Selch lifts his gaze to meet Viktor's, the busy movement of his hands pausing. ] There is a natural order we exist within and are meant to uphold. It is not on us to decide who stays and who remains when they have passed beyond the care of a healer.
[ This cannot, he thinks, turn into some inspirational moment. He had erred gravely, specifically, and his mentor had always been sparing with her praise but blunt with her critique, her instruction, and her expectation. Certain information she would withhold until she had deemed him or his efforts worthy, but anything related to the seat of Emet-Selch, she imparted without hesitation. He had to do the same; the worst would be for Viktor to make the same mistakes. ]
You are much more likely to cause irreparable harm to a soul than to save it. This is not an indictment of your abilities or being whole. The only reason I was able to wrest you back so neatly, so cleanly is because of how inextricably we have wound our souls. Even then - [ There was a chance, but he hadn't allowed himself to consider it. Emet-Selch snaps, and a dozen little side plates appear. Pickled vegetables, candied nuts, honeycomb, a platter of greens for Del. He returns to the arduous task of assembling finger food, remaining steadfast even in the face of the sun as Viktor looks at him, handsome, easily pleased. Like he hadn't almost - ]
Do not give so much of yourself again, and certainly not to a creation.
[ Emet-Selch steals a look over at Viktor, feeling the thousands of years like a physical weight. He's had variations of this snack countless times. Meat and cheese and a bread option are not overly complex, but Viktor's easy pleasure makes him take a more considering bite, makes him taste instead of mechanically chewing and swallowing to eat and be done. It is, unsurprisingly, good when he lets himself taste. ]
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He pops the second half of the little crostini in his mouth and selects a different, pretty little snack to begin inspecting. When Emet-Selch's hands still, Viktor's brows raise. And he listens, for what else would he do? Even the little condiments snapped into being go ignored, so focused is Viktor on Emet-Selch's words.
Inextricably, he says. And isn't that the truth? Even before their ritual. Before the world ended. Before Viktor was Viktor, and mayhap even before Hades was Hades and Aepymetes, Aepymetes. Bound up, they are, two pieces of a three part set. And Viktor had very nearly removed himself from the chessboard once more.
He sets the cracker between his fingers back down and reaches out, closes slender fingers around Emet-Selch's wrist. ]
Everything ends. I know. Life needs death.
[ Every slaughtered scion at the Waking Sands, Haurchefant, Papalymo, Tesleen, the Exarch, his own flesh and blood mother, others beyond counting - lives cut short, lost in no small part due to his own failings, and yet, he would not call a one of them back, not at the risk of harm deeper than flesh and bone. ]
I have seen too many die in my name not to give death the gravity it is due. 'Tis not my desire to ch-cheapen what others have s-sacrificed, to risk them by upsetting the cycle. I will have a care, Hades. I promise.
[ What he does not say feels obvious to him - that there are times where the laws of both men and nature needs must be challenged, that men like him, men like Hades, do not exist without some measure of rebellion, chaos, for better or worse. He certainly does not say that he would give his life readily and without regret a thousand times over if it'd meant peace, happiness, safety for their star.
He doesn't say it, because it isn't entirely true. Not anymore. There would be regret in cutting his own life short.
Viktor lifts his hand to brush his fingers along the line of Emet-Selch's cheek, up and over his ear, lingering in his hair. ]
I will not readily allow myself to be wrested from this star. From you. I will ever return when you call.
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While he wishes to belabor the point, there is no reason to. To drag multiple reassurances out of him would not make Emet-Selch feel better, nor would it solve the issue at hand because it has been solved. The horse is quite dead, he needn't beat it further. Busying himself with plating the next set of fingerfood, he's very nearly started when Viktor reaches out, winding fingers around his wrist to still him. ]
I shall hold you to that promise.
[ There's an inherent worry that comes with what he attempts to do by linking Viktor; Viktor is unpredictable. This is often not in a bad way; he'd found Aepymetes' unpredictable nature charming, if slightly irritating at times where it conflicted with what Emet-Selch thought needed done in a specific way according to specific rules. Viktor is not about to reverse the process of life and death to suit his needs. If he's being truthful, the worry is not and would never be Viktor but instead Emet-Selch, refusing to accept the death of Viktor if it weren't of old age. The thought sits, uncomfortable, Viktor's gentle touch a slight balm. ]
Eat, instead of gazing at me. I refuse to carry you back to the Crystarium nor do I wish to find out how much bribery your bird would take to assist in the process.
