[ Emet-Selch's hand withdraws, staring at Viktor intently. Neither of them are particularly eager to see him slide Solus back on, an ill-fitting suit especially now, but as always, any mention of Solus as anything other than what was necessary rankles him. He was not kind.
Maybe to the Unsundered he could be if the situation called for it, but he'd had little to no respect for the partial-Ascians, those they raised up who only knew whatever they told them, who listened to what could have been lies and they never would have known if they were telling the truth or not. It hadn't mattered; they simply wanted to belong, wanted a glorious purpose offered to them, with powers to match. ]
I know what must be done, I know what you would prefer I do.
[ A pause, gentling incrementally as he pours himself a glass of tea just as the fizzle of magic tickles, and then Azem's mask sits upon the desk. He doesn't know what to do with the flood of genuine irritation, of anger that spikes. Logically he can assign most of it to being groggy, cranky, on edge; no small amount of it assigned to dreading what a worst-case scenario would look like when they need all the allies they can get. The blatant (or at least seeming) attempt at manipulation when he was already bringing this to Viktor stings. ]
That is, perhaps, the ideal. I would prefer to discuss the realism of what may come. [ A pause, a lingering look over the rim of his teacup. ] I would not ask for you to remove them if needs be. I am perfectly capable.
Edited (i swear im fucking done editing) 2024-12-11 07:01 (UTC)
[ Where he'd intended to lighten a burden, it seems he has only caused a graver wound. Breath caught in his throat, Viktor holds Emet-Selch's gaze a second longer before letting his attention fall to his hands, instead. ]
Of course. I have overstepped. 'Twas- 'twas not my intent. I apologize. [ Viktor flattens his palm over the mask, sending it away. Had Aepymetes been as clumsy as he is, now? Would Azem have said the right thing, right away? Perhaps, but Viktor cannot let his present inadequacy silence him. He dithers, lips parted as he attempts to string sturdier words together. ]
What I should have s-said...
[ Viktor scoops a spoonful of sugar into his glass before pouring from the kettle, fingertips settling on the lid so as not to cause any spills. ]
What I should have said is that I- I trust you implicitly. 'Twill be no easy thing, but you will do all you can.
[ Viktor sets the kettle down and dares look up at Hades again, and Viktor does not bother to hide his exhaustion. It leaves him hollow, thinking about it. But hollow does not mean incapable of getting a necessary job done. ]
P-primals did not spare children their tempering, as you know. And until my Alisaie developed her cure for it, we- I had an equal hand in the culling of tempered souls, as a member of the Flames. 'Tis...
[ His gaze falls again. There are no words. ]
I only mean to say that I hope, whatever you decide, you also know that you need never f-face those horrors alone. I will s-stand beside you, Hades, come what may.
[ He wishes, sometimes, they could go back to the simplicity of arguing. He did not particularly relish or enjoy the moments where they butted heads aggressively, but they were easier. There were clear lines drawn in the sand. Where he had the security of being right because he did not think past his own certainty. There was significantly less guilt then.
But, he thinks, that doesn't mean he was right. Nor that he was happy. ]
We both know that those examples are not the same.
[ There's no heat to his words this time, though, just exhaustion. They might be tempered. It is very likely they are, but the time difference between the shards is chaotic enough there's a small chance they're not. He doesn't know if that would make this better, or worse.
Were they tempered, though, they could resolve it. Had they ever tried, when they understood what the primals they summoned had done? Emet-Selch finds he cannot recall. Surely he, or at the very least, Lahabrea, would have recognized the signs given the summoning they orchestrated after the fact. Had they forgotten? Had Zodiark, or Elidibus simply smoothed away the memory the way one smooths away wrinkles upon bedsheets? Thoughtless, effortless? Or has it simply been so many thousands of years, the memory was inconsequential when faced with his certainty of purpose? He's not sure which option is preferable. ]
I am no stranger to handling what must needs be done. [ But even as he says it, there's no righteous tone, nothing but resignation at the potential weight of duty. ] Nor do I doubt your capacity as shepherd.
You may have been bedfellows with tragedy and suffering, but that does not m-mean you must bear their weight alone any longer. Whatever you faced in the past, here and now, you've the power to acquaint yourself with other c-courses, if you wish. I do not mean to sway you. I only offer my shoulders to share your burdens.
[ And as for everything else, well- he does not see how the slaying of innocents in the name of clemency, of the star's safety, needs its hairs split. It is what it is, tragedy they should do all in their power to avoid. He does not think himself a shepherd, either. It is a role he could pantomime, certainly, briefly, just like any mask he's chosen to wear. But he is not Aymeric or the Exarch. He is not Merylwyb or Matoya. Where has he guided anyone, save onto a battlefield? He cannot go six bells without drawing Emet-Selch into argument. The scions knew him best for nodding and killing. It is his combat prowess, his willingness to fight and die that stirs the masses, not his words, not his ideas.
At a loss, but unwilling to allow himself the luxury of moping, Viktor busies his hands with food he no longer has the appetite for, but nevertheless knows he should eat, cream cheese, fish, egg, and onion, settled neatly on a slice of bread. Emet-Selch seems halfway to surrendering to the worst possible outcome, already, and Viktor knows that he cannot allow the both of them to succumb to numbness. For a blessing, his infernal ears remain pert, alert, despite their itching desire to droop. Viktor forces himself to take a bite of his assembled toasty - and it is surprisingly good. The fish, smoky and salty, the eggs, fluffy, the onion, sharp. He makes a note to bring the combination up back at the Wandering Stairs.
And once he's chewed and swallowed, he sets the bread back down and begins to speak again. ]
Grim potentials lay before us, aye, but mustn't you first learn more before we can make plans? Once you have, tell me what you need of me and it will be done.
[ To stop himself from fidgeting, Viktor wraps both hands around his still too hot teacup. It does little good. His fingers right away set to tapping a nervous nonsense rhythm, but as he glances up to meet Emet-Selch's eye once more, his voice is steady, soft, warm. ]
If tragedy is unavoidable and all you desire in its wake is quiet... it will be yours, my love.
[ He makes a noise of acknowledgment but otherwise focuses on the same task as Viktor with grim efficiency. Pulling Solus on is not an overly taxing endeavor, but proving his claim with sufficient might and force might be and it wouldn't do to come unprepared to whatever may happen. So he eats mechanically and half-listens to what Viktor says.
The tea, at the very least, is passable. Not the best he's had, but for all of this shard's faults, tea is one of the least pressing. ]
The likelihood of their existence in any way being in any way a boon for us is ridiculously small, so much so as to be insignificant. At best, they are so unaware I need not play the part of Solus more than a day, at worst, they are dedicated to the cause with a religious fervor youth will only exacerbate.
[ My love. Like it's the easiest thing in the world, every single time. Emet-Selch imagines saying them with the same easy and comfort as Viktor does, and finds the taste sours on his tongue. He takes another bite, barely tasting the food. Too much cream cheese spread upon it, he thinks, and then takes another with careful precision to keep the onion from dragging across the cream cheese and making a mess. My love, like his life is not horrifically fleeting in direct contrast. A miserable thing, to have so short a time and spend it on someone unfit, unable to make the most of that time adequately. ]
I do not know them. They are not my friends, my colleagues. [ A pause, Emet-Selch forcibly seeming to take a moment, gentling his tone, the hard stare to something far less anticipatory of antagonism. ] They are, at best, a delay. A distraction from what we must needs accomplish. Gaia, at least, has some sense. But youths left with unchecked powers, no suitable teacher, and stars know what sort of interpretation of their former marching orders is - not ideal.
[ Dangerous, for Viktor. It is not just the necessity of eliminating them. Their families, their friends - all it takes is someone to look into that necessary work a little too hard for a rumor mill to start, for Viktor to find himself in need of explaining himself when he has no involvement in the situation. It is, he supposes, a rather ridiculous turn of events for Azem to be in that position. ]
Tread carefully while I am gone, but do be seen by as many as you are able, ideally as often as you are able. More than one at a time, if you can help it.
[ At what point does an oyster become aware of the pearl weighing upon its softest parts? Viktor watches Hades - is it still Hades or is he already donning the mask of Solus? - take no pleasure in eating, listens to his harsh suppositions, and the smoothing of his voice, his brow, as he wrests calm from beneath an impossible amount of tension. This does not feel so different from where they'd left off yesterday, before a bath had distracted them. He watches, without reaction, as Emet-Selch sets out instructions for him and feels a bit like a little dog. Something fragile; treasured, appreciated, certainly, for how pretty it is, for the warmth it affords. And tolerated when it is annoying.
Doubt, cold and heavy, makes a rock of itself in the pit of Viktor's stomach. He can no longer force himself to eat, and so he sips his tea, instead. Tucks those thoughts away for sometime later, when he does not find himself discussing the hypothetical deaths of an unknown number of children. ]
Aye, I will. And you- try not to plan so far ahead that you close doors to better ends, alright?
[ Viktor sets the cup down, but keeps his hands wrapped around it. In a soft, steady voice, he navigates to his point with care. ]
At best, they are children. Neither boons nor banes. At best, they are bright, hopeful, capable as Ryne and Gaia, as Alphinaud and Alisaie. They are, in all likelihood, f-frightened, displaced by these s-strange powers they possess. [ His hands loose from their place as he speaks, eyes searching the room while his fingers flutter, all animation. It is his own experience he draws from, painting a new landscape from his own childhood memories. ] Their home is held at the brink of something t-terrible. Their friends, their families struggle. They are ruled over by a- an... impotent little tyrant. And they want to fix it - aye, perhaps this is what they believe their lost Paradise is, for want of the truth.
And mayhap that has brought them to terrible, dangerous ends. [ Viktor shrugs, gaze settling on Emet-Selch once more. Whatever his reservations for his own role in Hades's life, whatever mask the man wears now, Viktor knows that there is kindness, brilliance, patience enough in him to find a peaceful path here. ] Or. Perhaps, those children are about to find themselves in the presence of a suitable teacher, one who might help them to feel truly understood, in spite of how much it might delay him.
[ He knows Viktor speaks from experience. To be so young and saddled with the duty and obligation Hydaelyn had thrust upon her most favored was a curse, not a blessing of light. Zodiark had not similarly blessed or cursed these children - they were simply gifted the abilities that were their due, but there was a reason why they spent countless years educating on the scale and scope of those powers.
In an ideal world, sundered as they are without any rejoinings, they will be minimally powerful. The equivalent of an ant beneath a boot. Near as soon as he has the thought, guilt swells within him, like Viktor can somehow hear how easily he slides back into old habits of thinking. They are children. It would be easier - better, in many ways, for them to simply listen to him. Emet-Selch would never consider himself to be someone particularly good with children, but he supposes that is a skillset he must hone rather quickly if he wants this not to end in violence and bloodshed.
He finishes eating, tidying with a snap before Viktor has finished, eager to get this over and done with, to find out which of the options he will encounter upon finally making contact rather than lingering in this liminal space of potential nightmare. To shrug Solus on once again takes the faintest bit of magic, but no small amount of effort. Viktor's crafted clothes melt into long robes, a quick stroke of his hand through bed-mussed hair shortens it and a second carding of his fingers through his hair forces it to lay at least somewhat neatly, how it used to.
That he mislikes wearing this form, he supposes, is a type of progress. ] I will bear your- [ he stalls, finishing off his tea while he thinks of a word that won't sound condescending when he is attempting to be genuine ] - wisdom in mind.
[ For now, he circles around to Viktor's side and after a beat of hesitation, curves fingers against Viktor's jaw enough to tilt his chin up. He balks at the idea of kissing Viktor like this - not himself, exactly, but does press a lingering kiss against Viktor's brow. How jarring, he thinks, to have someone who he would dearly miss were anything to happen to them. Thousands of years ago, when one of them would leave, there might be a joke about not getting maimed or injured while out, but there was a lightness to it; they had never expected real, world-ending danger. Now, they contended with it every day. ]
You will keep yourself safe while I am gone. Ideally, also out of trouble. Aye?