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He illustrates, none the less. Looses his hand from where it lingers at Emet-Selch's crown and slides a cracker onto his tongue, watching all the while with his mismatched eyes. Easy, this way, to take in the thoughtful scowl, the hint of discomfort. Not so easy to stop himself from wondering over what exactly spins 'round and 'round in that busy head of his. Emet-Selch is all uncertainty, and Viktor lacks adequate reassurance. Short of having their mettle tested upon the field of battle - which is coming, he knows, at a dreadful, relentless pace - he has nothing but a promise, but his words. And broken, jagged things they are, are they any good at all?
No great reassurance, certainly. No comfort. Emet-Selch would defy the natural order to save him, and all he can serve up in return, it seems, is doubt and worry. So he lets his gaze fall, attention moving to the flavor of the snack he's sampled as he adds, faintly- ] And Del would not need bribery.
[ This morsel is earthier than the last. Rich and nutty under the savory flavor of cured meat. There are mushrooms in this one, he realizes. Morels, probably. Maybe chanterelles. The sort of thing foraged instead of farm grown, expensive outside the regions where it is found. A seasonal rarity. Decadent. He grabs another of the same assembly and looks it over. ]
'Tis... nice, to be let in. The veil, I mean. When it is lifted, it is not t-too much. I... appreciate that you- that you allow me to ask questions after seeing what I saw.
[ As he stumbles over his words, he selects a pickled bit of vegetable, too, examining the color, considering it a moment before adding it to the cracker and popping the whole assembly into his mouth. That, too, is unusually good. ]
You could tell me about your fancy cheeses, instead. That seems an easier t-topic.
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At least now he can turn his attention to eating now that he's assembled his series of platters, giving plenty of choice when it comes to what to eat first. Viktor, thankfully, is not a picky child unwilling to take the potion to heal their scraped knee. There are no complaints about the vegetables tasting off - he has one, it tastes like a cucumber ought to. ]
In the wake of the Sundering, we only encountered disasters or the remnants of disaster. With our creation magics twisted, most...conveniences we were used to were long since obliterated or fallen to ruin.
[ But not here, not now. Lacking creation magics, the vast majority of the damage came from falling to despair itself, and instead of endless horrors, the only thing he feels is the incredulity of stepping out into rolling fields, a farm mostly undisturbed by the nightmare outside.
After a moment of consideration, he cleans his hands with a handkerchief and then lifts an arm, snapping sharp in the quiet around them and the scene falls into place like a curtain falling. He is not so foolish to take Viktor there and risk him, especially not after this but to add the illusion atop where they sit on the hill is a thoughtless bit of magic. Farmland and a little home nestled in the center, animals roaming about. The fence, fixed. ]
You would never know all that has happened to look at it. I hope that gives you some measure of peace when you think of those who asked us to leave them behind.
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It looks- it looks no different than any odd morning.
[ Not at all as Amaurot had seemed, in Emet-Selch's approximation of its Final Days. Nor Thavnair and Gridania upon his return from Elpis. The burning skies have not spread this far, wherever this place is, at least. And as long as these pockets of peace persist, they will have something to rebuild from. ]
I-it does. Give me peace, I mean. Those who insisted on staying, some of our strongest, our bravest. That they yet have fertile soil in which to p-plant their sorrows- they will endure, 'til we can bring them a new song. I am sure.
[ Though he longs to stare at this glimpse of his home, whole and almost happy, a bit longer, he does not. He tears his wisteria gaze away from the idyllic landscape and fixes his attention on Emet-Selch, who did not have the luxury of green meadows left in the wake of his paradise lost. Viktor reaches out, settling his palm over one of Emet-Selch's hands. He can think of nothing more to say, no way to convey the strange melancholy he feels, and so he just squeezes his hand. ]
And evidently, their food stores were yet undisturbed as well? [ A slight smile. ] 'Til you came by, of course. You knew of this place ahead of time, then? You didn't just s-stumble upon it?
[ Idly, Viktor reaches back behind himself, finding a far-too-freakishly-large cluster of grapes right away, and plucks them from the vine with a bit of effort. It is harder than he expects, the plant made stronger for his aether, he supposes. He selects a large grape and - Stars, they really are near as big as plums, and examines it. The thing near sings with magic. Not that that has ever stopped him from eating something. He doesn't quite dig in, yet, though. ]
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You would never know.