[ No small amount of heartache chases Viktor while he watches his precious, peculiar, surly Hades wane until only that dark new moon Solus zos Galvus remains. Emperor, enemy, and yet Viktor musters no fury at the sight. Again, he is only struck by how unrepulsive he finds the form sat across from him; too busy with tracing familiar movements, the way someone lost looks for signs of the familiar. And he finds them, in that voice, in the way he holds his tea cup, in the set of his brow. What tension Viktor's nerves do manage is tired, the vigilance of an old dog unwilling to muster even a woof for a noise beyond the front door.
And then, Emet-Selch accepts his words without argument. Stands and approaches, tense and tired, but not seeking a fight. It is Hades who fits his fingers beneath Viktor's chin and tips his attention up as he always does, and Viktor, the little dog, ever obedient, ever eager for a bit of attention. He shuts his eyes and savors the warmth of lips upon his forehead, even if the form that plants the kiss is one that stokes fear in his belly.
Viktor does not let him get away cleanly, lifts a hand to catch his cheek. His face is smaller, more gaunt than his righter form, his eyes more tired, but still the same lantern light Viktor so adores. What a mess he has found himself in, full of doubt, and ready to forget every warning sign, provided Emet-Selch promises to touch him, look at him again.
Maybe he is meant to be a dog. ]
Should trouble and I pass in the halls today, she will not recall m-my name or face. I promise. [ He lets his hand drop, dusts fingers over the back of Emet-Selch's gloved palm. It feels a bit silly to wish safety for an immortal older than time, and so, instead, Viktor offers him a crooked smile. ] Stay warm out there. But not so warm that you've no need of me when you return.
[ He tries for the words Viktor seems to utter as easily as breathing and finds them unable to wrest their way past the cage of his teeth, his tongue uncooperative. A kiss will have to be enough; Viktor is not overtly in danger, here, and if he goes nosing around in places he ought not to he has enough charm to smooth the way. ]
I fear the issue is there will not be a time I do not want for your warmth.
[ To have the sun again, shining its warmth in full force, to have it within his grasp whenever he chooses - that is not a gift he takes lightly this time around. The hand Viktor'd skimmed his fingers against flexes, clenches into a fist like he can hold onto the memory of that warmth and then before he says anything to ruin the moment, he flicks a portal open and strides through with a lazy little wave into the chill.
This time, when he searches, he looks properly. Finds the pastel colors of a half-dozen souls he used to know as good friends and colleagues and one among them stands out above the rest, edges faded with age.
Pashtarot sits in a dingy, miserable stone house near the center of town, among countless other dingy, miserable stone houses. Were he whole, he would likely be able to see Emet-Selch as he prowls through the room silently, but he is not, and so Emet-Selch examines his quarters unaccosted. Countless pieces of history lay strewn about without any of Pashtarot's characteristic militant neatness. Scrounged bits of a history they cannot hope to comprehend or interpret. Bastardizations of what once was.
Emet-Selch plucks up a few of the more dubiously safe relics, books, and the like and sends them directly into storage, gliding from one chilled room to the next until entering what could only be called a classroom. Desks, arranged in precise lines. Parchment and dried ink containers scattered about. This, at least, is passingly familiar.
After a few bells of work - puttering about the home, listening into conversations the imitation of Pashtarot has with the children, because they are all of them children as he'd dreaded, he deems this enough information for now. No need to reveal himself, for the time being. It would take nothing to ease this version of Pashtarot into the aetherial sea once again. A touch, and no one would question the passing of an old man in his sleep, seated by the ash-clogged fireplace.
The last of the youths leave, assigned their glorious mission of rejoining with no real clear direction on how to achieve it, all aimless, religious fervor and certainty of purpose from a man with Pashtarot's soul and none of his sense. Emet-Selch watches him dodder about, allowing him a meal, a drink, and then to settle by the fireplace. It is a kindness, he thinks, not allowing Pashtarot to exist like this, a shattered fragment so unspeakably unaligned from the past. A single finger pressed against Pashtarot's chest prompts a bleary-eyed blink at nothing, a frown of confusion, and then the life slides from him in one, long, smooth breath outward. The fragment of his soul Emet-Selch ushers back into the Source's aetherial sea gently, and then without a second look at the corpse left in its ratty seat, Emet-Selch steps back through a portal into his temporary rooms to shed Solus once again.
A gentle tug against their connection, a tap on the shoulder, a tug at the hem of Viktor's shirt, and then Emet-Selch begins to orchestrate dinner with the servants, to be brought up for them in anticipation of Viktor's return. ]
[ Whatever he'd expected from the mouth of Solus zos Galvus, from Emet-Selch, from his Hades, it hadn't been this. Viktor stares, brows lifted and lips parted slightly, nothing to say at all in response; fighting a flood of heat to his face, frankly, with a faint and crooked smile -- a whole lot of moon-eyed fluster that Emet-Selch won't even see, because he turns and disappears with a familiar flap of fingers before Viktor can do anything to stop him.
Alone again, Viktor picks through the remains of his breakfast. Then, to the adjoined quarters, to wash up properly. Though he has much to do, he still wastes a few minutes staring at his body in the room's single, floor length mirror, at the circles and splotches of red, of purple and blue, that dot his neck, his chest, his thighs. How ravenous Hades had been, how diligent in claiming what was his. And stars, how Viktor had loved it - how hungry he is for more, even with the gloom of uncertainty still settled over him. Just for a few seconds, he brushes against the possibility of someday playing such games with Hades set into the shape of the former Emperor. A levin shock of embarrassment has him shoving that feeling down and rushing hastily through dressing, then taming his unusually wild curls.
He means to set off for the grave after that, but out in the hall he encounters one of the castle staff nervous about the state of his lord's tapestry room. Once Viktor's done seeing to a task that is little more than cleaning hanging rugs and before he can make a proper escape from the grounds, he finds himself in the main hall, where he catches the land's little lord striking a servant when his lunch is too hot for his liking.
So, with unexpected new purpose, Viktor is delayed again. He does not mind so much.
Clara is her name. A funny girl, quick to pick up that Viktor won't mind a crude joke, who might've seemed more steady were she not preoccupied with the blood oozing from her face. Once Viktor's mended the gash on her cheek, healed away the imprint of the lordling's ring beneath her eye, he insists she takes him down to the greenhouse gardens for a stroll. And there, once the two of them are joined by Alice from the day before, Viktor conveniently sits down beside a fascinating little shrub, dotted by red berries, nearly invisible amidst the other ornamental plants.
Sat on the lip of a flagstone wall, he relates a bit of old gossip his mother used to tell while mixing potions and poultices and (most importantly) tea blends for local ladies in their little kitchen in Horizon: a friend of a friend, prone to strange injuries, an unfortunate broken arm, and a husband left to make his own tea each day while she recovered; a husband who grew steadily, mysteriously, messilly more ill, until he eventually succumbed to what chirurgeons could only figure was some sort of flu.
Hushed but no less animated, Viktor informs the two of them that it was not until the widow's arm was wholly healed that she found the true cause of her husband's demise -- he'd been brewing tea with the leaves of a plant not so unlike this one right here, easily mistaken for the shrub that produced his favorite blend. A tragedy, certainly. But on the bright side, once the tainted tea leaves were finally tossed out, the young lady never suffered so much as an unusual bruise again.
He smiles, sunshine bright, as he tells them both to have care around the plants in the lordling's garden, and pats Clara's hand before parting. Trouble may have passed him in the halls, but he does not think she will quite remember his name, his face. As promised.
The grave is not terribly far from town, but enough of a trek to be annoying with the chill. For a blessing, the path up the steep hill has been swept clear, in spite of fresh fallen snow. Odd, considering the grave's age, but he needn't wonder about it long. At the crest of the hill, surrounded by snow, blanketed by familiar flowers a shade darker than Hydaelyn's blue, is a single, simple stone grave. And an elf, a wizened warrior by the look of her, clad in leathers, sword at her hip, and a curtain of gray hair.
Viktor thinks immediately, unavoidably, of Haurchefant's grave and of Francel. An expected squeeze of pain follows, but it does not stop Viktor's approach. The old elf does not turn to look until he is nearly beside her. She spares him a glance and then a longer, lingering look, expression unchanging despite her otherwise obvious surprise.
"Someone's defaced her grave," says the old elf warrior in a tone that should be inscrutable, but Viktor knows, somehow, it carries a dark, molten magma anger.
"L-let me see, then." He does not wait for her approval, and that in and of itself, seems to earn it, seems to cool some of that fire. Two careful steps forward, deftly avoiding flowers, and he needn't even lay a hand upon the grave to guess at what's changed. A smile settles on his features.
A second later, the elf confirms it, "The stone."
"Aye," Viktor lights fingers upon the Amaurotine rock, half expecting to feel some spark arcing between himself and his reflection. But no. There is nothing, and it's strange, but not. She is gone, and only her flowers remain. In place of connection to his own soul, Viktor finds warmth, impossible fondness for the sentimental old fool currently stalking about on the other side of the valley. "Nothing's de-defaced. 'Tis a gift from a f-friend. Her monument will stand for ages beyond you or I."
"Are you speaking true?" The old elf's eyes narrow, hawkish. "Your people are long-lived."
Viktor nods, meeting the elf's pale gaze and holding it as she continues her silent assessment. "And this'll last longer than th-that." A pause. "You know, she likely hates that you drag yourself up here to clear a path so seldom used."
"She is dead. Her opinion hardly matters." But the old soldier's stance relaxes at his words, just a hint of all those leathers being a touch too heavy for her shoulders.
"Terribly rude," Viktor huffs, heatless, and he thinks he hears the elf snicker under her breath. Without further comment or explanation, he plucks a blue flower from the top of the headstone. Right away, he knows something is not right. Despite appearances, the blossom is his hand is just that -- only a flower. He could crush it, he knows, and it would simply bruise and wilt in his fist.
The elf seems to recognize his consternation. "Used to call water, those."
"Water?" Viktor murmurs, amused by how fate could not be satisfied with a simple material exchange. It seems Azem's reflections are ever meant to meet. He wonders whether Hades will be amused.
He channels a bit of his own aether into the bloom as the elf relays a tale that feels all too familiar. She hadn't always been that way, their hero, but one day, she'd changed. Volatile, frightening magic. Because it didn't matter, ultimately. Not when she'd been granted the power to mete out punishment to the demon who plagued their world, put a stop to the spreading permafrost. A gift from the Mother, they'd thought. The magic had lingered for years after her passing, but the flowers seem to spend what remains of it now on simply overcoming the cold.
The elf points out a divot in the snow, a dry stream bed, once sourced by the aether from the hero's garden. Viktor glances at it, wonders how much of him it would take to set the water flowing again, then, as though Emet-Selch can sense when he's brewing up a bad idea, feels a familiar tug at his aether. His attention drifts back toward the lord's fortress.
"Your attention is required elsewhere," observes the elf.
"Aye." Viktor nods, offering out the blue flower, now shimmering with silver light. "For a special occasion, alright?"
The old warrior accepts the bloom with no small amount of reverence. Viktor parts with considerably less - a charming grin and a wave of two fingers. He doesn't meet her eye as he turns to head back down the path, and leaves a hundred questions unasked, unanswered. Better not to know, better not to connect too firmly to this reflection before he's met the soul that waits for him in the Sea.
The sun is down by the time he returns, face flush and fingers stiff from the cold. Viktor tugs off his muddy boots at the door to their quarters -- their quarters -- relieved to see Emet-Selch is himself once more. A hot meal waits, too, and he is half-starved from all his work and walking, but the first order of business is to steal a bit of warmth from Hades. ]
Cold hands. [ He announces, pressing his hands against Emet-Selch's chest, curling his knuckles into the folds of his clothes. ] What did you f-find?
[ The stew arrives before Viktor does, and Emet-Selch allows himself enough time to be quietly pleased by a bit of good planning and timing. The staff who bring the meal, on the other hand, seem quietly perplexed, because no one has seen Emet-Selch return, nor leave, and the rooms had been empty for tidying.
For all the issues he has with this shard - and oh, there are many - the stew was one he had particularly enjoyed the few times he'd come here. Garlemald's was better, of course, but this was close enough to passable. The meat is fattier than usual, which Emet-Selch chooses to take as a slight from the lordling and resolves with the faintest effort and aether. On the tray are several loaves of bread, still warm, wrapped in cloth, and an assortment of nuts, cheeses, and other snack fare. When the table is set he turns to the fireplace, stoking the dull glowing embers there and adding fresh logs, fodder, until it fairly blazes and the room goes from miserably cold to just chill, warming.
He could do with a bath again, but it isn't strictly speaking necessary just yet; more than that, perhaps a little embarrassingly, he would much prefer Viktor joins him. Clambering back into bed bath-warm and beneath clean sheets before they deal with the inevitability of tomorrow sounds downright pleasant.
The sun sets outside, and rises indoors the moment Viktor arrives, making a beeline to press icy cold hands into the cloth covering Emet-Selch's torso. It is, he thinks wryly, not nearly thick enough for how chilled Viktor's fingers are. This close Emet-Selch is able to look him over - no new wounds, no bruises, but the faint scent of magic on him, just enough it makes his nose itch, threatens a sneeze before he marshalls himself back under control. ]
If only there were a surplus of fire crystals and a fireplace one could warm themselves with.
[ He doesn't make any effort to wrest himself away, though, allowing Viktor to bask in the scant warmth he can offer for a few moments while he mulls over the answer. ]
An old man attempting to teach fragments about a past even he did not truly comprehend. The rest is as I thought. Youths, following one they considered a teacher, now lacking one. We can speak on it tomorrow. [ Tonight, he will allow them to find the body, to grieve a man taken by old age instead of battle, and in the morning, he thinks they will be more amenable to a different tack. ] Were you successful? If you've finished thawing there is stew, and the bread ought to still be warm. I would like to eat before it goes cold.
[ As if either of them could not warm it back up again. ]
[ And Viktor seems content to linger right where he is, unfussed with efficiency when closeness is a far greater prize. He leans in indulgent as Emet-Selch speaks, stealing a bit more of his space, liking the way his chest rumbles in time with his voice. Not hard to guess at the direction of his day, though the news does cultivate more difficult questions than satisfying answers. Viktor tips his chin up, brows high on his forehead, and runs through a few of the most pressing queries flitting through his mind.
None of them matter right now, ultimately. The children are alive, even if one old Ascian is not. There is no urgency in Hades's voice, only a day weary weight on his features that Viktor admits to himself is quite charming. Something, he finds, he wishes to soothe, not exacerbate. ]
Then let's put some food in you, f-first and foremost.
[ Viktor drifts away, but not before freeing a still chilly hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face. It is, he thinks, trying not to waste too much more time, unbearably nice to have home be a person. ]
Thank you for organizing supper. [ Finally, as he peels himself out of outer robes, he sweeps over to the sink basin to wash his hands. ] I was... not successful, no. [ After drying, it's to the table, where he first picks up a square of hard cheese and pops it in his mouth, then holds his palm over the kettle. Of course, he talks with his mouth full. ] It seems there is little of her l-left in her flowers. They were once quite potent, I've been told.
[ Viktor pauses to press his awareness to the aether of the tea kettle. Metal, water, leaves become as thread in his mind, a sensation that, after moons of practice, is only just becoming mundane. He picks at individual strands, allows information to spill across his senses - a story laid out in abstract, for him to interpret. Reading tea leaves, he muses to himself, decides there is nothing untoward about the contents of the kettle (thanks the stars that his bit of effort at good will was not turned against them), and pours cups for Emet-Selch and then himself. ]
Now, they are barely more than ordinary blooms. What is left of their power is spent on persisting through the c-cold, near as I can tell. I've a few theories on that, I s-suppose. [ He sits, looks to Emet-Selch, waiting for him to join. ] But now, 'tis all the more necessary I see her in the Sea.
[ He supposes there will come a time where he gets used to this. There won't be one where he ever takes such closeness for granted, but it will be less - he's not surprised exactly, not startled. He doesn't know what he is in that moment, Viktor nestling in close and just as Emet-Selch resolves himself to reach back out to press a hand against the small of his back, Viktor's flitting off again after a brush of fingers through his hair, always in motion, Emet-Selch too slow. ]
Organizing.
[ That's a bit of a generous summation, he thinks, watching Viktor hover a hand over the kettle, puzzling out what he's attempting to do before giving up and giving it a proper glance. Against his will, a smirk curves his lips. ]
Are we in danger of being poisoned? It's been at least a decade since anyone tried with any real intent but that would be a change of pace.
[ Viktor doesn't sense anything wrong with the tea, it seems, as he pours them both glasses and Emet-Selch does a quick round of the room to re-establish the layers of enchantment and charms he has to grant them real privacy, then strides over to the other open seat. Barely, he resists the urge to hide a groan as he sits. A few bells of walking is nothing, and yet he is not possessed anymore of Solus' body, one honed for war, but his own, far more comfortable sat contorted in a chair studying. ]
My dealings here were relatively minimal the last few lifetimes. I knew of her, in the same way, I knew of any of the thorns in our sides, but I was not as...we shall say well-acquainted as I was with others.
[ Plucking a loaf from the stack and summoning a knife thoughtlessly to begin slicing neat, even pieces off of it to dunk, Emet-Selch is pleased he keeps a reasonably even tone and simply looks at Viktor, nonchalant. ] Is there some burning question you would ask of her?
I do not th-think we are. [ He meets that smirk with one of his broad sunshine smiles, skewing crooked with mischief. His gaze darts toward the door. Force of habit - he knows Hades has seen to their privacy here, and even if he hadn't, they are in little danger. Strange, to not find himself in need of protecting a companion. ] But I may have taught the servants of the deadly t-treasure trove their lord does not realize he keeps in his garden. And I have learnt well that I c-cannot predict how others will act.
[ Perhaps funny coming from the one who, between the two of them, has locked inside of him the capacity to do exactly that - choices, possibilities, potentials, laid out upon splitting threads. But that is the charm of people, they've got a knack for picking the most surprising choices. He doubts that Clara or Alice would repay his healing in so vicious a way, but in places like this the walls have ears, and it is a fool who fails to separate their hope from the reality of things.
He selects a nut to snack on, still browsing the evening's offerings and not quite setting in on the meal proper, yet. ]
Just so? [ Viktor glances up. ] At least I've no reason to be jealous over an old flame, then. [ His grin goes positively devilish, then settles as he watches Hades slice bread. ]
Not a specific question, no. Though I do w-wonder at her choice in... friends. [ His brows beetle. ] No, I've a request of her.
[ With considerably less care or decorum than Hades, Viktor selects a loaf for himself, tears it in half, and then into smaller pieces. With a piece of bread pinched between two fingers, he hesitates, unsure of whether he is about to cause some sort of unforeseen heartache or stumbled them into another argument. It is, he decides, better to be honest; he would rather navigate the difficult than lock it away for fear of the upset it might cause. He does not realize just how far he has come in the last ten thousand years in that regard. ]
One of the th-things I glimpsed in... Aepymetes's memories was- he was showing a student- Elidibus, actually, I think - a bit of spellwork of his own make. 'Twas a bit like attuning to an aetheryte, but a trade of aether between souls. For movement, aye? You are... probably familiar? You were his example. At the time, there was some c-concern that the aether would... snap together. [ A rejoining, Elidibus had said. ] But. Aepymetes had said it could be avoided with... practice.
[ Viktor puts his attention squarely on the stew set before him, dips a torn hunk of bread into the broth. Aepymetes had set the path of Viktor's fall through their memories. He would not have let Viktor linger so long in that one if it had not been for good reason. ]
I intend to ask her if she might do a trade with me.
Edited (too aggressive with the italics) 2024-12-16 07:27 (UTC)
[ He almost comments about villainy, and how it suits Viktor just as the impish smile curving his lips suits him, but bites the words back. It is not villainy he is after, but justice. And while he is content to have his past actions in whole painted as villainy by those with no understanding, he is less willing to acquiesce to the idea that Viktor, acting in the service of those without actual power of their own, is villainous in any way. ]
And what do you think the chances are that he receives a pot not brewed with the painstaking care ours seems to have?
[ Had he spent more time around the castle, had he gathered more information within he would have a better handle on what Viktor seems to fundamentally understand. None of his spies are left over, and his time is regrettably better spent outside the walls tracking the fragments of the Ascians left, but it is odd, at least, not to have a finger on the pulse of the castle. He supposes that is Viktor, just a different sort of spy than he was generally used to. ]
Practice you do not yet have, though. [ He wants, he wants so badly for Viktor to simply accept this, to gather up the fragmented pieces of himself and finally be a step closer to whole, but that does not lie on this path. Accepting it may take a little longer than Emet-Selch would like, but he can swallow his frustration for the time being if it means assisting Viktor with what he would have done. ] And 'tis practice I am uncertain how to best assist you with attempting. We may be better served by a specific bit of spellwork crafted to keep the two of you from...snapping together, as it were.
[ Then again, maybe he won't need it at all. Without a doubt, Viktor is the most stubborn and competent iteration of Aepymetes; it is entirely possible that the two bullheaded shards simply resist being made one by sheer force of will and spite alone. ]
[ That seems to be the end of it. Honest and final, noncommittal... automatic, falling back into old habits; say enough to fill silence before someone smarter sets in with suppositions. It takes Viktor a moment to realize the question was not rhetorical - that a proper response is expected. He glances up from his meal, caught off guard, gaze skirting the ceiling as he considers. ]
They are all of them... afraid in a way that holds them from action, but... He lashes out at them over trivialities. I saw him s-strike a girl over his meal being wrong. Hard enough to draw blood, and- [ And it'd taken every ilm of his self control not to teach the spoiled little snot a lesson in front of his court. But what a mess that would have been. And these people, they do not need a Warrior of Light right now, and certainly not one who cannot linger here long. ] -their anger burns hotter by the day, and I think he knows it. That rage needs must go somewhere.
[ He tips his head as though straining to hear a distant sound. Lifts a hand, touching each finger to his thumb in a gesture that looks a little like someone browsing a card catalogue. Something comes into focus. Not visions, but feeling, and each touch of finger to thumb brings it all into sharper focus. He grasps for it, finding thread, to no great surprise. And in that thread, a thousand more - a tidal wave of maybes and perhapses and what ifs. Too much, too loud to glean anything but glimpses. Viktor blinks. Releasing the ethereal thing he holds, and coming away with fragments of what may be. ]
'Twould be kinder for everyone if the tea took him. More confusion, but... other options are... bloodier.
[ His stomach growls, and he finally dunks a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. Chews, swallows, and scoops up a fork. Which he then uses to aid in coaxing his words, flicking it about like a baton, rather than eating. ]
As for our hero and the risk of... rejoining, you mean something like the veil you've s-settled between you and I, aye? 'Tis a brief meeting I intend. I am sure she'd rather r-rest, and I mean only to trade, well, flowers. Hers- even for a time after her death, her flowers were of Water. Not L-Light. [ Viktor settles, hands landing on the table, attention focused on Emet-Selch. ] I know that- I know I am no scholar. I know not the details of arcane theory, but... I've- I've a feeling. A-and, I intend for each of us to graft the other's lily onto their soul. I intend to- to make a weave.
[ But you do have suspicions, he wants to point out, resisting the urge to do so. There is no one else here to have answer the questions and Emet-Selch can be both insistent and persuasive when needed; neither is needed right now. They are not planning and plotting, Emet-Selch is not trying to entice the other party in to a specific end. They are having a conversation over dinner, as partners.
Once, he was as adept at this as anything else. Once, he could have two conversations at the same time, one with whoever was in the kitchen, and then a separate one over the dinner table, pouring over paperwork. He thinks he would be ill-suited to that, now, rusty as he is at the whole endeavor. ]
Nothing prevents us from incentivizing further accidents.