[ He isn't sure if it's better or worse to think about the parts of the world that would have survived - what they could have salvaged, had they only known what would follow so soon after. He had committed what many would consider crimes without hesitation. Had Venat sundered the world with such nonchalance? Had it been easy for her, to look at the wreckage of those who had survived a nightmare few weeks and somehow find a way to make everything even worse? Nauseating to consider.
The illusion vanishes with two fingers pinched together, a tug like removing a tablecloth in one fell swoop, and then from the bottom to the top it melts into a cloud of faintly sparkling aether, vanishing before it hits the ground. Perhaps unsurprisingly, bit of it that alight on Viktor flare briefly before blinking out, whereas it manages to drift idly around Emet-Selch like he's holding an invisible umbrella. ]
It looked as if they took what they could manage in their evacuation, or they had perished outside of the farm.
[ Of course Viktor would pick up on the fact that he'd known to go there. Emet-Selch lifts an eyebrow at the question, waiting for him to ask the question behind his question while he digs fingers into a piece of sourdough and breaks it open, choosing a cheese to spread over it with a tiny, decorative knife before drizzling it in honey, too. ]
I may advise against eating that until we understand exactly what was done to it. 'Tis likely consuming it does not harm you, but with my own dark magic already infused within you there's a chance that 'twould be as if you ate a hot coal.
[ He plucks the grape from Viktor's hand before he can say anything about it, and takes a not-cautious-enough bite, crunching through skin into firm flesh. The scent says grape, as does the taste, but the burn is all Light. Not enough to melt the skin on his tongue, or to properly hurt, more akin to a pepper. ]
Hm. Dubious congratulations, but I believe you created a shard's first spicy grape.
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Such a far cry from his phantom Amaurot, from the burning purgatory of his illusory Final Days. Not lingering long in despair, not revolted by the comparable calm of Venat's sundered world - finding hope, and bringing it forth. This is far from the first time Viktor has noticed the subtle shift in Emet-Selch, but looking upon him now, surrounded as he is by blinking fireflies of magic, Viktor feels a little like he's swallowed the sun. An impossibly incandescent feeling clinging warmth to his ribs and all beneath them.
Soft, too baldly adoring, he says, ] You are a marvel.
[ Viktor turns his head, scrubs the back of his wrist across his cheeks, like it might rub away some of the shine he feels on them. Emet-Selch plucks the grape from his hand in the meantime, and when he looks up again, it's with a heatless scowl - appalled that he's doing exactly what he told Viktor not to right away. ]
Spicy? [ Heedless of the warning, Viktor selects another grape and stuffs it in his mouth before he can be scolded - shamelessly fast as a dog that's managed to get in the rubbish bin. For his efforts, he's greeted with the faint taste of his lilies - immediately stomach-turning - and he grimaces and spits it out immediately with a loud, blech.
One eye squinted shut, he tries to ignore the lingering tingle of Light. ]
How did you come to- [ He pauses, looks at the cluster of grapes in his hand, considering. ] Hold on. Watch this.
[ Viktor selects another grape, tosses it in his palm to test the weight, and then lobs it, hard and far as he can, toward the ruins below. It's not quite as impressive a throw as it could be, his strength still returning, but it's far enough. The silver-purple sphere arcs high, glittering in the afternoon sun, and Viktor extends his arm, holding his hand like a pistol.
As the too-large grape plummets, Viktor pantomimes firing, coaxing aether as he does, finding thread and unraveling it. The grape unfurls, all silver and sepia aether, a flower turned firework in the air. Viktor cackles, thrilled that his little trick had worked.
He turns his attention back to Emet-Selch, looking satisfied. ] -How did you come to know of that farm. I did not even recognize the l-landscape?
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You, my dear, are biased in the worst way.
[ Try as he might, he cannot quite muster the haughty tone he wishes for, instead finding himself embarrassed in the oddest way at unmerited compliments, even if the giver is effusive with his praise. Blessedly, distraction comes in the form of Viktor eating one of the ridiculously large grapes, spitting it out near as soon as he does. Emet-Selch watches with vague amusement, vanishing the one he had taken a bite from into nothing but a flicker of aether, cleaning his fingers of juice with a handkerchief pulled from a pocket while Viktor does his magic trick.