[ That is all he will contribute about the subject; whether or not they kill the ruler does not functionally matter. Someone else will rise up, and none of it will have any impact unless they manage to find Meteion. The petty concerns of rulership are beneath both of them, but the servants are not, for Viktor, and Emet-Selch cannot blame Viktor for being himself any more than he can blame the sun for shining. ]
I see. [ He mulls all of the new information while picking at his stew, unable to stop turning about in his head the way that Viktor had gone to the same place Aepeymetes used to go, with the stark difference of returning to himself much faster. And if they were to rejoin - there's no way to know that brevity would continue. Much as he wishes for them to have ever edge, every advantage available to them, Emet-Selch does not wish to see Viktor's hard work sacrificed to achieve it, not if they can manage another way. Mostly. ]
And what will you do with this weave? With her flowers?
[ Viktor pauses to take a bite, chewing over the possibility of getting more embroiled here. It itches, ignoring the imbalance, the suffering, but getting tangled up in rebellion now would be foolish when annihilation sits just beyond every conflict on their star. The cat's cradle beneath his ribs twists and tightens, but his duty is now larger than the conflicts that used to take all his time. His limits seem to lie below him now, not above; Viktor cannot help but think of Venat, of Hydaelyn, tangled up in fate in much the same way.
His heart aches. But the people will be stronger for solving this themselves. Better not to grow reliant upon singular champions to settle disputes of rule. ]
Rendering aid to them where I can while you handle our other matters m-must be enough. [ And it almost soothes him, except- ] If the little shite continues to choose violence, though... [ Viktor arches a brow, shoulders bouncing. He does not finish the thought.
Instead, he watches Emet-Selch pick through his own meal and wonders at the weight upon his shoulders. Each of them has found a uniquely painful problem on this reflection. Darkly amusing, to think that they might have an easier time if they could trade tasks - it is not to be, though. They would not have these problems, were they not each exactly who they are. Little to do but try to offer comfort, to ease the weight, where he can.
Beneath the table, Viktor nudges his foot forward until the two of them are ankle to ankle. ]
Push myself further. Stabilize her soul and our other reflections. [ Hotly, he adds, ] Take what is m-mine. [ A moment later, though, Viktor's mouth flattens into a thin line, ears drooping as stares down at potatoes and carrots. His fire flags, gutters. ] 'Tis my h-hope, at least.
[ He must consider what exactly that means, but does not dwell quite long enough to let silence settle in between them. It feels ridiculous, talking magical suppositions to a man who likely had a hand in revealing much of what the people of his time know of magic. Viktor is no stranger to feeling like a fool, out of his element, but it is not nearly as easy to willingly embarrass himself when it offers no real benefit to anyone else. Explaining takes effort, scraping up the sort of courage he still uses so rarely. Unshuffling the scrapbook pieces of his mind, then laying them out for judgment is excruciating. But he does it. ]
Aepymetes talked of t-trading aether, like tying ribbons to trees. Markers. 'Twas a map of the star, of the people and places he loved. He used it to move, aye? To carry himself and his friends across Eitherys. I- I believe that spellwork can be built upon. If I c-connect with what has sprouted from my soul, if I make a strong weave of us, I think... I could use that magic to f-find. Find Meteion.
Edited (i wrote that tag last night and realized it was atrocious today after work lmao) 2024-12-17 21:36 (UTC)
[ But it could be here. When all is said and done, Emet-Selch would not find himself overly surprised if this were one of the locations Viktor wished to return to, to wrap up unfinished business. Emet-Selch cannot bring himself to be upset about it, either. To have the potential of a length of time spread out before them but no driving need to do any particular task first is a very good carrot to dangle upon a stick. ]
If he continues to choose violence, there are plenty of cold stone stairs that would be dreadfully easy to trip down while using.
[ He is inclined to do it anyway, not out of any misguided urge to help the staff, though he is not opposed to the idea of it. Moreso that he simply mislikes anyone who is deeply tedious to work with, and the spoilt prince is very high up there. At least with Vauthry, he had a hand in his manifestation and he was exactly as designed. This one is cruel just because he can be, because no one larger than him has ever batted him down a few levels to teach him humility.
Far more interesting than the useless waste of breath is Viktor's plan, though. Emet-Selch works his way through the bread, soaking up the vast majority of the stew broth, a habit long since left over from when the stew fillings were few and far between, but the bread - or a rough approximation of it, could be made somewhat easily. ]
He did, aye. If that is the path forward, then I am to assume you would prefer to look over the spellwork for our veil, then?
[ Not that it is overly complex for someone who had studied for countless lifetimes, but for someone who hadn't... Then again, maybe he won't need to. Viktor seems to grasp concepts with the ability of an Unsundered grasping memories simply hidden, rather than gone altogether. Emet-Selch could not do spellwork simply by feel and impulse as easily as Viktor has managed to time and time again; it stands to reason he could do this again. ]
I would not dissuade you from it, but I would... urge caution. Especially given the scale. I would prefer not to find out what happens if you were to manage the equivalent of sewing your finger to the weave.
[ Emet-Selch would have the princeling dealt with in a quarter bell. No mess, unless he wanted one. It is hardly becoming to find such ruthlessness impressive. And yet, Viktor must hide a smirk behind a sizeable bite of carrot and meat, and then his hand as he chews. Weeds and briars of meeting violence with violence aside, there is something to be said for a man who could casually talk of toppling a regime over dinner and have it done before before bed, but doesn't, because he knows you both have better things to do.
It is probably best that they do have better things to do. Between the two of them, there is little they could not solve, could not change to suit what they both thought best for the star. The realization is somewhat sobering, but the dread it instills is tempered by the fact that such things won't matter if they don't settle the problems bigger than they are, first. Which starts with... toying with magic that neither of them understand entirely. Fantastic.
But, Viktor amends after spearing a potato. Isn't it? Fantastic? Hadn't there been a time before returning night to the First, before the end of the Dragonsong War, before Dalamud fell, when war had been a specter and want was not yet a dirty word and he, just a boy, desperate to understand the hum of everything that rang around him? Viktor's gaze swivels up to settle on Emet-Selch, and the strangest bubble of laughter spills out of him, little more than a hum at first with his cheeks still full of food. How absolutely absurd, that the man who had a hand in orchestrating near every event that would shape a curious child into a weapon, is the one who now coaxes that deeply buried desire back out of him. Who makes Viktor want again - want to learn, to grow beyond what he'd come to believe he was meant to be.
He chews. He swallows. He giggles for a few seconds more. ]
Apologies. Life is- 'tis funny. [ Viktor sits back in his chair, not quite tipping it onto two legs, but nearly. ] Aye. I will have care. Well familiar am I with getting a bit too... tangled up in aether - hopefully one or both of us will be able to stop me doing it again. I would like to see the make of our veil to start, but- 'twould be easiest for me to actually see it, I think. Rather than hear or read the th-theory. Can you... [ He hangs, gestures vaguely in the air. ] Can you lay it out? Perhaps, make a visible approximation o-or charts and diagrams?
[ Emet-Selch could have the princeling dealt with in a quarter bell, if Viktor would only allow it. While they are on far more even footing now than they were at the start of their little adventure, there is a part of Emet-Selch aware enough to recognize that were there a leash to be held, it would be Viktor whose hand it rests in. The collar does not sit as tight as it once did, either. Less hands wound tight 'round his throat and more a steady, solid pressure, reminding and tempering him.
The laughter is more startling than it ought to be, perhaps. Emet-Selch looks up from soaking stew broth into the latest slice of bread, eyebrows climbing up to join his hairline. ]
Is it. [ For all that it is not uttered like a question, it is one. Would that he could read Viktor's mind and know what it was that was so amusing, but Viktor does not elaborate and Emet-Selch finds himself a new task to occupy his thoughts, mulling over Viktor's request. The short answer is no; the charts and diagrams he could whip out would be borderline incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't spent the better part of their life studying magic and he cannot imagine it would do more than confuse Viktor further.
The problem to be solved is an interesting enough one, though, and he's quiet for a few moments, chewing thoughtfully, barely tasting the meal as he considers the options as they are. He could attempt to simply explain it, bruteforcing his way through but that would not be a sufficient solution, he fears. Just as likely that they get annoyed with each other because Emet-Selch lacks the patience. Hythlodaeus would... Stars, what would he do, he was always better at this sort of thing.
Hythlodaeus would look at it as a fun little challenge, he thinks. One best solved by something physical, tangible. Glasses, maybe. An item one could wear that would simulate the same view, if dimmed. A passable solution, though something twists uncomfortably in Emet-Selch's chest, a disdain he can't quite shake about the idea of making light of something once so rare. Were he better, maybe he would find it satisfying to be able to share what so many regarded as a gift; as it is now, to do so would feel too much like a betrayal of what once was. ]
Any chart or diagram I could hope to lay out would be so incomprehensible it would be useless. [ No, they've an answer, and it sits between them, tangled in the both of their souls. ] A more...efficient solution would be to lift the veil and allow the use of my eyes, effectively.
[ That level of detail work is not something he has actively practiced, nor is it something he is certain he could successfully maintain, along with the barrier keeping the both of them apart. The magic is too new, and Viktor is too unpredictable. But given the alternative... ]
The veil I've placed between us exists to keep us both separate, safe from...comingling we do not wish to occur. To lift the veil to that extent - there is a chance, a small chance but one nonetheless, that I may not be able to fasten it down once again. Or that one or both of us, receives rather more than we intend to share, should you think to agree.
[ Surprise brightens Viktor's expression, mismatched eyes widening. Not so long ago, this conversation alone would have been an impossibility. Now, they navigate toward the unthinkable with impressive ease. Lowering their veil is a danger, both to Viktor's physical form and to this delicate thing they've only just cultivated - he knows that. And yet, it does not cow him. This is the right course. The swift path to stopping Meteion before even those pockets of gentle calm still lingering on the Source are burnt to nothing.
And it would be a lie to say that seeing with Emet-Selch's eyes, glimpsing the flurry of his mind once again aren't deeply, almost embarrassingly thrilling prospects. ]
I cannot imagine a situation in which spellwork would fail you, Emet-Selch. That does not number among my concerns. If- if you are comfortable doing this, I want to. 'Twould certainly ease learning the spell's make for me. [ Viktor reaches out, but does not grasp Emet-Selch's hand. Instead, he settles his palm upon the table, close enough to be an invitation for contact, without outright asking. ] And as to the matter of shared m-minds...
[ Viktor's gaze searches the room, as though he might pinpoint the right order for his scattered thoughts in its darker corners. Were it someone else, were it a Scion or a Sharlayan scholar or one of the countless people in need of saving, he would simply put on his hero's smile and tell them not to worry, that everything will be fine.
Hades is none of those. Hades sees through his smiles, veil or no. ]
Trust me when I say, there is nothing in your past that would change my dedication to our duty. [ He breathes, a hesitation, unsure if the rest is worth saying. ] Nothing there that could change how I feel about you now. And I would not hold your own thoughts, your own feelings against you. Nor would I... hold you to the same for me. But, should something painful float between us as we work, it- it is worth trying to overcome together, aye?
[ He half-hopes that Viktor will have the sense to tell him that no, this is an insane idea. If they're going to be doing role reversals tonight, that is one he would not mind seeing, Viktor being the more cautious party to Emet-Selch's impulsive offer. Of course, no such luck; they are going to be foolish and impulsive together, it seems. ]
Ha. The flattery is noted, but not needed. [ There is no humor to the dry little ha that escapes from him, but it is without an onze of bitterness or mockery. Typically, when someone utterly incapable of magic on the same scale makes an insinuation that Emet-Selch can or cannot manage a piece of spellwork, he barely notices, their opinion barely worth listening to let alone cataloging and considering. Viktor is, as always, the exception. More than that, while Emet-Selch does not think he would be able to build an entire city as a recreation, to manage the building blocks themselves - the buildings, the component materials - Emet-Selch thinks Viktor very well could with minimal fuss. It stands to reason there would be others on the Source who were capable of the same, were there a teacher for them. The thought sits heavy in his stomach, not quite dreadful, not quite exciting, but an uncertain, unceremonious mix of both. ]
I would prefer a night or two to prepare. I am...relatively certain I can adjust the spellwork as we need, but would feel better about the process were I to have sufficient time to plan for - [ For what generally seems to happen to the best laid plans when they involve both of them - something going awry. ] - contingencies.
[ Viktor's reassurance are kind, but unnecessary. There is precious little that lurks within Emet-Selch's mind that he would not care for Viktor to be privy to. His past actions are laid out in lurid detail in countless books and hushed stories, and while they missed some detail, most were accurate enough. Why he is so reticent to perform this, even he isn't certain of. The fear is not that Viktor will look in the tangled mess of his head and find something so abhorrent he leaves; he's too practical, too focused on the world to let that stop him even if he did find something too hideous to consider.
The issue, Emet-Selch thinks, gingerly reaching across the table to draw fingers along Viktor's palm, tracing the lines of his hand like leylines in a bit of spellwork, the issue is simple closeness. Letting someone in, when he has spent thousands of years layering countless protective shells between him and the fragmented mess of the world. He doesn't know if he even recalls how to. ]
You will not...dig. If we were to. There will be precise boundaries set into place, and I expect nary a toe to so much as ilm toward those boundaries. For your sake and mine.
[ Fate line. Life line. Sun line. In the circus, one of his aunties had practiced palmistry. He remembers little and less of the mechanics of reading fate in the lines pressed to hands, but he recalls quite clearly how fairgoers, she'd said, preferred the closeness of contact to cards or divination done with crystal spheres. There was a thrill in the idea that hidden truth was etched to skin, like freckles, like scars, the means to read it had been lost to all but a few.
Emet-Selch's fingers dip into the divots that hold no secrets of fate. There is nothing there to read, Viktor knows, no meaning to be found as Hades traces the curve of his heart line, but he still must fight the urge to shiver at the light brush of contact. He bends his knuckles up, letting his own fingertips meet Hades's palm, and exhales a soft huff of laughter, little more than air through the nose. ]
S-someone must brag about you from time to time, if you will not do so for yourself. [ His head bobbles up and down, quiet agreement. ] You've much on your plate. Take all the time you need to prepare. I- I appreciate this.
[ But Emet-Selch then answers his question with command. Viktor's ears ease back, expression stilling. He stares at their hands - an easy, uncomplicated point of focus. This is necessity. Work that needs must be done if they are to take their fight to the far reaches of the void, to mitigate the damage done to their star. Other emotions need not play into it. ]
I won't. [ Despite his best efforts, trying to sound neutral, a hint of strain frays the edges of his words. Foolishness. ] I imagine the spell will take most of my attention, and even if it did not- [ His gaze flicks up, a stolen glance at Emet-Selch's face. ] -I would not pry.
[ That Viktor is always warm surprises him sometimes. He doesn't forget so much as he's just made aware every time they touch that Viktor is alive, that he's warm, real. A reminder he is alive. The heat of fresh baked bread pales in comparison, much as Emet-Selch is reticent to touch Viktor when he's been eating with those hands and hasn't washed them. He doesn't think Viktor will care. ]
I would brag about myself and my particularly clever endeavors if anyone besides you would understand the scale and scope, let alone why they were impressive or clever.
[ Not so much a complaint as it is a weary observation. Viktor's reassurance prompts him to tilt his head, watching Viktor's wayward gaze drift about, sneaking a look at Emet-Selch. ]
I do not expect you to pry, but neither do I expect either of us to...effectively guide the magic, untested as it is. 'Tis less a matter of guiding and more a matter of...swimming against the current should said current attempt to drag you under.
[ If he's being honest, he hates the idea of flaying himself open, allowing anyone - even Viktor, maybe especially Viktor, the ability to look at the softest parts of himself. The ability to see souls hadn't always been a deeply personal ability - a rare one certainly, but ultimately unexciting given aught else he could do. Now, it is long past novelty and into something else entirely, and that, combined with the memories attached- he will do what is necessary. Even if he is not thrilled about it. ]
'Tis a warning to myself as much as you.
[ Of the two of them, Emet-Selch knows he cannot be considered less emotional, even if he masks it better. ]
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[ Emet-Selch's hand withdraws, staring at Viktor intently. Neither of them are particularly eager to see him slide Solus back on, an ill-fitting suit especially now, but as always, any mention of Solus as anything other than what was necessary rankles him. He was not kind.
Maybe to the Unsundered he could be if the situation called for it, but he'd had little to no respect for the partial-Ascians, those they raised up who only knew whatever they told them, who listened to what could have been lies and they never would have known if they were telling the truth or not. It hadn't mattered; they simply wanted to belong, wanted a glorious purpose offered to them, with powers to match. ]
I know what must be done, I know what you would prefer I do.
[ A pause, gentling incrementally as he pours himself a glass of tea just as the fizzle of magic tickles, and then Azem's mask sits upon the desk. He doesn't know what to do with the flood of genuine irritation, of anger that spikes. Logically he can assign most of it to being groggy, cranky, on edge; no small amount of it assigned to dreading what a worst-case scenario would look like when they need all the allies they can get. The blatant (or at least seeming) attempt at manipulation when he was already bringing this to Viktor stings. ]
That is, perhaps, the ideal. I would prefer to discuss the realism of what may come. [ A pause, a lingering look over the rim of his teacup. ] I would not ask for you to remove them if needs be. I am perfectly capable.
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Of course. I have overstepped. 'Twas- 'twas not my intent. I apologize. [ Viktor flattens his palm over the mask, sending it away. Had Aepymetes been as clumsy as he is, now? Would Azem have said the right thing, right away? Perhaps, but Viktor cannot let his present inadequacy silence him. He dithers, lips parted as he attempts to string sturdier words together. ]
What I should have s-said...
[ Viktor scoops a spoonful of sugar into his glass before pouring from the kettle, fingertips settling on the lid so as not to cause any spills. ]
What I should have said is that I- I trust you implicitly. 'Twill be no easy thing, but you will do all you can.
[ Viktor sets the kettle down and dares look up at Hades again, and Viktor does not bother to hide his exhaustion. It leaves him hollow, thinking about it. But hollow does not mean incapable of getting a necessary job done. ]
P-primals did not spare children their tempering, as you know. And until my Alisaie developed her cure for it, we- I had an equal hand in the culling of tempered souls, as a member of the Flames. 'Tis...
[ His gaze falls again. There are no words. ]
I only mean to say that I hope, whatever you decide, you also know that you need never f-face those horrors alone. I will s-stand beside you, Hades, come what may.
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But, he thinks, that doesn't mean he was right. Nor that he was happy. ]
We both know that those examples are not the same.
[ There's no heat to his words this time, though, just exhaustion. They might be tempered. It is very likely they are, but the time difference between the shards is chaotic enough there's a small chance they're not. He doesn't know if that would make this better, or worse.
Were they tempered, though, they could resolve it. Had they ever tried, when they understood what the primals they summoned had done? Emet-Selch finds he cannot recall. Surely he, or at the very least, Lahabrea, would have recognized the signs given the summoning they orchestrated after the fact. Had they forgotten? Had Zodiark, or Elidibus simply smoothed away the memory the way one smooths away wrinkles upon bedsheets? Thoughtless, effortless? Or has it simply been so many thousands of years, the memory was inconsequential when faced with his certainty of purpose? He's not sure which option is preferable. ]
I am no stranger to handling what must needs be done. [ But even as he says it, there's no righteous tone, nothing but resignation at the potential weight of duty. ] Nor do I doubt your capacity as shepherd.
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[ And as for everything else, well- he does not see how the slaying of innocents in the name of clemency, of the star's safety, needs its hairs split. It is what it is, tragedy they should do all in their power to avoid. He does not think himself a shepherd, either. It is a role he could pantomime, certainly, briefly, just like any mask he's chosen to wear. But he is not Aymeric or the Exarch. He is not Merylwyb or Matoya. Where has he guided anyone, save onto a battlefield? He cannot go six bells without drawing Emet-Selch into argument. The scions knew him best for nodding and killing. It is his combat prowess, his willingness to fight and die that stirs the masses, not his words, not his ideas.
At a loss, but unwilling to allow himself the luxury of moping, Viktor busies his hands with food he no longer has the appetite for, but nevertheless knows he should eat, cream cheese, fish, egg, and onion, settled neatly on a slice of bread. Emet-Selch seems halfway to surrendering to the worst possible outcome, already, and Viktor knows that he cannot allow the both of them to succumb to numbness. For a blessing, his infernal ears remain pert, alert, despite their itching desire to droop. Viktor forces himself to take a bite of his assembled toasty - and it is surprisingly good. The fish, smoky and salty, the eggs, fluffy, the onion, sharp. He makes a note to bring the combination up back at the Wandering Stairs.
And once he's chewed and swallowed, he sets the bread back down and begins to speak again. ]
Grim potentials lay before us, aye, but mustn't you first learn more before we can make plans? Once you have, tell me what you need of me and it will be done.
[ To stop himself from fidgeting, Viktor wraps both hands around his still too hot teacup. It does little good. His fingers right away set to tapping a nervous nonsense rhythm, but as he glances up to meet Emet-Selch's eye once more, his voice is steady, soft, warm. ]
If tragedy is unavoidable and all you desire in its wake is quiet... it will be yours, my love.
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The tea, at the very least, is passable. Not the best he's had, but for all of this shard's faults, tea is one of the least pressing. ]
The likelihood of their existence in any way being in any way a boon for us is ridiculously small, so much so as to be insignificant. At best, they are so unaware I need not play the part of Solus more than a day, at worst, they are dedicated to the cause with a religious fervor youth will only exacerbate.
[ My love. Like it's the easiest thing in the world, every single time. Emet-Selch imagines saying them with the same easy and comfort as Viktor does, and finds the taste sours on his tongue. He takes another bite, barely tasting the food. Too much cream cheese spread upon it, he thinks, and then takes another with careful precision to keep the onion from dragging across the cream cheese and making a mess. My love, like his life is not horrifically fleeting in direct contrast. A miserable thing, to have so short a time and spend it on someone unfit, unable to make the most of that time adequately. ]
I do not know them. They are not my friends, my colleagues. [ A pause, Emet-Selch forcibly seeming to take a moment, gentling his tone, the hard stare to something far less anticipatory of antagonism. ] They are, at best, a delay. A distraction from what we must needs accomplish. Gaia, at least, has some sense. But youths left with unchecked powers, no suitable teacher, and stars know what sort of interpretation of their former marching orders is - not ideal.
[ Dangerous, for Viktor. It is not just the necessity of eliminating them. Their families, their friends - all it takes is someone to look into that necessary work a little too hard for a rumor mill to start, for Viktor to find himself in need of explaining himself when he has no involvement in the situation. It is, he supposes, a rather ridiculous turn of events for Azem to be in that position. ]
Tread carefully while I am gone, but do be seen by as many as you are able, ideally as often as you are able. More than one at a time, if you can help it.
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Doubt, cold and heavy, makes a rock of itself in the pit of Viktor's stomach. He can no longer force himself to eat, and so he sips his tea, instead. Tucks those thoughts away for sometime later, when he does not find himself discussing the hypothetical deaths of an unknown number of children. ]
Aye, I will. And you- try not to plan so far ahead that you close doors to better ends, alright?
[ Viktor sets the cup down, but keeps his hands wrapped around it. In a soft, steady voice, he navigates to his point with care. ]
At best, they are children. Neither boons nor banes. At best, they are bright, hopeful, capable as Ryne and Gaia, as Alphinaud and Alisaie. They are, in all likelihood, f-frightened, displaced by these s-strange powers they possess. [ His hands loose from their place as he speaks, eyes searching the room while his fingers flutter, all animation. It is his own experience he draws from, painting a new landscape from his own childhood memories. ] Their home is held at the brink of something t-terrible. Their friends, their families struggle. They are ruled over by a- an... impotent little tyrant. And they want to fix it - aye, perhaps this is what they believe their lost Paradise is, for want of the truth.
And mayhap that has brought them to terrible, dangerous ends. [ Viktor shrugs, gaze settling on Emet-Selch once more. Whatever his reservations for his own role in Hades's life, whatever mask the man wears now, Viktor knows that there is kindness, brilliance, patience enough in him to find a peaceful path here. ] Or. Perhaps, those children are about to find themselves in the presence of a suitable teacher, one who might help them to feel truly understood, in spite of how much it might delay him.