It is, he thinks, rather impressive. That much fine detail work while an item is moving is no small feat, and Viktor executes it so easily after very nearly dying. To do so is not a large spend of his aether, but there's a part of Emet-Selch he has to swallow down that wants to stop him, a horrible kernel of fear that he has overestimated Viktor's ability to withstand a drain on his power.
A needless worry - the grape unfurls like a flower blooming in impossible colors and Emet-Selch releases a breath he didn't know he was holding when Viktor turns his attention back, all bright laughter and satisfaction at his little trick. ]
I will thank you to keep your little tricks to a minimum until you've had at least a proper night of sleep, ideally two, and a proper meal.
[ As to the question, Emet-Selch fixes himself another little plate of treats, mulling over the answer he wants to give. ]
What is your theory of how I came to know it?
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Viktor selects another bit of bread and slathers both soft cheese and some bright red, tart-smelling jam to it. ]
That sounds h-horrendous. Two days? [ He heaves the heaviest of sighs, as though rest is an unspeakable burden. As though he doesn't have a dozen half-finished reports and field guides to file for the Sharlayans or a handful of sewing projects to finally complete. As though the simple act of undoing a plum-sized ligature hadn't left his fingers cold. ] I sup-p-pose I will endure. With a proper meal.
[ He pops the entire thing in his mouth, then claps crumbs from his hands and stuffs them into his robes to warm them. ]
Oh, I can't do a bit of magic, but I'm well enough for brain teasers, is it? [ A grin, an arched brow, incredulous, angled in Emet-Selch's direction. ] Well- I think... 'tis a small home, aye? And not so old - comparatively speaking, of course. So, a place you'd come to know of in your last stretch of life? Or perhaps the one before?
[ He picks up a pickle and spins it between his fingers, considering. The truth, in all likelihood, hews too close, he thinks, to some sad story of Garlemald's incursions into foreign lands. So, he pivots, and wonders, at why an immortal might know of so small a farm, of a family of cheese-makers.
It only takes him a moment to come up with a softer story. ]
Oh! Or! [ One finger, jutted up in epiphany. Right away, it sets to flapping as he spins a yarn. ] Perhaps they are generations of cheesemongers and you've been their p-patron for countless generations. And you know of their home because you were the one to set them there. Because the grass in that spot makes the milk taste s-sweeter.
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[ He's eating between his complains, so Emet-Selch leave that alone for the time being, feeling marginally more like himself the more he replenishes his own aether, a little less jarred by the whole experience. He'll remember the chill of Viktor's skin for far too long, but at least the thought is easier to compartmentalize. ]
Two and a half generations.
[ The problem with asking what Viktor thought about the story is that now, he has to figure out how to tell it. The issue with that is the same with any bit of his prior history being revealed, Viktor sees more than Emet-Selch ever intends to lay bare. He'd gotten himself into this by showing any aspect of it, though, the same as when he'd invited Viktor to Amaurot, inviting his own demise. ]
When Garlean war dogs are too old to fight on the frontlines, they are retired. Some go to the houses of those who were responsible for them. For those who do not, Garlemald had a series of contracts to sell the dogs at a discounted rate to farms, or households. Well-trained creatures may not have had a place on the battlefield any longer, but they could ward off bandits and the like.
[ He hadn't spotted any of the dogs on the latest trip, and assumed with the crumbling of Garlemald and the war itself, most of those more obscure trade deals had fallen to the wayside. ]
When a vendor could not pay in coin or jewels, and if they produced something of value, we would accept like payment. Garlemald's weather was far too inhospitable for farms.
[ And so, they traded and reappropriated when the trade was insufficient - or if the material was valuable. Emet-Selch does not think it necessary to elaborate to that extent. When he allowed Solus to pass, so too did he arrange for his belongings to be reappropriated, and the ancient, scarred wardog that looked as old as Emet-Selch felt, had been given to this farm. He had enjoyed their cheese quite a bit, and the farm was far enough away that no one would question why they would have a gift of Garlean favor on their farm. ]
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[ There is a well in him still, of sadness, of anger, of hurt and fear, so deep as to be near impossible to plumb, so cold near the bottom it threatens to freeze his blood. But he is not the hot-headed boy who'd left behind Vilja to be Viktor all those years ago. He is not the green adventurer, all too ready to take up arms and meet violence with violence. He knows now that nothing is simple. Black and white, Good and Evil are not the clean cut concepts of fairy tales and folk stories. There is nuance to every situation, every tale.