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In an ideal world, sundered as they are without any rejoinings, they will be minimally powerful. The equivalent of an ant beneath a boot. Near as soon as he has the thought, guilt swells within him, like Viktor can somehow hear how easily he slides back into old habits of thinking. They are children. It would be easier - better, in many ways, for them to simply listen to him. Emet-Selch would never consider himself to be someone particularly good with children, but he supposes that is a skillset he must hone rather quickly if he wants this not to end in violence and bloodshed.
He finishes eating, tidying with a snap before Viktor has finished, eager to get this over and done with, to find out which of the options he will encounter upon finally making contact rather than lingering in this liminal space of potential nightmare. To shrug Solus on once again takes the faintest bit of magic, but no small amount of effort. Viktor's crafted clothes melt into long robes, a quick stroke of his hand through bed-mussed hair shortens it and a second carding of his fingers through his hair forces it to lay at least somewhat neatly, how it used to.
That he mislikes wearing this form, he supposes, is a type of progress. ] I will bear your- [ he stalls, finishing off his tea while he thinks of a word that won't sound condescending when he is attempting to be genuine ] - wisdom in mind.
[ For now, he circles around to Viktor's side and after a beat of hesitation, curves fingers against Viktor's jaw enough to tilt his chin up. He balks at the idea of kissing Viktor like this - not himself, exactly, but does press a lingering kiss against Viktor's brow. How jarring, he thinks, to have someone who he would dearly miss were anything to happen to them. Thousands of years ago, when one of them would leave, there might be a joke about not getting maimed or injured while out, but there was a lightness to it; they had never expected real, world-ending danger. Now, they contended with it every day. ]
You will keep yourself safe while I am gone. Ideally, also out of trouble. Aye?
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And then, Emet-Selch accepts his words without argument. Stands and approaches, tense and tired, but not seeking a fight. It is Hades who fits his fingers beneath Viktor's chin and tips his attention up as he always does, and Viktor, the little dog, ever obedient, ever eager for a bit of attention. He shuts his eyes and savors the warmth of lips upon his forehead, even if the form that plants the kiss is one that stokes fear in his belly.
Viktor does not let him get away cleanly, lifts a hand to catch his cheek. His face is smaller, more gaunt than his righter form, his eyes more tired, but still the same lantern light Viktor so adores. What a mess he has found himself in, full of doubt, and ready to forget every warning sign, provided Emet-Selch promises to touch him, look at him again.
Maybe he is meant to be a dog. ]
Should trouble and I pass in the halls today, she will not recall m-my name or face. I promise. [ He lets his hand drop, dusts fingers over the back of Emet-Selch's gloved palm. It feels a bit silly to wish safety for an immortal older than time, and so, instead, Viktor offers him a crooked smile. ] Stay warm out there. But not so warm that you've no need of me when you return.
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I fear the issue is there will not be a time I do not want for your warmth.
[ To have the sun again, shining its warmth in full force, to have it within his grasp whenever he chooses - that is not a gift he takes lightly this time around. The hand Viktor'd skimmed his fingers against flexes, clenches into a fist like he can hold onto the memory of that warmth and then before he says anything to ruin the moment, he flicks a portal open and strides through with a lazy little wave into the chill.
This time, when he searches, he looks properly. Finds the pastel colors of a half-dozen souls he used to know as good friends and colleagues and one among them stands out above the rest, edges faded with age.
Pashtarot sits in a dingy, miserable stone house near the center of town, among countless other dingy, miserable stone houses. Were he whole, he would likely be able to see Emet-Selch as he prowls through the room silently, but he is not, and so Emet-Selch examines his quarters unaccosted. Countless pieces of history lay strewn about without any of Pashtarot's characteristic militant neatness. Scrounged bits of a history they cannot hope to comprehend or interpret. Bastardizations of what once was.
Emet-Selch plucks up a few of the more dubiously safe relics, books, and the like and sends them directly into storage, gliding from one chilled room to the next until entering what could only be called a classroom. Desks, arranged in precise lines. Parchment and dried ink containers scattered about. This, at least, is passingly familiar.
After a few bells of work - puttering about the home, listening into conversations the imitation of Pashtarot has with the children, because they are all of them children as he'd dreaded, he deems this enough information for now. No need to reveal himself, for the time being. It would take nothing to ease this version of Pashtarot into the aetherial sea once again. A touch, and no one would question the passing of an old man in his sleep, seated by the ash-clogged fireplace.
The last of the youths leave, assigned their glorious mission of rejoining with no real clear direction on how to achieve it, all aimless, religious fervor and certainty of purpose from a man with Pashtarot's soul and none of his sense. Emet-Selch watches him dodder about, allowing him a meal, a drink, and then to settle by the fireplace. It is a kindness, he thinks, not allowing Pashtarot to exist like this, a shattered fragment so unspeakably unaligned from the past. A single finger pressed against Pashtarot's chest prompts a bleary-eyed blink at nothing, a frown of confusion, and then the life slides from him in one, long, smooth breath outward. The fragment of his soul Emet-Selch ushers back into the Source's aetherial sea gently, and then without a second look at the corpse left in its ratty seat, Emet-Selch steps back through a portal into his temporary rooms to shed Solus once again.
A gentle tug against their connection, a tap on the shoulder, a tug at the hem of Viktor's shirt, and then Emet-Selch begins to orchestrate dinner with the servants, to be brought up for them in anticipation of Viktor's return. ]
oh my god
Alone again, Viktor picks through the remains of his breakfast. Then, to the adjoined quarters, to wash up properly. Though he has much to do, he still wastes a few minutes staring at his body in the room's single, floor length mirror, at the circles and splotches of red, of purple and blue, that dot his neck, his chest, his thighs. How ravenous Hades had been, how diligent in claiming what was his. And stars, how Viktor had loved it - how hungry he is for more, even with the gloom of uncertainty still settled over him. Just for a few seconds, he brushes against the possibility of someday playing such games with Hades set into the shape of the former Emperor. A levin shock of embarrassment has him shoving that feeling down and rushing hastily through dressing, then taming his unusually wild curls.
He means to set off for the grave after that, but out in the hall he encounters one of the castle staff nervous about the state of his lord's tapestry room. Once Viktor's done seeing to a task that is little more than cleaning hanging rugs and before he can make a proper escape from the grounds, he finds himself in the main hall, where he catches the land's little lord striking a servant when his lunch is too hot for his liking.
So, with unexpected new purpose, Viktor is delayed again. He does not mind so much.
Clara is her name. A funny girl, quick to pick up that Viktor won't mind a crude joke, who might've seemed more steady were she not preoccupied with the blood oozing from her face. Once Viktor's mended the gash on her cheek, healed away the imprint of the lordling's ring beneath her eye, he insists she takes him down to the greenhouse gardens for a stroll. And there, once the two of them are joined by Alice from the day before, Viktor conveniently sits down beside a fascinating little shrub, dotted by red berries, nearly invisible amidst the other ornamental plants.
Sat on the lip of a flagstone wall, he relates a bit of old gossip his mother used to tell while mixing potions and poultices and (most importantly) tea blends for local ladies in their little kitchen in Horizon: a friend of a friend, prone to strange injuries, an unfortunate broken arm, and a husband left to make his own tea each day while she recovered; a husband who grew steadily, mysteriously, messilly more ill, until he eventually succumbed to what chirurgeons could only figure was some sort of flu.
Hushed but no less animated, Viktor informs the two of them that it was not until the widow's arm was wholly healed that she found the true cause of her husband's demise -- he'd been brewing tea with the leaves of a plant not so unlike this one right here, easily mistaken for the shrub that produced his favorite blend. A tragedy, certainly. But on the bright side, once the tainted tea leaves were finally tossed out, the young lady never suffered so much as an unusual bruise again.
He smiles, sunshine bright, as he tells them both to have care around the plants in the lordling's garden, and pats Clara's hand before parting. Trouble may have passed him in the halls, but he does not think she will quite remember his name, his face. As promised.
The grave is not terribly far from town, but enough of a trek to be annoying with the chill. For a blessing, the path up the steep hill has been swept clear, in spite of fresh fallen snow. Odd, considering the grave's age, but he needn't wonder about it long. At the crest of the hill, surrounded by snow, blanketed by familiar flowers a shade darker than Hydaelyn's blue, is a single, simple stone grave. And an elf, a wizened warrior by the look of her, clad in leathers, sword at her hip, and a curtain of gray hair.
Viktor thinks immediately, unavoidably, of Haurchefant's grave and of Francel. An expected squeeze of pain follows, but it does not stop Viktor's approach. The old elf does not turn to look until he is nearly beside her. She spares him a glance and then a longer, lingering look, expression unchanging despite her otherwise obvious surprise.
"Someone's defaced her grave," says the old elf warrior in a tone that should be inscrutable, but Viktor knows, somehow, it carries a dark, molten magma anger.
"L-let me see, then." He does not wait for her approval, and that in and of itself, seems to earn it, seems to cool some of that fire. Two careful steps forward, deftly avoiding flowers, and he needn't even lay a hand upon the grave to guess at what's changed. A smile settles on his features.
A second later, the elf confirms it, "The stone."
"Aye," Viktor lights fingers upon the Amaurotine rock, half expecting to feel some spark arcing between himself and his reflection. But no. There is nothing, and it's strange, but not. She is gone, and only her flowers remain. In place of connection to his own soul, Viktor finds warmth, impossible fondness for the sentimental old fool currently stalking about on the other side of the valley. "Nothing's de-defaced. 'Tis a gift from a f-friend. Her monument will stand for ages beyond you or I."
"Are you speaking true?" The old elf's eyes narrow, hawkish. "Your people are long-lived."
Viktor nods, meeting the elf's pale gaze and holding it as she continues her silent assessment. "And this'll last longer than th-that." A pause. "You know, she likely hates that you drag yourself up here to clear a path so seldom used."
"She is dead. Her opinion hardly matters." But the old soldier's stance relaxes at his words, just a hint of all those leathers being a touch too heavy for her shoulders.
"Terribly rude," Viktor huffs, heatless, and he thinks he hears the elf snicker under her breath. Without further comment or explanation, he plucks a blue flower from the top of the headstone. Right away, he knows something is not right. Despite appearances, the blossom is his hand is just that -- only a flower. He could crush it, he knows, and it would simply bruise and wilt in his fist.
The elf seems to recognize his consternation. "Used to call water, those."
"Water?" Viktor murmurs, amused by how fate could not be satisfied with a simple material exchange. It seems Azem's reflections are ever meant to meet. He wonders whether Hades will be amused.
He channels a bit of his own aether into the bloom as the elf relays a tale that feels all too familiar. She hadn't always been that way, their hero, but one day, she'd changed. Volatile, frightening magic. Because it didn't matter, ultimately. Not when she'd been granted the power to mete out punishment to the demon who plagued their world, put a stop to the spreading permafrost. A gift from the Mother, they'd thought. The magic had lingered for years after her passing, but the flowers seem to spend what remains of it now on simply overcoming the cold.
The elf points out a divot in the snow, a dry stream bed, once sourced by the aether from the hero's garden. Viktor glances at it, wonders how much of him it would take to set the water flowing again, then, as though Emet-Selch can sense when he's brewing up a bad idea, feels a familiar tug at his aether. His attention drifts back toward the lord's fortress.
"Your attention is required elsewhere," observes the elf.
"Aye." Viktor nods, offering out the blue flower, now shimmering with silver light. "For a special occasion, alright?"
The old warrior accepts the bloom with no small amount of reverence. Viktor parts with considerably less - a charming grin and a wave of two fingers. He doesn't meet her eye as he turns to head back down the path, and leaves a hundred questions unasked, unanswered. Better not to know, better not to connect too firmly to this reflection before he's met the soul that waits for him in the Sea.
The sun is down by the time he returns, face flush and fingers stiff from the cold. Viktor tugs off his muddy boots at the door to their quarters -- their quarters -- relieved to see Emet-Selch is himself once more. A hot meal waits, too, and he is half-starved from all his work and walking, but the first order of business is to steal a bit of warmth from Hades. ]
Cold hands. [ He announces, pressing his hands against Emet-Selch's chest, curling his knuckles into the folds of his clothes. ] What did you f-find?
EATS IT
For all the issues he has with this shard - and oh, there are many - the stew was one he had particularly enjoyed the few times he'd come here. Garlemald's was better, of course, but this was close enough to passable. The meat is fattier than usual, which Emet-Selch chooses to take as a slight from the lordling and resolves with the faintest effort and aether. On the tray are several loaves of bread, still warm, wrapped in cloth, and an assortment of nuts, cheeses, and other snack fare. When the table is set he turns to the fireplace, stoking the dull glowing embers there and adding fresh logs, fodder, until it fairly blazes and the room goes from miserably cold to just chill, warming.
He could do with a bath again, but it isn't strictly speaking necessary just yet; more than that, perhaps a little embarrassingly, he would much prefer Viktor joins him. Clambering back into bed bath-warm and beneath clean sheets before they deal with the inevitability of tomorrow sounds downright pleasant.
The sun sets outside, and rises indoors the moment Viktor arrives, making a beeline to press icy cold hands into the cloth covering Emet-Selch's torso. It is, he thinks wryly, not nearly thick enough for how chilled Viktor's fingers are. This close Emet-Selch is able to look him over - no new wounds, no bruises, but the faint scent of magic on him, just enough it makes his nose itch, threatens a sneeze before he marshalls himself back under control. ]
If only there were a surplus of fire crystals and a fireplace one could warm themselves with.
[ He doesn't make any effort to wrest himself away, though, allowing Viktor to bask in the scant warmth he can offer for a few moments while he mulls over the answer. ]
An old man attempting to teach fragments about a past even he did not truly comprehend. The rest is as I thought. Youths, following one they considered a teacher, now lacking one. We can speak on it tomorrow. [ Tonight, he will allow them to find the body, to grieve a man taken by old age instead of battle, and in the morning, he thinks they will be more amenable to a different tack. ] Were you successful? If you've finished thawing there is stew, and the bread ought to still be warm. I would like to eat before it goes cold.
[ As if either of them could not warm it back up again. ]
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[ And Viktor seems content to linger right where he is, unfussed with efficiency when closeness is a far greater prize. He leans in indulgent as Emet-Selch speaks, stealing a bit more of his space, liking the way his chest rumbles in time with his voice. Not hard to guess at the direction of his day, though the news does cultivate more difficult questions than satisfying answers. Viktor tips his chin up, brows high on his forehead, and runs through a few of the most pressing queries flitting through his mind.
None of them matter right now, ultimately. The children are alive, even if one old Ascian is not. There is no urgency in Hades's voice, only a day weary weight on his features that Viktor admits to himself is quite charming. Something, he finds, he wishes to soothe, not exacerbate. ]
Then let's put some food in you, f-first and foremost.
[ Viktor drifts away, but not before freeing a still chilly hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair out of Emet-Selch's face. It is, he thinks, trying not to waste too much more time, unbearably nice to have home be a person. ]
Thank you for organizing supper. [ Finally, as he peels himself out of outer robes, he sweeps over to the sink basin to wash his hands. ] I was... not successful, no. [ After drying, it's to the table, where he first picks up a square of hard cheese and pops it in his mouth, then holds his palm over the kettle. Of course, he talks with his mouth full. ] It seems there is little of her l-left in her flowers. They were once quite potent, I've been told.
[ Viktor pauses to press his awareness to the aether of the tea kettle. Metal, water, leaves become as thread in his mind, a sensation that, after moons of practice, is only just becoming mundane. He picks at individual strands, allows information to spill across his senses - a story laid out in abstract, for him to interpret. Reading tea leaves, he muses to himself, decides there is nothing untoward about the contents of the kettle (thanks the stars that his bit of effort at good will was not turned against them), and pours cups for Emet-Selch and then himself. ]
Now, they are barely more than ordinary blooms. What is left of their power is spent on persisting through the c-cold, near as I can tell. I've a few theories on that, I s-suppose. [ He sits, looks to Emet-Selch, waiting for him to join. ] But now, 'tis all the more necessary I see her in the Sea.
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Organizing.
[ That's a bit of a generous summation, he thinks, watching Viktor hover a hand over the kettle, puzzling out what he's attempting to do before giving up and giving it a proper glance. Against his will, a smirk curves his lips. ]
Are we in danger of being poisoned? It's been at least a decade since anyone tried with any real intent but that would be a change of pace.
[ Viktor doesn't sense anything wrong with the tea, it seems, as he pours them both glasses and Emet-Selch does a quick round of the room to re-establish the layers of enchantment and charms he has to grant them real privacy, then strides over to the other open seat. Barely, he resists the urge to hide a groan as he sits. A few bells of walking is nothing, and yet he is not possessed anymore of Solus' body, one honed for war, but his own, far more comfortable sat contorted in a chair studying. ]
My dealings here were relatively minimal the last few lifetimes. I knew of her, in the same way, I knew of any of the thorns in our sides, but I was not as...we shall say well-acquainted as I was with others.
[ Plucking a loaf from the stack and summoning a knife thoughtlessly to begin slicing neat, even pieces off of it to dunk, Emet-Selch is pleased he keeps a reasonably even tone and simply looks at Viktor, nonchalant. ] Is there some burning question you would ask of her?
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[ Perhaps funny coming from the one who, between the two of them, has locked inside of him the capacity to do exactly that - choices, possibilities, potentials, laid out upon splitting threads. But that is the charm of people, they've got a knack for picking the most surprising choices. He doubts that Clara or Alice would repay his healing in so vicious a way, but in places like this the walls have ears, and it is a fool who fails to separate their hope from the reality of things.
He selects a nut to snack on, still browsing the evening's offerings and not quite setting in on the meal proper, yet. ]
Just so? [ Viktor glances up. ] At least I've no reason to be jealous over an old flame, then. [ His grin goes positively devilish, then settles as he watches Hades slice bread. ]
Not a specific question, no. Though I do w-wonder at her choice in... friends. [ His brows beetle. ] No, I've a request of her.
[ With considerably less care or decorum than Hades, Viktor selects a loaf for himself, tears it in half, and then into smaller pieces. With a piece of bread pinched between two fingers, he hesitates, unsure of whether he is about to cause some sort of unforeseen heartache or stumbled them into another argument. It is, he decides, better to be honest; he would rather navigate the difficult than lock it away for fear of the upset it might cause. He does not realize just how far he has come in the last ten thousand years in that regard. ]
One of the th-things I glimpsed in... Aepymetes's memories was- he was showing a student- Elidibus, actually, I think - a bit of spellwork of his own make. 'Twas a bit like attuning to an aetheryte, but a trade of aether between souls. For movement, aye? You are... probably familiar? You were his example. At the time, there was some c-concern that the aether would... snap together. [ A rejoining, Elidibus had said. ] But. Aepymetes had said it could be avoided with... practice.
[ Viktor puts his attention squarely on the stew set before him, dips a torn hunk of bread into the broth. Aepymetes had set the path of Viktor's fall through their memories. He would not have let Viktor linger so long in that one if it had not been for good reason. ]
I intend to ask her if she might do a trade with me.
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And what do you think the chances are that he receives a pot not brewed with the painstaking care ours seems to have?
[ Had he spent more time around the castle, had he gathered more information within he would have a better handle on what Viktor seems to fundamentally understand. None of his spies are left over, and his time is regrettably better spent outside the walls tracking the fragments of the Ascians left, but it is odd, at least, not to have a finger on the pulse of the castle. He supposes that is Viktor, just a different sort of spy than he was generally used to. ]
Practice you do not yet have, though. [ He wants, he wants so badly for Viktor to simply accept this, to gather up the fragmented pieces of himself and finally be a step closer to whole, but that does not lie on this path. Accepting it may take a little longer than Emet-Selch would like, but he can swallow his frustration for the time being if it means assisting Viktor with what he would have done. ] And 'tis practice I am uncertain how to best assist you with attempting. We may be better served by a specific bit of spellwork crafted to keep the two of you from...snapping together, as it were.
[ Then again, maybe he won't need it at all. Without a doubt, Viktor is the most stubborn and competent iteration of Aepymetes; it is entirely possible that the two bullheaded shards simply resist being made one by sheer force of will and spite alone. ]
A trade of what, precisely?
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[ That seems to be the end of it. Honest and final, noncommittal... automatic, falling back into old habits; say enough to fill silence before someone smarter sets in with suppositions. It takes Viktor a moment to realize the question was not rhetorical - that a proper response is expected. He glances up from his meal, caught off guard, gaze skirting the ceiling as he considers. ]
They are all of them... afraid in a way that holds them from action, but... He lashes out at them over trivialities. I saw him s-strike a girl over his meal being wrong. Hard enough to draw blood, and- [ And it'd taken every ilm of his self control not to teach the spoiled little snot a lesson in front of his court. But what a mess that would have been. And these people, they do not need a Warrior of Light right now, and certainly not one who cannot linger here long. ] -their anger burns hotter by the day, and I think he knows it. That rage needs must go somewhere.
[ He tips his head as though straining to hear a distant sound. Lifts a hand, touching each finger to his thumb in a gesture that looks a little like someone browsing a card catalogue. Something comes into focus. Not visions, but feeling, and each touch of finger to thumb brings it all into sharper focus. He grasps for it, finding thread, to no great surprise. And in that thread, a thousand more - a tidal wave of maybes and perhapses and what ifs. Too much, too loud to glean anything but glimpses. Viktor blinks. Releasing the ethereal thing he holds, and coming away with fragments of what may be. ]
'Twould be kinder for everyone if the tea took him. More confusion, but... other options are... bloodier.
[ His stomach growls, and he finally dunks a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. Chews, swallows, and scoops up a fork. Which he then uses to aid in coaxing his words, flicking it about like a baton, rather than eating. ]
As for our hero and the risk of... rejoining, you mean something like the veil you've s-settled between you and I, aye? 'Tis a brief meeting I intend. I am sure she'd rather r-rest, and I mean only to trade, well, flowers. Hers- even for a time after her death, her flowers were of Water. Not L-Light. [ Viktor settles, hands landing on the table, attention focused on Emet-Selch. ] I know that- I know I am no scholar. I know not the details of arcane theory, but... I've- I've a feeling. A-and, I intend for each of us to graft the other's lily onto their soul. I intend to- to make a weave.
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Once, he was as adept at this as anything else. Once, he could have two conversations at the same time, one with whoever was in the kitchen, and then a separate one over the dinner table, pouring over paperwork. He thinks he would be ill-suited to that, now, rusty as he is at the whole endeavor. ]
Nothing prevents us from incentivizing further accidents.
[ That is all he will contribute about the subject; whether or not they kill the ruler does not functionally matter. Someone else will rise up, and none of it will have any impact unless they manage to find Meteion. The petty concerns of rulership are beneath both of them, but the servants are not, for Viktor, and Emet-Selch cannot blame Viktor for being himself any more than he can blame the sun for shining. ]
I see. [ He mulls all of the new information while picking at his stew, unable to stop turning about in his head the way that Viktor had gone to the same place Aepeymetes used to go, with the stark difference of returning to himself much faster. And if they were to rejoin - there's no way to know that brevity would continue. Much as he wishes for them to have ever edge, every advantage available to them, Emet-Selch does not wish to see Viktor's hard work sacrificed to achieve it, not if they can manage another way. Mostly. ]
And what will you do with this weave? With her flowers?
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[ Viktor pauses to take a bite, chewing over the possibility of getting more embroiled here. It itches, ignoring the imbalance, the suffering, but getting tangled up in rebellion now would be foolish when annihilation sits just beyond every conflict on their star. The cat's cradle beneath his ribs twists and tightens, but his duty is now larger than the conflicts that used to take all his time. His limits seem to lie below him now, not above; Viktor cannot help but think of Venat, of Hydaelyn, tangled up in fate in much the same way.