Nuance makes it no easier to digest the horrors and harm he has witnessed. In some ways, it makes it worse. All he can do is face the waves of grief, of old anger, as they come, and embrace whatever is left after. Here, a glimpse of good, of order, of balance from a man who'd made a nation with the intent of tearing down the entire world. Silence settles over Viktor, a still, heavy, thinking quiet.
There was a time when Viktor could not look at the man sat beside him without seeing blood. Countless lives lost in his name, by his hand. Ruins of families, of whole nations, piled before him. Nuance had, of course, complicated that very simple vision. He could not overlook the madnesses of loss, of tempering, of too much time and an altered memory. Faced with the loss of his own loved ones, has he not brought half a world to another near ruined star? Tasked countless people with holding hope for what must feel to many a pointless endeavor?
And look at who is here beside him, shoring up walls, banking fires, building roads instead of ruin. Forgiveness had not come easily, but it had come. Looking at Hades now, Viktor does not see blood, hate, hurt. He does not see Solus zos Galvus, not anymore.
A strange smile settles across his features, dim, foggy, nearly wistful. It is an odd look, he knows, and unmistakably unusual. He could blame it on lingering weakness, but that would, he thinks, do both of them a disservice. As a rule, he has been careful not to bring up those parts of Emet-Selch's past, but they are right there in front of the both of them now. So, he reaches out, slides fingers over Emet-Selch's palm and squeezes, tight as he can. ]
It- it means the world to me that you've chosen kinder endeavors here. On the First. For our people.
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[ Emet-Selch's voice is emotionless, flat, but there's an edge to it he can't quite dull. This, he thinks, is the difficulty with attempting to contextualize the past. Viktor has asked. He will answer. But he does not want grace extended when he is not deserving of it.
There was no kindness in any of the decisions that were made. They were practical decisions made to make life easier. They were favors, bought and traded. Emet-Selch had enjoyed the dogs far more than people. That it was a kindness to them was incidental, even if he'd enjoyed that more than any particular benefit the people had enjoyed in their pursuit of imports.
But Viktor would see everything in the best possible way, even when he ought not to. At least here and now, Viktor looks - not happy. Not forgiving. He looks oddly melancholy, and for a moment, Emet-Selch feels the most uncomfortable sense of regret. For a moment, he'd wanted to be the kind of person who'd done it out of the kindness of his heart, no matter how ridiculous. He'd wanted to be worthy of the grace Viktor would offer without hesitation, but that was not reality. He was not that man, had never been that man.
Viktor, irritatingly, made him want to try. ]
Finish eating instead of complimenting.
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I do not seek to absolve you. Only look for the good worth preserving. 'Tis worthwhile to try and keep what one can, I think.
[ Fingers hover over the assembled selections, as instructed, and he picks one of the cheeses he hasn't tried before, sliding the snack onto his tongue, and then listing bodily to lean against Emet-Selch, watching the horizon in silence.
Next, he selects another pickle, crunches into it and hums happily. ]
When I am too old to f-fight, you can trade me to a pickle farm.
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There is only so much to find, I fear, though I trust your grasp will remain tight.
[ The silence lingers for a bit, Emet-Selch bracing a hand at his side to better accommodate the weight of Viktor leaned against him, resisting the urge to lean in, press his face into soft curls and breathe him in. Reassure himself that Viktor still smells like a garden, not a graveyard. ]
I - a pickle farm? You've a mistaken idea of the margins on pickle making, I think. You'd be far more profitable traded somewhere else.
no subject
So, he'd had his rule: never touch with the intent of taking, of grasping. Never hold too tight. Never keep what does not want kept. Let people go, if they wish - to save pain for everyone.
Now, he finds the rule no longer serves. There are things, people, worth grasping, keeping, clinging to. ]
Aye, and 'twill be quite difficult for you to fight.
[ Viktor angles himself, turning to peer up into Emet-Selch's face with the sort of wide-eyed interest that portends mischief. He reaches up, fingers still chilled, but warming steadily, and grasps Emet-Selch's chin, angling his head down so that he needn't cross so considerable a distance when he strains up to deliver a peck to the high point of Emet-Selch's cheek, left quick so he can settle back in, again. ]
I promise that.
[ A soft, pleasant sigh. He shuts his eyes, listens to the sound of nature, feels the thrum of their married aether, two parts of the same song. ]
I am not concerned about m-margins. I am concerned about snacks. To where would you trade me, then?