His heart aches. But the people will be stronger for solving this themselves. Better not to grow reliant upon singular champions to settle disputes of rule. ]
Rendering aid to them where I can while you handle our other matters m-must be enough. [ And it almost soothes him, except- ] If the little shite continues to choose violence, though... [ Viktor arches a brow, shoulders bouncing. He does not finish the thought.
Instead, he watches Emet-Selch pick through his own meal and wonders at the weight upon his shoulders. Each of them has found a uniquely painful problem on this reflection. Darkly amusing, to think that they might have an easier time if they could trade tasks - it is not to be, though. They would not have these problems, were they not each exactly who they are. Little to do but try to offer comfort, to ease the weight, where he can.
Beneath the table, Viktor nudges his foot forward until the two of them are ankle to ankle. ]
Push myself further. Stabilize her soul and our other reflections. [ Hotly, he adds, ] Take what is m-mine. [ A moment later, though, Viktor's mouth flattens into a thin line, ears drooping as stares down at potatoes and carrots. His fire flags, gutters. ] 'Tis my h-hope, at least.
[ He must consider what exactly that means, but does not dwell quite long enough to let silence settle in between them. It feels ridiculous, talking magical suppositions to a man who likely had a hand in revealing much of what the people of his time know of magic. Viktor is no stranger to feeling like a fool, out of his element, but it is not nearly as easy to willingly embarrass himself when it offers no real benefit to anyone else. Explaining takes effort, scraping up the sort of courage he still uses so rarely. Unshuffling the scrapbook pieces of his mind, then laying them out for judgment is excruciating. But he does it. ]
Aepymetes talked of t-trading aether, like tying ribbons to trees. Markers. 'Twas a map of the star, of the people and places he loved. He used it to move, aye? To carry himself and his friends across Eitherys. I- I believe that spellwork can be built upon. If I c-connect with what has sprouted from my soul, if I make a strong weave of us, I think... I could use that magic to f-find. Find Meteion.
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If he continues to choose violence, there are plenty of cold stone stairs that would be dreadfully easy to trip down while using.
[ He is inclined to do it anyway, not out of any misguided urge to help the staff, though he is not opposed to the idea of it. Moreso that he simply mislikes anyone who is deeply tedious to work with, and the spoilt prince is very high up there. At least with Vauthry, he had a hand in his manifestation and he was exactly as designed. This one is cruel just because he can be, because no one larger than him has ever batted him down a few levels to teach him humility.
Far more interesting than the useless waste of breath is Viktor's plan, though. Emet-Selch works his way through the bread, soaking up the vast majority of the stew broth, a habit long since left over from when the stew fillings were few and far between, but the bread - or a rough approximation of it, could be made somewhat easily. ]
He did, aye. If that is the path forward, then I am to assume you would prefer to look over the spellwork for our veil, then?
[ Not that it is overly complex for someone who had studied for countless lifetimes, but for someone who hadn't... Then again, maybe he won't need to. Viktor seems to grasp concepts with the ability of an Unsundered grasping memories simply hidden, rather than gone altogether. Emet-Selch could not do spellwork simply by feel and impulse as easily as Viktor has managed to time and time again; it stands to reason he could do this again. ]
I would not dissuade you from it, but I would... urge caution. Especially given the scale. I would prefer not to find out what happens if you were to manage the equivalent of sewing your finger to the weave.
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It is probably best that they do have better things to do. Between the two of them, there is little they could not solve, could not change to suit what they both thought best for the star. The realization is somewhat sobering, but the dread it instills is tempered by the fact that such things won't matter if they don't settle the problems bigger than they are, first. Which starts with... toying with magic that neither of them understand entirely. Fantastic.
But, Viktor amends after spearing a potato. Isn't it? Fantastic? Hadn't there been a time before returning night to the First, before the end of the Dragonsong War, before Dalamud fell, when war had been a specter and want was not yet a dirty word and he, just a boy, desperate to understand the hum of everything that rang around him? Viktor's gaze swivels up to settle on Emet-Selch, and the strangest bubble of laughter spills out of him, little more than a hum at first with his cheeks still full of food. How absolutely absurd, that the man who had a hand in orchestrating near every event that would shape a curious child into a weapon, is the one who now coaxes that deeply buried desire back out of him. Who makes Viktor want again - want to learn, to grow beyond what he'd come to believe he was meant to be.
He chews. He swallows. He giggles for a few seconds more. ]
Apologies. Life is- 'tis funny. [ Viktor sits back in his chair, not quite tipping it onto two legs, but nearly. ] Aye. I will have care. Well familiar am I with getting a bit too... tangled up in aether - hopefully one or both of us will be able to stop me doing it again. I would like to see the make of our veil to start, but- 'twould be easiest for me to actually see it, I think. Rather than hear or read the th-theory. Can you... [ He hangs, gestures vaguely in the air. ] Can you lay it out? Perhaps, make a visible approximation o-or charts and diagrams?
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The laughter is more startling than it ought to be, perhaps. Emet-Selch looks up from soaking stew broth into the latest slice of bread, eyebrows climbing up to join his hairline. ]
Is it. [ For all that it is not uttered like a question, it is one. Would that he could read Viktor's mind and know what it was that was so amusing, but Viktor does not elaborate and Emet-Selch finds himself a new task to occupy his thoughts, mulling over Viktor's request. The short answer is no; the charts and diagrams he could whip out would be borderline incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't spent the better part of their life studying magic and he cannot imagine it would do more than confuse Viktor further.
The problem to be solved is an interesting enough one, though, and he's quiet for a few moments, chewing thoughtfully, barely tasting the meal as he considers the options as they are. He could attempt to simply explain it, bruteforcing his way through but that would not be a sufficient solution, he fears. Just as likely that they get annoyed with each other because Emet-Selch lacks the patience. Hythlodaeus would... Stars, what would he do, he was always better at this sort of thing.
Hythlodaeus would look at it as a fun little challenge, he thinks. One best solved by something physical, tangible. Glasses, maybe. An item one could wear that would simulate the same view, if dimmed. A passable solution, though something twists uncomfortably in Emet-Selch's chest, a disdain he can't quite shake about the idea of making light of something once so rare. Were he better, maybe he would find it satisfying to be able to share what so many regarded as a gift; as it is now, to do so would feel too much like a betrayal of what once was. ]
Any chart or diagram I could hope to lay out would be so incomprehensible it would be useless. [ No, they've an answer, and it sits between them, tangled in the both of their souls. ] A more...efficient solution would be to lift the veil and allow the use of my eyes, effectively.
[ That level of detail work is not something he has actively practiced, nor is it something he is certain he could successfully maintain, along with the barrier keeping the both of them apart. The magic is too new, and Viktor is too unpredictable. But given the alternative... ]
The veil I've placed between us exists to keep us both separate, safe from...comingling we do not wish to occur. To lift the veil to that extent - there is a chance, a small chance but one nonetheless, that I may not be able to fasten it down once again. Or that one or both of us, receives rather more than we intend to share, should you think to agree.
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And it would be a lie to say that seeing with Emet-Selch's eyes, glimpsing the flurry of his mind once again aren't deeply, almost embarrassingly thrilling prospects. ]
I cannot imagine a situation in which spellwork would fail you, Emet-Selch. That does not number among my concerns. If- if you are comfortable doing this, I want to. 'Twould certainly ease learning the spell's make for me. [ Viktor reaches out, but does not grasp Emet-Selch's hand. Instead, he settles his palm upon the table, close enough to be an invitation for contact, without outright asking. ] And as to the matter of shared m-minds...
[ Viktor's gaze searches the room, as though he might pinpoint the right order for his scattered thoughts in its darker corners. Were it someone else, were it a Scion or a Sharlayan scholar or one of the countless people in need of saving, he would simply put on his hero's smile and tell them not to worry, that everything will be fine.
Hades is none of those. Hades sees through his smiles, veil or no. ]
Trust me when I say, there is nothing in your past that would change my dedication to our duty. [ He breathes, a hesitation, unsure if the rest is worth saying. ] Nothing there that could change how I feel about you now. And I would not hold your own thoughts, your own feelings against you. Nor would I... hold you to the same for me. But, should something painful float between us as we work, it- it is worth trying to overcome together, aye?
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Ha. The flattery is noted, but not needed. [ There is no humor to the dry little ha that escapes from him, but it is without an onze of bitterness or mockery. Typically, when someone utterly incapable of magic on the same scale makes an insinuation that Emet-Selch can or cannot manage a piece of spellwork, he barely notices, their opinion barely worth listening to let alone cataloging and considering. Viktor is, as always, the exception. More than that, while Emet-Selch does not think he would be able to build an entire city as a recreation, to manage the building blocks themselves - the buildings, the component materials - Emet-Selch thinks Viktor very well could with minimal fuss. It stands to reason there would be others on the Source who were capable of the same, were there a teacher for them. The thought sits heavy in his stomach, not quite dreadful, not quite exciting, but an uncertain, unceremonious mix of both. ]
I would prefer a night or two to prepare. I am...relatively certain I can adjust the spellwork as we need, but would feel better about the process were I to have sufficient time to plan for - [ For what generally seems to happen to the best laid plans when they involve both of them - something going awry. ] - contingencies.
[ Viktor's reassurance are kind, but unnecessary. There is precious little that lurks within Emet-Selch's mind that he would not care for Viktor to be privy to. His past actions are laid out in lurid detail in countless books and hushed stories, and while they missed some detail, most were accurate enough. Why he is so reticent to perform this, even he isn't certain of. The fear is not that Viktor will look in the tangled mess of his head and find something so abhorrent he leaves; he's too practical, too focused on the world to let that stop him even if he did find something too hideous to consider.
The issue, Emet-Selch thinks, gingerly reaching across the table to draw fingers along Viktor's palm, tracing the lines of his hand like leylines in a bit of spellwork, the issue is simple closeness. Letting someone in, when he has spent thousands of years layering countless protective shells between him and the fragmented mess of the world. He doesn't know if he even recalls how to. ]
You will not...dig. If we were to. There will be precise boundaries set into place, and I expect nary a toe to so much as ilm toward those boundaries. For your sake and mine.
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Emet-Selch's fingers dip into the divots that hold no secrets of fate. There is nothing there to read, Viktor knows, no meaning to be found as Hades traces the curve of his heart line, but he still must fight the urge to shiver at the light brush of contact. He bends his knuckles up, letting his own fingertips meet Hades's palm, and exhales a soft huff of laughter, little more than air through the nose. ]
S-someone must brag about you from time to time, if you will not do so for yourself. [ His head bobbles up and down, quiet agreement. ] You've much on your plate. Take all the time you need to prepare. I- I appreciate this.
[ But Emet-Selch then answers his question with command. Viktor's ears ease back, expression stilling. He stares at their hands - an easy, uncomplicated point of focus. This is necessity. Work that needs must be done if they are to take their fight to the far reaches of the void, to mitigate the damage done to their star. Other emotions need not play into it. ]
I won't. [ Despite his best efforts, trying to sound neutral, a hint of strain frays the edges of his words. Foolishness. ] I imagine the spell will take most of my attention, and even if it did not- [ His gaze flicks up, a stolen glance at Emet-Selch's face. ] -I would not pry.
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I would brag about myself and my particularly clever endeavors if anyone besides you would understand the scale and scope, let alone why they were impressive or clever.
[ Not so much a complaint as it is a weary observation. Viktor's reassurance prompts him to tilt his head, watching Viktor's wayward gaze drift about, sneaking a look at Emet-Selch. ]
I do not expect you to pry, but neither do I expect either of us to...effectively guide the magic, untested as it is. 'Tis less a matter of guiding and more a matter of...swimming against the current should said current attempt to drag you under.
[ If he's being honest, he hates the idea of flaying himself open, allowing anyone - even Viktor, maybe especially Viktor, the ability to look at the softest parts of himself. The ability to see souls hadn't always been a deeply personal ability - a rare one certainly, but ultimately unexciting given aught else he could do. Now, it is long past novelty and into something else entirely, and that, combined with the memories attached- he will do what is necessary. Even if he is not thrilled about it. ]
'Tis a warning to myself as much as you.
[ Of the two of them, Emet-Selch knows he cannot be considered less emotional, even if he masks it better. ]
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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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